Hey. Wow.

I signed into Diaryland and found this little notice:

just a wee note: please remember that your diary's address is http://alestar.diaryland.com and not http://diaryland.com/alestar. The latter will just direct you to Diaryland's main page! If any of your readers ever report problems getting to your site, make sure they are doing this too!

Okay, Andrew. You know I love you, man.

First, why are you putting this on my sign-on page? Shouldn't it be on the mainpage, where other people can see it? Isn't it likely that I already know my own journal's address?

Second, if my-- readers-- don't know how to actually get to my journal, then they're not technically my readers, and how am I supposed to alert them of anything?

With that said, I am also passing along another of Andrew's memos-- you can now order from Amazon through Diaryland, and Diaryland gets the credit, and cash and prizes or something, so help a fella out, and do that.

I'm full of announcements tonight. I have two more.

--Um, okay, I forgot the first one.

NO!

I remembered.

The illustrious Jane St.Clair has put up a website of her visualizations of several of the X-Men. Lots of nudity, lots of bowed heads. I like it.

My favorite picture here? Bobby, of course. It makes me realize that I've never written Bobby-- folded. But, god bless him.

The Pete Wisdom freaks me out a little. I'd never really tried to picture him as a real person-- bad writer, I know-- so this is a little surreal. He seems a little bit . . well, for some reason, I feel like Pete Wisdom is never naked. Like, he never takes off all of his clothes. He's got to have something on, like a watch, or shoes, or at least his pants on around his ankles. If there's one thing Pete is not, it's earthy. And I like how it says he's in a "permanent opposite-sex relationship". I'm like, yeah, try "dead".

--Not that I equate being in a permanent opposite-sex relationship with being dead. I'm just saying, Pete Wisdom is dead. *coughs*

Anyway. Let's just all take a moment to, reinvent, our appreciation of Jubilee. Nipple rings. Who knew. And yet, I know I'm never going to be able to escape that image, when I'm writing Jubes, ever. I think the face is a little off. I like the phrase "luminous projectiles". It makes me think of someone catching light on a quarter or a wristwatch or something, and the reflection bouncing into someone else's eyes.

Also, Jean, looking bird-like. Can we say, totally fitting? It had never occured to me. I like her, suddenly. And I'm having kind of evil slashy thoughts about the Blue story, and that's bad, because I so don't need it to go there.

Maybe I'll just keep those thoughts around for recreational purposes, and leave it at that.

I think it's funny how that line becomes more suggestive because of the paragraph break. Part of my ever-burgeoning love affair with the English language.

The pictures of Rogue and Storm freak me out. They also freaked Dust out, and he has excellent taste.

The picture of Siryn makes me like her. The picture of Domino is good-- but I still don't like Domino. I have a whole new respect for Sunspot.

--Quick note. I didn't know that Remy's middle name is Etienne. It means "wreath" or "victorious". It makes me think, "Auntie Em! Auntie Em!" I like the picture of Remy. It's a little glam-- but, let's face it. Gambit is glam. He's the Ziggy Stardust of the mutant world.

Now look at the picture of Remy and the picture of Bobby. It kind of pisses you off, doesn't it?

Bobby is the-- Annie Lennox? No, too sublime. John Denver? Too tragic. For some reason . . I'm getting Courtney Love.

Is Bobby Courtney Love? Good god. I hope not.

--Speaking of Bobby. Dust reminded me of something. I was talking to him, and I remembered something that I'd written a while back, that I never finished.

~*~

I spent so much time touching him while he was sleeping, waiting for him to roll over and say, "I don't think I should come back, cher," that I managed to be completely startled when I said it instead.

We were laying in the dark, staring upward, sweat drying between us, and I said, "I don't think I should come back, cher." He did roll over and look at me like I'd envisioned it, though. Eyes large, but not with surprise. "I almost always keep talking," I said reassuringly, after a few moments of silence. "I mean, I know that's not, um." I half-pointed to him. "But I do."

Remy shook his head and laughed-- he propped himself up on an elbow and reached over me to get his cigarettes out of the bedside table drawer, chest brushing against mine. He pulled back and lit up.

"Howdja end up here, Bobby?" he said.

I thought about saying something about the hallway, something about my parents, but I didn't feel like hearing him say, "Dis's serious, Bobby," so I thought about the question. How had I ended up here? And here, being in bed, with him-- or here, being in the position to say something about shoulds to Remy LeBeau?

"I wanted to, um." I blushed, and I knew that he probably saw it, through the dark. But there was no way for me to say 'I wanted to touch you,' out loud-- not even to girls, where I knew I was already being stupid about everything, not even in the dark, not ever, and not now.

But Remy, man. He is soo not me.

"Y'wanted to sleep wit' me."

"Yeah," I said. I laughed a little. That pretty much defined the how of everything. "I mean--" and I gestured at him again, as if to say, well, _yeah_.

"How long?"

"How long did I want to sleep with you before we did . . or how long did I think I would sleep with you when I . . thought about it, before?"

Remy exhaled, grinning. "Eh-- de first."

"Um," I said, smiling self-consciously and shrugging. "I guess, since summer. August. Since Storm's birthday party."

"Dat's specific. What was I wearin'?"

"The navy slacks, and the purple shirt. Lavendar. --But it wasn't, about that."

"Y'sure? Lavendar shirts are known t'have dat effect on heret'fore straight men."

I laughed and shook my head. "Tell me about it. But, no. It was . . we were all kind of post-partying, picking up, and . . you told this joke that nobody got. Something about a lobster and a rabbi. You spent, like, five minutes trying to explain it, and when it finally clicked, they were all just kinda, 'You're weird, Remy.' And you just shrugged and smiled and were just like, whatever. And I thought." I fell quiet, there, and looked at him for a long minute. I was sitting up by then, in the bed beside him, with the blanket pooled around both our waists. He smoked, and looked at me while I looked at him. "I thought-- I like him."

Remy smiled around his cigarette and actually looked down at the blanket. He said, "Looks like y'gotchy'self an official kink, Robert."

I laughed. "I dunno about that. Scott tells bad jokes all the time, and he doesn't do anything for me."

"Mebbe it works in tandem wit' de shirt."

"Yeah, that's probably it."

There was a little bit more silence then.

~*~

And so on, from there. It was the "I like him" line that reminded me of Dust.

It's late, now, and I've got to go. I have major reading to do tomorrow. Probably gonna tussle with that dog again, too. So, wish me luck.

Love, chi'dren.

--Alestar
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I'm a man who doesn't know how to sell a contradiction.i>