So, I'm off work in two hours.

I've never thought of myself as patient, overall. If you tell me something exciting is going to happen in two months, two weeks, two years, I'm perfectly fine with waiting, totally calm.

But when we get down to that finish line, and we're just hours away... I turn into an impatient spaz and I must get going now.

That manifests in other ways, as well. When I have a project that I suddenly feel the need to get done, but it's going to take me six to ten hours and I should space it out, I won't. I won't eat, won't sleep, will begrudge going to the bathroom, until it is done. Whatever time of day or night this wild hair takes me, I'm lost.

So, I'm sitting here at work, two hours from bolting out the door, about to chew my own leg off in frustration to escape this time-trap.

I'm excited. I haven't seen PD since Monday morning. He's been working, working what appears to be about 16-18 hour days trying to get these two movies done. This means I've been exiled (or he's been quarantined) as I'm too much of a distraction and me in bed encourages him to forget editing and think about fucking and sleeping.

But the quarantine is off for tonight and tomorrow night, as he's going to be out of town until Tuesday of next week and I need to get my lovin' on. I go a little... batty... without physical affection.

He mentioned that, in one of his guest posts, that I was crawling all over him in a doctor's office in an effort to offend the populace.

This is partially incorrect.

I was crawling all over him in a doctor's office in an effort to crawl all over him, populace be damned. I need my cuddles. I need them more than sex, I think. If they go sexual, that's just another manifestation of my physical affection.

And we had this talk.

I don't set out to make people uncomfortable (except for that grumpy older group at the restaurant in Cambria who was looking at the two of us with total disgust so I had to stand up, kiss him, and then run my hands down to his ass and squeeze while he had his back to their table and the closest one was about two feet away). The only time I actually, purposefully, use PDA to have some sort of social result is when I'm getting poor service at a restaurant or retail location. Nothing sends the help scurrying on their way like overtly sexual behavior in their place of business.

Observers of my Displays of Affection are completely unnecessary to such displays. I touch, I need to touch, I need to be touched. Part of the whole "Poetry of Flesh" thing. It's not sexual, it's just how I mellow, how I connect.

Anyhow, that tangent aside...

I get to see PD tonight. I'm likely going to cuddle his face off. He has no idea the amount of physical affection he is in for. Well, he has some idea because he knows me, but we usually don't got this long without seeing each other. So it'll probably be excessive.

And he enjoys it. Win.

There's this part of me that... hrm. GV8. I spent so much of this blog idolizing him, turning him into this godlike figure. Because he was, to me.

Then he toppled.

And when he did, he came in here and started making a mess. I had to clean up more comments than anyone ever saw. Some where he posted as himself, some where he posted anonymously. To the point where I was having PD do it for me because I was so upset about how angry and offensive he was being.

Not upset because I was hurt, but upset because he had been so much of my life, had done so many amazing things for me, been there for me and helped me through such hard times, helped me become better as a person, live more of the life I wanted... and then, then when the weekend after our engagement hit, when everything happened, how he acted, what he said... it hurt.

But I understood. I didn't blame him.

But his subsequent aggression, he killed, was trying to kill, that shining image of him I had.

Well, maimed. It's still there. Sometimes I think about calling him, think about how I want to talk to him. And then I realize the person I want to talk to... isn't there anymore. He stopped existing. Died, in a way.

But that wish is still in my head.

And then I remember the things he said. The things he wrote. The look in his eyes at the diner when we broke up. And the lies. That's the hardest part. He lied. He lied to me, lied in his blog (which I've yet to read, but discussed with others).

He used this image of him I created in here to do damage to me.

And he did damage. I can tell.

I know I hurt. I hurt on many levels. And I know I'm swallowing some of it down, ignoring it, forcing it away with distractions.

I know I'm vulnerable, especially with PD. I'm so hung up on him. I think, like I thought of GV8, that he's just the end-all-be-all of men. I know I do this. (Well, I didn't do it with Darkeyes.) The more I interact with him, the more I get to know him, the more I feel that way.

It's a reaction. And it's a habit.

These last three days, away from him, have been a bit eye-opening. I still am wildly head over heels for PD. But I realized how much of my life I give up when I'm in a relationship. A real relationship. I usually only realize this after things have ended.

It's good to know. It's good to have it smack me in the face, that I'm doing it again.

I need to allocate time. I need to not lose myself again.

And, tonight, I need to lavish affection on the man I'm growing to love.

There's a balance. I just need to find it.

I'm unexpectedly and quite rapidly falling in love.

Odd to say, odd to think.

And so fast.

It took me near a year and some change to fall in love with Darkeyes, and even then, it was never full, never complete. Some sort of half-hearted love, carnival-food style love.

GV8, while I adored him, trusted him, respected him, he did not have my love for near six months.

This, this thing with PD which should be a rebound but never was, something that is nowhere near as intense as what I had with GV8...

And each day I look at him, I look at the creases around his eyes as he grins at me and my stomach crinkles up inside me, an unexpected, oddly pleasurable sensation. A sense of things rearranging themselves, of bonding.

Hm.

At the Nerd Station once more, my eyes bleeding from the overabundance of white on PD's desktop wallpaper.

White. Eesh. Who came up with that one?

PD's ex and her husband are downstairs watching Family Guy, I hear their laughter from here.

Spent the earlier portion of this evening with a friend I hadn't seen in a few weeks, catching up, watching comedy bits and I managed to con him into watching the first episode of "Glee" from which he may never recover.

Also chopped off a foot of his hair so he could donate it to Locks of Love. Check that off my nonexistent bucket list: brutalize friend's hair.

I keep thinking back to the other night.

I don't remember what we had been doing. But we were down in the kitchen, PD sitting on the counter by the sink, me in a pair of his sweatpants and a black wifebeater, barefoot.

I suddenly had a craving for vanilla bean ice cream, which I relayed to him.

He groaned at me, cursing me for planting this idea in his head. We were exhausted, it was almost midnight, and I was barely functional.

He gave me a pair of his sandals, I tossed my car keys at him, and he drove us to a Yogurt Land in Little Tokyo, me half-dozing in the passenger seat as he handled my car.

Parking lot, we get out, wander over to the Yogurt Land, my hair messy, chest braless, his arm around my waist. Guides me in and we grab one bowl, vanilla icea cream and bits of mochi on one half, cheese cake ice cream and brownie bites on the other, two spoons. Taking turns eating our portions while sitting in bed until they melted together and I passed out.

He says I crawl up onto his chest like a cat when I'm asleep, curl into the place where his shoulder meets his chest. Runs his fingers down my tattoo, that barely perceptible raised skin down my side. I never remember this, I'm always too far gone.

He tells me many things, things I never expected to hear, things I've never thought of. I look at him and it's like he's got a script full of things to say that will make me melt, echo through my brain.

Not normal, girly romance sayings, though he does those as well.

But the baser things.

"I love how you smile after each time I hit you."

"You were built to be fucked from behind."

That latter one sounds like an insult, made me laugh, but when he explained about genitalia positioning, Mr. Porn Director himself coming down from the mount to explain sexual logistics, it made me purr.

When he told me he wanted to protect me and abuse me.

So few people will understand that, truly understand that place, I don't even want to try to explain because I'll just get moral and psychological lectures, telling me that this need I feel, this need I've always felt, is some twisting of my psyche, and that I can be "healed" with love and magical unicorns that shit rainbows and lactate poptarts.

As if liking something that isn't considered mainstream immediately makes it a psychological deviation.

We went out on a date yesterday, went to Amoeba, to see MicMacs, then for Thai before returning home to bone each other silly. For a man in his early forties, his refractory period is quite short. I'm impressed.

On the drive to the theater, my sister called to invite me to join her and her construction worker on a double date. That lead into my mother grabbing the phone from her and lecturing me on getting the hell away from yet another nonmongamous man. PD was laughing the whole time at my squirmings.

But then, the tables turned when his mother called him and I was allowed to answer the call. Talked to her, introduced myself, poked fun at him to her for robbing the cradle.

Entirely weirded him out. Turnabout is fair play, or so I'm told. And he gave me the phone.

We somewhat decided, or had decided for us, that we are An Item a few days ago.

Then, over the course of the last week, multiple comments and teasings, the "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" titles came up. Repeatedly. Harassingly.

So, we semi-had that discussion.

It's certainly there if I want it.

But I haven't technically had a boyfriend since Darkeyes. My ex never declared his intentions or defined our relationship other than by us fucking or not fucking, then by us being engaged.

I never realized how much that impacted how I viewed us, viewed our relationship.

And the thought of stepping into that "girlfriend" role again terrifies me. Especially considering how things went down with the ex.

I really am a bit of an abused puppy. Bad behavior, dump. Monitoring behavior, determine it's bad, dump. Boundaries are completely undefined, but if they are crossed, dump or punish. Never given the rule book until a screw up is made, then punished.

I'm afraid of doing anything that isn't completely respectful and distant.

It's ridiculous, but it does panic me.

And we're still waiting for me to calm down and heal enough to have the "monogamy" discussion. Which who knows how long that will take? There is that stressful pressure of a potential unspoken deadline of healing, of how long he'll keep before he gets fed up with my slow going.

Trying to call him my boyfriend is hard. I'm a tangled mess of relationship issues right now. "Boyfriend" title to me changes dynamics to places that, even when we were briefly engaged, my ex never let us go. I never felt allowed to go.

PD is giving me leeway to do what I need to do, experiment, determine my own boundaries, which no one I can think of has ever let me do. It leaves me feeling adrift, and I know I'm just going to have to keep doing what I want to do, test the waters, then wade in a little deeper.

Scary, but no progress is made if you don't step forward.

For those of you new to the blog, sometimes I go into great amounts of detail about my sex life. This is one of those times.

.
.
.

The date on Saturday, as I said, was good. Slow building of physical contact. Brushing our shoulders together as we walked, the placement of his hand on my lower back for a brief moment to guide me, leaning slightly back into his body as we watched and whispered about the bit of fluff porn being shot in his studio.

After dinner, we went back to his loft in downtown.

Walked up the stairs to the second floor, his bedroom and library running half of the width of the building. Unlit candles lining the steps, obviously used many times before.

I dropped my bag on the couch in the library, dug out my skirt, nylons, and tights. Sat down and began to remove my shoes and socks, then stood and unfolded my little black skirt.

He had sat down in the armchair directly across from the couch.

"Mind averting your eyes for a minute?" I asked.

"I do," he said, watching me.

I raised an eyebrow at him in amusement, then shrugged. Undid my pants and let them fall to my feet. Stepped out of them, then sat back on the couch, placed toes in nylons and unrolled them up my legs, tights followed suit. Brushed my blouse back down over my hips, knowing it was revealing just the lower curve of my ass. Wasn't quite long enough to cover.

Stepped into my skirt and wriggled into it. Zipping it up the side, smoothing it down.

This was the moment. Instinct uncurls from the base of my spine and winds up my back: if I do not step forward now, I'll leave without physically connecting with him. And I do want that connect.

He later said I slinked forward, walking that ten foot distance between the two pieces of furniture, before placing my hand on his chest and settling onto his lap, my skirt riding up my thighs as I placed them on the outside of his while his hands slid from my waist to my ass, gripping.

Ran my hands from his chest to the back of his neck, whispering to him "Sorry, I just couldn't resist". Watching his smile grow just before we kissed.

Establish contact with tongue half a second before lip contact. That's the rule I follow without thought. Anything else seems childish and unnatural.

Lips closing on tongue, suckling, teeth biting lightly down and tugging on that lower lip. Tongue sliding on the outside of one lip, then the other, traveling down to neck with open-mouthed pull and wet tickling of earlobes while grinding hips in a light, erratic bucking rhythm. Rub the length of his torso with your face followed by your chest, back to lips, then slide down to his feet, nuzzle stomach and crotch, scrape the teeth down his jean-encased cock, warm breath through the fabric.

Yes, I know you. I know this poetry.

Relocate to the couch, more room to lean back.

But my teasing nature, my constant smart-mouth, lands me in trouble.

On purpose, of course.

He yanks me up, so fast. Turns me and traps my hands behind me in one move, strides across the open space shoving me in front of him and I'm face down, ass up over the side of his bed. Pulls my stockings and underwear down, tosses them behind him, pulls me up, discards my shirt onto the couch (skirt was discarded long before).

Back to the bed, naked. He's still fully clothed.

His hands leave my ass red, me yipping into the comforter with each blow. He bends down, still holding my hands behind me, licks me from hole to hole, so warm and wet, me moaning and trying to keep my feet from sliding on the slick hardwood floor.

He gets on the bed, pulls me all the way on, flips me onto my back and drags me against him, hitting my breasts until I'm whimpering, burying his fingers in me, curling deep until I free myself from his hold and unsuccessfully pull against his wrist to stop the overwhelming sensation.

He stops. Only to pull my thighs farther apart and start spanking me directly on my cunt. Such a weakness for me... I hate it and love it. Body starts jerking against his hand as I shout, then I'm squirting because the sensation is too much and my body loves it too much. I hear him groan his happiness as each smack causes more liquid to eject, spraying and splashing onto the bed, my thighs, his hand.

When he stops, I'm left panting and happy. He lets me curl up onto my side, and I lay there, face buried in his chest. I hear someone come down the stairs from the third floor, walk through the library area to the next set of stairs: the resident studio photographer. I would receive a text the next day letting me know that he thought I had a lovely ass.

We shift positions, I start dozing with my head on his chest. He's warm and comfortable. I've needed this affection and the physical relief of palms bruising my skin. Trail my fingers over his jean-caged erection, lay a kiss or two on his chest. Some time later, I bid him good night and drive home, with him telling me we'll get breakfast in the morning.

How odd. I don't spend the night, we don't sleep together, and he drives to me to take us out to breakfast on the beach the next day.

It was lovely, sitting in the sun, the beach to my left, ocean breeze running through my hair. Talking. Talking with that ease of familiar comfortability though we've never met.

I will admit some anxiety. It's always like this for me, when I meet someone I'm interested in. What makes it annoying is that I know with him having a vasectomy, there's no future I want there. But he makes me nervous anyhow.

He has access to my other, public blog. A year or so of entries spanning the end of Darkeye's and my relationship, into my winter of seeking sexual validation from men, spring of that continuing... and then the beginning of things with GV8, when it tapered off and life started to go... odd.

It worries me.

It shouldn't. But it does.

I was so very different. I was so young, so searching and desperate. I'm still searching, but that desperation is mostly gone. I'm still a little wavery on the confidence front, but I'm light years better than I was. Worried that he'll judge me on who I used to be. Worried that that information will turn him off.

But it shouldn't matter. It's not who I am now. And he's not someone I can "have".

It's the rejection. It's always the rejection at the heart of things, the insecurity that fuels it. It's times like these that leave me grasping at getting thought patterns under control. Times that I know I need to get a handle on it or I'm going to slide and lose what progress I have made.

Breathe.

One computer is up and running.

It required reformatting my hard drive, but everything that really needed to be salvaged was salvaged.

Final paper has been turned in, the additional papers required will follow suit tomorrow.

Spent about an hour or so earlier taking in a dress I like, but is now too large on me. I forget how easy it is to adjust clothes, sometimes. I've been putting it off for months, but now it's good to go for a club I'm hitting this weekend.

Speaking of, I'm quite... well, not happy, but a shade lower than happy. Finally got guest-listed for this club, the biggest club in the scene right now. One of my exes, Darkeyes, this is his favorite club. He's been going for, oh, maybe two or three years. I can't remember when I introduced him to it. And I'm finally on the guest-list. I disappear for nearly a year from that club, come back, and I'm sailing past him. He'll never know, probably, but it gives me a warm fuzzy.

And since we're on the topic of warm fuzzies and men...

A different club, last weekend. A man was there who I had made friends with, who was very flattering, decent looking, a good dresser. A bit of a beta bitch, but I wasn't expecting more. That was December.

Anyway, back in December, he flaked on me.

It wouldn't have been anything major. I would've just shrugged and written him off.

But it happened that he flaked on me the very first time I was stepping away from my family since the incident with my father. It was my escape into fantasy land where everything that had happened in the past two weeks didn't exist and I was just going to go to a club with this guy and lose myself on the dance floor.

I got all ready to go and, at something like 840PM (when he was supposed to be picking me up at 9), he calls and says he can't make it, something came up.

Normally, by the by, I don't let other people drive me to the clubs. Nor do I drive other people. I don't like having my location in control or influenced by other people. The only reason I was letting him pick me up and drive us to the club was because I was so stressed and exhausted I didn't want to do it.

I was not quite devastated. But with the weeks I had just gone through, and the subsequent guilt trip that my father tried to lay on me for going out... I was pretty damn crushed.

But I forced myself out anyway. I drove, exhausted, to the club. I danced, I talked, I flirted.

And I saw my flakey date for the evening.

Oh, he was there.

It's just that one of his friends needed a ride as well.

So he gave him my seat.

Instead of simply telling me this, he lied to me.

Didn't really talk to him much after that, though he tried.

We roll around to this last Saturday.

I'm introduced to some guy I hadn't spoken with before, but had seen around, knew who he was. We're out on the smoking patio, talking about Buddhist enlightenment or some such. The December Douchebag rolls up to us to join in the conversation.

And being, well, not well-versed in club etiquette, he does what some people do when they've been going to clubs for a little and need to validate themselves as "clubbier-than-thou".

He starts criticizing the DJ. Starts talking about the song choice and how she spins and generally being "oooh, I know what I'm talking about because I'm scene."

Throughout the course of the evening, this happened a couple more times. I'd be talking to the new guy on the patio, the Douchebag would come up, insert himself, fail to insert, so start in on how scene he was by DJ-bashing.

Just think: if he hadn't pissed me off so badly in December, I would have told him that the man he kept talking to negatively about the DJ and the music was the DJ's boyfriend of several years, and was also a DJ himself.

Whoops.

Promise me you will return...

Got some more work done around the apartment this morning. Shifting boxes, dumping trash, organizing. I'd like to it get done by the time school is over with so I can focus on my book. If I ever do start the damn thing.

Headed over to meet the texting moron that I've ranted about once or twice on here. He kept asking me to take him shopping for clubwear because, apparently, I've been recommended. And he knows my ex, who I also had to take on similar shopping trips at his request. I suppose, for that circle, I'm the go-to girl for club-related things.

We met up at 1130. The store I had chosen (more for its location- by the beach, as I was feeling in a beachy mood) had incredibly limited stock. Last time I had been there, I was able to pull several things for my ex that he cycled through with ease. This time, absolutely nothing.

So we wandered down near the pier and grabbed lunch at a little Mexican place with a patio (necessary). Talked. I let him know that I was on a chastity phase, and that I wasn't dating. Of course, since I didn't directly tell him that that statement included him, he's going to likely dream himself into being the magical exception to that rule. Guys do that.

I was... rather disjointed. As soon as I parked my car, I felt those twin steel ropes of tension thread up along my spine and bury themselves in the base of my skull. Quick twitch of my head to the left and the right, cracking the spine, trying to get my neck to relax, no dice.

I went into a shitty auto-pilot. An auto-pilot so barely monitored, I must've come off like as looney.

And it was because my brain, the thoughts and feelings running through my mind, were louder than what was going on directly in front of me. Truly. They drowned out his words when I was staring at him, trying to hear him. It was the most bizarre thing. I felt like I was thinking so loudly and intensely that he should be able to hear me. I kept trying to start sentences based off of things I was thinking, no lead in, nothing. Just like shifting a conversation from internal to external, stream-of-consciousness stuff that I do here but, very obviously, don't do so much in life.

By the time we got to the restaurant, I was starting to get overwhelmed. I was starting to lose my ability to keep track of our conversation, to make sense of the words he was stringing together. It was like trying to have two phone conversations at once.

I sat there, mentally winding up, unable to figure out what the hell was going on with me.

And then my phone rang. Roman.

I apologized and answered, to tell him that I would call him back. Exchange a few lines of teasing.

When I hung up and put the phone down, my tension had left me so fast that I started laughing. The relief, the total relief of having the last two hours of my life full of wordless voices, suddenly silent. The texting moron just kinda looked at me, bemused. And I laughed the sweet, sweet laughter of release.

Conversation was easier after that. The barrage of thoughts started again, but not so intense, not so wild. I was able to maintain and apologize that I was being so off.

And things shifted to sex. That happens a lot. And, apparently, he had been asking about me to some mutual friends. They told him that if he ever wanted a girl that could keep up with him on a sexual level, it would be me.

So that came up and, like most always, the validation started. I wish I had recorded that conversation so I could point out all the ways he attempted to validate himself and all the ways he was tested the waters of my sexual interests. I wanted to say to him, "Hon, every time you try to validate yourself to me, especially sexually, is another point off. Your attempts are having the exact opposite effect you wish them to have."

Afterwards, I drove through the city to get to the freeway that would take me to my parents' house, listening to the CD my club friend had made me. Another set of songs he could see me dancing to.

He approached me, last time we were both at the same club. Did a slight toe-scuff, rubbed the back of his neck, looked at me and told me that one of our mutual friends asked him (again) why the two of us aren't dating. And he said he told her, in what sounded like a cute and defeatist voice that we just weren't. Some things didn't happen. I shrugged at him and apologized for my lack of interest. In a loving, but platonic, way.

He keeps looking for that keyhole. That one way to get into my life.

Ended up in a Starbucks, supposedly working on my final paper, but instead reading Martin's Game of Thrones, which has completely sucked me in.

I had no focus for my paper. The words could not hold the rising wave of thoughts. Couldn't drown them out so I could get done what I needed to do. The book could.

Couple hours later, I was at my parents' place, laying across the family room couch, book in front of me. Brain was in an uproar, thoughts too scattered to make sense, too much flooding me that the book could no longer hold my attention.

I excused myself for a walk.

Stepped out on my childhood streets. I used to walk the neighborhood dogs here, year round. Blisters forming on my bare feet during the summer when the asphalt would get so hot the dogs and I would tear across it to the grass-lined sidewalk.

It was too small. I could walk the whole neighborhood in less than forty minutes.

Picked a direction, picked a destination, went.

Arrived at the destination, my brain still unsettled, picked another direction, went.

Four miles later, I was on my old college campus, tears in my eyes.

Not for college. No, that campus simply taught me that "higher" education and shared focus does not actually breed common ground. I fit in there just as well as I fit in at a church.

Near the end of the walk, I realized the reason that I was strung so tight.

While the date isn't the same, it was this Saturday, last year, that I met GV8. The event that I am going to tomorrow is the same event that I went to running on twenty minutes of sleep because of our bedroom activities. This time, last year, I was at a club where, in three hours time, I would strike up a conversation that would lead to some major life events with a man that would impact me more than most any other person ever has. And I miss him so very much. Even as I write this, tears are forming and I have to keep them from rolling down my cheeks. I have to distract myself from how much this hurts.

So that's bad enough.

But it gets even better. Because of the event I am going to tomorrow, because of the people I am planning on going with, I get to spend the day with my most disliked ex-boyfriend. I've had some shitty experiences with relationships ending, but this guy puts all the others to shame.

Which means, not only do I not get to spend our one-year anniversary with GV8, but I do get to spend it with Darkeyes. When I would much rather be lighting him on fire and kicking him down a flight or five of stairs.

Really, it's been almost two years since we've broken up, and I still want to do damage to this guy. That is so rare for me.

I'm not sure how I'm going to play tomorrow. I had been planning on doing the usual social butterfly dance until he realized that I now own him in nearly every way possible, but now my anger and frustration is running so close to the surface that I'm not sure if I just want to chase him off at the beginning of the day and be done with it. That could cause rifts and drama, but I really don't want to spend my day playing with him when I could be hanging with friends.

...and I just figured out what I'm going to do.

Thank you, Blogger. You solve all my problems.

It has been an interesting few days.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He joined me.

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

But hot water and slick skin cause hands to roam.

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

Guided my hands towards his cock.

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

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

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

Another tug towards, I continued to stare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More later... sleep summons.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need a damn hobby. That's what.

Suggestions?

Sometimes I feel like I'm in some sort of alternate reality.

Like I slipped on a sidewalk, hit the pavement, and when I stood... I was somewhere else. Maybe I'm off in a coma, and my brain is wandering around this alternate world where things don't quite make sense.

For example, for those of you who have been keeping up with my family madness posts, you might have noticed that a week ago this evening, I was sitting in the emergency room of a nearby hospital attempting to check my father into the psych ward. At this very hour, I was likely running back and forth in the hallways, attempting to keep my mother from breaking down, my father from escaping, and finding out the ways to get him restrained. The night before that, I was sleeping in a guest room across from my mother because we could not go home. And all those details I've blogged about.

Today, however, today we (my father) decided we were going to celebrate the Christmas we "missed". So I came home, slept in my own bed, and woke up to open presents.

And then my parents took me shopping.

And bought me a new car.

In case you missed that, here we go again:

And bought me a new car.

I didn't even copy and paste that sentence. I typed it again so you could feel the gravity of the statement. By gravity, I mean the "...wtf?"-ness of that statement.

I now have a 2010 VW Jetta TDI sedan.

Why?

I have no clue. I have no freaking clue. I've always had to work for everything, pay for everything. And suddenly: "Hay, here's a car!"

My brain hurts as life attempts to pack enough plotline for a few seasons worth of sitcom into a month and some change.

I... can't really even recount the events of the last month, trying to remember this last year seems even more of a feat.

But since I've yet to attempt this type of post before, let's go over some highlights:

In 2009 I...

~went to my first swing club and banged without mercy, squirted on an audience, showed a large group of onlookers how to really give head

~Snagged SFPlayboy, ended up spending some time in San Fran as well

~Did my first DP

~Picked up that delicious 6'9" cello player/stuntman

~Met GV8, learned more about myself and my life than I thought possible

~Flew across the country to follow a band for the weekend

~Moved out of the apartment I shared with Darkeyes

~Restarted my schooling, pushing towards entry into the Master's Program

~Let my hair grow long, near waist-length

~Broke up, reunited, broke up, reunited, broke up with GV8

~Chased a man for the first time in my life. Failed spectacularly.

~Finally found out the difference between "sex" and "making love"

~Made out with a hobo

~Got my right side tattooed in one eight-hour sitting, with three hours of touch-ups later

~Attempted to commit my father to a mental institution

~Had four friends kill themselves

~Almost had a nervous breakdown, which was stopped by GV8 a week after our final break up

~Applied to my first ever apartment not to be shared with another

~Lost 20 pounds

~Launched my car backwards down a hill

~Had my driver's side t-boned while driving through an intersection

~Spent 10 months couchsurfing

~Started this blog

~Helped a friend execute an emergency move at 2AM on a Wednesday morning that involved us balancing her bed on top of a minivan and walking it the x-amount of miles to her new place because we had no rope


If I wasn't feeling so tired and lazy, I would look up all those things that I forgot.

But it has been a long freaking week.

Monday: stayed in, cried, anxiety issues, cried more
Tuesday: apartment hunted, spoke with the boss-man, rescinded my two-weeks notice
Wednesday: found an apartment, applied (hoping I get it)
Thursday: came home to talk with the parents about my current life plan and their degree of involvement in it and then they bought me a car
Friday: cleaning, cleaning, cleaning
Saturday: packing, packing, packing
Sunday: sleeping, sleeping, sleeping

I don't want to go back to work on Monday. Save me.

So nervous about if I will get that apartment. So. Nervous. I hate when I want something really bad and I have to wait to see if I get it. Makes me jumpy.

Gyah. Going to bed.

Have a happy new year. I'm going to go sleep my way into unconsciousness.

He was sitting on the couch, off to the left of the stage, head resting back against the cushion.

I walked over to him, the man that helped compound the anxiety, the panic, the triggers that cause me to blindly run. I walked across the grey marbled floor, the soles of my boots at such ease, fresh from skimming across the dancefloor. I know I'm good, I know this is my home.

He raised his head. Sunglasses made it so I couldn't see if he was looking at me or..? Those everpresent sunglasses that make me call him Darkeyes. Even in a club, even at 130 in the morning, they're on his face.

Quick gestures, fingers moving through the air. You. Me. Go.

I walk off.

He follows.

Threading the needle, passing through crowds, dropping hip high, dropping low. I don't like touching strangers, even if they're the same strangers I've been seeing for years.

I reach the patio, glance behind me, and walk to an empty corner. Hips sway.

"Hey," I tell him, "You look pretty miserable."

His body language is uncomfortable. I can almost see his skin trying to move away from me, his feet shifting back and forth like I've caught him in some naughty act, hand in the cookie jar.

But I wear the face of his guilt.

No cookies stolen.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable." More shuffling. It's hard to believe I dated this.

I loved him once. Even through what he did to me, I loved him before it happened. Cared for him before he did what he did.

Something in me, while I was engaging with my family, with my father, these last few days, realized what little he mattered. What he had done... it wasn't worth it. The anger. The holding on. The memories that cling to my brain no matter how hard I scrub at them with words.

"I heard you and Steph broke up."

He squirms, ducks his head. He remembers her role in how things played out. "It was a mutual thing..." he mumbles at me.

"It still sucks. Holidays and all. It hurts. I'm sorry."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I only wanted one thing from you. I wanted one thing, voluntarily given. But I realized I'm never going to get it. I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry for your pain. I'm sorry things didn't work out." He nods, tight, sad smile. "Have a happy new year, Darkeyes."

I walk away. I hear his voice following me, "Have a happy new year, too..."

The DJ picks a track I used to listen to during our break up. Smiling, I hit the dance floor.

... ... ...


In less pleasant news, my father relapsed today. Unbearably so, for me and my "issues". Mostly, my insane driving need to have a safe place to reside where my belongings would not be touched.

This is something my father has created in me due to his behaviors over the years.

Darkeyes, on the other hand, helped create an obsession/anxiety over money, over having enough money to last for months and months should something go wrong, and to never be dependent on someone you don't fully trust.

As I've said before, I haven't trusted my father in over a decade. This simply makes it worse.

So, when my father went on his manic rampage today, one that lasted all day, and will likely continue, I managed. I dealt. I went to Starbucks, sat on the fountain, and silently cried because I couldn't keep it in any longer.

When I got home, my game face on as much as it could be, I discovered that he had, once again, violated my space. This time, it was a film camera and lens set that he dug out of my stack of things in the garage, something I had inherited from his father, my grandfather.

Fix it, he said, or I will sell it.

The light meter is broken on it, you see.

This camera was not in his way. It was likely on the top of a stack of boxes full of books and it caught his eye. But he needed to punish me, probably for going out last night, so he took it.

I stopped my tears, but I could not stop the spasms that ran up my spine as my body jerked to accomodate the emotion of the violation I fear and hate so much.

My sister stood up for me. She distracted him from me. And then I relocated to the couch to sit down. He raged and he raged, incoherently. I went upstairs and slowly packed, waiting for my laundry to finish drying.

And this, this was the amusing point.

I was so afraid all week of doing my laundry because I was terrified that I would be in the middle of doing it and something exactly like this would happen, and suddenly I would be trapped by my clothing.

Which I ended up being.

So I went upstairs and slowly packed. Made the decisions of what goes and what I was willing to give up.

When you only have two duffle bags and you are armed with the knowledge that anything you leave behind may be sold, hidden, or destroyed, you have to turn off emotion and take what you must have if you have to start again somewhere else.

I packed. Laundry finished, I took what I needed from there, then hung the shirts and pants I was not taking, kissed my mother and sister goodbye, and left.

I feel weak. I feel so weak. That one simple thing can get under my skin and shred my brain. I was going to break. I knew I was going to break if I did not leave. And I keep trying to justify leaving my mother and sister alone with him by telling myself that I need to get my feet under me, need to be healthy again, need to be strong and whole so that I can help them when they need me. That I only left them physically, not mentally, not emotionally, and if they call, I will be there.

I'm at C's now. Two duffle bags instead of the one I usually live out of. In two months, I will have been couchsurfing for a year. I only expected it to be the summer. Now look at me.

Trying to come to terms still, with giving up school. With giving up what I was so desperately hoping for. A semester of my own, a semester to work on my dreams and education without worrying about a job or money. A chance to do it right, instead of doing what I did with my Bachelor's.

I suppose that's what happens.

I worry about my mother, my sister. I worry what this will do to my mother, what it will do to all of us.

We took down the Christmas tree today, the decorations, packed up the ornaments.

It was almost as if the holiday did not exist.

My thighs are aching.

344AM, December 27th? Is it the 27th? I think so. Separation of days when you are living hour to hour... doesn't quite work. You brain ceases to think that far ahead, so you don't really fixate on the tiny details such as whether or not it's Monday or Thursday, much less the actual date.

I can't remember.

I can't remember if it was this morning or yesterday morning that found me crying in my bed.

Maybe both.

I do know that today, for the first time since this started, I was able to take some time to myself.

I went to one of my oldest friend's place and cried into his chest, near hyperventilating sobs, half-seconds apart as I tried to let go and bring myself back together all at once.

He massaged me. Back, shoulders, neck, head, jaw, feet, calves, knees, for a little over two hours. It was the first time I was at any sort of peace.

But my father called, the wave of nausea rolled through me and I clutched a pillow to my chest as his voice fill my ear and I tried not to vomit. He was not happy. I should have been at home, staying with Mom, helping her, keeping her sane.

Eventually the nausea eased. I went to Starbucks and read Black Coffee Blues because Rollins is one of the only writers I can think of that near immediately set my mind at ease. I read and drank coffee in the sun, sitting on a circular fountain, scooting down the rim as the sun moved behind the building.

I went home and I walked, trying to get the blood going, trying to release some endorphins that would help me get myself out of bed in the morning, which was so hard for me today.

I called GV8.

We talked for a long while.

I think I might have to let him go.

Out of my life.

This isn't working. How he is talking to me now... he has good information, good opinions, good ways of operating... but it's as though now that we aren't dating, he views me as lesser and no longer has to hide it.

My father barbequed steaks. I shook and tried to act normal.

I feel like some sort of trauma victim.

I barely managed to get out of the house, fighting guilt and fear, to do the one thing I had been focusing on as an escape, as a night out, an illusion of a normal life: go dancing at my favorite club.

I got there. I can only hope that my father is not mad now. He thinks I should be home, with the family. I think I need to scramble for sanity.

But I quickly determined one very unexpected and undesirable thing: Darkeyes was in attendance.

He knows better than that. The scene we run in has a few separate... eh, I want to say regions, but that's not right. It has very specific boundaries between clubs and the people that go there. Stereotypes and cliques within a stereotype. Further division.

He knows that the club I went to tonight, that club is my stomping ground. He hasn't set foot in it, to my knowledge, since we broke up.

And he was there tonight, of all nights.

But it's rounding on 4AM, and I want to be coherent for this. Maybe I'll actually have a normal day tomorrow.


I doubt it.

I am... sore.

I think I say that fairly often. Sore, exhausted, tired, babbling.

615AM, Saturday morning, GV8 texted me. Essentially ordering me to be home (his home) before 2AM, after clubbing. Beautifully hot. Hotly beautiful, even.

I spent the day, oddly enough, squiring around aforementioned navy man who has taken up residence in the room across the hall from mine. He... he's got game. Natural game. I fell completely into my usual masculine dandy role when I deal with such men and trucked him around town on my errands so he could learn the lay of the land, while we talked sex and pick-up. Teaching him terms, offering suggestions, pointing out places to go to pick up girls.

I think I might need a new hobby.

Dressed up for the club for once. Vaguely Catholic school girl. Ended up, pre-club, being serenaded by a songwriter I met while walking across Wilshire. Apparently a successful one. I don't listen to R&B, so I wouldn't really know.

But, once more, getting to the club, my apathy took hold. In a new way, though. I just couldn't bring myself to care about the opinions of the people around me, so I ended up acting my usual self with a bit of social dancing, made several new friends and a yummy, yummy man was among them, which led to lips and hips locked on the dancefloor.

Great face, great body, great style.

Good times.

Left him, though, for GV8. He snagged my number from another girl though, so texting has been happening. I've yet to return, but I will. I'm not rude, just busy.

My apathy did lead me to try something new.

Was introduced to a rather attractive rocker, shook his hand, stared at him a little bit, then smiled, apologized for staring so much, but he really reminded me of my dad.

Which wasn't actually that true. But his expression was priceless. I've decided that is going to be something I'm going to have to do often. He spent the rest of the evening just... shocked. Hysterical.

Sunday, hit Amoeba, Groundworks, Borders, the farmer's market on... Ivar? Picked up some orange honey for some oral work with GV8. Snagged lunch with a friend of mine, a retired model/dominatrix. She pointed me in the direction of a kink-friendly psychologist in my area, so I'm thinking of visiting her to deal with reconciling my submission issues and working on reframing and/or accepting GV8's need for a sexually open relationship. My friend is also buying me pole-dancing lessons for Christmas. She says it's an amazing workout and she wants a workout partner.

So we'll see how that goes. I've never had any strong urge to learn how to work the pole, but it sounds like something fun to learn.

Spent the rest of the afternoon working on school stuff and cleaning GV8's apartment. He broke part of the bedframe, I can only assume with someone else, so I pulled that up and got him to put in a replacement board so the bed would stop dipping.

Note: that man has a lot of socks. Jeez.

We went out, afterwards, to see the Hollywood Christmas parade, stood on Vine, making out, watching the show, trying to identify B-list celebs, checking out the cheerleaders. The best moment of that parade, though, was when a homeless guy in a wheelchair decided to get on the parade route and do it backwards, very fast, being followed by cops who weren't sure what to do, cheers errupting for him. It was fantastic.

...I wish I could remember the name of the restaurant we went to. It was amazing. The atmosphere was so like what I imagine a speakeasy to be. Food was great, live music was great, so mellow. Sitting on red velvet couches, reclining into GV8's chest, feeding each other bites of our meals, talking about life, about trust, about love.

Started talking about Darkeyes, the damage that was done to my ability to trust and fully submit... it was surprising. He actually seemed to get a little angry about what Darkeyes did. My mellow, mellow man, angry. Amazing.

It was a really good night.

Walked down Sunset Blvd, undergoing the post-parade clean-up. It was closed, so I took a few shots of it looking like the apocalypse happened. No people, no cars. Crazy.

Back to the apartment, more rubbing, made use of the honey, orgasmed like crazy due to his tongue.

It's rare for me to orgasm with my partners. I don't know if I've mentioned that before. It's not something that really bothers me, though it occasionally bothers the men I sleep with. I simply don't care. I can get myself off, so sex, for me, is more about being with the other person and experiencing them, their body, their pleasure, than looking for my own.

Not that I mind having a good orgasm with my partner.

Just isn't a goal.

But... he let me go down on him. He hasn't since the split. It's been a no-cock-zone.

Which was then turned into a no-sex-zone.

But, this morning, we had sex. And I'm not quite sure what that means.

Everything he does, everything he does, has a purpose. I don't know if I unlocked the key to his pants when I told him I wasn't going to push the sex issue because I respected his decision, or what.

It was so nice, being with him this morning.

Laying in bed with him last night, his arms wrapped so tightly around me, telling me that he loved me.

But that doesn't mean that he'll stay. He still doesn't know if we're going to be good long-term. Still doesn't know if he wants to be with me.

...however, plans for next weekend have been made. And I'm staying with him again tonight.

Anyone else, I'd say he's just using me for the sex, until I wise up and go. But he can get sex from several different sources, simply by picking up his phone. He has ass on tap. And, as cliche as this sounds, he's not like that. He doesn't use.

A man with integrity.

Who knew that I'd find one of those?

And not just one that talks about it. He doesn't. He just has it. In spades.

It feels oddly ridiculous to me. To say, "This one is different, this one isn't like all the others."

Especially with his background.

Sounds stupid and naive.

But I'm not worried. I've been exposed to enough men in a variety of ways to look past the words, to piece together the actions, the ideas, the movements.

He's next to perfect.

For me.

I'm in love.

He likely won't keep me.

But, gods, do I hope he does.

I can't imagine, can't even create a fantasy, of a better man to spend my life pleasing, serving, loving.

I wasn't going to write today because I have so much work to take care of before I leave the office, but two things happened that struck me as somewhat odd.

The first was, in the middle of lunch with my coworkers, the very first man I ever dated, the first man I ever had sex with, called.

Alpha, you know.

Not alpha male, but alpha as in the first, the original, the start.

He was out and about and thought he saw me on the street, was calling to see if it was, in fact, me.

We're still friends, we just don't talk often. There's the geographic distance between us, as well as the space that comes with me growing past him. We can still connect, we can still have fun, talk, go out and enjoy ourselves. We still have mutual friends.

But it's just... I'm mostly indifferent.

He was my case of requieted puppy love. We both moved on.

Well, we moved on, then he came back and was like "'Sup, baby?" and I was like "Er... no, I'm good. Thanks though."

He didn't actually say "'Sup, baby?". I'd never remain friends with a guy who talked like that, no matter how good he was in bed.

So we talked briefly and then I went back to join the herd at the trough.

Wrapped up lunch, was at my desk for all of twenty minutes, and my phone rings again.

And, of all people, it's Rick. The man who temporarily broke me, pre-Darkeyes. You know, The Ex. The reason why I haven't been able to open up and relax with a man completely, emotionally severed, for the time being.

So I've got the physical Alpha and the emotional Omega calling me within a span of an hour of each other.

I'm expecting the Ghost of Christmas Present to show up sometime before six.

Hopping on a plane in exactly nine hours, iPod is loaded with the music I determined would be best for this trip, my backpack is ready to go.

I wonder if this is going to be soon, this feeling of impending collision. It feels like something is going to happen and it's building, an escalation of unrelated events timed to unite in that one moment... though if that moment is beneficial or harmful, I am not one to guess.

And maybe it's all in my head. It's felt for so long like something is careening my way, perhaps someone else's destiny coming to sideswipe my flank. Images of beads sliding along abacus strings, clicking, adding, come to mind often. Foreboding and rich.

This life is what you make of it.
If it does not suit you, leap.
What you are at any moment is what you have become.
And when you look back, will you see a series of mirrored images, strings of paperdolls, or something old and near-unrecognizable?

They cannot control us...

At this time tomorrow... I'll still be at work, sitting at this desk. Glaring at the phone.

However, at this time on Friday, I'll be in New York.

Which is, needless to say, exciting. For me, at least. My first time in the NE quadrant of the US. I've left some of my travel a bit up in the air, so I'm more likely to go and explore and make myself conquer this fear that, when I am forced to address it, I cannot take care of myself.

Which you think, at my age, I'd know that I could.

But my fairly steady stream of relationships have left my twenties (what I have experienced of them thus far) partnered up, working as a team, knowing I have that person to fall back on. Traveling with another.

I prefer to travel by myself.

My mother hates it. My sister is going to Japan in two weeks and she's going with a large group of coworkers and they have all these plans and schedules and everything's worked out.

But me? I booked this trip by myself, did not bother to invite anyone, have two concerts I am planning on going to and... that's about it. I found a rare and used bookstore by my hotel, so I'm going to go there, of course and... yes. Wing it. I'm spending Friday night at a friend's place, a man I met through my other blog. Haven't met him before, but... eh. In the total of my interneting, I've probably met up with 100-200 internet-based people, possibly more. I've had four bad experiences, and even those were managable.

I like how I typed "two", thought for a second, deleted it, changed it to "three", started typing and was like... "oh." So it currently says "four". If it's different when you read it, I've remembered someone else unpleasant.

Anyhow, it'll be a good trip. Wander around, take the subway, take the Amtrak, bus, walk a lot, see what there is to see and who I meet, as I always end up talking to strangers (if I'm not reading, that is).

GV8 is taking me to the airport on Thursday.

I'm finding more and more the word "love" is floating around the inside of my skull.

Definitions of. Remembering people telling me of how they knew they were in love, asking me what I thought love was, if I thought they were in love. What love means to me, what it means to others, the different types of love.

Driving my car in the high winds we've been having, speeding down smooth asphault, wondering if this is love. Comparing this feeling I have growing inside me, something foreign and unexpected, to previous experiences.

Knowing that in my last relationship, it took me over a year and a half to fall in love with my partner, and even then I knew it was not love, not really. Love for him, yes. But in love with him? No. Ripping two souls apart when separated love? Hardly. He was so bitter about that, that he was "in love" with me within a few months, but it took me so long.

I never understood that.

Bitter about not being loved by someone you return?

There's no guarantee, you don't get a receipt.

30 day exchange policy if you aren't satisfied with what you've been given in response to your emotional devotion?

That really wrecked us. He told me so, later. But I warned him in advance. I told him he was a rebound. I told him I wasn't over my last boyfriend and he would need to give me time to get over that man and into him. He said he understood.

But he understood so little.

And now we move on.

The wind rocked my car, and I thought. I got lost in a maze of apartment buildings clustered around a local community college, headlights leading me nowhere.

Then I realized how I would know if I was truly in love.

How badly it would wreck me if he left me.

How out of my skull I would be if he called me and told me he was done.

And if that pain would be caused by the rejection and the insecurity, or if it would be due to him being out of my life.

Then I realized that I would be hurt, that the rebound and the validity-sex I would likely engage in would last for two or three months, maybe more, maybe four. And that would be due to insecurity.

I realized I would miss the lifestyle and the opportunities being with him gives me.

And I would be shattered at the thought that because I have realized my need to feel safe, to have a man with control and power, it would be highly unlikely that I would be able to find someone else suitable. He is a man that I have never seen the like.

Knowing what would be lost to me, knowing that it would take years to find someone to make me feel as safe as he does, or to make myself feel safe, to learn that confidence, that ability, that self-protection... still, years.

I would miss him. I would miss the warmth, the strength, the self-realization he engages in without thought. The caring, the little gifts that I don't need but allay my more than somewhat occasional bouts of self-doubt when it comes to him and his desire for me.

I am falling for him.

But I'm not there yet.

I feel like I should warn him. We weren't sure if this was part of the program.

...but it seems so cold, detached, and analytical to say to him, "Hey, I'm starting to fall for you, so tell me now if that's a bad idea."

The heartbreak I'm not worried about. Sitting somewhere, wrecked and able to function through your day because you've been there so many times before this auto-pilot switches on without thought, with barest effort. You get through it because time doesn't stop, because life doesn't stop.

You can cry later.

The blows to the ego, though, the blows to the self-concept and the growing confidence that is so shaky on its feet... that's what causes me worry.

But, as we've learned, I do love a good trial by fire.

Leaving for New York on Thursday, a longish flight with a longish layover. I've decided to do the trip out of a backpack... I don't feel like lugging a duffel bag around with me wherever I end up, since I have not quite planned all the various forms of transportation I am going to use to get to my various destinations. I've slid Rilke and Wakefield into my bag, along with Dune for the flight.

Trying to keep my reading this trip light.

My body started crashing on Friday. I spent the evening with a large group of friends that happened to contain one of my best friends. We talked as he rubbed me down, weeks of soreness coming from being hunched over computers or books built into my muscles. We spoke of Darkeyes, my continued anger, and the discussion allowed me to realize that, of all the people who have apologized to me for his behavior, and the friends of mine he has apologized to for his behavior, he's yet to apologize to me, and I will be unable to treat him with more than the barest of civilities unless I receive that apology.

Acknowledgement.

He never understood that.

My aggression is unchecked without his acknowledgement.

It's odd for me to remain mad at someone for this long. Over a year and I'm still furious. Normally I am fairly serene, even when provoked I am able to at least maintain the facade of calmness.

Not with him.

Not yet.

The lack of control... I think is a sign of how deeply he disturbed me, how deeply I disturbed myself in dating him, in allowing things to progress as they did.

It's something to think on, anyway.

Saturday day found me at another coffee shop, plugging away on school papers with the baseline annoyance I find whenever I have to deal with Shakespeare. I continue to theorize that Shakespeare is popular solely because you have to be very, very well aware of all the nuances and cultural references that no longer apply in order to truly understand his work, which makes the whole thing a sort of inside joke for the educated.

But I managed to have fun with it anyhow.

Finishing that, I went home, legs shaking from the constant pushing I've been subjecting myself to, and settled in to relax by myself for once. SciFi Channel horror flicks, my mental candy during Halloween season.

It was not to be. My father called me, drunk, from an Oktoberfest, and bribed me with promises of a chicken hat if I joined him and some family friends.

Chicken hat.

Yeah.

I couldn't say no to that. I had no idea what a chicken hat entailed, but I knew I had to have one. So I drove over there, threaded the crowds of Orange County frat boys turned into Orange County providers with their now pudgy post-sorority wives, and joined my inebriated family. Chicken hat was purchased, and I sat by my father, the aging hippie and bad boy, and listened to his drunken ideas ("That's a man in drag. Yes, in the blue dress. Go hit on him.") and his occasional women of note ("That girl has great legs. I bet she has a heart-shaped ass, even though she's a butter-face." "Dad, she's a butter-face and a butter-torso. Ew.").

There was a point in the evening when my mother and her ex-sister-in-law (three hypens, beat that!) wanted to drunkenly dance to the Chicken Dance and I was wearing the chicken hat, so I got dragged up with them and found myself to be the only sober participant of the Chicken Dance.

I'm not a performer. I'm not a center-of-attention kinda girl. I like to keep things low key, prefer to be an observer rather than a participant.

But I realized, as I sat in the chair and they attempted to convince me to shrug off my typical demeanor, that there are only going to be so many times during the rest of my life that I am going to be able to do things like this with my mother. There is only this moment, no guarantee of any others, that I can make the most of. That I can delight and dance in a public venue wearing a silly chicken hat, laughing and skipping around with my mother.

So I did.

It took me a bit to get over my initial discomfort, but I managed.

And at the end, we were applauded.

So it couldn't have been that bad... or it was horrible and they were attempt to assauge our egos. One of the two.

Often I allow my need to remain under the radar to control my actions. I'm an introvert at heart, combine that with the usual dose of social anxiety, and I'm much happier watching others have fun doing inane things than doing those things myself.

GV8 has no issue with public displays of inanity. He's so comfortable and confident with himself, so apathetic about how he is viewed because he knows without a doubt how strong he is, how successful he is, how he can do anything without failure... that he just doesn't care about the rest.

I try to learn from him. To mimic him. When I'm out by myself and I find that uncertainty chipping away at my desire to do something, I think of him, of what he would do, how he would handle the situation, and I try to act as he would.

It helps. I'm doing things I never would have, seizing moments I would normally let pass me by. He's a good influence, possibly the best influence I could have right now.

He's been confusing me of late, though. Mixed signals which may indicate he's unsure as to what he wants right now.

I was studying at my somewhat usual coffee shop in Hollywood yesterday. I had told him I would be there. An hour or two in, hands drop on my shoulders, then snake around my torso and start fiddling with the button of my pants. I knew it was him from his touch, but I did not understand why he was attempting to get in my pants in a public location.

He had just stopped by to say hello while running errands, we kissed like infatuated teenagers and he took off.

A little later, he texts me to check my pants for gifts. He had slid in a Borders gift card with his manual machinations. Sneaky. I hadn't noticed because the pants were so loose on me, there was no pressure or feeling of intrusion.

Over dinner, at this fairly new pub on Sunset and Ivar called BoHo, we spoke about taking a mini-vacation together, about holiday invites, meeting his family. Not about meeting mine, though.

As the night went on, he became less and less "with" me. Hand-holding would abruptly stop. Sex, always our easiest way of communicating... it's not strained, and he seems into it, but his body isn't responding as it used to, so quickly, so easily. I'm wondering if it's the stress and exhaustion these last few weeks have brought him, if he's just getting too used to me and needs more novelty, or if he's becoming done with me.

The latter doesn't seem right, as we are planning future activities, talking about his family (as I mentioned), talking about things he's planning on how I will be there for them... so I'm wondering if his body has caught onto something his mind has yet to grasp, or if it truly is everything with his business.

I realized with my last relationship that the tired old saying that I've heard so often is true: the sex reflects the health of the relationship.

And he did, when he came in at 3 this morning (pulled another all-nighter), wake me up with sex, with the penetration I had requested, had needed. But he was so sore, so tired, that unless I was going down on him... yeah.

Instilling of doubt, I suppose. We're defined by our sex, me even more so, I would think, since so much of my built identity centers around sexual activity and seduction.

He tripped me up last night, over dinner. Mentioned my minor lust for The Bassist, and I went along with it, acting as though I would actually sleep with the guy. I think that was a bad move on my part. As soon as the conversation shifted, I was kicking myself for playing along with GV8 instead of shutting the idea down entirely. That's something I'm going to have to remedy.

I'm hitting that point where I need to know what's going on. I'm teetering on an emotional brink, possible plunge, but I cannot let go, not yet. I need to feel as though it is safe to fall.

I may see him tonight, and we are doing dinner on Thursday before he takes me to the airport. I'll talk to him then.

Like poetry in motion...

Update: This post is a lot longer than I expected. You should probably just read the cliffnotes, which go along the lines of: "I hate my ex and women are whores, stabby, stabby, stabby".

Yesterday, once I decided my course of action, was spent lounging half-naked across the California king bed in the apartment, watching Whedon's Firefly on the oversized flat screen (with surround sound) while working on my papers and nibbling on two bite-sized red velvet cakes.

That was... mmm... so nice.

Two papers later, GV8 texted me and we hit my favorite restaurant on Sunset Boulevard for dinner before he headed back to work. Crawled into bed with me at 1 or 2 in the morning and I woke up enough to stroke and scratch his back until he started snoring into the pillow.

I'm turning into his bitch. Sigh. Ah well.

I promised, dear readers, that I would post an email my most recent (broke up over a year ago, mind you) ex-boyfriend sent me last week, and my response.

Drum-roll...

(I should have known he was a cruel man by the curl of his upper lip. That always bothered me.)

I just want to throw out there...

We have not really spoken since March, so, all these months later, I don't really know how you feel about any possible future encounter with me. I would only say, on the ever so slight chance you had any ponderings on the topic, that I have no problem with you. If we were to run into each other at a club or party, at least on my end, I don't expect to provoke any awkwardness or drama.

Regarding G's Halloween party next weekend, I know you and G are good friends. I would not want him to miss out on your company if you had any apprehension that I might cause a scene if you were to show up.

I hope you enjoy your Halloween season.

I guess that was all.

P.S. - Happy 8-days-late birthday

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking something like, "How polite and gentlemanly of him," or "How sweet that he would attempt to patch things up" or something along those lines.

And, without any backstory, I would feel the same way.

Here's why I don't:

We moved into a two bedroom apartment by the beach two Novembers ago. The two bedroom part was in case we ever broke up. It started as an office and turned into my bedroom immediately after the break up. It was agreed that since he made so much more than I did, we would split the rent 40/60, utilities 50/50, and security deposit 50/50. I would keep up the apartment, do the dishes, the cleaning, etc to make up for the difference in payment.

And I did.

When we finally broke up, it had been a long time coming. We hadn't been fighting as much as me constantly going out and him staying home and wallowing in depression because he got himself fired from his job for intentionally poor performance. For four or five months, while he wallowed, I attempted to get him out of the apartment, attempted to get him to clubs, to friends, the things he would enjoy. And once he got out, he would perk up, be happy and personable.

As soon as we returned home, snappish and moody.

We broke up. I was sad but relieved. And we agreed that, for six months, neither of us would date while we got used to the roommate situation, so there would be no drama, no rough patches.

He agreed, I agreed.

Three days later, he started dating a girl that I had indirectly brought into the our social circle. He tried to hide it from me, but I'm not a moron.

After the initial cry, we talked. He had broken his side of the deal. He agreed that he would not bring her by the apartment until the agreed upon six months was up.

Two weeks later, at work, I receive a phone call. He's upset. He's going to be having one of his many parties soon and he can't invite his girlfriend. What's the point in paying now 55% of the rent (after the break-up, we re-adjusted) if he can't have his girl over for parties.

So I agreed that on party nights I would find myself elsewhere and he could bring her over.

Another week passes, another phone call. He doesn't find it fair that she can't come over for his one a month weekend gatherings of friends and gaming. I tell him no, I already agreed to the parties.

He doesn't care. He'll move out if she can't come over for those.

I sigh and agree.

Two weeks pass. He calls, totally distraught. The apartment doesn't feel like his, he says. He wants his girlfriend over, he can't stand not being at his own place and hates driving the 30 miles to hers. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair, he's paying 5% more rent, so he should be able to have her over.

I agree to working our schedules around each other so I can tell him when I'm going to be out for the weekend so she can come over... if he agrees to stop being a little bitch and calling me at work to sob at me about the unfairness of life because he kept agreeing to things and going back on his word.

He agrees.

Two weeks later, another distraught call. "I'm a whiny bitch, I'm a whiny bitch" he says to me.

Okay, that's not true.

But I get another phone call. He's still upset. Life still isn't fair. And he thought he could hold up his end of the agreement again, but it turns out that (again) he can't. I tell him that since his apartment is half his, I will alternate weekends with him (which is how the couchsurfing started) so they can have the apartment to themselves twice a month, just have her out by Sunday night so I can go to bed on time.

He's joyous at this, thanks me, says he won't ask for anything else because it is half my apartment and oh boy thanks.

Two weeks.

I should have expected this.

Two weeks.

He calls, he emails, he can't take this anymore. Those are his words. He can't take only having her over two weekends out of a month. It isn't fair. It's his apartment too. He wants her over whenever he wants.

I tell him I will move out if he does this, and he cannot afford the place on his own.

He says he doesn't care. He would rather have this girlfriend of just a couple months with him than preserve our friendship and memories of a two year long relationship.

He starts bringing her over. Putting up calendars with their schedule on the fridge so whenever I go to grab something from the kitchen I get to see them. When I complain, he tells me to buy magnent boards and he'll hang them in the room but the refrigerator is half his so he should be able to hang anything he wants on it.

He starts emailing me any little problems he has, complaining that he might move out if I do x, y, and z, knowing that I cannot afford the neighborhood we live in now if I'm on my own.

He sits me down and purposefully triggers a panic attack in me one night, knowing I'm battling withdrawal and just not caring. He's powertripping because I'm powerless, because he likes being in control.

He sits me down one evening and tells me he feels like he can't be in the living room because if he breaks anything he thinks I'll make him pay for it, and he found it incredibly unfair that I asked him to give me $1.50 for the cost of some food of mine that his friends ate without asking. He tells me that the pan I inherited from my grandmother that he left sitting in the sink for two weeks that ended up rusting over should not have to be replaced by him because it was obviously a crappy pan and he shouldn't have to replace crappy things.

I break.

I go past the point of caring that I live anywhere remotely near my job.

I talk to my parents.
I talk to my friends.
I determine logistics.

I clean the garage while he's out for the weekend. Empty my things from it and rearrange it so nothing appears to be missing.

I empty my closet while he's gone.
I partially empty my bookcases of books, leaving the visable shelves full.
I borrow a friend's truck and move everything into my parents' garage.
My mother helps me unload.
I give my 30 days notice to the landlord and ask if they notify the other tenant.

They tell me no, they don't.

Slowly I shift things out. Taking down paintings and posters, photos. I sell nearly one thousand books on Craigslist for $20.

He's leaving for New Orleans soon, for Mardi Gras. Back to his hometown.

He's a southern gentleman, you see.

One week, one week before he's gone, the landlord calls him to check to make sure it's just the one of us moving out.

He calls me at work. The anxiety is gone, my heart no longer pounds when his name flashes across my cellphone's screen.

He asks me if I had thought he wouldn't find out.

"Out about what?" I ask, hoping it's something else, hoping that I can fake him out if it's some little thing.

But he knows. And he's panicking. He tells me this.

"How does it feel? Being the one panicking? God knows I've been feeling it for months now, and you've been purposefully causing it."

He feels betrayed. Asked me what I was going to do, if I was going to tell him.

I tell him I was going to move out while he was on vacation. Leave him a note and let him keep the security deposit for my last month's rent.

I lied.

One of the few times I out and out lied.

What I was planning was to move out, then call him while he was on his vacation to tell him in order to wreck his spending and partying because he's very money focused and knowing that he would have to pay the full rent would absolutely kill his vacation.

And he could have the security deposit. It was more than my month's rent and utilities combined.

He was shocked and horrified that I would move out without telling him. He couldn't believe I would do such a thing, betray him like that, not communicate with him because I was the one who taught him how to communicate, taught the value of communication to such a private man.

That weekend, before he left, I was packing in the kitchen. His girlfriend was sleeping in his (our) bed. He told me that he hoped we could still be friends. He told me that he would miss me, my intelligence, humor, wit. That he would miss clubbing with me.

We talked for two hours. I mostly listened to him, how much he would miss me, how he would desire my friendship still. He kept trying to convince me that I should remain friends with him.

Then I asked him why, why had he treated me the way he did.

He looked up without a hint of regret and said, "I thought you could take it."

That's when I imagined punching him in the face.

"I thought you could take it. You were so strong. I assumed you could take it. Apparently you couldn't." His tone expressed disappointment and mild disgust in my apparent lack of ability to "take it".

He elaborated while I wrapped up my glassware in papertowels and newspaper. Talked while I carefully packed up my grandmother's glass punchbowl, the one I had specifically asked for because I knew of his love to throw parties and thought it would make my (ex)boyfriend happy. The same punchbowl that was carefully placed in a box by my aunt with loopy, feminine script on the lid reading, "For all the happy times and memories". The same punchbowl my ex had the brainlessness to ask me if he could use for the Christmas party he and his new girlfriend had been planning. This was for the same Christmas party he asked me to pay for half the Christmas tree and to use my Christmas decorations, when the year prior he made me pay for the Christmas tree myself because he didn't see the point in getting one.

He talked and I envisioned flinging the bowls and glass into his face, pounding his skull into the tile edges of the counter.

I did not show my anger.

Finally, he finished his "I wish we could be friends" two-hour long speech and I went to bed.

A few days later, he said goodbye to me as I went to bed, as he would be boarding a plane early in the morning with his girlfriend to go to New Orleans. I went to bed and when I woke up in the morning I found one of his friends on the couch.

You see, after his heartfelt speech, he decided to sneak one of his friends into the apartment, give him an extra key, and have this friend watch my moving out to make sure I did not steal anything.

Even better, he did not tell this friend that was what he was there for until he left in the morning. The friend was not pleased. I was furious.

I tried to get this man out of the apartment, but even threat of calling the police did not sway him. And I actually liked this guy, so I felt horrible throwing such a fit. It wasn't his fault, he was just a tool.

In the end, he ended up giving me my space, even vacating for an evening... the evening I went and got my tattoo. Yes, move out weekend, the day I departed from the life I had set before myself, the day that I chose the separation from what I had been told to want, I spent eight hours under the needle, getting those black blocks embedded in my skin.

Saturday was moving, my mother, her friend, my best friend, and another good friend. My ex's friend also helped, brought tools and rope.
Sunday was ink. I laid on the floor of my bare room, in the sleeping bag that now accompanies me everywhere, aching from the eight hour long stretch of needles and ink.

And then I was free.

Bliss.

Tires beneath me, sleeping bag and duffel bag in my trunk, fuel in my tank... what else could a girl need?

A few months later, at a club, I ran into the best friend of the woman my ex was now dating. She apologized for her friend's behavior, and then informed me that this woman had been plotting to split us up for over a year and a half. Since they met. That this girl had been crazy for my boyfriend, and that all those little things that I dismissed when she had been around were cues I should have picked up on.

And that the foursome we had at a friend's beach house the summer prior, the one she had initiated with me, my first time with a woman, had been in order to get to my ex.

Two weeks ago, I ran into that same friend. She told me that my so frugal ex had moved her into his apartment some time ago, even though it has only been a little over a year since they started dating, and bought her a car.

Then, last week, I received an invite to a Halloween party, one he had also been invited to. Knowing this, he emailed me.

...to tell me he would not cause a scene should I show.

Because he has something to be angry about? Something worth being pissed about? Some grievance? I did nothing to him. I treated him with respect until the last moment, and even then, I treated him better than he had treated me.

This is not the first time he had emailed me.

So if you re-read that email, knowing what you do, and with my own knowledge that I left many things out that would cause this post to become even longer than it already is, know that the first email I composed in response was full of anger.

And the second, once I had deleted the first, listed the men who have, in some way, harmed me, and how I hated him the most.

And the third, once I had deleted the second, told him how embarassed I was that I had dated him, how he was the butt of my family's jokes.

And once I deleted the third one and composed the final draft, when I hit send, it read:

Please do not email me again.

Thank you.

And that was all.

Come roll the dice for me...

The weather is changing rapidly, from sun and heat to low-hanging clouds and winds that set my hair flying and my lips smiling.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, and this year is a reminder of what has happened, what memories were created in the cold air that stick to me with more strength than summer flings.

Sometimes scents lock it in.

And then I'm back in front of a street light on Beverly, lips connected with his, body wracked with shivers, learning his face again, looking at those wild eyes, those cheekbones, the cornstalk gold of his hair as we press into each other so tightly.

It is me, driving up PCH, bonfires to my left, constellations formed on the beach, windows down, heater blasting with IAMX filling the space around me.

Alone, at a farmer's market, sweaters and scarves.

Haunting a club in Los Angeles, in and out, dancing, sweating, my own world. Recooperating at a diner afterwards, book open on the table in front of me, watching the 3AM stragglers and scensters stagger in and flop into the red vinyl booths, laughing and flirting while sweat dries on my body, peeling sticky clothing away from my skin, staring at myself in the mirror over the sink, light blue walls behind me.

Alone and happy.

Following his car up the freeway for a late night rendevous spent in an oversized bed with his body, a back like steel that I scraped my teeth and tongue along.

And the fears, the anxiety, the roommate/ex-boyfriend combo who I never should have dated, never should have touched, should have listened to my gut.

But it got me out, got me wandering again, searching and exploring, recognizing my need for a safe place, a secure place. Started the couchsurfing and the long walks during the day, trying to get away, trying to avoid that which I always attempted to call home but never truly believed.

It's autumn. My body sings, my body wanders, moves with the rhythms of the clubs and waits to feel the bite of wind and rain, waits for the cold, open windows and the feeling of heat beside me, trapped together beneath sheets.

In a few weeks I will be on a plane to New York. Northeastern autumn, something new.

I have my books, my music, and my need to fly.

Let's go.

For you I wear my Sunday best on Tuesday...

I've been listening much too much to a particular De/Vision song called What You Deserve. For some reason, the lyrics catch me just right.

I was introduced to this song recently, through my clubbing friend.

See, a few weeks ago I was out at a club and this other song came on (don't watch that video, by the way, I'm fairly certain it's crap, but the song is good) and I was blown away by the beat. Much dancing ensued.

My clubbing friend, by my request (which was delivered when I saw him walking by the edge of the dancefloor, watching me dance, stopped, screamed at him, "WHAT IS THIS SONG?!" and he shrugged and I said, "FREAKING FIND OUT!"), got the song information and told me he'd burn me a CD with it on it.

The next time I see him, he gives me this CD which he turned into a mix CD of songs he could see me dancing to.

...I'm not sure if that's sweet or creepy. Currently going with sweet.

He does love to watch me dance.

So... maybe creepy.

It was bizarre, listening to that CD. Songs that had been my favorites months ago, years ago, and new songs. A wide variety of genres, too. Yet he nailed it, for the most part. It was a CD of club songs.

Started making me wonder how many days (weeks?) of my life, hours all added up, that I have spent on the dance floor in various clubs through Southern California.

I'm coming up on eight years of clubbing. When there is a "retro" room at a club, chances are that the majority of songs they are spinning are songs that I danced to in clubs when I was 18 or 19, when it was me and one of my closest friends out going several nights a week, coming back blasted out of our minds with exhaustion more often than not.

After I settled down with Stuntcock, then he settled down with his partner, then I escaped mine... it was just me, running solo.

But that's what I like to do.

Darkeyes and I went clubbing every week while we were dating, with him insisting on me teaching him how to dance, if he could ever be taught. His lack of rhythm and body awareness, and his complete inability to take criticism, no matter how well intentioned, meant that I was stuck with a clubbing partner who could not dance, who usually ended up injuring others with his dancing, myself, with all my years of learning how to dodge and move around others, included.

He was that bad.

How embarassing for me.

Anyhow, I went out to a club last Sunday, a big event. Showing up early and knowing people working the event led me to volunteer to help. So, for a good hour+, I was working the line at the door.

Yes, that's right.

I was an honorary doorwoman. I entertained myself in the wait by making sexist comments and making fun of the patrons. It went over oddly well.

After the initial crowd died down, I escaped the door and went to enjoy my evening.

Where some man tried to pick me up with the following line:

"Do you ever find yourself missing someone else's cat?"

...
...
...

This was followed by the worst physical escalation I've possibly seen in the last several years, which consisted of him leaning towards me (even though we were outside on the patio and I could hear him just fine), putting his crotch on my hip, his chest on my shoulder, and half-shouting into my ear about this cat and how I have to see pictures of this cat on his cell phone, which, against my protests, he showed me.

This was when I hunted down my still nickname-less clubbing friend and told him he had to play the role of boyfriend/lover until this guy got off my back.

Sidenote: I'm normally okay with telling people that I don't have interest in them and to cut it out, but some people are so socially inept that to tell them such things is to provoke an argument as to why they are unworthy of my interest. This was close enough to one of those men that I did not wish to do this.

Oh, and while I was running around dodging this guy, that guy I one-night standed last November was there giving me the eyeball and I was polite and fine until he spent the length of three songs watching me dance, making me wonder if he was going to leave another creepy voicemail on my phone with the message being, "Hi, I was... uh... watching you... uh... dance... and I was... uh... wondering... if you were doing... anything... uh... later tonight."

This, this is what happens when you pick up someone at a club. They might be good looking (apparently he was a vampire extra on the (second) season finale of True Blood , so, yes, he's hot enough), and they might past as socially competent, but this was fail.

Also, when a man keeps the used condoms because he believes in his pagan ways that consuming his own sperm is a way of cycling energy, you just leave. You go, "Thank you for an odd, odd, evening and for bruising my cervix but I am leaving you and your sperm-filled condoms here, good-bye." And then you run.

I mean, it's been coming up on a year now and he's still trying.

So I see him and he's watching me and I'm pretending I don't see him because I take my glasses off when I dance and, eventually, he realizes that I'm not going to be stopping anytime soon so he wanders off and I hang out for another song before stepping off the floor to find my friend out on the patio, who tells me he's not going to be joining me for out usual post-club dinner, and I'm walking with him back into the club asking why not and the one-night guy overhears us so I'm standing there going fuck-fuck-fuck.

Because, after ever club I see him at, he always approaches me to go home with him and I always turn him down because I have other plans.

This leads me spending the end of my evening (when I'm not dancing) clinging to my friend like his penis is the best thing in the world and no other will satisfy me.

While on the floor, the guy who tried to pick me up with the cat comment (and the conversation had continued from there), joins me on the dancefloor and says, "I'm going to blame (insert clubbing friend's name here) for this."

Just this obscure, flailing shot in the dark, declaring interest, nodding that he had been "defeated" by a better male, etc etc lameness.

So I looked at him with my best confused-blonde expression and said, "Huh? What do you mean?"

He smiled at me like I was a dope, this condescended grin, and said, "Ah, nothing," like he was the Most Mysterious Man In The World.

This was, mind you, after he saw me with my friend, which was before he decided to take offense at my inavailability and strut by me, then plant himself two inches away from me with his back to me, staring into space for a good three minutes before strutting away.

Men, men are morons.

While all of that stupid male crap was going on, I was running interference for my clubbing buddy, whose ex-girlfriend of four years decided to show up to the club with her new boyfriend (mmm, two day rebounds), which sent my friend into all sorts of emotional melancholy so I was running around checking on him constantly, harassing him, flirting with him, making fun of people with him so he'd keep distracted.

Along with the rest of the usual club madness. Drunks, staggering, dodging lit cigarettes, dodging morons on the dance floor, and then some girl taking to me strongly and wanting to dance with me and be all "oooh, lesbian sexy" with me which was... something I don't engage in. But then the DJ joined us on the dancefloor and she cut that out.

Interesting night.

Overly long, pointless journal post.

But at least I'm not saving used condoms for dessert.