Ten Years Gone: Snapshots

If you’ve read anything I’ve written you may have noticed a theme. When I write things like “I don’t recognize myself, I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore,” it should clue you in. Both those statements are true, by the way, and I say them both often. And in my last post I wrote that I don’t know exactly when all this began, this entry into this space in my life that is yet to be named. This place I’m in though, I figure is about 10 years in the making. I’ve deconstructed and reconstructed myself many times in my life, so this is not completely unfamiliar. What remains to be seen, though, is exactly what is going to be left, once all that is not me now has been chipped away. I think it’s relevant though, to figure out when it began, and the events that have transpired since then. I like visuals, so that’s how I want to tell you this story; in pictures that I create with words.

August, 2002

I’m in Sandia Park, New Mexico, just outside of Albuquerque. It’s early dawn and the sun is already streaming in through the windows promising to heat the manufactured home I live in to a toasty 350 degree oven by the afternoon. I’m sitting on the toilet in the bathroom. Teal green paint and spackle hide the ugly floral wallpaper that once covered the walls. There is a fiberglass garden tub to my left that was a selling point for me on that house. I’ve just heard the trickle of pee leave my body and a few drops of pale yellow now pool in the EPT stick that I held in the stream. I’m staring at the result window, trying to prepare myself for what I expect to be a blue minus sign that I’ve seen over a dozen times before. A thin line of blue begins to appear, but for the first time there is a faint blue line through it. I immediately think the test is defective, or I am hallucinating. I stare at it for a very long time, or so it seems, until I can no longer contain the adrenaline surging through my body. I leap off the toilet and begin to call people without concern for what time it is. I’m talking and gesturing and pacing and smiling and feeling as if I’ve just won the lottery or ran a long distance marathon and came across the finish line. My uterus had been deemed worthy. My existence was validated!

And then, on to the next challenge with renewed vigor and determination! What would it be? The possibilities were endless. I mean, after all, a miracle had occurred. I had been granted a baby!

What? Wait a minute, I just wanted to get pregnant and give birth. I’d been obsessed with those two things for years. And I love babies. They are so cute and they smell so damn good. And they are really fun to hold and make faces at. And then give back to their downtrodden, fat, stressed, sexless mothers who no longer had the ability to have an independent thought. I did not want to be one of those mothers. I wanted to be everything that those mothers were not. Because I wasn’t ready to stop living, and somewhere along the line I had gotten the message that having children means losing who you are.

And it seems, looking back, that I set out to do just that.

This is a love story

I would tell you that I wasn’t sure when it happened… if you were to ask. That moment that I hit the “off” switch and told the world and everyone in it to fuck off. I mean, the last time that I did that. Because telling the world to fuck off, well, that’s an everyday occurrence. And if I were to tell you I didn’t know when, it would be partially true. I don’t know when it began. But I do know when it slammed shut, and the door knob fell off with a “clank” on the floor.

I was at work, at my desk, in front of the computer, when this message flashed on the screen: “You are attempting to enter the chart of a patient who is deceased”.

By all accounts, she should have been just another patient. She was elderly when I met her, 84 to be exact. She looked and acted much younger than her years. She was impeccably dressed, a shock of bright white hair cut short with slivers of pepper here and there. She wore rich colors, crimsons, earth tones and pinks. She was a snappy dresser, and I told her so. It was her first time at an appointment of this kind, and she was quick to inform me that she didn’t deserve such individual attention. Her husband had died several years prior, she’d dedicated herself to caring for his every need. She’d continued on with her activities after he passed, but her soul had been empty for some time when she showed up on my couch.

She may have felt that her soul was empty, but it was clearly visible, pouring out of her bright blue eyes as she presented her bits and pieces. My task was easy, and clearly defined. I simply validated her experience and reflected her goodness back to her. She would occasionally object to this, convinced that something deep within her was bad, wrong, not good enough.

I grew to adore her. After a few sessions, she began to get better. She’d only needed to process some of her grief, and as she did it opened her experience up a bit. She was one of the few patients that would regularly ask about me and my son. I kept my answers minimal, as I always do with patients. She was always so concerned that I wasn’t married, that I didn’t have help raising my son. I suspect she feared that I did not know love like she had known, and she wanted me to.

Our relationship began to shift as she got better, we had become attached to each other in more than a therapist/patient way. Somehow we traversed any distance that existed between our physical bodies. We became family. I say “became” but it is not the right word to use, because the connection that we had on a soul level was there the first time I met her, I just didn’t recognize it as such. It became more apparent over time, and we both knew that it existed. We were as familiar with each other as family members who had spent a lifetime together. It wasn’t something that can be explained. It made no sense and yet it made perfect sense at the same time.

And so I was shocked and saddened when she came in and told me that she had been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation. I was shocked because 5 years before I met her, my father had been diagnosed with the same thing and then died from complications related to it. I watched helplessly, as she went from a vibrant energetic woman to a shadow of her former self. One by one she endured the same procedures designed to fix her unruly heart rhythm, the procedures that I knew so well because I had watched my dad go through them. Each time hoping, “This is going to be it, this is going to fix it”. I shared her hope each time, desperately wanting it to be different from what it had been with my dad. Each time I saw her, she grew more despairing about her failing health that was now preventing her from doing the things she had just started to enjoy again. It was like watching my Dad die all over again.

Finally one of the procedures took and she began to feel better for a while. But the procedures themselves have complications, and she soon experienced one of them when she had a stroke. It was a mild one and only affected her cognitions a little, but she could no longer drive and this became a huge source of frustration for her. She hated to rely on others for anything, despised asking for help. Our sessions became cheering sessions where I would encourage her to ask for help, trying all sorts of ways of saying it hoping she would allow it. She did so, begrudgingly.

I can hear her in my mind right now, chastising me for making this a sad story. She would be indignant that I not be affected by her death in any negative way. She would nudge me on; tell me to move forward, that she was just fine. She would not want me to cry. Well, she might be OK if I cried a little. But this shutting down, this hardness, this armor, she would have none of that. She would tell me, “go ahead and cry if it will help”. She would reach over and remove the vice that is clamped tightly around my vocal chords, threatening to snuff out my essence.

She had to move into an assisted living place, she hated it, and missed being in the home she had shared with her husband. She always tried to put on a brave face. She was never a complainer. I had to encourage her to complain, and even then she would apologize profusely for doing it. She got tired, frustrated, but never bitter. She drug herself into my office one day and sat on my couch and dozed for the entire session. She was pale, almost ashen. She left my office, went home and broke her hip. I feared that would be the end, but she was a fighter. She spent weeks in a convalescent nursing home. She told me horror stories about laying in her own shit for hours waiting for someone to be able to come and tend to her. But again, never bitter. Always concerned about those around her, she pointed out that the aide had been really busy. She was worried about her roommate also; who she had noticed was much worse off than she was.

The last time I saw her the circumstances were consistent with a theme that had been present for our entire relationship. There were unseen forces that cleared a space in time for us to meet, and to have this experience together. I had avoided visiting her at the place she lived because of ethical concerns related to my profession. But then I had a job transfer and she couldn’t see me anymore. I felt it was important that we see each other, especially if she were nearing death. I drove to the place where she lived, resolved in my decision to follow my hearts guidance. I walked into the lobby without knowing how to find her or even what room she was in. I needn’t have worried. There she was, sitting in the lobby, all dressed up as if she knew I was coming. She was waiting for the shuttle driver to pick her up for an appointment. She was so happy to see me, and I her. She was going to the hospital for an x-ray; she had fallen again and needed to be checked out. She looked good; for all that she had been through. She was happy that I could see the Valentine’s Day display that had been put up with pictures of married couples on it. There was a picture of her with her husband, from somewhere in the 1930’s. She was young, vibrant, infused with life in the picture.

We had talked about her death. She knew it was coming. Sometimes she wanted it, because she was tired, on one occasion she feared it. She was sad about what she would miss. She wanted to see her granddaughter grow up. I asked her for something during that session. It may be the only thing I have ever asked for from a patient. I told her that if she died and she was able to send a message to me in some form that I wanted her to do it. I told her I wouldn’t be afraid no matter what it was.

She died four days before I was sitting at my desk, working, when she crossed my mind and I decided to call her. It was my attempt at entering her chart to get her phone number that prompted the “deceased patient” message.

I have a visual of myself as she left one of our last sessions. It was spring and I had picked up a fresh bunch of pale pink tulips from a farm stand on my way to work. I gave them to her at the end of her appointment. She carried them out in her arms, her right arm bent at the elbow and looped through mine, leaning against me for support.

I don’t recognize that person walking with her as myself anymore.

The Sweet and the Sad at Dolores Cafe

I had an abortion once.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m not in a dark mood, I don’t want this to be a dark post. I’m sitting in the Dolores Cafe, in the Castro. It’s a beautiful day. The people in here are so fascinating I can hardly keep my eyes on my computer. A red-headed Euro lesbian just came by and asked if she could have my salt. Then she disappeared, probably went off to go win an Olympic medal or something. She looked as if she could. There is a cute little baby butch in line that looks about twenty years old, with a guitar slung on her back. She looks like the type that would not have the personality I would want her to have. She just gave a forced tight lip smile to a child in line behind her. Not that I would consider a twenty-year-old anyway. Who am I kidding? I would consider a twenty-year-old. But just for fun. But I don’t need to consider a twenty-year-old right now, or anyone else for that matter. In this moment, I am satisfied. Fulfilled, even. I’d like to hear her play her guitar though.

There are four blokes in line that would qualify to stand in for the Beatles if the need arises. The cashier has dark hair and smoky eyes, her round face and olive skin remind me of how I looked when I was young. She smiles as if she understands her value much more than I did at that age. A young woman with sunglasses as big as microscopic fly eyes tiptoed by a second ago on platforms that made her walk as if she were on stilts. She reached down and picked up the handle attached to her little dog’s jacket and carried him like a purse. He was nonplussed.

Do you see? Can you feel how perfect this moment is? I wish that cute little guitar player would share my table. I would gladly allow it. I know the thought wouldn’t dare cross her mind. She’s all caught up in her own internal world. Across the street is Dolores Park. I’m drawing a conclusion that is the reason there are so many children in here. Its way too crowded for strollers but the mothers are bringing them in here anyway. I think I’ve lost the perspective of what it was like to have a very young child, because I am annoyed by their obtrusiveness. There is a male couple in the corner with two children that they are demonstratively engaged with, clapping and singing like they are in an episode of Barney. OK, we get it, you are parents! Now be quiet, please!

This is only the second time I’ve been to the Dolores Cafe. The first time was when I came to the Castro for the Pride parade for the first time. I always wanted to come back and do exactly what I am doing now. Owning a table, computer open, without a care for being anywhere, doing exactly as I please. Yo, I just noticed one of those Beatles blokes, the one that looked like a young Paul McCartney, has breasts. What a cutie. I always love it when a cute dude turns out to be a boi. The flow of people in this cafe just doesn’t end. I’ve been here for over an hour and there has been a line out the door the entire time. Bus-gurl just informed me I can’t sit here any longer with my laptop. That sucks ass. So there is that.

And yes, there is the abortion.

I was 17. I went to Planned Parenthood, the same place where I’d gotten the unused birth control pills at my mother’s urging. The woman sitting across from me at a desk informed me I was pregnant and asked me what I wanted to do. She explained my options. When I remember her in my mind she looks like a dyke. I didn’t even know what a dyke was or that there was such a thing. I remember what it looked like to sit across from her, what if felt like. But I wasn’t really there. It was like watching a movie.

This would be a much prettier story if I could tell you that the condom broke, the pill didn’t work, or perhaps even if I could tell you definitively that I knew who the father was. Or perhaps none of that would have made any difference.  If I remember correctly there were only two possible contributors, but I’m really not sure. I told my boyfriend at the time it was his. I needed to believe it was his. Although I tossed around the decision of whether or not to have an abortion, in reality, it seemed the only thing to do. My usual repertoire of drugs and alcohol had not stopped after conception, I was oblivious that I was pregnant. I had concluded in my 17-year-old mind that I couldn’t get pregnant because I’d had unprotected sex so many times without ending up that way.  My boyfriend was supportive and kind. I asked him once why he had never suggested we get married, and go through with the whole mess. He said, “Because I knew you wouldn’t say yes”.  He was smarter than what I gave him credit for.

The procedure itself was surreal. I had opted for general anesthesia. General anesthesia had become a way of life for me at that age. Twenty-four-hour general anesthesia. I was told to strip naked and put on a flimsy gown. A woman came in, a nurse, I guess, and instructed me to get on the table. The table had these leg extensions on the end of it that when extended, spread my legs open. She strapped my legs to these extensions with velcro straps. She informed me this was necessary due to the general anesthesia. I was disturbed to find myself both terrified and aroused. Her manner was brusque, almost cold and the combination of this, and having my legs strapped open on a table created an involuntary arousal in me. This feeling was intensified when she roughly examined me by shoving her hand inside me, with a curt explanation that she needed to confirm that I was pregnant. Another woman came in, an assistant, and perhaps sensing my state of mind said quietly, “Don’t mind her”. Two men entered next, Doctors I presume. They were laughing and joking, it had an assembly line feel to it. One of them put a needle in my arm that had a plastic purple butterfly attached to it. Then there was nothing.

____________

There is a young woman sitting across from me now at this community table at the Dolores cafe. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, she is wrapped in a North Face jacket. She wears seven earrings, only two of them large, round, and silver. Her features are delicate. She is engrossed in writing in what looks like a journal. Her brow is furrowed as she writes, leaving no trace of a line as she looks up and gazes in the distance. She seems unaware of how closely I am studying her. From my vantage point I can see two words in her neatly printed page, they are “my perspective”. She is writing furiously now, the page is turned, at the top she has written, “I am still ME!”

I want to hold her, soothe her, tell her I understand, that its OK to cry. Someone has broken her heart, her sadness is palpable. I want to tell her, “You are going to get through this, and a dozen more. No worries”.

And now, my eyes are filled with tears, for her.

To blog…..or not

This blog is beginning to feel like some of my relationships. “I like you, but I need some space. You make me feel vulnerable and that makes me uncomfortable. Go away you fuckhead. I’m going to go find a different blog, one that gives me all the things you don’t. Wait, don’t go. I was in love with you once. I remember. Can we bring that back for a bit? Naw, nevermind. I’m indifferent to you. But…. I miss you.”

The question circulates through my head on a regular basis. What do I want to do with this blog? How do I want blogging to serve me? Because frankly, it has on occasion, served me very well. But recently, not so much. Probably because I’m not blogging. I blog almost every day in my head. I anticipate blogging and then when it comes right down to it I skip it for something else. Like bed. Or talking on the phone. Or watching America’s Next Top Model. Too bad they already kicked off the hottest chick they had. Well, actually, she quit. She had a drama moment and stormed off sobbing. That’s probably why I liked her. A very hot woman with masculine angles to her face and lots of intensity. Is there anything in the world that is hotter than that? I think not.

But I digress. Blogging. OK, so who the hell is Outspokenfemme? My “About” page tells you that as soon as I figure out who I am I’ll let you know. Well, there are a few things I’ve come to know since I wrote that. It’s not like I didn’t know these things before, it’s just that I’ve clarified for myself what I like to write about. So far anyway. It could change at any moment (I don’t like to be tied down).

Actually, its been a really long time since I’ve been tied down. Decades probably. So I don’t know if I like it or not. I was never really that into it, back in the day when it was all lesbian vogue to do it. Actually, I’ve always found verbal restraint to be so much more delicious. Although I don’t practice it myself. Hence the name, Outspokenfemme. “Outspoken” is putting it nicely. I have to restrain myself in public settings, and at work. But not here. Well, umm, there has been a bit of restraint on here, for reasons I’ve already spoken of (see “You probably think this blog is about you”). Wow, the last part of this paragraph is really tangential. I work in Psychiatry. We LOVE big words.

But again, I digress. One thing for certain: I am femme. Femme lesbian?

1903 women in "femme" and "butch" apparel (Photo: Wikipedia)

You decide. Every ten years or so a dude blows my skirt up. And most of the women I’m into, or the ones I’m into the most, or the ones that are most often in me…..are dudes trapped in women’s bodies. Well, some are trapped, others are happy to be there. So yes, I’m Femme. And I like writing about Femme stuff, Femme perspective, and The Butches, and the mother fucking Butches. And while we are on the subject, I love sex. Oh and submission. I have a bit of a fondness for that too.

Speaking of mother fucking butches, any butch that sleeps with me would qualify for this title. Because I am, indeed, a mother. A mother whose Baby Daddy happens to be… you guessed it…. a Butch. My ex-Butch, to be exact. Yeah, you remember that lesbian baby boom you heard about? Here’s a little news flash for you. One more subset of lesbian culture about to be introduced. The Lesbian Couple Next Door with the cute baby has occasionally turned into the Broken Up Pissed Off Lesbians in a Custody Battle. We are popping up all over the place, known best and clearly identified by the amount of venom we are able to spew at each other each time we realize we will be in each other’s lives f-o-r-e-v-a. We share the kids, sometimes amicably, sometimes not. We attempt to live together (for the child), we meet new partners (the replacements). We get vivid descriptions of our ex’s actions through the eyes of the child i.e. “I walked into Mommie’s bedroom and she was trying to fix something between the legs of her new “friend’ last nite.. they had a sleepover”. Other mothers (non-bios), sometime referred to as “Baby Daddy’s” (it just makes sense), live with the fear that the bio mom might just up and disappear with the kid one day. All sorts of crazy shit can happen. Jerry Springer comes to mind. Or Rickie Lake maybe. I am a Lesbian Baby Mama. And I like to write about that.

Oh and here is one little twist for you. I am a psychotherapist. I would just say “therapist” but then you would ask, “What kind, Physical?” And then I would say, no, “Psycho”. Being a therapist puts me in a unique position to talk to lots and lots of people about their problems. People are fascinating. I learn so much from this work. I think I’m pretty good at what I do. I don’t have any fancy statistics to show you to prove this. Call it a hunch. Most of what I’ve learned about therapy I learned from doing my own work. I’m a classic tortured soul. And just a titch proud of it. And I like to write about that.

So there you have it. The Femme who loves sex with Butches and packs a  hidden ice pick (I’m kidding!). Sorta. The Baby Mama with drama. The Psychotherapist who contemplates suicide. Do you see my problem? I need three blogs!

The Castro

Image via Wikipedia-Borzoi

Last night, I walked along the sidewalks of the Castro holding the hand of the new Butch. We went in this store and that, and basked in pure gayness. It was Saturday night, the balmy air filled with brightness and frivolity. Young men were out, some prancing, others mature, dignified, walking hand in hand. Most with leashes. Around their dogs. An elegant young George Michael look-a-like glided by, his long rich golden brown pony tail moved in tandem with the tails of his two Borzois.

Image via Wikipedia

The Butch was surprised to learn I had never tried crème brûlée and set out to remedy this. We got one in a sidewalk stand made by a sweet young man with a curl in the middle of his forehead reminiscent of Bob’s Big Boy. He fired up his torch and flamed the surface ’til it was crisp. She fed it to me later, breaking the transparent brown crystallized surface like glass and sinking the spoon into its softness. She teased me with a bite and went to put in her own mouth. I pouted and she gave it back to me without flinching. Butch reflex.

We sat in a coffee-house for a bit and chatted with a gay couple sitting next to us. Opposites had attracted them, one was tall, lean and conservative in appearance. The other was shorter, buff, dark skin with lashes the Kardashians would envy. His head had a carpet of half-inch short thick black hair running straight across the top like a racing strip, about 3 inches wide. I wanted to rub it, give him Noogies. He probably would have let me. He let his chihuahua sit in my lap for at least 15 minutes. His little paws, the size of my thumbs, stretched out in front of him, limp. His collar blingled in the overhead lights. Yep, I said blingled.

Disneyland is not the happiest place on earth. The Castro is.

You Probably Think This Blog is About You

I’ve got an issue here, a dilemma, it feels unique but I know that I am not alone with it; it’s a complication of our electronic age and something that didn’t exist 20 years ago. And it’s a problem created by my own transparency, that willingness to let you know what my inner world looks like. It’s more than willingness, it’s a need. I need to allow you to witness my experience. The process of writing is not complete for me until I have hit the publish button, and I can rest in the knowledge that someone is listening.

So where is the dilemma in all of this? Some of you who are listening know who I am in the physical realm. Family, close friends, co-workers, and the most problematic of all, people I’ve shared sexual intimacy with. Everybody knows where to find a detailed description of what I think, feel and do, if they are so inclined. And this lack of anonymity sometimes interferes with what I want to say.

As I’ve mentioned previously, I considered scrapping Outspokenfemme and starting a new blog, I even set one up. And it sits there, vacant. Because this is where I was born, this is where it all began. I’ve got a virtual circle of friends on here, bloggers I’m attached to. There’s Single in 2012 whom I so often identify with. There’s Dyke Diary with her raw honesty and mind bending erotica, and Stumbleweedy, one of my first readers. There is Carlybethscloud, The Lesbian Next Door, and Creepylesbo. There is the cleavage of Dear Butch, Love Femme and Hot Femme in the City. There’s Usyaka the cat, who on occasion has been the solitary bright spot in an entire day. Granted, I could still read these folks if I set up a new blog, even invite them over for tea. So why do I resist what seems a relatively simple move?

Even now, as I write this, I am thinking that I don’t want some of my dearest friends and family members to conclude that I don’t want them to read my blog. Because I do want them to, I want everybody to read my blog. It just gets sticky sometimes. For instance, what if I want to post something dripping with sex, describing exactly what is going on, what she did, what I did. I want to write that. But I can’t write that stuff thinking that my Sis (sorry Sis), or some of my friends are going to read it. It just feels icky to me. I know, I know, I could use that other blog for all that kind of stuff. I could assign passwords. But damnit, I don’t want to. I don’t want blogs all over the place. This is my mother fucking blog and I should be able to write anything I want. And I know I can. It’s just that I want to share my angst about this.

And another dilemma exists as well, one that is risky for me to share, specifically because writing about it could serve to fuel it as opposed to extinguishing it. And it is this. I’m leaving the door open. That damn door should be locked, the hatches should be battened, and it should be cemented shut so that it never again will open. But as vehemently as I argue that the door will never open again, it’s as if I installed a peephole in it.

I know that the edges of this quandary are being pushed by the entrance of something new. There is a delicate tendril of green pushing up through the earth after a deep winter.

She just walked by and kneeled over to kiss me.

“What’cha writing?” She asked, squinting at the screen.

“Um…just a note.”

“A note to who?” She seemed curious.

“Just a note to myself, some writing….” I hesitated. She looked puzzled.

“I have a blog,” I blurted out.

“Oh, you have a blog,” she said, her golden eyes catching the light from the bright sun shining through the window. “What’s your blog called?” She ran her thick fingers through her short platinum hair, standing it on end. A moment passed.

“Outspokenfemme,” I said, knowing full well what I was opening. She smiled, making the two identical dimples on each side of her jaw indent. The same dimples that helped to ease me out of my underpants last weekend. She didn’t ask more, I didn’t offer more. She went back to what she was doing.

A few moments she came back into the room, grinning.

“What’cha writing about?” she asked.

“Right this moment”, I looked up. “I am writing about you”.

She gave me a sideways look, bemused, a crooked smile. And then she went back to folding her laundry.

New Butch on the Block

My hair is done, my legs are shaved
Not thinkin’ bout my last mistake
She’ll be here soon, the bed is made
The floors aren’t vacuumed, I need a maid

A hint of scent upon my wrist
And in places she won’t likely miss
Something lost has now been found
A new Butch has come around

And tonight I will resist
The feeling of her fingertips
Upon the places she won’t see
Tonight we will not do the deed

And tomorrow after she has gone
My underpants will still be on
What’s that? You say, it isn’t fair
To taunt her with my underwear?

Perhaps, dear friends,
But keep in mind
The straight girls
Do this all the time

And what is it I hope to get
By resisting her delicious lips?

It’s simple really, I want to find
The inner workings of her mind
It’s taken awhile but now I see
Orgasms fuck with my objectivity

So she will wait if she wants to see
What it’s like to set me free
And when she does, make no mistake
I’ll make sure it’s worth her wait

There’s still the issue of my muff
Should I wax or leave it in the rough?
If I leave it, could it be
A small insurance policy?

It’s getting close now
What have I forgot?
Oh yes, the phone call
Please bring your cock

As if this Butch
Would leave it home
The essence of her pleasure dome

What will transpire I can’t predict
There’s something that I hope persists
She got in, my guard is down,
A new Butch has come around

I’m online and I can’t get off

I dipped my toe in the pool. And now I am being swept away by the current. And I’m not sure if that is good or bad. But it is. 

I realized the other day that ever since my Baby Daddy and I separated, which was way back in 2005 (!), almost all of my relationships have been virtual. Before the ink was dry on the domestic partnership dissolution, I had reconnected with an old lover from my past who lived 1500 miles away. There were flights resulting in intense sexual encounters, phone calls that resulted in the same, and enormous amounts of longing. It lasted for two years. It worked, in part because we knew each other well. It also worked because it allowed me to enjoy the parts of her that I relished, and avoid the parts of her that I was afraid of. Namely, her inability to stay sober, and her tendency to act out in ways that involved restraining orders when she drank. Anytime the relationship began to feel as if it might become more, as it sometimes did, I would slip quietly out the back door.

After that ended I spent significant time without a love interest. Until I finally bit the bullet and threw my hat into the ring on a dating website. I zeroed in on a target and paid my $50 so I could talk to her. She lived 875 miles away. I was specifically looking for a long distance relationship. It had worked for me once before. There were flights, passionate encounters, Skypeing, and some complications. She had a child the same age as mine. And there was one more complication. She wanted a partner. I guess I decided I wanted one too, because eight months after I had smiled at her, I moved in with her. I can’t honestly say I moved to be with her. The fact of the matter is that I wanted to move, and she happened to live where I wanted to move to. If the circumstances had been different, I would have preferred to live separately from her in the same town before living with her. But that was not a possibility, and so there we were. She and I, and our two 5 year old children in a one bedroom apartment. 

I remember precisely when things began to go wrong. I was doing my thing, messing around in my fishtank, getting caught up in the maintenance of it when I was suddenly confronted with her convoluted face, a face that I began to learn very quickly because it started appearing with great frequency. She was upset that I had not been paying enough attention to her. She wanted togetherness, not each of us doing our thing side by side, but doing the same thing, preferably while touching each other. This was followed by frequent arguments about this or that with no resolution. My interpretation of her reaction to an argument was that she just wanted to know what she needed to change about herself so that I wouldn’t be mad at her. And I began to want her to change just about everything about herself. 

After some time of freeing myself from her grasp (no easy task), I spent several months again without a love interest. And then, over the period of a year, there were three of them. The first, 650 miles, the second, 400 miles, the third, 1300 miles. 

My therapist (Tex) kept asking me, “Why do you suppose you choose people who live so far away?” A few friends mumbled the same thing. For some reason I staunchly opposed the idea that it had anything to do with a fear of being close or connected and all that other stuff therapists like to yammer on about. One day Tex asked me if I would be willing to limit my dating to people that lived within a few miles of my home. I quickly vetoed that idea because I’ve seen some of the lesbians that live in this small little bible belt of a town. NO, NO, and NO, I told her. I said I was willing to limit it to within 100 miles of my home, because as I mentioned in an earlier post, the next lesbian other than my Baby Daddy is 80 miles away. I agreed with a bit of triumph in my tone, to indicate that her theory about my fear of intimacy and all that shit was dead wrong. I showed her.

And I followed through with that. The next time I went fishing on the dating website I created a search called “trolling” and I limited it to specifically the parameters that I said I would. Even if a really juicy piece of sweet candy popped up on the side margin, inviting a clik, I resisted even looking anywhere outside of the parameters I had committed too. And then I threw out some bait. I was not committed to anything, I didn’t have any idea of what I wanted, what I was looking for, and I cast a very wide net. 

I got several bites, but one that tugged. My line began to curve under the strength of the pull, and I did not let go, even as I caught a glimpse of my catch and noticed that indeed, she looked similar to some of the stuff the cat dragged in over the last year. 

And that is how I ended up here, now, with my feet in the water, up to my chest, noticing the water rising, uncertain if this is something I should throw back, or pull in.

She is just 72 miles away.

This is how it starts

I bought the most beautiful blood orange tulips yesterday. Really fresh ones that are just starting to open up. And the other day I ordered myself a pound of my most favorite chocolates in the world. Not because of Valentine’s day. I have no problem buying myself stuff I like. And tulips and chocolates are two of my favorite things. I know how to please myself. And I am pretty good at it. So why in the hell would I need a girlfriend?

I really don’t know. Girlfriend, shmirlfriend, I say. Or I was saying. I was saying it at the precise moment that I was shopping around on a dating website recently. What the fuck am I doing on a dating website? Well, I live in the middle of a very conservative community where the nearest lesbian is 15 minutes away. But she’s my ex and I’m her baby mama. After that there should be a road sign that says, “Next lesbian, 80 miles”.

Yesterday I was hanging in a craft store and I saw a cool rainbow flag and I wanted to get it and put it in my front yard. But I didn’t. Because I don’t want someone to drive by and shoot through my windows if they happen to be savvy enough to know what a rainbow flag is. That’s the kind of place I live in. How can I be expected to find like-minded peeps in a place like this?

Yeah, so that’s why I was on there. It makes sense, right? I need some peeps.

No Cigars

OK. So I’m not perfect. Maybe sexless dating was too black and white. And its a process, right? It’s about progress. And well, there was that.

Stage One was written while she went to get coffee. My uh-oh was related to the fact that I had encountered my first problem. She was attractive. I had to be short with that post to avoid something like this:

She returned, coffee in hand, to the table. “What are you writing there?” She asks.

“Oh, I’m just posting to my blog about the progression of our date and how well I’m doing with keeping my pants on”.

Fortunately, that did not happen. But Stage One did progress to Stage Two. After the movie, her apartment. I know, I know! If I was really interested in keeping my pants on, I should have left after the movie. Her apartment was in a renovated Victorian Style house that looked just a bit haunted from the outside. There was a wrought iron scrolled screen covering the front door. An old wisteria wound itself up the porch railings. Inside, an angular flight of stairs with a very high ceiling leading to her den. There were chunky crystal doorknobs and a baroque ceiling light adornment with little naked cupids carved into it.

I poured over the details of every inch of her apartment. Her bookshelves, sienna faded pictures of her mother looking like a pin-up girl.  Oversize windows with painted white moulding. Everywhere, pictures and mementos of her son. Buddha statues, little ones, and miniature Tibetan prayer flags hanging from the window frame. Her closet, neat, folded, an assortment of caps of all kinds hanging on the wall. Club music beat, beat, beating in the background from her computer. Everything smelled faintly of sage and lavender. She made me lemon zinger tea with honey. I was already zinging.

She was pure dyke. Her hair, her jeans with subtle tears at the knees. Her black motorcycle boots. Her arms, her shoulders. Her tattoos. While I enjoyed my tea, I was reminded of the ten years I spent in Seattle, my little apartment on Capitol Hill, the gay Alano club I frequented there. Her apartment, the details, her energy, reminded me of that time. It was relaxed, comfortable, even a tad grunge. Rough and smooth at the same time. Rich in sensory texture and taste.

She kissed me. The beginning of Stage Three. I asked her to kiss me again. She complied. Her lips were full, and firm. Her kisses neat, and not at all hesitant. Nothing about her was hesitant, except her desire to respect my concern about how far things would go. Her roughness against my softness. The feeling of being able to easily relax into my femininity. That place where butch and femme collide and create a feeling that can only be described as “right”.

My pants, well, they did stay on. There was no action below the belt. Well, except for what was created by my response. However, I did lose my shirt. And, so did she.

This is dating, right?