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.
Showing posts with label mr. brush-off. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mr. brush-off. Show all posts
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Saturday, November 28, 2009
My parents have faux-rented the guest room to a young Navy man who is working security somewhere up the way while waiting to be called back... to duty? I've never been in the military or really dated a military man, so I'm not sure what they call these things. But I hear he's a bit tatted up and attractive, so the next few months could be amusing.
No, not in that way.
Just the standard, "there's a hot man running around in a towel upstairs" way.
It doesn't feel like Friday to me. It feels like it should be Sunday, with how drained I am and how much has gone on since Wednesday.
I've been reading a decent amount of poetry. Derrick Brown and Mindy Nettifee. They're amazing. I saw them perform a few weeks ago alongside another favorite of mine, Buddy Wakefield. So good.
On Wednesday, after we talked, GV8 had to take one of his friends to the airport, which is when I posted about what had been going on, from his computer.
I popped his laundry into the washer and walked up the street until I spotted a sushi place that seemed like it could be decent.
The food was excellent, presentation was amazing, and, apparently, the sushi chef liked how enthused I was about his raw fish artwork that he sent over a special plate of various types of sashimi on the house.
It was... really good. I hadn't really been able to eat earlier that day, I think I had an orange and half a sandwich (which caused nausea), so by the time I was able to sit down to dinner, it was passing 7PM and my body was wrecked by the parade of emotions I was putting it through.
I sat there, eating amazing sushi, a non-rice roll I had never tried before, reading Nettifee's Sleepyhead Assassins... not quite unwinding, but relaxing as much as I could. Her words, her imagery, they're so soothing to me. I'm going to be posting my favorite verses from my favorite poems in here sometime soon.
Walked back to the apartment and moved the laundry into the dryer. He came back just as I was going downstairs to get the dry laundry, I saw the loft was open and lit, so I wandered in.
We talked while I put his laundry away, then he showered, and went to bed still wearing his briefs. There was a no-naked-time rule being enforced. I showered, then slid into my customary tight black wifebeater and black and white striped underwear.
Curled up in bed beside him after massaging his calves and arms for an hour or two, and he pulled me deep into his chest, both arms around me, spooning.
I could have laid that way for hours.
I matched my breathing to his, the unsteady rhythm, just a little off each time, feeling us rise and fall as a unit.
Around 130AM, a noise sounded outside. Fearing someone was trying to break into the loft, he got up quickly, went used the restroom, and dressed. A hoodie. I didn't think about it. I know I should worry somewhat, and I did, but something that that man does very well is take care of himself, no matter what.
False alarm.
We woke early in the morning, Thanksgiving.
I don't remember what we talked about, though I'm sure we cuddled and kissed, but he suddenly rose and told me he had a challenge for me.
A challenge?
He said he was going to take a shower, and when he got out, he wanted me to please him in whatever way I felt possible and necessary, for as long as I felt was necessary, without ever touching his cock. He wanted to see if I could do it, what I would do, without his prompt. He said I was sexually proficient, but he was concerned that I did not know how to please him without sex.
Which... sounds odd, I suppose, without the backstory.
I've had a hard time showing him affection on more than a physical level. Not just sexual, mind you, but also platonic physical contact. I'm comfortable, so comfortable with touching and pleasing. I'm confident in what I do and that the men I sleep with want me to do the things I wish to do. There's no smothering in sex, especially if you're pleasing someone. I worry about smothering. I worry about coming off too clingy, too dependent, too submissive, as I mentioned early.
So I show love, I show care, through my body.
Which meant I never felt really comfortable doing anything special for him that wasn't in the bedroom.
And, really, there's not a good deal of things that are one-on-one that I haven't already done, as long as you toss male submission out, and any of the wilder, less hygenic fetishes.
So there's only so much "special" to be had on a pure activity level.
He felt I wasn't understanding him because of this. Because he's so dominant and wants that person serving him and I, I was so trying to restrain that part of my nature, which meant we entered into this situation where I was only focusing on the sex.
Which most men would enjoy.
But then there's that "more".
He finished his shower, got out, dried, suggested music (which made me feel like a moron because I should've thought of that on my own), so I went out to my car and got my copy of The American Dollar's "A Memory Stream". Fantastic album.
I started at the feet. To the calves, to the thighs, to the ass, flip over, the muscle the runs along the side of the shins, top of the thighs, head every so often laying on his stomach, kissing each part as I finished the rub, moving to the hands, the forearms, the biceps, flip over, to the waist, the back, the shoulders, the neck, his entire body coated in oil.
Two and a half, three hours.
My arm is still sore, it hurts to text, and I'm not even going to attempt to pick up any sort of writing implement.
Tongue sliding up from the lowest part of the back to the top of the neck, my body following. Back down, rimming. So many people shy away from it, and I understand, but it is an amazing, amazing, amazing sensation. I won't do it for most people, though, and I won't do it for that long.
Back to the feet, my foot fetishest. He loves it. Nuzzles, licking, suckling, nipping at the smooth calluses. Fingers, palms, ears, lips, rolling hips. Another hour or two, I work over his body with my hands and mouth, making sure to seek out the backsides of joints, the places that so few people touch that are extra-sensitive.
By 1PM, we're both naked, reclining opposite each other. He loves to watch me masturbate. His feet stray near and, for once, I don't shy away. I carefully let my toes stroke his balls, he orgasms twice.
With all of that, there's still the no sex rule.
I think it's a combination of him knowing that we can't keep it "just sex", that it always ends up becoming more, connecting us more, and a sentiment we both expressed at the split, that if we were to attempt to take a few steps back to just having sex occasionally, it would be a massively letdown from the intimate lovemaking we enaged in, that it would feel too wrong, too awkward.
And he doesn't know where we're going.
Later that night, Playboy texted me. Wants to come down next weekend. Then Pseudonym Pending, though I slept through that, then Restaurant Retard (I need to come up with a better nickname than that if he ends up recurring) the next day.
I suppose I should be glad of myself, that I've not had a guy I wanted regularly just one-night me in some time. Even Mr. Brush-off was up for more, and I would've been okay with that if he had not had a "it's complicated" girlfriend pop up.
GV8 has texted me a few times since that morning, talking about scheduling, the dessert I got for him, his hopefully upcoming vasectomy. I'm trying not to worry about it.
Forced myself to go out, grab dinner, see a movie, then meet up with some friends.
I forgot how much I keep to myself, socially. I could go out, and I do, but more often than not, I just keep to myself, hole up with a book in a coffee shop and people watch, not really wanting or needing to interact with anyone.
Wandering around, looking at the Christmas displays in stores, eating on a patio to watch the people bundled up in their California winter-wear walking by, listening to the Christmas carols being pumped into the air.
It's a weird experience, from March to now. March through, at least, May, was a non-stop exercise in awful for me. Out every night. Social obligations through the roof. No alone time. Three months without a night to myself. I'm surprised I did not go insane and flee the country. At least now I get weekends, if I force it.
I'm fairly sure I'm going clubbing tomorrow. I think it will be good for me to get out and move, work more on trying to get into the moment instead of thinking non-stop about everything but what I'm doing. Let go that vaunted control and trust in myself.
We'll see. It's 130 in the morning and I'm hitting that babbling stage. I should hire someone to write a CliffNotes version of every post and put it at the top so people have this mad wave of text flooding their monitor.
Oh well.
Tomorrow will be another day to see what I can do with this life. Let's see what happens.
No, not in that way.
Just the standard, "there's a hot man running around in a towel upstairs" way.
It doesn't feel like Friday to me. It feels like it should be Sunday, with how drained I am and how much has gone on since Wednesday.
I've been reading a decent amount of poetry. Derrick Brown and Mindy Nettifee. They're amazing. I saw them perform a few weeks ago alongside another favorite of mine, Buddy Wakefield. So good.
On Wednesday, after we talked, GV8 had to take one of his friends to the airport, which is when I posted about what had been going on, from his computer.
I popped his laundry into the washer and walked up the street until I spotted a sushi place that seemed like it could be decent.
The food was excellent, presentation was amazing, and, apparently, the sushi chef liked how enthused I was about his raw fish artwork that he sent over a special plate of various types of sashimi on the house.
It was... really good. I hadn't really been able to eat earlier that day, I think I had an orange and half a sandwich (which caused nausea), so by the time I was able to sit down to dinner, it was passing 7PM and my body was wrecked by the parade of emotions I was putting it through.
I sat there, eating amazing sushi, a non-rice roll I had never tried before, reading Nettifee's Sleepyhead Assassins... not quite unwinding, but relaxing as much as I could. Her words, her imagery, they're so soothing to me. I'm going to be posting my favorite verses from my favorite poems in here sometime soon.
Walked back to the apartment and moved the laundry into the dryer. He came back just as I was going downstairs to get the dry laundry, I saw the loft was open and lit, so I wandered in.
We talked while I put his laundry away, then he showered, and went to bed still wearing his briefs. There was a no-naked-time rule being enforced. I showered, then slid into my customary tight black wifebeater and black and white striped underwear.
Curled up in bed beside him after massaging his calves and arms for an hour or two, and he pulled me deep into his chest, both arms around me, spooning.
I could have laid that way for hours.
I matched my breathing to his, the unsteady rhythm, just a little off each time, feeling us rise and fall as a unit.
Around 130AM, a noise sounded outside. Fearing someone was trying to break into the loft, he got up quickly, went used the restroom, and dressed. A hoodie. I didn't think about it. I know I should worry somewhat, and I did, but something that that man does very well is take care of himself, no matter what.
False alarm.
We woke early in the morning, Thanksgiving.
I don't remember what we talked about, though I'm sure we cuddled and kissed, but he suddenly rose and told me he had a challenge for me.
A challenge?
He said he was going to take a shower, and when he got out, he wanted me to please him in whatever way I felt possible and necessary, for as long as I felt was necessary, without ever touching his cock. He wanted to see if I could do it, what I would do, without his prompt. He said I was sexually proficient, but he was concerned that I did not know how to please him without sex.
Which... sounds odd, I suppose, without the backstory.
I've had a hard time showing him affection on more than a physical level. Not just sexual, mind you, but also platonic physical contact. I'm comfortable, so comfortable with touching and pleasing. I'm confident in what I do and that the men I sleep with want me to do the things I wish to do. There's no smothering in sex, especially if you're pleasing someone. I worry about smothering. I worry about coming off too clingy, too dependent, too submissive, as I mentioned early.
So I show love, I show care, through my body.
Which meant I never felt really comfortable doing anything special for him that wasn't in the bedroom.
And, really, there's not a good deal of things that are one-on-one that I haven't already done, as long as you toss male submission out, and any of the wilder, less hygenic fetishes.
So there's only so much "special" to be had on a pure activity level.
He felt I wasn't understanding him because of this. Because he's so dominant and wants that person serving him and I, I was so trying to restrain that part of my nature, which meant we entered into this situation where I was only focusing on the sex.
Which most men would enjoy.
But then there's that "more".
He finished his shower, got out, dried, suggested music (which made me feel like a moron because I should've thought of that on my own), so I went out to my car and got my copy of The American Dollar's "A Memory Stream". Fantastic album.
I started at the feet. To the calves, to the thighs, to the ass, flip over, the muscle the runs along the side of the shins, top of the thighs, head every so often laying on his stomach, kissing each part as I finished the rub, moving to the hands, the forearms, the biceps, flip over, to the waist, the back, the shoulders, the neck, his entire body coated in oil.
Two and a half, three hours.
My arm is still sore, it hurts to text, and I'm not even going to attempt to pick up any sort of writing implement.
Tongue sliding up from the lowest part of the back to the top of the neck, my body following. Back down, rimming. So many people shy away from it, and I understand, but it is an amazing, amazing, amazing sensation. I won't do it for most people, though, and I won't do it for that long.
Back to the feet, my foot fetishest. He loves it. Nuzzles, licking, suckling, nipping at the smooth calluses. Fingers, palms, ears, lips, rolling hips. Another hour or two, I work over his body with my hands and mouth, making sure to seek out the backsides of joints, the places that so few people touch that are extra-sensitive.
By 1PM, we're both naked, reclining opposite each other. He loves to watch me masturbate. His feet stray near and, for once, I don't shy away. I carefully let my toes stroke his balls, he orgasms twice.
With all of that, there's still the no sex rule.
I think it's a combination of him knowing that we can't keep it "just sex", that it always ends up becoming more, connecting us more, and a sentiment we both expressed at the split, that if we were to attempt to take a few steps back to just having sex occasionally, it would be a massively letdown from the intimate lovemaking we enaged in, that it would feel too wrong, too awkward.
And he doesn't know where we're going.
Later that night, Playboy texted me. Wants to come down next weekend. Then Pseudonym Pending, though I slept through that, then Restaurant Retard (I need to come up with a better nickname than that if he ends up recurring) the next day.
I suppose I should be glad of myself, that I've not had a guy I wanted regularly just one-night me in some time. Even Mr. Brush-off was up for more, and I would've been okay with that if he had not had a "it's complicated" girlfriend pop up.
GV8 has texted me a few times since that morning, talking about scheduling, the dessert I got for him, his hopefully upcoming vasectomy. I'm trying not to worry about it.
Forced myself to go out, grab dinner, see a movie, then meet up with some friends.
I forgot how much I keep to myself, socially. I could go out, and I do, but more often than not, I just keep to myself, hole up with a book in a coffee shop and people watch, not really wanting or needing to interact with anyone.
Wandering around, looking at the Christmas displays in stores, eating on a patio to watch the people bundled up in their California winter-wear walking by, listening to the Christmas carols being pumped into the air.
It's a weird experience, from March to now. March through, at least, May, was a non-stop exercise in awful for me. Out every night. Social obligations through the roof. No alone time. Three months without a night to myself. I'm surprised I did not go insane and flee the country. At least now I get weekends, if I force it.
I'm fairly sure I'm going clubbing tomorrow. I think it will be good for me to get out and move, work more on trying to get into the moment instead of thinking non-stop about everything but what I'm doing. Let go that vaunted control and trust in myself.
We'll see. It's 130 in the morning and I'm hitting that babbling stage. I should hire someone to write a CliffNotes version of every post and put it at the top so people have this mad wave of text flooding their monitor.
Oh well.
Tomorrow will be another day to see what I can do with this life. Let's see what happens.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Nineteen oh one...
Hit another wall.
No, not in my car. I'm not prone to ramming inanimate objects with my vehicle.
I want to write, I want to think with the keyboard and have the discussions that are featured here with myself, but something seems to be causing a sort of muffled internal monologue that isn't translating well to actually figuring out what is going on.
Called GV8 three times yesterday, once on my way into work, once on my way home from work, and once right after the second one because I had to check something.
We just talked. Just... conversation. Surface, trival stuff. I had been worried previously that we would not be able to do that, just talk about the most commonplace stuff. You know "conversation". Talking for the sake of talking, for the company of the person on the other end of the phone. Talking without purpose, without trying to communicate information about yourself to the other.
And we did it for awhile.
He also, without realizing it, addressed my general hatred of the beta-boy routine he goes into in most social situations. We were talking about... gods, I don't know. And he mentioned the act he puts on for people, how he shifts gears in social situations in order to make other people comfortable because they would not be comfortable with him acting himself.
I had not realized that's why he did it.
And I was mildly unsure if he knew that he did, indeed, do it.
It still bothers me, I will admit. It likely will for awhile. First, I don't find it attractive. Second, if I'm to be dating a man who is nearly two decades older than me, and he acts, in public like something everyone knows I would never find attractive, it's going to look like I'm after him for his money. And the people who actually know me, who know that I don't care overmuch about the money, are going to wonder why I'm with someone so different than my usual type. I like representing myself well, being represented well by my partner selection, being proud to be with them.
And I am proud... ah, am I proud? Shoot. Well, my brain just came to a screeching, discordant halt.
When he's being himself, when he's truly opening up to me, when he's revealing all those pieces of himself he hides even when we're alone together, I am thrilled, I am happy, to be with him. Proud? I'm not much one for being proud to be with another person.
But those other times, when he's doing the song and dance, I continue to cringe, wishing that man I know that he seems so often to hide from others in so many different ways, would be with me all the time. I want to feel like we're running alongside each other, a complimentary team.
We're seeing each other on Sunday. I've decided to take tonight and tomorrow to catch up on needed sleep, on homework, on bookwork, on organizing life-stuff. I was hoping to spend more time with him this weekend, but his complaint that I am always tired (accurate) means that I need to sacrifice quantity of time with quality of time.
So I get an afternoon.
Sigh.
I invited him to meet my parents, you know. Saturday, we're going to a little festival and his complaint that I hide him from them (accurate) caused me to speak to them about inviting him to it. And they were actually okay with that. It was the last thing I was expecting, especially since when both of them discovered our age gap, both separately lectured me about how he was too old for me and what the hell was I thinking?
But he turned me down. Said that with everything going on between us, not certain of where we are going, it probably wasn't the best idea.
True. But... I tried.
I feel like a little girl, scrabbling about for a solution.
I'm trying to do this right.
And maybe I should just give up. This isn't the best time for this, and I can't afford the emotional distraction from this in my work or education.
But how much am I supposed to let pass me by?
Just because it's inconvenient? Just because I'm incredibly insecure about so many things and this could just make it worse? So it's easier to run away than to risk being rejected for who I am instead of who I thought he wanted me to be or, rather, what I thought would cause him to want me, to want me to stick around, to want more from me than casual sex?
Fear is a big motivator.
Not just for me.
Fear of being hurt. Fear that every horrible thing you've ever thought about yourself might be true. Fear that every self-doubt was truly self-knowledge disguised with the light of hope or just blind ignorance. Fear that every insult that has been tossed your way was correct. Fear that you're unlovable, that you're unforgivable, that you're horrible, that everything you ever will attempt will fail.
It's easier to hide, easier to not try and rationalize it in a way that you can accept and that you can convince others to accept. If you're good, and most of us are, you can do it so smoothly you don't realize that you're even covering these thoughts up. You live a rationalized reality.
Personally, I'm terrified.
I'd like to say that I'm only afraid but, really, that would just be me trying to convince myself that this bone-vibrating fear isn't as bad as I would wish it to be. That I would, like most things in my life, dissociate myself from the emotion to the point where the experience is simply an echo of what I do not allow myself to feel.
But part of this, part of all of this, is acknowledging.
It's about digging up the mounds of earth that I have buried all my fears and hurts in and examining the fossils that shape the landscape of the person I am now.
Maybe it won't do any good.
I mean, I've been doing this for years. I have writing scattered across the internet, essays and blogs floating around for the last decade. And people always tell me how self-aware I am, how in tune with myself I am, how courageous or honest, brutal and revealing, how knowledgable, mature, whatever.
It doesn't feel like that to me.
I know that, compared to the average person, I do examine myself thoroughly. I try to be aware of myself as much as I can, but I certainly fail more often than not.
I mean, it should be fairly obvious to even the most unaware person that if you are dating one person, hoping for more, and you continue to see other people, that shows you have a lack of true interest in that one particular person.
You think that would be obvious.
But here I was thinking that it would make him want me more, that I would be more of a chase, because so damn many PUA men online have said that I'm a horrible slut, horrible human being, I need to become a born-again virgin because no decent man will have me now, it's far too late, but maybe I could settle for a lower middle-class beta loser and become a chubby soccer mom getting her stubby toes polished by a Vietnamese woman on the weekends.
So I play hard to get.
So I say, sure, men find me desirable, and I'm going to continue to enjoy myself with them and that will illustrate that GV8 better get a move on if he wants me because others want me too.
And what's funny is that, this year, I've had sex with five (5!) men, two of them being hold-overs from last year (Hardwood Floors and SFPlayboy), one of them was a crappy one-night stand (Dose), a not-so-crappy one-night stand (Mr. Brush-off), and GV8. Mr. Brush-off was the only man I've had sex with since I met GV8. I have not had the inclination or the true interest to pursue anyone further.
Anyway, I think that was more of a sidetrack than anything.
GV8 still wants me, at least in some capacity, after all of this. After me acting like someone else entirely, someone I wanted to be, but not someone who I was.
And I did learn. I learned how to be stronger, how to hold back, how to not rush into things. These were things I had never been able to conquer before, but I did so with him and I'm proud of myself, in my own way, for being able to do so.
I faced a fear. I faced an insecurity.
And I tackled it, drove it to the ground. It wasn't the smoothest, at least on an emotional level, but I did force myself to face my anxieties.
Now I have to learn how to let go.
Even if GV8 is not the man for me, even if he rejects me, I need to learn how to do this, and I need to learn how to accept this complete rejection.
Because I know I will never be happy, never have that security or sense of self I desire, if I do not learn how to let go. If I never learn to have faith in myself.
I am much better than the girl I used to be, but it is going to take a lot of work to become the woman I know I have in me.
No, not in my car. I'm not prone to ramming inanimate objects with my vehicle.
I want to write, I want to think with the keyboard and have the discussions that are featured here with myself, but something seems to be causing a sort of muffled internal monologue that isn't translating well to actually figuring out what is going on.
Called GV8 three times yesterday, once on my way into work, once on my way home from work, and once right after the second one because I had to check something.
We just talked. Just... conversation. Surface, trival stuff. I had been worried previously that we would not be able to do that, just talk about the most commonplace stuff. You know "conversation". Talking for the sake of talking, for the company of the person on the other end of the phone. Talking without purpose, without trying to communicate information about yourself to the other.
And we did it for awhile.
He also, without realizing it, addressed my general hatred of the beta-boy routine he goes into in most social situations. We were talking about... gods, I don't know. And he mentioned the act he puts on for people, how he shifts gears in social situations in order to make other people comfortable because they would not be comfortable with him acting himself.
I had not realized that's why he did it.
And I was mildly unsure if he knew that he did, indeed, do it.
It still bothers me, I will admit. It likely will for awhile. First, I don't find it attractive. Second, if I'm to be dating a man who is nearly two decades older than me, and he acts, in public like something everyone knows I would never find attractive, it's going to look like I'm after him for his money. And the people who actually know me, who know that I don't care overmuch about the money, are going to wonder why I'm with someone so different than my usual type. I like representing myself well, being represented well by my partner selection, being proud to be with them.
And I am proud... ah, am I proud? Shoot. Well, my brain just came to a screeching, discordant halt.
When he's being himself, when he's truly opening up to me, when he's revealing all those pieces of himself he hides even when we're alone together, I am thrilled, I am happy, to be with him. Proud? I'm not much one for being proud to be with another person.
But those other times, when he's doing the song and dance, I continue to cringe, wishing that man I know that he seems so often to hide from others in so many different ways, would be with me all the time. I want to feel like we're running alongside each other, a complimentary team.
We're seeing each other on Sunday. I've decided to take tonight and tomorrow to catch up on needed sleep, on homework, on bookwork, on organizing life-stuff. I was hoping to spend more time with him this weekend, but his complaint that I am always tired (accurate) means that I need to sacrifice quantity of time with quality of time.
So I get an afternoon.
Sigh.
I invited him to meet my parents, you know. Saturday, we're going to a little festival and his complaint that I hide him from them (accurate) caused me to speak to them about inviting him to it. And they were actually okay with that. It was the last thing I was expecting, especially since when both of them discovered our age gap, both separately lectured me about how he was too old for me and what the hell was I thinking?
But he turned me down. Said that with everything going on between us, not certain of where we are going, it probably wasn't the best idea.
True. But... I tried.
I feel like a little girl, scrabbling about for a solution.
I'm trying to do this right.
And maybe I should just give up. This isn't the best time for this, and I can't afford the emotional distraction from this in my work or education.
But how much am I supposed to let pass me by?
Just because it's inconvenient? Just because I'm incredibly insecure about so many things and this could just make it worse? So it's easier to run away than to risk being rejected for who I am instead of who I thought he wanted me to be or, rather, what I thought would cause him to want me, to want me to stick around, to want more from me than casual sex?
Fear is a big motivator.
Not just for me.
Fear of being hurt. Fear that every horrible thing you've ever thought about yourself might be true. Fear that every self-doubt was truly self-knowledge disguised with the light of hope or just blind ignorance. Fear that every insult that has been tossed your way was correct. Fear that you're unlovable, that you're unforgivable, that you're horrible, that everything you ever will attempt will fail.
It's easier to hide, easier to not try and rationalize it in a way that you can accept and that you can convince others to accept. If you're good, and most of us are, you can do it so smoothly you don't realize that you're even covering these thoughts up. You live a rationalized reality.
Personally, I'm terrified.
I'd like to say that I'm only afraid but, really, that would just be me trying to convince myself that this bone-vibrating fear isn't as bad as I would wish it to be. That I would, like most things in my life, dissociate myself from the emotion to the point where the experience is simply an echo of what I do not allow myself to feel.
But part of this, part of all of this, is acknowledging.
It's about digging up the mounds of earth that I have buried all my fears and hurts in and examining the fossils that shape the landscape of the person I am now.
Maybe it won't do any good.
I mean, I've been doing this for years. I have writing scattered across the internet, essays and blogs floating around for the last decade. And people always tell me how self-aware I am, how in tune with myself I am, how courageous or honest, brutal and revealing, how knowledgable, mature, whatever.
It doesn't feel like that to me.
I know that, compared to the average person, I do examine myself thoroughly. I try to be aware of myself as much as I can, but I certainly fail more often than not.
I mean, it should be fairly obvious to even the most unaware person that if you are dating one person, hoping for more, and you continue to see other people, that shows you have a lack of true interest in that one particular person.
You think that would be obvious.
But here I was thinking that it would make him want me more, that I would be more of a chase, because so damn many PUA men online have said that I'm a horrible slut, horrible human being, I need to become a born-again virgin because no decent man will have me now, it's far too late, but maybe I could settle for a lower middle-class beta loser and become a chubby soccer mom getting her stubby toes polished by a Vietnamese woman on the weekends.
So I play hard to get.
So I say, sure, men find me desirable, and I'm going to continue to enjoy myself with them and that will illustrate that GV8 better get a move on if he wants me because others want me too.
And what's funny is that, this year, I've had sex with five (5!) men, two of them being hold-overs from last year (Hardwood Floors and SFPlayboy), one of them was a crappy one-night stand (Dose), a not-so-crappy one-night stand (Mr. Brush-off), and GV8. Mr. Brush-off was the only man I've had sex with since I met GV8. I have not had the inclination or the true interest to pursue anyone further.
Anyway, I think that was more of a sidetrack than anything.
GV8 still wants me, at least in some capacity, after all of this. After me acting like someone else entirely, someone I wanted to be, but not someone who I was.
And I did learn. I learned how to be stronger, how to hold back, how to not rush into things. These were things I had never been able to conquer before, but I did so with him and I'm proud of myself, in my own way, for being able to do so.
I faced a fear. I faced an insecurity.
And I tackled it, drove it to the ground. It wasn't the smoothest, at least on an emotional level, but I did force myself to face my anxieties.
Now I have to learn how to let go.
Even if GV8 is not the man for me, even if he rejects me, I need to learn how to do this, and I need to learn how to accept this complete rejection.
Because I know I will never be happy, never have that security or sense of self I desire, if I do not learn how to let go. If I never learn to have faith in myself.
I am much better than the girl I used to be, but it is going to take a lot of work to become the woman I know I have in me.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Metal on metal...
More and more, I'm straining towards another division of blogs.
Though it becomes increasingly unlikely as my schedule takes another shift. School is starting tonight. A fifty mile commute to my classes, lovely. My "underling" is starting school as well, going down to part-time, meaning that I am going to have to pick up the slack. That means less writing time.
Already, I have problems maintaining two blogs, the other one neglected as this one went up, me basking in anonymity, knowing I can say what I want about who I want without the desperate emails from men telling me that we needed to go out, that I was the one for them, that only I would understand them, or the growing section of fangirls, girls that I don't know how to handle.
And this blog is still anonymous. Those who have asked for its location have been denied, no matter how close we are, because I'm withdrawn, because I know that even with the closest friendships, things happen and people change, and people are self-serving beyond good, beyond bad, just seeking for themselves.
Someone commented just a little bit ago that I was slumming by making out with a man in a relationship, that I needed to raise my standards. It made me feel as though they hadn't read the post at all, simply skimmed it, not bothering to understand the content, just getting the barest of details and slapping a face on it, a face they understood.
I forgot what that was like.
I'm so used to having my face up, so used to having a backstory, so used to having groups of people reading my stuff and interpreting it that things like that so rarely happen.
But it's something I need to get over.
It does let me see the difference, though.
Things move along though. Inching towards my Master's degree, couch-surfing, socializing much too much, the random social encounters... I've met so many people in so many places and I wonder how many more I will meet before I give up entirely in the barely-there-as-is belief that I might meet someone for me.
I run through southern California, from San Diego to the Valley, digging.
Digging for experience, digging for knowledge, digging for identity, to compare myself to others and say "this is who I am not" because it is so rare for me to say "this is who I am".
I'm 26 in a month and a half and I feel like I'm starring in some crappy indie flick about a girl trying to find herself.
Usually, though, these girls are these delicate creatures who have never fallen in love, never experienced a man, wear wacky scenster clothes, and stumble across their awkward romance while working at a drug store.
Whereas I'm sitting here, wild, damaged, too experienced, always mellow, withdrawn, overanalytical in my simplistic clothing style, glasses, and layered black hair, nose in a book, wondering if I should just start dating only intelligent ex-cons because it seems I get along with those the best.
When I was out with Sad Eyes on Friday night, wandering Downtown Disney, he said he was looking for his Belle, interfering that he was such a damaged beast, saying that he needed the tolerance and understanding of such a woman.
And I find it funny. If you've seen the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, it starts off with Belle being incredibly devoted to her father, nose always in a book, innocent and determined. And then she rescues the Beast from the darkness within him through her faith and understanding, through her determination. She keeps, for the most part, her innocence, only losing it somewhat when the villagers in the town she lived in lost their heads and Gaston went all possessive/avenging his honor batshit.
We were by the west end of the area when he said this, walking back from the Disneyland Hotel. I could not help but chuckle because the last time that tale was raised around me, one of my blogging friends rewrote it in the start of a project where he was redoing fairytales to feature the girls he knew. It was about me, a combination of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast, where an innocent girl pricks her finger on a spinning wheel and becomes, inside, a beast. In the end, she saves the beast, prevents him from turning back into a human, so they could be beasts together.
I enjoyed it.
So often these damaged men I dig up are looking for redemption through innocence. Looking to be saved like in some Hollywood ideal. Embarassed and distant about their past actions and feelings, they go through women, looking so hard for that one that will see past their behaviors, that will somehow, solely through love, make them whole again.
Every time they hurt another one, one that cannot handle who and what they are, they become angry, frustrated, and more withdrawn. Badges from battle, they wear these girls like shields, keeping people out, yet drawing them in.
I suppose I'm no better.
Looking for a beast of a man, someone I can respect and run with. Someone who pushes like I do, someone who wants to be more, someone who will be more and understand the isolation that comes from this all, comes from being different and wading through crowds, up to your neck in people that you do not want to understand, hoping that someone will grab your hand and yank you out, or at least walk with you until you both find shore.
But that's all fantasy.
And, right now, I've got to be in reality. I have thirty minutes to wrap up work so I can start my lovely commute to class.
Good morning to me.
Though it becomes increasingly unlikely as my schedule takes another shift. School is starting tonight. A fifty mile commute to my classes, lovely. My "underling" is starting school as well, going down to part-time, meaning that I am going to have to pick up the slack. That means less writing time.
Already, I have problems maintaining two blogs, the other one neglected as this one went up, me basking in anonymity, knowing I can say what I want about who I want without the desperate emails from men telling me that we needed to go out, that I was the one for them, that only I would understand them, or the growing section of fangirls, girls that I don't know how to handle.
And this blog is still anonymous. Those who have asked for its location have been denied, no matter how close we are, because I'm withdrawn, because I know that even with the closest friendships, things happen and people change, and people are self-serving beyond good, beyond bad, just seeking for themselves.
Someone commented just a little bit ago that I was slumming by making out with a man in a relationship, that I needed to raise my standards. It made me feel as though they hadn't read the post at all, simply skimmed it, not bothering to understand the content, just getting the barest of details and slapping a face on it, a face they understood.
I forgot what that was like.
I'm so used to having my face up, so used to having a backstory, so used to having groups of people reading my stuff and interpreting it that things like that so rarely happen.
But it's something I need to get over.
It does let me see the difference, though.
Things move along though. Inching towards my Master's degree, couch-surfing, socializing much too much, the random social encounters... I've met so many people in so many places and I wonder how many more I will meet before I give up entirely in the barely-there-as-is belief that I might meet someone for me.
I run through southern California, from San Diego to the Valley, digging.
Digging for experience, digging for knowledge, digging for identity, to compare myself to others and say "this is who I am not" because it is so rare for me to say "this is who I am".
I'm 26 in a month and a half and I feel like I'm starring in some crappy indie flick about a girl trying to find herself.
Usually, though, these girls are these delicate creatures who have never fallen in love, never experienced a man, wear wacky scenster clothes, and stumble across their awkward romance while working at a drug store.
Whereas I'm sitting here, wild, damaged, too experienced, always mellow, withdrawn, overanalytical in my simplistic clothing style, glasses, and layered black hair, nose in a book, wondering if I should just start dating only intelligent ex-cons because it seems I get along with those the best.
When I was out with Sad Eyes on Friday night, wandering Downtown Disney, he said he was looking for his Belle, interfering that he was such a damaged beast, saying that he needed the tolerance and understanding of such a woman.
And I find it funny. If you've seen the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, it starts off with Belle being incredibly devoted to her father, nose always in a book, innocent and determined. And then she rescues the Beast from the darkness within him through her faith and understanding, through her determination. She keeps, for the most part, her innocence, only losing it somewhat when the villagers in the town she lived in lost their heads and Gaston went all possessive/avenging his honor batshit.
We were by the west end of the area when he said this, walking back from the Disneyland Hotel. I could not help but chuckle because the last time that tale was raised around me, one of my blogging friends rewrote it in the start of a project where he was redoing fairytales to feature the girls he knew. It was about me, a combination of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast, where an innocent girl pricks her finger on a spinning wheel and becomes, inside, a beast. In the end, she saves the beast, prevents him from turning back into a human, so they could be beasts together.
I enjoyed it.
So often these damaged men I dig up are looking for redemption through innocence. Looking to be saved like in some Hollywood ideal. Embarassed and distant about their past actions and feelings, they go through women, looking so hard for that one that will see past their behaviors, that will somehow, solely through love, make them whole again.
Every time they hurt another one, one that cannot handle who and what they are, they become angry, frustrated, and more withdrawn. Badges from battle, they wear these girls like shields, keeping people out, yet drawing them in.
I suppose I'm no better.
Looking for a beast of a man, someone I can respect and run with. Someone who pushes like I do, someone who wants to be more, someone who will be more and understand the isolation that comes from this all, comes from being different and wading through crowds, up to your neck in people that you do not want to understand, hoping that someone will grab your hand and yank you out, or at least walk with you until you both find shore.
But that's all fantasy.
And, right now, I've got to be in reality. I have thirty minutes to wrap up work so I can start my lovely commute to class.
Good morning to me.
Friday, August 14, 2009
It's about time...
I'm sitting on the ground, legs crossed, surrounded by men and one woman is who quite happy with her mate of choice. The rest are laughing, joking, talking to me. The Cuban (the second of that weekend) fixating on me.
He's amusing, he's cute, but he's too desperate. It slides off him in waves. He's too young, too inexperienced, doesn't yet understand that to win a woman, you have to be willing to lose her.
I glance over my shoulder, glance again.
He's tall. Jesus, he's tall.
Dark brown hair, almost black, but I can see the highlights by the streetlight he stands by. Eyes that tilt up slightly at the corners, cat-eyes. Beautiful. Black slacks, dress shoes, a deliciously unbuttoned white dress-shirt, hanging untucked. Good chest, good abs. He leans against his cello case, looking off to the side.
For the first time that weekend, I find myself an object to attain.
"Hey, you!" I call across the twenty, thirty feet that separate us. He looks over at me. "Mind if I take a picture?"
He shifts his stance into something slightly posed. I'm disappointed in the change, but I snap one off anyway, glancing at the screen as he shifts back into something more relaxed.
"Don't move," I tell him, framing it quickly. His eyes dart over to me, but then return back when he sees my expression. My finger presses again, the sound effect of my shutter closing signalling the picture has been taken and, again, I check the screen.
"Perfect," I look over at him, "You should see this shot. It's brilliant. God, I'm good."
He lifts his cello and walks over to me. I don't bother getting up, so he bends over the see the screen.
"You have to send that to me," he says, opening his wallet and giving me a business card. I don't look at the name, just pocket it.
I tell him I will, of course, though it may be awhile. Busy life and all that.
Noticing our interaction, my Cuban devotee wanders over to see who I have fixated on. They introduce themselves to each other. I don't pay attention to the names. It's not important.
I shift my attention from my cellist to the Cuban, talking, laughing, flirting. Then I shift back a little, integrating the cellist into the conversation some, not too much.
Another man wanders over, curly hair, and shakes the hand of my cellist. They're friends. Suddenly, the conversation I had started with my cellist is thrown to the wayside as the two of them become animated in conversation. I listen and watch their dynamic, then decide to slide in by gaining the attention of the curly-haired man. My gut tells me that this is the way to go, and I trust it.
I study the curly-haired man. He looks as though he may start painting happy trees. I wait for a break in the conversation, and then I tell him this, ignoring my cellist, and their conversation derails as the two of us start trying to remember the name of the painter who I am referencing. I start stopping strangers, calling across the empty spaces to passersby who aren't too absorbed in their own conversations.
No one remembers the name, but I continue to make references to it instead of bothering to learn the name of the curly-haired man. He'd actually be quite cute, if he just buzzed his hair down and stopped wearing scenstery plaid shirts.
I focus on him, the cellist once more standing there, not part of the conversation. I make sure my body is facing the curly-haired man, left shoulder closing out the cellist, while the curly-haired-man-who-resembles-a-painter and I talk about what we had been doing that weekend, what had be going on, what we are planning to do with our evening ahead of us.
In this, he does what I want. He tells me that he has plans in the next fifteen minutes. He's going to be exiting stage right, which is perfect.
As I shift conversation into what I am going to do, I mention that I am hungry. I was going to go look for food at one of the nearby restaurants that downtown LA has to offer. They should come with. The three of us could walk down Figueroa and see what we can find.
The cellist mentions that he is hungry and was planning on getting food. But the curly-haired gentleman reminds me that he has to be somewhere shortly, and my face falls in disappointment. I tell him that it is too bad he cannot cancel his plans, but he should go and enjoy himself before he is late meeting his friends. He leaves, I wave after him.
"Food?" I ask of the cellist.
"Sure."
The Cuban and his friends are still nearby. I tell them I'm going to get some food, I'll catch up with them another time. The Cuban has my number. I tell him to text me with his location when he knows where he is going later that night and I might join him.
I walk with the cellist down Figueroa, then up through the Staples Center to get to The Yard House in the back. We sit and talk. I tease him because that's what I do. And then conversation shifts to social dynamics, to how some people are the alphas of the group, but when you take them outside of their given group, they no longer are alpha. They can only hold that dominance for one set of people. It isn't a natural dominance.
He tells me that he used to do that, but then he read a book that changed his life.
What was it? I ask.
The Game he tells me. By Neil Strauss. Have I heard of it?
This is the moment where my face lights up. This is the moment where I'm covering my mouth because I'm caught between laughter and a crazy smile.
Have I heard of it?
Oh, this makes so much more sense, blocks stacking in my head as things shift slightly. Ways of handling people and situations, what ethics I feel when I deal with men, it alters because I don't have to be so damn polite with this one.
Because it's a game. He knows it, I know it, and I know he knows it. That makes all the difference.
My laughter is finally controlled as I tell him, yes, I have heard of it. I have read it. Has he read these other books in the same vein? Does he hang out the various PUA forums, read the blogs? How long has he been doing this? Tell me stories, I ask him.
And he does.
I tell him stories.
And we laugh.
I can relax. Not in the normal way of relaxation, where you are lowering barriers and being vunerable, but relaxation because I don't have to be on the constant fence of trying to control my own instincts. I don't have to act normal. I don't have to act like this isn't just a game. I don't have to be nice and concerned. I don't need kidgloves with him, like with so many others.
I couldn't ask for anything else.
During dinner, my cell phone continues to go off. Text after text. I have three or four guys texting me, trying to get me to go out with them that night, to meet them somewhere. I ignore them, but I start to feel bad.
We finish dinner.
Where now? We have options available to us, but most of them involve crowds. And I'm not done with him.
A small bar down the street seems likely. I suggest it to him, and we walk further down the street.
It's nearly empty when we get there, which is what I had expected. Wonderful.
We snag a table and continue to talk, his cello on the floor beside us, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. His fingers are so long. His eyes are still beautiful and intense, though I've seen eyes better, eyes that blow me away on contact.
His fingers steeple when mine do. Arms are on the table when mine are. I move, he follows. I watch.
He tells me that I make him nervous, the way I look, the way I act. That he doesn't know what to do with me, that his usual tricks, I already know. He can't seem to stop talking. It's not frantic conversation, it's simply me leaving a space for him to talk and, instead of being comfortable with silence, he fills it. It's interesting, what people will tell you, what they will talk about, if you simply expose them to silence.
My phone continues to go off but, by this time, I am returning the texts as rapidfire as I get them.
Rude? Yes. But I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see what he would do, how he would respond, if I continued to interrupt our conversation so I could return the texts of other men that wanted to know where I was, when I would be out, and if I wanted company.
Each time, which was often, I would smile sheepishly and apologize. I would explain how guilty I would feel if I did not return their texts and, really, I am very sorry. Very sorry. It's just rude not to return them, right? Hold on just a second, let me just get back to him. No, it's okay, continue your story, I'm listening, really.
This goes on for almost ten minutes before he finally decides what to do.
"Can I see your phone?" he asks me casually.
I slide it over the table to him, knowing full well something is going to happen to it. He looks at the picture I have on the screen, and then slides it into one of his pockets.
Perfect.
Instantly wet, I want him. He's knocked out my "distraction", he's taken my phone and isolated me not only from the males who so badly wanted my attention, but also from any outside contact.
I have become his.
At least until I get my phone back.
And it's perfect. He handled himself with flying colors, though a bit delayed, and I am sitting there silently thanking Mr. Strauss for helping the young males of the world.
The bartender comes by, closing up shop.
I tilt my head slightly at my cellist, "Where to?"
He's amusing, he's cute, but he's too desperate. It slides off him in waves. He's too young, too inexperienced, doesn't yet understand that to win a woman, you have to be willing to lose her.
I glance over my shoulder, glance again.
He's tall. Jesus, he's tall.
Dark brown hair, almost black, but I can see the highlights by the streetlight he stands by. Eyes that tilt up slightly at the corners, cat-eyes. Beautiful. Black slacks, dress shoes, a deliciously unbuttoned white dress-shirt, hanging untucked. Good chest, good abs. He leans against his cello case, looking off to the side.
For the first time that weekend, I find myself an object to attain.
"Hey, you!" I call across the twenty, thirty feet that separate us. He looks over at me. "Mind if I take a picture?"
He shifts his stance into something slightly posed. I'm disappointed in the change, but I snap one off anyway, glancing at the screen as he shifts back into something more relaxed.
"Don't move," I tell him, framing it quickly. His eyes dart over to me, but then return back when he sees my expression. My finger presses again, the sound effect of my shutter closing signalling the picture has been taken and, again, I check the screen.
"Perfect," I look over at him, "You should see this shot. It's brilliant. God, I'm good."
He lifts his cello and walks over to me. I don't bother getting up, so he bends over the see the screen.
"You have to send that to me," he says, opening his wallet and giving me a business card. I don't look at the name, just pocket it.
I tell him I will, of course, though it may be awhile. Busy life and all that.
Noticing our interaction, my Cuban devotee wanders over to see who I have fixated on. They introduce themselves to each other. I don't pay attention to the names. It's not important.
I shift my attention from my cellist to the Cuban, talking, laughing, flirting. Then I shift back a little, integrating the cellist into the conversation some, not too much.
Another man wanders over, curly hair, and shakes the hand of my cellist. They're friends. Suddenly, the conversation I had started with my cellist is thrown to the wayside as the two of them become animated in conversation. I listen and watch their dynamic, then decide to slide in by gaining the attention of the curly-haired man. My gut tells me that this is the way to go, and I trust it.
I study the curly-haired man. He looks as though he may start painting happy trees. I wait for a break in the conversation, and then I tell him this, ignoring my cellist, and their conversation derails as the two of us start trying to remember the name of the painter who I am referencing. I start stopping strangers, calling across the empty spaces to passersby who aren't too absorbed in their own conversations.
No one remembers the name, but I continue to make references to it instead of bothering to learn the name of the curly-haired man. He'd actually be quite cute, if he just buzzed his hair down and stopped wearing scenstery plaid shirts.
I focus on him, the cellist once more standing there, not part of the conversation. I make sure my body is facing the curly-haired man, left shoulder closing out the cellist, while the curly-haired-man-who-resembles-a-painter and I talk about what we had been doing that weekend, what had be going on, what we are planning to do with our evening ahead of us.
In this, he does what I want. He tells me that he has plans in the next fifteen minutes. He's going to be exiting stage right, which is perfect.
As I shift conversation into what I am going to do, I mention that I am hungry. I was going to go look for food at one of the nearby restaurants that downtown LA has to offer. They should come with. The three of us could walk down Figueroa and see what we can find.
The cellist mentions that he is hungry and was planning on getting food. But the curly-haired gentleman reminds me that he has to be somewhere shortly, and my face falls in disappointment. I tell him that it is too bad he cannot cancel his plans, but he should go and enjoy himself before he is late meeting his friends. He leaves, I wave after him.
"Food?" I ask of the cellist.
"Sure."
The Cuban and his friends are still nearby. I tell them I'm going to get some food, I'll catch up with them another time. The Cuban has my number. I tell him to text me with his location when he knows where he is going later that night and I might join him.
I walk with the cellist down Figueroa, then up through the Staples Center to get to The Yard House in the back. We sit and talk. I tease him because that's what I do. And then conversation shifts to social dynamics, to how some people are the alphas of the group, but when you take them outside of their given group, they no longer are alpha. They can only hold that dominance for one set of people. It isn't a natural dominance.
He tells me that he used to do that, but then he read a book that changed his life.
What was it? I ask.
The Game he tells me. By Neil Strauss. Have I heard of it?
This is the moment where my face lights up. This is the moment where I'm covering my mouth because I'm caught between laughter and a crazy smile.
Have I heard of it?
Oh, this makes so much more sense, blocks stacking in my head as things shift slightly. Ways of handling people and situations, what ethics I feel when I deal with men, it alters because I don't have to be so damn polite with this one.
Because it's a game. He knows it, I know it, and I know he knows it. That makes all the difference.
My laughter is finally controlled as I tell him, yes, I have heard of it. I have read it. Has he read these other books in the same vein? Does he hang out the various PUA forums, read the blogs? How long has he been doing this? Tell me stories, I ask him.
And he does.
I tell him stories.
And we laugh.
I can relax. Not in the normal way of relaxation, where you are lowering barriers and being vunerable, but relaxation because I don't have to be on the constant fence of trying to control my own instincts. I don't have to act normal. I don't have to act like this isn't just a game. I don't have to be nice and concerned. I don't need kidgloves with him, like with so many others.
I couldn't ask for anything else.
During dinner, my cell phone continues to go off. Text after text. I have three or four guys texting me, trying to get me to go out with them that night, to meet them somewhere. I ignore them, but I start to feel bad.
We finish dinner.
Where now? We have options available to us, but most of them involve crowds. And I'm not done with him.
A small bar down the street seems likely. I suggest it to him, and we walk further down the street.
It's nearly empty when we get there, which is what I had expected. Wonderful.
We snag a table and continue to talk, his cello on the floor beside us, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. His fingers are so long. His eyes are still beautiful and intense, though I've seen eyes better, eyes that blow me away on contact.
His fingers steeple when mine do. Arms are on the table when mine are. I move, he follows. I watch.
He tells me that I make him nervous, the way I look, the way I act. That he doesn't know what to do with me, that his usual tricks, I already know. He can't seem to stop talking. It's not frantic conversation, it's simply me leaving a space for him to talk and, instead of being comfortable with silence, he fills it. It's interesting, what people will tell you, what they will talk about, if you simply expose them to silence.
My phone continues to go off but, by this time, I am returning the texts as rapidfire as I get them.
Rude? Yes. But I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see what he would do, how he would respond, if I continued to interrupt our conversation so I could return the texts of other men that wanted to know where I was, when I would be out, and if I wanted company.
Each time, which was often, I would smile sheepishly and apologize. I would explain how guilty I would feel if I did not return their texts and, really, I am very sorry. Very sorry. It's just rude not to return them, right? Hold on just a second, let me just get back to him. No, it's okay, continue your story, I'm listening, really.
This goes on for almost ten minutes before he finally decides what to do.
"Can I see your phone?" he asks me casually.
I slide it over the table to him, knowing full well something is going to happen to it. He looks at the picture I have on the screen, and then slides it into one of his pockets.
Perfect.
Instantly wet, I want him. He's knocked out my "distraction", he's taken my phone and isolated me not only from the males who so badly wanted my attention, but also from any outside contact.
I have become his.
At least until I get my phone back.
And it's perfect. He handled himself with flying colors, though a bit delayed, and I am sitting there silently thanking Mr. Strauss for helping the young males of the world.
The bartender comes by, closing up shop.
I tilt my head slightly at my cellist, "Where to?"
 |
Friday, July 24, 2009
Do you get the gist of the song now?
We're at a bar in downtown.
It's 1230 in the morning on a holiday weekend, the place is almost ours alone.
The music makes me crazy, makes me sway and swing, wishing to be dancing, wishing to be fucking up in a darkened hotel room, lit from the billboards and electric signs lining the buildings, occasional passing headlight swooping across walls decorated with unassuming art.
He's sitting to my right, brown eyes I could swim in, too intelligent. I do not know this yet, but when I find him the next morning, I'll stumble and fall into them for just a second, mentally wheeling backwards to gain bearing as I will forget their impact.
The pool is illuminated from the inside, a candle in the center of each table that line its rim, and multicolored lamps are spaced along the walls. This, this is mine. This is where I should be, and as a barely noticable breeze drifts through the opening patio doors and lifting hair away from my face, my body is set to humming.
His hands are on the table in front of me, incredibly long fingers, large palms. The bones of his wrists, his forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves landing just below his elbows, I look, but don't touch.
No, don't touch.
We talk.
I make him nervous.
That's okay. It happens more often than not, these days. As I try more and more to accept myself, as consolidation begins, my scattershot personality starts to solidify into a unified character.
Or so I hope.
He talks.
I watch his face, watch his hands, his movements, posture and gesticulations as he gets caught up in stories and ideas, every so often reining himself in as he realizes that he's the one doing all the talking.
Silence has to be filled. I provide that space, when the desire takes me, which is always and in all ways.
I listen, and his stories pour over me. Words are my addiction, an internal (eternal?) void is filled.
Flood me, wash through me, lap at my edges and trickle over, breaking bonds and boundaries.
I lean back and inhale.
Through darkened doorways and blue-drenched halls our feet wander, over smooth bricks and painted ceramic tile, we dance. Down stairways and corridors filled with our murmured voices, tangled metal vines and my back is against the wall, hands sliding over his stomach, parting the folds of his unbuttoned shirt, silky warm flesh, my tongue travels over the landscape of his chest.
He raises me, pushing me up and back, balancing on my toes as I reach for his lips with my own, fingers trailing and digging into the skin of his back as we meet in the middle, quick diplomacy between two nations as he trespasses across my borders, hands moving into my territory, shifting under fabric that lifts away from my skin all too easily.
My defenses are weak.
Penetration, invasion, my body adjusts to accept the length of his fingers, so long, good bye. My spine arches, bowing forward, off the wall, I feel fluids running down my legs, down his hands as he masters me. My body purrs for him, skin flushed, lips partially open and pressed against his chest, his neck, his jaw, and our battle flags are lowered.
We sing, truce.
It's 1230 in the morning on a holiday weekend, the place is almost ours alone.
The music makes me crazy, makes me sway and swing, wishing to be dancing, wishing to be fucking up in a darkened hotel room, lit from the billboards and electric signs lining the buildings, occasional passing headlight swooping across walls decorated with unassuming art.
He's sitting to my right, brown eyes I could swim in, too intelligent. I do not know this yet, but when I find him the next morning, I'll stumble and fall into them for just a second, mentally wheeling backwards to gain bearing as I will forget their impact.
The pool is illuminated from the inside, a candle in the center of each table that line its rim, and multicolored lamps are spaced along the walls. This, this is mine. This is where I should be, and as a barely noticable breeze drifts through the opening patio doors and lifting hair away from my face, my body is set to humming.
His hands are on the table in front of me, incredibly long fingers, large palms. The bones of his wrists, his forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves landing just below his elbows, I look, but don't touch.
No, don't touch.
We talk.
I make him nervous.
That's okay. It happens more often than not, these days. As I try more and more to accept myself, as consolidation begins, my scattershot personality starts to solidify into a unified character.
Or so I hope.
He talks.
I watch his face, watch his hands, his movements, posture and gesticulations as he gets caught up in stories and ideas, every so often reining himself in as he realizes that he's the one doing all the talking.
Silence has to be filled. I provide that space, when the desire takes me, which is always and in all ways.
I listen, and his stories pour over me. Words are my addiction, an internal (eternal?) void is filled.
Flood me, wash through me, lap at my edges and trickle over, breaking bonds and boundaries.
I lean back and inhale.
Through darkened doorways and blue-drenched halls our feet wander, over smooth bricks and painted ceramic tile, we dance. Down stairways and corridors filled with our murmured voices, tangled metal vines and my back is against the wall, hands sliding over his stomach, parting the folds of his unbuttoned shirt, silky warm flesh, my tongue travels over the landscape of his chest.
He raises me, pushing me up and back, balancing on my toes as I reach for his lips with my own, fingers trailing and digging into the skin of his back as we meet in the middle, quick diplomacy between two nations as he trespasses across my borders, hands moving into my territory, shifting under fabric that lifts away from my skin all too easily.
My defenses are weak.
Penetration, invasion, my body adjusts to accept the length of his fingers, so long, good bye. My spine arches, bowing forward, off the wall, I feel fluids running down my legs, down his hands as he masters me. My body purrs for him, skin flushed, lips partially open and pressed against his chest, his neck, his jaw, and our battle flags are lowered.
We sing, truce.
I occasionally harass my smoker friends with retardery.
A typical line, from me, would be, "You know smoking is bad for you, right?"
Or, "Hey, they just did this study that shows smoking might be bad for you."
Just these asinine statements that amuse me because they're so incredibly stating-the-obvious and annoying. Because I don't really care.
So, I used the first one on a friend of mine. He had the best comeback ever, that nearly left me rolling around on the floor.
"I've had less cigarettes in my mouth than you've had penis in yours."
C's follow up comment to that, "Wow, that's a pretty accurate argument..." had us howling in laughter.
Now, it's highly unlikely that that is true. He's not a chimney smoker, but it's close enough some days.
I find it strange, that until I started commenting in the pick-up community, I had never been called a slut. At least that I remember. Seeing that, for the first time, directed at me, was a bit of a shock. I think it would be the same as me being called a bitch (in seriousness, as opposed to jest), because I just don't fall under the "bitch" heading.
It strikes me as odd. Maybe it just strikes me. I don't really know where I'm going with this.
I present myself in a particular way. And then I allow the bits of my character that I can't control to flow through that external setting. Information through filter, as much as possible.
Things you will never catch me doing include:
~Drinking
~Smoking
~Drug-use
~Mass profanity
~Raising my voice in anger
~Calling someone insulting names
~Having unprotected sex
~Lying about my sexual history or preferences
~Actively misrepresenting myself
~Judging someone in a negative way based on their sexual history or preferences
~Wearing overly revealing, sexual clothing
These things, they aren't my style. They used to be (except for the lying bit, which I've yet to engage in), but they are no longer part of who I am, who I wish to be, or how I wished to be viewed.
I've heard again and again about men complaining that women don't know what they want, especially on a sexual level. That so much of seducing and being with a woman involves trying to figure out what she wants, which is made so much harder because she herself does not know. My male friends tell me these stories about their relationships or sexual encounters, and I get to listen about how miscommunication spurred by a lack of self-awareness and honesty caused some great disaster.
But then others complain about women that are too active.
This year, I've had... hrm, four new sex partners. SFPlayboy, GV8, Dose, and Mr. Brush-off. SFPlayboy and GV8 are ongoing lovers and friends, Dose and Mr. Brush-off were one-nighters. I had two carry-overs from last year, Hardwood Floors and Blond and Studly. Both continue to be, for now, friends.
I know that I play too risky sometimes. I've also settled that down significantly.
Maybe, in the next year or two, I find what I want: two or three guys who live near me that I can happily alternate through, without issue. Because, as I've said, that whole "relationship" thing, not really working for me. I'm a great girlfriend, but now I'm just not looking to fill that role for anyone but someone that fits. Which is hard to find.
Actually, reading over that, that's not what I want. That's what I think I have a greater likelihood of finding. It's also what would help me focus on myself, as opposed to my usual need to submit to the serious man in my life.
And I've totally derailed myself. Typical.
I remember the first time I caught wind of the idea that if a girl talks a lot of sexual game, she's going to be terrible in bed.
I was lying in my bed with this one-night stand (The Rumor, from my Players photo album) from last year, post-sex. He's breathing hard, sweating a bit, both of us on our backs, staring at the ceiling.
He said to me, surprised look on his face, "You're actually good."
I looked at him, "...what?"
"Girls that talk a lot of game are never good. They're always horrible in bed."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
And then he let me in on this theory that, apparently, a lot of males support. I had never heard such a thing before.
Since then, it has continued to crop up in conversation and online.
This was also the man that I went to dinner with who enlightened me to a rather nasty rumor circulating that I had accused a man I refused to sleep with (who was rather pissed about that) of date rape.
This was also the man who sat across the table from me, told me he had slept with 105 women (I was #106, whoo!) and the reason he knew that is because he kept a spreadsheet because his older brother challenged him, years ago, to a "who can sleep with the most women" battle, and it was still ongoing. In this same conversation, he told me that he expected any future girlfriend of his to have had a maximum of two sex partners in their life, because more than two was excessive and slutty.
In regards to the man who I did not wish to sleep with, who was so angered by that rejection, that happens often. Of all the men that have made offers (or simply tried) to sleep with me, I've probably slept with about 3% of them.
Yes, three percent. Shocking, I know. You think my standards would be so incredibly low with my partner count being what it is (which, honestly, I still don't think it's that high).
I can only imagine what would have happened if I said "yes" more often.
A typical line, from me, would be, "You know smoking is bad for you, right?"
Or, "Hey, they just did this study that shows smoking might be bad for you."
Just these asinine statements that amuse me because they're so incredibly stating-the-obvious and annoying. Because I don't really care.
So, I used the first one on a friend of mine. He had the best comeback ever, that nearly left me rolling around on the floor.
"I've had less cigarettes in my mouth than you've had penis in yours."
C's follow up comment to that, "Wow, that's a pretty accurate argument..." had us howling in laughter.
Now, it's highly unlikely that that is true. He's not a chimney smoker, but it's close enough some days.
I find it strange, that until I started commenting in the pick-up community, I had never been called a slut. At least that I remember. Seeing that, for the first time, directed at me, was a bit of a shock. I think it would be the same as me being called a bitch (in seriousness, as opposed to jest), because I just don't fall under the "bitch" heading.
It strikes me as odd. Maybe it just strikes me. I don't really know where I'm going with this.
I present myself in a particular way. And then I allow the bits of my character that I can't control to flow through that external setting. Information through filter, as much as possible.
Things you will never catch me doing include:
~Drinking
~Smoking
~Drug-use
~Mass profanity
~Raising my voice in anger
~Calling someone insulting names
~Having unprotected sex
~Lying about my sexual history or preferences
~Actively misrepresenting myself
~Judging someone in a negative way based on their sexual history or preferences
~Wearing overly revealing, sexual clothing
These things, they aren't my style. They used to be (except for the lying bit, which I've yet to engage in), but they are no longer part of who I am, who I wish to be, or how I wished to be viewed.
I've heard again and again about men complaining that women don't know what they want, especially on a sexual level. That so much of seducing and being with a woman involves trying to figure out what she wants, which is made so much harder because she herself does not know. My male friends tell me these stories about their relationships or sexual encounters, and I get to listen about how miscommunication spurred by a lack of self-awareness and honesty caused some great disaster.
But then others complain about women that are too active.
This year, I've had... hrm, four new sex partners. SFPlayboy, GV8, Dose, and Mr. Brush-off. SFPlayboy and GV8 are ongoing lovers and friends, Dose and Mr. Brush-off were one-nighters. I had two carry-overs from last year, Hardwood Floors and Blond and Studly. Both continue to be, for now, friends.
I know that I play too risky sometimes. I've also settled that down significantly.
Maybe, in the next year or two, I find what I want: two or three guys who live near me that I can happily alternate through, without issue. Because, as I've said, that whole "relationship" thing, not really working for me. I'm a great girlfriend, but now I'm just not looking to fill that role for anyone but someone that fits. Which is hard to find.
Actually, reading over that, that's not what I want. That's what I think I have a greater likelihood of finding. It's also what would help me focus on myself, as opposed to my usual need to submit to the serious man in my life.
And I've totally derailed myself. Typical.
I remember the first time I caught wind of the idea that if a girl talks a lot of sexual game, she's going to be terrible in bed.
I was lying in my bed with this one-night stand (The Rumor, from my Players photo album) from last year, post-sex. He's breathing hard, sweating a bit, both of us on our backs, staring at the ceiling.
He said to me, surprised look on his face, "You're actually good."
I looked at him, "...what?"
"Girls that talk a lot of game are never good. They're always horrible in bed."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
And then he let me in on this theory that, apparently, a lot of males support. I had never heard such a thing before.
Since then, it has continued to crop up in conversation and online.
This was also the man that I went to dinner with who enlightened me to a rather nasty rumor circulating that I had accused a man I refused to sleep with (who was rather pissed about that) of date rape.
This was also the man who sat across the table from me, told me he had slept with 105 women (I was #106, whoo!) and the reason he knew that is because he kept a spreadsheet because his older brother challenged him, years ago, to a "who can sleep with the most women" battle, and it was still ongoing. In this same conversation, he told me that he expected any future girlfriend of his to have had a maximum of two sex partners in their life, because more than two was excessive and slutty.
In regards to the man who I did not wish to sleep with, who was so angered by that rejection, that happens often. Of all the men that have made offers (or simply tried) to sleep with me, I've probably slept with about 3% of them.
Yes, three percent. Shocking, I know. You think my standards would be so incredibly low with my partner count being what it is (which, honestly, I still don't think it's that high).
I can only imagine what would have happened if I said "yes" more often.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Players
This is going to be a picture-heavy post with little backstory because I'm tired and have to be up early tomorrow.
What I've done is gather pictures of the people I've written about, or plan to write about, and cropped them for anonymity. These are pictures I've taken myself or stolen from myspace or various other sites. I'm missing some crucial people (Riot of Tattoos being my primary annoyance on digging up a picture), I know, but it's still a work in progress. I'm just putting up the main people I've spoken of, but there are more in the folder, and I'll be added to it as time goes on.
But onto the people.
The girl I spend so much time with, C.
Hardwood Floors, one of my favorite lovers over the years.
SFPlayboy, stolen from one of his photo shoots. Such a hottie.
Rick, my "major" ex.
Wolfboy, the almost boyfriend.
Mr. Brush-off, the one night stand from July 4th weekend.
And, well, me.
Also, this past week's pictures are up. They include a drastically oversized urinal, a sign for Big Wang's, and a couple shots from a concert C and I went to on Tuesday, along with other random things.
And now... shower time.
What I've done is gather pictures of the people I've written about, or plan to write about, and cropped them for anonymity. These are pictures I've taken myself or stolen from myspace or various other sites. I'm missing some crucial people (Riot of Tattoos being my primary annoyance on digging up a picture), I know, but it's still a work in progress. I'm just putting up the main people I've spoken of, but there are more in the folder, and I'll be added to it as time goes on.
But onto the people.
The girl I spend so much time with, C.
 |
| From The Players |
Hardwood Floors, one of my favorite lovers over the years.
 |
| From The Players |
SFPlayboy, stolen from one of his photo shoots. Such a hottie.
 |
| From The Players |
Rick, my "major" ex.
 |
| From The Players |
Wolfboy, the almost boyfriend.
 |
| From The Players |
Mr. Brush-off, the one night stand from July 4th weekend.
 |
| From The Players |
And, well, me.
 |
| From The Players |
Also, this past week's pictures are up. They include a drastically oversized urinal, a sign for Big Wang's, and a couple shots from a concert C and I went to on Tuesday, along with other random things.
 |
| July 19th 2009 Week |
And now... shower time.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
You are just another thing I've yet to fathom
This is one of those 'bleech' moments.
GV8 texted me to see how I was doing. Which is cool because I see no reason not to be friends, so I'm glad that he was comfortable enough to do so.
I text back with news my friend's suicide, and we start talking about emotions, how hard a time I have letting go, how I've only truly let go the tight control I have on my emotions twice (first, when Rick broke up with me, the other during sex with Riot of Tattoos, which continues to be the best sex I've ever had, because he was so rough he completely pushed me over the edge) in the last six years or so.
He basically told me I need to grow my own emotions.
Several people have, in the last two weeks, inferred that I am some sort of robot. I'm getting mildly tired of it.
Interesting to note, was when I did not respond to one of his texts right away, sent sent a "Well, gee, I guess I'll try later, when you are not so busy," text, which is very, very out of character for him. I looked at that and determined that he is more affected by our split than I expected (which I expected him to be completely unaffected by it, honestly).
So, out of nowhere, he starts talking about why we aren't seeing each other anymore.
This, this is something I don't need to discuss. Basically, what is going to happen is that I'm going to fixate on it in my head and blame myself for not being more aware and socially adept enough to notice that I did something to bother him.
The relationship we had is over. We never committed. I don't need to know why we slid apart, I just know that we did. It happens.
But he starts texting me about why he decided we would not work out and I had just finished a crying spree about Bradley's death (I basically walked in the front door of the house and lost it, nearly out of the blue. I'm glad it happened, because I needed to cry, but I pulled myself together before I could truly reach the height of the emotional release that I needed because there were things to do, errands to run, people to help.) and then he started telling me how I, in my view, basically failed him. Failed to observe him. Failed to understand what was important to him and what wold bother him. Failed to be the best I could be for him.
That's how I see it.
Because if I was more aware of how I come across, more aware of other people's needs, more aware of individual quirks, body language, and the subtle clues that word choice gives, I would have noticed that something was wrong.
And I did notice. But I was not aware enough, apparently, or experienced enough, to determine what it was. And I was not so sure he was aware that something was off, so I did not ask him.
And I should have.
I failed. I failed to live up to my own expectations of myself, I failed to be aware of him as a partner.
And, sure, one could say that he failed to communicate to me that something was wrong, that I was doing something that made him uncomfortable.
But I was aware that something was wrong, and I did not act on it. I hoped it would iron itself out, so instead of addressing it directly, I let it slide under.
And I know so much better than that.
I'll put the text messages up here later, when I have more time. Basically, it reads that I was not respecting him. Not in the typical way, either. Apparently, it was not in person that I displeased him, but my actions when he was not around.
I do not know what those actions are yet. We are going to talk about this later this evening, on the phone, because he's busy now and exchanging the amount of information we were, on the topic we were, through text, was annoying and not good.
But, apparently, I did something while he was not that reflected poorly on him.
Which wouldn't matter, if we hadn't been starting to think of a (open) committed relationship. But since things started shifting that way, he took my behavior to be a poor reflection on him.
I still don't know what I did.
I suspect, though I am probably wrong, it was my one-night stand with Mr. Brush-off. Or maybe he found this journal and did not like the way I wrote about him.
...I really don't know. I can't imagine anything else. I just hope that, whatever it is, it does not make me feel terrible about myself, about being the person I am. I think I'm a good person (doesn't everyone?), I think I am considerate of others. I try to always be polite, try to respect other people and their opinions, no matter how foreign to mine they are. I'm there for my family and friends the instant I am needed. I'm rarely late. I have a decent (though certainly not great) job, and I'm pursuing my education and the future I desire. My wardrobe is decent, my body continues to be a work in progress, but there is significantly obvious progress being made.
What could I be doing wrong?
Was it the "sugar daddy" jokes? Hell, he tried to take me clothes shopping and I ended up only letting him buy me two things because I just couldn't reconcile with myself the idea of a man, no matter how rich, buying me so much. I've done nothing to earn it. Sex? Ha, I'd be doing that anyway. Why pay me for doing something I'm quite content doing for free?
Was it the references to his sordid past?
I'll know in the next hour or two.
I just wish it didn't make me feel so bad and doubtful. I know that everything I've listed here will not be it because I was able to think of it. That's the way it works. It's always something I haven't considered, something so left field that doesn't even enter into my vision.
I was okay with it being over. A week later, and I was hardly thinking about it, rarely moping.
And now we're talking about it, something he brought up without stimulation from my end.
Which could mean one of two things:
1. He wants me to know what I did wrong, just to communicate, just to justify to himself what happened.
2. He wants to get back together, in some capacity, and this week of absence is to make me aware of how much I may want him. Then we'll talk, I'll hear what I did wrong, and then I'll be aware of it and adjust my behavior accordingly (assuming it's something I'm willing to adjust, which it should be). And then we'll continue doing whatever, but with no discussion of a future.
Which is okay.
Not the most flattering, but I need to be single anyhow. He was having too much impact on me, and this week has allowed me to see how much. I think I'm going to enforce a "once every two weeks" rule with future guys, just so I do not allow myself to get so time- and mentally-wrapped up in any of them. I need to focus on me.
So we'll see what happens.
Maybe this is a, "Good-bye, I no longer want to be friends" conversation.
Who knows?
I'm sure that, afterwards, I'll be up here again, furiously typing, expelling from my mind all the confusion and emotion I'm experiencing in order to understand it all.
This keyboard... any keyboard... it's really the key to me. I'd be lost without this, this words drain from me like tocins. It lifts me, makes me lighter, reminds me of who I am.
Albert Camus had a great quote on that. If only I could remember where I left the book that contained it.
GV8 texted me to see how I was doing. Which is cool because I see no reason not to be friends, so I'm glad that he was comfortable enough to do so.
I text back with news my friend's suicide, and we start talking about emotions, how hard a time I have letting go, how I've only truly let go the tight control I have on my emotions twice (first, when Rick broke up with me, the other during sex with Riot of Tattoos, which continues to be the best sex I've ever had, because he was so rough he completely pushed me over the edge) in the last six years or so.
He basically told me I need to grow my own emotions.
Several people have, in the last two weeks, inferred that I am some sort of robot. I'm getting mildly tired of it.
Interesting to note, was when I did not respond to one of his texts right away, sent sent a "Well, gee, I guess I'll try later, when you are not so busy," text, which is very, very out of character for him. I looked at that and determined that he is more affected by our split than I expected (which I expected him to be completely unaffected by it, honestly).
So, out of nowhere, he starts talking about why we aren't seeing each other anymore.
This, this is something I don't need to discuss. Basically, what is going to happen is that I'm going to fixate on it in my head and blame myself for not being more aware and socially adept enough to notice that I did something to bother him.
The relationship we had is over. We never committed. I don't need to know why we slid apart, I just know that we did. It happens.
But he starts texting me about why he decided we would not work out and I had just finished a crying spree about Bradley's death (I basically walked in the front door of the house and lost it, nearly out of the blue. I'm glad it happened, because I needed to cry, but I pulled myself together before I could truly reach the height of the emotional release that I needed because there were things to do, errands to run, people to help.) and then he started telling me how I, in my view, basically failed him. Failed to observe him. Failed to understand what was important to him and what wold bother him. Failed to be the best I could be for him.
That's how I see it.
Because if I was more aware of how I come across, more aware of other people's needs, more aware of individual quirks, body language, and the subtle clues that word choice gives, I would have noticed that something was wrong.
And I did notice. But I was not aware enough, apparently, or experienced enough, to determine what it was. And I was not so sure he was aware that something was off, so I did not ask him.
And I should have.
I failed. I failed to live up to my own expectations of myself, I failed to be aware of him as a partner.
And, sure, one could say that he failed to communicate to me that something was wrong, that I was doing something that made him uncomfortable.
But I was aware that something was wrong, and I did not act on it. I hoped it would iron itself out, so instead of addressing it directly, I let it slide under.
And I know so much better than that.
I'll put the text messages up here later, when I have more time. Basically, it reads that I was not respecting him. Not in the typical way, either. Apparently, it was not in person that I displeased him, but my actions when he was not around.
I do not know what those actions are yet. We are going to talk about this later this evening, on the phone, because he's busy now and exchanging the amount of information we were, on the topic we were, through text, was annoying and not good.
But, apparently, I did something while he was not that reflected poorly on him.
Which wouldn't matter, if we hadn't been starting to think of a (open) committed relationship. But since things started shifting that way, he took my behavior to be a poor reflection on him.
I still don't know what I did.
I suspect, though I am probably wrong, it was my one-night stand with Mr. Brush-off. Or maybe he found this journal and did not like the way I wrote about him.
...I really don't know. I can't imagine anything else. I just hope that, whatever it is, it does not make me feel terrible about myself, about being the person I am. I think I'm a good person (doesn't everyone?), I think I am considerate of others. I try to always be polite, try to respect other people and their opinions, no matter how foreign to mine they are. I'm there for my family and friends the instant I am needed. I'm rarely late. I have a decent (though certainly not great) job, and I'm pursuing my education and the future I desire. My wardrobe is decent, my body continues to be a work in progress, but there is significantly obvious progress being made.
What could I be doing wrong?
Was it the "sugar daddy" jokes? Hell, he tried to take me clothes shopping and I ended up only letting him buy me two things because I just couldn't reconcile with myself the idea of a man, no matter how rich, buying me so much. I've done nothing to earn it. Sex? Ha, I'd be doing that anyway. Why pay me for doing something I'm quite content doing for free?
Was it the references to his sordid past?
I'll know in the next hour or two.
I just wish it didn't make me feel so bad and doubtful. I know that everything I've listed here will not be it because I was able to think of it. That's the way it works. It's always something I haven't considered, something so left field that doesn't even enter into my vision.
I was okay with it being over. A week later, and I was hardly thinking about it, rarely moping.
And now we're talking about it, something he brought up without stimulation from my end.
Which could mean one of two things:
1. He wants me to know what I did wrong, just to communicate, just to justify to himself what happened.
2. He wants to get back together, in some capacity, and this week of absence is to make me aware of how much I may want him. Then we'll talk, I'll hear what I did wrong, and then I'll be aware of it and adjust my behavior accordingly (assuming it's something I'm willing to adjust, which it should be). And then we'll continue doing whatever, but with no discussion of a future.
Which is okay.
Not the most flattering, but I need to be single anyhow. He was having too much impact on me, and this week has allowed me to see how much. I think I'm going to enforce a "once every two weeks" rule with future guys, just so I do not allow myself to get so time- and mentally-wrapped up in any of them. I need to focus on me.
So we'll see what happens.
Maybe this is a, "Good-bye, I no longer want to be friends" conversation.
Who knows?
I'm sure that, afterwards, I'll be up here again, furiously typing, expelling from my mind all the confusion and emotion I'm experiencing in order to understand it all.
This keyboard... any keyboard... it's really the key to me. I'd be lost without this, this words drain from me like tocins. It lifts me, makes me lighter, reminds me of who I am.
Albert Camus had a great quote on that. If only I could remember where I left the book that contained it.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Oh, gark.
Mr. Brush-off has expressed interest in hooking up again.
Win, right?
So I do what any mildly internet-savvy girl would do: check his myspace.
In a relationship?
What??
That had better not be accurate or this chick is out of here. I don't touch other people's belongings ever, no matter how hung and built they are.
My response to his email:
"Sure, I'm up for hanging out, finding an actual bed and all... but I did my mandatory myspace check and yours says that you're in a relationship. That accurate?"
I'm thinking not so good odds in him getting back to me.
Fortunately, as C said to me last night, "I was surprised you were moping over GV8. You get guys like..." snaps fingers, "that."
There's always another suitable guy in the future. That future may be tonight or next week, but it's not a matter of finding guys interested in me as much as finding guys that I'm interested in.
Win, right?
So I do what any mildly internet-savvy girl would do: check his myspace.
In a relationship?
What??
That had better not be accurate or this chick is out of here. I don't touch other people's belongings ever, no matter how hung and built they are.
My response to his email:
"Sure, I'm up for hanging out, finding an actual bed and all... but I did my mandatory myspace check and yours says that you're in a relationship. That accurate?"
I'm thinking not so good odds in him getting back to me.
Fortunately, as C said to me last night, "I was surprised you were moping over GV8. You get guys like..." snaps fingers, "that."
There's always another suitable guy in the future. That future may be tonight or next week, but it's not a matter of finding guys interested in me as much as finding guys that I'm interested in.
Friday, July 10, 2009
It's nearing 3AM.
I reach for my bra, draped over the center console in my front seat. The man next to me is raising his hips in order to slide his jeans on. My backseat is spacious, but when you're 6'8", you're going to be cramped no matter where you are.
I pull my shirt over my head, the fabric stretching and pulling, I love the feel of it sliding over my skin.
A quiet "Whoa," comes from my partner.
I glance over, shirt in my lap as I untangle my bra. "Hm?"
"Your tattoo," he's staring at the eight black blocks dancing up my side, "What's it say? Visc..?"
"'Visceris'. You can't see all of it, it stops down here." I gesture about three inches below the top of my pants, then wrap my bra around my body, clasps closing. I spin it frontways, slide my arms through the straps.
"What's it mean?" For once, the question doesn't irritate me.
"The first part of the word means the flesh, the guts, the entrails. It's the innermost part or heart of anything," I tug my shirt back over my head, "The second part of the word is possessive, meaning belonging to."
"That's really cool. Most people don't have that much thought and meaning behind their tattoos."
"Yeah, I know."
I reach for my bra, draped over the center console in my front seat. The man next to me is raising his hips in order to slide his jeans on. My backseat is spacious, but when you're 6'8", you're going to be cramped no matter where you are.
I pull my shirt over my head, the fabric stretching and pulling, I love the feel of it sliding over my skin.
A quiet "Whoa," comes from my partner.
I glance over, shirt in my lap as I untangle my bra. "Hm?"
"Your tattoo," he's staring at the eight black blocks dancing up my side, "What's it say? Visc..?"
"'Visceris'. You can't see all of it, it stops down here." I gesture about three inches below the top of my pants, then wrap my bra around my body, clasps closing. I spin it frontways, slide my arms through the straps.
"What's it mean?" For once, the question doesn't irritate me.
"The first part of the word means the flesh, the guts, the entrails. It's the innermost part or heart of anything," I tug my shirt back over my head, "The second part of the word is possessive, meaning belonging to."
"That's really cool. Most people don't have that much thought and meaning behind their tattoos."
"Yeah, I know."
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