Fauxmance, Romance, Hoemance

Note: This was written by a heterosexual woman, the identification of gender is not intended to exclude individuals whose sexuality is brilliantly fluid, and no offence is granted therefore, ought not to be taken.

doll_grit romance_cigarette_incense
Spray paint me pink.

“If I have to be a romantic again, I’ll probably end up getting my heart broken.”

It happens to work that way, it seems that being a romantic has no room for doubt, reconsideration, what people call ‘real plans’, tax numbers, time restrictions, uh let’s see, common sense and simply being rational. It involves a lot of airy fairy space that is the bubble of probably useful and inspiring feelings, a whirlwind of emotions, batting of lashes, twirling of hair, giggles until next semester, adorable shoulder shrugging, leaning in for kisses, flicking hair, getting the edge off, cute notes, cuter outfits or unassuming ones, long thoughtful essays, lyrics of songs, remembering exactly what you wore, what you said, “how you looked at me”, touches that make your heartbeat compete with Gojira’s drummer and the empowering effect of the feeling being mutual. It’s all very pleasing if you’re 19 with your first real disgustingly suave boyfriend - dripping in unending wit, charm by the gallon, cooler than the ice caps were 21 000 years ago, bellowing your name, smudging your make-up with his curious fingers, staring at your face as if working out whether it’s symmetrical and perfectly aligned or not, licking his lips because lip balm has yet to be invented for cool almost-men. 

Romance is beautiful. It really is. It is unavoidable. We need to indulge in it at some stage of our lives. If only both sides of the indulgence were as forgiving on our psyches. 

We’re talking about a frame of mind in which all fuck ups are the end of the world, unanswered phone calls are shady and selfish, shit like tripping over a stone, or a runny nose in the presence of the other is an embarrassment remembered days or even weeks after their occurrence. To be quite fucking honest, we’re talking about a time in which our in-love-ness is disposable and can be substituted for another’s, replaced with other satisfying things like popularity, money, etc or just not given a fuck about. We’re also talking about a frame of mind that exists in a world where the term honeymoon phase’ is thrown at every coupling that makes it past a few dates or experiences as if one just gets over shit, like a lit song you’ve been playing on repeat and now skip past while gagging.

Being a romantic and 
being halfway in a conversation with your friend venting about the trickle down effect of unsavoury political climates, “I mean, if we had a lecturer who was, like, more aware of the discourse of women in the art world . . .”

And you’re texting at full speed with two hands . . .

“ . . . Or the world in general, then we wouldn’t have to sit and listen to this guy’s crude sexist remarks and have other guys think that shit is funny and find it hilarious when we’re like, ‘I want to do a performance piece where I’m naked with red paint covered all over me to symbolize the vulnerability of women’s bodies in society’ . . .”

Aaw, what a cute emoji, * you’re blushing * ohmigawd, you haven’t been naked in front of him yet, but you’re floating either way and you’re pretty sure the moment will be rose-scented, in a heated room with ambient lighting and soppy, melodramatic metal, sigh. . .

“ . . . Because they’re just thinking of NAKED and therefore slutty, which is exactly my fucking point!   . . .”

You sort of grasped all of that and you’ve known your friend for long enough to know she’s mad, so you appropriately sigh, shake your head in disappointment and roll your eyes for good measure. Said friend who you’ll be deserting, leaving in the company of her other friends so you can bump and grind your lover in a field of dewy flowers that look like they’ve been sprinkled with diamonds . . . Or even more shocking, said friend will be ‘retrenched’ as your shopping buddy because your boyfriend forgot that he has neither the patience nor the eye for fashion but offered to join you on a shopping trip. Gasp. When is she going to shut up so you can gush while little hearts orbit your head?

And then you and this lovely specimen of man get really close to each other’s faces, part your lips, open your mouths and swop saliva by playing with each other’s tongues and lips with . . . each others tongues and lips, amuse your hands, figure you north have too many clothes on for this trajectory and as you hoped, you’re like two bodies in a washing machine of space, time, sweat and sensations. That could be it. But there could be more if you’re physically impressed, the ball could roll and send your incessant gushing through the roof. . .

To be continued . . .

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