It seems as though it's Gift Week here in the Blogosphere: note that on Tuesday,Totsie posted some fabulouskittie porn for me. Tuesday night,Evil Science Chick(occasionally referred to as Bunsen, like the burner) revamped Random Aimee's blog AND posted pictures of a lovely pair of socks she made for Sloth, so I thought I'd create a post especially for Michael, who asked a question that doesn't have a flip and snappy answer.
Three nights. Three men. Three beverages.
Beers with the Prince were good. Margaritas with Genius were better. The Cosmos I made weren't that good, in my opinion, but I got laid that night, so maybe they were.
As you regulars know, I would ordinarily leave it at that and move on. However, because this is for Michael, and that isn't an answer, there's more.
"Look at you, sitting under that moon! You're trying to seduce me!" --Harlan Williams to Conan O'Brien on Late Night With Conan O'Brien
Hawk is an unusual specimen. Consider.
"Well, I don't know. Do you think there's some sexual tension between you?"
I stare at him a moment. This conversation should be wrong wronger and wrongest, but it's just normal for us. Lately I've begun to venture out among 'normal' people, attempting to fit in, but then I come home to what is normal for me, and everything's off kilter until I readjust.
I hadn't thought so, but anything's possible. Maybe.
"Well, how old is he?"
Oh, thirty-something, two, three, four....
"And so maybe sees you as a peer instead of falling comfortably into the role."
I shrug. My husband is asking whether there is sexual tension between me and another actor. I said that our scenes are going well, but that I think this guy is uncomfortable with me. I realize that I make people uncomfortable. It happens.
"Oh, are you kidding?" the Prince said once. "Cybbie scared the SHIT out of me when I first met her."
I find this disturbing, but let it go. Mostly. I'd like to make the other actors comfortable, but there are limits to my control. And my husband asks if there's sexual tension.
I mention the Prince.
"Oh, yeah, at first, sure there was. A LOT."
It is Hawk's turn to shrug.
"You should ask him if he feels comfortable, and if he doesn't, ask him what he thinks you should do about it."
I've been accused of putting out "signals", but since I have only the barest concept of "normal" behavior, I rarely notice. Also, I have trouble receiving these signals. A man once apologized for having made moves on me.
Ah. Had you? I hadn't noticed. When was this?
So when a man stays a little later than strictly necessary, picks lint or strings from my clothes, is this an indication of sexual interest? When I pick lint from someone's clothes, I'm just picking lint. I regularly put hands on my pals, and vice versa, with zero ambiguity. My friends cuddle me a bit, because they know I like it, and if I don't dispense hugs when I leave them, they wonder what's wrong. I lean against people I know, and occasionally kiss strangers because they've worn a T-shirt with that directive. I've been Mimi a long time. It bleeds over. My gauge is skewed. My Gaydar works great, but I can't even calibrate my Seduct-O-Meter.
I guess there could be. I hadn't thought about it. I suppose I felt that he was reserved, not demonstrative, sort of thing?
"Right, but it could be, because, you're, well, you know, you're not, I mean, you're still fairly hot."
He's sweet. He's been looking at me so long, I don't think he even sees me anymore. I do try to be something other than his old ball-and-chain of mmmlllpphffrgr years, though I hardly qualify as a trophy wife. He teases me about my "boyfriends," the Prince, BuddaPat, Genius, BirthdayBoy, Frisco, Young Evan, the Apostle, OddRob, the Animal, Martin, Hilby, and whoever Hilby brings along with him- last time, it was Karl. The time before, it was Keith the Leaf. Hawk barely bats an eye anymore when I tell him some man is staying at the house.
I forget that this is not normal.
Because it is normal at our house.
I guess I never think about that, that anybody... well. I mean, playing, sure, goofing off, but not, you know, seriously.
He smiles gently and pats my cheek. "I know you don't, honey. It just never occurs to you." He shakes his head.
As far as my posts go, their content, tone, color, style....well, he knows what my blog is for.
I think that was an answer.
(Question Song; The Moody Blues)