I think Ten is bored of me. We’re probably going to break up, if you could even call it that since we were never really going out. When I said to him, can I stay at your house this weekend?, he should have said yes right away because it means we will have a lot of sex. He didn’t. He is done with me.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m cheating Ten but then I remind myself that we fuck every time we hang out. I’m projecting my ideas of sexuality onto him and I know how much I hate it when men do that to me. We fuck practically every time we hang out, sometimes multiple times, I can’t recall a time when I didn’t bring him to at least some kind of orgasm. I’m being perfectly fair. He was the one who made me see that it would be dangerous to take the metro all the way home after leaving the club late at night.
I’m not mad at him–he owes me nothing and each time we meet it is a one-time transaction, no matter how many more times we do it and no matter how many times we’ve done it before–but it does mean that I’m going to have to go around throwing myself at everyone for the next few days until somebody decides to be a taker, which I’d be fine with if I thought there were a decent chance of even one of them saying yes.
I texted three people tonight, two of them multiple times and only one of them responded and even then it was barely a response. These people have no cred to tell me how to feel about suicide.
Some people would tell me to get over it, implying that it’s normal to be ignored, like if you point it out you’re making a big deal out of literally nothing. I will get over it–seriously–when they get over it the next time their dick is hard.
I went to the bar to wait for Ten and when I got there the bouncer asked to look in my bag to see if I was bringing in any alcohol. He saw that all I had in there was a box with shoes–“girls always have either wine or shoes in their bag. Usually shoes.”
It was too loud in the bar so I went out to the patio. Some girl was chatting up the bouncer and he told her that he has worked a lot of strip clubs. He said, are you doing a dissertation or something? And she said she wants to go and interview and photograph some girls, not nude photos or anything but just headshots, and how could she get in contact with some strippers for that? Should she call the club manager? And the bouncer said he could tell some stories about strip clubs that would probably be a comedy, or a tragedy, or a comedy-tragedy or whatever.
I wonder if he knew that the shoes in my bag were stripper shoes.
I had a dream the other day that a wild animal was running loose in my house. It was like some kind of combination between a dog and a kangaroo, and it was fast. Then animal control came and got it.
The animal control guys had almost no presence in my dream. I didn’t speak to them, and I can barely make out what they look like–one is thin and older and medium height, and the second one is taller than the first and that’s all I know. I didn’t look at them and they didn’t look at me and I didn’t have to tell them where the animal was or anything, they just came in and knew. I don’t even remember how they left. But I had the distinct feeling that I had to fuck them for doing a good job and getting the animal.
I hate it when I have to go to that Safeway. When I went to get ingredients to make dinner with Ten it was like 9:30 p.m. on a Friday, and even though the store is open for a while longer, by that time the whole place was dead. When I rang all my groceries up the cashier said, do you want help out to your car?, and I said no without even really thinking and he said “suit yourself.” I had one bag of stuff and none of it was heavy.
Some people think you should report that type of behavior but I don’t want to encourage anyone to hide their intentions so that they decide one day to follow someone out into the deserted parking lot without saying anything first. I don’t punish honesty and it has nothing to do with rewarding others for being honest. I wanted to tell the only other cashier there that she should stop putting up with the crap and go become a prostitute.
I know I’m not the only one who sees this; the now-discredited Stella Marr talks about being nervous to interact with deli-counter guys. It probably seems over-the-top to many people, and is a great way for people who disagree with her to show how she is exaggerating things, but although I am against her standpoint on prostitution (how could she not want to charge some asshole sandwich guy for the pleasure of talking to her?), I don’t think she’s making this up.
I can see it in the way the pharmacy boy screws up an old lady’s order because he was getting my birth control ready too fast. What am I going to do when I am that old lady and I need my medicine to be done right because I could seriously suffer or die if it isn’t?
There was no good reason that I should’ve had to fuck the animal control and there is no solid rule that says I have to do that kind of thing in real life, so I don’t know why I feel the need to do it anyway. I don’t know why I have sex with people that I don’t really feel like fucking. The best explanation I can come up with is that I am preparing myself so that one day when I really am coerced into it I’ll be able to remind myself that it’s not so bad and I’ve gotten through it before.
If it became a thing to punish or prosecute psychopathology, not just as a condition underlying a crime but to punish the condition itself and identify people with those characteristics as the people who bring harm to society, all it would result in is psychopaths using the psychopath diagnosis to persecute their whores and throw them in prison (or hospital prison) even worse than they do now.