Bem-vindo! Welkom! καλωσόρισμα! Marhababik! Bienvenue! ...

I’ve been racking my minds for a “Community” themed post for the past few days. We’ve had an incredible number of visitors since the last “Lesbians Linking Lands.”  I need to write something that offers a proper "Welcome!"  

The other night I was sitting around thinking about Canada.  When I first started the site, I wanted to let a professor who leads a PFLAG group know about this outlet and opportunity for testimony.  I sent her a link and hoped she’d gather all the young ones around and have them write a paper, “Why I Want to Be a Lesbian.”  But, she didn’t.  She was busy corralling one of her 70 cats, 50 dogs, or 2 horses toward supper bowls.

“But maybe other PFLAG chapters would like to have their young ones write a story?” I thought.

So, I wrote to all of the PFLAGs in the entire country.  (I have a lot of down time, sitting in a hotel room. I also wrote to the liberal Republican Senators and all of the Democrats. But, only a few of their (gay) interns popped in).  I’d like to say that they are the base of my dedicated readers but there’s no way to know.  It seems like they made an initial boost, but I can only see a total count for all of USA. I did receive a letter from B.B. who might have joined sometime after I asked readers to share the site with lesbians who might be on active duty and would want a window into the random adventures of a lesbian at home (see, “Support for Our Troops?”).  But before then, I wrote to almost all of the PFLAGs of Canada.  I think ~2 people popped in after that, so I thought I had made a mistake with the Canadian email addresses.  At the time, it didn’t feel right to color all that landmass for only a few peeks. 

The other night, I couldn’t stop thinking that the Canadians still need to join us.  I got on the Canadian PFLAG site and found “other” links. I wrote to about 3x12 organizations and asked them to share the link with their members, so that they will write letters, and then we might create a lesbian canon of sorts. We will see.

So, tonight I’m cleaning out my gmail account because I look there about 3x a week, hoping for letters from guest bloggers.  (Unfortunately, I get a ton of stuff from that lesbian dating site that I set up the night I wrote “The Magical Lesbian Bus has Departed”).  I find one email that pings my mind with ideas about my desired topic, “Community.” 

It’s from a man at the Human Rights Campaign (HRC).  I wrote them with a request, and they wrote me back.  It’s only fair that I read it.  This guy, James Servino, has a great mom.   She launched a campaign to get the attention of the Cardinal of New York because they launched a costly anti-gay marriage campaign, wasting $2M.  (If you want to know more or sign the petition, here it is): https://secure3.convio.net/hrc/site/Advocacy?cmd=display&page=UserAction&id=1529&autologin=true&utm_term=link2&JServSessionIdr004=51h5r5jc42.app304a

In the letter, she says all of the stuff that our family and/or friends say when we’re singing kumbaya at a gathering, “God made us all and loves us all the same.”  Adding to it, she states her outrage that the Church has spent too much valuable money on [sinful] waste.  “Think of the hungry fed, the sick comforted, the homeless sheltered,” she admonishes.  

What she says here is something like what I’ve said a few times myself, “What if all of the energy that Christians spent on hate was used to love.  Isn’t that what the Gospel is all about?”  (After that, I go into happy land and have a grand sense of peace that I "get it.”)  James’ admirable mom ends with a prophecy, “…it makes no sense to deny them the right to be married under the law. And your parishioners aren’t going to stand for it much longer.”  Her inductive reasoning is pointed and probable.

This change that she calls for will manifest with the evolution of a collective human consciousness or when aliens come and probe us in sensitive places.  (We’ll all band together because skin color and language barriers will seem like minute differences in comparison to green bobble-head invaders and telepathic war communications that don’t permeate our feeble minds.  GLBT affinities won’t make a difference. There will be no time for nonsense like sex because we’ll all be holding light sabers and channeling The Force.)  Let’s just hope that the former happens first.  

In the meantime, parishioners—from all denominations—will have to make the difference because they represent the majority.  They will have to decide that they understand the letter and spirit of the Gospel; they will need to understand that there’s enough freedom to go around for everyone; and, they will have to appreciate the rights that are delineated in the Constitution.  All of these reinforce The Golden Rule—in all countries and religions. 

I believe the benevolent entities that watch over this earth understand that a community that stands together evolves together. They are waiting for us to gather and support truth.  Now, the faraway lands seem much closer as a result of our communications.  It is definitely more colorful with our globetrotters and friends with friends in so many places.   

  

Here's to all of you who seem so far away but share similar ways.  Here's to the girls in Spain, Portugal, Netherlands, Brazil, New Zealand, Greece, Morocco, Tunisia, and Canada, “Bienvenido! Bem-vindo! Welkom! Bem-vindo! Welcome, καλωσόρισμα! Marhababik! Marhaban! Bienvenue!” 

Mardi Gras with the Pink Fringe People

For a town that is so close to New Orleans, Baton Rouge doesn’t get its freak on often enough.  This city is like the dorky cousin of a rock star.  I would say “nerdy,” but nerds got an upgrade during the past two generations.  They’ve moved up to “could be cool” status, having created high tech gadgets that make people like me feel omniscient. 

That’s how I felt last night after my many beers, a daiquiri, and a peach, a cherry, and a lime jello shot. I wasn’t the me of last year.  This year, I was fully awake at The Spanish Town Ball, and I was stalking a few select ones, snooping around their space for good vibrations. The first one turned out to be a man.  And then, while I was watching the feathers on one girl’s cowboy hat, I was about to approach the table when the woman I thought I was stalking passed me. The remainder of this story would be entirely different if she had stopped and said, “I’ve been looking for you.  Where have you been?” I would have said, “I’ve been standing here stalking you, over there at your table.” And then, I can’t imagine how I might have recovered.  So, it’s probably best that I didn’t slur non-sequitors at her but retreated to the ice chest for water.

The mascot for Spanish Town is a flamingo.  Throughout the city, during this time of year, there are plywood-bodied pink cranes in front of formerly respectable homes, at the front door of national chain stores, and in the big lake—standing erect and with one leg up—near LSU.  But, each year the Spanish Town Krewe shakes it up with a special theme.  This year it was “Some Twinkie ate my Ding Dong.”  A number of the [straight] men were dressed up like Twinkies and Ding Dongs but most everyone bobbed in a sea of pink jackets with black bolo hats and/or homemade flamingo costumes that were up and down and all around the 300 tables that held liquor bottles, King Cakes and food from many parishes. 

Most of the other Mardi Gras gatherings are formal. Their members are a bit more serious and have a significant history that matters only to them and theirs.  But, this Krewe invites the fringe people.  And, that’s why it found me.  You don’t need a rich Cajun or Creole heritage.  With this group, you probably don’t want to talk much about that if you want to get loose and get your cray cray on.

The festivities unfold at noon. Some poor appointed person from your group wheels a limousine ice chest into the convention center and finds your table.  At 7, the doors open and everyone carries in a Styrofoam container of an almost empty drive-thru daiquiri that kept each line-dweller from being parched before she could find that icy cold beer.  For the next five hours, everyone at the table does their part to make the chest as light as possible before your drunk butt has to drag it a mile away which is hopefully near wherever you parked.  By then, you should be able to reach into your cooler and grab the last icy bottle of water and wait until you can locate your keys and then think about sleeping in the trunk.  

Hours before that decision, I was standing outside with the smokers and watching MacTiger who was talking to an older gentleman. He was wearing a white tuxedo and had pink accoutrements, including the hairs in his bushy mustache. He was explaining that his friends lost their ($40) tickets to the ball, and how he had to give up his for one of the other guys.  Next, he pulled out a lanyard with a VIP card in it, saying it was his ticket in.  I thought it was a fake badge that he printed at home, but MacTiger later informed me that the man was one of the founding members of this insane tradition.  While the older eccentric didn’t appear to be gay—I haven’t met anyone associated with this Krewe who is actually gay—it’s clear that the fringe people, going it alone, wouldn’t make this ball what it is without the queers. There’s something freeing about being allowed to [get ridiculously intoxicated and] embrace the “other” side.

Whether you’ve ever participated in a Mardi Gras along this southern coastline or not, you probably know that it’s all about over-indulging.  Many vices are exercised to support hedonism and carpe diem! before that Wednesday when everyone must give up a single vice of their choosing for lent.  And, many were there to participate in this religious tradition. Thinking about the mob of Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and space alien prostitutes, I brushed into and bumped against every walk of life.  Most had selected a costume that in some way represented their ulterior personality. Remembering this bit from last year, I chose to represent the Trickster.

We all have a shadow side.  It’s who we don’t wish to be but are.  Before we are born, we sit on God’s lap and talk about what we need to get done while we’re on earth.  And before we depart from the pre-life warehouse, each body is embodied with great assets.  But while in the assembly line, we get saddled with oddities that won’t fit back on the shelf and can’t be returned.  These are thrown in—freebies that lighten heaven’s inventory and make a life more interesting.  This method is based on a hope that the sane [conservative] collective will teach the trickster tendencies how to cope.  

The shadow harbors fragmented parts that don’t fit with the socially acceptable ones.  However it isn’t really a “who” because it isn’t complete.  And, the trickster lives there, in the dark recesses, with all of the other rogue pieces of your psyche.  In my thesis—on Jungian archetypes—I wrote, “Tricksters are lost between primal ignorance and human ethics.”  [I was much smarter before I lived in a cubicle. Today, I can only guess at what I meant by this numinous statement].  I think that tricksters have diminishing power and jab out from the darkness, stealing opportunities to manifest.  They get to do this by cohabitating with the socially acceptable traits who actually have ethics, and they get to do it with primal reflexes for the purpose of [positive] change through chaos. 

The most interesting part about a trickster—according to Jung—is that a person is manipulated by a trickster who is the same sex.  That’s right.  If you’re a husband, your wife can’t be your trickster.  You might have other names for her, but it can’t be trickster.  Your impish qualities are seduced from your shadow by someone who has the same gender energy.  That makes things tricky (no pun intended) for same-sex couples.  Can my lover draw out the worst in me?

I think I just heard a unanimous roar from each of the Lesbians Linking Lands lands.

Last night was the night to let my trickster step into the spotlight. After a few pounds of mudbugs, I took it out on the town. And there we gathered—all of us familiar strangers—for an insane evening of viewing exaggerated foam penises on the outside of clothes and real cleavage that is usually suffocated by business attire. We were wearing our various and colorful trickster personalities on the outside so that 2,000+ others could size it up and dance with it.  I loved the insanity.  I needed to release too much pent energy that was feeding my trickster with much impetus that wanted to destroy the last few things that were working well in my current situation.  It was planning change through chaos. All of this negative energy was feeding the trickster who might get me out of here.  But then, where?

Today, I’m clearer about what I need to do to sell this house, stay focused and work toward a new life.  I can’t tell you why being decadent for four hours will make me more responsible for one, two, or four more months. (But, that’s a pretty good payoff.) Maybe I spent much of the time being grateful to be with my people—the fringe people.  Whatever the answer, I’m not one to question a religious tradition that throws such a great party that all of the dorky cousins fit in at the rock star religious bash.

If you’re in the neighborhood, The Spanish Town Parade is only two weeks away.  I hear that you have to show your I.D. to attend, “)!

Complimentary Stuff Can Wrinkle Your Heart (and Headstrands)

All of this dating stuff leads to the next question. Do we have a right to upset biology?  Specifically, if all humans have a need for other humans, can any old rogue human just stop needing any or all of the other ones? 

“What’s that you say?” 

“You don’t need people?” 

“Sure.”  Go into the wilderness or lock yourself up. Unplug and pack away everything that was made by humans.  Find a wild boar to eat and pray that your Chia head shows new sprouts. Now, sit tight. How long will you last before your own mind makes you insane—1, 2, 3 hours?  

I ask this because every morning, I have a dialogue with myself which goes a bit like this:

"When I meet my next girl, I will look for signs that she won’t be selfish.”

“That will be hard.  Selfish creeps in.  The last one promised you the moon but gave you (gym-sock stinky) cheese."

“Right.  Well then, I’m not sure.”

“Why do you need a girlfriend?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know. Everyone is suppose to have someone."

"Do you think half of your brain will rot?"

"Yes. Perhaps I do."

This morning I became conscious of this reoccurring dialogue that goes on between two rouge parts of my brain.  I realized that another part of my mind was tired of the conversation and ready to pass it to the conscious departments with much hope that "reality" could stop the dialogue.  They embraced it. They thought the conversation was delightfully perplexing. 

“Who would be crazy enough to fight a biological drive?"

“Not I.”

“Me either.” 

“We like girls,” I and me said in unison.

Applying my face, I see in the mirror a stray batch of hair that had been negatively impacted—during yesterday’s shower—because I used the complimentary gel instead of the complimentary shampoo. Those tiny 3-day dose bottles look the same in the shower without my reading glasses.

“Rogues and rebels,” I wiggle a metaphysical finger at the stray strands that will never again be tempered by a blow dryer.  “I’ll have to wait until that strand grows a bit to cut it off.”  

I realize one very important fact—; if that little mishap in the shower caused a permanent wrinkle, there’s no way I'll mess with my biology. Truth is, I can’t do without a partner in crime.  I need one, but I can only see the deceit and prepare for more.

I don't want to forget about the power of love. This too deserves respect, even if I can’t embody the dream—at this very moment—with a devoted tangible girlish figure. For now, I’ll take my mind off the what-if-everything-goes-south and hope that she doesn't need reading glasses when we’re in the shower. Someone has to figure out what goes where!

I Ain't Got No Stinkin' Foundation Problems- Hooray!

I started this blog because there are things that fathers and brothers don’t teach girls who might need to take the lead to secure a date.  Maybe some of you are lucky and received lessons that have helped you in life and love. I have not, and I imagine that I’m not alone.  (So, if you have received great advice from a male, please share a simple or elaborate story.  If you want to include a picture of your wise male elder, that would be great too.)  Maybe one taught you how to disconnect from strife when the time is right.  Men are good at it.

I used to think this tendency was devolutional, but I realize it’s a means for mental survival in any kind of relationship. I have discovered this bit of information without the aid of a benevolent male and through the inanimate mercy of a community library.  Here it is…each half of a partnership must maintain (and, dare I say, embrace) the personality it was born with.  

I happened upon a book this time last year, shortly after the breakup, and again this time this year.  I thought that perhaps it was fate that the binding faced me again or that it had not been rented and was fixed in the very same place.  Either way, I wanted to know if the words would read the same after a year of rebuilding my strengths. 

These are the sentences that returned to me during different times and throughout the year:

Personal space is a unique and valuable part of us.  When we are in it healthily, we are alone in a way that refreshes and enlivens us.  We feel good about ourselves, without excuses or apologies; there is no one else there to listen to, report to, or alter ourselves for.  What others think of us is not relevant or important.

-The Art of Intimacy

“Wait a minute. I was with you up until the point where you totally disregard consideration for my partner.  I can’t imagine being in a relationship where I am not consistently conscientious of my behaviors and their relevancy to the efficacy of my partnership”.  These were my thoughts the first time I read this paragraph.  (Yes, I also think in short filibusters.)

Until I read these words from a certified mind therapist, I had no idea that I was allowed to not be perpetually aware of what I was doing and how it would affect my her.  (Ex#1 and #2 might write in and say, “You’ve got to be kidding! You’re an ignoramus!!”). Something strapped me in when I was with #3.  It began with love, but it looked more like fear in the end.

I wished I had tried to free my true self while riding side-by-side with that one.  Perhaps in dreamland we were a perfect fit but, in the cold and fixed reality, we were perpendicular to each other.  I might have held my own throughout the course, if I’d have been honest during the first year.  But, I had a million reasons why I shouldn’t until I couldn’t. That whimsical odyssey that was prevalent with #1 and #2 might have produced spurts of spontaneity with #3, generating oxygen between us.  

These words from Art of Intimacy sound like something I read in a different book. I remember:

Differentiation means the ability to maintain your identity when you are in close relationship to other people or ideologies: you are able to rest securely inside yourself and not be swept away by other people’s emotions, opinions, or moods.  At the same time you are open to other people. 

- If the Buddha Dated

If I’d forced myself into a place that had little room for me, I might have lost #3 before the end of that first year but I wouldn’t have lost myself (and I would still be in California or would have moved back to Austin. I’d be on with an entirely different life. But, I wouldn’t have met all the great people in Alabama or Louisiana.  Hmm; if I wouldn’t have lost myself, Dim Sum couldn’t have helped me find myself.  How does this crazy system work anyways?)  After the end, I realized that I would have lost #3 sooner or later because empowerment was threatening and lack of empowerment was “yawn!”   I win from losing, and then I can’t win for doing. Is there a method to this madness? I imagine an old cowboy who knows to keep his distance would say, "Sit back. Stay a spell. See what comes of it."

I look back on this year and know that I stayed the course.  Much of it because a (guy or girl) friend kept an eye on me and offered timely advice.  I managed a convoluted job that requires much travel, a huge house that must always be “show ready,” and 3 pets who need to be loved, walked and fed.  I had a pinhole leak in the roof, and the contractor created a bigger leak; but, I took care of it.  I’ve had 50+ showings and 3 open houses, but—on weekends when I could hardly breathe from fear or fatigue—I made things perfect for each potential buyer.  I thought there were foundation problems, but I was relieved to hear, this morning, that there aren’t.  These things wouldn’t have crippled the pre#3 me, but I had lost her.  On the other side of each kind of hurdle, I found old strengths that I had too easily surrendered. And then, Dim Sum helped me find this means to get out of my head, and we found y'all. 

Now, I breathe more; I smile more; I embrace more.  A business-as-usual and hectic day like today was great because it ended with me realizing that my life may not be remarkable but I love it because it’s mine.  I wouldn't want to be in anyone else's. And, I won’t give it away again because I need to care for it so that I might share it with all kinds of loves and likes. 

Velkomin, Welkom, ברוך הבא, Vitajte

I am chasing a girl in my dreams. I stand on the bright side of the shadows with open arms.  I’m not sure who she is, but we’ve met a few times and squabbled about whether to love. 

“I’m so glad to have seen her again,” were my first thoughts this morning.

Without the benefit(s) of physical intimacies, we are having a torrid affair. It twists my heart when I reach and she denies me. I try to put words to her innuendos and understand her side of our argument. Last month there was someone else, but the other woman didn’t come up in conversation last night.  She must be gone.  Apparently, I have a new hurdle...

“It’s not time. I’m not ready,” she turns her back to my ethereal self, and then she moves into the shadow of our space.

“Come here,” I said. 

She did. And, I stole a kiss. I didn’t care. It felt good. It still feels good. 

The fact that my soul is trying to convince her of our truth is unsettling to my daytime self. It doesn’t know this truth that carries much weight.  It is haunted with a need to know why my sleeping self cares so deeply.  And then, I realize that the she—the love I am chasing—resembles someone I once knew.  You can be sure that my daytime self gets “it” after the recognition.  She was a young love, pre-#1.

Back then, I hadn’t had many experiences in love or life.  She had graduated, secured a job, and wanted someone who already had a few things to share—like a dresser or sofa. I wanted to be part of her life; I wanted to grow with her. I would say, “I don’t need you, I want you.” I thought this was a brilliant and mature statement. Though cheesy and con-artist sounding, the feelings were authentic. Eventually she politely asked me to not stalk her. 

Years Decades later, here I am—, stalking her in the sneakiest of ways. I wait in the shadows of her dreams.  Obviously, I was wrong. Some part of me does need her.

Of course, the daytime self can very clearly see that I’m a hopeless romantic who should flick this idea off the counter like a dried Thanksgiving turkey crumb.  I would benefit by getting a grip on reality before I get too far into 2013.  She is a complete stranger.  I would struggle to recognize her in broad daylight unless my soul clued me in.

If all of this metaphysical unknowing is weird to you, it’s not weird to me. It’s pretty commonplace whenever I am at the crossroads of big decisions. The next #4 is a big decision.  Two years before I met Ex#3, I had a ridiculously vibrant dream. I woke and wrote the first short story of my life before my first cup of coffee.  A few months later, I moved from Texas, moved to Florida, moved to Georgia, and Boom!; I meet soon-to-be #3 and her lover.  They had the same (unique) names as the two characters in the story.  What had been happening in their relationship, during the two years since I dreamed and we met, was reflected in my short story.  In six short weeks, I was leaving my #2 and she was leaving her #2.  I believe that short story suffices as empirical evidence— people meet in places where their bodies can’t go.  Also, yogis talk about the astral and causal planes. So, I’m using them for historical reference (backup support).

I might be highly intuitive, but I wouldn’t hang a shingle and attempt to be a professional. (I know my limitations, and my daytime selves (I and me) don’t let much of the crazy slip through their filters.)  Also, I am not completely convinced that ideas from non-corporeal entities is 100% beneficial for humans who bruise and bleed, alone.  

In my search for #4, dreams appear to be the only help I’m going to get.  There are no dead relatives or divine interventions.  But, I can live one day at a time on hope.  Here’s what I’m thinking— because my girl doesn’t leave the dream, she knows I’m right. Because she keeps showing up for these ethereal conversations, she knows I’m right.  Because she kissed me back (and we liked it), she knows I’m right.  But, as each dream progresses, she backs up while I plead.  I can’t win if I have to convince another soul to love mine.

With all of this laid out in front of me, I’m not convinced that I’m meeting the she who I pursued when I was young.  This dream girl may be merely like that woman.  They may share a “soul” resemblance.  Either way, I’m sure the right she will come around, eventually, and my soul will enjoy sweet kisses with her.

This might be a jump, but I thought this topic would make for a good introduction for the “Lesbians Linking Lands” update.  I’d like to think that we’re all pseudo-psychically connecting on an ethereal playground.  I’d like to think this is how so many lesbians have connected around the globe, but I know that someone—probably a few someones—out there are sharing the blog in not-so-pseudo-psychic ways.  

I just love seeing a new country on the blogspot list.  Here are the most recent arrivals: Iceland, Belgium, Israel, and Slovenia. 

Welcome! Share your stories with us, ")

2013- It's here; it's queer; buy me a beer!

Before my friend arrived at the bar, I watched three cowboys line dance to songs by Pink.  With ten gallon hats moving in-line with their hips I knew, “I must be in Austin.”  Unfortunately, there wasn’t a crowd at this bar to applaud their efforts. At the eleventh hour, I followed the advice of my Aussie friend and headed north.  He headed south to rescue friends from themselves.

A few minutes before midnight, I entered a mid-city bar and brought in the new year with a room full of more-than-me inebriated strangers.  This was what I needed; I needed unbridled hedonism at this bewitching hour.  Last year, it wasn’t so pretty with me in my pajamas before 10:00.

I came close to finding crazy at this second stop. It arrived after an attractive woman with a great scarf and a gay brother (who flew in from L.A.) bought me a celebratory New Years drink. She was sweet. I'm not sure if she was taking pity on my being alone, or if she was trying to pick me up. If she's gay, I'd have liked to have known that info. The scarf threw me off and I’m bad at this “Is a Lesbian Behind Door #3?” four-dimensional board game.  I didn't get a chance to ask, because she followed the brother to the patio, and then I was abducted by a man who popped an Ambient with each Scotch-and-soda request. 

It was surreal to have shared so many affections with a complete stranger.  He held my hand, played with my fingers, kissed my cheek sweetly.  He grabbed and pulled me through the maddening crowd, looking for someone for him, for me, and for him too. We had the best time and I loved every second of the madness even after the Marine-looking guy—who had mistakenly found a gay bar on New Year’s—made a swarm of lesbians really angry some moments before he grabbed my butt and nibble-chewed on my ear, holding my throat in a headlock from behind.  "Secuuuuurity!" He was some kind of wasted, but the bartender and bouncer saved him from the lesbian blanket-party-beat-down that would have been really kitten-fight messy.  

I was hanging with hundreds of strangers, wiping spit off my cheek after one of four drag queens got caught up in his own movie script drama, and enduring the insults from a gay man who commented on my evening attire.
“Why didn’t you dress up?”
“This is a Camuto blouse.”
“Oh. Well, that’s ok.”
“Aren’t gay guys supposed to know this stuff?”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
"Absolutely, my friend."

This kind of randomness and abuse may not be your cup of tea, and I’m pretty sure that—if offered a menu of options—I wouldn’t have thought them desirable enough either. I'd have selected a warm girlfriend and a good dinner, or a good girlfriend and a warm dinner.  But, the best stuff was buried inside the cavity of an unplanned agenda. 

There I was making the best of my prolonged solitary confinement and ringing in the new year with a collective of colorful drug-induced narratives that were involuntarily emanating from inviting strangers.  Borrowing from their highs and weaving imaginary stories that entertained me and I, we were excited about the potential for radical change in 2013.  The old earth died on Dec 21. With this new wave of cosmic enlightenment, I am open-arm inviting—"Bring it, sister goddess!" 

I hope your celebration was awesome and you had a spectacular kiss at midnight. If not, next year, come with me to Ozstin. We'll find something as entertaining as a confused Marine, a not-so-fashion conscious gay-man benefactor, and lots of sweet drug-induced kisses from strangers who want to share love.  

I'd love to read your tale tomorrow—sometime after coffee and before a bloody mary, "). Cheers!

Dating Death? Rx: Muck Remover and Ice Cubes

When I was a teen, I learned a key thing about dating from “Ann” and “Ben.” They were heterosexuals, but it happens in gay relationships too. Here it is—each lover borrows behaviors from the other. This is Mimicry101. We do it as early as the first month of life when a parent sticks out its tongue and we reply with the same message. We do it for talking and dancing and dating and every everything that can move from one person and stow-away in another.

When a relationship begins, lovers mimic the other, sending a message that perpetuates cuteness and cuddling. When a relationship ends, the mockingbird effect can begin again for the lover(s) who hasn’t let go. It’s creepy to your friends, but—if they love you—they realize it’s a means for you to deal with the loss. (Perceptive friends monitor the intensity of your borrowed identity, watch for decreased uses and then send signals when you’ve stowed away in your lost lover’s personality and are offering no sign that you'll come out. Perceptive sadists throw you in a bath of ice cubes when you’re brain has been on fire too long. Still, the message gets to you before you waste ½ a decade of your life.) Love is love in many forms.

I first realized that people temporarily don their lover’s characteristics after Ann and Ben ended their torrid teen tryst. She had been a shy girl who was tyrannically sheltered by her parents. Ben was a guy who had the credentials to be trusted. He rescued her on Friday nights. Two weeks before graduation, Ann’s dad allowed her go to the beach with girlfriends, and then she left. I mean she really left. Ann went on a romp, following an unemployed guy to the other end of the world state. Because of lifelong brainwashing, she married the stranger on the day that they had sex, and then she called her parents and asked for bus fare(s).

Over the next year, I watched Ben become more like Ann; I watched Ann become more like Ben. (She became animated and daring in her mismatched marriage. He became sensible and less of a pompous ass. Those are the generic things that I can describe.) They morphed, making up for missing parts that each had grown to love in the other. Maybe you’ve seen this lost-love mimicry with dearly parted couples? (Or, maybe you’ve seen a friend take a lover who resembles the old lover— like when Richard Gere fell in love with Pretty Woman (Julia Roberts) and then married Cindy Crawford? (Didn’t they look soooo eerily similar?) That’s where we see Gere adapt.) Lost lovers find a way to make up for what’s missing with an ex’s absence.

Letting go of a relationship is like the famous study by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, in On Death and Dying. Originally, she published 7 stages. But—after a decade long recession, fastfood value meals, and bulk warehouses—there are 5 stages:
· Denial
· Anger
· Bargaining
· Depression
· Acceptance

E.K.R.’s stages are—rightfully so—traumatic. Survivors go through these phases of hell after a loved one’s death. This lost-love mimicry of Ann and Ben occurs at the onset of the breakup, when the prematurely-parted one is knee-deep in denial—certainly, before anger.

But after the termination of a love affair, there are two (living) survivors. They can’t talk to each other if they expect to live normal lives ever again. (I have a friend who has a decade long friendship with an ex. They have a modified version of the relationship they decided to terminate. I can’t say it’s unhealthy, but it’s weird because others can see why they broke up but can’t determine if they broke up.) Separation is the key to passing through the light and into the next love.

I went through semblances of Kubler-Ross’ phases after all three break-ups. I touched-down for a mini-vacation (in hell), got gnarled and twisted in a myriad of all, and escaped. This time, it took Bear to come over and say, “Snap the f*@# out of it. You’re getting laid tonight.” Oh yes—it was a nice promise, and Bear at the bar made for a great distraction, but she has not fulfilled her threat to date.

If you’re going through a breakup, ruminating through your mind is a nice Molotov of ex-thing’s good and bad spirits. In these, hope that she left the good stuff in your decanter. There’s no point in trying to remember who you were before. That girl is curled up on a pallet and under the back blankets of your mind. She’ll come out after she sleeps off this apocalyptic hangover.

Drawing from my experiences with Ann and Ben, and my studies in Psy101, I’ve identified the stages of a break-up—On Dating (and) Death. Kubler-Ross observed a totally different audience, so I propose these new ones:

· Denial          =  Partying ‘til Stupid
· Anger          =  Stalking after Stupid
· Bargaining    =  Sharing friends
· Depression   =  Creating Crazy
· Acceptance  =  Unfriending

You might feel like you’re stuck in muck in the middle of the black break-up forest. I say—leave this stage of Dating Death. Manifest the next one and the next and then get the heck out of this funk before the Dollar Stores clear their shelves of muck removal.

“All you have to do is keep your ears open and breathe. The rest is bonus.”

                                                                                                  -Me

For the most part, we all survive. An exception to this rule is if you are still sleeping in her clothes, wearing the clothes that you’re sleeping in, and channeling her voice as if it is your own. If this is you—you need a strong friend who can heave you into ball-and-claw tub that's full of ice cubes, and a new friend who will force you to form new stories and then hand you a towel and clean Levis.

You might feel desperate, suffocating. But, don’t reach for a new girl until you’re back to your new self. You might find that you’re using the ex-thing’s pick-up lines and swagger (that you formerly appreciated).  That would be way worse.  In no time, you’ll be in a serious situation because ex-thing has got to go. More, if you channel her to seduce your new next, you’ll be dating yourself and that’s just weird.

A Sexual Precedent

Watching the 25-year old handsome guy, I think, “He has the whole package.”  David Jay is adorable, fit and intelligent.  Although, it must be noted that, he’s filming (A)sexual.

Jay formed an international group, calling for people who identify as asexual.  They connect over the internet and share coming-out stories.  In a single year, 20,000 members joined his e-club. Then—for non-procreating reasons—a collection of the members met in San Francisco.  He invited them to his home.  They seemed uncomfortable.

“How’s he going to get this party going?” I wonder.

“What do people do at a party when no one is attracted to the other? I mean, everyone doesn’t have to be attracted to someone. It doesn’t have to be a big orgy, but someone has to bring the chemistry.”

“It’s like when mom made me join the Science Club,” I quieted my escalating self.

“Goddd, that was excruciating.”

David Jay’s group had gathered together to march in a gay pride parade.  Once there, many of the parade supporters were nice and inquisitive about the right of the Asexuals to participate.  A few lesbians interrogated him, wanting details of his sexual history, “Do you masturbate?” and “Can you orgasm?”  They were so very clinical about his “sexual orientation.”  And, of course, an uncle Mary or two had to act up.  

“I pity your poor soul,” said a shirtless man passing by David.

“Why?”
“Because I don’t stand for what you stand for.”

I think the calloused ones thought he was stealing their sexy-thing thunder, reminding that one can just abstain. The difference between the Marys and the Jays is that Marys have an ability to sustain (immediately after sex, while in a committed relationship, or while mending a broken heart), but the Jays don’t have a choice. They have to make themselves want it. They have to overcompensate, enduring kisses and cuddling which comes natural for many. For the first time, I feel like a part of the majority.

                                                                                                                                    

Anyhoo, David Jay was on The View and Montel.  When MSNBC introduces him, they describe him as “a ladies’ man.” I wonder how this could be.  He explains that asexuals are just like everyone else and shouldn’t be treated unfairly because of the way they were born. Here, here! 

He’s right.  The psychologists said there were no significant causal factors— meaning, the asexual didn’t show any more signs of trauma than sexuals.  Asexuals are as myriad a collective as the sex-oriented.  The self-identifying asexuals range from interesting extroverts to eccentric introverts.  There are guys and girls, gays and straights.  It doesn’t seem fair, but many of them can check the box in more than one category.  I begin to think that I might be asexual, but then I remember that only last week I was autistic, and I remind myself that if a practicing lesbian happened to be sitting next to me, we wouldn’t be watching this.

I like David Jay.  He’s adorable.  At first he comes off as very butch; but, at Pride, he’s a bit flirty, leaning in to kiss one of the guys (on the cheek).  He doesn’t say he’s straight, but he doesn’t say he’s gay; he is asexual.  At a University where he is the guest speaker, he shows the Shane (L-Word) graph of his love connections. His circle is solid-line connected, most immediately, to an imaginary boyfriend. 

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I say in a concerned mother’s voice to Georgia, Cali, and Puff who are sharing one bed under the fire. 

I think back to a previous scene where he is with a ½ dozen friends.  David Jay is clearly smitten with one of the girls.  He doesn’t care that her boyfriend is watching him ogle.

“I’m confused,” I look for input from the snoring audience.

During the last few minutes, there’s a black screen with white letters, “Two Years Later.” For some reason, Jay filmed all of this and then nothing happened.  He has grown up.  He looks different.  I’m glad the director told him to wear the same groovy necklace because I wouldn’t have recognized him.  His energy is way off.  He’s not ear-to-ear smiles; he’s serious and somber, and he’s 27 in one of the most sexually active cities in the world.   

“I’m willing to put sex on the table for intimacy,” he forces the words through a half-utterance and deadpan stare. The guy looks defeated. His #1 girl ran off with her guy and his other girl ran off with a girl, and he’s realizing that he’s got to find a way to cope in a world where people pair up and shut the bedroom door.  Global mating is hell for soloist(s).

“Wow.” Put sex on the table. That’s such an odd concept. I imagine many people wouldn’t know how to take sex off the table, the couch, or the bed for intimacy.   More, I’m used to taking stuff off for the act of intimacy—like selfishness, hobbies and Levis. I’m not accustomed to putting things on it.  We start with those cards there.   

This guy truly begins from a different zenith point.  Throughout the film, you understand that he’s highly introspective and knows that he’s different.  While I, and most of the non-asexual interviewees, continually said “Huh?” and “how does a relationship without sex work,” David Jay knew his truth.  He’s piloting into earth’s atmosphere from a different angle and looking for a landing pad.  He wants what many of us seek through/amidst/because of sex.  He wants intimacy.  The question is, when he gets intimacy, will he elect to surrender his Asexual “president” badge? 

If any of you have a funny story or an amusing awakening about discovering the difference between intimacy and sex— please share!

Linking Lesbians Between Lands- 3200

Bienvenido, Maligayang Pagdating, Mingalaba, and آپ کا استقبال ہے !

Wow! We have a world presence. Well, that's not a big surprise that we're popping up everywhere- but it's great to see the connections come alive. Since the last post with this title, a few more countries have joined the gathering: Venezuela, Philippines, Burma, and Oman- Welcome!

It was so very great to receive B.B.'s story. Check out hers: http://twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/2012/12/guest-blogger-2-finally-found-one.html

And while you're laying around dusting sugar plums off your girlfriend's belly, think of one to submit here... ")!

Super Freaky Silence Before The Brave New World

Just an hour ago, I was pulling out of the casino where I successfully made $23 dollars last for two full hours.  At the exit, I’m twisting off, with precision, the muffin top that came in my Hampton Inn “lunch bag.”  You can pick one up at the reception desk, on the way out, each morning.  It’s a nice way to give business wo(men) munchies. But there's not much lunch, it's more like brunch. 

I never eat the whole muffin.  The goodies are free, so I tear off the part I want, pop it in my mouth and toss the bottom out the window for the wolves and vermin who trek the side of the highway.  I’m kind of (calorie conscious and) altruistic that way. 

“That girl’s a super freak, super freak; she’s super freeeeeekeeyy- yaaaaoww!” I’m grooving at the gas pump, filling-up for my trek home tomorrow. A girl cruising by on a bike waves and says, “Hey!” or “Dance Fever” or something with a big fist bump in the night air.  I salute with a fist bump back at her and swing my hips toward the pump.

Heading west, I’m swishing side to side to the music. I like the power of this Chevy rental.  Wow! I never get this free upgrade, but the guys at Enterprise hooked me up this go ‘round.  Life is good even though (or maybe because) I’m alone. 

“Three days until our anniversary of the end,” I think about this time last year and realize—it will be the end of the world, 12-21-12.  

“In three days, everyone will wake and wonder if the clocks will work, if the money will still be in their savings account, or if the Mayas will rise from the dead and eat out our hearts.” 

I look up for my exit and hit the signal, “Maybe.”
But it won’t be my end of the world. That happened last year.
“And, I’m a full year away and further down my solitary path.” 

The realization that I’m almost to the anniversary date of receiving the email—“You must realize by now that I have feelings for [Olive Oil]”—causes me to look back at how far I’ve come. I shudder with the power of freedom. Tonight, I’m twisting off muffin tops and dancing to “she’s a super freak.”  

I'm not thinking about the end of the world when I enter the lobby of my on-the-road home. But, I look at the tv and see a media photo of one of the funerals.  Next, a photo of the six year old that the parents, community, and the nation buried today.  “It’s overwhelming.  It’s everywhere. I hope I never forget.”

But, I will forget the sharp points of this sadness  I’ve never been to Connecticut. I don’t have relatives or friends there. I don’t have children of my own.  Still—I am here, witnessing this tragedy and feeling pain that has no place to sit and be.  “It’s not my tragedy—except that I’m human, and I share some whack’d portion of it.” 

People seem to be reflective this week. The pace is slower and the cars are more patient when buyers should be bustling for Christmas bounty. We wait for an explanation from the press or the president.  If one comes, it won’t matter; it won’t make sense.  But compassion in any form makes the world better in small ways and in big ways and in any ways that can fit between.  The press reported Samaritans who were offering hugs to strangers, sleeping bags to the homeless, and Tweets that offered reliefs and gifts to various people around the nation.

As long as the radio stations can keep playing songs that make people move, as long as strangers keep offering anonymous fist bumps in the air, as long as the earth keeps cooling and heating and cooling and heating, and as long as human hearts share peace, love and tenderness with all kinds of super freaks, we can make it through the end of the world and onto the new path together.