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.


  1. I don't know who's eyes are prettier, yours or his....

  2. Hey, Savage, I know you're Visceris's long time netfriend. So, let me salute you from across the wires.

    I have to tell you there's something I'm concerned about. I'm concerned your last posting shows you haven't gotten a handle on this "beautiful eyes" thing. Why? Because you said you didn't know whose eyes were prettier, Visceris' blue eyes or GV8's green.

    Did you know that eyes are their most beautiful in the first rays of sunlight? That one fact allows me to propose a test to determine whose eyes you REALLY think are more beautiful.

    Here's the test.

    Which pair of eyes would you like to wake up to in the morning? The green? Or the blue?

    I know your answer, Savage. It's the same answer I and every other red-blooded, heterosexual, American male would give.

    See? I knew you and I had similar tastes.

  3. pof needs to marry some rich heir - be kept - and thus write unencumbered.

    think of it as a valid career option

    think im done posting on blogs 4 a while

  4. 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.

    Either an indication of borderline syndrome, or another win for my theories in attraction.

  5. Hey, Visceris, I didn't want to write anything about your "sexually dominant men" posting. I avoided doing so last night. And I hoped to avoid doing so tonight. But you haven't posted anything new.

    Were I to believe in signs, I'd believe that the absence of anything new meant I was supposed to answer your posting. So, here goes.

    There's something wrong with your saying that men who hurt women are "dominant." I don't use that word. I use different and stronger words. I say they are "sexual cowards." I say they are "fucking assholes." I say they are "sexual deviants," "low life," and "human vomit."

    I say they don't deserve to be called "men."

    Certainly not the ones whom you and "C" trusted to teach you about your own sexuality.

    On the other hand, I'm no advocate of "C's" new kind of man either. She's gone over to the other extreme. Right answers just aren't found in extremes.

    Here's what I think. I think real men know that love doesn't use fists. They know that love doesn't draw blood. They know that love doesn't injure.

    Real men . . . really love.

  6. Savage,

    I suppose that depends on what your favorite color is. His are gorgeous. I keep telling him he needs to undo his vasectomy so we can have beautiful-eyed babies, but he doesn't listen.


    Aw, you continue being oddly sweet. Sad to see you disappear for a bit... hope you come back.

    11 minutes,

    You neglected to read the following paragraphs to that statement... which is understandable, in a way, since my post is so long.

    I wanted him to tell me he was starting to get attached, that we needed time and distance, not because of a need for rejection, but for that emotional validation that he sill wants me, still wants me too much.

    Which, amusingly enough, has become the case now.