I am... well, I think I am, hitting that point.

That point where you're squirming in your chair going, "Oh god, I need to get laid."

And it's this battle between my body wanting it and my brain saying, "Nope, that's not the best idea."

In two weeks, I'll be hitting that three month mark. Three months for me is, well, might as well be a year or two. Especially after GV8. That man was ungodly good in bed, and we had ridiculous amounts of sex.

I got used to it. I got used to having a fantastic lover who, even after months of dating, still got me hot and bothered, still got me dragging him into bed to jump his bones whenever possible.

And now I've got this apartment to myself. I've got a metal canopy bed with a good number of tie-down spots. I've got toys, a large bottle of grapeseed oil, candles (not that most guys care about that, but I love the lighting), and... and... fuck. I mean, I can host. I can actually say, "Let's go back to my place" and not worry about roommates, not worry about what's going on, not sneaking them into my bedroom when I lived at home, timing when my parents would be out (though it's been years since I've had to do that).

I've got my own place with my own rules and I'm not using it.

It makes me whimper. Totally does.

I didn't realize I was having this issue so strongly until, last night, at the club, I found myself eyeing my club friend (the one that I keep having to turn down, the one I had to smack down a little bit ago at a party for him thinking he could socially pressure me into kissing him) going, "Hm... I could just crawl on top of him, go to town... he's got that reputation... could probably teach me a thing or three in the BDSM realm... mmm... skin and tongue..." and that shifted to "Whoa, holy fuck, no."

I don't find him desirable. I've never found him desirable.

This, this isn't good. And it's annoying.

Last night was interesting, though. Hit the club. Pulled into my usual parking spot, went inside after pleading with the door guy (wasn't much of a plead, really) to let me in without the person who was guestlisting me, so I could dance to a song that was on. And he did.

Lots of new people out. Some drama, though none of it involved me, which is normal. An acquaintance got shitfaced and started falling over, sobbing, laughing, getting pissy. Drama, drama, drama. Turned into a mid-sized ordeal.

On an amusing note, I happened to catch, while I was dancing, a blond man pointing gesturing at me to the head of security at the club. Figured the security guy would tell me if it was important, later, so I dismissed it.

About thirty minutes down the line, I'm out on the smoking patio, and Mr. Security comes up and says, "Hey, you know that blond guy..." describes him to me, "Have you ever talked to him?" Negatory. "Well, he pulled me aside and said, 'You! Study how she dances! Study how she moves! Watch her!"

"Okay..."

"And last week he was out and started talking about the bar-tender to me, about how..." insert x, y, and z pervy acts. This guy, not the most socially competent of men. I always get those men. I am a magnet for socially incompetent, as we have discussed.

So that was amusing. But, what was the killer for me was, oh, an hour or two down the line, I go to step on the dancefloor, which was fairly packed, and I realize that the empty spot I found is next to this guy.

Who looks at me.

Who leers at me and grins.

Who takes a step forward and puts his arms up towards me.

My mind went, "Eep!"

See, if you knew me at the clubs, you'd likely know that I've got years of experience moving away from groping men, physically aggressive men, and simply poor dancers without looking like I'm avoiding them. Without looking like I'm fleeing away in annoyance (or terror, if they're really bad dancers). Calm, cool, I can go across a whole dancefloor to avoid someone and make it look completely natural.

So this guy, this guy comes at me. No subtly. The dancefloor is packed. This guy, this guy is going to come up to me and either grab me or start talking my ear off with drunken compliments and poor flirting. And quickly.

I bolted. I bee-lined it across the back half of the dance floor and sequestered myself behind a guy I had met earlier in the evening. On the way, I nearly walked into someone, tripped a little. I don't do that. If anyone I knew had seen me, they would've been so confused. And once I explained, they would've laughed their asses off.

There were some random other events that happened, little things. A weird guy I've been seeing around for the last several months interrupted a conversation I was having to tell me that I was a beautiful dancer, a beautiful lady, and he should know, he's been married for twenty-six years.

And I still cannot figure out what the last thing had to do with the first two things.

I have an urge to put a comment here about being "too pretty" and something about my fashion accessories, but only one person would get it. So I won't.

Oh, and the head of security tried to make out with me at the end of the evening.

Except he's married. He's very married. And it was awkward. It was, "Oh god, how do I do this so I don't offend or embarrass him, yet still get him away from my face?"

I managed. But it left me a little... sad. He's been a decent friend for a couple years. We always flirt and cuddle, but he flirts and cuddles with most of the female regulars. He's really good at banter, lots of fun to talk to, and he's a good head of security. I do really like him.

Drove home. Woke up to a text from Roman telling me about his evening spent under the haze of hallucinogens. Or whatever they are. I don't know my drugs. I don't care to know them, really.

Went to my stylist who is finally back in town. Got my roots done. Oh, so done. So freaking done. I can't stand having that blonde there. Now I'm back to my black with my red-tinted tips and very much like a happy clam.

One of her other customers told her I looked like Snow White, while I was at one of the mirrors, finishing up my hair. I can only hope that I am able to maintain this level of paleness this summer.

And I finished my final paper. Whoo! I can have a life again. I was thinking of getting in touch with a guy I went out with earlier this year, hang out some, fool around some, now that I have a little more time, but I'm debating my actual motivation.

Oh, and I took my mom to Hollywood Forever Cemetary on Saturday. You know, usual mother-daughter bonding stuff. Visited the grave sites of my great-great grandparents.

And, of course, I was chased by geese.

It's a talent of mine.

Really.

If there are geese, they will chase me.

I don't understand it. I will possibly never understand it. I believe my uncle, later that day, was suggesting that I go see an exorcist.

Aside from the avian-induced terror, my mother and I had a great time trying to sneak around a building. We were tip-toeing, leaning around the corner like we were in a Scooby Doo episode, looking for the geese. Not that they chase my mom. But if they saw my mom, they'd see me, and then it'd be all over. It was kinda perfect, actually. We were on the outside of a large masoleum with marble steps that went around the entire building, so when we peered around the corner, we were at two different heights, really, just like Scooby Doo.

Of course, we got a few further steps in and one of the geese spotted me and I shouted, "It's comin' right for us!!" and we ran.

I took her by Aroma Cafe on Sunset (my favorite breakfast and lunch spot in Hollywood), Amoeba (she had never been, but was very excited about picking up two Franz Ferdinand CDs that she didn't have), Cafe Was (speak-easyish, decent food, wonderful atmosphere), the Arclight with the Dome (so nice), the Cat and Fiddle (we had onion rings and people-watched), the roof of the parking lot of the ArcLight (amazing view... and I've made out with a few too many men up there), and Musso and Frank's (oldest restaurant in Hollywood).

Afterwards, we drove up to my uncle's house in Hollywood Hills. He and his two boyfriends cooked us dinner. I hadn't met the more recent one... was rather flamingly fabulous, but nice. My mom thinks he's the cat's pajamas. We sat out on their balcony and I watched the four of them get silly on wine, enjoying the evening before the sun set.

It was a good day.

And since I have to be at work tomorrow at 630 or so, I'm going to get to it.

It being "sleep". Like I do.

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.

Alone and barely breathing...

Saturday night, I hit my favorite club.

Before that, though, I was doing my usual: hanging with a friend and marathoning whatever TV show we had decided on (this time it was "Father Ted", which is an excellent BBC comedy). We made pizzas, me working my mad stylings on some ground turkey for his sausage needs.

Which sounded really gay. Yes, I know. I bring the funk.

Pizza was a success, wonderfully good.

And afterwards, I stepped into his bathroom to play what I call "Pretty, Pretty Princess". This is the fifteen minutes to an hour+ girls spend in the restroom getting "done up" for the evening. He lives significantly closer to the club I chose than I do, so I talked him into it. Which, admittedly, was pretty easy.

We've been platonic friends for over a year now, spending time together about once every week or two. He hosted me weekly during my ten month couch-surfing expedition, and it has been perfectly without any push or tension towards more than what we have.

Doing my part, I've kept it at jeans and t-shirt level, no make-up, hair usually pulled back.

So I go into his bathroom in casual gear, plain-faced, then come out in a mini-dress, sexy hair, and club make-up.

And he was perfectly cool with it.

Drove over to the club, chatted with the valet, backed myself into my usual spot. My club friend from the previous Friday was already in his usual spot next to mine, a song I love blasting from his stereo- on the mix CD he made for me.

Walked past the door guy with a smile and a wave, my club friend guest-listed me at the inside door.

And then I hit the floor.

Glorious. It was such a perfect night for dancing, the floor was recently cleaned which made every move smooth and perfect. Friends I had texted earlier in the week to harass them out started arriving, quick reunions then back to the music.

Unfortunately, one of those friends, someone I've been quite happily platonic with for about four years now, had suddenly determined I was now desirable. Too-close hugs, roaming eyes, extended touching, excessive (for him) complimenting.

Awkwardness, on my part, ensued. Untangled limbs, edging away. It was managed, as much as it could be.

Another friend brought her date from a previous club.

I had told her to bring him, as we had been discussing dance styles over time within a particular club circuit, and how one could track the music, club, and what time the person entered the scene based on how they danced. He is a dancer, salsa, swing, ballroom. Actually straight, suprisingly, and not feminine at all.

What was even more surprising, occurred at the end of the evening when he hugged me goodbye, pulling me against his hard body by wrapping one arm around my waist and yanking, almost like he was in the middle of a tango. I began to suspect that my friend wasn't his date, but their body language from earlier illustrated private physical intimacy, so I dismissed my suspicion.

And dismissed the idea that him touching me all night, bumping into me, leaning into me, brushing shoulders, was not because of trying to be heard over loud music, but him maintaining physical contact out of interest.

This all happened, of course, after I told her to give him my number so I could text him when I went out clubbing. He wants to learn how to dance the style I do, and there's not a lot of people better to learn from, I will admit.

So he texted me today, to find out if I would take him shopping, get him the right wardrobe for the clubs.

I couldn't... I just kept thinking back to what GV8 told me once, that he wasn't going to give me the play book to figuring him out, that if we fit together, we'd do so naturally, without me shaping to fit him.

I've been using that more often lately. I'm usually so straightforward with my communication, but it really is frustrating to constantly have to be feeding the men around me the tools they need to, essentially, manage my attraction for them.

I want them to be able to do it on their own, from their own observation of me and their own intelligence, like GV8 did.

I'm not talking about not sharing my emotions, making a man figure out what I'm mad about and how to scramble about and fix it, but simply how to gain my attention in the first place.

So I kept texting light and minimal on my end, watching to see what he would do.

Here's our text message series from this afternoon. My notes are in bold, so you all can enjoy(?) how my brain works.

H: "It's ******. ******'s friend. I got your number from her. I'm think of going shopping for some newer stuff to wear to the clubs. Wanna help out?
At this point, I still thought he was seeing my friend. Not very observant of me.

V: Sure!

H: sweet cause I have no idea where to go. we used to look down on ********, but I'm not sure if it's still like that.
Wait, wait, why are we suddenly dropping our punctuation and capitalization at the beginning of sentences? Please tell me this isn't going to be another guy who doesn't pick up on my near perfect texts and can't conform to my texts in a sort of mimic like body language. At least I don't have to worry about him being interested in me, since he's seeing my friend.

H: do you live locally?
Ah, yeah. There went the caps.

V: ***********

H: o ok that's not bad. I'm right next to ******. where's a good place to shop?
And he's lost his "h" in "oh". That's going to drive me insane if he keeps it up (there is a non-anal reason for this).

V: There's some places in Hollywood, one in OC, another in HB.

H: I'm too familiar with hollywood's shops but I remember the ***** in HB. whatever outfits I end up with need to be sexy :)
You need to be sexy???? What guy says that? What do I even say to that? And the emoticon?

V: Sexy is relative to what type of girl you want to attract.

H: I trust your judgement :)
Uh... wait. Is he inferring that the type of girl he wants to attract is my kind? (reluctant understanding begins to dawn)

H: but preferably the fun ones

V: I dunno. Not a lot of girls like fun these days.
Must... insert... teasing. Must... hope... he... picks... up... on... this... and turns this conversation into something that isn't so boringly generic.

H: their loss i guess cause I like to have fun and in as many ways as I can find :)
...I suddenly hate my life. I like having fun and doing fun things and I love to laugh omg. Puppies are cute. And did he just toss in an innuendo at the end of that?

Which continued into a boring bit about money to spend and clothes he needed to get, which shifted into a logistics of our relative locations and where we needed to shop, which, of course, shifted into what he does for a living, and how he met my friend. I assumed it was because they work in the same field, but he said...

H: I met her when I was riding my harley with some friends which happened to live next door to her. she came out riding with us after that and we became friends
Huh. Math. She lives on the beach. Her neighbors to the south are hot beach guys, loaded, lazy, and doing lines of coke way too often. Did he just raise his status?

V: Ah, sweet.
I have no comment.

H: yeah, she's a good friend :) never short on cool things to check out. like clubs with cute girls :)
Fuck. Friend. Fuck. Lame line about cute kids in clubs, directed at me. Fuck.

V: Yeah, I really don't spend enough time with her.
Um, let's focus on... not me.

H: what clubs are you going to hit this week/weekend?

V: None, too busy. I'll be at ***** next weekend, though.

H: I might be riding to yuma for a kids charity this weekend. what else do you do for fun?
Well, now we've established he's a "good guy", he "likes kids", and he's "adventurous". With one activity. If only I liked good guys. Or other people's kids. What's with the generic question?

Insert discussion about hobbies here. One of my favorite activities that came up was, of course, driving.

H: ever ridden on a motorcycle?
Oh, I know where this is going.

H: I know some kick ass places up and down the coast. I've seen every mile of coastline from san diego to the middle of oregon.
Which is pretty cool.

V: Lucky. I'd love to have the time and money to do that.
Generic comment is generic.

H: well when you have time I'll take you to a spot I like. get to go check out the tide pools

H: we can ride the bike if the weather is nice enough. I'll have to see if I have a helmet that fits you.
Called it. Clinging to his back as his powerful metal steed propels us up the coast for a romantic beach trip, complete with tide pools while he establishes his rebellious masculinity with his control of his motorcycle.

Trail off into reminders, once he asked, that I was already busy this weekend.

I haven't re-read the above, but I likely sound like a stuck-up bitch. My mental tone isn't as derisive as it sounds, really. Just... kinda bored, kinda leaning back, looking at my phone going off, groaning slightly as I feel vaguely like an idiot for dismissing him and not guarding against him like I normally would if I hadn't thought he was with my friend.

It made me feel... just, myeh. Isolated. That feeling has passed, mostly. But when I finally ended the conversation with this guy, I was frustrated and feeling so socially abnormal.

I want to say I'm not supposed to think like this, that I'm not supposed to be analyzing the behaviors of the men around me and breaking them down into little parts (most of which I did not include in the above, as that would take too long and I'm a major over analyzer).

Having this guy do this... I felt so out of sync with my age group, so alien. I'm passing as standardly attractive now, and that means socially standard men, which means I'm left feeling like an oddball when "normal" guys hit on me.

So I texted Roman to get on IM so I could bask in the glory of his equally abnormal masculinity. Get back to baseline of talking with someone whose company and banter I enjoy. Even though, as I was bitching about my feelings of isolation brought on by the text conversation above, he totally smacked me down in his own way.

Which is what he does.

But at the same time, I'm left feeling like people expect me to be grateful for male attention. That I should be just happy as a clam. However happy that is.

I can't make myself feel glad of this. Reminds me of when I was younger, forced into going to church with my family, going to a youth group that was part of the church, staring sullenly at my peers while they pray and sing, while the youth leader would tell me the way I should be, what I should believe, and how happy I should feel that God loves me.

In a room full of people, people willing to listen and discuss, but none of them willing to understand or accept, viewing me through the light they choose, not caring that the light doesn't fit me. I'm not who they so desperately want me to be, if only to stay within what they deem okay.

I'm supposed to be some sort of male-interest Buddha, able to easily deflect desire, able to handle situations that arise, however uncomfortable they may be, constantly forgiving of transgressions and totally understanding of fumbles.

But I'm not. I'm a just girl, and experience has given me certain expectations. I bring certain qualities, good and bad, to my partners, just as they bring good and bad qualities to me. I will get frustrated, I will feel put out when yet another man steps outside of behavior I am comfortable with.

And I will feel lonely when I come back to my apartment and realize that I've opened up to so many people, but never enough. That I'm always guarding myself.

A bit of an emo post tonight. I'm much too tired to attempt to think.

C is already passed out beside me, tangled up in my blankets. It's probably time I joined her.

Why am I in at 1230AM on a Saturday night/Sunday morning, listening to the bar across the street rage on?

Let me enlighten you.

But, for this exercise, I've been instructed by a good friend to speak only positively of myself, instead of the constant criticism I subject myself to. So let's see how this goes.

Friday morning rolls around. Pretty tired. Go into work, boot up the box, decide that I should just give in and drop the money for the tickets to a club that's having an event that I really didn't care about, really wish wasn't happening.

But friends were going. And while events mean large crowds and significantly increased door charge, they also mean new faces, new, potentially attractive faces. I can dance, which drops me quite visibly into the "regular" category and since I dance well, it ups the visual value.

So I win all over.

I go buy the overpriced tickets online, text my friends, make dinner plans, power through the day, go through the usual pre-club routine, etc. Dinner, dancing, Taco Bell.

No Taco Bell. That was a movie reference. If you get it, awesome. If you don't, eh.

So, I meet up with my best friend and his girlfriend of four or five years that I've mentioned here before, and they tell me that they're planning on getting married sometime in the near future.

Which concerns me. I like her, but she's completely unaware of her sexuality. She recently almost cheated on him because of this, caused a big issue, they almost broke up, and a few weeks later and he's... clinging to her. This isn't going to solve anything.

Anyhow, get to the club, start making the social rounds.

And then I go down to my usual spot on the first floor, leaving my friends up on the third. Nothing new with this, I tend to keep to myself after my hellos.

Who rolls up on me?

The tall blond in the freaking suit from last time. He's hovering over me, again, like he's Edward and I'm Bella and we're about to re-enact some teenage drama and I'm starting at him thinking, "Fuck, really? He doesn't remember how hard I shut him down last time?"

Then he says, "You're that girl."

"That girl?"

"Yeah, the girl who asked me if I was drunk last time. And I said no. And then you said that I shoulda said yes because that would have excused my behavior."

He remembered. Word for word, he remembered. And he still came up.

Balls. Balls or total stupidity.

So I thought I'd give him a chance, see if he was drunk this time. If he was being ballsy or stupid.

And we chat a little bit, with him leaning into me touching my back, trying to put his arm around my shoulder at one point and draw me into him (which was a quick step back and a "Oh no, no, no, you don't get to do that" scold and push).

Since I'm me, and how I screen for guys is being a complete smartass and seeing how they roll with it and which ones will just hand me my ass (those are the ones to take home, in my opinion), I put him through some mildly light paces before I realize he's not only drunk, but stupid.

And he's nagging me for my name and I'm politely handing him his ass, making jokes that he's not able to keep up with, occasionally apologizing for being such a smartass, but he keeps trying to grab me.

Finally, I tell him that I'm going up to the top floor to dance and next time he tries to pick me up, I'd prefer he'd do it sober so I wouldn't have to deal with the mild guilt of mentally manhandling a drunk. Because that's just sad.

I bolt, and he's calling out after me as I near sprint up the stairs. As much as one can sprint in a mid-thigh dress.

He follows me up a few minutes later, which causes me to grab one of my guy friends and instruct him to place his hands on me and look territorial. Five minutes of that, I assume I've hopefully connected with this sad guy's buried intelligence, and he'll leave me alone.

Such was not the case.

I head back downstairs, dance for a bit, and he's back downstairs with me. He's not following me I think, as much as roaming. And he's trying so hard. I would've sworn he was sarging for the amount of women he was going up to, just powering through them (getting rejected 100% of the time), occasionally going back to talk to this one tall, well-dressed man.

But there is no way, no way that anyone with any small amount of education in game could be that inept after at least three weeks of clubs.

I hope.

So he comes after me again, I tell him that he's a) not getting my name and b) being way too obvious with the amount of girls he has tried to pick up in the thirty-forty minutes I've seen him. He denies that he's picking up girls, tells me that he just likes making friends. Keeps trying to guess my name.

During this period, one of the guys, a friend of mine I've mentioned earlier, joins us downstairs, takes a seat at the bar a few feet away from the aspiring ladies' man and myself. I had mentioned to him earlier how much this guy had been annoying me, cracking jokes and the like. So a song comes on, I excuse myself, dance for a bit.

When I get back, the annoying guy is gone. A curvy redhead is leaning on my friend at the bar, laughing and hugging him, then introduces herself to me and explains that my friend, after I had left, told the guy that he was my boyfriend and, essentially, if he stayed in the area I was dancing in, he'd continue in his failure rate because the girls in that particular room are the ones that are there to dance, not socialize, not fuck.

Which is 100% true.

This wouldn't seem like a big deal to most girls.

However, most girls aren't me.

I totally teared up.

Yes, you read that line right. My eyes got wet and I was incredibly overwhelmed.

My guy friends... I love them. All of them are so wonderful in so many different ways.

But none of them ever stand up for me when it comes to men. I'm the maneater, I'm the shark, I can handle myself. I'm, especially of late, constantly having to shut guys down. When I see someone I want and they display interest, I walk up to them and go for it. I'm the sex queen who no one touches on a mental or emotional level.

They know I can take care of it.

They don't realize how much I squirm whenever I reject a guy. They don't know how bad I feel, even when I'm being a smartass, when I shut someone down. I'm not a bitch, but I do have a way with conversations that... works. That is playful and smart and will keep you on your toes. Most guys, especially when I'm out, can't keep up with it.

And I feel bad. I feel guilty and uncomfortable and I wish that I could go find them the right girl at the club or show or wherever we're at so they don't have to deal with the rejection.

But that's not life.

So this man, this man that I've known for a little over a year, who has asked me out a few times, who has expressed a good deal of sexual interest, who I have spent time outside of clubs with, eating at 24 hour diners while the sun rises on a new day when we haven't even finished with the old one, both of us covered in sweat from dancing, who is such a scene fixture it's ridiculous, this guy stepped in and chased someone off for me so I wouldn't have to deal with it.

Because he's just a good guy. And that's normal behavior for him.

...this, and an additional moment of emotional vulnerability that carried over from Thursday, was why I ended up in one of the side rooms, on a couch, making out with this guy.

Yeah.

And he could kiss. I actually got a little dizzy from one of them, which was amusing.

But I know, I know he'd date me if he could. Relationship.

Which is why I pulled back from him, locked eyes, and said, "This is a one-time thing, okay? This is just tonight. This is not carrying over."

That was, physically, as far as it went. Which is progress for me. No negative criticism. Not doing it. I'm pulling back, this is good. For the extreme emotions I went through on Thursday, with the resulting emotional flow and need for comfort, it's amazing that I didn't just drag him into a corner and ride him silly.

I was talking with a good friend of mine, someone I've known for a couple years. He's, apparently, a fairly famous anonymous blogger. I say apparently because he refuses to give me any information on it. But he can write, I know. And he's calming to me, in his own way.

I mentioned to him my current frustrations. I'm feeling a lack of value because of things with GV8, vulnerable because of some oddly emotionally heavy things that happened with Roman that caused me much embarrassment and self-doubt, instability in my worldview due to what has been going on with my father, and emotional drag because I'm the only person my mother talks to about all the things that are going on and she's cried so much this year and it eats me alive. Combine those things, along with working, school (and the just completed midterms), and the fact that I haven't had sex in over a month...

Sex is how I breathe. Sounds odd, but it's so very much a part of my body functioning. It mellows me, it centers me, it stabilizes me. There doesn't have to be an emotional connection, just the act of sex is calming, lets me get through my day, week, month so much easier.

That seems normal to me.

And then my friend told me that I could replace the word "sex" with "alcohol" and I'd be considered an alcoholic.

That kinda set me on my ass, but he's not wrong.

So, in this combo of use and appreciation, I took a little edge off of the physical and psychological tension I've been under lately with my friend. Hoping, hoping that he wouldn't read more into it than I was offering, that he would take me at my word. That things wouldn't change.

And, in a moment of... God, I don't even know what that was. Probably validation seeking. When we were in a much more public setting, when he was talking to some other people, I walked up to him and just started going at it.

Grinned at him when he leaned down and self-consciously said, "Who all saw that?"

Patted him on the shoulder and said, "I don't know these people. Have fun dealing with any social fallout." And walked off to go dance.

I just wanted to claim him for a minute. Yes, he's my friend and I care for him. But he's also a social pillar, in the scene for so long, popular, has worked, and still works, for various promoters, like he was that night. He's such a good, amazing guy, and while I don't believe a relationship would work out between us, I still wanted that... moment. I wanted to say, "Hey, I might be that serious, aloof girl on the dance floor, I might not drink or smoke, I might not party, and I definitely don't fit in, but this guy, this guy that is so damned amazing, thinks I'm wonderful and desirable."

And I'm not going to criticize myself right now. I know I am mercenary at times, not for money, but, yes, status. That's normal. That is standard female operating procedure and I know I'm not like most other girls when it comes to many social things, but when it comes to sex, I'm the poster child for my sex viewed through evo-psych theory.

I got home at 430 or so, in bed at 5AM.

Then Roman called me at 930.

930. I was sore and tired and confused as to the noise that weird, vaguely rectangular thing on my nightstand was emitting.

This call started off normal, conversation as per usual. About an hour or two in, I suddenly spoke what my brain had been suspecting for a few days, about another woman. Someone established significantly prior.

I hit that right on the nose.

Talk about embarrassment. For me. As I internalize everything. My responsibility, everything is my responsibility. I should have seen that coming, I should've asked, I should not have been flirting and gaining interest when I'm still not sure what is going on with GV8, I should've been focusing on myself like I said I would, I should have not been getting emotionally engaged with someone when I'm still messed up over GV8 and therefore much more vulnerable to such things.

This all played through my head.

Is that negative? I don't think so. It's just what I was thinking. This trying to stop myself from criticizing myself is a bit awkward for me.

Just lots of kicking myself.

Feeling that imbalance that comes when one party is only partially engaged, shifting in value. Makes you feel horrible.

Well, maybe not you. But me.

I felt so low. Just so disgusted with myself, and so used, as more information came to light.

When I got off the phone, another hour had passed. I wanted to curl up in bed and mope, but I had told myself I was going to get off my ass and do what I had planned prior to being stripped raw on an emotional level.

So I drove, still tired and sore from the club, to Westfield Plaza, which is like a condensed version of Orange County, but in Los Angeles. So rich white suburbia. I missed my originally desired movie, so I hit "Clash of the Titans" instead, then sat out in the food court, eating sushi and reading Frankenstein, slowly cheering myself up with good fish, a good book, and good sunlight.

That's when I was unexpectedly approached by a man in his mid-to-lateforties (why, why oh god why is it always the forty+ year olds??) who proceeded to sit down with me, introduce himself, and start talking.

And talking. And talking.

Which was fine.

He fucking grilled me though. Running through all the points you would on a first date, gathering info. Family, education, neighborhood you grew up in, occupation, interests, goals and... oh, yeah, boyfriend? It wasn't that subtle. But, then, most things aren't that subtle to me when it comes to such situations.

That was all fine. I wanted the distraction, didn't mind the reading break, he was decently intelligent so it was an okay conversation.

What I did mind was two things:

1. He repeated himself. Enough to be noticeable. Which made things feel odd.
2. The significantly more major one, when I went to leave, instead of shaking my hand, he went to hug me. And I just went along with it.

And then he held me. He just stood there and held me and tried to do the full body hug and did actually kiss my cheek way too close to my mouth, and then when I went to go, he tried again for the kiss and I was just standing there going, "Oh my fucking god, I want to go, I don't want to be a bitch, I don't want to cause a scene, I wasn't flirting with you at all, I didn't escalate at all, fuck, you didn't even escalate, you just immediately went for it, why the hell are you holding me, I told you I was sorta seeing someone and not dating at all and made that VERY clear, where the hell did my personal space go, why the hell did you go from an okay conversation partner to creepy and gropey as we went to part ways?????"

As odd as this may sound, it's days like today/last night that make me glad that I'm not standardly attractive (blonde haired, tan, model-thin). I would not be able to hang if the standard issue man was hitting on me all the time. I'd go bezerk and kill someone.

So I run away from him and head over to my friend's party, still feeling rather low (and creeped out, yay!).

It took me a little, but as I was sitting on the floor of their living room, meeting new people, having interesting conversations, sharing stories and jokes... I suddenly felt more okay. I've got some great friends, people that unexpectedly entered my life and they're fantastic people that I'm glad to know. There's no motive other than enjoyment of each other's company, we lend support when needed, time when it's open, and caring.

The morning's events that left me so distressed faded.
The man with his verbal escalation at the mall that took on a weird vibe because it was not encouraged, but he continued anyhow, interrupting the conversation with small, physically complimentary comments that made no sense and derailed everything... it still bothers me, but it'll be okay.

I won't be negative here (again), I think I did... okay.

And, my friend is right, I'm really not comfortable with not criticizing myself. I don't know how to do it, it makes me hesitate and stumble over the words.

He says I have to practice.

Wonder how long I can keep it up.

"Wading in Poetry's Hot Murky Puddle of Lust"*

*This title was brought to you by Phoenixism due to a complaint he registered with the Poetry of Flesh Blogging Department on an earlier post. If you do not like the blog title, please go over to his blog and register a complaint with the Phoenixism Blog-Titling Department. Thank you for your understanding and patience in this matter.


205PM, I'm in bed.

Exhausted and sore. Five hours of clubbing, five hours of dancing and flirting, sweating and moving to the songs that crawl inside me.

My sister and her boyfriend joined us for dinner last night, sitting around and talking, on the floor by the fireplace, as I'm still without a kitchen table. Sharing youtube videos while I got ready for the club, sliding on the simple black and gray mini-dress GV8 bought for me two weeks ago, then hair and make-up.

I looked good. The stress from the incident that happened with my family in December knocked fifteen pounds off my frame within two weeks. It has stayed gone, due to my maintenance.

It was a night of attention. I was amused by it, mostly. When I go clubbing, I tend to dress down for comfort. Pull my hair back, minimal make-up, and go. If I talk to no one but my friends, I'm a happy girl, dancing all night.

But I put effort into my appearance and suddenly I'm "popular" and people are asking me if this is my first night at the club.

Looking at these guys thinking, "I've been doing this circuit for eight years. I've been in these clubs so much that I can segregate people into what clubs they attend, what bands they like, when they entered the club scene, and what social group they will tend towards simply by watching them dance."

But I smile and poke fun at them, their startled expressions when they realize I've been doing this longer than they have, feel amusement when a DJ or a bouncer will walk by and wave at me.

Speaking of both, one of the bouncers became so enamored with me, he told me to treat him as my personal bartender, and whenever I wanted a drink, he would not only fetch it for me, but make sure it was free.

If only I drank.

If only I accepted men buying my drinks when I wasn't interested in them. I won't let men spend money on me if I'm not going to return the attraction.

And I finally nailed my DJ crush down. Found out why he hadn't been flirting with me, why he hadn't been touching me, why his body language was so off.

Really, I already knew why. He thought that Playboy was my boyfriend. Hell, with the way I am, he probably thought I had four boyfriends by the amount of physical contact I give to my male friends.

So, he finally did a casual lead up to my "boyfriend". After expressing my faux confusion at why he would think that, I explained Playboy's status. And, yes, mentioned that I'm in an off-again-on-again relationship with someone that is in an off phase.

Oh, look at that. Suddenly he's flirting with me, touching me, dancing with me.

I asked him out before I left, a pre-club dinner. Something easy, that knocks out me having to get all cute and done up twice by combined two events into one. Which is how I tend to schedule my first dates anyway. It's kinda perfect on a logistical level, just getting ready, then picking a place by the club, and then you have the option of inviting them to the club with you, or cutting out because you have a thing you're doing at a specific time.

Also ended up having one of those awkward satellite men, that circle around you while you dance. I felt like I was trapped in Twilight with a brooding vampire about to tell me how I was his own personal brand of heroine. When he finally got the balls to approach, which was because I smiled at him, wanting to get his hovering over with, he was so... disjointed that I finally asked him how drunk he was. He said he wasn't, but a)I did not believe him and b)he was so staggeringly awkward that I said to him that he should have told me he was drunk because it would provide some excuse for his hovering and inability to communicate.

But in a nice way.

Seriously. It was more of a joking tease.

But he didn't get it, didn't understand what I meant, so I excused myself and went to dance.

My highlight, though, oh my god, my highlight, was this gorgeous, gorgeous piece of meat. I saw him and I nearly jawdropped at how hot he was. Just... perfectly one of my types. And how he moved, that slight swagger... swoon. Rockabilly tattoos on his neck, just above his collarbone, right sleeve done, black fedora, black button-up, amazingly dark eyes, good jaw, skin that isn't perfect, but that kind of rugged manly wear, 5'11", maybe 6', broad shoulders, lean waist.

Take me, take me now.

I was talking to a friend when he walked by. Eyes met, locked, held as he walked by. I raised my eyebrow at him slightly, shifted my body towards him just a hair, he cocked a grin at me... and I melted. Simply melted in a puddle of hot lust.

Later in the evening, I went to the main bar to get a water. He was standing at the bar with a friend, held eyes as I walked by to the opposite end of the bar, then watched them in the mirror, nodding their head towards me, talking.

If he had been alone, I would have walked over to him and told him he was gorgeous and I would do terrible, terrible things to him if given the opportunity.

Instead, I walked over to one of my girlfriends that was standing thirty feet away from them, slightly catty-corner, and started talking about the man in the fedora, as she had been the one I had been talking to when I spotted him initially. When she asked where he was, I quite obviously turned towards him and said to her, "Him. Gods, I would wreck him."

She went to go dance, I offered to walk her halfway to the dance floor, getting me away from the group of people we were with. Posted up against a wall after waving her off, less than ten seconds later, he was walking towards me with a knowing smile that I returned.

Physical chemistry, that was there.

But when he started talking, I... no. He had the "vato" accent, the slang. I was hoping for a Long Beach slam poet, a painter, a writer, hell, even a musician. Someone who could use words, who could speak well and had a passion about something creative.

First thing he did, after introducing himself, was tell me about his ex-girlfriend, explaining why he was at this particular club. Asking me who I knew, trying to make connections, telling me about his job (really, one of the last things I want to hear when I meet a man is what he does for a living, unless it's something incredibly fascinating that I want to learn more about... like cleaning the tanks at an aquarium, training sea mammals, publishing, producing, driving a downtown bus, etc). Telling me how successful he was, how he got into this scene, the music he liked, how rude people could be.

No connect. No connect at all.

But so hot.

So we excused ourselves. However, on my way away from him, I made a comment to another guy that turned into another conversation about if this was my first time at the club, where I lived, what was my sign, and random, random things that made me think to myself if I can't even date guys my own age for a lack of mental/emotional connect, then I certainly shouldn't be talking to someone three years my junior.

Makes me wonder. I've been such a social recluse, in my own way, in the club scene, for years. Many reasons for that, mostly anxiety, I think, and a lack of confidence in my body and my looks. But now, with taking care of myself, I'm almost back in shape, almost completely comfortable in my skin. And I find myself receiving attention from men that, while (usually) lovely to look at... that's it. How am I supposed to relate to these men?

I don't. I can't.

I spent most of last night on the dance floor, and when I exited, there was attention, there was inviting smiles, prolonged eye contact, nudges.

That DJ was the only one of them that I found "worth" talking to. You can learn from everyone, this I believe. But connecting with them is another story.

No word from GV8. I miss him. I miss him so much.

Silly to say that, after this post. He is in my thoughts often, but I'm trying to distract myself, trying to remind myself that there are others out there, that I am desirable, that I won't be alone at the end, I suppose.

Watching an elderly woman dig through her coin purse for change for coffee at a diner I took my friend to for lunch today. Wondering if that would be me in however many years. Broke, alone, wearing gaudy but likely fake jewelry on twisted fingers, unable to move, unable to take care of myself, just spending each day with no goals in sight, no passions, just my thoughts, waiting until those thoughts ended one day and I moved quietly into the night.

Come roll the dice for me...

The weather is changing rapidly, from sun and heat to low-hanging clouds and winds that set my hair flying and my lips smiling.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, and this year is a reminder of what has happened, what memories were created in the cold air that stick to me with more strength than summer flings.

Sometimes scents lock it in.

And then I'm back in front of a street light on Beverly, lips connected with his, body wracked with shivers, learning his face again, looking at those wild eyes, those cheekbones, the cornstalk gold of his hair as we press into each other so tightly.

It is me, driving up PCH, bonfires to my left, constellations formed on the beach, windows down, heater blasting with IAMX filling the space around me.

Alone, at a farmer's market, sweaters and scarves.

Haunting a club in Los Angeles, in and out, dancing, sweating, my own world. Recooperating at a diner afterwards, book open on the table in front of me, watching the 3AM stragglers and scensters stagger in and flop into the red vinyl booths, laughing and flirting while sweat dries on my body, peeling sticky clothing away from my skin, staring at myself in the mirror over the sink, light blue walls behind me.

Alone and happy.

Following his car up the freeway for a late night rendevous spent in an oversized bed with his body, a back like steel that I scraped my teeth and tongue along.

And the fears, the anxiety, the roommate/ex-boyfriend combo who I never should have dated, never should have touched, should have listened to my gut.

But it got me out, got me wandering again, searching and exploring, recognizing my need for a safe place, a secure place. Started the couchsurfing and the long walks during the day, trying to get away, trying to avoid that which I always attempted to call home but never truly believed.

It's autumn. My body sings, my body wanders, moves with the rhythms of the clubs and waits to feel the bite of wind and rain, waits for the cold, open windows and the feeling of heat beside me, trapped together beneath sheets.

In a few weeks I will be on a plane to New York. Northeastern autumn, something new.

I have my books, my music, and my need to fly.

Let's go.

For you I wear my Sunday best on Tuesday...

I've been listening much too much to a particular De/Vision song called What You Deserve. For some reason, the lyrics catch me just right.

I was introduced to this song recently, through my clubbing friend.

See, a few weeks ago I was out at a club and this other song came on (don't watch that video, by the way, I'm fairly certain it's crap, but the song is good) and I was blown away by the beat. Much dancing ensued.

My clubbing friend, by my request (which was delivered when I saw him walking by the edge of the dancefloor, watching me dance, stopped, screamed at him, "WHAT IS THIS SONG?!" and he shrugged and I said, "FREAKING FIND OUT!"), got the song information and told me he'd burn me a CD with it on it.

The next time I see him, he gives me this CD which he turned into a mix CD of songs he could see me dancing to.

...I'm not sure if that's sweet or creepy. Currently going with sweet.

He does love to watch me dance.

So... maybe creepy.

It was bizarre, listening to that CD. Songs that had been my favorites months ago, years ago, and new songs. A wide variety of genres, too. Yet he nailed it, for the most part. It was a CD of club songs.

Started making me wonder how many days (weeks?) of my life, hours all added up, that I have spent on the dance floor in various clubs through Southern California.

I'm coming up on eight years of clubbing. When there is a "retro" room at a club, chances are that the majority of songs they are spinning are songs that I danced to in clubs when I was 18 or 19, when it was me and one of my closest friends out going several nights a week, coming back blasted out of our minds with exhaustion more often than not.

After I settled down with Stuntcock, then he settled down with his partner, then I escaped mine... it was just me, running solo.

But that's what I like to do.

Darkeyes and I went clubbing every week while we were dating, with him insisting on me teaching him how to dance, if he could ever be taught. His lack of rhythm and body awareness, and his complete inability to take criticism, no matter how well intentioned, meant that I was stuck with a clubbing partner who could not dance, who usually ended up injuring others with his dancing, myself, with all my years of learning how to dodge and move around others, included.

He was that bad.

How embarassing for me.

Anyhow, I went out to a club last Sunday, a big event. Showing up early and knowing people working the event led me to volunteer to help. So, for a good hour+, I was working the line at the door.

Yes, that's right.

I was an honorary doorwoman. I entertained myself in the wait by making sexist comments and making fun of the patrons. It went over oddly well.

After the initial crowd died down, I escaped the door and went to enjoy my evening.

Where some man tried to pick me up with the following line:

"Do you ever find yourself missing someone else's cat?"

...
...
...

This was followed by the worst physical escalation I've possibly seen in the last several years, which consisted of him leaning towards me (even though we were outside on the patio and I could hear him just fine), putting his crotch on my hip, his chest on my shoulder, and half-shouting into my ear about this cat and how I have to see pictures of this cat on his cell phone, which, against my protests, he showed me.

This was when I hunted down my still nickname-less clubbing friend and told him he had to play the role of boyfriend/lover until this guy got off my back.

Sidenote: I'm normally okay with telling people that I don't have interest in them and to cut it out, but some people are so socially inept that to tell them such things is to provoke an argument as to why they are unworthy of my interest. This was close enough to one of those men that I did not wish to do this.

Oh, and while I was running around dodging this guy, that guy I one-night standed last November was there giving me the eyeball and I was polite and fine until he spent the length of three songs watching me dance, making me wonder if he was going to leave another creepy voicemail on my phone with the message being, "Hi, I was... uh... watching you... uh... dance... and I was... uh... wondering... if you were doing... anything... uh... later tonight."

This, this is what happens when you pick up someone at a club. They might be good looking (apparently he was a vampire extra on the (second) season finale of True Blood , so, yes, he's hot enough), and they might past as socially competent, but this was fail.

Also, when a man keeps the used condoms because he believes in his pagan ways that consuming his own sperm is a way of cycling energy, you just leave. You go, "Thank you for an odd, odd, evening and for bruising my cervix but I am leaving you and your sperm-filled condoms here, good-bye." And then you run.

I mean, it's been coming up on a year now and he's still trying.

So I see him and he's watching me and I'm pretending I don't see him because I take my glasses off when I dance and, eventually, he realizes that I'm not going to be stopping anytime soon so he wanders off and I hang out for another song before stepping off the floor to find my friend out on the patio, who tells me he's not going to be joining me for out usual post-club dinner, and I'm walking with him back into the club asking why not and the one-night guy overhears us so I'm standing there going fuck-fuck-fuck.

Because, after ever club I see him at, he always approaches me to go home with him and I always turn him down because I have other plans.

This leads me spending the end of my evening (when I'm not dancing) clinging to my friend like his penis is the best thing in the world and no other will satisfy me.

While on the floor, the guy who tried to pick me up with the cat comment (and the conversation had continued from there), joins me on the dancefloor and says, "I'm going to blame (insert clubbing friend's name here) for this."

Just this obscure, flailing shot in the dark, declaring interest, nodding that he had been "defeated" by a better male, etc etc lameness.

So I looked at him with my best confused-blonde expression and said, "Huh? What do you mean?"

He smiled at me like I was a dope, this condescended grin, and said, "Ah, nothing," like he was the Most Mysterious Man In The World.

This was, mind you, after he saw me with my friend, which was before he decided to take offense at my inavailability and strut by me, then plant himself two inches away from me with his back to me, staring into space for a good three minutes before strutting away.

Men, men are morons.

While all of that stupid male crap was going on, I was running interference for my clubbing buddy, whose ex-girlfriend of four years decided to show up to the club with her new boyfriend (mmm, two day rebounds), which sent my friend into all sorts of emotional melancholy so I was running around checking on him constantly, harassing him, flirting with him, making fun of people with him so he'd keep distracted.

Along with the rest of the usual club madness. Drunks, staggering, dodging lit cigarettes, dodging morons on the dance floor, and then some girl taking to me strongly and wanting to dance with me and be all "oooh, lesbian sexy" with me which was... something I don't engage in. But then the DJ joined us on the dancefloor and she cut that out.

Interesting night.

Overly long, pointless journal post.

But at least I'm not saving used condoms for dessert.

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.

Postcard of a painting...

One test down, one to go.

At the exam site, I saw a man wearing a "Write Bloody" hoodie. I was rather surprised- didn't even know that company made hoodies. Of course, I didn't think to look. If I had, I probably would've seen a merchandising section or something. It was an awkward conversation, and he certainly didn't feel like helping matters any, so I bailed as the "line" (more like unorganized herd) moved forward.

The test itself was easy- easier than the practice tests I had been taking for the last two weeks. The essays had my wrist and forearm cramping... I thought after all this, after the surgery, it would heal itself. That I'd be able to write again.

And I can write. For somewhere between twenty to thirty minutes, with some pain. Which is better than the "I can barely hold a pencil for ten seconds" situation I was in. My arm was in mild agony when I was done. I can only imagine what would have happened if I had spent the extra $20-40 dollars for the "privilege" of using a computer to take the test. That's bullshit. I wasn't going to spend money on such a thing, something that we should be doing anyhow, something that makes the entire process more efficient for everyone involved.

The test administrator was a rather rotund woman who could not seem to stop talking ang joking. It seemed a little odd and awkward to me, but I dismissed it. However, when a girl came in late (and lied about it), the admin switched to total "Oh no you di'n't!" crazy bitch mode. And tossed out that, "I can be your best friend or your worst nightmare" line after the girl had left.

Really? Sounds like a loon to me, behavior such as that allowed because of her sex. I never catch guys doing that.

But then again, I was reading a bit from Mary Wollstonecraft's (side note: mother of Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein) feminist writings a few days ago and, if I remember correctly, she said women are kept in a state of high emotion... ah, fuck it. I'm going to go down to my car and get the book because I can't remember it right.

Here we go.

From Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Women:

(on women)"Their senses are inflamed, and their understandings neglected, consequently they become the prey of their senses, delicated termed sensibility, and are blown about by every momentary gust of feeling. Civilized women are, therefore, so weakened by false refinement that, respecting morals, their condition is much below what it would be in were they in a state nearer to nature. Ever restless and anxious, their over exercised sensibility not only renders them uncomfortable themselves, but troublesome, to use a soft phrase, to others. All their thoughts turn on things calculated to excite emotion; and feeling, when they should reason, their conduct is unstable, and their opinions are wavering- not the wavering produced by deliberation or progressive views, but by contradictory emotions..."

How freaking brilliant is that? I read that and just... stopped. Read again. Read again and again. Because I find it still accurate. How amusing that one of the pioneer writers for feminism, with all the work she's done and progress that has been made, wrote a piece in the 1700s that can still accurately describe so many women in the early 2000s.

I find my amusement compounded because the most feminine women I know are exactly like this. Being feminine, which is so desired, apparently has the side effect of being a dramatic idiot. I suppose I'll just keep my masculine personality as is. I do love how being "feminine" excuses this flighty, easily alarmed, behavior.

Reminds me of a time in high school, in the locker room. The lights went out temporarily. Pitch black. The frightened girlish screams that echoed around me because the lights went out. Yes, the lights going out was cause for massive alarm and panic. I continued to get dressed, feeling my clothes, my backpack, and books, for the items I needed, and left the locker room.

My female coworkers are constantly shrieking at bugs, at messes left about, at "disgusting" stories. One of my male coworkers found a dead mouse in the trash when he was dumping it, and relayed it, long after the fact, to one of my officemates, who relayed it to the rest. The sheer panic that one dead mouse induced was ridiculous. Rules were laid down about trash storage, once the hysteria died down. Lectures were given, with the two girls who sit nearest to me going, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" over and over again, groaning delicately and covering their mouths whenever they were reminded of the existence of the mouse.

I hate that this behavior is excusable because of our sex.

I hate that this is accepted, even expected, because we are female.

And that if we do not engage in this behavior, we are considered masculine and not quite so desirable as our more feminine counterparts.

To go back to the test administrator, flipping her proverbial "bitch switch" like that, tossing out her dramatic and cliched line... no man would ever get away with that. He'd be thought gay because the behavior is so very feminine.

I was not amused, not pleased, not delighted that yet another example of womankind was exercising her "feminine power" in such a way.

Anyhow, I think I'll cut that ramble short.

Going to go meet some friends in Culver City fairly soon, at this cute Italian bistro. Quite hip, and all the servers are gorgeous. Afterward, one of the promoters for a club set I used to go to all the time when I was younger got together with a few other promoters and are doing what looks to be a fairly large club. So I'm going to go check that out. Probably run into one of my exes there, Darkeyes. I don't mind- he still won't be able to dance.

And that makes me absurdly happy.

Yes, I know. I shouldn't be so happy over a little thing. But it just reminds me of all the times I took him clubbing, all the videos he watched, all the videos on youtube he sent my way so I could approve them as the "proper style", the instruction I would give him, how unable he was to take polite critism, how he would freak out on the dance floor when I told him to get away from me if he wasn't going to keep his eyes open while he danced because I didn't want to get hit by his flailing arms.

He learned next to nothing with me. His style is atrocious in an obvious way. And now I don't have to be associated with that when I go out.

That thrills me entirely too much. Just thinking about it makes me grin and -almost- giggle. Not quite, though. I'm containing myself... barely.

So, early dinner, maybe catch GI Joe (explosions and women in leather, yeah, I'm in), and then hit the club. Dance my brains out, scope the meat market, and head home. Maybe a nap in there somewhere. Maybe now.

Yeah, now sounds good.

We can leave our friends behind...

Oh holy crap, I am sore and tired.

Clubbing last night... beautiful. I haven't had that much fun out dancing in such a long time. By the time the club closed, my clothes were soaked, a second skin, my hair pulled up, pulled back, trying to get off my face and neck in this crappy weather.

I was good. I'm always good, but I was good last night. Even with the heat, even with the humidity, even with idiots on the dance floor, I was having a blast moving with the music.

Several friends ended up being there, along with my only one-night stand from the club circuit, which was last Novemember. He's still trying to get a repeat, still asking me back to his place. Invites were tossed out, and I ended up at the usual post-club place: Fred 62's.

...it was nice. I haven't been out clubbing in a month or two, so it was good to go get my groove on, to be by myself. To know that I continue to be in the top 5% of dancers in this particular scene. Step away for two months, come back, slide right onto the dancefloor like I was there yesterday.

Good times.

And now I have a "True Blood" marathon to attend.

This week in pictures:

July 26th 09 Week

Notes from a refugee

Trying to bring this all together, please don't mind the mess.

Last night, back porch, right side of the couch. Cats dancing around the four of us, launching themselves into space with kittenish mews. I'm in his arms. This shouldn't be happening. I'll simply hurt him again, but I can't pull myself away.

We're damaged creatures of desire, his hands, my lips. We roam together.

She uses him for sex, leaves her marks on his body. He's her secret, she's ashamed.

He's my joy. All six feet, seven inches of him. Leather jacket, army boots, cigarette dangling, constant scowl.

He said he didn't want me anymore, said he wouldn't touch me anymore, but I'm good at inciting lust, especially in him. Easily in him. His hand slid down the front of my pants, breath catching, thighs twitching, moans hidden between words. His fingers dance and glide. I pulse.

Afterwards, driving home, he tells me he feels nothing.

I nod and agree with him. I know he's lying. He's never been able to hide anything from me. His smiles and stolen kisses translate his words into truth; I don't listen to the syllables, just the meaning.

... ... ...

I'm on my back, corner of a parking lot in Venice Beach. It's Saturday night, almost Sunday morning. It's cold, but his body heat and my sleeping bag stops the wind.

He caught my eye when I was walking up the boardwalk, when I stopped to talk to the squatter kids. He was smooth. The few hours I spent with them, while the sun was going down, he alternately ignored me and wandered off, only to return later. I'd catch him looking at me, occasionally, eyes almost closed as he laid on his back in the sun.

While the dogs vied for my attention, he just watched. Their gropes, their attempts at stolen kisses, their antics involving helpless and clueless passersby. They were raucous hyenas, chaos under the influence. When it came time to leave, I asked him to walk me to my car. Double motive: Venice isn't safe at night.

We ended up walking to Washington Boulevard, ended up down the way at a Persian restaurant. He left his dog outside, leash tied to a table leg. We talked. He told me of his travels, of his lifestyle. I told him of my mental project, of recent events. He introduced me to people as we walked, he seemed to know the entire transient population.

Unsurprising, given that he's one of them as well.

He showed me his squat, such an unglamourous word for an unglamourous lifestyle. A tunnel in the canal system. He bent the metal bars of the gate with a towel and broomstick, lets people who need it share it with him. Lately, he says, it's been a girl named Dingo. Beautiful sixteen year old black chick, won't talk about why she's on the street. We both know what that means, though.

He's almost twenty-six. We're so close in age.

He takes care of the people around him, takes care of himself.

We get to my car, in which I drove over his tunnel earlier that day. There's a pause, one of those moments you see in movies where neither person is sure what the other one is thinking. My reasons are different than most, though.

And then we're there. My back is pressed against my trunk, lips and tongue playing with the bit of metal through his lip. He lifts me up, legs wrapping around his waist, hands running through his hair, over his neck, down his shoulders.

It's almost ten.

It was intimate. Pausing in between kisses to talk, to laugh, to exchange thoughts, with his dog resting at our feet. I mention I like things rough, and suddenly I'm spun around, face and stomach pressed against my cold car, bent over my trunk, and he's grinding into me. I can feel him so close, so warm. We're aligned.

He suggests lying down and, at first, I decline. He changes my mind, sleeping bag is dragged out of my backseat and tossed down. Then his weight is on me, pressing me into the asphalt, bruises will line my lower back in the morning.

I'm flipped over, pants slid down, his fingers pumping into me. I arch into him, then his fly is down, head of his penis rubbing over my clit. I've already told him no penetration- his choice of lifestyle is too risky for that- and he respects it. Doesn't even ask, doesn't even hint, but even this contact is more dangerous than I would like.

We wind down, lie down. Curling up close, sharing heat. His dog slides in beside us, I am sandwiched: Man-Woman-Dog. Talking, breathing together. He understands. Of all the people I have met, he understands. He knows that difference, between affection and love. I don't need to make my disclaimer to him. We can cuddle, tickle, roll, giggle, exchange light kisses... and he knows it means nothing other than the physical comfort and companionship the action provides. And he knows how to play the game, knows how to monitor people and subtly control. He knows how to direct desire, knows how to get attention. We compare notes, lying under a streetlight.

I'm comfortable with him. I'm able to let go enough so that I don't even notice I'm not monitoring what is going on around us until afterwards.

I leave.

... ... ...

Party Saturday night. I show up Sunday morning, almost 3AM.

Walking in the door, the few remaining people there shout my name. I smile, apologize for being late. They said they assumed I was getting laid, and actually had talked about it at some length.

It amazes me. In general, I'm astonished when people talk about me. I don't find myself too out of the ordinary. I do what I do, I keep dramatics to a minimum. I don't gossip, rarely lose my cool, and try to be supportive of my friends.

I don't think of how people view me on a long-term basis. Short-term, I know my actions may have impact on people. Long-term... I just don't look ahead that far. I probably should.

I am, I know, a source of entertainment for my friends. They live vicariously through my sex life, through my exploring and odd occurances. This has been told to me by so many people throughout my life. It's one of the reasons I continue to put my thoughts and adventures online. I know some of them wish they could do what I do, live like I do, think like I do. I know some of them just like it for the "reality tv" factor, since I rarely screen myself.

But, really, how do people see me overall?

I mentioned to a friend, yesterday, that I had purchased a new pair of glasses. His girlfriend asked me what they looked like and I tried to describe the style, failing miserably, lamely saying to her something along the lines of, "They're very much my style, very me."

"Brutal?"

This launched into a discussion of, again, my lifestyle.

I walk a very fine line.

I am a devoted daughter and a loving sister.
I have many widespread social groups, people I have been good friends with for years.
If someone, friend or new acquaintance needs me, I am there.

But I'm tangenting.

People call me when they need help. People come to me for advice, come to me to vent, come to me when they're depressed.
My long-term lovers are dedicated friends, even the ones I no longer sleep with.
I make friends with strangers constantly, help people whenever I see a need. Even when I'm wandering the streets of Los Angeles, certainly not the most friendly city, strangers will stop and talk to me repeatedly throughout the day.

My friends know this. My friends see how I interact with people, see how I interact with my family.

And then they see me go through men like popcorn. Some get to stay, some don't. Some of my friends actually get to see me when I shift from friendly conversation with them to "I want him, I'll have him" mode. They get to see that mood change, that shift in my hips, how my voice changes so slightly, how my posture takes on a different cast, and chin tilting a little to the side.

Sometimes they call me a man-eater. Sometimes a predator. Sometimes a shark.

Last night, two of them got to see me do a five hour long dance, turning someone I had lost a few months prior, who said he would never speak to me again, to someone who could not stop touching me.

How do they reconcile the two images?

... ... ...

When they talk about me in clubs, I know they watch me dance... I take joy in their words. So much hateful bile has been spewed about me in the last few months, simply because I refused to sleep with someone and he took offense, that I have become almost a pariah. I have now become, through no direct actions of my own, a slut of epic proportions.

Unfortunately for that group, my actions only scream "slut" to the uneducated and, since I try not to socialize at clubs anyhow, my social life there has been completely unaffected. They tried so hard to damage me, but they did it so it would hurt a normal girl. That must be so frustrating for them, seeing how it has done nothing for all the work they have put into it.

I love when they watch me dance, though. I love how they want me, love how they loathe me, love that they will never look as good as I do on the dance floor and they know it, god they know it. Even with everything they have said, I know I could crook one finger at them and they would come running. They would brag about how they "conquered" me to their friends.

Right.

... ... ...

Sunset and Vine, northwest corner is Borders, one street east is Amoeba Records. I go there, some weekends, to stock up on music and books. This weekend was music for the road, and some spoken word sets. I'll listen to them as I drive up to San Francisco.

Started off the day getting my eyes checked. My right is degrading so much due to my constant reading, my prescription is miles off. I found a pair of stainless steel glasses, black, elegant, and a bit severe. Just that edge I like so much in everything I wear.

Afterwards, I drove over to Little Tokyo. There is a mostly abandoned shopping center on Fourth and Alameda, on the third floor is a u-don house, Issen Joki. It's almost always empty. The classical Japanese music soothes me. I've been going there for about ten years. It's a secret spot, a cooling down spot, a place where I center myself. I can run through memories there, of people I have brought, of dates, of adventures, of late nights clubbing.

I curled up with Nabokov's Despair, and a pot of tea. The same old woman, never changing, has worked there as long as I have been going. I can disappear for two years, come back, and it is still as though nothing has changed. It's a place for breathing.

Then Amoeba, then Borders, then I'm on the corner of a roof of a parking lot, seven stories up, a cup of hot chocolate in my right hand, looking over all of Los Angeles and Hollywood. If the day had been clearer, the ocean would have been visable.

It was beautiful, though. You can see the entire city, and the wind is wonderful, whipping my hair up and around as I leaned against the cement wall. Hot chocolate soothes me, the wind soothes me, and being alone... happy as a clam. It was all I could have wanted. Moments of perfect peace.

... ... ...

Time ravaged.

Sitting on a counter, I suddenly remember.

I remember why I did what I did. I remember why I pushed myself until I was a pile of wreckage.

I remember driving myself into the ground, driving my friends and family away, injuring anyone who came close. I remember abusing relationships, abusing the good natures of others, of causing damage, of causing chaos.

Slowly it seeps back into mind, water under a doorway.

I remember the whys.

I needed to cross that boundary. I needed to be beyond redemption. I needed to be not worth life, not worth living, that I was causing so much pain by being that if I was gone, it would be a relief, not a sorrow. I needed to nose-dive past the point of caring, nose-dive past the place where anyone could love me.

Burning into the ground.

I was trying to detach from this life so I could leave it. So I could slice my wrists, bleed out, and no one would miss me. Standby for launch.

We're coming up on nine years since I started the course of events that led me to the now.

I will untangle this.