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?

Hardly.

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.