Notes on the child I used to be

When I was a little girl I was obsessed with sex. 

I didn’t know exactly what it was but I had scattered clues gleaned from older children, careless parents whose bedroom doors didn’t lock, my mother’s “female health” book and a tattered Mills and Boon found somewhere.

My best friend and I hid behind the curtains in the window of my living room and pored over line drawings of penises and vaginas and wombs in profile. Giggling. Snickering. Terrified of being caught looking at bold things. 

Sometimes there would be a little boy over to play, his parents friends with mine, and we might play doctor. I don’t remember very much except that I thought it was fun to play doctor and I didn’t feel at all weird about cold plastic stethoscope or thermometer.

I wasn’t clear about sex, about bodies, about intimacy… but I was very aware at a young age that you couldn’t be too eager or make suggestions. I knew I would always be more weird than other people and so I took a passive role, delighting if someone else’s mind allowed for us to do something bolder and more likely to get us in trouble. I’m not necessarily talking about sexual activity, I wouldn’t really call playing doctor or playing “more realistic” house, sexual activities. But across the board, I was adventurous, curious, and only behaved myself if there was a real risk of getting in trouble.

I dreamt of sex as a child. I wasn’t molested or corrupted by any adult, but sex was on my mind. It wasn’t a bad thing, in my mind. It was an exciting, mysterious part of adult life and like all things adult and prohibited I wanted it immediately. 

I was an impatient child. I snuck cider from my mother’s glass when she wasn’t looking and pretended to smoke cigarettes made from rolled up note paper. My mother noticed I loved those candy sticks a bit too much because they looked like child-sized cigarettes in a box, and I wasn’t bought them any more. I wanted to be an adult. 

At this point I didn’t share my thoughts with my friends. Again, I was aware that somehow I was weirder than most. Maybe I wasn’t afraid of the places my mind would go. I wasn’t afraid of where my thoughts might lead me, until I was 12 or 13 and developed the very real fear that if I let my imagination run wild, I might find out I was a lesbian.

I loved breasts. I thought about breasts. Hard nipples, full breasts.

I couldn’t tell if I was just jealous of people who had them- my modest handfulls didn’t come in until I was eighteen, and they didn’t really get that nice round shape until I was in my twenties. They were high up but droopy, with big soft nipples, very big for a white girl I thought, and formed a pyramid shape. I hated them. 

So I thought about breasts. I wasn’t sure if I just wanted to have them or if I wanted to hold them. But I was a teenager and the real worry, the idea of how AWFUL life would be if I were a lesbian… the idea lodged itself there. I started to close my mind off at the edges, keeping my thoughts inside the box for the first time in my life. Afraid, terrified that in one more way I would find myself to be different.

I was already an atheist, my parents weren’t married, I was unbaptised and my family was international. I spoke three languages and I didn’t have brothers or sisters. All together, I was the weird, strange child. I didn’t want to be more strange. God, it was hard enough building myself up to resist the mere fact of being different…. in ways that would later turn out to be positive, mostly.

I didn’t want to be a lesbian. I wished at night. PLEASE DON’T LET ME BE A LESBIAN. 

But breasts were lovely, and I thought about them. Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears came out with their first albums. Christina was pure and sexy in a genie in a bottle. I thought about her. The lines between being her and touching her were blurred in my fantasies. I didn’t know what I wanted.

there was a mounting sense of frustration.

I thought about my friends sexually. Not my girlfriends- that was a sort of taboo. I thought about the boys I played with, who I was playing with less and less as it became clear that sooner or later we would have to part ways and become awkward teenagers. 

I thought about them at night.

I was maybe eight or nine, and I had this dream….

Of a dungeon. It was’t a dungeon really, it was nice.

Before I figured out how to masturbate, I guess my frustration was so high, I learnt to control my dreams. Sometimes I could choose to go to my dungeon. At night I would wake up in my dream. In my bed. The wall against my bed was made of jelly, but only I knew this. No one could pass through it except at my invitation. I would slip through the wall and find myself in a dungeon. 

Stone walls, a fireplace. Fur rugs. Candles on the walls. A huge round bed covered in red and purple and black drapes. This was my aesthetic vision when I was a child.

In my dungeon I was an adult woman, curvy, beautiful. Long, thick hair like a 1970s star. Big breasts. HUGE breasts. I went naked in my dungeon or else I would wish myself into beautiful dresses. Sometimes I would wish myself into clothes that were just corsets or rope wrapped around me, squeezing my breasts and my skin… 

I have no idea where I got these images from. Perhaps vampire movies? Probably vampire movies.

In my dungeon I would be like a goddess.

I would wish dozens of men to come and queue. I would inspect them one by one. I was rude to them. No, no, no… Go home. Stop wasting my time.

Then I’d kiss one. Yes, you can stay. Maybe. I sometimes wore skin tight catsuit type outfits. I was a sexy, adult dominatrix. I kissed all the boys I liked, and then I’d fuck them. Usually when I was just about to fuck them in my sexy adult body in my sex dungeon, the alarm clock would go off and I’d wake up in my stupid little girl body with my stupid little girl life and I had to put on my uniform and go to school and talk to my little girl friends about Harry Potter or Pokemon or whatever we were into at the time. When I put on my uniform I had to take off my pyjamas and I had these little girl titties that were so awful, just flabby nipples. God I hated looking at myself. In my dream I was this sex queen. In real life I was just this awkward girl with puppy fat that was far too young for anyone (that wasn’t a paedophile) to want to fuck her, and of course in real life I wouldn’t even think of actually doing anything sexual. It was a separate, secret part of my mind.  I didn’t actually WANT someone to have sex with me. I just wanted to be an adult already and have men fall at my feet and worship me and do what I said.

In reality little boys, little freckled stupid boring boys, would tell me to shut up because I talked too much and when they finally started fancying girls, they treated me like a boy and talked about my prettier friends. 

It took me so… fucking… long… to get where I dreamed of being.

And now I’m older I don’t WANT to stand before I queue of men, deciding which was yes and which was no, and demeaning them all with my power. And yet I could. Because I’ve grown up. I don’t have those massive breasts I dreamt of as a child but I have a woman’s body and I’m comfortable in it. I’ve battled my thoughts and those edges of the box, I’ve come to terms with my love of breasts and I know I’m not a lesbian. And if I was a lesbian, I wouldn’t give a shit. I’ve started digging into the darker corners of my mind and what I find there isn’t scary or disturbing. It’s just me. I’m not afraid of what I’ll find there. 

Since I started to dig deeper, beyond my pure and simple love of a good ride, I’ve found myself in interesting situations, exciting situations. I’ve been dabbling in BDSM. I haven’t reported on that because I’ve been quite consumed with it and haven’t felt inspired to write a report of being tied up and spanked….

I just felt like writing this now. Maybe I’ll write about the other things, but this is what I felt like writing so here it is.

50 ways to leave your imaginary lover

And so it ends, the brief obsessive one sided love affair between me and the unsuspecting barman.

Not with a bang on top of the marble counter, but with a silent and unnoticed whimper.

Last night I washed my hair, got to sleep around 2am and woke up incredibly refreshed and bright eyed. I applied so much makeup, my own mother wouldn’ta recognised me. I entirely obscured all of those pesky features that make me who I am, added a short but otherwise non-threatening dress and a pair of flat boots and left the house looking about as damn fine as I am capable of with only half an hour’s prep time.

I flounced into the bar and hello… sexy barman is right there waiting for my coffee order. I order an Americano to stretch my barman facetime to its utmost. I’m so excited, we are so going to have a conversation I can tell…

He shouts across at another customer who is leaving, some joke that elicits a ripple of laughter.

I have no idea what he’s talking about so I just try to look friendly over my nervous smile (it don’t come easily to me) and wait for him to devote his time and energy to the preparation of my beverage and that solid customer-barman bonding conversation I long for…

The customer pauses at the door and they exchange some unintelligible banter.

He leaves chuckling. Barman leans over the bar to me in a conspiratory manner that sets my creepy little stalker heart all a flutter…. and explains the joke to me. He probably saw the weird fearful smile plastered on my face and thought I needed to be put at ease that they were not discussing the black market reselling of my organs or something.

So he explains the joke:

“He’s my girlfriend’s dad and he’s 45, and tonight I’m having a party and as I’m 20 all my friends who will be there will be 20 or 21…” and then came the explanation of the joke but after I heard the words girlfriend AND I’m 20, I was lost in a spiral of despair.

The whole obsessive fantasy of mine regarding my lovely barman disolves around me like drain cleaner going to town on toilet grime.

He’s 20. He has a girlfriend… I could overlook the girlfriend if he was older because I think once you have been in a couple of shit relationships you stop bothering with the whole fidelity thing… unless you’re a nice person, or whatever. Anyway he’s 20 so he’s either A) a total shit, or B) convinced he’s with his soulmate. Either way… also, Jesus lapdancing christ, I didn’t have much fun in bed with 20 year old guys when I was that age myself, I’m certainly not going back there now… As well as fuck man, no wonder he has such a lovely friendly gorgeous face, he hasn’t been whipped across the buttocks by life and her bitch-ass lessons yet (crying take the pain,you optimistic little shit…through delightedly gritten teeth).

I watched him juggling cups and saucers… only yesterday that seemed like a private circus of flirtation put on for me and me alone, and now instead I connect the dots between how nice and friendly he is to me, and how nice and interested he seemed in that old crone’s lumbago complaints yesterday. Oh man. I am the old woman. He is just believably friendly.

I am a creep.

I knock back my steaming hot Americano in one burny swig.

I smile weakly at the rejected barman I had originally been aiming my bizzare stunted flirtations towards. He was friendly too… he’s definitely in the desirable age group of “between my age and 35…” But I don’t have the heart or stomach or any of the internal organs required to start afresh with yet another barman… to build up the nervous chatter and fleeting eye contact… no. This is the end… My barman lust ends now.

I trudged over to H&M to try on those jeans again. I mused over that if I am going to be attracted to 20 year old boys I will have to start wearing jeans to put them at ease. I tried on the jeans and just couldn’t bring myself to accept people seeing how big my ass really is. I mean they didn’t look that bad… but then I tried on a black dress (yes another black dress) and I gave myself some serious lady wood so I had to buy it. Damn I look good in that dress. I am wearing it tomorrow to a party.

So that lifted my spirits a little.

I felt so enthused about looking amazing in that dress that I sauntered over to the bar where the original, neglected hot barman works.

What the hey, one last dejected lap of my stalking circuit, a solitary goodbye to a hobby that at best promoted hygiene and looking after my appearance and at worst was a little bit psycho.

He was there. He was friendly. He’s hopelessly hot… and definitely at least my age. But I was looking at him and I just felt a massive sigh of disappointment over how long I have lived here and how much energy I have put into building my creepy fantasies over these barmen who have no idea of any of the crazy that is bottled up beneath my slutty looking but quiet exterior. It makes me shudder to imagine how many weird guys there might be out there who have used me thusly in their own freaky fantasies, and I none the wiser. Gross.

And it’s all based on very very little…. they are just friendly barmen. They are just the only good looking men who are not ridiculously old or crazy looking who are friendly to me and smile at me. It’s sad. I just want a metaphorical pat on the head and for some attractive men to approve of me. My self worth needs it. Don’t even start me on how much my crotch needs it.

I just feel like some weary worn out thing with makeup and a load of dresses and a tendency to obsess over men who I then beat myself up over because I consider them out of my league.

This is messed up.

I haven’t had sex since the end of August also.

I’m just tired of getting all dressed up and there not being any takers.

I know I’m leaving here in mid January early Feb, but damn it feels like forever.

And what will I do now that I no longer am frenzying myself over some indifferent bartender?  What reason do I have now to put on slap in the mornings? You know it’s really hard to constantly make an effort with no positive reinforcement.

I totally get Mrs. Havisham staying in the same stinky wedding dress… what’s the fucking point anyway?

I feel like if I do eventually give up on all this effort (well, in fairness it’s not THAT much effort.. under my tights I am very hairy) it will mean I admit defeat, and go back to my pre-makeup state where I had to get by on my personality and we all know that may be awesome as fuck but it’s not exactly sexy when I rant about things. No way man. I want to stay in denial, keep aiming high and then scuttering away before I can be rejected.

I’m so glad I’m a woman, or I’d probably still be a virgin.

Oooohoooo why do I feel so shit? I just burst the bubble of my sad little delusions, there was no rejection! I shouldn’t feel so shitty but I feel seriously shitty.

If you have a heart, please could someone just secretly pay a male model to come up to me and tell me I’m beautiful. That would (sadly) sort me right out.

Womenfolk: I apologise for being such a floundering representative for y’all. I know there are worse representatives, like the insufferable wenches in tampon ads and the hags peddling senokot (gentle laxative for the modern constipated woman) while swapping recipes with their aged mothers… but still.

I fully intend my next post to be not about mooning over a barman, and not about me being sad that I don’t get hit on.

I need to buy groceries anyway so you never know you might be in for a supermarket visit related post.

YAY motherfuckers!

Money doesn’t buy happiness, unless you’re unhappy because you can’t afford stuff

Dude, I have to stop buying clothes.

I have monster heating and electricity bills to pay, as well as all the divorce crap like lawyer fees to pay… and I’m still buying clothes. It’s retarded, because there aren’t enough days in the year to wear what I have, without washing anything… and my evenings are spent in slothy nudity… and still I find myself buying clothes. I went into H&M yesterday afternoon after whingeing my way out of working double “cause I had important shit to do” and the intention was to buy some more comfy little shorts. I should never have entered that shop. I should have known better than to think I could go in for one unnecessary item and not come out with 5.

I hate fashion. I really hate the idea that we are all being shunted along in some arbitrary direction, being teased alternately with what we should and shouldn’t wear, only for it all to be turned on its head the next season. One year it’s, leggings are the ultimate no-no. Then it’s leggings are hot. Then it’s, Lindsay Lohan has a line of leggings out… do not wear leggings. I pretend I’m not influenced by this crap and I dress how I want, but something gets in and fucks with my head anyway. Look at this, for instance. I see this picture, and I’m all “oh my god that bikini is gorgeous, I’ll look so good in it.”

But it’s just a black bikini and I will NOT look good in it. What I want to buy is that creature’s awesome body and tan. (Although not her boobs)

I have a calvin klein asymetric swimsuit that still manages to taunt me from the back of my wardrobe. Stupid, effective advertising. Every month I try on that swimsuit and pose in front of the mirror, sucking it all in and angling myself in the most flattering position, only to give up in depression and vow to get up early every day for the rest of my life and make cucumber juice and munch on cress. And do sit ups. Which I try but just end up hurting my neck, so I give up on that too.

And then I go shopping to make me feel better, and I see these little shorts that are too small and pyjama-like to wear out in public but that would look really cool if I have some people over to my house for a party, and then don’t end up fucking any of them, but in the morning I want to get up and pretend I wore pyjamas to bed, and I make them all coffee and whoever my target was the night before will be all like, damn, she’s got awesome legs. So I buy them. (Although that hypothetical situation is about as unlikely as being trapped in a lift with a can of food I can open with my swiss army knife and impress my companions)

When I first enter the shop I’m mentally allowing myself a budget of 30 euros… two pairs of little comfy shorts and a couple of thongs… The thongs because I realise I really like wearing matching bra and undies and I’m hardly going to change bras every day, so I need more bottoms to go with the top. (That way, if I get into a mild traffic accident, I won’t have to spend my ambulance ride fretting over not being attractive to the emergency services)

Then I see these cool trousers for riding my bike around and pretending to be an active healthy member of society who takes care of their body. I extend the budget to 50.  I remember how my mother liked those trousers too. I buy two pairs, and think, hey while I’m being generous as hell to the woman who dedicated her life to me, I deserve to splurge on this dress for myself. I do a mental calculation, and justify it with: If I was going grocery shopping, I would have spent this much anyway. Plus, if I had a better social life, this would be all gone in a night’s drinks and taxis. It’s cool. Ooh, self-warming face masks. Mine. All sense of budget has collapsed. I look at handbags and shoes. Shoes don’t fit. Handbags look cheap. What I really want is a leather briefcase with compartments for all my girl handbag clutter. Frantically scan the room for something else to buy. Find myself in the queue to pay, dissatisfied and feeling like I barely got anything good. At the checkout is a man, a hot man. I imagine he’s looking at my underwear purchase with the cold eye of someone who sees a lot of women buy a lot of underwear. I’m momentarily ashamed of my wide hips. I suck in my stomach… but stop. I have to stop acting like every man I see is sizing me up as a potential cock recipient. It’s incredibly nerve wracking.

I get home and empty my bag excitedly on the couch. Two pairs of underwear, two pairs of shorts, a dress I don’t like and two pairs of trousers. I regret buying those for my mother. I’ll have to pay postage. I wonder if they’re too big on me? It’s ok, she didn’t expect me to get her anything. Man I’m such a selfish dick.

I also bought a pestle and mortar and one of those curved knives for cutting herbs with a special rounded chopping board… although, since husband and I are no more, I have basically been cooking lentils and eating them out of the saucepan so why I’m buying expensive kitchen shit like this makes no sense. But it’s all about the fantasy situations in my head.

Also, the swiss army knife, although that has already more than paid for itself. I looked so badass eating my apple at work, I felt like Beyonce in “Survivor” with my multi purpose tool in hand, spearing the apple slices mercilesly while customers faltered in their intentions to waste my time. But I buy shit all the time to prepare me for imaginary situations that never happen. I won’t spend a cent on important stuff like fixing my laptop which is pretty much heating my apartment at this point… last night I tried to take it apart to clean the fan (I’ve never done this before) but regretably had not purchased the swiss army knife with the correct screwdriver, so hacked at the screws for a while, disfiguring them and probably voiding my warranty, and eventually gave up, left the cover wonky and went back to watching Psych. I’m nearly done with season 5 now… don’t know what I’ll do with my time now. Maybe clean my apartment so the fan doesn’t get clogged with some much crap. Or I could sort through some of my clothes I never wear. Or make curtains for the kitchen. I’ll probably just go back to playing Fallout: New Vegas and frightening myself to death with the background noises. But at least I have those little shorts. If the gas company sends a bad porno- style man to take the reading from my meter, I can open the door looking like I just stepped out of a sorority pillow fight…

Actually, whatever happened to porn with cheesy storylines? I hate how they just cut scene to the penetration nowadays. I miss those well-endowed pizza delivery men and women who take showers while expecting deliveries.