Perfected :: Her Body :: Greek Necessity :: Deep Throats :: Scrolls

The Places That You Go, Where The Lights Are Turned Down Low The places that you go, where the lights are turned down low. "You give me that look that's like laughing/With liquid in your mouth" - Ani Di Franco, 'Falling is Like This' I like our nights out. Pretty, sour-sweet drinks with crushed ice and black straws. The booth we get when the waitresses kick out the men sitting there, just because we're two girls in a beautiful city as well. Fairy wings and drinks for a quid, writhing around on the dance floor in ancient purple DMs and hoping I don't hit people with my wings.A sheath of silky, shimmery emerald on Thursday night as I danced with pretty boys and didn't pay for a single drink all night. Grown up in the ubiquitous Little Black Dress on Friday, in red lipstick that I had to grow into before it would suit me. Saturday was skintight leather and a backless top, Sunday saw an encore from the leather as black lace stretched across my breasts and blue and gold wings grew out of my back.We leant on the bar and scrawled on our arms in black biro - the faded scribbles currently proclaim myself to be The Good Fairy of Doc Martens, and announce that I Am Pretty, which is probably wishful thinking. I arrived at my place of work looking, in my own words, 'like an uber-slut in fairy wings', in tight black leather and a miniscule black lace top that barely contained cleavage that has seen more daylight in the past week than in the last few months rolled together. We concluded that perhaps I was being flirted with on Saturday night. After all, do non-interested parties really accidentally touch one's breast in conversation over the course of the evening? If so, please inform me and I will get over this divine creature instantly. There was also the sensual feeding of yummy cheese on bread, instigated by her, and the eye contact...Maybe she was just being friendly. My carefully choreographed 'accidental' bumping into her backfired like vintage Rolls Royce on Princes Street, as the cousin whose book I was dropping off at the flat actually was in, whereas she was not. And there was mistletoe and everything, dammit. The butterflies are back in my stomach, my mind keeps wandering to her eyes, her hair, her mouth, her hands. Now I'm hungover and hungry to boot, collapsed on my bed watching Buffy, the show made for days like these when I want to look at pretty, less confusing girls. The new bookcase is already filled to overflowing with Chaucer, with feminist anthologies, the countless books about Guinevere that I've been collecting for years, each using a different spelling of her name. An almost-burnt-out vanilla candle flickers against a copy of 'The Handmaid's Tale' with a long crease running down its spine. The soft rock ballad soundtrack of a romantic film that came out when I was ten years old is playing on the computer and making me think about love. I like long distance relationships because the reality only intrudes when it absolutely has to. I like unrequited love for the same reason. It appeals to my Lancelot and Guinevere fantasies. I actually went by Guinevere occasionally, only stopping the evening we discovered that ever possible permutation on the spelling had already been snagged on Diaryland. The Lady of the Lake was my back-up choice and who gets to write that sentence very often? I still wince at the thought of a relationship, and I doubt any of my little flirtations will extend thus far anyway. 'Tis the season of no-strings-attatched-fun and quick kisses under the mistletoe. That, I can live with. ______________________________ we have come so far :: it is over

Accomplishment :: The Moon :: Toga :: Night Flower