10:35 a.m. - April 17, 2004
UPDATE: Everything's restored. I'm in a better mood already.
When I am successful in taking chances and opening up, the cycle is reinforced and gains momentum; I say to myself, see, no harm done or this feels good because often it does. And when I take chances that disappoint, my first inclination is a scorched-earth endeavor and quicker than not, I've written that person out, put him or her away. It is downright frightening to me to have people know me well, those whom I have learned to trust and thus open up to, hide nothing, show all of me, and have it count for nothing.
I figure I ought to be patient, that simply because my spigot is on does not induce another's to give in like measure, but time is short and I am not beholden to anybody. Rather than feel bad, I take myself away.
Last night Ryan II and I had a mostly romantic night; for once he did not bring a DVD or motorcycle magazine with him. Instead, he brought Scrabble and it made me smile. He tries, I try, perhaps we both win. He taught me the basics of poker and I taught him how to fingerspell his name and ask for sex in ASL. We laughed a lot and then borrowed the dog for a walk and held hands in the dark.
This is romantic to me.
Later we had sex and it was good; I didn't react poorly even though I was apprehensive. But you know what I hate? I hate not enjoying it the way I think I should, or experience just what it is that guys say is incredible and fun. In all the times that I've been fucked, I can think of only a few instances where I was a living part of the equation. I don't close my eyes but I tend to look just beyond his face at the ceiling and count things. It doesn't feel good; in fact, I don't feel anything. I can see pleasure in Ryan II's face and it makes me feel empty, angers me that I'm missing out on something.
The question isn't about rectifying what I do wrong; it's whether I would change even when aware of what I do wrong.