Oh, who will render in our tongue, A real update.
I want to be a man so badly sometimes. To have their beauty, their strength, to know how they feel bodily from within instead of without.
I remember thinking that if I looked like a man, somehow I'd be beautiful like one. Strong. Capable. I know that I also used it as a way to keep men away from me during my rocky period in 10th grade when I was mistrustful of men and never wanted to be touched by another one as long as I lived. I wanted to be a man so that men would stay away from me, even though I still lusted after them. Thinking back on that time in my life, I realize now how badly I treated myself...what a horrible shambles my mental state was. I really have been my own worst enemy for most of my life.
It's been a long time since I seriously thought that I'm just no good at being a woman...that I hate being a woman, and I so want to be a man. Today, I kind of feel that way again. Oh, I know that, as a woman, I have all these emotional luxuries - the right to be soft and fragile, to cry at whim, to have men clamoring to be perfect gentlemen around me - but I don't want to be fragile. I don't like crying. I prefer to open my own doors and pull out my own chair.
I've been told that I'm intimidating; "too much woman". But is it really such a bad, fearsome thing to be a woman who hungers to meet a man head-to-head, blow-for-blow, match his passion and strength with her own? Is the idea of being equals with a woman really so threatening? I don't want to emasculate - I want the man I'm with to feel empowered; set alight, as it were, by my strength - feminine strength, but strength nonetheless. I think I can be a lady in the living room and a marvelous bitch in bed without compromising myself or him.
Today, I want to be a man.
"And when the sun sets its vigilant eye, when history is past, I will not only wrap myself in my cloak but I will throw the night around me like a veil, and I will come to you - I will listen as the savage listens - not for your footsteps but for the beating of your heart"
I am the architect of my own misfortune.
I think I'm doomed to keep running into him, the boy I once called my "faunlet of an evening"; the boy at least two years younger than me who had my head in such a whirl at two consecutive conventions...
And now today. A surprise from out of nowhere.
He looked the same as he ever has - still achingly beautiful, still Van Veen in glasses and khaki shorts...and still, quite surprisingly, able to send a thrill of desire like a shock of water through the desert of my libido-starved nerves. He's the first boy I've seen since Adi, who has done that to me, filled me with such immediate and unforseen hunger. I suppose it makes sense, though. I've wanted that boy since the first time I saw him; doubly so since we danced. It seems like such a long time ago now, my dulcet little darling, but I still feel the material of your suit under the pads of my fingers, your warmth against the length of my torso, your delicious weight pressed into one lucky thigh.
Of course, it's nonesense to think of him I am leaving this place in less than 2 months. And I recognize that this boy is and always has been just a passing fancy for me - the one who McFate allowed that I touch for a moment, and whom I then had to let go. And I'm fine with that. It's better, really, because , were I actually to get to know him, befriend him, or share a relationship with him, then he would cease to be bathed in the romantic light in which he is always displayed in my mind's sugar-rimmed mirror; cease to be my little Van, my lithe, porcelain-and-poison prey, and become instead just another boy, dull and course and flawed as all the rest of humanity...and that would be a very sad thing indeed.
Klimt, Gustav. "Judith I." 1901 Wien, Österreichische Galerie
I used to feel like I was almost completely free, at long last. Now I feel trapped again. I can't be myself, can't be open with what I feel, for fear of angering, hurting, frustating. Others. Not-me. Me is just somebody who should smile and be quiet, for their sake. I feel myself slipping backwards into that old hole, crawling back into that old cage. I've got so much I feel like I need to say, but it's all been said before, so it's just wasting words. It's useless and pointless. If I just keep blabbering on and on, what possible good will it do? It's a self-perpetuating, viscious circle...and it's better if I just shut up.
I remember thinking that if I looked like a man, somehow I'd be beautiful like one. Strong. Capable. I know that I also used it as a way to keep men away from me during my rocky period in 10th grade when I was mistrustful of men and never wanted to be touched by another one as long as I lived. I wanted to be a man so that men would stay away from me, even though I still lusted after them. Thinking back on that time in my life, I realize now how badly I treated myself...what a horrible shambles my mental state was. I really have been my own worst enemy for most of my life.
It's been a long time since I seriously thought that I'm just no good at being a woman...that I hate being a woman, and I so want to be a man. Today, I kind of feel that way again. Oh, I know that, as a woman, I have all these emotional luxuries - the right to be soft and fragile, to cry at whim, to have men clamoring to be perfect gentlemen around me - but I don't want to be fragile. I don't like crying. I prefer to open my own doors and pull out my own chair.
I've been told that I'm intimidating; "too much woman". But is it really such a bad, fearsome thing to be a woman who hungers to meet a man head-to-head, blow-for-blow, match his passion and strength with her own? Is the idea of being equals with a woman really so threatening? I don't want to emasculate - I want the man I'm with to feel empowered; set alight, as it were, by my strength - feminine strength, but strength nonetheless. I think I can be a lady in the living room and a marvelous bitch in bed without compromising myself or him.
Today, I want to be a man.
"And when the sun sets its vigilant eye, when history is past, I will not only wrap myself in my cloak but I will throw the night around me like a veil, and I will come to you - I will listen as the savage listens - not for your footsteps but for the beating of your heart"
I am the architect of my own misfortune.
I think I'm doomed to keep running into him, the boy I once called my "faunlet of an evening"; the boy at least two years younger than me who had my head in such a whirl at two consecutive conventions...
And now today. A surprise from out of nowhere.
He looked the same as he ever has - still achingly beautiful, still Van Veen in glasses and khaki shorts...and still, quite surprisingly, able to send a thrill of desire like a shock of water through the desert of my libido-starved nerves. He's the first boy I've seen since Adi, who has done that to me, filled me with such immediate and unforseen hunger. I suppose it makes sense, though. I've wanted that boy since the first time I saw him; doubly so since we danced. It seems like such a long time ago now, my dulcet little darling, but I still feel the material of your suit under the pads of my fingers, your warmth against the length of my torso, your delicious weight pressed into one lucky thigh.
Of course, it's nonesense to think of him I am leaving this place in less than 2 months. And I recognize that this boy is and always has been just a passing fancy for me - the one who McFate allowed that I touch for a moment, and whom I then had to let go. And I'm fine with that. It's better, really, because , were I actually to get to know him, befriend him, or share a relationship with him, then he would cease to be bathed in the romantic light in which he is always displayed in my mind's sugar-rimmed mirror; cease to be my little Van, my lithe, porcelain-and-poison prey, and become instead just another boy, dull and course and flawed as all the rest of humanity...and that would be a very sad thing indeed.
Klimt, Gustav. "Judith I." 1901 Wien, Österreichische Galerie
I used to feel like I was almost completely free, at long last. Now I feel trapped again. I can't be myself, can't be open with what I feel, for fear of angering, hurting, frustating. Others. Not-me. Me is just somebody who should smile and be quiet, for their sake. I feel myself slipping backwards into that old hole, crawling back into that old cage. I've got so much I feel like I need to say, but it's all been said before, so it's just wasting words. It's useless and pointless. If I just keep blabbering on and on, what possible good will it do? It's a self-perpetuating, viscious circle...and it's better if I just shut up.