Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Flowers simply die, but dildos are forever.

Quite recently I came to the conclusion that I never really liked men.

I definitely used to like boys, those non-threatening, small-to-medium-build, clean-shaven, hairless, grinning, beer-swilling, clever, and generally innocuous slacker lads of my youth. They were sweet and funny, even sexy. But I never did like men. Facial hair scares me. Chest hair perhaps even more so. I remember one night when I tried to sleep with a male friend of mine, but was so disturbed by the thought of his chest hair that I clung to the edge of the bed all night, clothed head-to-toe, hoping he would take the hint. He did. I found him at 9:00 am the following morning on the couch, watching cartoons.

When I told this to a friend of mine she replied, "that's because you're a lesbian, honey."


So things with TG are dead in the proverbial water, which is sad because it's such beautiful blood-red water full of rapids and tumbling waterfalls, and I have never felt so simultaneously stimulated and frustrated in my life. It's strangely disappointing when you're sitting at a coffee shop shredding a stir stick and putting the broken wooden bits together to form her name, just to be cute, and she blows them away in an instant, without a wisp of an explanation. The most irritating part is that I wasn't naming our children or planning our wedding. All I did was lie awake at night imagining the soft smoothness of her legs on my shoulders and how her perfect rose skin would feel under my fingers. I just wanted to fuck her. C'est tout. And swim in her beautiful mind a little.

Oh well. I suppose we'll be pals, and go housewares shopping, and pretend that we don't actually want each other. That will doubtlessly be easier for her than it will be for me. I am so excellent at torturing myself.

I got that job at the unionized school I interviewed for a few weeks ago. They have a super-complicated corporate ladder, which means I have to start as a substitute and a term worker before I get moved to probational employment, and then 840 work hours later I actually get to be an actual employee. It's going to be a lot of work proving myself at a company where most of the teachers are 20-30 years my senior and have decades of teaching experience. I've only subbed there once so far and I've already been mistaken for a student. Yikes. I'm just going to keep on working whenever they call me in, and see where it takes me.

Most house guests buy their hosts things like flowers, or dinner, before they leave. Not Jag. She wants to buy me a sex toy. Any suggestions? We're going to Womyn's Ware, aka the bestest sex store on earth.

Flowers simply die. But dildos are forever.

I love my life.



by Nome at 2:57 PM
4 mews

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