I've been listening to the CD that I bought from the band on Friday.
It's truly fantastic. Each song that comes on I think to myself, "This, this is my favorite song on the CD," and with every song, the next one makes me say the same thing. I just can't get over it.
Driving home from dinner with some friends, on the freeway, crusing away from the sunset, clouds dyed orange, brown, and pink, the lights lining the freeway this odd peachy contrast against the blips of blue between clouds.
I found myself suddenly saddened, listening to this music.
There's not a single person I can think of that I would want to share it with. That I think would appreciate it on the level that I do, that it would touch like it touches me. None of my friends, none of my lovers, present or past. People don't like to feel that ache.
I know, even with GV8 and his long-range plans, he's not for me, we aren't playing for keeps.
I am going to be alone.
You just don't get girls like me. Sure, I've heard of similiar, but whenever I meet one... no. Similiar on the social level, sometimes. Everything else, not so much.
Again, always one foot out the door, living with my shadowman because no other man is going to do it for me, I'm never going to find that resonation that I look for. Sure, I find the wild, damaged men that are my mirrors. I know them well. We collide and thunder rolls.
But where am I going to find my shadowman? Where am I going to find that man in my head, the man that knows damage, knows strength, knows and understands the dominance/submission dynamic, knows how to interact, how to carry himself, and the need to self-destruct?
Who is going to curl up with me in my bed and just listen to the rain? Curtains open, drops pelting the glass and the roof above us, cool sheets, fingers casually draped over my ribs, hair sliding across pillow, eyes half-closed.
I need my poetry, I need the internal conflict.
While I was driving, I knew. This thing with GV8... it's not going to last. It will last as long as I let it, but if he falls for me, I'm going to have to hurt him because I can't stay with him. He's not my lifemate, he's not who my soul sings for. I refuse to settle. He's a wonderful guy, he's strong, confident, a fantastic playmate, knowledgable, so very driven, so in control. I care about him, love spending time with him.
But he's not it.
Maybe I'll never find "it".
I'm usually okay with that. Sometimes... not so much. I'm a loner by nature, a companion by design. Physical contact sustains me, but I generally prefer my own company to the company of others. I'm wrecked and I'm wild and I shit-test guys I like by sleeping with them immediately because if they're going to think less of a girl like me for jumping into bed with them on a first or second date, I don't want to waste my time. It's always so disappointing, when I meet someone and I think they're intelligent, experienced, and funny... but they just can't get over their social issues.
Can you imagine this? You go out with a guy (or girl), and you totally click. Humor, physical attractiveness, intelligence, you're laughing all night, telling each other stories, having a fantastic time. So you invite them back to your place, you have good to amazing sex, grab breakfast together, and never see them again. You let them know during dinner that you aren't looking for a relationship, that you've had lovers in the past that you've gone on with for years without emotional entanglements, and they agree with you, say they're looking for the same thing. You text them or email them once, if they get back to you, you know it's game-on. They are okay, they don't have their little madonna-whore complex going on. Or they don't. And then maybe you run into them somewhere a few months later and they tell you that the reason why they didn't call you or whatever was because they don't think girls can have sex with guys and no get emotionally attached because girls always get attached to the guys they bone. Or you hear from a mutual friend that because you moved fast, they figured that you were easy and not the type of girl for a friends-with-benefits situation.
Except you constantly have males getting really pissed off at you because you've got such a high number count but you won't sleep with them. Which means what they are trying to say is, "You've just insulted me because you've slept with all these other guys and have this wild reputation but you won't sleep with me so that means something is wrong with me or something is wrong with you and I'm going to go with the latter, so how dare you reject me?"
Which I get way too often.
I am picky. I just go out a lot and get lots of offers. It's like magic.
So then this guy is telling you that he was afraid that you'd get emotionally attached to him and you're sitting there with your head slightly cocked going, "Oh, honey, you aren't that amazing."
I had a guy I slept with for years confess to me a few months ago that he was constantly afraid that I was going to fall in love with him. When he told me that, I almost started laughing after the initial shock wore off. Then I realized that he'd take my laughter as an insult to him as opposed to a "I can't believe you just said that, you giant dork" expression.
So if they aren't being pissed off that you're not sleeping with them, they're worried that they're so cool that you'll fall in love with them because you're this helpless female with no control over her emotions, or you're some headcase looking for validation through physical contact with the opposite sex.
Translate: you're easy, so you must have no self-worth. Or, you're easy, you sleep with anyone, which means I'm not special, which means you just hurt my ego. Or, you're easy, so you must have STDs. Or, you're easy, your father must have molested you as a child. Or, you're easy, so you probably cheat on your partners, etc etc etc.
I've cheated on two boyfriends in my entire life, when I was 16 and when I was 18. Twice for the 16, once for the 18.
In the last, oh, I don't know, seven or eight years, I have had three partners where we did not use protection. The most recent, he got out a condom, then we went into a rape-scene and he did not put it on and I couldn't tell because I was face-down, ass-up. Before that, I had been blowing one of my co-workers in the back hallway at the office (he was sooooo nice looking) and things got a little wild. Fortunately, it was right before my lunch break so I ran out for some Plan B. That was three years ago. Another, also about three years ago, was a regular partner who was not remotely endowed, was tested clean, and I kept in total control. I have never had an STD, unless you count the standard coldsores I've had since I was a child.
Heh, somehow I started ranting. I totally didn't mean to do that.
I know I don't function normally. I know it screws with people, even when I don't wish it to. My brain is off at this weird angle with these bizarre ethics and yet, somehow, I manage to function and be a productive member of society. My relationships, whether committed or open, have full communication and honesty (at least from me, this last one was epic failure that will never be repeated). I respect my partner, respect their wants and needs, even if I don't understand them. Everything is on the table with me because to do any less would not be good enough.
I was seeing this guy, Zat, in November/December of last year (truthfully, I was seeing about five guys in October/November/December of last year, before I whittled it down). We were having fun, sex was good, loved hanging out with him, we both knew it wasn't going anywhere past friendship and physical. And, per his request, I kept him updated to my activities with other guys. When Mr. Rape-Scene pulled the no-condom stunt (and got a talking-to for it), I told Zat immediately, on the phone, so he would have time to digest and come to a conclusion before we next went out. He decided that I was being, or allowing myself to be, too risky, and we killed the sex. I didn't argue, didn't complain, didn't try to persuade him otherwise.
I'm actually going to be seeing him this weekend. That will be nice, to catch up. He's an awesome guy.
Zat, he never thought less of me for sleeping with him the second time we went out. He believed that I represented myself honestly and accurately, and respected me for doing so. Enjoyed that I did so. He had no issue with a "sexually liberated" female (I hatehatehate that description).
I don't feel liberated. I have not burst free from any social constrictions, from any cages holding me back. Some guy did not come around and open my eyes to the ways of the world.
I need to come up with another description.
Sexually honest? Sexually apathetic? Sexually aggressive?
Okay, probably not that last one.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Because they know that I can rock...
Recap.
Friday night, down in Orange County having dinner with one of my best friends at a little rock and roll bar/restaurant called Slide Bar over by the train station. This particular restaurant used to be my favorite coffee shop during my community college days... then one of the two owners bought the other out and turned it into a bar that plays rock all day and employs sexy waitresses.
Could have been worse.
We sat and talked for an hour or so. He let me know that my most recent ex will be attending a convention I go to every year, something my ex only mildly enjoyed in years prior, me dragging him along. Out of the five and a half boyfriends I've had in my life, three of them will be there, one of them should be there, and the other lives out of state.
How did this happen?
I'll get over my anger at him eventually, over my anger at myself for letting that situation happen in the first place, for being weak, for taking the easy route that I knew would lead to bad times.
Could have been worse.
After dinner, we went to hang out with the usual group of degenerates. I was standing there, talking to him, and this guy approached us. I blinked at him. Is that who I think it is??
It was.
An old friend with a group of people I used to hang out with, still occasionally do, but this guy disappeared off the radar years ago. I had been wondering what had happened to him. He's married, to the girl he was seeing when we were all hanging out, has three kids, works as an A/C repair man. Kept himself in shape. He can't be more than 31, max. I filled him in on where everyone was in life, what people were up to, who got married, who ran off, etc. He told me, in turn, that one of the guys that had also disappeared was busted for running a meth lab, ended up in Chicago.
Odd. I had no idea that guy was dealing drugs.
It was during this conversation, though, that music started trickling into my consciousness. We were talking, and this beat started going and some guitars kicked in and I was just lost. Looked at this guy I haven't seen in almost six years and said, "Um... yeah, I need to find out about that music. I'll be back shortly."
Took off down the way to find this band playing at this dinky little coffee shop. Another friend of mine was standing there, watching them, so I walked up, said hello (scared the shit out of him, too) and watched this band.
I don't know if I've ever heard that much emotion in music before. This band made me ache, made me feel like there was a gaping wound in my heart and that I would be forever alone, wandering empty cities like some tragic ghost. It was perfect.
After they finished playing, I walked up, started talking to the bassist, then to the singer, trying to hunt down some CDs. They had two out, I bought both of them and ended up hanging out in the parking lot with the bassist and his friend for hours, talking about music and life and sex.
Saturday, I was woken from my sleep by a screaming child at 9AM. This, this is all things tragedy. I'm so glad that I have not reproduced.
Dragged myself out of bed, attended to food and a quick shower, then got my priorities straight and went out for coffee and caught Transformers II. Ran to the post office for stamps, hit the mall for clothes. I was there for a couple hours. GADS. I don't like shopping for hours. I like finding what I want, trying it on, buying it, and leaving within 30 minutes. I was looking for one of two things, and I found neither. Every time I found a pair of pants that looked like what I wanted, they didn't have it in my size or it did the usual bag-out-in-the-back-waistline bit because of my curvy lower back+ghetto booty combo. Frustration reigned. I finally left.
GV8 wanted to meet up at the warehouse/loft thing in Hollywood, so I drove over there, mildly annoyed because I realized that I did not have a CD with a copy of MSI's "Bitches" on it and I really wanted to listen to it on my way there.
He left the place open for me, so I strolled in with my camera and took some pre-construction pictures for the obligatory "before and after" comparisions. He showed up with his truck, complete with queen-sized mattress (which made me miss the cal-king at his place), mat (for covering ourselves with oil and sliding around), a stack of towels, blankets, sheets, bottle of grapeseed oil (best lube around, I will swear by that stuff for the rest of my life), and a small Liberator pillow. Everything needed to start off our love-nest in the loft inside the little warehouse.
We grabbed dinner at the restaurant around the corner, who has the warehouse that shares a wall with ours. GV8 wanted to talk to him about using his space, about catering to the parties, about licenses and what the restaurant owner was planning on doing with the other half of the building. So we got a tour of the kitchen, the storage space, the front of the building that has plans for being converted into a sports bar-thing. I've never worked in a restaurant before, so it was really interesting to see all of the equipment, the chefs and the over-sized kitchen utensils. While they talked, I played the quiet arm-candy, I suppose. I think you need to be a blonde with plastic surgery to be arm-candy, but I gave it my best shot. Amusingly, I don't mind playing the unaware piece of fluff. Mostly because I love the looks on guys' faces when I open my mouth and actually have half a brain.
After the grand tour, we went back to the warehouse for some relatively quick sex and took off for the club, out in downtown LA.
It was a venue I had never been to, in what I am now going to refer to as "Rape Me Alley". We show up, C is already there, and the place was closed. Some licensing issue prevented the club from happening and my friend did not bother posting that bit of information anywhere on the internet.
So I'm sitting there in GV8's truck going, "Well, this is a new one." And Mr. Wolf isn't picking up his phone, so I'm getting irritated. I finally turn to GV8, "Hey, these people own another venue more towards the main part of town. I'm friends with the security manager there, he'll know what's going on."
Drive up there, leaving Rape Me Alley behind, get out of the truck, ask the valet if my friend is working tonight, then find another security guy to radio him to bring him to the front. He explains what happened, and while he's doing that, he tells me I should check out this club, that he'll guest list me, did I come with anyone and all that. The club promoter, at this time, pops her head out and asks what's going on, I explain to her the deal with the other club, and she offers to let us in for half the cover if we'd like.
I go back to GV8, let him know what's going on, and we decide to go check out this club. C shows up, we chat, and finally I decide that the club is horrible and I don't want to be there a moment longer. No one can dance, the music is scatter-shot, and I'm over it.
I offer an alternative: Fred 62's. A little scenster diner up on Vermont, just south of Los Feliz in Silverlake.
They agree, we flee the scene.
Which is why I found myself sitting outside of a diner at 1AM, drinking hot chocolate, talking with GV8 and C instead of dancing at a club. It was a good choice. GV8 and C hadn't met before, so it gave them a chance to get to know each other. Afterwards, we took her by the warehouse/loft thing to show her. She didn't seem too impressed, but she's a nature/artsy type and that place is totally steel and cement... which I how I like it.
I woke up to, instead of a screaming child, a penis sliding into me. I sleep on my stomach, so this lends to a pattern of men waking me up doggy-style. I love it. Teeth in my shoulder, hips thrusting against my ass, fist in my hair, good morning to me.
While the grapeseed oil had been lost in the boxes the night previously, GV8 found it in the morning while I was still asleep.
That stuff is gorgeous. Almost no flavor. Scentless. Lasts forever. Cheap. And you can use it with latex... which really doesn't matter to me since I'm allergic to latex. But for the rest of you, there you go.
But because of the night before, I'm sore. I slide off of GV8 and reach for the bottle.
Backstory here: I've never liked giving handjobs. I've always been an oral girl. Handjobs were these things that I didn't understand because a guy can jerk himself off, so why the hell would he want a chick to waste her time doing that when he could be in her mouth? So I avoided them. Then I was put in a wrist-bar that dislocated my wrist when I was 19 and caused permanent damage, making wrist movement painful.
This lack of knowledge started bothering me, especially with SFPlayboy, because he loves handjobs and I suck at them. So Playboy taught me the basic rundown, which I found rather boring, but whatever floats his boat. I mentioned this to GV8, so Mr. Sensualist worked with me more, enough to the point where I finally saw the art in it and enjoyed it.
That was, for me, such an awesome handjob. I had so much fun with it, really enjoyed myself before settling into a movement that he seemed to like well enough to orgasm. It really was good, the hardness and heat of him, combined with the slick oil. He came, we cuddled, both of us covered in oil because I coated my front half in it to slide down his body, I went down on him, he came again. I love how short his refractory period is.
While I showered, he called one of his friends, A, to join us for breakfast.
A... is hot. Not standardly hot, but alternative, mohawk, gothy/punk hot with a wickedly sharp tongue and a brilliant mind that makes him incredibly desirable to me. Really, I just looked at him when he started talking and thought to myself "whimper, whimper, want".
So, we went out to breakfast, over at Aroma again. A had never been before.
We talked for hours. When A brought up The Game to recommend it to GV8, I almost choked on my laughter, but we started talking about it, made for some basic conversation. A was more interested in the constant pull-back Strauss did in his writing in regards to the PUA lifestyle than the actual pick-up. He's a relationship guy. A doesn't have sex unless he's in love.
We grabbed (more) coffee at the Coffee Bean across from Graumann's after breakfast/lunch. None of us thought of the potential mob by Michael Jackson's star. So we wandered over there, into the sea of people... until we realized what a horrible idea that was, and started walking in the street, along the sidewalk, chatting with the characters.
Dropped A at his car, went back to the loft for more play, then spun by the West Hollywood Gateway (cue dramatic music for that horrible name) to grab a camera for me. Yes, I finally got a pocket-sized camera to document my adventures. I should have done this months ago. So now there will be pictures tossed in with my stories.
I went home to have Sunday dinner with the folks. There was some awesome news there.
My aunt, father's sister, has gone suicidal. She was committed for a week to a mental hospital, and now she will not leave her bed. She's going to be coming out to stay/live with us for awhile. Which means I'm getting ejected from my own room. I can occupy my sister's room, but chances are I'll just toss a sleeping bag down in the living room and get a rack for my clothes. My father is really upset.
And my sister's boyfriend is about to be ejected from the house, which is stressing my mother out, which is stressing my father out and it's going downhill rapidly as I attempt to control the path of destruction... except I can't do that without my mother's support. So I think this will explode soon. Positive side: I'll have a room to myself once my aunt comes out.
Anyhow, there's my weekend recap. I have actual thoughts and moments I'm going to be playing out in more detail later but, due to my goldfish-like memory, I wanted to get down the bones of it.
Dinner with friends tonight, kareoke tomorrow, strip club and dinner Wednesday, out of town after I get my hair dyed Thursday morning. Go go action Jackson.
Friday night, down in Orange County having dinner with one of my best friends at a little rock and roll bar/restaurant called Slide Bar over by the train station. This particular restaurant used to be my favorite coffee shop during my community college days... then one of the two owners bought the other out and turned it into a bar that plays rock all day and employs sexy waitresses.
Could have been worse.
We sat and talked for an hour or so. He let me know that my most recent ex will be attending a convention I go to every year, something my ex only mildly enjoyed in years prior, me dragging him along. Out of the five and a half boyfriends I've had in my life, three of them will be there, one of them should be there, and the other lives out of state.
How did this happen?
I'll get over my anger at him eventually, over my anger at myself for letting that situation happen in the first place, for being weak, for taking the easy route that I knew would lead to bad times.
Could have been worse.
After dinner, we went to hang out with the usual group of degenerates. I was standing there, talking to him, and this guy approached us. I blinked at him. Is that who I think it is??
It was.
An old friend with a group of people I used to hang out with, still occasionally do, but this guy disappeared off the radar years ago. I had been wondering what had happened to him. He's married, to the girl he was seeing when we were all hanging out, has three kids, works as an A/C repair man. Kept himself in shape. He can't be more than 31, max. I filled him in on where everyone was in life, what people were up to, who got married, who ran off, etc. He told me, in turn, that one of the guys that had also disappeared was busted for running a meth lab, ended up in Chicago.
Odd. I had no idea that guy was dealing drugs.
It was during this conversation, though, that music started trickling into my consciousness. We were talking, and this beat started going and some guitars kicked in and I was just lost. Looked at this guy I haven't seen in almost six years and said, "Um... yeah, I need to find out about that music. I'll be back shortly."
Took off down the way to find this band playing at this dinky little coffee shop. Another friend of mine was standing there, watching them, so I walked up, said hello (scared the shit out of him, too) and watched this band.
I don't know if I've ever heard that much emotion in music before. This band made me ache, made me feel like there was a gaping wound in my heart and that I would be forever alone, wandering empty cities like some tragic ghost. It was perfect.
After they finished playing, I walked up, started talking to the bassist, then to the singer, trying to hunt down some CDs. They had two out, I bought both of them and ended up hanging out in the parking lot with the bassist and his friend for hours, talking about music and life and sex.
Saturday, I was woken from my sleep by a screaming child at 9AM. This, this is all things tragedy. I'm so glad that I have not reproduced.
Dragged myself out of bed, attended to food and a quick shower, then got my priorities straight and went out for coffee and caught Transformers II. Ran to the post office for stamps, hit the mall for clothes. I was there for a couple hours. GADS. I don't like shopping for hours. I like finding what I want, trying it on, buying it, and leaving within 30 minutes. I was looking for one of two things, and I found neither. Every time I found a pair of pants that looked like what I wanted, they didn't have it in my size or it did the usual bag-out-in-the-back-waistline bit because of my curvy lower back+ghetto booty combo. Frustration reigned. I finally left.
GV8 wanted to meet up at the warehouse/loft thing in Hollywood, so I drove over there, mildly annoyed because I realized that I did not have a CD with a copy of MSI's "Bitches" on it and I really wanted to listen to it on my way there.
He left the place open for me, so I strolled in with my camera and took some pre-construction pictures for the obligatory "before and after" comparisions. He showed up with his truck, complete with queen-sized mattress (which made me miss the cal-king at his place), mat (for covering ourselves with oil and sliding around), a stack of towels, blankets, sheets, bottle of grapeseed oil (best lube around, I will swear by that stuff for the rest of my life), and a small Liberator pillow. Everything needed to start off our love-nest in the loft inside the little warehouse.
We grabbed dinner at the restaurant around the corner, who has the warehouse that shares a wall with ours. GV8 wanted to talk to him about using his space, about catering to the parties, about licenses and what the restaurant owner was planning on doing with the other half of the building. So we got a tour of the kitchen, the storage space, the front of the building that has plans for being converted into a sports bar-thing. I've never worked in a restaurant before, so it was really interesting to see all of the equipment, the chefs and the over-sized kitchen utensils. While they talked, I played the quiet arm-candy, I suppose. I think you need to be a blonde with plastic surgery to be arm-candy, but I gave it my best shot. Amusingly, I don't mind playing the unaware piece of fluff. Mostly because I love the looks on guys' faces when I open my mouth and actually have half a brain.
After the grand tour, we went back to the warehouse for some relatively quick sex and took off for the club, out in downtown LA.
It was a venue I had never been to, in what I am now going to refer to as "Rape Me Alley". We show up, C is already there, and the place was closed. Some licensing issue prevented the club from happening and my friend did not bother posting that bit of information anywhere on the internet.
So I'm sitting there in GV8's truck going, "Well, this is a new one." And Mr. Wolf isn't picking up his phone, so I'm getting irritated. I finally turn to GV8, "Hey, these people own another venue more towards the main part of town. I'm friends with the security manager there, he'll know what's going on."
Drive up there, leaving Rape Me Alley behind, get out of the truck, ask the valet if my friend is working tonight, then find another security guy to radio him to bring him to the front. He explains what happened, and while he's doing that, he tells me I should check out this club, that he'll guest list me, did I come with anyone and all that. The club promoter, at this time, pops her head out and asks what's going on, I explain to her the deal with the other club, and she offers to let us in for half the cover if we'd like.
I go back to GV8, let him know what's going on, and we decide to go check out this club. C shows up, we chat, and finally I decide that the club is horrible and I don't want to be there a moment longer. No one can dance, the music is scatter-shot, and I'm over it.
I offer an alternative: Fred 62's. A little scenster diner up on Vermont, just south of Los Feliz in Silverlake.
They agree, we flee the scene.
Which is why I found myself sitting outside of a diner at 1AM, drinking hot chocolate, talking with GV8 and C instead of dancing at a club. It was a good choice. GV8 and C hadn't met before, so it gave them a chance to get to know each other. Afterwards, we took her by the warehouse/loft thing to show her. She didn't seem too impressed, but she's a nature/artsy type and that place is totally steel and cement... which I how I like it.
I woke up to, instead of a screaming child, a penis sliding into me. I sleep on my stomach, so this lends to a pattern of men waking me up doggy-style. I love it. Teeth in my shoulder, hips thrusting against my ass, fist in my hair, good morning to me.
While the grapeseed oil had been lost in the boxes the night previously, GV8 found it in the morning while I was still asleep.
That stuff is gorgeous. Almost no flavor. Scentless. Lasts forever. Cheap. And you can use it with latex... which really doesn't matter to me since I'm allergic to latex. But for the rest of you, there you go.
But because of the night before, I'm sore. I slide off of GV8 and reach for the bottle.
Backstory here: I've never liked giving handjobs. I've always been an oral girl. Handjobs were these things that I didn't understand because a guy can jerk himself off, so why the hell would he want a chick to waste her time doing that when he could be in her mouth? So I avoided them. Then I was put in a wrist-bar that dislocated my wrist when I was 19 and caused permanent damage, making wrist movement painful.
This lack of knowledge started bothering me, especially with SFPlayboy, because he loves handjobs and I suck at them. So Playboy taught me the basic rundown, which I found rather boring, but whatever floats his boat. I mentioned this to GV8, so Mr. Sensualist worked with me more, enough to the point where I finally saw the art in it and enjoyed it.
That was, for me, such an awesome handjob. I had so much fun with it, really enjoyed myself before settling into a movement that he seemed to like well enough to orgasm. It really was good, the hardness and heat of him, combined with the slick oil. He came, we cuddled, both of us covered in oil because I coated my front half in it to slide down his body, I went down on him, he came again. I love how short his refractory period is.
While I showered, he called one of his friends, A, to join us for breakfast.
A... is hot. Not standardly hot, but alternative, mohawk, gothy/punk hot with a wickedly sharp tongue and a brilliant mind that makes him incredibly desirable to me. Really, I just looked at him when he started talking and thought to myself "whimper, whimper, want".
So, we went out to breakfast, over at Aroma again. A had never been before.
We talked for hours. When A brought up The Game to recommend it to GV8, I almost choked on my laughter, but we started talking about it, made for some basic conversation. A was more interested in the constant pull-back Strauss did in his writing in regards to the PUA lifestyle than the actual pick-up. He's a relationship guy. A doesn't have sex unless he's in love.
We grabbed (more) coffee at the Coffee Bean across from Graumann's after breakfast/lunch. None of us thought of the potential mob by Michael Jackson's star. So we wandered over there, into the sea of people... until we realized what a horrible idea that was, and started walking in the street, along the sidewalk, chatting with the characters.
Dropped A at his car, went back to the loft for more play, then spun by the West Hollywood Gateway (cue dramatic music for that horrible name) to grab a camera for me. Yes, I finally got a pocket-sized camera to document my adventures. I should have done this months ago. So now there will be pictures tossed in with my stories.
I went home to have Sunday dinner with the folks. There was some awesome news there.
My aunt, father's sister, has gone suicidal. She was committed for a week to a mental hospital, and now she will not leave her bed. She's going to be coming out to stay/live with us for awhile. Which means I'm getting ejected from my own room. I can occupy my sister's room, but chances are I'll just toss a sleeping bag down in the living room and get a rack for my clothes. My father is really upset.
And my sister's boyfriend is about to be ejected from the house, which is stressing my mother out, which is stressing my father out and it's going downhill rapidly as I attempt to control the path of destruction... except I can't do that without my mother's support. So I think this will explode soon. Positive side: I'll have a room to myself once my aunt comes out.
Anyhow, there's my weekend recap. I have actual thoughts and moments I'm going to be playing out in more detail later but, due to my goldfish-like memory, I wanted to get down the bones of it.
Dinner with friends tonight, kareoke tomorrow, strip club and dinner Wednesday, out of town after I get my hair dyed Thursday morning. Go go action Jackson.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Stay wilder than the wind...
I don't dream at night.
My sleep has no images or constructed storylines intruding upon it.
I used to dream all the time. Every night guaranteed, I would wake from multiple dreams. Some good, some bad, some terrifying. My favorites always consisted of me as some lithe, four-legged animal running through cities at night, over fences, up walls, or being pursued by some faceless masculine entity, but more stimulating and exciting than causing of fear. The nightmares, I was always trapped, unable to move, unable to run, interrupted in mid-flight and grounded while a family member, usually my sister, was drowned or murdered by another faceless entity.
But I stopped dreaming in the last few years.
I close my eyes, I slide into unconsciousness, and then I open them to sunlight.
I don't know what happened.
I remember cartoons and random movies where the villian of the piece would attempt to steal children for their pleasant dreams because the villian was completely lacking in the ability to dream. Somehow, the dreams would enable them to rest for once, to be guiltless and free during their sleeping hours.
In City of Lost Children, the villian kidnaps children off of the streets in the hopes of stealing their dreams so he can somehow stop his body from aging.
I never quite followed the logic in that, but I loved the floating brain character.
It's becoming more noticable now, possibly because of the couchsurfing I engage in during the week. I get woken up at odd hours fairly often and there are no images interrupted in my brain, no matter of the time of night or morning.
... ... ... ...
I think I fought off my cold through flooding my system with water and exercise. It's there, but barely.
I went to see Lucha va Voom at The Mayan last night with some friends. Mexican wrestling and strippers. What else could a girl need? The variety of body-types the dancers had was pretty noticable. One very buxom and jiggly hispanic girl, one standard girl with average curves, a tall blonde that, even while wearing stilettos had no ass to speak of, a very petite latina, a girl with the total dancer's muscled body, and then, of course, a lithe male at the end who was absolutely fanastic.
We cheered, we booed, we shouted and made cat-calls.
Afterwards, I steered us down a few blocks to the Hotel Figueroa. I found this place while I was wandering around the Staples Center last summer. The little restaurant just inside the front door serves wonderful burgers, and the bar is killer. Well, not the alcohol. I have no idea about their stock. But the atmosphere, the music, sitting under the buildings with the searchlights going off to the west, clouds filling the sky and each table lit up with a single candle in various colored glass jars... it's perfect.
It's in those moments where I'm sitting in the cold air, thinking:
Let me be alone forever, if just so no one will disturb this perfect scene.
I can't imagine being with anyone that brings me the peace that such places bring me, those inner vibrations, the resonance that you experience when you step into a room and you know that part of you and part of it align on such a base frequency, you can't help but feel as though you found something that you had been missing.
When I met Wolfboy, almost eight years ago know, when I saw him, I knew. I knew that we could be meant for each other, that the wild vibrations screaming down my spine translated the potential, the intensity, we could have. Those vibrations never left us, even when years were spent apart or in the company of other lovers, when we reconnected, we both knew something more was there.
But I decided that I did not want the life he offered... and then someone else's fate took him out of my hands. I continue to miss him, in the way that I do, where most memories fade, glances exchanged become lost, and the world that was constructed around the two of you is resigned to a high shelf, far out of reach.
My friends and I sat around one of the tables by the pool, drinking, until C started nodding off. We walked back to my car, stopping for street meat on the way. The aromas of carmelized onions and peppers got to our companions and they could not say no to the mysterious potentially meat-based product.
The streets were empty and oddly clean. I never expect anything remotely near downtown to be clean. Traffic was minimal. It was apocalyptic... just without the requisite zombies. We spotted a bright red two-story tall electric sign declaring "JESUS SAVES" on our walk, something I had never noticed before. It gave the end of the evening this desolate feeling that I, as usual, enjoyed.
It leaves me wanting to be alone. I want to be up at 4AM, wandering the empty parts of LA. I want to see the city as few do. I want to be undisturbed, unmolested, and soak up the atmosphere that comes from being on an empty street that is only a few hours from being flooded with people.
I want to step outside of it. I want to be part of the gray. That time of the evening, time of the morning, when it is neither daylight or dark, the misty dusk. And when it is about to rain, but the clouds can't quite push it over the edge, so the world becomes monochrome, but dry.
These are my favorite moments, when something is caught between two opposites.
Possibly because I am, as always, caught between two opposites... but I can never resolve myself to just being that way, like the dusk. My need to define myself and my continuous failure to do so stabs at me, leaves me open to interpretation, open to other standards, to other ideas and influences.
It's good to be part of two worlds. It allows you to interact, allows viewpoints, allows friendships with people that you would not normally meet, to experience things that would normally pass by.
But then you never fit in.
Anywhere.
You always have one foot out the door, not because you're planning on leaving, but because you never fully came in.
I've been clubbing, been part of a particular scene for almost eight years now. I have many, many friends in the scene. I can dance. I can dress the part. I can do the make-up and the hair. I know the bands, I know the DJs, the venues, the promoters, the history. I've never quite belonged, and it has been commented on a few times over the years. Not in a negative way, but just as an observation by friends.
Neither masculine or feminine in personality, either, but this odd middle ground.
I suppose that I should be thankful that my body is decidedly female, or I might have developed an androgyny complex.
... ... ... ...
This weekend is the new club. I've poked a few people about going, but I'm not really driving it home like I should be. GV8 is coming with me, of course. I'm just looking forward to an evening of dancing to triphop. Portishead's Biscuit is, to me, pure sex. That song is how I love.
Also going to be spinning by the warehouse/loft for some pre-construction pictures. It's going to be cool to see how it all comes together. I'm sure I'll be posting the progress here.
Anyhow, places to go, people to see and all that. It's Friday, I've got demands on my time, a weekend to organize, and a man whose bones I must jump.
My sleep has no images or constructed storylines intruding upon it.
I used to dream all the time. Every night guaranteed, I would wake from multiple dreams. Some good, some bad, some terrifying. My favorites always consisted of me as some lithe, four-legged animal running through cities at night, over fences, up walls, or being pursued by some faceless masculine entity, but more stimulating and exciting than causing of fear. The nightmares, I was always trapped, unable to move, unable to run, interrupted in mid-flight and grounded while a family member, usually my sister, was drowned or murdered by another faceless entity.
But I stopped dreaming in the last few years.
I close my eyes, I slide into unconsciousness, and then I open them to sunlight.
I don't know what happened.
I remember cartoons and random movies where the villian of the piece would attempt to steal children for their pleasant dreams because the villian was completely lacking in the ability to dream. Somehow, the dreams would enable them to rest for once, to be guiltless and free during their sleeping hours.
In City of Lost Children, the villian kidnaps children off of the streets in the hopes of stealing their dreams so he can somehow stop his body from aging.
I never quite followed the logic in that, but I loved the floating brain character.
It's becoming more noticable now, possibly because of the couchsurfing I engage in during the week. I get woken up at odd hours fairly often and there are no images interrupted in my brain, no matter of the time of night or morning.
... ... ... ...
I think I fought off my cold through flooding my system with water and exercise. It's there, but barely.
I went to see Lucha va Voom at The Mayan last night with some friends. Mexican wrestling and strippers. What else could a girl need? The variety of body-types the dancers had was pretty noticable. One very buxom and jiggly hispanic girl, one standard girl with average curves, a tall blonde that, even while wearing stilettos had no ass to speak of, a very petite latina, a girl with the total dancer's muscled body, and then, of course, a lithe male at the end who was absolutely fanastic.
We cheered, we booed, we shouted and made cat-calls.
Afterwards, I steered us down a few blocks to the Hotel Figueroa. I found this place while I was wandering around the Staples Center last summer. The little restaurant just inside the front door serves wonderful burgers, and the bar is killer. Well, not the alcohol. I have no idea about their stock. But the atmosphere, the music, sitting under the buildings with the searchlights going off to the west, clouds filling the sky and each table lit up with a single candle in various colored glass jars... it's perfect.
It's in those moments where I'm sitting in the cold air, thinking:
Let me be alone forever, if just so no one will disturb this perfect scene.
I can't imagine being with anyone that brings me the peace that such places bring me, those inner vibrations, the resonance that you experience when you step into a room and you know that part of you and part of it align on such a base frequency, you can't help but feel as though you found something that you had been missing.
When I met Wolfboy, almost eight years ago know, when I saw him, I knew. I knew that we could be meant for each other, that the wild vibrations screaming down my spine translated the potential, the intensity, we could have. Those vibrations never left us, even when years were spent apart or in the company of other lovers, when we reconnected, we both knew something more was there.
But I decided that I did not want the life he offered... and then someone else's fate took him out of my hands. I continue to miss him, in the way that I do, where most memories fade, glances exchanged become lost, and the world that was constructed around the two of you is resigned to a high shelf, far out of reach.
My friends and I sat around one of the tables by the pool, drinking, until C started nodding off. We walked back to my car, stopping for street meat on the way. The aromas of carmelized onions and peppers got to our companions and they could not say no to the mysterious potentially meat-based product.
The streets were empty and oddly clean. I never expect anything remotely near downtown to be clean. Traffic was minimal. It was apocalyptic... just without the requisite zombies. We spotted a bright red two-story tall electric sign declaring "JESUS SAVES" on our walk, something I had never noticed before. It gave the end of the evening this desolate feeling that I, as usual, enjoyed.
It leaves me wanting to be alone. I want to be up at 4AM, wandering the empty parts of LA. I want to see the city as few do. I want to be undisturbed, unmolested, and soak up the atmosphere that comes from being on an empty street that is only a few hours from being flooded with people.
I want to step outside of it. I want to be part of the gray. That time of the evening, time of the morning, when it is neither daylight or dark, the misty dusk. And when it is about to rain, but the clouds can't quite push it over the edge, so the world becomes monochrome, but dry.
These are my favorite moments, when something is caught between two opposites.
Possibly because I am, as always, caught between two opposites... but I can never resolve myself to just being that way, like the dusk. My need to define myself and my continuous failure to do so stabs at me, leaves me open to interpretation, open to other standards, to other ideas and influences.
It's good to be part of two worlds. It allows you to interact, allows viewpoints, allows friendships with people that you would not normally meet, to experience things that would normally pass by.
But then you never fit in.
Anywhere.
You always have one foot out the door, not because you're planning on leaving, but because you never fully came in.
I've been clubbing, been part of a particular scene for almost eight years now. I have many, many friends in the scene. I can dance. I can dress the part. I can do the make-up and the hair. I know the bands, I know the DJs, the venues, the promoters, the history. I've never quite belonged, and it has been commented on a few times over the years. Not in a negative way, but just as an observation by friends.
Neither masculine or feminine in personality, either, but this odd middle ground.
I suppose that I should be thankful that my body is decidedly female, or I might have developed an androgyny complex.
... ... ... ...
This weekend is the new club. I've poked a few people about going, but I'm not really driving it home like I should be. GV8 is coming with me, of course. I'm just looking forward to an evening of dancing to triphop. Portishead's Biscuit is, to me, pure sex. That song is how I love.
Also going to be spinning by the warehouse/loft for some pre-construction pictures. It's going to be cool to see how it all comes together. I'm sure I'll be posting the progress here.
Anyhow, places to go, people to see and all that. It's Friday, I've got demands on my time, a weekend to organize, and a man whose bones I must jump.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Just a small town girl...
I ended up at the emergency room last night. Nothing major, just needed to get an ultrasound to confirm if I had a hernia or not, and I did not want to wait until next week. I like to get things done immediately, it irks me when I cannot.
Sitting there, surrounded by people with various illnesses and injuries, and so many overweight, poorly dressed, faded people, looking wrecked by life, looking like they had never had a good day in their entire existence.
This people used to be kids, used to be teenagers, college students, burger flippers, whatever.
What happened?
Looking around at them, I was suddenly swearing to myself that I would never be like them. I would never let my mind and body go like they had. When I, theoretically, reach old age, I do not wish to be the overweight women who has to be shoved by two burly men into the back of an ambulance, shoulders buried in the rolls of backfat. I do not want to be confined to a walker for all of my movements.
I need freedom. I need the freedom to move as needed, to run, to travel, to love.
I was there for a little over three hours. The doctors were unable to discern what was wrong with me. All of my tests came back perfect, no sign of inflammation or hernia. Gallbladder, liver, kidneys, healthy. Appendix departed my body years ago.
I eat healthy. Fresh fruits, vegetables, eggwhites, unsalted nuts, lots of water, various forms of meat (though I prefer fish)... this is my normal diet. Just add in a little too much coffee, some chocolate milk, occasional pack of chocolate M&Ms, and there's my intake for the week.
Hospitals, especially the emergency rooms, have always been a love of mine. I'm addicted to people watching, and in emergency rooms, emotions run high in all spectrums and communication goes rough and honest. Walking through the waiting rooms, families sitting quietly together, all of them with their minds on one of their own under the knife, awaiting verdict to be delivered by a masked man in teal scrubs.
It's a building of honesty and chaos, yet perfect monitoring systems, perfect measures of control and maintenance.
No wonder that I love it so.
When family members end up in a bed for a day or months, I'm more than happy to spend all of my free time with them, eating in the cafeteria, watching the interactions between staff and vistors, browsing the gift shop for odd figurines, books, magazines, uplifting religious stained-glass mosaics. Baby gifts, for girl and boy, get-well cards, flowers of all assortments, crossword puzzle books for those long evenings waiting in a chair made completely of right angles, always shifting, attempting to find that one spot that will ease soreness. The silver rectangular boxes on wheels travelling down the halls, laden with trays, the constant scent of broth trailing behind them.
You read and you wait.
You read in darkened rooms with curtains drawn, a silent TV flickering over you, the nurses walking by, the sounds of buzzers down the hall, the metallic slide of curtains being drawn shut next door, murmured instructions as a patient is being shifted, the phones ringing at the desk with soothing, monotones of the operator.
You wait for the flicker of eyelids, the quiet moan of your family member waking, and the book is set down as you go to their side, smile, talk, offer to read to them, or do crossword puzzles together if they are feeling particularly perky. My grandmother always loved the Jumbles in the paper, so we would buy the large print collection books and write the letters on the patient whiteboard so we could unscramble them together, making our own when we ran out of puzzles.
Sitting in ICU, with her so tired, watching the television. Flushed Away became a love of mine, they played it often. I would sit and read, sit and watch the screen across the room, running damp pink sponges on white plastic sticks over her dry lips when she woke.
We would sit in shifts. My father or mother would come in, putting on the yellow smocks, masks, and hair nets. My glasses would fog up as warm breath would rise, so I would perch them precariously on my nose, hoping to afford enough space so I could see.
That was an interesting time in my life. I had just quit my job, yet to find a replacement. Moved out of my parents' place again, due to too much fighting and rage with my father, attempting to keep my space from them while still visiting my grandmother... not often enough.
The day she decided to cut life-support, they called me at 5AM. They said that she had decided to go and she wanted to see me before she died. So I drove the 40 miles down to the recovery place she had take residence in, kissed her cheeks, hugged her, hugged my family, and watched them pull the tube out of her throat that was keeping her lungs going.
Blood came up with the tube, getting on her lips.
She made a wet gurgle and died immediately.
I wrote a piece about her to one of my friends. I'll have to dig that email up.
Sitting there, surrounded by people with various illnesses and injuries, and so many overweight, poorly dressed, faded people, looking wrecked by life, looking like they had never had a good day in their entire existence.
This people used to be kids, used to be teenagers, college students, burger flippers, whatever.
What happened?
Looking around at them, I was suddenly swearing to myself that I would never be like them. I would never let my mind and body go like they had. When I, theoretically, reach old age, I do not wish to be the overweight women who has to be shoved by two burly men into the back of an ambulance, shoulders buried in the rolls of backfat. I do not want to be confined to a walker for all of my movements.
I need freedom. I need the freedom to move as needed, to run, to travel, to love.
I was there for a little over three hours. The doctors were unable to discern what was wrong with me. All of my tests came back perfect, no sign of inflammation or hernia. Gallbladder, liver, kidneys, healthy. Appendix departed my body years ago.
I eat healthy. Fresh fruits, vegetables, eggwhites, unsalted nuts, lots of water, various forms of meat (though I prefer fish)... this is my normal diet. Just add in a little too much coffee, some chocolate milk, occasional pack of chocolate M&Ms, and there's my intake for the week.
Hospitals, especially the emergency rooms, have always been a love of mine. I'm addicted to people watching, and in emergency rooms, emotions run high in all spectrums and communication goes rough and honest. Walking through the waiting rooms, families sitting quietly together, all of them with their minds on one of their own under the knife, awaiting verdict to be delivered by a masked man in teal scrubs.
It's a building of honesty and chaos, yet perfect monitoring systems, perfect measures of control and maintenance.
No wonder that I love it so.
When family members end up in a bed for a day or months, I'm more than happy to spend all of my free time with them, eating in the cafeteria, watching the interactions between staff and vistors, browsing the gift shop for odd figurines, books, magazines, uplifting religious stained-glass mosaics. Baby gifts, for girl and boy, get-well cards, flowers of all assortments, crossword puzzle books for those long evenings waiting in a chair made completely of right angles, always shifting, attempting to find that one spot that will ease soreness. The silver rectangular boxes on wheels travelling down the halls, laden with trays, the constant scent of broth trailing behind them.
You read and you wait.
You read in darkened rooms with curtains drawn, a silent TV flickering over you, the nurses walking by, the sounds of buzzers down the hall, the metallic slide of curtains being drawn shut next door, murmured instructions as a patient is being shifted, the phones ringing at the desk with soothing, monotones of the operator.
You wait for the flicker of eyelids, the quiet moan of your family member waking, and the book is set down as you go to their side, smile, talk, offer to read to them, or do crossword puzzles together if they are feeling particularly perky. My grandmother always loved the Jumbles in the paper, so we would buy the large print collection books and write the letters on the patient whiteboard so we could unscramble them together, making our own when we ran out of puzzles.
Sitting in ICU, with her so tired, watching the television. Flushed Away became a love of mine, they played it often. I would sit and read, sit and watch the screen across the room, running damp pink sponges on white plastic sticks over her dry lips when she woke.
We would sit in shifts. My father or mother would come in, putting on the yellow smocks, masks, and hair nets. My glasses would fog up as warm breath would rise, so I would perch them precariously on my nose, hoping to afford enough space so I could see.
That was an interesting time in my life. I had just quit my job, yet to find a replacement. Moved out of my parents' place again, due to too much fighting and rage with my father, attempting to keep my space from them while still visiting my grandmother... not often enough.
The day she decided to cut life-support, they called me at 5AM. They said that she had decided to go and she wanted to see me before she died. So I drove the 40 miles down to the recovery place she had take residence in, kissed her cheeks, hugged her, hugged my family, and watched them pull the tube out of her throat that was keeping her lungs going.
Blood came up with the tube, getting on her lips.
She made a wet gurgle and died immediately.
I wrote a piece about her to one of my friends. I'll have to dig that email up.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Shame, such a shame...
George Saunders should have taken a page from Nabokov and called his Civilwarland in Bad Decline, Despair: A Collection of Short Stories.
Because, really Nabokov's Despair has nothing on this book in terms of everything being doomed, and he truly captures the mood of old theme parks going downhill, almost perfectly. Reading the title work made me feel like going to FairyLand Caverns at Rock City on the Georgia/Tennessee border. I love that place, walking underground, looking at these blacklit scupltures of children and fairytale creatures with that scary background music of children singing nursery rhymes.
Gives me the heebie jeebies and I adore the place for that.
I spoke with Playboy last night. He's probably not coming down this weekend and becoming my sex toy. Too broke. But, apparently, his sarging is going well. This probably means that, eventually, I'll run into him in the online PUA community and then this blog won't be so anonymous anymore.
I updated him on things with GV8, things in life. I believe his comment was, "Damn, your life is turning into a regular party." I just laughed.
Also spoke with a man I will refer to as Mr. Wolf. He's my long-time friend who has been doing the club-promoter schtick lately. His club this Saturday is a go, and I'm looking very forward to it. We started talking about our platonic history, and how he's given up on trying to get in my pants, since he missed his opportunity to do so some years ago.
He's convinced that I went over to his place about six years ago. I still don't remember this, but I don't remember a lot, so it isn't saying much. Our conversation went as follows:
"I totally blew it with you when you came over that night."
"I still think you're making things up."
"No. You came over. You were going to spend the night and you ended up going home instead."
"I don't remember this at all. Tell me something I did, something that I would know meant that you aren't remembering another chick."
"You gave me a massage..."
"Ah. That sounds like me. Why the hell didn't you hit that back then?? I was giving you a massage. That was like, open access for you."
We got into a debate about his fears of women, about how he still hasn't gotten over his general fear, but likens going after a woman to sky-diving for the adrenaline it gives him.
I tell him to get The Game and read up about how to handle females and he, of course, informs me that only socially below average men read The Game and he wants a girlfriend, not a piece of ass, and to read and follow the ideas in The Game would be deviating from his personality which means any female he did land would not be the one for him because the girl would not be attracted to him for himself.
I counter-pointed him by letting him know that, for me, I want a man who is either a natural or has had the experience and practice in his life to successfully manipulate the people around him, to present himself as desirable, and have the high partner count and sexual experience that goes along with that, and then, that guy finally falls under boyfriend material to me because other guys just don't cut it so he should stop thinking that it's all one way for people and don't-make-me-come-over-there-and-smack-you.
I won.
During this, I found out everything I needed to know about the club (and then some), and guest-listed myself+1, though he offered more. It pays to be a decent dancer.
Then my friends arrived. I was sitting on C's couch on her backporch, enjoying the perfect weather and fading sunlight.
C... she was not in a good mood. And she brought one of her guy friends with her, a potential lover who she turned down, who I will refer to as Jay. He's beyond beta. He was raised in an abusive household as the oldest of many, many siblings, and he's a complete pleaser and total push-over.
So I watched her berate him as he tried to help her, listened to these horrible tones in her voice, finally inquiring as to why she was so uptight. She explained her personal drama, calmed down for a bit, then started going off on Jay again.
"C!"
"What?!"
Eye-contact. Smile. Raise hands palm up at chest level, breath deeply, relax arms to my sides.
She looks at me, "Sorry, sorry."
She snapped at me once the entire evening, even though I was also with Jay, helping her cook dinner and clean up the kitchen. She snapped at him at least once a minute, and he took it.
I then realized that I had, without meaning to, become the dominant one in our friendship. Typical, but unexpected. C's a firecracker, but she's also a sub. I'm submissive, but most people can't tell because of how I interact with others socially. The amount of sexually submissive men that profess interest in me makes me think I should become a pro-domme... if only the idea of spanking or otherwise punishing a male didn't make my stomach roll.
Anyhow, C and Jay went out after dinner. I decided to help her out by doing the dishes, hoped to ease some of that tension off her. Drama drama drama. Poor girl is entirely too empathetic.
... ... ...
I had an interesting conversation last Friday, with my guy friend who I went out to a little rocker bar with. As I mentioned, this guy and I used to work together, and I used to find him very attractive because he was so alpha-male on the job... but once we stopped working together and started hanging out socially, he totally beta'd out. Can't do that. All attraction was lost.
But we're still friends, I still enjoy his company.
He was walking me back to my car and he said:
"I can't be ashamed around you."
"Huh?"
"I can't be ashamed around you. You don't let me. I can't ever feel sorry about something I've said or thought. Because you'll just get pissed off.
"Yup."
He used to make comments, or text me, with random sexual snippets. One day he saw a girl that looked like me and texted something along the lines of, "I just saw your twin drive by. I was tempted to hunt her down so we could have a threesome because that'd be hot."
I was working, didn't answer it, so he kept texting me, asking me if he had offended me and he was so sorry, etc etc.
I finally check and I look at the phone, laugh at his initial message, and then text back, "What the hell, B? You know you can't offend me in any way, shape, or form. Stop apologizing."
But it kept happening, and he kept wigging out and apologizing for expressing desire or general sexuality.
Finally I beat it into his brain that if he did not stop apologizing for being a guy, I would stop talking to him. That was a few months ago. I did not realize it had such an effect on him.
Also, at dinner.
"Ever since you took me to that club, I've been hooked on the music."
"Oh, that's cool."
"No, I mean, really hooked. Like, I want to go back. I listen to only that kind of music now."
"Well, go back."
"Things keep getting in the way. And, besides, I want to go with you."
"Why?"
"You're entertaining and you can dance."
"Entertaining??"
"You rip people to shreds. You were just laying people low."
"What? I couldn't have been that bad."
"You're weren't bad, just amusing to listen to."
The more and more people I talk to who I take clubbing with me, or who I meet at clubs, tell me that I'm intimidating when I'm out. It's certainly interesting to watch one of my friends start talking to a regular, and then I walk up to talk to my friend... and it's just, odd reactions. Like they didn't expect me to be friendly. And once they find out that I am...
Strange.
I usually just rip people apart in my head. It's not an aggressive, needing to put them down, ripping, but more of an analytical "what are they doing wrong?" ripping. If a friend wants to learn how to dance a particular style, I travel the dancefloors until I find someone suitable, someone who matches their body type, and then I compare that dancer to those around them in a humorous way, so they can learn what to do and what not to do. Then you go over a quick history of dance styles and the wardrobes and bands that go along with the styles, picking pieces off of people who walk by in order to educate someone.
I had not realized I was doing it in such a condescending and aggressive manner. I had been trying to do it in an entertainingly humorous, yet upbeat and supportive way.
Oh well.
Because, really Nabokov's Despair has nothing on this book in terms of everything being doomed, and he truly captures the mood of old theme parks going downhill, almost perfectly. Reading the title work made me feel like going to FairyLand Caverns at Rock City on the Georgia/Tennessee border. I love that place, walking underground, looking at these blacklit scupltures of children and fairytale creatures with that scary background music of children singing nursery rhymes.
Gives me the heebie jeebies and I adore the place for that.
I spoke with Playboy last night. He's probably not coming down this weekend and becoming my sex toy. Too broke. But, apparently, his sarging is going well. This probably means that, eventually, I'll run into him in the online PUA community and then this blog won't be so anonymous anymore.
I updated him on things with GV8, things in life. I believe his comment was, "Damn, your life is turning into a regular party." I just laughed.
Also spoke with a man I will refer to as Mr. Wolf. He's my long-time friend who has been doing the club-promoter schtick lately. His club this Saturday is a go, and I'm looking very forward to it. We started talking about our platonic history, and how he's given up on trying to get in my pants, since he missed his opportunity to do so some years ago.
He's convinced that I went over to his place about six years ago. I still don't remember this, but I don't remember a lot, so it isn't saying much. Our conversation went as follows:
"I totally blew it with you when you came over that night."
"I still think you're making things up."
"No. You came over. You were going to spend the night and you ended up going home instead."
"I don't remember this at all. Tell me something I did, something that I would know meant that you aren't remembering another chick."
"You gave me a massage..."
"Ah. That sounds like me. Why the hell didn't you hit that back then?? I was giving you a massage. That was like, open access for you."
We got into a debate about his fears of women, about how he still hasn't gotten over his general fear, but likens going after a woman to sky-diving for the adrenaline it gives him.
I tell him to get The Game and read up about how to handle females and he, of course, informs me that only socially below average men read The Game and he wants a girlfriend, not a piece of ass, and to read and follow the ideas in The Game would be deviating from his personality which means any female he did land would not be the one for him because the girl would not be attracted to him for himself.
I counter-pointed him by letting him know that, for me, I want a man who is either a natural or has had the experience and practice in his life to successfully manipulate the people around him, to present himself as desirable, and have the high partner count and sexual experience that goes along with that, and then, that guy finally falls under boyfriend material to me because other guys just don't cut it so he should stop thinking that it's all one way for people and don't-make-me-come-over-there-and-smack-you.
I won.
During this, I found out everything I needed to know about the club (and then some), and guest-listed myself+1, though he offered more. It pays to be a decent dancer.
Then my friends arrived. I was sitting on C's couch on her backporch, enjoying the perfect weather and fading sunlight.
C... she was not in a good mood. And she brought one of her guy friends with her, a potential lover who she turned down, who I will refer to as Jay. He's beyond beta. He was raised in an abusive household as the oldest of many, many siblings, and he's a complete pleaser and total push-over.
So I watched her berate him as he tried to help her, listened to these horrible tones in her voice, finally inquiring as to why she was so uptight. She explained her personal drama, calmed down for a bit, then started going off on Jay again.
"C!"
"What?!"
Eye-contact. Smile. Raise hands palm up at chest level, breath deeply, relax arms to my sides.
She looks at me, "Sorry, sorry."
She snapped at me once the entire evening, even though I was also with Jay, helping her cook dinner and clean up the kitchen. She snapped at him at least once a minute, and he took it.
I then realized that I had, without meaning to, become the dominant one in our friendship. Typical, but unexpected. C's a firecracker, but she's also a sub. I'm submissive, but most people can't tell because of how I interact with others socially. The amount of sexually submissive men that profess interest in me makes me think I should become a pro-domme... if only the idea of spanking or otherwise punishing a male didn't make my stomach roll.
Anyhow, C and Jay went out after dinner. I decided to help her out by doing the dishes, hoped to ease some of that tension off her. Drama drama drama. Poor girl is entirely too empathetic.
... ... ...
I had an interesting conversation last Friday, with my guy friend who I went out to a little rocker bar with. As I mentioned, this guy and I used to work together, and I used to find him very attractive because he was so alpha-male on the job... but once we stopped working together and started hanging out socially, he totally beta'd out. Can't do that. All attraction was lost.
But we're still friends, I still enjoy his company.
He was walking me back to my car and he said:
"I can't be ashamed around you."
"Huh?"
"I can't be ashamed around you. You don't let me. I can't ever feel sorry about something I've said or thought. Because you'll just get pissed off.
"Yup."
He used to make comments, or text me, with random sexual snippets. One day he saw a girl that looked like me and texted something along the lines of, "I just saw your twin drive by. I was tempted to hunt her down so we could have a threesome because that'd be hot."
I was working, didn't answer it, so he kept texting me, asking me if he had offended me and he was so sorry, etc etc.
I finally check and I look at the phone, laugh at his initial message, and then text back, "What the hell, B? You know you can't offend me in any way, shape, or form. Stop apologizing."
But it kept happening, and he kept wigging out and apologizing for expressing desire or general sexuality.
Finally I beat it into his brain that if he did not stop apologizing for being a guy, I would stop talking to him. That was a few months ago. I did not realize it had such an effect on him.
Also, at dinner.
"Ever since you took me to that club, I've been hooked on the music."
"Oh, that's cool."
"No, I mean, really hooked. Like, I want to go back. I listen to only that kind of music now."
"Well, go back."
"Things keep getting in the way. And, besides, I want to go with you."
"Why?"
"You're entertaining and you can dance."
"Entertaining??"
"You rip people to shreds. You were just laying people low."
"What? I couldn't have been that bad."
"You're weren't bad, just amusing to listen to."
The more and more people I talk to who I take clubbing with me, or who I meet at clubs, tell me that I'm intimidating when I'm out. It's certainly interesting to watch one of my friends start talking to a regular, and then I walk up to talk to my friend... and it's just, odd reactions. Like they didn't expect me to be friendly. And once they find out that I am...
Strange.
I usually just rip people apart in my head. It's not an aggressive, needing to put them down, ripping, but more of an analytical "what are they doing wrong?" ripping. If a friend wants to learn how to dance a particular style, I travel the dancefloors until I find someone suitable, someone who matches their body type, and then I compare that dancer to those around them in a humorous way, so they can learn what to do and what not to do. Then you go over a quick history of dance styles and the wardrobes and bands that go along with the styles, picking pieces off of people who walk by in order to educate someone.
I had not realized I was doing it in such a condescending and aggressive manner. I had been trying to do it in an entertainingly humorous, yet upbeat and supportive way.
Oh well.
Monday, June 22, 2009
I first produced my pistol...
1020PM on a Monday.
If I could ever get to sleep by a "normal" hour, I think the people around me would get concerned.
I remember having a bedtime of 830, and thinking 930 was so late and when I was older I'd stay up to the exalted 10PM.
Now I sit and hope that my life and my brain will slow down enough during the week so that I can get to bed before 1230 each night.
I drove home from my friend's place a little before 9PM, finding myself putting "Whiskey in the Jar" by Thin Lizzy on repeat. That guitar reminds me so much of my childhood, of listening to that type of rock with my parents, doing yard work and hanging out with my father in the garage of our first house in San Gabriel Valley.
I drove by LAX.
It never gets old, seeing those planes lined up, waiting to touch down, sometimes an entire highway of backed up aircraft. I look out my window and watch, wondering who is on them, where they're coming from, if they're coming home or coming out here for vacation or business. How many are asleep, how many are reading, how many are traveling due to life upheavals? The ones who sit, who dread the descent, dread coming back home to their unhappy marriages or empty apartments. The ones who stare out their window at the grid that makes up LA.
I miss this neighborhood. I miss being so near the beach, so near the airport. Driving up PCH just because I can, just because it's there, checking the bonfires at Dockweiler on the weekends, being ever so careful because the pedestrians are drunk, stupid, and more than willing to run across the small highway in front of your car.
Before this summer is over, sometime around midnight, I want to take a blanket out to that beach, long after the cops have kicked everyone out, and lay on my back and watch the planes.
I can hardly imagine anything better.
Freedom and possibility flying over your head.
Reminds me of being up in Oregon, sitting on the hood of the car, watching a meteor shower, dodging the millions of moths that haunted our headlights.
Time is passing so quickly. I find myself looking at my body, wondering what it is going to be like to watch the gradual decline of my flesh. I wonder if I'll go to skin and bones, or to plumpness, when I'm in my 70s. I think I'd prefer the plump. Skinny old people look too breakable, and aren't comfortable to hug. I wonder what my tattoos will look like, if the black will fade and blur like so many sailors' tattoos I've seen in the nursing homes.
If I reproduce, will my children, and my possible children's children, look intently at photographs of me at their own age, like I have done so much over the years, and look for bits of themselves, or look for bits of me that the recognize? Will they think I'm pretty? Will they tell each other that they've got my eyes? Will someone regale them with the my blacksheep stories?
On Father's Day, my family and I sat on the patio in the backyard, eating dinner.
My sister brought up alcohol, and how she really does not like tequila. My father tells her, "There's something in it. I don't know what. When I drank it I always wanted to fight or fuck."
My mother tells me I have so much of my father in me, in my personality.
My father, who tries so hard to suppress that nature in himself, who wishes so badly that I was not like him.
My father, the partier, the man about town, the manwhore, the druggie, the prankster.
My father, getting smashed with Jerry Garcia, hanging with Timothy Leary.
The man who tore his own nose off because he was so spun out on something he decided to ride his motorcycle down a hill by standing on it.
Reading Sperm Wars, they talk about mate selection, about passing down desirable social traits, on particular chapter spoke of two half-siblings with different fathers, and how one was also social, shining, and active, and the other was always a few steps behind, shy, and passive, mirrors of their fathers.
Something in me broke, years ago. And now I'm living the life he left for my mother when he was 23. Except I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs.
Anymore.
Will I ever have children that I will sit by me on the couch, flipping through scrapbooks with, showing pictures of the grandfather and grandmother to?
Do I even want kids?
Can I imagine trusting and submitting to a man so deeply that I would wish to carry his seed? That I would make my body into a vessel for his offspring?
I don't know. I don't want children, but I know that someone, somewhere, may eventually change my mind. I'm submissive in nature, and to carry a man's child seems like the ultimate act of submission to me. My body is yours, my body accepts you, accepts your seed, and will spend the next eight to nine months changing in order to successfully give birth to our offspring.
...hm.
I think I am going to continue to pass on this.
If I could ever get to sleep by a "normal" hour, I think the people around me would get concerned.
I remember having a bedtime of 830, and thinking 930 was so late and when I was older I'd stay up to the exalted 10PM.
Now I sit and hope that my life and my brain will slow down enough during the week so that I can get to bed before 1230 each night.
I drove home from my friend's place a little before 9PM, finding myself putting "Whiskey in the Jar" by Thin Lizzy on repeat. That guitar reminds me so much of my childhood, of listening to that type of rock with my parents, doing yard work and hanging out with my father in the garage of our first house in San Gabriel Valley.
I drove by LAX.
It never gets old, seeing those planes lined up, waiting to touch down, sometimes an entire highway of backed up aircraft. I look out my window and watch, wondering who is on them, where they're coming from, if they're coming home or coming out here for vacation or business. How many are asleep, how many are reading, how many are traveling due to life upheavals? The ones who sit, who dread the descent, dread coming back home to their unhappy marriages or empty apartments. The ones who stare out their window at the grid that makes up LA.
I miss this neighborhood. I miss being so near the beach, so near the airport. Driving up PCH just because I can, just because it's there, checking the bonfires at Dockweiler on the weekends, being ever so careful because the pedestrians are drunk, stupid, and more than willing to run across the small highway in front of your car.
Before this summer is over, sometime around midnight, I want to take a blanket out to that beach, long after the cops have kicked everyone out, and lay on my back and watch the planes.
I can hardly imagine anything better.
Freedom and possibility flying over your head.
Reminds me of being up in Oregon, sitting on the hood of the car, watching a meteor shower, dodging the millions of moths that haunted our headlights.
Time is passing so quickly. I find myself looking at my body, wondering what it is going to be like to watch the gradual decline of my flesh. I wonder if I'll go to skin and bones, or to plumpness, when I'm in my 70s. I think I'd prefer the plump. Skinny old people look too breakable, and aren't comfortable to hug. I wonder what my tattoos will look like, if the black will fade and blur like so many sailors' tattoos I've seen in the nursing homes.
If I reproduce, will my children, and my possible children's children, look intently at photographs of me at their own age, like I have done so much over the years, and look for bits of themselves, or look for bits of me that the recognize? Will they think I'm pretty? Will they tell each other that they've got my eyes? Will someone regale them with the my blacksheep stories?
On Father's Day, my family and I sat on the patio in the backyard, eating dinner.
My sister brought up alcohol, and how she really does not like tequila. My father tells her, "There's something in it. I don't know what. When I drank it I always wanted to fight or fuck."
My mother tells me I have so much of my father in me, in my personality.
My father, who tries so hard to suppress that nature in himself, who wishes so badly that I was not like him.
My father, the partier, the man about town, the manwhore, the druggie, the prankster.
My father, getting smashed with Jerry Garcia, hanging with Timothy Leary.
The man who tore his own nose off because he was so spun out on something he decided to ride his motorcycle down a hill by standing on it.
Reading Sperm Wars, they talk about mate selection, about passing down desirable social traits, on particular chapter spoke of two half-siblings with different fathers, and how one was also social, shining, and active, and the other was always a few steps behind, shy, and passive, mirrors of their fathers.
Something in me broke, years ago. And now I'm living the life he left for my mother when he was 23. Except I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs.
Anymore.
Will I ever have children that I will sit by me on the couch, flipping through scrapbooks with, showing pictures of the grandfather and grandmother to?
Do I even want kids?
Can I imagine trusting and submitting to a man so deeply that I would wish to carry his seed? That I would make my body into a vessel for his offspring?
I don't know. I don't want children, but I know that someone, somewhere, may eventually change my mind. I'm submissive in nature, and to carry a man's child seems like the ultimate act of submission to me. My body is yours, my body accepts you, accepts your seed, and will spend the next eight to nine months changing in order to successfully give birth to our offspring.
...hm.
I think I am going to continue to pass on this.
I was angry when I met you...
I'm doing it again. Running myself into the ground until my body crashes.
Makes me feel like reading Rollin's Broken Summers again. That book just makes you want to pushpushpush.
I've been trying not to let this weakness in my body get the better of me. I'm fighting it as much as I can without actually stopping and resting, even though I tried this weekend.
Tonight, dinner with a friend, then curling up together and watching Dollhouse. I'm a major cuddler.
Tomorrow, karoke. It's cross-dresser night, so I'm helping another friend bind her breasts down. Or so I was told via text message yesterday.
Wednesday, dinner with friends, then a strip club somewhere in Hollywood that my friends insist is amazing.
Thursday, a show with more friends at the Mayan.
Then we hit the weekend.
SFPlayboy might be coming down to visit, but I already planned things with GV8. Fortunately, both of them seem quite happy sharing me.
So Friday, I may have dinner with some friends... or I may go and molest Playboy.
Saturday day, I'm going to run up to the warehouse/loft space that GV8 found for his club (which is spectacular) and take Before pictures, since construction is going to kick up soon. He found this wonderful place just off of Highland, right by Santa Monica Blvd. It's big. It's wonderful. He's going to be installing large mirrors and a dancefloor, I'm assuming a soundsystem, and the standard clublights. Which means I'm going to be able to go over there any freaking time I want (because, of course, I get a key) and dance myself silly, picking my own songs, my own temperature, with no one to bump into. The loft space above is going to be converted into a bedroom, so whenever I feel like crashing in Hollywood after a club, I can just drive down the street and rack out. It's got a full kitchen, standard bathroom (though he's going to be putting in a jacuzzi tub in place of the shower). I'm trying to talk him out of stripper poles, but that seems unlikely. Anytime I feel like throwing a party, I'm golden. Lounging about the place, with couches, beanbags, and stacks of mattresses (swing parties, also yay) if I choose to pull them out... win. Freaking win.
Anyhow, end excited ramble.
Saturday night, supposedly one of my longtime friends, a club promoter these days, is getting together a group of promoters for a monthly trip-hop club at a venue I've yet to go to. This Saturday, assuming he pulled it all off, I'll be able to get my groove onto the likes of Massive Attack, PortisHead, Tricky, Goldfrapp, et. al. Best music to dance to, hands down.
But I've invited both Playboy and GV8.
Which means I have this opportunity to (fairly easily) convince both of them to go back to GV8's place with me for some DP.
This, this makes me happy.
Of course, that's if Playboy comes down. He might not. We'll see.
Whether or not he does, though, I'll be out with GV8, dancing and loving. Sunday, again, will be recooperation time (though it usually is me not getting enough sleep when I'm woken with fingers and tongue at 8AM), then probably a trip down to Venice to get some lenses grinded so I can get a pair of nice sunglasses that are actually prescription.
I should call off tonight. I know I should. My body is screaming for it.
But I haven't seen this guy, Ty, in a month or two and I feel bad about blowing him off so often.
So... yes.
Gotta keep pushing.
When I crash, I crash.
Makes me feel like reading Rollin's Broken Summers again. That book just makes you want to pushpushpush.
I've been trying not to let this weakness in my body get the better of me. I'm fighting it as much as I can without actually stopping and resting, even though I tried this weekend.
Tonight, dinner with a friend, then curling up together and watching Dollhouse. I'm a major cuddler.
Tomorrow, karoke. It's cross-dresser night, so I'm helping another friend bind her breasts down. Or so I was told via text message yesterday.
Wednesday, dinner with friends, then a strip club somewhere in Hollywood that my friends insist is amazing.
Thursday, a show with more friends at the Mayan.
Then we hit the weekend.
SFPlayboy might be coming down to visit, but I already planned things with GV8. Fortunately, both of them seem quite happy sharing me.
So Friday, I may have dinner with some friends... or I may go and molest Playboy.
Saturday day, I'm going to run up to the warehouse/loft space that GV8 found for his club (which is spectacular) and take Before pictures, since construction is going to kick up soon. He found this wonderful place just off of Highland, right by Santa Monica Blvd. It's big. It's wonderful. He's going to be installing large mirrors and a dancefloor, I'm assuming a soundsystem, and the standard clublights. Which means I'm going to be able to go over there any freaking time I want (because, of course, I get a key) and dance myself silly, picking my own songs, my own temperature, with no one to bump into. The loft space above is going to be converted into a bedroom, so whenever I feel like crashing in Hollywood after a club, I can just drive down the street and rack out. It's got a full kitchen, standard bathroom (though he's going to be putting in a jacuzzi tub in place of the shower). I'm trying to talk him out of stripper poles, but that seems unlikely. Anytime I feel like throwing a party, I'm golden. Lounging about the place, with couches, beanbags, and stacks of mattresses (swing parties, also yay) if I choose to pull them out... win. Freaking win.
Anyhow, end excited ramble.
Saturday night, supposedly one of my longtime friends, a club promoter these days, is getting together a group of promoters for a monthly trip-hop club at a venue I've yet to go to. This Saturday, assuming he pulled it all off, I'll be able to get my groove onto the likes of Massive Attack, PortisHead, Tricky, Goldfrapp, et. al. Best music to dance to, hands down.
But I've invited both Playboy and GV8.
Which means I have this opportunity to (fairly easily) convince both of them to go back to GV8's place with me for some DP.
This, this makes me happy.
Of course, that's if Playboy comes down. He might not. We'll see.
Whether or not he does, though, I'll be out with GV8, dancing and loving. Sunday, again, will be recooperation time (though it usually is me not getting enough sleep when I'm woken with fingers and tongue at 8AM), then probably a trip down to Venice to get some lenses grinded so I can get a pair of nice sunglasses that are actually prescription.
I should call off tonight. I know I should. My body is screaming for it.
But I haven't seen this guy, Ty, in a month or two and I feel bad about blowing him off so often.
So... yes.
Gotta keep pushing.
When I crash, I crash.
How could this be...
We have these moments.
Moments on street corners, in bars, in the grocery store, at the park, on the freeway, where we see someone and we know that everything we ever could be, and everything they ever could be, together, they're the one. Maybe the one for the moment, one for the week, the month, the year, they're it.
To the men I've yet to meet, the men who will touch me, wreck me, love me, I'm rushing towards you. I'm not a girl to wait, and maybe you like that, maybe you fear it.
But the actions I take today and the actions you are performing right now bring us together and I am so excited to know that one day, across a restaurant, at a coffee shop, in the movies, at a bookstore, I'll see you.
We'll talk.
We'll laugh.
We'll flirt.
We'll introduce new concepts to each other, new ideas, new motions and things to find attractive about the opposite sex. We'll impact each other so strongly for such a short entanglement, pushing off each other like walls in the swimming pool, launching towards the next destination, shoving aside water as we power forward.
I'll be in your bed, my clothing will decorate your floor. I will fall asleep with my head on your chest, breath blowing quietly against your skin until I do what I nearly always do: turn away and sleep on my own. Maybe you'll follow, pressing your chest against my spine, your nose buried in my hair. Maybe you won't.
I'll show you tricks I've learned, I'll show you how to relax, how to laugh during sex, how to enjoy yourself and to not worry about your partner so much it impedes the moment of your enjoyment.
And you'll show me things, things I've yet to think of, but you know them so well.
Our combined sexual histories will come together for an evening, for a few weeks, or a few months.
And then we'll part.
All of these moments.
I'm looking forward to the one with you.
Moments on street corners, in bars, in the grocery store, at the park, on the freeway, where we see someone and we know that everything we ever could be, and everything they ever could be, together, they're the one. Maybe the one for the moment, one for the week, the month, the year, they're it.
To the men I've yet to meet, the men who will touch me, wreck me, love me, I'm rushing towards you. I'm not a girl to wait, and maybe you like that, maybe you fear it.
But the actions I take today and the actions you are performing right now bring us together and I am so excited to know that one day, across a restaurant, at a coffee shop, in the movies, at a bookstore, I'll see you.
We'll talk.
We'll laugh.
We'll flirt.
We'll introduce new concepts to each other, new ideas, new motions and things to find attractive about the opposite sex. We'll impact each other so strongly for such a short entanglement, pushing off each other like walls in the swimming pool, launching towards the next destination, shoving aside water as we power forward.
I'll be in your bed, my clothing will decorate your floor. I will fall asleep with my head on your chest, breath blowing quietly against your skin until I do what I nearly always do: turn away and sleep on my own. Maybe you'll follow, pressing your chest against my spine, your nose buried in my hair. Maybe you won't.
I'll show you tricks I've learned, I'll show you how to relax, how to laugh during sex, how to enjoy yourself and to not worry about your partner so much it impedes the moment of your enjoyment.
And you'll show me things, things I've yet to think of, but you know them so well.
Our combined sexual histories will come together for an evening, for a few weeks, or a few months.
And then we'll part.
All of these moments.
I'm looking forward to the one with you.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Fall apart and start again...
How relaxing this weekend has been. I haven't even left the city.
I finished Exile in Guyville by Dave White this morning. God, that book had me howling in laughter in public places, people looking at me like I had lost my mind.
Started The Surrender by Toni Bentley, about half-way through now. Mr. Savage recommended it to me, said our writing was similiar. I've had people say that before, about other authors, but when I've looked at their work, I don't see any similiarities.
...but, oddly, Ms. Bentley's writing style and my own are similiar. We both do that listing word-flow, comma after comma after comma, attempting to catch that moment. It's been weird reading it, but there's enough of a difference in our attitudes so that I don't get too lost in the pages, wondering if I lived this life.
Fortunately, she's on this spiritual bent that I will never follow.
Faith in something... it's never worked for me.
The most faith that I have is in the theory that people will act in their own self-interest, neither good nor bad in nature. And it is with that world-view that I operate.
I did not spend this weekend with GV8. Usually, what I'll do is have a date on Friday night with someone, a date on Saturday afternoon, then go out with GV8 on Saturday night, which will translate into Sunday morning and afternoon, the two of us running around Hollywood, occasionally dropping into Los Angeles, until I drag my carcass home. We don't get to see each other that often because of his business.
So I stayed in town this weekend. I went to dinner with a friend, as previously mentioned, at a bar so now I know that if I feel like wrangling myself a tattooed rocker boy, I can drop in there. I do love a man with a lot of ink.
And I went to a semi-farmer's market thing this morning.
I haven't been spending a lot of time in this particular part of Southern California. Sure, it's where I grew up, for the most part, but I ejected out of the familiar fairly fast.
So I'm wandering around, looking at all these people, mostly dads and their offspring, and I walk by this girl.
Oh, look at that. It's one of the bitches from high school. Captain of the flag team, the all girl's choir team president... VP, whatever. Something. She went out of her way to give me as much crap as she possibly could... I still don't know what I did to offend her so much that she gunned for me all three years I attended that school.
She never left this town.
She married a guy who was a grade above her.
When they were dating, years ago, I overheard him trash-talking her at a Starbucks.
I see this girl who used to be so fit, so aggressive, with such a toned, athletic body and this healthy, wild, curly hair, and these sharp, angry brown eyes as she strode around the school, queen of the band nerds and colorguard.
She has not aged well.
It looks like someone took several pairs of nylons, stuffed the legs with waterballoons, and wrapped them haphazardly around her body. Her fat hangs and bunches in pools. She has a waddle around her neck, that wobbles when she talks, bulges when she lowers her chin. She's probably five years away, max, from having that pile of fat that some women store above their cunt. Her hair is piled up on her head looking like a tangled mass of hairy upchuck. She's wearing bug-eyes sunglasses, jeans that are making her muffintop, and double-layered tank tops that show every misplaced roll on her body.
It was pretty damn sad.
Her husband was with her. He has aged better. He was always nice to me, when we spoke. I never understood how he could tolerate her, find her essence, that of the Bitch, attractive. I just walked by them, no words.
I'm five, maybe ten pounds max, heavier than I was when I quit high school.
I'm travelling all over the place, meeting amazing people, doing things I never even heard of before they were proposed to me. I have friends all over the place, people I've met through various means, people that have become dear to me. I'm keeping active. I'm working on myself, working on my body, on my mind, constantly. I tear through books, movies, and music, searching for more to learn. I talk to strangers constantly throughout the day because interacting with someone new will teach you something, maybe about yourself, maybe about the world. But you'll learn. I'm going back to school, finally driving towards one of my dream jobs, and focusing so much on my writing. I'm recognizing fears and things that have held me back and I'm doing it for myself. Because I can be better. Because I should be better.
Never flatline.
Never stagnate.
You're in the moment now. You can sit and wait for something to happen, you can backslide, or you can walk forward.
I choose to go forward.
Because there is so much more I can be.
Just watch.
I finished Exile in Guyville by Dave White this morning. God, that book had me howling in laughter in public places, people looking at me like I had lost my mind.
Started The Surrender by Toni Bentley, about half-way through now. Mr. Savage recommended it to me, said our writing was similiar. I've had people say that before, about other authors, but when I've looked at their work, I don't see any similiarities.
...but, oddly, Ms. Bentley's writing style and my own are similiar. We both do that listing word-flow, comma after comma after comma, attempting to catch that moment. It's been weird reading it, but there's enough of a difference in our attitudes so that I don't get too lost in the pages, wondering if I lived this life.
Fortunately, she's on this spiritual bent that I will never follow.
Faith in something... it's never worked for me.
The most faith that I have is in the theory that people will act in their own self-interest, neither good nor bad in nature. And it is with that world-view that I operate.
I did not spend this weekend with GV8. Usually, what I'll do is have a date on Friday night with someone, a date on Saturday afternoon, then go out with GV8 on Saturday night, which will translate into Sunday morning and afternoon, the two of us running around Hollywood, occasionally dropping into Los Angeles, until I drag my carcass home. We don't get to see each other that often because of his business.
So I stayed in town this weekend. I went to dinner with a friend, as previously mentioned, at a bar so now I know that if I feel like wrangling myself a tattooed rocker boy, I can drop in there. I do love a man with a lot of ink.
And I went to a semi-farmer's market thing this morning.
I haven't been spending a lot of time in this particular part of Southern California. Sure, it's where I grew up, for the most part, but I ejected out of the familiar fairly fast.
So I'm wandering around, looking at all these people, mostly dads and their offspring, and I walk by this girl.
Oh, look at that. It's one of the bitches from high school. Captain of the flag team, the all girl's choir team president... VP, whatever. Something. She went out of her way to give me as much crap as she possibly could... I still don't know what I did to offend her so much that she gunned for me all three years I attended that school.
She never left this town.
She married a guy who was a grade above her.
When they were dating, years ago, I overheard him trash-talking her at a Starbucks.
I see this girl who used to be so fit, so aggressive, with such a toned, athletic body and this healthy, wild, curly hair, and these sharp, angry brown eyes as she strode around the school, queen of the band nerds and colorguard.
She has not aged well.
It looks like someone took several pairs of nylons, stuffed the legs with waterballoons, and wrapped them haphazardly around her body. Her fat hangs and bunches in pools. She has a waddle around her neck, that wobbles when she talks, bulges when she lowers her chin. She's probably five years away, max, from having that pile of fat that some women store above their cunt. Her hair is piled up on her head looking like a tangled mass of hairy upchuck. She's wearing bug-eyes sunglasses, jeans that are making her muffintop, and double-layered tank tops that show every misplaced roll on her body.
It was pretty damn sad.
Her husband was with her. He has aged better. He was always nice to me, when we spoke. I never understood how he could tolerate her, find her essence, that of the Bitch, attractive. I just walked by them, no words.
I'm five, maybe ten pounds max, heavier than I was when I quit high school.
I'm travelling all over the place, meeting amazing people, doing things I never even heard of before they were proposed to me. I have friends all over the place, people I've met through various means, people that have become dear to me. I'm keeping active. I'm working on myself, working on my body, on my mind, constantly. I tear through books, movies, and music, searching for more to learn. I talk to strangers constantly throughout the day because interacting with someone new will teach you something, maybe about yourself, maybe about the world. But you'll learn. I'm going back to school, finally driving towards one of my dream jobs, and focusing so much on my writing. I'm recognizing fears and things that have held me back and I'm doing it for myself. Because I can be better. Because I should be better.
Never flatline.
Never stagnate.
You're in the moment now. You can sit and wait for something to happen, you can backslide, or you can walk forward.
I choose to go forward.
Because there is so much more I can be.
Just watch.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
For the goosebump, in the heartbeat...
December, 2008.
It's almost midnight. I turn onto Beverly from Fairfax, where a quick right sends me up his street. I pull up in front of his apartment and call him to tell him I'm there, glancing at my thermometer as I end the call.
48 degrees.
I'm nervous.
He makes me nervous.
To work out some of that anxious energy, I pop my trunk and start digging through the contents, looking for a sweater, tossing in my CD case so I don't just leave it sitting out in the open on my backseat.
I hear him approach and look up.
God, he's gorgeous.
His bone structure adds this wildness to his face that makes him look like he's got a thunderstorm trapped beneath his skin.
Which isn't too far from the truth.
I notice he's grown a van dyke since I last saw him. It looks good... but then, with his face, everything looks good. It's grown out in this golden cornstalk color, and I'm blown away by how perfect he looks.
"Hey," I say, closing my trunk, walking towards him.
"Hey," he returns to me, opening his arms.
This is the second time we've gone out. I try not to assume anything about the amount of physical and sexual contact my partners enjoy in public, so I go for the hug. He's hard to read, or maybe it's just my nervousness blurring my normal instincts.
About a half-second too late, I realize he's going for the kiss, and I backtrack my movements immediately.
Oh god, he's warm.
God, I've missed this.
Thoughts are flying through my brain as we kiss, all of them starting with religious overtones.
He's perfect.
We're under a street light in front of his apartment, I'd normally be shaking from the cold but he heats my whole body as our lips move together.
We stop and breathe, foreheads touching.
"Hello," I whisper against his lips.
He grins back, "Hello, yourself."
He grabs my hand and pulls me back towards his apartment.
He doesn't realize the shock that was to my system. I haven't held another person's hand in about four months. That tends to be reserved for people I'm comfortable with.
I'm marvelling at the feel of our palms meeting in holy palmers' kiss as we stride back towards his apartment.
Past the bikes linked together.
Up the high curb that was so poorly designed.
Up the narrow stairs that double back on themselves and the taupe walls with visible brushstrokes, madman's canvas.
He pushes open the door and we're together again, standing at the foot of his bed and he drops me, perfectly supported, I feel my body rolling like a perfect throw in judo, except it's slow and our lips never stop.
His mattress is thin and on hardwood. We move together in this ballet of thrown clothes and frantic touches as we reacquaint ourselves with the other's body. I don't remember these scars, the freckles. He has a new tattoo since last we met, over his heart, in cursive, it says:
Start here
I do.
Kisses and licks down his chest, starting from the ink that darkens his skin.
But we don't wait for foreplay. That's for another night. We have a midnight movie to get to at the little theater down the street, and I'm already wet and willing him to get inside me, calling his name as he starts lapping between my legs, my fingers roaming through his short blonde hair, legs sliding up and down the sheets on either side of his body as he slips a finger inside me.
I moan his name, then, "Oh, please, get inside me."
No further encouragement necessary.
I toss him a condom- I always use my own- and he slides it down his shaft and is in me so quickly it's almost beyond human speed.
My body adjusts rapidly, legs are wrapped around his waist, his hands are pinning my wrists down above my head and our lips continue to seek each other, with short coffee breaks to roam to neck and earlobes.
Our rhythm is perfect.
I've never found this with another man.
There are no errors. There is no lack of flow. We are like two parts of one body, the beast with two backs, and we can conduct a symphony with the perfect matching measurements between us, shifting speeds and angles as though we had choreographed this in advance.
The whispered, "I'm going to cum," in my ear sets me to moaning. I love this, when the thrusting takes on more intensity, when you can feel the shaft pulsing against your flesh as he floods inside you.
We lie there, my legs once more wrapped around him.
"I think I'm just going to stay like this forever," I tell him.
"What are we going to do about food?"
"Ah, I'll just eat you."
"Not if I eat you first," he starts biting my shoulders and I'm laughing and biting back as he slides out of me and tosses the condom behind him, onto the hardwood.
It all blends together.
I miss him.
I miss his beauty, and his intensity. I miss lying on the bed facing him as we talk, staring into those too-blue eyes, those insane skyblue eyes of his that I could sink into.
Our first date ended up being twenty-four hours long.
Tattoos on Melrose, clean-up at his apartment (I was bleeding heavily for some reason), a silent film down at the Old Town Music Hall in El Segundo, then dinner around 11PM at The Kettle in Manhattan Beach. That was the first time I had ever been there.
Lying in bed together that night, on my black sheets, just staring at each other. People are always complimenting my eyes, I thought, but they should see his.
"Who is this girl," he says from across the sheets, "Who would go get tattoos with me? Who are you?"
I shrugged at him, "I'm just a girl. Just me."
When we had sex that night, because of the placement of that tattoo, I ended up bleeding ink onto him, so we had matching tattoos, except mine was in the inner curve of my left hipbone, and his was on the right.
The next time, at his place, I found I had smeared eyeshadow across his right shoulder from buring my face against his neck during sex. It happened a few more times after that. I never realized how often I did that.
He was so about love, about loving everything.
But he understood pain, understood damage.
One of the first things that drew me to him was reading some of his writing.
"Pain is how I pray."
And I said, yes, yes, he'll understand.
He did.
I have so many men, so many wonderful experiences to be thankful for.
He's one of them.
It's almost midnight. I turn onto Beverly from Fairfax, where a quick right sends me up his street. I pull up in front of his apartment and call him to tell him I'm there, glancing at my thermometer as I end the call.
48 degrees.
I'm nervous.
He makes me nervous.
To work out some of that anxious energy, I pop my trunk and start digging through the contents, looking for a sweater, tossing in my CD case so I don't just leave it sitting out in the open on my backseat.
I hear him approach and look up.
God, he's gorgeous.
His bone structure adds this wildness to his face that makes him look like he's got a thunderstorm trapped beneath his skin.
Which isn't too far from the truth.
I notice he's grown a van dyke since I last saw him. It looks good... but then, with his face, everything looks good. It's grown out in this golden cornstalk color, and I'm blown away by how perfect he looks.
"Hey," I say, closing my trunk, walking towards him.
"Hey," he returns to me, opening his arms.
This is the second time we've gone out. I try not to assume anything about the amount of physical and sexual contact my partners enjoy in public, so I go for the hug. He's hard to read, or maybe it's just my nervousness blurring my normal instincts.
About a half-second too late, I realize he's going for the kiss, and I backtrack my movements immediately.
Oh god, he's warm.
God, I've missed this.
Thoughts are flying through my brain as we kiss, all of them starting with religious overtones.
He's perfect.
We're under a street light in front of his apartment, I'd normally be shaking from the cold but he heats my whole body as our lips move together.
We stop and breathe, foreheads touching.
"Hello," I whisper against his lips.
He grins back, "Hello, yourself."
He grabs my hand and pulls me back towards his apartment.
He doesn't realize the shock that was to my system. I haven't held another person's hand in about four months. That tends to be reserved for people I'm comfortable with.
I'm marvelling at the feel of our palms meeting in holy palmers' kiss as we stride back towards his apartment.
Past the bikes linked together.
Up the high curb that was so poorly designed.
Up the narrow stairs that double back on themselves and the taupe walls with visible brushstrokes, madman's canvas.
He pushes open the door and we're together again, standing at the foot of his bed and he drops me, perfectly supported, I feel my body rolling like a perfect throw in judo, except it's slow and our lips never stop.
His mattress is thin and on hardwood. We move together in this ballet of thrown clothes and frantic touches as we reacquaint ourselves with the other's body. I don't remember these scars, the freckles. He has a new tattoo since last we met, over his heart, in cursive, it says:
Start here
I do.
Kisses and licks down his chest, starting from the ink that darkens his skin.
But we don't wait for foreplay. That's for another night. We have a midnight movie to get to at the little theater down the street, and I'm already wet and willing him to get inside me, calling his name as he starts lapping between my legs, my fingers roaming through his short blonde hair, legs sliding up and down the sheets on either side of his body as he slips a finger inside me.
I moan his name, then, "Oh, please, get inside me."
No further encouragement necessary.
I toss him a condom- I always use my own- and he slides it down his shaft and is in me so quickly it's almost beyond human speed.
My body adjusts rapidly, legs are wrapped around his waist, his hands are pinning my wrists down above my head and our lips continue to seek each other, with short coffee breaks to roam to neck and earlobes.
Our rhythm is perfect.
I've never found this with another man.
There are no errors. There is no lack of flow. We are like two parts of one body, the beast with two backs, and we can conduct a symphony with the perfect matching measurements between us, shifting speeds and angles as though we had choreographed this in advance.
The whispered, "I'm going to cum," in my ear sets me to moaning. I love this, when the thrusting takes on more intensity, when you can feel the shaft pulsing against your flesh as he floods inside you.
We lie there, my legs once more wrapped around him.
"I think I'm just going to stay like this forever," I tell him.
"What are we going to do about food?"
"Ah, I'll just eat you."
"Not if I eat you first," he starts biting my shoulders and I'm laughing and biting back as he slides out of me and tosses the condom behind him, onto the hardwood.
It all blends together.
I miss him.
I miss his beauty, and his intensity. I miss lying on the bed facing him as we talk, staring into those too-blue eyes, those insane skyblue eyes of his that I could sink into.
Our first date ended up being twenty-four hours long.
Tattoos on Melrose, clean-up at his apartment (I was bleeding heavily for some reason), a silent film down at the Old Town Music Hall in El Segundo, then dinner around 11PM at The Kettle in Manhattan Beach. That was the first time I had ever been there.
Lying in bed together that night, on my black sheets, just staring at each other. People are always complimenting my eyes, I thought, but they should see his.
"Who is this girl," he says from across the sheets, "Who would go get tattoos with me? Who are you?"
I shrugged at him, "I'm just a girl. Just me."
When we had sex that night, because of the placement of that tattoo, I ended up bleeding ink onto him, so we had matching tattoos, except mine was in the inner curve of my left hipbone, and his was on the right.
The next time, at his place, I found I had smeared eyeshadow across his right shoulder from buring my face against his neck during sex. It happened a few more times after that. I never realized how often I did that.
He was so about love, about loving everything.
But he understood pain, understood damage.
One of the first things that drew me to him was reading some of his writing.
"Pain is how I pray."
And I said, yes, yes, he'll understand.
He did.
I have so many men, so many wonderful experiences to be thankful for.
He's one of them.
Wise men talk in analogies and puzzles...
I was too tired for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes last night. I wiped out almost immediately after my post, save for a quick detour stopping by my sister's room due to her calling me as I passed by in order to back her argument against her boyfriend about what type of car he should buy.
I act socially dominant. I am socially dominant, when I choose to be social. I work groups when the mood takes me, when I feel like interacting with people. I always end up being the head of the group or, if a single male alpha is already in control, I get his attention and manuever to become his focus, which puts me at the top of the social food chain.
But, in the end, I will always be socially, sexually, and psychologically submissive to the man of my choice, a man worth submitting to, whether if it's for a night, a month, or a year.
My sister, on the other hand, is, and will always be social to her core. And in that core, she will always be dominant. She commands groups, she commands men and women alike and the word "compromise" is this vague, far off thing that she only engages in with our parents.
And, in the end, she rides roughshod over her boyfriends. She pussywhips them like you would not believe. She has no respect for them, for their needs, for their preferences. If she's ambiguous about something, she'll go with what they want, but if she at all has an opinion, they are going to do it Her Way. End of story.
None of her three boyfriends have managed to stand up to her.
So I walk by and she's laying into him about how he's wrongwrongwrong about the car he wants to get and he's going to get this other car because it's safer and she cares about his safety and there is no way in hell that he's going to get this other car. And she drags me into it.
I'm so apathetic about this, I don't even remember the conclusion other than me telling him, "You should get a safe car, not for yourself, but for your son." He has a three year old boy from his ex-wife.
Well, that was fuel to her fire. I just left the room.
The next morning, this morning really, I went to breakfast with my mother. As I have said before, she is a close friend of mine, so we do go out when we can and talk about what's going on in our lives. We also stay up at night and play near violent card games, insulting each other like crazy.
She told me about her experience up in Portland, how she went through her grief cycles with her best friend, through instructions in a book that was recommended to her, and how much she realized about herself and her relationship with her older brother, who has pretty much abandoned her for his crazy born-again wife.
And, as breakfast wound down, I talked to her.
I told her how badly I felt when I was at home. About how whenever I was upset about something as a child, and even to this day, she and my father would both tell me why I should not be upset, and how the other person had their reasons and I just needed to get over it, and how very unacknowledged that made me feel all through my life.
I explained to her about the shirts that upset her so much the night before, and why I wore them, why I was comfortable wearing them. I explained to her how, because of the things that I have done, that have been done to me, I developed in the way I did, became as I am now, and that I wish she was happy for how much I've learned, and how well I can protect myself. I told her of my female friends that come to me for advice, how women online would read my blogs (at one of my other sites) and send me fan mail, questions, queries on issues they've been having with men or with their own sexuality. I tell her about the mini fanclub I had before I disappeared from that site because the attention was too much, and how I am able protect my friends from harm and being taken advantage of by rogue males because of my experiences. I point out girlfriends I've had in the past and situations that have arisen (some she already knew about), and how I had to deal with things. I tell her about going out with friends to clubs and being in the back, watching over the girls I came with, making sure that they're safe.
This is who I've become.
Because of the things that happened.
And she remembers that time in my life so well, the fragments of what I was going through flying her way, cutting her off at the knees while I self-destructed.
We're sitting there, at this little cafe, and she says,
"I remember, V. Since that time, you've grown into something different, and I've had to let go of the girl you used to be."
We talk, and I cry some. I'm not a crier. I'm the nominated family eulogy reader because the only other person who can keep it together at funerals is my father, and he doesn't like public speaking.
But I do cry. I actually cried due to direct emotional stimulus related to something I was going through.
Usually, when I know I need to cry about something, but I can't let go of my control, I watch a movie that always sends me over the edge. Sweet November, Butterfly Effect, Swing Kids, Benjamin Button. God, when I saw Benjamin Button over at the Arclight I fucking lost it hardcore. Twice.
That make-up didn't actually need to be presentable to public view or anything.
So we talk. We talk about how alienated I feel from the rest of the family because of how my life torqued off at this odd angle, about why, at family gatherings, I'm always behind a camera or off in an armchair somewhere, reading. How I feel I will hurt her if I let who I've become leak through, so I just withdraw entirely.
I talk about my fear that I don't have unconditional emotional support from her, that I can't live the life I want to live because she'll disapprove, and because it'll hurt her. I tell her that I'm worried that her love might be the same, that one day I'll go too far and she'll reject me as her daughter.
I don't think anything was truly solved, but now she's aware of it. She has said that she will not give me her emotional support if she disagrees with what I'm doing, and I'm going to have to deal with that in the future should it be occur. And, knowing me, it probably will.
But she also told me that she knows that I'll never live an ordinary life, like average people.
(Then, of course, she said, "Like your sister." And I looked at her with faux shock, "Did you just call my sister average??" "No, I didn't mean that like that. You know what I mean." And I did. I was just messing with her. Yes, I mess with my mom. And then she hits me and I yell for Child Protective Services.)
I did it, though.
I took a step towards integration.
I addressed my fears, my concerns. I let her know where I was, mentally and emotionally.
Which is what I constantly advocate to my female friends.
Which is why, when I'm one-night-standed by someone I was interested in becoming a regular partner, I never feel used or upset.
I communicate honestly and completely. I let my partner for the evening know where I am, know what I would (and would not) like from the encounter, I am completely open about my sexual history, about what I enjoy in bed, and hope for the same respect from them.
If they, before and after our sexual "interlude", speak of the next time, and yet I never hear from them again, I'm fine. Mild disappointment if the sex was good, but that's the extent to which I am affected the vast majority of the time. Their inability to be honest with me, or with themselves and therefore with me, is their own failing. I have not compromised myself, my values. I respected them as another human being, and therefore satisfied my expections of myself.
You cannot choose how someone else will treat you. You can take responsibility for yourself, for your own actions, and know you treated the other person as best you are able, however it is that you define your best.
I act socially dominant. I am socially dominant, when I choose to be social. I work groups when the mood takes me, when I feel like interacting with people. I always end up being the head of the group or, if a single male alpha is already in control, I get his attention and manuever to become his focus, which puts me at the top of the social food chain.
But, in the end, I will always be socially, sexually, and psychologically submissive to the man of my choice, a man worth submitting to, whether if it's for a night, a month, or a year.
My sister, on the other hand, is, and will always be social to her core. And in that core, she will always be dominant. She commands groups, she commands men and women alike and the word "compromise" is this vague, far off thing that she only engages in with our parents.
And, in the end, she rides roughshod over her boyfriends. She pussywhips them like you would not believe. She has no respect for them, for their needs, for their preferences. If she's ambiguous about something, she'll go with what they want, but if she at all has an opinion, they are going to do it Her Way. End of story.
None of her three boyfriends have managed to stand up to her.
So I walk by and she's laying into him about how he's wrongwrongwrong about the car he wants to get and he's going to get this other car because it's safer and she cares about his safety and there is no way in hell that he's going to get this other car. And she drags me into it.
I'm so apathetic about this, I don't even remember the conclusion other than me telling him, "You should get a safe car, not for yourself, but for your son." He has a three year old boy from his ex-wife.
Well, that was fuel to her fire. I just left the room.
The next morning, this morning really, I went to breakfast with my mother. As I have said before, she is a close friend of mine, so we do go out when we can and talk about what's going on in our lives. We also stay up at night and play near violent card games, insulting each other like crazy.
She told me about her experience up in Portland, how she went through her grief cycles with her best friend, through instructions in a book that was recommended to her, and how much she realized about herself and her relationship with her older brother, who has pretty much abandoned her for his crazy born-again wife.
And, as breakfast wound down, I talked to her.
I told her how badly I felt when I was at home. About how whenever I was upset about something as a child, and even to this day, she and my father would both tell me why I should not be upset, and how the other person had their reasons and I just needed to get over it, and how very unacknowledged that made me feel all through my life.
I explained to her about the shirts that upset her so much the night before, and why I wore them, why I was comfortable wearing them. I explained to her how, because of the things that I have done, that have been done to me, I developed in the way I did, became as I am now, and that I wish she was happy for how much I've learned, and how well I can protect myself. I told her of my female friends that come to me for advice, how women online would read my blogs (at one of my other sites) and send me fan mail, questions, queries on issues they've been having with men or with their own sexuality. I tell her about the mini fanclub I had before I disappeared from that site because the attention was too much, and how I am able protect my friends from harm and being taken advantage of by rogue males because of my experiences. I point out girlfriends I've had in the past and situations that have arisen (some she already knew about), and how I had to deal with things. I tell her about going out with friends to clubs and being in the back, watching over the girls I came with, making sure that they're safe.
This is who I've become.
Because of the things that happened.
And she remembers that time in my life so well, the fragments of what I was going through flying her way, cutting her off at the knees while I self-destructed.
We're sitting there, at this little cafe, and she says,
"I remember, V. Since that time, you've grown into something different, and I've had to let go of the girl you used to be."
We talk, and I cry some. I'm not a crier. I'm the nominated family eulogy reader because the only other person who can keep it together at funerals is my father, and he doesn't like public speaking.
But I do cry. I actually cried due to direct emotional stimulus related to something I was going through.
Usually, when I know I need to cry about something, but I can't let go of my control, I watch a movie that always sends me over the edge. Sweet November, Butterfly Effect, Swing Kids, Benjamin Button. God, when I saw Benjamin Button over at the Arclight I fucking lost it hardcore. Twice.
That make-up didn't actually need to be presentable to public view or anything.
So we talk. We talk about how alienated I feel from the rest of the family because of how my life torqued off at this odd angle, about why, at family gatherings, I'm always behind a camera or off in an armchair somewhere, reading. How I feel I will hurt her if I let who I've become leak through, so I just withdraw entirely.
I talk about my fear that I don't have unconditional emotional support from her, that I can't live the life I want to live because she'll disapprove, and because it'll hurt her. I tell her that I'm worried that her love might be the same, that one day I'll go too far and she'll reject me as her daughter.
I don't think anything was truly solved, but now she's aware of it. She has said that she will not give me her emotional support if she disagrees with what I'm doing, and I'm going to have to deal with that in the future should it be occur. And, knowing me, it probably will.
But she also told me that she knows that I'll never live an ordinary life, like average people.
(Then, of course, she said, "Like your sister." And I looked at her with faux shock, "Did you just call my sister average??" "No, I didn't mean that like that. You know what I mean." And I did. I was just messing with her. Yes, I mess with my mom. And then she hits me and I yell for Child Protective Services.)
I did it, though.
I took a step towards integration.
I addressed my fears, my concerns. I let her know where I was, mentally and emotionally.
Which is what I constantly advocate to my female friends.
Which is why, when I'm one-night-standed by someone I was interested in becoming a regular partner, I never feel used or upset.
I communicate honestly and completely. I let my partner for the evening know where I am, know what I would (and would not) like from the encounter, I am completely open about my sexual history, about what I enjoy in bed, and hope for the same respect from them.
If they, before and after our sexual "interlude", speak of the next time, and yet I never hear from them again, I'm fine. Mild disappointment if the sex was good, but that's the extent to which I am affected the vast majority of the time. Their inability to be honest with me, or with themselves and therefore with me, is their own failing. I have not compromised myself, my values. I respected them as another human being, and therefore satisfied my expections of myself.
You cannot choose how someone else will treat you. You can take responsibility for yourself, for your own actions, and know you treated the other person as best you are able, however it is that you define your best.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Brave men tell the truth...
I found that I can significantly jar my brain by listening to Royksopp for several days and then suddenly switch to Thin Lizzy.
But onto more interesting things... well, interesting to me.
When my friend mentioned The Game to me, many months back, I thought it was an interesting concept for a book and asked to borrow it... but it was no longer in his possession.
Fast-forward several months, I'm walking by a Barnes and Noble with Wolfboy and I remember that I wanted to pick it up and read it. We pop inside and find that they keep it behind the counter because of the theft problems they have with it. Really? Must be steamy.
I purchased it and started reading it the next day.
I tore through that thing on my lunchbreaks over the next three days, sneaking in an hour here and there between social engagements.
It was wonderful. On the first day, I popped onto IM to rave to one of my best friends about how much I was enjoying it.
"Don't do it, V," he tells me, "You're going to ruin yourself. You're going to learn so much about it that no guy is ever going to impress you and you'll constantly be disappointed. You're already a predator, you don't need to get better."
I didn't listen. Of course I didn't listen! This was knowledge, this was refining things I had been doing for years, this was giving me logic behind actions I did naturally, and then suggesting new ideas to me. And then it says that there's entire communities of guys out there doing this, practicing this, learning this, getting good at their own game, having discussions and workshops.
People who I could talk to about this stuff without being judged for being too predatory, as my friend calls it. People who would understand the dynamics, who would have the experiences I've had, who I could bounce ideas and theories off of, become better and better at this game.
What a dream.
That I could explain what I was doing, what I had done, why I had phrased things a certain way, sat facing a certain direction, touched a person in a particular place at a particular moment, tossed up a challenge, etc... and they wouldn't look at me like I was some sociopathic freak, or like I was so beyond them in life experience and then the idolizing look comes into their eyes and I'm sitting there going no, no, no, I focused on sex, I focused on seduction, on analysis and introspection. You focused on life, on education, on your career, on finances. You specialized like I specialized. You just did something more useful, more directly functional, something that will stay with you no matter how old you get.
Sigh.
Guys have a community for this stuff. It's not the most female friendly environment. I didn't expect it to be. But I've always been one of the guys. The girl that passes that test when few others do. It's not always a good thing, but it's a role I'm comfortable in.
I read The Art of Seduction and things became clearer. Things made sense. I could identify the seduction types of guys who had wowed me in the past, I could see my weaknesses, and my own tactics, written in this overly long prose in this tiny, tiny font with such outdated cultural references.
Then came Sperm Wars, certainly one of my favorite reads. It was a perfect manual to my sex life, and why I found somethings so very attractive, and other things so very viscerally wrong.
That was... last month. I've taken a break from the seduction community reads. I don't believe in immersing myself in any kind of lifestyle. I read too much of something, too often, and it starts to become a focus, my writing style starts changing, my thinking starts shifting, my internal monologue goes off at odd angles.
But then someone in the community asks me my partner count.
Should I even answer? I mean, these guys are sleeping with at least one new girl each weekend from the looks of things. Sure, I've had my streaks of doing that, but my numbers will never rival theirs. I'll look so inexperienced.
Honesty is what I choose to give. If I'm ridiculed for my low number, at least I'm representing myself accurately.
So I toss out my estimate. 70-80 full partners in the last ten years, with 7.25 of those years being in closed and committed relationships. Admittedly, now that I'm thinking of it, the first two of those relationships, when I was in my teens, I cheated on both partners once each.
When I was younger, I used to think my number was high, but then I realized that the strangest, most unexpected people will blow your mind with their count. You can never guess what someone is going to say, and you could end up looking like an idiot if you act accomplished.
Yeah... that happened once or twice. Ah, cocky youth.
But then, I think. Review your life in sex. I started college at 16. From the ages of 16 to about 19, I had around forty partners, which was when I lost count. Alcohol, weed, parties, nameless sex, those were days of wild destruction. I'd never take it back, but it certain left a mark on me.
So, from 20 to current age, I've had somewhere between 30 and 40 partners.
I always kick myself for not keeping a list, and for throwing away the journal I kept during my first few years of college that did have the initial list of guys I've since forgotten.
I don't think I have a high partner count. GV8 is in his 400s, but then he was a... well, I doubt he wants me to repeat that. I value his experience because it makes him one of the best lovers I've ever had. When he told me, I nearly melted.
I think between my most recent break-up last August, and December, I had around 12 partners. It was a fairly even divide on the one-nighters and the repeaters. I always get this frentic excitement when I'm fresh out of a relationship, this need to prove to myself that I'm still attractive to men other than my (ex)boyfriend, and the joy in no longer being confined to pleasing one body. It's such a thrill- your first new partner in the last two and a half years. So much new stimulation, new things to learn, new tricks, new ways to move.
Then my friends tease me, of course. New guy (or guys) every weekend? Where'd you find this one?
I find it wonderful that no one who knows me ever calls me a slut. That term doesn't really enter my operating procedure. I document my adventures, then guys go a bit bucknutty and the girls ask advice.
I love the sudden change, from focusing so much on one person, one relationship, to having everyone focused on you.
But I can only take it for so long. I don't like being in the center of attention.
Of course, as I pull back, I meet GV8.
I could hardly ask for anything better. Open communication. Open honest communication. The thing I value beyond most anything in a relationship. You have your respect on one hand, your communication on the other.
I swoon.
He's smart. He's significantly more social than I am. He's driven as hell. Dominant and caring, lethal when he needs to be. I'm safe and with a man who is so comfortable with himself that he can be honest with me at all times, even if it's to let me know he doesn't want to tell me something.
Plus, he's a swinger. Any relationship we get into stays sexually open. I can continue to roam, can continue to explore, can bring guys home for a threesome or gangbang scenario, and he will support me and protect me.
It's near perfect.
And I totally derailed myself. This week has wiped me out. It's a Friday night and I've been home since 1030 because I've gone out every night this week. I plan on being home tomorrow night as well.
Anyhow, back to thinking.
My own partner count has almost lost meaning to me, much like the age when I started having sex, much like the number of oral partners I've had, which I really don't know. I've had some wild years and, really, it's just oral.
I was talking to some guy I went down on years ago and, for some reason, partner count was brought up and he said, "Oh yeah, I've had sex with 26 girls and 35 girls have gone down on me." (I don't remember the numbers, so don't quote me on this.)
"35 girls have gone down on you??"
"Yeah."
"You keep track of oral?? Who the hell does that?"
Then he got defensive. That wasn't my most tactful moment. Didn't really like him that much anyhow, so no big upset for me there.
I'm finding it funny, though, that now that I've put my guesstimated numbers up, some people are analyzing them. Almost statistically, it looks like.
Really?
I'm not that fasincated by it. I'm used to people being interested in my sex life because I'm open about it and that tends to attract people for various reasons. I don't think I've ever had my number questioned before, but that's more than likely because if we're talking in real life, they know me, they see me, they see me interact. And, if I'm online, I'm usually on a site where a few (or many) people know me, have met the guys I occasionally bring around, have seen me pick up men, which means lends my stories total credence. It also helps if I'm blogging about the sex I had the previous night and the guy I wrote about freaking comments on it.
Then I stare at the screen and wonder exactly what I should say to him.
It's weird, having an anonymous blog. I've never done it before, never felt the need, until the other one got so popular that it was really starting to freak me out. Like I've said, I'm not a center-of-attention girl. But I'm so used to my reputation following me everywhere. I'm used to the stories that encircle me when I walk into a room, which you think would place me at the center of attention, but I tend to intimidate people so they stay away unless they know me.
But it's like starting from scratch. It's not even a clean slate, it's some pieces of rock and wood and an IKEA instruction manual saying, "Have fun assembling this chalkboard."
I came here to write. I came here to fix myself, to heal myself, to get over long-running fears and tackle my core issues. I wanted the anonymity so I could say what I needed to say without fear that the wrong person would read it.
But I got distracted.
I need to balance this more.
And I need to go to bed.
But onto more interesting things... well, interesting to me.
When my friend mentioned The Game to me, many months back, I thought it was an interesting concept for a book and asked to borrow it... but it was no longer in his possession.
Fast-forward several months, I'm walking by a Barnes and Noble with Wolfboy and I remember that I wanted to pick it up and read it. We pop inside and find that they keep it behind the counter because of the theft problems they have with it. Really? Must be steamy.
I purchased it and started reading it the next day.
I tore through that thing on my lunchbreaks over the next three days, sneaking in an hour here and there between social engagements.
It was wonderful. On the first day, I popped onto IM to rave to one of my best friends about how much I was enjoying it.
"Don't do it, V," he tells me, "You're going to ruin yourself. You're going to learn so much about it that no guy is ever going to impress you and you'll constantly be disappointed. You're already a predator, you don't need to get better."
I didn't listen. Of course I didn't listen! This was knowledge, this was refining things I had been doing for years, this was giving me logic behind actions I did naturally, and then suggesting new ideas to me. And then it says that there's entire communities of guys out there doing this, practicing this, learning this, getting good at their own game, having discussions and workshops.
People who I could talk to about this stuff without being judged for being too predatory, as my friend calls it. People who would understand the dynamics, who would have the experiences I've had, who I could bounce ideas and theories off of, become better and better at this game.
What a dream.
That I could explain what I was doing, what I had done, why I had phrased things a certain way, sat facing a certain direction, touched a person in a particular place at a particular moment, tossed up a challenge, etc... and they wouldn't look at me like I was some sociopathic freak, or like I was so beyond them in life experience and then the idolizing look comes into their eyes and I'm sitting there going no, no, no, I focused on sex, I focused on seduction, on analysis and introspection. You focused on life, on education, on your career, on finances. You specialized like I specialized. You just did something more useful, more directly functional, something that will stay with you no matter how old you get.
Sigh.
Guys have a community for this stuff. It's not the most female friendly environment. I didn't expect it to be. But I've always been one of the guys. The girl that passes that test when few others do. It's not always a good thing, but it's a role I'm comfortable in.
I read The Art of Seduction and things became clearer. Things made sense. I could identify the seduction types of guys who had wowed me in the past, I could see my weaknesses, and my own tactics, written in this overly long prose in this tiny, tiny font with such outdated cultural references.
Then came Sperm Wars, certainly one of my favorite reads. It was a perfect manual to my sex life, and why I found somethings so very attractive, and other things so very viscerally wrong.
That was... last month. I've taken a break from the seduction community reads. I don't believe in immersing myself in any kind of lifestyle. I read too much of something, too often, and it starts to become a focus, my writing style starts changing, my thinking starts shifting, my internal monologue goes off at odd angles.
But then someone in the community asks me my partner count.
Should I even answer? I mean, these guys are sleeping with at least one new girl each weekend from the looks of things. Sure, I've had my streaks of doing that, but my numbers will never rival theirs. I'll look so inexperienced.
Honesty is what I choose to give. If I'm ridiculed for my low number, at least I'm representing myself accurately.
So I toss out my estimate. 70-80 full partners in the last ten years, with 7.25 of those years being in closed and committed relationships. Admittedly, now that I'm thinking of it, the first two of those relationships, when I was in my teens, I cheated on both partners once each.
When I was younger, I used to think my number was high, but then I realized that the strangest, most unexpected people will blow your mind with their count. You can never guess what someone is going to say, and you could end up looking like an idiot if you act accomplished.
Yeah... that happened once or twice. Ah, cocky youth.
But then, I think. Review your life in sex. I started college at 16. From the ages of 16 to about 19, I had around forty partners, which was when I lost count. Alcohol, weed, parties, nameless sex, those were days of wild destruction. I'd never take it back, but it certain left a mark on me.
So, from 20 to current age, I've had somewhere between 30 and 40 partners.
I always kick myself for not keeping a list, and for throwing away the journal I kept during my first few years of college that did have the initial list of guys I've since forgotten.
I don't think I have a high partner count. GV8 is in his 400s, but then he was a... well, I doubt he wants me to repeat that. I value his experience because it makes him one of the best lovers I've ever had. When he told me, I nearly melted.
I think between my most recent break-up last August, and December, I had around 12 partners. It was a fairly even divide on the one-nighters and the repeaters. I always get this frentic excitement when I'm fresh out of a relationship, this need to prove to myself that I'm still attractive to men other than my (ex)boyfriend, and the joy in no longer being confined to pleasing one body. It's such a thrill- your first new partner in the last two and a half years. So much new stimulation, new things to learn, new tricks, new ways to move.
Then my friends tease me, of course. New guy (or guys) every weekend? Where'd you find this one?
I find it wonderful that no one who knows me ever calls me a slut. That term doesn't really enter my operating procedure. I document my adventures, then guys go a bit bucknutty and the girls ask advice.
I love the sudden change, from focusing so much on one person, one relationship, to having everyone focused on you.
But I can only take it for so long. I don't like being in the center of attention.
Of course, as I pull back, I meet GV8.
I could hardly ask for anything better. Open communication. Open honest communication. The thing I value beyond most anything in a relationship. You have your respect on one hand, your communication on the other.
I swoon.
He's smart. He's significantly more social than I am. He's driven as hell. Dominant and caring, lethal when he needs to be. I'm safe and with a man who is so comfortable with himself that he can be honest with me at all times, even if it's to let me know he doesn't want to tell me something.
Plus, he's a swinger. Any relationship we get into stays sexually open. I can continue to roam, can continue to explore, can bring guys home for a threesome or gangbang scenario, and he will support me and protect me.
It's near perfect.
And I totally derailed myself. This week has wiped me out. It's a Friday night and I've been home since 1030 because I've gone out every night this week. I plan on being home tomorrow night as well.
Anyhow, back to thinking.
My own partner count has almost lost meaning to me, much like the age when I started having sex, much like the number of oral partners I've had, which I really don't know. I've had some wild years and, really, it's just oral.
I was talking to some guy I went down on years ago and, for some reason, partner count was brought up and he said, "Oh yeah, I've had sex with 26 girls and 35 girls have gone down on me." (I don't remember the numbers, so don't quote me on this.)
"35 girls have gone down on you??"
"Yeah."
"You keep track of oral?? Who the hell does that?"
Then he got defensive. That wasn't my most tactful moment. Didn't really like him that much anyhow, so no big upset for me there.
I'm finding it funny, though, that now that I've put my guesstimated numbers up, some people are analyzing them. Almost statistically, it looks like.
Really?
I'm not that fasincated by it. I'm used to people being interested in my sex life because I'm open about it and that tends to attract people for various reasons. I don't think I've ever had my number questioned before, but that's more than likely because if we're talking in real life, they know me, they see me, they see me interact. And, if I'm online, I'm usually on a site where a few (or many) people know me, have met the guys I occasionally bring around, have seen me pick up men, which means lends my stories total credence. It also helps if I'm blogging about the sex I had the previous night and the guy I wrote about freaking comments on it.
Then I stare at the screen and wonder exactly what I should say to him.
It's weird, having an anonymous blog. I've never done it before, never felt the need, until the other one got so popular that it was really starting to freak me out. Like I've said, I'm not a center-of-attention girl. But I'm so used to my reputation following me everywhere. I'm used to the stories that encircle me when I walk into a room, which you think would place me at the center of attention, but I tend to intimidate people so they stay away unless they know me.
But it's like starting from scratch. It's not even a clean slate, it's some pieces of rock and wood and an IKEA instruction manual saying, "Have fun assembling this chalkboard."
I came here to write. I came here to fix myself, to heal myself, to get over long-running fears and tackle my core issues. I wanted the anonymity so I could say what I needed to say without fear that the wrong person would read it.
But I got distracted.
I need to balance this more.
And I need to go to bed.
A woman holds her tongue...
I was having a decent day today. Interesting conversations, dinner plans, talking with GV8 on the phone on my way home from work, laughter with my coworkers, and finished one of my books.
Nothing spectacular, but good.
Went out to dinner with one of my guy friends, an ex-coworker who I used to find attractive due to his alpha nature at work and our ability to work together almost perfectly... but once out of the office, he turns semi-beta... which only goes downhill if I can't keep him comfortable. As long as I'm acting like one of the guys, he's cool. As soon as I start acting like a chick, he becomes awkward. Very awkward. I try to save him from that.
Ran into some friends while we were out, said our hellos, exchanged hugs.
Stepped into Borders to check on two books that I haven't been able to find. They had one. The Surrender by Toni Bentley. GoneSavage recommended it to me, looks decent. Also grabbed a copy of Exile in Guyville. That guy can write like whoa. Finally snagged Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I've never seen a Monroe flick, which will be remedied tonight.
So everything was fine.
Then I get home.
I moved back in with my parents a few months ago, on their offer that I could go back to school for my Master's and live rent free. In this economy... yeah. When I was working on my Bachelor's, I regretted so much not being able to be a "college student". Not being able to live that life, to be on campus during the day, to actually focus on my education as opposed to working the insane job I was, where school ended up being an afterthought.
When they offered, I turned them down. Five months later, as my living situation continued to worsen, I finally agreed.
I did not want to. School would be wonderful, but living in a house with my father when he's in an extremely stressful part of his life is a receipe for disaster. I've been here since the end of February, and I'm still waiting for the blow up that is bound to happen.
So I get home. Forgetting the lazy, I-need-to-do-laundry, shirt I put on, I walked into their bedroom to tell them I was home and talk to my mother about grabbing breakfast tomorrow.
That particular shirt is... something that tends to stop people in their tracks with embarassment or laughter because it's pretty vulgar. I've had grown men blush at seeing it, which I think is hysterical. I walk into their room, take about a step and a half, and my mother looks up from her book.
"V!" frustration is evident, "Will you please go back out into the hallway and turn that shirt inside out before you come in here?"
"What? Oh, crap. Sorry. I'll go change."
"No, no, it's fine. Just come in here and wish us goodnight."
"Nah, I'll go change. I need to anyhow. Be right back."
Grab my bags, go upstairs, grab the shirt off my bed, toss it on, grab my dirty laundry, go back downstairs.
"Does that shirt say 'FIST'??"
Crap. "Yes."
"Fist??"
"Yeah. Like when you ball your hand into one."
"What does the back say?" I wasn't going to turn around, but then with her, "Oh my God, V!" I remember that there's a mirror behind me. "M, can you see what her shirt says?!" to my father.
Sigh.
"I can't believe you're wearing a shirt that says that!"
Which launches into a mini-lecture of how crude my shirt was and how I must've done that on purpose (I did, but I didn't actually expect her to read the thing. It's a men's extra-large, making it a tent on me, which means it should be hard to read.) and if she liked a shirt like the one I was wearing she wouldn't like herself very much and jesuschristetcetcetcshootme.
My mother and I are very close, but it's her constant judgement and viewing me as though I'm still 15 that sticks a wedge between us.
Which is odd. You think me not living at home for all these years would get it out of her system.
What am I supposed to say?
"I wish you accepted my humor."
"How could I accept something so crude?? I bet your father even thinks it's crude."
Yes, that's right, drag my father into this. Fucking wonderful. How long do you expect him to allow me to live here if you do this? I don't want to get a year into my Master's degree and have him boot me out of the house because you freaked out over a shirt. Not to mention, I didn't even buy this shirt. This shirt came in a NIN boxed set that I inherited from a friend. I think Reznor is a whiny little drama queen, but I still find this shirt amusing enough to wear it to bed.
I could say,
I wear this shirt because I'm comfortable with my sexuality. It's something that I've had to do a lot of work on, something that has caused me a lot of emotional pain over the years, but I grew in a way so many girls don't, and established myself in a way so that I would be healthy and strong, you should be glad that I do not allow my sex to be used against me.
I could also say,
You're encouraging your husband, my father, to go into a rage right now by freaking like this. You may not know it, but he has made it directly clear to me that if something happens, he'll always choose you over my sister and me, and that if I make you too upset, I'm gone. So you're jeapordizing my education and economic well-being right now.
I could also say,
It's a shirt. I'm sorry that it bothers you, this is your house and I should pay more attention to what I'm wearing. I'm grateful that you allowed me this opportunity to go back to school, but please realize that I am in my mid-twenties, that I have lived outside the familial house for several years now and I'm used to being my own person. You are exercising bad habits by laying into me like I'm a rebellious teenager.
I could also say,
Whenever you do this, it wounds me. I know I am not like you, I have known for years that I have been different, outside the rest of the family. But I still love you, still value your opinion and would wish for your support. I'm happy, healthy, and strong. Why can't you let me retain these things in the way that I've found works best for me? Why can't you support me in finding out who I am and what I want out of this life you've given me? You create such internal tension in me by telling me what I should want, who I should be, how I should feel, that when I actually acknowledge what I want, who I am, and how I'm feeling... I become fractured. You're damaging me.
But I don't.
I say nothing.
I say nothing because my father is there and I don't want to move again. I just want this next year to be calm.
Later, I apologize for my inconsiderateness, then request of my mother that she not freak out like that in front of my father unless she feels like watching him eject me from the house.
I feel in pieces. I feel that, by staying here, I'm jeapordizing my mental integrity. I'm going to lose myself to their pressures and expectations of what happiness is and who I should be and how I should go about achieving it.
But... with the opportunity of going back to school, of focusing on my education, of doing something I love...
Sigh.
I don't even get a break this weekend. Well, I do. I have no dates. None. I've finally managed to retain a free weekend. I don't know when this happened last, it has been so long.
But I'm going to be here. At home. With a family that will never understand me, and will never support me if they don't understand.
Alone again.
Nothing spectacular, but good.
Went out to dinner with one of my guy friends, an ex-coworker who I used to find attractive due to his alpha nature at work and our ability to work together almost perfectly... but once out of the office, he turns semi-beta... which only goes downhill if I can't keep him comfortable. As long as I'm acting like one of the guys, he's cool. As soon as I start acting like a chick, he becomes awkward. Very awkward. I try to save him from that.
Ran into some friends while we were out, said our hellos, exchanged hugs.
Stepped into Borders to check on two books that I haven't been able to find. They had one. The Surrender by Toni Bentley. GoneSavage recommended it to me, looks decent. Also grabbed a copy of Exile in Guyville. That guy can write like whoa. Finally snagged Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I've never seen a Monroe flick, which will be remedied tonight.
So everything was fine.
Then I get home.
I moved back in with my parents a few months ago, on their offer that I could go back to school for my Master's and live rent free. In this economy... yeah. When I was working on my Bachelor's, I regretted so much not being able to be a "college student". Not being able to live that life, to be on campus during the day, to actually focus on my education as opposed to working the insane job I was, where school ended up being an afterthought.
When they offered, I turned them down. Five months later, as my living situation continued to worsen, I finally agreed.
I did not want to. School would be wonderful, but living in a house with my father when he's in an extremely stressful part of his life is a receipe for disaster. I've been here since the end of February, and I'm still waiting for the blow up that is bound to happen.
So I get home. Forgetting the lazy, I-need-to-do-laundry, shirt I put on, I walked into their bedroom to tell them I was home and talk to my mother about grabbing breakfast tomorrow.
That particular shirt is... something that tends to stop people in their tracks with embarassment or laughter because it's pretty vulgar. I've had grown men blush at seeing it, which I think is hysterical. I walk into their room, take about a step and a half, and my mother looks up from her book.
"V!" frustration is evident, "Will you please go back out into the hallway and turn that shirt inside out before you come in here?"
"What? Oh, crap. Sorry. I'll go change."
"No, no, it's fine. Just come in here and wish us goodnight."
"Nah, I'll go change. I need to anyhow. Be right back."
Grab my bags, go upstairs, grab the shirt off my bed, toss it on, grab my dirty laundry, go back downstairs.
"Does that shirt say 'FIST'??"
Crap. "Yes."
"Fist??"
"Yeah. Like when you ball your hand into one."
"What does the back say?" I wasn't going to turn around, but then with her, "Oh my God, V!" I remember that there's a mirror behind me. "M, can you see what her shirt says?!" to my father.
Sigh.
"I can't believe you're wearing a shirt that says that!"
Which launches into a mini-lecture of how crude my shirt was and how I must've done that on purpose (I did, but I didn't actually expect her to read the thing. It's a men's extra-large, making it a tent on me, which means it should be hard to read.) and if she liked a shirt like the one I was wearing she wouldn't like herself very much and jesuschristetcetcetcshootme.
My mother and I are very close, but it's her constant judgement and viewing me as though I'm still 15 that sticks a wedge between us.
Which is odd. You think me not living at home for all these years would get it out of her system.
What am I supposed to say?
"I wish you accepted my humor."
"How could I accept something so crude?? I bet your father even thinks it's crude."
Yes, that's right, drag my father into this. Fucking wonderful. How long do you expect him to allow me to live here if you do this? I don't want to get a year into my Master's degree and have him boot me out of the house because you freaked out over a shirt. Not to mention, I didn't even buy this shirt. This shirt came in a NIN boxed set that I inherited from a friend. I think Reznor is a whiny little drama queen, but I still find this shirt amusing enough to wear it to bed.
I could say,
I wear this shirt because I'm comfortable with my sexuality. It's something that I've had to do a lot of work on, something that has caused me a lot of emotional pain over the years, but I grew in a way so many girls don't, and established myself in a way so that I would be healthy and strong, you should be glad that I do not allow my sex to be used against me.
I could also say,
You're encouraging your husband, my father, to go into a rage right now by freaking like this. You may not know it, but he has made it directly clear to me that if something happens, he'll always choose you over my sister and me, and that if I make you too upset, I'm gone. So you're jeapordizing my education and economic well-being right now.
I could also say,
It's a shirt. I'm sorry that it bothers you, this is your house and I should pay more attention to what I'm wearing. I'm grateful that you allowed me this opportunity to go back to school, but please realize that I am in my mid-twenties, that I have lived outside the familial house for several years now and I'm used to being my own person. You are exercising bad habits by laying into me like I'm a rebellious teenager.
I could also say,
Whenever you do this, it wounds me. I know I am not like you, I have known for years that I have been different, outside the rest of the family. But I still love you, still value your opinion and would wish for your support. I'm happy, healthy, and strong. Why can't you let me retain these things in the way that I've found works best for me? Why can't you support me in finding out who I am and what I want out of this life you've given me? You create such internal tension in me by telling me what I should want, who I should be, how I should feel, that when I actually acknowledge what I want, who I am, and how I'm feeling... I become fractured. You're damaging me.
But I don't.
I say nothing.
I say nothing because my father is there and I don't want to move again. I just want this next year to be calm.
Later, I apologize for my inconsiderateness, then request of my mother that she not freak out like that in front of my father unless she feels like watching him eject me from the house.
I feel in pieces. I feel that, by staying here, I'm jeapordizing my mental integrity. I'm going to lose myself to their pressures and expectations of what happiness is and who I should be and how I should go about achieving it.
But... with the opportunity of going back to school, of focusing on my education, of doing something I love...
Sigh.
I don't even get a break this weekend. Well, I do. I have no dates. None. I've finally managed to retain a free weekend. I don't know when this happened last, it has been so long.
But I'm going to be here. At home. With a family that will never understand me, and will never support me if they don't understand.
Alone again.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Of another place in time...
He says to me...
Your email was sweet. I knew you like to be used, but something about today's just made it click for me. I looked at your eyes in your pictures again and it's there: "I'm smarter than you, and I've judged you, now fucking use and abuse me." And I want to.
I push him, because that's what I do.
I provoke and I taunt. I tease constantly.
When we meet up, him slapping me across the face is a well-loved ritual that leads into other, more bruising, activities.
He's stronger than me, bigger than me. His entire body is hard muscle and he can lift and throw me across the bed with the barest hint of effort.
Last time we met up, in San Francisco, he brought one of his friends over to play with us. Two dominant males. What else could a girl ask for?
The three of us in SFPlayboy's bed. I'm going down on him while his friend is alternating areas he wishes to bruise and sliding fingers deep into me. I'm on my stomach, raising my ass into the air, curling into his hands, his movements, while still focusing on the cock in my mouth.
"V, go down on M," Playboy says.
M interjects, "I'm having fun at this end."
"No, you need to let her go down on you. Really."
I love being the favored toy.
I switch the direction I'm facing. SFPlayboy's fingers seek my core as he leans back against the pillows to watch me go to work on his friend.
Mouth, tongue, lips. Fingers and palms aren't necessary, he's responsive as hell and his penis is angled perfectly for my mouth. I don't know if I've ever found such a perfect oral fit. Within minutes he's shooting his load down my throat as Playboy watches with masculine satisfaction.
Later, he tells me, "I think I might start using your mouth to settle lost bets and favors owed."
This, this is the life.
Your email was sweet. I knew you like to be used, but something about today's just made it click for me. I looked at your eyes in your pictures again and it's there: "I'm smarter than you, and I've judged you, now fucking use and abuse me." And I want to.
I push him, because that's what I do.
I provoke and I taunt. I tease constantly.
When we meet up, him slapping me across the face is a well-loved ritual that leads into other, more bruising, activities.
He's stronger than me, bigger than me. His entire body is hard muscle and he can lift and throw me across the bed with the barest hint of effort.
Last time we met up, in San Francisco, he brought one of his friends over to play with us. Two dominant males. What else could a girl ask for?
The three of us in SFPlayboy's bed. I'm going down on him while his friend is alternating areas he wishes to bruise and sliding fingers deep into me. I'm on my stomach, raising my ass into the air, curling into his hands, his movements, while still focusing on the cock in my mouth.
"V, go down on M," Playboy says.
M interjects, "I'm having fun at this end."
"No, you need to let her go down on you. Really."
I love being the favored toy.
I switch the direction I'm facing. SFPlayboy's fingers seek my core as he leans back against the pillows to watch me go to work on his friend.
Mouth, tongue, lips. Fingers and palms aren't necessary, he's responsive as hell and his penis is angled perfectly for my mouth. I don't know if I've ever found such a perfect oral fit. Within minutes he's shooting his load down my throat as Playboy watches with masculine satisfaction.
Later, he tells me, "I think I might start using your mouth to settle lost bets and favors owed."
This, this is the life.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Destination Unknown...
I think I'm going to take GV8 up on his offer.
I have to hammer out some things first, though.
I need to speak with my family, I need to communicate with them about what I'm going to be doing with the next year of my life, and how important it is that they support me. I know some people would think this is pathetic of me to, at my age, still be concerned with feeling supported by my parents, but that's the way it is. I'm very focused on my family, very focused on being there for them, communicating, loving, keeping healthy relationships (as healthy as they can be, given my family).
I need to hammer out the details with GV8. I need to know his expectations, need to know my salary, need to set up the initial deposit in a different way. I want a budget for wardrobe, I want to sign up for cross-fit, for krav, I need to make sure my health insurance is covered, that all writing and photography produced by me during this time belongs solely to me. I need keys to his main stores. I want to keep the laptop, iPhone, and camera that he will be purchasing for me after this is over with. I need to know the budget for parties, the guest-lists, how he wants to go through caterers, performers, DJs, etc. I need to be able to pick the location.
This means a contract. This means drawing up legal paperwork and I hate bringing that stuff into this sort of relationship, but I need to protect myself.
This is a year of my life. This is me pushing off my Master's for a year. This is me exchanging everything I've ever known and shoving off into a different world.
It's scary.
But I can do it.
I'll learn so much about myself through this.
And I'll be able to write. I'll be able to write full time.
And while I'm writing, we'll be doing LA. I'll be throwing parties, hosting events, bargaining with caterers, finding new music, new DJs, and improving myself physically, mentally, and socially. We'll be eating at all of LA's hotspots and exploring the city to its fullest.
My main concern is alienating my family. Of having them be completely against this. Of turning down their offer of going back to school.
But after this, I'll be able to pay for school. All of school. No debt. No loans. I'll have experiences that I never dreamed of.
If it works.
If not... better to burn out than to fade away.
Right?
I have to hammer out some things first, though.
I need to speak with my family, I need to communicate with them about what I'm going to be doing with the next year of my life, and how important it is that they support me. I know some people would think this is pathetic of me to, at my age, still be concerned with feeling supported by my parents, but that's the way it is. I'm very focused on my family, very focused on being there for them, communicating, loving, keeping healthy relationships (as healthy as they can be, given my family).
I need to hammer out the details with GV8. I need to know his expectations, need to know my salary, need to set up the initial deposit in a different way. I want a budget for wardrobe, I want to sign up for cross-fit, for krav, I need to make sure my health insurance is covered, that all writing and photography produced by me during this time belongs solely to me. I need keys to his main stores. I want to keep the laptop, iPhone, and camera that he will be purchasing for me after this is over with. I need to know the budget for parties, the guest-lists, how he wants to go through caterers, performers, DJs, etc. I need to be able to pick the location.
This means a contract. This means drawing up legal paperwork and I hate bringing that stuff into this sort of relationship, but I need to protect myself.
This is a year of my life. This is me pushing off my Master's for a year. This is me exchanging everything I've ever known and shoving off into a different world.
It's scary.
But I can do it.
I'll learn so much about myself through this.
And I'll be able to write. I'll be able to write full time.
And while I'm writing, we'll be doing LA. I'll be throwing parties, hosting events, bargaining with caterers, finding new music, new DJs, and improving myself physically, mentally, and socially. We'll be eating at all of LA's hotspots and exploring the city to its fullest.
My main concern is alienating my family. Of having them be completely against this. Of turning down their offer of going back to school.
But after this, I'll be able to pay for school. All of school. No debt. No loans. I'll have experiences that I never dreamed of.
If it works.
If not... better to burn out than to fade away.
Right?
Never was your beast of burden...
I have a mini-project going on at the moment, as I have mentioned.
My female friend, C, and the object of her lust, Crosser.
You think this wouldn't be hard. Guys are easy. She's hot, he's hot and, well, the average horny male, so everything should be fine.
However, she needs emotional connection. She needs to really know her partner, needs to be friends with her partner, for the sex to be enjoyable for her. She won't do one-nighters.
Doubly hard is that she's not his type, physically or personality-wise. He likes socially dominant women, women who are tall and assertive. He's a bit of a sub-boy. C is not a socially dominant woman, she's 5'3", and she's not too aggressive. I am a socially dominant and assertive woman, and I'm 5'9". What she does have going for her, in regards to him, is that she is very alternative looking. Suicide Girl type. You know what I'm talking about.
So I am working with her to get him into her bed while getting him to emotionally bond with her on at least a friendly level while keeping him off me. Which means that I have to reign everything I normally am in around him, including my inherent sexuality and my constant need to flirt and provoke, while bringing out hers and directing her.
I was reading an article a few months ago about when you go out and are winging for someone, you need to be at about the same energy and competence level. I didn't understand that at the time.
I totally do now.
She met him recently, at one of her social groups. He was new to the scene (still is, technically) and came with one of her more recent exes (A girl. C's bi.). Crosser is physically masculine, but quite feminine in how he presents himself. This is completely and totally C's type. She loves the girly men.
They live a few miles from each other, which is incredibly good for her, especially since we're in LA and traffic is such a hinderance. So he invited her to a few things, invited her to carpool with him to parties and the like. But each time he flaked.
She was getting confused. Why would you keep inviting someone and then flaking on them?
Multiple reasons, really. Some, totally logical. Some, not so much.
So she comes to me for advice. I toss up options for her, depending on her intent, depending on how she's reading him. I've never met him, so I'm working with generalities, which I really don't care for. She determines, in the end, that she should just back off and not pursue him. I suggested the same thing, but for different reasons.
Last week, he invited her to bar where his little brother's band is playing, and she invites me a long so I can meet him, see what I think.
We get there, introductions happen, he sits us down by the merch booth (as I mentioned in an earlier post), and he sits with us for a minute, but a bunch of friends of his and his little brother's are there, so he keeps wandering off.
I'm quite happy with this for my own sake, because the merch booth is being manned by his twin brother, who is a more masculine version of him. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Girly men aren't for me. Thanks for the eye-candy.
But that leaves C staring off after him every time he leaves, looking like a new puppy whenever her master leaves for work in the morning and they sit at the front door and howl.
This causes lots of nudging under the table. I knock her with my knee everytime she does this and she has no idea why. I try to keep her laughing with outraegous statements and dry observations about the bar attendees. It's hard to keep her with me, she keeps trying to look for him.
After twenty or thirty minutes of this, one of her friends shows. THANK GOD.
He sits across the table from us, forcing C to turn her body away from the rest of the bar, away from Crosser, and since her friend is quite confident and engaging, between the two of us, we keep her active, occupied, and laughing.
This, of course, brings him back to our table.
The first round, he sits on her left. She says something that reminds me of a movie, so I quote the part I was thinking of to her, she laughs, and he mentions he's never seen the movie before.
V: "Oh, you haven't? You really should. I haven't seen it in awhile. C, we should totally watch it next week on our movie night."
C: "Totally. What do you want to eat?"
V: "I do the cream of cauliflower you made the other night. Crosser, she is such an awesome cook, she makes all the dinners for our movie nights. It's always fantastic."
C: "The cauliflower, really?"
V: "I like it. (then to Crosser) We have these movie nights every week, where a bunch of people come over and we watch horrible movies. C has this great house, cooks dinner for us, we end up laughing all night at these movies. It's totally fun."
C: "Okay, I guess I'll make the cauliflower. I thought it was too burnt last time."
V: "I don't know what you're talking about, it was delicious. No burnt tones at all. (to Crosser) You know, you live right by her, you should come next week. We can watch this movie so you can fill your 90s culture void."
C: "Oh! Oh, yeah! You should come! Let me give you my address."
Address was given. Finally. Talk about pulling teeth.
He takes off again, then comes back... but sits next to me, close enough that our thighs are pressing against each other. This isn't good. He leans towards me as C and her friend are talking. Ah, crap. I purposefully slagged out. Barest make-up, t-shirt and jeans, hair in a pony-tail. End.
He suggests that after the bar closes, we all go back to his place, right down the street.
I bail. I'm tired, I'm good to go home. He's extended the invite to the group, so I don't have to be there.
I hear from C that they got food and went to his place afterwards, then her friend gave her a ride back home. Her interest in Crosser has been rekindled, and she's thrilled that he is coming to the movie night the following week.
So, yesterday was C's birthday.
She wanted to do kareoke at, surprise surprise, the bar that Crosser frequents for kareoke on Tuesdays. It's a cool place and right down the street from her house, so I really don't blame her.
Initially, I wasn't going to go. I'm getting sick. I need more sleep.
But on promises that she would serenade me with Olivia Newton-John's "Physical", I relented and said I would attend, but leave by 11.
Two others are meeting us there, and we're picking up her guy friend (who I've grown very fond of) from the previous encounter on the way. And, of course, Crosser will be there.
I pick a round table near the stage, bar stools required for the height.
Five stools are acquired. I'm certainly not going to let Crosser think that we expected his company.
We sit. C is in the middle (poor choice, but *shrug*), I'm on her right, her guy friend is on her left. Two empty seats across from her. She should've sat in one of the two empties next to each other.
Crosser shows up, shakes her friend's hand, hugs her, barely says anything to me (which I thought was a good thing). He orders a drink and food to come to our table for him, then runs off to socialize. He starts to man the kareoke booth, so C goes in to put in her song. When she comes back, I suggest she let him know his drink is at the table.
But between this, her friend and I switch seats so I have a better view. I'm on her left now, he's on her right. This puts me next to Crosser's chosen seat. Not my intent, but, again, I've kept it mellow tonight. Make-up consists of lipgloss, again, jeans and a t-shirt, hair pulled back. I'm getting sick, I'm exhausted, I don't care.
He leans towards me, we're touching again. Asks me how my weekend was, if I got up to anything fun. I grin at him because he's inquiring as to if I went swinging with GV8 again. I believe he's come under the very correct impression that my weekends tend to turn into me being pampered, running all over LA, and having fantastic sex.
C starts serenading me. Her voice is a little off because she's sick. But she's doing her thing, being flirtatious and I'm giggling like hell because she dressed up for the part. During the bridge, she comes over to the table and I tease her that she isn't stripping so I feel short-changed. Dual purpose, one, it brings her towards the table, and two, when the song kicks back in she starts stroking her chest and undulating her hips in my direction, but since Crosser is next to me, it's towards him as well. Finally bringing the sex, thank you C.
Song finishes, someone drops by the song book so C, on my right, and her friend (on C's right) are flipping through it. I lean over to her and tell her that if she gets up and "goes to the bathroom", I will slide into her seat to "look at the song book" so she can take mine and talk to Crosser.
This also brings them into physical contact because I had to add an extra chair for him, squeezing us all tightly together.
She smiles, goes to the restroom, and I slide over, teasing her friend about song choices. C comes back, slides in next to Crosser, and they start talking.
Perfectly smooth, perfectly natural.
They sat and talked, legs touching for fifteen, twenty minutes. He got up to do a song, then came back to the table. But instead of sitting, he decided to stand between C and myself, wedging himself in and placing both hands on the back of our chairs, his right hip against my leg.
Crap.
Close body language, pronto. Yes, he's hot. Yes, he's wearing a t-shirt that clings to his chest and abs, his biceps are decent, his hair needs work, his teeth are perfect, skin is clear, and he's several inches taller than me, but he's not my style of guy on a sexual level, but he's good to look at.
I shift my hips (and therefore feet) towards C's friend on my right, square my shoulders away from Crosser, and start interacting with C's friend again, occasionally looking back towards Crosser and C to comment on something. Within two minutes, he's dropped his hand off the back of my chair and turned to face her with his chest, arm still on the back of her chair, perfectly open.
Score.
Another few songs, and I decide to leave. I take C's friend home. He lent me one of his Thin Lizzy CDs. I've been meaning to listen to that band for too long now, and keep getting distracted with my trip-hop.
C and I discussed, while we were at the bar, the movie night tomorrow. What she wanted to accomplish, what she wanted to learn, who we should invite who would contribute to the atmosphere and conversation in the way we wanted it to flow.
And she got Crosser to give her a ride home. I was hoping she would.
So tomorrow night will be part 3 in this ongoing saga. It's not going too poorly at all.
My female friend, C, and the object of her lust, Crosser.
You think this wouldn't be hard. Guys are easy. She's hot, he's hot and, well, the average horny male, so everything should be fine.
However, she needs emotional connection. She needs to really know her partner, needs to be friends with her partner, for the sex to be enjoyable for her. She won't do one-nighters.
Doubly hard is that she's not his type, physically or personality-wise. He likes socially dominant women, women who are tall and assertive. He's a bit of a sub-boy. C is not a socially dominant woman, she's 5'3", and she's not too aggressive. I am a socially dominant and assertive woman, and I'm 5'9". What she does have going for her, in regards to him, is that she is very alternative looking. Suicide Girl type. You know what I'm talking about.
So I am working with her to get him into her bed while getting him to emotionally bond with her on at least a friendly level while keeping him off me. Which means that I have to reign everything I normally am in around him, including my inherent sexuality and my constant need to flirt and provoke, while bringing out hers and directing her.
I was reading an article a few months ago about when you go out and are winging for someone, you need to be at about the same energy and competence level. I didn't understand that at the time.
I totally do now.
She met him recently, at one of her social groups. He was new to the scene (still is, technically) and came with one of her more recent exes (A girl. C's bi.). Crosser is physically masculine, but quite feminine in how he presents himself. This is completely and totally C's type. She loves the girly men.
They live a few miles from each other, which is incredibly good for her, especially since we're in LA and traffic is such a hinderance. So he invited her to a few things, invited her to carpool with him to parties and the like. But each time he flaked.
She was getting confused. Why would you keep inviting someone and then flaking on them?
Multiple reasons, really. Some, totally logical. Some, not so much.
So she comes to me for advice. I toss up options for her, depending on her intent, depending on how she's reading him. I've never met him, so I'm working with generalities, which I really don't care for. She determines, in the end, that she should just back off and not pursue him. I suggested the same thing, but for different reasons.
Last week, he invited her to bar where his little brother's band is playing, and she invites me a long so I can meet him, see what I think.
We get there, introductions happen, he sits us down by the merch booth (as I mentioned in an earlier post), and he sits with us for a minute, but a bunch of friends of his and his little brother's are there, so he keeps wandering off.
I'm quite happy with this for my own sake, because the merch booth is being manned by his twin brother, who is a more masculine version of him. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Girly men aren't for me. Thanks for the eye-candy.
But that leaves C staring off after him every time he leaves, looking like a new puppy whenever her master leaves for work in the morning and they sit at the front door and howl.
This causes lots of nudging under the table. I knock her with my knee everytime she does this and she has no idea why. I try to keep her laughing with outraegous statements and dry observations about the bar attendees. It's hard to keep her with me, she keeps trying to look for him.
After twenty or thirty minutes of this, one of her friends shows. THANK GOD.
He sits across the table from us, forcing C to turn her body away from the rest of the bar, away from Crosser, and since her friend is quite confident and engaging, between the two of us, we keep her active, occupied, and laughing.
This, of course, brings him back to our table.
The first round, he sits on her left. She says something that reminds me of a movie, so I quote the part I was thinking of to her, she laughs, and he mentions he's never seen the movie before.
V: "Oh, you haven't? You really should. I haven't seen it in awhile. C, we should totally watch it next week on our movie night."
C: "Totally. What do you want to eat?"
V: "I do the cream of cauliflower you made the other night. Crosser, she is such an awesome cook, she makes all the dinners for our movie nights. It's always fantastic."
C: "The cauliflower, really?"
V: "I like it. (then to Crosser) We have these movie nights every week, where a bunch of people come over and we watch horrible movies. C has this great house, cooks dinner for us, we end up laughing all night at these movies. It's totally fun."
C: "Okay, I guess I'll make the cauliflower. I thought it was too burnt last time."
V: "I don't know what you're talking about, it was delicious. No burnt tones at all. (to Crosser) You know, you live right by her, you should come next week. We can watch this movie so you can fill your 90s culture void."
C: "Oh! Oh, yeah! You should come! Let me give you my address."
Address was given. Finally. Talk about pulling teeth.
He takes off again, then comes back... but sits next to me, close enough that our thighs are pressing against each other. This isn't good. He leans towards me as C and her friend are talking. Ah, crap. I purposefully slagged out. Barest make-up, t-shirt and jeans, hair in a pony-tail. End.
He suggests that after the bar closes, we all go back to his place, right down the street.
I bail. I'm tired, I'm good to go home. He's extended the invite to the group, so I don't have to be there.
I hear from C that they got food and went to his place afterwards, then her friend gave her a ride back home. Her interest in Crosser has been rekindled, and she's thrilled that he is coming to the movie night the following week.
So, yesterday was C's birthday.
She wanted to do kareoke at, surprise surprise, the bar that Crosser frequents for kareoke on Tuesdays. It's a cool place and right down the street from her house, so I really don't blame her.
Initially, I wasn't going to go. I'm getting sick. I need more sleep.
But on promises that she would serenade me with Olivia Newton-John's "Physical", I relented and said I would attend, but leave by 11.
Two others are meeting us there, and we're picking up her guy friend (who I've grown very fond of) from the previous encounter on the way. And, of course, Crosser will be there.
I pick a round table near the stage, bar stools required for the height.
Five stools are acquired. I'm certainly not going to let Crosser think that we expected his company.
We sit. C is in the middle (poor choice, but *shrug*), I'm on her right, her guy friend is on her left. Two empty seats across from her. She should've sat in one of the two empties next to each other.
Crosser shows up, shakes her friend's hand, hugs her, barely says anything to me (which I thought was a good thing). He orders a drink and food to come to our table for him, then runs off to socialize. He starts to man the kareoke booth, so C goes in to put in her song. When she comes back, I suggest she let him know his drink is at the table.
But between this, her friend and I switch seats so I have a better view. I'm on her left now, he's on her right. This puts me next to Crosser's chosen seat. Not my intent, but, again, I've kept it mellow tonight. Make-up consists of lipgloss, again, jeans and a t-shirt, hair pulled back. I'm getting sick, I'm exhausted, I don't care.
He leans towards me, we're touching again. Asks me how my weekend was, if I got up to anything fun. I grin at him because he's inquiring as to if I went swinging with GV8 again. I believe he's come under the very correct impression that my weekends tend to turn into me being pampered, running all over LA, and having fantastic sex.
C starts serenading me. Her voice is a little off because she's sick. But she's doing her thing, being flirtatious and I'm giggling like hell because she dressed up for the part. During the bridge, she comes over to the table and I tease her that she isn't stripping so I feel short-changed. Dual purpose, one, it brings her towards the table, and two, when the song kicks back in she starts stroking her chest and undulating her hips in my direction, but since Crosser is next to me, it's towards him as well. Finally bringing the sex, thank you C.
Song finishes, someone drops by the song book so C, on my right, and her friend (on C's right) are flipping through it. I lean over to her and tell her that if she gets up and "goes to the bathroom", I will slide into her seat to "look at the song book" so she can take mine and talk to Crosser.
This also brings them into physical contact because I had to add an extra chair for him, squeezing us all tightly together.
She smiles, goes to the restroom, and I slide over, teasing her friend about song choices. C comes back, slides in next to Crosser, and they start talking.
Perfectly smooth, perfectly natural.
They sat and talked, legs touching for fifteen, twenty minutes. He got up to do a song, then came back to the table. But instead of sitting, he decided to stand between C and myself, wedging himself in and placing both hands on the back of our chairs, his right hip against my leg.
Crap.
Close body language, pronto. Yes, he's hot. Yes, he's wearing a t-shirt that clings to his chest and abs, his biceps are decent, his hair needs work, his teeth are perfect, skin is clear, and he's several inches taller than me, but he's not my style of guy on a sexual level, but he's good to look at.
I shift my hips (and therefore feet) towards C's friend on my right, square my shoulders away from Crosser, and start interacting with C's friend again, occasionally looking back towards Crosser and C to comment on something. Within two minutes, he's dropped his hand off the back of my chair and turned to face her with his chest, arm still on the back of her chair, perfectly open.
Score.
Another few songs, and I decide to leave. I take C's friend home. He lent me one of his Thin Lizzy CDs. I've been meaning to listen to that band for too long now, and keep getting distracted with my trip-hop.
C and I discussed, while we were at the bar, the movie night tomorrow. What she wanted to accomplish, what she wanted to learn, who we should invite who would contribute to the atmosphere and conversation in the way we wanted it to flow.
And she got Crosser to give her a ride home. I was hoping she would.
So tomorrow night will be part 3 in this ongoing saga. It's not going too poorly at all.
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