Ugh, what now?

I've been watching Californication. I guess you could say that THAT, more than anything else, is what seriously prompted my inception of this oh so mediocre blog. I see a lot of myself in the broken down shell of Hank Moody. Minus the talent, of course.

"Rome is burning, and I'm up to my knees in pussy and strong liquor."

I was asked about my last post, told that it was definitely not some of my best work, and I'd have to be lying to say that I don't agree. Yes, my thoughts and feelings on a myriad of topics are my own to spread and seed the world with, but that really is only a sideline to what my intentions are with this thing. I strive, always, dear reader, to show you the inner workings of my wretched little mind, but without the connection of the actual deeds that have prompted them, it's whistling in the dark. In order for you to connect with me, to understand my thought processes, you must feel the things I've felt, be in my shoes.

I am a terrible lover. I am a godlike lover. I am just like anyone else who puts the time and effort into being interesting in the sack.

V---- was terrible sex because I didn't know what I was doing. Sure, I'd read the literature, I'd watched the movies, I intellectually knew which part went where, but when it came down to it? I was an inexperienced little boy with a turgid cock and trembling hands. I can't use that same excuse anymore. I cannot give excuses for when I'm inattentive, when I don't watch and learn and love and fuck and breathe my partner. Now, the only excuse I have is that, frankly, you bore me.

N--- was bad sex. She wasn't boring, she wasn't even inexperienced. It was bad because I didn't really work at it. I seduced her with my words, my wit, my charming self. I fucked her, slept with her, and in the morning she left and I was completely happy with it. I don't think that I want to get into the criticism game. Of course, I'm not really using names, so what does it matter?

It matters because that also isn't the point of this blog.

N--- was attractive, older, and way too skinny for my usual tastes. We'd been friends for a bit, we talked at the club, hung out at parties, laughed at stupid jokes and made fun of people for telling the stupid jokes. She was fun to chat with, even if she was a bit odd. We didn't really have much of a sexual vibe until one night we sat talking in my room and I decided to share with her some of the erotica I'd written. I read to her from my secret stash, and she reacted with exactly the response I expected.

I am a seductive fucker. I know what to say, how to say it, and how to play on the strings of people's libido. It's gotten me in trouble more than once, and it got me into trouble with her.

She was sitting on my bed, and I was sitting at my desk. I turned to her after I'd read to her, and I went to bed with ardor. I was into it, focused, driven. Right up until the time I realized I was tired, she wasn't what I wanted, and I lost interest. My mind went elsewhere, and I felt I had gone to far to just tell her I wasn't interested and to get the fuck out of my bed.

I've done that before, but usually not once my cock was buried to its root inside the person's ass.

So I finished. I have no idea if she enjoyed it or not, and I tend to think it became a bit obvious that I was no longer interested, for the sex probably wasn't nearly as good as it had been. I felt I went through the motions well enough, and she seemed to be enjoying herself. I just never bothered to talk to her much afterwards, so I never really got any feedback one way or another. She's with someone else now, and I have no desire to hunt her down and relive the jolly old days. The thought is actually quite repulsive.

We fucked, I think she came, I know I did, and I rolled over and went to sleep. She wasn't there in the morning, and I didn't really care.

Eh, that's not a very good way to put it. I've always cared about that sort of thing. As emotionless as I often am, it's merely the byproduct of a decent level of control. I am very intense in my emotions, and I try always to let them flow through me unimpeded. I do, however, attempt to always show as little of it on the surface as I can. I look at the emotion that I'm feeling, I revel in the experience, I thrive on them, and then when they pass through and are gone, I wonder at the emptiness.

Not question it, mind you, but I am in wonder at the void left by the departure of something so intense, and like an addict, I go in search of something else. I guess that's why I am a failure at relationships. I don't know when to let go, I have no idea what it means to fall OUT of love with someone. Even now, I can turn my inner eye into my self and I see the intense love I have there, still burning, still pointless. I carry three torches in my heart, tucked away into a back corner where I rarely let anyone visit.

L----, I remember how she smells, how she laughed, how she held me so desperately. A-----, I remember how she tasted with her body coated in sex sweat, the way her hand would rest lingeringly on my hip. S---, I remember how gentle she was, how fragile, how she would curl up into me when we slept.

It hurts a lot to remember these things, but it also makes me feel so amazingly lucky to have had such love from such people. Each one of them looked at me with an unbelievable love and devotion. I see it in their faces, in my mind. I remember every single nuance of how they looked. And I love it.

So, when I say that I didn't care she was there in the morning, it really was only because it was HER. I want someone that I can fall asleep with and know they'll still be there in the morning.