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.)

I Feel Like There Might Be Something That I Missed

My mother is a good woman. She taught me a lot of things, like how to sew and how to drive a car, how to apologize, and how to sautee mushrooms really well. But she also taught me a lot of lessons that I'm still unlearning, like how pretty girls get the best in life, how self-recognition isn't important, how to want to be skinny, and how to self-sacrifice.

My mother is a strong woman. She's been through a lot. She's given up a lot for her children and for others around her, and I respect her for that. She tried her best to provide what she felt we should have. She set an example of self-sacrifice that I have ingrained into my life too deeply to root out. She taught me that my actions are always in the sight of others and always for others, two realities I am painfully aware of and often incapable of balancing.

But she didn't teach me self-love or self-respect, because she didn't have it in herself. It's hard to model what you don't believe. She didn't teach me how to ask for a salary I deserve, because she didn't know how -- she knew how to sacrifice, but not how to demand and negotiate. She didn't teach me to take care of my health and my body in positive ways, because she didn't know how to do it for herself. She didn't teach me how to live within a budget, to financially sustain myself, because she didn't know how.

These aren't the lessons that all mothers teach, but these aren't unique experiences, either. So many women teach these same lessons and learn these same lessons. I know that many of my actions are motivated by my wish to support, sustain, and take care of those around me -- that's how I spend my money, my time, my career, my relationships and friendships, and often whatever else I have. It's hard for me to justify doing something for myself, whether it's buying clothes or going to the doctor or having a hobby. I know I give much of my time in unpaid labor, and a part of that is because a) I haven't learned to value what my time is worth and b) volunteering satisfies my need to give in a very specific way. I know I hesitate to ask for things I need -- whether it's from a supervisor or from a friend -- because I don't truly believe my needs are important enough. It has and will hold me back in a workplace, where I have forgone recognition or a salary request or place at the table because I felt like someone else, something else, was more important. It holds me back in relationships, because I hesitate to ask for what I need, and I doubt that my feelings and my needs are important. It shows up as passive-aggressiveness, and I hate that. It holds me back in my ability to take care of myself -- the way I eat and sleep and how I abuse my body and take on stress because I don't view those things as important enough to change my behavior.

I want to unlearn these things, at least, enough not to pass them on.

I do think strength and sacrifice are important -- in moderation, not in excess. I don't want my friends, my children, to believe that they only way they should take care of themselves is for someone else. My mother never bought new underwear because she spent her money on the best toys and clothes and gifts for us. She ate once a day, because she believed it kept her skinny. She never went to the doctor, and when she did, she did so out of fear that if something happened to her, we'd have no one to rely on. It is about self-worth. It is about self-love. We learn the things our parents model. And don't get me wrong, my mother was not the only source of education I received. I learned these lessons from TV, from friends, from family members. I learned them from teachers and school, from the pervasive ideas our society has about gender and bodies and sexuality, from the people I looked up to most.

I want a healthy attitude on this. I want to know that I can sacrifice when I need to, but that my needs are important enough for me to express them and ask for them to be met. I want to take my medication every day not because everyone around me needs me to function for them, but because my health and my life matter to me. I want to exercise and eat well not because I'm afraid of what other people think about how I look, but because having energy, feeling healthy, and taking actions to improve my health improves my life. I want to teach that love isn't always sacrifice. It's also about empowerment. It's a gift of offering someone the model to do for themselves, to take responsibility, to act out of self-love. That is a form of strength -- not the quiet, suffering kind, but the pro-active kind.

I don't want to pass on these feelings of guilt and a lack of worthiness and a fear of not giving enough, not being enough. Those feelings suck. They're not motivating; they're restrictive and negative and harmful.

Enough already.

As someone very wise once told me, "Self-care is sexy."

It's so fucking true.

More Queer Questions

What does marriage mean to you?

It's a state-sponsored institution with a misogynist history and a lot of gendered ritual. It's a partnership between two people who care about each other. It can be a symbol of love, a sign of miserable commitment, or a partnership of convenience. It's a socially-sanctioned relationship between a monogamous heterosexual, cisgendered couple which is expected to produce children. It's a reason for lower car insurance rates. It's internationally recognized, but not universally defined. It's an institution queer people have historically been denied. It happens in Boston between lesbians. It's a gateway to health insurance in America.

I have extremely mixed emotions on marriage, but I definitely think it can mean different things at different times. It can take many forms. There is considerable beauty and power in partnerships and relationships, in the emotional and sexual bonds we have with others. Do I personally think all commitments should be for life? Probably not. Would I deny anyone else the right to commit to someone for life? Hell no. I don't really care what the fuck we call it, as long as everyone has equal access to it. I don't think the government should define who gets to take part in social rituals and social contracts. But if that's the only way everyone can have equal access, then government control may be the only way. I don't think my tax rates should be linked to my relationship status, though.

Your favorite LGBT book?

I got into LGBTQ non-fiction heavily a few years ago. I'd have to stay "Stonewall" by Martin M. Duberman (which is about the fascinating history of queer bars in New York, the mob, the three pieces of clothing law, the Stonewall riots, and much more) or "And the Band Played On" by Randy Shilts. There are others, and I own a lot of fiction, too. But those two books changed my life.

Your favorite LGBT quote?


The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals.  That doesn't mean that God doesn't love heterosexuals.  It's just that they need more supervision.  ~Lynn Lavner


If homosexuality is a disease, let's all call in queer to work:  "Hello.  Can't work today, still queer."  ~Robin Tyler


Why can't they have gay people in the army?  Personally, I think they are just afraid of a thousand guys with M16s going, "Who'd you call a faggot?"  ~John Stewart


The world is not divided into sheeps and goats.  Not all things are black nor all things white.  It is a fundamental of taxonomy that nature rarely deals with discrete categories.  Only the human mind invents categories and tries to force facts into separated pigeon-holes.  The living world is a continuum in each and every one of its aspects.  The sooner we learn this concerning sexual behavior the sooner we shall reach a sound understanding of the realities of sex.  ~Alfred Kinsey, Sexual Behavior in the Human Male, 1948

Your first experience with an LGBT organization or event?

My first year of college someone at school told me about the local PFLAG group that met once a month on Saturday mornings at 10am. I started going, taking my then-girlfriend with me whenever she was in town. The woman who ran the group, Sherry, became like a surrogate mother to many of us. It was a varied group and an ever-changing cast, some queer, some families of queer kids or adults. We had children as young as four up to transwomen in their seventies. I don't remember my first meeting. But I do remember that PFLAG opened a lot of doors for me. It was the first time I belonged to a group where I felt welcome, safe, and supported. It was very, very powerful for me. It was the gateway to a lot of what I became involved with. They became the supportive family I needed to help me come at school and in town, when my biological family wasn't supportive.

Butch or femme?

Neither. This is a complex question for me, one I'm still learning to navigate. I respect those who find power in these terms, who identify with them. That's great, and I don't want my rejection of these terms to be taken as why everyone shouldn't use them -- I don't feel like that, at all. But I just don't identify with them. It's like sticking a round peg in a square hole for me. I struggle with how we all love to identify and label each other, and how often "femme" gets attached to me in ways I'm not comfortable with. It's just simply not how I describe my body, my identity, or my experience. As for my attractions -- I find I'm most attracted to certain personality traits, to individual quirks, and not to someone's gender expression or looks. Those are just bonus :)

Political LGBT issue that is closest to you or affects you the most?

I have a hard time narrowing out "issues" because social problems are deeply interconnected. I find connections easily. If I had to pick one political issue that's most important to me, it would probably be employment discrimination. It's incredibly pervasive. I think everyone needs food and shelter and safety from violence first, so those basic needs will always be my priority. When those needs are met, then I'm happy to put money and energy toward other issues. But without a job, those very basic needs cannot be met.

At the root of most queer "issues" is the widespread belief that homosexuality and transgenderism is wrong and queer people are less deserving, less important, than heterosexual cis-people. Why would we need to protect against bullying and against discrimination if everyone believed that queer people were truly equal to heterosexual, cis-people? We wouldn't. So anything and everything I do is not just about creating laws or political equality, but full social equality. The civil rights movement didn't end racism. The gay rights movement isn't going to end homophobia and transphobia. It's a step in the right direction, but we need to change widely held beliefs and ideas, not just the laws.

Even within queer culture, within subgroups and power structures, I often see the same play out -- men who don't see women as capable and equal, gays and lesbians who don't see trans people as equal, etc. I want a nation, a culture, and a society that values difference and uniqueness instead of discriminating against those that don't assimilate, those who aren't the majority. I don't think that's too much to ask for.

An LGBT image that makes you smile and an LGBT image that makes you cry or makes you angry?

These are images of imprisoned gay men at Buchenwald, one of the Nazi concentration camps, who are marked by the pink triangle to symbolize their group status. This image breaks my heart. 

The first two images are from the Stonewall Riots in 1969. The second two are from the first gay liberation march, on the first anniversary of the Stonewall riots. There is nothing like the power of individuals taking to the streets, to public spaces where they can be condemned, beaten, murdered, and instead, they are proclaiming the power of their love. These photos are also testimony that the Gay Lib movement was made up of a diverse group. It wasn't men or women. It wasn't black or white. It wasn't old or young. It wasn't gay or trans. It was everyone. 

I'm grateful that there are photos of history to remind us what a difference three and a half decades makes. 

Queer Questions

The school semester has ended, and in honor of this, I want to do something mind-numbingly easy. So I cut some questions from some silly survey, and here are my answers:

1) Your sexual orientation or gender identity.

(Why one or the other? Everyone has both.) Honestly, I identify both as queer. For me, being queer is about my politics and inclusion, which is the "radical" notion that all people should be treated with respect and equality. Queer is how I explain my sexual attraction, which is not limited by someone else's gender. Queer is about disrupting norms and refusing classifications, which I firmly believe in and practice. Queer is about sex and gender as shifting, fluid, and often ambiguous. I am a cisgender female, though I don't have a tight grip on that identity. It's something I'm still figuring out. I'm not genderqueer, by most people's definition of that word. But I also don't subscribe to a lot of tenets about gender, so I do queer it in some ways. Call it what you will -- I usually don't call it anything. 

2) How old were you when you knew? 

Knew what? I was 3 when I knew I hated mustard. I was 21 when I knew I wanted to live in New Orleans. I was 15 when I knew I was sexually attracted to someone of the same sex.

3) The first person you came out to and that story.

I did a couple shots of whiskey and realized I wanted to kiss my best friend. And I didn't want to stop there. A few days later, I called my most recent ex-boyfriend. We'd only been broken up for about two weeks. The break up was completely mutual; we stayed close friends until his next girlfriend got jealous of our friendship. (I miss him. Haven't seen him in years. Can't seem to find him, though) I told him about that night, and that I thought I was attracted to my best friend -- me, not the alcohol. He was completely supportive. No jealousy, no creepy "I want to watch" crap, just support. I remember him telling me to talk to her, to go for it. Even now, I'm still floored thinking back on that moment. 

4) Thoughts regarding inner turmoil about your sexuality; did you have any? Did it escalate to self-injury or suicidal thoughts?

I really didn't. Back then I followed my heart before my head. (Not till years later did that get me into trouble) I remember trying the word "lesbian" on for size, and not really finding comfort or understanding in it. Looking back at my journals from high school, I never used it. I didn't need a label. I had love. 

I was suicidal and prone to self-injury in high school, but that was not connected to my sexuality. I was severely depressed, angry, and in the middle of some fucked up family stuff. Anything I could claim as my own, including my sexuality, became a source of power -- not a detriment. I didn't give a shit. I jumped head-on into dating a girl. I had few fears. It wasn't until it started raining hell -- my parents, hers, people we knew, bullies, etc. -- that I realized I was in well over my head. But I had the honeymoon period of a relationship with a girl I adored to gloss all the rest into the background. I was very, very lucky. I can't imagine going through that hell alone. 

5) Did you face any problems regarding religion?

Personally, no. I had walked away from the church by that point. I was already on a politically and socially radical path. Like I said, I followed my heart then. '

My mother wasn't a big fan. But she had trouble with the God argument. She and God were never that close.

6) How did your parents take it?

Not well. My mother asked if we were together before we were, and I told her the truth -- that we weren't. So months later, when I decided to change that story, I knew it would be rough. I chickened out and wrote her an email; it had some other stuff in it, too. We didn't get along well. Ok, that's an understatement. We fought probably 2-3 times a week. That night, she came home, and she was dead calm, which was very unusual. She wouldn't come near me. She cried and said she would "fix this." She drove me to a psychiatrist the next day. I talked with him for a bit, and he told her he "didn't see what the problem was." I wish he had straight up told her she was the problem. 

I've had a tumultuous history with my mother. She's in a ten year divorce; they haven't handled property settlement yet. She has let it eat away at her and my family, and I wish she end it. We don't agree on much. She has never admitted I was queer out loud, not in front of me anyway. She has trouble acknowledging anyone I'm dating. We don't talk about a lot of things. It's still very contentious. I've been out to her for six years. I realized long ago that my biological family will never provide unconditional love or support. I don't even speak to half of them. I have an incredible queer family, though, who has taught me the power of giving and receiving strength and support. I love them all.  

7) Your favorite LGBTQ movie.

Oh, so many. Angels in America. D.E.B.S. 20 Centimetros. Soldier's Girl. Loving Annabelle. But I'm a Cheerleader. Bent. Queer as Folk. Hedwig and the Angry Inch. That's all I can think of off the top of my head, but there are definitely more.

8) Your favorite gay joke.

What do you call a lesbian dinosaur? A lick-a-lot-o-puss.

I know, it's ridiculous. :)

The City That Care (Didn't) Forget

So, I should be studying for this massive test I have Monday. Ugh. I have been, truthfully, and I won’t dull you with the details of school. But it should be said that most of my thoughts bubbles under the surface until a big bout of procrastination forces me to find something else to focus on – like cleaning my kitchen. Or writing blogs. :)

***********

Mardi Gras is rapidly approaching. Technically, it’s been Mardi Gras since Epiphany – January 6^th. But the crest, the climax, of the season is next weekend. The parades began last weekend, and there are quite a number this weekend, though I’m sitting them out for now to focus on school and work. Next weekend is the big weekend – from Thursday night through Tuesday evening, the city will be a mad mess of drinking in the streets, beads, and thousands of locals and tourists indulging in their every desire before Lent. I’ve seen it as a child, as a college student, as a rider on a float (in north Louisiana, anyway), and now, as an adult. It’s much more than simply drunk college students who try to flash for beads, but if you haven’t been here, then I’ll suffice to say you won’t understand without experiencing it.

Anyway.

Mardi Gras last year was pretty fucking miserable for me.

I’m just going to put that out there.

The parades were fun, yes. I had a great time at Muses and the handful of others that I attended. Actually, the best part of the weekend for me was the walk to and from my house, crossing St. Charles, seeing families and groups of friends, children running in circles, fences draped with beads.

Last year, at this time, my life felt like a crash course. I was working two jobs, and I had no money to show for it, because I was paying for my girlfriend’s share of utilities and rent and groceries. I would lie awake at night, trying to figure out how to stop my money from flying out of my hands before I could make it. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, all the time. I was working one job at a restaurant, and though my bosses and the restaurant itself were really cool, I felt like I was going into a coma for hours just to make it through the day. Mardi Gras weekend I worked every day, eight to ten hours a day, in a state of constant chaos – hundreds of people, two hour waits, drunks, kids, stumbling over other staff members. It was great money, but the whole weekend was an exhausting blur. My other job I enjoyed, but the board member who controlled my employment was constantly trying to get me to do immoral and ridiculously stupid things, like lying on grants. I felt like I was constantly fighting him at that job, and it was wearing thin what little sanity I had left.

I was in school that semester three nights a week, which meant my days lasted eleven to twelve hours – wake up at 9am, go to work, go to school, pick up my girlfriend from work downtown, get home by 11pm or midnight, sleep, rinse, repeat. My classes weren’t going very well. I felt like the program wasn’t anywhere as high as my expectations, and I felt cheated because the reality wasn’t what I had been told.  

But really, I could have handled all of that. I can survive being broke and the stress of school, and Lord knows I’ve worked some jobs that made me want to pull my hair out. The tipping point was my girlfriend. Three and a half years in, and it was really, ridiculously clear that things were unraveling. We weren’t getting along, and I was feeling really trapped. I loved her, I cared about her. I honestly thought (at that point) things could work, or I was just too scared to admit to myself that I knew better. I’m not sure. But everything cracked to hell at Mardi Gras. We went to Muses and had a great time – it’s my favorite parade. Afterward, I agreed to go to a party at her coworker’s house, where we both proceeded to get trashed, well beyond my comfort zone, and in front of all her friends and coworkers, she flirted the whole night with the girl she was cheating on me with. Maybe ‘cheating’ is the wrong word, but it’s the best I’ve got right now. Fucking with my knowledge but without my consent or approval. 

Hm. That’s about right.

I couldn’t handle it. I left, got in my car when I was well beyond the capacity to drive (thankfully, I hit nothing), went home, and passed out on the couch. She fucked the girl, came home the next morning, and told me. And then asked me to pay her rent the next week. I remember so clearly, driving my car as we left Zotz, when she told me she didn’t have the money for rent. I wanted more than anything to drive my car through a wall, but I wasn’t stupid enough to wreck my car and put myself in an even shittier place.

I ran into the girl she was sleeping with at least once a week back then, and I vacillated from wanting to tell her off to just feeling really sorry for her. It was obvious she cared, obvious she was getting invested. She was young and sweet and naïve, and I wanted to warn her that she was going to get hurt. She would be collateral damage. But I wanted no responsibility for that, so I kept my distance. I told my girlfriend to think through this, to realize what she was doing. But as it became increasingly clear over the next few months, either she didn’t realize or didn’t care, and everything and anything became collateral damage.

Most of that weekend is a blur. I remember driving on Claiborne, stuck in traffic, and we were both crying. I wanted to be around her – I wanted the person I used to know, not the one that was there – and yet I wished she would just disappear. I hid at home or ran from the house, depending on the moment. I cried three, four, five times a day, at the drop of a pin. I had so much pent up sexual tension (on top of the stress), that I was a fucking emotional wreck. If I wasn’t crying, I was pissy and annoying.

I’d only been living in NOLA for a few months, and I knew almost no one. The few people I knew well were in the same boat as me – so busy they didn’t see the light of day often. It was isolating and miserable, and I felt extremely lonely. I realize now, looking back, that I had so much anxiety and sadness and anger at the time that I didn’t want to be around anyone. Social situations were overwhelming. Most everyone I had met knew me as a part of a couple, and they adored my girlfriend – she was charming and sweet and funny, she’s easy to love the first time you meet her. I shy away from many of the people who met me during those months. It wasn’t me. I was ashamed of how miserable I was, ashamed that I didn’t know how to tell my girlfriend “no” as much as I wanted to when she asked for money. I was ashamed that many of my friends felt like I had a great relationship, when they simply didn’t know the truth. I didn’t want my friends to hate her, to “take sides.” I didn’t know how to tell people how fucking bad things had gotten – especially when I couldn’t even admit it to myself yet. I didn’t want to be a burden.

*************

A year later, looking back, it’s like I stepped out of a haze.

I feel like I have put so much of this behind me, and it’s an amazing feeling to have some distance. So much has changed, and all of it has been for the better. I can’t even fathom it.

I have a job I love. Adore. I mean, like anyone, I have days where I’m frustrated, where I make mistakes, where I feel incompetent or unheard. But the truth is, I’m doing something that plays to my strengths, my interests. My boss is fantastic. I count him as a friend as much as a coworker, and I respect him immensely.

I’m making money doing something I love. Fuck. That blows my mind. I know that might not happen again for the rest of my life, so I’m definitely enjoying it while I can.

I have an awesome roommate. No, she can’t change the toilet paper roll, and she’s not big on taking out the trash. But we have so much fun hanging out that I don’t really care. We get along great. She contributes for her share, and I never have to worry she’ll be unreliable or late on rent. Even when we’re stressed, we don’t take it out on each other. My house feels like a home, a place I can be comfortable, again. It’s the best roommate relationship I’ve possibly ever had.

I have a woman in my life whose company I genuinely enjoy, who doesn’t expect anything I can’t or won’t give, and who is incredibly fun to experiment with sexually. I don’t feel like I have much to give after four years in a relationship. I’m gunshy and anxious at times, and I’m grateful to walk instead of jumping into something I can’t handle.

I love this city. Adore it. There’s so much here that I can’t do it all, can’t see it all. I’m finding friends again – old and new –who I enjoy spending time with. I can laugh again, and it’s honest and raw. It feels good.

I’m healthy. I’m financially stable. I don’t stay up at night anymore freaking out about money, wake up crying. My anxiety has dropped dramatically. I actually look forward to meeting new people. I don’t run the other way at the thought of new social situations. I’m learning to talk about things again when I have a problem, instead of internalizing everything. 

It’s really... good.

***********

I’ve spoken to so many of my friends from high school and college in the last year, and I’ve often heard the same story. They’re not happy. They hate their job, or they’re in a dead-end relationship, or they’re struggling with school. They hate that they’re still living at home. They’re broke or in debt or overwhelmed by stress. I began saying – believing – that many of us were idealizing what our lives should be, harping on the one or two things that we didn’t have instead of the many things we do have.

It comes down to this: the majority of the people I know have one of these: a great job, a city they love, great friends/family who live close by, or great partner. To have two is awesome. To have three or four – a fucking miracle.

In some ways, I rationalized that I was doing ok because I had a city I wanted to live in. I had at least one job I sort of liked, even if it was stressful and frustrating. And the rest – well, I was doing ok.

Looking back, I wasn’t ok. It's true I can't all go through life focusing on all the things I don't have -- there will always be more things I want than things I have. But I do think it is ok to say "no." It's ok to ask for more. It's ok to want more, to strive for more, to demand more. You'll never get what you didn't ask for. It's about striking a balance between desire and acceptance. 

Now – I’m a lot more than ok. I’m ridiculously blessed. I can’t really believe this is my life. I have more than I know what to do with. I can't believe that there's really nothing major I would change in my life right now. I mean, I could always use better health insurance, a better paying job, more time in the week. But that's all pretty minor considering how much is going right. :)

I’m so very much looking forward to this Mardi Gras – getting dressed up, hosting a house full of people, celebrating my roommate’s birthday, taking some time off work and school, possibly getting laid.  Parades and beads and beer and friends. Fuck yes. 

Laissez le bon temps roulez. 

a Kinkster is Born

The overhead fan is beating through the heavy summer heat, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. My room is stifling. The afternoon sun glaring on my windows isn’t helping – but neither are we. I’ve got her down on my bed, my hips holding her captive. She slides her hands under the oversized men’s cotton polo shirt I’m wearing; her fingers feel cool against the heat of my skin.

I stop kissing her, pull away. “Will you take your jeans off?”

I’m making her nervous. I can tell. I’m always a bit surprised when this happens, especially when I know for a fact that I’m younger, less experienced. But I suppose everyone isn’t quite so brash, completely sober and determined to get laid in the middle of the afternoon.

“I don’t know…”

“Please?” I keep pushing, foolishly, because I’m young and aggressive.

But she clearly isn’t going to oblige. I flip around, climbing off her, and fall into the bed next to her. She pulls up on her side, leaning over me, pulling me under her.

“Yes?” I’m not trying to be rude, but my response comes off as a cocky question.

“I want to fuck you.”

I look directly into her eyes, unfazed. “You already have. I want to fuck you.”

“Not today, not now.” She’s insistent.

“That’s not fair. I don’t want you to keep fucking me and not let me touch you.” In my head, I rationalize not wanting to start this – whatever this is – as anything but reciprocal.

“Just for today.”

I’m clearly not getting anywhere, and there's a time to stop pushing. I relax and pull her into me. She leans in to kiss me. She wants to get me off. We fucked the day before, and I didn’t come. I had gotten close – so close, then my body shut off at the last moment. It’s not abnormal. Bodies are fickle, unpredictable, changing. An orgasm, or lack of one, doesn’t mean or prove anything, at least, not in my eyes.

We’re still kissing, but I’m pondering the next move. My choices are to let her fuck me or get out of bed. This isn’t a difficult decision. She begins to unbutton my shirt from the bottom, and I follow her lead, unbuttoning it from the top. She slides off the only other article of clothing I’m wearing – a pair of cotton panties – and runs her hands across my body.

She swings her body across mine, holding herself up over me, and pulls the down comforter up and over our bodies. She’s stripped down from three shirts to one by this point, and I’ve got her bra off, even if she’s still holding on to her t-shirt and jeans. She sits up, hips holding me down, and catches both my wrists with her hands, pulling them above my head. I don't expect this, at all, and my body tenses reflexively. But I don't have any time to react. The weight of her body is pushing me deeper into the bed; I can't move. She leans in, lips grazing my ear. 


"I'm going to let go of your wrists. But you're not going to move. Do you understand?"


I'm gulping for air. Between breaths, I nod. 


"Don't say anything. I don't want to hear a peep from you. I don't want you to move a muscle. Understood?"


I'm nodding.


"Say 'yes' so I know you understand."


"Yes," I whisper. 


"If you move, I'll won't touch you." Every muscle in my body is frozen. 


She releases my wrists and moves down my body, slowly, kissing across my breasts, my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. It's taking every ounce of my concentration to  focus on not moving, not twitching. She spreads my legs wide; they feel like jello -- I have no control. Her tongue finds my swollen clit, and a moan falls out of my lips. I tense, hoping she didn't hear me. 


She stops. Fuck. "Did I just hear you moan?"


I shake my head back and forth.


"Answer me."


"No. Yes. I'm sorry."


"Don't do it again."


She puts her mouth back to my clit, wraps both arms under and around my thighs until she's gripping me so tight I'm tensing against her. 


I don't have time to think, to process this totally new sensation in my body. I come so fucking fast that it scares me. I couldn't hold back if I wanted to. 

Heal Me, My Darling

My first year of college, I worked as a DJ at my college's radio station. I found this single hidden among the rows and rows and rows of CD's, and it quickly became my favorite cover of this song. For a few months, it was the last song I would play every Sunday night, before I signed of the air. This song will always be, for me, about watching the sun set on Sunday evening after spending all morning in bed with a warm, naked woman.

Blood and Fire

There's a text message. It's in the middle of brunch. I'm staring down a big mug of coffee, I've conquered it twice, but thankfully, sleep isn't in my near future. I feel the phone vibrate into my thigh.

I wonder if you didn't call me because you didn't have the balls. I wonder if you know that if you were here now, I'd take you down a notch, and it would be pretty fucking ugly. I wonder if you think you're justified. I wonder what the fuck you think I'm going to say, or why the fuck I should wait to say it. I wonder if you remember my looking at you, dead in the eyes, and saying that I always stand to lose in this situation, so at least warn me. It's all I asked. 

I wonder if, as usual, I'm overreacting. I might have been built of fire, and I tame it, stoke it into a work ethic and a drive to finish school and the strength I need to be a rock. But I've got a temper, too. I've got a nasty streak, and it may be hard to turn on, but it's cold and searing. I have to move past the initial explosion, think through my response. I have to decide whether to cry because I lost a friend or scream because I think you pulled an asshole move. It seems like every time I'm losing a good friend, it's because I make an easy target. Because it's easier to blame someone else when you're unhappy. 

I'm flashing back two years, next month, and I can't even tell if I'm pissed at you or still pissed at her. I don't know why I still carry that scar, why it still hurts, why I even still think about her. But I do. I wonder how she is. I wonder if she's happy. I wonder how things could have gone down differently. I wonder how someone could have burned me so badly -- she wasn't a lover, wasn't even someone who had been in my life for that long, relatively. 

I wonder what the underside of this bus is going to look like. I wonder if I'm angry because I feel like you've set me back six months emotionally, but the truth is, I won't give that to you. I won't give that to anyone. It's easy to say that I'm still hurting. It's easy to say that I'm still unsteady. It's easy to give all the answers that sound good on the tip of my tongue, and it's hard to explain how the complexity really plays out. 

I remember what Maggie said, wrapped up in the bed at Easton, when I was talking about you. She liked to talk about people who are "in integrity" or "out of integrity" in their relationship, in themselves, in their lives. It was a phrase I'd never heard before, yet it stuck with me. I remember riding on the train home, watching the autumn leaves whipping by, with her head in my lap. I thought about you. I thought about New York. I thought about the pain I had carried all the way to Albany, and I did what I had been doing all weekend -- I took a breath. A really deep one. I came back from Easton with a very different resolve, and though I went with many, many questions, I came back with the concrete answer to only one -- what to do with you. 

I've made a lot of mistakes when I was single and a lot more when I was in relationships. I stayed when I shouldn't have, I left when I shouldn't have, I gave up agency and acted like an asshole and picked a stupid fight and walked out. I shut off. I should have yelled back. So many moments. But the big decisions -- the breakups, moving cities, school, jobs, moving in together -- I can say I always made with a clear conscience. I always made them with my girlfriend and her needs in mind, but I made them knowing that only I would have to live with the choice. Only I had to be at peace. She wouldn't wonder "what if," and I wouldn't resent her for whatever I chose. Somehow, it's only the little, everyday things I fucked up. Yet they add up, I suppose, building into walls. Building into unnecessary bullshit. It shouldn't have taken me this long to learn, but I realize now, I have learned. I won't make this mistake again. 

I don't resent you. I think your choices were, at times, poor. In all honesty, so were mine. I should have kept my mouth shut. I think you can't have your cake and eat it, too. I get what it means to be confused. I get what it means to be lost. I get what it means to struggle. At the end of the day, it's your heart, and you've got to learn to listen to it. Fuck it. I'm done. I hope you find what you're looking for. And hopefully, I'll run into you in a few months, or a year. But right now, I just need to walk away.

Oh, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't think first. I'm sorry someone else had to get hurt. I'm sorry for my complicity. But I'm not sorry you don't know what you want -- because no one can give that to you. I don't know much else, but I definitely know that. 

That's all I have to say. 

Both Hands

and both hands 
now use both hands 
oh, no don't close your eyes 
I am writing 
graffitti on your body 
I am drawing the story of 
how hard we tried 


Almost a year ago, I saw Ani play at Tipitina's. I remember hearing this song and feeling like I had been hit by a brick -- it was as if she was singing about me and my girlfriend. I felt like I was hearing this song for the first time. It was an illuminating moment, and for me, a really important step in recognizing a failing relationship and starting to let go. It was months before I was at peace with that decision, and sadly, over those months I lost a lot financially and emotionally that probably could have been avoided. But sometimes, you just have to hit rock bottom to start to rise again. 


2010 was, in a lot of ways, a miserable year. It started out amazing with the Saints winning the Superbowl, but so quickly that became overshadowed by my girlfriend's bullshit, the BP oil spill, and my own inability to exorcise myself from a really bad relationship. I cried almost every day for the first five months of the year. Sometimes, it felt like I was doing nothing but crying for days straight. There were a few moments that shine through that darkness -- my first day at Jazz Fest, visiting family in Mississippi, a few great conversations with new people in my life, a mess of amazing festivals and food, and more. Summer was, for me, a saving grace in a lot of ways. It's always a great reprieve after winter ~ I always treasure warmth and sunlight, long evenings outside, summer dresses, and being barefoot. But this summer was unique -- I quit a job that had been weighing heavily on me, I found a new energy in 3am beers and late night conversations, I got the nerve to save up and start traveling out of my comfort zone, and I got a therapist. I found myself facing a lot of what made me unhappy, and I started the upward climb into a post-relationship renaissance. I realized that by not investing in many of my friendships, I had missed out on a lot. So I cut that shit. I started, slowly, to analyze and exorcise everything in my life that wasn't making me happy. And by December, I had done a whole lot of cutting and cleaning. 


December has been such a whirlwind of travel and spending time with friends. It's been exhausting and rejuvenating at the same time. But more on that later. In the last month, I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I want from myself in 2011. Of course, the year will bring a thousand things that I can't predict. It will be drastically different from the last year, simply because I am starting this year in a totally different place. I don't want guidelines or hard and fast rules. But I want a list (I love lists!), a beginning point. So, this is more about hopes and dreams than resolutions and rules. 


1) The older I get, the more I find the edges of my personality are filed down -- I become slower to anger, faster to understand and empathize, more accepting, less stressed and reactive. I want that. I want to learn to center myself when I most need it. I want to take a breath first, not after. 


2) I want positivity in my life. I want to surround myself by people who don't talk shit about others. I want people in my life who spread compassion and love. I want to do so, myself. I want to look for the good in everything. I don't want to ignore the rest, but I want to learn to acknowledge it and respond accordingly. 


3) I want to work on my own honesty. I have a tendency to run or shy away from questions and truths that make me uncomfortable. I tend to gloss over talking about my emotions. I have to force myself to be emotionally honest and open, and I think that process will become easier as I work through it. 


4) I want to encourage my creativity.


5) I want to take time to enjoy where I am, every day, as much as possible. I want to spend more time in the moment than looking back or looking forward. 


I want 2011 to be a year I look back on fondly, not one I wish would go by faster. :)

Thanks(Giving) for Sex Ed

In the early 1990’s, there was a massive legal battle over sex education in the school district where I grew up. A very conservative group of Christians had convinced the school board (hell, they probably were the school board) to adopt an abstinence-only program. Another group sued, claiming this curriculum forced religious beliefs on students and taught students incorrect information.

What came out of this massive brew-ha-ha was the mess I, a ninth grader, had the pleasure of experiencing. My school was the second best public school in the state, but yet, my teachers could be suspended or fired if they answered students’ questions about sex, bodies, and sexuality. Several of my fellow students went on to study at Ivy League schools, yet we were taught from books with lines blacked out about how condoms prevented only 22% of pregnancies if used correctly. My school offered over ten AP classes, but also taught us that “automobiles” were a leading cause of sex.

In other words, we were a very well-educated bunch, but we hadn’t a clue when it came to sex education.

My parents were even less helpful. My mom didn’t even explain sex; she thought letting me watch R-rated movies and giving me an American Girl book about “your body” was enough. She bought me some pads and told me to ask my friends how to use tampons. She said, “don’t get pregnant.” My dad left when I was 12, teaching me that the most valuable relationship skill I could cultivate is how to emotionally shut off when things get difficult.

I became sexually active young. Thankfully I stumbled through early sex experiences with few permanent scars. I didn’t use a condom the first time I had penis-vagina intercourse with a man. I didn’t know that oral sex could spread STI’s. When I started exploring my attractions for women, I had no idea what I was doing. None. I had no relationship communication skills, which quickly backfired as I learned the hard way with my first girlfriend. I thought jealousy was a requirement for relationships; I thought it was better to talk behind her back about how I felt than to talk to her.

I survived without an STI, without getting pregnant, and I still talk with my ex. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it out of high school without getting raped. I don’t know if sex education could have changed that, but I do think it could have changed my response. I was under the misconception that women are raped by strangers, not by their friends, their dates, their acquaintances. For years, I thought I had simply “hooked up” with a friend when I was blacked out. I wasn’t introduced to the idea of consent until I was 18 – three years after being raped. Three years after that healing process should have started. Three years too late for me to do anything to prevent the rape.

After years of stumbling in the dark, running into brick walls, and making up answers to questions, I started doing some serious research. I educated myself. I found factual, intelligent resources like Scarleteen, and I started passing the information on. My friends would email me, asking where to get STI tested and how to put on a condom, and I went looking for the best answers. I started a hotly contested sex column at my college, implemented a Safe Sex Week, and pushed the Resident Advisors to make condoms available in all the dorms – not simply across campus at the health center. I got HIV/AIDS tested, and I accompanied anyone who needed a friend to hold their hand at the clinic. I started a Safe Zone program on campus for queer and questioning students, and I challenged professors to think about how the exclusion of LGBT people from history, sex education, health curriculum, and other disciplines hurt students by denying them information. I started exploring my own sexuality in healthy ways – exploring consent and kink, experimenting with new sex positions and partners, examining my understanding of monogamy, jealousy, and communication in relationships.

At the root of what drove me to keep pushing boundaries, to keep educating myself and others was a need to not see my friends stumble in the dark. If you don’t know how to protect yourself, you won’t. If you don’t know how to get tested, you won’t. If you don’t know how to navigate consent and set your own boundaries, you won’t. Knowledge is powerful. It takes knowledge to plan to not get pregnant, to plan to prevent STI’s, to plan to get good healthcare. It takes knowledge (and practice!) have great sex and build strong relationships. Scarleteen is knowledge. Scarleteen is the best resource for fighting the bullshit and lies our schools (and sometimes, our parents) taught us.

We need more information, not less. We need to become empowered through knowledge, not denied the ability to make informed choices. We need love and real answers. We need all sex education to be like Scarleteen.

Scarleteen wouldn’t exist without the donations of people who care about helping young people. Please make a donation. Please give the gift of sex education. Give youth the help and information they need.

Being Alive

Mist came first, then rain, so slow that the drops could be followed as they fell. The men and women continued their groping dance as the klezmer bands poured their music through the streets. Young girls captured fireflies in cheesecloth nets. They peeled open the bulbs and painted their eyelids with the phosphorescence. Boys squashed ants between fingers, not knowing why.

The rain intensified, and paraders drank themselves sick on homemade vodka and beer. People made wild, urgent love in the dark corners where houses met and under the handing canopies of weeping willows. Couples cut their backs on the shells, twigs, and pebbles of the Brod’s shallow waters. They pulled at one another in the grass: brassy young men driven with lust, jaded women less wet than breath on glass, virgin boys moving like blind boys, widows lifting their veils, spreading their legs, pleading - to whom?

From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be mistaken for light - a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey though the darkness to the astronaut’s eyes.

In about one and a half centuries - after the lovers who made the glow will have long since been laid permanently on their backs - metropolises will be seen from space. They will glow all year. Smaller cities will also be seen, but with great difficulty. Shtetls will be virtually impossible to spot. Individual couples, invisible.

The glow is born from the sum of thousands of loves: newlyweds and teenagers who spark like lighters out of butane, pairs of men who burn fast and bright, pairs of women who illuminate for hours with soft multiple glows, orgies like rock and flint toys sold at festivals, couples trying unsuccessfully to have children who burn their frustrated image on the continent like the bloom a bright light leaves on the eye after you turn away from it.

Some nights, some places are a little brighter. It’s difficult to stare at New York City on Valentine’s Day, or Dublin on St. Patrick’s. The old walled city of Jerusalem lights up like a candle on each of Chanukah’s eight nights. Trachimday is the only time all year when the tiny village of Trachimbrod can be seen from space, when enough copulative voltage is generated to sex the Polish-Ukrainian skies electric. We’re here, the glow of 1804 will say in one and a half centuries. We’re here, and we’re alive.

~ Jonathan Safran Froer, Everything Is Illuminated