Some stories about men

The Economist Beekeeper Sex God comes to me out of the stars and says he remembers me as there is light illuminating the sky over the Jura mountains.

I wonder why I adore this validation of my existence.

Pienso en vos como veo la madgrugada
Algunas dias duermo contenta en los brazos de un otro
Depertandome con las estrellas de noche autre fois

Otros dias me levanto y veo le soleil de manana
Y pienso gracias a dios que existe esta belleza en el mundo

Otros, miro los aviones cruzando el sol de apres-midi
Con los pajaros volando donde yo no puedo y las abejas tocando lo que yo no puedo

Y les matins that you come to me
And I open my curtains to your soft glow
Pienso autre fois que suerte tengo en ver y sentir y oir
El silencio de lejos
La luz de aqui
El conocimiento de alla
The new day rises again
And you are still with me



I do miss him.
And this is bad poetry.
More than offering a Goggles notifier, Google needs to offer a "You're about to send bad poetry to someone - is this what you really want to do?" notifier. Oh well.

The Filmmaker asked me something interesting recently. Saying he hasn't gone searching for Lola's blog, and requesting me to send snipits here and there, he asked if I had something less individual-story-like and more general over-arching story-like. I told him that's what the book is for, although the book will be compiled and published in probably ten years because the writing goes on and on. No. I don't have anything like that. And that question has been inside me for days. The overarching why. Not the existential "Who am I?" question, but the "Why do I do these things?" question, which leads to the former, I guess.

The compilation of lovers. The list we all make sometimes when we sit down and write all the names or all the stories that go with each lover for whom we've forgotten their name. Why am I attracted. Why do I get bored. What makes me feel like I'm on fire every month and have to hump every man in sight. Who is "Adam" - the inner 18-year-old boy who takes over and makes me want to call in sick to life and just fondle myself all day and night. My ring finger is longer than my pointer finger - which has been suggested to mean I've got more testosterone in my body than estrogen. What does that mean? How does it play out? Who are all my lovers and why do I seek them? If they were all in one room I know I'd look out and try to connect the dots and they'd just be insulted by looking at the others in comparison. There are no answers tonight, only more questions.

The Filmmaker came over late last week after I'd been drinking and he offered to take the cab. We talked and talked, I fired my co-organizer of the conference with an email he helped me write, and then we smoked in my apartment, and then we slept and around 3am he slowly fucked me in the double-futon. Now, the next-door teen girl won't look at me. We tried to be quiet. It's not my fault that the walls are paper thin or that she's disgusted.

This past Sunday I got all dolled up in thigh highs and skirt and went to the TV Prodcer's. We couldn't resist - despite my period - and fucked before we even got to dinner. I'm too self-conscious with him - that I'm smoking again and he's a non-smoker runner. That I'm not cute enough and he could have anyone. This latter is something I felt I out-grew with the relationship with the Economist. .... free thoughts.... I really did feel validated by him in a way. While he's trapped himself in a small town in a land-locked country in the middle of Europe, he's still so incredibly beautiful and relaxed and wealthy and laid back and focused and non-chalont and non-caring and comfortable in his own skin and predicaments. All these things made me feel unworthy and when he gave me attention I felt - validated. Coming back to school, a place that replicates high school in so many sick ways, I felt empowered thinking, I have been adored by someone who really shouldn't even give me the time of day. And his interest - and continued interest - as pathetic as this is, has given me more power. More self-esteem in a horrible way. I recognize that this is fucked up but secretly felt so much more assured walking into the school, being a conference organizer... Like, you all might think I'm xyz, but really I've been abc. And, again, the TV Producer is not a gorgeous stud man, he's not thrillingly intelligent - although, when I was explaining to him how I didn't feel so comfortable in lipstick and was hoping he wouldn't laugh and how I'm becoming more of a woman in a sense, he quoted "Second Sex" and "you aren't born a woman, but you are continuously becoming a woman." But the fact that he finds me mildly entertaining or interesting gives me some sick validation.

So, right, there we were fucking against his wall and then sitting so properly at his dining room table having Italian food. And then discussing art and music and politics like I had not just been bent over getting fucked from behind while my blood stained his shirt. And then, we went to his bedroom and I got on all fours on an ottoman and he spanked me for a good 20 minutes. We ended up in his bed and he snuggled me all night to where I was sweating in the boxer shorts he loaned me. I actually felt comfortable in some moments and then would wake up and need space. He got up and left before I did and I took my time showering, making coffee in his place, looking at the things that were visible to me.

But it's back to Adam creeping into my body and I'm starved for fucking. Since Sunday, which was nice with the TV Producer but I was bleeding which can make the whole scene different. Tomorrow I'll go find the Filmmaker for a short quick 3 hours before he leaves for Rome on the ...

uh oh

distracted into wondering if there's a way I can go with him and skip class on Friday.

trouble.

damn you Adam!