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...

Hot Stuff Day Six Pt 1

The next morning was our first day off – kinda. The kitchen crew traditionally put on brunch and then all the volunteers are trundled off in slow moving female transporters to Lake Michigan for a relaxing day tanning and dating. So my crew worked to ensure everyone enjoyed an unforgettable feast on their day off. It is a magical banquet and a journey through rustic cooking mastery you would expect to find in a medieval festival. The queues of ravenous women nattered excitedly and gestured with their tableware in anticipation of what they were planning to pile on their plate.

I was allocated a large flat utensil and ushered toward an extremely sought after serving post. It didn’t take long to realise why. Every woman eyed me down, grinned, flirted, insinuated or begged for a slice of my peach cobbler. And I am not being filthy. In 3 minutes I had 7 date requests, none of which I had any intention of fulfilling. The only thing I wanted had a Canadian accent and a remarkable vanishing act.

When Hot Stuff finally arrived I managed to slink away from my post unnoticed and float up behind her. My body had no control, the movement was completely physical. She purred seductively “Well good morning you.” I inhaled her ache and was instantly hypnotized. It wasn’t normal to feel so completely spellbound like this. I was hung, finished, and oddly aware that the end of innocence for me was nigh. 

To Be Continued...