The need.

It was efficiency sex. The kind you can only have when it's been too long and both of you know it. When the pleasantries are almost nothing but, since it's almost intolerable to keep your hands to yourself through drinks and conversation and the obligatory nighttime rituals. When neither of you can be bothered by worrying about how you feel about each other, and no one needs to say much of anything.

When every word you say only barely hides the innuendo behind it, because how could you possibly need to talk about anything when the only thing you can focus on is the need itself? The kind where when you finally start touching, there's an electric charge that doesn't disconnect, and just keeps running through your two bodies, feeding off itself to grow stronger.

Where a finger stroke is all it takes to completely void your mind of anything but the pulsating need to be filled. And a hand is brought to your neck, not bothering with a gentle caress but grasping on, hard, to bring your lips to the waiting pair, only momentarily shielding the tongue and teeth that now have you locked together.

And fabric rips, because you can't be bothered with buttons and zippers and propriety when your skin is this hungry. So nails find fresh, warm flesh, and lungs breathe in stolen air when they remember to function. You couldn't be untangled or properly identify which parts of what you're feeling are your own if you tried, but that doesn't matter for even a split second.

And you almost wince as you finally find the satiation you've been looking for - warm and hard and even better than you remembered. You feel more and more full, drop your hips lower into the sheets to raise them higher and feel it deeper...

So your knees are brought to your chin and your ankles are locked behind his neck before he even finishes sitting up. He leans down to you and his teeth find your bottom lip and pull and you breathe him in and for a moment make this stunning eye contact that bores into you somehow even deeper than he is, with you folded underneath him. You've lost agency of yourself to your desire and can't stop your hips from finding their rhythym with his. He pulls his head up as you thrust harder, and you swear you can feel it in your abdomen, but god is it fucking good. And so you raise your hips faster, and he matches your rhythym with increasing intensity.

Your nails dig into his thighs, and then you drag one hand up his body, shoving two fingers in his mouth. His teeth hold you tight as his tongue licks up and down and circles your fingers and you draw your hand out of his mouth still glistening with his spit. And without hesitation, your hand reaches between your legs, still clenched against his chest. He looks down at you as he fucks you harder and you rub yourself with your fingers, wet from him. His hand finds your neck, and he keeps staring into you as he tightens his grip. Your pulsing becomes more frenetic, raising your ass off his folded legs and slamming back into him harder and faster.

It starts there, as the muscles in your body tighten as the heat spreads from your pelvis to your thighs and abdomen, to your calves and your tits and your chest tightens as does his grip around your neck. Gasping and still holding eye contact, you can feel him slamming into you, harder and harder, filling what you both so desperately need. Finally, the heat spreads to your mouth, and you can't keep your eyes focused on this world as your toes curl and your entire body tightens itself around him, feeling him expand inside you, and everything just becomes heat and you don't know what you're saying but every part of your body is screaming at the same time, releasing everything it's been holding on to in one moment that rips through your body and tears into him, both of you lost to the need.

And everything you had been holding is gone, and neither of you can do anything but collapse onto one another, still unable to tell whose body belongs to whom. For just a minute, you lie there, quivering and afraid to touch but unable to disconnect. As your breathing slows to find its sync with his, you manage to look over at his face, shining with sweat but his eyes are bright and his cheeks are flushed. You manage a chuckle.

"Yeah, I missed you, too."

Hello Seattle

Play this:


Read this:

I was buzzing with anticipation the entire flight. Did this flight used to be two and half hours long? I swear it used to be shorter. It shouldn’t take me this long to get to you. Not after so much time. I guess, if you really think about it, it took me months – no, years – to get to you. So you can’t hold it against me that I’m so excited I can’t sit still. The poor woman next to me? Yeah, she might be holding it against me.

But I can’t manage to make myself think of anyone, or anything, but you. And I’m a terrible mess of excitement and nerves and desire and fear. And that fear kicks in more when our meeting doesn’t happen exactly like I thought it would. It was silly of me, of course, to want something so cinematic, but that’s what happens when I’m left with only my memories for four months. I get a little crazy.

The fear damn near takes over when you mention that the couch is available. My heart drops to the ground floor of your swanky apartment building. But before I can gather my thoughts, you point out that your bed is available, too.

And the way you say it, I remember that you’re just trying to be careful with me, not presumptuous. Of course, when it comes right down to it, you probably aren’t presumptuous enough if you compare it to the thoughts running through my head. So we pass some more pleasantries, and finally find ourselves in your bed. And that’s when it starts.

The next four days are a blur – a medley of your hands and your lips and your legs and your smile and the intensity you exude. I catch myself in disbelief every time you take my arm as we steel ourselves against the damp cold. And that cold isn’t anywhere near as pervasive as I remember it being. In fact, this city, which I was so ready to escape from, looks completely different when I’m looking at it standing next to you. Maybe it’s because you bring out the best in me and don’t allow me to fall into my pessimistic cycles… As if I could around you.

I can hardly recall the details of how we spent our time. But I know that I learned so much more about you. And I learned that you’re human. Which sounds silly, I’m sure, but it was important for me to be reminded of that. The funny thing is that realization, that fall of the idol, for lack of a better term, didn’t make me want you any less. In fact, it reinforced everything I thought about you.

And the balance we achieve when we’re together is incredible. I’m less neurotic, and you seem less hesitant. I love seeing your life, and pretending, even for those few days, that I’m a regular part of it. I love watching you play while I sit curled up on your giant chair with a glass of wine. You’re majestic, you know.

Somewhere between your arms around me as we fall asleep – and I love the tiny noises you make in your sleep – and the look on your face when I finally convince you to open your eyes, and you stretch your gorgeous body just to wrap it around mine again, I know. Somewhere between your kisses in the elevator, and picking out cheap wine at Trader Joe’s, I know. Or maybe it was somewhere between the waterfront and looking for your name on the tiles of the marketplace, I know. I may never be able to put my finger on the exact moment, but by the time I’m forced to get on a plane and leave you – with tears running down my face as I listen to the music you added to my playlist – I know.

I know that this – that you – are something incredible. I know that this will be different. I know that you are what I want – what I need – in my life. And I know, strangely enough, that neither of us are going anywhere.

Coming back

I've been away for a long time. From this blog, but also from myself. I've been trying to balance the person I'm becoming with the person I was, with the person I want to be. And that's been hard.

But this morning, I feel like my old self again.

I remembered what it was like to wake up in the morning next to someone, memories of the night before still fresh in your mind. I remembered what it felt like to feel insatiable - that writhing, grasping, gasping mixture of pain and pleasure and desire and sweat all mixing to produce such a potent and poignant high that you can't focus on anything but the hands and mouth and skin roaming freely over your body.

And the fingers intertwined in dark hair, pulling my head back to bring exposed teeth to bite down on my neck, harder, harder, dear god please harder. And the growling, scratching, pulling as my hips move of their own accord toward what they clearly want and need fuck me please fuck I need you.

And the blue eyes staring into mine staring back - hungry, starving, for the escape of release. Or the open hand, brought to my neck and up towards my chin, just enough pressure to leave me gasping and dripping. And then back to a mouth on mine, biting, pulling at my lip, then slowly moving down past my collarbone, following my breath to my breasts, as a hand moves down to my hips, still pulsing methodically. So then the tongue follows and I have nothing left to fight with as the world closes in around me and we are all that exists. Until I finally can't take it anymore and you look up at me, smirking and content, and my head is spinning and my breath has left my body and all I can feel is you.

Or the sounds made as my hips move, circular, forward and back, up and down, my breathing in time, your sighs and moans and hands and body underneath me getting me higher and harder. The fingers pinching, scratching, taking a handful of my breast as another set finds its way to my pelvis, and my motions become more urgent. And then the hand on my face, pulling me down to your face as you whisper "bite me. scratch me. harder!" and then my hips move faster as our breathing gets harder and your hands on my hips gripping tighter until we finally collapse, exhausted and glistening and panting and very, very happy.

"Holy shit. We've gotten much better at that," I say.

the thing about rape culture...

This morning, my real life and bloggy friend Champagne and Benzedrine posted this article about rape culture - something he'd previously argued was, essentially, not as existent as many people claimed it was. His post essentially reversed his previous argument, conceding that perhaps he just hadn't been aware - or even able to be aware - of just how prevalent rape-culture is. But this is the graf that really got me:

Now, I'm too unevolved to start burning my bra or joining in any marches - but considering that I take certain jokes personally (like cracks about having ginger hair) it made me realise that it must be pretty rough to be a woman who's been the victim of sexual violence when it seems like the entire world (including plenty of other women) are making light of your experiences.

I was going to leave a comment, but then I realized it would probably turn into a post-sized rant, and, well I haven't written here lately, so I thought I'd take the inspiration and motivation and run with it.

I wanted to start off by thanking C&B for being willing to look at the issue through a different lens. And being able to recognize the types of unique sensitivities we all share. For example, I can't especially relate to being discriminated against or made fun of because of my hair color or complexion... My hair has always been blonde-ish brown, my eyes are hazel-ish, and those features are particularly unremarkable. So the best I can do to relate to C&B's offense at the "ginger" crack is to sympathize. But, of course, that doesn't mean I can't relate to other instances of being made uncomfortable by something "The Majority" finds hilarious.

Like rape.

Amanda Hess over at The Sexist (which, by the way, if you don't read, you SHOULD) posted a great deconstruction of rape culture and how it gets perpetuated and avoided by "bros" who don't consider what their buddy did rape. She phrases it especially in context of college life, and I think that's an apt placement. (Not, of course, that rape and rape culture doesn't exist outside college, but I do think the macho-fraternal camaraderie that many college atmospheres evoke does make such things more prevalent... or at least more evident.)

I just graduated from a relatively prestigious, four-year university. A big school of about 20,000 students, on the East Coast. As a journalism major with a minor in LGBT studies, I wasn't exactly the most involved with "stereotypical" college organizations. I ran the campus alternative magazine, spoke on my LGBT studies program, and never once attended a Greek function.

But all of my friends were dudes. And I do mean ALL of them. They kind of came in groups - there were my fellow journalists, my fellow LGBT people, the musicians, and then, oddly enough, a group of frat boys. Only a few of them were actually fraternity members, but they all lived together in this house that could have passed for an Animal House soundstage.

So, what I generally considered boyish "bathroom" humor often prevailed. C&B mentioned in his post that perhaps he just wasn't really able to be aware of the so-called rape culture because he isn't a woman, and hasn't been a victim of sexual assault.

Well, here's the thing: I'm both.

While none of my friends in school ever assaulted me, (most never even drunkenly hit on me,) the prevalence with which I heard jokes about rape was shocking. Literally, there would be jokes where the punchline essentially equated to "then she got raped!" hahahahah! Of course, the instances weren't always so obvious, but there was an insane amount of victim-blaming, apologism, and minimizing or dismissing of the experience.

This Boy's Club mentality - along with the "boys will be boys" excuse - absolutely aids in the creation of a rape culture. I won't say it's entirely responsible, nor will I even say that every person who makes or laughs at a rape joke is a rapist. Also, for the sake of argument, I know here I'm speaking in pretty strictly men-are-the-rapists, women-are-the-victims dichotomy. I am all too aware that is NOT the only scenario in which rape happens. But that is my personal experience, so it's what I can write on.

But there's another side of the rape culture that doesn't get discussed as much - the effect it has on the survivors of sexual assault.

I was raped a long time ago. The experience doesn't hang over me anymore, and while it will always color my sexual experiences, I haven't had a flashback in a long time, and I'm not afraid to walk downtown anymore in the areas I know he used to hang out in. But every time I hear a rape joke, it does bring me back to my own experience. Not in a crippling sense, but it's a reminder, and not a pleasant one.

Now, compound that with the fact that I DO NOT laugh at rape jokes. I think there are some things that are never funny, and rape is one of them. But when you're sitting in a room with 10 of your guy buddies, and someone cracks a joke and rape is the punchline, and they start howling, what do you do? My inability to laugh when everyone else was busting a gut just drew more attention to my discomfort. A few times, someone actually called me on it. Asked why I wasn't laughing. And what the hell do I say there? I'm certainly not about to tell a room full of people that, oh yeah, I was raped, so I don't think that's funny. (Although I just told the entire interwebz, but I suppose that's the benefit of blogging anonymously...) My usual response was to get defensive and get up on my soapbox, talking about how rape is never funny, and maybe even mention rape culture... Until I'd get cut down by the Boy's Club collectively deciding I was too sensitive or a bitch or a whackjob or at the very least killing their buzz.

So the conversation would move on, and I would feel terrible, all over again. Because it was like my experience - regardless of the fact that my friends didn't know about it, and certainly weren't trying to hurt me - had just been minimized, trivialized and dismissed. Again.

Often, when we talk about rape culture, we talk about the fact that it perpetuates rape. That it creates more victims by blurring the lines between what is and is not rape, when really, that line is pretty fucking clear. (For the record: No consent? Then it's rape.) But it also minimzes the experience of those who have been assaulted, while simultaneously reminding them of that trauma. Which, if you ask me, just perpetuates the damages, and makes those wounds even harder to caulderize.

my feminism trigger

I'm not a feminism apologist. I don't feel the need to assert that "oh, no, I'm not a femi-nazi" before I say anything regarding equal rights for women. Still, I've never really considered myself a feminist. Because, frankly, that's never where my real passion for equality has lay. I've always been passionate about lgbt rights (perhaps as a reflection of which of my own personal identities I take to be more prevalent or important... I don't know.) (Although in a chat a few nights ago, Nonboyfriend's girlfriend pointed out to me that she's always considered me a feminist precisely because I was so adamant about queer rights. She considers them inherently connected, and I think there's something to be said for that... Aside from the sometimes stereotypical feminist disavowal of automatically equating feminist with "man-hating dyke." But that's a whole other post.) So for something to trigger my feminist rage, it generally has to be pretty agregious. Or at least really, obviously, patently sexist.

Which I encountered this evening.

I was pulling into the parking lot at my neighborhood Target. The parking lot was somewhat busy, but my mom's boyfriend (the only other person in the car with me) noticed a spot in the aisle over, so I went to homestead until the SUV parked in the spot finished backing up. Because of the location of the spot and the terrible turning radius of the car I was driving, my first effort at pulling in placed the car diagonally across the spot. (I am admittedly terrible at parking in normal spaces, though I'm an EXCELLENT parallel parker... which is weird, I know.) But I knew I was going to have to back out and 3-point the turn, essentially. So I put the car in reverse but kept my foot on the brake, and looked behind me, and checked both mirrors. On my left, there was a cop SUV, patrolling the lot, but waiting for me to finish adjusting the car before he passed me. On my right, there were two pedestrians who had stopped, a car away from me, to let me continue readjusting. So I pulled the car halfway out and back into the spot significantly straighter. (But still not in the center of the spot. Because, literally, I'm incapable of it.)

And as I got out of the car, I noticed the cop was still idling directly behind my car. With his window down. I made passing eye contact, but didn't really pay any attention. Until he called out at me from his car.

"Hey there, you be careful with those pedestrians, OK sweetheart? We wouldn't want you to hurt anybody."

SWEETHEART?... Sweetheart?! I just stared at him, flabergasted. "Yeah, uh, can do," I managed, without any intonation.

"OK, well just be careful, honey."

I didn't look back as I speed-walked to the door, but my mom's boyfriend pointed out that the slimeball stared at me all the way to the door. As soon as the door shut behind me, I started muttering "Sweetheart? I'm not your fucking sweetheart. Don't fucking call me sweetheart."

Now, I realize this doesn't carry over as well in text, because I can't get the proper inflection. And his words, if they were said differently, could have been a simple caution. (That I didn't need. As I'd checked for pedestrians before I had pulled back out, and even made eye contact with the ones who were clearly waiting for me to finish parking before they walked behind my car.) But this wasn't polite advice. It was the condescending, you-clearly-don't-have-the-mental-capacity-to-comprehend-parking-a-vehicle-because-you-have-breasts kind of tone.

I'm not sure I should need to mention it, but just to prevent trolls, I was wearing sneakers, jeans, a knee-length white peacoat and a mid-cut v-neck sweater. Definitely NOT overtly sexy or inherently bimbo-esque. (As if clothes were a determination of intelligence, anyway.)

But I was steaming about the "sweetheart" comment for a good few hours. I've cooled down a little, and there's a possibility I was being too sensitive... But I was genuinely offended. I haven't had anyone speak down to me like that in a LONG time. And I've been going car shopping lately... which, for my female readers who've done that, I can imagine you know what a point of reference that is. It was just so blatantly condescending. And yes, it DID feel like it was related to my gender. Admittedly, had he not said "sweetheart," I likely wouldn't be so put off. I still probably would have thought it was probably unnecessary to roll down his window IN THE SNOW to caution me against something I wasn't at risk of doing, and might have grumbled a bit, but you likely never would have heard about it here.

So, THAT'S what it takes to pull my feminist trigger.

/rant.

I should tell you...

I've talked about my Ex by several different names on here. He's been a kind of supporting (or not, as it were) character in the background of many of the experiences you've read about here. The short history - we dated for five years... All through high school, and then for our freshman year of college, for which we went to schools on opposite coasts. We went to a tiny high school where, by virtue of his being utterly likable and my throwing nearly every major party anyone in our class or below went to, we secured a tight group of friends. Many of those people both of us remained close with.

Which of course, made it that much more awkward and painful when we broke up in a BIG way at the end of our freshman year of college. He was the one who ended things - at the time I believed he left me for someone else, and I did, in fact, know who it was. In retrospect, I saw it coming. We weren't right for each other, but he figured that out LONG before I did.

And so we've spent the past three and a half years, essentially, discovering new ways to hurt each other - also known as "being friends." We both took our turns doing and saying terrible, cruel, inhumane things, that managed to affect not just one another, but our mutual friends, who grew to make concerted efforts to keep us apart when we were in the same state. Almost a year and a half, I was in rare form (or not, depending on who you ask), and confessed to him that I'd cheated on him back in high school. I'd like to say I did it to try and make myself feel better or in the interest of honesty, but really, it was my drunken, still-heartbroken last-ditch effort to make him hurt as badly as I did.

Near as I can tell, it worked. There was a single email exchange wherein we decided that we were not going to speak to one another again. We were both still angry and hurting, but it was probably one of the healthier things we'd done for each other since we'd broken up. It was three years almost to the day after he left me.

And we didn't talk. Or see one another. Or communicate in any way. Our friends were already used to avoiding the subject of each other when we were around, but even that became more pronounced. I moved on, dated a few people casually - some of whom were good to me, like Nonboyfriend, some of whom weren't, like Edward. My ex didn't cross my mind much.

And then, this summer, tragedy hit our circle of friends. Without going into private details, a terrible, unfair and unexpected thing happened to my best girlfriend, C. The Scientist and I, specifically, threw as much of ourselves into caring for and loving her as possible, and to her credit - she is astoundingly strong. I'm confident I could not have gone through what she did with such grace, maturity, perspective, and strength.

About a month ago, things culminated in an event that saw all of us who love C together at her house to support her. My ex (again, a good friend of hers) had been flaking on his friends back home, and, in all honesty, I think he was guilt-tripped into it. It was a deserved guilt-trip, though. He should have been there for C all along, but he absolutely needed to be there on this occasion.

Which found both of us back in town. In the same house. Together. I knew he was coming, and I also knew that this was neither the time nor the place to deal with any lingering issues we had. I knew why I was there, and it had nothing to do with him. Besides, I didn't have anything left to say to him.

He came early and I was the first person he saw. He quite literally froze in the doorway. He paled, and I swear I could hear him swallow from across the room. I looked at him, said "Hi," and waved. "Uhm, yeah, hey," he managed, a stiff arm and twitchy-fingered wave complimenting the awkwardness. Throughout the afternoon, he and I were pleasant with one another - I started a conversation or two with him... Just pleasantries. But I think we were both impressed at how we were able to BE so pleasant with one another. I found myself almost enjoying his company. Well, at the very least, not minding it.

As the evening wound down, C asked her friends to stay and party with her. Of course, we would have done anything for her, and this was hardly a stretch for any of us. We ended up going to a concert - C, her boyfriend, The Scientist, myself and my ex. We eventually convinced Nonboyfriend and his girlfriend to come down to town as well, because the occasion called for everyone to be there. (C, the Scientist, my ex and I all went to high school together, and the Scientist, Nonboyfriend and my ex are childhood friends, so Nonboyfriend had been incorporated into our circle early in its creation.) We all had a great time at the show, dancing, letting go of whatever we needed to.

At one point, as I was dancing, I took a step backwards and accidentally backed into someone I didn't know. I turned around to apologize, and the guy started hitting on me. Asking me to dance with him, what's my sign (seriously? people still use that?), and I tried to politely decline, telling him I was just there to be with my friends. He didn't go away. He wasn't doing much more than invading my space, but my ex caught my eye, dancing maybe 10, 15 feet away from me. He mouthed "you OK?" at me, and I kind of shrugged and made an "eh... uhm... sortof..." face. Before I could do anything more, my ex was next to me, put his hands around my waist, and pulled me to dance with him. The other dude vanished into the crowd. And I stood there, rather dumbstruck, staring at my ex. I managed to thank him, but I don't think I communicated how genuinely touched I was. I know looking out for someone in the group, protecting them from a creeper, is pretty standard friend behavior, but for my ex and I, the interaction was the friendliest, kindest we'd treated each other in years.

As the concert ended, we took several cabs to various places, some of us stopping at cars on the way, then all of us ending up back at Nonboyfriend's house. For a portion of the trip, it was just my ex and I in his car, after we'd dropped off C and her boyfriend so they could go in their own car. There were some awkward silences, but we did agree that it was, surprisingly, nice to see one another. We both seemed scared to make that assertion... like it might ruin the good we'd managed to accomplish that night.

But back at Nonboyfriend's house, my ex began playing guitar. And I realized he was playing songs that used to be ours. The rest of the group trickled back into the house, leaving just he and I on the patio. Him still playing guitar.

And then we started talking. The conversation started off slow, hesitant, cautious. But soon, it became open, and honest. He started the conversation. He looked at me, tears in his eyes, and said "It killed me, to not speak to you for so long. I hated it. I tried to be angry at you, I really did. But I can't. You are such a part of who I am, and that will never change. You ARE important. You always have been." It broke my heart and healed it all at once.

We kept talking for almost an hour. There were tears shed, but I think more than anything they were a form of release. The most amazing part was that there was no anger. I think we've finally used it up. We were able to talk about what had hurt us, but also what was good. We were able to appreciate how utterly and completely and honestly in love we were with one another... once upon a time. And we were able to move forward.

He hugged me several times that night. And it was good to be back there, my head buried in his chest and his arms wrapped around me. It was sincere. It was necessary. But it wasn't inappropriate. There is no romance left. The fire that once burned so bright for him nearly consumed me... and now all that remains is warmth.

I can finally truthfully say that I no longer have any ill feelings toward him. There are still traces of the boy I fell in love with almost 10 years ago inside him. I needed to know that. I can look back on what we had fondly and without pain. I can wish him well and happiness with his girlfriend, and mean it. And I can mean it when I tell him I'm looking forward to seeing him when he's back in town.

So while I've called him many, many things over the years, and even over the course of this blog, really, the way I should refer to him is as my First Love. Because he was. And he deserves all the import that title commands. Part of who I am today is because of him, and that experience will always be a part of me.

And, finally, thank god, I no longer resent that fact.

"I should tell you

that you were

my First Love..

So it's Christmas time,

It's been three years

And someone else is knitting things for your ears

I have come to know I'll only see you

Interrupting my dreams at night

But that's all right

That's all right

I should tell you

that you were

my First Love

And it's all right

And it's all right

We were seventeen again together,

We were seventeen again together,

We were seventeen again...together."

Captain Queer strikes again!

As I had previously discussed with The Scientist, I tend to have some capacity to, uhm... queerify my potential partners. I discussed it with him in the sense that I'd just hooked up with his best girlfriend who had never hooked up with a girl before. And I tend to find myself in threesomes... frequently... with two straight men.

Not the same two straight men, mind you. This marks the third different MFM threesome I've had. This year.

God, I love my life.

Which was, incidentally, exactly what I said when I walked back into my bedroom after my two boys and I had gotten back to my house and I'd excused myself to the restroom, as I opened the door and saw them both there, completely naked.

Yes, I have a very lovely life.

The night was an entirely random one. I went to dinner with C, came home and bought Bear a plane ticket to come visit me (huzzah! less than a month!), then was wanting to go play, but no one was around. Which is when a random old friend, who I haven't spoken to in at least two years, facechatted me. And we discovered we live about 10 minutes from each other. And made the executive decision that he and I were going to get drunk together.

He got to my place quickly, and I don't think we stopped talking the entire way home. Or for the stop at the grocery store. Or the liquor store. He was adorably excited, and there was gushing on both our ends. His poor boyfriend must have thought we were cracked out or something. We were just...buzzing... together. It was a blast.

We mellowed as the rum kicked in, and I got a chance to know his boyfriend better - and even bond over some similarities we have. We're the same age, and, oh, are both into BDSM and are total subs. It was one of those kind of nights where nothing is taboo. I loved it.

Eventually, a few of his boyfriend's friends came over... they had asked his boyfriend earlier, apparently, if there was REALLY a girl over. His boyfriend said "Yes, I promise, there is a girl here." By the time the friends got there, I was just drunk enough to introduce myself by saying, "Hi. I'm the promise. AKA Sasha." I thought it was funny, anyway.

I'm not sure it was ever really discussed, but rather it was just assumed from the time the friends walked in the door, that the two of them and I would all be sleeping together.

I didn't have a problem with that. Clearly, neither did they.

I don't know if the two friends have had a threesome with one another before, but they certainly acted comfortable and smooth enough around each other to make me wonder. They worked me like they knew what they were doing. But then again, I let them work me like that. I knew exactly what they were doing.

I knew what they were doing when one of them leaned in to kiss me while we were standing alone in the kitchen. I knew what they were doing when the other came in and found us kissing. I knew what I was doing when I stole away with the other and kissed him on the patio.

And I knew what we were doing when we all decided we were going back to my house.

"God, I love my life."

They both smiled at the comment, pleased with themselves and my reaction, I think. I barely had time to process their reactions, though, before they were both on me, damn near ripping my clothes off.

I will never get tired of the feeling of having so many hands on me at once. No two people's touch is ever quite the same, and, yes, the exhibitionist in me really enjoys it. Also, I've picked up quite the appreciation for naked skin from Friend (and others, but he and I talk about it regularly), and this is just such a delicious way to feed that hunger.

There is much more to be told about the night, of course... But I did get some fantasies fulfilled, which is always excellent. (Aside: I'm going to need to make a list of fantasies I've had fulfilled and which I haven't... I think the former list is longer. Awesome.) Check for details in upcoming product reviews - I do so appreciate when guys aren't intimidated by toys. In fact, that was part of our motivation for going back to my house - I was bragging about my toy collection.

God, I love my life.

Hungry eyes..

No, not the Eric Carman song from Dirty Dancing. Although now I need to go listen to it or watch the movie. Anyways. On to the actual point.

Last weekend, I finally got a chance to see T and his partner, A, again. For those of you just tuning in or without your Sasha's-ridiculously-complicated-relationships Map handy, I met T and A at Thunder last year. A played with Essin' Em, and I played with T. It was my first time playing with a relative stranger in any kind of public setting, and I couldn't have asked for a better escort into the scene. Of course, at the time I was just astounded by how compassionate and kind he was in his aftercare and beyond - I didn't realize that a year later we would still be in touch and he would still be unofficially escorting me into the world of kink.

I hadn't seen T since Thunder (except for a few minutes when I stopped by his work a few weeks ago when I was in town. Which is not as stalker-y as it sounds, I promise, because...) but we had been keeping pretty regular contact with one another. Periodic text messages, emails and facebook pokes. He had invited me to several play parties he and A were hosting (at a local bdsm club) over the past year, but the timing has always been off. Finally, it wasn't.

The theme was pirates, and, well, you know me, I just can't resist a good pillaging. I went in early to help T, A and some other volunteers set up the space. In addition to going because I was invited, specifically by A, I also hoped that by going early to set up it might help me break the ice with people, since I knew T and A would likely be busy hosting for most of the night. And it worked - I got to chatting with a few people, some of whom were new like me, and definitely made some connections there, I think. I actually wasn't even especially expecting to get to play with T, because I knew he would be busy hosting. I would was content to just watch the scenes going on around the dungeon and chat with people.

But you wouldn't keep reading if that's all I'd done, right? Perverts.

There was a stage set up at the front of the dungeon with a St. Andrew's cross and stage lighting prominently highlighting it. It had been designated the "Public Flogging" area... for those scallywags who needed to be punished. (Pirates, remember.) T gave a nice - is it strange to describe it as such? - flogging to one of the women I'd been talking to when setting up. It's always fun to watch people I know, even casually, play. Not long after, T asked me if I'd like to/be willing to be publicly flogged. I pointed out that I'm not the biggest fan of floggers, and he asked if I'd like to do another punching scene, as we had done at Thunder.

I hope my excitement wasn't TOO embarassingly obvious.

He led me up to the stage, and helped me strip down to my underwear - gentleman that he is. (Aside: It's always fun, when you're in a room full of people, to be applauded when you take your top off. Awesome.) We went over safewords, signals, and confirmed consent once more. I love that part so much about the kink community. Consent is ALWAYS informed, and reconfirmed as needed. I think the world would do better to apply this standard more often. He set me facing the cross with my exposed back to him. Then he ran his hands down my back a few times, and started hitting me.

He was obviously warming up, but even with the lighter strikes, I could start to feel the energy flowing. Obviously there's a fair amount of mechanical energy, but there is so much spiritual or emotional energy being transferred, too. His hits came harder, faster and more varied as I concentrated on my breathing, revelling in each irregular breath that escaped my lungs as he hit me. He moved positions periodically, and used different strokes. He punched near my shoulderblades, the muscles running along my spine, and down to my ass. He used his knees, his feet, his knuckles, anything he had to leave me black and blue.

He leaned into me and grabbed a handful of my dark, tousled hair. Pulled me backwards and turned me around to face him, my tender back against the cross. Instinctively, I closed my eyes. I felt his hand on my face, or my head, again, and knew he wanted me to open my eyes. I remembered this about the first time we played - without speaking a word, he asked me to maintain eye contact with him. So that's what I did.

I met his gaze as he punched both of my breasts with his right hand. I didn't break contact when he stuck a knuckle out in his fist as he struck the fleshy space between my breast and collarbone. The only thing I saw were his eyes as he used both fists to punch both breasts, hard enough to knock me back. I followed him as he moved to my side to strike me with the side of his arm and his enclosed fist.

After the first hit with him on my side, he smirked a little. "Have you been wanting this for a while?" He asked, not entirely incredulously.

I think I managed a nod or a chuckled retort. What I should have said was "Not wanting. Needing."

"Because you look... hungry for this," he said, as his fists met my body again. At that I did almost crack a smile. Because it was all too true. I just didn't realize the look was that plain on my face.

He moved back in front of me, winding up to punch me - hard - with both fists. With the first, I couldn't help but cry out a breathless "Fuck!" as his fists and energy knocked the wind out of me. "We're going to do two more of those, and then we're done, OK?" he said.

I nodded, but there was a part of me that wanted to ask him to keep going. I could feel the release just behind my eyes and held up in my chest. I was pretty confident if he'd hit me a few more times, I would have started crying. Not sobbing, and not because I was hurt, but because I would be able to let go of everything that has been making me so tight and crazy and miserable lately. But he spoke before I did, and I didn't want to ask for anything more.

He hit me twice more, hard, and keeping his eyes locked on mine the whole time. As my body stopped resonating from the last strike, I half-stepped, half-fell forward into his arms and we held each other in a tight, warm, electric hug. I took a deep breath and he helped me off the stage. The room wasn't quite spinning, but my feet weren't quite touching the ground, either.

I kept floating like that for a while - a new acquaintance or two offered me hugs, caresses, and conversation. This is another reason that I love the kink community. You might not think it would be the case, but there is so much love and compassion and warmth and understanding within the community, it's almost unparalleled.

As I came down from floating, what T jokingly refers to as my "Bubbles" arrived. I get really happy and hyper and carefree. Again, it might not seem logical, but it's a direct result of (CONSENSUALLY) getting my ass kicked. It lets me let go, give control to someone else for a while, and functions as such a release for so much stress that I just feel infinitely better and lighter afterwards.

And as T and I were talking throughout the rest of the night, there may be other fun adventures in the works, as well. I can't wait to go back.

Of course, I probably SHOULD wait until the bruises heal... See the damage on thursday for HNT.

Quote of the weekend

Compliments of my roommate... at about 1am, as I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, we were discussing what my role was with her toddler daughter (who I help take care of when I can).

Roommate: Well, you can't be an auntie, because all of her aunties are old lesbians!
Me: Yeah, but when I grow up, I wanna be an old lesbian, too!
Roommate: You're not going to be an old lesbian, you're going to be an old... sex fiend!

I love living here. SO. MUCH.

Fiction

I couldn't stop looking at you. I couldn't stop myself from melting into your arms. It's a miracle I managed to keep my heart inside my chest each time you touched me. I don't think you have any idea how you affect me.

Because I notice the way your eyes flash when you look at me. How they're smoldering and cool all at once, and I know you see mine turn greener every time you mention my name. And I see the way you smirk at me when you think I don't know what's on your mind. Or maybe that's when you know I do know. Exactly what you're thinking.

And I can't get enough of the way your mouth just makes me melt. Everything about it - your kisses, with your soft, full lips that find such perfect rhythm with mine so easily. Your tongue, and the way it explores my mouth and my body and makes me shiver in anticipation. Your words, and the way they are so beautiful and eloquent and perfect that they can't be real. Because no one speaks like that in real life. No one is so cool and collected and graceful and simultaneously selfless and giving. That only happens in fiction.

And it must be fiction, the way our bodies collide and you wrap me in your arms. It must be fiction, how I can feel your whole body lean into the kisses you lavish on me and yet always leave me wanting more. Nothing you do is single-handed. All of it seems to incorporate your entire body, your entire being...

And it makes too much sense to be ironic when you tell me you take things hard and slow. The explanation proves too confoundingly true to be fact. The things you say to me must be fictional. The way you move inside me must be the stuff of fantasies, and not of this dreary realism we call home. Your beauty and your persistent optimism are too free of irony and naiveté to survive this place. Maybe to survive me. But at the same time, it's so infectious that I hear myself second-guess my negativity.

Your sincerity is too poetic to be composed. Everything I've seen you do is poetry.

Like when you throw me to the bed and don't for a second let our lips part. Or you pull away and I can feel both our flushed skin, and see your eyes radiating in the dark. Some mysterious color that no name would do justice to. It's all passion and intelligence and perfection and fiction because it couldn't possibly be reality. And when you slide your mouth down my body and don't bother stopping to ask permission and before I can protest, my hands are tangled at the sheets, grasping for anything to hold onto my grip on reality. Then you are relentless in your efforts, and suddenly you have control of my body and are pushing all the right buttons at the same time you're only pushing one and the room explodes and leaves just you and I. Me panting and floating, you smiling and gloating.

So I'll bring you to me because when it comes to you, insatiable doesn't begin to cover my appetite. There is, quite simply, nothing else on the menu, no other nourishment, when you are here. Everything before and everything after ceases to exist. There is only you and I and the only thing I can focus on is your skin on mine and the electric charge that comes from that contact, and hearing you say those beautiful, violent, obscene words with such eloquence and unrestrained passion that I can't believe it exists.

my night inside a chick flick

I shouldn't have listened to my insecurities. I shouldn't have worried so much. I shouldn't have been so pessimistic about it. Although, I guess that's the thing about optimism, is it always seems that much more striking in the face of such persistent negativity.

But I should have known better than to think I could resist. Not that I really wanted to. Or wanted to at all, in fact. Because just like I remembered, as soon as he smiled at me, I was disarmed. And I think I made it an entire five minutes before I just HAD to kiss him again. What can I say? I had to see if it lived up to what I remembered.

And, good lord. Did it. He put his hand along my jaw, just barely grazing my neck, and pulled me into his kiss. And just like I remembered doing, I melted. Urgency increased, his grip around my body strengthened, and we found ourselves falling into my bed. Or maybe it was the lounge chair in my room. I really couldn't say - I was already floating away.

I didn't used to be this way. What I mean is, I haven't been this way before. Where someone's kiss literally makes me weak in the knees. Clouds my head and distracts me from everything else I should be doing and where I should be going and who I should be seeing. But that's what happens. I forget there's anything else, and focus on the butterflies. Damn butterflies. Sneaking up on me like that.

At some point, we remembered that we had places to go and people to meet and time to spend together. So we walked, hand in hand, to the neighborhood bar to meet my roommates for a drink.

When the spontaneous evening plans we had fell through, we turned the car around and headed back to town. "We could take a walk around the lake near my house, if you wanted," I suggested. He agreed, recommended we grab a bottle of wine for the stroll. A bottle of wine became a bottle of champagne to accompany the perfectly warm night. And the stroll became finding an outcropping of grass and sitting near the water's edge, looking at the stars and the city lights.

Over champagne we shared secrets and laughter and those kinds of conversations that only come about when you're really interested in what the other person is saying. I kept looking from the city buildings to the sky which had cleared itself of clouds ("Just like I knew it would. I knew it would be a beautiful night," he tells me, without irony.) then back to him and I can't believe how often he's smiling at me. And how all of this seems so surreal and cinematically perfect.

Like when I suggest I want to go spin, and he stands up with me and takes my hands and we spin in circles until we're giggling and collapse on top of each other. And he kisses me in the grass until I'm breathless again and then helps me up.

We strolled back to the car, his fingers intertwined with mine. I drove us back to my house, where my roommates were drinking and listening to music. They greeted us with broad, warm smiles, told us how happy they were that we were back early. By the time I'd returned with our drinks, he was already engaged in conversation with my roommates, who seemed to be enjoying his company nearly as much as I was. ("Beautiful social graces," was my roommate's term for how open and inviting he was, and how he brought conversation out of even my quietest roommate.)

I lost track of what, exactly they were talking about, because the conversation went on for at least an hour. If there was any break in the flow, I didn't see it. As I stopped buzzing around the house and returned to the party, he situated himself near me, and put his hand around my waist. We stole a kiss here and there, and eventually excused ourselves. I blamed the need to wake up for work in the morning.

I stepped out before he did, so I sat down on the grass outside and stared up at the stars again. Took a deep breath, and couldn't stop smiling a smile I felt through my entire body. He followed a minute or two later. Kneeling in front of me on the grass, he murmured, "do you have ANY idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you in there?"

"Well, why did you, then?" I asked.

And with that, he was on top of me. Kissing me hard, and passionately, and so perfectly that I could do nothing but melt into him.



And the best part? None of this is fiction.

It all makes sense now...

I stopped by my mother's house today, and as she was helping me get the cat and dog fur off my little black dress, her boyfriend made a joke. I was standing with my back to her, and she was using the sticky-roller to remove fur from my ass.

"It's been a while since you've gotten a whuppin', isn't it?" asked the boyfriend about me.

My mom went on to explain: "The last time she got a 'whupping,' she was four. And I spanked her, and afterwards, she turned around and gave me a hug and said 'Thank you.'"

My response? "Wow, foreshadowing, much?"

And then we all busted out laughing.

Polite conversation.

The details on how we got from pleasantries and polite conversation to that couch at 1 a.m. are a little fuzzy. I do remember that it involved a few bottles of wine, a "game for swingers" circa 1972 (disappointing), and hugs which increased in length as the night went on. And strip Twister. But all of that is irrelevant.

She and I were sitting on the couch, leaning on one another. One of the boys who had come over late was heading out, and she called him over to say goodbye. Which she did so with a kiss. And I followed suit. Then she and I looked at one another, and without saying anything, she pulled me to her. She kissed me with intent, but with that softness and sensuality that I often expect from women. The boy we had both been kissing vanished. Both because we stopped focusing on him, and, I've been told, because we pushed him off the couch...when she began kissing me harder and pressed my shoulders down onto the couch, with her seated on top of me. Her legs were on either side of my wide hips, and I remember distinctly seeing her sitting up for a moment, so I could see her gorgeous curves fully.

She bent down to kiss me again, seeming hungry this time. I had just a moment to breathe while she moved her mouth to my neck and began kissing down my collarbone. Her movements were full of intent and, from what I could tell, honest desire. She moved her mouth, her tongue, from my collarbone to my neck, down between my breasts and back again. I was vaguely aware of the fact that we were still both clad in just jeans and bras, passionately making out on The Scientist's couch, in his living room full of people.

I was more aware of it when I heard The Scientist call out "Hey, you should try biting her! She really likes it!" I was about to flip him off when I felt her teeth close down, hard and close to one another, just above the line of my bra. I yelped in what might be the girliest noise I've ever made. She paid no mind to my whimpers, and continued biting and kissing my chest, neck and collarbone. I wrangled my hands free from hers and brought her face back to mine, my hand on her chin. I kissed her deeply, and as she pulled away, I felt her nibble on my lip, pulling it just slightly by the lip ring. As she bent down to go back to work on my neck, I pulled her up to me again. "I can't do this... not in front of an audience," I managed, between kisses.

"OK!" She chirped. In one fluid motion, she had righted herself, had me by the hand, and was pulling me up the stairs, two steps at a time. I think she said something to the group of people saying "awww" as we ran up the stairs. Into The Scientist's room, where she tightly shut the door. And tackled me onto the bed.

This time, I was more prepared. She tried to tackle me, and after some light wrestling, I managed to pin her down on the far side of the bed. I kept both her hands above her head with mine, and leaned in to kiss her again. She was a delicious kisser. And downstairs had been so hectic and caught me so by surprise that I was looking forward to the opportunity to properly appreciate her in all of her feminine beauty. From my position straddling her, I could admire the view: Her long dark hair was tousled about her head in that sexy bed-head way you think only exists in movies; Her face was delicate without making her seem breakable, and her dark eyes were smoldering, even behind her squared, black-framed glasses; Her collarbone showed just enough shadow to perfectly accent and draw my eyes towards her beautiful, ample cleavage. As difficult as it was to pull my eyes away from her gorgeous tits, I followed her soft, smooth skin down to her navel, pierced with a glittering piece of jewelry. Her shape pulled in deliciously at her waist, flowing out again to accommodate her full hips. I marveled for a moment more at her stunning hourglass figure (hidden earlier in the evening by a hoodie), then desperately wanted more. I let my hands slide from hers as I leaned down to kiss her again.

Now it was my turn to aggressively kiss her, biting on her bottom lip, and I couldn't keep my hands off her skin any longer. As we kissed, my hands roamed down to her chest and her waist, sometimes holding on to her hips. It wasn't long before my lips followed, and I took one breast in my hand, pushing her bra out of the way as I brought my lips to her nipple. I heard her gasp and felt her hips rise to meet mine as I sucked and fondled. The noises she made were, quite simply, delicious. I wanted to hear more of them.

Instead, I heard a knock on the door...

HNT: Girls bite, too...

In case you were wondering, yes, I do still hook up with girls. And, yes, girls do bite. HARD.

I was at a party with The Scientist this week where I was introduced to his friends. After the introduction of some delicious social lubricant, I got on with them just fine. Some more than others. The Scientist's best girl friend, who was tall and curvy and GORGEOUS, seemed to be particularly glad I was there.

Especially when she started kissing me, pinned me down on the couch, and eventually led me upstairs to a bedroom. The Scientist came in shortly thereafter, but she and I kept focusing on each other for some time.

The Scientist and I are thinking, perhaps, we should try and bottle whatever the magic is that happens when we're together. Because if we could sell it, we would be MILLIONAIRES.

Or, there's also the possibility that I might be Captain Queer: With the ability to turn anyone in the room just a little queer! (The Scientist's friend had never done more than kiss a girl for the attention of the boys in the room, and I'm now at two different threesomes with two straight men each. I love my life.)




HHNT!

Sunday mornings...

...are sometimes my favorite moments of a week. Last week, Sunday morning found me lying on the grass, sun dappling my skin as it shone through the tree leaves above me, my head on The Optimist's shoulder, one hand in his, and my other arm around The Scientist, who's head was resting on my chest. We weren't saying much, because nothing needed to be said. We were tracing lazy, delicate circles across one another's skin, running fingers through hair, gently kissing foreheads. After the emotionally charged night we'd just completed, it was the perfect come-down. In fact, it was very nearly perfect regardless of how the night before or any other night had been spent. It was one of those beautiful Colorado summer mornings, that powder-blue cloudless sky, sun warming us just as a gentle breeze rustled the grass and cooled our faces.

Perhaps this Sunday morning isn't as epically romantic or exceedingly perfect. But I still find myself very, very happy. I am the first one awake after coming back to my mother's from a very late night singing Karaoke and flashing back to last summer with Roomie. It's just myself and my cat, and we essentially have the house to ourselves. I've dressed myself in one of my boys' T-shirts, which hangs off my chest and just barely covers my ass, showing off just a little bit of my uncharacteristically blue underwear. Wearing this shirt, which belonged to P once, makes me realize that I have managed to end up with T-shirts (or a button-down) from every old lover, but have none from any of my current partners. I decide I need to change this. I will need to stealthily acquire shirts from my partners. And by stealthily, of course, I mean asking if I can sleep in his shirt, and then asking if I can keep it in the morning. I do love the way a boy's shirt smells like him. It's good for helping me to not feel so alone on those nights when I am, in fact alone.

But this morning, as I have the house to myself, I boot up my computer, and go straight to the playlist I created when The Optimist and I were together last. (Yes, I saved the playlist.) It's mostly pretty acoustic songs, with a mild dose of mush thrown in there. I remember making the list as he and I were lying in my bed and him (at least humoring me) that we have strikingly similar taste in music. In any case, all of it is beautiful. And it makes me happy. And so I decide to start dancing around my empty house. In my T-shirt and underwear, dancing to Matt Nathanson and Joshua Radin and Jay Brannan and Angels & Airwaves and Regina Spektor and Citizen Cope.

And I realize how exceedingly happy I am. Without complications. I am, very simply, very content. I have been so incredibly lucky as of late with several things. Some of them are material and haven't quite materialized yet, so again, I'm hesitant to jinx them. But it's so much more than that. I am realizing how incredibly lucky I am to be surrounded by so many beautiful, giving, incredible people. I honestly believe I am one of the luckiest people in the world. I have so much love in my life - already more than I think most people ever get to experience. And, as I wrote about earlier this week, I feel like it's even warranted. That doesn't feel like being conceited, though. It really feels like, now that I'm so keenly aware, I want to make sure I appreciate it and let these people know how wonderful they make my life.

See? Look at how mushy I've become. It all started with last weekend, with The Scientist, and yes, meeting The Optimist. I do blame some of this optimism on him - it's definitely contagious. But all of my friends, my New Family have had a part in it. C certainly had a major role with her revelation. And it's just kept spreading. The Pilot is coming to visit next week. I've come to some conclusions about other people in my life and am able to be so much more zen about it. Not hoping to find things from partners that they simply aren't able to give me. And just being able to appreciate them for that.

And there will be some changes. All of this optimism has come with a new kind of self-awareness on what makes me happy, and what it feels like to be so happy. I will be moving away from those things that don't make me happy, spending more time around and doing those things that do make me happy. And things are just going to keep getting better.

I'll close with one of those songs The Optimist and I both realized we love. Thank you, Ms. Spektor.

The truth about my past.

I am not defective. I do not destroy everything I touch. I am allowed to be happy. I deserve to be treated well.

These sound like simple statements to some, I suppose. But they are something I had not fully realized until this weekend and, largely, before quite possibly the most intimate conversation I've ever had with my best girl friend, C. She came over on Wednesday for a late lunch, because I wanted to be girly and gush about my weekend. We went to get salads and margaritas (the upgraded version of the chef salads we used to eat with our fingers in high school), and I started gushing essentially immediately. It was along the same lines of my last entry, with maybe a little more blushing and giggling.

I was emphasizing to her how it makes me a little nervous how much I like The Optimist and what a strong connection I feel with him. She reminded me that it is, indeed, OK to be swept off your feet sometimes. I just haven't been open to it in a long time. So we started talking about why I was so hesitant to believe that people might like me or that I might even be worth liking.

A little background: I am quite confident about myself, when it comes to two things - my writing and my sexual prowess. (Yes, that's largely why this blog exists, haha.) But Relationships, in the traditional sense, terrify me. I capitalize the R in Relationships intentionally, because I mean those in the more standard and socially acceptable sense. Those kind terrify me because I hold myself solely responsible for the demise of the few Relationships I've had. I have always done something to fuck it up, and because of that I've always felt like I deserved to be left. I haven't felt like I deserved someone in a long time.

I have told myself that I was OK with being the secret, the secondary. And in many ways, I am. But my justification, which I still believe, is that it was unreasonable to expect any single person to be everything someone needed. That was based not so much in my inability to believe that someone could be everything I needed, but that I would never be enough for someone. After all, I screw up Relationships. Sex, I'm good at. Friendships, I can usually manage. But Relationships? Absolutely not.

Perhaps the most spectacular example, in my mind, of my botching a good thing and thereby indicative of my inability to carry out a Relationship was how things ended with Ex. We were together (on and off, but mostly on) for five years. We made the decision to stay together for the first year of college, even though we were going to school across the country from one another. When we were both home for Christmas that year, he gave me a ring. It was expressly NOT an engagement ring, but I wore it (with his permission) on my left-hand ring finger. It was white gold (he knew I don't wear much gold or yellow), sapphire and diamonds. It was beautiful.

Five months later, after flying across the country to drive home with me, he broke up with me.

I have always held myself responsible for this. I don't know that I could even supply the reasoning, but there has never been any doubt in my mind that it was my fault that he didn't love me anymore. In the course of our Relationship, he had always been the stable one. He's pragmatic to a fault, and I (even more so then) am emotional and impulsive. Clearly, it was something I had done that had driven him away. I had been a bad girlfriend, because I didn't have the Girlfriend Gene.

C knew this is how I've felt. Despite an incident that first summer where The Scientist quite literally yelled at me to stop defending Ex and believe that he hurt me and he was wrong to do so, I held myself responsible. I deserved it, after all.

But today at lunch, C and I were talking about my insecurities and my fears about Relationships and how I destroy them. And she just looked at me and said "No, you don't." I looked at her with appropriate confusion.

"You didn't destroy things with Ex. In fact, you didn't do anything wrong. You didn't change anything about you or who you were. He changed, not you. It had everything to do with him, and nothing to do with you. He fucked up by giving you that ring when he wasn't sure about your Relationship. But all you did was believe what he led you to believe. He decided ON HIS OWN that you two weren't going to work. He did it on his own. It was. Not. Your. Fault. He mislead you. You're just a good person that got fucked over."

I didn't know whether to cry or start giggling. I had honestly never thought of it like that. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. I believed what he said to me, what he told me was true. That was it. The decision, really, in the end, didn't have anything to do with me. (I don't mean to imply here that I was the perfect girlfriend throughout the relationship, because I certainly did things wrong. But in that period when we were separated, I actually was a committed, faithful and devoted girlfriend.)

It was an earth-shattering realization. No one had ever explained it to me like that. And I had been too hard on myself to see it from that angle. As the tears started welling up behind my eyes, though, it sunk in. She was right. The truth about my past isn't that I'm defective or inherently unlovable or perpetually insufficient. The truth about my past is that I got hurt when I wasn't expecting it. And when I didn't deserve it. That's it.

And I have built so many of my beliefs presently on the firm belief that I am simply insufficient and defective, that hearing C say this to me, and honestly believing her, was truly astounding. And I can already feel the ramifications. It means that I am allowed to be happy. Because it means that maybe things aren't inherently doomed. It means that I can be silly, because I don't have to worry about a responsibility to warn my partners about what a danger I am to them. It means that I don't have to automatically invalidate and be suspicious of strong feelings I might have. Because they aren't necessarily going to end in disappointment and heartache.

Perhaps this seems like an excessively sweeping revelation for something ostensibly solely regarding a Relationship that is far away and gone. But that Relationship was so important, that showing me a different perspective on that has shown me a different perspective on so many other things. It doesn't change my childhood. It doesn't change the pessimism or skepticism that growing up with my family has bred into me. It doesn't change the fact that I'm still not sure monogamy will ever be right for me. It doesn't invalidate the Relationships and relationships I've had since Ex.

But it might change the future. It does change what I think I am capable of. It changes what I think I am worthy of. It changes my no-other-options pessimism about Relationships. In many ways, it redefines who I might be able to become. To myself, and even maybe to someone else. For the first time, I actually believe that I am worthy of it. I believe that I deserve to be loved. I deserve to be so lucky to be surrounded by incredible friends and lovers. Who are honest and beautiful and brilliant and making my world and the world at large a better place simply by being in it. I believe that I might have the capacity to make people happy. I believe that I might be worthy of being loved, someday.

I believe that I do NOT deserve to have people like Edward still sending me messages and emails. I believe that I do NOT deserve to be made to feel guilty for being honest about who I am and what I do. I believe that I do NOT need to apologize for the same. I believe that I am NOT solely responsible for every bad thing that has ever happened to me.

And I feel so free.

I am not defective. I do not destroy everything I touch. I am allowed to be happy. I deserve to be treated well.

Introducing...

The Scientist. So named because, firstly, that's what he does. He is quite brilliant at science and math and physics and all of those things that make my head hurt because they are so far beyond my comprehension. But also so named because he has used that knowledge - observation, reason, logic, response, to figure out my body quicker than quite possibly anyone else.

To be fair, he has some advance knowledge. He and I have been friends for nearly a decade, which has been filled with countless spats - some petty, some shockingly epic. But he and I have remained friends, and truly have emerged stronger for all of it. Because of how well we know each other, he already knows about my neuroses, my relationship fears and quirks. He is shockingly good at knowing when to take which tone with me. And since we started hooking up a just over a week ago, he has been notably...more careful with me, emotionally, at least. Initially, I don't think it was something that anyone else would have noticed. (The hickeys were another story.) Of course, after our weekend, we've essentially abandoned all pretenses, at least around certain friends. But he still goes out of his way to make sure that I am OK whenever I'm with him. And because he knows me and my history so well, he knows how to read me emotionally and will do his best to arrange and improve any situation he and I are in.

There is so much more to say, and I will say it in following entries. But for now, I have a guess as to what you really want. And what's been lacking from my posts lately - teh sexeh. So, The Scientist shocked me with how well he read my body from the start. He got me off, with ONLY his hands, in a matter of minutes. I don't think that has ever happened. I'm lucky if I can get myself off with a toy that fast. Again, there are more details forthcoming about all that. And he tells me I rocked his world pretty hard, too. Which is, yknow, never a bad thing to hear.

In fact, apparently I rocked his world so hard that he's been having trouble getting the memories of our encounters of late out of his head. He told me in a text that his hand was having trouble keeping up with him, as he couldn't help himself whenever images of our encounters crossed through his mind. Quite the compliment, right? Well, this afternoon he was texting me, and asked if he might narrate the particular fantasy that was running through his head. I of course said yes.

And then I was sincerely impressed. He is particularly well-rounded for a science nerd (which I say with the greatest adoration - I'm a literary nerd, and nowhere near as well-rounded as he is) in that he is also a strong writer. But even so, I was not expecting such hot sexting. And so I asked him if I could publish it here. And he said I could. I feel like it's an excellent introduction to the discussion of he and I and this weekend and how incredibly lucky I am. It's a mix of various real experiences, mixed in with a little fantasy, too. But I'm not telling what's what.

I am going to transcribe it as a single block, although obviously it ran the course of several messages. The only editing I've done is grammatical. (I can't help it, it's what I do.)

Enjoy!

--

So right now you're on top of me with your shirt off. You're lightly nibbling on that one spot on my neck. I'm running my fingers through your hair and down your back, raking my fingernails against your skin. As you bite down harder, I can feel your heart quicken.

I roll you over and start aggressively biting my way down your neck to your slightly stiffened nipples, as I knead your left breast with my hand and bite down lightly on your nipple a slight sigh escapes your lips. As I continue to nibble on your quickly stiffening nipple I slide my hand down your leg and start massaging your thigh. I kiss my way back up your neck and engage you in a gentle but passionate kiss. I start undoing the button and zipper on your pants. As I slide your pants down I pass my hand over your mound and I can feel the heat and slight moisture of your sexy slit through your underwear.

As the pace and intensity of our kiss intensifies, I slide my hand over and around your barely-covered vagina. As I slip my fingers under your waistband, I momentarily pause our kissing, then as I ever-so-slowly slide my hand down your lightly hair-covered mound, I start to lightly kiss and lick your neck down to your collarbone. As I slide past your hardened clit, I rub up and down your amazingly soft and silky slit, putting gentle pressure on your slickened hole. As I rub back and forth from your luscious honey pot to your now-sensitive clit, I begin to bite down harder on your nipple, pausing every now and then to enjoy one of your excellent kisses. As I continue to tease your expectant entrance, you dig your nails into my back - the words from your mouth becoming tense grunts mixed with longer moans of expectant pleasure. Just as I slip my finger into your wet and smooth pussy, I bite down hard on your neck, causing you to let out a hissed "oh god, fuck!" as you tense and rise up and start to attack my neck with reckless abandon.

As I rub my thumb over your clit, I start to hook my fingers and massage the rough roof of your now flooded vagina. As your breathing quickens, you gasp in pleasure as I take a quick nibble of your wonderful breasts, causing another muffled and half-gasped "fuck" to escape your lips. As I work my way lower with my mouth, you say to me, "your tongue, my clit - NOW." As I willingly follow your impassioned command, I trace circles around your clit. But I know this is no time for teasing as your hips buck against my face. As I fully engage your pleading nub, the gasps and profanity coming from your mouth become a little less coherent and the movements of your hips a little less ordered. I can smell the wonderful scent of your stuffed pussy, causing me to dip a little lower to enjoy your wonderful taste.

My free hand rubs and squeezes your breast. Hard. You run your hand through my hair, making me purr slightly into your dripping vagina. As my pace picks up to a frenzy, I can barely understand the things you are saying to me as they come through clenched lips. Your hips bounce against my eager mouth, causing my fingers to drive deep hard and fast into you. You begin to shake as I hit just the right spot. As you grab my hair you start to pull and grab at it as a wave of pleasure shoots from your finger-filled hole. You pull my hair slightly, and the pain feels good, only spurring me on further to see you to your climax. As I drive you closer and closer to your peak, the words and moans have merged into something akin to a worshipper speaking in tongues. Which causes me to realize that this is a kind of religious experience. As I laugh quietly at myself I proceed to worship at your altar. As your orgasm builds, I can feel it in my fingers and against my mouth as you writhe uncontrollably and your vaginal walls clench onto my fingers. Right as your impending orgasm is on the edge of coming I pinch your nipple, releasing a wave of pleasure over your body as your orgasm crests and washes over you. As your orgasm continues I lighten my pressure on your clit and begin to slowly remove my fingers from your deliciously wet slit.

As you come down from your orgasmic high, I remove my fingers and start to kiss my way back up your body. As I lovingly kiss your lips, I slide my arm around you and hold you close as your orgasmic glow recedes. After a short while of holding you, listening to your breathing return to normal, you roll me over, kiss me on the lips, and say, "That was wonderful...Now it's your turn."

--


So, readers, what do you think of The Scientist? I'm rather fond of him.

all those things I don't care about...

So I haven't written about it much, but I've been spending time with the Viking lately. It's not exactly habitual yet, although it's getting there. And we've moved past just the convenient post-hanging out in a group hookups to blatant booty calls. Which are always fun. And it's actually been a while since I've had a regular booty call, especially here at school. Which is weird to think about, but I guess it's true.

This weekend, it was my friend's girlfriend's birthday... Hmm, how to explain the relationship without using names? OK. My best friend in The Band (and one of my best friends in general) is the drummer of the band. I went to Ireland with he and his girlfriend last semester, and she and I get along great. The Band consists of the Drummer and his five roommates, although the actual band is four guys, only two of whom live in the house of guys that makes up The Band. Anyway, the Drummer's girlfriend invited me out for her birthday with most of The Band - she and I were the only girls. We went to a swanky sushi restaurant, and as the ice has finally receded here in the tundra, I got to get dressed up. I went with a teeny, tiny green dress (worn last on new year's eve), and fabulous green and black heels that have an adorable rounded, wing-tip toe. The Viking (who's the other roommate who is actually in the band - he plays bass) met the rest of us after dinner for bar-hopping.

I was terribly over-dressed for the pubs we were going to, but after a few drinks, I wasn't too concerned. And in any case, it was really fun to watch the Viking stealing looks at me. (I'll admit, those shoes DO make my legs look pretty fantastic.) We still haven't told our friends about us hooking up - although I have mentioned it to the Drummer's girlfriend, so there's a chance the Drummer knows. If he does, though, he hasn't said anything about it. We all (six of us by that point) eventually closed down the last bar and took the bus back to my apartment. The Drummer and his girlfriend and the Viking and I all sat in the back row. Of course, the Drummer and his girlfriend were being adorable and PDA-y, although thankfully not to a nauseating extent. Then somehow the Drummer and the Viking started jokingly punching each other. It turned into a psuedo-wrestling match. The Drummer eventually conceded that even though he's the taller of the pair, the Viking is stronger than he is. And then there was the bromance moment where the Drummer got all mushy and was telling the Viking that he was, like, his best friend, and he's such a great guy, and the Viking reiterated the sentiment. And then I got this strange feeling. Of warm fuzzies. Of course, the only reason I know the Viking is because he's such good friends with the Drummer, but I had this random flashback to when the Drummer first introduced me to his girlfriend. She had to leave Ireland a day early, giving the Drummer and I the day to hang out alone, and he confessed to me that he'd been really nervous about us liking one another, and he was so happy that we got along so well. Because we both mattered in his life. It was this really nice moment. And that's what I flashed back to, watching the Viking and the Drummer act out their friendship.

It was very strange. It made me want to just cuddle with the Viking right there, be all adorable and PDA-y like the Drummer and his girlfriend were being. And I suddenly felt very silly for thinking that I needed to keep our relationship a secret. Of course, I didn't say anything about it there, on the bus with everyone else. But it was a new sensation at the same time that it made me aware of the fact that I'd been looking forward to seeing the Viking all night, and that I'd noticed how he smiled when he saw me. And that I liked the way he said my name. And then I stopped myself. I don't get mushy like this.

I don't generally like PDA. It makes me uncomfortable, more often than not. I'm not used to having traditionally legitimate relationships, and so I guess I've gotten cautious and that urge to kiss people in public has mostly faded. (Not entirely...there are notable exceptions. Like my random and somewhat childish desire to be that obnoxiously cute couple cuddling in line at the amusement park.) But even more than that, I don't like the mush. I don't like the cutesy stuff. Saying "I love you" should be a statement of fact, not some massive production in my book. I expect to split the bill on dates. I don't want people opening doors for me unless they already would have or just walked through it themselves.

But it's something that's struck me since the first time I hooked up with the Viking. He's really sweet to me. Yes, there's the funny bluntness, the no-nonsense discussion that's always there, and the sex. But the things that really stick with me are the way he puts his arms around me. The way he gently kisses my neck, my forehead, my nose. The way he intertwines his fingers with mine and pulls me closer before we fall asleep. The way he sweeps my hair away from my face and lets his hand linger on my jawline as he kisses me.

These aren't things I should be focusing on. It's not that I've never had them before, I've just not been so aware of them. And I don't know why I am so aware of them with the Viking. Certainly, other partners cuddle with me, other partner kiss me softly or brush the hair from my face. So what's so different with the Viking? Maybe it's just a contrast with his aloof personality. I don't expect such tenderness from him.

Then again, I guess looking at me, knowing me, you wouldn't necessarily expect that I'd want those things, either. Maybe that's why it works. But it concerns me. I find myself wanting to see him more. I text him more often, not always late at night. I get excited when I know he's going to be where I am. Good lord, I'm developing a crush on him. Shit. Of course, it's not overly serious, and things will end when we both graduate shortly. But this urge that I have to spend more time with him now is rather strange to me.

And then I'm not sure how much of this has to do with the fact that at the end of that night, after he'd convinced me to come back to their house with the band, and after the Drummer had made up the couch for me and the Viking had waited til the Drummer left to come in and ask if I'd sleep in his bed with him, and I'd said yes and made a joke we'd both laughed at about his messy room, and I laid down and the Viking just wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck and pulled me close to him and let me sleep. We spent the night in bed together and there was nothing else. There was no pressure for anything else. Why does that feel so much more intimate and personal than had there been sex? It just seems like another step further from the just-a-booty-call classification.

But it was nice. I WILL miss his cuddling. And yes, those adorable little things I told myself I don't care about. Shit.

flashback

I had lost all concept of time, but had a very keen sense of place and every other physical sensation coursing through me. Friend had situated himself between my legs, his fingers working in and out of my cunt and curling inside me as his tongue circled and sucked on my clit - my hips rising to meet his mouth as I sunk deeper into that alternate universe where, again, things like this actually happen.

The Pilot had pulled himself up next to me, his hands strong as they grasped at my waist, my tits. He'd alternate between kissing my lips and my neck - that spot right at the base of my collarbone that he'd figured out makes me shiver and whimper and melt all at once.

My world was fast condensing into a very specific tunnel vision consisting of only the three of us as Friend continued fucking me with his mouth and the Pilot tightened his grip on my body. As the Pilot moved one of his hands toward my collarbone, instinct took over. I brought my hand to his and placed it across my neck, and I swear I caught him smiling out of the corner of my eye as he tightened his grip.

And then I absolutely lost it. With the Pilot's fingers around my throat and Friend's inside of me, my bucking hips moved faster and I didn't even have time to feel that heat starting at the base of my spine. Pleasure just ripped through me as my back arched and my vision became just a white light and some unconscionable stream of profanities flew out of my mouth. I couldn't tell you exactly what I said, but I'm pretty sure it resembled

OHFUCKHOLYSHITJESUSFUCKINGCHRISTFUCKGODFUCKINGDAMMITFUCKFUCK

And then I was panting and only vaguely aware of both Friend's satisfied smirk and the Pilot's eyes looking me over as I started shaking from the aftershock. Friend chuckled to himself as he got up, and I just started giggling incessantly, still trying to catch my breath and unable to move any of my limbs more than they were already quivering. Had the light been better, I'm sure you could have seen my entire body flushed. Someone, the Pilot I think, said something, in reference to me coming hard and loud or something, and I tried to put words together to make a response and utterly failed. Which induced more giggling. Because it was really all I could do, as my breath finally started evening out and the tunnel vision widened back to include at least the room the three of us were in.

I am NOT a lying slut.

Despite what some people feel the need to tell the world.

Edward's facebook status, when I went to his page to un-friend him (something I then realized I can't do from that page. So I looked at it without needing to. Awesome.), said "Edward is tired of giving everything to people just to have his heart ripped out for no reason at all. Basically, I'm tired of lying sluts."

I think this all may end up in me not being able to claim that whole "I'm a slut" title proudly. Even reading it, there was so much malice in the term, I can hear it. I can't imagine what it would have felt like being spat from his mouth. Oh, wait, yes I can.

I've blocked him on facebook. I called t-mobile to block his number from calling me. Apparently I can't do that because I'm not the primary account holder (I'm still on my dad's plan, since he pays it for me). So I had to call my dad and explain the situation, which was embarassing, and actually he sounded a little angry at me about it. Then he had to call the company and apparently add some feature that allows us to block phone numbers. It costs money. (Not much, it's a negligible amount, but it's the idea of the thing... That, especially in a situation like this, I have to PAY to make the harassment stop?) And will take a few hours to take effect. Weak.

In case you all hadn't guessed, there's been a new round of calls, texts, and messages. I'm going to post them here, again, just to clean them out of my system, but also, actually, to have some sort of physical proof. I don't know how long this will go on - he knows where my family lives back home, and I'm actually nervous. Jesusfuck. How did it get this bad?

And the worst part is, it does hurt my heart to see it end like this. I want to be able to forgive him. But I can't. And I'm pretty confident, at this point, he doesn't deserve it. Roland has been chatting with me about some of the similarities he's seen in Edward's behavior and his own past indiscrections - I still refuse to believe you were ever this bad, Roland. In a way, it gives me hope that Edward might someday grow up and become a real, decent, lovely man like Roland. At the same time, the vindictive side of me revels a little in knowing that, like Roland has told me, Edward will look back on this and be ashamed of his behavior. Although I'm not sure he will. I think his head is so clouded with hatred for me and hurt that he can't see straight. I don't know if he ever will, when it comes to me. He holds on to things.

In any case, two days ago, after another few unreturned phone calls, I sent Edward one text message saying "Please do not try to contact me." I figured it was just enough to be clear, while remaining uninvolved. At least this way, he couldn't claim he just thought it was a phone company error. (Since 70 unreturned calls often are.) Yes, we're at 70 now.

Here's what he wrote back:

April 9: why? god damn it please dont do this sasha. please... talk to me at least. please.

i wont stop until you fucking talk to me. act grown up for a second and just talk to me.

so im in the hospital right now, it be really nice if i could please just talk to you.

(Here he called another 15 times, until 3am)

April 10: could you maybe explain to me why you not only broke my heart but hate my guts? maybe?

FOR FUCK'S SAKE IVE BEEN HOSPITALIZED FROM BEING SO STRESSED AND DEPRESSSED I PASSED OUT. COULD YOU PLEASE JUST FUCKING ANSWER!?10 DAMN YEARS OF LOYALTY AND LOVE

I THINK IS A PRETTY FAIR PRICE TO HAVE A RIGHT TO BE UPSET! JUST TALK TO ME AND ILL GET OUTTA YOUR HAIR AND YOUR LIFE!

10 fucking years sasha, i think i deserve to know why you bullshitted me so damn much and why you decided to break me so fucking bad. i do believe i AT LEAST

DESERVE SOME KIND OF FUCKING EXPLANATION! DONT YOU! YOU WANT ME GONE ALL YOU FUCKING HAVE TO DO IS TELL ME FUCKING WHY!!!!!!!

stop being such an immature spoiled lil hooch and explain to the ONE guy who has always been there for you and loved you why you decided to hurt me so bad!?

how did you become such a heartless uncaring whore? your not the girl i fell in love with. i finally get that.so enjoy as many random cocks as you want.farewell.

WHY? WHY?WHY?WHY?WHY? I FUCKING DESERVE TO KNOW WHY!? WHY THE FUCK DID I WASTE YEARS PINING OVER YOU!? WHY DID YOU LIE AND FUCK ME UP SO BAD!? WHY!? until i get

an explanation, some kind of closure on why the only girl i've cared for has bullshitted me like this i wont stop,you can block my number,you can block facebook

but im not only smart sasha but resourceful and i will bug the FUCK outta you until hear why you chose to fuck me over so bad. i deserve an answer. i need

closure, so grow THE FUCK UP FOR ONE SECOND, GROW A CONSCIENCE AND TELL ME WHY!?

hello! why sasha?! why!? hello! fucking hello!? this will all be done and over if you can just tell me why? WHY!? FUCKING WHY!? i need to know why. im so close

to cutting just a lil too fucking deep and would so much love to know why WHENEVER i care for another person i get fucked over! why i hope and wait and get hurt

ive been beat down by so much bringing me to rock bottom, and you pushed me into hell, so before i just end all the bullshit of my pathetic sad life

could you remember for one fucking minute how you used to be a good person and a close friend and just tell me WHY!?

before i rip how i feel into my own flesh could you please remember the good of me and help me understand.im so close sasha to just ending it all. i need to know

fine, ill do the only fucking thing i can do to stop it.

you may not be the only reason why crimson is flowing right now, but your cruelty sure as hell helped me get the resolve needed to do this. thank you.

That last message sent at 3:05am, my time.

And then there were the voicemails. Accompanying the 30 or so phone calls last night. At one point, I accidentally answered one (I was opening my phone to answer a text from Friend), so I just said "I have nothing left to say to you. This is over." And hung up. Here were the voicemails he left (because I sure as hell don't want them on my phone):

April 9:
"Goddammit sasha will you please just talk to me? Don't let us end like this, please? I'm begging you. Just fucking talk to me, please, I'm begging you. Talk to me and I'll leave you the fuck alone."

"Please? At least let me say I'm sorry to you. I'll apologize or something I... I, I don't wanna lose you, too, Sasha. I'm sorry. I am a fucking wreck and I don't wanna lose you, Sasha."

"C'mon Sasha. After everything that we've been through, for 10 fucking years I've been trying to get you to love me back and it just fucking tore me up that you actually don't.. still! I'm sorry for what I said, I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it, I jsut.. I need you in my life, even if it's just going to be as a friend. I don't wanna lose you, please I'm sorry. Please forgive me, please."

April 10:
"You know how fucking stubborn I am, how fucking stubborn I can be, and how fucking stubborn I WILL be. Especially after devoting 10 fucking some-odd years of just trying so hard. And then everything seems to be so fantastic, and yet still it's not good enough for you. I would just like to know why I wasted 10 years of my fucking life trying to be with you and why you would bullshit me and then break me like you did. So how about you stop being such a spoiled, immature little brat and just fucking talk to me and maybe get me to understand why the fuck you fucked me over so damn hard. Maybe? I don't know. I think I deserve to at least know fucking that. You think?"

"No, you know what, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I'm not gonna stop bothering you. Because I need to know why the fuck you, of all people, of all the girls that I ever... oh god, you were the only one I ever fucking trusted. The only one I actually had fucking feelings for. The only fucking one. I would just like some kind of closure, some kind of understanding at why the fuck you have fucked me over so damn much. Why? What the fuck have I done to you? To have you bullshit me, and make me feel fantastic and like I matter to you, when really I fucking didn't. Why? You, Sasha, of all fucking people? I can't believe you, out of anybody, would do this to me. I fucking can't."

"Hey how about before I slice my goddamn wrists open like I should have done probably many fucking years ago, maybe you give me some kind of fucking closure so I can figure out why, exactly, I keep getting fucked over and why you are loving hurting me fucking this much. I would love to know why. Hopefully I'll hear from you soon. Too late, and it'll probably be too fucking late, I can honestly tell you that. Ahh, thank you, so much. This is great."

Again, that last message was at about 3am. I think. My voicemail doesn't time-stamp things.

Sigh. I never thought there would be someone in my life who would make ex seem sane. Downright likable, actually. I mean, hell, at least after I finally left him, he stopped calling after about 15 unreturned phone calls.

Sometimes it's hard to ignore that I'm the common denominator between these guys, though. I joke with my current partners about promising me they won't go crazy and decide they hate me, but it's one of those half-serious jokes.

I just want it to be done with.