Tonight, Vash and I are making it to Wendy-o Matik's Radical Love Workshop, damnit.

you know how us catholic girls can be
we make up for so much time a little too late

Vash is out with Dietrich, and I had dinner with Jezebel. I just got back from taking her home, after the obligatory (everybody asks to the first time they visit the Black Light District) swing by the ocean , especially beautiful at two in the morning with a full moon. Sleep is for the weak.

Not that things started out so well. I hadn't been home since Thursday morning, and returned from work on Friday afternoon to discover a full-scale ant incursion on Perdita's food and water. Dumb stupid rain. Dealing with that cut signficantly into my preparation time.

I should know better than to speak to panhandlers at gas stations. Maybe it's not so much of a problem on the street since my voice reshifts as I walk past, but when I say no while I'm pumping gas, they inevitably clock me. Loudly. Last night it was a guy on a bike who actually circled back around to ask me for change, and when I turned him down, he did a doubletake and said oh, wow, you sure surprised me! As vague as that sounds, believe me, I knew what he was saying. As he pedaled off, I wanted to run him down and say are you surprised NOW, bitch? wanna suck the cock you've so cleverly deduced i own? But I was in a hurry, so he got to live.

As has become my habit, I parked across the street from the Power Exchange early in the evening so my car would be there when I finally went home. What's more, I have a theory that parking in plain view of the front door of the club reduces the chances of random burglary. Doesn't mean I won't discover one of my windows has been reduced to a pile of green glasscips on the sidewalk (for what? there's nothing to deal), but it makes me feel a little safer. The disadvantage is that street cleaning begins at four in the morning, equiring that I either move my car or leave altogether by then. There were open spaces on 12th near the intersection of Otis and South Van Ness last night, a block which doesn't have street cleaning hours until Monday, but it's a less populated area and one which I have to walk through a seedier stretch to get to and from. Parking across the street was safer. Besides, what's wrong with leaving at four in the fracking morning? Certainly I'll be ready to go by then, right?

After parking I walked to the Dark Room, stopping first at the Lexington to kill time. I keep forgetting how...well, not hostile, exactly, but certainly how alienating that place can feel to the lone tranny. (M2f, that is. I tend to use "tranny" to mean m2f unless specificed otherwise.) It's a fine place to hang out if you're already with someone—I have tentative plans to meet people there on various nights this week—but if going solo, forget about it. I guzzled down a dollar margarita, then continued on to The Dark Room for The Uphill Both Ways Big Fat Gratuitously-Explosive Genetically-Engineered 5th Anniversary Spectacular Death Battle on Ice...and Things! A best-of show, nothing new, but it was still one of their funniest shows of theirs I've seen. I laughed so hard it hurt, as really only happens when a sketch fouls up so badly the errors take on a life of their own. That's a metaphor for something.

After the show I got my de rigeur burrito and energy drink, then headed back to the Power Exchange. On my way there, I decided that I was going to stop being so damn timid, that I was going to introduce myself to people I've been meaning to introduce myself to, throw my hat into a few more rings than usual. If there's any lesson I can't have drilled into my brain enough, it's that most good things won't happen unless I take steps to make them happen. Doesn't mean they should or can be forced, but you have to state your intention to the universe somehow.

I introduced myself to a few of the other tranny regulars, as well as, at long last, the naked guy masturbating in the sling. We've talked before, but there's never been a proper introduction. He said we probably shouldn't shake hands, and I agreed wholeheartedly.

Said by someone who, unlike the panhandler, meant it as a compliment: i thought you were a girl at first.

I responded in the only direct yet polite way possible: i am a girl. i just wasn't born that way.

Part of going there for girls (natural born or otherwise) is objectification, being watched and lusted after. It's just part of the deal, especially for those of us who get tarted up. Which is fine. Sometimes it's creepier than others, though. Last night's watcher was a short guy in a blue shirt and towel, with glasses, a German accent and what I think used to be called a sidewall haircut. He was downright Strangelove-esque, a serious Weasel.

I'm also trying not to be so rude when rejecting people (though dissing them after the fact is evidently fair game), so when he was at the gate clearly trying to get my attention, I walked over. Might as well get it over with. He asked: so, what do you offer? Charming. I said: not much of anything, sorry. I walked away, and so did he, eventually, though he frequently circled back around. I noticed that he was touchy-feely with a lot of the other girls, often pawing them as they walked by. Ew. On those few moments over the rest of the evening that he might have been close enough to touch me, he kept his hands to himself. I didn't get a chance to use the pulling back stumps line, damnit.

I danced a lot. There seem to be about four CDs in rotation for their sound system, and I'd brought a gothy disc which I'd hoped to give to Rhonda to slip to whoever is in charge of these things. She was elsewhere, unfortunately. Still, there was enough good stuff that I was able to get in some swoop time. I'd forgotten how many false endings there are to the album version of "Purple Rain." After dancing to that one I jotted something down in my notebook, and Hal said: chapter 87: dancing to prince.

In fact, I was ruminating on paper about the fact that my way of approaching people I find attractive hasn't changed a hell of a lot over the years: very low-impact and unassuming. Granted, I was much worse about it in high school, timid to the point of catatonia. It sprung from an acute awareness of consequence, of the future: if I told a girl I liked her...well, there it was, and she had to deal with it, deal with that horrible knowledge. Every time we passed in the hallway and scrupulously avoided eye contact, she would think about how that fat maladjusted Connelly nerd said he liked her. How could I burdon anyone with that knowledge, especially if I didn't know for absolute certain they liked me back? Failure was inevitable, so what was the point?

I asked one of the other regular boy-tops if he'd brought his violet wand along this week. I've always wanted to try it, and, well, that's what tonight was about, yes? Unfortunately, he said he didn't bring it along, but probably would next week. He was also going to bring his bondage rope if I was interested, and I assured him I was. Indeed, I got teased last Saturday night at the Swalloween Ball with the prospect. There was a new girl who had declared herself to be a dominatrix, but was falling under Rhonda's spell and getting downright bottomy. I was at a close but respectable distance; I seem to have a pretty good sense of such things, and as yet nobody's asked me to give them a little more room. So, Rhonda asked her if she had ever done rope bondage, since if she's going to be tying people up then it's only right that she herself should experience it, yes? The girl pointed at me and said: why don't you tie her up first? I'm sure I brightened, but neither Rhonda nor anyone else felt that was a worthy substitute for the girl herself getting roped. Indeed, nobody even acknowledged the request, even though I made it quite clear that I was game. I tried my best not to get mopey about it.

Presently, Hal was hankering to play. It was half past one and I was ready, but the cross was occupied, and we didn't make it on until about a quarter past two. On the other side of the cross was the other boy-top with a couple of newbie girls. At first they'd been very uncertain of it all, but he started slow, letting them use the flogger on him, and finally working up to him fucking one of them with...something. Honestly not sure. Upstaging us something fierce, but there's always something, isn't there? There were a couple of frat boys watching at first and providing helpful tips (hit her! yeah! harder! hit her harder!). As usual, they lost interest in us after a few minutes. I'm sure it's nothing personal.

So Hal's doing his thing when a bespectacled redhead dressed in shiny black walked by outside the fence. Not wearing my own glasses, that was the extent of the detail I could manage, a definite sense of the nerdgirl look, a weakness dating back to any of a number of unfulfilled crushes in school. There are often pretty girls at the Power Exchange, genetic or otherwise, but my perception did a Hitchock dolly-out/zoom-in when I saw her. It was similar to when Ryder walked into Divas that night, or more significantly, when I saw Vash at the opening of the Exiles art show last year. Vash was not the only hottie in the room that night, and I was already acquainted with her, but seeing her in the crowd had that bolt-out-of-the-blue quality, and suddenly I knew where I was going to be for the rest of the evening.

The girl disappeared around the corner, and I said: damn, she is hot. I don't think Hal or anyone else heard me. Although one's natural inclination when being flogged, spanked or otherwise stimulated thusly is to close one's eyes, I kept mine open. The scene itself was almost incidental. I was enjoying myself, but I was not going to lose track of the girl—ignoring for the moment that I'd not only lost her, but was not exactly in a position to pursue, what with being cuffed to the cross. I could have been uncuffed and outside the fence in thirty seconds if I wanted, but, as I say, I was enjoying it and not quite ready to stop. Surely she'd come back this way...

...and so she did. She glanced in my direction as she walked by, and I looked her in the eyes and smiled. She smiled back, and kept on walking. Well, that's a start. Thankfully, she stopped to talk to someone before moving beyond the effective turn radius of my neck. We made eye/smile contact again, and I gestured for her to come inside the fence. She nodded and walked in. So far, so good. I hoped she'd come up to me at the cross, because like a new xtian wanting to spread their cult's word, it felt terribly important that I tell her she was the hottest thing on two legs seen in this room since the last time Vash was here. Instead, she stood behind the long table (coincidentally right about the place that I tend to consider my roost) and watched. I motioned for her to come closer, but she shook her head. Fair enough. I glanced back frequently to re-establish eye contact (i see you, you see me). Again, I could have ended the scene at any any time, but I was existing in the moment: the other boy-top with the girl on the other side of the cross, facing me, just a foot or two, her moaning and screaming, while I'm feeling a strong sexual attraction to a stranger as I'm being flogged and spanked and rushing on endorphins and adrenaline. There was an alchemy at work, elements combining and altering, and I wanted to experience it. Besides, she'd made it this far, so she wouldn't get bored and wander off, would she?

At one point she was toying with an empty soda can (oh, man, that can't be good, she must be seriously bored) and a little later she was trying on one of Hal's big gnarly Road Warrior spanking gloves. Sadly, she did not come over and try it out.

Then she wasn't at the table anymore. I looked to the right and saw her at the gate talking to the Weasel. Oh, no no no. I mean, okay, reality check, free country free club free will, she can do whatever she wants with whomever she wants and has no implied or inferred obligation to me in any way shape or form, and if he's more her type then c'est la vie and bless her for knowing what she wants, but—but uh-uh, no way, not so damn soon. The thing of it is, I once allowed myself to be stymied, shackled and abbreviated by someone else's paranoid fantasies of Christina Aguilera lookalikes waiting to steal me away the moment I left the house. Girls such as Dana who bore no resemblance to Miss Aguilera were also not to be trusted, even if they were engaged to be married. Then it was conjectured that I might start liking boys. Though the idea struck me as highly improbable, could I absolutely swear that I would never find a boy cute? No, I couldn't. Anything is possible. Therefore, they were a threat. It was all phantoms, since never had I been hit on by anyone I found remotely attractive, at a club or elsewhere. Even with how much more freedom of movement and action I have in these heady days of late 2006—imagine no longer having a three-ton concrete block tied to your neck—the world doesn't work that way. Shit don't happen unless you make it happen. The good kind of shit, I mean. That bad kind doesn't need your help.

Picking on my doggie go walkies NOW! vibe, Hal leaned in and said: do you want to go pursue the young lady? This was not him allowing me to do so, because he doesn't get to allow or disallow me anything. We don't have a dom/sub relationship; it's not my thing, and even if it's his thing, he knows it isn't mine and is cool with it. Already starting to undo the cuffs, which open and close with a simple and accessible buckle, I said: oh HELL yeah. Hal: i think she likes you—is she a tranny? Free from the cuffs, and turned and replied: i don't know, and i don't care. Which was true on both counts. Though I'd initially assumed she was a genetic girl, it was irrelevant. Ever since transitioning I've been attracted to very few other trannies, but it's never been a dealbreaker, provided they're transsexuals who've been on hormones rather than transvestites or crossdressers. However nicely tarted up, and lord knows I've seen some breathtaking transvestites in my day, there's something about the thought of the unaltered male body which I just can't deal with. Because I'm a sex-negative bigot and all.

In a display of said bigotry, I made a point of ignoring the Weasel (which had developed into a sport over the course of the evening), I walked up to her and said: hi. my name is sherilyn. We shook hands and she said: jezebel. She was happy to get away from the Weasel, and as we went to the table, Jezebel asked: are you a masochist?

well, i... Huh. Had to think about that one for a moment. I glanced back at the cross, considered the blindingly obvious, and said: for some reason i hadn't thought of it in those terms, but yeah, i suppose i am a masochist. which is fine, i have no problem with it, but it depends on the context. here with hal i tend to be a bottom, but i'm a top with my girlfriend vash.

the reason i ask, said Jezebel, is that after watching you on the cross, i want to inflict extreme pain on you, to torture you. your eye makeup would look exquisite with tears running through it. She held up the pop-top tab thingy from the soda can. She hadn't been bored at all. She'd been arming herself. i'd love to cut you open with this. Before I could respond, she added: after sterilizing it first, of course. Of course. Safety first! That's the San Francisco I know and love, even at a place with as filthy a reputation as the Power Exchange. (Where, despite popular belief, the floors are not sticky, and I have yet to confirm any story about people contracting diseases just from being there. But who am I to refute such beloved rumors?)

I declined for assorted reasons, not the least of which is that such bloodplay is something that Vash and I keeping between us at the moment. Jezebel of course understood, and said she was perfectly happy to stick to less overtly violent interaction. She sat up on the table—she was a good four inches shorter than me, probably more, remarkably non-tall by tranny standards—and we talked, getting to know each other, figuring out to what extent we were on the same page, and not sparing the mutual admiration gushiness. She described herself as "a slut and a nymphomaniac," the latter being an arcane term overdue for an empowered revival. She was upfront about why, a remarkably lucid self-analysis involving validation and such, an intellectualization which sounded rather...well, like myself (especially if I had a taste for jorm), and that turned me on all the more. Which sounds horribly egotistical, but there it is. What can I say? I'm far from the sharpest knife in the drawer, but smart is always sexy.

She was twenty-three, a good decade younger than me, but pegged me for being around twenty-seven. Nice to know I still have the reverse-age thing going on. Before I transitioned, people always thought I was older than I was. Since then, my age is usually guessed as about five years younger. The secret is to drink lots of water, and get half of your DNA from my mother. I resemble her more and more lately—I hear her whenever I clear my throat, oddly enough—though I doubt she ever did the blonde-with-pigtails look.

Since we were two hot girls engaged in conversation, a man took that as his cue to enter the fence and talk to us. can i ask you a personal question? Resisting the temptation to bite his head off entirely, I simply snarked: you can ask, but we don't have to answer. Considerably more polite slash tolerant, Jezebel said: sure. go ahead. I expected him to ask if we were, you know, real girls, or if we had dicks or what. Instead, he wanted to know how to get a girl to fuck him with a dildo. Oh, there was certainly a degree of propositioning involved; he would have been perfectly happy if Jezebel or I strapped one on and had at him right then and there. Mostly he seemed desperate for advice. Where should he go? Who should he ask? How can he tell? What should he say?

As we talked to him, I put a hand onto Jezebel's thigh, and another around her waist. She returned the gesture, and I moved in a little closer. Perhaps seeing the cuddling let to a moment of clarity, since he asked if he was interrupting us. not really, Jezebel said. we still have more talking to do, a lot more ice to break, before we sleep together. i figure another hour or so.

Oh, shit. The time. What time is it? I dug out my phone. Half past three in the morning. Fuck! I'd have to leave soon, or at least move my car, which would be an ordeal in and of itself. We made do with what little time we had left (she's only had a little electro done and the shadow was growing in, but it was invisible due to her makeup, I could feel it but not see it, not a turnoff at all, just another state of being, the recently acquired breasts, and that skin, that skin, is that what mine feels like, so soft, so real, so not-male, is this how it feels with me? is it not a leap of faith after all?), and I gave her a lift back to her apartment in the Mission.

She invited me inside, but it was not to be. On a purely practical level I couldn't find a parking space, not to mention the sun was going to be coming up in a couple hours, though the latter was a minor detail. But I wanted to talk to Vash first, to avoid bombshelling her like I'd done with Ryder. Granted, it was a different situation in a few points; unlike that night back in May, Vash knows I've been going to the Power Exchange and that this sort of thing is a possibility. She's also seeing someone else, so hopefully there wouldn't be as much of that sense of loss and loneliness. Still, if anything further was going to happen between Jezebel and I beyond the bit of snogging and ego-stroking we'd already engaged in, it could wait. And if I never saw her again, so be it.

While picking up our order at what's becoming our regular pre-Herbst pizza joint, the guy behind the counter asked Vash if her or I were Suicide Girls. She said that no, we weren't, but we'd take it as a compliment. He then asked what happened to the Riot Grrrls. I was at the table and didn't quite hear him, but if I'd been at the counter with her I probably would have said they shaved off their hair and became boys. Or not.

We passed a Chevy's while walking to the theater, and Vash said: we should go in sometime and get midori margaritas. just because. Just because, indeed.

We headed to Wonderland after the show. It was a good evening. This last month and a half has been rough at times, but I think we're past the worst of it, the necessary shakeups that a relationship must endure to endure healthily, being its own entity that is constantly growing and changing—and sometimes fated to a short lifespan, it's true. Its a rather crunchy theory that I developed while involved with Collette, a perfect example of bright but brief lifespan. Anyway, after breaking up with The Ex I vowed not to let poor communication ruin my next relationship. Circumstances and bad decisions of mine conspired against me in a big huge way (it's difficult to open up and say what's on your mind when you're inevitably shouted at to shut up!, followed by fuck you! when you don't follow the previous instruction) and I wasn't strong enough to overcome them until it was entirely too late. This time, the odds are much more fair.

sometime after midnight

It's all about being in the right place at the right time. Which is to say, dumb stupid luck.

She compared me to him a lot in those first few months. Beyond the unfortunate matter of similar chromosomes he and I were nothing alike, but that wasn't the point. I was paying for his sins, because somebody had to. I don't know if it would have been different if she'd been with a genetic female. Fueling the irony was the fact that I never laid an unkind finger on her, but she would occasionally hit me. When I objected, she accused me of comparing her to him, and as a result I would wind up comforting her as she cried her eyes out. (Coincidentally, she told me once that a similar pattern happened with them—he would treat her like shit, and she would console him when the guilt struck.) As late as August of that year, by which point I'd already attempted to break up with her a few times, I got in trouble for the second paragraph of this entry. She said I was "publicly comparing" her to him. Ignoring for the moment that she had said those very words on the sign to me, I seriously doubt anyone else picked up on it as a cry of abuse. Aside from those few I'd told, perhaps.

Anyway, I've restored this entry from commented limbo. And there's so much more to the incident.

Or their lead fix, as the case may be—ten people were shot in the Castro last night. I wish I could say I'm surprised, but I can't, 'cuz I'm not. That's the sort of thing that tends to happens when you gather that many drunk straight people in one place, especially the Queer Mecca. I wonder if at least one shooting was a result of the word "faggot" being used by one straight man to another.

Lest I seem to be harping on the homo hatred, I should point out that it's alive and well, and the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence have lost their bingo venue as a result.

Things are sketchy all over the globe. Ali pinged me on gmail a little while ago, about three in the morning in her native Sydney, more than a little spooked by what probably would have been an assault were it not for cellular technology. Men. Alcohol. Feh.

Oh, and Maddy's apartment got broken into a couple nights ago. Some electronics were stolen, and Mina went missing but was later found huddled in a cupboard, traumatized. (Fierce tabby!) It's one of those events that seems so unlikely—Unimatrix Zero is several floors up, for pete's sake, there were plenty of other apartments that would have been easier—but happens in this life. It's almost enough to make the other, virtual life seem appealing. Almost. Barely. But not quite. And certainly not worth sacrificing the bandwidth that could be more efficiently used for piracy. Arrrr!

10:15am

In the nonviolent column, the replacement shirts arrived on Monday, and lo 'n behold, they fit. The red one doesn't look quite right on me (oooh—maybe I should sew on the old-school Starfleet insignia I've had since I was a kid), but the three black ones are all contoured properly and make me look halfway decent. I think my breasts are definitely growing.

Last week wasn't just a bad shipping week for clothes. Plants were also problematic. On Monday (23 October 2006), I ordered Vash a Lucky Bamboo from FTD, requesting that it be delivered on Wednesday. (Of last week, not today.) By Friday, it occurred to me that Vash hadn't said a word about it. I checked the tracking number on the delivery company's website and saw that they'd unsuccessfully attempted delivery twice. Looking back at the confirmation email from ftd, I saw that I'd gotten her work address correct, included her name, done everything correct on my end. Speaking to a phone drone, I was informed that the delivery person had been unable to find the address, but would sure keep trying.

Friday night after the Queer Open Mic, Vash and I swung by her office to pick up something. While there, I looked closely at the street signs, the name of the company on the building, everything. (If Vash picked up on how I was obsessing on her office's address, she didn't say anything.) There was simply no way in god's stupid earth that they could not find the place.

Checked the website on Monday. Still nothing. Tried again yesterday, calling, getting very agitated. C'mon, people. What is this, Web 1.0? Thank goodness I got her something hardy like bamboo, which was a bit more likely to survive a week without proper attention than, say, roses. Though a delivery of dead roses has it own special charms, I admit.

Got a call from Vash a little while ago. The bamboo was delivered, cold and in relatively good shape. She was surprised and happy, which had been the point all along.

8:32pm

The Power Exchange was unusually crowded for last Thursday night, especially when I arrived around eleven. Probably it had something to do with Halloween approaching, but I have no idea. Walking through the ground floor to the stairs to the dungeon, I felt like I was in a zombie movie. Many men, just sort of milling about, some bumping into each other, without a thought in their brain. I was specifically reminded of the opening credits of Shaun of the Dead, in which the hero is walking to work through a public which is shuffling along listlessly, not (un)dead yet, but only barely alive.

As I went downstairs and into the fenced-in area (there has to be a more elegant name for it, but I'm at a loss), the deja vu shifted from Shaun of the Dead to the first ten minutes of George Romero's Day of the Dead, as many of the spectators were hanging onto the fence, watching silently. There often wasn't anything to watch, but stand there they did, fingers curled over the links, rattling occasionally. Still, their overall numbers were somewhat disconcerting, and I kept expecting them to start letting themselves in. (One fellow in particular never took his eyes off me, a small man in an Elton John shirt. He should have been made to pay extra to get in based on his wardrobe alone.) If they did do that, and didn't take get the fuck back outside the fence! as an answer, I of course would have simply left. I was never in any danger, though thanks to an irrational paranoia, I kept imagining I was seeing people sneaking in out of the corner of my eye. To peripheral vision, a man wearing a white t-shirt walking down a blacklit hallway is indistinguishable from a ghost. If I believed in ghosts, it's the kind of place I'd expect to see one.

Regulars abounded. The employee with the mask-and-leather-collar ritual came over to me and, as near as I could figure, was trying out comedy material on me. Later, I discovered that it was recycled Onion material. But what isn't these days? I also finally met a certain tall blond-wigged transvestite who I've seen at any of a number of such play parties and events over the years. We talked for a bit, discussing the Power Exchange's lube-to-condom inequity (yeah, that still bugs me) and her favorite session songs ("Living Dead Girl" and the original version of "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of These)") before going on to have a session with a fellow who asked really, really nicely. As she used Hal's assorted toys on him, the guy had what looked to me like the most energetic erection I've yet seen there. Oh, there's usually plenty of wood around, but this was what Sailor Ripley would call "a boner with a capital O." I suspect that several fantasies were intersecting, in being flogged in public by a tall, somewhat garishly bedecked transvestite. That was his heaven.

A woman I'd never met by the name of Sonoma was hanging out with Hal. Late forties, pleasant enough looking, with a slight undercurrent of sadness. I'd been writing in my notebook for a while when she said: did you come all the way down here to write in your diary? Before I could reply, Hal said: she's writing a book, which is a theory I've never confirmed nor denied. I said: you're both right, I suppose. Clearing warming up to the idea, Hal said: it's a book. instead of peyton place, she'll call it dungeon place. I suggested Pain Place, given its phonetic similarities to the original, but he seemed quite taken with Dungeon Place. Sure, okay. He made a few joking attempts to read what I was writing—inasmuch as anyone but me can make sense of my scrawl—but when I offered to let him look at it for real, he declined.

I glanced over at the employee as he was engaging into his ritual, having stripped down, put the mask and the collar on, and drank...NyQuil? The generic equivalent from Walgreens, anyway. I know it well, having a bottle on my bathroom counter as I write this. He polished off the remaining half of a bottle, open a new one, took another chug, washed it down with water, and was on his way. I scuttled over to his bag and peeked in: he keeps many bottles on supply. Man, I love idiosyncratic fetish so much. Actually, I'm not even sure the word "fetish" applies in this case, not the same way it obviously did for the guy getting flogged by the transvestite. More likely it was just a way around the no-booze rule, though I'd like to think that vicodin was involved, and thus it was Green Death.

Some people were less graceful about getting around the rule. Hal was elsewhere and I was talking with Sonoma when a ratlike boy and a blonde girl who was entirely too pretty to be with him entered and asked if anyone was allowed inside the fence. Anyone who's going to play is allowed inside, I said. (though i seem to be let in without any obligation, I did not add.) are you going to play? He got that look on his face that I've seen more than once when certain tourists are asked to join in, an expression between mild anxiety and outright panic. no way. Then: i mean, sex play is all right. He removed a bottle of beer from one jacket pocket and moving to to the other. Jesus. Not cool. but have you ever played yahtzee? now that's fun. Oh, good fucking god. On top of everything else, he's a comedian—worse than that, a bad comedian with no timing and stale jokes. I glanced at Sonoma, who elected to stay out of it, and deadpanned: i haven't played yahtzee in twenty years. i'm more of a scrabble girl. His girlfriend, who I maintain was way out of his league—perked up and said: oooh, i love scrabble! did you see tha documentary about professional scrabble players Ha! Hooked! yes, I said. word wars i saw it at the roxie. i liked it alot. she replied: that's the one! my favorite part was—

As though sensing that his attempt at taking the piss out of the perverts had backfired something fierce, ratboy took his girlfriend by the shoulder, and they left. Damn. A few more minutes, and I totally would have had her. That's probably the other reason he left—so I wouldn't steal his girlfriend. That's going to be my new mission at the Power Exchange, to steal girls away from undeserving boyfriends. (What could possibly go wrong?) They went into the blue room across the way. A crowd quickly formed, as is likely to happen, and they scurried off.

Around midnight, Hal and Sonoma were playing on cross, and I was writing. (Sonoma had informed me earlier that in the event that we should play together, she doesn't require confidentiality, and that I could write whatever I wanted.) Thinking that I might have dropped something, I bent down and rooted a bit under the table; I was aware that the world above me was slightly darker, and straightened back up to see that the rope light directly overhead had gone out. After I determined that it wasn't anything I'd done, I realized there was only one possibility: the zombies had developed electrical skills. Damn. I hate it when that happens.

when hal and i play later, one (1) person watches, though he's rapt and applauds when we're done--sex that he would have passed out long before then, i tell him he's probably stronger than he thinks; other guy later trying to get my attention, making almost animal sounds; finally comes in, i tell him to leave, he does; sonoma does not generally play with anyone new, "be sure you spell my name right;" "you'll get another name altogether;" "i don't require confidentiality, so you can write about whatever you want;" "you're new, less than two hundred hours;" less, definitely in the lower double digit range; didn't say "i'm working through a lot of grief and sorrow right now;" her sitting on table, pulling me in; i don't do dom/sub unless i trust the person implicitly (i.e., vash); "the lighting hides a lot of imperfections;" "i think we're all equally far from perfect;" "you're closer to it than most;" "you're just so pretty, i don't know whether to play with you or just look;" face up close, and, nothing; when she smiles, i picture vash, try to superimpose; how someone looks face-to-face in dim light; collette, under blacklights up close with her makeup not so immaculate looked exquisite, natural yet closer than she knew to the exoticism she always strove for; i am so fickle