Sorting out issues.

When I was in high school, I blogged at least once a week. I wrote in an actual notebook every day. Dry spells were either because so much was happening at once that I had no time to write about it, or nothing was happening at all. In junior year, I had a phenomenal English teacher. He was the first teacher I ever had that showed emotion-- particularly frustration. I was secretly thrilled any time one of the girls caught a verbal beating for talking too much or not paying attention. Hell, Mr. C would go off if he felt like the people in the back weren't taking him seriously enough.

The girls he'd always yell at were never dressed down. They wore high heels and reeked of fruity perfume. They were all beautiful. As much as I hated them, especially one I'll call KB, they came to represent a fantasy I've since had for hooking up with a beautiful girl from a very rich family. On the outside, I hated their stiff upper lips, their clothes-- how adult they all tried to seem, and how no matter what kind of grades they were given, they really never had to worry about making it outside of high school. I hated their privileges. I see some of them today, and they are exactly the same, only fatter.

But inside, I was entranced by KB's curves. Even when she was sitting down, I fell into dopey stares whenever she wore strappy shirts or skirts with slits on the side. I'd draw the outline of her leg, from the hem of her skirt to just past the calf. I shied from detail to keep the drawing ambiguous, should anyone ever see. She also suffered from a hellish case of falling bra-straps... or rather, I suffered. On the rare occasions that she disengaged from her posture, her shoulders gave way to a loose feminine-colored strap, and it would timber to the side of her arm. I had to be careful in these times to make sure that my staring wasn't obvious-- but it probably was anyway. Then, she'd slide a finger under the strap, tilt her shoulder down and saddle it back into place. I'd melt.

My truce with the rich dissolved as soon as the bell rang, and I'd watch in a haze of disdain and lust as she walked out.

I never dated any supremely hot girls in high school. In college, I was engaged and living with my girlfriend for over two years. I wouldn't call her a total babe, but I was sure in love with her. After she and I broke up, hot girls served their purpose. There are times when my interest in one of these beautiful women grows beyond getting sprung. I tend to investigate and stir up possibilities-- and then, for some reason, it gets weird and I lose my cool.

I know what went wrong with DC. When she spent the night at my old apartment with me, I made the assumption that all the things she'd said while we roved around the bed were still valid after sunup. I assumed that her previous reservations were then removed, and we could continue forward. Instead, I was dealt a serious backstepping. The next time I saw her, she made basically every effort to consort with anyone else, especially guys. Was it wrong to feel hurt by this? The sensitive of you will say "Yes! What a bitch!"

But really, I should have known that people do not change overnight, or even change their minds. She is comfortable in her bubble of adoration. She could allow a very discreet tryst, but one governed by her sheer whim. Certainly not one hinged on any mutual desire. Who's to say that such a tryst, even if I were to lower myself to such a thing, would be exclusive? Secret relationships are by their very nature, non-exclusive, otherwise there would be no problem with a guided indiscretion about it.

I'm not saying I'm above having a fuckbuddy. Hell, I'd go for that any day of the week. But that sort of deal only works on conditions... such as, no existing relationships, no expectations, and no cattle prods or two-way dildos. Right now, the no-expectations rule is the one I can't follow. I'm just not wired like that.

For now, I'm just going to let myself occasionally fall into that familiar haze of lusting after form while sneering at fickleness and falsehoods.