Monday, October 30, 2006


I've been talking about it for so long now that I guess it's impossible for me to back out. Not that I want to. Still, I think that I'll either look tragic or fantastic. No middle ground. If I end up sobbing in a corner of my room tonight, please just leave me there alone.

I Naired all the hair (not that there was much to begin with) from my forearms, my treasure trail and underarms, everywhere that will be covered in orange liquid latex. My tummy has already broken out; curse my sensitive skin!

I have the green running tights and I've thought carefully about what to wear underneath. No visible panty lines here. And no padding. For better or for worse, it's all me.

I made the yellow belt out of a one I got at Target and spraypainted yellow. I enlarged an "A" from one of the Aquaman comic book covers and replicated it in foamcore; it will get glued into place once I have the belt on. This is definitely a one-time-wear costume piece. And I also made fins out of foamcore for the back of my legs. These will get glue-gunned into place, even though they may not even be visible in the crowds.

I am steroided and pumped up as much as possible. I weighed 175.5 this morning, so I achieved my goal of hitting 180 by Halloween...if you round up in increments of ten. Oh well. At least I've managed to retain visible abs while doing so, though I'm not sure they'll actually be visible under the orange liquid latex. And the hair is yellow blond; I'm definitely ready to cut it off this weekend.

I decided against the gloves and boots. They didn't look quite right after all. They just looked goofy. So I got some cool new green shoes to wear instead. Instead of the classic superfriends Aquaman I had originally planned on, I'm going to be the slutty West Hollywood Aquaman. It works better for me anyway.

My goal tonight is to get a photo of me kissing another superhero, preferably Superman or Captain America.

Now, where to put the cell phone, wallet and camera?

The return of the Viking...sort of

On Saturday morning, I stop by Starbucks after the gym. Just up ahead of me in line is the Viking, who is on his way to the gym. After meeting up at the cream and sugar table, we sit down at one of the little tables inside to catch up.

I have a hard time reading the Viking. The last time I saw him, it was over at his apartment last Monday night, where I was watching "Heroes" with his roommate, Hometown Guy. The Viking came home about halfway through the show (looking fanfuckingtastic, a vision of blond muscles). Since he also watches the show, he waved hello, went into his bedroom and closed the door, so that we wouldn't spoil his catch-up viewing later. All this with barely a word to either of us. When the show was over, HG and I were chatting for five or ten minutes afterward, but the Viking didn't emerge.

Okay. I guess that's pretty clear to me. Perhaps I should have said "I obstinately refuse to read the signs that the Viking is very clearly sending me."

Anyway, so we're having our coffee together. We've never mentioned the night we slept together. It kind of bothers me, but I'm not sure how to bring it up, or what it would accomplish anyway. No, it doesn't really bother me. I got what I needed, after all. But it definitely puzzles me. HG is out of town this week, so the Viking has the place to himself. "Give me a call this weekend," he says, as I head out. Oh, okay. Slightly different from the cold shoulder of Monday.

The rest of Saturday is taken up with a bat mitzvah and the adventures of Boston Jeff, related below, so I don't have a chance to ring up the Viking until around noon on Sunday. I leave a message, proposing dinner, then head off to a movie with another buddy ("Flags of Our Fathers," which was terrific). When the movie lets out, there's a voicemail from the Viking. I ring him back, slightly nervously. Am I asking him out? Not quite. He suggests that I head over to his place and we'll order in, hang out and watch a movie. Fine by me. Not a date. Just a homebody having a pal over.

When I get there, he greets me at the door with a kiss. When the food arrives, we decide on an action movie to watch. For once, I'm not really nervous around him. I'm not trying to impress him, I'm not trying to be extra nice or extra cool, I'm just my normal self. The movie is great, the company is nice.

It's nice.

Just nice.

All this drama about the Viking, and now, this is it? Two guys watching a movie and having dinner. No spark. No romance. Nothing, really. No meaningful glances, no suggestive conversation. Kind of dull, really. Slightly disappointing, to be sure, but kind of a relief to know for absolute certain where I stand.

When the movie ends, and it's time for me to head home, we kiss and hug at the front door. The kiss strikes me as ever so slightly lingering, more than the quick peck I'd give most of my friends.

I try to read into it any meaning that I can, but this time I find none.

The out-of-towner

Friday night and I'm out with three of my buddies. Dinner at Fat Fish followed by drinks at the Abbey. It's relatively subdued for 10 o'clock on a Friday night, probably because of the coming Halloween festivities. We settle in next to the center bar as the place gradually starts to fill up.

We had been joking about another friend who, especially after he's knocked back a few, has a tendency to grab anyone I've expressed an interest in, pull them in for an introduction and say "My friend thinks you're hot." It can be a bit embarassing, but we shy boys need all the help we can get sometimes. And after a handsome man passes our group and catches my eye, one of my friends decides to take on the role of matchmaker for himself. He stops the handsome man and says "Have you met my friend M? He thinks you're cute."

I'm not on the make tonight, but I don't really mind. I roll my eyes. Whatever. I figure the guy will smile and thank me, maybe even chat a bit, before moving on. But this one sticks around. He introduces himself as Jeff, visiting L.A. from Boston for the weekend with a friend. He's tall, dark and handsome, and looks a bit like George Clooney. Deep brown eyes, salt and pepper hair, devilish smile and a day or three of stubble. I'm shocked to discover that he's 51, since I would have pegged him for my age, a decade younger.

He's a nice guy, so we keep on talking. At some point I realize that my friends have discreetly moved about ten feet away. And Boston Jeff is great. Very charming, very funny. No funny accent. And very handsome. Entirely unsuitable, of course. What on earth am I going to do with a brunet from Boston? Completely useless.

Still, I really like him. He has been single for several years, after a 15-year relationship. He has an interesting job. He actually strikes me as someone I'd definitely want to date, and I tell him this. "Fucker," I say. "Why did you have to live in Boston? I actually like you."

It's almost like my frustration with the Viking, the right guy at the wrong time. But this time, it's the right guy in the wrong city.

It can't go anywhere, after all. Not even for just something quick and purely physical. My house is a disaster area and the Ex is presumably there or will be soon, so that's definitely off limits. He's sharing a hotel room with his friend. Going nowhere.

We keep talking and we're both enjoying each other's company. It's nearly 12:30am now. He tells me that they're planning to hit the shops on Melrose on Saturday, so I give him my recommendation for where they should eat breakfast. There aren't any trick cards or paper or pens, so I ask for his cell phone number so I can text him the name of the restaurant and directions. I hold my cell phone close to my chest and text him:

"Doughboys @ 3rd & crescent heights. West of crescent on south side of 3rd. Kiss me."

After an excruciating wait for the text message to go through, he opens his cell phone. The first few words appear, and for a moment I worry that's he's not going to bother reading the rest. "Keep reading," I urge him.

He looks up at me and smiles. And then he leans in for a kiss, right there in the middle of the now crowded Abbey.

Very nice.

The next day, his last full day in town, we've made plans to meet for dinner. His friend has other dinner plans, so it's just the two of us. I pick up Boston Jeff at his hotel, and we have a cocktail in the rooftop restaurant so we can admire the view. This is kind of weird, though. It feels like a date, but it's clearly not a date. I'm just a friendly native showing him around town. Right?

For dinner, I've decided on another local institution. Marix, the native stalking ground of the tall, handsome men of West Hollywood. The host asks for a name, then looks at my Aquaman t-shirt. "I'll call you Aquaman," he says. "Table for two." (He actually writes down on the sheet "Aquaman: 2" which cracks me up.)

I'm a little less guarded tonight, or else it's just the margaritas talking, but I go on about the breakup, my new roommate, my costume for Halloween, my body image problems, my friends, the works. It's not too awful, really, but he's definitely getting the non-filtered version of me. And he still likes me. We talk about his career, his big Italian family, his non-existant dating life. Another bunch of my friends are there too, and they encourage us to join them for dancing at Hot Dog later in the evening.

"I don't know about you," I say. "But does this sorta feels like we're on a date? It does to me."

"I think it's a date."

After dinner, Boston Jeff calls up his friend to figure out what to do next, and I figure that the easiest thing is for us all to end up back at the Abbey, since the friend knows how to get there. We agree to meet there in about an hour. Boston Jeff and I have a bit of time to kill, and I could use a brief respite from drinking. We could go around the corner to O-Bar, we could go on to the Abbey early. Decisions...

No. I take Jeff purposefully back to my car and I drive west. Back to his hotel. In the car, I'm already hard. Up in his room, when I pull off my t-shirt, I hear him whisper "Wow." And he is completely hot himself: perfectly manicured hairy chest, strong defined pecs, the works.

It was fantastic.

Afterward, we return to the Abbey, where the two Bostonians decide to call it a night. I'm wide awake now, of course, and kind of giddy, so I decide to meet up with my buddies at Hot Dog. On my way there, I send Boston Jeff a one-word text:


I'm on the dance floor, surrounded by my friends, when I see that I've gotten a new text message. One which I think I will never erase:

Friday, October 27, 2006

M. goes out for a cocktail

As predicted, last night was a late night at work. As I am finally driving home, a buddy calls, wanting to know if I'll join him for a drinkie at O-Bar. Although I would have been perfectly happy to crawl into bed, I think to myself "well, one drink won't hurt" and we make plans to meet there at 10.

I leave my house at 10, figuring that we'd get there at about the same time. Twenty steps later, my friend calls. "I'll be about five or ten minutes late, so walk slow." I could go back to the house and wait a bit, since the idea of waiting at the bar by myself isn't appealing. But I take his advice and continue my now leisurely stroll.

Sure enough, I beat him there. And the place is packed. I don't know a soul.

I don't think I have ever gone into a bar completely on my own. I'll meet friends there, or arrive there with friends, or even do a quick walk-through on my way to or from another bar to see if I know anyone there. But I've never simply walked into a bar, solo, with the intention of staying there and seeing what happens. I know that people do it all the time, and I certainly don't think of them as losers, but that's totally how I would feel. Like there's a scarlet L on my chest.

I am not afraid of crowds. I'm not afraid of being by myself. I am a sociable, easygoing guy who enjoys meeting new people. And even though I'm meeting my friend there any minute now, I feel completely alone. Worse, I feel like a total dork. Is this what being single feels like? I fucking hate it.

Standing out, literally, at the edge of the crowd is a very handsome blond man, about 6' 4" and muscular, talking to another hottie. My self esteem goes spinning down the drain. I look around, and the place seems to be populated predominantly by tall, handsome men. All of them friendly, all of them chatting and flirting with each other. And there I am, on the outside. Would a normal person be as intimidated as I am? A less friendly-looking crowd would be easier to manage, somehow. I just feel left out.

I make my way to the far corner of the bar, which seems like the fastest way to get a drink. Standing in a crowded bar, alone, is not something that I want to contemplate without a drink. Cocktail in hand, I move back again through the crowds toward the door so that I could see my friend arrive. It's so crowded that once I find a small vacant pocket of space, I figure I'd better stop and wait there. Again, I'm surrounded by the happy, handsome crowd.

An hour seems to pass, but I'm sure it's only a minute or less before I see my friend arrive. And it turns out that I happened to have stopped next to several friends of his, who I'm quickly introduced to.

And everything seems to change. I'm happy to see my friend, who I haven't seen in a while. His buddies are extremely friendly and fun to chat with. Two people I know come in and join our group. More people I know happen by, bunches of them, and by now I know 15 people in the crowd. A handsome trio of guys are standing near me, two of them blond, and one of them seems to be making appreciative eye contact with me.

All of a sudden, I realize that I'm having a terrific time.

The superhero images projected on the walls lead, of course, to discussions about my Halloween costume. I can't help casting my eyes around and comparing myself unfavorably to the well-built men of West Hollywood. "Who am I kidding," I ask myself. But I've talked to enough people about it that I can't back down now.

I'm done with my one drink, which I've been nursing all this time, and by now it's about 11:15. I'm determined to be responsible and head home. And I'm also trying to figure out whether and how to introduce myself somehow to the tall, smiling blond man near me who I've been exchanging glances with. But time is runing out; I need to go home. The same thing happened to me several weeks ago at East West, and I kicked myself for not having the guts to follow through.

Tonight, sadly, will be a repeat. I say goodbye to my friend and move toward the door. Five steps later, I run into another friend who I haven't seen in ages. I stop to chat, periodically glancing back to see if Tall Flirty Blond Man is still there.

Nope. He's gone. I blew it again.

Still, it was good to get out. Easy come, easy go. There will be other blonds.

Weight: 174
Damn it. I guess 180 by Halloween was unreasonable.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Sleepless nights

By the time I get home from work, I am exhausted. Every night. I generally go to the gym twice a day, morning and lunchtime, so I'm physically tired. I cram myself full of obscene amounts of "clean" food all day, so I feel particularly lethargic after the last (very unwelcome) meal of the day, which I'd much rather skip. I need sleep, and plenty of it, if I intend to grow. And I'd dearly love to hit 180 by Halloween, just a week away.

I find myself falling asleep watching television, or zoning out so that what I'm watching doesn't register. When 10:30 rolls around, I'm definitely ready for bed. Even 10 o'clock sometimes, if I'm feeling luxuriously decadent.

But by 12:30, I'm up and wide awake. A zillion things start going through my mind. When am I going to start packing? What exactly should I pack, and what should I leave behind? Will I find time to put up a Christmas tree this year, or would that just be too painful? Why am I obsessed with the Viking? Should I try to get laid this weekend? Am I going to look ridiculous on Halloween? What do I have to accomplish at work tomorrow? How am I going to manage my finances? Is the whole steroid thing as stupid as I'm starting to think? It goes on and on, this stream of questions. I try to still my mind, think of blankness and silence. At 2:30am, I'm up again. And usually at around 5:30 too, for a while.

I have gone through most of my supply of Ambien, so I've been rationing them out for the nights when I really HAVE to sleep. I don't like the alternative, Excedrin PM, much since it makes me groggy the next morning, but I'm steadily making my way through that bottle as well. I have noticed that I usually seem to have dark circles under my eyes these days.

Without drugs, by the time the alarm clock goes off in the morning, I am exhausted after an unrestful night, more than willing to make an excuse to roll over and skip the morning workout.

This only happens on weeknights, oddly. I guess on the weekends I'm able to push away those nagging voices. Either that or the booze is knocking me out. But no, that's not it either, since I usually sleep through Sunday night, and Sunday isn't usually a big drinking day for me.

I'm not accomplishing what I need to accomplish at work. I will rally, I know, when the pressure is on, but I'm somehow not able to give myself the kick in the butt to bear down and push through it now. I'm going to have some late nights in the weeks ahead.

And here I was, thinking that I was done with the mood swings. Apparently not.

Weight: 175.5

Monday, October 23, 2006

Changes in attitude

I ran into a friend of mine outside a bar on Friday night. He and his boyfriend of two years broke up around the same time that I and mine did. He looked like he was handling it okay, but said something about how the smile on the outside was hiding all the heartbreak on the inside, and that he didn't know how he'd cope after being dumped by his one true love. (I'm paraphrasing; it was a Friday night after all, and a couple of glasses of wine don't help my usually pretty accurate memory for what people say to me.) I gave him a big hug and went on inside to join a friend.

My first reaction was "Jesus, how fucking pathetic can you get?" His feeling sorry for himself certainly killed any interest on my part in sticking around for more. It wasn't until the next day that the thought occurred to me that plenty of people were thinking the same thing about me. Oh well! I'll just have to keep trying to be extra charming to everybody nowadays to make up for it.

I've actually been feeling pretty good for the most part lately. I've been seeing a bit of the Viking lately (not in a dating context, lord no, just out socially) and I'm not a quivering mess around him any more. Almost. I do, however, find myself editing what I say around him, in an effort (largely unsuccessful, I'm sure) to show him that I'm not a freak. I think that I just end up sounding awkward. But then, my greatest fear in life is that I am judged and found to be uncool. Baby steps.

Still, I haven't gotten laid since him. Sigh. Haven't really been looking. Had a couple of offers this weekend, but not from large blond men, and I am determined to keep running with my perverse blond fixation for now. My sex drive is still pretty much zero these days, so I might as well remain picky rather than just give it up to the first (okay, fifth) person who asks.

Over the last several days, I have noticed that my general happiness and well-being has changed somehow. I still felt good, just...differently good. It took me a while, but I figured out what it was. As freaked out as I am about the upcoming move, I feel "liberated." I remember, now, what fun I had as a single boy, and I hope that I can recapture that. I am ready to take on whatever life throws at me, particularly if it's tall and blond.

In the past, whenever I've had to deal with momentous change, willingly or unwillingly, I've always ultimately managed to make the best of it and embrace what's to come with an open and ready heart. Moving from my hometown to Washington back in 1990, my first major breakup in 1997, moving to L.A. in far everything has worked out well enough for me. Keep your fingers crossed.

Weight: 175 (due mostly to a glut of champagne and cake yesterday, no doubt)

Thursday, October 19, 2006

I'm moving out of this city

The Santa Ana winds have kicked in. I love 'em. The dust and junk kicked up in the air doesn't bother me. Blue skies, warm air, the scent of jasmine in the's like someone tried to duplicate spring but read the manual wrong and mixed in equal amounts of autumn. I can't really describe it. I'm even wondering if it might even be beach weather this weekend.

Chip and I found out this morning that we got the apartment that I had ultimately determined was my first choice. It's quite close to where I live now, but I'll no longer be a resident of West Hollywood. Nope, I'll be in edgy, rough and tumble urban Los Angeles now...smack between the Grove and the Beverly Center. It's right around the corner from my favorite breakfast spot, Doughboys. Oooh! And I'll be able to stagger home from El Coyote!

So breathe a sigh of relief for me. I've certainly done so.

The panic, I'm sure, will kick in soon enough.

Weight: 172.5
I seem to be back on track with the weight gain. I feel big. I don't know if I look big, however, to anyone other than myself. Still, there's twelve more days till Halloween...

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

The Confession

Not everything in my life is sad these days.

I went to the beach this summer much more often than ever before. I started the summer going fairly regularly with one of my buddies, and when I introduced another one of my friends to the weekend festivities, the duo quickly became a trio (with Special Guest Stars whenever we invited others to join in, for we were not an exclusive bunch). The Beach Buddies were friends I could rely on during the weeks before the breakup, for the Ex never chose to join us. And then after the breakup, I couldn’t wait for the weekends to come so that I could escape to the waves, sand and clear air with these two high-spirited guys who could make me forget my troubles. There’s something about the ocean that feels cleansing and healing (even though the water isn’t remotely pristine here at the L.A. beaches). We would bring liquor, of course, continually topping off our cans of Diet Coke with rum as we drank them down, and usually polishing off a fifth between the three of us every visit. And we’d rate the physical attributes of the guys around us, picking out our Top Three Hottest Men. But mostly we’d just talk and laugh and joke around.

One afternoon, I was alone with Beach Bud #1. My best buddy—let’s call him B—had also joined us that day.

Was it the booze? Had the conversation turned serious, to matters of the heart? Was I just feeling unloved and alone? I don’t remember. But once B was out of earshot, Beach Bud #1 turned to me and said something like “So what are you going to do now that you’re single again?” “I don’t know,” I confided, “but I do know this: I am utterly, completely in love with B,” I confided.

And the thing is, I really meant it. Over the last several weeks, B had been continually advising me to communicate my feelings, but I knew that this wasn’t at all what he had in mind, even if it was something that was ready to explode out of me.

In clear sober hindsight, it wasn't necessarily completely true. But I will at least admit this much: I am definitely a little bit in love with B.

What the hell is love anyway?

I met B last April. The Ex knew him slightly from the gym but I had never seen him before, even though he lives a block away from me. He’s dark haired and kind of short (in other words, not tall and not blond, and thus entirely unsuitable for me at the moment). I didn’t particularly make note of him, really. He was extremely attractive, certainly, but something about his looks was distasteful to me. His blue eyes contrasted sharply with his brown hair and I thought that they glittered rather coldly. I know why. With his little prep-school nose, defined abs, cute hair and (as I later learned, after his shaved chest had grown out) ideally-patterned chest hair, he reminded me immediately of all those perfect looking rich boys I knew in college, the ones I despised and desired and wanted to be, a whole whirlwind of feelings mixed together in a sickening blend of self-loathing. He actually reminded me of one of my best college friends, an indecently handsome rich kid from Palm Beach (not West Palm Beach, mind you; he grew up on the fucking island!) who had spent his boarding school years at Choate.

Of course, I slept with him.

Drugs were involved. And it wasn’t just him. The Ex was there too, as was another guy. But foursomes generally devolve into two twosomes, and B and I ended up more or less paired off. I still wasn’t sure if I particularly liked him, but I certainly liked the idea of screwing someone who reminded me of my fantasy boarding school guys. When the sun came up after that sleepless night, Number Four left us to rejoin his friends, and B, the Ex and I set out for some breakfast.

As the drugs started wearing off, I gradually learned that B wasn’t merely some pretty party boy. He has an interesting career. He is smart. He has strong relationships with his friends. And he is funny. One of the things I like most about him is his great laugh; in the months to come I loved going to movies with him and listening to his uninhibitedly gleeful, boyish laughter ring out. And I realized that he was beautiful.

We quickly became close, all three of us, but I developed a very special close connection with him.

I was still hot for him, after that. That didn’t change. And we ended up in bed together a few more times, just the two of us. But I was still in the relationship, of course, and it never really occurred to me that B and I might possibly develop into anything more than really good friends and occasional bedmates.

Soon, however, I realized that I was completely captivated by him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms. When he fell asleep next to me, I thought that it was the cutest thing I had ever seen. I find his slightly crooked lower teeth entrancing. When we kiss each other, our standard greeting, it’s not just a quick brush of the lips; it’s a real, lingering smooch that means, well, something.

But it’s way beyond the physical stuff. He was the first person I told about the breakup. I don’t think I would have managed to get through the last several weeks without him. I’ve told him things about myself that I have never shared with anyone else. He has a knack for seeing right through any of my bullshit; he was particularly helpful during the extreme emotional turmoils of the Viking saga, helping me realize that what I was feeling so painfully wasn’t necessarily what was really going on.

I’m not his best friend. His ex probably qualifies. I don’t care. I’m not in a competition. B is the one person I call every day. He’s the one I most want with me when I go out. He’s the one I wish the best for.

And even though I’m not what he’s looking for in a partner, I do wonder what it might be like to end up with him. Still, this isn’t remotely some tragic unrequited love. I’m here if he ever needs me, but most of all, I value him, if not as a lover, then as the closest friend I’ve ever had, and I’m lucky to have him in my life.

Or is that just icky?

I told you this was going to be messy.

Friday, October 13, 2006

The Viking Saga

The next afternoon I see the Viking at the gym. I’m there with my best bud—with whom I had, of course, already gone over all the details about the night before when we’d had coffee that morning—and I’m all excited and giggly inside. We walk over to say hi. We're in a busy public place, so I don't really say much more than "I had a fantastic time with you last night, and it's great to see you today." He laughs and says "I was so drunk last night."

A couple of hours later, I call the Viking. His phone must be off, because it goes to voicemail immediately, and I leave a message, telling him again what I great time I had, and that I hoped to see him soon. That I’m sorry he had to see the sad version of myself on Friday, but that I was glad that he got to see a happier version on Saturday. That I was looking forward to returning to my normal self for good.

Yeah. I know. It was just on the verge of being psycho. I’ve noticed this a lot lately. I’ll be trying to tell people that I’m feeling okay, doing better, and then I realize that there’s something in my voice and facial expression like a rope being pulled too tight and I start to wonder when they’re going to start backing away slowly from the crazy man who keeps saying “I’m not crazy, seriously!” over and over while trying to stifle the giggles spilling out of his mouth.

But, of course, it gets worse. This is where I become even more of an idiot.

For the next several days, there I am, waiting for my damn phone to ring. It doesn’t, of course, and it fucking kills me. Every time it does ring, my heart starts racing, but it's never him. I try to tell myself that even if nothing ever ends up happening between us again, at least I had one night of fantastic sex with an extraordinarily hot man. But that's little comfort. I have convinced myself, for the moment, that he could have been the one and that I have let a legitimate chance at happiness slip away. I feel like I've completely screwed up everything. And I know, at the same time, that I am an utter fool for letting my emotions get away from me like that. I'm just having a fucking hard time telling my heart to calm down and take it easy.

And I keep hearing his words: “I was so drunk last night.” I make another fatal mistake: I try to analyze what he meant. Was this a dismissal? An excuse? Was he implying that wouldn’t have hooked up with me if he had been sober? Or should I just take his statement at face value, like a normal person would? We did have several drinks that night, and although he didn’t seem drunk to me, he did say early on that he was something of a lightweight. And what was up with the HIV disclosure? Was it just conversation? Was it an easy way for him to tell me this in an off-hand way, so that he wouldn't have to do so awkwardly in the heat of the moment if things went in that direction? Was it his way of giving me an easy out, in case I was freaked by it? Or was there no significance at all...simply just part of getting to know him better? I brood on all of this for the next few days.

Sometimes I legitimately start to wonder if I really have gone crazy. I think that "manic depressive" sounds a bit excessive to describe what I’m going through, but I've really been on a roller coaster lately. And I’ve noticed that I have even started talking to myself. I really do. So far it only happens when I’m at home alone (the ex has been out of town for over a week). A thought will get stuck in my head and I’ll actually start whispering phrases, out loud, over and over to myself. “I’m going crazy. I’m going crazy. And I’m going crazy. I’m talking to myself. I’m talking to myself.” Yeah, just like that. Sometimes the repeated phrases are filled with self doubt: “Nobody is ever going to love me again. Nobody is ever going to love me again.” Out loud. What is up with that?

In my clearer moments, I know that it has nothing to do with the Viking, necessarily. It’s about my fear of rejection. The ex rejected me; now I’m distraught that the Viking is rejecting me (again). That, after sleeping with me, he decided "Nah, I'd rather not do THAT with him again." And I'm mad at myself for letting myself feel like this. My pulse is racing, and I'm sure my blood pressure is through the ceiling. The steroids cannot be helping.

Love sucks, dating sucks, being abandoned sucks. And I know that “abandoned” sounds awfully overdramatic, but seriously, come on. Being single sucks.

The sex, however, was just incredible. And the delirious giddy sense of "maybe he likes me" is such a thrill even when it turns out to be short lived.

I guess that's why we put ourselves through it.

Enter the Viking

Two weeks ago today, I was probably at my lowest low. I had given the breakup just enough space that I was beginning to be able to focus on moving on. That meant, of course, finding a place to live. Our house, with its basically open floor plan, just isn’t suitable for a broken-up couple; the ex’s bedroom doesn’t even have a door, for example. I know some couples who have managed living together just fine after breaking up, but let’s face it, I’m sure neither of us would want to bring a date home to this particular house, once we got to that point.

My apartment search at this point had been focused on West Hollywood and on finding my own place. The sinking realization that I simply would not be able to afford WeHo on my own was like a kick in the gut. So I browsed through some Craigslist listings of roommate ads that afternoon at work. One of them was quite close to me, and I would certainly have been able to afford it. Calls were made and I trudged off, after work, to see the place.

On the way, I ran into someone I knew. We’ll call him the Viking. I met him in the late spring at Hot Dog. I saw him there with a clump of people. I knew one of them, who was from my home town. (I’d actually tricked with Hometown Guy, who is just adorable.) At some point in the night, I found myself standing next to the Viking. I wasn’t on the make, for a rare change, but he was dreamy. Tall, blond, handsome, muscular, blue-eyed, great smile, hairy chest, clean cut...perfect. Our mutual friend had failed to introduce us earlier, so I turned to him and said, with perfect sincerity, “You are the handsomest man here tonight.” “Then you must be the kindest,” he answered. We introduced ourselves; he was Hometown Guy’s roommate. I saw the Viking out and about a few times more during the summer. The second time I saw him, I embarrassed myself horribly by basically throwing myself at him. Alcohol, unsurprisingly, was involved. He politely declined: “I don’t do couples or guys with boyfriends.” Well, it’s hard not to respect that. I guess that the few times I’ve seen him after that, I felt compelled to be extra nice to him so I didn’t make a fool of myself again.

Anyway, so I run into the Viking on the street and he asks me how I’m doing. He doesn’t know what’s been going on, and it all comes pouring out. “I’m sorry to unload on you,” I say. “That’s okay. We’re friends, that’s what I’m here for.” I hug him. This fucking sucks, looking like a complete psycho in front of someone who probably would rather keep me at arm’s length. “Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow and we’ll hang out and talk,” he says. Okay, so I guess I wasn’t that awful.

We say goodbye and I go to look at the apartment. It’s a dump and I don’t like the potential roommate, a slob who leaves the television blaring during the entire time I’m there, a cardinal sin in my book. But you know what? This actually perks me up a bit. It can’t get any worse than this.

Saturday afternoon comes. I ring up the Viking. “Why don’t come over and hang with HG and me,” he offers. “We’ll watch some television, grab some dinner and maybe go out.” Perfect. HG’s presence meant that I wasn't going to misinterpret this as a "date." Good to know that going in; no pressure, no misconception.

I walk over, we pour cocktails and watch an episode of "E.R." We decide on sushi for dinner, and the Viking mentions that he’s strictly a California roll guy. “You people from the middle of the country don’t like fish, do you,” I tease. “Nope, its just that I’m not supposed to eat raw fish because of the HIV.” I’m a little surprised, but...well, not really. I had suspected that he might have been on HIV drugs; sometimes you can just tell. Still, I’m sad, of course; I hate the idea of this handsome, vigorous, wonderful guy harboring the infection for so many years. We order dinner and bring it back to the house, watch an episode of "Gray's Anatomy," and a few of HG’s friends drop by briefly on their way to a nearby club. We decide to join them and we all head out. As we walk over, I was emboldened by my best friend’s constant encouragement for me to communicate what I'm feeling. The two or three cocktails I had couldn’t have hurt either. When the friends walked a bit ahead of us, I told the Viking that I thought he was a really great guy, the kind of guy I'd definitely want to go out with whenever I'm finally ready for that. The perfect guy at the utterly wrong time. I don't want to date the Viking, not now; no, I need my rebound guy to be a big sweet dope, who I can use and then drop with no hard feelings, not this wonderful, sweet, handsome man who I really like and who might possibly develop into something more to me. It was a great moment of honest communication, something I'm not exactly known for in my "real" life. I asked him if I could ask him out in a month or two, after my tumultuous life has settled down a bit. He said "I'd like that!" Cool.

We get to the club, have another round or two of drinks, I run into a bunch of different friends, and we dance a bit. We're having a great time. Around 1am or so, the Viking and I are done drinking and ready to sit down, so we head across the street to an all-night Mexican restaurant for some hangover-preventing food. There's a rowdy table of cute boys next to us, and we're joking around with them and having lots of fun. When we're done, the walk back leads us past my own particular downfall, Tasty Donuts (also open 24 hours, the bastards!), so we stop in and pick up a few for the walk home. During the whole evening, mind you, we've just been having fun; nothing flirty, nothing hinted at, no dirty talk, no suggestive dancing, just good times and the idea that we might go out on a date at some distant, unspecified point in the future. His place is along the walk back, so I tell him I'll see him to his door. He responds "I think you should stay over." I was absolutely floored.

You can see my dilemma. I had wanted him so bad for quite some time, but I really did think that there might also be some serious dating potential there too, and I didn't want to screw that up.

Of course, we had sex. It only took me half a second to make that decision. And it was amazing. No dirty details here. It was simply fantastic. The Viking is an absolutely beautiful man. There are no words. I did say, as I kissed him, that I hoped we weren’t screwing up something that had future potential.

Since he had already told me that he always had a hard time sleeping with someone else in his bed, and since I myself wasn't sleeping a wink after an hour of laying there next to him in the dark, I reluctantly got dressed around 4am and he got out of bed to kiss me goodnight, naked at the door. It was a very sweet ending to an utterly delightful and completely surprising evening.

Thursday, October 12, 2006


Another real-time posting...

I recently discovered that my new-roommate-to-be used to be a Chippendales dancer. Therefore I shall refer to him as Chip. Chip is one of those classic L.A. guys. He grew up here and went to Beverly Hills High School and USC, and has a couple of cool sideline career things going on in addition to the main pays-the-bills job. Like I said, classic L.A. He's a handsome, sociable, brawny man, and I'll think we'll live very well together.

Our search for housing, as I mentioned before, is taking place in a severe time crunch. On Tuesday, I slipped out of work a few hours early so that we could take a look at some places together. He has seen my house, and I have seen his, but we had to get a sense of what we like and don't like in our potential places and you can really only do that by looking together. We saw four places: one was cute and tiny and close to my beloved Runyan Canyon; two of them were in a big and slightly depressing apartment building near Hollywood, with the virtue of having a decent layout and two bathrooms and balconies off of each bedroom; and the last was a very interesting space, charming and spread out over two floors, but we would have been on top of each other all the time. Sticker shock was in effect for all of these, but they were all workable.

Today Chip, knowing that I really couldn't get away from work the rest of this week, rang me up. He was very excited about another place he'd just seen, and since he had to return the keys by 5pm he wanted to know if there was any chance I could get away. As much work as I have to do, anything that might possibly help lessen my panic is gonna be a good thing. Besides, I knew that if it were as good as he'd said, we'd need to snap it up before anyone else could. So I made my apologies here and ran out the door.

We had time to see a second place as well, so I actually met him there. It's the top floor of a duplex sort of near Pico and Fairfax; spacious, full of light, nice views and oozing with old fashioned charm. It has a big backyard, room for his office and piano, and was just adorable. Downside: only one bathroom and the location isn't entirely ideal. (Let's face it, my current address is absolutely ideal in every possible way, which is one of the many reasons why it's going to be so hard to leave.) It was also about a hundred bucks more per month than the previous places, but clearly well worth it.

I returned to the first place with him. And he was right: it's equally wonderful, but entirely different. This one is two stories plus a roof deck (view of Hollywood Hills and downtown) and is at Sweetzer and Beverly. Great location. Each bedroom has its own bathroom (although one bathroom, bizarrely, is tub only, no shower) and there's only one parking space, I think. This one is more sleek and modern, but also big and bright. Both have fireplaces. The rent is about as same as the other place. Yikes.

We're going to fill out applications for both. Again, I can't believe how poor I'm going to be, but isn't it better to be just one step above poverty level in a nice place than to be miserable and only a step and a half above poverty level in a dump?

At least that's what I'm telling myself.

The weird thing about looking for a place to live is that, in some way, you are picking what kind of life you're going to have, what kind of person you'll be. Am I the guy in the cozy, homey top floor duplex? Am I the guy in the cool three-story pad near all the hangouts on Beverly? Am I the guy who moves into a Hollywood apartment building full of straight 20-year-olds? (I hope not.) One thing I know...I'll miss the guy I currently am in the beating heart of West Hollywood. Seriously, if that guy weren't so damaged, he'd be getting laid all the time.

Weight: 170.5

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

A bright spot

Today, I'm going to pause in my catching-up of the past month's misadventures for a moment. I am, however, almost caught up to real time for good.

Weight today: 170.5
I haven't been able to put in the gym time or the eating to keep up my recent gains. Hopefully that will change as of tomorrow. Busy, busy, busy. My housing situation is about to change, much sooner than I had anticipated. I'll be living with a friend of my best bud. Since he needs to be out of his current place by November 1, and he'll be out of the country from October 21 through 29, that means we'll need to find a place by next Friday. I know that this is ultimately the best thing for me, although it hasn't quite hit me how poor I'm going to be. Yes, I'm freaking out.

The one bright shining spot as the shatters of my life fall around me in noisy, clanging little piles? My Halloween costume is coming together quite nicely. Today, the perfect pair of superhero gloves were shipped to me. They're 18-inch, shiny black, fully-lined PVC gloves designed for "abrasive blasting" from Northern Tool & Equipment and I got them for...are you ready?....a buck ninety-nine (not including shipping). A coat of green spray paint and they'll be good to go.

I am somewhat baffled that it didn't occur to me when I ordered the gloves to check out Northern Tool & Equpment for the perfect superhero boots. Yup, they're there, made of PVC and only $12.99, and they're on their way to me now.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

The dynamic duo

Two days after the breakup and I'm off to a circuit-type event with my two best buds. Drugs may not be the answer, but happy drugs and the company of hunky, friendly shirtless men can at least dull the pain for one night. This is the occasion for me to break the news, that I'm single again now, to several of the fine folks you see listed to the right. You know what? It feel great to unload. Even though I'm surely the world's biggest buzzkill with my unlucky trio of events (breakup, mother with cancer, all my money stolen), everyone is uncommonly sympathetic. Still, it's a relatively early night for me. When my buddies, who don't go to these things all that often, are ready to go, I'm not about to desert them after everything they've done for me. Number of boys kissed: zero. Number of boys I show my dick to: one. My dreamy, beefy, hairy-chested blond buddy who, damn it, has a boyfriend wanted to see it, so who am I to say no? Getting hard or even semi-hard when I'm under the influence is such a rare feat of physical mechanics that I feel obligated to show off my towering achievement whenever it actually does occur. But that's not really what I'm there for. I'm just there to be comforted, to immerse myself in a sea of sweaty, shirtless humanity and lose myself in the pounding music.

Two weeks to the day after the breakup, I'm ready for some more stress relief, another party. It's not ideal timing....I like to space these things out by way more than just two weeks, but if anybody needs it, it's me. It's at the same place, but it's a slightly different kind of crowd. Still, it's an interesting and cool vibe. I'm there with one of the guys listed on the right and his partner, and they're really fun, so we're having a terrific time together. Once again, the drugs (once they finally kick in) are making me happy, not quite in love with the universe, but I'm getting there. It's not a sexual kind of vibe. Just happy, excited to be there. Eventually, the ecstasy peaks and starts to fade, so I knock back a hit of G. Another hour of dancing and it's time for another hit of G. (A total of two only. A strict limit. I have no intention of dying, and I do have to be able to drive home at the end of the night.) This time, however, when my friends are ready to go, I decide to stay.

I walk them out to the lobby to say goodbye. Hugs, kisses...I'm feeling completely great for the second time in two weeks. It's now also my first time "by myself" at a circuit party, even though I know several people there, of course. I head back to the dance floor and dance with a friend I find in the thick of things. After a while, I decide to check up on some other friends I had run into earlier. Naturally, I take the scenic route, the one that takes me past the most guys, so I take off in the opposite direction from where I last saw them, and pause just a few steps off the dance floor.

At this point in the night, the drugs can only do so much for me, at least not the happy drugs that I'm on. I feel great, but I'm beginning to fade a bit, so I'm content to stand there for a moment and watch the crowd. There's a guy standing near me, doing exactly what I'm doing; it's that point in the party, and within a few seconds we've caught each other's eyes. I'm high, of course, and the lights are constantly changing, but he looks handsome to me. He's tall, maybe an inch or two taller than I am. Nice body, not outrageous enough to make me fall into the well of low self-esteem; I think we're pretty evenly matched, actually. And he has a great smile. I can definitely see that. When he smiles, his eyes get all crinkly. I fucking love that. That's a real smile. We shake hands.

First words out of my mouth? "You're blond, aren't you?" Probably the first time he'd heard that as a pickup line. I never claimed to be the smoothest guy, especially when I'm on drugs. And, well, it's hard to tell for sure in this light. It's not even really a pickup line, really; I'm just starting a conversation with a cute, friendly-looking guy. I have no specific plans, no specific expectations for him.

"Yes, I am," he replies. Bingo. We're chatting, we discover that he went to law school where I went to college, and he's quite likeable. We're both shirtless, of course, and he puts his hand on my lower back. "That's okay, you're allowed to do that," I reassure him, as his hand slides down the back of my jeans, beneath my underwear. The G has made me touchy-feely so I'm loving the attention. "You know," I lean in, "I just really like tall blond men." "You would really like my partner then. He's blonder and more built than I am." I don't mind that he has a partner. Why should I? And then he said the magic words: "He just left, but he said that if I met somebody nice, I should bring him home."

I'm at that in-between stage, just a bit too high to drive home, but not high enough to be out on the dance floor any more. Part of me wants to stay and enjoy the party, but a big part of me loves the idea of making it with two hot blond men. Tall guy is definitely done with the dancing, though, so we meander out to the lobby to chat, where we run into some more friends of mine. My tall blond guy knows one of them, it turns out. This is good news. He borrows my cell phone and walks off to the side of the lobby to call the partner and let him know that company's coming. I take this opportunity to ask my friend if this guy's an ax murderer. The answer is a welcome "No, no, he's a great guy." Relief. Meanwhile, my guy is deep in discussion, looking at me from the sidelines, and apparently describing me to the partner. I'm definitely going home with him now, even without having seen the other player in this game. The uncertainty provides its own thrill.

We walk around and talk a bit more until I'm ready to drive home. His partner had taken their car home, so he walks with me to the parking lot and we head toward his place in my car.

Nice house. Very nice, actually. We walk back along the side of the house to come in through the back door...into the bedroom. I'm wondering what on earth I'm going to say if I don't like the partner. The partner comes in, wearing only sweatpants. Oh hell yes. The abs are astoundingly ripped, everything else is in its proper place, and he's a quirkily attractive guy. Score.

This is the awkward part. We're all there for one thing, and it's late enough that it's time to get down to it without delay, but how to start? In the kitchen, the partner has put out three glasses of orange juice and G. I drink my third dose of G for the night (Limits? What limits?), and they assure me that if I need anything else, they've got it. They split a tablet of ecstasy. I'm fine, though. At this point, it's not going to do me any good anyway.

Back in the bedroom, I put my hands on the partner's rockin' abs. "I told you that you'd like him." I'm not sure who my guy is directing this to, but it doesn't make a difference, really. We're kissing, the three of us, and the clothes are coming off. They are both hard as a rock, and I am too, at least for a while. I think that one of them mentioned taking Levitra or Cialis or something. Whatever, it's working for them. We're pretty evenly matched there too, the three of us. Nice.

Onto the bed. It's all going quite nicely. We're laughing and having a ball. I love it when you can laugh in the middle of sex. It's supposed to be fun, right? I'm straddling one of them, on his back, and the other is behind me. Lube comes out and someone's cock starts sliding up my ass. I reach back to check. "Uh, do you have any condoms?" Sure. Somebody grabs one and readjusts. "Just so you know, I tested negative in July, and he tested negative a few weeks ago," he explains. "Great," I answer, "and I tested negative in June." But I'm happier now that the condom in place.

This continues for a while. They're tag-teaming me... With everything I've put into my system, I'm not getting hard any more, but I'm in heaven, taking it from the two of them. I keep reaching back to check, and once or twice I have to pull off somebody's cock and find another condom. They're barebacking with each other, though... The action moves to the hot tub in the back yard as the sun starts to come up. As much fun as I'm having, I'm pretty much done now, even without shooting my load. But I'm happy to be there sharing the moment with these two, and watching them go at it. Back in the bedroom, I help them get off. It's around 7am on Saturday morning now, the sun is coming up, they both have work to do, and even though they seem to be happy for me to stay and chat and keep them up, I'm definitely ready to head home and sleep. But there is a contentment now, that comes with sharing something so elemental with these guys. And I actually like these guys, I realize. We seem to have a fair amount in common. They're fun. They seem to like me.


I'm coated in sweat and semen and lube, and both shins are bruised from slamming into the side of their bed. I find my clothes on the floor and pull them on. In the dim morning light, I head out to my car, passing a man walking his dog on the street, and I drive home and crawl under the covers, alone.

The aftermath of a circuit-type event is never pretty.

Weight: 170.5

A cute guy hits on me, post-breakup

Only blond men from now on. I am down on dark men. My apologies to 99% of the world's population, but you can trust a blond. No, that's not it, exactly. You can count on blonds. For the record, I consider myself a blond. Dark blond, yes, some would say light brown, but I cling to my blond identity. And occasionally I help to bring out my "natural" blond color, as I did last weekend. My hairdresser really has no concept about what "medium blond" means, however, so I ended up with light golden, Aryan Nation hair. Oh well, it's a look.

Yes, the ex is dark-haired. And okay, I admit that I just think that blond men are particularly hot. (I like redheads too. Strawberry blond? Perfect.) Large blond men. Tall, strong, brawny blond men. With friendly blue eyes and bright smiles. Preferably with blond chest hair and lots of it. And big strong (but not too big) muscles. Smart, but kind of outdoorsy too. That is my "type."

I have never had a significant dating relationship with any man of my "type." And I've only slept with maybe one or two of them. At least, I figure I must have at some point, but I really can't recall any at the moment. But surely, somewhere along the line...

One week after the breakup, I'm out drinking with a couple of buddies. It's late, around 1am or so, and the place isn't particularly crowded. But my friends, and the cocktails, have cheered me up quite a bit, and I'm trying to explain the "only blonds" rule to them. I'm trying to be funny, but yeah, I really do sorta mean it, at least for the moment.

A guy comes up. He sees us laughing and we probably look friendly. He does too. He's tall and cute and has a great smile. He introduces himself and maybe even compliments me about something; I don't remember what exactly he says. But he's definitely interested in me. Still:

"Sorry, I'm sure you're wonderful, but I'm only going out with blond men from now on." I say this with a smile. My tone of voice makes it very clearly a statement of policy, not a flirty come-on.

He's still smiling, but his smile turns into one of those frozen ones that says "Okay, maybe he didn't really just say that, but I'd better just walk away." And he does.

I don't have a heart of stone. I am essentially, I hope, a nice guy. But now I am pissed with myself, and a thought crosses my mind: "What if that guy was to have been the next love of your life?" I am, at that moment, a total jerk and there is no way around it.

A few minutes later, the same dark-haired cute guy is passing by our little group again. And I touch him on the shoulder. "Listen, I'm sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I just broke up with a dark-haired guy. It's been a rough time for me, and I didn't really mean it."

He gives me a variation of the previous smile. But this time, it says "Sure. I understand. But there is not one chance in the world that I'll ever talk to you again."

Single again, just for a few days, and I'm already being hit on by cute men. Nice, friendly, cute men.

And I blew it.

I'm still reeling from the breakup, I'm pissed with myself for being an asshole, and I've had a whole bunch of drinks by now. Kind of a lethal combination. The bar closes. We move on to someone's house. When the blow comes out, I do a line, even though I had sworn, months ago, never to do it again.

Just one line.

Weight: 170.5

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

A rush of blood from the head

I dread injection day. I'm midway through the third week of my steroid cycle: Sundays are for boldenone, Wednesdays are for testosterone cypionate. Today's injection, 2ccs (400mg) of test cyp, did not go well.

I had my best friend inject me the first two times. I couldn't have found the inner strength to jab my ass with a sharp needle myself, and he was on (prescribed) testosterone, so he knew what he was doing. But I think he injected my stuff too fast, or maybe it was just my body reacting to the steroids for the first time; I had big knots in my butt, where the fluid sat in the muscle, slowly dissipating, and even visible bruises that I wasn't exactly eager to display in the locker room. For a while, I was sure that my second injection, in the left glute, had turned into an abscess, since I still had a slightly painful knob there over a week later. I even had to do the next two consecutive shots into my right glute, because my left just hadn't healed enough.

But at least I was able to do the next three injections on my own, and they went well. There wasn't really any pain since I injected s - l - o - w - l - y, and no more bruises. It is still a completely freaky sensation. I can't say I'm afraid of needles, or the sight of my own blood, but I always turn my head when I'm having blood drawn at the doctor's office. My first time, I had to take a few deep breaths first before I was able to push the needle into my butt. The pain wasn't bad, sort of like a mosquito bite, but the actual injection, the squeezing of the oil into the muscle, made me just the slightest bit queasy. My forehead got damp with sweat. I leaned my head against the wall while squeezing, squeezing, squeezing the hypodermic steadily until all the liquid had been injected. This took probably around two minutes, but it felt like ten.

Today's injection, into the right glute, started out fine. I had been doing my injections at night so that I could crawl right into bed afterward, but I was awake uncharacteristically early this morning. My ex was still in his bed, asleep, so I thought this would be the perfect opportunity. He knows what I'm doing, but I don't particularly want him to see me do it. I get everything ready, wash my hands, swab down all the appropriate surfaces with alcohol, fill the syringe, stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror, and jab it in. Even less pain than before. I start squeezing the hypodermic's plunger, which hardly seems to move. I glance back and see that it hasn't, in fact, moved at all. A firmer squeeze. I feel the liquid enter the muscle and that familiar sensation of not-quite-pain-but-please-make-it-stop returns. Squeeze. I glance back again and the plunger has barely moved. Jeez, nearly two whole milliliters to go. This is going to take some time. Now I'm really dreading the increased dosage I'll be facing in a week or two, when I go up to three milliliters. Keep squeezing. Steady, steady pressure.

My ex's alarm clock goes off. Shit. Squeeze. I don't care if he sees me, but I'd really like to get this over now. Halfway done. He's out of bed now, dressed in his gym clothes, and standing outside the open bathroom door. "Uh, I'm sorry you had to see this," I mutter. "I'm almost done." And I am. The plunger stops moving. All finished. Has this injection really lasted five minutes?

I pull the needle swiftly out, but something is different this time. I don't know if it's something I did, or if I'm just freaked out to have someone see me do it, but I'm really sweating and I'm not feeling steady on my feet any more. I just need to get back to my bedroom so I can lay down. I'm blacking out now as I start to take the few steps. The needle is still in my right hand, my left is grasping for something to hold onto. I'm almost there. "Are you okay?" "I'll be fine as soon as I can lie down." Blackness. Crash. When I come to, I find myself sprawled on the hard wooden floor of my room, the needle still in my hand. My head hurts, my knee hurts and this can't be good.

My ex, standing next to me, calls my name. "You hit your head; you're bleeding!" I start to push up onto all fours. I try to remain calm. "Can you bring me some cotton?" He grabs one of my alcohol-soaked swabs and I press it to my left temple and throw myself onto the bed. There. Much better. Breathe. It's just two tiny cuts, but there is a fair amount of blood. My knee is only slightly scraped. The worst, really, is a bruise on the ball of my left foot; it's a very small injury that causes more pain that one would think, and I feel it with every step. The fall could have been so much worse. I could have hit my head on any number of hard, cruel surfaces. And I could have done some serious damage with the sharp needle that remained in my hand the whole time.

In a minute or two, I'm feeling a lot better, so I go into the kitchen to drink some water and eat something. I get dressed for the gym, then lie down on the couch for a few minutes to collect myself. I ask myself, "Is it worth it?" I don't know.

An hour later, I'm midway through my workout. A guy comes over. I've seen him there a few times, now. "What happened to your head?" "Nothing, really, I just banged it a bit." He asks me my name, we shake hands. "You're really cute," he says, and heads back to his weights. I don't know why, but my eyes start to mist. I shake my head and whisper to myself, out loud, "Fuck."

Weight: 170.5

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

The world is changed.

Where to begin?

Much to my surprise and dismay, I have found myself single again. Not my choice.

I haven't cried yet.

A piece of me has died. No, that's way too dramatic. Let's rephrase: My life has changed, irrevocably. But, optimist that I am, I know that I will come through okay. Someday. I thought for sure that I'd either become an antisocial shut in, or enter a classic post-breakup slut phase. Well, I haven't been antisocial, but I haven't exactly qualified as a slut either. An insistent, needy little voice in my head wants to be married again, and soon. I think that neediness is the most unattractive thing in the world, so I try to silence that little fucker. Or at least disguise it, so nobody else will know what I'm really thinking.

I am alternately pissed, giddy, icy, sad, sunny. Name it. I feel it.

The journey begins here.