Too close to home

It has been almost a month since my neighbour and I let our flailing relationship slide. It is true, I instigated the decision but all the signals were pointing in one direction – towards a dead end. And for the record he never fought, he never fought for me, and I would like to believe I am worth fighting for.

I tend not to move on quickly. A strange part of me likes to suffer in my sorrow, feel my heart shatter into pieces, choke on my breaths, wake in the middle of the night lost in mad thoughts of what was, feel the loss ache inside like a war wound that just refuses to heal up. I relish the pain because it makes me feel human and real and I know deep inside that these lows will eventually catapult me back high with a number of lessons tightly held under my wings.

The only thing I require is the space in which to do this. I want to feel I can walk the streets, drowning in distress, and slowly let the wind blow my spirits high again. I want it to take time and I want to feel that when I come out the other end, I am a bird, soaring free of all that cuts deep. Yet, this is not so easy when the one who still holds a piece of your heart walks the same streets with a new girl in tow, his arms casually laid across her shoulders, holding her close and tight.

I wish I could have been dignified and let it pass. Rationalised that these streets which I call mine are his also and can not be owned. Yet, territoriality is something that overtakes me and turns me into somebody else.

It first occurred on Saturday night. A friend of mine walked into them on the corner of our street. Their hands were clasped, he told me later.  I was livid. It could have been me who walked to that corner and was confronted by the sight of him and the replacement. So I sent him a message outlining how it destroyed me and finished it with a quite bold statement – ‘you are quite frankly, my dear, a selfish cunt’.

No response.

Today I saw them in the flesh. Three days after the last encounter. I reacted. It was inappropriate, it was loud, it was outrageous and I looked like a mad cat lady.

It occurred like this. We drove towards my house and I saw him. Pull over, I told my friend. Are you sure this is healthy Sierra? Yes, I need to see. I had to witness it, be exposed to it. I had to compare it to the image I had created in my mind.

I exited the car. He looked so different, his hair was so hipster - shaved and dyed with red, flopping to the side. He wore all black. He strutted. Then it happened. She walked up to the corner, her gloriously long dark hair blowing in the breeze. They embraced and he slipped his arms over her shoulders. It seemed so comfortable. It seemed so happy. He never embraced me like that. My guts spilled out onto the concrete.  

Some words flew out - from somewhere – something I needed to say, to expel. ‘Show some respect Adrian!’. They turned, I turned. I didn’t even see the reactions – I was already making my bold exit. It was a moment, a moment in time. I am not sure what my intention was. To let him know that these streets are my streets of mourning? To let her know that our romance still exists here, whistling through the trees? I have no explanation, no justification. The words just came. They just were.

A part of me feels guilty. As though I have crossed a boundary that many would not. I now also mourn the fact that we have moved from old lovers to new haters and this is not who I want to be. But a part of me feels it needed to happen. I needed to confront it, face it full frontal, publicly exclaim my pain and suffering to my streets of mourning. A part of me feels I needed to do it in order to let go and move on. We all need to get a little psycho sometimes.

Sierra x

“Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

…

Ouch I have lost myself again,
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found”

Sia, Breathe Me.

Six Months of Silence

Hello? Hello blog fans. Are you out there? It is me - Sierra. I have returned from my six months of silence. I have left you for a while and have missed you. I hope you will allow me back into your virtual world. I’m back - with a vengeance.

A man took me away. He stole me, stole my heart, stole my attention, stole my time. And I loved every second of it. Well that is an exaggeration.  I loved about 90% about it. I will share with you what I loved and what drove me into a pit of misery but I shall keep it brief because really, who is interested in the past when they present is so damn juicy? So let’s just get the history summarised and submitted and hope it is not to be repeated.

Dear Neighbour, these are the things I will forever remember and cherish about our time together:

• -          How the first thing you gave me was thai basil from your garden and a giant chilli for stir frying.
• -          The time you woke me up with a full breakfast with honeyed coffee with oat milk and crumbed wooded mushrooms
• -          When I caught you running across the carpark with a big bunch of flowers to hide on the passenger car seat
• -          How we raced into the Queensland ocean together, freezing and shaking but loving how the waves crashed upon us
• -          Scouring second-hand shops and vintage sales for ugly jumpers and strangely printed vests
• -          How you used to touch my hand when we were in restaurants, almost as a way of ensuring that I was there and I was real.

But these moments faded and we never really clicked. Tension seemed the norm and it put me on edge. I was also waiting for the next criticism, the next time I would say the wrong thing and you would snap. And I know you didn’t mean it, that it was just how you expressed yourself. I know you never meant to hurt me. Yet your biting words cut deep and your silence cut even deeper.

 I made the calls, sent the texts, organised the catchups and you slowly rose to the occasion. Yet when others asked you out, you jumped at their bait. I felt like I was chasing a hare down a hole and watching as it continually slipped through my fingers. For you, this demonstrated how comfortable you were, how much you felt at ease. For me, it was a disappearance, a disconnection, something lost and nothing found. For me it was the end.

Sierra x

The Hour of the Demon

Lately, I have been regularly awoken from my slumber at 4am. Brrrrr. Brrrr. Brrrr. For some reason, 4am is the hour of choice for random men from my past to call me. My friend claims that this must be the hour of the demon. I am afraid I must agree.

Now, if I had one-night-stand-ed these men in the past, I may understand the early morning booty call. If I was a renowned tube dress owning, diamonte heel wearing, midori-swigging diva, I may understand why these phone calls were directed at me. The fact is, I have not and I am not. All of these men have never been inside my knickers. The sweetness of what I have to offer is unknown to them. I am not a nightclubber or even a pub-crawler. I am a community worker who is studying part time and spends most of my weekend in pyjama pants with cups of yogi tea, reading through statistics. Moreover, I have never answered any of these rudely-timed calls. I hang up and switch off. Always. So there is no evidence-base for their choice of recipient. It just makes no sense.

What goes through a drunk man’s mind when the hour of the demon strikes and his desires arise? Has he simply worked his way down the phone list and am I one of many sleep-interrupted victims?

What would happen if I answered? I suspect it would go a little something like this:

Booty-caller: Sierraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa (club noise pumping in background, other bogan males rejoicing at the fact that a female answered the call).

Booty-caller: How aaaaaaaarrrrrrre yaaaaa? (slur, slur, fumble, belch, etc).

Sierra: It is four in the morning. Has someone cracked you across the nose and are you in need of an ambo? Have you been abandoned in Frankston and are surrounded by ugg-wearing hoons? Are you pant-less and hiding behind a bush? No? None of the above? Well, why, may I ask, would you call me? A girl from your past who you have barely said boo to in three years? Oh, you thought I would be out? The week before my essays are due. Oh you didn’t know I was studying? Right, of course, because you knew me three years ago which was before I started my Masters and, in fact, we have not spoken since that point. In fact, I may not even be in Melbourne. This may no longer be my number. I may be married, I may have a baby. I may have changed my sexual preferences. So, what gave you the hide to call me at this witching hour?

Oh you were making your way through your phone book in the search of a booty call. I see. The clarity of that logic just astounds me.

But the truth is, I never answer. I cross my eyes, roll over, and think about it the next day.

It is not just the booty call which gets under my skin, in all of its un-gentlemanly disgracefulness. No. It is the follow-up the next day. The booty-calling-boys who wake you in the night never call to apologise the following day. You do not even receive a text message. Apology? No. Remorseful? Clearly not. If you raise it with them, they will claim first, that they can not remember (this is what your call history is for) and second, that it is because they like you so much (flatter me more boys, flatter me more).

Do these calls make my heart flutter and my hips quiver? No. They leave me tired, disgruntled and contemplating whether I should switch my digits.

How men win me over is with the little things – being driven to work when it rains, having a meal cooked for me from scratch, the door being opened, the jacket being placed over my shoulders when the wind picks up. These things mean the world to me and, my dears, it is these lovely, little things which have led me into the arms of a lovely neighbour of mine.

Until next time

Sierra x

Feathers v Ferocity

A male friend of mine has recently started dating a girl. He is a man of high expectations. For the last few months he has rejected one girl after another due to them being ‘un-fuckable’. I am not sure what reduces women’s ’fuckable-ness’. This is new territory to me. Is it hairy legs or spinach stuck between one’s teeth? I thought all women were fuck-worthy. A juicy bit between the thighs. What more does a man need? Clearly a lot more – at least according to my friend.

My friend’s search for a fuck-able female came to a head the other week. He thought he had hit a home run with a svelte girl who sparked his attention and was sexy enough to stir his libido. Score? Win? Unfortunately, no. The fucking happened yes but it was not what he sought. She didn’t purr as he required her too. She didn’t beg him for more. She was non-committal. She was bored.

This threw my friend. He had been searching for someone who would satisfy his sexual demands and make him think his penis was the new sensation. He failed to think that he might need to put some effort in himself. Clearly, his genetic luck in being endowed with a larger than normal asset was not going to bring the sexual success he expected. He may have to work at it.

In my mind, I praised this girl. In her situation, I may give in and make the man think he was god. Moan, groan, pretend to orgasm 5 times in a row, shake as though I was breaking into a new sexual frontier. Every non-feminist move under the sun to move the situation along quickly so that I could pursue a more interesting activity such as eating cheesecake in a white floaty dress, reading Zadie Smith novels under a sun umbrella. Like most women, I am a damn good actor and can use it to my own benefit. But this girl. Well, she was different. She didn’t pretend. She just was. She just is. Respect, girlfriend, respect.

He did not have the same respect for her. I’m off to get some Philly this weekend he said. I was baffled. Why do you need some Philly? I was unsure how Philadelphia cheese would resolve his dilemma. No. Phillys were actually a pseudonym for young female girls at the racers, blindly drunk and easy prey. He was going to ditch his new found mate for a bit of racecourse action that would probably take place behind a portaloo with feet sliding in the mud and grass with every ramming and a satin dress held high above her head, hiding her from view. Fool, fool, fool.

Once again, I realised that men don’t necessarily understand female sexuality. Penetration is not gold. In fact, it is rarely copper. I prefer the sexy glance while we wait in the IGA queue, the times when I laugh with you til my stomach hurts, when I have a cold and you make me French onion soup, the text message that says ‘ I miss you’ and the cuddle while I cook us spaghetti sauce. It is these elements, combined within a massive bubble of tantric energy, that get me in the mood. Ferocity and macho-mojo wins no brownie points. I need kindness, affection, fun times, compliments and love. I am a person, not a plastic porno puppet.

Fellas.. we need feathers not ferocity.

Love Sierra xx

Is there hope for the hound-dog yet?

I am sorry that I disappeared on you my lovelies. Things have been .. well complicated. I did not hang the hound-dog. Instead, I took his word for things and allowed the fun to run its course. It has been a jolly ride.

I have been spoilt and I cant remember when I have had someone look at me this way. It is as though he literally cant take his eyes off me – they stare into the depths of my soul. I feel like a fancily wrapped lolly pop being stared out by a drooling child through the sweet store window. That is right – I feel damn lickable. He says ‘I fancy the pants off you’ and that tickles me. He buys me fine wine and feasts and tells me ‘I am doing my best to woo you’. Have I snagged the remaining decent man from the everlasting drought?

If it only it was this simple.

This is the thing with the man drought. There are so few men that they all come with baggage. My last male lover had been left destroyed and wild by his girlfriend’s prevalent cheating. Before that, an Oxford don made me laugh til I cried and I thought I had scored - he later told me his girlfriend was waiting at home. Essentially, thank you for the ‘ride’, Im heading back to my nest. Then there was the French guy who had the ‘I don’t really want to see her but I am stuck in the relationship’ girl in his life. At least he lived up to his promises and left her.

I attract baggage. I attract drama. I fucking hate it.

Those of you who know me will be able to verify that my life is not ordinary. I work in a field that is full of emotion and my job, my volunteering, my study is all about trying to find rationality in all the emotion that comes with this sector – the sector that deals with crime. So when I walk away from that part of my life and head into my social life, I just want to let my hair down. I want to get loose, laugh, drink a bucket of wine and dance in hello kitty pyjamas on someone’s kitchen table.

What I don’t want is to try and counsel the new man in my life. I don’t want to give advice about techniques for ditching baggage. Especially not baggage with a broken zip and fragile sticker attached. So I do what I always tend to – I tell them to deal with it and come back when they are ready. Few return.

And this is where it stands with hound-dog. Not only has he just escaped a fresh break up but she is clinging like a sticky bug. Crying, pleading, persuading and now.. convincing him to go to a counselling session with her. Yes, you heard me. Next Tuesday, counselling, him and her. But don’t worry darlings. The session will not be about their relationship but to do with her issues with her father – how very Freudianly appropriate. The electra complex avenue of pity to try and pull your fish back in off the hook. It’s a damn good line.

Trust me. I feel for her. Have we not all been there? She is wrecked and wanting and I have been her. I have been her so many times. I can almost feel her ache and taste her tears. But it puts me in an awful bind.

So I have cancelled our date this week. I am off to play basketball with my favourite bunch of lesbians. Manly ball throwing, ass shoving, referee-demonising court tactics and hopefully a pounding three pointer should hopefully get my emotions back on track.

There will be more to this. Stay hooked.

Sierra x

Hunting the Hound-dog

My lovelies,

Apologies for my inactive blogging of late. I have had some wonderful life changes. I am now in a new job working with the most wonderful, diverse range of women imaginable and I am back studying in faded leggings and grandma jumpers, where happiness comes with sun shining through the study window, the sound of the postman driving up the road and the smell and sight of a pot of chai steaming up my computer screen.

I do have some news for you and yes it is juicy. In fact it is dirty and juicy and it involves a potential scoundrel. You will love it my darlings.

Last week I went on my first official internet date. I had been on one before but I do not classify it is as authentic (and it certainly was not blog-worthy). With the first internet date, I attended out of guilt. He had contacted me and paid for it. My heart stretched out when I saw how persistently he emailed, how he wore his cargo trousers too tightly around the crotch  and when I accidentally bumped into him on Brunswick Street and thought avoiding his eye would equate to snobbery. I felt like I needed to meet him, to show him that he was still worthy of an OJ and a sunny afternoon. I showed up all snotly and stinking of the garlic and lemon drinks which I had soaked myself in. It lasted half n hour. He almost ran from the place. I think the garlic did it. Perhaps a vampire lurked underneath the cargos.

The second internet date – the latest- was real. I thought sparks might fly, that we may have an edge. His photo had no head. That is how the chat started. I asked him where his head was and if he had one at all. It seems he did but he was not keen to expose it. Interesting. We chatted and the conversation flowed. Well as much as a little chat box with pinging rings can flow. There were common interests (wine and well, wine) and common friends of friends of friends. We took it a step further. Emails begun and I even exposed my real name. This was going somewhere. He called me when he said he would. We spoke for an hour about the world and how we were going to shake it up. He was a go-getter, a world-saver, a laugher, a runner and a wine-drinker and I damn well liked it.

We met for a soy chai latte. We had two. It was awkward. He asked a lot of questions, I felt like I was in an interrogation unit but still there were moments I felt like this could lead down a sun-shiney path. He won me over when he told me about his eccentric family – the lesbian aunts who created a café called ‘sticky tarts’, the wild uncle who lives in the bush, growing mountains of weed. I was intrigued.

Now, my dears, this is not going where you may expect. This morning I felt like our beautiful little connection was chug chug chugging down the trainline and that it may indeed lead somewhere. Tonight is a different story. I found him on Facebook. A closed account, nothing unusual there. Then I noticed a girl on the left-hand side of the screen – one of his 332 friends – who had her hand enjoyable planted on the back of his ass. Interesting. I clicked. Her photo albums were open. Click. Photos of the two of them peering back at me, at family functions, camping, travelling, picknicking and most importantly, hugging. Her status: in a relationship. Hm. Hm. Hm. And when was the latest photo taken? March 2011. And what had he told me? I broke up with my girlfriend  four months ago. Four months ago, March 2011, in a relationship. Fuck. Now the train is flying off the rails.

Now, I am not jumping the gun my dears but I may have actually hunted down a hound-dog. I may have scooped a scoundrel. Im thinking up tactics and am leaving room for an explanation but right now the hound-dog seems like he is gonna get hung. He better hurry up and explain for the hanging shall not wait. I might just do it tomorrow - on a Sunday, when a hanging can occur in conjunction with a hallelujah.

Love

Sierra x

Invisible glances and a sea of silent words

I saw him through a nook in a door frame. I could not miss the hair. It could be no other. The hair, well, it almost sizzles, it is that much on fire. I refer to both texture and colour. Hairdressers beware. There is work to be done.

We had been intimate once and, before that, we had been friends. It had ended in the short, sharp, blunt abruption of an sms. An unanswered sms that was sent out to sea in a bottle, never returned and ended up in the abyss of an electronic black hole.  

Once he had looked so fiercely at me with his striking sky-blue eyes. Once we had debated religion, medicine and musical passions. Now we would only exchange invisible glances and a sea of silent words.

Why. Why do lovers go from the closest bond known to man where skin touches skin and sweat seeps into sweat, to the distance of absolute strangers separated by a space where our tragic past floats above us, slicing the peace of the room in two. Worst still, why does it happen in the wink of an eye, where I barely get time to hold my breath. All that is left is the jenga, perfectly preserved in its glory box since the 1980s, a loan which I offered to return but where the library officer failed to return my calls.

With him sat a striking blonde. A jealous demon within me grinded its teeth while my contemplative side of meditative zen thought that perhaps our encounter had inspired him to care for another and treat her right. I reassured myself that my rejection may be a part of a greater good. After all, this is the man who told me he never gives compliments, he does not know how. Perhaps with this girl he can tell her exactly how wonderful she truly is, a wonder I could see even from across the echoing room – that her hair is like threads of gold, that when she smiles, laughs, and gestures wildly I can sense her kindness, and that she holds a cigarette with the same elegance as Audrey Hepburn.

As I shared my thoughts with my supportive table of comrades, a wise companion of mine brought me back down to earth. Oh so matter of factly he stated – at the end of the day it is always best not to have a lover whose shirt sleeves are shorter than your own. I nodded. An important insight. One to add to the mandroughtvictim book of tips.

Departing, I would have loved to approach him and smile and say hello. Be pleasant, make small talk, let things go. As a victim of the Melbourne man drought, there would have been nothing better than to tell you all that I was the more dignified of the two. Yet, I too could not allow my glance to be visible or my words to be spoken. I left with the past still floating, an awkward memory forever freezing us in an adult game of hide and seek.

Forever hiding, 

Sierra x