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I've just discovered that I deal with introspection/ruminations of asexuality by writing short stories on it, which is weird and embarassing though does explain the amount that I seem to be writing on the subject.
I will try to write some more stuff that hasn't been hammered out in a second (and is therefore unbeta-ed and crap- I'm pretending this is like a diary) and is very self-centred soon.
i.e. Hint hint: I may be writing some explicitly homoromantic fanfiction. Yeah, you may get a reward for reading my tripe.
Anyway; basically the product of my rhythm class and losing my ring one too many times.
(Fun Past-fic reference) my hands are skinny-ass and... Double-jointed. Yes, that's right, folks. So I can bend my fingers odd ways to hide mah black ring.)
As always, the characters aren't actually me or my friends but are rather AU-us. Yeah, confusing, I know.
--
I will try to write some more stuff that hasn't been hammered out in a second (and is therefore unbeta-ed and crap- I'm pretending this is like a diary) and is very self-centred soon.
i.e. Hint hint: I may be writing some explicitly homoromantic fanfiction. Yeah, you may get a reward for reading my tripe.
Anyway; basically the product of my rhythm class and losing my ring one too many times.
(Fun Past-fic reference) my hands are skinny-ass and... Double-jointed. Yes, that's right, folks. So I can bend my fingers odd ways to hide mah black ring.)
As always, the characters aren't actually me or my friends but are rather AU-us. Yeah, confusing, I know.
--
Lost
It starts when she comes into school wearing the ring at the start of the new year.
Months ago (months and months; she can't quite remember how long) she'd come into school and either through whispers or from the horses' mouth itself, most people had found out.
But now the ring follows wherever she goes; at sleepovers it is slept in, and even when rings are deemed inappropriate (she hides it from teachers), especially black ones, she still wears it.
She laughs and is delighted when a girl on her computers course Googles what the ring's for, and even being caught once or twice by a few teachers doesn't stop her wearing it.
And then she takes to fiddling with it; when a romantic film comes on (English) or in discussions on sexuality and boys (Citizenship and lunch-hour). She'd always been a fiddler, and from there it graduates to running a thumb over its glassy surface and slipping it from hand-to-hand. We play a parody of the old patta-cake clapping games when they talk, because it's a ritual, and she takes it off and rests it on her knee when I complains that it hurts.
Which of course leads to her losing it.
Losing it and dropping it; in classrooms, down chairs, down tops (try explaining that one to the people who think she's a repressed gay) and on floors. Usually it's picked straight back up again after a muttered 'damn', but sometimes it can't be found that easily. And that's when my friend panics.
She acts as though the ring is as essential as the glasses she's as blind as a bat without. Whole groups of our friends are enlisted to help look for it, and each time the ring is found it's met with a 'thank god' and a fervent thanks to either some hidden deity or the disgruntled people she's managed to uproot in its search.
I walk towards her as she taps the ring against the plastic lunch table; the group's been discussing one-night-stands again.
"You really love that bloody thing, don't you?" I say, trapping the fluttering bird hands under my book.
She smiles.
