Give a little love...

Tired, as per usual.

Tuesday, C went out to kareoke with friends. I stayed in. My cousin's baby was born.
Wednesday, we went out to dinner with another set of friends.
Yesterday, I had dinner with VG and drove around a different set of friends, looking for that all-hallowed bar where we would sit and I would not drink.
Tonight, a concert.
Tomorrow, a date, a wedding, and a night spent with GV8.
Sunday, breakfast with GV8, then shacking up somewhere in Hollywood to write and study.

I know I'm forgetting something. I need to talk to my sister.

Let's break this down a little further.

I don't remember much of Tuesday. I was exhausted. I can't remember if what usually happens, happened: a phone call at 1030 from someone I want to talk to. That always happens when I try to go to bed before 9.

I remember lacing up C's corset. I remember being so tired. I remember reading in bed, and C cooking me chicken. That's all I remember. Just flashes of that.

Wednesday, I picked C and her new interest, Redwing, up, before heading out to dinner. I was picking Redwing's brain for writing ideas, for what I write. For how to write, because I've never taken any input or classes, or been to any conferences. I don't know the "official" process. My writing, it's how I talk. Truly, the way I break my paragraphs, the excess of commas, it's where I space things. People are always startled when they meet me after reading my stuff for so long, to find that the voice in their head matches the voice I speak with.

We drove to the place, a little diner-type out in Los Feliz area.

The man I wrote of last week, the one that I was interested in so briefly, but then I realized that there was no point because he's not my kind, well, he was there. I think I'm going to call him Ev.

Prolonged eyecontact, conversations, me making sure that I was engaging everyone, and if I felt excluded from a conversation, I would simply join another one, much to his surprise. It worked out, and I continued to feel his awareness of me.

He asked for my blog, he wanted to read it.

I gave him the information for the other one, the public one.

He emailed me through it, to ask me out.

Well, technically, he did not ask me out on a date. He's polyamorous. I find this nice because poly people tend to be more aware and accepting of not-so-mainstream sexualities. So even though I'm monogamous, my sexuality and how I deal with it, allows me access. So he emailed me to tell me that, while his relationship card was full, he has been craving some variety in his sex life and he found me desirable, and would I like to meet up and become a periodic sex partner?

That's pretty damn perfect for me. An intelligent, attractive man who keeps healthy and honest communication with his established partners, who is dominant in bed and tends to head his social group? Sure, I can work with that.

So we're supposed to be going out this weekend. Tomorrow, in all likelihood.

Anyhow, I've stepped into future plans as opposed to the things that have happened, things I need to mull over.

Crosser showed up to dinner as well. C wanted to talk to him, so they left early, leaving me with Redwing. That was cool with me, because I wanted to pick his brain. I was looking forward to the drive back, comparing notes and ideas with this man.

That's totally not what happened.

It was sex. Sex sex sex sex. And I don't mind that, really. I'm used to it. What drove me absolutely up the wall is that he would ask me a question (after prefacing it with whatever he felt needed to be said) and as I started answering it, he would cut me off mid-sentence and start talking about himself.

The entire freaking drive.

It was... insane. Because he talks so fast. And it was constantly, "Well, how do you feel about..?" and I would go, "Well, in my experience, I [insert something here] and-" and suddenly he'd swoop in, "Oh, I know! This one time...!"

So I stopped answering his questions and just let him talk. And talk. And we hit construction, so this drive turned into a forty-minute hell-fest of me going, "Holy shit, this kid cannot read my body language to save his life."

I even stopped listening. I rarely do that. But it was just this full-bore, all-engines-go verbal barrage of "me me me me me" which wouldn't bother me at all, except for the occasional "and you? oh, wait, nevermind, me me me me". Don't engage me and ask me my opinion on something if you aren't going to bother listening. I mean, I actually like listening to people tell me about their sexlife, but he made it this nightmareish chore that I hope to never experience again.

And then we get off the freeway and he says to me, "So, how do you see me?"

...Jesus Christ. WAI OH GOD WAI?!

I tried to put it off. I did. I tried to distract him into talking about himself again. It worked. Unfortunately, C lives ten minutes off the freeway, so by the time we pulled up to her house, he was worrying me like a dog worries a bone.

So I told him I thought he was young. I told him he carried himself and spoke like he had missed a crucial element in socialization. That he was years behind where he should be, for his age, for dealing with people, and that he continually made unnatural affectations when he spoke that were all too obvious and he seemed altogether uncomfortable with how he presented himself and how he felt about himself in general.

And he totally agreed with me. And seemed a bit shocked.

...but he continued the conversation into the house, while I gathered my night clothing pre-shower, and then I shoved him onto C and told her to back me up.

Which she did, while I showered.

Writing about that all is actually starting to give me a headache. Geesh.

Thursday night was not that interesting. I had dinner with VG, then walked in on C gluing feather's to some guy's back with latex. I had forgotten she was doing this. But he's an art model and, for whatever reason, the artist wanted little black wings on him, and C volunteered to apply them. I left them as I found them, went out to meet up with some other people.

The first bar we went to was closed.
The second was dead. Wow it was dead.

So I left.

But C mentioned that she had been planning on sleeping with Redwing that night, so I texted her to let her know I was on my way back early.

Actually, what happened was, when I got back to C's place and she was gluing on this guy's wings, I asked her if she was coming out with me and the others.

She said no, that she wanted to bone.
So I pointed at the guy with my cellphone and said, "Him?"
And she said no, "Redwing."
And I said, "If I walk in on you two having sex, I will slap the ass of whoever is on top, I tell you now."

So I politely texted her I was coming back, to which I received:

"go away"

I told her to wait five minutes and I would crash on the couch in the livingroom.

I did not, however, tell her to be clothed. So I walked in on her and Redwing naked and entwined in bed, both asses in places where I could not smack them.

We talked while I changed, and then I dragged myself to the livingroom and passed out.

Actually, while I was driving to C's last night, GV8 texted me.

I have this rule, where I keep an even text-exchange going. So if I'm the last to text a man I'm interested in or sleeping with, I will not initiate again unless I need to relay information to him. This works with GV8 very well, I have to say. I know he finds it odd when I don't message him often.

So he texted me, checking on me, seeing what I was up to, telling me about how construction is going on the loft (glass walls were put up yesterday, apparently). His birthday is on Saturday, so I asked him if he had made plans. No, he hadn't. Too busy. Did he want me to come over and help him relax on Saturday night?

Yes, he very much would.

And, apparently, I'm wonderful.

I'm beginning to wonder if he hasn't gotten as far from me as I thought.

I don't push boundaries. If someone says they don't want to be with me, I say "okay" and I leave. I don't argue. I don't try to convince them otherwise. I don't flaunt new lovers in front of them. If they've made up their mind, I'll respect it... even if I feel that they secretly wanted me to fight for them.

I'm not going to.

That's not my style.

And I also assume that everyone that has casual sex, like I do, has my robot-like tendencies when it comes to emotion and design. I did not expect GV8 to continue to have feelings for me... but he might.

Which means I can sit him down and talk to him, talk to him about what doug1 said in some comments, which I think might be more accurate than he's willing to admit.

But I don't want a relationship.

GV8 is great. He is. He makes me feel completely safe, which is something that no man, including Rick, has ever been able to do. And maybe I'll never find that again. He's a wonderful guy, a great lover, someone who shapes reality into what he wants it to be. And I admire that. He has his own beasts, though they're not like mine.

But... no. I can't. I shouldn't. I'm not ready to give this life up.

And this might all be pointless anyway.

I'm reading him off of texts, and while words... words are what makes me... I won't know until I see him in person. We haven't seen each other in weeks because he's been so busy with his business and construction.

And I'm not so sure I can be with a guy that doesn't know himself when it comes to relationships. He's happy and willing to communicate, and he's honest, but he's not completely aware of where he is, of what he's doing, when it comes to me. He's certainly better than most, don't get me wrong.

...he is better than most.

I'm not going to do this to myself. I cannot give up my focus. I am not going to actively attempt to change his mind, nor am I going to read him and subtly engineer my actions to keep him.

I think.

God, I'm too tired to be thinking about this stuff.

As amazing as he is, we don't resonate. We don't sync. I did not see him and absolutely know him, like I've done with others. He could take care of me. He could protect me. I could be his princess, his toy.

And I'd be happy.

I'm only experiencing this doubt because I'm tired. If I wasn't so ready to pass out, I'd be fine and not even considering it.

Not to mention, I could easily be reading into him.

I'm not going to plan ahead. I'm not going to daydream and make up stories.

I'm going to focus on me, on my writing, on school. I'm going to enjoy him, as well as my other partners and future partners. I'm not going to get distracted again. I've been single for one year, and I plan on being single for another.

I'm not going to let my heart get tangled up in this.

I've run out of reasons...

My brain is starting to twinge and moan at me.

I've been reading entirely too much on social-sexual dynamics and seduction. It's telling me I'm overdosing, imbalancing myself, thinking entirely too much on the topic, weighing so many opinions and ideas and, wow, it's break-time.

It wouldn't normally be this bad, but work is slow, which leans itself to days and days of surfing the WWW.

Ugh, so done.

I'm trying to just write myself out of this paperbag I've found myself in.

The above sentence makes more sense if you have had a cat.

Last night, one of my friends asked me how I view my sexuality.

Now, those open ended questions are great, because they allow the person making the inquiry to see what the interviewee dubs important information to convey.

I was entirely unable to answer the question.

I looked at him and said, "Whuh??"

And then I turned to C and asked her to answer his question for me because I was in the realm of lost. She said I treat it as a tool. That I use it to access certain parts of myself.

I thought that was interesting.

I use it to access parts of me, I suppose, but more often than not, I use it to access information from other people. Because people are fascinating and I want to know it all, I want to know all the hang ups and concerns, all the fetishes and horror stories, all those embarassing moments that you've never told another person because you've never felt comfortable with it, but you tell me because that's what people do.

I don't think I see my sexuality as separate from myself. I'm very aware of myself as a sexual being, very aware of others. I don't see it as a compulsion, or something that controls my movements, as much as my own psychology does, and sometimes sex is just a way of getting my brain onto other topics.

I told him that I like how I am. I like that my experience, as odd and damaging as they were at the time, allow me to talk to so many people. So many people talk to me.

It was actually pretty awesome. I was explaining that to the man that asked me the question, how my comfortability and openness with my damage, with embarassments, with fetishes, kinks, and general history, basically makes people just dump their sexuality at my feet. That people tell me things they may never tell another person.

And he was nodding, and I thought to myself, "Wait, I can actually confirm this right now, I can illustrate this."

So I called C into the room and asked her to tell him about the night we first met, and she did, telling him that even though we had not really spoken before, she was able to share something with me that she felt incredibly ashamed and embarassed about in regards to her sexual activity, something that she never felt comfortable telling anyone, including boyfriends and lovers. And what a relief it was to be able to share it with someone who she knew would not judge, because of how I acted in regards to my own past stupidity.

That ability I have, it's something I would never want to give up.

And, you know, my own mother did the same thing. Yes, my mom. Shared embarassing sexual incident (that occured with a boyfriend she had before my father) with me and, after, told me that it was so great that she felt so comfortable in knowing I would not judge her at all.

This is so standard.

I love being able to help, I love that people feel so much better after talking to me. I love providing that space that so few provide for me, and not because I'm such a fantastically good person (hardly), but because it's needed, it's so very needed.

People are so damaged when it comes to sex, their own sexuality, the opposite sex. There's nearly always something unhealthy, something they themselves find damaging or uncomfortable.

And I've moved past that. It's lovely.

I've moved past it to the point that it's observable.

There are other things that I have to deal with, that's obviously true. My body image is spectacularly lacking, and I still have to fight anxiety, and not being in the moment with my constant analyzing, along with the standard self-doubt.

But when it's sex... I'm free. I'm strong. No doubts, just enjoyment. It's exploration and growth, experience. I have come so far, the girl I was was left behind me. Almost untouchable.

And to be able to share that...

I could never had done it, gotten to where I am now, without two particular men that taught me so much. One, when I was 18, and still using sex as a weapon against myself. The other, when I was 20, and he showed me how to open up again, how to trust and enjoy myself, how to heal.

Without those two, I'd probably still be lost.

So I give back in their names.

I give back because of the damage I've done to others. It's not exactly repenting, but it is fighting off the effects girls like I was have on men. Trying to undo the psychological bruising.

Yes, it's all just a bunch of tree-hugger crap. I know.

But it works.

And there's more to me than that.

And while I love doing it, love listening, love the stories... I've become rather, well, done with the physical helping. I don't want to sleep with men I need to help. I want to sleep with men I respect. And I don't respect men with sexual hang-ups.

I don't mind helping, but where does that get me? My "female value" is considered lower for adding another notch to my belt, no matter what the reason, no matter what the practice.

I was talking with someone earlier today who told me that if he met an 18 year old who had had ten partners, he would greatly reconsider sleeping with her because, essentially, he wants quality girls, and quality girls don't sleep around.

You know, I know many women that don't sleep around. And they certainly aren't "quality". I find quality to be more defined by character, not sexual behavior.

But then, what do I know? I'm biased. My experience with men and their views of women and sex has left me sitting here, pondering it all because so much of it is so very... uncontrolled? Illogical? Dissonant?

I don't know the word I'm looking for.

Double standard aside, let's say that guys want to get laid as much as possible. Preferrably with women. On top of that, attractive women.

So they hunt and they game and they try to achieve that pinnacle of manhood: boning some chick.

If they caught her young enough, she's probably going to be inexperienced and naive and, wow, they've bagged a trophy girl who doesn't know how to have sex or communicate her desires, but they'll train her, oh yes they will, because she's quality and now she's going to be their quality bed partner.

Eventually, she gets released into the wild. They break up, they split, for whatever reason.

Now someone's had her before. She's less special, less desired, because she "gave it up" for another man. She's not as high quality.

Yes, I'm more than well aware of evo-biology theories, and sexual psychology. I'm just saying we're better than that. If we all had the same traits and desires starting off, then those change with experience, with knowledge gained.

So this slightly tarnished woman gets taken up by another man, who, once again, charms the pants off her. (And, no, this is absolutely nowhere near my own personal story, I'm just going for generic.)

She's trained, she's experienced, but only with one guy. So it's mostly okay.

She ages. More experience occurs. More partners. She's no longer that young, bouncy thing anymore, but maybe a woman of the world. Maybe not. Maybe she's an airhead that will dress like a hot 20-something when she's 45. I have no idea.

But she's essentially worthless now. She's low quality.

And all these men that came along, through her life, that charmed her, maybe that genuinely cared for her for a period of time, have left nothing but footprints across her mind. Footprints and, of course, a track record. A history that degrades her in the eyes of potential suitors everywhere because she "wasn't smart enough" to "keep her pants on".

If she had been a good girl, she would have realized that her value solely lies in how sexually inexperienced she is.

It doesn't matter how smart she is.
Or how hot.
Or how noble, honest, charitable, kind, giving, or any other complimentary adjective you want to toss in there.

No, it comes down to how many penises she's had inside her.

Because personality counts for nothing when it comes to choosing a mate.

Or so I am continually led to believe.

If you don't like a girl's personality, but you want her, you manipulate her. You engineer her into learning how to please you and how not to treat you. Easy. You play games and read psychology books, you learn tricks, and you've got this girl doing whatever you want, whenever you want.

And when you move on, you move on.

So maybe this girl is 24 and has been with, what, ten guys? Fifteen, maybe, if we're pushing it? If she started on her 18th birthday, and we clock out at her 24th birthday, that gives her seven years. So let's say 14 partners. Two partners a year.

That hussy.

Oh, and then there's that theory that I keep hearing that the more sex partners a girl has, the more damage she's going to have.

...
...
...
...wait, you're saying the more men a girl is exposed to, the worse off she'll be?

Well, with this train of thought I've been going through, no wonder.

And then, when she steps off riding these guys like a proper cowgirl, she'll be berated and belittled (and bemoaned!) by the guys she runs across. She'll be treated as though she is lesser, as though she is not worth their time in any way but sexual, and even then, there will be worry of STDs being expressed.

I can't imagine why there would be psychological damage done. I mean, this whole set-up seems so healthy.

You know when I disqualify a man? When I hear him call a girl a slut or any other equivalent. I look at him and think, "Wow, you're a moron." And I move on.

Because nothing suits me so poorly as one person actively and aggressively judging another by their own morals.

And, yes, I know I'm doing it now. I'm looking at this from my own, "Don't sink other people's ships, you self-centered asshats," point of view. Not really productive, but I don't particularly care. I'm writing this for me. If people don't like it, they have the obvious option of stopping their reading activity or reading on and picking apart everything I've written in a flamboyant counter-point.

Neither is overly impactful to me.

But I'm tangenting in a wild way.

Let's return to this poor 24 year old girl, this hussy that has slept with 14 men in the last seven years.

Frankly, I'm appalled by her reckless behavior. She must have had bad parents or a come from a broken family. Maybe her uncle molested her. Can we please explain away the reasons why she could have possibly done what she did?

Let's find something to blame.

Actually, no, I'm not going to bother. You can find something to blame. I'm going to continue on with something else.

So she's left valueless. If she's lucky, she'll meet a nice young man (who has probably had more sexual experience than she has) that is willing to overlook her past indiscretions, but only as long as they never talk about it, and that she swears, if it ever comes up, he was the best she's ever had and she's so lucky he's in her life now.

She certainly found herself a winner.

He'll also wonder if she'll cheat on him. She's shown no control over her sex drive in the past, so he has to keep her away from her male friends, if she has any. He might even wonder if their potential children will exhibit her behaviors.

Yes, I've heard worse than that.

The paranoia of the average male runs deep.

But I'm not going to get into that.

So she's settled into this life with a man who suspects she might cheat on him, looks down on her past behavior, and worries about their offspring. He may never forgive her for what she did before she met him. Yes, I have met men like this.

It was tossed to me, this morning, that maybe some lesser male will settle for me, eventually. Someone not smart enough to know better, someone not strong enough to stay away from the lures of the flesh.

No, not just mine.

I blinked at it.

When I want a relationship, I have few problems getting one. Even when I don't want a relationship, I still have problems with men wanting one. Yes, even knowing my sexual history. The men who call me a slut behind my back never quite manage to scrounge up the balls to do it to my face or any of my friends, which is quite odd. Yet men online are more than happy to do so.

When I do get into my next relationship, it will, as always be with a man. Not just some male, but a man. An educated, experienced, attractive man. Because that's what I date. Anything less than that is either not interesting or only good for bedwarming.

I don't do "lesser" men.

And there are plenty of men out there that are quite happy with my history and what it brings to our relationship, and not just in a sexual way. I am a font of information and experience, someone people come to, who strangers come to for odd counsel and dumping of the soul.

I date men with values similiar to my own. Which means I will never date a man who makes me feel bad about my sexual experience. Because I like maturity. I like openness. I like acceptance and lack of judgement.

Sometimes, yes, I meet men that have heard about my wild ways, have heard about, from whatever social circle they hail from, how so many people have failed to gain my interest, and they want me, they want me as a notch on their belt. They want the bragging rights.

If I want them, I sleep with them.

It's flattering, really. And, yes, stop your gagging. To be someone's mountain to climb. To be something to be bragged about. Something to be achieved.

I think I'm just going to make it that much harder.

Technically, I'm screwed anyhow. No man will ever want me for a long-term relationship now. Or so I'm told.

Might as well have fun with it.

I don't blame any of you...

... .... ..... .... <-- this is what my thought bubble looks like right now.

Processing information.

Took my mother out to dinner last night, to talk about my sister and what I'm going to be doing about things mentioned in previous posts.

It went well. Better than expected, actually.

Which is nice.

Basically, I've decided to approach this situation from a different angle.

Damage is being done. Damage has already been done. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, and it is incredibly self-centered of me to view my opinion as more valid or more correct than my sister's opinion. Anything I do to interfer in how things are playing out will be done with my own views in mind.

And it's not my life, it's hers.

What does matter is minimizing the damage. Is keeping the family together. Is making stress minimal and making sure no one breaks.

This means taking time to stop with each family member and get them out of the house, away from visual reminders of what is going on, and getting them to talk. Through this talk, we de-stress. I get to find out what is bothering each person most, where the weak spots are, and try to cover the fall-out and make sure that as each situation unfolds, as each incident happens, that we stay sane and together. That no one breaks off. That each of them are heard.

I suppose some people might consider this fluffy and girly. Too much psychobabble.

Well, it might be the former two, but psychobabble not so much. People like to be listened to, like to be understood, like that feeling of validation.

And we (my family) need to be kept together. We need minimal damage to our relationships and our sanity.

I am currently the best person to do this because I am the least involved, with the least amount of emotions invested.

That's just the way this panned out.

Of the things I'm good at, taking a blow and doing damage control are high up on the list. Lots of practice.

And my most recent ex emailed me a few minutes ago, with a cover of a song I love. It has been almost a year since we broke up, but only five months since I was able to escape him, to get out from under his psychological warfare and abuse.

I might believe in being friends with my exes, but no, not him. To do so would be showing him that I forgive him, that what he did was okay. I know I will forgive him, I know he was weak and self-centered and it was not with malicious intent, but lack of self-awareness, but I also know he knew he was doing it.

And until he apologizes to me, until he can list what he did and truly understand what it was that damaged me, I have no interest in interacting with him. He's unhealthy to be around until proven otherwise.

Just in case I like the dancing...

Thinking has been spurred.

No, not spurned.

My sister. My young, inexperienced sister.

I'm doing this wrong.

We grew up as entirely different people in the same household.

But for all of our differences, we did have the same parents. And, if there's one thing I know, it is the feeling of not being listened to, not being understood, not being acknowledged, and being constantly told that what you are doing is wrong and this is how you should do it because you're not experienced enough to make your own decisions so just do as you're told.

That's what I grew up with, that's what she grew up with. We just handled it differently.

And now I'm dealing with it just as my parents would, just as they are.

I'm trying to stop her. I'm not respecting her or her decisions. I'm not supporting her. I occasionally listen to her just so I can gather information on the situation and try to maintain and manipulate the situation.

I'm not actually listening.

She's incredibly alone right now. She has a boyfriend that she loves dearly but who is a complete and total mess. And she's the only one who believes in him and supports him because both my parents and I have given up.

I do not need to support him, but I do need to support her and her choices as best I can, I need to put faith in her and trust that she is doing what feels right.

So I will.

And if things fall apart and she's left in pieces, I will stand by her while she learns how to pick herself up and continue on.

Because I'm her sister.

We can leave our friends behind...

Oh holy crap, I am sore and tired.

Clubbing last night... beautiful. I haven't had that much fun out dancing in such a long time. By the time the club closed, my clothes were soaked, a second skin, my hair pulled up, pulled back, trying to get off my face and neck in this crappy weather.

I was good. I'm always good, but I was good last night. Even with the heat, even with the humidity, even with idiots on the dance floor, I was having a blast moving with the music.

Several friends ended up being there, along with my only one-night stand from the club circuit, which was last Novemember. He's still trying to get a repeat, still asking me back to his place. Invites were tossed out, and I ended up at the usual post-club place: Fred 62's.

...it was nice. I haven't been out clubbing in a month or two, so it was good to go get my groove on, to be by myself. To know that I continue to be in the top 5% of dancers in this particular scene. Step away for two months, come back, slide right onto the dancefloor like I was there yesterday.

Good times.

And now I have a "True Blood" marathon to attend.

This week in pictures:

July 26th 09 Week

We support doorways,
Bowed shoulders and muffled words,
Voices drifting into archways,
Saints resting on walls,
We pray for resolution.

Tangled up with mine...

Today did not go as planned. It still might not.

Once more, I woke up to the sound of OverLoudChild. I know I am not here often, but you think that they'd notice when I am. At this rate, my Friday nights will have to be kept at a minimum to make sure I get enough sleep for my Saturday nights.

I get up, I wander around the upstairs until the child is transferred to his mother- a little piece of Temecula glory. Before the transfer, he was curled up on the bathroom floor, fragile skin pressing against the carpet, the blond hair found only on young children a sharp contrast to the deep red he laid on.

After he leaves, his father, my little sister's boyfriend, proceeds into my sister's room where he spreads himself on her bed and entertains himself by playing games on his iPhone.

He's there when I step into the shower, and there when I step out.

I toss on my Pandora station and get dressed, casual comfortable clothes that will carry me into the club tonight as my need to present myself well at a nightclub full of people I really don't wish to talk to or even know their names is at a decent low.

Downstairs, I pour myself a bowl of applesauce and pace the hardwood floors of the family room while I eat. My father is sleeping in the bedroom, my mother is working in the office.

Upstairs again, I grab my purse and go to leave, walking by the open door of my sister's room and see him still playing on his iPhone. It has been almost an hour. His life is in total disarray. He has a four year old autistic child, an ex-wife who lives solely off of his child support payments that are much too high, an ex-wife who is trying to train their autistic son to hate his father, an ex-wife who set three court dates without telling him in order to accuse him of beating her and get a restraining order.

He had what was, essentially, a job offer from my father, to learn the business and make extra money in order to save up to move out to his own place. He had a list of therapists that he could choose from to help battle his depression. He met with a family friend, a lawyer, who looked over his childsupport payments and shook his head, declaring that he was paying way too much and that he could knock it down easy. He had my sister, helping him organize himself to go to a local community college. He was given a room in my parent's house that was so large, it fit beds for both him and his son, as well as several sets of dressers, and was charged minimal rent.

He let the job offer slide, even after my father paid for his licensing fees. He set the list of therapists on some piece of furniture in his room where it was quickly lost. The paper the lawyer told him to fill out that would cause his childsupport payments to be reduced has be consigned to the top of a dresser, untouched, dated May 14th, 2009. He did not sign up for fall semester. The room he was given is in shambles, his designer clothes decorating the floor like the Bermuda Triangle swept through a Nordstrom and tossed the contents through his room. Trash, unopened mail, antique furniture of my grandmother's piled with ignored notices. My mother has asked him repeatedly to respect her property and pick up his room so he does not cause damage to the furniture and carpet. He has not.

He sits on my sister's bed and plays mini-games.

He turns 25 in November.

As I went to go, as I walked by him, I was filled with such disgust and loathing that I turned around and went back into my room.

I cannot stomach these people who do not want better for themselves. I cannot stomach people who let their depression get them so down that they cease to function. I've been there. I've been fighting depression my entire life. I've cut to the point that even though it has been almost a decade since I last took up a razor blade, I still have scars, I've drank, I've popped the occasional pill or four, I've smoked with chimney-like accuity, I've fallen into bed with men just to have a distraction from the mess of my head. I've procrastinated, cut classes, been kicked out of college, allowed opportunities to slide by me.

But I was younger, inexperienced, immature.

He's almost my age.

And he's a loser.

He has a son and, half the time, when he has that kid, he pops in a movie for him and they sit up in his room all day, my sister's boyfriend playing iPhone games or staring into space.

You get up and you go. You're depressed now. Great. But you won't always be depressed, so when you come out of whatever funk you're in, you want to be at a point where you're not boned. So you do the work, you fill out the forms, you pay your bills, you show up to class, and if you need to go cry in a bathroom stall somewhere, you take five minutes to collect yourself and then you come back out.

Just because you feel bad does not mean you get to cease to function, especially when you toss a child in the works.

Time will continue to move, whether or not you do.

I cleaned, I organized, I cleared out trash, finally RSVP'd to my ex's wedding, laundry was put away, dirty clothes were cleaned, my duffel bag was packed for the coming week, documents were sorted and addressed. I had to catch up to where I needed to be. I was not going to be him, was not going to be anything like him.

My mother came upstairs, at the tail end of this twenty-minute cleaning spree, and asked if I would vacuum my room. I told her I would, watched with surprise as her eyes lit up, and she brought the vacuum up to me, also asked me to get the hallway as well.

My room was vacuumed, the hallway was vacuumed, and as I entered the tip of the vacuum into his room, I decided to get what open floor there was in there as well. Then transferred to my sister's room, as much a clothing landfill as his.

My parents redid her room a few years ago. She wanted it to be cute and trendy, designery. She loves redecorating.

So they did. New carpet, new paint, wall hangings, new furniture. She promised to take care of it.

As I slid the vacuum around, I was shoving piles of clothes, loose CDs, trash (really, just trash, gum wrappers, notes, ripped up paper, plastic bags, clothing tags, a freaking poptart), shoes, purses, scarves, mittens, ugly underwear, hairthings, make-up, perfume, grooming "appliances", etc etc etc.

My sister, she's one of those girls.

One of those girls you'll hear Roissy talking about. The ones that bore you to tears. The ones that when you overhear their conversations, you want to smack them for being so vapid. The ones that think shopping is a fun bonding experience, and nothing is more important the applying your make-up right. She reads Cosmo and US Weekly. She cracks open the pages of a book when school requires her to do so. She spends more money on clothing, shoes, and make-up than most anything else. Her redeeming factors: she's hysterically funny. Truly. She's very, very pretty. And she's not stupid. She's not supersmart, either, but she's not stupid. She dresses very well, presents herself wonderfully, and is great with people.

On the downside, the rest of her personality is what you would expect it to be: incredibly self-centered, defensive, bitchy, horrible with money, irresponsible, and prone to tears when she doesn't get her way.

I love her, I do, but it's like living with an alien.

So I vacuumed her room. The filth on the carpet, due to build up of hair, trash, and make-up, made this little undertaking turn into a forty minute event.

During this, I found a note that her boyfriend had written to her.

Now before you all go into shock that I would read this note, her boyfriend wants to be a writer (or so I'm told), so I thought it might be one of his stories (that I've never read or seen glimpse of) and I'm a junkie for the written word, so I started reading it.

Two sentences in, I realized it was a personal letter declaring that things weren't working out, that something needed to change in their relationship.

And then I put it down.

I was glad to find this, because I was seriously considering begging/bribing/paying a pick-up artist to seduce her away from this guy. Now I get to save my money for better things, like books.

So I went downstairs and told my parents that, as I had suspected, they were on rocky territory and to stop panicking that they were going to get married (they had been looking at engagement rings a few weeks ago and my mother was freaking out). My mother wanted to see this letter, followed me upstairs, I pointed it out to her.

She went to read it, and I stopped her. She glanced at the first two lines, glanced at the ending lines, and then I was able to convince her to not invade her daughter's privacy.

The letter was returned to the pile of trash sitting in front of my sister's bed.

...it's weird.

I say that a lot.

But it's true.

I look at my family, and I think, "How odd."

Human motions.

My parents allowed this man to move into the house with the agreement he would be out of it in six months.

It has been six months, and he shows no signs of movement.

No signs of life or awareness, if we're being nitpicky.

My mother is pissed, hurt, and frightened that this man is going to have a greater impact on her daughter's life than he already has. She's worried they will get married, or that they will move out and thus rob my sister of her health insurance.

She wanted another child so badly, after she had me. Dealing with her near infertility was a nightmare for my parents, causing my sister to be what we affectionately refer to as a "baster baby".

And once she was born, my mother found her resenting this small person for coming between her and me. How dare this baby interrupt our relationship?

But she got over it within a few weeks.

As we grew, the differences were marked.

Not only in personality, in temperament, but in the physical as well.

We do not have the same eyes, the same hair, the same skin, the same nose, the same teeth, the same cheekbones.

But we look alike. Somehow people know we are related. It might be the smile, our mouths.

When I hit my teenage years, I nosedived. Depression mingled with sociopathic behavior, out to hurt others in any way I could, out to hurt my family by hurting myself. I did my best.

My worst.

Five years behind me, my sister hit her teens and soared, launching into that space known as "popularity". Successful in every way. The hot rocker boyfriend a year ahead of her in school, straight As, making the dance team as a freshman, choir president, cheerleader, loads of friends.

Now we're both in our twenties.

My mother watched me attempt to burn myself out, her and my father worried and hurt over my behavior as I purposefully dove into troubled waters. Her first child, caught in a storm of her own chosing. But I learned and I swam to shore before I drowned.

Now my mother watches my sister, watches her make poor choices based around a man who will probably never go anywhere in life. She worries. She wonders what will happen, if she'll be able to handle it correctly, if, by giving my sister the spoiled, protected life that she did, she did not properly prepare her for reality, and if this goes poorly, it will be her fault for not protecting and preparing her offspring for living.

My mother comes to me, when I'm home.

It makes me glad that I'm here, that I'm able to rejoin them after living away for the last four years. That I can lend my ear to her.

She comes to me and closes the door to my room, sits on my bed or leans against the wall, and she talks.

She tells me her fears, her frustrations, she asks me for advice and input. She struggles with her need to lecture my sister, to somehow take control, to steer this little ship. To help, to fight off this potentially disasterous future.

Last weekend, I went upstairs to find her lecturing my sister while she got ready for work.

As soon as I opened my room door, I snagged my fingers under the right sleeve of her shirt and dragged her into my room, making slicing handgestures across my throat.

Vaudevillian, no? Just hand me an oversized cane and watch me work.

I tell her that this will pass.

Well, in more words than that.

I tell her that if my sister moves out, she will have to learn how to make it, or she will learn that she can't, not yet. That there will always be space for her in the house, that she will always be able to come back if things go down in flames, as I suspect they will.

I tell her that if she moves out and loses her health insurance through my parents, she will cease to take birthcontrol rather than pay full price.

I tell her that they will break up soon, especially once they're out of the house. That the only reason why her boyfriend has put up with her domineering and bitchy behavior is because he feels he needs to be in a relationship with her in order to have a place to stay, and this probably makes him incredibly resentful.

I tell her to engineer it so that he is given an option to take care of his business or leave the house, so that my sister will not blame my parents overmuch for his failture to comply. And he will not comply. If his son cannot get him to think for the future, nothing will.

I tell her that if they get married, they will divorce. Marriage is such a short thing.

I tell her that if this man does move out of the house, my sister will go with him because she knows that he cannot afford a place on his own, that he has no friends to move in with, and his son needs a place to stay when he has him.

I do not tell her that I worry my sister might become pregnant.

My father, he has been unable to sleep. Between his growing business, his dayjob, his suicidal older sister, and his wayward younger daughter, he has nearly cracked. Not mentally, necessarily, but his body is showing the strain.

Alcohol consumption has raised.

Laying in bed at night, flat on his back, my mother on his right, cats at their feet, ceiling fan slowly circling as he stares upwards, his vision blank except for the occasional shining fanblade illuminated by the swaying blinds allowing in outside light.

He stares at the ceiling, through the floor of the room resting on top of theirs, my room, and he worries.

I'm left wondering if he fears that he's done something wrong, that he's taken a misstep, that he's too like his own father, that he's left helpless and impotent as he ages and his daughters age and his control over them slips as they wander into their own lives and, oh god, how hard that must be.

The success he has dreamed of is quickly slipping away and as he enters the realm of retirement, the future he imagined for himself, the future that was so close until it was bought out from under his feet and he was tossed into a economy during upheaval, and he struggles to find a job for his level of experience, jobs that are hard to come by, that pay so much but he can't slide into one because no one can afford him now, not now.

So he takes the lesser job.

And stares at the ceiling and does not sleep.

While one of his children stumbles into life, unprepared, and the other, the other comes in after losing a battle and attempts to lick her wounds.

Alone and barely breathin'...

Friday night has found me.

Not in any particular state, mind you.

After work, I holed up in the nearby Barnes and Noble, looking and looking for that One Book.

Do you know the book that I'm talking about?

That one book that is so beautiful and intense that just overhearing its name will make your breath hitch, that every page is dog-eared to mark quotes and ideas and each time you feel a little out of place, all you have to do is open it and you're slammed back into your skin again.

I can't find it.

And I know I should. I have read writers online with these staggering works of brutal beauty, but I cannot seem to find them in book form.

So I prowl the shelves sometimes, hoping that I will chance across it, chance across something that will change the way I view myself and the world, for a minute, for an hour, for a week. Something that will alter my heartrate.

Nothing.

This year's yields:

Taming the Beast - Emily MacGuire
Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis
Dead Boys - Richard Lange
Broken Summers - Henry Rollins
Sperm Wars - Robin Baker

I've waded through Nabakov and Miller, Winterson and Didion, Saunders and Beckett, and who knows what else I've forgotten because it has... not enough for me.

Winterson's, The Passion: "You play. You win. You play. You lose. You play."

That sentence stays with me. The book does not.

It's almost August and I feel as though I'm missing something, that if I just looked a shelf higher, or maybe tried the "M"s, I would find what I was looking for.

Reading was interrupted by a call from my mother, who invited me to dinner, so I shot down the freeway, 80, 90 miles per hour, a song from my teenage years on repeat, windows rolled down and hair flying.

Dinner led, though slowly, to a movie.

I became the only "solo rider" for this week's popular date movie: "The Ugly Truth". It stuck to standard formula, deviations were to be avoided. The awkward, power-driven blonde learns how to be passionate, and in doing so sweeps the bad-boy vaguely alpha male off his feet and teaches him how to love after he's been burnt.

Gag.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I was laughing for most of the movie. It was funny.

It was also tripe.

I went to see it because he was teaching her "female" pick-up. No, no, no, it's not how to get a guy in bed, it's how to get into a guy's heart. Awwwwwww. I swoon, I pine, I perish.

As I walked into the theater, I was assaulted with a counterwave of men, sailing to the concession stand now that their date had been properly situated. I started to laugh. Yes, these men, so many of these men, walked by me, and I started to laugh at them.

And I remembered how many men I have successfully drug along with me to whatever chick flick I desired. I love chick flicks. Oh, and those high school romance movies. Remember She's All That? Oh yeah, they get my girlie buttons pushed. But I also want to sit and watch aliens burst out of people's chests.

What would be best, really, is a high school romance movie involving aliens bursting out of people's chests. In space. With big guns. And possibly vampires. Also with guns.

I grabbed my seat, one away from your typical lovely Orange County couple. If you live in this area, you know what I mean. Banana Republic? A&F? Quicksilver? Blonde, tan, wearing lots of white, khaki, and faded jeans. Highlights, of course, and the guy must, must, must have one of those woven hemp necklaces and be wearing some sort of sandal.

Shortly, the seats on my right were occupied by a mutually overweight couple.

Behind me was a shining example of intelligence and I cannot, for the love of me, figure out how people don't bother to expand their worldview beyond that of their churchgroup. Of the brilliant things out of the man's mouth, my favorite was, "Yeah, my pastor's awesome, but he does really weird things like playing World of Warcraft."

...really weird things... like playing a game that millions of people play worldwide..?

Does his house even have electricity, or does he have to churn the butter by hand?

I finally had to look to see if they fell into the Orange County Couple Crowd (OCCC for short) or if they were the usual SoCal church rejects that just didn't get out much. It was the latter.

I said nothing, silently cursing the theater lights for being too low for me to read my book prior to previews and tune out the inane chatter around me.

Between the movie and a discussion I got in earlier, I started thinking.

Dangerous for a woman, I know. I've been trying to cut back.

I don't know how to say no to sex.

That statement is misleading. I'll try to rephrase.

I don't know how to say no to sex to a person I actually want to sleep with and enjoy spending time with because I do not see the point in putting off the inevitable, combined with my need to screen men for their sexual-history squeamishness, I get it out of the way as soon as possible because it's really not that important.

I have conflicting opinions. My "seize the moment" and "if he's going to judge you for this and take off, he's a bit of an idiot anyhow" thought process tends to prevail.

I can't convince myself to say no. Why would I want to deprive myself of something fun and enjoyable because of someone else's issues?

But what if I did?

What if I did not take on any new sex partners until I found the man that I actually would like a relationship with?

Probably because I think that if I waited for that, I'd never have a new partner again. And that would be incredibly lame and contain too much self-denial for me.

So if I wait for the exceptional. If I wait for the guys I know will be excellent in all ways, even if they aren't for me on a deeper, longer-term level.

It's not as though I have a driving relationship need anyhow.

And what, what if I shifted my seduction style a bit more? Some place that I never considered taking it? Expanded my horizons and experience, learned new tricks.

What if I could become everything I ever dreamed of becoming?

Do you get the gist of the song now?

We're at a bar in downtown.

It's 1230 in the morning on a holiday weekend, the place is almost ours alone.

The music makes me crazy, makes me sway and swing, wishing to be dancing, wishing to be fucking up in a darkened hotel room, lit from the billboards and electric signs lining the buildings, occasional passing headlight swooping across walls decorated with unassuming art.

He's sitting to my right, brown eyes I could swim in, too intelligent. I do not know this yet, but when I find him the next morning, I'll stumble and fall into them for just a second, mentally wheeling backwards to gain bearing as I will forget their impact.

The pool is illuminated from the inside, a candle in the center of each table that line its rim, and multicolored lamps are spaced along the walls. This, this is mine. This is where I should be, and as a barely noticable breeze drifts through the opening patio doors and lifting hair away from my face, my body is set to humming.

His hands are on the table in front of me, incredibly long fingers, large palms. The bones of his wrists, his forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves landing just below his elbows, I look, but don't touch.

No, don't touch.

We talk.

I make him nervous.

That's okay. It happens more often than not, these days. As I try more and more to accept myself, as consolidation begins, my scattershot personality starts to solidify into a unified character.

Or so I hope.

He talks.

I watch his face, watch his hands, his movements, posture and gesticulations as he gets caught up in stories and ideas, every so often reining himself in as he realizes that he's the one doing all the talking.

Silence has to be filled. I provide that space, when the desire takes me, which is always and in all ways.

I listen, and his stories pour over me. Words are my addiction, an internal (eternal?) void is filled.

Flood me, wash through me, lap at my edges and trickle over, breaking bonds and boundaries.

I lean back and inhale.

Through darkened doorways and blue-drenched halls our feet wander, over smooth bricks and painted ceramic tile, we dance. Down stairways and corridors filled with our murmured voices, tangled metal vines and my back is against the wall, hands sliding over his stomach, parting the folds of his unbuttoned shirt, silky warm flesh, my tongue travels over the landscape of his chest.

He raises me, pushing me up and back, balancing on my toes as I reach for his lips with my own, fingers trailing and digging into the skin of his back as we meet in the middle, quick diplomacy between two nations as he trespasses across my borders, hands moving into my territory, shifting under fabric that lifts away from my skin all too easily.

My defenses are weak.

Penetration, invasion, my body adjusts to accept the length of his fingers, so long, good bye. My spine arches, bowing forward, off the wall, I feel fluids running down my legs, down his hands as he masters me. My body purrs for him, skin flushed, lips partially open and pressed against his chest, his neck, his jaw, and our battle flags are lowered.

We sing, truce.

I occasionally harass my smoker friends with retardery.

A typical line, from me, would be, "You know smoking is bad for you, right?"

Or, "Hey, they just did this study that shows smoking might be bad for you."

Just these asinine statements that amuse me because they're so incredibly stating-the-obvious and annoying. Because I don't really care.

So, I used the first one on a friend of mine. He had the best comeback ever, that nearly left me rolling around on the floor.

"I've had less cigarettes in my mouth than you've had penis in yours."

C's follow up comment to that, "Wow, that's a pretty accurate argument..." had us howling in laughter.

Now, it's highly unlikely that that is true. He's not a chimney smoker, but it's close enough some days.

I find it strange, that until I started commenting in the pick-up community, I had never been called a slut. At least that I remember. Seeing that, for the first time, directed at me, was a bit of a shock. I think it would be the same as me being called a bitch (in seriousness, as opposed to jest), because I just don't fall under the "bitch" heading.

It strikes me as odd. Maybe it just strikes me. I don't really know where I'm going with this.

I present myself in a particular way. And then I allow the bits of my character that I can't control to flow through that external setting. Information through filter, as much as possible.

Things you will never catch me doing include:

~Drinking
~Smoking
~Drug-use
~Mass profanity
~Raising my voice in anger
~Calling someone insulting names
~Having unprotected sex
~Lying about my sexual history or preferences
~Actively misrepresenting myself
~Judging someone in a negative way based on their sexual history or preferences
~Wearing overly revealing, sexual clothing

These things, they aren't my style. They used to be (except for the lying bit, which I've yet to engage in), but they are no longer part of who I am, who I wish to be, or how I wished to be viewed.

I've heard again and again about men complaining that women don't know what they want, especially on a sexual level. That so much of seducing and being with a woman involves trying to figure out what she wants, which is made so much harder because she herself does not know. My male friends tell me these stories about their relationships or sexual encounters, and I get to listen about how miscommunication spurred by a lack of self-awareness and honesty caused some great disaster.

But then others complain about women that are too active.

This year, I've had... hrm, four new sex partners. SFPlayboy, GV8, Dose, and Mr. Brush-off. SFPlayboy and GV8 are ongoing lovers and friends, Dose and Mr. Brush-off were one-nighters. I had two carry-overs from last year, Hardwood Floors and Blond and Studly. Both continue to be, for now, friends.

I know that I play too risky sometimes. I've also settled that down significantly.

Maybe, in the next year or two, I find what I want: two or three guys who live near me that I can happily alternate through, without issue. Because, as I've said, that whole "relationship" thing, not really working for me. I'm a great girlfriend, but now I'm just not looking to fill that role for anyone but someone that fits. Which is hard to find.

Actually, reading over that, that's not what I want. That's what I think I have a greater likelihood of finding. It's also what would help me focus on myself, as opposed to my usual need to submit to the serious man in my life.

And I've totally derailed myself. Typical.

I remember the first time I caught wind of the idea that if a girl talks a lot of sexual game, she's going to be terrible in bed.

I was lying in my bed with this one-night stand (The Rumor, from my Players photo album) from last year, post-sex. He's breathing hard, sweating a bit, both of us on our backs, staring at the ceiling.

He said to me, surprised look on his face, "You're actually good."

I looked at him, "...what?"

"Girls that talk a lot of game are never good. They're always horrible in bed."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

And then he let me in on this theory that, apparently, a lot of males support. I had never heard such a thing before.

Since then, it has continued to crop up in conversation and online.

This was also the man that I went to dinner with who enlightened me to a rather nasty rumor circulating that I had accused a man I refused to sleep with (who was rather pissed about that) of date rape.

This was also the man who sat across the table from me, told me he had slept with 105 women (I was #106, whoo!) and the reason he knew that is because he kept a spreadsheet because his older brother challenged him, years ago, to a "who can sleep with the most women" battle, and it was still ongoing. In this same conversation, he told me that he expected any future girlfriend of his to have had a maximum of two sex partners in their life, because more than two was excessive and slutty.

In regards to the man who I did not wish to sleep with, who was so angered by that rejection, that happens often. Of all the men that have made offers (or simply tried) to sleep with me, I've probably slept with about 3% of them.

Yes, three percent. Shocking, I know. You think my standards would be so incredibly low with my partner count being what it is (which, honestly, I still don't think it's that high).

I can only imagine what would have happened if I said "yes" more often.

O Sailor, why'd you do it, what'd you do that for?

Last night was... amusing. Unexpected. Odd.

I had the brilliant idea of attempting to remember all of my sex partners, and then other partners where I did not have sex with, but did have significant sexual contact, or impacted me in some way.

I have not been able to keep track of this for a few years now, so I knew it would be a challenge.

But C, another friend, and I, had plans to meet some other friends and acquaintances for dinner in Silverlake, which meant I ended up propping myself up at one end of the table, my paper journal open in front of me, playing with the end of my pen with my lips and tongue as I, Winnie the Pooh-style, drummed my fingers and went, "Think, think, think."

C was flirting with her boyfriend (she and Crosser decided to be friends for now, due to a drunken threesome they had with his primary partner last weekend that weirded the girl out entirely too much, as she isn't secure in their relationship right now, as they recently opened it) and the friend we came up with, her boyfriend and I were cuddling while I wrote, and I was occasionally doing my usual dry humor, interjecting at appropriate moments.

Think, think, think.

I remembered things I had forgotten, but there was still a good two or three year period where I was drawing a blank.

This was frustrating, and as I continued to list and lip my pen, people kept trying to peer over my shoulder, read my notes, ask me what I was doing.

By the middle of dinner, people were going through the alphabet, listing out male names, hoping to jog my memory. It did work, some. It also made me laugh way too much and, after an hour or so, I put the journal to one side.

During this, I gained the attention of a decently attractive blond. We started talking, as a group, but he continued to seek me out. Even when the conversation splintered into sub-groups, he would still be listening to me with one ear, looking for my opening, trying to draw my attention. Standard things such as continued eye contact, catching him looking at me while I was engaged with someone else, him asking me to email him. Normal, basic things.

I was pleased. He had an above average body, a decent face, and he was decently intelligent. Above average, maybe more, if we talked more.

I would not have thought anything of it, but before the group became so animated, before attention was focused on me, they had been discussing a Christian Slater movie called "The Heathers", and how another member of the group should watch it. Opinions were asked for, and while I was telling them I found it romantic, others were calling it a dark comedy. Which it is.

But I also find it romantic.

C and our mutual friend just looked at me, one of them said something along the lines of, "Yeah, you would find that romantic."

I tried to explain to them, about finding someone just as damaged as yourself. Someone that is torqued in the way you are, rather, in a complimentary way. They referenced the cigarette lighting scene, and I told them that was exactly what I meant. She burns herself, he lights his cigarette in the heat. Perfect.

Of course, then he tries to kill her.

Anyhow...

Finding someone who is a greater beast than yourself. A bigger monster.

Wolfboy, he has a reputation for being insanely good with the women. He has sex and more sex. He's the group badass, the damaged rebel, the recovered addict, the tragic romantic. As we would cuddle, talk, and fondle, we would compare techniques of seduction. Our natures matched so well, the need to be hunting.

But I was always better. My numbers doubled his, my successes and techniques covered a wider range than his. And I was smarter. Less damaged, or at least more able to maintain, than he. More in control of my life and myself, more able to direct what I was doing, and to control situations.

I'm straying a bit.

Combined with the movie discussion, earlier that day, I had a date cancel on me.

I... occasionally do things that I loosely call man-projects, or guy-projects. Where I meet a guy with a lot of potential, a good personality, but something about their sexuality is off. They may just have issues with sex, they may be inexperienced with sex, they may have had a horrible experience (or several) with a woman.

So I talk to them, I learn their issues, and then I start spending time with them, usually sleeping with them, coaching them, complimenting their body with words and touches if it is needed, making sure that the sex is relaxed and good, that errors in judgement or motion are corrected and treated as they are- inconsequential. Laughter is key. Making them comfortable with themselves is key. Making sure they can understand and communicate their desires, needs, and comfortability... major.

Sometimes this lasts for a few days, and they get a little weirded out by it. Sometimes this last for a few weeks. Sometimes months.

My favorite one, hands down, is my friend who is getting married in September. We spent so much time together, working with his issues regarding his body and sex (bad ex-girlfriend). And, after several months, he was okay. He was on the road to being good with himself, to being happy and healthy with such a key part of his life.

Eventually he met the woman who he decided to make his wife.

I still haven't met her, but I am going to their wedding. The invite is sitting on my nightstand.

I was 20 when I met him, and all of this happened.

Sidetracked a little again.

So I met a man a few weekends ago who I thought would make a good man-project. And he agreed, we started working on it. It was going slowly, but well. We planned to go out this Friday, but he sent me a text saying that he didn't think we had much in common, didn't see this going anywhere.

I specifically communicated with him, and he agreed, that I was going to get him to relax around women. That I would teach him how to flirt, kiss, and touch. That was it. No future plans, no relationship in the works. Simply potential friends working together.

Yes, I know, I know, I'm an oddball that I do this (I'm an oddball anyway, actually). I just see a need for it, and offer it when I can.

But he was nervous. I did get him to calm down in my presence, but I think the time spent away allow the anxiety to mount. Maybe. I don't know. I don't pretend to really understand anyone's logic but my own (and even then, not always my own).

I was mildly hurt, and surprised. I got over it quickly, though.

...and all this leads back to the blond guy at dinner that I found decently attractive, I swear.

So I was flirting with him, basking in his attention, and I was suddenly hit with the text message from the potential man-project, with GV8's dislike of the pick-up, and with the beast/dark romance I find in "The Heathers". That made me think of all the times I've had to subdue parts of myself, the darker parts, that make men uncomfortable, that predatory nature, the near-sociopathic analyzing of everything and everyone around me and how best to move them in my life.

In a man, this is usually acceptable, or at least okay, behavior. This is logical man-thinking, whatever. In a woman, I've found, people tend to view it as sociopathic and manipulative.

And it irritates me that I seem to have this near perfect blend of those tendencies and my need to be compassionate, kind, and helpful.

So I thought of those things, of meeting men in the past who loved my external nature. Who told me I sparkled, that I was unique and magnificent. Brilliant and funny, clever, witty, exciting, intelligent, so different than other girls. And then, as they got to know me, and found the things that exist underneath... they realized that we just didn't match. That there is something swimming beneath my currents that makes them uneasy.

And then they leave.

And it hurts, because I am not just the beast. They should know me that well.

But then the suddenly knowledge of those darker waves, something that they had no inkling of before, it's really no wonder.

The ones that don't leave, they become boyfriends. Beacuse they have those same beasts in them. But then they realize that, with all my strength, I'm still battling with self-esteem problems, that our mutual fixation on being strong... I'm not as strong as they are. Because I date older. Because I date men who are more experienced than me, who have lived longer, done more, had time to establish themselves.

And I haven't.

Then they look down on me. Because I'm weak, compared to them. When you toss in my need to submit and serve, it becomes even worse.

And then they leave.

Only Rick understood.

So I found myself looking across the table at this bright man, realizing that even though he finds me attractive, finds me desirable, we have only the external in common. And any time spent pursuing him, or getting him to pursue me, will only end as he realizes that I'm more and less than what he sees.

Because he's not my kind.

... ... ... ...

Side Note: as I re-read this after I posted it, checking for typos and my tendency to dance between tenses, I realized that the likely reason that I am not even bothering to look for a relationship, that I'm viewing men as potential companions and lovers only, is because of how I am. Men, currently, can only feature in my life as lovers, one-night stands, or friends. Because nothing else works, and it becomes increasingly unlikely that it ever will.

Temporary Lust

It amuses me, that a good piece of writing will make me lust after the author more than their looks, intelligence, or any other factor.

I should have that as a warning/disclaimer sign, somewhere.

Write something beautiful and brutal, and I'm yours.

At least for the night, anyway.

I'd like to see, see how things turn out...

Slight shift of things again.

Last night was spent in the company of C, who is rapidly becoming closer to me than I ever would have believed. Every so often I'm tempted to take our friendship to a sexual level, because she makes me so happy and comfortable. Sex, for me, has no ties to emotions, other than what is already there. It would be showing appreciation and love to her.

But I won't. I don't want to get that all tangled up. And she's bisexual, perfectly content with loving and being in love with a woman. I'm not. Women don't do it for me. It could get one-sided, easily. I'm fairly sure she has a crush on me as is.

So I won't.

We went for a walk down to the beach, talking about GV8, how he made me feel, how I can never maintain anger, mostly due to Rick's coaching. It's all too easy for me now, to see other people's points of view, or to realize that they have them, even if I can't see them.

And then my anger goes.

It's a two second flash flood.

We hit the beach and walked up it, continuing to talk. This was something I consciously did. I don't really open up with people, as much as they think I do. I've said this before. Engaging in self-disclosure is an easy way to get information from other people. If, like me, you're so comfortable in your sexuality and damage, something that most people never will be, it's easy to get someone to open up about themselves.

But I did open up with her, to a degree.

Partially, because I need to learn how to do this, especially with females.

Partially, because I felt so bad about how GV8 had burned me on Saturday, I knew that if I did not tackle this fear of true, deep rejection soon, it would stay with me and make it that much harder in the future.

Afterwards, we went to a kareoke night at a favored bar, and spent time in the company of some rather convincing crossdressers. They looked good. If I had known them better, I would have asked them to get up on the stripper pole together and pose for a picture for the blog.

During this, GV8 and I had been texting back and forth. He was telling me about a new business deal and how construction was going on the loft, and I was being suitably withdrawn. I had decided that I no longer wished to continue things with someone who thought so little of me, so I planned to talk to him at dinner tonight and call it off.

Unfortunately, business and construction had his schedule full. I figured I would just let things trail off, and then I realized that was a cowardly, immature thing to do. So I texted him to tell him we should probably talk, and to call me when he could.

Which is how I ended up in the parking lot of the bar for over an hour, leaning on the hood of my car, phone against my ear.

GV8 talks more than I do. I talk a lot, given the opportunity.

I told him that the things he said on Saturday hurt me, that it made me feel so young, immature, and stupid, and that was making it hard for me to want to be around him. I told him that I was just going to return his laptop to him, then cut and run, but I wanted to be fair to the both of us and see if we could bring some sort of resolution to the matter.

He told me about how off-putting it was for him for me to not just trust him at his word when he made the offer to me, for me to live at the loft and document it all. He said the fact that I brought up contracts was offensive to him, because his previous lifestyle wrapped around trust and taking people at their words, and he was not used to being doubted.

He told me that, as he got to know me, he realized that I had major self-esteem issues, and that was what put him off so strongly. My tendency to game and do pick-up was just a final blow.

He expressed how surprised and almost neglected he felt when I spent four days hanging out in Downtown LA, but never bothered to call, text, or get together for one of those evenings, since he was so nearby.

These are things I wish I had known.

We talked a lot about the contracts, about how, with all of his stories and skeletons of proof, at the time he made the offer, I had yet to actually meet any of his friends or employees. And that even if I trusted him, I still would have had a contract drawn up, if just to reassure my mother (she's easily worried and stressed, and even though I am in my mid-twenties, I still will do most anything to keep her happy and healthy). I told him of how his tendency to continuously talk over me triggered a lack of trust in me and his regard for me.

He told me that acting so strong and confident when I really was not was a lie of sorts, and this bit conversation was not resolved. Some days I am, some days I am not. And I am not going to go out in public on days I am not and act like a whipped dog because I happen to be tired or PMSing. I am not entirely self-confident, and I am not entirely without self-esteem.

But then I stood up for myself. I told him that I went with my gut, with my instincts, on hesitating on his offer, and for him to continue to tell me that I made a poor choice, that I should have trusted him, to look at all he offered me, was inadvertently undermining my trust in myself, causing me not to only have to "fight" with him about the validity of my decisions, but also with myself, because I respect him and have a high opinion of him.

That, combined with the talking-over discussion, evened us out.

There were no tears, no high emotions, no anger or hurt.

Just two adults, talking about what had happened.

I found it funny, near the beginning of the conversation. He said to me, "I think more like a female. I was raised by my mother with three older sisters. You think like a man, because you spend so much time with them. We just don't mesh, mentally."

And it is true. I hooked up with a man that thinks like I should be thinking, and vice versa.

There's no doubting his masculinity, though.

By the end of conversation, we were laughing and joking with each other, working out schedules. My feelings of negativity had fled, and we had reached a suitable understanding, at least for now.

I did love it though, when, as we were saying good-byes, he said to me, "The Sybian misses you."

I immediately shifted, husky voiced and adoring, "Aww, tell it I miss it too."

"It's just sitting in the corner, waiting for you..."

So we made tenative plans for Saturday.

It was past midnight by the time we wrapped all of that up. Yes, we talked about the game as well, and his perceptions of it, perceptions I will never change. But it did feel as though, when we started talking of it, he had realized that just because the majority of pick-up artists seem to misrepresent themselves and actively manipulate their targets, I do not have the personality for it. Nor am I a pick-up artist. I think that requires a degree of lifestyling that I don't care to engage in.

So I walked back into the bar, noting that two potential strippers were up on stage. Female, or very convincing males, I don't know. But they had nice legs.

I sat down with C and friends for a bit, letting her finish her clove, before we took off. We went back to her place and we talked about GV8 and the conclusion that we had reached, while she massaged my feet (her offer) and ate cherries.

We started talking about my other blog, the one that got so popular so quickly, and how people miss my posts. I told her I didn't know what do to. I can't drain myself in two locations, totally separate, totally unable to cross-post. I can't maintain this level of thought and analysis, not to mention time, and keep my job or social life. The anonymity here, though easily broken if anyone tried (thanks, internet!), allows me to write a bit freer than I did when my face was plastered over everything and I was constantly meeting people (and fans, eesh) in real life, whether I wanted to or not.

I wonder, now, that if I hadn't run away from that attention, how big it could have gotten.

She suggested not writing the introspective stuff that I do, that I should pick a general topic and go with it.

But it's always been sex, with me. Sex, relationships, social-sexual interactions, seduction dynamics. And it feels odd to be writing what would, essentially, turn into a sex/relationships column. I mean, I'm 25. I'm young. I've never been married, never been engaged (though I came close).

I told this all to C, and she said to me, "V, gymnasts compete in the Olympics at extremely young ages because they train themselves so hard. You have the experience behind you, you have put in the time."

I blinked at her and said, "Okay, but you had better help me think up topics." Otherwise I'll just end up rambling.

So I kicked it off today. An actual post, as opposed to a "Hey, I'm not dead" notice. It has been months. Comments and emails, people I have spoken to in way too long, are coming back.

It may flop horribly. I don't know. So far, none of my writing projects have flopped if I've bothered to put the barest amount of effort into them.

Wonder what would happen if I actually tried, threw my soul behind something.

Just gotta figure out what.

Badman's woman with that look in her eye...

So, I went over to my friend's house last night. Like the majority of my friends, he's of the "masculine persuasion". Yes, I'm one of those girls. If you hadn't guessed that already, we need to work on your reading comprehension.

Anyhow, this isn't about that.

I spent most of the afternoon thinking about what GV8 said and the general state of my mental/emotional health. The drive to my friend's place continued to be full of me thinking and stewing (with the soundtrack of The Church's "Life Before Starfish", which I'm greatly enjoying).

I grabbed coffee beforehand, and sat at the Coffee Bean outside his apartment, reading, trying to derail my brain. Reading, dancing, and rough sex. Those are the only things that ever get me out of my own head. And, for the latter, it has to be extremely rough for it to work. Otherwise I'm just thinking myself silly during sex, letting my body go on autopilot with no one the wiser.

He got off of work and met me halfway between his apartment and the coffee shop.

I immediately switched from stewing to social, chatty butterfly.

We curled up on his bed and watched the last two episodes of Dollhouse. When we ordered Chinese take-out, we had to stop in the middle of one of the episodes, so I rolled onto my stomach and eye-balled him, kicking my feet behind me impatiently, the legs of my jeans swaying against my skin, laughing and prodding him to come back and continue the show.

And as I was doing that, the thought hit me hard, "Maybe I'm a better actor than I think I am."

Will you light the lamp, dear?

As I was driving into work this morning, I was thinking.

Which is nothing new. I do it entirely too much.

And then the "durrrrrr" realization hit me:

The reason why I act like I do, with other people, where I create a space where they will not be judged and they will be, as much as I can, understood, is because I so desire that space from other people.

My very "seduction style" of the masculine dandy, one that I engaged in before I ever read The Art of Seduction, came about because I tend to think like a man. Well, more like a man than most girls. And that enabled me to wiggle my way in past all the shields and acts that men put up for women in order to be desirable.

I mean, sit me down with a guy, and he will generally start pouring himself out to me. I hung out with a guy a few months ago who had no problem opening up and detailing his embarassed/amused love of prostitutes to me, and the experiences in massage parlors, all the while whispering to me "But don't bring this up to -----" (which was a friend of mine he had been hitting on).

He couldn't tell her. He couldn't be himself. He didn't feel comfortable in revealing those parts of himself to a potential mate/sex-partner. So we were at a concert, and he was leaning over, talking about the strippers he's fucked, the best massage parlors in LA, his months and months of prostitutes, and every time my friend came back, he'd switch topics immediately and I'd be left giggling like an idiot watching him change gears.

Heartbreak, embarassing sex moments, self doubts, loss of virginity, masturbatory experiences, prostitutes/massage parlors, incest, bestiality, childhood crushes, general sexcapades, drunken tomfoolery, homosexual experiences, bizarre sexual fantasies, I've heard them all.

And you'd think I would have realized by now, why I was doing this.

I mean, when I was first entering the world of sex, I knew that if I wanted to please my partner, I had to follow his lead. Touch him like he touched me, kiss him like he kissed me, because we do to others what we want for ourselves. Rough, soft, lots of tongue, nails, teeth, groping, you mirror as much as you can to become in tune with your partner's desires.

And I did not stop to think that this could apply to me on more than a sexual level.

Even though I'm more than aware that people, in general, give what they want to receive (or give what they think will get them what they want to receive), even on a social level.

I offer what I do, to the men I do, because I want it so badly for myself.

And I want someone to recognize that and provide it for me. Unfortunately, understanding has to come from another person. I cannot provide it for myself, except in daydreams and fantasies involving fictional shadowmen.

So there you go.

The tiny midnight caravan...

I'm totally getting my mope on right now, which amuses me. My humor leaks into everything, no matter how poorly I feel. And I sit here and know that I'm moping, and I know that it is due to a combination of things, the primary of which being that I'm tired, followed up by accidentally coming across Bradley's (the suicide) myspace last night, stacked with the thing with GV8, which "ended" well, for all intents and purposes, but it still makes me feel like screaming.

Not an angry scream.

Not at him, anyhow.

Not that I ever, ever scream or raise my voice.

Because I'm mellow.

It really is a blow, even though it shouldn't be. I expected it.

You'd think that if I hooked up with someone like him (and I'm not going to go into detail out of some odd respect for his wish to leave his past behind him), he would have understood. Somehow. That disconnect.

He made me feel like such a child. A little girl with issues.

I suppose I am.

I suddenly was sixteen again, with the poor fashion sense, the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sex with near strangers who I don't really remember anymore, shouting at the world how no one understands me, no one will ever understand me, I'm just so bloody different. Teenage angst.

And now what? Mid-twenties angst?

It only left me when I was with Rick.

And now I'm looking at The Bassist. He's three years younger than I am. That's not my style. I rarely can tolerate people my own age.

He's so young. He's fun and happy and wonderful to be around. He reads. He actually reads. And he has dreams and motivations and he's amazing to watch on stage, wonderful performer. So I'm looking at him going, "I'm too damaged for you. You see me as nothing more than a friend because I don't attract guys that don't have some wild damage about them, unless they're trying to save me from my own head." And part of me is hoping that he's got some hidden issue, some damage, some scar. That he hasn't gone through life untouched, that we will be able to relate to each other as more than just friends, more than just lovers.

He's healthier than I am, it seems. And more mature. And more responsible.

What a joke.

But every so often I'll catch these glimpses, and I'll wonder if he's hiding some part of himself.

He's a nice guy, a good guy, but not... in a bad way.

I wish the man in my head was real. I wish I had that understanding in another person, that true understanding that is only available via one's own mental construct. I wish I had someone I could talk to, really talk to. That I did not have to mentally divide up myself among social groups.

In some, I can be nothing other than the sex beast. I have to live up to my name, I can show no weakness. I'm a trophy, one that I let so few of them have. Stories about me circulate, even when I disappear for a year or two.

In some, I'm the teacher and confidant. I do not get to let go of my burdens. I must listen, I must advise. I feel as though if I do not, all the experiences I've had are useless, that I'm doing them a disservice. That I'm being horribly selfish. I feel that if I bring up my own problems, I'm suddenly not someone they can look up to, and then they lose confidence in themselves and me.

In some, I'm a pleaser. I'm an attachment. I'm that girl that so-and-so is fucking. I give great head and have a snarky comeback at all times, but I never outshine my partner unless it pleases him that I do so.

In some, I'm another version of the sex beast. I'm the shark. I get who I want, even if it takes years, I will eventually get him. Girls watch me, admire me, and try to follow my lead. I get masses of nerds and beta males at my heels, trying to play the nice-guy card.

They all want to save me, seeing me as some sort of nice girl in distress, that fell into bad crowds and bad ways, but if they just point out my errors in judgement, correct how my morals have shifted, I'll be a normal, functioning member of society again.

I hate this. It's such disrespect. It's basically someone telling me that:

A. I can't do it on my own.
B. There is only one acceptable way to be healthy.
C. They represent what is healthy.
D. It does not matter if I do not consider them healthy.

I have other crowds where I'm the shy girl, the loner, the brain. Standard stereotypes that are only pieces of me. Ones I feel trapped in, sometimes. But not as much as the others.

In some groups, if I show weakness... yeah, that's not a good scene.
In others, if I show too much of myself, my experiences, my sexuality, my need to play the game, people are frightened and judgemental. I'm a damaged freak, seeking validation, just as GV8 said.

It made me feel so very small. So very young. But, then, he is almost 44. He could be my father, with that age. Not to mention, he's lived enough for five lifetimes.

It's harder, when you look up to someone, and then they call you sick. Unhealthy.

I was just getting used to that as a state of being. I was getting used to that as being okay. That is was okay that my brain is off at this 90 degree angle from everyone else's. That I'm not strange enough to be one of the wild ones, the people that are willing to lose everything so they can pursue their madcap dreams, but I'm not normal enough to fit.

Self-acceptance, will I ever find it?

And I have friends, especially my best friends, who will accept me no matter what, and I know this. Two of them have been there from the self-destructive fall to today, and one of them has seen so much of it, amuses himself by watching me game guys when we go out. I love them, they love me. And there are parts of each of us that sync, and parts that don't. There are pieces of each other that we'll never get. But we accept it.

Now Hardwood Floors is back in town, back from traveling and promoting his work. I do not know if we will hook up again, if he found someone on the road and is now happily contained in a relationship.

I miss him, more than most partners I've had. Which is saying a lot, because I rarely miss lovers for more than a few weeks after we've ended. Out of all of them, Riot of Tattoos and Hardwood Floors are the ones that haunt me. The ones I want again. Riot, because he's an animal in bed. He's the roughest, most visceral man I've ever been with. Hardwood Floors, because he's... him. Because he rivals me in intensity. Because his work is so heart-stopping. He's rough and lovely, a damaged dreamer, with a bone structure that defies reality. And he understands, possibly better than anyone besides Rick.

I feel stupid, for having revealed those vunerabilities to GV8. My aching sense of isolation, that feeling that I will always be alone and outside, that feeling that, compared to everyone else, there will always be something off about me. That people like me, but only parts of me, and if they knew all of me... they wouldn't, not so much.

So then I toss out parts of me, the unfriendly, the unflattering, the damaged, the alien, and they're slapped back like I'm an inexperienced child.

That I will get over this.

You know, when I'm more mature and worldly.

I've been told so often things along the lines of:
-You're always with someone, you've always got company.
-You're never single for long.
-You'll get out of this funk.
-You'll find someone special who will change your mind.
-There's someone for everyone.

I've been told that 95% of American women marry.

I don't even know why that is relevant, since I don't view marriage as a symbol of love, only trust, an an abused one at that. Not to mention what I think of social statistics. Eesh.

Anyhow, I just derailed.

But I'm feeling mildly better now.

God, this blog is getting so damn emo of late.

Really, when I look at it, I can do alone. I prefer alone, most of the time. And, yes, I keep saying that. Because it's usually true, and has been all my life.

Sometimes it grates, when something happens and I realize I have no one I feel that I can truly talk about it to except myself. I don't have a partner with that connect.

So I create shadows in my head. Shadows that have no basis in reality, but soothe me.

It's just this feeling of embarassment that I come back to. Invalidity of feelings, like a spoiled teenager crying because mommy won't buy her a car for her 16th birthday and she's going to go upstairs and listen to Linkin Park (though it was Megadeth for me, but I'm trying to stay current) and rage about the unfairness of it all.

I feel stupid and embarassed for feeling so different and alone.

I feel like a walking stereotype. One in a million people who feels like they're so damn special and no one can understand their pain and I'm going to compose an epic rock ballad about my pain and paint my nails black because my pain is so dark and tragic etc etc etc.

I don't have pain. I have alienation. I have a fractured sense of self. I have a tendency to write so much that I doubt I will have the patience myself to read this all the way through after I post it (humor leaking in again).

I feel like if I just relaxed, I would be okay. That I would just cover it up and not think and analyze like I do.

I feel that GV8 thinks that I'm just like all the young girls he's slept with over the years: dramatic, with an inflated sense of individualism.

That with all my experience, with the demeanor I have, that calm assuredness that fools so many people, with my mellow tones and ability to take on so many points of view, I'm just a child. A teenager. A girl that hasn't grown up and found the love of her life, settled for whatever came my way, and popped out some kids.

I feel like I should be better than this. Healthier than this. That I've failed myself by not leaning on my years of life-education and coming to a better conclusion than, "I'm a weirdo, and it's unlikely that I'll find a matching weirdo."

That out of all the billions of people on this planet, I'm so damned special that I don't have a potential mate out there.

It's juvenile.

I feel like a foreigner in my own home, and I'm punishing myself for it because I think it's retarded, dramatic, and self-absorbed, and if I had half a brain, I would have gotten over it years ago because, really, it's not like I've ever fit in anywhere. So it's no surprise. I'm not raging against the dying of the light or anything.

Nothing is going to change, other than appearances, other than me feeling confident that I can pass myself off as average/standard/typical/any-word-other-than-'normal'-because-I've-used-it-too-much-in-this-post.

Because I can't accept myself, on a social level, as I am.

Because I don't think I'm fooling anyone. And I don't have the knowledge and experience to do so, at least as of now. I don't need to be normal, I just need to be able to fake it as needed. I do it okay, but I want to do it well.

It's my own insecurities, as always.

When I was in junior high and early in high school, even though I did not believe in any sort of god, I used to lie in bed at night and wish and pray that I would be "normal" one day. That I would fit in. Be average. I did not need to be the most popular or pretty girl. Just a standard one with standard grades and a standard boyfriend, standard family, standard drama. Or that I would, at least, fit in the with the "weird" kids, the goths and punks. Just somewhere, you know?

God, I feel like I'm whining. It wasn't so bad when I knew no one was reading this. I could whine to my heart's content. Now I worry that I'm being incredibly annoying.

In my own blog.

Bwah, I continue to amuse myself with my logic.

I turned down a concert tonight because I was feeling so on edge. I still am, but not as badly. Instead, I'm going to curl up with a friend and finish DollHouse, season one. He has a way of making me calm.

The air conditioner helps as well.