Life as an Extreme Sport

A Mad Recap

I’m sitting at the top of the apartment complex, looking out over Elliot Bay as I write this. The sun is setting in a glorious spray of liquid purple, fiery pink and dusky rose. To my left are the multihued blue gashes and ridges of the Olympics, blending down into the white frosted blues of Elliot Bay. The Space Needle is at my right, as is an old abode. The moon peers over my left shoulder, waning and curious.

I’ve not written in a week, at least not here, and I wish I had. A lot has happened that I’d like a written – or at least typed – memory of. I think I’ll opt for a mad recap and memory…

Monday saw me ‘home’ sick and sore and drugged. Lunch was a pleasing affair with The Fabulous Miss Jenna, and I slept as much of the day as possible. The evening was filled with Neil Gaiman, and magical. My copy of American Gods has become a favoured possession, thanks to his wise words and autograph.

Tuesday was, and Wednesday saw me at Pool as well as coffee and clubbing; add in some Polygirls, drinks, goths, and a bit more alcohol and you’ve a good idea of the night. Thursday passed with an excellent meal, as did Friday. Saturday showed shopping and food, Sunday a picnic.

How mundane it all sounds in the writing out of it all…

Unexpectedly, Mars and I talked. I had resolved to drop my stresses of our “level of commitment” – and then we agreed to actually being sexually ‘exclusive.’ He may still kiss someone, or even a sensual massage (as may I), but no more. (For those keeping track, I believe the boundary is being drawn around item # 5 of the previously mentioned list.) We compromised and we drew boundaries we were both happy with.

The week was also stressful because I learned of my rent increase… and that I wouldn’t be able to afford living. After long conversations with TFMJ and Mars (mostly TFMJ), I decided to stop stressing over it and decide on July 10 before 5pm. Then Mars surprised me and brought it up again… we talked about our fears, compared how they were different and the same. We reassured each other, each others fears. We’ve continued to talk, idly and lightly, sometimes more seriously.

I know where I’ll be living in one month. It’s where home already is.


It’s been half an hour since I sat down and wrote this entry in the pile of pillows, and the shakes have hit me now; I’m shaking so hard I can barely get my fingers to strike the proper keys and typos abound. My stomach has turned itself into a knot, my breathing has grown ragged, and my muscles so recently relaxed by Ryan have cramped back into a tangled mess. I realize this is just stress, but I also realize how miserable this makes me.

I knew there would come a point when boundaries would have to be discussed and negotiated, I had simply hoped it would come at a time where I was more ready for such a conversation. Perhaps I had hoped it would come at a time where I could define sex as simply intercourse. Perhaps I had hoped he would want to make sure I was okay with him being sexual with others before doing it. Perhaps… perhaps a lot of things. The point is now moot, and I am faced with trying to figure out how I feel and what I want and what I can cope with at a time where I don’t want to try to do any of that, but feel like I must.

Why must I? Because it seems it would be misleading to tell him it was all fine and okay if it wasn’t, and it seems that if this will make me unhappy, I need to take my own steps to be not unhappy. The sad question seems to be not “what can you do that will make you happy” but “which option will make you the least unhappy.” I do not want to be here, in this situation. Physically, I am having a hard time being here, in this apartment.

I’m sitting here quietly thinking about lines and where I draw them. This will be transcribed later – I don’t want to risk the computer waking him. He lays across from me, in the futon, snoring gently. We went our own way Saturday night – me to a D&D disaster, he to a party. An ambient party where many drugs were consumed. Where clothes were shed, and there was skinny dipping, sensual massages, cuddle piles and kissing. He tells me about all of this, and then says at one point “I didn’t have sex with anyone…” I told him I thought he would have told me if he did, since he was mentioning the rest. I also told him that the kissing bothered me, and asked about the massages. I asked about how erotic it was, how much fondling and stroking. He said it was sensual, arms and legs and scalp. I believe him because I must, but I find myself considering boundaries; I am [obviously] bothered by him kissing other people.

It seems like there are so many boundaries one can draw:
1) touching/friendly massage
2) hugging
3) friendly kissing
4) sensual/erotic massasge
5) erotic kissing
6) fingering, stroking, fondling
7) oral sex
8) vaginal/anal intercourse

And it seems to me that it is back to the tricky business of trying to decide what sex is. My definition apparently starts somewhere around item #4; his starts somewhere else on the list. Right now, without having asked him, I’m guessing it’s around #7 or #8.

Then you add in the drugs and lowered inhibitions, and I wonder “well, maybe this isn’t normal…” and then “does it really matter if it’s normal?” Do I “excuse” things because of drugs, a [semi]normal part of his life?

I cannot help but think this is not going to go well, a conversation about this. I think I thought I had more time to mentally prepare for him being sexual with other people – apparently I didn’t.

I’ve moved off the futon as a concession to my twisted emotions that want to pack up and leave this apartment; I only hope they calm down enough to let my bruised body find a bit of sleep on the floor.


… I want to lay beside you in a warm bed and feel your heart beat in my throat…

I woke this morning to cheery blue sky, bright sun, warm coffee smells and three screaming alarm clocks. It’s certainly one way to gurantee being up “two hours before sane.” I’ll admit, I actually decided that since I am not on Central time, there was no real reason to do much more than groan at the alarm before turning it off and rolling over to the dark side of the bed. (Of course, the justification for this was needing to call Volt before heading in to work, and being unable to do that before Pacific business hours.) The bright and sunny side of the bed was claimed by a groggy, coffee-sipping, powerbook-toting programmer who seemed to agree with my basic premise of “legs-twined == good.”

A fun morning full of rapid phone calls culminated in me panicing at the time and needing to leave while he was still on one of those calls. A muted phone and a few kisses later, I raced out the door to stumble in to work late but happy.

I wanted to claim more than a few kisses over lunch; cell phone problems ensued and I decided driving home to see if he was on that cell phone from my bed was worthwhile – alas, he was not.

Hunger unsatiated, I have hopes for tonight.


I walk into my apartment and see clothing scattered on the floor, falling from the bag it had been so hastily stuffed into Monday morning. I drop my current armful of computer bags, clothing bags and purses on the floor next to the already established pile.

I glance to my right and see a scattering of papers and wrapped condoms, hastily pulled from my purse Tuesday before heading out. I walk to the left and see the ferrets perk up to see me. I scatter them a few treats and sit down at my computer. Web mail showed it had last been checked from here on Tuesday the 12th. The ferrets cage needs cleaning.

Walking into my dining room, I notice remnants of dinner many nights now passed, still needing to be washed, wiped and put away. The floor needs to be swept, ferret food scattered from haste across the grey linoleum.

I dig my toothbrush from the bag and walk into the bathroom, I attempt to scrub the taste of inhalers from my mouth. I walk back to the computer and check my eMail – nothing. I wander upstairs and check the phone messages – nothing.

I pause on the stair landing and listen. I hear nothing. I don’t hear the quiet steady sound of the Bay breathing, I don’t hear the humming life of the harbour or the sound of steelbelts on the blacktop. The silence is not punctuated by a foghorn or the scream of a siren racing off to some distant emergency. I don’t hear the sound of another breathing nearby, I don’t hear gentle rustles from moving paper or the light tap-tap of fingers across a keyboard.

I move, not down the stairs but back to bed. To rest under heavy covers, to close my eyes and wait for motivation to overtake me. To hear the phone ring and reach in eager anticipation. To sleep. To hear the sound of footsteps on my stairs, unlocking of a door, steps winding their way to me, to hear clothes drop and blankets lift, to feel a body near me once more. If only in my dreams, to hear these things. If only in my dreams.