I woke up angry
in my head, about all the ways you had failed me.
I set aside all my Zen,
the gratitude and forgiveness
to give this, too, a voice, and then got distracted
by a bird on the balcony rail
over the dark, empty street
and took some pictures, instead, street lights bright against
the dark; concrete not yet heated, but still
hard with the echoes of the night
before, fading now, evaporating along
with the darkness as the hour advanced.
It’s daylight now and I don’t want to lose the dream.
What is your heartbreak telling you today?
Heartbreak. What does that really mean?
I know, it’s a cliché. I’m literal. You may say it’s obvs, but play along with me because I think you know where I’m going…I contend it’s not your heart that’s broken at all. Your heart may be crying, you may be enraged and grief-stricken. Your soul may be howling in pain so loudly it drowns out everything else. Yet, if you take a step back you can deconstruct all your twisted emotions down to this: you haven’t got what you want. This minute, here and now…
First in an anthology of coming out stories
Five days before her eighteenth birthday, Samantha’s father died of a heart attack. He was only 44. It was a month after she graduated from high school and by then, she had already acquired a taste for married men. She’d had her first one when she was seventeen, walking fluidly into the affair black bra-clad and curious.
She left that one before he knew what blew through his fantasies. By the time she met him, Sam had already learned that girl-trappings as simple as a black bra were powerful. It was giftwrap…
If you have ever driven a car on black ice — if you have lived through the white-knuckled tension that slams you into your seat while you rocket forward, free-floating over the surface, no resistance…you know that even in the best of circumstances, it is a shit-your-pants experience.
It’s not at all like hydroplaning. You feel no connection to the earth at all…the vehicle is indifferent to all your attempts to command it. There’s a rock in your gut, but you can’t let the panic surge because if you do, you will lose it all.
Right now, I stand at…
Is that really a thing?
Happy Pride 2018, Fort Lauderdale!
I have been — more than once — accused of being too literal. I like the play of words, I often focus on semantics. Words are very important in my world — lesbian, gay, straight, bi, married, wife, girlfriend, squeeze, lover, your ex. As our political and legal landscapes have been changing, so, too, the precision of our language becomes more important. But I’m not focused on politics just now.
As it happens, I do have something to say about something a friend said to me recently. Actually, she says…
Let me say right from the start, I don’t have the answer to this question. What kind of “losing of self” are we talking about?
No, I don’t mean the kind that you do when you close out the rest of the world and immerse yourself in enjoyment with a new lover: that heady, exquisite submersion into lust, greed, hunger, indulgence. If you have been there, you know it’s warm and magical. If you’re honest, you also know it’s transient. Although I have to say that queer women are so very reluctant to admit this. That’s another story.
(not just for lesbians.)
When a relationship is new, let’s say at three months, you should still be lusting it up, feeling good, unable to get enough of each other. If, instead, you find yourself confronted by a demand for couples’ therapy six weeks into dating, then it’s time to cut your losses.
Unless the sex is so incredible that you’re willing to endure a little twisting to keep getting some. Is it that sweet and tangy? Memorable? Distracting? It had better be.
Take my friend Steph. Steph was dating this woman…let’s call her Stormy. Stormy blew into Steph’s life…
Is it some masculine thing, then, this judgment that is like some
fucked-up sense of what is right and strong, not weak or insignificant?
She sits alone, the taste of pennies in her mouth — a stringent dryness,
the wave heaving upward, like the tide swell shoreward, bringing, then
leaving behind salty, small hollowed carcasses to dry on the sand.
Breathe, breathe through, release, choke down or swallow.
She shakes it off.
Whose dumb idea was it that writing first from the gut,
from first mush and the shallows, must be just wallowing
if it has been swilling and become rank…
As I do often, today I have been pondering the butch-femme continuum: it’s one of my favorite conversations. This dialog is unending because the nuances are as varied as the women who wear the clothes…or lipstick, or chains, or boots, or tee-shirts, or fill-in-the-blank. If you’ve been around in the life as long as I have, you know the stereotypes: High Femme, Stone Butch, Androgynous, Mother-Earth, more.
When I came out some twenty-five plus years ago, I had for awhile been moving around comfortably and invisibly in the straight world. …