gemini://di.cities.yesterweb.org/entry/221109.gmi

I have a habit of calling people “girl,” but “girl” is, after all, a gendered term, so when it slipped out as I was talking to a nonbinary person, I asked if that was okay.

They didn’t mind. “Any term of endearment is fine,” they said. Then they added, very unexpectedly, “It’s always awkward dating nonbinary, masc-presenting people and asking if I can call them ‘daddy.’ Like, I feel bad about potentially misgendering them, but...”

“Yeah... I understand the need,” I said. “I consider myself a dom, and I’m seeing this guy who wants to be treated as a sub, but he’s so mind-bogglingly good at being dominant that I feel bad for not giving him what he wants!”

An actual conversation I had today:

Me: Like lemonade, but with limes.

The other day, I’m talking to my two friends, the writer guys who were my favorite regulars at the café I used to work at. I’ll nickname them Goofy and Galba.

Goofy likes to gab, and when he gets into a story, he goes on for a while. He starts telling this half-funny, half-ranty story about the time his roommate offered him a brownie without telling him it was a pot brownie. Yadda yadda yadda it made him sick, he got a bad high, it pissed him off because he felt violated.

Anyway, this story takes him an excruciatingly long time to tell. As it goes on and on, I feel more and more tense. I should shut him up, but then he might ask for an explanation, and it’s not the time – I don’t want to shut him up over something he thinks is relatively innocuous – I don’t feel like having to remember what happened to me in the first place.

So, it’s one of those situations where it’s easier to deal with discomfort for a little bit rather than make a stink.

When the story’s done, I’m so relieved.

“Stoners, am I right?” he says. “Like, who does something like that?”

Anaïs, a girl who I’ll nickname Puppy, and I were sitting and working on our laptops at the Student Center.

Puppy has a habit of blurting random things out – for example, the other day, an out-of-the-blue complaint about Tumblr girls thirsting over serial killers.

Anaïs and I shake our heads. We assume she’s done; we put our headphones back in and get back to work. Then, she opens her mouth again and starts describing the details. I put my hand up, and before I finish saying, “No, stop, this topic is really uncomfortable,” she slaps it, thinking that I was going for a high five.

She had a big smile on her face. She’s one of those people who are so innocent, it hurts.

In class the other day, we were discussing The Great Gatsby, and I realized that the only things that really stuck with me are the descriptions of

a tight brown dress around a woman’s hips

the orchestra playing “Three O’Clock in the Morning” at the party

Anaïs thought I was crazy. She started reminding me about Gatsby’s backstory and funeral, and I was like, “Wait, what? Gatsby had a dad?”

Mismatch

Content warning: sex, potential misgendering, drugging, rape mention