Touched – Angels Need Not Apply

November 14th

Where does it come from? I sat down to try and understand what I’d written last night,
and I discovered that I’d written another entry as well – in the dark. I’d forgotten about it.
I never had a pale yellow skirt, so I don’t know what I’m talking about. It must have been
a dream. All those stories about people recovering false memories under hypnotic
therapy. Well, I’ve never been hypnotised, so there goes that idea. I’m such the drama

Cool, so I lost my pen there for a second, and what’s the first thing that springs to mind?
A psycho killer playing stalking games. The girl’s got damage, man.

I’m alone at Shirley’s – she’s at Evelyn’s flatwarming. And at work all day today. It was
kind of cool, cos I was reading A Scientific Romance by Ronald White, about this guy
who goes forward in time five hundred years and ends up all alone. I felt sort of like that.
Lots and lots of time to think. If I was the last person left alive, I’d write a lot. And think
a lot. And sleep.

It’s so strange, I’ve been thinking a lor about that guy last night, the one who put his
hands on my hips. It was such a sexual touch – he could have had me in a second. It fully
turned me on. I can’t believe that like months ago I didn’t get with CI Boi, who was
sitting on my lap. I had his head in my hands and he had such smooth skin. But no, my
back hurt. And I do TRY to have a little self respect. LOVEMAN answered my letter. I
thought that was kind of amusing. Here’s the Link. I’m the one with the drunk problem.

Fuck it was fun dancing last night. I so can’t wait to dance at Dee’s partay too. I hope
Ben II goes!

(insert scanned lipstick here)

Now I’m back from doing the dishes – alone like on Dominion Road. But unlike then,
now I have time to think instead of spending every waking moment on the Internet.

I’ve decided to use Touch as my theme for today’s reminisces. And of course I have to
reminisce, because I’m so afraid of loosing my memories. Here goes.

It’s funny how different touches can be. Like, two hands placed on my hips can be
amazingly sexual, making me almost pant, but having a guy finger me just felt clinical, cold
hands making me squirm. Maybe Demi is a bad comparrison, but still. Guys pinching my
ass, groping me in pubs should in theory be a sexual touch, but they don’t make me feel
anything but Ick. The weird thing though is that one of those instances was slightly
sexual. Penny and I, walking through Cuba Mall, 3am, when we were 16, after my first
rave. Two guys stopped to talk to us, didn’t want to let us past. She sidestepped, while
they grabbed me. We were all sort of laughing, but if they’d held me for ten seconds
longer, I would have either have screamed or beaten them to a bloody pulp. Still, my
lasting impression from that encounter was the way my breast fit into his hand as I slid out
of their grasp.

Then there are other, nicer touches that could never lead to anything much. Dylan,
stretching his arm out a little to brush it against me when we laid side by side, sharing a
pillow after a party in sixth form. It felt so nice, like him clamping his hand around my
wrist in the morning as we had a peach fight. Shivery tingles. Shame he was my best
friend’s boyfriend.

Roland, my Dutch boy, taking me by suprise with a good bye kiss. His lips lingered on my
cheek for an eternity, and he smelt so Outdoors, a pine scented god.

Gripping Matt’s arm so he could show me his scars from where Julia had cut him up
because they were both high on Chloroform. That was the closest we ever got –

Bouke, another Dutch boy, too close after his revelation that he was gay. He knew I
wanted him, but still he was touching my face, a definate turn-on, whispering “can you
convert me?” and Shirley, sitting there too telling him NOT to kiss me, because I’d most
assuredly kiss him back.

Ben II, putting his hand on my back, resting there a moment, saying he’ll come back to
talk to me in a minute. Then the most unexpected invitation to his friend’s place for a
session. It’s strange what is sexy.

Of course, then there’s my Current Infatuation (or CI Boi for short). I guess I’d have to
call his drunken touches sexual; his unnessecary tickling, hands that don’t seem to leave
my thighs. None of that was half as electrifying as sitting behind him, pressing my breasts
into his back tauntingly and cupping his face in my hands, but talking aloofly. All the time
I wish that I HAD gotten with him then, but it’s also nice to have enjoyed that power.

And if we really want to talk electrifying, faint worthy material straight out of romance
novels, we’d have to go back to the Original Ben, me a swooning fifteen year old. God,
when our lips first touched – or when he ran his hands over my breasts……. no one can live
up to those moments. They’re imortalised in my mind forever.

Of course, there are plently of purely platonic moments done for laughs – snogging Amy,
snogging Mark. If kissing isn’t a big deal for me anymore it’s no wonder that I find the
oddest little things sexual. Songs, smells, anything and everything. And yet I’m still afraid
that I’m afraid and frigid.

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