Looking Back, Dragged Forward, Still

{Image: Lady In The Water 1947/Photographer: Tony Frissell/From: Shorpy.com}

I used to be a 'people person'.  That laughing, friendly, moderately attractive-yet-non-threatening woman, saying hello to various people at exhibition openings, Halloween parties, comedy gigs, etc?

Yeah, that used to be me.

Then I quit.

***

Melbourne tonight.  It's a beautiful city.  Laid back, but with good bones.  European flair, but not Eurotrash.  Antipodean, but not loudly so.  Like a confused Autumn day when the sun is on your back and you're grateful the good weather held out - something to be noticed and appreciated.

Tonight her pavements feel like the decks of a softly rolling cruise ship.  That's because the meds I'm on screw up important things, like balance and concentration, they set my internal gyroscope on "walking, drunk-like".
Also, the only thing I've had to eat today is a cup of coffee and a hot cross bun.

This isn't a good way to meet The Boyfriend's workmates.

The shindig is at a popular Oriental-themed bar in the middle of town.  It's all dark wood, loud conversation and Buddha statues.  The Art of Zen disguised as interior decorating.  I walk in, smile, sit down on the seat that's been politely cleared.  The floor is still unsteady and the room lurches to the left a little.  I chat to two people I've met before - Amanda, a quiet blonde lass from the outer suburbs and Zelle, a boyish, business-savvy Ethiopian lad with a broken leg.
There's a story behind that leg - one of late nights, girls and bar fights.  He's still smiling, though.

The Boyfriend introduces me to other workmates.  I remember their names, smile at the appropriate times, and generally Make Nice.  All the while, I'm thinking about the sushi bar next door and how I really, really need to eat something that's not mainly carbs.

The Boyfriend and I eventually leave, do the dinner thing and then grab some Japanese crepes for dessert.  They're delicious, something Sailor Moon would eat while riding a unicorn to Disneyland to hang out with Cinderella.  Mine has Nutella, custard and strawberries, the Boyfriend has one with strawberries, cream, cheesecake (yes, they actually put in a small slice of cheescake) and berry sauce.  Ridiculously good and on the fabulous side of wrong.

On the way up Little Lonsdale street, we pass cafes, bars and restaurants.  It's Friday night - people are glad to have finished for the week, glad to have a glass of wine in their hand, a buddy to bitch with and a fine city to do it in.

We pass a bar which is hosting the opening of an art exhibit - then I remember the world I used to belong to.  This world; as an active participant, not a crepe-eating, drug-addled ghost of bone-bleached judgement.

As it used to be, the past life - music playing in the background, cat's-eye liquid liner which would make Katy Perry jealous.  Yeah, I know the artist, she's super-smart and is a derby girl to boot.  Yeah, I know the DJ, he's my boyfriend.  Yeah, that's my burlesque troupe, wanna hire us?    
  
Always. On. The. Hustle.  The good guest, the good host.  The 'people person'.

And for what?

I met a lot of nice, interesting people.  But they aren't here now.
I met a lot of leeches and narcissists disguised as nice, interesting people - I'm glad they aren't here now.

It's through these streets I see those meet-and-greet scripts, through the windows of it's bars, restaurants, colourful laneways and alleys full of promise.  But all the roles have been played and the storyline exhausted.

Dreams are dreams no longer, some just experiences, some experiences resulting in fine successes (someone order me a parade!), some broke embarrassingly like a latte cup on stone flooring.  Oh, and lots and LOTS of stories.

So where to from here?  

Even The Bigs Have Their Moments

My Ex-Boss will always be remembered as a tall stream of black-on-black.  He resembled a young Hugh Hefner, but with more windswept, almost emo-ish hair.
For a time he was married to a cheery English blonde with a broad West County accent.
The marriage was a very honest arrangement - he could be with an attractive 19 year old (and possibly other attractive young women), she could stay in a country she preferred, get naked on-camera occasionally for income, and study tourism.
Whilst Cheery Blonde was nearly twenty years younger, that didn't stop them getting along well and being jolly good mates.  Even if you marry for convenience, you've still got to like the person.

Ex-Boss lived a comfortable life.  Making Internet porn brought in a lot of money - he owned a large Victorian home in an expensive suburb, drove a sporty-yet-subtle RX8 and had all the Eames furniture a design boffin like himself could ever want.

But one morning, just after the coffee run, we had an odd exchange.

"Dee, you don't think I look... gay, do you?", he said, holding his long black.  He stared at me intently, then looked away and took a gulp from his cup.  I noticed how his hair swished boyishly.  He habitually flicked it away from his face, his head doing this little 'woosh' thing.

I had to lie... quickly.

"No, you don't look like a man who likes men like that.  Sometimes androgynous, maybe, but in a David Bowie kind of way."  I knew Ex-Boss liked Bowie.  A man of his generation, who thought himself as part of the Zeitgeist couldn't not like Bowie.  Right?

"Cool.  Okay.  Thanks."  The tall black stream walked away.  Back to his desk, setting himself down.
The monitor's cold light reflected upon his angular features and his full head of gorgeous hair.

It wasn't his fault his hands were graceful, or that he dressed well and smelled clean, or used complete sentences with an educated tone.
He was a man-yet-not-a-man, he could pull most items apart and see how it was made, then put it back together again.  He loved fixing mechanical items, he loved old factories and abandoned, once-useful places.
But he didn't like the football, and he didn't have any man friends he could invite over for a barbecue and watch sport with.
He didn't look like a man that made porn - he looked like an architect.  The type of architect who didn't like engineers.  Plus, he was amazingly bitchy and grumpy at times... in a terrible PMS-ish, snapping, sarcastic kind of way.

His world was made of fading light, Adobe products, long hours and beautiful young women who felt unnaturally comfortable around him.

It was this comfort that caused some to ask me, "Is he gay?"

"No", I'd reply, "He's just a bit like David Bowie".

When The Past Screams 'Vagina'

As opposed to 'When The Wind Cries Mary'.  Oh, ha ha.

Ahem.

A little bit past 7pm on a Friday.  Walked into The Body Shop with The Boyfriend and there she was.  In uniform behind the counter.  The face hits me first, then name tag confirms it.  It's Her - dark-haired, pale, pretty, rounder, older.  Aren't we all older now?  Yeah.

In a blink my mind yells 'Vagina'.  And it's not so great when that happens, because it usually means, "I've seen you naked".  Which leads to a fumbling in my skull for context because I have seen so many gorram tits and vulvas and assholes in my lifetime, more than any human could want or stand.
That's what happens when you used to work in 'The Adult Industry'.

I see her and I see... breasts, round, full, large-ish nipples.  Great hips, freckles, throaty laugh, very good curves.  Insertion scene with garden trowel (miniature, green and purple, spotted).  Couples video with then-boyfriend (blonde, average appendage, average handsome).  Solo stills, various.  Group stills and video (girls only, beach?).  We booked her so much; one of our regular girls - friendly and easy to get along with.
It's like in sci-fi shows where there's a close-up of the character's face then a 'swooshing' effect to cue the flashbacks.
It's like Doctor Who meets Fleshbot but awkward.

Last time we met it was in a club bathroom where both us us were really very drunk.  We hugged like long-lost ex-soldiers from the same platoon.  She was no longer with the blonde boyfriend ("god no, I'm not with him anymore the abusive motherf**ker!") and I was no longer in The Industry.

Now I make my purchase with my my best blank consumer face on - right here, right now we do not share a past.

Then The Boyfriend starts to enquire about the shaving products placed helpfully at the register's display shelf.  The three of us chat about soaps, creams and synthetic brushes; then she says to me, "I'm sure I know you from somewhere."
And I say, "Hmm, I don't think so...but, well, maybe we met at a party or something?"
She shakes her head. "I don't think it was a party. But I swear I know you, your face is really familiar."
I furrow my brow."Did you ever work in a call centre?"
She shakes her head again. "No".

The Boyfriend's interest in shaving gear ends.  "Good to chat with you," I smile and say as we leave, with the most naive and well-meaning look I can muster.

Everyone says I'm a terrible liar, that the look on my face gives it away.  They're right.  I'm a crap liar because  lying isn't important to me and I'm not good at things I don't care about.

But when it comes to someone's dignity, their professional standing in their current workplace, the person who they are now in front of me, the person they had been - I will fucking lie my ass off to honour that.

And I like to think I lied well.