Okay, I'm bad

Thanks for the "please update" comments at the last post. I left the blog unfinished at New Year's, it's been nearly two months. A lot has happened, and yet not as much as you might think.

I had to wrangle around some Google-Blogger stuff, and in the process, lost my account. How lame is that? I've been surfing the web and having various accounts since I was a teenager, and I forgot a single username/password combination (which is not even that different from my standard.)

So here's what you're dying to know: the first order of business was to get James back to manhood. He made for a belligerent woman (read: bitchy) but was quite a looker. I think the medallion had some magic that gave near model-quality looks to its users, but I don't remember getting all that many double takes as a femme (also, my boobs weren't bigger than my head.)

But New Year's morning, James was far from vibrant. Sombrely she approached me and pled, "Please, can you change me back now?"

I had a mouthful of oatmeal, but I muffled "Sure."

"Finally," she nearly whimpered. "Tia and I had a fight last night." I stayed silent.

"And then I let a guy do some very weird and wrong things to me."

I nearly choked.

He proceeds to tell me the story, even though the drunkeness makes his recall shoddy, so the story is kind of twisted in chronology.

"Everything was going fine, and then," she sighed, "I wondered if I could stay this way and just be, I don't know, this being of pure... sex? And I thought, was I a girl so long, that guys were, like, starting to look good? Maybe, like, I was getting tired of the girl on girl thing with Tia?"

I tried to lighten the mood by saying "How could that ever get old?" But she wasn't in the mood.

"So I went behind her back a bit. And I felt terrible. I felt incredible, but it was getting so good that I felt terrible because of what I knew I was doing to Tia. And I never, never, ever, wanted to hurt her, you know?"

It bothered me to know that James had actually considered staying that way, because I was getting rid of that Medallion as soon as everyone I knew was back to normal.

"I never, like, felt emotions like that before. Ever. I can't remember crying ever, it was such a weird sensation." The girl was a mess -- and I'm kinda paraphrasing here because it was so long ago -- "His hands were all over me and I felt so alive, I don't think you have any idea how good it felt. Not real. I mean, it felt too good to be real, but it didn't feel real at all, in, like, the other way. Like, fake." James was hardly a poet, but he was sincere. "So I was crying and he asks me what's wrong and I just pulled up my panties and ran. I ran home."

She ran home (or, to the subway) in what was basically a blizzard at 3 AM on New Year's, partly undressed, hysterical and horny.

"I came home and started beating off -- or whatever girls do, and I passed out, and now I'm up and you're home and I just want my penis back. I want my life back." She's almost in tears again at this point. It was touching. Wordlessly, I went to my jacket and pulled it out of the inside pocket (sealed inside its original Ziploc.)

So I gave him some privacy to transform back. Once he was done, he tore up his girl clothes and passed out in his bed.

Diana, who'd stuck by me this entire time, said she had no idea it could have that kind of effect. I confessed I didn't either. As if on cue, Trish came through the door and, quoting one of my favourite shows, tells me, "I've made a huge mistake."

So she begins her story, telling me that eventually, she told Declan that she wasn't "What she looked like," that a magical medallion had given her that face. Naturally, he was confused and weirded out by her "playful sense of humour." She tried to find me, desperately, to prove her story.

"Wait," I tell her, "You didn't tell him it was me, did you??"

"No, no," she assures me, "But that might have helped, because he started getting weird and distant... I don't think he's going to call me again."

"You mean me?"

"Um, yeah. Can we just..."

So, then she transforms back.

A week later, we're back at school. I'm talking with Trish, Steph and Mary (whom, you might recall, was our editor, who pitched this insane idea in the first place) about our adventures. She seemed most impressed by how badly it screwed up James, who still hadn't heard from Tia by then.

"I guess we should have seen that sort of thing coming," she muses, "Thank you (Alex) for going through this insane situation. It will make a very fine piece of 'fiction,' because absolutely nobody outside this room is going to believe it really happened." (Although I point out that the folks who commented here were rather supportive.)

She nods, then eyes Trish and Steph and, thanking them for their part in helping me, mentions, "You know, in all this, we haven't seen a girl go... you know."

Steph and Trish blush bright red, and say "Thanks but no thanks." Mary hands me the medallion and says that I should probably get rid of it. I couldn't agree more.

So I took a walk down to a pawnbroker. He takes it in his chubby mitt, eyes it, sneers, and humours me by giving me a buck fifty for it. I tell him it's worth every penny.

Flash forward a few months and tonnes of identity drama between Declan and Trish and Tia and James still haven't talked. It's the eve of Valentine's day, and Diana and I decide to do something nice.

I called Declan, who had added me as a friend on Facebook after New Year's in a transparent attempt to keep tabs on my "cousin." I told him Alex wanted to see him. Except "Alex doesn't exist."

"So what's her name?"

"It's more complicated than that," I tell him, "What did you like best about her?"

He opens up, "She was just so great to talk to. I don't know, I guess she was nervous the first night, she didn't even seem to know how pretty she was." My stomach heaves, "But when I saw her again, she was so open, so alive, she really came out of her shell. Then she makes up this story, and ditches me. I don't think I can be with a girl like that."

"Would it bother you if she was a little shorter, had a different hair colour, and a very different face? Better, I'd say?"

Silence.

"And her name's Trish, and she's not my cousin?"

Silence.

"And yet she's the exact same girl you spoke to on New Year's."

Silence, followed by, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Call it an identity crisis. Do you want to have dinner with her or not?"

He groans, the obvious groan of a man who is still infatuated, and finally relents "Tell her to meet me at my restaurant, whoever she is."

The dude's a chef? I had no idea.

After seeing me play matchmaker, James decided to be a bit romantic by calling Tia up. They had a long talk. Long. Like, I left the house when he called her, spent a few hours with Diana doing errands, and came back to hear the last 20 minutes of their conversation long.

But it ended with "I love you."

He hangs up and tells me he's got a date tomorrow.

So, happy ending, right? For now, anyway. I have no idea how long Trish and Declan are going to last, but Tia and James are on the mend and Diana and I are happy.

But there's something else... something that has nothing to do with any of this, but looks like it's going to be my next blog, at some new URL... something that's somehow even harder to believe than magic medallion romance... if it's true.

And if it's true, you'll be hearing about it from me.

That's it. I'm done.

-The Artist Formerly Known as Alex Manson.

New year's resolution? (Plus... comparative assessments at last)

My new year's resolution is to chuck that effing medallion into the lake.

Okay, that's a bit extreme, but no lie, it's starting to get under my skin. It started when James staggered home, blouse unbuttoned under a man's coat unzipped so that her bra was showing, hair tousled, already drunk before the festivities would begin. Her girlfriend comes in and lays her down on the couch.

"He's always overdoing it," she complains.

I take a look at the pair of breasts she wrangled herself. "You're telling me."

"Baby I love you," the half-conscious girl on the couch mutters. She says she can't take it anymore and she wants me to turn her back. I tell her she'll have to wait a few minutes, the medallion is in use. Groan... it's a long story.

When Trish read on the blog that Declan had called me, she apparently got really excited. I can't believe it, but she actually tried to convince me to go out with the guy. That's unbelievable. I'm not a female anymore and, oh yeah, I wasn't into him to begin with. But she swears, having seen him, that he's some kind of catch. I don't see him as being too much different from me, and I've never had such great luck with women, so how great can he be? And if he is such a great catch, he'll find a girl in no time.

"Come on," she pleads, "How would you feel if you met this great girl and she left you hanging with nothing to do on New Year's Eve when everyone's celebrating?"

I think about Diana. It makes me grit my teeth a little.

Well, I tell her, if you're so keen on this guy, why don't you date him? And she says, because he's into Alex Manson, not her. I argue that Alex Manson doesn't really exist. She tells me that she could if I really wanted her to, and I say, "well yeah, but anyone could be her." I look at her and I think she sees what I'm thinking. "You're not serious?" she laughs modestly to herself.

"Well, you're not really doing anything are you?" I ask with a glint of half-serious madness in my eye.

She shakes her head and walks off. But an hour later I get a phone call. It's Trish; "You're lucky Declan's so hot. I'll be over in ten."

So she shows up and heads into my bedroom where she's had me lay out my old "girl-Alex" clothes so she can transform into her. That's when James and her girlfriend came over. After about ten minutes, she realizes they're running late and will have to spend one more night with "girl-on-girl" action, because their ride is leaving. It'll be weird, too, because they'll be at some rave where people know her and James, and s/he's not exactly in stable condition at this point, you know?

Not long after they left, Trish emerges, or should I say, girl-Alex emerges. Although I'd seen her face in the mirror a few dozen times, it doesn't compare to seeing it on someone else. A chill goes up my spine knowing that that modest yet still-curvy form is what I was projecting to society for a whole week. But it's not jsut that, it's what Trish did with the face... she was wearing some gorgeous new year's eve dress and make-up and jewellery... (no earrings) all kinds of stuff she probably wanted to get me into. I had her make arrangements with Declan to meet at this party Diana and I were going to be at... Trish had said she might show up, but was now roped into it. I wanted her within my sights for the evening.

So we get there and I greet Diana with a kiss, and introduce her to girl-Alex, my "cousin" for the evening. She says that seeing us side by side, we look more like twins. Genetically, I guess that's true. Declan showed up not long after we did, and what does Trish do? Plants a kiss square on his lips. Talk about mixed messages -- I hardly gave the guy time of day!

And so the evening continued. Di and I hung around and every so often i'd glance over and see them pawing each other. I wanted to gag, knowing that he was probably imagining himself doing that when I looked like that.

So that's when I had my big little epiphany about the male and female experience (and what consequently frustrated me to lose last night.) The comparison can be as simple as men hunt and women gather. It's a stand-up joke as old as time itself that can be applied, quite frankly, to most aspects of life. Why to men traditionally work (not that I agree with "tradition") and women traditionally stay at home? Why do women stand around at clubs and wait for men to ask them to dance? Why does a man put his thing in, and the woman gets pregnant? It's not just a cultural thing, it's biological. It's as basic as our gentials, I'm saying. And I put it much more eloquently last night, too, but my motherloving MacBook saw fit to destroy my precious words. Still bitter, yeah.

Psychologically, women could be said to be inwardly drawn and men outward. It can explain why little girls exceed in english (thinking about and expressing oneself,) and boys at science (searching external factors for meaning.) Why women gossip and men don't ask directions. It's a balance. And not saying that one style is any better than the other, just that they depend on one another. Feminists have been injecting themselves with male psychological "outgoing" aspects for years, and men often need to be coached at "female" aspects like expression and sensitivity.

I'm not saying these are absolute truths, or that this is some brilliant breakthrough. I know, frankly, I was disappointed that I spent a week as a woman and then thought about it for a few weeks, and this basic fact is what I came up with, but in that moment, when Declan was sticking his tongue down girl-Alex's throat, it all seemed so clear. When I was a woman, I couldn't see myself or any of my female friends really approaching any guys, even though I've asked plenty of women out (and even gotten to date a few.) And as a man, I would honestly be weirded out to get treated the way men treat women. To be standing around innocently and have a woman get close and say something like, "Hey, you wanna go do something?" (please note, that's a horrendously lame pick-up line,) would seriously weird me out. Yet women expect and appreciate it. All they ask is to be cared for.

Satisfied with that little thought, I turned my thoughts back to Di. Steph, whose friend's house it was (and thus was drafted into co-hoestessing,) came by with a few glasses of champagne. "hey guys. You msut be Diana? I'm Steph. It's not midnight yet, but I wanted to get my friends some champagne first, before all the randoms show up." note that by 11:45, the house was full of party-hopping frats and sorority girls, even despite the disgusting freezing rain that'd keep one indoors.

So we held it close until at last, "5... 4... 3... 2... 1... Happy New Year!" and the rest of the night faded into a blur of tongue, alcohol, and blankets. You can imagine for yourself what Diana and I did after a certain point as the party wound down, and I won't confirm or deny. In the meantime, I lost track of Dec and girl-Alex. I'm imagining that, figuring this to be some kind of fun masquerade, Trish did something she might not have with her own face... which is embarrassing, especially since Declan is probably going to be calling my number looking for another date.

...ough.

As for what's become of James and Trish? Well, at the risk of losing this post again, I'd better not go on. Gotta keep something for later...

Boy-"Alex"

An affair to remember?

I woke up yesterday morning, heading for a brief shift at the record store. There's not much communication between those of us that work there so nobody really asked why this strange girl was taking shifts. Holiday help, perhaps?

Before I got out, there was a very short letter in my inbox. The sender name was ominous. Diana.

I hold my breath and click it in. In the instant I realized I was determined to remain female until at least after our date, i freaked a bit and sent her a manically-typed email explaining very awkwardly my situation and asking about three or five times what we were gonna do and if she was still up for anything and saying I'd understand if she weren't. The letter read virtually as follows...

"Got in this morning.

"Read your e-mail.

"So, wanna meet somewhere first or just go to the movies?

-Diana"

And gave her cell number. It slowly dawned on me that she showed no hint that she was not considering coming. Sensing this, I damn well nearly skipped to work despite considerable stiffness and hung-overness.

But as the day goes by, I'm overcome with nervousness. Okay, so she's "accepting." that's fine, in theory, but are she and I gonna be on the same page? I'd done a lot of thinking since I kissed Declan last night. While I wasn't into it, what if I wasn't into Diana either? what if the pleasure receptors in my brain just shut off after spending so much time as a woman? Okay, I can pleasure myself (not that I've spent more than a session on that...) but what if nobody does it for me? in high school, I knew a girl named anne, and tried to ask her out. She told me this long story aobut how she didn't want to date - not just me, but anybody... she wondered what the term was... and settled on non-sexual (after I told her "asexual" would mean she would reproduce with herself.) We didn't speak much after that.

I'm a woman now (or rather, right now.) The mystery is gone. After all tihs time, I don't think there's anything about boobs and butts that arouses me right now. And I keep thinking down to this hole I'm sitting on and wondering if maybe... god forbid maybe... what i want is someone who can fill it.

I was having a fit all day, hyperventilting and looking for someone to lash out at. after getting home from work I threw all my borrowed clothes on the floor, coming to the brink of tears for the second time since my term as a female.

Then, as luck would have it, in walks Steph. She throws her arms aorund me and asks what's wrong. I try to tell her. She doesn't say anything, jsut holds me, and tell me, "It's okay."

I realize that, but can't get the rational part of my brain to agree. But her saying it out loud helped some. We cleaned me up and she laid me out some clothes while I showered. as much as I don't want this to be a fashion blog, I can't re-iterate enough what a big part of being female that is. Fashion is "girly." It's "not acceptable" for boys to be into fashion. I know I never was. But what a girl wears reflects her state inside; or rather, the idealized state. i can't maybe calm myself down, but I'm thinking what I wear can at least be laid back.

Steph and I agreed it would be best not to confront Diana by girling it up too much. She pulled my hair back in a ponytail and handed me some androgynous-looking blouses (button-up jobs that are not unlike what I wear as a guy,) and some hiphuggers. Are they still called that? I'm sorry, I zoned out when Trish told me specifically what all her clothes were named.

an hour before we were supposed to meet, I called Diana.

"Hello?"

My breath stopped in my lungs as I heard her voice. Out of... embarrassment, maybe... I tried to deepen mine, to cartoonish effect.

"Hey, Diana, it's me... (Alex.)"

"Oh my God, Alex..." she laughed, I guess with astonishment. "You're really not screwing with me, are you? Like, this is you? You sound so..."

"Believe me," I laughed awkwardly, "I look like it, too."

"Well cool, anyway," she seemingly shrugged it off, "I'm at Union station, what stop is closest to you?"

"St. Andrew," I said... it's not really that, but I'm still trying to hide my geographic location from readers here. It's not really ethical journalism, but you understand I hope. "There's a Tim's and a movie theatre nearby..."

"Oh, cool," she said, "I think there's a poetry reading actually, not far from there. I kinda wanted to go. You up for that? I know it maybe sounds kinda girly..."

"Believe me..." I mutter-laughed, "Looking girly is the least of my concerns these days."

We said a goodbye, see you soon, whatever, and hung up the phone. Steph had eavesdropped. Hanging off my slender little shoulders, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and said "Sweetie, that's so cute. You've got a little girlfriend!"

"Quit it," I swatted at her.

"Maybe you can borrow her clothes and let me get mine back?" I groaned. Steph's not as funny as she thinks she is.

We met at a Tim Hortons. For those of you reading from outside Canada, Tim Horton was an NHL player who lent his name to a coffee & doughnut place that has dug its claws so far into Canadian culture, they opened one for the troops in Afghanistan because of the demand. The coffee is different from other places like Starbucks or Second Cup (another Canadian place, like our version of Starbucks I guess,) in that it's like halfway between fast food/diner and legit cafe. And the coffee is extremely addictive and comparatively cheap. I'm pretty sure there's nicotine in it, but I've heard it's not enough that they have to say how much. An odd loophole.

sidebar: I didn't used to to drink coffee every day. Only once in a while when I needed a jolt. Thanks to my magically physiologically altered sleeping habit, i'm up to two a day, usually from Tim's.

It took me a little while to recognize her, but I doubt she was going to recognize me. I didn't tower over her anymore but was still nearly a head above her. I tap her on the shoulder.

"...Alex?" she asks, nervously. I blush and not.

"Heya Diana. Good to see you again."

She hugs me. I might never get over the awkwardness of a four-breasted, dickless hug. It's too intimate, but maybe that's what she wanted. I spent much the evening trying to suss out the meanings in what she said and did.

Over double-doubles (that's two cream and sugars,) she told me, briefly, about Montreal. Apparently, she "scrounges up paychecks" for a living, going wherever she hears about opportunities, and was in Montreal doing fill-in work at an office. She says she's never been one to stay in place too long. I believe it.

She hammered me with questions, trying to fill in the blanks about what she read on this site. There's not much else i'd like to say, I told her, in fact in some places I think I said too much. She nearly spits out her coffee and tells me she nearly died laughing when she read I had... "taken care of myself" a few days ago.

"Which is better?" she asks. I don't have much of an answer. It depends entirely on your sensibilities. She corrects herself into asking what the difference is, and again, I can't say... that is, I haven't got a frame of reference to explain it to her. It's night and day... there are some similarities, and many, many fundamental differences. I tell her this, "As a man, it's a really good steak. As a woman, it's the best dessert you ever had."

"I never liked steak," she tells me.

"And I've never been much of a dessert man."

She thinks again, and tells me, "That doesn't make any sense." Well, we're talking aobut sex here; none of it ever seems to make sense when you talk about it.

We go to the poetry reading. I'm not really a poetry guy and went unfazed through much of it. One of the readers, however, Sonnet L'Abbe, really got through to me... not with what she wrote, but how she was writing it... sound poetry, I guess it's called.

Uh
by Sonnet L'Abbe

The shyness, the delay to say
I'm thinking, I'm processing,
the silence before the words
string into coherence I can't leave
unfulfilled, all my ignorence,
the mice scurrying in the maze,
please wait while the images
load, sound saying I'm not
dumb

or the coyness, the delay to say
I'm answering, when I'm processing
the first thought into a string of words
less hurtful, less assessing,
less revealing of the blunt fact
of my unkindness, all my interiority,
the scurry to hide it behind my back
please wait while I remember
your heart, sound the safety on a sharp
tongue

That sort of thing. We walked and talked some more, about less gender-specific things. we were, after all, still getting to know each other. She convinced me to take her to see a movie. The issue of paying came up. She looked at me expectantly. "What are the odds of me getting any tonight?" I asked her.

"A lot better if you pay for my ticket," she notes. I paid. I'm such a sucker. We say The Holiday. Not my type of movie. Not great, not half bad. Made me think some about the way women are depicted in movies. Our shoulders started to lean up against one another about halfway through. up to this point, I'm half in and half out about whether or not this is a date. I like her. It goes beyond physical, I like being around her. She's a lot of fun. She told me she could never beat the pipe maze world of Mario 3, which is adorable. I've noticed her body, but only casually. I find myself, maybe, listening more to waht she says about herself. I don't just want to nail her. I really, really like her.

After the movie, she drops it on me. "My place is a mess."

"My life is a mess," I playfully respond.

"Don't, um, I mean, this doesn't mean anything, like, don't get all 'guyish' on me for saying this, but I was wondering if I could stay at your place tonight?"

Gu-ulp. I thought I was "all guyish?" Never mind. She wants to stay at my place. "I've only got the one bed."

"That's fine." She pauses and adds, "I don't think I have too much to be worried about at this point. No offense."

"None taken," I think about a half second, "Sure, let's go." My heart starts to beat faster. Parts of my body that didn't even respond to the physical touch are really starting to get heated. I don't know what to do with myself and I'm trying just to play it cool. We hit the subway and ride back to my place where I dug out the old SNES and we played Mario All-Stars (I showed her all my tricks, including the third warp whistle. Doesn't anybody know about that?) and had a few beers until nearly 3:00, when we passed out, I in my pyjamas, she in her bra and panties. She went to sleep first. I turned out the light and kissed her on the forehead. She didn't flinch.

I woke up the next morning, however, and she was practically draped on me. The bed's not all that big, so maybe she just needed so sprawl. Still though, I could've done without her interpretation of a mammogram.

She peels off me and stretches out, evidently awaking just as I had. "Morning," she coos. I couldn't help myself. I kissed her.

Full and deeply on the mouth. And?

She kissed back. YES, she kissed back. She even brushed her hand up against my breast a little. But when our lips parted, she just said.

"You're really good. I can't wait until you turn back into a man, because we are not even close to doing that again until you do."

Which, of course, sent me on a rampant rush to find the medallion. I'm getting a little distressed, because I can't seem to find it, but I know it's around somewhere. Should I be worried? My manhood's in that thing, and my future with Diana is hanging in the balance...

Errgh...

Sorry to leave you hanging like that, but until I get back to hanging of my own (yes, that's a penis pun,) that's all I've got.

Alex

A little celebration?

I'm... a little buzzed right now so maybe my spelling won't be great, but I've leanred a long time ago to write while drunk (I once had aspirations of literary succes and like most creative people I feel moreso when drunk,) but you know how these things go when you're ina different body and your tolerance is gone. Or maybe you don't. But I do now... because I had like 3 beers and am gonne...

BUT anyway it;'s the end of the semester and Trish and Steph and some others (some of whom didn't know the truth about me0 wanted to have an end-of-semester party, or at least a... "girl's night out." Maybe it was a "Alex has been a gril for almost a week" party. So I went.

The destination was this sketchy club out in the boonies where we had to pay outrageous amounts for beer, and sit in dim lighting with loud music and annoying guys hitting on them.... us. Us. Guys hitting on us.

Concealed under a long wool coat in the cool december wind was a dress that Jessica Rabbit might've found comfortable. Not glamorous, but fun and kinda skanky. The thing clung to my hips and dropped off like a cliff on the cleavage. I felt so revealed - and as a man masquerading as a woman it's not a great feeling. When I first tried it on - at Steph's insistence - I felt less like a woman than I had since I first woke up Monday morning. Steph, my stylist for the night, painted me up and poofed my hair. It actually too kthe whole afternoon after the early-morning final.

We arrived and were admitted as a quintet of pretty young ladies, the type of clienteles these types of places always seek. I almost paused behind the four of thme but the doorman just held for me. The whole week the frist door held was by a guy who was paid to! Okay I've only done this for a handful of girls in my life but for some reason I'm suddenly disappointed.

We sat around and I tried to play it cool and not attract attention to myself. Trish kept urging me to order something to drink but I didn't even have my purse on me and definitely didn't want to get myself a ttoo loosened up..

Trish and Steph and the others are on the dancefloor with guys they've just met. Some of them are getting handsy and I'm a little repulsed. Maybe jealous. NOT because of the attention, but because I was never the type of guy who could just whisk a woman away. I was always the tame once and now I'm seeing from the other perspective just how badly it was working. The guys, probably losers from day to day with crappy jobs and no real intelligence or wit, managed to get these girls -- all ranging from 8.5-10 on hotness -- rubbing up against them jsut by... hell I didn't even know. Crappy! I've got to ask the girls what they see in that approach.

Then the parade starts. The first guy stops by the table and asks where my boyfriend is. "I don't have one." "Wanna have some fun?" "No that's all right." "oh come on..." "trust me buddy you don't want any fun from me." "Look, just have a drink with me?" out of the question. "I won't go away until you say yes." I et up and walk to the washroom, where giddy 19-year-olds apply makeup and squeal with glee that this is their first night at a real club without a fake ID. I make like I have to pee and sit in the stall to catch my breath. I counted to twenty and then stood up. the auto-flush went off unexpectedly. Hmp.

So back to the floor. noticing I was unattended by any one male for extended time, guys kept hitting on me with lamer and lamer lines. Finally, the first guy returns.

"Listen," I say, seeing that by comparison he's not such a bad guy, "I'll have a drink with you, but... hands off, ok?"

"Hey, I'm not one of those guys who expects to slide home on the first swing."

"How would you feel about grounding out?"

He grins "A girl who can talk baseball. Nice." Well buddy htere's plenty more of that.....

So we get to talking. Declan was his name. He buys me a beer, which I drank at my more usual male rate to his astounding and my regret because when I first stood, I went very diagonal. He laughs. "Maybe you wanna dance?"

I wanted nothing less. As much as I've been trying to pull myself out of my old male idiom, dislike of dancing is a male trait not easily shed. It has to do with the gracelessness of your typical white male and how I'm never been that good on my feet. Stricly put I look like an ass.

When I offer the short version of this explanation, he tells me, "I'm sure you look beautiful when you dance."

More than a bit intoxicated and almost at the point in the week where I value beauty as a personal trait, I blush. I blush!! Jesus man, I can't keep from smiling this guy thinks I'm beautiful. I'm a freaking sucker. Lady Marmalade, the Moulin Rouge versino that was big when I was inching my way out of high school, starts to play. Okay, I think. We'll give this a try.

I think i threw my shoulder out doing a pop-and-lock but I never laughed so hard. And I think he enjoyed it too.

Many more drinks passed (okay even now I can't be sure the shoulder injury was after only one drink... who can count anymore?) and word got around that the club was going to call it a night soon.

"I've gotta get home."

"Listen," he says, drunkenly falling into male-Alex-like shyness, "why not just come to my place? just for a bit?"

I think of Diane.

"Not tonight sweetie." i don't know where "sweetie" came from, but it got out there. He slips me his number. Shit. And then, I know i'm gonna gt made fun of by the girls forever for this...

He steals a kiss. not a peck, neither. Full on them mouth, take a breath in the midst, kiss.

It's been a while since I've kissed anyone substantially, so maybe I let him. Maybe part of me was convincing myself it was all just research or maybe I was depserate. fuck if I know but I let it happen. and in a physical chemical sexual reaction way, I lit up a little bit. But in an emotional way... it's like kissing someone you're not fond of. I had a good time with the guy, but I didn't feel that, which was relieving for me.

I think he felt it too and was more exhausted. Our lips parted, and he sighed, maybe knowing he was defeated. He shook my hand and walked home the opposite way.

I've been called a lot of names over the past week. Fag and dyke are pretty common among the mutterers (don't think I don't hear that shit!) loser and weirdo are more G-rated ones. Hermie from the more clever set. So knowing that I'm not attracted to this man, or as far as I know, any man, should dispell those accusations.

This blog... its about as much about a man being a woman as it is being a woman today. I'm a man. And I can't change what I want, not by choice. if it was hard-wired into my biology then maybe, maybe I would have kissed him and come home with him and who knows? Fucked him?? I don't know! But I didn't. I just didn't.

Maybe who you are is not just your body, and maybe not even just your mind, but something less tangilbe. I'd finish that thought but, fuck, I'm still drunnnk (I'll proofread this tomorrow but who knows if I'll catch all the errors.)

more thoughts tomorrow.... I need water and a mattress.

-Alex