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Femme Fatale Complex I
May. 20th, 2010 05:54 pmWarning: Bad Gay Cliche and Indulgent First Person POV ahead....
Femme Fatale Complex I (working title)
I've always liked my women bad - or the thrill only appeared when there was something bad. I still remembered the frenemy I had back in grade school, gripping my arm tight as she kicked my shins in against the metal baseball fence...for what rebellion I had refused to repent for, I forgot, but we did that a lot. My home life was tolerable when I listened to her talk to me, us two alone, about her Family Business and how dark and dangerous it all was, she was Big Sis of the playground.
Freud, Field Day, I won't repeat it again.
Me mom got scared and had us moved to our Auntie in Markham, ha, and I did not contact her again. Though I think her number is still in my phonebook. We Broke Up over kicking down snow castles (I think I was the one who didn't want to do it, I think), and Yoko who just switched in months before school ended, and yes, this was only grade school. If heteros could have puppy love, why not me too? Puppy with a taste for blood, but I missed her, when I was alone again in another new school.
I thought I saw Big Sis once, years later when we were almost twenty, and she turned from me and into the crowd, which was good. I just didn't want to ask if she made up her mafia connection the same way I made up stories about my family, the one I didn't leave behind in Hong Kong.
The bad ones were the most beautiful ones in the film noir I grew up watching, tapes from the library, all because I saw Bette Davis's Eyes one bored afternoon. It's probably wishful projection too, they dared to go where I could not. I won the short run every year at track and field, grade 5-8, and it wasn't because I was a devoted athlete. Deep inside, maybe I want to be with the predators, so I don't have to chose between caving for their bizarre amusement (never) and getting my arse kicked by pretty girls no teacher suspects (always).
Wasn't it nice when I could dismiss my budding queerness as stockholm syndrome? God should know it's a fucking lie. Track and Field short run #1 for years and years and years.
Grade 8 Prom, I've spent it in the library reading about the Greek Gods who are the Monsters, reading about the goddesses, beautiful, fierce, and as crazy and overkilling as the rest, but beautiful. Actaeon have my sympathy.
Twenty-Fifth Birthday, I've spent it fantasying about the Greek Gods, Goddesses, hoping to hell it doesn't show on my face as I slowly, slower than usual, process the data files of the day. My boss nodded at me the way he nodded at everyone, on his way out, and we followed another hour later. I hit the bar for a (contemplative) drink alone, still in my stuffy work clothes.
I was aware of Linda before she sat down next to me with no invitation - a woman alone must always watch her own back. I knew there was something powerful about her right away, though I could not discern what, what she was like, what her profession was.
Linda covered my glass of rum and coke with her palm, to stop me from taking another sip to ignore her, she asked if I was alone here, as a smile reached up towards her ears.
I shouldn't have looked at her eyes.
Femme Fatale Complex I (working title)
I've always liked my women bad - or the thrill only appeared when there was something bad. I still remembered the frenemy I had back in grade school, gripping my arm tight as she kicked my shins in against the metal baseball fence...for what rebellion I had refused to repent for, I forgot, but we did that a lot. My home life was tolerable when I listened to her talk to me, us two alone, about her Family Business and how dark and dangerous it all was, she was Big Sis of the playground.
Freud, Field Day, I won't repeat it again.
Me mom got scared and had us moved to our Auntie in Markham, ha, and I did not contact her again. Though I think her number is still in my phonebook. We Broke Up over kicking down snow castles (I think I was the one who didn't want to do it, I think), and Yoko who just switched in months before school ended, and yes, this was only grade school. If heteros could have puppy love, why not me too? Puppy with a taste for blood, but I missed her, when I was alone again in another new school.
I thought I saw Big Sis once, years later when we were almost twenty, and she turned from me and into the crowd, which was good. I just didn't want to ask if she made up her mafia connection the same way I made up stories about my family, the one I didn't leave behind in Hong Kong.
The bad ones were the most beautiful ones in the film noir I grew up watching, tapes from the library, all because I saw Bette Davis's Eyes one bored afternoon. It's probably wishful projection too, they dared to go where I could not. I won the short run every year at track and field, grade 5-8, and it wasn't because I was a devoted athlete. Deep inside, maybe I want to be with the predators, so I don't have to chose between caving for their bizarre amusement (never) and getting my arse kicked by pretty girls no teacher suspects (always).
Wasn't it nice when I could dismiss my budding queerness as stockholm syndrome? God should know it's a fucking lie. Track and Field short run #1 for years and years and years.
Grade 8 Prom, I've spent it in the library reading about the Greek Gods who are the Monsters, reading about the goddesses, beautiful, fierce, and as crazy and overkilling as the rest, but beautiful. Actaeon have my sympathy.
Twenty-Fifth Birthday, I've spent it fantasying about the Greek Gods, Goddesses, hoping to hell it doesn't show on my face as I slowly, slower than usual, process the data files of the day. My boss nodded at me the way he nodded at everyone, on his way out, and we followed another hour later. I hit the bar for a (contemplative) drink alone, still in my stuffy work clothes.
I was aware of Linda before she sat down next to me with no invitation - a woman alone must always watch her own back. I knew there was something powerful about her right away, though I could not discern what, what she was like, what her profession was.
Linda covered my glass of rum and coke with her palm, to stop me from taking another sip to ignore her, she asked if I was alone here, as a smile reached up towards her ears.
I shouldn't have looked at her eyes.
