Part Two: Jokes

J.jpg

Jokes..60/40.
Alright, women don’t suck. I like them a lot. So soft…I digress.

Here’s the issue, most bisexual women I’ve met are women that have grown-up firmly ensconced within the hetero-normative culture. I guess that’s normal. I didn’t, so it seems strange to me. I have been on my own and with women since age 15 and much of my prior life was spent in large children’s homes or other atypical situations that didn’t firmly entrench heterosexual expectations into my psyche. I literally grew up within the lesbian community and I feel like that was a lucky thing.

Hetero behaviors  brought to my attention:

keep-calm-wait-for-him-to-make-the-first-move

wtf??

* First contact and subsequent contact will be initiated by the other person, though “likes” are acceptable.
* The other party will make the first move
* Direct communication of needs, desires and any other type of directness is “aggressive”
* Some weird equation that includes dates + self-worth,  allows sex to happen.
* Attention..omfg, so much attention is required!
* Height requirements. I didn’t believe this one but after looking at a bunch of lady profiles, yes it is true, if you are a man.

 

There is more but let me say, this is mostly long-standing complaints by straight men, but they might be bitter. The odds are not in their favor.  I still don’t understand the behaviors. I know they happen, I’ve experienced some of it and the reactions I get about myself on dates with men is rather persuasive evidence that the above mentioned complaints are common enough to be worth mention.

My personal issue is that male-centric bisexuals have no idea how to date other women. They are used to being dated, and taken out. They are used to playing a game of passivity and expecting a great deal of attention. As often as not, they don’t know how to interact with another women on an intimate level. I don’t mean sex (a little I do) but connecting with another women on an independent and personal level.

My dates have been one sided, conversations that require me to do the heavy lifting, because I am “the aggressive one”. Did we not all read the same articles about asking questions on dates and with new people??

lBFGIuxI am really not that special, I just read stuff and have friends and projects and do stuff. These facts are why I am not always available, on my phone or texting you pictures of every damn minute of my day. This should not be special, this should be normal. Please tell me something neat, interesting or weird that you do. PLEASE!

As my final complaint, no I do not want to be your first. God save me from female virgins. I  am so past my “exploration” phase. I don’t feel any need to teach, coach or otherwise instruct women on how to touch, talk and love another woman. The only words of wisdom I can offer are these; give what you want and expect, the Golden Rule applies here as well. no-virgins-red_jpg

I love women, I always will. They are beautiful in way, I don’t know I will ever feel about a man. I also miss boobs..a lot.

That being said, I think I am incapable of dating them at the moment. That can always change, I am marking no lines in the sand but after 20 years of being with women, I’m okay with a break. On a personal note, I tend to choose crazy women who don’t like me, so it might be for the best. My judgement can’t be trusted and I think a board of approval might be necessary for me to resume dating women.

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Part One: Issues OR 99 problems.

I

Dating was not what I expected. I’m not sure what I thought it might be, but it wasn’t this.

After years in a marriage with another woman, I started dating men and bisexual women. I have always been bisexual but just the opposite of what most people were familiar with. Instead of messing around with women and dating men, I messed around with men and dated/married women.While my serious relationship were always with women, the fact of my sexuality didn’t change, it just wasn’t in attendance most of the time.

Now, a year and a half into dating, I had come to some conclusions, none of which were particularly helpful.

First, there was a very big difference between female-centric bisexuals and masculine-centric bisexuality. I had decided to only date women that were truly okay with my bisexuality, which basically meant other bisexuals. Yeah, not the most well thought out idea I’d ever had. The pool seemed to be shallow if I wanted anything of value.

37478095There were lots of couples wanting to spice up their marriages,on the hunt for a fabled Unicorn . Not me. I don’t need a lot of attention but I was past the point of no connection and just being someone else’s sexual plaything. I could find sex easily, connection was harder to come by (I wasn’t the only one that felt this way but I’ll get to that later). Which lead to the larger issue with the women I had come across so far.

 

 

The real issue I was running into regarding women, was that for the most part, they sucked. Not well either…

I can hear you now saying how very unfair this blanket statement is. How incredibly anti-feminist! Perhaps I am both unfair and anti-feminist, but I am also right.

First, a question; was heterosexual dating truly the combative, yet passive aggressive shit-show I was gleaning from my dips into the tepid pool? I really hope I’m wrong.

couch

“There is not such thing as fair. It’s a concept people made up to feel better about their lives and their inability to live them”
~ John Parker III (My childhood therapist. It’s all starting t make sense isn’t it?)

Dance

D

Lucy liked to sing in the store while she shopped, and enjoyed the odd looks when she broke into a little booty shaking in the aisles.  With Pandora on shuffle, a list in hand and a plan of attack, this had become a weekly ritual right along with laundry and picking her daughter up and getting ice cream on Fridays after school.

She liked the smiles she got and outright laughter when she was a little too loud and slightly off-key or doing a little dance to music only she could hear, though this wasn’t always the case. She had been taught to be quieter, because she was always too loud, to laugh softly when she brayed like a donkey and to just tone all of “this” down. She was too abrasive, too passionate, too everything. From her childhood to her marriage, she had been told to be a little less than herself, or a lot less really.

It took Lucy much too long to realize she had let people tell her these things and it had been her choice to change for them. That look in the mirror had been rough, but she had decided changes must be made, quickly. She started small, and this act of song and dance, this small act of inappropriate behavior was one of her first acts of bravery. What did people think of her? What would they say about her? She didn’t want people o look at her and think she was strange, that she wasn’t normal.  Why couldn’t she just be normal??

singing-in-a-store-e1450148184766-475x342

Yet Lucy hated stores and shopping but she loved music and dancing, so she decided to try the latter to negate the former as an experiment and tiny act of rebellion.

At first it was hard and she stopped moving if someone joined her in the  aisle and  started whispering under her breath if they were within earshot. Sometimes she completely failed and became silent and still like everyone else around her, like a normal girl, but she kept at it. Soon, she realized she was making more people smile than frown and she caught them singing along, winking or trying to catch her when she passed them. She realized that they were laughing with her and not at her and the perception she had of herself and the the world she lived in, shifted on its axis just enough to let more light through.

As she sang and helped an older man get a collection of bottled water into his cart, he thanked her and smiled with her.

Much larger changes came after, many were still in process now, but this small thing that most wouldn’t consider an act of the utmost bravery, made her heart sing along with her voice every time she did it.

dance.hm

 

Beautiful Curses

B

The light was bright yet diffused through the white sheet they hid beneath. Her mother was lying upon her side, her body making a space for the little girl to be. The little girl never felt she was where she should be, except in the rare moments here, a fragile place of temporary respite.

Their foreheads rested against one another’s and the little girl breathed in the breaths her Mother gave into the world, giving her own back,  creating a cycle of secret, safe proximity. One of her Mother’s arms bent beneath her, so that her palm cupped the little girls cheek. Her free arm held the little girl close, pale fingers drawing soft circles on the little girls bare back. Every so often her fingers would find a spot that they decided to massage and sooth. The little girl could hear the comforting crash of waves nearby and smell the salty air mixed with their own. Breath in. Breath out.

Her Mothers face was as close as it could be and the little girl tried to count the pale sprinkling of freckles that could only be seen when she was very very close like this. The little girl loved the freckles. She did not have any on her own face. The little girls skin was smooth and olive toned. Her Mother was as pale as cream, with shifting blue eyes that changed with the light and her mood. Right now they were closed but the little girl knew they would be clear and dark when she opened them. She studied her Mothers’ face often. In moments like this and in the moments she was not supposed to see. In pain, in pleasure, in fear, in sleep and in that place she went when all she wanted was held within the needles the little girl hid when she could. Breath in. Breath out.

Everything about her Mother seemed different, foreign and special. The little girl was all bare thin dark limbs. Her cheeks were broad, her eyes almond-shaped and slightly slanted, she had brown hands with pale palms, nut-brown nipples and kinky dark brown curls. The little girl thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world and was thankful that she herself was ugly in comparison. The men who came thought she was lovely too, and the little girl thought this must mean she was not, since she was so different. This gave her some comfort even while she felt sorry for her mothers beauty. Breath in. Breath out.

Her Mother’s fingers left her back to trace her ears and trail along her nose. The little girl knew her nose and ears were the same as her Mother’s, she knew the silent gentle touch was reminding her of their sameness.

“You are my Wild  Little Thing, my Beautiful Wild  Little Thing “ her Mother’s words were whispered in the sacred space of cotton, light and shared breath.

The wild little thing told her Mother that she did not want to be beautiful. She wanted to be wild and free and swim in all of the oceans in all of the world.

Her Mother’s forehead furrowed, creating a crease not quite centered between her brows.
Why can’t you swim in all of the oceans AND be beautiful?”

The little girl thought about this for some time and petted her Mothers pretty pale face with her own small thin fingers.

She told her mother that she liked being wild and free and she didn’t think you could be those things AND be beautiful. Everyone tried to keep you when you were beautiful, and the little wild thing didn’t want to belong to anyone or anyplace. When she thought about being beautiful, she felt arms holding her down, her breath being taken away and pain. She thought being beautiful hurt too much, she would rather have the sea and freedom.

Silent ears rolled down her Mothers face, somehow making her even more lovely.

Then you will stay my Wild Little Thing as long as you want and I promise to show you all of the shores you can explore , okay?”

The wild little thing, the little girl , knew her mothers words were as substantial as the grains of sand being pulled in by the tide. She knew that there was only this small space where their breath and touch anchored her to this moment. But she nodded against the hand of her Mother and said “yes, okay” to the promises that would never be kept.

As her Mother’s eyes drifted shut the little wild thing left the confines of the beloved tiny kingdom of two, beneath the soft sheets, in her Mothers arms. She ran to her ocean and began to race with the receding tide, playing a game only she knew the rules too. Her dark slanted eyes streamed silent rivers, but only the waves saw,so it was okay. She dove into the water, floating on its surface when she came back up and pretended the sky and water were the whole of the world and that she would never be so unlucky as to be Beautiful.

ocean-931776_1920

 

 

 

 

 

The Abyss (Trauma Warning: proceed with caution)

A

I liked the jagged edges of the broken mirror and how it reflected pieces of me back. It seemed fitting.

Blood splattered my cheeks, small flecks decorated my skin like gory confetti. I licked my lip and tasted the metallic iron truth of the fluids I was showered in. My smile twisted in the broken reflection but I let myself sink into the peace I felt despite being surrounded by destruction and chaos. Perhaps the peace was due to those things?

Turning on the water in the sink I began the process of cleaning up the blood that had snuck into the crack between covered skin and gloves and of course the blood splashed Pollock like across her face. I was so damn cheerful that I caught myself thanatomorphose-bathtub-blood-guts-slime-pushumming a happy little tune. Some stupid song I had heard on the radio, the type that you professed to hate but still knew all the words too. Singing to myself,  I scrubbed my skin and thought about what to pick up at Trader Joe’s for dinner on the way home. I loved their beef jerky but I didn’t think my roommate would approve that as a dinner choice. It was my turn to cook but I didn’t feel like actually making anything. Maybe pot stickers?

I carefully examined the small amount of  exposed skin around the cuff of the suit an dmy gloves, making sure any blood was cleaned up. The rest of her was covered in a full bodysuit, the type you’d wear to a crime scene so you didn’t contaminate it. I had been careful and made sure to use the cleaning solution she had brought along in a spray bottle and cleaned off the sink and anything I might have touched, compulsively pockets the few small things I had come into contact with, like souvenirs. This was all excessive precaution, I knew I had been very careful not to leave anything of myself behind.

blood_on_our_hands_paints_a_picture_exceedingly____by_saratheresee-d627c6s

by saratheresee on Deviant Art

Until this point I had avoided looking at the bathtub filled with blood, water and Mary’s quickly cooling earthly remains. It was not due to any revulsion, it was because I had found myself giggling like a madwoman, fighting the desire to pull apart the flesh that was now opened up from Mary’s wrist to halfway up her forearm. I liked seeing all the layers of fat and muscle, so pretty.  I knew I couldn’t touch her, that would be stupid after all the careful planning I had done.

I could still feel Mary’s hand, warm and alive, as I helped her cut open those delicate veins. Down the block, not across the street. Any job worth doing , was worth doing well..

When Mary opened the door to see me on the small tidy porch, she hadn’t recognized me. I would have been surprised if she had and my plan would have been shot to shit, so it was for the best. She hadn’t seen the last few hours of her life in my smiling face  when I greeted her and offered condolences on the recent death of her husband.  Mary had graciously accepted the story of travel and only finding out about the death now. I told her that I hadn’t seen her husband in years but my father had been a friend before he retired from the utility company they had both spent their lives working for.

” My parents retired down South to get away from the cold, but when my father knew I was going to be in the area he asked me to come by personally, to send his condolences. I’m sorry to bother you, at this difficult time but would you mind if I came in a for a few minutes? I brought a few small gifts, they aren’t much but I know my dad would appreciate knowing I had done this for him.” I said this all in the apologetic tones of a loving but slightly put upon child of pushy parents.

” Of course dear, it’s okay, I understand. He had a lot of friends that cared” said  the women that I barely recognized almost 30 years later. She let  me into the neat home that matched the tidy porch. She was smaller than I remembered, her hair a faded grey instead of the brassy auburn that came from her favorite Clairol bottle in her youth.

After taking my big puffy coat and hanging it up in the hall closet, Mary lead me  into the kitchen, asking me if I’d like a cup of coffee or tea?

“Oh, thank you, tea would be wonderful, it was just so cold this winter and a warm drink always seemed to hit the spot on these kind of blustery days, didn’t it? Actually, I brought a pie for you from  this tiny bakery my dad said your husband loved from the old neighborhood, and some tea from this shop I found around the block. Do you like tea?” I asked as I handed her a beautifully wrapped bakery box from bakery many miles away and tea from yet another nondescript location nowhere near where they sat.

tumblr_l6x248IPi81qcdeua” I do enjoy tea, I have always preferred it over coffee” Mary explained as I watched as she went about the process of making each of them a cup of strong tea on a cold wintry day, filled with the weight of things she didn’t know were to come.

“Pecan pie is one of my very favorite pies though it’s been years since  I’ve had it. My sons never liked it and my husband always though tit was too sweet,  but this looks wonderful and some days you need to have a treat. Thank you,  this was very kind of you. Please make sure you thank your father for me. You’ll have a cup and slice with me before you go?”  Mary asked s she unwrapped the box and placed the pie on the counter.

I had remembered that Mary loved pecan pie, it was the biggest reason I could never stomach the stuff despite my deep and abiding love of most things pie. I smiled and looked pleasantly pleased at Mary’s seemingly, kind smiling face.

“Of course I will. Thank you for letting me barge in without any notice. My dad will be real happy I got chance to chat with you and that you liked the pie”

“Don’t you want to take off your gloves? ” Mary inquired

“No, I have a condition called Raynaud’s. Have you heard of it? ” Mary shook her head ” Oh, well most people haven’t heard of it. My circulation is terrible, it just takes some time for my fingers and toes to get warm. Sometimes they even turned blue.  It’s no fun in the winter but what can you do? I’m sorry, just give me  a little while, and I’ll be able to take them off. I know it’s strange, but hopefully you’ll excuse this small eccentricity? ”

“Of course, you take your time”

The air filled with the small words of people that are generations and worlds apart. The weather, the traffic, a shared hobby of knitting and questions about marriages and children. Her son was on his honeymoon in the Bahamas, had she ever been there? No she hadn’t but she heard it was a wonderful place to spend a honeymoon.  What type of wedding had they had? This subject filled the space with the joy of a proud mother watching her son at the altar and all the work that went into making it such a perfect event.  While she had done her research and had a tale to tell, Mary didn’t seem in any hurry to get down to the business of messages for the dead. I knew about the wedding. The younger son she spoke of was my half-brother, and we never had much in common but there was no way to predict how things would have been with everything that had happened between them. Yet I knew the reason I would never know the answers and that I was never going to be invited to a family event sat  from me.

The kettle began to whistle.

“Let me get that!” I exclaimed and jumped up quickly, in exactly the helpful, polite way I should and poured hot water into the waiting cups, all the while keeping up chatter about dresses and floral arrangements. Yes, I loved orchids, they were so elegant.  I carefully placed the hot cups in front of each of their places at the circular kitchen table that had one of those thick table clothes that was plastic on one side but slightly fuzzy on the underside. The pattern was  a horrible collection of roses and foliage in shades of faded oranges and reds.  I placed a small slice of pie on each plate Mary had left out and brought that over as well.

Mary took a tentative sip, her eyebrows rising in a small show of surprise.

“This is spicy!” she exclaimed

“Yes, it’s a chia tea made in a small shop I like to visit when I was in town. Do you like it?”

“It surprised me but yes, I do, thank you.”

I smiled and continued to blow on the surface of my own cup.

“I’m glad you like it! I wasn’t sure about the choice but it was a lucky risk. Wasn’t it nice how these things sometimes just worked out?”

The sedative I had slipped into her tea worked quickly in exactly the way it was meant to. It was a strong dose, in the liquid form, of the same type, meant to be in the empty bottle I would leave beside her later. I didn’t think it would be looked at too closely, these things happened with the elderly and recently widowed. I knew Mary had a history of depression and so it all made a perfectly tragic, neat type of sense, which suited my needs. I had been afraid she might completely pass out, but she just became groggy and limp, slumping back against her chair. She didn’t quite know what was going on, but I thought I saw unease in her eyes. The drugs made it almost impossible to work up any real emotional reaction but I think fear can always find a way to slip through.

I took off the leather gloves I wore to reveal latex beneath and began to clean up all signs of our little tea party. A pie on the counter would not be remarked upon. As she watched, unable to react, I told her who I was and that is when I knew with certainty she was afraid. I was a ghost from a long distant past, possibly one not thought of in many years.

I washed cups and asked ” Do you remember the corner under the stirs int he old house? You would lever me there for hours, until I learned to sleep upright.  When I sat or slumped in exhaustion you had me kneel on rice,do you remember?”

I dried everything I washed and calmly listed, in detail, the abuses her son perpetrated upon me with her consent”

I told her that while she had tried to beat it out of me with that rod against my legs, I still walked upon my toes.

All of the little chores done that erased my visit, I came back tot he table

“Do you remember the little table and chair you had me sit at, while you, your son, my half brother and his father sat at the dinner table?”

I had not been worthy, good or clean enough to share a table with them, I knew because she had told me many times.

She struggled to talk, but I ignored her incoherent mumbling. She still couldn’t move very well but she tried too, succeeding only in a very ungraceful fall from her chair. Her head made a satisfying sound on the tile. It made me giggle.

sad manga at table

I let her lie there, squirming, gurgling and trying to get away from this place she found herself where all of her power was stripped away and she was at the mercy of another’s hand.  As I pulled the bio-hazard suit from the little pouch in my bag and put it on, her struggles became more pronounced.

I thought that I could smell her fear and the thought kept me smiling as I told her about how it felt to be denounced in front of a church congregation at the age of 7.
“In need of cleansing I think you said, tainted by the sin of my mother, unclean..had she said demon possessed? Or had I just added that part? Did she remember? My memory was always a little shaky on these things, but my therapist says that’s normal.”
She was wiggling away, like a pale corpulent maggot. I didn’t think she was going to answer me. Rude.

” You didn’t let me say goodbye to my mom, you didn’t let me see her when she was dying alone int hat terrible hospital by herself. I could get over the rest of the stuff you did to me, it wasn’t even as bad as some of the stuff that came before or went on after, but that one thing, I just couldn’t forgive. I thought I’d get over it, you know? I told myself that I would wait and if I couldn’t let it go, I’d come find you and make things right.”

I went to her as she tried to get away. I petted her grey course hair then forced her jaws open with my fingers and closed her nose as I poured more of the concentrated liquid into her mouth.  I kept her mouth closed as she was forced to swallow. I held her gently until she went limp in my arms.  Old and frail, she was a shadow of the monster in my head but this was a loose end that had to be cut.

When she came too, Mary was in the tub with tepid water around her. I had been sitting on the toilet lid beside her, killing time with the crossword at the back of the New York magazine I had brought along in my bag.  I needed her to be awake for this part.

Tears poured down her wrinkled cheeks as we made the cuts together, our hands intimately entwined as her flesh parted beneath one of the broken mirror pieces I had retrieved for her use. I felt tears flowing down my own face but I couldn’t say how much of each drop was of pain, relief or joy.

I left the small neat house, as neat as I had come to it, other than the quickly cooling body of the only one still left from the years when I was the weak, powerless one.  In the cold windy day, I was just another thickly bundled, anonymous human, briskly getting to where they needed to go.

I realized I ahd made no plan for what I would do after,  my tasks were complete. Across the street or down the block? I didn’t look back as I laughed into the wind, the sound and  a cloud of  foggy breath engulfing me as I kept moving. I didn’t know where I was headed, my body felt empty and light, as if I might blow away before I could make a decision.

I would just keep moving forward, there was no reason to look back anymore.

a54ecb5cbbb3b3b0c24ad3c9540a4656

 

 

Fairy Tale Bruiser or Theme Reveal

 

atoz-theme-reveal-2016 v2

4cbae83d6063b89d2b3dbd28f2ff1178

I have always loved stories. When we define ourselves, we use the words we see ourselves through. They are the words that define the story we tell ourselves,as well as others.

I remember discovering fantasy and science-fiction and feeling as if the world had shifted beneath my feet. I think Anne RIce might be my intro, followed by Octavia E Butler, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Tom Robbins, Gaiman, Jacqueline Carey, Terry Pratchett, Mercedes Lackey, Laurelle K Hamilton, Patricia Briggs and many many others. I always tended towards fantasy and I always tended towards women. I loved women that carried swords, hunted vampires, struggled to defeat the monsters within themselves and in general, kicked butt.

il_570xN.411219592_bh7x

Michael Sowa

 

My favorites were always the fairy tales. While I believe it is common to think that anyone who loves fairy tales is waiting for a prince , fairy godmother or some magical intervention to swoop down and make it all better, that was never how I saw them at all. There is always an orphan, a terrible plight, a loved one in jeopardy or some other extreme example of someone in need. I enjoyed the struggle of characters that were more real to me than most of the humans in my life.

When  I was around 13 a psychiatrist noted that I had sociopathic tendencies, a made sociopath as opposed to one born without the capacity for empathy.  This really meant that while most of good little girls and boys were taught lying, stealing, violence and

c0b38f53d30462895dea7cb9e1c32873

Malisande and Phedre; Kushiels Dart by Jacqueline Carey

skullduggery were inherently not only wrong but dishonorable, I was taught how to do them well and rewarded as my skills developed. It is a bit like being taught that right is left and left is right. It’s gonna fuck you up in a myriad of small and substantial ways. You can learn to accept the “right” way of things, but it’s not the same integral aspect of your personal foundation, that the people around you seem to be built upon.

If you had to pick your own path and there was no road map given by the people who raised you, what would you pick and choose to build yourself upon? For me I found  that map in it the pages of books filled with heroes and heroines that fought personal demons as much as real monsters upon their paths.

In a week or so April will be upon us and so the A to Z Blogging challenge will begin. I have examined a lot of ideas regarding the theme I want to explore and this concept of finding myself in stories, in rewriting my own tale keeps clinging to my thoughts no matter jamie-and-clairewhere I turn. I have never been good at short stories. I envy and adore the storytellers that have mastered the small gem of a moment, a day, a single experiences and can spin it into a tale that sticks to everything you hear afterwards, reshaping the weft and weave of future experiences. This project has been something that I have used to force me to write, try new things and both fail and succeed at both.

My project for this April will be combining the idea of fairy tales, self-definition and how I continue trying to find a path toward being the bitch with quick wit, a loving heart, honor and strength to confront the shadows.

Just remember that in most good tales, a lot of tears, pain, breaking and growth happens to get there.

EvenWhiteTrashZombiesGetTheBlues-ART

Image: Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues By Diana Rowland