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

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

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

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

They didn't come back after intermission.

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

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

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

And we finally had anal sex.

It was... bizarre.

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

...that sounded odd.

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

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

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

Which is nice.

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

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

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

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

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

The morning was what got me.

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

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

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

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

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

It was pretty great.

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

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

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

Things are... kinda weird.

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

But he's got it down.

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

Never really thought that way.

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

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

So... a porn director?

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

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

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

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

Whenever I get close to that, I meet someone.

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

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

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

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

Well, PD and I are... eh, minutes? An hour? Away from leaving for San Francisco for the weekend.

I wanted to catch "Wicked" before it moved again though, admittedly, it's coming back down here again. But I refuse to see it in the upcoming location because the acoustics are so very, very bad in that place (Orange County Performing Arts Center). Also, I really try to spend as little time in Orange County as I possibly can.

So, we're leaving shortly, hitting Anderson's for lunch, hopefully have time to get a relaxing dinner before getting all "fancy" for the show. And I want to get fancy. I bought a dress months ago that I've been looking forward to wearing and now, now I have the perfect setting for it.

Which shouldn't be so exciting, but I'm a girl. Mmm... clothes.

Wandering around Saturday, planning on taking PD to a tea house (he loves his tea) and the Disney Museum (both of us love Disney), and just seeing the sights. Sunday we'll hit Winchester Mystery House, then Gilroy for some garlic, and wind our way down the coast with tenative plans to finally see Toy Story 3 before it leaves theaters.

So it'll be good. He needs a vacation.

School also just started for me. Two classes, dead center of the week. Contemporary Novels (yay, postmodernism for the win!) and Elizabethan and Jacobean Drama (not so much for the win). Fortunately, most of the plays I have to read for the latter are plays that PD has acted in, so I'm going to be asking (forcing) him to do some voice acting for me so I don't have to suffer nearly as much.

I'm not a fan of anything written before WWII, I will admit. Just doesn't do it for me.

But I'm trying.

Anyhoo, PD's cooking breakfast, so I'm going to join him.

Interrupting my evening with a news broadcast straight from the scene...

Post-sex, lying on PD's chest in bed, making out, I feel him twitching, starting to re-inflate, so I tell him he reminds me of a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade float.

He asks which one, tells me to consider carefully.

I give it about five seconds of thought, then answer: the turkey.

"The turkey?! Of all the floats you pick the turkey?? I would've even settled for Underdog!"

I start laughing, he grabs me and goes to throw me off the side of the bed by rolling me over his body, dropping his leg off the side of the bed for leverage.

His foot touches the floor, pushes... and the carpet he forgot was there slides over the hardwood.

I squeak and cling, but go over, he tries to catch me, lowers me quickly onto the floor, drops the last inch or so for me to do a light bounce on the offending carpet.

So I'm sitting, naked, on this rug, laughing hysterically, he's standing at my feet, looking at me, and says, "You squirted semen down my leg."

Sure enough, long trail of semen down his leg.

When I fell, I clenched. Like a ketchup packet (go kegels!).

Much laughter ensued, with him trying not to look amused. Failing.

He's downstairs now, licking his wounds. I think I'll go help.

Slowly working on the new site. And, really, it's not that slow. I need the header art completed, to select a picture for the "About" section, post a little blurb in the "About" section, and it's basically good to go.

I've been telling myself since I was, oh, 17 or so, that I would get my own website, my own domain. I'd flip through html books (you know, back in the day), had little mini-pages hosted on sites like Homestead and Angelfire (are those even still around?) and tell myself that I'd figure out the whole "website thing"... eventually.

It's one of the many things I kept telling myself I was going to do, but never did.

I used to have a lot of those.

I'm getting better about accomplishing goals, even ones that have so little impact on "the greater good" of my life, such as a personal writing website.

I think it's more about conquering mental hurdles. The things that tell me that I just can't do certain things, that I'll fail, that I'm not smart enough, competent enough, I don't deserve to accomplish certain things, that there simply is no point.

Most of my hurdles are mental, really. Some people have financial hurdles and, yes, to a degree I have those. Other have physical ones, or ones of a lack of experience, a lack of education. I have none of those.

At the moment, anyway. I may be attacked by a rogue woodchipper at the BBQ this evening.

PD is currently out on a set somewhere, slowly, slowly working his way through the second scene of the day- or so I hope. He finished, mostly, with one of the two movies he was working on, yesterday. Big relief. He had gone something like 76 hours without sleep trying to make a deadline. We drove around San Gabriel Valley last night, to pick up a check and get dinner, the top down on his convertible, him picking on me, me leaning over the center console and gnawing on his arm. He points at me, like I'm a bad puppy, when I do that, and says, "Hey! No gah-nawing!" and flicks me in the nose.

It's nice to be with someone I can chew on to display irritated affection.

My brain has been a bit weird since late last night.

Which is normal, I suppose.

Last night was actually pretty wonderful. Well, it was nice, then it segued into pretty wonderful.

The pole dancing/fashion show... that was interesting. The hotel was okay, the pool was, as far as pools go, quite lacking. But the people watching (lots of women with a stripper/playboy bunny approach to clothing and make-up) was interesting enough.

What got me, out of all of it, was their approach to pole dancing. See, this was a pole dancing competition. And I don't mean a fun, "who can incite the most boners" approach, which is what I expected. I quickly came to learn that the competition for pole dancing is not for who is the most sexy (that actually seemed to be a bit frowned upon), who moves the best to the music (which was mostly ignored, making me question the word 'dancing' in the competition title), no, it was who can do the most impossible looking pose... and hold it.

It was basically a very slow moving gymnastics competition.

Unexpected. Unimpressed, for the most part. I love dancing, love watching others dance. There was one, maybe two girls, out of the entire evening that did anything remotely resembling moving to the rhythm.

So I got in my car and chugged on over to PD's place, texting him that I was on my way and quite aroused (not due to the dancers, thank you, just due to the thought of seeing him).

We have such an excellent connection. Being able to lie in bed with someone for hours and just talk, tease, and fuck... it's wonderful. Tickling, squealing, slapping... laughing and licking. He amazes me. He's such a good man or, at least, good to me. His personality is so wonderful, he's so goddamn smart and constantly makes me laugh, something I haven't had with a boyfriend before, though Rick came close.

It was lovely.

But then, somehow, the topic of money came up. How he is so far deep in debt we now have to lock the gate because his car might be in default. Months behind on rent, electricity and water bills in the high hundreds each month. The porn industry, at least as we know it, is dying. And he's left here, stress growing, little to no work... and I hate it.

I hate that I can't do anything about it. His bills probably hit somewhere between $9-10K a month. Anything I could do to help would be a drop in the bucket. A needle inserted into a haystack with no intent of removal.

I can't help and it kills me. I just sit and watch him stress.

I've always been the helpful one, who rushes into battle, who leaves the office at a phone call to go save the day or lend a hand. Give time, give money, give an ear and a shoulder.

Not here, not now.

I'm useless, or next to it.

Frustrating helplessness.

I'm a 26 year old college student with an income that covers my bills, covers my tuition, and allows me to save some. That's about it. I'm no trustfund baby, my parents have been in poor circumstances since Dad went batty last year and lost his job, I can't even help them.

Where I am in life does not afford it. They, PD and my parents, are in an entirely different income and debt bracket than I am. My debt is near laughable.

I keep thinking I could just speed up the book, dedicate my nights and weekends to it, to the research, the interviews, churn it out and someone, somewhere, will magically hand me money and I'll be able to fly in and fix everything that has gone wrong.

But that's not the way reality works. This isn't a course on wish-fulfillment.

And all I can do is be sweet and supportive, loving and nuturing, having faith that things will turn around for both parties. Somehow. Not contribute to the stress, if I can't take away from it.

Back to life.

Friday.

Friday as a psychological construction of the 9 to 5er that causes elation. Of which I belong to. Hence the elation.

Not a lot of elation, actually. More of a relaxation.

Going to some pole dancing/fashion show event tonight. Poolside at a hotel in Hollywood. This could either be really great or incredibly lame. I'm expecting lame, so I won't be disappointed if it is, and if it's great, then I'll be all sorts of happy-thrilled.

Was talking with PD on my drive home from a birthday party on Wednesday.

See, I sent an email in response to his email that I posted a few days ago, per his request. My reactions, physical and mental. And then he responded to that, which I believe was spurred by our little unplanned play session in the previous post. We didn't expect to be doing that, but... it happened, and it was wonderful. And it lets us both know that we've got a ways to go before we hit a wall of physical limitations on my end. My brain, my body, was nowhere near being pushed to my limits.

And I'm finally with someone who can likely play as hard as I want to play.

Most guys, as I've complained in the past, are so afraid of hurting or scaring me.

Which is why, out of all my adventures, only one man (Riot) has ever come close to being as rough as I wanted. He was fabulous.

But where I'm going with is this: in his email, he spoke about the urine thing (my distaste for it and his apathy for my distaste) and how, in his experience, of all the girls he's done that with, only one actually liked it for the action itself, and how all the others just wanted to be made to feel like the filthy whores they were.

That's where my psychology and their psychology parts ways at a quick clip.

I've done a lot of things in the past decade. Some have been wonderful, soft, and loving. Some have been incredibly stupid and occasionally degrading. Others have been rough and wild. Really, each experience is different, it's just the degrees of difference that separate them.

While I was walking the gutterskank path between 16-18, before I pulled myself out of my nosedive, I did my best to be used and wrecked by my partners. My best towards self-destruction and destruction of concept of sacred sexual activity. But I never felt like a slut. I'm sure I was called a slut, a whore, a cum dumpster, whathaveyou. Never felt like it. I think I was too busy wallowing in anger and depression.

Or maybe I'm just not geared that way.

What I've done in the past, what PD and I will do in the future, of the reasons it excites me, none of them include that I'm being made to feel like a filthy whore. Cock gobbler. Whatever.

To feel that way about being forced to engage in sexual behavior (whether you enjoy that behavior or not)... it means you have to feel wrong about it it. That something about the behavior is wrong, that participating in said behavior is wrong, that the only way one can really let go and enjoy it is to be forced so you don't feel the shame.

Because you can't take responsibility if someone's forcing you.

So you can act on your desires, keeping your self-concept sacred, even though you are the one willingly signing up for these actions, knowing what you're getting into before you do it, that buffer is still required for internal image stability, lack of guilt, lack of self-division.

Meaning that there is a belief that your behavior defines you, more than your own perception of self.

Meaning that the idea of how such behaviors are viewed by "society" has more of an impact than how such behaviors are viewed by oneself.

So there ends up being this separation of sexuality and self. The ideological dark and light halves. When you step into a bedroom, a dungeon, a dark alley, you shed who you are during the day, and another person is required for you to fully explore your desires. Because you can't admit them to yourself, can't admit them to others, don't want to confess to the things that your brain creates when you're driving towards orgasm.

Many reasons. Many people.

Is it because wanting these things is viewed as some sort of psychological damage? Being touched by an adult as a child. Being raped. Not enough love as an infant. Some defect that to accept one's own sexuality would be, in a way, a devastating confession?

And then, on the other side, you've got the lifestylers that are so rabidly in your face about their sexuality, their ideas, what they do that their entire self-concept is built on their idea of sex.

I think that speaks of discomfort, to be so socially aggressive about anything. A shield, again, for many things, for many people.

On a Game/PUA level, this is can be reduced to a simple need of sexuality, vanilla or otherwise. These girls have desires, desires they cannot engage in because to do so would cause shame. To admit to would be to cause shame. So they fall onto another person to draw those things out in them, to exorcise their sexual needs, someone to lead and control, to center and blame if need be.

It comes back to responsibility.

Wishing to engage in behavior, but being unable to do so without feelings of shame, so finding another person to take on that responsibility. Not just the responsibility of taking action, but responsibility for one's own actions.

He was charming, he was seductive, he said all the right things, he confused me, he got in my head, he made me feel this way, he was so experienced.

Never acceptance. Never, I was young, inexperienced, fell in with someone, I didn't know any better, but it happened, I did these things, I feel silly now, but, hey, that happens. We're young, we make mistakes. It does not make me "x".

"X" equaling whatever sexually degrading term that springs to mind.

So PD's emailing about these women, and he's been with a lot of women, that need to be made to feel like filthy whores, and my brain just sorta stops.

Because I'm likely never going to feel like a whore. I don't have that need, I don't think I have that capability.

Because what I do, what I have done, what I want to do, I feel no shame in admitting. I feel there is nothing wrong with wanting to engage in the behaviors I desire. And if PD ends up doing exactly what he emailed me and I'm sitting there swallowing mouthfuls of semen and piss while he backhands me, hating the fact that I'm ingesting urine, dripping semen out of both orifices, the only thing I'm going to be getting off on (psychologically) is that I'm with someone who can put me in a situation where I am sexually powerless.

Because that, that doesn't happen often.

We owe each other the world...

So, I've been mulling some things over for the last few months, in regards to this blog.

Looks like I'll be changing addresses to my own domain soon, and dropping anonymity.

This whole blogging anonymously has been an experiment, something I've never done before. The only reason I engaged in it for as long as I have was because I wanted to be truly able to write freely without repercussion, without having to worry about who will read what and take it in what manner.

At this point, my primary concern would be, of course, PD and C, though, really, I shouldn't be worrying about either of them. C knows I love her to death, love her personality, and am constantly amused that we are so different. PD, well, my brain shifts around so much on him, on my future, but he knows that. I have no poker face.

If I was ever able to hide my emotions, gravity would likely stop working due to shock.

I suppose things will change some, when there's a face and a life to the writing. That happens.

And I'm going to be linking to PD's blog as well, because he's such an excellent writer and... yeah, I think he's pretty great. So you'll also be able to see things from his point of view, if you feel so inclined, including the GV8 engagement and subsequent breakdown over last Memorial Day weekend.

I'll also be able to sort my rambles into different categories (finally), so those of you who get sick of my sex posts, game posts, babbling nonsense posts, and wait for others can avoid the types that you don't enjoy.

So that all should be happening by the end of August. Waiting for some header art to be completed, then going to start stringing it all together.

Then you'll have a face to go with the writing.

... ... ...

Disclaimer: not work safe, not vanilla safe, if yesterday's post wasn't your thing at all (sorry!), then don't continue to read. This one does not include urine. Fortunately. Because then I would have had to shower and we would have been late for dinner.


I spent my drive to PD's yesterday texting him and taunting him, like I do. I like that, eventually, he'll simply smack me down, verbally or physically.

So I arrived at the warehouse, laughing at his latest response, walked in, found him buried in his nerdery, cleaning up for another porn company renting his warehouse as a film location.

Then, then he walked into the office on the first floor and came out with a coach whip. Not for me, just cleaning up, as that office gets used for make-up, costume, and talent chillage. He comes out, starts flicking the tip of the whip at the cats (it has a little tassle on the end- think of those long, sorta flimsy whips that they illustrate for buggy drivers in cartoons depicting the early 1900s). Then he starts flicking it at me.

So I yip, like I do, and go to turn away.

Thing is, when you're getting hit, if you can't get away super fast, you have to sit and take it, because if they miss because you're squirming, and it lands somewhere truly unpleasant, it sucks.

Which meant I stood there, squirming with my arms folded up over my head to keep them out of the way, as he walked around me, whipping me- mostly my ass and thighs.

About, oh, two minutes in, my body went whoosh. Whoosh like post-orgasm whoosh. There was no orgasm, but my body reacted like I had just had a major one.

I've never had that happen before, as a reaction to pain.

But I usually go for impact-blows, not stinging ones.

It was fantastic. I started slouching in on myself and PD stood in front of me so I could wrap my arms around him and lean until I got control of my muscles again. I felt like purring.

He let me relax for a few minutes, and once I got my feet under me, I found myself bent over what I call "the creep gyno-chair" (he has two, both are creepy, but one is creepier than the other). More whip, then he slid in and started alternating fucking and whipping until he came.

Thought we were done there but, no, we were not. He got me out of my clothes (top had been over my head, pants around the knees), walked me over to the shiny new BDSM horse he received just a few weeks ago.

Cracking me across the face, caning, wooden paddle, a crop, I was gushing. He came in me again, then disappeared, came back, used three clamps to clamp my lips shut (no, not the lips on my face, the other lips). Then the cold sensation of lube on my ass.

See, we have this problem. He's a big, big fan of anal. My ass is near virgin tight. We've been working on it with plugs and fingers, stretching out the muscles, but I'm still not loose enough to really take him and not do damage.

So he gets out a plug that I cannot see the size of and starts inserting. I'm whimpering, louder and louder the deeper it goes, until I'm nearly shouting and he has to come around and sit on the right ledge of the horse by my face and whisper and kiss my forehead, tell me how good I'm being, as he continues to slide it in. Tears are running down my face at this point, he's whispering for me to relax, to breathe, and I'm trying.

Finally got it in.

He gets up, takes the clamps off my now quite sore lips, and slides in slowly.

As he fucks me, I pop it out. He holds it against me, tells me to back up and fuck it and him. I do, it eventually slides in all the way. Pops out a few more times, when he's thrusting hard, but he thrusts it back in. Grabs the Hitachi, angles himself so he can continue to thrust, but work the wand between my legs.

Too much stimulation, though, either makes me squirt or clamp down (muscle-wise). Hit that point, and I look over my shoulder and ask him to come in me. I hear the Hitachi hit the floor, then he's going for it. I feel him fill me again, surprised he's still got anything left in him.

He comes up alongside me, afterwards, kisses me, cleans me up, smiles. I'm purring and squirming at him, still lying on the horse, as he strokes the length of my body.

This, this is sex. This is touching the top layer of rough sex and I can't wait to go deeper, see what my body can do, what he can do to my body. Where my limits are and what happens when I reach them.

So, PD sent me this email last night. This is not work safe. If you aren't into rougher sex, watersports (which I'm not, but he doesn't care... which is rather hot), you probably shouldn't read it.

That's your disclaimer. So if you read it and become psychologically or physically disturbed, I take no responsibility.

If you read it and think it sounds like a good time, that makes two of us.

Really, just consider this a guest-post from the vaults of PD's deviant brain.

... ... ... ...


You’re on your knees in front of me.

In my mind, I’ve ordered you to shave, do an enema, stick the large plug in and deliver yourself. You’ve been stripped, inspected, groped, told not to meet my gaze, to speak only when spoken to, to do what you’re told. I’ve conveniently forgotten to give you a safe word.

I pull down my pants. You instinctively move your head towards my crotch without being told, and I scold you, slapping you hard. Then, liking it, I grab your hair in my fist, bend down and kiss you, slapping you again.

I pull your head into my hard cock and tell you to suck it. You take it into your mouth, and I let you take your time for a while. Then I take your head in my hands and begin moving the tip further down your throat. I push your head down a little further each time.

I push down hard and instinct makes you pull back slightly, which is met with more slapping, hard slapping. I tell you to choke yourself on my cock, and you do, moving your head forward. You make yourself gag trying to get it all the way down your throat. When I’m satisfied with your efforts, I move away, and button up.

Still kneeling I collar you; a thick leather posture collar that makes it difficult to lower your chin. Cuffs at wrists and ankles. Last, a blindfold.

I order you to your feet and yank you up by the collar. You become aware of the slickness running down your thighs as I lead you across the dungeon in unsteady steps. I push you back into leather padding and raise your arms above your head; the cross.

Arms cuffed into position, legs open and locked. Pussy wet and exposed. I’m slapping your breasts, no rhythm, seemingly choosing which one and how hard at a whim. You whimper and jerk a little. Then my fingers are in you, rough, pushing in hard against your G-spot, and soon you feel the gush as you squirt. Then, my fingers are in your mouth. You try to lick them clean, but reflex takes over as you feel me slapping your wet clit, always faster and harder.

You bite down and squeal, unable to get away.

More gushing from the smacking. A sharp slap across the face from the wet fingers taken suddenly from your mouth. Then, something leather between your teeth. A ring that holds your mouth open. You feel me move close, kissing your cheeks gently before my tongue darts into the hole, licking your tongue. Then I hold your hair as I spit into your mouth before stepping away.

As the drool begins dripping uncontrollably down your chest, you feel something small, leathery, stroking your belly. A crop, maybe?

A moment later, it begins cracking down again and again, leaving small, throbbing spots of sting behind that seem to worsen over time. Down your belly, your inside thighs, then to your cunt. You cry out as I beat your lips and clit, dancing and cringing, but unable to get away. Then up your body to your breasts.

You lose track immediately of how often you’re being struck, but each breast is throbbing and welted when the blows stop, nipples rock hard. Then you feel a clamp closing on your left nipple and cry out. It hurts like fire. The right one soon follows. Then you feel something cold against your clit and you inhale.

It starts to vibrate and you realize it’s the Hitachi. You relax as the buzz hums through your pussy, groaning slightly. Then you feel my hand reaching back between your legs and feel pressure on the plug. You whimper as you realize I’m pulling it out, and I tell you not to make a sound. You can’t stop a small squeak when the chrome ball pulls free, and then a shout when I force it back in.

I explain I’m going to pull it out and shove it in harder each time you make a noise, until you can do as you’re told. It pulls out hard and you squeal, as you do when I shove it back in. After several more rounds, you manage to keep silent as I ram the ball into you and I leave it.

The Hitachi pulls away. You feel me doing something between your legs, and then feel weight pulling on the plug. You realize there’s something heavy attached to it swinging between your legs.

I tell you to make sure it doesn’t drop. It actually makes it an effort to clench to hold the plug in, especially when you feel me between your legs again, after which the weight increases.

I step away, and the next thing you feel is definitely a cane. It’s hard, bites on impact and leaves an incredible sting in its wake. And suddenly it’s biting you all over. Breasts. Arms. Thighs. Belly. Pussy. Clit. You jerk, wiggle, scream. And then you hear the CRACK as the metal plug hits the concrete floor.

You gasp slightly. Then I’m taking you down, walking across the floor, bending you over the horse. The gag is out. The plug is shoved into your mouth, still hot from being inside you. I am spanking you, spanking your ass so hard the impact thuds in your ears. You almost expect the horse to move as you cry out around the plug.

Then I’m suddenly in your cunt, fucking you. Hard, brutal, ramming my hips against yours, fingers in your asshole, other hand pulling at the claps on your nipples, twisting them, stretching them. I push in deep and you know I’m coming inside you.

I pull out. You feel semen drip down. The plug is pulled from your mouth, replaced by my cock. Your pussy, my come, mingle in your mouth. I grind into your throat again as I rain stinging slaps down on your ass.

I pull away, and you feel something on your clit. A third clamp closes down, squeezing your clit hard. You feel weight begin to pull on the clamp; again, something tied and dangling like a pendulum which turns and twists the clamp each time you move.

A hard wooden paddle cracks down against your ass and you spasm. Your clit twists, your ass stings, you are an entire raw nerve. The beating continues, breaks for a moment as I slam my cock into you, then continues again. Fucking. Beating. Fucking.

The plug is shoved back in, quick, hard, stealing your breath, but more beating follows immediately. Then my cock in your cunt, then more beating. The plug is pulled out and shoved back in. I’m fucking you with my cock and the plug at once. Then more beating.

Then you inhale sharply as you realize I’ve forced my cock up your ass. I take your hair in my fist and you feel me grinding up into you, pushing in deep. A moment’s pause and then I’m taking your asshole, using you. Fucking you slowly.

Your cunt is dripping. I pull out and you feel a gasp escape. More beating on your ass and thighs, hard, sharp, then my cock is back in your ass, slammed in at one thrust, you feel like it’s in your belly. And I’m fucking you harder, pounding it in, making it hurt. Your head is still yanked back as I pull out and shove my cock in your mouth. You suck it, trying to take it down your throat without being told.

Then I’m behind you again, and I shove it in. I’m pulling all the way out and ramming it back in with each stroke. Your entire body tenses each time. The weight pulling at your clit is making you crazy as I brutalize your ass with my cock.

I pull out again, and the clamp comes off your clit. You feel something softer – a dildo – pushing into your cunt. It’s thick but not long, and you can tell it’s been buckled into place. It fills you.

I fuck your mouth again before slamming it back up your ass. You feel the Hitachi on your clit. You know you have to ask permission, and when you feel the orgasm creeping up on you, you nearly forget. You mumble for permission and it’s given.

As you come, everything clenching, you feel me buck my hips into you, thrusting deep, and I tell you I’m going to dump a load of come in your filthy whore’s asshole.

I pull out of you and move in front again. Your mouth is open before I’m there, waiting to suck the come off of me.

I remove the dildo, untie you from the horse, and tell you to kneel again. Sudden light fills your vision as the blindfold comes off. I put my hand between your legs and order you to give me the come. I cup my hand under your pussy and asshole and tell you to push.

Thick semen squirts into my hand and I hold it in front of you, sticky and white. You know what’s expected before I tell you to lick it off. You suck most of it from my fingers, and I wipe the rest across your face.

I take the clamps from your nipples and you gasp in pain as the feeling returns. Kneeling, I attach the clamps to your inner lips and you whimper, but manage no to wriggle too much or move your hands from behind your back.

You watch me pick up a tiny metal pail on a chain which I attach to hang below your pussy from the clamps.

Standing, I stick my cock in your mouth and order you to fill the pail. As you suck me, you relax and fill it with piss. As the weight increases on the pail, the chain pulls down on your lips and you whimper, but you don’t stop. I tell you to empty your bladder and soon you’ve overflowed the pail and you’re kneeling in a puddle.

I ask you if you want a third load of come, and you say “Yes, sir.” I tell you you’ll need to earn it, and order you to open your mouth. Knowing what’s coming, you look up at me and get a sharp slap for forgetting yourself. Looking squarely at the tip of my cock, you open your mouth.

My piss is hot and salty as it fills your mouth. I stop the flow and tell you to swallow. You close your mouth, swallow it, and open your mouth again. I fill your mouth again and tell you to just hold it. You mouth fills and then my piss is spilling out the sides, running down your face and chest, down to your pussy.

I finish, and you’re still holding it as I begin stroking my cock over your waiting mouth. After a moment, my come shoots out, a few drops splashing on your face but most mixing with the piss in your mouth. Now I tell you to swallow, and again you gulp down the foul mixture.

I yank you up by the hair and bend you over the horse, ramming my cock into you. The clamps from the pail fall loose as I pound into your pussy, then your asshole, pulling out and ramming back into whichever hole suits me. You’re gasping in a mixture of pain and pleasure, and I whisper in your ear that this is how I like you best. Willing to take anything from me, willing to be used in whatever way I want. All your holes open for me.

I pull out and push you to your knees to come in your mouth. You swallow.

I hold you, kiss you, look you in the eye and tell you what a good girl you are. Then I walk you to the shower.

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

That last line was a total lie.

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

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

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

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

Apparently, I don't do happy well.

It doesn't move me.

Sadness, loss, it flows.

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

But I never remember it in the morning.

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

Probably not that last one.

But it feels like it.

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

I could totally see that.

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

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

So, I'm off work in two hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is partially incorrect.

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

And we had this talk.

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

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

Anyhow, that tangent aside...

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

And he enjoys it. Win.

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

Then he toppled.

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

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

But I understood. I didn't blame him.

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

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

But that wish is still in my head.

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

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

And he did damage. I can tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm fairly exhausted.

Weekend was good. Left Saturday morning, grabbed breakfast at a place in the Valley, ran by the abandoned refinery in ***** where we found a piece of guerilla art to take home (win!) and managed to set off some very loud alarms. Tooled around at the Santa Barbara Mission, grabbed dinner at Stearn's Wharf, headed over the the concert which was not well advertised, so it was almost more of a private show. The opening band was -amazing-, I was quite pleased.

Sunday found us driving up PCH to stop in Cambria to see Nit Wit Ridge, then up to Hearst Castle for a late afternoon tour.

Realized, between a conversation PD and I had on the bus down from the castle and a blog post I stumbled across this morning, that part of love, for me, is the comfortability to show my happiness and confidence with sincerity. I often put on a tough girl front, or at least I try, but, as PD notes, I'm quite soft and squishy inside. I play confident so much, so easily, because it's what I do to survive.

And I'm more than willing to talk about my discomforts, my embarassments, my unhappy truths with near anyone without needing any level of trust or comfort with them... but when it comes to self-worth, happiness, dreams... I can't. I need that safety. That trust.

Probably means more than my surface thoughts on the matter.

In an odd turn of events, my sister's ex-boyfriend got into my parents' house on Wednesday night and attacked her.

PD is now telling me that he suspects the women in our family have a superpower of making men go insane over long-term vaginal exposure.

I can't really argue with that.


As a side note, lost two public followers in the last two days. Wondering if that's just due to unrelated lifestyle/reading purges or if it's due to this blog suddenly not being about me mooning over GV8, apparently betraying him, losing loyalty, being a woman of easily swayed emotions to so easily leave him and start to love another.

It's not something I find thrilling.

I'm not given to love easily, not romantic love. Nor do I flit from one man to the next. Serial monogamist, yes, but I tend to have months and months between relationships. I've never had so quick a turn around, have not ever left a man for someone else, have not cheated on a partner since I was 17.

Trying not to look too down on myself for meeting PD and swooning over him so easily. It's hard, it's weird, it's not very me.

But, on the other hand, it is the way it is. I met him when I was recovering from GV8 leaving me yet again, met him before GV8 decided to come back and claim me, was already blushing and giggly over him.

I want to be happy. I want to pursue what feels *right* to me and not worry so much of how things look to others.

I know, I know very well that I am not like most other people. So why do I keep holding myself to their storylines?



And, in another side note, one of my favorite people in the blogosphere, Sistasage posted a link to an article I really, really enjoyed. So I thought I'd share.

I've been combatting a good deal of anxiety lately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it's hard to catch up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PD's been pretty good about it.

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

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

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

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

And I do.

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

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

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

Makes me jumpy as hell.

Which makes me want to cling more.

Which is completely counterproductive.

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

It was a good talk.

It helped a lot.

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

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

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

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

I'm unexpectedly and quite rapidly falling in love.

Odd to say, odd to think.

And so fast.

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

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

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

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

Hey there.

Well, I'm functional again. Both limbs are woking, I'm no longer forced to sit at work, typing with my left hand. What a nightmare that was, though I'm a bit more ambidextrous now, at least with typing. Fingers are more flexible, stretching across the keyboard.

Still not as fast as I am with two, of course.

It's been a bit. PD has been posting for me when I've asked him to, as you've seen. He's... upstairs...? Maybe third or fourth floor, not sure where they're shooting. It's for a feature, not for his company, but another that's fairly well known. They did some scenes with about twenty extras out in the streets around the warehouse earlier today, sat on the sidewalk with one of the art guys and quietly chatted while they filmed.

Not being able to post has been a bit weird, anxiety building a little bit as things I would normally discuss in here, issues just beneath the surface that I need a few hundred words to access, aren't addressed and fester, taking themselves out on my stomach.

I don't like not being able to write.

Anyway, things fell out basically the way PD described. I was accidentally pushed into a planter, which wouldn't have been an issue, save that the roots of the tree that the planter contained had pushed up the sidewalk around it, so I caught my foot on an edge and dropped like a rock.

Again, wouldn't have been an issue if I hadn't been wearing glasses, as I would have rolled my body into it, but since I fell face-forward, I had to catch myself on my hands in order to stop my glasses from potentially shattering into my eyes, which I barely did. The frames are black stainless steel, I heard the *dink* when the upper right corner touched down, but I managed to keep from breaking them.

Cut open my knee and the side of my right hand, dripping blood down the sidewalk from the latter as I walked to a spot where PD could grab me and take me to the hospital, as I was unable to move my arm out of a right angle.

Fortunately, he had finished shooting just before I called, so he hopped in his car and picked me up. The ER was oddly fast, the nurse on duty fairly efficient, though the x-ray tech left a good deal to be desired. They couldn't tell by the x-ray if the bone was broken or not, as I was unable to straighten my arm, even with the Vicoden in my system my muscles would not release enough.

So PD bundled me into his car, we stopped by the warehouse, grabbed a change of clothes, and headed down to my doctor's, which was a good forty-five minutes away.

Mind you, this was 3AM on Friday morning of 4th of July weekend and my doctor does not usually accept walk ins, so we had to get there when they opened the office at 830AM, be first in line. 4th of July traffic on a Friday morning was a no-go, even on the highway at 3AM it was fairly heavy, so we got a hotel room near his office.

Amusingly, the only place with a room available was at a hotel I've wanted to stay at since I was little. A little pricey, but PD was insistent that we stay there and not crash at my parents' down the way.

He got me undressed, slowly pulling my good arm out of the shirt, head through the neckhole, gently sliding the last sleeve over my bent arm, me hissing through my teeth, muscle relaxants and Vicoden still not doing enough. He undid my belt, unbuttoned my pants, moved them over my hips, underwear following suit, bra unclasped removed, tied my hair back for me, then made a pillow-mound in the bed, something that would allow me to keep my arm on level with my shoulder, my elbow on level with my wrist. Gasping as we situated it, trying not to cry out.

I fell around 8 or 9PM, I believe. Got in bed at 4AM. I had not cried.

I don't cry, whatever pain I'm in, until the situation is handled. Crying does nothing but release stress, tension, and adrenaline. The more you cry, the more it hurts, the more your body is drained, and if you are draining your body, it has to struggle more to keep moving, and your brain shuts off.

So I cry when everything is over. When it's safe for me to release.

I curled around the mound of pillows and sobbed. Exhausted, drugged, in pain, I sobbed as PD stood over me.

And then I slept.

sCANDALOUS

More guest blather from DOG (Disgruntled Old Guy), The Artist Formerly Known as PD. Yes, eventually, this space will return to the conservatorship of your regularly scheduled blogger. For now, you’re stuck with me. Deal and shaddup.

Since I enjoy telling stories backwards, let me drop a few details about the weekend first.

I had a generically bad week which turned into a really shitty week on Friday. Since this isn’t my blog, I’ll spare you the details. The point in mentioning it is to underline how glad I was to see Poetry when she arrived at my loft on Saturday night, looking great and equally happy to see me.

I was even happier when she proudly slid my hand down her ass to find the butt plug she’d been wearing for the last several hours. She takes her homework very seriously, this girl.
You can infer the rest from there.

On Sunday, we slept in, completely failed to get out of bed about three times by my count, and then finally hauled our asses up to start the day. Poetry made herself extremely cute, and I did my best with jeans that no longer fit (I’ve lost a lot of weight this year) and a shirt I know she likes.

We made our way down to Venice beach to wander and people-watch. Personally, unless I’m in Jamaica or the Dominican Republic or somewhere equally resort-ish, I’m not a really “beachy” guy. As an abstract concept I love the beach, but in L.A., the beaches are cold, dirty, bum-infested and crowded. As a result, I haven’t been to Venice in, oh, five years?

We had a great time. We looked at clothes, books, art both good and bad. I copy-edited shop signs (including the hand-carved wooden sign which advertises clothing imported from “Katmandu,” wherever that is. I know Kathmandu…). We ate, snarked each other and argued about precisely how crazy Poetry is (I’m gonna vote for somewhere between “Special Olympics” and “Batshit Crazy,” but well shy of “Nurse Ratched Will See You Now.”)

We stood for a long while at the drum circle, both trying to “get it,” but failing on some mutual lack of chemical alteration and/or spiritual depth. We watched a rumored former Solid Gold dancer do some amazing moves on roller skates, which only made me more disdainful of the small flotilla of self-important punks on skateboards whom Poetry was quite enamored with.

Ah, youth. Sadly, none of them seriously injured himself while we watched. (Hey you kids! Off of my lawn! GET OFF OF MY LAWN!)

We ended the day with Poetry buying us dinner at a terrific Lebanese place where only one of the women truly looked like Jamie Farr. Over dinner, we continued a discussion about my personal brand of applied psychology and social anthropology, and the way I “read” people from a distance. Poetry is fascinated by this, and we’d been discussing how she presents herself in different situations.

We talked about how I differ from the ex, how there would have been less hand-holding, arm-in-arm walking, groping and kissing in general had this day out been with GV8. PDA, if you didn’t know, is one of Poetry’s favorite pastimes.

Which segues nicely to the point; the blog I was asked to write.

On Wednesday, with her right arms still more-or-less completely KIA, I picked Poetry up from work and took her to see her orthapædist. This doctor’s office is in a very conservative part of the very conservative Orange County.

Sitting in the waiting room were a thin, young, gay Asian sales rep for a software firm, a 40-something blonde real estate agent trying too hard to hit that “vaguely sexy but completely bland” look right in the center of the bullseye, and a burly, red-faced mid-40s contractor waiting for his wife, a guy you just know was climbing into a white F-250 with a crew cab and a bedliner when they left.

The main receptionist was a surly, sour-faced, Christian, Republican, 43-year-old single mother of four who was every inch the female version of the contractor in the waiting room. She stood about 5’ 11’ and had to be three bills. If you picture the feminized John Lithgow in World According to Garp you’re right on target.

Just seeing a man her age (and aren’t all fucking men just the fucking same!) with a girl Poetry’s age turned her bitter blood to cold vitriol, and if looks were daggers I would have left in a basket. Naturally, Poetry took this as the signal that she should climb all over me in the waiting room. At one point, she even decided to sit in my lap. If it wouldn’t have led to police involvement and defeating the purpose of the trip (by getting kicked out), I’m sure she would have tried to blow me.

The realtor was scandalized. The contractor tried not to be envious. The salesman was oblivious.

Ms. Lithgow seethed hatred from behind the counter.

In a quiet attempt to keep Poetry from alienating her doctor (I was imaging some first-generation Indian immigrant who can’t look a white woman in a bikini in the eye), I stayed in the waiting room while she went inside. At one point I caught the realtor’s eye, and I realized she wasn’t seeing me; she was seeing her husband, who coaches the girls’ volleyball team, and her imagination was running rampant.

When Poetry returned from the bowels of the building, I joined her at the counter for checkout. She spent a few moments harassing the desk flunkies about details, doctor’s notes and appointments, and then asked the nurse, standing next to Ms. Lithgow, to clarify what she could and couldn’t do.

“No typing, no writing, no repetitive arm movements.”

“Oh, good,” said Poetry. “So I can still use my mouth.”

They’ll be scrubbing Ms. Lithgow’s brains off that wall for a week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway...

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

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

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

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

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

Well, it has been a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know, where partners are equals.

Where disagreements end in discussions, not decrees.

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

An "Ooh, yeah, I forgot this."

And then it came back.

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

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

This was not for me.

That life was not for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's unexpected.

Meeting someone so soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing more than something that makes him feel good.

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

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

He loved me, in his own way.

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

And he'll never understand why.

Hm.

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

White. Eesh. Who came up with that one?

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

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

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

I keep thinking back to the other night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the baser things.

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

"You were built to be fucked from behind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, we semi-had that discussion.

It's certainly there if I want it.

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

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

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

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

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

It's ridiculous, but it does panic me.

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

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

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

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

What a wicked thing to say...

Light from the monitors, music from the speakers.

In me and on me, slick and smooth, warm heat against my back, lips against my neck, fingers linked together, soft hums escaping my throat, and the occasional whimper when he ges too deep. His muttered curses, breath on my ear, nose buried in my hair, inhaling deep.

Roll my hips up and around, a swaying move I have always reserved for the dance floor.

But he makes me feel like dancing, makes me feel like writing poetry.

I'm good with words, but I've better rhythm with my body.

Over my head, sinking fast into his music.