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July 6th, Two Thousand Three: I just love a good apocalypse. Don't you?
No, really. Saw 28 Days Later with Aaron (who's up visiting for the weekend) last night. Liked it loads.
I'm often disturbed that I'm so highly enamored of day-after pieces.
I have no idea what this says about me.
Saw it thoroughly hung over, at that. Those jolty bits? They were
truly jarring. Not sure if they helped with the hangover or made
it worse, which would provide some explanation besides "there
must have been arsenic on one of those shots Friday" as to why
my head is still vaguely pounding this morning.
I had a date Friday night. It turned out, really, to be a good
date, though that may never be believed by the poor woman I was
on it with.
I should have seen the traces of the absurd flirting with the
corners of my day well before they hit peak levels. I mean, before
mid-afternoon, I watched the Sashimi Tabernacle Choir drive by; a vehicle covered to the gills with fish and lobsters
singing, in perfectly choreographed parts, Bizet's Votre toast je peux vous le rendre after opening with Queen, mechanized lobster conductor and all.
Then I got to walk down the street looking like I wet my pants
because I'd been sitting on a plastic chair in the heat for two
hours. Gotta love having that going on when you run into a very
cute girl you dig. Yep, I'm a smooth operator, alright. Did get
a nice foray to Lake Harriet with Becca and Aaron and a refreshing
dip in later on. I may have to do that again today before I head
to Elise and Juan's for a Buffyfest.
So, date was supposed to be at six, hooking up at my local watering
hole. Shortly before six, I get a call from my date, fumbling
to apologize because she is stuck downtown with one of her staff,
after taking them for an afternoon downtown, who is passed out
drunk on the street and who she cannot rouse to save her life.
I offered to get there and help because it sounded like a pretty
horrendous spot to be stuck in, especially when what you really
wanted to be doing was going on a date with someone who could
walk upright. That was a good deal of my intent, anyway.
I suppose it's a multiple choice sort of thing.
- a) Heather offers to go downtown because someone clearly needs help
and rescue, and she'd not want to be in such a sucky sitch alone,
were it her.
- b) Heather offers to go downtown because she had a fucking date,
goddamit, and it is NOT getting canned because some silly bitch
can't hold her liquor.
I'm inclined to go with c) all of the above. And I think that's allowed.
It was easy enough to find them: the whole worry with blind dates
about not being able to recognize someone gets tossed out the
window when you're looking for two women on a deserted streetcorner,
one of whom is face down on the cement, the other of whom is looking
completely exasperated (though mighty fine all the same, if you
must know).
It took us a good hour and a half to get the broad up and walking,
deliver her to her destination (and I am so leaving out her running Tourette's monologue during all of this
-- I think I may have blocked it out, actually, which is good)
and to the outdoor tables at Azia, where we proceeded to spend
the next, oh, five hours. She's a fascinating person, we talked
each others ears off, we did a whole lot of shots and a good deal
of laughing. Our waiter joined us in most of them, and when it
was discovered there was a book for the shots, my date began ordering
them by randomly calling out page numbers, giving new meaning
to the term "kamikaze shots." I remembered it was the 4th of July
at some point after there were fireworks. I thought someone was
just being festive. Or maybe shooting them off somewhere yelling,
"Yay! Heather got a date! Whoohoo!" But no.
I didn't feel all those shots Friday night. I felt them all of
yesterday instead. I don't tend to get hangovers. I now remember
why. Ugh.
But hey -- a date! And an enjoyable one at that, despite the rather,
erm, memorable opening. And a good movie. And time to see Aaron,
however murky I may have been. And swimming. And running into
friends and crushes. And Bizet par des poissons!
Now that's my kind of weekend. No, really. Could it belong to
anyone else? |
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July 2nd, Two Thousand Three: Nonsequitur: it's what's for breakfast.
It's been another fairly miserable couple days. Monday night was
good enough -- went out to Triple Rock to see The Gossip with
Becca and Lise, and the bar was packed with a lot of very nice
dyke eye candy, even if they were all coupled or 18. So, that
was something, especially since the day Monday was nothing but
a huge parade of assholes in everything I did, including spending
three hours renaming Scarleteen graphics stolen by a zillion LiveJournal
and UBB users. It's so charming when people hotlink graphics from
a nonprofit site then publicly bitch about what an asshole I am
for removing them, making sure -- only at that point -- to link to the site, so, I guess, everyone can see what
a mean-spirited bitch I am.
Yesterday, I got blown off completely for some portraits I'd scheduled
to do today and tomorrow both, and still no call or contact about
what happened yesterday or what's going on today, after I already
spent all of yesterday sitting here waiting. Suffice it to say,
it didn't help my already maudlin mood of late. By the end of
the day, over various things, I sat here again with the grumbles
and the waterworks (after going on at great length about everything
in the world making me frustrated and disappointed and crazy to
poor Gray, who was sweet as hell to listen). I finally stopped trying to
do anything productive, stopped counting up my losses and disappointments,
turned off the lights, lit a candle, and put on Debussy's Prelude to a Fawn. It's a brilliant musical example of Blake's concept of regained
innocence, and all those 9th and 11ths and descending glissandos...
yep, music to sob by.
I've come to realize that I have anger triggers when it comes
to how folks respond to my emotional state lately. Maybe not just
lately, but period. I'd be happy, I think, not to hear anyone
tell me or say of me that I'm "strong" or 'the strong one" (my
childhood nemesis of a role) for a good, long time. I'd rather
not be called "a saint" ever again. I'm feeling similarly about
descriptors like "survivor," "iconoclast" and "nurturer." All
in all, I'd like to not hear anything that even vaguely sends
the message to me that my value as a person is inextricably linked
with my putting up or tolerating with a lot of crap, heartbreak,
tragedy and other nasties, and/or with my taking care of everyone
selflessly, even to my detriment. My complexes that say I have
little value as a person unless I do those things are ever-feasting
on an all-you-can-eat buffet with no provocation as it is. Enough
of that shit, say I. We're all full to the gills with it.
This is one of my favorite shots from the new set I just put up today, the model being one half of a couple I photographed
about a month ago. I love the abstraction of the thing; and all
the folds and loose lines and colors.
It's so cool to work with people of size, I have to tell you (and
I'm always grateful for the opportunity, because even in fat-friendly
spaces, given our fascist beauty standards in this culture, it
still takes hella balls to model). Obvious as it sounds, they
have weight. They take up a different kind of space in the way that a sculpture
made of marble has a very different visual and visceral presence
than one made of wood. It's one of the wonders of the world to
me: how, in a photo or a two-dimensional piece of artwork, even
when a larger model isn't taking up any more actual visible space
than a smaller one might, the higher weight still FEELS so much
more substantial and so... there, in terms of presence. It's cool. It awes me, maybe in the way
that skyscrapers awe some people, in the way that oceans I can't
see the end of awe me.
I can't help but wonder if so many of the girls we see at Scarleteen so fixated on being rail-thin aren't consciously or unconsciously
simply afraid to take up space, to have physical presence. And
I'd be willing to wager that's pretty gender-specific. |
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June 30th, Two Thousand Three: What do we have to be so proud of, anyway?
Off and on, I hear some discussion -- often from straight folks,
but not exclusively -- about what the point of Pride festivities
are, about what the point of queer pride is, anyhow, about why
sexual orientation or lifestyle is anything to be "proud" of in
the first place. They're not invalid or offensive questions, in
my book.
The thing is, pride is the literal opposite of shame. When I look
at it, it really all comes down to that. Pride is a living testament
which says, "We are not ashamed of this aspect of who we are,
or of who we are entire, but instead, choose to embrace and celebrate
it." That means celebrating the loves in our lives, sexual, romantic,
platonic, celebrating everything our sexuality brings us, celebrating
various aspects of queer culture, celebrating things like the
ruling last week which take us queer folks one more step towards
equality and acceptance, and one more step out of a collective
and cultural shaming.
Look: at any Pride celebration, when I see, for instance, the
queer families groups or floats pass by I get totally choked up and wipe tears out
of my eyes. I can't help it. Seeing that make me think of how
hard a lot of those families have got it, not just when it comes
to the usual support networks families get in this country that
many of them are not allowed the benefit of, but even just the
day-to-day persona stuff. I know a gay daddy with a teenaged son
who is also discovering he's queer, but he's terrified to come
out to his mother for fear she'll blame his Dad for his being
so, and that his contact with him -- important not just because
he's his father, but because he's also an important sounding board
and connection for him in terms of queer issues -- will be limited
because of that. That's heartbreaking stuff, kids, quiet a struggle
as it is. But I get teary not just because of the hard parts,
but because they're out there smiling, having a wonderful time,
glowing, dancing, playing; because they're beautiful families who love each other and that's
their pride: having loving, beautiful families in spite of the obstacles.
I get the warm and fuzzies to hear a huge crowd shout out and
applaud (and whistle at, oh my) gay female firefighters (one of whom I know -- and you gotta dig the "L7" on the side
of the truck), queer librarians (what's not to love about queer librarians, I ask you?), drag troupes, dancers, peace activists, GLBT-friendly churches, gay real estate agents, trannies, dyke
police officers (including, by the by, the women who security-guarded
my video store I was enthralled with -- who isn't single, I discovered.
Boo. Hiss.), GLBT school groups, orchestras, choirs, corporations,
the works -- because you know, it doesn't happen every day. I've
heard people complain that straight folks don't get that either,
but you know, I read the paper. I see the wedding announcements
pages, for crissakes. I see how things go for the Scarleteen kids
in terms of peer acceptance and peer isolation when it comes to
who's straight and who isn't. I've enjoyed heteroprivledge myself
many, many times over in my life, and anyone who tells you they
don't benefit from that is either lying or taking for granted
what it nets them.
We'd be hard-pressed to find a culture in which heterosexual people
are kept from their partners because of their sex or gender. Imagine,
if you might, waking up one day to discover that you could lose
your job, your community, your home, your health care, your children
or even your life because of the gender of your partner, and because
of NOTHING else BUT the gender of your partner. Just put your
head there for a few minutes. While, thankfully, a lot of culture
has changed so that a lot of queer folks don't have to worry about
most of those things anymore, even for those who don't, the subtle
stuff tends to still be at play. Imagine going out on a date and
having to make a point in public not to hold hands or even plop
a kiss on the cheek of said date. Imagine having members of your
family refer to your longtime partner as your "special friend."
Imagine the stuff of your heart being treated as an interesting
novelty and little else. Imagine knowing you jeopardize your standing
at your job if you bring your partner to an office party, or ask
that the charity of the month a company chooses be, say, HRC rather
than UNICEF, and you're a queer person asking, rather than a straight
one. Imagine the treatment you might get from your community or
family if you contract HIV instead of HPV or Herpes. Imagine setting
up house with your life partner of 50 years and winding up homeless
when they die or become ill because their family refuses to recognize
your union. Even the "small" bits are nothing small at all.
Pride is a big deal. Even so much as 100, even so much as 50 years
ago, we couldn't have had Pride. It's all too easy to forget that
most of the major strides made for GLBTQ folk have only been made
in the last 30 years, and that in those 30 years, we (we being
anyone and everyone who have been active in the work, straight
and bent alike) have really started to undo a helluva a lot, and
create a helluva lot.
Here's a little quickie historical perspective just from the last
four centuries to think about:
1600's: A soldier in Montreal charged with sodomy, "the worst of crimes,"
is commuted from his sentence on the condition that he become
New France's first executioner (nice: your punishment for being
queer is that you get to be a federally-sanctioned murderer).
In the US settlement at Plymouth, two married young women are
charged with "lewd behavior... upon a bed," and the elder of the
two is required to acknowledge publicly her unchaste behavior
and receives a warning that "if there are any subsequent carriages,
her punishment will be greater." In New Netherland, a man is executed
by drowning for sodomy. Geneva official Pierre Canal, arrested
for high treason and attempted homicide, confesses under torture
to being a homosexual and implicates more than twenty other men.
Canal is broken on the wheel for treason, and burned for sodomy.
Three more of the men he named are drowned as well. Sodomy is
included in the US colonies laws as a capital crime.
(Rather ironically, given all of this craziness about "buggery,"
a Dutch writer, "widely read in England, believed that God in
his wisdom had formed the buttocks so that they could be severely
beaten without causing serious bodily harm. The late 16th and
early 17th centuries are, in England, the great age of flogging.
Every village and town sported a whipping post." - Ricketson GLBT Library)
1700's: The Dutch Sodomite Massacre, in which at least 24 boys were
executed; English and French persecution of gay men result in
over 600 executed. Deborah Sampson, a descendent of Gov. William
Bradford, is excommunicated from her church for “dressing in men's
clothes” and for behaving “very loose and unchristian like." The
Manchu Qing government enacts a male rape law and for the first
time in Chinese history outlaws sodomy between consenting males.
1800's: The last known execution for sodomy in the Netherlands was in
the early 1800's, while In England, there are more executions
for sodomy than for murder during this time. "Gross indecency"
- any sexual touching between men - is made illegal in England, but
Leaves of Grass is published, capital punishment for sodomy is removed within
the States, and in 1896, "for the first time on the American stage,
two women hug and kiss in a scene of the play A Florida Enchantment. Though the play is not lesbian in content, the scene is so controversial
that at intermission, ushers offer ice water to any audience member who feels faint."
1900's: Emma Goldman lectures on homosexuality during her speaking tour
of the US, Havelock Ellis and Edward Carpenter found the British
Society for the Study of Sex Psychology, emphasizing an educational
approach, and with a special homosexual subcommittee, and the
state of Illinois founds the Society for Human Rights, dedicated
to "promote and protect the interests" of people who, because
of "mental and physical abnormalities" are hindered in the pursuit
of happiness (the first attempt to found a homosexual rights organization
in the US). Ar the same time, Hollywood studios' Motion Picture
Production Code prohibits all references to homosexuality in the
movies, the U.S. military issues official prohibition against
homosexuals in the armed forces, the American Psychiatric Association
adds homosexuality to its list of mental disorders, and -- very
discordant to the stance of the ACLU now -- the ACLU adopts a
national policy statement that sustains the constitutionality
of state sodomy laws and federal security regulations denying
employment to gay men and lesbians, but reverses the policy in
1964.
As well, in 1970, the American Psychiatric Association decides
that homosexuality should no longer be classified as a mental
disorder. In 1971, NOW finally decides to let lesbians in (and
not shortly after, Rita Mae Brown's -- who was one of the dykes
kept at the gates by NOW -- Rubyfruit Jungle is published). In the 80's, the San Francisco Health Department
closes fourteen gay bathhouses after investigators uncover high-risk
sexual behavior in them (imagine how many cheap motels and high
schools one would have to do same to to try and limit the high-risk
behaviour of straights), but Delta Airlines apologizes for arguing
in plane crash litigation that it should pay less in compensation
for the life a gay passenger than for a heterosexual one because
he may have had AIDS, and the Minnesota Court of Appeals awards
guardianship of Sharon Kowalski, a lesbian severely injured in
a car crash, to her lover, Karen Thompson, over the objections
of Kowalski's parents. In the 90's to now, we saw major corporations
adding partner benefits, the WHO removing homosexuality from its
list of diseases (that was only ten years ago), the Clinton administration
amending military policy in regard to homosexuality (not great,
but hey, better), gay marriage rights added to some states and
countries, the overturning of the Sodomy law in Texas last week,
and hate crimes legislation introduced, and yet we also saw a
bill that would have banned employment discrimination against
gay men and lesbians defeated, and Clinton signing the defense
of marriage act. And we all see entirely too much of Fred Phelps
and his ilk.
The long and the short of all that (and I apologize for the abbreviated
history, butcha know, this'd go on for miles otherwise)? We've
come a long way, baby, but we've still got a long way to go. Something
like Pride lets all of us bring issues like this to light, lets
us fuse the personal and the political, but lets us also have
a day or two where we can publicly enjoy and express all the simple
-- and sometimes hard-won or not-won-yet -- joys of your sexual
and personal lives. It lets us remember and celebrate that a lot
of us are lucky as hell to be able to do that -- even if it should
be more than luck, but our right -- no matter our orientation,
sexual or gender identity. It enables us to banish shame and have
some pride. And that's a big deal.
(some of the above historical bits courtesy of: GLINN Media Corporation,
Ricketson GLBT Library, Len Evans' Gay Chronicles)
I have to add, though, that being single and dateless right now,
it was a little difficult for me. Not only was I struck with the
pervasive feeling now and then that it'd really be nice if I could
go to a big park overflowing with queer folks any day of the year,
but I was coveting other people's partnerships, looking at beautiful,
happy couples very wistfully the whole time. I went to the parade
with Lise, and my building's caretaker (and my new gay boyfriend)
Scott, which was great, and I ran into a few acquaintances and
friends (one of whom I literally ran into by running pell-mell
into the street to hug her while she marched with her group --
it was just great to see her, and I don't think anyone got hurt
in the process). That was all good. But the Saturday night before,
I went over to Intermedia Arts to catch a short documentary on
Dykes Do Drag, followed by a show (I'm working on a piece on them,
aside of just loving what they do, so, was work-related in part).
Great film, great show, but it appeared I was the only person
who came alone. This was illustrated further by the fact that
I was the only one with an empty seat next to me in the place
that I could see. It felt, really, quite pathetic. You know no
one else is likely thinking that about you, or even noticing you
at all, but you can't help feeling someone is seeing you and feeling
sorry for you.
I don't mind doing things on my own or being a loner -- it's part
of my nature, actually, likely inherited from my Dad. But this
weekend, it just didn't feel so great. It felt lonely. By the
time I got home Saturday night, I was really pretty miserable,
in part because of feeling lonely, and in part because I felt
like a total loser for feeling so pathetic about it. When you're
a Big Independent Chick, you know, one doesn't care for feeling
that way. We're supposed to be bigger than this, more ballsy than
this, more confident in this.
I wasn't even going to say anything about this, but it felt important
to call myself out on being lonely. Not just because maybe someone
else who's feeling this way can feel a little less alone in seeing
it, but so I'm forced to acknowledge it and set aside my bravado
every now and then. I've just not been having an easy time of
things lately. I juggle so much in my life, and so much of it
is such hard work, that I really rely on one or two major good
things to carry the rest of my load. So, when I'm working my ass
off for peanuts alone all day, when I'm not getting the sort of
occupational recognition or support I feel I deserve, when the
money is tight as ever, when my time is hell to manage, and when
I'm lonely, feeling socially isolated in many ways, and dateless
to boot? It's hard for me to look on the bright side and get myself
through the days with a sunny disposition, and I feel in some
sense that I'm expected to have one all the time, which feels...well,
like a lot of icky pressure. I'm having a hard time being friendly
to folks insisting on telling me that things will look up, that
I have all these things going for me, that I need to stop being
upset or dour when that's just how I'm feeling. So, there. I've
been lonely. And not very happy. And emotionally worn out. And
I'm allowed to feel those things if they're what I'm feeling,
even if myself and others would prefer I felt otherwise.
Plus, one of the suavest women in the world -- Katherine Hepburn
-- just died. This makes me very sad. "If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun." |
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June 26th, Two Thousand Three: A super-quickie. Check out the first Dyke March in Mexico, in Mexico City last March -- thanks, Christine -- and next year?
Let's go, girl. It's where I'd like to end up eventually in my
life, anyhow. There are some lovely, sweet photos in there (está en "la galeria de fotos," por las gringas en la audiencia). Some nice eye candy too, I gotta add.
It's a good, happy thing for Pride weekend, as was the Texas sodomy
ruling (though it'd sure have been nicer if the law had been overturned
because everyone agreed that it's perfectly fine to be queer and/or
have oral or anal sex rather than because of privacy issues. But
hey, it happened, and during the Bush administration, no less,
so it's still groovalicious). |
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June 24th, Two Thousand Three: It's occurred to me lately that there appear to be a serious
lack of age-appropriate women to date in Minneapolis. More to
the point for my own agenda, age-appropriate butch women. For
me.
There are likely a few reasons for this. One being that Minneapolis/St.
Paul is stuffed to the gills with colleges, so there are an awful
lot of younger folk here of all sorts. As well, a lot of the dykes
my age and older are in long-term partnerships they've been in
for quite some time, and will likely stay in for even longer.
Dyke relationships, as a broad -- but not sweeping -- generalization,
tend to have a shelf life of either twenty minutes or twenty years.
I've had a few friends say, "But what about all the bisexual women?" To which my reply is, "How many butch bisexuals do you know?" This is generally met with total silence, which is to be expected.
Finding a butch bisexual is like playing Where's Waldo when Waldo is gone on vacation in some other book entirely (and
yes, they do exist, I even tangentially know one or two, but they're
an incredible rarity. And not single, more importantly). That's
just half the battle anyway.
Being a pansexual girl myself, I can't wrap my brain round a lot
of the too-common dyke aversion to bisexuality that's out there.
But I do get parts of it when the situation merits wariness or
outright annoyance. For instance, I get not wanting to be involved
with someone who has a boyfriend who "doesn't have to be involved, but would just like to watch" or a boyfriend
who "is encouraging me to date women" or who "has always fantasized
about a threesome," or who "is looking to find" herself. Not only
did I end up with a stack of unpaid bills and a vacant apartment
the last time someone I was dating said they were looking to find
themselves, I have to wonder why someone thinks they're going
to find themselves in my underpants (and why I haven't noticed them hanging out in there
myself before, no less).
And look, I wanted a boyfriend, I'd choose my own. I mean, most
women with boyfriends pick them by themselves, rather than inheriting
them by default, yes? In that sort of scenario, the only way I'm
even going to consider biting right now is if what is said is
something to the effect of "We're polyamorous and honest, we can negotiate other partners,
but my boyfriend wants nothing to do with the sex I'm having with
you whatsoever. In fact, he says the mere thought of it makes
him consider the priesthood."
It's also been suggested that dating someone who is 20 doesn't
have to be a big deal. However. Given the work I do at Scarleteen,
not only is it ethically questionable on my part, I know firsthand
a lot of the things college girls say and do when they aren't
trying to impress, and on a sexual and romantic level, it lacks
major appeal. Been 21, done it, have no desire whatsoever to revisit,
even as a tourist. To boot, my best relationships simply tend
to be with people my own age or older. Younger than me, I get
inclined (or encouraged) to mother. And while I'm a switch, I
mostly bottom with women, and it's asking for a serious suspension
of disbelief on my part to ask me to be intimidated by someone
who can't balance their checkbook yet, or to get to a safeword
with someone who can't even buy me a drink (or who, when I pick,
let's say "Stella" as a safeword, doesn't get how funny it is
if I actually shout it out, Brando-style).
I have to also add -- and accept that it's shallow -- that I can't
do the Mullet Militia. I. Just. Can't. And I don't even trust
myself to try, knowing that no one is going to buy my story that
I just happened to have a pair of scissors in my purse which just
happened to end up in my hand and just happened to slip and cut
off all that mess.
I know I've mentioned it before, so there's no need for me to
expound on why I've no desire to be a personal petrie dish for
the bicurious lot. Just... yucko.
So, you take away the bicurious, the femmes, the mullets; you
make it an Over-21 show at a minimum and ... yeah. It's not pretty.
It's downright depressing. Now and then, I just have to sit back,
sigh and shout to the heavens "10% my ass!" I mean, if we queeries really are at least 10% of the population,
I should be seeing at least one hot dyke in every 20 people, shouldn't
I? Especially in what is supposed to be the 2nd gayest city per
capita in the U.S.?
And there's something else. Something which makes me feel appallingly
like the worst kind of straight man. Something whose name rarely
gets uttered outside whispered silences, or in my case, pained
cries of agony and frustration. That's right: butch-on-butch love.
I admit, gritting my teeth, that when I see this, I cringe. Not
because it's unattractive, because... umm, it's so not. It's awfully
tasty to look at from my viewpoint on an... erm, aesthetic level.
But emotionally, I shout, "No! NO! Stop thief!" I can't help it. I'm a femme girl who has always been crazy about
butch girls, and there are femmes bloody everywhere (many of whom
keep answering my personals ad, choosing to ignore the clear bit
about my looking to date butch women, or perhaps, don't even know
what I mean when I say that) and a severe shortage of butches.
It just seems so patently unfair. And my reaction to it is so
totally like how some men react to lesbianism that it's embarrassing
as hell to feel this way, butcha know, I do.
I figure, there must be productive, positive ways of dealing with
this overall problem, no? So, in talking to Elise over (a lovely, and much-needed) breakfast the other day, we
agreed upon the following propositions.
Incentives For Butch Emigration
Minneapolis is really a great town. It's a very out town, and
there are femmes littering the sidewalks like food sticks after
the State Fair. More pertinently, there's me, and a few other
highly eligible babes I know waiting with baited breath for their
princes to come.
Taking a cue from the past, we could also get the city to offer
other excellent incentives, of the sort that have been offered
to immigrants in other scenarios. For example:
- Season Lynx Tickets
- Free fade trims and boot/shoe shines for a year
- $25 off any U-Haul rental, after a two-month grace period (I said
positive solutions, remember?)
- A free safer sex seminar with yours truly (hey, using dams can
be tricky, and philanthropical bitch that I am, I'm always happy
to give a live demonstration when needed)
- A seasonal motorbike tune-up
- A make-your-own-harness workshop
- Several assigned Dyke Drama-Free Zones
You get the picture. I'm open to ideas. Partnered with that promotion,
should be this one:
The Butch of the Month Club
Here's how this works (And doesn't it sound divine? Doesn't just
the sound of it make your mouth water? Sure it does.): each new
butch that comes into town gets on this registry.
Anyone -- see, I am being fair about butches who love butches even though it breaks
my heart and stands in the way of my own dire dating crisis --
wanting to date the new butches signs up on a second registry
list. We work the list by doing dates from the top down with each
featured butch (who gets a nice little profile in the free gay
rag here). You keep moving down the list until you get a match,
at which point those two folks are off the list. They split up
and want to date again, they get back in at the end of the damn
line. This could be easily tailored for numerous sorts of preferences,
or, with more frequent emigration, done weekly.
Yes, some of this is tongue-in-cheek. And yes, some of it isn't.
So, if someone would just tell me that the girl is out there on
a daily basis for a while? I'd be most appreciative. And it might
help keep me from pitching this -- unsolicited dam demonstrations
and all -- at Pride this weekend. |
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Photography: 06.23
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