| now is | once was | came from | heard tell |

11:31 p.m. - 2004-06-15

wild-eyed

So, the bartender. Such a nice Catholic boy, only not. Everything I ever adored about her is right there, and then some. She is such an accomplishment of butch. She is so totally going to break my heart (again). I don't think there's a lot I can do about it at this point except enjoy the ride.

If I had a dollar for every time I heard the line "I don't want a relationship" I would have enough to buy myself a pretty new going out dress and maybe some shoes with pink bows. I saw shoes with pink bows in the window of a shop the other day. Except there can be no new shoes for me for a while, because money is slipping through my fingers like so much useless goo.

I had a wonderful weekend. On Saturday night we had another piercing date. Butch breasts are just the most wonderful things in the world I think. Especially when they have rows of neat, perfect needles down the curves of them. And when the needles come out, and the blood starts to run. Her controlled flinching when I rub alcohol over the open wounds. Rubbing my fingers over the marks and bruises in her skin the next day like brail. Everything about it brings out my bloodlust. So far in my sex life I haven't really enjoyed topping in the more blunt, physical force ways very much- flogging and pinching and spanking and bruising are all things I would much rather have someone else do to me. But bloodsports, ah. I am total switch. Doing it is every bit as thrilling and wonderful as having it done to me. I have made a piercing bondage proposition to my femme friend and her boyfriend that I am very much looking forward to. And, I am in the process of designing the cutting I will do soon on the bartender.

On Sunday night, because it was the long weekend, we went out in a big way. It was lovely. We started off at the left-of-alternative club, beautifully decorated and with a gorgeous crowd but musically lacking. I have been spoilt by months of dancing to jungle, tribal and industrial and can no longer tolerate chopping, changing, song-to-song DJing, One of the wallhangings was a highlight, a strangely alluring painting of a seahorse with breasts and flirtatious eyelashes. Creepy but oddly sexy.

Sick of the music, we walked up the hill to our reliable little underground club where the music was going off just as much as we had expected. I danced for hours, which was excellent- I haven’t been dancing so much as socialising the last few times I've been out. I did talk quite a bit, had good long conversations with people I needed to talk to. We stayed until the club closed, then waited over coffees in a café till the recovery club started at seven in the morning. We stayed there, playing with leathermen and dancing to dodgy handbag house until ten in the morning.

I met up with the bartender after we came back to our little ghetto, on her way to work. It was nice, I am continually impressed that she can deal with me in a trashed state while she is stone cold sober and not brush me off or make fun of me. Then I came home and actually managed to sleep quite early, which doesn't happen often. I am learning to reduce my substance consumption a lot and timing it better so I have the desired effects without being a total wreck more than a few hours later. Sleep and food are good things to be able to have in the day after a big night out.

- |+

[Phone Home] - 2005-02-22

[She hurts, even from here, she hurts.] - 2005-02-11

[Two weeks and counting] - 2005-01-31

[Dirty] - 2005-01-20

[Here Now] - 2005-01-18