The electricity is out in half of the apartment due to a minor misjudgement by your author. This means that my maglight assists me in selecting my wardrobe (yes, I do dress myself in the dark), that I wrote last night's post and this post by candlelight, and I get to shower by candlelight.

Fortunately for me, I did a bit of decorating last week, so candles are easy to come by.

Current preview of the apartment: my faux fireplace.



This is what I get to write by. Pretty damn cute. I'm (currently) planning on getting a Sylvia Ji print to hang above it... she definitely is one of my favorite painters.

But back to my weekend.

The shower incident had passed. I had tamed my savage beast, for the most part. We slept side by side in my canopy bed, sheer white curtains framing us.

We don't sleep well together. We just don't line up. And his body is, while lovely to look at, too hard to be comfortable. Resting my head on his chest feels like I'm resting my head on a warm, breathing cement block.

It's hard not to think of GV8 at times like this, the way we synch, how easy it is for us to move together, be together.

I took him to Hollywood the next morning, driving up La Brea as he read the chapter on the Masculine Dandy from The Art of Seduction to me. We hit the usual stops: Amoeba, the Arclight, Cahuenga, down the boulevard, past the characters, over to Graumann's, the back down the boulevard once more, into the Scientology center, then to Vine, poked our heads into Cafe Was (a favorite restaurant of mine), ran into Borders, then back to my apartment to change and get ready for the club.

As we walked through Hollywood, we talked pick up, talked girls, social dynamics, sex. He told me I had changed a lot since we last met, had become significantly more dominant, wondered if I'd lose my need to submit and become a domme.

I tried to explain.

Tried to explain what happened with GV8, how much that had changed me. Tried to explain how the knowledge I gained about myself in the short period of time we were together impacted me so intensely that I could feel myself changing.

I felt... crass, almost. Full of ego, full of self. Bragging.

Before I met GV8, it was rare for me to meet a man more sexually experienced than I was. Even when I did encounter those few, the sex was lacking on a basic level. I've found that, without that emotional connection, the majority of men are looking simply to get off.

Which, one would say, is a major obvious "duh" statement.

A resounding "duh".

The difference between myself and those men, between GV8 and those men, is that getting off is not the end-goal. Orgasm is something you can do by yourself. Most men, give them a Playboy, 30 seconds, and some lotion. That's all they need. They know their bodies well, they know their rhythm, the pressure, the grip.

They've got it. And they should.

So you bring another person into the mix, engage in sex, or sexual activities, and men are still going straight for that orgasm. So now instead of having their own experienced hand, they've got someone who doesn't know their body and usually doesn't quite know what they're doing. Whoopee. And all the effort a guy has to put into that: time, money, manipulation, passing shit-tests, dodging cock-blocks, they've got the girl and they want to get off.

Really? You just invested all that and you're still aiming for that orgasm like a dedicated missle?

Where is the art? Where is the play?

Where is the poetry?

You've got a whole new body to explore. You've got a entire universe inside a person, all their experiences, all their ideas of pleasure, of ways of touching, ways of stroking. Then you combine your own experience, ideas, touches with theirs, and you've created something between you, something that will only exist between the two of you with your select combination.

Who cares if you orgasm?

This is about pleasure. This is about spending hours, if not all day, finding out ways to make yourself and your partner feel amazing.

You know, for more than just the lead up and that three to ten second burst.

Something that annoys me beyond words is when I'm having sex with someone and I can tell their entire being is not focused on the sex, but on the orgasm. That face guys make, the one that crunches their eyes down, clenching their teeth, they fall into that spectacular steady rhythm and their faces turn various shades of red as they pant through flaring nostrils until finally they shudder, cry out, curse... and continue to pant.

It's like watching someone run a marathon.

A very short marathon.

You can see the look in their eyes, the goal line where nothing else matters. They've abandoned you, they've abandoned pleasure, they've abandoned exploration. They're done. They're sprinting towards that finish line like the ground behind them is rapidly disappearing, like Ed McMahon is holding an oversized check for 5 mil written out to them, like a golden ticket is hanging out from their Wonka bar just past that line, like Nordstrom is having their biannual sale and they're ready to battle for those heels, ladies.

Before him, I was above average. I knew what I was doing, knew better than the majority of girls my age. I had the basic philosophy down, knew the principles, the ethics.

And then he taught me more.

He taught me so much more.

In what little play I've done with men in our various off-again-on-again stages that peppered my relationship with GV8, I've found that I now exceed past what I expected. My performance is more. My knowledge is more. My technique is more.

I already had a hard time finding men that would suit me, that would be able to match and fulfill my basic ideas of sex.

Now it seems like... very few could touch me.

I hate how egotistic that sounds. Gods, I hate it. I hate saying it. It's almost embarassing for me. For some reason, I can't allow myself to have anything that remotely resembles an ego. I keep holding myself back.

Let's try this.

I'm damn good in bed. I'm experienced, I'm well-taught. I have a natural skill at touching, at rhythm. My oral, my hand jobs, are gorgeous. I blow minds. It's something I've perfected, something I love doing, love being good at. I play a near perfect mix of devoted lover and sex-hungry slut. I'm open and willing. I communicate. I don't judge my partners when I'm with them, I work with them.

I feel like what I learned from GV8, especially since I've been able to put it to practice a few times when we were on hiatus in November, especially since SFPlayboy was shocked and could tell the difference between how I used to perform and how I perform now... I feel golden. I feel above. I feel like I could grab any man and rock him without really trying.

That's pretty cool. Feeling so confident about something.

And it comes from GV8. His experience, his desire, him choosing me, the man who never settles down, never keeps a steady lover because he likes to cycle through so many, because most women, he says, aren't worth sleeping with more than a few times, certainly not regularly.

But I was. No matter how often he tried to push me away, he kept coming back. Until it got too serious. Until I almost snagged the man who would not be snagged. Until he had to sit down and determine if he was willing to alter his plans for his life to be with me.

Beautiful.

So I communicated this to Playboy as we walked, expressing my frustration at how I feel like I can't talk to anyone else about this because it feels like I'm bragging, feels like I'm so self-centered, so egotistic.

He told me I wasn't bragging. That I had done it, that I was doing it, that I would do it in the future. That I had changed. I wasn't being boastful, just... examining.

It still strikes me as odd, how much I loathe the idea of having an ego, of being seen as having an ego. Is it better to be overconfident or underconfident?

I'd say overconfident, but others might disagree.

I dragged him into the Scientology center as we headed back to my car. I charmed the man at the counter, talked, smiled, laughed. Took the "stress test", deliberately played the rountine of the sweet, innocent girl with a bright outlook on life, honest past the point she should be, but chugging through, just to throw the guy for a loop. I'm so good at that one.

Playboy watched as I shifted from being his weekend companion to cute and girlish, then back again and again we went through the Scientology intro and our guide would occasionally leave us. He watched me lie through my teeth about having a dinner reservation we were late to, about how he was such a sweetheart to be taking me out to dinner since I was so very broke and couldn't afford the Scientology handbook, quickly checking my phone to toss out the nearest fifteen minute mark for our reservation. Polite and friendly smile, wide upward eyes, chin slightly tilted, open body language, and then we left.

But I found, once we arrived back at my apartment, the shower incident had not been enough education for my companion.

He had to test the waters again.

I was ready.

It has been an interesting few days.

Friday night, SFPlayboy came down. I took him to a club I knew he'd enjoy, one with a high percentage of extremely attractive, scantily clad women, and good music. It was packed, parking lot full, we ended up parking a little under a mile away.

Darkeyes was there. I was violating club custody, but he had violated it last December, so I wasn't feeling guilty. They were mine to begin with, I was the one who introduced him to the right people, the DJs, the security, taught him how to dance, how to dress.

I knew he would be there, so I took a few quick steps, making sure that some social pillars who enjoy my company would be there, and was surprised by the presence of those I wasn't even expecting. I looked good, SFPlayboy, well... he's gorgeous.

Showing up with this on my arm, it's beautiful:



(No, I'm not the girl. This was a shot from one of his photoshoots.)

But I did what I always do when I go to a club with a man... I toured him around, showed him what dancefloor/bar area I thought he'd be happiest at, and left for the dancefloor of my choosing.

I felt my brain shift when I started dancing, someplace new. Someplace strange. A photographer who had asked me out repeatedly late last year, while I was seeing GV8, was there with a beautiful, friendly girl. We caught up between dancing, and my brain started... clicking things into place.

I lost my self-consciousness. Enough so to notice.

I realized that all of the people around me, the other dancers, those at the bar, none of them had any impact on me. None of them could touch me. Dancing suddenly stopped being this mix of paying attention to my movements, of wondering how it all came together, of how it looked, of if any of the others who dance in the same form and style I do were around... it all stopped. I knew, without a doubt, that I was good. That whatever I did, I was golden.

I went up the the DJ booth around 1AM, sweating and tired, leaned my chin onto the DJ's shoulder, whimpering and whining for a song that was too old school for the room, cute and flirty, until he promised to play it, teasing me that I hadn't been around enough, that absence makes the heart fonder or forgetful, and I should hope for fonder, as otherwise he wouldn't play my song.

When he did, though, I was there. In front of speakers a couple feet taller than myself, body vibrating with the bass, as others that have been clubbing as long as I have and longer shouted, applauded, and joined me on the floor.

The club shut down at 3AM, Playboy and I walked through the cold, me burrowed in his hoodie, lost in the back neighborhoods looking for my car, eventually finding it and turning on the heated seats full blast, letting the warming leather soothe sore muscles.

Back at my place, nearing 4AM, I stepped into the shower.

He joined me.

I wasn't worried. I had warned him before he came down that I would not be touching him, would not allow him to touch me, that I just wished for his company. He agreed.

But hot water and slick skin cause hands to roam.

He went for my chest, and I knocked his hands off me. I turned to get under the water and his fingers slid over my hipbones, parting my legs. I tugged him free, told him to stop. He grabbed my hands, grinning at me, with that cocky male grin when a man is so certain he'll break down resistance. I've seen it often.

Guided my hands towards his cock.

He wouldn't let me get out of his hold. Too strong. Krav and crossfit gave him a killer body, and that body could lay mine flat in an instant.

I twisted my wrists, dodging him under the hot water, through the steam, dark hair clinging to my shoulders, I locked his gaze.

"Stop. Stop now or you will not like what will happen."

Another tug towards, I continued to stare.

Then he dropped my hands, tilted his head back to let the water run down his scalp, his face, eyes closed.

"I will eat you if you try that again," I told him. Listening to my voice, my mood, perfectly calm, perfectly centered, confident.

My definition of "eat" in this, is a sort of sexual/psychological breakdown. I am able to get inside men's heads, especially when it comes to sex and vunerability. I've spoken on the whys and the hows of this before. It's rare when I am unable to do so, usually shocks the hell of me to the point where I feel unsettled for days when I am unable to crack someone.

This means I see, and get to interact with, a lot of the internal workings of men. Which is why I emphasize with them so strongly, especially compared to my own sex.

I realized, when he got into the shower, I was not worried. It wasn't a concern, this man, a few inches taller than I, significantly stronger, one I had seen lay into a hanging bag with a brutal force that I still remember so vividly. He couldn't do anything to me. He wouldn't be able to. Since the last time we saw him, before GV8 and I started dating, I had changed so much that I had become the dominant one in our relationship.

I knew, without a doubt, without even thinking, I could get inside his head. I could manipulate his desire for me into whatever I chose and neutralize it.

He did not touch me with aggressive intent the rest of the weekend, only the occasional light probe, testing the boundaries, before he was shut down once again.

More later... sleep summons.

Hanging by threads of palest silver...

The rain has been following my brain patterns: moments of peaceful clarity interrupted by hours of torrential downpour of emotions.

I texted GV8 last night, while I was stuck in traffic, asking him how he was doing.

In response, he told me he was fine, and the better question was how I was holding up, as he expected me to be in worse shape than himself.

Which, whether or not that is true, I am much more open to admitting to emotional vunerability than he is, than most are. I won't necessarily express the emotion that I am feeling, but I will communicate it.

I answered, then he called so I would not be texting and driving.

It is a bit disconcerting to have your ex-boyfriend's voice in surround sound over your car speakers. It's like he's touching every part of me.

We talked. About what I was doing, about how I needed to be focusing on my writing, about how I need to finally get it together and figure out what I should write my non-existent book on.

And it is non-existent. I get asked, time and time again, to write on how I've been molded into the woman I am today. How my social-sexual mindset was created, what experiences led me into becoming this half-beast thing, detached and manipulative when it comes to life, to men, but still able to keep my heart, my ethics, my need for monogamy.

Write it all down. All the men, all the experience, all the random experiments and lessons learned. Throwing myself into it the only way a person can when psychologically abused from a young age. Thank you, daddy issues.

I just can't bring myself to do it, not now.

So we talked as I drove through downtown, talked as I passed the high buildings, the puddles formed in gutters catching the sides of my tires for their watery lift-offs.

I pulled up in the lot behind my apartment.

By that time, we had shifted to the topic of Us. Trying not to rehash. Trying to set boundaries, realizing that we can't even hug.

How pathetic. That a mere hug can wreck us. We can't touch each other without upsetting the delicately crafted walls we are building between us.

I went to tell him that I still thought he was wrong, that we should be together, but I stopped myself. No need to go over that tired argument. But he had me say it anyhow, told me to finish my sentence.

Told me that, days after we saw each other on Saturday, Saturday when I could not stop from touching him, stroking his back, kissing his neck, running my tongue along the inside crease of his elbow, biting his side gently, so gently... once the bed was assembled, he pushed me onto it, I half-stood, pulled him down to me, trying to control my squirming hips, trying to keep my ankles from locking around his lower back, then finally undulating under him, running my lips up his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. When he tried to pull away, I held him to me, whispered, "I want you to be the first man in this bed with me. Platonically. Platonically as we can. Please."

And he stayed.

I got inside his head, as sure as he has been inside mine.

It serves him right, in a non-malicious way. I told him not to kiss me on the lips, not even that platonic peck, that I would not be able to handle it.

And he did it anyway. So it escalated. And this is what happens when you escalate.

I warned him and he made his choices.

After that, he had to keep his distance. We both did. He confessed that his head had been a mess since he saw me.

And then he tried to convince me to date others, to find another male interest.

This is an argument I've won with myself often.

A long relationship ends. After the inital licking of wounds, I've found that my body is accustomed to the man I was with. So any new partners feel awkward and unsure. Which means I have to get used to being with others. So I take a lover, have a few one-night stands, and sexually I'm back to being okay. When I find someone I'm willing to date, want a relationship with, that sexual awkwardness, that muscle-memory mental aftertaste from the previous man, isn't there.

I'm not doing that this time. Because there has to be other ways of coping.

So for me to try to date someone, to have a relationship, when I'm still in love with another, when I still haven't gotten over another... what poor taste. What disrespect to any future male. It's a poison pill to any potential relationship.

So I cannot seriously date until I move past him.

And I do not want to casually date. It just rubs my nose in the fact that none of them measure up. None of them will measure up. Because he was rare, because what we had is rare. So casually dating isn't on option.

After the conversation ended, I realized something.

He's probably pushing me away for two reasons.

The first is the obvious one, the one he says: he wants me to be happy, he wants to make sure I don't miss The Guy For Me, and he wants me to get over him so I'm not hurting anymore. Then we can hug, we can touch, things will be okay.

The second I'm not sure he's even realized. If I'm distracted, if I'm taken off the market, and he knows, he knows very well that my monogamous nature runs deep, that I would never cheat on my partner, even with him, then I am no longer available to him. I am no longer making him doubt his decision, rethink what he chose. I am no longer an accessible temptation.

If I don't sleep with Playboy this weekend, who is coming down to visit starting tomorrow, it's likely going to make it harder for him.

How long is this going to take?

Who is going to break?

Will he come back to me, or will I finally give up on him?

I was running errands last night, without thought to my route or location. Lost in the morass of my brain, my brain on the drug that I call GV8.

A moment of mental recognition, something twitching in my brain, and I start paying attention to my surroundings. Am I really where I think I am? Is that the Starbucks we went to, the morning after we first met?

It was.

It was the Starbucks where we wound down our meeting, where we separated, me leaving his whim to decide our fate. At that time, I had never chased a man, wasn't going to start.

But he did text me the next morning, while I was driving to work.

We were at that Starbucks so briefly. I had been running late to meet up with some friends. Grabbed a coffee and a banana, my usual breakfast at that time, and we talked while I ate, went outside and stood by our cars, running on twenty minutes of sleep, the woman sitting on the patio outside commenting on how affectionate and natural we were, how long we must have been dating, how comfortable we were.

We had known each other for less than twelve hours.

I texted him as I drove past the Starbucks, telling him where I was. He reminded me of the woman mentioned above, I reminded him of the passionate kisses in the parking lot. He said it was a good beginning to a lifelong friendship.

I know he's trying to rein us in.

I would say he's stronger than I am, more controlled, and he is. But... something else is there. Parts of me don't see his logic. Parts of me do. I can't imagine sacrificing what we are together. I can't imagine losing something so rare. For both of us to have slept with the amount of people we have, for both of us to have this emotionally detached enjoyment of sex, never falling in love, always perfectly controlled, and then for both of us to lose that control, to fall in love, to bring sex past the point of the physical pleasure, trascending past the art we create, mere sexual sketches with others compared to the masterpiece we paint together...

It's a loss. It's an immense loss of beauty, of perfection. Such a rare find.

I wish I could describe it, describe us.

I wish words could encompass how wonderful it felt to finally find a missing piece to my sexuality, that all those years, all that research, experience, experimenting, trials and damages, finally to find someone who would not only appreciate that knowledge, but have his own, who could educate, who could return.

To be with someone I could respect on a sexual level.

There's first time for everything.

I remember being at the swing club, on the set of mattresses in the center of the main room, beds full of couples lining the walls around us, the sounds of sex, of liquid, weight shifting, bodies meeting so rhythmically, and we were in the center by ourselves, the largest audience encircling our play area, watching us, watching our perfection in the low light, with us so engrossed in each other it was only afterwards that I even noticed the growing crowd. I remember laying on my stomach, my feet, still in those black stockings, kicked up behind me, him in my mouth, looking up and seeing the mass of people standing still, having been watching, learning, for however long we had been going at it. Time was non-existent for us. It always was, whenever we entered a bedroom.

We texted back and forth while I ran my errands, my sense of loss continuing to grow. I know if he wasn't so strong, I would be stronger. I know it's disrespectful to him to be weak like I am being.

He finally told me that we need to stop, we need to stop with the such brief physical contact we had been, which was something I asked for a few weeks ago when he kept pecking me on the lips. I told him it was too much.

But he did it anyway.

And it escalated into longer hugs, into neck kisses, shoulder bites, brief hips grinding. Saturday, one of the first things he did when we entered my apartment was roughly push me onto the bed, which is what he used to do to initiate play when we dated. A push, a toss, I'd be mattress-bound and he'd descend on me, intense and demanding, continuing to mold me around him, place me where he wanted me... not for anything useful, but just the love of being in control. Until I was whimpering, until I was bruised from his teeth, off-balance, unsteady.

He said we were fucking with our heads too much.

He said we needed to stop.

He said that he'd see me next week, once SFPlayboy had gone home.

It was a push away. It was a too-close, too-fast, we-are-losing-control, how-the-hell-can-two-people-like-us-lose-control? moment. We are too experienced to have this problem. We have iron-fisted control over ourselves, our sex drives, what we engage in.

So now it's distance. Now it's recognizing that, for some reason, we can't stop. And it's getting worse. Rapidly.

If we don't get this under control, we won't be able to be in each other's presence at all.

Reading over that, how weak it sounds. How typical, how lame. If one of my friends was expressing their lack of control over themselves regarding some aspect of their sex or love life, I'd whap them upside the head and tell them to get it together, that they are in control of themselves and stop making stupid, petty excuses to rationalize their behavior.

I must be an idiot.

If I could only get this hope out of my head that it would somehow work out, I'd be able to stop myself.

But I can't seem to shake that little beast gnawing at my brain.

Part of me thinks that I should take up the multiple offers I have floating my way, fuck him out of my system. Make sex trivial again, lose the poetry of it, lose what we had, what we had that I never expected to have for myself, in the bodies of other men.

If I still feel this way in two weeks, I'm going to do so. I can't sit here mooning for a man I cannot have, and I'm going to keep clinging to that hopeless dream until I convince myself it is well and truly over.

He's in my brain.

Even though our contact has been fairly limited, I'm falling more in love with him.

He's supposed to come over in the next day or so to finish the last few repairs, and I'm torn between asking him to come sooner because I want to see him, asking him to come sooner because SFPlayboy is coming down this weekend to visit and I can't stand, absolutely cannot stand, having another man touch me in any way for a couple of days after I've seen GV8, or asking him to come later so I have space between the last time I saw him and when I will see him next.

It was so hard when we went our separate ways on Saturday. I was depressed for hours afterwards, trying to be cheerful and social at my sister's 21st birthday party and failing until much later on in the evening.

Sunday, Sunday I tried to distract myself. I purchased a sort of life insurance policy that allows me to draw from it in three years, so they sent over a medical examiner to do a quick physical. Low end of normal blood pressure, within healthy BMI, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no coffee. Easy.

Drove out to the westside to grab lunch with two of my friends, one of which I've mentioned before works for a local dungeon. Caught up with them, ran some errands for the apartment... 5PM hit and I was done for the day. The sky went from light and raining to dark and raining from the time I entered Home Depot to have some keys cut to the time I left.

I just didn't want to be out. Didn't want to be shopping for the apartment, didn't want to be working on anything.

So I went home.

Drove under the rain-darkened sky until I pulled up behind the apartment, in my $40 a month parking space that is so very worth it. Unloaded my car in multiple trips, tracking a weird gray/brown asphalt gravel/dirt mix into the hallway, wiping my feet on the carpeted stairs just outside of the parking area. Dragged my new canopy bed away from the wall, fit my new waterproof (necessary for my squirting tendencies) mattress pad to the bed, the black stripey bedskirt over the box spring, shoved the bed back, put away clothes using the canopy frame to hold my hangers, one light to the side of the fireplace illuminated the room enough for my needs.

And then the books. Hours of unpacking books, The Heathers playing in the background. Christian Slater does it for me every time.

Unrolling carpets, putting away tools, sorting the kinds of books and where I want them, realizing that the Great Book Purge of '08 that knocked me back a few hundred to near one thousand books really freed up shelf space.

I stepped into the shower around 9PM, having switched in Evolution for The Heathers, making me wish I had bought the Aliens boxed set I saw at the store a few days ago.

The building is old. Not east coast old, but 1920s old. Yellow tile surrounds the tub, the tub which is so nice and deep and begging to be used for a bubble bath one day soon. Piling my hair in a soapy slick mess on top of my head, running my not-so-environmentally friendly exfoliating pad over my body, shining skin, rubbing raw, hot water stroking my back, urging me to sit down, urging me to relax, stop unpacking, and give into the pleasure of a perfect temperature, perfect pressure shower.

It's hard to imagine that it hasn't quite been a month since everything happened with my family, with my father.

It's hard to remember that on the 18th of last month, I was working, I had given my one-month notice the day before while on the road with my boss, visiting some customers down in San Diego.

It's hard to think that exactly one month and one week ago, a few hours further in the day, my father would start to unravel. And a week forward from that, and a few days, things would explode in such a way that my previous existence would look relatively easy, aside from a few spots.

Relatively easy, relatively easily discarded.

Jumped the track, like a child playing with a wooden train set, knocking the carved track to another place, no logic, no sense other than what a child's whim deems the way the train should travel.

At least for the moment.

Until they knock the train over as well.

The twenty-first is when things started. Three days from now.

I wonder if I will suddenly wake up from a nap, back in my old room in Temple City, CA. Four or five years old, laying under the soothing air conditioner that created such a strong sense of peace that lasts to this day whenever I am by an old wall unit chugging away. Four or five, blonde hair, blue eyes, my wicked Mona Lisa smile, confidently running into obstacles, adoring and fearful of my godlike father, devoted to my mother. Purple and white unicorn bedspread, matching curtains. Collection of My Little Ponies that would mature into Breyer Horses when I hit eight or nine.

Wake up, my four or five year old self, and know, suddenly, how things will unfold.

Know my life, know the way relationships will alter, how men will feature, and everything I could do differently.

Five seconds later, wiped from memory.

Back to childhood.

"I was thinking... maybe you could come over tonight. You're going to be here first thing in the morning anyhow. We could get some dinner, make our shopping list, talk life, cuddle, and go to sleep."

"I thought of that too."

"And..?"

"I think it would fuck with both our heads."

"I think I'd be okay. We cuddled the other night, it was weird at first, but we settled in. It was okay. We controlled, we coped. I thought that was a good sign."

His short chuckle.

"You cuddle like the ocean, V."

"What..? Oh."

He refers to my unconscious movements, the full-body writhe, seeking to fill every space between us, seeking to move skin apart until we connect completely. The curl that starts at the top of my shoulders and moves down my spine like a snake parting grass, shoulder blades, ribcage, lower back, ass, thighs, calves scissoring around calves, ankles linking together, feet arching to meet their male half, top to bottom, and when this is done, the neck twists to look over the shoulder, to place cheek to lips, to breathe within the same air.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

And then we have to shift positions, we have to roll, him on top in frustration knowing the only way he's going to stop me from doing that is to pin me. He won't get angry because he knows I'm not doing it on purpose, knows from night upon night spent together that I do this whether or not I'm awake. Knows I do this without thought, without motive, just as when we kiss, my tongue darts out the half-second ahead of lips meeting, a swipe, a search, an identifier, taking the lay of the land, relaying information of taste, texture, placement, moisturisizing and lubricating for the perfect lip synchronicity that follows.

"You cuddle like the ocean, V. And I cuddle like the river."

His powerful moves. His strong arms, tossing me around in the current of his affection. I have no say in positioning unless he allows it. His body wraps around mine, pins mine, throws mine. He batters me with his lust.

"I know, I know I do. I know you do. I was just... hoping that... one day, you know, we'd be able to sleep in the same bed again. Cuddle. Platonically."

"I don't think so, V. We're too sexual."

My mind searches back to the last night we slept in the same bed. Dinner at Kitchen 24 off of Sunset Boulevard. An awkward evening where something was off, but I was too tired to articulate it.

Was that the last time? The last time ever? Was the experience of sharing a bed with him going to forever remain in the past, never to be revisisted?

We talk, we love. I search the aisles of a home decorating store for a particular item.

In the morning, he wakes me with a five minute warning of arrival call.

I dash out of bed, changing into something a bit more clinging than an oversized shirt and sweatpants. Brush my hair, my teeth, wash my face, casually saunter down the hallway to open the gate when he arrives.

His warm chest meets mine, tendrils of searching heat restart my cold-morning heart.

He is the melody to my lyrics.

He strums the strings of my core,
The echoing chords of the sponges of my spine,
Resonating beast-heart,
He plays his melody until I sing.

Wednesday.

I've been noticing the week has grown longer since the couch-surfing has stopped. It's no longer a blur of days and apartments, no longer a haze of couches and futons that I run through like I'm marathoning a flipbook. No going out to dinner every night with someone else.

Suddenly slow.

Suddenly, my time is my own.

The apartment is loud. This is what happens when you move in across the street from one of the most popular bars in the area. I sleep with earplugs in, and it's fine. My mother and I are going to be sewing some heavy, soundproofing curtains in the next few weeks.

Things are strange.

Walking into my apartment feels like I'm walking into a hotel. Temporary. Storage space for my belongings and, oh looks, there's a bed. Score. I always wanted a place to sleep.

I told GV8 the other night, I don't know when it's going to sink in. I don't know when I'm going to believe that I am there. That I am there for at least a year. That it is my own space. That I can take care of myself. That things aren't somehow going to magically change and I'll be back, living with my parents and going to school full-time like I dreamed of doing.

I don't feel safe there. So many people. Bad locks that GV8 will be fixing this weekend. Old building. Thin windows. It feels like the boundary that is supposed to be separating me, my territory, from the rest of the world, is a flimsy thing that can be violated all too easy.

I love my boundaries. I love security. Of having that defined space that no one could possibly enter.

It's not like that here.

It's awkward and open.

I'm not sure what to do about it to make myself feel safe, aside from let GV8 do his security bit. I'm sure he'll do a good job.

It makes me a little panicky, sometimes, to go back to the apartment. Waiting for the time when I will want to go back. When it will be a feeling of relief, and not a feeling of impending doom, or of loneliness. Trapped. Silent and alone.

What do I have to do to accomplish this?

I have some ideas.

Let's ponder the execution of them.

I have not set up internet in the apartment yet. I'm trying to prevent myself from procrastinating from unpacking by having no internet to distract me.

Positives: totally unpacking
Negatives: no blogging, can't check traffic, can't check movies (shouldn't be checking movies anyhow, should be unpacking)

Moving went incredibly smooth. GV8 showed up to my parents' place at 845AM with a trailer and his oversized truck. I already had everything packed, so it was just a matter of letting the garage spew its contents onto the driveway, seeing what there was to take, and packing. Everything fit perfectly into one open trailer, my mother's SUV, GV8's truck, and a few things in my car. We drove the 30 or so miles to my new place and unloaded, done by 1215PM.

Which left GV8 and myself running errands (mostly hardware, buying a fridge, hitting Target for various things), while my mother and two friends unpacked my kitchen.

It's scary. I know this is a normal thing for everyone, and most people end up living alone (right?) at some point, but I never have. I always have that male safety net living beside me.

GV8 and I grabbed some Thai food, walked around a shopping area, did some more work on the place. Electrical and plumbing.

Things are shifting between us again, the dynamic. I'm not sure what it is, where it is going. It's not romantic, it feels like we're sliding apart. Figures.

But I have to run. Work to do. More... eventually.

Finally pulling all the pictures off of my camera, hundreds of pictures that I've done nothing with since, oh, mid-November.

I've got pictures from the night when I sat in a restaurant and cried because I had left GV8. Pictures from the Elephant High Dive Revival, from a concert, from the night Pseudonym Pending and the Broken Prince rammed into me like a perfect set of hole-filling pistons.

And then I have pictures from the family thanksgiving gathering out in Los Feliz, pictures from the day I cast myself towards GV8, the dates that followed, the night of the Hollywood Christmas Parade, eating at Cafe Was, the wonderful day at Disneyland... and then the fall out and subsequent devastation.

I also have pictures of the hospital, of sitting in the waiting room, the exam room, my father asleep on the hospital bed. I have pictures of the guest room we stayed in, of the psychotic notes left around the house, the rearranged furniture, the damage.

It's been a busy two months.

I took an extra hour over my lunch break to go sign the lease paperwork, pick up the keys, and show my mother the apartment. It's such an old building, things are... falling apart. But in that attractive, old building sort of way. The kitchen in pink, I'm thinking of doing a sort of Alice in Wonderland theme in there. We'll see.

I also realized that my bookcases aren't going to fit. I gave away nearly one thousand books around this time last year, but I'm still worried about how I'm going to get all my books in that apartment, then display them so I can find the one I'm looking for, whichever one it is, at whatever time.

GV8 is trying to buy me a $995 bedframe. It's monstrous. It's also an absolutely gorgeous gothic canopy deal. But it would dominate my living space. I'm going to have to take some measurements before I give him the go-ahead on that one.

Went to Ross after work, picked up some dinnerware. White, square dishes with asymmetrical black flower designs on them. Ran over to Home Depot and got the keys copied while I was out and about. Spoke with Rick on the phone, who told me that he's getting fat due to his wife's excellent cooking and he's truly proud that I'm finally moving out on my own with no major male influence. That I've needed to do this for awhile, which is true.

I'm hitting a small point of buyer's remorse now, over the apartment. It is so very old, lots of damage due to the simple (is it ever simple?) passage of time. The wood flooring by the bathroom is water damaged, the linoleum in the bathroom itself is torn. One of the knobs on one of the kitchen cupboards is broken off, leaving the screw embedded in the wood. There's not a lot of storage space, though I think there's enough to get by. The vertical blinds are visually appalling.

But it's cheap, it's mine, only mine. It's across the street from a very popular hang out, which means whenever I want to go get my flirt on, bring someone home with me, it's simply a matter of walking straight out the front door. The neighbors are, thus far, quiet. And I actually have a parking space, something near unhead of in this city.

It's just odd to think of.

Even odder is that GV8 put my last name together with my father's first name. Somehow. He doesn't know how. And he knows where my father went to school, or at least grew up. GV8 grew and ran in the same area, though he's a few years younger than my father. So they might know each other from before my parents ever met.

Strange? Oh, yes.

I'm going to be dropping all my classes tomorrow, then adding just the one for this semester. My boss has (very) begrudgingly allowed me one day a week to leave at 3PM to make it to this class. He says that I shouldn't even go to school, that I'm working in a fine industry where education doesn't count, only experience, and I have years of experience in this field.

He's not the smartest at personal interactions, I'll say that much.

How weird it is, entering into the world of adulthood. Finally. Bills, debt, monitoring your credit score, being accountable only to your financial accounts. Watching every dollar. Making everything count, making everything stretch.

Self-definition. Something I've said, and still believe, that I lack.

Maybe this will let me know who I am, or at least who I could be.

I don't like posting at night. The day has wound down and I am ready to lounge and get my sleepy-time groove on.

Unfortunately, the office has been rearranged, placing my monitor in direct view of my boss. This makes me uneasy about spending chunks of time pounding at the keyboard during work hours.

Going down to the property management company to sign the lease tomorrow afternoon, pick up my keys, switch over the electricity.
Signed a life insurance policy a few hours ago, something I can borrow against in about three years. Which will be nice.
Also picked up some dental gear. I don't remember if I mentioned it in all the hubbub that has been going on, but since Darkeyes and I split (which caused all the panic/anxiety issues), I've been grinding my teeth so hard that they've been shifting. The stress with GV8 and my father has compounded the problem, so I had to have some rather unattractive nightgear made so I would not be able to continue moving my teeth.

Fun, I know. I'm sitting here with this cherry red retainer in right now, remembering myself in junior high wearing these awful retainers. How awkward.

Again, drawing a blank. I had so much to write about today that I was unable to attack, and now I'm lounging on C's futon while she dozes on her couch, Redwing writing one of his in-progress sci-fi novels... I just want to sleep.

Which is funny. I quit coffee. Yeah, that's right. I who have consumed, at minimum, one cup of coffee almost every day for the last six years, sometimes two or three cups of coffee a day, I have quit.

It's weird. My usual downtime is popping into a coffee shop with a book and reading for a few hours, watching the people walk by, enjoying the weather, the sounds, the smells of a coffee shop.

Now I have to find other ways, other places, to spend my downtime.

It feels like I'm missing a limb. Possibly my right hand.

What do I do with myself, those hours I would spend with a caffienated beverage beside me on some undersized table, surrounded by the same crowd every day? Coffee shop philosophers, smokers, families coming in after church on Sunday mornings.

I need a damn hobby. That's what.

Suggestions?

Tuesday, 1107PM.

Timestamping seems irrelevant since Blogger will go ahead and tag this for me.

Probably should get out of the habit.

Especially since it only kicked in because I was so stressed and losing track of time because I was living hour to hour, not day to day.

Updates... I'm moving on Saturday. I was approved for the apartment I wanted on Monday afternoon. I spent most of this last weekend packing and organizing, so I'm very good to go come Saturday morning.

Living alone.

How strange. I never expected that, really. Yes, I am loner, but I always assumed that I'd either be living with my parents or with my partner, as has been the case my entire life. I hate the idea that if I lose my job, there's no one living with me to back me up on rent and bills until I'm employed again.

It feels foolish.

I hold my safety nets dear.

But here I am, moving into a large apartment on my solo. I already have most of the furniture I need, and the majority of the things I am lacking are going to be given to me by my mother or GV8. GV8 seems to be covering all of the moving expenses as well, so this entire thing is... financially pretty easy. Some of my friends are happily(?) volunteering(?) to help unload, so I'll have a chill enough time of it.

Speaking of GV8... called him yesterday to let him know that I was approved for the apartment and the moving date was still set for Saturday, then asked if he'd want to go clubbing with me after the move, as one of my favorite clubs is that evening. He loves to watch me dance, I love to dance, and I thought it would be fun.

Didn't really think it through.

Going to any scene place tends to invite people we both know. His friends, my friends, acquaintances, one-night stands, etc. Going to that particular club, where I have my small group of male admirers that do not understand/accept my lack of interest, along with the women he'd likely to run into that he has already slept with, along with his need not to feel constrained/cock-blocked... it doesn't work.

He knows it would hurt me, hurt me deeply, if he picked up another woman.

And it would bother him if I picked up another man.

I'm significantly less likely than he is do to so at any scene events because club kids aren't my type.

However, he's equal opportunity for anyone that is hot and interesting.

Which is how we met.

I still remember that night, me with my swiss cheese memory. Seeing him sitting at the club, in one of the side rooms, bobbing his head to the music. Me walking in his general direction, going to swerve around him at the last minute to take my seat and him thinking I was walking over to talk to him and striking up a conversation in his usual confident manner.

Afterwards, after he bent me over some leather piece of furniture, dragged my pants in my ankles and bruised the hell out of me, we stood outside the club, me leaning against my car, wondering if I should offer to take him home with me. I had the Artesia apartment to myself that night, which meant I could finally have some play time.

I let him talk, let him convince me, slowly, and then made the offer.

We didn't have sex that night.

But I showed him that there are 25 year olds that can give amazing head.
And he showed me that my body could squirt numerous times in a row.

I got twenty minutes of sleep before I had to get going for the day's activities. Twenty minutes allowed because he did not want to stop the pleasure, did not want me resting. Wanted to push me.

And I sailed on it.

Who knew that some man I accidentally struck up a conversation with at a club would have such an impact on me? It still boggles my mind.

Anyhow, it was rapidly determined that it would be a horrible idea for the two of us to go to a club together. Which sent me spiraling down into a small pit of depression.

It's easier now, to a degree. I'm certainly not over him, and it continues to feel as though I've got a gaping, gasping chest wound, but I am reaching that point where life is continuing.

An apartment to myself. A place where no one is telling me I can't decorate in a certain way. The past two men I've lived with have always told me no, no I can't have particular decorations up. They aren't kosher, they aren't normal, and we need to compromise.

Of course, that compromise is that they have average ideas of decoration that average people like and don't rock the average social boat, damn it.

A place of my own. A place where no one is checking up on me, where I don't have to pad in quietly after a club, where I can bring whoever I want home with me, for whatever purpose, and eject them when I'm done with them. Guests. As many guests as I can fit. Furniture arranged how I want it. No one touching my food. No parties that continue until 6 or 7AM, where I end up having to scrub vomit out of the carpet.

My life, suddenly.

26 and single. 26 and a decided lack of interest. 26 and damaged. 26 and finally living.

GV8 said to me that, if I do the math, the first half of my life was the most boring. Which is true. 13 years of youth, boring. I consider my life fairly blah until I hit 16, 17. Then things changed.

It's odd to look at it that way. When I hit 34, the first half of my life will still have been the most boring. Talk about building up.

... ...

On the home front, my father was laid off yesterday. We're thinking that this is mostly a good thing. He seems happy about it as well. He's more stable, though not 100% yet. My mother took him to a psychiatrist to figure out what could stabilize him out more fully, so I'll have to check in with her on those results.

He called me as I was writing this post.

I haven't been talking to him lately, if I don't have to. I can't deal with his aggression at the moment. It's too much. It breaks me down. He breaks me down. So he called because we haven't talked lately and he let me know that he was speaking at a convention soon in front of a few thousand people and wanted to know if I would attend and finally see his project in motion. We'll see if I go. Depends on scheduling more than anything. Wanted to see how the car was treating me.

Really, he wanted to connect. I could feel that there was more he wanted to say, but I did not prompt it. I did not want to deal with it. I know it's hard on him that I'm moving out, that I'm slowing my school down so much just because I can no longer share space with him.

He probably feels incredibly guilty about it.

But he'll never admit that, at least to me.

He'll just keep trying to make offers and deals with me. Offering these things I want so badly that I cannot take from him, that will just cause even more of an internal rift in me regarding whether or not I'm making the right decision by moving out instead of continuing school like I planned.

I wonder if he'll try anything before I move. A call, a dream-come-true offer. Chance of a lifetime.

I've noticed more and more, when watching movies, you know how things are going to end, how they have to end.

That's not what causes the tension.

The tension is caused by the wonder of what is going to be lost, willingly or unwillingly. The price the characters will pay, that you as an emotionally involved audience will pay, for the ending you so desire.

Mostly done packing.

The killer was the file cabinet, really. Going through and organizing bank statements, insurance issues, finally able to dump all the car maintenance receipts, along with all my notes, doodles, ticket stubs, journals, etc.

The skin on my hands is dry, rough, and begging for moisture.

That sounded dirty. Don't read it as such.

Still thinking of GV8 and yesterday.

I called him today, when I was on my way out for an errand. Just to say hello. Update him on my progress, etc.

Both of us realized quite quickly, I believe, that I was calling him for no reason. Just to chat. I knew, as soon as I heard the ringing over my car's speakers, that I should not have called him.

But it was too late.

We chatted for a few minutes, then both of us bolted from the line.

Can't handle it.

And I have to, I must, give him space. I must give us space. Because the only way to have him in my life is to be friends with him. And the only way to be friends with him is to emotionally unravel where I weaved us together.

Which requires minimum contact.

I've just gotten so used to calling him almost everyday due to all this life... stuff... that I've forgotten that I need to ignore that urge.

I will chase him off if I do not control myself.

Fortunately, self-control in relation to men and sex has always been a strong suit of mine... when I have the proper motivation.

I can't help but think of yesterday. Of how we move together, how perfectly coordinated we are when we aren't holding back, when we aren't watching our every movement.

He has to realize, he has to know, that I can hear him, that I can feel him, when he inhales my scent. That I know exactly what he is doing when he presses his face into my skin.

And I hold back. Every little trick. Every twist, every posturing pose, every swinging movement, upwards glance, I engage in nothing that is game. No phone voice, no accidental brush, no flirting with the waiters, no word games.

I come to him with immense desire... but no action.

He sees it. I know he does. I know he catches it when I start falling into a seduction routine and immediately pull myself out of it because I know that he'll know and it will just shove him away.

He loves me. He wants me. He respects me. My beautiful alpha male. The best man I've ever met. And he's in love with me.

Too bad reality interferes.

So I packed today. Buried myself in boxing up the more active parts of my life and discarding those things that I should have gotten rid of years ago, marathoning, of all things Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's a good show to work by. When I was in my early teens, doing competitive sewing stuff, I spent an entire summer working on creating stock for a craft bazaar, playing recorded episodes of the first season of Buffy off of video tapes.

From where I sit, actually, I can see the piece I did that won Best of Show over a decade ago. Never really cared for it, but everyone else seems to love it. Seems odd to me that such a simple thing would win over all the others. I'm not taking it with me when I move.

Strangely enough, I don't have much to say. Still thinking over the touches shared with GV8, the looks shared. I know we aren't going to be together, at least I know it on a logical level, but I still have to wonder where this is going to go. Spending the next several years of my life mooning over a man I can't have, unchanging desire between us, doesn't seem healthy, doesn't seem right.

But for it to go away seems even worse.

Worse than us giving into ourselves at a weak moment? I don't know.

As things continue to stand, though I know it has not even been a month, it's going to be too intense and too awkward. We can't continue like this. After the move, after I get settled in, after my brain relaxes.... I'll have to pull back.

I think.

I really don't know.

I can't imagine wanting another.

And it sounds so silly to say that. I'm so cynical about love sometimes. No belief in soul mates, in only having that one person. I know that it's just a matter of time before he washes away from me, memories dragged out to sea as what we were fades and is replaced by the reality of what we are.

But it doesn't feel like that now. It doesn't feel like that at all.

It feels like a boulder has been placed blocking the path to my heart, and nothing will move it.

Unexpected day.

Drove my sister to work. As I was getting onto the freeway, GV8 texted me.

Don't get all excited by the combination of my starting sentence and GV8 texting me. He has been my major pillar of strength in the last couple weeks, dealing with everything, pushing me forward when no one else would because they were too afraid I would break.

Honestly, though, GV8 is the only person who would have been able to get as much forward action out of me as he did. Everyone else would have just bounced off, due to my (massive) trust issues that even he hasn't been entirely able to breach.

My car has that little bluetooth modifier so I can squeal about technology and have GV8 talk to me through the stereo, which means surround sound GV8. And I finally have my hands free. Win.

So I called him on the way back from dropping my sister, talked about my anxiety, the events of the morning (which progressed past my earlier post), and how near panic I was over everything. I also mentioned my lack of moving boxes.

Fortunately, he had a set of twenty-five moving boxes at one of his stores, so I drove over to the loft, talked, hugged, cuddled, let him shower quickly (he was deconstructing part of the loft for a remodel and was very sweaty), and he took me over to BoHo for lunch.

See, I've had this problem lately.

I have to be distracted while I eat, thoroughly distracted, or I get sick and can't eat. I'm too stressed for food to stay down, too stressed to even feel hungry most of the time, so... I'm just not eating. It's too much of a physical hassle. Yes, I'll take a bite or two, but then my stomach rebels and I have to stop.

So I had GV8 take me out to lunch and distract me and calm me down.

Of course, then he said something about how, one day, eventually, maybe, probably, perhaps, sometime, in the far-reaching future, I'd find someone to bond with that I could actually experience the act of making love with again.

Which, oddly enough, hit me so physically hard, I had to bolt to the bathroom and stay by the toilet because I thought I was going to heave.

It's hard.

And it's weird. Sitting next to, sitting with, touching, holding hands, walking in perfect synch because it's what we do... the man that I thought was it for me.

My sex drive continues to be non-existent. I shot down Pseudonym Pending yet again last night because I just couldn't bring myself to go sleep with anyone, even for the likely DP he was setting up for New Year's Eve. I can't remember the last time I masturbated.

It's not even depression. It's as though I'm now missing an integral part of my sexual being.

GV8 says I need to get healthy, then learn (re-learn?) how to fuck just for the sake of fucking. I looked at him when he said that, head cocked. Why would I want to do that? I've years of fucking for the simple sake of fucking. When I was packing today, I ran across an old diary that had the first... twelve? Thirteen? men I had ever slept with. In order. And I couldn't even remember some of them. I stared at the names and drew blank after blank. They aren't even on the list I compiled a few months ago.

Ah, youth.

He mellows me. He centers me. Simply being around him gives me strength that lasts for hours after we separate.

After lunch, we ran by the store with the boxes. That store was the place we met at for our first official date. We held each other near the place where the white leather couch used to be, the one he made me squirt on, and remembered.

Per my request, we went back to his apartment and cuddled to calm me. Massaged my shoulders. Spooned. But my way of getting closer to someone's skin while spooning involves a sort of full body writhe that I don't even think about. The problem with this, of which there are many, means I'm pressing my ass against his crotch and writhing without thinking, just trying to get closer.

So the spooning didn't last long.

We cuddled, we wrestled, we laughed and massaged.

When we first started, when he pulled me against his chest and held on, his nose in the curve of my neck, inhaling... I almost panicked. It's hard to adjust. That apartment, that bed, we spent so much time in it. We have so many amazing memories of shared experiences. He got that bed, built that bed, for me. He hung the flatscreen at the foot of it for me. Surround sound speakers encircling the bed... for me.

Mind and body had to adjust.

And when I left, licking my dry lips as I drove the 101, I could taste him. We've reached this point where our bodies keep diving for each other, making awkward moments of physical collison. So now we peck on the lips and shift from there. No tongue. That's the rule.

Who knew?

Who knew that I would end up being this stereotypical tragic figure? This woman parted from her lover by reality, losing her interest in other men, in sex, in dating. Spending time together, still in love with each other, but both of us having the self-control needed to remain apart... to a degree. So it doesn't get worse.

I can tell he misses me. I can tell he loves me. I can tell his body follows mine like I've got a homing beacon in my chest. When he hugs me, he holds me. He wraps himself around me and runs his hands over my curves as if he hasn't explored them so many times over. I feel the air move as he inhales at the curve of my neck, his nose in my hair, his hands constantly looking to rest on the skin of my hip, the final "S" of my tattoo under his fingers.

So I left.

Drove home.

Plopped in front of the TV, trying to continue to clear my system. Enjoying the empty house.

And then I started packing.

Tomorrow I'm going to call the property management company and have my mother add herself to my application as a co-signer, just so nothing is left to chance. I want that place so much.

Tomorrow, I'm going to finish packing my room.

And next weekend, I'm going to be moving. GV8 is bringing his hauling truck and renting a trailer. Because he loves me. Because he's wonderful.

Because I couldn't wish for a better man.

Woke up, looked at the clock, went back to bed.

Woke up, ignored the clock, went back to bed.

Woke up, looked at the clock, heard my mother shouting in distress, freaked the hell out, body went into panic mode, rushed to the restroom, went downstairs to see if my father was having another episode.

My mom said he wasn't.

I'm not sure if I believe her. She's trying to protect me.

I've gone from being "the strong one" to fragile status.

And I am fragile. I feel like pieces of me have splintered, but due to some miracle, they're still together, waiting for one thing to shift for all the pieces to come out of line and crumble to a pile on the floor.

...and they're shouting again.

My mom rarely shouts.

Christ, there goes my body.

I need that apartment. I need that safe place. I need to get out of here before I am destroyed.

I need to pack, but I'm so afraid of packing and cleaning and getting turned down for that place.

And my body is rebelling against me as it fights panic.

I wish crying in a corner was an option right now.

Instead I'll watch a movie and hope for a distraction, then take a walk in the sun... and then pack.