Many things to cover this morning.

Friday night, I was supposed to go attended a show with The Waitress.

I ended up cancelling those plans, feeling full of mope, needing to isolate, needing pillows and blankets piled up on me with a chick flick full of mindless, illogical romance.

Well, that turned out to be PMS induced. Figures. Body betraying me again on my monthly fight to stay sane and stable for a few days.

I ran by C's place to pick up an item I left behind. I had forgotten she was having her three lovers over for dinner. Two boys I had met before, and a red-headed Russian chick that was an avid fan of my other blog, so I had been avoiding meeting her.

Avid fans creep me out.

I sat on the floor, looking and feeling like crap, catching up with one of the men who I had not seen in a couple of months. Pulled me into their physicality, squished between two men with the Russian girl stroking my hair as I climbed and allowed the physical contact I need so much to keep me relaxed and okay to wash over me. Body heat and skin. Rising scents, teeth nipping at hips.

I left, having blocked one of the neighbors' parking spots, then returned after parking on the street, realizing that time spent in full body contact with C's partners was the least stressed I had felt all week, and I needed more of it.

It was good.

I drove home at 10, having laundry to do, knowing I would not have time to do it on Saturday morning.

My sister was fresh home from Japan, her boyfriend over. I tossed my clothes into the washer and curled up on the couch, watching TV for the first time in, at least, a month. VH1 was doing a marathon of "heavy" metal music videos, and I latched onto it.

Respect for BulletBoys gained.
Respect for Judas Priest lost.

Saturday morning was a rush of errands, a quick break to have lunch with a man I am going to refer to as The Broken Prince. Dramatic, I know. Accurate enough. I'm still mulling everything over.

Down to Huntington Beach for a double birthday party. Steak and booze, one thing I love, one thing I hate. It was good to be with friends I don't see often enough.

One of them, essentially a brother to me, I've known since I was about 17. He's a couple of years older than me, can't remember how many. He's been dating this girl, who I really like, for about six years. We went out on a booze/mixer run shortly before I had to leave, and he started talking to me.

About sex.

About how, for the last few years, sex with his girlfriend has been non-existent. She has no desire for him anymore, and he's worried, feeling undesirable, wanting to share something more that just sex with her, but that vaunted love-making.

So we talked. I tossed game theories at him, ideas at him. It's going to be a work in progress. He's planning on proposing to her soon, and... yes. Difficult spot to be in.

During the party, I received a text message/booty call. Very blunt, which is something I respect. Direct communication, no games.

So the booze/mixer run turned into a booze/mixer/condoms run.

My friend was laughing about the text, about my casual acceptance of it, while we hit up a drugstore. And then he said to me something along the lines of how I tend to see several men at once, sleeping with some of them, and how I'm so not relationship material.

That drew me up short.

He knows me pretty well, but when I spend time with that particular social group, it's usually when I'm single and playing the field.

I'm coming to realize how difficult it is to explain how I view sex and relationships, and how I function in relationships... and how I'm viewed.

I'm the guy. I'm one of the boys. I've always been one of the boys. It's masculine dandyism. Men relax around me because I'm like them, because they can tell me things they can't tell other guys (because it would be emotionally weak) and that they can't tell other girls (because the girls would be shocked and judge them for their behavior). It's standard.

So my guy friends see me do what I do.

The multiple casual sexual relationships that I have no intention of going any farther in.

The emotional disconnect.

The sexual banter and objectifying of my partners and theirs.

The inability for anything to shock me on a sexual level.

Trying to explain to him my need for monogamy, not even bothering to bring up my closeted romantic nature. It would be too fantastical for him.

I think that most men expect women to behave one of two ways: searching for that Relationship or searching solely for casual pleasure. There's not a lot of inbetween. A girl like me should not have any interest in anything long-term in their eyes, or deserving of it, or even capable of it.

Truth be told, if I met that man who I felt would be good, that I felt I could bond with, I would, without a second thought, spend the rest of my life working on our relationship, being with him, sleeping with only him.

Until then, though, I see no reason to curb my behavior, other than the potential for STDs, and I'm always safe. As safe as one can be and still be sexually active, that is.

After I left the party, I headed up to Los Angeles, going to The Greek to catch Diavolo's show. Good stuff. Freezing out, though. I huddled next to my club friend and we warmed ourselves by mocking the DJ and his crappy house music by busting out sarcastic dance moves for a good twenty minutes. We totally got complimented on our performance, too.

The show shifted to clubbing, moving on the dance floor at a favorite venue, trying to let go, just be in the moment. Training myself to stop detaching from everything. It's hard, it's very hard, going from the constant observer to the participant.

But it's easiest for me to do it when I'm dancing.

So I practiced. Whenever I felt my mind wandering to the other dancers or the men standing by me, I would just force myself to stop thinking about it, start thinking of the beat and my body.

It worked. It worked really well.

I left at midnight to join The Broken Prince and his friend for some DP.

Finally, yes, finally, DP can be checked off the list of things to do. My delayed birthday present. An unexpected offer, an unexpected adventure.

It was a mild conflict for me. A man I just met and a man I had never met. The dynamic of the three of us together. My own safety. The mild concern of if I was agreeing to the invite because I felt the need to somehow validate myself, that the pain from GV8 was still echoing in me, or if I sincerely was just anxious about trying something new with new people.

If it was a healthy decision or an unhealthy one.

And then how it would impact my friendship with The Broken Prince.

If he would, indeed, be one of those men that would immediately write off my opinions, my ideas, because I "obviously" did not value myself. Because I did not wait the prescribed time before going "sure, you and your friend can totally ream me".

If it was desire for me, or desire for the image I represented.

Memories of SFPlayboy rising to the surface, knowing that he, at least initially, wanted me for my other blog's popularity, not because of who I was. A trophy for his collection.

I showed up at 1AM.

I met his friend. I was relieved. His friend was wonderful, completely put me at ease within seconds. This was not, at least for me, going to be a matter of being used and tossed out.

Eventually we made it into the bedroom.

There's that awkwardness, that wondering of dynamic.

And I realized, watching and listening, seeing The Prince slide off his shirt, undo the chain that rested around his neck, that he wasn't quite with us.

That he wasn't in the room.

I wonder if I would have noticed if I had not been aware of this tendency of his prior to that night.

Looking up at his face, at his eyes, our shared blue, wondering, almost knowing that this wasn't a matter of me being used, this wasn't even about pleasure. It was him feeding demons, and I could have been anyone.

I touched his face, surprised by a kiss placed into my palm.

Back into his eyes. Wondering where he was. Wondering what he was doing to himself. Wondering if I should hate myself for knowing this and aiding him in that quest. It's almost like assisted soul-rape.

A line from an IAMX song slides into my mind, "Who put the mess in your head..?"

Remembering doing this to myself, remembering years ago.

We're both good at hiding these things from others. Watching the social shifts.

He didn't hide it from me. Possibly because he was too tired. Possibly realizing what a disservice it would be. Possibly because he didn't find me worth the effort of hiding it.

I don't know. I do know that it's more likely that whatever theories I come up with, they're probably wrong.

I'm not here to save anyone. I don't heal wounds, I only listen.

Slow, rhythmic pumps, distance between bodies, eyes that are so far removed from the current time as he eats away at himself. Unredeemable, is that the goal?

That's the question, isn't it? The things that drive a person to destruction: what is the idea of that destruction? The finality of execution. How do you define your destruction, and what will that destruction bring you?

Two people asked me within a twenty-four hour period, why do I chase pain?

Things to think on.

Afterwards, The Prince passed out in bed and I joined his friend (pseudonym pending) in the living room, curled up under a yellow blanket that reminded me strongly of Big Bird from Seasame Street.

We talked for awhile. Just life and sex stuff, the dynamic the three of us had in bed, the disconnect with The Prince. We had two conversations over the course of the night, the first one standing on his front porch while he had a cigarette.

He said to me, "You're here for him."

I said to him, "I figured he brought me here for you."

Shaking with cold, chatting into the late night/early morning air.

Life is damaging, some of us aid that process.

Remembering what it was like when sex was an unhealthy activity for me. It has been so many years since I punished myself by using others. By letting others use me.

Those sentiments: "you're here for him" and "he brought me here for you".

Realizing the twist. I was there for him, but he did not bring me for his friend necessarily, but to help drive another knife in. The knowledge was there, I saw it. I saw the days of my 16 year old self piled up, the sheets, the carpet, the furniture I was bent over.

Pressed a hand to his face, knowing that was the closest I'd get to his mind that night.