I approve.
I’m on a roll.
black and white
“There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic." —Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale.
That guy from my frat. I still haven’t named him. I promise, I’ll get around to it. I just can’t figure it out.
Somehow, later on in the evening, he and I wound up separated from the rest of our friends, smoking a joint and talking. I simultaneously impress and scare myself sometimes when I consider how natural inhaling has gotten for me, especially since I don’t smoke tobacco. I have a lot of things about myself that leave that sort of impression. One of those things is my bravado, which it appears he’ll never see the bottom of.
I just have fun being a little mean to him. I made him wait outside of a crowded ladies room for me to stand in line for a stall then fix my hair and makeup just to get a dance with me. I tease mercilessly. It’s just bad.
So, I decided to be kind and gentle when we were alone. Because ever since I was a kid I’ve been told I intimidate the opposite sex for one reason or another. And, because I didn’t want to completely crack the poor boy’s ego to bits; he’s a nice guy.
Of course, I still bullied a bit. He has a long-distance girlfriend from back home and, when pressed about the terms of his relationship, he gets a little evasive. This is something called a red flag in my book. So, finally, I poked, “what’s going on with your lady then, Mr. Fidelity?”
“We’re trying,” he shrugged.
“Trying what?” I asked.
“Trying,” he sighed, “but she has a different definition of fidelity than I did.”
“And what’s that?” I pried.
After all the assumptions I’d made about him being the one making some poor little unknowing girlfriend cry and get into polyamory, he was the one who had been cheated on. I felt a little bad for all the mocking I’d done. Poor kid had his heart broken and was just trying to salvage something. How could I tease?
Our conversation jumped around a bit before I formally apologized a second time. It wasn’t my fault, he repeated. He brushed some ash from my joint off of my thigh. “I don’t know how to ash stuff,” I admitted, “I don’t know how to flick it right. I was really lame in high school. And boring.”
“You’re not lame anymore,” he smiled.
We went and grabbed some 3 am munchie-medicine-food afterwards. I think we’re going to be friends. For real.
Oh, honeybunnypie,
Leather-clad? Not so much. But hero? I’m flattered. Sincerely. I see how people on tumblr get trash-talked a lot for sharing experience and fun, and so I’m so insanely blessed to have people like you giving so much sweet, giggle-worthy support.
<3, Ivy
There was a guy in my life my freshman year. He was very attractive, very funny, very intelligent. But, there was something a little uncomfortable and closed off about him. We stayed friendly, but our schedules and interests just couldn’t sync the right way. But, I am still proud to hear that he’s found his own and has embraced his bisexuality and is now so comfortable in his own skin.
The other night, I ran into him and a guy in their costumes dancing up a storm at one of the parties we hit up. He looked so comfortable, I was happy for him.
“Now, who is this?” I asked with a chuckle, “last time I checked, you said you didn’t dance.”
He smiled, “look at you.” He broke off from the guy and started dancing with me. He spun me around so my back was to him and kind of pushed me into the other guy. I assumed that he had made a mistake or was just trying to pass me off, but I still felt him behind me.
So, I wind up between them. Their hands were all over me. His dance partner was grinning at me. The music was sensational. Not to mention their moves were insane. I was getting practically passed back and forth at some points, at others both of them were on me. I have to admit, it made me hot. They knew what they were doing. And, the fact that they were into each other as well as into me? Goodness gracious.
I look over to the group I was with and notice that guy in my frat checking me out. He smiled when we made eye contact. I winked. Eye-fucking commenced. And then: “It’s funny.”
I smiled, “what’s funny?"
"That there’s two of them and they still can’t handle you.”
So, according to some modern lingo, a girl’s a noodle if she’s straight until wet. Take, for instance, the woman in the lace collar. (Look at that smile.)
Fresh and I caught up over tea tonight. I wish I could say that the conversation was sophisticated, but we wound up talking about noodles. Our experiences with them, our opinion of them. And not the kind that come in a little styrofoam microwave cup.
Fresh calls this phenomenon a “spaghetti girl”.
Try and tell me “noodle” isn’t better.
“What is it you women want
you want to be strung up with hoods and gags and blindfolds
stretched out on a board with weights on your chest
you want me to sew your legs to the bed
and pour gasoline on you
and light you on fire
is that what I have to do to keep you?”
– Charles Mee, Big Love.
sweatspitcumglitterandbruises: you want this
I’ve told you again and again Ivy.
You organise those files chronologically, not alphabetically.
Yeah, yeah.
Hmph.
(I swear these keep getting funnier in their own way. <3)
I know I promised the reveal of the hidden Ivy chapters, but I’ve been kind of in one of these holds lately. I promise, I promise, I’ll dish once I’m less swamped.