Well, I'm sick. One of my coworkers brought in some sort of nasty cold and it has circulated through the departments. I've been trying to give it to my boss, but he seems immune.

Back to that weekend, though it's been a goodly number of days that I've posted.

Post-Hollywood, pre-club. We arrived at my apartment and he started cooking dinner while I changed, padding around in my underwear, rifling through my closet. He called me into the kitchen, food was ready, so I walked in, black bra, black panties. This is nothing new for us.

He's on this grass-feed beef kick, so he started handfeeding me this drippy meat mess in the kitchen, something I love. Well, two things I love. Meat and being handfed by an attractive male. There's something incredibly erotic about eating something being held by another person while it's falling apart and you have to nip at it delicately before finally taking the bite, then, with meat especially, there's always those lovely salty juices that are almost the best part. So you have to get those.

So I was standing in the kitchen, in my underwear, in the middle of the afternoon, with this piece of male that is built like hello gorgeous, eating pieces of medium rare dripping wonderful beef out of his hands, licking his fingers clean.

That is totally how life is supposed to be, by the way.

Of course, that ended up escalating to him bending me over a counter and laying into my ass with his palm.

Which turned into me pulling away from him because, as we've discovered, men and self-control don't really go well together unless you find a way to keep them in line.

Which, in turn, caused him to pull me towards the bed, promise to be good, and ask me to repeat the activites of the previous day. Which was me spending a good hour or so doing what I do... providing he kept his hands attached to the metal bar at the head of my bed and kept his boxers on. Teeth, tongue, lips, nails, fingers, palms, full body writhing, straddling, and then, you know, pulling back from doing whatever I was doing with my mouth and realize I could reach my camera.

Which, of course, leads to pictures like this:



Which then, looking at it, makes me sad that I didn't have my Canon Rebel nearby because the combo of poor lighting and basic camera means a slight blur and no shading of abs.

But he's cute anyway. And very tolerant of me sitting on his crotch taking pictures.

Anyhow, after doing that thing that I do (mmm... vagueness) that did not involve in actual sex or sex-related activities (mmm... less vagueness), I decided to finish getting ready to go.

He, however, was not done. So we rolled, he got on top of me, teased me a bit but... well, he's young. My age. Maybe a little older. He has experience, like most men who do the pick up racket, in getting in bed, in getting off, in being dominant, but not in actual, let's spend hours in the sack learning how to make each other scream out of total pleasure. So I was done.

That was a bit of a challenge for him, which led to more spanking in more places, and then he hit me hard enough across the face that I bit my cheek open. Which kinda sucked. I love that hard blow to the face, but I hadn't been prepared so my teeth had not been closed.

When I whined/grumped at him about it, he just did it again.

Which is why he's fun.

But I shoved off from the bed once more, escaping successfully this time.

And, of course, he tries to pull that guilt shit. I don't remember the last time that worked on me. He starts stroking himself, I glance over, laugh, and he looks at me and says, "Well, if you're not going to suck me off..."

Poor guy. I'd feel bad for him, but I don't.

Anyway, it's kinda nice having an attractive male pleasing himself on my bed. As long as it doesn't get on my pillows. Or my sheets, really, because they're black and semen shows up like whoa.

I walked away from the bed, turned on the shower, and threw a washcloth at his torso.

By the time I was done rinsing off, he came and tossed the rag back at me.

See, people, that's teamwork.

As we got ready for the club on Saturday night, Playboy started griping at me. I had warned him it would be a more mellow club, that I went for the music, to dance, population was small, mood was low-key. He wanted flashing lights, wanted heavy beats, wanted the girls on the poles like the night prior.

Putting on my make-up, I told him he didn't have to go. I was perfectly willing to leave him at my apartment, or drop him elsewhere, if he had something in mind. We discussed options, but he eventually settled on going to the club with me.

But he was whining.

Or doing the guy whine. You know, sullen male, but trying to hide it. Trying not to sound like he's whining.

We were in the car already, me driving (I refused to let him drive after I saw his driving skills... San Francisco residents should not be allowed vehicles, sorry). I finally turned to him and told him that I could drop him somewhere along the way, pick him up on the way back, but if he came to the club he was not going to ruin it for me, he was not going to bug me to leave early, and he sure as hell was responsible for his own entertainment and mood.

Good behavior the rest of the night. Even though he was bored and miserable, when I offered to leave early, he told me to continue having fun.

So I did. Guiltless.

Several of my guy friends were there, which is a bit... unusual. I'm very physically affectionate with every male I'm comfortable with, so I do believe it ended up looking like I had multiple boyfriends with the handholding, lap crawling, hugging, cuddling, and general tomfoolery. All of them, save Playboy, are platonic friends (even though, post-club, I received a text from one saying that multiple people said we looked good together, and then, the next day, he asked me out for Valentine's Day dinner... which was awkward. He keeps trying, keeps thinking he's being subtle, keeps not being subtle at all).

I had an odd moment with the head of security, though. He's a friend of mine, though we met at the club, not prior. He's an awesome guy, lots of fun, always really upbeat and on it, totally flirty, constantly tells me (and god knows how many other women) that he's going to leave his wife and kids for me if I just say the word. Brings the new security guys over to watch me dance sometimes, so I put on a little show, flirt with him, kiss his cheek, etc. Give him massages when he has some downtime. I was watching the dance floor and he came over to me, we hugged, stood there with his arm around me, and out of the blue, he says, "You know, you're different. You stand out."

I started laughing and looked around us to illustrate that we were in this club where everyone is dressed to show, flashy and dramatic. He didn't laugh with me, though he smiled. "No, I'm serious. Even here, you stand out. You're not like the others. You've got this kindness. You've got this pretty, this sexiness."

It was... odd. I was flattered. He wasn't hitting on me at all, not like he usually does in his teasing, over the top way, like he does with the other girls. He was sincere. Unexpected.

When SFPlay and I returned to my place, there was no repeat of the prior shower incident.

Sunday morning, he was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Before you get the wrong impression, he's a nutritionist. He's been, for free, helping me design my diet, telling me where to shop, what to eat, educating me on the different chemicals that we put into different foods.

Because of him, I'm finally at the same weight I was when I was 19.

So, he's in the kitchen at my stove, barefoot (score one for the wimmins (god, I am so lame, I know it)), singing "I'm shacked up with a hot goth girl, it's like my high school fantasy come truuuuuuue" which causes me no end of laughter, even though I fall more than a bit short of the "goth" mark.

Pale skin, black hair, blue eyes. Throw me in a dark wardrobe and magic.

We go our separate ways after walking around and hitting a used music store for some CDs for the road for him. I head over to my stylist, then met up with GV8.

GV8 and I... did our usual. Walked over the Hollywood Boulevard, talked, held hands, etc. He knows most of the characters on the boulevard because he used to be one, when he was fresh out of prison and needed an unmonitored source of income. Those guys, the good ones, make really good money. So whenever we go out there, we end up having all these random people in random costumes come over, get introduced, catch up with him, hit on me, weird stories, etc.

On the way back, though, it was great. Some man selling... something, I didn't look, was hawking at people to buy his stuff, looked straight at GV8 and said, in this horrible hobo-accent, "You! You! I know you got money! Buy somethin'!"

GV8, he buys his most of his day-time clothes at Wal-Mart. He's totally apathetic. He likes to joke that he's the only millionaire that shops at Wal-Mart. He used to show up to the apartment with just bags of socks, undershirts, whatever, and I'd end up washing them, sitting on his huge bed with this pile of various types of socks trying to figure out what sock went with what other sock and why does no male listen to me when I tell them that white socks are lame?

This was the first time I saw him not understand what was going on.

He laughed at the guy as we walked past, then then said something like, "Yeah, I have money. How did he know that?"

I was so surprised that he didn't immediately do the math. Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, dressing like a guy that shops at Wal-Mart, with a girl almost twenty years his junior on his arm. I am nowhere near trophy material, but I'm attractive enough for someone to assume (correctly) that GV8 has money.

Once I mentioned the logic, we had a good laugh. And now, when I see him, I imitate the vendor. "You! You! You got money!"

When we separated this time, I cried.

Gods, I did not want to. I get emotional when I'm tired, doubly so when I'm hungry and tired, of which I was both. I felt like an idiot, so I pulled myself together and left.

Actually, what I said to him was, "Soooo, before this awkward moment becomes even more awkward... I'm gonna go."

And then I left.

Once I got some food in me and took a nap, I was fine.

He came over the following Tuesday night with a present for me. A tool set so I could flip the doors on my fridge to open the right way. It's a pretty nice set, I'm fairly jazzed about it.

So I flipped the doors around on my fridge while he handed me the various bits. Which meant I was on the floor of my kitchen for part of it, on my stomach, ass slightly up in the air and, of course, my feet kicked up behind me.

First, because it's comfy and what I do when I'm working on something like that. I have this paranoia that someone will trip or step on my legs when I'm working on a project that requires me to be on the ground and fixated on one thing.

Second, because that's a favored position of his for when I used to go down on him. Naked, save for knee-high stockings, feet kicked up behind me, dangling and carefree. He's got a bit of a foot fetish, and loves stockings, so it was a good thing.


We're getting better. We went out Saturday, before I went to a concert with The Bassist over the the Henry Fonda Theater (we saw The Residents and they were amazing, by the by). We fit so well. And I'm starting to have more faith in myself when it comes to dealing with him. I know I need to trust myself, trust what I've learned about him, and see what happens.

I know it's unlikely that we'll ever be a couple again, and, gods, am I glad we had the time we did. He impacted me so strongly, changed me so much. I'm so different than I was at this time last year. So very different.

Just gotta keep going at it.

And this post is long enough. This is what happens when I don't have the time or energy to post in short(ish) bursts. I hope you all have learned your lesson.

I received my textbook in the mail today (thanks, Amazon!) so I've got some reading to do. One of my guy friends referred to my apartment as V's Shag Pad. And it's turning into that. A mess of books and sex. I'm going to light some candles, put on some trip-hop, and crawl into my beautiful black canopy bed with a selection of literature from the Romantic period.

Wearing my favorite nightshirt...



No, my mirror isn't that dirty. It's just that old. Win.

The front of that shirt says "fist".

The back also has a four-letter word that starts with "F".

No, it's not "frag". Nerds.