Posts Tagged ‘lgbt’

Really, I do want to blog more often. Ideas strike me at odd times, when I’m driving, in the middle of the night, when I’m waiting for a client, and I think ‘I should expand on that, I should write a blog post’ then evening comes around and a few minutes of peace and quiet for contemplation, a space in my day allowing me to put my thoughts down, and I just let my brain scatter over reading posts on public media, and wandering through everyone else’s words. Maybe it’s just laziness, and maybe it’s just easier to not delve to far into my own emotions.

This blog is called ‘Anonymous Dyke’. I had nothing to do with naming it, I was given the blog already in progress, already named, after expressing that I wanted to start blogging again. The original owner had stopped blogging but kept the site, it seemed like a perfect fit. I embrace the ‘Anonymous’ part of the title, theoretically feeling freer, knowing that I can express myself without exposing my love to known scrutiny. Do I embrace the ‘Dyke’ part of the title? It’s certainly how I would define myself, a word we use around this home all the time. Sometimes, though, I feel a little constrained, as though by it’s title the blog is coercing me to stay on topic, to remember that defining feature and not stray onto the path of the non-dyke things in my life. Of course I know that’s bullshit, that I can write about anything I damned well want to write about, and I do. And realistically, the stuff I want to write about anonymously is mostly the dyke stuff, not because I’m closeted or ashamed or any of that, in real life I’m out and loud and proud and political, you wouldn’t have to get any closer to us than our driveway to know that queers live here, with our bumper stickers and pride flag. But because the stuff I think about, the stuff I want to put down anonymously, is the stuff of love, the stuff of emotion, the stuff of the relationship I have with this woman who shares my life.

Introspection is the stuff of life, these are the thoughts that have the power to create us, re-create us, as we carefully examine each layer of being, deciding whether to keep or throw out. Sometimes I feel that my flaws are like styrofoam, indestructibly sitting in landfills, biding their time and resurfacing no matter how hard I try to discard them. This love, this lover, this woman who has captured my heart and soul, she is the catalyst exposing each fragment of myself that I would change if I could. Our selves are so different, we bring each other to our knees sometimes, trying to be best selves for the sake of each other, and finding our worst selves have not gone far. To be sure, I am not blaming anyone here, least of all myself. Nor am I saying that our lot is a bad one, that we are nothing but a struggle of negativity. There is more raw love in this relationship than in anything I’ve ever seen before, and that love comes equally from both sides. Sometimes it seems like this, that she is a rock, solid and stoic, almost cold in her discomfort with all things emotional, the strong silent cowboy hero of long ago movies. She is a rock but the foundation is on a fault line, beneath the surface cracks are coming through, earthquakes of emotion that rock our world close to bits sometimes. I am a hurricane of emotion, everything felt is expressed immediately, strongly, without hesitation, but underneath that hurricane there’s a solid structure, a foundation that cannot be taken down by even the strongest winds of emotion. Sometimes life here is like living through a hurricane with an earthquake underfoot, but sometimes her stoic calm and my solid foundation find each other, interlaced into a strength larger than either of us would ever have independently.

I take a look at the styrofoam, this indestructible mass of flaws that I seem powerless to discard. But these are not flaws, these are bits of self, as much a part of my being as any quality I hold dear to. It is only in this form that they are negatives, styrofoam is a menace in the landfill, styrofoam is a menace when it’s litter. Things that do not biodegrade can be reused, recycled, repurposed. These bits of me just need to reconfigure, to find their way and use, this is the true challenge. And this one I accept.


We went to Finland for ten days for work. Admittedly, we were the only queer couple among the forty or so people there, but here’s the thing, it was a complete non-issue. We don’t come across a lot of homophobia among our colleagues here in the states, but we do get a constant stream of condescending comments ‘I think it’s great you’re gay’ and ‘I have a gay nephew, maybe you know him?’ and that kind of stuff. In Finland we were a couple, just like the several other couples there who work together. Amazingly unbelievably wonderful.

If you subscribe to this blog, you’ve probably realized that I don’t post super-often. Life is incredibly hectic, I have a lot of thoughts, but no time to share them…

We got a puppy. A straight friend got a puppy from the same litter, so we went to the breeder on the same day to pick them up. She’s known us for a while and is totally accepting of us, I’ve always been completely comfortable with her.

We were in the backyard sitting in the grass and our puppy grabbed our friend’s pants by the butt to play, and my partner laughed and said ‘Oh, look, he’s an ass man, just like me.’

Our friend laughed but also blushed and immediately said ‘TMI! TMI!’ and the conversation went on to other things.

Alone later, my partner said ‘you know, if I had been a straight guy no one would have batted an eye at me saying that’

And I thought about it, and she’s right. Straight people say that sort of thing all the time and it’s chuckled over and that’s it. When I lived as perceived straight, I remember a number of conversations that way. I know that if a straight chick says ‘I’m into asses’ her friend might counter with ‘I’m into smooth backs’ or whatever, but not TMI! If a guy says he’s an ass man women roll their eyes at best.

So why this reaction? And why from a friend? I thought about it and I think it’s the same old thing that comes back to haunt us. I’m fine with you being gay, just don’t flaunt it. Mentioning being into asses and they can’t pretend that we’re asexual beings who just enjoy each other’s company.

We’ve come a long way, we still have a long way to go…

I started crafting a well composed and well thought out blog post half a dozen times at least.  A compact and cautiously worded essay balancing my less than charitable thoughts with warm understanding and compassion.   But every time I felt that, although I agreed with the sentiments I was expressing, my heart was not entirely there.  Because the things I want to say are not as nice as I’d like to think I am, because there’s something about June that sometimes pisses me off.  For straight people, June has traditionally been a month filled with weddings and engagements.  For queers it’s been a month of Pride Parades and rallies.  White taffeta vs. rainbow extravaganza.  Weddings were a ‘them’ thing.  A contentious thing.  A thing we could not partake in.  Now, in 19 states and DC, we can.  Marriage equality has gotten a good toehold and we are not going back.


1 – I believe in equality, I believe we should all have the same rights, including the right to marry, but that does not mean that I believe, or don’t believe, in the institution of marriage.  Saying I want to be seen as equal is NOT the same as saying I want to get married.   We have our own history, our own culture, and for many of us, that culture does not include the great desire to get legally married, only the great desire to be seen as human and equal.

2 – Why do straight people think it’s OK to ask questions about my relationship they would never ask a straight couple?  Not every straight person, and not even all that often, but these questions have been asked –

If I refer to her as my wife or spouse –

Are you married?

If we say yes


In what state?

How do you have sex?

3 – I think it’s great that you believe in equality.   Put another way, I think people who do not believe in human equality are kind of fucked up.  So yes, it’s good that you are in favor of marriage equality, but you don’t need to tell me that any more than I need to tell you that I believe you have a right to marry.  I don’t need your validation or approval.  Yes, having someone smile and tell me that they think it’s fine that I’m gay is a lot better than gay bashing but it is kind of condescending, you know?  Telling my you don’t think it’s anyone’s business what I do in the privacy of my own home makes me a little suspicious that you’re actually thinking about what I do in the privacy of my own home (hint: if you watch girl on girl porn, that NOT it)

4 – This question has to go ‘Why do you people need a Pride Parade?  Why do you have to be proud of being gay?  We don’t have a straight pride parade’

Because straight culture did not suffer shame at the hands of gay culture, because you probably did not come of age being told there was something wrong with being straight, you did not have to come from a place of shame, to acceptance, to pride in being.


So that’s my rant.  It’s maybe not my kindest, most open side, but it’s how I sometimes feel.

100 threads wrapped around my hand, cotton, silk, rayon, polyester blend, all white, or once they were, now some of them are dingy, grey, spotted with the dirt of tears, frustration, anger.  The wind picked up, the threads are pulling tight, cutting off my circulation, cutting into me, pulling away.  Looking up to see what mass these threads attach me to, I only see darkness, a turmoil of clouds against night sky.  They’re embedded in my skin, slicing into me as this force of nature tries to tear them away, so I hang on.  There’s an obvious solution, but it escapes me, maybe it’s just that I can’t imagine letting go.


My hand is heavy, but the pain is ebbing as a tide of numbnesses washes slowly forward, as the storm breaks through the heaviness of the clouds and floods me with emotion.  The threads, twisted by the vortex above me, become a rope and I’m holding on, just above the sink holes at my feet.


Her figure appears within a burst of lightening, erupting like Aphrodite from this salty sea. Aphrodite with a knife in her hand, glistening and sharp.   My eyes close, my fist closes, my body closes upon itself, dangling by these threads.  The sound of the blade slicing through the air, in the same instant waiting to feel the plunge into my chest and realizing that the threads are what were severed.  I fall forward into her waiting body, eyes toward the heavens, watching the threads spin away from each other, and disappear.  She catches me within her soul, soothes me with the tincture and black magic of her tears and I am home again.


The storms we create flood us, but oh, how I love her…



Four years ago, another lifetime, a different blog, a dyke then too, but far less anonymous.  There were reasons (mostly having to do with a having two kids and an ex-husband) for people to assume I was heterosexual, and share with me those things that they would never share with queer folk.  So eventually, having suffered through one too many homophobic attempt at humor, I outed myself to those people in my world who had not yet figured out my queerness.  Single then, I had the freedom to expose myself without reflecting upon others.  That blog brought me directly to this place, a shared life wherein exposing myself also risks exposing the one I love the most.  I willingly gave up my blog for my love,  but missed it.  She gave me this anonymous space to return to myself.  I’m sure the first posts will be a bit confused and raw, it’s been a while.   I fell in love for the first time a few months shy of my 50th birthday.



Where does any story start?  Beginnings are a moving target, you think you’ve found the space then you remember a step before…  so I walk backward slowly, trying to remember.  Walking through dark woods, land mines, danger.  There’s always danger in remembering.  You remember something and it changes everything you know about yourself.  Things you’re sure of, things that matter.  I was in a safe place, alone, un-needing.


It beings on September 24th 2010.  She is someone I know peripherally, someone known in our profession, not even a friend.  She says, ‘so you and I have more then music in common it seems.’  It was a couple weeks after I’d outed myself on my blog, and I was getting an awful lot of these still sort of in the closet confessionals, they were getting a little tedious, a little tiresome, so it surprised me that this one even caught my attention.  I remember reading it, putting it aside, processing.  My answer, when it came to me, was a long one.  I have no explanation.  Her words had already grabbed me, but I was unaware.





I know I think about her too often, but refuse to be aware that she has worked her way into my consciousness.


Sit quietly, think…  There was a space within confusion, a black hole that caused me to write the words to her, to share things I spoke of to no one.


Sit quietly, think…  I share words with her, more and more of them, still do not question this.  It’s harmless, a pen pal.


Sit quietly, think… I love her words, look forward to them with irrational joy.  No matter, it means nothing.





We’re sitting across the table, talking, looking at pictures.  Words exchanged.  She comes around to my side.  The view is clearer.  I am calm, comfortable. No danger here.  That was my mistake, wasn’t it?  I should have seen it coming… There is a sublet shift,  just a fleeting glimpse of it, I focus back on the pictures.  She kisses me.  KISSES me.  I want her so badly, I did not know that, had no idea, but it all floods into me at once.  Lust, pure lust, nothing more.  There are things I have to believe to survive.  Lust is something I understand, I control.  I just want to fuck her.  Really?  Unless I count sexting, I haven’t fucked anyone in years, why now?  No matter, it’s just fucking I want, just friction, the feel of her body.


I’m lying to myself.


She says, ‘I like thinking about you’, she says ‘just to complicate things’, she speaks and I try to listen, but my heart is making too much noise, fear pounds loudly.  I see her and want to protect her.  NO!  That can’t be right, protection is too close to emotion.  I want to fuck her, I have to believe that. I’ll tell her that I want to take care of her, want to protect her, but what I really mean is that I want to fuck her.  I speak the truth to her but lie to myself.





The dragon first came as an extra, a bit part actor you’d catch a glimpse of in the background, maybe had a line or two, just enough for a SAG card, but no staring role.  But the dragon was my first mistake, the dragon made me show my hand, I should have never let her know she held the winning card.  The dragon breathed and fire filled my existence.  I knew enough not to define my love for her, but the dragon, that definition seemed safe.  Dragons excel at that, of course, lulling one into a false sense of security.  Every time I sought to define the dragon I was pulled further into the lair.  I pretend to other things, but these words were written –


‘And the dragon isn’t real, she’s just a word to explain emotions.  I think of the dragon breathing fire, both Prometheus and Pandora, and I’m filled with desire.’





So yeah, OK, friends are there for each other, even new friends, even when you’re still exploring the territory of friendship with each other.  Time is meaningless, you’re either there for each other or you aren’t.  Fair enough, I can’t argue with that logic, so I don’t.  She’s unhappy, she’s so in love with someone but the love don’t feel so fine, there’s coldness there and a lack of attention, she’s hurting, speaking of sadness and loss.  It’s simple really, she just needs to feel appreciated, just needs that boost to weather the struggles.  No harm in that now, is there?  Just a word or two, an honest complement, wouldn’t anyone do that for a friend?  Damn it, don’t argue with me, there’s nothing special about what I did, she was hurting, I just gave her a little care.  You can’t argue with me, friends do that for each other.  Would you be a cold hearted bitch and watch a friend suffer?  Wouldn’t you tell her she was special?  Yeah, I thought so.  So don’t rag on me for doing the same, OK?  It didn’t mean a damned thing, not a damned thing, I tell you.  And it was so easy to do, there were so many qualities to enumerate, so much appreciation to give away.





Our hearts are not on the table, whatever bargains we might strike with each other, we’re safe in that knowledge.  Lust is a language we share, comfort zone, the promise we keep.  Fucked up and damaged I tell her, already in love with someone she tells me.  Our hearts are not on the table.  I try to speak, but it’s not words I’m after, it’s lust, sex, friction.  Nothing more.


Fuck.  I’m shy, it’s been a long time, I know I’m not all that I should be anymore, I feel my lack pretty acutely, but what does it matter?  It’s just fucking, right?  No strings, no emotion.


Fuck.  I’m less shy, less awkward, this world is coming back to me.  This world of freedom, no strings, no emotions.


Fuck.  I’m almost feeling it now, almost.  Just a shadow, an edge of something not quite where I want to be.  There’s yearning

slipping in, sometimes there’s a glimpse of something I can’t quite describe as lust.


Fuck.  Not her this time.  What does it matter?  It’s lust, sex, friction I’m after.  I am in my element, confident, secure, taking control.  I mastered these things.  I bring pleasure easily but do not take it in.  My hands on this body but my mind is on her.  Fuck, that really scares me.


Fuck.  It’s her again.  She fills me with…  emotions are not something I let me self get too far into, just get back to fucking. I can’t take it anymore, I don’t want to think of what it is I feel.


We head unavoidably toward the precipice, our hearts dragging us in against our better senses.

We are closing in on four years now, crazy, fucked up, tumultuous years, years filled with words we treasure and words we regret.  We are difficult people, emotional and sensitive.  There are black holes, in our darkest moments we can easily believe that light has been extinguished for all time.  There is love, abundant love.  In every way, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever known, and oh, how I love her.