What I Need to Say When I Need to Say Something

I’m sitting here, smoking in my room because I have the house to myself, and thinking:

Fuck it.

I’m sick of being So. Fucking. Good.

I’ve had enough of not having sex on the first date, let alone with strangers. Of no longer taking drugs. Of getting anxious around the smell of pot and being shy with guys. Of my need for approval from those in authority.

There is a duality in me, like in all people to some extent, which confuses and frightens me.
I yearn for the self-destructive consumption of alcohol, yet I’m equally repulsed by the lack of self-control it represents.
I am intense and violent in my sexuality but, until very recently, felt horrified and dirty at the thought of presenting anything other than the illusion of pious virginity to my parents. Not to mention the impression I make on men of being intimidating and difficult.
I have a merciless contempt for anything conventional and popular – musically, sartorially, artistically – but I long for the simple sexuality of blonde hair and fake breasts and have a secret playlist of pop R&B songs that I listen to when noone is around to hear it.
I spent a good part of my life trying to starve myself to death, can tell you the caloric content of almost any food you could name, use Equal, drink soy, eat organic… but nothing warms my heart more than deep-fried slivers of potato covered in chicken flavoured sodium chloride with some form of processed meat product. And as a child I would cry myself to sleep about the state of the world and wake up having wet the bed, but these days I eat McDonald’s and never give money to people in the street, as if the $42 a month I send to Lidia Rodriguez in Honduras somehow frees me from any further responsibility or guilt.

I am a walking contradiction and I no longer know how much of this is natural human caprice and how much has come about as a result of attempting to fit my passionate, intense, violent and self-destructive personality into the outlines of the body I’ve chosen to present to the world. But what I do know is that I’m sick of holding it all together. I want to spill out over the edges of my carefully drawn lines and run screaming at the world while I’m still young enough and beautiful enough to do so.

That’s what I want to do.
But after twenty odd years of building up walls, how the fuck am I meant to break them down now?

The Most Beautiful Woman in the World

Post-coital

Right now
today
after sex.
He feels unnecessary.
He lies against me and I face the other way and I feel like the sun.
Outside it’s raining and I imagine I’m in Paris - the beautiful ingénue in an arthouse film and he is one of my many lovers.
He turns my face toward him and says,
“You’re very pretty”.

And I feel alone.

The Lust of my Life

From my private journal, dated 28th August, 2009

Today I saw ______! He was sitting outside Jungle Juice, next door to my work, when I came back from my break, wearing a fisherman's beanie and his 1940's suit.

Beautiful, beautiful man.

I walked past my work and hurried straight over to order a coffee and he remembered me and smiled.
"Hey" I said, staring transfixed into his bluest of blue eyes.
"Hey" he replied, calmly.
"What you up to?"
"Working, working" he said with a camp flick of the wrist. Is he gay? I hadn't really considered it before but it's very possible.
"You?" he added.
"Yeah, working. Next door." I pointed.
We smiled and I ordered my coffee and walked away... but I could've stayed and stared at those eyes for hours. It makes my stomach buzz just thinking about it.
God, I sound like I've been reading Mills & Boon romances. I haven't. I promise. He just has that affect on me. I would marry him tomorrow. I would sleep with his brother, but I would marry him tomorrow.

LATER that same day...
Saw him again. That's two sightings in one day. But there's a negative spin to this story. He was sitting outside the fish'n'chip shop with a female. Rubbing her knee. This leads me to conclude one of two things. Either, she is his partner and therefore the obvious recipient of familiar knee touching, or, he's gay and she is his fag hag (I hate that term. Why did I use it?) She is his female friend and therefore open to all manner of intimate physical contact.

Unfortunately, neither of these possibilities bodes well for my future with Mr ____.