Slowly working on the new site. And, really, it's not that slow. I need the header art completed, to select a picture for the "About" section, post a little blurb in the "About" section, and it's basically good to go.

I've been telling myself since I was, oh, 17 or so, that I would get my own website, my own domain. I'd flip through html books (you know, back in the day), had little mini-pages hosted on sites like Homestead and Angelfire (are those even still around?) and tell myself that I'd figure out the whole "website thing"... eventually.

It's one of the many things I kept telling myself I was going to do, but never did.

I used to have a lot of those.

I'm getting better about accomplishing goals, even ones that have so little impact on "the greater good" of my life, such as a personal writing website.

I think it's more about conquering mental hurdles. The things that tell me that I just can't do certain things, that I'll fail, that I'm not smart enough, competent enough, I don't deserve to accomplish certain things, that there simply is no point.

Most of my hurdles are mental, really. Some people have financial hurdles and, yes, to a degree I have those. Other have physical ones, or ones of a lack of experience, a lack of education. I have none of those.

At the moment, anyway. I may be attacked by a rogue woodchipper at the BBQ this evening.

PD is currently out on a set somewhere, slowly, slowly working his way through the second scene of the day- or so I hope. He finished, mostly, with one of the two movies he was working on, yesterday. Big relief. He had gone something like 76 hours without sleep trying to make a deadline. We drove around San Gabriel Valley last night, to pick up a check and get dinner, the top down on his convertible, him picking on me, me leaning over the center console and gnawing on his arm. He points at me, like I'm a bad puppy, when I do that, and says, "Hey! No gah-nawing!" and flicks me in the nose.

It's nice to be with someone I can chew on to display irritated affection.

Oobi Doobi Magic Crap

Anti-socialness spurred by exhaustion, with the depression shaken and stirred in.

I've hit this frustrated spot.

I'm trying to write. I'm trying to convey these moments that I enjoy, these ideas, these feelings, and it feels like it's just not working. That people aren't getting it.

And I know it's up to the interpretation of the reader, and I shouldn't get so frustrated by it, that my words are being mis-read, misunderstood, mistaken, but it makes me not want to write because I know whatever I'm going to put out there, 99% of people are not going to get it.

And of that 99%, 11% are going to write to me to tell me how much they get it and how wonderful it is and how close we are in spirit and how we should meet and how we should date and they don't feel so alone anymore and I'm sitting there, staring at the screen going "Oh holy fuck, get off me."

Not exactly friendly.

But, it's so frustrating. I thought words were supposed to be my "thing". That's what everyone has said for so long. Well, what good is it if I can't convey basic feelings? What good is it if I speak or write and no one understands it?

And I know I'm writing for me, this journal is for me, and if people enjoy it, I think that's great because I like to feel not quite so alone and unread, and some of the people that read my stuff, here and elsewhere, are really freaking cool.

But I feel betrayed by myself and by them when I hear these interpretations of my behavior or my thoughts that are so very, very wrong. Is that how you see me?

I used to be so fascinated by how people saw me. Not because I wanted to have people tell me how great I was (or how not-great), but because I think different views are fascinating and part of knowing yourself is knowing how you present yourself. And I'm all about self-knowledge.

For instance, I had no idea until last year that the reason why so many people keep their distance from me at clubs is because they find me intimidating and aloof, which I still don't see, but I've heard it enough, especially after I make friends with someone there, that I'm starting to accept it.

It didn't make me change my behavior, mind you. But I became aware of it.

(insert "the more you know" rainbow here)

This whole thing is making me not want to write, not want to talk, not want to email, because I just can't handle being misunderstood right now and I have no idea why it is bothering me so much, aside from the idea that if I can't communicate something with words, then I'm a failure and I should even bother writing. I should just keep my stories and experiences bottled up in me because if I ever bother to write them all down, I'll end up having to interact with people like that fratboy from the other night, at Denny's, when I was trying to write.

I don't want to deal with that. Closedminded people drive me up the wall, and people who don't realize that they're viewing everything through their own filter of their experiences, that lack of awareness on their part... I can't deal with it right now. I'm too tired, I'm too stressed.

And I caught myself doing the filter viewing last week. I was reading this amazing blog, thinking to myself, "Wow, we're so similiar, I could really understand this guy." And then I realized, no, no we're not. I'm reading his stuff through my own eyes and seeing what I want to see and drawing my own conclusions and I need to cut that out right now because it's beyond creepy and annoying.

So, yes. I've withdrawn into my cave and I will come out and post and go to work and flirt with that tattooed rockabilly hottie in my classes, but I've really got to ratchet things down until I get off of my bitchy anti-social podium because I almost, almost, almost went into full-on bitch mode with this guy in my class tonight because I just wanted a verbal sparring partner and I needed that mental smack around to release the aggression that is building inside me, and he had no idea what was going on and I had to cool off very fast.

I slip when I'm tired.

Tomorrow, class.
Thursday, C+friends.
Friday, GV8.
Saturday, hair-dye, arms waxed, pedicure(?), dad's birthday dinner, friend's birthday party, write a paper, read a book for class, read a play for the other class, write a paper for that class on the play.
Sunday, wedding, more reading, more writing for school, maybe tv-marathon with my friend.

Maybe I'll fit sleep in there somewhere so I don't turn into a raging unstable hosebeast.

Probably not.

At least I'm not going into the office at 7AM tomorrow like I did today. I'd like to avoid ever doing that again if at all possible.

/whine

Metal on metal...

More and more, I'm straining towards another division of blogs.

Though it becomes increasingly unlikely as my schedule takes another shift. School is starting tonight. A fifty mile commute to my classes, lovely. My "underling" is starting school as well, going down to part-time, meaning that I am going to have to pick up the slack. That means less writing time.

Already, I have problems maintaining two blogs, the other one neglected as this one went up, me basking in anonymity, knowing I can say what I want about who I want without the desperate emails from men telling me that we needed to go out, that I was the one for them, that only I would understand them, or the growing section of fangirls, girls that I don't know how to handle.

And this blog is still anonymous. Those who have asked for its location have been denied, no matter how close we are, because I'm withdrawn, because I know that even with the closest friendships, things happen and people change, and people are self-serving beyond good, beyond bad, just seeking for themselves.

Someone commented just a little bit ago that I was slumming by making out with a man in a relationship, that I needed to raise my standards. It made me feel as though they hadn't read the post at all, simply skimmed it, not bothering to understand the content, just getting the barest of details and slapping a face on it, a face they understood.

I forgot what that was like.

I'm so used to having my face up, so used to having a backstory, so used to having groups of people reading my stuff and interpreting it that things like that so rarely happen.

But it's something I need to get over.

It does let me see the difference, though.

Things move along though. Inching towards my Master's degree, couch-surfing, socializing much too much, the random social encounters... I've met so many people in so many places and I wonder how many more I will meet before I give up entirely in the barely-there-as-is belief that I might meet someone for me.

I run through southern California, from San Diego to the Valley, digging.

Digging for experience, digging for knowledge, digging for identity, to compare myself to others and say "this is who I am not" because it is so rare for me to say "this is who I am".

I'm 26 in a month and a half and I feel like I'm starring in some crappy indie flick about a girl trying to find herself.

Usually, though, these girls are these delicate creatures who have never fallen in love, never experienced a man, wear wacky scenster clothes, and stumble across their awkward romance while working at a drug store.

Whereas I'm sitting here, wild, damaged, too experienced, always mellow, withdrawn, overanalytical in my simplistic clothing style, glasses, and layered black hair, nose in a book, wondering if I should just start dating only intelligent ex-cons because it seems I get along with those the best.

When I was out with Sad Eyes on Friday night, wandering Downtown Disney, he said he was looking for his Belle, interfering that he was such a damaged beast, saying that he needed the tolerance and understanding of such a woman.

And I find it funny. If you've seen the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, it starts off with Belle being incredibly devoted to her father, nose always in a book, innocent and determined. And then she rescues the Beast from the darkness within him through her faith and understanding, through her determination. She keeps, for the most part, her innocence, only losing it somewhat when the villagers in the town she lived in lost their heads and Gaston went all possessive/avenging his honor batshit.

We were by the west end of the area when he said this, walking back from the Disneyland Hotel. I could not help but chuckle because the last time that tale was raised around me, one of my blogging friends rewrote it in the start of a project where he was redoing fairytales to feature the girls he knew. It was about me, a combination of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast, where an innocent girl pricks her finger on a spinning wheel and becomes, inside, a beast. In the end, she saves the beast, prevents him from turning back into a human, so they could be beasts together.

I enjoyed it.

So often these damaged men I dig up are looking for redemption through innocence. Looking to be saved like in some Hollywood ideal. Embarassed and distant about their past actions and feelings, they go through women, looking so hard for that one that will see past their behaviors, that will somehow, solely through love, make them whole again.

Every time they hurt another one, one that cannot handle who and what they are, they become angry, frustrated, and more withdrawn. Badges from battle, they wear these girls like shields, keeping people out, yet drawing them in.

I suppose I'm no better.

Looking for a beast of a man, someone I can respect and run with. Someone who pushes like I do, someone who wants to be more, someone who will be more and understand the isolation that comes from this all, comes from being different and wading through crowds, up to your neck in people that you do not want to understand, hoping that someone will grab your hand and yank you out, or at least walk with you until you both find shore.

But that's all fantasy.

And, right now, I've got to be in reality. I have thirty minutes to wrap up work so I can start my lovely commute to class.

Good morning to me.

Wise men talk in analogies and puzzles...

I was too tired for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes last night. I wiped out almost immediately after my post, save for a quick detour stopping by my sister's room due to her calling me as I passed by in order to back her argument against her boyfriend about what type of car he should buy.

I act socially dominant. I am socially dominant, when I choose to be social. I work groups when the mood takes me, when I feel like interacting with people. I always end up being the head of the group or, if a single male alpha is already in control, I get his attention and manuever to become his focus, which puts me at the top of the social food chain.

But, in the end, I will always be socially, sexually, and psychologically submissive to the man of my choice, a man worth submitting to, whether if it's for a night, a month, or a year.

My sister, on the other hand, is, and will always be social to her core. And in that core, she will always be dominant. She commands groups, she commands men and women alike and the word "compromise" is this vague, far off thing that she only engages in with our parents.

And, in the end, she rides roughshod over her boyfriends. She pussywhips them like you would not believe. She has no respect for them, for their needs, for their preferences. If she's ambiguous about something, she'll go with what they want, but if she at all has an opinion, they are going to do it Her Way. End of story.

None of her three boyfriends have managed to stand up to her.

So I walk by and she's laying into him about how he's wrongwrongwrong about the car he wants to get and he's going to get this other car because it's safer and she cares about his safety and there is no way in hell that he's going to get this other car. And she drags me into it.

I'm so apathetic about this, I don't even remember the conclusion other than me telling him, "You should get a safe car, not for yourself, but for your son." He has a three year old boy from his ex-wife.

Well, that was fuel to her fire. I just left the room.

The next morning, this morning really, I went to breakfast with my mother. As I have said before, she is a close friend of mine, so we do go out when we can and talk about what's going on in our lives. We also stay up at night and play near violent card games, insulting each other like crazy.

She told me about her experience up in Portland, how she went through her grief cycles with her best friend, through instructions in a book that was recommended to her, and how much she realized about herself and her relationship with her older brother, who has pretty much abandoned her for his crazy born-again wife.

And, as breakfast wound down, I talked to her.

I told her how badly I felt when I was at home. About how whenever I was upset about something as a child, and even to this day, she and my father would both tell me why I should not be upset, and how the other person had their reasons and I just needed to get over it, and how very unacknowledged that made me feel all through my life.

I explained to her about the shirts that upset her so much the night before, and why I wore them, why I was comfortable wearing them. I explained to her how, because of the things that I have done, that have been done to me, I developed in the way I did, became as I am now, and that I wish she was happy for how much I've learned, and how well I can protect myself. I told her of my female friends that come to me for advice, how women online would read my blogs (at one of my other sites) and send me fan mail, questions, queries on issues they've been having with men or with their own sexuality. I tell her about the mini fanclub I had before I disappeared from that site because the attention was too much, and how I am able protect my friends from harm and being taken advantage of by rogue males because of my experiences. I point out girlfriends I've had in the past and situations that have arisen (some she already knew about), and how I had to deal with things. I tell her about going out with friends to clubs and being in the back, watching over the girls I came with, making sure that they're safe.

This is who I've become.

Because of the things that happened.

And she remembers that time in my life so well, the fragments of what I was going through flying her way, cutting her off at the knees while I self-destructed.

We're sitting there, at this little cafe, and she says,

"I remember, V. Since that time, you've grown into something different, and I've had to let go of the girl you used to be."

We talk, and I cry some. I'm not a crier. I'm the nominated family eulogy reader because the only other person who can keep it together at funerals is my father, and he doesn't like public speaking.

But I do cry. I actually cried due to direct emotional stimulus related to something I was going through.

Usually, when I know I need to cry about something, but I can't let go of my control, I watch a movie that always sends me over the edge. Sweet November, Butterfly Effect, Swing Kids, Benjamin Button. God, when I saw Benjamin Button over at the Arclight I fucking lost it hardcore. Twice.

That make-up didn't actually need to be presentable to public view or anything.

So we talk. We talk about how alienated I feel from the rest of the family because of how my life torqued off at this odd angle, about why, at family gatherings, I'm always behind a camera or off in an armchair somewhere, reading. How I feel I will hurt her if I let who I've become leak through, so I just withdraw entirely.

I talk about my fear that I don't have unconditional emotional support from her, that I can't live the life I want to live because she'll disapprove, and because it'll hurt her. I tell her that I'm worried that her love might be the same, that one day I'll go too far and she'll reject me as her daughter.

I don't think anything was truly solved, but now she's aware of it. She has said that she will not give me her emotional support if she disagrees with what I'm doing, and I'm going to have to deal with that in the future should it be occur. And, knowing me, it probably will.

But she also told me that she knows that I'll never live an ordinary life, like average people.

(Then, of course, she said, "Like your sister." And I looked at her with faux shock, "Did you just call my sister average??" "No, I didn't mean that like that. You know what I mean." And I did. I was just messing with her. Yes, I mess with my mom. And then she hits me and I yell for Child Protective Services.)

I did it, though.

I took a step towards integration.

I addressed my fears, my concerns. I let her know where I was, mentally and emotionally.

Which is what I constantly advocate to my female friends.

Which is why, when I'm one-night-standed by someone I was interested in becoming a regular partner, I never feel used or upset.

I communicate honestly and completely. I let my partner for the evening know where I am, know what I would (and would not) like from the encounter, I am completely open about my sexual history, about what I enjoy in bed, and hope for the same respect from them.

If they, before and after our sexual "interlude", speak of the next time, and yet I never hear from them again, I'm fine. Mild disappointment if the sex was good, but that's the extent to which I am affected the vast majority of the time. Their inability to be honest with me, or with themselves and therefore with me, is their own failing. I have not compromised myself, my values. I respected them as another human being, and therefore satisfied my expections of myself.

You cannot choose how someone else will treat you. You can take responsibility for yourself, for your own actions, and know you treated the other person as best you are able, however it is that you define your best.

Brave men tell the truth...

I found that I can significantly jar my brain by listening to Royksopp for several days and then suddenly switch to Thin Lizzy.

But onto more interesting things... well, interesting to me.

When my friend mentioned The Game to me, many months back, I thought it was an interesting concept for a book and asked to borrow it... but it was no longer in his possession.

Fast-forward several months, I'm walking by a Barnes and Noble with Wolfboy and I remember that I wanted to pick it up and read it. We pop inside and find that they keep it behind the counter because of the theft problems they have with it. Really? Must be steamy.

I purchased it and started reading it the next day.

I tore through that thing on my lunchbreaks over the next three days, sneaking in an hour here and there between social engagements.

It was wonderful. On the first day, I popped onto IM to rave to one of my best friends about how much I was enjoying it.

"Don't do it, V," he tells me, "You're going to ruin yourself. You're going to learn so much about it that no guy is ever going to impress you and you'll constantly be disappointed. You're already a predator, you don't need to get better."

I didn't listen. Of course I didn't listen! This was knowledge, this was refining things I had been doing for years, this was giving me logic behind actions I did naturally, and then suggesting new ideas to me. And then it says that there's entire communities of guys out there doing this, practicing this, learning this, getting good at their own game, having discussions and workshops.

People who I could talk to about this stuff without being judged for being too predatory, as my friend calls it. People who would understand the dynamics, who would have the experiences I've had, who I could bounce ideas and theories off of, become better and better at this game.

What a dream.

That I could explain what I was doing, what I had done, why I had phrased things a certain way, sat facing a certain direction, touched a person in a particular place at a particular moment, tossed up a challenge, etc... and they wouldn't look at me like I was some sociopathic freak, or like I was so beyond them in life experience and then the idolizing look comes into their eyes and I'm sitting there going no, no, no, I focused on sex, I focused on seduction, on analysis and introspection. You focused on life, on education, on your career, on finances. You specialized like I specialized. You just did something more useful, more directly functional, something that will stay with you no matter how old you get.

Sigh.

Guys have a community for this stuff. It's not the most female friendly environment. I didn't expect it to be. But I've always been one of the guys. The girl that passes that test when few others do. It's not always a good thing, but it's a role I'm comfortable in.

I read The Art of Seduction and things became clearer. Things made sense. I could identify the seduction types of guys who had wowed me in the past, I could see my weaknesses, and my own tactics, written in this overly long prose in this tiny, tiny font with such outdated cultural references.

Then came Sperm Wars, certainly one of my favorite reads. It was a perfect manual to my sex life, and why I found somethings so very attractive, and other things so very viscerally wrong.

That was... last month. I've taken a break from the seduction community reads. I don't believe in immersing myself in any kind of lifestyle. I read too much of something, too often, and it starts to become a focus, my writing style starts changing, my thinking starts shifting, my internal monologue goes off at odd angles.

But then someone in the community asks me my partner count.

Should I even answer? I mean, these guys are sleeping with at least one new girl each weekend from the looks of things. Sure, I've had my streaks of doing that, but my numbers will never rival theirs. I'll look so inexperienced.

Honesty is what I choose to give. If I'm ridiculed for my low number, at least I'm representing myself accurately.

So I toss out my estimate. 70-80 full partners in the last ten years, with 7.25 of those years being in closed and committed relationships. Admittedly, now that I'm thinking of it, the first two of those relationships, when I was in my teens, I cheated on both partners once each.

When I was younger, I used to think my number was high, but then I realized that the strangest, most unexpected people will blow your mind with their count. You can never guess what someone is going to say, and you could end up looking like an idiot if you act accomplished.

Yeah... that happened once or twice. Ah, cocky youth.

But then, I think. Review your life in sex. I started college at 16. From the ages of 16 to about 19, I had around forty partners, which was when I lost count. Alcohol, weed, parties, nameless sex, those were days of wild destruction. I'd never take it back, but it certain left a mark on me.

So, from 20 to current age, I've had somewhere between 30 and 40 partners.

I always kick myself for not keeping a list, and for throwing away the journal I kept during my first few years of college that did have the initial list of guys I've since forgotten.

I don't think I have a high partner count. GV8 is in his 400s, but then he was a... well, I doubt he wants me to repeat that. I value his experience because it makes him one of the best lovers I've ever had. When he told me, I nearly melted.

I think between my most recent break-up last August, and December, I had around 12 partners. It was a fairly even divide on the one-nighters and the repeaters. I always get this frentic excitement when I'm fresh out of a relationship, this need to prove to myself that I'm still attractive to men other than my (ex)boyfriend, and the joy in no longer being confined to pleasing one body. It's such a thrill- your first new partner in the last two and a half years. So much new stimulation, new things to learn, new tricks, new ways to move.

Then my friends tease me, of course. New guy (or guys) every weekend? Where'd you find this one?

I find it wonderful that no one who knows me ever calls me a slut. That term doesn't really enter my operating procedure. I document my adventures, then guys go a bit bucknutty and the girls ask advice.

I love the sudden change, from focusing so much on one person, one relationship, to having everyone focused on you.

But I can only take it for so long. I don't like being in the center of attention.

Of course, as I pull back, I meet GV8.

I could hardly ask for anything better. Open communication. Open honest communication. The thing I value beyond most anything in a relationship. You have your respect on one hand, your communication on the other.

I swoon.

He's smart. He's significantly more social than I am. He's driven as hell. Dominant and caring, lethal when he needs to be. I'm safe and with a man who is so comfortable with himself that he can be honest with me at all times, even if it's to let me know he doesn't want to tell me something.

Plus, he's a swinger. Any relationship we get into stays sexually open. I can continue to roam, can continue to explore, can bring guys home for a threesome or gangbang scenario, and he will support me and protect me.

It's near perfect.

And I totally derailed myself. This week has wiped me out. It's a Friday night and I've been home since 1030 because I've gone out every night this week. I plan on being home tomorrow night as well.

Anyhow, back to thinking.

My own partner count has almost lost meaning to me, much like the age when I started having sex, much like the number of oral partners I've had, which I really don't know. I've had some wild years and, really, it's just oral.

I was talking to some guy I went down on years ago and, for some reason, partner count was brought up and he said, "Oh yeah, I've had sex with 26 girls and 35 girls have gone down on me." (I don't remember the numbers, so don't quote me on this.)

"35 girls have gone down on you??"

"Yeah."

"You keep track of oral?? Who the hell does that?"

Then he got defensive. That wasn't my most tactful moment. Didn't really like him that much anyhow, so no big upset for me there.

I'm finding it funny, though, that now that I've put my guesstimated numbers up, some people are analyzing them. Almost statistically, it looks like.

Really?

I'm not that fasincated by it. I'm used to people being interested in my sex life because I'm open about it and that tends to attract people for various reasons. I don't think I've ever had my number questioned before, but that's more than likely because if we're talking in real life, they know me, they see me, they see me interact. And, if I'm online, I'm usually on a site where a few (or many) people know me, have met the guys I occasionally bring around, have seen me pick up men, which means lends my stories total credence. It also helps if I'm blogging about the sex I had the previous night and the guy I wrote about freaking comments on it.

Then I stare at the screen and wonder exactly what I should say to him.

It's weird, having an anonymous blog. I've never done it before, never felt the need, until the other one got so popular that it was really starting to freak me out. Like I've said, I'm not a center-of-attention girl. But I'm so used to my reputation following me everywhere. I'm used to the stories that encircle me when I walk into a room, which you think would place me at the center of attention, but I tend to intimidate people so they stay away unless they know me.

But it's like starting from scratch. It's not even a clean slate, it's some pieces of rock and wood and an IKEA instruction manual saying, "Have fun assembling this chalkboard."

I came here to write. I came here to fix myself, to heal myself, to get over long-running fears and tackle my core issues. I wanted the anonymity so I could say what I needed to say without fear that the wrong person would read it.

But I got distracted.

I need to balance this more.

And I need to go to bed.

Kitchen.

We're cleaning up the dishes.

I lean over the counter, sponge in hand, wiping up the parmesan cheese scattered across the marble surface.

He's behind me.

"These jeans could have been painted on," he murmurs into my ear.

His hands run up my ass, following the curve to the base of my spine before slipping over to the front. He pulls me against him, using my hipbones as handles, and slowly grinds against me.

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

"Forget the party, we should go down to the beach."

He's sitting in my passenger seat.

I glance over, "I can't. I told them I'd be there at five-thirty and I'm already late."

"Take me to Sunken City."

"Another time. I really need to get going."

"We should go out to dinner soon."

I realize I've shown him too much affection. He translates my care for him and his well-being as love. As he tries to convince me to abandon my previous plans, I sit and kick myself for not being colder. I should have known better. He's at my feet like a puppy, waiting for me to feed him treats.

He interrupts my thoughts, "After the party, you should call me. We can go out."

"I'm already exhausted from clubbing last night and being up so early this morning for this event. I doubt I'll have the energy to go out after this."

"Drink some coffee."

"I've got another date tomorrow morning," I try to gently remind him of my lifestyle choice, the choice I made when I decided that he could not have a permanent place in my life, "I can't be up with you all night and then spend tomorrow with this guy all exhausted. That's rude."

"Well, think about it. Let me know."

"I will, but it's doubtful. Please don't get your hopes up." That last part is almost a laugh. It's too late. His hopes are up. His hopes are up for more than I'm willing to give. I know I'm going to have to cut him loose soon and I know that this may cost me his friendship.

We present a good picture.

Lounging down at the house in Long Beach, we socially intertwine. The girls are intimidated by him, by his height, his dress, his attitude. The men are intimidated by me, by my attitude and man-eating reputation. They see him fall for me and it's another feather in my cap. If this man curls up at my feet so easily, what chance do they have?

I'm always outside the group.

... ... ...

One of the girls mentions that they're talking about me down in south Orange County. Apparently, my writing is spreading. Me, a topic of conversation. Who knew?

When I was in San Francisco, the man I was visiting took me to three of his cross-fit classes. I did not understand why, during the classes, he kept looking at me and grinning. It was the oddest smile. I kept asking him what was so amusing, and finally he told me that he couldn't believe that I, of this particular section of internet fame, was doing these classes with him.

Like I wasn't a regular person.

That shocked me.

He was the first to do that.

Last weekend, a similiar situation happened.

Another man wanted me for the same reason. Because of the writing. Because of the stories. Because of the growing fan club. Like me sleeping with him would somehow make him special, like he would somehow become part of the stories.

I've put so little effort into that site, it's only been a few months.

I'm not sure what to think of it.