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.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Our hearts are read...
I am two arms, two legs, hands and feet, and the brain dictates the flesh.
My tongue has traveled miles of skin, tasting the oil and sweat of men, feeling the dips and ridges of each outer layering.
My great grandmother was an opera singer, parting her lips for audiences through both North and South America, her husband dead too early, she left her only child in the care of other families as she toured, moving away from grief.
I've been in beds across the country, for reasons platonic and sexual, mattresses playing host to my roaming needs. Sheets cold and smooth, wrinkled and warm, flannel pilling up like a soft brillo pad, my body has met them, sweated and slept.
My great grandfather was in the Illinois National Guard. He broke my grandfather's nose with a chair to the face sometime before he passed away, when my grandfather was 10.
These visible reactions, the crooked nose with the charming face, is something that would last in impact, last in romance, bringing him through the series of girls until he married the one that became my grandmother.
My nose is straight, a nearly unnoticeable tilt at the end, something given to me by both parents, a gift that I have buried in the crooks of so many necks, the inside curve of a hipbone, the base of a man's skull, short hairs tickling that slightly curved tip.
My grandmother came out on a bus from Arkansas, into Los Angeles, to find work. She found my grandfather instead, and with him, the left shoe to her right, the matching pair, they created two children that would go on to lead vastly different lives.
My grandfather came out, likely on a wagon, from South Dakota. A serious man, a quiet man, who could only express affection for his wife and daughter- never his son. Popular theory is that he could not stand his wife loving another man, even his own offspring.
These trickles of love and neglect carry down.
When my aunt was young, sometime between nine and twelve years old, she was raped. That changed her, altered her, for the rest of her life. Nothing would be the same, and no one would ever know it had happened, save for her mother, until after she had killed herself in the summer of August 2009, when her husband was going through her childhood writings and discovered this tale.
My grandmother covered it up, from a need for privacy that would pervade her life, a need that I have never felt.
So when my father's older sister took that gun to the garage, she was blowing away forty years of a life she had not asked to lead, a life of fear and bad choices left splattered on a wall behind her.
Leaving us to wonder if the man who took her, used her, had any idea of how much everything would be altered for his few minutes, few hours, of lust.
Lives change in a day.
I sit and look at my dad, now in his late fifties. His family, his original set, is buried together in a cemetery a little less than twenty miles away.
Beloved Mother,
Beloved Father,
Beloved Sister.
He can visit his entire family in one day.
I'm left here to watch, and when I walk into his office, see him trying to pull himself together, constantly at the computer, studying, emailing, reaching to save what he has left of himself, I'm reminded that all stories do not have happy endings.
Some just end.
My tongue has traveled miles of skin, tasting the oil and sweat of men, feeling the dips and ridges of each outer layering.
My great grandmother was an opera singer, parting her lips for audiences through both North and South America, her husband dead too early, she left her only child in the care of other families as she toured, moving away from grief.
I've been in beds across the country, for reasons platonic and sexual, mattresses playing host to my roaming needs. Sheets cold and smooth, wrinkled and warm, flannel pilling up like a soft brillo pad, my body has met them, sweated and slept.
My great grandfather was in the Illinois National Guard. He broke my grandfather's nose with a chair to the face sometime before he passed away, when my grandfather was 10.
These visible reactions, the crooked nose with the charming face, is something that would last in impact, last in romance, bringing him through the series of girls until he married the one that became my grandmother.
My nose is straight, a nearly unnoticeable tilt at the end, something given to me by both parents, a gift that I have buried in the crooks of so many necks, the inside curve of a hipbone, the base of a man's skull, short hairs tickling that slightly curved tip.
My grandmother came out on a bus from Arkansas, into Los Angeles, to find work. She found my grandfather instead, and with him, the left shoe to her right, the matching pair, they created two children that would go on to lead vastly different lives.
My grandfather came out, likely on a wagon, from South Dakota. A serious man, a quiet man, who could only express affection for his wife and daughter- never his son. Popular theory is that he could not stand his wife loving another man, even his own offspring.
These trickles of love and neglect carry down.
When my aunt was young, sometime between nine and twelve years old, she was raped. That changed her, altered her, for the rest of her life. Nothing would be the same, and no one would ever know it had happened, save for her mother, until after she had killed herself in the summer of August 2009, when her husband was going through her childhood writings and discovered this tale.
My grandmother covered it up, from a need for privacy that would pervade her life, a need that I have never felt.
So when my father's older sister took that gun to the garage, she was blowing away forty years of a life she had not asked to lead, a life of fear and bad choices left splattered on a wall behind her.
Leaving us to wonder if the man who took her, used her, had any idea of how much everything would be altered for his few minutes, few hours, of lust.
Lives change in a day.
I sit and look at my dad, now in his late fifties. His family, his original set, is buried together in a cemetery a little less than twenty miles away.
Beloved Mother,
Beloved Father,
Beloved Sister.
He can visit his entire family in one day.
I'm left here to watch, and when I walk into his office, see him trying to pull himself together, constantly at the computer, studying, emailing, reaching to save what he has left of himself, I'm reminded that all stories do not have happy endings.
Some just end.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sitting in the Nerd Control Tower. PD is at the Nerd Control Station, editing videos, while I sit on his couch, an empty glass of Mountain Dew sitting on the steamer trunk at my left, body pillow folded up behind me. The occasional cat jumps on the couch, does a cursory inspection, and leaves.
I was not supposed to be here tonight. He was supposed to be editing, I was supposed to be out in Orange County, visiting my doctor, doing the check up on the HPV that my ex unknowingly donated, then grabbing sushi with an ex-coworker.
So, I get to the doctor's, apologize for the semen leaking out of me (which was an amusing conversation, and for those of you who might be up in arms about my whore-like behavior... a)PD has a vasectomy B)I had PD get tested and give me his results before we did anything and C)I am a whore. Get over it.)
Which led to the question: "So... how many sex partners have you had?"
My response: "This year?" (which is a resounding two)
Then, of course, no, it was how many in my life-time, which is this ballpark estimate between 70-80. She was leaning away from me, so I didn't see her face. I wish I could have.
I, I don't find it particularly shocking. It seems pretty mild to me. Yes, I know it's significantly higher than average. And I know very few women my age who have reached those numbers (the ones I theorize that are in or above that range now are the porn girls I've been meeting recently). It is what it is, though, as redundant as that sounds. I look back at it, shuffle through the memories, and it isn't a high number. I mean, really, think of how many people you meet each week, through work, through going out, through errands, through parties and social groups. We never really think about the level of minimal social interaction we go through on a daily basis.
Then you get someone like me, who travels all over Southern California, who goes out all the time to various different scenes and areas, usually by myself, social exposure is incredibly high. Which is why I usually know someone whenever I wind up at a new party/event. Happened several times at the BDSM party (a few from various club scenes- not too unexpected, and then some random guy I met at a diner months ago). Happened when PD and I went out to that art gallery in downtown.
So she wanted to know, out of pure curiousity, how I racked up those numbers.
I've done this breakdown before:
Sexually active for ten years. Max partner count is probably 80.
That gives me, what, eight partners a year? That's less than one a month. Not extreme at all.
Of course to be fair, then we toss in the monogamous relationships.
So, I've got 1/4 of a year, 3/4 year, 1 1/2 years, 2 years, 1 3/4 years. Not counting the year and change with the ex because that was never spoken monogamy, and I did stray before things became serious, and when we were on an off-cycle. If I'm mathing right (which I'm probably not, if we're being honest), that's 6 1/4 years spent inside of monogamous relationships. Round that down for ease, we're at 6 years, subtract five sex partners.
Four years, 75 sex partners. 18 3/4 sex partners per year. Round up to compensate for that 1/4 year I tossed off earlier.
19 sex partners a year. That's between one and two sex partners a month, seven months with two partners, five months with one.
1 sex partner every nineteen days.
Not bad. And very, very doable. God knows the aspiring PUA out there only wishes to surpass my low "success rate".
So she asks me how I got those numbers and I shrug and tell her it just happened, you know, naturally.
She checked to make sure I had been safe, was going to continue to be safe, etc. She remembered, vaguely, when I came in in 2008, a sore on my clit that turned out to be just a cut from one of Wolfboy's fingernails but thoroughly freaked me out.
I asked about the HPV on her way out the door, curious to know if they could tell me what strain it was. She said they didn't know, just that it fell under the high risk category.
I blinked at her for a moment. This hadn't been mentioned before. When they said they wanted to do a follow-up, I figured it was the basic follow-up. No, they were checking for pre-cancerous cells.
All of my years of slutting it up, I get my only STD from my ex, and it happens to be very likely to give me cervical cancer. Treatment is painful, but since I caught it early, it gives more of a chance for them to scrape and freeze bits of my cervix off instead of simply removing the thing. Parts of the thing. So the cancerous cells don't spread into my uterus, my stomach, my brain, you know, the parts that are somewhat important.
It's a bit of a downer.
Much like the text I just got, asking me if I want to attend E3 tomorrow. Which I would love to... if I wasn't working.
Anyway, I get out of the doctor's office, text PD that I am going to call and cry at him shortly, then call and let him soothe me. Even though he was going to spend this evening editing, he invited me up. So I moved my sushi dinner to a lunch and headed over to Downtown.
A large concern for me is my mother. When the HPV vaccine came out, I was 24 and she insisted that I get it immediately. So I did. She was so concerned that I would pick up HPV and get cervical cancer.
Here I am, vaccinated, yet still managing to catch a high-risk strain. Apparently that .04% or whatever it was of HPV strains that could still be received post-vaccine included this one.
I texted the ex something short, telling him I'd prefer him not to respond to the text, but to be aware that the strain he has, we have, is high risk and to be careful.
Arrived at PD's warehouse. We showered and talked, laughing and teasing each other, touching each other way too much, to the point that we had to push off and let him get to work.
It's so easy being with him. I am... infatuated. Obsessed. Surprised. Caught off guard. Talking with him already about him meeting my family. Three weeks in. Or whatever we're at. I'm bad with dates. This man, this surprising man, is wonderful.
I'm getting emotionally over my head way too fast, but it's like rolling down a steep hill, gaining momentum the more I learn about him, the more I see of him, unable to grab a hand-hold to stop and breathe.
After the ex, I wasn't sure if I'd find someone that fit. I'm a bit too... off. Too many contradicting things that most people simply don't understand or accept. I'm unable to be who I am, in so many eyes. Always looking for excuses, reasons, rationales that tell them that I'm lying to myself, lying to others, that this mold that they've created in their head is where I belong, and to bleed over the edges is heresy.
And then I found this misfit toy, this Charlie in the Box.
I was not supposed to be here tonight. He was supposed to be editing, I was supposed to be out in Orange County, visiting my doctor, doing the check up on the HPV that my ex unknowingly donated, then grabbing sushi with an ex-coworker.
So, I get to the doctor's, apologize for the semen leaking out of me (which was an amusing conversation, and for those of you who might be up in arms about my whore-like behavior... a)PD has a vasectomy B)I had PD get tested and give me his results before we did anything and C)I am a whore. Get over it.)
Which led to the question: "So... how many sex partners have you had?"
My response: "This year?" (which is a resounding two)
Then, of course, no, it was how many in my life-time, which is this ballpark estimate between 70-80. She was leaning away from me, so I didn't see her face. I wish I could have.
I, I don't find it particularly shocking. It seems pretty mild to me. Yes, I know it's significantly higher than average. And I know very few women my age who have reached those numbers (the ones I theorize that are in or above that range now are the porn girls I've been meeting recently). It is what it is, though, as redundant as that sounds. I look back at it, shuffle through the memories, and it isn't a high number. I mean, really, think of how many people you meet each week, through work, through going out, through errands, through parties and social groups. We never really think about the level of minimal social interaction we go through on a daily basis.
Then you get someone like me, who travels all over Southern California, who goes out all the time to various different scenes and areas, usually by myself, social exposure is incredibly high. Which is why I usually know someone whenever I wind up at a new party/event. Happened several times at the BDSM party (a few from various club scenes- not too unexpected, and then some random guy I met at a diner months ago). Happened when PD and I went out to that art gallery in downtown.
So she wanted to know, out of pure curiousity, how I racked up those numbers.
I've done this breakdown before:
Sexually active for ten years. Max partner count is probably 80.
That gives me, what, eight partners a year? That's less than one a month. Not extreme at all.
Of course to be fair, then we toss in the monogamous relationships.
So, I've got 1/4 of a year, 3/4 year, 1 1/2 years, 2 years, 1 3/4 years. Not counting the year and change with the ex because that was never spoken monogamy, and I did stray before things became serious, and when we were on an off-cycle. If I'm mathing right (which I'm probably not, if we're being honest), that's 6 1/4 years spent inside of monogamous relationships. Round that down for ease, we're at 6 years, subtract five sex partners.
Four years, 75 sex partners. 18 3/4 sex partners per year. Round up to compensate for that 1/4 year I tossed off earlier.
19 sex partners a year. That's between one and two sex partners a month, seven months with two partners, five months with one.
1 sex partner every nineteen days.
Not bad. And very, very doable. God knows the aspiring PUA out there only wishes to surpass my low "success rate".
So she asks me how I got those numbers and I shrug and tell her it just happened, you know, naturally.
She checked to make sure I had been safe, was going to continue to be safe, etc. She remembered, vaguely, when I came in in 2008, a sore on my clit that turned out to be just a cut from one of Wolfboy's fingernails but thoroughly freaked me out.
I asked about the HPV on her way out the door, curious to know if they could tell me what strain it was. She said they didn't know, just that it fell under the high risk category.
I blinked at her for a moment. This hadn't been mentioned before. When they said they wanted to do a follow-up, I figured it was the basic follow-up. No, they were checking for pre-cancerous cells.
All of my years of slutting it up, I get my only STD from my ex, and it happens to be very likely to give me cervical cancer. Treatment is painful, but since I caught it early, it gives more of a chance for them to scrape and freeze bits of my cervix off instead of simply removing the thing. Parts of the thing. So the cancerous cells don't spread into my uterus, my stomach, my brain, you know, the parts that are somewhat important.
It's a bit of a downer.
Much like the text I just got, asking me if I want to attend E3 tomorrow. Which I would love to... if I wasn't working.
Anyway, I get out of the doctor's office, text PD that I am going to call and cry at him shortly, then call and let him soothe me. Even though he was going to spend this evening editing, he invited me up. So I moved my sushi dinner to a lunch and headed over to Downtown.
A large concern for me is my mother. When the HPV vaccine came out, I was 24 and she insisted that I get it immediately. So I did. She was so concerned that I would pick up HPV and get cervical cancer.
Here I am, vaccinated, yet still managing to catch a high-risk strain. Apparently that .04% or whatever it was of HPV strains that could still be received post-vaccine included this one.
I texted the ex something short, telling him I'd prefer him not to respond to the text, but to be aware that the strain he has, we have, is high risk and to be careful.
Arrived at PD's warehouse. We showered and talked, laughing and teasing each other, touching each other way too much, to the point that we had to push off and let him get to work.
It's so easy being with him. I am... infatuated. Obsessed. Surprised. Caught off guard. Talking with him already about him meeting my family. Three weeks in. Or whatever we're at. I'm bad with dates. This man, this surprising man, is wonderful.
I'm getting emotionally over my head way too fast, but it's like rolling down a steep hill, gaining momentum the more I learn about him, the more I see of him, unable to grab a hand-hold to stop and breathe.
After the ex, I wasn't sure if I'd find someone that fit. I'm a bit too... off. Too many contradicting things that most people simply don't understand or accept. I'm unable to be who I am, in so many eyes. Always looking for excuses, reasons, rationales that tell them that I'm lying to myself, lying to others, that this mold that they've created in their head is where I belong, and to bleed over the edges is heresy.
And then I found this misfit toy, this Charlie in the Box.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
For those of you new to the blog, sometimes I go into great amounts of detail about my sex life. This is one of those times.
.
.
.
The date on Saturday, as I said, was good. Slow building of physical contact. Brushing our shoulders together as we walked, the placement of his hand on my lower back for a brief moment to guide me, leaning slightly back into his body as we watched and whispered about the bit of fluff porn being shot in his studio.
After dinner, we went back to his loft in downtown.
Walked up the stairs to the second floor, his bedroom and library running half of the width of the building. Unlit candles lining the steps, obviously used many times before.
I dropped my bag on the couch in the library, dug out my skirt, nylons, and tights. Sat down and began to remove my shoes and socks, then stood and unfolded my little black skirt.
He had sat down in the armchair directly across from the couch.
"Mind averting your eyes for a minute?" I asked.
"I do," he said, watching me.
I raised an eyebrow at him in amusement, then shrugged. Undid my pants and let them fall to my feet. Stepped out of them, then sat back on the couch, placed toes in nylons and unrolled them up my legs, tights followed suit. Brushed my blouse back down over my hips, knowing it was revealing just the lower curve of my ass. Wasn't quite long enough to cover.
Stepped into my skirt and wriggled into it. Zipping it up the side, smoothing it down.
This was the moment. Instinct uncurls from the base of my spine and winds up my back: if I do not step forward now, I'll leave without physically connecting with him. And I do want that connect.
He later said I slinked forward, walking that ten foot distance between the two pieces of furniture, before placing my hand on his chest and settling onto his lap, my skirt riding up my thighs as I placed them on the outside of his while his hands slid from my waist to my ass, gripping.
Ran my hands from his chest to the back of his neck, whispering to him "Sorry, I just couldn't resist". Watching his smile grow just before we kissed.
Establish contact with tongue half a second before lip contact. That's the rule I follow without thought. Anything else seems childish and unnatural.
Lips closing on tongue, suckling, teeth biting lightly down and tugging on that lower lip. Tongue sliding on the outside of one lip, then the other, traveling down to neck with open-mouthed pull and wet tickling of earlobes while grinding hips in a light, erratic bucking rhythm. Rub the length of his torso with your face followed by your chest, back to lips, then slide down to his feet, nuzzle stomach and crotch, scrape the teeth down his jean-encased cock, warm breath through the fabric.
Yes, I know you. I know this poetry.
Relocate to the couch, more room to lean back.
But my teasing nature, my constant smart-mouth, lands me in trouble.
On purpose, of course.
He yanks me up, so fast. Turns me and traps my hands behind me in one move, strides across the open space shoving me in front of him and I'm face down, ass up over the side of his bed. Pulls my stockings and underwear down, tosses them behind him, pulls me up, discards my shirt onto the couch (skirt was discarded long before).
Back to the bed, naked. He's still fully clothed.
His hands leave my ass red, me yipping into the comforter with each blow. He bends down, still holding my hands behind me, licks me from hole to hole, so warm and wet, me moaning and trying to keep my feet from sliding on the slick hardwood floor.
He gets on the bed, pulls me all the way on, flips me onto my back and drags me against him, hitting my breasts until I'm whimpering, burying his fingers in me, curling deep until I free myself from his hold and unsuccessfully pull against his wrist to stop the overwhelming sensation.
He stops. Only to pull my thighs farther apart and start spanking me directly on my cunt. Such a weakness for me... I hate it and love it. Body starts jerking against his hand as I shout, then I'm squirting because the sensation is too much and my body loves it too much. I hear him groan his happiness as each smack causes more liquid to eject, spraying and splashing onto the bed, my thighs, his hand.
When he stops, I'm left panting and happy. He lets me curl up onto my side, and I lay there, face buried in his chest. I hear someone come down the stairs from the third floor, walk through the library area to the next set of stairs: the resident studio photographer. I would receive a text the next day letting me know that he thought I had a lovely ass.
We shift positions, I start dozing with my head on his chest. He's warm and comfortable. I've needed this affection and the physical relief of palms bruising my skin. Trail my fingers over his jean-caged erection, lay a kiss or two on his chest. Some time later, I bid him good night and drive home, with him telling me we'll get breakfast in the morning.
How odd. I don't spend the night, we don't sleep together, and he drives to me to take us out to breakfast on the beach the next day.
It was lovely, sitting in the sun, the beach to my left, ocean breeze running through my hair. Talking. Talking with that ease of familiar comfortability though we've never met.
I will admit some anxiety. It's always like this for me, when I meet someone I'm interested in. What makes it annoying is that I know with him having a vasectomy, there's no future I want there. But he makes me nervous anyhow.
He has access to my other, public blog. A year or so of entries spanning the end of Darkeye's and my relationship, into my winter of seeking sexual validation from men, spring of that continuing... and then the beginning of things with GV8, when it tapered off and life started to go... odd.
It worries me.
It shouldn't. But it does.
I was so very different. I was so young, so searching and desperate. I'm still searching, but that desperation is mostly gone. I'm still a little wavery on the confidence front, but I'm light years better than I was. Worried that he'll judge me on who I used to be. Worried that that information will turn him off.
But it shouldn't matter. It's not who I am now. And he's not someone I can "have".
It's the rejection. It's always the rejection at the heart of things, the insecurity that fuels it. It's times like these that leave me grasping at getting thought patterns under control. Times that I know I need to get a handle on it or I'm going to slide and lose what progress I have made.
Breathe.
.
.
.
The date on Saturday, as I said, was good. Slow building of physical contact. Brushing our shoulders together as we walked, the placement of his hand on my lower back for a brief moment to guide me, leaning slightly back into his body as we watched and whispered about the bit of fluff porn being shot in his studio.
After dinner, we went back to his loft in downtown.
Walked up the stairs to the second floor, his bedroom and library running half of the width of the building. Unlit candles lining the steps, obviously used many times before.
I dropped my bag on the couch in the library, dug out my skirt, nylons, and tights. Sat down and began to remove my shoes and socks, then stood and unfolded my little black skirt.
He had sat down in the armchair directly across from the couch.
"Mind averting your eyes for a minute?" I asked.
"I do," he said, watching me.
I raised an eyebrow at him in amusement, then shrugged. Undid my pants and let them fall to my feet. Stepped out of them, then sat back on the couch, placed toes in nylons and unrolled them up my legs, tights followed suit. Brushed my blouse back down over my hips, knowing it was revealing just the lower curve of my ass. Wasn't quite long enough to cover.
Stepped into my skirt and wriggled into it. Zipping it up the side, smoothing it down.
This was the moment. Instinct uncurls from the base of my spine and winds up my back: if I do not step forward now, I'll leave without physically connecting with him. And I do want that connect.
He later said I slinked forward, walking that ten foot distance between the two pieces of furniture, before placing my hand on his chest and settling onto his lap, my skirt riding up my thighs as I placed them on the outside of his while his hands slid from my waist to my ass, gripping.
Ran my hands from his chest to the back of his neck, whispering to him "Sorry, I just couldn't resist". Watching his smile grow just before we kissed.
Establish contact with tongue half a second before lip contact. That's the rule I follow without thought. Anything else seems childish and unnatural.
Lips closing on tongue, suckling, teeth biting lightly down and tugging on that lower lip. Tongue sliding on the outside of one lip, then the other, traveling down to neck with open-mouthed pull and wet tickling of earlobes while grinding hips in a light, erratic bucking rhythm. Rub the length of his torso with your face followed by your chest, back to lips, then slide down to his feet, nuzzle stomach and crotch, scrape the teeth down his jean-encased cock, warm breath through the fabric.
Yes, I know you. I know this poetry.
Relocate to the couch, more room to lean back.
But my teasing nature, my constant smart-mouth, lands me in trouble.
On purpose, of course.
He yanks me up, so fast. Turns me and traps my hands behind me in one move, strides across the open space shoving me in front of him and I'm face down, ass up over the side of his bed. Pulls my stockings and underwear down, tosses them behind him, pulls me up, discards my shirt onto the couch (skirt was discarded long before).
Back to the bed, naked. He's still fully clothed.
His hands leave my ass red, me yipping into the comforter with each blow. He bends down, still holding my hands behind me, licks me from hole to hole, so warm and wet, me moaning and trying to keep my feet from sliding on the slick hardwood floor.
He gets on the bed, pulls me all the way on, flips me onto my back and drags me against him, hitting my breasts until I'm whimpering, burying his fingers in me, curling deep until I free myself from his hold and unsuccessfully pull against his wrist to stop the overwhelming sensation.
He stops. Only to pull my thighs farther apart and start spanking me directly on my cunt. Such a weakness for me... I hate it and love it. Body starts jerking against his hand as I shout, then I'm squirting because the sensation is too much and my body loves it too much. I hear him groan his happiness as each smack causes more liquid to eject, spraying and splashing onto the bed, my thighs, his hand.
When he stops, I'm left panting and happy. He lets me curl up onto my side, and I lay there, face buried in his chest. I hear someone come down the stairs from the third floor, walk through the library area to the next set of stairs: the resident studio photographer. I would receive a text the next day letting me know that he thought I had a lovely ass.
We shift positions, I start dozing with my head on his chest. He's warm and comfortable. I've needed this affection and the physical relief of palms bruising my skin. Trail my fingers over his jean-caged erection, lay a kiss or two on his chest. Some time later, I bid him good night and drive home, with him telling me we'll get breakfast in the morning.
How odd. I don't spend the night, we don't sleep together, and he drives to me to take us out to breakfast on the beach the next day.
It was lovely, sitting in the sun, the beach to my left, ocean breeze running through my hair. Talking. Talking with that ease of familiar comfortability though we've never met.
I will admit some anxiety. It's always like this for me, when I meet someone I'm interested in. What makes it annoying is that I know with him having a vasectomy, there's no future I want there. But he makes me nervous anyhow.
He has access to my other, public blog. A year or so of entries spanning the end of Darkeye's and my relationship, into my winter of seeking sexual validation from men, spring of that continuing... and then the beginning of things with GV8, when it tapered off and life started to go... odd.
It worries me.
It shouldn't. But it does.
I was so very different. I was so young, so searching and desperate. I'm still searching, but that desperation is mostly gone. I'm still a little wavery on the confidence front, but I'm light years better than I was. Worried that he'll judge me on who I used to be. Worried that that information will turn him off.
But it shouldn't matter. It's not who I am now. And he's not someone I can "have".
It's the rejection. It's always the rejection at the heart of things, the insecurity that fuels it. It's times like these that leave me grasping at getting thought patterns under control. Times that I know I need to get a handle on it or I'm going to slide and lose what progress I have made.
Breathe.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Date with the porn director (henceforth known as PD because I have no imagination) was... incredibly good.
Instant comfortability.
Constant conversation, no awkward moments of silence. Complete easy flow.
There's actually a lot I want to write and things I want to remember, but I'm so goddamned tired (as always) that I don't want to write in this state.
We had fun. We had good chemistry. I met some of his coworkers, his ex-girlfriend (who I later looked up online and am now completely intimidated by), watched a -very- softcore lesbian porn being shot (by someone else renting the space). Wandered through downtown, just talking. Went back to his place, messed around a little bit, but he kept his pants on.
I totally didn't. Such a slut, I know. Stone me, already.
I didn't spend the night, though I wanted to. When I left, we made plans for breakfast, and he showed up at my place bright and early and we walked down to a restaurant on the beach, talked more.
I really like him.
But that doesn't matter. That's a no-go zone.
Makes me circle back around to my fear that since GV8 broke down my walls, I might not be able to have casual sex again without turning into one of those girls that falls in love with her casual partner.
I don't want to go through that again. Once with GV8 was enough.
Personally, I'm going to do my best not to dwell on it. Not until it proves to be a potential issue. As things are right now, we have two dates under our belt and scads of things could happen to prevent any future dates. I've seen it go that way before and, while disappointing, is just the way life can go.
I'll examine, watch, and be aware.
But I'm not going to live in fear. Not this way.
Instant comfortability.
Constant conversation, no awkward moments of silence. Complete easy flow.
There's actually a lot I want to write and things I want to remember, but I'm so goddamned tired (as always) that I don't want to write in this state.
We had fun. We had good chemistry. I met some of his coworkers, his ex-girlfriend (who I later looked up online and am now completely intimidated by), watched a -very- softcore lesbian porn being shot (by someone else renting the space). Wandered through downtown, just talking. Went back to his place, messed around a little bit, but he kept his pants on.
I totally didn't. Such a slut, I know. Stone me, already.
I didn't spend the night, though I wanted to. When I left, we made plans for breakfast, and he showed up at my place bright and early and we walked down to a restaurant on the beach, talked more.
I really like him.
But that doesn't matter. That's a no-go zone.
Makes me circle back around to my fear that since GV8 broke down my walls, I might not be able to have casual sex again without turning into one of those girls that falls in love with her casual partner.
I don't want to go through that again. Once with GV8 was enough.
Personally, I'm going to do my best not to dwell on it. Not until it proves to be a potential issue. As things are right now, we have two dates under our belt and scads of things could happen to prevent any future dates. I've seen it go that way before and, while disappointing, is just the way life can go.
I'll examine, watch, and be aware.
But I'm not going to live in fear. Not this way.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Moment of *squeak*
Well, it's currently official, pending interference by natural disasters.
Roman is coming out to stay with me for a few days in three weeks.
The one man in my life right now that I'd actually sleep with.
The one man in my life right now that I can actually talk to.
I'm torn between a *squeak* of happiness and a "what exactly is the universe planning that is going to prevent this from happening?" thought.
Because that happens to me a lot.
In other, less exciting news, tomorrow looks to be packed. Scattered errands and socialization in the morning and early afternoon, date in the late afternoon/early evening with the porn director, clubbing at night. Invited to a birthday dinner as well, but that's likely not going to happen.
Not really... wanting to go out on that date tomorrow.
It's one of those fruitless endeavors. It really is fairly useless. He's not anyone I would have a relationship with, nor can/will I sleep with him. Too risky. So it's just another social point of contact in yet another series of social leapfrogging because I don't let my social circles overlap.
Which is probably because of experiences I had in childhood/early teenage years of losing entire social groups due to drama, and always being the little bitch of the group (because I did not grow a set until after getting kicked out of college).
It's simply not socially safe to have a small number of social groups.
Things happen, people change, drama happens, groups age and then... cocooning. Watching some partner off into safe, happy, sexless relationships. Content. Not adventuring. Locked into their lives. Locked into their friends, their friends' friends, and those who float in, having little to no say over the whole group.
I never fully belong.
But, sometimes, that's a good thing.
So, another friend. Maybe someone I mildly mess around with. Another person to work into my too-busy schedule.
Useless.
I kinda don't even want to get to know him, as he's just going to wind up another guy that I hung out with once or maybe twice, then tapered off talking to because my plate is already too full. And then I feel bad, and pressured.
Heh, I'm kinda setting myself up for a miserable date, aren't I?
No time for a relationship, losing desire for casual sex.
Frightening to think that maybe, after what I experienced with GV8, that I may no longer be able to have casual sex. God knows that the only reason I'm able to consider sleeping with Roman is because I care for him so much. As much as you can when all you have is the voice on the other end of a telephone, knowing that things will go absolutely no where.
So am I there now? Stuck in that place where nothing is going to "work" except for emotions, that I'll start emotionally entangling myself with any man I end up sleeping with regularly?
Or is that just weakness, vulnerability, left over by GV8 stripping me so raw?
That, eventually, I'll get back to normal, to casual sex for the sake of casual sex?
Maybe. I suppose time will tell.
Kinda of odd, being so emotionally vulnerable on a sexual level. That's so new, something I can hardly remember. When I started banging the nights away, I was doing so out of self-destruction, more focused on myself than the person I was sleeping with, using them to hurt my basic value system instilled in me by my parents. So the man didn't really matter, and I was aiming, purposefully, so low quality, that one-night stands were expected. It wasn't until I was 17-18 that I started having regular partners.
Aside from the first person I slept with, I never had that real chance or inclination to bond with my partners. And even that first person, while I thought myself in love with him, the sex did nothing to bring us closer together, though I enjoyed it. It wasn't needed, no bonds were strengthened.
Then GV8 flips things around on me. Shows me what emotional sex can be like.
Never thought I'd learn that.
Never thought I'd be one of those people that say making love is better than fucking.
Another check-mark in the column of "craziness".
Roman is coming out to stay with me for a few days in three weeks.
The one man in my life right now that I'd actually sleep with.
The one man in my life right now that I can actually talk to.
I'm torn between a *squeak* of happiness and a "what exactly is the universe planning that is going to prevent this from happening?" thought.
Because that happens to me a lot.
In other, less exciting news, tomorrow looks to be packed. Scattered errands and socialization in the morning and early afternoon, date in the late afternoon/early evening with the porn director, clubbing at night. Invited to a birthday dinner as well, but that's likely not going to happen.
Not really... wanting to go out on that date tomorrow.
It's one of those fruitless endeavors. It really is fairly useless. He's not anyone I would have a relationship with, nor can/will I sleep with him. Too risky. So it's just another social point of contact in yet another series of social leapfrogging because I don't let my social circles overlap.
Which is probably because of experiences I had in childhood/early teenage years of losing entire social groups due to drama, and always being the little bitch of the group (because I did not grow a set until after getting kicked out of college).
It's simply not socially safe to have a small number of social groups.
Things happen, people change, drama happens, groups age and then... cocooning. Watching some partner off into safe, happy, sexless relationships. Content. Not adventuring. Locked into their lives. Locked into their friends, their friends' friends, and those who float in, having little to no say over the whole group.
I never fully belong.
But, sometimes, that's a good thing.
So, another friend. Maybe someone I mildly mess around with. Another person to work into my too-busy schedule.
Useless.
I kinda don't even want to get to know him, as he's just going to wind up another guy that I hung out with once or maybe twice, then tapered off talking to because my plate is already too full. And then I feel bad, and pressured.
Heh, I'm kinda setting myself up for a miserable date, aren't I?
No time for a relationship, losing desire for casual sex.
Frightening to think that maybe, after what I experienced with GV8, that I may no longer be able to have casual sex. God knows that the only reason I'm able to consider sleeping with Roman is because I care for him so much. As much as you can when all you have is the voice on the other end of a telephone, knowing that things will go absolutely no where.
So am I there now? Stuck in that place where nothing is going to "work" except for emotions, that I'll start emotionally entangling myself with any man I end up sleeping with regularly?
Or is that just weakness, vulnerability, left over by GV8 stripping me so raw?
That, eventually, I'll get back to normal, to casual sex for the sake of casual sex?
Maybe. I suppose time will tell.
Kinda of odd, being so emotionally vulnerable on a sexual level. That's so new, something I can hardly remember. When I started banging the nights away, I was doing so out of self-destruction, more focused on myself than the person I was sleeping with, using them to hurt my basic value system instilled in me by my parents. So the man didn't really matter, and I was aiming, purposefully, so low quality, that one-night stands were expected. It wasn't until I was 17-18 that I started having regular partners.
Aside from the first person I slept with, I never had that real chance or inclination to bond with my partners. And even that first person, while I thought myself in love with him, the sex did nothing to bring us closer together, though I enjoyed it. It wasn't needed, no bonds were strengthened.
Then GV8 flips things around on me. Shows me what emotional sex can be like.
Never thought I'd learn that.
Never thought I'd be one of those people that say making love is better than fucking.
Another check-mark in the column of "craziness".
Sunday, May 9, 2010
I am... well, I think I am, hitting that point.
That point where you're squirming in your chair going, "Oh god, I need to get laid."
And it's this battle between my body wanting it and my brain saying, "Nope, that's not the best idea."
In two weeks, I'll be hitting that three month mark. Three months for me is, well, might as well be a year or two. Especially after GV8. That man was ungodly good in bed, and we had ridiculous amounts of sex.
I got used to it. I got used to having a fantastic lover who, even after months of dating, still got me hot and bothered, still got me dragging him into bed to jump his bones whenever possible.
And now I've got this apartment to myself. I've got a metal canopy bed with a good number of tie-down spots. I've got toys, a large bottle of grapeseed oil, candles (not that most guys care about that, but I love the lighting), and... and... fuck. I mean, I can host. I can actually say, "Let's go back to my place" and not worry about roommates, not worry about what's going on, not sneaking them into my bedroom when I lived at home, timing when my parents would be out (though it's been years since I've had to do that).
I've got my own place with my own rules and I'm not using it.
It makes me whimper. Totally does.
I didn't realize I was having this issue so strongly until, last night, at the club, I found myself eyeing my club friend (the one that I keep having to turn down, the one I had to smack down a little bit ago at a party for him thinking he could socially pressure me into kissing him) going, "Hm... I could just crawl on top of him, go to town... he's got that reputation... could probably teach me a thing or three in the BDSM realm... mmm... skin and tongue..." and that shifted to "Whoa, holy fuck, no."
I don't find him desirable. I've never found him desirable.
This, this isn't good. And it's annoying.
Last night was interesting, though. Hit the club. Pulled into my usual parking spot, went inside after pleading with the door guy (wasn't much of a plead, really) to let me in without the person who was guestlisting me, so I could dance to a song that was on. And he did.
Lots of new people out. Some drama, though none of it involved me, which is normal. An acquaintance got shitfaced and started falling over, sobbing, laughing, getting pissy. Drama, drama, drama. Turned into a mid-sized ordeal.
On an amusing note, I happened to catch, while I was dancing, a blond man pointing gesturing at me to the head of security at the club. Figured the security guy would tell me if it was important, later, so I dismissed it.
About thirty minutes down the line, I'm out on the smoking patio, and Mr. Security comes up and says, "Hey, you know that blond guy..." describes him to me, "Have you ever talked to him?" Negatory. "Well, he pulled me aside and said, 'You! Study how she dances! Study how she moves! Watch her!"
"Okay..."
"And last week he was out and started talking about the bar-tender to me, about how..." insert x, y, and z pervy acts. This guy, not the most socially competent of men. I always get those men. I am a magnet for socially incompetent, as we have discussed.
So that was amusing. But, what was the killer for me was, oh, an hour or two down the line, I go to step on the dancefloor, which was fairly packed, and I realize that the empty spot I found is next to this guy.
Who looks at me.
Who leers at me and grins.
Who takes a step forward and puts his arms up towards me.
My mind went, "Eep!"
See, if you knew me at the clubs, you'd likely know that I've got years of experience moving away from groping men, physically aggressive men, and simply poor dancers without looking like I'm avoiding them. Without looking like I'm fleeing away in annoyance (or terror, if they're really bad dancers). Calm, cool, I can go across a whole dancefloor to avoid someone and make it look completely natural.
So this guy, this guy comes at me. No subtly. The dancefloor is packed. This guy, this guy is going to come up to me and either grab me or start talking my ear off with drunken compliments and poor flirting. And quickly.
I bolted. I bee-lined it across the back half of the dance floor and sequestered myself behind a guy I had met earlier in the evening. On the way, I nearly walked into someone, tripped a little. I don't do that. If anyone I knew had seen me, they would've been so confused. And once I explained, they would've laughed their asses off.
There were some random other events that happened, little things. A weird guy I've been seeing around for the last several months interrupted a conversation I was having to tell me that I was a beautiful dancer, a beautiful lady, and he should know, he's been married for twenty-six years.
And I still cannot figure out what the last thing had to do with the first two things.
I have an urge to put a comment here about being "too pretty" and something about my fashion accessories, but only one person would get it. So I won't.
Oh, and the head of security tried to make out with me at the end of the evening.
Except he's married. He's very married. And it was awkward. It was, "Oh god, how do I do this so I don't offend or embarrass him, yet still get him away from my face?"
I managed. But it left me a little... sad. He's been a decent friend for a couple years. We always flirt and cuddle, but he flirts and cuddles with most of the female regulars. He's really good at banter, lots of fun to talk to, and he's a good head of security. I do really like him.
Drove home. Woke up to a text from Roman telling me about his evening spent under the haze of hallucinogens. Or whatever they are. I don't know my drugs. I don't care to know them, really.
Went to my stylist who is finally back in town. Got my roots done. Oh, so done. So freaking done. I can't stand having that blonde there. Now I'm back to my black with my red-tinted tips and very much like a happy clam.
One of her other customers told her I looked like Snow White, while I was at one of the mirrors, finishing up my hair. I can only hope that I am able to maintain this level of paleness this summer.
And I finished my final paper. Whoo! I can have a life again. I was thinking of getting in touch with a guy I went out with earlier this year, hang out some, fool around some, now that I have a little more time, but I'm debating my actual motivation.
Oh, and I took my mom to Hollywood Forever Cemetary on Saturday. You know, usual mother-daughter bonding stuff. Visited the grave sites of my great-great grandparents.
And, of course, I was chased by geese.
It's a talent of mine.
Really.
If there are geese, they will chase me.
I don't understand it. I will possibly never understand it. I believe my uncle, later that day, was suggesting that I go see an exorcist.
Aside from the avian-induced terror, my mother and I had a great time trying to sneak around a building. We were tip-toeing, leaning around the corner like we were in a Scooby Doo episode, looking for the geese. Not that they chase my mom. But if they saw my mom, they'd see me, and then it'd be all over. It was kinda perfect, actually. We were on the outside of a large masoleum with marble steps that went around the entire building, so when we peered around the corner, we were at two different heights, really, just like Scooby Doo.
Of course, we got a few further steps in and one of the geese spotted me and I shouted, "It's comin' right for us!!" and we ran.
I took her by Aroma Cafe on Sunset (my favorite breakfast and lunch spot in Hollywood), Amoeba (she had never been, but was very excited about picking up two Franz Ferdinand CDs that she didn't have), Cafe Was (speak-easyish, decent food, wonderful atmosphere), the Arclight with the Dome (so nice), the Cat and Fiddle (we had onion rings and people-watched), the roof of the parking lot of the ArcLight (amazing view... and I've made out with a few too many men up there), and Musso and Frank's (oldest restaurant in Hollywood).
Afterwards, we drove up to my uncle's house in Hollywood Hills. He and his two boyfriends cooked us dinner. I hadn't met the more recent one... was rather flamingly fabulous, but nice. My mom thinks he's the cat's pajamas. We sat out on their balcony and I watched the four of them get silly on wine, enjoying the evening before the sun set.
It was a good day.
And since I have to be at work tomorrow at 630 or so, I'm going to get to it.
It being "sleep". Like I do.
That point where you're squirming in your chair going, "Oh god, I need to get laid."
And it's this battle between my body wanting it and my brain saying, "Nope, that's not the best idea."
In two weeks, I'll be hitting that three month mark. Three months for me is, well, might as well be a year or two. Especially after GV8. That man was ungodly good in bed, and we had ridiculous amounts of sex.
I got used to it. I got used to having a fantastic lover who, even after months of dating, still got me hot and bothered, still got me dragging him into bed to jump his bones whenever possible.
And now I've got this apartment to myself. I've got a metal canopy bed with a good number of tie-down spots. I've got toys, a large bottle of grapeseed oil, candles (not that most guys care about that, but I love the lighting), and... and... fuck. I mean, I can host. I can actually say, "Let's go back to my place" and not worry about roommates, not worry about what's going on, not sneaking them into my bedroom when I lived at home, timing when my parents would be out (though it's been years since I've had to do that).
I've got my own place with my own rules and I'm not using it.
It makes me whimper. Totally does.
I didn't realize I was having this issue so strongly until, last night, at the club, I found myself eyeing my club friend (the one that I keep having to turn down, the one I had to smack down a little bit ago at a party for him thinking he could socially pressure me into kissing him) going, "Hm... I could just crawl on top of him, go to town... he's got that reputation... could probably teach me a thing or three in the BDSM realm... mmm... skin and tongue..." and that shifted to "Whoa, holy fuck, no."
I don't find him desirable. I've never found him desirable.
This, this isn't good. And it's annoying.
Last night was interesting, though. Hit the club. Pulled into my usual parking spot, went inside after pleading with the door guy (wasn't much of a plead, really) to let me in without the person who was guestlisting me, so I could dance to a song that was on. And he did.
Lots of new people out. Some drama, though none of it involved me, which is normal. An acquaintance got shitfaced and started falling over, sobbing, laughing, getting pissy. Drama, drama, drama. Turned into a mid-sized ordeal.
On an amusing note, I happened to catch, while I was dancing, a blond man pointing gesturing at me to the head of security at the club. Figured the security guy would tell me if it was important, later, so I dismissed it.
About thirty minutes down the line, I'm out on the smoking patio, and Mr. Security comes up and says, "Hey, you know that blond guy..." describes him to me, "Have you ever talked to him?" Negatory. "Well, he pulled me aside and said, 'You! Study how she dances! Study how she moves! Watch her!"
"Okay..."
"And last week he was out and started talking about the bar-tender to me, about how..." insert x, y, and z pervy acts. This guy, not the most socially competent of men. I always get those men. I am a magnet for socially incompetent, as we have discussed.
So that was amusing. But, what was the killer for me was, oh, an hour or two down the line, I go to step on the dancefloor, which was fairly packed, and I realize that the empty spot I found is next to this guy.
Who looks at me.
Who leers at me and grins.
Who takes a step forward and puts his arms up towards me.
My mind went, "Eep!"
See, if you knew me at the clubs, you'd likely know that I've got years of experience moving away from groping men, physically aggressive men, and simply poor dancers without looking like I'm avoiding them. Without looking like I'm fleeing away in annoyance (or terror, if they're really bad dancers). Calm, cool, I can go across a whole dancefloor to avoid someone and make it look completely natural.
So this guy, this guy comes at me. No subtly. The dancefloor is packed. This guy, this guy is going to come up to me and either grab me or start talking my ear off with drunken compliments and poor flirting. And quickly.
I bolted. I bee-lined it across the back half of the dance floor and sequestered myself behind a guy I had met earlier in the evening. On the way, I nearly walked into someone, tripped a little. I don't do that. If anyone I knew had seen me, they would've been so confused. And once I explained, they would've laughed their asses off.
There were some random other events that happened, little things. A weird guy I've been seeing around for the last several months interrupted a conversation I was having to tell me that I was a beautiful dancer, a beautiful lady, and he should know, he's been married for twenty-six years.
And I still cannot figure out what the last thing had to do with the first two things.
I have an urge to put a comment here about being "too pretty" and something about my fashion accessories, but only one person would get it. So I won't.
Oh, and the head of security tried to make out with me at the end of the evening.
Except he's married. He's very married. And it was awkward. It was, "Oh god, how do I do this so I don't offend or embarrass him, yet still get him away from my face?"
I managed. But it left me a little... sad. He's been a decent friend for a couple years. We always flirt and cuddle, but he flirts and cuddles with most of the female regulars. He's really good at banter, lots of fun to talk to, and he's a good head of security. I do really like him.
Drove home. Woke up to a text from Roman telling me about his evening spent under the haze of hallucinogens. Or whatever they are. I don't know my drugs. I don't care to know them, really.
Went to my stylist who is finally back in town. Got my roots done. Oh, so done. So freaking done. I can't stand having that blonde there. Now I'm back to my black with my red-tinted tips and very much like a happy clam.
One of her other customers told her I looked like Snow White, while I was at one of the mirrors, finishing up my hair. I can only hope that I am able to maintain this level of paleness this summer.
And I finished my final paper. Whoo! I can have a life again. I was thinking of getting in touch with a guy I went out with earlier this year, hang out some, fool around some, now that I have a little more time, but I'm debating my actual motivation.
Oh, and I took my mom to Hollywood Forever Cemetary on Saturday. You know, usual mother-daughter bonding stuff. Visited the grave sites of my great-great grandparents.
And, of course, I was chased by geese.
It's a talent of mine.
Really.
If there are geese, they will chase me.
I don't understand it. I will possibly never understand it. I believe my uncle, later that day, was suggesting that I go see an exorcist.
Aside from the avian-induced terror, my mother and I had a great time trying to sneak around a building. We were tip-toeing, leaning around the corner like we were in a Scooby Doo episode, looking for the geese. Not that they chase my mom. But if they saw my mom, they'd see me, and then it'd be all over. It was kinda perfect, actually. We were on the outside of a large masoleum with marble steps that went around the entire building, so when we peered around the corner, we were at two different heights, really, just like Scooby Doo.
Of course, we got a few further steps in and one of the geese spotted me and I shouted, "It's comin' right for us!!" and we ran.
I took her by Aroma Cafe on Sunset (my favorite breakfast and lunch spot in Hollywood), Amoeba (she had never been, but was very excited about picking up two Franz Ferdinand CDs that she didn't have), Cafe Was (speak-easyish, decent food, wonderful atmosphere), the Arclight with the Dome (so nice), the Cat and Fiddle (we had onion rings and people-watched), the roof of the parking lot of the ArcLight (amazing view... and I've made out with a few too many men up there), and Musso and Frank's (oldest restaurant in Hollywood).
Afterwards, we drove up to my uncle's house in Hollywood Hills. He and his two boyfriends cooked us dinner. I hadn't met the more recent one... was rather flamingly fabulous, but nice. My mom thinks he's the cat's pajamas. We sat out on their balcony and I watched the four of them get silly on wine, enjoying the evening before the sun set.
It was a good day.
And since I have to be at work tomorrow at 630 or so, I'm going to get to it.
It being "sleep". Like I do.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Rough day.
Doesn't help that I'm spending my evenings up and wandering, not getting enough sleep.
Have to push myself into the ground, of course. It's what I do, what I've always done. Push and push until you crash, recover, then do it again.
Didn't have a nightmare about GV8 last night. That was... good. Unexpected. It's so hard to play out the different versions of the same thing, watching echoes of past relationships creep up on me, consolidate into the last ex.
In the dreams, I'm nothing to him.
In the dreams, I'm less than a stranger. I'm "someone he knew, once". Someone he thought he loved. Someone that was worth his love and attention. And then he looks at me in the dream and realizes that I was nothing. An infatuation, a symptom of foolishness. Not worth the most basic of human caring.
Back to those fears again.
Always devaluing myself. Always doubting. Always taking my value from the man who I spend time with, the man who I do my best to please.
It's better now than it was.
Still not 100%.
And it's hard to untangle the strings of actual lust from the strings of internal motivators stemming from other sources.
I have one man right now that I would willingly take to my bed, with near total confidence I would do so out of caring and connection. Being a couple thousand miles apart, though, means my bed is going to be empty for some time.
I'm coming up on my first cut-off. I said no new partners until a week after GV8's and my anniversary. Next Monday. I thought, by then, that there could be a chance that I'd be okay enough to start engaging again.
But I was wrong, and I'm having to move it to the next cut-off. August 1st.
I don't think I've ever gone so long without sex since I was 16 or so.
But, what? Do I really want to just trip up again? Find some "special" guy when I'm not ready for it, have to start again when it falls apart a year or two from now, when I'm 28 and I'm still at the same spot I was before? That I've been at so many times? How foolish that I keep turning to immediate pleasure, knowing the outcome.
So much easier than dealing with what I am now: tension. Anger. Grumpiness. Anxiety. Mood swings. Barely controlling myself from snapping at those around me.
I caught myself on film today. It was unexpected. I went to Lucha Va Voom's Cinco de Mayo show at The Mayan in downtown. A man with a video camera walked down the line, recording people waiting for the doors to open. I was on the phone with a friend, walking away from the line so I could hear. The timing was perfect. I walked about thirty feet in front of the camera, just for a second or two. They played the whole video just before the show.
I haven't seen myself move in years.
Yes, there are mirrors at the club, but I don't really look at them and, honestly, I'm dancing. It's a given that I'm going appear somewhere between decent and very good.
But I got to watch my walk. Something that I've been working on and adjusting, something that gets commented on and draws attention fairly often. Controlled, centered, internal. Rollingly smooth. The hipsway my family teases me about, saying I move like my cat.
It was surprising. I knew I moved differently, but I didn't realize how noticeable it was. Good to know that my body-awareness is paying off.
The show was good, the dancers, the performers, and, of course, the luchadore. For all three matches, each set of wrestlers were "thrown" out of the ring and into the chairs in front of me, people dashing out of the way, spilling drinks, the girls buzzed and shrieking.
I walked to my car afterwards, bidding C and friends good-bye for the evening. They were wandering off to find food, but I wasn't looking to spend money on things I already had at home. The freeway was smooth and empty, I slid into an easy 80, sometimes 90, letting my wheels take me home. My left-handed driving is getting better, though the awkwardness of using the turn signal is cropping up. Less and less I need to bring my right hand into play to make sure I get those extra-tight curves. I think that, within a month at most, I'll be driving just as smooth with my left as I do with my right.
It's a bit of a reality check for me. Making myself face the likelihood that I'll eventually lose all fine motor control in my right hand. Not anytime soon, but probably in the next ten to twenty years, depending on lifestyle choices. If I learn to do more things with my left, that time will extend, which I am aiming for.
But it's 1AM and my neighbors are slowly staggering home. I hear the laughter in the hallway and that's my cue to get myself unconscious.
Doesn't help that I'm spending my evenings up and wandering, not getting enough sleep.
Have to push myself into the ground, of course. It's what I do, what I've always done. Push and push until you crash, recover, then do it again.
Didn't have a nightmare about GV8 last night. That was... good. Unexpected. It's so hard to play out the different versions of the same thing, watching echoes of past relationships creep up on me, consolidate into the last ex.
In the dreams, I'm nothing to him.
In the dreams, I'm less than a stranger. I'm "someone he knew, once". Someone he thought he loved. Someone that was worth his love and attention. And then he looks at me in the dream and realizes that I was nothing. An infatuation, a symptom of foolishness. Not worth the most basic of human caring.
Back to those fears again.
Always devaluing myself. Always doubting. Always taking my value from the man who I spend time with, the man who I do my best to please.
It's better now than it was.
Still not 100%.
And it's hard to untangle the strings of actual lust from the strings of internal motivators stemming from other sources.
I have one man right now that I would willingly take to my bed, with near total confidence I would do so out of caring and connection. Being a couple thousand miles apart, though, means my bed is going to be empty for some time.
I'm coming up on my first cut-off. I said no new partners until a week after GV8's and my anniversary. Next Monday. I thought, by then, that there could be a chance that I'd be okay enough to start engaging again.
But I was wrong, and I'm having to move it to the next cut-off. August 1st.
I don't think I've ever gone so long without sex since I was 16 or so.
But, what? Do I really want to just trip up again? Find some "special" guy when I'm not ready for it, have to start again when it falls apart a year or two from now, when I'm 28 and I'm still at the same spot I was before? That I've been at so many times? How foolish that I keep turning to immediate pleasure, knowing the outcome.
So much easier than dealing with what I am now: tension. Anger. Grumpiness. Anxiety. Mood swings. Barely controlling myself from snapping at those around me.
I caught myself on film today. It was unexpected. I went to Lucha Va Voom's Cinco de Mayo show at The Mayan in downtown. A man with a video camera walked down the line, recording people waiting for the doors to open. I was on the phone with a friend, walking away from the line so I could hear. The timing was perfect. I walked about thirty feet in front of the camera, just for a second or two. They played the whole video just before the show.
I haven't seen myself move in years.
Yes, there are mirrors at the club, but I don't really look at them and, honestly, I'm dancing. It's a given that I'm going appear somewhere between decent and very good.
But I got to watch my walk. Something that I've been working on and adjusting, something that gets commented on and draws attention fairly often. Controlled, centered, internal. Rollingly smooth. The hipsway my family teases me about, saying I move like my cat.
It was surprising. I knew I moved differently, but I didn't realize how noticeable it was. Good to know that my body-awareness is paying off.
The show was good, the dancers, the performers, and, of course, the luchadore. For all three matches, each set of wrestlers were "thrown" out of the ring and into the chairs in front of me, people dashing out of the way, spilling drinks, the girls buzzed and shrieking.
I walked to my car afterwards, bidding C and friends good-bye for the evening. They were wandering off to find food, but I wasn't looking to spend money on things I already had at home. The freeway was smooth and empty, I slid into an easy 80, sometimes 90, letting my wheels take me home. My left-handed driving is getting better, though the awkwardness of using the turn signal is cropping up. Less and less I need to bring my right hand into play to make sure I get those extra-tight curves. I think that, within a month at most, I'll be driving just as smooth with my left as I do with my right.
It's a bit of a reality check for me. Making myself face the likelihood that I'll eventually lose all fine motor control in my right hand. Not anytime soon, but probably in the next ten to twenty years, depending on lifestyle choices. If I learn to do more things with my left, that time will extend, which I am aiming for.
But it's 1AM and my neighbors are slowly staggering home. I hear the laughter in the hallway and that's my cue to get myself unconscious.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Another night where I am... not writing my final paper.
You know what's going to happen? I'm going to spend all Saturday running around with my mom in Hollywood, then go to a club, which will likely be followed by going to some sort of all-night dining establishment that will round us into 5AM departure, in bed around 6AM, up at 1130AM to dash up the freeway to my stylist to (finally) get my roots done (I've an inch of blonde coming out of my skull. AN INCH.), and then I will plop my sore body down at some coffee shop and hammer out the paper in a five hour sitting, complete with rainbow highlighter markings all over my hands.
I just can't get myself to do it in pieces. And I keep flopping around what I want to write on.
It's... been a year. As of last night/this morning, a year.
A lot has happened in a year. A year with him, parts of it without him.
Ending without him.
Trying to remember what life was like then, before we met.
I had just started couchsurfing. I was still recovering from the terror that Darkeyes had instilled in me, terror of life, terror of control. This blog was a few months in the making. I had just been in that car accident that ensured me that I was my father's daughter, that my hands on a steering wheel are everything I will ever need.
I had no idea what would happen, what the coming twelve months would bring.
That I would learn to love, to love whole-heartedly. That I would actually meet a man I could trust and respect. That those things were the things I was missing. I'd learn how to blindly leap into someone's arms... and how to recover when I impacted the earth.
I made new friends, did things I never thought I would do. I grew, grew so quickly.
Yesterday I went to Disneyland. It was a large social event for a group of us.
The last time I was there, it was December. I was with GV8. We ate at the Blue Bayou, the restaurant inside Pirates of the Caribbean. We took pictures beside the tree in the Grand Californian, laughed and explored.
Roman called when I was physically on the Pirates of the Caribbean. I had just passed the restaurant, felt my stomach clench and the drive towards my redeeming sexual contact, that need to center me.
It's what I do.
I talked with him until we were plunged past cellphone reception, warned that dead men tell no tales.
All day I was with varying friends, catching up with people I had not seen in months, sometimes a year or two. Waiting for that Disney romance that I know doesn't happen. Wishing that someone would steal me away from my reality, just for a moment. For a dinner and conversation, something to hold on to for the coming weeks.
It's just another drug.
Emotional high.
I left the park a little before ten, walking through the crowds of families lining Main Street, waiting for the fireworks to start. Looking at the children, the husbands and wives that saved for the magical day, saved for the weekend or the vacation, to have this experience for their offspring.
The magic of that place.
That one day that the child dreams about until it finally happens. And then they hold fast to it, waiting to go again.
I remember, when I was younger and we were poorer, we'd go once every year or two. Pack lunches. I'd stay up at night, hardly able to sleep, fantasizing about everything we would be doing the next day. I loved the park so much, idolized Mickey. My mom has a picture of Mickey pushing himself up off the sidewalk after a three-year old me tackled him to the ground in excitement.
I'm 26 and I still love it there. Not the rides, not the shows, but the people and the details that go into that park. I used to take a book or a drawing pad and go into the park, prop myself up somewhere and enjoy the atmosphere, the laughter and so much joy.
I forced myself to leave. I forced that stupid, girlish daydream, spawned by multiplied insecurities and my constant need to partner, out of my head.
Turned my back on the fireworks, the young couples embracing.
Walked to the tram, eyeing the outside of the Grand Californian, dragging my mind away from the lobby that I could spend hours inside of reading. Slid into the back car next to a couple, was suddenly joined by a few too many people, ramming my pelvis sideways in order to fit us all.
Drove home, freeway flying under me.
Wished, wished for more than just a moment, that GV8 would be there. That he would have used the keys I had given him months ago, and come here, to spend what would have been our one-year together.
I came home to an empty apartment.
Dropped my bags next to the bookcase by the entry way.
Showered by myself, water scalding my torso pink, wet hair pressed tightly down my back. Roughly dried myself, leaned over the tub and squeezed the excess water out, listening to the drops fall the few feet, thunking into the bottom of the tub.
Crawled into bed, wet hair loose over my pillow. Black on black. Knew my friends would be out at clubs as I laid there, dancing their evenings away.
My life is slowly coming towards a semblance of average order. Nothing spectacular, but nothing dismal.
I've done this so many times. It's a strain. I never last long.
One of my friends asked me today, what it is that I am so good at that I take such comfort in.
I told him, "I'm good at pleasing, at pleasure. It's something I love, but also a way I've learned to cope and give myself value. I was breaking that habit, finally learning to have sex with no internal motivators. Just got to get back to that point."
I've said that so many times, or rather, versions of that. Most of my "adult" life has been versions of me trying to get my insecurities and issues under control so I can stop running my demons loose in bed.
It gets old. It's become a soundwave on repeat.
I'm tired of it. I'm tired of saying it, I'm tired of working on it. I'm annoyed that I'm 26 and, while so much better than I've been, still having issues with not having that sex partner to focus on.
I need that other person. It gives me something.
It's so hard to be without it.
Every day I go exploring in some way. Every day I look for that one connect.
And I'm not even over GV8. No chance.
I hate that this continues. I need to do something new about it, need another tactic, but I'm fumbling blind.
I don't know what more to do than what I've already done.
You know what's going to happen? I'm going to spend all Saturday running around with my mom in Hollywood, then go to a club, which will likely be followed by going to some sort of all-night dining establishment that will round us into 5AM departure, in bed around 6AM, up at 1130AM to dash up the freeway to my stylist to (finally) get my roots done (I've an inch of blonde coming out of my skull. AN INCH.), and then I will plop my sore body down at some coffee shop and hammer out the paper in a five hour sitting, complete with rainbow highlighter markings all over my hands.
I just can't get myself to do it in pieces. And I keep flopping around what I want to write on.
It's... been a year. As of last night/this morning, a year.
A lot has happened in a year. A year with him, parts of it without him.
Ending without him.
Trying to remember what life was like then, before we met.
I had just started couchsurfing. I was still recovering from the terror that Darkeyes had instilled in me, terror of life, terror of control. This blog was a few months in the making. I had just been in that car accident that ensured me that I was my father's daughter, that my hands on a steering wheel are everything I will ever need.
I had no idea what would happen, what the coming twelve months would bring.
That I would learn to love, to love whole-heartedly. That I would actually meet a man I could trust and respect. That those things were the things I was missing. I'd learn how to blindly leap into someone's arms... and how to recover when I impacted the earth.
I made new friends, did things I never thought I would do. I grew, grew so quickly.
Yesterday I went to Disneyland. It was a large social event for a group of us.
The last time I was there, it was December. I was with GV8. We ate at the Blue Bayou, the restaurant inside Pirates of the Caribbean. We took pictures beside the tree in the Grand Californian, laughed and explored.
Roman called when I was physically on the Pirates of the Caribbean. I had just passed the restaurant, felt my stomach clench and the drive towards my redeeming sexual contact, that need to center me.
It's what I do.
I talked with him until we were plunged past cellphone reception, warned that dead men tell no tales.
All day I was with varying friends, catching up with people I had not seen in months, sometimes a year or two. Waiting for that Disney romance that I know doesn't happen. Wishing that someone would steal me away from my reality, just for a moment. For a dinner and conversation, something to hold on to for the coming weeks.
It's just another drug.
Emotional high.
I left the park a little before ten, walking through the crowds of families lining Main Street, waiting for the fireworks to start. Looking at the children, the husbands and wives that saved for the magical day, saved for the weekend or the vacation, to have this experience for their offspring.
The magic of that place.
That one day that the child dreams about until it finally happens. And then they hold fast to it, waiting to go again.
I remember, when I was younger and we were poorer, we'd go once every year or two. Pack lunches. I'd stay up at night, hardly able to sleep, fantasizing about everything we would be doing the next day. I loved the park so much, idolized Mickey. My mom has a picture of Mickey pushing himself up off the sidewalk after a three-year old me tackled him to the ground in excitement.
I'm 26 and I still love it there. Not the rides, not the shows, but the people and the details that go into that park. I used to take a book or a drawing pad and go into the park, prop myself up somewhere and enjoy the atmosphere, the laughter and so much joy.
I forced myself to leave. I forced that stupid, girlish daydream, spawned by multiplied insecurities and my constant need to partner, out of my head.
Turned my back on the fireworks, the young couples embracing.
Walked to the tram, eyeing the outside of the Grand Californian, dragging my mind away from the lobby that I could spend hours inside of reading. Slid into the back car next to a couple, was suddenly joined by a few too many people, ramming my pelvis sideways in order to fit us all.
Drove home, freeway flying under me.
Wished, wished for more than just a moment, that GV8 would be there. That he would have used the keys I had given him months ago, and come here, to spend what would have been our one-year together.
I came home to an empty apartment.
Dropped my bags next to the bookcase by the entry way.
Showered by myself, water scalding my torso pink, wet hair pressed tightly down my back. Roughly dried myself, leaned over the tub and squeezed the excess water out, listening to the drops fall the few feet, thunking into the bottom of the tub.
Crawled into bed, wet hair loose over my pillow. Black on black. Knew my friends would be out at clubs as I laid there, dancing their evenings away.
My life is slowly coming towards a semblance of average order. Nothing spectacular, but nothing dismal.
I've done this so many times. It's a strain. I never last long.
One of my friends asked me today, what it is that I am so good at that I take such comfort in.
I told him, "I'm good at pleasing, at pleasure. It's something I love, but also a way I've learned to cope and give myself value. I was breaking that habit, finally learning to have sex with no internal motivators. Just got to get back to that point."
I've said that so many times, or rather, versions of that. Most of my "adult" life has been versions of me trying to get my insecurities and issues under control so I can stop running my demons loose in bed.
It gets old. It's become a soundwave on repeat.
I'm tired of it. I'm tired of saying it, I'm tired of working on it. I'm annoyed that I'm 26 and, while so much better than I've been, still having issues with not having that sex partner to focus on.
I need that other person. It gives me something.
It's so hard to be without it.
Every day I go exploring in some way. Every day I look for that one connect.
And I'm not even over GV8. No chance.
I hate that this continues. I need to do something new about it, need another tactic, but I'm fumbling blind.
I don't know what more to do than what I've already done.
And guarantee source divine...
I've been in a state of vaguely awake all day. Haven't been able to push myself into total coherency. No motivation.
What I want...
What I want is a stereo in my bedroom, a man in my bed, and daylight sliding between the vertical blinds. I want perfect rhythm and miles of skin to explore with my tongue, find all the different tastes and textures a man's body has to offer, those hollows at the base of the throat to bury my nose in, let body heat carry male scents upwards, the taut skin running from neck to shoulder, my lips on the curve of that muscle, teeth nipping lightly. An ear pressed to his chest, feeling the heartbeat echo into my skull. The weight when someone shifts on top of you, rolls you onto your back, nuzzle-thrust-nuzzle. Hot breath in your ear.
But I, I am at work.
I am at work and there is no man in my bed.
And every time I have gone to write "bed" in this post, I write "head" instead.
This means something.
There are too many men in my head, and not enough me.
What I want...
What I want is a stereo in my bedroom, a man in my bed, and daylight sliding between the vertical blinds. I want perfect rhythm and miles of skin to explore with my tongue, find all the different tastes and textures a man's body has to offer, those hollows at the base of the throat to bury my nose in, let body heat carry male scents upwards, the taut skin running from neck to shoulder, my lips on the curve of that muscle, teeth nipping lightly. An ear pressed to his chest, feeling the heartbeat echo into my skull. The weight when someone shifts on top of you, rolls you onto your back, nuzzle-thrust-nuzzle. Hot breath in your ear.
But I, I am at work.
I am at work and there is no man in my bed.
And every time I have gone to write "bed" in this post, I write "head" instead.
This means something.
There are too many men in my head, and not enough me.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Feeling kinda... socially stagnant.
Which is odd. I get out all the time. Too often, really.
Wonder if I'm just looking for excuses/distractions from dealing with my own responsibilities, and afraid that I'm just going to sink back into social non-existence.
Unpacked some more boxes last night and today. Long overdue. They've been sitting in my kitchen since I moved here in January, but it's a lot of decorations and memories. Memories... can't do much with at the moment. Decorations... that involves making this space my own. More my own.
But I did it. Progress was made. It felt really nice.
Always so afraid that anything I really enjoy is going to be yanked out from under me.
Feels like it happens so often, whenever I get excited about something.
I shut down my dating site profile.
Kept finding myself there, browsing the members, waiting for that lightening strike of "ooh, that's mine" to hit.
It's embarrassing. That's the last thing I need right now.
And the stupid, stupid messages. Who teaches these guys how to write? Or interact with the opposite sex? I feel like I could teach a course on how not to email women on dating sites.
And then the stalkers. Those guys that keep coming back and making sure you know they were there. And the passive-aggressive messages that follow.
So I decided it wasn't good. I'm itching. I'm itching with physical need and, more importantly, psychological need to have that male distraction, have that focus, have that rush of chemicals to my brain that leave me restless and excited.
I've gotten so much better than I used to be. Time was, when a relationship ended, I'd bounce from bed to bed. Happy, yes, but not necessarily healthy. Or, rather, in most cases, not doing anything positive for me, just engaging in my typical cyclical behaviors. It wasn't unhealthy, it just wasn't helping.
Things with GV8 have been rocky. The time I left him, back in early November of last year, I found my way into two different beds (and one of those beds contained two men, which was freaking awesome). Then he left me in December and the thing with my dad happened and, after that was all over, I found myself in bed with two men- but not having sex. Back together, then apart again, in bed with one man (no sex), made out on a couch with another.
Now we're apart again. Well, we're done, really.
It's been a week as of today, and I'm feeling that itch rise.
Gotta keep it tamped down. Gotta distract myself with life and with friends. Gotta focus on me and my goals. Long-term goals, not short-term, brief emotional-connect goals that do nothing for me but distract me from living the way I wish to live.
Each time has had a small backslide, each time has been less of a slide than the one before it.
I want to get better. What I do now... it's passable. It keeps me decently happy. I like being the sort of sex-queen I've come to be. But I don't want to stay in this place. To grow means there needs to be change. To change means there needs to be something you give up.
And I need to give this up.
Which is odd. I get out all the time. Too often, really.
Wonder if I'm just looking for excuses/distractions from dealing with my own responsibilities, and afraid that I'm just going to sink back into social non-existence.
Unpacked some more boxes last night and today. Long overdue. They've been sitting in my kitchen since I moved here in January, but it's a lot of decorations and memories. Memories... can't do much with at the moment. Decorations... that involves making this space my own. More my own.
But I did it. Progress was made. It felt really nice.
Always so afraid that anything I really enjoy is going to be yanked out from under me.
Feels like it happens so often, whenever I get excited about something.
I shut down my dating site profile.
Kept finding myself there, browsing the members, waiting for that lightening strike of "ooh, that's mine" to hit.
It's embarrassing. That's the last thing I need right now.
And the stupid, stupid messages. Who teaches these guys how to write? Or interact with the opposite sex? I feel like I could teach a course on how not to email women on dating sites.
And then the stalkers. Those guys that keep coming back and making sure you know they were there. And the passive-aggressive messages that follow.
So I decided it wasn't good. I'm itching. I'm itching with physical need and, more importantly, psychological need to have that male distraction, have that focus, have that rush of chemicals to my brain that leave me restless and excited.
I've gotten so much better than I used to be. Time was, when a relationship ended, I'd bounce from bed to bed. Happy, yes, but not necessarily healthy. Or, rather, in most cases, not doing anything positive for me, just engaging in my typical cyclical behaviors. It wasn't unhealthy, it just wasn't helping.
Things with GV8 have been rocky. The time I left him, back in early November of last year, I found my way into two different beds (and one of those beds contained two men, which was freaking awesome). Then he left me in December and the thing with my dad happened and, after that was all over, I found myself in bed with two men- but not having sex. Back together, then apart again, in bed with one man (no sex), made out on a couch with another.
Now we're apart again. Well, we're done, really.
It's been a week as of today, and I'm feeling that itch rise.
Gotta keep it tamped down. Gotta distract myself with life and with friends. Gotta focus on me and my goals. Long-term goals, not short-term, brief emotional-connect goals that do nothing for me but distract me from living the way I wish to live.
Each time has had a small backslide, each time has been less of a slide than the one before it.
I want to get better. What I do now... it's passable. It keeps me decently happy. I like being the sort of sex-queen I've come to be. But I don't want to stay in this place. To grow means there needs to be change. To change means there needs to be something you give up.
And I need to give this up.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The texting guy from yesterday texted me to ask me out again for this weekend.
Which makes it a total of three times I've had to tell him that I'm too busy. Because I am. Party on Saturday night with my club friend (where I get to sit him down again and tell him again that I am not interested in him as more than a good friend, and also, while we're on the topic, I found out that he's an insane playboy with loads more sexual experience than I have, at least in certain areas, so why is he emotionally attaching to me when he knows better?), Saturday day is a lapdance class with a friend, Sunday is my mother's birthday, an all day event.
I'm oddly not busy on Friday night. I'm not sure what to make of that. If I didn't have to be up early for the class on Sunday morning, I'd hit a club. I still might, if I'm in the mood. I'm all for wiping myself out.
But enough about my plans.
I've had two particular questions asked of me that I should probably address.
The first was by Phoenixism who wanted to know if I had a special magnetism for attracting socially inept men.
Yes. Yes, I do.
But since I can't see myself, I'm just going to go off of theory.
The initial approach is appearance. I'm pretty. I'm not gorgeous, I'm not beautiful, I'm approachably pretty. I am accessible, so those men who would be chased off of a girl because they feel she's above their "level" come to me.
When it comes to wardrobe, I'm also accessible. I am not showing the Los Angeles mass that I believe I am high status in my presentation. I don't overdo it, I keep things very mellow, well-fitting, and casual. I don't walk outside for day explorations with a second skin of make-up. I wear dark-framed glasses, but not in that indie-scenster kinda way, but in the "I'm a librarian and I'm studying you" kinda way.
Socially, if I'm just out and going about my day, I'm by myself as often as I can manage. This makes me even more approachable, as I'm not with a group of my nearest and dearest girlfriends. And when I saw I'm out alone, I don't mean I'm simply grocery shopping. I mean that if I don't have plans with someone, I will grab a book, go catch a movie, then maybe do a little shopping and sit at a nice little restaurant and enjoy a meal and my novel... and then maybe I'll wander around the city, poking my nose into whatever looks interesting.
-Girl who is approachably pretty, check.
-Girl who is not flashing high-status unapproachable via her presentation, check.
-Girl who is wearing glasses that add a little something, check.
-Girl who is reading a book, making opening even easier, check.
-Girl who is alone and infinitely more likely to be approached because of accessibility, check.
So that's just the simple initial information gathering pre-approach.
Then we talk and, holy crap, I'm not a moron. These shy, nerdy guys who are getting out there socially are startled and pleased. The older men that walk up to me expecting god knows what realize that there's a conversation partner beneath these boobs.
And I get the nerd jokes. I read so much, I play console and computer games, I've watched way too many Mutant Enemy productions, I know the internet memes, I can quote RvB, I can discuss anime and World of Warcraft without hesitating. I'm not going to judge them, and I'm going to understand their humor.
In a world of women that while never understand their nerdy male pursuits, I'm right in there enjoying those pursuits with them.
And since they usually aren't out there meeting women, they think this is incredibly rare. Which causes a sort of desperation fixation. I'm the only girl they're ever going to meet that will understand them, so they must make sure to win me over any way possible.
As for the older men, I can keep up with them, and usually overshoot them. It's not an awkward, stilted conversation that trails off into... bleh. Which maybe they'd like, I really don't know. I'm able to manage topic flow and conversation focus, which is so nice for both of us.
Which, really, if you look at it a certain way, is inconsequential.
My primary failing is that I like meeting people, like learning about people, and I'm never intentionally rude without someone first passing a boundary... and my social morals that allow me to engage in rude behavior so far out there that I rarely get to unleash my inner-bitch on people.
If I continue talking with them, they, being inexperienced and unable to read into our conversation or my body language, will assume that it means I'm interested. That my attention could only be of romantic or sexual intent, as why else would I be talking to them?
Because I am unwilling to immediately shut down these guys, because I can get along with them and maintain the conversation because I'm interested in what they have to say and who they are, awkward situations ensue.
But what am I supposed to say?
"I don't mean to interrupt you, but I just wanted you to know that I'm talking to you because I find you interesting and have absolutely no desire for you, so keep it in your pants, buddy."
"Before you take this the wrong way, you're really not my type, but I'm digging hearing about your theory on the best way to play Young Link in SSBB, so don't take my fascination on this topic as fascination with you."
"You see how I just deflected that somewhat subtle innuendo you tossed out there? Yes, that means I'm not interested. It was cute, but, really, no."
"Since I think I'm just the hottest piece of ass out there and you obviously must want me due to that fact, I wanted to let you know that before this conversation goes any further, you're soooooo not alpha enough for me, so please don't even dream that I would have any interest in you. Thanks."
"Okay, I'm going to bring up sex now because it is relevant to our discussion. This. Does. Not. Mean. I. Want. To. Bone. You. Continuing..."
I've found that my hints, the cues that I would pick up if someone was having a discussion with me and I was testing the waters like these men do and was being rejected, don't work with most of these guys.
Some I have flat out told I have a boyfriend or I wasn't interested in dating right now or I wasn't emotionally available or I was too busy for a relationship.
Random excuses that were all semi-true to completely true.
But it does not deter them.
So why do I attract these guys? I'm visually approachable, physically accessible (no, not in that way, you jerk), and I'm friendly.
I do not have disgust or hatred for these guys. I don't find them annoying or pathetic. I think it's wonderful that the nerd guys are getting out of their comfort zone and meeting women. I think it's flattering when the older men try to pick up on me, and very entertaining when they realize I'm not an airhead.
But there is that learning curve of figuring out how to attract what you want and reading the signs that tell you that your target is not interested. And then respecting that lack of interest, or at least adjusting your game to hopefully generate interest.
If it doesn't work, though, move on. Don't make it awkward, don't be pushy, don't make a scene.
So that was the first question.
The second question has been asked a couple times, especially of late due to all my bitching about men I'm not interested in not getting the hint and my platonic guy friends trying to shift themselves into relationships or booty calls.
Why do I have such a hard time rejecting men?
I have issue with rejection in general. I know what it's like to go through it and I know it's a major blow to the ego for most of us. I also know it's part of life and something we're all going to experience if we put ourselves out there and we need to learn to accept that.
I try to cushion it. Because I'm too nice.
And I don't mean "too nice" like, awww, I'm such a sweetie, I care about everyone's feelings because I'm such a great, kind-hearted person (that was written in my head with a nasally, syrup-dripping voice, by the by).
No, I'm a pussy. I'm a little too empathetic to rejection, I think, and it makes me cringe and then I feel guilty and I hate feeling guilty so I do my best to avoid rejecting people so I don't have to feel guilty about it later.
That sort of "too nice". Stupid "too nice". Avoidant "too nice".
And one would think I would have learned by now how to manage this unwanted male interest.
Quite obviously, that's incorrect.
What I have learned is that if you tell someone flat out that you aren't interested, they have to know why.
They will demand an explanation.
And you might be reading this going, "Well, they can demand all they want, but you don't have to give it to them."
This is true.
However, they storm off all butthurt and never speak to you again. And I like my guyfriends. Most of this will happen within the first month or two of a budding platonic relationship with a guyfriend. You want to be able to salvage the friendship and their ego.
Why should you salvage the friendship?
I don't know about you, but I like having friends. I like having a variety of friends across the board that I can hang out with and learn from and just have a good time.
So, if you give them the explanation they are demanding in their fit of anger at your rejection (which is just a cover up for the insecurities you've just produced/exacerbated in them), then they have to argue that explanation.
Which means you are sitting there for god knows how long trying to explain not only why you don't want them, why they are still great guys (just not your type), but also why it is okay for you not to want them.
In the end, they'll:
A: Get butthurt to cover their embarrassment and storm off, never to be seen again, which makes you wonder if the only reason they were around was to get into your pants or if they're just that hurt by it (common).
B: Get butthurt to cover their embarrassment and storm off, but come back later, ease into friendship again and have a solid thing going for the both of you (rare).
C. Tell you they understand, that they're okay being friends, but then they'll try to Nice Guy you for some time until there's an explosion and you kick them out of your life (I've had this happen, it is so not fun).
D. Tell you they understand, and then they respect your boundaries and the two of you frolic in happy sunshine friendship meadows with pink marshmellow unicorns and fluffy purple bunnies. (This never happens.)
So that's the direct approach that everyone tells me to take, that I have taken and have had miserable experiences with.
Or you can make up excuses as to why you can't date them in an effort to save their ego and your friendship:
1. You have a boyfriend. (Lying isn't my thing)
2. You're emotionally unavailable. (Refer back to demanding an explanation)
3. You've just had your heartbroken and aren't ready for another man in your life. (And... here comes Mr. Nice Guy again!)
4. You're much too busy right now for a relationship. (They'll try anyway.)
5. Your grandmother is on fire. (I've tried this, it only works for so long.)
The problem I've found with this sort of set up is that they'll either hang around, making contact, waiting for the "problem" to go away, or they'll check in with you every few weeks to see if the "problem" has resolved itself.
Eventually, the former may turn into an unsteady friendship, while the latter will just get frustrated and disappear.
So those are the basic verbal communicators.
Then we drop down into other categories.
Such as the slightly extreme: "making out with someone else in front of them". I've tried this. It doesn't always work. In fact, it seems to drive the nutty ones even nuttier.
You might think, "Well, you don't want the nutty ones for friends anyway", but I actually love being friends with nuts. Except pecans. Pecans are bitches.
Anyway.
There's the easy, Level One, "play stupid" when they hit on you. This is stuff that involves messing with words, pretending to mishear, pretending to think they're joking.
Level One also includes avoiding physical contact and moving out of the way if at all possible, as well as avoiding any flirting or innuendos.
Then there's the stereotypical: "oh, I'm so glad we're friends, I couldn't take it if another guy was interested in me right now" or "I'm so glad you don't want to date me, I can just relax around you" type comments.
There's the Level Two casual drops about guys you find attractive, guys that you're thinking of going out with.
Which can be escalated to Level Three conversation drops where you are really thrilled to be going out with this guy again, he's so good in bed, he's so cute, hold on, he's texting me, give me just a sec and I'll get back to you. (This is mildly difficult for me, as most of my guyfriends know that I when I date, I date multiple men and take a couple lovers until someone comes in and pulls me off the market entirely.)
Level Three conversation drops may be accompanied by Level Three physical withdrawal, which involves leaping away from any physical contact and running into the night shouting over your shoulder, "Is that the Bat Signal? Gordon needs me!" (I promise this is perfectly acceptable.)
And you might be thinking, "Christ, what's with the game playing? This is too annoying/difficult, this isn't worth it, is she nuts??"
But it's a preservation of their ego. This is me trying to send out as many signs as I possibly can to my friend (or my potential friend) that indicate that it is nothing to do with him. My lack of interest is not a failure on his part, but to do with my own life and attentions.
Because I want those friendships. They're important to me.
And not all of my guyfriends are like this. Most of them got the message early on, or had no observable interest in the first place (or had a girlfriend).
These guys that don't get the message are the ones that are a little awkward, or are just your general horndog. I make friends with all sorts of people, and some of them require this type of management. Sometimes it works, sometimes it goes down in flames.
I do my best, I think.
And, yes, I'll kick myself at times, thinking I should be rougher or more direct with some. But when you've had the experiences that I've had... I try to communicate thoroughly and honestly at all times. Playing these sort of dancing games is not my cup of tea. It's not enjoyable. I don't want to be doing this. I wish I could wave a magic wand and have them realize that my lack of desire for them has nothing to do with their value as a person, that I still have value for them, just not a need to get into their pants.
I'm told, and I can see, that it's wasting their time, to a degree.
But this is social interaction. This is learning to read body language and subtle cues that tell you what you are and are not doing right. If every approach failure was considered a waste of time, that would indicate that the approacher had learned nothing.
Even if you learn nothing, it's still good to approach, it's still good to steel yourself and get used to interacting with complete strangers as you attempt this mating dance.
And I am educational. I will, upon occasion, tell the guys that approach me better lines to use, or how to stand to present themselves better, or how to adjust their word choice to sound more attractive. If they listen to me or not, I don't know. But I am a girl they found attractive enough to approach, which means I am desirable, which means they should probably listen to my advice because I am telling them what I find desirable so they can use it on future women that are like me.
Even if they do not "score" with me, I have many female friends. Some guys look so into the immediate, they don't understand the value of leapfrogging and building social networks. If they come off as courteous and respectful, I will bring them into my various social circles, I will introduce them to my female friends and talk them up.
So is it a waste of time? At best, it's a wading pool of potential poon. At worst, it's practice.
Guys make it difficult to reject them, uncomfortable to reject them. I'm sure girls do it too, but since I'm fairly straight, that's all I have to tell them. They won't react poorly because my sexual orientation does not reject them, it simply excludes them. It's not personal.
Poor reactions based on insecurities.
This is why I have issues rejecting men and handling interest from my male friends.
Which makes it a total of three times I've had to tell him that I'm too busy. Because I am. Party on Saturday night with my club friend (where I get to sit him down again and tell him again that I am not interested in him as more than a good friend, and also, while we're on the topic, I found out that he's an insane playboy with loads more sexual experience than I have, at least in certain areas, so why is he emotionally attaching to me when he knows better?), Saturday day is a lapdance class with a friend, Sunday is my mother's birthday, an all day event.
I'm oddly not busy on Friday night. I'm not sure what to make of that. If I didn't have to be up early for the class on Sunday morning, I'd hit a club. I still might, if I'm in the mood. I'm all for wiping myself out.
But enough about my plans.
I've had two particular questions asked of me that I should probably address.
The first was by Phoenixism who wanted to know if I had a special magnetism for attracting socially inept men.
Yes. Yes, I do.
But since I can't see myself, I'm just going to go off of theory.
The initial approach is appearance. I'm pretty. I'm not gorgeous, I'm not beautiful, I'm approachably pretty. I am accessible, so those men who would be chased off of a girl because they feel she's above their "level" come to me.
When it comes to wardrobe, I'm also accessible. I am not showing the Los Angeles mass that I believe I am high status in my presentation. I don't overdo it, I keep things very mellow, well-fitting, and casual. I don't walk outside for day explorations with a second skin of make-up. I wear dark-framed glasses, but not in that indie-scenster kinda way, but in the "I'm a librarian and I'm studying you" kinda way.
Socially, if I'm just out and going about my day, I'm by myself as often as I can manage. This makes me even more approachable, as I'm not with a group of my nearest and dearest girlfriends. And when I saw I'm out alone, I don't mean I'm simply grocery shopping. I mean that if I don't have plans with someone, I will grab a book, go catch a movie, then maybe do a little shopping and sit at a nice little restaurant and enjoy a meal and my novel... and then maybe I'll wander around the city, poking my nose into whatever looks interesting.
-Girl who is approachably pretty, check.
-Girl who is not flashing high-status unapproachable via her presentation, check.
-Girl who is wearing glasses that add a little something, check.
-Girl who is reading a book, making opening even easier, check.
-Girl who is alone and infinitely more likely to be approached because of accessibility, check.
So that's just the simple initial information gathering pre-approach.
Then we talk and, holy crap, I'm not a moron. These shy, nerdy guys who are getting out there socially are startled and pleased. The older men that walk up to me expecting god knows what realize that there's a conversation partner beneath these boobs.
And I get the nerd jokes. I read so much, I play console and computer games, I've watched way too many Mutant Enemy productions, I know the internet memes, I can quote RvB, I can discuss anime and World of Warcraft without hesitating. I'm not going to judge them, and I'm going to understand their humor.
In a world of women that while never understand their nerdy male pursuits, I'm right in there enjoying those pursuits with them.
And since they usually aren't out there meeting women, they think this is incredibly rare. Which causes a sort of desperation fixation. I'm the only girl they're ever going to meet that will understand them, so they must make sure to win me over any way possible.
As for the older men, I can keep up with them, and usually overshoot them. It's not an awkward, stilted conversation that trails off into... bleh. Which maybe they'd like, I really don't know. I'm able to manage topic flow and conversation focus, which is so nice for both of us.
Which, really, if you look at it a certain way, is inconsequential.
My primary failing is that I like meeting people, like learning about people, and I'm never intentionally rude without someone first passing a boundary... and my social morals that allow me to engage in rude behavior so far out there that I rarely get to unleash my inner-bitch on people.
If I continue talking with them, they, being inexperienced and unable to read into our conversation or my body language, will assume that it means I'm interested. That my attention could only be of romantic or sexual intent, as why else would I be talking to them?
Because I am unwilling to immediately shut down these guys, because I can get along with them and maintain the conversation because I'm interested in what they have to say and who they are, awkward situations ensue.
But what am I supposed to say?
"I don't mean to interrupt you, but I just wanted you to know that I'm talking to you because I find you interesting and have absolutely no desire for you, so keep it in your pants, buddy."
"Before you take this the wrong way, you're really not my type, but I'm digging hearing about your theory on the best way to play Young Link in SSBB, so don't take my fascination on this topic as fascination with you."
"You see how I just deflected that somewhat subtle innuendo you tossed out there? Yes, that means I'm not interested. It was cute, but, really, no."
"Since I think I'm just the hottest piece of ass out there and you obviously must want me due to that fact, I wanted to let you know that before this conversation goes any further, you're soooooo not alpha enough for me, so please don't even dream that I would have any interest in you. Thanks."
"Okay, I'm going to bring up sex now because it is relevant to our discussion. This. Does. Not. Mean. I. Want. To. Bone. You. Continuing..."
I've found that my hints, the cues that I would pick up if someone was having a discussion with me and I was testing the waters like these men do and was being rejected, don't work with most of these guys.
Some I have flat out told I have a boyfriend or I wasn't interested in dating right now or I wasn't emotionally available or I was too busy for a relationship.
Random excuses that were all semi-true to completely true.
But it does not deter them.
So why do I attract these guys? I'm visually approachable, physically accessible (no, not in that way, you jerk), and I'm friendly.
I do not have disgust or hatred for these guys. I don't find them annoying or pathetic. I think it's wonderful that the nerd guys are getting out of their comfort zone and meeting women. I think it's flattering when the older men try to pick up on me, and very entertaining when they realize I'm not an airhead.
But there is that learning curve of figuring out how to attract what you want and reading the signs that tell you that your target is not interested. And then respecting that lack of interest, or at least adjusting your game to hopefully generate interest.
If it doesn't work, though, move on. Don't make it awkward, don't be pushy, don't make a scene.
So that was the first question.
The second question has been asked a couple times, especially of late due to all my bitching about men I'm not interested in not getting the hint and my platonic guy friends trying to shift themselves into relationships or booty calls.
Why do I have such a hard time rejecting men?
I have issue with rejection in general. I know what it's like to go through it and I know it's a major blow to the ego for most of us. I also know it's part of life and something we're all going to experience if we put ourselves out there and we need to learn to accept that.
I try to cushion it. Because I'm too nice.
And I don't mean "too nice" like, awww, I'm such a sweetie, I care about everyone's feelings because I'm such a great, kind-hearted person (that was written in my head with a nasally, syrup-dripping voice, by the by).
No, I'm a pussy. I'm a little too empathetic to rejection, I think, and it makes me cringe and then I feel guilty and I hate feeling guilty so I do my best to avoid rejecting people so I don't have to feel guilty about it later.
That sort of "too nice". Stupid "too nice". Avoidant "too nice".
And one would think I would have learned by now how to manage this unwanted male interest.
Quite obviously, that's incorrect.
What I have learned is that if you tell someone flat out that you aren't interested, they have to know why.
They will demand an explanation.
And you might be reading this going, "Well, they can demand all they want, but you don't have to give it to them."
This is true.
However, they storm off all butthurt and never speak to you again. And I like my guyfriends. Most of this will happen within the first month or two of a budding platonic relationship with a guyfriend. You want to be able to salvage the friendship and their ego.
Why should you salvage the friendship?
I don't know about you, but I like having friends. I like having a variety of friends across the board that I can hang out with and learn from and just have a good time.
So, if you give them the explanation they are demanding in their fit of anger at your rejection (which is just a cover up for the insecurities you've just produced/exacerbated in them), then they have to argue that explanation.
Which means you are sitting there for god knows how long trying to explain not only why you don't want them, why they are still great guys (just not your type), but also why it is okay for you not to want them.
In the end, they'll:
A: Get butthurt to cover their embarrassment and storm off, never to be seen again, which makes you wonder if the only reason they were around was to get into your pants or if they're just that hurt by it (common).
B: Get butthurt to cover their embarrassment and storm off, but come back later, ease into friendship again and have a solid thing going for the both of you (rare).
C. Tell you they understand, that they're okay being friends, but then they'll try to Nice Guy you for some time until there's an explosion and you kick them out of your life (I've had this happen, it is so not fun).
D. Tell you they understand, and then they respect your boundaries and the two of you frolic in happy sunshine friendship meadows with pink marshmellow unicorns and fluffy purple bunnies. (This never happens.)
So that's the direct approach that everyone tells me to take, that I have taken and have had miserable experiences with.
Or you can make up excuses as to why you can't date them in an effort to save their ego and your friendship:
1. You have a boyfriend. (Lying isn't my thing)
2. You're emotionally unavailable. (Refer back to demanding an explanation)
3. You've just had your heartbroken and aren't ready for another man in your life. (And... here comes Mr. Nice Guy again!)
4. You're much too busy right now for a relationship. (They'll try anyway.)
5. Your grandmother is on fire. (I've tried this, it only works for so long.)
The problem I've found with this sort of set up is that they'll either hang around, making contact, waiting for the "problem" to go away, or they'll check in with you every few weeks to see if the "problem" has resolved itself.
Eventually, the former may turn into an unsteady friendship, while the latter will just get frustrated and disappear.
So those are the basic verbal communicators.
Then we drop down into other categories.
Such as the slightly extreme: "making out with someone else in front of them". I've tried this. It doesn't always work. In fact, it seems to drive the nutty ones even nuttier.
You might think, "Well, you don't want the nutty ones for friends anyway", but I actually love being friends with nuts. Except pecans. Pecans are bitches.
Anyway.
There's the easy, Level One, "play stupid" when they hit on you. This is stuff that involves messing with words, pretending to mishear, pretending to think they're joking.
Level One also includes avoiding physical contact and moving out of the way if at all possible, as well as avoiding any flirting or innuendos.
Then there's the stereotypical: "oh, I'm so glad we're friends, I couldn't take it if another guy was interested in me right now" or "I'm so glad you don't want to date me, I can just relax around you" type comments.
There's the Level Two casual drops about guys you find attractive, guys that you're thinking of going out with.
Which can be escalated to Level Three conversation drops where you are really thrilled to be going out with this guy again, he's so good in bed, he's so cute, hold on, he's texting me, give me just a sec and I'll get back to you. (This is mildly difficult for me, as most of my guyfriends know that I when I date, I date multiple men and take a couple lovers until someone comes in and pulls me off the market entirely.)
Level Three conversation drops may be accompanied by Level Three physical withdrawal, which involves leaping away from any physical contact and running into the night shouting over your shoulder, "Is that the Bat Signal? Gordon needs me!" (I promise this is perfectly acceptable.)
And you might be thinking, "Christ, what's with the game playing? This is too annoying/difficult, this isn't worth it, is she nuts??"
But it's a preservation of their ego. This is me trying to send out as many signs as I possibly can to my friend (or my potential friend) that indicate that it is nothing to do with him. My lack of interest is not a failure on his part, but to do with my own life and attentions.
Because I want those friendships. They're important to me.
And not all of my guyfriends are like this. Most of them got the message early on, or had no observable interest in the first place (or had a girlfriend).
These guys that don't get the message are the ones that are a little awkward, or are just your general horndog. I make friends with all sorts of people, and some of them require this type of management. Sometimes it works, sometimes it goes down in flames.
I do my best, I think.
And, yes, I'll kick myself at times, thinking I should be rougher or more direct with some. But when you've had the experiences that I've had... I try to communicate thoroughly and honestly at all times. Playing these sort of dancing games is not my cup of tea. It's not enjoyable. I don't want to be doing this. I wish I could wave a magic wand and have them realize that my lack of desire for them has nothing to do with their value as a person, that I still have value for them, just not a need to get into their pants.
I'm told, and I can see, that it's wasting their time, to a degree.
But this is social interaction. This is learning to read body language and subtle cues that tell you what you are and are not doing right. If every approach failure was considered a waste of time, that would indicate that the approacher had learned nothing.
Even if you learn nothing, it's still good to approach, it's still good to steel yourself and get used to interacting with complete strangers as you attempt this mating dance.
And I am educational. I will, upon occasion, tell the guys that approach me better lines to use, or how to stand to present themselves better, or how to adjust their word choice to sound more attractive. If they listen to me or not, I don't know. But I am a girl they found attractive enough to approach, which means I am desirable, which means they should probably listen to my advice because I am telling them what I find desirable so they can use it on future women that are like me.
Even if they do not "score" with me, I have many female friends. Some guys look so into the immediate, they don't understand the value of leapfrogging and building social networks. If they come off as courteous and respectful, I will bring them into my various social circles, I will introduce them to my female friends and talk them up.
So is it a waste of time? At best, it's a wading pool of potential poon. At worst, it's practice.
Guys make it difficult to reject them, uncomfortable to reject them. I'm sure girls do it too, but since I'm fairly straight, that's all I have to tell them. They won't react poorly because my sexual orientation does not reject them, it simply excludes them. It's not personal.
Poor reactions based on insecurities.
This is why I have issues rejecting men and handling interest from my male friends.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
