Fires Have Risen

I work in construction, and that of course means that I'm surrounded by a "grip" of men (as my male children would put it). Spring fever is a fascinating cycle and spectacle to watch, overtaking these poor guys. Come April & May, men I only know by the palms of their hands on paycheck Fridays seem to start making regular visits to the front office -- an extra cup o'java, a second dip into the candy jar on the counter near my desk, an extended pause to lean on said counter and chirp & preen in my direction.

Eesh, sexual heightening! I don't want to be fed (& will never silently swallow) b.s. aimed at the shortest distance between a guy's generic lust and my generally satisfying it. Sorry to say, men don't usually satisfy even "just" a sexual hunger in the women I know -- women who are too experienced, too honed, too self-aware/confident, for a mere stroke & poke, however well intended. This may be the testosterone version of sheer delight and springtime relief, but for women it tends to mean only 3 things: getting sore, messy, & compounding their frustration. So this is one of the few times when I deliberately call on the presence and talents of Miss Congeniality -- I see one of the fellas approaching & nudge my elbow into her side, 'Hey, uh, wanna handle this?" She pulls her one-piece down over her butt cheeks, hitches her sash into place, pastes on her greased-teeth smile, and steps up. This is the woman in me who knows all about cocktail party babble, who can banter with these -- er -- 'awakened' men, acknowledge them without encouraging them. Me, I'd whip out the bitch slap way too soon, or lower the verbal boom. Once upon a very long time ago, I aimed to please. But at this point in my life, my age timeline, and my personal journey, I aim to BE pleased. And (woe for Spring-feverish work associates or other) that usually never has anything to do with my mere sexual organs. If that makes me "typically female" (contrary, difficult, emotional) -- shite. And amen. Alrighty, then.

But all this fanfare over and genuflecting at the altar of sexual pyrotechnics doesn't thrill me anymore. Been there, actually done some of that. True story. So ... how 'bout surprising me with some giving of yourself -- the interior world (if not eradicated by spring fever smoke storms). Some wit, the title of a good book or a great CD, a few well aimed & carefully thought out questions about WHO I AM, WHAT I LOVE? (do your homework) -- & not just the banal braggadocio bluster about how you can tie the stem of a cherry into 2 knots with your tongue. (Talk about your not-so-subtle, twisted [ha!] innuendo. Not your usual over-the-counter conversation, certainly!) Maybe it hadn't occurred to you, but my personal idea of talented tongue action never once included the visual of any of my female parts tied in one knot, let alone two. Ya see?

But men in the mood? Under the influence of spring and internal fires rising? They don't want to know a woman's truth just then. And women -- well, me, anyway -- I don't want to deconstruct my hard-won SELF in favor of the base physical. Jupiter and Mars. I guess that's a true story, too. So I'll just continue to deploy Miss Congeniality -- she's my wing girl, the one who sends them on their way dismissed, but oddly delighted, instead of drawing them in. That woman does have skills (not to mention my back).

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Note: this is a distillation of a long & not-at-all humorous journal rant from last night. Then I went to bed. Then Miss Congeniality turned up, nudged her elbow [quite hard, I might add] into MY side, and said, 'Good God, T, could ya maybe LIGHTEN UP!' So when I woke up at flippin' 4:30 this morning & she was still hovering around, I just got up, went to my studio, and reworked my rant into what you see, above. Miss C was right ... lightening up is good medicine! Especially for the little hypocrite in me who can do her own Generic Lust Dance pretty well sometimes!