July 2015

The Gods are always smiling at me. Sometimes they look like the Joker and chuckle like Jabba the Hut. But they smile. Sometimes its loud witch cackles, sometimes twittering giggles. They never laugh AT me, only for me.

I am loved, I know this.

I live an exuberant, grateful life. I say thank you often and rarely, if ever, utter “why me”. The why is on its way and will make itself known, I know this.

What gets funny, and I imagine the Gods and Angels sitting back and having a good laugh, is when I think I know what is going to happen. They are just hanging out up there with these proverbial wrenches to throw at me every time I make a decision on how things ought to be.

I had a date on Wednesday. Beautiful man. Exceptionally talented photographer. I wondered what he was doing asking me out. Not just asking me out, but somehow seeing I was in distress and literally offering me a day off from the world.

I have long been fascinated by the idea of Sanctuary. Knock on the door of any church, claim sanctuary and ta da, insta-refuge.

That is what this felt like. Sanctuary.

I went to a strange man’s house on the first date. Never underestimate the drawing power of a pool and a meal I didn’t have to cook myself. I sat down and did the math. It had been 3 calendar years since a man made me dinner, 5 years before that and before that, pretty much never.

I also asked around about him. And lo, the Lord said let there be Facebook so you can see if you have friends in common and findeth out if’n the man is safe and he was and it was good amen.

I tried to walk into this with no expectations. Not even about how he looked, and he looked GOOD in his photos. Kinda like Khal Drogo. Tall, exotic, tattooed, beardy.  I didn’t stand a chance really.

I heard a rumour he was a little man-whorey. Revolving door of women. Girls seem to last a month or 3. I figured alright, I will take a turn. See how this goes. I figured I could win-win it. If he was a douchebag, I’d fuck him and leave, politely shutting the door on my way out. If I liked him? I had to hold out for at least a day, otherwise I ran the risk of him going ghost, and I would absolutely deserve it for being that easy and typical.

Don’t forget, I am a slut. I love all the sluts, whores are people too.

I love sex and I want to have it, it’s not a commodity, it is an act I love to partake in. I was just hoping that were he to be a douchebag, it would not be at such a level as to cause my vagina to slam shut faster than the door on my way out of it.

Turns out the few hours we spent chatting online, he was telling the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me oh god.

He is a good man, intelligent, single dad, evolved and a damn fine cook.

I tried to not sleep with him when I realized I liked him. Told him why, right before he fucked me, the first time. We had a good chuckle about it, all of us, Gods included, I could hear them over top of me moaning and him growling.

And yes, I am writing this with a bag of frozen peas between my legs.

I float.

I have always kinda floated.

Sometimes in a good way, head in the clouds, free from attachments, wandering but not lost.

Sometimes in a bad way, head in the stormclouds, not feeling attached to anything, really lost.

I went to public school with the same 30 odd kids from grade 2 to 8^th.
There was a girl/group of girls who made me feel like I was always jockeying for a position on the bottom of the totem pole of coolness.

The only way to maintain a space was to be cruel to the other girls down there with me.

I had a chance to apologize to one of those girls and I took it. The Queen of the Wasps? I won’t stoop to even swat at her.

Moving onto high school, I floated. Never permanently affixed to one group or another. Lonely.
There was an entire hive of Waspy Women drones. Making me miserable …barely worth mentioning.
Except to say, I highly value the group of friends I have now. Those who have seen me at my shiniest and dirtiest and just love me as is.

It is with this in mind, and a long history of feeling ostracized, that there is something I cannot abide.

This ‘let me out of the friend-zone’ bullshit when it comes to my man-friends.

My friend-zone is a sacred space, Shangri-fucking-La. Being my friend comes with sooooo many benefits, just not that one.

“Girls are not machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.” Sylvia Plath

Except I am that girl, I am that machine. I love sex. I am also kindness personified and respond awfully well to it.
It’s one of my favorite aphrodisiacs. Strong hands, good sweat and kindness.

What gets my back up 10 ways from Sunday is when one of my man-friends decides he has put enough coins in and that it’s time to take it to the next level. So wait. This entire time you saw me as a life support system for my vagina? You were on some long-term payment plan for sex? That I have no value to you other than providing a warm safe place to stick your cock?

Fuck you. Not literally.

This begs the question…have we met?

I am the Statue of Liberty when it comes to sex. Monstrous, monumental and well lit, VERY liberated. Hard to miss really.

If I want to fuck someone, I ask in a way that won’t make you feel like a walking dildo.
Unless I fuck you on the first date, which means I have no interest in sticking around, which I will say, out loud. I use my fucking words.

I cut through coyness with a machete. I don’t do subtle, I am both crass and honest.

I am also the Statue of Liberty when it comes to my friends, bring me your poor and downtrodden, welcome to the land of plenty.

Trading that in for some (admittedly epic) sex, makes everything temporary. Makes me disposable. Don’t do that. It hurts me.

That being said. I have a few man-friends who politely remind me they want in my pants. There is a way of going about things that sounds a lot like this. “Yes, I am attracted to you, yes I would fuck you if you asked me to, but I want you in my life regardless because you are the sum of all of your parts, not just that one.”

photo by Samuel’s Eye Photography

Wet bus stop, she’s waiting, his car is warm and dry. (The Police)

Okay, I grew up in a town of 6000, we have no buses, ergo no bus stops.

I was walking home in the rain however. You know something, there are quite a few of my stories that contain the phrases “he was standing in the rain, throwing pebbles at my window” or “he chased me in the rain”. I kinda miss that, lately it’s all ghosts, wolves and nachos. The wolves can stay, wet dog smell doesn’t bother me.

It really was raining, he had a sports car, both warm and dry, or hot and wet depending on the day. One of those things I won’t ever forget, the exhilaration of going that fast, in a car with a boy I liked. I had never gone THAT fast before, I had not gone THAT far either. I remember the conversation we had, he got me to name a movie I had already seen in case my parents asked what we did.
We didn’t watch a movie. He was no boy. He was in his 20’s. 22 maybe. I was 15.

Lying liars and the lies I tell.*

Sorry about that, so sorry. Not sorry.

I mentioned him before in that blog post masquerading as a thank you note. I called him my Teacher. It’s a euphemism, he was not a teacher, not a real one. His name was actually Troy. I am naming him, just in case. Haven’t seen him in over 2 decades. Haven’t forgotten a thing he taught me. I have a feeling he hasn’t forgotten me either.

I saw him again when I was 19. I was walking down the street, in front of our decrepit movie theater. My head in the clouds brought back down to earth by the sound of tires screeching, and my name called loud and clear by a familiar voice.

It wasn’t raining. It was about a thousand degrees outside and I was on my way from the lake, my hair was wet, close enough. He got out of the car and lifted me way up in a bear hug I wrapped my legs around him out of habit. He kissed me, noting that I was much more confident and grown up than when he last saw me. I watched him watching me, the look in his eyes screamed approval, hunger, wanting.

He walked me down the block to buy me ice cream, perfectly back to the beginning. We talked about that summer of ours, I mentioned how I eventually lost my virginity and his shoulders slumped. He said he wished he would have done right by me, that he had been brave. I clucked my tongue ever so gently, kissed his forehead and told him it was alright, he believed me. Had we met just then at 19 and 26, everything would have been just fine, maybe even happily ever after fine. But as it stands I was Cinderella for a summer and it took him 3 years to give me my shoe. While waiting I slipped in a big ol’ pile of pumpkin guts, apt metaphor for low I lost my virginity.

He wouldn’t take it because he couldn’t keep me.

Explain this to a 15 year old girl with stars in her eyes, and aching I couldn’t control.

Wait, explain this to a 15 year old girl while she is in your apartment, naked except for her over-the-knee socks, sundress on the floor, panties in purse. Laying back on the ugly but oh-so-soft couch salvaged out of a goodwill somewhere. Squirming in the puddle we had just made. He was kneeling on the floor, head in my lap. I could feel his breath where his mouth had been. We were both sweaty and sated, I was playing with his hair. Play pouting to cover my maddening womanly want and little girl hurt.

“Why won’t you fuck me?”

“Because I love you, but I can’t do right by you. We can’t be together, no one would understand.”

“But we ARE together, and I understand, and so do you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The tone in his voice was of the ‘case closed’ variety. I didn’t push it. I did push his head back into my pussy and was rewarded for the subject change.

He might have been my first Scorpio, which sounds like the truth, but I cannot remember.

He was stunning. Green eyes and a head full of ink black curls. Taller than the Empire State building, built just as substantial and unyielding. Straight white teeth and one of those mouths that walked the line between soft as pillows and strong as steel, depending.

I was a misunderstood little nymphette. The boys in my town have told me, 20 years later that I was intimidating. Really? I was curious, and lonely. Teacher saw this and protected me, from them and from myself. He showed me what I was worth.

He taught me a lot that summer. Hence the nickname. SO much patience and self-control. I was a rather apt pupil mind you. Lessons in reading and writing body language, tilting my hips/lips ever so slightly this way or that, finding rhythms and how to change them with subtlety and grace. What my body is capable of. What my tongue is capable of, and the power that exists bringing a man to climax with your bare hands and hungry mouth. How to kiss passionately building up to it 101, that those moments in between pulling back just a little and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt were just as good (if not better) that the kiss itself. That theory covered everything like a blanket. Teasing, touching, anticipation.  Building something, like a song with perfect cadence. Orgasms like the wake of a speed boat on a still lake.

How to make everything last, except us. Eventually the ripples stop, water goes back to glass, reflecting.

Paraphrased from the book title Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken

I keep hearing this…

I’m gay* for Ruby Rose.

*you keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
I think the word you are looking for is

inconceivable

ˌinkənˈsēvəb(ə)l/

adjective

not capable of being imagined or grasped mentally

Let’s reanimate Shakespeare and see what he has to say.
Probably something like “oh look Viola, good goddamn she is hot.”

Bring on the overwhelm.

I have 4 women in my life (more than that, but for this) My Moon, my Stars, my Sunrise and my Sunset respectively. All of them beautiful, but more than that, they have light that radiates out from their core. All 4 elicit emotional responses from me.

My moon pulls me, I gravitate to her. I described her here once as the girl I fell in love with as I watched her walk across a room. She is art, agape and all things good in the world.

My stars guide me, remind me I’m made of stardust, that there is magic in the world. She is my soul sister, my twin. We pull tarot cards for each other. I cry when she cries.

My sunrise motivates me, she is my fresh start every day, calls to mind the potential we have to start over, to let last night go and greet the day as it is, glowing and glorious. She is my energetic self, walking around outside of my body.

My sunset soothes me, she is my reflection and my rest. The comfort of my bed and the satisfaction of a day well spent. She is home and safety and acceptance and rest when the world gets tiresome.

So what does this have to do with Ruby Rose?

There is a sexual aspect contained in my feelings for them.
They are beautiful to me.
Enlightened, evolved, spiritual, loving creatures. They all glow in their own way. Their skin is soft, their embraces are fierce and warm, the bodies their souls inhabit are as marvelous and gorgeous as the spirits contained within. I get dumbfounded by the sheer magnitude of my feelings and whatever cavewoman bits of my brain that still exist think, WANT. My modern brain equates want to a few categories mostly, taste smell and touch. Touch gets exaggerated to fuck and covet.

The natural phenomenon I have likened my 4 girls to are things of indescribable and phantasmagorical splendour.

We, as a society, are inundated with so many images per day we have lost the concept of awe and wonderment. Our eyes are overfed and our thesauruses underused.
Ruby Rose comes along and suddenly women all over are finally having a typical male response to a walking work of art.

We see Ruby Rose in all of her androgynous feral glory and our thoughts turn to cravings we cannot explain, or we could if we just tried but it comes out sounding like “She is so pretty I want to fuck her”.

Look at her from one angle and she is a beautiful boy, look at her from another angle she is a gorgeous girl. Trompe L’oiel. Trick of the eye. Add to this that she is mortal and theoretically accessible. I mean she is easier to touch than say the Aurora Borealis, and she really does ooze sex with every movement. She is confusing, she kinda looks like Leonardo DiCaprio but with a troutier poutier mouth and of course there are the tits.

She is the apex of Ode to Joy, arguably the most amazing piece of music ever composed, she is a Mandala and the Temple of Artemis walking around in human form, balancing the masculine and feminine, strength and grace. Perfectly imperfect. A beautiful conundrum.

You don’t want to fuck her per say, but that is the best your poor overloaded brain can come up with as a comparison for looking on something so wondrous and divine.

If you see her naked, and you will (watch the show) she is displayed the same way ever other woman is presented. Raw, stark, unedited and unapologetic. I had a moment last night during the bathroom scene wherein I realized, that is what I look like naked, minus the hand tattoos. It was empowering, finally someone realistic elevated on the collective sexual pedestal, without Photoshop or airbrushing. Just a beautiful woman standing naked in a dirty bathroom, the juxtaposition was not lost. I don’t look through the veils of how we are supposed to see things. I feel something and ask why.

My hope is this. That at some point all of the women that are attracted to her will realize that they themselves are composed of the same magical elements. That by wanting to fuck her, they themselves are fuckable, desirable and beautiful in their own right. Self-love born of misguided covetousness.