She Dives For Shells

It's been a minute or three, hasn't it?

I don't expect that anyone will see this, unless they're like me--occasionally probing into the past, trying to understand how things became what they are. How people became who they are.

My last entry was six years ago. My (ages old) LiveJournal is like this as well. Huge gaps of years with an occasional update. Because time is a curious thing. Because it fascinates me to see who I was.

And things have changed. As they tend to.

It's 2019. I'm 35. Started this blog when I was 24. And all of these memories I have, these adventures, these decisions I made... feel so much more recent than that. I read these, and it feels like I should be in my late twenties/early thirties when I wrote them.

But I wasn't. I was a youthful little thing, striding forward with confidence and angst.

The angst is pretty much gone now.

The confidence? Still there. More than it was, in fact. Which is startling, because I was already extremely confident back then. This? Now? I don't know what to call it.

So much to say, it's hard to even start. Where do I begin unraveling all of this?

I don't live in Los Angeles anymore. I'm in New York City. Never thought I'd leave Southern California, be far from my family, but here we are.

I don't work. Don't need to. I may re-enter the workforce at some point, but I'm hoping to garner enough success with my writing that I can keep up my current day-to-day. But, of course, event-work may pull me back--it's a wonderful lifestyle.

No kids. It's an ongoing internal debate. Most of the time I like my child-free status, but then there are moments that make me think breeding could be a good idea. Not sure how that will ultimately turn out, so I suppose we'll both have to wait and see.

Wrote a book. No, it's not published. It's in the editing stages which, let me tell you, is a very meticulous and grueling process. Once that's wrapped, I'll start looking for an agent--but only when it's perfect.

Went on this amazing, perfect, glorious road-trip. Two months in my car, couchsurfing around the country. Fucking brilliant. 10/10, would do again and again. And again.

For those who might pass by here who were around for the GV8 drama... I haven't heard from him in a couple years. And I'm fucking relieved. He emailed me a few times in the last decade, but I think it has finally (finally) stopped.

What's interesting about that whole thing is... god, a lot.

Okay, maybe just two things.

1. I look back at that whole situation, the yo-yoing and the drama and everything and I frown at myself. I frown and think, "What the hell, Poetry? Why did you let him play you? Why did you let him yank you around?" And seeing this blog, those early entries, reminded me that I met him when I was 24. Twenty-four-and-a-half if we're being generous (to him). He was... 46?

Yes, I was a smart, capable, strong 24 year old. Yes, I knew my shit. Yes, I wrapped older, intelligent, and dominant men around me and all my ladyparts easily. But GV8 had 22 years on me. And not normal years, but 22 extra years of seduction experience. 22 extra years of conquest. I was not a match for that. Maybe I would be now--I don't know--but I wasn't then. It is a testament to my... abilities... that I was able to hold up (and onto him) for as long as I did.

Of course, it would have been better if I hadn't kept his attention or if we had stayed broken up the first time but, again, I was 24.

Forgiveness of your past idiocy and inexperience, I think, is important.

2. I was in Las Vegas (ugh, I know) in 2017. GV8, as far as I know, now lives in Vegas, right on the strip. Anyhow, I was there working a week-and-a-half-long show, staying in the Mandalay Bay and having to do the tram commute to the convention center every day. Halfway through the show, I was waiting for the tram to arrive to take me back to my hotel and I looked up and GV8 was ten feet in front of me.

I panicked. Immediately. Hyperventilating, shaking, went pale, ducked behind a wall, all of it. The friend who was with me saw my panic and talked with me until I calmed down enough to peek back around the corner.

It wasn't GV8.

It was someone who looked very much like him, but it wasn't him. The panic took another thirty minutes to go away.

And, as I sat in my hotel room, I realized it wasn't just panic--it was terror. Mild terror, but terror nonetheless. From his emails over the years, I've realized that--unless he's met someone and moved on (and I really, really, really hope he has and that he never thinks of me)--if he ever sees me again, it's going to start back up. That I insulted his alpha male pride by breaking our engagement, by breaking up with him (the only woman to do so, as far as I know), and have made myself That One.

If I met him today, rather, if 35 year old me met 46 year old him, I know I wouldn't like him. I know I'd find him annoying, pedestrian, banal. That he would be a cliche of a horny swinger. I look back at our time together and, yes, the sex was amazing

--holy shit, the sex was amazing--

But what kept me with him was not his personality, but his sexual ability and his social dominance. That was it.

And, in the last five years of my singledom, before I got married (more on that later), I met other alpha males. Alpha. Males. Saturated in alphaness. And, of course, I fucked them. Because it gets me off. Because, of course, a wide range of sexual experience (their experience) generally makes a better sex partner.

And I got used to it. I got used to being around them. Yes, I already had some in my life when I was younger, but these guys... these guys. Drowning in testosterone.

And I learned. More than I already knew of navigating those waters, I learned.

And I danced through them. For five years, between my last ex and my husband, I danced in and out of the same group of beds.

The last one? Twenty-two hour sex marathons. Broke the bed frame--twice. Screaming sex. Driving around San Francisco in a Lotus, of all things. More sex. Gorgeous sex.

I have a string of men behind me, men still reaching out to me, telling me that I was The One That Got Away. Telling me their regrets. Or hinting that they had some--but not outright saying it, because that'd be "weak."

It feels good. And not just for my ego. It feels good because... god. You know? I was doing something right. I was being me. Being ethical and honest, sticking to my morals, sticking to my beliefs about sex and relationships. And getting my rocks off in so many ways.

And they wanted it. Me being me was... desirable. I mean, of course, it always was. But it was desirable to this particular set of guys. (And others but, really, that's all dust in the wind.)

I belonged. Found a home for people like me, in the beds of other people like me.

In that vein...

I did my first MMMF for my thirtieth birthday. (Three men, three decades--get it?) Ended up with this trio of just... yes. SWAT cop (let me count those abs), San Diego real estate mogul (also, let me count those abs), and the third guy whose occupation I never learned (and it doesn't really matter), but his mind? His mind was like mine. After, when the cop when back on shift and the real estate guy drove back to San Diego, the third guy and I got lunch. Talked. He told me about his life, about what led him to putting together these little soirees.

I could have talked to him for days.

He told me that I kept giggling during the foursome--something that I hadn't noticed. That he had never met a woman that loved sex as much as I did. That everytime I laughed, he could tell it was because I was just so delighted with having these three gorgeous guys rolling through me.

I ended up seeing them again. And again. In different permutations. I don't think that was normal for them, continuing to see what should have been a standard one-night-stand.

And that guy, the one who set it all up, told me that I reminded him of the woman he should have married. The woman he loved, who loved sex as much as he did. But he worried that, because she loved sex so much, she wouldn't be a good mom. So he left her and married someone who was more... normal. Standard. And he hated it. That he had been wrong. That he had been young, ignorant, and conservative, equating a woman's sex life/preference with their ethics, their intelligence, their personality. That he regretted it every day.

I liked him a lot, his honesty and his insight.

Anyway.

Yes, I got married. Am still married. I am just as shocked as you are.

No, not just because I couldn't picture myself getting married, but because I didn't think that I'd ever meet someone I wanted to marry.

We met in January 2016. OKCupid.

Backstory on OKCupid real quick:

After Bryn (last boyfriend) and I split (2011), I continued to mess with optimizing the OKCupid algorithm. First, it was just for great lays. Then, I think around year three of singledom, I started looking for great lays and long-term material. Not necessarily marriage, but something long-term.

I figured out how to do it.

And I left my profile out there, basically untouched, for months. Got minimal messages--but that was the point. I wanted quality, not quantity. But I wasn't quite getting that match I wanted. Close, but not right.

What brought it all together was the final bit of tweaking, something I should have done earlier on, but didn't: I changed my zipcode.

Los Angeles County is huge. It's hard to get around, not just because of distance, but because of traffic. Those freeways are jammed tight and they cut the county into chunks and, really, if you can manage to not need to leave your chunk, life is pretty great.

Because of that, the chunks zone themselves. Certain types of people move to certain areas for certain reasons and then each little chunk becomes a nest for that type of person. Hollywood is for aspiring actors. West Hollywood, gay men. Santa Monica/Beverly Hills/Palisades, successful actors, entertainment higher-ups, etc. Los Feliz, screenwriters. Silverlake, hipsters. Long Beach, punk, rockabilly, and blue collar. It's not 100% saturation, but it's close enough to matter.

I set my zipcode to where I knew it should eventually work: Pasadena. Pasadena is home to Cal Tech and JPL (NASA). Pasadena is home to engineers, to scientists, all those men I get along with so well. And they have jobs. Not usually high-paying fancy things, but things that they are good at, that they have driven themselves towards out of passion. Things that require intelligence and motivation.

That's what I wanted.

And that's what I got.

Eventually, anyway.

Funnily enough, I didn't see it coming. I was on the tail-end of a romantic disappointment--one of those alpha males I mentioned had flaked on me (for completely ridiculous reasons) for our New Year's Eve plans.

Now, I don't even like NYE. But we had plans. And then we didn't. Because he was being a jackass. (He has already conveyed his idiocy and regret, so that's... nothing really useful, but nice anyway.)

So I went out dancing.

Ended up with three different ex-partners texting me all evening, telling me that they wished they were with me (one of them was with his girlfriend and I told him to go back to her, jaysus). But this guy, the one who bailed on me, was not one of them. And I was pissed.

So I stopped talking with him.

In that gap, between NYE and him apologizing to me, Greg messaged me on OKCupid. He had blurry pictures, so I couldn't make out his face, but I liked our back-and-forth enough to get coffee at some nebulous point in the future. I wasn't really thinking of him, was too busy being pissed at the other guy.

A few days later, I had to be in Pasadena--where Greg lived. And I knew I wouldn't be getting out in time to skip traffic. So I messaged him to see if he wanted to get dinner... so I could wait out the traffic.

Showed up to this date irritated as hell (from the thing I was at prior). Jeans. Convention t-shirt (Los Angeles Auto Show, if I remember right). Hair in a ponytail. No make-up. Couldn't remember his name. Didn't know what he looked like.

Then there he was.

Within two dates, I knew he was it. I knew, he knew. That was it.

And he's wonderful. He's so goddamned smart--possibly (probably) smarter than me. An engineer. Clean, so ridiculously clean that he manages to make me look messy--which never happens. He's driven in everything. He's athletic and healthy. He watches his diet, he watches my diet--to make sure that I'm getting the right nutrition. He's funny as hell. He's educated. He dresses well. He's honest with me. He has a shit ton of emotional baggage but he acknowledges it, talks with me about it, and we work on it.

Which is like... whoa.

When we fight, after we'll sit down and basically do a post-mortem. What happened? Why? How often does this happen in this particular way? What can we do to make it not happen? What can we do to make it better? We make plans, we take notes.

This is why I wanted an engineer.

He grew up in New York City. He's a Type A, going to stride you right off the pavement if you don't get out of my way sorta guy. He reads non-fiction almost exclusively. He devours the New York Times, The Atlantic, The Economist, and the New Yorker. (We get the latter three in print.)

He's gotten me into running and yoga. He's been trying to get me into the blackest of black metal (SUNN, anyone?) and it's not working. He listens to rap, goes to punk shows, metal festivals, and jazz clubs. He's a minimalist.

We have two cats. They're idiots.

We live in New York city. Fourth floor walk up, facing the back courtyard. Floor to ceiling windows. Two stories, with a spiral staircase.

He got me drinking--not a lot, but sometimes socially. I've got a thing for mezcal like you would not believe, but I don't get drunk. That's not for me.

He's an amazing writer, but I can hardly get him to write. He edits my stuff, though, so that's something.

If I ever want to go back out prowling, he's fine with an open relationship. He says wants me to be me--he knows my history, my desires, even if he doesn't have similar of his own. (Well, not the history, at least.) I'm not ready for that yet. I want more time to solidify our relationship, get to an excellent point of communication and understanding of each other, before I do.

He was with someone for fifteen years before he met me. He had been single for a year and a half when we had met. His divorce went through that summer. I haven't met her, but I want to.

He collects vinyl. His collection, while not large, is eclectic. It makes me laugh.

We go to art museums. He actually has something to say, input and knowledge on the art. It's refreshing.

We spent our honeymoon split between Disney World and Barbados. He loves the beach--I'm more of a city girl.

The first year we met, we backpacked around Europe for two months. It was... intense. We fought a lot. We had only known each other for six months. It was still a great time.

He plays the bass. He's a loner. He has good friends, close friends, but he's not surrounded by hundreds of people like I am.

He believes in my writing. He works and cares for the two of us while I edit my book. He says that if I ever stop, I have to get a job. And I love that. I love that he's okay with his partner just sitting on their ass. I love that he pushes me.

And, god, does he push me. I have grown so much in the last three years. So goddamned much. Being around him, hearing his observations about me, about life, has changed my approach to many things. I feel like a different person sometimes.

But a better person, usually, and a stronger one. My boundaries are better, that's for sure.

Yes, I feel like there are parts of me that he'll never understand. Because he was in such a long relationship (and he's essentially my age), all of his prime conquest years were spent with one person. He doesn't understand the hunt, he doesn't understand the game.

He's not the gaming type. He's too direct. Say what you want, respect boundaries, and if you don't get it, move on. Doesn't matter.

Me, I like to play.

Other than that bit, it's perfect. Well, as perfect as anything I could ask for. He's dominant. He takes feedback in bed. He grows. He changes.

And he let me plan the most ridiculous wedding at my favorite place in the world. (Ridiculous in location, not ridiculous expense--everything (everything--airfare, hotel, dress, rings, venue, reception) cost just over $13K. Which was more than I wanted to spend, but we opened the bar and things happened.)

Anyway, I'm happy. Finally. I mean, I was happy before, on my own. But now I'm finally happy with someone. Who knew?

Enough.

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.

There's not.

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.

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.

Dalan.

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.

Collect your records...

A bit of a lag time, I suppose.  Though less than what it normally is.

Poked around in the PUA community a couple times in the last few weeks.  Have to say, it looks like most of it is fading away.  Some of the guys are still around, sure, but post quality and/or quantity is going down.  Funny how that happens.  Can't imagine wrapping my life around one thing and then sticking to it.

But then, having spent some time with two of Strauss' coaches, I can understand a bit more.

November is wrapping up.  Near the beginning, I declared a man-cation.  I had had enough.  GV8 had "stumbled" across my catch up entry and was being... him.  An ex from almost ten years ago --the last one, but third one in a row to cheat on me-- and I bumped into each other.  Rekindled.  Then I got irritated.

Sometimes, people don't change.  Not the cheating part, but other things.

My casual partner, the Boy, had shifted gears into "oh hai emotions" even though he swore he wouldn't.  So suddenly had to evacuate an imbalanced relationship so he could re-orient himself and so I wouldn't go insane from the sudden clingyness.  I can't deal with cling.

A man I've had an interest in for years, a fellow grad student, shut me down.  Not that it was any big thing or whatnot, but it was still... oof.  I'm not used to that.  But I understand that we have a special friendship, especially for him being so introverted.  If it's between sex and having what we have, I'd rather keep the latter.

Then Ian, whose name I can use because, well, I can.  The girl he chose over me back in January of this year, thinking that she'd be more emotionally... whatever, ditched him.  Because she wasn't more emotionally... whatever.  I'm the softy.  So few people get that.  And some family members/friends died within a close proximity to each other and I'm probably the closest thing he has to what he calls "the twisted mirror version" of himself... so he reached out.

He was actually the only one I welcomed.  Not that we did anything but talk and entangle fingers.  That'll change this week.  I miss sex with him.

Then there was the businessman in Japan.  American.  Relocated by his company.

That trip was my first out of the country since I was three.  I found myself finding the occasional white male ridiculously attractive.  Men that I would put at a 3 or a 4 back home, men I would just *blip* over, were suddenly 7s and 8s.  It was hysterical, watching myself react.

And then, of course, the day we leave there's two American boys checking into our hotel that were just one step down from Abercrombie models.  Goddamn, if I had had one more night with how one of those boys was looking at me, I'd have been purring in the middle of an Abercrombie sandwich.

Anyhow, back to the businessman.  In Los Angeles, he'd probably be a 5.  But I saw him when I was wandering back from Tokyo Tower at 10:30ish at night on a particularly lonely evening and just started talking to him.

It's funny, how much I need communication.  Need to write, need to relay, to talk.  I'm such a girl.

So, I get his business card and we go out a couple of nights later.  Had a pretty good time, good conversations (hell, I'm always a great conversation starter, however we get into it-- porn, my thesis, geeklife, convention work), and he walks me back to my hotel.

Now, I'm so discombobulated by the whole social/cultural isolation thing that I can't tell for the life of me if he wants to come up or he's just being nice and I'm actually worried that this guy that I'll never talk to again will think I'm the most horrible slut if I invite him up.  Also in play was the fact that I was sharing a room with a coworker (who was aware that I was out on a date that night and that she might come back to the room with a sock on the doorknob) who was out at karaoke and could return at any moment (which then I'd feel guilty for locking her out of the room... and she's also head of HR.  Just sayin'.).

So I rock back and forth on my feet for a bit and then decide that I should just send him on his way even though I really want to get laid and I'm all stressing about the slut-perception bit (which you all know I never do) and then go up to the hotel room and then... pause.  Decide I'm being an idiot and under the sway of feeling so isolated and that I just need to go grab him and drag him to my room.  That if he's going to walk me all the way to my hotel, he damn well wants to come up and I'm an idiot.

But then I can't find him.  And I didn't have a Japanese cell, so I couldn't call him.

Defeated, I checked on my coworkers at karaoke and went to bed.

So, that happened.

And the thing with the boy-- I did something I never, ever have done.  Stopped during sex and just started crying.

Jet-lag + PMS + guilt = terrible, terrible things.

I've got this whole thing where I feel responsible for my partners when they're within ten years of my age and have significantly less experience than I do.  Toss the Boy in there with his grand total of (now) three sex partners and being eight months younger than me and... yeah.

So when we started having sex and I'm just tuning into his body language pre-sex and during and realizing that, wow, he is so romantically and psychologically invested in me and I should have stopped this long ago (by long ago, I mean two months earlier) but I was so stressed from work and he was the only vacation I ever allowed myself to take... I felt wretched.  I've got this poor kid who thinks he can handle friendship with sex without the emotional investment and he makes this prediction after two barely-there relationships with two sex partners and I accepted that because, yeah, I wanted to teach him.  I wanted to help make him into what I saw as the potential in him.  And I could relax when I was with him.

...also, the muscles and general physical mrowrness was quite convincing.

And then I see him starting to get attached and I just kept running with it, talking with him about it a little, but never putting my foot down.  Hoping it would sort itself out.  Which it didn't.  Just kept getting worse until I stop him mid-coitus because I can't deal with pretending to be happy that we're having sex and I shouldn't be doing that in the first place to him because he'd feel shitty about it.

When that happened-- total man-cation.  Sliced off the ex and GV8, put the Boy into a "off" mode, and got back into career-mind.  Which was great because, man, I had fallen behind.

Yesterday, I removed the man-cation from the Boy.  Went over to his place, had a marathon of Miyazaki films while I worked and we slightly cuddled.  In the morning, I talked with him.  Told him that we were never going to be in a real relationship, that we just didn't work.  That I wanted to be his friend.  And that if he ever attempted to Nice Guy me, he'd be out on his ass.

He seemed okay.  Said he figured that's what was going to happen when I came back from my man-cation and had already accepted it, for the most part.  But he hoped we'd still have sex because I'm all about my rape scenes and he's all about his rape scenes and you can't find many girls willing to admit that, much less participate in it.  I told him I had to see how we'd handle as friends, make sure that I felt it was emotionally safe for him if we did so.

Which is weird because I'm removing the decision from him, saying he can't make that choice.  Even though he's an adult.  But I have so much more experience.  It's an odd place to be, telling someone you'll let them know how they are emotionally.  How arrogant.  Kinda dickish.

I know a lot of guys like to pretend that sex means nothing to them, that they can bang a girl forever and just give a shit about doing anything else.  And that's true for some guys.  But I've found that even with the ones that are pretty hardcore about the casual thing, they still soften.  Which is good, to a point.  Humanizing.

So.  Back to square one.

I've been writing about it elsewhere a little, but I think I've finally hit that point in my psychology where I'm stable and happy enough with myself to not really care if I'm in a relationship or not.  Sure, rejection fucking stings, sexual or otherwise.  But I've been venturing out more lately, initiating.

And I can't find That Guy.  I can't even visualize That Guy.  The right guy.  I can't picture how he'd fit into my life, what he'd be like, what he enjoys, how my family would react, what life would suddenly be shifted into.  I can't even daydream the perfect scenario.  It's like throwing slices of Kraft singles at a ceiling-- you think they'll stick, but they never do, even if you lick them.

I know.  I've done it.  It was disappointing.  Gummi bears will stick, so why won't Kraft singles?

Anyhow.  It's weird.  Tripping me out a bit.  A lot, really.  I've always aimed for this level of health where I don't need a partner, but I want one.  Where they won't complete me, but complement me.  Where it's okay if we go slow, if I don't hear from them for a few days.

I'm there, and it feels so off from my usual state of being.

Wonder if it's because of my lack of free time.  Or this job offering me value.  Both of which would be concerning, as they're external forces, not internal.  Of course, when/if the job ends, knowing that I had the job, the experience, the networking that came with it... that'd stick.  Right?  I don't know, really.

I'll figure it out one day, I suppose.

Other than all the madness above, the semester is just a couple weeks out from completion.  I've already finished my final paper and Bryn's doing edits.  I started Crossfit last week-- tough business.  I'm such a whuss.  Trying to motivate myself to start running again-- I stopped when working the Halloween event because my body was so goddamned battered all the time and, really, I just didn't have the time.  Work is... well, work.  Crazy and fulfilling and maddening.  Bryn's theoretically taking me to Disneyland in a couple weeks to stay at the Grand Californian-- bucket list item.  I met an amazing dancer at one of my clubs.  More on that later, and paper alphaness.  Fascinating.

Anyhow, I'm starting to block-paragraph babble.  Probably time for Z.

Blonde.

So, I'm on my 30th hour of no sleep in an attempt to get myself from Tokyo schedule to Los Angeles schedule.  Which means any real posting or replies will be... postponed.

In the meantime, my boss requested that I go blonde for the trip.  May or may not have mentioned that.

Anyhow, I've been absolutely fascinated by the ($800) blondeness.  And I think I'm going to keep it.  Makes flying under the radar that much more fun.  So pictures are below.

Also, some of you might be amused to know that, earlier this year, I found myself spending a little time with one of Strauss's pick-up coaches.  I shot him down at the end, so he ended up banging one of my friends (or so it seemed-- never did get direct confirmation).  Everyone wound up happy.  He got his validation, she got hers, and I got to experience first hand (and second hand) how a professional PUA works.

And... drum roll please...!

Catch Up

I'm procrastinating so much right now.

But my internet palate has been mostly cleansed. Got out and about. Blogged elsewhere. New sites, new names, new faces. So I should probably give a quick rundown of the last two years. Who knows when/if I'll ever update this thing again.

GV8 and I broke up, as you saw.

 PD and I were having issues and broke up, finally, in April 2011. We're still best friends. Yes, I'm still in love with him to some degree. We're working on it.

In July 2011, I took a volunteer gig for a little over a week. I loved it. Motivated me to quit my day job (international logistics, if I never mentioned) and pursue my goals fully. 

Grad school started in August 2011. I'm halfway through now, and on my third semester. I think I'm going to do it in five semesters (total), if my current working situation continues.

 I spent, essentially, August 2011 to August 2012 being self-employed. Random gigs. Some of them were *really* random. I was a regular lunch date for an elderly blind man. A church-attendee delivery service. Accountant for a video game start-up. Flower delivery. Book editor. Trivia creator. Personal assistant. Tech consultant for the elderly.

And I started regularly writing for a pop culture news site. Had a weekly feature column there doing movie reviews, as well as the random interview. Got to meet some awesome, creative people and talk to them about what they love doing. Sporadically seeing one of them now, a very up and coming actor. Movie screenings throughout Hollywood. Pre-release parties. Comic-Con, up on the roof of fancy hotels. Sitting down with the cast of my favorite TV shows. Still doing that.

I get things in the mail. Books, movies, promotional items for various books and movies. Somehow ended up on the Paranorman mailing list. I now have zombie slippers and a toothbrush. (I squeaked when I opened that box.)

I occasionally worked as a runner and office girl for one of my favorite horror movie companies. It helped that I was banging their Marketing Manager, but the owner liked me, found me more professional than the others. More on him later, if I post again.

And, of course, the porn writing. I don't know if I ever posted about that. I write porn scripts. Parodies, mostly. For major porn houses. It's pretty fun. I get to go to set and watch porn stars act out my scripts, which is oddly gratifying.

I also finally tackled a dream I've had since I was a teenager: working a local Halloween event. It's a month and a half long. I applied for the 2011 season. My character? A murdered prostitute. It was perfect. Beautiful.

I'm doing it again this year. My location? The bedroom. It's dark pink and red, a four poster bed. My official station? The bed. Covered in blood, I get to roll around, stripper style. Grinding, dry-humping, moaning. Hitting on those who walk through. Inviting to threesomes. Distracting guests so one of my coworkers can lunge and roar. I work that bed like a god.

I wear dresses constantly now. Part of that job-- running into the wardrobe building and stripping as quickly as possible in order to not be late to my make-up artist. I started populating my wardrobe with pastels and brightly colored patterns, wearing contacts instead of my usual glasses. Curling my hair. Fucking with friends who haven't seen me in ages-- used to me in my dark colors and elegant lines. The upcoming winter means sweater dresses, and I love them so much.

Grad school has been good, too. Was pulling straight As, had been all through my pre-reqs until I made the stupid mistake of being overly honest with a professor about his teaching style. That turned into a B+. Occasionally I do childish things.

I went back to the volunteer job for 2012. It's a two week long event, essentially. While I was there, things kept happening. Promotions. Within months, through my doggedness in getting the prep work done before the event and willingness to do whatever needed to be done, I rapidly climbed. Soon I was out of the volunteer ranks and into a paid position, without ever having any intent of doing so. The event hit and it was madness.

I was overseeing a division of a little over 100 people with very little experience. But we pulled through and impressed everyone. A month later, another promotion, a salaried position with benefits. Flexible hours. I'm in the office a total of ten hours a week. I set my own home hours.

I'm a Director now. I'm 28. I'm overseeing four divisions with around 550-600 staff under me. Every year we pull together to make an amazing event that's attended by fifty thousand people. I'm responsible for about 85% of what they interface with.

We travel. I have to go negotiate with major, major companies whose names anyone would know. I'm going to Tokyo in a few weeks. Washington D.C. in January. Just got back from Atlanta. Will be going out of state constantly next year, doing meetings and networking. Another trip to Japan in the Spring.

I love it. It isn't where I expected to be, this time last year.

This time last year I was saving every penny for tuition. I'm halfway through my Masters and I still have no student debt. I'm almost done saving for the Spring semester as well.

Love life? I've been single since PD and I broke up. Not that there's been a lack of attention. Just a lack of anyone I truly want to date.

Sex life? I've got a lovely young man I call "the boy". He's a few months younger than I am. All blond Germanic heritage and features. Perfectly hung. Funny as hell-- I laugh so much when I'm with him. We play far too many video games together. He's got the old consoles, so I ordered a copy of Super Mario World for SNES and we're plowing through that.

He's my vacation from work.

He's also my pet project. 28 and, when I met him, had had sex with only two women a total of four times. Never had done doggie, never had gone down on a girl, never had sex in the shower, standing up, nothing. 

While I do love experienced men, I truly do, sometimes I meet someone who I vibe with who has no experience. Someone I can work with. He's one of them. I'm taking my years of experience and funneling them to him. Teaching him everything I know about sex, about getting sex, about psychology and attitudes and warnings. He soaks it up like a sponge, he's so quick.

There's been other guys. I ran into an ex from almost a decade ago. We're rekindling. That's a whole other story.

I was seeing a lifestyle businessman for a bit. Dom. Loaded. Gorgeous. Perfectly experienced. So very, very distant. Got old.

PhD student. Into rape scenes. The sex was great. He was kinda a dick.

Programmer/tech nerd. Wonderful sex, hung like a horse, fun to be with. Started dating someone.

The marketing guy from the horror company. Whole kettle of fish with that one. And by fish, I mean pussy. He was getting too much of it from too many places. Made me uneasy-- he kept banging crazies.

There's been others. I forget. Nothing serious.

Partner count, because some of you are so very concerned with that, is probably around 90. Still haven't been able to work it all out. Don't really care. The ones that matter, matter. The ones that don't, really really don't. I know there are things I've forgot to mention, but it has been a crazy couple of years. I'll bring it together eventually. Or I won't.

I'm the one in green. Being devoured by zombies. Like you do.

Going public, changing blog address, etc.

Well, this is six different types of sexy.

Purple is not my favorite color, by the by. Just happens to be what I liked for the website. I may change it in the future. We'll see what happens.

And, look at this, for about ten years now I said I would eventually get my own site, own blog, set up. Host it, run it, design it. And for ten years I never did it. A decade. Christ.

And here we are.

Feels anti-climatic.

Likely, just like everything else, because I built it up in my head as such a monumental task, that by the time I actually got around doing it, the technology had gotten so simple it was a matter of sitting down for a few hours and tinkering.

I'm still messing around with a few things, so there will be a few changes, I'm sure.

So you can find the new blog over here.

Can't believe it's almost Thursday. I've been so tired, sick, and already overwhelmed with schoolwork that I've neglected posting here.

There isn't a lot to say at the moment. I'm hitting that odd sort of contentment that comes with a comfortable relationship. Not quite stirring myself up like I do, anxiety fades a bit, I end up mellowly moving through, still watching people, but not with that constant alarm at the back of my brain telling me analyze their every move, every sentence, flick of an eyelash.

PD and I had an enjoyable trip up to San Francisco, drove up the 5 on Friday morning, me behind the wheel. Found our hotel with minimal effort, dropped our bags, and wandered over to the Orpheum, where we found some hole in the wall Mexican joint and grabbed a bite to eat before the show.

Wicked continues to be my favorite live show, and this cast was absolutely delightful. Since it was near the end of the run, they were improving constantly, trying to make each other mess up- just slightly. PD and I were delighted to find ourselves sitting next to another inter-generational couple... but only because it was so very clear that it was a hooker and her john. I was leaning over, whispering into PD's ear, "Ohmygod, it's the couple from outside the theater! We're sitting next to her! This is so cool! She's so gorgeous! Eek!"

They didn't come back after intermission.

No, not because of my excited whisperings, but, you know... *cue porn music*.

PD was also amazing enough to get us front and center seats. Fourth row. Fourth freaking row. I squealed like a little girl. Totally did.

After the show let out, we wandered around a fairly empty section of the city, looking for a late night dessert place. Ended up finding a donut shop still open, serving cheese cake (for him) and carrot cake (for me). So we took our carby goodies and walked back to the hotel, curled up in bed and ate cake.

And we finally had anal sex.

It was... bizarre.

I mean, yes, I've had anal sex before. I wouldn't say I'm the most experienced in it, but I've probably had... oh, somewhere around seven or ten guys in my ass.

...that sounded odd.

Anyhow, I've had regular anal sex, then rape scene anal sex, then bondage anal sex, and then just freaking violent anal sex, and the DP, of course.

But it's not, you know, my thing. It's totally PD's thing, though.

He's been having me stretch my muscles out over the last several weeks, with metal plugs, and he's been fucking my ass with them when we have regular sex, so it's no longer a struggle to get two fingers in, but I'm certainly not a four-finger girl. I hadn't quite made the connection before, which I suppose was silly of me, that the sphincter muscles stretch like any other muscles. The more often you stretch, the easier it becomes, the further you can go. It's not like a rubberband, once you overstretch it, it's not done. If you don't do it for a bit, it goes back to the original condition.

Which is nice.

So by the time we actually got around to having anal sex, I was mostly fine. It was simply a matter of not clenching up on him, which hurt. I'd gotten so used to the solid, cold hardness of the plugs, that having something soft (texture) and warm was... almost a relief. Looking back at it and going, "I was frightened of this???"

Saturday morning, we roused ourselves and I walked us over to a tea shop. PD loves his tea (I hate tea, much like I hate coffee). We sat outside on a patio in Yerba Gardens, eating a healthy gourmet breakfast, watching the birds, the wind in the trees, listening to the church bells ring. It was so gorgeous out.

Back to the hotel, we grabbed my car and headed over the the Walt Disney Family Museum, which is a rather large collection of memorabilia brought together by the Disney family. Stuff you don't get to see anywhere else. Handwritten notes, employee manuals, family home videos, character design sheets and sculptures, Walt's original train that he used to sit and ride around on (the one in the photo with Salvador Dali), family accounts, one of the original cars from Autopia. Both PD and I have a love for Disneyland, rather, it's history and theme. The idea made real.

We spent most of the day there, then drove around until we found some food. And parking. I forget how shitty parking is in SF. Ended up at a burger joint just south of Golden Gate Park, BurgerMeister. Fabulous. We sat across from each other at a bar, poking fun, laughing, making faces, people watching. Just enjoying a meal, the company, the environment, no rush, no place to be, purely in the moment. We likely could have been there until closing time, content.

We caught a late showing of Toy Story 3 at a theater near the hotel, then came back and (eventually) passed out.

The morning was what got me.

We had planned to be on the road first thing, hit Winchester on the way down, along with Gilroy, be back in Los Angeles around 8 or so.

But I did my usual: I sat and sassed and teased him and we ended up wrestling on the bed, him tickling me, spanking me, me squirming and jerking, telling him that we really needed to go, then just sassing again or crawling back on top of him. Two hours later, we were both exhausted and, well, late.

I sass. I will sit and harass for hours. It's how I flirt. At the initial stage of a relationship, or when I first meet someone, it's a way of shit-testing them. I want to make sure they can keep up. I want to make sure they're smart. I want to make sure they're socially competent. Banter is an easy way to do this. Once we pass that stage, I'll still do it. It's like poking at a sleeping bear, waiting for him to wake up and smack you. I don't need him to prove anything, I'm just playful.

And PD, PD continues to own me. He's so quick, so funny. And he's stronger than I am. I really am, like every cute cat video you've ever seen, a little kitten batting at a dozing dog, waiting for a reaction.

We wandered around, looking for breakfast, finally settled on a coffee shop called "Celtic" or something along those lines. I couldn't see the point in the name, really. I decided to have a vacation diet and had PD get me two cookies and some milk, so I was sitting in a booth, grinning at him, dipping my chocolate chip cookies in milk and enjoying every bite, when he looks at me and says, "I've never felt as old as I do now. I'm here with my juice and muffin and you're sitting there eating milk and cookies."

It was pretty great.

Winchester Mystery House was good, as always. PD had never been, I just enjoy the architecture, so we wandered around on one of the tours. Makes me wish there were more really good haunted house movies out there. We've got "The Haunting" and "The Haunting of Hill House" and the more recent version of "House on Haunted Hill" (seeing a name trend, are we?) was good (even though that was a sanatorium, not a house)... but that's all I can think of. I need a good haunted house movie based in a old bayou mansion. I suppose they just aren't popular anymore.

Gilroy, garlic capital of something (the state, the country, the world??), was a podunk disappointment. Breezed through there once we realized that most everything was closed and what was open was unappealing.

Ended up back in LA a little past 11PM. Tired as hell. His cats desperate for attention that I willingly showered on them until bedtime when one of them made a bid for sleeping on my face.

Things are... kinda weird.

I'm getting used to some aspects of dating him. Walking into the warehouse, the dungeon, the sounds of porn as he edits (or films). His huge scope of sex knowledge... I mean, he knows so much and I'm just blown away by it. His job is to produce arousal through designing scenes, stories, sound. There's so much going on and so many different things to keep track of.

But he's got it down.

On the other hand, it's still a little weird. When I tell my friends that I'm dating a porn director, they are never surprised. It's not as though most of my friends are anywhere near as experienced, active, or alternative as I am. This isn't exactly common. But they expect it of me, it seems. I asked one if it surprised him and he said, "No. It makes perfect sense."

Never really thought that way.

For all my experience and activities, I don't define myself by my sexuality or the sex I've had. It isn't a big part of my life. What is a big part is what I've learned from it about people, about myself, and how comfortable I am with many things that most girls aren't. If someone was to tell me I would spend the rest of my life having sex with only one man, as long as he was open to exploring sex, learning, growing, and I loved him, I'd be perfectly fine.

On the other hand, if someone said I'd be having bad sex with one man for the rest of my life, we'd have a serious discussion.

So... a porn director?

I don't really view him as "a porn director". He's PD. He's this amazing, intelligent, funny man who really kinda *gets* me. Who I can be silly with. Who I can sit around with having serious, reality/history/ideal discussions, then later find myself being faux-raped over the back of some black leather-clad piece of furniture, then be made breakfast, who will sit and stroke my back and laugh at me when I wiggle in his arms because I'm just happy to be there. We can sit around watching cartoons, eating cake in bed, or get dressed up and hit an art show, or wander around the city, getting lost, happy.

I feel... so much more myself. A happy self.

I know it's not good that I did not achieve this happiness while single, but I did not give myself the chance to do so, between GV8 and PD and all the madness that happened this year before I even met PD. I got to ground myself a little, but each time I did, GV8 would sweep me off my feet again.

I wonder, if/when PD and I break up, how I'll land. If I'll be able to stay single for a longer period of time. I've always had months between relationships, grounding time, but I'm more than aware that it has almost never been enough time. And I think that grounding time is very needed in order to establish a sense of happy-while-single-ness. And okay-while-single.

Whenever I get close to that, I meet someone.

And I am okay-while-single. But, at the same time, I think I could be more-okay-while-single. More me. More like shifting gears than shifting a life. Not being defined in my head as a partner, not having that impact on my schedule.

I remember, once I moved into this apartment, after GV8 and I broke up, how awkward the weekends were for me. I did not know what to do. I was lost. My weekends had been full of him. I would wander and clean and watch movies, but... it was so weird, having no one but myself to take into account, and I had to figure out what life was like when it was just me.

Now I'm back in the position where life is no longer just me and I wonder how long it will be, how old I will be, when it is just me again. Or if it will ever be just me again. I don't mind not being just me ever again, but it's likely that eventually PD and I will part ways, life does things like that.

Makes me wonder how I'll land... on my feet, or on my ass?

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.