ixthrock
radical faerie
...hosted a party last month. It was a "prime timers" party; but every kwear in town pretended to be thirty or over, or to have the hots for such, it seems, just to check out Pete-N-Corey's latest project. Pete, the ice queen gym bunny jew- butter won't melt in his mouth - and Corey, the genuine soul - a little more in touch with working men and artists. Mind you, these are MY judgements about people I barely know because I interact with them only sporadically - not the least reason of which is that my ex cleans houses for them. They are the city's lovely sculpted figureheads of Cornerstone Realty and Benchmark Construction.
There was an open bar. By the time my ex arrived, I was ready to crank up the hot pool (and the party) with my outrageous nakedness, and I was a more than a little buzzed from the free Pinch. It only seemed appropriate. I remember drunkenly chastizing Corey for playing lincoln logs with my hometown. Every block that he rebuilds I've walked across a million times. The grafitti I put across the back of the old Cow Haus when I was 18 - a heart with the words "hard place" scrawled inside - has now been painted over; that building's about to be torn down. Photos of that grafitti have popped up on the walls of photographer friends who hadn't known I was the source. The Film School has used it as a backdrop in their student productions, and it has appeared in their fliers. It was painted over once before and repainted by my ex. Change is hard.
I don't really mind the final disappearance of my childhood scrawl, and if there's anyone I would rather rebuild my hometown, it's a fag I know. But still.
The priest who attended my rape counselling sessions was at the party, and he said that I had a glow and a drive and a passion behind me he hadn't seen before. I really really think it must have been the Pinch.
I walked naked and dripping into the living room and asked for a towel. Pete sent one of the party workers on the errand; the nice gentleman blushed. All in good fun.
After the party, my ex rode his bicycle over to the parking lot where my car was parked, and rode around in circles while I vented my fears and frustration, hollering like the "Tallahassee Houswife" I've been called. There is no comfort there; either chastisement, or, when he gets tired and frustrated himself, an unfeeling agreement with whatever I say, as if THAT were what I wanted.
I haven't seen David since.
There was an open bar. By the time my ex arrived, I was ready to crank up the hot pool (and the party) with my outrageous nakedness, and I was a more than a little buzzed from the free Pinch. It only seemed appropriate. I remember drunkenly chastizing Corey for playing lincoln logs with my hometown. Every block that he rebuilds I've walked across a million times. The grafitti I put across the back of the old Cow Haus when I was 18 - a heart with the words "hard place" scrawled inside - has now been painted over; that building's about to be torn down. Photos of that grafitti have popped up on the walls of photographer friends who hadn't known I was the source. The Film School has used it as a backdrop in their student productions, and it has appeared in their fliers. It was painted over once before and repainted by my ex. Change is hard.
I don't really mind the final disappearance of my childhood scrawl, and if there's anyone I would rather rebuild my hometown, it's a fag I know. But still.
The priest who attended my rape counselling sessions was at the party, and he said that I had a glow and a drive and a passion behind me he hadn't seen before. I really really think it must have been the Pinch.
I walked naked and dripping into the living room and asked for a towel. Pete sent one of the party workers on the errand; the nice gentleman blushed. All in good fun.
After the party, my ex rode his bicycle over to the parking lot where my car was parked, and rode around in circles while I vented my fears and frustration, hollering like the "Tallahassee Houswife" I've been called. There is no comfort there; either chastisement, or, when he gets tired and frustrated himself, an unfeeling agreement with whatever I say, as if THAT were what I wanted.
I haven't seen David since.