12:10 p.m. - August 15, 2004
Chagrin over French toast
Easy enough to say with determination this is my personal journal but niggling worries over industrious eyes linger. But fuck it.
For several nights now I've had what can only be called violent sexual dreams. It is not the violence that disturbs me - honesty, Jason, honesty - but how much pleasure I derive from that violence. In one of those rare moments where I open up, I told Chris that I liked being hit by Spec, that I like the violence as a means of exorcism, that if I hurt so much, perhaps the new hurt will overshadow and push away the old, and I can move on. I've dreamed of choking Tommy as I fuck him, of being pissed on by some abstract cock, and saying vile, nasty things. The more humiliating, denigrating, and awful the better. And I've enjoyed these dreams, writhe on my too-soft bed between sleep and awake, consciously draw them out, make them linger so I awake breathing hard and fully aroused, eventually spattering on my chest and the wall behind my head.
I'm not ashamed of these dreams but I am curious. Why these actions, why those words, why that anger and heat mixed with pleasure?
Had breakfast with my mother and her partner this morning. French toast, too sweet even though I requested no powdered sugar or syrup on the stack. She's back from a lighthouse tour in Wisconsin and is set to go to the pied � terre in Massachussetts next. She mentioned a wedding they attended recently, a lesbian couple whose two sets of children served as wedding bearers, slyly following up that their friends have repeatedly asked when will they marry? The oh-I-see sign goes a long way in these circumstances. I don't know if I'd attend a wedding, but I suspect I'm leaning towards going if simply out of family harmony. Half her friends I've met are lipstick lesbians, the other half big, beefy dykes. How do the latter dress in formal occasions?
After more conversational drift she inquired into my church, mentioned again how much she enjoyed the Christmas Eve service last year, beaming in her way to show she's no longer antagonistic towards my faith. Again, the oh-I-see sufficed; what does one say to an affirmation neither sought after nor of much importance? Is it too little, too late? Or are these mini-rapprochements the vanguard of something else? I couldn't help wondering if she was buttering me up for some larger imposition, a coup de gr�ce to be delivered later. This suspicion I have of family members' motivations is wearisome.
Showed them the layout for the book and the oohed and aahed, said it was very pretty, and put it aside. I don't know if I wanted or expected something different, and I'm chagrined that I let myself be disappointed. As much as I deny it, I want her approval and it hurts - . Par for course, that's all.
