I am... sore.

I think I say that fairly often. Sore, exhausted, tired, babbling.

615AM, Saturday morning, GV8 texted me. Essentially ordering me to be home (his home) before 2AM, after clubbing. Beautifully hot. Hotly beautiful, even.

I spent the day, oddly enough, squiring around aforementioned navy man who has taken up residence in the room across the hall from mine. He... he's got game. Natural game. I fell completely into my usual masculine dandy role when I deal with such men and trucked him around town on my errands so he could learn the lay of the land, while we talked sex and pick-up. Teaching him terms, offering suggestions, pointing out places to go to pick up girls.

I think I might need a new hobby.

Dressed up for the club for once. Vaguely Catholic school girl. Ended up, pre-club, being serenaded by a songwriter I met while walking across Wilshire. Apparently a successful one. I don't listen to R&B, so I wouldn't really know.

But, once more, getting to the club, my apathy took hold. In a new way, though. I just couldn't bring myself to care about the opinions of the people around me, so I ended up acting my usual self with a bit of social dancing, made several new friends and a yummy, yummy man was among them, which led to lips and hips locked on the dancefloor.

Great face, great body, great style.

Good times.

Left him, though, for GV8. He snagged my number from another girl though, so texting has been happening. I've yet to return, but I will. I'm not rude, just busy.

My apathy did lead me to try something new.

Was introduced to a rather attractive rocker, shook his hand, stared at him a little bit, then smiled, apologized for staring so much, but he really reminded me of my dad.

Which wasn't actually that true. But his expression was priceless. I've decided that is going to be something I'm going to have to do often. He spent the rest of the evening just... shocked. Hysterical.

Sunday, hit Amoeba, Groundworks, Borders, the farmer's market on... Ivar? Picked up some orange honey for some oral work with GV8. Snagged lunch with a friend of mine, a retired model/dominatrix. She pointed me in the direction of a kink-friendly psychologist in my area, so I'm thinking of visiting her to deal with reconciling my submission issues and working on reframing and/or accepting GV8's need for a sexually open relationship. My friend is also buying me pole-dancing lessons for Christmas. She says it's an amazing workout and she wants a workout partner.

So we'll see how that goes. I've never had any strong urge to learn how to work the pole, but it sounds like something fun to learn.

Spent the rest of the afternoon working on school stuff and cleaning GV8's apartment. He broke part of the bedframe, I can only assume with someone else, so I pulled that up and got him to put in a replacement board so the bed would stop dipping.

Note: that man has a lot of socks. Jeez.

We went out, afterwards, to see the Hollywood Christmas parade, stood on Vine, making out, watching the show, trying to identify B-list celebs, checking out the cheerleaders. The best moment of that parade, though, was when a homeless guy in a wheelchair decided to get on the parade route and do it backwards, very fast, being followed by cops who weren't sure what to do, cheers errupting for him. It was fantastic.

...I wish I could remember the name of the restaurant we went to. It was amazing. The atmosphere was so like what I imagine a speakeasy to be. Food was great, live music was great, so mellow. Sitting on red velvet couches, reclining into GV8's chest, feeding each other bites of our meals, talking about life, about trust, about love.

Started talking about Darkeyes, the damage that was done to my ability to trust and fully submit... it was surprising. He actually seemed to get a little angry about what Darkeyes did. My mellow, mellow man, angry. Amazing.

It was a really good night.

Walked down Sunset Blvd, undergoing the post-parade clean-up. It was closed, so I took a few shots of it looking like the apocalypse happened. No people, no cars. Crazy.

Back to the apartment, more rubbing, made use of the honey, orgasmed like crazy due to his tongue.

It's rare for me to orgasm with my partners. I don't know if I've mentioned that before. It's not something that really bothers me, though it occasionally bothers the men I sleep with. I simply don't care. I can get myself off, so sex, for me, is more about being with the other person and experiencing them, their body, their pleasure, than looking for my own.

Not that I mind having a good orgasm with my partner.

Just isn't a goal.

But... he let me go down on him. He hasn't since the split. It's been a no-cock-zone.

Which was then turned into a no-sex-zone.

But, this morning, we had sex. And I'm not quite sure what that means.

Everything he does, everything he does, has a purpose. I don't know if I unlocked the key to his pants when I told him I wasn't going to push the sex issue because I respected his decision, or what.

It was so nice, being with him this morning.

Laying in bed with him last night, his arms wrapped so tightly around me, telling me that he loved me.

But that doesn't mean that he'll stay. He still doesn't know if we're going to be good long-term. Still doesn't know if he wants to be with me.

...however, plans for next weekend have been made. And I'm staying with him again tonight.

Anyone else, I'd say he's just using me for the sex, until I wise up and go. But he can get sex from several different sources, simply by picking up his phone. He has ass on tap. And, as cliche as this sounds, he's not like that. He doesn't use.

A man with integrity.

Who knew that I'd find one of those?

And not just one that talks about it. He doesn't. He just has it. In spades.

It feels oddly ridiculous to me. To say, "This one is different, this one isn't like all the others."

Especially with his background.

Sounds stupid and naive.

But I'm not worried. I've been exposed to enough men in a variety of ways to look past the words, to piece together the actions, the ideas, the movements.

He's next to perfect.

For me.

I'm in love.

He likely won't keep me.

But, gods, do I hope he does.

I can't imagine, can't even create a fantasy, of a better man to spend my life pleasing, serving, loving.