So you can survive when law is lawless...

I needed to save this comment because I spent entirely too much time laughing while writing it.

I'd link back to the blog I posted it on, but I don't care to generate traffic to sources of asshattery.


I'm not going to argue with you.

See, you're right. All women, -all- of them are cum-guzzling whores or aspiring cum-guzzling whores. That's all we think about (because our brains can only hold so many thoughts at once): semen consumption. Even the lesbians. And when we're not out looking for men to treat us like the whores we desire to be, we're planning the downfall of The Great Patriarchy. Of course, since we aren't as smart as men on a genetic level, we'll never achieve this goal, only mucking up the system- which is simply awful and so self-centered of us, since it was such a good and just system to begin with.

Also, every time we sleep with a new man, not only do we lose an IQ point, our morals drop 3.54% lower, or so Studies Have Shown. Truly. And, on top of that, we develop this extreme fear of stamp collections (also illustrated in those same studies).

We also screen men for alphaness. We carry around social/sexual BINGO scorecards and keep checking off the traits we find desirable, discarding the sad little beta men into a heap of tools we can use to further our previously established ultimate goal of semen-collecting (which, somehow, will allow us to take down The Great Patriarchy, though in what way, greater minds than mine will have to explain).

Speaking of the worthless beta males, as women we have this connection with The Zodiac and Healing Crystals which allow us to suck off the sexual energy of frustrated beta males as we toy with their emotions, as the more desperate and clingy these men become, the more energy they put out, which means we'll be able to level up and respec ourselves into another class and put points into archery or short swords.

As opposed to the great and all powerful Alpha Males we search after, to which our brains turn to mush and our thighs and asscheeks spread. Fortunately, since Studies Have Shown that 20% of men are sleeping with 80% of women and, logically speaking, the average woman has a point-based look of "5", 20% of men are sleeping with women ranging in looks from 3-10. Which means that, as long as we don't have Downs Syndrome and have a BMI of less than 35, we're going to be successfully banging alpha males way out of our range, enough so that, by the time we decide to marry and settle down, even Hair-Lip Sally is going to have at least ten alpha males under her *cough* belt, making her a certifiable cum-guzzling whore (Ten men?! What was she THINKING?!).

Fortunately for us, since all women all the time engage in hypergamy, it's quite standard and expected us to subject innocent, upper-class men to our overused, swollen, unvajazzled vags. Which you think would not be the case. I mean, these men are, of course, quite above us in all ways all the time. They're more attractive, they're more intelligent (of course they are, they're men!), they're more financially stable (why would we want them otherwise?), and their ethics and Christian values make sure that they are always stable, kind, concerned, caring, and upstanding citizens, proud to serve at the head of any PTA or country club. They also only sleep with women they love, because they don't want to sully their bodies with base desires. Oh, and they cherish women. Which is why they so easily believe our lies about our partner-count because, as we all know, all women all the time lie about their partner-count.

Of course we lie. We have no ethics on a genetic level. Why should we? Our value is solely held in our looks, which is backed up, of course, by evo-psych theory. And studies. Lots of studies. Done by colleges. Oh, and Science Journals. Important Science Journals. Because all studies are all correct all the time because there is no error in Science. Ever.

However, our lack of ethics does not matter. We can discard morals, self-respect, respect for others, compassion, experience, empathy, sense of fairness, honesty, integrity, kindness, judgment of character, intelligence (ha!) and honor as well. Those things are for men and boy scouts and add no value to our lives or increase our desirability as potential partners.

In fact, Studies Show (yes, those important studies) that women who lack or have low levels of the traits listed in the paragraph above are more likely to be desirable by the male populace.

But this, Very Important Studies Have Also Shown, is likely a socially cultivated trait so select members of the male populace and sit around and moan in their blogs about how No Woman Is Good Enough For Them and Why All Women Are Whores so they don't have to actually take responsibility for their own actions, justifying their need to continue being whiny little fucks.

It's something o'clock. I'm blinding myself at the Nerd Station Control Center.

Yes, I know, virtually every post of the last couple weeks has been at the Nerd Station Control Center or simply at the Nerd Station Command Tower.

Got my HPV notice from my doctor today, things look normal. I don't know if that means that my body fought it off (which happens) or if I'm just not spawning lesions yet.

Either way, I'm a bit surprised, as the amount of stress that the whole thing with the ex created should have aggravated things, not have made them go away.

PD is downstairs showering, his ex and her husband are downstairs packing up the kitchen. It's been a rough day for him, as much as he tries to disconnect from the situation. I feel for him, can't even imagine what he's going through right now. Hefty emotions. Wednesday is supposed to be their last day here, we'll see how that goes.

As a side note, Mr. Brush-off emailed me last night.

This would be the PUA I picked up about this time last year, the cello player/stuntman/6'9"/yummy abs-open shirt guy. Apparently, he's been thinking of emailing me for a bit now, and finally did so.

And I'm looking at this email, shaking my head, because it's such a booty call. He's going to be in my neck of the woods next week and he's trying to line up some ass.

He was hot, he was hung, but he's too young, and I don't just mean on an age level.

Sleeping with him was the supposedly primary motivator that caused GV8 to end things with me a second time, saying that he wasn't jealous or upset (we weren't in a relationship at the time), only that he thought my tendency/love of pick-up was unhealthy and a sign of insecurity and deep-seated need for validation and that, in his own words, I was sick. Mentally ill. Imbalanced.

That, however, didn't stop him from getting back with me later down the line.

Anyway...

Went to a wedding today. In Hemet. For those of you not aware of California geography and social prejudices, Hemet is to California what Alabama is to the rest of the US, except it's in the middle of the desert. Brought to you by the letters B, F, and E.

But it was a friend's little sister getting married, and he's this awesome guy, 40 year old nerd/angry, yet loving manbeast, and we both thought it would be amusing if I showed up as his armcandy, swooning and batting my eyes and being all "Oooh, --------, how strong and desirable you are, you sweep me off my feet *tittertittergiggle*"

So we did, I did, met his mom, who was really freaking cool, and his sister, who was a little younger than me, and totally sweet.

Oh, yeah, I just said "freaking cool" and "totally sweet". This blog has been transported back to the 90s. Please do not adjust your monitor.

It was a little odd, watching the ceremony, the people, thinking of how things turned out. How skittish I've become. Wondering if I'll ever want marriage again, if I'll ever be able to call PD my boyfriend without letting relationship-phobia clog my throat. Logically, I'm sure I will, just wondering about the when and the why.

Well, it has been a bit.

I know, normally I'm posting a few times a week. I've been avoiding this blog of late. The whole thing with the ex left a sour taste in my mouth, combined with PD reading this thing (though he hasn't touched recent entries out of respect of letting me write freely, knowing that it's likely he'll eventually catch up to the "now" of things is a bit of a stopper for me and I need to work through it).

It has also been busy. I'm with PD almost every night, with C on the one night a week I'm not at PD's place. We spend most of the waking hours of the evening together, then I sleep and he goes back to work in his office.

And... I like it. I like this.

I've been processing a lot lately, trying this pieces out, trying to reflect and see what goes together, what doesn't go together, what theories fit, what can be applied, and what was nonsense.

It's hard to sort out the fantasies from the realities, sometimes.

I still am not sure if GV8 was the man I thought him to be, or if I just idolized him so much that I failed to see his flaws.

If he was who I thought he was, then he changed dramatically in the end.

If I idolized him so strongly, then it was only at the end that I started acknowledging behaviors of his as poor, and that was only enabled because I was away from him for long enough during that last split to get my head back together to a degree, and because I started dating PD, which reminded me of what a "normal" relationship was like.

You know, where partners are equals.

Where disagreements end in discussions, not decrees.

Experiencing that was like shedding off a too-heavy cloak.

An "Ooh, yeah, I forgot this."

And then it came back.

The knowledge, the experience, the things that I said I would never let myself do or never let someone do to me because it was unhealthy and unequal.

I keep thinking back to the party he took me to that Saturday, our first Saturday back together, the Saturday we split up. The people. Gods, the people. The sex in the pool, on the hill, the man pissing into the girls mouth until she fell into the planter, the drunk couple playing drowning games in the pool, her face bright red, make-up slogging down her cheeks like a strung-out whore, the rolls of fat hanging over rope-corsets, the people barely sober enough to walk up a short flight of stairs, the man shoving some girl's face down on another's cock, the blonde Vienna sausage- so stupid, so arrogant, so compensating, the trust-fund baby with the bitch-tits, the Playboy/Penthouse/Hustler/Whatever photographer with the skeezy ponytail, the roaming eyes when GV8 introduced me, the though flashing across faces of knowledge that he swings, so they'll be fucking me soon enough, the girl bent over in front of the bar, getting punched in the back, her grunting screams like some wild beast dying.

This was not for me.

That life was not for me.

I stood there, looking around, feeling trapped, feeling so anxious, my fiance apathetic to my distress, later telling me that if I couldn't accept his party lifestyle, I shouldn't have said yes. Later telling me that he would fuck when he wanted, who he wanted, all I had to do was be at the same party.

I stood there, looking around, and realized that as little as I think of myself so often, I am a thoroughbred compared to the majority of the crowd he was exposing me to, and I would be ruining myself if stayed and allowed the trash at that party access to my life, my body.

I sat across from him at the diner, looking at him, feeling my sadness and rage growing as he laid down his law again. Realizing that nothing had changed. Realizing that I was second class. Realizing that it was no longer love he felt for me, no longer chasing me to be with me, wanting me to be happy.

No. He was missing his favorite chew toy. The squeaky ball. And the only way to get it back was to dangle a deep desire in front of it, one that would keep it there without chance of ever leaving again.

It stopped being "us", it started being "him", more than it had been before.

I want to hate him for ruining it. This whole thing spills over onto good memories like a bottle of ink. I would have happily spent the rest of my life looking back on him, wishing things could have worked out, daydreaming about how things could have worked out, still thinking of him as the most amazing man I'd ever dated, letting the "what if"s run about my head.

Instead I'm at this foggy place where I'm trying to be understanding, trying not to be mad, trying to recognize that he is simply human with a lot of experience in managing people, but not a lot of experience in maintaining a relationship. He doesn't get certain things. Maybe he's not wired that way, maybe he just doesn't have the experience, maybe he simply doesn't care.

It doesn't matter much, though. I've been told by both PD and Roman in their own ways that the intentions, the feelings, don't matter, it's only the outcome. To stop trying to analyzing him and our relationship, stop trying to puzzle it out, and just accept how he handled things (poorly) as an end result and work forward from there.

Now... now I'm here. Nerd Control Tower. Sitting on a comfy futon, cats around me, cat hair on my face, on PD's laptop. I'm with a man who really likes me. Maybe even adores me, in his own way. He treats me incredibly well, we have a wonderful dynamic and, yeah, there are issues. Some of them we may or may not get through. But he never tells me that it's his way and if I don't like it, then I should leave. Or if I don't change my behavior, I'm not worthy of dating.

It's unexpected.

Meeting someone so soon.

And I think that part of me knows that if this doesn't work out, and doesn't work out in such a way that causes me a good deal of pain, I'm going to withdraw for a bit, hermit up in my shell.

I've gotten commitment-phobic. Relationship-phobic.

It was fine, pre-proposal, but now that that is all over, I'm terrified of being in a relationship again and each time some little thing happens with PD, my first instinct is to bolt. Fuck this, fuck relationships, fuck trying to work things out, I can't handle this, I'm so gone. And each time I have to sit myself down and remind myself that I'm being irrational, getting spooked too easily, that PD is not GV8, that he's never going to treat me like GV8 did.

And that makes it sound so bad. Like GV8 was abusing me or something.

He wasn't. He was caring and supportive, nearly always willing to lend a hand. He was good to me, good in ways that I needed.

But, ultimately, it turned into something not good. And there was always that undercurrent of imbalance that was maintained, that undercurrent that let me be constantly aware that I better be good enough for him, or I'm gone. And I better let him do what he wants, or he's gone. Which really pushes home the idea that I'm not equal in value to him. I'm of lower value. Inconsequential, really.

Nothing more than something that makes him feel good.

The erratic behaviors, the ups and downs, the constant testing, the lack of communication, the sink holes, it was a constant battlefield of me trying to keep my head up, me trying to be what he desired.

I don't know, I'm too tired to explain this right now. It's going to keep coming out incoherent messness.

He loved me, in his own way.

And I hurt him. In his eyes, I'm sure I utterly betrayed him. I told him I would marry him, marry him on July 1st, and then I bailed. I went against what I promised to do, went against my word.

And he'll never understand why.

Hm.

At the Nerd Station once more, my eyes bleeding from the overabundance of white on PD's desktop wallpaper.

White. Eesh. Who came up with that one?

PD's ex and her husband are downstairs watching Family Guy, I hear their laughter from here.

Spent the earlier portion of this evening with a friend I hadn't seen in a few weeks, catching up, watching comedy bits and I managed to con him into watching the first episode of "Glee" from which he may never recover.

Also chopped off a foot of his hair so he could donate it to Locks of Love. Check that off my nonexistent bucket list: brutalize friend's hair.

I keep thinking back to the other night.

I don't remember what we had been doing. But we were down in the kitchen, PD sitting on the counter by the sink, me in a pair of his sweatpants and a black wifebeater, barefoot.

I suddenly had a craving for vanilla bean ice cream, which I relayed to him.

He groaned at me, cursing me for planting this idea in his head. We were exhausted, it was almost midnight, and I was barely functional.

He gave me a pair of his sandals, I tossed my car keys at him, and he drove us to a Yogurt Land in Little Tokyo, me half-dozing in the passenger seat as he handled my car.

Parking lot, we get out, wander over to the Yogurt Land, my hair messy, chest braless, his arm around my waist. Guides me in and we grab one bowl, vanilla icea cream and bits of mochi on one half, cheese cake ice cream and brownie bites on the other, two spoons. Taking turns eating our portions while sitting in bed until they melted together and I passed out.

He says I crawl up onto his chest like a cat when I'm asleep, curl into the place where his shoulder meets his chest. Runs his fingers down my tattoo, that barely perceptible raised skin down my side. I never remember this, I'm always too far gone.

He tells me many things, things I never expected to hear, things I've never thought of. I look at him and it's like he's got a script full of things to say that will make me melt, echo through my brain.

Not normal, girly romance sayings, though he does those as well.

But the baser things.

"I love how you smile after each time I hit you."

"You were built to be fucked from behind."

That latter one sounds like an insult, made me laugh, but when he explained about genitalia positioning, Mr. Porn Director himself coming down from the mount to explain sexual logistics, it made me purr.

When he told me he wanted to protect me and abuse me.

So few people will understand that, truly understand that place, I don't even want to try to explain because I'll just get moral and psychological lectures, telling me that this need I feel, this need I've always felt, is some twisting of my psyche, and that I can be "healed" with love and magical unicorns that shit rainbows and lactate poptarts.

As if liking something that isn't considered mainstream immediately makes it a psychological deviation.

We went out on a date yesterday, went to Amoeba, to see MicMacs, then for Thai before returning home to bone each other silly. For a man in his early forties, his refractory period is quite short. I'm impressed.

On the drive to the theater, my sister called to invite me to join her and her construction worker on a double date. That lead into my mother grabbing the phone from her and lecturing me on getting the hell away from yet another nonmongamous man. PD was laughing the whole time at my squirmings.

But then, the tables turned when his mother called him and I was allowed to answer the call. Talked to her, introduced myself, poked fun at him to her for robbing the cradle.

Entirely weirded him out. Turnabout is fair play, or so I'm told. And he gave me the phone.

We somewhat decided, or had decided for us, that we are An Item a few days ago.

Then, over the course of the last week, multiple comments and teasings, the "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" titles came up. Repeatedly. Harassingly.

So, we semi-had that discussion.

It's certainly there if I want it.

But I haven't technically had a boyfriend since Darkeyes. My ex never declared his intentions or defined our relationship other than by us fucking or not fucking, then by us being engaged.

I never realized how much that impacted how I viewed us, viewed our relationship.

And the thought of stepping into that "girlfriend" role again terrifies me. Especially considering how things went down with the ex.

I really am a bit of an abused puppy. Bad behavior, dump. Monitoring behavior, determine it's bad, dump. Boundaries are completely undefined, but if they are crossed, dump or punish. Never given the rule book until a screw up is made, then punished.

I'm afraid of doing anything that isn't completely respectful and distant.

It's ridiculous, but it does panic me.

And we're still waiting for me to calm down and heal enough to have the "monogamy" discussion. Which who knows how long that will take? There is that stressful pressure of a potential unspoken deadline of healing, of how long he'll keep before he gets fed up with my slow going.

Trying to call him my boyfriend is hard. I'm a tangled mess of relationship issues right now. "Boyfriend" title to me changes dynamics to places that, even when we were briefly engaged, my ex never let us go. I never felt allowed to go.

PD is giving me leeway to do what I need to do, experiment, determine my own boundaries, which no one I can think of has ever let me do. It leaves me feeling adrift, and I know I'm just going to have to keep doing what I want to do, test the waters, then wade in a little deeper.

Scary, but no progress is made if you don't step forward.

What a wicked thing to say...

Light from the monitors, music from the speakers.

In me and on me, slick and smooth, warm heat against my back, lips against my neck, fingers linked together, soft hums escaping my throat, and the occasional whimper when he ges too deep. His muttered curses, breath on my ear, nose buried in my hair, inhaling deep.

Roll my hips up and around, a swaying move I have always reserved for the dance floor.

But he makes me feel like dancing, makes me feel like writing poetry.

I'm good with words, but I've better rhythm with my body.

Over my head, sinking fast into his music.

Sitting in the Nerd Control Tower. PD is at the Nerd Control Station, editing videos, while I sit on his couch, an empty glass of Mountain Dew sitting on the steamer trunk at my left, body pillow folded up behind me. The occasional cat jumps on the couch, does a cursory inspection, and leaves.

I was not supposed to be here tonight. He was supposed to be editing, I was supposed to be out in Orange County, visiting my doctor, doing the check up on the HPV that my ex unknowingly donated, then grabbing sushi with an ex-coworker.

So, I get to the doctor's, apologize for the semen leaking out of me (which was an amusing conversation, and for those of you who might be up in arms about my whore-like behavior... a)PD has a vasectomy B)I had PD get tested and give me his results before we did anything and C)I am a whore. Get over it.)

Which led to the question: "So... how many sex partners have you had?"

My response: "This year?" (which is a resounding two)

Then, of course, no, it was how many in my life-time, which is this ballpark estimate between 70-80. She was leaning away from me, so I didn't see her face. I wish I could have.

I, I don't find it particularly shocking. It seems pretty mild to me. Yes, I know it's significantly higher than average. And I know very few women my age who have reached those numbers (the ones I theorize that are in or above that range now are the porn girls I've been meeting recently). It is what it is, though, as redundant as that sounds. I look back at it, shuffle through the memories, and it isn't a high number. I mean, really, think of how many people you meet each week, through work, through going out, through errands, through parties and social groups. We never really think about the level of minimal social interaction we go through on a daily basis.

Then you get someone like me, who travels all over Southern California, who goes out all the time to various different scenes and areas, usually by myself, social exposure is incredibly high. Which is why I usually know someone whenever I wind up at a new party/event. Happened several times at the BDSM party (a few from various club scenes- not too unexpected, and then some random guy I met at a diner months ago). Happened when PD and I went out to that art gallery in downtown.

So she wanted to know, out of pure curiousity, how I racked up those numbers.

I've done this breakdown before:

Sexually active for ten years. Max partner count is probably 80.

That gives me, what, eight partners a year? That's less than one a month. Not extreme at all.

Of course to be fair, then we toss in the monogamous relationships.

So, I've got 1/4 of a year, 3/4 year, 1 1/2 years, 2 years, 1 3/4 years. Not counting the year and change with the ex because that was never spoken monogamy, and I did stray before things became serious, and when we were on an off-cycle. If I'm mathing right (which I'm probably not, if we're being honest), that's 6 1/4 years spent inside of monogamous relationships. Round that down for ease, we're at 6 years, subtract five sex partners.

Four years, 75 sex partners. 18 3/4 sex partners per year. Round up to compensate for that 1/4 year I tossed off earlier.

19 sex partners a year. That's between one and two sex partners a month, seven months with two partners, five months with one.

1 sex partner every nineteen days.

Not bad. And very, very doable. God knows the aspiring PUA out there only wishes to surpass my low "success rate".

So she asks me how I got those numbers and I shrug and tell her it just happened, you know, naturally.

She checked to make sure I had been safe, was going to continue to be safe, etc. She remembered, vaguely, when I came in in 2008, a sore on my clit that turned out to be just a cut from one of Wolfboy's fingernails but thoroughly freaked me out.

I asked about the HPV on her way out the door, curious to know if they could tell me what strain it was. She said they didn't know, just that it fell under the high risk category.

I blinked at her for a moment. This hadn't been mentioned before. When they said they wanted to do a follow-up, I figured it was the basic follow-up. No, they were checking for pre-cancerous cells.

All of my years of slutting it up, I get my only STD from my ex, and it happens to be very likely to give me cervical cancer. Treatment is painful, but since I caught it early, it gives more of a chance for them to scrape and freeze bits of my cervix off instead of simply removing the thing. Parts of the thing. So the cancerous cells don't spread into my uterus, my stomach, my brain, you know, the parts that are somewhat important.

It's a bit of a downer.

Much like the text I just got, asking me if I want to attend E3 tomorrow. Which I would love to... if I wasn't working.

Anyway, I get out of the doctor's office, text PD that I am going to call and cry at him shortly, then call and let him soothe me. Even though he was going to spend this evening editing, he invited me up. So I moved my sushi dinner to a lunch and headed over to Downtown.

A large concern for me is my mother. When the HPV vaccine came out, I was 24 and she insisted that I get it immediately. So I did. She was so concerned that I would pick up HPV and get cervical cancer.

Here I am, vaccinated, yet still managing to catch a high-risk strain. Apparently that .04% or whatever it was of HPV strains that could still be received post-vaccine included this one.

I texted the ex something short, telling him I'd prefer him not to respond to the text, but to be aware that the strain he has, we have, is high risk and to be careful.

Arrived at PD's warehouse. We showered and talked, laughing and teasing each other, touching each other way too much, to the point that we had to push off and let him get to work.

It's so easy being with him. I am... infatuated. Obsessed. Surprised. Caught off guard. Talking with him already about him meeting my family. Three weeks in. Or whatever we're at. I'm bad with dates. This man, this surprising man, is wonderful.

I'm getting emotionally over my head way too fast, but it's like rolling down a steep hill, gaining momentum the more I learn about him, the more I see of him, unable to grab a hand-hold to stop and breathe.

After the ex, I wasn't sure if I'd find someone that fit. I'm a bit too... off. Too many contradicting things that most people simply don't understand or accept. I'm unable to be who I am, in so many eyes. Always looking for excuses, reasons, rationales that tell them that I'm lying to myself, lying to others, that this mold that they've created in their head is where I belong, and to bleed over the edges is heresy.

And then I found this misfit toy, this Charlie in the Box.

I am on what I may hereforth call "The Nerd Station: Master Control Center".

Four monitors, check.
Funky-ass keyboard, check.
Over-size mouse, check.
More random electronic eqipment than I can ID, check.
Massive three-screen wallpaper of more superheros than I can ID, double check.

...but I have now relocated myself to the infinitely easier to type on laptop, trying to position myself comfortably on the armchair in the bedroom.

Failing.

Comfortable for reading, not so much for the writing.

I may have a date with the couch next.

Ah, yes, this is perfect.

I may name my non-existent first child after this couch.

Let's do a quick run-through of what I see.

I'm... sitting on a light green and white couch, matching throw pillows. Ten tall, fully-loaded, cedar-looking bookcases to my left, along with an armchair that matches this couch, with a podium and small table beside it.

Couple set of dark-wood drawers to my left, followed by the bed, another set of drawers, armoir. The floor is thick wood, warehouse wood, the nails hammered in, heads beaten shiny and flat. The ceiling is the underside of the same, crossbars and firesprinkler pipe running the length. Small, circular lights on straight, thin wires criss-cross at bizarre angles, looks wonderful.

The bedroom only has three walls. The fourth wall, at the foot of the bed, is open to the ground floor. If this laptop wasn't killing my night vision, I would see the dungeon below. The cage hanging from chains from a beam across the ceiling, the black and purple St Andrews cross, the black leather horse, the squareish looking bed with all the tie-down points dancing around its edges, another bed, gothicish metal canopy. Some other things that I don't know the name of. Hatstand full of whips, floggers, paddles, other items I've yet to examine.

Beneath me, out of my vision, a caged area for things needing more security, or simply needing to be out of sight. An entertainment center, massive DVD library to its right. Two bathrooms, one complete, one in progress. The kitchen next to them, some slight sitting area across from that, then the major cage, containing all the rest of the work-related equipment catty-corner, next to the inside driveway, which butts up against two rooms I've yet to explore.

I love the purplely-blue christmas lights that cross above the car in the driveway. That bit of color mellows me, somehow makes this place feel homey.

His ex's old office is on the second floor as well, across the open space from the bedroom, so I can see into it from where I sit. His office is across the hall from hers, and runs into the closet, which is a room unto itself.

Third floor is mostly open warehouse space. On of those empty places that gets hit with sunlight in all the right places, a place for thinking, for isolating yourself, watching the light hit your skin, contrast between building and flesh.

Fourth floor is his sometimes employee, sometimes employer, and his office. As well as the current hidey-hole of his ex and her husband, who will be moving out in the next couple weeks. They're both very nice, friendly and intelligent. Fun to talk to, but I'm still a bit reserved.

Stretched my legs out, PD texts to ask why he's not lying in my lap right now, but off on a set down the street.

I have to agree. There's room on this couch for two, afterall.

Things are going well, overall. Life is... okay. I'm doing better, stronger than I was in ways I did not realize, not even concerning my ex, but totally unrelated things.

I'm growing again. Or, at least, hitting a plateau where I can stop and see how high I've managed to climb this time.

Financially, things are good.
Family-wise, my father is still teetering, but he's holding thus far.
My sister is dating a construction worker, which boggles all of our minds, as I'm more likely to go for that type and she's infinitely more interested in their metrosexual counterparts.
Love-life, it looks optimistic. I'm hoping. This has the feel of the start of a relationship, feels familiar. Feels next.
As for the ex, apparently he's written some fairly hostile things, nothing overt, I'm told, but stuff that would cut me deep.

I haven't read them.

I got the notice on my phone, after the photogallery. I had PD check the contents while I talked with one of his friends. PD told me not to look, that it was just designed to hurt, designed to hit all the buttons that my ex knows too well.

At first, I did not look, did not read, because I did not want to be hurt.

Today, after talking with a friend, I decided not to read because I want to preserve that image I have of GV8. I want him to be who I thought he was, think he is, I don't want to cause that image to rot away. It may be stupid, may be naive, may be me burying my head in the sand.

It would be easier to read it, easier to read it and rage and cry, feel all the things he wanted me to feel, then lower his value in my eyes, destroy and taint all the memories we created together.

I won't.

He's no longer near-perfect in my eyes.

But I'm not going to sink him so low.

I'm going to remember us driving through the canyons, remember stopping at the wine boutique, cuddling outside of the motorcycle cafe on one of those winding roads, my happiness overflowing. Driving through the neighborhood he grew up in, all the stories. The love.

This, these last two weeks, I'm going to do my best to forget.

And I'll keep loving who he was, who we were.

I have... yeah. Things that I don't even know how to begin.

The thought of writing here is starting to cause anxiety, and since I will not allow myself to stop blogging because of a little anxiety... need to power through it. God knows I've gotten enough negative comments here in the last few days, though a lot of those were from the ex.

I don't quite feel safe anymore, to be honest.

I'd venture forth that he'd be happy to know that.

I'd venture forth that I never knew him at all.

Post-split behaviors translate into a man I never knew, spits on the image of the good times we had, and I can't help but wonder if... gods, if I was so wrong. Not wrong for making the choice I made, but wrong in my perception of him. If he's so hurt that he's lashing out against me in pain, or if, like so many say, no matter how much I defend him, that he's simply acting the upset child who lost his favorite toy.

I'd like to think that he loved me. That those moments we shared, just the two of us, were real. That our perfect Valentine's Day weekend together was genuine, and the love I saw in his eyes wasn't just something I deluded myself into believing.

It'd be easier to think that he felt nothing, nothing other than passing amusement, that I was a good fit into his life, thumped into the shape of a doormat over time.

That way I wouldn't worry over his hurt.

I don't think he'll ever believe that I would have left him that Saturday night whether or not I had known PD.

Because there's loyalty to your mate, and then there's loyalty to yourself.

You have to know your boundaries, and you have to know when you will break.

I saw myself breaking.

I was going to break down the course of the events in epic narrative, from when he "proposed" on Thursday night/Friday morning to how I found myself sitting a couch on the first floor of PD's warehouse, alternately talking and crying.

And maybe I will, one day down the line.

Between the dinner with my parents and the conversation in the diner in the Valley, from the moment that blonde Vienna sausage opened her mouth at the BDSM party he took me to our first weekend back together... it was simply a chain of events leading to the moment where he let me know that my opinion, my needs, my happiness, would never matter as much to him as his own and if I wasn't okay with that, he would withdraw his offer of marriage.

Some people just don't fit.

I finally accepted that, after months of him trying to beat that idea into me, my own sense of self-preservation managed to kick in.

Of course, now it seems to be far too late to save any tatters of friendship.

Many will probably think I left him for PD. Leaping, like so many girls do, from one man to the next. Security, validation, comfort sex, distraction from internal stressors, clinging to endorphins inspired by limerance.

I'm not going to argue that. It's pointless. Many would be surprised that I, I didn't touch him the night I left the ex. Nor the night after that. Or the next.

It was near pure companionship while I gathered my head back together.

Heh, finally free of that chain latching me down to sex as a magic psychological healer. Took ten years, but it happened.

I don't know exactly what PD and I are doing. I'm... really being the pathetic abused puppy. It's kinda sad. I'm hypersensitive to his moods, his expressions, looking for that displeasure, that look of calculated evaluation. Constantly worried that I'm taking too much of his time, too much of his attention. Trying not to get in the way.

But, when I get up for work in the morning, he makes me breakfast, walks me to my car, and then goes back to bed.

And when I asked him to go clubbing with me on Saturday, so he could see me dance, he said yes. He didn't tell me no, that it would be a bad idea, because he might run into someone he knew and want to bang them, which I would simply have to deal with, which is why the ex only went clubbing with me once.

When we brought up how rapidly we were falling for each other, and I expressed concern over his not-quite-monogamy, PD didn't tell me that he would never change, that his needs were his needs, he just smiled and said that we'd make it work. That we'd find a way to make both of us happy.

I sleep in his bed on the second floor. Cats jump up onto the blankets, curl at our feet, our sides, occasionally our faces. Daylight starts filtering through the warehouse windows, illuminating his book cases, his dungeon, his face next to mine. He wakes up and smiles at me, I smile back. Happy. Feeling safe to be myself.

Thursday night, we went to an art gallery/fashion show in Downtown, on the lush patio of the twenty-first floor of one of the buildings. I wore a short skirt, stockings, a loose black tunic, and my usual boots. He was in a dark button-up and jeans, the thick piercings through his ears black and tribal, eyes always looking wicked at me. He included me in conversations, whispered jokes into my ear, introduced me to friends, always made my company feel desired, like I was more than an arm-piece.

Friday night, we met with two more of his friends to discuss a screenplay one of them had written. We talked for hours, I started nodding off, my right leg across his left as he stroked my thigh, talking business, talking ideas, making jokes and ranting, as he does. His friends were wonderful, all of his friends have been wonderful. Open, accepting, easy.

Saturday day we went to Olvera St in downtown, took the Metro in. Wandered the buildings and the booths, people-watching and talking about everything, like we do. Conversation is non-stop. Ideas, thoughts, plans, feelings. Looking into old buildings, walking around in the two museums they have there, reading and discussing, identifying antiques. He bought me a Day of the Dead ornament I loved in a tiny store full of art. Went back to his place and dozed on the couch downstairs, watching movies while he loaded his truck with equipment for the next day. Hit the club where we ran into a tiny porn star, a friend of his, who was quite entertaining and friendly, just like all of his friends have been.

I slept in today, he went to work. Left me a note on my purse, made me smile.

It's good. I'm happy. Anxiety and worry aside, I'm actually happy.

I feel like I should be miserable, but I'm not. I think a large part of it is that I've been put through the emotional wringer by the ex so many times that I've gotten a bit numb to it. There's grief and there's sadness, but not that heart-stab I've had so often with him in the past.

Finally strong enough to move on. Strong enough to stand up for myself.

I've got just a few moments before I have to bolt again, so I thought I'd drop a note in here really quick.

This blog has turned into a sort of three-ring circus in the last two weeks. I apologize for that, as it was never my intent to have things become so damn dramatic (and not even serve popcorn!).

And I do promise that I will, sometime this weekend, sit down and write the tale of how things turned out the way they did. I warn you now, it is going to be long. Longer than usual. Which is why I haven't posted it before now- I'm still working on it.

In the meantime, for those of you who have been with me so long (and those of you that are newer), please have faith that I did not sudden deviate from established behavior patterns and become a traditional flighty female, pursuing status, money, affection, emotional highs.

There are things that happened, things that most of you have no way of knowing about, because I've yet to share them. Which is my fault, and will be remedied. You've stuck with me through all of this, some of you from the beginning of GV8's and my relationship, and you will be able to read about the end soon.

Thank you,

V.

Okay, we're running up on 11:15PM.

Lots of thoughts running through my head, very little time for them. Work is trying to eat my life and, really, it's getting there.

Spent Saturday, Sunday, and Monday night with PD.

Spending Wednesday, Thursday, and this coming Saturday night with PD.

This, this is... how I acted with Rick. Well, less extreme.

From the first day Rick and I met, we saw each other every day for eight months. Never skipped one. Just happened that way.

Of course, Rick lived less than five miles from my work... so it was easy.

C wonders if I'm rebounding. I was wondering that as well, a few days ago, concerned that I was being one of those girls that goes from one relationship directly into the next, using the budding connection/sexual validation as emotional padding for the transition.

I've always had months in between relationships. Give myself a breather, a time to collect my head.

But... not this time.

Not that I was expecting a relationship, as previous blog posts will attest.

But this whole mess with GV8... I understand now. I understand better, myself and what I want from a partner, what I am willing to forgo and what I am not willing to forgo.

And, PD... he's... yeah. Lovely.

We were dating before GV8 slammed into us, and now we're dating again. Or... something. It's this sort of odd situation where I'm a little fragile and high-strung, but he's right there. Right there with this sense that I know him, that I've known him for years. Our bodies just line up, working together. Ease.

I keep waiting for something bad to surface, like I do.

I keep trying not to kick myself for appearing like one of those flighty girls. This isn't me jumping from one relationship to the next because of a fear of being single. I don't fear being single. I tend to relish it, once I get used to not having a partner to factor into my schedule.

It's weird, being with someone who treats me like I'm human.

But when he's silent, I mentally freak. I'm like an abused puppy, waiting for him to tell me how he's evaluated my behavior, like a paper being graded, the red sharpie descending to plaster "F" across my being.

Then he reminds me that he's not GV8. And I have to sit there and breathe and believe him or I'll drive myself nuts.

Anyway, we'll see what happens. I've been totally infatuated before, and I will be so again. Need to calm the hell down.

More when I'm not about to pass out.

I wanted to take a moment between things to thank everyone for their support in comments and emails, and the occasional phone call from the rare few of you that have my number.

I'm... actually... fine.

I feel good.

Yes, there has been some crying. Mostly grief, I think. Grief for what we had and what it turned into, the loss of a good relationship, a good friendship.

He was exactly what I needed when I met him. He helped me through some difficult times and helped me grow so much as a person, faster than I would have on my own.

But that's over.

We have, as he said to me a few months ago, passed our dating window.

He'll always be able to push my buttons, make me want him, to some degree.

But... I don't love him anymore. I care for him, sure.

But no love. Respect is fading. Trust is gone.

In some ways, he's so amazing and experienced. He takes care of things, harnesses reality and makes it his.

But when it comes to relationships... he doesn't have enough experience, and it shows. He missed me, he wanted me, he dangled what would make me jump back into his arms. He didn't think it through, didn't take into consideration my happiness.

I mean, he did to some degree. Sending me back to school, giving me the time to write my book, puruse getting my body into its best shape, giving me control over my time.

So valuable.

Time is precious.

But he did not think further.

And he's so dominant, it's hard to not just naturally bend to him.

But there are things I can no longer excuse. Behaviors that do not work for me, and not just his need to sexually roam.

Some people just don't fit.

And I've finally accepted that.

In the last couple weeks, before GV8 came crashing back into my life, I met someone. I actually met someone. Someone I have things in common with, someone I might truly fit with. Someone who is an amazingly good person. Who values me.

Who kept his phone by his bed Saturday night, knowing that I would likely call and need a shoulder to cry on.

Who picked it up when it rang at midnight-thirty, talked to me as I drove to his home, curled up in bed with me and let me talk.

He makes me happy.




End: Chapter One

Vision is obscured.

Remove glasses, dried salt flakes splashed across the inside of the lenses, deposited by tear-wet eyelash tips.

Fairytale endings are for princesses... and I am no princess.









Wipe the glass clean, look again.

Quick post, as I have to run out the door to a lapdance class.

Did the dinner with my parents last night. My dad has only met GV8 once, my mom, twice. I always kept him separated from them because it was a)never supposed to get serious and b)I was convinced they would freak about the age gap.

I was exhausted. Typical. Falling asleep on GV8's shoulder on the couch while he and Mom talked.

It's weird. This whole thing has been weird.

I'm happy, but most of the time I'm trying to suppress it because I know if I start thinking about it I'll get incredibly anxious. And, as much as I know this bugs him, i keep expecting him to change his mind.

Because he changes his mind a lot.

Four break-ups attest to this (admittedly, one of those was mine).

I don't trust him as much anymore. He's back in the generic trust category. Trusting of certain behaviors. Trusting him to act in expected ways.

But there's the gap. The pull-back. That it wasn't like it was and, until we get married, I'm probably not going to relax. God knows I've been clingy as hell of late. And analyzing every single behavior and word choice.

I'm nervous. I'm so damned nervous.

And I know this panic is pushing at me to keep things the same, continue on my solo, just so I don't have to experience change. Because I don't handle change well.

The second I think of not spending the rest of my life with him, my stomach drops out and I think that life would be... not pointless, but... horrible. A void of happiness.

So I've got to, as my dad says, put my helmet on and soldier through it. Don't let the anxieties and fears rule my life. I know, one day, I'll trust him again as much as I did, if not more. I know that, just a few months ago, he was the center of my happiness, my life, I was willing to give everything for him because I was so convinced he was it.

As for everything else... we're having a small ceremony in the park that my parents got married in on their anniversary: July 1st. Then we're going on a not-really-honeymoon to Lake Tahoe for the weekend. Planned on having a big ceremony and reception in October.

Next Saturday we're going ring shopping.
Next Sunday, I'm going dress shopping with my mom.

And, in three weeks, I'll be Mrs. GV8.

Nah, that sounds so old. I'll be Ms. GV8.

...and I'm going to be late if I don't leave now. Whoops.

GV8 has posted his first, and probably only, blog.

You can find it here.