Here she is again; here to turn me on and press all the right buttons. Sometimes the wrong ones. That is not how you spell “gratification”. She’s not good at this spelling business, let me tell you. She relies far too much on me for it. Who’s to say that I’m always going to know? People shouldn’t always assume these things. Anyway, when I don’t know what she is going on about I just underline it red for her. Maybe someone else will know.
Oh look a foot!
Without a shoe.
What the fuck is an elbow?
(The bendy bit.)
A neck. An ear. A mouth.
That’s a face, right?
That’s more like it.
But not a cunt.
That’s too far.
Cover yourself up, you whore.
I remember a time when I gave a fuck.
I remember when my hands weren’t too slippery to give the ‘I’ it’s hat and shoes.
I remember being able to do maths really well and knowing how to count without second guessing. (Oh look, more numbers.)
I remember something but else but I have now forgotten because I didn’t write it down straight away.
I remember being really awkward when buying drinks from a bar. Side note: that hasn’t changed.
I remember holding a pen properly.
I remember singing that really silly Spanish song, from Year 7, to my cat while he sat on my chest.
I remember when I thought I was cis-het. lol. Bless past me.
I remember a time when I wasn’t so self involved. No, that’s a lie.
I don’t remember counting the numbers.
I remember being one short.
(I think I did it wrong.)
I, like most people, was extremely excited to meet my best friend, Terri’s, partner. She had not shut up about them for a good long month before we were finally all free to grab a coffee together.
Terri and I arrived at the coffee shop first. We had just sat down–me with my mocha, and Terri with her vanilla latte–when Terri shot back up again.
“They’re here!” she exclaimed, rushing over to the woman who had just come through the door. “Bev, this is my partner Jamie.”
Jamie had short spiky hair and a golden nose ring. Her arms were covered in bracelets and bangles, and her knee length floral skirt was to die for.
We shook hands and sat back down. Jamie ordered a cappuccino and ate the froth with a spoon before sipping at the coffee.
“It was a pleasure finally meeting you, Jamie. Terri has not stopped talking about about you! You must come to Linda and I’s barbecue this weekend. It is our son, Thomas’, birthday party.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Jamie said, wrapping an arm around Terri’s waist.
We said our goodbyes. Terri and Jamie went one way and I the other. After finally meeting the, rightfully named, wonderful Jamie I knew that Saturday would be a blast.
Finally the day came. Linda, the kids and I set up the garden for the party of the century! Rainbow balloons, four different types of cake, and plenty of ice-cream and jelly. Thomas was our youngest, and he had picked out everything himself.
Guests began to arrive, leaving their presents for Thomas on the table just before the patio doors. When Terri came in the children ran to her shouting: “Auntie Terri! You came!”
“Jamie’s parking the car,” she explained as Suzanne and Maggie dragged her towards the dance floor outside. “They’ve got the present!” she called back to me already dancing with the children in a ring.
I waited by the front door for Jamie. I recognised Terri’s silver car. They really were going for it if she could already trust her to drive it. However, when the person behind the steering wheel stepped out I was surprised.
“Is that Jamie?” I thought to myself as the man in a well fitted suit waved to me, a present wrapped in purple paper under his arm.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Bev,” he said, shaking my hand as he stepped into the hall. “Where’s Terri?”
“She’s out in the garden with the kids,” I said with a polite smile, still a little confused about who it was I saw in front of me. “Go right in. There’s a table with the other presents on just beside the back doors.”
Jamie nodded and went on his way in. I followed, scooting past him as I went in search for Terri.
“What is this?” I asked her, once I’d dragged her into the kitchen after asking her to help me take out some of the snacks.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her face bright and clearly oblivious to what I meant by my question.
“You! Dating two people at the same time! I mean, that isn’t a problem, and I love you either way. But why on earth would you date two people with the same name?”
Terri did not answer. Instead her already cheerful face filled up with more glee. “Oh Bev, my dear! You have misunderstood! That is Jamie. The same Jamie that you met on Wednesday.”
“It is?” I asked, looking out the window at the man who Terri claimed to be Jamie.
“Yes!” she said as she came beside me to pat me on the back. “Jamie is gender fluid. Some days they feel more like a woman, some days they feel like a man, and other days they feel somewhere in between.”
“Oh I see!” My face slowly turning red. “That does explain it all! I thought that you were dating two people at the same time again. I am sorry for my mistake.”
“It’s okay, Bev,” Terri said as she gave me a tight squeeze. “I’m surprised that you remember Curtis and Lance! Oh that was fun! And the sex was amazing.”
“I remember you telling me! You were never shy about the details!” I turned to return the hug. “Shall we go back to the party?” I suggested, picking up a bowl full of sweets.
“Yes, let’s,” Terri said, also picking up a bowl filled with different crisps. “I hope Thomas likes his birthday present, Jamie helped pick it out.”
Do I feel foolish?
When you’re the one who thinks feminists are the bad guys?
Do I feel foolish?
When you’re the one trying to bring a fellow woman down?
Do I feel foolish?
When you’re the one with the insistent need to say everything is a-ok! for women and that that feminists isn’t needed?
Do I feel foolish?
The answer, my misguided friend, is no.
And I’m not even mad.
The truth is, friend, I pity you.
A mixed of jumbled sentences that barely make sense when put together,
All these one liners are no good to me.
My constant state of my mind while writing poetry?
Everything can be part of a verse if you try hard enough!
It is all poetry.
Fuck off, stop making this sound like a poem.
Even now this line can be added.
SHIT FUCK OFF FUCK FACE
The creative process.
Just because it looks like a poem doesn’t make it one.
Damn feminists with their want for equality.
Damn them and their need to smash gender roles regarding what makes a REAL man and what makes a REAL woman.
Damn feminists with their fight towards expressing sexuality, and the notion that everyone is free to love any other and that there are those who do not wish to love romantically, or sexually, at all.
Damn them for wanting to represent all people, of every colour, and learn about every culture, so that we can live happily as one.
Damn feminists to Hell where Lucifer sits and waits.
The angel fallen from grace is more than willing to rise against those who do not preach equality.
After all, it is the patriarchy that the Lord depends on:
Honour thy Father, thy Brother and thy Son.
God forbid we honour everyone.