Can't believe it's almost Thursday. I've been so tired, sick, and already overwhelmed with schoolwork that I've neglected posting here.

There isn't a lot to say at the moment. I'm hitting that odd sort of contentment that comes with a comfortable relationship. Not quite stirring myself up like I do, anxiety fades a bit, I end up mellowly moving through, still watching people, but not with that constant alarm at the back of my brain telling me analyze their every move, every sentence, flick of an eyelash.

PD and I had an enjoyable trip up to San Francisco, drove up the 5 on Friday morning, me behind the wheel. Found our hotel with minimal effort, dropped our bags, and wandered over to the Orpheum, where we found some hole in the wall Mexican joint and grabbed a bite to eat before the show.

Wicked continues to be my favorite live show, and this cast was absolutely delightful. Since it was near the end of the run, they were improving constantly, trying to make each other mess up- just slightly. PD and I were delighted to find ourselves sitting next to another inter-generational couple... but only because it was so very clear that it was a hooker and her john. I was leaning over, whispering into PD's ear, "Ohmygod, it's the couple from outside the theater! We're sitting next to her! This is so cool! She's so gorgeous! Eek!"

They didn't come back after intermission.

No, not because of my excited whisperings, but, you know... *cue porn music*.

PD was also amazing enough to get us front and center seats. Fourth row. Fourth freaking row. I squealed like a little girl. Totally did.

After the show let out, we wandered around a fairly empty section of the city, looking for a late night dessert place. Ended up finding a donut shop still open, serving cheese cake (for him) and carrot cake (for me). So we took our carby goodies and walked back to the hotel, curled up in bed and ate cake.

And we finally had anal sex.

It was... bizarre.

I mean, yes, I've had anal sex before. I wouldn't say I'm the most experienced in it, but I've probably had... oh, somewhere around seven or ten guys in my ass.

...that sounded odd.

Anyhow, I've had regular anal sex, then rape scene anal sex, then bondage anal sex, and then just freaking violent anal sex, and the DP, of course.

But it's not, you know, my thing. It's totally PD's thing, though.

He's been having me stretch my muscles out over the last several weeks, with metal plugs, and he's been fucking my ass with them when we have regular sex, so it's no longer a struggle to get two fingers in, but I'm certainly not a four-finger girl. I hadn't quite made the connection before, which I suppose was silly of me, that the sphincter muscles stretch like any other muscles. The more often you stretch, the easier it becomes, the further you can go. It's not like a rubberband, once you overstretch it, it's not done. If you don't do it for a bit, it goes back to the original condition.

Which is nice.

So by the time we actually got around to having anal sex, I was mostly fine. It was simply a matter of not clenching up on him, which hurt. I'd gotten so used to the solid, cold hardness of the plugs, that having something soft (texture) and warm was... almost a relief. Looking back at it and going, "I was frightened of this???"

Saturday morning, we roused ourselves and I walked us over to a tea shop. PD loves his tea (I hate tea, much like I hate coffee). We sat outside on a patio in Yerba Gardens, eating a healthy gourmet breakfast, watching the birds, the wind in the trees, listening to the church bells ring. It was so gorgeous out.

Back to the hotel, we grabbed my car and headed over the the Walt Disney Family Museum, which is a rather large collection of memorabilia brought together by the Disney family. Stuff you don't get to see anywhere else. Handwritten notes, employee manuals, family home videos, character design sheets and sculptures, Walt's original train that he used to sit and ride around on (the one in the photo with Salvador Dali), family accounts, one of the original cars from Autopia. Both PD and I have a love for Disneyland, rather, it's history and theme. The idea made real.

We spent most of the day there, then drove around until we found some food. And parking. I forget how shitty parking is in SF. Ended up at a burger joint just south of Golden Gate Park, BurgerMeister. Fabulous. We sat across from each other at a bar, poking fun, laughing, making faces, people watching. Just enjoying a meal, the company, the environment, no rush, no place to be, purely in the moment. We likely could have been there until closing time, content.

We caught a late showing of Toy Story 3 at a theater near the hotel, then came back and (eventually) passed out.

The morning was what got me.

We had planned to be on the road first thing, hit Winchester on the way down, along with Gilroy, be back in Los Angeles around 8 or so.

But I did my usual: I sat and sassed and teased him and we ended up wrestling on the bed, him tickling me, spanking me, me squirming and jerking, telling him that we really needed to go, then just sassing again or crawling back on top of him. Two hours later, we were both exhausted and, well, late.

I sass. I will sit and harass for hours. It's how I flirt. At the initial stage of a relationship, or when I first meet someone, it's a way of shit-testing them. I want to make sure they can keep up. I want to make sure they're smart. I want to make sure they're socially competent. Banter is an easy way to do this. Once we pass that stage, I'll still do it. It's like poking at a sleeping bear, waiting for him to wake up and smack you. I don't need him to prove anything, I'm just playful.

And PD, PD continues to own me. He's so quick, so funny. And he's stronger than I am. I really am, like every cute cat video you've ever seen, a little kitten batting at a dozing dog, waiting for a reaction.

We wandered around, looking for breakfast, finally settled on a coffee shop called "Celtic" or something along those lines. I couldn't see the point in the name, really. I decided to have a vacation diet and had PD get me two cookies and some milk, so I was sitting in a booth, grinning at him, dipping my chocolate chip cookies in milk and enjoying every bite, when he looks at me and says, "I've never felt as old as I do now. I'm here with my juice and muffin and you're sitting there eating milk and cookies."

It was pretty great.

Winchester Mystery House was good, as always. PD had never been, I just enjoy the architecture, so we wandered around on one of the tours. Makes me wish there were more really good haunted house movies out there. We've got "The Haunting" and "The Haunting of Hill House" and the more recent version of "House on Haunted Hill" (seeing a name trend, are we?) was good (even though that was a sanatorium, not a house)... but that's all I can think of. I need a good haunted house movie based in a old bayou mansion. I suppose they just aren't popular anymore.

Gilroy, garlic capital of something (the state, the country, the world??), was a podunk disappointment. Breezed through there once we realized that most everything was closed and what was open was unappealing.

Ended up back in LA a little past 11PM. Tired as hell. His cats desperate for attention that I willingly showered on them until bedtime when one of them made a bid for sleeping on my face.

Things are... kinda weird.

I'm getting used to some aspects of dating him. Walking into the warehouse, the dungeon, the sounds of porn as he edits (or films). His huge scope of sex knowledge... I mean, he knows so much and I'm just blown away by it. His job is to produce arousal through designing scenes, stories, sound. There's so much going on and so many different things to keep track of.

But he's got it down.

On the other hand, it's still a little weird. When I tell my friends that I'm dating a porn director, they are never surprised. It's not as though most of my friends are anywhere near as experienced, active, or alternative as I am. This isn't exactly common. But they expect it of me, it seems. I asked one if it surprised him and he said, "No. It makes perfect sense."

Never really thought that way.

For all my experience and activities, I don't define myself by my sexuality or the sex I've had. It isn't a big part of my life. What is a big part is what I've learned from it about people, about myself, and how comfortable I am with many things that most girls aren't. If someone was to tell me I would spend the rest of my life having sex with only one man, as long as he was open to exploring sex, learning, growing, and I loved him, I'd be perfectly fine.

On the other hand, if someone said I'd be having bad sex with one man for the rest of my life, we'd have a serious discussion.

So... a porn director?

I don't really view him as "a porn director". He's PD. He's this amazing, intelligent, funny man who really kinda *gets* me. Who I can be silly with. Who I can sit around with having serious, reality/history/ideal discussions, then later find myself being faux-raped over the back of some black leather-clad piece of furniture, then be made breakfast, who will sit and stroke my back and laugh at me when I wiggle in his arms because I'm just happy to be there. We can sit around watching cartoons, eating cake in bed, or get dressed up and hit an art show, or wander around the city, getting lost, happy.

I feel... so much more myself. A happy self.

I know it's not good that I did not achieve this happiness while single, but I did not give myself the chance to do so, between GV8 and PD and all the madness that happened this year before I even met PD. I got to ground myself a little, but each time I did, GV8 would sweep me off my feet again.

I wonder, if/when PD and I break up, how I'll land. If I'll be able to stay single for a longer period of time. I've always had months between relationships, grounding time, but I'm more than aware that it has almost never been enough time. And I think that grounding time is very needed in order to establish a sense of happy-while-single-ness. And okay-while-single.

Whenever I get close to that, I meet someone.

And I am okay-while-single. But, at the same time, I think I could be more-okay-while-single. More me. More like shifting gears than shifting a life. Not being defined in my head as a partner, not having that impact on my schedule.

I remember, once I moved into this apartment, after GV8 and I broke up, how awkward the weekends were for me. I did not know what to do. I was lost. My weekends had been full of him. I would wander and clean and watch movies, but... it was so weird, having no one but myself to take into account, and I had to figure out what life was like when it was just me.

Now I'm back in the position where life is no longer just me and I wonder how long it will be, how old I will be, when it is just me again. Or if it will ever be just me again. I don't mind not being just me ever again, but it's likely that eventually PD and I will part ways, life does things like that.

Makes me wonder how I'll land... on my feet, or on my ass?

Okay, you've gotten to me.

Well, comment moderation is now on. Again.

I don't even know what to say.

I feel like my life has turned into this division of GV8-of-Christmas-Past and GV8-of-Christmas-Future. He's gotta have a twin. There has to be some evil twin running around impersonating him.

Or I'm retarded in my mate selection.

PD votes for the latter, I'm sure.

What am I supposed to say?

I am sorry things didn't work out. I am sorry it rapidly became impossible for us to stay friends. I am sorry that I ever argued that we fit, ever thought I could deal with a non-monogamous marriage. That was foolish of me, I did not know my limits.

But I'm not sorry for recognizing those limits and standing up for myself.

I'm not sorry for getting angry when I got the whole thing blamed on me, when you told me, "You never should have said yes if you couldn't accept the life I lead" when you had told me prior that we would play together, that I would have say if I was uncomfortable with a partner choice. Then, suddenly, it was like it had never been said.

I'm not sorry for going running to PD. I didn't touch him for weeks after we broke up, you know. He acted as a friend, mostly platonic, listening to me, letting me cry on him.

I'm not sorry I did not bury myself in grief, like I had done all the other times you left me. I got used to losing you, I guess. That final time, I think I was already burned out on the concept. It hurt, but not as much as it should have.

I'm sorry I idolized you. It wasn't good for either of us, wasn't healthy for the relationship, though I do not know if you would have wanted me if I hadn't been worshipping you like I did.

I'm sorry it apparently seems to feel like I used you. It was so awkward for me, at the beginning when we started dating. You would never let me pay for my half of the meals. I'd reach for my wallet, but by the fifth or sixth date, you started snapping at me, getting irritated, telling me that you would pay for my meals, that whenever you took anyone out to dinner, friend or more, you paid.

I'm sorry you thought so little of the one time I did pay for a date, when I took us out to Disneyland for a pre-Christmas celebration, took us to the overly expensive restaurant inside Pirates of the Carribean, that I had always wanted to eat at, and wanted to share my first experience of it with you. Being an underpaid college student, that date cut into my bank account a bit, but it was worth it.

Still is.

I'm sorry you apparently got so upset about Roman coming out and thought that his visit was for the sex, not the friendship. I thought that I had expressed enough that I wasn't comfortable sleeping with him since we were engaged, even though you said I should go out and have my last, unmarried, hurrah. He never did come out, you know. He felt he'd be adding to the stress and drama.

I'm sorry I wasn't more grateful for all your help and support when my family started breaking down in late December, and help moving me out of their place into my own. You were my hero, showing up with that trailer, helping drive and unload, helping me put better locks on the windows, taking me refrigerator shopping.

But how long was I supposed to thank you? I readily admit that I would have been paralyzed by anxiety and unable to do anything if you hadn't been there to kick me in the ass, like you did. You saved me, changed my life. You kept me stable when I was the only thing between my mom and a mental breakdown, my dad and suicide, my parents and divorce.

You did everything. You were everything.

What do you want me to do?

I know you're hurting, I know you're not over it. Neither am I.

I hurt. I've disconnected a lot, more than a lot, but I'm still a wreck in some ways. I'm twitchy, anxious, overly emotional. It makes me sad to think of how things changed, and I miss having you around to talk to. Miss the idea of the life we were going to lead.

But it wouldn't have been good for me. I wouldn't have been happy. Or you wouldn't have been happy. But since you definitely have the stronger personality of the two of us, it probably would have been me.

I know I've said some harsh things on the blog, but this is my space, a space you said you were not going to touch. You supposedly said you were going to ride off into the sunset and never speak to me again. But you're here. You're reading. You're commenting and fighting with my readers if they catch your comments before I get to them.

Fortunately, I usually get to them before anyone sees them. I check my phone religiously, even when I'm asleep, I'll wake up three or four times a night to make sure things are okay.

I know it's going to take time for both of us to get over what happened. I know it hurts. I know I spurned you and then I didn't suffer as much as would have been expected. I know I'm the only woman you've ever proposed to, and it's likely a bit humilating to have announced that someone had finally wrestled you down only to flee the scene, though I'm sure you came up with some story to tell those who were concerned.

But I'm just another girl. You're surrounded by them, and I know you had no problem finding a replacement bed partner when we split. And, I've been told, you said you never really loved me, just took pity on me or somesuch. Which stings, but I suppose that just means I was never good at reading you, and each time you told me you loved me, you meant it in a friendly way, not a romantic one.

Love is love, I guess.

I'm sorry I hurt you.

If there's something you want from me, some way that I am able to make it up to you, you have my email, you have my phone number.

You've always had those.

If there is nothing I can do to make amends for turning down a marriage that would have made us both unhappy, then please leave me be.

There's nothing else I can give you.

I was raised to stay by my partner.

Better or worse.
Richer or poorer.

My mother was raised the same, watched her mother stay with an alcoholic, verbally abusive husband, unemployed for years at a time, always keeping the bright side up. At his side, loyal to the end.

My mother married a poor bus driver, estranged from his family, with love, with faith, with trust that she would be happy, he would be happy, they would be happy and, together, they would make do, they would have a family and provide for them.

Through her support and love, his drive and brains, he almost made his ultimate goal.

And, he still might.

She stayed with him through all the fits he had. Stayed with him when his depression was so bad he would barely talk, barely function enough to put food on the table. Stay with him while he raged.

Stayed with him, even after he named her firstborn after a brand of auto parts. (Thanks, Dad.)

I was raised with the idea of unflagging loyalty, utmost trust in one's partner and the partnership that was formed.

When I headed out from San Francisco, the weekend GV8 proposed, I remember driving over the bridge, talking to him on my cell phone.

I asked him why he wanted to marry me, aside from his "I'm the whole package" schtick.

He said that we trusted each other, respected each other, that he saw my mother and father together and if I a) aged half as well as she did, he'd be thrilled and b) was just as loyal to him as my mother is to my father, that's what he wanted. And he said he knew I'd never lie to him.

Loyalty. Respect. Honesty. Graceful descent into old age.

Loyalty.

He brought that up many times over the weekend. That I was loyal. That my mother was loyal.

Most men, I know, would take that as sexual loyalty. A lack of straying. And maybe he did as well, as much as he wanted a sexually open relationship, I'd like to think that both of us were quite aware that I only ever need the person I'm seeing, only ever want the person I'm seeing, once I'm in a relationship.

He wanted my loyalty.

He had my loyalty.

But I still remember that dinner with my family, celebrating our engagement. I still remember him sitting there, big alpha dog, grinding in the point that he was now sterile, that my mother would not be having grandkids like she so desired. He wouldn't leave it alone. I watched the look of pain on her face. She already knew, I had already told her, discussed it with her. But he had to, I don't know, had to make it even more real.

Like a vasectomy wasn't enough.

When she walked away to get something, I asked him why he did that, why he wouldn't stop. He told me he wanted to make sure she knew.

Of course she knew.

Everyone knew. This had been discussed time and time again since he had his vascetomy while we were dating.

It did not need to be done. He was not the one who would need to do it, if it had been an issue. That should have been my job, my call on how to handle it.

My loyalty remains with my family.

And when some middle-aged punk decides to dismiss everything that I've written here because of a blog post done by GV8 when I finally had the realization of how unhealthy that marriage would be for me (and not just because of that small moment with my family) and publicly derides me for being a gold-digging whore, he can suck it.

I would rather be poor and scrambling for the rest of my life than with a man who would treat my family as such. Than with a man who would treat me as he ended up doing. Than with a man who would propose to me on my blog. Than with a man who would play headgames with me. Than with a man who would come into my private space and write a blog full of outright, no discussion, no debate, lies in order to fuck with something I care about.

Gold-digging? I wasn't raised that way. If I was, I would have stayed with GV8, no matter what the emotional cost. If I was, I would have tried to have a lavish wedding, instead of wanting to get married in a park with no guests but close family. If I was, I would have wanted some massive diamond ring instead of a simple gold band.

It doesn't matter what I do to some people, I know I've lost respect, lost credibility, lost trust with some of my readers. Hell, lost some of my readers, over what GV8 did.

I've never lied on this blog. Never intentionally misled. But that doesn't stop him from swooping in and doing damage. Hurting me for hurting him. As if he was the only person hurt in the whole debacle.

Doesn't matter.

Shouldn't matter.

When I told Rick how GV8 apparently wrote that I made him pay for every meal, he burst out laughing, exclaiming, "You?!" and falling back into laughter.

It's the people who know me, the friends I've had over the years, the ex-boyfriends, the ex-lovers, they know. They anchor me down to reality. They remind me that I am known to them, that my values, as odd as they are, are known.

I never thought my reputation would matter to me so much. But now... I know I have one. Where I stand, who I am, is known. And I like what is said about me, what is believed about me, by those who I keep in my life.

Loyalty. Family. Honesty.

I will give myself, I know this. I will give everything to the person I am with.

But now I know I have enough awareness to pull away when something will truly damage me.

PD's back tomorrow from the land of Florida. Florida Land, as it is known to some.

That last line was a total lie.

He's been gone since Thursday, which I may have mentioned, which leaves me baby-sitting the Porn Palace, as I have come to call it, and his cats. He has wonderful cats.

It's weird, being in this place by myself. Wandering through the dungeon, sleeping in the bed without his company. Makes me restless. I love downtown and I love this place, but it's empty without him.

I was the same way with GV8, and the apartment he had next to the loft/club. Didn't know what to do with myself there, other than his laundry.

Writing yesterday's blog post was a welcome return to an internal theme, and made me realize that, of everything I write here, my favorite pieces, and the easiest ones, are the ones that reek of melancholic sadness with a hint of detachment.

Apparently, I don't do happy well.

It doesn't move me.

Sadness, loss, it flows.

Last night found me tossing and turning. My body knows PD isn't there and rebels. He tells me I seek him out in my sleep, when he comes to bed, that I curl up on his chest like a cat and he strokes the tattoo that runs down my ribs. When it's hot, I hold his hand.

But I never remember it in the morning.

So I roam around his bed when he's not here, waking up in various positions and geographical locations. The dunes of 300 count sheets. The mountains of over-fluffed pillows. The footboard of Siam.

Probably not that last one.

But it feels like it.

It also sounds like a band name: Footboard of Siam, opening for the Foo Fighters.

I could totally see that.

Spent the weekend busy. Breakfast at a restaurant in Newport Beach with two friends I hadn't seen in awhile, but kept promising to fit them in somewhere. Stopped by my parents', grabbed my birth certificate, then applied for my passport before meeting a friend for sushi. We talked for hours, of his girlfriend, his job, my insecurities, the club scene, learning to dance (I am the go to person for lessons, apparently), relationship drama. Ran by the college bookstore to get my textbooks for the coming semester, starts in two weeks, but they were closed. Hit Nordstrom Rack and stocked up on dark designer jeans and a couple of tops. Spent too much, but finally found a brand that fits my ass-to-lower-back ratio that doesn't scream "hip-hop club attendee: droppin' it like it's hot". Dinner with one of my best friends and his girlfriend, average Thai food. I spent Sunday morning poring over old family records on her father's side of the family, gathering information, addresses, birth, death, and marriage certificates.

Odd how you can sum up so much of someone's life with those three pieces of paper.

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've been combatting a good deal of anxiety lately.

It's hard for me. I've always had anxiety issues, a mix between a chemical imbalance and growing up in a household that was erratically unstable. Never knowing when your father was going to go into a manic episode (though we did not know that was what was wrong at the time) was incredibly difficult to deal with, not just as a child, but as a teenager as well.

People talk a lot of Daddy issues, making the snide comments that Daddy didn't love the person in dicussion enough or loved them too much. They don't really talk about when Daddy loves them to death... but happens to go batshit insane a couple times a year.

It creates a lot of instability and, in my case, a constant fear that the people around me will be stimulated by some previously unknown (to me) trigger that will cause them to act out in extreme, irrational ways.

Which, as one might guess, causes me a good deal of anxiety in social interactions.

It has impacted my life in a lot of ways, a balance of good and bad, though, if you had to evaluate the loss of who and what I could be if I could get over this lifelong fear... it would be an overall bad impact.

Anxiety... it has kept me fairly isolated. I spent most of my youth writing, reading, playing computer games. I didn't socialize much, if I could help it, didn't really want to. And because I never learned how to interact with people in my own age demographic, I fell behind. Not homeschooling behind (most of you know what I'm talking about), but behind enough that I feel I did myself a disservice.

And it's hard to catch up.

I don't do well in new places with large crowds of people.

I hate when people get in my "personal space bubble" which tends to have a radius of about two and a half feet.

I've cultivated a social image at clubs I frequent of being cool, aloof, detached, and, I'm told, more than a bit intimidating simply because I do not feel, most nights, up to socializing. My posture, my walk, my facial expressions, body language, everything has been adjusted. And, since I'm one of the better female dancers in the club circuit I frequent, that ability on the dance floor just adds to the image.

I still spend a lot of time alone. I'm not reliant on my social circles. Movies, restaurants, social events, clubs, I go alone as often as I go with others.

As much as I distance myself from other people, I still manage to have a good deal of friends and a wide social network. Going out to new places, I nearly invariably run into someone I know. The friends I do make, I make good ones, close ones.

And since I've spent so much time alone, I've had time to write, time to think and analyze (navel gaze, some say) myself into the ground. And make changes. Fix things, fix damage that I've done to myself, damage others have done.

I'm used to being alone. I like being alone.

But, of late, my anxiety has gotten fairly intense. Not as intense as when my father had his breakdown last December, not as intense as when Darkeyes was terrorizing me the year before that. But enough to be impactful. Enough to leave me jittery for hours.

PD's been pretty good about it.

See, I'm great with casual sex, casual lovers. When it comes to someone I would actually *date*, someone I start dating with intent for something long term, the first two or three months is a batshittery of anxiety. Probably abandonment issues combined with the whole extreme reaction to odd trigger fear that my father instilled in me.

So I cling. I'm needy. The littlest thing will send me off into the deep end.

And I'll sit there and apologize to them, tell them that it'll go away, just to give me a couple months and I'll go back the the girl they asked out however long ago.

All of them have. They've sat there and held my hand, adjusted their behavior, and waited for me to get through my initial freak out stage.

And I do.

Unfortunately, this time around has been a little more hardcore than most because of leftovers from GV8.

As I've mentioned, GV8 would watch and evaluate my behavior, then judge it as suitable or not, never discussing if things were bothering him or he found behaviors unhealthy. When he reached his epic conclusion, he'd just spring it on me out of nowhere and ditch me or adjust our relationship down a level because I wasn't "x" enough to date.

So whenever PD doesn't text me, or doesn't say something I expect him to say, or has a slight frown cross his features because of something I said or did, I immediately assume it has gone into a tally against me and he's going to call me the next day or email me the next day and end it without discussion, without warning, so I'm going to go from super happy to devasted within seconds.

Makes me jumpy as hell.

Which makes me want to cling more.

Which is completely counterproductive.

So I sat down with him on Tuesday night and explained a whoooole bunch of things I had been considering lately, things like I'm afraid he's going to "surprise" me like GV8 did. That I'm getting too emotional over him too fast and it'll chase him off. That maybe he'll realize he needs time to recover from his ex. That I'm being so self-centered about all of this and he's got his own issues going on and I'm not taking them into consideration because I'm too busy freaking out. That I'm afraid he's going to realize what a wreck I am right now and he's going to ditch me.

It was a good talk.

It helped a lot.

Anxiety isn't nearly so bad now. It's still there, a hum in the back of my brain. But it is getting manageable.

I just hope that I'll be able to sort through all of this, compartmentalize all the baggage from GV8 and others and tackle it with faith in PD and faith in myself.

PD and I are taking our first mini-vacation together this weekend. Going up to Santa Barbara to be tourists and, of course, see my favorite band play. He's never seen them before, though he loves their CDs.

I'm pretty excited, all around. I'm getting happy again.

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.

10AM, July 1st, 2010.

This would have been my wedding day.

In about an hour, I would have been exchanging my vows with GV8 in the park my parents were married in, on their anniversary.

Right now, I'd be putting the finishing touches on my make-up, my sister hovering over me. I'd be wearing my wedding dress, something my mother insisted she should buy for me, which would have been hanging in the upstairs closet of my old bedroom until today. My father would be sitting on the edge of their bed, buttoning up the cuffs on his shirt, my mother in their bathroom, finishing her hair, checking her lipstick, then going into her closet for a pair of shoes.

I would have spent the previous night playing cards with my mom, staying up late, just talking, talking about the future, our plans, my feelings. We would have eventually moved to the couch, the light on the endtable to the left of us the only one on and I would ask her to regale me with stories of her wedding day and the days leading up to it.

My bags would have already been packed for the mini-honeymoon to Lake Tahoe, sitting by the front door, and when I went to bed, I would have been lying awake, daydreaming of a future, of the ceremony, until I was finally calm enough to sink into sleep.

I would have ridden in the passenger seat while my father drove, my mother and sister in the back.

We would have arrived to the park, found GV8 and his family, then located the spot where my parents had stood to pledge their vows, and we would have done the same.

Lunch would have followed at some nearby restaurant, and then we would have said our goodbyes and taken the drive up to Arrowhead, holding hands over the center console.

In some alternate future, this is going on right now. In my head, there are the paths we take and the paths we don't, major ones shoved by emotional energy arching off to peter out to nonexistence when we forget them.

In some world, in forty minutes, my lips will be parting to speak the words to link myself to GV8.

And everything that has happened from today to the night I left him has been put on rewind, backtracking the movements that led us to the now we know.

The now, where I am sitting on a futon in the Nerd Control Station, a cat sleeping next to me, a porn being set up to film downstairs, two tiny blondes and a wide-face eastern European girl, a new model. Listening to my boyfriend organize, offer suggestions, guide, and make the occasional snide comment.

I don't regret my decision.

I do regret what happened. How things changed.

I feel like I could have handled it better, if I had been able to emotionally disconnect from the situation. But how well can one handle breaking up with one's fiancee? How can that end well, how can it end on friendly terms?

GV8, he was supposed to always be in my life. When we broke up in December, he said he would always be there for me, said that when I got married, he'd be helping me write the invitations, helping me plan, always someone I could call and talk to.

But people say many things after a break up, few of which remain true once emotions begin the fade, taking promises with them.

I loved him. I trusted him. I respected him.

I thought he was The One.

I knew he was The One.

But I can't always be right.

There are things I remember that will always stay with me, or at least follow me for years.

Sitting on the couch in the coffee shop, him shoving at me to get my life together after my dad had fallen apart, after I had fallen apart.

Walking around C's neighborhood, phone pressed to my ear as he looked online for apartments for me to check out, as I gave him addresses or websites on rental signs so he could check the details.

Rolling around on the center set of beds at the swing club, laughing and fucking.

Standing outside of the winery in the hills, holding each other.

Walking into his store and place of residence in the valley, seeing the graffiti over the bed, and the night that followed, the first time we had sex. The hours of sex, the soft brown sheets, the leopard print stilettos, the Sybian.

Massaging him for hours, listening to The American Dollar's A Memory Stream.

Him building that bed for me, getting that apartment for me, going out and buying that TV and hooking it up so we could just settle in bed and watch a movie because I was so burnt out.

So many touches to his back and neck, him rolling his skull into my hands, a light groan, always knowing where to touch him.

Closing my eyes so tight, breathing in, telling him I loved him.

Him bending down to tie my shoe for me, outside of his apartment, after he proposed for the umpteenth time.

Laying around on the second floor of the loft, planning our bedroom, our future.

He was... wonderful. Not all the time, the ups and downs, the changing of decisions, the quick judgements and lack of communication. But he was wonderful, and loving.

I forget the things that have happened since then. I forget the things he has said. Even with all of that, in my mind, he's still there, he's still someone I loved, someone I hold dear.

Someone who won't be in my life again, because things fell apart past the point of redemption.

I will miss him.





Twenty minutes to go. Twenty minutes and some dream of me will be a wife.

And some dream of him will be a husband.

It's something o'clock. I'm blinding myself at the Nerd Station Control Center.

Yes, I know, virtually every post of the last couple weeks has been at the Nerd Station Control Center or simply at the Nerd Station Command Tower.

Got my HPV notice from my doctor today, things look normal. I don't know if that means that my body fought it off (which happens) or if I'm just not spawning lesions yet.

Either way, I'm a bit surprised, as the amount of stress that the whole thing with the ex created should have aggravated things, not have made them go away.

PD is downstairs showering, his ex and her husband are downstairs packing up the kitchen. It's been a rough day for him, as much as he tries to disconnect from the situation. I feel for him, can't even imagine what he's going through right now. Hefty emotions. Wednesday is supposed to be their last day here, we'll see how that goes.

As a side note, Mr. Brush-off emailed me last night.

This would be the PUA I picked up about this time last year, the cello player/stuntman/6'9"/yummy abs-open shirt guy. Apparently, he's been thinking of emailing me for a bit now, and finally did so.

And I'm looking at this email, shaking my head, because it's such a booty call. He's going to be in my neck of the woods next week and he's trying to line up some ass.

He was hot, he was hung, but he's too young, and I don't just mean on an age level.

Sleeping with him was the supposedly primary motivator that caused GV8 to end things with me a second time, saying that he wasn't jealous or upset (we weren't in a relationship at the time), only that he thought my tendency/love of pick-up was unhealthy and a sign of insecurity and deep-seated need for validation and that, in his own words, I was sick. Mentally ill. Imbalanced.

That, however, didn't stop him from getting back with me later down the line.

Anyway...

Went to a wedding today. In Hemet. For those of you not aware of California geography and social prejudices, Hemet is to California what Alabama is to the rest of the US, except it's in the middle of the desert. Brought to you by the letters B, F, and E.

But it was a friend's little sister getting married, and he's this awesome guy, 40 year old nerd/angry, yet loving manbeast, and we both thought it would be amusing if I showed up as his armcandy, swooning and batting my eyes and being all "Oooh, --------, how strong and desirable you are, you sweep me off my feet *tittertittergiggle*"

So we did, I did, met his mom, who was really freaking cool, and his sister, who was a little younger than me, and totally sweet.

Oh, yeah, I just said "freaking cool" and "totally sweet". This blog has been transported back to the 90s. Please do not adjust your monitor.

It was a little odd, watching the ceremony, the people, thinking of how things turned out. How skittish I've become. Wondering if I'll ever want marriage again, if I'll ever be able to call PD my boyfriend without letting relationship-phobia clog my throat. Logically, I'm sure I will, just wondering about the when and the why.

Well, it has been a bit.

I know, normally I'm posting a few times a week. I've been avoiding this blog of late. The whole thing with the ex left a sour taste in my mouth, combined with PD reading this thing (though he hasn't touched recent entries out of respect of letting me write freely, knowing that it's likely he'll eventually catch up to the "now" of things is a bit of a stopper for me and I need to work through it).

It has also been busy. I'm with PD almost every night, with C on the one night a week I'm not at PD's place. We spend most of the waking hours of the evening together, then I sleep and he goes back to work in his office.

And... I like it. I like this.

I've been processing a lot lately, trying this pieces out, trying to reflect and see what goes together, what doesn't go together, what theories fit, what can be applied, and what was nonsense.

It's hard to sort out the fantasies from the realities, sometimes.

I still am not sure if GV8 was the man I thought him to be, or if I just idolized him so much that I failed to see his flaws.

If he was who I thought he was, then he changed dramatically in the end.

If I idolized him so strongly, then it was only at the end that I started acknowledging behaviors of his as poor, and that was only enabled because I was away from him for long enough during that last split to get my head back together to a degree, and because I started dating PD, which reminded me of what a "normal" relationship was like.

You know, where partners are equals.

Where disagreements end in discussions, not decrees.

Experiencing that was like shedding off a too-heavy cloak.

An "Ooh, yeah, I forgot this."

And then it came back.

The knowledge, the experience, the things that I said I would never let myself do or never let someone do to me because it was unhealthy and unequal.

I keep thinking back to the party he took me to that Saturday, our first Saturday back together, the Saturday we split up. The people. Gods, the people. The sex in the pool, on the hill, the man pissing into the girls mouth until she fell into the planter, the drunk couple playing drowning games in the pool, her face bright red, make-up slogging down her cheeks like a strung-out whore, the rolls of fat hanging over rope-corsets, the people barely sober enough to walk up a short flight of stairs, the man shoving some girl's face down on another's cock, the blonde Vienna sausage- so stupid, so arrogant, so compensating, the trust-fund baby with the bitch-tits, the Playboy/Penthouse/Hustler/Whatever photographer with the skeezy ponytail, the roaming eyes when GV8 introduced me, the though flashing across faces of knowledge that he swings, so they'll be fucking me soon enough, the girl bent over in front of the bar, getting punched in the back, her grunting screams like some wild beast dying.

This was not for me.

That life was not for me.

I stood there, looking around, feeling trapped, feeling so anxious, my fiance apathetic to my distress, later telling me that if I couldn't accept his party lifestyle, I shouldn't have said yes. Later telling me that he would fuck when he wanted, who he wanted, all I had to do was be at the same party.

I stood there, looking around, and realized that as little as I think of myself so often, I am a thoroughbred compared to the majority of the crowd he was exposing me to, and I would be ruining myself if stayed and allowed the trash at that party access to my life, my body.

I sat across from him at the diner, looking at him, feeling my sadness and rage growing as he laid down his law again. Realizing that nothing had changed. Realizing that I was second class. Realizing that it was no longer love he felt for me, no longer chasing me to be with me, wanting me to be happy.

No. He was missing his favorite chew toy. The squeaky ball. And the only way to get it back was to dangle a deep desire in front of it, one that would keep it there without chance of ever leaving again.

It stopped being "us", it started being "him", more than it had been before.

I want to hate him for ruining it. This whole thing spills over onto good memories like a bottle of ink. I would have happily spent the rest of my life looking back on him, wishing things could have worked out, daydreaming about how things could have worked out, still thinking of him as the most amazing man I'd ever dated, letting the "what if"s run about my head.

Instead I'm at this foggy place where I'm trying to be understanding, trying not to be mad, trying to recognize that he is simply human with a lot of experience in managing people, but not a lot of experience in maintaining a relationship. He doesn't get certain things. Maybe he's not wired that way, maybe he just doesn't have the experience, maybe he simply doesn't care.

It doesn't matter much, though. I've been told by both PD and Roman in their own ways that the intentions, the feelings, don't matter, it's only the outcome. To stop trying to analyzing him and our relationship, stop trying to puzzle it out, and just accept how he handled things (poorly) as an end result and work forward from there.

Now... now I'm here. Nerd Control Tower. Sitting on a comfy futon, cats around me, cat hair on my face, on PD's laptop. I'm with a man who really likes me. Maybe even adores me, in his own way. He treats me incredibly well, we have a wonderful dynamic and, yeah, there are issues. Some of them we may or may not get through. But he never tells me that it's his way and if I don't like it, then I should leave. Or if I don't change my behavior, I'm not worthy of dating.

It's unexpected.

Meeting someone so soon.

And I think that part of me knows that if this doesn't work out, and doesn't work out in such a way that causes me a good deal of pain, I'm going to withdraw for a bit, hermit up in my shell.

I've gotten commitment-phobic. Relationship-phobic.

It was fine, pre-proposal, but now that that is all over, I'm terrified of being in a relationship again and each time some little thing happens with PD, my first instinct is to bolt. Fuck this, fuck relationships, fuck trying to work things out, I can't handle this, I'm so gone. And each time I have to sit myself down and remind myself that I'm being irrational, getting spooked too easily, that PD is not GV8, that he's never going to treat me like GV8 did.

And that makes it sound so bad. Like GV8 was abusing me or something.

He wasn't. He was caring and supportive, nearly always willing to lend a hand. He was good to me, good in ways that I needed.

But, ultimately, it turned into something not good. And there was always that undercurrent of imbalance that was maintained, that undercurrent that let me be constantly aware that I better be good enough for him, or I'm gone. And I better let him do what he wants, or he's gone. Which really pushes home the idea that I'm not equal in value to him. I'm of lower value. Inconsequential, really.

Nothing more than something that makes him feel good.

The erratic behaviors, the ups and downs, the constant testing, the lack of communication, the sink holes, it was a constant battlefield of me trying to keep my head up, me trying to be what he desired.

I don't know, I'm too tired to explain this right now. It's going to keep coming out incoherent messness.

He loved me, in his own way.

And I hurt him. In his eyes, I'm sure I utterly betrayed him. I told him I would marry him, marry him on July 1st, and then I bailed. I went against what I promised to do, went against my word.

And he'll never understand why.

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.

Sitting in the Nerd Control Tower. PD is at the Nerd Control Station, editing videos, while I sit on his couch, an empty glass of Mountain Dew sitting on the steamer trunk at my left, body pillow folded up behind me. The occasional cat jumps on the couch, does a cursory inspection, and leaves.

I was not supposed to be here tonight. He was supposed to be editing, I was supposed to be out in Orange County, visiting my doctor, doing the check up on the HPV that my ex unknowingly donated, then grabbing sushi with an ex-coworker.

So, I get to the doctor's, apologize for the semen leaking out of me (which was an amusing conversation, and for those of you who might be up in arms about my whore-like behavior... a)PD has a vasectomy B)I had PD get tested and give me his results before we did anything and C)I am a whore. Get over it.)

Which led to the question: "So... how many sex partners have you had?"

My response: "This year?" (which is a resounding two)

Then, of course, no, it was how many in my life-time, which is this ballpark estimate between 70-80. She was leaning away from me, so I didn't see her face. I wish I could have.

I, I don't find it particularly shocking. It seems pretty mild to me. Yes, I know it's significantly higher than average. And I know very few women my age who have reached those numbers (the ones I theorize that are in or above that range now are the porn girls I've been meeting recently). It is what it is, though, as redundant as that sounds. I look back at it, shuffle through the memories, and it isn't a high number. I mean, really, think of how many people you meet each week, through work, through going out, through errands, through parties and social groups. We never really think about the level of minimal social interaction we go through on a daily basis.

Then you get someone like me, who travels all over Southern California, who goes out all the time to various different scenes and areas, usually by myself, social exposure is incredibly high. Which is why I usually know someone whenever I wind up at a new party/event. Happened several times at the BDSM party (a few from various club scenes- not too unexpected, and then some random guy I met at a diner months ago). Happened when PD and I went out to that art gallery in downtown.

So she wanted to know, out of pure curiousity, how I racked up those numbers.

I've done this breakdown before:

Sexually active for ten years. Max partner count is probably 80.

That gives me, what, eight partners a year? That's less than one a month. Not extreme at all.

Of course to be fair, then we toss in the monogamous relationships.

So, I've got 1/4 of a year, 3/4 year, 1 1/2 years, 2 years, 1 3/4 years. Not counting the year and change with the ex because that was never spoken monogamy, and I did stray before things became serious, and when we were on an off-cycle. If I'm mathing right (which I'm probably not, if we're being honest), that's 6 1/4 years spent inside of monogamous relationships. Round that down for ease, we're at 6 years, subtract five sex partners.

Four years, 75 sex partners. 18 3/4 sex partners per year. Round up to compensate for that 1/4 year I tossed off earlier.

19 sex partners a year. That's between one and two sex partners a month, seven months with two partners, five months with one.

1 sex partner every nineteen days.

Not bad. And very, very doable. God knows the aspiring PUA out there only wishes to surpass my low "success rate".

So she asks me how I got those numbers and I shrug and tell her it just happened, you know, naturally.

She checked to make sure I had been safe, was going to continue to be safe, etc. She remembered, vaguely, when I came in in 2008, a sore on my clit that turned out to be just a cut from one of Wolfboy's fingernails but thoroughly freaked me out.

I asked about the HPV on her way out the door, curious to know if they could tell me what strain it was. She said they didn't know, just that it fell under the high risk category.

I blinked at her for a moment. This hadn't been mentioned before. When they said they wanted to do a follow-up, I figured it was the basic follow-up. No, they were checking for pre-cancerous cells.

All of my years of slutting it up, I get my only STD from my ex, and it happens to be very likely to give me cervical cancer. Treatment is painful, but since I caught it early, it gives more of a chance for them to scrape and freeze bits of my cervix off instead of simply removing the thing. Parts of the thing. So the cancerous cells don't spread into my uterus, my stomach, my brain, you know, the parts that are somewhat important.

It's a bit of a downer.

Much like the text I just got, asking me if I want to attend E3 tomorrow. Which I would love to... if I wasn't working.

Anyway, I get out of the doctor's office, text PD that I am going to call and cry at him shortly, then call and let him soothe me. Even though he was going to spend this evening editing, he invited me up. So I moved my sushi dinner to a lunch and headed over to Downtown.

A large concern for me is my mother. When the HPV vaccine came out, I was 24 and she insisted that I get it immediately. So I did. She was so concerned that I would pick up HPV and get cervical cancer.

Here I am, vaccinated, yet still managing to catch a high-risk strain. Apparently that .04% or whatever it was of HPV strains that could still be received post-vaccine included this one.

I texted the ex something short, telling him I'd prefer him not to respond to the text, but to be aware that the strain he has, we have, is high risk and to be careful.

Arrived at PD's warehouse. We showered and talked, laughing and teasing each other, touching each other way too much, to the point that we had to push off and let him get to work.

It's so easy being with him. I am... infatuated. Obsessed. Surprised. Caught off guard. Talking with him already about him meeting my family. Three weeks in. Or whatever we're at. I'm bad with dates. This man, this surprising man, is wonderful.

I'm getting emotionally over my head way too fast, but it's like rolling down a steep hill, gaining momentum the more I learn about him, the more I see of him, unable to grab a hand-hold to stop and breathe.

After the ex, I wasn't sure if I'd find someone that fit. I'm a bit too... off. Too many contradicting things that most people simply don't understand or accept. I'm unable to be who I am, in so many eyes. Always looking for excuses, reasons, rationales that tell them that I'm lying to myself, lying to others, that this mold that they've created in their head is where I belong, and to bleed over the edges is heresy.

And then I found this misfit toy, this Charlie in the Box.

I am on what I may hereforth call "The Nerd Station: Master Control Center".

Four monitors, check.
Funky-ass keyboard, check.
Over-size mouse, check.
More random electronic eqipment than I can ID, check.
Massive three-screen wallpaper of more superheros than I can ID, double check.

...but I have now relocated myself to the infinitely easier to type on laptop, trying to position myself comfortably on the armchair in the bedroom.

Failing.

Comfortable for reading, not so much for the writing.

I may have a date with the couch next.

Ah, yes, this is perfect.

I may name my non-existent first child after this couch.

Let's do a quick run-through of what I see.

I'm... sitting on a light green and white couch, matching throw pillows. Ten tall, fully-loaded, cedar-looking bookcases to my left, along with an armchair that matches this couch, with a podium and small table beside it.

Couple set of dark-wood drawers to my left, followed by the bed, another set of drawers, armoir. The floor is thick wood, warehouse wood, the nails hammered in, heads beaten shiny and flat. The ceiling is the underside of the same, crossbars and firesprinkler pipe running the length. Small, circular lights on straight, thin wires criss-cross at bizarre angles, looks wonderful.

The bedroom only has three walls. The fourth wall, at the foot of the bed, is open to the ground floor. If this laptop wasn't killing my night vision, I would see the dungeon below. The cage hanging from chains from a beam across the ceiling, the black and purple St Andrews cross, the black leather horse, the squareish looking bed with all the tie-down points dancing around its edges, another bed, gothicish metal canopy. Some other things that I don't know the name of. Hatstand full of whips, floggers, paddles, other items I've yet to examine.

Beneath me, out of my vision, a caged area for things needing more security, or simply needing to be out of sight. An entertainment center, massive DVD library to its right. Two bathrooms, one complete, one in progress. The kitchen next to them, some slight sitting area across from that, then the major cage, containing all the rest of the work-related equipment catty-corner, next to the inside driveway, which butts up against two rooms I've yet to explore.

I love the purplely-blue christmas lights that cross above the car in the driveway. That bit of color mellows me, somehow makes this place feel homey.

His ex's old office is on the second floor as well, across the open space from the bedroom, so I can see into it from where I sit. His office is across the hall from hers, and runs into the closet, which is a room unto itself.

Third floor is mostly open warehouse space. On of those empty places that gets hit with sunlight in all the right places, a place for thinking, for isolating yourself, watching the light hit your skin, contrast between building and flesh.

Fourth floor is his sometimes employee, sometimes employer, and his office. As well as the current hidey-hole of his ex and her husband, who will be moving out in the next couple weeks. They're both very nice, friendly and intelligent. Fun to talk to, but I'm still a bit reserved.

Stretched my legs out, PD texts to ask why he's not lying in my lap right now, but off on a set down the street.

I have to agree. There's room on this couch for two, afterall.

Things are going well, overall. Life is... okay. I'm doing better, stronger than I was in ways I did not realize, not even concerning my ex, but totally unrelated things.

I'm growing again. Or, at least, hitting a plateau where I can stop and see how high I've managed to climb this time.

Financially, things are good.
Family-wise, my father is still teetering, but he's holding thus far.
My sister is dating a construction worker, which boggles all of our minds, as I'm more likely to go for that type and she's infinitely more interested in their metrosexual counterparts.
Love-life, it looks optimistic. I'm hoping. This has the feel of the start of a relationship, feels familiar. Feels next.
As for the ex, apparently he's written some fairly hostile things, nothing overt, I'm told, but stuff that would cut me deep.

I haven't read them.

I got the notice on my phone, after the photogallery. I had PD check the contents while I talked with one of his friends. PD told me not to look, that it was just designed to hurt, designed to hit all the buttons that my ex knows too well.

At first, I did not look, did not read, because I did not want to be hurt.

Today, after talking with a friend, I decided not to read because I want to preserve that image I have of GV8. I want him to be who I thought he was, think he is, I don't want to cause that image to rot away. It may be stupid, may be naive, may be me burying my head in the sand.

It would be easier to read it, easier to read it and rage and cry, feel all the things he wanted me to feel, then lower his value in my eyes, destroy and taint all the memories we created together.

I won't.

He's no longer near-perfect in my eyes.

But I'm not going to sink him so low.

I'm going to remember us driving through the canyons, remember stopping at the wine boutique, cuddling outside of the motorcycle cafe on one of those winding roads, my happiness overflowing. Driving through the neighborhood he grew up in, all the stories. The love.

This, these last two weeks, I'm going to do my best to forget.

And I'll keep loving who he was, who we were.

I have... yeah. Things that I don't even know how to begin.

The thought of writing here is starting to cause anxiety, and since I will not allow myself to stop blogging because of a little anxiety... need to power through it. God knows I've gotten enough negative comments here in the last few days, though a lot of those were from the ex.

I don't quite feel safe anymore, to be honest.

I'd venture forth that he'd be happy to know that.

I'd venture forth that I never knew him at all.

Post-split behaviors translate into a man I never knew, spits on the image of the good times we had, and I can't help but wonder if... gods, if I was so wrong. Not wrong for making the choice I made, but wrong in my perception of him. If he's so hurt that he's lashing out against me in pain, or if, like so many say, no matter how much I defend him, that he's simply acting the upset child who lost his favorite toy.

I'd like to think that he loved me. That those moments we shared, just the two of us, were real. That our perfect Valentine's Day weekend together was genuine, and the love I saw in his eyes wasn't just something I deluded myself into believing.

It'd be easier to think that he felt nothing, nothing other than passing amusement, that I was a good fit into his life, thumped into the shape of a doormat over time.

That way I wouldn't worry over his hurt.

I don't think he'll ever believe that I would have left him that Saturday night whether or not I had known PD.

Because there's loyalty to your mate, and then there's loyalty to yourself.

You have to know your boundaries, and you have to know when you will break.

I saw myself breaking.

I was going to break down the course of the events in epic narrative, from when he "proposed" on Thursday night/Friday morning to how I found myself sitting a couch on the first floor of PD's warehouse, alternately talking and crying.

And maybe I will, one day down the line.

Between the dinner with my parents and the conversation in the diner in the Valley, from the moment that blonde Vienna sausage opened her mouth at the BDSM party he took me to our first weekend back together... it was simply a chain of events leading to the moment where he let me know that my opinion, my needs, my happiness, would never matter as much to him as his own and if I wasn't okay with that, he would withdraw his offer of marriage.

Some people just don't fit.

I finally accepted that, after months of him trying to beat that idea into me, my own sense of self-preservation managed to kick in.

Of course, now it seems to be far too late to save any tatters of friendship.

Many will probably think I left him for PD. Leaping, like so many girls do, from one man to the next. Security, validation, comfort sex, distraction from internal stressors, clinging to endorphins inspired by limerance.

I'm not going to argue that. It's pointless. Many would be surprised that I, I didn't touch him the night I left the ex. Nor the night after that. Or the next.

It was near pure companionship while I gathered my head back together.

Heh, finally free of that chain latching me down to sex as a magic psychological healer. Took ten years, but it happened.

I don't know exactly what PD and I are doing. I'm... really being the pathetic abused puppy. It's kinda sad. I'm hypersensitive to his moods, his expressions, looking for that displeasure, that look of calculated evaluation. Constantly worried that I'm taking too much of his time, too much of his attention. Trying not to get in the way.

But, when I get up for work in the morning, he makes me breakfast, walks me to my car, and then goes back to bed.

And when I asked him to go clubbing with me on Saturday, so he could see me dance, he said yes. He didn't tell me no, that it would be a bad idea, because he might run into someone he knew and want to bang them, which I would simply have to deal with, which is why the ex only went clubbing with me once.

When we brought up how rapidly we were falling for each other, and I expressed concern over his not-quite-monogamy, PD didn't tell me that he would never change, that his needs were his needs, he just smiled and said that we'd make it work. That we'd find a way to make both of us happy.

I sleep in his bed on the second floor. Cats jump up onto the blankets, curl at our feet, our sides, occasionally our faces. Daylight starts filtering through the warehouse windows, illuminating his book cases, his dungeon, his face next to mine. He wakes up and smiles at me, I smile back. Happy. Feeling safe to be myself.

Thursday night, we went to an art gallery/fashion show in Downtown, on the lush patio of the twenty-first floor of one of the buildings. I wore a short skirt, stockings, a loose black tunic, and my usual boots. He was in a dark button-up and jeans, the thick piercings through his ears black and tribal, eyes always looking wicked at me. He included me in conversations, whispered jokes into my ear, introduced me to friends, always made my company feel desired, like I was more than an arm-piece.

Friday night, we met with two more of his friends to discuss a screenplay one of them had written. We talked for hours, I started nodding off, my right leg across his left as he stroked my thigh, talking business, talking ideas, making jokes and ranting, as he does. His friends were wonderful, all of his friends have been wonderful. Open, accepting, easy.

Saturday day we went to Olvera St in downtown, took the Metro in. Wandered the buildings and the booths, people-watching and talking about everything, like we do. Conversation is non-stop. Ideas, thoughts, plans, feelings. Looking into old buildings, walking around in the two museums they have there, reading and discussing, identifying antiques. He bought me a Day of the Dead ornament I loved in a tiny store full of art. Went back to his place and dozed on the couch downstairs, watching movies while he loaded his truck with equipment for the next day. Hit the club where we ran into a tiny porn star, a friend of his, who was quite entertaining and friendly, just like all of his friends have been.

I slept in today, he went to work. Left me a note on my purse, made me smile.

It's good. I'm happy. Anxiety and worry aside, I'm actually happy.

I feel like I should be miserable, but I'm not. I think a large part of it is that I've been put through the emotional wringer by the ex so many times that I've gotten a bit numb to it. There's grief and there's sadness, but not that heart-stab I've had so often with him in the past.

Finally strong enough to move on. Strong enough to stand up for myself.

I've got just a few moments before I have to bolt again, so I thought I'd drop a note in here really quick.

This blog has turned into a sort of three-ring circus in the last two weeks. I apologize for that, as it was never my intent to have things become so damn dramatic (and not even serve popcorn!).

And I do promise that I will, sometime this weekend, sit down and write the tale of how things turned out the way they did. I warn you now, it is going to be long. Longer than usual. Which is why I haven't posted it before now- I'm still working on it.

In the meantime, for those of you who have been with me so long (and those of you that are newer), please have faith that I did not sudden deviate from established behavior patterns and become a traditional flighty female, pursuing status, money, affection, emotional highs.

There are things that happened, things that most of you have no way of knowing about, because I've yet to share them. Which is my fault, and will be remedied. You've stuck with me through all of this, some of you from the beginning of GV8's and my relationship, and you will be able to read about the end soon.

Thank you,

V.

Okay, we're running up on 11:15PM.

Lots of thoughts running through my head, very little time for them. Work is trying to eat my life and, really, it's getting there.

Spent Saturday, Sunday, and Monday night with PD.

Spending Wednesday, Thursday, and this coming Saturday night with PD.

This, this is... how I acted with Rick. Well, less extreme.

From the first day Rick and I met, we saw each other every day for eight months. Never skipped one. Just happened that way.

Of course, Rick lived less than five miles from my work... so it was easy.

C wonders if I'm rebounding. I was wondering that as well, a few days ago, concerned that I was being one of those girls that goes from one relationship directly into the next, using the budding connection/sexual validation as emotional padding for the transition.

I've always had months in between relationships. Give myself a breather, a time to collect my head.

But... not this time.

Not that I was expecting a relationship, as previous blog posts will attest.

But this whole mess with GV8... I understand now. I understand better, myself and what I want from a partner, what I am willing to forgo and what I am not willing to forgo.

And, PD... he's... yeah. Lovely.

We were dating before GV8 slammed into us, and now we're dating again. Or... something. It's this sort of odd situation where I'm a little fragile and high-strung, but he's right there. Right there with this sense that I know him, that I've known him for years. Our bodies just line up, working together. Ease.

I keep waiting for something bad to surface, like I do.

I keep trying not to kick myself for appearing like one of those flighty girls. This isn't me jumping from one relationship to the next because of a fear of being single. I don't fear being single. I tend to relish it, once I get used to not having a partner to factor into my schedule.

It's weird, being with someone who treats me like I'm human.

But when he's silent, I mentally freak. I'm like an abused puppy, waiting for him to tell me how he's evaluated my behavior, like a paper being graded, the red sharpie descending to plaster "F" across my being.

Then he reminds me that he's not GV8. And I have to sit there and breathe and believe him or I'll drive myself nuts.

Anyway, we'll see what happens. I've been totally infatuated before, and I will be so again. Need to calm the hell down.

More when I'm not about to pass out.

I wanted to take a moment between things to thank everyone for their support in comments and emails, and the occasional phone call from the rare few of you that have my number.

I'm... actually... fine.

I feel good.

Yes, there has been some crying. Mostly grief, I think. Grief for what we had and what it turned into, the loss of a good relationship, a good friendship.

He was exactly what I needed when I met him. He helped me through some difficult times and helped me grow so much as a person, faster than I would have on my own.

But that's over.

We have, as he said to me a few months ago, passed our dating window.

He'll always be able to push my buttons, make me want him, to some degree.

But... I don't love him anymore. I care for him, sure.

But no love. Respect is fading. Trust is gone.

In some ways, he's so amazing and experienced. He takes care of things, harnesses reality and makes it his.

But when it comes to relationships... he doesn't have enough experience, and it shows. He missed me, he wanted me, he dangled what would make me jump back into his arms. He didn't think it through, didn't take into consideration my happiness.

I mean, he did to some degree. Sending me back to school, giving me the time to write my book, puruse getting my body into its best shape, giving me control over my time.

So valuable.

Time is precious.

But he did not think further.

And he's so dominant, it's hard to not just naturally bend to him.

But there are things I can no longer excuse. Behaviors that do not work for me, and not just his need to sexually roam.

Some people just don't fit.

And I've finally accepted that.

In the last couple weeks, before GV8 came crashing back into my life, I met someone. I actually met someone. Someone I have things in common with, someone I might truly fit with. Someone who is an amazingly good person. Who values me.

Who kept his phone by his bed Saturday night, knowing that I would likely call and need a shoulder to cry on.

Who picked it up when it rang at midnight-thirty, talked to me as I drove to his home, curled up in bed with me and let me talk.

He makes me happy.




End: Chapter One

Vision is obscured.

Remove glasses, dried salt flakes splashed across the inside of the lenses, deposited by tear-wet eyelash tips.

Fairytale endings are for princesses... and I am no princess.









Wipe the glass clean, look again.

Quick post, as I have to run out the door to a lapdance class.

Did the dinner with my parents last night. My dad has only met GV8 once, my mom, twice. I always kept him separated from them because it was a)never supposed to get serious and b)I was convinced they would freak about the age gap.

I was exhausted. Typical. Falling asleep on GV8's shoulder on the couch while he and Mom talked.

It's weird. This whole thing has been weird.

I'm happy, but most of the time I'm trying to suppress it because I know if I start thinking about it I'll get incredibly anxious. And, as much as I know this bugs him, i keep expecting him to change his mind.

Because he changes his mind a lot.

Four break-ups attest to this (admittedly, one of those was mine).

I don't trust him as much anymore. He's back in the generic trust category. Trusting of certain behaviors. Trusting him to act in expected ways.

But there's the gap. The pull-back. That it wasn't like it was and, until we get married, I'm probably not going to relax. God knows I've been clingy as hell of late. And analyzing every single behavior and word choice.

I'm nervous. I'm so damned nervous.

And I know this panic is pushing at me to keep things the same, continue on my solo, just so I don't have to experience change. Because I don't handle change well.

The second I think of not spending the rest of my life with him, my stomach drops out and I think that life would be... not pointless, but... horrible. A void of happiness.

So I've got to, as my dad says, put my helmet on and soldier through it. Don't let the anxieties and fears rule my life. I know, one day, I'll trust him again as much as I did, if not more. I know that, just a few months ago, he was the center of my happiness, my life, I was willing to give everything for him because I was so convinced he was it.

As for everything else... we're having a small ceremony in the park that my parents got married in on their anniversary: July 1st. Then we're going on a not-really-honeymoon to Lake Tahoe for the weekend. Planned on having a big ceremony and reception in October.

Next Saturday we're going ring shopping.
Next Sunday, I'm going dress shopping with my mom.

And, in three weeks, I'll be Mrs. GV8.

Nah, that sounds so old. I'll be Ms. GV8.

...and I'm going to be late if I don't leave now. Whoops.

GV8 has posted his first, and probably only, blog.

You can find it here.