the King of Spain

This Jian Ghomeshi thing is killing my buzz.  I like that guy.  I want to believe that guy, and quite frankly I would prefer to believe in a sexy BDSM world in which kink is both exciting and consensual.    (I had no idea he used to be in Moxy Fruvus; did you?  J used to call me his "unspeakable wife, Queen Lisa".)  But let's be realistic about it.  He probably is guilty.  Probably terribly terribly guilty.  But come to think of it, I have a friend who claims that George Strombolopolous undid her bra at a bar in Toronto - so you just never know who you can trust.  Because George is my boyfriend.  He wouldn't do that.  Right?


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R says he is angry that he can never find M.  She is late, always late, never reachable, never available when one has an emergency, and why do emergencies always happen at such inconvenient times.  I watch his mouth while he is talking, and then close my eyes and try to count his teeth in my imagination.  It doesn't work.

This summer on the picket line I learned that strangers had been distinguishing between me and another Lisa by calling me "Lisa with the teeth".  (This is mysterious because the other Lisa also possesses a full set of teeth.)

I ask R, Why don't you tell her you hate it when you can't find her when you need her?  It will make her feel important.  He laughs.  R prides himself on being the kind of guy who shoots from hip, not the sort of man who would employ such manipulations.  Which leaves me to wonder why he is complaining to me.


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I was frightened of C for a long time, years perhaps.  He always looked like he wanted to punch someone in the mouth.  He still looks like that, but now that I am confident it is not me he would like to punch, I find it attractive on him.  I play a game in my head where I try to make him laugh, because he gives up the laugh so rarely, so ruefully, and with such respect.  When I can make him laugh I feel like I have won a prize.  It turns out what makes him laugh the most is the things I am naturally best at: inappropriately intimate comments, innappropriately intimate questions, inappropriately intimate gestures.  (Perhaps in some ways there is no difference between my behaviour and Jian's.)  So I ask him about his divorce.  I encourage him to seek therapy for his rage.  I call him names.  Sometimes I say pussy and make a gesture that goes with the insult.  And he laughs.  And my fear dissolves a little more.  (I am thinking about tackling him in the prep room so I can push - and mail -  the envelope full of inappropriately intimate physical contact in a public space.)




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