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 need to spend less time driving around and more time writing or at least jotting down my notes. GV8 keeps pushing me to buy a voice recorder so I'm not in my car on the freeway with a notepad propped on my steering wheel, but... yeah, haven't done that yet.

I've been a bit irritated with myself since the thing with The Bassist.

Been thinking on it quite often, actually.

And my friends have been lecturing me to not be so hard on myself, that no (wo)man is an island, that we all need external validation sometime (even GV8, someone said, shock of shocks).

I feel like those people that should get it, the ones that have known me longest, are not doing so. They've all been like, "Well, you didn't sleep with him, you just went down on him, so that's like nothing for you. Hardly any backsliding."

But it's not the activity as much as the motivation, as much as the self-awareness.

Before I turned 18, I had around eighteen or so sex partners under my belt. I know it was over fifteen, as I was able to keep track back then and the fifteenth person I had slept with was the one that ended up impregnating me.

I had the abortion in July. July 14th, July 17th, something like that. I used to know a woman who lit a candle every year for a baby she had aborted, but I can't even remember the date. I simply don't care. Which sounds bad, but it has been so long and I look at my life fairly often and think how many things would be different, how I would be different, worse off, if I had continued with that pregnancy.

And it doesn't bother me.

Part of me feels that, for most people, life ends, growth ends with marriage and children. You're so busy focusing on other people, as you should be, that you are unable to focus on yourself, on recognizing your needs, your goals.

When I was 18, I was still angry and bitter at the male population. Raging, in my own way, but still desperate for validation.

Rack up a few more partners.

19 I met the second long-term relationship guy, pulled me off the market for a year, year and a half. Something like that.

Single again, wild again. Met a man who stopped me from falling into a pit of self-loathing, reined myself in.

Met Rick, dated two years, broke up, went into a series of one-night stands looking for comfort, looking to fill that emotional hollow. Called Rick one night (seeking comfort, not seeking to get back into the relationship), bawling my eyes out because I couldn't make it hurt any less. None of those men were doing any good.

Rebound relationship, Darkeyes, came out of that fragile, shaking like a leaf over how abusive our post-relationship had become, trying to live together in separate bedrooms, remain friends. One-night stand, one-night stand, lover, lover, lover, lover, one-night stand, lover, lover, one-night stand. I don't even know.

Finally, finally got myself to calm down with the constant need for the illusion of control just a few months before I met GV8.

And you know, it's been good.

I've been good.

This last year, 2009, new sex partner total was something like... five? GV8, Mr Brush-off, RR, Pseudonym Pending, and the Broken Prince. Five men in one year while single. That's an all time low for me.

I haven't even had sex with anyone but GV8 in the last almost four months.

It's absolutely bizarre.

I haven't felt the need. I was finally growing, was finally hitting that point where I was being confident enough in myself, confident enough in my life, that I did not need those things that sex can bring to a person: validation, control, comfort. My addictions. I've always had control issues, always seek comfort in physicality, and as much confidence and cockiness that people think I put out, I'm just like any other "average female": defined by who desires me.

Which I hate to say.

I'm so very different in some ways, but in others, ways I wish I wasn't, I'm exactly the same. Same triggers, same fears, same needs.

Re-reading that post where I talked about where my head was at, the guilt issues, etc... it read exactly like something I would have written when I was younger. Not just a little younger, but somewhere between 19-21.

It was the goddamn same.

Progress tossed in the face of emotion.

Progress tossed for the sake of comfort.

Because I'm letting GV8 get to me, because I'm letting myself get tied up in knots over this man. Though, really, what better man to get myself wrapped around? He's almost everything I could have asked for in a mate.

But I'm letting his actions upset me.

And I know better. We cannot control another person's actions, but we can control our reactions. I reacted poorly. I reacted out of fear and insecurity, I reached out and tainted a friendship, and I knew I was doing it, knew before I even did it.

That's not acceptable.

I did not come from lowest level gutterskank to where I am now to allow myself to backslide because some man has my heart in his fist.

I did not fight as hard as I have to break bad habits, to break dependencies, to realize patterns of rationalizations I have run myself through, only to consciously allow those same things to reemerge in a time of mild emotional stress.

Especially with everything I've learned from GV8 in this past year. He's been an incredible role model. His behaviors, his approach to life, is something I've been doing my damnedest to learn from, to mime. Under his tutelage, I've rapidly come into my own skin.

It feels like I betrayed that, like I betrayed the time he invested in me, by behaving as badly as I did. Part of me fears that all that growth, all the behavioral changes that have taken place were maybe just an illusion, maybe just temporary without reinforcement.

I thought they'd be stronger than my need to be desired. Thought they'd be stronger than that drive for validation, for control.

And now they need to be. I can't slip up like this again. I can't let all my years of work, all my self-therapy, to get tangled up because a situation with some man is making me feel out of control. My happiness and desirability are not hinged on whether or not he wants me, they are only hinged on me and my actions.

I need to learn this. I need to get to the point where I don't have to talk myself through the motions until I convince myself. I need to have this in my head as The Way Things Are.

And I will. I will be beautifully strong. I'm not going to fail.

This is where my head is at right now:

Yesterday, I was driving myself a bit crazy with missing GV8, thinking of him, daydreaming about him, forcing myself not to call, not to text, not to email because he's so overwhelmed right now I don't want to add to his plate and I need to show him that I will be able to handle the next however many months that he'll be doing this.

I was truly going up the wall. So I hopped on ye olde AIM and started messaging friends for a distraction from the mental batshittery I was doing to myself.

And The Bassist was on.

So I started chatting with him about what the hell was going on with GV8, how bothered I was, how I'm trying to relax and go with the flow, and how that's not working and I'm going to drive myself insane while I wait for his decision.

He offered to come over, possibly, if he could free up his schedule. We'd do our usual, the thing we've been doing for as long as we've known each other: hang out, talk for hours, watch really random foreign movies.

And he did manage to free up his schedule.

I knew, I knew that I'd go to him for comfort. I knew that I'd wriggle onto him, probably sleep with him, pretend, in a way that he was GV8, that I was able to show this immense love and need I'm feeling, just mildly, just take the edge off, with a good friend that I had yet to touch in any sexual way.

I went too far, in my opinion.

We did not have sex. When he mentioned condoms, I confirmed that I had them, then thought while we fooled around and then told him that I couldn't have sex with him, wouldn't have sex with him. That GV8 was it for me and I just... couldn't.

He understood. He was frustrated, he made references to maybe losing control, but I handle sexually frustrated males way too easy due to too much practice.

But I did something that I shouldn't have, that I wouldn't have with most any other male at this point in my life. But it's him. He's comfortable, he's so like me in so many ways, in his temprament, in his sexual style (even though he's still young, still developing it). He wasn't some guy I picked up from god knows where. He wasn't someone who had been trying to get into my pants under the veil of friendship for the past near year now.

And I feel guilty.

I'm not even in a relationship right now, and I feel overwhelmingly guilty.

Seriously. I could go out and sleep with any number of men right now, take up the repeated offers of DP from various sources, and I wouldn't be cheating on anyone because I'm not in a goddamn relationship.

GV8 could call and say he wants to spend the rest of his life with me, and I could turn him down, say I'm happy being single, thank you.

Because I have that choice. Because I've made no commitments.

Yet I still feel like I betrayed him.

What makes it even funnier (or sadder), is that he wants an open relationship. So even if we were together, I'd still be able to sleep with whoever I want with his consent.

Still would not be able to do it.

Grr.

It bothers me because I went to The Bassist for comfort. It bothers me that I knowingly let my psychological weakness dictate my physical actions and I've been doing so well of late. It bothers me that I knew this was going to happen, yet I did not stop it (though, admittedly, I was thinking sex and then put my foot down on that, but really, that wasn't enough).

I let my friend be a stand-in for GV8. I used him. Even though he enjoyed it, I used him. Even though he probably knew it, I used him.

And I know that The Bassist has always been a sore spot for GV8. Not that he complains or anything, but he does... things. He says things. I think of all my male friends, The Bassist is the one that causes the most concern for GV8.

The only reason I know he has any concern at all is because I watch him, watch his language. He's very good at covering it up.

I'm so... crap. Messed up about this. I feel guilty. GV8 has a string of tail when he so chooses, has slept with who knows how many people in the months we've been broken up, we might not even get back together, and I'm sitting here trying to rationalize it so I stop feeling so awful.

With all that is the denial of the bone-deep knowledge that he'll never choose me. GV8 will never give up his dream future to be with me, and all this hope, all this supressed excitement and daydreams, it's all nothing. I'm turning myself into a loon for the man that no woman would be able to keep.

So I'm turning to others for comfort. To confirm I'm still desirable, to confirm I have value, to distract me from the truth that he'll never have me.

Sit here and close my eyes, wishing the hope would go away, wishing I'd be able to breathe without thinking of him, wishing my fears and dreams would stop crowding in my throat.

Wishing for him.

...I have no idea what is going on.

Again.

Why do I never know what is going on?

I've got the "Bushwhacked" episode from Firefly playing on the television across from my bed. My hair is almost dry from my earlier shower, damp and wavy black. Stomach is full of salmon sashimi I picked up after class at 99 Ranch.

Last night, The Bassist came over. I cut up some tri-tip, sauteed it in a three cheese spaghetti sauce mixed with sliced garlic cloves. We talked about his latest music project, he played some of it for me from his website. It's rapidly taking off, very unexpected for him, since it was just a demo.

It was good to see him. It has been a few weeks since we went to see The Residents at The Music Box, a few weeks since he stuttered mid-conversation when I leaned forward to use the rearview mirror to re-apply my lipstick.

He's adorable.

He has the same birthday as GV8, the same birthday as my uncle.

I called GV8, fresh from the shower, stomach full. I knew the conversation we were about to embark on would upset me, would leave me in tears, would leave me not wanting to eat at all, much less shower. And I knew I'd likely get sick afterwards... did not want to do so on an empty stomach- dry heaves make me feel out of control because you don't know when they'll end.

We talked.

A lot is going on with him. Whenever I call him he just starts telling me everything. I love it because he wants to share with me, wants to disclose, loves to tell me what is going on with all his projects.

He's shutting down his company. He's dumping money into his club. He gave all his employees their one month notice on Monday, started going through all the meetings to close his accounts with his vendors.

And other things are going on.

Finally, we got to me. How I had been holding up this week. He hadn't been doing too good, very distracted with thoughts of me, of our unexpected sex, how every time we see each other our connection grows.

I started with how I planned. Essentially, this could have been the last real conversation we ever have. I needed to make sure I told him everything I felt I had to tell him. So I started with love. Started with trust. Started with the feelings I have when we're apart, that moldy taint that makes me feel so wrong inside.

He echoed.

And before I could shift and end things for the time being... he started telling me how he had spent the last couple months, since he dumped me, thinking if it had been the right thing to do. Second thoughts. Third thoughts. Every time we would meet, he would continue to rethink his decision.

He had been weakening.

Did I feel this, with my continued hunt of him?

Or was I just that secure in the "Us"?

We talked about how things were changing in his life, how much was in turmoil, how he needed his head in the game, how he wondered if he was truly meant to be single- if that was the lifestyle for him.

I told him how I felt. I did not press him for a decision.

I told him that I knew he was under a lot of stress, that he would not have a good deal of time for me, but I wanted to be the one he comes to for downtime, for connect, for love, until things settle down and we can figure out what we're doing.

He said he didn't know. That he was worried that we'd be together for the next ten years and he'd suddenly wake up and realize he's an eternal bachelor, and I'd have wasted my fertile youth on a forty-four year old man with a vasectomy.

I reminded him I had already made my decision when I went to him last December. No kids, no monogamy, probably no marriage, possibility of him leaving me.

I knew.

He could not tell me what his decision was. I knew he would not be able to. He's a thinker. He usually needs a few days to weigh these things, add in all the other crap he's got going on... it's likely going to be awhile.

But it's not over yet. He's not lost to me. I could cry from relief.

Of course, in a few days, I could be crying without an end to the tears in sight.

I don't know what's going on.

But I did make my decision. I did go to take a stand, to cut myself free so I could work on learning to live without him.

Tomorrow, an old lover is coming to town. I'm going to take him clubbing, he's going to give me some bodywork- no euphemism, he's possibly the best masseuse I've ever experienced, is going to be moving to San Fran soon to be the masseuse-in-residence at a spa/hotel/thing.

Saturday evening is the memorial for one of the few friends I had who killed themselves last year.

Sunday, is a marathon. My parents are hosting a party afterwards for some of my father's business associates. Which means I get to oversee things, dress up and look nice for the business people. Yes, of course we are a functional, happy family. No, nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?

Gyeh, what a poorly written post. Tired, surprised by GV8. Trying not to let that hope bubble up in my chest, leave me dreaming, then leave me crushed.

I would spend my life with him. I would be his counterpart, his assistant, doer of laundry, folder of socks, arranger of parties, giver of spectacular head, confidant and cuddle companion.

He's everything to me.

Let's see how much more I can break this heart of mine.

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.

Sitting in my bed at home.

First time I've been here in almost two weeks. Home.

Laundry is running downstairs, thirty minutes to go before I can stagger down and shove it over into another electric metal box.

Body is sore.

Not muscle sore. Gods, I wish it was muscle sore. I wish I had the energy or the health right now to hop on the treadmill or pick a direction and go, but I think that would be the last straw for this sack of flesh and I'd likely down myself for the weekend, if not longer.

Went to see the Elephant Engine High Dive Revival Tour last night. Amazing, amazing poets. Bought three books, got them all signed. Went with the waitress from the restaurant, the red head. She's so wonderful to watch, so social, so confident. I love seeing her engage with people, without fear, without issue, walking up and getting to know them with the thought in her head that everyone has a fascinating story to tell and you just have to get them to smile and share it.

Which I agree with. It's just that my spirit animal is a bookworm.

True story.

I know I do this, but it was still interesting to watch myself switch into the behavior pattern again. When I'm out by myself, or out with someone less outgoing than I can be, I take over. I shift into social butterfly mode, become very extroverted, start working the room, the group, whatever it is, I'm on it. But if someone is naturally more outgoing than I am, I downshift. I become more mellow, more withdrawn.

Insecurity? Yes.
Knowing the principles of rarity and attraction? Yes.
Wondering what would happen if I kept my socializing level as high as my waitress friend did, how the two of us would work together with our blue eyes, her hair red, mine black, and our shared knowledge..? That could be fantastic. Conquering worlds.

But then, last night, the lack of sleep (yes, hello, eleven to twelve hour workdays, how are you?) and the emotional exhaustion from dealing with GV8 left me fried and withdrawn.

On the positive side, Hardwood Floors was at the show as well. Haven't seen him since February. He had put on muscle, let his hair grow out a bit. Still incredibly handsome.

His facial structure, though, stands out more when his head is shaved. Makes him look like a storm is under his skin, waiting to escape from his mouth.

Which it does, in his writing and poetry.

I used to hold him in such high regard as a lover, as a desirable (to sleep with, not to date) partner. He made my breath catch, and his words, his writing that was what continued to hold sway over me... I could simply read over and over again his emails, his poems. Beautiful.

He lost his shine.

He was still attractive. He was still hard and warm as we pressed up against each other in a hug and he sat next to me on the pew, his arm snaking around my shoulders like it has not been nine months since we last rolled around on the mattress on the floor of his apartment.

But... he wasn't... enough... anymore.

His words, his scent, his touch, barely penetrated. His rhythm, our shared motions that synched together, two hearts beating through sex, that was glorious.

But he didn't move me. I was stone, and he was not enough.

Because I had someone to compare him to, someone better. Someone who moved my bar too high, asking the men around me to prepare themselves for the polevault instead of the highjump.

Sex remains sex. Sex remains the route that will lead not to my heart, not to my head, but simply through me, like a tunnel. Without impact, just the echoes of words and winds as I allow access and they pay their toll.

I was talking with the Bassist yesterday, about my concern that I panicked with GV8, that I reacted poorly and that, with enough exposure (and pain), I could learn to have an open relationship.

And he reminded me that I have set goals. And he asked me if I had always had that one-man-one-woman dream.

Yes, yes, I did.

That ultimate partnership.

It's not the romance I seek, though I enjoy it.

It's the working together, becoming better together, striving towards being the best, experiencing the world, building a future, becoming four pairs of hands connected to one mind. Being beautiful and unstoppable, complimentary. Setting goals and knocking them down.

Unified.

No interruptions, no outside taint or influence.

Having someone to serve without ever making myself less.

I also am coming to realize that the Bassist doesn't make me feel good about myself a good chunk of the time. It's not that he's insulting, it's that he's unacknowledging. We email back and forth during the day and I'll share with him something that I find important, and he'll ignore it. He looks at about half the things I send him (links, music, etc). Last night, I took the waitress to his show, per his request as he has been lusting after her since I introduced them, and once I let him know that she was there, he essentially ignored me for most of the rest of the evening, did not even bother to hug me goodbye.

Which left me sitting there going, "Hey, I just brought this amazing and beautiful chick to your show so you could impress her with your bass-skills and band membership and possibly get her number and ask her out and you can't be bothered to give me a hug before I take off? Did you really just do that??"

I was annoyed and hurt. Also, wondering if I should even bother with having someone in my life that is so unaware and unconcerned. Probably not. If I did not love his band so much, I'd likely just wave goodbye in his general direction and exit stage left.

Unfortunately, doing so would make attending future concerts awkward.

I also spoke with the Waitress (capitalized now) about... her. About how comfortable she is in her own skin, how much men just gravitate towards her, about my recently ended relationship and how incredibly emo I've been.

She told me she is constantly emo. She always says yes when guys ask her out, no matter how disinterested she is, because she does not want to say no, because she's so easygoing. Gets stuck in these relationships with men she has no feelings for, finally has to end it, feels bad. That, since she started dating, she has not been single for more than a month (except once, where she reached two months) because of rebounds and being unable to say no.

It was... grounding for me.

I see these amazing people who are all shiny lights, who seem to be able to do anything, who have no fears or social anxieties, who know all the steps to all the games and drift through crowds without thought.

I look so highly on them, that they don't have to work at it. That they're naturally socially gifted. Wish I was like that. They seem so desirable, so intelligent, so perfect. I end up putting them on this mental pedestal where they end up (in my head) being amazing at everything. No chance of failure.

I cease to see them as human and with flaws.

You think I would learn by now that we all have flaws. We all have weaknesses.

I know, with my other blog, with the mini-fan base, and the emails with people telling me how amazing, strong, beautiful, vibrant, confident, whatever, insert-complimentary-adjective-here-that-I-don't-actually-see-in-myself-and-oh-god-using-the-hyphen-key-is-damn-annoying-and-I'm-going-to-stop-now, and I always email them back that, basically, they need to not idealize me, that I'm human and weak and I've got a shit-ton of issues that I need to work with/through and they're likely way cooler (or other adjective) than I am.

Sometimes I meet up with some of the emailers, the ones that live in this area, to show them that I am human and incredibly flawed... but it takes so much time for me to get them to relax, to calm, to see me that way. And it never really takes hold.

So I forget that others, the people I want to be more like, are human as well. And that they all have these backstories, these histories that effect them, that make them ashamed or regretful, that life isn't always easy and they have the scars we all have.

She reminded me of that.

She also called me amazing, which made my night. Silly, but true.

Went home, passed out, woke up, didn't bother to shower, and drove to help a friend I haven't seen in years pack up her recently passed mother's apartment. She was all kinds of wrecked.

It's hard to do that.

There's so much stuff. Food in the refrigerator that will not be consumed by the person who purchased it. Spices, dishware for holidays, antique cookware, old photos, stacks of books... what are you going to do with the bones of a life has left?

Box it up, load it into a van, the remainders, the reminders. Disperse among your relatives and friends, eating away at the sheer number of items that have amassed. Wondering what you need five ladles for, if you'll ever want that oversized cutting board, and if you can bear to give away the comforter that still smells like her, knowing that if you keep it that, one day, it will no longer smell like her, but like you.

Time to live.

Leaving for New York on Thursday, a longish flight with a longish layover. I've decided to do the trip out of a backpack... I don't feel like lugging a duffel bag around with me wherever I end up, since I have not quite planned all the various forms of transportation I am going to use to get to my various destinations. I've slid Rilke and Wakefield into my bag, along with Dune for the flight.

Trying to keep my reading this trip light.

My body started crashing on Friday. I spent the evening with a large group of friends that happened to contain one of my best friends. We talked as he rubbed me down, weeks of soreness coming from being hunched over computers or books built into my muscles. We spoke of Darkeyes, my continued anger, and the discussion allowed me to realize that, of all the people who have apologized to me for his behavior, and the friends of mine he has apologized to for his behavior, he's yet to apologize to me, and I will be unable to treat him with more than the barest of civilities unless I receive that apology.

Acknowledgement.

He never understood that.

My aggression is unchecked without his acknowledgement.

It's odd for me to remain mad at someone for this long. Over a year and I'm still furious. Normally I am fairly serene, even when provoked I am able to at least maintain the facade of calmness.

Not with him.

Not yet.

The lack of control... I think is a sign of how deeply he disturbed me, how deeply I disturbed myself in dating him, in allowing things to progress as they did.

It's something to think on, anyway.

Saturday day found me at another coffee shop, plugging away on school papers with the baseline annoyance I find whenever I have to deal with Shakespeare. I continue to theorize that Shakespeare is popular solely because you have to be very, very well aware of all the nuances and cultural references that no longer apply in order to truly understand his work, which makes the whole thing a sort of inside joke for the educated.

But I managed to have fun with it anyhow.

Finishing that, I went home, legs shaking from the constant pushing I've been subjecting myself to, and settled in to relax by myself for once. SciFi Channel horror flicks, my mental candy during Halloween season.

It was not to be. My father called me, drunk, from an Oktoberfest, and bribed me with promises of a chicken hat if I joined him and some family friends.

Chicken hat.

Yeah.

I couldn't say no to that. I had no idea what a chicken hat entailed, but I knew I had to have one. So I drove over there, threaded the crowds of Orange County frat boys turned into Orange County providers with their now pudgy post-sorority wives, and joined my inebriated family. Chicken hat was purchased, and I sat by my father, the aging hippie and bad boy, and listened to his drunken ideas ("That's a man in drag. Yes, in the blue dress. Go hit on him.") and his occasional women of note ("That girl has great legs. I bet she has a heart-shaped ass, even though she's a butter-face." "Dad, she's a butter-face and a butter-torso. Ew.").

There was a point in the evening when my mother and her ex-sister-in-law (three hypens, beat that!) wanted to drunkenly dance to the Chicken Dance and I was wearing the chicken hat, so I got dragged up with them and found myself to be the only sober participant of the Chicken Dance.

I'm not a performer. I'm not a center-of-attention kinda girl. I like to keep things low key, prefer to be an observer rather than a participant.

But I realized, as I sat in the chair and they attempted to convince me to shrug off my typical demeanor, that there are only going to be so many times during the rest of my life that I am going to be able to do things like this with my mother. There is only this moment, no guarantee of any others, that I can make the most of. That I can delight and dance in a public venue wearing a silly chicken hat, laughing and skipping around with my mother.

So I did.

It took me a bit to get over my initial discomfort, but I managed.

And at the end, we were applauded.

So it couldn't have been that bad... or it was horrible and they were attempt to assauge our egos. One of the two.

Often I allow my need to remain under the radar to control my actions. I'm an introvert at heart, combine that with the usual dose of social anxiety, and I'm much happier watching others have fun doing inane things than doing those things myself.

GV8 has no issue with public displays of inanity. He's so comfortable and confident with himself, so apathetic about how he is viewed because he knows without a doubt how strong he is, how successful he is, how he can do anything without failure... that he just doesn't care about the rest.

I try to learn from him. To mimic him. When I'm out by myself and I find that uncertainty chipping away at my desire to do something, I think of him, of what he would do, how he would handle the situation, and I try to act as he would.

It helps. I'm doing things I never would have, seizing moments I would normally let pass me by. He's a good influence, possibly the best influence I could have right now.

He's been confusing me of late, though. Mixed signals which may indicate he's unsure as to what he wants right now.

I was studying at my somewhat usual coffee shop in Hollywood yesterday. I had told him I would be there. An hour or two in, hands drop on my shoulders, then snake around my torso and start fiddling with the button of my pants. I knew it was him from his touch, but I did not understand why he was attempting to get in my pants in a public location.

He had just stopped by to say hello while running errands, we kissed like infatuated teenagers and he took off.

A little later, he texts me to check my pants for gifts. He had slid in a Borders gift card with his manual machinations. Sneaky. I hadn't noticed because the pants were so loose on me, there was no pressure or feeling of intrusion.

Over dinner, at this fairly new pub on Sunset and Ivar called BoHo, we spoke about taking a mini-vacation together, about holiday invites, meeting his family. Not about meeting mine, though.

As the night went on, he became less and less "with" me. Hand-holding would abruptly stop. Sex, always our easiest way of communicating... it's not strained, and he seems into it, but his body isn't responding as it used to, so quickly, so easily. I'm wondering if it's the stress and exhaustion these last few weeks have brought him, if he's just getting too used to me and needs more novelty, or if he's becoming done with me.

The latter doesn't seem right, as we are planning future activities, talking about his family (as I mentioned), talking about things he's planning on how I will be there for them... so I'm wondering if his body has caught onto something his mind has yet to grasp, or if it truly is everything with his business.

I realized with my last relationship that the tired old saying that I've heard so often is true: the sex reflects the health of the relationship.

And he did, when he came in at 3 this morning (pulled another all-nighter), wake me up with sex, with the penetration I had requested, had needed. But he was so sore, so tired, that unless I was going down on him... yeah.

Instilling of doubt, I suppose. We're defined by our sex, me even more so, I would think, since so much of my built identity centers around sexual activity and seduction.

He tripped me up last night, over dinner. Mentioned my minor lust for The Bassist, and I went along with it, acting as though I would actually sleep with the guy. I think that was a bad move on my part. As soon as the conversation shifted, I was kicking myself for playing along with GV8 instead of shutting the idea down entirely. That's something I'm going to have to remedy.

I'm hitting that point where I need to know what's going on. I'm teetering on an emotional brink, possible plunge, but I cannot let go, not yet. I need to feel as though it is safe to fall.

I may see him tonight, and we are doing dinner on Thursday before he takes me to the airport. I'll talk to him then.

My birthday is coming up.

Normally, I don't care. And, really, I still don't particularly care.

But I decided, as a gift to myself, since SFPlayboy is theoretically coming down soon, I'm going to (likely successfully) attempt to arrange a threesome with him and GV8. Because that would be wonderful. Happy birthday, here's some DP.

I know both of them would be up for it.

It's just a matter of Playboy getting himself down here.

On the GV8 front, he's made me copies of the keys to get into the apartment he recently leased, so I've got a Hollywood home whenever I want it, at least until he hires an assistant and puts her up there.

This weekend is something new for us.

He's planning on having the loft mostly operational by next Saturday, which means this weekend is him being busy, busy, busy.

But instead of me just leaving him alone to work, or him taking time off work to hang out with me, he's decided that we should go our separate ways this weekend, but both of us should stay the nights at the new apartment so we see each other.

I'm slightly off-put by this, but also pleased.

I cannot tell if he just wants sex-on-tap, or if he wanted to see me and knew this was the only way to make time, or if he wants to see the dynamic we have in this sort of free situation.

Also cannot tell how much time he expects me to make for him. I'm not going to be able to tell until tonight, until I see him.

We keep having these mini-miscommunications where I know he has a lot on his plate for work and the impending club so I try not to bug him, try not to text him, call him, overburden his schedule with activities. His business is priority, I am not going to attempt to dissuade him otherwise.

But then when I do give him that space, when I don't try to squeeze myself into his schedule, it's almost like he gets hurt that I'm not trying. Not quite hurt, really, more... well, maybe it is hurt. That's not quite the right word. Not offended, not depressed, more like a, "Hey, why aren't you paying attention to me?" almost. Not whining, just surprised and unsettled.

This has happened a few times.

But I'm used to sleeping with busy, busy men whose schedules I have to work around, so they call me when they have time available. To bother them to make time is a death knell. So I have been trained not to do so.

He doesn't seem to want that.

Which is funny, because he's busier than any of the others were in the past.

So, tonight, I'm going to run by the loft and grab the keys, then go out with The Bassist. His (amazing) band has been contacted to do music for a TV pilot, so they're working on the licensing with that company today. After they finish, we're going to go run around Hollywood and the like. Saturday, I'm going out to Hemet (which I've managed to avoid all of my life... until now) for family fun and frolic, and Sunday I'm supposed to have a date with someone new... which I might cancel if things with GV8 look like I should spend time with him instead.

Feeling things out.

Whatever happens, I'll have fun.

Oh, and I had an interesting (for me) realization last night.

It came to me as I was falling asleep, didn't remember until just a few minutes ago.

The Bassist... he's not my usual type. He's not alpha, he's not beta, he's just off on his own. Physically, he's trim, an inch or two shorter than me, and blonde. I tend to prefer a few inches taller than me, stocky, and dark-haired. When I showed a picture of him to C, she was shocked (and amused) that I would find him attractive.

And I realized... I do find him attractive. Just not sexually.

The idea of him naked, of sex with him... it just... no. Not at all. Seems odd. I can't even imagine it, or become aroused at the thought of it.

It's not a turn off, it's just there's nothing there.

I'm attracted to him on a non-sexual level. On a novelty level, on a respect level. On a "ooooh, shiny!" level. He's healthy and innocent, in his own way. He's confident, creative, and so very talented. He dresses well, he presents himself well, and his humor is wonderful. His band is amazing to experience, his writing is lovely. He's great to hang with and I'm absolutely fascinated with him.

But I don't want him on that base level.

Like I do with Wolfboy, who the mere sight of sends my body going one hundred miles an hour because I want him so very badly.

It does amuse/worry me that I may be starting to turn into those men that cause me such concern, the ones that go after innocence in their partners as a sign of redemption, those who hide their true natures from their mates for knowing the depth of the chasm that would cause between them.

But as this has never happened before, and is unlikely to happen again, I will not let it concern me overmuch.

So there you go, kids. Back into the Mystery Machine with you.

I felt entirely better after I decided to cancel on everyone this weekend, even though I know my lack of presence at one small gathering will likely temporarily destroy the event.

C, a mutual friend and concert buddy, and I went out to go see The Bassist's band play last night, over at this tiny place in Los Angeles. It wasn't a venue as much as a tiny art gallery turned into a "hey, you can play here" type deal. The acoustics were horrific, I actually had to resort to earplugs for the first time in my clubbing and concert-attending life (more the former than the latter, really).

But I enjoyed myself.

While C was attempting, by text, to stroke the wounded ego of a man she is seeing (another one, not Redwing) because The Bassist is more adorable than he is, my "type" was brought up. I only know this because, while I was talking with someone, she burst into laughter, and when I questioned her, she showed me a text message that read as follows:

"We all know her type is made of testosterone, ice, and stoicism."

I thought that was cute.

I also met The Bassist's most recent ex-girlfriend. Or, at least, I think it was her from the way they were talking. When he mentioned to me that she would be there, I thought, "Oh, cool. They're obviously really close friends, so I'll just make sure I get her to like me and we'll be good."

First, she was... really, startlingly unattractive. Below average. Beautiful eyes, decent lips, horrible haircut, lumpy body that was made all the more unattractive because of her apparent need to dress in hipster/scenester fashion which is designed for rail-thin girls, not so much the short and lumpy. It made her body look horrible.

So, I was standing there going, "Wow, if I decide to veer in his direction, I am a significant step up, at least physically," and "I'm glad she's not super hot, because that would make me anxious and this makes me much more relaxed."

I tried to join in the conversation, tried to smile, tried to meet her eyes.

Nothing. Standing there for about a minute, minute and a half, while she avoided me, even when I tried to engage her, I finally said, "Screw it," and stopped bothering, instead turning slightly to cut off that group and engage with C.

She was so young. She was incredibly young, a scenster in training, and just... young. I didn't understand it. But if he likes her, I'm sure she's cool.

Concert was good. I caused a mini-revolution by choosing to go to the front, next to the stage, and sit. As soon as I did that, about a fifth of the audience sat down with me. It was amusing. I looked back at my friend, raised my fist in the air, and declared, "Viva la Revolution!"

C... she was bored and hungry. She left the concert, walked down the street to a diner she liked, and ate. It was a little offputting, but not too terribly. We met up with her after the concert. I always forget that she gets bored so easily if she's not doing something she wants to do. I never get bored because I always find ways to entertain myself, so I don't worry about that in others.

Whoops.

When we arrived back at her place, a little after midnight, Redwing was there.

He had, last week, pissed me off. I was talking to C and he happened to be there, and I told her something that I did not want repeated to a particular person so there would not be drama. So after I said it, I requested that it remained with the three of us. I trust C not to do such things, and I figured that since Redwing is male, he wouldn't engage in gossip, especially if I requested it of him.

The next day, I get an email from the person I did not wish to have that information as, apparently, he told her immediately.

I was livid.

I do not get angry easily. Or rather, when I do get angry, it tends to last for a minute, maybe to, and then fades. I was angry all day.

So he was there, and awkward.

I was tired, tossed my stuff up on the futon, started digging around in my bag, and C mentions to him how she traumatized me on the way to the concert by discussing him as a sexual being. Because he's not. He's an inexperienced girly man, and for her to tell me that he's hung and fantastic with his mouth and loves D/s and I'm sitting there going "Oh god, gag."

So she mentions that to him and he says, "Oh, that's good. Because I don't see you as sexual at all, even with knowledge of your history."

And then she follows him with a, "Yeah, V, I've never seen you as sexual."

I was kinda... floored. No one has ever said that to me. And it bothered me.

I mean, yes, I do keep myself sexually apathetic around C, mostly because the men that are around are men she is interested in and I am not. And when Redwing is about... eesh, no. He's never seen me interact with a male I find desirable.

I keep it really tamped down. There's no point.

And, really, I don't wear slutty clothes ever. I don't set off anyone's slutdar. I have no visible tattoos, I'm not prone to wearing low-cut shirts, and when I do wear skirts and dresses, they usually hit me just below the knees. I don't "sex-up" my hair. I was talking with my stylist about how to give it more body, why it was always so sleek, and she told me it was incredibly, incredibly healthy. My hair isn't damaged with sprays, curling irons, blow-dryers, gel, or bleach. It's soft, smooth, and fine, split-ends are non-existent. My ears are not pierced, I don't get fake nails or grow my nails out overlong. I don't believe in accessorizing unless I have to, because accessories are annoying. If I can find a way to go without a purse, I do.

Really, I have three main styles: casual (plain jeans, plain shirt, simple shoes), clubbing (which is usually casual due to laziness, just without the jeans), and librarian (mid-calf skirts, knee-high stockings or fishnets, and gauzy blouses or half-way unbuttoned dress-shirts).

I've been leaning towards stocking my wardrobe with more of the last one of late.

Anyhow, mini-derail there.

It was odd and bothersome to have them both say that. I know I... I'm not overtly sexual unless I feel like being so. I'm quite happy with my ability to flip back and forth between friend, slut, and girl to take home to mom.

But I've gotten so used to men like Redwing wanting me that it was odd to hear that he didn't think of me in a sexual way.

Relieving, yes.

But odd.

Even with that mild rejection, though, I still don't find him desirable. Don't have any urge to "prove" myself to him by making him want me. Because that would be nasty. Ick. I don't care how dominant he is in bed, when someone is that socially submissive, it's a no-go.

And it was odd to hear that from C. I mean, this is the girl I writhed next to on the couch while our partners pleasured us.

Of course, I don't think of her as sexual. I see her naked all the time, true. And I see her with a variety of guys. I even help he with some of the guys. I hear her and Redwing making out and groping in bed twice a week.

But she doesn't show up on my sexual radar.

But girls tend not to.

It feels odd. It's so counter to how I see myself. But, then, I've said repeatedly that I go through different roles, socially, and have to control different parts of me when I'm with different people.

It's also strange because, earlier this year, I was convinced that the only leg I had to stand on on a social level was based in sex. And that, if I removed that factor from my socializations, I would stumble and fall because that's what I've had the most experience in and what I've built my life around, though not in the way of having sex as much as studying and observing sex, seduction, and sexuality.

But, to them, that doesn't even feature.

I'm socializing with them and, sure, we're talking about sex and relationships, but there is no actual sex being interjected into it. No flirting, no practiced movements or unspoken goals. Just being relaxed and thoughtful.

So it's good to know that it isn't all that I am, as I sometimes fear.

Back to work.

Backstabber, backstabber, backstabber...

I'm not actually listening to the Dresden Dolls right now. But, somehow, that song is stuck in my head, and has been since yesterday. Maybe a sign?

I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.

But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.

I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.

I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.

It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.

That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."

And I am.

A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.

No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.

You see the situation and you handle it.

$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.

If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.

I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.

While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.

Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.

Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.

Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.

I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."

It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.

I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.

But then someone started fighting and I left.

I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.

I felt so at peace.

And then I looked around.

There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.

I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.

As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.

I believe I told him, "I know."

Heavy petting ensued.

And I woke up.

It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.

Maybe it's just in my head.

People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.

But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.

Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.

Even after that, he proposed.

I was 17.

I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.

I was an angry, disconnected child.

Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.

It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.

I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.

I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.

The first step to all this is becoming alone.

A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.

But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.

I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.

September 5th. A year of singledom.

Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.

Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.

The tiny midnight caravan...

I'm totally getting my mope on right now, which amuses me. My humor leaks into everything, no matter how poorly I feel. And I sit here and know that I'm moping, and I know that it is due to a combination of things, the primary of which being that I'm tired, followed up by accidentally coming across Bradley's (the suicide) myspace last night, stacked with the thing with GV8, which "ended" well, for all intents and purposes, but it still makes me feel like screaming.

Not an angry scream.

Not at him, anyhow.

Not that I ever, ever scream or raise my voice.

Because I'm mellow.

It really is a blow, even though it shouldn't be. I expected it.

You'd think that if I hooked up with someone like him (and I'm not going to go into detail out of some odd respect for his wish to leave his past behind him), he would have understood. Somehow. That disconnect.

He made me feel like such a child. A little girl with issues.

I suppose I am.

I suddenly was sixteen again, with the poor fashion sense, the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sex with near strangers who I don't really remember anymore, shouting at the world how no one understands me, no one will ever understand me, I'm just so bloody different. Teenage angst.

And now what? Mid-twenties angst?

It only left me when I was with Rick.

And now I'm looking at The Bassist. He's three years younger than I am. That's not my style. I rarely can tolerate people my own age.

He's so young. He's fun and happy and wonderful to be around. He reads. He actually reads. And he has dreams and motivations and he's amazing to watch on stage, wonderful performer. So I'm looking at him going, "I'm too damaged for you. You see me as nothing more than a friend because I don't attract guys that don't have some wild damage about them, unless they're trying to save me from my own head." And part of me is hoping that he's got some hidden issue, some damage, some scar. That he hasn't gone through life untouched, that we will be able to relate to each other as more than just friends, more than just lovers.

He's healthier than I am, it seems. And more mature. And more responsible.

What a joke.

But every so often I'll catch these glimpses, and I'll wonder if he's hiding some part of himself.

He's a nice guy, a good guy, but not... in a bad way.

I wish the man in my head was real. I wish I had that understanding in another person, that true understanding that is only available via one's own mental construct. I wish I had someone I could talk to, really talk to. That I did not have to mentally divide up myself among social groups.

In some, I can be nothing other than the sex beast. I have to live up to my name, I can show no weakness. I'm a trophy, one that I let so few of them have. Stories about me circulate, even when I disappear for a year or two.

In some, I'm the teacher and confidant. I do not get to let go of my burdens. I must listen, I must advise. I feel as though if I do not, all the experiences I've had are useless, that I'm doing them a disservice. That I'm being horribly selfish. I feel that if I bring up my own problems, I'm suddenly not someone they can look up to, and then they lose confidence in themselves and me.

In some, I'm a pleaser. I'm an attachment. I'm that girl that so-and-so is fucking. I give great head and have a snarky comeback at all times, but I never outshine my partner unless it pleases him that I do so.

In some, I'm another version of the sex beast. I'm the shark. I get who I want, even if it takes years, I will eventually get him. Girls watch me, admire me, and try to follow my lead. I get masses of nerds and beta males at my heels, trying to play the nice-guy card.

They all want to save me, seeing me as some sort of nice girl in distress, that fell into bad crowds and bad ways, but if they just point out my errors in judgement, correct how my morals have shifted, I'll be a normal, functioning member of society again.

I hate this. It's such disrespect. It's basically someone telling me that:

A. I can't do it on my own.
B. There is only one acceptable way to be healthy.
C. They represent what is healthy.
D. It does not matter if I do not consider them healthy.

I have other crowds where I'm the shy girl, the loner, the brain. Standard stereotypes that are only pieces of me. Ones I feel trapped in, sometimes. But not as much as the others.

In some groups, if I show weakness... yeah, that's not a good scene.
In others, if I show too much of myself, my experiences, my sexuality, my need to play the game, people are frightened and judgemental. I'm a damaged freak, seeking validation, just as GV8 said.

It made me feel so very small. So very young. But, then, he is almost 44. He could be my father, with that age. Not to mention, he's lived enough for five lifetimes.

It's harder, when you look up to someone, and then they call you sick. Unhealthy.

I was just getting used to that as a state of being. I was getting used to that as being okay. That is was okay that my brain is off at this 90 degree angle from everyone else's. That I'm not strange enough to be one of the wild ones, the people that are willing to lose everything so they can pursue their madcap dreams, but I'm not normal enough to fit.

Self-acceptance, will I ever find it?

And I have friends, especially my best friends, who will accept me no matter what, and I know this. Two of them have been there from the self-destructive fall to today, and one of them has seen so much of it, amuses himself by watching me game guys when we go out. I love them, they love me. And there are parts of each of us that sync, and parts that don't. There are pieces of each other that we'll never get. But we accept it.

Now Hardwood Floors is back in town, back from traveling and promoting his work. I do not know if we will hook up again, if he found someone on the road and is now happily contained in a relationship.

I miss him, more than most partners I've had. Which is saying a lot, because I rarely miss lovers for more than a few weeks after we've ended. Out of all of them, Riot of Tattoos and Hardwood Floors are the ones that haunt me. The ones I want again. Riot, because he's an animal in bed. He's the roughest, most visceral man I've ever been with. Hardwood Floors, because he's... him. Because he rivals me in intensity. Because his work is so heart-stopping. He's rough and lovely, a damaged dreamer, with a bone structure that defies reality. And he understands, possibly better than anyone besides Rick.

I feel stupid, for having revealed those vunerabilities to GV8. My aching sense of isolation, that feeling that I will always be alone and outside, that feeling that, compared to everyone else, there will always be something off about me. That people like me, but only parts of me, and if they knew all of me... they wouldn't, not so much.

So then I toss out parts of me, the unfriendly, the unflattering, the damaged, the alien, and they're slapped back like I'm an inexperienced child.

That I will get over this.

You know, when I'm more mature and worldly.

I've been told so often things along the lines of:
-You're always with someone, you've always got company.
-You're never single for long.
-You'll get out of this funk.
-You'll find someone special who will change your mind.
-There's someone for everyone.

I've been told that 95% of American women marry.

I don't even know why that is relevant, since I don't view marriage as a symbol of love, only trust, an an abused one at that. Not to mention what I think of social statistics. Eesh.

Anyhow, I just derailed.

But I'm feeling mildly better now.

God, this blog is getting so damn emo of late.

Really, when I look at it, I can do alone. I prefer alone, most of the time. And, yes, I keep saying that. Because it's usually true, and has been all my life.

Sometimes it grates, when something happens and I realize I have no one I feel that I can truly talk about it to except myself. I don't have a partner with that connect.

So I create shadows in my head. Shadows that have no basis in reality, but soothe me.

It's just this feeling of embarassment that I come back to. Invalidity of feelings, like a spoiled teenager crying because mommy won't buy her a car for her 16th birthday and she's going to go upstairs and listen to Linkin Park (though it was Megadeth for me, but I'm trying to stay current) and rage about the unfairness of it all.

I feel stupid and embarassed for feeling so different and alone.

I feel like a walking stereotype. One in a million people who feels like they're so damn special and no one can understand their pain and I'm going to compose an epic rock ballad about my pain and paint my nails black because my pain is so dark and tragic etc etc etc.

I don't have pain. I have alienation. I have a fractured sense of self. I have a tendency to write so much that I doubt I will have the patience myself to read this all the way through after I post it (humor leaking in again).

I feel like if I just relaxed, I would be okay. That I would just cover it up and not think and analyze like I do.

I feel that GV8 thinks that I'm just like all the young girls he's slept with over the years: dramatic, with an inflated sense of individualism.

That with all my experience, with the demeanor I have, that calm assuredness that fools so many people, with my mellow tones and ability to take on so many points of view, I'm just a child. A teenager. A girl that hasn't grown up and found the love of her life, settled for whatever came my way, and popped out some kids.

I feel like I should be better than this. Healthier than this. That I've failed myself by not leaning on my years of life-education and coming to a better conclusion than, "I'm a weirdo, and it's unlikely that I'll find a matching weirdo."

That out of all the billions of people on this planet, I'm so damned special that I don't have a potential mate out there.

It's juvenile.

I feel like a foreigner in my own home, and I'm punishing myself for it because I think it's retarded, dramatic, and self-absorbed, and if I had half a brain, I would have gotten over it years ago because, really, it's not like I've ever fit in anywhere. So it's no surprise. I'm not raging against the dying of the light or anything.

Nothing is going to change, other than appearances, other than me feeling confident that I can pass myself off as average/standard/typical/any-word-other-than-'normal'-because-I've-used-it-too-much-in-this-post.

Because I can't accept myself, on a social level, as I am.

Because I don't think I'm fooling anyone. And I don't have the knowledge and experience to do so, at least as of now. I don't need to be normal, I just need to be able to fake it as needed. I do it okay, but I want to do it well.

It's my own insecurities, as always.

When I was in junior high and early in high school, even though I did not believe in any sort of god, I used to lie in bed at night and wish and pray that I would be "normal" one day. That I would fit in. Be average. I did not need to be the most popular or pretty girl. Just a standard one with standard grades and a standard boyfriend, standard family, standard drama. Or that I would, at least, fit in the with the "weird" kids, the goths and punks. Just somewhere, you know?

God, I feel like I'm whining. It wasn't so bad when I knew no one was reading this. I could whine to my heart's content. Now I worry that I'm being incredibly annoying.

In my own blog.

Bwah, I continue to amuse myself with my logic.

I turned down a concert tonight because I was feeling so on edge. I still am, but not as badly. Instead, I'm going to curl up with a friend and finish DollHouse, season one. He has a way of making me calm.

The air conditioner helps as well.