Well, wouldn't you know it - Femmeruthless.com is an Aries. I should've known, given the predominance of blood-flash red, pointy weapon-like heels and the generally lusty Mars-humps-Venus vibe on this site. Where is the pen and where is the writer? It can be hard to feel like I have anything semi-coherent to say in pupa. Yet the occasion is too momentous (to me at least) to let pass without words and presence.
Yes on this day last year, I finally published this blog. It had taken years of Getting In then Out Of My Own Way as well as writing for everyone else under every guise possible. Dry as dust technical sheets, peppy marketing blurbs, litigiously toned demand documents for action and atonement, sassy little posts in Other People's Blogs, tender letters of Like to Men Who Disappeared, once even an epic eulogy I was later informed tipped the entire funeral party into relentless sobbing and of course, mind-bending erotica for private consumption (to be clear, not mine).
The festival weekend finally comes. LA for all her smog and wonky multi-lingual signage is for the time, sunny and bright. A strange feeling of familiarity has begun to settle between Dragan and I, by virtue I think of having seen each other more consistently.
Something I liken to how a prisoner starts to view their captor as human, just because he always happens to be there. In retrospect, way too Freudian a thought.
Dragan's comfort is such that he arrives an hour early just as I pull up my driveway, sweaty and flushed from a run. I bounce out of the car with a "Hello, Bossy! Here already?" The question doesn't daunt him, and I'm wondering if this was his way of shifting himself from someone I'm "seeing" to "official boyfriend who can come round whenever". He eyes my hot pink towel shorts, the wispy steamed tendrils of hair and hugs me anyway, as if he wanted to try out the glistening gym version. Surprising, considering how stringent his post-coital hygienics had been. Maybe the comfort zone is a spectrum, dare I hope that this may later manifest itself in the bedroom? I notice him riveted by my bottom as I run up the stairs. Hmm, promising.
The festival is a slice of longed for summer. The day is so crisp and lush, we cannot help but attack it with relish. Revving the engine up, I give Dragan a conspiratorial smile and ask,"You up for discovering LA, Bossy?"
Glad to have escaped the feathery clutches of Kentucky, I receive a message from Dragan informing me he was uncertain if he had work on the weekend, but that he'd like to see me SOON. Aside from normally being prompt about making plans and appearing for them, well, save for that first week when Serb-ice suffered derailment - the sense of urgency is thinly veiled.
I thought we were going a dignified pace, but he seemed to have acquired the velocity of a heat seeking missile. "I have a business dinner", I reason. "Is ok, just say when," he responds.
"It may last past 9 pm," I counter. "10 pm is fine,"he replies. Then adds,"We also do lunch tomorrow, da?" Right. It seems that would imply he was staying over.
Thankfully, the meeting is distracting and I lose myself in the whys and wherefores of fluctuating futures and the like. There's nothing quite like a bar chart gone haywire to dampen the delicious anticipation of possible surrender. I stealthily answer his texts as he asks me for an ETA. Typically Arien he deems the failure to respond to text messages or scheduling dates in a timely manner, an issue of Respect. Ignore him at your peril is the message I get.
It's actually a relief from the push-pull flakery rampant in LA where too many things are concluded with a shrugged whatever. I get home just in time to indulge my Venus and appear nonchalantly put together as Dragan looms at my door. It's decided we catch a late movie, which I thought should be a fitting prelude. Yet sitting in the dark of the theater, Dragan remains self-contained and neither holds my hand nor attempts even a whisper of physical closeness, except to occasionally tap me on my shoulder and say something funny. Like I was his sister. Or something.
Most memories of movie dates I've had usually involve ignoring it altogether. I sit uncomfortably through three long hours of piracy, mayhem and maiden ravishing. At least someone was getting some action.
"Me?, " I repeat rather dumbly, dizzy from my phone bleeping again from B's texting and the insane urge to run to it. Dragan smiles wolfishly, "Da, you. Here," he points to the spot in front of him then very softly yet firmly, "NOW." I felt a bit weak, as if I'd fainted into an alternate reality, but hey, maybe the man just wanted a cuddle, right? Oh, someone slap me.
I gingerly insinuate myself in front of him and he immediately folds me inside him, like a pod swallowing a seed. There is no doubt he's interested at this point as my lower back is getting an inadvertent massage. I think, well, that was quick. He flips me over and I start talking nervously, "You know, I've a nickname for you." "Da..?," he murmurs nuzzling his nose into my ear. "What this is?"
"I think I'm going to call you Bossy," I announce. "Bossy? Like I boss, you slave," he questions still in my hair. Except when he says "slave" he pronounces it "slavey" which is understandable given Serbian. "Yes," I say, "do you always order people about?," I giggle. "Only you, da," he ignores my chatter and practically swallows me up whole.
His body runs incredibly hot, I begin to wonder if Arieans are all equipped with internal furnaces, or if like I once purported, their molecules simply moved in hyper-speed and thus generated that much heat. I begin to realize that Dragan's thighs are thick as tree trunks, mainly as I can hardly move when pinned under them. I have a last lingering thought of B, like he was an echo I longed for somewhere and I close my eyes.
Dragan is dismantling things with military precision, so much so I feel the need to announce my predicament as well as the suspicion that I may get a spanking if I don't.
After the scheduling mishap with Dragan, I'd resigned myself to my fate as the Virgin Queen of Virginlandia. Pure, unsullied and all about the Kingdom. Sure, Kentucky was there making all sorts of interesting clucking noises but it wasn't really the kind of surrender I was envisioning after months of preservation. Surely, I was at least worth a Siege, right?
In the spirit of benign forgiveness, I decided to give Dragan a royal pardon and send him a conciliatory message saying that it seemed our scheduling that week was simply awful, would he like to meet again? There really is no point to being royal if one cannot practice diplomacy, which in this instance worked. Carmen San Diego had been right after all, "oh you know he's just gone shy, give him a break," she'd urged with Scorpionic Compassion. He responded immediately, relieved and welcoming of the olive branch I offered, "Yes, hello, I would like to met with you again, we can make dill to meet yes?"
I acquiesced. Sure, we can make dill. After all, his dill-making was very promising - at least after the initial fear factor. We end up making plans to go out on a Saturday to catch a live band at the Troubador. I'd realized very early on that my fine dining looks were likely making his wallet cringe in fear and the morning before we meet I text him to say that I planned to have an early dinner at home, which I actually did. I meant alone but he replies quickly, "Ok, sounds good, I join you.". Huh?
I guess it wasn't too far an assumption for someone like him to make. He was probably feted by a household of women only too grateful to slave over a hot stove for him. In fact he did actually tell me once that back in Serbia his family baked their own bread AND mulled home-made fruit brandy called rakija, which while very heart-warming to think about, is a touch stone age for me unless you own a vineyard cum restaurant. I couldn't exactly un-invite him and not have it considered rude. Sigh, so cooking it was.
Beyond the somewhat autocratic flavor of his texts and emails, Dragan proves significantly more charming in person. I say that, while muttering under my breath that dictators often are. Hmm. Not surprisingly, he displays the Ariean capacity for great humor, the gap between his written and spoken English aided by expression, body language and nuance. And suitably enhanced by our rather European flavored surroundings. I compliment him duly, which is necessary with an Aries then profess surprise at the goatee, "is that non-negotiable?" I ask jokingly. "Da," he replies, "I will not remove it." Ok.. great to see you're flexible then.
I learn he's here on a work/study visa set to expire in the fall of next year. "Ah, so you need to get married," I observe. He shrugs and smiles, "Everybody say this to me." I tell him it's unfortunately the easiest way to secure his status, given that he's unable to physically spawn children and the chances of a proper work sponsorship unless he was say a rock star, the new Tesla or some kind of Olympian are quite slim.
He agrees, I ask him if he would marry just for that. "No, not just for that, " he shakes his head emphatically, "Yes, to stay but also because I need married." At 26? I'm unable to help myself on to the next question.
Shaken by the recent Venus in Aries activity, I resolved to "make the dill" and meet Serbia. Owing to the fact that Serbia hailed from the Back Up Dating site where his profile was rather scant, I was even more apprehensive. What if he only spoke in grunts? Did the Serbian dating protocol place a ratio between the evening's expenditures and physical favors? What if he was Serbian Mafia????
Clearly, I was working myself up to a stupid froth. It didn't help that he texted around 2 pm to say he couldn't meet me at the Museum as we'd originally planned since he had to work till 6, could we have drinks at 8 instead? Uh oh, what next, a cancellation? I gulped but gamely texted back that "great, I'll have time for a manicure" then told him where to go. Mainly, I tried not to think about it. And when I did, I assumed I'd be there at 8pm and back by 10. Easy, peasy, no reason to be queasy.
As if going into battle, I don my red patent stilettos (yep, the ones right there) and the Sex Dress. Contrary to its name, the Sex Dress is a subtle black silk affair fashioned like a man's dress shirt to be worn simply with a single belt either on the waist or hips. Yet somehow even while being rather opaque with zero cleavage exposure, it has a 95% success rate and only once failed when I wore it around B, who at the time disapprovingly grimaced while trotting me around like a recalcitrant child in a rather possessive grip. It had the effect of inspiring Bionic Staring which as one of the ex-suitors informed me, was really a stab at having it telekinetically fly off me.
FA on feathers, fangs, furies and all sorts of folly, yes, even the serious kind.
content copyright 2011
Yep, my life, my insanity, my copyright. If you like what you read, let me know :)
Did I use your image & attribute it incorrectly? Sorry! Let me know and I'll take it down. "Sssshhhh" image on blog header by Deborah Azzopardi. It's an amazing print now available thru Ikea.