Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

the weird fucked-up secret gayboy mystery dance

The day wears on. The day wears on me.

Management has quietly prohibited the playing of guitars, so our two resident guitarists can no longer take a few minutes in late afternoon and string out a few songs. I'm disgusted and pissed.

On the upside of my day, herself_nyc has written a lovely piece of S/X--which by length is I guess what the kids are now calling "flash fiction" or "flashfic," both of which are terms I prefer to "ficlet." Hopefully, this means ficlet can die with a whimper.

"The day WEARS ON ME!" I said. Fuck. I wish I could make that liony roaring sound that vamps do. I have a headache and I'm tired, and possibly tiresome, and definitely a lazy-ass whore who is not fully earning her per diem.

I've always thought it would be cool if society was organized so that people could cycle through a wide variety of jobs with a sense of subsidized security. Like, your yearly schedule might be four-week blocks of: interior designer, gardener, copy-writer, postal delivery girl, waitress, florist. The limitations and drawbacks are terribly obvious, I know. But anyway, I think it'd be cool if today I could just go off and get paid to give blow-jobs, hand-jobs, maybe whip some pasty white yuppie ass with a cat-o-nine-tails. I mean, just for one day. C'mon. That'd be diverting.

Seguing from one type of imaginary sex to another, someone very kindly recced a Girl!Spike story called The Sweet Spot, which I found to be an interesting mix of things I liked and--I admit--things I didn't. The narrative threads together insightful byplay between the characters, fun dialogue, plausible internal monologue, and some very nicely conceived plot devices (weevils, heh), then unravels here and there, in rather big patches, into a kind of coarse porniness that isn't really my thing. I can't tell if it's an issue of authorial control, or deliberate stylistic choice. A phrase from the story itself, "like hardcore porn and poetry," makes me think it might be partly choice. Overall, I think it could have used some polishing, but there was also a lot to like.

My Millafied mental Spike chick continues to amuse me greatly. At first I had a hard time picturing her, trying to knead the two sources together, but now she's taken more definite shape in my imagination--she strides around in her butch but graceful way with a faint intense frown, she utters rude Spikisms in her throaty voice, and then all of a sudden she pulls up short and cocks her head with a sly glint of humor. Absolut Spike but absoutely female.

It's sad, though. The things that entrance me the most are most often the things that would take a five-hundred page novel to convince anyone else of.


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