The move is complete. I feel so much better. Harri helped me, Courtney helped me, other Leo who will be a new housemate even helped me, and he doesn't even know me. I always feel incredibly guilty at these moments, because I am so utterly feeble that I have all the lifting power of an asthmatic flea. This means that I carrry all of the useless things, whilst the fit, sturdy ones do the hard work.

More on this later...

Alas, I fear the previous entry is poorly crafted waffle and splurge.

Still, it's the day of the move, be still my beating heart.

I must confess, I am actually angry. Can you tell? It is, after all, quite a rare occurrence for me. I didn't reach this point until I had some alone time, time for the cogs in my head to begin to turn, and for me to realise what an absolute idiot pushover I am being.

For over a month I have been due to move house for the umpteenth time, on the last weekend of May. I have been grappling with a lot of turbulence in my life, and moreover, fear change and cannot drive. All in all, moving is never fun-time for me.

Alistair knew I was moving. When I was handed my notice, he was the first person I turned to. You go to the one who loves you, right? Even if they are not actually your boyfriend, and think that you don't realise that all they want is to win their ex back, and when they do, you will be history. Right? Right? Well, you do if you are me, paragraph one, absolute idiot/pushover, remember?

For the past several weeks, he has been very concerned to find out the ex's plans, as she never makes any time for him, and always has numerous men round, or is away on her frolics. Come to think of it, any time I have with him is invariably because she happens to be away, not because he has specifically decided to do something with me. It's all about her plans.

Some time ago, it seems that she had a little space in her schedule, so of course, he snapped it up. Right on the weekend when I was moving, and really, really needed his help. He said he didn't realise, until I pointed out that he had known for over a month. He said his timing was bad, but that implies that this was an accident. If he had forgotten, he would have been reminded, if only he was as concerned with my plans as he is with hers. What really hurts is the fact that he could have a weekend away with her any time. I have no choice but to move this weekend, and I can honestly say that I would drop everything to help him if he needed me. Idiot/pushover, remember? But of course, he has packed his bag of fetish gear, ever hopeful that she will wrap him up in latex, shove some poppers up his nose, and wedge his face between her buttocks. And hey, she probably will throw him the proverbial bone... they are staying with a kinky couple, and in such a small group of people, it is hard to resist the tide of play without appearing anti-social. It is not that I am jealous, we all play with lots of people, it's just that he always says that one of the major problems with the relationship is the fact that she won't play or fuck him. It is only natural for me to feel a little miserable at the prospect of her putting out.

After much thinking, I decided that I had every right to let him know how I feel. I could not call him, as he was not alone, so I texted. Not ideal, but I was as polite and adult as possible, despite the medium. I simply said that I was upset because I had been put in a really difficult situation, and I needed his help, and yet he was off for a weekend of play and partying. He responded by saying he felt bad and guilty, and had already said sorry, and that his timing was bad. He said he would make it up to me, and that he loved me. Stupid text tennis. I told him it was not poor timing, because he knew for over a month I was moving. If he had forgotten, he would have been reminded, had he concerned himself with what my plans might be, (in my head I added: "Instead of only considering what Her plans might be..." I said that I didn't want him to make it up to me. He knows I don't work like that. Buying me stuff is meaningless. Love, loyalty, friendship, this is currency that I understand. Again, I received more "love yous", "I don't want to rows", "the only thing I can think to do is think of something nice to make it up to you when I get backs". I ignored the last one, not because I was playing a game, but because I was that upset. Another arrived, telling me he had arrived and was exhausted, and offering me "hugs". I ignored it for the same reason.

I woke up this morning feeling just as bad, and yet another arrived wishing me the best of luck for the move, and that he hoped it went well, and that he loved me. I left it quite some time, because I didn't know what to do... I think too much... Because I am not someone who likes playing all those little games that people in these situations sometimes do, I replied. But again, I was at a loss at what I could say. So I simply said thank you, no little "x's", just the thank you. I received no response.

I wish I could say that he is probably troubled by all this, but I am pretty sure he is not. He is having dinner at some nice restaurant, followed by a little tipple or two, and then the narcotics will come out. Especially the GHB, because we all know how randy, or at worst, touchy-feely that makes people. Especially women, so he'll be using this to help increase the likelihood of getting some.

Meanwhile, I have found out who my friends are. Thanks to Harri for helping me at the last minute, because if he had not, I really would have been totally, and very awesomely, stuck.

I know I need to walk, despite having already tried it twice, and failed. And if I do, I need to mean it this time, can't go back a third time. And so I sit and worry about what to do. He says he loves us both, that we are both of equal importance to him. So why does he elect to have a weekend with her that he could have any time, when I really need him, and have no choice of day for when I move? I need to walk, and I am trying to be strong about it. I might not discuss it again with him, we have been through it. I might just build some distance, enough to help me stop caring.

It starts...

It is almost 10.30am, and I am sitting alone at the dining table of a man whom I adore, but who keeps me like a mistress. As I write, it is impossible to distract myself from the intrusive pain in the middle of my back. For here, the skin is somewhat missing, the wound somewhat infected, and the inconvenience somewhat high. Just like I was, the night before last. High that is, not infected. Oh, curse my paper thin skin, and curse synthetically fibred carpets.

Of course, I had not intended a weeknight all-nighter. If only I had not had that less than perfect date that afternoon... He was lovely and long-haired, but young. There was no chemistry. No one was to blame, of course. But one always hopes. I must confess, sometimes I mentally throw myself on my knees, staring up at the heavens with bulging eyes, shouting, "Oh lord, send me a long-haired, well-spoken, exceedngly clever pretty boy that I can exist with in a mutually adoring relationship. In fact, lord, send me a man just like the one I am in love with now, only better. One who actually wants to be with me, instead of lurking around the feet of his ex like a lost puppy, longing for her to have sex with him, get back with him, all the while grabbing a fistful of my hair and telling me he loves me. And that he loves her. And that this is so hard for him. Amen." Then I mentally wipe the foam away from my mouth, and continue to maintain a vague aura of a reasonably well-adjusted member of society. Oh, how I digress.

After the date, I made my way back to the Reichstag. I refer to it as such because I have tried every method I can to produce a positive, healthy situation out of this mess. That would be the loving relationship I desire, and, I might add, so richly deserve. I have failed every time, so whilst I may be rather uncomfortable with taking any leaves out of Hitler's book, I have taken to referring to myself as "Holding my nose, and entering the Reichstag." And at this point, I am probably sounding a little unhinged, so I am praying, dear reader, that you have the same morbid sense of humour as I.

So, back at The House, the ex (who now, of course, lives there... don't ask) was receiving some of her entourage of boys. I actually rather get along with her, which makes the situation more weird, both because of my position, and because I think she often treats Alistair less than well. This particular night, there were three boys, all clever, all interesting, some a little too young, but you can't have it all. And then Courtney, the boy that I am about to enter a houseshare with, stopped by too. We have not known each other very long, but we instantly hit it off, perhaps because I instantly threatened to abuse him... In a way I wish I hadn't, because despite being clever and very pretty, I have instant friend-chemistry with him. Not even really friends-who-fuck chemistry. Which made it all the more strange when he very quietly and discreetly propositioned me with both sex and narcotics. I'm just a girl who can't say no, as the song goes. Actually, I say no to most, which explains why I am perpetually frustrated. The wine flowed into their mouths, the gin flowed into mine. We ended up in the dungeon.

Alistair had to crawl up to bed, sulking that he could not stay up and party, due to work obligations. Kit had a pretty face and long hair, but at the grand age of twenty-three, had some developing still to do. And I found his habit of writhing around mewling in order to encourage someone to rough him up so utterly annoying, I really wanted to kick him in the head. So I did the only thing I could. I got vaguely wasted and danced to NIN. But then something happened. Something wrong. Something unexpected and wrong. And we all know how much I like wrong. Kit grabbed me by the hair and forced me over his lap. "Instant hilarity," I thought, and decided to go along with it for the sake of amusement. I abuse boys, but I don't get dominated by them... I need a man for that. How it pains me to write this, but whilst his spanking technique needs a little work, his attitude was surprisingly good. I might have to hate myself, because I actually found myself willingly entertaining him. When he dropped all of his cocky-young-man-with-something-to-prove act, he showed a hell of a lot of potential, and was quite sexy. He spent the rest of the evening trying to entice me into bed, which I would not do, because I was entertaining Courtney, and was already sexually booked-up, as it were. It was all very romantic. Shortly before Kit retired, he threw me on my back and plunged his fingers into my pussy... and then the unthinkable happened... I gushed/squirted, call it what you will. I am not a lady who produces much fluid of any kind as a general rule. To date, there are only three men who can do this to me, now including Kit. And he did it faster than any of them. I hate myself, it was awesome.

He went to bed, and I carried on the party with Courtney, we talked, we smoked... we had sex. It wasn't bad sex... but, and I do hope he feels the same, it was like having sex with a brother. And not in that hot incestuous fantasy kind of way. Chemistry is a funny thing. And now we have come full circle, because as I lay there on my back, with legs thrown over his shoulders, I knew, I just knew that I was wearing a hole in the middle of my back. It didn't hurt much, but then, nothing hurts much when I am fucking. I have lost count of the amount of holes I have worn. And it really doesn't matter whether I am fucking them with a great big strap-on, or they are rogering me senseless... I am infected and moist. Hey, referring back to an earlier sentence, it looks like I was infected after all. How we all laughed.