Girl From the Gutter

I left class tonight with every intention in the world of coming home and writing. I've got a few stories on the backburner, and really, sometimes I just have to push myself to write.

But then.

I laid in bed and started reading Autostraddle, as I am wont to do sometimes, and stumbled upon Slate's six-part series on the past, present, and future of gay bars. And because I'm a huge queer history nerd who is absolutely fascinated with the history of the gay bar scene in America, I got sucked in. Hardcore. I mean, who doesn't want to read an account of Alison Bechdel's first experience in a lesbian bar? (Tell me you know who she is because her graphic novel and comics are fan-fucking-tastic.) Who isn't shocked to learn San Francisco had 118 gay bars in 1973 and 33 in 2011?! And, and, and, oh.my.god there is a black and white photograph of queers dancing at a NOLA bar named Dixie's in the 1950's.

Um. I could go die happy now.

So, while I really want to talk all about my week and about the fucked up gender things I can't seem to ignore, and I really want to write fabulous erotic stories for you... instead, I'm going to relive a bit of my own history.

((Musical Interlude))

http://youtu.be/8sPw_yUeD7M

((this song will always make me cry in a gay bar))

Technically, my first time in a gay bar was in Houston, Texas, in June 2006. Four of us -- me, the girl I'd broken up with a month before, my best friend, and her girlfriend -- went to a concert in Houston. Before we got on the road, I looked up every lesbian bar I could find online, and made it clear to them that, as the volunteer driver for the weekend, I was requiring at least ONE trip to a lesbian bar. At least one.

We went to Sue Ellen's, a lesbian establishment in Houston, but we weren't 21. So the butch checking ID's sent us around the corner, to a smaller, unmarked bar.... which happened to be the only African-American lesbian bar in town.

Wow, we stuck out like sore thumbs.

We couldn't drink, so I think we stayed like 15 minutes. Maybe 20. The place was empty. Instead, we took off to try to get tattoos, which also did not happen. Two of us got piercings instead. Thankfully, my ex and my best friend talked me out of getting a rainbow women's symbol tattoo.

(Dear lord, I really was that gay. I guess we all have to survive the baby dyke phase. My first reaction is to think that would have been a huge mistake, and my second reaction is to wonder if it's easier to get laid with a rainbow tattoo. I'll never know the answer to this question.)


Anyway. I don't really count that.

I first went to a gay men's bar on August 12th; I rang in the first hour of my 19th birthday in the bar. It's a tiny place, maybe the size of my living room and kitchen combined, and very rarely does anyone check an ID. The crowd is predominantly white gay men 35+, though there's some give and take. Though I wasn't legally supposed to be in the bar until I turned 21, I grew up going there because it was so easy to get in. Many of my coworkers, fellow college students, former teachers, old high school friends, and old family friends have haunted that place at one time or another. I've seen holidays and funereal celebrations and birthdays there. I feel like I'm going back to visit family when I make it back a few times a year.

But my first real experience in a queer bar was a few nights later. My girlfriend snuck me off campus during orientation, and I talked a fellow staffer into covering for me. I was an anxious ball of freaking-the-fuck-out. I'd never been within 100 feet of the place. I had no idea what to expect. I'd been carefully schooled on what to wear: jeans, no rainbows (do you wear the band t-shirt to the band's concert? No.), a t-shirt or a button-up, no makeup, chucks or tennis shoes, a color-coordinated leather belt, and no jewelry except a men's watch and maybe something leather. We had a plan. I knew the layout of the bar, how to slip past the doorman while my then-girlfriend created a diversion, who to look for once I got in, not to order my own drinks.

By some miracle, though I thought my heart might explode out of my chest, I made it through the door unnoticed. I felt so young, terrified, out of place. I put on my best "I belong here, so don't fuck with me" face and didn't stop to turn around until I made it halfway up the wooden staircase. I remember catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wondering who this stranger was. I'd been having sex with a girl since I was 16, and yet, surrounded by so many dykes, my own identity became shaky. What did I have in common with the butch women in their 40's hanging out at the bar? What did I know about the community, about being queer, about these bars and growing up queer and closeted in the south? Who did I think I was, trying to claim a place here, when clearly I had no experience? I felt like an imposter, and I was convinced everyone saw through me. The feeling didn't pass until my girlfriend pulled me in and kissed me, in front of a room full of people waiting for the drag show to begin. And then I knew I was exactly where I belonged.

I left a piece of my heart in that bar, somewhere between 4am line dances and New Years' Eve and a dance floor filled with so many of my friends. I may hate the town, but I'm damn proud to say I grew up in the queer community there.

(Mad points and eternal glory to whomever gets the post title reference.)

Oh, When the Saints

In August 2009, after months  years of planning to move, I left north Louisiana. I quit a job I loved (even if my boss was fucking insane, I really loved my job), I packed up our huge apartment, I kissed my last salary check goodbye, and I got in a car and moved everything I owned to New Orleans.

I wasn't really sure I wanted to live here; I wanted to move to San Francisco, and New Orleans was a second-best, much more affordable, option. I had deep-seated regrets about leaving my job; I knew I'd miss my clients. The possibility of evacuating scared me shitless. I feared what leaving a great job only seven months in would do; would I find another job I actually liked again, much less one that paid me well? I had never lived anywhere else as an adult. Hell, I'd been in the same town in north Louisiana for eight years. I wasn't sure if I knew how to adjust to a new culture, make new friends, and create new life. I thought I'd lost all my marbles, but damn it, I was dead set on moving.

It took me two months to find a job. I went back into the restaurant industry, which I always knew was a possibility, but without knowing anyone here, I couldn't find work in a higher-end restaurant. (It truly is all about making connections in this town.) I took a massive pay cut -- around 50% -- and my rent and utilities almost doubled over night. I made enough to pay rent and utilities and to buy food and gas, but only barely. I ate through a lot of what I had saved at my last job, just trying to survive. Tensions ran very high in my house, and the severe lack of income was a huge part of it.

I went back to asking my mother for help, which did much more than dent my pride -- it put me in a personal debt to her which made me feel disparagingly guilty. My family, myself included, has plenty of issues about control and money. It's enough to send me over the edge on any good day. I jumped around jobs, grabbing at anything on the side that would make me some extra money to travel, to go out, to have a life beyond my house. I applied for everything under the sun, hoping someday I would pull the right straw. I took contract work that paid well, but left me back at the same questions every few months -- what now? where will my next pay check come from?

And the whole time, the same nagging possibility sat at the back of my brain -- here I am creating a life in NOLA, a life I'm really enjoying, new friends and new connections and a history and a future here, but what if  I'm forced to choose between finding a job I actually enjoy and that can sustain me and staying in New Orleans? Do I love this city enough to put aside the work I've done in school, my interests, and work in the restaurant industry for the rest of my life? Do I love this city enough to give up other jobs, better possibilities in other cities, to stay here?

I kept coming back to a resounding, "no." Why? Well, life is about compromises, yes. But I'm super, insanely, driven. So much so. And I've put aside a lot of dreams, a lot of possibilities, for relationships, for women, for family, for fear. I've been reserved. I haven't chased what I really wanted -- the only huge risk I've taken was to move here. So I didn't want to follow that path again. I knew I would come back. Hell, I knew I never wanted to leave in the first place. But if it came down to it, I would do it.

Anyway. That was all crazy back story.

You know that job I left in north Louisiana, the one I loved? Yeah, that one. Well, out of the blue, the same position opened up in New Orleans about two weeks ago. And at the urging of a close friend, I applied. I really, really feared what it would feel like not to get it -- to face that rejection again. But I applied anyway.

And wow. I got it.

While money isn't everything, it's necessary for my peace of mind -- it's necessary for my sustainability, to stay here, to thrive here.

While loving a job isn't necessary, and neither is school, it's why I went to school -- to be able to qualify for a job I actually enjoyed.

And while having benefits isn't a requirement of life, I must say, not having to face the prospect and fear of ending up in the hospital on a fluke ever again without health insurance... yeah, that sounds fantastic.

All of these are blessings. I wish everyone had them, and God knows, if I had the ability, I'd provide that for everyone. (I believe in a society that does support and assist in providing those opportunities for everyone.) I am insanely blessed to live in a city I love, to have stumbled (fallen?) into this job, to not have to worry if my salary will sustain me.

Point is, I can stay in NOLA.

I can create a career here, and I truly hope that I end up in this job for at least the next 5-6 years, if not more.

I don't have to fear leaving anymore.

I don't have to half-ass my existence here out of that fear.

I feel like a huge weight has lifted off my shoulders.

So, New Orleans, if you'll have me, I'd really like to stay. Please. I'd like to create some roots, because this feels like home.

I Put On For My City

There's a section of I-10, the interstate that runs through New Orleans, that's raised up on the east side of the city. I usually drive it on my way home from night class, because there's nothing like seeing the Crescent City Connection bridge, the skyscrapers, and the glint of light off the river reflecting in the moonlight. Tonight, after watching "When the Levees Broke" for class, I hit the accelerator in my car, ramped up the interstate, and saw the city spread out before me -- the treetops over the shotguns of Treme, the tip of St. Louis Cathedral in the Quarter, the blocks of houses in MidCity, the skyscrapers rising out of the business district, the interstate split leading to Metairie, the West Bank, and Uptown. I almost cried passing the Superdome, thinking of the thousands of people trapped there during Katrina, the thousands more who flooded those doors for the Saints' games leading up to the Superbowl win, and the deep pockets and crooked politics of the Benson family who own the Dome. Oh, New Orleans. You've got a history like nowhere else. You shelter some of the deepest, darkest secrets -- a prison rate higher than anywhere else in the world, a culture of poverty, a host of class and race divides that cut to the core, harming all of us.

And yet.



I was born in Kansas City, Kansas. We moved when I was two. I was never given a distinct reason, but years later the truth slipped out -- my father lost yet another job, and unable (unwilling?) to support my family, he goaded my mother into moving to small town Mississippi, where he grew up. I spent the next ten years of my life there. It's a shithole of a town. There's more people living below the poverty line than above it. I grew up wandering cotton fields and eating fried catfish and never fitting in. Even as a kid, I couldn't handle the inequality around me. I couldn't understand why some people had everything and most people had nothing. In Mississippi, I was a child of my father's family, never an individual. Labeled by those who loved or hated him, as he always left a strong impression. I dreamt of nothing but when I would get out. When I was little and my mom was angry at the town, upset for being treated like an outsider because she wasn't born there, she used to call me Dorothy. She'd tell me to click my heels and take us back to Kansas. It became a distant dream for me, a Mecca. I thought maybe I would belong there. I have some good memories, some ties in Mississippi. I return to see family, to prove to myself that the city is still there. But mostly, it's a place I passed through.

When Mississippi (and my father) finally chewed us up and spit us out, my mom ran home to northern Louisiana. We moved into an neighborhood of mostly older couples, and I started public school (finally!). But the other kids saw me as a Mississippi kid with a twangy accent and horrible taste in country music. I was all wrong. North Louisiana never was home. It was a pit stop. I outgrew it quickly -- I became too radical, too queer, too artistic. I have ties, there, too, and oh, so many memories. I have exes and friends and ex-friends. I have family, too, but my mother and her relatives will probably never accept that my queerness and my outspoken activism are vital ingredients in my life. I couldn't get out of their shadow, and I couldn't find what I wanted in a town so restrictive. So eight years later, on the same day I arrived in north Louisiana, I left.

By providence and love and economics, I ended up in NOLA.

For a long time, I wasn't so sure I wanted to be here. Or rather, I wasn't so sure I was ready to stay. But I adore this city, from the way the pavement in the Quarter glints after a rainstorm to the stars rising over the Ponchartrain. I adore that people let me put my shit in their baskets at the Wal-Mart. I love the festivals, the music, the way people say hello on the streets. I love that art is a priority here; creation is a way of life. I love the people who put their lives and their time on the line to fight against the structures that make them crazy. I love that community building is part activism, part sharing a meal, part conflict, part politics, and all passion. I love when the stage lights up on Tuesday nights at the Pub, and I love the explosion of naked gay men at Bourbon and St. Anne at Decadence. I love beers on porches and red beans and rice on Monday nights. I love that people put roots here; they set down like the Oak trees in City Park. I love the transience of the hippies, the strength of families who have lived on the same block for generations. I love that this city is deeply Southern in a way that makes me feel like I'm enveloped by the familiar. I love that it's small enough I still run into people I know at the grocery store, and yet, large enough that I can still retain my anonymity on most days.

I will always wander. I will always need space to explore. I want to see too much, do too much. But, oh, New Orleans, you're the first and only place I can truly call home. I can't claim to be "from here" when someone in town asks -- it's a sin to claim heritage here if you weren't born here. But when I'm in Chicago or New York, when I'm on a plane headed to God knows where, and someone asks that inevitable question, my heart always skips a beat when I say, "I'm from New Orleans." And then I find myself launching into an often one-sided conversation about Katrina, about Mardi Gras and and neighborhood arts markets and trout almondine. I find myself repeating the stories of friends and queer family, and even telling tales of my own. I came here the first time when I was too young to remember. I came here in 2001 for Thanksgiving, right after my father left, because my mother didn't want to face her family. I came in 2005, two months before Katrina, and again in February 2006, Sept 2006, May 2007, August 2007, January 2008, March 2008, February 2009, May, June, and July 2009, and finally, permanently, August 2009. I felt drawn here, and it became hard to stay away for more than three or four months at a time. I still feel drawn here, connected, when I'm hundreds of miles away.

I'd marry this city, if I could. I hear that's not legal yet, thank God, since commitment never was one of my virtues. I still worry about finding a way to support myself after school here. I worry about floods and hurricanes. I worry about staying in Louisiana. But when I'm driving that stretch of I-10, and I round the curve where the city lays itself out before me... I can't help but know that I don't want to be anywhere else.

Chris Rose said it best, when he spoke of being a New Orleanian... "We dance when there is no music. We drink at funerals. We talk too much, and we live too large and, frankly, we're suspicious of those who don't."

(view of downtown and the Crescent City Connection from the West Bank) 

(view of downtown from the west side of the city, coming in from Metairie)

Parts and Pieces

***********

Your skin radiates warmth, and my first thought is that I’m glad I let you sleep over, simply for this sensation. The morning light is flooding in, and I’m fighting the obligation to get out of bed and stumble into the shower. You’re still breathing, heavy, uneven. I want to curl up to you, bury in your skin, but strangely, cuddling is one of the few things I’m unsure about with you. It's not an emotional activity for me, but for some people, cuddling is intensely personal in a way sex simply isn't. I find myself mulling over how we've discussed and navigated so much, and yet, never this. I roll up against you, instead, pull the comforter back over my head, and shut out the light. I’m lulled back to sleep before I can even count to ten.

**********

The heat of the water almost burns as I step in. Having a heated pool at a gay bar, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the night? Only in New Orleans. I slip underwater, pulling myself forward, deeper, and though the Chlorine burns my eyes, I want to be swallowed into the water, I want to float weightless, I want to escape. As I child, I used to pretend I was a mermaid, a whale, a fish, or some combination… swimming deep into the depths, holding the air in my lungs until the pressure rose, expanding, forcing me upward. I feel free in water, unencumbered by the parts of my body that are awkward, heavy, uneven. I feel graceful.

When I come up for air, fifteen feet away, I can hear the echo of voices and laughter from the other end of the pool. The sounds bring life to the cold January night air. There’s no one here but us, and it’s the perfect place to be at two in the morning – a bit of familiar and a bit of unexpected, but mostly just a whole lot of ridiculous antics, bad inside jokes, and easy conversation. Behind me, our beer cans line the edge of the pool, and nipples rise and fall above the water line. It’s my first time being topless in public since Pensacola Pride in May 2007, and the water is beautiful against my skin.

***********

I can feel the weight of your head falling on my shoulder, cushioned by my hoodie. I want to pull you in. I want to bury in you. You make me want to be vulnerable, in a way no one has in a very long time. But I can’t. I won’t. I… I have a million reasons, and while sometimes they sound like excuses, at other times they’re perfectly valid.

“That one, there,” I’m pointing up into the night sky, “is that the big dipper?”

“Yep. And look across, there,” You point to the left of the constellation, “It’s the north star. It’s like it fell out 

of the dipper. You can always find them together.”

I have a vague recollection of my father telling me this same fact, as I stood on our driveway in Mississippi on a summer night, a thousand years ago. The Pontchartrain stretches out into the darkness, watercolor waves for as far as I can see. Fog is still rising from the surface of the water, eclipsing the horizon so that the starry sky and the lake almost blend together. I sink into the bench, looking up across the bowl of sky. I feel infinitely small, and yet full to the brim.

“I can barely see the horizon. It’s such a thin line.” I can barely see your face in the dark, but I know you’re squinting, trying to decide which line.

“If I were painting it, I probably wouldn’t paint a horizon line.” I can picture the paintbrush in my hand, bleeding black onto the canvas.

I hear the surprise in your voice when you respond. “If I were painting it, I would make the horizon line thick.” 

For a moment I’m tempted to analyze what this says about us. Not that I haven’t already thought about our differences, in so many other situations. But I put that thought away. Instead I lean back toward you, take a really deep breath, and let the night sky overwhelm me.

***********

I roll over again, restless, unsure of what I want. I see your eyes start to peek open. Outside my bedroom door, I hear my roommate talking to her friend who is crashing in the guest room for the night. I hold my breath as their footsteps echo in the hall. You stumble out, pulling my bathrobe around you, heading for the bathroom. “Good morning,” I hear from the hallway. Mass giggling ensues. I can’t help but smile.

***********

It’s three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and I’m not really sure what I’m doing with my life right now, but damn, it feels right. There’s a half-empty Abita in front of me, and outside the late sun is bouncing off the exposed brick of a French Quarter home.

***********

I'm trying to think of a 1940's actress, but no one is coming to mind. Too late for Mae West (my favorite), too early for Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe. Hell, I can't even think of a 1940's movie. I stumble, my heel catching into the uneven brick, and you reach out to catch me. You put your arm out for me to hold as I walk, and I brush away the thousand memories that simple gesture brings to my mind. You weren't around for those moments, and I don't wish to burden you, or the night, with them. Seconds later my passing thoughts are silenced as you pull an arm around my waist and kiss me. I lean back, lean it, letting go. Momentarily. You smile (or is it a smirk?) and I push against you, resisting, flexing. You catch my wrists and pin me to my car, but I'm still reaching forward to kiss you, letting my lips beg without words. Your lips travel down my neck, around the heavy black cross, a relic that somehow always ends up around my neck when I'm in compromising positions. I gasp, and when the air leaves my lips, there's a smoky outline of my breath under the streetlight. You've let go by now, never dominant for long, and I push my hips forward, swinging to catch you by surprise. I want to pin you, but you've got a couple pounds and more muscle than me. We struggle as you fight back, pushing me deeper against the car, and you're laughing at me. I'm defiant, as always. Stubborn. I lift my leg and curl it around your thigh, bringing the heel between the back of your legs. 

Your hand slides up the inside of my thigh, bare under my black dress, but seconds later, you're pulling away. You're serious. Well, as serious as drunkenly possible. "You're better than this."

"Better than what?" I mentally note to ask you later, when you're more sober. 

"This." You gesture down the street, pulling me into you as a car's headlights fall on us, climb closer, speed by.

Having sex in a public place? Hardly, I've been there. Having a quick fuck when I'd rather take you to bed for a few hours? Yes, probably, but sometimes I'm willing to settle. Sleeping with someone who is drunk? Well, no, as long as you're capable of giving and withdrawing consent, and I know you well enough to know that neither of us takes that lightly. Nor would you say something only to please me. 

I table it. I want to argue; it's bubbling up in me. I feel like you've made a judgment call on what I should and shouldn't do with my body, and though I doubt that's what you mean, I'm drunk enough to take it that way and put up a defensive wall. Not worth it. 

You're still staring at me. Something else is coming. "I don't know how I feel about fucking my friends. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

And God knows, I respect you so much for that, probably more than you'll ever know. "I understand." I reach up to kiss you on the cheek, because I'm going to walk away now. But you turn, and my lips find yours instead. 

"Not that you've given me any reason not think that you can't handle it." You're right, I haven't.

"That's true. But still. If you hesitate, I respect that. I'll back off." 

No matter what I say, you can't see my heart. 

**********

“I like the idea of control. But the truth, as a friend so vividly pointed out to me today, is that's an illusion. Not having control makes me vulnerable. And while I do really enjoy that place, it can be hard to let go. It can be hard not to plan.”

**********

I know what I want, but I hesitate. All of the circumstances are shaky: we’re sober, it’s morning, we both have places to be and things to do. The harsh sunlight is bouncing around my room; a part of me becomes shy, embarrassed of the imperfections of my body which are so easy to find in the light. But you’re in my bed, in my house, in my morning, naked. I pull closer, kissing the nape of your neck very softly. I begin to trace my fingers down your back, slowly, carefully, dancing across your curves. Oh. so. very. slowly. My touch is exploratory at first, gentle. You’re not responding, but not pulling away, either. I slide my hand down, across your hip bone, circling, my palm across the inside of your thigh. I’m waiting for you to let me in, asking the question with my hands. You shift inches, rolling from your side, putting the weight of your thigh onto me. I can feel the arch in your back, involuntary, almost imperceptible to the eye. My fingers wander up, around, across, and I find your nipple, circle the areola, and twist the ring softly between my thumb and forefinger. A gasp escapes from your lips. That’s the answer I’m looking for.  I bite hard into your neck, and your hips roll toward me, opening, and you pull me in for a kiss.

***********

“I don't want promises. I don't want guarantees, and if you hurt me -- or I put myself in a place to be hurt, which is always a possibility, too -- then it happens, and I'll deal then. I want your honesty, and I want you to know why I hesitate in talking, sometimes, and why there will be things you can't push or pull out of me at this point. Past that, I don't expect you to do anything but be you.”

***********

namaste.

Carre Me Home

I don't often make it to the Vieux Carre on Saturday afternoons. I should make it a point to do so -- even with the masses of tourists, it's my favorite day to go downtown. I met with a friend today at Cafe Envie, an open-air coffee shop on a corner, and I'm so very thankful we chose to meet downtown. There was a small festival across the street at the old U.S. Mint, and the salsa and merengue music was infectious. I wanted to dance in the streets! It was a gorgeous, cool, breezy day, and after our meeting we wandered through a few thrift stores and down to Jackson Square to visit a friend who was selling his art. All the artists, street performers, and psychics were spread around the Square walkways, and I was grateful that I only had $3 in my wallet or else I would have purchased several pieces. I wish I could put the Quarter into words. It's old worlde and new, artistic and messy, all structured by the simplicity of a grid. It's a charming place. I love that I can't go two blocks there without experiencing live music, the smells of fresh seafood, and puppy kisses.

Once upon a time, I fell in love with this city. I fell in love with a girl, simultaneously, and for a long time I think I confused the two. I thought of this city as hers -- or ours -- in a lot of ways. When we broke up, I grieved that attachment. But part of the challenge (and the delight) of the last few months has been my own process of rediscovery. I'm finding that fried plantains are just as good without her. The streets shine just as much in the wake of an afternoon rainstorm. The Pontchartrain still calls to me when I'm feeling lost and lonely. I love a beer at three in the morning -- maybe even more so than I did before -- on the porch surrounded by friends.

I have a nasty tendency to nest and hole up at home when I'm in relationships. Partially, that's because I keep so busy -- always going with work and school and volunteer projects and queer events and... -- that when I get a free moment, I want to spend it with whomever I'm dating. When I'm single, my priorities change, and I redirect that energy toward a social life. I look outward, instead of inward. I've met so many amazing people in NOLA because I'm taking chances, spending time building relationships, and connecting into the people that have become a transient, local family to me. I've had several people ask if I'm "dating" -- but the truth is, I don't want to. I don't want a partner. I don't want to pour energy into looking for one. I want to wander, dance in the streets, and enjoy what it means to wake up alone. I want to touch on each museum, each festival. I want to try all the foods (!) and I want to paint in the park. I want to dance on the bar and drink in alleyways. As a friend (or her mother) says, "being alone doesn't mean being lonely." It just means... being.

Dear New Orleans

"I feel like in a lot of ways I haven't invested in this city the way I want to. and I miss my sexuality. That's a part of my life I really haven't connected with in a long time...Which is a fun and dangerous and creative and interesting process." I swirled the Jack and coke in my hand. The clinking of ice against a rocks glass is the sound of family, of my childhood, and now... of my life in the Big Easy.

"You and New Orleans need to start over." She looked up at me from her beer, cigarette still danging in hand over the ash tray. The last of the light caught on the glass, reflecting down the table. My eyes still had not adjusted in the darkness of the bar. My city. I can't help but fall in love with dark neighborhood watering holes, bars sandwiched between the rows of Creole shotgun homes.

"How does that conversation go? It wasn't you. It was me." I giggle. "That's a conversation neither of us have had before..." Her eyes shone in the darkness. She smiled at my sarcasm. Cat-like.

"She's like a book you never read, because you bought it at a time when you had way too much to read."

I like a woman who can speak poetry. I smile. I don't have a choice -- she's right.

"Or a chapter that I haven't begun yet. We have some beautiful history. But I think there is more to come."

"Definitely." So much more, I hope.

Love.

"No matter how much New York and I fight, don’t get me wrong—I do like big, swirling cities; I do like lovers who push me with more than I can handle, all the while saying, “I know you can handle this. Be bigger than yourself, be more, explode, be bold.” I do like to be shaken out of my comfort zone and pushed into being somewhere, someone new. I do like to be held by the constant creation of chaos and art and activism around me, ever-present and always growing, moving, changing. It feels like a living, breathing entity. But as such, sometimes we disagree. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes I sleep on the couch for a week." -- Sinclair Sexsmith, Sugarbutch Chronicles