Sleeping Arrangement

When I share a bed with two others
I always lay between
Because I dream so still and quiet-
my feet don’t kick or cause a scene.

It’s good to be in the center-
This arrangement isn’t new.
With he and she beside me,
I sleep warmly all night through.

Our bed wouldn’t suit just anyone,
We know this for a fact.
But I will say that it feels divine-
to have soft skin at my fore and aft!

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Epistemological logic

I strongly suspect that psychotherapists “know” their approach works the same way men “know” when their female partner has a real orgasm. 

There may be a slight conflict of interest if this construal of knowledge is taken to be an acceptable outcome measure.

 

[An excerpt from] A requiem on the death of Fred Phelps – LGBTQ Nation

This is an interesting, thoughtful take on the life and death of Phelps. Mostly, I agree. Though I think I will have a small drink to celebrate his passing. To paraphrase Mal Reynolds- “Forgiveness is the mark of a great man. (Takes celebratory drink). Guess I’m just a good man. (turns on party music and dances). Well, I’m alright.”

And now for the less flippant bit, that I decidedly did not write, but do think I should share:

“Phelps held a mirror up to the homophobic Christians as to what their “principles” looked like. They did not like what they saw. They saw hatred, but did not feel like haters. It forced many to take a more educated look at scripture and found their original uneducated comprehension was lacking. They found there were many ancient mandates there that did not apply to modern life, and they found that the passages they had ascribed to gay people both did not apply, nor did they feel the ramifications reflected the bigger core principles of love that they valued.

Fred Phelps became the example that no self respecting Christian wanted to become. Many actively readdressed their values and public tolerance of LGBT rights began to surge.”

via A requiem on the death of Fred Phelps – LGBTQ Nation.

Haiku from the 280

Bus to Aylesbury

      – that name I cannot pronounce, 

dumb American! 

 

Now to Friday Lane – 

    and poor posture numbs one’s arse, 

Sixty-two stops. Why! 

 

Shifting, impatient, 

     the men at Waterstock turn

pretend they’ve not met.

 

Tiddington (the Fox), 

     is apparently a pub! 

Whimsical England. . . 

 

Outwardly pleasant,

     the department politics

are crass, and childish. 

 

Pregnant roller-skates

     dodging amid bikes and buses

noon traffic in Thames

 

Polite bus driver!

    he does not mow down tourists

– though he might want to. 

 

Content and catlike 

     I observe from a high perch

double-decker bus!

 

 

 

 

On bipotentiality

Author’s note: I wrote this earlier in the year and had nowhere really to post it. So, now it is here.

Most of the time I feel at home with my female biological distribution. I enjoy makeup, skirts, high heels, skinny jeans, the curve of my neck into my shoulder, the contour of my collarbones. The delicate grace of my tiny hands, gesturing dramatically as I speak. My innate ability to focus my sexuality and use it in interactions with men and women. The way sunglasses make me look rather bitchy.

I’ve always been genderqueer, and valuing of masculine traits to the point of being almost sexist. Or just outright sexist. Being an academic, I’m aware that the mere endorsement of feminine/masculine “values” as such can be a sexist statement in and of itself. Tiring, to think on it today. Suffice it to say that I have great respect for logic and directness. I have little patience with dithering or passivity in myself, though my tolerance for it in others is more complex. I don’t understand women as a general population. Inter-personally I tend to find them baffling, though I’ve met more and more who I can connect with of late. Cheers to metropolitan living, and the variety of people who increase accordingly.

On a few occasions though, I have found myself in complete contempt of my feminine form and the implications it has. Hiking, in particular, seems to draw my attention to my (albeit minimal) excess flesh. The extra fat making up my small breasts, padding my inner thighs and stomach and the curve of my ass moves over lean muscle and functional bone, cartilage and sinew. Inefficient. Irksome. Wrong, in a subtle, unmistakable way. Not to mention the plumbing system. Intelligent design, I beg to fucking differ.

And for what? The possibility of children I neither want nor need? To host another organism in my personal domain? Unlikely. If so, not for my own purposes, but to help someone else attain theirs.

Partly because I know it makes me more intriguing as a female, and possibly because I listened to too much Toby Keith growing up, I have cultivated a taste for fine scotch. Ardbeg, if you are curious, is my present favorite. Scotch, mountain-man style camping (I own an actual buffalo robe), knife throwing, and the occasional cigar. A cigar which is most certainly not “just a cigar” but is very much a declaration of masculine and gay intent. As much as I despise Freud, I do most certainly have “penis envy.” Such an elegant and functional organ. Straightforward. No pun intended, but it was funny, wasn’t it?

All of these carefully nurtured proclivities, my own version of a masculinity complex.

Sometimes I read. Fanfiction. Slash fanfiction, to be precise. The hundreds of thousands of stories extrapolating upon the “what if” behind any given plot line where male characters seem to value one another beyond the hetero-obvious.

Then I ache. To feel my male body pressed to another man. The affirmation of masculinity that could only really be expressed between two men. To have a direct and functioning cock instead of the zone of asexual ambiguity that I am presently plagued with. To see, intimately the ways one man might interact with another in the absence of female censure, or societal subjugation. To have an equivalent sense of power to play with, to have a more profound submission, and a more magnificent dominance.

I ruined a tube of eyeliner today. My roommate was napping with her door open, and I closed the bathroom door, and started to draw. I thickened my eyebrows (ironic, given that my tweezers for the opposite purpose reside in the same glass). I sketched out a mustache, and then a goatee. Simple. I crept across the hall and donned a sports bra and my boyfriend’s plaid flannel shirt. Tiptoed back to see the effect in the mirror.

Beautiful.