#but he's thinking about it completely the wrong way as if it's wholly unattractive and not a new kind of awakening for some 😭 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stellerssong · 4 months

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@farragoofwires says:

Belated eye emoji at 3

oh buddy you are going to be so happy to learn that i was COMPLETELY LYING when i said in that other post that i was not going to make a fic of this. but i was telling the honest-to-god truth when i said that the image that birthed that post came to me fully formed in a dream. even when she's asleep she can't stop thinking about unattractive men with creature features, baby!

Eurydice’s eyes catch on one of the dogs in particular as she thinks. He’s the one who’d looked across the room right when they’d come in, she’s sure of it. He’s huddled against the counter, his drink held delicately in both hands as though he’s not used to having thumbs and is afraid he’ll drop it. He doesn’t sip from his glass. He doesn’t speak to the other dogs, a few of whom have struck up quiet conversations amongst themselves. He just stands there, staring off into some vague middle distance, his mouth pinched in a gentle, puzzled frown. With his cap off and held under his arm, his hair is escaping from its neat slick-back and is falling into his face, the soft mousy-brown of it quite at odds with his strange, feral eyes. Hard to believe that once he’s downed his drink and left the bar he’ll be running on all fours down the dark roads of the Underground. Hard to believe him a hunting hound at all, really. If he’s any kind of dog, it should be one of the gentle, sloe-eyed ones that lays on the hearth rug and wags its tail when you come in from the rain and can pick up eggs entire in its mouth without cracking the shells. But no, he’s got the eyes, he’s got the collar (Eurydice catches a glimpse of it as he fidgets nervously at his lapel), he’s even got the teeth (she spies those under his grimace when he accidentally elbows another one of the dogs and earns himself a sharp glance and a growl that makes the bar go quiet again). A hound, through and through. One of Hades’ loyal mutts. Liable to hamstring you as soon as look at you. Less than a human, less than a beast. The dog finally takes a single tiny sip of his drink. He coughs, squints, shakes his head, wholly animal for a second. Pushes his gloved hand through his hair to slick it back, but only succeeds in mussing it even worse, making it stand up in ridiculous spikes from his forehead. Embarrassing. Eurydice can imagine reaching up to smooth it down, the way the soft brown wing of it would fall at an angle just so, not quite covering his eyes— His eyes are wrong.

#chatter #ask games #stories #f: htown #wahoo yay yippee i'm back and oh no girl i'm describing reeve carney like he's attractive.#in my defense though i think MOST people would be more attractive with wolf eyes. and i'm NOT wrong.#not in my defense this is definitely on the mellower side of what i have done to orpheus in the wonderful world of fic.#''are you working through some stuff'' YEAH PROBABLY!

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whirlwindamell-a · 5 years

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I cannot imagine the Commander of the Inquisition is a free man -- one as handsome as himself? I do wonder who's bed he keeps warm at night, though. A fellow soldier? A starry-eyed waif? Or is he some noblewoman's secret affair? There've been whisperings in Val Royeaux that he is, most incredibly, single. As his leader, what say you to those rumors?

It had been a friendly conversation - they always were, weren’t they? - before the topic had turned to Cullen. She should have EXPECTED it. The noblewoman is all giggles and smiles, gently guiding the conversation first towards Elena’s advisors and then, in a fashion that is so transparent it’s nearly laughable, to the Commander, her eyes sparkling like sapphires set in her golden mask. Initially, the mention of him is enough to bring a blush to Elena’s cheeks, excitement stirring in her stomach, because some perverse part of her likes hearing the rumors about their relationship, but instead the topic today is how all of Val Royeaux is completely convinced he must certainly be single and the excited feeling in Elena’s stomach sours into something angry and jealous.

She had come to expect THIS too - the constant questions about his personal affairs and rather or not he would be interested in this proposal or the other - but that didn’t mean they were ever easy to hear or field. Even with the dozens of rumors about his romantic entanglement with her, rumors that seemed to fly around Skyhold with reckless abandon and painted it as some torrid and messy love affair, somehow the women who were interested in him managed to convince themselves that they were fake. Or worse, they would pervert the romance into something wholly one sided, whispering things about Elena that made Josephine blush when she reported them.

And while part of her wanted to throw them out into the snow, the other part of her - the rational part that had always been so empathetic - understood. She had never been a beauty, not by Orlesian standards. Where beautiful Orlesian women were tall and slender, she was short and heavy set. Where they had thin noses and high cheekbones and hair that behaved exactly how they wanted it to, she had a round face and nose and a tangle of hair that never did anything but stick up in the wrong directions. And if she was so completely unattractive, to the point of being unworthy of love or note, how could they expect her to have captured the attention of someone like him?

She exhales softly, the easy smile on her lips pulling tense and tight and her teeth baring just slightly. She felt like a feral dog, desperate to protect it’s territory. And it’s what she must have looked like as well, because the look in the woman’s eyes is something between amusement and pity. “Do you not have an answer, Mistress Amell?”

Quietly. Softly. Like you were taught. There’s no reason to cause problems for Josephine. “I’m afraid I don’t, my lady. The Commander’s personal affairs are no business of mine so long as they don’t interfere with his duties.”

“Are you certain? The way you look at him, someone might mistakenly think that you are completely obsessed. It is simply improper. A woman such as yourself…” The woman’s fan folds and unfolds in her hand and though her mask hides her smirk, it doesn’t hide the biting tone in her voice, “Well, you really ought to set your sights on someone more attainable, dear.”

Calm. Calm. Don’t lash out. She can practically hear Josephine and Vivienne whispering in her ear, faint and distant behind the angry thrumming of her heart. Had they been in the yard - had this been a proper battle - she would’ve easily been able to bring the woman to her knees. The question of who was superior wouldn’t need to be asked, because far and beyond Elena would win against every two-faced, lace covered Orlesian bitch thrown against her. Would they question her worth then, with lightning coursing through their veins and their skirts on fire?

Just the thought of it is enough to calm her, if only a little.

“If I recall correctly, my lady, your father recently announced your betrothal to Duke Decostaux’s son,” Elena’s voice is deceptively airy, fingers curling into tight little fists in the fabric of her skirts. That’s enough to cause the woman’s shoulders to stiffen. Her eyes widen in shock and her fan nearly tumbles out of her hands, but Elena continues, “I hear it was a lot of trouble for your family to arrange. I don’t think the Duke or your father would take kindly to you so openly lusting over someone like Commander Rutherford, who has no titles or land of his own, when they so graciously arranged for you to marry so far above your station.”

The lady’s fan snaps shut. She fumbles for words and her blush is so strong it reaches down her neck and up her ears. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and then opens it again but no words tumble out of her pink-painted lips. After a few moments, Elena smiles, head canting to the side, “Do you not have an answer, my lady?”

“I was NOT-”

“Oh? Then why were you so curious?” The way she nearly screams, face staining red with anger under her mask, brings Elena a perverse sense of joy that she wouldn’t have been able to explain even if she wanted to. “Should I have Lady Montilyet write the Duke? It would be trouble to call off the engagement, certainly, but since you’re so completely enamored with my DEAR Commander- well, your mother is devout, is she not? Certainly she’ll want you to be married to the object of your insatiable lust. Otherwise- it would be dishonorable, wouldn’t it? Sinful, even?”

“I was simply asking for a friend, Your Worship.”

Elena hums, tapping her chin with a finger before nodding in agreement to the statement. She leans in to press a kiss to the cheek of the other woman’s mask as a way of saying goodbye and dismissing the topic, but not before whispering, “Please tell your friend to stop treating my Commander like a piece of meat. It’s…unbecoming and bound to cause problems, dear.”

#Anonymous #makerguideme #woops it got long

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reekierevelator · 5 years

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The Face of Tomorrow

Sitting, eyes red and head drooping, foot almost glued to the pedal, feeding the coarse material through the needle. At last, she moved her foot away and let her head fall. Another piece finished. Twenty shirts, all exactly the same, already today.

But before Ode could take a few moments to rest her arms and have a sip of water the foreman arrived to snatch away the finished shirt, saying ‘Atta girl, plenty more where that came from’, and pushed a sewing pattern down in front of her tired eyes. This was quickly followed by ‘Here you go then, next piece’ as he thrust a pile of cut-outs on to the heavily scratched beech wood of her small work desk. The new pieces were in a dazzling shade of almost iridescent blue with a subtle pattern of thin black lines running through them. Ode sat up and stared, mesmerised. The foreman couldn’t understand it. ‘It’s the same shirt dear, just different material’ he explained slowly, as if Ode was some kind of simpleton.

Since leaving school Ode had spent long hours working in the dilapidated red brick building only the boss calls the Golden Garment Company factory. Her fellow workers called it the workshop. Her old school friends called it the sweatshop. Long hours and poor pay, but ‘it’s a job’. And without qualifications Ode felt lucky to be employed at all. She knew it was only because her mother had taught her the basic skills required – through making her sew and mend from a very young age, - that she’d got the job in the first place. In her own family, new clothes were a rare and almost unheard of luxury. It had been that way since they had fled to escape the fighting, arriving in Britain from Nigeria when Ode was a small child.

She had never owned the kind of on-trend fashionable clothes that she’d seen on some of the city’s girls. And she knew anyway that she was plain and unattractive. Fancy clothes wouldn’t hide that. People had never been backward in coming forward to tell her so.

Once, she’d gone with her friend to try on expensive clothes in a posh shop – it was what they did, try them on, admire themselves in the mirrors, and then return the clothes to the rails. Sometimes Ode took even longer as she examined the textiles, the way a particular fabric had been cut, sewn, pleated. It was much more valuable to examine the actual clothes, see exactly how they had been treated, cut on the bias or whatever, than to read about them in the odd fashion magazine that came her way. She could understand why her behaviour could irritate the woman in charge of the changing rooms and how she might get annoyed. When Ode emerged wearing a floor length sequined gown the woman had carped ‘You don’t really fit the modelling mould, do you love? Not got the required features: not thin enough, not tall enough, and your legs are too short.’ It cut Ode to the bone, but still she couldn’t shake the obsession.

In fact she became quite acclimatised to cruel humiliation. ‘Your cheekbones are too low, nose is too big, your mouth is too wide, the shape and colour of your eyes is all wrong.’ In a way it made her more resilient. ‘You can’t squeeze into that dress my girl, even the bust’s not right. In fact, your whole build is all wrong for those kinds of dresses. To be honest I can’t see even spending a fortune on make-up and cosmetics making much difference.’ Even when it left her almost in tears Ode found she could cope. That was just how her life was and since it was likely to stay that way she better get used to it.

Somehow she just couldn’t help herself. She inevitably found herself starting conversations with workmates, family, and sometimes even strangers at the bus stop by commenting on their clothes. She offered them her ideas on what might suit them better. But what she considered sensible suggestions were often received as rudeness; unwarranted intrusions, impolite, offensive, insulting. On the odd occasions when she had ventured to make such suggestions to her friends they had either laughed out loud, asked what on earth she was thinking, or stared at her as if they thought he was going mad.

But at least the meagre wages she was earning allowed her the very occasional luxury purchase. The unusual blue cloth triggered her desire. At the end of the day she noticed the scrag end of a roll abandoned on the cutting room floor. She picked it up and approached the foreman.

‘Could I take this home with me?’ she asked

The foreman knew there was not enough material for another garment and that it would only be swept up and put in the refuse with the rest of the rubbish. He barked back ‘Of course not, it belongs to the company,’

‘I could pay for it,’ Ode answered timidly.

‘How much?’

‘I have six pounds saved,’ said Ode, rummaging in her pocket then stretching out her hand showing him the money.

The foreman cast his eyes furtively around the now empty room. ‘Sold’, he muttered, quickly grabbing the cash from Ode’s hand.

With the dress-making skills her mother had somewhat forcefully bequeathed to her Ode intended to cut the material into embellishments for her existing clothes. But then she struck on the idea of unpicking the stitching of her own dress and using her own quirky ideas to remake it in a wholly new style, one she imagined would show off the blue material properly. The dress she created was highly unusual, a peculiar variation on the traditional dress of her ancestors, a new take on the sort of clothes her mother wore as if she still walked the Nigerian countryside every day. A matching gele, or headdress, completed the effect.

At first her best friend, Uma, impulsive and beautiful, with big eyes and an impish smile, was the only one she would allow to see her new ‘African’ dress. Then one day Uma said ‘Is real neat, yah. But what you gonna do wit it though – just sit at home wearin it, starin at youself in the mirror like you famous? Shu, no girl like you ever gonna wear that kinda thing on the street.’

But maybe that was just the challenge Ode had been waiting for. The very next Saturday she wore her highly original new dress while accompanying Uma to Harlesden market, shopping for yams, plantain, and cooking bananas. She drew admiring glances from other girls, saying ‘Stunna, innit’ and ‘You got an ankara buba now Ode?’. Even some of the boys approached her, passing comments like ‘That’s a wicked colour’, and ‘Cool dress’. A white boy mentioned her ‘Impressive kaftan.’

Ode’s girlfriends were quick to convert to a full appreciation of the new style. They found themselves re-thinking the fashion advice Ode had tried to give them, which they’d previously rejected as ridiculously outlandish. It didn’t take long before they were asking her advice on materials, and arranging for Ode to run up clothes for them at home after they brought her the lengths of cloth they’d bought.

One Saturday afternoon Ode and Uma passed the unimposing little shopfront of a professional photographer. They paused outside for a moment before Uma, on the spur of the moment, marched in, her friend trailing behind, and asked him to take photos of her. ‘For a fashion model portfolio?’ the photographer had joked, and Uma surprised herself when, the idea having been put in her head, she replied ‘Well yes.’ When she asked him for the names and addresses of modelling agencies her Ode’s laughter became uncontrollable. But still, he’d gamely suggested a few names while keeping his grin in check.

Uma collected the big glossy photos the next weekend and posted them off to New Vision Models, one of the names she’d remembered. Surprisingly, the agency, under pressure to demonstrate greater ‘diversity’, invited her for an interview. But when Uma arrived to speak to Zelda it was quickly clear that she wasn’t really interested. Uma was glad she’d gone alone and that her friend wasn’t there to hear Zelda’s casual, acerbic comments on her height, weight, and the size of her feet.

Zelda’s phone rang. It was an urgent request. One of their clients had put together a mail order catalogue that had to go to print next day and they’d only just realized all the models they’d used were white. They couldn’t afford to be depicted as racially biased and they couldn’t afford to re-schedule the printing job. In fact, business was so bad because of all the new online retailers that unless the catalogue brought in a lot of sales they knew the company was going to collapse anyway. As a matter of fact they couldn’t even afford to pay the usual going rate for models but they desperately needed someone within the hour.

So for a minimal fee, from which Uma would earn only ‘experience’, the agency sent her to wear cheap clothes for some quickfire photographs which would be included in a mail order women’s clothes catalogue that would be printed in great haste on cheap paper. In their hurry a shot was taken of Uma wearing the dress in which she’d arrived, a dress designed and stitched together by Ode. The photo was included along with an arbitrary price the catalogue editor had made up on the spot.

Inevitably, the catalogue’s readers hated the clothes and bought very little. But even while the company was folding, comments proliferated across the social media about one of the models, how she was so different to the usual mannequin-like catalogue clothes-horses and actually looked like a ‘normal lively girl’ for a change. As attention was directed towards Uma, more readers also commented that the only item of clothing in the catalogue that was worth buying was one that she modelled – a sort of esoteric take on traditional West African dress. Unusually, the dress was in bright pink rather than the usual primary colours and its pattern was picked out in subtle, swirling crimson and gold. Surprisingly, the cut was for a casual dress style, a chiseled cut and only knee-length, with a rectangular neckline. Equally surprisingly, the dress was still somehow unmistakeably African.

While casually flicking through Instagram discussions a young man linked it to a message he sent to the husband of Phoebe, a young aspiring clothes designer. ‘People are saying there’s someone, something out there, that is “different” ‘.

When the husband brought it to her attention Phoebe investigated. She checked Instagram. The nape of her neck prickled. She tracked down a copy of the printed catalogue. She phoned the catalogue company, then the modelling agency, and then Uma herself. When she discovered who had made the catalogue’s one outstanding clothes item her sense of excitement went into overdrive. She ran out of her office in Jermyn Street and was soon on the Bakerloo Line heading north to Harlesden. When she found the flat in the high-rise she confused Ode’s mother by asking to talk to the girl with the perfect eye.

The social media hubbub also reached Zelda. She was quickly back in contact with Uma, offering her more work, and insisting the company could live up to its name of New Vision.

Ode handed in her notice at the sweatshop. The foreman told her to stay, warned her she’d regret leaving, since his own pay was linked to production and he knew how hard Ode worked. But Ode began working with Phoebe. With Ode’s ideas and Phoebe’s business contacts it wasn’t long before they were selling vast numbers of new garments, not only throughout the UK but to the near two hundred million Nigerians and to other parts of West Africa.

Within a year Uma’s cheerful face was on billboards and the cover of Cosmopolitan. She was following in the footsteps of Iman and Naomi Campbell.

But Ode’s face, despite the cheekbones being too low, nose too big, mouth too wide, and shape and colour of the eyes all wrong, was the real face of tomorrow. It was already to be found on the inside pages of Business Today as well as StyleWatch, Glamour, and West Africa Now. The world had moved on. The face of Britain was multicultural and not only was the West African market online, but the whole face of Africa was changing fast. Given the respect accorded a top class designer, business couldn’t be better.

#Reekie Revelator #short story #fashion #immigration

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mindlessmetalfuck · 5 years

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Thoughts about the latest shock. Right, wrong, logical, illogical. Fuck it, I'm tired of this shit popping in my head with nowhere to go.

-Am I an enabler? After Emily went back to prison I swore I'd never be an enabler again. Am I? Am I breaking promises to myself?

-how many things have I read into completely wrong because of this? What has been affected?

- is that why he's suddenly been so attracted to me and wanted me so thoroughly again after so long of not? Was I dumb enough to get my hopes up so much that things were suddenly okay again after so long of feeling unattractive that I ignored ignored signs that there was something else?

- did this affect or encourage the sudden mistrust he has in me? How does someone go from swearing they whole heartedly trust me to yelling at me for how I look at other people and how I dress to go to work?

- did I stop getting told I was fantastic because nothing i do will ever compare to how fantastic that is?

- Has this encouraged the anger? Be it cravings, come downs, the guilt of hiding something, or whatever else contributed to taking the man who always talked about how of course he tries not to take out other stresses on me because I don't deserve it and didn't cause it and turn him into someone who wakes up frusterated and directing his anger at me? Someone who gets angry enough to say whatever he feels even if it makes me feel so very small.

- fluctuations in any substance someone is using to cope tends to cause mood swings. It doesn't matter what the substance is, I've seen it with so many things in so many people. Is this any different? Is this encouraging mood swings that make me want to run? Could this be part if why I felt more and more like I couldn't talk to the man who once made me feel heard and validated in everything I feared talking about? Is this why I'm on eggshells and can't seem to be on the same page as him?

- when I've been told I make him feel like a prisoner, snapped at for touching looking at him, ignored for hours when I just want to know if its worth my time to wait up or not, how much was because of what he was hiding? Am I really that terrible or was this bullshit contributing to making me feel so insignificant and like I should truly just disappear?

- how many times did I have a sneaking voice in the back of my head telling me he was on something? That he was hiding something? And how many times did I tell myself I was crazy? It's just because I'm fucked up in the head and have trust issues. He would never do that to me. Never lie and hide things from me. He swears he can only be honest with me. I so badly wanted to make sure he didn't pay for someone elses mistakes that I chose to trust him more than I trusted myself.

- it seems like this has made him love me more when maybe he actually didn't love me that much. He was just high. It wasn't me. It was that. But at the same time maybe this is what has made him show me less love. He's changed. And to me it sounds like the more it has happened lines up with the more he's become so distant and different. Ever since roughly around when I heard about Talon. The more he's hurt me. But maybe that's just wishful thinking. Maybe I'm just praying to a God I dint believe in that he didn't so suddenly change and start breaking my heart for no reason. That he didn't somehow just wake up one day and didn't love me like he used to without something wild changing that. This love he gave me that was once everything I ever needed was the most solid and wonderful thing I ever believed in and truly felt. Please let this be why sometimes he felt like a stranger who didn't seem to givr a damn what he did to my heart because at the end of the day he knew I'd still love him with the pieces of it. Things have been hard but if the love i felt was real i cannot comprehend how that just changed. So quickly.

- Has this had anything to do with gentle and compassionate check ins with me in hard moments changing to sharp and short "what's your problem?"s?

- was the secret of this why I suddenly felt so alienated and unwanted? How much did this somehow contribute to me feeling like the man who used to look at me like sunshine making me feel like he only wanted me to disappear?

- did I ever beat myself up searching and searching for what I had done wrong when it was something to do with this? Because as much as he swore it wasn't me I truly felt deep down that something was different. Something changed. Him acting ways he'd never acted with me before despite me seeing him stressed and miserable and angry and any other mood I can imagine had never resulted in the severe pushing away and lack of love that I suddenly felt so strongly.

- in the last month to month and a half, it felt like everything truly changed. I had times with my baby. But random days or moments there was a harsh change and he'd feel nearly like a stranger. I couldn't find the love i always always been able to find within him. And those snaps came so often and it wouldn't take much if anything to send them off for so long. Each time I'd wake up or pick him up from work felt like a gamble of who I would get.

- ultimately, I don't care what it is or could be causing this. I wouldn't care of it were drinking or the people he's around, or a job, or this. Whatever it is I can't help but feel like it takes the man I love away. And that breaks my heart. Every time it happens. So I suppose I'm praying for answers. Something that can stop so I can trust having my love back again. My best friend, my peace, my comfort, my understanding, my safe place, and my home. I want him back consistently. And I didn't really feel like he left until the past month or so. That man never made me feel like he was starting to hate and resent me. He wouldn't say things to me that felt like their purpose was to be sharp and painful. Only within the past month or so have i seen enough of this anger and unfamiliarity to really honestly fear I'm losing the love of my life. And it fucking hurts. So damn much.

- if I lose the man who calmed my soul with a simple touch and filled all my empty broken spots with love, would dance with me in the car and lick my nose and leave me laughing so hard I'm nearly in tears after blowing a tire at 90mph on a road trip. The man who could ever so gently touch me and give me one look and leave me so full of nothing but love. I never expected to see my future all wrapped up in one person. But I did. And I KNEW it. One of the rare times in life I wholly and totally knew something. This man is my for sure. And if such a pure and right and soul soothing happiness walks right into my life when I'm not looking only to be ripped away with me never completely understanding why or what I did wrong and to deserve it, it will be the cruelest trick life has played on me yet.

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musingmonkee · 6 years

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Antioch

At my day job, I literally sat around for four and a half hours. Wednesdays are typically pretty slow for delivery services, but “slow” usually means I only do one trip per hour, not nothing at all for several hours. I couldn’t help thinking of all the other things I could be taking care of: going to physical therapy for my shoulder, writing some pages on one of the four scripts I’m working on, laundry.

I wished I had at least remembered to bring the book I am reading about William and Elizebeth Friedman. They were codebreakers, self-taught, who basically pioneered our national intelligence agencies. When I left off, Elizebeth was working for the Coast Guard helping to catch rum-runners during Prohibition. The bootleggers had broadcast their instructions over the radio using code words and phrases, and Elizebeth had been able to figure out their entire scheme. She had just testified in open court against some pretty powerful mafiosi, and the author hinted multiple times that Elizebeth would soon be in danger.

Finally, in the last half hour of my shift, I was sent to pick up two separate orders. The first one was pretty small, only three bags and a half rack of Sierra Nevada pale ale. The second one, though, was a pretty large order - at least a dozen heavy bags, plus two cases of water and a half dozen 12-packs of soda. And a case of Bud Light.

“Who drinks Bud Light?” I thought. Just the idea of it gives me a headache.

Most customers, unless they are elderly or in some way disabled, eagerly come out to my car to help bring their groceries inside. Then, after confirming delivery with a signature, they typically hand me a few dollars as a tip.

The Bud Light woman, though, simply stood in the doorway and watched me. She did offer a polite “thank you” for each set of bags I set at her feet, but that was all. Literally.

I don’t ever actually expect a tip, even though it is the bulk of a delivery driver’s income, and even though customers are fully aware of how little people in my position actually make once expenses are factored in. But I know that if I start expecting a tip, it will affect my attitude about what I’m doing, and I don’t want to be a dick to people.

I did expect a tip from the Bud Light woman, though. Her attitude conveyed an “I’ll just pay for it” view of the world, whether “it” was having her grass cut or having her groceries delivered to her doorstep. When she didn’t even offer a perfunctory couple of bucks, I felt betrayed.

Afterwards, I went straight to my night job instead of stopping home to take a nap first like I usually do. My first stop was a young Black woman getting off work whom I picked up from her office building. Our conversation led to the subject of Stephon Clark, the young man who a few weeks ago had been gun downed by local police despite being unarmed. She told me that she had very little sympathy for what had happened to Clark.

“My father was a criminal” she explained, “and he said that he [Clark] was a stupid criminal so he deserved what he got.”

I did not give in to curiosity and ask, “Really? In what way was your father ‘a criminal’? What did he do?”

Instead I said, “Well, I still don’t think he should’ve been shot to death just for vandalizing cars.”

She replied that no, of course that wasn’t okay, and that the whole thing was a tragedy. She said she’d heard on the news that even the guy who originally called the police because someone was breaking into his car felt incredibly guilty for Clark’s death; that if he had known the police were going to respond the way they did, the guy wouldn’t have called them. But she still thought that Clark was stupid.

My next pick-up was an older Vietnamese couple who spoke very little English. Their daughter had first phoned me to confirm that I would be okay taking them all the way to Antioch, which I was (delighted actually), thinking of the large fare.

The ride to Antioch was pretty quiet. The woman spoke only enough to convey that the music I was listening to quietly in the front was pleasant and didn’t bother them. The man said nothing.

My GPS, as it usually does when I’m going that way, sent me around the delta on the much smaller state highways rather than the major, more direct interstate route. It makes for a more interesting drive, landscape-wise, but the delta route, with its single-lane roads and lower speed limits, can also take longer to get there. Since it was still very much rush hour on the interstate, I didn’t see that it made much of a difference which route I took. Even if it was technically longer going around the delta, at least we would be in constant motion, which we most certainly wouldn’t be in taking the interstate. And the couple seemed to have no objection - at least they didn’t make any sort of indication that I was “going the wrong way”.

There were several places along the way that I wished I could’ve pulled over and snapped some photos - the wind farm, for example. Dozens of high-tech, wind-powered turbines that still have a very futurist design dominate the bright green countryside. Sometimes sheep or cows or goats graze peacefully among them. It’s as if Christina’s World had been painted by Robert Heinlein.

The Vietnamese couple’s home was in an older but common style of housing development. As I pulled up, I found that I couldn’t stop directly in front of the house due to there being three or four old, white vans - the kind with the double doors in the middle instead of a single, sliding one - parked in front of it. There were also two more cars parked in the driveway. I wondered if the vans belonged to their household, then wondered why, with so many vehicles, none of their owners had offered to come and collect the couple.

As the man and woman got out of my car and thanked me politely for the ride, I noticed through their open garage door that there were several large, black leather sofas. These were huge and shiny, and really stood out against the white and grey color palette of the garage, bathed in the glare of fluorescent lighting. The sofas were simultaneously completely out place and not at all unusual.

On my way back I stopped in to visit some theatre friends during their rehearsal for A Funny Little Thing Called Love. The play is a series of vignettes about different ways people fall in love, or rather try to. My friend “Jack” is directing the play and “Jill” will be in two of its scenes. After first greeting my friends, I sat quietly in a seat next to Jack, who was making notes as his actors ran the first scene.

The most noticeable thing about community theatre is that, while many people may have a decent level of acting talent, very few actually “look like an actor”. Sure, there is the occasional beautiful young ingenue or fresh-faced leading man with the acting chops to match, but eventually even they are overtaken by middle age and start to blend into the rest of the company.

As I watched the actors work through their blocking up on stage, my primary thought was “What a wholly unattractive group”. One of the women, who was past the sell-by date for the airy-fairy “peace and love” persona she presented, I was sure smelled like patchouli, cigarettes, and feet. Her flat leather sandals slapped across the plywood stage as she stormed off in disgust, which really took the bite of her character’s anger.

The second woman I’d first met when she was a cute young character player, the one who was always cast as the “sassy secretary” or “flirty waitress”. She had and still has flaming red hair. I’d seen her in several of the company’s productions, but she hadn’t done any of their recent shows. I’d always thought she had an inordinately large head, but in the time since I’d seen her last, her weak jawline had finally been overtaken by her growing double chin. She now looked like a walking human thumb with hair. I felt bad for her. After all, she can’t help having a weak chin; and what’s she supposed to do, never look down?

I then tried to calculate the amount of suspension of disbelief that would be required for me to accept that the third actor, a middle-aged man with his belly hanging out from under the front of his shirttails, is a three-timing Lothario whom each of the three women he is dating agree to keep seeing as long as he ditches the other two.

“He has to know” I later told my Bestie, who is also friends with these actors. “How can he not? How can he just... walk around like that??”

On my drive back, I recognized how judgmental I was being. Still, there just isn’t any un-awkward way to tell someone that everyone can see their gut hanging out, so it remains the person’s own responsibility to keep track of it. When they don’t it’s somehow insulting to the rest of us.

“Take that, sartorial common sense! And you too, public at large!”

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sadertotz · 7 years

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Where Is Anti-Dating Culture Discourse When I Need It?: A Sexual Assault Story

It’s clear that we live in a dating obsessed culture – and while there have been plenty of think pieces on how to find a real love connection in the age of Tinder, there’s not a lot of coverage and support for those who feed completely at ends with it.

I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of dating. I’ve always been a person open to new possibilities, new relationships – coupled with a cool girl sense of down for anything, let’s try that in the bedroom, let’s stay up until 6am doing what I do best.

What began the breakdown of that façade was an awful break-up. He took everything from me, emotionally & financially (last one may be a little dramatic but he did milk me for every penny I was worth). When you thought it was love and it turned out to be they only loved what you could provide for them, that’s enough to start one’s souring.

But all things considered, I picked myself up from this pretty well. In fact, I’d say the next 6 months that followed were some of the best in my life. I could embrace the music I had once hid my liking for (he thought female fronted bands sucked), I could wear the things he loathed (this included rompers, red lipstick & my hair naturally), I could be me without thinking what the other half what think and what image we had to uphold – you guessed it, manic pixie dream couple.

Being in this new single world, I of course dove right into Tinder, although sparks far from ever flew. If anything it was an ego boost, getting X amount of super likes in a day and have guys tell me this was the best date they’d ever been on, when I didn’t feel a thing for them.

Now, flash back to prior to my big break –up relationship – I’d never really had a serious boyfriend so the thought that someone could love me, like are you serious, me? Was dumbfounded. Previously I’d just been known as the joke, the slut. I liked to openly talk about sleeping with guys in an effort to make myself sound cool and detached when (you can write the story from here) – I was riddled with insecurities and hated myself to the very core.

So fast forward to post heartbreak, I expected to fit into the slut scheme (this is me embracing the term, not using it judgmentally!) just fine. It was like riding a bike, there’s no way I could forget. Turned out to be absolutely untrue. I saw my fun NYC friends around me hooking up left and right and not feeling so affected by what he said in bed that night or the fact that he failed to text back – after all, we could laugh at it over brunch and it was on to the next one.

I struggled to find anyone attractive to talk to, let alone sleep with. Everyone seemed to bore me, and I was absolutely not about to lean in to any cute lines or games. But it was an alienating feeling – why can everyone let go and I can’t seem to? Why do I have to be so uptight, I swear I’m not this lame girl! I’m a cool girl!

One weekend I decided to say fuck it. Lined up 3 online dates over the holiday weekend and figured I would finally master this juggling act. I would be back to my supreme slut self.

By Friday I was in the hospital with a bleeding asshole, tears streaming down my face as I faced judgement from doctors and the fear to tell anyone close in my life. I went to the hospital alone feeling violated, got my rape kit done while feeling violated and walked home, feeling violated, as I got catcalls and staredowns from men in the 2am Brooklyn streets. It was clear now, more than ever, that I am just an object to men. Something for their consumption and destruction, nothing of value.

The night started out normal. As normal as an app-made date can be. He was late. Chubbier and not as cute in person. In honesty, he was completely revolting. Cocky for absolutely no reason, thought he was an extra member of the Smiths, and freely downtalked other women in the bar. All traits I find wholly unattractive.

But I decided to get drunk. To ease the pain of swallowing this pill. I played the act of dark, misunderstood girl up to a T, knowing he’d want to peer inside me even more. Drink after drink, bar after bar, it gets darker & darker – both in memory and tone.

I don’t remember going to his place. I remember making out on the couch. I remember taking off my clothes there. I don’t remember transferring to the bedroom.

I remember him choking me – maybe I asked, but I can’t be positive. I remember him pressing down harder, hard enough where I couldn’t breathe. This triggered something in me, and I still don’t know what exactly. The memory of someone’s hand (who shall not be named) on my neck, someone’s whose didn’t belong there.

I flung him off an immediately started crying. I explained the memory (I think) this triggered and he said it was ok, this happens all the time. Whatever you think the memory is is probably right and knowing that…this wasn’t a comforting thing to hear from another male, especially a “prospective” sexual partner.

I remember crying, actually curling in the fetal position, thinking about how I wanted to go home. I hadn’t wanted to go home my entire time in New York but I did now.

What happened next is the blurriest of it all. I think it was decided that we would go to bed, but somehow the sexual activity continued. I don’t know if he asked, or if I approached, or if he started or I did.

All I vividly remember is being face down in a pillow, assuming the position if you will, and feeling an awful pain – THAT pain – and screaming, “Please stop, please stop…I haven’t don’t that before!” But he proceeded. Not sure how long.

I woke up the next morning, hungover as hell and feeling abnormally worse about my decisions. I snuck to the bathroom to pee and it was painful – normal for post-sex I’d say. When I wiped, the paper was bright red. And no, immature assholes, it wasn’t my period. I knew from the pain I had from merely sitting on my butt that it wasn’t.

I grabbed my clothes and left – I lost my fake septum ring there, which I guess we can say is a blessing in disguise.

I cried the whole subway home. I came home to an empty apartment and sat in this feeling of violation. This wasn’t typical post-hook up regret. This was something deeper. I felt like a part of me had been taken – again, you assholes, not my anal virginity, but a sense of myself.

I told a couple friends who encouraged me to take action. And here starts the cycle of I went to the hospital alone feeling violated, got my rape kit done while feeling violated and walked home, feeling violated…

So that is my sexual assault story. But in a sense it’s also a cherry on top of my anti-dating philosophy. Is everyone on Tinder a rapist? No. Do I think all men are rapists? Begrudgingly, no. Do I think my friends are wrong for sleeping around? No. Do I think less of people who use apps? No.

But when I sit through conversations that orbit around matching with this guy, what’s the best line to intro with, what should my bio be – I can’t help but want to scream at people: “Stop it! Stop it right now! It doesn’t fucking matter, don’t let them win! You are valid and worthwhile without them!”

I’m just one person’s story though, and I’m sure there are others like me.

Sometimes I wish I knew more of those people, so I didn’t feel so isolated during such conversations.

Here’s hoping a Tinderless girl can find love in a Tinder world, too.

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