My favorite part about running has got to be the snazzy outfits. Today I wore yellow spandex leggings (left over from my short stint rowing in college), with grey spandex shorts over them. Also multicolored striped socks and my favorite comfy t-shirt with birds on it. I considered the run a success not when I made the two miles running most of the way, but when (in my five minute walking cool-down) a woman I'd never seen before grinned at me and said, "Nice legs." That's right. I'm a runner.
It's been strangely good to come back to to routine after being home -- that week feels really important, and as always after being in Alaska I feel like I'll spend a long time processing (for lack of a better word) the experience. I'm so torn up about it if I stop to think that mostly I don't. It breaks my heart every time I leave....but this time, it's been mostly a good re-entry. I was crying at the airport, and my mom said, "Well, it's a good thing at least you're going back with your beau." I made some wisecrack, but the truth is it actually was amazing to have continuity with a person as I left. Usually it feels like a complete break every time I go back and forth, like home and here are two different worlds that both exist in reality but never touch....and this time, I have someone to talk about it with.
It also helps that it's spring here for real. There's a magnolia tree in front of my house that's in full bloom, tulip flowers resting lightly on the tops of branches. It's warm and sunny. Yesterday afternoon Beau and I went for a long scooter* ride, around the backroads and right through main street. It was the first day warm enough that Beau was in shirtsleeves and I in a skirt, and it was so sweet to wrap my arms around his waist and feel my skirt whip around my knees in the wind. Last fall, when we met and Beau was courting me, wooing me, I was acutely aware of the sensuality of the wind and the fabric and the sight of the warm smooth back of his neck between t-shirt collar and helmet. This spring it's different. Although the scooter's been away all winter and so that's new and exciting again, our bodies are so much more comfortable together. I don't immediately thrill as I rest against Beau's back as we ride, and the press of his hips between my legs is more familiar. Sometimes I worry that as the shine of new love wears off (and as my gratefulness for who my beau is not gives way to a more subtle appreciation of who Beau is), one or both of us will get bored and tired, and we'll bicker or stop desiring each other, and this whole thing we've made will just crumble on top of us and leave us to start over again.
Then again, last night we got home an hour before sunset, mouths sticky with soft serve and kisses, and played in the backyard treehouse with my neighbor's two year old twins. When the sun went down we sent them in to dinner and took ourselves to bed. I drew the curtains, Beau turned down the sheets and lay naked and waiting on top of them. I undressed slowly for his watchful eyes, slipping out of my shorts, pulling off my halter top, and then pouncing. I know how I like my beau -- oh, so many ways, but I wanted to start by drawing him into me and feeling my own power. I smoothed his hair back and traced lines down his face onto his chest and belly. I did this until my fingers tingled and his breathing grew heavy, and then I lowered one nipple between his open lips. He sucked and gasped and ran his hands across my back until my whole body felt awake and alive, and I sat up so that my wet and swollen cunt met his wet and hungry mouth. We kissed like that, me with my head thrown back and my beau buried in me, and we moved over and in and with each other until I just melted, energy pouring from me in every direction, from my open mouth into the air, from my open cunt making his throat slick and shiny and soaking the sheets.
And so it went, much longer into the night than I have time to write about now with Beau sleeping beside me. Oh, I think we're doing fine, the way we love each other. And me -- I think I'm doing fine too. Springtime is opening time, it's unfurling time, and I'm planning to take little steps in all directions. Thank god the winter's over.
*Beau would like a motorcycle. Secretly, I would too -- both to ride myself, and to ride behind, although I've always thought of myself as a bicycle girl. However, the scooter is shiny and blue, tops out at about 38pmh, and is not a bad alternative for the winding country roads and small soft serve places we frequent.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Homecoming
It's high tide. Not full high, up under the deck, but high enough that the anchor buoys are way off shore, and the sun that's barely shining through high clouds makes the sea glint full and billowy. Beau is upstairs napping, and I'm sitting outside while the sky drizzles and spits and then lifts into a bright high cloud cover. An eagle is shrieking across the cove from the high trees on Lena Point.
I've been "home" for just under a week, I'm leaving tomorrow, and as usual I'm not ready. This isn't really home in any sense of the word -- I grew up seven hundred miles north of here, and my base is over two thousand miles east. But my parents have settled here, perched between mountainside and water, and so I've come for a week of rest, of introducing Beau to the family, of settling into a different kind of routine for a while. Spring tides are often extreme, and last week was a full moon which makes them even more so. We've been watching the water come almost to the deck, then suck itself way out into the cove. In the evenings, after dinner when sunset turns the ocean pink and purplegrey, we've gone down in search of the fountains of water spurting up between the rocks, and dug huge clams which spit at us and close themselves quickly at our approach. They're in a bucket now, but we'll put them back before we leave since the chance of red tide makes them too dangerous to eat.
I've been so overjoyed and ecstatic this week. I've had so many moments of pure exhilaration, of love and warmth and rightness. Today I've felt out of sorts and a bit on edge, a little myself and mostly with Beau. It makes sense -- it feels like we just got here, and now there's another transition, and I don't know for sure the next time I'll be here.
I've been "home" for just under a week, I'm leaving tomorrow, and as usual I'm not ready. This isn't really home in any sense of the word -- I grew up seven hundred miles north of here, and my base is over two thousand miles east. But my parents have settled here, perched between mountainside and water, and so I've come for a week of rest, of introducing Beau to the family, of settling into a different kind of routine for a while. Spring tides are often extreme, and last week was a full moon which makes them even more so. We've been watching the water come almost to the deck, then suck itself way out into the cove. In the evenings, after dinner when sunset turns the ocean pink and purplegrey, we've gone down in search of the fountains of water spurting up between the rocks, and dug huge clams which spit at us and close themselves quickly at our approach. They're in a bucket now, but we'll put them back before we leave since the chance of red tide makes them too dangerous to eat.
I've been so overjoyed and ecstatic this week. I've had so many moments of pure exhilaration, of love and warmth and rightness. Today I've felt out of sorts and a bit on edge, a little myself and mostly with Beau. It makes sense -- it feels like we just got here, and now there's another transition, and I don't know for sure the next time I'll be here.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Reproductive Justice!
I spent much of this weekend attending workshops and plenaries at the 30th annual CLPP Reproductive Justice Conference.
Training and Being an Abortion Doula, Empowering Birth, and Reframing and Empowering Parenting and Mothering. It was powerful to be in a completely pro-choice space, where all choices -- abortion, adoption, parenting as a young woman of color or an older transman or anyone at all -- are affirmed and supported.
When I think about my own hopes for birth and parenting, it's so tied up with all kinds of complications because I'm queer. I want to give birth to my children (at least some of them). It took me a long time to own that feeling without guilt: guilt for not wanting to adopt "when there are so many children who need homes," (although I have more complicated feelings about adoption now, but that's a different post). Guilt for not being enthusiastic about sharing childbearing with a female partner -- it feels selfish, because I want it so much. Confusion about how I could be so queer, but still want to be "the mom."
One night in college, I stayed up really late with my friends in our co-op, sitting on the floor drinking red wine out of mason jars and talking about our futures. As you do. I got very emotional about my dilemma and said something along the lines of, "I love women -- I love dating them, sleeping with them, being with them -- but I want to have kids, and I just want to be the MOM!" My wise friend looked at me and said, "You don't want to be the mom -- you want to be the parent your kids like best." Which was of course completely true. I want to have the kind of relationship with my kids that I have with my own mom, but that is independent of my partner's gender. And of course, the older I get the less I want to be the parent my kids like best -- I wouldn't want them to have favorites. I just want to have a great, fun, honest relationship with them, and hopefully my partner will too.
That said, one of the things that is so wonderful and...relaxing, somehow, about being with my genderqueer beau, is that in our relationship, I know that I would be the pregnant one -- Beau isn't interested. It's one of the many ways that being with Beau makes me more comfortable in my own skin, in my own desires. We started dating very shortly after I ended a two and a half year, long distance, emotionally abusive relationship in which I felt very judged as not queer enough, and not radical enough, particularly in my desires to have one committed partner and to raise children with that person. Lots of things have given me some perspective on how fucked up that was (time, distance, therapy, friends, a relationship with someone who isn't, as Michelle Tea put it "a queer douchebag"). It's actually amazing to me how much more settled I feel now that I can begin to envision a future for myself, with someone I love, without feeling judged for it. But of course, that shouldn't be amazing at all.
And....somehow I managed to write an entire post that was going to be about the CLPP conference, and turned into something else all together. I'll try to put more thoughts about the conference down later, but they're still all swirling around in my head.
Training and Being an Abortion Doula, Empowering Birth, and Reframing and Empowering Parenting and Mothering. It was powerful to be in a completely pro-choice space, where all choices -- abortion, adoption, parenting as a young woman of color or an older transman or anyone at all -- are affirmed and supported.
When I think about my own hopes for birth and parenting, it's so tied up with all kinds of complications because I'm queer. I want to give birth to my children (at least some of them). It took me a long time to own that feeling without guilt: guilt for not wanting to adopt "when there are so many children who need homes," (although I have more complicated feelings about adoption now, but that's a different post). Guilt for not being enthusiastic about sharing childbearing with a female partner -- it feels selfish, because I want it so much. Confusion about how I could be so queer, but still want to be "the mom."
One night in college, I stayed up really late with my friends in our co-op, sitting on the floor drinking red wine out of mason jars and talking about our futures. As you do. I got very emotional about my dilemma and said something along the lines of, "I love women -- I love dating them, sleeping with them, being with them -- but I want to have kids, and I just want to be the MOM!" My wise friend looked at me and said, "You don't want to be the mom -- you want to be the parent your kids like best." Which was of course completely true. I want to have the kind of relationship with my kids that I have with my own mom, but that is independent of my partner's gender. And of course, the older I get the less I want to be the parent my kids like best -- I wouldn't want them to have favorites. I just want to have a great, fun, honest relationship with them, and hopefully my partner will too.
That said, one of the things that is so wonderful and...relaxing, somehow, about being with my genderqueer beau, is that in our relationship, I know that I would be the pregnant one -- Beau isn't interested. It's one of the many ways that being with Beau makes me more comfortable in my own skin, in my own desires. We started dating very shortly after I ended a two and a half year, long distance, emotionally abusive relationship in which I felt very judged as not queer enough, and not radical enough, particularly in my desires to have one committed partner and to raise children with that person. Lots of things have given me some perspective on how fucked up that was (time, distance, therapy, friends, a relationship with someone who isn't, as Michelle Tea put it "a queer douchebag"). It's actually amazing to me how much more settled I feel now that I can begin to envision a future for myself, with someone I love, without feeling judged for it. But of course, that shouldn't be amazing at all.
And....somehow I managed to write an entire post that was going to be about the CLPP conference, and turned into something else all together. I'll try to put more thoughts about the conference down later, but they're still all swirling around in my head.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Butch Lab Symposium #2 Roundup
I was inspired to finally start putting my writing into a blog so that I could participate in the fantastic Butch Lab Symposium. Here's the roundup from Symposim #2: Butch Stereotypes, Cliches, and Misconceptions -- lots of amazing writers here.
- Ali Oh at Made of Words: Bottoms Up, Thumbs Up
- Madeline Elayne: Butches Don’t Wear Pink (and other fallacies)
- Victoria Oldham at Musings of a Lesbian Writer: Misconceptions
- Wendi Kali at A Stranger in This Place: Butch Stereotypes, Cliches, and Misconceptions
- RM at Letters from Titan: Butch Isn’t Ugly
- Kyle on Butchtastic: Butch Stereotypes, Cliches and Misconceptions:
- EST at A Lesbian Christian on Butch Stereotypes
- Joliesse Soul at This Side of Changed on Butch Stereotypes
- Laina at The Bookish Butch
- Harrison at How to Be Butch on Stereotypes, Cliches, and Misconceptions
- Lenore Louhi at twenty pebbles, a piece titled “Smoke”
- Cody on Cowboy Coquet on Stereotypes, Cliches, and Misconceptions
Down by the river
I have done the dishes -- twice. I've swept the house, folded the laundry, cleaned the cat box, called two friends, listened to a lot of NPR, and made banana bread. Even with all that (productive) procrastination, something inside of me is so afraid of being alone with my own thoughts that I made myself come down by the river to write, where I don't have internet, and even then I've brought a pack of my roommate's clove cigarettes -- and I "don't smoke".
Who is this person who's so uncertain, so wary of a lack of structure, of her own internal world? Where did she come from? I didn't grow up with her. She's been around for a couple of years, I think, lurking in the corners, but it's only more recently that I've noticed her at every turn.
It's when I'm indoors that she sneaks up on me most, catches me off guard and whirls me around. That's probably part of why this winter was so hard -- why living in Alaska again after college was so hard -- because inside I feel stuck and trapped (no matter how homey it is). It calms me down deep to be outside, as long as I'm not shivering.
Maybe if I combine cigarettes with a more rigorous exercise routine, they'll even each other out? This clove is awfully relaxing. I've been trying to step up my exercise, again much easier now that it's a reasonable temperature for human life outside. I've slowly added running to my karate and dance routine, and today I went for a seven mile bike ride -- poking around some neighborhoods near my house, which I just haven't explored yet since I moved in in the fall. I'm terrifically unmotivated and excellent at procrastinating (see above), but I feel so good when my heart is pounding and my ears start to hurt because of the cold air against my hot eardrums. The more I do it, the more I can remember that feeling and the easier it is to motivate next time.
I know what I need to do -- some of it, at least -- it's putting it into practice that's difficult. And that's the thing about depression, isn't it? Wherever it comes from, whatever form it takes at any given time, it's there, making everything just a little bit harder.
When I was biking today, the wind was strong in my face for the first half of the ride. It was chilly against my bare shins and pushed at my eyelids. I pedaled hard into it, willing my body to be stronger, waiting for that moment when I would turn the loop and head home with it at my back. I made that turn, and for a second everything was still and the air hovered around me -- and then it was back in my face as I picked up speed, no longer the external wind blowing against me but the air resistance I created with my own movement. It struck me how all those things that slow us down, that push against us -- they're a combination of what comes at us and what we create, but they never completely go away. I want to learn how to make peace with the wind in my face, to keep going forward into it without it overwhelming me -- but god, it's hard sometimes.
Who is this person who's so uncertain, so wary of a lack of structure, of her own internal world? Where did she come from? I didn't grow up with her. She's been around for a couple of years, I think, lurking in the corners, but it's only more recently that I've noticed her at every turn.
It's when I'm indoors that she sneaks up on me most, catches me off guard and whirls me around. That's probably part of why this winter was so hard -- why living in Alaska again after college was so hard -- because inside I feel stuck and trapped (no matter how homey it is). It calms me down deep to be outside, as long as I'm not shivering.
Maybe if I combine cigarettes with a more rigorous exercise routine, they'll even each other out? This clove is awfully relaxing. I've been trying to step up my exercise, again much easier now that it's a reasonable temperature for human life outside. I've slowly added running to my karate and dance routine, and today I went for a seven mile bike ride -- poking around some neighborhoods near my house, which I just haven't explored yet since I moved in in the fall. I'm terrifically unmotivated and excellent at procrastinating (see above), but I feel so good when my heart is pounding and my ears start to hurt because of the cold air against my hot eardrums. The more I do it, the more I can remember that feeling and the easier it is to motivate next time.
I know what I need to do -- some of it, at least -- it's putting it into practice that's difficult. And that's the thing about depression, isn't it? Wherever it comes from, whatever form it takes at any given time, it's there, making everything just a little bit harder.
When I was biking today, the wind was strong in my face for the first half of the ride. It was chilly against my bare shins and pushed at my eyelids. I pedaled hard into it, willing my body to be stronger, waiting for that moment when I would turn the loop and head home with it at my back. I made that turn, and for a second everything was still and the air hovered around me -- and then it was back in my face as I picked up speed, no longer the external wind blowing against me but the air resistance I created with my own movement. It struck me how all those things that slow us down, that push against us -- they're a combination of what comes at us and what we create, but they never completely go away. I want to learn how to make peace with the wind in my face, to keep going forward into it without it overwhelming me -- but god, it's hard sometimes.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Smoke
This story is part of the Butch Lab Symposium.
I didn't notice her at first when I walked in. It was dark and crowded, and I was already tipsy. I walked straight past the bar lined with queers ordering drinks, past the pool tables where frat boys threw back beers and grabbed their blonde girlfriends, past the dancefloor which was currently taken over by a crowd of onlookers watching someone I couldn't see sing karaoke. I threw my coat on a pile behind the cigarette machine and went to find a drink and my roommate.
She was leaning against the bar with her eye on me, but I didn't yet know it.
Roommate found, drink in hand, the karaoke finally gave way to the dj and we snaked into the middle of the dancefloor. I sweated out the heat of the day to the beat of Taio Cruz, eyes closed, arms in the air. After a couple of songs, my roommate nudged me and pointed to a couple of hot butches nearby. I grinned and raised an eyebrow, watching them now but trying not to be obvious about it. A few songs later, though, they'd made their way closer to us, although none of us acknowledged that we were all checking each other out. One of them was fucking gorgeous, and right next to me....I kept brushing up against her casually, the way you have to when the dancefloor's so crowded, and every time my arm touched hers I got more turned on. She was a few inches shorter than me, especially in my heels, with spiky hair, solidly strong arms and bound flat chest. She was looking at me boldly now through glasses just hip enough (but not too much), and when the music paused to go back to karaoke she leaned in close and said, "Smoke." Then she disappeared through the crowd.
I am not a smoker, and I will admit that it took me a split second to realize that she was asking me to step outside with her, instead of telling me...something? Her cheesily mysterious butch nickname? When I figured it out, I laughed at myself and moved to follow her. Outside it was dark and humid but slightly chilly, the mark of late summer, and I leaned into her and flirted. She touched my waist, I put my palm just below her collarbone, we talked of nothing important with our voices but everything with our eyes and breath. She finished her cigarette. We went back inside with our fingertips touching and danced together until last call. The crowd pushed us outside together, and we stood there looking at each other in the parking lot. I'd biked into town, and she offered to give me a ride home. "Thanks," I said. She opened the door for me, something nobody had ever done for me before. It tickled my newly-discovered femme identity, and I swooned a little on the inside. She fastened her own seatbelt and turned to me: "Your place or mine?" How bold! How gallant!
"Yours, I think," I managed. I kept my fingertips lightly on her thigh as she drove, and by the time we got there I was kissing her neck gently, urgently. I hardly knew this butch, but I was smitten and very, very turned on. When we got to her apartment, we were cool as anything until the door closed -- then we fell on each other, mouths open and hungry, hands moving over each other, exploring, discovering. She undressed me tenderly but quickly and I stood before her in my skin, dress pooled around my feet, watching her eyes wander over me. I knelt in front of her, undid her belt buckle, and unzipped her pants before she pushed me to the bed and finished undressing herself. She came to me with gentle power in her broad hands. She worked me over and filled me up and I sighed and screamed in her ear, and her breath was hot on my skin as she came with me all the way and back again.
In the morning she bought me coffee on the way back to my bike, still locked to the railing outside the bar. I kissed her in the car and told her to text me. And she did....oh, she did. She sent me gloriously explicit texts all that day about how much she enjoyed me, how she'd like to again, and I reciprocated. So I showed up that night, back at her apartment, wondering about my own judgment but knowing that she wasn't an asshole, and that I'd just had the best sex of my life. This time she got me a beer from the fridge and put on a record, and we sat close on the couch listening to Elvis and getting to know one another a little. We were both, I think, timid about the fact that this bar hookup wasn't just a one night stand, and she asked how it was that I felt confident enough to go home with her, essentially a stranger. "Well," I replied, "I have a pretty good sense of people. But mostly, you were by far the hottest butch in that bar, and I wanted you."
"Oh," she said, smiling, "I'm not butch."
"Yes, you are," I said, eyebrows raised. Is it possible that she doesn't know? It's not like she's some college kid, she's old enough to have figured out at least some of this identity stuff.
"No, I'm not," she said again. "I used to think I was butch. I lived in the city after college and I played pool with all the butches at the lesbian bars, and they thought I was one of them. I thought I was one of them. And then I realized, spending all that time with those butches -- that wasn't me. I'm not that kind of tough. I'm a faggy genderqueer."
I stepped all over myself apologizing, much to his amusement, appalled at myself that I would have misinterpreted so badly (liberal queer femme trans-loving-ally-self that I am). And then I had all kinds of questions, about how genderqueer was different for him from butch, and different from trans -- and I am lucky enough to still be getting answers to those questions. He answers me with his voice, with his eyes, with his body, with his whole self -- and sometimes we both help each other see a little bit more of who we are.
I didn't see you at first when I walked in, or even after. I had no idea that you would come into my life like a flame, like a fireplace to sit beside, like a warm hand on the small of my back, like a sweet morning kiss in the early grey light and a sexy strong presence to put me just where I want to be in my body. You are my sweet boy, my strict old man, my beau.
I didn't notice her at first when I walked in. It was dark and crowded, and I was already tipsy. I walked straight past the bar lined with queers ordering drinks, past the pool tables where frat boys threw back beers and grabbed their blonde girlfriends, past the dancefloor which was currently taken over by a crowd of onlookers watching someone I couldn't see sing karaoke. I threw my coat on a pile behind the cigarette machine and went to find a drink and my roommate.
She was leaning against the bar with her eye on me, but I didn't yet know it.
Roommate found, drink in hand, the karaoke finally gave way to the dj and we snaked into the middle of the dancefloor. I sweated out the heat of the day to the beat of Taio Cruz, eyes closed, arms in the air. After a couple of songs, my roommate nudged me and pointed to a couple of hot butches nearby. I grinned and raised an eyebrow, watching them now but trying not to be obvious about it. A few songs later, though, they'd made their way closer to us, although none of us acknowledged that we were all checking each other out. One of them was fucking gorgeous, and right next to me....I kept brushing up against her casually, the way you have to when the dancefloor's so crowded, and every time my arm touched hers I got more turned on. She was a few inches shorter than me, especially in my heels, with spiky hair, solidly strong arms and bound flat chest. She was looking at me boldly now through glasses just hip enough (but not too much), and when the music paused to go back to karaoke she leaned in close and said, "Smoke." Then she disappeared through the crowd.
I am not a smoker, and I will admit that it took me a split second to realize that she was asking me to step outside with her, instead of telling me...something? Her cheesily mysterious butch nickname? When I figured it out, I laughed at myself and moved to follow her. Outside it was dark and humid but slightly chilly, the mark of late summer, and I leaned into her and flirted. She touched my waist, I put my palm just below her collarbone, we talked of nothing important with our voices but everything with our eyes and breath. She finished her cigarette. We went back inside with our fingertips touching and danced together until last call. The crowd pushed us outside together, and we stood there looking at each other in the parking lot. I'd biked into town, and she offered to give me a ride home. "Thanks," I said. She opened the door for me, something nobody had ever done for me before. It tickled my newly-discovered femme identity, and I swooned a little on the inside. She fastened her own seatbelt and turned to me: "Your place or mine?" How bold! How gallant!
"Yours, I think," I managed. I kept my fingertips lightly on her thigh as she drove, and by the time we got there I was kissing her neck gently, urgently. I hardly knew this butch, but I was smitten and very, very turned on. When we got to her apartment, we were cool as anything until the door closed -- then we fell on each other, mouths open and hungry, hands moving over each other, exploring, discovering. She undressed me tenderly but quickly and I stood before her in my skin, dress pooled around my feet, watching her eyes wander over me. I knelt in front of her, undid her belt buckle, and unzipped her pants before she pushed me to the bed and finished undressing herself. She came to me with gentle power in her broad hands. She worked me over and filled me up and I sighed and screamed in her ear, and her breath was hot on my skin as she came with me all the way and back again.
In the morning she bought me coffee on the way back to my bike, still locked to the railing outside the bar. I kissed her in the car and told her to text me. And she did....oh, she did. She sent me gloriously explicit texts all that day about how much she enjoyed me, how she'd like to again, and I reciprocated. So I showed up that night, back at her apartment, wondering about my own judgment but knowing that she wasn't an asshole, and that I'd just had the best sex of my life. This time she got me a beer from the fridge and put on a record, and we sat close on the couch listening to Elvis and getting to know one another a little. We were both, I think, timid about the fact that this bar hookup wasn't just a one night stand, and she asked how it was that I felt confident enough to go home with her, essentially a stranger. "Well," I replied, "I have a pretty good sense of people. But mostly, you were by far the hottest butch in that bar, and I wanted you."
"Oh," she said, smiling, "I'm not butch."
"Yes, you are," I said, eyebrows raised. Is it possible that she doesn't know? It's not like she's some college kid, she's old enough to have figured out at least some of this identity stuff.
"No, I'm not," she said again. "I used to think I was butch. I lived in the city after college and I played pool with all the butches at the lesbian bars, and they thought I was one of them. I thought I was one of them. And then I realized, spending all that time with those butches -- that wasn't me. I'm not that kind of tough. I'm a faggy genderqueer."
I stepped all over myself apologizing, much to his amusement, appalled at myself that I would have misinterpreted so badly (liberal queer femme trans-loving-ally-self that I am). And then I had all kinds of questions, about how genderqueer was different for him from butch, and different from trans -- and I am lucky enough to still be getting answers to those questions. He answers me with his voice, with his eyes, with his body, with his whole self -- and sometimes we both help each other see a little bit more of who we are.
I didn't see you at first when I walked in, or even after. I had no idea that you would come into my life like a flame, like a fireplace to sit beside, like a warm hand on the small of my back, like a sweet morning kiss in the early grey light and a sexy strong presence to put me just where I want to be in my body. You are my sweet boy, my strict old man, my beau.
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