Wandering around Rookwood Cemetery yesterday, got me thinking about my new venture into the dating world. Actually I got to thinking about many things whilst there; family, history, cultural expectations, love, death, religion…
Date #3 is half organized for Saturday night. We’re catching up for the second time, dinner, maybe a movie? Though where, when, what time is yet to be determined.
Living each day one at a time.
Well this was quite lovely. A thoroughly pleasant brunch. Strolling along the streets with easy, and delightful conversation. A benchmark has been set.
Slightly shady from dating myself the evening before, a few wines, yet an early night, I woke at 6am to imbibe water, panadol, splash the face to cool down my puffy eyes, then back to bed for another 2 hours.
Waking refreshed and relaxed, morning ablutions complete, I venture out in white shorts, and a spring coloured knitted cotton top.
The gentle man arrives on time, smiling, relaxed, and filled with pleasant, stimulating conversation. The bill is split with no forethought, it’s all just too easy and comfortable.
Two and a half hours later I’m walking home feeling happy, relaxed, and looking forward to a possible date together on Saturday night.
I haven’t found any new men to meet up with this week, yet, and will be interested to see how the next few day’s will progress.
Date #3 to be confirmed…
I’m out on my own tonight.
Already on my second glass of champagne. Oysters have arrived. I’m emotionally stable, available, and replete.
Would I date myself?
Yes!
I may be a little shady for Date#2 with Maurice for brunch tomorrow morning. I am what I am. Charming as always. One must live if one’s to move forward.
So cheers to myself. I love me, and I know what to expect. The unexpected.
It has been suggested that I write 2 letters. One to my estranged father; which I may or may not end up sending. The other a letter to all the young boys, who went through what I went through at school; what advice would I give them?
I will endeavour to start, what I consider to be the more difficult one first, to my father. I expect it will probably end up being the easier letter, but that’s where I’ll start.
I will publish, when completed, the letter to all the young boys. My father’s letter, being more personal, I will not. I’ll leave some comments regarding my process, and thoughts only.
This is a commitment, to myself, to follow through with intention on these letters.
Anon…
To date or not to date? There’s today’s question.
After my first date this morning, if it can be called that, I wonder where this will all lead? It felt more like partaking in a business meeting, a questionnaire, and a feedback session. Disregarding that he turned up 20 minutes late, it was a nice enough get together, in the park, sitting on a bench under the trees.
Am I being too harsh? Perhaps.
We all have our own agendas, be they what may. I’m not talking about manipulative agendas, but rather our own directions, and choices of what we want in our lives, and where we are going.
I’m left feeling a bit disappointed, it’s only my first date, and the point of all this, for me, is not only to meet a guy that I might have a relationship with, but to also be active in being open to more life outside of my comfort zone. In that respect I’m achieving my goal.
Next guy, date number 2 is happening this Sunday for brunch.
Here I go again. The first foot of the day is mine on the soft carpet. Sheets thrown aside, an empty fish tank sits still on the shelf, unused study notes destined for a life of neglect. Fifteen minutes to throw my head under the tap, pull on the gray board shorts, and white collared shirt that are my school uniform, and get to the bus.
The glaring morning sun blinds me as I leave our beach side unit and walk down the road. All I can think is to get through today in one piece. Not very likely, but hey, there’s no other choice.
The school bus arrives and pulls up with the ever present daily greeting from the rear windows; threatening faces glaring down. Yesterday fresh green lumps of snot and phlegm hit me with the greatest of ease. All I can do is keep my eyes cast down and stay as near to the driver at the front as possible.
The day unfolds with the usual teasing, bagging and threats until the lunch bell sounds, and we all run out of class down the stairs and out into the playground to our hangs. This is where you hang out during breaks. The cool kids obviously get the best spots. I hang with a small group of girls. We share one bench by the trees and bushes next to the library. Everyone else in my year hangs over by the school hall underneath more trees. I can see them all; eating, talking, laughing, and smoking secretly behind the hall.
There are two ways I can get to the canteen from here. A short walk past the front of the library and the main quadrangle, and there it is on the left. Or I can go around the long way behind the library, through the Year 11 hang, and then right through the main quadrangle, where the chorus of “Faggot!” and “Poofter!” will fill the oppressively hot air. “Face your fear. You have every right. Ignore it.” Personal voices in my head push me to take the long way round. Idiot! Not only do the usual chants start up, but all kinds of foods come flying through the air from all sides of the playground. Hard fruits, soft fruits, drinks cans, and water bottles half full. Meat pies, half eaten sandwiches, someones shoe. When I reach the canteen I’m a mess. Not only am I covered in food, but red marks and bruises are starting to show. The worst pain is inside. The humiliation, the spectacle, the denial.
How did I get through each day? God only knows. I never admitted my sexuality to myself, let alone the family. How bad would this have been if I’d had to live with this at home too? I seemed destined to be lost in this hell with no way out. Lies. Lies. Lies. It’s what I lived. The truth, was a painful reality, sleeping in a heart of a denial that lasted for another 10 years.
The day ends as the last bell sounds. I collect my bag and make my way down the stairs of the main building, with hundreds of others. Next thing I know four kids in my year push me to the floor half way down the stairs, and as they begin to kick the shit out of me I’m crawling further into the corner. Worst move ever. Now there’s no way out and the repetitive kicks and beatings lay in even deeper. No-one stops to help. I lay there on the floor until they stop and everyone has gone. Getting up I go to the public bus stop to get home. I can’t face the school bus in this state. I can take no more today.
Finally arriving home, limping all the way, I give thanks that no-one else is here yet. How do I explain this one to Mum?
I get undressed and run a bath, locking the door first, and dissolve. I’m covered in bruises and cuts, there’s a throbbing lump the size of a grapefruit growing larger by the second on my leg. Blood on my face and a mess of tears that never wash away.
The Coddiwomple 