Madame Pages in evening dressI think if you had loved me when I wanted, you would have been ennobled by it.

You were out of my league. I will only admit that on career path and current earnings- not wit, intelligence, physical attractiveness, anything else, but by earnings you were completely out of my league. I wonder why you picked on me, and then that bloke, who also had an income rather less, but it is clearer after you dumped him. Possibly insecurity, or a desire to be completely in control, but you wanted someone who would be far more attracted to you than you were to her. Or him. That is parasitic, and exploitative. It is a sign of being damaged: having a complete lack of trust.

I hate the way you imposed complete control, from below. I had to make the pass, though I was frightened of you and could not believe my “luck”. I was trying the same game, actually, as I am “feminine” too, but you won. A dozen emails to arrange one phone call, because you did not want to speak on the phone. It is my bad luck that I was taken off the hormones just then: my emotions went completely wild. Two days before our second proper date, you cancelled it to see a friend from Leeds instead.

When I chauffeured you about, I was a bit down because of something else. You lost interest, yet gave mixed messages: hugging me and whispering in my ear “You know I came here just for you, don’t you?” then vanishing- what shall I say? “Upset me”, perhaps, I really don’t have the words- as did dancing so close at your party, then going to bed with someone else.

When three months later you invited me to your flat so that I would leave just after he arrived, that was to torture him rather than me. That- upset me- but that was not your primary purpose. That was March 2012, after I first told this story here.

My healing process from this is still ongoing. I resent that, for so long after, I thought of your casual derogatory remark about me, when you had lost interest, as The Truth about me. For so long, if you were near I would be intensely conscious of you, follow you round like a puppy at any opportunity, and be utterly miserable after. I felt wronged, though Bradley Headstone ran in my mind, protecting me from wrongdoing. And this Rupert Brooke poem, which has lived in me since I was twenty.


I THINK if you had loved me when I wanted;
If I’d looked up one day, and seen your eyes,
And found my wild sick blasphemous prayer granted,
And your brown face, that’s full of pity and wise,
Flushed suddenly; the white godhead in new fear
Intolerably so struggling, and so shamed;
Most holy and far, if you’d come all too near,
If earth had seen Earth’s lordliest wild limbs tamed,
Shaken, and trapped, and shivering, for My touch—
Myself should I have slain? or that foul you?
But this the strange gods, who had given so much,
To have seen and known you, this they might not do.
One last shame’s spared me, one black word’s unspoken;
And I’m alone; and you have not awoken.

I have at last ceased to worship you. At least the hurt and anger I feel is no longer mixed with desire.

7 thoughts on “Later

      • I usually have a terrible tendency to sanitize everything- but that gives a very two dimensional impression.

        Something extraordinary happened at that Saturday lunch. A eureka moment. The hostess was one of those people that’s entirely unafraid of judgement and just embraced life as it happened to her, the good and the bad. She speaks openly about everything- finances, infidelity, fears, hopes. That goes against all my “training”. I grew up as part of a well organized machine where everything was highly edited. So well edited that even the characters believed the storyline.

        My way may work well in social politics, but her way is starting to look more right to me. Liberating.


        • Jesus said: When you unclothe yourselves and are not ashamed, and take your garments and lay them beneath your feet like the little children (and) trample on them, then [you will see] the Son of the Living One, and you will not be afraid.

          Gospel of Thomas 37.

          That is not my way. Pretence is my way. Believing the storyline is my way. Part of it is loyalty- this is My Lot, and this is our face to the world.

          Liberating. Absolutely. And terrifying. I inch towards it.

          As for the Pretence, there are two ways. Facing someone down- this is the truth, and you will not deny it- but then one is at war with the world. Or creeping around in fear, thinking this is the only acceptable way, but I will be found out!!

          The link is interesting, with three different translations. “Son of the Living One” sounds like God, mystical, above us. “child of the living”, no caps, sounds like people who have got their shit together, just normal but alive.


  1. Oh dear, flashes from my youth came surging…if only “you” had when “I” wanted…gone now, “I” am not alone and “you” still not “awoken”… that aside, your text has a shrewd knack of sucking a reader right in 😀


    • Thank you. That is a lovely compliment. I still love that Brooke poem- if you were otherwise, you would not be you is beautiful, and I resent it.

      I was 45! And- after transition I was unconscious of being attracted to anyone for ten years, and then This.


      • Ah, as we know: the germ of that certain “electricity” is a tricky bugger…always ready to awaken upon the right cue even if we may think it has gone asleep forever … we cannot be what we are not and that often may cause us to resentment but at the end of the day we do or at least should see that “me” is better than “not me” 😀


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