Ten black stars at my window pane...

This is one of those moments where I just give up.

I mean, being female, I'm obviously more prone to emotional attachments. It's biology.

But, really, come on. How many of my ex-lovers have expressed that they feared I was becoming attached to them while we were sleeping together?

So, in a recent email conversation, SFPlayboy tossed out this:

It's funny, though; I kind of worried when you were here about you getting attached, too. You do have that monogamist impulse, deep down. But I should remember that you'll pretty much follow my lead in all things, and can take it even if you do form too much love (which you're still not THAT likely to). You're everybody's Scarlet Woman, I swear.

Sweet of him to say, but I still have this lingering annoyance. When have I been anything less than honest? When have I faltered? My track record for emotional attachment to lovers is spotless. I've never done it. Why? I don't take lovers that have the potential for relationships. If I meet a man, I will know very quickly if he's relationship material (for me). If he isn't, but I still enjoy his company and find him desirable, he gets slid over into the physical companion category, and he will stay there until our time ends.

You know, I don't think I've ever been with a man who has truly believed me.

And what am I supposed to say?

"I picked you because you've got a significant dealbreaker against you. I picked you because you're attractive enough to sleep with, and enjoyable enough to spend time with. I picked you because I'll never had any interest in you past friendship because something is so very wrong about the two of us together. You smoke. You drink. You have a habit of cheating on girlfriends. You can't hold a steady job. You're too optimistic. You don't have much of a future. You have no drive. You can't drive well or at all. You smoke pot. You're so mentally damaged that I can't imagine entwining my life with yours on more than a temporary level. You're not dominant enough to keep me happy in a relationship. You have mommy issues. You have a child. You have a crazy ex-wife. You're not experienced enough in bed. You have no confidence."

I can't exactly tell my partners those things. It would be fairly needless and hurtful.

So I just tell them that they're not my type. Or that I don't fall in love easily. Or that things would never work between us. Or that I'm really not ready for a relationship at the moment, but would like some companionship.

Because I don't think guys can handle me as a lover.

It's true.

I'm too affectionate, too easy with my body, too at ease in cuddling and bonding without ever going over the edge into love. I can spend every weekend with a man, having great sex, going out, talking into the night, and never feel more than friendship.

When a man tells me he's not looking for a relationship, I take him at his word. When he tells me that he has no interest in forming romantic entanglements with me, I trust that he knows himself well enough for that statement to be honest and accurate.

So why do men have such a hard time believing me?

Why does each one think that something is going to be different with them, that my experience and self-knowledge means nothing when I become involved with them?

Do I seem unaware of myself? Do I seem delusional? Do I pass myself off as dishonest? Do I seem inexperienced?

I mean, I must be doing something if this has happened with almost every single one of them.

When I was in SF with Playboy, he was the one that initiated hand-holding. I love holding hands, but I know that, for many, it's a sign of greater emotional intimacy. So I refrain.

When Stuntcock and I broke up when I was 20, I spent the weekend down in San Diego with one of my longest-term lovers. I used him for emotional comfort, for cuddling, for getting used to a new body, new lips, new cock after a year and a half of the same ones. It was awkward, but I knew I needed to get past my accustomedness with a body I would never touch again.

And my lover let me. He helped me.

But never once did I think of dating him. Never once did I think of love.

And then I came across a wonderful man who was perfect and supportive, who helped me heal the wounds that Stuntcock left on my confidence. I spent almost every other day with him for months, met his friends and family, just as he met my friends and family.

I let my family think we were dating so they would not be alarmed at the amount of time we spent together, but we were just friends, friends who happened to have a lot of sex and spend lots of time together.

Nothing more.

Then I met Rick, and our physical friendship ended.

That particular lover, like others over the years, told me a year or two after I ended things, that he had been slowly falling in love with me, even though he warned me before we started our relationship that love was not part of the equation. (I think it was, "V, you better not fall in love with me because I don't fall in love and I don't want to hurt you." My reply, "It's not me you should be worrying about. And I'll remind you of this conversation later, jerkbutt." No, I'm not the most mature person.)

He's getting married in September. He called to tell me about it to invite me. I received the invite a few days ago, it's in a 1920s design that is rather cute. I have no date, but I prefer it that way.

I suppose I should stop railing against the inevitable: as long as I am sleeping with someone, they're going to be afraid that I'm going to request a committed relationship from them, whether or not I show any affection. It doesn't matter that I wing for them. It doesn't matter that I encourage them to ask other girls out, or teach them tricks in bed so they can please future partners. It doesn't matter that I'm sleeping with (usually several) other guys.

It's only when it's over do they believe me.

I should get them to write letters of reference for me.

"Yes, I was one of V's lovers for x-amount of months (or years). Yes, I think she might just be a sexbot." And then I could have it notarized.