talking to girls about boys

Dear Diary,
I've been single for a while, right? I haven't had a relationship, I mean a Relationship, you know the sort of thing where both parties acknowledge that it exists without running away and hiding from the mere possibility, since before I started writing here. That was two years, four continents, three cities, a degree and a half dozen houses ago. It was also a handful of assorted encounters ago- flash in the pan things, or torturously ephemeral things, or things of mutual convenience and equally mutual lack of excitement.

The world & my life in it have changed. Which makes me think, is it possible to forget how to do it? Not sex, you idiot, the 'relationship' bit. People say it's like riding a bike, but I never learnt how to do that either, and I can't help feeling that I'm missing some essential list of requirement & procedure.

What is without doubt is that my instincts have screamed yes, and I am not one to deny them. With pheremonal compatibility this good, who needs the mad relationship skillz?

I am not, by the way, in one of those relationship thingys. This post is not... entirely hypothetical, but it is also quite likely premature.

So this weekend has so far been the freeway on a bike, thighs cramped with gripping, wind whipping the helmet, long gold afternoon sun on green winter hills. Pink cow pajamas in front of a fire, bird calls, smell of bushland, and a lot of this is fast and I'm uncertain but oh fuck yes please.

Anyway diary, thanks for listening,
Ali

Return of Biker Bitch Barbie

So the weekend started with a relatively relaxed hustle to get out to Hellfire, and ended at six o'clock Monday morning being ridden home on a motorbike, pre-dawn licking at my hands and the small of my back where my jeans don't quite meet the leather jacket. Street lights have halos at that time of morning.

And while (big, sexy, shiny, pretty-lights) bike is a bit of a chick-magnet I'm sure, it's actually the boi in front of me- who leans an arm back to stroke my leg, and pulls my knees tighter around h(is*) hips every so often- that I'm more excited about.

Dirty alley-way gropings, making out with abandon on the dance floor at the ball, the feathers-and-felt hair-clip that says "FILTHY" in diamante letters that I made, fishnet stockings against leather pants. Cruising with friends, knives at my throat, dancing for hours and hours, rescue missions, hot new boots & sharp-cut tailcoat with pin-tuck shirt. Staring and smiling and reaching out to touch and being all like for real?

Then being woken up in the dark with a cup of tea & a sly grin, and the weekend's over but the jacket and helmet on my coffee table ("Keep 'em til next time") tell me that this part isn't.

* Pronoun fun! Switchable pronouns make written English torturous.

Intrepid Sweet Things

I went for a long walk through Sydney Park this morning in the freezing wind and spitting rain. It made me feel terribly intrepid & English. Isn't that what English people do for exercise? Walk over rolling hills in the freezing cold? The girl I was walking with told me I wasn't wearing enough tweed to pull off the English thing, but oh well.

Also, for a distinctly un-sporty person, I have been picking up lots of sporty dykes in the last eighteen months. It's confusing, and I can only attribute it to the magnetic power of good arms, and also the 'in touch with ones body' thing. But what is their attraction to me? Little miss web geek couch potato, allergic to sport & compulsive consumer of sweets? One of these sporty types referred to me last night as "radiant", at which point I decided it was time to stop with the Musk Vodka. If it makes me either a) glow or b) look happily pregnant, it can't be good.

Dilemma: I won tickets to the Black & White ball on Saturday night, which I had not otherwise planned on going to. I also won dinner for myself & my date beforehand. Standard last-minute outfit planning would suggest I wear a corset to the ball, but dinner-beforehand suggests that this would be foolish (I do actually want to enjoy dinner, not suffer through it with dainty birdlike corset-friendly portions). What is the femme grrl's modern etiquette around asking her date to do her corset up for her later in the night?

Boots & Photos

Going shopping on Enmore Road with cute little not-goth-not-punk grrl who says it "goff" in the most edible possible way is probably bad for my budget. This is my third boot purchase in about a month. I am strangely exhilarated- I never make purchases like this on the spur of the moment, I always think about it for a few weeks, check out the options, consider my existing wardrobe, puzzle over the financing... but I am powerless to resist being looked up and down by hot grrls and told "Yeah, they look sexy". I tell this girl she should get a job in one of these shops, she'd make the best commission.

Last night was one of those wierd time-is-a-circular-thing events, a housewarming party at the same house I used to go to in first year uni, when I was learning how to be a spunky baby queer. First time I got stoned was there, first time I rolled in grass after a night on pills, first obsession with a tree, first time getting dressed up in ballgowns to go to the bottle shop at two in the afternoon, first time I met my first girlfriend (peeking up at me from a short bleached fringe). It's been out of the family for three or four years, and now it's back. The people at the party were a crazy cross-section of the past seven years of my life. And there was a baby- cute, fat-cheeked, grabby-handed baby. I hadn't realised we were people who had babies at our parties already. Is that the sort of shift that should be noted?

I've been taking lots of photographs lately, assigning myself the role of 'photographer' at events that ought to be recorded. It's fun, different, I'm getting much better at it. There is something seriously exciting about perfectly capturing the energy in a room around a cutting, or the way people look at each other when they think no-one's looking. Having a bunch of people go, "Wow, these photos are amazing!" and thinking, "yeah, aren't they?". The photo on this post is not amazing, because taking photos of your own shoes is hard.

You know what're awesome?

Poison Dart Frogs are awesome. They're the disco groovers of the amphibian world, rockin' out to colour differentiation even within their many, many individual species. Zoos & Aquariums with terrarium exhibits usually feature fabulous arrays of poison dart frogs. The row of tanks in the Baltimore Aquarium almost perfectly matched the shades of the rainbow flag, and how can you not love gay pride frogs?

All hail the many-flavoured frog!

Pirates of the Carribean 2: Less awesome. I mean, fun and all, what with all the fabulous crustacean outfits, but the whole thing would've worked much better with oh, say, 40 minutes of the last hour chopped straight out. Also, the whole "fight scene with a circular moving thing" thing gets repetitive the second time round.

Much Less Awesome: trying to picture my life without the one who is leaving, and failing. Wishing with every breath and every crying jag that what we have and who we are will still be here when she comes back. Doubting that it's possible.

Bug girl

(That's one of the snakes off the gory, gorgeous, messy cakes, not some sort of strange but compelling tongue protrusion)

A marvellous party, but then that moment towards the end, that moment of oh fuck, this isn't just a party for no reason- it's because you're going, and... fuck fuck fuck fuck I'm not ready!. Not ready to lose you yet, to face my life without you. It's not fair, I need you, you can't go!

A sobbing mess would both ruin my make-up and bring the mood down, so I abstained, but it was a struggle. The tears were right there, ready to fall. I figure there's time for them later.

Another friend departed, more permanently: a death in the 'family', the way queers and kinksters gather as family. On the drunken stumble home one night I ripped a plant to shreds, an unassuming blue-flowered shrub by a car park. Ripping leaves and branches left stinging scratches on my hands and between my fingers. It's not the answer but nothing is.

People ask me how I am and I have no idea how to respond. It might go something like- I have an apartment, and a satisfying handful of jobs. I have friends and tension and love. Mostly I read but sometimes I write, and I'm shying away from my previous excesses of enthusiasm in pursuit of essentially unrewarding things. So do I seem flat now? Unexcited, boring?

I spent the end parts of tonight pressed back against an out of order cash machine dancing to goth interpretations of the hits of the 80's, holding my shoulders still while my hips and thighs swung wildly. Eyes closed, hands grapsed behind: framed, moving, alright. Yes. I'm alright.