She’s still at work even though it’s past seven. She just showered in the cubicle in the ladies’ toilets and now she’s sipping a glass of white wine at her desk, away from the party. She snuck up there before anyone else and poured herself a big one while the other P.A’s were still at their desks. He’s there now, doing whatever it is he has to do. She’d rather leave him to it. He can miss her.
I hadn’t known back then that pretty young women with autism can have an advantage in bars. I was supposed to be young and not know anything, so I should have said something honest like “I can’t be a journalist because I don’t know how to talk to people” and a man would interpret that as being coy. Then he would explain to me how to get information out of people and tell me how easy it should be for me to do that anyway because I am cute, charming, etc.
Being with Leonard was liberating. I loved him so much, and he took in all my kisses, all the pettings and the little songs, and he loved me back and recited me spontaneous poetry and performed naked dances. It was delicious. I started the relationship in my usual disparaging way – I thought he was a little wet behind the ears, but quite lovely, so I lay in bed with him for days, stroking his hair and feeding him. I thought – how can someone so much older than me possibly accept all my peacocky drivel. I thought – when it stops being fun, when he gets clingy, I’ll end it. I thought – he’s too kind to not secretly be a psychopath.
Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.
The last man I pined for was a drip. Gorgeous cheekbones, although he kept shaving off his beard, and that made him look disturbingly like a little boy, but not worth my time. As the song goes, “if you don’t want to fuck me, baby, fuck off".
I’m not religious. I envy the comfort people seem to find in their faith, and I’m touched when someone politely expresses the wish to save my soul, but I don’t believe any of the stories. Other people’s peaceful interpretations of religious scriptures reassure me; why wouldn’t one want to be surrounded by beings who exude love, kindness and understanding? Nevertheless, I find the crossover of religion and sex a rather uncomfortable point. The idea that sex (as I see it, an amazing, fun, social activity) could possibly be an evil force of corruption between two consenting adults is alien to me. I don’t believe in shame after consensual sex.
Usually I don’t bother over thinking when it comes to making a move. Sometimes, though, when the stakes are high, I remind myself of an excellent story that I suspect may be an urban legend (and if it isn’t, let’s turn it into one), and I feel rather braver.
A sweet disorder in the dress/Kindles in clothes a wantonness
I’ve spent 20 hours of my life on the Greyhound bus, traveling from Washington DC to Columbia, Missouri. The Greyhound is an extreme experience. I passed through more blank land than I’ve ever seen in my life, and I was simultaneously connected to and isolated from other people as a transient panorama of humanity unfolded in front of me.
I look at the enormous woman sprawled sideways upon a full-sized bed, staring mournfully at an empty tray as if willing it to refill itself. She’s draped only in a loose sheet and I’m not surprised; it must be both difficult and expensive to find clothes for a woman so large. Her breasts alone are the size of honeydews and as I stare, my eyes popping, at the nipples poking through the thin cotton I wonder, in spite of myself, if they’re equally as sweet.