Body is sore, though not nearly as bad as it was after that threesome that was followed up by a morning of cross-fit. I did love how I could hardly move between the bruises on my skin and the muscle tension, propping myself up against a wall in the SFO airport waiting for my flight.

Last night was spent mired in Shakespeare. I felt like I was drowning in asshattery poorly disguised in flowered verse. Deception, I don't understand. Villany for the sake of villany I also do not understand. I need a motive. Much Ado About Nothing, both the book followed by the movie, left me annoyed. The wordplay, his puns, the innuendo, was lovely.

The characters, their failings, and the complete inability anyone could have in relating to them, was not.

Heart of Darkness was so much better. My bare feet kicked over the side of a leather armchair at Starbucks, highlighter alternately dangling from my fingers or my lips, happily burying myself in a battle between lofted civilization and the internal darkness of man, the changes that take place, but on the inside, as the good doctor told Marlowe.

Now that, that was a book.

I've started Chopin's The Awakening in order to free up the coming weekend and actually read my pleasure books. East of Eden and A Preferred Blur have been tossed by the wayside (the backseat of my car) until reading can resume.

Finished my paper last night, post-phonecall from GV8, discussing where he is, what he wants. Ever the pleaser, I tell him to tell me his desires, and I will act accordingly. More time spent will, uncontrollably, mean emotions entangled no matter what I wish to do because I've violated my own set rule: not to make lovers out of men you would actually date. So I tell him this, that if he is willing to explore that again, after calling a halt on our progression towards a relationship, then he needs to inform me. And if he does not wish to do so, we need to continue spending the amount of time we already do, so I do not get entangled with him.

If that happens, I will need to pick up another partner. I will need to pull back from him and exert balance in my life with a man of equal value, if I can find one that suits.

My monogamous nature, such as it is, makes this hard.

When I attach, I lose interest in others. I have no need for outside partners, unless it pleases the one I am with.

Which means, right now, while I would be able to have sex without issue with Playboy or HWF, because I have been with them before and repeatedly, a new partner makes me uncomfortable. I would have to break myself of that, make myself uncomfortable, and sleep with someone, like Ev, that I know would please me, once I got over this internal distaste in touching men other than GV8 or those previously established.

And Ev still is pursuing.

But I will not know what to do with that until GV8 determines what it is he wants.

It bothers me that I'm such a pleaser. That he has shown me what kind of man he is, and I can do nothing but adore, as much as I wish I would not. Someone so strong, so dominant, so experienced... I'm drawn in. He will let nothing defeat him and he has no fears.

So I'll sit and play, sit and wait. See what he does.

And we'll see what happens.

...I'm caught between laughter and... well, more laughter, I suppose.

My reputation continues to follow me through the years.

So I bit that guy's lymph node in half? He told me where to bite and how hard to bite and I did.
So I left bite marks all over that other guy's penis when I convinced one of my female friends it would be a good idea for the both of us to go down on him? He liked it.
So I broke that that one guy's nose on my pubic bone? He had a big nose.
And when the other guy pulled a muscle in his thigh and was down and out, that wasn't at all my fault. He was in control of the positioning. Sure, he was an acrobatic performer and in top shape, but still...


And then I get a text from someone in that social circle.

"What are you doing this weekend?"
"I'm going to -----. You as well?"
"Yeah. Having a BBQ on Sunday, a bunch of my bros will be there. You should come."
"Stop whoring me out to your friends. What time?"
"Call me."

"Hey, Fox, what's up?"
"About 40 of my friends are coming in from out of town. Thursday night we're having a party, Friday night we're going to -----, Saturday night we're getting rooms at the ----- Hilton and trashing the place, Sunday is the BBQ. 2PM."
"I have a date Thursday and Sunday. Saturday and Friday nights are good. I'll be there."
"Ditch your date on Sunday, come to the BBQ."
"You're just trying to even out a sausage fest, Fox."
"My boys are in from out of town for the weekend, V."
"And you're hoping I hook up with one or two of them to make sure they have fun."
"Well..."
"Stop who--- crap, I'm at work. You know what I mean. I'll think about it. I don't want to hook up with a bro."
"They're not bros."
"I hope not. I'll think about it."
"2PM. My pad."
"I know."

I like how he doesn't deny it. How he just wants to impress his boys, show them a good time, and he's calling his single female friends to do that. And he knows that if I did hook up with them, that I would be cool with it being a one-timer. Because he knows I'm not batshit clingy or emotional, and I've got a reputation for wildness.

I should get paid for this.

I'm going to dress up, do the make-up, hang out, flirt, spin a few heads, and if I actually find someone worth my sex, then we're solid and, if not, that's fine as well.

Which means I have an excuse for cancelling on Ev. Relief. Because I don't want to sleep with him anymore. I don't want to deal with a recurring partner that I have to play a role for.

Maybe that's why I like one night stands so much.

Maybe?

That is it.

I don't have to be anything that I don't want to be. I get, for once, to be me.

Was talking with a friend last night, on my way home from work.

This is a man I am... decently close to. He shares my feelings of alienation, even though the source is not the same, even though we cannot truly relate to one another on what makes us feel disconnected, and the ways we each handle it are different, how we view it... it's still there.

Yesterday, we were talking about my disconnect. Well, for the most part. Conversations with him tend to easily derail, frustratingly so.

It was actually funny.

Started off with a general, "I'm sick of taking lovers that I can never relax around, never be myself around."

With him advising, "Well, be yourself and then those who can accept you will find you and you'll relax."

And by the end of the conversation, oh a good thirty, forty minutes later, he was saying:

"Yeah, maybe you should just keep those parts of you inside and just act normal around your lovers."

When I started laughing at him for the differing advice, he backtracked, but didn't really retract his ending sentiment.

The frustration I feel so often pervades my male-centered relationships. The need for self-control, for accepting, the need to be low-maintenance and low-drama because I am able to do so. Lying in bed with one, watching his face, watching his body language, laughing at his jokes, picking apart his words, looking at him with adoration, doing everything I can to please him, type depending on who I'm with.

Blond and Studly, Darkeyes, and Ev preferred the girl next-door/independent woman combo.
GV8 and Stuntcock preferred the strong woman turned sex-starved sub.
SFPlayboy prefers the strong woman-player, turned sex-starved sub for him.
Riot of Tattoos is simple, preferring the submissive slut at all times.
Zat and VG prefer the girl next-door.

Hardwood Floors and Wolfboy were the closest I have gotten in a long, long while of just being able to be myself.

But with Wolfboy, I still have to be gentle. God, do I have to be gentle with him.

I have to be gentle with all of them, though with Playboy I can be a little more me.

I'm too nice, too concerned.

Maybe it's atonement, as I sometimes suspect. Making up for misdeeds, for the damages and pain I have caused others, and my relatively new ability to actually be empathetic.

Maybe it's my constant need to please, to serve, taking the edge off of the fact that I have had no one to truly focus my submissive nature on for almost a year. I miss that. I maybe need to find a dom, something every two or three weeks to allow me to focus on myself and, of course, to allow my body to heal.

That's probably not the answer, though.

It'd be nice, but I doubt it would do anything other than relieve my need and take another chunk of time out of my schedule.

Anyhow, back to where I was.

Talking with my friend, having him advise me to just keep things inside. To not let my partners know how much I study them, how much I read them, how much I adjust myself and my behaviors based on their feedback, based on creating a web of self-disclosure where I disclose stuff that should be so personal (and it does sound as such) causing them to disclose stuff that is actually personal so I can use that information as I see fit.

I mentioned, a few posts ago, about getting a guy so wrapped around me that he ended up slamming his head into the hood of his car repeatedly, and I was apathetic and slightly amused. I did not mention the next day, where I spotted a male friend and proceeded to act upset over the events of the previous night, and he held me, comforted me, consoled me, continuing with my own internal apathy and amusement on how easy it was to do these things.

That was... hm, I was seventeen. Second semester in college. Probably Spring semester, 2001. Eight and a half years ago.

Fortunately, several months later, I managed to complete my process of burn-out. Destroying everything that I found sacred, my little trial by fire.

Cheating on the boyfriend, purposeful alcohol poisoning, squatting by the traintracks smoking left-over roaches, Mountain Dew can for a bong in the alley, drugged up threesome, cutting myself just to fuck with my closest friends (still have the scars, yay), alluding to my parents the things I was doing that they had no control over just to destroy that relationship with them, stealing thousands and thousands of dollars of merchandise that I did not even want, finding the sleazest, most strung-out guys I could just to make myself part of them, making out with the boyfriend of my bestfriend, picking up horrible men in front of my friends who were so worried about me just to hurt them, flunking out of college, picking up men online, men so much older than me, never learning their names, going back to their places with no knowledge or thought of safety, being used, leaking semen out of whatever orifice they felt fit to use. Heh, using one of my friend's houses as a pick up point. They had no idea what to do. The men that used me, used me. The men that loved me, liked me, cared for me, I purposely fucked with like I did with Jake. Taking my parents' money, my mother going to bed in tears.

Yes, I know this.

I know all of this.

The things that set you apart.

Burning myself out so well that my own mother admits that while she loves who I am now, she mourns who I used to be. That she never envisioned this life for me, how I am such a different person than I was, that it is like the girl I used to be died and she was given another child grown.

People wonder why I am not more cynical, how I can still believe in love, if I am even capable of love.

People wonder how I am not as damaged as I should be.

They didn't see the years of work. The sitting down and taking count of what I did, how I did it, why I did it, and what it did to me. And the battles I had to fight, the behaviors I had to recognize and change, the people who believed in me and supported me, who put up with my internal struggles.

I'm healthy. Not 100%, but certainly more than most of the people I know. Given my history, it's surprising, not only to me, but to others.

But I'm not normal.

You don't get to be "normal" again.

You get to learn how to fit in, you get to learn what to say, what not to say, how to present yourself so people aren't necessarily aware of any difference between us. You learn how to hide, how to camoflauge yourself. You know that when you enter a social group the first few times, the easiest thing to do is shut your mouth and observe until you know who outranks who and in what way you can integrate yourself and how much you can relax into who you are, what skin will fit and how much maintenance it will take.

To exercise parts of yourself, you keep different social groups with different values, different ideas of morals, of what is acceptable. Alternate through them so you don't feel too trapped in one role. Multiple lovers means multiple avenues of exercise. You don't have to wear the same face, and you find that some of them adore you, are intrigued by your internal struggle, by your different faces, and you learn to identify that. They want to protect you, want to be special.

They can't. And they never are.

You're told that you're like so many others, but when you give input, you're told that it is invalid because you're an outlier and you find yourself more amused than frustrated.

My friend, the one I started this post off about, he's one of the few who has recognized, without being told, that I have more walls up than anyone ever realizes. Everyone considers me so open, so out there and honest and easy to get along with, easy to talk to, easy to confess to... because of the openness that doesn't actually exist.

I don't like being told that I'm crazy. I don't like being told that I'm cold and calculating. I don't like being told that I'm manipulative and studied, that being the way I am is the wrong way to be and normal people, normal people aren't like me and I need to seek psychological help because I need to fall in line so people feel safe around me.

Not everyone is the same. The line that I should fall into is one I would not care to join. It hurts every time someone sees me, sees what I'm doing, and tells me I am horrible for being the way I am, for viewing the world the way I do, like it was a choice I made or a symptom of horrific damage and if only I dealt with my psychological damage, my baseline would change and I would be a different, happier person.

Because I couldn't possibly be happy as I am.

And they never believe me, can't wrap their brains around how happy I am, how much I enjoy life, enjoy the people in it.

It's apparently impossible to be different and happy.

But somehow I manage.

Where you'll be, I'll go...

Tired again.

Up too late again.

Mulling over gut instincts, mulling over apathy where it should be and where it should not. Mulling over my desire to retreat from this social life I've made for myself, to take a week off, get a hotel somewhere up the coast, and stop living for other people.

Too many pressures.

Trying too hard to maintain social connections, emails piling up, phone calls, texting, schedules to mix, people to be nice to even when I feel like screaming. I set aside time to respond to these things, but it's never enough.

I'm getting snappy and irritable.

I'm looking at this thing with Ev, how we are supposed to be spending the 23rd together in his bed... and I don't want to.

He's an intelligent, attractive man. Not my usual type (blond), but he's desirable to me.

And, right now, I really don't want him in any way, shape, or form.

I have no interest in shacking up with someone else, even if on a monthly basis. Even with a man such as him, who is a genuine nice guy with alpha tendencies.

I just don't see the point.

Sex and some bruises? Bite marks on my shoulders and breasts? I can get that from a number of claimed sources. I don't need a new one.

I don't need another one with a man that will never line up with me. That I will never sync with, that I will never be able to relax and truly be myself with.

I'm done. I'm sick of hooking up with decent, attractive men that I feel nothing with, nothing for, other than the excitement of the experience of a new body. Of having that, again, total disconnect between us, one that is only hidden by my strivings to act as though it is not there.

Wonder if they ever know?

The act, the words, the laughter, the temporary genuine enjoyment of time spent. And then you separate, and they fade from mind because they're nothing in your head, nothing in your heart, and you knew that, knew it from the moment you set eyes on them, but you wanted them anyhow, enjoyed them anyhow, so you took and pleasured and eventually they'll meet someone (because you never will) and totter off while you wish them luck in love, without bitterness, without anger, just knowing that you'll have to find another next time you feel the need.

Yes.

That's it. That's all it's going to be.

Draw more and more into yourself.

Ring on your finger, nose buried in a book, filling your days with work, with research, with improving, so that maybe, one day, you'll reach your own goals and you won't feel so... incomplete? No. So you won't constantly look down on yourself for never achieving what you should have, never being what you could have. And maybe that'll enable you to meet someone who actually works for you.

Or maybe not.

With all the books you read, places you go, people you meet, degrees acquired, things learned, what are you going to do?

Watch that man go by you. Maybe a moment in grocery store, you look up and your body jolts, your eyes meet, and you know that he's like you. You see the expression of surprise on his face as he stares back.

And you keep walking.

Dive back into a world where other people equate to a lack of relaxation, where friends, no matter how close, mean behavioral control because you're always supposed to be that one on top of everything, that one who swishes her hips and walks down the line. Your male friends love you because you're one of them. Because they can say anything to you and you never even think about judging them. They think you're so bad ass, one of the guys as you sit with them, pointing out the hotties as they walk by.

And you wonder if this is who you are.

Until you get away again, until you center. You point due north until another force takes you for a spin, alters your directions temporarily.

You're happier alone, but sometimes people summon. The lights, the dancing, the observations and humor around you are tempting and you come out, get embroiled, and then you have to extracate yourself again.

How many times do you do this before socializing loses all appeal? Until the idea of spending time around other people causes your gag reflex to engage because you simply can't stomach the thought of putting on another socially acceptable show. Being desired starts to lose meaning, starts to lose worth, and now you engage in it simply to cause others issue.

It's not a burn out, but it's a definite need for space.

How much longer am I going to do this?

Backstabber, backstabber, backstabber...

I'm not actually listening to the Dresden Dolls right now. But, somehow, that song is stuck in my head, and has been since yesterday. Maybe a sign?

I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.

But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.

I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.

I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.

It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.

That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."

And I am.

A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.

No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.

You see the situation and you handle it.

$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.

If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.

I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.

While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.

Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.

Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.

Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.

I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."

It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.

I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.

But then someone started fighting and I left.

I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.

I felt so at peace.

And then I looked around.

There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.

I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.

As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.

I believe I told him, "I know."

Heavy petting ensued.

And I woke up.

It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.

Maybe it's just in my head.

People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.

But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.

Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.

Even after that, he proposed.

I was 17.

I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.

I was an angry, disconnected child.

Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.

It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.

I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.

I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.

The first step to all this is becoming alone.

A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.

But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.

I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.

September 5th. A year of singledom.

Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.

Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.

Somethings will never change...

Saturday consisted of a nap cut much too short, dinner with a friend, and clubbing with C.

I so rarely take naps. Mostly because I don't have the time, partially because I have a hard time falling asleep during the day.

But I dozed. It was lovely. A little too warm, but that's okay. I rolled my sleeppants up and sprawled across my bed, shifting my face every so often to find the cool spot on the pillow, the breeze coming through my windows causing my door to rattle slightly in its frame.

And, of course, just as I was about to submit to sleep, my phone rings, causing adrenaline to rush through my system, knocking any chance of actual sleep clear out of the realm of possibility. Dinner was being relocated, I agreed to the new location (grudingly), and sighed as I hung up.

Lying in bed, annoyed that we were no longer going to the bistro I enjoy so much, annoyed that the restaurant we were now going to was a bit overpriced and had nothing resembling healthy eating on the menu, annoyed that the remaining twenty-five minutes I had alloted for my nap were now purposeless.

I popped in Kino's Journeys. It's a rather unknown anime mostly, I think, because it deals a lot with the philosophy of ethics, with ideas of ethnocentrism, and there are no "traditional" anime characters. No catgirls, no big-breasted women, no rogue warriors, no cute sidekicks that get people in trouble, no young boys trained in the art of random-x martial art, no highschool girls in mini-skirts. No, it's just a young, self-reliant girl travelling a world made up of hundred and hundred of countries with vastly different values and traditions, and how she explores those countries and their varying cultures... no lessons are learned, no morals imparted. It's just an analytical, impartial view of the world.

It's good stuff. Only thirteen episodes, unfortunately. Dialogue is spectacular and minimum, music is much the same.

Reluctantly got up after that, got dressed for dinner/clubbing since I would be going straight to the club afterwards. Fortunately for me, getting "dressed up" involves wearing a dress and doing make-up, as opposed to the "I'm lazy and apathetic about you people" look that I go for most nights. But it's still casual and minimal, which means I can pass for being dressed like a normal (relatively) person when I'm out.

Dinner was... a task.

I was hoping that I would be able to talk to my friend about sex, about my writing, about what she would like to see me write, what topics she enjoyed on my (other) blog, etc. Her sexual history is... well, blows mine out of the water. But she was a model traveling all over the place, going to places that I would never (want to) go to. Drinking, drug-use, etc. She's now in her late 40s, but she's very fun to hang out with, always has wonderful stories, always has a good word.

Saturday, however, I began to think I was cursed.

We were at this place for... two hours? And I probably got thirty sentences in. She just talked and talked and talked and when I tried to slide in, she ran right over me without notice. So I just leaned back and listened. For the first hour. Halfway into the second hour, I was squirming and had a headache. There was no way to stop her without being rude and, since she normally does not do this, I assumed that something was up, that she needed to talk, or at least needed someone to listen to her, whatever her reason.

So I did.

Finally, we parted.

I didn't get a chance to talk to her about my stuff.

My head was pounding.

I think I'm becoming too good of a listener, because that seems to be all people are requiring me for.

So I drove to a little indie coffee shop with my notebook and started breaking things down, outlining my life of sex, the things that shaped me, in what order I could remember, breaking it into chunks seperated by serious boyfriends/long-term relationships.

An hour or so into that, I was feeling grimy. Searching your memory for emotions, for little details forgotten, for scents and words and what attracted you to who and how that was manipulated, consciously or not, and why we do the things we do.

The girl I used to be, man... I'm so glad I'm no longer like that.

I had to take a break. I had to get away from that feeling of grime, of patheticness.

I texted GV8, but he was working.

I texted C, and her plans for the evening had fallen through, so she was going to go clubbing with me. I hightailed it over there, arriving about ten minutes before she did. I dropped myself into a book, someone else's words and thoughts to take me away from my own. Then she arrived, upset. Dropped the book onto the chair beside me and asked what was wrong.

Trouble with one of her friends. I laid on her bed and listened while she got ready to go. Within a few minutes, I had her laughing, cheered up. We watched the end of Pretty In Pink (Duckie playing nice guy game... sigh), and went on our way.

I liked the venue. Good atmosphere, great sound... tiny dancefloor. Stupid tiny dance floor that stayed packed almost the entire evening.

I hadn't realized, when I saw the flyer for it, that it was an anniversary club. And that the DJs that had been put together were almost like an overview of the last couple of decades. So we started out modern and ended up dancing to 70s and 80s. We bailed at 130AM. I love the modern stuff, C loves the 80s, but when we hit 70s, we were done.

I had actually been feeling kinda iffy and down on myself when we arrived.

Last week, dinner with friends, Ev was there. I was sitting down, studying, and he went to hug me goodbye and I looked up at him. I think he thought I was going for the kiss, and looked at me awkwardly, hesitating. I had been buried in a book, so when I looked up, I was looking at him going, "Is he going to kiss me?? Really???" and awkwardness ensued until a I tilted my chin up so not to reject him and he pecked me on the lips.

It was awkward. And C mentioned she saw it and the look of confusion on his face and hesitation and I was sitting there facepalming myself because I'm usually so good with that stuff, but the social situation was odd, to say the least. Didn't know what to do. Lame. I hate that feeling of total inexperience.

So I was mentally kicking myself when we arrived.

Fortunately, shortly after we got there, a certain man showed up.

Two of them, actually. One who I turned down for sex who subsequently threw a fit and started spreading rumors about what a slut I was, the other, a friend of his who asked me out last December, solely to see if he could sleep with me (as according to rumor) and examine me like an animal in a zoo. No, I did not sleep with him. I was open to it, but it didn't happen. Thankfully. I mean, yes, it would have been funny to sleep with this guy, but not his friend who was so bitter about me not sleeping with him, but I hate deception. And this guy lied to me about his intentions.

So I see those two at the bar and my usual, "Oh, fuck this" anger filled me.

I leaned over to C and quite obviously started whispering in her ear and eyeing them. And then I proceeded to find everyone I knew in the club and mingle, from the regulars that make the scene to the beautiful girls that come out every so often (a set of which invited me to do shots with them at the bar, which I had to regretfully decline). So I circled, hugged, hello'd, chatted, and danced my way through the growing crowds. I hopped onto the dancefloor and moved like I do, coordinated, in control, and good. The man who wished to examine me like a bug, who believed rumors, and more than likely encouraged them, who cut our date short as the man I turned down summoned him to a bar (so they could gather and talk about me... such chicks), started watching me, watching me interact with people, watching me dance... and there you go.

He stood on a mini-balcony the entire club, talking to almost no one, not dancing, not smiling, just standing, awkward and mildly drunk. And I laughed and smiled. I was even presented with the opportunity to socially cockblock, and I leapt on it. Wasn't major, but it amused me.

And then, in their retro review, they actually played one of my favorite songs from years ago: Revolting Cock's "Beers, Steers, and Queers". I've heard that song played once, maybe twice, in a club in the last five years. And it's so fun to dance to. Reminds me of the first time I heard it, at this tiny little club that was the predecessor to what is now the biggest, most popular club in the scene right now. And dancing to it on a near empty dance floor with my best friend at the time.

God, we had fun.

When I heard the opening to that song, I bolted to the dance floor, knocking into people, grinning wildly.

It was great. After that song, the night just couldn't get any better.

I managed to corner one of my guyfriends who, unfortunately, had started professing interest in me.

He's a cool guy. Great to hang with, been in the scene and a known pillar of it for over ten years. I love hanging out with him and his friends. He's a good dancer, and he's been around long enough to recognize styles, movement, analyze it. One of the biggest compliments I've ever been given while out at a club was from him, when we first met. He told me I was one of the best dancers there.

But I'm not interested.

And I continue to do my best to express my lack of interest in dating or sleeping with him. I have a feeling, that in a few weekends when a group of us are going camping, I'm going to have to sit him down and tell him no. Just flat out I'm not interested, he's not my type, and that isn't going to change.

I hate doing that. Hate it. I feel like such a jerk.

But that's the way it is.

Letter to a stranger...

What am I supposed to say to you?

Sunday morning, I woke up to a man's hands running all over my body, my shoulder, the dip of my waist, cresting my hip, sliding between my legs as I lie still on the mattress, barely audible moans starting to emmanate from my throat.

He slides into me and we spend the next few hours engaging in different forms of sexual activity. My teeth and tongue on his chest and shoulders have him calling me an animal, and even though I'm on top, I know he could flip me over and subdue me in an instant.

It doesn't matter.

Breakfast and laughter, shared silence in the morning over coffee, watching the trickling of "early" risers on Sunset Boulevard.

We separate, and I go and write, I go and fill pages with my thoughts.

A few hours later, I'm in the arms of another man.

We're on the top story of a parking structure that overlooks all of Hollywood and Los Angeles, the moon is up behind us, the sun to my left, wind blowing my hair back as he presses his body against me roughly, fingers sinking into my flesh just below my collar bones, elicting whimpers and high pitched gasps, he traps my wrists against the wall behind me and grinds his pelvis into mine. I trail my tongue down the side of his neck, to his earlobe and back, he's quietly moaning and I writhe, undulating against him with that dancer sway I use at the clubs.

I know if I said the word, we'd be back at his place, in his bed.

But I hold off. Too many factors in play.

As the sun slides behind a building, we begin to lose our light and I know, I know that I'm going to be late to my friend's birthday dinner.

His girlfriend texts him, she's coming back from her mini-vacation with her other lover. My friend calls me, to ask when I'm arriving.

So we split, making plans for the next time.

I drive down the 101, to the 110, listening to Placebo. I get off at the wrong exit on a whim, but I memorized a map of the area earlier that morning, so it was no issue to find the place.

Steak, wine, bread. Friends are drinking and eating. I talk and laugh, am introduced to strangers, and when I go to leave, people begin to chant at me to kiss the birthday boy.

I decline.

The drive back home has me fading, has me loving the feel of forward motion, the rhythms of my car rocking me to sleep, but I drive like this more often than not.

I get home. My mother is up still, sitting in the family room, reading a book. I set my bags down and join her on the couch, tilting sideways and bringing my legs up, wrapping my body around a pillow, chin resting on the upper corner.

She asks me if I had a chance to talk to my sister. We speak on it for a minute, and then my sister and her boyfriend walk in the door. The boyfriend sits down in the armchair, my sister sits on top of him.

He's a robot. He's lost all personality as he scrapes by, intent on his depression, in love with being a victim.

My sister talks to my mom, obviously having built herself a shell of detachment and mild irritation to cover her fear and anger, her hurt at the situation.

But she's not as practiced as I am, and the shell starts to crack in front of me. Minor fractures that only I would recognize.

My eyes flutter closed and I listen to them talk, chin rubbing lightly on the pillow beneath me.

Ten minutes pass, and the pair goes upstairs to regroup. The airconditioner is on in full force because of the recent mini-heatwave, and it covers the whispered words my mother and I exchange.

She asks me how I think the talk went, about the opinions she gave, how frustrated everything is, how she is so distraught over the whole messed up situation, how much she has given and how little my sister acknowledges it. She asks if I'm upset, and I tell her no, that the only two things that bother me about the situation are that my father disrespected my mother's wishes and did not consult her before unleasing his temper, and that my sister is unable to see the flaws in her choice of mate, looking at him with blind love, which I find imbalanced and foolish.

At first, my mother denies any anger at her husband for going behind her back to deal with the situation. But I leave the space open, I let her talk, and as she does, her words shift, the emotions shift, and she opens. She is upset, she is hurt, she was furious and so sad about what happened, but there's nothing she can do about it at this point. Disrespect, so easy for my father to engage in, and never before has my mother opened up to me about how hurt it makes her feel. She's always denied it in the past.

I listen to her talk, leaning my side against the couch, eyes still half-closed.

When she says something I think is incorrect, I gently point out how my sister sees what's going on, and acknowledge that, yes, it does seem incorrect, but incorrect or not, it's how she feels and my mother needs to be aware of it and respect her feelings.

We talk about my past a little, and how my father handled it. The endless lectures, the constant judgment and total inacceptance.

And then I go upstairs to shower.

When I get out, toweling myself off, I hear voices through the bathroom door.

My sister is on the stairs, my mother at the base of them, and they're talking. My sister feels that my mother and father have not given enough help to her and her boyfriend. She wants money, or she wants to give up college so she and her boyfriend can move to Las Vegas, where rent is cheaper.

I brush my teeth, debating for a few minutes if I should speak to her boyfriend, who is in the next room.

To tell him to listen to the conversation downstairs, that my sister is willing to give up her future, her comfort, her wellbeing, for him. That he's the pressure on her, tearing her apart from her parents. That she hasn't truly been happy since she's been dating him. And how he could ever say he truly loves her? If you love someone, you want them to be the happiest, healthiest, and best off they can be. If that's with another person, you let them go. If that's in another state, you let them go.

Because you want the world for them.

He's a self-centered leech. He would allow her to give up her schooling, allow her to move to Las Vegas, in order to keep her. He lets her fight all his battles, lets her help pay his bills, when he needed a place to live, she was the one looking for it, not him.

I did not. I finished brushing my teeth and went to bed.


We dance between worlds, between beings, between ways of being. Because there are parts of us that we can't show other people. I take up with men who understand that a relationship is not currently for me. I take up with men who expect no promises, but value my friendship, value my body, value the dynamic we have in bed. I swing through devoted lover, bedwarmer, sex-starved slut, confidant, therapist, teacher, coworker, student, and writer, and I do this all with the constant voice in the back of my head analyzing and watching, urging me to manipulate, engineer. Body language, tones, word selection. Information is relayed in what people say and what they don't, and I listen for what they don't.

Going between two partners in less than four hours is no issue. I've had weeks where I was out, and/or sleeping with, a different man almost every night. Five dates over the course of a weekend is no issue, though I won't sleep with most of them, though I could.

I go through this. I go through watching GV8 test the waters, watching him to see what he does, to see what he wants. I listen to his word choice, I watch the angle and drive of his stories, and learn about his goals. His body language in bed cements it, and I understand, make estimates and probabilities. My brain is a constant flow-chart of "if..., then..." statements.

When I spoke to my sister on the phone before I arrived home, she told me of her plan now that her boyfriend would have to move out, complete with the logic behind it.

To a perfect 'T', it was exactly as I predicted. Her reasoning was mine, word for word, presented to my mother weeks ago.

So I made a counter-point to her, one that was easy to make, that followed her own logic. The one that would cause minimum damage.

When I got up this morning, my father was up in the kitchen, putting on his shoes, his white button-up not yet tucked into his slacks. I was eating applesauce, leaning against the counter, and he asked me, casually, if I had talked to my sister.

I gave him an affirmative, but no more. I let him draw himself out, listened to the slow, careful queries, the ones that would indicate how he actually felt. Left that gaping space open so that if he wanted any information, he would have to provide it to me first.

I had been awake for fifteen minutes, after spending a good chunk of the night listening to my mother and sister, but not interfering.

Fifteen minutes and barely awake, and I was pushing the buttons I needed to push in order to operate the machine that is my father.

What are you supposed to say to that?

I'm turning into a puppeteer.

And you know what you're doing, too, when you move the pieces around the board with this combination of self-loathing and supreme satisfaction. The dark hero, plagued by demons. It's not a fakery, but it's not everything. We both know that if there wasn't a love, a drive, a desire, to do it, to do what we do, the way we do it, we'd stop.

Even when we're falling apart, even at emotional heights, there's always a part that isn't reaching us. A part of us to reserved, so isolated and untouchable, that whatever emotions we experience, we're not fully experiencing them.

Disconnected naturally, and then disconnected once more by the sheer fact that we aren't quite with everyone else.

Yes, I know.

So I keep myself separate. Relationships are a no go. You dive right in, and I wonder if you feast on the destruction that follows, or if it's just a sidenote.

What do you want? Do you know?

Don't forget to take your meds...

I'm finally able to put up one of my favorite quotes. It's taken long enough.

"I sometimes need to write things which I cannot completely control but which therefore prove that what is in me is stronger than I am." ~ Albert Camus

In other news...

The wedding was awkward. I know, I know, it's a wedding! It should be hunting grounds for me, finding the men that like to game the girls who come and sigh over the romance of the lovebirds.

And it normally would be.

Except it was the wedding of my boss. Work behavior. We had customers there. So I had to sit and... eh. Do nothing.

What was also disconcerting for me was that I was one of, what, maybe eight white people there? Not including the waitstaff. Possibly more like six. Yes, I know a little Chinese, at least enough to understand the flow of conversations, but I can't pick up guys in Mandarin. That language is so very tonal and I'm so poor in trying to speak it. So not only was there this language barrier, but, in heels, I was a giantess at 5'11", a rampaging Godzilla who departed Japan in a westerly direction.

I just wasn't feeling it.

So I left early.

Admittedly, I was having fun. I was sitting with the rest of my coworkers, and the husbands of two of our girls are just these amazingly self-confident, awesome guys who were causing havock and running around, dancing like crazy and pulling pranks, messing with the DJ. So that was cool.

But I felt huge. I don't understand why I did not get my sister's bird-like bone structure so I would look like the rest of the family. When I'm surrounded by tiny, modelesque Chinese girls that, even in their heels, only reach my chin, or maybe my collarbones, I get self-conscious.

Hell, and I went shopping before the wedding, looking for a blouse to match a particular skirt, and I could not find a single freaking top that fit my chest and my waist. I just wanted a button-up, I hunted down ones with darts for the leeway my chest needs, and even with that, the buttons were bulging open. If I went up a size, the chest fit, but the waist was like a tent. I went to several different stores and finally just gave up.

So, after that experience, surrounded by lithe little Asians in tiny dresses and their A- or maybe B-cups, I was like, "Uggggggh".

See also: "Wai God, Oh Wai??"

Sorry, was channeling "Choke" for a second.

Fortunately, I had GV8 to get to.

Oh, it was so nice seeing him again. So freaking wonderful. We haven't seen each other since the semi-break-up, so I thought maybe it would be awkward. I'm pretty good at diffusing awkward situations with people I've had sex with, but not always.

But it was perfect and fine. More comfortable than the last two times I saw him.

He showed me the construction on the loft... heh, he's not turning it into a nightclub anymore but an "adult" club. And, oh my god, is this is going to be fun.

Check this out:
-Three glass paneled rooms along the bar for sex. Two will fit two mattresses, the third will fit four.
-Mirrored ceilings (the ceiling is angled)
-Mirrored stripper stage+poles
-Sybian platform, for what sounds like multiple Sybians
-Lockers for clothing and various other items
-Couch/chill area, which may be dubbed something along the lines of "The Blow Zone" or whatever. I'll be hanging out there a lot, if GV8 and I aren't fucking in one of the glass rooms. Something about huge plush couches makes me happy.
-Two additional bathrooms are going up
-The kiddie pool. Heheh, the loft bit upstairs, for those who want to come check out the party, but don't want to participate. You can see everything but the bar from up there. There's also a balconey, which I am hoping to talk GV8 into using for "Sybian Races" to get several girls going up there, see who can grind out the most orgasms in a set time, or just who can do it first. He seemed to be interested in that, which means I'll have to get one of those black and white checkered racing flags.

They're going to be soundproofing the whole building to make sure the neighbors aren't disturbed, which looks like it might be a challenge, but if anyone can do it, it's GV8. Construction is theorized to be done in two to three weeks, so I'm guessing it'll actually be done in four to five weeks, minimum. He already has most of the furniture due to previous clubs and parties he used to have, so that just has to be moved over.

It'll be fun.

Anyhow, we went out to dinner once I got there, sometime around 1130. Unimpressive, but that's what happens at late-night diners in Hollywood.

And something rare happened: I actually orgasmed first. Crazy. I was going down on him when he flipped me around into the usual 69 position, which normally I don't like because the angle that puts you at means that your tongue cannot be on the underside of the shaft, which is where it should be, but... eh. I also don't like the distraction. I'm more of a "Let me work" girl.

But he was good. Much too soon I had dropped his penis from my mouth and laid my head along his right thigh, just moaning. It was a freaking good one, too. Go team.

More sex, more oral, we finally passed out up in the Kiddie Pool around 130-2AM.

But then, it's him. And he must always wake me up at 7AM for more sex. It's like he's got this internal alarm that demands sex at 7. As always, I laid there, feigning sleep, hoping that it wasn't 7AM, but more like 10AM and it was cloudy out which is why the light coming from the skylights was so dim.

Right?

No. It was 7.

Goddammit.

But he's so good, so smooth and wonderful. We shifted through positions near rapidfire, me dumping grapeseed oil on my torso, rubbing it into his chest, sliding on him, sucking earlobes and neck, kissing his jaw, biting his shoulder, riding him.

Oral shifted into handjob, shifted into us masturbating, watching each other until I came again and more oral, more sex. He went for the anal, but it has been so long since I've had anal sex... it was really a no go for me. If he had been more dominant, it would've been fine. But we were relaxed (though I was, obviously, not relaxed enough) and mellow.

He orgasmed a couple more times, and we headed out to Aroma Cafe for breakfast after showering downstairs.

It was so good, feeling the weight of his chest, massaging his thighs, calves, and feet, feeling that body that I thought I may never touch again. I missed that contact, missed his brand of touch, his brand of kiss. The reminder that I always, always kiss with my tongue. Not a french kiss, but I always slide the tip in and caress the lower or upper lip before going for the full kiss and I had never noticed that until he pointed it out to me.

I missed him.

But I did not feel that romantic attachment. I did not feel that need.

I shoved it away. Which is good.

And I wonder if the excitement and happiness from seeing him again, from being with him again, is because I'm just happy for his friendship, or if it's more of a "he still wants me, so I'm still desirable" type deal. Or a blend.

Or, maybe, it's that a guy actually kept true to what he said.

So often, I find men that say they want to hang out again, that they'll call, that we need to go do x-activity together, and I'll smile and say sure. All this is without prompting on my part. And this happens whether or not we sleep together, whether or not I even touch them. Whether or not there's any interest on either of our parts besides friendship.

This is Los Angeles, city of flakes.

I know this, which is why I smile and say sure, and do not expect to hear from them ever again.

So when one that I care for said he'd behave a certain way, and he actually does, it's a... almost relief. It's refreshing and honest. Surprising, even.

He kept marking me, too. My back is a maze of scratches, my shoulders and upper arms bitten, my hips squeezed hard enough to bruise (when he did that, he reminded me of the night we met, how he bruised me on the same side because my tattoo had been too fresh). Ass spanked to mild bruising, of course.

When we first met up that night, once I had stepped upstairs to lie down on the bed (on my stomach), heels kicked up behind me, he dropped down beside me, ran his hand over my ass, then grabbed me by the crotch and lifted my ass up, just started laying into it, pulling me upwards by fingers wrapped over my pelvic bone, stroking me, digging his thumb into me. Whenever he went to leave the bed, I would start to get up and he'd shove me over. If I was on my knees, he'd knock me onto my side. If I just started pushing myself up, he'd shove me over and down again.

Displays of dominance, of ownership.

I let him. I would have let him anyhow, but this was more reassuring to him. Basically saying, "I'm here, I'm yours, I trust you in this, all I wish to do is please you."

Over dinner, he started telling me stories of his wild youth in Hollywood, the crazy parties, tales of picking girls up straight off the street (not prostitutes, just your normal club/party girl) and getting them to come back to the yacht, the Malibu beachhouse, the mansion his friend had access to, and the craziness that occured. How he used to go to Chippendales with two of his guy friends, before it became popular, in order to pick up the drunk bachelorette party attendees once the show was over and they were aroused and wanting sex.

He told me of pick up, he was finding common ground and showing he understood me, or at least wanted to show that he understood more of what I did. He asked me questions about my habits, where I did pick up, why I did it, how often... it was unexpected. And, for some reason, he thought that I did it at clubs. Eesh, no.

That was most of dinnner, him sharing stories and adventures, tales of debauchery and his own days of pick up.

I'm not sure what his intentions are, I'm not sure if he himself knows.

And that's okay.

We had breakfast, as I said, checking out the people on Sunset Boulevard as they walked by, checking out the waitresses, making fun of bizarre fashions as they came our way. Not that I should talk, I suppose. It's not as though I attempt for fashionable attire.

But I don't own a pair of dark orange sherbert high heels, so I suppose that says something in my favor. I hope.

We parted ways around 1PM, making out in front of a collection of people attending an acting workshop. It was... amusing.

I hit Amoeba, looking for two particular CDs that I was, sadly, unable to locate.

And now I'm sitting in Groundwork Cafe, at what looks like a lunch bench, surrounded by people with laptops, writing who knows what as we plug away at the keys. I've been here, writing, for coming up on three and a half hours, after walking through a Farmer's Market on Ivar that I did not even know existed. I have a "let's plan our sex life" date with Ev at 430PM, then a birthday party at some steak place down by USC at 8PM.

Oh, and my father lost his temper last night at my sister's boyfriend, and that rage held over to this morning, where he sat her down without pre-informing my mother (who was asleep at the time) and told her that her boyfriend had to move out ASAP. And when she started crying and saying she was too upset to go to work, he told her that she was going to work because she had to support herself so get going.

...sigh.

I really wish he'd get a handle on it. I know he's stressed, but this lack of control has go to go. He also disrespected his wife's wishes, which, wow, so would not fly with me in the realm of "okay behaviors" if I was her.

So the fallout will start commencing soon.

I called my sister and left a message, telling her that I heard drama commenced this morning and I wanted to make sure she was okay. I'll see her tonight, unless she does what I did and moves out in a rage.

Doubt she will.

Anyhow, I'm sure that I won't be going to sleep at any reasonable hour tonight.

Again.

Suck.

I think I'd prefer staying up for lots of sex rather than staying up for family drama.

But, who knows, maybe she'll put on a sock-puppet show of what happened this morning, and I'll be thoroughly entertained, five stars, great cast, great dialogue, a must see for this season.

Give a little love...

Tired, as per usual.

Tuesday, C went out to kareoke with friends. I stayed in. My cousin's baby was born.
Wednesday, we went out to dinner with another set of friends.
Yesterday, I had dinner with VG and drove around a different set of friends, looking for that all-hallowed bar where we would sit and I would not drink.
Tonight, a concert.
Tomorrow, a date, a wedding, and a night spent with GV8.
Sunday, breakfast with GV8, then shacking up somewhere in Hollywood to write and study.

I know I'm forgetting something. I need to talk to my sister.

Let's break this down a little further.

I don't remember much of Tuesday. I was exhausted. I can't remember if what usually happens, happened: a phone call at 1030 from someone I want to talk to. That always happens when I try to go to bed before 9.

I remember lacing up C's corset. I remember being so tired. I remember reading in bed, and C cooking me chicken. That's all I remember. Just flashes of that.

Wednesday, I picked C and her new interest, Redwing, up, before heading out to dinner. I was picking Redwing's brain for writing ideas, for what I write. For how to write, because I've never taken any input or classes, or been to any conferences. I don't know the "official" process. My writing, it's how I talk. Truly, the way I break my paragraphs, the excess of commas, it's where I space things. People are always startled when they meet me after reading my stuff for so long, to find that the voice in their head matches the voice I speak with.

We drove to the place, a little diner-type out in Los Feliz area.

The man I wrote of last week, the one that I was interested in so briefly, but then I realized that there was no point because he's not my kind, well, he was there. I think I'm going to call him Ev.

Prolonged eyecontact, conversations, me making sure that I was engaging everyone, and if I felt excluded from a conversation, I would simply join another one, much to his surprise. It worked out, and I continued to feel his awareness of me.

He asked for my blog, he wanted to read it.

I gave him the information for the other one, the public one.

He emailed me through it, to ask me out.

Well, technically, he did not ask me out on a date. He's polyamorous. I find this nice because poly people tend to be more aware and accepting of not-so-mainstream sexualities. So even though I'm monogamous, my sexuality and how I deal with it, allows me access. So he emailed me to tell me that, while his relationship card was full, he has been craving some variety in his sex life and he found me desirable, and would I like to meet up and become a periodic sex partner?

That's pretty damn perfect for me. An intelligent, attractive man who keeps healthy and honest communication with his established partners, who is dominant in bed and tends to head his social group? Sure, I can work with that.

So we're supposed to be going out this weekend. Tomorrow, in all likelihood.

Anyhow, I've stepped into future plans as opposed to the things that have happened, things I need to mull over.

Crosser showed up to dinner as well. C wanted to talk to him, so they left early, leaving me with Redwing. That was cool with me, because I wanted to pick his brain. I was looking forward to the drive back, comparing notes and ideas with this man.

That's totally not what happened.

It was sex. Sex sex sex sex. And I don't mind that, really. I'm used to it. What drove me absolutely up the wall is that he would ask me a question (after prefacing it with whatever he felt needed to be said) and as I started answering it, he would cut me off mid-sentence and start talking about himself.

The entire freaking drive.

It was... insane. Because he talks so fast. And it was constantly, "Well, how do you feel about..?" and I would go, "Well, in my experience, I [insert something here] and-" and suddenly he'd swoop in, "Oh, I know! This one time...!"

So I stopped answering his questions and just let him talk. And talk. And we hit construction, so this drive turned into a forty-minute hell-fest of me going, "Holy shit, this kid cannot read my body language to save his life."

I even stopped listening. I rarely do that. But it was just this full-bore, all-engines-go verbal barrage of "me me me me me" which wouldn't bother me at all, except for the occasional "and you? oh, wait, nevermind, me me me me". Don't engage me and ask me my opinion on something if you aren't going to bother listening. I mean, I actually like listening to people tell me about their sexlife, but he made it this nightmareish chore that I hope to never experience again.

And then we get off the freeway and he says to me, "So, how do you see me?"

...Jesus Christ. WAI OH GOD WAI?!

I tried to put it off. I did. I tried to distract him into talking about himself again. It worked. Unfortunately, C lives ten minutes off the freeway, so by the time we pulled up to her house, he was worrying me like a dog worries a bone.

So I told him I thought he was young. I told him he carried himself and spoke like he had missed a crucial element in socialization. That he was years behind where he should be, for his age, for dealing with people, and that he continually made unnatural affectations when he spoke that were all too obvious and he seemed altogether uncomfortable with how he presented himself and how he felt about himself in general.

And he totally agreed with me. And seemed a bit shocked.

...but he continued the conversation into the house, while I gathered my night clothing pre-shower, and then I shoved him onto C and told her to back me up.

Which she did, while I showered.

Writing about that all is actually starting to give me a headache. Geesh.

Thursday night was not that interesting. I had dinner with VG, then walked in on C gluing feather's to some guy's back with latex. I had forgotten she was doing this. But he's an art model and, for whatever reason, the artist wanted little black wings on him, and C volunteered to apply them. I left them as I found them, went out to meet up with some other people.

The first bar we went to was closed.
The second was dead. Wow it was dead.

So I left.

But C mentioned that she had been planning on sleeping with Redwing that night, so I texted her to let her know I was on my way back early.

Actually, what happened was, when I got back to C's place and she was gluing on this guy's wings, I asked her if she was coming out with me and the others.

She said no, that she wanted to bone.
So I pointed at the guy with my cellphone and said, "Him?"
And she said no, "Redwing."
And I said, "If I walk in on you two having sex, I will slap the ass of whoever is on top, I tell you now."

So I politely texted her I was coming back, to which I received:

"go away"

I told her to wait five minutes and I would crash on the couch in the livingroom.

I did not, however, tell her to be clothed. So I walked in on her and Redwing naked and entwined in bed, both asses in places where I could not smack them.

We talked while I changed, and then I dragged myself to the livingroom and passed out.

Actually, while I was driving to C's last night, GV8 texted me.

I have this rule, where I keep an even text-exchange going. So if I'm the last to text a man I'm interested in or sleeping with, I will not initiate again unless I need to relay information to him. This works with GV8 very well, I have to say. I know he finds it odd when I don't message him often.

So he texted me, checking on me, seeing what I was up to, telling me about how construction is going on the loft (glass walls were put up yesterday, apparently). His birthday is on Saturday, so I asked him if he had made plans. No, he hadn't. Too busy. Did he want me to come over and help him relax on Saturday night?

Yes, he very much would.

And, apparently, I'm wonderful.

I'm beginning to wonder if he hasn't gotten as far from me as I thought.

I don't push boundaries. If someone says they don't want to be with me, I say "okay" and I leave. I don't argue. I don't try to convince them otherwise. I don't flaunt new lovers in front of them. If they've made up their mind, I'll respect it... even if I feel that they secretly wanted me to fight for them.

I'm not going to.

That's not my style.

And I also assume that everyone that has casual sex, like I do, has my robot-like tendencies when it comes to emotion and design. I did not expect GV8 to continue to have feelings for me... but he might.

Which means I can sit him down and talk to him, talk to him about what doug1 said in some comments, which I think might be more accurate than he's willing to admit.

But I don't want a relationship.

GV8 is great. He is. He makes me feel completely safe, which is something that no man, including Rick, has ever been able to do. And maybe I'll never find that again. He's a wonderful guy, a great lover, someone who shapes reality into what he wants it to be. And I admire that. He has his own beasts, though they're not like mine.

But... no. I can't. I shouldn't. I'm not ready to give this life up.

And this might all be pointless anyway.

I'm reading him off of texts, and while words... words are what makes me... I won't know until I see him in person. We haven't seen each other in weeks because he's been so busy with his business and construction.

And I'm not so sure I can be with a guy that doesn't know himself when it comes to relationships. He's happy and willing to communicate, and he's honest, but he's not completely aware of where he is, of what he's doing, when it comes to me. He's certainly better than most, don't get me wrong.

...he is better than most.

I'm not going to do this to myself. I cannot give up my focus. I am not going to actively attempt to change his mind, nor am I going to read him and subtly engineer my actions to keep him.

I think.

God, I'm too tired to be thinking about this stuff.

As amazing as he is, we don't resonate. We don't sync. I did not see him and absolutely know him, like I've done with others. He could take care of me. He could protect me. I could be his princess, his toy.

And I'd be happy.

I'm only experiencing this doubt because I'm tired. If I wasn't so ready to pass out, I'd be fine and not even considering it.

Not to mention, I could easily be reading into him.

I'm not going to plan ahead. I'm not going to daydream and make up stories.

I'm going to focus on me, on my writing, on school. I'm going to enjoy him, as well as my other partners and future partners. I'm not going to get distracted again. I've been single for one year, and I plan on being single for another.

I'm not going to let my heart get tangled up in this.