Catch Up

I'm procrastinating so much right now.

But my internet palate has been mostly cleansed. Got out and about. Blogged elsewhere. New sites, new names, new faces. So I should probably give a quick rundown of the last two years. Who knows when/if I'll ever update this thing again.

GV8 and I broke up, as you saw.

 PD and I were having issues and broke up, finally, in April 2011. We're still best friends. Yes, I'm still in love with him to some degree. We're working on it.

In July 2011, I took a volunteer gig for a little over a week. I loved it. Motivated me to quit my day job (international logistics, if I never mentioned) and pursue my goals fully. 

Grad school started in August 2011. I'm halfway through now, and on my third semester. I think I'm going to do it in five semesters (total), if my current working situation continues.

 I spent, essentially, August 2011 to August 2012 being self-employed. Random gigs. Some of them were *really* random. I was a regular lunch date for an elderly blind man. A church-attendee delivery service. Accountant for a video game start-up. Flower delivery. Book editor. Trivia creator. Personal assistant. Tech consultant for the elderly.

And I started regularly writing for a pop culture news site. Had a weekly feature column there doing movie reviews, as well as the random interview. Got to meet some awesome, creative people and talk to them about what they love doing. Sporadically seeing one of them now, a very up and coming actor. Movie screenings throughout Hollywood. Pre-release parties. Comic-Con, up on the roof of fancy hotels. Sitting down with the cast of my favorite TV shows. Still doing that.

I get things in the mail. Books, movies, promotional items for various books and movies. Somehow ended up on the Paranorman mailing list. I now have zombie slippers and a toothbrush. (I squeaked when I opened that box.)

I occasionally worked as a runner and office girl for one of my favorite horror movie companies. It helped that I was banging their Marketing Manager, but the owner liked me, found me more professional than the others. More on him later, if I post again.

And, of course, the porn writing. I don't know if I ever posted about that. I write porn scripts. Parodies, mostly. For major porn houses. It's pretty fun. I get to go to set and watch porn stars act out my scripts, which is oddly gratifying.

I also finally tackled a dream I've had since I was a teenager: working a local Halloween event. It's a month and a half long. I applied for the 2011 season. My character? A murdered prostitute. It was perfect. Beautiful.

I'm doing it again this year. My location? The bedroom. It's dark pink and red, a four poster bed. My official station? The bed. Covered in blood, I get to roll around, stripper style. Grinding, dry-humping, moaning. Hitting on those who walk through. Inviting to threesomes. Distracting guests so one of my coworkers can lunge and roar. I work that bed like a god.

I wear dresses constantly now. Part of that job-- running into the wardrobe building and stripping as quickly as possible in order to not be late to my make-up artist. I started populating my wardrobe with pastels and brightly colored patterns, wearing contacts instead of my usual glasses. Curling my hair. Fucking with friends who haven't seen me in ages-- used to me in my dark colors and elegant lines. The upcoming winter means sweater dresses, and I love them so much.

Grad school has been good, too. Was pulling straight As, had been all through my pre-reqs until I made the stupid mistake of being overly honest with a professor about his teaching style. That turned into a B+. Occasionally I do childish things.

I went back to the volunteer job for 2012. It's a two week long event, essentially. While I was there, things kept happening. Promotions. Within months, through my doggedness in getting the prep work done before the event and willingness to do whatever needed to be done, I rapidly climbed. Soon I was out of the volunteer ranks and into a paid position, without ever having any intent of doing so. The event hit and it was madness.

I was overseeing a division of a little over 100 people with very little experience. But we pulled through and impressed everyone. A month later, another promotion, a salaried position with benefits. Flexible hours. I'm in the office a total of ten hours a week. I set my own home hours.

I'm a Director now. I'm 28. I'm overseeing four divisions with around 550-600 staff under me. Every year we pull together to make an amazing event that's attended by fifty thousand people. I'm responsible for about 85% of what they interface with.

We travel. I have to go negotiate with major, major companies whose names anyone would know. I'm going to Tokyo in a few weeks. Washington D.C. in January. Just got back from Atlanta. Will be going out of state constantly next year, doing meetings and networking. Another trip to Japan in the Spring.

I love it. It isn't where I expected to be, this time last year.

This time last year I was saving every penny for tuition. I'm halfway through my Masters and I still have no student debt. I'm almost done saving for the Spring semester as well.

Love life? I've been single since PD and I broke up. Not that there's been a lack of attention. Just a lack of anyone I truly want to date.

Sex life? I've got a lovely young man I call "the boy". He's a few months younger than I am. All blond Germanic heritage and features. Perfectly hung. Funny as hell-- I laugh so much when I'm with him. We play far too many video games together. He's got the old consoles, so I ordered a copy of Super Mario World for SNES and we're plowing through that.

He's my vacation from work.

He's also my pet project. 28 and, when I met him, had had sex with only two women a total of four times. Never had done doggie, never had gone down on a girl, never had sex in the shower, standing up, nothing. 

While I do love experienced men, I truly do, sometimes I meet someone who I vibe with who has no experience. Someone I can work with. He's one of them. I'm taking my years of experience and funneling them to him. Teaching him everything I know about sex, about getting sex, about psychology and attitudes and warnings. He soaks it up like a sponge, he's so quick.

There's been other guys. I ran into an ex from almost a decade ago. We're rekindling. That's a whole other story.

I was seeing a lifestyle businessman for a bit. Dom. Loaded. Gorgeous. Perfectly experienced. So very, very distant. Got old.

PhD student. Into rape scenes. The sex was great. He was kinda a dick.

Programmer/tech nerd. Wonderful sex, hung like a horse, fun to be with. Started dating someone.

The marketing guy from the horror company. Whole kettle of fish with that one. And by fish, I mean pussy. He was getting too much of it from too many places. Made me uneasy-- he kept banging crazies.

There's been others. I forget. Nothing serious.

Partner count, because some of you are so very concerned with that, is probably around 90. Still haven't been able to work it all out. Don't really care. The ones that matter, matter. The ones that don't, really really don't. I know there are things I've forgot to mention, but it has been a crazy couple of years. I'll bring it together eventually. Or I won't.

I'm the one in green. Being devoured by zombies. Like you do.

Going public, changing blog address, etc.

Well, this is six different types of sexy.

Purple is not my favorite color, by the by. Just happens to be what I liked for the website. I may change it in the future. We'll see what happens.

And, look at this, for about ten years now I said I would eventually get my own site, own blog, set up. Host it, run it, design it. And for ten years I never did it. A decade. Christ.

And here we are.

Feels anti-climatic.

Likely, just like everything else, because I built it up in my head as such a monumental task, that by the time I actually got around doing it, the technology had gotten so simple it was a matter of sitting down for a few hours and tinkering.

I'm still messing around with a few things, so there will be a few changes, I'm sure.

So you can find the new blog over here.

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

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

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

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

They didn't come back after intermission.

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

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

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

And we finally had anal sex.

It was... bizarre.

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

...that sounded odd.

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

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

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

Which is nice.

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

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

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

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

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

The morning was what got me.

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

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

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

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

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

It was pretty great.

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

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

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

Things are... kinda weird.

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

But he's got it down.

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

Never really thought that way.

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

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

So... a porn director?

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

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

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

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

Whenever I get close to that, I meet someone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm trying.

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

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

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

He asks which one, tells me to consider carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure enough, long trail of semen down his leg.

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

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

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

Okay, you've gotten to me.

Well, comment moderation is now on. Again.

I don't even know what to say.

I feel like my life has turned into this division of GV8-of-Christmas-Past and GV8-of-Christmas-Future. He's gotta have a twin. There has to be some evil twin running around impersonating him.

Or I'm retarded in my mate selection.

PD votes for the latter, I'm sure.

What am I supposed to say?

I am sorry things didn't work out. I am sorry it rapidly became impossible for us to stay friends. I am sorry that I ever argued that we fit, ever thought I could deal with a non-monogamous marriage. That was foolish of me, I did not know my limits.

But I'm not sorry for recognizing those limits and standing up for myself.

I'm not sorry for getting angry when I got the whole thing blamed on me, when you told me, "You never should have said yes if you couldn't accept the life I lead" when you had told me prior that we would play together, that I would have say if I was uncomfortable with a partner choice. Then, suddenly, it was like it had never been said.

I'm not sorry for going running to PD. I didn't touch him for weeks after we broke up, you know. He acted as a friend, mostly platonic, listening to me, letting me cry on him.

I'm not sorry I did not bury myself in grief, like I had done all the other times you left me. I got used to losing you, I guess. That final time, I think I was already burned out on the concept. It hurt, but not as much as it should have.

I'm sorry I idolized you. It wasn't good for either of us, wasn't healthy for the relationship, though I do not know if you would have wanted me if I hadn't been worshipping you like I did.

I'm sorry it apparently seems to feel like I used you. It was so awkward for me, at the beginning when we started dating. You would never let me pay for my half of the meals. I'd reach for my wallet, but by the fifth or sixth date, you started snapping at me, getting irritated, telling me that you would pay for my meals, that whenever you took anyone out to dinner, friend or more, you paid.

I'm sorry you thought so little of the one time I did pay for a date, when I took us out to Disneyland for a pre-Christmas celebration, took us to the overly expensive restaurant inside Pirates of the Carribean, that I had always wanted to eat at, and wanted to share my first experience of it with you. Being an underpaid college student, that date cut into my bank account a bit, but it was worth it.

Still is.

I'm sorry you apparently got so upset about Roman coming out and thought that his visit was for the sex, not the friendship. I thought that I had expressed enough that I wasn't comfortable sleeping with him since we were engaged, even though you said I should go out and have my last, unmarried, hurrah. He never did come out, you know. He felt he'd be adding to the stress and drama.

I'm sorry I wasn't more grateful for all your help and support when my family started breaking down in late December, and help moving me out of their place into my own. You were my hero, showing up with that trailer, helping drive and unload, helping me put better locks on the windows, taking me refrigerator shopping.

But how long was I supposed to thank you? I readily admit that I would have been paralyzed by anxiety and unable to do anything if you hadn't been there to kick me in the ass, like you did. You saved me, changed my life. You kept me stable when I was the only thing between my mom and a mental breakdown, my dad and suicide, my parents and divorce.

You did everything. You were everything.

What do you want me to do?

I know you're hurting, I know you're not over it. Neither am I.

I hurt. I've disconnected a lot, more than a lot, but I'm still a wreck in some ways. I'm twitchy, anxious, overly emotional. It makes me sad to think of how things changed, and I miss having you around to talk to. Miss the idea of the life we were going to lead.

But it wouldn't have been good for me. I wouldn't have been happy. Or you wouldn't have been happy. But since you definitely have the stronger personality of the two of us, it probably would have been me.

I know I've said some harsh things on the blog, but this is my space, a space you said you were not going to touch. You supposedly said you were going to ride off into the sunset and never speak to me again. But you're here. You're reading. You're commenting and fighting with my readers if they catch your comments before I get to them.

Fortunately, I usually get to them before anyone sees them. I check my phone religiously, even when I'm asleep, I'll wake up three or four times a night to make sure things are okay.

I know it's going to take time for both of us to get over what happened. I know it hurts. I know I spurned you and then I didn't suffer as much as would have been expected. I know I'm the only woman you've ever proposed to, and it's likely a bit humilating to have announced that someone had finally wrestled you down only to flee the scene, though I'm sure you came up with some story to tell those who were concerned.

But I'm just another girl. You're surrounded by them, and I know you had no problem finding a replacement bed partner when we split. And, I've been told, you said you never really loved me, just took pity on me or somesuch. Which stings, but I suppose that just means I was never good at reading you, and each time you told me you loved me, you meant it in a friendly way, not a romantic one.

Love is love, I guess.

I'm sorry I hurt you.

If there's something you want from me, some way that I am able to make it up to you, you have my email, you have my phone number.

You've always had those.

If there is nothing I can do to make amends for turning down a marriage that would have made us both unhappy, then please leave me be.

There's nothing else I can give you.

Well, I'm sick. Coughing in a very unfeminine manner, I'll say that much.

And I'm PMSing.

And I'm tired.

And PD woke me up at like, 3AM this morning with a sudden bout of penetration that left semen dripping out of me for a good fifteen minutes, tickling me as it ran along my skin.

So I came home, showered, received a phone call from C who was on my street and picking up a copy of a movie (Brick) and some vegetables who really had to pee, which meant I was running around my apartment dripping water everywhere trying to get dressed and let her in while her boyfriend was illegally parked so she could pee.

I had no idea how fast she could run.

And now I'm here, over-warm, slouching in an unergonomic fashion in front of my desk.

One of my friends and I were chatting today.

The topic rapidly turned to a variation of the usual: I'm constantly freaking myself out because I have this fear that I'm batshit insane. I drive myself crazy worrying that I might be crazy. And, on top of that, I worry that I'm just so smart that people around me have bought the idea that I'm sane, but if they really got to know me, they'd realize I was rather batty and promptly flee the scene.

Or, as the topic shifted, that I'm so convinced I have some major flaw that makes me completely unlovable once it is discovered. That as soon as someone gets to know me well enough, they'd, like mentioned above, bolt out of a combination of disgust, terror, and disdain.

Unfortunately, I am not sure what this major flaw is. My friend says my major flaw is thinking that I have some major flaw that makes me ultimately unlovable.

He said it was like a psychosomatic thing, except it should be termed psychopsychotic.

Which was quite witty of him.

He's a witty dude.

But he's not wrong. I do believe there's something quite wrong with me that makes me unworthy of another's romantic affection. I've been slowly getting over the platonic affection thing, so much better than I was. Don't know how that happened, only that it did.

Now, I'm all about self-improvement and growth through self-analysis. And I'm usually pretty on top of my whackjobbery. But I have yet to find something within me, some particular piece of myself, that I am socially suppressing through twenty-six years of training, to the point where I don't even know what it is, to work on. I don't know what I think is ultimately "wrong" with me.

Only that I think, on a very base level, that something is wrong. Massively wrong. Wrong enough that others would turn their nose up at me and trot quite quickly in the opposite direction.

Which makes me wonder where this came from, where it's going, and what I have to do to stop it.

Anyhow, my friend asked me to write a post about the things I like about myself. Which sounds kinda silly and like something Big Bird would ask Oscar the Grouch to do over the course of the episode. But when I thought about what I would say, I started either drawing blanks or waving away the things that would be considered "good qualities" as things that I was born into, things that weren't that difficult, things that didn't really matter to me as much as other people.

It was interesting to watch my brain balk when I tried to have what most normal people do: a passing level of ego.

Will have to work on that.

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

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

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

I used to have a lot of those.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was raised to stay by my partner.

Better or worse.
Richer or poorer.

My mother was raised the same, watched her mother stay with an alcoholic, verbally abusive husband, unemployed for years at a time, always keeping the bright side up. At his side, loyal to the end.

My mother married a poor bus driver, estranged from his family, with love, with faith, with trust that she would be happy, he would be happy, they would be happy and, together, they would make do, they would have a family and provide for them.

Through her support and love, his drive and brains, he almost made his ultimate goal.

And, he still might.

She stayed with him through all the fits he had. Stayed with him when his depression was so bad he would barely talk, barely function enough to put food on the table. Stay with him while he raged.

Stayed with him, even after he named her firstborn after a brand of auto parts. (Thanks, Dad.)

I was raised with the idea of unflagging loyalty, utmost trust in one's partner and the partnership that was formed.

When I headed out from San Francisco, the weekend GV8 proposed, I remember driving over the bridge, talking to him on my cell phone.

I asked him why he wanted to marry me, aside from his "I'm the whole package" schtick.

He said that we trusted each other, respected each other, that he saw my mother and father together and if I a) aged half as well as she did, he'd be thrilled and b) was just as loyal to him as my mother is to my father, that's what he wanted. And he said he knew I'd never lie to him.

Loyalty. Respect. Honesty. Graceful descent into old age.

Loyalty.

He brought that up many times over the weekend. That I was loyal. That my mother was loyal.

Most men, I know, would take that as sexual loyalty. A lack of straying. And maybe he did as well, as much as he wanted a sexually open relationship, I'd like to think that both of us were quite aware that I only ever need the person I'm seeing, only ever want the person I'm seeing, once I'm in a relationship.

He wanted my loyalty.

He had my loyalty.

But I still remember that dinner with my family, celebrating our engagement. I still remember him sitting there, big alpha dog, grinding in the point that he was now sterile, that my mother would not be having grandkids like she so desired. He wouldn't leave it alone. I watched the look of pain on her face. She already knew, I had already told her, discussed it with her. But he had to, I don't know, had to make it even more real.

Like a vasectomy wasn't enough.

When she walked away to get something, I asked him why he did that, why he wouldn't stop. He told me he wanted to make sure she knew.

Of course she knew.

Everyone knew. This had been discussed time and time again since he had his vascetomy while we were dating.

It did not need to be done. He was not the one who would need to do it, if it had been an issue. That should have been my job, my call on how to handle it.

My loyalty remains with my family.

And when some middle-aged punk decides to dismiss everything that I've written here because of a blog post done by GV8 when I finally had the realization of how unhealthy that marriage would be for me (and not just because of that small moment with my family) and publicly derides me for being a gold-digging whore, he can suck it.

I would rather be poor and scrambling for the rest of my life than with a man who would treat my family as such. Than with a man who would treat me as he ended up doing. Than with a man who would propose to me on my blog. Than with a man who would play headgames with me. Than with a man who would come into my private space and write a blog full of outright, no discussion, no debate, lies in order to fuck with something I care about.

Gold-digging? I wasn't raised that way. If I was, I would have stayed with GV8, no matter what the emotional cost. If I was, I would have tried to have a lavish wedding, instead of wanting to get married in a park with no guests but close family. If I was, I would have wanted some massive diamond ring instead of a simple gold band.

It doesn't matter what I do to some people, I know I've lost respect, lost credibility, lost trust with some of my readers. Hell, lost some of my readers, over what GV8 did.

I've never lied on this blog. Never intentionally misled. But that doesn't stop him from swooping in and doing damage. Hurting me for hurting him. As if he was the only person hurt in the whole debacle.

Doesn't matter.

Shouldn't matter.

When I told Rick how GV8 apparently wrote that I made him pay for every meal, he burst out laughing, exclaiming, "You?!" and falling back into laughter.

It's the people who know me, the friends I've had over the years, the ex-boyfriends, the ex-lovers, they know. They anchor me down to reality. They remind me that I am known to them, that my values, as odd as they are, are known.

I never thought my reputation would matter to me so much. But now... I know I have one. Where I stand, who I am, is known. And I like what is said about me, what is believed about me, by those who I keep in my life.

Loyalty. Family. Honesty.

I will give myself, I know this. I will give everything to the person I am with.

But now I know I have enough awareness to pull away when something will truly damage me.

I've been doing more watching than commenting lately on the evo-psych blogs (which is normal, really). There's been a heavy focus in the last week, heavier than usual, I mean, on female promiscuity.

I remember reading a post on the idea that sluthood was achieved when a certain number of partners was reached, and I commented that, no, there isn't a number. That I've met girls with a grand total of five partners that were sluttier than girls with a partner count in the 20s, or my "amazing" partner count in the mid-70s.

Derision followed.

So I sat there, staring at the computer, wondering why I was unable to communicate this simple idea.

Because, when it comes to sexuality, most people are very black and white.

And a person's partner count defines, of course, who they are. Like a character leveling up in a video game, achieving talents, experience points, whatever. An overarching drive to a universal idea of mega-slut that all girls end up at. That you can tell a girl's partner count, especially if it is high, just by interacting with her.

I've said this all before, in here and in comments on other blogs.

For many people, it is the behavior that defines a person.

Which I think is a dramatic demonstration of a lack of experience on their part.

I do not believe we are what we do. Which, I suppose, is very un-American of me.

I believe that what is more important than a behavior, or even a behavior pattern, is the motivations behind it. The psychology.

So when I've got some bitter evo-psych/MRA guy desperately trying to be a PUA so he can sexually validate himself in a display of anger telling me that since I have a "high" number I have poor impulse control and am doomed to failing relationships and dating the bottom of the barrel for the rest of my life, not to mention cheating on all my partners...

What a sad little view of the world.

I'm looking at motivations.

If someone has a high partner count and, for some bizarre reason that bothers me, I want to know why. I want to know if it is poor impulse control. I want to know if some tragic event happened that caused them to go on a sexual rampage for a year. I want to know if they just enjoy sex and are aware of safety and their psychological needs. Or six dozen other reasons for having a highly active sex life.

Not as excuses. I don't need excuses.

We aren't "excusing" behavior. That is saying that the behavior itself is wrong. I don't believe it is. I believe that there are healthy reasons and unhealthy reasons to engage in promiscuious behavior, but I do not believe I have the ultimate say (or any say) in letting another person know that what they are doing is Inherently Unhealthy.

I sometimes try to use myself as an example of promiscuity that was garnered due to my own psychological "needs" and "tragic" event circumstances, not as an indiciator of poor impulse control. I either get completely laughed at and called a slut (but, of course, only online... I can't think of a time in life that I've ever been called a slut) or told that I am the exception to the rule, blah blah.

The same crowds that dismiss my experiences as "an exception to the rule" also lump me in with the "sluts" and tell me that I'm "just like all the other girls".

It's quite sad.

I'm losing my need to interact with these people. I came into this scene with a desire to learn, grow, exchange ideas, expand my worldview. I thought there would be people there I could relate to, enjoy, sit around discussing the ideas of desire, of escalation, comparing sex stories, social stories, trying to be the best we could be.

Instead I mostly found a bunch of men of all ages, most of them bitter, most of them angry, most of them hanging onto this worldview they want so badly to be true so it confirms their behavior so they don't feel like losers, clinging to stereotypes for validation.

It reminds me of when I started at my college, working on my BA, so excited to be with like-minded people, with the same focus, educated, broad-minded, and I found a bunch of under-educated, unexperienced morons clinging to their upper-middle class WASP belief systems, wanting to be social workers so they could "show people how to live right".

So disappointing. So worthless.

I spent those two years with my nose in a book, writing my papers, striving towards a degree, understanding concepts that I had to sit and explain to those kids for hours because their brains could not wrap around anything but what supported their worldviews.

I don't need to spend my time around this type of people. I want to learn, I want to grow, and this, this isn't cutting it.

I'm taking my diploma and walking.