or The Manic Pixie Dream Girl Scenario
(Fiction)
“So? Do you want to have sex with me or not?”
This was the question I was greeted with. Out of breath, dirty, sweaty, all manner of unattractive and she asks me that. And all this with one of the most beautiful vistas in Scotland spread out before us! I deliberately took time, money and effort to take us there and climb that bloody hill, and she asks me for sex as if it was nothing. Typical. Should have just taken her some castle for all the good it would have done me!
That isn’t really fair… Here at the top of the mountain, the sweeping landscape before us was fantastic. Looking down over Loch Lomond, the water was glistening. The entire countryside seemed to grow from it like a microcosm of the world. The purple of the heather blended into the golden bracken slopes, cascading down to the edges of the lochside. If I wasn’t so out of breath already, it would have taken my breath away!
“What, now?” I asked, trying not to sound too much like my chest was exploding.
“Well, if you want to… But I was thinking we could have a rest, climb down, have some food and go back to your place.”
“Ah,” I sighed. We’d walked all the way up Ben Lomond. Nearly a kilometre high of climbing (though the total walk is longer!), and a good couple of hours’ worth of exhaustion, feet aching and generally feeling horrific.
It had been her idea, of course.
She wanted to see a true view of Scotland. A tourist’s view like no other. Who could blame her, really? She was from Chicago. These sorts of views aren’t exactly what you find in the average American city-scape. On top of that, so she told me anyway, she’d never really gone much farther than the neighbouring towns, and when she had been taken on holiday it was, surprise surprise, to cities like New York and LA.
It seemed like a nice idea. I took a few days off work and together we set off on a sightseeing adventure! At the time I thought that I’d maybe get some sort of reciprocal chance to visit her and see the old blues capital. Quid pro quo Clarice! … Though… maybe a bit less murdery…
I must admit, despite the breathlessness and sweat, this really was a treat for me as much as it was for her. I’d never been up here before and I was not disappointed. A great escape from the more drab and dreary city, where the rain-washed stramash of Modern-Victorian fusion seamlessly meets the 60s and 70s concrete blocks. Beautiful and full of character, the mean streets of Glasgow were my stomping ground, for sure, but they didn’t come close to this. I mean, I say mean streets, but nowadays it is one of the safest places I’ve ever been.
“Well… here’s a bit safer…”
“What?” she asked. “Where’d you get that idea from?”
“Huh? Oh! Sorry. I didn’t mean safer in that way. I was just thinking about this spot we’re at now. It’s beautiful. I’ve never actually been here before, until now. I’m glad to be seeing it with you.”
She smiled at me and then looked around. “Hrmm. You know, it’s bigger than I expected. Grander. It’s like a fucking fairy tale that started off taking itself too seriously, but somehow became so ingrained, normal and routine that you no one could even dare to change it! You know what I mean?”
‘Er…’
‘And even though humans have come along and built roads and trailer parks and other embellishments, it somehow has managed to cling on for dear life. … Like you should to me, by the way!’
‘I take it we’re passed the coy and suggestive stage then…!’
‘Well, you know! Girl wants what she wants!’
Our eyes locked and we both cringed at the cliché. She laughed, tossed back her hair and started laying out the picnic blanket. Since meeting her, she’d always had this funny way of captivating me, this girl. All joking aside, she did know what she wanted, and would do whatever it took to get it.
—
I think her self-assured confidence was the thing that drew me to her in the first place.
I’d been dragged to the Polo Lounge in the Merchant City by a friend of mine who felt that I needed a bit more ‘Glesga Cultchur’ in my life. (This coming from someone who was born and raised in Aberdeen of all places.) Work had been heavy the last few months and between last-minute reports and needy clients I really had not had much time to myself. So he, like the middle-class white gay man that he was, took it upon himself to get me out of my head for a while.
But the Polo Lounge really was not my scene at all. Anywhere that’s website describes itself as the most ‘inclusive safe space’ for queer people that’s ‘open and ready to party seven nights a week with as much pop, sleaze, cheese and disco as you can handle’ is a bit on the nose for my tastes. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I’m just more of an old-man’s pub kinda girl.
Much to my annoyance, however, it turned out he was on to a winner with me that night! While he and his boyfriend went off to grind away to the music in the basement, I took myself up to the bar and found myself chatting to a group of queens who were bitching about the latest episode of Ru Pauls’ Drag Race.
As we drank and gossiped about the ins and outs of ‘Fishy’ Queens and atrocious Britney impersonations, I couldn’t help but notice her. Tall, blonde-haired and laughing warmly at some unheard joke, she had just walked through the door with a small group of friends. Her posture, framed by her strong, broad shoulders, was in itself a gentle command to those around her. Her blue denim a-line brushed the top of her knees, perfectly matched with a Rennie-Mackintosh blouse. Meanwhile her striking facial features, especially her deep brown eyes, basically guaranteed that, one way or another, I had to meet her. I was spellbound.
It probably is worth noting, at this point, that I was sitting there looking like a budget Susan Calman; with absolutely none of the endearing personality, quirks, or – to be frank – good looks that she has going for her. My hair was a mess (it had been a long day and effort felt like… well… effort) and I’d done little more than touch-up my lippy with a rusty compact in my desk drawer. Not the most appetising of lesbian snacklets at the sticky-floored buffet!
Anyway, I bade farewell to my new ‘friends’ and began the torturous operation of trying to get someone’s attention without seeming too obvious, whilst also trying to look windswept and interesting, whilst nevertheless keep cool and not lose your head.
In doing all this in my mind, I somehow forgot how feet were supposed to work. Somehow they became tangled like the knot of a shibari artist’s latest conquest. I ended up stumbling (or lunging, it’s not quite clear) towards her with a gaping maw of choice Glasgow profanity and the certain knowledge that I was about to receive the shiner of a lifetime.
I mean, it’s an approach…
Precisely what happened next I’m not sure. Pain kinda does that… I think she was the first person to rush to my aid though. One of the staff got my an ice pack and got me down on one of seats. The queens, meanwhile, were nowhere to be seen.
With that show of alcohol-fuelled acrobatics out of the way, there wasn’t really much ice left to break! Over the next few hours we got chatting, she introduced me to her friends and I found myself once again enthralled. She made no sense, and it was fascinating!
One minute we would be talking non-stop about the world, all its problems, how we together could solve them and then what we’d do afterwards. Then for no reason at all, she’d stop and just stare into the distance. Not out of boredom, but out of some deep thought or idea she was having, but would never share. She would sit there and watch me floundering, worried that I’d annoyed or insulted her. Or that she’d lost interest. Or that some other person had come into her mind that was more interesting than me and my boring little stories.
I never did find out what really went on in there.
—
‘So yeah, sex. I’m down for whatever – literally – but I’m not exactly going to force you on top of me.’
‘There’s something refreshing about someone being so up front about this sort of thing. Usually the girls I meet are –‘
‘I don’t want to talk about other girls you meet.’ Like a lightning bolt her entire demeanour changed. Her smile fading in the blink of an eye.
‘Wow, sorry, I didn’t mean to…’
‘Yeah, didn’t mean to… People never mean to. Yet somehow they always manage to, don’t they!’
‘All I meant was that the normal women who drop by my office don’t tend to be so forthright about… ah shite…’
As soon as I said the words ‘normal women’ my blood ran cold.
‘The fuck is that supposed to mean? If you want some kind of manic pixie dream girl shit then you’ve got the wrong woman. And I sure as hell am not some fetish for you to brag about to your friends…’
We sat in a very heavy silence. The world around us seemed to have halted on its axis. Birds stopped singing and the wind wasn’t blowing. I knew why she was so upset. She’s already told me that her experiences as a trans lesbian on the dating scene, particularly in the States, were not what you would call stellar.
Amongst the accusations of being a ‘predatory pervert’ who was trying to sexually assault women for daring to need a pee in a public place, she’d also found that a lot of lesbians were not overly keen on some of her attributes. In some respects, though she found it tough, this was completely understandable. It comes down to a matter of personal choice and preference, and sometimes that means that incompatibility is inevitable. Unfortunately, when said incompatibilities occur, insensitivity tends to be the order of the day. The bluntness of ‘I just don’t like dick,’ doesn’t exactly provide a natural boost to self-confidence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly, and reached out to take her hand.
‘Me too…’
She lay her head on my shoulder – God she smelled amazing! – and we just gazed at the world passing by. Words couldn’t convey the twist of emotions. Like brambles at the side of a busy road, language can be fruitful and beautiful in the right hands. But it has a tendency to tangle – thorny and difficult to handle without the utmost care. Sitting there on top of the mountain, we both understood this.
Together, soundlessly, we chose to speak. Not with voices, but with our bodies, as the summer merged into endless time. A conversation, deep and binding, tied together in blissful memory.
—
A few days later she left to go home for the Summer and I went back to work. I bought her a soft-toy haggis to show to her friends and some Gordon and Durward’s tablet to keep her going through the long flight. She gave me her address and promised we’d keep a fire warm until she came back.
We never did see each other again. Life, as tends to happen, moved on for both of us. After a week or two of back and forth we drifted into old routines and gradually lost touch. But I will never forget that day, upon the side of Ben Lomond.







