Blank screen.
Sitting on my bed, black sheets.
I bought this bed when Darkeyes and I broke up. We broke up at night, slept in the same bed, the next day I popped on Craigslist and found a new queen-sized pillow-top mattress and box spring for $350. Drove up to Beverly Hills with a friend and loaded it into her truck.
The two of us struggled up to my third floor apartment, with the multiple switchbacks on the stairs, and I dropped it in my new room.
The dresser to my right is from my grandmother's house. Cedar, or something resembling it. They kept it in one of their guestrooms, the one intended for her wheelchair-bound mother, they designed that whole back half of the house for her visits. Handicapped toilet, shower they could put a chair into.
Matching lamps, art-deco, industrial-looking desk, $900 office chair, all for free from a friend that was moving back to Detroit.
Bookcase, bought by Darkeyes to hold my mounds of books after a fight with my father that involved me rapidly needed to have a storage space for them. It was one of four that was carted from my parents' house to Burbank, where the back went flying off on the freeway and my best friend stopped traffic to get it, running across the cement.
Glass-fronted cabinet, from my mother's mother. She collected seashells and displayed them in this cabinet in her condo in the Valley. She later lost her marbles to age and had to be put in a mental facility for like-minded seniors.
A white dresser, another from my father's mother's house. Belonged in the guestroom that was built for my father's sister, who killed herself a few months ago. Gun to the head.
Wooden filecabinet and matching bookcase, from my father's father. Died when I was 13. Multiple strokes, diabetes, I remember kicking my family out of the hospital, telling them to get food and get out of that place for a few hours. I remember feeding him vegetables, him not recognizing me. I remember when he did recognize us, look at the plastic band encircling his wrist, realizing his life was over, even if he wasn't dead.
The majority of my furniture comes from the dead, it seems.
Two of the blankets on my bed are from my father's parents. One was on the couch in my grandfather's office. An atrocious, uncomfortable thing. Brown and orange knit monstrosity. I love it. The other, a red and black plaid that was kept in my grandmother's trunk, we'd curl up in the backseat of her car under it when it got chilly. I remember looking at Christmas lights, driving around her neighborhood, under that blanket, but that memory could be constructed.
I spent last night with Pseudonym Pending.
The poor guy was exhausted and stressed as hell. I walked into his living room, saw him sprawled across the couch, and was amazed he was still awake.
We were planning on having a night of frisky frolic, but he wasn't up for it. Understandable. He was going to cut out on me, but I don't keep lovers for the sex, I keep lovers for the contact, the humanity, and to help me keep my mind off the crater that becomes so defined in winter.
I needed that touch. I needed the skin to skin.
I did not need the sex.
An Entourage marathon was on. I've never seen the show.
I got out the grapeseed oil and spent nearly two hours rubbing him down, hands to feet, front and back. My ex-lover down in San Diego, the masseuse who taught me more technique than what came naturally, would be proud. Finished him, of course, with a stellar handjob. Ever since GV8 taught me how to do that well, I really can't get enough of it. It feels wonderful in my hands, the movements, the oil, the slickness and heat. I never thought I would enjoy handjobs anywhere near as much as giving head, but there you go.
In the morning, we showered and grabbed coffee at a Starbucks I used to frequent when I went to community college just a mile or two from his house. Hadn't been there in a few years.
There's always that awkwardness for me, when you're first establishing a physical relationship and then you step into a public sphere.
Some men don't like PDA, even with their girlfriends. They feel uncomfortable even when holding hands. So if you get one of those guys as a regular lover and you even think about touching them in public, they'll freak.
Others are like me. I hold hands, I kiss, I grind, I grope, I hug, I sit in laps, I launch, I suck fingers, etc. I cannot get enough of touching someone I'm having sex with. But I refrain when it makes them uncomfortable.
Some guys don't like giving the impression that they are "with" a girl, because it eliminates their chances with someone they've been flirting with, someone they want to be flirting with. I understand this completely.
So you get that awkward, this-is-the-first-time-we're-going-out-in-public-together, what-the-hell-are-the-physical-boundaries? I don't initiate contact, so if the guy doesn't, I refrain. Follow his lead, never go further than he does.
Another moment of awkward is the first time you sleep over. I tend not to, because I feel it's violating the physical territory and morning routine of my partner. Most men, I've found, don't really know what to do with themselves in the morning, when a girl is over. Cuddle, kiss, dress quickly? Shower together? Brush teeth together? Eat and run? Quickie?
Adding a new person in is... disconcerting for some.
And I know me. My boundaries are... lacking. If I'm sleeping with someone, I have no body boundaries, I have no personal space boundaries. They've been in me, they've passed all other limits, there's no point in going back. There's a lack of emotional connection for me, I know this well, so if I'm holding a guy's hand, it means nothing other than I feel like touching them in that way. But then they sometimes get worried.
You know, because I'm female.
I've ranted about that more than once in here. About my male friends getting worried, having that talk, disclosing that they had been very concerned, that I was getting too close to them.
Falling in love.
And no matter how many men I've been with in the past, no matter how long I've had some of my lovers without more than friendly emotional involvement, it doesn't seem to matter.
Somehow they're more special.
The only lover I've had that I've ever come close to falling in love with was GV8.
And as soon as I realized that was not going to work out, I bailed.
It's tricky, being me.
Sounds a little egocentric.
But it's true. The balancing act between making guys feel special and cared for, but not too much. And none of them are the same. One will be perfectly comfortable introducing me to his friends, family, meeting my friends, my family, holding hands, kissing, seeing movies, going out to events and meals. Another will only want to see me when we're having sex. Yet another will be okay with holding hands and kissing in public, will be fine with curling up and watching a movie, but no friends, no family.
So if I'm sleeping with, say, three guys at one time, I have to keep track of which is comfortable with what. And none of them want to know about the others, even the ones that just want the pure-sex, bare-minimum friendship set-up, where knowing about the others would make them worry less, but they can't bear the thought of it.
Which makes sense. I don't begrudge them that at all.
Last winter I was cycling through five men and dating a lot, with the occasional one night stand.
Zat was in Studio City, sound engineer. I could call him, text him IM him, to talk about personal problems. He loved to cook, so I'd go over there, we'd kiss, cuddle, watch Iron Chef all afternoon, not even always have sex. Wouldn't hold hands or kiss in public. Really didn't want to know about the other guys. I never spent the night there.
VG was in Playa del Ray. Video game producer. Loved to hear my torrid tales. Never held hands, kissed, anything, in public. My choice on that one, oddly. Just felt odd. Hung out, bullshitted, talked video games and books. Mildly worried, I think, that I would fall for him. Later went to ask me out, relationship-style. Verbally cockblocked him before he could get it out and imbalance our friendship.
Hardwood Floors, Hollywood, poet, server, bartender. Hot. Beyond hot. Rarely talked on the phone, rarely emailed, no IM. Would meet up, do dinner, breakfast, lunch, hold hands, kiss, hug, screw our brains out. He didn't seem to care or worry about others, or about me falling for him. He understood the game.
Blond and Studly, unemployed hotbody in Orange County. He could have been professionally hot. Beautiful man. Hung perfectly. His whole body was art. Meet up, cuddle, kiss, would never go out in public. He knew my reputation, wasn't worried about any emotional developments on my end. Could not understand why I wasn't pursuing him. The only reason I ever spent the night there was because sex would end up lasting until 5AM and I'd need to crash before driving anywhere.
SFPlayboy, nutritionist, occasional accountant, San Fran resident, PUA. We do not see each other enough. Can't believe it's been almost a year. He is comfortable enough to play the boyfriend role. Complete access, complete comfortability, complete faith in my ice-princess being. Well, now. He wasn't always. Grocery shopping, meeting friends, cuddling, teasing, cooking together.
Five different men. Five very different levels of comfortability.
And me. With my lack of boundaries, and constantly needing to remember that others have them.
It's work. It's a hell of a lot of work.
It wasn't work with GV8. I asked him, PDAs? And he basically required them, needed them. No boundaries. No worries. Relaxation. Physical enjoyment. Mutual understanding.
So we woke up this morning to the alarm on his cellphone going off. Sounded like Jamaica was trying to wake him. Curled up into his body, softly rolling my hips, running my hands over his torso, up his neck, cresting the back of his skull, lips against his brow. Thirty minutes of touching while he dozed in and out.
In the shower, he scrubbed my back. Suprising, but good.
Coffee, sitting in the shade under an oversized umbrella, talking. Me, trying to determine where our public boundaries were set. Failing to do so.
See, I have this issue. If I'm regularly or semi-regularly sleeping with someone, I generally like them. Okay, I always like them. Otherwise, I wouldn't be sleeping with them. So I like to spend time with them, show them things I think they'll like.
But then, more often than not, they think I'm doing more than that.
Which leaves me sitting there going, "Uh... no. You like X. This is like X. So I wanted to show you this. Because I like you. Because I like it when you're happy. Because this will make you happy. This logic thing... it's working out for you, right?"
Anyhow, back to our broadcast.
Unexpected kiss goodbye. Wasn't the smashed-up-against-one-of-our-vehicles-grinding-the-morning-away kiss, but it was still good. Helping with the boundaries.
And, right now, I can hear GV8 in my head. Telling me to be who I am, do what I want to do, and stop trying to please everyone around me by conforming to their boundaries instead of asserting my own. Do what I want to do. But I hate making other people uncomfortable. And I know that how I am, sexually, is something uncommon enough to cause concern in the male populace. And I know I have more control than the male populace. And more experience. Which means I know that some guys get incredibly unnerved if you grab their hand in public. Or go to kiss them. They wig.
Because so many of them cannot combine a female they're fucking with a female that enjoys the affectionate things.
Example A: After the DP, Pseudonym Pending and I curled up in bed, cuddling, while The Broken Prince used the restroom. He came back, walked into the bedroom, took one look at us and said, "Oh no, no cuddling. DP is fine, but no cuddling. That's just weird."
He was genuinely disturbed by the idea. Pseudonym and I just looked at each other, with this kinda "WTF?" expression. You know the one. The one that someone would give you if a blue deer bounded through their living room being chased by a pack of baby pixies.
For some, it's probably a respect thing. Cuddling is for girlfriends, or for girls that you've had to seduce into your bed. Girls that require effort to get into their pants. They've earned the cuddling. If you're like me and you see someone you want, so you take, you don't usually get respect, at least until they get to know you. I suppose it's like cuddling with a prostitute. You're laying in bed going, "Why the hell does this chick have her head on my chest? Doesn't she know I'm here for the sex? Isn't she supposed to be without emotions or need for non-sexual physical contact?"
It is what it is.
I am what I am.
It's not a lack of respect for myself. It's a lack of respect for the social rules defined by insitutions that I don't agree with and a love for sex and physical contact.
I don't know where Pseudonym's boundaries are.
And maybe I should do what GV8 advised: assert my own boundaries. Be who I want to be. Stop molding myself to the desires of whichever man I'm with at the time. I am not going to spend the rest of my twenties as a single girl conforming to other people's desires, taking lovers that only satisfy me in one way. I only have so much time. I'm a pleaser, true, but others can please in return.
Anyhow, it's nearly ten. I need to be up at six or so. Eight hours is my minimum and this week, with the holiday, is going to be killer. My industry is going to be insane for the next three days, so I better be functional.
Also, completely unrelated sidenote, MAC Cosmetics' holiday collection, the pigment set "Sexpot" is an absolute dream. I love that company's products so much. I might get a second one, just in case. Beautiful.
Showing posts with label hardwood floors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hardwood floors. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Sitting in my bed at home.
First time I've been here in almost two weeks. Home.
Laundry is running downstairs, thirty minutes to go before I can stagger down and shove it over into another electric metal box.
Body is sore.
Not muscle sore. Gods, I wish it was muscle sore. I wish I had the energy or the health right now to hop on the treadmill or pick a direction and go, but I think that would be the last straw for this sack of flesh and I'd likely down myself for the weekend, if not longer.
Went to see the Elephant Engine High Dive Revival Tour last night. Amazing, amazing poets. Bought three books, got them all signed. Went with the waitress from the restaurant, the red head. She's so wonderful to watch, so social, so confident. I love seeing her engage with people, without fear, without issue, walking up and getting to know them with the thought in her head that everyone has a fascinating story to tell and you just have to get them to smile and share it.
Which I agree with. It's just that my spirit animal is a bookworm.
True story.
I know I do this, but it was still interesting to watch myself switch into the behavior pattern again. When I'm out by myself, or out with someone less outgoing than I can be, I take over. I shift into social butterfly mode, become very extroverted, start working the room, the group, whatever it is, I'm on it. But if someone is naturally more outgoing than I am, I downshift. I become more mellow, more withdrawn.
Insecurity? Yes.
Knowing the principles of rarity and attraction? Yes.
Wondering what would happen if I kept my socializing level as high as my waitress friend did, how the two of us would work together with our blue eyes, her hair red, mine black, and our shared knowledge..? That could be fantastic. Conquering worlds.
But then, last night, the lack of sleep (yes, hello, eleven to twelve hour workdays, how are you?) and the emotional exhaustion from dealing with GV8 left me fried and withdrawn.
On the positive side, Hardwood Floors was at the show as well. Haven't seen him since February. He had put on muscle, let his hair grow out a bit. Still incredibly handsome.
His facial structure, though, stands out more when his head is shaved. Makes him look like a storm is under his skin, waiting to escape from his mouth.
Which it does, in his writing and poetry.
I used to hold him in such high regard as a lover, as a desirable (to sleep with, not to date) partner. He made my breath catch, and his words, his writing that was what continued to hold sway over me... I could simply read over and over again his emails, his poems. Beautiful.
He lost his shine.
He was still attractive. He was still hard and warm as we pressed up against each other in a hug and he sat next to me on the pew, his arm snaking around my shoulders like it has not been nine months since we last rolled around on the mattress on the floor of his apartment.
But... he wasn't... enough... anymore.
His words, his scent, his touch, barely penetrated. His rhythm, our shared motions that synched together, two hearts beating through sex, that was glorious.
But he didn't move me. I was stone, and he was not enough.
Because I had someone to compare him to, someone better. Someone who moved my bar too high, asking the men around me to prepare themselves for the polevault instead of the highjump.
Sex remains sex. Sex remains the route that will lead not to my heart, not to my head, but simply through me, like a tunnel. Without impact, just the echoes of words and winds as I allow access and they pay their toll.
I was talking with the Bassist yesterday, about my concern that I panicked with GV8, that I reacted poorly and that, with enough exposure (and pain), I could learn to have an open relationship.
And he reminded me that I have set goals. And he asked me if I had always had that one-man-one-woman dream.
Yes, yes, I did.
That ultimate partnership.
It's not the romance I seek, though I enjoy it.
It's the working together, becoming better together, striving towards being the best, experiencing the world, building a future, becoming four pairs of hands connected to one mind. Being beautiful and unstoppable, complimentary. Setting goals and knocking them down.
Unified.
No interruptions, no outside taint or influence.
Having someone to serve without ever making myself less.
I also am coming to realize that the Bassist doesn't make me feel good about myself a good chunk of the time. It's not that he's insulting, it's that he's unacknowledging. We email back and forth during the day and I'll share with him something that I find important, and he'll ignore it. He looks at about half the things I send him (links, music, etc). Last night, I took the waitress to his show, per his request as he has been lusting after her since I introduced them, and once I let him know that she was there, he essentially ignored me for most of the rest of the evening, did not even bother to hug me goodbye.
Which left me sitting there going, "Hey, I just brought this amazing and beautiful chick to your show so you could impress her with your bass-skills and band membership and possibly get her number and ask her out and you can't be bothered to give me a hug before I take off? Did you really just do that??"
I was annoyed and hurt. Also, wondering if I should even bother with having someone in my life that is so unaware and unconcerned. Probably not. If I did not love his band so much, I'd likely just wave goodbye in his general direction and exit stage left.
Unfortunately, doing so would make attending future concerts awkward.
I also spoke with the Waitress (capitalized now) about... her. About how comfortable she is in her own skin, how much men just gravitate towards her, about my recently ended relationship and how incredibly emo I've been.
She told me she is constantly emo. She always says yes when guys ask her out, no matter how disinterested she is, because she does not want to say no, because she's so easygoing. Gets stuck in these relationships with men she has no feelings for, finally has to end it, feels bad. That, since she started dating, she has not been single for more than a month (except once, where she reached two months) because of rebounds and being unable to say no.
It was... grounding for me.
I see these amazing people who are all shiny lights, who seem to be able to do anything, who have no fears or social anxieties, who know all the steps to all the games and drift through crowds without thought.
I look so highly on them, that they don't have to work at it. That they're naturally socially gifted. Wish I was like that. They seem so desirable, so intelligent, so perfect. I end up putting them on this mental pedestal where they end up (in my head) being amazing at everything. No chance of failure.
I cease to see them as human and with flaws.
You think I would learn by now that we all have flaws. We all have weaknesses.
I know, with my other blog, with the mini-fan base, and the emails with people telling me how amazing, strong, beautiful, vibrant, confident, whatever, insert-complimentary-adjective-here-that-I-don't-actually-see-in-myself-and-oh-god-using-the-hyphen-key-is-damn-annoying-and-I'm-going-to-stop-now, and I always email them back that, basically, they need to not idealize me, that I'm human and weak and I've got a shit-ton of issues that I need to work with/through and they're likely way cooler (or other adjective) than I am.
Sometimes I meet up with some of the emailers, the ones that live in this area, to show them that I am human and incredibly flawed... but it takes so much time for me to get them to relax, to calm, to see me that way. And it never really takes hold.
So I forget that others, the people I want to be more like, are human as well. And that they all have these backstories, these histories that effect them, that make them ashamed or regretful, that life isn't always easy and they have the scars we all have.
She reminded me of that.
She also called me amazing, which made my night. Silly, but true.
Went home, passed out, woke up, didn't bother to shower, and drove to help a friend I haven't seen in years pack up her recently passed mother's apartment. She was all kinds of wrecked.
It's hard to do that.
There's so much stuff. Food in the refrigerator that will not be consumed by the person who purchased it. Spices, dishware for holidays, antique cookware, old photos, stacks of books... what are you going to do with the bones of a life has left?
Box it up, load it into a van, the remainders, the reminders. Disperse among your relatives and friends, eating away at the sheer number of items that have amassed. Wondering what you need five ladles for, if you'll ever want that oversized cutting board, and if you can bear to give away the comforter that still smells like her, knowing that if you keep it that, one day, it will no longer smell like her, but like you.
Time to live.
First time I've been here in almost two weeks. Home.
Laundry is running downstairs, thirty minutes to go before I can stagger down and shove it over into another electric metal box.
Body is sore.
Not muscle sore. Gods, I wish it was muscle sore. I wish I had the energy or the health right now to hop on the treadmill or pick a direction and go, but I think that would be the last straw for this sack of flesh and I'd likely down myself for the weekend, if not longer.
Went to see the Elephant Engine High Dive Revival Tour last night. Amazing, amazing poets. Bought three books, got them all signed. Went with the waitress from the restaurant, the red head. She's so wonderful to watch, so social, so confident. I love seeing her engage with people, without fear, without issue, walking up and getting to know them with the thought in her head that everyone has a fascinating story to tell and you just have to get them to smile and share it.
Which I agree with. It's just that my spirit animal is a bookworm.
True story.
I know I do this, but it was still interesting to watch myself switch into the behavior pattern again. When I'm out by myself, or out with someone less outgoing than I can be, I take over. I shift into social butterfly mode, become very extroverted, start working the room, the group, whatever it is, I'm on it. But if someone is naturally more outgoing than I am, I downshift. I become more mellow, more withdrawn.
Insecurity? Yes.
Knowing the principles of rarity and attraction? Yes.
Wondering what would happen if I kept my socializing level as high as my waitress friend did, how the two of us would work together with our blue eyes, her hair red, mine black, and our shared knowledge..? That could be fantastic. Conquering worlds.
But then, last night, the lack of sleep (yes, hello, eleven to twelve hour workdays, how are you?) and the emotional exhaustion from dealing with GV8 left me fried and withdrawn.
On the positive side, Hardwood Floors was at the show as well. Haven't seen him since February. He had put on muscle, let his hair grow out a bit. Still incredibly handsome.
His facial structure, though, stands out more when his head is shaved. Makes him look like a storm is under his skin, waiting to escape from his mouth.
Which it does, in his writing and poetry.
I used to hold him in such high regard as a lover, as a desirable (to sleep with, not to date) partner. He made my breath catch, and his words, his writing that was what continued to hold sway over me... I could simply read over and over again his emails, his poems. Beautiful.
He lost his shine.
He was still attractive. He was still hard and warm as we pressed up against each other in a hug and he sat next to me on the pew, his arm snaking around my shoulders like it has not been nine months since we last rolled around on the mattress on the floor of his apartment.
But... he wasn't... enough... anymore.
His words, his scent, his touch, barely penetrated. His rhythm, our shared motions that synched together, two hearts beating through sex, that was glorious.
But he didn't move me. I was stone, and he was not enough.
Because I had someone to compare him to, someone better. Someone who moved my bar too high, asking the men around me to prepare themselves for the polevault instead of the highjump.
Sex remains sex. Sex remains the route that will lead not to my heart, not to my head, but simply through me, like a tunnel. Without impact, just the echoes of words and winds as I allow access and they pay their toll.
I was talking with the Bassist yesterday, about my concern that I panicked with GV8, that I reacted poorly and that, with enough exposure (and pain), I could learn to have an open relationship.
And he reminded me that I have set goals. And he asked me if I had always had that one-man-one-woman dream.
Yes, yes, I did.
That ultimate partnership.
It's not the romance I seek, though I enjoy it.
It's the working together, becoming better together, striving towards being the best, experiencing the world, building a future, becoming four pairs of hands connected to one mind. Being beautiful and unstoppable, complimentary. Setting goals and knocking them down.
Unified.
No interruptions, no outside taint or influence.
Having someone to serve without ever making myself less.
I also am coming to realize that the Bassist doesn't make me feel good about myself a good chunk of the time. It's not that he's insulting, it's that he's unacknowledging. We email back and forth during the day and I'll share with him something that I find important, and he'll ignore it. He looks at about half the things I send him (links, music, etc). Last night, I took the waitress to his show, per his request as he has been lusting after her since I introduced them, and once I let him know that she was there, he essentially ignored me for most of the rest of the evening, did not even bother to hug me goodbye.
Which left me sitting there going, "Hey, I just brought this amazing and beautiful chick to your show so you could impress her with your bass-skills and band membership and possibly get her number and ask her out and you can't be bothered to give me a hug before I take off? Did you really just do that??"
I was annoyed and hurt. Also, wondering if I should even bother with having someone in my life that is so unaware and unconcerned. Probably not. If I did not love his band so much, I'd likely just wave goodbye in his general direction and exit stage left.
Unfortunately, doing so would make attending future concerts awkward.
I also spoke with the Waitress (capitalized now) about... her. About how comfortable she is in her own skin, how much men just gravitate towards her, about my recently ended relationship and how incredibly emo I've been.
She told me she is constantly emo. She always says yes when guys ask her out, no matter how disinterested she is, because she does not want to say no, because she's so easygoing. Gets stuck in these relationships with men she has no feelings for, finally has to end it, feels bad. That, since she started dating, she has not been single for more than a month (except once, where she reached two months) because of rebounds and being unable to say no.
It was... grounding for me.
I see these amazing people who are all shiny lights, who seem to be able to do anything, who have no fears or social anxieties, who know all the steps to all the games and drift through crowds without thought.
I look so highly on them, that they don't have to work at it. That they're naturally socially gifted. Wish I was like that. They seem so desirable, so intelligent, so perfect. I end up putting them on this mental pedestal where they end up (in my head) being amazing at everything. No chance of failure.
I cease to see them as human and with flaws.
You think I would learn by now that we all have flaws. We all have weaknesses.
I know, with my other blog, with the mini-fan base, and the emails with people telling me how amazing, strong, beautiful, vibrant, confident, whatever, insert-complimentary-adjective-here-that-I-don't-actually-see-in-myself-and-oh-god-using-the-hyphen-key-is-damn-annoying-and-I'm-going-to-stop-now, and I always email them back that, basically, they need to not idealize me, that I'm human and weak and I've got a shit-ton of issues that I need to work with/through and they're likely way cooler (or other adjective) than I am.
Sometimes I meet up with some of the emailers, the ones that live in this area, to show them that I am human and incredibly flawed... but it takes so much time for me to get them to relax, to calm, to see me that way. And it never really takes hold.
So I forget that others, the people I want to be more like, are human as well. And that they all have these backstories, these histories that effect them, that make them ashamed or regretful, that life isn't always easy and they have the scars we all have.
She reminded me of that.
She also called me amazing, which made my night. Silly, but true.
Went home, passed out, woke up, didn't bother to shower, and drove to help a friend I haven't seen in years pack up her recently passed mother's apartment. She was all kinds of wrecked.
It's hard to do that.
There's so much stuff. Food in the refrigerator that will not be consumed by the person who purchased it. Spices, dishware for holidays, antique cookware, old photos, stacks of books... what are you going to do with the bones of a life has left?
Box it up, load it into a van, the remainders, the reminders. Disperse among your relatives and friends, eating away at the sheer number of items that have amassed. Wondering what you need five ladles for, if you'll ever want that oversized cutting board, and if you can bear to give away the comforter that still smells like her, knowing that if you keep it that, one day, it will no longer smell like her, but like you.
Time to live.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 9, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Body is sore, though not nearly as bad as it was after that threesome that was followed up by a morning of cross-fit. I did love how I could hardly move between the bruises on my skin and the muscle tension, propping myself up against a wall in the SFO airport waiting for my flight.
Last night was spent mired in Shakespeare. I felt like I was drowning in asshattery poorly disguised in flowered verse. Deception, I don't understand. Villany for the sake of villany I also do not understand. I need a motive. Much Ado About Nothing, both the book followed by the movie, left me annoyed. The wordplay, his puns, the innuendo, was lovely.
The characters, their failings, and the complete inability anyone could have in relating to them, was not.
Heart of Darkness was so much better. My bare feet kicked over the side of a leather armchair at Starbucks, highlighter alternately dangling from my fingers or my lips, happily burying myself in a battle between lofted civilization and the internal darkness of man, the changes that take place, but on the inside, as the good doctor told Marlowe.
Now that, that was a book.
I've started Chopin's The Awakening in order to free up the coming weekend and actually read my pleasure books. East of Eden and A Preferred Blur have been tossed by the wayside (the backseat of my car) until reading can resume.
Finished my paper last night, post-phonecall from GV8, discussing where he is, what he wants. Ever the pleaser, I tell him to tell me his desires, and I will act accordingly. More time spent will, uncontrollably, mean emotions entangled no matter what I wish to do because I've violated my own set rule: not to make lovers out of men you would actually date. So I tell him this, that if he is willing to explore that again, after calling a halt on our progression towards a relationship, then he needs to inform me. And if he does not wish to do so, we need to continue spending the amount of time we already do, so I do not get entangled with him.
If that happens, I will need to pick up another partner. I will need to pull back from him and exert balance in my life with a man of equal value, if I can find one that suits.
My monogamous nature, such as it is, makes this hard.
When I attach, I lose interest in others. I have no need for outside partners, unless it pleases the one I am with.
Which means, right now, while I would be able to have sex without issue with Playboy or HWF, because I have been with them before and repeatedly, a new partner makes me uncomfortable. I would have to break myself of that, make myself uncomfortable, and sleep with someone, like Ev, that I know would please me, once I got over this internal distaste in touching men other than GV8 or those previously established.
And Ev still is pursuing.
But I will not know what to do with that until GV8 determines what it is he wants.
It bothers me that I'm such a pleaser. That he has shown me what kind of man he is, and I can do nothing but adore, as much as I wish I would not. Someone so strong, so dominant, so experienced... I'm drawn in. He will let nothing defeat him and he has no fears.
So I'll sit and play, sit and wait. See what he does.
And we'll see what happens.
Last night was spent mired in Shakespeare. I felt like I was drowning in asshattery poorly disguised in flowered verse. Deception, I don't understand. Villany for the sake of villany I also do not understand. I need a motive. Much Ado About Nothing, both the book followed by the movie, left me annoyed. The wordplay, his puns, the innuendo, was lovely.
The characters, their failings, and the complete inability anyone could have in relating to them, was not.
Heart of Darkness was so much better. My bare feet kicked over the side of a leather armchair at Starbucks, highlighter alternately dangling from my fingers or my lips, happily burying myself in a battle between lofted civilization and the internal darkness of man, the changes that take place, but on the inside, as the good doctor told Marlowe.
Now that, that was a book.
I've started Chopin's The Awakening in order to free up the coming weekend and actually read my pleasure books. East of Eden and A Preferred Blur have been tossed by the wayside (the backseat of my car) until reading can resume.
Finished my paper last night, post-phonecall from GV8, discussing where he is, what he wants. Ever the pleaser, I tell him to tell me his desires, and I will act accordingly. More time spent will, uncontrollably, mean emotions entangled no matter what I wish to do because I've violated my own set rule: not to make lovers out of men you would actually date. So I tell him this, that if he is willing to explore that again, after calling a halt on our progression towards a relationship, then he needs to inform me. And if he does not wish to do so, we need to continue spending the amount of time we already do, so I do not get entangled with him.
If that happens, I will need to pick up another partner. I will need to pull back from him and exert balance in my life with a man of equal value, if I can find one that suits.
My monogamous nature, such as it is, makes this hard.
When I attach, I lose interest in others. I have no need for outside partners, unless it pleases the one I am with.
Which means, right now, while I would be able to have sex without issue with Playboy or HWF, because I have been with them before and repeatedly, a new partner makes me uncomfortable. I would have to break myself of that, make myself uncomfortable, and sleep with someone, like Ev, that I know would please me, once I got over this internal distaste in touching men other than GV8 or those previously established.
And Ev still is pursuing.
But I will not know what to do with that until GV8 determines what it is he wants.
It bothers me that I'm such a pleaser. That he has shown me what kind of man he is, and I can do nothing but adore, as much as I wish I would not. Someone so strong, so dominant, so experienced... I'm drawn in. He will let nothing defeat him and he has no fears.
So I'll sit and play, sit and wait. See what he does.
And we'll see what happens.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Was talking with a friend last night, on my way home from work.
This is a man I am... decently close to. He shares my feelings of alienation, even though the source is not the same, even though we cannot truly relate to one another on what makes us feel disconnected, and the ways we each handle it are different, how we view it... it's still there.
Yesterday, we were talking about my disconnect. Well, for the most part. Conversations with him tend to easily derail, frustratingly so.
It was actually funny.
Started off with a general, "I'm sick of taking lovers that I can never relax around, never be myself around."
With him advising, "Well, be yourself and then those who can accept you will find you and you'll relax."
And by the end of the conversation, oh a good thirty, forty minutes later, he was saying:
"Yeah, maybe you should just keep those parts of you inside and just act normal around your lovers."
When I started laughing at him for the differing advice, he backtracked, but didn't really retract his ending sentiment.
The frustration I feel so often pervades my male-centered relationships. The need for self-control, for accepting, the need to be low-maintenance and low-drama because I am able to do so. Lying in bed with one, watching his face, watching his body language, laughing at his jokes, picking apart his words, looking at him with adoration, doing everything I can to please him, type depending on who I'm with.
Blond and Studly, Darkeyes, and Ev preferred the girl next-door/independent woman combo.
GV8 and Stuntcock preferred the strong woman turned sex-starved sub.
SFPlayboy prefers the strong woman-player, turned sex-starved sub for him.
Riot of Tattoos is simple, preferring the submissive slut at all times.
Zat and VG prefer the girl next-door.
Hardwood Floors and Wolfboy were the closest I have gotten in a long, long while of just being able to be myself.
But with Wolfboy, I still have to be gentle. God, do I have to be gentle with him.
I have to be gentle with all of them, though with Playboy I can be a little more me.
I'm too nice, too concerned.
Maybe it's atonement, as I sometimes suspect. Making up for misdeeds, for the damages and pain I have caused others, and my relatively new ability to actually be empathetic.
Maybe it's my constant need to please, to serve, taking the edge off of the fact that I have had no one to truly focus my submissive nature on for almost a year. I miss that. I maybe need to find a dom, something every two or three weeks to allow me to focus on myself and, of course, to allow my body to heal.
That's probably not the answer, though.
It'd be nice, but I doubt it would do anything other than relieve my need and take another chunk of time out of my schedule.
Anyhow, back to where I was.
Talking with my friend, having him advise me to just keep things inside. To not let my partners know how much I study them, how much I read them, how much I adjust myself and my behaviors based on their feedback, based on creating a web of self-disclosure where I disclose stuff that should be so personal (and it does sound as such) causing them to disclose stuff that is actually personal so I can use that information as I see fit.
I mentioned, a few posts ago, about getting a guy so wrapped around me that he ended up slamming his head into the hood of his car repeatedly, and I was apathetic and slightly amused. I did not mention the next day, where I spotted a male friend and proceeded to act upset over the events of the previous night, and he held me, comforted me, consoled me, continuing with my own internal apathy and amusement on how easy it was to do these things.
That was... hm, I was seventeen. Second semester in college. Probably Spring semester, 2001. Eight and a half years ago.
Fortunately, several months later, I managed to complete my process of burn-out. Destroying everything that I found sacred, my little trial by fire.
Cheating on the boyfriend, purposeful alcohol poisoning, squatting by the traintracks smoking left-over roaches, Mountain Dew can for a bong in the alley, drugged up threesome, cutting myself just to fuck with my closest friends (still have the scars, yay), alluding to my parents the things I was doing that they had no control over just to destroy that relationship with them, stealing thousands and thousands of dollars of merchandise that I did not even want, finding the sleazest, most strung-out guys I could just to make myself part of them, making out with the boyfriend of my bestfriend, picking up horrible men in front of my friends who were so worried about me just to hurt them, flunking out of college, picking up men online, men so much older than me, never learning their names, going back to their places with no knowledge or thought of safety, being used, leaking semen out of whatever orifice they felt fit to use. Heh, using one of my friend's houses as a pick up point. They had no idea what to do. The men that used me, used me. The men that loved me, liked me, cared for me, I purposely fucked with like I did with Jake. Taking my parents' money, my mother going to bed in tears.
Yes, I know this.
I know all of this.
The things that set you apart.
Burning myself out so well that my own mother admits that while she loves who I am now, she mourns who I used to be. That she never envisioned this life for me, how I am such a different person than I was, that it is like the girl I used to be died and she was given another child grown.
People wonder why I am not more cynical, how I can still believe in love, if I am even capable of love.
People wonder how I am not as damaged as I should be.
They didn't see the years of work. The sitting down and taking count of what I did, how I did it, why I did it, and what it did to me. And the battles I had to fight, the behaviors I had to recognize and change, the people who believed in me and supported me, who put up with my internal struggles.
I'm healthy. Not 100%, but certainly more than most of the people I know. Given my history, it's surprising, not only to me, but to others.
But I'm not normal.
You don't get to be "normal" again.
You get to learn how to fit in, you get to learn what to say, what not to say, how to present yourself so people aren't necessarily aware of any difference between us. You learn how to hide, how to camoflauge yourself. You know that when you enter a social group the first few times, the easiest thing to do is shut your mouth and observe until you know who outranks who and in what way you can integrate yourself and how much you can relax into who you are, what skin will fit and how much maintenance it will take.
To exercise parts of yourself, you keep different social groups with different values, different ideas of morals, of what is acceptable. Alternate through them so you don't feel too trapped in one role. Multiple lovers means multiple avenues of exercise. You don't have to wear the same face, and you find that some of them adore you, are intrigued by your internal struggle, by your different faces, and you learn to identify that. They want to protect you, want to be special.
They can't. And they never are.
You're told that you're like so many others, but when you give input, you're told that it is invalid because you're an outlier and you find yourself more amused than frustrated.
My friend, the one I started this post off about, he's one of the few who has recognized, without being told, that I have more walls up than anyone ever realizes. Everyone considers me so open, so out there and honest and easy to get along with, easy to talk to, easy to confess to... because of the openness that doesn't actually exist.
I don't like being told that I'm crazy. I don't like being told that I'm cold and calculating. I don't like being told that I'm manipulative and studied, that being the way I am is the wrong way to be and normal people, normal people aren't like me and I need to seek psychological help because I need to fall in line so people feel safe around me.
Not everyone is the same. The line that I should fall into is one I would not care to join. It hurts every time someone sees me, sees what I'm doing, and tells me I am horrible for being the way I am, for viewing the world the way I do, like it was a choice I made or a symptom of horrific damage and if only I dealt with my psychological damage, my baseline would change and I would be a different, happier person.
Because I couldn't possibly be happy as I am.
And they never believe me, can't wrap their brains around how happy I am, how much I enjoy life, enjoy the people in it.
It's apparently impossible to be different and happy.
But somehow I manage.
This is a man I am... decently close to. He shares my feelings of alienation, even though the source is not the same, even though we cannot truly relate to one another on what makes us feel disconnected, and the ways we each handle it are different, how we view it... it's still there.
Yesterday, we were talking about my disconnect. Well, for the most part. Conversations with him tend to easily derail, frustratingly so.
It was actually funny.
Started off with a general, "I'm sick of taking lovers that I can never relax around, never be myself around."
With him advising, "Well, be yourself and then those who can accept you will find you and you'll relax."
And by the end of the conversation, oh a good thirty, forty minutes later, he was saying:
"Yeah, maybe you should just keep those parts of you inside and just act normal around your lovers."
When I started laughing at him for the differing advice, he backtracked, but didn't really retract his ending sentiment.
The frustration I feel so often pervades my male-centered relationships. The need for self-control, for accepting, the need to be low-maintenance and low-drama because I am able to do so. Lying in bed with one, watching his face, watching his body language, laughing at his jokes, picking apart his words, looking at him with adoration, doing everything I can to please him, type depending on who I'm with.
Blond and Studly, Darkeyes, and Ev preferred the girl next-door/independent woman combo.
GV8 and Stuntcock preferred the strong woman turned sex-starved sub.
SFPlayboy prefers the strong woman-player, turned sex-starved sub for him.
Riot of Tattoos is simple, preferring the submissive slut at all times.
Zat and VG prefer the girl next-door.
Hardwood Floors and Wolfboy were the closest I have gotten in a long, long while of just being able to be myself.
But with Wolfboy, I still have to be gentle. God, do I have to be gentle with him.
I have to be gentle with all of them, though with Playboy I can be a little more me.
I'm too nice, too concerned.
Maybe it's atonement, as I sometimes suspect. Making up for misdeeds, for the damages and pain I have caused others, and my relatively new ability to actually be empathetic.
Maybe it's my constant need to please, to serve, taking the edge off of the fact that I have had no one to truly focus my submissive nature on for almost a year. I miss that. I maybe need to find a dom, something every two or three weeks to allow me to focus on myself and, of course, to allow my body to heal.
That's probably not the answer, though.
It'd be nice, but I doubt it would do anything other than relieve my need and take another chunk of time out of my schedule.
Anyhow, back to where I was.
Talking with my friend, having him advise me to just keep things inside. To not let my partners know how much I study them, how much I read them, how much I adjust myself and my behaviors based on their feedback, based on creating a web of self-disclosure where I disclose stuff that should be so personal (and it does sound as such) causing them to disclose stuff that is actually personal so I can use that information as I see fit.
I mentioned, a few posts ago, about getting a guy so wrapped around me that he ended up slamming his head into the hood of his car repeatedly, and I was apathetic and slightly amused. I did not mention the next day, where I spotted a male friend and proceeded to act upset over the events of the previous night, and he held me, comforted me, consoled me, continuing with my own internal apathy and amusement on how easy it was to do these things.
That was... hm, I was seventeen. Second semester in college. Probably Spring semester, 2001. Eight and a half years ago.
Fortunately, several months later, I managed to complete my process of burn-out. Destroying everything that I found sacred, my little trial by fire.
Cheating on the boyfriend, purposeful alcohol poisoning, squatting by the traintracks smoking left-over roaches, Mountain Dew can for a bong in the alley, drugged up threesome, cutting myself just to fuck with my closest friends (still have the scars, yay), alluding to my parents the things I was doing that they had no control over just to destroy that relationship with them, stealing thousands and thousands of dollars of merchandise that I did not even want, finding the sleazest, most strung-out guys I could just to make myself part of them, making out with the boyfriend of my bestfriend, picking up horrible men in front of my friends who were so worried about me just to hurt them, flunking out of college, picking up men online, men so much older than me, never learning their names, going back to their places with no knowledge or thought of safety, being used, leaking semen out of whatever orifice they felt fit to use. Heh, using one of my friend's houses as a pick up point. They had no idea what to do. The men that used me, used me. The men that loved me, liked me, cared for me, I purposely fucked with like I did with Jake. Taking my parents' money, my mother going to bed in tears.
Yes, I know this.
I know all of this.
The things that set you apart.
Burning myself out so well that my own mother admits that while she loves who I am now, she mourns who I used to be. That she never envisioned this life for me, how I am such a different person than I was, that it is like the girl I used to be died and she was given another child grown.
People wonder why I am not more cynical, how I can still believe in love, if I am even capable of love.
People wonder how I am not as damaged as I should be.
They didn't see the years of work. The sitting down and taking count of what I did, how I did it, why I did it, and what it did to me. And the battles I had to fight, the behaviors I had to recognize and change, the people who believed in me and supported me, who put up with my internal struggles.
I'm healthy. Not 100%, but certainly more than most of the people I know. Given my history, it's surprising, not only to me, but to others.
But I'm not normal.
You don't get to be "normal" again.
You get to learn how to fit in, you get to learn what to say, what not to say, how to present yourself so people aren't necessarily aware of any difference between us. You learn how to hide, how to camoflauge yourself. You know that when you enter a social group the first few times, the easiest thing to do is shut your mouth and observe until you know who outranks who and in what way you can integrate yourself and how much you can relax into who you are, what skin will fit and how much maintenance it will take.
To exercise parts of yourself, you keep different social groups with different values, different ideas of morals, of what is acceptable. Alternate through them so you don't feel too trapped in one role. Multiple lovers means multiple avenues of exercise. You don't have to wear the same face, and you find that some of them adore you, are intrigued by your internal struggle, by your different faces, and you learn to identify that. They want to protect you, want to be special.
They can't. And they never are.
You're told that you're like so many others, but when you give input, you're told that it is invalid because you're an outlier and you find yourself more amused than frustrated.
My friend, the one I started this post off about, he's one of the few who has recognized, without being told, that I have more walls up than anyone ever realizes. Everyone considers me so open, so out there and honest and easy to get along with, easy to talk to, easy to confess to... because of the openness that doesn't actually exist.
I don't like being told that I'm crazy. I don't like being told that I'm cold and calculating. I don't like being told that I'm manipulative and studied, that being the way I am is the wrong way to be and normal people, normal people aren't like me and I need to seek psychological help because I need to fall in line so people feel safe around me.
Not everyone is the same. The line that I should fall into is one I would not care to join. It hurts every time someone sees me, sees what I'm doing, and tells me I am horrible for being the way I am, for viewing the world the way I do, like it was a choice I made or a symptom of horrific damage and if only I dealt with my psychological damage, my baseline would change and I would be a different, happier person.
Because I couldn't possibly be happy as I am.
And they never believe me, can't wrap their brains around how happy I am, how much I enjoy life, enjoy the people in it.
It's apparently impossible to be different and happy.
But somehow I manage.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Backstabber, backstabber, backstabber...
I'm not actually listening to the Dresden Dolls right now. But, somehow, that song is stuck in my head, and has been since yesterday. Maybe a sign?
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
Friday, July 24, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 20, 2009
The tiny midnight caravan...
I'm totally getting my mope on right now, which amuses me. My humor leaks into everything, no matter how poorly I feel. And I sit here and know that I'm moping, and I know that it is due to a combination of things, the primary of which being that I'm tired, followed up by accidentally coming across Bradley's (the suicide) myspace last night, stacked with the thing with GV8, which "ended" well, for all intents and purposes, but it still makes me feel like screaming.
Not an angry scream.
Not at him, anyhow.
Not that I ever, ever scream or raise my voice.
Because I'm mellow.
It really is a blow, even though it shouldn't be. I expected it.
You'd think that if I hooked up with someone like him (and I'm not going to go into detail out of some odd respect for his wish to leave his past behind him), he would have understood. Somehow. That disconnect.
He made me feel like such a child. A little girl with issues.
I suppose I am.
I suddenly was sixteen again, with the poor fashion sense, the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sex with near strangers who I don't really remember anymore, shouting at the world how no one understands me, no one will ever understand me, I'm just so bloody different. Teenage angst.
And now what? Mid-twenties angst?
It only left me when I was with Rick.
And now I'm looking at The Bassist. He's three years younger than I am. That's not my style. I rarely can tolerate people my own age.
He's so young. He's fun and happy and wonderful to be around. He reads. He actually reads. And he has dreams and motivations and he's amazing to watch on stage, wonderful performer. So I'm looking at him going, "I'm too damaged for you. You see me as nothing more than a friend because I don't attract guys that don't have some wild damage about them, unless they're trying to save me from my own head." And part of me is hoping that he's got some hidden issue, some damage, some scar. That he hasn't gone through life untouched, that we will be able to relate to each other as more than just friends, more than just lovers.
He's healthier than I am, it seems. And more mature. And more responsible.
What a joke.
But every so often I'll catch these glimpses, and I'll wonder if he's hiding some part of himself.
He's a nice guy, a good guy, but not... in a bad way.
I wish the man in my head was real. I wish I had that understanding in another person, that true understanding that is only available via one's own mental construct. I wish I had someone I could talk to, really talk to. That I did not have to mentally divide up myself among social groups.
In some, I can be nothing other than the sex beast. I have to live up to my name, I can show no weakness. I'm a trophy, one that I let so few of them have. Stories about me circulate, even when I disappear for a year or two.
In some, I'm the teacher and confidant. I do not get to let go of my burdens. I must listen, I must advise. I feel as though if I do not, all the experiences I've had are useless, that I'm doing them a disservice. That I'm being horribly selfish. I feel that if I bring up my own problems, I'm suddenly not someone they can look up to, and then they lose confidence in themselves and me.
In some, I'm a pleaser. I'm an attachment. I'm that girl that so-and-so is fucking. I give great head and have a snarky comeback at all times, but I never outshine my partner unless it pleases him that I do so.
In some, I'm another version of the sex beast. I'm the shark. I get who I want, even if it takes years, I will eventually get him. Girls watch me, admire me, and try to follow my lead. I get masses of nerds and beta males at my heels, trying to play the nice-guy card.
They all want to save me, seeing me as some sort of nice girl in distress, that fell into bad crowds and bad ways, but if they just point out my errors in judgement, correct how my morals have shifted, I'll be a normal, functioning member of society again.
I hate this. It's such disrespect. It's basically someone telling me that:
A. I can't do it on my own.
B. There is only one acceptable way to be healthy.
C. They represent what is healthy.
D. It does not matter if I do not consider them healthy.
I have other crowds where I'm the shy girl, the loner, the brain. Standard stereotypes that are only pieces of me. Ones I feel trapped in, sometimes. But not as much as the others.
In some groups, if I show weakness... yeah, that's not a good scene.
In others, if I show too much of myself, my experiences, my sexuality, my need to play the game, people are frightened and judgemental. I'm a damaged freak, seeking validation, just as GV8 said.
It made me feel so very small. So very young. But, then, he is almost 44. He could be my father, with that age. Not to mention, he's lived enough for five lifetimes.
It's harder, when you look up to someone, and then they call you sick. Unhealthy.
I was just getting used to that as a state of being. I was getting used to that as being okay. That is was okay that my brain is off at this 90 degree angle from everyone else's. That I'm not strange enough to be one of the wild ones, the people that are willing to lose everything so they can pursue their madcap dreams, but I'm not normal enough to fit.
Self-acceptance, will I ever find it?
And I have friends, especially my best friends, who will accept me no matter what, and I know this. Two of them have been there from the self-destructive fall to today, and one of them has seen so much of it, amuses himself by watching me game guys when we go out. I love them, they love me. And there are parts of each of us that sync, and parts that don't. There are pieces of each other that we'll never get. But we accept it.
Now Hardwood Floors is back in town, back from traveling and promoting his work. I do not know if we will hook up again, if he found someone on the road and is now happily contained in a relationship.
I miss him, more than most partners I've had. Which is saying a lot, because I rarely miss lovers for more than a few weeks after we've ended. Out of all of them, Riot of Tattoos and Hardwood Floors are the ones that haunt me. The ones I want again. Riot, because he's an animal in bed. He's the roughest, most visceral man I've ever been with. Hardwood Floors, because he's... him. Because he rivals me in intensity. Because his work is so heart-stopping. He's rough and lovely, a damaged dreamer, with a bone structure that defies reality. And he understands, possibly better than anyone besides Rick.
I feel stupid, for having revealed those vunerabilities to GV8. My aching sense of isolation, that feeling that I will always be alone and outside, that feeling that, compared to everyone else, there will always be something off about me. That people like me, but only parts of me, and if they knew all of me... they wouldn't, not so much.
So then I toss out parts of me, the unfriendly, the unflattering, the damaged, the alien, and they're slapped back like I'm an inexperienced child.
That I will get over this.
You know, when I'm more mature and worldly.
I've been told so often things along the lines of:
-You're always with someone, you've always got company.
-You're never single for long.
-You'll get out of this funk.
-You'll find someone special who will change your mind.
-There's someone for everyone.
I've been told that 95% of American women marry.
I don't even know why that is relevant, since I don't view marriage as a symbol of love, only trust, an an abused one at that. Not to mention what I think of social statistics. Eesh.
Anyhow, I just derailed.
But I'm feeling mildly better now.
God, this blog is getting so damn emo of late.
Really, when I look at it, I can do alone. I prefer alone, most of the time. And, yes, I keep saying that. Because it's usually true, and has been all my life.
Sometimes it grates, when something happens and I realize I have no one I feel that I can truly talk about it to except myself. I don't have a partner with that connect.
So I create shadows in my head. Shadows that have no basis in reality, but soothe me.
It's just this feeling of embarassment that I come back to. Invalidity of feelings, like a spoiled teenager crying because mommy won't buy her a car for her 16th birthday and she's going to go upstairs and listen to Linkin Park (though it was Megadeth for me, but I'm trying to stay current) and rage about the unfairness of it all.
I feel stupid and embarassed for feeling so different and alone.
I feel like a walking stereotype. One in a million people who feels like they're so damn special and no one can understand their pain and I'm going to compose an epic rock ballad about my pain and paint my nails black because my pain is so dark and tragic etc etc etc.
I don't have pain. I have alienation. I have a fractured sense of self. I have a tendency to write so much that I doubt I will have the patience myself to read this all the way through after I post it (humor leaking in again).
I feel like if I just relaxed, I would be okay. That I would just cover it up and not think and analyze like I do.
I feel that GV8 thinks that I'm just like all the young girls he's slept with over the years: dramatic, with an inflated sense of individualism.
That with all my experience, with the demeanor I have, that calm assuredness that fools so many people, with my mellow tones and ability to take on so many points of view, I'm just a child. A teenager. A girl that hasn't grown up and found the love of her life, settled for whatever came my way, and popped out some kids.
I feel like I should be better than this. Healthier than this. That I've failed myself by not leaning on my years of life-education and coming to a better conclusion than, "I'm a weirdo, and it's unlikely that I'll find a matching weirdo."
That out of all the billions of people on this planet, I'm so damned special that I don't have a potential mate out there.
It's juvenile.
I feel like a foreigner in my own home, and I'm punishing myself for it because I think it's retarded, dramatic, and self-absorbed, and if I had half a brain, I would have gotten over it years ago because, really, it's not like I've ever fit in anywhere. So it's no surprise. I'm not raging against the dying of the light or anything.
Nothing is going to change, other than appearances, other than me feeling confident that I can pass myself off as average/standard/typical/any-word-other-than-'normal'-because-I've-used-it-too-much-in-this-post.
Because I can't accept myself, on a social level, as I am.
Because I don't think I'm fooling anyone. And I don't have the knowledge and experience to do so, at least as of now. I don't need to be normal, I just need to be able to fake it as needed. I do it okay, but I want to do it well.
It's my own insecurities, as always.
When I was in junior high and early in high school, even though I did not believe in any sort of god, I used to lie in bed at night and wish and pray that I would be "normal" one day. That I would fit in. Be average. I did not need to be the most popular or pretty girl. Just a standard one with standard grades and a standard boyfriend, standard family, standard drama. Or that I would, at least, fit in the with the "weird" kids, the goths and punks. Just somewhere, you know?
God, I feel like I'm whining. It wasn't so bad when I knew no one was reading this. I could whine to my heart's content. Now I worry that I'm being incredibly annoying.
In my own blog.
Bwah, I continue to amuse myself with my logic.
I turned down a concert tonight because I was feeling so on edge. I still am, but not as badly. Instead, I'm going to curl up with a friend and finish DollHouse, season one. He has a way of making me calm.
The air conditioner helps as well.
Not an angry scream.
Not at him, anyhow.
Not that I ever, ever scream or raise my voice.
Because I'm mellow.
It really is a blow, even though it shouldn't be. I expected it.
You'd think that if I hooked up with someone like him (and I'm not going to go into detail out of some odd respect for his wish to leave his past behind him), he would have understood. Somehow. That disconnect.
He made me feel like such a child. A little girl with issues.
I suppose I am.
I suddenly was sixteen again, with the poor fashion sense, the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sex with near strangers who I don't really remember anymore, shouting at the world how no one understands me, no one will ever understand me, I'm just so bloody different. Teenage angst.
And now what? Mid-twenties angst?
It only left me when I was with Rick.
And now I'm looking at The Bassist. He's three years younger than I am. That's not my style. I rarely can tolerate people my own age.
He's so young. He's fun and happy and wonderful to be around. He reads. He actually reads. And he has dreams and motivations and he's amazing to watch on stage, wonderful performer. So I'm looking at him going, "I'm too damaged for you. You see me as nothing more than a friend because I don't attract guys that don't have some wild damage about them, unless they're trying to save me from my own head." And part of me is hoping that he's got some hidden issue, some damage, some scar. That he hasn't gone through life untouched, that we will be able to relate to each other as more than just friends, more than just lovers.
He's healthier than I am, it seems. And more mature. And more responsible.
What a joke.
But every so often I'll catch these glimpses, and I'll wonder if he's hiding some part of himself.
He's a nice guy, a good guy, but not... in a bad way.
I wish the man in my head was real. I wish I had that understanding in another person, that true understanding that is only available via one's own mental construct. I wish I had someone I could talk to, really talk to. That I did not have to mentally divide up myself among social groups.
In some, I can be nothing other than the sex beast. I have to live up to my name, I can show no weakness. I'm a trophy, one that I let so few of them have. Stories about me circulate, even when I disappear for a year or two.
In some, I'm the teacher and confidant. I do not get to let go of my burdens. I must listen, I must advise. I feel as though if I do not, all the experiences I've had are useless, that I'm doing them a disservice. That I'm being horribly selfish. I feel that if I bring up my own problems, I'm suddenly not someone they can look up to, and then they lose confidence in themselves and me.
In some, I'm a pleaser. I'm an attachment. I'm that girl that so-and-so is fucking. I give great head and have a snarky comeback at all times, but I never outshine my partner unless it pleases him that I do so.
In some, I'm another version of the sex beast. I'm the shark. I get who I want, even if it takes years, I will eventually get him. Girls watch me, admire me, and try to follow my lead. I get masses of nerds and beta males at my heels, trying to play the nice-guy card.
They all want to save me, seeing me as some sort of nice girl in distress, that fell into bad crowds and bad ways, but if they just point out my errors in judgement, correct how my morals have shifted, I'll be a normal, functioning member of society again.
I hate this. It's such disrespect. It's basically someone telling me that:
A. I can't do it on my own.
B. There is only one acceptable way to be healthy.
C. They represent what is healthy.
D. It does not matter if I do not consider them healthy.
I have other crowds where I'm the shy girl, the loner, the brain. Standard stereotypes that are only pieces of me. Ones I feel trapped in, sometimes. But not as much as the others.
In some groups, if I show weakness... yeah, that's not a good scene.
In others, if I show too much of myself, my experiences, my sexuality, my need to play the game, people are frightened and judgemental. I'm a damaged freak, seeking validation, just as GV8 said.
It made me feel so very small. So very young. But, then, he is almost 44. He could be my father, with that age. Not to mention, he's lived enough for five lifetimes.
It's harder, when you look up to someone, and then they call you sick. Unhealthy.
I was just getting used to that as a state of being. I was getting used to that as being okay. That is was okay that my brain is off at this 90 degree angle from everyone else's. That I'm not strange enough to be one of the wild ones, the people that are willing to lose everything so they can pursue their madcap dreams, but I'm not normal enough to fit.
Self-acceptance, will I ever find it?
And I have friends, especially my best friends, who will accept me no matter what, and I know this. Two of them have been there from the self-destructive fall to today, and one of them has seen so much of it, amuses himself by watching me game guys when we go out. I love them, they love me. And there are parts of each of us that sync, and parts that don't. There are pieces of each other that we'll never get. But we accept it.
Now Hardwood Floors is back in town, back from traveling and promoting his work. I do not know if we will hook up again, if he found someone on the road and is now happily contained in a relationship.
I miss him, more than most partners I've had. Which is saying a lot, because I rarely miss lovers for more than a few weeks after we've ended. Out of all of them, Riot of Tattoos and Hardwood Floors are the ones that haunt me. The ones I want again. Riot, because he's an animal in bed. He's the roughest, most visceral man I've ever been with. Hardwood Floors, because he's... him. Because he rivals me in intensity. Because his work is so heart-stopping. He's rough and lovely, a damaged dreamer, with a bone structure that defies reality. And he understands, possibly better than anyone besides Rick.
I feel stupid, for having revealed those vunerabilities to GV8. My aching sense of isolation, that feeling that I will always be alone and outside, that feeling that, compared to everyone else, there will always be something off about me. That people like me, but only parts of me, and if they knew all of me... they wouldn't, not so much.
So then I toss out parts of me, the unfriendly, the unflattering, the damaged, the alien, and they're slapped back like I'm an inexperienced child.
That I will get over this.
You know, when I'm more mature and worldly.
I've been told so often things along the lines of:
-You're always with someone, you've always got company.
-You're never single for long.
-You'll get out of this funk.
-You'll find someone special who will change your mind.
-There's someone for everyone.
I've been told that 95% of American women marry.
I don't even know why that is relevant, since I don't view marriage as a symbol of love, only trust, an an abused one at that. Not to mention what I think of social statistics. Eesh.
Anyhow, I just derailed.
But I'm feeling mildly better now.
God, this blog is getting so damn emo of late.
Really, when I look at it, I can do alone. I prefer alone, most of the time. And, yes, I keep saying that. Because it's usually true, and has been all my life.
Sometimes it grates, when something happens and I realize I have no one I feel that I can truly talk about it to except myself. I don't have a partner with that connect.
So I create shadows in my head. Shadows that have no basis in reality, but soothe me.
It's just this feeling of embarassment that I come back to. Invalidity of feelings, like a spoiled teenager crying because mommy won't buy her a car for her 16th birthday and she's going to go upstairs and listen to Linkin Park (though it was Megadeth for me, but I'm trying to stay current) and rage about the unfairness of it all.
I feel stupid and embarassed for feeling so different and alone.
I feel like a walking stereotype. One in a million people who feels like they're so damn special and no one can understand their pain and I'm going to compose an epic rock ballad about my pain and paint my nails black because my pain is so dark and tragic etc etc etc.
I don't have pain. I have alienation. I have a fractured sense of self. I have a tendency to write so much that I doubt I will have the patience myself to read this all the way through after I post it (humor leaking in again).
I feel like if I just relaxed, I would be okay. That I would just cover it up and not think and analyze like I do.
I feel that GV8 thinks that I'm just like all the young girls he's slept with over the years: dramatic, with an inflated sense of individualism.
That with all my experience, with the demeanor I have, that calm assuredness that fools so many people, with my mellow tones and ability to take on so many points of view, I'm just a child. A teenager. A girl that hasn't grown up and found the love of her life, settled for whatever came my way, and popped out some kids.
I feel like I should be better than this. Healthier than this. That I've failed myself by not leaning on my years of life-education and coming to a better conclusion than, "I'm a weirdo, and it's unlikely that I'll find a matching weirdo."
That out of all the billions of people on this planet, I'm so damned special that I don't have a potential mate out there.
It's juvenile.
I feel like a foreigner in my own home, and I'm punishing myself for it because I think it's retarded, dramatic, and self-absorbed, and if I had half a brain, I would have gotten over it years ago because, really, it's not like I've ever fit in anywhere. So it's no surprise. I'm not raging against the dying of the light or anything.
Nothing is going to change, other than appearances, other than me feeling confident that I can pass myself off as average/standard/typical/any-word-other-than-'normal'-because-I've-used-it-too-much-in-this-post.
Because I can't accept myself, on a social level, as I am.
Because I don't think I'm fooling anyone. And I don't have the knowledge and experience to do so, at least as of now. I don't need to be normal, I just need to be able to fake it as needed. I do it okay, but I want to do it well.
It's my own insecurities, as always.
When I was in junior high and early in high school, even though I did not believe in any sort of god, I used to lie in bed at night and wish and pray that I would be "normal" one day. That I would fit in. Be average. I did not need to be the most popular or pretty girl. Just a standard one with standard grades and a standard boyfriend, standard family, standard drama. Or that I would, at least, fit in the with the "weird" kids, the goths and punks. Just somewhere, you know?
God, I feel like I'm whining. It wasn't so bad when I knew no one was reading this. I could whine to my heart's content. Now I worry that I'm being incredibly annoying.
In my own blog.
Bwah, I continue to amuse myself with my logic.
I turned down a concert tonight because I was feeling so on edge. I still am, but not as badly. Instead, I'm going to curl up with a friend and finish DollHouse, season one. He has a way of making me calm.
The air conditioner helps as well.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Players
This is going to be a picture-heavy post with little backstory because I'm tired and have to be up early tomorrow.
What I've done is gather pictures of the people I've written about, or plan to write about, and cropped them for anonymity. These are pictures I've taken myself or stolen from myspace or various other sites. I'm missing some crucial people (Riot of Tattoos being my primary annoyance on digging up a picture), I know, but it's still a work in progress. I'm just putting up the main people I've spoken of, but there are more in the folder, and I'll be added to it as time goes on.
But onto the people.
The girl I spend so much time with, C.
Hardwood Floors, one of my favorite lovers over the years.
SFPlayboy, stolen from one of his photo shoots. Such a hottie.
Rick, my "major" ex.
Wolfboy, the almost boyfriend.
Mr. Brush-off, the one night stand from July 4th weekend.
And, well, me.
Also, this past week's pictures are up. They include a drastically oversized urinal, a sign for Big Wang's, and a couple shots from a concert C and I went to on Tuesday, along with other random things.
And now... shower time.
What I've done is gather pictures of the people I've written about, or plan to write about, and cropped them for anonymity. These are pictures I've taken myself or stolen from myspace or various other sites. I'm missing some crucial people (Riot of Tattoos being my primary annoyance on digging up a picture), I know, but it's still a work in progress. I'm just putting up the main people I've spoken of, but there are more in the folder, and I'll be added to it as time goes on.
But onto the people.
The girl I spend so much time with, C.
 |
| From The Players |
Hardwood Floors, one of my favorite lovers over the years.
 |
| From The Players |
SFPlayboy, stolen from one of his photo shoots. Such a hottie.
 |
| From The Players |
Rick, my "major" ex.
 |
| From The Players |
Wolfboy, the almost boyfriend.
 |
| From The Players |
Mr. Brush-off, the one night stand from July 4th weekend.
 |
| From The Players |
And, well, me.
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| From The Players |
Also, this past week's pictures are up. They include a drastically oversized urinal, a sign for Big Wang's, and a couple shots from a concert C and I went to on Tuesday, along with other random things.
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| July 19th 2009 Week |
And now... shower time.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
For the goosebump, in the heartbeat...
December, 2008.
It's almost midnight. I turn onto Beverly from Fairfax, where a quick right sends me up his street. I pull up in front of his apartment and call him to tell him I'm there, glancing at my thermometer as I end the call.
48 degrees.
I'm nervous.
He makes me nervous.
To work out some of that anxious energy, I pop my trunk and start digging through the contents, looking for a sweater, tossing in my CD case so I don't just leave it sitting out in the open on my backseat.
I hear him approach and look up.
God, he's gorgeous.
His bone structure adds this wildness to his face that makes him look like he's got a thunderstorm trapped beneath his skin.
Which isn't too far from the truth.
I notice he's grown a van dyke since I last saw him. It looks good... but then, with his face, everything looks good. It's grown out in this golden cornstalk color, and I'm blown away by how perfect he looks.
"Hey," I say, closing my trunk, walking towards him.
"Hey," he returns to me, opening his arms.
This is the second time we've gone out. I try not to assume anything about the amount of physical and sexual contact my partners enjoy in public, so I go for the hug. He's hard to read, or maybe it's just my nervousness blurring my normal instincts.
About a half-second too late, I realize he's going for the kiss, and I backtrack my movements immediately.
Oh god, he's warm.
God, I've missed this.
Thoughts are flying through my brain as we kiss, all of them starting with religious overtones.
He's perfect.
We're under a street light in front of his apartment, I'd normally be shaking from the cold but he heats my whole body as our lips move together.
We stop and breathe, foreheads touching.
"Hello," I whisper against his lips.
He grins back, "Hello, yourself."
He grabs my hand and pulls me back towards his apartment.
He doesn't realize the shock that was to my system. I haven't held another person's hand in about four months. That tends to be reserved for people I'm comfortable with.
I'm marvelling at the feel of our palms meeting in holy palmers' kiss as we stride back towards his apartment.
Past the bikes linked together.
Up the high curb that was so poorly designed.
Up the narrow stairs that double back on themselves and the taupe walls with visible brushstrokes, madman's canvas.
He pushes open the door and we're together again, standing at the foot of his bed and he drops me, perfectly supported, I feel my body rolling like a perfect throw in judo, except it's slow and our lips never stop.
His mattress is thin and on hardwood. We move together in this ballet of thrown clothes and frantic touches as we reacquaint ourselves with the other's body. I don't remember these scars, the freckles. He has a new tattoo since last we met, over his heart, in cursive, it says:
Start here
I do.
Kisses and licks down his chest, starting from the ink that darkens his skin.
But we don't wait for foreplay. That's for another night. We have a midnight movie to get to at the little theater down the street, and I'm already wet and willing him to get inside me, calling his name as he starts lapping between my legs, my fingers roaming through his short blonde hair, legs sliding up and down the sheets on either side of his body as he slips a finger inside me.
I moan his name, then, "Oh, please, get inside me."
No further encouragement necessary.
I toss him a condom- I always use my own- and he slides it down his shaft and is in me so quickly it's almost beyond human speed.
My body adjusts rapidly, legs are wrapped around his waist, his hands are pinning my wrists down above my head and our lips continue to seek each other, with short coffee breaks to roam to neck and earlobes.
Our rhythm is perfect.
I've never found this with another man.
There are no errors. There is no lack of flow. We are like two parts of one body, the beast with two backs, and we can conduct a symphony with the perfect matching measurements between us, shifting speeds and angles as though we had choreographed this in advance.
The whispered, "I'm going to cum," in my ear sets me to moaning. I love this, when the thrusting takes on more intensity, when you can feel the shaft pulsing against your flesh as he floods inside you.
We lie there, my legs once more wrapped around him.
"I think I'm just going to stay like this forever," I tell him.
"What are we going to do about food?"
"Ah, I'll just eat you."
"Not if I eat you first," he starts biting my shoulders and I'm laughing and biting back as he slides out of me and tosses the condom behind him, onto the hardwood.
It all blends together.
I miss him.
I miss his beauty, and his intensity. I miss lying on the bed facing him as we talk, staring into those too-blue eyes, those insane skyblue eyes of his that I could sink into.
Our first date ended up being twenty-four hours long.
Tattoos on Melrose, clean-up at his apartment (I was bleeding heavily for some reason), a silent film down at the Old Town Music Hall in El Segundo, then dinner around 11PM at The Kettle in Manhattan Beach. That was the first time I had ever been there.
Lying in bed together that night, on my black sheets, just staring at each other. People are always complimenting my eyes, I thought, but they should see his.
"Who is this girl," he says from across the sheets, "Who would go get tattoos with me? Who are you?"
I shrugged at him, "I'm just a girl. Just me."
When we had sex that night, because of the placement of that tattoo, I ended up bleeding ink onto him, so we had matching tattoos, except mine was in the inner curve of my left hipbone, and his was on the right.
The next time, at his place, I found I had smeared eyeshadow across his right shoulder from buring my face against his neck during sex. It happened a few more times after that. I never realized how often I did that.
He was so about love, about loving everything.
But he understood pain, understood damage.
One of the first things that drew me to him was reading some of his writing.
"Pain is how I pray."
And I said, yes, yes, he'll understand.
He did.
I have so many men, so many wonderful experiences to be thankful for.
He's one of them.
It's almost midnight. I turn onto Beverly from Fairfax, where a quick right sends me up his street. I pull up in front of his apartment and call him to tell him I'm there, glancing at my thermometer as I end the call.
48 degrees.
I'm nervous.
He makes me nervous.
To work out some of that anxious energy, I pop my trunk and start digging through the contents, looking for a sweater, tossing in my CD case so I don't just leave it sitting out in the open on my backseat.
I hear him approach and look up.
God, he's gorgeous.
His bone structure adds this wildness to his face that makes him look like he's got a thunderstorm trapped beneath his skin.
Which isn't too far from the truth.
I notice he's grown a van dyke since I last saw him. It looks good... but then, with his face, everything looks good. It's grown out in this golden cornstalk color, and I'm blown away by how perfect he looks.
"Hey," I say, closing my trunk, walking towards him.
"Hey," he returns to me, opening his arms.
This is the second time we've gone out. I try not to assume anything about the amount of physical and sexual contact my partners enjoy in public, so I go for the hug. He's hard to read, or maybe it's just my nervousness blurring my normal instincts.
About a half-second too late, I realize he's going for the kiss, and I backtrack my movements immediately.
Oh god, he's warm.
God, I've missed this.
Thoughts are flying through my brain as we kiss, all of them starting with religious overtones.
He's perfect.
We're under a street light in front of his apartment, I'd normally be shaking from the cold but he heats my whole body as our lips move together.
We stop and breathe, foreheads touching.
"Hello," I whisper against his lips.
He grins back, "Hello, yourself."
He grabs my hand and pulls me back towards his apartment.
He doesn't realize the shock that was to my system. I haven't held another person's hand in about four months. That tends to be reserved for people I'm comfortable with.
I'm marvelling at the feel of our palms meeting in holy palmers' kiss as we stride back towards his apartment.
Past the bikes linked together.
Up the high curb that was so poorly designed.
Up the narrow stairs that double back on themselves and the taupe walls with visible brushstrokes, madman's canvas.
He pushes open the door and we're together again, standing at the foot of his bed and he drops me, perfectly supported, I feel my body rolling like a perfect throw in judo, except it's slow and our lips never stop.
His mattress is thin and on hardwood. We move together in this ballet of thrown clothes and frantic touches as we reacquaint ourselves with the other's body. I don't remember these scars, the freckles. He has a new tattoo since last we met, over his heart, in cursive, it says:
Start here
I do.
Kisses and licks down his chest, starting from the ink that darkens his skin.
But we don't wait for foreplay. That's for another night. We have a midnight movie to get to at the little theater down the street, and I'm already wet and willing him to get inside me, calling his name as he starts lapping between my legs, my fingers roaming through his short blonde hair, legs sliding up and down the sheets on either side of his body as he slips a finger inside me.
I moan his name, then, "Oh, please, get inside me."
No further encouragement necessary.
I toss him a condom- I always use my own- and he slides it down his shaft and is in me so quickly it's almost beyond human speed.
My body adjusts rapidly, legs are wrapped around his waist, his hands are pinning my wrists down above my head and our lips continue to seek each other, with short coffee breaks to roam to neck and earlobes.
Our rhythm is perfect.
I've never found this with another man.
There are no errors. There is no lack of flow. We are like two parts of one body, the beast with two backs, and we can conduct a symphony with the perfect matching measurements between us, shifting speeds and angles as though we had choreographed this in advance.
The whispered, "I'm going to cum," in my ear sets me to moaning. I love this, when the thrusting takes on more intensity, when you can feel the shaft pulsing against your flesh as he floods inside you.
We lie there, my legs once more wrapped around him.
"I think I'm just going to stay like this forever," I tell him.
"What are we going to do about food?"
"Ah, I'll just eat you."
"Not if I eat you first," he starts biting my shoulders and I'm laughing and biting back as he slides out of me and tosses the condom behind him, onto the hardwood.
It all blends together.
I miss him.
I miss his beauty, and his intensity. I miss lying on the bed facing him as we talk, staring into those too-blue eyes, those insane skyblue eyes of his that I could sink into.
Our first date ended up being twenty-four hours long.
Tattoos on Melrose, clean-up at his apartment (I was bleeding heavily for some reason), a silent film down at the Old Town Music Hall in El Segundo, then dinner around 11PM at The Kettle in Manhattan Beach. That was the first time I had ever been there.
Lying in bed together that night, on my black sheets, just staring at each other. People are always complimenting my eyes, I thought, but they should see his.
"Who is this girl," he says from across the sheets, "Who would go get tattoos with me? Who are you?"
I shrugged at him, "I'm just a girl. Just me."
When we had sex that night, because of the placement of that tattoo, I ended up bleeding ink onto him, so we had matching tattoos, except mine was in the inner curve of my left hipbone, and his was on the right.
The next time, at his place, I found I had smeared eyeshadow across his right shoulder from buring my face against his neck during sex. It happened a few more times after that. I never realized how often I did that.
He was so about love, about loving everything.
But he understood pain, understood damage.
One of the first things that drew me to him was reading some of his writing.
"Pain is how I pray."
And I said, yes, yes, he'll understand.
He did.
I have so many men, so many wonderful experiences to be thankful for.
He's one of them.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Gospelstitch
Late last year, I was seeing this guy. He was probably one of the most intense people I have ever met, which is saying a lot. We blew each other away the when we first met. I became addicted to his voice, like so many people have.
Anyhow, he introduced me to the poetry of a friend of his, Buddy Wakefield.
When I read Wakefield's "Gospelstitch", I was enraptured. Half a year later, I still am.
Gospelstitch
I pray thanks
for the woman's heels
I heard on the way here tonight-
they sounded like salt.
When I pray
I pray thanks for the small things,
for flowers and other natural holidays,
for my eight-year-old niece flying her kite
like an umbilical cord.
When I was eight
I prayed for a chest of kites.
Now I pray for You to open
my chest of kites.
Lord, let me write,
leave me autistic and typing
until my windows bust into a thousand silver doves
and I know the poem is done.
And when the words break too much glass inside me
I run when I pray.
I run when I pray on trails
watching the branches blur
to the sun's Holy Sanskrit.
I carry your forests
in my heart.
Your fields
are on my back.
I have not fit your ocean into my chest
yet
but I have fit its sound.
Like trees,
like lightning,
our prayers come
from the ground up.
My God's abridged book
is a children's story
where the lessons are simple
and the smiles lift like first grade watercolors.
When I pray
I pray in museums.
I pray over sweat-stained stages.
I pray with vinyl prayer wheels.
I pray by reading math, eating pocket-watches
to suck the chain back to your chest.
You are the men and their saws.
You are silence.
You are gospels.
You are the shoulders of woman
whose name I never learned.
You are the fire returned back to itself
with every
burnt
book.
When we pray
our chests peel back
like open love letters the size of tide,
the way tide sounds
when it crashes your tympanum,
the way tympanum sounds
when it turns the word eardrum into a cymbal.
We play percussion when we pray.
We sing when we pray.
We laugh when we pray.
When I pray I move my feet
for the goosebump
in the heartbeat...
And I drop my jaw at fire when it's flyin' out my eyes, Lord
I plunge my coiling wires in the water till I rise
above frogs
and pop rocks
and boxes
of roof tops
and the noises I can't outrun
even when I'm running twice the speed of sound already
and three times the speed of my blood
'cause everybody's got voices
and everybody's got some they can't contain
like my need to be redeemed
at any time
in any place.
So you can bring on your boogieman loading his fuss
and gunning his fattening desire
'cause we've got bees on flowers
with honey on hold
for those made of gold
but wrapped in wires
who keep themselves inspired
by the way they feel their spines
screaming, sparkling gods
who gotta live by the way they shine.
And this is not a dot-to-dot plot
or a battle on your god
of the makers of money (odd mockers of the drum)
who all peel and staple great gobs of large labels
to a god they just wanna slum.
No,
this is my time and place.
This is me saving my saved face.
So if my heart starts to radiate bold broken glass,
y'all,
relax...
it always pumps this fast.
So get thee behind me blindness
and come to me quietly light.
Our god loves people like poems,
loves poems like prayers,
and loves prayers even when they are silent.
We pray until our words run out,
and Yours
linger
still.
Anyhow, he introduced me to the poetry of a friend of his, Buddy Wakefield.
When I read Wakefield's "Gospelstitch", I was enraptured. Half a year later, I still am.
Gospelstitch
I pray thanks
for the woman's heels
I heard on the way here tonight-
they sounded like salt.
When I pray
I pray thanks for the small things,
for flowers and other natural holidays,
for my eight-year-old niece flying her kite
like an umbilical cord.
When I was eight
I prayed for a chest of kites.
Now I pray for You to open
my chest of kites.
Lord, let me write,
leave me autistic and typing
until my windows bust into a thousand silver doves
and I know the poem is done.
And when the words break too much glass inside me
I run when I pray.
I run when I pray on trails
watching the branches blur
to the sun's Holy Sanskrit.
I carry your forests
in my heart.
Your fields
are on my back.
I have not fit your ocean into my chest
yet
but I have fit its sound.
Like trees,
like lightning,
our prayers come
from the ground up.
My God's abridged book
is a children's story
where the lessons are simple
and the smiles lift like first grade watercolors.
When I pray
I pray in museums.
I pray over sweat-stained stages.
I pray with vinyl prayer wheels.
I pray by reading math, eating pocket-watches
to suck the chain back to your chest.
You are the men and their saws.
You are silence.
You are gospels.
You are the shoulders of woman
whose name I never learned.
You are the fire returned back to itself
with every
burnt
book.
When we pray
our chests peel back
like open love letters the size of tide,
the way tide sounds
when it crashes your tympanum,
the way tympanum sounds
when it turns the word eardrum into a cymbal.
We play percussion when we pray.
We sing when we pray.
We laugh when we pray.
When I pray I move my feet
for the goosebump
in the heartbeat...
And I drop my jaw at fire when it's flyin' out my eyes, Lord
I plunge my coiling wires in the water till I rise
above frogs
and pop rocks
and boxes
of roof tops
and the noises I can't outrun
even when I'm running twice the speed of sound already
and three times the speed of my blood
'cause everybody's got voices
and everybody's got some they can't contain
like my need to be redeemed
at any time
in any place.
So you can bring on your boogieman loading his fuss
and gunning his fattening desire
'cause we've got bees on flowers
with honey on hold
for those made of gold
but wrapped in wires
who keep themselves inspired
by the way they feel their spines
screaming, sparkling gods
who gotta live by the way they shine.
And this is not a dot-to-dot plot
or a battle on your god
of the makers of money (odd mockers of the drum)
who all peel and staple great gobs of large labels
to a god they just wanna slum.
No,
this is my time and place.
This is me saving my saved face.
So if my heart starts to radiate bold broken glass,
y'all,
relax...
it always pumps this fast.
So get thee behind me blindness
and come to me quietly light.
Our god loves people like poems,
loves poems like prayers,
and loves prayers even when they are silent.
We pray until our words run out,
and Yours
linger
still.
Monday, January 26, 2009
For Remembrance
Watching a video of one of his performances.
God, that man, that voice.
And part of me, a voice inside me, was screaming, "I was with him this morning. I am who he calls when he gets so caught up in his own intensity he can hardly breathe. My body rocks into his, he moves with me. We're perfect."
I love his words, his poetry.
This morning's texts:
"It won't get better.
Now it's six-thirty
The sun is stretching toward us
And I want your mouth on me."
"Door will be open.
I'll be the naked guy in the bed.
Wrap yourself around me."
"If I'm sleeping, wake me.
Put me in your mouth
And speak me out of dreaming."
God, that man, that voice.
And part of me, a voice inside me, was screaming, "I was with him this morning. I am who he calls when he gets so caught up in his own intensity he can hardly breathe. My body rocks into his, he moves with me. We're perfect."
I love his words, his poetry.
This morning's texts:
"It won't get better.
Now it's six-thirty
The sun is stretching toward us
And I want your mouth on me."
"Door will be open.
I'll be the naked guy in the bed.
Wrap yourself around me."
"If I'm sleeping, wake me.
Put me in your mouth
And speak me out of dreaming."
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Underwater Harmonies
Hardwood floors again.
We laid in bed, my lips resting on his shoulder. While he was thrusting into me, while I was rolling my hips into him, I noticed we both hummed. Brief "hmm"s of pleasure, constant companions to our sex.
"We sounds like whales," I said, "Singing to each other under the waves."
He laughs and reads me poetry in the dark, book illuminated by the light of his cellphone.
When we roll, we match. There are none of those moments where the rhythms don't align, where mutual thrusts have timing that is slightly off. Our internal songs match, we are synchronous in our flesh, together we blend and overlap harmonies.
We laid in bed, my lips resting on his shoulder. While he was thrusting into me, while I was rolling my hips into him, I noticed we both hummed. Brief "hmm"s of pleasure, constant companions to our sex.
"We sounds like whales," I said, "Singing to each other under the waves."
He laughs and reads me poetry in the dark, book illuminated by the light of his cellphone.
When we roll, we match. There are none of those moments where the rhythms don't align, where mutual thrusts have timing that is slightly off. Our internal songs match, we are synchronous in our flesh, together we blend and overlap harmonies.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Sunday Morning
Muscles are still sore from moving against him.
I wake up at 1130 and lie there, on his thin mattress, my lips resting against the back of his skull, chest against his back, arm wrapped around his torso, hand over his heart.
I listen to him breathe, feel the heat rising off him, the sun on my skin, streaming through the window, highlighting the books, notes, pens, journals, scattered across the hardwood floor along with our clothes.
He creates beauty.
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