Mean Girls and Bi-Sexual Thrills
feels like I'm 30 going on 13
My knees glide across the dance floor, my hips riding the momentum of energy to move up and out as I arch my back and finish the improvised sequence with a hair-swinging thrash.
The music quiets. The mirrors lining the room glimmer in the dim light while the five other femmes and I sink into the silence.
As I look up, her blonde hair falls forward to kiss her cheeks. Crawling over in shining pleather, she offers me eye contact with a softening behind it, a kindness not felt for some time. This reaching out with an energy I’ve missed so much leaves me frozen in place; I do not know how to receive it.
I want so much to believe this offering to be in authenticity.
My eyes well up at its distinction from how she’s been avoiding me with an austere frost.
“Did you have enough space?” She cocks her head with the question, a sweetness playing off her tongue.
”Yeah, definitely, thanks.”
A pregnant pause between us and the overwhelm glosses my pupils entirely over before I find the necessity to break away.
I don’t cope well with the pitfalls of avoidant people. Moreover, I don’t cope with their return to affection any better.
There is nothing to do when a relationship doesn’t feel sacred enough for someone to choose to get over any arbitrary scaries with a simplicity, with a quickness for past-life sacrifice. It is in these moments of opportunity we can be someone better than we ever have been. Or, we can choose to react to our fears rather than respond to them with our love.
I forgive her for not choosing the latter.
Still, makes this whole experience that of a nightmare.
Is it me she hated sharing with them, or them she hated sharing with me? Or is it herself who she doesn’t trust enough to let anyone see so many facets all at once?
She’s an only child. She says this is the founding culprit of the unraveling between us that began when she became aware of my growing friendships with friends of hers.
The first day I met her, she asked if I would start a burlesque troupe with her. I didn’t know her well enough yet to agree. She started coming to the clown workshops I lead, and our connection grew. Months later, she asked me to put on a show for her and with her. So, I did. With every opportunity I could, I would introduce her to those I felt would support her or intrigue her. Showing her every sparkle I found that might feed her newfound curiosity for performance. Why? Because I could. Because to me… that’s love. Sharing. Connecting all relevant stars to their constellation so they might shine as bright as they ever want to.
She says this era of avoidance came as a reaction to my being in so many parts of her life. All parts she’d introduced me to and initially cheered me on for, but when it actually happened… the fountain of her friendship went dry, I suppose. After a couple of awkward text exchanges, I walked into our first burlesque ensemble rehearsal, and the connection between us had quite obviously shifted.
That’s what got me the most.
Not that I could feel her coldness, as different as it was from all of the warmth she’d lead with as she invited me into her spaces over the past year.
Nor that she was actually acting on her coldness, shooting daggers with looks and small words,
but that she would acknowledge nothing of her own volition.
That’s what really got me.
Her retreat and simultaneous harness on hate, letting it lie in the room like a quiet dog, baring teeth, ready to snap. The sanctified glory of a good old-fashioned mean-girl threat.
How un-justified of a tact, when it was our mutual loyalty to self-expression and post-pandemic friendship and love and life and magic and community and the courage to not only be ourselves but to be ourselves together that brought us all into the room, to begin with.
When I reached down to pet the pup, I could feel the heat of sabotage emanating from the situation’s stiffened fur. I promptly recoiled in service to its master’s quest.
If distance and smallness are what she needs from me to feel safe, I will provide them.
And in doing so, I betrayed myself. And I failed this test. And the universe will undoubtedly send me some other sort of betrayal to contend with until I learn not to betray myself in service of the shadows belonging to those I love.
Oh, goodie.
I think I’ve proved enough this year that I’m not ready to pass this one yet.
Better luck next round.
A Hui Ho,
Julia
I wish I had some pithy quip to offer that would make it all make sense, but what I can say is this: I’ve lost a few years to the confusion and pain of being on the receiving end of that kind of “love.” The love that only remains so as long as you keep dazzling them. So long as it can all remain a fantasy. True love can survive reality. But, you know that.
I’m sorry this happened. I hope your love can be better shared someday, and I hope the pangs pass promptly.