Tuesday, April 04, 2017


Gillian Anderson is 48 years old.

Gillian Anderson is one of my heroes. Has been since agent Dana Scully really started to give holy hell to geeky Mulder. Mulder and Scully have probably done more to define what I, as a bisexual, am attracted two more than any other superstar. Discounting the fact that Debbie Harry was my first crush and Jim Morrison my second.

Gillian Anderson has been doing a lot of work lately. I've been in love with all of it, but the piece I've found the most interesting has been a show called 'The Fall'. It's dark, it's a DCI show, it's got murder and death and serial killers and Gillian Anderson.

In the first episode her detective meets a another dective that she wants. She sees him and she knows she wants him. She doesn't really introduce herself. She barely has his name. She starts and finishes the conversation with her hotel and room number. As I watched I swooned. This woman, who she is right now, I want to be this woman.

He comes to her room. He dies, as he must. Later she is confronted by others in the department. He was a married man. Didn't you ask. Didn't you know. She is beautiful in her defense.

Man fucks woman. Subject: man; verb: fucks; object: woman. That's OK. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject; man: object. That's not so comfortable for you, is it?"
There was a part of me that wanted that level of confidence and fuckall. To just do what I wanted to do without considering how it might appear. The politeness of it.

In Seattle I go out with the New Yorker to dinner at a place called the Brooklyn Seafood Room, or something like that. Because of course. He is buying, the food is good. The waiter is cute.

The water starts hitting on me from the minute I sit down. He makes me feel desirable and sexy and amazing with every dish he serves. He lets me know he's interested and I'm interested back. Why should I be. Why can't I be.

People don't do this, I think.

People don't just go back to their hotels with strangers.

Woman fucks man, I think.

The New Yorker pays for food. We stand and start packing our bags to leave.

"A moment. Give me that." I ask for the bill fold.

"I paid?" The New Yorker looks confused.

"I  know."

"What's that."

"My business card."

"What are you doing."

"Leaving my number."

"Are you serious."

"He's cute and I'm single, why not?"

"He's not going to call."

"Wait for it."

We leave. I go back to my hotel. The New Yorker to his. My phone rings fifteen minutes later. There is a knock at my door twenty minutes after that.

The door opens.

"I don't really want a conversation."

"I didn't come here to talk."

Never have I felt more alive. Never have I felt more unreal. Never have I felt more that I have achieved the power of my heros.

Woman fucks man.

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