I was cooking some salmon earlier this evening, grooving to my usual, and the smoke detector goes off.

I'm not the brightest person, at times. Should have probably opened the windows before spending that long at the stove.

I'm 5'9". Usually I can stretch, jump, and hit the smoke detector open, then jump again and knock the battery loose.

My new place, however, has high ceilings. Somewhere in the 10' range. Fortunately, the detector wasn't on the ceiling, but high above the french doors leading into the kitchen. The little white circle above those doors, below...



Unfortunately, it was still out of reach of my leaping capabilities.

Unfortunately, I haven't bothered buying a kitchen table and chairs yet, so I had nothing to stand on, the only chair in my residence being one of those plush executive deals on wheels. I might be slow on the uptake, but I do know that hardwood floors and standing up in rolling chairs don't mix.

I tried to smack at it with my maglight and pop the cover.

I opened the kitchen windows.

All ineffectual in stopping the shrill beeping.

And then I realized my apartment is full of books. Grabbed my unabridged dictionary, an encyclopedia of poetry, and a history of romance in 1920s films, coasted up nine inches in extra height, turned the thing off.

See, books are useful.

Currently sitting in a crowded coffee shop, a funky jazz band playing in the back, a friend across from me who does the most amazing paintings, if you're into horror.

I like this city.

I like this life.

I finally gave in and bought a Blackberry on Wednesday. Paired it up with my car and basked in the joy of clear sound while driving down the freeway. The salesperson transferred all my contacts over and told me he had only seen one other person with more numbers than I have. I really need to clear my phonebook out.

I sat down here tonight, hooked up the laptop, started backing up files, pulling photos and video off my camera, digging through my iPod to determine which Portishead song I'm going to use as my ringtone (ended up being Strangers). I'm turning into one of those people. I used to keep it so simple, used to keep all the information I needed in my head.

And I thought it would get simpler, when I stopped couchsurfing. That my schedule would settle down, that the social demands I feel continuously under would ease off. I thought I'd be able to spend more time writing, more time on my classes, getting things together.

But the demands have grown. I'm finding that, again, I am getting one night per week to myself.

It's my choice, I know.

I'm becoming different.

Sometimes I feel like I took so much of GV8 into who I am making myself. I've found I've lost a lot of my shyness, a lot of my "respect" of social boundaries, of territorial boundaries. I'm taking more control of my social relationships, especially with men.

More confident, more self-respecting. I'm losing fear, it's dripping out of me, and I know, when I look inwards and compare, things are different.

I ran into an old friend last weekend. I spent all of Sunday exploring the city. I picked a direction and walked, was gone for hours, walking for miles, people watching, checking out restaurants, bikepaths, how everything is interwoven. And, gods, the architecture. I need to go on one (or many) of those architecture walking tours, with a guide who actually knows what they're talking about.

On the way back, I stopped at a little cafe that I had been eyeballing for a few weeks. I flirted with the staff, talked about the food, sat and enjoyed myself in the afternoon sun. I left just before one of the staff did. I was around the corner and almost to the next block when I discovered that he had followed me, to give me his number. He was cute, he was a little older, he was confident, though not charismatic. Charming in a scrappy way. Not for me.

I could tell he was getting up to asking me to accompany him to some coffee shop or other venue, when I happened to walk by someone I recognized from years ago, when I used to do photography of abandoned buildings, refineries, hospitals, and the like. It was the one guy, the "that" guy, of the group.

That guy. The one who maintained my focus. Hot, tattooed, an amazing artist, but also a writer. Gods, do I have the hots for good writers. A man who can write like he does instantly catches a part of me, a part of my interest, that few will.

He's now in his mid-to-late thirties, I believe. Probably where I should be dating, though I find myself more interested in the late-thirties, early-forties men these days. It just keeps pushing farther and farther back. I always hoped that eventually I would start being interested in men my own age for more than casual stuff, or at least something closer to my own age, but... no.

I was so surprised at seeing this man, this writer, that I did not bother to maintain conversation with the man from the restaurant. We shook hands and he took off as soon as he realized he had lost me.

I caught up with my old friend, talking about his life, sniffing out his details as best I could, kicking myself for wearing my "fake" engagement ring. We're likely going to meet up on Sunday morning, do some writing together... he lives very nearby.

Yay for proximity.

The hug goodbye was not one of those chest-to-chest hugs. No, it was a fully body hug, letting me feel his hard leanness. Gorgeous. Sounded like he had some girl-drama on the side, though, so I'm going to take this slow, if at all. I don't poach, and I don't touch men if I know they're having girl issues. They've got enough going on without adding to it, and it tends to breed negative associations. It's a matter of finding out what is going on, which I'm good at. Once that is established, we'll see.

And I feel even ridiculous saying that.

It's habit. It's complete habit. Date him? No, he engages in a deal-breaker. This was my brain shifting into old patterns of establishing a casual friendly partner, also wanting to check him off of my list of men-to-do. Completion. Bragging rights, even though I would brag to no one but myself and this blog.

I would know I had finally tagged him.

Tagged, yes. I've, for some reason, turned that into my lingo for bagging a guy for the sheer sake of checking him off the list. For no reason other than who he is, what he means, something aside from emotional attachment or desire for emotional attachment.

You tag them and then you release them into the wild.

I mentioned this to a friend recently and he told me I was starting to sound like a rapper with my language regarding men.

It's funny. I'm fairly resolved to not have sex for the next few months, if not longer. It has been, if you can believe it, almost two months since I've had any major sexual contact. I've turned down repeated offers of DP from a couple of sources, turned down old partners, turned down potential new partners, turned down a couple of one-night stands that kept calling or texting for more, turned down dates and phone numbers without care.

My body is a bit sad, I will admit. I love physical contact, I love, gods do I love, to pleasure. I was able to take a little bit of edge off of that need when Playboy came down, but it was just scraping at the top of it. I have so much knowledge in these hands, in this mouth, and I'm not using it. It seems like a waste. I want to be appreciated, I want to hear those sounds of gasping shock. I want to work on my tricks, want to refine further. I want to learn new bodies, want to learn new ways to please new men.

And I'm not. I can't bring myself to do so.

I'm not sure if it's my monogamous nature still clinging to GV8. I can't stomach the thought of touching another man when I'm in a relationship, and I know I'm single now, but... no desire.

It might be that I know that it's unlikely that any male I do pick up will come close to GV8 in bed. That man was... amazing. His philosophy of sex and mine meshed perfectly, as well as how we interacted. He said to me a few weeks ago, though I don't remember exactly what we were talking about, "You knew how to touch me from day one." I've never been with a man that I could spend hours with in bed, completely enrapt. I've never been with a man who did not, eventually, bore me (aside from Riot, and that's only because he was so wonderfully rough I never had a chance to get bored because I was too busy trying to survive his lust). GV8 had amazing technique and total joy of sex. Not of orgasm, but of sex, and most men will never understand that.

Or it might be that I'm now in a position where no man can impact me. I'm financially independent, finally. I am not co-signed with anyone on a lease for anything. My debt, minimal as it is, is my own. Only half of my monthly take-home is spent on bills. I'm organized, I'm capable, and my social network continues to grow stronger.

And I'm finally getting the body I want. In the next month or so, I'll be hitting the healthiest I've ever been. No coffee, no drugs, no alcohol, no cigarettes. Exercising almost every day. I'm starting to see the flare of my ribcage, cheekbones are slowly becoming more pronounced, and I've tossed bags and bags of clothes away that now just hang on me.

I've felt limited by my appearance for a bit now, in an annoying way. The mind, the experience, but physically not caught up to where I should be. Now I am close enough to taste it. And it's a joy. Seeing what my body is, how curvy my skeletal structure makes me, I love it. I'm totally digging my body for the first time in years. I like that this is enabling me to step up to so many things that I have been unable to tackle, how much fun it is for me to take people by surprise when they expect certain things of me by my appearance and find other things entirely.


Social dissonance.

Reminds me of the day my stylist told me it was a good idea that I dyed my hair black, as people needed some sort of warning label before approaching me, as my natural blonde was too misleading.

I spent my lunchbreak today hanging out with a professor of Russian history at one of the local UCs. I had ordered my food and went to sit down and read, and saw him reading at the table next to mine. We made eye contact and then I raised my book as though it were a glass at him and said "Cheers". He did the same.

He was reading A Woman in Berlin, I was reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. He filled me in on the history of the book, of why Germany had condemned it so strongly, how a movie had recently been made, etc. I told him of Egger's writing style that I have found myself loving so strongly, how he dances between non-fiction and total fantasy.

It was a fun lunch, where we determined my love of modernism in literature was completely antagonistic to his historian viewpoint, and made plans to meet again next week, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.

Another day in the life.

Date tomorrow night- art show, cafe hopping, gelato.
Clubbing after the date- dancing, sweating, flirting.
Meeting with my old friend Sunday morning, then going to a Superbowl party.

But tomorrow morning, tomorrow morning is gloriously free.

Maybe I'll set off the smoke detector again.

Something has been bothing me since SFPlayboy came down to visit.

I realized that I feel... not insulted, but almost embarrassed.

Close enough to embarrassment to bother.

I mean, really, scenario presents itself: hot, able-bodied, sexually active male temporarily sharing living quarters (and bed) with young, sexually active female fighting off the potential throes of reboundery.

That should've been a gimme.

But he couldn't.

It wasn't even that he was respecting my wishes to remain celibate. He tried. He tried repeatedly, and I smacked him down each time.

He was unsuccessful. He had slept with me before, knew what I was like (though I know I have noticiably changed), had some idea of my buttons.

And he couldn't do it. He couldn't get in my head and, therefore, get in my pants.

Game failure.

How embarrassing. For me.

Which might sound odd. Might sound really odd.

A year ago, I was a completely different person. And snagging SFPlayboy, an attractive and intelligent male with some grasp of game, was a decided highlight, though, admittedly, I had many highlights during that time.

He was what I could catch. He was where I was at, where my knowledge and experience was at. Like to like. Screening processes, shit tests, they were at a level where he could pass them, where his various proofs met my standards, enough to move him from a "hey, you're hot, you'll do for tonight" to a "hey, you're hot, you're intelligent, but I would never date you, so let's be lovers".

And he's a good guy, a fun companion. I enjoy spending time with him, enjoy his intelligence, his wicked vocabulary is always educational, as well as his knowledge of nutrition and the human body. He doesn't care that I go into predator mode, doesn't find it freaky that sometimes I just feel like manipulating others, doing a social dance, doesn't care that I can drop in and out of roles without thought. He likes it, it seems. Possibly finds it admirable.

Possibly.

But in the last year, things have changed. I have changed. I've met so many people, done so many things that I never expected to do, only dreamed of... that he no longer passes all my filters.

If I met him today, he might not even be a one-night stand.

Actually, if I met him today, he would not be a one-nighter. I wouldn't sleep with him at all.

It's embarrassing to me that I took up with a male that can't play the game well enough to get me to sleep with him when we're sharing the same bed. It's embarrassing how easily I socially dominated him all weekend, how easy it was to smack him down when he started being sullen. He failed, and continued to fail. He let me play with him, manipulate him, mess with him.

And he couldn't step up.

Which reflects my desirability.

Hence the embarrassment and discomfort.

I like that I was able to step up, that I had changed so much that I took this man who normally dominated all of our interactions and switched roles on him. It shows that I'm making progress, shows I'm learning more, growing more, being more.

It also shows that I'm moving out of my already scant dating/sex pool and into another area entirely, where men I find suitable are even more rare than before.

And that bothers me as well.

But there's nothing I can do. I have the knowledge now, the experience. That's not going to go away without some physical head trauma.

I have a date this weekend, with some guy that used to be built along the lines of Vin Diesel, then had a back injury that threw him out of that physical loop for a couple years and is now coming back to that shape again. He's a decently intelligent fellow, a writer, well-employed, dominant.

And I'm almost dreading it. Meeting this man, putting him through the usual hoops, finding he's lacking, and tossing him back. I don't want this rubbed in my face that I've, once more, pushed myself farther into limiting my dating pool through having too high expectations built by experience and education of what I find desirable.

Well, I'm sick. One of my coworkers brought in some sort of nasty cold and it has circulated through the departments. I've been trying to give it to my boss, but he seems immune.

Back to that weekend, though it's been a goodly number of days that I've posted.

Post-Hollywood, pre-club. We arrived at my apartment and he started cooking dinner while I changed, padding around in my underwear, rifling through my closet. He called me into the kitchen, food was ready, so I walked in, black bra, black panties. This is nothing new for us.

He's on this grass-feed beef kick, so he started handfeeding me this drippy meat mess in the kitchen, something I love. Well, two things I love. Meat and being handfed by an attractive male. There's something incredibly erotic about eating something being held by another person while it's falling apart and you have to nip at it delicately before finally taking the bite, then, with meat especially, there's always those lovely salty juices that are almost the best part. So you have to get those.

So I was standing in the kitchen, in my underwear, in the middle of the afternoon, with this piece of male that is built like hello gorgeous, eating pieces of medium rare dripping wonderful beef out of his hands, licking his fingers clean.

That is totally how life is supposed to be, by the way.

Of course, that ended up escalating to him bending me over a counter and laying into my ass with his palm.

Which turned into me pulling away from him because, as we've discovered, men and self-control don't really go well together unless you find a way to keep them in line.

Which, in turn, caused him to pull me towards the bed, promise to be good, and ask me to repeat the activites of the previous day. Which was me spending a good hour or so doing what I do... providing he kept his hands attached to the metal bar at the head of my bed and kept his boxers on. Teeth, tongue, lips, nails, fingers, palms, full body writhing, straddling, and then, you know, pulling back from doing whatever I was doing with my mouth and realize I could reach my camera.

Which, of course, leads to pictures like this:



Which then, looking at it, makes me sad that I didn't have my Canon Rebel nearby because the combo of poor lighting and basic camera means a slight blur and no shading of abs.

But he's cute anyway. And very tolerant of me sitting on his crotch taking pictures.

Anyhow, after doing that thing that I do (mmm... vagueness) that did not involve in actual sex or sex-related activities (mmm... less vagueness), I decided to finish getting ready to go.

He, however, was not done. So we rolled, he got on top of me, teased me a bit but... well, he's young. My age. Maybe a little older. He has experience, like most men who do the pick up racket, in getting in bed, in getting off, in being dominant, but not in actual, let's spend hours in the sack learning how to make each other scream out of total pleasure. So I was done.

That was a bit of a challenge for him, which led to more spanking in more places, and then he hit me hard enough across the face that I bit my cheek open. Which kinda sucked. I love that hard blow to the face, but I hadn't been prepared so my teeth had not been closed.

When I whined/grumped at him about it, he just did it again.

Which is why he's fun.

But I shoved off from the bed once more, escaping successfully this time.

And, of course, he tries to pull that guilt shit. I don't remember the last time that worked on me. He starts stroking himself, I glance over, laugh, and he looks at me and says, "Well, if you're not going to suck me off..."

Poor guy. I'd feel bad for him, but I don't.

Anyway, it's kinda nice having an attractive male pleasing himself on my bed. As long as it doesn't get on my pillows. Or my sheets, really, because they're black and semen shows up like whoa.

I walked away from the bed, turned on the shower, and threw a washcloth at his torso.

By the time I was done rinsing off, he came and tossed the rag back at me.

See, people, that's teamwork.

As we got ready for the club on Saturday night, Playboy started griping at me. I had warned him it would be a more mellow club, that I went for the music, to dance, population was small, mood was low-key. He wanted flashing lights, wanted heavy beats, wanted the girls on the poles like the night prior.

Putting on my make-up, I told him he didn't have to go. I was perfectly willing to leave him at my apartment, or drop him elsewhere, if he had something in mind. We discussed options, but he eventually settled on going to the club with me.

But he was whining.

Or doing the guy whine. You know, sullen male, but trying to hide it. Trying not to sound like he's whining.

We were in the car already, me driving (I refused to let him drive after I saw his driving skills... San Francisco residents should not be allowed vehicles, sorry). I finally turned to him and told him that I could drop him somewhere along the way, pick him up on the way back, but if he came to the club he was not going to ruin it for me, he was not going to bug me to leave early, and he sure as hell was responsible for his own entertainment and mood.

Good behavior the rest of the night. Even though he was bored and miserable, when I offered to leave early, he told me to continue having fun.

So I did. Guiltless.

Several of my guy friends were there, which is a bit... unusual. I'm very physically affectionate with every male I'm comfortable with, so I do believe it ended up looking like I had multiple boyfriends with the handholding, lap crawling, hugging, cuddling, and general tomfoolery. All of them, save Playboy, are platonic friends (even though, post-club, I received a text from one saying that multiple people said we looked good together, and then, the next day, he asked me out for Valentine's Day dinner... which was awkward. He keeps trying, keeps thinking he's being subtle, keeps not being subtle at all).

I had an odd moment with the head of security, though. He's a friend of mine, though we met at the club, not prior. He's an awesome guy, lots of fun, always really upbeat and on it, totally flirty, constantly tells me (and god knows how many other women) that he's going to leave his wife and kids for me if I just say the word. Brings the new security guys over to watch me dance sometimes, so I put on a little show, flirt with him, kiss his cheek, etc. Give him massages when he has some downtime. I was watching the dance floor and he came over to me, we hugged, stood there with his arm around me, and out of the blue, he says, "You know, you're different. You stand out."

I started laughing and looked around us to illustrate that we were in this club where everyone is dressed to show, flashy and dramatic. He didn't laugh with me, though he smiled. "No, I'm serious. Even here, you stand out. You're not like the others. You've got this kindness. You've got this pretty, this sexiness."

It was... odd. I was flattered. He wasn't hitting on me at all, not like he usually does in his teasing, over the top way, like he does with the other girls. He was sincere. Unexpected.

When SFPlay and I returned to my place, there was no repeat of the prior shower incident.

Sunday morning, he was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Before you get the wrong impression, he's a nutritionist. He's been, for free, helping me design my diet, telling me where to shop, what to eat, educating me on the different chemicals that we put into different foods.

Because of him, I'm finally at the same weight I was when I was 19.

So, he's in the kitchen at my stove, barefoot (score one for the wimmins (god, I am so lame, I know it)), singing "I'm shacked up with a hot goth girl, it's like my high school fantasy come truuuuuuue" which causes me no end of laughter, even though I fall more than a bit short of the "goth" mark.

Pale skin, black hair, blue eyes. Throw me in a dark wardrobe and magic.

We go our separate ways after walking around and hitting a used music store for some CDs for the road for him. I head over to my stylist, then met up with GV8.

GV8 and I... did our usual. Walked over the Hollywood Boulevard, talked, held hands, etc. He knows most of the characters on the boulevard because he used to be one, when he was fresh out of prison and needed an unmonitored source of income. Those guys, the good ones, make really good money. So whenever we go out there, we end up having all these random people in random costumes come over, get introduced, catch up with him, hit on me, weird stories, etc.

On the way back, though, it was great. Some man selling... something, I didn't look, was hawking at people to buy his stuff, looked straight at GV8 and said, in this horrible hobo-accent, "You! You! I know you got money! Buy somethin'!"

GV8, he buys his most of his day-time clothes at Wal-Mart. He's totally apathetic. He likes to joke that he's the only millionaire that shops at Wal-Mart. He used to show up to the apartment with just bags of socks, undershirts, whatever, and I'd end up washing them, sitting on his huge bed with this pile of various types of socks trying to figure out what sock went with what other sock and why does no male listen to me when I tell them that white socks are lame?

This was the first time I saw him not understand what was going on.

He laughed at the guy as we walked past, then then said something like, "Yeah, I have money. How did he know that?"

I was so surprised that he didn't immediately do the math. Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, dressing like a guy that shops at Wal-Mart, with a girl almost twenty years his junior on his arm. I am nowhere near trophy material, but I'm attractive enough for someone to assume (correctly) that GV8 has money.

Once I mentioned the logic, we had a good laugh. And now, when I see him, I imitate the vendor. "You! You! You got money!"

When we separated this time, I cried.

Gods, I did not want to. I get emotional when I'm tired, doubly so when I'm hungry and tired, of which I was both. I felt like an idiot, so I pulled myself together and left.

Actually, what I said to him was, "Soooo, before this awkward moment becomes even more awkward... I'm gonna go."

And then I left.

Once I got some food in me and took a nap, I was fine.

He came over the following Tuesday night with a present for me. A tool set so I could flip the doors on my fridge to open the right way. It's a pretty nice set, I'm fairly jazzed about it.

So I flipped the doors around on my fridge while he handed me the various bits. Which meant I was on the floor of my kitchen for part of it, on my stomach, ass slightly up in the air and, of course, my feet kicked up behind me.

First, because it's comfy and what I do when I'm working on something like that. I have this paranoia that someone will trip or step on my legs when I'm working on a project that requires me to be on the ground and fixated on one thing.

Second, because that's a favored position of his for when I used to go down on him. Naked, save for knee-high stockings, feet kicked up behind me, dangling and carefree. He's got a bit of a foot fetish, and loves stockings, so it was a good thing.


We're getting better. We went out Saturday, before I went to a concert with The Bassist over the the Henry Fonda Theater (we saw The Residents and they were amazing, by the by). We fit so well. And I'm starting to have more faith in myself when it comes to dealing with him. I know I need to trust myself, trust what I've learned about him, and see what happens.

I know it's unlikely that we'll ever be a couple again, and, gods, am I glad we had the time we did. He impacted me so strongly, changed me so much. I'm so different than I was at this time last year. So very different.

Just gotta keep going at it.

And this post is long enough. This is what happens when I don't have the time or energy to post in short(ish) bursts. I hope you all have learned your lesson.

I received my textbook in the mail today (thanks, Amazon!) so I've got some reading to do. One of my guy friends referred to my apartment as V's Shag Pad. And it's turning into that. A mess of books and sex. I'm going to light some candles, put on some trip-hop, and crawl into my beautiful black canopy bed with a selection of literature from the Romantic period.

Wearing my favorite nightshirt...



No, my mirror isn't that dirty. It's just that old. Win.

The front of that shirt says "fist".

The back also has a four-letter word that starts with "F".

No, it's not "frag". Nerds.

The electricity is out in half of the apartment due to a minor misjudgement by your author. This means that my maglight assists me in selecting my wardrobe (yes, I do dress myself in the dark), that I wrote last night's post and this post by candlelight, and I get to shower by candlelight.

Fortunately for me, I did a bit of decorating last week, so candles are easy to come by.

Current preview of the apartment: my faux fireplace.



This is what I get to write by. Pretty damn cute. I'm (currently) planning on getting a Sylvia Ji print to hang above it... she definitely is one of my favorite painters.

But back to my weekend.

The shower incident had passed. I had tamed my savage beast, for the most part. We slept side by side in my canopy bed, sheer white curtains framing us.

We don't sleep well together. We just don't line up. And his body is, while lovely to look at, too hard to be comfortable. Resting my head on his chest feels like I'm resting my head on a warm, breathing cement block.

It's hard not to think of GV8 at times like this, the way we synch, how easy it is for us to move together, be together.

I took him to Hollywood the next morning, driving up La Brea as he read the chapter on the Masculine Dandy from The Art of Seduction to me. We hit the usual stops: Amoeba, the Arclight, Cahuenga, down the boulevard, past the characters, over to Graumann's, the back down the boulevard once more, into the Scientology center, then to Vine, poked our heads into Cafe Was (a favorite restaurant of mine), ran into Borders, then back to my apartment to change and get ready for the club.

As we walked through Hollywood, we talked pick up, talked girls, social dynamics, sex. He told me I had changed a lot since we last met, had become significantly more dominant, wondered if I'd lose my need to submit and become a domme.

I tried to explain.

Tried to explain what happened with GV8, how much that had changed me. Tried to explain how the knowledge I gained about myself in the short period of time we were together impacted me so intensely that I could feel myself changing.

I felt... crass, almost. Full of ego, full of self. Bragging.

Before I met GV8, it was rare for me to meet a man more sexually experienced than I was. Even when I did encounter those few, the sex was lacking on a basic level. I've found that, without that emotional connection, the majority of men are looking simply to get off.

Which, one would say, is a major obvious "duh" statement.

A resounding "duh".

The difference between myself and those men, between GV8 and those men, is that getting off is not the end-goal. Orgasm is something you can do by yourself. Most men, give them a Playboy, 30 seconds, and some lotion. That's all they need. They know their bodies well, they know their rhythm, the pressure, the grip.

They've got it. And they should.

So you bring another person into the mix, engage in sex, or sexual activities, and men are still going straight for that orgasm. So now instead of having their own experienced hand, they've got someone who doesn't know their body and usually doesn't quite know what they're doing. Whoopee. And all the effort a guy has to put into that: time, money, manipulation, passing shit-tests, dodging cock-blocks, they've got the girl and they want to get off.

Really? You just invested all that and you're still aiming for that orgasm like a dedicated missle?

Where is the art? Where is the play?

Where is the poetry?

You've got a whole new body to explore. You've got a entire universe inside a person, all their experiences, all their ideas of pleasure, of ways of touching, ways of stroking. Then you combine your own experience, ideas, touches with theirs, and you've created something between you, something that will only exist between the two of you with your select combination.

Who cares if you orgasm?

This is about pleasure. This is about spending hours, if not all day, finding out ways to make yourself and your partner feel amazing.

You know, for more than just the lead up and that three to ten second burst.

Something that annoys me beyond words is when I'm having sex with someone and I can tell their entire being is not focused on the sex, but on the orgasm. That face guys make, the one that crunches their eyes down, clenching their teeth, they fall into that spectacular steady rhythm and their faces turn various shades of red as they pant through flaring nostrils until finally they shudder, cry out, curse... and continue to pant.

It's like watching someone run a marathon.

A very short marathon.

You can see the look in their eyes, the goal line where nothing else matters. They've abandoned you, they've abandoned pleasure, they've abandoned exploration. They're done. They're sprinting towards that finish line like the ground behind them is rapidly disappearing, like Ed McMahon is holding an oversized check for 5 mil written out to them, like a golden ticket is hanging out from their Wonka bar just past that line, like Nordstrom is having their biannual sale and they're ready to battle for those heels, ladies.

Before him, I was above average. I knew what I was doing, knew better than the majority of girls my age. I had the basic philosophy down, knew the principles, the ethics.

And then he taught me more.

He taught me so much more.

In what little play I've done with men in our various off-again-on-again stages that peppered my relationship with GV8, I've found that I now exceed past what I expected. My performance is more. My knowledge is more. My technique is more.

I already had a hard time finding men that would suit me, that would be able to match and fulfill my basic ideas of sex.

Now it seems like... very few could touch me.

I hate how egotistic that sounds. Gods, I hate it. I hate saying it. It's almost embarassing for me. For some reason, I can't allow myself to have anything that remotely resembles an ego. I keep holding myself back.

Let's try this.

I'm damn good in bed. I'm experienced, I'm well-taught. I have a natural skill at touching, at rhythm. My oral, my hand jobs, are gorgeous. I blow minds. It's something I've perfected, something I love doing, love being good at. I play a near perfect mix of devoted lover and sex-hungry slut. I'm open and willing. I communicate. I don't judge my partners when I'm with them, I work with them.

I feel like what I learned from GV8, especially since I've been able to put it to practice a few times when we were on hiatus in November, especially since SFPlayboy was shocked and could tell the difference between how I used to perform and how I perform now... I feel golden. I feel above. I feel like I could grab any man and rock him without really trying.

That's pretty cool. Feeling so confident about something.

And it comes from GV8. His experience, his desire, him choosing me, the man who never settles down, never keeps a steady lover because he likes to cycle through so many, because most women, he says, aren't worth sleeping with more than a few times, certainly not regularly.

But I was. No matter how often he tried to push me away, he kept coming back. Until it got too serious. Until I almost snagged the man who would not be snagged. Until he had to sit down and determine if he was willing to alter his plans for his life to be with me.

Beautiful.

So I communicated this to Playboy as we walked, expressing my frustration at how I feel like I can't talk to anyone else about this because it feels like I'm bragging, feels like I'm so self-centered, so egotistic.

He told me I wasn't bragging. That I had done it, that I was doing it, that I would do it in the future. That I had changed. I wasn't being boastful, just... examining.

It still strikes me as odd, how much I loathe the idea of having an ego, of being seen as having an ego. Is it better to be overconfident or underconfident?

I'd say overconfident, but others might disagree.

I dragged him into the Scientology center as we headed back to my car. I charmed the man at the counter, talked, smiled, laughed. Took the "stress test", deliberately played the rountine of the sweet, innocent girl with a bright outlook on life, honest past the point she should be, but chugging through, just to throw the guy for a loop. I'm so good at that one.

Playboy watched as I shifted from being his weekend companion to cute and girlish, then back again and again we went through the Scientology intro and our guide would occasionally leave us. He watched me lie through my teeth about having a dinner reservation we were late to, about how he was such a sweetheart to be taking me out to dinner since I was so very broke and couldn't afford the Scientology handbook, quickly checking my phone to toss out the nearest fifteen minute mark for our reservation. Polite and friendly smile, wide upward eyes, chin slightly tilted, open body language, and then we left.

But I found, once we arrived back at my apartment, the shower incident had not been enough education for my companion.

He had to test the waters again.

I was ready.

It has been an interesting few days.

Friday night, SFPlayboy came down. I took him to a club I knew he'd enjoy, one with a high percentage of extremely attractive, scantily clad women, and good music. It was packed, parking lot full, we ended up parking a little under a mile away.

Darkeyes was there. I was violating club custody, but he had violated it last December, so I wasn't feeling guilty. They were mine to begin with, I was the one who introduced him to the right people, the DJs, the security, taught him how to dance, how to dress.

I knew he would be there, so I took a few quick steps, making sure that some social pillars who enjoy my company would be there, and was surprised by the presence of those I wasn't even expecting. I looked good, SFPlayboy, well... he's gorgeous.

Showing up with this on my arm, it's beautiful:



(No, I'm not the girl. This was a shot from one of his photoshoots.)

But I did what I always do when I go to a club with a man... I toured him around, showed him what dancefloor/bar area I thought he'd be happiest at, and left for the dancefloor of my choosing.

I felt my brain shift when I started dancing, someplace new. Someplace strange. A photographer who had asked me out repeatedly late last year, while I was seeing GV8, was there with a beautiful, friendly girl. We caught up between dancing, and my brain started... clicking things into place.

I lost my self-consciousness. Enough so to notice.

I realized that all of the people around me, the other dancers, those at the bar, none of them had any impact on me. None of them could touch me. Dancing suddenly stopped being this mix of paying attention to my movements, of wondering how it all came together, of how it looked, of if any of the others who dance in the same form and style I do were around... it all stopped. I knew, without a doubt, that I was good. That whatever I did, I was golden.

I went up the the DJ booth around 1AM, sweating and tired, leaned my chin onto the DJ's shoulder, whimpering and whining for a song that was too old school for the room, cute and flirty, until he promised to play it, teasing me that I hadn't been around enough, that absence makes the heart fonder or forgetful, and I should hope for fonder, as otherwise he wouldn't play my song.

When he did, though, I was there. In front of speakers a couple feet taller than myself, body vibrating with the bass, as others that have been clubbing as long as I have and longer shouted, applauded, and joined me on the floor.

The club shut down at 3AM, Playboy and I walked through the cold, me burrowed in his hoodie, lost in the back neighborhoods looking for my car, eventually finding it and turning on the heated seats full blast, letting the warming leather soothe sore muscles.

Back at my place, nearing 4AM, I stepped into the shower.

He joined me.

I wasn't worried. I had warned him before he came down that I would not be touching him, would not allow him to touch me, that I just wished for his company. He agreed.

But hot water and slick skin cause hands to roam.

He went for my chest, and I knocked his hands off me. I turned to get under the water and his fingers slid over my hipbones, parting my legs. I tugged him free, told him to stop. He grabbed my hands, grinning at me, with that cocky male grin when a man is so certain he'll break down resistance. I've seen it often.

Guided my hands towards his cock.

He wouldn't let me get out of his hold. Too strong. Krav and crossfit gave him a killer body, and that body could lay mine flat in an instant.

I twisted my wrists, dodging him under the hot water, through the steam, dark hair clinging to my shoulders, I locked his gaze.

"Stop. Stop now or you will not like what will happen."

Another tug towards, I continued to stare.

Then he dropped my hands, tilted his head back to let the water run down his scalp, his face, eyes closed.

"I will eat you if you try that again," I told him. Listening to my voice, my mood, perfectly calm, perfectly centered, confident.

My definition of "eat" in this, is a sort of sexual/psychological breakdown. I am able to get inside men's heads, especially when it comes to sex and vunerability. I've spoken on the whys and the hows of this before. It's rare when I am unable to do so, usually shocks the hell of me to the point where I feel unsettled for days when I am unable to crack someone.

This means I see, and get to interact with, a lot of the internal workings of men. Which is why I emphasize with them so strongly, especially compared to my own sex.

I realized, when he got into the shower, I was not worried. It wasn't a concern, this man, a few inches taller than I, significantly stronger, one I had seen lay into a hanging bag with a brutal force that I still remember so vividly. He couldn't do anything to me. He wouldn't be able to. Since the last time we saw him, before GV8 and I started dating, I had changed so much that I had become the dominant one in our relationship.

I knew, without a doubt, without even thinking, I could get inside his head. I could manipulate his desire for me into whatever I chose and neutralize it.

He did not touch me with aggressive intent the rest of the weekend, only the occasional light probe, testing the boundaries, before he was shut down once again.

More later... sleep summons.

Hanging by threads of palest silver...

The rain has been following my brain patterns: moments of peaceful clarity interrupted by hours of torrential downpour of emotions.

I texted GV8 last night, while I was stuck in traffic, asking him how he was doing.

In response, he told me he was fine, and the better question was how I was holding up, as he expected me to be in worse shape than himself.

Which, whether or not that is true, I am much more open to admitting to emotional vunerability than he is, than most are. I won't necessarily express the emotion that I am feeling, but I will communicate it.

I answered, then he called so I would not be texting and driving.

It is a bit disconcerting to have your ex-boyfriend's voice in surround sound over your car speakers. It's like he's touching every part of me.

We talked. About what I was doing, about how I needed to be focusing on my writing, about how I need to finally get it together and figure out what I should write my non-existent book on.

And it is non-existent. I get asked, time and time again, to write on how I've been molded into the woman I am today. How my social-sexual mindset was created, what experiences led me into becoming this half-beast thing, detached and manipulative when it comes to life, to men, but still able to keep my heart, my ethics, my need for monogamy.

Write it all down. All the men, all the experience, all the random experiments and lessons learned. Throwing myself into it the only way a person can when psychologically abused from a young age. Thank you, daddy issues.

I just can't bring myself to do it, not now.

So we talked as I drove through downtown, talked as I passed the high buildings, the puddles formed in gutters catching the sides of my tires for their watery lift-offs.

I pulled up in the lot behind my apartment.

By that time, we had shifted to the topic of Us. Trying not to rehash. Trying to set boundaries, realizing that we can't even hug.

How pathetic. That a mere hug can wreck us. We can't touch each other without upsetting the delicately crafted walls we are building between us.

I went to tell him that I still thought he was wrong, that we should be together, but I stopped myself. No need to go over that tired argument. But he had me say it anyhow, told me to finish my sentence.

Told me that, days after we saw each other on Saturday, Saturday when I could not stop from touching him, stroking his back, kissing his neck, running my tongue along the inside crease of his elbow, biting his side gently, so gently... once the bed was assembled, he pushed me onto it, I half-stood, pulled him down to me, trying to control my squirming hips, trying to keep my ankles from locking around his lower back, then finally undulating under him, running my lips up his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. When he tried to pull away, I held him to me, whispered, "I want you to be the first man in this bed with me. Platonically. Platonically as we can. Please."

And he stayed.

I got inside his head, as sure as he has been inside mine.

It serves him right, in a non-malicious way. I told him not to kiss me on the lips, not even that platonic peck, that I would not be able to handle it.

And he did it anyway. So it escalated. And this is what happens when you escalate.

I warned him and he made his choices.

After that, he had to keep his distance. We both did. He confessed that his head had been a mess since he saw me.

And then he tried to convince me to date others, to find another male interest.

This is an argument I've won with myself often.

A long relationship ends. After the inital licking of wounds, I've found that my body is accustomed to the man I was with. So any new partners feel awkward and unsure. Which means I have to get used to being with others. So I take a lover, have a few one-night stands, and sexually I'm back to being okay. When I find someone I'm willing to date, want a relationship with, that sexual awkwardness, that muscle-memory mental aftertaste from the previous man, isn't there.

I'm not doing that this time. Because there has to be other ways of coping.

So for me to try to date someone, to have a relationship, when I'm still in love with another, when I still haven't gotten over another... what poor taste. What disrespect to any future male. It's a poison pill to any potential relationship.

So I cannot seriously date until I move past him.

And I do not want to casually date. It just rubs my nose in the fact that none of them measure up. None of them will measure up. Because he was rare, because what we had is rare. So casually dating isn't on option.

After the conversation ended, I realized something.

He's probably pushing me away for two reasons.

The first is the obvious one, the one he says: he wants me to be happy, he wants to make sure I don't miss The Guy For Me, and he wants me to get over him so I'm not hurting anymore. Then we can hug, we can touch, things will be okay.

The second I'm not sure he's even realized. If I'm distracted, if I'm taken off the market, and he knows, he knows very well that my monogamous nature runs deep, that I would never cheat on my partner, even with him, then I am no longer available to him. I am no longer making him doubt his decision, rethink what he chose. I am no longer an accessible temptation.

If I don't sleep with Playboy this weekend, who is coming down to visit starting tomorrow, it's likely going to make it harder for him.

How long is this going to take?

Who is going to break?

Will he come back to me, or will I finally give up on him?

I was running errands last night, without thought to my route or location. Lost in the morass of my brain, my brain on the drug that I call GV8.

A moment of mental recognition, something twitching in my brain, and I start paying attention to my surroundings. Am I really where I think I am? Is that the Starbucks we went to, the morning after we first met?

It was.

It was the Starbucks where we wound down our meeting, where we separated, me leaving his whim to decide our fate. At that time, I had never chased a man, wasn't going to start.

But he did text me the next morning, while I was driving to work.

We were at that Starbucks so briefly. I had been running late to meet up with some friends. Grabbed a coffee and a banana, my usual breakfast at that time, and we talked while I ate, went outside and stood by our cars, running on twenty minutes of sleep, the woman sitting on the patio outside commenting on how affectionate and natural we were, how long we must have been dating, how comfortable we were.

We had known each other for less than twelve hours.

I texted him as I drove past the Starbucks, telling him where I was. He reminded me of the woman mentioned above, I reminded him of the passionate kisses in the parking lot. He said it was a good beginning to a lifelong friendship.

I know he's trying to rein us in.

I would say he's stronger than I am, more controlled, and he is. But... something else is there. Parts of me don't see his logic. Parts of me do. I can't imagine sacrificing what we are together. I can't imagine losing something so rare. For both of us to have slept with the amount of people we have, for both of us to have this emotionally detached enjoyment of sex, never falling in love, always perfectly controlled, and then for both of us to lose that control, to fall in love, to bring sex past the point of the physical pleasure, trascending past the art we create, mere sexual sketches with others compared to the masterpiece we paint together...

It's a loss. It's an immense loss of beauty, of perfection. Such a rare find.

I wish I could describe it, describe us.

I wish words could encompass how wonderful it felt to finally find a missing piece to my sexuality, that all those years, all that research, experience, experimenting, trials and damages, finally to find someone who would not only appreciate that knowledge, but have his own, who could educate, who could return.

To be with someone I could respect on a sexual level.

There's first time for everything.

I remember being at the swing club, on the set of mattresses in the center of the main room, beds full of couples lining the walls around us, the sounds of sex, of liquid, weight shifting, bodies meeting so rhythmically, and we were in the center by ourselves, the largest audience encircling our play area, watching us, watching our perfection in the low light, with us so engrossed in each other it was only afterwards that I even noticed the growing crowd. I remember laying on my stomach, my feet, still in those black stockings, kicked up behind me, him in my mouth, looking up and seeing the mass of people standing still, having been watching, learning, for however long we had been going at it. Time was non-existent for us. It always was, whenever we entered a bedroom.

We texted back and forth while I ran my errands, my sense of loss continuing to grow. I know if he wasn't so strong, I would be stronger. I know it's disrespectful to him to be weak like I am being.

He finally told me that we need to stop, we need to stop with the such brief physical contact we had been, which was something I asked for a few weeks ago when he kept pecking me on the lips. I told him it was too much.

But he did it anyway.

And it escalated into longer hugs, into neck kisses, shoulder bites, brief hips grinding. Saturday, one of the first things he did when we entered my apartment was roughly push me onto the bed, which is what he used to do to initiate play when we dated. A push, a toss, I'd be mattress-bound and he'd descend on me, intense and demanding, continuing to mold me around him, place me where he wanted me... not for anything useful, but just the love of being in control. Until I was whimpering, until I was bruised from his teeth, off-balance, unsteady.

He said we were fucking with our heads too much.

He said we needed to stop.

He said that he'd see me next week, once SFPlayboy had gone home.

It was a push away. It was a too-close, too-fast, we-are-losing-control, how-the-hell-can-two-people-like-us-lose-control? moment. We are too experienced to have this problem. We have iron-fisted control over ourselves, our sex drives, what we engage in.

So now it's distance. Now it's recognizing that, for some reason, we can't stop. And it's getting worse. Rapidly.

If we don't get this under control, we won't be able to be in each other's presence at all.

Reading over that, how weak it sounds. How typical, how lame. If one of my friends was expressing their lack of control over themselves regarding some aspect of their sex or love life, I'd whap them upside the head and tell them to get it together, that they are in control of themselves and stop making stupid, petty excuses to rationalize their behavior.

I must be an idiot.

If I could only get this hope out of my head that it would somehow work out, I'd be able to stop myself.

But I can't seem to shake that little beast gnawing at my brain.

Part of me thinks that I should take up the multiple offers I have floating my way, fuck him out of my system. Make sex trivial again, lose the poetry of it, lose what we had, what we had that I never expected to have for myself, in the bodies of other men.

If I still feel this way in two weeks, I'm going to do so. I can't sit here mooning for a man I cannot have, and I'm going to keep clinging to that hopeless dream until I convince myself it is well and truly over.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in some sort of alternate reality.

Like I slipped on a sidewalk, hit the pavement, and when I stood... I was somewhere else. Maybe I'm off in a coma, and my brain is wandering around this alternate world where things don't quite make sense.

For example, for those of you who have been keeping up with my family madness posts, you might have noticed that a week ago this evening, I was sitting in the emergency room of a nearby hospital attempting to check my father into the psych ward. At this very hour, I was likely running back and forth in the hallways, attempting to keep my mother from breaking down, my father from escaping, and finding out the ways to get him restrained. The night before that, I was sleeping in a guest room across from my mother because we could not go home. And all those details I've blogged about.

Today, however, today we (my father) decided we were going to celebrate the Christmas we "missed". So I came home, slept in my own bed, and woke up to open presents.

And then my parents took me shopping.

And bought me a new car.

In case you missed that, here we go again:

And bought me a new car.

I didn't even copy and paste that sentence. I typed it again so you could feel the gravity of the statement. By gravity, I mean the "...wtf?"-ness of that statement.

I now have a 2010 VW Jetta TDI sedan.

Why?

I have no clue. I have no freaking clue. I've always had to work for everything, pay for everything. And suddenly: "Hay, here's a car!"

My brain hurts as life attempts to pack enough plotline for a few seasons worth of sitcom into a month and some change.

I... can't really even recount the events of the last month, trying to remember this last year seems even more of a feat.

But since I've yet to attempt this type of post before, let's go over some highlights:

In 2009 I...

~went to my first swing club and banged without mercy, squirted on an audience, showed a large group of onlookers how to really give head

~Snagged SFPlayboy, ended up spending some time in San Fran as well

~Did my first DP

~Picked up that delicious 6'9" cello player/stuntman

~Met GV8, learned more about myself and my life than I thought possible

~Flew across the country to follow a band for the weekend

~Moved out of the apartment I shared with Darkeyes

~Restarted my schooling, pushing towards entry into the Master's Program

~Let my hair grow long, near waist-length

~Broke up, reunited, broke up, reunited, broke up with GV8

~Chased a man for the first time in my life. Failed spectacularly.

~Finally found out the difference between "sex" and "making love"

~Made out with a hobo

~Got my right side tattooed in one eight-hour sitting, with three hours of touch-ups later

~Attempted to commit my father to a mental institution

~Had four friends kill themselves

~Almost had a nervous breakdown, which was stopped by GV8 a week after our final break up

~Applied to my first ever apartment not to be shared with another

~Lost 20 pounds

~Launched my car backwards down a hill

~Had my driver's side t-boned while driving through an intersection

~Spent 10 months couchsurfing

~Started this blog

~Helped a friend execute an emergency move at 2AM on a Wednesday morning that involved us balancing her bed on top of a minivan and walking it the x-amount of miles to her new place because we had no rope


If I wasn't feeling so tired and lazy, I would look up all those things that I forgot.

But it has been a long freaking week.

Monday: stayed in, cried, anxiety issues, cried more
Tuesday: apartment hunted, spoke with the boss-man, rescinded my two-weeks notice
Wednesday: found an apartment, applied (hoping I get it)
Thursday: came home to talk with the parents about my current life plan and their degree of involvement in it and then they bought me a car
Friday: cleaning, cleaning, cleaning
Saturday: packing, packing, packing
Sunday: sleeping, sleeping, sleeping

I don't want to go back to work on Monday. Save me.

So nervous about if I will get that apartment. So. Nervous. I hate when I want something really bad and I have to wait to see if I get it. Makes me jumpy.

Gyah. Going to bed.

Have a happy new year. I'm going to go sleep my way into unconsciousness.

It is... 546PM. I'm sitting at a coffee shop in Long Beach, working on my final papers, stressing like hell. I never let school get to me like this. Because I'm smart. Because I'm on it and I write an excellent piece of bullshit.

But I'm stressing. I'm anxious and all over the place and can't think. Can't get my paper organized, can't put it together, which is funny, given the topic of the paper is on writing structure.

I'm still torn up about GV8. Of course I am. It's only been a few days.

I've had three separate bootycall requests, one which I initiated but realized it would be a bad idea. Then I had to cancel that. And then I had two others text me on Saturday and I was sitting there, not wanting the drag of that, knowing that I could easily go to either of them and spend the entire evening not achieving, not doing, what I want to do. Focusing on them.

A complete lack of emotional connection having formed.

I miss SFPlayboy. I do. He's the only lover I've had of late that I've actually formed a connection with, without it going romantic. I want him to come down here and cuddle me, love me, care for me, until I feel better again.

But I doubt that's an option this late in December.

I went up to Umberto's to get my hair done today. About an inch of blonde roots knocked back into my usual dark brown, near black, with red undertones. It feels good, not having that horrible blonde color crowning my head

I'm sad. I'm lonely. I need physical contact and I need for this semester to be over. I know once I finish these two papers, I'll be so much less stressed. And, gods, do I miss GV8, his company, his support, his love and caring. His warmth. Finally being able to experience what it is like to make love.

Realizing how long it is likely going to be until I experience that again.

Sigh.

I haven't cried today, at least not yet. I'm pretty proud of myself.

Okay, not really proud. I feel it behind my eyes, waiting for a little thing to start the waterworks. If I was at home at all this week and I could, once more, inhale the scent of him on my robe, I'm sure I'd start bawling again.

That's the way it goes.

I've yet to look at our pictures from Disneyland, the last real date we went on. We went into the Grand Californian (hotel) and took pictures at the base of the huge tree in the lobby, and then another picture or two at the front of the Cinderella Castle at night, all lit with silver shining lights.

I'll just start crying again.

I'm thinking of emailing them to him, once I take them off the camera. So he has them too. So, years from now, he'll see them and remember us, remember me.

Bah, going to start crying. Need to not do that here. Must distract myself with the academia I'm learning to resent. The things that keep us apart.

If I turn out to be infertile after all this, years from now, I'm going to stab someone.

Update!: HAHAHAHA guess who just texted me about twelve times in a row checking on me and wanting to still be friends?

...thirteen. Okay, now it's thirteen. Thirteen times.

I am never going to finish this paper.

Someone, pretend to be me and write my final for me so I can go rock back and forth in the corner for a half hour or two.

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.

Many things to cover this morning.

Friday night, I was supposed to go attended a show with The Waitress.

I ended up cancelling those plans, feeling full of mope, needing to isolate, needing pillows and blankets piled up on me with a chick flick full of mindless, illogical romance.

Well, that turned out to be PMS induced. Figures. Body betraying me again on my monthly fight to stay sane and stable for a few days.

I ran by C's place to pick up an item I left behind. I had forgotten she was having her three lovers over for dinner. Two boys I had met before, and a red-headed Russian chick that was an avid fan of my other blog, so I had been avoiding meeting her.

Avid fans creep me out.

I sat on the floor, looking and feeling like crap, catching up with one of the men who I had not seen in a couple of months. Pulled me into their physicality, squished between two men with the Russian girl stroking my hair as I climbed and allowed the physical contact I need so much to keep me relaxed and okay to wash over me. Body heat and skin. Rising scents, teeth nipping at hips.

I left, having blocked one of the neighbors' parking spots, then returned after parking on the street, realizing that time spent in full body contact with C's partners was the least stressed I had felt all week, and I needed more of it.

It was good.

I drove home at 10, having laundry to do, knowing I would not have time to do it on Saturday morning.

My sister was fresh home from Japan, her boyfriend over. I tossed my clothes into the washer and curled up on the couch, watching TV for the first time in, at least, a month. VH1 was doing a marathon of "heavy" metal music videos, and I latched onto it.

Respect for BulletBoys gained.
Respect for Judas Priest lost.

Saturday morning was a rush of errands, a quick break to have lunch with a man I am going to refer to as The Broken Prince. Dramatic, I know. Accurate enough. I'm still mulling everything over.

Down to Huntington Beach for a double birthday party. Steak and booze, one thing I love, one thing I hate. It was good to be with friends I don't see often enough.

One of them, essentially a brother to me, I've known since I was about 17. He's a couple of years older than me, can't remember how many. He's been dating this girl, who I really like, for about six years. We went out on a booze/mixer run shortly before I had to leave, and he started talking to me.

About sex.

About how, for the last few years, sex with his girlfriend has been non-existent. She has no desire for him anymore, and he's worried, feeling undesirable, wanting to share something more that just sex with her, but that vaunted love-making.

So we talked. I tossed game theories at him, ideas at him. It's going to be a work in progress. He's planning on proposing to her soon, and... yes. Difficult spot to be in.

During the party, I received a text message/booty call. Very blunt, which is something I respect. Direct communication, no games.

So the booze/mixer run turned into a booze/mixer/condoms run.

My friend was laughing about the text, about my casual acceptance of it, while we hit up a drugstore. And then he said to me something along the lines of how I tend to see several men at once, sleeping with some of them, and how I'm so not relationship material.

That drew me up short.

He knows me pretty well, but when I spend time with that particular social group, it's usually when I'm single and playing the field.

I'm coming to realize how difficult it is to explain how I view sex and relationships, and how I function in relationships... and how I'm viewed.

I'm the guy. I'm one of the boys. I've always been one of the boys. It's masculine dandyism. Men relax around me because I'm like them, because they can tell me things they can't tell other guys (because it would be emotionally weak) and that they can't tell other girls (because the girls would be shocked and judge them for their behavior). It's standard.

So my guy friends see me do what I do.

The multiple casual sexual relationships that I have no intention of going any farther in.

The emotional disconnect.

The sexual banter and objectifying of my partners and theirs.

The inability for anything to shock me on a sexual level.

Trying to explain to him my need for monogamy, not even bothering to bring up my closeted romantic nature. It would be too fantastical for him.

I think that most men expect women to behave one of two ways: searching for that Relationship or searching solely for casual pleasure. There's not a lot of inbetween. A girl like me should not have any interest in anything long-term in their eyes, or deserving of it, or even capable of it.

Truth be told, if I met that man who I felt would be good, that I felt I could bond with, I would, without a second thought, spend the rest of my life working on our relationship, being with him, sleeping with only him.

Until then, though, I see no reason to curb my behavior, other than the potential for STDs, and I'm always safe. As safe as one can be and still be sexually active, that is.

After I left the party, I headed up to Los Angeles, going to The Greek to catch Diavolo's show. Good stuff. Freezing out, though. I huddled next to my club friend and we warmed ourselves by mocking the DJ and his crappy house music by busting out sarcastic dance moves for a good twenty minutes. We totally got complimented on our performance, too.

The show shifted to clubbing, moving on the dance floor at a favorite venue, trying to let go, just be in the moment. Training myself to stop detaching from everything. It's hard, it's very hard, going from the constant observer to the participant.

But it's easiest for me to do it when I'm dancing.

So I practiced. Whenever I felt my mind wandering to the other dancers or the men standing by me, I would just force myself to stop thinking about it, start thinking of the beat and my body.

It worked. It worked really well.

I left at midnight to join The Broken Prince and his friend for some DP.

Finally, yes, finally, DP can be checked off the list of things to do. My delayed birthday present. An unexpected offer, an unexpected adventure.

It was a mild conflict for me. A man I just met and a man I had never met. The dynamic of the three of us together. My own safety. The mild concern of if I was agreeing to the invite because I felt the need to somehow validate myself, that the pain from GV8 was still echoing in me, or if I sincerely was just anxious about trying something new with new people.

If it was a healthy decision or an unhealthy one.

And then how it would impact my friendship with The Broken Prince.

If he would, indeed, be one of those men that would immediately write off my opinions, my ideas, because I "obviously" did not value myself. Because I did not wait the prescribed time before going "sure, you and your friend can totally ream me".

If it was desire for me, or desire for the image I represented.

Memories of SFPlayboy rising to the surface, knowing that he, at least initially, wanted me for my other blog's popularity, not because of who I was. A trophy for his collection.

I showed up at 1AM.

I met his friend. I was relieved. His friend was wonderful, completely put me at ease within seconds. This was not, at least for me, going to be a matter of being used and tossed out.

Eventually we made it into the bedroom.

There's that awkwardness, that wondering of dynamic.

And I realized, watching and listening, seeing The Prince slide off his shirt, undo the chain that rested around his neck, that he wasn't quite with us.

That he wasn't in the room.

I wonder if I would have noticed if I had not been aware of this tendency of his prior to that night.

Looking up at his face, at his eyes, our shared blue, wondering, almost knowing that this wasn't a matter of me being used, this wasn't even about pleasure. It was him feeding demons, and I could have been anyone.

I touched his face, surprised by a kiss placed into my palm.

Back into his eyes. Wondering where he was. Wondering what he was doing to himself. Wondering if I should hate myself for knowing this and aiding him in that quest. It's almost like assisted soul-rape.

A line from an IAMX song slides into my mind, "Who put the mess in your head..?"

Remembering doing this to myself, remembering years ago.

We're both good at hiding these things from others. Watching the social shifts.

He didn't hide it from me. Possibly because he was too tired. Possibly realizing what a disservice it would be. Possibly because he didn't find me worth the effort of hiding it.

I don't know. I do know that it's more likely that whatever theories I come up with, they're probably wrong.

I'm not here to save anyone. I don't heal wounds, I only listen.

Slow, rhythmic pumps, distance between bodies, eyes that are so far removed from the current time as he eats away at himself. Unredeemable, is that the goal?

That's the question, isn't it? The things that drive a person to destruction: what is the idea of that destruction? The finality of execution. How do you define your destruction, and what will that destruction bring you?

Two people asked me within a twenty-four hour period, why do I chase pain?

Things to think on.

Afterwards, The Prince passed out in bed and I joined his friend (pseudonym pending) in the living room, curled up under a yellow blanket that reminded me strongly of Big Bird from Seasame Street.

We talked for awhile. Just life and sex stuff, the dynamic the three of us had in bed, the disconnect with The Prince. We had two conversations over the course of the night, the first one standing on his front porch while he had a cigarette.

He said to me, "You're here for him."

I said to him, "I figured he brought me here for you."

Shaking with cold, chatting into the late night/early morning air.

Life is damaging, some of us aid that process.

Remembering what it was like when sex was an unhealthy activity for me. It has been so many years since I punished myself by using others. By letting others use me.

Those sentiments: "you're here for him" and "he brought me here for you".

Realizing the twist. I was there for him, but he did not bring me for his friend necessarily, but to help drive another knife in. The knowledge was there, I saw it. I saw the days of my 16 year old self piled up, the sheets, the carpet, the furniture I was bent over.

Pressed a hand to his face, knowing that was the closest I'd get to his mind that night.

Write you a love song...

12 hour workday on 3 hours of sleep.

And my ass is bruised. Not as bad as when I was seeing that cop, or like when SFPlayboy lays into me, or when I was playing in that dungeon and the... yeah. I'll stop that sentence there.

Spending time with GV8 has raised my learning curve. Hypergamy, I thank you.

Had a date on Sunday.

Men, men are a matter of goals and engineering.

Sounds horrible, doesn't it?

But it's a basic flowchart that I think most women go through, albeit subconsciously.

Me, I've been doing it quite consciously for some time.

1. Determine desires
2. Encounter man
3. Put man through a variety of scenarios (AKA: "tests")
4. Calculate results
5. Determine where man falls into your scheme of desires

I've spoken of my love for beast-men, those damaged, wild men that have to ride those inner-demons, that rage and fight.

Unfortunately, as most of you realize, these men... aren't exactly relationship material. And I'm not one to even bother to try to make them so. Which means you have to sort them out, the rare ones you date, the ones you fuck, and the ones you bolt from before they destroy pieces of what you've worked for. You don't date men who aren't willing to fix themselves.

For me, when someone has those demons, it's not exactly a matter of fixing, it's more of a matter of recognizing and controlling your actions. Finding the source, Visceris. Your core. Knowing what birthed those shadows, harnessing them. Using them. Acknowledgement.

Because of how I am, because of the things I've done over the years, it makes it very difficult to truly connect on a base level with most men. Yes, there's a connect with most everyone, and even if there isn't, it's easy to create one with time and shared experiences, but that deep, natural connection of understanding... that's different.

My most satisfying relationships have been with men that have had horrible things happen to them, or have done horrible things, and have taken the time to acknowledge and address how those things have shaped them and have done something about it. Made the most of that damage. Made themselves the best beasts they could be.

There's not a lot of "going back". Being "normal" again. You don't get that. Experiences make you who you are, even if you forget that certain things ever happened, those things shaped choices down the line, behavior patterns and social recognition.

So you move forward.

Recognize patterns. Recognize tendencies. Examine fears, examine the things that make you the most uncomfortable on a gut level, things that seem to have no explanation. Chase those things down your innermost corridors until you reach the end.

If you're really good, you can find my footprints all over the internet. Years of writing, from when I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and realized that I no longer wanted to destroy myself and the only way to stop was to account for what I was doing, note behavior patterns, find their source if I could, and stop them.

It was hard.
It was embarassing.
I still find things about myself, the insecurities and deep-seated fears especially, embarassing. I still find it hard to write about them. I continue to hate admitting weakness... which means it's a problem. Which means it needs to be addressed.

Pursuing my personal nirvana, I suppose.

Back to the topic at hand, though. I'm going to be impressed with myself, one day, when I am able to stay on topic while being constantly interrupted with work.

We take men through these steps to prove worthiness. To allow us to categorize, just like we do with everyone else. Who are we in relation to them? What do we want from them? What negative impact could they have on us? What could they want from us?

Social evaluation.
Sexual evaluation.

We shit-test, at bare minimum.

Going out with me when I engage in this behavior... hoops. Leaping through hoops while juggling poodles that are on fire.

Poodles. On. Fire.

Because I have the experience that allows me to do so, because I so rarely choose to actually date any of my lovers, I am constantly going out and exposing myself to different types of men. It's an enjoyable gathering of intelligence. Finding out what works for me, what behaviors are signs of what issues, what traits I find desirable, and how to provoke the behaviors I desire.

I am excellent at pushing men over the edge. This comes from a love of rough, objectifying sex, and the realization that so many men feel they have to hide these desires from their partners. Spending an evening with a man who has dominant tendencies (or a man that is already happy with and aware of those tendencies) and provoking him, building that need to dominate with teasing and undermining words, with sexual challenge... that's a hobby I've engaged in for years.

In the end, I suppose, it becomes disappointing. It's rare that I meet up with a man who has more experience than I do, it's rare that I meet up with a man who has good, solid game that surpasses mine. It's not that I'm so fanastic, but that I've been doing it for so long.

Having to provoke, while fun, is usually just another manipulation of a man who isn't experienced enough in his own sexuality or able to read my body language effectively. I can't respect that. So it's basically masturbation... and they're my sex toys.

GV8 was the first guy in the last year and some change that lived up to my desires.

The man I went out with on Sunday... he was fun, he was a practice run in trying out some new things I wanted to add to my game, and the sex was full of some of my favorite things, but I had to walk him through some of it. He had game, but not enough. I knew that quickly, assigned him to the "potential regular sex partner" box.

Nothing serious.

Rarely is.

Examining relationship history.

First two boyfriends were before I was seventeen. One was nearly ten years older than me. I was young, incredibly stupid.
Third boyfriend, I was nineteen. Wasn't looking for a relationship. He chased me for six months, I kept shooting him down, but discovered his hands and lips were amazing.
Fourth, I was twenty. Still wasn't looking for a relationship.
Fifth, I was twenty-three. Stupidest rebound ever.

Five boyfriends. Two out of youth, one out of rebound.

If my "number" is in the high sixties, low seventies, and I've been out with significantly more men than I've slept with, and I just am getting more experienced and, therefore, choosier, I have to say, I'm screwed.

...this post seems oddly pointless. I don't know if it's my mood, but... yes. I suppose I'm sorting. Sunday's date, my realization of how much GV8 added to my expectations of men, my learned behaviors from observing him, from miming him... it was enlightening. The change, that is.

Six months makes a lot of difference.

I think I'm about to hit another growth spike.

Going to manage this one carefully. I have a plan in mind, a place I want to be.

Update: Re-reading this, I feel like I'm missing something. Whether it's something I wanted to say and forgot due to distractions, or if it's a thought that's trying to float to the surface, I'm not sure.

There's the insecurity that female game does not matter, that because my goals so often run towards the sexual because the men aren't what I want for more, there's no work required on my part, save the building of mood and tension. Sex, it's all in your head. I do my best to make sure it is what I want it to be. Doesn't always work.

There's the insecurity that the reason I'm not finding the type of men I want is because I'm reaching for more than I'm "worth" at this level, at the shape my body is currently in (not the best, but visibily improving), at the mental stability and confidence I desire, and the income-bracket I want to be at.

There's the knowledge that I'm getting better. That each month that passes is another month where I have pursued some of my goals in some way, pushing myself towards that lofted image in my head. There's the worry that I may be in my 30s or 40s by the time I reach it, which is amusing more than anything.

I know I'm good. But I know my game is not standard. I envy the girls who can pull the normal men, the men you see at clubs. Their ability to be normal, to appeal to the standard demographic. I don't think I'll feel good about myself in this regard until I am able to do the same. I prize adaptability. I want, so badly, to be able to go into a "normal" club and do what the "normal" people do.

I want to not have that image in my brain that "normal" people are so much better. I know that I have a Hollywood image in my brain, but I spend enough time in Hollywood to know that those places are real, those people exist. I don't want to be one of them, but I want to be able to do what they do.

I know I blow things I haven't experienced out of proportion in my head, and as soon as I do them, I realize it was nothing, nothing at all.

Wish I could get over that.

The man on Sunday, he was close to that "normal" image. Put me one on one with a man with any sense of self-awareness and damage, and I'll burrow into his head given the opportunity. Not with any intent of harm, but because I have a love for damage, for history, for understanding, for learning.

I need to accept myself.