Well, I think it's time.
Ah, it's hard to write without music pressing in on my skull, closing everything else out. Matching up that perfect hum. People's voices, how I hate them.
It's hard to start, when there's so many origin points.
Let's start with now.
Ian's sitting next to me in a near-identical armchair. When he writes, he fidgets, he's frantic/frentic, full of energy. His body bounces, his head rocks, he moves so much.
When I write, I'm calm. I hit that calm, pure hum that nothing can touch-- it's burning through everything as I funnel words from my fingers to the keyboard. Direct, pure, unstoppable flow.
He's such a weirdo. We're so similar, so opposite. I have a purity, a oneness, that he doesn't have. He's all jangled pieces. Probably the ADHD. We talked about it over breakfast at a Mexican place by the beach in Carlsbad. Channels. Reception. Volume. Sorting.
Morning was spent in sex and cursing at his desperately needy, broken feline. She wouldn't stay off of me. Whatever I did, however I laid, she was on me. On my face, on my back, my hip, side, legs, hands. All night. Psychotic little tortoise shell. I was about to kill.
Shifted to a full paleo diet about a week ago, moving from my partial paleo of the last several years. Body is digging it, but I have a feeling I'm going to get sick of certain foods. Digging into a bit of a baked sweet potato for breakfast. I've never had so many of these tubers in my life. Hoping to taper off of them, once my body adjusts to the changes.
Night. New Year's Eve.
Drunks make me nervous, make me anxious. Body jangles at the stupidity as it flows, at the good-time-girls and their wide mouths and their overdone hair, brittle with heat and sprays. The tyranosaurus strides down the sidewalks as they stutter-step with their too-high heels, dragging downwards at their too-short skirts. Older celebrators are scandalized. I hear a, "Her skirt. Did you see her skirt?!" from a woman as we cross paths moments after a leggy thing staggers by.
I twinge and twitch. Alcohol. Stupidity. Any excuse, celebrating a man-made construct of a circle around the sun, making promises to ourselves that we'll never keep, a point of procrastination, an expected failure.
We went to see the fireworks at Mission Bay. I don't go out on New Years.
Five minutes later, they're over, like a bad lay. And, like a bad lay, we sit on our blankets, hoping that there's a round two that might just be a little better, last a little longer.
When his friends finally head southward for the night, after an attempt at some possible voyeurism/exhibitionism post-bar that I shut down with my post-bar-fuck-you-for-taking-me-out-among-normal-people snarl, Ian curses at me in the almost-dark.
Christmas tree lights, LED, blue and white, make little paw prints on the ceiling and walls.
We sit on the couch. Christmas clenched it for him. I took him down to our family holiday, as he was stuck in town with his fancy new job. He was absorbed into the family like no partner I've ever had. Better than Rick, definitely better than Bryn-- sticking to the walls, I-don't-want-to-be-here-but-you-want-me-here-so-here-I-am Bryn. Families make him awkward.
I've given up on nicknames. These are the people in my life, people that I love.
We roamed around my cousin's mansion, talking, taking photos, being little electronics nerds. Too easy, too close. Can't do it.
The drive home, he was shell-shocked. It was too right.
But it's not.
He confesses on the couch in the Christmas-lit living room, dark and blue, marked. Too much caring, too many trials over the last year since we met. I'm it, he doesn't say. But it's on his lips and tongue. I don't push it. I heard it from Greg, from Matt, from others less recent.
I'm only "it" until time dissolves and changes, then someone else suits as well.
Ian, he wants babies. He wants a dynasty. He wants a brood of excessively smart, dynamic individuals. Daughters, if he could. World wreckers. Together, we'd create little brain children. Prodigies. He's smart, smart as I am. Rare.
We debate in the dark, about children, about choices, about demands on responsibilities and my own neuroses when it comes to others depending on me. Stalemate. I know I have to spend less time with him.
Parker is... thirty. Smart. Beautiful body. Built like... sigh. Legs like once of those Greecian statues. We tangle in bed. He's good. He has the possibility of being great, of being someone who leaves an impression on me, sexually speaking-- if nothing else. He has a sharp learning curve.
I like him too much. We're a close fit... but not a great one. His memory, his ADHD, his constant death wish with all the sports he gets up to, not enough communication in the way I need it, too much like me at times. Taints things.
But, man, can he cook. And he's driven.
I play with him a bit too much. Too many years of game, of PUA background. I tighten and release bowstrings. Most of the time it works, sometimes it backfires. We'll see how today leads.
I've blogged about him here before, though I don't remember how I tagged him. One night stand when I was about 21, two night stand when I was 26, another go round two nights ago. He's still good in bed, but not as good as he used to be-- not that world-shaking fuck that I knew him to be. The only person in quite awhile that made me feel used after sex.
I don't appreciate that. It was an ego blow. I'm better than that.
I think that sometimes now. Most of the time, things go my way. Sometimes, they don't. Ian tells me that he's banged a few other people in the last month. I want to crawl on top of his chest and snarl, tell him that he's mine that, no matter who it is, no one no one is going to be me. No one is going to be who I am, how I am, no one will make him feel like I do, trigger his wires like I do, get him all tangled up and vulnerable.
But he's not mine. So I stay safe in my own seat, and satisfy myself with getting my glares under control.
Roman. The only nickname I'll keep. For his sake, for his love of privacy.
[Redacted by request.]
When I left him, I knew I was leaving behind a piece of myself. Left it inside of him.
Things felt... good with him.
Now I'm in California. Juggling too many men. One is to the left of me as I type, blogging himself, in another part of the blogosphere. I could tell you that I want one of them. Or two. Or even three. But I could also tell you that none of them will work. That the pieces don't line up.
I could spend my life with Ian, by the beach, having far too many intelligent blondes.
I could travel the world with Parker, watching his business grow, watching mine grow.
I could tumble around in Dalan's bed, bruised and used, never more than a thought-- me.
I could daydream about waking up in bed next to one of my favorite PUA bloggers, content and warm, stroking his skin.
Inside, I'll drive home. And tomorrow I'll hop on a flight to D.C. 2013 has started, and I have things brewing inside me that I can not yet place words to. This entry was supposed to purge my system, but yet... it's not empty. This was supposed to be my last entry. Now it's not.
I drove through the snow and wind, heading home. Curled up in an empty hotel bed by the beach and listened to the rain slam against the door as Miracle on 34th Street played. I received texts from Roman, from Parker, and let the heater trick me into believing it was their body heat I was sharing. I let myself be tricked that, once I got back and curled up in Parker's bed, I'd feel okay again. That I'd simply shift men like I shift gears.
Now, it's apparent that I can't. That when you leave pieces of yourself behind, things work differently.
I'm going to shut my laptop down and look over at Ian in a second, see where he is on his writing. Meet his blue eyes, walk down the coast where the sun is less than two hours from kissing the horizon top. Stop this ache of wanting, wanting that fit, wanting that person that sidles up next to me and says, "Me? I've been here this whole time. Where have you been?"
And then... life.