Something is wrong.

Trying to figure out what this feel of self-deception is.

What I'm hiding from myself.

Edging towards it.

Dinner on Sunday, with the new guy.

I picked the place. Luna Park, on the corner of Wilshire and La Brea. My wish to go was due to the title resemblence to Easton Ellis' Lunar Park that I loved so well.

Stepped in the door. Red. Everything was red. Chandeliers, dark wood tables, votives, odd, probably local, art. Assessed. Two male hosts at the front desk.

Took charge.

Quick smile, told them the number of diners. Bantered, joked, flirted without intent.

My date followed me, saying little.

We sit. His back to the door. I don't like not being able to see who is coming in behind me, makes me uneasy.

But I had no view, and could not see the small mass of people at my back.

So we switched seats. My suggestion, my control.

Waiter came by. One of the hosts, actually. He put us in his small serving area.

Menus received, more laughter, more jokes and teasing.

Water was ordered by me.
An alcoholic beverage by my date. One of several strikes against him. Not because he was drinking, I could care less, but because awareness of your partner is key, and he knew I did not drink, though he didn't know why. I could have been fresh out of AA and seeing him drink could have been a bad, bad thing. He didn't care, or didn't think to care.

Lazy and careless.

Waiter returns.

Date is waffling on his food choice.

I skimmed the menu, asked the waiter which he preferred. Ordered his suggestion. Suggested an appetizer to my date, who agreed.

We received bread and a delightful pesto sauce instead of butter for its accomplice.

He double-dipped his bread, consumed most of the sauce.

Rude. First date and double-dipping? First date and consuming more than half the portion out without saying anything and, upon consumption, not immediately asking the wait staff for more?

Appetizer came.

He did not know how to eat it. 31 years old and doesn't know how to eat a steamed artichoke. Attacked it with his knife.

I stopped him, educated him.

It came in two halves. He took the bigger without asking, dumped the decorative garnish on my half so I had to move it.

Moron.

It wasn't the game that some of the PUAs advocate, hah, I wish. That would've been something to work with. No, it was simply ignorance of social standards.

The meal comes. When the server asks who had what order, I am the one directing.

We eat. He exclaims how delicious his is, offers me a bite. I take a small piece and agree with him.

In turn, of course, I offer him a bite of mine.

He removes a huge piece.

Caveman.

Our waiter comes by to check on things. We exchange more words. My date is silent, not fuming, not awkward, just not participating.

Water is refilled, refilled, refilled. I thank the server each time, move the glass closer when he comes by.

My date orders a harder alcholic beverage. Doesn't ask. Ends up spilling it across the table. Runs over the edge, spills onto me. Makes no attempt to clean up his mess while I dab at my pants.

Conversation lulls, I ask him about his business. Normally I make it a point not to talk about a man's job (mostly out of a delight to torment them with my apparent lack of interest), but I already know what he does. I already know that he is going into meetings about selling his company this week, and it is likely he's going to be a significantly wealthier man in a short period of time.

I don't care, other than the story of how his company started. I find that fascinating. Ideas and creation.

He talks. Doesn't bother to ask me about what I do.

Whatever. It's not exciting, it's just a job.

I just find conversation needs to be balanced out, needs to cycle.

Check comes, waiter again, another brief exchange.

My date picks up the bill. Nice of him.

...but leaves his card and the check outside of the receptacle it was brought in.

I move it. I know I shouldn't, but it's such... gods. Really? You couldn't move your card over two inches so our very friendly, helpful, and attentive server would not have to scramble to slide it off the table or scrape with his fingernails to pick it up, interrupting any conversation we may have and making him feel awkward?

I was in charge the entire meal. I took the time, put forth the effort, to make sure our waiter provided fantastic and friendly service and was attentive. I got us a good table because I befriended the host.

It left me feeling... well, better, because I am comfortable and confident in this setting. I know what I'm doing, I was taught well. But he likely didn't even notice what I was doing, much less realize the value of having a partner who is competent in doing such things.

I miss GV8. I miss that companionship, that confidence. I miss the dual flirting with the waitresses, the innuendos with the waiters, the table full of laughter, the extras, the fun.

My date did not step up. Not only was he unable to interact with the waitstaff and me, but he was completely ignorant of polite dining practices. He let me take control of the situation, not because of what would have been acceptable (him having me make sure everything was fine in order to please him), but because he wasn't comfortable doing it himself, he didn't have the education or the experience, and he wasn't adaptable enough to take my cues.

Did we have sex anyhow?

Yes, we did.

Why not?

Guys do it all the time, sleep with girls they have no interest in.

The argument could be made that I didn't make him work for it, or he wasn't worthy of me "giving myself" to him, as proved by his lack of awareness and social behaviors.

I do not need him to prove to me in social or financial ways that he's desirable.

I did not need the song and dance number.

I saw him, talked to him, determined he was intelligent enough, already knew he was supposed to be very dominant in bed, and I said, "Sure, you'll do."

And he certainly did "do".

I found a man who was willing to crack me across the face, who was strong enough to toss me around, and had wide, wide palms that marked my ass purple. He didn't care if I screamed (which I did), didn't care if I scrambled away from him (he'd just yank me back), and quite happily left my body very sore, parts of me very swollen and tender from the attention and abuse. Riding him, reverse cowgirl, while he used a Hitachi set high on me, keeping me contracting around him, body spasming, gripping him like a fist, to the point where my stomach muscles were still sore the next day. Being ordered to throat him until I gagged, purposefully choking myself, driving my mouth down, bottoming out orally.

It was good. Not the best, not the roughest, but up there.

Sex is... sex.

I don't feel closer to him.
I don't trust him.
I don't respect him, except for the simple respect I accord another human.

If I see him again, I'd rather it simply be for play.

He doesn't measure up for more socialization. It's not going anywhere, nor do I wish it to.

He's not GV8, he's not even close. He's not someone I want by my side, not someone I want representing me.

Does my lack of interest make me odd? I can't imagine connecting value to sex. Making him fight for it, making him leap through obstacles to prove that he's worthy. Worthy of an orgasm? Worthy of my body?

It's just flesh.

What is he supposed to be worthy of, exactly?

What makes my body of higher value than his?

Who is to say that he did not get more out of that encounter, on an emotional level, than I did?

Who is to say he got less?

And who is to tell me that I am now less, because I'd reduced my bedposts to piles of splinters carving out notches of men that aren't what I need, simply what I want?



Note to Self: You need to get over him. You need to accept that you're never going to find another man like him because his experiences are so out there that it's unlikely to ever find that exact combination again. You need to realize that there are other men out there who will compliment you, who will partner you, in different ways, and you now need to let go of the one who couldn't.

Please try.