Sunday, February 28, 2010

Don't go and leave me...

I can't sit in chairs like a normal person, armchairs especially. Put me in an armchair, especially when I'm reading, and I'll be sitting in it like I am now: one leg dangling over the side, one foot on the floor, balancing my laptop on my right thigh, iPod wedged between the cushion and the back of the chair, elbow propped up on the other arm... and I still want to move, still want to stretch myself out over this chair. If I did not have this laptop balancing on me, I would.

There are seven people lining the wall to my right, all facing the same direction, almost if they're watching the people outside like a movie being played out.

There is one woman sitting just behind me to my left, playing World of Warcraft, and I'm jealous. I haven't touched that game in years, but it was a good way to waste an afternoon... or a weekend.

Two men on Notebooks, left and forward, one drinking Peligrino... however you spell that drink, I'm too lazy to Google it at the moment. Another man further down the line on a Mac, hunched over.

Paintings on the walls, good high ceilings, I'm sitting in an armchair on a small stage, perfect viewpoint for the rest of the coffee shop, listening to Placebo's MEDS album, which makes me think of my Placebo-obsessed acquaintance that offered up the DP for me last November, when GV8 and I were in an off-phase.

Screw this position, I'm wedging myself backwards and crossing my legs.

Oh, holy fuck, I've wrapped my power cord around my torso with my shifting. I'm as bad as a tiny (stupid) hyper-excited mutt on a leash. God, I'm a winner.

I was going to start this sentence off with "It has been an interesting weekend..." but then I realized that it's rare when I don't have an interesting (at least to me) weekend.

As some of you may remember, last night was my friend's Wake.

I drove down PCH in the rain, watching the coastline, passing Shore House, munching on some rarely bought Taco Bell. Thick clouds during the early evening, heaping fresh water into salt water, the oil barges lit like industrial Christmas trees hammered by waves, with me the only occupant in my vehicle, the car felt like an exploratory vehicle in hostile, foreign environs.

Taco Bell allowed me to pick up something I haven't drank in years: Mountain Dew.

It was a tribute, a tribute that was not only thought of by me, as it turns out.

When I was 18, I started hanging out with a group of guys once a week at an informal sparring practice at a local park.

I don't mean sparring like karate, kung fu, taekwondo, no, nothing with actual rules.

It had been a stage-fighting group before I ever came on the scene. But then that morphed into a Ren Faire fighter practice, which was then taken over by some guys who just liked to fight with practice swords.

I don't know why I took to it. But I did. Even now, you can put a three foot long stick in my hands and I can beat the hell out of someone with finesse and skill.

I had odd hobbies, I know.

That's where I met Matt. He showed up, moving down from Washington, about a year into my time with these men. I was instantly attracted to him. He was cocky and smart, good body, good face. Rebellious. We would sit in his junker of a car and play music for each other, introduce bands to each other. I kept hoping he would ask me out, but another girl dived on him with religious fervor.

The group of us, after practice, used to go to a nearby LAN cafe, chug Mountain Dew all night and play Day of Defeat and Counterstrike until 2AM, when we'd get booted out. I'd go crash with one of the guys, popping M&Ms and playing Rummy until the both of us curled up and fell asleep on his huge bed.

That was years ago.

The last time I saw Matt was at BlizzCon 2007. I have a few friends who work at Blizzard, so I am usually able to get a weekend pass to go flirt with industry men and hang out with my nerd circles.

He had changed some.


He had put on a chunk of weight, almost unrecognizable weight on his face, and had started balding badly even though he was only around 29 or 30. We chatted for a little bit, but my grandmother was in intensive care that summer (and would die shortly after that convention) and I got the phone call that prompted me to finally flip my father the bird and move out that same day.

Not well done of me, but I could not take any more stress at the time.

I found out later, talking with one of my friends that is like a brother to me, that Matt's girlfriend had cheated on him, prompting him, as he had a habit of doing, to go into a depressive state and move in with family in Washington. He was only down for the convention.

That was what he did. Physically yoyo-ing with girls. He'd move to Washington when he broke his heart in California, then move back to California when someone broke his heart in Washington.

He was always depressed.

Some of us are.

I drove down PCH, into Huntington Beach, east on Main Street, through the rain, people on either side of my car in the faux-darkness, walking to bars and restaurants, casting their colored glows onto the shining asphalt, heels splashing through puddles.

I lost myself in the rain and the dark, the neighborhood that Main Street leads into is a maze to me. Listening to The American Dollar and watching the cars travel towards and past me, lights streaking outwards, their passage echoing like a seashell held to my ear, rolling ocean of drivers in the night.

Spotted a street name I recognized, checked my compass and kept going, instinct proving true.

I passed the house, looking for the stop sign that meant parking was ahead. Flipped a quick U, doing that thing that my father lectures me will take the sides off my tires but it feels so good when my hair lifts off my face from that centrifugal pull.

Fixed my lipstick in the mirror, MAC and more MAC. Lipstick that was pointless, but I did it anyway. It's little things that keep us grounded, little things that remind us of our reality, the where and the who that we are.

I walked through the rain, jacket over one arm. I saw Fox in his suit. The years have given him a paunch, his suitjacket curving outwards over his frame, his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. Those are new, things that time gave him as the years passed. Ferret, my brother/friend, was outside as well, cigarette to his lips, always smoking, as long as I've known him. He looks the same. He's always looked the same. Time doesn't seem to touch him.

Hugs, arms around torsos, glowing ends of cigarettes held away for greetings.

Ferret and I talk for a bit, another man steps outside and starts massaging my shoulders by way of hello. We hug, I excuse myself inside.

There's already ten or fifteen people here. Faces I know, faces that came in after I stopped spending the majority of my time within this social circle, when Rick and I started dating, when my work schedule shifted to nights and my social life died. I was 20 when I got that job, 20 when I said goodbye to the ease and low pay of retail.

These are the girls. The boys brought them in, brought them in as friends, would-be dates, girlfriends. Lovers or fuckbuddies are rare in this circle. It's about relationships, even though the only person married in it is the alpha male of the group, Fox. His wife is a beautiful and friendly blonde, someone I've admired for years.

I look at them, their clothes, their postures. They integrated in a way I never did. This group does not eject girls when they shift from girlfriends to ex-girlfriends unless something bad happens, so most of them stay and form into this faceless (to me) female mass. Even when they get boyfriends or husbands in other groups, it seems, they always come back to this one.

Ferret's girlfriend is my favorite. She's a slim, red-headed engineer. Very practical, very funny. They've been dating for over six years now, arguing about children (he wants them, she doesn't), which stops them from getting married. Ferret is very family oriented, wants his own brood of little Ferrets.

There's an older woman on the couch in the living room, surrounded by a few other girls... they seem a couple years older than I am. Introductions are made, I do my usual vaguely witty disarming and non sequitur humor. I'm harmless, I'm not here to fight, not here to step on toes, I'm one of the guys.

Another old friend walks by, eyes glassy. He hugs me, introduces me to his girlfriend, yet another girl with another bizarre name (he never dates girls with normal names), but he's obviously distracted with his grief.

I step into the kitchen, scritch the two tiny dogs that belong to Fox's wife while talking to the people gathered around the appetizer table. It's awkward, my social position. Most of the girls don't know where I'm from, don't know who I am in relation to anyone else. I'm not part of their herd.

I'm never part of the girl herd.

Note: the rest of this post was written while listening to Placebo's Blind on repeat, so if you want my background music, there you go. If you do listen to it while reading this, please let me know how it goes. I've always wanted to set my writing to music, see how it changes the experience of the reader.

Ferret's girlfriend comes over and we talk and joke while I pet the dogs. She's been around for awhile, dated and slept with most of the main members of the group over the years, starting in high school. I always forget that they're all older than I am, late twenties, early thirties. History that I don't know about.

Ferret comes over as his mate gets distracted by another. I cock my head at him as the crowd starts flowing back towards the living room in a natural movement.

"What happened?"


"What happened with Matt? No one told me."

He gestures to the door and we step into the backyard. He lights another cigarette, starts talking. Matt said his goodbyes to some local friends in Washington, then drove out to a bridge, made a noose, tied it to said bridge, and jumped off with it around his neck.

His body was found by hikers.

I hadn't expected that from him. He had seemed more like a suicide by gun sort of guy, but it had been years, and the three other suicides this last year had been by guns, so I suppose I'm biased in my expectations.

It made me think. Matt was so very into nature, so very into being out in the wilderness, climbing and exploring, using his body. He loved the green of Washington.

I imagine him driving through winding forest roads, up the mountain of his choice, nighttime, the only car on a two-lane road, trees illuminated solely by his presence, kneeling in front of his headlights on the bridge, to see to tie the rope.

What was this, then? A quiet breath into the night, knowing these are the last few minutes you'll be breathing air, the last time you will see the sky you've spent your life growing beneath. Your last sight, look around, a three-hundred and sixty degree rotation of your body, the one-hundred and eighty degrees of the horizon, dark and unknown, moths gathering around your source of light, their hungry need and soft wings, the tiny "tink" when they bounce off the glass of your car's headlights. Gravel under the soles of your feet, each tiny rock grinding, rolling, getting stuck in the tread of your shoes.

How long did you keep that rope?

How many times did you look at it?

Did you lift it, feel the weight in your hands, the tight twine, the fibers... did you hold it to your face, inhale the scent of the last item you would feel. A simple rope, picked up in a hardware store. Did the man at the counter even know what he was selling you? Your death in a plastic bag, receipt included.

No returns for this one, though.

You put it around your neck, loose and innocent, resting against the spot where many girls have buried their faces and moaned into your ear, fingernails digging into your back. Your body has known pleasure, the fingers that tied the knots tangled in your lovers' hair, stroking the insides of their thighs, the eyes that you are about to close watched their skin tremble under your touch, hips bucking towards you, lips opening to whisper gasps.

A running leap? I'd like to think so. I'd like to think of you launching yourself towards fate, towards your next adventure, full of excitement and curiosity like you used to be.

Not broken and beaten, not like you were. I don't want to think of you like that.

I miss that young man.

I don't like to think of what happened, of the way life shaped you, the stumbling blocks that descended from circumstances, piling up in your path until there was no way but down, nothing to do but trip and fall.

They played a video, a collection of pictures of you. You as a child, you in your tux with your girlfriend, now Ferret's girlfriend, ready to walk out the door to Winter Formal. She had her long red hair piled on top of her head, ringlets around her face, beautiful. You were wearing her father's tie, a colorful mess. You two must have danced all night, met up with a younger Ferret and Fox on their own dates, causing mayhem like the three of you did. Ferret's girlfriend was sitting beside me, tears rolling down her cheeks one after the other, silent.

I watched you grow through photos, photos taken before I ever met you, a history of events and adventures, of hairstyles and wardrobe changes, searching for who you were.

I listened to your mom, the older woman on the couch I mentioned earlier, sobbing over the music, her old, discolored fingers clutching a crumpled tissue. Her son. Her son never reaching forty, a marriage she would never attend, a daughter-in-law she would never meet, grandchildren that she would never have. No more Thanksgiving dinners with you serving turkey, no shopping for ugly sweaters for you at Christmas, no phone calls just checking in.

She poured herself into you, wanting you to be healthy and strong, wanting you to be happy, wanting to give you everything she could.

But she couldn't give you whatever it was you needed. Or maybe you wouldn't let her.

I told Ferret, when we were standing in the backyard, that I meant I wanted to know what had happened to make you kill yourself, not how you had killed yourself. I did not want the images, did not want the feelings of your last moments.

I'm not that good of a friend.

He said that you had always been depressed, had been out of work, had felt like a continual burden to those you loved, felt like you'd never be able to give anything back, make anything of yourself.

It seems like such a common sentiment.

When the video finished, Fox made the announcement that everyone was going to go to a local park, probably in the rain, a park that you loved when you were alive and in California. They handed out tea lights and paper tea light holders, but I said my goodbyes and left.

I was not part of his life then, felt like it was no longer my place.

I drove through the rain, drove and thought. My wheels carried me down the freeway, my mind so wrapped in you, in life and the things that shape us, I cannot remember my drive home.

I could have driven all night. I could have taken PCH up the coast, my car cutting through the rain, music playing. I could have started a new life, left this all behind, like you did. I could have driven to Washington, could have found the bridge that you crossed. How symbolic wooden slats become when they connect two distant points.

By the time I reached my parents' house, the rain had mostly stopped. I carried my laundry inside, went upstairs to my old room and changed into my pajamas, tossed my laundry into the washing machine, then wedged myself on the couch between my mother and father, curled up under a blanket, listening to my father's breathing change from awake to asleep, then the snores.

He's getting old. His father used to do the same thing when I was younger. I remember watching old westerns on cable with him sitting in his brown recliner, the same snores climbing out of his mouth as John Wayne saved the day.

I kissed him and my mother goodnight, climbed the stairs once more, to my old room, my empty bedroom. Blue carpet, white walls, two windows. A strip of memory foam and a sleeping bag laid out on the floor for me, since Mom knows I won't sleep in the guest room if I don't have to.

I laid in my makeshift bed, navy sleeping bag with beige lining, the flattest pillow I could find under my head. I'd like to say the I spent time in reflection, pondering events and courses of action. I'd like to say many things, like that I have faith in the way things will turn out, that I know what will happen two weeks from now, that everything will be okay, that my family will not continue this sad downward spiral as we try so hard to recover from what happened in December.

I would like to tell myself that I'm strong. So many people tell me that, yet I've seen no proof other than my ability to shut off my brain for short periods of time so I can survive.

I would like to tell myself that my mother will be happy again, that life will untangle itself and she's be smiling and laughing soon.

I so desperately need to hear that this is worth it, that everything I've done, everything I will do, ensures something good. Ensures that random events created by unexpected little actions will not ripple out and destroy the good.

I'd like someone to tell me it's okay. That what I am witnessing with my parents is just a minor setback. That good people do have happy endings because they deserve it. My father has spent the majority of his adult life caring for his family and providing for all of us. He's given up so much to give us this life, to make us happy and make sure we have all the opportunity in the world. They've done everything they were "supposed" to do to "earn" happiness, and yet...


This happens. Much like it does. Disappointments as we all struggle towards the top of the water, mouths open and desperate for the crumbs of success that are tossed in our direction, butted out of the way by those with stronger muscles, stolen from when those with quicker fins dart in front of us.

I don't know what I expected.

But I do know I'm clinging to ideals that don't exist, hoping that something or someone will prove me right.

Good night, Matt.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

"Wading in Poetry's Hot Murky Puddle of Lust"*

*This title was brought to you by Phoenixism due to a complaint he registered with the Poetry of Flesh Blogging Department on an earlier post. If you do not like the blog title, please go over to his blog and register a complaint with the Phoenixism Blog-Titling Department. Thank you for your understanding and patience in this matter.

205PM, I'm in bed.

Exhausted and sore. Five hours of clubbing, five hours of dancing and flirting, sweating and moving to the songs that crawl inside me.

My sister and her boyfriend joined us for dinner last night, sitting around and talking, on the floor by the fireplace, as I'm still without a kitchen table. Sharing youtube videos while I got ready for the club, sliding on the simple black and gray mini-dress GV8 bought for me two weeks ago, then hair and make-up.

I looked good. The stress from the incident that happened with my family in December knocked fifteen pounds off my frame within two weeks. It has stayed gone, due to my maintenance.

It was a night of attention. I was amused by it, mostly. When I go clubbing, I tend to dress down for comfort. Pull my hair back, minimal make-up, and go. If I talk to no one but my friends, I'm a happy girl, dancing all night.

But I put effort into my appearance and suddenly I'm "popular" and people are asking me if this is my first night at the club.

Looking at these guys thinking, "I've been doing this circuit for eight years. I've been in these clubs so much that I can segregate people into what clubs they attend, what bands they like, when they entered the club scene, and what social group they will tend towards simply by watching them dance."

But I smile and poke fun at them, their startled expressions when they realize I've been doing this longer than they have, feel amusement when a DJ or a bouncer will walk by and wave at me.

Speaking of both, one of the bouncers became so enamored with me, he told me to treat him as my personal bartender, and whenever I wanted a drink, he would not only fetch it for me, but make sure it was free.

If only I drank.

If only I accepted men buying my drinks when I wasn't interested in them. I won't let men spend money on me if I'm not going to return the attraction.

And I finally nailed my DJ crush down. Found out why he hadn't been flirting with me, why he hadn't been touching me, why his body language was so off.

Really, I already knew why. He thought that Playboy was my boyfriend. Hell, with the way I am, he probably thought I had four boyfriends by the amount of physical contact I give to my male friends.

So, he finally did a casual lead up to my "boyfriend". After expressing my faux confusion at why he would think that, I explained Playboy's status. And, yes, mentioned that I'm in an off-again-on-again relationship with someone that is in an off phase.

Oh, look at that. Suddenly he's flirting with me, touching me, dancing with me.

I asked him out before I left, a pre-club dinner. Something easy, that knocks out me having to get all cute and done up twice by combined two events into one. Which is how I tend to schedule my first dates anyway. It's kinda perfect on a logistical level, just getting ready, then picking a place by the club, and then you have the option of inviting them to the club with you, or cutting out because you have a thing you're doing at a specific time.

Also ended up having one of those awkward satellite men, that circle around you while you dance. I felt like I was trapped in Twilight with a brooding vampire about to tell me how I was his own personal brand of heroine. When he finally got the balls to approach, which was because I smiled at him, wanting to get his hovering over with, he was so... disjointed that I finally asked him how drunk he was. He said he wasn't, but a)I did not believe him and b)he was so staggeringly awkward that I said to him that he should have told me he was drunk because it would provide some excuse for his hovering and inability to communicate.

But in a nice way.

Seriously. It was more of a joking tease.

But he didn't get it, didn't understand what I meant, so I excused myself and went to dance.

My highlight, though, oh my god, my highlight, was this gorgeous, gorgeous piece of meat. I saw him and I nearly jawdropped at how hot he was. Just... perfectly one of my types. And how he moved, that slight swagger... swoon. Rockabilly tattoos on his neck, just above his collarbone, right sleeve done, black fedora, black button-up, amazingly dark eyes, good jaw, skin that isn't perfect, but that kind of rugged manly wear, 5'11", maybe 6', broad shoulders, lean waist.

Take me, take me now.

I was talking to a friend when he walked by. Eyes met, locked, held as he walked by. I raised my eyebrow at him slightly, shifted my body towards him just a hair, he cocked a grin at me... and I melted. Simply melted in a puddle of hot lust.

Later in the evening, I went to the main bar to get a water. He was standing at the bar with a friend, held eyes as I walked by to the opposite end of the bar, then watched them in the mirror, nodding their head towards me, talking.

If he had been alone, I would have walked over to him and told him he was gorgeous and I would do terrible, terrible things to him if given the opportunity.

Instead, I walked over to one of my girlfriends that was standing thirty feet away from them, slightly catty-corner, and started talking about the man in the fedora, as she had been the one I had been talking to when I spotted him initially. When she asked where he was, I quite obviously turned towards him and said to her, "Him. Gods, I would wreck him."

She went to go dance, I offered to walk her halfway to the dance floor, getting me away from the group of people we were with. Posted up against a wall after waving her off, less than ten seconds later, he was walking towards me with a knowing smile that I returned.

Physical chemistry, that was there.

But when he started talking, I... no. He had the "vato" accent, the slang. I was hoping for a Long Beach slam poet, a painter, a writer, hell, even a musician. Someone who could use words, who could speak well and had a passion about something creative.

First thing he did, after introducing himself, was tell me about his ex-girlfriend, explaining why he was at this particular club. Asking me who I knew, trying to make connections, telling me about his job (really, one of the last things I want to hear when I meet a man is what he does for a living, unless it's something incredibly fascinating that I want to learn more about... like cleaning the tanks at an aquarium, training sea mammals, publishing, producing, driving a downtown bus, etc). Telling me how successful he was, how he got into this scene, the music he liked, how rude people could be.

No connect. No connect at all.

But so hot.

So we excused ourselves. However, on my way away from him, I made a comment to another guy that turned into another conversation about if this was my first time at the club, where I lived, what was my sign, and random, random things that made me think to myself if I can't even date guys my own age for a lack of mental/emotional connect, then I certainly shouldn't be talking to someone three years my junior.

Makes me wonder. I've been such a social recluse, in my own way, in the club scene, for years. Many reasons for that, mostly anxiety, I think, and a lack of confidence in my body and my looks. But now, with taking care of myself, I'm almost back in shape, almost completely comfortable in my skin. And I find myself receiving attention from men that, while (usually) lovely to look at... that's it. How am I supposed to relate to these men?

I don't. I can't.

I spent most of last night on the dance floor, and when I exited, there was attention, there was inviting smiles, prolonged eye contact, nudges.

That DJ was the only one of them that I found "worth" talking to. You can learn from everyone, this I believe. But connecting with them is another story.

No word from GV8. I miss him. I miss him so much.

Silly to say that, after this post. He is in my thoughts often, but I'm trying to distract myself, trying to remind myself that there are others out there, that I am desirable, that I won't be alone at the end, I suppose.

Watching an elderly woman dig through her coin purse for change for coffee at a diner I took my friend to for lunch today. Wondering if that would be me in however many years. Broke, alone, wearing gaudy but likely fake jewelry on twisted fingers, unable to move, unable to take care of myself, just spending each day with no goals in sight, no passions, just my thoughts, waiting until those thoughts ended one day and I moved quietly into the night.

Friday, February 26, 2010

I mentioned in my last post that one of my old lovers is coming up to visit tonight, taking a break from hiking nearby canyons to visit me, rub me, and go clubbing with me.

We met when I was 18, maybe 19. He was the first man who taught me about sex where there wasn't some sort of use. Sex for the sake of fun, for enjoyment, for the laughter and experience. He was the first man that caught me, helped stop me from impacting into the quickly approaching concrete that would have shattered me into one of those bitter jades.

Now, years later, he's thirty. Maybe thirty-one. Maybe thirty-two. I really don't know. We've kept up our friendship, even though we haven't had any sexual contact in the last five or six years.

Because he's a good man. He's loyal and enthused about life, always supportive and caring. I love his family, his near-blind mother with her heavy German accents and practical approach to life, his father's quick passion for knowledge, and his beautiful sister with her lost, exploratory behavior of men.

I called him to see if he wanted to go out to dinner or stay in and have me cook.

He asked what I was cooking.

Salmon. Salmon sauteed in an artichoke heart sauce, with the artichoke hearts and diced kalamatta olives thrown into the mess of it, with feta cheese tossed on top at the end.

He laughed at me, "Have I ever told you how wonderful, beautiful, sexy, and amazing you are?"

"Not of late, no."

He's good for me, good to me. I'm told that I'm not allowed to be friends with men, certainly not allowed to maintain platonic friendships with those I used to sleep with. I'm not allowed to share a bed with them without touching them in a sexual manner, very much not allowed to cuddle with them, fall asleep with my head on their chest, feeling their warm torso rise and fall beneath me.

But I do.

Because I can. Because I maintain the lifestyle that suits me, the friendships that suit me. There's no reason for me to conform to a way of living because it is what is expected, because there are steps I need to take in order to gain the pre-determined defintion of success.

It does not work that way.

There is more to life, more to interactions between sexes, than what any theory will tell you.

Broad generalizations are for tiny minds.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

...I have no idea what is going on.


Why do I never know what is going on?

I've got the "Bushwhacked" episode from Firefly playing on the television across from my bed. My hair is almost dry from my earlier shower, damp and wavy black. Stomach is full of salmon sashimi I picked up after class at 99 Ranch.

Last night, The Bassist came over. I cut up some tri-tip, sauteed it in a three cheese spaghetti sauce mixed with sliced garlic cloves. We talked about his latest music project, he played some of it for me from his website. It's rapidly taking off, very unexpected for him, since it was just a demo.

It was good to see him. It has been a few weeks since we went to see The Residents at The Music Box, a few weeks since he stuttered mid-conversation when I leaned forward to use the rearview mirror to re-apply my lipstick.

He's adorable.

He has the same birthday as GV8, the same birthday as my uncle.

I called GV8, fresh from the shower, stomach full. I knew the conversation we were about to embark on would upset me, would leave me in tears, would leave me not wanting to eat at all, much less shower. And I knew I'd likely get sick afterwards... did not want to do so on an empty stomach- dry heaves make me feel out of control because you don't know when they'll end.

We talked.

A lot is going on with him. Whenever I call him he just starts telling me everything. I love it because he wants to share with me, wants to disclose, loves to tell me what is going on with all his projects.

He's shutting down his company. He's dumping money into his club. He gave all his employees their one month notice on Monday, started going through all the meetings to close his accounts with his vendors.

And other things are going on.

Finally, we got to me. How I had been holding up this week. He hadn't been doing too good, very distracted with thoughts of me, of our unexpected sex, how every time we see each other our connection grows.

I started with how I planned. Essentially, this could have been the last real conversation we ever have. I needed to make sure I told him everything I felt I had to tell him. So I started with love. Started with trust. Started with the feelings I have when we're apart, that moldy taint that makes me feel so wrong inside.

He echoed.

And before I could shift and end things for the time being... he started telling me how he had spent the last couple months, since he dumped me, thinking if it had been the right thing to do. Second thoughts. Third thoughts. Every time we would meet, he would continue to rethink his decision.

He had been weakening.

Did I feel this, with my continued hunt of him?

Or was I just that secure in the "Us"?

We talked about how things were changing in his life, how much was in turmoil, how he needed his head in the game, how he wondered if he was truly meant to be single- if that was the lifestyle for him.

I told him how I felt. I did not press him for a decision.

I told him that I knew he was under a lot of stress, that he would not have a good deal of time for me, but I wanted to be the one he comes to for downtime, for connect, for love, until things settle down and we can figure out what we're doing.

He said he didn't know. That he was worried that we'd be together for the next ten years and he'd suddenly wake up and realize he's an eternal bachelor, and I'd have wasted my fertile youth on a forty-four year old man with a vasectomy.

I reminded him I had already made my decision when I went to him last December. No kids, no monogamy, probably no marriage, possibility of him leaving me.

I knew.

He could not tell me what his decision was. I knew he would not be able to. He's a thinker. He usually needs a few days to weigh these things, add in all the other crap he's got going on... it's likely going to be awhile.

But it's not over yet. He's not lost to me. I could cry from relief.

Of course, in a few days, I could be crying without an end to the tears in sight.

I don't know what's going on.

But I did make my decision. I did go to take a stand, to cut myself free so I could work on learning to live without him.

Tomorrow, an old lover is coming to town. I'm going to take him clubbing, he's going to give me some bodywork- no euphemism, he's possibly the best masseuse I've ever experienced, is going to be moving to San Fran soon to be the masseuse-in-residence at a spa/hotel/thing.

Saturday evening is the memorial for one of the few friends I had who killed themselves last year.

Sunday, is a marathon. My parents are hosting a party afterwards for some of my father's business associates. Which means I get to oversee things, dress up and look nice for the business people. Yes, of course we are a functional, happy family. No, nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?

Gyeh, what a poorly written post. Tired, surprised by GV8. Trying not to let that hope bubble up in my chest, leave me dreaming, then leave me crushed.

I would spend my life with him. I would be his counterpart, his assistant, doer of laundry, folder of socks, arranger of parties, giver of spectacular head, confidant and cuddle companion.

He's everything to me.

Let's see how much more I can break this heart of mine.
It's 540PM.

I'm out of class around 645PM.

The to get my grocery shopping done by 730PM.

Home at 8PM.

If I can eat, I'll be done by 810PM.

820PM... oh, 820PM.

That's when I call GV8.

That's when I step outside this circular track we've placed ourselves in.

That's when I tell him I'm disappearing until I can handle him again.

If I ever will be able to.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

This year...

At this time last year, I was lying in my sleeping bag on the floor of my bedroom in my old apartment. Me, a lamp, my cellphone, and a pillow. That was it.

The year was about to start for me, not the year beginning on January 1st, but my life, starting to become unchained from Darkeyes, the rope that bound me unweaving.

My ribs were on fire. It felt like I had been unevenly grilled down one side, and I restlessly would shift from my stomach to my left side over and over, looking for something resembling a level of comfort... no success.

A few weeks prior, I suddenly knew I had to get eight black blocks down my side. It wasn't a grand experience, but an immediate sort of self-knowledge, of realizing the shape of pieces missing. I knew there needed to be a word in those blocks, I knew it had to be in Latin. I searched, combing Latin dictionaries, trying to find that right word that meant everything to me, that would be a constant for the rest of my life, that would somehow sum everything that I believed in.

I stumbled over it because I had just started this blog. Typed "flesh" into a translator, having exhausted what I felt were all other logical options.

The flesh, the guts, the entrails; the innermost parts or heart of anything...

I saw that combination of words, and I knew. I knew this word was mine.

On the evening of February 22nd, I met up with two friends of mine, both artists. We measured it out on my body, the female half of the couple sketching the blocks onto my skin to make sure it sat right, looking over my shoulder in their bathroom mirror. Four centimeters by eight centimeters, each a centimeter apart. Thirty-eight centimeters in length.


The graphic designer of the two quickly drew it up on Photoshop, inserted the font I had chosen ("Beyond Wonderland", which is amusing if you know more about me), adjusted pixels here and there.

11AM on February 23rd, I popped into a Kinko's and printed it out in its entirety.

12PM, I was opening the door of the shop I had chosen.

Walked up to the man at the counter, asked if he had walk-in availability. He did. Asked me what I wanted to get, if I already knew the design, and I took my print out of the bag, laid it on the counter.

He quietly whistled between his teeth, then... "Now that's a tattoo."

I spent eight hours under the needle that day, not including the short break to eat some sushi that I ordered when the intern went on his food run for the artists. Fifteen minutes before closing, I was pale, shaking, mild shock, oozing plasma. One of the guys grabbed me a chocolate milkshake and I sat, bullshitting with another patron while he had a cover-up done, waiting for the full-body tremors to subside so I could drive home.

Touch-ups happened later, two sessions, about three and a half hours. More is needed, I know.

It's not perfect. I went in without carefully selecting my artist. I went in, thinking it would be simple, and they did botch it some. The blocks aren't even, the inside line of the "e" is almost filled in. The edges are not straight and defined, like I had hoped. I wanted it perfect, but I rushed it. Mounting pressures, life-related deadlines, made it too hasty.

I do regret that, as much as I wish I did not.

But I never would have been able to get it done otherwise.

Maybe, one day, I'll get sick of how the "e" is nearly always mistaken for a "c". Maybe, one day, I'll get sick of the word itself, angry at the jokes life seems to make on my behalf, and fill the letters in.

It had the potential to be glorious, I think. The potential to be more than just another tattoo. Maybe it will be, one day.

But it was a marker. A marker of the drastic changes that were about to take place. A marker of values and ideals, a reminder of the things we survive, not physically, but mentally.

She said to me, this time, next year, we'll be happy. This time, next year, things will be great.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Nightmares haunted me last night. Waking up every hour, every two hours, shirt sticking to me plastered skin-tight with sweat, that waking sweat circling my body line a murder-line.

Nightmares of a world without GV8, with him gone, with him dying, incoherent mental messes of everything falling apart, all my fears realized as I unconsciously battled with my blankets, struggling against myself, my mind.

Waking up felt like a nightmare come to life. Lying in bed, hoping that something would happen, some world cataclysm would strike that would prevent this day from happening. Something that would cause my life to hop the tracks, perhaps end, but remove myself from this self-inflicted torment.

Looking down between my legs on Saturday night, GV8's semen leaking out, coating me shiny slick. Our love and laughter, our coming together because we can't stop the gravity between us.

The climax.

His. His repeated orgasms through the night into the morning, our joy, sharing skin to skin.

And then I broke.

Because I knew that things would have to change. And I would have to trudge down the freeway once more, away from him, knowing that it would mean nothing good for our future.

And I would be without him once more.

Friday, February 19, 2010

I've been hiding away from blogland for a little.

It's been a combo of things. An incredibly packed schedule leaving me dragging my ass to bed at 2AM a couple days in a row, emotional upheaval due to GV8 and my conflicting desires (and fears), and a comment that left me in a bit of a rage for a little under twenty-four hours... which is odd. It's rare for me to stay angry for that long.

But I could not bring myself to come in here and write with that rage weighing on my brain.

So I waited it out. Still irritated, but less prone to snapping.

I've got a few pet peeves.

1. Littering
2. Tailgating
3. Being Pedestaled
4. Being white-knighted
5. Ego- or ethnocentrism
6. People who aren't aware of personal space or their own physical boundaries. This isn't World of Warcraft, kids, I can't walk through you if you're standing in the doorway.

I actually do not know which I find more offensive, being pedestaled or being white-knighted. Both of them are incredibly demeaning, white-knighting for its lack of respect for a person's values and desires (among so many other things that I really don't have the focus to write about at the moment), pedestaling because one isn't being viewed as a complete person. You're being loved (or lusted after) because you're being idealized. Because someone doesn't know, doesn't get, the fullness of you as a person.

Some girls like being pedestaled, so it could be argued that a person pedestaling them does, in fact, understand them, see them as a full person, so well that they are fulfilling the object of their love's desires by pedestaling them.

However, being pedestaled creeps me out. It reminds me of religious fantasism, makes me feel like I no longer exist as an individual but, instead, have being a minor sum of a person's interpretations of who they see me as being, who they want me to be.

And who I actually am... discarded. Insignificant. Minor details.

It's not a matter of disliking myself so I end up distrusting those who would adore me, but a matter of needing to be understood. And anyone who would adore me, who would place me on high, does not understand me.

Much like when I receive emails from men who would read my other blog (and the occasional one from this blog) telling me that I was the girl for them, that I understood them, that they were perfect for me, that they would understand me better than anyone else, that we should run away together, be soul mates, etc.

Anyone who would send me an email like that... doesn't understand me at all. On an epic level.

Those emails make me about as uncomfortable as when my platonic guy friends try to shift into dating me, and I end up scrambling to put a stop on their intentions without embarassing them by showing them that I know very well what they're trying to do, that I've seen it so many times, and I'm simply not interested... but I can't let them know. It becomes this sad little vaguely choreographed number of me dancing out of the way, deflecting interested queries, dodging lips because "ooh, look at that!" or "omg, I haven't see him in forever, BRB!" or whatever childish number I have to play to preserve their ego and, ultimately, our friendship. Sexual pushes are telegraphed before they even execute them, I play innocent.

And wait and hope.
And wait and hope.
And wait and hope.

That they'll become distracted by another girl.
That they'll start reading my body language and the signs and back off, feeling relieved that they did not actually ask me out or try to steal a kiss (and that, if they did, that I didn't notice because I suddenly became "distracted" by something).

Or that, for the ones that can't contain themselves, that they'll push past a boundary of mine and I can drop all pretenses of politeness and respect, and show them what happens when they try for the passive-aggressive sexuality of a Nice Guy with a girl who has played this game before and always wins.

If you can counting "winning" as watching one of your friends change from friendly and caring to desperate and disrespectful, discarding friendship and shared history for the chance, the freaking chance, to either a)hit that or b)forcefully sweep you off your feet into an emotionally one-sided relationship.

Lust overpowering simple respect.
Overpowering boundaries.

You'd think it would be good for a girl's ego, but you'd be wrong.

It makes you feel like an object, in a way. And not the fun, being objectified, whip-me-beat-me-spank-me-make-me-write-bad-checks way.

You get objectified when your objections cease to matter. His personality drops away, the easygoing behavior, the friendship- all discarded. Traded in, really. While he converts to desperate animal brain in a lycanoid shift, you become the prey. He doesn't remember why he wants you, only that he does.

Object of the hunt.

It makes me feel like I'm in a straitjacket.

Which is how I usually feel when my words cease to matter. When, not only am I not being listened to, but someone is taking action around me, involving me in their plans and ideals without actually caring about my plans and ideals.

An object. An object they've idealized.

An idol? When people impress upon you their desires, and tell themselves that, really, you're the one that wanted a goat sacrificed at your feet. That you needed those virgins. That you'd have supported Bob"s theft of his neighbor's wife.

What was that movie, when there were two opposing sides shouting "God wills it!" at each other in a frantic frenzy?

This is what you want. You know this is what you want because someone has told you so.

And they know what you want because they've constructed an image of you based on their intrepetations of your words and actions, not verifying, unless it is to confirm their own ideas.

You're reconstructed.

The You? The Version 1.0? Not so much.

You're a doll now. They pull your string and the words they've recorded themselves play back at them. Trapped inside, they position you, they move you, and in their mind they make love to you until you're moaning their name.

The girl that Jack built.

Monday, February 15, 2010

I've been feeling kinda... bleh.

Don't want to write, in my own way. Which is rather shocking, since I almost always want to write. I do have short spurts of time where I push the keyboard away and spend time doing other things.


I haven't really been reading, either. Too obsessed, more obsessed than usual, with what has been going on in my own head towards my own story that I do not wish to interrupt it with the voices of others.

I bought a desk. Finally. Thank you, IKEA, for providing dark-colored furniture in the right dimensions to fit just below that particular window. Once the madness of this week is over, I'll assemble it, which will allow me to unpack a couple of the last remaining boxes.

Which will allow more organization. Oh my sweet, sweet organization.

I invited C over for dinner. Sauteed some thin strips of beef in a fire-roasted salsa while she made the guacamole. Thank you, El Salvador or wherever C's parents came from, for passing down the knowledge for good guacamole.

She's been having a rough time of it lately.

It goes back to so many things, so much damage and anger.

We have similar experiences with men, bad experiences. Even worse, bad experiences with sexually dominant men. That can throw you for a loop, when you're trying to figure out this very integral part of your sexuality and the person who is supposed to be more experienced, the person you are supposed to be able to trust (at least on a sexual level) is unable to actually deserve that trust.

But you give it to him anyway. Because you're supposed to. Because you want that experience. Because he's older, because he's been with others you admire from whatever distance. Because he dresses a certain way. Because you want so badly to please, to be serving.

C, she got angry. She got angry and so very bitter. Aggressive. Defensive, usually in an offensive way.

I didn't. I don't know the key parts of our personalities that seperated us down our paths, but I've never been able to hold a grudge against the whole of the male sex.

She can't handle dominant men now. She hates them. She bristles up and rolls her eyes at me whenever I find another one that I wish to test drive. Her partners are always socially submissive, at the very least. Always men she can dominate. Always men she is stronger than.

We were talking as we were making dinner, and she mentioned a man she was going to be meeting a little later in the week. I laughed at her and asked how much I would hate this one.

It takes a certain getting used to, the boys whose company she keeps.

Reversal of gender roles. Such a strong reversal.

And even though she's able to find these men who do not make her uncomfortable, who do not challenge her, who do not push her on a sexual level, she's still incredibly angry at the male population. All of them, especially the dominant ones, are guilty until proven innocent.

In her eyes, though, there's no innocence for a Dom.

... ...

My sister is doing her annual charity event tomorrow night.

At the last minute, I invited GV8 to accompany me. I knew he'd say no. I knew it would be too soon after a weekend like we shared for us to see each other again, that he would tell me we needed to space things out a bit more.

But he said yes.

Oddly, I'm... almost disappointed.

Now, before the confusion sets in and your monitor begins to smoke, let me explain.

The last couple of times where things have gone a bit emotionally intense, we've had to take space. We've had to do other things for a bit, re-evaluate our physical boundaries, push them farther, reinforce them, and then we'd be able to see each other again.

That did not happen this time.

He simply said yes.

Like it wasn't an issue. Like he did not need space. No recovery time needed.

He just did the most amazing, romantic thing for me anyone has ever done. Men I've lived with, men I've spoken marriage with, have never done anything like he did for me on Saturday.

And we're not even together.

An ex-boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend gave me the most memorable Valentine's Day weekend date ever. And not just for that holiday, but any dates, any of the anniversaries I've had with past boyfriends, none has compared to the simple day we shared.

And now he's coming to a charity event my sister is helping with. He's driving to my office to drop off cupcakes for my coworkers and pick me up to be my platonic date, to meet my father for the first time, to support my sister's efforts, etc.

So. Boned.

Everyone's all, "Oh, you two are going to get back together. You still love each other, it's so great, how romantic, etc."

Ha. No.

He broke up with me for three reasons, all of which are still valid, all of which will not be changing for either of us in this lifetime.

It would be destructive.

And he knows, he knows very well that I was willing to give up my goals on those three fronts (marriage, monogamy, munchkins) to be with him. But he will not let me, he wants me to have that future, wants me to have the future I desire.

So we spend time together. We don't have sex. Save for yesterday, we do our best to not touch, except for the occasional hug and holding hands. When people ask, we are only friends... because that's all we are.

I wish people would not tell me that we're going to get back together. It simply feels like a pebble being dropped down a well in the center of my chest, waiting for that echo of empty pain to come back up the shaft and slide into their ear. They do not understand. They see actions, they see this dance we are doing, and they think Hollywood ideals, they think romance, they think that love conquers all.

They don't see the looks we exchange, the moments of quiet, perfect harmony, singing a symphony with our touches, and the fall away when we withdraw, end of the measure.

They don't hear the conversations, they don't see his steady confidence in the future he is building for himself, they don't hear his dreams.

They do not see when I lay beside him, my chest to his back, limbs wrapping around him, trying to sink pieces of myself into his skin, into his shoulders so I can be with him in some way, track marks of kisses over his body, marking it all as mine, mine in a way that no one else will likely experience.

It's sad. It's so very sad when we part, feels like we're peeling away from each other, residue clinging behind, stretching taut and then snapping apart when lines become too thin.

One of a list of tragedies.

We match, but we don't fit.

Cats and babies 'round her feet...

I did it.

I figured out the book. I got over that writer's hump, finally, and I know what I'm doing now, how I'm going to do it, and what it is going to mean.


This is it.

Sunday, February 14, 2010


My brain is so boned right now. I'm functioning and all that happy horseshit, but, wow, 200 miles a minute, screaming thoughts, total mental/emotional overload.

No point in even trying to hide it from anyone. I don't even have the capacity to act normal right now, anyway.

GV8 and I did our non-Valentine's Day (supposed to be platonic) date yesterday.

We were supposed to drive up the coast, explore, hang out, etc.



Instead we drove through Beverly Hills and he hoisted me onto his shoulders to peer over gates, laughing and waving at the security cameras.

Instead he took me to a special favorite restaurant of his on the coast in Malibu and we sat on a balcony over the beach, watching people play in the sand.

Instead we drove up PCH and toured the Pepperdine campus to see the view of the ocean, seeing how many license plates we could find from each state, pausing to pop my car's sunroof to take a scenic shot.

Instead we went to a winery buried in one of the coastal canyons and bought grape soda, laughing with the girls at the counter while classical and jazz music played, then strolled next door to look at antique French art and furniture.

Instead we went to the Rock Store on Mulholland where he would drive one of his motorcycles with friends and stop to check out the other bikers, we curled up together on the patio and he told me about the different bikes, the history of the place.

Instead we went to visit one of his two best friends, so he could introduce me to her, and she was wonderful.

Instead we went to go to a mall with a favorite store of mine and he picked out clothes for me to model and bought me two adorable outfits to his taste.

Instead we went to his neighborhood, the neighborhood he grew up in, went to his childhood home, saw the things he told me stories about, drove on roads rich with his history, drove by the place he was first employed, by a 7-11 he used to run a candy racket out of when he was nine, by streets he used to race down, and a huge hill that he conquered on roller skates with the aid of some friends.

Instead we went to a steakhouse off the 101, and he called his mom so I could meet her but she was already in bed. We talked and laughed, he filled me in on the drama in his industry, the moves he was about to have to make, his constant internal debate to retire.

Instead we drove back to his apartment so I could model my new cocktail dress for him, and he pulled off my panties to see how it would fit without those lines, sliding them down my thighs to drop onto the floor.

Instead I spent the whole night curled up with him, and the morning exploring each other's bodies like we used to, with love and care, with devotion and enthusiasm, lost in flesh.

Instead, I'm sitting here typing this, crying. Because it doesn't change a thing. Because we still cannot be together without me giving up dreams and being destroyed by his need for a sexually open relationship.

Instead we're both emotionally wrecked, having done things we shouldn't have done but we couldn't have done otherwise.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

I bailed out on attending a show tonight in order to stay home and get to bed, for once this week, at a reasonable hour.

Thursdays, I start work at 7AM. Not too bad, I've had jobs that I've started work at 330 or 4AM. It's nice, in its own way, coasting up a freeway that is most bare of traffic, enjoying the morning light, the odd feelings of companionship that spring from seeing the others on the road, not like you get when you hit the road when it's 2 or 3, when everything is dark, no eye contact, no human recognition with your fellow commuters.

Everyone's just a metal shell during those hours, a metal shell and bright lights.

I'm still running sick, the tail end dragging on for far too long. Anything gets in my lungs and I'm shot for weeks.

And, of course, there's work itself, work in this crucial week, the feelings of pressure building as dead air looms... a phrase that would only make sense if you work in the industry I do. Which is not radio, by the by.

The week is ramping up, people are scrambling, trying to make that last call, time delay running us hard leads to working at home, trying to tie up those remaining loose ends.

I'm 26. I look back to ten years ago, ten years ago this time of year. Junior year of high school. Cutting classes, miserable as hell, failing or near-failure most everything I was taking. Prom was coming up, the only school dance I bothered to attend. My date was an idiot, but my high school required us to have a date of the opposite sex, as they wished to discourage people buying solo tickets and showing up with a person as the same sex as their date.

Only in Orange County.

And the Midwest.

Oh, and the South.

My date did not dance, so he sat and moped, then became incredibly angry at me for leaving him to go dance with friends, somehow assuming that since I was his date, I was supposed to not leave his side (and, therefore, the table) the entire night.

I almost did not get to go to prom. That was the time when I first tried cutting myself, and was, of course, doing it for attention and only attention. That wound me up in the ER being evaluated by a pscyh specialist, who confirmed I was only doing it for attention, and it was fine for me to go.

I remember very well the cab ride back home with my mother, 2AM, exhausted and frustrated, frustrated that whatever I had wanted to happen (someone to actually listen to me, acknowledge me, most likely) did not happen.

I remember my father standing over me in the family room, pre-hospital trip, angrily saying something along the lines of, "Oh, you think you're depressed and you're going to cut yourself, huh? You think it's fun to fuck with people, huh? Well now you get too see what happens when you take adult steps. You get to go to the hospital and maybe get locked up because you did such a fucking smart thing. Have fun dealing with your choices."

Hadn't thought about that in a long while. Had almost forgotten.

Prom had been just a few days away from that little event.

My parents bribed me to squeak by in my classes, I think I only failed two of them, one of them being English as the teacher and I had gotten into a tiff and I boycotted his class for the majority of the semester. He never reported my absences because he did not want me coming back.

He ended up marrying one of his students a few years later, after she graduated.

He was a good teacher, though, aside from his attitude problem(s). I learned a lot from him.

Obviously, though, not how to form paragraphs correctly or stop with run-on sentences.

He supported my writing, loved my essays. We just couldn't get along outside of that.

I spent the summer independent studying my way through senior year, started college in the fall, sixteen, angry, trying so hard to be unique, to stand out, to be recognized as special.

Throw a sixteen year old girl, desperately looking for someone to tell her she's special, into a community college setting, surrounded by men varying in age between 18 to 30, and see what happens.

My professor tossed this quote at us a little bit ago:

“The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom...for we never know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.” ~ William Blake

It reminded me of these things, of the stupidity, of the excess. Christ, the excess. The overexposure. I was 16. I should have been navigating the waters of the opposite sex my own age range. I should have been learning with the rest of them.

Instead I skipped class, sat in way beyond my level.

Sink or swim.

I'm still not quite sure what I did, between those two options.

But you learn, hopefully quickly, how to survive. But, back then, I did not want to survive. I was intent on destruction of self, trying to do so many horrible things to myself and the people around me so I'd finally lose all chance of redemption, become something not worth consuming air.

No matter what I did, though, the loathing was never enough. I never could hate myself, I never could tell myself I was not worth this earth anymore. Even when my mom was sobbing her eyes out in bed over the things I was doing, what little she knew, I could not... I could not.

It took me so many years to get over that time period, stretching from sixteen to eighteen, and the damage I did to myself. I suppose there's a debate in my head over what would be better: to have someone else causing the damage to you, you unable to stop it or doing the damage yourself, being in control of your fall.

The idea of control is so enticing.

But when I look back and mentally facepalm myself, I find myself detached from other people who have also experienced long-lasting trauma because most of them never had a choice. Most of them did not have what I did: family and friends behind me, hoping that I would come out of it, always willing to extend a hand when I asked, even if they knew they were only allowing me to continue my descent.

We do what we do for a reason. No matter the potential for regrets, we make the best decisions we can at the time, based on what we know and how we feel. They might be moronic decisions, but there is no baseline to look at, no control group of an alternative "You" to examine with a little notepad, pen dangling from the corner of your mouth, going, "Yep, shoulda taken that left at Albuquerque."

Do I wonder what I might have been?

I've been told that I'm no longer anything like I was. That I was waiting to grow up and be a librarian with loads of cats and maybe a husband who taught junior high math. Flowered skirts and gold-rimmed glasses. I'd probably have been married by now, probably living near my parents, maybe a kid or two, depending on how early I got started.

When I was thirteen or so, my family took a trip to Georgia to visit some long-time friends. We sat outside on their back porch, air heavy with wet heat, their chocolate labrador running haywire through the miniature forest that was their backyard, the men barbequing and laughing, beers at the ready.

There were five kids: my sister, the three boys of the family we visited, and myself.

I do not know who thought of it, why they decided to do it, but the four of our parents and the boys' grandmother got out a yellow notebook, and made a list of our names, then wrote down what they thought we would do with our lives, what we would be when we got older.

They pegged my sister, I remember. Dance team and cheerleader, blonde, outgoing and popular, Miss Priss, fashionable, work in some sort of public industry like entertainment, catering, hotels.

I was the quiet one, the bookworm. Live at home or always nearby, they said. Maybe write a little, maybe get married. Probably a homebody, maybe sell a book or two, probably end up working at a library in some way or another.

Well, that was just a bit off.

Makes me wish this blog wasn't anonymous, so I could put up a picture of who I was at sixteen to who I am now. When I bust out those pictures, my friends can hardly recognize me most of the time.

Of course, sometimes it's a stretch for me. I remember the clothes, the place, the people I'm with... but do I remember being that person? Did I shrug her off like a coat? Is she still in me, somewhere? Would I have liked who I am now, would I have made the choice to become This instead of That? Would she have given me the reins, with the knowledge I have now, and told me to do what I had to do, be who I could be, do more with this life than hide myself between pages of books?

I feel her, sometimes, when a man wows me, makes me awkward and girlish, crushing from a distance, too overpowered by the concept of him. Doesn't happen often, and even then, it's like light seeping in from under a doorframe, the illuminating the barest accent of furniture inside a near-empty room.

I keep growing and changing in this direction that I never thought to take.

Sitting on the floor of my apartment, still without a desk, on a dark colored carpet dancing with red squares. A now bare plate at my left knee, a salt shaker by my right foot, crumpled papertowel at my side, laptop rest on my legs. Bed to my back, books to my back, left, and right, windows with vertical blinds in front of me, empty boxes stacked high.

Was I supposed to be here, at this moment?

Was everything leading to each Now I experience? Movements stacking up, ripples that don't go away pushing outwards. Each book, each piece of furniture, each item, bought at a particular time, bought by who I have become, to surround me, weave me into this dreamcatcher's web.

To solidify the what-might-have-been into the-what-is.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

I found myself thinking of the weekend to come at work.

Seeing GV8 on Saturday, a whole day together.

I dance at his feet like an over-excited puppy, begging for attention and to be let out for walkies.

Totally true.

We all have our weaknesses.

I realized, when we were talking last night, that the man I went out with on Saturday and GV8 are similar. Not in the ways that count, not the ways that matter to me, but... they both shave their heads, they both are around my height, they both are in their forties, they both have partner counts well into the hundreds (400+ for GV8, 300+ for my nameless Saturday date), they both used to host and run adult parties and swing clubs, they both are sexually dominant.

I did not do this on purpose.

In fact, when I first started talking to Mr. Saturday Night, I did not know most of these things about him... they only came up in later conversations.

So, what? Have I specialized myself for excessively sexually experienced dominant males in their forties? Is this it? Weekends full of sex parties and the like? I can't even imagine that.

I'm... yeah. To be with GV8, I would give up a lot. I have given much, offered even more. Body, heart, mind, on a platter.

I'm lucky he loves me. I'm lucky he gave me so much of himself, even though we finally hit that dealbreaker stage of the three M's, as he calls it: marriage, monogamy, munchkins. Marriage and monogamy I could work with a lack of, munchkins... we both knew I could not. Being around him made me want to breed, made me want to create the amazing children I knew our combined genetics would be capable of.

So, Saturday we are spending the day together. We were too busy this last weekend to see each other, and I missed his company terribly. I know when we do meet up, we'll likely not let go for awhile.

And he's thinking of me, missing me. I know this, I see it.

A lot has been rolling around in my head today, about sexuality, about rarity, uniqueness. That everlofted need to be an individual, to express oneself as irreplacable, to preserve that ego of self. Of men, of women, and the damage we do to each other on a social level.

I do not like being told that I am undesirable. No one does. I find it... annoying isn't the right word, but close enough, how many men feel the need to tell me that I'm doing it wrong, that my past has spoiled me, that because I did not exhibit control when I was younger, I'm doomed to cheat on my partner, doomed to a marriage with a man I don't desire, so desperate for that provider as I age and lose my looks that I'll have to settle with the only men who will take me.

Have I ever been average? Have I ever led a normal life?


Do men find me desirable? Yes.

Wait, wait, even after they get to know me, after they hear my track record, do they still push for dating, push for the relationship? Yeah, they do.

Do my male friends regularly fall in love with me, something I find incredibly awkward and painful, and still haven't quite learned how to handle well? Yeah.

Have I, with knowledge gained from the seduction community, managed to flip my usual one-night stand occurence from men that discount me for "putting out too easily" so often to men that continue to call, text, and email, to the point of annoying the hell out of me? Yes.

Do my male friends' girlfriends ever worry about me trying to make a move on their men? No, there's perfect trust, even with those who asked me out before they asked out their current girlfriend.

Have any of my boyfriends ever worried about me cheating on them, ever accused me of touching another man, even though three-quarters of my friends are men, a chunk of those I have had as lovers, and I still spend time with exes? No.

Am I the go-to person for relationship, seduction, and sex advice, the impromptu counselor for sexual trauma and damage, among friends and acquaintances of both genders? Yes. Regularly.

Have I taken the time to work with my male friends who have sexual issues, body issues, or general comfortability issues with the opposite sex, to the point of sleeping with them, showing them what to do, how to do it, so they could, hopefully, go on to a healthy relationship, or at least start working through their issues? Yes.

Do I really think that my sexual history makes me an undesirable figure, that I will end up in a sexless marriage to a member of middle-management, cheating on him with young hot things, because no self-respecting man would have a whore like me?

God, I hope not.

I don't pretend to know the future. As I am now, definitely not. But things change, situations change. As has been recently illustrated, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

There are men that try so hard to stuff down the idea of sexual liberation.

And I do not think what is going on now is at all sexually liberating, only a mass of angry, damaged people trying to reclaim what they feel is theirs, bitter against the opposite sex. It's an extreme reaction.

So many things are viewed as threats.

I'm pretty enough, possibly beautiful when I try. Alluring, mysterious, I've been told. Whether that's true or not, I'm not going to guess. I don't find myself mysterious, only a little complex.

I make some men incredibly uncomfortable. Usually the mainstream set of men that are trying so hard to be "manly" alpha males. Not the pick-up guys necessarily, but the guys that are struggling with themselves, with their insecurities, mimicking what they think masculinity and self-confidence look like.

They react in anger, if I don't manage the situation, if I don't play sweet and cute while still laying it down for them.

I am not the ideal woman for the masses. I appeal to a certain set, a set that is next to impossible to find. It takes a certain kind of man to be comfortable with me, to not feel like I am challenging him, like he has to live up to some sort of standard I set, especially sexually.

But my guy friends love me. The more they get to know me, the harder they fall, until I'm sitting there near praying that they get a girlfriend so I don't have to find myself in another awkward social situation.

I'm a sweetheart, a mama's girl.

Yet I'm told I'm defined not by my life actions, but by my sexual ones. That what I do in bed is more impactful to my future than what I will do out in the rest of the world. I do believe that most of the world is not composed of bedrooms, but I could be wrong.

It is not my character that counts, but how often and for who I spread my legs.

Gotta love that demeaning terminology.

I'm a consumable commodity. Every time I sleep with someone, part of my limited value is scraped away, like a knife taken to a stick of butter. By the time I reach thirty, I'll be left with one greasy dish and a soulless, wrinkled husk wandering Los Angeles, drool escaping from the corner of my mouth as I moan "Provider... providerrrrrrr..."

Mmm, delicious brains. Er, I mean, mmm, delicious beta males.

Monday, February 8, 2010

The more I experiment with my sexual behaviors, the more research and discussions I get into, the more I realize that my damages are so standard, my lusts are easily to be expected, and the only reason I fall outside of the norm on certain issues is because I'm busy embracing my basic motivators while others are raised to fear and deny them.

I'm not just like other girls, I am the base, common deminominator of what goes through the body and mind on an instinct level, and I'm highly aware of it.

Humbling, in a way.

Embarrassing, realizing that for all my supposed "specialness", I really am just another female, in a different stage of self-progression.

Good, because that means I'm not so socially foreign that I can't connect, which is why, I think, that so many women have come to me for advice, input, so many men have come to me to pick apart my brain, to have me pick apart theirs.

Grounding humanity through common sexual themes, twisting of psyche through social demands and the untwisting to get back to base, providing a sort of human, detached figure to view as something to be gained on the level of one's own self, a sort of internal goal. Admittance of vunerabilities, of past mistakes, embarrassment, is disclosure, causes feelings of bonding even when indirect. Honesty, overarching standard social ethics, even when acting on a base level, lends morals and takes away standard objections, making it possible to bridge the usual barriers between those who roam and fuck to those who cling and love.

The human connection makes it possible, the beast makes it more, explains certain incidents and social trends that have followed me throughout my late teens to now. Consciousness-streaming conversational style that follows my own pattern of speech causes transition from written word to social encounters to be without the standard dissonance one finds when changing formats, and breeds a sense of deep familiarity, strengthening the feelings of connection already brought forth.

Is it odd that I'm beginning to fascinate myself?
Well, it's past 1AM and I have to be up for work in six hours. That's me being a smart cookie again.

I got home at 930, GV8 called and we made plans for the coming weekend: a short trip up the coast, to get out of Los Angeles for a bit. Grab some lunch, walk around. We talked about the progress I've been making, how much I've changed since moving here, how much I've grown, how proud he is of me.

He's proud of me.

Gods, do I love that man.

We talked about my fears that I'm going to be single for too long, partnerless. I'm in my mid-twenties and soon I'll be hitting my thirties and these are the years for roaming, for exploration, for youth and memories to be shared. I'm such a companion, such a lover.

I'm trying to hold out on the sex front, wait until I meet someone special, someone I would want to possibly have a relationship with, but that could take a couple years and I love sex so very much, love that physical contact, that enjoyment. I want a man or two in my bed, at my call, someone for late night fucking and early morning breakfasts at little cafes while we peoplewatch.

I'm torn.

GV8 says he's not going out of his way to have sex until the end of March, that he's too busy with the loft and with his business. I'm trying to imagine him not having sex for months on end and I'm sure he can do it, but he's just as sexual as I am, not to mention he has a large pool of booty calls to choose from, and that call him.

But I want to write about my date last night.

We met at a Persian restaurant I had enjoyed before. Good food, fun atmosphere, good peoplewatching.

He was... well, close enough to my type in some ways, not in others.

In dress, all black. But not that crappy, unpaid goth way. Black slacks, good boots, soft black shirt with a gray design, black scarf, black coat. All good quality, nothing faded, nothing mismatched in shading.

Shaved head, multiple ear piercings with those tribal-looking plugs.

Tattoos on his biceps, forearms, top of his hands, knuckles.

I'm not actually one for knuckle tattoos, but the story behind it was... historical. Was facsinating.

That little patch of pointed hair beneath the lower lip.

Cat-eyes, brown and tilted upwards. Beautiful.

My kind of guy, if I had one particular kind that I favored over others, would actually be like I am. Which is funny, as I've taken my starting point (blonde, tan, casual) and turned it into the type of male I prize: black hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and a well-dressed, but casual appearance, always in dark colors.

But, really, anything alternative, anything aggressive and unique with good coloring and I'm sold.

Unfortunately, this man, while well dressed, while alternative, while fun... was more overweight than I enjoy. Not horrifically so, but definitely beyond what I consider attractive. This is unfortunate because he used to be beautiful, used to be chiseled, has amazing facial bone structure, but suffered a nasty back injury a few years ago and is finally getting to the point where he can start exercising again. He. Was. So. Goddamned. Gorgeous.

He stood when I came in, took in my body, my dress, hugged me hello. Waited until I sat down to seat himself.

And what did I do?

Oh, I fucked with him. I couldn't help it. I had wanted to try a few different things, a few different tactics so different than my usual and he was there and I wanted to get his unknowing feedback on them.

After about twenty minutes of frying his brain, having some false leads that were quickly recovered, I apologized for messing with him, explained what I had been doing, why I had been doing it, and was incredibly blunt about the entire thing.


Because I realized a two things:

1. This is the way I am, this is the way I interact with men because I am so frustrated with the amount of them that can't step up. I was taking out that frustration on him, even though I was being nice, even though I was being polite, even though he had no idea what I was doing, it still was not kind, and as soon as I realized he was too nervous to keep up, I should have stopped.

2. This is the way I am, this is the way I interact with men. Period. I need someone who will do this with me. I need someone who I fit with, which means I can't continue to hide my nature like so many do. I want someone to recognize what I am doing and smack me down, play the games, then stop the games and take control. To own me. Like GV8 did.

I need to be challenged, I need to challenge, because I need the man I am interacting with to prove that he's it. That he's worth submitting to. That he is strong enough for me, smart enough for me, controlled enough for me, that I can relax with him. That I can respect him.

My date had his moments though, once I apologized, once I started calming him down. He hadn't expected me to clean up so well, I believe. And I was turning heads.

Bits would surface in him.

And he did a line I haven't had directed at me yet, though I've heard it before:

"I have no intention of kissing you tonight."

I had wondered, for a time, how I would respond to that. If I would do the usual female-response qualifier, or if I would be able to smile, shrug, and tell him I was relieved, just to fire it back at him.

I did the usual. Oh, gods, did I. As soon as he said it, I stopped and told him that I could not believe he just fucked with my head like that, that he would use that line, that I had forgotten about that one.

I spent the next hour in a mental uproar, trying to shrug it off, trying to not qualify myself to him, trying not to probe into the questioning of why not, trying to let it go.

I finally did, with some grousing.

But that line did remind me of another that one of my guy friends uses on dates, which is to casually drop in a version of, "Every girl I've ever kissed I've slept with."

Immediate mental linkage. Immediate acknowledgement. Immediate sexuality.

And, when she does let you kiss her, you know you're in. You know you're in her head. It's golden, in my opinion.

After dinner, we walked. I love walking, love exploring places. So we wandered residental streets, looking at various architecture, ooohing at different things people with way too much money had done to their homes.

On the way back to our cars, we found a construction site with wide stairs I had to climb.

My lack (was it a lack?) of planning led me to climb these stairs, then realize because I cannot see in 3D (long, boring story) and the light was so low, I would need him to assist me in getting back to ground level.

Mmm physical contact.

Mmm making out on the stairs, being held off-balance so I had to cling to him.

Mmm him shrugging off his jacket, hiking my skirt up over my waist, and running his hands over my ass, moaning beautiful complimentary curses.

I decided to cancel my clubbing plans, he decided to cancel his party plans, and I took him back to my apartment.

We were going to go walking, seeing the city nightlife, leave my car at my place and go from there.

Unsurprisingly, once we stopped into my apartment, we did not leave.

Lit up the candles in the fireplace, put on my triphop station, and, sometime later, found myself with my ankles locked around his waist, his face buried in my breasts, being shoved up against side fireplace.

It was an odd ebb and flow of talking, cuddling, and sudden sexual activity that, per my set boundaries, never led to sex. I never went down on him, never actually touched his cock. Per my instructions, he left his pants on the entire night.

However, I was naked.

Which meant a lot of oral for me, a lot of digital penetration. And, like any good man who has had a lot of sexual experience, rimming. Delightful rimming. I find it hysterical that so many people are so disgusted by this.

It was weird, really. I'm always the pleaser, always the one serving, the one begging, whimpering, pleading, whining, watching everything I do for those perfect movements, the ones that look so natural, so desperate for whomever I'm with.

And I have not been pleasing lately. I've been being pleased. I've been the responder. I have been the one laid out in the bed while a man works over me, trying to unlock me.

Spooning, he slid two fingers into me, and I let my hips roll, acting as though it was him sheathed inside me, grinding my ass into his crotch, him rasping, "Oh god, that's right, baby, fuck my hand, fuck it, yessssss."

Cute. Fun.

I don't really like being called "baby". So generic.

"Kitten" will make me melt, though.

In the morning, I pressed against his side, slide my thigh on top of his to grind into him, wet, wanting, licking his earlobe, kissing his neck, biting his shoulder, until he finally couldn't take it, finally violated the boundaries I had placed, took off his pants and masturbated while I stroked his body, lightly moaning into his ear, running my fingernails over the inside of his thighs, the backs of his knees.

When he came, it was the build up of hours. I had not seen that much semen since the first time GV8 and I slept together, and he had an orgasm that lasted at least ten seconds (which blew my mind... it doesn't sound like a lot, but when a man is pulsing and unloading down your throat for ten seconds, it's surprising).

I wanted to flip around, swing a leg over him, grind into his mouth while I licked him clean.

But I, of course, obeyed my own boundaries.

We showered, I dropped him back at his car. Texted him to thank him for a fun evening. He called me once he got home.

It's weird, the body thing. Seeing his muscles move under the fat that he developed through years of being unable to exercise. Seeing the bones in his face, knowing what was there, what has the potential to be there. Realizing, suddenly, that in the last year all of the men I have slept with (or have sexually interacted with) have been in the range of above attractive to oh-my-god attractive.

Trying out the idea that a woman is attracted to status over looks, pushing my own mind to view things in certain ways to see how I will respond.

I know I am base. I know, and am aware, that status turns me on. I know that a man with a partner count over 200 is something that I prize, something that I look for and, of late, have found.

This doesn't bother me.

I know it probably... maybe... might... should? It's just the way things are, just the way I have learned to be, that the things I value in men tend to mesh with certain characteristics that one finds in men that sleep around a good deal.

I do not know what I am going to do with this one. Usually I know almost immediately what roll a man available to me will fill in my life. He provides many things I've been looking for, and somethings I do not want. He's not alpha enough to shove away my lack of attraction to his body, but he is sexually experienced enough to meet some qualifications, though his technique is nowhere near GV8's. He's very socially active, which is good companion material, and he writes, which is a good prompt and reminder for me to work on my own projects.

But I'm still not certain if I want a casual partner, or if I want to be celibate for awhile.

And since I'm still sitting here on the fence about it, he hasn't charmed me enough to bring me into his court, which is not a good sign for him. I don't desire him enough, and I don't want to settle for a man who I do not sexually desire simply so I can have the companionship I do desire.

215 in the morning. I think I'll sleep on this, though I'm already answering my own question.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

In the coffee shop again, craving coffee, listening to my beloved Beware of Safety's Dogs album on my iPod. I can't wait until they start touring again, I know they have a show with Caspian coming up soon and that's going to be so very good. The closing number Caspian did at the New York show was amazing, still need to upload that video.

Friday night, my mother was supposed to come over.

She's been incredibly depressed lately, what with everything that happened with my father over Christmas. And it's so hard for us, the two of us. We're best friends, we're so close, and yet she's tethered to my father as much as I would be to my own husband if the situation was reversed... and I can't really be around my father right now.

On Thursday, my father took himself to the doctor to check in on everything. He's coming out of the episode, finally, and starting to realize that he does not remember the month of December (or the 5th of November, if you want to make a Guy Fawkes joke).

Apparently, this is common.

He does not remember what he did. He does not remember the damage he did to the house, or the notes, or my mother calling him, sobbing because she was so afraid of what was going on, that she had lost her husband to a bad chemical reaction, that he would destroy himself before we could get him under control.

He doesn't remember locking us out of the house.

Or coming home and finding the cats were gone.

Or the threats, the ranting phone calls.

He doesn't know why I dropped all of my classes for this semester, rescinded my one-month notice at work, and moved out instead of moving in and powering through to my Master's like was planned.

He doesn't know why my sister avoids him.

Or why I don't call him anymore.

He just knows something bad has happened, that he lost control of his mind, and that, I think, terrifies him. Because, all growing up, he has been so intelligent, so in control, so alpha male of the house. He is where I got my speed of thinking, my ability to communicate, and my mother's father, designing the NIKE missle bases, inventing, writing to MIT where they begged him for more of his work, is where I got the rest.

He lost it, and he's starting to grasp that.

And it's making him so very depressed.

My mother will not leave his side. We're so alike in that regard. We bond to that person, like I have bonded to her, and that is the end of it. Some will say, have said, that she needs to grow some balls and leave him, become independent, but she will never do so unless he harms my sister or myself.

Makes me wonder if the devoted monogamy that my parents share is genetic or social, the way my body shuts down in regards to all other men when I am committed to one.

He doesn't remember the hospital trip.

He doesn't remember me putting my body between his and my mother's and sisters, watching his wild eyes, rabid dog eyes without focus, only rage, knowing that he, at 6'4", could lay me low, and the best I could do would be to take the blows, to block him from my mother, my sister, until someone got him under control.

I wonder if he remembers removing his wedding ring, wearing some army ring from his grandfather in its place, and how much that disturbed my mother.

How relieved we were when he switched it back to the regular ring.

Which happened after my breakdown, in the kitchen, after the hospital. Fully body shaking, trying so hard to control the sobs threatening to spew up from my ribcage, vibrating like a hummingbird's wing. Worst fears realized.

Wonder if the reason why I am so set on believing there is no one real truth, no one reality, only a mass consensus, is because of him, because of his so strong adherence to being right, of one truth, one way of being. Not just one way of being, but one way of being happy, one way of being healthy, one way of being successful, and any other way is wrong.

Hiding out in C's apartment, fighting the depression that comes with self-loathing. Taking walks, long walks all through the city, trying to get some endorphins into my system, trying to get some sun, trying to make myself stop from freezing up in terror at how much things would be changing, what this all meant, and if it would ever be okay again. If my mother would ever be okay.

Talking with GV8 late at night at this very coffee shop, about seventy feet from where I sit now, him pointing out that I needed, if nothing else, to get a place of my own and save as much money as I could, so if my parents did fall apart, if my father did do something so horrible, so unsafe, that my mother had to leave, I could give her a place to live, that I could support her.

And so I did. I found the cheapest place I could live by myself, and it happened to be, luckily enough, wonderful, with an amazing management company.

I moved in almost a month ago.

And things continue to change.

So when my mother called me on Friday to tell me that she could not come, that my father was finally realizing what happened, I understood.

But I ached. Her depression, she misses me so much, I miss her so much, and she's sacrificing her happiness, her mental stability, to make sure my father is okay.

And I cannot be there for her. I cannot handle being around him without others.

I got up at 10 on Saturday morning, threw on some jeans and a t-shirt and walked to C's apartment, knocking on her door and dragging her ass out for a walk into downtown to run some errands. Another friend started texting her while we walked and I tried on some clothes, looking for that right fit. I found a perfect little black dress, something that made me look far curvier than I am, and danced with delight over my find for hours. We walked to a local diner to meet another friend, getting a late breakfast, then the three of us walked back to my apartment to chat while I got ready for my date.

I hate that generic listing of events. Sounds so boring.

I have a love of cheap clothing import stores. You can find some great items there that are hard to really get in other places. I needed a new pair of what I call "clubbing pants", which, for me, are the pants I wear to a club when I am feeling lazy and don't want to dress up. Black, cargoish, thin material that breathes well, with pockets. These are the pants that tell my friends that I do not wish to talk to them all evening, I do not wish to put on make-up or futz with my hair, but I want to dance. And I will dance all night.

It's hard to find a pair that works. My ass is... ghetto. Thick and curvy. Remarked on often. Infinitely spankable. Pants shopping is difficult because of this.

I did not succeed in my pants-finding mission yesterday.

We had breakfast at a diner none of us had been to yet, but I had been wanting to try. It was delicious. C was exclaiming over the food and I was quite in love with my appetizer.

Hanging at my apartment... I'm very mellow, very introspected, very organized in my own way. My apartment reflects this. Everything is very contained. Bringing C over is akin to bringing a pygmy bull into a china shop. Nothing is going to get overly damaged, but there's going to be a close call because she's so energetic and so all over the place.

So I showered and chatted with them, wandering in and out of my closet, trying on different outfits and asking C her opinion, then finally doing hair and make-up for my date, trying different things, experimenting, before settling on a good set of colors that I felt went well with the look I was going for, as my date has a love of the goth girl and I can play that role easily.

They left and I walked outside, across towards the bar, where a woman complimented me on my outfit and, after I thanked her and continued to walk, I overheard one of the men with her say, "Yeah, I'd like it best on my floor."

Mission accomplished, I suppose.

My date turned out better than I expected, I'll say that. Much better.

Long-term material? No, if only because I still am set on eventually having children and, as I've found of late, if a man is past forty and childless, it's unlikely that he wants offspring.

But I'm late for the annual family and friends Super Bowl party, where I plan on laying on my stomach in front of a sunny window and reading my textbook, maybe working on the novel that I have brewing inside me.

And most importantly, eating lots of shrimp. So much shrimp, and I will eat it, oh yes I will.