Showing posts with label boyfriends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boyfriends. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
sexual musings.
I think... that dancing at the club, is a sort of outlet for sexual energy that lowers my need for a satisfying real romantic sexual relationship... or a boyfriend... and having a boyfriend and being in love in a satisfying real romantic sexual relationship makes me really uninclined to want dance at the club, and release that energy somewhere else.... i've never danced for long when I was in a real relationship... not just cuz the guy didn't want me to. i didnt want to.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Cam
I spent Thursday night with Cam...
He's so gorgeous, just a drop-deader, he's a model and he was on this tv show... When I go out with him everybody looks at us, and he's really sweet to me, he always has been, and he's funny too... I feel like he tries a little hard sometimes, and sometimes he doesn't know how to act and like, treat women, like when Elena was here, and I wanted her to meet him, cuz we were sort of kind of briefly dating, and he invited us to watch UFC at this sports bar with his friends... and she was totally like "Ugh, what kind of MAN was that, he didn't even buy me a DRINK, he sat over THERE, what WAS that?" and, I agree with her, but it's not THAT big of a deal, he's only 25... I NEVER date someone who's not even a couple years older than me, NEVER, but, I probably SHOULD. All the men I'm attracted to, that are way older than me, and I feel like, it's partly a maturity thing, but it's also just a physical thing, like, an AESTHETIC thing, like, it's also just FASHION-- are MARRIED. Cuz if they're not, by that age, they're usually a little weird... I mean there are tons of exceptions, but, often, that is often the case.
Cam's kind of in my scene, in my industry, and he's smart, he has a soul, just a weird way of expressing it sometimes, I mean it's just old asshole guy habits, but he's never an asshole to me.
He still calls me too, it's been more than a year and we've stayed friends, even though I've like flaked off and so has he... But he called me Thursday just out of the blue.
We had coffee, and talked about stuff, and I told him how no one ever sees my apartment, and he said Well you never invite me up, and I said Come up! And he said Ok I'm going to go write for a little bit... and I had to meet the director of this movie I'm doing... basically playing myself, haha... and then I called him and he brought over this crazy hot movie, and we watched it together on my little twin bed. I went to Bed Bath and Beyond before he came over too to get new sheets cuz mine were just old and gross... And then we went for a drink, and he was really hilarious talking about people at the bar... and we did the drunken thing where you meet some random woman and her gay friend from Spain and like exchange numbers and never talk to them... and then we got some gross little tacos from 7-11 and he walked me home...
He's so gorgeous, just a drop-deader, he's a model and he was on this tv show... When I go out with him everybody looks at us, and he's really sweet to me, he always has been, and he's funny too... I feel like he tries a little hard sometimes, and sometimes he doesn't know how to act and like, treat women, like when Elena was here, and I wanted her to meet him, cuz we were sort of kind of briefly dating, and he invited us to watch UFC at this sports bar with his friends... and she was totally like "Ugh, what kind of MAN was that, he didn't even buy me a DRINK, he sat over THERE, what WAS that?" and, I agree with her, but it's not THAT big of a deal, he's only 25... I NEVER date someone who's not even a couple years older than me, NEVER, but, I probably SHOULD. All the men I'm attracted to, that are way older than me, and I feel like, it's partly a maturity thing, but it's also just a physical thing, like, an AESTHETIC thing, like, it's also just FASHION-- are MARRIED. Cuz if they're not, by that age, they're usually a little weird... I mean there are tons of exceptions, but, often, that is often the case.
Cam's kind of in my scene, in my industry, and he's smart, he has a soul, just a weird way of expressing it sometimes, I mean it's just old asshole guy habits, but he's never an asshole to me.
He still calls me too, it's been more than a year and we've stayed friends, even though I've like flaked off and so has he... But he called me Thursday just out of the blue.
We had coffee, and talked about stuff, and I told him how no one ever sees my apartment, and he said Well you never invite me up, and I said Come up! And he said Ok I'm going to go write for a little bit... and I had to meet the director of this movie I'm doing... basically playing myself, haha... and then I called him and he brought over this crazy hot movie, and we watched it together on my little twin bed. I went to Bed Bath and Beyond before he came over too to get new sheets cuz mine were just old and gross... And then we went for a drink, and he was really hilarious talking about people at the bar... and we did the drunken thing where you meet some random woman and her gay friend from Spain and like exchange numbers and never talk to them... and then we got some gross little tacos from 7-11 and he walked me home...
Monday, May 10, 2010
On Writing.
To change it up, introspection:
I started doing this, this writing business, a few years ago, when I was 19, at the behest of my then-boyfriend. He was a writer. Is a writer still, I suppose, of plays and films and that was how I met him, I was in his thesis film for college, about junkies. It was fun, and kind of beautiful, and kind of incredibly self-indulgent. But I was really in love with him, and he was really... troubled... naturally, and jealous, and alcoholic, and depressed, and he projected, and decided I had issues and encouraged me to write. And he used to drink and moan about how difficult it was to write "the truth" and all his writing was alternately "shit" and then so brave, the tortured artist and his terrible, terrible adolescence in a typical WASP well-to-do Midwest household with a LOVELY mom who drank a little and a rebellious, charismatic, LOVELY older brother who dabbled in the punk scene, and a downright Leave it to Beaver dad. (They were all sincerely lovely people. I'm saying this to undermine his suffering. Hah.) Anyway, he encouraged me to "write it all down," "the truth," "dig deeper." "Dig deeper," he always said, always warning me about the tendency to shy from the truth and just write "bullshit." It was a condition of our relationship, that I wrote this hideous truth and bare my soul thus ridding myself of all the demons that were dragging us down.
Ironically, or maybe not, he would barely let me stay alone in his apartment for fear that I'd read his crap, about which I honestly couldn't give a flying fuck. He did it a few times, reluctantly, and I had no impulse. It didn't really interest me too much, and I'd read his plays, and it was private to him, and I respected that.
And the one time he stayed at my place when I went to work, I had a pit in my stomach a few hours after leaving. I called him and he told me, in a thick strange voice that he'd been sat there the whole time, reading my shit. I'd left my e-mail open. He read it all. Everything. My personal letters to everyone. To John. My doubts about him. Everything. There wasn't anything to really hide... it was just my thoughts, my voice, my SOUL that freaked him out. He left. I came home and my room reeked of smoke and I was just grossed out by everything about him, but I tend to cling onto people, and, I clung onto him, and we reconciled, on this condition that I "dig deeper" and write the truth. That he was always struggling to write, that ached him and scared him too much to confront...
And I wrote it, boy. No. Fucking. Problem. It was cathartic and exhilarating and put a Devil-may-care spring in my stride for a while, and I gave it to him to read, at his crappy day-job as a doorman downtown, and of course he didn't call me as I white-knuckled waited for him to do, and so I called him and he said--
"Well. It's not bullshit."
"No." I said. "And?"
And I don't remember what he said. He was probably silent for a while. We dissolved after that. I don't know where the hell he is.
COWARD.
COWARD. COWARD.
My writing has always gotten me into trouble. Okay, I'm an exhibitionist. And obviously it's not just the writing, it's dancing, it's across the board, it's music, it's my face on some screen, lighting someone's face at 3 a.m looking at some screen, warm in the glow of radiation.
But it's the writing that freaks people out. I think every boyfriend I've had, except Sean, has read it, my private correspondences, scoured the internet for old blogs, sat at my computer and opened up My Documents and helped them-goddamn-selves. And freaked out, and obsessed, and couldn't stop, and looked at me when I got home like "Who are you. Who are you. WHAT are you." And left, afraid of their shadows and out the door.
And not just boyfriends. Family members. Old classmates.
And it's flattering, huh. And it makes me nauseous.
And I'm driven, my whole existence, is driven by these conflicting impulses to lay it all out and spread it all out on a giant screen, and to guard my privacy at all costs.
And none of them could handle it. And none of them can handle me. And nobody ever can.
I started doing this, this writing business, a few years ago, when I was 19, at the behest of my then-boyfriend. He was a writer. Is a writer still, I suppose, of plays and films and that was how I met him, I was in his thesis film for college, about junkies. It was fun, and kind of beautiful, and kind of incredibly self-indulgent. But I was really in love with him, and he was really... troubled... naturally, and jealous, and alcoholic, and depressed, and he projected, and decided I had issues and encouraged me to write. And he used to drink and moan about how difficult it was to write "the truth" and all his writing was alternately "shit" and then so brave, the tortured artist and his terrible, terrible adolescence in a typical WASP well-to-do Midwest household with a LOVELY mom who drank a little and a rebellious, charismatic, LOVELY older brother who dabbled in the punk scene, and a downright Leave it to Beaver dad. (They were all sincerely lovely people. I'm saying this to undermine his suffering. Hah.) Anyway, he encouraged me to "write it all down," "the truth," "dig deeper." "Dig deeper," he always said, always warning me about the tendency to shy from the truth and just write "bullshit." It was a condition of our relationship, that I wrote this hideous truth and bare my soul thus ridding myself of all the demons that were dragging us down.
Ironically, or maybe not, he would barely let me stay alone in his apartment for fear that I'd read his crap, about which I honestly couldn't give a flying fuck. He did it a few times, reluctantly, and I had no impulse. It didn't really interest me too much, and I'd read his plays, and it was private to him, and I respected that.
And the one time he stayed at my place when I went to work, I had a pit in my stomach a few hours after leaving. I called him and he told me, in a thick strange voice that he'd been sat there the whole time, reading my shit. I'd left my e-mail open. He read it all. Everything. My personal letters to everyone. To John. My doubts about him. Everything. There wasn't anything to really hide... it was just my thoughts, my voice, my SOUL that freaked him out. He left. I came home and my room reeked of smoke and I was just grossed out by everything about him, but I tend to cling onto people, and, I clung onto him, and we reconciled, on this condition that I "dig deeper" and write the truth. That he was always struggling to write, that ached him and scared him too much to confront...
And I wrote it, boy. No. Fucking. Problem. It was cathartic and exhilarating and put a Devil-may-care spring in my stride for a while, and I gave it to him to read, at his crappy day-job as a doorman downtown, and of course he didn't call me as I white-knuckled waited for him to do, and so I called him and he said--
"Well. It's not bullshit."
"No." I said. "And?"
And I don't remember what he said. He was probably silent for a while. We dissolved after that. I don't know where the hell he is.
COWARD.
COWARD. COWARD.
My writing has always gotten me into trouble. Okay, I'm an exhibitionist. And obviously it's not just the writing, it's dancing, it's across the board, it's music, it's my face on some screen, lighting someone's face at 3 a.m looking at some screen, warm in the glow of radiation.
But it's the writing that freaks people out. I think every boyfriend I've had, except Sean, has read it, my private correspondences, scoured the internet for old blogs, sat at my computer and opened up My Documents and helped them-goddamn-selves. And freaked out, and obsessed, and couldn't stop, and looked at me when I got home like "Who are you. Who are you. WHAT are you." And left, afraid of their shadows and out the door.
And not just boyfriends. Family members. Old classmates.
And it's flattering, huh. And it makes me nauseous.
And I'm driven, my whole existence, is driven by these conflicting impulses to lay it all out and spread it all out on a giant screen, and to guard my privacy at all costs.
And none of them could handle it. And none of them can handle me. And nobody ever can.
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