Friday, December 01, 2006

Kissing Frogs

It's 2am and i'm wired on coffee.

I should have had an antihistamine instead of a cafenoir at bedtime last night. My skin itches from summer, so do my eyes.

the air is dank, even though a soft wind blows. the skanky stench of Maryjane wafts in with distant noises of people's drunken weekend. these endless hot blank nights of stupidity and heat and darkness are what i'm running from. 12 days and counting.

I'm trying to write a paper and I can't. Feel too dumb. I am on the cusp of something.

I've had a horrible slow week of sleeping, sobbing useless gloom. It lifted yesterday.

Writing is a profoundly neurotic activity. as if i'm not neurotic enough!

My fingers itch, my twat smells. My arse feels solid and slow and sore.

there is some good news. I finally managed to screen the texts from psychobunny. so i've had some relief. thank dog.

there's been no sign of her person in the hood either. yet. Not that i've been out looking. I evne missed gurlesque last sunday. the commune had its AGM at the same time and I thoguht I'd better show some civic responsibility for a change.

whoretic's descriptionof the smallness of sapphic circles did send shivers of recognition into my entrails.

sydney is such a small world. And mostly a very safe one. or so it seemed.

anyway - the universe last week was guiding me towards retreat, solitdue and contemplation. whoretic's own museings on the possible sanity of non-coupling interactions resonated wiht the advice of another friend last weekend... she said she liked to a have a year of celibacy between relationships - rather than rushing into rebounds.a nice time to heal and focus on the self and grow.

Part of me thinks NYC will provide this - coz the rebound thing has been really full on. I don't know if this is the relationship I want or not.I've written and stated this repeatedly - sometimes even to the person concerned (I'm working on my passive aggression but it's a long road OK?)

Some one at uni is doing a thesis on the fairy tale myths and modern postfeminists (or whatever the girly version of metrosexual manginas are...)

and then zoo's posting from a week ago got me thinking.....

SOmetimes I think I'm kissing a frog hoping that it will turn into a prince. Or a princess. Sometimes I think I'm kissing a prince, hoping he'll turn into a princess. Sometimes I KNOW I'm kissing a bloody princess and wishing I had a prince. Or a frog. It doesn't help that my ex-princess is literally a frog (aussie slang for dem frenchies) and the frog slang for dyke; 'gouine' means toad. Charming. And i don't know, when I'm desperately desiring the consort - if I'm desring him, or Abel, or what I dreamt Able would be (and was, but idn't now) or what I wish the consort would be (but isn't). am i just infatuated with my own desire?

The consort (frog/princess) once said that all women want to be treated as princesses. Under such expectations, sometimes even I am reduced to the odd pouty sulk and flounce. but in general I'd say I'm more of a QUEEN. I have an ex who called me "Reina Margarita" and even my victorian appellation for the consort - has a stately regal tone. My tits are too big to be a princess. and my gut. and my opinions.

I'm not that crazy about eating frogs legs - but maybe I should have taken the frog/princess to the same frogleg serving restaurant as the last 'deciding factors'.

(this term is a sapphic euphemism for last bioboys bonked - and one that I use with tongue firmly in my cheek. I don't tend to see lesbianism as a reaction to the failings of men - but as an opening up towards the possibilities of women - stalkers aside.. it's a positive thing - well at least the desire is)

and i'm not sure if I'm entirely comfortable with the reverse scenario either. My confessions to other dykes about bonking a bioboy are usually met with 'ahh, don't worry darl, it happens' - and the stalker mentioned that 3 of her exes had turned straight (and now I fucking well see why.... cheezels christ!).

As embarrassing as it is - I actually enjoy the genitalia of said frog/princess. Not as much as ladybits - but certainly more than a dildo. (this may change once I hit the sex shops of NYC wiht my credit card!). My eyes water with desire in his presence, or even imagining it. My whole body shudders with delight at the lightest touch. i do melt into his arms, and in his mouth. Every milimetre of my flesh aches for his touch, inside and out. i haven't felt this physically attracted to anyone for a long, long time.

so what do I do? write this off as an abberation, a delirium induced by heartbreak and heterosexism? or wanking to to much gayboy porn? or girlboi porn?

After 10 years of preaching/writing/teaching open ended poststructuralist polymorphous openendedgenderism - i *still* find this stuff hard to deal with. as much as i can tell myself that the consort is a total girl, and a complete princess - and just has boy bits on the outside - it's another fairytale. One designed to smooth my own creeping back into some scary closet of inadequate role playing. Part of me hopes desperately that one day I won't be kissing a princess but some immense magical prince who'll take away all my worries about doing a phD, about being too fat, too poor, too weird, too grumpy to live any fairytale.and then i shudder' at myself, at him, at the situation.

I wonder how can I feel such immense, intense desire for someone I don't really love that much? - I mean, don't worship, don't idolise, don't feel is all that stimulating, good for my career, good for my sanity or my popularity levels?

(oh fuck i'm turning into paris hilton)

This desire doesn't feel reciprocated. so often the frog/princess falls short, and I fall flat on my face. furstrated, hurt, flumoxed. I sulk and cry in my corner - or go out and defiantly ignore the frog/princess - only to be summonsed and soothed instantly as soon as heshe gets an inclination to touch me.

Sometimes I think I'm a fucking idiot. And i want to run away and never come back.

I was going to write something interesting - and hopefully be fired up enough to work on a GREAT AESTHETIC MANIFESTO and hence conference paper - but obviously I am so shallow and vapid and hopeless and braindead that I'd better stop now.

I reckon sex is destroying my IQ. Or yoga is. Or this crazy new non-sugar non-dairy diet. I shat green turds the other day.

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