v u l v a l i c i o u s
I think it was that she wore a fedora, just that once--that is why she will never leave my mind
Another night, another memory of grrls gone past.
This one had blue hair when we were almost hot and heavy. She owned her butchness, wore it like a badge, and would proclaim herself to be a militant bisexual dyke, whatever that means.
When I think of her, there is the night, the one night, that she was in my room. It lives in isolation; I cannot remember how she got there or why, just that she was there, and that we were flirtatious as usual. I think, then, of her on top of me, pinning me slightly as I wriggled a bit underneath her.
I was nervous, in good ways.
She is still one of the few people to have told me they wanted me, that they had secretly desired me for extended periods of time. And she said I could have had her whenever I'd wanted.
I see myself hugging her after that first long summer, see the fedora she was wearing tipped down over one eye. I see her trying on delusions of grandeur, and I smile at the memory of her.
She used to say we were the same size, and would try to share clothes with me. I finally proved her wrong, and things were never the same. I remember standing in the bathroom with her, my pants falling off of her, and her saying, loudly, "I. Take up. Space." as though the words would make her grow larger and larger, eclipsing everyone.
But still I think back to that one night, dream it back into existence. Laugh at the ways it couldn't have worked, and ponder the ways it should have.
And I miss her face, and I miss her sweet jasmine smell--must they all smell of jasmine? They do, each one in her own way--and I think that maybe, someday, I'll see her again, and I'll pin her and she'll wriggle this time, and we'll be the same, connected through our weird sea of differences. My hands in her short blue hair, laughing at her ridiculousness.
My hands in my cunt, laughing at me.