I'm just an overly loose limbed woman
Monday, I went to see Broken Flowers with PhotoMan, who, after my last sojourn in his company, I subtly told that I didn’t think we had any potential beyond friendship. The film had a lightness of touch that appealed to me, with music that lifted me along the journey. Despite its obviously contrived plot devices, glaringly stuck in to allow the story to happen, I enjoyed it; with the pace, the characters and the dryly witty dialogue winning me over.
When it came time to cycle home in opposite directions, PhotoMan leaned to kiss me and although my cheek was offered, he managed to make contact with my lips. Pulling back to say goodbye, a faint residue of him was left behind, like a mildly irritating itch and I was overcome to with the desire to scrape away the scent of him onto the cuff of my coat. I politely waited until we had both turned our separate ways before discretely dragging my leather glove firmly across my mouth to wipe the remains of him away.
I feel quite contrary, as he’s the first man with any potential in terms of what’s important to me who’s shown any interest in me in A Very Long Time; yet I can’t go there because he just doesn’t smell right - not in any way unclean, just wrong.
*
Tuesday: Foxy lured me along to some ‘charity’ event that her man was involved in organising the after party for. Curious to get a measure of the affair, I sneaked into the back of an already over crowded room, and was forced to stand a fraction closer than was entirely instinctual to a man near the door. He seemed pleased to have me steal his space and whispered some quip on the dullness before us: venture capitalists and international sports stars easing their collective consciences with words about good works to come - if the figures added up. I smiled and watched on.
At the after party; he and his friend joined us for drinks. He was athletic looking man with a slight silver showing at his temples and an intelligent ease to his demeanour. Amongst other things, mention of his wife was made, which I was glad of: this defining limits of behaviour. We all talked and laughed and danced. He asked if I went to Stonehenge back in the day: said I reminded him of someone he once saw in a mushroom haze. I laughed: I’m always evoking events and encounters, I told him. He looked at me a little longer than was entirely innocent and I called closure with a friendly smile and an offer of an arm to dance, with a warmth that would conduct no heat. Somehow, moments later, my shoulder had once again dislodged itself from where it’s meant to rest. Once again, I was a girl with extra corners. And in a dark basement with booze in my blood.
I turned from Married Man, who was a little mystified at my sudden departure from the dance floor. ‘Foxy, my shoulder’s come out again,’ I said more calmly than if I’d lost a number from some unwanted suitor, ‘I might need to go to hospital.’ I couldn’t imagine attempts to put it back myself in this space, with all looking on.
Foxy, after initial awe, set to, to ensure that I was OK. Married Man was looking slightly horrified, despite my pragmatic serenity: no point in panicking if panic will only make things worse. His friend, however, eased by my demeanour, asked if I’d like him to try to put it back: he’d seen such tricks performed many times on rugby pitches. I welcomed his offer and explained a way that should work. First try failed. I leant forward with my arm hanging down, breathed deeply, thought relaxing thoughts and he tried again. Cplk. It was in, easy as that. All was resolved before pain even has a chance to take hold; but the situation called for a drink… and another. Although not especially drunk, I fell in to a slightly strange head-space.
It was nearly time for home and while a group of us engaged in polite conversation, Married Man ran his fingers across my arse. I stood still, my face belying the non-verbal conversation happening behind me. It felt good to be feeling good to his hand. I took a tiny step forward. I wouldn’t court him, despite what my body said: he was married, after all.
He came upstairs with me to collect coats: as others already had theirs, we left together. My bike was my barrier to harm happening as I walk with him to where taxis would likely be. While we waited, he kissed me and I let him. He tasted of nothing, like water on a hot summer’s day tastes of nothing; but somewhere in that nothingness there was a trace of a taste I wanted more of: nothing overwhelming, just there, making my mouth go in search of it, that I might be sated by that which only ever leaves one wanting more.
I stopped to remind him he was married. He continued to request that I hold him. I was being slack, playing with the boundaries I set myself; but nothing bad was going to happen, standing on Oxford Street on a cold night under the eyes of the world: and where’s the harm in being held, I tried to tell myself. It happens so rarely that my body was hungry for it; easing into a sense of release as his hands plied its periphery - as much was possible when standing in the street with frost in the air.
‘Why do you have to be so god-damned sexy?’ he asked, hardly holding himself back.
‘That’s not my problem. Why do you have to be so god-damned married?’ I laughed, pulling a little bit away.
In the cold, we kissed some more, wrapped inside each other’s coats and almost oblivious to the occasional taxi passing in the lateness of the night. I imagined that we were invisible: it would all be so much more innocent then. I didn’t want the sight of us in the street to be some tsunami to his marriage. I didn’t want to stop, but told him it was time he took his taxi. The early morning frost was biting harder and at the bits of us unwarmed by our ardour.
He proposed the impossible and I pointed out that was only what he wanted right then: it wasn’t what he really wanted. He really wanted his life to go on as it was, not to be thrown from the safe tracks he’d worked so hard to secure. I added, ‘and anyway; it’s not what I want. If it’s rubbish, what would have been the point? And if it’s good enough to be worth it, one or other of us will only want more and that’s not available. Also, I don’t want to go to bed with a man I can’t wake up with.’
‘You’re so pragmatic,’ his face was caught in a smiling wince.
‘Yer; someone has to look out for me.’ I half griped.
‘You’re quite lovely,’ he suddenly asserted, holding me a little away from him and looking directly at me.
‘That’s why.’
‘God….’ he muttered, staring at me, hungrily.
‘Oh fuck off and go home,’ I chided him, as I gently pushed him away, ‘you should be in bed. With your wife. Your children will be bouncing in to wake you up in a few hours. It’s time for a taxi for you.’
He said he was glad to have met me. I agreed: I was glad to have met him, even though nothing happened, nothing could happen; but it reminded me of something important: lust as it’s meant to taste, and that feeling of complete sexiness that happens when you’re in hands that almost make you forget yourself as other parts awaken and start to overtake you, turning you into some glorious über bodilicious monster, irrespective of the starting point.
As I cycled home, breathing in the brittle night air, I savoured the taste of his tongue around my mouth and it provided a pleasing contrast to the taste of the night before, reminding me I was right not to be guided by those who infer I must be a little over fussy to be so eternally single. Some things have to be right.
*
Thursday I was out with The Old Contemptibles, who have assimilated me into their fold, as the solitary cunt. It’s a chance to play geezer for the night amongst old, old friends: people that for one reason and another I’ve seen much less of in recent years (babies/ bruised relationships/ general busyness); but it looks like this should become a regular event.
It’s funny; I used to have many more male friends with whom I had relaxed and playful times without any scent of sexuality; but more recently such friendships have been more limited and I miss male company: men with whom I can sit and drink beer and be casual without a care. These ones are particularly good for such stuff, with witty wordplay as fast as only friends who’ve come to think in synch could ever achieve. I love my female friends; but women are different, and there’s a big part of me that’s a bit of a bloke.
*
Saturday was London Decompression (I don’t believe there are any photos of me amongst those currently uploaded to their site). Let’s just say it was all you’d expect from a party organised by the Burning Man contingent. Held in a squat/ art venue in East London, it had fire play, fab music, friendly people and went on far too long to be fair to the rest of my week. I wore my hand painted gentleman’s suit and silver heels, and between talking, and dancing and flitting about, I managed to hold fort behind the bar for a couple of hours before dawn. I eventually left, too late for church; if that had been a thing I used to mark my Sunday mornings with.
Sometimes, I amaze myself how I bounce through such events without the chemical assistance so ubiquitously consumed around me. I believe I may be invincible, on occasion.
(This is another post from ages ago, held up by the bottle neck of my busy life. See the date at the top to have any idea of whenit really happened).