Pretty Girl

I'm in a reverse relationship. It's going from more serious to less. We started with sex and talking about living together, now we've regressed to holding hands. Not that I mind, really. No, that's a lie. I want him to touch me the way he can. He was just so tired. The lumber company is cutting down the old growth trees in a forest preserve, and Justin is frantic trying to save them. I am, unfortunately, somewhat apathetic. Redwoods are one thing, just another pine... it's not the rainforest. I do think the lumber people might be being a little... excessive... But it's not my thing. I can't understand how he throws himself on it.

Love. Maybe it could be. I miss the way he breathes next to me. There's a kind of comfort there. We both toss and turn so much that he sleeps only with a hand on his back, but even naked that hand makes me feel protected. Without it, I am naked. I don't know why I feel this way, I just do. He doesn't even think of me that often, I think.

Love. I've decided it's not an either/or thing. It's a spectrum. It makes me feel more comfortable. Not "am I in love?" but "how much in love?"

The answer: not enough. He is the sweetest man I have perhaps ever met. He brings me breakfast in bed when I am sick and I love the way his head touches my neck. He is gentle and passionate and bright eyed and joyful. A wonderful cook. One of the most intelligent people I've ever met. We can always talk about something. And he actually enjoys talking to me.

But currently, that's not enough to outweigh the fact that he is an unemployed drug addict. I am imperfect either, but I am too used to opulance. I am the kind of woman who would rather hire a maid than keep my room clean, and he consorts with homeless hippies and sleeps on not a bed, but a pallet on the floor. A true asthete. That and the distance makes any deeper relationship impossible, I think. If he gets a girlfirend while we're apart, I'm just going to have to accept it. And if I find a boy who is equally wonderful here...

Love. It could be possible, maybe, when I get a good job. I could work and he could do odd jobs and be a house-husband. Not that we're anywhere near that state, yet, but I was kind of raised with the idea that you shouldn't date seriously a man who wasn't worthy of marriage. I could work, and he could do his activist work, cook me wonderful meals, keep house. Could he be satisfied with that? To me, it seems a very plain existence, but maybe it would make him happy.

At any rate, maybe if I got an apartment in Seattle... something might be deeper. I wish...he were closer. We are very close. And I find myself happy when he looks at me and I cringe when he is gone. Is there anything else?

I made him ejaculate with my hands. He was embarrassed but I considered it a victory. It was just us. No roleplaying. No bondage. Just me, and him, and two pairs of hands and legs. And love.

9/04/05 -- Shopping

It's a sad thing when you have nightmares about your friends being happy. I dreamed that Jesse was getting married and he made me carry the ring for him. It made me feel sick and I tried to undermine the engagement. I am a jealous bitch some days. I can't guarentee I'd behave properly in real life, either. You can't help being who you are.

Nothing that can't be cured by buying myself a sweet new pair of high heels with blue, yellow, and pink flowers on them. They make my feet look like a million bucks. Not that anyone else will notice, but I like the way they make my hips sway slightly when I walk. What is it about women and shoes? Just a few years ago, I couldn't imagine having more than two. Now I can't stop buying them. Especially if they're black and strappy. I pretend I need them for debate, but that excuse is getting old.

I also bought a pink, fuzzy-cuffed sweat-shirt that my parents and brothers think looks like a dead animal. It's definitely something that requires...advanced tastes.

Unfortunately, I've been kind of sluggish lately. I should be writing, working, whatever, but just dragging myself out of bed seems impossible. I also have my third cold sore in two weeks, indicating that I've been overly stressed. Part of me wonders if Justin will even want to see me when I have a cold sore. Part of me wonders if he wants to see me at all. Really.

Tired

I've been on vacation. It's been fairly nice, but too much family time. I want to see my boy toy.

Meanwhile, I submit writing off to professional magazines with the sure knowledge that nothing I write will ever be strong enough. I don't know if that's a realistic perspective, but its there.

I'm looking for domanatrix stories. It's easier, somehow, to talk about these things with strangers than my own lover. Look up things on the internet where there is anonymity but also safety rather and admitting to him that I'm not as good as I think I am. Sexiness has to do with openness, I think, self-confidence and courage. At least, there are days when I feel good and the boys swarm around me and there are other days where I sit in a corner and nobody cares less who I am. And sometimes I prefer it that way.

But none of those webpages talked about hesitancy or transition. Nobody talks about the fear of hurting him so much that he'll never wanting you to touch him again. Hysterical, maybe, but I love the way he says my name and I don't want him to ever stop saying it just because I make some stupid, stupid mistake. It's odd. He's so tender and so worried that he'll hurt me, but it's never really going to happen. Physically, I have very little pain senstivity. Except sore muscles. I'm a wuss that way. But, on the other hand, I'm hysterical at the thought of being hurt emotionally, of even talking about the fact that I might be falling in love with him. In LOVE. What a stupid thought and a stupid thing to do. But I'm helpless. I lie awake, thinking of him, even when I know he has forgotten all about me. He has an odd shifting tendancy where he can go from a carress to a coolness that I don't understand.

For the submissive side, I'm surprised what some people let happen to themselves and enjoy it. I mean, uck. For them, it's about pain and humiliation. I think, for me, bondage is a kind of lovely thing because it involves being taken care of. Being the center of attention. And not having to worry about pleasing my man, because if I'm not doing what he wants, then it's his own fault for not telling me properly. The ultimate stress-reliever, just let myself fly.

I'd prefer thinking that's why I'm in to BDSM more than any other reasons, because they scare me a little. I don't like thinking that I was conditioned to like it but some half-remembered child abuse and too many nights of humiliation at drunken parties or in a jackass's bed who didn't like the taste of the word no on my tongue. I like that reasoning better than the idea that my self-esteem has plummetted so low I don't think I deserve anything but the whips and the chains. Or that my once-mormon sensibilities are so ingrained that I'm unable to feel pleasure except when I rationalize away saying its not my fault... I didn't want it but he tied me down and did it anyway. That's not really fair, of course, becasue anyone who knows me sees a woman strong enough to say no. He's always afraid of making me vulnerable, and I do my best not to laugh. He doesn't know where my vulnerabilities are. He doesn't know how much I hurt all ready because loving him or NEAR-loving him is an act of self-betrayal so deep I don't think the wounds will ever heal.

I'm worried I might feel undeserving. I feel intense longing for a guy on my debate team who's a complete jackass, and not very attractive besides. But he is very intelligent, well-read, an interesting conversationalist. And unflappably honest. He likes blondes with big tits and thinks all women are subserviant and all homosexuals (except for lesbians) are evil. He has little or no concern for anyone other than himself. He never intends to have a monogamous relationship and mentioned that any woman who slept with him would have to understand that. He's bedded prostitutes and god knows what else. He refuses to spend less than $100 on anything, from sun-glasses to a kitchen knife. He is also, I am sure, going to be very rich and powerful one day because he has a vast amount of talent to go along with his arrogance. Arrogance, sweet arrogance. For some reason, all of it combined is very intoxicating and I want nothing less than to get horribly, horribly drunk and have him fuck my eyeballs out in an explosive one night stand. It's the worst idea ever and I have tried to do my best not to even let the sentiment creep into my thoughts. How can I want a guy solely for being a jerk? I don't know, but I do. And maybe, part of me whispers, maybe, I'd just like to spend a night with him more than my sweet, gentle, talkative lover who I love but who is too gentle and too wide-eyed, bushy-tailed, innocent. And who is not a national champion and waves signs for a living instead of teaching LSAT classes and telling me stories about giving his prostitutes furs. How the fuck can I want to be his arm candy, to sacrifice everything I am so easily? It isn't fair. I must like hurling myself into self-destruction, I suppose. A tiny part of me coos and tells me to get it out of my system. Who's it going to hurt? At least this slimeball is a nice slimeball, after all, and is unlikely to shove your head into the sink for not pleasing him. A part of me wonders if it's just a last rebellion against my debate partner and my old boyfriend and all ther other people who were not suave and sohpisticated and were too damn shy and lied to me so many times about what they want from me.

Anyway, I'm going to see them both, soon. I really, don't know what to do. I was hoping this phase would pass after a couple of months. But no, it's been almost six. And I want and need lover more than I can say and I wish he could reach out and sense that and call me, but that's too much to ask. He doesn't need me at all. Maybe the slimeball is attractive because he needs other people to admire him. Justin is so self-contained, that I think he'd be mildly saddened by my leaving his life but little else. That's what hurts more than any whip.

How does a shy, quiet girl bring out the domme within? By finding pleasure in the dark side of the psyche.

Jesse is Still Gone

Emptiness. A wound. Without my studies to distract me it pulsates, obtaining vivid life in this overwhelming heat. I want to scream but there is nothing but silence and I'm kicking at the doors of impossibility. For some reason, it's the compliments that sting the worst, lately. Pat the child on the head. Such a pretty child. Such an intelligent child. So good at writing.

Fear grows inside my belly, gnawing through my disinfected seeds and leaving nothing but rot behind. There are scars and they itch so badly. Ironically, I am safer than ever, but there's not a moment where my heart is pounding hard. I didn't even realize until I got to Mike and Bekah's how little I was eating. Anxiety. Stress. Short temper. I ate a piece of fruit and called it a meal. To make up for it, I cram everything I can down my belly now and laugh a lot. Too much. I'm not funny, I'm hollow.

It's not until I got to Mike and Bekah's that I realized the hardest thing about losing you, Jesse. You were the only person I could really talk to about Mark. It's been a year and I'm better now but I'm still in mourning, whether for myself or for him, I don't know. I am battered over into fetal position by my own guilt, weighted down with enforced cheerfulness that tastes like vomit and too much blood. I ate with Mike's family and his brother was like Mark...young, skinny. A smile that flashed like lightning. Not at all shy, but I could sense the same desire for approval that he had. Pride. Amiability. He was the kind of boy who could get along with anyone.

I couldn't help but stare at him. The whole night, I sat and laughed with parents who could talk to their children, who did not sit through the enforced silences at dinner with the cold eyes of people who were waiting to die. I wanted to pick the boy up and hug him and squeeze him and never, ever let go. This one, I would protect. He would be safe from the world and nobody would ever hurt him. I wanted to carry him away to my apartment and let him play with dolls and tell him it was okay to have sex and be gay and cook and read manga and play computer games. I'd shelter him forever, love him forever. Come home and take him in my arms each day and each night.

Nobody else can understand my sentiments. Nobody else can feel the pain that rips through me when I see happy families. And oh, Jesse, I picked up a book today and the protagonist's brother is named Mark and he's been through so much and had similiar pains to my little brother. And then I started to cry and your shoulder wasn't there to hold me.

God, oh, God, who is there for me now? Mike and Bekah are ensconced in a world of happiness and hookahs. Of mothers who don't laugh at me when I say I'm scared to go out of my house because of the creeps waiting for me, in groups outside my door, teeth ready to eat me alive. There's Justin, who wants to take my brother to a mental institution and leave him there to rot. Who first expressed his feelings for me, by touch, when I was drunk and cradled in his arms. He sees me in terms more precious than I deserve and I can barely stand the way he loves me but doesn't love me all at the exact same time.

It's like I can't go on breathing, like there's no positive end in sight. My life has plateaued and I can't seem to jumpstart it. And I'm caught in the twisted infinity snakes of my own thoughts without you to break me out of it. I had to sit down and explain to one of my best friends who Mark McCain was for christ's sakes, and since you were the only one who could seem to rise me to passion, I find my intelligence undercut into discussions of sexual inneudoes or strangled up into realms of utterly useless philosophy. I am the void in between, alone, surrounded by people who I trust but not people who I can be myself around. For their sakes.

I went to Aaron for help finding a way to get away from the boys that pain me. He promised to call me back. He didn't. My first debate partner of the year wrote personal good-byes to everyone on the team but me. Because even the team ass-hole is worth talking to more than I am. Worth caring about.

And there's an imaginary world with a boy named Marcus who is too intelligent for it and too powerless and so he gets hurt. And his sister couldn't be there to protect him.

I am sending out my writing tomorrow to science fiction magazines. I am out of excuses. I'm hoping maybe a resistance against inertia will help lighten my mood.

There are people so much worse off than I am, but I can't help but feel bad anyway. Guilt. Scourging. Hopeless.

SSLF.

(Side-note: One of my friends bought herself a giant dildo when she's living with her boyfriend. Mike thinks her boyfriend must feel really bad about it, but I must wonder why. If you need a ladder to climb onto a roof, should you feel guilty about it? If your girlfriend is built so that she needs a little extra to reach orgasm, should you feel guilty about it? To me, it almost seems like feeling shame over your genitalia is like feeling shame over your race... it's not really something you can change without ridiculous amounts of plastic surgery.

I suppose, somehow, our society has bred into us a sort of sexual inferiority complex. Women feel bad for not being models, men feel guilty for not having big cocks. I understand a little more about the women because you're presented with it in every t.v. show and magazine, plus there are tools to help you do something about it. No matter what the ads tell you, a diet will not increase the size of the lower head. I guess that's one of the reasons I'm open about how I am. I am perfetly secure with how I look and my sex life (for the most part) my criticism is for myself on an incorporeal level. Thus, I can be open about who I am and what I like and that sort of thing without shame, but my feelings which I look at as intrinsically wrong even if I was born that way and its not my fault must be bottled up inside until they all explode into rants and sulks and sicknesses that take weeks to recover from. I'm just saying we all have our flaws, and I honestly don't think the tiniest penis in the world would drive me away. But I'm not most girls.)

Jesse is Gone and I have No One

My hands on his hands. My heart against his heart. I can smell him, still, Irish soap and skinny bleach and sweat after swordplay and the rasperries he ate on Monday.

He looks unruly. I stopped loving him loving him but I still do forever. His hands on my face, my thighs, my everything. There is nothing between me but me and the angels. There is nothing between me but darkness and the occasional silver flash of light.

Yawning pain. My mouth in my throat. He said he was glad I called. But he didn't say he'd miss me. We ate ice cream together. He had Wasabi ice cream. Who'd ever think that there was such a thing as Wasabi ice cream? He ate it covered with tangerine sorbet. I say sherbert, he says sorbet.

There's got to better way to deal with this than vodka. The potential lost, flickered out like a flame. I know him, he is not malicious, but he is forgetful. And he doesn't understand what he means to me, because whenever I tell him a little, he runs away very scared. My love is a horrifying thing.

I have his picture on my window but nothing else. Tango-dancing, this he left me. I helped him pack and I almost stole my favorite necklace of his, just so I'd have something concrete. Something other than memories.

Memories...
Boxer Shorts. A Debate Tournament. Settlers of Cataan. All-night gaming sessions. Masturbation. Scargs. South Park. John Stewart. A hidious stuffed frog. A couch that's soft and loverly. A pair of lightsabers flashing in the night. A back massage. A taste of alcohol. A stab of guilt. A rain storm. A birthday. Two birthdays. My love.

I hope I see him again someday. A part of me has been ruthlessly ripped out and I can't find anything to replace it with. I only saved myself from throwing myself into the nearest bar, onto the nearest man, by going to a friend's place and watching Cannibal the musical.

Maybe the worst thing is that I can't stop crying. It comes in waves. It's excruciatingly embarrassing.

I am an idiot.

Back to the nightmares, except now they involve him too, wheich is exceptionally hard. I remind myself when I wake up, clutching my blanket, that his eyes have never been anything but gentle and loving. He hasn't responded to my email.

My phone's broken. I feel so isolated. I want to play video games all day. I found some job postings and just need to start sending out my resume but it seems like so much work.

The thing I've learned about cooking is it uses a lot of stuff. For example, I'm out of flour.

I'm very tired. The summer workload has been larger than I expected and I'm having difficulty sleeping, partially due to Justin visiting. He came down for one very pleasant night in which he used some very dreaded words. "Relationship," as in "I've never been in a relationship that makes me feel this way." I didn't quite catch it at the time having had some very cheap, disgusting rum that made me want to vomit on impact, but ten minutes later it hit me and I decided I needed to disguss this when I was sober. Unfortunately, he took off at seven in the morning and it slipped my mind and I haven't talked to him since. I will soon, I'm sure. The first thing I am trying to determine, playing every word over and over again in my head, is what he wants from me. Originally, I thought it was only physical, but some things he said made me think he might be wanting more.

For example, he told me that he was thinking of me all day because finally he could be with someone who was intelligent, someone he could really talked to. My knee-jerk reaction was to scream at him for saying that but I checked myself. Just because that happens to be the subject the last jackass used to get me into bed does not mean that he doesn't honestly mean it. He also told me that there was "no one more important than you". That's not usually something I hear out of my fuck-buddies. But it hurts, because before it was just a physical thing. When he says sweet things to me, it opens up a floodgate that I thought I'd closed long ago.

And he was very attentive. I think he is the best lover I have ever had just because he is so very, very generous. And because I trust him, because I've known him for years, I can let him tell me sweet things and not be afraid.

But, he was also drunk (though not overly so, I didn't watch but I think he only had one or two beers at most) so maybe relying on verbal cues is not the wisest of things to do.

The second question is: do I want a relationship? That response is somewhat less complicated. It has been something like five years since my last significant other, and even if I don't want to marry the guy, he is one of the best people I've ever known and one of the best friends I've ever had. Since its long-distance, I don't really mind if its not a monogamous thing. I really do think the difference between us may be that he wants his body and I want his heart, and if I had that and could have the body occassionally, then that would be perfectly wonderful. My intuition says that he would be happier if we didn't call it a relationship even if it was. He really gets off on the idea that I am sexually promiscuous person, even if I'm not. He enjoys thinking that he's making love to an insatiable nymphomaniac, adores it when I tell stories about various women I've admired. What I haven't told him is that I haven't kissed a guy (or girl) in months, not since we last touched in November. Not because I haven't wanted to, because I have, but because I'm growing up. Drunken hook-ups are ceasing to have the same appeal for me as they once did. Frankly, the novelty has worn off. Can a girl be faulted for wanting a little more? So, I am a little worried that bringing up the idea of a relationship will end what we have now, which is pretty nice. When he comes in the door just to hold me, when he talks to me on the phone just to talk to me, when he didn't touch me sexually until I initiated it, until I was sure I knew what I wanted and wasn't confused anymore... all of this is something I've never had before. He would never hurt me, and he's not like my first boyfriend who wanted only the one thing, who refused to hang out or spend time with me unless we could mess around afterward. Who didn't stop when I say no. When I told Justin no, he stopped and never tried again. He told me he supported my decision not to have intercourse with him yet. What kind of boy is he? To not even argue about it?

Of course, he does have his flaws. He seriously never shuts up. I mean never. And it'sannoying because I don't like being drawn attention to when I can help it. I tend to prefer being wallflower, because if people don't see you, they won't call you names or hurt you. So, when everyone else is silent on the space of a tango floor, sacred and soulful, I lean into him and he is still jabbering about feet positions and balance and things. And he's overcritical of me because I'm not as activist-y as he is. I'm waiting for him to call me "little Eichmann." But those are really minor things compared to how wonderful he is. Intelligent, masterfully vocal, and...good in bed. And unfailingly honest. I'm not used to such honesty. It scares me a little. For instance, not many guys would say they have difficulty maintaining an erection usually but for you... "that's nice" I say, with a cough. And my random tendancy to invoke discussion of a boy's maturbation strikes again. Seriously, what is it about me that makes people want to talk about that? I mean, I guess it's complimentary being someone's fantasy, but ghlack. I can't control what I do in someone else's head.

Anyway. I thought I could mess with him and still just have a wonderful friendship but I realize that Justin is just going to have to be an exception to my normally restrained rule. It's understandable. This boy took me to my first prom. This boy was the whole reason I joined debate, because I saw him and fell in love. This boy broke my heart a thousand different ways when he told me he didn't think of me that way. Apparently a lot can change in four years. Apparently, I can't maintain this on a physical-level only. I thought I could, but if so I open a pandora's box of unwanted emotions. I've never been able to sleep well cuddled next to a guy before, usually I just prefer pushing him off to his side of the bed and letting me go my way, but now suddenly I feel like I can't sleep without his fingers resting lightly on my back, his breath tickling my neck.

All this after three nights? Is this depseration or the dreaded-L word (four letters, naturally)? Has my loneliness caused me to snap into a stalker?

I'm trying to be careful, really. One of the low points of my life was messing around with Jesse, leaving for a week, then coming back only to find him sleeping with his ex-girlfriend. For my best friend, I was just a sideshow. I was something to be ashamed of, a tool for a person when they get too lonely. Justin was my only friend-fuck who wanted to talk about it afterwards, who sensed my nervousness, noted I was wearing six layers of clothing the day after, and actually asked me if I was okay instead of running and hiding and pretending it never happened.

I think that might be the difference. It has nothing to do with the past but with his tenderness. It evokes things in me that usually don't come out, emotional sentimentality I usually try to suppress. So, my biggerest fear is that I'll go up to Seattle to talk to him about it only to find another girl in his bed making him feel the way he makes me feel. I'm trying to defned myself from that, but it's very hard to stop a free-fall.

I sent him a mushy/dirty email to see how he responded. It's the best way I can think of to send out a test balloon. I'm not sure what would happen if he rejected me twice, but I have the feeling that it really wouldn't be pretty. It seems ludicrous forming a plan of attack for a relationship, but I'm nothing if not a methodical bitch. The hardest part is framing the appropriate language. I don't want to come out and say, "I think that I'm falling in love with you," but sometimes Justin isn't so good with subtle cues. I think I'm going to play on it as fear of getting emotionally hurt. That way, if he rejects me, it'll be in the gentlest way possible, if I approach him when I'm most vulnerable.

I am a tactician: shock him into honesty, tremble a little while not looking directly at him, reward anything he says with a large, toothy smile so that any jeopardy to the friendship will be forgotten on the edge of a witty remark.

Why the hell do I always go for such nerds? What is it about trekkies that makes me go nuts, really, it's pretty damn illogical.

There's something in the way he says "Jenny oh Jenny oh Jenny" that makes me feel somewhat frightened. I'm not sure why. I'm strange in a multiplicity of ways. The good thing about this is it gets me away from my developing crush on my very kind, not-so-old debate coach, which is an awful, awful thing to have given the circumstances. Damn short Italians and damn tall Germans both.