Trying As Best I Can . . .

I have this theory about my life. I stole it from Newton, really, but that doesn't make it false. The theory goes like this: For every good thing that happens (to me), there is an equally worse bad thing about to happen (to me).

People sometimes call it paranoid, but it's never failed me yet.

In the back of my brain I've been percolating the idea of Chelsea Girl's SlutFest for a good long while now. Not so much the SexxySexx but the explicit self-permission to take what she needed. That is something that I have long struggled with: virtue, in my mind, is the absolute denial of what I want. Diets? Virtuous. Celibacy? Virtuous. Frugality? Virtuous. Frigidity? Virtuous. Because this pursuit of virtue is the textbook definition of neurotic (as well as completely unsuccessful) I decided to try indulgence for a while.

Cue good things.

+ I used Teh Intarwebs to find myself a cock to play with last week, attached to a guy I can more than tolerate. Although he is too much of a gentleman to say it outright (or perhaps just scared I will hurt him), I am 95% sure that his interest in me goes no farther than, "Pussy? Ok!" And although it is the exact opposite of the relationship that I want, it is better than Mr. S's mind games.

+ Speaking of which, I got to see him too. We had ourselves a nice little scene involving his belt (oh how I love that strip of leather!), restraint, and my face against the tread of the stairs. Hot stuff, I tell you.

+ Oh, and two days later I got to play with that cock guy again. Time to buy more condoms!

And the result:

* The Nexus of Evil reminds me painfully of its presence.

* My truck broke down. In the middle of the night. An hour from home. Tow cost? $250.

* My business was dealt two very nasty blows this week with the potential to sink me.

I am a simple creature, and Pavlov's behavior modification works well. I go out into the world, bad things happen; I keep to myself, nothing outright bad happens.

Now how am I supposed to go out again?