self-inflicted
This weekend, a certain bottle in my Aunt's apartment kept reminding me of Tiny Dancer and so he's been in my head ever since.
Half dream sliding into fantasy: a gig, me in a little green beaded skirt, remembering Sheba and Z's advice, striving to be entirely myself. I swivelled on my heel, twirling as I do in the company of good music and friends. I think we were at the Gaelic, waiting for the Dollies' support to take the stage. I twirled and saw him watching me. "Be thyself in all thy charm and wit."
So I smile, take my drink and cross the floor to him. Oh brave alternate dimension. And we sit and talk about nothing and everything, easy silly stuff. But it's the same unflinching eye contact from our last conversation in, y'know, RL. And I'm trying very hard not to be unnerved, trying not to be carried away on this suspicion that he's as fascinated as I am. But it's sweet and we sit close and we talk tattoos. I skate my fingertips over the colours of his and ask him why, he traces mine and I am very proud of how I do not melt right off my seat. We joke and keep talking.
And the conversation takes this surreal serious tone. He asks me about Puppydog Keyboardist and wasn't there something there once? I say I don't like indecision. He grins because he is a Cancerian and can be supremely indecisive. And he says "aren't you ever?" And I say "no, because I wholly believe in that notion you know exactly what you're going to do two seconds after the question is posited and spend the rest of the time rationalising your decision. I just choose to cut out the rationalisation."
Gross exaggeration to an outright lie, dri.
He goes to get us drinks. I play with the beads on my tiny skirt. He comes back and says "All right, here's a decision for you." I sip on my drink, try to concentrate without zoning out on the lovely pointiness of his face. And he says, tone light eyes intense, "D'you wanna hang out sometime this week, another time next week, a few more dates in the few more weeks ... six months down the track, d'you wanna move in together ... maybe in a couple of years' time, we can discuss kids, weddings? D'you want to do that, yes or no?"
I don't panic with incredible control. "Er. How about moving in together after a few years and maybe doggies instead of kids?"
He says "So is that a yes or a no?"
I'm thinking all this decisiveness and directness is very un-Cancerian. But who am I to be critical? "Yes. With conditions."
And we keep talking, movies and music, why exactly does he like ska, does he actually know anything about Brian Jonestown Massacre. I look at his nose and his jagged thinned out hair and think, yes I do like him very much, even if his eyes are the same colour as mine.
And then he starts to scare me. The intensity of him, the unwavering attention. I'm talking, looking away at the stage as the bands change over. And he picks up my wrist, kisses my tattoo. Which is fine. A little surprised, I smile at him. Then he slides his tongue just that tiny bit out and the steel of his tongue stud slides over my skin. I react with such sexual pleasure that it scares the living daylights out of me.
He had deliberately provoked and, completely untrue to form, I had reacted. "I'm going to go back to my friends now," I say, pulling my wrist away. He frowns a little but obviously decides to let it go, says "okay, do you want to do phone numbers now?"
My heart hammers. "Um. You know what? Let's see how we feel at the end of the night, all right? You find me or I'll find you. Okay?" He nods, smiles or smirks, and I stumble away, competely unnerved.
At the end of the night, he intercepts us leaving. Ignores everyone else, looks only at me and says with all this compulsion "Stay. Or come with me." And I have this moment of two paths forking away from each other: one is me taking his number and going home alone, forcing this to be slow and careful, keeping the distance between us, keeping my head clear and sane, watching for signs of fault. And the other is putting my hand in his and leaving all sense and selfpreservation behind. I could go home with him and never leave.
That's when I stopped.
Z said to me once at City Extra, "you just love to be the aggressor. when a guy actually retorts, you back right off." Ahahahahaa ... ha. Sod.
Which is what I was thinking after that. How completely untrue and elaborate that fantasy was. Because every evidence to date has shown that Tiny Dancer is not the aggressive predatorial type. And my reaction to that type, as much as I might want him, is to back very quickly away, especially when it goes sexual.
Oh what a tangled mindfuck we weave.
Half dream sliding into fantasy: a gig, me in a little green beaded skirt, remembering Sheba and Z's advice, striving to be entirely myself. I swivelled on my heel, twirling as I do in the company of good music and friends. I think we were at the Gaelic, waiting for the Dollies' support to take the stage. I twirled and saw him watching me. "Be thyself in all thy charm and wit."
So I smile, take my drink and cross the floor to him. Oh brave alternate dimension. And we sit and talk about nothing and everything, easy silly stuff. But it's the same unflinching eye contact from our last conversation in, y'know, RL. And I'm trying very hard not to be unnerved, trying not to be carried away on this suspicion that he's as fascinated as I am. But it's sweet and we sit close and we talk tattoos. I skate my fingertips over the colours of his and ask him why, he traces mine and I am very proud of how I do not melt right off my seat. We joke and keep talking.
And the conversation takes this surreal serious tone. He asks me about Puppydog Keyboardist and wasn't there something there once? I say I don't like indecision. He grins because he is a Cancerian and can be supremely indecisive. And he says "aren't you ever?" And I say "no, because I wholly believe in that notion you know exactly what you're going to do two seconds after the question is posited and spend the rest of the time rationalising your decision. I just choose to cut out the rationalisation."
Gross exaggeration to an outright lie, dri.
He goes to get us drinks. I play with the beads on my tiny skirt. He comes back and says "All right, here's a decision for you." I sip on my drink, try to concentrate without zoning out on the lovely pointiness of his face. And he says, tone light eyes intense, "D'you wanna hang out sometime this week, another time next week, a few more dates in the few more weeks ... six months down the track, d'you wanna move in together ... maybe in a couple of years' time, we can discuss kids, weddings? D'you want to do that, yes or no?"
I don't panic with incredible control. "Er. How about moving in together after a few years and maybe doggies instead of kids?"
He says "So is that a yes or a no?"
I'm thinking all this decisiveness and directness is very un-Cancerian. But who am I to be critical? "Yes. With conditions."
And we keep talking, movies and music, why exactly does he like ska, does he actually know anything about Brian Jonestown Massacre. I look at his nose and his jagged thinned out hair and think, yes I do like him very much, even if his eyes are the same colour as mine.
And then he starts to scare me. The intensity of him, the unwavering attention. I'm talking, looking away at the stage as the bands change over. And he picks up my wrist, kisses my tattoo. Which is fine. A little surprised, I smile at him. Then he slides his tongue just that tiny bit out and the steel of his tongue stud slides over my skin. I react with such sexual pleasure that it scares the living daylights out of me.
He had deliberately provoked and, completely untrue to form, I had reacted. "I'm going to go back to my friends now," I say, pulling my wrist away. He frowns a little but obviously decides to let it go, says "okay, do you want to do phone numbers now?"
My heart hammers. "Um. You know what? Let's see how we feel at the end of the night, all right? You find me or I'll find you. Okay?" He nods, smiles or smirks, and I stumble away, competely unnerved.
At the end of the night, he intercepts us leaving. Ignores everyone else, looks only at me and says with all this compulsion "Stay. Or come with me." And I have this moment of two paths forking away from each other: one is me taking his number and going home alone, forcing this to be slow and careful, keeping the distance between us, keeping my head clear and sane, watching for signs of fault. And the other is putting my hand in his and leaving all sense and selfpreservation behind. I could go home with him and never leave.
That's when I stopped.
Z said to me once at City Extra, "you just love to be the aggressor. when a guy actually retorts, you back right off." Ahahahahaa ... ha. Sod.
Which is what I was thinking after that. How completely untrue and elaborate that fantasy was. Because every evidence to date has shown that Tiny Dancer is not the aggressive predatorial type. And my reaction to that type, as much as I might want him, is to back very quickly away, especially when it goes sexual.
Oh what a tangled mindfuck we weave.