More and more, I'm straining towards another division of blogs.
Though it becomes increasingly unlikely as my schedule takes another shift. School is starting tonight. A fifty mile commute to my classes, lovely. My "underling" is starting school as well, going down to part-time, meaning that I am going to have to pick up the slack. That means less writing time.
Already, I have problems maintaining two blogs, the other one neglected as this one went up, me basking in anonymity, knowing I can say what I want about who I want without the desperate emails from men telling me that we needed to go out, that I was the one for them, that only I would understand them, or the growing section of fangirls, girls that I don't know how to handle.
And this blog is still anonymous. Those who have asked for its location have been denied, no matter how close we are, because I'm withdrawn, because I know that even with the closest friendships, things happen and people change, and people are self-serving beyond good, beyond bad, just seeking for themselves.
Someone commented just a little bit ago that I was slumming by making out with a man in a relationship, that I needed to raise my standards. It made me feel as though they hadn't read the post at all, simply skimmed it, not bothering to understand the content, just getting the barest of details and slapping a face on it, a face they understood.
I forgot what that was like.
I'm so used to having my face up, so used to having a backstory, so used to having groups of people reading my stuff and interpreting it that things like that so rarely happen.
But it's something I need to get over.
It does let me see the difference, though.
Things move along though. Inching towards my Master's degree, couch-surfing, socializing much too much, the random social encounters... I've met so many people in so many places and I wonder how many more I will meet before I give up entirely in the barely-there-as-is belief that I might meet someone for me.
I run through southern California, from San Diego to the Valley, digging.
Digging for experience, digging for knowledge, digging for identity, to compare myself to others and say "this is who I am not" because it is so rare for me to say "this is who I am".
I'm 26 in a month and a half and I feel like I'm starring in some crappy indie flick about a girl trying to find herself.
Usually, though, these girls are these delicate creatures who have never fallen in love, never experienced a man, wear wacky scenster clothes, and stumble across their awkward romance while working at a drug store.
Whereas I'm sitting here, wild, damaged, too experienced, always mellow, withdrawn, overanalytical in my simplistic clothing style, glasses, and layered black hair, nose in a book, wondering if I should just start dating only intelligent ex-cons because it seems I get along with those the best.
When I was out with Sad Eyes on Friday night, wandering Downtown Disney, he said he was looking for his Belle, interfering that he was such a damaged beast, saying that he needed the tolerance and understanding of such a woman.
And I find it funny. If you've seen the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, it starts off with Belle being incredibly devoted to her father, nose always in a book, innocent and determined. And then she rescues the Beast from the darkness within him through her faith and understanding, through her determination. She keeps, for the most part, her innocence, only losing it somewhat when the villagers in the town she lived in lost their heads and Gaston went all possessive/avenging his honor batshit.
We were by the west end of the area when he said this, walking back from the Disneyland Hotel. I could not help but chuckle because the last time that tale was raised around me, one of my blogging friends rewrote it in the start of a project where he was redoing fairytales to feature the girls he knew. It was about me, a combination of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast, where an innocent girl pricks her finger on a spinning wheel and becomes, inside, a beast. In the end, she saves the beast, prevents him from turning back into a human, so they could be beasts together.
I enjoyed it.
So often these damaged men I dig up are looking for redemption through innocence. Looking to be saved like in some Hollywood ideal. Embarassed and distant about their past actions and feelings, they go through women, looking so hard for that one that will see past their behaviors, that will somehow, solely through love, make them whole again.
Every time they hurt another one, one that cannot handle who and what they are, they become angry, frustrated, and more withdrawn. Badges from battle, they wear these girls like shields, keeping people out, yet drawing them in.
I suppose I'm no better.
Looking for a beast of a man, someone I can respect and run with. Someone who pushes like I do, someone who wants to be more, someone who will be more and understand the isolation that comes from this all, comes from being different and wading through crowds, up to your neck in people that you do not want to understand, hoping that someone will grab your hand and yank you out, or at least walk with you until you both find shore.
But that's all fantasy.
And, right now, I've got to be in reality. I have thirty minutes to wrap up work so I can start my lovely commute to class.
Good morning to me.
Showing posts with label sad eyes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sad eyes. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I'm feeling restless.
That might be the caffeine. Might not.
Examining, briefly, relationships.
GV8, it bothers me that he no longer wants me in a serious relationship capacity. Not that I want him in a serious relationship capacity... I think I could learn a lot from him, experience a lot with him, but I can do that whether or not we're dating. And I do like him. But, in a serious thing, he's not for me. Where we are right now, it's good. It does bother me when he sleeps with others, but his sex drive is high, higher than mine. And he's used to a lot of sex with a lot of people. It does worry me, on an STD level, but he's been swinging and partying his entire life, gets tested regularly, is very cautious, so I'm going to trust him until I can't. There's also my monogamous nature coming through. I've never had a lover not satisfied by just me. I've never had a man sleeping with other women, even when I was sleeping with other men. I mean, Playboy does, but he's a couple hundred miles away from me and we certainly don't have the relationship that GV8 and I do. There's that twinge of jealousy, maybe more than a twinge, but it comes from insecurity on my end. I need to get over that before it drives me insane.
The man with the sad eyes on Friday... damaged. So beyond damaged, with a significant flair for dramatics. I don't... really have interest in knowing more. He's wallowing, and while his headspace is interesting, I don't have interest in dramatics and people without motivation towards improvement. There's a lot going on there, and I'm too busy to concern myself with it.
Sleeve, he got in my head for a few days. His face and his confidence, his experience and social control. I wanted to know more. I have his email, his phone number... and I'm not going to use them. Because that's going to go one of three ways, and two of them are just no good, and the one that could be good isn't even worth it.
I want to go out. I want to start dating again and I don't have the time.
No, not dating dating. That would just be silly. Where I am right now, it's not a healthy place for dating and I'm not going to expose a man to that. At the very least, it's incredibly selfish on my part.
But that loose dating, where you're going out and men are paying attention to you and fawning and flirting and hanging onto every word you say and you end up feeling so desired.
And I think I want that simply because the thing with GV8, my insecurity shining through.
That happens every so often. After rejection, after a week of feeling down, I'll just want to go out and have someone lavish attention on me, prove to me that I am wanted, that I am desirable.
Most of the time, I don't need it. Most of the time, I'm fine on my own.
But then something happens and I slip up and I'm eyeing myself going, "Christ, not again. Get over it."
Sometimes I do. I just put my head down and power through it until the insecurity and self-doubt fades away.
Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I hunt for that not-too-hard-to-find male attention. Not necessarily sex, mind you. Just positive attention.
People, in life, are always surprised when they find out that I'm not a constant fount of self-confidence. And then I feel as though I'm letting them down, especially those younger girls, usually late teens to early twenties, that seem to find me such an object of fascination and intimidation.
So I'm at that point again. Feeling a little unsettled by GV8 and his sex life that does not always include me, wanting to validate or, at least, confirm my desirability.
Which means I'm going to sit and stew. Which means I'm going to deal with this and continue to work on myself to get myself to an acceptable point, a point where I feel desirable on my own. I know that no one ever feels desirable 100% of the time, and that my occasional moments of extreme self-doubt concerning my desirability are, honestly, probably every two or three months, I think I can be better, more secure. And if I cannot provide this for myself, then I shouldn't be expecting it from an outside source.
That might be the caffeine. Might not.
Examining, briefly, relationships.
GV8, it bothers me that he no longer wants me in a serious relationship capacity. Not that I want him in a serious relationship capacity... I think I could learn a lot from him, experience a lot with him, but I can do that whether or not we're dating. And I do like him. But, in a serious thing, he's not for me. Where we are right now, it's good. It does bother me when he sleeps with others, but his sex drive is high, higher than mine. And he's used to a lot of sex with a lot of people. It does worry me, on an STD level, but he's been swinging and partying his entire life, gets tested regularly, is very cautious, so I'm going to trust him until I can't. There's also my monogamous nature coming through. I've never had a lover not satisfied by just me. I've never had a man sleeping with other women, even when I was sleeping with other men. I mean, Playboy does, but he's a couple hundred miles away from me and we certainly don't have the relationship that GV8 and I do. There's that twinge of jealousy, maybe more than a twinge, but it comes from insecurity on my end. I need to get over that before it drives me insane.
The man with the sad eyes on Friday... damaged. So beyond damaged, with a significant flair for dramatics. I don't... really have interest in knowing more. He's wallowing, and while his headspace is interesting, I don't have interest in dramatics and people without motivation towards improvement. There's a lot going on there, and I'm too busy to concern myself with it.
Sleeve, he got in my head for a few days. His face and his confidence, his experience and social control. I wanted to know more. I have his email, his phone number... and I'm not going to use them. Because that's going to go one of three ways, and two of them are just no good, and the one that could be good isn't even worth it.
I want to go out. I want to start dating again and I don't have the time.
No, not dating dating. That would just be silly. Where I am right now, it's not a healthy place for dating and I'm not going to expose a man to that. At the very least, it's incredibly selfish on my part.
But that loose dating, where you're going out and men are paying attention to you and fawning and flirting and hanging onto every word you say and you end up feeling so desired.
And I think I want that simply because the thing with GV8, my insecurity shining through.
That happens every so often. After rejection, after a week of feeling down, I'll just want to go out and have someone lavish attention on me, prove to me that I am wanted, that I am desirable.
Most of the time, I don't need it. Most of the time, I'm fine on my own.
But then something happens and I slip up and I'm eyeing myself going, "Christ, not again. Get over it."
Sometimes I do. I just put my head down and power through it until the insecurity and self-doubt fades away.
Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I hunt for that not-too-hard-to-find male attention. Not necessarily sex, mind you. Just positive attention.
People, in life, are always surprised when they find out that I'm not a constant fount of self-confidence. And then I feel as though I'm letting them down, especially those younger girls, usually late teens to early twenties, that seem to find me such an object of fascination and intimidation.
So I'm at that point again. Feeling a little unsettled by GV8 and his sex life that does not always include me, wanting to validate or, at least, confirm my desirability.
Which means I'm going to sit and stew. Which means I'm going to deal with this and continue to work on myself to get myself to an acceptable point, a point where I feel desirable on my own. I know that no one ever feels desirable 100% of the time, and that my occasional moments of extreme self-doubt concerning my desirability are, honestly, probably every two or three months, I think I can be better, more secure. And if I cannot provide this for myself, then I shouldn't be expecting it from an outside source.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Thursday, I saw GV8. Sex, dinner, sex. He always starts dominant then moves to sensual. He took us to the Cat & Fiddle on Sunset. I'd never been. The food was... decent. Nothing really to remark on.
Friday afternoon I went to get my arms waxed and took my mother to lunch.
We talked, mostly about my sister and her boyfriend. Near the end of lunch, she says to me, "I was talking to Aunt Val on the phone earlier this week. I was telling her that I miss you, even though you're living with us again I never see you. I told her that you're my rock. She asked if I had told you that and I didn't think I had. But you are my rock. You're the person I call when I need to talk, the person I want to see when I'm upset, the person I can tell anything to."
She is mine.
I don't think I've ever told her that.
She's the thing that holds me to earth. She's one of my closest friends, even though I can't tell her too much about my life, as it would hurt her. I love spending time with her, calling her when I'm able, just to chat, coming home and doing housework for her while she's gone to help her free up some time to, at the very least, get other things done, if not relax. I take her to meet my friends, invite her when we go out, let her know if she ever wants to go clubbing with me, she's more than welcome, though I doubt she ever will be.
She's 54.
I think I will lose it entirely when she dies.
... ... ...
Friday afternoon, after lunch, I drove over to the Anaheim Convention Center.
BlizzCon.
That's right: World of Warcraft. Diablo. Starcraft. Nerd central and I love it.
Entry, for me, is free. $120 is waived, and I park in a lot that I use each time something happens at the convention center, so I can avoid the park fiasco that occurs way too often.
I hunt my friends down, different groups of people. They all play WoW. I haven't touched it in at least a year. No time.
I watch the males parade around their girlfriends, the select few of them, all tarted up for the convention, looking young and unsure of themselves, but their boyfriends are so proud to have them on their arm.
I slide through crowds. Strangers occasionally come up to talk to me, to tell me how pretty or striking I am, one telling me, "I did not know Baroness had a hot sister!" and taking a photo with me to prove to his friends that he actually had the balls to come up and talk to me. I love nerds. I love how friendly they are, how outrageous they can be, how passionate and angry they are about their games, the awkward shyness around women, and how they each deal with their discomfort.
I'm no better, really. My mood varies from confident and social to quiet and anxious, depending on the setting and how tired I am.
It's hard at bars. Hanging at the bar in the Hilton lobby, packed to the gills, mostly with industry people. I don't drink. Drinking is a social activity, and to be there with a glass of water or soda in hand is declaring seperation. It makes me uncomfortable, a feeling of distance. Men stop and talk to me, touch my hand or shoulder so I say hello, and I am polite to each. As the night wears on, I draw more and more into myself.
One of my friends walked me into the demo area for WoW: Catacylsm. I tried out the Worgen race, werewolves in a -very- slightly steampunk environment. The time, normally 15 to 20 minutes, was extended for us, playing until we were done.
Fox introduced me to his friends, guildmates and others he'd known for some time that I had yet to meet. A particularly beta male latched onto me, flirting desperately, even though I flat out rejected his advances each time, finally stopping him and saying, "I'm not interested. I have a specific type and an odd outlook and if you don't start treating me like one of the boys like everyone else, I'm going to get uncomfortable or annoyed and send you away, so please stop."
And he did.
Friday night I found another friend talking to the man with the sad eyes, which is how I met him. Attractive, more than most, but it was the edge of desolation that colored his vision that made me want to know him.
Saturday night was a different social circle where I met Sleeve. Web developer, content manager, COO for a gaming news site. I'm feeling better about that. I spoke with another friend afterwards, and he pointed out that if Sleeve was going to cheat on his girlfriend, it would have been with anyone (though, honestly, I knew and read the signs and could have stopped it) and it was lucky to have been with me, because I would not have taken it past kissing and light groping. And maybe this incident, if discussed, will allow him to either fix or end his relationship.
Maybe not. But I'm not going to feel guilty about this anymore. I'm not going to do that again, I am going to learn from this.
Saturday night was also the Ozzy concert, one I hadn't been planning on attending until I walked into the Exhibition Hall and saw that it was going on. One of the mini-barricades was open for a short period of time, letting people out, so I slid in and threaded through the crowds, finally wandering into the press section unmolested. Fifth row at an Ozzy concert, pit in front and to the left, singing along with Crazy Train as Ozzy blasted the pit with a fire extinguisher hose.
Sunday, I woke up at noon. Having gone to bed after 4AM, plus wandering around all Friday and Saturday, I was fairly displeased.
I went to Fox's barbeque, bacon-themed. Bacon burgers, bacon cookies (I have pictures of this in the album at the bottom of this post), bacon-wrapped jalepenos, bacon-wrapped bacon... I don't even want to know what else they did with it.
Stopped and talked with one of my friends, a man I had been particularly close to a few years ago, consider him close to a brother with how comfortable we are together. Talked about the incident with Sleeve, about my "street cred" with the girlfriends in the group, and how we should not bring up the incident around them because it would probably make them nervous. I've never slipped before, but it's enough.
It was funny. I was harassing him for not inviting me to Fox's wedding last year, and he told me he wasn't incharge of wedding invites, only the bachelor party. And then he looked at me and said, "Goddamn, I should have invited you."
"Well, yeah."
"I mean, you have tits and all..."
"But it's only a technicality."
I am one of the boys. Masculine dandy to an extreme. I am one of the only girls in the group that does not have a nickname, because most of the girls come in and start sleeping with one of the guys and no one expects them to stick around, so they're given nicknames in order to identify them. Sexual or physical in nature, usually. I had "IDSN" for about a month (a nerdy joke, owing to the fact that my lower lip is rather full, but my upper lip is normal, so I only have half-DSL), but that faded quickly.
We talked about that for a little, and then we talked about his impending proposal to his girlfriend of six years, a cute little redheaded engineer, and how I will be invited to his bachelor party, assuming the two of them work out their issues regarding how he wants kids and she really, really doesn't.
It was an interesting weekend. I'm probably forgetting so many things, odd conversations, interesting men, bizarre incidents and side comments.
But I had fun.
They're trying to get me to start playing Warcraft with them, harassing me to reactivate my account and join their guild, but I just don't have the time. I do miss them, and I did enjoy the game, and I do know that if I started playing with them I would be more aware of all the parties and barbeques... but right now, sacrificing the time... I don't think I can.
Maybe one day.
This week, in pictures:
Bacon cookies, Ozzie concert, BlizzCon photos, Beware of Safety concert, and a dog in socks!
Friday afternoon I went to get my arms waxed and took my mother to lunch.
We talked, mostly about my sister and her boyfriend. Near the end of lunch, she says to me, "I was talking to Aunt Val on the phone earlier this week. I was telling her that I miss you, even though you're living with us again I never see you. I told her that you're my rock. She asked if I had told you that and I didn't think I had. But you are my rock. You're the person I call when I need to talk, the person I want to see when I'm upset, the person I can tell anything to."
She is mine.
I don't think I've ever told her that.
She's the thing that holds me to earth. She's one of my closest friends, even though I can't tell her too much about my life, as it would hurt her. I love spending time with her, calling her when I'm able, just to chat, coming home and doing housework for her while she's gone to help her free up some time to, at the very least, get other things done, if not relax. I take her to meet my friends, invite her when we go out, let her know if she ever wants to go clubbing with me, she's more than welcome, though I doubt she ever will be.
She's 54.
I think I will lose it entirely when she dies.
... ... ...
Friday afternoon, after lunch, I drove over to the Anaheim Convention Center.
BlizzCon.
That's right: World of Warcraft. Diablo. Starcraft. Nerd central and I love it.
Entry, for me, is free. $120 is waived, and I park in a lot that I use each time something happens at the convention center, so I can avoid the park fiasco that occurs way too often.
I hunt my friends down, different groups of people. They all play WoW. I haven't touched it in at least a year. No time.
I watch the males parade around their girlfriends, the select few of them, all tarted up for the convention, looking young and unsure of themselves, but their boyfriends are so proud to have them on their arm.
I slide through crowds. Strangers occasionally come up to talk to me, to tell me how pretty or striking I am, one telling me, "I did not know Baroness had a hot sister!" and taking a photo with me to prove to his friends that he actually had the balls to come up and talk to me. I love nerds. I love how friendly they are, how outrageous they can be, how passionate and angry they are about their games, the awkward shyness around women, and how they each deal with their discomfort.
I'm no better, really. My mood varies from confident and social to quiet and anxious, depending on the setting and how tired I am.
It's hard at bars. Hanging at the bar in the Hilton lobby, packed to the gills, mostly with industry people. I don't drink. Drinking is a social activity, and to be there with a glass of water or soda in hand is declaring seperation. It makes me uncomfortable, a feeling of distance. Men stop and talk to me, touch my hand or shoulder so I say hello, and I am polite to each. As the night wears on, I draw more and more into myself.
One of my friends walked me into the demo area for WoW: Catacylsm. I tried out the Worgen race, werewolves in a -very- slightly steampunk environment. The time, normally 15 to 20 minutes, was extended for us, playing until we were done.
Fox introduced me to his friends, guildmates and others he'd known for some time that I had yet to meet. A particularly beta male latched onto me, flirting desperately, even though I flat out rejected his advances each time, finally stopping him and saying, "I'm not interested. I have a specific type and an odd outlook and if you don't start treating me like one of the boys like everyone else, I'm going to get uncomfortable or annoyed and send you away, so please stop."
And he did.
Friday night I found another friend talking to the man with the sad eyes, which is how I met him. Attractive, more than most, but it was the edge of desolation that colored his vision that made me want to know him.
Saturday night was a different social circle where I met Sleeve. Web developer, content manager, COO for a gaming news site. I'm feeling better about that. I spoke with another friend afterwards, and he pointed out that if Sleeve was going to cheat on his girlfriend, it would have been with anyone (though, honestly, I knew and read the signs and could have stopped it) and it was lucky to have been with me, because I would not have taken it past kissing and light groping. And maybe this incident, if discussed, will allow him to either fix or end his relationship.
Maybe not. But I'm not going to feel guilty about this anymore. I'm not going to do that again, I am going to learn from this.
Saturday night was also the Ozzy concert, one I hadn't been planning on attending until I walked into the Exhibition Hall and saw that it was going on. One of the mini-barricades was open for a short period of time, letting people out, so I slid in and threaded through the crowds, finally wandering into the press section unmolested. Fifth row at an Ozzy concert, pit in front and to the left, singing along with Crazy Train as Ozzy blasted the pit with a fire extinguisher hose.
Sunday, I woke up at noon. Having gone to bed after 4AM, plus wandering around all Friday and Saturday, I was fairly displeased.
I went to Fox's barbeque, bacon-themed. Bacon burgers, bacon cookies (I have pictures of this in the album at the bottom of this post), bacon-wrapped jalepenos, bacon-wrapped bacon... I don't even want to know what else they did with it.
Stopped and talked with one of my friends, a man I had been particularly close to a few years ago, consider him close to a brother with how comfortable we are together. Talked about the incident with Sleeve, about my "street cred" with the girlfriends in the group, and how we should not bring up the incident around them because it would probably make them nervous. I've never slipped before, but it's enough.
It was funny. I was harassing him for not inviting me to Fox's wedding last year, and he told me he wasn't incharge of wedding invites, only the bachelor party. And then he looked at me and said, "Goddamn, I should have invited you."
"Well, yeah."
"I mean, you have tits and all..."
"But it's only a technicality."
I am one of the boys. Masculine dandy to an extreme. I am one of the only girls in the group that does not have a nickname, because most of the girls come in and start sleeping with one of the guys and no one expects them to stick around, so they're given nicknames in order to identify them. Sexual or physical in nature, usually. I had "IDSN" for about a month (a nerdy joke, owing to the fact that my lower lip is rather full, but my upper lip is normal, so I only have half-DSL), but that faded quickly.
We talked about that for a little, and then we talked about his impending proposal to his girlfriend of six years, a cute little redheaded engineer, and how I will be invited to his bachelor party, assuming the two of them work out their issues regarding how he wants kids and she really, really doesn't.
It was an interesting weekend. I'm probably forgetting so many things, odd conversations, interesting men, bizarre incidents and side comments.
But I had fun.
They're trying to get me to start playing Warcraft with them, harassing me to reactivate my account and join their guild, but I just don't have the time. I do miss them, and I did enjoy the game, and I do know that if I started playing with them I would be more aware of all the parties and barbeques... but right now, sacrificing the time... I don't think I can.
Maybe one day.
This week, in pictures:
Bacon cookies, Ozzie concert, BlizzCon photos, Beware of Safety concert, and a dog in socks!
 |
| August 22nd, 2009 |
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Before I run out the door...
Invites to dinner had me on my way out, earlier than I wanted, but I had not seen this group of people in nearly half year.
As I walk, I hear my name shouted, look over. It's a friend, who is also a one-nighter that didn't go anywhere because our chemistry was no good and he was too submissive.
Sitting by him was a man, decently well dressed.
I was curious.
He was polite, charming, a little self-depreciating, but not overmuch. Slightly high energy, a soft waft of alcohol around him.
The three of us talk. I flirt and neg.
And I want to know more. Looking at his behaviors, looking at the expression on his face, the creases at the corners of his eyes that indicate when his mood does not mirror his words, which is much too often.
But to know, to know what it is that is causing this fracture, I have to get him away from everyone else.
So I do.
And in the quarter-mile we walk to get to the parking lot, I've burrowed under his social mask and as I lean against my car the sadness in his eyes is overwhelming, the creases dark with shadow, angling down.
He's too interesting. He's so wrecked and beautiful and I can't say no to poking around in the ruins of his head.
I decide against dinner with my friends. It's almost 10PM and they've been at the restaurant/bar since 830PM, if not earlier.
He asks me if I'm going to leave, I tell him no.
He asks what I wish to do, and I tell him I wish to eat.
We walk to Disneyland.
Downtown Disney, to be precise. Disneyland is closing as we arrive, families flooding outward, boarding trams that will take them back to the cars and they will tuck their exhausted children into carseats and backseats and those children will sleep deeply on the ride back, as I once did.
He's never been in Downtown Disney. It sounds like he was in the army when it was being built, and then he never bothered to come once he left. He did not even know it existed.
So I walk him on a quick tour. World of Disney Store, the horrific Anne Geddes store, through The Vault, into Build-A-Bear, pointing out the jazz band at Brennan's, into the LEGO store with its plastic scupltures, through the Rainforest Cafe, down to Disneyland Hotel with the Peter Pan themed pool, the secluded waterfall caverns that I've known for years how to get into once they're closed.
We talk damage. We talk philosophy and values. We talk about beasts, and wildness, about how wrecked he is, how much distaste he has for his body, how much loathing he has for himself. The ideas of goodness, ultimate goodness, or the greater good. Descartes, Aristotle, Plato, he loves philosophers, studies them, intersperses their quotes and ideas into our conversation.
Dinner is settled on at Rainforest Cafe. He seemed to be the happiest there, and he needs a little happiness. He needs a break from his brain and a person to talk to, to chisel away at him, lift up the rocks and see what lies beneath.
We eat, the food is always poor, but I told him of this in advance. Rainforest Cafe's draw is not in the food, but in the atmosphere. Looks over substance. It does well.
I take him into the lobby of the Grand Californian and we sit in the large fireplace, warming ourselves.
We walk back to the hotel where he's staying and he's eyeing me. "I can't determine whether you're interesting or dangerous."
"Oh, I'm not dangerous. I'm perfectly polite, concerned with respect and boundaries, good presentation. Never rude."
All accurate, all having nothing to do about whether a person is dangerous or not. He calls me on it and I smile.
He tells me he can't imagine anyone ever wrecking me. That I'm too strong, too self-contained. If I was going to be wrecked, I'd do it to myself. He envies it. Wishes he could be like that.
I don't explain it to him.
He tells me he shows how wrecked he is because it makes others happy. A sentence that would make no sense to a regular person, a person who would declare that no one would be happy at one of their friends or family broken, but they would be wrong and naive. People like others exhibiting their wreckage for various reasons, but we do not go into it.
I tell him that the only reason he allows himself to stay wrecked to keep those around him happy is because he hates himself and determines that there's no reason to heal, no reason to grow and examine, because he's not worth it to himself. Might as well make others happy, he does not deserve to be.
He stares at me, then looks forward, tells me I'm right.
"I have my moments," I say.
"Probably not a rare occurance."
"I know."
His eyes are so sad.
We walk back to his hotel, take the elevator up, me already telling him I'm not going to sleep with him this evening.
Ninth floor, I look around and know that I haven't been in this hotel in years.
We sit on the balconey of his hotel and talk. He has his feet propped up on the railing, long legs extending out and up as he leans back into his chair.
Ten minutes later, he's in front of me, his legs on either side of mine as he rolls his fingers up my sides, and I writhe. His lips are soft, not firm, but he can kiss. He kisses like I do: tongue darting out, swiping across a lip microseconds before lip contact. His fingers go around my throat, my breath catches and I near purr for him. I stand up and he turns me around, my back against the railing as he leans into me and we continue to kiss.
But I don't like heights.
I wiggle out from between his arms and walk into his hotel room, bra already unclapsed, I swing it and my shirt over my head, toss it onto a chair in a quick, easy movement.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed and I go to him, fingers running through his hair, nails up his back, gripping his thighs and he asks for my tongue, sucking it and sliding back on the bed.
Little movements indiciate wildness, indicate rough. He switches back and forth until I lean back and tell him that I can't tell what he wants, but I prefer it rough.
He tells me some things are better to keep chained down.
Too many men are afraid of this. I want him to let go.
I crawl on top of him, trailing my tongue up his neck, nibbling on his ears, hands roaming his chest and nipples, his hands are in my hair as I slide my tongue over the bare bit of flesh at the top of his jeans, feeling his muscles twitch as my hands run over the insides of his thighs and he's unzipping but I'm not going to touch him until he breaks.
His penis is out and my breasts brush against it and he gasps. He's responsive, his whole body alive and I'm confident I'll get through as I lick his stomach and his penis angles towards my face, brushing against my cheek.
I stop.
I look.
He's a good 10, maybe 11 inches.
...that was unexpected.
His hand goes for my neck again, "Such a tiny throat," he whispers against my lips. I hope this is a good sign, but he controls himself again.
"Just give in," I tell him, licking his neck, "I'm either going to leave or take pity on you, and I hate it when I have to take pity. I'm not going to lose control, I have perfect control. This is my world. Give in."
He says to me, "You're right. We should be what we are."
But he does not give.
Another twenty, thirty minutes pass, his jeans are around his thighs, he's moaning, twitching, reaching for me with the occasional, "Oh please..." half-beg, trying to steer his penis towards my mouth or hands, and when he does this, I stop. I bite his side, the bottom of his ribs, and move my mouth down, tongue darting out, barest of touches on the head of his penis, and I breathe. I breathe and blow lightly, he's whimpering and I let my lips bump his length as I come so close to him.
I find it... sad, when a man begs. When a man tries to convince or cajole, penis straining ever upward.
So I swing my body off of his. He's not going to break, I want to go to bed, and for once I will not let pity dictate me. He can take care of himself.
"I've gotta get going soon," I tell him between kisses.
"Let me go down on you first. I love a good meal."
"Mmkay."
Pants are unbelted and his fingers seek me out, him moaning, "So wet..." as I grind against his hand, trying to take off my shoes at this odd angle.
Shoes drop to the floor, pants slide off me and his fingers are working.
He's good.
He's actually good.
He's redeemed himself. I run my fingers along his scalp, my right leg thrown over his body and I roll my hips against him, pressing my chest into him, moaning between kisses, between tongue.
But he's shown he knows what he's doing. He's shown he has experience.
Finally something that allows me to view him as not just another desperate, though attractive, male.
I stop him, slide between his legs, and run my tongue up that so-long shaft. A long journey, a hissed "Christ" escapes from his lips and I go to work. He spasms, twitches, curses, my mouth roaming over him. GV8 has me trained so well.
"Bring yourself over here so I can at least finger you," he says between gasps.
"No. Too distracting."
"Let me go down on you."
"No. The angle is wrong if we do that. I won't be able to get my tongue here," and a quick run up the underside of his shaft and a babbled "Ohokayokay," from him.
He swings me around anyhow. Lying on our sides, me on top, him on top, his huge shaft dangling at me from above.
I finally manuever back around to him being unable to please me.
Thumbs stroking the base of his shaft, fingers running over his balls, tongue running wild over the sheer amount of surface area he's been blessed with.
A whispered "faster" sets me in motion, and he's trying so hard not to buck against my face. "Ohgodohjesusjesusjesusfuckinggodohcrapjesus," pours from his lips and he shoots. Mouthfuls and mouthfuls and I'm trying to get it all and not make a mess as he continues to shoot load after load, profanity on the heels of each one.
His twitch alerts me that he's a hyper-sensitive guy. I lie absolutely still, knowing that pulling off of him will be painful. It takes about two minutes for the painful overload of sensation to leave him, and I gently drop him from my mouth.
"Oh god," he tells me as I crawl up beside him. "Jesus, that was crazy. Damn."
"I didn't mean to give you tourettes. Sorry."
We laugh and talk. I clean up, hit the restroom, get dressed.
He walks me to my car, we exchange numbers, and I drive home.
If I see him again this weekend, I see him again. If I do not, I do not.
It's not about the justification or validation that is brought. It's what you learn from the person, what you learn about yourself and what you learn about the world around you and how people view it.
We have moments.
As I walk, I hear my name shouted, look over. It's a friend, who is also a one-nighter that didn't go anywhere because our chemistry was no good and he was too submissive.
Sitting by him was a man, decently well dressed.
I was curious.
He was polite, charming, a little self-depreciating, but not overmuch. Slightly high energy, a soft waft of alcohol around him.
The three of us talk. I flirt and neg.
And I want to know more. Looking at his behaviors, looking at the expression on his face, the creases at the corners of his eyes that indicate when his mood does not mirror his words, which is much too often.
But to know, to know what it is that is causing this fracture, I have to get him away from everyone else.
So I do.
And in the quarter-mile we walk to get to the parking lot, I've burrowed under his social mask and as I lean against my car the sadness in his eyes is overwhelming, the creases dark with shadow, angling down.
He's too interesting. He's so wrecked and beautiful and I can't say no to poking around in the ruins of his head.
I decide against dinner with my friends. It's almost 10PM and they've been at the restaurant/bar since 830PM, if not earlier.
He asks me if I'm going to leave, I tell him no.
He asks what I wish to do, and I tell him I wish to eat.
We walk to Disneyland.
Downtown Disney, to be precise. Disneyland is closing as we arrive, families flooding outward, boarding trams that will take them back to the cars and they will tuck their exhausted children into carseats and backseats and those children will sleep deeply on the ride back, as I once did.
He's never been in Downtown Disney. It sounds like he was in the army when it was being built, and then he never bothered to come once he left. He did not even know it existed.
So I walk him on a quick tour. World of Disney Store, the horrific Anne Geddes store, through The Vault, into Build-A-Bear, pointing out the jazz band at Brennan's, into the LEGO store with its plastic scupltures, through the Rainforest Cafe, down to Disneyland Hotel with the Peter Pan themed pool, the secluded waterfall caverns that I've known for years how to get into once they're closed.
We talk damage. We talk philosophy and values. We talk about beasts, and wildness, about how wrecked he is, how much distaste he has for his body, how much loathing he has for himself. The ideas of goodness, ultimate goodness, or the greater good. Descartes, Aristotle, Plato, he loves philosophers, studies them, intersperses their quotes and ideas into our conversation.
Dinner is settled on at Rainforest Cafe. He seemed to be the happiest there, and he needs a little happiness. He needs a break from his brain and a person to talk to, to chisel away at him, lift up the rocks and see what lies beneath.
We eat, the food is always poor, but I told him of this in advance. Rainforest Cafe's draw is not in the food, but in the atmosphere. Looks over substance. It does well.
I take him into the lobby of the Grand Californian and we sit in the large fireplace, warming ourselves.
We walk back to the hotel where he's staying and he's eyeing me. "I can't determine whether you're interesting or dangerous."
"Oh, I'm not dangerous. I'm perfectly polite, concerned with respect and boundaries, good presentation. Never rude."
All accurate, all having nothing to do about whether a person is dangerous or not. He calls me on it and I smile.
He tells me he can't imagine anyone ever wrecking me. That I'm too strong, too self-contained. If I was going to be wrecked, I'd do it to myself. He envies it. Wishes he could be like that.
I don't explain it to him.
He tells me he shows how wrecked he is because it makes others happy. A sentence that would make no sense to a regular person, a person who would declare that no one would be happy at one of their friends or family broken, but they would be wrong and naive. People like others exhibiting their wreckage for various reasons, but we do not go into it.
I tell him that the only reason he allows himself to stay wrecked to keep those around him happy is because he hates himself and determines that there's no reason to heal, no reason to grow and examine, because he's not worth it to himself. Might as well make others happy, he does not deserve to be.
He stares at me, then looks forward, tells me I'm right.
"I have my moments," I say.
"Probably not a rare occurance."
"I know."
His eyes are so sad.
We walk back to his hotel, take the elevator up, me already telling him I'm not going to sleep with him this evening.
Ninth floor, I look around and know that I haven't been in this hotel in years.
We sit on the balconey of his hotel and talk. He has his feet propped up on the railing, long legs extending out and up as he leans back into his chair.
Ten minutes later, he's in front of me, his legs on either side of mine as he rolls his fingers up my sides, and I writhe. His lips are soft, not firm, but he can kiss. He kisses like I do: tongue darting out, swiping across a lip microseconds before lip contact. His fingers go around my throat, my breath catches and I near purr for him. I stand up and he turns me around, my back against the railing as he leans into me and we continue to kiss.
But I don't like heights.
I wiggle out from between his arms and walk into his hotel room, bra already unclapsed, I swing it and my shirt over my head, toss it onto a chair in a quick, easy movement.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed and I go to him, fingers running through his hair, nails up his back, gripping his thighs and he asks for my tongue, sucking it and sliding back on the bed.
Little movements indiciate wildness, indicate rough. He switches back and forth until I lean back and tell him that I can't tell what he wants, but I prefer it rough.
He tells me some things are better to keep chained down.
Too many men are afraid of this. I want him to let go.
I crawl on top of him, trailing my tongue up his neck, nibbling on his ears, hands roaming his chest and nipples, his hands are in my hair as I slide my tongue over the bare bit of flesh at the top of his jeans, feeling his muscles twitch as my hands run over the insides of his thighs and he's unzipping but I'm not going to touch him until he breaks.
His penis is out and my breasts brush against it and he gasps. He's responsive, his whole body alive and I'm confident I'll get through as I lick his stomach and his penis angles towards my face, brushing against my cheek.
I stop.
I look.
He's a good 10, maybe 11 inches.
...that was unexpected.
His hand goes for my neck again, "Such a tiny throat," he whispers against my lips. I hope this is a good sign, but he controls himself again.
"Just give in," I tell him, licking his neck, "I'm either going to leave or take pity on you, and I hate it when I have to take pity. I'm not going to lose control, I have perfect control. This is my world. Give in."
He says to me, "You're right. We should be what we are."
But he does not give.
Another twenty, thirty minutes pass, his jeans are around his thighs, he's moaning, twitching, reaching for me with the occasional, "Oh please..." half-beg, trying to steer his penis towards my mouth or hands, and when he does this, I stop. I bite his side, the bottom of his ribs, and move my mouth down, tongue darting out, barest of touches on the head of his penis, and I breathe. I breathe and blow lightly, he's whimpering and I let my lips bump his length as I come so close to him.
I find it... sad, when a man begs. When a man tries to convince or cajole, penis straining ever upward.
So I swing my body off of his. He's not going to break, I want to go to bed, and for once I will not let pity dictate me. He can take care of himself.
"I've gotta get going soon," I tell him between kisses.
"Let me go down on you first. I love a good meal."
"Mmkay."
Pants are unbelted and his fingers seek me out, him moaning, "So wet..." as I grind against his hand, trying to take off my shoes at this odd angle.
Shoes drop to the floor, pants slide off me and his fingers are working.
He's good.
He's actually good.
He's redeemed himself. I run my fingers along his scalp, my right leg thrown over his body and I roll my hips against him, pressing my chest into him, moaning between kisses, between tongue.
But he's shown he knows what he's doing. He's shown he has experience.
Finally something that allows me to view him as not just another desperate, though attractive, male.
I stop him, slide between his legs, and run my tongue up that so-long shaft. A long journey, a hissed "Christ" escapes from his lips and I go to work. He spasms, twitches, curses, my mouth roaming over him. GV8 has me trained so well.
"Bring yourself over here so I can at least finger you," he says between gasps.
"No. Too distracting."
"Let me go down on you."
"No. The angle is wrong if we do that. I won't be able to get my tongue here," and a quick run up the underside of his shaft and a babbled "Ohokayokay," from him.
He swings me around anyhow. Lying on our sides, me on top, him on top, his huge shaft dangling at me from above.
I finally manuever back around to him being unable to please me.
Thumbs stroking the base of his shaft, fingers running over his balls, tongue running wild over the sheer amount of surface area he's been blessed with.
A whispered "faster" sets me in motion, and he's trying so hard not to buck against my face. "Ohgodohjesusjesusjesusfuckinggodohcrapjesus," pours from his lips and he shoots. Mouthfuls and mouthfuls and I'm trying to get it all and not make a mess as he continues to shoot load after load, profanity on the heels of each one.
His twitch alerts me that he's a hyper-sensitive guy. I lie absolutely still, knowing that pulling off of him will be painful. It takes about two minutes for the painful overload of sensation to leave him, and I gently drop him from my mouth.
"Oh god," he tells me as I crawl up beside him. "Jesus, that was crazy. Damn."
"I didn't mean to give you tourettes. Sorry."
We laugh and talk. I clean up, hit the restroom, get dressed.
He walks me to my car, we exchange numbers, and I drive home.
If I see him again this weekend, I see him again. If I do not, I do not.
It's not about the justification or validation that is brought. It's what you learn from the person, what you learn about yourself and what you learn about the world around you and how people view it.
We have moments.
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