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

The case of the last baklava

The ex visited last weekend. It has been a decade since we were an item but our friendship is as strong as ever. Calling it a friendship is almost deceiving what it is really is. It is a connection of words, thoughts and passion. It is a history that we cherish. It is the bond that only soul mates have.

I can be myself with him. Hair tied in a grandma bun, makeup-free skin - freckled and raw, legs lost within oversized tracksuit pants. I can sit with my legs outstretched upon his on the sofa as we watch the squawking politicians debate the world’s affairs while we throw in commentary, challenging them and challenging each other. Next to him, I sleep like a rock. A repetition of old times. It is as though we have never been apart.

I sit back and think that this is the man who changed me, who completely altered my perception of the world and nurtured me into who I am. Actually... let me correct that ... this is the man who continues to change me, challenge me, cultivate me. He reminds me why I have chosen the path I have and why it is the best choice I ever made.

We went to a beautiful restaurant, a place with a name and a ’reputation’. I dressed up. I can’t remember the last night I wore a silk dress, freshly shaved my legs and slipped into ‘date shoes’ (ie shoes that would be hazardous if worn whilst riding my recycled bike). Fancy restaurants involve a voyeurism which I shy away from and often ethically despise. Yet, I had forgotten how nice it was to feel spoilt, to drink wine that evoked the flavours of strawberries, to taste fetta marinated to the point of creamy heaven.

Our connection was so clear as we debated the case of the last baklava. The couple next to us (who were clearly much more adept at fine dining) had left their last piece of baklava on the plate, untouched. My ex eyed in, I spied it. We watched it hopefully. Afterwards, we discussed it. The last baklava was not just a desert we craved but a topic of political interest. He argued for why the wasted sweet negatively impacted upon the economy - I came from the social justice perspective, examining the issue through the lens of the wealth divide and environmental impacts of waste. In that moment, walking in the misty Melbourne night, past the old pub where the poppas play cards, breathing in the delicious scents of bread baking, I remembered why I will always love him.

                                                            …

It has taken a few days for me to find my balance again, to allow the anchor to release and for my single ship to set sail once more.

There is so much privilege to be had in a connection like ours. I am often asked and even encouraged to rekindle the relationship and to make it work but it is hard to explain. I love him utterly but it is unlikely that our friendship will ever transpire into anything more. Our time for that was long ago but what is left is something that I treasure, it is such a vital part of my life.

I hope that when I am old, grey, wrinkled and wizened that I will still meet with him. Over broken mugs holding cups of tea in shaky, arthritic hands, I hope that we will challenge the politicians, challenge each other and debate the case of the last baklava. I also hope that when this time comes the last baklava will be mine.

Sierra x

Cheeky Chatboxes

World,

I have discovered something new. Late night chatting conjures up different meanings depending on the reader and what they desire as the clock strikes twelve. For some, it is harmless banter while for others it is only one thing - an invite to fuck.

I … never … knew.

Let me illustrate.

A long time ago, I met a man who I was quite smitten by. He played the keyboard with long elegant fingers, spoke Spanish with luscious lips and passionately debated gender rights with darting, intense dark eyes. He is also likely to read this very post so I suspect his ego has now burst.

I was caught in the world of a crush. I did what any sane woman would do. I Facebook stalked him. His girlfriend was the most gorgeous beast I had ever seen. She blew his beauty out of the water. Golden skin and flowing blonde locks, crisp green glinting eyes, a smile to die for and a PhD being completed. Oh sigh! Here was brilliance and beauty that was well and truly beyond me.

As with most of the amazing, beautiful men I meet, he left the country. Through the grapevine, I heard he was in Latin America, teaching impoverished children English and playing in a funk band. He was single, sharing his brooding dark looks and sexual intensity with the female latino population. Lucky lasses.  

A little while ago he returned suddenly to Melbourne and we started chatting online. Late at night when I was about to go to bed I would flick him a ‘hey, hows it goin’ via the facebook chatbox. I thought it pretty harmless. I was misled.

The Crush: ‘So I guess you want to sleep with me?’

Sierra: ‘Im sorry??’

The Crush: ‘All these late night messages are a clear indication that you are interested in something physical. Why else would you contact me at night?’

What??.... What?? .. What??

I clarified it for him. I was merely being friendly. Where was the misinterpretation? He apologised and the conversation halted. A night or two later he was back, this time with some game tactics in play.

The Crush: ‘I am an excellent lover’

Sierra: ‘That is all very well but…’

The Crush: ‘I am willing to satisfy for hours’.

A vision of those luscious lips and elegant fingers lept into my mind.

(Sierra pauses, contemplates, bites her lip)

He described the love making tactics he would use on me, to put me at ease, to make me feel like a goddess. He started describing his anatomy … in detail .. and even considered sending a photographic examination to prove his point. (Sadly the evidence never arrived. I would have opened it out of curiosity).

(Sierra rejects the offer)  

Now, I know what you are thinking, ladies. Sierra, have you lost your mind! How can you be rejecting this brilliant, luscious Romeo who is willing to satisfy your every wish? All around this city, the rest of the female race are starving of men and here you are sacrificing a juicy-chunk-of-meat man while they all try and make the most of limp-green-bean boys?

But ladies, I just can’t pre-plan a sexual advance via the internet. Sure, I can chat about common interests. Yes, I can organise a date. But defining and detailing the way two lovers’ bodies will intermingle. Well, this is beyond me.

Dear man of oh-sweet-longing, I have to let you slide.

A formulated fuck is not the luck that I want to transpire.

It saddens me to let you go but let you go I must.

I can not pre-plan the way my lips will kiss, the way my hips will thrust.

You may be oh-so-perfect.

Dark, daring, dashing.

But I shall be saving all my loving days.

For an unexpected act of passion.

Until next time,

Sierra x

The Toothless Romeo

World,

I registered. With only several clicks of a button, my identity moved into a whole new realm – the world of the virtual. A conjured up name, some sporadically chosen pictures, randomly picked statements that try to conjure up who I am. Yes - I have an rsvp profile. I am now a virtual dater.

It took so long for me to break through the boundary of moving my love life online but now that I have taken the leap of faith it feels like I was always a member of the world wide web of love and flirtation. Like any social networking device, once it takes its hold it is almost impossible to escape the grasp. You are hooked. An addict. A fucking junkie.

I wonder how I got sucked in so easily. It is not the quality of the candidates that drives my fingers to type these four letters into the search engine time and time again. No.. its certainly not the quality. An example? Here you go..

My first hit was a man who quite clearly fell outside the age range that I had specifically specified. He was in his late forties and wore a beard to his belly like a Ned Kelly fanclub member. His blue wifebeater had seen the blaze of the sun, his belly had held many a beer. Yet, his words … well… they were beautiful.

He had written a poem. His words drew images of blossoming flowers and freshly set dew, of bright blue skies and warm winds, love and passion and booming hearts. And then as soon as the poem stopped, the reality struck.

‘I have no teeth’, he said. ‘If you think that means I am a bad person then you can fuck off’.

Now, I pride myself in being open minded. Appearances don’t mean much to me and, in fact, I purposely avoid the beautiful, the bronze, the buff. And yet, in spite of my moral high ground, I am not sure how I feel about a toothless, bearded, singlet-wearing bogan. I just don’t think I could ever go ‘there’ and I am not sure that I want to or should even have to. Oh the guilt I must carry for realising my own prejudgments! So what that he could only eat mushy peas and mashed potato. Should this really affect the way his words move me?

So as I press the ‘Im sorry but I do not think it would work between us’ button, I sigh. Oh evil world of deletion and rejection, am I ready for you? It seems I am… Since rejecting candidate number 1, I have become the queen of the delete button. Every day I end up deleting deleting deleting. With internet dating, you become ruthless. Likes snuggling on the couch? Delete. Wears a tiger beer singlet in his photo? Delete. Mentions his love for the ‘mighty Saints’? Delete. Any reason to delete and my finger twitches..

Do not fear, world. I am keeping my promise to you. I shall continue my search for love. In spite of the many deletions, I have held onto one, one that has virtually captured me. A boy who lives on the Peninsula, who loves getting muddy at festivals, surfs waves and camps out in his van, sports a 50s haircut, wants to travel to the wild parts of the planet and …. who… electronically kissed me back ..

Sierra x