"I'm a guy who happens to care about you a lot. I may not be
your Prince Charming, riding on a white stallion to your bedside to kiss
you and wake you up, but I will be that cowboy riding up on a brown
horse, with straw hat and gun in hand, picking you up and throwing you on
the back of my horse to get you the Hell out of there whenever you
need."
-Jake Stinson
==========
"Charming"
A Sailor Moon Fanfiction
By Kate "SuperKate" Butler
==========
The most embarrassing moment of my life was on June 30, 1996.
Those of you who know me well - or even at all - may know June
30 not as just a random date during the calendar year but rather the
birthday of my belovéd, a young woman known primarily as Tsukino Usagi.
Trust me when I say I know this date. I know it backwards, forwards,
upside down, sideways, and in six different languages. You could
probably wake me up in the middle of the night after I've been up
three days straight cramming for an exam at my medical school and ask
me, "What does the date June 30 mean to you?" and I would sit up,
answer "Why, that's Usako's birthday," and then crash back into bed
as though nothing had ever happened.
I learned the date of her birthday on her birthday two years
ago - which would be June 30, 1996.
Imagine with me, if you would be so kind, going for a walk on
a pleasant, warm summer's day and suddenly running into your girlfriend.
Oh, but keep in mind this is not any ordinary girlfriend - this is a
young woman you have spent a thousand years searching for, one you have
lost three different times for all sorts of various, twisted reasons,
and one who you know, for a dead-on fact, you will be spending the
rest of your life with. This girlfriend is a combination between
Helen of Troy and Shirley Temple; she's the innocent, sweet, and
adorable face that could damn-well launch a thousand ships if she so
pleased. And so, you're quite excited to run into this legendary
girlfriend as you're wandering around in your jogging clothes, hoping to
stop by the grocery store for milk and perhaps a sports drink before
going home and studying for an upcoming biology exam. You would be
excited and happy to see her, right?
Even if she was irrationally ticked off at you and raving about
glass slippers and do you KNOW what day today is and you're a horrible
man and how DARE you?
Even if she slapped you across the face on a crowded sidewalk
and then stormed off?
Even if she made you feel so guilty that you bought her
expensive glass shoes for what you were convinced were no good reason?
Even if, after a day and a half of fighting, she realizes in a
rare bolt of enlightenment that the entire ordeal could have been
avoided if, perhaps, she'd just bothered to tell you when her birthday
was in the first place?
Nothing in my years of existence - both past, present, and
quite possibly future, as well - can compare to the embarrassment I
felt standing on that sidewalk on that fateful day, strangers staring at
me as Usako drew her hand across my face and then skulked off. For
being not-quite five feet tall and petite to boot, she's a strong
little minx, and the blow left me nursing a red cheek in front of a good
two-dozen strangers. But more than that, the blow left me nursing an
extraordinarily wounded ego, one that hasn't quite recovered, even now.
Oh, no! Before you even begin to assume that I'm one of those
brooding types who can't get over dropping a piece of eggshell into his
omelet or can't recover from being slapped by his girlfriend, I'm
honestly not. I went through the "morose" phase back in early high
school and it really didn't pan out that well for me. Motoki put it best
when he noted in front of about two-thirds of our 9th grade class that
I look awful in black and worse in dark eye makeup. So the semi-
permanent scar on my otherwise fairly well-endowed ego is not at all
based on that moment in time. It is, however, based on many moments
in time, moments so numerous that I just like to use the birthday
example as the penultimate moment in all my struggles. No other
fight, moment of discontent, disappointed puppy-dog look, or whimper
from Usako even comes close to the slap on the sidewalk. But they still
exist, and I'm not sure what hurts more - the single slap, or what is
now two years of incidents not too dissimilar to moment in time.
Don't get me wrong, though I'm sure you're beginning to - I love
Usako. I love Usako with all my heart and there is not one thing in the
world that will ever change that. She could sleep with Motoki, give
birth to his child, then sleep with Rei and - by some miracle of modern
medicine - give birth to HER child, and then just sniffle in my direction
and I would take her back. Even if she isn't the most intelligent woman
I have ever met (or dated), and even if she has her flaws, she is just
this pure, sweet, beautiful ray of light and hope that I can't even
begin to describe to you without sounding trite, silly, and like a
stereotypical star-struck boyfriend. But every couple has their issues,
and I would like to think that ours is the fact that she expects me to
be her Prince Charming.
Every woman deserves her Prince Charming. I'm not going to deny
any girl her right to dream of a white knight on a beautiful white
steed, riding up to her front porch a few moments before dusk and then
stealing her away to gallop off into the sunset. But every woman
also has to eventually realize that no man is perfect, and that maybe
stalking all the P. Charmings in the phone book is not a good way
to go about finding a permanent mate.
I suppose part of this stigma is my fault. I played the
mysterious hero coming to the rescue of the damsel-in-distress enough
times during my cape-boy days that I sometimes wonder if I didn't
completely pigeon-hole myself into the role of Prince Charming before
I even came to know that Sailor Moon and Tsukino Usagi where one in
the same and I was actually destined to marry the flighty girl I
occasionally flirted with in the video arcade. I mean, I threw red
roses as weapons. RED ROSES. I can't imagine a more stereotypical
projectile weapon, and I'm certain that if I could have imagined such a
thing, I would have employed it immediately.
And then, there was the whole issue with me actually being
a real, armor-wearing, sword-toting prince, but assure me when I say
that I could have been a rag-wearing hobo and it wouldn't have changed
matters very much. By then, I already was expected to hop on a white
horse, armor or no.
I probably wouldn't even complain about being Usako's Prince
Charming if she maintained relatively realistic expectations for what
it means to be a good boyfriend. I can handle doing dishes, putting the
seat down, and understanding the fact that "I have a headache" actually
means "go to Hell and take your libido with you." And that's fine. But
Usako tends to expect the extraordinary from me. I'm expected to
remember the minutest details of events from years ago (such as what
she was wearing the first time we kissed), learn of important dates
through telepathy or, at the very least, ESP, figure out without any
aid what that particular frown means as well as what, exactly, I did to
deserve it, and other standards that I promise you not even Prince
Charming himself could live up to. She doesn't even hold herself to
those standards - just me.
Sometimes, when she's done something particularly infuriating
and made me feel particularly guilty for it - perhaps she's asked me to
remember the date we first played footsie in a public place with
others present and then started bawling when my stab in the dark was
completely off - I will sit in my apartment and, before I pick up the
cordless phone to call her and apologize profusely for my actions,
hope silently to myself that, perhaps, Usako will want to take a break
and go chase after all the other princes in the neighborhood. After all,
her friends seem to think that there are as many P. Charmings in
Tokyo and its surrounding area as there are J. Smiths in New York City,
and I'm certainly not going to be the one to ruin that dream for them.
But you know what else?
My hope is always a fleeting one, and I always pick up that
phone and end up promising to, the next time around, be a better
Prince Charming.
===
Fin.
Author's notes: A short Mamoru one-shot generated from a conversation
with Starsea. Mamoru came out a bit more sarcastic and snarky than I
expected him to, but at the same time, he's got a good spin on his voice.
I like the way it turned out.
Special thanks to Starsea for helping spark this baby, and to my
betas, Yumeko and May. And may all three of my girls find THEIR
P. Charmings. I found mine in the Maryland phone book. ;)
May 20, 2004
1:54 a.m.
your Prince Charming, riding on a white stallion to your bedside to kiss
you and wake you up, but I will be that cowboy riding up on a brown
horse, with straw hat and gun in hand, picking you up and throwing you on
the back of my horse to get you the Hell out of there whenever you
need."
-Jake Stinson
==========
"Charming"
A Sailor Moon Fanfiction
By Kate "SuperKate" Butler
==========
The most embarrassing moment of my life was on June 30, 1996.
Those of you who know me well - or even at all - may know June
30 not as just a random date during the calendar year but rather the
birthday of my belovéd, a young woman known primarily as Tsukino Usagi.
Trust me when I say I know this date. I know it backwards, forwards,
upside down, sideways, and in six different languages. You could
probably wake me up in the middle of the night after I've been up
three days straight cramming for an exam at my medical school and ask
me, "What does the date June 30 mean to you?" and I would sit up,
answer "Why, that's Usako's birthday," and then crash back into bed
as though nothing had ever happened.
I learned the date of her birthday on her birthday two years
ago - which would be June 30, 1996.
Imagine with me, if you would be so kind, going for a walk on
a pleasant, warm summer's day and suddenly running into your girlfriend.
Oh, but keep in mind this is not any ordinary girlfriend - this is a
young woman you have spent a thousand years searching for, one you have
lost three different times for all sorts of various, twisted reasons,
and one who you know, for a dead-on fact, you will be spending the
rest of your life with. This girlfriend is a combination between
Helen of Troy and Shirley Temple; she's the innocent, sweet, and
adorable face that could damn-well launch a thousand ships if she so
pleased. And so, you're quite excited to run into this legendary
girlfriend as you're wandering around in your jogging clothes, hoping to
stop by the grocery store for milk and perhaps a sports drink before
going home and studying for an upcoming biology exam. You would be
excited and happy to see her, right?
Even if she was irrationally ticked off at you and raving about
glass slippers and do you KNOW what day today is and you're a horrible
man and how DARE you?
Even if she slapped you across the face on a crowded sidewalk
and then stormed off?
Even if she made you feel so guilty that you bought her
expensive glass shoes for what you were convinced were no good reason?
Even if, after a day and a half of fighting, she realizes in a
rare bolt of enlightenment that the entire ordeal could have been
avoided if, perhaps, she'd just bothered to tell you when her birthday
was in the first place?
Nothing in my years of existence - both past, present, and
quite possibly future, as well - can compare to the embarrassment I
felt standing on that sidewalk on that fateful day, strangers staring at
me as Usako drew her hand across my face and then skulked off. For
being not-quite five feet tall and petite to boot, she's a strong
little minx, and the blow left me nursing a red cheek in front of a good
two-dozen strangers. But more than that, the blow left me nursing an
extraordinarily wounded ego, one that hasn't quite recovered, even now.
Oh, no! Before you even begin to assume that I'm one of those
brooding types who can't get over dropping a piece of eggshell into his
omelet or can't recover from being slapped by his girlfriend, I'm
honestly not. I went through the "morose" phase back in early high
school and it really didn't pan out that well for me. Motoki put it best
when he noted in front of about two-thirds of our 9th grade class that
I look awful in black and worse in dark eye makeup. So the semi-
permanent scar on my otherwise fairly well-endowed ego is not at all
based on that moment in time. It is, however, based on many moments
in time, moments so numerous that I just like to use the birthday
example as the penultimate moment in all my struggles. No other
fight, moment of discontent, disappointed puppy-dog look, or whimper
from Usako even comes close to the slap on the sidewalk. But they still
exist, and I'm not sure what hurts more - the single slap, or what is
now two years of incidents not too dissimilar to moment in time.
Don't get me wrong, though I'm sure you're beginning to - I love
Usako. I love Usako with all my heart and there is not one thing in the
world that will ever change that. She could sleep with Motoki, give
birth to his child, then sleep with Rei and - by some miracle of modern
medicine - give birth to HER child, and then just sniffle in my direction
and I would take her back. Even if she isn't the most intelligent woman
I have ever met (or dated), and even if she has her flaws, she is just
this pure, sweet, beautiful ray of light and hope that I can't even
begin to describe to you without sounding trite, silly, and like a
stereotypical star-struck boyfriend. But every couple has their issues,
and I would like to think that ours is the fact that she expects me to
be her Prince Charming.
Every woman deserves her Prince Charming. I'm not going to deny
any girl her right to dream of a white knight on a beautiful white
steed, riding up to her front porch a few moments before dusk and then
stealing her away to gallop off into the sunset. But every woman
also has to eventually realize that no man is perfect, and that maybe
stalking all the P. Charmings in the phone book is not a good way
to go about finding a permanent mate.
I suppose part of this stigma is my fault. I played the
mysterious hero coming to the rescue of the damsel-in-distress enough
times during my cape-boy days that I sometimes wonder if I didn't
completely pigeon-hole myself into the role of Prince Charming before
I even came to know that Sailor Moon and Tsukino Usagi where one in
the same and I was actually destined to marry the flighty girl I
occasionally flirted with in the video arcade. I mean, I threw red
roses as weapons. RED ROSES. I can't imagine a more stereotypical
projectile weapon, and I'm certain that if I could have imagined such a
thing, I would have employed it immediately.
And then, there was the whole issue with me actually being
a real, armor-wearing, sword-toting prince, but assure me when I say
that I could have been a rag-wearing hobo and it wouldn't have changed
matters very much. By then, I already was expected to hop on a white
horse, armor or no.
I probably wouldn't even complain about being Usako's Prince
Charming if she maintained relatively realistic expectations for what
it means to be a good boyfriend. I can handle doing dishes, putting the
seat down, and understanding the fact that "I have a headache" actually
means "go to Hell and take your libido with you." And that's fine. But
Usako tends to expect the extraordinary from me. I'm expected to
remember the minutest details of events from years ago (such as what
she was wearing the first time we kissed), learn of important dates
through telepathy or, at the very least, ESP, figure out without any
aid what that particular frown means as well as what, exactly, I did to
deserve it, and other standards that I promise you not even Prince
Charming himself could live up to. She doesn't even hold herself to
those standards - just me.
Sometimes, when she's done something particularly infuriating
and made me feel particularly guilty for it - perhaps she's asked me to
remember the date we first played footsie in a public place with
others present and then started bawling when my stab in the dark was
completely off - I will sit in my apartment and, before I pick up the
cordless phone to call her and apologize profusely for my actions,
hope silently to myself that, perhaps, Usako will want to take a break
and go chase after all the other princes in the neighborhood. After all,
her friends seem to think that there are as many P. Charmings in
Tokyo and its surrounding area as there are J. Smiths in New York City,
and I'm certainly not going to be the one to ruin that dream for them.
But you know what else?
My hope is always a fleeting one, and I always pick up that
phone and end up promising to, the next time around, be a better
Prince Charming.
===
Fin.
Author's notes: A short Mamoru one-shot generated from a conversation
with Starsea. Mamoru came out a bit more sarcastic and snarky than I
expected him to, but at the same time, he's got a good spin on his voice.
I like the way it turned out.
Special thanks to Starsea for helping spark this baby, and to my
betas, Yumeko and May. And may all three of my girls find THEIR
P. Charmings. I found mine in the Maryland phone book. ;)
May 20, 2004
1:54 a.m.