Something has changed within me...

I really don't have time for writing this right now, but I know if I do not tackle it before I head home for the day, I'll be up entirely too late writing about it tonight. No bueno.

GV8 made me a proposition.

He wants to live what he calls "the rock star life" for the next year, starting August 1st.

He wants to rent a property somewhere in Hollywood, for about $4000 a month or so, and start throwing gigantic themed parties every Saturday, where he takes all the people he knows, all the people I know, and the people that they know, and turn it into whatever madness he can.

We know lots of people.

In this, he wants me to move into said property for a year and document the entire thing.

We're looking at houses in Hollywood Hills, warehouse/loft/stores on Santa Monica Blvd, houses off of Sunset, and the like.

He will furnish me with a new iPhone, new laptop, new camera, give me a "down payment" of $5000 and also pay me weekly as I set up and host these events, as I furnish and organize. He'd be doing my health insurance, we'd be getting personal trainers, he's getting a vasectomy (whoo!), and I would be writing nearly full-time because it wouldn't take that much of my week to do the organizing and the like once I set a schedule.

I've pretty much turned him down and it freaking kills me.

I'm trying to get away from the party scene. I'm sick of going clubbing so much, sick of partying all the time, and still tainted from the most recent boyfriend's constant need to party and impress everyone around him.

I want to work on me. I want to go back to school, I want to get my Master's, I want to write, I want to work at this company I'm trying so hard to get into. I want to chill out. I want to not go out every single freaking night. I want downtime. I want to relax. I want my phone to stop ringing so much, text messages, emails, all this crap I'm so very done with.

I was so looking forward to having a relaxing, yet very intense sexual relationship with this man, and now he's going to be living the LA party lifestyle and is willing to give me electronics, a fabulous living place for free, a paycheck, a contract to go with that paycheck, and complete freedom to write and explore LA as I see fit, not to mention taking me out all the time and...

I don't want it.

I want parts of it, of course. A fantastic place in Hollywood? Complete and total freedom from having a 9 to 5? Encouragement to write and the stimulation from events that would occur? Electronics? Constant fine dining?

It's too much.

I've known him for less than two months.

I cannot put my life on hold for his. I'm not one to go chasing the random and improbable. If it fails, it could be disasterous. If it succeeded, I'd hate the constant parties. Accepting his offer would basically be forcing myself to be in a near-constant state of anxiety, knowing that every weekend would never be my own, knowing that my living quarters would be subject to invasion by masses of inebriated people.

It would take more than he offered for me to do that for a year.

How much is a year of your life worth?

How much would have to be offered for you to do something every week that would make you extremely ill at ease and cause issue within your own psychology? That you would, each week, have to engineer and advertise for this very thing you've grown to loathe?

And the internal conflict, the "Really, it'd be worth it, having the freedom, being able to write, being able to explore, just put up with the situations that wreck you. Assess the damage later."

The knowing that this will probably take him away from me. The first man I've met in nearly a year that would actually, possibly be boyfriend material. How rare that is. As more time passes, experiences and vibrations stack, making it so hard to find someone who suits me, who I suit.

If I lose him, he's not worth it.

"Those grapes were probably sour anyway," is whispered into my ear.

But it's still painful, still disappointing. Still eats at me and tears me into pieces.

Of course, being torn into pieces is something I have experience with.

I wish I could be that girl for him. I wish chunks of my life weren't dominated by fear of the unknown, and that anxiety didn't have such an incapacitating effect on me. I wish I had been more social, I wish I could rely on the fundamental goodness of man, instead of the fundamental self-interest of man. I wish I was secure enough in myself to know that I could handle any situation at any time, that no matter what happens, I'll be okay, that I can take care of myself.

But I don't. I'm not.

Life has shown me in many ways that things are thrown at you that you can't completely handle, that you just have to make the best of bad situations and fight so you aren't destroyed in the process of attempting to save yourself or those around you.

Probably not the happiest outlook.

I know I need to get over this fear that, somehow, I am unable to truly take care of myself. It's not a healthy fear, but it is certainly one that has been instilled in me for as long as I can remember. You can't take care of yourself, don't go to far from the nest or something horrible will happen.

I've done things to try to break this. Put myself in places or situations where I was taking care of myself and others. But, in the end, it hasn't been enough. Still that fear lingers in me, causes anxiety.

I'm so sick of feeling anxious in certain situations. Like on Saturday, when GV8 and I went out with some of my friends to a club. And one of them, a girl, got shitfaced and started fighting and yelling at the people around us. I've never been to a club and had one of my friends get to that point. Parties, sure. Club? No. She's right next to me yelling at these girls that did nothing to her, chewing them out and about to go knock their skulls together and I'm, while outwardly calm, freaking out inside my head.

I'm so very over drunks.

I'm so over people who can't monitor and maintain themselves, who don't watch and control their behavior, who expect the people around them to watch them to make sure they don't land in the drunk tank or crash their car into a tree (hasn't happened in a while, thankfully).

Maybe I'm jealous of people being able to let go and have total faith in themselves and their friends to have everything come out okay.

It's possible.

Or maybe I'm sick of steering around drunk people.

Maybe seeing my friend climbing between balconies in Vegas on the 17th floor of a casino was too much.

Maybe losing entire groups of people as they get angry, start fighting, and run off into multiple different directions in not the best area did it.

Or having to bust down bathroom doors to get to people that have passed out and might have alcohol poisoning.

Or watching people fall down flights of stairs at clubs.

Or walk into doorways and poles.

Or maybe it was watching a group of friends breaking into apartments in their complex through sheer strength and numbness of the nerves.

Maybe it was having the carpet in every room but one in my apartment vomited on, as well as the kitchen and bathrooms during a single party.

Or trying to control a 6'7" ex-bouncer who was seconds away from a drunken rampage and, really, I wasn't sure if he was going to hit me or not, but I wasn't about to let him get kicked out of his favorite club in a fit of self-loathing induced drunkness. I've got good reflexes, but he's been fighting for over a decade.

It might be years of having to dodge the drunks on the dancefloor, and when said drunks decide they're coordinated enough to dance and drink... and then spill their drink all over the floor, which means you're spending the rest of your evening dancing in a sticky wet spot that is slowly being spread by foot traffic over the rest of the floor because someone was a selfish prick who couldn't stop nursing their drink for a three to five minute song.

It could have been the man I affectionately called "Beer-o", who would get drunk off of beer, strip to the waist, and dance around the clubs, pouring more beer over himself like some wet starlet... except less attractive. Every so often, I'll see someone I think might be him at the clubs, and I won't be certain until he starts dancing.

Maybe it was that time in Venice, when I was hanging out with some of the transient population, they ended up having too much to drink and, if it hadn't been for my ability to handle horny men, I more than likely would've ended up in a gang rape situation.

Gang rape, sure. Gang rape by hobos, no.

You know, maybe I'll never figure out why I just don't like drunk people. I mean, they've got so much going for them. So charming, attractive, and witty. Their intelligence and respect towards other people's boundaries is quite endearing.

Hm. That was a bit of a tangent.

Really, I'm just irritated/disappointed about GV8's decision regarding the next year and my friend getting so embarassingly drunk. I'm also irritated at myself in regards to my ability to believe in myself when it comes to handling situations I've yet to be exposed to. If I did have that faith in myself, in my ability to handle, in my ability to cope, then I wouldn't have anywhere near the amount of fear or anxiety I do in regards to potentially taking up GV8 up on his offer.

It's annoying and frustrating, to realize at least some of the things that hold you back, and yet be unable to control them. I can't logic myself out of this anxiety. I can try, but it doesn't last for more than a day.

And I hate that GV8 put me in this position. Yes, he was trying to be helpful, trying to give me something I wanted: the time and space to write, and weekly, if not daily stimulation and subject matter.

What more could I want?

And now I feel like an ass because I turned down such a generous offer. He wanted me there by his side through all of this, wanted to experience this with me. He was willing to spend the money, was willing to give me what would be a free ride with extras for a year, so I could do this, so I could follow a dream of writing.

What makes it worse is that I don't know if this gut feeling telling me not to take him up on the offer is spawned from instinct, of knowing something is wrong with him or the situation, or if it is spawned from fear. It feels like a mix of both, but I would feel so much better if I could figure out which dominated. If I knew for sure it was the fear speaking, I could work with it.

But instinct? You have to listen to.

Is my body reminding me that my mind isn't ready for this? That I am not healed enough to go into this sort of lifestyle and retain sanity and reality? Since I've yet to truly define my self-concept, going into a year surrounded by people and parties would probably not be good for me.

Or it would force me to recognize myself.

Or I could burn out, as has been cautioned to me time and time again.

This makes me wish I had ever let someone close enough to me. This makes me wish I had another person to bounce things off of, someone who really knows me, someone who wants me to be happy, someone who will encourage me in whatever decision I make. I have friends but, for all my self-disclosure, I keep back the important parts.

I wish I could trust him.

I wish I could leap into his arms and know, know that no matter what, he would catch me.

But to ask that of someone a month and a half in, when you're floating along with each other with no said expectations, that's a little much.

I wish he hadn't.

I wish he had waited until next year.

I wish I could gather up momentum and launch into him with perfect faith, slam into his chest and know he would not move.

It's a lot to ask of a girl.

And, I suppose, a number of girls would be whole enough, undamaged enough, or even wrecked in a particular way that they could do it without hesitation.

I'm cautious. I weigh each step carefully, analyze into the ground all possible outcomes and force myself to realize that of all possible outcomes I've thought of, there's at least six more. I try to watch patterns and habits, see how much follow through there is... but I haven't known him long enough to do that. I've met a few of his friends, but none of his employees as of yet.

I wish I could trust.

And I blame myself. I totally do. For not handling everything in the past as fully as I should have, for not keeping myself healthy on a physical and psychological level. If I had addressed things properly when they should've been addressed, if I hadn't let fear and panic dominate, I'd be healthier.

Stable.

It's funny when stability becomes a lofty goal.

And I'm not talking about external stability. I have that. People rarely seem to realize everything I'm hiding. And, truly, I don't realize everything I'm hiding. I want to take my mind apart and fix it. I want all this damage, all the abuse, all the horrific experiences that linger on in my mind, to become okay. To become acceptable to me, to become normal, to become weightless, so I can stop letting it affect the current me.

Of course, I'm working on it. Journaling, thinking, talking, reading books about different ways to heal, trying to learn about life-areas that I'm so very lacking in. There's so much stuff to deal with and get over, things that I can't even imagine the source of.

But it's in me somewhere.

I took GV8 to my favorite restaurant in Little Tokyo on Saturday, then we went to the club where my friend was drunk and aggressive. Sunday, we went out to Aroma again. I continue to love that cafe. We drove around, looking at properties in Hollywood and Los Feliz, (ended up driving up to Hollywood Ranch by the Hollywood sign and taking a short climb up to view it... funny that I had never seen that sign before, even though I've been here my entire life) then caught UP at the theater in Silverlake on Vermont, next to Skylight Books. Ended up back at one of his stores, again on the white leather couch which is lovely because after sex, squirting, or dripping wet blowjobs, you can just wipe it off without stain.

I had been planning on sex, but ended up going down on him for a half hour or so. I've been messing with my technique lately, and just messing around in general. GV8 is a happy participant to my oral experiments. I've hit the point where I can generally get a guy to orgasm without bobbing my head, just tongue-work. So now it has become an experiment of what else I can do, what is fun for me, what feels good on my hands and mouth, as well as learning to maintain a natural rhythm between tongue, lips, head, and hands. It's like trying to pat your head, rub your belly, wiggle your toes, and spin in a circle counter-clockwise to your belly rubbing.

Okay, I lie. It's not that hard. But I want to get to a point where I can just relax and chill and not have to constantly be checking to make sure everything is moving as it should. Almost there. GV8's a brilliant partner, and yes, it works out well. I'm looking forward to spending time with SFPlayboy again, trying out some of these new movements and seeing how he enjoys them. He already holds my oral in high regard, so this should cause his mind to implode.


Crap. I just had an hour distraction from this at work. Talk about losing flow.

Tonight I'm going to go straight home, shower, pop some Nyquil and put in a movie, and pass out. I'm getting sick thanks to my lack of sleep and the stress put on me this past weekend.

Tomorrow, my sister magically signed me up to be part of a reality show... and they want to audition me. So I'm doing that. Sigh. I'm really just using this as leverage for next time the Rockettes are auditioning in order to force her to go to that, since she wussed out this last time.

Tomorrow is also C's birthday. I think we might go to a strip club.

Wednesday I get to dodge gropes from my friend's soon to be ex husband.

Thursday is winging for an unknowing C so she can get into Crosser's pants. I was relaying that story to GV8 on Saturday, he was laughing so hard.

I don't even want to think about Friday+weekend yet. I think I've purposefully blocked my coming weekend schedule from my mind because I can't remember a thing and that's just not right at all.

...and then I remembered. Dammit.

If I get sick(er), I'm screwed. Well, my schedule is screwed. Might be for the best.

I mean, really, running my body into a state of burning wreckage is like nature's way of telling me to slow down.

Free as a bird, in a cage...

Writing that last post... I now just want to go to the beach and scream into the wind and waves until I exhaust myself.

I have so many screams trapped in me.

I think I kinda lost myself again...

I've always been a trial by fire kinda girl.

As my seventeen year-old screams rend the air, fighting for space with the whirr of the vaccuum motors, they scrape the tiny, sucking tube through my uterus.

It's a violent violation, the physical pain is intense, anathestics did nothing. I can feel every twitch of her wrist as she siphons me out.

I scream, I scream of the years, of the sex, the drugs, the alcohol, the binges, the drunken copulating, the hurt, the abuse, it explodes out of me as I attempt to exorcise my demons.

The body learns new pain, muscles expand and reach outwards.

They have to hold me down, several pairs of hands on my limbs and torso.

And, then, I'm alone.

Notes from a refugee

Trying to bring this all together, please don't mind the mess.

Last night, back porch, right side of the couch. Cats dancing around the four of us, launching themselves into space with kittenish mews. I'm in his arms. This shouldn't be happening. I'll simply hurt him again, but I can't pull myself away.

We're damaged creatures of desire, his hands, my lips. We roam together.

She uses him for sex, leaves her marks on his body. He's her secret, she's ashamed.

He's my joy. All six feet, seven inches of him. Leather jacket, army boots, cigarette dangling, constant scowl.

He said he didn't want me anymore, said he wouldn't touch me anymore, but I'm good at inciting lust, especially in him. Easily in him. His hand slid down the front of my pants, breath catching, thighs twitching, moans hidden between words. His fingers dance and glide. I pulse.

Afterwards, driving home, he tells me he feels nothing.

I nod and agree with him. I know he's lying. He's never been able to hide anything from me. His smiles and stolen kisses translate his words into truth; I don't listen to the syllables, just the meaning.

... ... ...

I'm on my back, corner of a parking lot in Venice Beach. It's Saturday night, almost Sunday morning. It's cold, but his body heat and my sleeping bag stops the wind.

He caught my eye when I was walking up the boardwalk, when I stopped to talk to the squatter kids. He was smooth. The few hours I spent with them, while the sun was going down, he alternately ignored me and wandered off, only to return later. I'd catch him looking at me, occasionally, eyes almost closed as he laid on his back in the sun.

While the dogs vied for my attention, he just watched. Their gropes, their attempts at stolen kisses, their antics involving helpless and clueless passersby. They were raucous hyenas, chaos under the influence. When it came time to leave, I asked him to walk me to my car. Double motive: Venice isn't safe at night.

We ended up walking to Washington Boulevard, ended up down the way at a Persian restaurant. He left his dog outside, leash tied to a table leg. We talked. He told me of his travels, of his lifestyle. I told him of my mental project, of recent events. He introduced me to people as we walked, he seemed to know the entire transient population.

Unsurprising, given that he's one of them as well.

He showed me his squat, such an unglamourous word for an unglamourous lifestyle. A tunnel in the canal system. He bent the metal bars of the gate with a towel and broomstick, lets people who need it share it with him. Lately, he says, it's been a girl named Dingo. Beautiful sixteen year old black chick, won't talk about why she's on the street. We both know what that means, though.

He's almost twenty-six. We're so close in age.

He takes care of the people around him, takes care of himself.

We get to my car, in which I drove over his tunnel earlier that day. There's a pause, one of those moments you see in movies where neither person is sure what the other one is thinking. My reasons are different than most, though.

And then we're there. My back is pressed against my trunk, lips and tongue playing with the bit of metal through his lip. He lifts me up, legs wrapping around his waist, hands running through his hair, over his neck, down his shoulders.

It's almost ten.

It was intimate. Pausing in between kisses to talk, to laugh, to exchange thoughts, with his dog resting at our feet. I mention I like things rough, and suddenly I'm spun around, face and stomach pressed against my cold car, bent over my trunk, and he's grinding into me. I can feel him so close, so warm. We're aligned.

He suggests lying down and, at first, I decline. He changes my mind, sleeping bag is dragged out of my backseat and tossed down. Then his weight is on me, pressing me into the asphalt, bruises will line my lower back in the morning.

I'm flipped over, pants slid down, his fingers pumping into me. I arch into him, then his fly is down, head of his penis rubbing over my clit. I've already told him no penetration- his choice of lifestyle is too risky for that- and he respects it. Doesn't even ask, doesn't even hint, but even this contact is more dangerous than I would like.

We wind down, lie down. Curling up close, sharing heat. His dog slides in beside us, I am sandwiched: Man-Woman-Dog. Talking, breathing together. He understands. Of all the people I have met, he understands. He knows that difference, between affection and love. I don't need to make my disclaimer to him. We can cuddle, tickle, roll, giggle, exchange light kisses... and he knows it means nothing other than the physical comfort and companionship the action provides. And he knows how to play the game, knows how to monitor people and subtly control. He knows how to direct desire, knows how to get attention. We compare notes, lying under a streetlight.

I'm comfortable with him. I'm able to let go enough so that I don't even notice I'm not monitoring what is going on around us until afterwards.

I leave.

... ... ...

Party Saturday night. I show up Sunday morning, almost 3AM.

Walking in the door, the few remaining people there shout my name. I smile, apologize for being late. They said they assumed I was getting laid, and actually had talked about it at some length.

It amazes me. In general, I'm astonished when people talk about me. I don't find myself too out of the ordinary. I do what I do, I keep dramatics to a minimum. I don't gossip, rarely lose my cool, and try to be supportive of my friends.

I don't think of how people view me on a long-term basis. Short-term, I know my actions may have impact on people. Long-term... I just don't look ahead that far. I probably should.

I am, I know, a source of entertainment for my friends. They live vicariously through my sex life, through my exploring and odd occurances. This has been told to me by so many people throughout my life. It's one of the reasons I continue to put my thoughts and adventures online. I know some of them wish they could do what I do, live like I do, think like I do. I know some of them just like it for the "reality tv" factor, since I rarely screen myself.

But, really, how do people see me overall?

I mentioned to a friend, yesterday, that I had purchased a new pair of glasses. His girlfriend asked me what they looked like and I tried to describe the style, failing miserably, lamely saying to her something along the lines of, "They're very much my style, very me."

"Brutal?"

This launched into a discussion of, again, my lifestyle.

I walk a very fine line.

I am a devoted daughter and a loving sister.
I have many widespread social groups, people I have been good friends with for years.
If someone, friend or new acquaintance needs me, I am there.

But I'm tangenting.

People call me when they need help. People come to me for advice, come to me to vent, come to me when they're depressed.
My long-term lovers are dedicated friends, even the ones I no longer sleep with.
I make friends with strangers constantly, help people whenever I see a need. Even when I'm wandering the streets of Los Angeles, certainly not the most friendly city, strangers will stop and talk to me repeatedly throughout the day.

My friends know this. My friends see how I interact with people, see how I interact with my family.

And then they see me go through men like popcorn. Some get to stay, some don't. Some of my friends actually get to see me when I shift from friendly conversation with them to "I want him, I'll have him" mode. They get to see that mood change, that shift in my hips, how my voice changes so slightly, how my posture takes on a different cast, and chin tilting a little to the side.

Sometimes they call me a man-eater. Sometimes a predator. Sometimes a shark.

Last night, two of them got to see me do a five hour long dance, turning someone I had lost a few months prior, who said he would never speak to me again, to someone who could not stop touching me.

How do they reconcile the two images?

... ... ...

When they talk about me in clubs, I know they watch me dance... I take joy in their words. So much hateful bile has been spewed about me in the last few months, simply because I refused to sleep with someone and he took offense, that I have become almost a pariah. I have now become, through no direct actions of my own, a slut of epic proportions.

Unfortunately for that group, my actions only scream "slut" to the uneducated and, since I try not to socialize at clubs anyhow, my social life there has been completely unaffected. They tried so hard to damage me, but they did it so it would hurt a normal girl. That must be so frustrating for them, seeing how it has done nothing for all the work they have put into it.

I love when they watch me dance, though. I love how they want me, love how they loathe me, love that they will never look as good as I do on the dance floor and they know it, god they know it. Even with everything they have said, I know I could crook one finger at them and they would come running. They would brag about how they "conquered" me to their friends.

Right.

... ... ...

Sunset and Vine, northwest corner is Borders, one street east is Amoeba Records. I go there, some weekends, to stock up on music and books. This weekend was music for the road, and some spoken word sets. I'll listen to them as I drive up to San Francisco.

Started off the day getting my eyes checked. My right is degrading so much due to my constant reading, my prescription is miles off. I found a pair of stainless steel glasses, black, elegant, and a bit severe. Just that edge I like so much in everything I wear.

Afterwards, I drove over to Little Tokyo. There is a mostly abandoned shopping center on Fourth and Alameda, on the third floor is a u-don house, Issen Joki. It's almost always empty. The classical Japanese music soothes me. I've been going there for about ten years. It's a secret spot, a cooling down spot, a place where I center myself. I can run through memories there, of people I have brought, of dates, of adventures, of late nights clubbing.

I curled up with Nabokov's Despair, and a pot of tea. The same old woman, never changing, has worked there as long as I have been going. I can disappear for two years, come back, and it is still as though nothing has changed. It's a place for breathing.

Then Amoeba, then Borders, then I'm on the corner of a roof of a parking lot, seven stories up, a cup of hot chocolate in my right hand, looking over all of Los Angeles and Hollywood. If the day had been clearer, the ocean would have been visable.

It was beautiful, though. You can see the entire city, and the wind is wonderful, whipping my hair up and around as I leaned against the cement wall. Hot chocolate soothes me, the wind soothes me, and being alone... happy as a clam. It was all I could have wanted. Moments of perfect peace.

... ... ...

Time ravaged.

Sitting on a counter, I suddenly remember.

I remember why I did what I did. I remember why I pushed myself until I was a pile of wreckage.

I remember driving myself into the ground, driving my friends and family away, injuring anyone who came close. I remember abusing relationships, abusing the good natures of others, of causing damage, of causing chaos.

Slowly it seeps back into mind, water under a doorway.

I remember the whys.

I needed to cross that boundary. I needed to be beyond redemption. I needed to be not worth life, not worth living, that I was causing so much pain by being that if I was gone, it would be a relief, not a sorrow. I needed to nose-dive past the point of caring, nose-dive past the place where anyone could love me.

Burning into the ground.

I was trying to detach from this life so I could leave it. So I could slice my wrists, bleed out, and no one would miss me. Standby for launch.

We're coming up on nine years since I started the course of events that led me to the now.

I will untangle this.