Self Pity is really depressing

Just thinking about Ted must be getting to me.  Last night after I finished writing, I had some pretty vivid dreams and let me tell you, they weren’t anything that’s possible in reality.  I’ve heard that its, at least on some level, a biological thing for women to fantasize about getting overpowered and taken by a guy, but I doubt I react to rape fantasies like most other girls.  When I woke up this morning and remembered, I broke out crying almost immediately as I realized just how screwed up my sex life, both real and imaginary was.

And I guess waking up that way kind of messed me up all day.  To start with, for some unimaginable reason, instead of the baggy clothes I normally wear to school, I slipped on a pair of tight jeans and a t-shirt, not bothering with either a bra or a jacket and ducked out before my parents could see me and remind me.  I haven’t dressed like that for school in years and now that the day is over and I’ve got some perspective, I guess I realize why.  I’m going to pay a price for it; I just don’t know how high its going to be.

  As I walked into the school parking lot, the first guy I ran across dropped his jaw and by the time I got into the building, there were probably a dozen similarly lust stricken adolescent guys lining the route I’d taken.  At the time, I just didn’t give a shit.  I made my way to my locker, remembering just in time to be gentle with the lock and started putting away my books.  I felt his breath on the top of my head a split second before I felt his hand on my shoulder, and by the time he tugged on my shoulder to turn me around, I somehow had enough sense to let him.

Billy Jensen was sort of a legend on campus for any number of reasons.  One reason was his body, something I couldn’t possibly miss since his bulging pecs were basically at my eye level.  Unlike most of the girls, I knew something else about Billy’s body.  His muscles weren’t the only thing enormous about him, and I expect that rather freakish part of his anatomy had a lot to do with his other problems.  Billy was basically a freak, a monster of a guy who seemed to lack the sort of self critic at times.  He scared the living daylights out of girls, although to be fair, I don’t think he really intended to most of the time.

I don’t have one, but I’ve seen enough of them to have a theory that guy’s dicks are probably the biggest influence on their daily routine, way beyond their brains.  And Billy had a whopper, the biggest I’d ever seen, including that thing Marky Mark wore in that movie.  Again, I’m no expert in biology, but it seems to reason that when the blood rushes to something that big, the brain’s got to suffer.  And whether it was a result of repeated trauma, or just an added handicap, Billy was not the swiftest guy to begin with, and remember who’s telling you this.

“Heya, doll” Billy said as I looked up, way up to find his goofy and yet still menacing face.

If I hadn’t known Billy since we were both kids, I don’t want to think about what I might have done.  I was pissed, horny, but still pissed, and playing with a so called big strong man might have been too much of a temptation just then.  But it was Billy, and seeing as I knew him, it was a lot easier to see the vulnerability there, and I’m a sucker for vulnerability.  He was putting on a show and he was desperately trying to come onto me, but underneath it all, I could see just how pitiful he was.

I didn’t hurt him, at least not the way I could have.  I just reached up with a seemingly tiny hand and spun him around, pinning his big body against the locker with my hand before I stepped in and pressed my boobs against him, just hard enough to knock the breath out of him and pin him, leaving my hands free to roam those big muscles of his.

“You shouldn’t do that Billy” I said smiling up at him even as I squeezed his butt and then pressed his swollen crotch against my leg.  His diaphragm was pretty much being crushed by my boobs, and the only sound that really came out of him was a sort of whimpering sound, but the throbbing thing against my thigh told me he was still enjoying himself.  I don’t know that I would have done next, but it’s a fair bet I’d have regretted it even worse than what had already happened.  Thankfully, it was at that moment that Cassie’s voice broke me out of the daze I was in.

“Daphne!!” she shouted as she ran down the hall towards me.

My head twisted, and a split second later, I backed up, letting Billy slip to the floor.

Cassie, was still running towards me when the tears started flowing from my face, but I was gone long before she made it across the hallway.

I skipped the rest of school today, and spent a great deal of it on top of a water tower, alternating between crying and staring at my cell phone as the messages started to rack up.  I couldn’t answer it, didn’t want to talk to anyone.

All day long, I pretty much meditated over my predicament and wallowed in self pity.  I’m a freak.  A superficially desirable one, maybe, but when you get down to it, an incredibly dangerous and unstable freak whose pretty much doomed to a miserable and lonely life.  All my life, even before hormones gave me urges which simply can’t be satisfied, I’ve hurt people, and more often than not, its been the people I love most.  My dad’s back still goes out at times, and even my mom’s got ribs that ache when the weather gets cold.  Billy was lucky.  I probably scared him a bit, but I don’t think I really hurt him.  Other guys, granted mostly bad guys, but human beings nonetheless, they weren’t so lucky.

I can count the number of real dates I’ve had in my life on one hand.   However, I’ve long since lost track of the number of sad and pathetic quasi sexual encounters I’ve had with criminal types out on the street.  Its sick and it makes me feel bad afterwards, but fact of the matter is, I’m pretty damned horny, and I need someone to practice with.  And since I’m not going to risk hurting good people, why not practice with the criminals.  Thing is, while I keep trying, each and every encounter is incredibly frustrating, both physically and emotionally.   I’ve sworn off playing with the bad guys a half dozen times, but the thing is, I gotta have some outlet, and messing with an attempted rapist in a dark park is way more healthy than what happened with Billy for example.  

I don’t care what you hear about women and sex and relationships, I think I really need both, and I don’t think either one is ever really gonna work out for me.  Sex …, well, in a conventional sense, its just never gonna happen.  Without getting really gross, I just don’t think its physically possible for soft male flesh to do what it takes.  And even without intercourse, a guy’s pretty much risking his life making me squirm.  Sexual frustration is a real issue for me, and its connected to, but at the same time, wholly distinct from the whole loneliness and relationship thing.
  
I mean face it, what kind of a relationship can I have with a guy?  I have tried to figure out how it might work.  Bottom line is, though, when sex enters into the equation at all, the whole thing gets all messed up.  Last summer was a perfect example.  The guy was into me and I was into him, and while I didn’t tell him everything, he was willing, hell he was ecstatic about just making out and he didn’t even complain about the bruises and stuff.  But the more we messed around, the worse the relationship angle got.  I wanted it too, but the more we did, the closer we got physically, the farther apart we got emotionally.  Joey started to get obsessed with me, and yet, at the same time, he got more and more pitiful, like a puppy who’s willing to do just about anything to get petted.  That’s cool at first, but after awhile, I could tell I was screwing up his life, and I really didn’t like what it was doing to me either.  I broke it off with Joey, and I stopped answering his calls, but it still bothers me.  Did I screw him up permanently?  

Guilt is really a pretty nasty thing for me, because, well, I have a whole lot of things to feel guilty about for a girl my age.  The physical stuff, that’s bad enough, but emotionally, I know I’ve hurt an awful lot of people as well, and the only way I can avoid doing that entirely is not to relate to people at all, which I’m not willing to do, at least not yet.  Its not just sex, only that’s the biggest part of it at the moment.  Even my closest friends, even my girlfriends I keep sort of at a distance, and I know somewhere, they resent me as much as I resent them.  

All in all, I spent most of the day contemplating my own navel, which is pretty freaky, but when I’d done soul searching, wallowing in my own misery, I still pretty much ended up with no real answers, except to keep trying.  I mean, what other choice do I have?  Near as I can tell, suicide, even if I could bring myself to do it, its just not an option.  

The only real option I do have is to keep trying what I’ve been trying, building walls around this part of my life and that one, and trying to make each little enclosure the best it can be.  The whole crime fighting thing, sometimes I think its really dumb, but I hope, I want to believe that somehow, eventually I can find some sort of satisfaction there that will help me deal with the rest of my life, which pretty much sucks.  And the personal stuff, well, I keep hoping that will get better too, and it might.  I have good days and bad days.  Today was, well, today pretty much sucked, but tomorrow might be better.