That is a queer thing: the outsider trying to save themselves.
1. Friday night, mandysbitch got me to write Meryl Davis/Miki Ando. We do our best vampire routines, NC-17 but only just, 2010 GPF.
Meryl's trying to say, "I think you heard me wrong. I think there was a language error," but she's already in this girl's room, this girl who just lost to her friend, the friend she should be celebrating with, but instead she's celebrating with this other girl, this Japanese girl, Miki, she tells herself to stop pretending this girl is a stranger but when she tries to put a name on her, on this, it slides off like the name's been buttered, God, butter, Meryl can't wait for summer, can't wait to be back in her own kitchen, the slick sweet fat smell as she creams it into sugar, frosting licked off beaters, batter fingered in streaks from the bowl.
The boys do this - not Charlie, stone-cold straight and too shy to catch on if someone wanted to - but the other boys, Jer does this and lies, and the first time Meryl saw through him she got it wrong, teased, You whore, and he blushed, and now she pretends she believes him. She'll lie about this, this girl, Oh, nothing, hung out in my room with a nice warm book, and Jer, Charlie, her boys, they won't see through her, never do.
This girl is taking off her dress. Lacy padded bra she doesn't need, underpants with panda bears, not the ones you wear when you expect someone to look, but Meryl likes the bears, This Pussy Protected By Bears. Meryl leaves her shoes at the door because she's taking a trip to Japan, frees her hair, throws off her dress, reveals no bra and just-in-case pink lace thong, This Pussy Needs No Protecting.
"You're beautiful," this girl says, her English clearer than she seems to think it is, clearer than Meryl thinks it is, or she has been practicing those two words up the elevator and down the hall, getting the verb tense right, but the rest, unpracticed, still makes sense. "I'm sorry. My... lover. I don't know." Meryl's heard boys talk about a lover that way, after a pause that means they know they should say boyfriend but don't mean it, when they're with their lover-not-boyfriend every three words they say I love you but one Grand Prix assignment in Beijing and they're banging every boy who will roll over. You whore. Better to be single so you only have friends to lie to.
This sweet girl lies on her back like she's so used to a man on top of her she can't imagine anything else. Meryl wrestles those bears down her legs, licks her like she is covered in confectioner's sugar, fingers her like the last rich mouthful of cookie dough. The difference between girls and mixing bowls is they don't run out, they keep going, keep asking, screaming, the pleasure is all theirs.
"Miki." Meryl's picked up a few words. "Utsukushii."
"They mean the same. Same character." She draws a word in the air, a signature. "I can't say your name."
"Then you can't tell your...lover."
Miki touches Meryl's lips with one thin, manicured finger like she has heard that pause, like she knows those boys, like they are both those boys and they both know it.
*
2. I've watched the first two BBC Sherlock movies, and I was surprised to really enjoy them. I love how they draw attention to the way Sherlock Holmes has become a mythos in English-speaking culture, and how both TV crime procedurals and hard-boiled detective fiction owe a ton to Conan Doyle. Sherlock also really gets that the darkness of Conan Doyle's novels is part of their appeal: I like that this version of Holmes is a genuine sociopath and drug addict. I also like the way it deals with sexuality, putting those gay jokes right in the open, but also clearly and unapologetically depicting Holmes as asexual. Because of that, I find this the least slashy iteration of the Sherlock Holmes legend that I've seen. And I adore Martin Freeman's Watson, completely messed up himself, the comedian's playfulness sparkling through the seriousness of the role.
And then I made the mistake of trying to watch the Robert Downey Jr. movie version, which I probably would have disliked anyway, but seemed so crass and Hollywood that I barely lasted 20 minutes. Downey and Jude Law are both better than the film (and yeah, fucking slashy). What stood out to me was the weirdness of the violence: procedurals are usually graphic in their depiction of dead bodies, but this movie barely showed the corpses, in favor of gratuitous fight scenes. It just seemed out-of-genre, and really, the whole film seemed out-of-genre.
3. I'm catching up on my foreign skating Nationals. Russian Nats was, as always, a little bizarre, with all the 13-year-old junior divas who will probably not make it to 18 and all the brand new teams. Volosozhar and Trankov, both the better halves of their previous teams, are magical together, and it's a shame that ISU's rules prevent them from skating at Worlds this year. (I know there are differences, but I can't help thinking that it's like the NFL saying that Danny Woodhead can't play in the Super Bowl because he played for the Jets less than a year ago. Am I jinxing my Pats? Oh no.)
Sorry. There is going to be a LOT of football today.
Anyway, the real highlight of Russian Nats for me were Riazanova and Tkachenko, who callmesandy and I felt were unfairly overshadowed at Skate America and who I feel should be the Russian National Champions over Bobrova & Soloviev, who skated slower and with less chemistry. (B&S did skate a more difficult program.) I hope R & T's knockout performances will force the Russian skating federation to promote them a little more, and I'm looking forward to seeing what they bring to Worlds. Surely it'll be some combination of plausible romance, pretty Russian lines, maturity, and Mila Kunis eyes.
Meryl's trying to say, "I think you heard me wrong. I think there was a language error," but she's already in this girl's room, this girl who just lost to her friend, the friend she should be celebrating with, but instead she's celebrating with this other girl, this Japanese girl, Miki, she tells herself to stop pretending this girl is a stranger but when she tries to put a name on her, on this, it slides off like the name's been buttered, God, butter, Meryl can't wait for summer, can't wait to be back in her own kitchen, the slick sweet fat smell as she creams it into sugar, frosting licked off beaters, batter fingered in streaks from the bowl.
The boys do this - not Charlie, stone-cold straight and too shy to catch on if someone wanted to - but the other boys, Jer does this and lies, and the first time Meryl saw through him she got it wrong, teased, You whore, and he blushed, and now she pretends she believes him. She'll lie about this, this girl, Oh, nothing, hung out in my room with a nice warm book, and Jer, Charlie, her boys, they won't see through her, never do.
This girl is taking off her dress. Lacy padded bra she doesn't need, underpants with panda bears, not the ones you wear when you expect someone to look, but Meryl likes the bears, This Pussy Protected By Bears. Meryl leaves her shoes at the door because she's taking a trip to Japan, frees her hair, throws off her dress, reveals no bra and just-in-case pink lace thong, This Pussy Needs No Protecting.
"You're beautiful," this girl says, her English clearer than she seems to think it is, clearer than Meryl thinks it is, or she has been practicing those two words up the elevator and down the hall, getting the verb tense right, but the rest, unpracticed, still makes sense. "I'm sorry. My... lover. I don't know." Meryl's heard boys talk about a lover that way, after a pause that means they know they should say boyfriend but don't mean it, when they're with their lover-not-boyfriend every three words they say I love you but one Grand Prix assignment in Beijing and they're banging every boy who will roll over. You whore. Better to be single so you only have friends to lie to.
This sweet girl lies on her back like she's so used to a man on top of her she can't imagine anything else. Meryl wrestles those bears down her legs, licks her like she is covered in confectioner's sugar, fingers her like the last rich mouthful of cookie dough. The difference between girls and mixing bowls is they don't run out, they keep going, keep asking, screaming, the pleasure is all theirs.
"Miki." Meryl's picked up a few words. "Utsukushii."
"They mean the same. Same character." She draws a word in the air, a signature. "I can't say your name."
"Then you can't tell your...lover."
Miki touches Meryl's lips with one thin, manicured finger like she has heard that pause, like she knows those boys, like they are both those boys and they both know it.
*
2. I've watched the first two BBC Sherlock movies, and I was surprised to really enjoy them. I love how they draw attention to the way Sherlock Holmes has become a mythos in English-speaking culture, and how both TV crime procedurals and hard-boiled detective fiction owe a ton to Conan Doyle. Sherlock also really gets that the darkness of Conan Doyle's novels is part of their appeal: I like that this version of Holmes is a genuine sociopath and drug addict. I also like the way it deals with sexuality, putting those gay jokes right in the open, but also clearly and unapologetically depicting Holmes as asexual. Because of that, I find this the least slashy iteration of the Sherlock Holmes legend that I've seen. And I adore Martin Freeman's Watson, completely messed up himself, the comedian's playfulness sparkling through the seriousness of the role.
And then I made the mistake of trying to watch the Robert Downey Jr. movie version, which I probably would have disliked anyway, but seemed so crass and Hollywood that I barely lasted 20 minutes. Downey and Jude Law are both better than the film (and yeah, fucking slashy). What stood out to me was the weirdness of the violence: procedurals are usually graphic in their depiction of dead bodies, but this movie barely showed the corpses, in favor of gratuitous fight scenes. It just seemed out-of-genre, and really, the whole film seemed out-of-genre.
3. I'm catching up on my foreign skating Nationals. Russian Nats was, as always, a little bizarre, with all the 13-year-old junior divas who will probably not make it to 18 and all the brand new teams. Volosozhar and Trankov, both the better halves of their previous teams, are magical together, and it's a shame that ISU's rules prevent them from skating at Worlds this year. (I know there are differences, but I can't help thinking that it's like the NFL saying that Danny Woodhead can't play in the Super Bowl because he played for the Jets less than a year ago. Am I jinxing my Pats? Oh no.)
Sorry. There is going to be a LOT of football today.
Anyway, the real highlight of Russian Nats for me were Riazanova and Tkachenko, who callmesandy and I felt were unfairly overshadowed at Skate America and who I feel should be the Russian National Champions over Bobrova & Soloviev, who skated slower and with less chemistry. (B&S did skate a more difficult program.) I hope R & T's knockout performances will force the Russian skating federation to promote them a little more, and I'm looking forward to seeing what they bring to Worlds. Surely it'll be some combination of plausible romance, pretty Russian lines, maturity, and Mila Kunis eyes.