I visit YouPorn like everyone else. Don’t lie. You do too. Admit it. In fact, that’s one of the windows you have open. Well, don’t bother closing it now.
Lesbian Porn is a big snore. Sure you hear about all those straight guys with their ultimate sexual fantasies--fucking twins or being the meat in some lesbian sandwich. But how many straight guys get to live that fantasy? Does the lesbian porn fulfill any of their needs? Because it sure doesn’t fulfill any of my needs.
It just isn’t believable. No woman is going to get off while her vagina is being stabbed by 10 inch nails. I’d be afraid. One wrong move and your clit could be quivering on a blood soaked mattress. I’m sure there are some lesbians out there with the long, fake nails, but I don’t know any of them, and I most certainly wouldn’t invite one to my bed.
It never looks like they are really enjoying it either. Their little skits leading up to the sex are lame at best, but once they get into the sex, I demand involvement. Not this timid, hardly licking of the genitalia. And then the woman on the receiving end starts moaning like it’s actually doing something. Meanwhile her vagina is about as moist as a stale crouton. Such bullshit. Get in there. Get dirty.
The women all have long hair, painted faces and shaved pussies. You won’t find any dykes or butches. I suppose that would scare away the male customers. They might not appreciate a woman who can grow a better goatee.
That’s why I watch heterosexual or gay porn. They’re actually doing something instead of pretending to do something. I can believe that they might be enjoying it, because they have the rhythm and the sound right. And they’re not afraid to get messy.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Hidden Agenda
My viola professor in college always talked about his housemate. A good looking 30-something year old man with a same-sex roommate can only mean one thing. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t just come out and say it. It was obvious. Everyone knew. Perfectly manicured nails and effeminate gestures. Why pretend otherwise? Because it was 1994, and we lived in Western Michigan. It would be another 3 years before Ellen came out of the closet and before the lesbian scene on Xena Warrior Princess. And 10 years before we would be all deemed lepers and have same sex marriage and domestic partnerships banned in the state of Michigan.
Back then I didn’t understand that it was different being out at work verses being out with friends at college. When you get into a profession, there’s more to lose. You want to be respected by your coworkers and trusted by your clients. If you’re perceived as being gay thatcan will negatively effect people’s perceptions of you and your work.
When I started at the hospital in 1999, I wasn’t out. At first I was the young professional with the 3-tone spiky hair and the hole in my nose. I didn’t start wearing my nose piercing for another 5 years. I was young enough that having a roommate wasn’t a red flag for queerness. And for my patients, I was whatever they needed me to be—that conservative Christian nurse administering to their needs.
But when my “roommate” died, I had difficulty explaining it to my coworkers. I was devastated. I couldn’t even call into to work, because I would start bawling as soon as I tried to explain. My friend called in for me.
“They’re asking what’s the relationship.” She held her hand over the phone and looked at me. The amount of time off allowed for bereavement depended on the relationship to the deceased. “Roommate” was not a listed relationship. I shrugged and waved my hands in the air.
“She’ll have to explain that,” she said.
It was 2 weeks before I returned to work. I’m sure some people guessed, but it was never really discussed. Only a couple of my coworkers really knew. And after that there was really no point in telling everyone that I was gay, because I wasn’t with anyone anymore.
I let my hair grow out, and started wearing it in a conservative old lady bun. People treat you differently when you have long hair. Men hold open doors and give you their numbers. I blended in. I kept my next relationship to myself. I even had roommates that were just roommates.
In 2004, one of my coworkers asked me to sign a petition banning same sex marriage. She didn’t ask me just once. She asked me twice—like she had forgotten that I refused the first time. Either it was a witch hunt and she had found me, or I blended in that well. Around that same time I had protested at the Kent County Court house to allow for gay marriage. Between the Lines had interviewed me at the protest and put my picture in their paper.
I sent my boss an e-mail telling her how uncomfortable I had been with the situation. Work is not the place for anyone’s political forum. A week later, we were all required to attend a mandatory meeting on the zero tolerance harassment policy. I was surprised to find that sexual orientation was included. Wow, I was protected.
Once you have established yourself in a certain way, as a certain type of person, it’s difficult to change. In 2005 I had a private commitment ceremony with my girlfriend. I decided that I would wear my titanium wedding band to work. If my coworkers asked, I would tell them. Nobody asked. I continued on as before. When my ex-girlfriend died in 2006, I took a day off work for my deceased “friend.” I remember Val asked me, “But you weren’t as close to this friend as your other one?” I couldn’t really answer, because we weren’t that close anymore, but we had been the same amount of close at one time.
I spent 36 hours every week for 10 years with my coworkers, but there was always this barrier. I never realized the amount of stress it created by not being out. Energy that could have been used making friendships was used to maintain the self-ostracizing/self-censoring glass bubble. Toward the end many people knew, and I was able to talk more—mostly because of my Facebook status. I might have pretended at work, but I wasn’t going to pretend elsewhere. And I think if I would have trusted them enough to give them a chance, it might have been different.
I’m out at my new job. I talk about my partner instead of my roommate. I didn’t want it to be like it was at my old job. Wondering if people knew or not. Waiting for people to find out. Not being able to talk about my life. Not being able to explain that I need time off because my partner is seriously ill or dead. And honestly, I feel more relaxed even though I’m caring for patients that are more acutely and critically ill.
It amazes me how accepting people are even from more conservative backgrounds. Really, no one gives a shit. When you finally show who you really are, you find that people like or dislike you just the same. You also find that you’re not the only one.
As far as my patients go, I tell them what they want to hear. I’m married to my chef husband, Jack.
Back then I didn’t understand that it was different being out at work verses being out with friends at college. When you get into a profession, there’s more to lose. You want to be respected by your coworkers and trusted by your clients. If you’re perceived as being gay that
When I started at the hospital in 1999, I wasn’t out. At first I was the young professional with the 3-tone spiky hair and the hole in my nose. I didn’t start wearing my nose piercing for another 5 years. I was young enough that having a roommate wasn’t a red flag for queerness. And for my patients, I was whatever they needed me to be—that conservative Christian nurse administering to their needs.
But when my “roommate” died, I had difficulty explaining it to my coworkers. I was devastated. I couldn’t even call into to work, because I would start bawling as soon as I tried to explain. My friend called in for me.
“They’re asking what’s the relationship.” She held her hand over the phone and looked at me. The amount of time off allowed for bereavement depended on the relationship to the deceased. “Roommate” was not a listed relationship. I shrugged and waved my hands in the air.
“She’ll have to explain that,” she said.
It was 2 weeks before I returned to work. I’m sure some people guessed, but it was never really discussed. Only a couple of my coworkers really knew. And after that there was really no point in telling everyone that I was gay, because I wasn’t with anyone anymore.
I let my hair grow out, and started wearing it in a conservative old lady bun. People treat you differently when you have long hair. Men hold open doors and give you their numbers. I blended in. I kept my next relationship to myself. I even had roommates that were just roommates.
In 2004, one of my coworkers asked me to sign a petition banning same sex marriage. She didn’t ask me just once. She asked me twice—like she had forgotten that I refused the first time. Either it was a witch hunt and she had found me, or I blended in that well. Around that same time I had protested at the Kent County Court house to allow for gay marriage. Between the Lines had interviewed me at the protest and put my picture in their paper.
I sent my boss an e-mail telling her how uncomfortable I had been with the situation. Work is not the place for anyone’s political forum. A week later, we were all required to attend a mandatory meeting on the zero tolerance harassment policy. I was surprised to find that sexual orientation was included. Wow, I was protected.
Once you have established yourself in a certain way, as a certain type of person, it’s difficult to change. In 2005 I had a private commitment ceremony with my girlfriend. I decided that I would wear my titanium wedding band to work. If my coworkers asked, I would tell them. Nobody asked. I continued on as before. When my ex-girlfriend died in 2006, I took a day off work for my deceased “friend.” I remember Val asked me, “But you weren’t as close to this friend as your other one?” I couldn’t really answer, because we weren’t that close anymore, but we had been the same amount of close at one time.
I spent 36 hours every week for 10 years with my coworkers, but there was always this barrier. I never realized the amount of stress it created by not being out. Energy that could have been used making friendships was used to maintain the self-ostracizing/self-censoring glass bubble. Toward the end many people knew, and I was able to talk more—mostly because of my Facebook status. I might have pretended at work, but I wasn’t going to pretend elsewhere. And I think if I would have trusted them enough to give them a chance, it might have been different.
I’m out at my new job. I talk about my partner instead of my roommate. I didn’t want it to be like it was at my old job. Wondering if people knew or not. Waiting for people to find out. Not being able to talk about my life. Not being able to explain that I need time off because my partner is seriously ill or dead. And honestly, I feel more relaxed even though I’m caring for patients that are more acutely and critically ill.
It amazes me how accepting people are even from more conservative backgrounds. Really, no one gives a shit. When you finally show who you really are, you find that people like or dislike you just the same. You also find that you’re not the only one.
As far as my patients go, I tell them what they want to hear. I’m married to my chef husband, Jack.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Pyramid Song
I recognized the cry--the desperate cry that hopes beyond hope that everything will be okay even though it won’t be. It switches to agony until it is replaced by lost silent eyes. And then they go home to an empty cold bed where they have to take drugs to sleep otherwise see shadows and faces in the dark window.
The first time you lose the person that means the most to you is the hardest. I’m not saying that you can’t get hurt again. It’s just that you’re better prepared for the next time. You expect everyone to die. And eventually they will. The difference is that you know you will survive. Because you didn’t kill yourself off the first time even though you wanted to. The worst has already happened.
You’re never the same afterward. You think that you’ll never heal. And that whole bullshit line about time heals everything is just a line. By time that amount of time has passed, you’ve already forgotten how much it really hurt that first day, the first week, the first month, the first year. Those first days drag by with a miserable pit in your stomach and nothing means as much or tastes as good. And you’re constantly counting. Time is counted in postmortem minutes of first holidays, anniversaries and birthdays spent without them. You save everything that they ever touched. An empty box of Dots candy—the ones they shouldn’t have been eating because they were diabetic. Their Wal-Mart name tag—even though they cursed that place. Size 12 slip-on shoes. You insist on wearing them even though their 3 sizes too big. You wrap yourself in their favorite blanket until it loses their scent. After a while nobody wants to listen to you talk about your dead girlfriend anymore. They say you’re obsessed.
You relive that worst week of your life everyday for the next 2 years. I spent mine in Chicago waiting for her body to be shipped from Michigan. The funeral was delayed because they got the death certificate wrong. I helped pick out a coffin at a Russian sweat shop. Her aunt talked her into heaven even though she was a pagan. The preacher sent us all to hell, because he was convinced that we were hooked on Ecstasy. I think he got the wrong funeral. They straightened her afro, and painted her face. I didn’t want to remember her that way, so I refused to look. She wanted to be cremated, but she got buried instead. I still don’t know where she’s buried. She died wearing the socks that she bought me for Christmas.
Suddenly it’s 9 years later. And those 2 years that you spent together is a momentary blink-- a few second yawn. And those 3 years you spent trying to find yourself back seem childish. Emery Jade happened before I started writing anything down. Before I realized that if it’s not written down somewhere, the memory will change constantly until you’ve got nothing left. It’s like the yellow blanket that she left behind--threadbare and unable to hold in heat. And you don’t dare wash it because it will fall apart. But eventually you do wash it, and you keep it in some faraway tote in the basement instead of in your bed.
The first time I heard this song Rhiannon was driving us into Chicago for the funeral.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3M_Gg1xAHE4
Pyramid Song from Amnesiac
I jumped in the river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me
A moon full of stars and astral cards
AND All the figures I used to see
All my lovers were there with me
All my past and futures
And we all went to heaven in a little row boat
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt
-Radiohead-
The first time you lose the person that means the most to you is the hardest. I’m not saying that you can’t get hurt again. It’s just that you’re better prepared for the next time. You expect everyone to die. And eventually they will. The difference is that you know you will survive. Because you didn’t kill yourself off the first time even though you wanted to. The worst has already happened.
You’re never the same afterward. You think that you’ll never heal. And that whole bullshit line about time heals everything is just a line. By time that amount of time has passed, you’ve already forgotten how much it really hurt that first day, the first week, the first month, the first year. Those first days drag by with a miserable pit in your stomach and nothing means as much or tastes as good. And you’re constantly counting. Time is counted in postmortem minutes of first holidays, anniversaries and birthdays spent without them. You save everything that they ever touched. An empty box of Dots candy—the ones they shouldn’t have been eating because they were diabetic. Their Wal-Mart name tag—even though they cursed that place. Size 12 slip-on shoes. You insist on wearing them even though their 3 sizes too big. You wrap yourself in their favorite blanket until it loses their scent. After a while nobody wants to listen to you talk about your dead girlfriend anymore. They say you’re obsessed.
You relive that worst week of your life everyday for the next 2 years. I spent mine in Chicago waiting for her body to be shipped from Michigan. The funeral was delayed because they got the death certificate wrong. I helped pick out a coffin at a Russian sweat shop. Her aunt talked her into heaven even though she was a pagan. The preacher sent us all to hell, because he was convinced that we were hooked on Ecstasy. I think he got the wrong funeral. They straightened her afro, and painted her face. I didn’t want to remember her that way, so I refused to look. She wanted to be cremated, but she got buried instead. I still don’t know where she’s buried. She died wearing the socks that she bought me for Christmas.
Suddenly it’s 9 years later. And those 2 years that you spent together is a momentary blink-- a few second yawn. And those 3 years you spent trying to find yourself back seem childish. Emery Jade happened before I started writing anything down. Before I realized that if it’s not written down somewhere, the memory will change constantly until you’ve got nothing left. It’s like the yellow blanket that she left behind--threadbare and unable to hold in heat. And you don’t dare wash it because it will fall apart. But eventually you do wash it, and you keep it in some faraway tote in the basement instead of in your bed.
The first time I heard this song Rhiannon was driving us into Chicago for the funeral.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3M_Gg1xAHE4
Pyramid Song from Amnesiac
I jumped in the river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me
A moon full of stars and astral cards
AND All the figures I used to see
All my lovers were there with me
All my past and futures
And we all went to heaven in a little row boat
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt
-Radiohead-
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Death at the Chinese Buffet
I thought about checking into a food allergy support group. But I didn’t want to be in a group of over protective soccer moms and their snot nosed nut-allergic kids. Nut-free schools and safe snacks. That’s like having a playground without metal slides. What’s the fun if no one gets hurt? No, I wanted an adult group. A group where we are allowed to make poor choices. The allergist ordered strict avoidance, but shouldn’t that be open to interpretation? Strict avoidance—except for special occasions. Strict avoidance unless having intense cravings. Pre-medicating with Benadryl is acceptable when it’s something that you really want. I’ll die if I don’t get my rapunzels! It’s okay to evaluate the pros and cons before indulging. If I die eating crab rangoons at the Chinese Buffet, will I die happy?
Jacks always told me that she would give up cigarettes if I gave up chocolate. I told her it wasn’t the same thing. Chocolate wasn’t going to kill me.
Jacks was mixing a batch of chocolate chip cookies. She dumped an entire bag of chocolate chips on top. She swatted at me with the spoon as I slipped a morsel into my mouth. After I swallowed that chocolate chip, breathing was like sucking air through a dirty straw. Jacks stopped stirring. I started to cough and wheeze.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I must have swallowed wrong,” I said.
“I thought I was going to have to call 911.”
It happened again at a New Years buffet hundreds of miles from home. There was no chocolate on my plate. Oysters Rockefeller, Rainbow Trout, Bison. Nothing I hadn’t eaten before. I turned all red and blotchy and I could feel my heart pounding in my neck. I stopped eating, drank water and it went away.
Finally, I got tested for food allergies.
I used to laugh at people with food allergies—not the serious ones. You know the ones I’m talking about. People who claim to be allergic to pepper because they sneeze or brussel sprouts because they develop intense flatulence. Or those rich people in East Grand Rapids that give chefs a hard time by claiming pseudo-gluten allergies. Low-carb has fallen out of fashion, so gluten-free is the new black. Only they don’t know what that really means, so they get mad when the chef substitutes potato for the couscous. Okay, I still laugh at those people.
I’m a pain in the ass. This past New Years dinner, Jacks made me a special pork roulade without pistachios. Just yesterday she made stir-fry minus the red pepper chili sauce. I read about how some people with food allergies carry a Chef Card, a business card with a list of allergies to give the waitress when dining out. If I gave any waitress my Chef Card, they would escort me out the door. Corn. Tree Nuts. Shellfish. Fish. Chocolate. Black peppercorns and hot peppers seem to becoming more of an issue.
In the past, I have enjoyed Thai, Chinese and Indian Cuisine. I love Sushi. Jacks still makes this for me in the safety of our own home. Untried restaurants were the next frontier. Now, I have to be careful what I order. Everything invariably contains corn in some form or another. And pre-medicating with Benadryl, means I need a designated driver, because I’m comatose before the meal ends. This must be foodie hell.
Jacks always told me that she would give up cigarettes if I gave up chocolate. I told her it wasn’t the same thing. Chocolate wasn’t going to kill me.
Jacks was mixing a batch of chocolate chip cookies. She dumped an entire bag of chocolate chips on top. She swatted at me with the spoon as I slipped a morsel into my mouth. After I swallowed that chocolate chip, breathing was like sucking air through a dirty straw. Jacks stopped stirring. I started to cough and wheeze.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I must have swallowed wrong,” I said.
“I thought I was going to have to call 911.”
It happened again at a New Years buffet hundreds of miles from home. There was no chocolate on my plate. Oysters Rockefeller, Rainbow Trout, Bison. Nothing I hadn’t eaten before. I turned all red and blotchy and I could feel my heart pounding in my neck. I stopped eating, drank water and it went away.
Finally, I got tested for food allergies.
I used to laugh at people with food allergies—not the serious ones. You know the ones I’m talking about. People who claim to be allergic to pepper because they sneeze or brussel sprouts because they develop intense flatulence. Or those rich people in East Grand Rapids that give chefs a hard time by claiming pseudo-gluten allergies. Low-carb has fallen out of fashion, so gluten-free is the new black. Only they don’t know what that really means, so they get mad when the chef substitutes potato for the couscous. Okay, I still laugh at those people.
I’m a pain in the ass. This past New Years dinner, Jacks made me a special pork roulade without pistachios. Just yesterday she made stir-fry minus the red pepper chili sauce. I read about how some people with food allergies carry a Chef Card, a business card with a list of allergies to give the waitress when dining out. If I gave any waitress my Chef Card, they would escort me out the door. Corn. Tree Nuts. Shellfish. Fish. Chocolate. Black peppercorns and hot peppers seem to becoming more of an issue.
In the past, I have enjoyed Thai, Chinese and Indian Cuisine. I love Sushi. Jacks still makes this for me in the safety of our own home. Untried restaurants were the next frontier. Now, I have to be careful what I order. Everything invariably contains corn in some form or another. And pre-medicating with Benadryl, means I need a designated driver, because I’m comatose before the meal ends. This must be foodie hell.
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