Sultry

Part Six (The End and Reflection)

With my bike and lycras strategically packed in the boot, sultry and I commenced our journey north to a motel near her football training oval. I stuck to my plan of staying the night in a separate bed (I may have been a floozy but never a slut), and riding my bike home early the next day.

The indulgent gaze sultry gave me from the balcony as I departed, told me she was wholly captivated by my behaviour: 1) fending off her playful advances the night before and 2) getting up before sunrise to ride my bike home. (I was younger then, so playing the adventurous hero was essential to my pre-mating practice).

I set off at a harrowing pace straight up a mountain because it was ‘bound to be the shortcut home’. I have never made such a poor judgment in my cycling career as I did that day. It took me 15 miles before I accepted my mistake and with head bowed from exhaustion and mortification, I retraced the road directly back to its starting point. The mistake cost me 5,400 seconds. Each second felt like an hour as I marinated in my idiocy.

That ride turned out to be the longest lone bike ride of my career (at the time). I figured that I brought the physical grief upon myself for not ending things with the girl I was seeing at the time prior to allowing myself to have feelings for someone new. Punishing myself on the bike had long been my answer to emotional anguish.

I determined as I collapsed on my bed from heat exhaustion and in severe carbohydrate deficit that I was not worthy of either of these women.

The next week I was single and back on Pink Sofa again just er ‘looking for chats’.

END

Sultry

Part Five

She flew home after our initial wicked weekend and ‘getting to know you’ period (seriously nothing ‘happened’), and the next time we spoke was during my lunch break a couple of weeks later. Sultry rang to ask if I would like to join her on the weekend whilst she played in a football tournament in a town near mine: As in stay in her hotel with her, as in stay in her room with her, as in stay in her bed with her.

I said no I was busy.

She really needed to try harder.

This of course inspired the desired outcome. Turning on her charisma “I really think you need a break, you work so hard. Come on, I am hiring a car and will pick you up Friday night on my way through. It will be fun!” (Spontaneity just kills my resolve - the thrill of the adventure and the unknown). BUT I was officially ‘seeing’ someone else (a rare practice in itself). Obviously I wasn’t that serious though. “Maybe I could stay on the Friday and cycle home early Saturday…” During the call I became acutely aware that it was over with the other person. Well it had lasted 6 weeks.

She arrived late that Friday night in a hired supercar and a low-carb six pack. SHE DRANK LOW CARBOHYDRATE BEER. Being an athlete I was dreadfully impressed. Someone else had actually been sucked in by the marketing of overpriced beer flavored soda water. I threw my bike in the back and she threw me the keys. I looked at her. She cracked open a beer and grinned cheekily.

To Be Continued…

Thought Gasp 4

I am wetting my mouth with a warm import that flies me above the ocean through clouds whose breath embrace possibilities…

…  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  … 

Trapped.

My biggest fear is the feeling of being trapped. I used to have this recurring nightmare where I am desperately trying to fly, my arms flailing about like a drowning child. The harder I stroked the more elevation I could get. However, it required a colossal amount of exertion for not much result. Meanwhile (and this is the worst bit), people were always trying to grip and snatch at my feet to keep me on the ground with them. They didn’t want to let me go and yet I needed to. I would kick and struggle harder, but they would pull me back down. That nightmare stopped a few years back (I think).

Attached to this dream is also a feeling of guilt. I think the guilt comes from having to detach from people or situations that no longer need me. I feel bad that I have to keep gently reminding them (and sometimes not so gently) that they don’t need me and their own path is as exciting and inspiring and easy as mine.

A sickening feeling, even now I find myself desperately trying to wiggle free from the suffocating toxicity of its memory.

…  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  … 

Sipping again, I notice a winged insect drowning in my red wine. I dip my finger to it and it climbs aboard and scales up across wrist and forearm through the foliage of my arm hairs. In essence, when the insect is offered help it instinctively helps itself, but does not know when to stop running, up and up, unthinking, just scuttling through the foliage… (Doesn’t it know it is dry enough to fly?)

So I give it a quick burst of my breath, then it realises its wings are dry and it flies…

I think most of us want to help others in need, but when we know it is time to move on it is our responsibility to initiate the move and allow others to fly alone.

I had that nightmare again last night.

Sultry

Part Four

After she finished disentangling her life, Sultry took a quick sip of her tepid latte and asked way too suddenly “So what about you?”

Don’t you hate that?!

 It’s like dragging a stunned audience member from an Irish show onto the stage and expecting them to riverdance. I had been so completely absorbed by her hectic ramblings that me, myself and my life in narrative had vaporised. I was nothing more than a couple of suction punctures on a cranium, a spongy speechless scamp. I stuttered out a few routine sentences about my latest floating occupation.

Distracted by a burnt tongue (from sipping fervently whilst exhibiting wild enthusiasm for her life accounts), I fortunately had an exit strategy: it was lunch break. After politely excusing myself, I power walked back to work, certain I had dusted my chances of a beach vacation.

Sultry was interesting, I was dull. First dates are like job interviews – go prepared. And I usually do. Usually so suave. Usually the conversation driver. Not used to the missus taking over like that.

Amazingly, she had found my lacked preparation and nippy exodus dazzling. Several text messages later (and one short airport summit) I learned quickly that: less was more (for a girl like her). I was admittedly a little bit hooked on her too. She was crafted so perfectly from an Australian mould: blondey hair, whitey grin and biggy biceps! I don’t mind a shapely woman, but when an athlete walks in a room I am a goner. Finished. Ruined.

But the thing about her (that got me in the guts) was a passionate, misdirected glitter she used as part of her trained surface appearance. Meanwhile, a destructive liquefying boulder was idling just below, waiting to detonate. A menacing wild beast with a twinkly smile in designer threads, she attracted chaos to her personal life out of boredom. She thought I was bad. The longer it took her to realise otherwise, the healthier my tan would be.

To Be Continued...

Sultry

 Part Three

Remarkably this new chick was even more captivating and stunningly good looking than the first. I am talking same altitude as Hot Stuff.

I had finally channelled my inner les-beacon and was attracting sub-tropical fembots like moths to a zapper.  I was so knee deep in self-awe, I didn't stop to consider the possible two degrees of separation.

(Anyway, as I was so very intrigued with my first suitor, I still  met with Sultry as per our initial arrangement). The meeting was tiring but in a good way. Remember those toys that you pull the cord and they release a clever sentence? She was one of those, except the sentence never finished. I think she had perfected circular breathing because she didn’t even pause for breath. It wasn’t a nerves thing either. I just think she carried around a lot of words and hot air. Maybe that’s what happens if you live in the tropics for long enough. Much like watching a reality TV series, I just pulled the cord and she unravelled her latest chronicle.

To Be Continued...

Sultry

Part Two

As it turned out, my sultry suitor had an important business meeting locally and was flying south in a matter of days, so of course we planned a meeting of our own.

This is where the tale starts to get knotty (typing slowly now so I can keep up). I was in fact theoretically dating a feisty Italian at the time (who will justly receive her own dressing down later, thus extricating me from the crimes I was fantasising about committing). Also, with the recent addition of a new stalker-pseudo-ex to my fan folio, the value of my dating credibility was steadily diminishing (for the risk-averse types). Having freshly undertaken Juggling 101 class in an open relation with yet another ex, I was up for a test and way overdue for that seaside sabbatical.

24 hours before Sultry and I were to meet, I received (oddly) another Pink Sofa private message from within the same municipality! Having NEVER chatted with anyone from this region, the odds of meeting two lesbians from there were next to impossible.

I knew I was interesting but this made me special too.

To Be Continued...

Who is Zy Drew? Blog trailer...

Sultry

Part One

It was a dripping summer afternoon like most others in the mid-tropics where I was stationed. Melting over my kitchen counter after a mammoth bike ride and posting obnoxiously online, I discerned a Pink Sofa private message notification appear in my email. Intrigued, I logged in immediately to retrieve a curious message. I checked out the sender’s profile and learned she was an athlete obtainable 2500km inconveniently north of my keyboard.

Picture a setting where mountains gracefully enter the ocean via vast carpeted beaches. My mind puzzled merrily about the brochures I had seen showing the mystical way vapours collected around mountains, resembling puffs of disorganised fumes waiting to be inhaled.

Special Note:

These days I question the historical chemical imbalance of my personality composition such that when I received an interesting Pink Sofa message from a sultry athlete type, my mind instantly commenced accessing geographical coordinates and conducting feasibility studies and probability ratios of a successful partnership opportunity. Cringe.

So this breathtaking place where woman-eating reptiles and poisonous floaty jelly creatures roamed the waterways also produced lesbians? It made sense.

I kept my response concise and fairly abrupt to illustrate my lack of interest. She was subconsciously looking for someone wild, free and hard to hold down. She needed a challenge, I needed a holiday.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Seven

I didn’t quite slam on the brakes.  But almost.  Once I had weighed up all of the ‘what ifs’ (not a swift process for a mind filled with exam prep) I pulled up safely, wound down the window and, watching the growing form in the side mirror, I waited.  As she approached, I leaned out of the window and smiled.

‘Oh, are you serious?!’

We haven’t discussed this experience since and, being of a scientific bent and a non-believer in fate, I have a less-than-quixotic inclination to explain it away with unromantic realism and probability.  Zy doesn’t believe in coincidence for different reasons...

THE END

Thought Gasp 3

I don't understand why people get into romantic or personal monogamous relationships. To me a relationship signifies incompletion of oneself. Is that why you do it? What do you get from having a relationship with another person?

I am able to find everything I need from:
a) nature (calm)
b) an animal (affection)
c) masturbation (my itch scratched)
d) family, friends and colleagues (connection)
e) food, shelter, clothing (basics)
f) work (volunteering, job, housework) (sense of achievement, usefulness)
g) personal goals (motivation and hope)


So educate me if you can, I want to know if I am missing out on anything? I have a thread running on Pink Sofa, if you have something to say join here.

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Six

Busy lives make for interesting individuals.  They ensure that you can never take an experience for granted.  Or a person.  Things just move too quickly, there’s always another demand upon your time – something to be achieved, something new to learn.  And my rate of learning had just begun the steepest climb of my adult life.  Your fault, Zy.

The exam period had commenced, a time of year that would ordinarily find me holed up with a single, dedicated study companion.  Romantic explorations, superficial or otherwise, had never been permitted.  Ever.  Until now.

I lived on the opposite side of town to the captivating Ms. Drew, which meant any kind of catch up detracted from my primary focus of study.  And yet, I found the time.  The more of each other’s company that we shared, the more we found that gelled – a common focus on nutrition and fitness; effective uses of time and energy; the inexorable pursuit of authenticity through total freedom, truth and autonomy.  These things filled me with a renewed passion and drive for living and my cells beat my mind to the knowledge that I loved her by weeks.

I rose to a ‘good morning and good luck’ text message at dawn on the day of my most intense exam.  Preparing myself calmly for entering the world, I left early, locked the door and slipped into the waiting day.  Aware of my tendency to get over-excited by imminent performance requirements, I left myself plenty of time to get lost, stuck in traffic or navigate my way around unexpected UFO landings.  I also trusted myself to drive intuitively that day and, without thinking about it, found myself on a lesser-used road to the exam venue, lined with trees, smart houses and a substantial bike path. 

I wasn’t consciously watching for cyclists, I don’t even think Zy was in the forefront of my mind at that moment, but when I saw the lycra-clad athlete straining ahead of me I realised that this was the first cyclist I had seen that morning.  Strange, considering how long I had been on the road already.  I passed at a decent speed, allowing a respectful amount of room, whilst my over-full brain quietly absorbed the colour of the bike and helmet, the shape of the body then, finally, the tilt of the mouth as the cyclist’s face writhed with the effort of pushing ever harder... 

‘No.’  I actually said it out loud.  ‘It can’t be.’

To Be Continued...

How Do You Stay in a Lesbian Relationship for Nearly 30 Years?

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Seven Continued..

A sideways smile and a delicate laugh greeted me as I approached.  Tossing the phone into her lap, I just shook my head as she explained her ‘low value on things’.  This is where the conversation began, debating and deconstructing. 

The differences in our backgrounds meant we disagreed just enough to make things interesting, each strong enough to hold their own in discussion while respecting the differences of the other’s argument.  Her speech was uncomplicated and eloquent, yet the ideas she proposed were breath-taking in their defiance of social norms, simply seeking complete authenticity of self.  The considered, practised methods of living that she described floored me.  My bones felt the depth of this experience with such a unique individual.

Wine replaced beer before the sun had nudged the buildings opposite us and I can’t honestly say I remember what we talked about.  Or even if we did.  To say this woman’s company felt natural to me is like saying it feels natural to seek water when thirsty, sleep when tired, scratch when itchy.  It required no explanation to me then and it still doesn’t.  I relaxed into the moments as they filled with the developing beauty of the shared experience – the changing light, the sound of the water, the concepts we explored together – and felt something small and under-fed within me slowly unfurl fern-like, swelling with this new-found nourishment.

The sun set and we sought shelter.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Six Continued..

The area was unfamiliar to me, near water and sheltered from suburbia by an air of historical industry.  While locating the address she had provided me with proved simple enough, I knew that this challenging individual wouldn’t be letting me off that easily.  I was right.

 

Approaching the door, what looked like a small parcel greeted me, wedged in the security screen.  Upon closer inspection, I found a smartphone wrapped in a scrap of paper, tied with a rubber band.  I started at a bark of laughter before realising it had come from me, then unwrapped the package and read the note my tormentress had left:

‘If you can figure out sat nav on the iphone, then you will find sunset.  Z’

Cursing my recent propensity to broadcasting my opinions around iphonic imperialism, I hit the single button on the thing and found an option called ‘maps’.  How fortunate the device had been engineered with the novice in mind, as locating the trail she had left involved just a few intuitive clicks.  I bundled back into the car and meandered through some back streets to a spot along the river.  There she waited on a two-seated pink sofa she had constructed out of deckchairs and cushions, bottle of beer in hand, music belting out of the window of her nearby car. 

To Be  Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Five Continued..

The following days yielded more messages on Pink Sofa with references to moths, while the butterflies in my stomach slowly settled and found roosting positions.  The back and forth banter stirred up a capacity for salacious self-deprecation that I'd not realised would be so well received.  Diving in with stories of charming failures and distracting 

dalliances, I exorcised the demons of doubt and began to find my adventures amusing.  As did she.

I was beginning to realise that this woman shared my still-forming perspective that relationships as I had known them to this point were unhealthy and unsustainable.  Enlivened and enthralled, I explored, investigated and unravelled threads of argument and pressed her for feedback to my awakening understanding.  Previously unseen possibilities and alternatives were opening up in my relentless self-examination and a pattern was beginning to take shape from the fabric of our evolving conversation.

I had to meet her.  Sober and sane, armed with a developing awareness of self and a hunger for continued growth, I asked her out.  She accepted with an address and a single word: 'sunset'.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Four Continued..

Pink Sofa's message notification feature served me well at my office job, as leaving social networking sites open didn't paint the most flattering picture of administrative efficiency.  The next day, an email alerting me to this most anticipated of responses appeared, prompting me to hurriedly log in.  I felt my eyes widen and my breathing slow at what I read.

An elegant thanks for the compliment, then the bombshell: identifying herself as Zy from the Pink Sofa party.  An amusing and winsome reference to an interaction we'd shared involving a moth told me she'd not only been paying attention but was also looking to continue the dialogue.  

I was excited.  I was intrigued.  I was petrified.  The juxtaposition of my memory of the creature from that long-ago dinner party with this eloquent profile and direct countenance was almost too much.  Rather than letting my second-guessing monkey-mind tie knots in my ability to act, I quickly replied with a laugh and acknowledged the shared memory, promising to write more later once away from work.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Three Continued..

Prolonged self-anaesthetisation sure makes the days whizz past quickly and summer days for a student can be somewhat blurry at the best of times.  Which these were not.  Another year began, another cycle of work-sleep-study-repeat, and the haunting images of that initial meeting were fading into a soup of frivolous parties and day-long 

hangovers.

In an attempt to keep the spiralling costs of socialising down I began spending more evenings on Pink Sofa, glass of wine in hand while I chatted and charmed from the safety of my desk chair.  Nights at the local girl bar were adding up, depleting both financial and inspirational resources.  I was finding interest in ululating autobiographies harder and harder to feign and my neck muscles were tiring from nodding at pretty things.  Having the time to consider and frame my wit and wisdom was suddenly working for me and my contacts were plentiful and intriguing.

A face amongst the featured members caught my attention one night, the eyes obscured by sunglasses but a confident, close-lipped smile, brimming with self-knowledge, demanding a second look.  A quick click on this face brought me to a profile description unlike any other I'd yet encountered.  The style of writing hooked me instantly; elegant, confident and controlled.  Yet the content was wild and untamed, stating in the most matter of fact terms definitions of freedom and meaning and love.  A glimpse into a mind and a way of thinking that I instinctively understood.  I sent her a smile.

24 hours later I received a message.  Consistent with the character portrayed in her profile description, she had read my profile, extracted something pertinent and quoted it back to me with 'that resonates, thanks for the smile'. Had she simply smiled back, I might have been able to leave it at that.  Maybe.  The fact that she'd connected with something I'd written filled me with a strangely familiar glow.  I had to learn more.  I poured another glass of wine, downed it for courage and hit reply.  A short message, just enough to indicate interest, complimenting her writing style and asking what she did for a living.

I waited.

To Be Continued..

Be Brave

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_profilepage&v=BrVcUZC8jmM

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Two Continued...

Wine, beer and many additional lesbians later, the party was loud and the drinking games were many.  Half-ravaged plates representing most continents and some islands littered every surface and these usually professional, well-kempt women were trying to figure out how to down shots of creamy liquor without using their hands.  Needless to say, things were getting messy.

Having learned the lesson many years before that shots treat my stomach as a trampoline, I found myself in the unusual state of being the most sober person in the room.  While last place in the drunk race was not my desired position, it did afford me the best view of the floor show that was to unfold.

The flow of the conversation had turned to a raucous game of one-upwomanship called 'lowest price'.  The winner of the game was the person who would accept the least amount to do whatever dare was proposed by the sozzled group.  I didn't know it at the time but this was one of Zy's favourite games, doubtless because she always won.  No matter what the challenge, no matter how squirm-worthy, she would always do it for less than the next person.  None of us had noticed her clever manipulation of the conversation on to this topic but, once she'd planted the seed, the group ran with it.

The perfect drinking game!  With inhibitions lowered and all in the same awkward boat, rapid fire suggestions criss-crossed the table.

'How much to stand in the backyard naked?'  

'How much to run down the street naked?'  

As nudity didn't bother me that day (not my own anyway), I assured them that I'd do it for nothing but taking money for it would make me feel like a whore.  Somehow this response didn't fit into the spirit of the game, so the focus shifted from me to the instigator of all of this, with our slurring hostess cackling 'Zy, how much to pash The Artist?'

It was an unlikely pairing and the laughter at the image was cacophonous; from all except the owl-eyed beauty across the table from me.  Suddenly all business, she proceeded to negotiate terms, division of labour, rates of pay and meal breaks while The Artist dissolved into uncontrollable spasms of hilarity.

As a struggling student who needed all of her money for beer, my change purse was spared the ransacking of the seagulls, who finally scraped a sizable collection of coins together, dumping it in a pile before the cool, calm Zy and the still giggling Artist.  The reality of what they had requested had now hit the group and their respective levels of discomfort manifested in fidgeting, cackling and inappropriate outbursts.  My fascination was my only focus so, hidden behind the safety of the role of 'official timekeeper', I could absorb every nuance of the softest, most sensual kiss I'd ever seen play out before me.  And all I could think was 'I wish I'd gone to art school'.

To Be Continued..

A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Submitted by a rare fan...

Part One

I had met this strange creature over a year before, at a time in my life that all lesbians who paddle in the shark pool of long-term relationships experience at some stage.  After six years of circular arguments, self-doubt and a euthanised libido, I was gasping for some responsive female company.  

I had recently rediscovered the joys of drinking after a two year hiatus and was valiantly forgoing sleep, lectures and liver longevity in my determination to make up for lost time.  A new acquaintance's Pink Sofa dinner party invitation, complete with her network of fascinating female friends, was high on my list of 'places at which to get rat-assed'.

Six months of accidental meals and deliberate intoxication had somehow been a magical combination for my skin, shape and deportment, provided you caught me at the right time of day/week/month.  Exuding a confidence usually reserved for jet pilots, I bounded into my new friend's kitchen and proceeded to whip up three courses of Japanese delicacies at once, all the while holding my hostess in thrall with tales of my latest effortless successes at University and points-scoring sparring matches with professors.

I was in full flight of my own excellence when I noticed that my audience had doubled.  Perhaps it was the beer, but all I remember of that first glimpse was a still, quiet mouth and quite the most intensely observant eyes I'd seen not imbedded in an owl.  I knew they'd been watching me as I'd peacocked around the kitchen and the least drunk part of me cringed a little beneath her gaze.  The moment passed almost instantly before she looked away and, without those high beams pinning me to the wall, I was able to recover myself slightly.

The falter in my one-woman-show had allowed my hostess to notice the newcomer also and she snapped to introductory action.  'Beej, this is Zy.  Zy, BJ.'  Again, that silent appraisal, those searchlight eyes piercing my bravado and slight of hand.  Again, the swift snap away, too brief to unravel.  Who was this creature with her bold, questioning eyes and endearingly shy demeanor?  I disliked the taste of my discomfort in the back of my throat and washed it away with a large swig of beer.  I decided the best course of action would be to drink heavily, immerse myself in cooking and ignore this enigmatic distraction.

To Be Continued..

URGENT: Save the Bobby Calves

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Hot Stuff – ‘That’ Dance

That next week I didn’t see much of my Canadian beauty. It was a hard slog at work preparing for the arrival of the talent and festi-goers. Each day the land swelled a little more with activity as new entities arrived bringing colour, personality and excitement to the lesbian utopia. The hype built at a frantic pace and one I was not used to.

Finally the weekend was upon us, another dance to attend, more lesbians to choose from. But not for me.

I stupidly waited too long to ask Hot Stuff to be my date for the second dance. When I heard on the grapevine she would be attending with another, I was deservedly gutted. Understanding the procedures for life on The Land was a blistering lesson. You ‘stated your needs’ or asked for what you wanted. Open, clear communication. No assumptions or expectations.

I got to the dance a little sloshed, unable to deal with my feelings of rejection. After doing several laps of the floor, I managed to spot the item of my longing. Something happened to me physically. My mind was no longer in control of the body, senseless yet again.

What happened next seemed to unfold in front of me, it just wasn’t me, not the me I knew.

I glided through the cloud of swaying bodies and worked my way in between whoever she was dancing with or near. I felt magnetised to her, each cell prickled in response to her hammering heart (I could feel it), as was mine.

We synched.

I was a lion and she was my prey, both of us equally intoxicated by the demonstration of affection surfacing. Space began to clear as the crowd too became transfixed. I am not an extrovert, but this was a performance that could have earned me money in another setting.

I needed for her to endlessly ache for me as I did her, even if it was only in the physical. I ached for her insanely on every level and my sense for the imbalance made me pitiless. I left the moment unfinished and walked off.

Hot Stuff Day Six Pt 3

I made it to the lake and found a spot near the funky gals to lay my towel and wait. I never wait. But I waited. I think that was the first time I realised I was in terrible trouble. Never ever wait for a woman. I was no longer a woman on a towel tanning, I was a doormat near a lake waiting.

And then she arrived. I observed her walk past the entire flock of lesbians toward me. She gently lay her towel near mine and stretched out in a bikini. She was the darkest skinned Canadian I had ever seen. I stared at her skin so intently that I can still see those grains of sand paling and textured against her dark smoothness. I had to touch her. She told me it made her tingle. I felt deliciously tender at her mild coax.

After what felt like a minute had passed, the sun commenced its descent over the lake and people started to bob about like it was time to leave. My focus had been directed entirely on my Canadian muse and all concept of time had vanished. It unsettled me that the moment was ending.

A group of us crammed into Hot Stuff’s mini for a ride back to camp. I knew part of me was lost to this woman I knew nothing about. I wanted her all to myself. My concept of consequences, accountability, the future or any other rational thought had evaporated. Her very essence was consuming me. I was light headed and mindless.

Thought Gasp 2

I had to have one of ‘those’ talks the other day. First I have it with myself, and then I have it with my prospect. I would prefer not to have the talk. But at least if I have the talk, it means I care. It means there is hope, yet sometimes the talk spirals into the end.

My life lives like an exhibition of evolving art. I am a crazed artist with a paintbrush between my teeth smearing thick oily colours across the canvas with my fingers. Breathing over my work exasperated with my vision. Not content to live an artificial half life like so many others (day in day out printing the same feature anesthetized in the monotony). The irony is pain actually exists in that fabrication.

I find people are attracted to me when they want their souls to be unravelled. I feel like an asshole watching them writhe in their self made bullshit stories about who they thought they were, or the bullshit mess they use to pad out their life instead of living it. I feel like an asshole because they seem to want me to tug on that first thread, and I can’t help myself but to heave it until it snags or works loose the pretty outfit they were wearing. The bullshit outfit.

The closer I get to something ‘normal’ the further I want to be away from it. I come with warning signs, bells, whistles, textbooks, journals, charts, testimonials, but still nobody listens. They all think it will be different with them, and that their approach will be fresh.

So I crack them open. And that action breaks them or makes them. Whatever happens, when I bump into them again at some point, I see the wound they carry from that time (I tend to meet them at their most vulnerable and destroy that image of what they thought they were). All real warriors carry scars from great wars, and that is what they are, women with the courage to fight for their freedom.

Truth, courage, freedom..

Hot Stuff Day Six Pt 2

Just her acknowledgement of my existence was enough. It immediately elevated me to a higher place, a wonderful Utopia that lesbians try to visit frequently. Resisting the urge to linger was unpleasant. But I managed to make it back to my post unharmed. She drifted past “You going to the lake?” I liquefied into my own lake and whispered “Of course.”

Once the shift was over and the dishes were done (including breast inspection), I clocked a personal best for preparing for an unsanctioned MichFest date. The record time allowed me to hail the ‘late’ bus moments prior departure. Because I was last on I was forced to stand. And because I was forced to stand I was able to see Ms Hot Stuff cycling wildly toward the automobile on a poorly assembled apology for a bike. I hung out the window as we approached. When she saw me she squealed and grabbed my hand “Don’t worry, I will get there.”

She honestly could have had ANYBODY at MichFest; in fact, probably any ‘single’ lesbian on the planet, but she wanted me. Hot Stuff was a head turner. Correction. She was a head detonater. I know, I saw it happen every time she stirred. There was even an occasion when we were out in the truck inspecting the festival line (about 400 women camped on the side of the road waiting to get in) and I watched as women combusted or melted when we cruised by.

And I would throw my coat over these puddles of lesbians to ensure she only saw me.

To Be Continued...