WILD AT HEART (a tribute to True Romance and True Friendship)

To express my love and adoration for Mia Wallace in Pulp Fiction (1994) is to also articulate my love of the film. It was the first collaboration between Uma Thurman and Quentin Tarantino, and when you look at the richness of Mia’s uniqueness you begin to understand why she is one of the most brilliant female characters in the last 30 years. She is fiercely intelligent, alluring, witty, spontaneous and wild. Her searing observations and banter hold their own amidst what is a formidable male cast surrounding her. There is also this…. sensuality to her. The way she carries herself, her dancing, especially when no-one is watching (“girl… you’ll be a woman, soon…”). Her sultry gazes. All of these aren’t carried out with the intention of seduction, just a natural mischievousness and enigmatic energy that Uma brings to the role. Like she understands the appeal of her quirky femininity but holds back on drawing on it’s full power. Being unconventional in both looks and spirit, these qualities are something I relate to and have always tried to emulate.

In addition to her energy, there is also her timeless style. The iconic hair, the red lips, the white button shirt and cropped flare pants paired with an oversized trench, the all black look infamously gracing the movie poster. In fact, every outfit - from the black suits to the “you look like a couple of dorks” looks, were carefully put together by the keenly skilled eye of Betsy Heimann. It’s in credit to her talent that the sartorial choices both encapsulate a particular time and place specific to the world of Tarantino, yet remain timeless in their style.

I also want to dedicate this post to a friend that means the world to me. He is responsible for this blog, in a way. He is the only person I know that loves Tarantino, music and movies as much as I do (well the only other person I know with a Tarantino shrine at home). Upon reconnecting in 2020, he gently encouraged me to send a selfie, though I thoroughly hated myself until then… and I hadn’t even had a relationship for 4 years. But he still saw a beauty in me even after 8 years (just as, I realised, I still found beauty in him), and inspired my confidence for the first time since my first serious partner a decade earlier. We might have been through hell and back in the last 18 years, we might have seen every single part of our weary souls and wild hearts, but now there are no secrets between us. The nature of our friendship... well it could almost be distilled in this scene between Jackie Brown and Max Cherry: 

In turn, I helped him remember he was an attractive, charismatic, witty and enigmatic human being. He deserved to feel that, to know that. When someone sees you, and you feel desired, it pushes you to a beautiful place. The photos I sent him became more frequent, as I explored styling again. I began writing, feeling inspired enough to break the 9 year writers block I had suffered, finally writing with enough passion and frequency that I started this website, albeit anonymously. It’s in thanks to him that I was able to find the drive to be the best version of myself, motivated to keep my own fires alive. Ultimately, when he lets me in, I have that positive effect on him too. Most of all, when at our best, we simply have fun. 

 We would work well together, in a relationship. Our needs and wants perfectly align. But our friendship is just as special… I bring us up, because it’s a connection we wouldn’t of had if we hadn’t had bonded over cinema and music all those years ago. What we love about Tarantino isn’t something that can easily be put into words. For his birthday in 2020, I tracked down a Tarantino autograph for just over half its usual price, a signed Pulp Fiction poster (with a COA, they are usually upwards of $600). It is one of the more heartfelt gifts I’ve ever given someone, but he deserved it. I wanted to say, without actually saying it, how fucking proud I was of him. He was a good father to a wonderful kid, and had found a way to manage his bipolar. I could still see his best qualities, even if he had forgotten along the way. It seemed the most obvious gift for him in the world, and I know he will cherish it forever. I will forever hope we can watch Pulp Fiction together, in a cinema, on 35mm (it’s my unspoken selfish wish - he repays the awesomeness of QT’s autograph by seeing a QT movie with me. Hopefully one day)

(Plus my blu-rays and key items chilling out in storage, two copies of the Once Upon A Time In Hollywood novelisation, and a few too many tees. A totally healthy fangirl love…. 

the absolutely, normal amount with which to love something. Uh huh. Yep…

 I’m obsessed.). 

The thing is, to be a Tarantino fan is to be part of something fucking amazing. This friend of mine, he understands that better than anybody. Every single one of his films is exquisitely written, a culmination of film inspiration from forgotten and obscure works that came before - a tribute to them almost. Every story is wickedly exciting, intense, wild, beautiful, violent, hilarious and a whole universe of its own. Tarantino insists on delivering worlds for his audiences to escape to, and he is generous with that gift. It’s an experience you want to have over and over. 

For fun, here are two Mia looks I put together, and one Vincent Vega look from when he takes Mia out for a date at Marcellus’s behest. All items were sourced in a thrift store...

Now, directly to you… to us. Upon hearing about your marital issues in 2020, my mission was to get you back to being a confident and happy man again with sexual fulfilment, whether you ended up with her or me. The anxiety and frustration we feel sometimes is a symptom of texting, not of us.

I’m happy that our reconnection let you realise you need to feel desired, and that it’s okay to need and want that…

At least there’s that. 

So… this is honouring that I guess. Honouring us, because we deserve to have our history respected, and not hidden away. I never wanted to live that way.

I will delete this second half in a couple of weeks.

❤️❤️❤️

I still want to remember the calm and content (yet exciting and wonderful) parts of our true romance, especially while the world continues free-falling into this scary, wild reality that I don't feel like I understand anymore. I used to long to fit in, but I don't want that now. Instead I want to have my own private paradise with another soul that answers to my own. Regardless, not having my bearings is an unfamiliar headspace for me. I don't recognise the world I grew up with. It causes increasing anxiety, especially as my bed is empty every night. I know it's why my dreams often turn into vivid nightmares that see me jolting from sleep, covered in cold sweat clutching my chest to quell the sharp pain, as though each breath is in the iron grip of an invisible hand crafted of ice. Tears sting my eyes as I hyperventilate and struggle to remember to breathe. Sometimes, like Lula, I just long to turn off the noise and dance and dance, letting my heart run free.

So, until I find that love and paradise again, I find freedom in this... my writing.

Wild At Heart, like True Romance, seems a fitting film to draw inspiration from when it comes to the history of my first love and I. They are fun, hilarious, over the top, passionate, sweet, sexy, absurd, quirky and offbeat love stories. Just like us. A world turning against two people that belong together... only in the movies, Clarence and Alabama as well as Sailor and Lula - they find their way back to one another. Real life doesn't always work out that way. Both he and I have always been drawn to David Lynch and Quentin Tarantino in equal measure (long before we met one other, it's a special soul deep connection for us both). There are many reasons we bond so deeply with their work as storytellers, screenwriters and directors, I could easily write an essay analysing our love of them in detail. But the simplest explanation? 

Lynch and Tarantino 

Are. 

fucking. 

AMAZING.

To quote Bill Hicks - case fucking closed.

That's the simple truth of it, in the end. The man whom I call Clarence or Sailor for the purpose of anonymity gets that truth too. He’s the coolest person I have ever known.

It's late Sunday night, in the first week of an especially cold May in 2020. I remember taking Toto for a late night walk to clear my head, gazing at the stars above our sleepy Central Coast suburban neighbourhood, my breath forming in clouds of mist before me. The soundtracks of Angelo Badalamenti play rich and deep through my wireless headphones. My Moncler puffer jacket is zipped all the way up, the soft cashmere sweater underneath is gentle on my skin as I enjoy the feeling of having nothing on underneath it. My high waisted seamless black leggings stretch tight along every curve and hollow of my legs and hips (looking full and healthy while I have been content and eating plenty in lockdown). My Nike sneakers are comfortable and let me occasionally quicken my pace with Toto keeping up by my side. I jokingly call it my "soccer mum" outfit, but truthfully every woman should have these items in her closet because they feel so damn good to wear. As I walk along the moonlit street, my phone vibrates. It's a text message from him. I smile to myself, and read it. 

What you doing?

I bite my lip and hide my smile. Just out walking Toto and gazing at the stars... I reply. You?

Very nice. Just playing Switch, boring as usual 😜...

I think to myself a moment. He has been lonely a long time, possibly for years... so have I. Normally he is the one to initiate our sexier conversations, exchanges I happily indulge. I decide to take control tonight, and respond with a memory.

I was thinking about you today... remembering how you felt when we used to listen to music and we would lay alongside one another. The way you touched me. How you would breathe me in, and I could feel how hard you were behind me. When you pulled my hair and I touched myself, I have never known pleasure like that with anyone else... have you ever felt this before?

I remember. That was such a fucking sexy time. You always smelt so nice and I loved your voice, your laugh. And nope, never. Just you.

I'm caught off-guard a moment. My voice and laugh? Really?

Oh yes.

I always loved your laugh too. And you had this way of talking to me that made me feel like I was hanging with the coolest person in the world. I read over it for typos. I meant every damn word, so I send it, before adding another thought:

By the way, I meant what I said the other day. You look really fucking good, S. I keep thinking about you, late at night in bed when the lights are out...

I press send, and place the phone in my pocket, taking another deep breath as the stars come into focus. I have always done this, looking to the skies for calm, knowing any turmoil or dark nights of the soul born from my intense loneliness would ease when I stood my ground, finding peace in the vastness. Being able to centre both myself and others lost is a gift that had been abused by many wounded animals over the years, and one I had since learned to keep close to my heart. Let people prove worthy of my kindness, peace, love, and in some cases... my desire. Sailor was worthy, though he had always felt he wasn't. We spoke of bad timing and a cruel ex being the reasons we hadn't been able to be together, but truthfully? He was our greatest obstacle - this idea he had always carried that his true self wasn't a good person, that he didn't deserve wholeness. I recognised the wound, being a victim of abuse I carried it too. It's why we always understood one another, why no matter what side of us we shared it was only met with acceptance. 

The difference was I had found ways to channel my darkness so it never stood in the way of my heart or my smile, and he never had anyone else to show him the possibility of living whole entirely as himself. When we met, and got to know one another over long dinners and drives, we became incredibly close, more than we had been with anyone else before or since... we marked each other the deepest in that way. He also carried as much love as I did for all kinds of music, film and television. Between us we easily carried an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things pop culture released over the last 50 years. Between that fact and my warmth, Tori Amos collection and JFK on Laserdisc, he realised he found someone pretty damn fine too. 

The yearning we shared was it's own gravitational force at times, overriding everything else. We had come close to actually meeting several times in recent weeks. Most recently, he had asked if I wanted to meet up with him at a house party, but a last minute cancellation meant that arrangement wasn't realised. I had an outfit planned and tried to put aside my slight disappointment, I missed him. But the change in him was something that warmed my heart. He was excited, flirtatious, his energy something vibrant and... happy. I knew there would come a day he would have to reconcile our happiness alongside the life he already had, but we both chose to enjoy our newfound connection, however finite it may have been.

Once I'm home, I read his latest message.

Send me a photo...

I change into thigh high stockings and underwear, choose my favourite shade of Chanel red, and take a photo of myself, the lamplight creating a soft glow around my room. At first, I don't get a reply, and my self-doubt creeps in. Self doubt we both had, the kind that comes when your partner loses sexual interest in you. Then, I get a reply.

Jesus you're beautiful.

I cradle the phone against my chest a moment, close my eyes and smile. I want to tell him I think he is beautiful too, but I know those sorts of compliments make him uncomfortable. So instead I simply say...

thank you... fuck I wish you were here. I wish you were inside me.

keep going, I'm stroking...

I want to taste you. I want to be on my knees with your hard cock in my mouth, my lips and tongue doing all the work...

I'm close. Want to listen?

My excitement is hit with a sudden rush of nerves but I reply yes.

A few moments later, he calls. "Hey" I whisper.

"Hey" he says back. Fuck, his voice. It's like he is right here. His breathing intensifies. I imagine him on his knees before me, me on my back and my legs against his shoulders as he fucks me, not breaking eye contact as his perfect tattooed arms grip my legs in place. I imagine arching my back and tilting my hips toward him. Then I imagine him pulling out, kissing me, before gently taking a fistful of my hair and guiding my mouth onto him. My naturally full lips (painted red) and tongue skilfully do the rest of the work. 

"I wish I could taste you" I whisper, and a few seconds later, he lets out a shuddering breath and the line goes dead. Thirty seconds later I receive a message.

"Thank you. That was amazing. Im off to clean up and go to bed. Goodnight beautiful."

It might seem abrupt, the texting equivalent of a guy rolling over and going to sleep, but we had an understanding. Those phone calls were just as much for my benefit, and when the lights go out it's my turn.