Ask almost anyone on the East Coast what they are waiting for and they will tell you, "spring." Not "spring" the season - that began almost a month ago - but "spring" the expectation, the idyllic promise of summer. In the three weeks since you heard from me last, the tri-state area has seen at least one 80-degree day and one hail storm. Nature has snowed, warmed, then chilled again. The sky has gone from cloudy grey to radiant blue to apocalyptic slate, all in the same afternoon. This has been a spring of extremes - a spring, perhaps, that's reeling from an unexpected breakup from winter. It storms and swings in defiance of change. It is pissed off.

Contrary to the weather - which is a surprisingly balmy 60 degrees today, perhaps as a result of medication - lately I seem stuck in a sort of internal, meteorological "meh." Not sunny, but not raining; not cold, but not warm. I am a tepid summer day in Britain, so "meh," in fact, that two weeks ago I set about writing a post describing just how "meh" I felt, only to give up after a few paragraphs and leave it unpublished.

During a session with Melanie, I described this as "an emotional vacation." After two months of swinging so far left and right that my pendulum made gashes in the walls, I am now just hanging here, spent. I commute my hour-and-ten-minutes to work, listing to NPR and tech-news podcasts. I arrive, write my test questions and score other people's essays, take 15 minutes for lunch instead of 30 so I stand a chance of beating traffic on the way home, then depart, get stuck in traffic, and listen to an additional hour and forty minutes of NPR and tech-news podcasts. I drop my retro-style briefcase on my sofa, make myself a PB&J sandwich, and boot up my new, quad-core laptop to OkCupid or Manhunt (yes, I am now a Hunter of Men as well as the Prey of Seraphim). Sometimes I watch TV; usually I chat with strangers on Manhunt into the wee hours. Then I go to bed, rising at 7:30 the next morning. Rinse and repeat.

On weekends I stay active socially by going out on dates. I stay active physically by having sex with as many of these men as possible. In the past three weeks, I've boinked a sculptor in his studio on a moving blanket (he came, I didn't); jerked off a freelance lighting technician in his bedroom (he came, I didn't); had phone sex with a 25-year-old former child actor who insisted he was too mature to date other 25-year-olds (he came, I didn't); made out with a lawyer on my sofa (no coming was involved); and danced the bedroom shimmy with a 31-year-old makeup artist and retired drag performer (miraculously, I came, he didn't).

In the interest of self-improvement, I am also taking online lessons from a Manhunt "dom" about how to be a good "sub." Thus far I've learned to say "sir" at the end of each sentence, be naked on camera with my hands behind my back (to show my dom I'm not touching myself), and smile big, bigger, bigger on demand. These lessons are to culminate in a live meeting, at which time, I'm told, I will be asked to strip, kneel, participate in some casual chit-chat (to ease my nerves), and then begin my formal training. As intrigued as I am by the idea of being the O to a stranger's René, I seriously doubt I'll be naked on my knees in this man's apartment anytime soon. For one thing, I have a bossy streak. For another, my would-be "owner" looks like Robert Blake, and even if Blake hadn't been accused of murdering his wife, I will always remember him as the creepy, pale-faced "Mystery Man" from Lost Highway. And no amount of chit-chat could make me feel comfortable kneeling naked in front of that man.

All of this might seem tame by some standards, but since my breakup I've had more sexual partners than, well, ever. Before Ex, there was Sam - he of the loft bed and pubescent frottage - and a guy I met in high school while I was working at a toy store. He went to the high school across town, which meant he was beyond walking distance, which meant I needed to get a ride from my mom to see him (I told her he was "a new friend" I made at work - little did she know). Once at his house, he proceeded to give me a blowjob in his bedroom. That is, until his mom's voice came blaring through the intercom (his house was so big it was outfitted with an intercom system) and one of his brothers started banging on the door. He gestured frantically for me to pull on my pants, then wiped his mouth and disappeared to tend to whatever it was his mom and brother wanted.

I figured this would put an end to the felacio, which was fine by me; I'd never had my penis in another man's mouth before and could have done with a little more conversation or at least more kissing. But my "new friend" was undeterred. He showed me to his backyard - the one place, he assured me, where we wouldn't be interrupted - and lay me down on the grass, picking up where he left off. He was right about us not being disturbed - not by any human members of his family, anyway. But the family dog refused to be ignored, licking my friend's face (as it bobbed up and down on my crotch) and slathering my lips with doggy kisses.

texting and chatting with me, and I had high hopes for the lawyer which were dashed when he called to say I was a wonderful guy but he didn't feel sexual chemistry. (Let it be noted that he initiated the make out session, not I.)

I'm having better luck with the former drag performer/current makeup artist; we had dinner in the city on Friday and he'll be spending the night at my apartment tomorrow. I have doubts about our long-term potential. (Case in point: he didn't go to college. It may sound snobbish, but a college education is important to me. After all, I was a teacher myself until only slightly more than a month ago.)

Regardless, I may have hoped for more from some of these men, but I allowed myself to expect only what I received. It's easier to keep from getting hurt this way. At the same time, it's harder to get giddy, feel butterflies in your stomach. I've felt those butterflies, to be sure. They are what drive me from one stranger to the next, their little, winged bodies whipping me into a smitten frenzy at each new bit of information I discover. His favorite musicians and films. His preferred sexual positions. His typical Friday night. What he does for a living. His name.

But this is the price of liberated sexuality married with pragmatism. No sooner than the stranger and I schedule our first date, I go from butterflies to a self-willed stillness. I encourage my mind to wander, or I chat up another stranger online as backup for the one I am meeting in person who may or may not exceed my expectations. If I know sex is likely, I will permit myself to get excited about that. Otherwise I stay neutral - a 55-degree afternoon, neither cold nor warm, cloudy nor sunny. But better to be "meh" than whiplashing between extremes - at least for now.