Blinking at the screen.
While my brain isn't going haywire or anything resembling haywire (the origins of the word "haywire", anyone?), circuits are still firing.
Went over to C's new apartment. Just a few blocks down the way from mine. Getting there made me grateful to have a parking space, as I ended up having to park in front of what I believe was a lesbian bar two blocks away.
It's a cute place. Large, lots of built-in shelving and cabinets. Not enough windows for my taste- there's never enough windows. One of the reasons I picked the apartment I'm in now was because the windows take up more than fifty percent of the walls they rest in.
She has so much stuff. Wandering around piles of boxes and clothes, random assorted things that I've never seen before though I couch-surfed with her for nearly a year. I don't have a lot of stuff. I'm not a monk or anything, but my belongings, furniture aside, would probably only need the smallest U-Haul and not necessarily fill that.
Her boyfriend was there. I watched them interact. She had mellowed down significantly, and I have to wonder if it is because of another man she has recently started dating (she and her boyfriend believe in open relationships)... the whole available resources thing.
And this other guy is a douche. I really cannot stand him. I've tried, for her, I've tried. But, as of last night, I've reached the amount of my time I'm willing to spend in his company. No more.
He's slimy. Manipulative. So very self-centered. Martyring. Socially job-centric. Materially validating. Damp. He's constantly damp, his hands, his hair, his skin, a slight sheen of sweat. Sneering lips, baby-cheeked, his hair cut in a slight A-line, curving around his jaw, up at a tiny angle. Too-small glasses. Clothing over-tight. Not because he's fat (not at all), but because he has to have the skinny-fit everything.
And he provokes. And he condescends. Plays "poor me".
I've shut him down twice now. Once on C's birthday, when he was going on and on about how the restaurant she had chosen (start nasal accent here) obviously wasn't high quality because he asked for a refill of his cappuccino and it never came, and he was just going to sit there because he shouldn't have to ask twice, if they were doing their job right. He'd rather go without his refill, he said, that deign to ask a second time. More annoying was that he also refused to ask a second time for a refill he had requested for C because of the same reasoning.
So I got it for him. Not in an obvious manner, but by meeting the gaze of the waiter, raising my eyebrows, he came, bent down, I asked for a refill of the drinks, not loud enough for anyone at the table to hear... and then when the waiter brought them less than two minutes later, he brought them to me. And I handed them out and went back to eating without saying a word.
It was, in its own quiet way, an amusing way of rubbing his nose into his own shit. And he knew it.
Last night, at the birthday dinner, he started bitching about his ex-girlfriend. C spurred this conversation, because she thought I would want to hear it.
After the second time of him whining that he never would have invested so much time and energy into this relationship if he had known she was going to leave him, I ignored him.
And not in a "I'm still looking at you, smiling when you smile, nodding when you nod, frowning when you frown" way.
No. I simply decided that I was no longer interested in his conversation and broke eye contact, shifted my body towards C, and waited for him to trail off in confusion and then I started a new conversation.
Was it bitchy? Myeh. It was a snub, but one that did not seem to get noticed by those around us.
When I hung out with C tonight, she was telling me that Mr Damp was also dating a stripper. He would meet her at her work and, apparently, allllll of the other strippers would hit on him and flirt with him and, apparently, pretty much any girl hits on him if he goes out and, apparently, he gets numbers all the time.
And, apparently, he's so sick of it and just wants to be left alone.
Apparently, I might punch him in his face if I'm forced to interact with him again.
... ... ... ...
On the sister-front, her ex-boyfriend used the key he had and let himself into the house last Thursday morning, 3AM.
His mission was to retrieve some coathangers he left there and get his apartment key back. They broke up around Easter of this year, tried to remain friends, despite his continued freak outs that she might be dating someone.
So he let himself in, went upstairs (luckily for him, my parents were out of town, or he would have gotten his ass handed to him), confronted my sister, and since the coathangers were scattered, he grabbed her phone as hostage and bolted down the stairs.
She chased after him, he jumped into his car (a car, by the way, that my parents gave him half the down payment for) and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. She leaned in to grab it, he took off (squealing tires, according to the girl who is renting my old bedroom) and shoved her out of his moving vehicle into the street.
She called him from the renter's cellphone, he said he would bring her phone back in exchange for the keys and hangers, then didn't show up for an hour.
When he did show up, he wanted to go inside the house. My sister wouldn't let him. The girl who is renting my room, a friend of my sister's, came outside the house with her.
Of course, then the nutbag grabs her, breaks one of her fingers, bruises her wrist, cuts a divot out of another finger with the key he's so desperate to suddenly get from her at what is now 530AM. Both girls start shrieking and hitting and kicking him but he won't let go and since they are both girly girls, neither of them knows how to do an ounce of damage (kids, this is why you spec for DPS).
While they are trying to get them off of my sister, the roommate digs her cellphone out of her pocket and calls the cops (yes, while continuing to ineffectually hit him).
The screaming wakes up the navy guy who is renting the guest room.
He comes downstairs, diffuses, does the exchange, and minutes before the cops pull up, the nutbag drives off into the night.
Statements are taken, pictures of her hands and arms are taken, police go hunting for the nutbag, my sister gets a temporary restraining order.
Once the police leave, my sister finds out why he didn't show up for an hour.
You see, he had logged onto her Facebook, changed the email associated with the account, and proceeded to go through all of her messages and any that were from males, wrote to them that "we can no longer see each other". And then messaged her coworkers saying offensive things. And then posted degrading status messages. And then texted some people, in particular the girlfriend of one of her male friends informing her that her boyfriend had been cheating on her with my sister. And other things.
Whether or not any of this has any lasting impact on her very active social life, it's fairly clear that he's a nutbag. When you add into this equation that he has an autistic kid he's fighting a losing custody battle for, he's obviously gone off the deep end.
My sister, having been shielded from any sort of asshattery like this in the past by either my parents, myself, or her own defensive mental barriers, was not really psychologically prepared for it.
I spent Thursday day hanging out at the parents' house, letting her sleep, looking into getting the locks changed, talking with the roommate, then driving us all to Taco Bell for quick dinner and girltime.
My parents are trying to get her to get a permanent restraining order, but she's balking because she doesn't want him to lose custody of his kid. We'll see how things go.
And, though I was planning another thing in this post, I think I'll get running to bed. Places to go, pillows to visit.
Showing posts with label c. Show all posts
Showing posts with label c. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Watched a good friend of mine tear into her boyfriend at a birthday party last night. Some mess of PMS, stress, and external influence by another male (thatI will go more indepth on at a later date) led this hour-plus long bitch-rampage.
I could not diffuse the situation like I had done in the past, my usual tricks were worthless. I'm not a magician.
So I left.
I know there is a chunk of my readers that believe that people should be treated differently based on their sex. And that some people, based on their sex, are allowed to engage in behaviors the other half of the population is not.
If you are going to engage in poor behavior and expect it to be socially acceptable and excusable because of your sex, note that it is likely that others will engage in different treatment of you due to your sex.
What she did last night, as much as I care for her, was inexcusable behavior for anyone, male or female.
Tonight I'm going to sit her down, try to get to the root of her increasingly aggressive and disrespectful behavior towards someone she says she loves so much, and we'll see what happens. Might be short a friend tomorrow.
Meddling behavior? I know. But I would expect her to sit me down and smack the shit out of me if I was acting as she was. It's an unspoken reality pact: "You're being a bitch. Knock it off."
I could not diffuse the situation like I had done in the past, my usual tricks were worthless. I'm not a magician.
So I left.
I know there is a chunk of my readers that believe that people should be treated differently based on their sex. And that some people, based on their sex, are allowed to engage in behaviors the other half of the population is not.
If you are going to engage in poor behavior and expect it to be socially acceptable and excusable because of your sex, note that it is likely that others will engage in different treatment of you due to your sex.
What she did last night, as much as I care for her, was inexcusable behavior for anyone, male or female.
Tonight I'm going to sit her down, try to get to the root of her increasingly aggressive and disrespectful behavior towards someone she says she loves so much, and we'll see what happens. Might be short a friend tomorrow.
Meddling behavior? I know. But I would expect her to sit me down and smack the shit out of me if I was acting as she was. It's an unspoken reality pact: "You're being a bitch. Knock it off."
Thursday, May 13, 2010
First, I've gotta say, this guy's writing continues to impress me. I mean, really, this post was gold. Swoon.
My head has been all over the place the last few days.
And being unable to write for part of those days... I've kinda retreated.
I've been noticing that more and more lately, after one of my friends told me that I shouldn't lay everything out on the table for people in the belief that mysterious girls have better game.
Of course, that friend was the one that hid from me the fact that he had a kid.
So that bit of advice must be taken with a grain of salt and a margarita. Or two.
But I have been withdrawing. I haven't been communicating as much. The only man that I talk to regularly on a personal level without holding back is Roman. But that's because he's him and I'm me. It works. It works now. In a few months, shrug, that's the way life goes.
What am I supposed to say, really?
The Bassist came over on Tuesday to fix my laptop. I was perfectly good. Angelically good. Sexual situations were diffused with quick adjustments, physical distance was kept, jokes were not made.
Then C came over.
My behavior changed rapidly, sexuality coming to the forefront.
I believe it was a combination of her expectations of me and me knowing that I couldn't "accidentally" (*cough*rationalize*cough*) do anything with her there.
The former, though, is why I keep my social groups separate like I do. Everyone has a different image of me, of who I am, of what I'm like. I can't play the roles everyone has for me at one time. It doesn't work, which makes two major things happen: personality discontinuity and loss of trust.
Not trust as in "I trust you with this secret" or somesuch nonsense, but trust as in "I trust, innately, that how you've presented yourself is who you are and the behavior patterns you've shown me will continue on in logical paths set forth by what I've observed of you". The kind of trust that we don't really think about.
We trust authors to make sense. We trust that, midway through a book, they won't suddenly change genres from romance to sci-fi. Aliens will not suddenly descend. Writing style will stay the same or if there are any changes, they will make sense in context of the book.
Otherwise we put it down.
It's not like I'm acting. It's more that certain people are comfortable with certain things and I need to stay within those boundaries. I'm more than a 2D character. I can suppress my sexuality and become "the Friend", "the Ear", "the Guru" or "the Shoulder" without thought. Or I can play "the Wild One", "the Aggressor", "the Sub", or "the Sex Queen". With all the various tweaks those come with.
With C, I tend to roll "Sex Queen". With the Bassist, I try to keep myself in "Friend".
So when he's sitting at my desk working on my comp and she's lounging in my bed talking about my oral skills to me... there's a bit of conflict.
Also of note, I realized that a good deal of C's affected social apathy (that stems from anxiety/awkwardness) is alleviated when she's able to put herself, mentally, in a superior position. And she considers herself in a superior position to The Bassist when it comes to my friendship and my apartment. It was interesting to watch her shift like that.
Anyway, that's enough notes. I still feel like I'm burrowed deep inside my head, thinking and planning, but hiding it from myself. Something is going on in my brain and it doesn't want to be known... and since it's midnight, I'm going to put this "thinking" stuff to an end and enjoy this "sleeping" activity.
My head has been all over the place the last few days.
And being unable to write for part of those days... I've kinda retreated.
I've been noticing that more and more lately, after one of my friends told me that I shouldn't lay everything out on the table for people in the belief that mysterious girls have better game.
Of course, that friend was the one that hid from me the fact that he had a kid.
So that bit of advice must be taken with a grain of salt and a margarita. Or two.
But I have been withdrawing. I haven't been communicating as much. The only man that I talk to regularly on a personal level without holding back is Roman. But that's because he's him and I'm me. It works. It works now. In a few months, shrug, that's the way life goes.
What am I supposed to say, really?
The Bassist came over on Tuesday to fix my laptop. I was perfectly good. Angelically good. Sexual situations were diffused with quick adjustments, physical distance was kept, jokes were not made.
Then C came over.
My behavior changed rapidly, sexuality coming to the forefront.
I believe it was a combination of her expectations of me and me knowing that I couldn't "accidentally" (*cough*rationalize*cough*) do anything with her there.
The former, though, is why I keep my social groups separate like I do. Everyone has a different image of me, of who I am, of what I'm like. I can't play the roles everyone has for me at one time. It doesn't work, which makes two major things happen: personality discontinuity and loss of trust.
Not trust as in "I trust you with this secret" or somesuch nonsense, but trust as in "I trust, innately, that how you've presented yourself is who you are and the behavior patterns you've shown me will continue on in logical paths set forth by what I've observed of you". The kind of trust that we don't really think about.
We trust authors to make sense. We trust that, midway through a book, they won't suddenly change genres from romance to sci-fi. Aliens will not suddenly descend. Writing style will stay the same or if there are any changes, they will make sense in context of the book.
Otherwise we put it down.
It's not like I'm acting. It's more that certain people are comfortable with certain things and I need to stay within those boundaries. I'm more than a 2D character. I can suppress my sexuality and become "the Friend", "the Ear", "the Guru" or "the Shoulder" without thought. Or I can play "the Wild One", "the Aggressor", "the Sub", or "the Sex Queen". With all the various tweaks those come with.
With C, I tend to roll "Sex Queen". With the Bassist, I try to keep myself in "Friend".
So when he's sitting at my desk working on my comp and she's lounging in my bed talking about my oral skills to me... there's a bit of conflict.
Also of note, I realized that a good deal of C's affected social apathy (that stems from anxiety/awkwardness) is alleviated when she's able to put herself, mentally, in a superior position. And she considers herself in a superior position to The Bassist when it comes to my friendship and my apartment. It was interesting to watch her shift like that.
Anyway, that's enough notes. I still feel like I'm burrowed deep inside my head, thinking and planning, but hiding it from myself. Something is going on in my brain and it doesn't want to be known... and since it's midnight, I'm going to put this "thinking" stuff to an end and enjoy this "sleeping" activity.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Rough day.
Doesn't help that I'm spending my evenings up and wandering, not getting enough sleep.
Have to push myself into the ground, of course. It's what I do, what I've always done. Push and push until you crash, recover, then do it again.
Didn't have a nightmare about GV8 last night. That was... good. Unexpected. It's so hard to play out the different versions of the same thing, watching echoes of past relationships creep up on me, consolidate into the last ex.
In the dreams, I'm nothing to him.
In the dreams, I'm less than a stranger. I'm "someone he knew, once". Someone he thought he loved. Someone that was worth his love and attention. And then he looks at me in the dream and realizes that I was nothing. An infatuation, a symptom of foolishness. Not worth the most basic of human caring.
Back to those fears again.
Always devaluing myself. Always doubting. Always taking my value from the man who I spend time with, the man who I do my best to please.
It's better now than it was.
Still not 100%.
And it's hard to untangle the strings of actual lust from the strings of internal motivators stemming from other sources.
I have one man right now that I would willingly take to my bed, with near total confidence I would do so out of caring and connection. Being a couple thousand miles apart, though, means my bed is going to be empty for some time.
I'm coming up on my first cut-off. I said no new partners until a week after GV8's and my anniversary. Next Monday. I thought, by then, that there could be a chance that I'd be okay enough to start engaging again.
But I was wrong, and I'm having to move it to the next cut-off. August 1st.
I don't think I've ever gone so long without sex since I was 16 or so.
But, what? Do I really want to just trip up again? Find some "special" guy when I'm not ready for it, have to start again when it falls apart a year or two from now, when I'm 28 and I'm still at the same spot I was before? That I've been at so many times? How foolish that I keep turning to immediate pleasure, knowing the outcome.
So much easier than dealing with what I am now: tension. Anger. Grumpiness. Anxiety. Mood swings. Barely controlling myself from snapping at those around me.
I caught myself on film today. It was unexpected. I went to Lucha Va Voom's Cinco de Mayo show at The Mayan in downtown. A man with a video camera walked down the line, recording people waiting for the doors to open. I was on the phone with a friend, walking away from the line so I could hear. The timing was perfect. I walked about thirty feet in front of the camera, just for a second or two. They played the whole video just before the show.
I haven't seen myself move in years.
Yes, there are mirrors at the club, but I don't really look at them and, honestly, I'm dancing. It's a given that I'm going appear somewhere between decent and very good.
But I got to watch my walk. Something that I've been working on and adjusting, something that gets commented on and draws attention fairly often. Controlled, centered, internal. Rollingly smooth. The hipsway my family teases me about, saying I move like my cat.
It was surprising. I knew I moved differently, but I didn't realize how noticeable it was. Good to know that my body-awareness is paying off.
The show was good, the dancers, the performers, and, of course, the luchadore. For all three matches, each set of wrestlers were "thrown" out of the ring and into the chairs in front of me, people dashing out of the way, spilling drinks, the girls buzzed and shrieking.
I walked to my car afterwards, bidding C and friends good-bye for the evening. They were wandering off to find food, but I wasn't looking to spend money on things I already had at home. The freeway was smooth and empty, I slid into an easy 80, sometimes 90, letting my wheels take me home. My left-handed driving is getting better, though the awkwardness of using the turn signal is cropping up. Less and less I need to bring my right hand into play to make sure I get those extra-tight curves. I think that, within a month at most, I'll be driving just as smooth with my left as I do with my right.
It's a bit of a reality check for me. Making myself face the likelihood that I'll eventually lose all fine motor control in my right hand. Not anytime soon, but probably in the next ten to twenty years, depending on lifestyle choices. If I learn to do more things with my left, that time will extend, which I am aiming for.
But it's 1AM and my neighbors are slowly staggering home. I hear the laughter in the hallway and that's my cue to get myself unconscious.
Doesn't help that I'm spending my evenings up and wandering, not getting enough sleep.
Have to push myself into the ground, of course. It's what I do, what I've always done. Push and push until you crash, recover, then do it again.
Didn't have a nightmare about GV8 last night. That was... good. Unexpected. It's so hard to play out the different versions of the same thing, watching echoes of past relationships creep up on me, consolidate into the last ex.
In the dreams, I'm nothing to him.
In the dreams, I'm less than a stranger. I'm "someone he knew, once". Someone he thought he loved. Someone that was worth his love and attention. And then he looks at me in the dream and realizes that I was nothing. An infatuation, a symptom of foolishness. Not worth the most basic of human caring.
Back to those fears again.
Always devaluing myself. Always doubting. Always taking my value from the man who I spend time with, the man who I do my best to please.
It's better now than it was.
Still not 100%.
And it's hard to untangle the strings of actual lust from the strings of internal motivators stemming from other sources.
I have one man right now that I would willingly take to my bed, with near total confidence I would do so out of caring and connection. Being a couple thousand miles apart, though, means my bed is going to be empty for some time.
I'm coming up on my first cut-off. I said no new partners until a week after GV8's and my anniversary. Next Monday. I thought, by then, that there could be a chance that I'd be okay enough to start engaging again.
But I was wrong, and I'm having to move it to the next cut-off. August 1st.
I don't think I've ever gone so long without sex since I was 16 or so.
But, what? Do I really want to just trip up again? Find some "special" guy when I'm not ready for it, have to start again when it falls apart a year or two from now, when I'm 28 and I'm still at the same spot I was before? That I've been at so many times? How foolish that I keep turning to immediate pleasure, knowing the outcome.
So much easier than dealing with what I am now: tension. Anger. Grumpiness. Anxiety. Mood swings. Barely controlling myself from snapping at those around me.
I caught myself on film today. It was unexpected. I went to Lucha Va Voom's Cinco de Mayo show at The Mayan in downtown. A man with a video camera walked down the line, recording people waiting for the doors to open. I was on the phone with a friend, walking away from the line so I could hear. The timing was perfect. I walked about thirty feet in front of the camera, just for a second or two. They played the whole video just before the show.
I haven't seen myself move in years.
Yes, there are mirrors at the club, but I don't really look at them and, honestly, I'm dancing. It's a given that I'm going appear somewhere between decent and very good.
But I got to watch my walk. Something that I've been working on and adjusting, something that gets commented on and draws attention fairly often. Controlled, centered, internal. Rollingly smooth. The hipsway my family teases me about, saying I move like my cat.
It was surprising. I knew I moved differently, but I didn't realize how noticeable it was. Good to know that my body-awareness is paying off.
The show was good, the dancers, the performers, and, of course, the luchadore. For all three matches, each set of wrestlers were "thrown" out of the ring and into the chairs in front of me, people dashing out of the way, spilling drinks, the girls buzzed and shrieking.
I walked to my car afterwards, bidding C and friends good-bye for the evening. They were wandering off to find food, but I wasn't looking to spend money on things I already had at home. The freeway was smooth and empty, I slid into an easy 80, sometimes 90, letting my wheels take me home. My left-handed driving is getting better, though the awkwardness of using the turn signal is cropping up. Less and less I need to bring my right hand into play to make sure I get those extra-tight curves. I think that, within a month at most, I'll be driving just as smooth with my left as I do with my right.
It's a bit of a reality check for me. Making myself face the likelihood that I'll eventually lose all fine motor control in my right hand. Not anytime soon, but probably in the next ten to twenty years, depending on lifestyle choices. If I learn to do more things with my left, that time will extend, which I am aiming for.
But it's 1AM and my neighbors are slowly staggering home. I hear the laughter in the hallway and that's my cue to get myself unconscious.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
I can hear Kings of Leon playing from... somewhere? Displeasing. Can't tell if it's the bar or the apartment next door or one of the apartments in this building. It's almost midnight and, yeah, I'm done with the whole "music" thing.
C is getting booted from her place. This is why I didn't want to rent from people leasing out their own property. It could be really nice, but you could find yourself on the ass-end of a foreclosure (like her last place) or you could end up having your landlord get in an argument with his wife and boot you out because he needs a place to stay (the current place). He's violating their lease agreement and I doubt she's going to do anything about it.
Give me a solid corporation to rent from, thank you. The larger, the better.
Monday night and the kids are out partying.
Never was the bar type. Didn't make me feel comfortable. What am I supposed to do? Stand there and shout over a jukebox while my friends drink, while I get hit on by drunk guys that, yes, are hot, but they're drunk. I hear drunk sex is great, but when only one of you is drinking, I can't imagine it's good for the sober one.
Actually, now that I think of it, the last time I had sex with a non-sober individual, the sex was pretty damn bad. Wasn't the worst, but it was definitely not quite worth the drive.
It's Monday, almost Tuesday. Two weeks since GV8 did his mid-week ending. No word from him.
I'm planning, in my head, what I'm going to be doing now.
Relationship/life-wise.
I almost want to push myself, see how long I can go with minimal physical contact. I want to pick a date and gun for it. No sex, no sleep-overs, no oral, no hand-jobs. I might strike off kissing and hand-holding.
I suppose it's a reaction.
Having a life again, suddenly. No weekends packed with GV8, my week nights trying to cycle through my friends so they don't start complaining to me about my absence, while still trying to take care of the day-to-day that has to be handled, neglecting all but the necessary.
I don't want that taken away from me again.
And then GV8's accusation that I'm going to backslide, that I'm going to fall into my old ways of seeking comfort with skin to skin contact, even if it's nonsexual contact. He feels I'm too weak, going to others for comfort, not able to do it "on my own". I'm too physically based.
He said to me, actually, on our last date, that while outside sex was okay because it meant nothing, he was not comfortable with me cuddling with other men. Except I cuddle with my most of my friends, and most of my friends are men. I kinda blinked at him, as he's very well aware that I'm incredibly physically affectionate with anyone I'm comfortable with.
He doesn't like it when I sleep with others, even though he says he does not mind, then blames it on other things. "Signs". "Tendencies". He gets upset and brings it up whenever we have serious discussions, or whenever he has a bone to pick.
It frustrates me. He's wonderful, he's so much of what I desire in a partner, yet he can be so not aware of himself. And, with near everyone else I know, I get in their heads, I hear their secrets, hear their stories, fears, tragedies, and discuss them, but I've never attempted to do that with GV8. I think it was a combo of fear and idol-worship. Fear he'd see right through my little dance and see that I was digging at his roots, idol-worship because everything he does is, of course, right and well-motivated. Issue-free.
He's so smart, so dynamic, that it's hard to imagine him being anything but self-aware and self-controlled.
It makes me wonder, if he ever comes my way again, if I'd take him back. If I'd be okay with the lifestyle he offers. Our connect is so strong, but what about the rest? If I change and realize I don't need him, that he isn't the golden god, will I still treat him with enough respect so as not to irritate him, or will the dynamic between us have changed so strongly that it no longer works?
Either way, have to keep growing, have to keep exploring.
If it works, it works. If not, then I'm someone else, he's someone else, and it was a good experience.
C is getting booted from her place. This is why I didn't want to rent from people leasing out their own property. It could be really nice, but you could find yourself on the ass-end of a foreclosure (like her last place) or you could end up having your landlord get in an argument with his wife and boot you out because he needs a place to stay (the current place). He's violating their lease agreement and I doubt she's going to do anything about it.
Give me a solid corporation to rent from, thank you. The larger, the better.
Monday night and the kids are out partying.
Never was the bar type. Didn't make me feel comfortable. What am I supposed to do? Stand there and shout over a jukebox while my friends drink, while I get hit on by drunk guys that, yes, are hot, but they're drunk. I hear drunk sex is great, but when only one of you is drinking, I can't imagine it's good for the sober one.
Actually, now that I think of it, the last time I had sex with a non-sober individual, the sex was pretty damn bad. Wasn't the worst, but it was definitely not quite worth the drive.
It's Monday, almost Tuesday. Two weeks since GV8 did his mid-week ending. No word from him.
I'm planning, in my head, what I'm going to be doing now.
Relationship/life-wise.
I almost want to push myself, see how long I can go with minimal physical contact. I want to pick a date and gun for it. No sex, no sleep-overs, no oral, no hand-jobs. I might strike off kissing and hand-holding.
I suppose it's a reaction.
Having a life again, suddenly. No weekends packed with GV8, my week nights trying to cycle through my friends so they don't start complaining to me about my absence, while still trying to take care of the day-to-day that has to be handled, neglecting all but the necessary.
I don't want that taken away from me again.
And then GV8's accusation that I'm going to backslide, that I'm going to fall into my old ways of seeking comfort with skin to skin contact, even if it's nonsexual contact. He feels I'm too weak, going to others for comfort, not able to do it "on my own". I'm too physically based.
He said to me, actually, on our last date, that while outside sex was okay because it meant nothing, he was not comfortable with me cuddling with other men. Except I cuddle with my most of my friends, and most of my friends are men. I kinda blinked at him, as he's very well aware that I'm incredibly physically affectionate with anyone I'm comfortable with.
He doesn't like it when I sleep with others, even though he says he does not mind, then blames it on other things. "Signs". "Tendencies". He gets upset and brings it up whenever we have serious discussions, or whenever he has a bone to pick.
It frustrates me. He's wonderful, he's so much of what I desire in a partner, yet he can be so not aware of himself. And, with near everyone else I know, I get in their heads, I hear their secrets, hear their stories, fears, tragedies, and discuss them, but I've never attempted to do that with GV8. I think it was a combo of fear and idol-worship. Fear he'd see right through my little dance and see that I was digging at his roots, idol-worship because everything he does is, of course, right and well-motivated. Issue-free.
He's so smart, so dynamic, that it's hard to imagine him being anything but self-aware and self-controlled.
It makes me wonder, if he ever comes my way again, if I'd take him back. If I'd be okay with the lifestyle he offers. Our connect is so strong, but what about the rest? If I change and realize I don't need him, that he isn't the golden god, will I still treat him with enough respect so as not to irritate him, or will the dynamic between us have changed so strongly that it no longer works?
Either way, have to keep growing, have to keep exploring.
If it works, it works. If not, then I'm someone else, he's someone else, and it was a good experience.
Monday, February 15, 2010
I've been feeling kinda... bleh.
Don't want to write, in my own way. Which is rather shocking, since I almost always want to write. I do have short spurts of time where I push the keyboard away and spend time doing other things.
Sometimes.
I haven't really been reading, either. Too obsessed, more obsessed than usual, with what has been going on in my own head towards my own story that I do not wish to interrupt it with the voices of others.
I bought a desk. Finally. Thank you, IKEA, for providing dark-colored furniture in the right dimensions to fit just below that particular window. Once the madness of this week is over, I'll assemble it, which will allow me to unpack a couple of the last remaining boxes.
Which will allow more organization. Oh my sweet, sweet organization.
I invited C over for dinner. Sauteed some thin strips of beef in a fire-roasted salsa while she made the guacamole. Thank you, El Salvador or wherever C's parents came from, for passing down the knowledge for good guacamole.
She's been having a rough time of it lately.
It goes back to so many things, so much damage and anger.
We have similar experiences with men, bad experiences. Even worse, bad experiences with sexually dominant men. That can throw you for a loop, when you're trying to figure out this very integral part of your sexuality and the person who is supposed to be more experienced, the person you are supposed to be able to trust (at least on a sexual level) is unable to actually deserve that trust.
But you give it to him anyway. Because you're supposed to. Because you want that experience. Because he's older, because he's been with others you admire from whatever distance. Because he dresses a certain way. Because you want so badly to please, to be serving.
C, she got angry. She got angry and so very bitter. Aggressive. Defensive, usually in an offensive way.
I didn't. I don't know the key parts of our personalities that seperated us down our paths, but I've never been able to hold a grudge against the whole of the male sex.
She can't handle dominant men now. She hates them. She bristles up and rolls her eyes at me whenever I find another one that I wish to test drive. Her partners are always socially submissive, at the very least. Always men she can dominate. Always men she is stronger than.
We were talking as we were making dinner, and she mentioned a man she was going to be meeting a little later in the week. I laughed at her and asked how much I would hate this one.
It takes a certain getting used to, the boys whose company she keeps.
Reversal of gender roles. Such a strong reversal.
And even though she's able to find these men who do not make her uncomfortable, who do not challenge her, who do not push her on a sexual level, she's still incredibly angry at the male population. All of them, especially the dominant ones, are guilty until proven innocent.
In her eyes, though, there's no innocence for a Dom.
... ...
My sister is doing her annual charity event tomorrow night.
At the last minute, I invited GV8 to accompany me. I knew he'd say no. I knew it would be too soon after a weekend like we shared for us to see each other again, that he would tell me we needed to space things out a bit more.
But he said yes.
Oddly, I'm... almost disappointed.
Now, before the confusion sets in and your monitor begins to smoke, let me explain.
The last couple of times where things have gone a bit emotionally intense, we've had to take space. We've had to do other things for a bit, re-evaluate our physical boundaries, push them farther, reinforce them, and then we'd be able to see each other again.
That did not happen this time.
He simply said yes.
Like it wasn't an issue. Like he did not need space. No recovery time needed.
He just did the most amazing, romantic thing for me anyone has ever done. Men I've lived with, men I've spoken marriage with, have never done anything like he did for me on Saturday.
And we're not even together.
An ex-boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend gave me the most memorable Valentine's Day weekend date ever. And not just for that holiday, but any dates, any of the anniversaries I've had with past boyfriends, none has compared to the simple day we shared.
And now he's coming to a charity event my sister is helping with. He's driving to my office to drop off cupcakes for my coworkers and pick me up to be my platonic date, to meet my father for the first time, to support my sister's efforts, etc.
So. Boned.
Everyone's all, "Oh, you two are going to get back together. You still love each other, it's so great, how romantic, etc."
Ha. No.
He broke up with me for three reasons, all of which are still valid, all of which will not be changing for either of us in this lifetime.
It would be destructive.
And he knows, he knows very well that I was willing to give up my goals on those three fronts (marriage, monogamy, munchkins) to be with him. But he will not let me, he wants me to have that future, wants me to have the future I desire.
So we spend time together. We don't have sex. Save for yesterday, we do our best to not touch, except for the occasional hug and holding hands. When people ask, we are only friends... because that's all we are.
I wish people would not tell me that we're going to get back together. It simply feels like a pebble being dropped down a well in the center of my chest, waiting for that echo of empty pain to come back up the shaft and slide into their ear. They do not understand. They see actions, they see this dance we are doing, and they think Hollywood ideals, they think romance, they think that love conquers all.
They don't see the looks we exchange, the moments of quiet, perfect harmony, singing a symphony with our touches, and the fall away when we withdraw, end of the measure.
They don't hear the conversations, they don't see his steady confidence in the future he is building for himself, they don't hear his dreams.
They do not see when I lay beside him, my chest to his back, limbs wrapping around him, trying to sink pieces of myself into his skin, into his shoulders so I can be with him in some way, track marks of kisses over his body, marking it all as mine, mine in a way that no one else will likely experience.
It's sad. It's so very sad when we part, feels like we're peeling away from each other, residue clinging behind, stretching taut and then snapping apart when lines become too thin.
One of a list of tragedies.
We match, but we don't fit.
Don't want to write, in my own way. Which is rather shocking, since I almost always want to write. I do have short spurts of time where I push the keyboard away and spend time doing other things.
Sometimes.
I haven't really been reading, either. Too obsessed, more obsessed than usual, with what has been going on in my own head towards my own story that I do not wish to interrupt it with the voices of others.
I bought a desk. Finally. Thank you, IKEA, for providing dark-colored furniture in the right dimensions to fit just below that particular window. Once the madness of this week is over, I'll assemble it, which will allow me to unpack a couple of the last remaining boxes.
Which will allow more organization. Oh my sweet, sweet organization.
I invited C over for dinner. Sauteed some thin strips of beef in a fire-roasted salsa while she made the guacamole. Thank you, El Salvador or wherever C's parents came from, for passing down the knowledge for good guacamole.
She's been having a rough time of it lately.
It goes back to so many things, so much damage and anger.
We have similar experiences with men, bad experiences. Even worse, bad experiences with sexually dominant men. That can throw you for a loop, when you're trying to figure out this very integral part of your sexuality and the person who is supposed to be more experienced, the person you are supposed to be able to trust (at least on a sexual level) is unable to actually deserve that trust.
But you give it to him anyway. Because you're supposed to. Because you want that experience. Because he's older, because he's been with others you admire from whatever distance. Because he dresses a certain way. Because you want so badly to please, to be serving.
C, she got angry. She got angry and so very bitter. Aggressive. Defensive, usually in an offensive way.
I didn't. I don't know the key parts of our personalities that seperated us down our paths, but I've never been able to hold a grudge against the whole of the male sex.
She can't handle dominant men now. She hates them. She bristles up and rolls her eyes at me whenever I find another one that I wish to test drive. Her partners are always socially submissive, at the very least. Always men she can dominate. Always men she is stronger than.
We were talking as we were making dinner, and she mentioned a man she was going to be meeting a little later in the week. I laughed at her and asked how much I would hate this one.
It takes a certain getting used to, the boys whose company she keeps.
Reversal of gender roles. Such a strong reversal.
And even though she's able to find these men who do not make her uncomfortable, who do not challenge her, who do not push her on a sexual level, she's still incredibly angry at the male population. All of them, especially the dominant ones, are guilty until proven innocent.
In her eyes, though, there's no innocence for a Dom.
... ...
My sister is doing her annual charity event tomorrow night.
At the last minute, I invited GV8 to accompany me. I knew he'd say no. I knew it would be too soon after a weekend like we shared for us to see each other again, that he would tell me we needed to space things out a bit more.
But he said yes.
Oddly, I'm... almost disappointed.
Now, before the confusion sets in and your monitor begins to smoke, let me explain.
The last couple of times where things have gone a bit emotionally intense, we've had to take space. We've had to do other things for a bit, re-evaluate our physical boundaries, push them farther, reinforce them, and then we'd be able to see each other again.
That did not happen this time.
He simply said yes.
Like it wasn't an issue. Like he did not need space. No recovery time needed.
He just did the most amazing, romantic thing for me anyone has ever done. Men I've lived with, men I've spoken marriage with, have never done anything like he did for me on Saturday.
And we're not even together.
An ex-boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend gave me the most memorable Valentine's Day weekend date ever. And not just for that holiday, but any dates, any of the anniversaries I've had with past boyfriends, none has compared to the simple day we shared.
And now he's coming to a charity event my sister is helping with. He's driving to my office to drop off cupcakes for my coworkers and pick me up to be my platonic date, to meet my father for the first time, to support my sister's efforts, etc.
So. Boned.
Everyone's all, "Oh, you two are going to get back together. You still love each other, it's so great, how romantic, etc."
Ha. No.
He broke up with me for three reasons, all of which are still valid, all of which will not be changing for either of us in this lifetime.
It would be destructive.
And he knows, he knows very well that I was willing to give up my goals on those three fronts (marriage, monogamy, munchkins) to be with him. But he will not let me, he wants me to have that future, wants me to have the future I desire.
So we spend time together. We don't have sex. Save for yesterday, we do our best to not touch, except for the occasional hug and holding hands. When people ask, we are only friends... because that's all we are.
I wish people would not tell me that we're going to get back together. It simply feels like a pebble being dropped down a well in the center of my chest, waiting for that echo of empty pain to come back up the shaft and slide into their ear. They do not understand. They see actions, they see this dance we are doing, and they think Hollywood ideals, they think romance, they think that love conquers all.
They don't see the looks we exchange, the moments of quiet, perfect harmony, singing a symphony with our touches, and the fall away when we withdraw, end of the measure.
They don't hear the conversations, they don't see his steady confidence in the future he is building for himself, they don't hear his dreams.
They do not see when I lay beside him, my chest to his back, limbs wrapping around him, trying to sink pieces of myself into his skin, into his shoulders so I can be with him in some way, track marks of kisses over his body, marking it all as mine, mine in a way that no one else will likely experience.
It's sad. It's so very sad when we part, feels like we're peeling away from each other, residue clinging behind, stretching taut and then snapping apart when lines become too thin.
One of a list of tragedies.
We match, but we don't fit.
 |
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
I don't like posting at night. The day has wound down and I am ready to lounge and get my sleepy-time groove on.
Unfortunately, the office has been rearranged, placing my monitor in direct view of my boss. This makes me uneasy about spending chunks of time pounding at the keyboard during work hours.
Going down to the property management company to sign the lease tomorrow afternoon, pick up my keys, switch over the electricity.
Signed a life insurance policy a few hours ago, something I can borrow against in about three years. Which will be nice.
Also picked up some dental gear. I don't remember if I mentioned it in all the hubbub that has been going on, but since Darkeyes and I split (which caused all the panic/anxiety issues), I've been grinding my teeth so hard that they've been shifting. The stress with GV8 and my father has compounded the problem, so I had to have some rather unattractive nightgear made so I would not be able to continue moving my teeth.
Fun, I know. I'm sitting here with this cherry red retainer in right now, remembering myself in junior high wearing these awful retainers. How awkward.
Again, drawing a blank. I had so much to write about today that I was unable to attack, and now I'm lounging on C's futon while she dozes on her couch, Redwing writing one of his in-progress sci-fi novels... I just want to sleep.
Which is funny. I quit coffee. Yeah, that's right. I who have consumed, at minimum, one cup of coffee almost every day for the last six years, sometimes two or three cups of coffee a day, I have quit.
It's weird. My usual downtime is popping into a coffee shop with a book and reading for a few hours, watching the people walk by, enjoying the weather, the sounds, the smells of a coffee shop.
Now I have to find other ways, other places, to spend my downtime.
It feels like I'm missing a limb. Possibly my right hand.
What do I do with myself, those hours I would spend with a caffienated beverage beside me on some undersized table, surrounded by the same crowd every day? Coffee shop philosophers, smokers, families coming in after church on Sunday mornings.
I need a damn hobby. That's what.
Suggestions?
Unfortunately, the office has been rearranged, placing my monitor in direct view of my boss. This makes me uneasy about spending chunks of time pounding at the keyboard during work hours.
Going down to the property management company to sign the lease tomorrow afternoon, pick up my keys, switch over the electricity.
Signed a life insurance policy a few hours ago, something I can borrow against in about three years. Which will be nice.
Also picked up some dental gear. I don't remember if I mentioned it in all the hubbub that has been going on, but since Darkeyes and I split (which caused all the panic/anxiety issues), I've been grinding my teeth so hard that they've been shifting. The stress with GV8 and my father has compounded the problem, so I had to have some rather unattractive nightgear made so I would not be able to continue moving my teeth.
Fun, I know. I'm sitting here with this cherry red retainer in right now, remembering myself in junior high wearing these awful retainers. How awkward.
Again, drawing a blank. I had so much to write about today that I was unable to attack, and now I'm lounging on C's futon while she dozes on her couch, Redwing writing one of his in-progress sci-fi novels... I just want to sleep.
Which is funny. I quit coffee. Yeah, that's right. I who have consumed, at minimum, one cup of coffee almost every day for the last six years, sometimes two or three cups of coffee a day, I have quit.
It's weird. My usual downtime is popping into a coffee shop with a book and reading for a few hours, watching the people walk by, enjoying the weather, the sounds, the smells of a coffee shop.
Now I have to find other ways, other places, to spend my downtime.
It feels like I'm missing a limb. Possibly my right hand.
What do I do with myself, those hours I would spend with a caffienated beverage beside me on some undersized table, surrounded by the same crowd every day? Coffee shop philosophers, smokers, families coming in after church on Sunday mornings.
I need a damn hobby. That's what.
Suggestions?
Friday, November 27, 2009
Just dance...
Sometimes I feel like I post too much.
But that's the way it goes.
Anxious.
Which is, of course, nothing new. Just something I have to swallow down and keep the manifestations in my actions controlled.
Hard to do when a sexy manbeast is texting you wondering if you're free tonight.
And you end up sending back something along the lines of, "Yeah... maybe Sunday. I'll let you know. Can't be all marked up."
I want to say I know GV8 wouldn't care.
And he wouldn't... care. That I was out frolicking on a night he is off being busy working on the club.
If things were smooth.
Which, as has been noted, things are the least smooth they've been.
It's intent. It's how I spend my time. It's showing him what is important to me.
So I turned him down. And will likely turn him down again on Sunday, unless GV8 texts me to tell me that we are a no-go. And then that man will be my angry, objectifying sex.
Which he's good at.
So it works out.
GV8 is... busy all weekend. Construction. Bad timing on my part, I suppose. So I'm going to be sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the week to begin. A paper to write, a movie to watch (for class), and then a essay summary to produce.
Not too bad. Easily distracted when emotions run high, though. Brings down the quality of my work.
Saturday, I'm thinking of going clubbing. I'm a bit on the fence, because my body is so exhausted from the stress of the last few days, I really don't want to push it with my heart.
But... I left my pants in Silverlake two weeks ago. And the friend that I left them with is also going to the club. So that'll save me a trip.
Mmm, contentless post where I gather my thoughts and do nothing of a productive nature.
I'm shakey, to be honest. Worried about the whiplash of rejection, a rejection that I feel is imminent. I can't let my hopes get up that he'd actually have me back, and I can't really imagine him doing so.
Who would have thought I'd be this shaken up over a guy?
C is shocked, I'll tell you that. She's so used to me charging over and through, twisting through the men, with mild impacts occuring that, on the surface, do nothing, and are swallowed down into the back of my brain.
And yet I sit here, moping. Wondering. Waiting. Pacing.
Distance is created with time and duties. All I can do is hope. There's no prayer in my life.
And what does prayer accomplish, anyhow? It's a meditation, a rationalization for how things turn out. It allows that faith in a higher, controlling power, remove the anxiety of one's own lack of control. That it will be okay, to quoth Lady Gaga.
I can't believe I just did that. So lame.
It's nearing 6PM. I've knocked my weekend free, once more, from social constraints. Easier to do without a steady partner in my life, though that isn't always a good thing.
I'm afraid of what GV8 is going to do. How much this is going to hurt.
But I'm going to have to take it. I'm going to have to be brave and open myself up, knowing that it's more than likely he's going to shut me down.
And I'll survive.
Wounded for a time, but... but what? Something trite that I keep telling myself? Wounds happen? Right. Wounded, but I'll heal? Scar tissue or fractures? Solidifying into a mass. Internal cancer?
I'll be wounded, and time will continue to move on. I will do the best I can, because there is no going back. I can't stay in one moment forever, I can't mope or wallow my seasons away. Time will continue rushing and it is my decision to heal myself or to cauterize those wounds that men make. I am in control of how I handle this. I've been here before, in other ways.
Whatever happens, I will trust that I will take care of it. I will trust that my support network is strong enough to hold me when I plunge down, and that I'm strong enough to control the fall.
I will, ultimately, be in control of how I handle myself. We all walk around with shiny scars or oozing wounds. We medicate ourselves in different ways.
I need to be okay with this.
I need to be okay with him leaving me like I left him.
I need to trust and love myself.
Faith.
In a week or two, I will be walking wounded.
My mother tells me that "these things will pass".
Because that's what time does. It heals wounds, enables us to forget the immediacy of the emotion.
But the emotions aren't ripples, fading away into nothingness. They get stored within us, impacting other ripples, changing the shape of the water's surface.
I've just dropped a rock into my pond.
I heaved it over my head and slammed it down. I've always been so good at shocking the system, making waves. Emotions slosh over my edges, bleeding out into my interactions, driving needs.
What is to say that I should not take up one of the offers for sexual companionship this weekend? GV8 would never know.
But that is a weakness of mine. It's how I de-stress. I read, I watch movies, I cuddle, I fuck, I dance. That's how I de-stress. When I'm angry, I walk, I run. Pound it out of my system with rapid heartbeats.
It's not always healthy, though. Not always good.
And it's so easy to turn to. Options, they are available.
But I need to get a handle on it. I need another way of relieving stress, another source of comfort. I have them, I need to explore them.
I need to keep sane this weekend. I need to keep healthy and happy (as much as I can) and do what needs to be done. Prioritize.
And next week, I'll see GV8. The axe will likely fall, but I know that.
At least I tried. At least I did what I've never been able to do before.
I'll just hold still and let him swing, for a clean cut.
But that's the way it goes.
Anxious.
Which is, of course, nothing new. Just something I have to swallow down and keep the manifestations in my actions controlled.
Hard to do when a sexy manbeast is texting you wondering if you're free tonight.
And you end up sending back something along the lines of, "Yeah... maybe Sunday. I'll let you know. Can't be all marked up."
I want to say I know GV8 wouldn't care.
And he wouldn't... care. That I was out frolicking on a night he is off being busy working on the club.
If things were smooth.
Which, as has been noted, things are the least smooth they've been.
It's intent. It's how I spend my time. It's showing him what is important to me.
So I turned him down. And will likely turn him down again on Sunday, unless GV8 texts me to tell me that we are a no-go. And then that man will be my angry, objectifying sex.
Which he's good at.
So it works out.
GV8 is... busy all weekend. Construction. Bad timing on my part, I suppose. So I'm going to be sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the week to begin. A paper to write, a movie to watch (for class), and then a essay summary to produce.
Not too bad. Easily distracted when emotions run high, though. Brings down the quality of my work.
Saturday, I'm thinking of going clubbing. I'm a bit on the fence, because my body is so exhausted from the stress of the last few days, I really don't want to push it with my heart.
But... I left my pants in Silverlake two weeks ago. And the friend that I left them with is also going to the club. So that'll save me a trip.
Mmm, contentless post where I gather my thoughts and do nothing of a productive nature.
I'm shakey, to be honest. Worried about the whiplash of rejection, a rejection that I feel is imminent. I can't let my hopes get up that he'd actually have me back, and I can't really imagine him doing so.
Who would have thought I'd be this shaken up over a guy?
C is shocked, I'll tell you that. She's so used to me charging over and through, twisting through the men, with mild impacts occuring that, on the surface, do nothing, and are swallowed down into the back of my brain.
And yet I sit here, moping. Wondering. Waiting. Pacing.
Distance is created with time and duties. All I can do is hope. There's no prayer in my life.
And what does prayer accomplish, anyhow? It's a meditation, a rationalization for how things turn out. It allows that faith in a higher, controlling power, remove the anxiety of one's own lack of control. That it will be okay, to quoth Lady Gaga.
I can't believe I just did that. So lame.
It's nearing 6PM. I've knocked my weekend free, once more, from social constraints. Easier to do without a steady partner in my life, though that isn't always a good thing.
I'm afraid of what GV8 is going to do. How much this is going to hurt.
But I'm going to have to take it. I'm going to have to be brave and open myself up, knowing that it's more than likely he's going to shut me down.
And I'll survive.
Wounded for a time, but... but what? Something trite that I keep telling myself? Wounds happen? Right. Wounded, but I'll heal? Scar tissue or fractures? Solidifying into a mass. Internal cancer?
I'll be wounded, and time will continue to move on. I will do the best I can, because there is no going back. I can't stay in one moment forever, I can't mope or wallow my seasons away. Time will continue rushing and it is my decision to heal myself or to cauterize those wounds that men make. I am in control of how I handle this. I've been here before, in other ways.
Whatever happens, I will trust that I will take care of it. I will trust that my support network is strong enough to hold me when I plunge down, and that I'm strong enough to control the fall.
I will, ultimately, be in control of how I handle myself. We all walk around with shiny scars or oozing wounds. We medicate ourselves in different ways.
I need to be okay with this.
I need to be okay with him leaving me like I left him.
I need to trust and love myself.
Faith.
In a week or two, I will be walking wounded.
My mother tells me that "these things will pass".
Because that's what time does. It heals wounds, enables us to forget the immediacy of the emotion.
But the emotions aren't ripples, fading away into nothingness. They get stored within us, impacting other ripples, changing the shape of the water's surface.
I've just dropped a rock into my pond.
I heaved it over my head and slammed it down. I've always been so good at shocking the system, making waves. Emotions slosh over my edges, bleeding out into my interactions, driving needs.
What is to say that I should not take up one of the offers for sexual companionship this weekend? GV8 would never know.
But that is a weakness of mine. It's how I de-stress. I read, I watch movies, I cuddle, I fuck, I dance. That's how I de-stress. When I'm angry, I walk, I run. Pound it out of my system with rapid heartbeats.
It's not always healthy, though. Not always good.
And it's so easy to turn to. Options, they are available.
But I need to get a handle on it. I need another way of relieving stress, another source of comfort. I have them, I need to explore them.
I need to keep sane this weekend. I need to keep healthy and happy (as much as I can) and do what needs to be done. Prioritize.
And next week, I'll see GV8. The axe will likely fall, but I know that.
At least I tried. At least I did what I've never been able to do before.
I'll just hold still and let him swing, for a clean cut.
Friday, October 23, 2009
I like the hallway ceiling...
So, most (98%) of my post titles come from the lyrics of whatever I am listening to.
This one is from an amazing CD I picked up called "They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top" by Liars, track four: "The Garden Was Crowded And Outside".
I thought I would just disclaimer the title of this post because it makes absolutely no sense. The following line is "It's just four feet wide", in case you're curious.
Really.
Last night C and I went to Knott's Scary Farm. This is a yearly tradition for me. I'm a major people watcher and I love the amount of work that they put into the event, so I wander around the park and check out the costumes and decor, laugh at the people screaming, running, and usually tripping on their own feet that results in a faceplant of sheer awesomeness.
However, during the evening, C gets a phone call. She's addicted to her phone. I hate it. So she gets a whiny phone call from this guy she was seeing who dumped her, got back with her, dumped her again, and now wants her back again because he's still in love with her.
Except she's over it.
However, being her typical type of emotional feminine beta male, he calls to tell her how much he cares and how much he wants to get back together and he misses her cling cling cling.
She gets off the phone, we keep walking, and about thirty minutes later, she gets a text from him saying "I love you".
That's it.
The night progresses and we walk some more, and then another guy she's seeing calls, and they start chatting about Mr. Cling and what do say in response to his text message. They could not figure it out... but I was obviously listening in and gave my advice.
Which is why he received a text from her saying "I love cake".
This one is from an amazing CD I picked up called "They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top" by Liars, track four: "The Garden Was Crowded And Outside".
I thought I would just disclaimer the title of this post because it makes absolutely no sense. The following line is "It's just four feet wide", in case you're curious.
Really.
Last night C and I went to Knott's Scary Farm. This is a yearly tradition for me. I'm a major people watcher and I love the amount of work that they put into the event, so I wander around the park and check out the costumes and decor, laugh at the people screaming, running, and usually tripping on their own feet that results in a faceplant of sheer awesomeness.
However, during the evening, C gets a phone call. She's addicted to her phone. I hate it. So she gets a whiny phone call from this guy she was seeing who dumped her, got back with her, dumped her again, and now wants her back again because he's still in love with her.
Except she's over it.
However, being her typical type of emotional feminine beta male, he calls to tell her how much he cares and how much he wants to get back together and he misses her cling cling cling.
She gets off the phone, we keep walking, and about thirty minutes later, she gets a text from him saying "I love you".
That's it.
The night progresses and we walk some more, and then another guy she's seeing calls, and they start chatting about Mr. Cling and what do say in response to his text message. They could not figure it out... but I was obviously listening in and gave my advice.
Which is why he received a text from her saying "I love cake".
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tumbling walls buried us with debris...
GV8 and I went out last night. Roamed the streets of Hollywood, as seems to be our tendency. Wandering and watching, seeing what we find, seeing who we find. Strolling Hollywood Boulevard at 8PM, looking for a restaurant to our liking, threading through the performers by Graumann's and avoiding the male(?) with manboobs jigggling his flesh to a tiny boombox resting on his cart, using a balloon sword as a prop.
Dropped down to Sunset Boulevard, strolled past Seven Veils, did an illegal jaywalk that landed us in the middle of the street, waiting for traffic to pass with lips locked and wandering hands. Dinner was found at Bossa Nova, dessert at Mashti's, we lapped at our icecream and walked further down to peer in the windows of High Voltage at the over the top decor, then to an art gallery that seems to have a mural in front painted by my favorite artist, Sylvia Ji.
Before we went roaming, his requests (demands?) were oral sex and then to watch me get myself off, legs spread in front of him, fingers dancing. He loves to watch my twitches, hear my breathing change, moisture dripping.
Afterwards, as I was rolling off the bed to rinse off and get dressed for dinner, he said, "I'm cracking your nut."
"What?"
"I'm cracking your nut. I'm getting inside your head. You're finally starting to trust me."
"I've trusted two men in my life. I'll let you know when you're the third." Said to him without malice, he tossed the comforter over my face and crawled onto me.
"You will."
Trust is an issue for me. Not because I've been treated so badly by men in the past (though, yes, I have been by some), but because of my worldview. It's not just men, but women. Humanity, as a rule.
I've heard the question too often in so many humanities classes and at coffee shops by the caffiene-fueled would-be philosopher: is humanity innately good or innately evil?
And everyone has these immediate reactions, with incredibly solid beliefs in their anectodes and personal experiences. It's never a wavering belief, but something clung to, almost desperately, like someone is needing to know that their cynicism is justified, or that they aren't living in an unfair, unjustice world, the dupe among wolves. Or that their behaviors are excusable.
When I was younger, I used to say that humanity simply is. Neither bad, nor good, as those are definitions we construct based on our views, based on our morals, religions, experiences, and how actions hurt or benefit ourselves and those we care about. I remember having those arguments in high school, having the hardest time trying to explain the idea that good and evil were just concepts.
While I still feel that way, my answer changed one day. I do not remember what class I was in, but we were discussing that constant question, and my classmates were throwing out the usual answers with the usual evidence to support their view.
I had been dating Rick at the time, constantly discussing philosophy and ethics, and hearing these arguments somehow made me realize that I did not believe that humanity just "was" anymore. That the actions we label as good and bad, and how those actions impact us... that judgement is made out of self-interest. Even charity is usually done with self-interest, though that's another topic that I'll likely never bother discussing in depth.
So I came to the realization that I believed humanity was neither innately good or bad, just self-interested. This wasn't some epic moment in my life, just an acknowlegement of how I view the world.
Which makes it hard for me to trust someone.
People do things all the time for someone else's "own good". And it is usually the decisionmaker's interpretation of "good" that they force upon the person they supposedly care for, without taking into effect what the receiver might actually find "good" themselves.
And that's on the basis of that someone else caring for you, loving you, wanting what's best for you.
I cannot trust someone who would not act with my best interests at heart when engaging in behavior or decisions that impact me.
That may sound incredibly impossible. That I would never be able to trust another person because of that ridiculous standard.
But I do trust people. In varying ways. I trust that the construction workers and engineers will build bridges and overpasses that will remain steady. And that the pharmacist will dispense the right medication, or my doctor will be able to prescribe the right treatment when I become ill. I trust that the men who come and inspect the various elevators I use will do a thorough inspection, and that the chefs in the restaurants that I dine will not keep rat poison by the food I consume.
I do not believe these things because I think these people care about me, but because these people are interested in keeping their jobs, in not getting fired, in not getting massive lawsuits thrown up against them. They are working with total self-interest.
And I do not find this wrong. I don't think self-interest is a bad thing, it is simply what we all do to survive.
But when you enter into personal relationships, not only romantic relationships, but any sort of relationship that exceeds the bounds of acquaintance, it becomes a matter, for me, of determining how each person's self-interest may manifest in negatively impactful ways.
Some people, you can tell secrets to. Some, you can't, but you do know you can call them any time of day and they'll be there to help you with a problem.
Some men you can sleep with and trust that they'll be safe with any other partners they have, but you know you can never date them because they can't control their lusts or the beasts that chase them.
Some people are flakes when it comes to being there at important occasions, but they are wonderful advice givers.
You take what you get and you balance the positives and negatives between them. Sometimes that friendship gets deep, gets intense, and you know that that particular person is able to maintain your complete trust because they truly care for you, respect you, and will make the right decisions for you if a decision has to be made in your stead. And you for them. This isn't a one way street of a person who has scads of people vying for trust.
It's a relationship. Two people. Symbiotic, parasitic, unbalanced, healthy? It is what we can make of it, what we allow it to be.
I stopped trusting my father when I realized that if, in a moment of rage, a decision was placed in front of him, he would possibly do something to harm me. He would regret it later, but he can't control his anger when it surfaces. And even if it wasn't a decision made with anger, he does not understand my idea of health and happiness, and he does not know or respect me enough to allow me to do what I feel is right if he has any say in the matter.
Because he knows best.
And he is my father. He did raise me, pour money into me, pour time, effort, stress, hours and hours of work, into giving me the life I have.
So, yes, he is going to make decisions for me that may not be what I want.
But I do trust my mother.
Which is funny. My father is so very controlled 98% of the time, and my mother is constantly ruled by emotion (and my father), but I know that she would make the decisions I would want her to make for me.
And she is one of the only people on the planet that I trust entirely with me. If I was killed today, maimed, made braindead, she would be the one I would want to handle me, handle my future. No doubt in her decisions or abilities.
Other people, I trust with them.
I trust C to be late to most everything. I trust her to respond in anger when provoked, to offer me a place to stay when I need it, help me when I need it, to go after the most beta, effeminate man around, and to always speak her mind, which is what I value most.
I trust SFPlayboy to be a horndog. I expect him to be going after anything with two legs that he finds attractive. I expect him to put his health and fitness first, to shove me out of bed no matter how much I grumble and take me down to the gym. I trust him to read the books I recommend, and to tell me when he finds one he thinks I'll like. I trust him with my diet, having my health in mind.
We learn to expect things from people, even from strangers. We walk around and interact with varying amounts of people every day, and we expect certain behaviors out of our baristas, our sales girls, the people in the cars beside us. We trust others on the road to stay between the lines, to not run red lights. Deviation from this is a violation of our trust, even though we all know that people will swerve, people will run lights, hit pedestrians, not look when making a right and ram into your car.
Which leads us back to GV8.
How do I trust him?
I trust that if I'm in trouble, he'll be there. I know if someone hurts me, he'll hurt them worse. I know if there's an emergency, he'll be at my door as fast as he can, violating as many traffic laws as he is able and still keep his car in one piece. I trust that if I do something wrong in bed, or something right, he'll tell me. I trust that he uses protection when he sleeps with others. I trust he will not intentionally hurt my feelings, and that he does want the best for me.
Do I trust that he respects me? No, not yet.
Do I trust that he knows and understands what I want for myself? No, not yet.
Do I trust that he will never do anything to seriously embarass me in front of friends or family? No, not entirely. Not because he can't read social situations, but because his reality is so far from my parents', and something normal for him is not normal for them.
But he is getting to me.
He is "cracking my nut".
And maybe, one day, I'll believe that his self-interest will shift to match what I need from him to trust him. And mine will shift to his.
Because I don't trust what people say. Emotions are easy and fade as quickly as they come on. I trust self-interest.
Dropped down to Sunset Boulevard, strolled past Seven Veils, did an illegal jaywalk that landed us in the middle of the street, waiting for traffic to pass with lips locked and wandering hands. Dinner was found at Bossa Nova, dessert at Mashti's, we lapped at our icecream and walked further down to peer in the windows of High Voltage at the over the top decor, then to an art gallery that seems to have a mural in front painted by my favorite artist, Sylvia Ji.
Before we went roaming, his requests (demands?) were oral sex and then to watch me get myself off, legs spread in front of him, fingers dancing. He loves to watch my twitches, hear my breathing change, moisture dripping.
Afterwards, as I was rolling off the bed to rinse off and get dressed for dinner, he said, "I'm cracking your nut."
"What?"
"I'm cracking your nut. I'm getting inside your head. You're finally starting to trust me."
"I've trusted two men in my life. I'll let you know when you're the third." Said to him without malice, he tossed the comforter over my face and crawled onto me.
"You will."
Trust is an issue for me. Not because I've been treated so badly by men in the past (though, yes, I have been by some), but because of my worldview. It's not just men, but women. Humanity, as a rule.
I've heard the question too often in so many humanities classes and at coffee shops by the caffiene-fueled would-be philosopher: is humanity innately good or innately evil?
And everyone has these immediate reactions, with incredibly solid beliefs in their anectodes and personal experiences. It's never a wavering belief, but something clung to, almost desperately, like someone is needing to know that their cynicism is justified, or that they aren't living in an unfair, unjustice world, the dupe among wolves. Or that their behaviors are excusable.
When I was younger, I used to say that humanity simply is. Neither bad, nor good, as those are definitions we construct based on our views, based on our morals, religions, experiences, and how actions hurt or benefit ourselves and those we care about. I remember having those arguments in high school, having the hardest time trying to explain the idea that good and evil were just concepts.
While I still feel that way, my answer changed one day. I do not remember what class I was in, but we were discussing that constant question, and my classmates were throwing out the usual answers with the usual evidence to support their view.
I had been dating Rick at the time, constantly discussing philosophy and ethics, and hearing these arguments somehow made me realize that I did not believe that humanity just "was" anymore. That the actions we label as good and bad, and how those actions impact us... that judgement is made out of self-interest. Even charity is usually done with self-interest, though that's another topic that I'll likely never bother discussing in depth.
So I came to the realization that I believed humanity was neither innately good or bad, just self-interested. This wasn't some epic moment in my life, just an acknowlegement of how I view the world.
Which makes it hard for me to trust someone.
People do things all the time for someone else's "own good". And it is usually the decisionmaker's interpretation of "good" that they force upon the person they supposedly care for, without taking into effect what the receiver might actually find "good" themselves.
And that's on the basis of that someone else caring for you, loving you, wanting what's best for you.
I cannot trust someone who would not act with my best interests at heart when engaging in behavior or decisions that impact me.
That may sound incredibly impossible. That I would never be able to trust another person because of that ridiculous standard.
But I do trust people. In varying ways. I trust that the construction workers and engineers will build bridges and overpasses that will remain steady. And that the pharmacist will dispense the right medication, or my doctor will be able to prescribe the right treatment when I become ill. I trust that the men who come and inspect the various elevators I use will do a thorough inspection, and that the chefs in the restaurants that I dine will not keep rat poison by the food I consume.
I do not believe these things because I think these people care about me, but because these people are interested in keeping their jobs, in not getting fired, in not getting massive lawsuits thrown up against them. They are working with total self-interest.
And I do not find this wrong. I don't think self-interest is a bad thing, it is simply what we all do to survive.
But when you enter into personal relationships, not only romantic relationships, but any sort of relationship that exceeds the bounds of acquaintance, it becomes a matter, for me, of determining how each person's self-interest may manifest in negatively impactful ways.
Some people, you can tell secrets to. Some, you can't, but you do know you can call them any time of day and they'll be there to help you with a problem.
Some men you can sleep with and trust that they'll be safe with any other partners they have, but you know you can never date them because they can't control their lusts or the beasts that chase them.
Some people are flakes when it comes to being there at important occasions, but they are wonderful advice givers.
You take what you get and you balance the positives and negatives between them. Sometimes that friendship gets deep, gets intense, and you know that that particular person is able to maintain your complete trust because they truly care for you, respect you, and will make the right decisions for you if a decision has to be made in your stead. And you for them. This isn't a one way street of a person who has scads of people vying for trust.
It's a relationship. Two people. Symbiotic, parasitic, unbalanced, healthy? It is what we can make of it, what we allow it to be.
I stopped trusting my father when I realized that if, in a moment of rage, a decision was placed in front of him, he would possibly do something to harm me. He would regret it later, but he can't control his anger when it surfaces. And even if it wasn't a decision made with anger, he does not understand my idea of health and happiness, and he does not know or respect me enough to allow me to do what I feel is right if he has any say in the matter.
Because he knows best.
And he is my father. He did raise me, pour money into me, pour time, effort, stress, hours and hours of work, into giving me the life I have.
So, yes, he is going to make decisions for me that may not be what I want.
But I do trust my mother.
Which is funny. My father is so very controlled 98% of the time, and my mother is constantly ruled by emotion (and my father), but I know that she would make the decisions I would want her to make for me.
And she is one of the only people on the planet that I trust entirely with me. If I was killed today, maimed, made braindead, she would be the one I would want to handle me, handle my future. No doubt in her decisions or abilities.
Other people, I trust with them.
I trust C to be late to most everything. I trust her to respond in anger when provoked, to offer me a place to stay when I need it, help me when I need it, to go after the most beta, effeminate man around, and to always speak her mind, which is what I value most.
I trust SFPlayboy to be a horndog. I expect him to be going after anything with two legs that he finds attractive. I expect him to put his health and fitness first, to shove me out of bed no matter how much I grumble and take me down to the gym. I trust him to read the books I recommend, and to tell me when he finds one he thinks I'll like. I trust him with my diet, having my health in mind.
We learn to expect things from people, even from strangers. We walk around and interact with varying amounts of people every day, and we expect certain behaviors out of our baristas, our sales girls, the people in the cars beside us. We trust others on the road to stay between the lines, to not run red lights. Deviation from this is a violation of our trust, even though we all know that people will swerve, people will run lights, hit pedestrians, not look when making a right and ram into your car.
Which leads us back to GV8.
How do I trust him?
I trust that if I'm in trouble, he'll be there. I know if someone hurts me, he'll hurt them worse. I know if there's an emergency, he'll be at my door as fast as he can, violating as many traffic laws as he is able and still keep his car in one piece. I trust that if I do something wrong in bed, or something right, he'll tell me. I trust that he uses protection when he sleeps with others. I trust he will not intentionally hurt my feelings, and that he does want the best for me.
Do I trust that he respects me? No, not yet.
Do I trust that he knows and understands what I want for myself? No, not yet.
Do I trust that he will never do anything to seriously embarass me in front of friends or family? No, not entirely. Not because he can't read social situations, but because his reality is so far from my parents', and something normal for him is not normal for them.
But he is getting to me.
He is "cracking my nut".
And maybe, one day, I'll believe that his self-interest will shift to match what I need from him to trust him. And mine will shift to his.
Because I don't trust what people say. Emotions are easy and fade as quickly as they come on. I trust self-interest.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Darling, I'm down and lonely...
The walking wounded, she surrounds herself with submissive males.
Last night, the three of us laid in her bed.
I on my stomach, left shoulder against the wall, chin leaning sideways on my left forearm, my right hand moving up and down her arm and shoulder.
He is behind her, sitting up, one foot on the bed, one on the floor, thigh pressed against her back, hand roaming her waist and hips.
She lies on her side, facing me, face framed by her arms, dark, dark eyes wide without her glasses.
She hates weakness, possibly more than I do.
The weakness of those around her, the frustrations of disagreeing plans of action, she lashes out with brute force of tongue, biting words.
The weakness in others reminds her of the weakness in herself.
But she dates feminine men, submissive men, beta men. Men that are her playthings, men who do not know the art of home repair, who cannot change a tire, cannot change oil, who drive like women. They are emotional and fragile, they cling and look to her for guidance.
And she becomes strong through their eyes, through the contrast supplied by their weakness.
But then they stumble. It goes too far and some can only take her aggression, playing dress-up, teaching them how to live in the way she thinks they should, how to cut their hair, how to drive, how to carry, how to perform simple actions, for so long.
I watched her lecture one on how to grab paper so as not to afford himself a papercut.
He's inept anyhow.
How long can she do this?
The lack of self-examination, the lack of acknowledgement of what she used to desire and how those things scarred her, how her family scarred her, how her father scarred her, how long will she continue to seek out the lesser men, how long will she play the dominant, strong one in the relationships she creates, hurt and irritated that she can never be weak, can never be soft or feminine.
Because she is always taking care of them.
Of their lives.
Of their emotions.
As much as she can.
Small bouts of raging, her words filling my right ear as I cruise the highways of Southern California. She never has someone taking care of her, not in the way she wishes.
But she cannot, cannot get over that fear of the dominant.
The fear that she might not be as strong as her partner.
As strong as she should be.
And that, one day, she might not be able to fend for herself.
And on that day, maybe, she will realize that her great strength is not as strong as she thought, because comparing yourself to something so weak only breeds self-illusion.
Last night, the three of us laid in her bed.
I on my stomach, left shoulder against the wall, chin leaning sideways on my left forearm, my right hand moving up and down her arm and shoulder.
He is behind her, sitting up, one foot on the bed, one on the floor, thigh pressed against her back, hand roaming her waist and hips.
She lies on her side, facing me, face framed by her arms, dark, dark eyes wide without her glasses.
She hates weakness, possibly more than I do.
The weakness of those around her, the frustrations of disagreeing plans of action, she lashes out with brute force of tongue, biting words.
The weakness in others reminds her of the weakness in herself.
But she dates feminine men, submissive men, beta men. Men that are her playthings, men who do not know the art of home repair, who cannot change a tire, cannot change oil, who drive like women. They are emotional and fragile, they cling and look to her for guidance.
And she becomes strong through their eyes, through the contrast supplied by their weakness.
But then they stumble. It goes too far and some can only take her aggression, playing dress-up, teaching them how to live in the way she thinks they should, how to cut their hair, how to drive, how to carry, how to perform simple actions, for so long.
I watched her lecture one on how to grab paper so as not to afford himself a papercut.
He's inept anyhow.
How long can she do this?
The lack of self-examination, the lack of acknowledgement of what she used to desire and how those things scarred her, how her family scarred her, how her father scarred her, how long will she continue to seek out the lesser men, how long will she play the dominant, strong one in the relationships she creates, hurt and irritated that she can never be weak, can never be soft or feminine.
Because she is always taking care of them.
Of their lives.
Of their emotions.
As much as she can.
Small bouts of raging, her words filling my right ear as I cruise the highways of Southern California. She never has someone taking care of her, not in the way she wishes.
But she cannot, cannot get over that fear of the dominant.
The fear that she might not be as strong as her partner.
As strong as she should be.
And that, one day, she might not be able to fend for herself.
And on that day, maybe, she will realize that her great strength is not as strong as she thought, because comparing yourself to something so weak only breeds self-illusion.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Sometimes I'm weak.
Weaker than I should be, anyway.
My clubbing friend, someone who I really need to think up a pseudonym for... yeah.
Texts me nearly every day.
Wants to spend more time together.
For our birthdays, right next to each other in October, he wants to go on a daytrip, or maybe a weekend vacation, just the two of us.
This man, I do like him. I like spending time with him, like talking with him. I think he's good people, and he holds a good, balanced conversation, which is something I appreciate. My willingness to listen usually causes most conversations to be onesided, so it's rare to find someone who is willing to listen back.
He's a fixture in the scene. Being with him, rather, being seen with him, with our obvious comfort-level, does good things for me, socially. Things that I do not usually do for myself, as I would rather be on the dance floor than socializing, would rather be cooling off in a corner by myself outside than huddling together, talking, smoking cigarettes.
And he can guest-list me. Not a necessary thing, but something I enjoy, being able to walk into a club... park my own car, wave my way past the bouncers, and slide past the doorman. It's nice. It saves hassle. It looks good.
I keep to myself, for the most part. A select few, I socialize with.
And if you're not on the dancefloor, you're worthless.
And even if you are, it's a high likelihood that I don't even like the way you move.
I'm an elitist, I know. It's been commented on time and time again.
But I like to think it's earned.
Back to him, though, my club-friend, back to him and my weakness.
I got off work yesterday, started that near 50-mile commute to campus. Called my mother, called C, called C's lover.
My mother was down, dealing with the funeral arrangements, worrying about my father.
C's basically getting evicted in three months, through absolutely no fault of her own, rather mismanagement by the property owner, and is undergoing significant health problems that I will not talk about here.
C's lover is allowing himself to get stuck in a crappy situation and he's withdrawing further and further from the world, from me, which is unusual because we're close.
It got to me.
It all got to me.
And the freeway was not free enough to let me zen. Stop-and-go traffic frustrates me, and the heat we've been experiencing means I have to run the A/C to prevent myself from sweating in a metal box on wheels.
Windows up, crawling along, smoke in the air.
I wanted to be blasting down the freeway at 90 miles an hour, windows down, music filling the space around me.
So I called him.
I knew I should not.
I know what this does. I know what it would do.
But I didn't stop myself.
When a man like him is interested, when a man like him sees a woman upset, he wants to protect. Disclosure, revealing of vunerability, just makes him more attached and I knew it. I knew it so quickly once I started talking to him.
But I did not want to be stuck in traffic, stuck in a mood.
So I called. I called and told him how upset I was, about everything that was going on.
Brainless and selfish.
He just ends up wanting me more.
And this is after I have told him repeatedly, directly, that I'm not interested. That I will not be interested. That I'm not attracted to him.
The latter actually isn't 100% true. He is an experienced dom, and I value both experience and sexual domination. But I'll never let him know that.
He's enrapt with me because we have so many similiarities. He's fascinated because I'm not like the other girls at the clubs. He's intimidated and desirous because he knows that I'm possibly the only person he's ever met that is more perverted and kinky than he is, or at least the only one open about it. My vunerability, my honesty, brings out his masculinity. We have incredibly similiar backgrounds, similiar histories. We've both accepted that we're people who are more likely to be alone for the rest of our lives than find another that suits us. Except now he's angling for me.
I don't want to lose his friendship.
I don't want this to turn awkward.
I don't want this to blow up in my face.
I don't want him to nice-guy me because he's better than that and I know he is.
I wish I wasn't so concerned about his feelings. I wish I did not feel guilty when he told me that if he couldn't guest-list me for a special event, he'd pay for my cover.
I don't like it when people buy me things.
It makes me uncomfortable. Especially when it's a male who has interest in me that I don't return.
Even with GV8, I find him buying me things makes me uncomfortable. We went shopping on Melrose, possibly our first or second date, and I saw this amazing coat that I had to try on but had no intention of buying. It was... spectacular. I walked by the window and jawdropped because it was so perfect.
He saw this and bought it for me. $400. This was after buying me a pair of $120 boots. I was thrilled, but at the same time... disconcerted.
He tells me that I need to get used to him buying me things. That when he feels like buying something for someone he does, and not to argue. It took repeated dinners and other dates for me to stop reaching for my wallet whenever it came time to pay, and it did seem to slightly annoy him that I would do this.
I don't find sleeping with someone at all equating to them owing me something. The whole sugardaddy set-up, I can't do. It feels wrong to have a man pay for anything for me simply because I'm sleeping with him, especially because I'd be sleeping with him whether or not he spent money on me.
I've done nothing to earn it. Sex isn't work. Sex isn't uncomfortable.
When I sleep with someone, I expect honesty and communication. I expect to be treated as a good friend or a lover, depending on our social situation. I expect social precedence in most cases, over their average friends, though never over their work or close friends or family. I expect social physical contact and some sort of acknowledgement of our closeness.
But not items. Not money.
I need to figure out how I want to handle this thing with my clubbing friend. Directly telling him my lack of interest hasn't worked. I'm going to see him Sunday at the club, so I'll probably have to corner him and let him know my concerns.
Better to nip it now than to put it off due to a cowardly need to avoid minor discomfort.
... ... ...
Update:
Thinking on the money "thing", I wonder if some women do get into such arrangement because it makes being "easy" and engaging in sexually-"adventurous" behaviors... excusable. That those base desires that we all experience, and women are taught are masculine and undesirable in women, can be swept under the rug because one is being paid to do act in that manner.
I'm quite sure this correct isn't even a majority of those of us who get into these relationships, but I wonder for how many it might be.
I mean, it's one way of working around the sexual standards reining in women.
Money makes a would-be slut into a successful whore.
And she's even thinking towards her future.
Or I could be totally wrong.
Weaker than I should be, anyway.
My clubbing friend, someone who I really need to think up a pseudonym for... yeah.
Texts me nearly every day.
Wants to spend more time together.
For our birthdays, right next to each other in October, he wants to go on a daytrip, or maybe a weekend vacation, just the two of us.
This man, I do like him. I like spending time with him, like talking with him. I think he's good people, and he holds a good, balanced conversation, which is something I appreciate. My willingness to listen usually causes most conversations to be onesided, so it's rare to find someone who is willing to listen back.
He's a fixture in the scene. Being with him, rather, being seen with him, with our obvious comfort-level, does good things for me, socially. Things that I do not usually do for myself, as I would rather be on the dance floor than socializing, would rather be cooling off in a corner by myself outside than huddling together, talking, smoking cigarettes.
And he can guest-list me. Not a necessary thing, but something I enjoy, being able to walk into a club... park my own car, wave my way past the bouncers, and slide past the doorman. It's nice. It saves hassle. It looks good.
I keep to myself, for the most part. A select few, I socialize with.
And if you're not on the dancefloor, you're worthless.
And even if you are, it's a high likelihood that I don't even like the way you move.
I'm an elitist, I know. It's been commented on time and time again.
But I like to think it's earned.
Back to him, though, my club-friend, back to him and my weakness.
I got off work yesterday, started that near 50-mile commute to campus. Called my mother, called C, called C's lover.
My mother was down, dealing with the funeral arrangements, worrying about my father.
C's basically getting evicted in three months, through absolutely no fault of her own, rather mismanagement by the property owner, and is undergoing significant health problems that I will not talk about here.
C's lover is allowing himself to get stuck in a crappy situation and he's withdrawing further and further from the world, from me, which is unusual because we're close.
It got to me.
It all got to me.
And the freeway was not free enough to let me zen. Stop-and-go traffic frustrates me, and the heat we've been experiencing means I have to run the A/C to prevent myself from sweating in a metal box on wheels.
Windows up, crawling along, smoke in the air.
I wanted to be blasting down the freeway at 90 miles an hour, windows down, music filling the space around me.
So I called him.
I knew I should not.
I know what this does. I know what it would do.
But I didn't stop myself.
When a man like him is interested, when a man like him sees a woman upset, he wants to protect. Disclosure, revealing of vunerability, just makes him more attached and I knew it. I knew it so quickly once I started talking to him.
But I did not want to be stuck in traffic, stuck in a mood.
So I called. I called and told him how upset I was, about everything that was going on.
Brainless and selfish.
He just ends up wanting me more.
And this is after I have told him repeatedly, directly, that I'm not interested. That I will not be interested. That I'm not attracted to him.
The latter actually isn't 100% true. He is an experienced dom, and I value both experience and sexual domination. But I'll never let him know that.
He's enrapt with me because we have so many similiarities. He's fascinated because I'm not like the other girls at the clubs. He's intimidated and desirous because he knows that I'm possibly the only person he's ever met that is more perverted and kinky than he is, or at least the only one open about it. My vunerability, my honesty, brings out his masculinity. We have incredibly similiar backgrounds, similiar histories. We've both accepted that we're people who are more likely to be alone for the rest of our lives than find another that suits us. Except now he's angling for me.
I don't want to lose his friendship.
I don't want this to turn awkward.
I don't want this to blow up in my face.
I don't want him to nice-guy me because he's better than that and I know he is.
I wish I wasn't so concerned about his feelings. I wish I did not feel guilty when he told me that if he couldn't guest-list me for a special event, he'd pay for my cover.
I don't like it when people buy me things.
It makes me uncomfortable. Especially when it's a male who has interest in me that I don't return.
Even with GV8, I find him buying me things makes me uncomfortable. We went shopping on Melrose, possibly our first or second date, and I saw this amazing coat that I had to try on but had no intention of buying. It was... spectacular. I walked by the window and jawdropped because it was so perfect.
He saw this and bought it for me. $400. This was after buying me a pair of $120 boots. I was thrilled, but at the same time... disconcerted.
He tells me that I need to get used to him buying me things. That when he feels like buying something for someone he does, and not to argue. It took repeated dinners and other dates for me to stop reaching for my wallet whenever it came time to pay, and it did seem to slightly annoy him that I would do this.
I don't find sleeping with someone at all equating to them owing me something. The whole sugardaddy set-up, I can't do. It feels wrong to have a man pay for anything for me simply because I'm sleeping with him, especially because I'd be sleeping with him whether or not he spent money on me.
I've done nothing to earn it. Sex isn't work. Sex isn't uncomfortable.
When I sleep with someone, I expect honesty and communication. I expect to be treated as a good friend or a lover, depending on our social situation. I expect social precedence in most cases, over their average friends, though never over their work or close friends or family. I expect social physical contact and some sort of acknowledgement of our closeness.
But not items. Not money.
I need to figure out how I want to handle this thing with my clubbing friend. Directly telling him my lack of interest hasn't worked. I'm going to see him Sunday at the club, so I'll probably have to corner him and let him know my concerns.
Better to nip it now than to put it off due to a cowardly need to avoid minor discomfort.
... ... ...
Update:
Thinking on the money "thing", I wonder if some women do get into such arrangement because it makes being "easy" and engaging in sexually-"adventurous" behaviors... excusable. That those base desires that we all experience, and women are taught are masculine and undesirable in women, can be swept under the rug because one is being paid to do act in that manner.
I'm quite sure this correct isn't even a majority of those of us who get into these relationships, but I wonder for how many it might be.
I mean, it's one way of working around the sexual standards reining in women.
Money makes a would-be slut into a successful whore.
And she's even thinking towards her future.
Or I could be totally wrong.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Could have been more than a name on the door...
When C and I were driving home from the concert on Tuesday evening, she was telling me about how she and Redwing had been planning on taking things slow and easy, letting it build, but how their emotions had gotten away from them, and she told him she loved him.
She said he didn't return it immediately, which is something that bothered her (though since we talked about it, some months ago, not needing that intense love from your partner to validate your own feelings for them, that love is something you give without expectations of return) but due to earlier conversations, she dealt with it easily.
Apparently, it shocked him. It shocked him tremendously, and he spent the next day in a haze.
But he came back and told her that he loved her.
Now this, this I expect from him. He's immature, he's inexperienced with relationships, and he's prone to drama. He's also, what, 24? 23? 25? I don't know. One of those three.
But C... no. She's experienced. She's been in many relationships, some of them significantly long-term from what I gather. I know she's incredibly emotional, as volatile as I am mellow.
But to tell someone that you love them after dating them for a month? Really??
I watch them interact.
And I know that people have different definitions of love, different ideas to tell how people are in love with each other. Observations, theories, supersitions, whatever.
I don't think she loves him. She doesn't have respect for him at all. She bosses him around, insults him, and berates him. She treats him like her little brother. There's no moments of tenderness, no handholding, no stolen kisses, no compliments, looks of love, or gifts. He doesn't make her light up, when she speaks of him, it's usually with frustration or amusement. He doesn't blow her mind, he doesn't have any impact on her.
It's a friendly love. It's a family love.
It's not an in love.
And I don't know why it bothers me so much.
She's so emotional. She gives her love away and it just makes it seem so not special. It makes it seem like nothing. I thought love was supposed to be this grand thing, something that makes you glow, makes you incredibly happy. Something rare and treasured.
I've been in love. I've had "okay" love, and then I've had that one, heart-stopping, no-breathing love. That ultimate trust love. Perfect safety, perfect happiness, nothing-can-go-wrong love.
Life changing.
Funny, because it really was. I wouldn't be who I am now if it wasn't for him.
But this isn't about my experiences of love. We all experience it in our own ways.
I hate that it makes me look down on her.
Another woman, controlled by emotions and Hollywood-induced ideals.
Horrible, isn't it, that I am saying this about my friend?
Sometimes, I'll be with someone for a few weeks, a month maybe, and I'll be overwhelmed with that enthusiasm for this new partner. I don't know any of their flaws yet, they're treating me like a princess, we're learning about each other (but not how we don't quite fit right, or not those habits that will drive the both of us nuts), we're learning about how compatible we are and how similiar our goals are and I catch myself in the mirror with my cheeks flushed or my father looks at me and says, "You're seeing someone new, aren't you?" and I grin at him.
And I think to myself, "Am I falling in love? Maybe I am."
And then I think, "Oh, wake the hell up with your limerance induced infatuation. You don't even know this guy. You just know how he wants to be seen by you, you just know what he's like when he's trying to impress you. You don't actually know him. If you never saw him again, would your heart be broken? Would you be moping about for months? No. You'd be hurt for a week and then move on. So wake yourself up, get to know this guy, and see what happens. Don't be feeding some psycho-female hosebeast notion of emotional-bonding when there has been none."
Yes, I actually give myself variations of that speech whenever I find myself enamoured. Works like a charm.
It makes me look down on her because she loves so easily, and romantic love, for her, seems to be friendly love and I'm being a judgemental bitch.
I totally am.
I want to shake her and say, "C, wake up. You may love him, but you aren't in love with him. Look how you treat the guy!"
But who am I to be telling my friends whether or not they are in love? Who am I to make that call?
If Redwing disappeared from her life, she'd be sad for a day or two. A freaking day or two. That's not love. I don't even know what to call that.
Love wrecks you when it spoils.
This isn't love.
And last night, when I finally took a brain break and just relaxed, I decided to watch "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton" which is some mindless chick-flick that looked like I could shut my brain down with.
The main character goes out on a date with "Tad Hamilton", then goes out on a second one, and then her best girl friend asks her about him and she's like, "I'm in love with him!"
Imagine, dear readers, the expression on my face.
Jaw partially dropped, one eyebrow raised, lips curled in a disbelieving "What the hell?" expression.
Of course, in typical female fashion, in less than a week, she realizes that she's not in love with Tad Hamilton, but in her best male friend who has been in her life the entire freaking time, but she's never realized her love for him before.
Right.
I suppose she gets away with it because she's hot and blonde and expected to behave like a moron and not actually supposed to be aware of her own inner workings.
The movie had some amazingly funny lines. Like someone actually intelligent got their hands on the script and inserted the occasional quip. I appreciated that. The rest was an exercise in glorifying that ever-adored feminine stupidity.
And that's saying something, because usually I love these movies. I've seen freaking Hillary Duff's "Cinderella Story" at least fifteen times.
It makes me want to run out right now, meet some random guy, go out with him twice, tell him I love him, marry him right away (I think roofies will be involved), and then actually get to know him as a person and divorce him. Because it's so much more important to "follow your heart" as opposed to, you know, learning anything about your mate of choice before engaging in something as foolhardy as barely-thought-out marriage.
So, yes, Tuesday night was C telling me about how she loves Redwing, and Wednesday night was a movie telling me about how you can think yourself in love with someone in a matter of days, and then realize that your best friend (who was running freaking nice guy game on you) is actually the love of your life.
On the plus side, my brain stopped hurting so much as it slid into mush territory.
Oh, oh, and since C and Redwing were out, I got to discover something.
Redwing wants to be a writer. He's been writing and taking writing classes, seems like for some time now.
He left one of his several writing projects out on C's bed.
So I started reading it.
Sci-fi/Fantasy set in potentially modern times. I read the first page and determined it was just like every other book of its type that I had read. And it wasn't written that well. Wasn't horrible, wasn't good. Just another thing to add to your sci-fi collection.
Yes, I'm currently being full of hate and soy sauce.
That happens. Rarely. But it does happen.
He irritates me. His presence, his social persona that he puts on, his inexperience, his awkwardness, his apparent inability to keep his mouth shut, his constant need to be the center of attention, his emotional weakness, how he lets C boss him around, his smartass behavior that does not come off as charming or attractive at all. I don't want him around and it bothers me to no end that C's tossing "love" into the equation when she's known him for a month and has been dating him for like, two weeks. Maybe three.
I hope it is over soon. I was hoping that she'd find him as annoying as I do, and that she'd eject him. He does have good moments, where he is not trying to act out, where he is considerate and aware of the people around him, but it isn't often. He's so insecure in who he is that he constantly puts on these shows and postures, making everything to be more incredibly dramatic than need be and it's so childish. It's so girly.
But he's here.
I'm stuck with his presence.
I've already requested that he give C and myself more alone time.
I don't have patience for puppies. I have no interest in training him, like C does. I want them housebroken when I get them.
End rant.
She said he didn't return it immediately, which is something that bothered her (though since we talked about it, some months ago, not needing that intense love from your partner to validate your own feelings for them, that love is something you give without expectations of return) but due to earlier conversations, she dealt with it easily.
Apparently, it shocked him. It shocked him tremendously, and he spent the next day in a haze.
But he came back and told her that he loved her.
Now this, this I expect from him. He's immature, he's inexperienced with relationships, and he's prone to drama. He's also, what, 24? 23? 25? I don't know. One of those three.
But C... no. She's experienced. She's been in many relationships, some of them significantly long-term from what I gather. I know she's incredibly emotional, as volatile as I am mellow.
But to tell someone that you love them after dating them for a month? Really??
I watch them interact.
And I know that people have different definitions of love, different ideas to tell how people are in love with each other. Observations, theories, supersitions, whatever.
I don't think she loves him. She doesn't have respect for him at all. She bosses him around, insults him, and berates him. She treats him like her little brother. There's no moments of tenderness, no handholding, no stolen kisses, no compliments, looks of love, or gifts. He doesn't make her light up, when she speaks of him, it's usually with frustration or amusement. He doesn't blow her mind, he doesn't have any impact on her.
It's a friendly love. It's a family love.
It's not an in love.
And I don't know why it bothers me so much.
She's so emotional. She gives her love away and it just makes it seem so not special. It makes it seem like nothing. I thought love was supposed to be this grand thing, something that makes you glow, makes you incredibly happy. Something rare and treasured.
I've been in love. I've had "okay" love, and then I've had that one, heart-stopping, no-breathing love. That ultimate trust love. Perfect safety, perfect happiness, nothing-can-go-wrong love.
Life changing.
Funny, because it really was. I wouldn't be who I am now if it wasn't for him.
But this isn't about my experiences of love. We all experience it in our own ways.
I hate that it makes me look down on her.
Another woman, controlled by emotions and Hollywood-induced ideals.
Horrible, isn't it, that I am saying this about my friend?
Sometimes, I'll be with someone for a few weeks, a month maybe, and I'll be overwhelmed with that enthusiasm for this new partner. I don't know any of their flaws yet, they're treating me like a princess, we're learning about each other (but not how we don't quite fit right, or not those habits that will drive the both of us nuts), we're learning about how compatible we are and how similiar our goals are and I catch myself in the mirror with my cheeks flushed or my father looks at me and says, "You're seeing someone new, aren't you?" and I grin at him.
And I think to myself, "Am I falling in love? Maybe I am."
And then I think, "Oh, wake the hell up with your limerance induced infatuation. You don't even know this guy. You just know how he wants to be seen by you, you just know what he's like when he's trying to impress you. You don't actually know him. If you never saw him again, would your heart be broken? Would you be moping about for months? No. You'd be hurt for a week and then move on. So wake yourself up, get to know this guy, and see what happens. Don't be feeding some psycho-female hosebeast notion of emotional-bonding when there has been none."
Yes, I actually give myself variations of that speech whenever I find myself enamoured. Works like a charm.
It makes me look down on her because she loves so easily, and romantic love, for her, seems to be friendly love and I'm being a judgemental bitch.
I totally am.
I want to shake her and say, "C, wake up. You may love him, but you aren't in love with him. Look how you treat the guy!"
But who am I to be telling my friends whether or not they are in love? Who am I to make that call?
If Redwing disappeared from her life, she'd be sad for a day or two. A freaking day or two. That's not love. I don't even know what to call that.
Love wrecks you when it spoils.
This isn't love.
And last night, when I finally took a brain break and just relaxed, I decided to watch "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton" which is some mindless chick-flick that looked like I could shut my brain down with.
The main character goes out on a date with "Tad Hamilton", then goes out on a second one, and then her best girl friend asks her about him and she's like, "I'm in love with him!"
Imagine, dear readers, the expression on my face.
Jaw partially dropped, one eyebrow raised, lips curled in a disbelieving "What the hell?" expression.
Of course, in typical female fashion, in less than a week, she realizes that she's not in love with Tad Hamilton, but in her best male friend who has been in her life the entire freaking time, but she's never realized her love for him before.
Right.
I suppose she gets away with it because she's hot and blonde and expected to behave like a moron and not actually supposed to be aware of her own inner workings.
The movie had some amazingly funny lines. Like someone actually intelligent got their hands on the script and inserted the occasional quip. I appreciated that. The rest was an exercise in glorifying that ever-adored feminine stupidity.
And that's saying something, because usually I love these movies. I've seen freaking Hillary Duff's "Cinderella Story" at least fifteen times.
It makes me want to run out right now, meet some random guy, go out with him twice, tell him I love him, marry him right away (I think roofies will be involved), and then actually get to know him as a person and divorce him. Because it's so much more important to "follow your heart" as opposed to, you know, learning anything about your mate of choice before engaging in something as foolhardy as barely-thought-out marriage.
So, yes, Tuesday night was C telling me about how she loves Redwing, and Wednesday night was a movie telling me about how you can think yourself in love with someone in a matter of days, and then realize that your best friend (who was running freaking nice guy game on you) is actually the love of your life.
On the plus side, my brain stopped hurting so much as it slid into mush territory.
Oh, oh, and since C and Redwing were out, I got to discover something.
Redwing wants to be a writer. He's been writing and taking writing classes, seems like for some time now.
He left one of his several writing projects out on C's bed.
So I started reading it.
Sci-fi/Fantasy set in potentially modern times. I read the first page and determined it was just like every other book of its type that I had read. And it wasn't written that well. Wasn't horrible, wasn't good. Just another thing to add to your sci-fi collection.
Yes, I'm currently being full of hate and soy sauce.
That happens. Rarely. But it does happen.
He irritates me. His presence, his social persona that he puts on, his inexperience, his awkwardness, his apparent inability to keep his mouth shut, his constant need to be the center of attention, his emotional weakness, how he lets C boss him around, his smartass behavior that does not come off as charming or attractive at all. I don't want him around and it bothers me to no end that C's tossing "love" into the equation when she's known him for a month and has been dating him for like, two weeks. Maybe three.
I hope it is over soon. I was hoping that she'd find him as annoying as I do, and that she'd eject him. He does have good moments, where he is not trying to act out, where he is considerate and aware of the people around him, but it isn't often. He's so insecure in who he is that he constantly puts on these shows and postures, making everything to be more incredibly dramatic than need be and it's so childish. It's so girly.
But he's here.
I'm stuck with his presence.
I've already requested that he give C and myself more alone time.
I don't have patience for puppies. I have no interest in training him, like C does. I want them housebroken when I get them.
End rant.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I felt entirely better after I decided to cancel on everyone this weekend, even though I know my lack of presence at one small gathering will likely temporarily destroy the event.
C, a mutual friend and concert buddy, and I went out to go see The Bassist's band play last night, over at this tiny place in Los Angeles. It wasn't a venue as much as a tiny art gallery turned into a "hey, you can play here" type deal. The acoustics were horrific, I actually had to resort to earplugs for the first time in my clubbing and concert-attending life (more the former than the latter, really).
But I enjoyed myself.
While C was attempting, by text, to stroke the wounded ego of a man she is seeing (another one, not Redwing) because The Bassist is more adorable than he is, my "type" was brought up. I only know this because, while I was talking with someone, she burst into laughter, and when I questioned her, she showed me a text message that read as follows:
"We all know her type is made of testosterone, ice, and stoicism."
I thought that was cute.
I also met The Bassist's most recent ex-girlfriend. Or, at least, I think it was her from the way they were talking. When he mentioned to me that she would be there, I thought, "Oh, cool. They're obviously really close friends, so I'll just make sure I get her to like me and we'll be good."
First, she was... really, startlingly unattractive. Below average. Beautiful eyes, decent lips, horrible haircut, lumpy body that was made all the more unattractive because of her apparent need to dress in hipster/scenester fashion which is designed for rail-thin girls, not so much the short and lumpy. It made her body look horrible.
So, I was standing there going, "Wow, if I decide to veer in his direction, I am a significant step up, at least physically," and "I'm glad she's not super hot, because that would make me anxious and this makes me much more relaxed."
I tried to join in the conversation, tried to smile, tried to meet her eyes.
Nothing. Standing there for about a minute, minute and a half, while she avoided me, even when I tried to engage her, I finally said, "Screw it," and stopped bothering, instead turning slightly to cut off that group and engage with C.
She was so young. She was incredibly young, a scenster in training, and just... young. I didn't understand it. But if he likes her, I'm sure she's cool.
Concert was good. I caused a mini-revolution by choosing to go to the front, next to the stage, and sit. As soon as I did that, about a fifth of the audience sat down with me. It was amusing. I looked back at my friend, raised my fist in the air, and declared, "Viva la Revolution!"
C... she was bored and hungry. She left the concert, walked down the street to a diner she liked, and ate. It was a little offputting, but not too terribly. We met up with her after the concert. I always forget that she gets bored so easily if she's not doing something she wants to do. I never get bored because I always find ways to entertain myself, so I don't worry about that in others.
Whoops.
When we arrived back at her place, a little after midnight, Redwing was there.
He had, last week, pissed me off. I was talking to C and he happened to be there, and I told her something that I did not want repeated to a particular person so there would not be drama. So after I said it, I requested that it remained with the three of us. I trust C not to do such things, and I figured that since Redwing is male, he wouldn't engage in gossip, especially if I requested it of him.
The next day, I get an email from the person I did not wish to have that information as, apparently, he told her immediately.
I was livid.
I do not get angry easily. Or rather, when I do get angry, it tends to last for a minute, maybe to, and then fades. I was angry all day.
So he was there, and awkward.
I was tired, tossed my stuff up on the futon, started digging around in my bag, and C mentions to him how she traumatized me on the way to the concert by discussing him as a sexual being. Because he's not. He's an inexperienced girly man, and for her to tell me that he's hung and fantastic with his mouth and loves D/s and I'm sitting there going "Oh god, gag."
So she mentions that to him and he says, "Oh, that's good. Because I don't see you as sexual at all, even with knowledge of your history."
And then she follows him with a, "Yeah, V, I've never seen you as sexual."
I was kinda... floored. No one has ever said that to me. And it bothered me.
I mean, yes, I do keep myself sexually apathetic around C, mostly because the men that are around are men she is interested in and I am not. And when Redwing is about... eesh, no. He's never seen me interact with a male I find desirable.
I keep it really tamped down. There's no point.
And, really, I don't wear slutty clothes ever. I don't set off anyone's slutdar. I have no visible tattoos, I'm not prone to wearing low-cut shirts, and when I do wear skirts and dresses, they usually hit me just below the knees. I don't "sex-up" my hair. I was talking with my stylist about how to give it more body, why it was always so sleek, and she told me it was incredibly, incredibly healthy. My hair isn't damaged with sprays, curling irons, blow-dryers, gel, or bleach. It's soft, smooth, and fine, split-ends are non-existent. My ears are not pierced, I don't get fake nails or grow my nails out overlong. I don't believe in accessorizing unless I have to, because accessories are annoying. If I can find a way to go without a purse, I do.
Really, I have three main styles: casual (plain jeans, plain shirt, simple shoes), clubbing (which is usually casual due to laziness, just without the jeans), and librarian (mid-calf skirts, knee-high stockings or fishnets, and gauzy blouses or half-way unbuttoned dress-shirts).
I've been leaning towards stocking my wardrobe with more of the last one of late.
Anyhow, mini-derail there.
It was odd and bothersome to have them both say that. I know I... I'm not overtly sexual unless I feel like being so. I'm quite happy with my ability to flip back and forth between friend, slut, and girl to take home to mom.
But I've gotten so used to men like Redwing wanting me that it was odd to hear that he didn't think of me in a sexual way.
Relieving, yes.
But odd.
Even with that mild rejection, though, I still don't find him desirable. Don't have any urge to "prove" myself to him by making him want me. Because that would be nasty. Ick. I don't care how dominant he is in bed, when someone is that socially submissive, it's a no-go.
And it was odd to hear that from C. I mean, this is the girl I writhed next to on the couch while our partners pleasured us.
Of course, I don't think of her as sexual. I see her naked all the time, true. And I see her with a variety of guys. I even help he with some of the guys. I hear her and Redwing making out and groping in bed twice a week.
But she doesn't show up on my sexual radar.
But girls tend not to.
It feels odd. It's so counter to how I see myself. But, then, I've said repeatedly that I go through different roles, socially, and have to control different parts of me when I'm with different people.
It's also strange because, earlier this year, I was convinced that the only leg I had to stand on on a social level was based in sex. And that, if I removed that factor from my socializations, I would stumble and fall because that's what I've had the most experience in and what I've built my life around, though not in the way of having sex as much as studying and observing sex, seduction, and sexuality.
But, to them, that doesn't even feature.
I'm socializing with them and, sure, we're talking about sex and relationships, but there is no actual sex being interjected into it. No flirting, no practiced movements or unspoken goals. Just being relaxed and thoughtful.
So it's good to know that it isn't all that I am, as I sometimes fear.
Back to work.
C, a mutual friend and concert buddy, and I went out to go see The Bassist's band play last night, over at this tiny place in Los Angeles. It wasn't a venue as much as a tiny art gallery turned into a "hey, you can play here" type deal. The acoustics were horrific, I actually had to resort to earplugs for the first time in my clubbing and concert-attending life (more the former than the latter, really).
But I enjoyed myself.
While C was attempting, by text, to stroke the wounded ego of a man she is seeing (another one, not Redwing) because The Bassist is more adorable than he is, my "type" was brought up. I only know this because, while I was talking with someone, she burst into laughter, and when I questioned her, she showed me a text message that read as follows:
"We all know her type is made of testosterone, ice, and stoicism."
I thought that was cute.
I also met The Bassist's most recent ex-girlfriend. Or, at least, I think it was her from the way they were talking. When he mentioned to me that she would be there, I thought, "Oh, cool. They're obviously really close friends, so I'll just make sure I get her to like me and we'll be good."
First, she was... really, startlingly unattractive. Below average. Beautiful eyes, decent lips, horrible haircut, lumpy body that was made all the more unattractive because of her apparent need to dress in hipster/scenester fashion which is designed for rail-thin girls, not so much the short and lumpy. It made her body look horrible.
So, I was standing there going, "Wow, if I decide to veer in his direction, I am a significant step up, at least physically," and "I'm glad she's not super hot, because that would make me anxious and this makes me much more relaxed."
I tried to join in the conversation, tried to smile, tried to meet her eyes.
Nothing. Standing there for about a minute, minute and a half, while she avoided me, even when I tried to engage her, I finally said, "Screw it," and stopped bothering, instead turning slightly to cut off that group and engage with C.
She was so young. She was incredibly young, a scenster in training, and just... young. I didn't understand it. But if he likes her, I'm sure she's cool.
Concert was good. I caused a mini-revolution by choosing to go to the front, next to the stage, and sit. As soon as I did that, about a fifth of the audience sat down with me. It was amusing. I looked back at my friend, raised my fist in the air, and declared, "Viva la Revolution!"
C... she was bored and hungry. She left the concert, walked down the street to a diner she liked, and ate. It was a little offputting, but not too terribly. We met up with her after the concert. I always forget that she gets bored so easily if she's not doing something she wants to do. I never get bored because I always find ways to entertain myself, so I don't worry about that in others.
Whoops.
When we arrived back at her place, a little after midnight, Redwing was there.
He had, last week, pissed me off. I was talking to C and he happened to be there, and I told her something that I did not want repeated to a particular person so there would not be drama. So after I said it, I requested that it remained with the three of us. I trust C not to do such things, and I figured that since Redwing is male, he wouldn't engage in gossip, especially if I requested it of him.
The next day, I get an email from the person I did not wish to have that information as, apparently, he told her immediately.
I was livid.
I do not get angry easily. Or rather, when I do get angry, it tends to last for a minute, maybe to, and then fades. I was angry all day.
So he was there, and awkward.
I was tired, tossed my stuff up on the futon, started digging around in my bag, and C mentions to him how she traumatized me on the way to the concert by discussing him as a sexual being. Because he's not. He's an inexperienced girly man, and for her to tell me that he's hung and fantastic with his mouth and loves D/s and I'm sitting there going "Oh god, gag."
So she mentions that to him and he says, "Oh, that's good. Because I don't see you as sexual at all, even with knowledge of your history."
And then she follows him with a, "Yeah, V, I've never seen you as sexual."
I was kinda... floored. No one has ever said that to me. And it bothered me.
I mean, yes, I do keep myself sexually apathetic around C, mostly because the men that are around are men she is interested in and I am not. And when Redwing is about... eesh, no. He's never seen me interact with a male I find desirable.
I keep it really tamped down. There's no point.
And, really, I don't wear slutty clothes ever. I don't set off anyone's slutdar. I have no visible tattoos, I'm not prone to wearing low-cut shirts, and when I do wear skirts and dresses, they usually hit me just below the knees. I don't "sex-up" my hair. I was talking with my stylist about how to give it more body, why it was always so sleek, and she told me it was incredibly, incredibly healthy. My hair isn't damaged with sprays, curling irons, blow-dryers, gel, or bleach. It's soft, smooth, and fine, split-ends are non-existent. My ears are not pierced, I don't get fake nails or grow my nails out overlong. I don't believe in accessorizing unless I have to, because accessories are annoying. If I can find a way to go without a purse, I do.
Really, I have three main styles: casual (plain jeans, plain shirt, simple shoes), clubbing (which is usually casual due to laziness, just without the jeans), and librarian (mid-calf skirts, knee-high stockings or fishnets, and gauzy blouses or half-way unbuttoned dress-shirts).
I've been leaning towards stocking my wardrobe with more of the last one of late.
Anyhow, mini-derail there.
It was odd and bothersome to have them both say that. I know I... I'm not overtly sexual unless I feel like being so. I'm quite happy with my ability to flip back and forth between friend, slut, and girl to take home to mom.
But I've gotten so used to men like Redwing wanting me that it was odd to hear that he didn't think of me in a sexual way.
Relieving, yes.
But odd.
Even with that mild rejection, though, I still don't find him desirable. Don't have any urge to "prove" myself to him by making him want me. Because that would be nasty. Ick. I don't care how dominant he is in bed, when someone is that socially submissive, it's a no-go.
And it was odd to hear that from C. I mean, this is the girl I writhed next to on the couch while our partners pleasured us.
Of course, I don't think of her as sexual. I see her naked all the time, true. And I see her with a variety of guys. I even help he with some of the guys. I hear her and Redwing making out and groping in bed twice a week.
But she doesn't show up on my sexual radar.
But girls tend not to.
It feels odd. It's so counter to how I see myself. But, then, I've said repeatedly that I go through different roles, socially, and have to control different parts of me when I'm with different people.
It's also strange because, earlier this year, I was convinced that the only leg I had to stand on on a social level was based in sex. And that, if I removed that factor from my socializations, I would stumble and fall because that's what I've had the most experience in and what I've built my life around, though not in the way of having sex as much as studying and observing sex, seduction, and sexuality.
But, to them, that doesn't even feature.
I'm socializing with them and, sure, we're talking about sex and relationships, but there is no actual sex being interjected into it. No flirting, no practiced movements or unspoken goals. Just being relaxed and thoughtful.
So it's good to know that it isn't all that I am, as I sometimes fear.
Back to work.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Backstabber, backstabber, backstabber...
I'm not actually listening to the Dresden Dolls right now. But, somehow, that song is stuck in my head, and has been since yesterday. Maybe a sign?
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
Somethings will never change...
Saturday consisted of a nap cut much too short, dinner with a friend, and clubbing with C.
I so rarely take naps. Mostly because I don't have the time, partially because I have a hard time falling asleep during the day.
But I dozed. It was lovely. A little too warm, but that's okay. I rolled my sleeppants up and sprawled across my bed, shifting my face every so often to find the cool spot on the pillow, the breeze coming through my windows causing my door to rattle slightly in its frame.
And, of course, just as I was about to submit to sleep, my phone rings, causing adrenaline to rush through my system, knocking any chance of actual sleep clear out of the realm of possibility. Dinner was being relocated, I agreed to the new location (grudingly), and sighed as I hung up.
Lying in bed, annoyed that we were no longer going to the bistro I enjoy so much, annoyed that the restaurant we were now going to was a bit overpriced and had nothing resembling healthy eating on the menu, annoyed that the remaining twenty-five minutes I had alloted for my nap were now purposeless.
I popped in Kino's Journeys. It's a rather unknown anime mostly, I think, because it deals a lot with the philosophy of ethics, with ideas of ethnocentrism, and there are no "traditional" anime characters. No catgirls, no big-breasted women, no rogue warriors, no cute sidekicks that get people in trouble, no young boys trained in the art of random-x martial art, no highschool girls in mini-skirts. No, it's just a young, self-reliant girl travelling a world made up of hundred and hundred of countries with vastly different values and traditions, and how she explores those countries and their varying cultures... no lessons are learned, no morals imparted. It's just an analytical, impartial view of the world.
It's good stuff. Only thirteen episodes, unfortunately. Dialogue is spectacular and minimum, music is much the same.
Reluctantly got up after that, got dressed for dinner/clubbing since I would be going straight to the club afterwards. Fortunately for me, getting "dressed up" involves wearing a dress and doing make-up, as opposed to the "I'm lazy and apathetic about you people" look that I go for most nights. But it's still casual and minimal, which means I can pass for being dressed like a normal (relatively) person when I'm out.
Dinner was... a task.
I was hoping that I would be able to talk to my friend about sex, about my writing, about what she would like to see me write, what topics she enjoyed on my (other) blog, etc. Her sexual history is... well, blows mine out of the water. But she was a model traveling all over the place, going to places that I would never (want to) go to. Drinking, drug-use, etc. She's now in her late 40s, but she's very fun to hang out with, always has wonderful stories, always has a good word.
Saturday, however, I began to think I was cursed.
We were at this place for... two hours? And I probably got thirty sentences in. She just talked and talked and talked and when I tried to slide in, she ran right over me without notice. So I just leaned back and listened. For the first hour. Halfway into the second hour, I was squirming and had a headache. There was no way to stop her without being rude and, since she normally does not do this, I assumed that something was up, that she needed to talk, or at least needed someone to listen to her, whatever her reason.
So I did.
Finally, we parted.
I didn't get a chance to talk to her about my stuff.
My head was pounding.
I think I'm becoming too good of a listener, because that seems to be all people are requiring me for.
So I drove to a little indie coffee shop with my notebook and started breaking things down, outlining my life of sex, the things that shaped me, in what order I could remember, breaking it into chunks seperated by serious boyfriends/long-term relationships.
An hour or so into that, I was feeling grimy. Searching your memory for emotions, for little details forgotten, for scents and words and what attracted you to who and how that was manipulated, consciously or not, and why we do the things we do.
The girl I used to be, man... I'm so glad I'm no longer like that.
I had to take a break. I had to get away from that feeling of grime, of patheticness.
I texted GV8, but he was working.
I texted C, and her plans for the evening had fallen through, so she was going to go clubbing with me. I hightailed it over there, arriving about ten minutes before she did. I dropped myself into a book, someone else's words and thoughts to take me away from my own. Then she arrived, upset. Dropped the book onto the chair beside me and asked what was wrong.
Trouble with one of her friends. I laid on her bed and listened while she got ready to go. Within a few minutes, I had her laughing, cheered up. We watched the end of Pretty In Pink (Duckie playing nice guy game... sigh), and went on our way.
I liked the venue. Good atmosphere, great sound... tiny dancefloor. Stupid tiny dance floor that stayed packed almost the entire evening.
I hadn't realized, when I saw the flyer for it, that it was an anniversary club. And that the DJs that had been put together were almost like an overview of the last couple of decades. So we started out modern and ended up dancing to 70s and 80s. We bailed at 130AM. I love the modern stuff, C loves the 80s, but when we hit 70s, we were done.
I had actually been feeling kinda iffy and down on myself when we arrived.
Last week, dinner with friends, Ev was there. I was sitting down, studying, and he went to hug me goodbye and I looked up at him. I think he thought I was going for the kiss, and looked at me awkwardly, hesitating. I had been buried in a book, so when I looked up, I was looking at him going, "Is he going to kiss me?? Really???" and awkwardness ensued until a I tilted my chin up so not to reject him and he pecked me on the lips.
It was awkward. And C mentioned she saw it and the look of confusion on his face and hesitation and I was sitting there facepalming myself because I'm usually so good with that stuff, but the social situation was odd, to say the least. Didn't know what to do. Lame. I hate that feeling of total inexperience.
So I was mentally kicking myself when we arrived.
Fortunately, shortly after we got there, a certain man showed up.
Two of them, actually. One who I turned down for sex who subsequently threw a fit and started spreading rumors about what a slut I was, the other, a friend of his who asked me out last December, solely to see if he could sleep with me (as according to rumor) and examine me like an animal in a zoo. No, I did not sleep with him. I was open to it, but it didn't happen. Thankfully. I mean, yes, it would have been funny to sleep with this guy, but not his friend who was so bitter about me not sleeping with him, but I hate deception. And this guy lied to me about his intentions.
So I see those two at the bar and my usual, "Oh, fuck this" anger filled me.
I leaned over to C and quite obviously started whispering in her ear and eyeing them. And then I proceeded to find everyone I knew in the club and mingle, from the regulars that make the scene to the beautiful girls that come out every so often (a set of which invited me to do shots with them at the bar, which I had to regretfully decline). So I circled, hugged, hello'd, chatted, and danced my way through the growing crowds. I hopped onto the dancefloor and moved like I do, coordinated, in control, and good. The man who wished to examine me like a bug, who believed rumors, and more than likely encouraged them, who cut our date short as the man I turned down summoned him to a bar (so they could gather and talk about me... such chicks), started watching me, watching me interact with people, watching me dance... and there you go.
He stood on a mini-balcony the entire club, talking to almost no one, not dancing, not smiling, just standing, awkward and mildly drunk. And I laughed and smiled. I was even presented with the opportunity to socially cockblock, and I leapt on it. Wasn't major, but it amused me.
And then, in their retro review, they actually played one of my favorite songs from years ago: Revolting Cock's "Beers, Steers, and Queers". I've heard that song played once, maybe twice, in a club in the last five years. And it's so fun to dance to. Reminds me of the first time I heard it, at this tiny little club that was the predecessor to what is now the biggest, most popular club in the scene right now. And dancing to it on a near empty dance floor with my best friend at the time.
God, we had fun.
When I heard the opening to that song, I bolted to the dance floor, knocking into people, grinning wildly.
It was great. After that song, the night just couldn't get any better.
I managed to corner one of my guyfriends who, unfortunately, had started professing interest in me.
He's a cool guy. Great to hang with, been in the scene and a known pillar of it for over ten years. I love hanging out with him and his friends. He's a good dancer, and he's been around long enough to recognize styles, movement, analyze it. One of the biggest compliments I've ever been given while out at a club was from him, when we first met. He told me I was one of the best dancers there.
But I'm not interested.
And I continue to do my best to express my lack of interest in dating or sleeping with him. I have a feeling, that in a few weekends when a group of us are going camping, I'm going to have to sit him down and tell him no. Just flat out I'm not interested, he's not my type, and that isn't going to change.
I hate doing that. Hate it. I feel like such a jerk.
But that's the way it is.
I so rarely take naps. Mostly because I don't have the time, partially because I have a hard time falling asleep during the day.
But I dozed. It was lovely. A little too warm, but that's okay. I rolled my sleeppants up and sprawled across my bed, shifting my face every so often to find the cool spot on the pillow, the breeze coming through my windows causing my door to rattle slightly in its frame.
And, of course, just as I was about to submit to sleep, my phone rings, causing adrenaline to rush through my system, knocking any chance of actual sleep clear out of the realm of possibility. Dinner was being relocated, I agreed to the new location (grudingly), and sighed as I hung up.
Lying in bed, annoyed that we were no longer going to the bistro I enjoy so much, annoyed that the restaurant we were now going to was a bit overpriced and had nothing resembling healthy eating on the menu, annoyed that the remaining twenty-five minutes I had alloted for my nap were now purposeless.
I popped in Kino's Journeys. It's a rather unknown anime mostly, I think, because it deals a lot with the philosophy of ethics, with ideas of ethnocentrism, and there are no "traditional" anime characters. No catgirls, no big-breasted women, no rogue warriors, no cute sidekicks that get people in trouble, no young boys trained in the art of random-x martial art, no highschool girls in mini-skirts. No, it's just a young, self-reliant girl travelling a world made up of hundred and hundred of countries with vastly different values and traditions, and how she explores those countries and their varying cultures... no lessons are learned, no morals imparted. It's just an analytical, impartial view of the world.
It's good stuff. Only thirteen episodes, unfortunately. Dialogue is spectacular and minimum, music is much the same.
Reluctantly got up after that, got dressed for dinner/clubbing since I would be going straight to the club afterwards. Fortunately for me, getting "dressed up" involves wearing a dress and doing make-up, as opposed to the "I'm lazy and apathetic about you people" look that I go for most nights. But it's still casual and minimal, which means I can pass for being dressed like a normal (relatively) person when I'm out.
Dinner was... a task.
I was hoping that I would be able to talk to my friend about sex, about my writing, about what she would like to see me write, what topics she enjoyed on my (other) blog, etc. Her sexual history is... well, blows mine out of the water. But she was a model traveling all over the place, going to places that I would never (want to) go to. Drinking, drug-use, etc. She's now in her late 40s, but she's very fun to hang out with, always has wonderful stories, always has a good word.
Saturday, however, I began to think I was cursed.
We were at this place for... two hours? And I probably got thirty sentences in. She just talked and talked and talked and when I tried to slide in, she ran right over me without notice. So I just leaned back and listened. For the first hour. Halfway into the second hour, I was squirming and had a headache. There was no way to stop her without being rude and, since she normally does not do this, I assumed that something was up, that she needed to talk, or at least needed someone to listen to her, whatever her reason.
So I did.
Finally, we parted.
I didn't get a chance to talk to her about my stuff.
My head was pounding.
I think I'm becoming too good of a listener, because that seems to be all people are requiring me for.
So I drove to a little indie coffee shop with my notebook and started breaking things down, outlining my life of sex, the things that shaped me, in what order I could remember, breaking it into chunks seperated by serious boyfriends/long-term relationships.
An hour or so into that, I was feeling grimy. Searching your memory for emotions, for little details forgotten, for scents and words and what attracted you to who and how that was manipulated, consciously or not, and why we do the things we do.
The girl I used to be, man... I'm so glad I'm no longer like that.
I had to take a break. I had to get away from that feeling of grime, of patheticness.
I texted GV8, but he was working.
I texted C, and her plans for the evening had fallen through, so she was going to go clubbing with me. I hightailed it over there, arriving about ten minutes before she did. I dropped myself into a book, someone else's words and thoughts to take me away from my own. Then she arrived, upset. Dropped the book onto the chair beside me and asked what was wrong.
Trouble with one of her friends. I laid on her bed and listened while she got ready to go. Within a few minutes, I had her laughing, cheered up. We watched the end of Pretty In Pink (Duckie playing nice guy game... sigh), and went on our way.
I liked the venue. Good atmosphere, great sound... tiny dancefloor. Stupid tiny dance floor that stayed packed almost the entire evening.
I hadn't realized, when I saw the flyer for it, that it was an anniversary club. And that the DJs that had been put together were almost like an overview of the last couple of decades. So we started out modern and ended up dancing to 70s and 80s. We bailed at 130AM. I love the modern stuff, C loves the 80s, but when we hit 70s, we were done.
I had actually been feeling kinda iffy and down on myself when we arrived.
Last week, dinner with friends, Ev was there. I was sitting down, studying, and he went to hug me goodbye and I looked up at him. I think he thought I was going for the kiss, and looked at me awkwardly, hesitating. I had been buried in a book, so when I looked up, I was looking at him going, "Is he going to kiss me?? Really???" and awkwardness ensued until a I tilted my chin up so not to reject him and he pecked me on the lips.
It was awkward. And C mentioned she saw it and the look of confusion on his face and hesitation and I was sitting there facepalming myself because I'm usually so good with that stuff, but the social situation was odd, to say the least. Didn't know what to do. Lame. I hate that feeling of total inexperience.
So I was mentally kicking myself when we arrived.
Fortunately, shortly after we got there, a certain man showed up.
Two of them, actually. One who I turned down for sex who subsequently threw a fit and started spreading rumors about what a slut I was, the other, a friend of his who asked me out last December, solely to see if he could sleep with me (as according to rumor) and examine me like an animal in a zoo. No, I did not sleep with him. I was open to it, but it didn't happen. Thankfully. I mean, yes, it would have been funny to sleep with this guy, but not his friend who was so bitter about me not sleeping with him, but I hate deception. And this guy lied to me about his intentions.
So I see those two at the bar and my usual, "Oh, fuck this" anger filled me.
I leaned over to C and quite obviously started whispering in her ear and eyeing them. And then I proceeded to find everyone I knew in the club and mingle, from the regulars that make the scene to the beautiful girls that come out every so often (a set of which invited me to do shots with them at the bar, which I had to regretfully decline). So I circled, hugged, hello'd, chatted, and danced my way through the growing crowds. I hopped onto the dancefloor and moved like I do, coordinated, in control, and good. The man who wished to examine me like a bug, who believed rumors, and more than likely encouraged them, who cut our date short as the man I turned down summoned him to a bar (so they could gather and talk about me... such chicks), started watching me, watching me interact with people, watching me dance... and there you go.
He stood on a mini-balcony the entire club, talking to almost no one, not dancing, not smiling, just standing, awkward and mildly drunk. And I laughed and smiled. I was even presented with the opportunity to socially cockblock, and I leapt on it. Wasn't major, but it amused me.
And then, in their retro review, they actually played one of my favorite songs from years ago: Revolting Cock's "Beers, Steers, and Queers". I've heard that song played once, maybe twice, in a club in the last five years. And it's so fun to dance to. Reminds me of the first time I heard it, at this tiny little club that was the predecessor to what is now the biggest, most popular club in the scene right now. And dancing to it on a near empty dance floor with my best friend at the time.
God, we had fun.
When I heard the opening to that song, I bolted to the dance floor, knocking into people, grinning wildly.
It was great. After that song, the night just couldn't get any better.
I managed to corner one of my guyfriends who, unfortunately, had started professing interest in me.
He's a cool guy. Great to hang with, been in the scene and a known pillar of it for over ten years. I love hanging out with him and his friends. He's a good dancer, and he's been around long enough to recognize styles, movement, analyze it. One of the biggest compliments I've ever been given while out at a club was from him, when we first met. He told me I was one of the best dancers there.
But I'm not interested.
And I continue to do my best to express my lack of interest in dating or sleeping with him. I have a feeling, that in a few weekends when a group of us are going camping, I'm going to have to sit him down and tell him no. Just flat out I'm not interested, he's not my type, and that isn't going to change.
I hate doing that. Hate it. I feel like such a jerk.
But that's the way it is.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
It's all I really need...
I was Nice-Guy'd earlier this year.
This is something that rarely happens to me.
For one, it's hard to be subtle around me. I'm kinda sex, sex, and more sex. It's a topic that comes up a lot, along with relationships, desires, communication, internal struggles... people talk about this stuff a lot with me. So it's hard to hold back, when you're trying to play the Nice Guy card.
For two, I tend to intimidate people with my sexuality. Odd, but true. So those who run the Nice Guy game tend to be easily frightened off.
However, this one, he would not be deterred.
Backstory:
He contacted me through my other blog about this time last year. I flat-out told him I was not interested in him as a potential partner, but I would like to be friends.
He was a little butt-hurt at my rejection, but he said a platonic friendship would be better than not knowing me at all.
I started going through a rough patch shortly after we started talking and he was one of the people I would call when I felt anxiety building, when I wanted someone to talk to. I continued to hold my platonic-friends stance, and he continued to state he was fine with that.
He lived in northern California at the time, but was moving down here, closer to me (this was already in the works, and not inspired by me). So he came down to visit me and some of his friends in the area. I offered him crash-space for one of the nights, and took him to Knotts Scary Farm since he had always wanted to go.
It was a perfectly fine night. No awkwardness, no odd touches, no silence moments of discomfort. Just a normal, relaxed night.
The next day, I drove him down to his friend's place in Vista. We had planned on hanging out together with his friends all weekend, enjoying the weather (the sight of marines everywhere) and just relaxing.
As soon as we got down there, he changed. Started being flirty, gropy, full of innuendo, blocking me off from male friends, offering to cuddle with me while I slept, constantly in my personal space, constantly making references to sexual activity... it was awful.
Not wanting to offend his friends, not wanting to cause a scene, I just clammed up and kept as far away from him as I could, not making eyecontact in case it would spur him to talk to me.
It continued to build.
Finally, I got to leave. I shot up the 5 freeway so fast, just to get away from him, feeling incredibly violated and dirty, letting the miles rapidly growing between us be a balm, to soothe me.
I wanted nothing to do with him.
A little later, a few weeks, a month, I get a call or an email. I don't remember. An apology for his behavior. That, because of emotional circumstances with some of his friends, he acted as he did.
I was hesitant, but willing to give him another chance.
He wanted to send me a box of random things that we had talked about. So I let him. He ended up packing in more than I expected, more than he should have. I thanked him. He offered me money, to get out of a financial bind I was in, I declined.
He starts emailing me that he keeps thinking about me.
He emails me that he's obsessed with me. That he dreams of me.
That reading about my sexual adventures online, about the guys I go out with, makes him incredibly jealous, and so very hurt.
And that he can't stop thinking of me.
I tell him that it's okay, that he just needs to get over it, that I'm not interested.
I give him space for a few months, hope that he'll meet someone else, that feelings will subside.
I give him a call to check in. We talk, things seem normal.
I call a week or two later. We talk, things seem normal.
Another week, I call, we talk, I mention that I had just met GV8 and how happy I was with him, that I might get into a relationship with him, if things go well.
He freaks.
He starts going off about how I'm making poor decisions, that I'll never be happy if I date this guy, what could I be thinking, why won't I listen to him, what could I be thinking, etc etc.
I told him he was being selfish. I told him that, even if he does not agree with my decision, he should accept that I am the one to make it. That he shouldn't be so upset over my relationship choices.
We lapse into awkward silence. I say good-bye. He says good-bye. I hang up.
I don't call again. I don't attempt contact.
That happened in March, I believe.
Last night, I went out with C and Redwing again. Redwing mentions that a girl he's been sleeping with is a devoted fan of my other blog and, oddly, is friends with the Nice Guy (AKA Redding on my tags).
And that Redding told this girl, who loves my blog so much, that he hates me.
When I heard this, I almost saw red.
I gave this guy chance after chance. Even when he was being awkward and lustful, I admonished him politely, accepted that it was just a part of him, and continued to remain friends with him because I had faith that he was being honest with me when he told me he was getting over me, that he had accepted that we would never be more than friends.
Time and time again, he told me he had accepted this.
And time and time again, his words or actions proved otherwise.
But I continued to place my faith and friendship in him.
And he hates me?
This man, who told me he had no issues, that he had sorted through everything and was at peace with himself and one of the healthiest people he knows, hates me??
I was nice, understanding, respectful, communicative, and accepting. I set boundaries and I asked him to respect them and he repeatedly did not.
So in what part of his brain does he get off on hating me? What trail of logic is set forth that causes him to find me as the villan in this piece? Someone please explain it to me.
This is something that rarely happens to me.
For one, it's hard to be subtle around me. I'm kinda sex, sex, and more sex. It's a topic that comes up a lot, along with relationships, desires, communication, internal struggles... people talk about this stuff a lot with me. So it's hard to hold back, when you're trying to play the Nice Guy card.
For two, I tend to intimidate people with my sexuality. Odd, but true. So those who run the Nice Guy game tend to be easily frightened off.
However, this one, he would not be deterred.
Backstory:
He contacted me through my other blog about this time last year. I flat-out told him I was not interested in him as a potential partner, but I would like to be friends.
He was a little butt-hurt at my rejection, but he said a platonic friendship would be better than not knowing me at all.
I started going through a rough patch shortly after we started talking and he was one of the people I would call when I felt anxiety building, when I wanted someone to talk to. I continued to hold my platonic-friends stance, and he continued to state he was fine with that.
He lived in northern California at the time, but was moving down here, closer to me (this was already in the works, and not inspired by me). So he came down to visit me and some of his friends in the area. I offered him crash-space for one of the nights, and took him to Knotts Scary Farm since he had always wanted to go.
It was a perfectly fine night. No awkwardness, no odd touches, no silence moments of discomfort. Just a normal, relaxed night.
The next day, I drove him down to his friend's place in Vista. We had planned on hanging out together with his friends all weekend, enjoying the weather (the sight of marines everywhere) and just relaxing.
As soon as we got down there, he changed. Started being flirty, gropy, full of innuendo, blocking me off from male friends, offering to cuddle with me while I slept, constantly in my personal space, constantly making references to sexual activity... it was awful.
Not wanting to offend his friends, not wanting to cause a scene, I just clammed up and kept as far away from him as I could, not making eyecontact in case it would spur him to talk to me.
It continued to build.
Finally, I got to leave. I shot up the 5 freeway so fast, just to get away from him, feeling incredibly violated and dirty, letting the miles rapidly growing between us be a balm, to soothe me.
I wanted nothing to do with him.
A little later, a few weeks, a month, I get a call or an email. I don't remember. An apology for his behavior. That, because of emotional circumstances with some of his friends, he acted as he did.
I was hesitant, but willing to give him another chance.
He wanted to send me a box of random things that we had talked about. So I let him. He ended up packing in more than I expected, more than he should have. I thanked him. He offered me money, to get out of a financial bind I was in, I declined.
He starts emailing me that he keeps thinking about me.
He emails me that he's obsessed with me. That he dreams of me.
That reading about my sexual adventures online, about the guys I go out with, makes him incredibly jealous, and so very hurt.
And that he can't stop thinking of me.
I tell him that it's okay, that he just needs to get over it, that I'm not interested.
I give him space for a few months, hope that he'll meet someone else, that feelings will subside.
I give him a call to check in. We talk, things seem normal.
I call a week or two later. We talk, things seem normal.
Another week, I call, we talk, I mention that I had just met GV8 and how happy I was with him, that I might get into a relationship with him, if things go well.
He freaks.
He starts going off about how I'm making poor decisions, that I'll never be happy if I date this guy, what could I be thinking, why won't I listen to him, what could I be thinking, etc etc.
I told him he was being selfish. I told him that, even if he does not agree with my decision, he should accept that I am the one to make it. That he shouldn't be so upset over my relationship choices.
We lapse into awkward silence. I say good-bye. He says good-bye. I hang up.
I don't call again. I don't attempt contact.
That happened in March, I believe.
Last night, I went out with C and Redwing again. Redwing mentions that a girl he's been sleeping with is a devoted fan of my other blog and, oddly, is friends with the Nice Guy (AKA Redding on my tags).
And that Redding told this girl, who loves my blog so much, that he hates me.
When I heard this, I almost saw red.
I gave this guy chance after chance. Even when he was being awkward and lustful, I admonished him politely, accepted that it was just a part of him, and continued to remain friends with him because I had faith that he was being honest with me when he told me he was getting over me, that he had accepted that we would never be more than friends.
Time and time again, he told me he had accepted this.
And time and time again, his words or actions proved otherwise.
But I continued to place my faith and friendship in him.
And he hates me?
This man, who told me he had no issues, that he had sorted through everything and was at peace with himself and one of the healthiest people he knows, hates me??
I was nice, understanding, respectful, communicative, and accepting. I set boundaries and I asked him to respect them and he repeatedly did not.
So in what part of his brain does he get off on hating me? What trail of logic is set forth that causes him to find me as the villan in this piece? Someone please explain it to me.
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