[cw: self-harm, very brief but graphic ruminating about self-harm]

*

At least the SM people never give me anything over all the scars/etc on my legs. They're impressed, if anything. They think it's a sex thing. I'm not sure how to feel about that. They're the only people I'm fine with touching those scars, tho, even if they call them "beautiful" or sexualize them without knowing anything of the pain behind them. I know they're not going to get all whiny about them, at least, and I know there's no way they could know, especially when I'm there to get my body marked in various other (more temporary) ways. Having someone kiss and lick my scars is a lot nicer than being disgusted or horrified by me, too, honestly-- I'm not fully comfortable with them sexualizing them because they don't entirely know what they're sexualizing, but I can't help but still get off a bit on it anyway.

And that's another nice thing about the SM people; there's always someone into more fucked up things than you. Very little phases them, but at the same time, all of the ones I've encountered have been quite respectful of personal limits. Some might want to get too chatty, or to add their own cuts to my legs, but they hush up when I tell them to without complaint, and what's more, they take all the scars as a sign that I can take a lot, so don't hold back, which I appreciate. It's nice to not have to remind them. I'm also admittedly rather proud of the fact that I can take a decent bit before making any real sort of sound-- like I said, I make 'em have to really work for it. I was taught well. Anyway--very nice to take advantage of this period of time where I don't have to worry about anyone seeing all the scratches and welts and bruises on my back and chest.

PS: It's funny how theatrical it all can be. Some of it really does have a medieval dungeon feel, right down to the costumes. That's not really my thing, though. I like it a little more clinical, I guess.

*

I hadn't slept in my bed since Ben left. Washed every single thing on it, twice, and tried again last night. It was a mistake. Woke up today and I could've sworn I felt Ben's weight next to mine. I turned towards where he was supposed to be, smiling, ready to reach out and caress his face, whisper a good morning, my love. But there was nothing, of course. Just the remains of what must have been a dream. The usual scream in my throat changed to a sob, but I was able to swallow that down too, zip it all away behind numbness again.

I'll barely allow myself any thoughts of him. Anything more than the bare minimum from nothing and I would collapse every single day. Even writing this, now, is stupid. But I have to let it out somewhere, I suppose. I think part of it, too, is how unreal it still feels (and nothing's felt quite real since; even less real since Mom and Cryssie died-- I can’t think of either of them, really, either). I was so certain, more certain than anything else in my life, that he and I were going to be together forever. That we'd figure it all out, somehow. He brought out the very best in me as a person. Made me feel so strong, so brave, so capable, so full of love my heart was close to bursting. I lived to make him proud of me and for so long it felt so easy to do, so natural ("Never too much" my ass. Fuck you, Luther Vandross). Less than a year ago he was still the brightest light in my life and I believed I was his. God, less than a year ago we were working together closer than we ever had before, we were as close to living together as circumstances allowed, I got to take him around the world with me and wake up next to him every morning; less than a year ago I was so sure we were both so close to being free, that we were doing better than we ever had, that I could give him anything he could ever want, forever.

Of course Walter couldn't let me keep something like that. If Ben used to love me strong, Walter always loved me weak, or as close to weak as he can make me. His one mistake was thinking it would make me fear him. Really, he feared us, and why wouldn't he? We proved how powerful we could be, how strong our love made us, how much it gave not only to ourselves but to others Walt also wanted to keep under his or Phil's thumb.

The last and near-only time I cowered before Walter was three years ago, and he didn't even cause that to happen (which he probably hates)-- some stalker freak did the honors there. Cryssie taught me well how to keep my head held high and I think it's driven Walt nuts since the beginning. I've always been stronger than you thought, you sunnuvabitch. I've been broken before, I've been broken so many fucking times, I've been punched and kicked and dragged and thrown down on concrete by men that wanted me dead, and I just drag myself back up by sheer force of fucking will each time because the only one allowed to kill me is me.

*

I've felt increasingly detached from everything and everyone but I'm still going to Lou's weekly dinners. I do need something to anchor me down. I worry that my ugliness will eventually bleed through too much for everyone, but it hasn't yet.

It's come close in other ways, and I hate that it has. The more I take on at work the more legal shit I have to worry about, so I've ended up in Lou's office more than I ever thought I would-- phone calls work, but doing things in person is always quicker and more comfortable for me, especially given that his office is at a nice midpoint between my house and work. But maybe I should go back to phone calls. I don't know. It was an oddly warm day yesterday, and he often wears a full suit to work-- understandable for what he does-- but it was too early in the year for the air con in the building to kick in, so halfway through things he loosened his tie, took off his blazer[70] rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. I was suddenly reminded of the Japanese man I'd gotten sake-drunk with a few years ago-- how drawn I was to his hairy forearms, his nice watch, his thick hands. So we were sitting there, working, and I’d give him the quickest of look-overs, half-focused on the work, half-focused on wondering if I could get him to want me, what he might like, how I could find out, those arms, those hands--

UGH I hate myself so fucking much. Losing Ben’s made me feel so directionless yet desperate at the same time and I still have barely any idea what to do about it besides throw myself into my work-- yet work itself is so stressful-- or into sex (and sex is as complicated as ever). Lou's keeping me as close to an even keel as I can get, which I'm sure still isn't very even. Clinging to him for any semblance of stability. I know I need to find something else, someone else, even if he’s more pleasant than sex alone. I get WHY I'm drawn to him, now, even though it's stupid (and Nathan was such an asshole to me about it a couple years ago, but I truly didn't think of Lou like that then at all; this is different). He's quite a bit older, taller, unshakably calm, he... ugh. He ~does things for me~. Really he fucking does his JOB and I know that. It's Nate and really Walter who think he ~does things for me~. But the other things are all stupid weaknesses of mine and I'm very weak right now.

I've always been frustrated with Nate's recklessness, but lately I've been feeling it myself. Everything is so stupid and so very fragile and that fragility itself makes me want to crack it like an egg and get it over with, and I think all this with Lou is part of that, too. I also feel like I need someone to catch me, hold me, bring me back to shore, but there's barely anyone left to do that anymore, and I use too heavy to be around the rest and not drown in guilt. In any case, maybe it's for the best. I shouldn't have to rely on people to catch me. I should be strong enough to catch myself or else drown on my own time.

PS: Sometimes lately I trace my scars and instead of getting stuck thinking of cutting them open again I think of the men I've made chain/tie me up and beat and whip me with things kneeling down, licking them, kissing them gently, calling them beautiful, suddenly so tender, voices full of soft admiration. Sometimes it's happened after everything else; they let me loose from the wall or whatever and I allow them to hold me, touch me, do their own tracing. Other times it's happened in the midst of everything, and the tenderness there is shot through with wanting, and they look up at me and I down at them, and I know that even chained/tied/bound up I have more power over them than they could ever have over me. In other words, I think I've fully come around to them sexualizing my scars. They could never understand the pain of the history behind them, that’s still true, but they see them and see strength and even beauty instead of weakness or shame; they see them and then see me as someone to be treated with respect and care, not out of a perceived fragility but out of an assumed mastery. The sadism and masochism are still fixed, but the dominance and submission never are anymore, and I like it better this way. So much is hell but this, at least, is an interesting development.

*

Finding Sam's replacement was frustrating-- I've made it a point to try and find skilled yet under-recognized musicians from more diverse backgrounds that could get passed over otherwise. I especially felt it was important to give more black musicians a chance (and it was nice that Nate and Jeff understood where I was coming from): I and the rest wouldn't have any of this without them, and what thanks have they gotten? To linger in poverty and obscurity while Eric Clapton plays the blues to Enoch Powell, or get signed to hyper-exploitative contracts just to get seen n' heard (with the exception of a very lucky few that get held up as "proof" that anyone can make it and that the system “works”). So I want people to have a chance to get real money and real exposure. I believe I started this well in my solo work, and I want to bring as much of what worked from that into this as I can, because I'm damn proud of what I accomplished there and Walt can never take that from me. Even now in the state I'm in I can see so many opportunities to explore different ways of doing things, alternate ways of being, potential for better.

Walter, of course, sees differently. Depending on the day I've either been trying to run "an affirmative action program" or a personal dating service. I thought I DID find a drummer recently, all the other guys agreed on him, we were practicing for a week, things seemed so official that we even mentioned his name in a radio interview. He was fantastic, jazz and r&b background but w/an interest in the more underground aspects of electronic music (which certainly intrigued and appealed to me!), from Oakland; this would've been his big break. Walter ensured that wouldn't happen, and he couldn't help but be nasty about it to me (hopefully just to me). Typical things from him-- assuming I want to get fucked by every man I see or talk to. Really, every black man I see. The two most serious, beautiful, loving relationships of my life have been with black men (only one that he knows of!), so whenever I'm friendly to any black man I'm clearly just trying to get my fucking rocks off. God I want to fucking kill him.

I knew I couldn't use Joe, either-- I'd already used him for my solo album, he was "my" musician, so Walter would find a way to get rid of him before it begins, too. I've been able to reel in his power quite a bit and he still finds ways to fuck with me. It's the damndest thing. Anyway, we have an even schlubbier drummer now than Joe ever was. His name's Mike, he seems like a nice guy.

*

I've been able to write and sing-- quite broadly-- about everything with Ben, now. --Combined with Jeff's writing about Teri, of course. An interesting bookend for the first song inspired by the both of them... It was difficult at first, for similar reasons as to why it's near impossible for me to sing about Rick. But unlike Rick, Ben is still alive, thank goodness, and it's also good for selfish reasons-- that is, if any of the songs I've chiefly written lyrics for become hits, he'll have to hear me bleed no matter where he goes. And it's awful to say but it has been able to drive me forward. More and more these days, it's hard to be motivated by anything but spite. I would draw on that sometimes, in the past, and it would push me forward out of whatever little slump or block I'd find myself in, but now, it's almost all I have. I hope so much that it doesn't show in my voice.

I know I need to find something. Somehow. It would be so much easier if Nathan was even a little more sober. I’ve been able to think of nicer things, even pretty things, if he’s there and noodling around (sometimes it reminds me of a couple years ago, but I can’t help that). We still have a similar sense of melody-- or a complementary one. I just want to veer into melodrama and he wants to veer into something either too fast or too crunchy (~heavy~). Jeff’s sense of style often leans more towards or easily complements the melodrama than not, so despite my personal feelings towards him (Jeff, that is), it’s been Nate that sometimes feels like the odd man out. I get that. He’d just be a lot easier to work with if he wasn’t being a belligerent little whiner. UGH, he frustrates me in so many directions. And of course he has to be more beautiful now than he's ever been. Just twist the knife a little more, why don't you.

PS: I'm also invited to Lou's fucking wedding. UGH. It better not be in a church or I can’t go regardless of my feelings otherwise. I am flying out to NY for a few days soon for a big charity gig, so that might give me the time I need to think things over.

*

[70]Smell of an understated, nice cologne mixed with the slightest hint of sweat – two sorts of musks blending together, one clean, one just on the edge of dirty – ugh, admittedly wonderful. Like another kind of whispered secret. If it was someone else it would've been extremely erotic, but with him, it was obviously a lot more awkward realization.