(no subject)
For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, The Girl and I spent the entire baseball game tonight happily and cheerfully discussing the premise that hey, genderswap stories are cool, and a Jim Ellison genderswap story would be even cooler.
[Because, really, I mean. He would be one of those chicks who are six feet tall and *built*, all that muscle packed in all the right places. and he'd wear faded flannel and a pair of perfectly broken-in jeans he found at Goodwill, and he'd steal Blair's clothes, and he'd have all the boy body language, the sit-with-legs-sprawled-and-crotch-on-display male relaxation pose. And after he'd satisfied himself that it was temporary -- some bizarre shamanic rite-of-passage crap or something -- he'd just sort of shrug and let go and decide to just accept the weird, and hey, it might be kind of interesting to live someone else's life for a while. And after about a week, he'd discover that if he goes into a sports bar when a game's on -- any game -- and drinks beer and heckles the game loudly and inventively, men fall over themselves to buy him drinks, especially if he's wearing that tank top he stole from Blair because it was soft and comfortable and smelled like him and Jim didn't really notice the cleavage it gives him. And he'd come home and be all, "Sandburg, how come you didn't tell me I could drink free in bars now?" and Blair would be all "Jim, have you looked in a mirror lately?" and Jim says "wait, what?" and Blair, who has been very very good at rolling with the punches (and also quite interested in an anthropological study of nature vs. nurture vis-a-vis gender roles) says "oh, man, Jim, look, okay, I'm trying really hard not to be a sexist pig here, but you are fucking *hot*," and Jim says, "huh." And goes off for a while, and comes back after two days or so of thinking about it, and he and Blair go out to dinner and a Jags game or something (and everyone thinks, hey, Blair's new girlfriend is kind of hot, little familiar-looking, too, guess he does have a type) and Jim drinks beer and puts his hands on Blair the way he always did, and Blair's mouth goes dry and he starts talking a lot about some small African tribe and the stupidity of his Intro to Anth class to distract himself. And they go back to the loft, and Jim climbs into Blair's lap and says, okay, going back to that hot thing. And Blair turns beet red and puts his hands in the air so they don't accidentally touch something they shouldn't, and tries very calmly to explain that this is a bad idea, and Jim grins and says how bizarre it is that he's the one who's not freaked out about the weird, and hey, isn't it cool that the rules are totally different for girls, and by the way, Sandburg, I think it's time we took this body for a test drive. Andthentheyhavesextheend.]
We conduct discussions this a lot during games. There is a very nice, very normal couple who hold the season ticket seats right next to ours. I am surprised that they have not yet asked to be re-seated.
(I have been v. boring lately. I blame work.)
[Because, really, I mean. He would be one of those chicks who are six feet tall and *built*, all that muscle packed in all the right places. and he'd wear faded flannel and a pair of perfectly broken-in jeans he found at Goodwill, and he'd steal Blair's clothes, and he'd have all the boy body language, the sit-with-legs-sprawled-and-crotch-on-display male relaxation pose. And after he'd satisfied himself that it was temporary -- some bizarre shamanic rite-of-passage crap or something -- he'd just sort of shrug and let go and decide to just accept the weird, and hey, it might be kind of interesting to live someone else's life for a while. And after about a week, he'd discover that if he goes into a sports bar when a game's on -- any game -- and drinks beer and heckles the game loudly and inventively, men fall over themselves to buy him drinks, especially if he's wearing that tank top he stole from Blair because it was soft and comfortable and smelled like him and Jim didn't really notice the cleavage it gives him. And he'd come home and be all, "Sandburg, how come you didn't tell me I could drink free in bars now?" and Blair would be all "Jim, have you looked in a mirror lately?" and Jim says "wait, what?" and Blair, who has been very very good at rolling with the punches (and also quite interested in an anthropological study of nature vs. nurture vis-a-vis gender roles) says "oh, man, Jim, look, okay, I'm trying really hard not to be a sexist pig here, but you are fucking *hot*," and Jim says, "huh." And goes off for a while, and comes back after two days or so of thinking about it, and he and Blair go out to dinner and a Jags game or something (and everyone thinks, hey, Blair's new girlfriend is kind of hot, little familiar-looking, too, guess he does have a type) and Jim drinks beer and puts his hands on Blair the way he always did, and Blair's mouth goes dry and he starts talking a lot about some small African tribe and the stupidity of his Intro to Anth class to distract himself. And they go back to the loft, and Jim climbs into Blair's lap and says, okay, going back to that hot thing. And Blair turns beet red and puts his hands in the air so they don't accidentally touch something they shouldn't, and tries very calmly to explain that this is a bad idea, and Jim grins and says how bizarre it is that he's the one who's not freaked out about the weird, and hey, isn't it cool that the rules are totally different for girls, and by the way, Sandburg, I think it's time we took this body for a test drive. Andthentheyhavesextheend.]
We conduct discussions this a lot during games. There is a very nice, very normal couple who hold the season ticket seats right next to ours. I am surprised that they have not yet asked to be re-seated.
(I have been v. boring lately. I blame work.)