Are you human...

It's odd.

Well, my life is odd.

I travel so very little, which is something that I place a lot of value on- going new places, experiencing new cultures, ideas, architecture, values, and yet my life still seems to fascinate other people who have traveled and done so much.

I went down to San Diego this weekend.

Really, I did a lot this weekend. Being down there was only a small part.

Friday was sushi in Culver with some friends, then used book shopping and coffee in Santa Monica, topped with the midnight showing of The City of Lost Children at the Nuart. Saturday was getting my roots touched up in Beverly, then my oil changed, then more used book shopping and lunch with my mother. Then down to San Diego, where a nap was acquired, then a massage, dinner in Old Town, clubbing in Downtown, and back to bed. Woke up to another massage.

It's rather wonderful, having an ex-lover who is such a gifted masseuse.

We haven't had sex in at least four years. Maybe five. He was always my in-betweener sex, the one guy that was always there when a relationship of mine ended. Hung like a freaking bull, his size tends to scare girls off of him.

The last few times I've gone down to visit, he's tried to initiate that dynamic again. He's well aware that I won't fall in love with him, won't try to date him, don't mind driving the distance between us, won't cockblock him (will even encourage him) when it comes to other girls, and will always be honest with him when it comes to my needs and the things that make me uncomfortable, because that's what I do, what I've always done. He values that. He's smart. I don't know any other girls that do that, that keep that open flow, monitor their emotions to make sure things will not swing in a romantic direction, and then take steps to prevent it if they do.

But I turned him down.

Things have changed. I have changed, so very dramatically. He's thirty-one and he seems so damn young to me. All of them do. It's rare for me to be attracted to a man under 35 these days. I really should say under 40.

It's not that I need the older look. It's that I need experience and maturity. I need men who know who they are, know what they're doing, who are aware of themselves and their needs, and who can communicate them effectively to me. It's been very difficult to find in the younger crowd.

And I keep calling them "kids" or "kid" in my head.

I mean, fuck, really?

I went out to a club last night and there were a few guys that fit my physical type, probably ranging in age from 27 to 35, and I kept referring to them as "kids" when I noticed them.

"That's a cute kid."
"God, look at the ass on that kid."
"I would wreck that kid so hard."

Some of this I would vocalize to my friends. And I didn't even think about my vocabulary usage until later on. I was just doing it without thought, just a natural flow.

Heh, and last time I was down there, I started playing with this cocky bastard I wrote about in some overly long blog a month or two back. He gives me his number, I give him mine, I do this little social/sexual dance, spin his head, and he's mine if I want him.

Of course, some of the girls I was with feel the need to separately inform me throughout the course of the evening that this man was a "player" and I should "watch out" because he's a "bad boy" and "sleeps with tons of women" and "just uses them".

Which is just a turn on for me, really. High partner count? Effective seduction tactics? Sexual experience? Take me now.

So, after letting him know that I will be at the club, in case he wants to drop by (and, of course, he does), I broach the subject. Yes, I'm direct. Yes, I know it's offputting. No, don't really care.

He tells me he doesn't know, doesn't keep track of his number. So I tell him to guess, and not to low- or high-ball me.

Somewhere in the thirties.

Really, that's it?

Okay, okay, it's probably in the forties.

Really? Here I was led to believe that he had a high partner count. I mean, I significantly blow him out of the water and I don't consider myself as having a high partner count. Now, GV8, he's got a partner count in the 400 range. For never having been in porn, that's a pretty damn decent number for a guy.

Yes, impress me.

It was disappointing. Every time I think about hooking up with someone and they have such limited experience, it's a let-down. Throw into the equation that SDBoy rolls submissive and can't spell for shit, he's completely lost my interest. I'm still going to be his date to the CD release party over at Spaceland later on this month, however. The band is one I enjoy.

I think G was right when he told me that I needed to not read books on the game, seduction, the PUA community, the biology and psychology of sex, that they would just remove the rest of the magic out of the whole thing because no one would ever really wow me and get under my skin again. I miss having my mind blown by a guy. GV8 came close because of his extensive, extensive experience both in life and in bed, but once I noticed that was happening, I emotionally cockblocked him with Glasses.

It's all about moving the pieces around.

Even though Glasses is a flake, he still took the edge off of my head getting spun by GV8. I knew he would, which is why I asked him out.

Monitor and maintain.

Oh, and SFPlayboy sent over some shots from one of his photoshoots. God, that man is built. I was looking at them going, "I've... totally been hitting that." He's not hung, but he can go for hours and he bruises me so nicely. GV8's a total sensualist, so we rarely do the rougher stuff I enjoy, Glasses is a flake, but he's a very experienced dom, and Blondie, young and so very hot, but dumb as a post. He's hung and fun, knows how to move. I can't wait until he breaks up with his girlfriend again so we can have rebound sex. Again.

Like I said, dumb as a post.

If he wasn't so very goddamn hot, I would've left it as a one-night stand, instead of letting it turn into a booty call. My decision. Oh well.

Anyhow, back to last night.

The dancing was good, until the club got so packed there was so very little point.

But, as I was looking around, I saw two things.

Two people, actually.

One, T, I see about every six months up at various clubs in LA. He used to be one of the best dancers in the scene. But something happened. I don't know if he was in an accident, or if he started using heavy drugs, but something happened to his coordination and rhythm. It's very very depressing. I remember, years ago, there was a huge, multi-club event at the HAC for Thanksgiving. T and I danced together all night, right in front of the speakers. Hours of dancing, nonstop. He was so good.

Now he stumbles. I watched him try to dance and he actually fell down the stairs leading up to the platform. It was so very sad. It's like when you have a beloved pet and, as they age, they start getting more and more messed up, until they're falling over their own limbs with their watery, unfocused eyes staring into space and you know that you have to put them down, that they're too miserable and too wrecked to continue in that state of being.

What was weirder was that the DJ, someone I had never heard spin before, started playing the old school stuff, tracks I hadn't heard in years, tracks that used to be played constantly when the hottest club in the scene was on a Thursday and getting a higher headcount than any of the weekend clubs, and we'd drive up to Hollywood, laughing and telling jokes, park in the same place every time, go up the stairs, get our wristbands, and let the bass hit us as soon as we pushed aside that curtain. Videos would be playing on multiple projectors, the stage would be packed of the best dancers in the scene, fans would be blasting onto the main dancefloor and we would go all night, climbing up and down off the boxes, sliding across the floor, laughing hysterically whenever the last song of the evening would come on and it would be something so horrible it would chase everyone but the most drunk or dedicated off the floor. We'd go to the smoking patio to cool off, watch the limos and pedestrians on Hollywood Boulevard, give the begging homeless people change, get into conversations with with them, and then go back inside to do it all over again.

Glory days of that club.

They're so over now. I stopped in there a Thursday night a few months ago and it was like a forgotten carnival. I stayed until midnight and just didn't see the point after that, drove back home.

So, back in the current, the DJ is playing these tracks, I watch T fall down the stairs into some unsuspecting dancers, and I look up on the stage and see a face I haven't seen in two or three years. One I had completely forgotten, don't even remember her name, have no idea where she went, if she lives down in San Diego or is just down for the weekend, like me.

She's amazing. Best dancer in the club, hands down. I noticed her, thought her legs were killer and that she looked familiar, but when I saw her start moving with that Los Angeles old school style that I favor, I knew it was her.

It was so odd, seeing her and T on the same stage, dancing to the old music. T, totally unable to dance, her, rocking the entire club with her moves and body. It shunted me down memory lane so very hard and fast. I just stood there, leaning against a rail, and watched her dance to that music, let memories flow over me.

The old crowd, the old music, the night after night of clubbing. Same faces at different venues as we bounced from club to club to club, when one promoter was on top of the scene, and now it's a constant war between three of them, with a fourth trying to wedge themselves into the mix.

Hitting the Del Taco on Santa Monica Boulevard, colliding with the Tiger Heat kids coming out of the Avalon, trying to guess which were actually women, and which were just very convincing men. The IHOP and In and Out on Sunset, driving through Carl's Jr at 4AM, attempting to actually refuel our bodies before we passed out from the exhaustion of dancing all night. Keeping a roll of papertowels in the trunk so we could wipe off the excess sweat before getting into car, keeping a change of clothes for the same purpose, changing in the parking lot.

It was a good time.

It's been seven years of doing this circuit, coming up on eight. Clubs have changed venues, shut down, re-opened, shut down again, shifted nights, changed DJs, been remodeled. The people have changed, but you'll still catch the old faces at certain events.

I'm getting tired of it again. This happens when I go out too much. I'm probably going to take a few months off, spend my weekends doing other activities. Like, gasp, curling up at a coffee shop and reading all night. Not going to happen anytime soon, though. This coming weekend's events entail a release party, a concert, and another sex marathon, toss in a birthday party and I'm sure a few other things that I'm forgetting, but I will be reminded of as the week goes on.

We'll see what happens, like we always do.

No, that's not the royal we.

It was funny, now that I think about it. Lying in bed with my ex on Saturday. He mentioned to me that, of all his friends, I'm the one with the crazy sex life. I was shocked, because he has some rather promiscuous friends, and contested this. He argued and won, and said something to the effect of, "I know we're probably never going to have sex again. I don't feel too rejected, but I am still one of your fanboys."

I laughed at this, and then realized he was semi-serious. I keep forgetting about the fanboys. I think I'm trying to block that whole thing out. I was never meant for that much attention.

Good night.

She's moving up slowly

Yesterday, yesterday I had one of those evenings where my mind was exploding and all I wanted to do was write. If I give into it, it's great. If I don't, I end up more and more out of my gourd and disconnected from the immediate reality.

Well, more than I already am.

I was unable to sit down and write.

I, instead, went out to dinner with a man I slept with a couple of times, who is now referring to me as his 'little sister' because I took our budding sexual relations and purposefully killed them last Decemember because I was seeing too many men and it was really, really starting to overwhelm me. If I didn't have the whole work/school/social life thing going on, it would be infinitely easier to handle five or six lovers, but, well, I do.

That whole "making something of yourself" thing can be a real drain on your sex life.

So we sat and caught up. His company was bought out a few months ago and, due to bad management, and illegal activities on the part of the owner, lawsuits have been flying. He's been busy as hell dealing with all the litigation crap.

It took me about twenty minutes before I stopped having to review in my mind the dialogue set before me. He would speak, and I would run through a list of things that may or may not be appropriate in response, and then adjust my facial expressions accordingly. This must be what autistic people feel like all the time. Social interaction must be exhausting for them.

Eventually, I mostly snapped out of it. Then, of course, I was distracted by a man at the bar. Good face, bad voice, bad facial expressions, midwest dress-style, wedding ring. The more he talked with the bartender, the less attractive he became.

Wanted to go over to him, put my finger on his lips and go, "Sssssh, just sit there and be hot. There's no need for this 'talking' business."

Glasses texted me earlier this week. Wanted me to go to a club I haven't been to in years with him and some of his friends, then go to some hotel suite he was getting near the club. I was up for it. He's gorgeous and brilliant, I can only assume his friends would be the same. Potential group sex, or at least a MMF or MFF? Sure, I'm down.

Wasn't coming together fast enough, though. Trying to set my schedule for the weekend is almost always a very intensive activity of calling and texting people, seeing who is doing what, when, where, and with who. Then you have to go through the freeways in your head for transit times. Construction? Holidays? Conventions? Concerts? If you're planning on hitting the 10/110/101 interchange, these are things you have to know. People wonder how I do so much all over the place, and it is because I take into consideration everything I can, and most people are willing to adjust their get-togethers in order for me to make it, or understand that I will be late.

So, when Thursday rolled around and it still wasn't set, and I had other people calling me for this weekend's activities, I decided it just wasn't worth it.

You've got two lines of thinking here:

1. I decide I will go to his club with him, which would, effectively kill my previous Saturday night plans and a chunk of Sunday day.

Then:

A. If things come together smoothly, that's great. I'd still be meeting his friends for the first time, though, so if I did not pull that off well, I could be boning myself for future encounters. Potential date-ambush.

or

B. Things don't come together. I end up cancelling my other potential plans for no good reason. And I look like I'm willing to bail on whatever activities I have going on just to possibly spend time with him. That's just no good.

2. I decide not to go with him. These leaves me with invites for multiple things in LA or San Diego, and I'm free to choose the weekend's hijinks. Yes, hijinks. Escapades? Capers? Shenanigans?

Two outcomes happen from this:

A. I never see him again. He wants a girl that will just fall by his side when he calls. I'm not going to be that girl, and if that's what it takes to have him in my roster, of things he is, worth it is not one of them.

or

B. I see him again. This would probably mean that either he was okay with me opting out on his plans, meaning he respects my individual decisions, or that he didn't care one way or the other. Of course, if it was the latter, he wouldn't have bothered inviting me at all, much less introducing me to his friends.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I get to determine how this is going to run by sending one text message and spending my weekend by going out and having an excellent time because whatever I decide to do, it will be fun.

If I don't see him again, it's no loss because he's confirmed to me that he isn't worth investing time, energy, or emotion into. If I do, it's excellent because he has confirmed that he is worth it, at least for a short time, depending on how things play out.

Either way, I win.

You can't control what other people will or will not do, but you can control how you react to the situation.

We might be meeting up on Sunday late afternoon, early evening. We'll see how that goes, if it goes. It very well might not. If it doesn't, you will very likely find me kayaking in La Jolla, as one of my ex-lovers has been trying to convince me to join him... for the last several months. It's an unsuccessful venture as it is hard to get me out of bed before 11 or 12 after a night of clubbing. It does not help that his bed is extremely comfortable and I tend to stay in it and groan at him for daring to wake me.

This weekend is shaping up to be rather crazy. I should be used to it by now, but... no, not really. I don't think I'll ever really get used to it. Leaping from place to place, party to coffee to club to book signing to art gallery to play to dinners to concerts to family events with so many different faces.

My mother told me recently that she never expected me to be like this. That because of my anti-social nature and bookworm tendencies that she expected me to be a homebody, and probably live with them the rest of my life.

If things hadn't fallen out the way they had, she would have been correct.

No one expected me to do the things I did, no one expected what happened as a result, and how the impact of those results would change me.

I should have been a librarian or an accountant. I should have been a frazzled secratary living in a one bedroom apartment with three cats and a lot of tacky art on the walls featuring kittens and cottages, shopping out of the Sears and Land's End catalogs, reading romance novels and dreaming of that One Guy that would see me One Day and See Me for Who I Am Inside, past the white cotton underwear and ill-fitting flesh-colored bras, past the tacky wardrobe and gold-rimmed glasses.

I love how no one recognizes me from a few years ago. I love how I run into people from high school and they have no idea who I am, even after I tell them we went to high school together, even if we were in the same classes, sat next to each other, since junior high.

I earned this life. It's mine, and it's good.