Archive: October 2006
(3 entries)
London, actually
Jack is on vacation. In his absence, we present posts from Jane, who is also on vacation — from reality.
So I had rented this house on Fire Island with my buddies anticipating the demise of my New York City self in advance of moving to London for sabbatical. Away from Jack, away from the lesbians, away from the shitty indifference that’s so typical of my adopted home. So.
Now I’m in London (an instantaneous switching of the scene due to poor blogging skills). I moved here to get away from all of the bullshit. Here there’s loads of bullshit. It just has very little to do with my world so I don’t pay much attention to it. (Comparative analysis can come later.)
Frankly, at this very moment, I’m just happy to be somewhere else. I subletted a cute little house, formerly a council estate, owned by a software writer and an accountant. The software writer (female) is doing a secondment in Singapore whilst the accountant lives here still. His name is Edward and he’s 26 and Welsh. When one takes a sublet for a room online, one expects the worst. Knowing that I would be living with a 26-year old male Welsh accountant, I expected something close to Ewan McGregor’s character in Shallow Grave. Sure he’s a Scot but whatever. Wales, Scotland…both marginal and non-English.
I flew in from NYC, took the tube as long as I possibly could with my bags and all, and then broke down and got a black cab to my destination with nothing but a Google map and a single key. Happily — joyously really — the key worked and I walked into my new abode. Like I said, formerly a council estate. This I didn’t know upon first entry, thinking it was likely still a council estate. So I unpacked, reaching to the depths of my soul to my Polyanna heart, wandered out to find the fabled Sainsbury’s that I had heard about from my homies that know the hood, bought some shit (always cathartic) and then came home for a nap. When I woke up I could hear him moving about downstairs. I was totally disoriented and looking mightily unattractive no doubt, but it had to happen.
Lemme just say that it was weird. Wouldn’t it be for you? Walking downstairs to meet the total stranger that you’ll be living with for the next few months? I’m sure it was equally as weird for him. Coming home to the house that he owns to meet a total stranger who entered midday with no one home and moved a bunch of shit in. Well, as I said, I was expecting a bloke, football-oriented to be sure, with fucked-up teeth and a certain grimace and stench. What I found in my jet-lagged delirium was a rather dashing som’n-som’n who was making me blush. Because he was cute but also because he was so much better than even my best-case-scenario expectation. He’s awfully sweet, it’s true, and I think he deserves a reward.
by Jane, 2:43 PM | Link | Comments (0) | More from Drinking & Women | More from Jane | More from The Damned Human Race
Identity Theft
Jack is on vacation. In his absence, we present posts from Jane. Or do we?
alright already. as a trouble sells follower i have to ask what in h.g. wells’ name is going on. my immediate inquiries are “who is this jane character, why is she using my name, and, consequently, what on earth is she trying to do with my reputation?”
i know i don’t have the best reputation around here (california) or on the east coast, my former breeding ground (so to speak), but i’m not sure i like this slander either. fire island? dykes? dashing brits? come on now, dearie. more exciting things are afoot than tumbling around with some overzealous subculture.
i suppose i’m being malicious, & i do apologize. just imagine what it’s like to check into a friend’s blog & see my name all over, describing events past & places traveled. but i did not travel these places, did not participate in these occurrences. i’ve got my own stories, for sure, but mainly i’ve been sitting in a downtown flat smoking cigarettes & listening to dogs barking at the falling leaves.
response, “ms. jane?” or shall i just take it from here?
by Jane, 4:49 PM | Link | Comments (0) | More from Jane | More from Women
The Prestige
Jack is on vacation. In his absence, we present posts from Jane, who hates Jane.
Well, excuse the fuck out of me!
I’ve just had my flatmate’s cock out of my mouth for long enough to check on my little pet project to see if Jack is back (from having his cock in someone’s mouth, let’s hope) to read this nonsense. Could it be true that I have a doppelganger? Moi, pitilessly misunderstood and misrepresented, misty and metaphysical me? No, I smell a pretender. Perhaps Jack has another friend named Jane that is perhaps rather cheekily and/or self-aggrandizingly confusing herself with myself? In any case, she speaks of stories to be told without bothering to tell them. Granted, I’m a bit of a lazy bitch and my stories are not particularly riveting…I’m thinking more travelogue than lad-lit…but they are articulated nonetheless which is more than we can say for this soul who attempts to hijack the hijacker with the promise of atmospheric description of the interior of a Los Angeles apartment. By all means tell your tales, child, but do not do it in my name.
That having been said, let’s get back to me, Jane, and my life "tumbling around with some overzealous subculture."
As you may have gathered, I have done a bit of tumbling with my dear taffy Edward with whom I have been living LONDON. Edward is handsome, robust, as charming as a precocious adolescent, and really into watching American television. That little footnote would normally repulse me. After all, I find a snoring 65 year old drunk wobbling on his stool at the end of the bar more engaging than an episode of Friends, but somehow Edward’s appeal transcends this gorge of a flaw. Over the short time that I have been here, we have developed a strange and blissful domestic ritual. Strangely familiar, that is, like playing house.
Having nothing at all in common apart from a love a football, we started off with awkward stammering and gradually integrated our vibes so as to be finishing sentences for one another; we’ve developed our own inside jokes; learned little ways to please each other, etc. etc, each cultivating the aspects of our personalities that agrees with the other.
Every morning we rise from our respective beds, we eat breakfast together and he goes off to work smelling good in his crispy suit. I proceed with my day and we converge again in the evening and eat dinner together in front of the telly. Hi, honey! I’m home! It’s very much like a ’60s sitcom. A lot of laughs and exchanging of admiring gazes and no sex whatsoever. With each other, that is, lest we forget the muffled sounds that emanate occasional evenings from either of our bedrooms, separated by only a wafer-thin wall….
Now readers, don’t get confused. I now must addend this with an "until recently." Maybe it’s the accent, maybe it’s the blue eyes, maybe it’s because he is so indefatigably male. Maybe it’s just because he’s around. Or maybe it’s because the novelty of having a man to take care of has mutated into legitimate affection. The point is, after suffering from an ever-escalating limerant state and increasing physical desire to the extent that large parts of my day have been devoted to sexual fantasy, I can no longer disguise being happy to see him when he walks in the door each evening. Again, just like playing house, but this time around maybe I get to fuck Daddy….
Indeed, the prism is finally shattered. We attended a football match together a couple of weeks ago, my first, and indulged in customary pints. Our local won and so we celebrated at the pub with tequila shots which we chased down with a near dozen tallboys, ear-splitting Z100 and some fumbling around naked back at the house. As always you are free to draw your own conclusions but I apologized the next day. I felt like I had to. There’s no such thing as happily ever after. I initiated it and I had no intention whatever of being his girlfriend. Things were too comfortable as they were. Yes, walking around with aching loins and damp knickers, veritably panting across the coffee table from the guy scratching his belly on the couch is more comfortable to me than allowing myself to be romantically involved with another human being. You heard me.
He took my retraction in stride and things went back to normal after this incident, but the blister slowly rose again and popped last night. Today there are no apologies. There’s not much to say at all. I don’t really know what’s going on. With my feelings…with his feelings…. I don’t know what I want. My natural instinct which has proved quite effective in the past is to run away, but it’s not so easy to run away from the person you live with. In fact, he’s in this very room as I type.
So, in effect I may have enhanced the situation in my cocksucking introduction, but I am compelled to make my posts more attention-grabbing now that I have competition in the one that would be me. Sure, it’s melodramatic, but hey, trouble sells, bitches!
by Jane, 7:43 PM | Link | Comments (0) | More from Jane | More from Women
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