Reading Steinbeck's East of Eden.
Brilliant.
He's so damn good. His characters, his dialogue, his understanding of the human psyche and... god. Wow.
The very last bit of Part One, the encounter between Cathy and Charles, that was perfect. That was everything. They met, the recognized each other as similiar creatures, something they should avoid. Both had beasts inside them. Warily stalking around each other, until finally accepting the truth: only this other person would understand them. Only with this person could they be their true selves that others would fear should they but know.
Perfect.
I'm almost a third in and I already love this book, drawn out of a stack on a whim.
If I could do nothing but read, dance, write, travel, and screw, I'd be a happy girl.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, I discovered that tomatoes and cottage cheese go amazingly well together.
Sitting at Denny's, edging on midnight, a few blondes in cowboy hats with boobjobs decorating various booths with their tanned skin, having left their country-line dancing club early.
Leaning on my best friend's shoulder, running on fumes. Pushing it too hard as I try to fit everything in, running by the house to do laundry, to work on school registration issues, to get refunds and adjust classes, talk with parents as they watch TV downstairs, the one thing that my mother hoped would cheer my father up: football season.
Tumble into bed at 2AM, tossing on a strange mattress, cat-sitting for a friend who went out to Texas for a wedding that was called off due to a problem with the pre-nup. Neighbors outside talking, talking too much. Three windows above the bed open a three inches each. Up on my knees, I slide two of them closed, but the third, the far left, refuses to budge.
I give up and go back to bed. Restless sleep, every hour I roll awake.
The sun finds me at 10AM.
Showering, the cat sitting by the tub, watching and waiting for me to come out so he can play in the puddles left behind. Orange and white, missing the tip of an ear, giant eyes, even for a cat. He's the kind of cat who likes to be knocked over, knocked around, loves to wrestle.
I walk to the nearest coffee shop. I'm there from 11AM to 930PM, writing, organizing, going through old emails, going through diaries, trying to remember it all. Who helped make me, and how they did it. Faces flooding my mind, events, feelings, sights. No sounds. I don't remember sounds. Lighting, the feeling of a windowpane digging into my shin as I climb out into 4AM streets.
I fill pages.
I write.
A Filipino woman interrupts me for an hour, talking as the muscles in my right forearm relax and untangle, pain subsiding. She buys me dinner as the evening wears on. A comedy troupe comes in, my phone goes off, two texts from two friends, one requesting my opinion on something as the only sane and healthy highly sexually active female he knows.
Surprises me.
I step out, make a call, make another call, and I'm in the fading light, wind from the beach threading up the street as I pace and talk, people passing by with dogs. Street lights turn on and I get off the phone.
I sit down for thirty minutes, then realize I'm late, and I rush back to the apartment, changing my clothes, tossing on make-up, taking my hair down for the first time that day. The cat watches me, I smile and turn the faucet on, leaving him hypnotized, one paw darting out to smack the offending liquid.
Up the freeway, dancing between 80 and 90, my usual range, my comfort zone. Through traffic, street lights, and finally I'm waving at the valet and parking myself. The security guard at the door tries to card me, he's new. I look at the valet, look at him, and sigh. I take two steps towards my car and he lets me in.
I find friends in the low light, hugs and greetings, and I hit the dance floor. The lights above me, the hardwood below me, this is all I want, balls of my feet pivoting as I go through the motions and styles that I have spent so many years watching and learning.
At the end of the evening, clothes are a damp second skin. I try to warn people off me when they come to wrap their arms around me and bid me goodbye, but they don't listen. They never listen.
3AM and I'm in the parking lot, talking with a one night stand from last year. We start talking about pick-up, and he's totally unattracted to the idea. Poor guy. I picked him up last November, spun him for a loop, and then set him back down when he turned out to be such a bad lay. He's still trying for round two, but even I'm not that nice. He starts again, trying to convince me to go home with him. I wave goodbye and bolt.
315AM, I'm at Fred 62's, scenster watching with a friend. Cottage cheese and tomatoes, he laughs at me. His engagement ring is hammered flat and strung on a chain around his neck, a constant reminder to never be that stupid again.
5AM, I'm in the shower, scrubbing sweat and make-up off. Yellow trim, beige walls, white tile, orange cat. I flick water at him over the shower door, but he's completely unfazed.
10AM, I'm up, I'm groaning as the top of my thighs rebel against movement. I twist and turn in bed and try to relieve the feeling of having rocks in my legs. The cat eyes me, I scratch along his jaw. I dig the most comfortable clothes I have out of my duffle bag and hobble down to the coffee shop.
150PM, I'm running out of the coffee shop, my laptop flapping behind me. I'm late, keyboard and screen sucked me in and I toss my bags to one side of the living room before bolting back out to my car.
215PM, my friend is late. Standing out in the sun and the beach breeze, I don't care.
220PM, my friend arrives. We settle in and the organist begins to play, the pipes painted in blacklight paint, a weird 60s dream missing black velvet.
515PM, we're at a restaurant near the beach, both of us flirting with the waitress.
700PM, we're buried in stacks of used books in Santa Monica. I adopt two, the dust from the book jackets embedded in my fingerprints, the guys at the counter eyeing me oddly.
910PM, we're at The Bridge, buying tickets for District 9. Surrounded by the youth of America, I weave through unaware crowds and settle into the comfy black armchairs in the Director's Hall.
12PM, I'm driving down the 405, listening to Fourtet, letting the feeling of wheels on asphalt rock me.
1230AM, I'm in bed, a sleeping bag on a living room floor, my legs still so tense that the hard surface hurts. I adjust to take the pressure off of the muscles, the sleeping bag I occupy one I've had since elementary school, a worn green and black plaid on the inside without padding. I might as well be sleeping on the floor, but I don't mind. A pillow, a sheet, I'm set.
1235, the hum of the refrigerator in his near empty apartment, the sound of the waterbowl the cat drinks from, the cars that pass... the noises, my lullaby of city rhythms, I'm asleep.
Sitting at Denny's, edging on midnight, a few blondes in cowboy hats with boobjobs decorating various booths with their tanned skin, having left their country-line dancing club early.
Leaning on my best friend's shoulder, running on fumes. Pushing it too hard as I try to fit everything in, running by the house to do laundry, to work on school registration issues, to get refunds and adjust classes, talk with parents as they watch TV downstairs, the one thing that my mother hoped would cheer my father up: football season.
Tumble into bed at 2AM, tossing on a strange mattress, cat-sitting for a friend who went out to Texas for a wedding that was called off due to a problem with the pre-nup. Neighbors outside talking, talking too much. Three windows above the bed open a three inches each. Up on my knees, I slide two of them closed, but the third, the far left, refuses to budge.
I give up and go back to bed. Restless sleep, every hour I roll awake.
The sun finds me at 10AM.
Showering, the cat sitting by the tub, watching and waiting for me to come out so he can play in the puddles left behind. Orange and white, missing the tip of an ear, giant eyes, even for a cat. He's the kind of cat who likes to be knocked over, knocked around, loves to wrestle.
I walk to the nearest coffee shop. I'm there from 11AM to 930PM, writing, organizing, going through old emails, going through diaries, trying to remember it all. Who helped make me, and how they did it. Faces flooding my mind, events, feelings, sights. No sounds. I don't remember sounds. Lighting, the feeling of a windowpane digging into my shin as I climb out into 4AM streets.
I fill pages.
I write.
A Filipino woman interrupts me for an hour, talking as the muscles in my right forearm relax and untangle, pain subsiding. She buys me dinner as the evening wears on. A comedy troupe comes in, my phone goes off, two texts from two friends, one requesting my opinion on something as the only sane and healthy highly sexually active female he knows.
Surprises me.
I step out, make a call, make another call, and I'm in the fading light, wind from the beach threading up the street as I pace and talk, people passing by with dogs. Street lights turn on and I get off the phone.
I sit down for thirty minutes, then realize I'm late, and I rush back to the apartment, changing my clothes, tossing on make-up, taking my hair down for the first time that day. The cat watches me, I smile and turn the faucet on, leaving him hypnotized, one paw darting out to smack the offending liquid.
Up the freeway, dancing between 80 and 90, my usual range, my comfort zone. Through traffic, street lights, and finally I'm waving at the valet and parking myself. The security guard at the door tries to card me, he's new. I look at the valet, look at him, and sigh. I take two steps towards my car and he lets me in.
I find friends in the low light, hugs and greetings, and I hit the dance floor. The lights above me, the hardwood below me, this is all I want, balls of my feet pivoting as I go through the motions and styles that I have spent so many years watching and learning.
At the end of the evening, clothes are a damp second skin. I try to warn people off me when they come to wrap their arms around me and bid me goodbye, but they don't listen. They never listen.
3AM and I'm in the parking lot, talking with a one night stand from last year. We start talking about pick-up, and he's totally unattracted to the idea. Poor guy. I picked him up last November, spun him for a loop, and then set him back down when he turned out to be such a bad lay. He's still trying for round two, but even I'm not that nice. He starts again, trying to convince me to go home with him. I wave goodbye and bolt.
315AM, I'm at Fred 62's, scenster watching with a friend. Cottage cheese and tomatoes, he laughs at me. His engagement ring is hammered flat and strung on a chain around his neck, a constant reminder to never be that stupid again.
5AM, I'm in the shower, scrubbing sweat and make-up off. Yellow trim, beige walls, white tile, orange cat. I flick water at him over the shower door, but he's completely unfazed.
10AM, I'm up, I'm groaning as the top of my thighs rebel against movement. I twist and turn in bed and try to relieve the feeling of having rocks in my legs. The cat eyes me, I scratch along his jaw. I dig the most comfortable clothes I have out of my duffle bag and hobble down to the coffee shop.
150PM, I'm running out of the coffee shop, my laptop flapping behind me. I'm late, keyboard and screen sucked me in and I toss my bags to one side of the living room before bolting back out to my car.
215PM, my friend is late. Standing out in the sun and the beach breeze, I don't care.
220PM, my friend arrives. We settle in and the organist begins to play, the pipes painted in blacklight paint, a weird 60s dream missing black velvet.
515PM, we're at a restaurant near the beach, both of us flirting with the waitress.
700PM, we're buried in stacks of used books in Santa Monica. I adopt two, the dust from the book jackets embedded in my fingerprints, the guys at the counter eyeing me oddly.
910PM, we're at The Bridge, buying tickets for District 9. Surrounded by the youth of America, I weave through unaware crowds and settle into the comfy black armchairs in the Director's Hall.
12PM, I'm driving down the 405, listening to Fourtet, letting the feeling of wheels on asphalt rock me.
1230AM, I'm in bed, a sleeping bag on a living room floor, my legs still so tense that the hard surface hurts. I adjust to take the pressure off of the muscles, the sleeping bag I occupy one I've had since elementary school, a worn green and black plaid on the inside without padding. I might as well be sleeping on the floor, but I don't mind. A pillow, a sheet, I'm set.
1235, the hum of the refrigerator in his near empty apartment, the sound of the waterbowl the cat drinks from, the cars that pass... the noises, my lullaby of city rhythms, I'm asleep.
Friday, August 14, 2009
It's about time...
I'm sitting on the ground, legs crossed, surrounded by men and one woman is who quite happy with her mate of choice. The rest are laughing, joking, talking to me. The Cuban (the second of that weekend) fixating on me.
He's amusing, he's cute, but he's too desperate. It slides off him in waves. He's too young, too inexperienced, doesn't yet understand that to win a woman, you have to be willing to lose her.
I glance over my shoulder, glance again.
He's tall. Jesus, he's tall.
Dark brown hair, almost black, but I can see the highlights by the streetlight he stands by. Eyes that tilt up slightly at the corners, cat-eyes. Beautiful. Black slacks, dress shoes, a deliciously unbuttoned white dress-shirt, hanging untucked. Good chest, good abs. He leans against his cello case, looking off to the side.
For the first time that weekend, I find myself an object to attain.
"Hey, you!" I call across the twenty, thirty feet that separate us. He looks over at me. "Mind if I take a picture?"
He shifts his stance into something slightly posed. I'm disappointed in the change, but I snap one off anyway, glancing at the screen as he shifts back into something more relaxed.
"Don't move," I tell him, framing it quickly. His eyes dart over to me, but then return back when he sees my expression. My finger presses again, the sound effect of my shutter closing signalling the picture has been taken and, again, I check the screen.
"Perfect," I look over at him, "You should see this shot. It's brilliant. God, I'm good."
He lifts his cello and walks over to me. I don't bother getting up, so he bends over the see the screen.
"You have to send that to me," he says, opening his wallet and giving me a business card. I don't look at the name, just pocket it.
I tell him I will, of course, though it may be awhile. Busy life and all that.
Noticing our interaction, my Cuban devotee wanders over to see who I have fixated on. They introduce themselves to each other. I don't pay attention to the names. It's not important.
I shift my attention from my cellist to the Cuban, talking, laughing, flirting. Then I shift back a little, integrating the cellist into the conversation some, not too much.
Another man wanders over, curly hair, and shakes the hand of my cellist. They're friends. Suddenly, the conversation I had started with my cellist is thrown to the wayside as the two of them become animated in conversation. I listen and watch their dynamic, then decide to slide in by gaining the attention of the curly-haired man. My gut tells me that this is the way to go, and I trust it.
I study the curly-haired man. He looks as though he may start painting happy trees. I wait for a break in the conversation, and then I tell him this, ignoring my cellist, and their conversation derails as the two of us start trying to remember the name of the painter who I am referencing. I start stopping strangers, calling across the empty spaces to passersby who aren't too absorbed in their own conversations.
No one remembers the name, but I continue to make references to it instead of bothering to learn the name of the curly-haired man. He'd actually be quite cute, if he just buzzed his hair down and stopped wearing scenstery plaid shirts.
I focus on him, the cellist once more standing there, not part of the conversation. I make sure my body is facing the curly-haired man, left shoulder closing out the cellist, while the curly-haired-man-who-resembles-a-painter and I talk about what we had been doing that weekend, what had be going on, what we are planning to do with our evening ahead of us.
In this, he does what I want. He tells me that he has plans in the next fifteen minutes. He's going to be exiting stage right, which is perfect.
As I shift conversation into what I am going to do, I mention that I am hungry. I was going to go look for food at one of the nearby restaurants that downtown LA has to offer. They should come with. The three of us could walk down Figueroa and see what we can find.
The cellist mentions that he is hungry and was planning on getting food. But the curly-haired gentleman reminds me that he has to be somewhere shortly, and my face falls in disappointment. I tell him that it is too bad he cannot cancel his plans, but he should go and enjoy himself before he is late meeting his friends. He leaves, I wave after him.
"Food?" I ask of the cellist.
"Sure."
The Cuban and his friends are still nearby. I tell them I'm going to get some food, I'll catch up with them another time. The Cuban has my number. I tell him to text me with his location when he knows where he is going later that night and I might join him.
I walk with the cellist down Figueroa, then up through the Staples Center to get to The Yard House in the back. We sit and talk. I tease him because that's what I do. And then conversation shifts to social dynamics, to how some people are the alphas of the group, but when you take them outside of their given group, they no longer are alpha. They can only hold that dominance for one set of people. It isn't a natural dominance.
He tells me that he used to do that, but then he read a book that changed his life.
What was it? I ask.
The Game he tells me. By Neil Strauss. Have I heard of it?
This is the moment where my face lights up. This is the moment where I'm covering my mouth because I'm caught between laughter and a crazy smile.
Have I heard of it?
Oh, this makes so much more sense, blocks stacking in my head as things shift slightly. Ways of handling people and situations, what ethics I feel when I deal with men, it alters because I don't have to be so damn polite with this one.
Because it's a game. He knows it, I know it, and I know he knows it. That makes all the difference.
My laughter is finally controlled as I tell him, yes, I have heard of it. I have read it. Has he read these other books in the same vein? Does he hang out the various PUA forums, read the blogs? How long has he been doing this? Tell me stories, I ask him.
And he does.
I tell him stories.
And we laugh.
I can relax. Not in the normal way of relaxation, where you are lowering barriers and being vunerable, but relaxation because I don't have to be on the constant fence of trying to control my own instincts. I don't have to act normal. I don't have to act like this isn't just a game. I don't have to be nice and concerned. I don't need kidgloves with him, like with so many others.
I couldn't ask for anything else.
During dinner, my cell phone continues to go off. Text after text. I have three or four guys texting me, trying to get me to go out with them that night, to meet them somewhere. I ignore them, but I start to feel bad.
We finish dinner.
Where now? We have options available to us, but most of them involve crowds. And I'm not done with him.
A small bar down the street seems likely. I suggest it to him, and we walk further down the street.
It's nearly empty when we get there, which is what I had expected. Wonderful.
We snag a table and continue to talk, his cello on the floor beside us, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. His fingers are so long. His eyes are still beautiful and intense, though I've seen eyes better, eyes that blow me away on contact.
His fingers steeple when mine do. Arms are on the table when mine are. I move, he follows. I watch.
He tells me that I make him nervous, the way I look, the way I act. That he doesn't know what to do with me, that his usual tricks, I already know. He can't seem to stop talking. It's not frantic conversation, it's simply me leaving a space for him to talk and, instead of being comfortable with silence, he fills it. It's interesting, what people will tell you, what they will talk about, if you simply expose them to silence.
My phone continues to go off but, by this time, I am returning the texts as rapidfire as I get them.
Rude? Yes. But I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see what he would do, how he would respond, if I continued to interrupt our conversation so I could return the texts of other men that wanted to know where I was, when I would be out, and if I wanted company.
Each time, which was often, I would smile sheepishly and apologize. I would explain how guilty I would feel if I did not return their texts and, really, I am very sorry. Very sorry. It's just rude not to return them, right? Hold on just a second, let me just get back to him. No, it's okay, continue your story, I'm listening, really.
This goes on for almost ten minutes before he finally decides what to do.
"Can I see your phone?" he asks me casually.
I slide it over the table to him, knowing full well something is going to happen to it. He looks at the picture I have on the screen, and then slides it into one of his pockets.
Perfect.
Instantly wet, I want him. He's knocked out my "distraction", he's taken my phone and isolated me not only from the males who so badly wanted my attention, but also from any outside contact.
I have become his.
At least until I get my phone back.
And it's perfect. He handled himself with flying colors, though a bit delayed, and I am sitting there silently thanking Mr. Strauss for helping the young males of the world.
The bartender comes by, closing up shop.
I tilt my head slightly at my cellist, "Where to?"
He's amusing, he's cute, but he's too desperate. It slides off him in waves. He's too young, too inexperienced, doesn't yet understand that to win a woman, you have to be willing to lose her.
I glance over my shoulder, glance again.
He's tall. Jesus, he's tall.
Dark brown hair, almost black, but I can see the highlights by the streetlight he stands by. Eyes that tilt up slightly at the corners, cat-eyes. Beautiful. Black slacks, dress shoes, a deliciously unbuttoned white dress-shirt, hanging untucked. Good chest, good abs. He leans against his cello case, looking off to the side.
For the first time that weekend, I find myself an object to attain.
"Hey, you!" I call across the twenty, thirty feet that separate us. He looks over at me. "Mind if I take a picture?"
He shifts his stance into something slightly posed. I'm disappointed in the change, but I snap one off anyway, glancing at the screen as he shifts back into something more relaxed.
"Don't move," I tell him, framing it quickly. His eyes dart over to me, but then return back when he sees my expression. My finger presses again, the sound effect of my shutter closing signalling the picture has been taken and, again, I check the screen.
"Perfect," I look over at him, "You should see this shot. It's brilliant. God, I'm good."
He lifts his cello and walks over to me. I don't bother getting up, so he bends over the see the screen.
"You have to send that to me," he says, opening his wallet and giving me a business card. I don't look at the name, just pocket it.
I tell him I will, of course, though it may be awhile. Busy life and all that.
Noticing our interaction, my Cuban devotee wanders over to see who I have fixated on. They introduce themselves to each other. I don't pay attention to the names. It's not important.
I shift my attention from my cellist to the Cuban, talking, laughing, flirting. Then I shift back a little, integrating the cellist into the conversation some, not too much.
Another man wanders over, curly hair, and shakes the hand of my cellist. They're friends. Suddenly, the conversation I had started with my cellist is thrown to the wayside as the two of them become animated in conversation. I listen and watch their dynamic, then decide to slide in by gaining the attention of the curly-haired man. My gut tells me that this is the way to go, and I trust it.
I study the curly-haired man. He looks as though he may start painting happy trees. I wait for a break in the conversation, and then I tell him this, ignoring my cellist, and their conversation derails as the two of us start trying to remember the name of the painter who I am referencing. I start stopping strangers, calling across the empty spaces to passersby who aren't too absorbed in their own conversations.
No one remembers the name, but I continue to make references to it instead of bothering to learn the name of the curly-haired man. He'd actually be quite cute, if he just buzzed his hair down and stopped wearing scenstery plaid shirts.
I focus on him, the cellist once more standing there, not part of the conversation. I make sure my body is facing the curly-haired man, left shoulder closing out the cellist, while the curly-haired-man-who-resembles-a-painter and I talk about what we had been doing that weekend, what had be going on, what we are planning to do with our evening ahead of us.
In this, he does what I want. He tells me that he has plans in the next fifteen minutes. He's going to be exiting stage right, which is perfect.
As I shift conversation into what I am going to do, I mention that I am hungry. I was going to go look for food at one of the nearby restaurants that downtown LA has to offer. They should come with. The three of us could walk down Figueroa and see what we can find.
The cellist mentions that he is hungry and was planning on getting food. But the curly-haired gentleman reminds me that he has to be somewhere shortly, and my face falls in disappointment. I tell him that it is too bad he cannot cancel his plans, but he should go and enjoy himself before he is late meeting his friends. He leaves, I wave after him.
"Food?" I ask of the cellist.
"Sure."
The Cuban and his friends are still nearby. I tell them I'm going to get some food, I'll catch up with them another time. The Cuban has my number. I tell him to text me with his location when he knows where he is going later that night and I might join him.
I walk with the cellist down Figueroa, then up through the Staples Center to get to The Yard House in the back. We sit and talk. I tease him because that's what I do. And then conversation shifts to social dynamics, to how some people are the alphas of the group, but when you take them outside of their given group, they no longer are alpha. They can only hold that dominance for one set of people. It isn't a natural dominance.
He tells me that he used to do that, but then he read a book that changed his life.
What was it? I ask.
The Game he tells me. By Neil Strauss. Have I heard of it?
This is the moment where my face lights up. This is the moment where I'm covering my mouth because I'm caught between laughter and a crazy smile.
Have I heard of it?
Oh, this makes so much more sense, blocks stacking in my head as things shift slightly. Ways of handling people and situations, what ethics I feel when I deal with men, it alters because I don't have to be so damn polite with this one.
Because it's a game. He knows it, I know it, and I know he knows it. That makes all the difference.
My laughter is finally controlled as I tell him, yes, I have heard of it. I have read it. Has he read these other books in the same vein? Does he hang out the various PUA forums, read the blogs? How long has he been doing this? Tell me stories, I ask him.
And he does.
I tell him stories.
And we laugh.
I can relax. Not in the normal way of relaxation, where you are lowering barriers and being vunerable, but relaxation because I don't have to be on the constant fence of trying to control my own instincts. I don't have to act normal. I don't have to act like this isn't just a game. I don't have to be nice and concerned. I don't need kidgloves with him, like with so many others.
I couldn't ask for anything else.
During dinner, my cell phone continues to go off. Text after text. I have three or four guys texting me, trying to get me to go out with them that night, to meet them somewhere. I ignore them, but I start to feel bad.
We finish dinner.
Where now? We have options available to us, but most of them involve crowds. And I'm not done with him.
A small bar down the street seems likely. I suggest it to him, and we walk further down the street.
It's nearly empty when we get there, which is what I had expected. Wonderful.
We snag a table and continue to talk, his cello on the floor beside us, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. His fingers are so long. His eyes are still beautiful and intense, though I've seen eyes better, eyes that blow me away on contact.
His fingers steeple when mine do. Arms are on the table when mine are. I move, he follows. I watch.
He tells me that I make him nervous, the way I look, the way I act. That he doesn't know what to do with me, that his usual tricks, I already know. He can't seem to stop talking. It's not frantic conversation, it's simply me leaving a space for him to talk and, instead of being comfortable with silence, he fills it. It's interesting, what people will tell you, what they will talk about, if you simply expose them to silence.
My phone continues to go off but, by this time, I am returning the texts as rapidfire as I get them.
Rude? Yes. But I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see what he would do, how he would respond, if I continued to interrupt our conversation so I could return the texts of other men that wanted to know where I was, when I would be out, and if I wanted company.
Each time, which was often, I would smile sheepishly and apologize. I would explain how guilty I would feel if I did not return their texts and, really, I am very sorry. Very sorry. It's just rude not to return them, right? Hold on just a second, let me just get back to him. No, it's okay, continue your story, I'm listening, really.
This goes on for almost ten minutes before he finally decides what to do.
"Can I see your phone?" he asks me casually.
I slide it over the table to him, knowing full well something is going to happen to it. He looks at the picture I have on the screen, and then slides it into one of his pockets.
Perfect.
Instantly wet, I want him. He's knocked out my "distraction", he's taken my phone and isolated me not only from the males who so badly wanted my attention, but also from any outside contact.
I have become his.
At least until I get my phone back.
And it's perfect. He handled himself with flying colors, though a bit delayed, and I am sitting there silently thanking Mr. Strauss for helping the young males of the world.
The bartender comes by, closing up shop.
I tilt my head slightly at my cellist, "Where to?"
 |
Two bits of mail...
Huh.
Received two emails that made me "hmm".
One was this morning, through my other blog.
"I just wanted to say that you present a very difficult situation. One that I'm sure I'm not alone in.
"As a woman you present yourself as supremly confident, interesting, and beautiful. You also make it incredibly plain you dont have time for all the attention you receive - to put it bluntly, you are too cool for your own good. You also come off as extremely prickly and standoffish - it's not enough though. You're built to draw in not only those that have a genuine interest in you, but at the same time those 'I could turn her straight' sort of guys. Not that I'm calling you a lesbian, but I'm sure you know that type of guy."
The other was from SFPlayboy in a response to an email I sent him when he told me he had mild concern that I might find myself growing emotionally attached to him due to my monogamous nature. You might recall, gods, like a month ago, me ranting about how a couple of my lovers, past and present, all sprung that same bit on me within a short period of time.
Excerpt:
"I suppose if I believed, for a second, that I'd have to tread lightly or you'd get your fingers broken--which is NOT to say you wouldn't handle it; I never wavered in my faith you could and would do that--it was because for such a libertine, you're very comfortable with domestic girlfriend stuff. Shopping for bootlaces and music, sourcing fruit, lounging around. But perhaps my imagination needs a kickstart. Buying shit doesn't need to scream monogamy.
"Anyway. I know you're a pro."
His email made me smile... for multiple reasons. One, the memories of lounging around with him, him reading to me the beginning of Lunar Park on the afternoon I would fly back home, on his couch, legs tossed over his lap. I did love that book.
Two, I am a pro. And if I did manage, for the first time, to fall in love with one of my lovers, I would handle it. It warms me to know that he knows that.
And, three, I am comfortable with doing the "domestic girlfriend stuff" with my lovers. It doesn't give me fantasies of more, I'm just incredibly comfortable and confident in the relationships I maintain with them, to the point of being able to go shopping with them, to hold their hands in public (should it be desired), to introduce them to my family, to take them out to events, hang out with my friends, etc. Because that doesn't signal more to me. I've taken lovers, upon occasion, home to meet my parents because I enjoy their friendship and I have faith that they realize that we're hanging out with my folks (usually at a BBQ or some such event) as a "couple" because I want them to meet my friends and family, because I think they'd get along, because I am comfortable with our boundaries and trust that they will not take family introductions as a not-so-subtle indication of more.
Two views.
One from a man who doesn't know me, but reads my writing. Where I am prickly and much too cool and confident.
Another from a lover, one who knows me, knows parts of me that most people don't (the pick-up, the hunt, the predatory nature, because that's what we do), and still manages to see the casual side.
Interesting.
Received two emails that made me "hmm".
One was this morning, through my other blog.
"I just wanted to say that you present a very difficult situation. One that I'm sure I'm not alone in.
"As a woman you present yourself as supremly confident, interesting, and beautiful. You also make it incredibly plain you dont have time for all the attention you receive - to put it bluntly, you are too cool for your own good. You also come off as extremely prickly and standoffish - it's not enough though. You're built to draw in not only those that have a genuine interest in you, but at the same time those 'I could turn her straight' sort of guys. Not that I'm calling you a lesbian, but I'm sure you know that type of guy."
The other was from SFPlayboy in a response to an email I sent him when he told me he had mild concern that I might find myself growing emotionally attached to him due to my monogamous nature. You might recall, gods, like a month ago, me ranting about how a couple of my lovers, past and present, all sprung that same bit on me within a short period of time.
Excerpt:
"I suppose if I believed, for a second, that I'd have to tread lightly or you'd get your fingers broken--which is NOT to say you wouldn't handle it; I never wavered in my faith you could and would do that--it was because for such a libertine, you're very comfortable with domestic girlfriend stuff. Shopping for bootlaces and music, sourcing fruit, lounging around. But perhaps my imagination needs a kickstart. Buying shit doesn't need to scream monogamy.
"Anyway. I know you're a pro."
His email made me smile... for multiple reasons. One, the memories of lounging around with him, him reading to me the beginning of Lunar Park on the afternoon I would fly back home, on his couch, legs tossed over his lap. I did love that book.
Two, I am a pro. And if I did manage, for the first time, to fall in love with one of my lovers, I would handle it. It warms me to know that he knows that.
And, three, I am comfortable with doing the "domestic girlfriend stuff" with my lovers. It doesn't give me fantasies of more, I'm just incredibly comfortable and confident in the relationships I maintain with them, to the point of being able to go shopping with them, to hold their hands in public (should it be desired), to introduce them to my family, to take them out to events, hang out with my friends, etc. Because that doesn't signal more to me. I've taken lovers, upon occasion, home to meet my parents because I enjoy their friendship and I have faith that they realize that we're hanging out with my folks (usually at a BBQ or some such event) as a "couple" because I want them to meet my friends and family, because I think they'd get along, because I am comfortable with our boundaries and trust that they will not take family introductions as a not-so-subtle indication of more.
Two views.
One from a man who doesn't know me, but reads my writing. Where I am prickly and much too cool and confident.
Another from a lover, one who knows me, knows parts of me that most people don't (the pick-up, the hunt, the predatory nature, because that's what we do), and still manages to see the casual side.
Interesting.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Could have been more than a name on the door...
When C and I were driving home from the concert on Tuesday evening, she was telling me about how she and Redwing had been planning on taking things slow and easy, letting it build, but how their emotions had gotten away from them, and she told him she loved him.
She said he didn't return it immediately, which is something that bothered her (though since we talked about it, some months ago, not needing that intense love from your partner to validate your own feelings for them, that love is something you give without expectations of return) but due to earlier conversations, she dealt with it easily.
Apparently, it shocked him. It shocked him tremendously, and he spent the next day in a haze.
But he came back and told her that he loved her.
Now this, this I expect from him. He's immature, he's inexperienced with relationships, and he's prone to drama. He's also, what, 24? 23? 25? I don't know. One of those three.
But C... no. She's experienced. She's been in many relationships, some of them significantly long-term from what I gather. I know she's incredibly emotional, as volatile as I am mellow.
But to tell someone that you love them after dating them for a month? Really??
I watch them interact.
And I know that people have different definitions of love, different ideas to tell how people are in love with each other. Observations, theories, supersitions, whatever.
I don't think she loves him. She doesn't have respect for him at all. She bosses him around, insults him, and berates him. She treats him like her little brother. There's no moments of tenderness, no handholding, no stolen kisses, no compliments, looks of love, or gifts. He doesn't make her light up, when she speaks of him, it's usually with frustration or amusement. He doesn't blow her mind, he doesn't have any impact on her.
It's a friendly love. It's a family love.
It's not an in love.
And I don't know why it bothers me so much.
She's so emotional. She gives her love away and it just makes it seem so not special. It makes it seem like nothing. I thought love was supposed to be this grand thing, something that makes you glow, makes you incredibly happy. Something rare and treasured.
I've been in love. I've had "okay" love, and then I've had that one, heart-stopping, no-breathing love. That ultimate trust love. Perfect safety, perfect happiness, nothing-can-go-wrong love.
Life changing.
Funny, because it really was. I wouldn't be who I am now if it wasn't for him.
But this isn't about my experiences of love. We all experience it in our own ways.
I hate that it makes me look down on her.
Another woman, controlled by emotions and Hollywood-induced ideals.
Horrible, isn't it, that I am saying this about my friend?
Sometimes, I'll be with someone for a few weeks, a month maybe, and I'll be overwhelmed with that enthusiasm for this new partner. I don't know any of their flaws yet, they're treating me like a princess, we're learning about each other (but not how we don't quite fit right, or not those habits that will drive the both of us nuts), we're learning about how compatible we are and how similiar our goals are and I catch myself in the mirror with my cheeks flushed or my father looks at me and says, "You're seeing someone new, aren't you?" and I grin at him.
And I think to myself, "Am I falling in love? Maybe I am."
And then I think, "Oh, wake the hell up with your limerance induced infatuation. You don't even know this guy. You just know how he wants to be seen by you, you just know what he's like when he's trying to impress you. You don't actually know him. If you never saw him again, would your heart be broken? Would you be moping about for months? No. You'd be hurt for a week and then move on. So wake yourself up, get to know this guy, and see what happens. Don't be feeding some psycho-female hosebeast notion of emotional-bonding when there has been none."
Yes, I actually give myself variations of that speech whenever I find myself enamoured. Works like a charm.
It makes me look down on her because she loves so easily, and romantic love, for her, seems to be friendly love and I'm being a judgemental bitch.
I totally am.
I want to shake her and say, "C, wake up. You may love him, but you aren't in love with him. Look how you treat the guy!"
But who am I to be telling my friends whether or not they are in love? Who am I to make that call?
If Redwing disappeared from her life, she'd be sad for a day or two. A freaking day or two. That's not love. I don't even know what to call that.
Love wrecks you when it spoils.
This isn't love.
And last night, when I finally took a brain break and just relaxed, I decided to watch "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton" which is some mindless chick-flick that looked like I could shut my brain down with.
The main character goes out on a date with "Tad Hamilton", then goes out on a second one, and then her best girl friend asks her about him and she's like, "I'm in love with him!"
Imagine, dear readers, the expression on my face.
Jaw partially dropped, one eyebrow raised, lips curled in a disbelieving "What the hell?" expression.
Of course, in typical female fashion, in less than a week, she realizes that she's not in love with Tad Hamilton, but in her best male friend who has been in her life the entire freaking time, but she's never realized her love for him before.
Right.
I suppose she gets away with it because she's hot and blonde and expected to behave like a moron and not actually supposed to be aware of her own inner workings.
The movie had some amazingly funny lines. Like someone actually intelligent got their hands on the script and inserted the occasional quip. I appreciated that. The rest was an exercise in glorifying that ever-adored feminine stupidity.
And that's saying something, because usually I love these movies. I've seen freaking Hillary Duff's "Cinderella Story" at least fifteen times.
It makes me want to run out right now, meet some random guy, go out with him twice, tell him I love him, marry him right away (I think roofies will be involved), and then actually get to know him as a person and divorce him. Because it's so much more important to "follow your heart" as opposed to, you know, learning anything about your mate of choice before engaging in something as foolhardy as barely-thought-out marriage.
So, yes, Tuesday night was C telling me about how she loves Redwing, and Wednesday night was a movie telling me about how you can think yourself in love with someone in a matter of days, and then realize that your best friend (who was running freaking nice guy game on you) is actually the love of your life.
On the plus side, my brain stopped hurting so much as it slid into mush territory.
Oh, oh, and since C and Redwing were out, I got to discover something.
Redwing wants to be a writer. He's been writing and taking writing classes, seems like for some time now.
He left one of his several writing projects out on C's bed.
So I started reading it.
Sci-fi/Fantasy set in potentially modern times. I read the first page and determined it was just like every other book of its type that I had read. And it wasn't written that well. Wasn't horrible, wasn't good. Just another thing to add to your sci-fi collection.
Yes, I'm currently being full of hate and soy sauce.
That happens. Rarely. But it does happen.
He irritates me. His presence, his social persona that he puts on, his inexperience, his awkwardness, his apparent inability to keep his mouth shut, his constant need to be the center of attention, his emotional weakness, how he lets C boss him around, his smartass behavior that does not come off as charming or attractive at all. I don't want him around and it bothers me to no end that C's tossing "love" into the equation when she's known him for a month and has been dating him for like, two weeks. Maybe three.
I hope it is over soon. I was hoping that she'd find him as annoying as I do, and that she'd eject him. He does have good moments, where he is not trying to act out, where he is considerate and aware of the people around him, but it isn't often. He's so insecure in who he is that he constantly puts on these shows and postures, making everything to be more incredibly dramatic than need be and it's so childish. It's so girly.
But he's here.
I'm stuck with his presence.
I've already requested that he give C and myself more alone time.
I don't have patience for puppies. I have no interest in training him, like C does. I want them housebroken when I get them.
End rant.
She said he didn't return it immediately, which is something that bothered her (though since we talked about it, some months ago, not needing that intense love from your partner to validate your own feelings for them, that love is something you give without expectations of return) but due to earlier conversations, she dealt with it easily.
Apparently, it shocked him. It shocked him tremendously, and he spent the next day in a haze.
But he came back and told her that he loved her.
Now this, this I expect from him. He's immature, he's inexperienced with relationships, and he's prone to drama. He's also, what, 24? 23? 25? I don't know. One of those three.
But C... no. She's experienced. She's been in many relationships, some of them significantly long-term from what I gather. I know she's incredibly emotional, as volatile as I am mellow.
But to tell someone that you love them after dating them for a month? Really??
I watch them interact.
And I know that people have different definitions of love, different ideas to tell how people are in love with each other. Observations, theories, supersitions, whatever.
I don't think she loves him. She doesn't have respect for him at all. She bosses him around, insults him, and berates him. She treats him like her little brother. There's no moments of tenderness, no handholding, no stolen kisses, no compliments, looks of love, or gifts. He doesn't make her light up, when she speaks of him, it's usually with frustration or amusement. He doesn't blow her mind, he doesn't have any impact on her.
It's a friendly love. It's a family love.
It's not an in love.
And I don't know why it bothers me so much.
She's so emotional. She gives her love away and it just makes it seem so not special. It makes it seem like nothing. I thought love was supposed to be this grand thing, something that makes you glow, makes you incredibly happy. Something rare and treasured.
I've been in love. I've had "okay" love, and then I've had that one, heart-stopping, no-breathing love. That ultimate trust love. Perfect safety, perfect happiness, nothing-can-go-wrong love.
Life changing.
Funny, because it really was. I wouldn't be who I am now if it wasn't for him.
But this isn't about my experiences of love. We all experience it in our own ways.
I hate that it makes me look down on her.
Another woman, controlled by emotions and Hollywood-induced ideals.
Horrible, isn't it, that I am saying this about my friend?
Sometimes, I'll be with someone for a few weeks, a month maybe, and I'll be overwhelmed with that enthusiasm for this new partner. I don't know any of their flaws yet, they're treating me like a princess, we're learning about each other (but not how we don't quite fit right, or not those habits that will drive the both of us nuts), we're learning about how compatible we are and how similiar our goals are and I catch myself in the mirror with my cheeks flushed or my father looks at me and says, "You're seeing someone new, aren't you?" and I grin at him.
And I think to myself, "Am I falling in love? Maybe I am."
And then I think, "Oh, wake the hell up with your limerance induced infatuation. You don't even know this guy. You just know how he wants to be seen by you, you just know what he's like when he's trying to impress you. You don't actually know him. If you never saw him again, would your heart be broken? Would you be moping about for months? No. You'd be hurt for a week and then move on. So wake yourself up, get to know this guy, and see what happens. Don't be feeding some psycho-female hosebeast notion of emotional-bonding when there has been none."
Yes, I actually give myself variations of that speech whenever I find myself enamoured. Works like a charm.
It makes me look down on her because she loves so easily, and romantic love, for her, seems to be friendly love and I'm being a judgemental bitch.
I totally am.
I want to shake her and say, "C, wake up. You may love him, but you aren't in love with him. Look how you treat the guy!"
But who am I to be telling my friends whether or not they are in love? Who am I to make that call?
If Redwing disappeared from her life, she'd be sad for a day or two. A freaking day or two. That's not love. I don't even know what to call that.
Love wrecks you when it spoils.
This isn't love.
And last night, when I finally took a brain break and just relaxed, I decided to watch "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton" which is some mindless chick-flick that looked like I could shut my brain down with.
The main character goes out on a date with "Tad Hamilton", then goes out on a second one, and then her best girl friend asks her about him and she's like, "I'm in love with him!"
Imagine, dear readers, the expression on my face.
Jaw partially dropped, one eyebrow raised, lips curled in a disbelieving "What the hell?" expression.
Of course, in typical female fashion, in less than a week, she realizes that she's not in love with Tad Hamilton, but in her best male friend who has been in her life the entire freaking time, but she's never realized her love for him before.
Right.
I suppose she gets away with it because she's hot and blonde and expected to behave like a moron and not actually supposed to be aware of her own inner workings.
The movie had some amazingly funny lines. Like someone actually intelligent got their hands on the script and inserted the occasional quip. I appreciated that. The rest was an exercise in glorifying that ever-adored feminine stupidity.
And that's saying something, because usually I love these movies. I've seen freaking Hillary Duff's "Cinderella Story" at least fifteen times.
It makes me want to run out right now, meet some random guy, go out with him twice, tell him I love him, marry him right away (I think roofies will be involved), and then actually get to know him as a person and divorce him. Because it's so much more important to "follow your heart" as opposed to, you know, learning anything about your mate of choice before engaging in something as foolhardy as barely-thought-out marriage.
So, yes, Tuesday night was C telling me about how she loves Redwing, and Wednesday night was a movie telling me about how you can think yourself in love with someone in a matter of days, and then realize that your best friend (who was running freaking nice guy game on you) is actually the love of your life.
On the plus side, my brain stopped hurting so much as it slid into mush territory.
Oh, oh, and since C and Redwing were out, I got to discover something.
Redwing wants to be a writer. He's been writing and taking writing classes, seems like for some time now.
He left one of his several writing projects out on C's bed.
So I started reading it.
Sci-fi/Fantasy set in potentially modern times. I read the first page and determined it was just like every other book of its type that I had read. And it wasn't written that well. Wasn't horrible, wasn't good. Just another thing to add to your sci-fi collection.
Yes, I'm currently being full of hate and soy sauce.
That happens. Rarely. But it does happen.
He irritates me. His presence, his social persona that he puts on, his inexperience, his awkwardness, his apparent inability to keep his mouth shut, his constant need to be the center of attention, his emotional weakness, how he lets C boss him around, his smartass behavior that does not come off as charming or attractive at all. I don't want him around and it bothers me to no end that C's tossing "love" into the equation when she's known him for a month and has been dating him for like, two weeks. Maybe three.
I hope it is over soon. I was hoping that she'd find him as annoying as I do, and that she'd eject him. He does have good moments, where he is not trying to act out, where he is considerate and aware of the people around him, but it isn't often. He's so insecure in who he is that he constantly puts on these shows and postures, making everything to be more incredibly dramatic than need be and it's so childish. It's so girly.
But he's here.
I'm stuck with his presence.
I've already requested that he give C and myself more alone time.
I don't have patience for puppies. I have no interest in training him, like C does. I want them housebroken when I get them.
End rant.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I felt entirely better after I decided to cancel on everyone this weekend, even though I know my lack of presence at one small gathering will likely temporarily destroy the event.
C, a mutual friend and concert buddy, and I went out to go see The Bassist's band play last night, over at this tiny place in Los Angeles. It wasn't a venue as much as a tiny art gallery turned into a "hey, you can play here" type deal. The acoustics were horrific, I actually had to resort to earplugs for the first time in my clubbing and concert-attending life (more the former than the latter, really).
But I enjoyed myself.
While C was attempting, by text, to stroke the wounded ego of a man she is seeing (another one, not Redwing) because The Bassist is more adorable than he is, my "type" was brought up. I only know this because, while I was talking with someone, she burst into laughter, and when I questioned her, she showed me a text message that read as follows:
"We all know her type is made of testosterone, ice, and stoicism."
I thought that was cute.
I also met The Bassist's most recent ex-girlfriend. Or, at least, I think it was her from the way they were talking. When he mentioned to me that she would be there, I thought, "Oh, cool. They're obviously really close friends, so I'll just make sure I get her to like me and we'll be good."
First, she was... really, startlingly unattractive. Below average. Beautiful eyes, decent lips, horrible haircut, lumpy body that was made all the more unattractive because of her apparent need to dress in hipster/scenester fashion which is designed for rail-thin girls, not so much the short and lumpy. It made her body look horrible.
So, I was standing there going, "Wow, if I decide to veer in his direction, I am a significant step up, at least physically," and "I'm glad she's not super hot, because that would make me anxious and this makes me much more relaxed."
I tried to join in the conversation, tried to smile, tried to meet her eyes.
Nothing. Standing there for about a minute, minute and a half, while she avoided me, even when I tried to engage her, I finally said, "Screw it," and stopped bothering, instead turning slightly to cut off that group and engage with C.
She was so young. She was incredibly young, a scenster in training, and just... young. I didn't understand it. But if he likes her, I'm sure she's cool.
Concert was good. I caused a mini-revolution by choosing to go to the front, next to the stage, and sit. As soon as I did that, about a fifth of the audience sat down with me. It was amusing. I looked back at my friend, raised my fist in the air, and declared, "Viva la Revolution!"
C... she was bored and hungry. She left the concert, walked down the street to a diner she liked, and ate. It was a little offputting, but not too terribly. We met up with her after the concert. I always forget that she gets bored so easily if she's not doing something she wants to do. I never get bored because I always find ways to entertain myself, so I don't worry about that in others.
Whoops.
When we arrived back at her place, a little after midnight, Redwing was there.
He had, last week, pissed me off. I was talking to C and he happened to be there, and I told her something that I did not want repeated to a particular person so there would not be drama. So after I said it, I requested that it remained with the three of us. I trust C not to do such things, and I figured that since Redwing is male, he wouldn't engage in gossip, especially if I requested it of him.
The next day, I get an email from the person I did not wish to have that information as, apparently, he told her immediately.
I was livid.
I do not get angry easily. Or rather, when I do get angry, it tends to last for a minute, maybe to, and then fades. I was angry all day.
So he was there, and awkward.
I was tired, tossed my stuff up on the futon, started digging around in my bag, and C mentions to him how she traumatized me on the way to the concert by discussing him as a sexual being. Because he's not. He's an inexperienced girly man, and for her to tell me that he's hung and fantastic with his mouth and loves D/s and I'm sitting there going "Oh god, gag."
So she mentions that to him and he says, "Oh, that's good. Because I don't see you as sexual at all, even with knowledge of your history."
And then she follows him with a, "Yeah, V, I've never seen you as sexual."
I was kinda... floored. No one has ever said that to me. And it bothered me.
I mean, yes, I do keep myself sexually apathetic around C, mostly because the men that are around are men she is interested in and I am not. And when Redwing is about... eesh, no. He's never seen me interact with a male I find desirable.
I keep it really tamped down. There's no point.
And, really, I don't wear slutty clothes ever. I don't set off anyone's slutdar. I have no visible tattoos, I'm not prone to wearing low-cut shirts, and when I do wear skirts and dresses, they usually hit me just below the knees. I don't "sex-up" my hair. I was talking with my stylist about how to give it more body, why it was always so sleek, and she told me it was incredibly, incredibly healthy. My hair isn't damaged with sprays, curling irons, blow-dryers, gel, or bleach. It's soft, smooth, and fine, split-ends are non-existent. My ears are not pierced, I don't get fake nails or grow my nails out overlong. I don't believe in accessorizing unless I have to, because accessories are annoying. If I can find a way to go without a purse, I do.
Really, I have three main styles: casual (plain jeans, plain shirt, simple shoes), clubbing (which is usually casual due to laziness, just without the jeans), and librarian (mid-calf skirts, knee-high stockings or fishnets, and gauzy blouses or half-way unbuttoned dress-shirts).
I've been leaning towards stocking my wardrobe with more of the last one of late.
Anyhow, mini-derail there.
It was odd and bothersome to have them both say that. I know I... I'm not overtly sexual unless I feel like being so. I'm quite happy with my ability to flip back and forth between friend, slut, and girl to take home to mom.
But I've gotten so used to men like Redwing wanting me that it was odd to hear that he didn't think of me in a sexual way.
Relieving, yes.
But odd.
Even with that mild rejection, though, I still don't find him desirable. Don't have any urge to "prove" myself to him by making him want me. Because that would be nasty. Ick. I don't care how dominant he is in bed, when someone is that socially submissive, it's a no-go.
And it was odd to hear that from C. I mean, this is the girl I writhed next to on the couch while our partners pleasured us.
Of course, I don't think of her as sexual. I see her naked all the time, true. And I see her with a variety of guys. I even help he with some of the guys. I hear her and Redwing making out and groping in bed twice a week.
But she doesn't show up on my sexual radar.
But girls tend not to.
It feels odd. It's so counter to how I see myself. But, then, I've said repeatedly that I go through different roles, socially, and have to control different parts of me when I'm with different people.
It's also strange because, earlier this year, I was convinced that the only leg I had to stand on on a social level was based in sex. And that, if I removed that factor from my socializations, I would stumble and fall because that's what I've had the most experience in and what I've built my life around, though not in the way of having sex as much as studying and observing sex, seduction, and sexuality.
But, to them, that doesn't even feature.
I'm socializing with them and, sure, we're talking about sex and relationships, but there is no actual sex being interjected into it. No flirting, no practiced movements or unspoken goals. Just being relaxed and thoughtful.
So it's good to know that it isn't all that I am, as I sometimes fear.
Back to work.
C, a mutual friend and concert buddy, and I went out to go see The Bassist's band play last night, over at this tiny place in Los Angeles. It wasn't a venue as much as a tiny art gallery turned into a "hey, you can play here" type deal. The acoustics were horrific, I actually had to resort to earplugs for the first time in my clubbing and concert-attending life (more the former than the latter, really).
But I enjoyed myself.
While C was attempting, by text, to stroke the wounded ego of a man she is seeing (another one, not Redwing) because The Bassist is more adorable than he is, my "type" was brought up. I only know this because, while I was talking with someone, she burst into laughter, and when I questioned her, she showed me a text message that read as follows:
"We all know her type is made of testosterone, ice, and stoicism."
I thought that was cute.
I also met The Bassist's most recent ex-girlfriend. Or, at least, I think it was her from the way they were talking. When he mentioned to me that she would be there, I thought, "Oh, cool. They're obviously really close friends, so I'll just make sure I get her to like me and we'll be good."
First, she was... really, startlingly unattractive. Below average. Beautiful eyes, decent lips, horrible haircut, lumpy body that was made all the more unattractive because of her apparent need to dress in hipster/scenester fashion which is designed for rail-thin girls, not so much the short and lumpy. It made her body look horrible.
So, I was standing there going, "Wow, if I decide to veer in his direction, I am a significant step up, at least physically," and "I'm glad she's not super hot, because that would make me anxious and this makes me much more relaxed."
I tried to join in the conversation, tried to smile, tried to meet her eyes.
Nothing. Standing there for about a minute, minute and a half, while she avoided me, even when I tried to engage her, I finally said, "Screw it," and stopped bothering, instead turning slightly to cut off that group and engage with C.
She was so young. She was incredibly young, a scenster in training, and just... young. I didn't understand it. But if he likes her, I'm sure she's cool.
Concert was good. I caused a mini-revolution by choosing to go to the front, next to the stage, and sit. As soon as I did that, about a fifth of the audience sat down with me. It was amusing. I looked back at my friend, raised my fist in the air, and declared, "Viva la Revolution!"
C... she was bored and hungry. She left the concert, walked down the street to a diner she liked, and ate. It was a little offputting, but not too terribly. We met up with her after the concert. I always forget that she gets bored so easily if she's not doing something she wants to do. I never get bored because I always find ways to entertain myself, so I don't worry about that in others.
Whoops.
When we arrived back at her place, a little after midnight, Redwing was there.
He had, last week, pissed me off. I was talking to C and he happened to be there, and I told her something that I did not want repeated to a particular person so there would not be drama. So after I said it, I requested that it remained with the three of us. I trust C not to do such things, and I figured that since Redwing is male, he wouldn't engage in gossip, especially if I requested it of him.
The next day, I get an email from the person I did not wish to have that information as, apparently, he told her immediately.
I was livid.
I do not get angry easily. Or rather, when I do get angry, it tends to last for a minute, maybe to, and then fades. I was angry all day.
So he was there, and awkward.
I was tired, tossed my stuff up on the futon, started digging around in my bag, and C mentions to him how she traumatized me on the way to the concert by discussing him as a sexual being. Because he's not. He's an inexperienced girly man, and for her to tell me that he's hung and fantastic with his mouth and loves D/s and I'm sitting there going "Oh god, gag."
So she mentions that to him and he says, "Oh, that's good. Because I don't see you as sexual at all, even with knowledge of your history."
And then she follows him with a, "Yeah, V, I've never seen you as sexual."
I was kinda... floored. No one has ever said that to me. And it bothered me.
I mean, yes, I do keep myself sexually apathetic around C, mostly because the men that are around are men she is interested in and I am not. And when Redwing is about... eesh, no. He's never seen me interact with a male I find desirable.
I keep it really tamped down. There's no point.
And, really, I don't wear slutty clothes ever. I don't set off anyone's slutdar. I have no visible tattoos, I'm not prone to wearing low-cut shirts, and when I do wear skirts and dresses, they usually hit me just below the knees. I don't "sex-up" my hair. I was talking with my stylist about how to give it more body, why it was always so sleek, and she told me it was incredibly, incredibly healthy. My hair isn't damaged with sprays, curling irons, blow-dryers, gel, or bleach. It's soft, smooth, and fine, split-ends are non-existent. My ears are not pierced, I don't get fake nails or grow my nails out overlong. I don't believe in accessorizing unless I have to, because accessories are annoying. If I can find a way to go without a purse, I do.
Really, I have three main styles: casual (plain jeans, plain shirt, simple shoes), clubbing (which is usually casual due to laziness, just without the jeans), and librarian (mid-calf skirts, knee-high stockings or fishnets, and gauzy blouses or half-way unbuttoned dress-shirts).
I've been leaning towards stocking my wardrobe with more of the last one of late.
Anyhow, mini-derail there.
It was odd and bothersome to have them both say that. I know I... I'm not overtly sexual unless I feel like being so. I'm quite happy with my ability to flip back and forth between friend, slut, and girl to take home to mom.
But I've gotten so used to men like Redwing wanting me that it was odd to hear that he didn't think of me in a sexual way.
Relieving, yes.
But odd.
Even with that mild rejection, though, I still don't find him desirable. Don't have any urge to "prove" myself to him by making him want me. Because that would be nasty. Ick. I don't care how dominant he is in bed, when someone is that socially submissive, it's a no-go.
And it was odd to hear that from C. I mean, this is the girl I writhed next to on the couch while our partners pleasured us.
Of course, I don't think of her as sexual. I see her naked all the time, true. And I see her with a variety of guys. I even help he with some of the guys. I hear her and Redwing making out and groping in bed twice a week.
But she doesn't show up on my sexual radar.
But girls tend not to.
It feels odd. It's so counter to how I see myself. But, then, I've said repeatedly that I go through different roles, socially, and have to control different parts of me when I'm with different people.
It's also strange because, earlier this year, I was convinced that the only leg I had to stand on on a social level was based in sex. And that, if I removed that factor from my socializations, I would stumble and fall because that's what I've had the most experience in and what I've built my life around, though not in the way of having sex as much as studying and observing sex, seduction, and sexuality.
But, to them, that doesn't even feature.
I'm socializing with them and, sure, we're talking about sex and relationships, but there is no actual sex being interjected into it. No flirting, no practiced movements or unspoken goals. Just being relaxed and thoughtful.
So it's good to know that it isn't all that I am, as I sometimes fear.
Back to work.
My head continues to pound. My shoulders are tense, feeding into my neck, feeding into the base of my skull. It has been this way for days. It's hurting my posture, shoving my head forward as I attempt to relieve some of the tension by shifting the weight of my skull, the pull on my muscles.
No dice.
What am I supposed to do?
People are grating. I'm snapping at my coworkers, my dry humor is shifting into barely controllable sarcasm and my boss is starting to notice I'm on edge.
I'm hoping this is PMS. I'm hoping that, in a day or so, I'll wake up and it will be magically departed from me.
My normal activities that I engage in to deal with this are not working. Are not working at all.
I wonder if this is that breaking point I feared I'd reach once the constant socializing from couch-surfing got to me, the constant exposure to people and the social games we play in placating each other.
I don't know what to do. I'm running through options in my head and finding none of that internal unclenching when I hit upon the right one. None of them have been right.
I thought that, maybe this weekend, I'd drive up the coast for a bit, not too far, just Ventura or Camarillo, and spot myself a hotel. Check in and do my best to talk to no one the rest of the weekend.
I've been scrabbling at what alone time I can get, reading books, seeing movies, eating out alone, writing in coffee shops... none of it is working, none of it is helping. Even as I sit, even as I am alone, the tension continues unabated.
I can't be around people when I'm like this. I can't go see GV8 because my edginess will be no good and I know that he will not be able to mentally handle that behavior in me. He won't understand it, and it'll just be another chalkmark on the wall of behaviors that make me "not so good".
Even my usual catch-all locations are no good.
And my fail-safe centering of rough sex, sex that overwhelms me, knocks me out of my head, leaves me full-body sore for days... there's no desire for it. None of that drive towards it.
...I have no sex drive. I didn't realize that until just now. Hm.
Usually that's a sign of depression, but I'm not feeling depressed.
Overwhelmed a bit, yes.
Getting resentful that there are all these things I need to do to but all these people around me are demanding my attention and time and I don't want to give it, but I do give it for fear of alienating or hurting them. I have so much to do, stuff for me and I'm not doing it.
...I might cancel all of my plans for Saturday, save for clubbing in the evening.
I'll feel bad, but I'm going nuts. I can't keep putting off my own crap in order to make other people happy. I'm going to screw something up, bone myself by neglecting the things I have to do.
I need to make a to-do list.
I need to get this done.
I need to spend Saturday in my usual frenzy of productivity, I need to stop thinking about anything else but the things I must take care of. I'm stagnating in important areas because I'm too busy socializing and it's made a hundred times worse because I really don't want to be socializing.
I'm apartment-sitting for a friend this coming week.
I think that will help.
Though Saturday will have to be spent at home, working.
I will tackle this. I will get this done.
No dice.
What am I supposed to do?
People are grating. I'm snapping at my coworkers, my dry humor is shifting into barely controllable sarcasm and my boss is starting to notice I'm on edge.
I'm hoping this is PMS. I'm hoping that, in a day or so, I'll wake up and it will be magically departed from me.
My normal activities that I engage in to deal with this are not working. Are not working at all.
I wonder if this is that breaking point I feared I'd reach once the constant socializing from couch-surfing got to me, the constant exposure to people and the social games we play in placating each other.
I don't know what to do. I'm running through options in my head and finding none of that internal unclenching when I hit upon the right one. None of them have been right.
I thought that, maybe this weekend, I'd drive up the coast for a bit, not too far, just Ventura or Camarillo, and spot myself a hotel. Check in and do my best to talk to no one the rest of the weekend.
I've been scrabbling at what alone time I can get, reading books, seeing movies, eating out alone, writing in coffee shops... none of it is working, none of it is helping. Even as I sit, even as I am alone, the tension continues unabated.
I can't be around people when I'm like this. I can't go see GV8 because my edginess will be no good and I know that he will not be able to mentally handle that behavior in me. He won't understand it, and it'll just be another chalkmark on the wall of behaviors that make me "not so good".
Even my usual catch-all locations are no good.
And my fail-safe centering of rough sex, sex that overwhelms me, knocks me out of my head, leaves me full-body sore for days... there's no desire for it. None of that drive towards it.
...I have no sex drive. I didn't realize that until just now. Hm.
Usually that's a sign of depression, but I'm not feeling depressed.
Overwhelmed a bit, yes.
Getting resentful that there are all these things I need to do to but all these people around me are demanding my attention and time and I don't want to give it, but I do give it for fear of alienating or hurting them. I have so much to do, stuff for me and I'm not doing it.
...I might cancel all of my plans for Saturday, save for clubbing in the evening.
I'll feel bad, but I'm going nuts. I can't keep putting off my own crap in order to make other people happy. I'm going to screw something up, bone myself by neglecting the things I have to do.
I need to make a to-do list.
I need to get this done.
I need to spend Saturday in my usual frenzy of productivity, I need to stop thinking about anything else but the things I must take care of. I'm stagnating in important areas because I'm too busy socializing and it's made a hundred times worse because I really don't want to be socializing.
I'm apartment-sitting for a friend this coming week.
I think that will help.
Though Saturday will have to be spent at home, working.
I will tackle this. I will get this done.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Where you'll be, I'll go...
Tired again.
Up too late again.
Mulling over gut instincts, mulling over apathy where it should be and where it should not. Mulling over my desire to retreat from this social life I've made for myself, to take a week off, get a hotel somewhere up the coast, and stop living for other people.
Too many pressures.
Trying too hard to maintain social connections, emails piling up, phone calls, texting, schedules to mix, people to be nice to even when I feel like screaming. I set aside time to respond to these things, but it's never enough.
I'm getting snappy and irritable.
I'm looking at this thing with Ev, how we are supposed to be spending the 23rd together in his bed... and I don't want to.
He's an intelligent, attractive man. Not my usual type (blond), but he's desirable to me.
And, right now, I really don't want him in any way, shape, or form.
I have no interest in shacking up with someone else, even if on a monthly basis. Even with a man such as him, who is a genuine nice guy with alpha tendencies.
I just don't see the point.
Sex and some bruises? Bite marks on my shoulders and breasts? I can get that from a number of claimed sources. I don't need a new one.
I don't need another one with a man that will never line up with me. That I will never sync with, that I will never be able to relax and truly be myself with.
I'm done. I'm sick of hooking up with decent, attractive men that I feel nothing with, nothing for, other than the excitement of the experience of a new body. Of having that, again, total disconnect between us, one that is only hidden by my strivings to act as though it is not there.
Wonder if they ever know?
The act, the words, the laughter, the temporary genuine enjoyment of time spent. And then you separate, and they fade from mind because they're nothing in your head, nothing in your heart, and you knew that, knew it from the moment you set eyes on them, but you wanted them anyhow, enjoyed them anyhow, so you took and pleasured and eventually they'll meet someone (because you never will) and totter off while you wish them luck in love, without bitterness, without anger, just knowing that you'll have to find another next time you feel the need.
Yes.
That's it. That's all it's going to be.
Draw more and more into yourself.
Ring on your finger, nose buried in a book, filling your days with work, with research, with improving, so that maybe, one day, you'll reach your own goals and you won't feel so... incomplete? No. So you won't constantly look down on yourself for never achieving what you should have, never being what you could have. And maybe that'll enable you to meet someone who actually works for you.
Or maybe not.
With all the books you read, places you go, people you meet, degrees acquired, things learned, what are you going to do?
Watch that man go by you. Maybe a moment in grocery store, you look up and your body jolts, your eyes meet, and you know that he's like you. You see the expression of surprise on his face as he stares back.
And you keep walking.
Dive back into a world where other people equate to a lack of relaxation, where friends, no matter how close, mean behavioral control because you're always supposed to be that one on top of everything, that one who swishes her hips and walks down the line. Your male friends love you because you're one of them. Because they can say anything to you and you never even think about judging them. They think you're so bad ass, one of the guys as you sit with them, pointing out the hotties as they walk by.
And you wonder if this is who you are.
Until you get away again, until you center. You point due north until another force takes you for a spin, alters your directions temporarily.
You're happier alone, but sometimes people summon. The lights, the dancing, the observations and humor around you are tempting and you come out, get embroiled, and then you have to extracate yourself again.
How many times do you do this before socializing loses all appeal? Until the idea of spending time around other people causes your gag reflex to engage because you simply can't stomach the thought of putting on another socially acceptable show. Being desired starts to lose meaning, starts to lose worth, and now you engage in it simply to cause others issue.
It's not a burn out, but it's a definite need for space.
How much longer am I going to do this?
Up too late again.
Mulling over gut instincts, mulling over apathy where it should be and where it should not. Mulling over my desire to retreat from this social life I've made for myself, to take a week off, get a hotel somewhere up the coast, and stop living for other people.
Too many pressures.
Trying too hard to maintain social connections, emails piling up, phone calls, texting, schedules to mix, people to be nice to even when I feel like screaming. I set aside time to respond to these things, but it's never enough.
I'm getting snappy and irritable.
I'm looking at this thing with Ev, how we are supposed to be spending the 23rd together in his bed... and I don't want to.
He's an intelligent, attractive man. Not my usual type (blond), but he's desirable to me.
And, right now, I really don't want him in any way, shape, or form.
I have no interest in shacking up with someone else, even if on a monthly basis. Even with a man such as him, who is a genuine nice guy with alpha tendencies.
I just don't see the point.
Sex and some bruises? Bite marks on my shoulders and breasts? I can get that from a number of claimed sources. I don't need a new one.
I don't need another one with a man that will never line up with me. That I will never sync with, that I will never be able to relax and truly be myself with.
I'm done. I'm sick of hooking up with decent, attractive men that I feel nothing with, nothing for, other than the excitement of the experience of a new body. Of having that, again, total disconnect between us, one that is only hidden by my strivings to act as though it is not there.
Wonder if they ever know?
The act, the words, the laughter, the temporary genuine enjoyment of time spent. And then you separate, and they fade from mind because they're nothing in your head, nothing in your heart, and you knew that, knew it from the moment you set eyes on them, but you wanted them anyhow, enjoyed them anyhow, so you took and pleasured and eventually they'll meet someone (because you never will) and totter off while you wish them luck in love, without bitterness, without anger, just knowing that you'll have to find another next time you feel the need.
Yes.
That's it. That's all it's going to be.
Draw more and more into yourself.
Ring on your finger, nose buried in a book, filling your days with work, with research, with improving, so that maybe, one day, you'll reach your own goals and you won't feel so... incomplete? No. So you won't constantly look down on yourself for never achieving what you should have, never being what you could have. And maybe that'll enable you to meet someone who actually works for you.
Or maybe not.
With all the books you read, places you go, people you meet, degrees acquired, things learned, what are you going to do?
Watch that man go by you. Maybe a moment in grocery store, you look up and your body jolts, your eyes meet, and you know that he's like you. You see the expression of surprise on his face as he stares back.
And you keep walking.
Dive back into a world where other people equate to a lack of relaxation, where friends, no matter how close, mean behavioral control because you're always supposed to be that one on top of everything, that one who swishes her hips and walks down the line. Your male friends love you because you're one of them. Because they can say anything to you and you never even think about judging them. They think you're so bad ass, one of the guys as you sit with them, pointing out the hotties as they walk by.
And you wonder if this is who you are.
Until you get away again, until you center. You point due north until another force takes you for a spin, alters your directions temporarily.
You're happier alone, but sometimes people summon. The lights, the dancing, the observations and humor around you are tempting and you come out, get embroiled, and then you have to extracate yourself again.
How many times do you do this before socializing loses all appeal? Until the idea of spending time around other people causes your gag reflex to engage because you simply can't stomach the thought of putting on another socially acceptable show. Being desired starts to lose meaning, starts to lose worth, and now you engage in it simply to cause others issue.
It's not a burn out, but it's a definite need for space.
How much longer am I going to do this?
Monday, August 10, 2009
Backstabber, backstabber, backstabber...
I'm not actually listening to the Dresden Dolls right now. But, somehow, that song is stuck in my head, and has been since yesterday. Maybe a sign?
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
Somethings will never change...
Saturday consisted of a nap cut much too short, dinner with a friend, and clubbing with C.
I so rarely take naps. Mostly because I don't have the time, partially because I have a hard time falling asleep during the day.
But I dozed. It was lovely. A little too warm, but that's okay. I rolled my sleeppants up and sprawled across my bed, shifting my face every so often to find the cool spot on the pillow, the breeze coming through my windows causing my door to rattle slightly in its frame.
And, of course, just as I was about to submit to sleep, my phone rings, causing adrenaline to rush through my system, knocking any chance of actual sleep clear out of the realm of possibility. Dinner was being relocated, I agreed to the new location (grudingly), and sighed as I hung up.
Lying in bed, annoyed that we were no longer going to the bistro I enjoy so much, annoyed that the restaurant we were now going to was a bit overpriced and had nothing resembling healthy eating on the menu, annoyed that the remaining twenty-five minutes I had alloted for my nap were now purposeless.
I popped in Kino's Journeys. It's a rather unknown anime mostly, I think, because it deals a lot with the philosophy of ethics, with ideas of ethnocentrism, and there are no "traditional" anime characters. No catgirls, no big-breasted women, no rogue warriors, no cute sidekicks that get people in trouble, no young boys trained in the art of random-x martial art, no highschool girls in mini-skirts. No, it's just a young, self-reliant girl travelling a world made up of hundred and hundred of countries with vastly different values and traditions, and how she explores those countries and their varying cultures... no lessons are learned, no morals imparted. It's just an analytical, impartial view of the world.
It's good stuff. Only thirteen episodes, unfortunately. Dialogue is spectacular and minimum, music is much the same.
Reluctantly got up after that, got dressed for dinner/clubbing since I would be going straight to the club afterwards. Fortunately for me, getting "dressed up" involves wearing a dress and doing make-up, as opposed to the "I'm lazy and apathetic about you people" look that I go for most nights. But it's still casual and minimal, which means I can pass for being dressed like a normal (relatively) person when I'm out.
Dinner was... a task.
I was hoping that I would be able to talk to my friend about sex, about my writing, about what she would like to see me write, what topics she enjoyed on my (other) blog, etc. Her sexual history is... well, blows mine out of the water. But she was a model traveling all over the place, going to places that I would never (want to) go to. Drinking, drug-use, etc. She's now in her late 40s, but she's very fun to hang out with, always has wonderful stories, always has a good word.
Saturday, however, I began to think I was cursed.
We were at this place for... two hours? And I probably got thirty sentences in. She just talked and talked and talked and when I tried to slide in, she ran right over me without notice. So I just leaned back and listened. For the first hour. Halfway into the second hour, I was squirming and had a headache. There was no way to stop her without being rude and, since she normally does not do this, I assumed that something was up, that she needed to talk, or at least needed someone to listen to her, whatever her reason.
So I did.
Finally, we parted.
I didn't get a chance to talk to her about my stuff.
My head was pounding.
I think I'm becoming too good of a listener, because that seems to be all people are requiring me for.
So I drove to a little indie coffee shop with my notebook and started breaking things down, outlining my life of sex, the things that shaped me, in what order I could remember, breaking it into chunks seperated by serious boyfriends/long-term relationships.
An hour or so into that, I was feeling grimy. Searching your memory for emotions, for little details forgotten, for scents and words and what attracted you to who and how that was manipulated, consciously or not, and why we do the things we do.
The girl I used to be, man... I'm so glad I'm no longer like that.
I had to take a break. I had to get away from that feeling of grime, of patheticness.
I texted GV8, but he was working.
I texted C, and her plans for the evening had fallen through, so she was going to go clubbing with me. I hightailed it over there, arriving about ten minutes before she did. I dropped myself into a book, someone else's words and thoughts to take me away from my own. Then she arrived, upset. Dropped the book onto the chair beside me and asked what was wrong.
Trouble with one of her friends. I laid on her bed and listened while she got ready to go. Within a few minutes, I had her laughing, cheered up. We watched the end of Pretty In Pink (Duckie playing nice guy game... sigh), and went on our way.
I liked the venue. Good atmosphere, great sound... tiny dancefloor. Stupid tiny dance floor that stayed packed almost the entire evening.
I hadn't realized, when I saw the flyer for it, that it was an anniversary club. And that the DJs that had been put together were almost like an overview of the last couple of decades. So we started out modern and ended up dancing to 70s and 80s. We bailed at 130AM. I love the modern stuff, C loves the 80s, but when we hit 70s, we were done.
I had actually been feeling kinda iffy and down on myself when we arrived.
Last week, dinner with friends, Ev was there. I was sitting down, studying, and he went to hug me goodbye and I looked up at him. I think he thought I was going for the kiss, and looked at me awkwardly, hesitating. I had been buried in a book, so when I looked up, I was looking at him going, "Is he going to kiss me?? Really???" and awkwardness ensued until a I tilted my chin up so not to reject him and he pecked me on the lips.
It was awkward. And C mentioned she saw it and the look of confusion on his face and hesitation and I was sitting there facepalming myself because I'm usually so good with that stuff, but the social situation was odd, to say the least. Didn't know what to do. Lame. I hate that feeling of total inexperience.
So I was mentally kicking myself when we arrived.
Fortunately, shortly after we got there, a certain man showed up.
Two of them, actually. One who I turned down for sex who subsequently threw a fit and started spreading rumors about what a slut I was, the other, a friend of his who asked me out last December, solely to see if he could sleep with me (as according to rumor) and examine me like an animal in a zoo. No, I did not sleep with him. I was open to it, but it didn't happen. Thankfully. I mean, yes, it would have been funny to sleep with this guy, but not his friend who was so bitter about me not sleeping with him, but I hate deception. And this guy lied to me about his intentions.
So I see those two at the bar and my usual, "Oh, fuck this" anger filled me.
I leaned over to C and quite obviously started whispering in her ear and eyeing them. And then I proceeded to find everyone I knew in the club and mingle, from the regulars that make the scene to the beautiful girls that come out every so often (a set of which invited me to do shots with them at the bar, which I had to regretfully decline). So I circled, hugged, hello'd, chatted, and danced my way through the growing crowds. I hopped onto the dancefloor and moved like I do, coordinated, in control, and good. The man who wished to examine me like a bug, who believed rumors, and more than likely encouraged them, who cut our date short as the man I turned down summoned him to a bar (so they could gather and talk about me... such chicks), started watching me, watching me interact with people, watching me dance... and there you go.
He stood on a mini-balcony the entire club, talking to almost no one, not dancing, not smiling, just standing, awkward and mildly drunk. And I laughed and smiled. I was even presented with the opportunity to socially cockblock, and I leapt on it. Wasn't major, but it amused me.
And then, in their retro review, they actually played one of my favorite songs from years ago: Revolting Cock's "Beers, Steers, and Queers". I've heard that song played once, maybe twice, in a club in the last five years. And it's so fun to dance to. Reminds me of the first time I heard it, at this tiny little club that was the predecessor to what is now the biggest, most popular club in the scene right now. And dancing to it on a near empty dance floor with my best friend at the time.
God, we had fun.
When I heard the opening to that song, I bolted to the dance floor, knocking into people, grinning wildly.
It was great. After that song, the night just couldn't get any better.
I managed to corner one of my guyfriends who, unfortunately, had started professing interest in me.
He's a cool guy. Great to hang with, been in the scene and a known pillar of it for over ten years. I love hanging out with him and his friends. He's a good dancer, and he's been around long enough to recognize styles, movement, analyze it. One of the biggest compliments I've ever been given while out at a club was from him, when we first met. He told me I was one of the best dancers there.
But I'm not interested.
And I continue to do my best to express my lack of interest in dating or sleeping with him. I have a feeling, that in a few weekends when a group of us are going camping, I'm going to have to sit him down and tell him no. Just flat out I'm not interested, he's not my type, and that isn't going to change.
I hate doing that. Hate it. I feel like such a jerk.
But that's the way it is.
I so rarely take naps. Mostly because I don't have the time, partially because I have a hard time falling asleep during the day.
But I dozed. It was lovely. A little too warm, but that's okay. I rolled my sleeppants up and sprawled across my bed, shifting my face every so often to find the cool spot on the pillow, the breeze coming through my windows causing my door to rattle slightly in its frame.
And, of course, just as I was about to submit to sleep, my phone rings, causing adrenaline to rush through my system, knocking any chance of actual sleep clear out of the realm of possibility. Dinner was being relocated, I agreed to the new location (grudingly), and sighed as I hung up.
Lying in bed, annoyed that we were no longer going to the bistro I enjoy so much, annoyed that the restaurant we were now going to was a bit overpriced and had nothing resembling healthy eating on the menu, annoyed that the remaining twenty-five minutes I had alloted for my nap were now purposeless.
I popped in Kino's Journeys. It's a rather unknown anime mostly, I think, because it deals a lot with the philosophy of ethics, with ideas of ethnocentrism, and there are no "traditional" anime characters. No catgirls, no big-breasted women, no rogue warriors, no cute sidekicks that get people in trouble, no young boys trained in the art of random-x martial art, no highschool girls in mini-skirts. No, it's just a young, self-reliant girl travelling a world made up of hundred and hundred of countries with vastly different values and traditions, and how she explores those countries and their varying cultures... no lessons are learned, no morals imparted. It's just an analytical, impartial view of the world.
It's good stuff. Only thirteen episodes, unfortunately. Dialogue is spectacular and minimum, music is much the same.
Reluctantly got up after that, got dressed for dinner/clubbing since I would be going straight to the club afterwards. Fortunately for me, getting "dressed up" involves wearing a dress and doing make-up, as opposed to the "I'm lazy and apathetic about you people" look that I go for most nights. But it's still casual and minimal, which means I can pass for being dressed like a normal (relatively) person when I'm out.
Dinner was... a task.
I was hoping that I would be able to talk to my friend about sex, about my writing, about what she would like to see me write, what topics she enjoyed on my (other) blog, etc. Her sexual history is... well, blows mine out of the water. But she was a model traveling all over the place, going to places that I would never (want to) go to. Drinking, drug-use, etc. She's now in her late 40s, but she's very fun to hang out with, always has wonderful stories, always has a good word.
Saturday, however, I began to think I was cursed.
We were at this place for... two hours? And I probably got thirty sentences in. She just talked and talked and talked and when I tried to slide in, she ran right over me without notice. So I just leaned back and listened. For the first hour. Halfway into the second hour, I was squirming and had a headache. There was no way to stop her without being rude and, since she normally does not do this, I assumed that something was up, that she needed to talk, or at least needed someone to listen to her, whatever her reason.
So I did.
Finally, we parted.
I didn't get a chance to talk to her about my stuff.
My head was pounding.
I think I'm becoming too good of a listener, because that seems to be all people are requiring me for.
So I drove to a little indie coffee shop with my notebook and started breaking things down, outlining my life of sex, the things that shaped me, in what order I could remember, breaking it into chunks seperated by serious boyfriends/long-term relationships.
An hour or so into that, I was feeling grimy. Searching your memory for emotions, for little details forgotten, for scents and words and what attracted you to who and how that was manipulated, consciously or not, and why we do the things we do.
The girl I used to be, man... I'm so glad I'm no longer like that.
I had to take a break. I had to get away from that feeling of grime, of patheticness.
I texted GV8, but he was working.
I texted C, and her plans for the evening had fallen through, so she was going to go clubbing with me. I hightailed it over there, arriving about ten minutes before she did. I dropped myself into a book, someone else's words and thoughts to take me away from my own. Then she arrived, upset. Dropped the book onto the chair beside me and asked what was wrong.
Trouble with one of her friends. I laid on her bed and listened while she got ready to go. Within a few minutes, I had her laughing, cheered up. We watched the end of Pretty In Pink (Duckie playing nice guy game... sigh), and went on our way.
I liked the venue. Good atmosphere, great sound... tiny dancefloor. Stupid tiny dance floor that stayed packed almost the entire evening.
I hadn't realized, when I saw the flyer for it, that it was an anniversary club. And that the DJs that had been put together were almost like an overview of the last couple of decades. So we started out modern and ended up dancing to 70s and 80s. We bailed at 130AM. I love the modern stuff, C loves the 80s, but when we hit 70s, we were done.
I had actually been feeling kinda iffy and down on myself when we arrived.
Last week, dinner with friends, Ev was there. I was sitting down, studying, and he went to hug me goodbye and I looked up at him. I think he thought I was going for the kiss, and looked at me awkwardly, hesitating. I had been buried in a book, so when I looked up, I was looking at him going, "Is he going to kiss me?? Really???" and awkwardness ensued until a I tilted my chin up so not to reject him and he pecked me on the lips.
It was awkward. And C mentioned she saw it and the look of confusion on his face and hesitation and I was sitting there facepalming myself because I'm usually so good with that stuff, but the social situation was odd, to say the least. Didn't know what to do. Lame. I hate that feeling of total inexperience.
So I was mentally kicking myself when we arrived.
Fortunately, shortly after we got there, a certain man showed up.
Two of them, actually. One who I turned down for sex who subsequently threw a fit and started spreading rumors about what a slut I was, the other, a friend of his who asked me out last December, solely to see if he could sleep with me (as according to rumor) and examine me like an animal in a zoo. No, I did not sleep with him. I was open to it, but it didn't happen. Thankfully. I mean, yes, it would have been funny to sleep with this guy, but not his friend who was so bitter about me not sleeping with him, but I hate deception. And this guy lied to me about his intentions.
So I see those two at the bar and my usual, "Oh, fuck this" anger filled me.
I leaned over to C and quite obviously started whispering in her ear and eyeing them. And then I proceeded to find everyone I knew in the club and mingle, from the regulars that make the scene to the beautiful girls that come out every so often (a set of which invited me to do shots with them at the bar, which I had to regretfully decline). So I circled, hugged, hello'd, chatted, and danced my way through the growing crowds. I hopped onto the dancefloor and moved like I do, coordinated, in control, and good. The man who wished to examine me like a bug, who believed rumors, and more than likely encouraged them, who cut our date short as the man I turned down summoned him to a bar (so they could gather and talk about me... such chicks), started watching me, watching me interact with people, watching me dance... and there you go.
He stood on a mini-balcony the entire club, talking to almost no one, not dancing, not smiling, just standing, awkward and mildly drunk. And I laughed and smiled. I was even presented with the opportunity to socially cockblock, and I leapt on it. Wasn't major, but it amused me.
And then, in their retro review, they actually played one of my favorite songs from years ago: Revolting Cock's "Beers, Steers, and Queers". I've heard that song played once, maybe twice, in a club in the last five years. And it's so fun to dance to. Reminds me of the first time I heard it, at this tiny little club that was the predecessor to what is now the biggest, most popular club in the scene right now. And dancing to it on a near empty dance floor with my best friend at the time.
God, we had fun.
When I heard the opening to that song, I bolted to the dance floor, knocking into people, grinning wildly.
It was great. After that song, the night just couldn't get any better.
I managed to corner one of my guyfriends who, unfortunately, had started professing interest in me.
He's a cool guy. Great to hang with, been in the scene and a known pillar of it for over ten years. I love hanging out with him and his friends. He's a good dancer, and he's been around long enough to recognize styles, movement, analyze it. One of the biggest compliments I've ever been given while out at a club was from him, when we first met. He told me I was one of the best dancers there.
But I'm not interested.
And I continue to do my best to express my lack of interest in dating or sleeping with him. I have a feeling, that in a few weekends when a group of us are going camping, I'm going to have to sit him down and tell him no. Just flat out I'm not interested, he's not my type, and that isn't going to change.
I hate doing that. Hate it. I feel like such a jerk.
But that's the way it is.
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