Friday 16th - Reprise

It's an unnecessarily cold and drizzly friday evening after an exhausting week, yet I can barely contain my excitement. I'm stood at the underpass near platform 12, much like a puppy awaiting its owner: I'm practically wiggling whilst I crane my neck to spot her amongst the crowd offloading the train.

She's hard to miss. Hair pertly aspiring to greater heights and a bright-red scarf lining her pretty pale face. As I rush up the stairs to greet and unburden her, the first whiff of her sends my knees buckling.

The first moment that comes back into focus: her soft hands sliding along my sides as she sinks herself into my second hello, cold nose nuzzling the warm nook of my neck.

Later that night, she'll coorie in, wrap her legs around me tightly and in perfect flemish, sends me a whispered "ik hou van jou, mijn lief".

PS: More pics and somewhat less sappy updates on the last couple of weeks are on the way. I figured I'd release the footage slowely after the cold-turkey period ;-)

Oot 'n Aboot

Jo hadn’t been home since Christmas and the last time I was in Scotland was just under a year ago, so it seemed like a perfect little outing for our latest three-weekly “conjugal visit” ;-)

For the first time since the start of our relationship, we were on turf that was familiar to the both of us, and as soon as I got into Jo’s car at Newcastle airport, I had the strange sensation of coming home. I could drive the road up to Cumbernauld with my eyes closed. Even when I was living in that neck of the woods, driving past the Lake District and the hills that parallel Hadrian’s Wall, always felt like being handed a tub of vapour-rub. As if you can finally breathe freely again. We stopped for some fish ‘n chips in Gretna Green (no we did not get married... yet) and got ridiculously excited at the idea of being back in the country of neds, fried mars bars and gingers. Jo was beaming with excitement when the first tones of Scottish hit her ears.

We stayed over at Jo’s dad’s on the Friday night. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous about meeting a parental (I really wanted to make a good impression), but I was greeted with a very wide, very cheeky grin and a proper weegie “ye allrite hen?”. The resemblance with Jo was hard to miss and I instantly felt very welcome.

I slept close to nothing that first night and not for the reasons you might expect. Jo’d forgotten to bring up the inflatable double bed, so we ended up sharing Jo’s old one-person stead. Admittedly, Jo’s only wee. But when you take into account that fabulous hair of hers, she does succeed at taking up half the space, so I woke up repeatedly during the night trying to resuscitate one limb or the other, as it’d gone dead under the cramped position we were in.

When we headed into Glasgow for breakfast the next morning, I was in dire need of a strong cup of coffee. And spaghetti, apparently, because I ended up choosing a royal serving of pasta for breakfast. I try not to question the cravings I get on weekends of indulgence ;-)

We’d planned to do loads of shopping, but instead, we just hung around enjoying each other’s company. I had to constantly remind Jo that I had in fact lived in Scotland, and that yes, I did know that Cult was just around the corner and that I had ventured into Borders once or twice before. It was fab. We keep discovering more and more common ground between us, as well as fantastic distinct little quirky differences and I have to admit that this is why I love the flutterstage so much. It’s like charting the proverbial undiscovered country. And as Eddie Izzard would be inclined to say, I feel utterly smug at having planted my flag in this one ;-)

Despite the lack of sleep the night before and a tiring day out in Glasgow, we decided to go for a wee jolly at the Polo Lounge that night. It’d been a while since I last set foot in a proper gay club and it was hugely entertaining doing a round of “spot-the-stereotype”. I got accosted by a rather drunken lad at the bar when ordering drinks, who seem to feel it necessary to stress that he was in fact straight, not gay, that he had wandered into the club by accident and that he was surprised to see that we were all nice people. I replied that I knew some nice straight people too and that I occasionally accidentally find myself stranded in a straight club, but that I too get over the embarrassment then and just try to have a good time.

I think he was too drunk to note the hint of sarcasm.

We spent the remainder of the weekend in Edinburgh, where we’d booked ourselves a room in a hotel just off the Royal Mile. Excellent staggering distance from the pubs ‘n clubs and easy access to a decent fry-up for the morning after. I’d asked Jo to show me “her” Edinburgh, so she’d compiled a wee list of places for us to go to. I would recommend any tourist take the Jo-tour, because not only did we get to have lunch at Elephant House (where J.K.Rowling wrote the first Harry potter), we also saw an excellent exhibition on Pixar animation, the ancient cemetery AND we had the most royal serving of nachos possible.

Because the Monday was a bank holiday, we decided to do something characteristically lesbian: we both rang our ex-es, their respective current girlfriends and a few other friends (Richard!!) to meet up for a night out on the Sunday. Ok, so I exaggerate *grin* There were only two ex-es really ;-)

Most of us were moderately inebriated by the time we fetched a cab to Studio 24 (27? 53? Sod knows what number it was, I did just say I was inebriated) and when the cab driver failed to respond to our enquiries but kept driving in what appeared to be the wrong direction, I had a very scary vision of the lot of us stranded in a ditch just outside the Scottish border. But the bloke clearly DID know the venue, because a few minutes later, he pulled up next to a very butch female bouncer, who welcomed us into a noisy wee club.

I will refrain from commenting on the burlesque show that was put on between DJ sets, as I got called a body fascist by both my girlfriend and my friends following my comments on the night itself, but can I just say that THONGS are wrong on SO many levels *shudders*.

Dammit, my train’s pulling into the station. I will have to love you and leave you. Might finish off this post later… or I could simply take this opportunity to spare you further ranting ;-)

Observing The Habitat

What do you pack on your first visit to the girlfriend's natural habitat? I had a chocolate cake and ample supply of Belgian cookies, but surely I was supposed to bring some other stuff too? Clothes yes. But which ones? Packing makes me feel uncharacteristically girlie. And there's no point bringing your entire wardrobe, cuz that'll just make you look like a right tit. Plus, Jo's chivalrous and only wee, so it's not fair bringing a bag twice her size. She'll only insist on carrying it to the car for me anyway.

After a lot of faffing, I settled on a weekend-sized duffel-bag full of freshly laundered clothing, the basic toiletries, a notebook to jot down my observations and a good book in case Jo would tire of my rambling at any point over the weekend. I turned up at the airport way before schedule, and lost about 5 years of my life when this cheery announcement sent me off in a wee panic:

- Leeds Bradford: Cancelled -

As it turns out, only 14 people had signed on for the flight to Leeds Bradford, and despite the 300 euro airfare per person, BMI simply couldn't be arsed chartering a separate plane for such a small group. So instead, they transferred us all over onto the semi-full East Midlands flight, told us we were lucky to still get a flight out and dropped us of at Leeds Bradford via detour, a whole 2 hours later than expected. If I hadn't been so relieved that it wasn't a proper cancellation, I would have kicked up a real fuss.

But then, my mind was on my final destination, for just this once. My mind slid out of focus, however, when I had to make my way through customs. As I dropped my bag onto the X-ray belt and placed the chocolate cake on a separate tray, a very scary thought crossed my mind: What if... what IF, the bakery accidentally left a knife in the chocolate cake while making it? I mean, it happens. Not often. But it happens. And it would be just my luck that the knife would accidentally be forgotten inside the ONE cake to be scanned at a high-security airport that day now wouldn't it? I was in half a mind to just bin the cake entirely, but then decided that my neurosis was simply in overdrive, and stepped through security with my fingers crossed.

Just as my cake was passing through the X-ray, the lady in charge called her two superiors and stopped the conveyor belt. They eyed me up suspiciously for a few minutes whilst talking amongst themselves and finally turned to me with the words: "Is it a good cake?"

It took me a moment to gather my wits and I eventually replied: "Well Sir, that depends on why you want to know?" To which he said: "We were just thinking of keeping it." "Oh well then, it's a bad one," I replied. Which made him grin as he handed the cake back over to me.

Looks like I wasn't about to be arrested for suspicious knife-smuggling after all.

- Angel of the North in Brussels??-

I took a big risk flying without my lucky travel-sock, but I figured I'd just about all the luck I needed, waiting for me at the other end of the channel ;-)

There's something peculiar about long-distance relationships. No matter how close you've become, no matter how long you've known each other for, there's always a refreshed amount of flutters, nerves and shyness each time you meet up again. It generally takes an hour to settle back into where you last left off, but the fantastic aspect of it is, that you switch into an accelerated gear after that. You have both made a conscious effort to make time for each other for those few days, and you can well and truly focus on each other and on what it is you both want to do. It's remarkably fluid and intense.

While it was my first visit to Jo's habitat, it felt very much like coming home. I did warn her that I wasn't quite sure whom I'd kiss first: Her or the British Soil. I'd not been back to the UK since I left for New Zealand last August, so I'd more than missed Britain. But when I walked through the gate and saw her pretty smile flash back at me, I couldn't resist kissing her first ;-)

She offered to carry my bag for me and I was relieved I'd stuck to a weekend-sized bag.

The drive to her house was a quiet one. We squeezed each other's hands a fair few times, but we were both settling into that strange mixture of re-acquaintance and excitement, and it felt nice to just sit there, among all the tension and unspoken thoughts, with her next to me.

Walking through her front door was like finally finding another difficult piece of the puzzle I was trying to solve. When you meet someone long-distance, it takes a while longer before you get to see the clear picture of each other. You fall in love gradually. Bits of the puzzle are revealed to you only slowly through texts, e-mails, phone conversations and the stolen moments spent together. But a person's home, where they keep their memories, where the rooms are drenched in their daily routines, can reveal substantially more to you than any conversation can. And as such, every new encounter is like falling for someone all over again, only deeper.

It's been a while since I've had such an indulgent, relaxing weekend. We went wherever the flow took us. Much to our surprise, we actually successfully made it out of the house a few times. Strolled the lovely historic streets of the town, hunted down some poached eggs for breakfast, indulged in a traditional Sunday Roast down a local pub, spent a night on the town with some friends, whiled away some time over coffee at Borders while perusing (and buying) books. All incredibly relaxing.

I have a major thing with books. When I was little, my mum arranged it so that I could have three library cards instead of just the one, enabling me to take out 15 books a week. And when I'd made my way through most of what the local library had on offer, my dad started taking me to FNAC once a month, where I would be allowed to buy as many books as I wanted, provided they were of a certain level (was never allowed to buy "the baby-sitter's club" ;-)) And I think to me, those visit to the library and bookstore were like the proverbial visits to the candy shop.

So I love bookshops. And thankfully, it's a passion shared by Jo. I love strolling through them for hours, sitting on the floor in front of a section that tickles my interest, just perusing the books on offer. I genuinely feel that Belgium still lacks on bookshop-culture. Most good bookstores in Britain have coffee shops incorporated in them, and there's sofas strewn throughout the entire shop where you can cosy up for a wee read. There's few things more invigorating than having all that information and story-telling at your fingertips, while being given the time to browse them at leisure.

The nice thing about relationships then, is that you get given a second set of eyes. And because Jo loves books as much as I do, we were feeding off each other in the bookstore. She'd spot things I had missed and vice versa, and while our topics of interest don't necessarily always overlap, our interest in each other enriches the perusing experience. After much oooh-ing and aaaah-ing, I walked out with a book on Banksy's artwork, a photography book on emerging patterns and "Freakonomics", a book I would very much recommend to anyone with an interest in incentives, logical fallacies and economics.

Now, this going to sound a little sad. But do any of you have deeply hidden fantasies about "the love of your life", like say, a knight in shining armour coming to your rescue, or a bad boy/girl on a motorcycle driving you off into the horizon? Vivid dreams about the day Richard Gere walks into the factory in officer's outfit to lift you into his arms and carry you out? Or of Fred Astair tap-dancing his way over to you to seduce you with his singing? No? Right, well don't judge me on this then, but I've always had a massive thing with Dirty Dancing and Grease. And while I fancied "Frances" and "Sandy" instead of Patrick Swayze or John Travolta, the romantic view of love instilled in my head is very much to do with dancing and music.

I don't have "a type" as such, but a nice smile, sparkly eyes and some killer dance-moves never fail to seduce me. And I didn't quite realise how deeply rooted this romantic "Dirty Dancing"-fantasy of mine was until I went out clubbing in York. Jo slipped down in the booth next to me while we were waiting for our drinks, and I could tell she was itching to have a wee boogie. Five minutes later, she was up on the dancefloor strutting her stuff and my jaw just dropped. Now that girl can dance. Not only that, she can dance WITH me. None of that Tango-style classical malarky, no... just freestyle contemporary fun. Feeding off each other's energy, a rhythm that was very much in sync.


Maybe, just maybe, scents and pheromones aren't the only factors of seduction at play in human relationships. I suspect rhythm and pacing very much are too.

- A slightly inebriated, sultry Jo on
our way home from the club-

Get in!

Oooooh I could crush a grape, I'm that excited!!!


I'm flying out to the UK for a wee visit this weekend. It'll be the first time I'll get to see the phenomenon that is Jo, in her natural habitat. Got my binoculars and notepad at the ready, and some chocolate to tempt it to come closer.

Get in!!!

Love Thru the Wire

"Given the large number of people that live within easy travelling distance of each other, it ought to be theoretically possible for everyone (except Australian outback farmers, polar research scientists, explorers, and religious hermits) to find someone geographically compatible; however, this is manifestly not the case. There are a number of theories about this, but perhaps it is nature's way of ensuring variety in the gene pool. Or perhaps it's a case of nature having a good laugh at the expense of a small number of unfortunate humans."

This is the opening statement of a link my girlfriend sent me yesterday. It is a BBC web-entry on "Long-distance Romantic Relationships - A Survival Guide". It made me giggle. The site is written in a style reminiscent of the late Douglas Adams and if you take a closer look at the actual link, you will undoubtedly spot the reference to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Jo and I are certainly no exception on the Long Distance Relationship (LDR) front. At lot of my friends in Academia are forced to keep up LDRs, because the likelihood of both finding a post-doc or lectureship in the same city, is small. Also, the more people travel, the more likely they are to start up long-distance things. I currently have 4 close friends, 2 cousins and a myriad of acquaintances that are in long-term LDRs.

Jo also directed me to The Center for the Study of Long Distance Relationships where we found a few entertaining statistics on the "average long distance couple":

How far apart do they live?
Average: 125 miles
95% range: 30 miles to 950 miles

How often do they visit one another?
Average: 1.5 times a month
95% range: once a week to once every four months

How often do they call one another?
Average: once every 2.7 days
95% range: at least once a day to once a month

How long are their telephone calls typically?
Average: 30 minutes
95% range: 2 minutes to 1 hour 20 minutes

How long do they expect to be separated before they can move closer?
Average: 14 months
95% Range: one month to four years

Our personal statistics are not too dissimilar: We live 285 miles apart in birdsflight, we aim to see each other once every 2 to 3 weeks, we call daily with an average skype-time of around 3 to 4 hours, and in terms of how long we expect to be seperated from each other before we can move closer, well... we've got a rough idea in mind and will see how things evolve.

The website also offers a 6-step guideline (based on extensive research) to surviving a long distance relationship:

1. Stay Optimistic

2. Re-learn how to be Intimate:

- share in little day-to-day events

- use technology

- send snail mail letters/cards

- understand the pitfalls of phone conversations

- use little reminders of your partner frequently

3. Some Things Must be Said

4. Don't Isolate Yourself

5. Expect Disappointment

6. Learn the Art of Long Distance Sex

The upside for all of us long-distancers is that technology has evolved a great deal. It's easy to take camera-phone snapshots of things in your daily life and send them to your partner so they can be part of it. Phone calls are free if you use skype and if you combine them with wireless headsets, you can actually use skype as a sort of long-distance baby-phone. Jo and I sometimes leave the skype connection open, while we go about our daily business. I can faff around the room, doing whatever I need to do and still talk to Jo. Or Jo can be sat on the sofa reading her newspaper while I work, and we'd exchange little comments as if I was in the room right next to her.

Yesterday, we had a particularly long talk-session, trying to establish where we both stood in terms of the long-distance and each other. It eventually transgressed into conversation that went on into the wee hours of the morning, and we both fell asleep with the connection still open. When I woke up this morning, I noticed my laptop was still next to my bed and we were still connected with skype, so I ventured a tentative: "goodmorning gorgeous". A stiffled stretchy yawn and the sound of a kiss came right back at me through the wireless from across the North Sea. While this may a bit too much of a good thing for some people, I firmly believe that everyone should take their own relationship as they feel is right. And for us, it seems, we both have the urge to talk, to be in touch, explore each other's minds and to simply connect. So in that respect, current technology truly is bliss.

For more resources: Click Here, Here or Here

Trials & Tribulations outside the Time Warp

I'm moderately relieved that the week is almost over. It's been a bit of an odd one.

After having had Jo over for a nine-day visit (total indulgence) around Easter, it was time to see her off again last Monday. While Eindhoven Airport is only a half-an-hour away from my work, we decided to set off plenty early, to allow us some extra time for breakfast at the airport. A wee stolen moment to say goodbye without having to rush.

Unfortunately, it seemed like the world had collectively decided to return to work at 6am that particularly Monday, and traffic was tantalisingly slow. I was starting to get a wee bit frustrated at seeing my extra time with Jo being eaten away at by something as trivial as a traffic jam, when a police car overtook me. I made the rookie mistake of engaging eye contact with the police officer in the passenger seat, because, sure enough, he started signalling for me to pull over.

Despite a squeaky-clear conscience, I suddenly felt incredibly nervous. I have an incorrigible urge to mess with people in uniform and while I know I shouldn't, I never quite trust myself not to. It's like fear of heights. Popular belief claims "fear-of-height" is when you actually feel an urge to jump off and have trouble trusting yourself not to do so. I think my fear-of-uniforms is somewhat similar. I don't trust myself not to land me into trouble by sheer cheek.

As it turned out, they'd merely pulled me over because of a failing back light. I promised I'd get it fixed in due course, but he insisted on checking my board documents and then kindly informed me that my MOT (Dutch: keuringsbewijs), had expired over 14 months ago and that legally, I was now no longer allowed to drive my car.

*Sod's Law*

Thankfully though, the testosterone variety of uniform can generally be swayed by a sweet oestrogenous smile, and he said he'd give me a caution but would turn a blind-eye while I dropped Jo off at the airport. So off we popped.

While Eindhoven airport had been carefully chosen for it's low-budget services, Jo ended up paying some ridiculous surcharge for extra luggage, thus rendering the whole low-budget strategy rather pointless. The queues at the check-in were so monstrous, we had to skip a proper breakfast and spent our last half-hour together standing in a queue.

I had serious lovesick pangs in my tum when I saw her off, but I have to admit my body felt slightly relieved at the wee break it was getting. Jo's visit had been one of sheer indulgence, verging on the debaucherous. Now, Jo's a bit of a choc-o-holic, and we both love food, so Easter was probably not the most wisely chosen time for visits. There's something delightful about the initial loved-up flutterstage of a relationship. You seem to forget just about anything but the object of your affection, and life enwraps you into some special warped time-frame in which the outside world, the standard rules of physics and the restraints you normally place upon yourself, no longer matter. You float instead of walking, savour life instead of consuming it.

The only object in the universe, however, that forever seems to live by the normal rules of physics, is the bathroom-scales. And the vicious thing informed me I'd gained 2.5 kilos over 9 days. So, on Thursday, I hauled ass to the gym. Due to the RTW trip, being ill and having a new job, I'd not actually set foot in a gym since about July. And I think the gym came back at me with a vengeance, because when I tried to skip the cool-down period after my run, all buttons on the machine stopped working. The "EMERGENCY STOP" button was flashing away at me trying to tempt me to push it, but I never quite trust emergency buttons NOT to set off some ridiculously loud alarm, and the last thing I needed was to lose face in front of fellow sporters on my first day back. So... diddums here decides to try and jump off it, misses by about an inch and catches the treadmill's speeding conveyor belt with the tip of her right foot, which launches me into a full-on-flat-on-yer-face type fall. I guess I should come away with this with the notion that gyms are vindictive lovers when neglected for too long.

To top it all off, the cockrel I mentioned earlier seems to have taken permanent residence in our very own backyard and now appears to have lost ALL sense of time, as it's started crowing at 2 a.m.

Oh, and did I mention I got attacked by two pigeons on the way to my car on Friday?!? Still think I'm paranoid?!?

Beyond Enthusiastic

When my girlfriend warned me that she could talk for Britain, I brushed off the comment with a very smitten reply along the lines of "But babe, I could listen to you ramble for hours". What I didn't know then, is that the talking doesn't generally stop when she goes to sleep. This for two very different reasons: Jo is a notorious sleep-talker (whole dreamt-up phone conversations and the lot) and well, Jo's also got a tendency to become very excited about cute little things.

Just a few nights ago, I got prodded in the arm at about 4.30 a.m. It was with some reluctance that I surfaced from the dream I was having, but when I opened my eyes, I found two very awake, sparkly shiners staring back at me.

"Do you know," she said excitedly, "that there's a place in Edinburgh called Saxe Coburgh?!?!"

A little confused about why exactly this bit of information had warranted a prod so early in the morning, I replied: "Erm... what?"

"Well, isn't your royal family called Saxe-Coburgh?!?" *excited Jo-wiggle*

Now, it has to be said. If anyone else were to attempt interrupting my sleep for such a random bit of information, they'd probably get a good thumping or a dangerous little growl, but right then, all I could see, was a big happy grin on the pretty face of that excitedly wiggly girlfriend of mine, and I couldn't help but burst out in a wee giggle.

Now, I think the REAL test of our relationship will come if she'd ever insist on talking me through the life-cycle of the single-celled amoeba in the middle of my sleeping pattern, but until then, I can't wait to find out the other random bits of info that excite this girl so much ;-)

Introducing...

The frequency and content of my blogging seem to have become increasingly scattered of late. While that is partly due to the fact that I have jumped headlong into my new job and am still very much trying to re-organise my private life around this new situation, that is not the whole story...

These last two months have heralded the arrival of a different level of distraction entirely. It presented itself in a highly compact, dangerously spiky and tremendously vibrant packaging. And I've taken the last two months to slowly unwrap it and figure out what place to give it in my life.

Frequent visitors to this blog undoubtedly know that I have been single for pretty much 19 months now. About a year and a half ago, I made the conscious decision to take some proper solo time for a change. It was time well spent on thesis-writing, travelling, re-establishing old connections, making new ones, physical and emotional recovery, finding a job and buying a flat. It seems odd, if not a little indulgent then, that one would find oneself at a point in life where things seem to fall perfectly into place, and to feel utterly contented with what one has and where one is in life... only to be presented with some unexpected icing on the proverbial cake.

I've taken some time to let things sink in and have refrained (as much as I could without exploding of eagerness to shout it over the rooftops) from recounting the events leading up to this point. But it seems fairly obvious to me now that this is the right time to introduce "the icing", as she'll undoubtedly feature in more than one of my future blogposts, if I continue the level of personal-account blogging I've accustomed these last two years. I don't feel very comfortable holding stuff back, and I'm sure you've all picked up on the fact that my posts have been less coherent as well as more impersonal, and I've just about stretched the limits of self-containment anyway...

So, ladies and gentlereaders, voila ma petite-amie: Jo.

Ye can't really tell from her picture (what with her being uncharacteristically pretty for a Scot *ONLY JOKING*... *not*), but she is in fact Scottish. Sexy accent included. And yes, yes, I KNOW I have just bought a flat and landed myself a fantastic job here in Belgium, but then I like the road less travelled. More than that... the combination of those various elements in my life seems to make perfect sense just now.

I could quite easily list a thousand things about her that make me go all mushy, but then I would like to keep my readership and it would seriously interfere with the high standard of blogging you're all accustomed to *cough*

Actually, sod that. She's fab. She's got bump 'n grind dancemoves that make MC Hammer look like a wallflower in comparison, her funky hair would turn even the most well-endowed hedgehog envious and when she smiles, it totally tugs at my heartstrings. She's in my system and it feels like that's exactly where she was meant to be. So yes, Jo's likely to feature on this blog in future. By association.

And now that I've managed to get this all out on "paper", I've cleared the path for my blogging to regain its natural flow...

Women's Warped Sense of Time?

What does a lesbian bring on her second date?

A moving van.

This joke is funny simply because it's so painfully accurate. It's the stereotypical lesbian image: Girl and Girl meet, fall in love, start wearing each other's clothes, move in, adopt cats. All in the space of 6 months. But stereotypes are generally rooted in reality, and this one no less so. Based on personal experiences and observing some of my gay female friends, I would have to conclude that the stereotype is not too far off the mark. As a group, we have a tendency to move fast.

During a recent phone conversation about this topic with Jo (yes, the hot girl I mentioned a few posts ago), we both acknowledged that the two weeks that had passed since her visit, did appear so much longer than just two weeks. And it made me wonder whether maybe women simply have a different and unrealistic perception of time. If women perceive time differently than men do, then the time-perception of a lesbian couple is bound to be skewed. Perhaps men and women in heterosexual relationships balance each other out in this aspect, allowing them to move according to a more accurate timescale of relationship-events. While the warped-perception-of-time of two women in a gay relationship would merely aggravate the situation and therefore enhance the speed at which things move forward within the relationship.

So, I decided to browse Science Direct for a while to try and hunt down a few publications on gender differences in time perception. I found lots of publications that seem to confirm that women indeed tend to OVER-estimate duration of time, while men generally have an accurate sense of the time passed.

In light of this, it's probably no coincidence that the words "Bed" and "Death" are consistently preceded by the word "Lesbian". Lesbian Bed Death is a term used to describe the phenomenon of declining sexual activity about a year into a lesbian relationship. It's a bit of a scare-mongering term in the lesbian community and whether this concept is purely mythological or not, it is still highly debated both socially and academically. I personally think the whole phenomenon is largely exaggerated. The concept of the declining sex life is as much a straight as a gay issue in long-term relationships and depends highly on the individual couple. But I suppose that the warped sense of time could account for some instances of Lesbian Bed Death. If women systematically over-estimate the duration of time passed, then a year might indeed feel like a lot longer and I would guess that the emotional timeline would therefore reach the general long-term slump a tad sooner too.

Whatever the case, gay women seem to have developed a good sense of humor about this little "quirk" of ours to "move fast", as it's become a bit of a standing joke within the community. I'd say humor is always the first step towards awareness. Whether or not the awareness will be able to restrain us from renting out the U-Haul on a second date, is another matter entirely ;-)


References:

- Wittmann M et al. 2003, "Sex differences in perception of temporal order", Percept Mot Skills 96(1):105-12
- Krishnan L et al. 1984, "Perceived time: its relationship with locus of control, filled versus unfilled time intervals, and perceiver's sex", J Gen Psychol 110:275-81.
-Dolu N et al. 2004, "Sex-related differences in time estimation and the role of expectancy", Int J Neurosci 114(7):805-15
-Eisler AD et al. 1994, "Subjective time scaling: influence of age, gender, and Type A and Type B behavior", Chronobiologia 21(3-4):185-200
-Espinosa-Fernandez L et al. 2003, "Age-related changes and gender differences in time estimation", Acta Psychol (Amst) 112(3):221-32

Valentine

Yeah, allright... I'm aware it's Valentine. Who gives a toss anyway. Not that I'm bitter *cough*. Well, at least not AS bitter as La Solterna is. Grin.

Anyway. I've found solace in dating videos. Yes that's right. And I think I want the one on the left ;-)

Dialogue

This might be a bit of a controversial post. I apologize in advance if it offends anyone.

A friend of mine recently told me that since her relationship fell apart, she's struggling to suppress the urge to take painkillers to numb herself. She seemed embarrassed yet relieved to be able to admit to such a thing. But I don't think she's an exception. I think this happens more often than people are willing to admit.

Some people seem perfectly capable of placing their emotions on a manageable platform: if everything around them comes crashing down, they can keep functioning. I'm not sure how they do it. I suspect they simply take some distance. But how one achieves this distance is beyond me.

The other type of people, they crash when everything else does. There's no more levels to it than that: they simply are their emotions. I know for a fact that I am part of this latter group. Everything comes to a halt and you just have to let yourself fall into whatever safety net you can find. I'm lucky. I have a tremendously patient, understanding and constructively supportive family and group of friends. Whenever I've been faced with situations I couldn't cope with, I've had a place to fall. A place to simply stop "being", for a little while.

But even then, I completely understand my friend's urges. It is ridiculously tempting to just numb yourself at times, to drown out your emotions. If you're one of those people who needs to go to the depths of their emotions to be able to resurface full strength, then a bit of numbing every now and then is very welcome. There's so many tempting external ways to help you take a break when your emotions can't give you one.

Alcohol is probably the most socially accepted form of numbing. I know quite a few people who are clearly purposefully sedating themselves on a regular basis, but no one ever comments, because drinking is socially acceptable in a lot of circumstances. Painkillers are less visible, but easy to get. Drugs, more dangerous and less socially accepted, but highly effective.

I rarely drink. My number of units a month probably amounts to no more than 8. If that. I have taken class A-type drugs on no more than maybe a dozen occasions. But in retrospect, it is quite obvious that when I did drink lots or did take drugs, it was at times where I felt emotionally unstable. I'm fortunate in that I am aware of this. I know what and why I am doing such things, when I am doing them. And this keeps me from falling into a destructive pattern at those times. It enables me to make those moments a rarity.

I think it should be socially acceptable for people to give themselves a breather before facing their issues head on. And I really don't think my friend had any reason to be embarrassed about admitting such a thing. If anything, an open conversation will make her feel less alone. But I also think society should be more tuned into dependencies. If people continue to sedate themselves with latent societally accepted aids, then they simply uphold a status quo. Nothing ever improves. We don't question enough. And so there is no dialogue. The threshold to admit to problems still seems insurmountably high for some people. And others still feel shame at admitting a very human problem.

People often ask me why I am as direct as I am, in my communications with others. It's because I want dialogue. I don't want to worry about stuff I needn't worry about. Things are complicated enough as they are. I have an incredible need to be open about things. To get feedback off others so I can put myself and what goes on in and around me, in the proper perspective. I don't want to second guess other people's actions. I don't want to hide emotions. Directness might make people uncomfortable, but everyone will know exactly where I am at and where they are with me. I'm sure that's the reason my friend chose to tell me about her worries. Openness breeds openness. We're all drawing the same line here, after all. We're all just as fallible as the next person.

Love is in the air

Continuing on from previous post, this was a rather amusing snippet of news to wake up to:

Astronaut in 'love kidnap plot'

How could I NOT want to be a part of all that intrigue *grin*. And I'd be an easy job to do in too, what with all the sedatives I'd be on to get me through my dread of flying.

Scent of a Woman

Contrary to what my nickname may suggest, I am all in favour of smelling nice. I am not averse to a few sprays of perfume, or a good scrub in the shower. I change my clothes on a regular basis and I take a toothbrush at hand at least twice a day. Mom raised me well.

However.

For no reason in particular, I thought back of some publication I read a while ago about the role of scents in the game of seduction and attraction. Several studies seem to hint that the scents people produce help us all to attract the genetically most advantageous partner. Our biology seems to drive us to find partners that have MHC genes (major histocompatibility complex genes) not too similar and not too dissimilar to ours. These genes produce proteins that attach to our own cells in our body, so that our immune system knows they are our own and should not be destroyed. Finding a partner with similar MHC genes, though not exactly the same, seems to increase our chances of producing offspring that has a better survival rate in this world.

So that's the science bit.

I now wonder what the effect is of our societal obsession with smelling nice. I assume that our natural scents are covered up by the perfumes, deodorants and soaps we slap on ourselves each day. If scent has such an evolutionary importance, it might determine more than purely a compatibility of genes. Maybe it determines who is most likely to stick with us in the long run (this is a far stretch, but one should never assume). By dowsing ourselves with the latest fashionably hip Eau-de-Cologne, we may inadvertently be confusing our own radars.

In that respect, I am all in favor of a few sweaty T-shirts here and there. If you dig deep in your own memories, and trace back to a moment of intimate passion with someone you loved intensely, I'm sure you'll find that the natural scents you smelt then, were anything but gross. Quite to the contrary. They were enticing, seductive, energizing... I think that's what it's all about.

I have yet to figure out how all of this translates to Gay attractions, for the absolute evolutionary drives to procreate with your partner of attraction are somewhat dust in the wind here. Having said that, as a lesbian, I can only conclude that the scent of some women drives me mad too. There might just be a little more to do with scents than purely the Darwinian principles ;-)

Santiago, city of lovers.

"Romance imbues this city like a fog,
sifting down into quiet tables in tiny cafes,
shaded courtyards in plazas
and silent corners of radiant parques"

Rare Moments

Last Night.

In she walked and all that I am came to a standstill. Someone read my dream last night and stole her from it. As she moves about me, she sends me a cheeky smile. I flash her my biggest grin in return hello. And this is how we will communicate: sideway glances and a vocabulary of smiles.

She's struggling with a can-opener. The mundaness of the moment never springs into existence. In silence, I take over and rescue her. She starts blushing as her coyest of smiles conveys a "thank you". There's a spark in the air amidst which we keep up pretences of going about our own respective bussiness.

Later on, huddled over a cup of tea, I will lock her eyes onto mine for a moment & decide not to break the spell by mundaneness of speech. I will walk away unscathed, with the illusion of possibility locked in an untouchable freeze.


This Morning.

She slips onto the sofa next to me, as I'm sipping a coffee in wait of my bus. Her morning smile scatters about my intentions and before I know it, I've broken our routine of silence. When I surface from our conversation to look up at the clock, it dawns on me: It's an hour later and I've missed my bus. Rarely has a smile engaged me so much.

As I stand up in a rush, she stops me for details. When I walk out the door, she will have my number in hand, scribbled in haste on this morning's paper. In my confusion and hurry, I forget to ask for hers. The course of possibility now in the hands of an intimate stranger.