Well, PD and I are... eh, minutes? An hour? Away from leaving for San Francisco for the weekend.

I wanted to catch "Wicked" before it moved again though, admittedly, it's coming back down here again. But I refuse to see it in the upcoming location because the acoustics are so very, very bad in that place (Orange County Performing Arts Center). Also, I really try to spend as little time in Orange County as I possibly can.

So, we're leaving shortly, hitting Anderson's for lunch, hopefully have time to get a relaxing dinner before getting all "fancy" for the show. And I want to get fancy. I bought a dress months ago that I've been looking forward to wearing and now, now I have the perfect setting for it.

Which shouldn't be so exciting, but I'm a girl. Mmm... clothes.

Wandering around Saturday, planning on taking PD to a tea house (he loves his tea) and the Disney Museum (both of us love Disney), and just seeing the sights. Sunday we'll hit Winchester Mystery House, then Gilroy for some garlic, and wind our way down the coast with tenative plans to finally see Toy Story 3 before it leaves theaters.

So it'll be good. He needs a vacation.

School also just started for me. Two classes, dead center of the week. Contemporary Novels (yay, postmodernism for the win!) and Elizabethan and Jacobean Drama (not so much for the win). Fortunately, most of the plays I have to read for the latter are plays that PD has acted in, so I'm going to be asking (forcing) him to do some voice acting for me so I don't have to suffer nearly as much.

I'm not a fan of anything written before WWII, I will admit. Just doesn't do it for me.

But I'm trying.

Anyhoo, PD's cooking breakfast, so I'm going to join him.

Interrupting my evening with a news broadcast straight from the scene...

Post-sex, lying on PD's chest in bed, making out, I feel him twitching, starting to re-inflate, so I tell him he reminds me of a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade float.

He asks which one, tells me to consider carefully.

I give it about five seconds of thought, then answer: the turkey.

"The turkey?! Of all the floats you pick the turkey?? I would've even settled for Underdog!"

I start laughing, he grabs me and goes to throw me off the side of the bed by rolling me over his body, dropping his leg off the side of the bed for leverage.

His foot touches the floor, pushes... and the carpet he forgot was there slides over the hardwood.

I squeak and cling, but go over, he tries to catch me, lowers me quickly onto the floor, drops the last inch or so for me to do a light bounce on the offending carpet.

So I'm sitting, naked, on this rug, laughing hysterically, he's standing at my feet, looking at me, and says, "You squirted semen down my leg."

Sure enough, long trail of semen down his leg.

When I fell, I clenched. Like a ketchup packet (go kegels!).

Much laughter ensued, with him trying not to look amused. Failing.

He's downstairs now, licking his wounds. I think I'll go help.

Okay, you've gotten to me.

Well, comment moderation is now on. Again.

I don't even know what to say.

I feel like my life has turned into this division of GV8-of-Christmas-Past and GV8-of-Christmas-Future. He's gotta have a twin. There has to be some evil twin running around impersonating him.

Or I'm retarded in my mate selection.

PD votes for the latter, I'm sure.

What am I supposed to say?

I am sorry things didn't work out. I am sorry it rapidly became impossible for us to stay friends. I am sorry that I ever argued that we fit, ever thought I could deal with a non-monogamous marriage. That was foolish of me, I did not know my limits.

But I'm not sorry for recognizing those limits and standing up for myself.

I'm not sorry for getting angry when I got the whole thing blamed on me, when you told me, "You never should have said yes if you couldn't accept the life I lead" when you had told me prior that we would play together, that I would have say if I was uncomfortable with a partner choice. Then, suddenly, it was like it had never been said.

I'm not sorry for going running to PD. I didn't touch him for weeks after we broke up, you know. He acted as a friend, mostly platonic, listening to me, letting me cry on him.

I'm not sorry I did not bury myself in grief, like I had done all the other times you left me. I got used to losing you, I guess. That final time, I think I was already burned out on the concept. It hurt, but not as much as it should have.

I'm sorry I idolized you. It wasn't good for either of us, wasn't healthy for the relationship, though I do not know if you would have wanted me if I hadn't been worshipping you like I did.

I'm sorry it apparently seems to feel like I used you. It was so awkward for me, at the beginning when we started dating. You would never let me pay for my half of the meals. I'd reach for my wallet, but by the fifth or sixth date, you started snapping at me, getting irritated, telling me that you would pay for my meals, that whenever you took anyone out to dinner, friend or more, you paid.

I'm sorry you thought so little of the one time I did pay for a date, when I took us out to Disneyland for a pre-Christmas celebration, took us to the overly expensive restaurant inside Pirates of the Carribean, that I had always wanted to eat at, and wanted to share my first experience of it with you. Being an underpaid college student, that date cut into my bank account a bit, but it was worth it.

Still is.

I'm sorry you apparently got so upset about Roman coming out and thought that his visit was for the sex, not the friendship. I thought that I had expressed enough that I wasn't comfortable sleeping with him since we were engaged, even though you said I should go out and have my last, unmarried, hurrah. He never did come out, you know. He felt he'd be adding to the stress and drama.

I'm sorry I wasn't more grateful for all your help and support when my family started breaking down in late December, and help moving me out of their place into my own. You were my hero, showing up with that trailer, helping drive and unload, helping me put better locks on the windows, taking me refrigerator shopping.

But how long was I supposed to thank you? I readily admit that I would have been paralyzed by anxiety and unable to do anything if you hadn't been there to kick me in the ass, like you did. You saved me, changed my life. You kept me stable when I was the only thing between my mom and a mental breakdown, my dad and suicide, my parents and divorce.

You did everything. You were everything.

What do you want me to do?

I know you're hurting, I know you're not over it. Neither am I.

I hurt. I've disconnected a lot, more than a lot, but I'm still a wreck in some ways. I'm twitchy, anxious, overly emotional. It makes me sad to think of how things changed, and I miss having you around to talk to. Miss the idea of the life we were going to lead.

But it wouldn't have been good for me. I wouldn't have been happy. Or you wouldn't have been happy. But since you definitely have the stronger personality of the two of us, it probably would have been me.

I know I've said some harsh things on the blog, but this is my space, a space you said you were not going to touch. You supposedly said you were going to ride off into the sunset and never speak to me again. But you're here. You're reading. You're commenting and fighting with my readers if they catch your comments before I get to them.

Fortunately, I usually get to them before anyone sees them. I check my phone religiously, even when I'm asleep, I'll wake up three or four times a night to make sure things are okay.

I know it's going to take time for both of us to get over what happened. I know it hurts. I know I spurned you and then I didn't suffer as much as would have been expected. I know I'm the only woman you've ever proposed to, and it's likely a bit humilating to have announced that someone had finally wrestled you down only to flee the scene, though I'm sure you came up with some story to tell those who were concerned.

But I'm just another girl. You're surrounded by them, and I know you had no problem finding a replacement bed partner when we split. And, I've been told, you said you never really loved me, just took pity on me or somesuch. Which stings, but I suppose that just means I was never good at reading you, and each time you told me you loved me, you meant it in a friendly way, not a romantic one.

Love is love, I guess.

I'm sorry I hurt you.

If there's something you want from me, some way that I am able to make it up to you, you have my email, you have my phone number.

You've always had those.

If there is nothing I can do to make amends for turning down a marriage that would have made us both unhappy, then please leave me be.

There's nothing else I can give you.

Well, I'm sick. Coughing in a very unfeminine manner, I'll say that much.

And I'm PMSing.

And I'm tired.

And PD woke me up at like, 3AM this morning with a sudden bout of penetration that left semen dripping out of me for a good fifteen minutes, tickling me as it ran along my skin.

So I came home, showered, received a phone call from C who was on my street and picking up a copy of a movie (Brick) and some vegetables who really had to pee, which meant I was running around my apartment dripping water everywhere trying to get dressed and let her in while her boyfriend was illegally parked so she could pee.

I had no idea how fast she could run.

And now I'm here, over-warm, slouching in an unergonomic fashion in front of my desk.

One of my friends and I were chatting today.

The topic rapidly turned to a variation of the usual: I'm constantly freaking myself out because I have this fear that I'm batshit insane. I drive myself crazy worrying that I might be crazy. And, on top of that, I worry that I'm just so smart that people around me have bought the idea that I'm sane, but if they really got to know me, they'd realize I was rather batty and promptly flee the scene.

Or, as the topic shifted, that I'm so convinced I have some major flaw that makes me completely unlovable once it is discovered. That as soon as someone gets to know me well enough, they'd, like mentioned above, bolt out of a combination of disgust, terror, and disdain.

Unfortunately, I am not sure what this major flaw is. My friend says my major flaw is thinking that I have some major flaw that makes me ultimately unlovable.

He said it was like a psychosomatic thing, except it should be termed psychopsychotic.

Which was quite witty of him.

He's a witty dude.

But he's not wrong. I do believe there's something quite wrong with me that makes me unworthy of another's romantic affection. I've been slowly getting over the platonic affection thing, so much better than I was. Don't know how that happened, only that it did.

Now, I'm all about self-improvement and growth through self-analysis. And I'm usually pretty on top of my whackjobbery. But I have yet to find something within me, some particular piece of myself, that I am socially suppressing through twenty-six years of training, to the point where I don't even know what it is, to work on. I don't know what I think is ultimately "wrong" with me.

Only that I think, on a very base level, that something is wrong. Massively wrong. Wrong enough that others would turn their nose up at me and trot quite quickly in the opposite direction.

Which makes me wonder where this came from, where it's going, and what I have to do to stop it.

Anyhow, my friend asked me to write a post about the things I like about myself. Which sounds kinda silly and like something Big Bird would ask Oscar the Grouch to do over the course of the episode. But when I thought about what I would say, I started either drawing blanks or waving away the things that would be considered "good qualities" as things that I was born into, things that weren't that difficult, things that didn't really matter to me as much as other people.

It was interesting to watch my brain balk when I tried to have what most normal people do: a passing level of ego.

Will have to work on that.

Slowly working on the new site. And, really, it's not that slow. I need the header art completed, to select a picture for the "About" section, post a little blurb in the "About" section, and it's basically good to go.

I've been telling myself since I was, oh, 17 or so, that I would get my own website, my own domain. I'd flip through html books (you know, back in the day), had little mini-pages hosted on sites like Homestead and Angelfire (are those even still around?) and tell myself that I'd figure out the whole "website thing"... eventually.

It's one of the many things I kept telling myself I was going to do, but never did.

I used to have a lot of those.

I'm getting better about accomplishing goals, even ones that have so little impact on "the greater good" of my life, such as a personal writing website.

I think it's more about conquering mental hurdles. The things that tell me that I just can't do certain things, that I'll fail, that I'm not smart enough, competent enough, I don't deserve to accomplish certain things, that there simply is no point.

Most of my hurdles are mental, really. Some people have financial hurdles and, yes, to a degree I have those. Other have physical ones, or ones of a lack of experience, a lack of education. I have none of those.

At the moment, anyway. I may be attacked by a rogue woodchipper at the BBQ this evening.

PD is currently out on a set somewhere, slowly, slowly working his way through the second scene of the day- or so I hope. He finished, mostly, with one of the two movies he was working on, yesterday. Big relief. He had gone something like 76 hours without sleep trying to make a deadline. We drove around San Gabriel Valley last night, to pick up a check and get dinner, the top down on his convertible, him picking on me, me leaning over the center console and gnawing on his arm. He points at me, like I'm a bad puppy, when I do that, and says, "Hey! No gah-nawing!" and flicks me in the nose.

It's nice to be with someone I can chew on to display irritated affection.

I was raised to stay by my partner.

Better or worse.
Richer or poorer.

My mother was raised the same, watched her mother stay with an alcoholic, verbally abusive husband, unemployed for years at a time, always keeping the bright side up. At his side, loyal to the end.

My mother married a poor bus driver, estranged from his family, with love, with faith, with trust that she would be happy, he would be happy, they would be happy and, together, they would make do, they would have a family and provide for them.

Through her support and love, his drive and brains, he almost made his ultimate goal.

And, he still might.

She stayed with him through all the fits he had. Stayed with him when his depression was so bad he would barely talk, barely function enough to put food on the table. Stay with him while he raged.

Stayed with him, even after he named her firstborn after a brand of auto parts. (Thanks, Dad.)

I was raised with the idea of unflagging loyalty, utmost trust in one's partner and the partnership that was formed.

When I headed out from San Francisco, the weekend GV8 proposed, I remember driving over the bridge, talking to him on my cell phone.

I asked him why he wanted to marry me, aside from his "I'm the whole package" schtick.

He said that we trusted each other, respected each other, that he saw my mother and father together and if I a) aged half as well as she did, he'd be thrilled and b) was just as loyal to him as my mother is to my father, that's what he wanted. And he said he knew I'd never lie to him.

Loyalty. Respect. Honesty. Graceful descent into old age.

Loyalty.

He brought that up many times over the weekend. That I was loyal. That my mother was loyal.

Most men, I know, would take that as sexual loyalty. A lack of straying. And maybe he did as well, as much as he wanted a sexually open relationship, I'd like to think that both of us were quite aware that I only ever need the person I'm seeing, only ever want the person I'm seeing, once I'm in a relationship.

He wanted my loyalty.

He had my loyalty.

But I still remember that dinner with my family, celebrating our engagement. I still remember him sitting there, big alpha dog, grinding in the point that he was now sterile, that my mother would not be having grandkids like she so desired. He wouldn't leave it alone. I watched the look of pain on her face. She already knew, I had already told her, discussed it with her. But he had to, I don't know, had to make it even more real.

Like a vasectomy wasn't enough.

When she walked away to get something, I asked him why he did that, why he wouldn't stop. He told me he wanted to make sure she knew.

Of course she knew.

Everyone knew. This had been discussed time and time again since he had his vascetomy while we were dating.

It did not need to be done. He was not the one who would need to do it, if it had been an issue. That should have been my job, my call on how to handle it.

My loyalty remains with my family.

And when some middle-aged punk decides to dismiss everything that I've written here because of a blog post done by GV8 when I finally had the realization of how unhealthy that marriage would be for me (and not just because of that small moment with my family) and publicly derides me for being a gold-digging whore, he can suck it.

I would rather be poor and scrambling for the rest of my life than with a man who would treat my family as such. Than with a man who would treat me as he ended up doing. Than with a man who would propose to me on my blog. Than with a man who would play headgames with me. Than with a man who would come into my private space and write a blog full of outright, no discussion, no debate, lies in order to fuck with something I care about.

Gold-digging? I wasn't raised that way. If I was, I would have stayed with GV8, no matter what the emotional cost. If I was, I would have tried to have a lavish wedding, instead of wanting to get married in a park with no guests but close family. If I was, I would have wanted some massive diamond ring instead of a simple gold band.

It doesn't matter what I do to some people, I know I've lost respect, lost credibility, lost trust with some of my readers. Hell, lost some of my readers, over what GV8 did.

I've never lied on this blog. Never intentionally misled. But that doesn't stop him from swooping in and doing damage. Hurting me for hurting him. As if he was the only person hurt in the whole debacle.

Doesn't matter.

Shouldn't matter.

When I told Rick how GV8 apparently wrote that I made him pay for every meal, he burst out laughing, exclaiming, "You?!" and falling back into laughter.

It's the people who know me, the friends I've had over the years, the ex-boyfriends, the ex-lovers, they know. They anchor me down to reality. They remind me that I am known to them, that my values, as odd as they are, are known.

I never thought my reputation would matter to me so much. But now... I know I have one. Where I stand, who I am, is known. And I like what is said about me, what is believed about me, by those who I keep in my life.

Loyalty. Family. Honesty.

I will give myself, I know this. I will give everything to the person I am with.

But now I know I have enough awareness to pull away when something will truly damage me.

I've been doing more watching than commenting lately on the evo-psych blogs (which is normal, really). There's been a heavy focus in the last week, heavier than usual, I mean, on female promiscuity.

I remember reading a post on the idea that sluthood was achieved when a certain number of partners was reached, and I commented that, no, there isn't a number. That I've met girls with a grand total of five partners that were sluttier than girls with a partner count in the 20s, or my "amazing" partner count in the mid-70s.

Derision followed.

So I sat there, staring at the computer, wondering why I was unable to communicate this simple idea.

Because, when it comes to sexuality, most people are very black and white.

And a person's partner count defines, of course, who they are. Like a character leveling up in a video game, achieving talents, experience points, whatever. An overarching drive to a universal idea of mega-slut that all girls end up at. That you can tell a girl's partner count, especially if it is high, just by interacting with her.

I've said this all before, in here and in comments on other blogs.

For many people, it is the behavior that defines a person.

Which I think is a dramatic demonstration of a lack of experience on their part.

I do not believe we are what we do. Which, I suppose, is very un-American of me.

I believe that what is more important than a behavior, or even a behavior pattern, is the motivations behind it. The psychology.

So when I've got some bitter evo-psych/MRA guy desperately trying to be a PUA so he can sexually validate himself in a display of anger telling me that since I have a "high" number I have poor impulse control and am doomed to failing relationships and dating the bottom of the barrel for the rest of my life, not to mention cheating on all my partners...

What a sad little view of the world.

I'm looking at motivations.

If someone has a high partner count and, for some bizarre reason that bothers me, I want to know why. I want to know if it is poor impulse control. I want to know if some tragic event happened that caused them to go on a sexual rampage for a year. I want to know if they just enjoy sex and are aware of safety and their psychological needs. Or six dozen other reasons for having a highly active sex life.

Not as excuses. I don't need excuses.

We aren't "excusing" behavior. That is saying that the behavior itself is wrong. I don't believe it is. I believe that there are healthy reasons and unhealthy reasons to engage in promiscuious behavior, but I do not believe I have the ultimate say (or any say) in letting another person know that what they are doing is Inherently Unhealthy.

I sometimes try to use myself as an example of promiscuity that was garnered due to my own psychological "needs" and "tragic" event circumstances, not as an indiciator of poor impulse control. I either get completely laughed at and called a slut (but, of course, only online... I can't think of a time in life that I've ever been called a slut) or told that I am the exception to the rule, blah blah.

The same crowds that dismiss my experiences as "an exception to the rule" also lump me in with the "sluts" and tell me that I'm "just like all the other girls".

It's quite sad.

I'm losing my need to interact with these people. I came into this scene with a desire to learn, grow, exchange ideas, expand my worldview. I thought there would be people there I could relate to, enjoy, sit around discussing the ideas of desire, of escalation, comparing sex stories, social stories, trying to be the best we could be.

Instead I mostly found a bunch of men of all ages, most of them bitter, most of them angry, most of them hanging onto this worldview they want so badly to be true so it confirms their behavior so they don't feel like losers, clinging to stereotypes for validation.

It reminds me of when I started at my college, working on my BA, so excited to be with like-minded people, with the same focus, educated, broad-minded, and I found a bunch of under-educated, unexperienced morons clinging to their upper-middle class WASP belief systems, wanting to be social workers so they could "show people how to live right".

So disappointing. So worthless.

I spent those two years with my nose in a book, writing my papers, striving towards a degree, understanding concepts that I had to sit and explain to those kids for hours because their brains could not wrap around anything but what supported their worldviews.

I don't need to spend my time around this type of people. I want to learn, I want to grow, and this, this isn't cutting it.

I'm taking my diploma and walking.

This is a typical "me" afternoon.

Sitting at my desk in a building spaz trying to work through the idea of the death of one's lifetime partner.

So you have these, like, mostly wonderful 30-50 years of marriage (you know, all divorce stuff aside) and then your partner dies.

You know, they die after all this life-building is complete. You've hit retirement, you've bought the overpriced, fuel-inefficient RV, and then this person that has been by your side for decades is suddenly whisked away by a rogue blood clot.

Or whatever.

So you've got these remaining, oh, 1-20 years of your life left without this person that you imagined spending all this "remaining" (depressing word choice, yay!) time with.

But they aren't there.

And your kids have moved out and had families of their own.

And your health isn't getting any better, on average. You could be in shitty health but still truck away for a good decade.

So you hop from senior citizen home to senior citizen home until you can't take care of yourself anymore and then you wind up in one of those homes halfway between a regular senior citizen "home" and a hospice.

And, if you track back a little bit, the last few years of your partner's life could have been filled with pain and you were unable to do anything about it except help him/her get out of bed. Right? Impotent against the body's decay, frustrated and hurting for your partner.

So it wasn't just a happy, easy, in his/her sleep death, it was a miserable, in and out of hospitals, pacing the corridors, drinking shitty coffee and eating even shittier hospital food, watching them sleep, watching then TV on mute or low volume, whatever show happens to be on. And then you watch that show over and over as the days pass, sometimes weeks pass.

And then you get them out of the hospital but, really, they're wasted. More skin and bones than they were.

And you know each trip to the hospital is not going to help them get better, but prolong.

They're almost like little refill stations running rapidly out of gas.

The car is going to stop eventually.

But you keep taking her in and filling her up because of love, because you want him/her not to be in pain, and you've got this hope that things will turn around.

And sometimes they do.

But, eventually, goes back down again.

So, five years later you've gone through the house you guys bought together, someplace either in the naturey-bit of the world or someplace near your kids so you can babysit the grandkids, you've gone through memories and letters and ticket stubs, you've given away all your furniture as you deconstruct this life, boxes and cupboards you haven't touched in twenty years emptied under your fingers. If you're lucky, you'll have an offspring or two there to help you do it, keep you company, tell stories to and think about the good times, keep you distracted from how much everything simply sucks.

Then you take a couple suitcases and your favorite photos and move to this senior citizens' home.

Where you are surrounded by six dozen people in the same situation.

And you're goddamned depressed because you're alone.

And, yeah, the first few weeks, maybe even the first few months, you get visits from your kids, your grandkids, but after you "settle in" and after the novelty of it wears off, the visits trickle to those only inspired by guilt.

And you're still alone. Without your mate. Waking up and reaching for their hand every morning, like you have for the last thirty years, but that hand isn't there buit you can't break the goddamned habit because you've been doing it for so long, so each morning is a reach for the left side of the bed followed by tears.

So you get a cat.

Or some goldfish.

And sit on the edge of your bed in the morning, if you can motivate yourself to get that vertical, and list out these reasons why you should continue moving forward.

And it makes me wonder, overall, if it's easier to live with brief partners, have a life of happiness, and no partner at the end, no one to leave you through death, no one to mourn.

Or if it's easier to go through all of the above, having lost one's partner.

And if, really, for some it would have been easier to not have experienced such things, and for others it was completely worth it, depending on the personality of the person in question.

Where do I want to be? Where will I be? Will I even make it to 30? What will I live and regret doing, regret not doing, and in fifty years, will that be me sitting on the edge of the bed, being stared at by some cat that is decades away from being born, looking for reasons to live?



...........................


The above is why I read other blogs and webcomics at work. Otherwise I drive myself absolutely insane and sit here, like I am, with my eyes kinda like this --> o.O turning into a total spaz, having to call PD and go, "AAAAAAH CHRIST LIFE IS DIFFICULT!!" and then he laughs at me.

Fuck this, I'm spending the rest of my lunch break at Barnes and Noble, reading about hookers.

My brain has been a bit weird since late last night.

Which is normal, I suppose.

Last night was actually pretty wonderful. Well, it was nice, then it segued into pretty wonderful.

The pole dancing/fashion show... that was interesting. The hotel was okay, the pool was, as far as pools go, quite lacking. But the people watching (lots of women with a stripper/playboy bunny approach to clothing and make-up) was interesting enough.

What got me, out of all of it, was their approach to pole dancing. See, this was a pole dancing competition. And I don't mean a fun, "who can incite the most boners" approach, which is what I expected. I quickly came to learn that the competition for pole dancing is not for who is the most sexy (that actually seemed to be a bit frowned upon), who moves the best to the music (which was mostly ignored, making me question the word 'dancing' in the competition title), no, it was who can do the most impossible looking pose... and hold it.

It was basically a very slow moving gymnastics competition.

Unexpected. Unimpressed, for the most part. I love dancing, love watching others dance. There was one, maybe two girls, out of the entire evening that did anything remotely resembling moving to the rhythm.

So I got in my car and chugged on over to PD's place, texting him that I was on my way and quite aroused (not due to the dancers, thank you, just due to the thought of seeing him).

We have such an excellent connection. Being able to lie in bed with someone for hours and just talk, tease, and fuck... it's wonderful. Tickling, squealing, slapping... laughing and licking. He amazes me. He's such a good man or, at least, good to me. His personality is so wonderful, he's so goddamn smart and constantly makes me laugh, something I haven't had with a boyfriend before, though Rick came close.

It was lovely.

But then, somehow, the topic of money came up. How he is so far deep in debt we now have to lock the gate because his car might be in default. Months behind on rent, electricity and water bills in the high hundreds each month. The porn industry, at least as we know it, is dying. And he's left here, stress growing, little to no work... and I hate it.

I hate that I can't do anything about it. His bills probably hit somewhere between $9-10K a month. Anything I could do to help would be a drop in the bucket. A needle inserted into a haystack with no intent of removal.

I can't help and it kills me. I just sit and watch him stress.

I've always been the helpful one, who rushes into battle, who leaves the office at a phone call to go save the day or lend a hand. Give time, give money, give an ear and a shoulder.

Not here, not now.

I'm useless, or next to it.

Frustrating helplessness.

I'm a 26 year old college student with an income that covers my bills, covers my tuition, and allows me to save some. That's about it. I'm no trustfund baby, my parents have been in poor circumstances since Dad went batty last year and lost his job, I can't even help them.

Where I am in life does not afford it. They, PD and my parents, are in an entirely different income and debt bracket than I am. My debt is near laughable.

I keep thinking I could just speed up the book, dedicate my nights and weekends to it, to the research, the interviews, churn it out and someone, somewhere, will magically hand me money and I'll be able to fly in and fix everything that has gone wrong.

But that's not the way reality works. This isn't a course on wish-fulfillment.

And all I can do is be sweet and supportive, loving and nuturing, having faith that things will turn around for both parties. Somehow. Not contribute to the stress, if I can't take away from it.

Back to life.

Friday.

Friday as a psychological construction of the 9 to 5er that causes elation. Of which I belong to. Hence the elation.

Not a lot of elation, actually. More of a relaxation.

Going to some pole dancing/fashion show event tonight. Poolside at a hotel in Hollywood. This could either be really great or incredibly lame. I'm expecting lame, so I won't be disappointed if it is, and if it's great, then I'll be all sorts of happy-thrilled.

Was talking with PD on my drive home from a birthday party on Wednesday.

See, I sent an email in response to his email that I posted a few days ago, per his request. My reactions, physical and mental. And then he responded to that, which I believe was spurred by our little unplanned play session in the previous post. We didn't expect to be doing that, but... it happened, and it was wonderful. And it lets us both know that we've got a ways to go before we hit a wall of physical limitations on my end. My brain, my body, was nowhere near being pushed to my limits.

And I'm finally with someone who can likely play as hard as I want to play.

Most guys, as I've complained in the past, are so afraid of hurting or scaring me.

Which is why, out of all my adventures, only one man (Riot) has ever come close to being as rough as I wanted. He was fabulous.

But where I'm going with is this: in his email, he spoke about the urine thing (my distaste for it and his apathy for my distaste) and how, in his experience, of all the girls he's done that with, only one actually liked it for the action itself, and how all the others just wanted to be made to feel like the filthy whores they were.

That's where my psychology and their psychology parts ways at a quick clip.

I've done a lot of things in the past decade. Some have been wonderful, soft, and loving. Some have been incredibly stupid and occasionally degrading. Others have been rough and wild. Really, each experience is different, it's just the degrees of difference that separate them.

While I was walking the gutterskank path between 16-18, before I pulled myself out of my nosedive, I did my best to be used and wrecked by my partners. My best towards self-destruction and destruction of concept of sacred sexual activity. But I never felt like a slut. I'm sure I was called a slut, a whore, a cum dumpster, whathaveyou. Never felt like it. I think I was too busy wallowing in anger and depression.

Or maybe I'm just not geared that way.

What I've done in the past, what PD and I will do in the future, of the reasons it excites me, none of them include that I'm being made to feel like a filthy whore. Cock gobbler. Whatever.

To feel that way about being forced to engage in sexual behavior (whether you enjoy that behavior or not)... it means you have to feel wrong about it it. That something about the behavior is wrong, that participating in said behavior is wrong, that the only way one can really let go and enjoy it is to be forced so you don't feel the shame.

Because you can't take responsibility if someone's forcing you.

So you can act on your desires, keeping your self-concept sacred, even though you are the one willingly signing up for these actions, knowing what you're getting into before you do it, that buffer is still required for internal image stability, lack of guilt, lack of self-division.

Meaning that there is a belief that your behavior defines you, more than your own perception of self.

Meaning that the idea of how such behaviors are viewed by "society" has more of an impact than how such behaviors are viewed by oneself.

So there ends up being this separation of sexuality and self. The ideological dark and light halves. When you step into a bedroom, a dungeon, a dark alley, you shed who you are during the day, and another person is required for you to fully explore your desires. Because you can't admit them to yourself, can't admit them to others, don't want to confess to the things that your brain creates when you're driving towards orgasm.

Many reasons. Many people.

Is it because wanting these things is viewed as some sort of psychological damage? Being touched by an adult as a child. Being raped. Not enough love as an infant. Some defect that to accept one's own sexuality would be, in a way, a devastating confession?

And then, on the other side, you've got the lifestylers that are so rabidly in your face about their sexuality, their ideas, what they do that their entire self-concept is built on their idea of sex.

I think that speaks of discomfort, to be so socially aggressive about anything. A shield, again, for many things, for many people.

On a Game/PUA level, this is can be reduced to a simple need of sexuality, vanilla or otherwise. These girls have desires, desires they cannot engage in because to do so would cause shame. To admit to would be to cause shame. So they fall onto another person to draw those things out in them, to exorcise their sexual needs, someone to lead and control, to center and blame if need be.

It comes back to responsibility.

Wishing to engage in behavior, but being unable to do so without feelings of shame, so finding another person to take on that responsibility. Not just the responsibility of taking action, but responsibility for one's own actions.

He was charming, he was seductive, he said all the right things, he confused me, he got in my head, he made me feel this way, he was so experienced.

Never acceptance. Never, I was young, inexperienced, fell in with someone, I didn't know any better, but it happened, I did these things, I feel silly now, but, hey, that happens. We're young, we make mistakes. It does not make me "x".

"X" equaling whatever sexually degrading term that springs to mind.

So PD's emailing about these women, and he's been with a lot of women, that need to be made to feel like filthy whores, and my brain just sorta stops.

Because I'm likely never going to feel like a whore. I don't have that need, I don't think I have that capability.

Because what I do, what I have done, what I want to do, I feel no shame in admitting. I feel there is nothing wrong with wanting to engage in the behaviors I desire. And if PD ends up doing exactly what he emailed me and I'm sitting there swallowing mouthfuls of semen and piss while he backhands me, hating the fact that I'm ingesting urine, dripping semen out of both orifices, the only thing I'm going to be getting off on (psychologically) is that I'm with someone who can put me in a situation where I am sexually powerless.

Because that, that doesn't happen often.

We owe each other the world...

So, I've been mulling some things over for the last few months, in regards to this blog.

Looks like I'll be changing addresses to my own domain soon, and dropping anonymity.

This whole blogging anonymously has been an experiment, something I've never done before. The only reason I engaged in it for as long as I have was because I wanted to be truly able to write freely without repercussion, without having to worry about who will read what and take it in what manner.

At this point, my primary concern would be, of course, PD and C, though, really, I shouldn't be worrying about either of them. C knows I love her to death, love her personality, and am constantly amused that we are so different. PD, well, my brain shifts around so much on him, on my future, but he knows that. I have no poker face.

If I was ever able to hide my emotions, gravity would likely stop working due to shock.

I suppose things will change some, when there's a face and a life to the writing. That happens.

And I'm going to be linking to PD's blog as well, because he's such an excellent writer and... yeah, I think he's pretty great. So you'll also be able to see things from his point of view, if you feel so inclined, including the GV8 engagement and subsequent breakdown over last Memorial Day weekend.

I'll also be able to sort my rambles into different categories (finally), so those of you who get sick of my sex posts, game posts, babbling nonsense posts, and wait for others can avoid the types that you don't enjoy.

So that all should be happening by the end of August. Waiting for some header art to be completed, then going to start stringing it all together.

Then you'll have a face to go with the writing.

... ... ...

Disclaimer: not work safe, not vanilla safe, if yesterday's post wasn't your thing at all (sorry!), then don't continue to read. This one does not include urine. Fortunately. Because then I would have had to shower and we would have been late for dinner.


I spent my drive to PD's yesterday texting him and taunting him, like I do. I like that, eventually, he'll simply smack me down, verbally or physically.

So I arrived at the warehouse, laughing at his latest response, walked in, found him buried in his nerdery, cleaning up for another porn company renting his warehouse as a film location.

Then, then he walked into the office on the first floor and came out with a coach whip. Not for me, just cleaning up, as that office gets used for make-up, costume, and talent chillage. He comes out, starts flicking the tip of the whip at the cats (it has a little tassle on the end- think of those long, sorta flimsy whips that they illustrate for buggy drivers in cartoons depicting the early 1900s). Then he starts flicking it at me.

So I yip, like I do, and go to turn away.

Thing is, when you're getting hit, if you can't get away super fast, you have to sit and take it, because if they miss because you're squirming, and it lands somewhere truly unpleasant, it sucks.

Which meant I stood there, squirming with my arms folded up over my head to keep them out of the way, as he walked around me, whipping me- mostly my ass and thighs.

About, oh, two minutes in, my body went whoosh. Whoosh like post-orgasm whoosh. There was no orgasm, but my body reacted like I had just had a major one.

I've never had that happen before, as a reaction to pain.

But I usually go for impact-blows, not stinging ones.

It was fantastic. I started slouching in on myself and PD stood in front of me so I could wrap my arms around him and lean until I got control of my muscles again. I felt like purring.

He let me relax for a few minutes, and once I got my feet under me, I found myself bent over what I call "the creep gyno-chair" (he has two, both are creepy, but one is creepier than the other). More whip, then he slid in and started alternating fucking and whipping until he came.

Thought we were done there but, no, we were not. He got me out of my clothes (top had been over my head, pants around the knees), walked me over to the shiny new BDSM horse he received just a few weeks ago.

Cracking me across the face, caning, wooden paddle, a crop, I was gushing. He came in me again, then disappeared, came back, used three clamps to clamp my lips shut (no, not the lips on my face, the other lips). Then the cold sensation of lube on my ass.

See, we have this problem. He's a big, big fan of anal. My ass is near virgin tight. We've been working on it with plugs and fingers, stretching out the muscles, but I'm still not loose enough to really take him and not do damage.

So he gets out a plug that I cannot see the size of and starts inserting. I'm whimpering, louder and louder the deeper it goes, until I'm nearly shouting and he has to come around and sit on the right ledge of the horse by my face and whisper and kiss my forehead, tell me how good I'm being, as he continues to slide it in. Tears are running down my face at this point, he's whispering for me to relax, to breathe, and I'm trying.

Finally got it in.

He gets up, takes the clamps off my now quite sore lips, and slides in slowly.

As he fucks me, I pop it out. He holds it against me, tells me to back up and fuck it and him. I do, it eventually slides in all the way. Pops out a few more times, when he's thrusting hard, but he thrusts it back in. Grabs the Hitachi, angles himself so he can continue to thrust, but work the wand between my legs.

Too much stimulation, though, either makes me squirt or clamp down (muscle-wise). Hit that point, and I look over my shoulder and ask him to come in me. I hear the Hitachi hit the floor, then he's going for it. I feel him fill me again, surprised he's still got anything left in him.

He comes up alongside me, afterwards, kisses me, cleans me up, smiles. I'm purring and squirming at him, still lying on the horse, as he strokes the length of my body.

This, this is sex. This is touching the top layer of rough sex and I can't wait to go deeper, see what my body can do, what he can do to my body. Where my limits are and what happens when I reach them.

So, PD sent me this email last night. This is not work safe. If you aren't into rougher sex, watersports (which I'm not, but he doesn't care... which is rather hot), you probably shouldn't read it.

That's your disclaimer. So if you read it and become psychologically or physically disturbed, I take no responsibility.

If you read it and think it sounds like a good time, that makes two of us.

Really, just consider this a guest-post from the vaults of PD's deviant brain.

... ... ... ...


You’re on your knees in front of me.

In my mind, I’ve ordered you to shave, do an enema, stick the large plug in and deliver yourself. You’ve been stripped, inspected, groped, told not to meet my gaze, to speak only when spoken to, to do what you’re told. I’ve conveniently forgotten to give you a safe word.

I pull down my pants. You instinctively move your head towards my crotch without being told, and I scold you, slapping you hard. Then, liking it, I grab your hair in my fist, bend down and kiss you, slapping you again.

I pull your head into my hard cock and tell you to suck it. You take it into your mouth, and I let you take your time for a while. Then I take your head in my hands and begin moving the tip further down your throat. I push your head down a little further each time.

I push down hard and instinct makes you pull back slightly, which is met with more slapping, hard slapping. I tell you to choke yourself on my cock, and you do, moving your head forward. You make yourself gag trying to get it all the way down your throat. When I’m satisfied with your efforts, I move away, and button up.

Still kneeling I collar you; a thick leather posture collar that makes it difficult to lower your chin. Cuffs at wrists and ankles. Last, a blindfold.

I order you to your feet and yank you up by the collar. You become aware of the slickness running down your thighs as I lead you across the dungeon in unsteady steps. I push you back into leather padding and raise your arms above your head; the cross.

Arms cuffed into position, legs open and locked. Pussy wet and exposed. I’m slapping your breasts, no rhythm, seemingly choosing which one and how hard at a whim. You whimper and jerk a little. Then my fingers are in you, rough, pushing in hard against your G-spot, and soon you feel the gush as you squirt. Then, my fingers are in your mouth. You try to lick them clean, but reflex takes over as you feel me slapping your wet clit, always faster and harder.

You bite down and squeal, unable to get away.

More gushing from the smacking. A sharp slap across the face from the wet fingers taken suddenly from your mouth. Then, something leather between your teeth. A ring that holds your mouth open. You feel me move close, kissing your cheeks gently before my tongue darts into the hole, licking your tongue. Then I hold your hair as I spit into your mouth before stepping away.

As the drool begins dripping uncontrollably down your chest, you feel something small, leathery, stroking your belly. A crop, maybe?

A moment later, it begins cracking down again and again, leaving small, throbbing spots of sting behind that seem to worsen over time. Down your belly, your inside thighs, then to your cunt. You cry out as I beat your lips and clit, dancing and cringing, but unable to get away. Then up your body to your breasts.

You lose track immediately of how often you’re being struck, but each breast is throbbing and welted when the blows stop, nipples rock hard. Then you feel a clamp closing on your left nipple and cry out. It hurts like fire. The right one soon follows. Then you feel something cold against your clit and you inhale.

It starts to vibrate and you realize it’s the Hitachi. You relax as the buzz hums through your pussy, groaning slightly. Then you feel my hand reaching back between your legs and feel pressure on the plug. You whimper as you realize I’m pulling it out, and I tell you not to make a sound. You can’t stop a small squeak when the chrome ball pulls free, and then a shout when I force it back in.

I explain I’m going to pull it out and shove it in harder each time you make a noise, until you can do as you’re told. It pulls out hard and you squeal, as you do when I shove it back in. After several more rounds, you manage to keep silent as I ram the ball into you and I leave it.

The Hitachi pulls away. You feel me doing something between your legs, and then feel weight pulling on the plug. You realize there’s something heavy attached to it swinging between your legs.

I tell you to make sure it doesn’t drop. It actually makes it an effort to clench to hold the plug in, especially when you feel me between your legs again, after which the weight increases.

I step away, and the next thing you feel is definitely a cane. It’s hard, bites on impact and leaves an incredible sting in its wake. And suddenly it’s biting you all over. Breasts. Arms. Thighs. Belly. Pussy. Clit. You jerk, wiggle, scream. And then you hear the CRACK as the metal plug hits the concrete floor.

You gasp slightly. Then I’m taking you down, walking across the floor, bending you over the horse. The gag is out. The plug is shoved into your mouth, still hot from being inside you. I am spanking you, spanking your ass so hard the impact thuds in your ears. You almost expect the horse to move as you cry out around the plug.

Then I’m suddenly in your cunt, fucking you. Hard, brutal, ramming my hips against yours, fingers in your asshole, other hand pulling at the claps on your nipples, twisting them, stretching them. I push in deep and you know I’m coming inside you.

I pull out. You feel semen drip down. The plug is pulled from your mouth, replaced by my cock. Your pussy, my come, mingle in your mouth. I grind into your throat again as I rain stinging slaps down on your ass.

I pull away, and you feel something on your clit. A third clamp closes down, squeezing your clit hard. You feel weight begin to pull on the clamp; again, something tied and dangling like a pendulum which turns and twists the clamp each time you move.

A hard wooden paddle cracks down against your ass and you spasm. Your clit twists, your ass stings, you are an entire raw nerve. The beating continues, breaks for a moment as I slam my cock into you, then continues again. Fucking. Beating. Fucking.

The plug is shoved back in, quick, hard, stealing your breath, but more beating follows immediately. Then my cock in your cunt, then more beating. The plug is pulled out and shoved back in. I’m fucking you with my cock and the plug at once. Then more beating.

Then you inhale sharply as you realize I’ve forced my cock up your ass. I take your hair in my fist and you feel me grinding up into you, pushing in deep. A moment’s pause and then I’m taking your asshole, using you. Fucking you slowly.

Your cunt is dripping. I pull out and you feel a gasp escape. More beating on your ass and thighs, hard, sharp, then my cock is back in your ass, slammed in at one thrust, you feel like it’s in your belly. And I’m fucking you harder, pounding it in, making it hurt. Your head is still yanked back as I pull out and shove my cock in your mouth. You suck it, trying to take it down your throat without being told.

Then I’m behind you again, and I shove it in. I’m pulling all the way out and ramming it back in with each stroke. Your entire body tenses each time. The weight pulling at your clit is making you crazy as I brutalize your ass with my cock.

I pull out again, and the clamp comes off your clit. You feel something softer – a dildo – pushing into your cunt. It’s thick but not long, and you can tell it’s been buckled into place. It fills you.

I fuck your mouth again before slamming it back up your ass. You feel the Hitachi on your clit. You know you have to ask permission, and when you feel the orgasm creeping up on you, you nearly forget. You mumble for permission and it’s given.

As you come, everything clenching, you feel me buck my hips into you, thrusting deep, and I tell you I’m going to dump a load of come in your filthy whore’s asshole.

I pull out of you and move in front again. Your mouth is open before I’m there, waiting to suck the come off of me.

I remove the dildo, untie you from the horse, and tell you to kneel again. Sudden light fills your vision as the blindfold comes off. I put my hand between your legs and order you to give me the come. I cup my hand under your pussy and asshole and tell you to push.

Thick semen squirts into my hand and I hold it in front of you, sticky and white. You know what’s expected before I tell you to lick it off. You suck most of it from my fingers, and I wipe the rest across your face.

I take the clamps from your nipples and you gasp in pain as the feeling returns. Kneeling, I attach the clamps to your inner lips and you whimper, but manage no to wriggle too much or move your hands from behind your back.

You watch me pick up a tiny metal pail on a chain which I attach to hang below your pussy from the clamps.

Standing, I stick my cock in your mouth and order you to fill the pail. As you suck me, you relax and fill it with piss. As the weight increases on the pail, the chain pulls down on your lips and you whimper, but you don’t stop. I tell you to empty your bladder and soon you’ve overflowed the pail and you’re kneeling in a puddle.

I ask you if you want a third load of come, and you say “Yes, sir.” I tell you you’ll need to earn it, and order you to open your mouth. Knowing what’s coming, you look up at me and get a sharp slap for forgetting yourself. Looking squarely at the tip of my cock, you open your mouth.

My piss is hot and salty as it fills your mouth. I stop the flow and tell you to swallow. You close your mouth, swallow it, and open your mouth again. I fill your mouth again and tell you to just hold it. You mouth fills and then my piss is spilling out the sides, running down your face and chest, down to your pussy.

I finish, and you’re still holding it as I begin stroking my cock over your waiting mouth. After a moment, my come shoots out, a few drops splashing on your face but most mixing with the piss in your mouth. Now I tell you to swallow, and again you gulp down the foul mixture.

I yank you up by the hair and bend you over the horse, ramming my cock into you. The clamps from the pail fall loose as I pound into your pussy, then your asshole, pulling out and ramming back into whichever hole suits me. You’re gasping in a mixture of pain and pleasure, and I whisper in your ear that this is how I like you best. Willing to take anything from me, willing to be used in whatever way I want. All your holes open for me.

I pull out and push you to your knees to come in your mouth. You swallow.

I hold you, kiss you, look you in the eye and tell you what a good girl you are. Then I walk you to the shower.

PD's back tomorrow from the land of Florida. Florida Land, as it is known to some.

That last line was a total lie.

He's been gone since Thursday, which I may have mentioned, which leaves me baby-sitting the Porn Palace, as I have come to call it, and his cats. He has wonderful cats.

It's weird, being in this place by myself. Wandering through the dungeon, sleeping in the bed without his company. Makes me restless. I love downtown and I love this place, but it's empty without him.

I was the same way with GV8, and the apartment he had next to the loft/club. Didn't know what to do with myself there, other than his laundry.

Writing yesterday's blog post was a welcome return to an internal theme, and made me realize that, of everything I write here, my favorite pieces, and the easiest ones, are the ones that reek of melancholic sadness with a hint of detachment.

Apparently, I don't do happy well.

It doesn't move me.

Sadness, loss, it flows.

Last night found me tossing and turning. My body knows PD isn't there and rebels. He tells me I seek him out in my sleep, when he comes to bed, that I curl up on his chest like a cat and he strokes the tattoo that runs down my ribs. When it's hot, I hold his hand.

But I never remember it in the morning.

So I roam around his bed when he's not here, waking up in various positions and geographical locations. The dunes of 300 count sheets. The mountains of over-fluffed pillows. The footboard of Siam.

Probably not that last one.

But it feels like it.

It also sounds like a band name: Footboard of Siam, opening for the Foo Fighters.

I could totally see that.

Spent the weekend busy. Breakfast at a restaurant in Newport Beach with two friends I hadn't seen in awhile, but kept promising to fit them in somewhere. Stopped by my parents', grabbed my birth certificate, then applied for my passport before meeting a friend for sushi. We talked for hours, of his girlfriend, his job, my insecurities, the club scene, learning to dance (I am the go to person for lessons, apparently), relationship drama. Ran by the college bookstore to get my textbooks for the coming semester, starts in two weeks, but they were closed. Hit Nordstrom Rack and stocked up on dark designer jeans and a couple of tops. Spent too much, but finally found a brand that fits my ass-to-lower-back ratio that doesn't scream "hip-hop club attendee: droppin' it like it's hot". Dinner with one of my best friends and his girlfriend, average Thai food. I spent Sunday morning poring over old family records on her father's side of the family, gathering information, addresses, birth, death, and marriage certificates.

Odd how you can sum up so much of someone's life with those three pieces of paper.

Our hearts are read...

I am two arms, two legs, hands and feet, and the brain dictates the flesh.

My tongue has traveled miles of skin, tasting the oil and sweat of men, feeling the dips and ridges of each outer layering.

My great grandmother was an opera singer, parting her lips for audiences through both North and South America, her husband dead too early, she left her only child in the care of other families as she toured, moving away from grief.

I've been in beds across the country, for reasons platonic and sexual, mattresses playing host to my roaming needs. Sheets cold and smooth, wrinkled and warm, flannel pilling up like a soft brillo pad, my body has met them, sweated and slept.

My great grandfather was in the Illinois National Guard. He broke my grandfather's nose with a chair to the face sometime before he passed away, when my grandfather was 10.

These visible reactions, the crooked nose with the charming face, is something that would last in impact, last in romance, bringing him through the series of girls until he married the one that became my grandmother.

My nose is straight, a nearly unnoticeable tilt at the end, something given to me by both parents, a gift that I have buried in the crooks of so many necks, the inside curve of a hipbone, the base of a man's skull, short hairs tickling that slightly curved tip.

My grandmother came out on a bus from Arkansas, into Los Angeles, to find work. She found my grandfather instead, and with him, the left shoe to her right, the matching pair, they created two children that would go on to lead vastly different lives.

My grandfather came out, likely on a wagon, from South Dakota. A serious man, a quiet man, who could only express affection for his wife and daughter- never his son. Popular theory is that he could not stand his wife loving another man, even his own offspring.

These trickles of love and neglect carry down.

When my aunt was young, sometime between nine and twelve years old, she was raped. That changed her, altered her, for the rest of her life. Nothing would be the same, and no one would ever know it had happened, save for her mother, until after she had killed herself in the summer of August 2009, when her husband was going through her childhood writings and discovered this tale.

My grandmother covered it up, from a need for privacy that would pervade her life, a need that I have never felt.

So when my father's older sister took that gun to the garage, she was blowing away forty years of a life she had not asked to lead, a life of fear and bad choices left splattered on a wall behind her.

Leaving us to wonder if the man who took her, used her, had any idea of how much everything would be altered for his few minutes, few hours, of lust.

Lives change in a day.

I sit and look at my dad, now in his late fifties. His family, his original set, is buried together in a cemetery a little less than twenty miles away.

Beloved Mother,
Beloved Father,
Beloved Sister.

He can visit his entire family in one day.

I'm left here to watch, and when I walk into his office, see him trying to pull himself together, constantly at the computer, studying, emailing, reaching to save what he has left of himself, I'm reminded that all stories do not have happy endings.

Some just end.

So, I'm off work in two hours.

I've never thought of myself as patient, overall. If you tell me something exciting is going to happen in two months, two weeks, two years, I'm perfectly fine with waiting, totally calm.

But when we get down to that finish line, and we're just hours away... I turn into an impatient spaz and I must get going now.

That manifests in other ways, as well. When I have a project that I suddenly feel the need to get done, but it's going to take me six to ten hours and I should space it out, I won't. I won't eat, won't sleep, will begrudge going to the bathroom, until it is done. Whatever time of day or night this wild hair takes me, I'm lost.

So, I'm sitting here at work, two hours from bolting out the door, about to chew my own leg off in frustration to escape this time-trap.

I'm excited. I haven't seen PD since Monday morning. He's been working, working what appears to be about 16-18 hour days trying to get these two movies done. This means I've been exiled (or he's been quarantined) as I'm too much of a distraction and me in bed encourages him to forget editing and think about fucking and sleeping.

But the quarantine is off for tonight and tomorrow night, as he's going to be out of town until Tuesday of next week and I need to get my lovin' on. I go a little... batty... without physical affection.

He mentioned that, in one of his guest posts, that I was crawling all over him in a doctor's office in an effort to offend the populace.

This is partially incorrect.

I was crawling all over him in a doctor's office in an effort to crawl all over him, populace be damned. I need my cuddles. I need them more than sex, I think. If they go sexual, that's just another manifestation of my physical affection.

And we had this talk.

I don't set out to make people uncomfortable (except for that grumpy older group at the restaurant in Cambria who was looking at the two of us with total disgust so I had to stand up, kiss him, and then run my hands down to his ass and squeeze while he had his back to their table and the closest one was about two feet away). The only time I actually, purposefully, use PDA to have some sort of social result is when I'm getting poor service at a restaurant or retail location. Nothing sends the help scurrying on their way like overtly sexual behavior in their place of business.

Observers of my Displays of Affection are completely unnecessary to such displays. I touch, I need to touch, I need to be touched. Part of the whole "Poetry of Flesh" thing. It's not sexual, it's just how I mellow, how I connect.

Anyhow, that tangent aside...

I get to see PD tonight. I'm likely going to cuddle his face off. He has no idea the amount of physical affection he is in for. Well, he has some idea because he knows me, but we usually don't got this long without seeing each other. So it'll probably be excessive.

And he enjoys it. Win.

There's this part of me that... hrm. GV8. I spent so much of this blog idolizing him, turning him into this godlike figure. Because he was, to me.

Then he toppled.

And when he did, he came in here and started making a mess. I had to clean up more comments than anyone ever saw. Some where he posted as himself, some where he posted anonymously. To the point where I was having PD do it for me because I was so upset about how angry and offensive he was being.

Not upset because I was hurt, but upset because he had been so much of my life, had done so many amazing things for me, been there for me and helped me through such hard times, helped me become better as a person, live more of the life I wanted... and then, then when the weekend after our engagement hit, when everything happened, how he acted, what he said... it hurt.

But I understood. I didn't blame him.

But his subsequent aggression, he killed, was trying to kill, that shining image of him I had.

Well, maimed. It's still there. Sometimes I think about calling him, think about how I want to talk to him. And then I realize the person I want to talk to... isn't there anymore. He stopped existing. Died, in a way.

But that wish is still in my head.

And then I remember the things he said. The things he wrote. The look in his eyes at the diner when we broke up. And the lies. That's the hardest part. He lied. He lied to me, lied in his blog (which I've yet to read, but discussed with others).

He used this image of him I created in here to do damage to me.

And he did damage. I can tell.

I know I hurt. I hurt on many levels. And I know I'm swallowing some of it down, ignoring it, forcing it away with distractions.

I know I'm vulnerable, especially with PD. I'm so hung up on him. I think, like I thought of GV8, that he's just the end-all-be-all of men. I know I do this. (Well, I didn't do it with Darkeyes.) The more I interact with him, the more I get to know him, the more I feel that way.

It's a reaction. And it's a habit.

These last three days, away from him, have been a bit eye-opening. I still am wildly head over heels for PD. But I realized how much of my life I give up when I'm in a relationship. A real relationship. I usually only realize this after things have ended.

It's good to know. It's good to have it smack me in the face, that I'm doing it again.

I need to allocate time. I need to not lose myself again.

And, tonight, I need to lavish affection on the man I'm growing to love.

There's a balance. I just need to find it.

Blinking at the screen.

While my brain isn't going haywire or anything resembling haywire (the origins of the word "haywire", anyone?), circuits are still firing.

Went over to C's new apartment. Just a few blocks down the way from mine. Getting there made me grateful to have a parking space, as I ended up having to park in front of what I believe was a lesbian bar two blocks away.

It's a cute place. Large, lots of built-in shelving and cabinets. Not enough windows for my taste- there's never enough windows. One of the reasons I picked the apartment I'm in now was because the windows take up more than fifty percent of the walls they rest in.

She has so much stuff. Wandering around piles of boxes and clothes, random assorted things that I've never seen before though I couch-surfed with her for nearly a year. I don't have a lot of stuff. I'm not a monk or anything, but my belongings, furniture aside, would probably only need the smallest U-Haul and not necessarily fill that.

Her boyfriend was there. I watched them interact. She had mellowed down significantly, and I have to wonder if it is because of another man she has recently started dating (she and her boyfriend believe in open relationships)... the whole available resources thing.

And this other guy is a douche. I really cannot stand him. I've tried, for her, I've tried. But, as of last night, I've reached the amount of my time I'm willing to spend in his company. No more.

He's slimy. Manipulative. So very self-centered. Martyring. Socially job-centric. Materially validating. Damp. He's constantly damp, his hands, his hair, his skin, a slight sheen of sweat. Sneering lips, baby-cheeked, his hair cut in a slight A-line, curving around his jaw, up at a tiny angle. Too-small glasses. Clothing over-tight. Not because he's fat (not at all), but because he has to have the skinny-fit everything.

And he provokes. And he condescends. Plays "poor me".

I've shut him down twice now. Once on C's birthday, when he was going on and on about how the restaurant she had chosen (start nasal accent here) obviously wasn't high quality because he asked for a refill of his cappuccino and it never came, and he was just going to sit there because he shouldn't have to ask twice, if they were doing their job right. He'd rather go without his refill, he said, that deign to ask a second time. More annoying was that he also refused to ask a second time for a refill he had requested for C because of the same reasoning.

So I got it for him. Not in an obvious manner, but by meeting the gaze of the waiter, raising my eyebrows, he came, bent down, I asked for a refill of the drinks, not loud enough for anyone at the table to hear... and then when the waiter brought them less than two minutes later, he brought them to me. And I handed them out and went back to eating without saying a word.

It was, in its own quiet way, an amusing way of rubbing his nose into his own shit. And he knew it.

Last night, at the birthday dinner, he started bitching about his ex-girlfriend. C spurred this conversation, because she thought I would want to hear it.

After the second time of him whining that he never would have invested so much time and energy into this relationship if he had known she was going to leave him, I ignored him.

And not in a "I'm still looking at you, smiling when you smile, nodding when you nod, frowning when you frown" way.

No. I simply decided that I was no longer interested in his conversation and broke eye contact, shifted my body towards C, and waited for him to trail off in confusion and then I started a new conversation.

Was it bitchy? Myeh. It was a snub, but one that did not seem to get noticed by those around us.

When I hung out with C tonight, she was telling me that Mr Damp was also dating a stripper. He would meet her at her work and, apparently, allllll of the other strippers would hit on him and flirt with him and, apparently, pretty much any girl hits on him if he goes out and, apparently, he gets numbers all the time.

And, apparently, he's so sick of it and just wants to be left alone.

Apparently, I might punch him in his face if I'm forced to interact with him again.

... ... ... ...

On the sister-front, her ex-boyfriend used the key he had and let himself into the house last Thursday morning, 3AM.

His mission was to retrieve some coathangers he left there and get his apartment key back. They broke up around Easter of this year, tried to remain friends, despite his continued freak outs that she might be dating someone.

So he let himself in, went upstairs (luckily for him, my parents were out of town, or he would have gotten his ass handed to him), confronted my sister, and since the coathangers were scattered, he grabbed her phone as hostage and bolted down the stairs.

She chased after him, he jumped into his car (a car, by the way, that my parents gave him half the down payment for) and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. She leaned in to grab it, he took off (squealing tires, according to the girl who is renting my old bedroom) and shoved her out of his moving vehicle into the street.

She called him from the renter's cellphone, he said he would bring her phone back in exchange for the keys and hangers, then didn't show up for an hour.

When he did show up, he wanted to go inside the house. My sister wouldn't let him. The girl who is renting my room, a friend of my sister's, came outside the house with her.

Of course, then the nutbag grabs her, breaks one of her fingers, bruises her wrist, cuts a divot out of another finger with the key he's so desperate to suddenly get from her at what is now 530AM. Both girls start shrieking and hitting and kicking him but he won't let go and since they are both girly girls, neither of them knows how to do an ounce of damage (kids, this is why you spec for DPS).

While they are trying to get them off of my sister, the roommate digs her cellphone out of her pocket and calls the cops (yes, while continuing to ineffectually hit him).

The screaming wakes up the navy guy who is renting the guest room.

He comes downstairs, diffuses, does the exchange, and minutes before the cops pull up, the nutbag drives off into the night.

Statements are taken, pictures of her hands and arms are taken, police go hunting for the nutbag, my sister gets a temporary restraining order.

Once the police leave, my sister finds out why he didn't show up for an hour.

You see, he had logged onto her Facebook, changed the email associated with the account, and proceeded to go through all of her messages and any that were from males, wrote to them that "we can no longer see each other". And then messaged her coworkers saying offensive things. And then posted degrading status messages. And then texted some people, in particular the girlfriend of one of her male friends informing her that her boyfriend had been cheating on her with my sister. And other things.

Whether or not any of this has any lasting impact on her very active social life, it's fairly clear that he's a nutbag. When you add into this equation that he has an autistic kid he's fighting a losing custody battle for, he's obviously gone off the deep end.

My sister, having been shielded from any sort of asshattery like this in the past by either my parents, myself, or her own defensive mental barriers, was not really psychologically prepared for it.

I spent Thursday day hanging out at the parents' house, letting her sleep, looking into getting the locks changed, talking with the roommate, then driving us all to Taco Bell for quick dinner and girltime.

My parents are trying to get her to get a permanent restraining order, but she's balking because she doesn't want him to lose custody of his kid. We'll see how things go.

And, though I was planning another thing in this post, I think I'll get running to bed. Places to go, pillows to visit.

Watched a good friend of mine tear into her boyfriend at a birthday party last night. Some mess of PMS, stress, and external influence by another male (thatI will go more indepth on at a later date) led this hour-plus long bitch-rampage.

I could not diffuse the situation like I had done in the past, my usual tricks were worthless. I'm not a magician.

So I left.

I know there is a chunk of my readers that believe that people should be treated differently based on their sex. And that some people, based on their sex, are allowed to engage in behaviors the other half of the population is not.

If you are going to engage in poor behavior and expect it to be socially acceptable and excusable because of your sex, note that it is likely that others will engage in different treatment of you due to your sex.

What she did last night, as much as I care for her, was inexcusable behavior for anyone, male or female.

Tonight I'm going to sit her down, try to get to the root of her increasingly aggressive and disrespectful behavior towards someone she says she loves so much, and we'll see what happens. Might be short a friend tomorrow.

Meddling behavior? I know. But I would expect her to sit me down and smack the shit out of me if I was acting as she was. It's an unspoken reality pact: "You're being a bitch. Knock it off."

I'm fairly exhausted.

Weekend was good. Left Saturday morning, grabbed breakfast at a place in the Valley, ran by the abandoned refinery in ***** where we found a piece of guerilla art to take home (win!) and managed to set off some very loud alarms. Tooled around at the Santa Barbara Mission, grabbed dinner at Stearn's Wharf, headed over the the concert which was not well advertised, so it was almost more of a private show. The opening band was -amazing-, I was quite pleased.

Sunday found us driving up PCH to stop in Cambria to see Nit Wit Ridge, then up to Hearst Castle for a late afternoon tour.

Realized, between a conversation PD and I had on the bus down from the castle and a blog post I stumbled across this morning, that part of love, for me, is the comfortability to show my happiness and confidence with sincerity. I often put on a tough girl front, or at least I try, but, as PD notes, I'm quite soft and squishy inside. I play confident so much, so easily, because it's what I do to survive.

And I'm more than willing to talk about my discomforts, my embarassments, my unhappy truths with near anyone without needing any level of trust or comfort with them... but when it comes to self-worth, happiness, dreams... I can't. I need that safety. That trust.

Probably means more than my surface thoughts on the matter.