Anxiety

The blonde looked at her tenderly. The brunette was looking down tensely, not noticing … initially. Then she shot a glance at the blonde, before looking down again, not smiling.

Several seconds went by.

“You feel anxious,” the blonde opined gently.

The brunette kept looking down, but her mind was racing. She was feeling more emotions than she could structure or articulate. She felt out of control, yet a single emotion grew steadily amidst the rushing river of intense emotions: a tiny pinprick of gratitude that refused to be engulfed by the other emotions that overwhelmed her.

She wasn’t being asked why she felt as she did. She wasn’t even being asked whether she felt anxious. She was spared the additional burden that came with the need to respond. She could always say “no” were she not anxious, and that would be that. She valued being able to just focus on how she was feeling.

A thought flashed: how different things were nowadays. She felt no reproach from the blonde, no impatience. She tried to focus on how comforting life was nowadays.

Feeling anxious rarely, if ever, came along in isolation. It also came with a sense of shame or guilt, of feeling ridiculous for feeling anxious for no clear reason. And yet … the calm brown eyes bathing her warmly in gentle kindness didn’t convey any judgment, just compassion. The brunette could feel anxious without … without feeling anxious about feeling anxious. She was at least slightly higher up in the downward spiral, she thought.

She pondered being able to feel anxious without being judged. How much simpler anxiety would be if it were just an isolated issue without then also feeling bad about how she was feeling.

It puzzled her how the blonde could be so patient about so paralyzing an issue. This might have been the perfect morning, romantic and potentially sexual, and yet romance and sexuality went out the window whenever anxiety came along — as it did without any sort of predictable rhyme or reason. It had taken its toll in the past to where, she thought, that might explain to some extent why she felt anxious about feeling anxious. Was she going to ruin the dynamic with the blonde, like that?

The brunette wondered what it’d be like to have anxiety be a simple, accepted part of life, not worth dwelling on, and where one’s partner would … her train of thought stopped abruptly. She realized that she hadn’t been chosen as a model of polished self-control over all things emotional. The blonde had been well aware of the brunette’s struggle with anxiety — and had chosen her even so. The entire package that the brunette represented, including aspects that the brunette disliked about herself … the blonde had knowingly chosen it all.

The brunette focused on that point. Slowly much of the negative emotion ebbed away. She was left with a sense of emotional exhaustion even though she hadn’t been awake for more than ten minutes, and was still in bed. She wanted to give expression to how she felt, somehow. She also realized that she finally felt comfortable enough to interact. She looked up at the blonde, and nodded, affirming the statement. That was the extent of her response. The blonde’s look softened more yet. She was lying on her side, facing the brunette with an 18-inch span of bed-sheet between them. She held out her topmost arm in a “come here” gesture.

The brunette gave the blonde another glance, and hesitated for a few seconds more. Negative emotions from past memories were rising again, but even so, she scooted over and lay her head by the blonde’s shoulder, with her hands clutching each other nervously in front of her own chest. She felt the warmth and strength of the blonde’s arm enfolding her back, drawing her closer until her hands were trapped between their two bodies.

She lay there for a minute or two … and then started slowly relaxing. She took a deep breath, and released it quickly, then another, and released it more slowly. She nuzzled her head against the blonde’s shoulder. She felt comforted as she hadn’t felt for much of her life.

Whatever the feelings were, they were better now, yet she felt overwhelmed in a different, cleaner way. A minute went by. Then, the blonde felt warm tears on her shoulder, and she gave the slender body next to her another comforting squeeze.

The brunette felt the urge to look at the blonde. She pushed herself away from the blonde, and looked up past her eyelashes. Their eyes met. The blonde leaned down and kissed the brunette on her forehead, then pulled her close again. They lay like that for another thirty minutes, with the brunette’s emotions slowly calming. She contrasted her life with how an attack of anxiety had been experienced before moving in with the blonde … so very different. She took another deep breath, and slowly released it, and then realized that she was smiling. She unclasped her hands, and with the uppermost hand, she reached past the blonde’s waist, then placed her hand behind the blonde’s back, in a loving embrace. She loved feeling the blonde embrace her even more tightly, in response. Still smiling, she took another slow, deep breath. She felt happy and at peace.

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Success

“If I had to use one word to describe you, it’s ‘catalyst’ …” said the friend-zoned, brilliant, lovely, blue-eyed. blonde, former model in her late 20s, sitting across the table from me, yesterday evening, about 14 hours ago.  She was buying me dinner at an elegant bistro in downtown Reno.

Two hours prior, she was dancing solo — joyously sashaying, basically — through a gallery at the Nevada art museum, with a museum employee looking on with a sheepish, happy smile, and me trying to contrast this with the earnest, sad girl who suffered from depression when I met her, approximately a year ago.  With many detours, this essay celebrates her journey but it also explains polyamory.

She and I are each infatuated with a different girl, respectively.  For each of us, that other girl is not a viable option currently, so we decided we’d dress up as sexily as if we were on a date with the girl we’re each respectively in love with, and at least go have a fun time together.  We did, and we indeed had fun.

Cerebral Shy Girls

My friend is a cerebral shy girl. So am I.  So is the girl with whom I’m in love. So is almost every girlfriend I’ve ever had. So is my current long-distance girlfriend whom I haven’t seen in more than 18 months yet we also love each other, in our own way.  Yes, I’m polyamorous — I love my girlfriend and I’m also in love with another girl. Being polyamorous is a large part of today’s story.  So is the concept of being a cerebral shy girl.

I’ve been trying to understand cerebral shy girls ever since I realized that we seem to be a structurally different sub-category of being, with our own highly unusual and complex way of thinking that’s so deeply cerebral that it’s fundamentally different from typical people. Some of us have been diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum. Perhaps many or most of us are on the spectrum. I suspect that I am, too.

We’re told that we overthink things — and by typical standards, we certainly do. We’re not just different cerebrally, but also emotionally. Even at a primary level, we feel with an intensity that seems unique in all the world, but then at a secondary level, we also feel strongly about how we feel, and often there’s a third level, which is how we feel about the first and second level.

An example might be when a cerebral shy girl is having a sexual experience, such as me, last time when I was being pleasured by a nice gentleman. My mind was all over the place. I was thinking of the girl I’m in love with, of former lovers, of so many things … and I introspectively realized I was doing all that, and I felt a sense of joy and satisfaction at having such a complex mind.  It could have been very different too. The guy I’m with might have asked what I was thinking of, insisted I mentally focus on him, or I might have felt guilty about not doing so and then started wondering what was wrong with me for not being able to just superficially enjoy the sensations.

Cerebral shy girls tend to have a layer-cake of mental complexity that, by my standards, is delightful but by typical standards is abhorrent. Guys who hate complexity in girls consider us the worst type of girl — the personification of someone who is more trouble than she’s worth, and after screwing us once or twice, the guy is emotionally gone and, if it’s viable, then also geographically gone soon after.

A cerebral shy girl tends to have a hard time connecting emotionally with anyone except another cerebral girl. Until then, we feel desperately lonely and misunderstood, hating ourselves for being unable to connect with typical people, or even with cerebral guys.

For a cerebral shy girl, the shyness is a consequence of feeling unwilling to experience failure yet again when trying to socially (and better yet, emotionally) connect. That reluctance, of course, isolates us more yet, and it’s a downward spiral. The problem starts early on — early teenage years, I conclude — and it tends to get worse from then on.

I’m new at approaching this methodically though in an unstructured way, I’ve been dating and enjoying the company of cerebral shy girls ever since I was 19. In each case I can think of, it’s safe to say that the romance was life-changing  for the other girl because she had finally found a kindred spirit after a lonely life, as almost always was the case for the cerebral shy girls with whom I was in romances.

Did these romances last? Only one has, so far. Percentage-wise, that’s a very low amount. Broadly, romances with me have most typically ended because the girl is bi and wanted to see what a socially respectable, official, monogamous dynamic with a guy would be like, or because of money issues, or because I’m poly-amorous, or because I was transitioning as a trans girl and was myself depressed and overwhelmed to the point where I wasn’t a good-enough partner, or because I initiated the break-up because I classified the other girl as being abusive toward me.

Polyamory

My long-distance girlfriend and I have had been together, so to speak, for half a dozen years.  In person, we’ve had amazing adventures together, and magnificently sexy times. In person or long-distance, we’ve also been there for each other in very difficult times. She’s currently having a difficult time and I’m being supportive to her in a way that, her feedback suggests, is approximately perfect.

Things with her started well, and they continued well. When she and I first discussed the viability of a relationship dynamic, I was clear it’d be a long-distance dynamic, and I was also firmly told that she had no patience for someone who didn’t accept her being polyamorous nor someone who wasn’t also personally polyamorous.  At the time I already had one other girlfriend, so it all fitted and worked beautifully.  We each got our emotional and sexual needs met well enough without any one of us feeling obligated had to be absolutely everything to our girlfriend.  And of course, we all were aware of each other, got along well, and had met in person.  I suppose cheating and polyamory can be compatible but I avoid that — I choose to be open about it.

That includes the girl I’m in love with. I wasn’t aware of her until my long-distance girlfriend brought her to my attention. She’s lovely and talented but most of my friends are lovely bi or lesbian current or former models, dancers or sex workers — so it takes much more than beauty and talent to pivotally interest me. I didn’t give her much thought until I saw a videotape of how she conducted herself in an interview, and then I began to focus on her intensely, and it snowballed from there, I’ve been focused on her ever since. At some point, my long-distance girlfriend and I had a long and positive conversation about that, and she is happy for me, and encouraging me. I love that.

Case Study

How does this all tie in together?  Well, a year ago, my lovely dinner companion of last night considered herself monogamous, straight, in a committed-for-life relationship with a guy, and mentally unwell.  She felt hopelessly naive in a cruel and dishonest world. She felt rudderless as to a life direction, and she suffered from debilitating depression. Seeing counselors helped only to some extent. She traveled far and wide to cheer herself up, and she tried hard to be supportive of her guy, but deep down she remained fundamentally depressed.

Several of my friend are counselors, and I’m not — but I’ve discussed depression with my counselor friends to the point where I concluded that, while it’s a miserable downward spiral. its root cause tends to be a brain-chemical issue, and/or that the person is really is in so unhappy a life situation that being depressed is actually the properly-calibrated emotional reaction thereto. As it turns out, the latter mostly was the cause of my friend’s depression, though once a month the brain-chemical issue also contributed significantly.

I classified her as a cerebral shy girl within seconds of meeting her.  She had the dazzling, disarming smile that I’ve come to recognize as the hallmark of someone who has found that to be a useful social construct.  My own smile is also in that category and it gets me many compliments, and to my credit I’ve managed to not respond with how I feel then: “thanks, but it’s just a coping mechanism, really.”

As our friendship progressed, we talked for hours.  Our first friend-zone date started in the early evening, included a trip to a bookstore and buying some books and then sitting in a parked car, overlooking the city lights, and talking until almost 2 a.m.

As we continued to interact, I focused on her, solo. I never met the guy in her life nor did I want to. I only socialized with her, solo.  I hypothesized that she needed private cultural space, one social area where she could be herself, without having to bring her dynamic with the guy along into that intellectual and emotional space.

The conversations, emails and text messages became more and more intense and introspective. Her mood started becoming more and more positive.

At some point, she announced she finally understands and likes her own way of thinking, accepting it as opposed to resenting herself.  She announced she had chosen to pursue a particular profession and had enrolled for a university degree toward that.  She announced that she realized she’s not straight.  She told the guy in her life they should see other people. She started focusing on a girl romantically, and she read books that essentially focused on the importance of joy and love.  Then, she told the guy in her life they should see only other people. Much as she is in love with one particular girl, she’s also emotionally attracted to two separate guys, and somehow she’s openly managing all that, and she’s the most joyous person I’ve seen in a long time.

I’m still the only other cerebral shy girl she knows, but she understand herself as such now and she knows there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just different from typical people — and in her and my opinion, better too.

She loves being free to love and explore girls, and other people — emotionally, sexually — ideally both in combination.

Sitting on a park bench at 11 p.m. last night, she expounded on the joy of life, and how free she feels, and how being able to guiltlessly love and enjoy more than one person is a large part of that.  We hugged often, and chatted happily for hours.  Our friend-zone date started at 5:30 p.m. and went until midnight but it felt like only two hours had gone by.

The Limits of Polyamory

So, why, since she and I are each polyamorous, and we like girls, and she’s wonderful, and she seems to be such a good fit for me in many ways, and vice versa, plus we already like each other and love each other as friends … why don’t we become a romantic item?

Because polyamory doesn’t imply an infinite capacity.  For her, she’s enjoying the abundance of variety and opportunity for joy and love, all around her. Maybe she might value me in her life as such, but I tend to be an overpowering presence as such and I tend to crowd out others so that doesn’t fit her kid-in-a-candy-store mindset.

“She doesn’t fit” basically describes my unwillingness too.  I already have a long-distance girlfriend and I’m already intensely focused on another cerebral shy girl, and I’m enjoying that, and I intend to continue.  That’s as much as I choose to take on. Emotionally, there just isn’t room for one more intense dynamic. If I focused on someone else like that, it’d distract me from what I’d rather do: focus mainly on the girl with whom I’m in love.

So it turns out that being polyamorous doesn’t imply infinite capacity.  It just means that the number of people on whom we can focus romantically isn’t limited to “1.”

The Billboard, Part 1

“I kinda feel like flinging my phone into the ocean,” proclaimed the billboard.

It was the middle of May, 1988. She was driving down Santa Monica Boulevard when she saw that billboard. She glanced up and was frozen in shock. It had her name on there, attributing the quote — though she didn’t recall ever having said that.

She tried to take it all in, but it was too much to process.

Her eyes raced all over the billboard. Toward the left, in a circle, there was a black-and-white picture of her, holding a guitar. Her name was printed right below that. Toward the top, there was a large horizontal picture of that same guitar. Then, that strange phrase: “I kinda feel like flinging my phone into the ocean.”

Just in time, she saw the car in front of her stop. She slammed on the brakes of her own car. She barely didn’t collide with the car in front of her. She decided to focus on her driving.

She passed the billboard, and got into the right lane. She made a right at the next light, then another right, then kept going for five city blocks. She made another right and then a final right, so that she was again going along Santa Monica Boulevard in the same direction as before. As she approached the billboard for the second time, she parked her car, got out and walked toward the billboard. It was the strangest thing.

She was startled as a car honked loudly while driving past — then another car, too. She looked at the drivers. Their faces were smiling; they didn’t seem upset. She heard yet another car honking behind her. She turned to see the driver smiling while looking up at the billboard. Then she saw the small print across the bottom of the billboard: “Honk if you like this.” On the billboard, in the bottom right-hand corner, next to a picture of a small red heart, was a small counter, like an odometer. Every time somebody honked their horn, the odometer presumably clicked up by one more number. The number, she assumed, thus indicated how many people so far had liked the billboard. The number was high: more than a thousand.

She looked more closely. She saw some additional small print on the billboard, inviting people to comment. This puzzled her even more.

Also puzzling was that alleged quote – something she couldn’t recall ever saying. It didn’t make any sense to her why she would want to fling her phone into the ocean. She lived in the west part of LA, and the phone company in that area was General Telephone. She was pretty sure GTE wouldn’t appreciate her doing that. Besides, she felt no need to do that. She couldn’t understand why anybody would feel that need, much less to comment on it publicly.

When she got close to the pillar supporting the billboard, she noticed that there was a sort of public bulletin board attached to one of its pillars, by the sidewalk. While she was watching, somebody walked up to it, and approached a container that held thumbtacks, pens and pieces of paper. She looked more closely. Each paper had evenly spaced blocks into which letters could be written, such as when sending a telegram. The paper made it clear that there was space for only 280 characters. Using a pen from the container, the stranger wrote something onto a such a slip of paper, then used a thumbtack to attach it to the billboard, below several dozen similar such slips of paper. The stranger seem pleased as he walked away. She approached to read when he had just written. Even though he’d had lots of space available, he had just written a brief phrase. It seemed to imply that he felt the same way too. Her eyes scanned others’ comments. They all seem to be focused on that quote, and were chiming in with various perspective and opinions. It was all so very strange to her.

And why this focus on a telephone? The breakup of AT&T had happened not that long ago, and lots of little phone companies popping up, but that still didn’t seem to reconcile with wanting to throwing one’s phone into the ocean.

Au contraire: too often she felt lonely, too isolated. Her phone was actually a way of reaching people. It provided her access to somebody to talk to. Ideally, it’d be a long-distance lover, she thought. Better yet would be a lover in person … but if distance was a problem, then a phone would be a great way to stay in touch.

Wanting to get rid of her phone seemed to imply that she was tired of being approached — which was the exact opposite of how she felt, while looking at that perplexing billboard.

She pondered the issue. Of course, she had many people in her life, but it was all too often a superficial connection. She did indeed crave some kind of deeper connection. She liked the idea of being able to have long and complex conversations, ideally in person but failing that, yes, a phone would be a good second choice.

She was startled out of her musing when another car drove past, honking. She had time to look up just in time to see the odometer on the billboard increase the number by one more yet.

Her mind was reeling. She felt overwhelmed. She tried to find an explanation to the strange phenomena. Then she saw another billboard a couple of blocks away on the other side of the street. It seemed to have a similar structure. There was a picture toward the left, also in a circle. Below that, there was somebody’s name. She didn’t recognize the name. Similarly, there was a large picture across the top. She heard more honking some distance away, near that billboard. Whatever was written as a quote on that billboard, a nearby driver evidently liked.

She walked toward that billboard. It also had an odometer and a bulletin board by the sidewalk, so that people could comment. They were several comments, on similar strips of paper. Another container offered pens, tacks and blank strips of paper for strangers to take so as to comment on the message on that billboard. She looked up at the quote on the billboard. It voiced a not-so-insightful political opinion. Several people seemed to agree, given their comments. Each person’s name appeared by his or her comment. She noticed that there were also comments, in reply, by the person whose name was on the billboard. The replies often had much back-and-forth, most of it benevolent — and superficial. She frowned. She hadn’t noticed a similar dynamic on the bulletin board by the billboard that had her name on it. For the latter, people were commenting to her but she wasn’t replying. That puzzled her. She walked back for another look.

Why no intellectual discourse? Indeed she was painfully shy but responding in writing seemed to be the perfect medium. It allowed precision too, and she wouldn’t have the time pressure of having to “think on her feet.” She tried to find a comment to which she’d replied — even though she couldn’t recall having done so, nor for that matter could she recall anything about these strange billboards. Everything about them was a perplexing surprise.

She scanned the various strangers’ comments. A few were actually somewhat insightful and probably merited a reply, which might have lead to an interesting dialogue. Yet she hadn’t replied. Then, she noticed a slip of paper with her name pre-printed on it, and “thank you” by her name. She had so much to say, so it seemed odd she’d be limited to that.

She wished she could reach out and have a conversation with some of the people who sounded interesting and insightful. She craved intelligent conversation, and true connection. These few individuals seemed to be potential candidates. She took a pen and a slip of paper with her name on it, and tried to write some more words next to the pre-printed “thank you.” The pen didn’t work. She next tried the specific pen that she’d seen the stranger use a few minutes before. That didn’t work either. She took a blank slip of paper and tried to write on that. The pen didn’t write on that, either. She felt frustrated that all she could viably express was gratitude. She put the pen and paper back, exasperated.

A handsome stranger in his mid-20s walked up. He glanced at her. He seemed to have no interest in her personally, just in the public persona on the billboard. He actually stared up at it wistfully. Then, he took the pen and paper she’d tried, successfully wrote something, and tacked it below the long list of pre-existing comments. After he’d left, she approached and read it. It made reference to him being infatuated with her, and about a music video she’d been in, the year before. She blushed at how sexually explicit his compliments were. It was so strange that he would focus on her as a public persona, and yet ignore her in her capacity as an actual person.

She was so amazed that for him, the pen and paper worked, and for her it didn’t. It was like the pen and paper in combination enabled others to comment, but she couldn’t. What a terrible fate that would be if it were the case. She had so much to say; she craved meaningful human connection so much.

She read some more comments. How ironic it was that she could be popular and liked yet feel lonely all at the same time. She tried one more time to write. The pen still refuse to write.

“You may as well stop trying,” said a cold female voice. “It’s never going to work. My curse won’t permit it.”

She turned towards the speaker. Halloween was still several months away, yet the speaker was dressed in black, as an evil witch. The witch was glaring at her in a way that was openly hostile. She seemed to be in her mid-20s, with short red hair. Otherwise, she looked a lot like the actress who’d played Mary Lou in the movie The AllNighter, the year before.

“Not-so-nice to meet you. Hello there. I’m the Evil Witch … at your disservice,” the witch said to her.

She stared at the witch. None of this seemed possible but it didn’t have the strange dreamlike quality that could help her realize this was all a figment of her imagination. It all seemed normal … just perfectly normal enough to feel real, yet with these strange events.

…to be continued. Spoiler alert: happy ending

A Day with Me, May 10th 2018

How was your day, last Thursday? Would it have been nicer had you spent it with me? Let’s see.

We’d wake up together in an embrace in my large queen sized-bed. You’d have slept well, at peace and happy. Our morning wake-up ritual would include more touching and being close, and then some in-bed exercises (literally) such as stretches.

Then, time to drink water & make coffee & breakfast, and see if there is anything urgently needing your or my attention as announced via text messages or email. If not, it’s time for breakfast. After that, moisturizing and makeup, the latter mostly just eyebrow pencil.

I manage two businesses so you’d have seen me work on making client software for an hour or two. I work from home so the dress code can be whatever I choose (and what you’d prefer would greatly influence that). My computer workstation is a stand-and-work structure and sometimes I wear my stripper 6″ stilettos and stripper dress just because I enjoy feeling extra sassy. This would be a good time for you to work too, but my sofa is right by my workstation so it’d be cool if you sat there. And, touch my legs as often as you like. If you can distract me from work, yay!

Thursday I normally focus on running errands, including personal grooming. Some weeks that includes electrolysis. So you get to keep my company as I endure that. As before, if you choose to sit nearby and distract me with the touch of your skilled fingers, better yet.

I’m fixing up a friend’s 1980 Mercedes-Benz convertible, so next we’d go buy parts, at the dealer. They still remember me from when I had enough money to walk in there and buy two sports models on the same day. Those days are gone, but they might return. Until then, I’m happy even though my cash flow is much more humble. Bonus: the dealership offers complimentary coffee, and it’s good.

20180510_155252

Next, we go across the street to the Volvo dealer. I’m restoring a 1972 Volvo 164 that’s like the car that was the family car when I was a little girl … many memories for my mom. So, that’s why the visit to the dealer, to get a replacement key after presenting the title paperwork. Sadly, the car is so old they can’t help. Never mind, we’ll make a plan.

Then, lunchtime: crepes and scrambled eggs at one of my favorite places. The waitress there is maybe old enough to be my mom. She’s always super-nice to me. 20180510_160210

Next, to the salon to get my hair washed and straightened. I like the straight look for me. Maybe while I do that you have a concurrent appointment, not that you need it. You look fine with curly hair. Still, playing with one’s look can be fun. Here’s the salon. My friend co-owns it. She’s wonderfully nice to me. She’ll like you too.
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Right down the street is the art museum. Some weeks, I go in. With you along it’d be more likely. 20180510_182053

Them, the drive home, highway 80 with the Truckee river running parallel. Pretty mountains in the late-afternoon light. 20180510_185014

Bright green fields, hereabouts. Pretty. 20180510_185025

Nevada springtime sky makes the drive home prettier: 20180510_185122

Typical type of tree for around here. Pretty: 20180510_185150

The little town where I live focuses on agriculture, so we’d drive pass this sort of view as I did that day: 20180510_191738

Here’s a 2-D statue commemorating the Pony Express, which ran right through this area. 20180510_192125.jpg

… and then home, with whatever fun awaits there.

I have a nocturnal long-term house guest. By sunset that day she was up with her bedroom door open, implying “ready to socialize” so I said “hello” to her and we visited for a while. She likes fast food so typically on the way home, I pick up something that she likes to eat. She’s a very shy cerebral girl too and she spends much of her time behind the computer, playing video games online with her friends. So after the her-and-I chat she probably went back to that, that day, which is how the interaction typically works.

Much of the reason I understand her (and myself) so well is from extracting principles I learned by observing you in interviews and reading what you wrote. You two might get along well. I hope so, otherwise I’d have to get a new place for you and I because I wouldn’t kick her out. She’s sort of like a human stray cat that’s part of my life and whom I’ve grown to love though I actively manage the emotional distance to keep it non-romantic and non-sexual. She jokes about marrying a brilliant mechanic we both know, so that might be where she goes next. Time will tell. Anyway, I want to make sure you’re aware of all that.

I like going on sunset walks. I didn’t go last Thursday but with you here, I’d probably have gone. Late evening, I went to my shop to work on car issues, and you’d have gone along to watch and learn since I’d enjoy teaching you while I work, and I know you enjoy learning.

And then, time for a late-night snack, evening routine and bed. 🙂

* * *

So, how did this compare to your day? Would you have enjoyed spending the day with me? Would you have preferred to be here?

Money

Today, I listened (again) to a song by a girl whose ex-boyfriend frequently approached her to borrow money yet he wasn’t there when she needed him. I thought about the implications. The song has many layers of complex messages. The most important one, of forgiveness, seems to have been lost on its (presumably) intended audience, the ex-boyfriend. I consider that a reflection on the audience, not the singer/songwriter.

The financial dynamic probably made her feel even worse yet — used, pressured, manipulated and not valued in the way she needed. I sympathize very much … it must have been very painful for her.

She also sang another song about taking marriage seriously, and then she got married (to someone other than the ex-boyfriend). I’m guessing she probably wasn’t hedging when she got married, hence no prenuptial arrangement, hence joint marital assets and a financial situation that’s complicated.

* * *

Nowadays, close to three decades later, I get the sense she feels trapped. I always thought this was only due to emotional reasons but only recently did it occur to me that perhaps she’s also feeling trapped financially. What if she wanted to call someone and say “Take me with U” but she can’t contribute financially? It’s a hypothesis I can neither prove nor disprove.

I found it an interesting analysis to figure out how I, personally, would be able to assuage her concerns.

* * *

I live within my means, and I would cover the bills, period … with medical & dental bills & insurance being an extra complexity I’d like to omit from this analysis, for reasons I can explain when the time comes.

For context: I used to have a thriving little business empire, and then in 2007/2008 my business revenue plummeted more than 80% within the span of 2 weeks. I almost went under. I still have a lot of business debt. I’m slowly paying it off. Meanwhile, I live frugally in a 2-bedroom apartment / house built in 1937, in a small town in northern Nevada. I like it but it’s no mansion. Part of why I like it is: it’s safe, I have no neighbors who complain about noise, and the rent is $500 a month. I have multiple cars, all 15 years old or more; typically two or three are insured and registered, at a time. I have no car payments. I eat frugally and live frugally. Life is fun by my standards, but it’s not due to extravagance.

I keep trying to grow my automotive business to make a lot of money. I still plan to have a Lamborghini and a mansion on a hill, but only when I’m able to buy them with cash that I earned.

My professional work as a senior software development nerd is what makes the most money. I have a flexible flexible schedule and I can work from home. It’s been this way for 15 years or so. I love the flexibility.

* * *

So if this girl moved in with me, she wouldn’t need to bring her cash, checkbook or plastic, nor even her car. That should simplify things greatly.

For a place to sleep, I would offer her half of my queen-sized bed. I’d buy the groceries and I’d also enjoy making healthy meals for her too, most days. I’d cover the utility bills. I’d have an insured and registered extra car she could borrow. I’d furnish a phone and pay her phone bill. I have fast internet that she can use. If she needed a separate computer, I can provide one. If we went and did fun things, I’d pick up the tab. If she needed an extra room to make music and/or stash some personal items, I have one. As to clothing … it depends. If it’s a $2000 dress, then no — but I don’t think that’s her style anyway. But at a more humble but still-elegant level I’d enjoy buying clothes for her.

With this approach, her finances stay totally out of the picture. The dynamic holds even if my situation worsens. As long as I have a place to sleep, she can sleep next to me, and as long as I have food to eat, she can have half of it.

* * *

I don’t know if she’ll ever come here to visit — or better yet, stay — but if money was thought to be a problem then I hope this analysis removes that concern.

A Day with Me, May 9th 2018

How was your day, yesterday (Wednesday)? Would it have been nicer had you spent it with me? Let’s see.

I worked on a detail software design for a client, for an hour or so, until 2 a.m. or so. That’s how I earn my living, mainly. When I do this, I concentrate intensely so I’m not good for conversation. However, I was in the nude, in bed, working on my laptop PC, so you would be welcome to look, touch, kiss etc. as long as you’re not too urgently distracting but then again if you succeeded then how could I complain?

After work, I got ready to sleep but with you there, we might have gone for a walk in the lovely gardens and environs of the Hilton Lake Las Vegas, and Montelago Village, enjoying the warm spring night air, the Nevada desert sky, and each other’s company. If you’re the right girl we’d probably have kissed, and touched … perhaps gone back to our room for purposes other than sleeping.

Them, bedtime. I’m not sure why (literally) sleeping with me tends to be a calming experience for cerebral shy girls but I’ve been told by multiple such girls over multiple decades that, indeed, it is. So if you used to suffer from insomnia, perhaps no more.

I like to set the alarm for 930 or so, to provide half an hour for getting informally ready so as to look at least minimally presentable for breakfast at 10 a.m. With you there, perhaps you’d have been breakfast instead (as a figure of speech). Two girls having fun in the morning, in bed, for long enough to miss breakfast … that’s a good tradition.

Let’s assume we decided breakfast can wait, and we show up an hour late, at 11 a.m. Yes, you can feed yourself pieces of fruit but isn’t it sexier if I do, and your eyes are closed so you don’t know what’s next?

After breakfast I checked my email & social media. With you here there would be a greatly reduced focus on social media, of course. Still, I’d have checked my email and put out a few fires, so to speak. Then, off to the pool I went (or, we’d go).

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Holding each other and kissing in the pool or hot tub … mhm.

Then, back to bed for a nap (or with you here, probably something nicer). I requested a late checkout and with you there, more reason yet.

Then, time to pack and leave to drive back home. With you there, probably good and intense conversation on deep concepts, and how we got to be the way we are, as individuals. Also, music. The Audi has a Bose Symphony system with CD changer. It sounds good.

Just before leaving Las Vegas, one last stop by the Centennial area, to enjoy frozen yogurt. Then … northward.

Two hours north of Vegas is Beatty, NV and the Death Valley Nut & Candy company … lovely & fun.  Of course I stopped there and smelled the roses.  With you there, more reason to do so, yet.  And, candy, or nuts, or dried fruit. Yummy.  Also, their bathrooms are clean, and the people are super-nice.

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Another 2 hours or so north, to Tonopah, with probably more intense conversation along the way. A stop for fuel and to use the bathroom, then a late-afternoon & evening drive through the Nevada desert, with beautiful and dramatic scenery.

Then, just before sunset, through Hawthorne, NV by Walker Lake and located next to some tall, snow-capped mountains. Probably more conversation, and probably also a stop or two at scenic places along the way, to stand and hold each other, and kiss. I like kissing at sunset. Also, not at sunset.

Probably many pictures, too … of you, of us.

Then, north through the reservation, with lovely pink-and-gray sunset clouds overhead. Then, farther north, past the NAS Fallon bombing range (yes, really) and then into the Lahontan Valley, where Fallon, NV is … home.  Right around then, you’d have heard me make a few phone calls, to deal with selling used auto parts, and making custom software.

Arriving home around 8:30 p.m., we’d unpack the car, and I’d go drop off some dried fruit I’d bought for my mom. Of course you’d go along. My mom makes good coffee. By then it’s around 9 p.m.

Then, to the bank to deposit checks that came in the mail, and to buy food for my long-term house guest who’s a bit of a hermit. Then, more work for an hour or two, for me, while standing by my computer. Perhaps that’s a good time for you to check on things private to you, too. Or, sit right by me and read, or paint, or compose or do other work. See if you can distract me with your skillful fingers touching my legs or butt. Odds are, you can — not a bad thing.

Then, a late-night snack, and we get ready for bed.

* * *

So, how did this compare to your day? Would you have enjoyed spending the day with me? Would you have preferred to be here?

 

 

 

The Hotel, Part 2

The brunette had just finished eating breakfast. She still sat contentedly at the breakfast table, in a fairly secluded corner of a large and elegant hotel breakfast room. Next to her sat her lover, a tall blonde girl. Both girls were happy, secure in their love, and basking in the happy memories of their physical intimacy earlier that morning, less than an hour before.

Directly in the brunette’s line of sight, a petite blonde girl in her mid-20s walked past. She was pretty — very pretty. The petite blonde’s intense blue eyes flashed to their breakfast table, and to the brunette. Their eyes met. There was an intense, unsmiling and supremely awkward moment that the brunette couldn’t quite place, and then she saw the petite’s blonde’s eyes move on, to the tall, blonde girl sitting next to the brunette. The petite blonde smiled at the tall blonde, who smiled back. Their eye contact seemed friendly and mutually comfortable to the point of seeming almost intimate.

The brunette looked down, feeling an all-too-familiar, acrid feeling. She hated that feeling. She couldn’t quite place it … it was more than jealousy. She raised her eyes and looked at the petite blonde some more as the latter once again focused on her own breakfast. She had a large tattoo on her shoulder … one stylized word, difficult to read. Otherwise, she looked like a blend of what Francoise Hardy and Brigitte Bardot looked like in the 70s.

Looking down, the brunette sighed. In the past, she’d have kept quiet, her emotions churning. But, her lover had encouraged openness, and so she said: “I feel … so negative. I’m not sure what I feel … part of it is jealousy, and part of it is … I don’t know. Longing … I am jealous of how she looks, of her confidence, her youth, how she looked at you and how she smiled at you, and how you smiled back. I feel jealous of you too … of your ability to so easy and sincerely connect with people, and your ability to make eye contact with her and smile. I looked at her and our eyes met and I felt … I don’t know … like a deer in a car’s headlights. I probably looked like an idiot. So part of me wishes I could be like her, or BE her. And … part of me ….” she bit her lower lip … “part of me wants to be with her. As in, in bed, or in a conversation, or both. And … part of me is afraid I’ll lose you to someone like her. What if you got to know her, and found out she’s brilliant? What if you have more things in common with her? What if she would understand your business world so much better than I do? What if you become friends with her and want to take her to bed? How can I compete with that?”

The tall blonde next to her was listening intently, and approvingly, as the brunette continued: “Wow, I am experiencing intense jealousy in multiple ways, right now.” She swallowed, her mouth dry, and continued: “Normally, I’d have gotten up and left by now. The only thing that makes this tolerable is that you’ve taught me to accept, and be open about, how I feel. If you hadn’t, I’d have felt overwhelmed right about now. I’d have left and you’d have found me in the hotel bed upstairs, the curtains drawn, not speaking to you and feeling a ball of resentment in the pit of my stomach; part-jealousy, part-resentment, part-anger, part-hatred, part-sorrow. I’d have stayed there all day and night — not sleeping.”

She felt the tall blonde’s gentle brown eyes bathing her in absolution and comforting understanding. The blonde’s large, strong hand closed over hers, gently squeezing it. Somehow that helped. The tall blonde looked at the brunette for a long time, then took a deep breath, and sat up more erect yet. Her mood seemed to change. She focused on the petite blonde, and seemed oddly stern. The brunette was puzzled. She hadn’t seen this mode before. She knew that the tall blonde had, years ago, been a professional Dominatrix but she hadn’t seen what that looked like in interaction with someone else.

The petite blonde walked past again, to help herself to some more fruit at a nearby table. She glanced at the tall blonde again, with another smile. She didn’t like how the tall blonde was looking at her, this time, not returning the smile directly but more looking at her with an odd type of smile that seemed to imply something else. The petite blonde frowned and looked away. She ignored the tall blonde but suddenly seemed perturbed. She dropped a spoon from her bowl of fruit by mistake, and it bounced off and landed on the floor. As she bent to pick it up, she looked awkward and self-conscious. Even before straightening up, she looked at the tall blonde again, nervously. She finally stood erect, defiant, still looking at the tall blonde. She was barely not glaring at her.

The brunette watched silently, now intrigued. Whatever was happening was deeply visceral.

The tall blonde straightened her arm and pointed to the petite blonde, as in “you.” This pose lasted for several seconds. The petite blonde’s throat moved visibly as she swallowed. She awkwardly turned the bowl of fruit in her hands around and around. As the seconds went by, she was on the verge of pointing to herself as in “who, me?” but then the tall blonde pointed at the empty chair next to the brunette. The petite blonde stood stiffly and defiantly, and glared at the tall blonde.

Even though the interaction was between the two blondes, the brunette felt somehow involved in this dynamic. She didn’t know why. Suddenly, she felt another emotion, above and beyond the intrigue. It was a strange mix of dark excitement and … oddly … pleasure.

The two blondes kept looking at each other. Finally, the petite blonde looked down, and then looked up again, her glance softer. Something — or someone — had just been broken. All three of them realized this. The petite blonde came over and sat down, awkwardly placing the bowl of fruit down. Several seconds went by. Finally, the petite blonde said: “Hello, I’m …” and then she saw the tall blonde holding her own finger to her own lips, as the international gesture of instructing silence. The petite blonde fell silent. She looked at the brunette almost as if asking for help.

The brunette suddenly felt strangely empowered. She didn’t know why. She looked at the petite blonde as if she were considering buying her at an auction. The tall blonde noticed that, and she and then brunette exchanged smiles that made the brunette search for an adjective … “conspiratorial.” Her feelings of jealousy and resentment were suddenly gone. She felt empowered and a strange, new intimacy between herself and her tall, blonde lover — a deep intimacy that excluded the petite blonde. She smiled happily, knowing somehow that everything was all right, and would always be so. She felt a surge of elation, and eager anticipation.

The tall blonde pointed to the large tattoo on the shoulder of the petite blonde, part-way covered by the shoulder strap of a pretty and colorful summer dress. The brunette looked, without any subtlety. She could make out a few letters and tried to guess at the rest. She also looked at the petite blonde’s face, and the quality of her skin. The brunette’s look was appraising — and approving. The petite blonde seemed to notice that, and looked at the brunette gratefully. The two of them exchanged gentle glances of mutual, smiling, silent introduction. The brunette felt a connection with the petite blonde … somehow intimate. The two girls stared into each other’s eyes, with the tall blonde looking on approvingly.

Then, the petite blonde realized that the tall blonde was still pointing at her tattoo. She reached up to the shoulder strap of her summer dress and was about to pull it down when she glanced at the tall blonde to see a hand gesture of “no, stop.” The petite blonde froze. The tall blonde took the brunette’s hand and guided it to the shoulder strap of the petite blonde’s dress. The petite blonde smiled. The brunette’s feelings were a churn of happy emotion as she wordlessly pulled the shoulder strap down. Both she and the petite blonde were sitting erect, breathing deeply and slowly.

The petite blonde looked down at her tattoo, still somehow obscured by the dress. Her warm, small hand closed over the hand of the brunette, and their eyes made contact again as the petite blonde guided the brunette’s hand to pull the summer dress down some more. It exposed the tattoo completely. The brunette looked down. The word of the tattoo was intriguing … and then the eyes of the brunette went down to the breast of the petite blonde, the soft white skin exposed for one delicious-looking inch. No more was being revealed than would be done by a bikini on the beach, but in the context of the hotel breakfast room, the exposure was intensely erotic.

The petite blonde and the brunette looked at each other again, with deepening intimacy. Then, they both looked at the tall blonde as if to seek guidance. The tall blonde looked around the room. They had privacy, not least because the petite blonde was sitting with her back to where the waiters were, and the check had been settled so none were likely to come over again. The tall blonde made a downward glance that conveyed an instruction. The petite blonde and the brunette each took another deep breath and shivered with excitement, then noticed what they’d done, and smiled at each other in mutual understanding. Their connection was rapidly deepening. The brunette’s hand moved down some more, exposing more of the breast of the petite blonde. The latter looked at the brunette, who returned the look and then looked down approvingly at to the breast of the blonde. Somehow they all knew that a pecking order had just been established, with the petite blonde being Omega.

The two other girls both looked at the tall blonde some more for guidance, and saw the downward glance repeated. The brunette swallowed hard, and pulled the summer dress down until the entire breast of the petite blonde was exposed. It wasn’t cold but the petite blonde was shivering, and her body looked like it would have had the air been very cold.

The two other girls again looked at the tall blonde, who in turn looked at the other shoulder strap. The brunette understood. She gave the tall blonde a grateful glance, and slowly pulled the other strap down too, thus exposing the other breast of the petite brunette. The brunette and petite blonde both were breathing deeply, intensely aroused.

The tall blonde nodded approvingly and reached to the bowl of fruit in front of the petite blonde. She picked up a cherry and brought it slowly to the lips of the petite blonde, who seemed to be trying to resist one last time, closing her eyes and keeping her lips closed too. Then, her shoulders slumped slightly, and she opened her eyes and her lips. She looked at the brunette as if to seek allegiance as she opened her lips and accepted the cherry, taking it into her mouth. The symbolism was clear to all three of them. The brunette was smiling delightedly, enjoying the moment intensely. She glanced lovingly at the tall blonde, feeling very close to her. The tall blonde picked up the bowl of fruit and handed it pointedly to the brunette. The two lovers’ eyes met, as they smiled at each other, enjoying their intimacy. Then, the brunette focused on the petite blonde, who was looking at the brunette, wide-eyed, her lips slightly open. Slowly and sensually, the brunette fed small pieces of fruit to the petite blonde.

The brunette loved this new dynamic. She looked at the tall blonde with another loving glance. The tall blonde returned the look in kind, then picked up a raspberry and crushed it with a clean spoon, dipped her finger in the juice and then leaned forward to smear it onto the still-apart lips of the petite blonde. Next, she smeared the juice onto the lips of the brunette, and sat back. A few seconds went by. Both of the other girls understood, but they briefly resisted as they sat there, savoring the anticipation, their lips wet with bright red juice. The petite blonde was shivering again. She seemed overwhelmed and very aroused. The brunette shot one more grateful look at the tall blonde, and then leaned in and kissed the petite blonde on her slightly-parted lips, at first very gently and then gradually less and less so. Two minutes later, both girls were leaning toward each other, kissing intensely, their hands holding each other by the waist. The petite blonde was still sitting there topless, her breasts exposed. It was more than erotic; it was also an act of submission to both the brunette and the tall blonde.

The brunette enjoyed the complex sensations including the hand of the tall blonde on her back, slipped underneath her top for skin-to-skin contact, as encouragement. After four minutes of kissing the petite blonde, the brunette felt the hand being withdrawn from her back, and she pulled back and sat upright again, awaiting the next step. The petite blonde sat upright, evidently aroused, and looking at the brunette, enamored.

The tall blonde made a two-handed gesture to the petite blonde, who looked at her in time to see nonverbal instructions as to “wrap it up” so she pulled up her dress including the shoulder straps, and awaited the next instruction.

The tall blonde pointedly looked at the other two girls, and reached out a hand toward each. They immediately responded in kind. Then, the tall blonde put the hands of the two girls together, and then pointedly looked at the brunette, and handed her the room key. She then looked at the petite blonde, and repeated the “silence” gesture. She did the same for the brunette. Both of the other girls nodded in understanding. Then, the tall blonde leaned in and kissed the brunette passionately. She responded in kind.

The tall blonde pulled back and stood up, thus instructing the other two girls to stand too. They did, and the tall blonde made an inviting “off you go” gesture. The two other girls blushed, then left, still holding hands, with the brunette leading the way. With a content smile, the tall blonde finished her cup of coffee, as she watched the other two girls walk self-consciously down the length of the hotel breakfast room. Then, perhaps a minute later, she also headed to the same hotel room, a spare room key in her pocket.

A few minutes later, she entered the hotel room to see the two other girls standing nearby, kissing again, with the petite blonde again topless, and the brunette’s skilled fingers gently kneading the other girl’s breasts. The tall blonde silently stood nearby, and whenever the other two girls seemed ready for the next step of escalation yet seemed hesitant, she provided the perfect gesture so as to guide and encourage them along. This was her only participation in the dynamic.

Three hours later, the petite blonde was standing by the hotel room door, her mind awash with happy emotion since this had been her more intense girl-girl experience ever, and it had been wonderful. She hugged the brunette one last time, then she looked at the tall blonde and nodded in a clear, smiling gesture of gratitude. She opened the door, stepped out and closed it gently behind her, tears of happiness glistening in her eyes. During the entire time in the room, not a word had been spoken though the room had very much not been quiet.

Inside the room, the brunette looked at the tall blonde with naked delight. Then, she could no longer contain her elation, and she rushed forward into a spontaneous embrace, her eyes sparkling. “I love life with you,” were the first words she said.

After another erotic hour in bed, the brunette asked: “Who was she? Did you arrange this?”

The tall blonde smiled, and replied: “she’s a friend, a cerebral shy girl like us. She started out thinking she’s straight but after conversations with me she realized she’s not.”

“Oh, have you two …”

“Been sexually intimate? Conversationally, yes. Physically, no.”

“Oh. So how much of this was staged? Is she a sex worker?”

“No. She’s a contractor for one of my businesses. She’s studying for a degree in business and she does part-time work for me. So I do know her, and she is brilliant, and I have many things in common with her, and she does understand my business world better than you do. And I do want to take her to bed, but I might or might not ever do so. Coming back to your question of this morning: how can you compete with that? You just did, by being you. She has left and you are here, and that’s how it should be.”

The brunette nodded, her lovely brown eyes suddenly glistening, as the tall blonde continued: “As to how much of this was staged: I know she’s in good sexual health. I paid for her hotel room and travel to be here, and I arranged for her to be at breakfast and walk by. As for everything else, it was spontaneous though she was clear I’d hoped you two would meet and get along — somehow. My intent was originally for it to be conversational but … that can happen next. I like how things played out, instead. So do you, evidently.”

The brunette nodded vigorously then asked “but why?”

“I wanted you to have an experience you’d enjoy and to also understand you don’t have to be someone like her, so as to be secure in the you-and-I dynamic. Did I succeed?”

“Magnificently,” replied the brunette, as she approached the tall blonde for another intense and passionate kiss.