Sometimes I think about heaven and wonder at how absurd it is that all that stands in our way is death. I mean, the difference in the quality of life (as believed by some) between heaven and earth is completely vast. Heaven’s supposed to be this… complete utopia… and all that’s required to attain it is to... die. And it’s really not such a big deal. Technically if you shot yourself, it’ll be about a couple of minutes of pain (the rest of the time while you’re awake, you’d just be in too much of a shock to feel anything), and you’re there. Isn’t that just, absurd?
I feel terrible today. It’s Dee’s fault, she made me feel so, so sad. I wish I hadn’t left her after we met at the studio to collect our last shoot, but I was so distressed I needed someone to make me feel like everything was really alright. That this world isn’t a complete mess, and that people honestly do not treat sex as something like a means to an end, or an end in itself.
Sex for money doesn’t disgust me, and I’ve nothing against it. It’s when men attempt to secure sex through money, or through some kinda mind-play that makes me completely miserable, and not to mention very, very afraid.
Dee’s kinda working in a karaoke bar, and she was telling me about how some of the men there tip really nicely, and then tell her how they can provide an absolutely luxurious life for her; loose the boyfriend, I’m better. That sort of nonsense. I swear, no one has ever said that to me, but I’m sure if I had to hear it every day, I’d loose all my faith in the humanity men are endowed with.
I actually picked up a very gorgeous guy at the café yesterday. He is absolutely delish, completely sexy with a George Clooney appeal. We were talking about perfectly normal things when the Marquis DeSade entered the conversation. Possibly because I was still reading Durell’s Justine. The conversation got a little risqué, but what did it matter to me, I was possibly never going to see him again, and he had some rather interesting stories to tell me about a completely insane Spanish girlfriend who had clawed his chest and left a couple of scars that were still there. I was feeling quite horny at that moment though, and just feeling plain naughty. Like I wanted to run of and hide in the bathroom and fuck someone. Of course I’d not do something like that with a complete stranger, but it was an entertaining little fancy. But I left him my number anyway before I left for the studio and told him he could ring me up if he wanted.
Jan did call me, after I’d met Dee and she’d made me so sad I called Martine requested that he spent the rest of the afternoon with me. Surprisingly, he agreed, despite the tragic amounts of work he had waiting to be completed. I told Jan I’d love to meet him, although I was completely half-hearted about it, but I’d nothing to do later on in the night anyway.
Dee and I shared a cab. For some strange reason or another, we sat apart, and I wanted to put my hand on hers and give her a hug, but couldn’t. I’ve no idea why, perhaps I felt it’d come off as a little artificial, because I hadn’t seen her for quite awhile. But before I left, she asked me to give her a kiss, which I did, while wishing I could show more tenderness, somehow.
Oh, everything just felt terrible after I left her. I think I’m hopeless with girls. I’m awfully mentally protective of all my girlfriends, but do not think I’m treating them as nicely as I should. I really, really don’t. I get jealous over them sometimes, because some of them are so beautiful. They make me feel ashamed of myself sometimes, because they’re so patient with me. And above all, they make me feel guilty, for spending more time with the boys then with them. Sometimes it’s almost as if I turn them into the bridges between dates, my art and modeling work.
But mostly, their there for me. And when you grow up believing that no boy is ever worth giving up a girlfriend for… the feeling like I’m not doing as much as I should simply gnaws at me.
Martine was lovely though, and it was very, very pleasant afternoon. We made love, and I felt really happy. I’ve just gotten used to him, more used to him then to any other person I’ve been with for a long time. It’s a really odd sort of feeling. I probably had that with Mr. Big and the G-Spot, but those two relationships have long slid into a forgetful stupor and my heart isn’t disciplined enough to make more of those. But I’ll just let time run it’s course. Anyway, G’s gone now, but I’m too sure I’ll be moving out of this country soon to where he lives.
Martine had placed me on top of him, and I was gyrating his crotch quite contentedly when he stopped me by holding my waist firmly and requested firmly, in a half whisper, half sigh, for me to lie down on him. To feel me on him, to feel the motion, my breasts against his chest, my breath upon his face.
Later on, we cuddled in an odd 69 position, lying side by side, my feet by his head and me half sitting by, resting my cheek upon his knee. His hands are bigger then my feet I think, and they go completely around my ankle. I started feeling his back for knots, and offered to get rid of them for him.
He kicked me out of his place at about the evening, (‘I must work señora! People have jobs they get paid for…’)
I called Jan then. I’d not wanted to initially, not because I’d feel guilty for behaving so passionately about M just a little while ago, then attempt to get cozy with someone else, but more because he’d suggested me bringing along a cucumber. I told him I’d love to drop by his place, if he’d like my company, but I wouldn’t want to feel pressured into doing anything I didn’t want to. Like for example, sex. I must be out of my mind sometimes, presuming that the only reason why men would want to entertain women is because of that one sole thing. But after Dee, and after the guy I’d been flirting with for quite sometime (‘Some girls are all talk no action’ I felt like telling him he was the one that had been stalling for months now.) I couldn’t help but feel disgusted at all men I didn’t know well enough to know for certain they weren’t bastards.
I was wondering if it would have been better for me to just not call him back, but I thought it’d be rude, and people always appreciate a fair bit of honesty anyway, so I did. And I told him exactly what I thought, and he was cool with that. Which was nice. We had dinner in bed, popped some sleeping pills and cuddled to sleep. He kept on saying I was smart. Something people tell me often, but still always pleasantly surprises me when I’m told that. Especially when I’ve not said anything I thought was particularly extraordinary. ‘It’s just believing strongly that no one has the right answers to anything.’ I told him when he complimented me again after dinner.
He was lovely, what else can I say. I’d like to see him again. I realized actually, when I called him after M’s, that I did it because I never regretted getting to know anyone. Every single person is/was an experience, and they’ve been mostly delightful. Save maybe one or two, which I learn from anyway, so nothing to regret about that. Quite amusingly, he asked me if I was an SPG just before I was about to fall asleep on his chest, and I laughed and said, ‘Yes, so what? I think the more society scandalizes something, the more I’d want to do it. It’s like telling people to fuck off, you know. And I like knowing that I’m a parody sometimes, after all, only really interesting people can be caricaturized.’
xoxox
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