five things about five subjects

[schmerica]

One thing I cooked today: Lamb stew, as advised by several of you in yesterday's post. Stew is really the most improvisational food in the world, isn't it? Besides like sandwiches. Mine turned out to be of the "emptying kitchen cupboard" variety: lamb, onion, lots of spices, chicken stock, lentils, carrot, potato, tomato paste. The lentils gave it an interesting texture -- it's very thick and mushy, rather than being at all liquid -- but I like it this way.

One things I accomplished today: Greek midterm = YAY. At least a B, hopefully higher.

One thing I am weird about: I know I've been mentioned this before, but whatever. I still don't get why people have RayK call Fraser by his first name in slash stories! I mean... he doesn't call him that. Ever. Just like Fraser doesn't call RayK "Stan" or "Stanley" and Vecchio is the only one who calls Fraser Benny.

I guess it's just a basic difference of opinion at the really basic level: I don't think in that situation that Ray calling him Ben creates a more intimate relationship. I just don't. It feels false and sentimental to me the vast majority of the time. I guess because I think their friendship is plenty intimate already, in canon? And Ray does not call him that even once, even in the most fraught or emotional situations, which ... leads me to believe that Ray thinks of him as Fraser. And what I like best about slash, most of the time, is the relationship coming out and being an extension of the friendship they already have, rather than something completely seperate, as if that never existed.

(Stories I can remember where I believed the first name thing: resonant8's American Way and cesperanza's Passion. There were probably plenty where I didn't notice, too, but mostly? Weird quirk of mine.)

One thing that I am oddly ashamed of: You know, at this point I feel it is sort of ridiculous for me to be ashamed any of my kinks -- AND YET IT IS SO.

I mean, I can own my fondness for hetcest and underageness, and I can be fascinated by non-consensual scenarios, and god knows there are 80 million non-sexual buttons that get pressed all the time. And you would think I have been in fandom long enough -- and had enough completely TMI and smutty conversations -- that I would be without shame! Human sexuality is healthy! Fantasies are fantasies! My kink is OK, your kink is okay!

And yet there is this one thing that kind of disturbs me and yet gets me off so much, even in the most ridiculously worst written fics. WTF, brain. WTF.

(No, you sickos, it has nothing to do with piss, scat or children. It's not even that twisted; I'm just, obviously, inexplicably shy about it.)

One thing about my imaginary fandom: The first time Harry heard of Mae Cottle was when it was announced she would be arriving that afternoon.

Harry and Ralph were sitting on the patio, eating a light lunch. Ralph gave a small hum of acknowledgment to Julius without looking up from the newspaper he was reading.

"Who's Mae Cottle?" Harry said, when Julius had left.

He expected to hear that she was another writer, or artist, or political activist, or just rich woman, one of the Westcotts' endless parade of friends who came and went from the house.

Instead Ralph said, "My beloved niece."

Harry was taken aback. "Your niece?" he repeated, barely hiding his shock.

Ralph looked up from the news, then, finally, and smiled at him. "You didn't know about Clara's sordid past, my dear? It's a very sad tale. I go off to college for a year, and she runs off with the chauffeur and goes to play house in a bungalow across the tracks for six months." He smiled at Harry, showing his teeth. "Darling Mae is the lingering remains of that unfortunate union."

Harry was certain there were women he was less capable of imagining in motherhood than Clara, but he suspected the numbers were few. "I see," he said.

"You'll like her, I'm sure," Ralph continued. "She's rather the family prodigy. You can talk about art."

It was a frequent reflection of Harry's that it was impossible to tell how often Ralph was honestly laughing at him.

Harry met Mae Cottle for the first time mere hours later, seated across from her at the table. She was a pretty girl, tall for her age, with fine dark hair and simple, unadorned clothes. The only thing about her that reminded Harry of Clara was her eyes: shrewd, intelligent, and rather piercing. Harry had the unsettling feeling of being completely exposed; he ate silently while Clara and Ralph carried on their witty conversation.

That night Clara came to his room in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but her silk dressing gown. She said, "Quiet" when Harry started to speak, and then he was silent as she let the gown fall to the floor and climbed up onto the bed to sit in his lap. Harry suckled at her breasts and tried, briefly, to imagine her, younger and softer, all her sharp edges rounded, her cynicism not yet hardened from her innocence. A mother. He couldn't picture it, and as she scratched her long manicured nails down his back, he stopped trying.

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