withdrawal pangs

I’m a little insecure about being accepted as queer at the best of times, but when I’m in India it crosses the line into outright neediness. I find myself scanning the crowds, staring avidly at anyone who could possibly be construed as a fellow-lesbian, hoping desperately to catch a flicker of recognition. Fat chance. And it doesn’t help that I see queers everywhere, whether they exist or not. A thousand people pour through the zebra crossing, and I focus immediately on the one woman with short flyaway hair and impatient stride. My heart starts beating fast when a Vespa scooter with two helmeted women, one with her hands locked around the other’s waist, zooms past. Another woman with an athletic figure walks to the park with a female friend, hands automatically reaching out to clasp each other as they cross the road near my house, and I practically stalk them, waiting for that brief moment at my window every morning. I look idly out of a car window straight into the eyes of a college student hefting up her heavy backpack in one hand, everything about her poised and powerful. We share electric eye-contact for a prolonged second, and then I dream of her three nights running. Impossible to stop searching, hoping; I savour the lurch and skip of the breath in my throat at these times; needy, wanting,
addicted.

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~ by mortarandpestle on October 11, 2007.

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