Nineteen oh one...

Hit another wall.

No, not in my car. I'm not prone to ramming inanimate objects with my vehicle.

I want to write, I want to think with the keyboard and have the discussions that are featured here with myself, but something seems to be causing a sort of muffled internal monologue that isn't translating well to actually figuring out what is going on.

Called GV8 three times yesterday, once on my way into work, once on my way home from work, and once right after the second one because I had to check something.

We just talked. Just... conversation. Surface, trival stuff. I had been worried previously that we would not be able to do that, just talk about the most commonplace stuff. You know "conversation". Talking for the sake of talking, for the company of the person on the other end of the phone. Talking without purpose, without trying to communicate information about yourself to the other.

And we did it for awhile.

He also, without realizing it, addressed my general hatred of the beta-boy routine he goes into in most social situations. We were talking about... gods, I don't know. And he mentioned the act he puts on for people, how he shifts gears in social situations in order to make other people comfortable because they would not be comfortable with him acting himself.

I had not realized that's why he did it.

And I was mildly unsure if he knew that he did, indeed, do it.

It still bothers me, I will admit. It likely will for awhile. First, I don't find it attractive. Second, if I'm to be dating a man who is nearly two decades older than me, and he acts, in public like something everyone knows I would never find attractive, it's going to look like I'm after him for his money. And the people who actually know me, who know that I don't care overmuch about the money, are going to wonder why I'm with someone so different than my usual type. I like representing myself well, being represented well by my partner selection, being proud to be with them.

And I am proud... ah, am I proud? Shoot. Well, my brain just came to a screeching, discordant halt.

When he's being himself, when he's truly opening up to me, when he's revealing all those pieces of himself he hides even when we're alone together, I am thrilled, I am happy, to be with him. Proud? I'm not much one for being proud to be with another person.

But those other times, when he's doing the song and dance, I continue to cringe, wishing that man I know that he seems so often to hide from others in so many different ways, would be with me all the time. I want to feel like we're running alongside each other, a complimentary team.

We're seeing each other on Sunday. I've decided to take tonight and tomorrow to catch up on needed sleep, on homework, on bookwork, on organizing life-stuff. I was hoping to spend more time with him this weekend, but his complaint that I am always tired (accurate) means that I need to sacrifice quantity of time with quality of time.

So I get an afternoon.

Sigh.

I invited him to meet my parents, you know. Saturday, we're going to a little festival and his complaint that I hide him from them (accurate) caused me to speak to them about inviting him to it. And they were actually okay with that. It was the last thing I was expecting, especially since when both of them discovered our age gap, both separately lectured me about how he was too old for me and what the hell was I thinking?

But he turned me down. Said that with everything going on between us, not certain of where we are going, it probably wasn't the best idea.

True. But... I tried.

I feel like a little girl, scrabbling about for a solution.

I'm trying to do this right.

And maybe I should just give up. This isn't the best time for this, and I can't afford the emotional distraction from this in my work or education.

But how much am I supposed to let pass me by?

Just because it's inconvenient? Just because I'm incredibly insecure about so many things and this could just make it worse? So it's easier to run away than to risk being rejected for who I am instead of who I thought he wanted me to be or, rather, what I thought would cause him to want me, to want me to stick around, to want more from me than casual sex?

Fear is a big motivator.

Not just for me.

Fear of being hurt. Fear that every horrible thing you've ever thought about yourself might be true. Fear that every self-doubt was truly self-knowledge disguised with the light of hope or just blind ignorance. Fear that every insult that has been tossed your way was correct. Fear that you're unlovable, that you're unforgivable, that you're horrible, that everything you ever will attempt will fail.

It's easier to hide, easier to not try and rationalize it in a way that you can accept and that you can convince others to accept. If you're good, and most of us are, you can do it so smoothly you don't realize that you're even covering these thoughts up. You live a rationalized reality.

Personally, I'm terrified.

I'd like to say that I'm only afraid but, really, that would just be me trying to convince myself that this bone-vibrating fear isn't as bad as I would wish it to be. That I would, like most things in my life, dissociate myself from the emotion to the point where the experience is simply an echo of what I do not allow myself to feel.

But part of this, part of all of this, is acknowledging.

It's about digging up the mounds of earth that I have buried all my fears and hurts in and examining the fossils that shape the landscape of the person I am now.

Maybe it won't do any good.

I mean, I've been doing this for years. I have writing scattered across the internet, essays and blogs floating around for the last decade. And people always tell me how self-aware I am, how in tune with myself I am, how courageous or honest, brutal and revealing, how knowledgable, mature, whatever.

It doesn't feel like that to me.

I know that, compared to the average person, I do examine myself thoroughly. I try to be aware of myself as much as I can, but I certainly fail more often than not.

I mean, it should be fairly obvious to even the most unaware person that if you are dating one person, hoping for more, and you continue to see other people, that shows you have a lack of true interest in that one particular person.

You think that would be obvious.

But here I was thinking that it would make him want me more, that I would be more of a chase, because so damn many PUA men online have said that I'm a horrible slut, horrible human being, I need to become a born-again virgin because no decent man will have me now, it's far too late, but maybe I could settle for a lower middle-class beta loser and become a chubby soccer mom getting her stubby toes polished by a Vietnamese woman on the weekends.

So I play hard to get.
So I say, sure, men find me desirable, and I'm going to continue to enjoy myself with them and that will illustrate that GV8 better get a move on if he wants me because others want me too.

And what's funny is that, this year, I've had sex with five (5!) men, two of them being hold-overs from last year (Hardwood Floors and SFPlayboy), one of them was a crappy one-night stand (Dose), a not-so-crappy one-night stand (Mr. Brush-off), and GV8. Mr. Brush-off was the only man I've had sex with since I met GV8. I have not had the inclination or the true interest to pursue anyone further.

Anyway, I think that was more of a sidetrack than anything.

GV8 still wants me, at least in some capacity, after all of this. After me acting like someone else entirely, someone I wanted to be, but not someone who I was.

And I did learn. I learned how to be stronger, how to hold back, how to not rush into things. These were things I had never been able to conquer before, but I did so with him and I'm proud of myself, in my own way, for being able to do so.

I faced a fear. I faced an insecurity.

And I tackled it, drove it to the ground. It wasn't the smoothest, at least on an emotional level, but I did force myself to face my anxieties.

Now I have to learn how to let go.

Even if GV8 is not the man for me, even if he rejects me, I need to learn how to do this, and I need to learn how to accept this complete rejection.

Because I know I will never be happy, never have that security or sense of self I desire, if I do not learn how to let go. If I never learn to have faith in myself.

I am much better than the girl I used to be, but it is going to take a lot of work to become the woman I know I have in me.

Metal on metal...

More and more, I'm straining towards another division of blogs.

Though it becomes increasingly unlikely as my schedule takes another shift. School is starting tonight. A fifty mile commute to my classes, lovely. My "underling" is starting school as well, going down to part-time, meaning that I am going to have to pick up the slack. That means less writing time.

Already, I have problems maintaining two blogs, the other one neglected as this one went up, me basking in anonymity, knowing I can say what I want about who I want without the desperate emails from men telling me that we needed to go out, that I was the one for them, that only I would understand them, or the growing section of fangirls, girls that I don't know how to handle.

And this blog is still anonymous. Those who have asked for its location have been denied, no matter how close we are, because I'm withdrawn, because I know that even with the closest friendships, things happen and people change, and people are self-serving beyond good, beyond bad, just seeking for themselves.

Someone commented just a little bit ago that I was slumming by making out with a man in a relationship, that I needed to raise my standards. It made me feel as though they hadn't read the post at all, simply skimmed it, not bothering to understand the content, just getting the barest of details and slapping a face on it, a face they understood.

I forgot what that was like.

I'm so used to having my face up, so used to having a backstory, so used to having groups of people reading my stuff and interpreting it that things like that so rarely happen.

But it's something I need to get over.

It does let me see the difference, though.

Things move along though. Inching towards my Master's degree, couch-surfing, socializing much too much, the random social encounters... I've met so many people in so many places and I wonder how many more I will meet before I give up entirely in the barely-there-as-is belief that I might meet someone for me.

I run through southern California, from San Diego to the Valley, digging.

Digging for experience, digging for knowledge, digging for identity, to compare myself to others and say "this is who I am not" because it is so rare for me to say "this is who I am".

I'm 26 in a month and a half and I feel like I'm starring in some crappy indie flick about a girl trying to find herself.

Usually, though, these girls are these delicate creatures who have never fallen in love, never experienced a man, wear wacky scenster clothes, and stumble across their awkward romance while working at a drug store.

Whereas I'm sitting here, wild, damaged, too experienced, always mellow, withdrawn, overanalytical in my simplistic clothing style, glasses, and layered black hair, nose in a book, wondering if I should just start dating only intelligent ex-cons because it seems I get along with those the best.

When I was out with Sad Eyes on Friday night, wandering Downtown Disney, he said he was looking for his Belle, interfering that he was such a damaged beast, saying that he needed the tolerance and understanding of such a woman.

And I find it funny. If you've seen the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, it starts off with Belle being incredibly devoted to her father, nose always in a book, innocent and determined. And then she rescues the Beast from the darkness within him through her faith and understanding, through her determination. She keeps, for the most part, her innocence, only losing it somewhat when the villagers in the town she lived in lost their heads and Gaston went all possessive/avenging his honor batshit.

We were by the west end of the area when he said this, walking back from the Disneyland Hotel. I could not help but chuckle because the last time that tale was raised around me, one of my blogging friends rewrote it in the start of a project where he was redoing fairytales to feature the girls he knew. It was about me, a combination of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast, where an innocent girl pricks her finger on a spinning wheel and becomes, inside, a beast. In the end, she saves the beast, prevents him from turning back into a human, so they could be beasts together.

I enjoyed it.

So often these damaged men I dig up are looking for redemption through innocence. Looking to be saved like in some Hollywood ideal. Embarassed and distant about their past actions and feelings, they go through women, looking so hard for that one that will see past their behaviors, that will somehow, solely through love, make them whole again.

Every time they hurt another one, one that cannot handle who and what they are, they become angry, frustrated, and more withdrawn. Badges from battle, they wear these girls like shields, keeping people out, yet drawing them in.

I suppose I'm no better.

Looking for a beast of a man, someone I can respect and run with. Someone who pushes like I do, someone who wants to be more, someone who will be more and understand the isolation that comes from this all, comes from being different and wading through crowds, up to your neck in people that you do not want to understand, hoping that someone will grab your hand and yank you out, or at least walk with you until you both find shore.

But that's all fantasy.

And, right now, I've got to be in reality. I have thirty minutes to wrap up work so I can start my lovely commute to class.

Good morning to me.

I occasionally harass my smoker friends with retardery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things you will never catch me doing include:

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

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

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

But then others complain about women that are too active.

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

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

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

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

And I've totally derailed myself. Typical.

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

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

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

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

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

"What on earth are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Start again, start again...

Well, this is interesting. For the sake of privacy on a shared computer, I'm emailing this in instead of posting it straight from blogger.

It's almost like I'm writing a letter to someone.

Almost.

It's Wednesday, so I'm at the Artesia house. I walked into the front room to discover my host and hostess actually being civil to one another. That ended as soon as I walked in. When he sees me, when she sees me, their behavior changes.

It's nothing I've done.

It's that he wants me. He's wanted me since I was 17. 16? I don't remember how old I was when we first met. He wants me to feel sorry for him, wants me to emphasize with him, wants his pain and frustration at his wife to be understood and expects her friends to be okay with him sharing the snide comments and muttered critiques.

So when I walk in, their tenuous peace is broken.

I wonder if he'll pick a fight with her in the morning and give me another pitiful look of "See? See what I have to put up with as I so gallantly go about my morning?"

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

A several weeks ago, I was asked to go attend the opening night of The Birds (a German opera, not a play based on Hitchcock's The Birds"). We went to Cafe Pinot beforehand, so I put on a cocktail dress and heels, did my hair and the like. Mellow, but still nice. Dressing up, for me, is annoying.

After the opera he, of course, invited me back to his apartment. I was feeling absolutely no desire for him, even with his background and experience, even with his notable career, so I politely declined and departed.

And went on another date.

Why not? I've done it before. It's just a matter of logistics and flexibility. Five dates with five different men in one weekend, with the Sunday being an all day affair? No problem. I'm on it.

We met up in Mahattan Beach, in the bar circuit of Manhattan Beach Pier.

This probably wasn't the best idea. Normally, I slide in there with my casual wear, book in hand, and the men who look at me get an eyebrow raise or ignored.

Going down there dressed like a Manhattan Beach bar hoochie just returning from a nice dinner at some restaurant further down the coast... no. Just no. I am never going to do that again.

Drunken whistles and cat-calls, if I hadn't been on tile in heels, walking downhill, they would have been recipients of my stare that declares, "You might be hot, you might be drunk, but if you even think that I belong in your world, that you could fit in mine, if you think that I wouldn't spin your head and spit you out... you'd be so very wrong."

But I kept walking.

Met up with my date, had some late dinner... and then, then he asks me the perfect question.

"So, you up for this?"

Size him up. Odd mix of frat boy/jock turned vaguely nerdy business exec. He's smart. He's quick on his feet and he keeps up with my banter 98% which is not easy to do when I'm fully awake. (Now, when I'm not fully awake, things just get kinda... silly.)

Yes, I'm quite up for it.

We return to his apartment and talk and screw and talk and screw.

It was a decent night.

But, as events unfold, I come to realize that he wanted me not for me, but because so many others do. So he could say he fucked the "infamous V" and, in several circles, that would get him major cool-guy points.

I find that flattering, oddly enough. Maybe I shouldn't. I was hurt for about... oh, twelve hours. And then I realized I was just exhausted from getting three hours of sleep. I get emotional when I'm tired. Took a nap, got up, and I was fine. Mostly fine. Annoyed, but no longer hurt. Felt mildly rejected, but I got over it fairly fast. The sex was fun, but not great. He was hung, but oddly shaped. We didn't quite click on a physical level, and it was noticable for both of us.

Reminds me of that line from Jeanette Winterson's The Passion.

"You play. You win. You play. You lose. You play."

And I do.

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

I think GV8 is going to pop the question. The "relationship question".

I can't.

I refuse to get into a relationship while I'm still so mentally unhealthy, while I still have so many unresolved issues and damages. I need to focus on myself and understanding my core drama so I can deal with it and become a better, healthier me.

I'm concerned that he might not want me to go swinging with him if we aren't in a relationship. He's emotionally monogamous. He probably wants that security of me returning home with him. I would not be so rude to go home with someone else/another couple.

I do like him. I truly do. He's great. He's very driven, extremely experienced, bright, and totally without self-consciousness. Watching him interact with people, watching how he controls and observes while still remaining charismatic and bonding with his audience, it's wonderful.

I don't think he's for me.

Every so often, I'll run across those guys.

Those guys that I will lock eyes with and suddenly I'll know them. I'll know everything but their name and history. We vibrate. We draw towards each other like magnets, impending storm. Something almost always gets in the way.

I want that chemistry. I want that knowing, that internal vibration that makes me want to rub up against them in every way I can.

I'll find one of them about every year and a half.

It's a delight. It's the prize in my crackerjack box.

I want one of them. I want to be with someone with that insane, instant chemistry.

Until then...

You play. You win. You play. You lose. You play.

Easter Sunday

"Get down on the floor," he tells me and releases the fistful of my hair.

Already on my knees, I drop immediately, folding my body up in the bottom of the shower, face pressed against the wet floor. The water is pounding on my back, keeping me warm, and I hear the sounds of his palm sliding up and down his cock.

As he reaches orgasm, he bends down and wraps my hair around his left hand, yanks my head up in time to catch a faceful of semen. My tongue darts out and I clean him off once he is done.

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

I'm bent forward, knees straight, legs spread, hands together in front of me, pushing back against him. In the mirror, I see the matching cuffs on both ankles and both wrists, my hair draping down to one side, a fall of black. I catch my own eyes, the pale blue, and the pink flush across my face, red lips. Color on pale skin becomes art, and I glance up to meet his gaze in the mirror.

He thrusts and my mouth opens, a gasped shout.

I see him smile and feel his fingers curl over my hipbones.