Lies and the Lying Liar

(I almost made "liar" plural, in keeping with the reference to Al Franken's book. But I don't know that I've been lied to, so this is just about the one liar... me.)

I lie a lot. Mostly to myself, of course. I lie about my lying. And after all these years, the scaffolding that holds up my life is collapsing. My Denver friend is through with me, angered and hurt over the event of this post. And with every right-- I lied to her face about it. Of course, I didn't talk about that part of the story in the post. It didn't fit the narrative for one thing, and I had already justified it to myself. Naturally. It's what I do, it's what addicts do.

See, when I went out with that person, my friend was pretty sick. And yet, I borrowed her car to go on a date with the hopes of getting lucky. And when I got back to the house, I lied about having gotten lucky. I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Mind you, it's obvious that my concern for her feelings didn't stop me from going out in the first place. Or renting a room.

What has me feeling a mix of worry, hurt, fear and anger is how she found out. Like most addicts and habitual liars, it's much easier for me to focus on how I was found out, than on my actual level of blame or responsibility in all this. Apparently someone I know, someone close to me, is still in touch with her. They read this, and they called her. I don't know who they are. She won't tell, and whoever it is hasn't seen fit to share with me the fact that they're reading this blog. She sneered at me over the phone as she pointed out that I'm quite findable via Google. This is true, but finding Dausa and finding the real-life person behind him are two different things. I've only given this URL to an extremely small number of people I know in real-life. As in, you could count them on one hand and still have enough fingers to make a rude gesture in England. But it doesn't matter-- what matters is that someone is reading, and that said someone is concerned but not enough so to talk to me directly. She says that whoever it is laughs at me and makes fun of me for these things, behind my back. And the problem with being a habitual liar, you never know for sure when you can really believe someone. Is she trying to lash out at me? Or is she 100% honest, knowing that in this case the truth is just as damaging (if not more) than any lie she could offer?

I use SiteMeter for some simple traffic-analysis. It's not terribly thorough, and there's only so much you can tell from traffic-analysis anyway. I've found the tracking record from her visit a few days ago, but I have no way of really pin-pointing a visitor prior to her, that would likely be the third-party. So I'll never know who it is that's laughing at me behind my back, unless they decide to own up and face me about it. There's some traffic from around here in the bay area, a visit from the Minneapolis area that has a strange feeling to it (because this confrontation started with a seemingly-random question about whether I'd recently heard from someone we used to know, who lived in that area last time I'd had any contact with them), and plenty of traffic that I have no idea of it's relevance (if any).

But back to the lying. This blog is, after all, all about me me me. And much as I've tried to hide it, this is who I am. I started lying extensively when I moved from Arizona to Oklahoma and started living with grandparents who were Evangelical Pentecostals. Fundamentalists, basically. Essentially everything I did was something to be ashamed of, so I learned to lie about almost all of it. And even once I left that house and lived first in dormitories then in my own apartments, I've continued to instinctively lie about anything that brought feelings of shame. And don't be fooled by the "Unrepentant" in the title-- all those years of church-learnin' have made certain that I pretty much always feel shame over anything and everything sexual that I think about, feel, or experience. I've spent gods-know-how-much over nearly 11 years on therapy, and all I have to show for it is a diagnosis of mild Asperger's Syndrome. Which explains some of the social anxiety I experience, but doesn't really cover the shame or the rampant lying. I've tried everything I could think of, even a course on meditative techniques, but nothing has stuck with me for longer than a few months. Short of beating my head against the pavement or playing hopscotch on highway 101, I don't know what else I can do that will have an actual lasting effect on my life.

I didn't want this to sound so whiny and self-loathing as it seems to have become. But it's nearly 1:45 in the afternoon and I'm still in bed. I can't make myself get up, even to eat. I don't know what I'm going to do at this point, whether I'll ever write here again or not. I don't know if I'll manage to even leave my apartment today (not true, actually... I have a regular Thursday activity that I'm somewhat obligated to attend, so I will eventually have to get up and go). All this shit has finally come home to me, and yet I have the audacity to be surprised by it. I just don't know anymore.

I know this: whoever you are that know me in real-life and aren't telling, I would appreciate it if you'd grow up and talk to me directly. If you're really that concerned for me, then you owe me that much. And if you aren't, then leave my life entirely. In the long run, we'll both be better off for it.

-D

And Another First!

After my previous post, something quite unexpected happened: the person in question found out about it!

I mean, this isn't the first time that someone I wrote about here later read the post-in-question. But what happened in this case was much more unique. The post got picked up in Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup that week, and someone who knows the person I was with read it. Then re-read it, and decided, "Hey, this sounds just like something J would do. In fact, it sounds exactly like her." So he wrote to J with the URL, who confirmed it.

Then hopped on IM with me and let me know that she knew.

Of course, at first I panicked because I was afraid she was upset with me blogging about our little tryst. Luckily for me, the opposite was the case: she was quite amused by it (and flattered by the "glowing review", to use her words). Plus, it basically validated everything that she'd been telling this person she was capable of. Now he knows she isn't just bragging. And I know that it's safe to let out the breath I was holding...

-D

33 Days, 33 Posts: Prologue, or, This Is Gonna Hurt

In 40 Days and 40 Nights, Josh Harnett's character decides that his love life is out of control, so (despite being a very lapsed Catholic) he decided to give up sex for Lent. The ways in which this film becomes tedious and insultingly-stupid are numerous, and not worth listing here. But I mention it only as a point of reference. You see, I plan to go without for the next 33 days.

There are a lot of reasons why I choose this, and probably just as many (or more) why I shouldn't be doing it. First and foremost, while I may still cling proudly to the "unrepentant" banner, I have to admit that this is starting to seriously interfere with my life. I need to know that I can actually exert some amount of control over my own body, however small. In just under two months since returning to the bay area, I've done my "Craigslist Experiment" (which netted 3 different encounters), hooked up with two TVs whose ads I'd answered, and seen three commercial providers. I've been here since December 10. That's 8 different people in 7 weeks, and even for me that's a bad sign.

For me, addiction is best summed up in the statement, "you know it's harmful and destructive, and you do it anyway". I have no intention of trying to reign in my libido. I have no intention of becoming celibate for the rest of my life. In fact, part of the thinking behind the 33 day window is that it ends on March 3, my (and this blog's) birthday. And you can bet your soft, smooth ass that I'll be getting some form of nookie that day. Unless, of course, I've already failed in this effort.

Another facet of this, is to get back into the habit of regular posting. When I started, I wrote almost daily. Some of the blogs I read I can count on daily content, in particular AAG and Violet Blue. But I've been beyond lax in this department, and I strongly suspect it's cost me what little readership I had. The only way I know of to restore readership is to return to the regular writing of quality material. So, for the next 33 days, I shall be channeling all that energy that would otherwise be wasted on wanking into writing. One post per day. Not all of them will be quality, I accept. But maybe one or three will catch the eye of someone on some random search engine or blog-search somewhere. And maybe, along the way, I'll re-develop the habit of writing regularly again.

In this, I'm creating some rules for myself, more like allowable outs:

1. I'm not going to whack off, and I'm not going to either troll Craigslist casual encounters or any of the commercial-provider sources I generally use (CL erotic services, Redbook.com).
2. In fact, I'm not even going to try and date during this period, because I have a knack for being in someone's pants by the second or third date. Heck, the last true relationship I had lasted almost a year, and we screwed each other nearly senseless on our first date. Man, I miss her, too.
3. That said, should an offer of (free, both as in beer and as in speech) sex were to, ahem, fall into my lap, I reserve the right to punt this "33 Days" crap and tap that.
4. Each day, I will write an entry, with "33 Days, 33 Posts" in the subject line, and "33 days" in the tags. But if something really cool comes along that I want to share with my readers (what few there are that remain), I may make other posts. I doubt I'll reach Violet's throughput, but then Violet is a goddess and I can't really hope to match that anyway.
5. If I fuck up (so to speak), I'll be honest about it. Part of this is for the catharsis, and lying about things ain't gonna help.
6. There is no rule 6.
7. I still get to read sex blogs and sex-related stuff. Albeit at my own risk. I've already made the conscious decision to put my porn away in a hard-to-reach corner of one of my closets. But choosing not to wank is one thing; not reading Fleshbot or Erosblog is a whole different personal challenge.

So, there it is. 33 days, 33 posts, 0 orgasms. At least, that's the plan.

Dausa

New York, Performance Art, Bloggers

Alas, my time here in NYC has thus far been too busy to get into much trouble. That should hopefully change tomorrow evening.

Last night, I traveled to the Knitting Factory to see the Sex Workers Art Show. While there, I got to meet Waking Vixen in person, after an exchange of e-mails (it was her that led me to the show). She introduced me to Cherry Bomb, who's blog I've only just started reading (but will probably soon join the link-roll on the right). The show was a treat, and not just because there were several bay-area performers on the bill. On my way out, I picked up a few issues of $pread Magazine, which WV works on and promotes tirelessly. I've read the first issue through cover-to-cover. I like it a lot, enough that it deserves a separate post later on.

All in all, enjoying myself. The broken foot is slowing me down (brilliant plan, this-- going to the most pedestrian-oriented city in the U.S. with a broken foot), but I'm getting around. And I have two more nights yet, to get myself into some sort of memorable trouble.

D

It's My Birthday...

(Yes, I'm back-dating this post to make it fit, because I was out with friends and forgot to write the post on the actual day.)

...and it's the blog's birthday, too.

I started doing this one year ago, on my 37th birthday. I'm 38 today, and when I look back over the archives I'm actually a little disappointed in myself. Mostly for not writing more frequently. But also because I see in stark terms how little effort I was able to put into sex, let alone actual relationships. I say "able", as if it were entirely the fault of my company for overworking me, or my (platonic) friends for hogging my time. But I have the lion-share of the responsibility, for basically laying back and letting things stagnate.

In my defense, the last 12 months have also marked a painful condition that required surgery. Some sexual function problems due in part to the health issues but also due to my letting my own general health and fitness decline. Then, of course, there was the breaking of the foot and the losing of the job (update on the break will follow this post).

But I did have some sex in the past 12 months, some of it just so-so and some of it really amazingly good. But I truly hope that the second year of Dausa is overall better. I'm about to embark on an exciting, new, scary chapter in my life as I leave California for England. When I moved from Oklahoma to Colorado, and from Colorado to California, I kept telling myself that this would be my chance to start over as a new me-- one that wasn't shy to the point of debilitation, one that wasn't still affected by the guilt and hang-ups that came from being raised in a fundamentalist evangelical Christian church. Of course, each time I moved I woke up to new surroundings, but I woke up as the same me.

So this time, I'm not fooling myself into thinking that moving to London is going to magically change me into the smooth, ultra-extroverted persona I often wish I could be. No, this time I'm going to go to my new home expecting to have to make all those changes manually. But I will go with the hopes for starting fresh, on a clean slate.

So here's to the next 12.

D

Someday I'll Get Back to Blogging About Sex

I have surgery on my foot in a few hours (can't sleep). The foot issue and the whole looking for a new job thing have just taken the libido right out from under me. I did have a great time with a local escort, and I've been prompted to write some entries on a particular theme (anonymous encounters) that already has me cherry-picking from my memories. I promise I'll be back to normal soon.

D

Forgive Me, Readers, For I Have Sinned...

It's been nearly two weeks since my last orgasm.

According to the foot doctor, I only broke one bone, not two. I have an "Aircast", which at least lets me wear my jeans instead of the athletic shorts or running pants, none of which have pockets for my keys, wallet, etc. They gave me Vicodin for the pain, which I've stopped taking now. The pain is now pretty minor, and the V upsets my stomache and prevents me from enjoying the food I have to eat in order to keep myself on the mend.

So, part of my pondering for 2006 is what exactly I want to try and do, relationships-wise. I've already been bolder than usual, actually actively flirting. In an optomitrist's office, no less. But I'm still not clear on what I really want out of it. Part of me wants to try to hit the 100 mark this year (by my best memory, I'm at 92 partners thus far), but another part of me would be just as happy to find one person to have 8 persons' worth of sex with, instead.

As I've thought about this, I realized I haven't rubbed one out since just before I got back from Oklahoma. Of course, I haven't really been in much of a mood these past 2-3 days, with the foot and the drugs and all. This happens, sometimes, I get too busy or too preoccupied to wank for days at a time, then make up for it by going 2-3 a day for a week or so. But the first one, after such a break, that's a treat. All the pressure has built up. When I had the money to go to escorts or massage parlors, I'd prefer to break a fast like this under those circumstances. When I do next orgasm, it'll be high in both volume and pressure. It seems almost a waste to send it down the sink or shower drain. Much better to be buried to the balls inside someone, or have them taking as much into their mouth as they can, looking up into my eyes while I come.

Damn. I think I'll go break the fast, now...

D