You gave up all the golden factories...

Odd weekend.

They're always odd, technically. Hijinks and all.

My life is turning into this strange beast, and I'm looking down the corridor that I've traveled up and realizing that everything I have done in the past, all of those experiences, pushed me towards this, unmistakably, unstoppably towards this lifestyle, towards these people, these ideas, being who I am becoming.

That isn't said with a trace of glory, with exulting in this future, with putting myself as on-high, but more of a curious, introspective glance.

Going to bed with GV8 last night, both of us exhausted in body, not mind, him telling me stories of time spent in prison, crooning me to sleep with his adventures, his lips moving behind my ear as I latch onto his stories and sink quietly into unconsciousness.

What would have happened, if I had not taken the steps I had? If I had not tried to burn love out of my skin, my mind, my self-concept? What would have I been like if I had not thrown my body at any man who looked my way? If I hadn't gotten kicked out of college? If I had graduated with the rest of my class, instead of going early, submerging myself in a world of, to me, adults, when I was so young and inexperienced.

What would have happened if I had (ever) found my own kind, instead of wandering the edges of social groups, never bonding, staring in at them?

I wandered into his arms on Saturday, pressing my body against his, feeling his heat, his strength, the unwavering self-confidence that emmanates from him, from his yellow-green sunset eyes.

Slow sex, horizontal across his bed, our fingers wrapped together above my head, lips touching, brushing, dancing, hips rolling, ankles locked, moving so soft, so gentle. Possibly the nearest I've come to making love in quite some time, though I don't believe I ever truly have.

Sex and love... don't go together for me. It's not something I do.

He's buying me gifts, calling me at a perfect rhythm, nearly doting on me, but not in such a way that would be desperate or fawning.

He would not want me if I was inexperienced. He's glad of the life I have lived, he's glad of my passions and lusts, my technique, my enjoyment of sex. We've been sleeping together since May, I realized, and I've yet to grow bored of sex with him.

I don't think that has ever happened for this length of time.

Usually by now, I'm already onto something new, or having sex with my partner that has become so very passe.

But I'm not bored. We're not a perfect sexual match, but our combined experience, our dynamic, leads to something new, something fun. I'm constantly experimenting with my oral technique with him. He's allowed me to grow so fast with that, so far beyond what I used to be. My ever-loathed handjobs are now something of a delight, to the point where I'm working in my left hand so I can become ambidextrous, at least in that, to a good, capable point.

And he lets me. He encourages me, he gives me tips, and from a man who has received as much head and sex in his life as he has, he's an invaluable source of information.

We're getting closer and closer, quite rapidly. That short push away, perhaps it caused some sort of slingshot...

The loft is coming along quickly. All the glass walls are up, and he's going to be installing the bar this week, along with other work. Hardwood, carpeting, lighting... looking around, watching it come together, hardly daring to imagine what will happen once it opens.

My life... I don't know. Who thought this would happen? I'm just a strange girl meeting strangers and seeing what comes of it. Skin to skin, lips to lips, mind to mind. Making something.

And I'm changing. Slowly, but I can feel it. I can feel parts of me reaching out, stretching for their potential, filling those empty places inside of me.

Becoming everything I could have dreamed, or something else entirely?

My birthday is coming up.

Normally, I don't care. And, really, I still don't particularly care.

But I decided, as a gift to myself, since SFPlayboy is theoretically coming down soon, I'm going to (likely successfully) attempt to arrange a threesome with him and GV8. Because that would be wonderful. Happy birthday, here's some DP.

I know both of them would be up for it.

It's just a matter of Playboy getting himself down here.

On the GV8 front, he's made me copies of the keys to get into the apartment he recently leased, so I've got a Hollywood home whenever I want it, at least until he hires an assistant and puts her up there.

This weekend is something new for us.

He's planning on having the loft mostly operational by next Saturday, which means this weekend is him being busy, busy, busy.

But instead of me just leaving him alone to work, or him taking time off work to hang out with me, he's decided that we should go our separate ways this weekend, but both of us should stay the nights at the new apartment so we see each other.

I'm slightly off-put by this, but also pleased.

I cannot tell if he just wants sex-on-tap, or if he wanted to see me and knew this was the only way to make time, or if he wants to see the dynamic we have in this sort of free situation.

Also cannot tell how much time he expects me to make for him. I'm not going to be able to tell until tonight, until I see him.

We keep having these mini-miscommunications where I know he has a lot on his plate for work and the impending club so I try not to bug him, try not to text him, call him, overburden his schedule with activities. His business is priority, I am not going to attempt to dissuade him otherwise.

But then when I do give him that space, when I don't try to squeeze myself into his schedule, it's almost like he gets hurt that I'm not trying. Not quite hurt, really, more... well, maybe it is hurt. That's not quite the right word. Not offended, not depressed, more like a, "Hey, why aren't you paying attention to me?" almost. Not whining, just surprised and unsettled.

This has happened a few times.

But I'm used to sleeping with busy, busy men whose schedules I have to work around, so they call me when they have time available. To bother them to make time is a death knell. So I have been trained not to do so.

He doesn't seem to want that.

Which is funny, because he's busier than any of the others were in the past.

So, tonight, I'm going to run by the loft and grab the keys, then go out with The Bassist. His (amazing) band has been contacted to do music for a TV pilot, so they're working on the licensing with that company today. After they finish, we're going to go run around Hollywood and the like. Saturday, I'm going out to Hemet (which I've managed to avoid all of my life... until now) for family fun and frolic, and Sunday I'm supposed to have a date with someone new... which I might cancel if things with GV8 look like I should spend time with him instead.

Feeling things out.

Whatever happens, I'll have fun.

There should be grief but there is none...

Waking up on Monday morning, the alarm on my phone doing a half-second high pitched noise that wakes me more effectively than anything ever has.

I lie on the floor on my stomach, my faded sleeping bag, green flannel lining, beneath me, around me.

Rotating ankles, feeling the unwinding of tense muscles created by eight hours in too-high heels the day before, slide a leg past the zipper boundaries, twist the pelvis slowly and feel the pop, then the other side. Arms extend forward, brushing the carpeting, spine rolls, twist onto my back, arch, and sit up.

Shove the sleeping bag down to mid-thigh and wiggle out.

Sunlight through the unshuttered window, pale carpet, white walls, the slight, slight, slight hum of a fan. My friend sleeps behind Chinese screens and I dress silently, sliding off pants, stepping into underwear, balancing on one foot as jeans travel up each leg. Sleeveless tank is switched for bra and shirt, gently tugging hair trapped between flesh and fabric.

Look out the window. Two minutes have passed, nothing noticable in the gaining light. Shoes are laced loosely and sleep-clothes are shoved into the bag, hefted on one shoulder.

I reach for the door knob and notice that sometime in the evening, sometime in my sleep, I moved my faux-wedding band from my left ring-finger to my right.

Unsettled, I leave.

I find you gone...

When I entered, three years ago, the university system, I was thrilled. The idea of going through a program of specialized classes where I would have classmates with similiar goals, ideas, and level of education, where I would make friends with people in my own age group with our similiar backgrounds and interest... the whole thing was very exciting for me.

However, I found that such was not the case. The majority of my classmates were morons. I suppose it was my own fault, choosing a major that was in the humanities field, populated with women striving to be social workers (not the most intelligent decision in the first place).

We shared nothing in common. I was the black sheep in all of my classes. I wanted to explore and question, I wanted to understand different ideas and try to rid myself as much as I could from my ethnocentric view points. I wanted to expand myself.

I found the social worker types to be more of the "define what is healthy, define what is not healthy, anything different must be exterminated" mindset.

This did not quite work for me.

There were no intelligent discussions. There were no new friends, only old ones that happened to be going to the same college, but in different majors. After the first semester, I did not even bother. I read my texts, I read between classes, and group projects were a thing to be avoided at all costs.

I graduated and moved on.

Then it was suggested to me that I go back for my Master's.

Really?

No, not in my previous major. That would be a nightmare.

English. I can do English. Maybe meet other like-minded individuals that love books, love reading, love writing, as much as I do.

I went to examine the path that lay before me.

Pre-requisites. Switching majors means I needed to take classes that would be required for entry into the Master's program.

300-level classes, designed for English majors.

What could go wrong?

Within the first week of school, a man made the comment, "What was that woman's name? The one that... ah, she was French. People were starving so she offered them dessert?"

Then last night.

We were assigned a paper last, choose one of four topics. Introduction+Thesis, supporting paragraphs, conclusion, MLA format. Simple. And the class was for English majors, so these people have been taking the classes needed to get their BA in English. The last few semesters for them have been English focused.

We turn in our papers, she passes them back, as we're to read two of our classmate's papers and critique them.

First paper had beautiful language, an iffy thesis, two supporting paragraphs that did not truly use items from the text to support their thesis, much less relate to the prompt the writer had chosen. The third paragraph, supposed to be the conclusion, was more of a supporting paragraph. It accomplished nothing. No argument was made, analysis was poor, poor enough that a conclusion was not able to be drawn.

I did not know what to say on the critique, so I was honest.

But the second paper, oh the second paper.

I was trying so hard during the entire reading of it not to laugh aloud. It was one of the most pathetic things I had ever read during my college career. The prompt was, essentially, to compare the motivations and ideas behind Locke's "New Negro" to one of the Harlem movement sonnets the professor had provided, and to show how and why that sonnet supported Locke's philosophy.

Epic fail.

I don't even know what this girl did. It's like she said, "Oh, write about a poem, I got it!" and just took a poem and interpreted it. Horrifically. I wanted so badly to steal her paper so I could scan it in and upload it to this blog. It read like it was written by a 7th grader, maybe lower.

So she took Langston Hughes' poem, "I, Too" (which, mind you, was not a poem you were allowed to select for this essay because it was not a freaking sonnet) and interpreted it.

Something like, "Oh, the poor black man has been kicked out of the kitchen but one day America will recognize the worth of the poor negro and let him into the kitchen and let him eat at the table instead of on the floor."

Seriously.

Now imagine four pages of that.

I was rolling.

What made it even better was at the end of the essay, it's like she realizes that she was supposed to bring Locke's work into the paper, so she has two sentences that say something about Locke feeling like he's been kicked out of the kitchen and needs to come back in, too, and that's her conclusion.

Thank you, California education system.

Even with that, I do not believe that anyone in the English program will ever top the biggest Sociology student blunder I have ever seen in my life.

400-level class with possibly the hardest professor in the department. In this class you had to Be On Your Game.

Group project.

Take an assigned reading, interpret, and then make a 10 to 15 minute Power Point presentation for the class. Five students per group. Divide work evenly.

We were assigned Levi-Strauss's "Structural Study of Myth". Easy, easy stuff.

Basic theory is that instead of reading a story in chronological order, you break the story into pieces based on events and group them based on commonalities and read the meaning that way. Really cool idea.

So, of course, someone else starts taking charge of the group. I don't step up.

Five, ten minutes in, everyone admits that they read it and they have no idea what it's talking about.

Except me.

I read it, understood it, and ended up spending the entire rest of the class explaining it until all but one guy got it. And then I assigned workload. The next time we met up, one person had been able to do what they had been assigned, the rest just got confused and did not do anything.

And the one guy, who we will call Steve, had no idea what was going on.

I break it down again. I discuss it with the group. Everyone gets it again but Steve. He doesn't know what to do. I explain it again, sketch out the power point presentation, give it to him and tell him to take what I've written and put it on the slides and bring it the next class when it's due.

Two days before it's due, he emails me a written version of the slides because he can't figure out how to email Power Point.

And he's creatively interpreted it for us.

I look at it, become furious, start laughing hysterically, and hit up my techie boyfriend at the time for a copy of Power Point and end up doing the thing myself.

Class comes around, no one in my group gets it still, so I give the history of the author to one kid and do the presentation and answer all the questions myself, with the rest of my group standing to one side.

What we (I) did the presentation on was a background of Strauss, a summation of the theory, and then application of the theory on Goldilocks and the three bears. Basically, lining up the three experiences of Goldilocks with each member of the Bear family, the story can be interpreted by Strauss' method by saying that Goldilocks tried on the different roles in the family (mother, father, child) and determined that the child role currently fitted her best. Very simple.

The creative interpretation by Steve that I received was:

Goldilocks eats the porridge, blah blah blah (insert tripe here).
Goldilocks sits in the chairs, blah blah blah (tripe).
Goldilocks sleeps in the beds, blah blah blah (more tripe).

His conclusion: children should not sleep in adult beds because they are growing and need posturepedic beds for different support for their backs.

That was when I knew that I should never have majored in Sociology.

Set my sights too high...

Last night I found myself signing up on a recommended BDSM personals site.

I uploaded pictures, then went to filling out my profile, and I realized that it was incredibly likely that this would, eventually, get back to GV8. He has too many friends in the fetish scene.

And it would not be as though I was cheating. We're not in a committed relationship, we see other people.

But I knew it would not go particularly well for me. That he would take that as a indicator of a lack of true interest, as opposed to what it is: me trying to get some stress relief and trying to pull away from him because I'm falling much too fast, much too hard, and I need to slow that descent.

I need a distraction from him.

It also felt bad. It felt wrong.

And this annoys me. I felt guilty about signing up.

So I stopped. I pulled the pictures, emptied the profile. It's there if I want it later down the line.

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

I went to an ex-lover's wedding on Sunday.

I met him when I was 20, he was 28.

Both of us had been significantly damaged by our most recently ended relationship, but in compatible ways.

He ended up with body and sex issues. He hated the way he looked, the way he felt, he was uncomfortable with his performance in bed.

I ended up feeling worthless. I could not find myself desirable, I could not see myself as ever worthy of another partner, that anyone would have interest in me. I was angry, I was low. I could not imagine a decent man ever wanting me.

We slowly fixed each other through that spring and summer. He doted on me as a good friend would, made me see the value in who I was. I worshipped his body, taught him how to enjoy sex again.

Then I met Rick and that lover and I parted ways on a sexual level, remaining friends.

He moved to Arizona, moved to Oregon, and then finally back to California. We did not talk much.

For my 21st birthday, though, I invited him and one of my other old lovers to my birthday party. It was a moment I'll never forget. Rick, my boyfriend at the time, and two of my favorite partners over the years, sitting in my bedroom, waiting for everyone to be ready to go to dinner, and talking. Joking. The three men who had the most impact on my life at the time (and still, I believe), with me.

It was one of my favorite birthdays.

So I received a call late last year, this lover, informing me that he was getting married and needed my address to send the announcement. A week or so later, it came.

I had never met her, but I was happy for him.

Then the wedding came.

I showed up, dressed in my favorite ensemble, and hugged him, was introduced to his groomsmen, his friends, and we made small talk until the ceremony was about to begin.

Them scattering to their positions, I sat down in the third aisle and waited.

The groomsmen and his mom, then my ex, then the bridesmaids and her father, and then her, the girl I had yet to meet.

She stepped through the doors, smiling so widely, and even though she was across the room from me, I could see the liquid shine in her eyes.

As she approached, tears began running down my face.

My relief, my thankfulness, my happiness that this man who had been so wrecked, who had helped me so much, found a woman whose happiness to be with him resulted in joyful tears during the entire ceremony.

I could not ask for more.

For you I turn wine into champagne...

Sometimes I wonder if the morals I so steadfastly cling to are simply a way for me to cope with the world. A way of retaining some sort of identity.

I found, when they were challenged a few weeks ago and I allowed myself to slip in a fit of lust, I found myself wondering who exactly I was. It made me question my concept of myself and the way I have built myself, my so few grasps at trying to understand who I have become and what I have been, to the point of knowing that if I no longer followed that, what I would love to call but truly know otherwise, internal moral compass, I would not be what I consider me.

I would be someone else.

We have a concept of self, some theories state, that is created by a division of self versus not-self. That we identify who we are based on who (or what) we are not.

We look at others around us, at objects around us, at ideas around us, and examine them as a child examines a new toy, to determine if they are or are not something that adds to our not-self, or one of the few things that adds to the self.

There are things I think I know about myself.

I know I feel as though I lack self-definition. I do not know who I am, where I belong, or if I'll ever meet others like me. I know I feel as though I have been through so much that I have a hard time being myself around others because I know it will cause confusion and uncomfortability, so I am constantly play-acting. But I also feel as though the things that I've done in my life, and the things that have been done to me, are not so extreme that I was pushed over the edge into that group of people that are, beyond all, radical survivors.

I feel constantly alone.

Not lonely, usually.

Just isolated. Walking in a world at a different speed than so many others, never quite linking up. Occasionally, I will try to be myself and talk to "normal" people, and I find myself wondering why I even try, knowing the eventual result.

I know I unsettle. I know I can intimidate without ever meaning to. I know the majority of people cannot relate to the things I say and the things I believe that I rarely would say.

I created this blog to have the space I needed to exercise (exorcise, depending on the day) my beliefs, my stories, the things that go on inside my head when I interact with others, things I cannot discuss with the people around me because I know that it would bother them, that they would not trust me, that they would constantly question me.

Which happened recently, actually. One of my male friends was forwarned, by me, that I have certain social tendencies. And, for nearly the last year, he was be watching me, growing more and more uncomfortable, noting things that others would not until, a few weeks ago, he finally confronted me about it.

Sometimes I hate this mix I have, this emotional vunerability that I have tried so hard to rid myself of and this cold, calculating, sometimes destructive beast.

It would make things easier if I was more one than the other.

One would think I would loathe myself. Part of me for the weakness I have, the easy infatuation, the overly sensitive nature. Part of me for the things I have done, the things I would like to do.

I rein it in with my moral net, the guidelines I set forth to define me and stop me.

People don't understand. I'm nearly religious about it.

But you end up hurting so many people, so many people, some dearer to you than yourself. And when you stop, you look at the wreckage behind you and you can choose to rebuild, or to burn the foundations into char.

Conrad's Heart of Darkness, Marlowe ends up back in Western civilization, and he cannot stand, cannot understand, the people around him. He loathes them, he laughs at them, he knows they will never comprehend the things he's seen and done, that words could not convey that self-knowledge that comes with the reversal of identity, the reversal of his external world, and thus his internal self.

He becomes wrecked and haunted, a shadow of a man, even more so than his Western ideal, Kurtz, had become. Poisoned by the workings of Kurtz, poisoned by finding that the man he had grown to idolize had fallen, and what could make such a man fall... first he turns to attacks (for one way of resisting is to attack) and then he recognizes the darkness in the civility around him.

Then he fractures.

And then he breaks.

Without your television...

This irritates me.

I have anxiety issues. I've always had anxiety issues. It blows.

But it's usually managable. I usually can pop myself up at a computer and write it out, so it's all okay and I settle myself down so I look like a sane and stable individual even when my body is going OMG-FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT at me when there's nothing to fight or fly from.

I've been having issues with GV8.

No, not with him as a person, but with my ability to deal with him and his lifestyle.

I'm monogamous. I'm 100%, dyed in the wool, monogamous.

I don't even know if I used that saying right. It's staying anyway.

He's not. He's not polyamorous, either. He's a "I'm going to fuck who I'm going to fuck when I feel like fucking them" type of guy.

But because of who he is (personality-wise) and all the people he knows and places he goes, he ends up having sex all over the place, when he has the time.

It's one thing when we're in a controlled environment, at a swing club, and I look over to see him fucking another girl. That doesn't bother me. It's the clubs and the massage parlors that get me. Not just emotionally, but also on a health-level. I like being STD-free. I wish to continue being so. He has an amazing track record, but it only takes one idiot to start a wave of some random disease.

I don't know if I can handle that risk.

Physically and emotionally.

I want to feel like I can roll with the big dogs, and I usually do feel that way, but next to him I'm an untried puppy and I'm not sure if I want to expose myself to such a lifestyle, engage in those behaviors that I deem unhealthy.

And there's also the concern that, because of his experience, he's more educated than I am, so all my worries and concerns are passe to him because he knows more, knows better. That I sound like one of those kids that is all, "Use condoms when giving blow jobs because you might get the herp" or "Anyone with more than ten partners is a whore and probably has dozens of STDs."

...sigh.

Am I willing to give him up over this? Is this such a dealbreaker that I would go and toss aside all that he offers, on all the levels that he offers?

It hurts me to know that for his last relationship, he gave up intercourse (but not oral) with other people, but I cannot ask him for that. Not with everything that is going on. He certainly wouldn't give it to me, or if he did, I would feel as though he resented me for it. Which I wouldn't blame him for.

Not that we're even in a relationship.

...I'm heaving sighs over here, resting my chin on my left hand.

I told him yesterday, when he asked what I wanted to do when we met up for dinner and the like, that I wanted it mellow, and if he was able to hook up a TV in the new apartment (he's got a few places of residence), then it would be great to curl up and watch a movie with him.

So he went out, bought a $900 high-def flat-screen wall-mounted TV with the sound bar and the computer hook-up and installed it that afternoon. And then we went out to Best Buy and bought a movie, and he also picked up season one of Californication and Dollhouse for me.

Last time I was over there, the first day he had the keys, he bought a bed and assembled it and renting a moving truck so he could bring over two of his mattresses so we could sleep on it and together we set up the bathroom, switching out the showerhead, assembling the floor-to-ceiling caddie and putting up the shower-rod/curtain combo.

We have fun. We get along. We have great sex.

God, the sex this morning was amazing. Just perfect rhythm, perfect movement, perfect angle, with him holding my hands above my head and thrusting into me. Beautiful. Last night's sex was great as well. And the early morning oral session.

I met another of his employees last night. A beautiful, beautiful girl who used to be a major model in Europe, but just couldn't do it when she moved to LA, her look didn't work. She's gorgeous, pretty smart too. Her boyfriend isn't nearly as good-looking, but he's built.

Anyhow, that was a side-track.

I wish GV8 wasn't doing this. The year of partying, the year of weekly+ swinging, this whole club thing... I wish this things were somewhat remotely normal, at least for me. If things were just mellow. I don't want to party anymore.

And, you know, I'm even thinking that maybe, sometime soon, a relationship wouldn't be a bad idea. Not with GV8 necessarily. But if I could actually find someone that suited me... maybe. Maybe I could.

I could date GV8. I could do a relationship. But I'd need the sex to be just us, and he can't do that right now. Since my schedule has gone above the call of sustainable reality, he now fills the void that I leave with other women.

Can I do that?

Can I respect myself if I allow myself to remain in this situation that could be potentially harmful?

Can he even respect me, knowing I'm going against my instinct, going against what I know I need? Am I just placing myself in a situation that is going to end in a mental explosion on my part?

I talked with him about this a little last night. I'm not sure how he took it. He seemed okay, but I'm not completely sure. Earlier, as I blogged, he requested that he wanted to see more of me, see where we could go, so I suggested meeting up tonight, after my family stuff has ended. He hesitated. He told me he didn't have plans for the evening, but he wasn't sure. He totally withdrew and when I questioned him about it, he did not really give me an answer, so I am anxious that my talking about my concerns with him might have thrown him to the point where he needs to spend time away from me to think, or that he just needs to relegate me to a lover only.

I don't know.

I don't like this uneasy place we're at. We're not sure where we're going so I'm not sure if I should open up to him on an emotional level, or if I should keep myself emotionally separate from him, or what. There's something to be said for instinct, and mine says that if he wasn't going to be engaging in so much sex with so many people, we could work. But knowing that he is going to be doing so, my instinct says this is going to crash and burn, even if it's a controlled plummet, it's not going to be particularly good.

I have to take care of me first.

I have to stop being greedy.

I have to be willing to lose him.

Am I willing to lose him?

Often, people mistake submission for weakness.

Unfortunately for him, the man that did that today discovered otherwise.

It's easy to find females weak on a sexual level. Inexperienced, easy to control, easy to manipulate, to con into giving into your base needs, to guide with insults, to wreck and shape.

When I tone down my sexuality, beyond what it already is- I flag no one's slut-dar, it's easy to be lumped in with the rest. It's easy for a man to mistake me for your standard, inexperienced, unmarried girl.

Mostly, it amuses me. It lets me play with perceptions, it lets me educate.

And, sometimes, rare times, a man will look at me, and I will look at him while in conversation with another, and I'll know that he knows that we're similar beasts.

That does not occur often.

The shy men, the young men, the lovers of romance, the inexperienced boys, those I do not understand but will take time out of my day to pass on a little knowledge, a little experience so they're better prepared with the next girl.

The cocky bastards, the rutters, the asshole "alphas", the men who stride around and have the barest amount of sexual knowledge of a female's inner-workings, those are dinner. Those are who I exercise my temper on. If they show weakness, vunerability, if I wear them down, I will cease fire. If they don't, I'll go until they lose their temper, or until I determine that aggressive, objectifying sex is on the menu, then I use them and lose them.

Then you get your "doms". Those men, you know the kind, that strut around in leather pants with the lashes and whips clipped by the handful in carabiner's about their belt loops, their crappy boots (usually purchased at Ren Faires for as cheap as they can find), or you get the "dom" that is a single male, working his life away, no friends, who loves to visit the BDSM clubs and try to pick up an inexperienced, too-young, sub.

And the creepy guys, the ones that never learned game, that can only get laid by seducing young girls that don't know any better.

I, when mellow and withdrawn, attract the first, third, and fourth type.

But once conversation starts, the majority of the third and fourth bolt. Only the stupid stay, as the supposed brave do not exist in that category.

I know it was good for me, to release my anger like that, in a vaguely (not really) constructive way. To finally, finally, finally step out of my so-freaking-polite-all-the-time shell and just let myself be who I am.

I'm a beast.

The majority of men I talk to have the barest drop of experience compared to me, and they don't have the brain to do what I do. I can dance between roles and ideals without issue, can analyze, comfort, attack, and submit, can listen and adore. I can rip someone and their sexual concept apart, or help build it up. I know when I'm with someone that I'm the one in control because my control is near infinite when it comes to sex play because I have the experience and knowledge to back it up.

So it does not usually bother me when a man such as the inspiration for this post approaches me.

Until I realize what he is likely doing to other girls.

And then, then I lose it just a bit.

It's funny, now that it occurs to me. I was so very for the education and sharing of knowledge with others, with working with damaged, aggressive men that use and manipulate women to an unhealthy level.

But being exposed to Roissyism has near broken me of my need to be polite.

I feel like I'm all teeth and claws.

Should probably get this under control.

For you I wear my Sunday best on Tuesday...

I've been listening much too much to a particular De/Vision song called What You Deserve. For some reason, the lyrics catch me just right.

I was introduced to this song recently, through my clubbing friend.

See, a few weeks ago I was out at a club and this other song came on (don't watch that video, by the way, I'm fairly certain it's crap, but the song is good) and I was blown away by the beat. Much dancing ensued.

My clubbing friend, by my request (which was delivered when I saw him walking by the edge of the dancefloor, watching me dance, stopped, screamed at him, "WHAT IS THIS SONG?!" and he shrugged and I said, "FREAKING FIND OUT!"), got the song information and told me he'd burn me a CD with it on it.

The next time I see him, he gives me this CD which he turned into a mix CD of songs he could see me dancing to.

...I'm not sure if that's sweet or creepy. Currently going with sweet.

He does love to watch me dance.

So... maybe creepy.

It was bizarre, listening to that CD. Songs that had been my favorites months ago, years ago, and new songs. A wide variety of genres, too. Yet he nailed it, for the most part. It was a CD of club songs.

Started making me wonder how many days (weeks?) of my life, hours all added up, that I have spent on the dance floor in various clubs through Southern California.

I'm coming up on eight years of clubbing. When there is a "retro" room at a club, chances are that the majority of songs they are spinning are songs that I danced to in clubs when I was 18 or 19, when it was me and one of my closest friends out going several nights a week, coming back blasted out of our minds with exhaustion more often than not.

After I settled down with Stuntcock, then he settled down with his partner, then I escaped mine... it was just me, running solo.

But that's what I like to do.

Darkeyes and I went clubbing every week while we were dating, with him insisting on me teaching him how to dance, if he could ever be taught. His lack of rhythm and body awareness, and his complete inability to take criticism, no matter how well intentioned, meant that I was stuck with a clubbing partner who could not dance, who usually ended up injuring others with his dancing, myself, with all my years of learning how to dodge and move around others, included.

He was that bad.

How embarassing for me.

Anyhow, I went out to a club last Sunday, a big event. Showing up early and knowing people working the event led me to volunteer to help. So, for a good hour+, I was working the line at the door.

Yes, that's right.

I was an honorary doorwoman. I entertained myself in the wait by making sexist comments and making fun of the patrons. It went over oddly well.

After the initial crowd died down, I escaped the door and went to enjoy my evening.

Where some man tried to pick me up with the following line:

"Do you ever find yourself missing someone else's cat?"

...
...
...

This was followed by the worst physical escalation I've possibly seen in the last several years, which consisted of him leaning towards me (even though we were outside on the patio and I could hear him just fine), putting his crotch on my hip, his chest on my shoulder, and half-shouting into my ear about this cat and how I have to see pictures of this cat on his cell phone, which, against my protests, he showed me.

This was when I hunted down my still nickname-less clubbing friend and told him he had to play the role of boyfriend/lover until this guy got off my back.

Sidenote: I'm normally okay with telling people that I don't have interest in them and to cut it out, but some people are so socially inept that to tell them such things is to provoke an argument as to why they are unworthy of my interest. This was close enough to one of those men that I did not wish to do this.

Oh, and while I was running around dodging this guy, that guy I one-night standed last November was there giving me the eyeball and I was polite and fine until he spent the length of three songs watching me dance, making me wonder if he was going to leave another creepy voicemail on my phone with the message being, "Hi, I was... uh... watching you... uh... dance... and I was... uh... wondering... if you were doing... anything... uh... later tonight."

This, this is what happens when you pick up someone at a club. They might be good looking (apparently he was a vampire extra on the (second) season finale of True Blood , so, yes, he's hot enough), and they might past as socially competent, but this was fail.

Also, when a man keeps the used condoms because he believes in his pagan ways that consuming his own sperm is a way of cycling energy, you just leave. You go, "Thank you for an odd, odd, evening and for bruising my cervix but I am leaving you and your sperm-filled condoms here, good-bye." And then you run.

I mean, it's been coming up on a year now and he's still trying.

So I see him and he's watching me and I'm pretending I don't see him because I take my glasses off when I dance and, eventually, he realizes that I'm not going to be stopping anytime soon so he wanders off and I hang out for another song before stepping off the floor to find my friend out on the patio, who tells me he's not going to be joining me for out usual post-club dinner, and I'm walking with him back into the club asking why not and the one-night guy overhears us so I'm standing there going fuck-fuck-fuck.

Because, after ever club I see him at, he always approaches me to go home with him and I always turn him down because I have other plans.

This leads me spending the end of my evening (when I'm not dancing) clinging to my friend like his penis is the best thing in the world and no other will satisfy me.

While on the floor, the guy who tried to pick me up with the cat comment (and the conversation had continued from there), joins me on the dancefloor and says, "I'm going to blame (insert clubbing friend's name here) for this."

Just this obscure, flailing shot in the dark, declaring interest, nodding that he had been "defeated" by a better male, etc etc lameness.

So I looked at him with my best confused-blonde expression and said, "Huh? What do you mean?"

He smiled at me like I was a dope, this condescended grin, and said, "Ah, nothing," like he was the Most Mysterious Man In The World.

This was, mind you, after he saw me with my friend, which was before he decided to take offense at my inavailability and strut by me, then plant himself two inches away from me with his back to me, staring into space for a good three minutes before strutting away.

Men, men are morons.

While all of that stupid male crap was going on, I was running interference for my clubbing buddy, whose ex-girlfriend of four years decided to show up to the club with her new boyfriend (mmm, two day rebounds), which sent my friend into all sorts of emotional melancholy so I was running around checking on him constantly, harassing him, flirting with him, making fun of people with him so he'd keep distracted.

Along with the rest of the usual club madness. Drunks, staggering, dodging lit cigarettes, dodging morons on the dance floor, and then some girl taking to me strongly and wanting to dance with me and be all "oooh, lesbian sexy" with me which was... something I don't engage in. But then the DJ joined us on the dancefloor and she cut that out.

Interesting night.

Overly long, pointless journal post.

But at least I'm not saving used condoms for dessert.

Just realized...

I wanted to go over to C's place and write tonight. Not write about my growing (and probably hormonal-related) anger, but just write.

And then I realized that I feel that I can't write when I'm angry. I think it makes my words fall apart, that it kills my structure and makes everything look incredibly unpolished.

I can't write when I'm mad.

I don't know how to do it so I like it.

How odd.

It cripples me because I'm so not used to experiencing long periods of anger, and I don't know how to work with it aside from rant and rave. I don't know how to make it beautiful, at least to my eyes.

Huh.