In the coffee shop again, craving coffee, listening to my beloved Beware of Safety's Dogs album on my iPod. I can't wait until they start touring again, I know they have a show with Caspian coming up soon and that's going to be so very good. The closing number Caspian did at the New York show was amazing, still need to upload that video.

Friday night, my mother was supposed to come over.

She's been incredibly depressed lately, what with everything that happened with my father over Christmas. And it's so hard for us, the two of us. We're best friends, we're so close, and yet she's tethered to my father as much as I would be to my own husband if the situation was reversed... and I can't really be around my father right now.

On Thursday, my father took himself to the doctor to check in on everything. He's coming out of the episode, finally, and starting to realize that he does not remember the month of December (or the 5th of November, if you want to make a Guy Fawkes joke).

Apparently, this is common.

He does not remember what he did. He does not remember the damage he did to the house, or the notes, or my mother calling him, sobbing because she was so afraid of what was going on, that she had lost her husband to a bad chemical reaction, that he would destroy himself before we could get him under control.

He doesn't remember locking us out of the house.

Or coming home and finding the cats were gone.

Or the threats, the ranting phone calls.

He doesn't know why I dropped all of my classes for this semester, rescinded my one-month notice at work, and moved out instead of moving in and powering through to my Master's like was planned.

He doesn't know why my sister avoids him.

Or why I don't call him anymore.

He just knows something bad has happened, that he lost control of his mind, and that, I think, terrifies him. Because, all growing up, he has been so intelligent, so in control, so alpha male of the house. He is where I got my speed of thinking, my ability to communicate, and my mother's father, designing the NIKE missle bases, inventing, writing to MIT where they begged him for more of his work, is where I got the rest.

He lost it, and he's starting to grasp that.

And it's making him so very depressed.

My mother will not leave his side. We're so alike in that regard. We bond to that person, like I have bonded to her, and that is the end of it. Some will say, have said, that she needs to grow some balls and leave him, become independent, but she will never do so unless he harms my sister or myself.

Makes me wonder if the devoted monogamy that my parents share is genetic or social, the way my body shuts down in regards to all other men when I am committed to one.

He doesn't remember the hospital trip.

He doesn't remember me putting my body between his and my mother's and sisters, watching his wild eyes, rabid dog eyes without focus, only rage, knowing that he, at 6'4", could lay me low, and the best I could do would be to take the blows, to block him from my mother, my sister, until someone got him under control.

I wonder if he remembers removing his wedding ring, wearing some army ring from his grandfather in its place, and how much that disturbed my mother.

How relieved we were when he switched it back to the regular ring.

Which happened after my breakdown, in the kitchen, after the hospital. Fully body shaking, trying so hard to control the sobs threatening to spew up from my ribcage, vibrating like a hummingbird's wing. Worst fears realized.

Wonder if the reason why I am so set on believing there is no one real truth, no one reality, only a mass consensus, is because of him, because of his so strong adherence to being right, of one truth, one way of being. Not just one way of being, but one way of being happy, one way of being healthy, one way of being successful, and any other way is wrong.

Hiding out in C's apartment, fighting the depression that comes with self-loathing. Taking walks, long walks all through the city, trying to get some endorphins into my system, trying to get some sun, trying to make myself stop from freezing up in terror at how much things would be changing, what this all meant, and if it would ever be okay again. If my mother would ever be okay.

Talking with GV8 late at night at this very coffee shop, about seventy feet from where I sit now, him pointing out that I needed, if nothing else, to get a place of my own and save as much money as I could, so if my parents did fall apart, if my father did do something so horrible, so unsafe, that my mother had to leave, I could give her a place to live, that I could support her.

And so I did. I found the cheapest place I could live by myself, and it happened to be, luckily enough, wonderful, with an amazing management company.

I moved in almost a month ago.

And things continue to change.

So when my mother called me on Friday to tell me that she could not come, that my father was finally realizing what happened, I understood.

But I ached. Her depression, she misses me so much, I miss her so much, and she's sacrificing her happiness, her mental stability, to make sure my father is okay.

And I cannot be there for her. I cannot handle being around him without others.

I got up at 10 on Saturday morning, threw on some jeans and a t-shirt and walked to C's apartment, knocking on her door and dragging her ass out for a walk into downtown to run some errands. Another friend started texting her while we walked and I tried on some clothes, looking for that right fit. I found a perfect little black dress, something that made me look far curvier than I am, and danced with delight over my find for hours. We walked to a local diner to meet another friend, getting a late breakfast, then the three of us walked back to my apartment to chat while I got ready for my date.

I hate that generic listing of events. Sounds so boring.

I have a love of cheap clothing import stores. You can find some great items there that are hard to really get in other places. I needed a new pair of what I call "clubbing pants", which, for me, are the pants I wear to a club when I am feeling lazy and don't want to dress up. Black, cargoish, thin material that breathes well, with pockets. These are the pants that tell my friends that I do not wish to talk to them all evening, I do not wish to put on make-up or futz with my hair, but I want to dance. And I will dance all night.

It's hard to find a pair that works. My ass is... ghetto. Thick and curvy. Remarked on often. Infinitely spankable. Pants shopping is difficult because of this.

I did not succeed in my pants-finding mission yesterday.

We had breakfast at a diner none of us had been to yet, but I had been wanting to try. It was delicious. C was exclaiming over the food and I was quite in love with my appetizer.

Hanging at my apartment... I'm very mellow, very introspected, very organized in my own way. My apartment reflects this. Everything is very contained. Bringing C over is akin to bringing a pygmy bull into a china shop. Nothing is going to get overly damaged, but there's going to be a close call because she's so energetic and so all over the place.

So I showered and chatted with them, wandering in and out of my closet, trying on different outfits and asking C her opinion, then finally doing hair and make-up for my date, trying different things, experimenting, before settling on a good set of colors that I felt went well with the look I was going for, as my date has a love of the goth girl and I can play that role easily.

They left and I walked outside, across towards the bar, where a woman complimented me on my outfit and, after I thanked her and continued to walk, I overheard one of the men with her say, "Yeah, I'd like it best on my floor."

Mission accomplished, I suppose.

My date turned out better than I expected, I'll say that. Much better.

Long-term material? No, if only because I still am set on eventually having children and, as I've found of late, if a man is past forty and childless, it's unlikely that he wants offspring.

But I'm late for the annual family and friends Super Bowl party, where I plan on laying on my stomach in front of a sunny window and reading my textbook, maybe working on the novel that I have brewing inside me.

And most importantly, eating lots of shrimp. So much shrimp, and I will eat it, oh yes I will.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

I opened the kitchen windows.

All ineffectual in stopping the shrill beeping.

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

See, books are useful.

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

I like this city.

I like this life.

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

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

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

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

It's my choice, I know.

I'm becoming different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yay for proximity.

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

And I feel even ridiculous saying that.

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

I would know I had finally tagged him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Social dissonance.

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

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

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

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

Another day in the life.

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

But tomorrow morning, tomorrow morning is gloriously free.

Maybe I'll set off the smoke detector again.

I have never claimed to be aware of what is going on around me in regards to current events or drama. I do believe it was three days after the disaster in Haiti that I first heard about it.

So I'm a bit behind, if I ever even bother catching up.

What recently was brought to my attention, though, was a mini-feudish type-thing going on between two bloggers, one being, of course, a PUA. I'm not going to bother to link to multiple sources, you can do your own research if you so desire. And I'm not going to say I know the details or either of the bloggers, or that I've really taken the time to read either of their blogs, because I haven't.

That's my disclaimer for you.

From the initial post on the topic and the subsequent comments, it seems as though the female blogger was picked up, quickly seduced, shagged, shagged some more, traveled across state lines to, again, shag some more (and travel), and in all of this, she discovered that the man she was banging was a successful pick-up artist.

When he cut ties, she freaked and shot off an angry email.

People flooded into the comment section, declaring crazy-bitchness. Drama, drama, and more drama ensued. The identity of the female in question was revealed. Madness, cats and dogs living together, mass hysteria, etc.

If I had been her, I would have done exactly the same thing.

She's a perfect product of the sexual values that we support. Thirty-one years old and has slept with only six men (including the blogger in question).

Defending herself against accusations of slutiness?

She did not have the experience, the education in men and sex, that one needs to navigate these waters competently. She did not understand her desires, did not understand how he gamed her, and put herself into an incredibly bad situation by traveling into a country where she did not speak the language.

(RULE#1: Do not under any but the most extreme circumstances, put yourself in a position where you are reliant on a male who has sexual interest in you. Immediately you imbalance the relationship in his favor by placing yourself in a position of weakness that is easily exploited, at minimum, on an emotional level.)

She was crippled, crippled by living up to the expectations of women set forth by society.

She did not know how to play the game.

So she lost. Badly.

Embarassment, shame, public humiliation, feelings of greatly diminished value.

The way she was raised, the way she was taught to act, the way we, as women, are all taught to act, allowed sex to be used as a weapon against her on an emotional and social level.

And she reacted. Oh, boy, did she react.

(RULE #2: Don't react. Anger is a show of weakness, a show that you've been injured. The best weapon is polite disinterest and, if you're able to do it, friendliness on a purely social level.)

Half of the world's population is at a purposeful disadvantage. Half of us are raised to be weak, to be easily taken advantage of. We are mocked, we are scorned, when we step outside of that weakness, when we reclaim our sex.

Why do we continue to cripple half of our population?

I remember the first time something similar happened to me.

I was 17. His name was Patrick. I had been ineffectually working on him for months.

Imagine me, 17. Still blonde. My hair was ratty, always with split-ends, overlong. I'd wear vintage jeans with the seams split at the side and some colorful fabric inserted to give me bell-bottoms, along with too-tight vintage shirts from thrift stores and overpriced boutiques. Gods, I was even tan.

I was in college, as I had started when I was 16, skipping my senior year. He was a senior in high school, 18.

After months of pursuing him, I finally got him in bed. I had been so excited, snagging the loner male of this particular social group I occasionally spent time in.

Imagine my disappointment when he ended up being ridiculously small. Barely fit across the palm of my hand small (which I've only seen one other time). But I still wanted him, still was game, still wanted to claim his body as mine for an evening.

Later, talking within the group, I found that he had informed them of our fucking, and that I was "as loose as a goose". (That's a phrase I still hear inside my head and cringe, by the by.)

I was completely flabbergasted. I did not mention it to anyone who knew him because I felt bad for him, because I did not (and still don't) identify my partners publicly without their consent. And he had gone ahead and told everyone, and then blamed me for the lack of tight fit?

God, I was pissed. I was embarassed and hurt. I immediately lashed out, informing them that he how small he had been, how anyone would have felt loose being paired up with something that little. The hurt was compounded because I had wanted him for so long, had actually had a crush on him (as opposed to simple lust) and felt like we had bonded on the lead up.

After that, things started falling apart with that group, socially. The other men started trying to sleep with me, assuming since I was so "loose" I must be a slut and therefore they'd have to put in minor effort. At that time, I don't think I had even broken the 10 partner barrier. Once I started rejecting my loving suitors, I was awkwardly shoved out of the group.

These are things you learn. These encounters will stay with you, will trigger signals in your brain that you aren't even aware of that will guide you in your future choices.

It's a refinement process. The more exposure you have (and I don't simply mean sexually) to different types of men, the easier it is to navigate, the easier it is to survive. You learn what roles you are able to play. I found out quickly that I fell into a masculine dandy role, that playing that part allowed me access to the type of men I believed I desired, and once that access was gained, I was able to filter for which were actually desirable.

You learn not to react. You learn to roll with what is tossed at you.

And when you get played, you know what to do.

You know there's nothing to be ashamed of. You know that when a man takes the time, puts in the effort, to seduce you, especially when he has gone to such lengths to learn how to do so, that you're being complimented. You're worth that effort. You're desirable, and all that education is being directed your way (at least for a short period, if you don't know how to handle him).

You know that sex is only sex, and that there are going to be people out there more experienced than you, that will blind you and use you and the best way to react is to know that you've learned something.

Embarrassing situations are going to happen. You are going to get hurt. You will find yourself doubting your own value, you will find yourself suspecting all men of less-than-honest intent. People will badmouth you whether or not you deserve it. People will label you as a slut if you're more experienced than they think you should be, or a prude if you don't put out "enough".

Whatever "enough" is.

If you're not acting in the way people think you should be acting, you're going to get assigned a negative label. You'll likely get harassed and hounded until you give in and alter your behavior or until you own your sexuality.

I've slept with around 70-80 men. Basic sex, vaginal or anal. Both with several of them. If we go into oral, I can't even guess at the number. Probably running around 150 or so. Which, in my opinion, isn't bad at all. My friends make fun of how easily I get men, how often I get asked out, how open I am about sex. I've a constant cycle of attention paid to me, and when I'm running a busy schedule, it's not unknown for me to have three or five men I'm sleeping with regularly, along with others I simply date.

I cannot think of a single time anyone has ever called me a slut, whore, skank, or other sexually derogatory term to my face, other than friends in jest (or men in bed, which is, of course welcome). No one who knows me challenges me, and as years pass and I come more into my own, it is unlikely that anyone ever will.

It's not because I'm aggressive about my sexuality. I'm certainly not in anyone's face about it, verbally or physically. My clothing is always reserved and mellow, elegant for nights out.

It's because I'm comfortable with myself. Because I believe that, without a doubt, what I have done and what I will do is perfectly fine.

When a girl like the blogger in question gets into a situation like she did, her reaction is due to a discomfort with her sexuality. Is due to how she judges herself, how others judge her, and how much she lets that impact her.

Let's play with the situation. PUA picks you up, you do the dirty a few times over the course of whatever period of time, you travel to his home country to visit and see more of the world, and he's an ass. And then he tells you not to contact him again after the trip.

You break down everything he did. You break down your desires, you break down what happened, why you did things that were out of character. You learn. You mentally shake hands with him, acknowledge that it was well-played, that you were outplayed by someone far superior in knowledge of a tiny sector of the world and you realize that it's going to happen again, in other ways. You accept it, you integrate it, and you move on.

In the future, you will do better.

Two weeks ago, I met a friend for lunch at a local bar and grill.

I poked my head in the door of the restaurant and immediately locked eyes with a cute piece of male inside. But I kept my gaze running, taking a few steps in to check for my friend and, not finding her, I turned and went back out in front of the building, leaning against the wall, reading Death With Interruptions (which was excellent, by the way; his dialogue is amazing).

Two minutes later, a man exits the restaurant, walks past me, and strikes up a conversation with a set of younger girls that had just walked by. Another minute or so passes, I'm deep into my book, and the man ends conversation with the girls and starts one with me.

About books.

Because, you know, I was reading.

Smart man.

And I only say "smart man" because I have been interrupted too many times from whatever bit of book that I've buried myself in with the briefest of acknowledgements that I was reading and then suddenly loads of questions about completely unrelated things and there's no smooth transition, only sad lack of conversational skill.

So we start chatting about books, about the few he's read, about the apparent godawfulness of The Secret which I've not bothered to pick up. And as he smoothly transitions, he checks to see if I'm going to be eating at the grill, if I'm meeting someone, if that person is male or female, if she's expected soon, etc.

You know, details.

After establishing that I was meeting a female friend who was, by then, running late, he invites me to join him and his buddy for the wait.

Walk inside, follow him to his table and huh, wouldn't you know, his friend the guy I had a mini-"ooooh"-moment with.

The whole thing was amazingly smooth. Just easy.

So, I sit down across from the target of hotness, my back to the front door (which I never do), next to my occasionally-reading friend, introduce ourselves, and we're off and running in casual conversation-land.

Ten minutes later, my friend shows up.

This, this was the best part for me. Because I know they assumed that my female friend would be like me. My age, my race, my style, etc.

Instead they get the friend I was meeting there: a woman in her late forties, an ex-model who had several injuries that caused her to be about 100-150 pounds overweight due to inability to really move for years. Very confident, very outspoken, two kids, widowed, and likely more sexual experience than I'll ever have unless I suddenly start going out of my way to rack up the numbers.

She's awesome, loves me to death, total fun to be around, always very supportive, makes friends wherever she goes. Really wherever she goes. I went out with her to a transgender bar once and she made friends with this young gay couple, one of which had pippilongstocking braids tattooed over his sternum, and she became their heterosexual wife and they all got smashingly drunk together. And repeated the experience.

So she shows up and they're both, very obviously, surprised.

And since she's got that weight problem and I'm sitting in the most spacious spot, I flip to the other side of the table to join the man with the gorgeous eyes.

You know, because I'm generous. So generous. And thoughtful.

Yeah, that's it.

Ten minutes of awkwardness ensued while they tried to recover their game, my friend and I chattering away, catching up, planning things. Eventually they slide in and things become a bit more mellow. I watch as my chosen partner starts to mimic my body language.

Bueno.

After awhile, they pay their bill and take off. Of course, before they go, we "have" to swap phone numbers, as I've let them know that I live quite nearby and am still trying to learn the city, learn where the hot spots are, have friends to go with.

My friend and I continue talking, finally calling for our bill, and discover that they've already paid it. Awwwwww.

She also took the time to make fun of me as, when she walked in, my back was to the door, as I mentioned, and I was sitting with two men, so she didn't register me for a minute.

And then she registered the two men.
And my hair.
And realized it was me, of course.
Figures, she said.

I bring this up because, yesterday, the guy I was so physically enamoured with finally texted me to ask me out.

Am I interested?

Well, I don't really know him. He looks around my age, so that's against him, not because I love the older men but because young tends to mean inexperienced. He does something I hate already, texting using the "u" and "ur" and "lol". Jeez, stop already.

I mean, it's basic stuff. If you're talking with someone, you mimic their body language to connect, usually subconciously. If you're texting with someone, you don't have that body language. All you have is how they talk, how they structure their sentences, their word choice. So you mime that. Which means if you're texting with a 19 year old girl and she's dropping the "u" and the "ur" and the "wazzup" then you do the same. And if you're texting with me or someone like me, with the near perfect spelling and grammar, you do the same.

Anyhow...

So he asked me out. For a Friday or Saturday. Ooh, baby.

Unfortunately, those days are rarely open for me, especially for a first date that I doubt will be followed by a second unless he surprises me.

I'm still hinged on GV8.

Of course I am.

And what am I supposed to say to potential suitors? "I'm sorry, but my last boyfriend was this ex-con that went legit and made himself into a successful millionaire, has slept with over 400 women if we're just talking straight intercourse, was the best lover I've ever had, shifts the world when he needs to and we're both still in love with each other and that leaves little room for entertaining thoughts of you"?

Hi, I'm V, an icy, inaccessable tundra. How's it going?

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

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

Close enough to embarrassment to bother.

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

That should've been a gimme.

But he couldn't.

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

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

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

Game failure.

How embarrassing. For me.

Which might sound odd. Might sound really odd.

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

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

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

Possibly.

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

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

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

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

And he couldn't step up.

Which reflects my desirability.

Hence the embarrassment and discomfort.

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

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

And that bothers me as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, of course, leads to pictures like this:



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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is why he's fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

See, people, that's teamwork.

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

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

But he was whining.

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

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

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

So I did. Guiltless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When we separated this time, I cried.

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

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

And then I left.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Just gotta keep going at it.

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

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

Wearing my favorite nightshirt...



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

The front of that shirt says "fist".

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

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

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

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

Current preview of the apartment: my faux fireplace.



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

But back to my weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

I tried to explain.

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

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

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

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

A resounding "duh".

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

They've got it. And they should.

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

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

Where is the art? Where is the play?

Where is the poetry?

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

Who cares if you orgasm?

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

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

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

It's like watching someone run a marathon.

A very short marathon.

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

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

And then he taught me more.

He taught me so much more.

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

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

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

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

Let's try this.

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful.

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

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

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

I'd say overconfident, but others might disagree.

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

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

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

He had to test the waters again.

I was ready.

It has been an interesting few days.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He joined me.

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

But hot water and slick skin cause hands to roam.

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

Guided my hands towards his cock.

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

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

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

Another tug towards, I continued to stare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More later... sleep summons.

Hanging by threads of palest silver...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I pulled up in the lot behind my apartment.

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

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

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

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

And he stayed.

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

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

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

I warned him and he made his choices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I cannot seriously date until I move past him.

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

After the conversation ended, I realized something.

He's probably pushing me away for two reasons.

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

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

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

How long is this going to take?

Who is going to break?

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

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

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

It was.

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

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

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

We had known each other for less than twelve hours.

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

I know he's trying to rein us in.

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

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

I wish I could describe it, describe us.

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

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

There's first time for everything.

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

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

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

But he did it anyway.

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

He said we were fucking with our heads too much.

He said we needed to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

I must be an idiot.

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

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

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

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