First, I've gotta say, this guy's writing continues to impress me. I mean, really, this post was gold. Swoon.

My head has been all over the place the last few days.

And being unable to write for part of those days... I've kinda retreated.

I've been noticing that more and more lately, after one of my friends told me that I shouldn't lay everything out on the table for people in the belief that mysterious girls have better game.

Of course, that friend was the one that hid from me the fact that he had a kid.

So that bit of advice must be taken with a grain of salt and a margarita. Or two.

But I have been withdrawing. I haven't been communicating as much. The only man that I talk to regularly on a personal level without holding back is Roman. But that's because he's him and I'm me. It works. It works now. In a few months, shrug, that's the way life goes.

What am I supposed to say, really?

The Bassist came over on Tuesday to fix my laptop. I was perfectly good. Angelically good. Sexual situations were diffused with quick adjustments, physical distance was kept, jokes were not made.

Then C came over.

My behavior changed rapidly, sexuality coming to the forefront.

I believe it was a combination of her expectations of me and me knowing that I couldn't "accidentally" (*cough*rationalize*cough*) do anything with her there.

The former, though, is why I keep my social groups separate like I do. Everyone has a different image of me, of who I am, of what I'm like. I can't play the roles everyone has for me at one time. It doesn't work, which makes two major things happen: personality discontinuity and loss of trust.

Not trust as in "I trust you with this secret" or somesuch nonsense, but trust as in "I trust, innately, that how you've presented yourself is who you are and the behavior patterns you've shown me will continue on in logical paths set forth by what I've observed of you". The kind of trust that we don't really think about.

We trust authors to make sense. We trust that, midway through a book, they won't suddenly change genres from romance to sci-fi. Aliens will not suddenly descend. Writing style will stay the same or if there are any changes, they will make sense in context of the book.

Otherwise we put it down.

It's not like I'm acting. It's more that certain people are comfortable with certain things and I need to stay within those boundaries. I'm more than a 2D character. I can suppress my sexuality and become "the Friend", "the Ear", "the Guru" or "the Shoulder" without thought. Or I can play "the Wild One", "the Aggressor", "the Sub", or "the Sex Queen". With all the various tweaks those come with.

With C, I tend to roll "Sex Queen". With the Bassist, I try to keep myself in "Friend".

So when he's sitting at my desk working on my comp and she's lounging in my bed talking about my oral skills to me... there's a bit of conflict.

Also of note, I realized that a good deal of C's affected social apathy (that stems from anxiety/awkwardness) is alleviated when she's able to put herself, mentally, in a superior position. And she considers herself in a superior position to The Bassist when it comes to my friendship and my apartment. It was interesting to watch her shift like that.

Anyway, that's enough notes. I still feel like I'm burrowed deep inside my head, thinking and planning, but hiding it from myself. Something is going on in my brain and it doesn't want to be known... and since it's midnight, I'm going to put this "thinking" stuff to an end and enjoy this "sleeping" activity.

I've been trying not to post while under the influence of exhaustion, but my life lends itself to being exhausted.

Spent the evening with some new (sorta) friends.

It was an odd experience.

It let me see how much I've changed.

I met the coordinator of the group when I was about 17 or 18, when my hobbies were of a significantly nerdier bent. He was my unplanned dance partner for the occasional folk dancing class. We danced really well together, perfectly in sync, no matter what style of dance we were doing. Our favorite was a Russian number that I cannot hope to spell that would increase in tempo until you were near running through the steps. Another, more western European, possibly British, country dance involved switching out partners, snaking your way into the form. Essentially, dance cock-blocking others.

I stopped going to the classes when I was around 19, when I met one of my LTRs.

So there's your backstory.

When I was down in San Diego earlier this month, I ran into my old dance partner at a party. We talked a little bit and, surprise, his girlfriend lives less than two miles away from me up in LA. He invited me out to their occasional board gaming get togethers.

No, I'm not talking Shoots and Ladders or Checkers. This is more along the veins of strategy games. RISK. Advanced Civ (my personal favorite, though that takes somewhere between six to twelve hours to run through so most people won't play). Various brightly colored, cheap'n'easy games like Puerto Rico, Carcassone, Dos Rios, La Citta. You can get through those anywhere between thirty minutes to two hours.

I... don't play boardgames anymore. I used to. I enjoy them, I like the strategy building, the planning ahead, trying to read your players, watching people interact.

Part of the reason is time.
Another part of the reason is finding people to play with.
And a major problem with the above, which makes it so difficult, is finding sane people to play with. And by "sane", I mean intelligent guys that will put up a challenge but aren't so socially awkward I feel like I'm being masturbated about under the table OR won't just drive me absolutely batshit with whatever gamer quirks they have.

And there are a lot of quirks. I had NO idea.

Ah, blissful ignorance, I miss thee.

So this guy says he's got a couple of people that he plays with and I like his girlfriend (though she's a little... oh, we'll say, totally nuts), and so I agree to come over to her place one night and play games with them. Boardgames, you goddamn pervs.

She actually ended up living in an apartment that was next to one I had been attempting to look at when I was apartment-hunting, but the property manager was so incredibly incompetent at returning calls on time and arranging to let me into the building I wrote it off.

Her apartment is... well, built around the same time period as mine. Would be cute, if the windows weren't so tiny. I can't deal with tiny windows, I love how mine just line the walls of my apartment. College student apartment, messy, books and papers everywhere, no decoration. I couldn't imagine living there.

Met the friends that were joining us for the evening. More college students, save for my old dance partner. Mildly awkward nerds, but sweet.

The dynamic was... odd. Very odd.

Two couples. We've got my old dancing partner who is probably 28 or so and his girlfriend, who is 20. She's a college student studying marine biology, doesn't work, just does the school. He, as I found later in the evening, has let his body kinda go to pot. Pointy little man-boobs, wide, sagging belly. It's not really at the "paunch" point, but it's taken his trim waist and, well, you know. No bueno. She's short. Short like 4'10" short. Curvy, but her ratio is slightly off. I think it's her shoulders, I'm not sure. Frizzy dirty blonde hair. Glasses. She'd have a good body, but she's carrying a good ten or fifteen extra pounds on her, and at her height, that isn't a small sum.

Other couple, also college students. The male was blond, wide, round face. Odd haircut, falling into his eyes every so often. Small mouth with not quite perfect teeth, enough to be noticeable, but not enough to have you recoiling in horror at the sight of Lawnmower Man 3. Maybe 6'. His girlfriend... I think she was somewhere in the realm of Vietnamese/Filipino/Korean. Excessively wide face, decent body. Friendly, but socially awkward in some situations.

I could not get over the interactions within each of the couples.

Playing the games with them, with both their boyfriends telling them what to do. Telling them how to play, when they were making a wrong decision, when they missed something. Especially the Asian girl/Blond boy combo. She is never going to learn how to be good at any game as long as her boyfriend is telling her what to do instead of teaching her how to view the game, how to handle situations.

And my dancing partner was no better with his girlfriend.

While I was learning new games, trying to wrap my brain around them in ways that make sense to me, there was constant input. A little too much input, and in ways that did not make sense to my brain.

Finally I grabbed the rule book for one of them, started reading it while we were playing. I wasn't sure what was going on, and the way that it was being explained was not working for me.

About half-way into the game, I was able to get enough of a grasp of the thing to bring it around.

But before that, the two guys kept leaning over, telling me what to play, even as I was making my own moves.

Looked up at the dancing partner, said, "I've got this. If you keep telling me what to do, I'm never going to learn how to play."

I had to say it once more after that before he let me fly free.

Give me just a few more times with that game, and I'll be able to beat both of them regularly.

Watching the sexual interactions between the couples. Touching, kissing, the casual "I love you"s. Total naivety. When asked about a particular situation, I mentioned that, when I was 18 or so, a guy tried to get me to sleep with him (or at least go down on him) because he couldn't have sex with his girlfriend because she had cysts in her vaginal canal due to some disorder. First off, I told him no. Even then, I didn't poach. Secondly, as I told my gaming friends, that's what anal is for.

They wigged a little.

The "ew!" and the "oh my god!" and the "gross!" and the squirming... even the guys. I was completely blown away by their reactions. Well, not the girls so much. I kinda expect that in college girls. But the guys? Really??

When we went to leave, the blond and Asian asked me where I had parked, offered to walk me the half-block to my car. The blond told me he heard that there had been three drive-bys in the area recently, and that one of his friends refused to come to this area at all. I thought he was joking. It's not the best neighborhood, but it's nowhere near drive-by material. His girlfriend piped up that he was a master at Aikido, so he could protect the two of us from anyone that might attack us.

This is when I stare.

Well, not physically. That'd be rude.

But, mentally, I'm just staring. Staring at her, staring at him.

I can't imagine being that young. I can't imagine being that inexperienced. They're probably four years younger than I am, and our lives are so far off from one another. I used to be like them, in a way. Used to be that awkward, that tentative about sexuality, about social interaction. It feels like so long ago.

Watching them as we played, those movements and touches that speak of hesitation and territories not yet explored, or not explored thoroughly enough so one might call them their own.

Watching their lives play out. Possibilities of their lives. The weight-gain, the poor aging, the shitty diet, the vaguely cocky behavior put on by a need to show that he's more than he is. Her psychosis, whatever its source, that is going to be passed onto her children. Wondering if she'll ever mellow out. Wondering if they'll cocoon together like so many couples do much too early on.

Drove home.

Got to my beautiful little apartment. My bachelorette pad. Changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed. Living on my own. Living without that male companionship that I love so much. Going out so often, so many friends, so much to do all the time that I wipe myself out.

Wonder if that sort of life, their sort of life, was ever in the cards.

Or if this was the way it was meant to be.

Tell the northern lights to keep shining...

Last night's post was made under the haze of exhaustion. I was so tired when I was writing that, I barely remembered it in the morning, only waking to know that I had sat in bed for two hours rambling on the keyboard.

Now that I'm not so exhausted, there's things I should have added.

At the club, the guy in the suit came back to talk to me, about an hour after my friend informed him that I was taken and to go pick up girls elsewhere. This guy came back and near chewed me out for not telling him I had a boyfriend. Then he ranted that my friend told him where to pick up girls in the club, and that that all was bullshit, as there were no such social rules that people needed to adhere to (which confirmed that he lied to me, again, when he told me earlier that he wasn't picking up girls, which I already knew, but I hate being lied to), and that he still wanted to know my name, but since I had a boyfriend, it didn't even matter anymore.

I started laughing at him. Not maliciously, but just so amused at the fact that he just essentially told me that there was no reason to get to know me as a person because I wouldn't be available to sleep with him.

He started ranting again, I think about not knowing my name, and I excused myself to go dance. I wasn't going to miss a good song for his asshattery.

So he shouts after me, loud enough that I can hear it over the music, something like, "You don't even know what kinda game you're playing! You don't know!"

Or maybe it was: "This isn't just a silly game! This is more than you know!"

Something about game. And me not knowing something or behaving like I should in whatever social set-up he was imagining.

Then flip to the older guy the next day.

He walks by me and strikes up a conversation about the book I was reading.

This is completely normal. Strangers will approach me and start talking. Extremely commonplace. It's a weird day if I'm out and this doesn't happen.

So this guy comes up to me. Stylish hat, black mockneck sweater, jeans, shoes that weren't really noticeable, so didn't tip me off to anything I should know. Black framed glasses, like mine.

We're at Westwood Plaza, which means money, means Hollywood money, means showbiz, means interesting characters and odd stories, random adventures. I like this. I like wandering around and striking up conversations with people and hearing about their lives and adventures, seeing what type of jobs they do because there are so many jobs I've never heard of in the industry that you never think about, but once you learn about them you start watching movies and TV in a whole new light.

So we start talking. Eventually, he sits down at my table, straight across from me, not in my space at all. Compliments me a few times, about my appearance, my intelligence, my look, my figure, throughout the conversation.

Odd, but nothing uncomfortable. Nothing sexual. Just comments.

We probably talked for an hour or so. He kept asking me questions about my life, about what I did, what I liked to do, working in queries that could turn into transitions of "hey, why don't we go do ------- sometime?" that I made sure to subtly make impossible. We talked entertainment theory, social theory, lifestyles, LA living, standard fare.

He kept commenting on how intelligent I was.

I don't consider myself especially smart. I know, yes, I'm above average intelligence. But... yeah, it doesn't impact. I assume everyone is functioning at my level until proven otherwise, that I'll learn if I apply myself, that everyone can do the same.

So that was weirding me out.

We finally wrap up, I'm ready to head over to my friend's party, and he walks me part way through the plaza and hugs me.

Like I mentioned.

He didn't ask, he didn't offer the handshake, he just goddamn went for it and extended it past the point of social normality and comfortability. And then he fucking did it again. With the kiss on the cheek, with me dodging his attempt at a kiss on the lips. Then he insisted he give me his phone number and that I should call him.

This pissed me off so badly.

I'm very respectful of people's physical space. If someone doesn't like being touched, I don't touch them. If someone has no interest in me, I don't try to change their mind. If I'm having a platonic conversation, I do not fucking try to shift it to a physical/sexual thing at the end. There are social norms to be observed and basic respect to be shown.

What both of those men did was show that there was no respect for my desires, my boundaries, or my time. Which meant no respect for me. There was no "socially accepted" motivator for disrespect, by which I mean I was not dressed slutty (nor do I ever dress slutty), I was not drunk or under the influence of any substance, I was not rude, I was not incapable of intelligent interaction, they had no knowledge of my sexual history that may make some guys go "oh, she's just a slut, no need to respect her boundaries".

I comported myself well, I treated them, at least the guy from Saturday, politely. The other one did not get polite behavior because a) he was drunk and b) he kept touching me without my consent.

So why are they unable to treat me with a standard level of social respect?

This is why my tolerance has gone down. This is why I am now so quick to shut down men with no game when I get approached. At least men with game have life "training" and know the rules.

It feels as though whenever I'm polite and friendly to someone hitting on me, even when I do tell them I'm not interested, bad things happen. Not horrible things, but uncomfortable things. It's almost as if they believe that as long as I'm talking to them, they have a chance. I let the older guy from yesterday know that I wasn't available, but I was friendly and he took advantage of that, possibly disrespecting me because I hadn't shut him down like a "high value" girl would. I've had guys hit on me whose conversation I've enjoyed, let them know I wasn't interested, but we should hang (very much stated platonically), or they should go to whatever thing is going on that I may be going to, or that I need to introduce them to a friend, and yet they still pursue, they still make things awkward, and eventually tend to angrily toss away my friendship because they can't deal with the rejection and cannot wrap their minds around the fact that men and women can be platonic friends.

And I do believe that men and women should be platonic friends because it socializes us to the opposite sex, which makes us comfortable with handling them and helps us in the future when dating/seducing(/"making others uncomfortable" she said bitterly), as well as it allows social networking in the dating scene. So many people meet their partners through their friends, and without those common platonic friendships, such match ups would not occur so often.

Now that that rant has ended, even though I still feel icky from the older guy...

I mentioned last night that my friend likened the things I get out of sex to that which alcoholics get out of alcohol.

It made me think.

Last year, I was finally able to start having sex purely for the sake of sex. No motivators other than enjoyment. It was a break through for me. I was making so much progress and it was so good to finally move past that awful point.

Then, then everything happened. With GV8 and the family. With my life.

Total chaos and instability. Completely wounded and vulnerable.

I backslid.

I backslid into the comfort I get from men, from sex, from desire, from knowing I'm so very good at what I do, exalting in my talents.

Which is something that GV8 mentioned to me, but I did not understand at the time.

When smokers get stressed, they up their intake. If they quit, and stress happens, they start again.

Alcoholics drink all the time, but, from what little I know of it, stress stimulates more drinking, or falling off the wagon. It's what they turn to for the comfort they know they will find.

And that's what I did. Under a period of intense stress and emotional vulnerability, I started turning back to what I knew would make me feel better: sexual contact.

I could rationalize it, say that it's not physically unhealthy like smoking or drinking, that it feels good, that it's a source of cardiovascular exercise, that everyone does it and loves it.

But, to be perfectly honest, and as I'm sure most of you have realized, how I've been acting lately, how I've been wanting to act lately and stopping myself from doing... it's a dependency. It's all psychologically driven manifestations of my hurt and instability.

I would normally be berating myself about this, about being so weak.

But my friend, the one who mentioned this to me in the first place, said to me, in that conversation, "You're a very special girl. You're just hurt."

And he's right. I am doing so well. I am... special, as hard as that is for me to say. Not in a beautiful and unique snowflake way that everyone loves to mock, but I am... definitely a bit different.

And it's not that I'm still so wrecked from my teenage years, though that certainly does impact who I am now and what I learned to do for comfort, it's that I've been in a lot of emotional pain lately from several different sources, with my only stability and shielding coming from myself and the rare times I truly let myself lean on my friends.

This is a new situation. This isn't fall-out from an old one, from unaddressed issues.

That doesn't make it suck any less for me, though the realization does allow me to stop mentally punching myself. I feel like I'm going through withdrawals. Friday night, with my friend, it was almost as if I was talking to a bartender, pleading, "Just a little, just a sip. Just a sip will get me through the night."

Which is better than a whole glass.

And I did manage to make it through the night without doing more than "sipping".

And, even knowing that he was in my neck of the woods today, I did not reassert an earlier (pre-kiss) offer for him to come over, knowing that if he was in my apartment with me, it would be too much temptation for me to handle as tired as I am.

I don't know if I would say I am an addict. That seems so very trite, saying I'm addicted to sex. I certainly don't have a problem with sleeping with anyone who attempts, or getting myself into risky situations, nor do I ever wake up in the morning, look over at my partner, and groan that I did it yet again.

But there is a problem. I have a problem.

I'm not really sure what to do about it, other than wait out the need, hope that I learn other ways of coping with high amounts of stress, break patterns, and become healthier for it.

Suggestions, including that of reading material, are welcomed. I may even go as far as to say needed, as I have no idea what I'm doing.

Amusing postscript: After posting this, I went to go make dinner. So I opened Pandora and went into the kitchen while it loaded. A few seconds later, the beginning notes of a song started filling my apartment, and I nearly fell over. What was it? Massive Attack's Dissolved Girl. How blood appropriate, the lyrics and the fact that used to be a theme song of mine whenever I ran wild on the sex front.

I spent yesterday morning at a clinic on the borders of Compton, in order to get some blood tests done. I've been there before, to do my STD panels, as I love the nurse who draws the blood. She's this stereotypical black woman in her late forties, early fifties. Very blunt, nothing withheld, but very friendly. She doesn't take shit, and she's incredibly efficient at moving through patients.

Walked in ten minutes before my appointment. White girl on the premises. Possibly the only one. I'm sitting in the waiting room occasionally using my Blackberry, legs crossed, book balanced on one knee. Hair pulled back, hadn't washed it in two days, as I had just had it dyed on Sunday, like to let it sit for a few days. My usual, work casual uniform: plain black shirt (that is now very obviously too big for me, hangs off my chest, hides my waist), blue jeans, a pair of original Docs, laces wound around my ankles instead of laced the final three holes. Still hints of mascara from clubbing on Saturday.

Young girls around me with too many kids. Women wearing crazy high heels, giant shiny earrings, neon-bright tops that are much too tight. Jeans that taper to show the curves of wide hips and bubble asses that I have to hide to fit in with my demographic.

Looking around, thinking of attraction, thinking of how much of the women around us we just dismiss, label sexless without even considering them as passionate people, as how they were when they were young and exploring, crushing on boys, whispering to their girlfriends. Too old, too large, too thin, skin shows too much age, too much experience. They show up with their husbands and boyfriends and make you wonder what type of relationship they have, what drew them to each other, what they do with each moment, each year, if things were as they planned, if they even had time to stop and plan as they battled what life gave them.

I left an hour later, arm with a brand new exit hole. Watching the blood leave me, thick darkness winding through a plastic tube. And the remenants in that tube that the nurse tossed into a biohazard bin. What would happen to the blood that did not make it to the vials? Parts of me scattered to whatever overpriced disposal service they use, with hundreds of others taken that same day.

Back to work, then to dinner with a friend I had not seen in nearly two years. I could not deal with his infidelity with one of my friends, my distaste for his rudeness and lack of control distancing us.

But I tried to resolve it, my frustration, my disgust.

There was that distance still, as he told me about his life now. So much has changed for him. He used to be the AMOG, used to be the center of everything. All the girls wanted him, all the boys listened to him, mimed him. His (now ex-) girlfriend is, was, incredibly charismatic as well. Something about her is so very charming, so very endearing. Just talking to her makes you want to be her friend. The two of them would host parties once a month, they were the place to be, something that everyone would make sure to attend, running until 5 or 6 in the morning.

Now he lives out in San Bernardino. He told me about his life, about the girl he settled with, about his day to day activities. The stagnation. The last year and a half, two years, has been a build to settled life. Social activities and parties that would pack his schedule gave way to nights inside with his girlfriend, developed hobbies like Warhammer and World of Warcraft, something he used to make fun of. He never goes out clubbing. No parties.

Is this the standard life?

Graduate college, find a job, find a partner, find a house, stagnate.

You're just done? A backwards butterfly going from beautiful and wild to trapped in a coccoon you've made?

Is this what I want? Is this what is lined up for my friends?

Will I look back on this journal, five years from now, ten years from now, and wonder what happened to that wild girl?

The more I experiment with my sexual behaviors, the more research and discussions I get into, the more I realize that my damages are so standard, my lusts are easily to be expected, and the only reason I fall outside of the norm on certain issues is because I'm busy embracing my basic motivators while others are raised to fear and deny them.

I'm not just like other girls, I am the base, common deminominator of what goes through the body and mind on an instinct level, and I'm highly aware of it.

Humbling, in a way.

Embarrassing, realizing that for all my supposed "specialness", I really am just another female, in a different stage of self-progression.

Good, because that means I'm not so socially foreign that I can't connect, which is why, I think, that so many women have come to me for advice, input, so many men have come to me to pick apart my brain, to have me pick apart theirs.

Grounding humanity through common sexual themes, twisting of psyche through social demands and the untwisting to get back to base, providing a sort of human, detached figure to view as something to be gained on the level of one's own self, a sort of internal goal. Admittance of vunerabilities, of past mistakes, embarrassment, is disclosure, causes feelings of bonding even when indirect. Honesty, overarching standard social ethics, even when acting on a base level, lends morals and takes away standard objections, making it possible to bridge the usual barriers between those who roam and fuck to those who cling and love.

The human connection makes it possible, the beast makes it more, explains certain incidents and social trends that have followed me throughout my late teens to now. Consciousness-streaming conversational style that follows my own pattern of speech causes transition from written word to social encounters to be without the standard dissonance one finds when changing formats, and breeds a sense of deep familiarity, strengthening the feelings of connection already brought forth.

Is it odd that I'm beginning to fascinate myself?

Something is wrong.

Trying to figure out what this feel of self-deception is.

What I'm hiding from myself.

Edging towards it.

Dinner on Sunday, with the new guy.

I picked the place. Luna Park, on the corner of Wilshire and La Brea. My wish to go was due to the title resemblence to Easton Ellis' Lunar Park that I loved so well.

Stepped in the door. Red. Everything was red. Chandeliers, dark wood tables, votives, odd, probably local, art. Assessed. Two male hosts at the front desk.

Took charge.

Quick smile, told them the number of diners. Bantered, joked, flirted without intent.

My date followed me, saying little.

We sit. His back to the door. I don't like not being able to see who is coming in behind me, makes me uneasy.

But I had no view, and could not see the small mass of people at my back.

So we switched seats. My suggestion, my control.

Waiter came by. One of the hosts, actually. He put us in his small serving area.

Menus received, more laughter, more jokes and teasing.

Water was ordered by me.
An alcoholic beverage by my date. One of several strikes against him. Not because he was drinking, I could care less, but because awareness of your partner is key, and he knew I did not drink, though he didn't know why. I could have been fresh out of AA and seeing him drink could have been a bad, bad thing. He didn't care, or didn't think to care.

Lazy and careless.

Waiter returns.

Date is waffling on his food choice.

I skimmed the menu, asked the waiter which he preferred. Ordered his suggestion. Suggested an appetizer to my date, who agreed.

We received bread and a delightful pesto sauce instead of butter for its accomplice.

He double-dipped his bread, consumed most of the sauce.

Rude. First date and double-dipping? First date and consuming more than half the portion out without saying anything and, upon consumption, not immediately asking the wait staff for more?

Appetizer came.

He did not know how to eat it. 31 years old and doesn't know how to eat a steamed artichoke. Attacked it with his knife.

I stopped him, educated him.

It came in two halves. He took the bigger without asking, dumped the decorative garnish on my half so I had to move it.

Moron.

It wasn't the game that some of the PUAs advocate, hah, I wish. That would've been something to work with. No, it was simply ignorance of social standards.

The meal comes. When the server asks who had what order, I am the one directing.

We eat. He exclaims how delicious his is, offers me a bite. I take a small piece and agree with him.

In turn, of course, I offer him a bite of mine.

He removes a huge piece.

Caveman.

Our waiter comes by to check on things. We exchange more words. My date is silent, not fuming, not awkward, just not participating.

Water is refilled, refilled, refilled. I thank the server each time, move the glass closer when he comes by.

My date orders a harder alcholic beverage. Doesn't ask. Ends up spilling it across the table. Runs over the edge, spills onto me. Makes no attempt to clean up his mess while I dab at my pants.

Conversation lulls, I ask him about his business. Normally I make it a point not to talk about a man's job (mostly out of a delight to torment them with my apparent lack of interest), but I already know what he does. I already know that he is going into meetings about selling his company this week, and it is likely he's going to be a significantly wealthier man in a short period of time.

I don't care, other than the story of how his company started. I find that fascinating. Ideas and creation.

He talks. Doesn't bother to ask me about what I do.

Whatever. It's not exciting, it's just a job.

I just find conversation needs to be balanced out, needs to cycle.

Check comes, waiter again, another brief exchange.

My date picks up the bill. Nice of him.

...but leaves his card and the check outside of the receptacle it was brought in.

I move it. I know I shouldn't, but it's such... gods. Really? You couldn't move your card over two inches so our very friendly, helpful, and attentive server would not have to scramble to slide it off the table or scrape with his fingernails to pick it up, interrupting any conversation we may have and making him feel awkward?

I was in charge the entire meal. I took the time, put forth the effort, to make sure our waiter provided fantastic and friendly service and was attentive. I got us a good table because I befriended the host.

It left me feeling... well, better, because I am comfortable and confident in this setting. I know what I'm doing, I was taught well. But he likely didn't even notice what I was doing, much less realize the value of having a partner who is competent in doing such things.

I miss GV8. I miss that companionship, that confidence. I miss the dual flirting with the waitresses, the innuendos with the waiters, the table full of laughter, the extras, the fun.

My date did not step up. Not only was he unable to interact with the waitstaff and me, but he was completely ignorant of polite dining practices. He let me take control of the situation, not because of what would have been acceptable (him having me make sure everything was fine in order to please him), but because he wasn't comfortable doing it himself, he didn't have the education or the experience, and he wasn't adaptable enough to take my cues.

Did we have sex anyhow?

Yes, we did.

Why not?

Guys do it all the time, sleep with girls they have no interest in.

The argument could be made that I didn't make him work for it, or he wasn't worthy of me "giving myself" to him, as proved by his lack of awareness and social behaviors.

I do not need him to prove to me in social or financial ways that he's desirable.

I did not need the song and dance number.

I saw him, talked to him, determined he was intelligent enough, already knew he was supposed to be very dominant in bed, and I said, "Sure, you'll do."

And he certainly did "do".

I found a man who was willing to crack me across the face, who was strong enough to toss me around, and had wide, wide palms that marked my ass purple. He didn't care if I screamed (which I did), didn't care if I scrambled away from him (he'd just yank me back), and quite happily left my body very sore, parts of me very swollen and tender from the attention and abuse. Riding him, reverse cowgirl, while he used a Hitachi set high on me, keeping me contracting around him, body spasming, gripping him like a fist, to the point where my stomach muscles were still sore the next day. Being ordered to throat him until I gagged, purposefully choking myself, driving my mouth down, bottoming out orally.

It was good. Not the best, not the roughest, but up there.

Sex is... sex.

I don't feel closer to him.
I don't trust him.
I don't respect him, except for the simple respect I accord another human.

If I see him again, I'd rather it simply be for play.

He doesn't measure up for more socialization. It's not going anywhere, nor do I wish it to.

He's not GV8, he's not even close. He's not someone I want by my side, not someone I want representing me.

Does my lack of interest make me odd? I can't imagine connecting value to sex. Making him fight for it, making him leap through obstacles to prove that he's worthy. Worthy of an orgasm? Worthy of my body?

It's just flesh.

What is he supposed to be worthy of, exactly?

What makes my body of higher value than his?

Who is to say that he did not get more out of that encounter, on an emotional level, than I did?

Who is to say he got less?

And who is to tell me that I am now less, because I'd reduced my bedposts to piles of splinters carving out notches of men that aren't what I need, simply what I want?



Note to Self: You need to get over him. You need to accept that you're never going to find another man like him because his experiences are so out there that it's unlikely to ever find that exact combination again. You need to realize that there are other men out there who will compliment you, who will partner you, in different ways, and you now need to let go of the one who couldn't.

Please try.

Pilots watching stars..

Ugh.

Truly, ugh.

I've got so much in my head right now, but... at the same time, not so much.

Frustrated by the guy last night. I hate how easily influenced I am by people. I mean, this was an inexperienced, ignorant, insecure jock who spent, basically, the entire night attacking me and I am letting it get to me.

I totally am.

How frustrating is that?

I hate when I can't look at something and go, "Well, we're different people and his views are his views and my views are my views..." and leave it at that.

I hate how I was so excited to sit down with someone else who wanted to write and just... write. And, instead, the evening turned into me sitting there under an onslaught of aggressive and, more often than not, insulting questions.

There was no openness in this man.

Not a drop.

Talking about BDSM clubs and how if he went in there and someone even looked at him, he'd just beat the shit out of them.

And I'm sitting there, looking at him, going, "Really? Are you that insecure in your sexuality?"

Because wanting to potentially beat someone up for looking at you is a pretty significant sign of issue there. A confident, secure man would just roll with it.

It was such a disappointment.

And his writing idea? His book idea? Uh... a group of people in their mid-20s looking for identity and career paths in a world that is so unlike their parents' very linear experiences. Hello indie flick. Hello so over in a decade when trends shift yet again.

So I go from excited and happy that I'll be sitting at a Denny's writing all night to being made fun of, being attacked, being told how unhealthy and wrong my life has been and how it continues to be, the whole while him making a disclaimer that he's "really concerned about people" so this is why he "feels the need to tell people when they're being unhealthy".

Talking. To. A. Wall.

Emails me that he hopes some of what he said "rubs off on me".

That he hopes, as I said, that I wasn't disappointed in that he wasn't one of those guys I could just hook up with.

A. No.
B. His personality, his outlook, his inexperience, was very much not outweighed by his looks. I don't reward bad behavior. If he had a great body and we had good chemistry, sure, I'd one-night him. But he didn't. He had a post-jock body. You know the one I mean. When a guy is all buff and active in high school and then moves to a desk job or goes into college and eating fast food all the time so the structure is still there and you can look at their face and see where they used to be hot before their chin started rounding up and their skin started sagging under the unexpected weight, and this layer of fat starts spreading over the muscles on their chest and stomach, and you can still feel that muscle as it leaves over the years, but they never get it back and their body feels so betrayed.
C. No.

It was just a nasty experience and I'm still feeling that grime you accumulate when you encounter something that doesn't quite vibe right and if that ever happens again, rude or not, I'm going to excuse myself and leave. I had the biggest instinct, after talking to him for just a few minutes, that I should go to the restroom, call a friend, and tell them to call me in fifteen minutes.

I've never done that before.

I usually just tough it out.

But I really wanted to write.

So I tried. And everytime I started going he would start in on me again with the insults and the advice and the therapy and the total lack of understanding that when things like my life happen, you don't fit in anymore, if you ever fit in at the first place and there are other ways of being.

There is more than one version of happiness, more than one version of being healthy, more than one idea of what love is, what success is.

He couldn't get that. It sailed over his head.

And me being me, I was polite. I was polite and answered his questions and teased him without going too far (in my opinion anyway) like a good spokeswoman of the sexually-free females.

God, he made me feel dirty, though. Pawing through my notebook, making exclamations, asking questions, telling me what I did wrong, where I should meet men, how I will know if I meet a good man (apparently, all Jewish men are good men, or so he informed me) and how to keep a good man. Oh, and, of course, the definition of a "good" man.

Being incredibly sarcastic and insulting the entire time.

I shouldn't have stood for it. I should've just walked out, fuck politeness, I shouldn't have to deal with this crap.

But I want to learn. I want to learn about as many views and ideas as I can in this world and he was one that I only encounter online because our social species avoid each other in life. It was a learning opportunity, and he made his kind, the standard white American jock male, even more detestable to me. To be avoided as much as I can, unless I happen to have a ball-gag in my glove compartment, which I never do but might actually start because some of them are hot. Roofies, chloroform+cloth, condoms, and a ball-gag. The V-Starter Kit.

Oh, that would be priceless.

Hehhe, I'm cheering myself up.

It bothers me, a bit, that I wasn't able to walk out.

That the combination of wanting to learn, wanting to be polite, wanting to represent my "type" well, to be a good spokesperson... I should know better than this. I should stop allowing the occasional person to make me uncomfortable just for the sake of politeness. I mean, they're not being polite, so why must I always be polite and respectful?

I need to be more assertive in these situations.

I should have just looked at him after his first few declarations and said, "Sorry that you drove out here for nothing, but I don't think this is helping my writing and I need to leave now."

Buuuut, I didn't.

I sat and took it.

I always forget how difficult people are. I surround myself with like minds, or at least open-minded individuals because that's what I appreciate, because that's what I consider healthy. To be able to accept others, no matter what your differences.

Trying to toss myself in with a regular joe, even for just a couple of hours... no, that was just not the best idea. Yes, I can fake it. But I wasn't looking to fake being normal while writing. What good would that be?

And I know that in a week or two, I'll have forgotten all about it, that in a few days, the lingering effects of his internal discontent pushed to external issue will have gotten out of my system, especially once I start catching up with my friends during the week. The Bassist and I are going out on Friday night, I'm seeing C on Thursday (and probably my concert buddy), hanging out with my TV-marathoning friend tomorrow, school Tuesday and Wednesday (and I already made friends with an interesting tattooed male who is the drummer of a decently popular metal band). Also should have the funeral on Friday, so I'll be seeing family as well.

I wish people weren't so judgemental. I wish people could look at each other and say, "It's not for me, but I respect that you enjoy it," instead of the constant fighting and judgement and declarations of wrongness and psychological issue and accusations of bad parenting, of being molested as a child, being beaten as a child, being picked on as a child. It's a constant search for something to blame, something that makes what the other person likes or does invalidated, to show that what one has chosen for oneself is somehow better than what other people choose for themselves.

I wonder if it just comes down to security in a lot of cases. That people aren't secure in the choices they made, or they aren't secure with who they've become, so they have to look at the people around them that make different choices and tell them how incredibly wrong they are for not towing the line like a good citizen.

But, then, in the case of religion, which is always so outwardly offensive (not offensive like "oh, you offend me" but more of the "on the attack" offensive), people seem to be very secure in their views, in their gods, in their morals, and yet they still run around like angry idiots proclaiming to those who do not share their beliefs that something is wrong with them, that the Devil is in them, that their judgement is clouded, that they're going to Hell.

People so delight in telling others that. It's crazy.

If I was at all religious, I certainly wouldn't wish to be the one to inform a friend, or even a stranger, that they were doomed to eternal pain and suffering. I mean, what a mood kill.

Sometimes I think I should read more.

No matter where I go, there's people. There's always these people with their external proclaimations and their trudging ways. You talk to them and, yes, some of them are nice, but it mostly just pushes me more and more outside of everything because it's so rare for me to actually strike up a conversation with a stranger (which I do fairly often) and actually meet someone I can connect with at all.

I spent this weekend in Orange County. I was surrounded by tan Christians in white and khaki, women my age and younger, married and pushing around strollers, living in the same cookie-cutter homes, drinking their Starbucks, slowly putting on weight or wrinkles, their husbands in boardshorts and flipflops, carrying their kid on one arm while their wife orders their insane drink with more adjectives than should exist when talking about coffee. Bleach blondes, tiny shorts, boys on skateboards with their clothing plastered in brand names, like they're part of one of the skater teams. I might start slapping "Clorox" and "Miller" stickers on them and make them race around the fountains and palm trees.

So many small children, so many young women already popping out a brood. I run into people from high school occasionally, and I look at them in bewilderment and amusement. What it must be like to have that one path, to graduate high school, go straight into college, marry while still in college, pop out a baby as soon as you're done with college and, with your parents' help, buy a nice home in suburbia and work at the same job for the rest of your life, while your children wash, rinse, and repeat the life you just led.

I wonder what that would be like.

I wonder what it must be like for these girls that are the definition of "Orange County" with so many options of boys that are the definition of "Orange County". To know that, because of the shared and average experience, that you could pick among any man you see at Starbucks and have a decent match. That being average, that falling not only on the mean, but the median and mode as well, how nice it must be.

I mean, really. All an "OC Girl" has to do to find a mate is to pop into Yard House or TAPS or any number of the bars in Fullerton or The Block and pick the guy that appeals. No conversation necessary.

Yes, I know, I'm being annoyingly generalizing and bitter about this. I shouldn't be. I picked my path and, for the most part, I enjoy it. It's just hard, spending so much time here, in this area that I could never blend into. There is not a single city in this entire county where I could go and look normal, be normal. I'm pale, dark, and curvy. I don't have the jewelry section of Forever 21 dumped across my body. I'm not wearing mini-dresses and outrageously high heels that ruin my back and make me walk like an unsteady T-Rex.

Being here all weekend, even though most of yesterday was reading Heart of Darkness and most of today was reading Much Ado About Nothing and hanging with the family, I still have this awareness of separation. That if I would want to go and blend in somewhere, I'd have to drive about 40 miles.

Which isn't too bad, all thing considered.

I could be living in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Or Santa Fe Springs, NM.

I'm just whining and bitching to myself because that guy last night grew on me like mold and made me question my own sanity because I allow myself to be open to views in the way that I do, so I can understand, and then I fit them on myself and forget who I am because I'm trying so hard to look at the world through someone else's eyes.

I'm glad that I do that, but I hate how it makes me feel afterwards. Shaking it off... makes me feel like I'm almost vomiting inside, trying to get them out of me, stomach upset and off-center. I wish I was strong enough to look and not let them get in my head. I feel as though if I had any self-definition, if I knew who I was, it wouldn't have such an impact on me.

Maybe. Maybe not.

It's all made me feel very lonely.

I know. Me, lonely? It happens from time to time. I'm usually more of an "alone" girl than a "lonely" girl. But I do occasionally hit that point where I wish I had a man in my life, a man who I understood, who understood me. Someone I could talk with and it wouldn't be a debate, but a sharing of ideas, an acceptance, and a knowledge of a shared truth.

How nice would that be?

So I sit here, in my bedroom, laptop on a desk inherited from a friend, mail next to me, reclining in my oversized office chair, wishing I could just give up the ghost of hope. Wishing that I could be satisified just by myself, wishing that I didn't feel so alien in such a huge city, wishing that I didn't so badly want understanding, that I could just be who I am and that that would be enough.

But it's not. Not right now.

That's the way it goes, though. As years go by and more and more experiences and ideas pile up, as more things happen, it becomes harder and harder to relate to people, and you're left wondering that, at the end of the day, if you should even bother trying to connect.

Where you'll be, I'll go...

Tired again.

Up too late again.

Mulling over gut instincts, mulling over apathy where it should be and where it should not. Mulling over my desire to retreat from this social life I've made for myself, to take a week off, get a hotel somewhere up the coast, and stop living for other people.

Too many pressures.

Trying too hard to maintain social connections, emails piling up, phone calls, texting, schedules to mix, people to be nice to even when I feel like screaming. I set aside time to respond to these things, but it's never enough.

I'm getting snappy and irritable.

I'm looking at this thing with Ev, how we are supposed to be spending the 23rd together in his bed... and I don't want to.

He's an intelligent, attractive man. Not my usual type (blond), but he's desirable to me.

And, right now, I really don't want him in any way, shape, or form.

I have no interest in shacking up with someone else, even if on a monthly basis. Even with a man such as him, who is a genuine nice guy with alpha tendencies.

I just don't see the point.

Sex and some bruises? Bite marks on my shoulders and breasts? I can get that from a number of claimed sources. I don't need a new one.

I don't need another one with a man that will never line up with me. That I will never sync with, that I will never be able to relax and truly be myself with.

I'm done. I'm sick of hooking up with decent, attractive men that I feel nothing with, nothing for, other than the excitement of the experience of a new body. Of having that, again, total disconnect between us, one that is only hidden by my strivings to act as though it is not there.

Wonder if they ever know?

The act, the words, the laughter, the temporary genuine enjoyment of time spent. And then you separate, and they fade from mind because they're nothing in your head, nothing in your heart, and you knew that, knew it from the moment you set eyes on them, but you wanted them anyhow, enjoyed them anyhow, so you took and pleasured and eventually they'll meet someone (because you never will) and totter off while you wish them luck in love, without bitterness, without anger, just knowing that you'll have to find another next time you feel the need.

Yes.

That's it. That's all it's going to be.

Draw more and more into yourself.

Ring on your finger, nose buried in a book, filling your days with work, with research, with improving, so that maybe, one day, you'll reach your own goals and you won't feel so... incomplete? No. So you won't constantly look down on yourself for never achieving what you should have, never being what you could have. And maybe that'll enable you to meet someone who actually works for you.

Or maybe not.

With all the books you read, places you go, people you meet, degrees acquired, things learned, what are you going to do?

Watch that man go by you. Maybe a moment in grocery store, you look up and your body jolts, your eyes meet, and you know that he's like you. You see the expression of surprise on his face as he stares back.

And you keep walking.

Dive back into a world where other people equate to a lack of relaxation, where friends, no matter how close, mean behavioral control because you're always supposed to be that one on top of everything, that one who swishes her hips and walks down the line. Your male friends love you because you're one of them. Because they can say anything to you and you never even think about judging them. They think you're so bad ass, one of the guys as you sit with them, pointing out the hotties as they walk by.

And you wonder if this is who you are.

Until you get away again, until you center. You point due north until another force takes you for a spin, alters your directions temporarily.

You're happier alone, but sometimes people summon. The lights, the dancing, the observations and humor around you are tempting and you come out, get embroiled, and then you have to extracate yourself again.

How many times do you do this before socializing loses all appeal? Until the idea of spending time around other people causes your gag reflex to engage because you simply can't stomach the thought of putting on another socially acceptable show. Being desired starts to lose meaning, starts to lose worth, and now you engage in it simply to cause others issue.

It's not a burn out, but it's a definite need for space.

How much longer am I going to do this?

There are worse things I could do...

Oh, interwebs, you destroy my faith in men one mouse-click at a time. Eventually you'll make me chaste, internet, because I won't be able to stand touching anything with a penis, and I already am not too fond of women.

Thoughts are flying right now.

I've found that, for the most part, the men you find that have these very socially set viewpoints regarding female sexuality land in the white middle-class demographic, occasionally higher middle-class to lower upper-class.

Which makes my life entertaining (and frustrating) because I'm in the white lower upper-class demographic. So I'm surrounded by idiots on the man-front, meaning I have to hunt outside the usual venues available to me for suitable partners.

Okay, maybe "idiots" is too strong a word.

Most of the time, I feel sorry for men.

Didn't quite expect that, did you?

But I do. Social and sexual pressures, I think, are much more intense and demanding of men than of women. But I am biased, as I obviously don't let sexual pressure reach me the majority of the time, so I don't know what it is like for the "sexually standard female". But the need to provide and perform if you are a man seems like it could be rather overwhelming. Along with the bias towards men of "acceptable" expressions of emotion, or even acceptable emotion, and sexual ability... I'm so very glad I'm female, even if some groups of people would think less of me as a person based solely on my physical attributes.

So it really should be no surprise when one encounters men (and women) who have these insane social-sexual complexes regarding not just their own sexuality, but the sexuality of others.

I tend to work in male-dominated fields, and I know that when I step into the office on Day One I better get in there and show that I expect to be treated like every other employee, that I will not use my sexuality to further myself, that I will pull my weight as well as anyone else- and usually better.

I had a conversation with Gone Savage about my set-up when it comes to who pays the bill when on a date. I believe that whoever has the most disposable income should pay the bill, unless otherwise stated before food/movie/ticket purchase is made. And, yes, I have been in relationships or on dates where I have quite happily (and consistently) paid because I knew my partner had less disposable income than I did.

It's about not expecting special treatment based on your gender. If I wish to be treated as an equal in the workplace, in a relationship, with a lover, then I need to make sure I do not expect different treatment based solely on my sex.

If you want someone to respect you, you have to show them that you respect yourself and that you are their equal.

When you go on a date, you are there to enjoy yourself and get to know the other person. Why would you want to put pressure on your partner to pay for the meal, especially if they really can't afford it and really shouldn't be taking you out at this point in their lives due to their finances?

I've read some blogs of late that say if you're the female in the relationship, your partner should be paying for everything to show that he values you. So that he assigns worth to you because if you don't make him take you out to fancy restaurants and if you don't make him (or platonically inspire him) to buy you gifts, then he'll think less of you because you don't demand that he shows you value.

I think that's kinda sick, though it makes sense with some males. That's all they understand. For a girl to have value, for them, she must demand expensive meals and gifts, and she must be difficult to seduce (but not, of course, too difficult). If she does not demand these things, and if she happily hops into bed with them, she's suddenly at the level of call-girl, good for a tumble or two, and then ejected while he continues to search for a girl that "truly values herself".

And you can tell that a girl values herself because, obviously, she's making you take her out to all the finest places and barely giving you a kiss at the end of the evening.

I've gone out with guys, slept with them quickly, and then the next morning, or the next week, when we talk, I look at them and go, "Oh, you're one of those guys. That's disappointing."

And then you write them off.

Because, what, you think you have hope of changing their mind? Ha, right.

A girl emailed me some months ago, through my other blog, about this topic. Here's her question and my reply.

She asked: "Is there any way to explain to a Madonna-whorish guy that my sexuality has no bearing on my worth as a person or on my capacity for love and commitment?"

No.

Because if he can't figure that bit of wisdom out on his own, he's not worth the breath it takes to communicate that, not to mention your time or the emotional upset it would put you through trying to convince the guy of this.

It's not what girls want to hear. It's the guy. We've got great chemistry. He's great in every way but this one. He's perfect.

No, no he's not. Because if he's got the Madonna-Whore complex going on, he's going to have other mental hang-ups as well. And you will never be as happy with him because you will never be able to be comfortable with yourself around him. He will, without trying, make you feel bad about yourself, your sexuality, and your lifestyle. You'l'l have to hide things from him, or act repentant for past behaviors when you aren't.

It will never be worth it.

Don't hide yourself. If you only show people parts of you, then you'll only attract people that can satisfy those parts, and not the whole. Don't settle for less than you are, and don't be afraid of being alone or unwanted. Value yourself, love yourself, respect yourself, be honest with yourself.

That's the best advice I can offer.


Anyhow, she seemed to appreciate the thoughts I presented.

It is hard. It is disappointing more often than not. I don't believe in waiting for that magic date. The idea that some girls have where "I won't put out until at least date number ten" or whatever arbitrary number the assign so they don't feel like a dirty little slut.

My personal philosophy? If I feel like sleeping with you, I'll sleep with you. I'll be safe, respectful, courteous, and aware of my partner. I will engage in full disclosure of my sexual history before sex, but I do not expect it of my partner. I will keep healthy communication. I will get their contact information in case of STD or pregnancy. I will move at a comfortable speed for both parties. I will not feel bad about myself or my activities. I will respect myself, and my partner, in the morning. I will not doubt my judgement. I will not let a man's opinion of me effect my opinion of myself. I will acknowledge when I feel hurt or jilted. I will take care of myself and my body. I will not do anything that makes me uncomfortable. I will try to recognize when I want to sleep with someone because I want and appreciate them, or because I feel the need to be desired. I will keep aware of myself and my needs.

I will own myself and my sexuality.

The reason I can live the lifestyle that I do without damaging myself or others is because I have enough experience behind me to give me a solid sexual base of knowledge. Not of the act itself, but of myself, of men, of reading the signs people give you through words and body, and working with them, of understanding what people are trying to say.

It is important to understand your own sexuality. What you like, what you don't, what intimidates you, what causes repulsion, how you choose your partners, what your partners enjoy about you, and what biases you have... and why you have them.

I wasn't supposed to have this life.

Sounds odd, doesn't it?

When I was fifteen, I was saving myself for marriage. I was a hardcore romantic. I was looking for my soulmate. I would read what romance novels I could get from my mother (she always screened them for too graphic sexual content, so I was constantly stuck with Victoria Holt), sigh and dream of the guy that would come into my life and sweep me off my feet.

Then nature took over.

My own biology and my (now dormant) need to self-destruct.

And now... I'm as I am.

I like who I've become, for the most part. I have a lot to work on, a lot to refine, but I'm actively working on it. I have all the potential I need.

But I'm still not used to this sexism I've been encountering online. I've become so adept at dodging it, at being one of the guys, or at least sexless overall, that it is rare for me to be judged solely on my sex. When it happens, it's like I've slammed into this confusing wall, and I'm staring at it going, "Uh, guys, I know this treehouse is 'No Girls Allowed', but you should probably let me up anyhow."

Oh, oh, or like the Peanut's mini-movie where Snoopy goes to the hospital to visit his original owner and there's a sign on the outside of the hospital that says "NO DOGS ALLOWED" and then this man in a deep voice starts singing "NO DOGS ALLOWED" and Snoopy has to sneak in.

I love Peanuts.

Especially Snoopy's re-enactment of Thanksgiving with handpuppets. Classic.

And this is where everyone notes the lunch-time caffiene has kicked in. Bwah, fear me and my jittery typing.

I'm really not sure what to think when someone tells me that my sexual history cannot possibly be true.

Really? What if I was a porn star? I mean, then my body-count would be like... through the roof. Countless. And on video.

And then I wonder, what life have they experienced that a) proves that my sexual history cannot possibly be real and b) that they have enough experience and knowledge under their belt so that they can honestly state, without a doubt, that I can't possibly have done the things I've done.

Which, really, sure, I've done some great stuff, checked off items on my list of "Things to Do" (and "People to Do" if we're being honest), but it's nothing fantastical. It's nothing that any man or woman couldn't also do if they put the effort behind it. I mean, it took me a few years of half-hearted effort to find a guy with a Sybian, more effort to get to a swing club, and more effort to get two guys to agree to hop in bed with me, within close proximity to each other. That was all this year.

Because I have things I want to do, and I'm going to do them.

Why would I waste the experience I have? Why would I waste my mind and body hiding behind social standards, getting into a relationship where my partner will not allow me to go to orgies, not want to bring other people into the bedroom, so I'm left kicking myself when I'm 50 because, damn, I really wanted to try that DP or the Wobbly H, but my husband/partner isn't into it and I refuse to cheat on the person I'm with when in a closed relationship, so I'm screwed.

But then, I've noticed the general belief that if you're a woman past 30, you might as well never try to get laid because anyone who goes after a woman in their 30s is slumming it because you're just not hot anymore. Or something. So if I'm in my 50s bemoaning the lack of dual-cock in my life, then I'm (not) boned whether I'm single or not.

Of course, with a little plastic surgery, I could be creepily ageless well into my 60s.

God, I can't believe I've gone on one of my rants again.

Society defines sexuality, whatever it is for that moment. You accept it or you don't. You form your own beliefs, own actions, and you do what is right for you. Some people believe in a "live and let live" scenario. Some don't. Some people actively campaign against homosexual marriage because their belief system is so strong that the idea of two people of the same sex having sexual (not to mention romantic) interaction is a violent abberation of all the hold right in the world so they must act against it immediately. Their way is the only way.

Of all the things I've heard this year, been told, read, or written myself, the best has been:

"Whatever floats your boat, as long as it doesn't sink mine."

I try to live by that. I think I succeed rather well.

Compare and Contrast

Baby shower.

I'm up in the boonies of Westlake Village. Gated community. Uniform condos.

It's family again.

I drove up with my sister, alternately talking and listening to some old Rollins spokenword albums. I have to keep it mellow, but not overly so, as I cruise the highways, avoiding holiday weekend traffic as best I can.

We arrive.

I shut down.

Shy and awkward, I avoid conversation, avoid eye contact as I desperately try to get through the evening.

There's something to be said about manipulating the groups around you, becoming the center of attention, being the life of the party.

I don't do that with family.

It's not out of respect. It's not because I just want to relax and be myself.

It's the opposite.

I can't relax, I can't act as I normally do. I'm one of two black sheep in my family, of my generation, though the other makes me look like I belong in the Walton family. To relax, to talk, to engage the people around me, requires behaviors and topics that would make my family squirm, would make them look at me and wonder how I happened.

So I bring a book, and I read. Or I hide behind the lense of the camera.

Can't talk, too busy capturing this event in pixels. Sorry.

It's my expected behavior.

This is what happens when you wreck yourself.

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

A gathering on Saturday afternoon shifts to a birthday party Saturday night.

Hole in the wall Mexican restaurant. Amazing food, horrible neighborhood.

I walk in, take a quick survey of the faces. I know none of these people, other than the ones I arrived with. It's a different generation- I'm the youngest person here.

I consider. Drop my eyes, keep to my starting group, or see what I can do.

I slide in next to a man in glasses. I introduce myself immediately to him and those within reaching distance. Handshakes are exchanged. He's a fetish photographer, specializing in stockings. Another man joins us, sits to my left. I vaguely recognize his face, and he jogs my memory by telling me of the small band he's in, that I saw play at a club a few months ago.

My friends are across from me, and one down, talking amongst themselves. I bounce the two guys off each other, and they start competing for my attention. Neither of them are what I would consider playmate material, but this is practice.

Eventually, the musician falls to the wayside. He can't keep my attention, and I'm enjoying the photographer more. The birthday boy comes by to gain introductions, and compliments me on my glasses.

Everyone loves my glasses.

I notice the musician playing games on his phone, and I gently neg him. This gets his attention, and he becomes flustered, defending himself. I haven't offended him, but he's trying so hard to prove himself. I take this and bring my friends into play, tossing him back into the conversation, forcing him to interact.

Whenever he starts being silent, I neg him again. I do this all evening.

The birthday boy keeps coming by and hovering over the back of my chair. I flirt, I touch.

He's not desirable to me at all.

The front door to the restaurant opens, and a man walks in that I know and do not care for.

He sits down with his friends at our end of the table, at the very end. I immediately bring my friends into conversation, bodies tilting towards me. He's at their backs. We're laughing, joking, and the guys on the way down from us are leaning in to hear what we have to say.

The man I did not care for was completely cut off as I drew my friends into conversation with the one person he could have spoken to. He might as well have been at a different table across the restaurant.

An hour later, the door opens again.

I take one look at the man walking in and mouth the two words I know will halt the leader of my friends in her tracks, so she'll know exactly who he is. She nods, and asks if I want to leave.

I don't.

He sits down two seats to my left, on the other side of the musician. The birthday boy comes over and gives him a hug. They're obviously decent friends.

Fortunately for me, after hugging him, the birthday boy's eyes returned to me again. I strike up conversation with him and the musician, while my friends, sitting across from him, interact with themselves.

I've managed, within a few minutes of his entry, to put two people I dislike in one corner and completely cut them off from any interaction with the other party members unless they go through me.

And they won't.

They both know better than that.

One tries to fight for it, tries to get the birthday boy's attention while said birthday boy is standing over my chair, probably looking down my top. Almost as though I wished it aloud, the musician stands up to go to the restroom and the birthday boy sits down in his seat, to my left. On the other side of him is the asshole. When the musician comes back, aw, poor guy, his seat has been taken in a very crowded restaurant. How is he supposed to sit by his friends?

I, with the noblest of intentions, offer my seat.

When the birthday boy offers to let me have the chair he stole, I inform him that I had been planning to sit on his lap, but if he'd rather I wouldn't, I would completely understand and certainly wouldn't hold it against him.

Unless, of course, he wanted me to.

He immediately scoots out his chair and I take a position on his right thigh so he has to look to the right, away from the asshole, in order to talk to me. Also, whenever the asshole did feel the need to talk to the man whose lap I was occupying, I was there, looking down on him, stroking the birthday boy's hair, occasionally leaning foward to talk to the people across the table from us.

After twenty to thirty minutes of this, the asshole gave up. He completely and totally gave up.

It was hysterical, watching him wiggle out from the crowded table and go outside for a smoke that lasted well over forty minutes. I thought he had gone home, he was gone for so long.

By the end of three hours, I had befriended the head of security at one club enough to have some pull, politely rejected the musician's advances without offending him, received the business card/phone number of the photographer for a date in the future (isn't going to happen, but, eh), given the birthday boy my general web info so he could find my public blog (he did that evening, as well as the photographer who I did not give my blog information to), and completely socially cockblocked the two men who arrived who I really did not like.

Only leaving my seat to use the restroom and to sit on the birthday boy's lap.

It wasn't bad.

I suppose, for some people, this is a normal evening. Even toned down.

But I'm not a social creature. I've always been buried in a book. This was my second round at ever trying to do something like this, the first about a month ago. I usually stick to talking to one person- I never, ever try to manage a group.

We learn new things every day.

It's time to adapt.