Blank screen.

Sitting on my bed, black sheets.

I bought this bed when Darkeyes and I broke up. We broke up at night, slept in the same bed, the next day I popped on Craigslist and found a new queen-sized pillow-top mattress and box spring for $350. Drove up to Beverly Hills with a friend and loaded it into her truck.

The two of us struggled up to my third floor apartment, with the multiple switchbacks on the stairs, and I dropped it in my new room.

The dresser to my right is from my grandmother's house. Cedar, or something resembling it. They kept it in one of their guestrooms, the one intended for her wheelchair-bound mother, they designed that whole back half of the house for her visits. Handicapped toilet, shower they could put a chair into.

Matching lamps, art-deco, industrial-looking desk, $900 office chair, all for free from a friend that was moving back to Detroit.

Bookcase, bought by Darkeyes to hold my mounds of books after a fight with my father that involved me rapidly needed to have a storage space for them. It was one of four that was carted from my parents' house to Burbank, where the back went flying off on the freeway and my best friend stopped traffic to get it, running across the cement.

Glass-fronted cabinet, from my mother's mother. She collected seashells and displayed them in this cabinet in her condo in the Valley. She later lost her marbles to age and had to be put in a mental facility for like-minded seniors.

A white dresser, another from my father's mother's house. Belonged in the guestroom that was built for my father's sister, who killed herself a few months ago. Gun to the head.

Wooden filecabinet and matching bookcase, from my father's father. Died when I was 13. Multiple strokes, diabetes, I remember kicking my family out of the hospital, telling them to get food and get out of that place for a few hours. I remember feeding him vegetables, him not recognizing me. I remember when he did recognize us, look at the plastic band encircling his wrist, realizing his life was over, even if he wasn't dead.

The majority of my furniture comes from the dead, it seems.

Two of the blankets on my bed are from my father's parents. One was on the couch in my grandfather's office. An atrocious, uncomfortable thing. Brown and orange knit monstrosity. I love it. The other, a red and black plaid that was kept in my grandmother's trunk, we'd curl up in the backseat of her car under it when it got chilly. I remember looking at Christmas lights, driving around her neighborhood, under that blanket, but that memory could be constructed.

I spent last night with Pseudonym Pending.

The poor guy was exhausted and stressed as hell. I walked into his living room, saw him sprawled across the couch, and was amazed he was still awake.

We were planning on having a night of frisky frolic, but he wasn't up for it. Understandable. He was going to cut out on me, but I don't keep lovers for the sex, I keep lovers for the contact, the humanity, and to help me keep my mind off the crater that becomes so defined in winter.

I needed that touch. I needed the skin to skin.

I did not need the sex.

An Entourage marathon was on. I've never seen the show.

I got out the grapeseed oil and spent nearly two hours rubbing him down, hands to feet, front and back. My ex-lover down in San Diego, the masseuse who taught me more technique than what came naturally, would be proud. Finished him, of course, with a stellar handjob. Ever since GV8 taught me how to do that well, I really can't get enough of it. It feels wonderful in my hands, the movements, the oil, the slickness and heat. I never thought I would enjoy handjobs anywhere near as much as giving head, but there you go.

In the morning, we showered and grabbed coffee at a Starbucks I used to frequent when I went to community college just a mile or two from his house. Hadn't been there in a few years.

There's always that awkwardness for me, when you're first establishing a physical relationship and then you step into a public sphere.

Some men don't like PDA, even with their girlfriends. They feel uncomfortable even when holding hands. So if you get one of those guys as a regular lover and you even think about touching them in public, they'll freak.

Others are like me. I hold hands, I kiss, I grind, I grope, I hug, I sit in laps, I launch, I suck fingers, etc. I cannot get enough of touching someone I'm having sex with. But I refrain when it makes them uncomfortable.

Some guys don't like giving the impression that they are "with" a girl, because it eliminates their chances with someone they've been flirting with, someone they want to be flirting with. I understand this completely.

So you get that awkward, this-is-the-first-time-we're-going-out-in-public-together, what-the-hell-are-the-physical-boundaries? I don't initiate contact, so if the guy doesn't, I refrain. Follow his lead, never go further than he does.

Another moment of awkward is the first time you sleep over. I tend not to, because I feel it's violating the physical territory and morning routine of my partner. Most men, I've found, don't really know what to do with themselves in the morning, when a girl is over. Cuddle, kiss, dress quickly? Shower together? Brush teeth together? Eat and run? Quickie?

Adding a new person in is... disconcerting for some.

And I know me. My boundaries are... lacking. If I'm sleeping with someone, I have no body boundaries, I have no personal space boundaries. They've been in me, they've passed all other limits, there's no point in going back. There's a lack of emotional connection for me, I know this well, so if I'm holding a guy's hand, it means nothing other than I feel like touching them in that way. But then they sometimes get worried.

You know, because I'm female.

I've ranted about that more than once in here. About my male friends getting worried, having that talk, disclosing that they had been very concerned, that I was getting too close to them.

Falling in love.

And no matter how many men I've been with in the past, no matter how long I've had some of my lovers without more than friendly emotional involvement, it doesn't seem to matter.

Somehow they're more special.

The only lover I've had that I've ever come close to falling in love with was GV8.

And as soon as I realized that was not going to work out, I bailed.

It's tricky, being me.

Sounds a little egocentric.

But it's true. The balancing act between making guys feel special and cared for, but not too much. And none of them are the same. One will be perfectly comfortable introducing me to his friends, family, meeting my friends, my family, holding hands, kissing, seeing movies, going out to events and meals. Another will only want to see me when we're having sex. Yet another will be okay with holding hands and kissing in public, will be fine with curling up and watching a movie, but no friends, no family.

So if I'm sleeping with, say, three guys at one time, I have to keep track of which is comfortable with what. And none of them want to know about the others, even the ones that just want the pure-sex, bare-minimum friendship set-up, where knowing about the others would make them worry less, but they can't bear the thought of it.

Which makes sense. I don't begrudge them that at all.

Last winter I was cycling through five men and dating a lot, with the occasional one night stand.

Zat was in Studio City, sound engineer. I could call him, text him IM him, to talk about personal problems. He loved to cook, so I'd go over there, we'd kiss, cuddle, watch Iron Chef all afternoon, not even always have sex. Wouldn't hold hands or kiss in public. Really didn't want to know about the other guys. I never spent the night there.

VG was in Playa del Ray. Video game producer. Loved to hear my torrid tales. Never held hands, kissed, anything, in public. My choice on that one, oddly. Just felt odd. Hung out, bullshitted, talked video games and books. Mildly worried, I think, that I would fall for him. Later went to ask me out, relationship-style. Verbally cockblocked him before he could get it out and imbalance our friendship.

Hardwood Floors, Hollywood, poet, server, bartender. Hot. Beyond hot. Rarely talked on the phone, rarely emailed, no IM. Would meet up, do dinner, breakfast, lunch, hold hands, kiss, hug, screw our brains out. He didn't seem to care or worry about others, or about me falling for him. He understood the game.

Blond and Studly, unemployed hotbody in Orange County. He could have been professionally hot. Beautiful man. Hung perfectly. His whole body was art. Meet up, cuddle, kiss, would never go out in public. He knew my reputation, wasn't worried about any emotional developments on my end. Could not understand why I wasn't pursuing him. The only reason I ever spent the night there was because sex would end up lasting until 5AM and I'd need to crash before driving anywhere.

SFPlayboy, nutritionist, occasional accountant, San Fran resident, PUA. We do not see each other enough. Can't believe it's been almost a year. He is comfortable enough to play the boyfriend role. Complete access, complete comfortability, complete faith in my ice-princess being. Well, now. He wasn't always. Grocery shopping, meeting friends, cuddling, teasing, cooking together.

Five different men. Five very different levels of comfortability.

And me. With my lack of boundaries, and constantly needing to remember that others have them.

It's work. It's a hell of a lot of work.

It wasn't work with GV8. I asked him, PDAs? And he basically required them, needed them. No boundaries. No worries. Relaxation. Physical enjoyment. Mutual understanding.

So we woke up this morning to the alarm on his cellphone going off. Sounded like Jamaica was trying to wake him. Curled up into his body, softly rolling my hips, running my hands over his torso, up his neck, cresting the back of his skull, lips against his brow. Thirty minutes of touching while he dozed in and out.

In the shower, he scrubbed my back. Suprising, but good.

Coffee, sitting in the shade under an oversized umbrella, talking. Me, trying to determine where our public boundaries were set. Failing to do so.

See, I have this issue. If I'm regularly or semi-regularly sleeping with someone, I generally like them. Okay, I always like them. Otherwise, I wouldn't be sleeping with them. So I like to spend time with them, show them things I think they'll like.

But then, more often than not, they think I'm doing more than that.

Which leaves me sitting there going, "Uh... no. You like X. This is like X. So I wanted to show you this. Because I like you. Because I like it when you're happy. Because this will make you happy. This logic thing... it's working out for you, right?"

Anyhow, back to our broadcast.

Unexpected kiss goodbye. Wasn't the smashed-up-against-one-of-our-vehicles-grinding-the-morning-away kiss, but it was still good. Helping with the boundaries.

And, right now, I can hear GV8 in my head. Telling me to be who I am, do what I want to do, and stop trying to please everyone around me by conforming to their boundaries instead of asserting my own. Do what I want to do. But I hate making other people uncomfortable. And I know that how I am, sexually, is something uncommon enough to cause concern in the male populace. And I know I have more control than the male populace. And more experience. Which means I know that some guys get incredibly unnerved if you grab their hand in public. Or go to kiss them. They wig.

Because so many of them cannot combine a female they're fucking with a female that enjoys the affectionate things.

Example A: After the DP, Pseudonym Pending and I curled up in bed, cuddling, while The Broken Prince used the restroom. He came back, walked into the bedroom, took one look at us and said, "Oh no, no cuddling. DP is fine, but no cuddling. That's just weird."

He was genuinely disturbed by the idea. Pseudonym and I just looked at each other, with this kinda "WTF?" expression. You know the one. The one that someone would give you if a blue deer bounded through their living room being chased by a pack of baby pixies.

For some, it's probably a respect thing. Cuddling is for girlfriends, or for girls that you've had to seduce into your bed. Girls that require effort to get into their pants. They've earned the cuddling. If you're like me and you see someone you want, so you take, you don't usually get respect, at least until they get to know you. I suppose it's like cuddling with a prostitute. You're laying in bed going, "Why the hell does this chick have her head on my chest? Doesn't she know I'm here for the sex? Isn't she supposed to be without emotions or need for non-sexual physical contact?"

It is what it is.

I am what I am.

It's not a lack of respect for myself. It's a lack of respect for the social rules defined by insitutions that I don't agree with and a love for sex and physical contact.

I don't know where Pseudonym's boundaries are.

And maybe I should do what GV8 advised: assert my own boundaries. Be who I want to be. Stop molding myself to the desires of whichever man I'm with at the time. I am not going to spend the rest of my twenties as a single girl conforming to other people's desires, taking lovers that only satisfy me in one way. I only have so much time. I'm a pleaser, true, but others can please in return.

Anyhow, it's nearly ten. I need to be up at six or so. Eight hours is my minimum and this week, with the holiday, is going to be killer. My industry is going to be insane for the next three days, so I better be functional.

Also, completely unrelated sidenote, MAC Cosmetics' holiday collection, the pigment set "Sexpot" is an absolute dream. I love that company's products so much. I might get a second one, just in case. Beautiful.

Was talking with a friend last night, on my way home from work.

This is a man I am... decently close to. He shares my feelings of alienation, even though the source is not the same, even though we cannot truly relate to one another on what makes us feel disconnected, and the ways we each handle it are different, how we view it... it's still there.

Yesterday, we were talking about my disconnect. Well, for the most part. Conversations with him tend to easily derail, frustratingly so.

It was actually funny.

Started off with a general, "I'm sick of taking lovers that I can never relax around, never be myself around."

With him advising, "Well, be yourself and then those who can accept you will find you and you'll relax."

And by the end of the conversation, oh a good thirty, forty minutes later, he was saying:

"Yeah, maybe you should just keep those parts of you inside and just act normal around your lovers."

When I started laughing at him for the differing advice, he backtracked, but didn't really retract his ending sentiment.

The frustration I feel so often pervades my male-centered relationships. The need for self-control, for accepting, the need to be low-maintenance and low-drama because I am able to do so. Lying in bed with one, watching his face, watching his body language, laughing at his jokes, picking apart his words, looking at him with adoration, doing everything I can to please him, type depending on who I'm with.

Blond and Studly, Darkeyes, and Ev preferred the girl next-door/independent woman combo.
GV8 and Stuntcock preferred the strong woman turned sex-starved sub.
SFPlayboy prefers the strong woman-player, turned sex-starved sub for him.
Riot of Tattoos is simple, preferring the submissive slut at all times.
Zat and VG prefer the girl next-door.

Hardwood Floors and Wolfboy were the closest I have gotten in a long, long while of just being able to be myself.

But with Wolfboy, I still have to be gentle. God, do I have to be gentle with him.

I have to be gentle with all of them, though with Playboy I can be a little more me.

I'm too nice, too concerned.

Maybe it's atonement, as I sometimes suspect. Making up for misdeeds, for the damages and pain I have caused others, and my relatively new ability to actually be empathetic.

Maybe it's my constant need to please, to serve, taking the edge off of the fact that I have had no one to truly focus my submissive nature on for almost a year. I miss that. I maybe need to find a dom, something every two or three weeks to allow me to focus on myself and, of course, to allow my body to heal.

That's probably not the answer, though.

It'd be nice, but I doubt it would do anything other than relieve my need and take another chunk of time out of my schedule.

Anyhow, back to where I was.

Talking with my friend, having him advise me to just keep things inside. To not let my partners know how much I study them, how much I read them, how much I adjust myself and my behaviors based on their feedback, based on creating a web of self-disclosure where I disclose stuff that should be so personal (and it does sound as such) causing them to disclose stuff that is actually personal so I can use that information as I see fit.

I mentioned, a few posts ago, about getting a guy so wrapped around me that he ended up slamming his head into the hood of his car repeatedly, and I was apathetic and slightly amused. I did not mention the next day, where I spotted a male friend and proceeded to act upset over the events of the previous night, and he held me, comforted me, consoled me, continuing with my own internal apathy and amusement on how easy it was to do these things.

That was... hm, I was seventeen. Second semester in college. Probably Spring semester, 2001. Eight and a half years ago.

Fortunately, several months later, I managed to complete my process of burn-out. Destroying everything that I found sacred, my little trial by fire.

Cheating on the boyfriend, purposeful alcohol poisoning, squatting by the traintracks smoking left-over roaches, Mountain Dew can for a bong in the alley, drugged up threesome, cutting myself just to fuck with my closest friends (still have the scars, yay), alluding to my parents the things I was doing that they had no control over just to destroy that relationship with them, stealing thousands and thousands of dollars of merchandise that I did not even want, finding the sleazest, most strung-out guys I could just to make myself part of them, making out with the boyfriend of my bestfriend, picking up horrible men in front of my friends who were so worried about me just to hurt them, flunking out of college, picking up men online, men so much older than me, never learning their names, going back to their places with no knowledge or thought of safety, being used, leaking semen out of whatever orifice they felt fit to use. Heh, using one of my friend's houses as a pick up point. They had no idea what to do. The men that used me, used me. The men that loved me, liked me, cared for me, I purposely fucked with like I did with Jake. Taking my parents' money, my mother going to bed in tears.

Yes, I know this.

I know all of this.

The things that set you apart.

Burning myself out so well that my own mother admits that while she loves who I am now, she mourns who I used to be. That she never envisioned this life for me, how I am such a different person than I was, that it is like the girl I used to be died and she was given another child grown.

People wonder why I am not more cynical, how I can still believe in love, if I am even capable of love.

People wonder how I am not as damaged as I should be.

They didn't see the years of work. The sitting down and taking count of what I did, how I did it, why I did it, and what it did to me. And the battles I had to fight, the behaviors I had to recognize and change, the people who believed in me and supported me, who put up with my internal struggles.

I'm healthy. Not 100%, but certainly more than most of the people I know. Given my history, it's surprising, not only to me, but to others.

But I'm not normal.

You don't get to be "normal" again.

You get to learn how to fit in, you get to learn what to say, what not to say, how to present yourself so people aren't necessarily aware of any difference between us. You learn how to hide, how to camoflauge yourself. You know that when you enter a social group the first few times, the easiest thing to do is shut your mouth and observe until you know who outranks who and in what way you can integrate yourself and how much you can relax into who you are, what skin will fit and how much maintenance it will take.

To exercise parts of yourself, you keep different social groups with different values, different ideas of morals, of what is acceptable. Alternate through them so you don't feel too trapped in one role. Multiple lovers means multiple avenues of exercise. You don't have to wear the same face, and you find that some of them adore you, are intrigued by your internal struggle, by your different faces, and you learn to identify that. They want to protect you, want to be special.

They can't. And they never are.

You're told that you're like so many others, but when you give input, you're told that it is invalid because you're an outlier and you find yourself more amused than frustrated.

My friend, the one I started this post off about, he's one of the few who has recognized, without being told, that I have more walls up than anyone ever realizes. Everyone considers me so open, so out there and honest and easy to get along with, easy to talk to, easy to confess to... because of the openness that doesn't actually exist.

I don't like being told that I'm crazy. I don't like being told that I'm cold and calculating. I don't like being told that I'm manipulative and studied, that being the way I am is the wrong way to be and normal people, normal people aren't like me and I need to seek psychological help because I need to fall in line so people feel safe around me.

Not everyone is the same. The line that I should fall into is one I would not care to join. It hurts every time someone sees me, sees what I'm doing, and tells me I am horrible for being the way I am, for viewing the world the way I do, like it was a choice I made or a symptom of horrific damage and if only I dealt with my psychological damage, my baseline would change and I would be a different, happier person.

Because I couldn't possibly be happy as I am.

And they never believe me, can't wrap their brains around how happy I am, how much I enjoy life, enjoy the people in it.

It's apparently impossible to be different and happy.

But somehow I manage.

I occasionally harass my smoker friends with retardery.

A typical line, from me, would be, "You know smoking is bad for you, right?"

Or, "Hey, they just did this study that shows smoking might be bad for you."

Just these asinine statements that amuse me because they're so incredibly stating-the-obvious and annoying. Because I don't really care.

So, I used the first one on a friend of mine. He had the best comeback ever, that nearly left me rolling around on the floor.

"I've had less cigarettes in my mouth than you've had penis in yours."

C's follow up comment to that, "Wow, that's a pretty accurate argument..." had us howling in laughter.

Now, it's highly unlikely that that is true. He's not a chimney smoker, but it's close enough some days.

I find it strange, that until I started commenting in the pick-up community, I had never been called a slut. At least that I remember. Seeing that, for the first time, directed at me, was a bit of a shock. I think it would be the same as me being called a bitch (in seriousness, as opposed to jest), because I just don't fall under the "bitch" heading.

It strikes me as odd. Maybe it just strikes me. I don't really know where I'm going with this.

I present myself in a particular way. And then I allow the bits of my character that I can't control to flow through that external setting. Information through filter, as much as possible.

Things you will never catch me doing include:

~Drinking
~Smoking
~Drug-use
~Mass profanity
~Raising my voice in anger
~Calling someone insulting names
~Having unprotected sex
~Lying about my sexual history or preferences
~Actively misrepresenting myself
~Judging someone in a negative way based on their sexual history or preferences
~Wearing overly revealing, sexual clothing

These things, they aren't my style. They used to be (except for the lying bit, which I've yet to engage in), but they are no longer part of who I am, who I wish to be, or how I wished to be viewed.

I've heard again and again about men complaining that women don't know what they want, especially on a sexual level. That so much of seducing and being with a woman involves trying to figure out what she wants, which is made so much harder because she herself does not know. My male friends tell me these stories about their relationships or sexual encounters, and I get to listen about how miscommunication spurred by a lack of self-awareness and honesty caused some great disaster.

But then others complain about women that are too active.

This year, I've had... hrm, four new sex partners. SFPlayboy, GV8, Dose, and Mr. Brush-off. SFPlayboy and GV8 are ongoing lovers and friends, Dose and Mr. Brush-off were one-nighters. I had two carry-overs from last year, Hardwood Floors and Blond and Studly. Both continue to be, for now, friends.

I know that I play too risky sometimes. I've also settled that down significantly.

Maybe, in the next year or two, I find what I want: two or three guys who live near me that I can happily alternate through, without issue. Because, as I've said, that whole "relationship" thing, not really working for me. I'm a great girlfriend, but now I'm just not looking to fill that role for anyone but someone that fits. Which is hard to find.

Actually, reading over that, that's not what I want. That's what I think I have a greater likelihood of finding. It's also what would help me focus on myself, as opposed to my usual need to submit to the serious man in my life.

And I've totally derailed myself. Typical.

I remember the first time I caught wind of the idea that if a girl talks a lot of sexual game, she's going to be terrible in bed.

I was lying in my bed with this one-night stand (The Rumor, from my Players photo album) from last year, post-sex. He's breathing hard, sweating a bit, both of us on our backs, staring at the ceiling.

He said to me, surprised look on his face, "You're actually good."

I looked at him, "...what?"

"Girls that talk a lot of game are never good. They're always horrible in bed."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

And then he let me in on this theory that, apparently, a lot of males support. I had never heard such a thing before.

Since then, it has continued to crop up in conversation and online.

This was also the man that I went to dinner with who enlightened me to a rather nasty rumor circulating that I had accused a man I refused to sleep with (who was rather pissed about that) of date rape.

This was also the man who sat across the table from me, told me he had slept with 105 women (I was #106, whoo!) and the reason he knew that is because he kept a spreadsheet because his older brother challenged him, years ago, to a "who can sleep with the most women" battle, and it was still ongoing. In this same conversation, he told me that he expected any future girlfriend of his to have had a maximum of two sex partners in their life, because more than two was excessive and slutty.

In regards to the man who I did not wish to sleep with, who was so angered by that rejection, that happens often. Of all the men that have made offers (or simply tried) to sleep with me, I've probably slept with about 3% of them.

Yes, three percent. Shocking, I know. You think my standards would be so incredibly low with my partner count being what it is (which, honestly, I still don't think it's that high).

I can only imagine what would have happened if I said "yes" more often.

Old Journal: 10-26-08

Note: I'm running on two hours of sleep, so if this is disjointed... well, it's going to be disjointed. Cope somehow.

This journal entry is going to start off with a few needed pieces of information about me.

1. I'm very well known for having no-holds barred conversations about any topic imaginable.

2. I do my best to speak my mind and communciate in a clear, straight forward, and honest manner at all times.

3. I enjoy the menfolk a little too much. Well, not too much for me, but too much for most people.

So, last night was a friend's Halloween party. I went with no agenda, other than to get my flirt on (I love flirting and witty banter rife with innuendo) and catch up with some old friends.

Things were going as planned, when this guy showed up around 130AM.

I earmark men in my head. I fold down little mental corners and attached notes to them for future reference. This particular man (whose name I did not yet know) was someone I had earmarked for "jump bones if at all possible" a few years ago.

I don't actually pursue my earmarked guys actively, but if something comes up, things look like they could swing that way, I grab on and ride.

And things looked like they were going to swing that way around 230AM, so as it came barreling towards me, I leapt for it.

It was funny, in its own way. I love guys who just want a one-night stand but aren't willing to actually say it. They have to do the whole "I'm a classy gentleman, I've loved and hurt, I'm running solo, I've had a rough life, but I'm good and noble" monologue. I've heard it many, many times and have become quite adept at picking through the words to find what I'm most curious about.

He could have meant exactly what he was saying to me, everything could have bee 100% sincere. But my instincts screamed no, that it was a practiced dialogue (almost monologue, really) and while it might have been sincere at one time, the words no longer meant anything other than a means to an end.

So I asked him, interrupted him actually, to tell me something horrible about himself. Something completely unredeemable.

And he did.

But, being very well practiced at this, he still managed to turn it around to make himself look so wonderful.

So I'm sitting at the base of the stairs at my friend's apartment, listening, wanting to say to him, "Look, I know these lines. I know that even if you get my number, you'll never call me after tonight. That's okay." But in the off-chance that he actually was sincere, I did not want to offend him.

And guys get so damn odd about aggressive girls sometimes.

Eventually, we wing up at his place. After general chatting and curling up in his bed to watch some Dexter (which I still haven't seen, thank you), things heat up.

I still find it funny, "You don't want to drive all the way home tonight, do you? Want to come over and watch a movie?"

Why can't he just say, "Hey, I want to bone you. Want to drive over to my place so we can grind away the evening?"

I'd respect that, and him, a lot more.

Anyhow, we're going at it, and I have to say, oh my god, his torso should be at a museum, he's so freaking gorgeous. Like most men seem to, he's neglected his legs just to build up the chest and arms (though his ass was fairly solid). I ran my tongue down his chest and six-pack just to feel the contours, it was so smooth and chiseled... you can't not lick it.

And, luck of the evening, he's hung. Not enough to be painful, but enough to go "oh thank you, thank you, fucking thank you for the meal we're about to eat, amen". Well, along those lines. You know what I mean.

It was nice. He was so smooth and muscled all over, a little rough and dominant, making me arch my back under him by pulling my hair beneath me. And he was so freaking beautiful, eyes like the villan from Red Eye (see also: the Scarecrow from Batman Begins).

In the morning... well, it was morning when I got there, continued to be morning when I left, a walk to my car and a hug goodbye. I didn't tell him to feel free to call me (though he did end up with my number), I didn't say "next time you feel like boning, let me know", or "hey, let's go out for coffee sometime". No, just left him with a "have a nice day" and drove back home, rocking out to Depeche Mode.

It seems to boggle most men when I just don't care. I'm female- I'm supposed to get my emotions tied up with sex. I'm supposed to make you concerned that if we have sex, I'm going to want a date or something (of equal or lesser value). I'm supposed to make you feel needed, like I fell for your lines and you seduced me into your bed.

Well, sir, chances are I already decided that I wanted you the day I saw you. That could have been five minutes ago or five years ago.

It doesn't mean I"m going to pursue it- I'm a big believer in boundaries and personal space- but it does mean that I'm open to it and, chances are, you don't even need to say a word.

I'm not a slut. I'm not looking for emotional satisfaction or some sort of value-based gratification. I don't sleep with everyone I meet or everyone I want. I'm young, I'm enjoying my body and the bodies of others immensely. Yes, I'd prefer to have a constant casual lover, but until I find someone suitable, who is willing to be more than a one-night stand and less than a boyfriend, I'm willing to explore my options

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

Since then:

~Blond and Studly called me several times after that for the random one-night hook-ups before getting back together with his off-again-on-again girlfriend. I'm sure that when they break up (again), that he'll be calling me (again). Lovely.

~I discovered that night went down in the history of that social group as "The Night V Crawled Across the Length of the Coffee Table to Lick and Suck on the Host's Finger". It seemed like a good idea at the time.