I know, I know! I mentioned meeting on Friday but I got occupied with Cyberpunk 2077!
The man I mail erotic letters to let me borrow it when he came over last week and I'm fully hooked!!
Did you wait for me? Put any fragrance on to impress me?
Listen... I'm really bad at meeting in public on a whim. As much as I fantasize about it, the concept of cruising has only worked for me a sparce amount with my handful of attempts.
I've wanted to share my tragic, sexy, and humiliating cruising in Rittenhouse story for so long. I just never knew when to bring it up. Now seems so fitting since this blog is a tragic, sexy, and humiliating space for you to gawk at me and respond only when you want.... if you want. Hehehe
Picture it, Summer 2024. A friend of mine was in town who I barely see. So, of course, I had to grab an Indego bike and tread thirty minutes to a gentrified home turned into a bar.
The outfit was my go-to maxi polyester skirt and a lace cami. Hair up. I learned this trick to do a high pony and then add the butterfly clip under it for volume… hot. Got to show off my soda caps purse too with my ex’s camcorder I’d eventually destroy in the laundry. I still can’t find that skirt either!
We drank. Did the karaoke thing at Ortlieb's, my first time there. I got so stoned I actually enjoyed the songs white people like to scream at each other at bars. Well at least at this bar. You know… the ones that make your foot go *tip-tap* in a cowboy boot you thrifted. This summer was also my first attempt at incorporating the cowboy boot into my looks.
I got to meet the friends boyfriend that night too. Who I'd eventually have such thought provoking conversations with about processing life and moving on.
At about 1 A.M., I hopped back on the bike and started moving from Fishtown to Point Breeze. The friend I mentioned and her partner are insanely attractive. Those type of people that make you question what you want to do with yourself after being around such charming people. So... I decided to make a pit stop at Rittenhouse and see if any people like this, who were single, felt similarly that night.
I light up the roach in my bag. I love leaving 1/4 inch missiles in my purse to enjoy after hours of small talk and cocktails. Maybe most of the conversations were small talk because I turned a basbeall bat of a blunt into a pistol bullet. Leaving it to bounce around and leave crumbs in my bag and make me generously happy if it survived the night.
A man in a suit spawns and bends around the corner. I can tell he's taller than me as I sit... cute. This is pre-glasses-era, so I couldn't see what he actually looked like from afar. But I trusted myself. Less than ten seconds of intent stares brought him to the bench. He sits. We chat. We kiss.
The suit came from a friend's wedding and the boy came from Graduate Hospital, formerly Bushwick. I couldn't take either home with me. Sex with me while I'm drunk feels like a caterpillar in metamorphosis, still and boring. He asks to meet earlier in the evening in a week from then. I agreed.
During this week I met a man who wanted to hook up with me from the apps who I later found out was still married to his wife who allows the marriage to be open because she, too, can't bare the fact to be fully involved with a Disney gay. He came over and saw that my bike was shit and fixed it for me. Woohoo! No more Indego bikes.
Seven days passed and I wanted celebrate the new life my retro Bianchi was given. So, I took her out for a spin to meet my new cruising endeavor. Wearing my go-to maxi polyester skirt and a lace cami, this time chocolate brown cotton skirt with matching cotton camisole, I take off. Definitely reaking of Mugler Angel at this time.
Who knows what music I was listening to. But I'll tell you, It was definitely too loud for biking in the city. That's how I like it. Silence in the city is impossible. You have to drown out the noise with sound in order to feel any sort of silence.
With that, I couldn't hear that the chain was slowly eating at my skirt until I reached about a block away from Rittenhouse Square. I couldn't pedal anymore and my bike immediately froze. The bike falls on top of me. I see my skirt caught in the chain and realize I have to rip the skirt apart in order to free it. I freak.
"Are you okay?", I hear from behind me.
"No!", I say as I squirm out of my skirt. The onlyoption so my bike is no longer on top of me. Literally skirtless!
A man pulled from a men's toiletries commercial hops out of the truck. The ones where no matter how baggy the t-shirt, the pecs STILL pertrude out and you know he smells like good cologne from afar. Some Sex + The City shit.
He unbuttons his shirt and tells me to cover myself as he rips my skirt out the chain, asking if it's okay to do before-hand. I turn the shirt into a temporary cover-up.
He gives me back my skirt and offers to drive me home. He clearly wanted some, but... I was too in my head. I just took my fucking skirt off in Rittenhouse and some hot guy wants to hang still after seeing that mess? No... pass. I also had to prove that word-of-mouth meeting still exist, anyway!
He gives me back my skirt and I use my hairtie to turn this maxi skirt into a ruched moment. Now walking alongside my bike into the square.
I jammed my finger pretty bad when I fell on it and tended to it while sitting. Ten minutes turned to thirty, then to sixty. I concluded he wasn't coming. Shed a tear and rolled a joint.
And that, everyone, is why I no longer cruise in Philly.
My bike lays in my basement waiting to be fixed. I'll get to it. And when I do; the both of us will bike through Kelly Drive to one of my favorite neighborhoods in Philly, Upsal. I used to bring my harp up there, when I had a car, and play songs only I could hear into the Schulykill trails.
To conclude, cruising is a sport that I am not built for and I have trouble reading that people who are interested in me ARE interested in me.
Did you smell what I have on while I was chatting? It's this Pistachia Brulee I was given at work. Normally not my thing but it compliments so well with the cocoa butter I put on daily. Nutty sweetness isn't something I'd normally wear in the summer. But, for some reason, this summer I keep wearing scents I loved in the winter of last year. Is there any correlation?
I will see you on Friday... hehehe. MUAH!
There's nothing more trans than falling in love for a night with a bald musician who's never given head before, and walking back home the next morning rejecting a cat call from trade across the street and then him threatening to shoot you for being a dude.
"Suck my dick" I yell at him as I hop on an Indego bike, effulgently running away.
Writing journal entries in code is the best way to express yourself in public btw. The expressive language is still visible to the eye but garbed in black, white, green, and blue robotic text that turns the emotion into laborious and boring data. Similar to straight men that linger the erotic thought of Persephone being their first but never touching me or asking to. Sharing moments of unforgettable lust only for me to speak them out loud and no one believe me because of how straight you are.
This blog post is a collage held together with glitter tape that won't decompose even after my body has decayed from throwing myself off a building because of this past weekend I spent with my family.
I'll give my grandmother the world when I can. Even when she dead-names me and says Persephone is too ugly for a beautiful Latina.
Every time I visit my family I feel like my vessel and mind turn into puddy that stretches in two directions. One way points to excitement to see my mother and affirm how the older I get the more I look like her and the other direction pulls me to 16 year old me who hid behind her tumblr contemplating how to tell her father that her boyfriend isn't gay because he's dating me.
My father came to the family function and I saw his face brighten when everyone spoke in excitment about my musical accomplishments growing up, and their thrills made them ignore the fact that they were misgendering me. Finally... he got the chance to talk about his kid. The one he knows, not the person she became.
While I was there, I existed somewhere else... with a bird-watcher. Daydreams of him become fairy tales in my mind with the same moral-ending... "If only she were a different kind of girl.".
I plan on posting to the blog weekly with: fictional stories about my present, interviews with intimant relationships, traces of thought that need to be shared.
Shall we meet every Friday? We won't be able to meet in person and can only talk on here, but I can tell you what perfume I'm wearing that day. Today is Glossier You Doux with a Palo Santo + Sage roller on top.
Maybe I'm stoned or maybe the air in my chest doesn't exist and I'm barely breathing these days. But I can't keep running into updated images of people and reminding myself of memories we both buried in that time capsule. It gives me too much fucking anxiety!!!
To cut this anxiety, my week was occupied with work events and people-watching at Philly pride before coming to Chapterhouse to write.
This week was my work's 30th anniversary event and I was asked to "DJ", AKA make a playlist with 5 second crossfade and play some transition music between speeches.
While my work celebrated this milestone; I celebrated my J.K. Rowling TERF coworker finally quitting.
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I will reference my professional life here. Since some of the craziest shit happens at work... But just remind yourself that my writings are auto-fiction.
Life is fake and maybe the way I see things are too real and I have no willpower to caress my shoulder and remind myself that it is, indeed, all fake.
So don't go spilling my beans because... are the beans even real???
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They gave me a rental where I drove to the sticks and grabbed some materials for the party.
I hate going there but the grant that funds my position requires me to leave ass dimples in that office chair while we wait for clients who never come. I go mainly for the alone time with my head.
After hours of sitting there and senseless conversations about the weather, I was able to finally leave and smoke my first Delta-8 joint I bought next door. That shit hit insanely different, like a boiled egg when you're starving.
I begin to drive.
On the way back I noticed a man driving close to me but occasionally speeding fast and swerving between other cars and lanes just to impress me. So, I mirrored him.
Like two dogs sniffing each other's assholes, we played for a bit. Ignoring the beginnings of rush hour. I didn't find him attractive, but what we were doing was so hot.
As cars started to pack like beans in a can, he merged really close to me yelling to grab the brochure in his hand.
"I'm a glass blower! Come to my studio!! Take this!!!"
I grabbed it and noticed the number on the brochure was crossed out and his personal number was written right next to it. I may use it to see if I can be gifted one of his pieces. Let's use some of my picks as a transition into the next bit of my week.
My cat lays close to me for hours without me needing to touch her... it only took four years.
Maybe that's why I'm off the apps less. Her oracular eye should never see this...
Or this...
I think she'd appreciate this though...
