Thursday, April 29, 2010

Feeling kinda... socially stagnant.

Which is odd. I get out all the time. Too often, really.

Wonder if I'm just looking for excuses/distractions from dealing with my own responsibilities, and afraid that I'm just going to sink back into social non-existence.

Unpacked some more boxes last night and today. Long overdue. They've been sitting in my kitchen since I moved here in January, but it's a lot of decorations and memories. Memories... can't do much with at the moment. Decorations... that involves making this space my own. More my own.

But I did it. Progress was made. It felt really nice.

Always so afraid that anything I really enjoy is going to be yanked out from under me.

Feels like it happens so often, whenever I get excited about something.

I shut down my dating site profile.

Kept finding myself there, browsing the members, waiting for that lightening strike of "ooh, that's mine" to hit.

It's embarrassing. That's the last thing I need right now.

And the stupid, stupid messages. Who teaches these guys how to write? Or interact with the opposite sex? I feel like I could teach a course on how not to email women on dating sites.

And then the stalkers. Those guys that keep coming back and making sure you know they were there. And the passive-aggressive messages that follow.

So I decided it wasn't good. I'm itching. I'm itching with physical need and, more importantly, psychological need to have that male distraction, have that focus, have that rush of chemicals to my brain that leave me restless and excited.

I've gotten so much better than I used to be. Time was, when a relationship ended, I'd bounce from bed to bed. Happy, yes, but not necessarily healthy. Or, rather, in most cases, not doing anything positive for me, just engaging in my typical cyclical behaviors. It wasn't unhealthy, it just wasn't helping.

Things with GV8 have been rocky. The time I left him, back in early November of last year, I found my way into two different beds (and one of those beds contained two men, which was freaking awesome). Then he left me in December and the thing with my dad happened and, after that was all over, I found myself in bed with two men- but not having sex. Back together, then apart again, in bed with one man (no sex), made out on a couch with another.

Now we're apart again. Well, we're done, really.

It's been a week as of today, and I'm feeling that itch rise.

Gotta keep it tamped down. Gotta distract myself with life and with friends. Gotta focus on me and my goals. Long-term goals, not short-term, brief emotional-connect goals that do nothing for me but distract me from living the way I wish to live.

Each time has had a small backslide, each time has been less of a slide than the one before it.

I want to get better. What I do now... it's passable. It keeps me decently happy. I like being the sort of sex-queen I've come to be. But I don't want to stay in this place. To grow means there needs to be change. To change means there needs to be something you give up.

And I need to give this up.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

But somehow I manage...

C and one of her partners came over last night.

They hung out in my kitchen making taquitos while I showered. We're no strangers to each other's bodies, given the amount of time I spent couchsurfing with her, wandering around my apartment naked while the water grew hot was nothing out of the ordinary.

She's been seeing this new guy, not the one that was with us last night. I don't like him much. He's very controlling, but in the way that makes you think he's doing you a favor, or that he "really respects your decisions". His hands are cold and damp, his haircut too feminine, his posture lacking.

The four of us are going to a Cinco de Mayo event next week. C, her two guys, and myself. He didn't want to go with us. He wanted to have her to himself, didn't want to share. Doesn't want to get to know the other people she spends so much of her life with.

My right arm has been aching lately, as it often does when I overuse it. Too much time playing keyboard jockey, too many nights falling asleep with my hands clenched into light fists, jaw locked shut, grinding my teeth.

I find myself daydreaming about a male arm sliding around my waist, pulling me into him for more contact while we sleep.

I find myself at a club in conversation with a one-night stand from two years ago, discussing how his girlfriend finds me desirable, and how that interest is, oddly enough, returned. Imagining a threesome- he's tall, well-dressed red-head, she's a leggy blonde, and I've my dark hair and swishy curves.

It'd look good. The three of us would look gorgeous together.

I spend my days talking with Roman, text, IMs, phone calls. Constant companionship of the platonic variety. I'm comfortable with him, comfortable talking with him, arguing with him, teasing him.

Found myself shooting emails back and forth with a man who I've been interested in for several years. When it trickled down from several paragraph exchanges to one or two sentences, I shrugged and moved along.

His loss.

I actually thought that. Without a trace of snark, but a sincere observation. I don't have interest in playing "chase the overworked businessman". He can hunt me down if he so desires.

Got a comment on an earlier entry. One sentence. Saying something like, "Damaged... so very damaged."

Had that mild rage rise up.

Probably not that rage one would expect.

But the rage that comes from being confronted with another set of beliefs that rolls egocentric in nature.

To express to someone that they are damaged is to say that you are healthy enough to comment on their state of being. Not only that, but that how they feel, how they experience life, their value system, is entirely incorrect. That you know, you know exactly how to be healthy and happy.

That one truth to living. You've got it.

Unfortunately, since it's a single sentence comment, that Ultimate Truth of happiness and health isn't being shared. There's nothing supportive or constructive.

No, it's just a drive-by comment. Unneeded. Expressing to the poster their superiority, the recipient, their inferiority. Nothing further to be communicated.

The buck stops here. Whatever that means, exactly.

It means that the opinions being expressed in the post were indiciative of damage. Meaning those opinions were unhealthy. Meaning that unhealthiness is wrong. Meaning those opinions were wrong.

But the commenter, the commenter is oh-so right. Because they know. They know that their opinions are right. Which means their opinions are healthy. Which means they are healthy.

When speaking with Roman on a similar, but totally unrelated topic, I can only that this to mean that the commenter, or anyone expressing such egocentricity, knows what the universe wants. Knows the Ultimate Right, the Ultimate Goal, the Ultimate Path to happiness.

At the time, I described it as the girl in question being on the other side of a double-ended dildo shared with the universe.

I swear that it made sense ...I think.

I have no tolerance for such mindsets, as hypocritcal as that may sound. I will argue with people whose worldviews I agree with if I feel like they believe they know the Right Way to Be, in whatever forum that may occur. Religion, social, sexual, political... I won't discuss their beliefs with them, but I will rip them a new one (as Roman discovered yesterday) if they're platforming for the Ultimate Right.

It's one of my biggest peeves, one of the things that will be guaranteed to either set me off of make me leave a room. I have walked out of family dinners with the sentence: "Let me know when this discussion is over."

Back to the initial starting point for this topic.

Am I damaged?

In my opinion, yes, I am damaged.

And that's the only opinion that matters on this subject.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Roman has prescribed to me that I need to step away from the MRA, evo-psych, and general PUA blogs for a bit, get my head out of that world. I was thinking that myself, so I'm going to try to mellow that side of things out.

When Friday rolled around, I was a small ball of rage promoted by fears and insecurities regarding ending things with GV8. I was snappy and unfocused, completely bitchy and anti-social. Work doesn't help at the moment, as my boss is out of town for the next few weeks, which puts me in charge of a department that I've never been taught fully how to manage.

So I drove over to a large Mexican restaurant down the street from the office after work, book in hand.

I go there about, eh, once every month or two.

But when I arrive, the hostesses (only one of which I ever recognize) seem to know who I am, comment that I haven't been around. I suppose that doing what I do (going to restaurants and eating while reading a book) makes me fairly easy to remember.

"Oh, there's that loser girl. Why isn't she at the bar with friends? Why is she off in a corner, reading a book?"

Nah, I know it isn't that bad.

For more brain relaxation, I went to see "The Back-up Plan" after dinner.

While I was not the only solitary female attending this movie, I do believe I might have been the only one there reading "The Mating Mind" through the previews.

That movie kinda hurt. But the water-birth scene had me laughing so hard I was falling into the seat next to me.

I also was breaking down the male lead's game techniques in my head. I really need a vacation from thinking.

Saturday, I went to the LA Times Festival of Books.

I did not think that there would be so many people there. I mean, really, people don't read. They just don't. Especially here.

But there were people.

I ended up feeling rather awful, for two reasons.

1. I... always feel outside of things. Outside of groups. I never fit in anywhere, in my opinion. So I'm wandering around this book festival surrounded by, theoretically, people that love reading as much as I do. So we should be... similar. Right? Constantly buried in books? Passion for words?

Well, that proved untrue. Well, untrue as far as I could tell.

Looking through books, through all these different booths and publishers with their own agendas to spread, looking for that one that will make me fall in love with the written word again. Failing.

I just want that one writer to knock my socks off. I want roughness and honesty, I want internal range and a hint of self-destruction.

Then I started checking in with the writers groups/guilds/camps/flocks/whatever, trying to see if I could find a writing group that would suit me.

When I tried to explain what I was seeking to do to the VP of GLAWS, checking to see if they had such a group (they sort by type), not so much. He just looked at me, slightly glazed, but still selling. Nice guy, but...

It's probably just me.

It's probably me expecting to be the outsider, expecting that constant judgement and that instinctive recognition. You know, the one where you feel people know you aren't like them just by looking at you, even if you look like everyone else, somehow, some way, they know.

Walk into any group with that mindset, and they'll likely "know", if just by your body language.

So, there was that.

Then, #2, walking around, looking at all these people that are self-publishing, starting their own publishing company, pursuing their dreams, getting themselves out there... and I've done nothing. I do these short bits for the blog and then... that's it. Nothing long, nothing in progress. I don't put in the effort, the time, that is needed for something more quality. I don't submit pieces like I should, I don't try to improve my writing.

I'm so afraid of failure, and so afraid of completing this project, that I do nothing.

So I was walking around feeling like a miserable outsider who has done nothing to try to achieve her goals, put in no work toward the "next great American novel". Going nowhere in life.

It was... no good.

So, around 230PM I used my lifeline and called The Bassist. We decided to go MOCA in downtown, as I had never been.

He got stuck in traffic, so I had a good forty-five minutes to wander around and take pictures of that area of downtown. It was pretty nice, though cold.

When he finally arrived and we got into the exhibit, I realized that I've never understood "contemporary" art. So much of it seems like a waste, like a bunch of overpriced pretentious bullshit.

But The Bassist, being all artsy and stuff, was able to explain it to me in a way that made sense, so I actually started appreciating it and understanding it. Which makes me a little sad because now... yeah, sure, I could see someone buying that painting that is two solid colored rectangles standing next to each other for, oh, $50K.

Or whatever these crazy people do.

The museum had a couple amazing photography displays. Completely emotional, near biographical work. I loved those.

And then The Bassist told me what had happened with this girl he had met.

He's such an unusual guy, and way too smart, that he has a hard time finding women that he connects with. He's also leans towards dating older women, prefers them in their 30s or 40s. He's a young musician. There's this definite gap for him between who he wants to date and who will date him because of that reverse age separation and the social stereotypes that come with being in a band and going on the occasional tour.

So he met this girl last week who was a near perfect fit in all these ways that he never would have expected to find in another person. He was raving to me about her for days because they were so ridiculously well-suited.

Turns out she has a boyfriend that she's been living with that past seven years and he's given her permission to have an open-relationship.

The Bassist, he doesn't swing that way.

He was so disappointed and so angry. Not at her, but at life, about meeting someone so near perfect to find... that.

We drove over to Hotel Figueroa for dinner while he ranted. Sat in the restaurant in the lobby and people-watched and ranted more. Wandered around the Staples Center, then went back to Hotel Figueroa (where we accidentally crashed a private party at the pool/bar, where French women were handing out plastic monkey masks) then drove mad-cap through downtown listening to some amazing Swedish band.

I hit the club without him after that, dancing the evening away even though my legs felt wrecked from walking all day. It's amusing that such minor physical exertion over the course of ten hours can wipe someone (me) out on a purely muscular level.

Afterwards, a group of us hit a nearby IHOP.

I'd rather have gone to Fred 62's, even though it was significantly farther away. But majority (and proximity) won out and about ten or so of us headed over to an IHOP with a too small parking lot.

I think I'm going to make a habit of taking a change of clothes along with me when I go clubbing. This is the second time where I have, fortunately, had a change of clothes in my trunk, so while all the other girls are sitting around in their too-tight club gear, all sweaty and uncomfortable, I'm peeling my stockings off in the bathroom, wriggling out of my mini-skirt, and putting on a comfy pair of cargo pants and flip-flops.

Sure, one might say I should have stayed clubified because I was sitting next to that DJ I have a small fancy for, but I simply could not bring myself to care. It is so very, very nice to be in clean, dry clothes after a night of dancing, while people are bringing you food.

And since I switched to flip-flops in the ultimate effect of laziness, and then propped my feet up on the chair across from me, I got a foot rub.

Yes, that's right. I got to spend all night dancing, sweating my ass off, to go out to an IHOP at 330AM, have food brought to me, be fed perfect bites of pancake by the man across the table from me, and get my feet rubbed.

It was so nice. I was near purring, leaning on the DJ apologizing for my occasional noise, but it felt too good. Being on my feet all day, then dancing... they were sore as hell.

Drove off around 5AM or so, headed home. Quick shower and crawled into bed.

Roman jarred me from my sleep with a phone call at 11AM. I knew I should've texted him when I went to bed, telling him not to call before noon. I think he has a thing for my "oh jesus christ what time is it, where am I, oh god why am I awake??" morning voice. It's all low and raspy, and I'm not coherent enough to be a smartass.

Basically, the morning after a club, I am a defenseless bed-kitten.

I tried to go back to bed after that, but it was too late. Forty minutes of tossing and trying to convince my body that it needed more sleep did not work. Ended up putting on Flashdance while I cooked breakfast, then cleaned and posted some furniture I needed to get rid of on craigslist (did a little photo shoot of it, too). Which still hasn't sold. This is lame.

Finally motivated myself to leave the house, ran by Trader Joe's on the way to my parents' and picked up ingredients for dinner.

There was this cashier, a woman in her fifties or so, dyed red hair, cropped close to her skull. Thinning. A little chunky, but nothing that would be unexpected on a woman her age. Large-framed glasses, heart-shaped face. No wedding ring.

She reminded me of my aunt, the one who killed herself last year.

Just that sort of open, slightly disconnected expression. Not stupid, but a little uncomfortable and unsure. Awkward without knowing why.

I watched her for a bit, as she rang up the man in line in front of me. Wondered if she was a lesbian, a widow, a divorcee, a spinster, or just a woman without a wedding ring. Wondered what she was doing, at her age, running a register at Trader Joe's. Wondered if she had experienced love, how many times, if her heart had been broken, if he was a cheating bastard, or if she had a partner at home that she was totally devoted to. If working at TJ's on the weekend was a way of making ends meet, or just something to do: a time-kill for lonely weekends. A way of getting out of the house.

Arrived at my parents', popped my laundry in the dryer, sat out on the patio with my parents while my father read the newspaper and my mother kicked my ass so hard at Scrabble. It was painful. Something like 196 to 300. I rarely lose that bad.

When I started cooking dinner, my dad got a little snappy. Not at me, but at my mom. Snappy, and unprovoked. Snappy, trying to pick a fight. Snappy, releasing aggression at something other than the actual source. Fuck-with-your-mind snappy.

That combined with his increased activity during the course of the day, even though he's got a chest cold and the last time he had that he ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, I had a mild freak out.

Totally contained, all internal.

But... yeah. The thought of him going into an extreme manic episode again, when there's no drug to blame, how badly that would fuck everything up, topple me off this unsteady perch of sanity, I started shaking. Started quizzing my mom on his behavior, his moods, when the last time he had been to his therapist was.

I'm not going to let this happen again.

My mother is all optimistic, doesn't want to think about it, doesn't think it'll happen again.

I'm on high alert.

I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to watch my mom go through that again.

Dinner was a success with the folks, but I was disappointed. It hadn't come out nearly as good as it had before. Afterwards, Dad and I curled up on the couch and watched Nightmare on Elm Street which, somehow, he had managed to not see until now. He was unimpressed, but I still love that series.

I drove home and went to bed, making it a weekend without any sort of contact with GV8.

It's hard. I feel a bit directionless without him, a compass with no north.

I've never really had a solid direction. Five year plans are as foreign to me as one year plans, it's only of late that I've really be considering the future. I have an envy for people who know what they want to do with their lives, where they want to end up, what their priorities are. A career path, even. It terrifies me to think that I might always be working jobs that I'm good at but don't really have a passion for, don't have an interest in, always rather be writing than sitting at a cubicle.

Three years from now and still in the same industry?

I'd be twenty-nine. How sad is that?

Four years and I'll be thirty. I can't even imagine.

I've been developing this theory lately, about how, when I was a child, avoiding chores (most typically, it was mowing the lawn and I would hide up in my room, hoping that my mother would not wake me and I could "sleep" until it was too late to mow the lawn, which my eleven year-old brain would not realize that it would have to be after dark for that to happen), avoiding pain (shots, lighting matches)... these were things that were dreaded, were focused on.

Each month was slow, waiting for things that were planned weeks or months in advance to happen, waiting for the weekend, waiting for Christmas or Halloween. Life crawled, and each event seemed to have a larger impact then than a similar event would now.

I'm starting to wonder if it is a ratio thing.

When we're five, one day is a significantly larger percentage of our life than one day at the age of thirty. Sure, it's less than 1%, but if we're comparing...

5 yrs x 365 days = 1825 days means 1 day is equivalent to 0.055% of our life. Which doesn't sound like much.

But then we go:

30 yrs x 365 days = 10950 days means 1 day is equivalent to 0.0091% of our life.

Which is, in my opinion, is a relatively large difference. At least it is in social stat. Wish I remembered more of it.

So each day, and the events of each day (or lack thereof) has a greater impact when you've experienced less time because it is more of your life.

Time, in your view, would technically take longer.

Which could help explain why time seems to move so much faster as you age, and the little things have smaller impact, you don't go out of your way to avoid mild, expected pains.

And, yes, I know that there's many contributing factors. Experience. Deadening nerves. Maturity. More activities, more demands on time.

It's just an interesting thought for me.

My parents, being hippies, used to take my sister and I on long roadtrips across the western half of the US. It was normal for a day of driving to range around 8 hours. Sitting in the car for eight hours when you're five or six is a nightmare of boredom. You're sitting there going, "Jesus Christ, this is eight hours of my life and I haven't experienced a large volume of hours yet, I'm only six!"

And you're asking your mom how much longer and, in my family's case, I would be answered in Sesame Street episodes, which were an hour.

"Mooooom, how much longer?"

"Two Sesame Streets, V, and then we'll get lunch."

If it was less than a Sesame Street, she'd hold her fingers apart and explain that if this distance was a Sesame Street episode, then this shorter distance was how much longer we had to drive.

It was those indeterminate ones that drove me nuts.

Time has been a focus of mine, lately. Dealing with self-discipline and reality, shoving through the things that bother me, realizing that it's past midnight right now and I'm exhausted and I'm going to be up in less than seven hours and I lost myself at the computer again.


Friday, April 23, 2010

Hey GV8,

So... email, I know. Lame. But talking to you messes me up and then I'm all horrible for the next few days. I'd like to request that you don't respond to this email... it would hurt me even more than writing it already has.

You say that our dating window is up, but I don't believe that's true. We still love each other, we still connect. Just because reality interferes doesn't mean that the dating window ends. I think if we get near each other again, it's just going to happen again, no matter what we tell ourselves.

And by both of our own reasonings, it's not going to work. Core value issues.

Each time I talk to you, my hopes get up. Fairies, pixies, leprechauns, all that. Waiting for some magical solution to all this so I don't have to be away from you any longer. It feels so awful to be without you, so gut-wrong. I have to tell myself that my instincts are wrong, that I can't trust myself, and it's not easy.

But you said that's the way it is. Over and done with.

I can't accept that.

There's nothing to be done about it, though. Arguing won't change the way things are.

So until I can accept what you've already accepted, I can't interact with you without damaging myself. There are so many things I need to do this summer to get my life where I want it to be and I won't be able to do it if you're there... but not -with- me. I'm still too in love and too hopeful, still haven't accepted reality.

Kinda sad that I can't knock this fairytale out of my head.

I do love you and I do want you in my life again, even if it means only as friends. But that friendship is just going to blow up in both our faces if I can't get my feelings for you under control and accept that neither one of us is going to be able change enough to make a relationship possible.

So I'm going to take time to myself and try to be happy, healthy, and productive. Learn to be okay with a life that doesn't have you as a main feature.

I will call you when I think I've hit that point, though I don't know how long that will take.

If you need me, for any reason, please call. And if you find a pot of gold and some wish-granting leprechauns, let me know.

I love you. You've given me such a wonderful year with so many amazing memories and experiences, shown me that such deep connection with another person, a thing that I've only dreamed of, is possible. I've learned and grown so much because of you and I'm incredibly grateful for that and all the support and love you've given me. I hope I will continue to do you proud, and when we speak next it will be full of love and friendship.

Many hugs,

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Tonight's post has gone on a trip to the vacation hot-spot for blogs: Meditations in an Emergency, as its founder, the dashing Mysterg, is off being a world traveler and left us fellow bloggers behind, living vicariously through his life of adventure... and guest-posting on his blog.

So you can find it here.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I'd rather have a bottle in front of me...

I have to say, this is one of the rare times I don't want to be blogging because my mind is simply too full and I just want to retreat into my cave and not talk to anyone until it goes away, by either zombie attack or lobotomy.

That's right, baby. Brains: come and get 'em.

But since I missed last night's posting, here I am.

By "here" I mean sitting in my bed, wearing an ex-boyfriend's old thermal and shiny blue pajama bottoms with the phrase "Sweet Dreams" printed across the back in a sort of strange italics.

My hair is up in a bun because it's so cold I did not want to wash it and go to bed with hair that hadn't dried fully, so tomorrow is going to be an "interesting" hair day that will translate to me having it "bunned up" all day.

How many more "words" can I put in "quotations marks"?

At the top of my brainmush, is female competition combined with insulting phrasing that is inherently for female recipients, but really only exists to complain about whatever behavior isn't suiting the user at the time.

Which is, magically, how I can be a slut and a cocktease at the same time.

How do I achieve this remarkable feat? one may ask.

Simple. I just have to have two different men looking at me with two different different backgrounds.

The externally active one (meaning, to the person who doesn't understand my slightly odd pairings of words, the one who looks outside of himself to determine what is wrong with "society" and how he is more the result of what has been done to him than his own actions, or even more simply, the one who views the world out of pure egocentricity) will tend to label towards "slut"-themed words.

The internally active one (meaning the one who isn't quite bitter and egocentric enough to enforce his opinions on the rest of the world as The Way Things Should Be) will go towards the "cocktease" or "cunt"-themed words. Not near as aggressively judgmental.

What do they have in common? I'm not sleeping with either of them.

What you just read (or skimmed) above is a fairly common and generalized sentiment.

Men are bitter, angry, hostile, etc etc.

But what it is, though, is a way to control and influence. Girl isn't doing what you want, label her appropriately, get others to back you, have enough status that your label actually matters, or simply get fear of a word entrenched in a group... bingo- behavior will change.

What's worse, and what I've noticed more of these last few days, is when other women do it. Not only do they have to be concerned with their own sex life, but the sex lives of other girls. It's competition and, wow, unhappiness.

As why would a woman who is truly happy with her sex life and her sexual presentation (both socially and physically) care about what another woman is doing, and be anything but supportive as long as the other is safe and happy?

Especially among friends.

And before someone reading this gets the idea that I had some traumatic experience in the last few days/hours/weeks with a girl going off on me, you'd be incorrect. As for a guy going off on me? Not so much either.


I can't tell if the competition at this point is to see who can snag the best man or who can make the others around her more miserable.

I mean, really, that's how you win, right? You get the alpha football jock millionaire high status star and you've won! And then, OMG, you lord him and your acquired status over your girlfriends and they all look at you in envy. Or you make sure that since you're so very unhappy with what you've done with your life, that no one else can be happy and make you feel worse with their success.

I've been reading these MRA blogs about honor and values and how women simply lack them. That's right, kids, women don't have morals. I believe there's supposed to be a genetic difference, some part of the brain that prevented morals (back to the lobotomy, eh, Jones?).

And when I see these women that tout themselves as MRA supporters or anti-feminism supporters, I've just got to sit back and watch the magic.

By magic, I mean grown women behaving like an idiotic school of fish, hanging out in the water, mouths open, begging for the validation of whatever MRA man will come along and tell them that they are special, that they do understand, and that they've got this lovely little doggie bed for them in the garage.

Because these women are actively advocating that they are inferior purely due to biology. That their physical sex is the determining factor on who they are, what they can do, and what morals they can possess.

I can't even read this stuff all the way through.

I'm not a feminist. I don't advocate social change based on my own idea of what society should be. I simply don't have a social -ism or an -ist or any sort of label to apply to my belief set so I can communicate them to others in an attempt at conversion.

Someone tries to talk politics to me? I apologize, tell them I'm dreadfully ignorant, and completely apolitical.
Someone tries to talk religion? No, don't do that either.
Philosophy? Nope.
Sexuality? Oh, hell no.

I'm not going to get into it any place other than online (and for me to step far outside my blog for any significant length of time is uncommon).

Because they're simply beliefs. It's not reality. My believing in the things I do does not make them correct, and it certainly doesn't make them more valid than any other set of beliefs that any other person has. And for me to attempt to force my beliefs on others is an exercise in selfishness and ego-stroking that I don't desire to pursue.

I'll stroke my ego in other ways. Usually with physical action that requires stroking. (wink wink, nudge nudge)

I was going to continue that above parenthetical remark into the rest of the Monty Python skit, but then realized how disconcerting that would be to anyone who hasn't seen it. Yes, you all disappoint me. Except for you. You can stay.

So, to bring that back, controlling others through words, through strength of words, and then having that reinforced by people who should emphasize with the negativity of those words... no. We assign such a high value to words without even realizing it.

I hate how we cut ourselves down, and then we go to be pet by the person who handed us the ax. I'm not a dog, I'm not going to have my "master" sic me on other people.

And this leads into my concerns with GV8, concerns that I've spent all week trying to avoid, only to have them come up again.

I'm 26. I'm now on my downslope. I'm not getting hotter each year, I'm declining. I have to fight to keep my body healthy and in shape. As much as it's going to get, anyway. I have somewhere between ten and fourteen years where I can reproduce.

And then that's it. Uteral party is over.

That's my window.

Crazy how it creeps up on you.

I have to find someone within the next two years, just as I slide into my late twenties. And then I will be, in all likelihood, finding lower and lower quality males that are willing to accept me in my "declining" years. (Aldonza, I have to say I am imagining you shaking your head at me right now and I fully give you permission to boot me in the head later.)

So I've got two years that are no longer optimal, then I have to marry, go through the honeymoon phase, and then pop out a kid or two, hopefully by thirty-five.

It seems like such a brief window.

And that's assuming that I ever find a man that I get along with enough to consider marriage. Yes, I have male attention. But, as has been noted again and again, I'm a bit... intense. I have to have a man that can handle that, and handle it well.

It drives me nuts to think that, for so many, my desirability is not based on my brain, my character, my too-extreme Disney-like morals, but my appearance. And this is accepted. This is the way it is. And there's validation for it. Attractiveness declines with fertility leaving. Of course, that could very well be another chicken-and-egg argument. Then add in Darwin's idea of sexual selection and twist it up more and there you go. Madness. Sparta. Of course, if I recall correctly, Darwin said females choose, males court, but I think it spins both ways because one has to have power to choose, which means one has to be desirable enough to battle over.

So there you go.

Which means that every day I spend moping over GV8, or spend with GV8 (which encourages more moping) is a day that is wasted. Because he's too old, likely not going to marry, and he's now sterile. As long as I'm hung up on him, I cannot truly engage with another male.

But that's just from a biological standpoint.

When you layer in the psychology, the emotions, the personal growth, the life experience through hypergamy... it swings it back around until we're in this limbo where it could either be positive or negative.

And in the end, it just drives me crazy to think about.

So, with the words of god knows how many people ringing in my ears, I called GV8 to tell him that I couldn't do this to myself. I couldn't keep spending time with a man that wouldn't give me monogamy, marriage, or munchkins.

I wanted him to give me a counter-argument, maybe tell me he'd be willing to drop his sport-fucking outside of swing clubs.

Tell me that our relationship was more important than his sport-fucking.

Yeah, that'd be nice.

Instead, he agreed with me. Of course. So not only did I not get an argument, I also lost the high of being the ditcher as opposed to the ditchee.

He's not going to change, I can't ask him to change, sport-fucking is something he's been doing for thirty years and he's not going to give it up, it's as natural to him as breathing. We need to be friends, we've exceeded our "dating window", five break-ups is too many, we need to give up on it.

And I'm sitting there, going "fuck, really?" because now he's taking control of the situation and telling me all these things that I was going to tell him. Which left me feeling incredibly insecure and lacking in validation.

He's way too good at this.

So then I end up pursuing. Not saying that we needed to get back together, but that it bothered me how easy it all was for him, how sad it makes me that he's so willing to give me up for sport-fucking, how rarely he shows his emotions, how surprised that he felt our "dating window" was up. Trying to get that emotional acknowledgment, hating that he's so much stronger than I am.

We were going to go out on Saturday. I called to tell him that wasn't such a good idea. By the end of the conversation, we're back on for a tentative Saturday and I'm here thinking, "Christ, he did it again." Or maybe that should be: "Christ, I did it again."

I'm supposed to call him later in the week to confirm if it's a yes or a no, think on it some.

We talk to each other and... melt.

I got his hackles up a bit, more than once. Pissed him off a couple times. I never used to monitor him so finely, but talking with Roman has made me even more aware of conversational twitches, and the space since GV8 and I last talked allowed me to get my feet under me somewhat so I could play with the conversation, be a little more assertive.

Though at the end I started to crumble. Losing words. Unable or unwilling to articulate the mess in my head.

This is the second time I've considered and decided to take a step away from him.

Each time, I've been blocked by him.

But I think this time, he is set that it is over.

I wish I could have been the one to make that call. He takes control of every conversation and by the end of it, flips me around like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Now I don't know what he wants, what he's planning, and I hate to think that he's done with me so easily. I wish I could see into him like I do others, see that he hurts, that he misses me and hates doing this, as opposed to those words that I hear... but no emotion attached. It would make this so much easier.

He makes me so weak. I let him. I drink him down with Hope for a chaser.

Monday, April 19, 2010

There's been a bit of drama in the parental abode.

It has been one of those "he said, she said" things. Only this time it concerns my sister and the navy man who has been renting a room from us for the past six or so months.

It's a complicated situation.

They got a few drinks at a bar, danced, and came back to my parents' house and went to his room to watch a movie.

My sister says that he started forcing himself on her, pressuring her, before finally listening to her and backing off.
He says that they shared a brief kiss, then stopped themselves and realized that it would not be a good idea to continue further due to the living situation.

It's hard because she's my sister. I have to take her side in such gray areas because she is the one I'm going to be growing old with. Husbands divorce, friends fade, but family is family.

But she's a prude. And she's prone to a sort of bitchy set of mild hysterics. And she exaggerates. And she's defensive as hell. And she'll shove off blame.

He, on the other hand, is a sweet young man. He's the son of a family friend who wanted to get out of the area he was living in so he could get a better job and go back to school. He's been very supportive of the family as we've been going through these rough last months, what with Dad going mentally AWOL. He's been vital to keeping my mother sane when I'm unable to be there for her, and when she's stuck alone in the house, wondering what happened to the future that Jack built.

But he's an incredible horndog. Guys talk to me, guys talk to me a lot. I hear fantasies and realities and fetishes and guilt complexes. I hear bad things that they've done to women, how they've cheated on their partners in horrific ways, I hear the pranks and the gossip.

Talking with him, sometimes I wonder if all the men who I've sat and talked with over the years were hiding the true level of sexual need they keep bottled under their skin. This guy is almost, what my father calls, a walking life-support system for his dick.

Which is probably pretty typical for a very attractive, very active 22 year old male.

He's still a sweetheart. He's still intensely loyal and devoted to improving his future and serving his country (which isn't my bag, but he's dedicated to his beliefs which is admirable).

So they're telling two different stories. The navy man might be finding himself promptly ejected from the house... which would bone him on many levels.

I was talking with my buddy, Chris, about this earlier today. He said the truth is likely in the middle of the two stories.

I'm so used to thinking that it's one way or the other, not a combination plate with beans and rice.

This all happening... brought more light onto the current situation.

Since December, when my father went off the proverbial deep end, I've become the "man of the house".

You see, his recovery period has left him feeling full of self-doubt and major depression. When he's not working on his business, he tends to tune out watching television or, more often, sleeping the day away.

It's very hard for him.

All of his adult life, and some time before that, he's been the smartest guy in the room. And I don't mean booksmart, but lifesmart. He's got this "I know what I'm doing and this is the right way to be" total self-confidence. And he does have the book-knowledge and the life experience to back that up.

He doesn't doubt himself. Or, at least, he doesn't appear to doubt himself.

He is the total stoic male. He doesn't like holidays, he doesn't like socializing, he doesn't like playing cards or board games. He doesn't like Disneyland. He doesn't like cartoons. Shopping for him at Christmas is an exercise in frustration and, really, repetition. Power tools and barbeque utensils. Maybe a sweater for the office for casual days. A tie or two. Every few years, a new watch.

He doesn't join in. He's "outside" the family, as much as we try to bring him in.

A fourth wheel.

He doesn't bond, he doesn't disclose, he doesn't open up, and it's only been within the last year that he's started apologizing.

And I do mean that. My mother called me in shock earlier last year, telling me that my father had actually apologized to her for something. She was blown away. Hell, I was blown away.

In his worldview, he is never wrong. He knows best. No one is as smart as him. No one has been through the things he has been through.

End. Of. Story.

Which has given me some mental kinks, I'll say.

So when his mind went bust last December, when his idea of reality was suddenly incredibly false and his behaviors beyond erratic to the point to where we were having to physically encircle him in the ER in order to keep him from escaping... god, does that hurt.

You can't trust yourself. You can't trust what you think, what you feel, how you react.

For the alpha male of the house, for Mr. I-Know-What's-Right, that's shattering.

Everything you know is truly, potentially wrong.

So he's withdrawn into himself.

He's not making decisions, he's not giving input, he's not reigning in my sister when she goes on another one of her queen-bitch tears.

And my mom who married a very dominant male much to early, who never got a chance to establish herself, take care of herself and her life, determine how things should be... she's left running the show.

But she doesn't know how.

And she certainly can't control my sister.

So she calls me. Like she used to call Dad, or sit and talk with him after dinner, once my sister and I went to bed. Trying to figure out how to handle certain situations (admittedly, most of those situations revolved around me and my poor behavior). She'd talk and he'd listen and then he'd tell her what to do. And if she didn't do it, if she told him she didn't want to take such extreme action so fast, he'd let it sit until she got upset about it again and he would fly down from Mount Olympus (not really) and hand the situation with an iron fist.

When she calls, I don't tell her what to do. I give her thoughts, new angles to think about things. My input. And she'll ask what I would do if I were her. She wants to know what to do, she can't decide it on her own.

I wonder if she was ever really allowed to make those decisions. I mean, yes, she'd make decisions after consult with my father, but never with the decisiveness that he'd end up taking. The impact from her decisions was never enough to resolve the problem. Her decisions were never validated by the results. Therefore, her decision-making ability was never encouraged, so she never developed the faith in her own decisions that was needed to carry out future, harder decisions.

Dad would always have to do it. Dad would be the bearer of the final straw.

So now it's me.

Me until he gets his feet back under him.

I don't even live there.

And I don't mind it. I like being there for my mother.

But it is very, very much a reminder of ways I could have been. Ways I could be, if I lose myself too early with GV8. If I submit without establishing myself and faith in myself, which is something I do need. This apartment, this living situation, finally being out on my own by myself, taking care of everything by myself... it's something that so many people who have cared about me for so long have pushed me towards.

I haven't lost respect for my mother for this. Some people would, I know. Be strong, believe in yourself, don't let a man dominate you, don't lose yourself. It's so easy.

But it's not so easy. Not for everyone. Maybe for them.

She's devoted her life to my father and to her children. She tells me that she never had any dreams, never any goals, other than having children. Not as an end all be all dream, but as a Something I Want To Do goal.

I don't think that's bad or worthy of looking down my nose at.

I understand it too well. Both of us were raised in unstable homes with a very dominant male figure. I'm still not adjusted to the idea of taking care of myself, of being truly responsible for myself. I've gone from my father to boyfriend to boyfriend.

But this is a different time from when she was growing up.

And my father, her husband, is no where near as bad as my grandfather. Not that he was a bad person, but certainly a hard one to be raised by, to learn from as a relationship-template.

People shove at me to live the way I should. My brain, my... strength? The independence that I prize so much. It's hard for them to wrap around the idea that I'm not what they picture me to be. I'm closer than I was, but I'm still not there.

Even so, at 26, I'm more experienced than my mother's 55.

Correction. At 26, I'm more experienced at taking care of myself and making impactful decisions than my mother is at 55. But she's vastly more experienced in raising children, in bookkeeping and insurance and making lunches, cooking well-rounded meals, keeping my father's rages in check, ironing, doing laundry, making beds, organizing family get-togethers...

It's living. What we devote time to, we learn.

She learned other things, making me healthy and strong. Trying to teach me to be independent in ways she never was.

And now I get to be those things for her.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

I went to a party on Saturday night with my club friend who I had, in a combo fit of needed to let parts of me run wild and gratefulness, locked lips with for a little too long at a club two weeks ago.

Telling him at the beginning and the middle that this was a one time deal.

Of course, a week later, we were out at another club and I was frisky.

The amount of time was less, but we were very much more in public, with friends. With lots of friends. Part of it was me simply being silly and getting him to stop teasing people by keeping his mouth occupied.

So... that happened.

And he called to ask me to go to this party with him (which ended up, oddly enough, being the birthday party of someone I've been acquainted with for the last ten years) on Saturday.

I said yes because I do really like him... as a friend. He's an amazingly good person, not a "good guy" that is just a beta push-over, but more like a grizzly bear. He works at various clubs, bounces, does set-up and tear-down, and he's always there for his friends with no motivation other than genuine caring. So when guys get too aggressive, he steps up and knocks them down with one huge paw. And his female friends get too drunk and start bawling all over the place, he'll hold them and talk to them and give them a ride home- without ever touching them (unless it's to carry them).

But it's never as a doormat. He's supportive without anyone using him or looking down on him. He doesn't take shit from anyone, and he will lay down the law when need be.

I find that very rare.


He asked me to go to the party with him, and since I was oddly free Saturday night, and wanted to be somewhere to get my mind off of GV8 and the club, I said yes.

So we get there and I get introduced to the people I don't know and we get a tour of the house (which includes even more people), and then I run out to my car to put my jacket away, leaving my friend talking with this cute little married couple.

I come back and he says, "Hey, V, show them how you shut me up."

Which is... no. No. You don't put me on the spot like that. You don't fence me in publicly to get access to me. I am not a dancing bear and I am not going to play along with your games.

So I sauntered up to him, leaned against his side, facing the couple in front of us, and said, "Well, usually I just say something overly sexual and it just shuts him right up."

He's known for being a bit of a hound, and quite perverted, so this was an easy out for me. That's a conversation starter. Random girl says something overly sexual and it shuts his brain down? Oh, do tell.

I thought it would be fine. I thought the conversation would shift.

He looks down at me, as he's about six to eight inches taller than my 5'9", and says, "No the other thing you do to shut me up."

Which leaves me just looking at him for a half-second in disbelief.

Really? You're not going to let this one slide?

So I spit out some elaboration on my previous statement, about how prude he is, how easily he blushes, how kids say the darnedest things. Okay, not that last one.

"No, V, the other thing."

And then he grabs my hand and the back of my neck and pulls me in.

This is when two years of swing dancing kicks in.

I could have just yanked back hard and completely rejected him in a social setting, surrounded by his friends and some people I have known for years without actually getting to know them.

Instead I let him pull me in half a step, then ducked and rolled my head out of his grip while using the momentum he had created while pulling me in to do a quick spin that landed me in his arms... facing away from him. Looking like he had pulled me into a hug that allowed me to continue talking to the couple.

Didn't even have to think about it.

And, once I had dodged that situation, I did not think about it at all.

Until I was talking to him later, mentioning I was getting sick. And he said, "Oh, I was wondering why you wouldn't... I figured you were having an outbreak..." trail off. And I'm sitting here going, as per usual: wtf?

It hadn't sunk in. That this was it. That was the contact he was getting, doled out at my discretion, which was supposed to be a one-night event. Which is what I told him.

Because I kissed him the second time, he assumed that he'd have open access to my mouth?

This was after, though, we met up, when there was plenty of time to molest him. And when he went to hug me hello, I kept my head down. And I told him that GV8 was back sniffing around.

So I'm staring at him.

He tried to trap me in a small net of social expectations, tried to get me to kiss him again.

It's sad because, wow, it's so just kissing. I've done more than that on way too many first dates. And I'm sitting here being prudishly annoyed that he attempted to kiss me. Wow. Lips. Craaaaaziness.

But you don't do that. You don't do the social entrapment. This is not how it works. I am not obligated to lend you credibility. I am not going to perform an action because you tell someone else I will.

It does not happen that way.

And, in other news, the texting fiend (I want to say "moron" at this juncture because I'm so irritated) is back.

Tuesday, he asks me if I'm going clubbing this weekend at all. I tell him no, too busy.

We text back and forth for about twenty minutes, then he asks me out for the weekend.

No, I'm still too busy.

Wednesday, he texts me to ask me out shopping for the weekend.

Nope, still too busy this weekend. Plans are still made.

TODAY, while I'm having Sunday dinner with my family, he texts me to ask me if I'm going clubbing tonight.

I just stared at my phone.

I deal with this at work way too often. People who don't read their emails all the way through, people that are too lazy to open files and ask the same question over and over again so I keep having to forward them the same email over and over again.

It's a peeve.

If he's not going to remember my texts, I'm not going to send them. There's no point.

Between those two and GV8, I'm mightily annoyed with menfolk right now.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

GV8 called.

Here, when I thought I was going to be able to move on, abandoned for the rock star lifestyle he loves so well.

He called me while they were filming a porn at the club, apparently featuring dripping wet, latex-covered women. Porn shoot the day prior. He directed me to the site of some porn star(?) so I could see the results of an earlier photo shoot.

Over the course of the conversation, he told me he missed me, that he loved me, that it felt strange that I, who had been at the beginning of this whole adult club thing with him, would not be there opening night. That my text message to him the day the club opened, wishing him success, added to his already full head of thoughts of me.

That it felt wrong that I wasn't there.

He asked what I had been up to, told me he was proud of how much I had grown in the last few months, how together my life was, that every time he talked to me, he was made even more proud of what I was doing.

I did not tell him I missed him.
I did not tell him I loved him.

He told me he wanted to see me. I asked when would be good for him.

He said to pick a day anytime after the 19th, and he'd be there. That he was going to accommodate my schedule. I'm always the one doing the accommodating, and I mentioned this to him. He said it was only fair, for all the times I've rearranged everything to be with him.

So I told him next Saturday. I wanted to go to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. He could join me, if he liked. He agreed.

I mentioned that I was going clubbing afterwards. He said he would not join me because he would likely run into people he knows, which would make things awkward... as he picks up ass like you would not believe. Reminding me that this is the man who engineered a foursome with three chicks that happened to be walking by his apartment simply by using three bottles of beer.

Brought me back to reality.

I asked him what we were doing. He said that we were getting to know each other again.

He asked if I had been moving forward. Forward? Forward, he said, moving past him, into my future.


Then, yes.

I assumed that I'd never hear from him again, after he didn't respond to my text message. That things were over, he had fully submerged himself in being his wild, alpha male self.

That I had been moving forward. Not dating, but getting it into my head that he was gone. Trying to move past it so I would stop having this plague of dreams of him and the club that I've been experiencing so often of late. That my body would finally unwind, I'd stop grinding my teeth so hard whether awake or asleep. My jaw, my neck, I may look calm, but touch either when I am under stress and you will know.

He said if I needed to think about it, to take some time. But I could call during the week, if I wanted. Radio silence over.

I said I didn't know. That I had to think. I'd call him later in the week to confirm our date.

I love him, though I did not tell him that. I miss him, though I would not directly say those words to him.

My ethics when it comes to relationships... honesty and communication. Not stringing someone along. Making decisions.

I hate lingering, I hate indecisiveness.

I hate knowing that this will never work, that I've lost too much faith in him and I don't know how he'd ever build it back. And I could never be okay with his roaming ways. He's already given me one STD, I don't need any more.

But this... I don't have to play by rules anymore. I don't have to make a decision, I don't have to include him in my life, nor sleep with him again. I need to (wo)man up and stop folding to what he wants. He knows what I want. He's trying to take small steps to give it to me, without fully submitting and giving up that which he will not deny himself: the leeway to surrender to lust with any hot thing that walks by.

By going out with him, I'm not committing to anything.

But I am setting myself up for more heartbreak. I can't keep emotionally distant from him like I can from other men, so easy.

Which means I need to get my final paper written before this goes down in flames. I am not going to go through what I did last semester, and what I did during midterms. This is not going to get fucked up again, to put it bluntly.

I owe him nothing, I owe myself everything.

I have to maintain.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

My brain is a bit of a mush pile right now.

I'm sick, I'm tired, and I've been going near non-stop today. It's been really productive, but I'm ready for bed.

The post from yesterday reminded me of this guy from nearly two years ago now.

He was a ginger kid.

I'm not a fan of ginger kids.

Strike that. I'm not a fan of male ginger kids. Something about it creeps me out.

Anyway, I met him when I was still dating Darkeyes, at the tail end of our relationship. We were living together in a cute little apartment I found, trying to make things work.

And this guy, who I am going to call "Ginger" and hope that I don't associate it too much with Gilligan's Island, was introduced to me by one of my best friends while at a club.

I assumed that, because this particular friend had introduced us, Ginger was an okay guy. Just initially creepy. So I was friendly and chatty and mentioned I had a boyfriend straight off the bat to counteract any attention he might float my way.

You see, in my silly world, when someone has a significant other, you don't pursue them.

He continued to unnerve me all throughout the evening, but I was convinced in seeing the good in this person that was a friend of my best friend, who had left the club early.

Due to meeting Ginger, a new social group at the club was opened up to me. I suddenly found myself in the midst of all these people who were quite friendly and fun to be around, people I hadn't really talked to before, but had seen at the various clubs.

So when they said they were going to drive over to Fred 62's (a cute little 24 hour diner in Silverlake) post-club and Ginger invited me to join them, I agreed. I'm always up for new 24 hour diners, as sometimes I don't want to sleep and would rather be out at a diner reading until 4AM.

Sign number one that I dismissed:

When I asked Ginger for directions, he said he'd drive me.

I told him no, I'd drive myself.

He insisted that he would drive us.

I told him again, no.

But, really, he should drive. I don't know where I'm going, it's just easier, get in the car.

If I had been younger and less experienced, I would have submitted to this rather than cause a scene.

I balked like you would not believe. There was nothing on the planet at that moment that would get me to give up access to my car.

This is a major rule of mine: always always always be in control of your own transportation. If you aren't, you are at the mercy of others. Your time is not your own, which means your body is not your own, nor are your desires taken into account.

With a disgusted grunt, he gave up and told me to follow him to the diner.

By this point in the evening, I had made sure to bring up my boyfriend in conversation multiple times, just to lay extra groundwork. This relaxed me, made me feel like he got the point that I was inaccessible. My work here was done. I could enjoy my evening, free from worry that this guy would try anything.

So we parked at the lot across the street, walked over, and since there were so many of us there we had to sit outside at a large, round table.

He chose, of course, to sit next to me, legs brushing, until I moved away.

Then I noticed my hair was all over the place from dancing, knotted and tangled, so I stood to go get my brush out of the car.

He stopped me, insisting that he had a brush in his car and he would go fetch it for me, and trotted off down the street.

Which was... odd.

But not disturbing.

What got me, more than the car thing, more than his flirtations at the club, more than him insisting he buy me drinks (I hate that), more than his faux-accidental touches, was what happened next.

He came back and I brushed out my hair.

That taken care of, I realized I was still wearing dark lipstick that would immediately begin to look odd once I started to eat, as I was wearing a sealant on top of it. This causes it to rub off in patches, which makes me look like my lips have leprosy. Having a bottle of water at the club has no effect on it, kissing barely moves it, but eating an entire meal... not so much.

So I grabbed a napkin and started scrubbing at it, taking condensation off the outside of my glass to moisten it, checking it every few seconds to see if red was still coming off.

Finally, I asked the girl across from me if I still had lipstick on.

She said that I did, and pointed at a spot on her lip to indicate where it was.

So I scrubbed at that spot, checked with her again. Still there.


By that time, there was a conversation going on about that particular sealing product, with me making jokes about how long it could stay on and how little would budge it and how moronic I felt to be sitting outside a diner coming up on 4AM scrubbing at my lips with a paper napkin that was falling to pieces.

Ginger, Ginger decides he wants to play the hero.

He reaches for my face.

I jerk back. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to get the lipstick for you."

"I've got it, thanks."

He reaches again, his thumb going for my lip. "It's cool, I'll get it," I tell him.

"You keep missing it. I'll get it."

"No, I've got it."

"No, I'll get it."

"I'm fine."

"Just let me get it."

Finally, I submitted. I didn't want to cause a scene. He was the friend of my best friend. I'd deal with it.

So he leaned over to me and scrubbed at my lip with his bare thumb.

And I took it like a little bitch, uncomfortable, but still naive enough to believe that because he knew I had a boyfriend, he wouldn't try to seduce me.

When I mentioned I was good at Scrabble, he offered to get coffee with me and challenge me to a game.

I took him up on it, telling him I'd have to check my schedule with my boyfriend, but it should be fine.

The next week, we met up for Scrabble. And it was fine. I kicked his ass, like I knew I would. We grabbed pizza and talked. It wasn't awkward anymore, he wasn't hitting on me. It was okay.

That night, Darkeyes and I broke up.

A week or two later, he asked if I wanted to go see a movie.

I agreed, but then asked my best friend what was going on with this guy. He was creeping me out. Why did he like Ginger? It didn't make sense.

My friend tells me he barely knows Ginger, he just introduced him to be polite. That he's just an acquaintance that he talks to once every few months. And, by the way, did I hear that he bullied one of our mutual friends into sleeping with him just a few months ago?


I decide that I don't want to go out with Ginger the next day, so I IM him to tell him I'm just not feeling up to it.

He throws a fit. He wants to know why. He needs that explanation. He demands it.

And I'm sitting there, staring at my screen.

You see, at this time of my life, I was a bit of a nobody. I could dance, but I was a zero on the social screen. In the club scene, I had very few friends. I'd go, I'd dance, I'd leave.

I desperately wanted to be one of the club kids again, like when I was younger. I wanted to fit in and be social and go to the parties. Have friends to talk to when I was cooling down from dancing.

I did not want to piss this guy off. He was a gateway into other people.

So I tried to tell him that I was not feeling comfortable going out so soon after a break up. That I wasn't looking to date right now, I just wanted friends, but I needed to get my life together.

It wasn't good enough. He kicked, he screamed, he demanded his pacifier.

He would not take no for an answer.

So, instead of telling him I thought he was a pushy, creepy douchebag with no respect for women and crazy bug eyes, I told him that his coloring was unattractive to me.

That all ginger coloring on men was unattractive to me.

Trying to exclude, rather than reject.

That wasn't good enough either.

He had to know what it was about his coloring. What right did I have to have such a reaction? What feelings did it instill in me? How dare I?

My explanation, which was honest and polite, just a gut reaction to something unusual (which, when he demanded an elaboration, I told him it was like when you first see a person born with only four toes on one foot- they can still walk, it just makes you double take for a second)... yeah, then he freaked out and accused me of calling him physically disabled and that I was prejudiced against the handicapped.

It was a weird conversation. I wish I had logged it.

In the end, when I called him by his nickname instead of his given name, he cut me off, saying that only acquaintances called him by his nickname, and that true friends called him by his real name. So I wasn't really a friend. And it needed to stay that way.

Which left me staring at my screen with a bemused "WTF?" expression on my face.

But his parting gift, the cherry on my sundae, was a link he sent me.

Not trusting it, I asked him what it was.

He told me it was a BDSM checklist, illustrating his various kinks, so that when I found myself a Dom, I'd know what I was missing.

Even now, looking back on that, my eyes glaze over.

I was so lost. We went from me having a boyfriend to no boyfriend to suddenly this man is passing me a list of how sexually great he is and how much I'm going to regret passing up an offer he never made.

This, this is not the worst example I could give about trying to compassionately reject a man and having it blow up in my face.

Not at all.

I called my friend and would-be lover, Wolfboy, after that. I told him that this ginger kid had creeped me out and I needed down time and cuddles to get back to my baseline. So, after work, I drove over there, told him the story, and he had yes watch the ginger kid episode from South Park. Which was amazing.

Fast forward a few months and I'm on a first date at a coffee shop on Sunset Boulevard with a guy I'm getting along with quite well. In the middle of the date, he gets a phone call.

From Ginger.


In one of a series of acts of revenge, Ginger got one of his friends who I had never met before to ask me out to see if he could sleep with me or at least get some sort of juicy gossip.

When neither happened, they made their own up.

I went out on another date with another guy from a completely different scene. We sat down at this restaurant in Manhattan Beach and this guy told me he had two motives for asking me out. One, purely sexual. The second, he had seen my picture before due to Ginger and wanted to let me know that Ginger and his friends had been spreading particular rumors about me around the club scene for several months.

Which explained some things.

So I'm sitting there, just staring at this guy because I can't believe that Ginger is still waging war against me.

Around this time was when I picked up my copy of The Game.

Which led into books on body language, seduction, social dynamics, and evo psych.

I was not going to let this happen again. I was going to use methods within these books, within my own intelligence, to get at a higher social level than this man and turn his rumors back on him.

And I did.

Seduction one-on-one, I had down okay.

It was the social net-making I was unsure on.

It took me about four months to get where I needed to be, slowly undermining his pillars by raising my own, meeting the right people, playing the right roles. Each time I went out, each phone call I made or email I sent was another stitch in what I was weaving.

It wasn't all mercenary. I enjoyed the people I was meeting, enjoyed the socialization, being out under the lime light, coming into my own. I was able to do it because I had a reason.

Our last extended encounter was at a birthday party. I was invited by a friend who was given permission to bring more girls if possible. You know, one of those invites.

When he walked in, I took one look and thought to myself, "I'm going to own him and he's going to know it."

I spent the entire party quite happily putting my newly acquired skills to use. He watched me, he knew what was going on, he just didn't know how to stop it. He knew I was doing something, that I was the reason he was wedged into a corner and either being ignored or glared at by the other twenty to thirty people there, some of which had been his friends.

But he couldn't do anything.

After near an hour of this, he left in disgust.

I've barely seen him out at clubs in the last six months, ever since I cleaved off the important half of his social group by befriending a particular man and making sure that I was not only my adorable, teasing self, but highly sexually desirable. With that man, a series of people dominoed away from Ginger, leaving him very high and dry.

People don't speak well of him.

But it doesn't matter anymore.

He's gone, and if he comes back, I'll make sure he's uncomfortable.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The texting guy from yesterday texted me to ask me out again for this weekend.

Which makes it a total of three times I've had to tell him that I'm too busy. Because I am. Party on Saturday night with my club friend (where I get to sit him down again and tell him again that I am not interested in him as more than a good friend, and also, while we're on the topic, I found out that he's an insane playboy with loads more sexual experience than I have, at least in certain areas, so why is he emotionally attaching to me when he knows better?), Saturday day is a lapdance class with a friend, Sunday is my mother's birthday, an all day event.

I'm oddly not busy on Friday night. I'm not sure what to make of that. If I didn't have to be up early for the class on Sunday morning, I'd hit a club. I still might, if I'm in the mood. I'm all for wiping myself out.

But enough about my plans.

I've had two particular questions asked of me that I should probably address.

The first was by Phoenixism who wanted to know if I had a special magnetism for attracting socially inept men.

Yes. Yes, I do.

But since I can't see myself, I'm just going to go off of theory.

The initial approach is appearance. I'm pretty. I'm not gorgeous, I'm not beautiful, I'm approachably pretty. I am accessible, so those men who would be chased off of a girl because they feel she's above their "level" come to me.

When it comes to wardrobe, I'm also accessible. I am not showing the Los Angeles mass that I believe I am high status in my presentation. I don't overdo it, I keep things very mellow, well-fitting, and casual. I don't walk outside for day explorations with a second skin of make-up. I wear dark-framed glasses, but not in that indie-scenster kinda way, but in the "I'm a librarian and I'm studying you" kinda way.

Socially, if I'm just out and going about my day, I'm by myself as often as I can manage. This makes me even more approachable, as I'm not with a group of my nearest and dearest girlfriends. And when I saw I'm out alone, I don't mean I'm simply grocery shopping. I mean that if I don't have plans with someone, I will grab a book, go catch a movie, then maybe do a little shopping and sit at a nice little restaurant and enjoy a meal and my novel... and then maybe I'll wander around the city, poking my nose into whatever looks interesting.

-Girl who is approachably pretty, check.
-Girl who is not flashing high-status unapproachable via her presentation, check.
-Girl who is wearing glasses that add a little something, check.
-Girl who is reading a book, making opening even easier, check.
-Girl who is alone and infinitely more likely to be approached because of accessibility, check.

So that's just the simple initial information gathering pre-approach.

Then we talk and, holy crap, I'm not a moron. These shy, nerdy guys who are getting out there socially are startled and pleased. The older men that walk up to me expecting god knows what realize that there's a conversation partner beneath these boobs.

And I get the nerd jokes. I read so much, I play console and computer games, I've watched way too many Mutant Enemy productions, I know the internet memes, I can quote RvB, I can discuss anime and World of Warcraft without hesitating. I'm not going to judge them, and I'm going to understand their humor.

In a world of women that while never understand their nerdy male pursuits, I'm right in there enjoying those pursuits with them.

And since they usually aren't out there meeting women, they think this is incredibly rare. Which causes a sort of desperation fixation. I'm the only girl they're ever going to meet that will understand them, so they must make sure to win me over any way possible.

As for the older men, I can keep up with them, and usually overshoot them. It's not an awkward, stilted conversation that trails off into... bleh. Which maybe they'd like, I really don't know. I'm able to manage topic flow and conversation focus, which is so nice for both of us.

Which, really, if you look at it a certain way, is inconsequential.

My primary failing is that I like meeting people, like learning about people, and I'm never intentionally rude without someone first passing a boundary... and my social morals that allow me to engage in rude behavior so far out there that I rarely get to unleash my inner-bitch on people.

If I continue talking with them, they, being inexperienced and unable to read into our conversation or my body language, will assume that it means I'm interested. That my attention could only be of romantic or sexual intent, as why else would I be talking to them?

Because I am unwilling to immediately shut down these guys, because I can get along with them and maintain the conversation because I'm interested in what they have to say and who they are, awkward situations ensue.

But what am I supposed to say?

"I don't mean to interrupt you, but I just wanted you to know that I'm talking to you because I find you interesting and have absolutely no desire for you, so keep it in your pants, buddy."

"Before you take this the wrong way, you're really not my type, but I'm digging hearing about your theory on the best way to play Young Link in SSBB, so don't take my fascination on this topic as fascination with you."

"You see how I just deflected that somewhat subtle innuendo you tossed out there? Yes, that means I'm not interested. It was cute, but, really, no."

"Since I think I'm just the hottest piece of ass out there and you obviously must want me due to that fact, I wanted to let you know that before this conversation goes any further, you're soooooo not alpha enough for me, so please don't even dream that I would have any interest in you. Thanks."

"Okay, I'm going to bring up sex now because it is relevant to our discussion. This. Does. Not. Mean. I. Want. To. Bone. You. Continuing..."

I've found that my hints, the cues that I would pick up if someone was having a discussion with me and I was testing the waters like these men do and was being rejected, don't work with most of these guys.

Some I have flat out told I have a boyfriend or I wasn't interested in dating right now or I wasn't emotionally available or I was too busy for a relationship.

Random excuses that were all semi-true to completely true.

But it does not deter them.

So why do I attract these guys? I'm visually approachable, physically accessible (no, not in that way, you jerk), and I'm friendly.

I do not have disgust or hatred for these guys. I don't find them annoying or pathetic. I think it's wonderful that the nerd guys are getting out of their comfort zone and meeting women. I think it's flattering when the older men try to pick up on me, and very entertaining when they realize I'm not an airhead.

But there is that learning curve of figuring out how to attract what you want and reading the signs that tell you that your target is not interested. And then respecting that lack of interest, or at least adjusting your game to hopefully generate interest.

If it doesn't work, though, move on. Don't make it awkward, don't be pushy, don't make a scene.

So that was the first question.

The second question has been asked a couple times, especially of late due to all my bitching about men I'm not interested in not getting the hint and my platonic guy friends trying to shift themselves into relationships or booty calls.

Why do I have such a hard time rejecting men?

I have issue with rejection in general. I know what it's like to go through it and I know it's a major blow to the ego for most of us. I also know it's part of life and something we're all going to experience if we put ourselves out there and we need to learn to accept that.

I try to cushion it. Because I'm too nice.

And I don't mean "too nice" like, awww, I'm such a sweetie, I care about everyone's feelings because I'm such a great, kind-hearted person (that was written in my head with a nasally, syrup-dripping voice, by the by).

No, I'm a pussy. I'm a little too empathetic to rejection, I think, and it makes me cringe and then I feel guilty and I hate feeling guilty so I do my best to avoid rejecting people so I don't have to feel guilty about it later.

That sort of "too nice". Stupid "too nice". Avoidant "too nice".

And one would think I would have learned by now how to manage this unwanted male interest.

Quite obviously, that's incorrect.

What I have learned is that if you tell someone flat out that you aren't interested, they have to know why.

They will demand an explanation.

And you might be reading this going, "Well, they can demand all they want, but you don't have to give it to them."

This is true.

However, they storm off all butthurt and never speak to you again. And I like my guyfriends. Most of this will happen within the first month or two of a budding platonic relationship with a guyfriend. You want to be able to salvage the friendship and their ego.

Why should you salvage the friendship?

I don't know about you, but I like having friends. I like having a variety of friends across the board that I can hang out with and learn from and just have a good time.

So, if you give them the explanation they are demanding in their fit of anger at your rejection (which is just a cover up for the insecurities you've just produced/exacerbated in them), then they have to argue that explanation.

Which means you are sitting there for god knows how long trying to explain not only why you don't want them, why they are still great guys (just not your type), but also why it is okay for you not to want them.

In the end, they'll:

A: Get butthurt to cover their embarrassment and storm off, never to be seen again, which makes you wonder if the only reason they were around was to get into your pants or if they're just that hurt by it (common).
B: Get butthurt to cover their embarrassment and storm off, but come back later, ease into friendship again and have a solid thing going for the both of you (rare).
C. Tell you they understand, that they're okay being friends, but then they'll try to Nice Guy you for some time until there's an explosion and you kick them out of your life (I've had this happen, it is so not fun).
D. Tell you they understand, and then they respect your boundaries and the two of you frolic in happy sunshine friendship meadows with pink marshmellow unicorns and fluffy purple bunnies. (This never happens.)

So that's the direct approach that everyone tells me to take, that I have taken and have had miserable experiences with.

Or you can make up excuses as to why you can't date them in an effort to save their ego and your friendship:

1. You have a boyfriend. (Lying isn't my thing)
2. You're emotionally unavailable. (Refer back to demanding an explanation)
3. You've just had your heartbroken and aren't ready for another man in your life. (And... here comes Mr. Nice Guy again!)
4. You're much too busy right now for a relationship. (They'll try anyway.)
5. Your grandmother is on fire. (I've tried this, it only works for so long.)

The problem I've found with this sort of set up is that they'll either hang around, making contact, waiting for the "problem" to go away, or they'll check in with you every few weeks to see if the "problem" has resolved itself.

Eventually, the former may turn into an unsteady friendship, while the latter will just get frustrated and disappear.

So those are the basic verbal communicators.

Then we drop down into other categories.

Such as the slightly extreme: "making out with someone else in front of them". I've tried this. It doesn't always work. In fact, it seems to drive the nutty ones even nuttier.

You might think, "Well, you don't want the nutty ones for friends anyway", but I actually love being friends with nuts. Except pecans. Pecans are bitches.


There's the easy, Level One, "play stupid" when they hit on you. This is stuff that involves messing with words, pretending to mishear, pretending to think they're joking.

Level One also includes avoiding physical contact and moving out of the way if at all possible, as well as avoiding any flirting or innuendos.

Then there's the stereotypical: "oh, I'm so glad we're friends, I couldn't take it if another guy was interested in me right now" or "I'm so glad you don't want to date me, I can just relax around you" type comments.

There's the Level Two casual drops about guys you find attractive, guys that you're thinking of going out with.

Which can be escalated to Level Three conversation drops where you are really thrilled to be going out with this guy again, he's so good in bed, he's so cute, hold on, he's texting me, give me just a sec and I'll get back to you. (This is mildly difficult for me, as most of my guyfriends know that I when I date, I date multiple men and take a couple lovers until someone comes in and pulls me off the market entirely.)

Level Three conversation drops may be accompanied by Level Three physical withdrawal, which involves leaping away from any physical contact and running into the night shouting over your shoulder, "Is that the Bat Signal? Gordon needs me!" (I promise this is perfectly acceptable.)

And you might be thinking, "Christ, what's with the game playing? This is too annoying/difficult, this isn't worth it, is she nuts??"

But it's a preservation of their ego. This is me trying to send out as many signs as I possibly can to my friend (or my potential friend) that indicate that it is nothing to do with him. My lack of interest is not a failure on his part, but to do with my own life and attentions.

Because I want those friendships. They're important to me.

And not all of my guyfriends are like this. Most of them got the message early on, or had no observable interest in the first place (or had a girlfriend).

These guys that don't get the message are the ones that are a little awkward, or are just your general horndog. I make friends with all sorts of people, and some of them require this type of management. Sometimes it works, sometimes it goes down in flames.

I do my best, I think.

And, yes, I'll kick myself at times, thinking I should be rougher or more direct with some. But when you've had the experiences that I've had... I try to communicate thoroughly and honestly at all times. Playing these sort of dancing games is not my cup of tea. It's not enjoyable. I don't want to be doing this. I wish I could wave a magic wand and have them realize that my lack of desire for them has nothing to do with their value as a person, that I still have value for them, just not a need to get into their pants.

I'm told, and I can see, that it's wasting their time, to a degree.

But this is social interaction. This is learning to read body language and subtle cues that tell you what you are and are not doing right. If every approach failure was considered a waste of time, that would indicate that the approacher had learned nothing.

Even if you learn nothing, it's still good to approach, it's still good to steel yourself and get used to interacting with complete strangers as you attempt this mating dance.

And I am educational. I will, upon occasion, tell the guys that approach me better lines to use, or how to stand to present themselves better, or how to adjust their word choice to sound more attractive. If they listen to me or not, I don't know. But I am a girl they found attractive enough to approach, which means I am desirable, which means they should probably listen to my advice because I am telling them what I find desirable so they can use it on future women that are like me.

Even if they do not "score" with me, I have many female friends. Some guys look so into the immediate, they don't understand the value of leapfrogging and building social networks. If they come off as courteous and respectful, I will bring them into my various social circles, I will introduce them to my female friends and talk them up.

So is it a waste of time? At best, it's a wading pool of potential poon. At worst, it's practice.

Guys make it difficult to reject them, uncomfortable to reject them. I'm sure girls do it too, but since I'm fairly straight, that's all I have to tell them. They won't react poorly because my sexual orientation does not reject them, it simply excludes them. It's not personal.

Poor reactions based on insecurities.

This is why I have issues rejecting men and handling interest from my male friends.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Alone and barely breathing...

Saturday night, I hit my favorite club.

Before that, though, I was doing my usual: hanging with a friend and marathoning whatever TV show we had decided on (this time it was "Father Ted", which is an excellent BBC comedy). We made pizzas, me working my mad stylings on some ground turkey for his sausage needs.

Which sounded really gay. Yes, I know. I bring the funk.

Pizza was a success, wonderfully good.

And afterwards, I stepped into his bathroom to play what I call "Pretty, Pretty Princess". This is the fifteen minutes to an hour+ girls spend in the restroom getting "done up" for the evening. He lives significantly closer to the club I chose than I do, so I talked him into it. Which, admittedly, was pretty easy.

We've been platonic friends for over a year now, spending time together about once every week or two. He hosted me weekly during my ten month couch-surfing expedition, and it has been perfectly without any push or tension towards more than what we have.

Doing my part, I've kept it at jeans and t-shirt level, no make-up, hair usually pulled back.

So I go into his bathroom in casual gear, plain-faced, then come out in a mini-dress, sexy hair, and club make-up.

And he was perfectly cool with it.

Drove over to the club, chatted with the valet, backed myself into my usual spot. My club friend from the previous Friday was already in his usual spot next to mine, a song I love blasting from his stereo- on the mix CD he made for me.

Walked past the door guy with a smile and a wave, my club friend guest-listed me at the inside door.

And then I hit the floor.

Glorious. It was such a perfect night for dancing, the floor was recently cleaned which made every move smooth and perfect. Friends I had texted earlier in the week to harass them out started arriving, quick reunions then back to the music.

Unfortunately, one of those friends, someone I've been quite happily platonic with for about four years now, had suddenly determined I was now desirable. Too-close hugs, roaming eyes, extended touching, excessive (for him) complimenting.

Awkwardness, on my part, ensued. Untangled limbs, edging away. It was managed, as much as it could be.

Another friend brought her date from a previous club.

I had told her to bring him, as we had been discussing dance styles over time within a particular club circuit, and how one could track the music, club, and what time the person entered the scene based on how they danced. He is a dancer, salsa, swing, ballroom. Actually straight, suprisingly, and not feminine at all.

What was even more surprising, occurred at the end of the evening when he hugged me goodbye, pulling me against his hard body by wrapping one arm around my waist and yanking, almost like he was in the middle of a tango. I began to suspect that my friend wasn't his date, but their body language from earlier illustrated private physical intimacy, so I dismissed my suspicion.

And dismissed the idea that him touching me all night, bumping into me, leaning into me, brushing shoulders, was not because of trying to be heard over loud music, but him maintaining physical contact out of interest.

This all happened, of course, after I told her to give him my number so I could text him when I went out clubbing. He wants to learn how to dance the style I do, and there's not a lot of people better to learn from, I will admit.

So he texted me today, to find out if I would take him shopping, get him the right wardrobe for the clubs.

I couldn't... I just kept thinking back to what GV8 told me once, that he wasn't going to give me the play book to figuring him out, that if we fit together, we'd do so naturally, without me shaping to fit him.

I've been using that more often lately. I'm usually so straightforward with my communication, but it really is frustrating to constantly have to be feeding the men around me the tools they need to, essentially, manage my attraction for them.

I want them to be able to do it on their own, from their own observation of me and their own intelligence, like GV8 did.

I'm not talking about not sharing my emotions, making a man figure out what I'm mad about and how to scramble about and fix it, but simply how to gain my attention in the first place.

So I kept texting light and minimal on my end, watching to see what he would do.

Here's our text message series from this afternoon. My notes are in bold, so you all can enjoy(?) how my brain works.

H: "It's ******. ******'s friend. I got your number from her. I'm think of going shopping for some newer stuff to wear to the clubs. Wanna help out?
At this point, I still thought he was seeing my friend. Not very observant of me.

V: Sure!

H: sweet cause I have no idea where to go. we used to look down on ********, but I'm not sure if it's still like that.
Wait, wait, why are we suddenly dropping our punctuation and capitalization at the beginning of sentences? Please tell me this isn't going to be another guy who doesn't pick up on my near perfect texts and can't conform to my texts in a sort of mimic like body language. At least I don't have to worry about him being interested in me, since he's seeing my friend.

H: do you live locally?
Ah, yeah. There went the caps.

V: ***********

H: o ok that's not bad. I'm right next to ******. where's a good place to shop?
And he's lost his "h" in "oh". That's going to drive me insane if he keeps it up (there is a non-anal reason for this).

V: There's some places in Hollywood, one in OC, another in HB.

H: I'm too familiar with hollywood's shops but I remember the ***** in HB. whatever outfits I end up with need to be sexy :)
You need to be sexy???? What guy says that? What do I even say to that? And the emoticon?

V: Sexy is relative to what type of girl you want to attract.

H: I trust your judgement :)
Uh... wait. Is he inferring that the type of girl he wants to attract is my kind? (reluctant understanding begins to dawn)

H: but preferably the fun ones

V: I dunno. Not a lot of girls like fun these days.
Must... insert... teasing. Must... hope... he... picks... up... on... this... and turns this conversation into something that isn't so boringly generic.

H: their loss i guess cause I like to have fun and in as many ways as I can find :)
...I suddenly hate my life. I like having fun and doing fun things and I love to laugh omg. Puppies are cute. And did he just toss in an innuendo at the end of that?

Which continued into a boring bit about money to spend and clothes he needed to get, which shifted into a logistics of our relative locations and where we needed to shop, which, of course, shifted into what he does for a living, and how he met my friend. I assumed it was because they work in the same field, but he said...

H: I met her when I was riding my harley with some friends which happened to live next door to her. she came out riding with us after that and we became friends
Huh. Math. She lives on the beach. Her neighbors to the south are hot beach guys, loaded, lazy, and doing lines of coke way too often. Did he just raise his status?

V: Ah, sweet.
I have no comment.

H: yeah, she's a good friend :) never short on cool things to check out. like clubs with cute girls :)
Fuck. Friend. Fuck. Lame line about cute kids in clubs, directed at me. Fuck.

V: Yeah, I really don't spend enough time with her.
Um, let's focus on... not me.

H: what clubs are you going to hit this week/weekend?

V: None, too busy. I'll be at ***** next weekend, though.

H: I might be riding to yuma for a kids charity this weekend. what else do you do for fun?
Well, now we've established he's a "good guy", he "likes kids", and he's "adventurous". With one activity. If only I liked good guys. Or other people's kids. What's with the generic question?

Insert discussion about hobbies here. One of my favorite activities that came up was, of course, driving.

H: ever ridden on a motorcycle?
Oh, I know where this is going.

H: I know some kick ass places up and down the coast. I've seen every mile of coastline from san diego to the middle of oregon.
Which is pretty cool.

V: Lucky. I'd love to have the time and money to do that.
Generic comment is generic.

H: well when you have time I'll take you to a spot I like. get to go check out the tide pools

H: we can ride the bike if the weather is nice enough. I'll have to see if I have a helmet that fits you.
Called it. Clinging to his back as his powerful metal steed propels us up the coast for a romantic beach trip, complete with tide pools while he establishes his rebellious masculinity with his control of his motorcycle.

Trail off into reminders, once he asked, that I was already busy this weekend.

I haven't re-read the above, but I likely sound like a stuck-up bitch. My mental tone isn't as derisive as it sounds, really. Just... kinda bored, kinda leaning back, looking at my phone going off, groaning slightly as I feel vaguely like an idiot for dismissing him and not guarding against him like I normally would if I hadn't thought he was with my friend.

It made me feel... just, myeh. Isolated. That feeling has passed, mostly. But when I finally ended the conversation with this guy, I was frustrated and feeling so socially abnormal.

I want to say I'm not supposed to think like this, that I'm not supposed to be analyzing the behaviors of the men around me and breaking them down into little parts (most of which I did not include in the above, as that would take too long and I'm a major over analyzer).

Having this guy do this... I felt so out of sync with my age group, so alien. I'm passing as standardly attractive now, and that means socially standard men, which means I'm left feeling like an oddball when "normal" guys hit on me.

So I texted Roman to get on IM so I could bask in the glory of his equally abnormal masculinity. Get back to baseline of talking with someone whose company and banter I enjoy. Even though, as I was bitching about my feelings of isolation brought on by the text conversation above, he totally smacked me down in his own way.

Which is what he does.

But at the same time, I'm left feeling like people expect me to be grateful for male attention. That I should be just happy as a clam. However happy that is.

I can't make myself feel glad of this. Reminds me of when I was younger, forced into going to church with my family, going to a youth group that was part of the church, staring sullenly at my peers while they pray and sing, while the youth leader would tell me the way I should be, what I should believe, and how happy I should feel that God loves me.

In a room full of people, people willing to listen and discuss, but none of them willing to understand or accept, viewing me through the light they choose, not caring that the light doesn't fit me. I'm not who they so desperately want me to be, if only to stay within what they deem okay.

I'm supposed to be some sort of male-interest Buddha, able to easily deflect desire, able to handle situations that arise, however uncomfortable they may be, constantly forgiving of transgressions and totally understanding of fumbles.

But I'm not. I'm a just girl, and experience has given me certain expectations. I bring certain qualities, good and bad, to my partners, just as they bring good and bad qualities to me. I will get frustrated, I will feel put out when yet another man steps outside of behavior I am comfortable with.

And I will feel lonely when I come back to my apartment and realize that I've opened up to so many people, but never enough. That I'm always guarding myself.

A bit of an emo post tonight. I'm much too tired to attempt to think.

C is already passed out beside me, tangled up in my blankets. It's probably time I joined her.