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Mi, 5. Mär 2008, 07:24

Her first kiss wasn't her first kiss. It was with a boy she didn't love, though she thought she did. It wasn't beautiful, or life-changing; it wasn't even slobbery or awkward. It was, simply, boring.

The kiss she prefers to remember as a "first kiss" was a lot more like what those are supposed to be. It was with the first boy she ever really loved - though he's not really a boy - and she thought she loved two  before him. He was charming, confident, with the looks and skilled touch to back both of those up. And he wanted her. She was shy, quiet, reserved, didn't want to make the first move for fear of being rejected. So he, exasperated (though secretly he probably thought it was adorable), took what he wanted. And she gave it willingly.

Her first fuck wasn't her first fuck. It was hasty, unplanned, unprotected, unfinished. Almost unnoticed.

The fuck she prefers to remember as the night she lost her virginity...still wasn't what you'd expect. She was his birthday present. Birthday present, to that boy who doesn't want to be a boy, that never knew (because she never showed him) how much she loved him. It was better than she expected it would be - so little pain! and he had experience giving pleasure, so the lack of tenderness was almost made up for. In retrospect, she probably should have given him a better gift - she never was very good in bed.

Her first love wasn't her first love. She thought it was, for quite awhile, until she learned what infatuation truly felt like. Shortly thereafter, she learned what it felt like to hurt someone and not give a damn.

Her first love was irrational, unexpected, unfulfilled. He never once considered that she might want more from him, not until it was too late. Never once realized that though his spritely confidante gave her body to him willingly, gave him her ear as often as he needed it, she would have given him her heart if he'd ever thought to ask. He did think to ask, but by then it was too late. Too late to do anything, too late to make amends, too late to give the life she wanted a chance.

She goes through life forgetting all of this. She makes her life into a new storybook every time someone asks, rewriting the details as she sees fit that day. It's more fun that way. It makes more sense. Nobody wants to see the skeletons in the closet, or the rags hanging on the clothesline. They want shiny and new, beautiful, untouched. So that's what she gives them. It's what she does best.

Eventually, that shiny new untouched storybook life that she spins fresh becomes real to her. She makes it real for everyone else, makes it tangible with embellishments and tasteful omissions with just enough reality left in to make it palatable, and eventually she starts to believe it herself. Her memory works overtime, erasing and rewriting, until she genuinely doesn't remember certain things as having been real. The story becomes real and reality becomes a story, and though she's caught in her own tangled web, she doesn't mind. It's safe there.

Mi, 11. Mai 2005, 00:06

It's the smell of damp concrete stairs and the breeze floating in from the open doors to the loading dock, carrying with it a green scent of grass and earth after a rain in summer.

It's the feel of air on sweaty skin, of shivers in anticipation of a job well-done.

It's the sight of a dark backstage and pointe shoes at the end of well-shaped, pink-clad legs beneath layers of delicate-but-itchy white tulle.

It's the sound of music - any type, really, not just the music of the classics, but new and intriguing creations - being piped over the speakers and the hush of an attentive audience.

It is a memory. Only memory, now, nothing more tangible. But it is a memory, and part of me, part of who I am. It shaped me. When I need to feel motivated, when I need to recall what it feels like to live, what it feels like to strive on the road to all-that-I-can-be...I bring up this memory. The memory of the glory of summer, of the joy of hard work and its own rewards, of doing what is truly right for me.

There are other memories.

Memories of rushing, adrenaline-spurred, up two flights of stairs and behind a control booth, slipping on gloves and headset, panting "Spot Three here" into the headset, carefully aiming a Source Four at the head of our very own wonderful Maria, singing and dancing of her day in the hills and how her heart wants to laugh like a brook when it trips and falls over stones in its way, following her until she must return to the abbey and I to stage right.

Memories of slapping a ball of clay onto the wheel-head, gently pushing the pedal and (wo)man-handling the clay onto center, carefully judging whether the clay needs more water, bringing it up into a solid column and opening it with two thumbs like a flower, using light pressure and force of will to mold it into a useful shape, letting it set a bit before removing it and sending it to the "to-be-fired" tray.

Memories of hours spent hunched over 18-gauge stainless steel wire, pliers in each hand, bending and twisting and closing and dropping and continuing in the mindless pattern until the shape is finished, then starting all over again with much smaller wire and beads, watching as a beautifully delicate creation takes shape - smoothing away rough edges, that they might not catch on skin and clothes, measuring lengths against wrists, necks, fingers, attaching clasps, gently laying the finished piece into a padded box to be gifted, to see the surprise and delight on the face of the recipient.

Memories of sitting quietly in the passenger's seat, listening, offering nothing but a supporting, healing presence, as the pain of a tormented soul is unburdened in sometimes-eloquent, sometimes-uncertain words in the wee hours of the morning, giving love and support and feel-better energy to those around me who need it and appreciate it.

There are different kinds of memories.

Memories of hours in bed, naked, enjoying the delicately torturous shivers of pleasure, of rough kisses and biting passion and clawing fingernails, of drinking deep from the wellspring of tender kisses and touches to be had, of bringing another to the brink of madness-by-pleasure, of the delight and delicious knowledge that I am wanted as much as I want.

Memories of driving eight hours on the pretext of "visiting colleges", in order to see a lover that's been sorely missed, of standing in the back of the audience with a self-satisfied, anticipatory Cheshire-Cat-grin, of the look of surprise when they look up - something akin to being hit upside the head with a 2x4 but enjoying it immensely, of sitting in the front row and catching the odd glance of something deep and abiding and much more than mere musician/groupie appreciation, of being told "Don't you dare go anywhere," then being swept up in a fierce bear-hug and swung around, of evading mothers and wives and deadlines and anything else that might stand in the way, and getting lost and having adventures but above all, being together and being loved.

Life is memory. I hesitate to say that there is little tangible about the past - because there is much tangible about the past - but most of all, the past is preserved in our memories. To remember is to give life to something. To remember an achievement is to achieve it anew; to remember a love is to be loved once more. To relive experiences in the mind is to gain experience and knowledge from them, to know to repeat good things and avoid past mistakes.

I can't live in my memories, much as I'd like to. I can't go back to those summer days in the Vermont theater, clattering up or down those damp cement steps in nothing more than a white leotard, romantic tutu, pink tights, and pointe shoes. I can't be who I was then. I can be who I am now, made by who I was then. I can take her and mold her and shape her into me.

I am my memories. I am who I am.

Fr, 22. Apr 2005, 17:37
Why do I lose?

I spent the afternoon with Brian. Well, no. Not with Brian, completely. At Wheelock, working, where Brian was also working, though on the other side of the stage. *sigh* That boy...I don't know what I think and feel when it comes to him. I give the impression that I'm obsessed with him, that I'd sleep with him, given the chance. But really, I don't think I would. Certainly, I'd like to know what it's like to kiss him, and be allowed to touch his body. But, as with Ken until recently, it feels as though any and all touch we shared would be pure lust, all passionate and violent and not at all tender or soft.

After the show, we chatted. He claims that my opinion of him is based on assumptions, which of course I asked him to correct.

My first assumption: He's in a monogamous relationship. His reply? Yes, he's in a relationship, and it's monogamous, but he would do things outside of the relationship, provided that the following three conditions are met: Opportunity (meaning a willing partner that he's attracted to), time (meaning he's not supposed to be somewhere or with someone and wouldn't be missed), and protection (meaning nobody would ever find out except the involved parties). I can guarantee protection - I know how to keep my mouth shut. It's insulting to think that someone wouldn't trust me not to say anything once I'd given my word.

My second assumption: He wouldn't do anything with me, given the chance. His reply? Wrong. hmm. okay, so i knew that already - or suspected, at least - but what does that mean, in practice? in theory, it means i could kiss him and he would enjoy it. but...i feel inferior next to him. it bugs the hell out of me, but i need to learn how to overcome that.

He wants to know what I want from him. What he wants from me is, apparently, the amusement he gets daily from me. So, me being me, I don't know what I want from him. That's the honest truth. I know I want to see how far he'd go, given the chance, and I want to know how much I have to be the aggressor, but beyond that, I don't know. I told him I didn't really want anything, that I'd probably just take whatever he offered. So of course now he wants to know what I'd take. I've refused to answer so far, by avoiding the question. i'm getting remarkably good at that, at answering other questions, or steering the topic to something else...not sure whether this is good or bad. hmm.

We spent a while talking in the dark under the frost-giant set piece stairs after photo call. Our verbal sparring got to the point where I mentioned that it felt like we were playing a game. He commented that that's because it is a game. There are no rules, but it's obvious who wins and who loses. I seem to always lose, and that's because I don't know how to play. but nobody ever is willing to show me how to play! "tell me and i will hear, show me and i will see, involve me and i will understand" inexperience, though, is only part of an excuse, and must be overcome by gaining experience.

The thing that annoys me, though, is my own reactions. I had him alone, in a dark corner, with nobody around and him presumably willing, and I could've kissed him. I could've seen what his reaction would be. I could've taken the chance, overcome my fears - but I didn't. It's all about fear. Fear of rejection, fear of ruining a good working relationship and quasi-friendship, fear even, perhaps, of success? Fear that I would have to take the lead, and try and fail to please someone. Failure. Fear of failure. Fear that I wouldn't know how to please him, and that he'd then think less of me. But why do I care what he thinks of me?

"I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain."

I didn't kiss him. I didn't take the lead, I wasn't the aggressor, I did not initiate. I was afraid.

This is why I lose.

Fr, 25. Mär 2005, 21:15
Memories call, and I must answer

16 September 2004 - Thursday

Two nights ago, Matt called. Or I called him; I don't rightly recall. Given that we'd hardly spoken in six months, I think it more likely that he called me. He's in town, performing with Tanya, and he wants to see me while they're here. They're going to go see the LotR exhibit at the Museum of Science, and would I like to go with? of course i do, silly; i want to see it and i want to see you but i haven't seen you in SO LONG and i don't know if you still feel the same way about me that you used to - honestly, i'm scared. I answered yes, and we pencilled each other in for this afternoon, around 3 o'clock, at the museum.

Today, I dressed myself with him in mind; the jeans I wore the first time I ever met him at faire, a black ribbed v-neck T-shirt, my black Chinese-silk-like duster-thing, and black Chucks. Black satin underwear. My ears aren't pierced yet, so no earrings; I'm not a necklace or bracelet person, so the only jewelry is my three rings - Salem-pentacle, out-pointing claddagh, and NEFFA Celtic moon. School blurred by with the pace simultaneously of a snail and the wind. As 2:15 approached, my heart pounded in anticipation, my palms began to sweat, I had to breathe deeply to calm myself. The bell rang. I dashed to my locker, out the door, onto my bike. Spent ten minutes figuring out how, exactly, I was getting there. Biking, fast, down calm green Esplanade paths; stopping, once, to check the time on my cell-phone, and to take a breather. I was sweating, from the warmth of the day and the exercise (and also from anticipation and nerves), but there's nothing to be done about it. Hop back on the bike, continue on, pull up in front of the museum. Lock the bike, gaze uncertainly at the dark glass of the museum's outside. Thinking I'm early, I turn awkwardly and sit on the polished-granite benches and open my bag, to check the time on my cell-phone.


I look up sharply. In front of me, the door swinging shut behind him, is Matt. Beautiful, wonderful, missed Matt. I close my bag and dash towards him, into his arms. Hard embrace. maybe he does still remember our once-love Tanya's right behind him, so I hug her too. As we go back into the museum, they talk at me - the time, the time on our tickets into the exhibit, that we need to put our stuff into a locker, mundane things. I smile, nod, make appropriate responses. Matt gives me a cookie, then Tanya does. "What is this? You fattening me up to eat me or something?" I ask, amused. "They're special stock-broker cookies," they explain, given them by their stock-broker. I shake my head and eat them, giving part of one to Tanya and part to Matt. They get something to drink, asking if I want anything; negative. I'm fine. We sit by the windows, chatting. Tanya asks what I've been up to this year, and I'm taken aback. My mind is blank; Matt knows what I've been up to, mostly, from our conversations, but Tanya doesn't, and I have no idea what to say. Finally I make some comment about Scotland, and drama, and things like that, and it's all good. Matt gets up to get a refill, only to discover that the sticky back of the bench stuck to his sweater. I compliment Tanya's earrings (they're purple and very pretty), and we make small talk. she's really pretty...matt really does have good taste Back comes Matt, and the conversation resumes.

It's time to go to the exhibit, so we dump our trash and dance our merrily musical way up the chiming-stairs to Middle Earth, where we somewhat reverentially pass a Cave Troll and Gandalf's booming "You shall not pass!" We spend a good half hour just looking at costumes, art, each character's creation, together as a triad. I break off after awhile, and it is as I am watching a character-creation video, one of many, that Matt steps up behind me. Close, very close. There's maybe an eighth of an inch between his body and mine, and I move back ever so slightly so we're touching. oh love...to have you here with me is delightful, i can't even express it. i need you closer to me, break down barriers!

"Am I crowding you?" Low tone, quiet in my ear.
"No, of course not. You could never crowd me." Equally quiet, with a smile in my words.

I lean against him. He's warm and strong. We move away, together, to another part of the exhibit. In the line for the Frodo/Gandalf perspective wagon photo, Tanya finds us and joins us. We're silly ones, we three, and Matt promises to make me a copy of the resulting pictures. i feel guilty that you spent so much money on me this outing - money for museum admission, exhibit ticket, and now this.. Tanya's already been to see the Orcs and Nazgul, and wanders off to a completely different part of the exhibit, leaving Matt alone with me. We meander around together, his arm around my waist or on my back. Physical contact is nice, especially with him. On our way to the Nazgul-costume, he reminds me that I owe him a kiss. 'Tis true, I do, and I say as much, with a half-smile up at him. It's asking a question, and he answers in kind. He shines a flashlight into the Nazgul's hood, tsk-ing at me that I'm a tech director and I don't even have a flashlight on my belt! But it's all in fun, and we laugh as we move on. As we walk, he massages my shoulders a little - I smile gratefully back at him and try to convey with body language just how much I liked that. i have no idea if he understood or not...

Standing in the footprints telling us what kind of Middle Earth creature we are, by height - I'm either a very small Orc or a very tall Dwarf, but I'm well-dressed! and Matt is wizard-height (he smirks at me until the recorded voice compares him to Saruman, and then it's my turn to smirk at him), and we move on. Near the Ring cave, we stand watching a video on the creation of Gollum. I lean against his chest, encircled in his arms. I have no idea what the video is talking about, so focused am I on him and the bliss found in the warm circle formed by his body. interesting, that tanya still hasn't crossed our path. what does she think of us? what does she know? is she intentionally giving us time alone? why? i'm a little worried, but i suppose it'll be all right. Eventually we've seen all it has to show, and meander into the Ring cave. It's our second time through, and the exhibit closes very soon. There's nobody in there but we two. kiss me, love, please...we'll not get another chance this meeting, if ever there was a time and a place it's here

Lit by the roving Ring-gobo and the glow of the hanging-Ring-pillar, we embrace gently, and our lips meet. My heart is pounding and rejoicing and generally doing insane things of happiness...the world is perfect and focused entirely on the being kissing and being kissed by me. There are no choirs of angels singing, no burst of brilliance in my mind or heart, but it is wonderful - until the security guard breaks the moment by telling us the exhibit is closing, would we please leave? Sigh. I don't know whether I jerked back when I realized someone was there with us - I think I did, and that Matt probably wouldn't have stopped if I hadn't - but either way, we were shooed out of the dark, fiery cave. Our arms go around each other's waists, and we walk in step. All I can see is the floor in front of me and our two feet moving in unison. We have to leave, and to find Tanya, and so we do. I have to go, alas, and I say so. Sadness all around; we go back to where we left our things.

The lockers are blue, as are Matt's t-shirt and sweater, and Tanya comments on how well they bring out Matt's eyes. He, jokingly, asks if he should just flatten himself against the blue wall - and does so, to my and Tanya's amusement. Tanya excuses herself to use the cafeteria bathroom, and Matt and I sit down on a bench. His arm goes around me, I lean against him, we chat. I take his hand and trace its lines, the hard strength and agility in it, and Tanya returns. This time I know I'm the one to pull back, because I still have no idea whether Tanya knows the extent of my and Matt's affection is it love? is it really? still, after all this time apart? i'm inclined to say yes, but i don't know what he thinks. i'm inclined to think yes, though... for each other, and if she does, whether she approves. Somehow I think she doesn't, and I really have no wish to cause conflict between the two of them or between myself and the beautiful wife of my love. someday...someday could she love me as he does? i have the feeling i could love her as i love him, as he loves her...but only time will tell, and i have no desire to push things beyond reasonable boundaries.

We part, but only after they extract from me a promise to be at their concert on Sunday. Believe me, I'll be there. All the hounds of the Morrigan couldn't keep me away.

Later, much later, I am to write an entry in my deadjournal of the emotions evoked by the experience, addressed implicitly to Matt. Days later, I am to write a paper for a writing class on the total experience, on the beauty and fear and ultimate reassurance and love contained therein. But for now...for now I just exult in being.

Sa, 12. Mär 2005, 22:35
Snow and memory

I spent the evening with friends (JBS and Tu, male acquaintances with whom I enjoy spending time. Neither one of them is interested in relationships. It's quite refreshing). Starbucks is the venue of choice tonight; Tall Caramel Mocha is the drink of the evening (at least for me). The particular Starbucks, we chose for convenience, and it has a few very personal memories associated therewith...

reading, reading, rushing to absorb information and turn the page to read, read, read more so i can know what the fuss is about, why it is that she pressed the book into my hands and ordered me to finish it then and there so we could discuss it. she sits next to me, taking a sadistic pleasure in denying me a sip of her venti toffee nut latte, she knows i love it, she knows if she denies me i'll focus, she denies me. she likes it. the power attracts. she sips, she watches me read, she converses with the barista. hours pass in the world around me, days and years pass in the world inside my head. it's done. i'm all awhirl; action built and built and built and tension grew, and nothing was revealed, then BAMit'shappeningclimaxwhat'sgoingonit'sdoneit'sdonethe story is over in fifteen pages. discuss? says she. not now, says i. coffee comes. i sip.

cold. cold and wet and dreary outside, warm and soothing inside. plush green chair beneath, jazz in the air, scent of coffee and his hair. his hair, with which i am intimately familiar. his hair, soft in my fingers, sexual for me and for him. i shift, shivering, into his lap; i cover us with my sweatshirt, in lieu of a blanket. we nuzzle, warming up...he is soon more than warm, and cuddling turns from sweet to steamy. his hand slips up beneath the obscuring sweatshirt, under my shirt, under the plain white bra, cupping my breast and squeezing. i react with pleasure, and his hand moves down lower. under cover, always under cover of the sweatshirt, he undoes the closure of my jeans and slides his fingers down, down, down to the secret warmths inside. inside my jeans, inside me. slide and flick, agile, deft, soon i am on the brink of explosion. i come, and come, and come, and still he doesn't stop, and it starts to hurt from so much stimulation but the pleasure is still there beneath, so i say nothing...the barista wanders around, starting to clean up for close up, and i'm sure she knows exactly what we're doing, but i don't care and neither does he. finally i can't take it anymore, and it's five minutes till closing, so i ask him to stop, and he stops, and i rezip, and we leave. kiss on the corner, and he's gone.

None of this came up in conversation, of course, as these two companions are quite different from those in the past. Ascetic and intellectual, the topics run the gamut from SATs to movies to theatre. Closing time comes and goes, and we adjourn to a nearby food court, and continue the discussion for another hour. JBS leaves, and with him the Tu, and so I make my way out into the blustery winter notquitewonderland. It's dark, cold, and the snow falls in small, swiftlyflying flakes. I intend to take the bus, or maybe the train...but I start walking and singing, and thinking, and you know, I really don't want to go inside just yet. So I keep on keepin' on. Down the street, on autopilot, as the snow crunches beneath my feet and the wind whistles past my ears. I don't really hear either one yet; I'm still singing. Soon the song ends, and I talk to myself - inside my head and with my voice. I've fallen into my faire accent, and I can use the practice, so I speak quietly to myself about - nothing. Everything and nothing. Things I see, things I recall, things that want addressing, things I hope for. The streets become less populated, and there's an alley there - do I want to go down it, avoiding the traffic of the corner twenty feet ahead? I do. I make a lone set of turned-out tracks between the tiretracks down the alley and up the other side, and at the top I look back. The footsteps curve and straighten out, leave the center so I don't slip and return to climb. I turn and go down the quiet street.

There's nobody here, and now I can hear the crunch of my footsteps quite clearly. Too clearly. I walk toe-ball-heel, and it's quieter, but soon I stop. The delicate branches of the tree before me are encrusted with light snow and lacy ice, illuminated in the old streetlamp's glow. I gaze for a few moments, collecting my thoughts, and move on. Meditative the rest of the way home, I stop again at a silent park and watch a young man play with his dog in the falling snow. I smile, move on, moving slower and slower the nearer and nearer I get to my house. I don't want to go in, though I'm cold and wet with snow. I want the reflective mood to persist. It can't. I go in.