The effeminate air in this house is obviously starting to
have an effect on me. I'm not prepared to wear make up, gossip with
sacrilegious fervour or watch 'Dirty dancing' on a weekly basis yet. I have
developed an unhealthy obsession with Frangelico liqueur and Ferrera Rocher
chocolates but. Most disturbingly though, I brought a womens push bike after my
more manly version suffered 4 flat tyres in 2 weeks. Even worse is how
comfortable it feels to ride. Has my pelvic floor widened to match a womens
bone structure? Does riding so erect make me look more like a dainty, bourgeois
snob than a hungover slob, riddled with post piss up regret pedalling towards
his dish pit? Does the egg shell blue frame clash with my dirty blue work bag?
Such concern only further illustrates my feminisation. That
I should care what anyone thinks is a disturbing sign that obsession with
appearance is a contagious social phenomena. It would be terrible to want to
spend more time than 10 seconds on my appearance because bathroom time is at a
premium. Peeing on the back fence is my only option in the long hours leading
up to a night out for the girls.
It isn't all bad though, and I freely admit it is a rather
interesting social experiment. I'm the lab rat picking my way through the maze
of unconsidered issues, unintended meanings and unlikely scenarios. The bike is
a worrying sign. I'm still called upon for all brawn related tasks, and I am a
long way off being hospitalised for a panic attack as one of the 8 was. Another
2 have made visits to the hospital, while one should have after crashing her
scooter 45 seconds after first taking possession of it. Even while writing
this, another flattie has just walked in after getting wobbly wheel and
tangling herself around a push bike in a rather painful and inglorious fashion.
Nothing too serious, but enough flowing blood to feel bad for laughing.
The laughter didn't last long when I realised my worst fears
have come true and again proven that fears are a total waste of mental energy.
Within a month of the sisterhood first congregating, their cycles are in sync
already. And while that could have prompted a public lynching or a return to
the hostel for a week, it was amazingly easy to tolerate. So easy in fact that
I didn't notice the toilet floor being covered in wrappers too small for toilet
paper, the 'Sex and the city' DVD on a constant loop or inappropriate outbursts
of emotion.
If anything, I have been more irrational and emotional than
what I have seen, heard or testified in court over since consigning
relationships to the too hard basket. Numerous factors combined to make me a
one man friendship wrecking crew with a few outbursts that would have ended
with my nose a different shape if any males had of been on the receiving end.
Perhaps I lost it because the girls were doing such a good job of keeping their
emotions under wrap. I was just tired while they were in the throes of hormonal
agony. Shouting, crying and waving my finger around like it was on fire
probably didn't further the houses opinion of males, particularly at that time.
Then my bed bunny and her friend left to cheat death on the
Gibb River Road with nothing to protect themselves but blissful ignorance. That
reduced me to a puddle of tears that drowned out any issues the girls might
have had with their collective concerns. With a three month farm stint
necessary to avoid deportation, nothing Broome could offer was enough to coax
the girls back. Rachel leaving made me realise how long it has been since I
have been irrationally in love. I regret that recognition coming at a time when
it is already too late to celebrate it with the recipient of such strong
emotion. I also realise my intended audience of said recipient, my parents and
two interested friends back home care little for reading a journal closer in
content to the lamentations of a lovesick teenager.
So the playboy mansion is down two of its favourites pending
a miracle, or another flatmate needing to find a home for a friend or family
member. I entreat the universe to ensure any further additions to our menagerie
have the same chromosomes as me to stop my XY from changing to XX. There is
hope for me yet, as I still prefer the touch of a woman, to having a woman's touch.
