clatterbane:

Sweden Democrat voters. Who are they, where do they come from, and where are they headed? | Institutet för Framtidsstudier

Sweden Democrat voters. Who are they, where do they come from, and where are they headed?

From the introduction and aims sections:

The result of this interdisciplinary groups’ work is this thorough and unique report on the Sweden Democrats voters, who they are, where they come from, and where they are headed. It was first presented in Swedish in the  summer of 2018 just before the Swedish Parliamentary Elections. I’m very happy that it is now available for an international audience since the results are of general interest when one tries to understand the global trend of the rise of radical right wing political parties. The rich data set makes it possible to analyse and understand  the values and motivations of voters supporting such parties in an unusually detailed way and it is my hope that this report will inspire similar studies in other countries…

The Sweden Democrats have attracted voters from both the right and the left, primarily from the Conservative Party (Moderaterna) and the Social Democrats, as well as from groups who were previously non-voters (SCB, 2016; Valforskningsprogrammet, 2018). Thus, the backgrounds of Sweden Democrat voters vary, and it is not entirely clear what they have in common. This report poses a number of different questions: How – and to what extent – do Sweden Democrat voters differ from those who vote for other parties? Why have they moved away from the parties they previously voted for, and is it likely that they will return to them? What political opinions do they hold, besides being critical of immigration? Is their view of immigration driven by a concern over societal change or is it a manifestation of a more deep-rooted antipathy towards immigrants? And finally, to what extent are there differences within the group of Sweden Democrat voters, i.e. how homogenous a group are they?

English version of one report I ran across, and just started wading into. Which looked interesting enough to share, particularly as this might extend to the continuing growth of the far right elsewhere.

(Maybe extra interesting to me in the particulars, since I understand from elsewhere that we’ve just moved into SD’s regional stronghold of support. Skåne in general, apparently, more than the city of Malmö itself.)

by missremember on lushstories.com

Part One

“Please come with me,” Anne begged.

“No, it’s going to suck,” I whined. “You’ll be the only person there who I’ll know.”

“Aren’t I enough?” Anne challenged.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” I replied defensively. “It’s just that you’re going to drag me around introducing me to people from your office and I’ll have to make small talk with strangers all night.”

“Come on, this is important to me,” Anne persisted. “My boss will be there, and so will her boss. It will look bad if I’m not there.”

“Then go.”

“But you have to come too,” she pleaded. “Everyone is bringing their spouse.”

I looked away to avoid Anne’s pouting but beautiful face. The last place I wanted to be the following Thursday was the cocktail party and charity auction that her company was sponsoring. Anne would know most of the people there and I’d end up following her around like a puppy. Plus, I knew that we’d get sucked into bidding an outrageous amount on something we didn’t want simply to show Anne’s boss that we supported the cause.

“I don’t want to go,” I said. As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I realized that I sounded more like a spoiled toddler than a 40 year old man. Still, I wasn’t ready to give in.

Anne switched tactics and tried flattery. “But you look great in a tux,” she smiled.“It’s not that,” I countered. “I don’t mind dressing up if I’m going somewhere fun.”

“I promise I’ll make it fun for you.”

Anne squeezed into the loveseat next to me and I turned my head in defiance. Undeterred, Anne kissed my cheek softly. She put one hand on the back of my neck and the other glided across my pectorals. She sensed that flattery alone was not going to work, so she was switching tactics again and employing sex appeal.

“She’s so predictable,” I thought to myself. Unfortunately, my cock started to involuntarily respond to Anne’s hands on my body and her warm breath on my neck. Was she predictable, or did she know me so well that she knew I was incapable of saying “no”when sex was on the table? Damn. If she kept this up, I knew I’d be going to the charity gala next Thursday.

Anne started to nibble my earlobe lightly as the hand that was rubbing my chest slid down to the front of my pants. She easily found my stiffening dick and traced the growing bulge with her index finger. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” she asked with subtle, but unmistakable emphasis on her last word.

“I’ll go,” I surrendered. “But there’s one condition. If I have to get dressed up, you have to get dressed up too.”

“Of course I will,” Anne said impatiently. “It’s black tie.” “I don’t mean a fancy dress,” I explained. “I mean, I want you to get really dressed up underneath.” Anne leaned back in the chair and raised her eyebrows, an unspoken request for clarification.

“I want you to go buy some new lingerie, something really nice,” I continued. “But I don’t want to know what you pick out or see it until next Thursday after the gala. Imagining what you’ve got on under your dress, and anticipating what we’ll do when we get home, will make the evening fun for me.”

“Deal,” Anne readily agreed. She jumped up from the loveseat and headed for the computer desk.

“Hey,” I called after her. “What am I supposed to do about this tent in my pants?”

Anne turned and smiled wickedly. “You can take care of it yourself or save it for after the party. Either way, I’m going to look for lingerie ideas on the internet.”

Double damn.

*****

For the next eight days I regretted the deal I’d made with Anne. She seemed to interpret our agreement to mean that we wouldn’t have sex until the night of the charity gala, even though I was sure I’d said no such thing.

It was tortuous to be around Anne without being intimate. She’d lost none of her attractiveness during the 17 years we’d been married. Her long brown hair was always stylish and her beautiful green eyes sparkled when she smiled. Anne spent hours at the gym each week to maintain her smoking hot body. Her long, toned legs led the eye invitingly to the sexy curves of her hips andtight ass. Above them her waist narrowed seductively into her flat stomach that showed no evidence of our two kids. A set of flawless tits hung above her waist. They were big, round and firm, but not obscenely huge like those of a trashy stripper. Without a doubt, Anne’s boobs were my favourite part of her body. When we first started dating I wondered if she felt like I was constantly groping her. I simply couldn’t keep my hands off her chest, and still can’t.

Anne started to tease me relentlessly in the last few days leading up to the party. She commented several times about skipping out of work to go shopping. I knew she was trying to make me imagine her trying on lingerie, and she succeeded.

On Tuesday, I came home and found a bag on our bed from a high-end lingerie shop downtown where I’d purchased several things for Anne over the years. I wrestled with the temptation of stealing a look inside the bag or maintaining the suspense for two more days. I changed my mind at least a dozen times before I picked up the bag and lifted the delicate pink tissue paper. The only thing underneath was a note from Anne: “No peaking, you naughty boy.”

On Thursday morning, Anne and I agreed that we’d meet at the gala at 7:00 pm. Anne suggested that arrangement ostensibly because the venue, a popular museum in the city, was close to my office and it would be more convenient for me to go straight there after work. In reality, I knew she didn’t want me coming home because I couldn’t be trusted to watch her get ready. I was so horny there was a good chance we’d never get out of the house.

At 6:30 pm I changed into my tuxedo and hailed a cab. I arrived at the museum to find it already too crowded with Anne nowhere in sight. This was what I was dreading. I felt awkward and conspicuous as I seemed to be the only person alone.

After searching the crowd in vain for a few minutes, I headed in the direction of the bar. I weaved through the crowd of men dressed like penguins and women in expensive-looking cocktail dresses. As the bartender served me a glass of white wine, someone grabbed my hand from behind.

“I should have known I’d find you at the bar,” Anne teased.

She looked absolutely ravishing. I expected Anne to be dressed ultra-conservatively with her boss and colleagues around. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to see that she was wearing a sparkling silver and black dress that was fitted tightly around her torso. The dress didn’t reveal any cleavage, but there was no hiding her magnificent breasts. Below her waist the dress flared out a bit and stopped just above her knees. She wore black stockings and matching heels. My hungry eyes appraised her from head to toe and I mentally awarded her a perfect 10.

“You look terrific,” I smiled. I kissed Anne lightly on the lips and pulled her close to feel her sinful body pressed against me.

I offered Anne my full glass of wine and grabbed another from the bartender. Anne then led me around the room and introduced me to various people whose names I quickly forgot. In my defense, I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than what Anne was hiding under her dress.

We found Anne’s boss and her husband and spoke with them for several minutes. They raved about the items that would be up for auction later in the evening. Anne’s boss said she was sure a ton of money would be raised for the cause. The message was clear: Anne and her colleagues were expected to be generous.

Anne said she needed to sit down to give her feet a rest and we politely excused ourselves. We found a small table with two chairs and Anne rested her head on my shoulder. She then grabbed my hand and placed it on her thigh with her own hand covering mine. She forced my hand higher up her leg until I felt the unmistakable clip of a garter belt underneath her dress.

“Nice,” I whispered.

Anne smiled and said, “I thought you would approve of that. I had a bit of a problem shopping though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t find a bra and panty set that I really liked,” Anne explained. “I found a great bra and the saleswoman said my boobs looked amazing in it …”

“I’ll enjoy being the judge of that,” I said.

Anne ignored my interruption and continued, “The matching thong had weird beads and bows on it. It was too much. It looked tacky.”

“So you bought something else?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” Anne answered. “The bra was too good to pass up so I bought them anyway.”

“But you said you didn’t like the thong.”

“I didn’t,” Anne said. “That’s why it’s sitting in my drawer at home.”

It took a second for me to absorb Anne’s statement. “You mean …”

“That’s right,” she grinned. “I’m ‘going commando,’ as they say. And it’s making me so fucking horny.”

“You’re serious?”

Anne slid her chair closer to mine and glanced at the crowd milling around in the vicinity of our table. When she was satisfied no one was paying any particular attention to us, she pulled her dress three- quarters of the way up her thighs and guided my hand between her legs.

I immediately felt the heat radiating from Anne’s exposed pussy as my palm brushed over her mound. I twisted my arm to position my fingers towards her opening and probed at her slit. Anne’s pussy was sopping wet already; her confession of horniness was a drastic understatement. The angle of my arm made it impossible for me to penetrate her, so I caressed her delicate folds with my fingertips. Anne noticeably shuddered at my touch, but somehow managed to avoid drawing attention to us.

After less than a minute, I reluctantly removed my hand and Anne straightened her dress under the table. I discreetly lifted my hand to my face and inhaled her delicious scent from my fingers. One by one I licked my fingertips and tasted the sweet nectar that was freely flowing from Anne’s excited snatch.

Anne leaned close to me and whispered, “I wish you were licking my pussy right now instead of your fingers. I love it when you fuck me with your tongue.”

“You’re going to get more than just my tongue in your pussy if you keep talking like that,” I replied. My dick was growing bigger and harder by the second. The thought of fucking Anne’s tight, wet boxconsumed me.

“Mmmmm, good,” Anne moaned softly. “When we get home I’m going to ride that nice fat cock of yours.”

I jumped up from the table and grabbed Anne’s wrist. She stumbled as I tugged her arm and pulled her away from the crowds toward the exit.

“What are you doing?” she giggled.

“We’re going home,” I announced. “If we don’t, I’m liable to explode in my pants.”

“We can’t leave now. What about the auction? My boss?”

“You should have thought of that before you started with the dirty talk.”

“John stop, seriously,” Anne protested. “I’m not saying we have to stay ‘til the end, but the auction hasn’t even started yet.”

“When does it start?” I demanded. Anne looked at her watch. “About 15 or 20 minutes.” “That’s more than I’ll need.”

I scanned the room, peering over and between the mass of bodies. At the far end there was a large opening that led to another wing of the museum. I guided Anne in that direction hoping to find a coatroom, an unlocked office, or even a janitor’s closet, anything to provide some privacy for what I urgently needed to do to her.

We reached the passage only to find a burly security guard blocking the way. “This exhibit’s closed tonight,” he grumbled.

“We were just looking for the washrooms,” I lied. “Hallway to your left, down one flight of stairs.”

Anne and I walked quickly around the corner and down the corridor. We found the staircase with a sign indicating the washrooms below. The adjacent stairs leading up were blocked with a thick, red velvet rope stretched between gold posts on either side.

“We’re going up to finish what you started,” I said.

Anne didn’t hesitate. As desperate as I was to fuck her, she needed it just as bad. She ducked under the rope and quickly ascended the stairs. At the summit she turned and held her arms open to me.

I was on her in a flash. I practically jumped into her waiting arms, the force pushing her backwards against the cold brick wall. Fortunately, Anne had the presence of mind to push me to the side. She positioned us in front of the stairs leading to the third floor and out of the line of sight of anyone looking for the washrooms below.

Anne wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me hard. Our tongues danced together as I pressed against her body and pinned her to the wall. I felt her spectacular tits squished against the bottom of my ribs. Below that, my aching cock jammed into Anne’s stomach from the confines of my pants.

I ran my hands up and down Anne’s sides, enjoying the mesmerizing feel of her hips, waist and the sides of her breasts. I traced her hourglass curves then forced my hands between her back and the wall. I dropped them to her backside and cupped her ass cheeks roughly through her elegant dress.

I broke our long kiss and squatted in front of Anne until my face was level with her crotch. I didn’t need to say anything; Anne knew exactly what I wanted to do. She put her left foot on the second step leading to the third floor to spread her legs. Then she grabbed the bottom of her dress with both hands and lifted it to her waist to display her delicious pussy to me.

Anne’s arousal was obvious. Her labia were shiny and wet from her dripping love juices. At the top of her slit Anne’s swollen button protruded excitedly, anxious for my attention. Above that Anne’s thin, immaculately maintained strip of dark pubic hair seemed to point in the direction she wanted me to go. All of this was framed beautifully by the garter belt around her alluring hips which held up smooth black stockings. The only thing missing from the picture was my tongue.

I grabbed Anne’s ass and pulled her dripping cunt to my eager mouth. There was no time to savour her, to lose myself in her delicious pussy, so I lapped at her slit like it was giving me life. Over and over I tongued Anne’s horny fuck hole. Within seconds my cheeks and chin were covered with her wetness.

“Ohhh,” Anne groaned softly. “Keep licking me. Yes, yes, right there.”

I zeroed in on Anne’s sensitive clit. I circled it with the tip of my tongue before sucking it into my mouth. Anne’s legs started to shake and she dropped her dress over my head so she could steady herself with the handrail.

In the sudden darkness I heard two women talking and laughing as they came down the hallway on the first floor. Anne heard them too and signalled me to stop by putting her hand on my head. We were both frozen as the voices came closer and reached the stairs. To our great relief, we then heard the clicking of their high heels going down the stairs to the washrooms instead of up to our hiding spot.

Anne lifted her dress back over my head and I looked up into her lust-filled eyes. “Fuck me,” she ordered. “Don’t hold back, just fuck me. Pound me with that hard cock.”

I stood up and fumbled with my cummerbund until I was able to undo my pants. I stretched the elastic of my boxer briefs over my throbbing prick and pushed them down to my knees.

Meanwhile, Anne turned away from me and bent over at the waist. She held onto the railing with one hand and held up her dress with the other. She was mine for the taking.

I held my shirt tail out of the way and aimed my aching cock towards Anne’s sweltering cunt. I nuzzled the head against her opening and then slowly penetrated her. I watched my shaft disappear into her hot pussy and involuntarily groaned. Anne’s vagina gripped my invading pole and seemed to pull it deeper inside her until it was buried to the hilt. I held still for a few seconds to enjoy the intense sensation of Anne’s tight pussy stretched around my cock. It felt like I was absorbing the heat from her very core which caused my dick to swell even larger.

I started to withdraw from Anne’s paradise just as slowly as I’d entered. My cock glimmered in the dim light of the staircase, coated with Anne’s cream. As I slid my slippery dick out, Anne pushed her ass back against me and her horny twat swallowed all of my cock again.

I heard more people approaching the stairs on the first floor. Nothing else in the world mattered at that moment except giving Anne pleasure, but my brain was still functioning enough to realize the riskiness of the situation. Every minute that passed became more dangerous. It was time to really start fucking.

I started to pound Anne’s sweet pussy from behind like a jackhammer. Anne met each of my hard

thrusts with a backwards thrust of her own. Our combined movements forced my cock deeper and deeper into her velvety snatch and caused her to cry out in pleasure.

“Oh God, that’s good,” Anne whimpered. “Fuck me, John. Fuck me like an animal.”

I grabbed Anne’s hips and savagely pulled her back against my pumping cock. Over and over I slammed into her with all the force I could muster. Our flesh made loud slapping noises as our bodies collided and Anne’s moaning got more intense. We both knew we needed to be quieter, but I no longer cared. I wanted to fuck Anne like this forever.

“Call me a slut,” Anne suddenly said.

“You love getting fucked from behind, don’t you slut?” the words spewed from my mouth. “You can’t get enough cock, can you?”

“Ungh, ohhh, I can’t get enough of yourcock,” Anne moaned. “You fuck me so fucking good with it.” “Are you going to cum on my cock, you dirty slut?” “Uh huh,” Anne panted. “I’m going to cum all over your thick cock. It feels so good in my cunt.”

Anne reached between her legs where my rod was drilling her pussy. Her fingers tickled my swaying balls for a second and then she started rubbing her swollen clit. The combination of my hammering cock in her pussy and her fingers all over her clit immediately pushed Anne to the brink.

“Oh fuck, I’m cumming!” she cried.

Anne’s body tensed and then shook as her climax reached its peak. She squealed as I continued pumping hard and deep through her orgasm, her pussy clutching desperately at my rigid cock.

I punished Anne’s sweet pussy with one final thrust before I exploded like a volcano inside her. My molten seed blasted deep into her vagina. The spasms in my cock and balls were so powerful they felt like they originated in my toes and consumed my whole body.

“Oh fuck, Anne,” I growled. “Yeah.”

I withdrew my still erect dick and globs of thick, sticky sperm escaped from Anne’s drooling pussy onto the floor. She stood up straight and more of my massive load dripped out and landed between her feet.

Anne looking at the expanding puddles and said, “Wow, that’s a lot of jizz.”

“Can’t help it,” I said breathlessly. “You’re such a hot fuck, you completely drained me.”

“That’s too bad,” Anne purred. “You still haven’t seen my new bra and I’m hoping to have more fun when we get home.”

“Don’t worry, the thought of your great rack will have me ready to go again in no time.”

“Good. Then here’s the deal,” Anne said as she straightened her dress and I zipped up my pants. “We buy the first auction item no matter what it is, and then you take me home and fuck my ass like you just fucked my cunt. Agreed?”

“Try to stop me,” I said. “But that means you have to help me find the auctioneer.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to tell him that if he doesn’t start the auction in the next two minutes, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Anne laughed and patted my chest affectionately. Then she took my hand and led me down the steps and back into the crowd.

Part Two

“I can feel your cum dripping out of me,” Anne whispered as the auctioneer stepped to the podium.

We had just taken our seats among the rows of chairs lined up at the back of the museum.The charity auction sponsored by the company at which Anne worked was about to start. Less than 10 minutes earlier, in a staircase that was ostensibly off limits to guests, I bent Anne over and fucked her from behind harder than I had in years. She hadn’t worn any panties that night and it made her feel incredibly horny. After she filled me in on her secret during the cocktail reception, I felt exactly the same way. We eagerly snuck away from the party and relieved our sexual tension.

However, our hardcore session on the stairs only temporarily satisfied our lust. We agreed that we’d leave the party early and go home for an X-rated Round Two. The only thing standing between us and another great fuck was the auction. We had to buy something to make a good impression on Anne’s boss and her co-workers in the crowd. I resolved to be the first buyer no matter what was for sale.

The auctioneer unveiled the first item and my stomach lurched. Lot Number 1 was an elegantly framed Star Wars movie poster autographed by George Lucas, Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher. I never understood the appeal of the Star Wars franchise and I certainly didn’t want the poster hanging in my house. Not only that, there was bound to be a fanatic in the audience that would refuse to be outbid. Our plan was quickly going off the rails. Nonetheless, I was determined to get Anne home.

The auctioneer announced the opening bid and I immediately doubled it. I thought that my aggressiveness would scare everyone else into thinking that I desperately wanted the collectible at any price. Sadly, the lurking Star Wars fanatic quickly made himself known by doubling my initial bid, much to the delight of the crowd.

“This is not going to end well,” I said to Anne.“Keep going,” she suggested. “I know that guy from the I.T. Department. He’ll fold if you double it again.”

Five minutes and hundreds of dollars later, I was the regretful owner of an autographed piece of memorabilia from a movie I’d never seen.

“Cheer up,” Anne encouraged as we made our way to the cashier amid appreciative applause from the audience. “By the time I get you home you’ll think that’s the best money you’ve ever spent.“

My cock twitched in anticipation as we approached the cashier’s desk. I quickly signed the credit card slip and provided our address for delivery. At least I wouldn’t have to schlep the thing home.

We turned towards the exit and saw Anne’s boss approaching, her face positively beaming. She shook my hand warmly and thanked me for my generosity. “It’s people like you who make good things happen to those in need,” she said. She turned to Anne and added, “I’m so proud you’re part of my team.”

I started to feel incredibly guilty as Anne and her boss chatted. Sure, I’d just spent a lot of money for charity, but my motivation was to get home as soon as possible to see my hot wife naked. It didn’t feel right.

After a few minutes Anne made up an excuse to justify our early departure. We said our goodbyes and then Anne hugged me tightly. “You have no idea how many brownie points you earned me tonight,” she said. “Take me home and do whatever you want to me.”

Suddenly I felt much better. *****

Outside the museum a line of taxis waited patiently for gala guests to leave. I opened the rear passenger door of the first one and slid across the back seat behind the driver. Anne followed and snuggled next to me, resting her head on my shoulder.

Anne began tugging at my zipper as soon as the cab pulled away from the curb. She slid her fingers inside my open fly and felt for my cock trapped inside my boxer briefs. She then rested her hand on my shaft and began covering the side of my neck with kisses.

Anne enjoyed feeling my dick growing against her palm. When it reached nearly full length, she started stroking me through the fabric with just her thumb and index finger on either side. I heard her

breath become quick and irregular as she felt my cock respond to her familiar touch.

Anne tried to reach into my boxers to feel the warm flesh of my erection, but my open fly didn’t give her enough room to manoeuvre. She pushed the cummerbund of my tuxedo higher up on my stomach and undid my pants. She then went to work on the final barrier between her and her goal. Anne pulled my boxers’ elasticized waistband away from my body and the tip of my dick sprung into view. I strained to lift my hips off the seat and together Anne and I pulled my underwear down to the top of my thighs. My hard cock was now fully exposed. Anne dove into my lap and gobbled it into her mouth.

The sudden movement in the backseat caught the driver’s attention. He looked quizzically at me in the rear-view mirror.

“She’s tired andhad too much to drink,” I bluffed. The driver shrugged and returned his attention to the road and surrounding traffic.

Anne’s mouth felt marvelous on my cock. She silently sucked the bulbous head between her lips and drooled on my manhood. She repeatedly allowed her saliva to drip down the sides of my shaft and then sucked it all back into her hungry mouth. It was a wet, sloppy blow job, the kind Anne gives when she’s feeling especially slutty.

Anne slid my cock out from between her lips and kissed the tip several times like an innocent teenaged girl necking with her boyfriend. She then stroked the slippery shaft and proceeded to give my balls a thorough tongue bath. She licked all around one tender nut, then the other, until my scrotum was as wet and shiny as my dick. Then she took turns sucking each testicle completely into her mouth.

I trembled in the seat as Anne’s mouth guided me down the narrow path between pleasure and pain. It drives me wild when she sucks my balls like that. The complete vulnerability of her controlling the most delicate part of my anatomy is powerfully erotic. One false movement could be devastating, yet Anne instinctively knows how to only give me pleasure.

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest. I was blissfully unaware of everything except Anne’s warm, wet mouth and the sounds of her slurping and sucking enthusiastically on my cock and balls. She was definitely getting louder as she spit-shined my pole. If the driver didn’t know earlier what she was doing to me, I was certain he realized it by then. I was equally sure that Anne didn’t care.

I felt the cab braking to a halt outside our house. I patted Anne’s shoulder to signal her to stop and she sat up slowly. In the dim light her lips, cheeks and chin shimmered with the thin layer of saliva she’d transferred from her mouth to my cock and back to her face. I thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

Before the car came to a complete stop, Anne had the passenger door open and was stepping onto the curb. I looked down into my lap and immediately realized there was no chance of getting my pants done up over my inflamed cock. I held them up as best as I could with one hand. With the other I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket, pulled out a wad of bills and threw them onto the front seat.

“Keep the change,” I called over my shoulder as I slammed the car door.

Anne had the front door open and was waiting just inside by the time I shuffled up the front stairs. She pushed it closed behind me with a thud and then squatted down as my pants dropped to my knees.

“I can’t get enough of your dick,” Anne moaned. She wrestled my cock down until it was pointing straight out towards her face. Her beautiful green eyes never left mine as her dark red lips parted and my rod disappeared once again into her greedy mouth.

Anne’s expert cock sucking soon had me approaching the point of no return. It took allmy willpowerto fight the urge to cum right there in the front hall. Instead, I pulled her back up and stood her in front of the floor-to-ceiling hallway mirror. I turned her around so she was facing it and I was behind her, looking over her shoulder. I lifted her long brown hair from the back of her neck and unzipped her dress. I then helped her slide it off her arms and it fell to the floor around her feet.

We both looked at the reflection of Anne’s stunning body in the mirror. I saw for the first time the new bra that she bought for the occasion. She told me earlier that night that her boobs looked amazing in it, and I saw for myself that she’d been far too humble. The black lace cradled Anne’s big, round tits and created a tantalizing valley between them that would have been perfect for my cock. Her dark nipples were clearly visible through the delicate fabric. I reached under her arms and cupped her magnificent breasts while leaving a trail of kisses from her neck to her ear. “You look amazing,” I whispered.

As I fondled Anne’s tits, my eyes roamed to her shapely legs. They were perfectly accentuated by the smooth black stockings attached to her matching garter belt. Between Anne’s legs her exposed, pouting pussy beckoned to me. I had an overpowering desire to lick it.

“I want to taste your pussy,” I breathed into Anne’s ear.

She leaned back against me as if her legs had buckled at the thought. “Oh, please do it,” she panted.

I led Anne up the stairs to our bedroom. She gracefully crawled onto the bed, flipped over onto her back and bent her legs so her knees were close to her chest. She was lying cross-wise on the bed with her hips at the edge of the mattress. She knew she’d assumed the perfect position for me to kneel on the floor and bury my face in her snatch.

I tore off the rest of my clothes and was on my knees in a flash. My tongue went straight into Anne’s sopping pussy and lapped at its pink walls. I tasted the remnants of the massive load of cum I’d blasted into Anne’s horny fuck hole less than 90 minutes earlier. I’d never eaten a creampie before, and to my relief it wasn’t at all unpleasant. Granted, most of my jizz had already leaked out and just about anything would taste incredible served up from Anne’s delicious pussy, but stillI wasa bit surprised and proud that it didn’t bother me.

I moved my mouth up to Anne’s swollen clit to make room for my finger in her smoldering cunt. I prodded and stirred her hungry box while my tongue attacked her sex button. When my finger was coated with her fuck juice, I slid it from her pussy and smeared her cream all over her ass.

Anne writhed on the bed as I teased her anus. Iused her pussy’s lubrication to slide a slippery finger inside her taut ass until the second knuckle disappeared. Her butt clenched around my finger and I marvelled at how sucha tight openingcouldaccept a cock.

After thoroughly fingering Anne’s ass, I pushed her legs farther up and back. Her asshole was fully displayed to me. I kissed the dark, puckered opening and tasted the sweet nectar from her pussy that I’d deposited there minutes earlier. Then I placed my tongue against her ass and wiggled it inside.

“Oh yeah, lick it,” Anne hissed. “Get it ready for your hard cock.”

My tongue snaked in and out of Anne’s willing ass. I licked circles around it and then forced it back inside. Anne groaned in delight and rubbed her dripping pussy as I orally assaulted her butt.

I stood up and reached into my bedside table for the bottle of massage oil I kept there. I flipped the cap open and poured the oil onto Anne’s mound. She jumped as the cool oil met her overheated pussy and ran down to her ass. She then reached between her legs and rubbed it all over her holes. They were both ready for cock.

I aimed my steely prick at Anne’s open pussy. It slid effortlessly inside until I felt my balls slap against her ass. I fucked her sweet cunt hard and deep for the second time that evening. As I reamed her, I

watched Anne’s big tits bounce around on her chest. Her sexy new bra was powerless against the force of my pounding cock.

As good as it felt, we both knew Anne’s pussy was just the appetizer this time around. I pulled my slippery cock out of her twat and pressed it into her oily ass. Anne’s sphincter resisted for a moment, then surrendered to my invading cockhead. I fucked her tight ass slowly at first with gentle, shallow strokes. Each time I pushed fractionally deeper until finally her eager ass welcomed all of my throbbing shaft.

“You look so fucking hot with my cock in your ass,” I said. I began to fuck her with my full length, pulling out to the tip and then ramming my meat back into her nasty butt.

“You love fucking my ass, don’t you?” Anne groaned. “It’s so tight stretched around your hard cock. God, it feels so good in there.”

My pace increased with Anne’s filthy encouragement. My hard, shiny pole pummeled her ass and sent shockwaves through her sexy body. “So fucking good,” I moaned.

“I’m all yours John,” Anne panted deliriously. “Use my ass and cunt however you want. Just don’t stop fucking me.”

“You horny slut,” I growled. “You’re going to make me cum talking like that.” “Yeah, I want your hot cum,” she replied. “Cum all over your dirty little slut.”

I thrust deep into Anne’s ass and collapsed on top of her. I kissed her hard and my tongue explored her filthy mouth. My aching cock twitched in her butt, but miraculously I didn’t cum.

“Are you ready to try something new?” I asked. “Anything.” “Good girl. I’m going to fill you with cock like you’ve never felt before.”

I stood up at the side of the bed with my dick still firmly rooted in Anne’s ravaged ass. I could tell from the look on her face that she didn’t understand what I meant, but I didn’t intend to keep her in suspense. I reached back into the bedside table and pulled out Anne’s thick, lifelike 10 inch dildo. Her eyes widened as she instantly realized what I intended to do. We’d both pleasured Anne’s pussy with that dildo countless times over the years, but never while my cock filled her ass.

I grabbed the massage oil from the bed and poured it over the monster dong until the oil dripped down to the base and covered my hand and fingers as well. I hesitated for a moment to make sure Anne was on board with my idea. She was in such an excited state, I shouldn’t have had any doubts.

“What are you waiting for?” she hissed. “Stick it in my cunt.”

Anne pulled her legs farther apart in anticipation of the dildo’s impressive girth. I slid the slick, rubbery head up and down her slit and then pressed it into her waiting tunnel.

“Oh fucking hell!” Anne screeched as the head popped inside her juicy box. “Are you OK?” “Yes,” she panted. “It’s so big. Keep going. Slow, but keep going.”

I eased the massive dildo deeper into Anne’s pussy. I felt it crowding my shaft through the thin wall of tissue that separated her rectum and vagina. Three times I had to stop and pull it back out because the pressure against my cock nearly made me cum. On my fourth attempt, I was able to get it halfway inside.

I loved fucking Anne with that dildo. It was several inches longer and noticeably thicker than my average cock. Seeing the pleasure on her face as it stretched and split her pussy on the way in, and watching her labia lewdly clutch at it when I pulled it back out, was wildly erotic. That night, with my dick balls deep in Anne’s perfect ass, it took us both to a whole new level of ecstasy.

I started alternatelyfucking Anne’s needy holes. When I slid my cock out of her ass I forced the huge dildo further into her quivering cunt. When I pulled the toy out, my cock resumed its rightful place deep in her gorgeous butt.

“Ungh, ungh, ungh,” Anne groaned. “So much dick. So fucking good.” She reached between her legs and diddled her engorged clit.

The sight of Anne touching herself as I reamed her pussy and ass pushed me over the edge. I whipped out my pulsating cock just as the first blast of jizz rocketed over her stomach and landed below her bra. My fist was a blur across my shaft as I stroked more globs of sticky sperm onto Anne’s heavenly body. A pool collected in her belly button and some splashed onto her garter belt. The last drops landed on her fingers which were furiously rubbing her clit.

“Oh fuck, I’m cumming!” Anne squealed. She rubbed my cum into her clit as I worked the long, fat dildo deep into her quaking pussy. Anne shuddered and shrieked as the orgasmic tremors rocked her body. Her face was a picture of blissful agony until finally the waves subsided and her body relaxed.

*****

On Monday I came home from work to find that Anne had hung the Star Wars poster in the den. My cock immediately started to stiffen at the innocent, yet highly effective reminder of Thursday’s intense fucking. “I think I’m starting to like this picture,” I said to myself. Then I left the den in a single-minded search for my sexy wife.

link to original stories hereandhere

• • •  [spoilers below]  • • •

In the middle of a blind date she doesn’t particularly want to be on, The Incredible Jessica James’ eponymous heroine squares off with her equally uncomfortable, male dinner friend/potential boyf/adversary.

They volley back and forth several brutally, “completely honest” questions.

After a few, he asks her, “How do you pay your rent?”

“I… work at a non-profit, in Hell’s Kitchen.” (Pride in her voice, though a somewhat knowing tone: yeah, I know. Very Brooklyn answer.) “I teach public school kids how to write and produce their own plays.”

“So… how do you pay your rent?”

She laughs.

Already – my Netflix ticker says this is barely 13:50 into the entire movie – the two biggest threads of the film come together: (1) an endearing, realistic romantic comedy starring Jessica Williams (that Dope QueenoffThe Daily Show who now does other stuff – namely, this) and rom-com’s staple dorky everyman Chris O’Dowd (because the thinking, even semi-straight woman[**] needs an IT guy); and (2) the female Bildungsroman.

If you’ve taken an English class any time since approx. 1980, you’ve probably had to learn and use “Bildungsroman” in an essay. It’s the coming-of-age novel, the story of growing up, an arc from innocence to experience. Except, as a pivotal cohort of feminist critics in the 1980s argued, the female Bildungsroman means “growing down,” a story of women being taught by society: Lower Your Expectations! Conform! Settle! The debate around what even isa Bildungsroman has wrestled with how gender-specific a story about maturing and (in essence) #adulting can be, given that women in Western society since the inception of the novel itself haven’t really had the options to leave home, discover themselves as autonomous, free, independent selves. The male Bildungsroman, in other words, is about the boy who grows up to be a man, and gets a job; the female Bildungsroman is about the girl who becomes a lady, and finds the right husband. Sure, there’s status and some freedom attached to that – class status and thus economic freedom, as the bourgieness of the novel excels at rewarding. But by and large, no matter how failed the male career, no matter how much the woman takes on a new career of domestic labor, the novels usually emphasize along these lines. Men achieve professional success; women aren’t left to be spinsters.

(A professor in my department, Jesse Rosenthal, pointed out how pervasive this narrative still is within even the most indie, “unconventional” of tales. His case study? (500) Days of Summer. As he recounted to a class on the 19^th-cen. British novel, here’s a movie putatively about the romantic maturation of the male subject – a rom-com trajectory usually reserved for women [i.e.. He’s Just Not That Into You could never be She’s Just Not That Into You]. But Joseph Gordon Levitt’s problematic-nice-guy fairy tale, complete with problematic-indie-dream-girl Zooey Deschanel, isn’t his acceptance of a limited role in his next relationship. It’s a successful job interview. [roll credits])

So the fact that The Incredible Jessica James coupled, in several senses, these two plots wasn’t surprising to me. Less than 15 minutes in, and yeah, obviously, Chris O’Dowd is gonna get the girl, and Jessica is gonna get over her ex by realizing that she “deserves” this more mature guy. Her work is great and all, the story goes, but obviously what we want is Bridesmaids with a lady of color. Comedy + late capitalism’s precarity (Jessica, how doyou pay your rent? Are you going to have to go live with your parents like Kristin Wiig had to after the cupcake biz tanked?) = love story. And bonus points for being about Instagram, and having a WOC lead where a white actress would have been five or ten years ago (slash even now): kudos, my friends. Kudos.

But… that’s not what happened. And here’s where this movie is radical.

BecauseThe Incredible Jessica James is a female Bildungsroman [or Bildungs-Film] that subtly, cannily, definitively breaks the mold. 

It isn’t a story about a woman realizing how wrong she is to be hung up on the wrong, bad boy, and thus the return to the family, to society’s right side of the tracks, to *herself* that is made whole again by giving up her rebellious adolescent wandering and waffling. Instead, TIJJpresents a heroine who goes through a series of rejections not of lovers, but of jobs [displayed on her wall: see first screencap]. It tracks her indefatigable efforts to make what she loves (theater) into a career, even a somewhat uncertain one. It’s about her slow realization – not the sudden “awakening” narrative that critics have ascribed to female/feminist Bildungsroman of old – that what she’s doing, working every day with kids, continuing to send out her resume, writing and reading and connecting with the public circles of her aspiring field – all that, isa career.

Take, for example, a crucial marker of James’s acceptance of herself, and of her status, as grown-up, matured, sufficiently adult that she’s no longer faking it til she makes it: she’s Made It. The blueish-purple jumpsuit spotted in a Brooklyn consignment shop, the kind that is explicitly labeled as male by the sewn patch of its previous owner, “Randolph,” tall enough for even the pretty tall JJ. 

Working-class, second hand, male-identified uniform; natural hair in box braids; red lipstick and bright eyeliner. This is how Jessica meets her parents. But the music slides to an uncomfortable stop as Jessica gets off the Arrivals moving walkway: her parents are bourgie, sweet, stable, and utterly unlike her in spirit. This is the American middle-class dream – as authors from Frantz Fanon to Paul Gilroy to Ta Nehisi-Coates have written – that preys on Black people specifically, the double-consciousness of passing as it works in all its formulaic vapidity. Jessica’s younger sister, too, has bought into this dream: she takes one look at Jessica.

“You look like an auto-mechanic,” Jerusa (her sister) points out in a tone dripping with judgment.

“It’s cool, though, right?” Jessica beams.

“Yeah…” her sister nods, meaning the opposite. “I mean, you’re not going to wear it to the party?” [Her very normative, unironic, and uncritical baby shower.]

“… Nope,” Jessica deflates. Pretending this has been her plan all along.

Because this family isn’t ever going to be the place where Jessica can be anything other than stifled. The prim-and-proper group sits in the suburban family room late that night, merrily gooey-eyed over a romantic drama they’re watching on TV, whose dialogue (that’s all we overhear) is so utterly, sickeningly banal that Jessica doesn’t even enter the room. She hangs back, in the darkness. The entire setting – with all its race and class implications (and the sincere and moving subplot about the James family’s struggles with making their own rent, and how this continues to the present with Jessica’s public school kid whose divorced parents are fighting over custody, intertwines class and race throughout) – requires, in sum, the painful subjugation of Jessica’s self. A “growing down,” a compromise, as its definition of “growing up.”

Women of traditional Bildungsromane, Abel, Hirsch and Langland posit, “are not free to explore; more frequently, they merely exchange one domestic sphere for another. While the young hero roams through the city, the young heroine strolls down the country lane” (8).

Jessica James, by contrast, goes back to New York.

And back, at least superficially, to the romantic sphere of this rom-com. Where her jumpsuit is acceptable; where people like her appreciate thoughtful, empowering arts (instead of, like her mom’s Very White Book Club Lady friend wants, Cats). Where her lesbian best friend (that actress from Master of None) is the elective community James wants, not the family she’s contractually obliged to recognize in her blood. Where Chris O’Dowd is; where her career is.

So how does the movie wrap up the romantic plot without making this aboutJessica’s successful “deserving” of the Right Man™?

(It’s worth noting, before we spoil the ending, that the Boone – aka O’Dowd – subplot of the movie focuses on his not being able to get over the right girl. He stalks his ex-wife, amusingly because it’s Chris O’Dowd, but I think the movie implies cringe-worthily and creepily too: the dude side of rom-coms, it seems, is bleak; not somewhere the film is especially interested in lingering, and neither really are we. He’s eventually ashamed of himself, and this humility is deliberately more endearing than his Every Breath You Take enactment was. Admittedly, we could get into the politics of who says they’re sorry at various points in the film, who asks for and who gives forgiveness, and the ways in which being placed in a position of forgiving is, in a way, simultaneously powerful and powerless. But Nietzsche and feminism is a debate for another time.)

What I’m especially struck by – and I’ve watched this movie myself and with my sister, and then thought about it again after it was praised by another woman I love who watched it an ocean away – is that TIJJends with Jessica.

The final two scenes are crucial here. The penultimate brings together the two guys; formally, the two choices of a Bildungsroman: forward, or back? Jessica’s ex, Damon, finds her backstage after the kids’ theater night concludes, and opens with how he “know[s] how much this means to” her. For a split second, I panicked: OH GOD, fuck, this is why we can’t have nice things. They’re gonna have this guy realize how great she is – because obviously the only way a guy can appreciate a woman is for him to be in competition with another man. She deserves better! I shouted internally. Don’t take him back: sure, you realized you were as responsible for the break-up as he was. So what! You can do better.

But they hug, they sigh, and he leaves. (At which point I breathed a sigh of relief.)

Enter Chris O’Dowd. (At which point I was back to, fuck conventionality. What a missed opportunity.)

Turns out, though, the movie saw me – and the Bildungsroman – coming a mile off.

Because Jessica – unlike Rachel – gets on the damn plane.

Jessica, after all, has been offered a huge job opportunity in the most novelistic of cities: London. But things are just getting back on track with Right Guy; but going is her dream, is her big break; but he, like Damon, just realized how great she is – he read her entire corpus of theatrical writing, and declared – #honesty – that he’s still coming to grips with her complexity, on the page and off; but; but; but…

But… she forgot to tell him about London. And in a sense, this is where swelling crescendos of orchestral joy began filling my head, because if this had been a rom-com like the others, if this had been a female coming-of-age story like the others, she would never forgotten about him. Ever. Not once. He would have been her one phone call; her best friend-par-excellence; her Person. Instead, that honor goes to Tasha, the semi-parodic self-involved best friend who always, though, has Jessica’s back.

And so when the clearly wealthy – loaded, because of an app that is explicitly about the formal gesture afforded by technology of Family, without the actual emotional or affective labor of having to talk to those totally different people who somehow raised you! – Boone mentions “frequent flyer miles,” we can anticipate an airplane that Jessica (by now we can say, of course) will be on.

“Just if you wanted to… bring someone with you… to show you around the town,” he hedges, just before the cut.

“How does that work? […] Frequent flyer miles?”

Cut to Jessica – in the god. damn. JUMPSUIT. Pleased as punch, sitting in – oh yes, we can have nice things – not even economy seats. The nice seats.

At which point, the truly INCREDIBLE part of this movie becomes clear:

Tasha: Dude, I can’t believe your boyfriend bought us tickets to London.

Jessica: Okay, who said anything about him being my boyfriend?

T: Wait. What are you talking about? This is like, the most romantic gesture I have ever seen.

JJ: Yeah, it’s dope. But it takes more than a couple of roundtrip tickets to London for somebody to be my boyf.

T: That is so boss.

Shandra – the elementary school girl whose divorced parents prompted Jessica’s own reflection on her parents/childhood – returning to her seat: What is so boss?

T: Uh, Jessica.

S: Oh, yeah. Duh.[… I]t was really cool of your boyfriend to get me a ticket, too.

T: Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. Sister. Just because a guy buys a lady a couple of roundtrip tickets to London does not make him her boyfriend.…

[a beat]

S: You know, I like your jumpsuit.

JJ: Thank you. Yeah, it’s pretty bad-ass, right?

S: Hm. Yeah, it is.

They all exchange smiles, the camera zooms in for one final-close up of Jessica’s excited anticipation of landing for the beginning of – not her romance, but – her career.

COME ON! You’re telling me the final scene of this movie is a new affinity, a new definition of family, in which the white, straight, married couple form is reshaped into the female solidarity of friendship, while the child of that hetero dyad of yore is now the dark-skinned girl who herself is a budding author, having been mentored by Jessica, who is – onscreen – mentored by another strong, Black female playwright??? You’re telling me that throw-away moment in the corridor backstage with Chris O’Dowd that seems like the lead-in to a kiss is in fact his last appearance onscreen??? You’re telling me the movie, moreover, goes out of its way to stress – TWICE – that whatever erotic/romantic relationship they’re in, Jessica didn’t accept this trip as the quid pro quo of settling down??? YOU’RE TELLING ME THIS NEW COLLECTIVE IS SO AWARE OF ITS MEMBERS’ QUIRKS AND FOIBLES AND SELF-AUTHORSHIP/FASHIONING THAT THE FINAL LINES OF THE MOVIE UNDERSCORE THAT JESSICA CAN, IN FACT, DRESS HOWEVER THE FUCK SHE WANTS, AND THAT SOME PEOPLE WILL LOVE HER FOR IT, AND FEEL THE SAME ABOUT THE THINGS SHE LOVES???

Get out of my face, TIJJ. You have *EXPLODED* the female Bildungsroman, and maybe the Bildungsroman full-stop. There is no return to the original society, no compromise, no settling. Jessica isn’t the one forced to the margins of the story by choosing either independence or submission: the family is.

For that matter, romance sort of is. Jessica has no “boyf”; Tasha has no (onscreen, stable, couple-form) gf, but neither is she a hypersexualized lerb. She masturbates on/off-screen, but it’s one of her quirks! She and Jessica go to a lesbian bar, where Tasha chats with several recognizably-styled queer ladies: but she is neither reduced to her own romance plot, nor denied any sexuality at all. She and Jessica, however queerly you read their relationship (and I don’t especially, but I see how one could), are the empowering couple of the film, supporting each other not just in romance but in their mutually-reinforcing careers.

This is a rom-com about aiming high, about finding a career not in, because of, or in spite of a guy, but because it’s the one through-line of the entire story. Jessica begins and ends loving her work, and the slow build of that love rewards her by the end. She has Made It. The fact that she probably goes home to an attractive dude who boosts but is not himself responsible for her career – sure, he gets her upgraded tickets, but her confidence, “forthright[ness],” and drive suggest she would have made it to London without him, no question, by whatever means necessary – is icing on the cake. Yes, there was a maturation narrative within the romantic plot (she learned to leap in her relationships; she also learned, as Boone did, to have realistic expectations of where both partners are at any given moment in a relationship). But this, the movie stresses, is not the end of the story. It’s a subplot within herstory.

[gif from x]

I don’t think it’s unimportant, either, that Jessica Williams – a fine actress in this movie, entirely winning the screen – plays the heroine. By which I mean, I think it’s all the more radical that to play the romantic interest to gaze adoringly at rom-com’s Irish nerdboy Chris O’Dowd, the director/producers/writers picked a woman whose best-known appearances are in scathing condemnations of male privilege,white supremacy, and American patriarchal, racist, and just terrible norms in general. That such a woman is the new face – but I didn’t even get to talk about the fact that in a few scenes, Jessica J/W’s complexion is a little spotty, which made me (with a long history of struggling with the medical and psychological reality of being a teenager and then adult woman with terrible acne) want to cry with gratitude: this is what a heroine looks like? 

Sure, Wonder Woman is fab, but damn I needed this representation so much – maybe more – than the superheroic, impervious demi-goddess from Themyscira. I needed a strong, self-loving, no-nonsense, tall, Black, not-quite-starving artist in Brooklyn, jamming with headphones in the concrete stairwell of her building, who proudly declares, “I’m freakin’ DOPE.”

I needed a new female coming-of-age story – especiallyin 2017 –, and, somewhat subtly but unquestionably, The Incredible Jessica James delivered.

***

{** I use “women,” “men,” “male,” and “female” throughout this piece to refer mostly to the historical categories of those identities/concepts. I also want to be clear that I’m not trying to gloss over this film’s missteps; rather, I’m trying to celebrate its major, but possibly missable, wins. Lastly, I know that in German Bildungsromanmeans *novel* of development/maturation, not *film*. Don’t @ me.

Thanks to Jesse Rosenthal (JHU) for getting me thinking about the basic understanding of the Bildungsroman in such concise, formal terms. For the debate about male vs./and female Bildungsromane, see – to name just some –, Abel, Hirsch and Langland (eds.), The Voyage In: Fictions of Female Development (1983); Lorna Ellis, Appearing to Diminish: Female Development and the BritishBildungsroman, 1750-1850 (1999); Rita Felski, Beyond Feminist Aesthetics: Feminist Literature and Social Change(1989);Franco Moretti, The Way of the World: The Bildungsroman in European Culture (1987); and Susan Fraiman, Unbecoming Women: British Women Writers and the Novel of Development (1993).

The Incredible Jessica James (2017), dir. and writer Jim Strouse; produced by Beachside Films/Netflix. S/o to casting, Kate Geller and Jessica Kelly. Thanks also to Springfield! Springfield! movie scripts for their transcription, which saved me time. }

My bed feels more like a coffin these days. Holding this sleepless shell of mine, holding this heavy hollow heart. A body so empty of life, the warmth ripped out of my bones. My veins carry a shade of blue, painted from the sadness; strokes of red against my wrists. I am here, a haunting presence, a shadow of a soul, but I am also gone. A lost memory, a quiet voice faded and forgotten. I haven’t felt alive in awhile, I’ve been hidden in the dark, wandering outside the locked door. Too terrified to knock, too hesitant to ask for help. I watch from the window, who I am has drowned in the sorrows that sink my skin. My reflection might as well be a stranger, a face without a name, a story unheard. What is suppose to be my home might as well be a ghost town, a shelter broken and burning, we abandoned each other long ago.

Isabel Cabrera

when i look at people older than me, i often wonder how they made it here. how life didn’t swallow them whole. i study their faces like a map, i see the pools of weariness in their eyes. i see the way wrinkles dangle around their mouths, how the lines seep into their skin, little reminders of how long they’ve lived. i glide my eyes over their hands, the signs of growth and age splattered on their knuckles. i wonder about the stories they’ve gone through, i wonder if they were the protagonist or the antagonist. i wonder how they managed to wake up, to sleep, to exist through so many days and nights. i get overwhelmed. ican’t even fathom the thought of tomorrow, i can’t look at it with willing eyes, i can’t embrace it with open arms. instead, i dread it. i look at all the days i’ve lived, and they hang around my head, all the old memories, they haunt me. and so i wonder how they did it. i wonder how they’ll continue to do it, until death decides it’s time to take them. i wonder if i’ll ever get there. if i’ll ever look in the mirror, and the fine lines growing across my face will be normal, welcoming. i wonder if my days will be worth waking up for, if the thought of tomorrow will become a gift i’m lucky enough to receive. i can’t picture myself like that, aging, embracing. i can’t muster up  a version of me with gray hair, and crepe skin. i’ve always thought i’d be gone too young, that this sadness would sink me into my grave before a wrinkle could settle into my fake smile. i’ve been convinced i won’t make it out of this battle alive; that this darkness is too strong, too thick to break through. i don’t know if i’ll ever be an old soul. but i do know i’ve been a drowning one. a lost one. a dying one.

Evangelion came to me when I was in the most wretched of states.

As a boy of 18 years, I would go entire days without eating. I was jobless, dropped out of school, only saw friends every other weekend, and lived in isolation with only my mother sometimes around. By all means, I had no credentials and no prospects, and even the friends I did have in person had no interest in the same things I did.

I’d lost all sense of who I was as a person, or who I ever wanted to be. I’d attended the graduation of my friends back in my home town only to go back to the city a night later. Most people thought I left for the city to find more people like me; I was regarded as “artsy” by most, idiosyncratically withdrawn and “disarmingly charismatic”. That was what I knew best: how to talk my way out of or into just about any situation. And I’d do it before I even knew why I was doing it or what the repercussions could be. Could I really do this job? Could I love and be loved in equal measure? Could I trust myself to make the right decisions when other people needed me to? What did I really want?

I would take infrequent freelance remote work and dispassionately complete it, sometimes pushing back deadlines on projects I would claim were out of my control or needed more to work with. I would lie to my mother about looking for full time work so I could stay in safety longer, under the protection of the roof she paid for. Sometimes she’d be more adamant that I had to begin pursuing my own path. Other times she kept quiet, silently empathizing with my depression and placing faith in me that I’d find my way eventually.

Every other weekend, I would visit my father, who would come to the city to pick me up and drive me back to my hometown where my friends and both my younger and older brother were. When he talked, he would rarely ask me about myself, instead using the time to talk about himself or complain to me about my brothers or my mother. He liked to keep me in his mind as his son and the one who would cause him the least pain. Most of the time I kept quiet, wanting to preserve that for him as long as I could.

When I turned 19 in January of 2013, I’d never been further from myself. There was something about a January birthday that I felt connected me to the passage of time. January 5th followed the new year so closely that I could feel myself aging along with the world. I wondered, when would it reach a terminus? Was the world suddenly speeding toward it, or had it always been this way and I was merely shedding layers of naiveté? I would have days where I’d see the rise and fall of the sun from my bedroom window, constricted by the blinds I’d kept shuttered the majority of the time. I’d lay so still that at times I’d think I was dead. My hand on the pillow in front of me felt detached from my soul, without the will or seemingly the know-how to move it. Unresponsive, without purpose, distant. Dead. Was this death? Sometimes I’d snap out of it by the distortion of my vision, fearing that I was actually dying, only to find out that they were tears. And once I realized what was happening, only more tears followed. Other times, I simply fell asleep.

In that same January, after the strong encouragement of a friend I’d known for years through an internet connection (and who remains a close friend to this day), I finally watched Neon Genesis Evangelion. It was the first anime I’d watched in full.

Some of the weight of its personal significance to me came to me immediately, others gradually over time. Watching it I was delighted, bewildered, paralyzed, and ultimately defeated. I watched the final two episodes and felt lost, hurt, and confused, like the feeling of suddenly losing a loved one without any pretense or fanfare. I didn’t know what The End of Evangelion was, but I’d convinced myself that no matter what it’d turn out to be, it wouldn’t be the end of the series I was hoping for — but it was… just not the one I’d wished for. It was more painful than I’d been prepared for, more confronting. After finishing I sobbed myself tearless and laid in my bed as I had before, in a space between deep thought and blankness, searching for answers. I saw myself in Evangelion; my solitude and reluctance in Shinji, my anger and arrogance in Asuka, my existential confusion in Rei, and the future I was pushing back against in Misato. They were like real people to me, rendered with a psychological depth and empathy that was unprecedented to me in any form of art. It beat me, invaded me, and in doing so, made everything in my life feel real in a way it hadn’t for far too long. I needed something more.

Two weeks later, not expecting anything more than a cinematic remake, I watched Rebuild of Evangelion 1.0 and 2.0, and coming to them with my expectations leveled, I couldn’t have prepared myself for what I’d discover in them. Aside from all of the chronological oddities and visual depictions of succession from Neon Genesis, I was struck with the changes in the characters. It was more than the necessity of a cinematic runtime that spurred them into making greater strides at earlier times than they ever had before, but rather others saying things to them that had never been said before, showing them things that had they’d never seen, or taking action at a time where it was critically imperative, where previously there was none. In Rebuild of Evangelion, some catastrophes are averted and others are supplemented with new ones, but the paths the characters are on is always fundamentally bending. It was a sign of true growth.

I learned about Hideaki Anno, where he was in his life when he made Neon Genesis Evangelion, the emotional and creative outpouring that went into The End of Evangelion, and the ways his life had changed before beginning to rebuild it all. This was attachment and compulsion, the need to express something greater. Whatever personal conclusions Anno had come to or was in the progress of unraveling were in Rebuild. To me, it represented hope, a pathway to the answers I needed.

That year, I started a blog devoted to analyzing Eva from what I deemed to be the most valuable for the series — and the most underrepresented by the leading voices in its online discussion: the emotional. Most of the posts were images from the original series, manga, and new films (all of which I considered to be connected by obscure means within Eva’s own universe, which would later gain the name of the Evangelion Infinity), drawing comparison between the three, seeking to instigate discussion of how they overlap and change and the fundamentals of their relationship with one another and how their contrast points toward the future. This eventually garnered a large following and far more attention than I’d ever bargained for; it was both gratifying and terrifying. But it was still just an analysis of another person’s work.

Ever since I’d left my hometown, I’d taken to writing to escape my isolated circumstances, submerging myself in science fiction worlds of my making and sharing them with what started as a small group of friends and blossomed to a larger audience before shrinking once more as a result of my own inactivity as the pain became too strong to even find the words to describe. Eventually, through the Evangelion blog, I found a means to express myself again, and beyond simply analyzing another’s work, I’d write public essays and personal responses to others about how the series had affected myself and others in our external world. Aside from creating stories of my own, this gave me more purpose than anything I’d done prior.

In January 2014, I returned to my hometown to celebrate another birthday. Another year on this Earth: my 20th. I didn’t share Evangelion with my friends; that wasn’t the kind of relationship we had. To share Evangelion with them would be to make myself vulnerable on an intimate level that I feared them misunderstanding or judging — they weren’t the introspective types. All of them were quite unlike me; a loud and rambunctious group of boys with youthful spirits, seemingly living only for the present. In hindsight, I see that’s why I valued my time with them so dearly, despite my occasional frustrations and wishes that I could be more personable. That 20th birthday they treated me to an organized night at the local pub house, a place that seemed to embody the best aspects of my hometown. There, at that celebration dedicated to the life I’d taken for granted, the life I couldn’t understand the value in — to myself or others — I felt loved. More familiar faces had come out than I’d ever seen since my high school days, both acquaintances and friends I’d thought I’d lost all connection with, people who I’d assumed had forgotten me. The standout was already there at the pub all along: a girl I had loved and grown close to through my school years was working there, and she hadn’t forgotten me — nor did she attempt to feign indifference to my presence. Whether the romantic infatuations of a child could be considered “real love” or not, in my time knowing her, it felt as real as I’d known to that point.

It wasn’t hard to understand why I felt the way I did toward her. To me, she was the most beautiful girl in our town, yet never leveraged it for her social status, even in high school when doing so would be most beneficial. She was arguably the most popular girl in the schools we attended, yet she walked home with me as far as our paths aligned, sat next to me at lunch, laughing at each other’s off-color and oddly specific jokes. We confided in one another, yet obeyed unspoken boundaries between us. Even now, it’s hard to say how much of that was her and how much of that was my own fear. In the days soon after I left for the city and the ones leading up to it, that question was torturous for me. That night at the pub, she came to me and hugged me, congratulating me on my life milestone and after her shift finished she sat next to me as the others talked amongst themselves. I always assumed that seeing her again would be painful for me, but everything had changed. We were what the state would consider “adults,” and the circumstances we’d found ourselves in had set in. I knew she was never in love with me the way I was with her, but I’d found value in our friendship beyond the youthful yearning she knew I’d had for her. When the night wound down, I walked her out into the snowy parking lot and she gave me a long kiss on the cheek under the pub’s neon sign and said goodbye. That was the last time I ever saw her.

When I’d returned home to my mother’s place, I felt a hard pang of regret and despair. Why did I leave those people? Where would I be then if I’d stayed behind? Where did I belong? Who would I be? Would I be me? Who was I? Not even my blog provided solace, as I’d return to find people on the site attempting to denigrate my writing and my perspective. Though it was a vocal minority, combined with the despair of imagining the ways in which my life could be different, it was enough to push me into a panic attack. I felt like years worth of repressed fear and anxiety was pouring out all at once, and I was cornered into the bathroom wall I’d huddled against, uncertain if I would simply end up fainting or vomit. Despite the anguish I’d attributed to the blog and the rest of the website, it’s where I returned that same night in an attempt to find my heading. It was then that I found a message from somebody who had recently filled my blog’s activity list with a flood of notifications, ‘likes’, ‘reblogs’, (how strange, the significance we apply to such things) replies, messages in their tags, and the most important one: in my inbox.

The way she spoke of my writing in her message made me feel more odd than most. I’d received “thank yous” before, personal accounts of people’s history with the series and how it’s affected them and how my writing has helped them understand both the story of Evangelion and their feelings toward it, but this one was different. They spoke to me as if the show was scarcely a factor in it at all, but rather my writing was the primary motivator for messaging me. As they told it, they felt as if I’d seen them as a person and helped articulate feelings they’d never accessed before. Then they apologized for being so personal and for if it was “out of bounds” — then they asked if I had any interest in instant messaging to talk more.

I didn’t know what this person looked like, where they lived, how old they were, what gender they were — nothing. It didn’t matter; I’d unwittingly made a connection. I’d soon discover that they were a she and she lived in the American state below my Canadian province and was a mere half year younger than I was. Born in the middle of the year, an August birthday. What did that mean for her perception of time’s passing? It wasn’t a thought of mine at the time, rather, I found myself wound up in her own story of personal strife with her family and those around her. She loved what I loved and hated what I hated, and together we discovered new things for both of us to love and hate together. It wasn’t long until that became the two of us, together in a relationship. To that point, I thought it knew what it meant when The End of Evangelion’s opening title card said that “Love is destructive,” but as reality would have it, I didn’t know the half of it.

It’s hard to compare anything else in life to the fast burning intensity and yearning of a long distance relationship. We were quite literally inseparable: in each other’s pocket and atop desks everywhere we went, who we’d turn to in the secluded corners and balconies of family and friend gatherings, preferring one another’s company to those around us, sharing our relationships with those very people with one another and learning more about ourselves along the way. We’d talk from the fall of the sun to its rise, which I’d watch from my bedroom window, unobscured by the blinds I’d keep reeled up, so that I could be awoken by the sunlight beaming into my room, keeping me on a regular waking schedule, one where I could talk to her, sharing each other’s hours. With her encouragement, I found a job in guest services at the start of the summer at a hair salon that was one of a chain my mother had served as the regional manager for many years prior. There, for the first time since I had come to the city, I found new friends. Some had known me through my mother, remarking on how the last time they’d seen me I was but a little boy, propped up and fawned over on the very desk I stood behind for my job. From the offset, they had a predisposition to liking me because of their relationship with my mother, feeling that I was cut from the same cloth. Most of those that were new there were of my same generation, and they were the ones I grew closest with. Aside from one of the older stylists, I was the only male in the salon. Sometimes that made me feel special, receiving light and friendly flirtations, other times it made me feel like an imposter, as though I was invading a space that wasn’t mine to occupy — but above all, it made me feel at ease.

This time provided more feelings than I’d ever felt in my life. I had a full time job with people I enjoyed working alongside, some of whom I’d come to regard as close friends, a healthy connection to my hometown, and a partner who I loved and felt loved by. One hot summer night I decided I’d clean and rearrange my room for the first time since we’d moved. Sorting boxes and moving bookshelves and converting my double into a bunk bed, the uppermost twin having dominated the other side of my room the entire time I wasn’t visited by my younger brother every other weekend. Having that space clear struck me as pertinent to a clear state of mind. The whole time I kept my headphones on, my mic on my chest, laughing, teasing, and flirting with each other over drinks as she studied her coursework until we both gave up on our key tasks and succumbed to the summer heat and one another’s growing advances — as much as a couple could through audio alone. That night went from laughter, to remote sex, to deeply personal talk, to tears. That night, she’d opened up to me more than ever before, and asked me to stay with her until she fell asleep. Soon after she stopped responding, I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing. Despite the fact that we’d later meet in person, able to touch one another directly, that was the best memory I had with her.

Touch. That’s what came of that night. I’d always loved editing video; it felt like the instantly accessible form of visually directing a story that I’d longed for. As I did with my writing, I decided to edit together a video for Evangelion that represented not just my love of the story or what it meant to me, but what I was feeling in my life up to, and including, the time I made it, both as a result of Evangelion and the the circumstances I’d created for myself. I knew I wanted to make an Eva video set to Daft Punk’s operatic opus Touch off of their would-be final album Random Access Memories, which had been the soundtrack to my first year with Eva. Every single verse in the song represented what I’d valued in the series on a thematic and emotional level, with the persistent lyric being: “If love is the answer, you’re home; Hold on.”WithEva’s own continued motif of ”I’m home”and”Welcome home” in the quest to find where one belongs, it sounded to me as though the song and the series were made for one another. I started and restarted numerous times over months, trying to capture the right feeling that existed outside of either; a feeling I could call my own, a rhythm that existed outside of the sound or the screen. When I was done I called it TOUCH: An Ode to Evangelion, a video that can still be found on YouTube, and a reminder of the unrelenting forward march of time whenever I see the number of years that have passed since its release under the title. My partner told me that she could “see all of [me]” in it the way I’d seen her on that long evening. By the end of the summer, as August faded, I’d come to fear that maybe we’d seen and felt too much, too fast. From our seemingly unconditional familiarity, contempt was born.

We were still children. She was plowing through life in an attempt to appease her mother, and I was just beginning to live life, trying to find the means to leave behind the safeties that came from living with my own mother. The similarities between who we were and the characters we’d initially connected through was not lost on either of us. We came to blows over small and large traits and tics possessed by one another that previously we would have accepted or even endeared ourselves to. By Fall, we’d already “broken up” twice. Our dynamic was crumbling. Phones ran silent. Notifications stopped appearing. I kept trying to fight the notion that it was really over; how could two people love each other so much so fast and passionately, only for it to burn out as though it had barely been lit? On a better, kinder day between us, she told me: “Sometimes I wish you were a girl”. I didn’t tell her, but before I’d met her, a lot of the time I did as well.

When we met for the last time, it was in the early evening snow, the day after Christmas. I went to her by bus and the extent of our visit was a long evening, where, at the end, we parted ways. It was painful, and I hadn’t planned to return to Canada for another three days. I knew we couldn’t stay together. I had a suitcase and was dressed better than I’d ought to be for what I ended up doing: roaming the streets of a city I didn’t know in a country that wasn’t my own. The one upside to dressing as well as I did was that nobody would ask me my age in bars there, which I took to great benefit as I was a mere 9 days from drinking legally in the United States. I was walking through the night in search of a hotel that would take debit, which I naively hoped for at every lit sign at either side of town. Nobody questioned me as I slept on the lounge chair of a hotel I’d visited a few years prior, my hand gripped around my suitcase, which held a brand-new laptop that my mother and father, in a rare joint effort, had both purchased for me on Christmas a couple days earlier. The irony of lugging my literal baggage through the city I associated with the girl I loved, again, was not lost on me.

Eventually I was directed to a comfy hostel where I was able to stay for my remaining two days in comfort. I went to the movies. I explored. I dined. I spoke to random people on the street in a way I found never happened with the same spontaneity in Canada. And I wandered, my ears clasped under my headphones (which, in hindsight, may have been unwise to do in the dead of night in a foreign city where everything that would get me back home was on my person). When the time came to go home, I had worked myself through to a state of indifference. When I got back to Canada, my mom welcomed me home with a hug. She didn’t ask how it went, and, mercifully, she never did.

The breakup was hard on me. I didn’t speak to my now-ex partner for another month, knowing she was going through a difficult time in her own life as well due to the death of her mother. When she had seen me that night at the end of December, the reason she didn’t extend the invitation to stay with her that I’d never expected was because she was caring for her mother as her health faded. She didn’t tell me this until we’d reconnected; it didn’t surprise me. I knew that her mother’s health was declining in sync with our relationship for months prior, and despite her asking me to come and be with her for either comfort or a final goodbye, I never imagined it would be under such impending dire circumstances. Through it, I’d offered myself to be there for her, no matter what, hoping that would be sufficient, as it was all I could do for her then. Despite all of my anger and sadness in losing what I had felt was my first “true” love, it paled in comparison to the hell she was going through as she retreated into herself with self harm and isolation. It wasn’t a relationship test a couple of kids were ever meant to endure. When she was saying her goodbyes to her mother, to me, mine was saying “Welcome home”.

I took the queasy comfort that provided. How could I possibly be angry? How could I curse her mother for her impending death coming between us? But I was. And I did. I hated both of them, and most of all, I hated myself.

In January 2015, I quit my job, citing the not-untrue reason of insufficient pay, but the most pressing reason — the one I didn’t give — was that I simply couldn’t get out of bed anymore. Despite my departure, my friends stayed close. They checked on me and invited me out to gatherings to keep me among the living. I was more grateful toward them than I had words for. In the summer before they aww’d and sighed when I would talk about my relationship and how much I loved my partner. The pseudo-poetic fantasy in which I’d spoken of her then made for a dreamy story, bolstered by the truth of my feelings. Without that, I’d lost what was of greatest value to me: my words. I spent the rest of 2015 the way I’d spent every year between 2010 and 2014: lying around in my room, waiting for either fate to uplift me or death by dissolution. It was at this time that I visited my father and got into a long-simmering argument with him that would result in me refusing to see or speak with him directly to this day. Both times we’d gotten into arguments of that scale, his elderly mother had been visiting him. Something about her had always brought out the worst in him, despite her, to me, simply appearing to be a harmless old woman. We’ve not heard a sound out of each other’s mouths since then. He never told me why being around her would set him off as it did. 2015 remains a year that, aside from that lone event, almost does not exist in my memory. In 2016 I decided it had been enough.

I knew I didn’t want to die. After a sombre birthday and a vicious, bloody fight with my younger brother, who had since moved to stay with us in the city, I knew I had to leave. I didn’t want to be the one to cause my mother any more pain than she’d already had to hide and bear watching me waste away all day. I was overdue to depart from my prolonged stay in the womb where I had the luxury of undisturbed comforts and time passed but I never grew, submerged the portal to unreality that my laptop provided. I’d been selfish and I knew it, and knowing only made the pain worse. I found steady work and, in 2017, I moved out.

Where was Eva? Could I face the cruel reflection of my life in fiction anymore? I’d withdrawn from it, feeling every aspect of its relevance to my life had shown its face. It was the guilt, the anger, the longing, love, sadness, confusion, comfort, depression, anxiety… All of it had come to bear, and none of it had an ending. The last thing anyone had seen of Evangelion was a broken Shinji, a furious Asuka, and a lost Rei wandering off into the red desert. I knew I couldn’t wait for Eva anymore, I couldn’t wait for Anno to exorcise his demons and turn them into art that I could simply leech off of; I had to find my own answers.

2017. 2018. 2019. As the years passed, I considered the value of each. I’d risen to prominence in the company I worked at, made new friendships, enjoyed casual on-going romantic flings, and found home in the friends I’d known through an online connection we’d maintained and refined over the entire stretch of the 2010’s. Invaluable. Irreplaceable. Tested and true, the bond I have with my friends has become familial over the years as we’ve grown closer. Every Christmas Eve morning we would have get-togethers of our own, where our time zones would momentarily overlap and we’d make time to celebrate our found family and friendship, sending each other gifts and engaging in merrily heightened banter — a tradition that continues to this day, along with others. These are friends that have been here for me and put up with me at my worst, reassuring me through my failures and holding me up when I triumph with a level of interest and enthusiasm that I can’t feel with anyone else in my life. Until I realized how important they were to me, I simply took the love of a family for granted. That I would die for any of these people without hesitation doesn’t scare me — in fact, it reminds me that I’m alive.

We were an unlikely worldwide band of lone wolves, nerds, troublemakers, and outcasts. We were simultaneously so alike and so different in ways that perfectly complemented each other, and in 2020 we had at least one thing in common with the rest of the world, too.

In a way, we were uniquely prepared for the COVID-19 pandemic in a way few people could have been. We had our tightly wound social circle with us at all times, socially distanced across thousands of miles and oceans between us. I’d lost work and found myself at the mercy of on-going government relief benefits to keep me housed and fed. In the retreat of our Discord server, we battened down the hatches like NERV would Tokyo-3 on an Angel’s approach. You could practically hear Shiro Sagisu’s battle drums as we each reported in through March how the pandemic would be affecting us. Suddenly, I found myself in personal solitude once again, away from the expectations of others outside my friend group, and away from the eyes of strangers. What did loneliness mean to me? What did I learn from loneliness? What was I? Who was I?

Miranda. I’d once asked my mother why she’d planned to give me that name if I had been born a girl. She stared at me, confused. She’d never said such a thing, the name had never even passed through her mind. In truth, I asked her that the morning after waking from a dream in which she’d said it. It wasn’t the name she’d given me, it was the one I’d given myself. Miranda: “to be wondered at” — did I deserve such a name? Does anyone “deserve” the name they’re born into? The name I was born with meant “the first,” yet I was the second child of three. Apparently it just sounded “right” and “interesting” to my parents, so it was the name I was given. Miranda. What was this name to me? An association with strength, self-sufficiency, reliability, femininity. The woman I wanted to be? At my best, the person I was? What am I? Who am I?

Miranda. That was the name I chose for myself in April of 2020. It was me.

I expected nothing from even the people I had absolute faith in. The rejection of some feared me more than others, but it never came. Everyone saw me as who I knew myself to be; in some cases I was told this disarmed some people who I’d known for nearly all my life upon meeting me for the first time again. It made me feel right, even if I knew I’d taken far too long to come to this conclusion about who I am. Despite 2020 feeling like the end of the world, I’d carved out a small niche of personal salvation. If civilization didn’t make it, at least I’d die being me.

By 2021, I knew the time was coming for me to face Evangelion again for the last time. I’d known Hideaki Anno had planned on ending the story with this, and I understood, on a human level, why it took so long to get here. There wasn’t a second between 2012 and now where I felt impatient waiting for the true End of Evangelion, because I was afraid of it. Evangelion has seen me through the best and hardest times in my life and, whether I was aware of it at the time or not, has changed me forever. Most art that I adore creates a greater appreciation within me for that art form, enhances my understanding of it, whether it’s the shot framing, the storytelling, the blocking, the lighting, the editing or the dialogue… but Evangelion does that and more. Nothing has taught me more about living through pain and examining the self than Evangelion.

Even after the film had premiered in Japan before it was announced that Prime would be streaming the film in domestic territories, I felt the comfort of not having to confront an impending release date. When the announcement came, my initial reaction was one of shock, followed by excitement, which gave way to a seeping melancholy and anxiousness. I’d already known that there was virtually no way the film could disappoint me, seeing as nothing Hideaki Anno had created had done so prior (least likely of all something related to Evangelion), but my fears were all personal. How would it feel to be free of Eva? Despite having hedged my bets on the entire exercise of Rebuild being one of deep catharsis and hope based on the prior films and Evangelion’s overarching message, the question of how it would be reached remained a mystery until I pressed ‘play’ one night ago.

The answer was sublime. It almost feels regrettable of me to describe the creative result of one man’s struggles with depression and emotional pain as “perfection,” but that was it, playing out on the screen in front of me after patiently waiting 8 years to see it. I’ve watched it a second time since and came to understand that the first time I was mostly awe-struck and overwhelmed at the sheer intake of information and mastery of the craft, just as I have been on the initial viewing of every entry in this story. What I got from that second viewing was my emotional reckoning in full, crying every 10 minutes as the characters I love and feel so close to finding the endings I’d always wanted for them, haunted no longer by the curse of Eva.

But for me, in the real world, Evangelion was never a curse, but a blessing. Would I have ever found myself without it? I think back to my decision to stay with my mother back in 2010, leaving everything I’d known behind for a future where the only certainty was solitude. My mother, whom I have such a close bond with that I would sacrifice the youth she gave me just to be near her. It’s something I still can’t say to her because I’ve always feared being so emotionally open with her to the point where I’m sure to see her cry. Coming out to her as female was hard enough, and making the strongest woman I’ve ever known cry isn’t something I ever hope to do — much less see. I just hope she knows, and one day, when I’m brave enough, I hope to tell her myself.

I’ve forgiven my father. I forgave him when I’d heard that he’d accepted me and sent me an email telling me himself. He told me about a dream he had before I’d even come out as a woman in which I’d come to him draped in a blanket of white; my name was the same, my eyes were the same, but I was still a child — and I was a girl. I touched his cheek and told him that I was alright, and he woke up in tears. He didn’t know what to make of it at the time, and he didn’t know how to ascribe significance to it. We hadn’t seen each other for years at the time he had the dream, and we haven’t seen each other since.

Shinji, Asuka, Rei, Misato. Gendo. Them and every other character in the series is the reason I’ve written all of this. To not express how much their stories have changed me and taught me about my own life would be to damn myself to speechlessness everlasting. I’ve written it all in the time it’s taken for me to transfer the last 7 years of my life, contained within the scratched and scarred, barely functioning laptop that my mother and father gave me, into a new one, with files even older still with me. Looking back on those years, from people that have messaged me about their own experiences with Eva, a former partner, an inseparable band of friends, I see countless people affected by it. Hideaki Anno has created and concluded an epic expression of pain, anxiety, acceptance, redemption and hope for the new lost generation.

I don’t know what the future holds for me. I don’t know when I’ll be able to articulate to my mother how much she means to me or when I’ll be able to confront my father in person, bearing the woman I’ve grown into for him to see. I want to offer him understanding, I want to offer him forgiveness for the years we spent at each other’s throats and the ones we’ve spent apart. I know that in order for things to change, I need to reach beyond myself and grip the blind uncertainty of what feels like the impossible and pull it toward me. After seeing Evangelion through to the end, I feel that strength drawing closer than it ever has before.

Goodbye, all of Evangelion.
And thank you, Anno-senpai.

https://www.judiciary.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/Judgment-FINAL.pdf?fbclid=IwAR0VUzeqiTKlr64jFp47uh7KFk-SKmxrZjIgLMtvN1OCxg8QKfGFwc83RLs

the King’s Harem (part 4)

Read Part 1|Read Part 3

Finding a moment to speak with Princess Rhonda was easier said than done.

It likely would have been simple enough to have one of the consorts pass along a note, but since he’d decided he wanted to talk with her, James didn’t want to ask for help. It wasn’t rational—blackened stars, he knew he was being ridiculous—but knowing that didn’t actually change anything.

Which made it all the more embarrassing when he found a small note tucked beneath the napkin on his lunch tray several days later.

Have you been trying to talk with me? If so, same place and time, tonight. R

She really was incredibly observant. And clever. Even if the note was turned into a public proclamation, no one would be able to tell anything from it. Not unless they already knew everything.

He was barely able to eat anything after that. There was an expectant excitement humming in his veins that didn’t mix well with the nervous worries tangled in his gut. No matter how he tried to reason his way out of the emotions—he’d spoken with her before, it really didn’t seem she had any ill intention towards him or the harem, and he didn’t need to keep stressing over finding a way to talk to her anymore—they still left him queasy and a little off-balance.

The rest of the day passed by in a dreary fog that seemed to stretch forever, even though everything about it was an abstract smear in his memories.

This time, he made it to the fountain first. So, he took a seat on the fountain’s edge and waited.

It was darker than before, with not even a sliver of the moon visible amidst the twinkling stars, and though there weren’t many clouds, the air was heavy with the next day’s thunderstorm. Whether due to the weather, or simply the time of night, there was very little by way of animal and insect noises. It made the little courtyard with its fountain seem so very removed from castle life. On another night, it might have felt lonely. But he was guarded against that by the knowledge that he would see her again soon.

“Apologies, Your Majesty, for making you wait,” Princess Rhonda said as soon as she stepped into the space, followed by a quick curtsey.

“I wasn’t waiting long,” he lied.

She flashed a smile. “I was actually a little worried you wouldn’t come.”

“How could I not, after receiving such an eloquent invitation?”

Her laughter soothed his worries enough that they no longer tumbled about and simply lay heavy and waiting.

“I am grateful for your note,” he said. “I was… having difficulties figuring out how to approach you without drawing unwanted attention.”

“I suspected as much.”

He sighed. “I should have asked Gordon or one of the others to pass along my request.”

“No, that wouldn’t have worked. There are almost as many eyes on them as there are on you. If they’d passed me a note, it would have been noticed by someone.”

“It sounds as if you have a lot of experience passing secret messages along.”

She shrugged. “I am an overlooked princess, but that likely wouldn’t remain the case if people knew who all I talked to throughout the day.”

“And who all do you talk to?”

“That would be telling, my Lord.”

James chuckled. “Then, for future reference, how should I go about sending a secret message?”

She wandered closer, taking up a spot of her own on the edge of the fountain just barely within arm’s reach. “That depends on several things. What kind of message are you sending? How secret does it need to be? And who are you sending it to? But, in general, if you have one or two loyal servants, they can almost always slip a note here or there.”

“And you have loyal servants here?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” she said with a laugh. “I claimed Nadine was being especially picky about her lunch today and went down to the kitchen myself to make sure things were being prepared correctly. Then, when no one was looking, I slipped the note onto your tray.”

He couldn’t help but wonder at how easy she made it sound. There were dozens of people in the kitchen throughout the day, including a guard and a taste tester when his meals were being prepared. She would have had to escape everyone’s notice. And she said it as if it were no different from going for a stroll.

“So, there was something you wanted to talk about?” she prompted when he’d been silent for a bit too long.

“Ah, yes, apologies.” He cleared his throat and knitted his fingers together. He’d thought long and hard about how to approach the issue and finally settled on being straightforward. It didn’t help the words come any easier though. “I believe, er… it seems to me that you have some, uhm, knowledge? That could cause me problems.”

Rhonda studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Though I had—still have—no intention of using it against you.”

“While I’m glad to hear that, I hope you can understand that I’d like assurances?”

“Of course. What did you have in mind?”

With the heat in his cheeks, he was incredibly glad for how dark the night was. “Ah, well… what do you think of making Refynwold your home, instead of Gelt?”

“Mm. While it is nice here, once Nadine and the rest of her entourage goes home, I won’t really know anyone. There isn’t much reason for me to stay.”

“But what if there were a reason?”

Her head tilted to the side. “You’re talking about marriage. But, from what I’ve seen, there aren’t any nobles you trust enough to offer up.”

“I mean, that’s true, but, um…”

“And, no offence to them, but there aren’t any members of your harem I would be willing to marry. I might be overlooked, but I’m still a princess.”

James bit his lip to stifle a groan. By all the tears in the sea, this wasn’t going at all how he’d planned.

“So, forgive me, but I’m still not sure what reason you think you can provide.”

“What about me?” he blurted. After a shocked moment of silence, and before she could say anything in response, he plunged on. “Marriage, that is. To me, I mean. Marry me.”

“That’s not very funny.”

“I’m not joking. You are smart, skilled, polite, beautiful, respectful, clever, and by far the nicest of any of the other ladies currently hoping I’ll marry them. You know about the harem. If you weren’t a princess, I would desperately want your skills to be a part of it! And… well, you’re also one of the few people I can talk to this easily.”

“Do you really mean that?” she asked, voice soft and far more hesitant than he’d ever imagined her capable of being.

“Of course! Even though we’ve only talked twice, I’ve felt more comfortable with you than—”

She interrupted, her voice a little firmer, though still soft. “No. About me being beautiful?”

He blinked. “I won’t lie and say you’re the greatest beauty or anything flowery like that, but yes. I think you are very pretty. Especially when you smile. It makes me want to watch you laugh.”

“Oh.”

He cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I know I’m not much to come by, myself, but I promise I’ll treat you well. And, even if we don’t develop romantic feelings for each other, I’m confidant we’ll be able to become good friends.”

“If I married you, I’d become Queen.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It’s very hard for queens to do what I do.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I talk to people and get them to tell me things. If I were a queen—your Queen—I wouldn’t be able to do that any more. People would be too conscious of my status to let their guard down with me.”

“I… never thought about that. Would it bother you to not be able to do it anymore?”

She stared at him for a long moment before laughing. “Would it bother me? Me? Don’t you want me for my skills? I’m telling you, if you marry me, you’ll be throwing those skills away.”

“Hm. Well, as long as that wouldn’t make you unhappy.”

“… You are the strangest King I have ever met.”

He grinned. “I am going to take that as a compliment.”

She laughed again, more genuinely this time. “Please do.”

He waited for the mood to sober a bit before saying, “Your skills are incredible, and it will be a shame that you won’t be able to use them, but they aren’t why I asked you to marry me.”

“No, I suppose not. This is your way to ensure I don’t betray your secrets,” she replied. “A bit steep of a price to pay, but who am I to tell you what your secrets are worth?”

“Oh, I’ll get more than my secrets being safe out of marrying you. Far more than you’ll get out of the arrangement, I think.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded earnestly. “I won’t have to put up with spoiled princesses and conniving ladies of status trying to convince me to marry them, nor my councillors nagging me. You won’t fight me over keeping the harem around. And, I’m fairly confidant, you won’t try and wrest control of my kingdom away from me. Honestly, being Queen doesn’t seem like that much of a prize, compared to all that.”

“Well, you’re mistaken about some things. I’m not the sort to just sit there and be your pretty little doll. If I’m Queen, then I will do all the work that entails.”

“I was hoping that would be the case. But I suppose we should talk about a few things first. So, to make sure we’d be compatible rulers, let me ask your opinion on some topics…”

~*~

The announcement of King James VIII’s engagement to Princess Rhonda of Gelt was accompanied by many rumours, though the one favoured by the common folk claimed the two had recognized each other as kindred spirits the first time their eyes met. Which was given further weight when the Queen-to-be started taking members of the harem with her to various meetings and events.

Needless to say, the Council of Advisors were not happy about this turn of events. They were especially horrified when she brought in a couple of her own consorts to be part of the harem. This proved to be the final straw for Councilman Ihlvayne and a few of his closet cronies. They retired in a big huff, proclaiming they’d have nothing more to do with running a country on the verge of ruin.

The councilmembers who replaced them were carefully chosen by James, Rhonda, and their harem.

Generations later, historians would marvel at how prosperous, powerful, and peaceful the kingdom became under the guidance of King James and Queen Rhonda. And how, starting with them, it became tradition for the monarchs of Refynwold to share a harem of… unique individuals.

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the King’s Harem (part 3)

Read Part 1|Read Part 2

In the end, twenty-three different ladies were invited to spend a couple of months at the capitol. Five were the daughters of local aristocrats, seven were princesses from countries they had alliances with, three were nobles from those same countries, and eight were princesses from countries wishing to form an alliance. Each came with at least two ladies-in-waiting, a chaperone, three to six personal guards, and a maid. Which meant an additional 200 people to handle.

At least Dielle had been right. The Council was so excited to see him showing interest that they agreed to organize almost every aspect.

It didn’t take long for him to rule out nine of the ladies—even if they’d enthusiastically accept his harem, they were too demanding, argumentative, and uncooperative. By the end of the first month, there were only three he could imagine himself married to without cringing. None of whom had shown anything more than the bare minimum of politeness to his concubines.

At a month-and-a-half he was ready to cancel the entire thing. He was so tired of the women trying to schmooze him while badmouthing each other, of the councillors trying to sway him one way or another, and the almost nightly debates in the harem on the merits of the various candidates. Even with all of that, only two of the twenty-three women had been officially eliminated from the running. One for trying to poison another princess, and the other because she was so homesick she became bedridden.

It was in that state of mind that he snuck out to one of the smaller gardens in the middle of the night. The cool night air and gentle silence of a sleeping world were like balms for his nerves. He wandered around the curling paths, stopping every now and then to smell a flower or pat a topiary statue, as he made his way to the small fountain at the centre.

He was surprised to find someone already sitting on the edge, trailing fingers in the water.

“Ah, my apologies,” he said, glancing about for the young lady’s escort. As far as he could see, she was alone.

“Oh! No, I should apologize, I didn’t realize this was your personal garden, Your Majesty,” she replied, jumping up to dip a curtsey. She wore a modest dress in a dark colour, with a shawl around her shoulders to keep away the chill.

“Ah, no, I simply chose it today because it’s just a garden that’s a bit out of the way.”

She smiled, flashing a dimple. “Well, then I retract my apology.”

He chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, my lady. Are you part of the, uh… one of the… delegations?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I am a lady-in-waiting for Princess Nadine of Gelt.”

“I see. Princess Nadine is…very beautiful.”

“Oh, I know she’s got a temper like an ogre with a toothache and the personality of a swamp witch on crystals. I am perpetually surprised she hasn’t been sent home yet.”

“Yes, well. Compared to the one who put poison in someone’s tea, Princess Nadine is a delight.”

She laughed and he felt his stomach clench.

“But you still haven’t told me your name, my lady.”

“I am Rhonda, my Lord,” she said, dipping another curtsey.

He blinked. “PrincessRhonda?”

She shrugged. “Well, technically.”

“Why are you a lady-in-waiting to your sister?”

“My mother was only the Winter Queen, while Nadine’s was the Summer Queen. And, with seven older sisters, they were running out of things to do with us.”

“That’s still no excuse,” he said, frowning.

“It is what it is. You are welcome to send a formal complaint to my father. Though I suspect he would be confused. It’s so very difficult to remember all of us princes and princesses, you see.”

James shook his head. “Ridiculous.”

She flashed a quick smile. “Well, with thirteen concubines, you might someday experience having too many children to keep track of.”

He snorted. “I doubt it.”

She pressed a hand to her chest and gasped. “What? You mean Dielle isn’t going to bear you strong bear-men?”

“If he could bear children, I doubt he’d want to have mine,” he laughed.

“Ah, a pity. And I suppose Torha would be horribly heartbroken if you asked Davol to be your baby-daddy.”

“Gods, I can just imagine the horror on both of their faces. Though I do wonder that you’re only suggesting the men of my harem.”

She grinned. “Well, it would be in poor taste to tease you about the ladies. Beilla might accept such a proposition, but I’m fairly certain the others would gut you before you finished asking.”

He chuckled, eyeing her speculatively. “You have a strange opinion of the relationships I have with my concubines.”

“Pfft. Relationship.”

He frowned a little. “I care deeply for each and every one of them, Princess.”

She cleared her throat. “My apologies, my Lord. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I was under the impression they are…expert arm candy.”

A flash of worry speared him. How much did she know? And how did she know? He pushed it aside and forced a smile. “I would ask you keep that opinion to yourself, so you don’t cause any misunderstandings.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Then… it’s rather late. I will take my leave now.”

“Oh. Goodnight, my Lord. It was a pleasure to talk with you.”

He simply nodded before turning to leave. It had been enjoyable to talk and joke with her, but he couldn’t forget the worry her comment sparked. If she knew the truth about the harem, what would she do with that information? The Council would throw a fit if they realized the true purpose of the harem. Best case scenario, he’d have to disband it. Only four of them were of a high enough status that he could install them as traditional, though low-ranking, advisors.

The more he thought and worried, the more tangled it became. This was something he would need to discuss with all of them.

~*~

Early morning sunlight filled the plush sitting room shared by all the concubines, bathing each in a rosy glow. Which, at that hour, was as seductive as they would get.

“What’s this about, my boy?” Audrey asked, covered from chin to toe in a cream-coloured nightgown, with her usual shawl around her shoulders. “You know I dislike waking before the sun has fully risen.”

“I need to ask, what is everyone’s opinion about the young princess from Gelt?”

Gordon rubbed at his temples. “Ugh. A spoiled brat, that one. At the last ball she complained about the colour of the champagne. It wasn’t ‘champagne colour’ enough.”

“Ah, no, the younger one. Rhonda.”

Harid frowned. “The lady-in-waiting?”

“Yes. She’s actually the second youngest princess of Gelt.”

Beilla rolled her eyes. “That country is weird. If they didn’t make some of the best dyes on the continent, I don’t think they’d be worth talking to.”

“I found her to be very polite,” Secald offered. “Made a point of asking for my name, and then remembering it.”

Several others agreed, saying she’d done similar with them.

Audrey chuckled, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “She has no political power, but you could do worse.”

Arabelle shook her head. “There is something suspicious about her. She is always polite and charming, but… I feel as if she’s hiding something.”

“Well, that would be because she is,” Audrey replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

James pushed down a sigh. Of course she wasn’t simply a sweet girl. “Should we be concerned?”

She shrugged, tugging her shawl tighter. “It depends. Despite coming from Gelt she is a neutral party at the moment. It could be beneficial to bring her to our side. Though, even if you don’t, she’s not a vindictive person. She won’t reveal anything about the harem.”

More than one person gasped and everyone turned to stare at Audrey.

Very softly, James asked, “What does she know about the harem?”

“Mm, most things, I suspect. That you don’t bed any of us. That we were chosen for our skills. And that we are Your Majesty’s true advisors.”

“This isn’t good,” Dielle growled.

James frowned at Audrey. She looked like a cat who’d drunk a bowl of cream and topped it off with a songbird. “She was wearing a shawl very similar to yours last night, Audrey.”

“I should expect so. It was a present from her aunt.”

“Wait…what?” Torha asked.

Regan sighed. “Your related to her in some way. Aren’t you?”

“Ah, well… her mother is one of my daughters. Though I’ve never actually met the girl before. I’m not sure if she realizes who I am to her, or simply that I’ve Traveller blood.”

James pinched the bridge of his nose, thoughts running in a million directions. “So, if I understand correctly, Princess Rhonda most likely knows about all of you, but currently has no political affiliation—despite being a princess of Gelt. How, exactly, are we to proceed? We can’t do nothing.”

“Could her silence be bought?” Harid asked.

Several people shook their heads, but it was Regan who said, “From what I’ve seen of her, she seems the type to be offended if you were to suggest such a thing.”

“There has to be something she values, that we could trade for some amount of loyalty,” Arabelle said.

James tried to remember all the little encounters he’d had with her, but she was an excellent lady-in-waiting to her sister. Always in the background, ready to offer help, but never part of the action. If he hadn’t met her in the garden, it was likely he’d have never spared her a second thought. “Do any of you think she might like to escape from Gelt and her sister’s shadow?”

“She’s never expressed discontent, that I’ve seen,” Gordon admitted. “Though a clever girl like her would surely take advantage of such an opportunity.”

Audrey tsked. “What reason could you give to Princess Nadine, or the King of Gelt, for keeping her here?”

“Offer to marry her to some lordling here.”

“Which family would you suggest she marry in to?” she asked, scoffing. “If any of them realized the value of what she knows, they could become a serious threat.”

Beilla suggested, “What if you married her to Dielle? He’s a well-known war hero and, if he started wearing proper clothes again, not un-handsome.”

Dielle growled. “Putting aside that non-compliment, I’ve no interest in marrying her.”

James blinked. “Why not? She’s rather pretty, and seems to be quite pleasant.”

“So you marry her then.”

Silence fell over them.

Hesitantly, Arabelle said, “It would solve the current issue.”

“Wouldn’t the various candidates be offended if His Majesty chose a lady-in-waiting?” Secald asked.

Audrey wrinkled her nose. “A bit. She is still a princess though, and we can leverage the midnight meeting in the garden. Claim it was ‘love at first sight,’ or some such nonsense.”

“There’ll be talk that the Princess seduced him. Or that he took advantage of her,” Beilla pointed out.

“There will be talk, regardless of who is chosen,” Gordon said dryly. “There’s already an awful lot of talk because of us.”

“I think… I should ask her what she would like to do,” James said.

Audrey chuckled. “Do let us know what she says.”

Read Part 4

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