Living Too Hard
Whenever I miss a couple of days blogging, its usually because Im just living too hard and too much to have any time I can set aside to write a little something. And when the time does present itself in a little slot trap in the morning after workout and before I leave to either meet my girlfriends or Dr. Seuss, Im just too tired to do much with it.
The more I think about it, the more I think my relationship with him resembles on some level, the same emotional dilemma (trauma?) Dolores had in Lolita. With the exception that Im probably more aware of what Im doing, and am definitely not dependant on him. But the whole bit about sex play for material benefit, yet still liking the person but not feeling anything beyond the cerebral or the sort of paternal transferences that tend to happen with young girls like myself and men older then their dads I do not know how to describe how I feel. Its tiring to think about it, its annoying, fascinating, yet altogether so sickening.
He paid me a few days ago, and whenever he does that, I feel guilty for it. Not that I was getting paid to be tied up, but rather over the fact that my love had to be bought. It's not that it can be bought that sickens me, but that he had to buy it. Like I said, its just something in me that disagrees with how affection can be bought a large percentage with cold, hard cash alone. Its the dilemma of where something so precious; my time and my capacity to feel fondness, affection etc. has been reduced to the most basic, the most cold, means of exchange.
***
Martine cannot stop mentioning how I have many, many lovers. And I cannot tell him enough that I do not. I told him not to ask me about the one other (to which of course Im referring to Dr. Seuss) because there was no way I would like to talk to him about it just yet. I will, one day. But Id just rather not at the present. He would disagree, I am so sure he would. Hes got all these fangled ideas on what sex should be about, and as far as I know, completely disagrees with sex done out of the need to find self-confidence. Which I agree with very strongly, and which is why Im so against the women lans sleeping with, who all presume they can find marriage and security in him. That guy is a sheer hazard. Hes very sweet looking, and that throws most of the girls onto the wrong track, I suppose.
The truth is, I dont feel like messing about with anyone new just yet, and if I would want to help it (look, the extra cash is lovely to have and as far as I know, people are all sold to money. How ironic and how apt. To be slave to a master whose sole purpose is to please us, but yet can never do so) Id not fuck around with anyone other than him. Ive got nothing to complain about. Hes fantastic in bed, hes always immensely considerate towards me, and we connect very well. And he engages me all the time. I have no idea how he does it, but he does it. He makes me feel rejected and accepted all at once. Make me feel like hes in control, when I know thats not altogether true all the time.
Certainly, hes made of one of those domineering characters that constantly need things to go their way, but hes such a slave to pleasing people. Im sure if it really hurt me, he wouldnt unless of course it would hurt someone else even more. For example, if I constantly seemed like Id threaten to reveal to his girlfriend that he had many other women in love with him, hed tell me to fuck out of his life forever, even if it would kill me for a few days. But he knows I get over shit fast.
He was very nice to me tonight, and the foreplay was nothing like Ive ever had. It wasnt better or worse then how foreplay normally is, for me, but I felt immensly conscious of things. You know how its like with things you see everyday until youre so used to them you dont particularly give them any thought? Then one day you decide to notice them. Like really become conscious of the thing; that particular scenery, the Ixora bush on the side walk, the damp leaves on the road. You just notice them. Their colour, the way the sunlight falls on the object... and the feeling is incredible. For me, its always brings the sense of newness and discovery that is, paradoxically, beyond the fulfillment of curiosity or the need for variety.
I was straddling him on my knees, legs on either side of his waist. I kept my eyes closed and just, touched him; Running my fingers down his chest and feeling them run down his chest. I noticed every dip and rise and curve, ever strand of hair, the smoothness where it was smooth, and the roughness, where it was so. I told him to feel it too, to close his eyes and just be conscious of nothing but the feeling of skin rubbing against skin. Because you get so used to that after a time, you're no longer all that aware of it. You get so acquainted with naked flesh upon naked flesh that it starts to become a biological motion. Foreplay, sex, bang and cuddle and so good night. Being conscious of it was like allowing myself the pleasure of novelty, the sense of freshness, coupled with a familiarity that made me feel intensely comfortable.
Security and novelty, they usually contradict, but at least in for myself, Ive found out (I think) how to realize that satisfaction.
As I talk more to him (he actually calls me up, something like every night) hes slowly beginning to lose that initial mysterious appeal that initially drew me to him. But I still love the sense I get from him being a naturally very private person and the intensity and focus most people with such characters normally have. He reminds me too much of my father, way too much. The over indulgence in insolation, the humbly generous nature, but more than anything, its the discovery of that softness under all that intensity and cold intellect. I know its there, and thats why I love them and they dont intimidate me. But Ill never tire of constantly revealing that aspect again and again. Like the pleasure from the motion of opening a present again and again even though you already know what is there. Maybe that's why babies like peek-a-boo.
When Im out in public with Martine, hes so proper up to the point of coldness. Even sometimes when Im stripped to my panties and placed on top of his desk (tonight, it was amidst Kunderas Slowness, which I would quite amusing) and even as he caresses the insides of my thighs, the cold demeanor does not seem to abscond. But out of no fault of his- rather, more a mis-perception on my part. Which I do not mind a drop. When I ask him how he feels, and beg him to tell me all that is going through his mind, when he touches me like that, he gives beyond satisfactory answers. And when he tells me Im so beautiful, and my cunt is such an amazing, delicate thing, and Im such an wonderful girl, it feels like looking into a new part of him that I could never have expected. Partially, the bit that he finds me as facinating as I find him, but also because he makes me feel like the most beautiful creation ever, although he does say many other women are beautiful too. And thank god for the reality of the fact, because I would be sad if that were not the case.
There had been a number of cards- postcards, cards for every season that he had gone through in Singapore from all over the world litering his place. What really struck me was how they were all from women, and how many of them were so passionately written. Oh Martine, how beautiful Barcelona would have been this summer if you could have made it (down). Or, I will always care for you, you know where to find me when youre in town, crazy shit like that, from crazy women who all remind me of myself, especially when it comes to him. Its really not difficult to love someone that tries so hard to be nice all the time, although I do see how it can be a problem when hes trying to hard with so many women, in which case it eventually becomes counter effective, because part of what women want (and this is very debatable) is exclusiveness (ah! But consider how we just love competition, simply because its fun to be a bitch).
I dont know. Whatever. For now, whats important to me is that he knows Im not exclusive, yet treats me like I am. And in a way, thats not altogether untrue. Ive not felt for anyone like I feel for him. It isnt the blind sort of necessity Id felt earlier on in the year when the whole dating a hell lot of people was new to me, and every one seemed so precious. Im perfectly conscious of the fact that I can be completely alone and fully independent, and be very happy, and feel liberated. But theres something about him that makes me want to want him, and to spend more time with him.
My God, we have such engaging conversations. And Ive read an excerpt of a book hed written, and I must say he really does use the language with such dexterity. And ah, I just love men who can write about things that engage me (it was about how human societies solve a host of different problems I didnt see how his arguments would have solved anything, just because Im a bit of a fatalist hey sara, sara, what ever will be, will be-), but not that that should come as a surprise.
xoxox
Whenever I miss a couple of days blogging, its usually because Im just living too hard and too much to have any time I can set aside to write a little something. And when the time does present itself in a little slot trap in the morning after workout and before I leave to either meet my girlfriends or Dr. Seuss, Im just too tired to do much with it.
The more I think about it, the more I think my relationship with him resembles on some level, the same emotional dilemma (trauma?) Dolores had in Lolita. With the exception that Im probably more aware of what Im doing, and am definitely not dependant on him. But the whole bit about sex play for material benefit, yet still liking the person but not feeling anything beyond the cerebral or the sort of paternal transferences that tend to happen with young girls like myself and men older then their dads I do not know how to describe how I feel. Its tiring to think about it, its annoying, fascinating, yet altogether so sickening.
He paid me a few days ago, and whenever he does that, I feel guilty for it. Not that I was getting paid to be tied up, but rather over the fact that my love had to be bought. It's not that it can be bought that sickens me, but that he had to buy it. Like I said, its just something in me that disagrees with how affection can be bought a large percentage with cold, hard cash alone. Its the dilemma of where something so precious; my time and my capacity to feel fondness, affection etc. has been reduced to the most basic, the most cold, means of exchange.
***
Martine cannot stop mentioning how I have many, many lovers. And I cannot tell him enough that I do not. I told him not to ask me about the one other (to which of course Im referring to Dr. Seuss) because there was no way I would like to talk to him about it just yet. I will, one day. But Id just rather not at the present. He would disagree, I am so sure he would. Hes got all these fangled ideas on what sex should be about, and as far as I know, completely disagrees with sex done out of the need to find self-confidence. Which I agree with very strongly, and which is why Im so against the women lans sleeping with, who all presume they can find marriage and security in him. That guy is a sheer hazard. Hes very sweet looking, and that throws most of the girls onto the wrong track, I suppose.
The truth is, I dont feel like messing about with anyone new just yet, and if I would want to help it (look, the extra cash is lovely to have and as far as I know, people are all sold to money. How ironic and how apt. To be slave to a master whose sole purpose is to please us, but yet can never do so) Id not fuck around with anyone other than him. Ive got nothing to complain about. Hes fantastic in bed, hes always immensely considerate towards me, and we connect very well. And he engages me all the time. I have no idea how he does it, but he does it. He makes me feel rejected and accepted all at once. Make me feel like hes in control, when I know thats not altogether true all the time.
Certainly, hes made of one of those domineering characters that constantly need things to go their way, but hes such a slave to pleasing people. Im sure if it really hurt me, he wouldnt unless of course it would hurt someone else even more. For example, if I constantly seemed like Id threaten to reveal to his girlfriend that he had many other women in love with him, hed tell me to fuck out of his life forever, even if it would kill me for a few days. But he knows I get over shit fast.
He was very nice to me tonight, and the foreplay was nothing like Ive ever had. It wasnt better or worse then how foreplay normally is, for me, but I felt immensly conscious of things. You know how its like with things you see everyday until youre so used to them you dont particularly give them any thought? Then one day you decide to notice them. Like really become conscious of the thing; that particular scenery, the Ixora bush on the side walk, the damp leaves on the road. You just notice them. Their colour, the way the sunlight falls on the object... and the feeling is incredible. For me, its always brings the sense of newness and discovery that is, paradoxically, beyond the fulfillment of curiosity or the need for variety.
I was straddling him on my knees, legs on either side of his waist. I kept my eyes closed and just, touched him; Running my fingers down his chest and feeling them run down his chest. I noticed every dip and rise and curve, ever strand of hair, the smoothness where it was smooth, and the roughness, where it was so. I told him to feel it too, to close his eyes and just be conscious of nothing but the feeling of skin rubbing against skin. Because you get so used to that after a time, you're no longer all that aware of it. You get so acquainted with naked flesh upon naked flesh that it starts to become a biological motion. Foreplay, sex, bang and cuddle and so good night. Being conscious of it was like allowing myself the pleasure of novelty, the sense of freshness, coupled with a familiarity that made me feel intensely comfortable.
Security and novelty, they usually contradict, but at least in for myself, Ive found out (I think) how to realize that satisfaction.
As I talk more to him (he actually calls me up, something like every night) hes slowly beginning to lose that initial mysterious appeal that initially drew me to him. But I still love the sense I get from him being a naturally very private person and the intensity and focus most people with such characters normally have. He reminds me too much of my father, way too much. The over indulgence in insolation, the humbly generous nature, but more than anything, its the discovery of that softness under all that intensity and cold intellect. I know its there, and thats why I love them and they dont intimidate me. But Ill never tire of constantly revealing that aspect again and again. Like the pleasure from the motion of opening a present again and again even though you already know what is there. Maybe that's why babies like peek-a-boo.
When Im out in public with Martine, hes so proper up to the point of coldness. Even sometimes when Im stripped to my panties and placed on top of his desk (tonight, it was amidst Kunderas Slowness, which I would quite amusing) and even as he caresses the insides of my thighs, the cold demeanor does not seem to abscond. But out of no fault of his- rather, more a mis-perception on my part. Which I do not mind a drop. When I ask him how he feels, and beg him to tell me all that is going through his mind, when he touches me like that, he gives beyond satisfactory answers. And when he tells me Im so beautiful, and my cunt is such an amazing, delicate thing, and Im such an wonderful girl, it feels like looking into a new part of him that I could never have expected. Partially, the bit that he finds me as facinating as I find him, but also because he makes me feel like the most beautiful creation ever, although he does say many other women are beautiful too. And thank god for the reality of the fact, because I would be sad if that were not the case.
There had been a number of cards- postcards, cards for every season that he had gone through in Singapore from all over the world litering his place. What really struck me was how they were all from women, and how many of them were so passionately written. Oh Martine, how beautiful Barcelona would have been this summer if you could have made it (down). Or, I will always care for you, you know where to find me when youre in town, crazy shit like that, from crazy women who all remind me of myself, especially when it comes to him. Its really not difficult to love someone that tries so hard to be nice all the time, although I do see how it can be a problem when hes trying to hard with so many women, in which case it eventually becomes counter effective, because part of what women want (and this is very debatable) is exclusiveness (ah! But consider how we just love competition, simply because its fun to be a bitch).
I dont know. Whatever. For now, whats important to me is that he knows Im not exclusive, yet treats me like I am. And in a way, thats not altogether untrue. Ive not felt for anyone like I feel for him. It isnt the blind sort of necessity Id felt earlier on in the year when the whole dating a hell lot of people was new to me, and every one seemed so precious. Im perfectly conscious of the fact that I can be completely alone and fully independent, and be very happy, and feel liberated. But theres something about him that makes me want to want him, and to spend more time with him.
My God, we have such engaging conversations. And Ive read an excerpt of a book hed written, and I must say he really does use the language with such dexterity. And ah, I just love men who can write about things that engage me (it was about how human societies solve a host of different problems I didnt see how his arguments would have solved anything, just because Im a bit of a fatalist hey sara, sara, what ever will be, will be-), but not that that should come as a surprise.
xoxox
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
paulnikon:
The best journal I've read all day.
perilsensitive:
I always read the entirety of your journals. They are very intimate and vulnerable, if that makes sense. I find them fascinating.