He's in my brain.

Even though our contact has been fairly limited, I'm falling more in love with him.

He's supposed to come over in the next day or so to finish the last few repairs, and I'm torn between asking him to come sooner because I want to see him, asking him to come sooner because SFPlayboy is coming down this weekend to visit and I can't stand, absolutely cannot stand, having another man touch me in any way for a couple of days after I've seen GV8, or asking him to come later so I have space between the last time I saw him and when I will see him next.

It was so hard when we went our separate ways on Saturday. I was depressed for hours afterwards, trying to be cheerful and social at my sister's 21st birthday party and failing until much later on in the evening.

Sunday, Sunday I tried to distract myself. I purchased a sort of life insurance policy that allows me to draw from it in three years, so they sent over a medical examiner to do a quick physical. Low end of normal blood pressure, within healthy BMI, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no coffee. Easy.

Drove out to the westside to grab lunch with two of my friends, one of which I've mentioned before works for a local dungeon. Caught up with them, ran some errands for the apartment... 5PM hit and I was done for the day. The sky went from light and raining to dark and raining from the time I entered Home Depot to have some keys cut to the time I left.

I just didn't want to be out. Didn't want to be shopping for the apartment, didn't want to be working on anything.

So I went home.

Drove under the rain-darkened sky until I pulled up behind the apartment, in my $40 a month parking space that is so very worth it. Unloaded my car in multiple trips, tracking a weird gray/brown asphalt gravel/dirt mix into the hallway, wiping my feet on the carpeted stairs just outside of the parking area. Dragged my new canopy bed away from the wall, fit my new waterproof (necessary for my squirting tendencies) mattress pad to the bed, the black stripey bedskirt over the box spring, shoved the bed back, put away clothes using the canopy frame to hold my hangers, one light to the side of the fireplace illuminated the room enough for my needs.

And then the books. Hours of unpacking books, The Heathers playing in the background. Christian Slater does it for me every time.

Unrolling carpets, putting away tools, sorting the kinds of books and where I want them, realizing that the Great Book Purge of '08 that knocked me back a few hundred to near one thousand books really freed up shelf space.

I stepped into the shower around 9PM, having switched in Evolution for The Heathers, making me wish I had bought the Aliens boxed set I saw at the store a few days ago.

The building is old. Not east coast old, but 1920s old. Yellow tile surrounds the tub, the tub which is so nice and deep and begging to be used for a bubble bath one day soon. Piling my hair in a soapy slick mess on top of my head, running my not-so-environmentally friendly exfoliating pad over my body, shining skin, rubbing raw, hot water stroking my back, urging me to sit down, urging me to relax, stop unpacking, and give into the pleasure of a perfect temperature, perfect pressure shower.

It's hard to imagine that it hasn't quite been a month since everything happened with my family, with my father.

It's hard to remember that on the 18th of last month, I was working, I had given my one-month notice the day before while on the road with my boss, visiting some customers down in San Diego.

It's hard to think that exactly one month and one week ago, a few hours further in the day, my father would start to unravel. And a week forward from that, and a few days, things would explode in such a way that my previous existence would look relatively easy, aside from a few spots.

Relatively easy, relatively easily discarded.

Jumped the track, like a child playing with a wooden train set, knocking the carved track to another place, no logic, no sense other than what a child's whim deems the way the train should travel.

At least for the moment.

Until they knock the train over as well.

The twenty-first is when things started. Three days from now.

I wonder if I will suddenly wake up from a nap, back in my old room in Temple City, CA. Four or five years old, laying under the soothing air conditioner that created such a strong sense of peace that lasts to this day whenever I am by an old wall unit chugging away. Four or five, blonde hair, blue eyes, my wicked Mona Lisa smile, confidently running into obstacles, adoring and fearful of my godlike father, devoted to my mother. Purple and white unicorn bedspread, matching curtains. Collection of My Little Ponies that would mature into Breyer Horses when I hit eight or nine.

Wake up, my four or five year old self, and know, suddenly, how things will unfold.

Know my life, know the way relationships will alter, how men will feature, and everything I could do differently.

Five seconds later, wiped from memory.

Back to childhood.

"I was thinking... maybe you could come over tonight. You're going to be here first thing in the morning anyhow. We could get some dinner, make our shopping list, talk life, cuddle, and go to sleep."

"I thought of that too."

"And..?"

"I think it would fuck with both our heads."

"I think I'd be okay. We cuddled the other night, it was weird at first, but we settled in. It was okay. We controlled, we coped. I thought that was a good sign."

His short chuckle.

"You cuddle like the ocean, V."

"What..? Oh."

He refers to my unconscious movements, the full-body writhe, seeking to fill every space between us, seeking to move skin apart until we connect completely. The curl that starts at the top of my shoulders and moves down my spine like a snake parting grass, shoulder blades, ribcage, lower back, ass, thighs, calves scissoring around calves, ankles linking together, feet arching to meet their male half, top to bottom, and when this is done, the neck twists to look over the shoulder, to place cheek to lips, to breathe within the same air.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

And then we have to shift positions, we have to roll, him on top in frustration knowing the only way he's going to stop me from doing that is to pin me. He won't get angry because he knows I'm not doing it on purpose, knows from night upon night spent together that I do this whether or not I'm awake. Knows I do this without thought, without motive, just as when we kiss, my tongue darts out the half-second ahead of lips meeting, a swipe, a search, an identifier, taking the lay of the land, relaying information of taste, texture, placement, moisturisizing and lubricating for the perfect lip synchronicity that follows.

"You cuddle like the ocean, V. And I cuddle like the river."

His powerful moves. His strong arms, tossing me around in the current of his affection. I have no say in positioning unless he allows it. His body wraps around mine, pins mine, throws mine. He batters me with his lust.

"I know, I know I do. I know you do. I was just... hoping that... one day, you know, we'd be able to sleep in the same bed again. Cuddle. Platonically."

"I don't think so, V. We're too sexual."

My mind searches back to the last night we slept in the same bed. Dinner at Kitchen 24 off of Sunset Boulevard. An awkward evening where something was off, but I was too tired to articulate it.

Was that the last time? The last time ever? Was the experience of sharing a bed with him going to forever remain in the past, never to be revisisted?

We talk, we love. I search the aisles of a home decorating store for a particular item.

In the morning, he wakes me with a five minute warning of arrival call.

I dash out of bed, changing into something a bit more clinging than an oversized shirt and sweatpants. Brush my hair, my teeth, wash my face, casually saunter down the hallway to open the gate when he arrives.

His warm chest meets mine, tendrils of searching heat restart my cold-morning heart.

He is the melody to my lyrics.

He strums the strings of my core,
The echoing chords of the sponges of my spine,
Resonating beast-heart,
He plays his melody until I sing.

Wednesday.

I've been noticing the week has grown longer since the couch-surfing has stopped. It's no longer a blur of days and apartments, no longer a haze of couches and futons that I run through like I'm marathoning a flipbook. No going out to dinner every night with someone else.

Suddenly slow.

Suddenly, my time is my own.

The apartment is loud. This is what happens when you move in across the street from one of the most popular bars in the area. I sleep with earplugs in, and it's fine. My mother and I are going to be sewing some heavy, soundproofing curtains in the next few weeks.

Things are strange.

Walking into my apartment feels like I'm walking into a hotel. Temporary. Storage space for my belongings and, oh looks, there's a bed. Score. I always wanted a place to sleep.

I told GV8 the other night, I don't know when it's going to sink in. I don't know when I'm going to believe that I am there. That I am there for at least a year. That it is my own space. That I can take care of myself. That things aren't somehow going to magically change and I'll be back, living with my parents and going to school full-time like I dreamed of doing.

I don't feel safe there. So many people. Bad locks that GV8 will be fixing this weekend. Old building. Thin windows. It feels like the boundary that is supposed to be separating me, my territory, from the rest of the world, is a flimsy thing that can be violated all too easy.

I love my boundaries. I love security. Of having that defined space that no one could possibly enter.

It's not like that here.

It's awkward and open.

I'm not sure what to do about it to make myself feel safe, aside from let GV8 do his security bit. I'm sure he'll do a good job.

It makes me a little panicky, sometimes, to go back to the apartment. Waiting for the time when I will want to go back. When it will be a feeling of relief, and not a feeling of impending doom, or of loneliness. Trapped. Silent and alone.

What do I have to do to accomplish this?

I have some ideas.

Let's ponder the execution of them.

I have not set up internet in the apartment yet. I'm trying to prevent myself from procrastinating from unpacking by having no internet to distract me.

Positives: totally unpacking
Negatives: no blogging, can't check traffic, can't check movies (shouldn't be checking movies anyhow, should be unpacking)

Moving went incredibly smooth. GV8 showed up to my parents' place at 845AM with a trailer and his oversized truck. I already had everything packed, so it was just a matter of letting the garage spew its contents onto the driveway, seeing what there was to take, and packing. Everything fit perfectly into one open trailer, my mother's SUV, GV8's truck, and a few things in my car. We drove the 30 or so miles to my new place and unloaded, done by 1215PM.

Which left GV8 and myself running errands (mostly hardware, buying a fridge, hitting Target for various things), while my mother and two friends unpacked my kitchen.

It's scary. I know this is a normal thing for everyone, and most people end up living alone (right?) at some point, but I never have. I always have that male safety net living beside me.

GV8 and I grabbed some Thai food, walked around a shopping area, did some more work on the place. Electrical and plumbing.

Things are shifting between us again, the dynamic. I'm not sure what it is, where it is going. It's not romantic, it feels like we're sliding apart. Figures.

But I have to run. Work to do. More... eventually.

Finally pulling all the pictures off of my camera, hundreds of pictures that I've done nothing with since, oh, mid-November.

I've got pictures from the night when I sat in a restaurant and cried because I had left GV8. Pictures from the Elephant High Dive Revival, from a concert, from the night Pseudonym Pending and the Broken Prince rammed into me like a perfect set of hole-filling pistons.

And then I have pictures from the family thanksgiving gathering out in Los Feliz, pictures from the day I cast myself towards GV8, the dates that followed, the night of the Hollywood Christmas Parade, eating at Cafe Was, the wonderful day at Disneyland... and then the fall out and subsequent devastation.

I also have pictures of the hospital, of sitting in the waiting room, the exam room, my father asleep on the hospital bed. I have pictures of the guest room we stayed in, of the psychotic notes left around the house, the rearranged furniture, the damage.

It's been a busy two months.

I took an extra hour over my lunch break to go sign the lease paperwork, pick up the keys, and show my mother the apartment. It's such an old building, things are... falling apart. But in that attractive, old building sort of way. The kitchen in pink, I'm thinking of doing a sort of Alice in Wonderland theme in there. We'll see.

I also realized that my bookcases aren't going to fit. I gave away nearly one thousand books around this time last year, but I'm still worried about how I'm going to get all my books in that apartment, then display them so I can find the one I'm looking for, whichever one it is, at whatever time.

GV8 is trying to buy me a $995 bedframe. It's monstrous. It's also an absolutely gorgeous gothic canopy deal. But it would dominate my living space. I'm going to have to take some measurements before I give him the go-ahead on that one.

Went to Ross after work, picked up some dinnerware. White, square dishes with asymmetrical black flower designs on them. Ran over to Home Depot and got the keys copied while I was out and about. Spoke with Rick on the phone, who told me that he's getting fat due to his wife's excellent cooking and he's truly proud that I'm finally moving out on my own with no major male influence. That I've needed to do this for awhile, which is true.

I'm hitting a small point of buyer's remorse now, over the apartment. It is so very old, lots of damage due to the simple (is it ever simple?) passage of time. The wood flooring by the bathroom is water damaged, the linoleum in the bathroom itself is torn. One of the knobs on one of the kitchen cupboards is broken off, leaving the screw embedded in the wood. There's not a lot of storage space, though I think there's enough to get by. The vertical blinds are visually appalling.

But it's cheap, it's mine, only mine. It's across the street from a very popular hang out, which means whenever I want to go get my flirt on, bring someone home with me, it's simply a matter of walking straight out the front door. The neighbors are, thus far, quiet. And I actually have a parking space, something near unhead of in this city.

It's just odd to think of.

Even odder is that GV8 put my last name together with my father's first name. Somehow. He doesn't know how. And he knows where my father went to school, or at least grew up. GV8 grew and ran in the same area, though he's a few years younger than my father. So they might know each other from before my parents ever met.

Strange? Oh, yes.

I'm going to be dropping all my classes tomorrow, then adding just the one for this semester. My boss has (very) begrudgingly allowed me one day a week to leave at 3PM to make it to this class. He says that I shouldn't even go to school, that I'm working in a fine industry where education doesn't count, only experience, and I have years of experience in this field.

He's not the smartest at personal interactions, I'll say that much.

How weird it is, entering into the world of adulthood. Finally. Bills, debt, monitoring your credit score, being accountable only to your financial accounts. Watching every dollar. Making everything count, making everything stretch.

Self-definition. Something I've said, and still believe, that I lack.

Maybe this will let me know who I am, or at least who I could be.

I don't like posting at night. The day has wound down and I am ready to lounge and get my sleepy-time groove on.

Unfortunately, the office has been rearranged, placing my monitor in direct view of my boss. This makes me uneasy about spending chunks of time pounding at the keyboard during work hours.

Going down to the property management company to sign the lease tomorrow afternoon, pick up my keys, switch over the electricity.
Signed a life insurance policy a few hours ago, something I can borrow against in about three years. Which will be nice.
Also picked up some dental gear. I don't remember if I mentioned it in all the hubbub that has been going on, but since Darkeyes and I split (which caused all the panic/anxiety issues), I've been grinding my teeth so hard that they've been shifting. The stress with GV8 and my father has compounded the problem, so I had to have some rather unattractive nightgear made so I would not be able to continue moving my teeth.

Fun, I know. I'm sitting here with this cherry red retainer in right now, remembering myself in junior high wearing these awful retainers. How awkward.

Again, drawing a blank. I had so much to write about today that I was unable to attack, and now I'm lounging on C's futon while she dozes on her couch, Redwing writing one of his in-progress sci-fi novels... I just want to sleep.

Which is funny. I quit coffee. Yeah, that's right. I who have consumed, at minimum, one cup of coffee almost every day for the last six years, sometimes two or three cups of coffee a day, I have quit.

It's weird. My usual downtime is popping into a coffee shop with a book and reading for a few hours, watching the people walk by, enjoying the weather, the sounds, the smells of a coffee shop.

Now I have to find other ways, other places, to spend my downtime.

It feels like I'm missing a limb. Possibly my right hand.

What do I do with myself, those hours I would spend with a caffienated beverage beside me on some undersized table, surrounded by the same crowd every day? Coffee shop philosophers, smokers, families coming in after church on Sunday mornings.

I need a damn hobby. That's what.

Suggestions?

Tuesday, 1107PM.

Timestamping seems irrelevant since Blogger will go ahead and tag this for me.

Probably should get out of the habit.

Especially since it only kicked in because I was so stressed and losing track of time because I was living hour to hour, not day to day.

Updates... I'm moving on Saturday. I was approved for the apartment I wanted on Monday afternoon. I spent most of this last weekend packing and organizing, so I'm very good to go come Saturday morning.

Living alone.

How strange. I never expected that, really. Yes, I am loner, but I always assumed that I'd either be living with my parents or with my partner, as has been the case my entire life. I hate the idea that if I lose my job, there's no one living with me to back me up on rent and bills until I'm employed again.

It feels foolish.

I hold my safety nets dear.

But here I am, moving into a large apartment on my solo. I already have most of the furniture I need, and the majority of the things I am lacking are going to be given to me by my mother or GV8. GV8 seems to be covering all of the moving expenses as well, so this entire thing is... financially pretty easy. Some of my friends are happily(?) volunteering(?) to help unload, so I'll have a chill enough time of it.

Speaking of GV8... called him yesterday to let him know that I was approved for the apartment and the moving date was still set for Saturday, then asked if he'd want to go clubbing with me after the move, as one of my favorite clubs is that evening. He loves to watch me dance, I love to dance, and I thought it would be fun.

Didn't really think it through.

Going to any scene place tends to invite people we both know. His friends, my friends, acquaintances, one-night stands, etc. Going to that particular club, where I have my small group of male admirers that do not understand/accept my lack of interest, along with the women he'd likely to run into that he has already slept with, along with his need not to feel constrained/cock-blocked... it doesn't work.

He knows it would hurt me, hurt me deeply, if he picked up another woman.

And it would bother him if I picked up another man.

I'm significantly less likely than he is do to so at any scene events because club kids aren't my type.

However, he's equal opportunity for anyone that is hot and interesting.

Which is how we met.

I still remember that night, me with my swiss cheese memory. Seeing him sitting at the club, in one of the side rooms, bobbing his head to the music. Me walking in his general direction, going to swerve around him at the last minute to take my seat and him thinking I was walking over to talk to him and striking up a conversation in his usual confident manner.

Afterwards, after he bent me over some leather piece of furniture, dragged my pants in my ankles and bruised the hell out of me, we stood outside the club, me leaning against my car, wondering if I should offer to take him home with me. I had the Artesia apartment to myself that night, which meant I could finally have some play time.

I let him talk, let him convince me, slowly, and then made the offer.

We didn't have sex that night.

But I showed him that there are 25 year olds that can give amazing head.
And he showed me that my body could squirt numerous times in a row.

I got twenty minutes of sleep before I had to get going for the day's activities. Twenty minutes allowed because he did not want to stop the pleasure, did not want me resting. Wanted to push me.

And I sailed on it.

Who knew that some man I accidentally struck up a conversation with at a club would have such an impact on me? It still boggles my mind.

Anyhow, it was rapidly determined that it would be a horrible idea for the two of us to go to a club together. Which sent me spiraling down into a small pit of depression.

It's easier now, to a degree. I'm certainly not over him, and it continues to feel as though I've got a gaping, gasping chest wound, but I am reaching that point where life is continuing.

An apartment to myself. A place where no one is telling me I can't decorate in a certain way. The past two men I've lived with have always told me no, no I can't have particular decorations up. They aren't kosher, they aren't normal, and we need to compromise.

Of course, that compromise is that they have average ideas of decoration that average people like and don't rock the average social boat, damn it.

A place of my own. A place where no one is checking up on me, where I don't have to pad in quietly after a club, where I can bring whoever I want home with me, for whatever purpose, and eject them when I'm done with them. Guests. As many guests as I can fit. Furniture arranged how I want it. No one touching my food. No parties that continue until 6 or 7AM, where I end up having to scrub vomit out of the carpet.

My life, suddenly.

26 and single. 26 and a decided lack of interest. 26 and damaged. 26 and finally living.

GV8 said to me that, if I do the math, the first half of my life was the most boring. Which is true. 13 years of youth, boring. I consider my life fairly blah until I hit 16, 17. Then things changed.

It's odd to look at it that way. When I hit 34, the first half of my life will still have been the most boring. Talk about building up.

... ...

On the home front, my father was laid off yesterday. We're thinking that this is mostly a good thing. He seems happy about it as well. He's more stable, though not 100% yet. My mother took him to a psychiatrist to figure out what could stabilize him out more fully, so I'll have to check in with her on those results.

He called me as I was writing this post.

I haven't been talking to him lately, if I don't have to. I can't deal with his aggression at the moment. It's too much. It breaks me down. He breaks me down. So he called because we haven't talked lately and he let me know that he was speaking at a convention soon in front of a few thousand people and wanted to know if I would attend and finally see his project in motion. We'll see if I go. Depends on scheduling more than anything. Wanted to see how the car was treating me.

Really, he wanted to connect. I could feel that there was more he wanted to say, but I did not prompt it. I did not want to deal with it. I know it's hard on him that I'm moving out, that I'm slowing my school down so much just because I can no longer share space with him.

He probably feels incredibly guilty about it.

But he'll never admit that, at least to me.

He'll just keep trying to make offers and deals with me. Offering these things I want so badly that I cannot take from him, that will just cause even more of an internal rift in me regarding whether or not I'm making the right decision by moving out instead of continuing school like I planned.

I wonder if he'll try anything before I move. A call, a dream-come-true offer. Chance of a lifetime.

I've noticed more and more, when watching movies, you know how things are going to end, how they have to end.

That's not what causes the tension.

The tension is caused by the wonder of what is going to be lost, willingly or unwillingly. The price the characters will pay, that you as an emotionally involved audience will pay, for the ending you so desire.

Mostly done packing.

The killer was the file cabinet, really. Going through and organizing bank statements, insurance issues, finally able to dump all the car maintenance receipts, along with all my notes, doodles, ticket stubs, journals, etc.

The skin on my hands is dry, rough, and begging for moisture.

That sounded dirty. Don't read it as such.

Still thinking of GV8 and yesterday.

I called him today, when I was on my way out for an errand. Just to say hello. Update him on my progress, etc.

Both of us realized quite quickly, I believe, that I was calling him for no reason. Just to chat. I knew, as soon as I heard the ringing over my car's speakers, that I should not have called him.

But it was too late.

We chatted for a few minutes, then both of us bolted from the line.

Can't handle it.

And I have to, I must, give him space. I must give us space. Because the only way to have him in my life is to be friends with him. And the only way to be friends with him is to emotionally unravel where I weaved us together.

Which requires minimum contact.

I've just gotten so used to calling him almost everyday due to all this life... stuff... that I've forgotten that I need to ignore that urge.

I will chase him off if I do not control myself.

Fortunately, self-control in relation to men and sex has always been a strong suit of mine... when I have the proper motivation.

I can't help but think of yesterday. Of how we move together, how perfectly coordinated we are when we aren't holding back, when we aren't watching our every movement.

He has to realize, he has to know, that I can hear him, that I can feel him, when he inhales my scent. That I know exactly what he is doing when he presses his face into my skin.

And I hold back. Every little trick. Every twist, every posturing pose, every swinging movement, upwards glance, I engage in nothing that is game. No phone voice, no accidental brush, no flirting with the waiters, no word games.

I come to him with immense desire... but no action.

He sees it. I know he does. I know he catches it when I start falling into a seduction routine and immediately pull myself out of it because I know that he'll know and it will just shove him away.

He loves me. He wants me. He respects me. My beautiful alpha male. The best man I've ever met. And he's in love with me.

Too bad reality interferes.

So I packed today. Buried myself in boxing up the more active parts of my life and discarding those things that I should have gotten rid of years ago, marathoning, of all things Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's a good show to work by. When I was in my early teens, doing competitive sewing stuff, I spent an entire summer working on creating stock for a craft bazaar, playing recorded episodes of the first season of Buffy off of video tapes.

From where I sit, actually, I can see the piece I did that won Best of Show over a decade ago. Never really cared for it, but everyone else seems to love it. Seems odd to me that such a simple thing would win over all the others. I'm not taking it with me when I move.

Strangely enough, I don't have much to say. Still thinking over the touches shared with GV8, the looks shared. I know we aren't going to be together, at least I know it on a logical level, but I still have to wonder where this is going to go. Spending the next several years of my life mooning over a man I can't have, unchanging desire between us, doesn't seem healthy, doesn't seem right.

But for it to go away seems even worse.

Worse than us giving into ourselves at a weak moment? I don't know.

As things continue to stand, though I know it has not even been a month, it's going to be too intense and too awkward. We can't continue like this. After the move, after I get settled in, after my brain relaxes.... I'll have to pull back.

I think.

I really don't know.

I can't imagine wanting another.

And it sounds so silly to say that. I'm so cynical about love sometimes. No belief in soul mates, in only having that one person. I know that it's just a matter of time before he washes away from me, memories dragged out to sea as what we were fades and is replaced by the reality of what we are.

But it doesn't feel like that now. It doesn't feel like that at all.

It feels like a boulder has been placed blocking the path to my heart, and nothing will move it.

Unexpected day.

Drove my sister to work. As I was getting onto the freeway, GV8 texted me.

Don't get all excited by the combination of my starting sentence and GV8 texting me. He has been my major pillar of strength in the last couple weeks, dealing with everything, pushing me forward when no one else would because they were too afraid I would break.

Honestly, though, GV8 is the only person who would have been able to get as much forward action out of me as he did. Everyone else would have just bounced off, due to my (massive) trust issues that even he hasn't been entirely able to breach.

My car has that little bluetooth modifier so I can squeal about technology and have GV8 talk to me through the stereo, which means surround sound GV8. And I finally have my hands free. Win.

So I called him on the way back from dropping my sister, talked about my anxiety, the events of the morning (which progressed past my earlier post), and how near panic I was over everything. I also mentioned my lack of moving boxes.

Fortunately, he had a set of twenty-five moving boxes at one of his stores, so I drove over to the loft, talked, hugged, cuddled, let him shower quickly (he was deconstructing part of the loft for a remodel and was very sweaty), and he took me over to BoHo for lunch.

See, I've had this problem lately.

I have to be distracted while I eat, thoroughly distracted, or I get sick and can't eat. I'm too stressed for food to stay down, too stressed to even feel hungry most of the time, so... I'm just not eating. It's too much of a physical hassle. Yes, I'll take a bite or two, but then my stomach rebels and I have to stop.

So I had GV8 take me out to lunch and distract me and calm me down.

Of course, then he said something about how, one day, eventually, maybe, probably, perhaps, sometime, in the far-reaching future, I'd find someone to bond with that I could actually experience the act of making love with again.

Which, oddly enough, hit me so physically hard, I had to bolt to the bathroom and stay by the toilet because I thought I was going to heave.

It's hard.

And it's weird. Sitting next to, sitting with, touching, holding hands, walking in perfect synch because it's what we do... the man that I thought was it for me.

My sex drive continues to be non-existent. I shot down Pseudonym Pending yet again last night because I just couldn't bring myself to go sleep with anyone, even for the likely DP he was setting up for New Year's Eve. I can't remember the last time I masturbated.

It's not even depression. It's as though I'm now missing an integral part of my sexual being.

GV8 says I need to get healthy, then learn (re-learn?) how to fuck just for the sake of fucking. I looked at him when he said that, head cocked. Why would I want to do that? I've years of fucking for the simple sake of fucking. When I was packing today, I ran across an old diary that had the first... twelve? Thirteen? men I had ever slept with. In order. And I couldn't even remember some of them. I stared at the names and drew blank after blank. They aren't even on the list I compiled a few months ago.

Ah, youth.

He mellows me. He centers me. Simply being around him gives me strength that lasts for hours after we separate.

After lunch, we ran by the store with the boxes. That store was the place we met at for our first official date. We held each other near the place where the white leather couch used to be, the one he made me squirt on, and remembered.

Per my request, we went back to his apartment and cuddled to calm me. Massaged my shoulders. Spooned. But my way of getting closer to someone's skin while spooning involves a sort of full body writhe that I don't even think about. The problem with this, of which there are many, means I'm pressing my ass against his crotch and writhing without thinking, just trying to get closer.

So the spooning didn't last long.

We cuddled, we wrestled, we laughed and massaged.

When we first started, when he pulled me against his chest and held on, his nose in the curve of my neck, inhaling... I almost panicked. It's hard to adjust. That apartment, that bed, we spent so much time in it. We have so many amazing memories of shared experiences. He got that bed, built that bed, for me. He hung the flatscreen at the foot of it for me. Surround sound speakers encircling the bed... for me.

Mind and body had to adjust.

And when I left, licking my dry lips as I drove the 101, I could taste him. We've reached this point where our bodies keep diving for each other, making awkward moments of physical collison. So now we peck on the lips and shift from there. No tongue. That's the rule.

Who knew?

Who knew that I would end up being this stereotypical tragic figure? This woman parted from her lover by reality, losing her interest in other men, in sex, in dating. Spending time together, still in love with each other, but both of us having the self-control needed to remain apart... to a degree. So it doesn't get worse.

I can tell he misses me. I can tell he loves me. I can tell his body follows mine like I've got a homing beacon in my chest. When he hugs me, he holds me. He wraps himself around me and runs his hands over my curves as if he hasn't explored them so many times over. I feel the air move as he inhales at the curve of my neck, his nose in my hair, his hands constantly looking to rest on the skin of my hip, the final "S" of my tattoo under his fingers.

So I left.

Drove home.

Plopped in front of the TV, trying to continue to clear my system. Enjoying the empty house.

And then I started packing.

Tomorrow I'm going to call the property management company and have my mother add herself to my application as a co-signer, just so nothing is left to chance. I want that place so much.

Tomorrow, I'm going to finish packing my room.

And next weekend, I'm going to be moving. GV8 is bringing his hauling truck and renting a trailer. Because he loves me. Because he's wonderful.

Because I couldn't wish for a better man.

Woke up, looked at the clock, went back to bed.

Woke up, ignored the clock, went back to bed.

Woke up, looked at the clock, heard my mother shouting in distress, freaked the hell out, body went into panic mode, rushed to the restroom, went downstairs to see if my father was having another episode.

My mom said he wasn't.

I'm not sure if I believe her. She's trying to protect me.

I've gone from being "the strong one" to fragile status.

And I am fragile. I feel like pieces of me have splintered, but due to some miracle, they're still together, waiting for one thing to shift for all the pieces to come out of line and crumble to a pile on the floor.

...and they're shouting again.

My mom rarely shouts.

Christ, there goes my body.

I need that apartment. I need that safe place. I need to get out of here before I am destroyed.

I need to pack, but I'm so afraid of packing and cleaning and getting turned down for that place.

And my body is rebelling against me as it fights panic.

I wish crying in a corner was an option right now.

Instead I'll watch a movie and hope for a distraction, then take a walk in the sun... and then pack.