Archive for May, 2008

I’m So Fucking Sick of It

May 24, 2008

So much has happened.  If I would post more often this would be less daunting.  Things begin and end before I have the chance to set a single fingertip the increasingly unfamiliar key of my computer.  I’ll try to do a quick but accurate rundown of the necessary backstory.

Since I last left you:  The Dancer and I became an item, The Alcoholic called me relentlessly, The Dancer and I went on a few dates (and had a few sexes).

That’s pretty much what’s important, and now the story continues.  I logged online Wednesday night and The Alcoholic started messaging me as if nothing had happened.  He asked me if I had made a decision (because hanging up on him three times didn’t make it clear enough that I didn’t want to be with him).  I had already been struggling with the idea of being monogamous (even though I like The Dancer very much).  So, when The Alcoholic started pushing it, I ended up calling The Dancer and talking to him about it.  He said he didn’t really care if we were exclusive or not.  I know that sounds bad, but it wasn’t.

You know what…I’m so sick of this fucking situation.  Long story short:  I gave The Alcoholic a second chance, he’s still a supremacist asshole, and I dumped him for good.  Now, I’m BFF’s with his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend, which totally eats him up.  And I love it. 

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Don’t Look Both Ways

May 20, 2008

I am a creature of self-sufficiency, independence.  The Alcoholic couldn’t seem to understand this.  You may remember The Alcoholic from my previous post.  I (reluctantly) agreed to date him.  It lasted a week.

He was an out-of-the-closet-closet case.  He could easily relax in the privacy of his bedroom, twirling his wrist like so many drag queens.  It was outside, out from behind the fortitude of a locked door and curtained windows, that he retreated into his homophobia.  Now, I’m not a huge fan of PDA, but I (and I don’t think many people would disagree with this) don’t think that a parting kiss or a held hand is shoving anything in anybody’s face.  I lied, I know one person who disagrees with me, The Alcoholic.  So, it was as he looked both ways before kissing me that I realized we had a problem.

His defense was weak, “We don’t live in San Francisco, sweetheart, this is the south.”  I don’t know how many times I heard those exact words.  Perhaps, if he had refrained from insulting me with such sarcastic endearments as sweetheart, I would have let it slide.  He refused to understand my perspective.  I would die to live my life the way I deserve to live it.  My love hurst no one.  Maybe fundamentalists should turn their sights on perpetrators of domestic violence.  Then again, they would be ostracizing a large portion of their demographic.

When my old flame (I’ll call him The Dancer from high school blew back into town I chose him.  Yes, I chose him because of our history and, yes, I chose him because I like him, but more than that I chose him because he’s proud of who he is, not ashamed by it.

“A Modest Proposal” or “Child of a Lesser God”

May 12, 2008

I’m scared.  There are so many things that I’m trying to say right now that they have created a sort of traffic jam in my head, and nothing can come out.  I’m not sure how to do this.  I’m not sure how to be loved.  It freaks me the fuck out.  I’ve become so accustomed to being a toy, a pawn, a cumdump, that when someone takes an interest in me I begin to crawl inside myself and shut down.

I’ve met someone new.  It was only supposed to be a thing.  Nothing of substance or of any consequence.  It should have only taken an hour- two tops.  Instead it’s taken three days.  Three days and a modest proposal.  Boyfriend.  What does that mean?  How do I do that?   What if I get in too deep, and I’m too afraid to get out?

I’ve never had to make a commitment to anyone but myself.  I’m kind of a dead beat in that department.  I missed a funeral today because I was still too high to get up this morning.  I’m flailing.  I can feel the reigns slipping between my fingers, and I’m not sure how to regain control.

I said yes.  I don’t feel any different.  I don’t have butterflies.  I don’t feel somehow more complete.  It doesn’t feel wrong, but it doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel perfect.

Getting fucked is a performance I have perfected.  Maybe I’ve been typecast for a reason.  Maybe I’m not meant for anything better than that.