Author Archives: rumibean

relationshipping

You tell me this

You tell me this

NOW?!

You know when you just find something out about someone and it surprises the fuck out of you because they’ve been able to keep a secret for that long?

And it makes you rethink everything because you realize- wow- this person can keep a secret for a long time.  Like three years long.

Take when GF confessed that she had been feeding me yum food and libation samples like a one-eyed paraplegic on purpose, waiting for the day I’d catch on to the fact that she was purposely ouch-hitting the roof of my mouth, slopping crap on my chin, stickying my nose with reductions (it goes on) because you can’t mis-aim that badly unless you’re doing it on purpose.

So I’m thinking she is an ijiot with beyond negative hand-eye coordination and it even makes me grouchy in the process:
Ow! Could you not ram that spoon into my cheek?  Umm…ginger syrup on my face.  Is that crap on my neck?!  How did you get it on my neck?
Omg, are you retarded?  Seriously, I think I’m dating a slightly retarded person.

Not only do I think GF is fucktarded, I say that if I were to ever rethink the kids thing, you just confirmed it.  No way am I having kids with you- you would kill them or drown them with milk or whatever kid sauce they consume.

The fact that I don’t catch on gives her waaay too much hilarious delight so she continues her clumsy tasting game.  THREE YEARS she does this.  Meanwhile, I just resign myself to being with someone who is kind-of a moron.

But I’m the fucking moron, thinking her to be a stupid person when, really, she was having the last laugh a bazillion times over.
This impresses me and makes me like her more.

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open relationship

What if…

What if

and there are so many what ifs swimming in my head.

Sometimes an open relationship makes me think (and I probably shouldn’t think about things that haven’t happened but I can’t help it):
What if I end up being attracted to a woman?  What then?
GF has maintained that as long as we’re together, the only woman she will be attracted to is me.  But this could change, depending on the person…right?
Or
What the fuck if I meet someone and what we end up having is so *&♥^∞%!!! that I rethink open relationship and end it?…What if she does?

Of course there’s no need to seriously dialogue hypothetical musings but the second we agreed to open relationship, these what ifs enter my mind.

In Realityland, we just need to communicate the hell out of communication.
And I’m constantly amazed at how every crevice of my preconceived notions of sexual identity and definitions of romantic relationships have changed.  When BF turned GF a frighteningly beautiful thing happened: the traditional notion of expectations were flung far and wide out the window.

Here’s what we expect now: raw honesty.
That’s it.
Which can be a lot because honesty when adjusting to an open relationship can hurt and definitely has uncomfortable as fuck moments but it’s the only way to sincerely try to make it work.

So I haiku because sometimes a 5-7-5 is the best way to process.

Matters of the heart,
Truth: anything can happen.
sometimes scared as fuck.

Is it too much?  More than I can handle?
Perhaps.
On the one hand, yeah, it’s a lot.  I ask questions and sometimes feel insecure in ways that most people choose not to in a committed relationship.  Hell, some would say the whole point of monogamy is to eliminate a certain insecurity.  

But then again, insecurity strikes any relationship, monogamous or not.
And aren’t levels of honesty and acceptance of said honesty the ultimate make-it-or-break-it factor in any significant relationship?
You’re honest or you’re not.  Any relationship could end at any moment.  I guess in mine there’s simply no room for hiding/repressing/suppressing; being with GF makes me deal with a lot of what ifs head-on.  Between her transition, an international move and an open relationship my comfort zone lies in what was uncomfortable.

So my previous discomfort is now oddly homey.

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about Japan

I have a confession:

I have a confession

I keep my AC on. All. Day. Long.

I cringe.

So lots of heat, hot, humid, hot, muggy, steamy rain, so damn hot talk happens and I let it slip to my friend-type-person that I leave the fan on overnight.
FTP: Wait, you leave it on overnight?
Me: Um…yes.
FTP: You don’t use a timer?!
Me: No.  Oh, the impending judgement.

He is incredulous.  He fears for my electricity bill.  Yeah, me too, dude.  Me too.
He hasn’t even used his AC yet.  It’s 35+°/95+°.   I visit people’s homes and even with the AC on, in the coolest room of their house, sweat steadily trickles down impeccably made-up faces.  Because they conscientiously turn it on just enough so that glasses don’t fog, babies stay alive and old folks don’t stroke out.

I can’t keep up with the stoicism.
And I can’t confess my 24-hour AC usage.

Does it assuage my guilt that I at least turn it down when I leave for hours on end?
Uh, no- so stupid wasteful American.

Okay, so I might as well confess all of my wasteful habits:
I don’t turn off the faucet when I’m not actively using it, I don’t air-dry my clothes when the weather is that kind of sunny and slightly windy perfect for it; I use my walk-in dryer room instead, I have the TV on mute and play music at the same time, I left all the little knobs and controls to heat the toilet seat, control bidet water pressure etc. on waaay past frigid winter and on maximum, respectively (the kanji that I can’t read did play a part but I’m also that oblivious, therefore unconscientious), I’m pretty sure I use more water than necessary for small loads of laundry because my washing machine still confuses me and I can’t let go of my paper towel habit.

Crap, I have a lot of ecological growth and improvement ahead of me.
And this confession thing doesn’t make me feel better; in fact, it makes me feel slightly worse because I know these habits warrant tsk tsk.

Goddammit.

I’m working on it, y’all.
Three words: progress not perfection.

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trans talk

I’m a coward

I'm a coward

and dishonest, sometimes.

I’m memory tripping twenty months ago, recollecting a shopping trip (one of many) with my GF.  We’re sifting through racks of maxi dresses (she really wants a maxi and she’s tall enough that it won’t do the shapeless sack thing) and the palpable relief on her face breaks my heart a little.  She feels so much safer and less self-conscious when I’m with her; my presence seems to dull the voices in her head that make her feel like everyone is suspiciously staring at her.

When we started shopping for her, I would rationalize her still very boy presence amidst flowy, lacy, short and tight things by saying things like, who are they to know you’re trans?  You could be buying clothes for- STOP.  What kind of stupid am I talking?  Why am I considering other people’s hate and intolerance?  Why do I have this compulsion to accommodate their discomfort?  I don’t like this tendency within myself.  It makes me feel like a coward and that I’m not a true supporter of my GF.

So I work on permanently shifting my perspective.  My instinct to justify behavior that highlights her transness through other people’s lenses is to protect us from hate, I tell myself.  Transsexuals are on the very bottom of the LGBTQ totem pole (that there is a hierarchy is so maddeningly ironic); they are and have always been targeted by everyone else because apparently it’s okay to be completely (and violently) not okay with transsexuals because they’re so fucking weird (huge, exasperated eye roll over here).

But I’m not being completely honest.

I give hateful people an iota of consideration because focusing on them deflects and delays my acceptance process because a part of me is still holding onto him.  Because the shameful truth is that I’m not yet able to be 100% supportive.  Yes, I’m absolutely her best friend and biggest cheerleader but I’m dragging my feet- big time- at fully accepting that BF is not coming back.

But…tick tock…tick tock enables me to ultimately accept that my BF is part of my past, which further enables me to unabashedly retail therapy with GF whilst making judgmental and ignorant fools ridiculously uncomfortable- that’s right, we’re buying dresses for him, thank you/fuck you very much.

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about Japan

You are a slutpuppy

You are a slutpuppy

if you show your condoms.
That’s what Japanese guys think.
(This is strictly hetero as people here aren’t too open about sexual gay politics on the real but I’m working on honesting that relevant and interesting part of Japanese life).

Yeah, they don’t think you’re responsible. They aren’t appreciative of your efforts to prevent STDs and pregnancy. They think that you’re a total slutpuppy, regardless of how darn cute you are or how much they want to do you. As my fiercely independent acquaintance succinctly summed it up, “They don’t like it.” And if they don’t have one? Then there’s (usually) no sexing. Apparently, the guys are okay with being 100% responsible for the condoms, which is simultaneously sweet and sexist to me.

On a side note, 1 in 4 women (or 3, depending on your stat source) have had abortions here because that’s way more socially acceptable than being on the pill (which was legalized in 1999). Wanting a birth control script isn’t as difficult as it was a decade ago but not all doctors will write one and all are low-dosage. Heck, prior to 1999, the pill was only available for menstrual disorders, not birth control, which meant they were extremely high hormone doses that were probably proven to feed and cause cancer.

Weird, right? At least to an American who’s used to abortion being such a reliable hot topic and waaay more stigmatizing than taking birth control.

If you’re the type that like facts and figures, check out details here.

Many Japanese guys also sum up having a girlfriend in a word: 面倒くさい (めんどくさいor men•doku•sai)
Literally it translates to: annoying, tiresome, troublesome, you get the idea.
Really what the guys mean is this: bitches be hi-may so no thanks.
And the ladies are none too impressed with their attitude as they think guys these days are emotionally weak and immature.

This plays a huge part as to why folks here aren’t getting married so much or not until way later in life and they sure as hell aren’t having kids.

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about Japan, random love

I own this bitch, y’all

I own this bitch y'all

and she’s purtier and easier.

It’s makeover day, which means I have a new header and domain, which is: mybfturnedmelesbo.com (faster to type than with that wordpress thing in the middle).  

This domain is mine…hooray.  Y’all are really fucking sweet and encouraging so I thought, hell, might as well own this for real.  So let’s see what kind of trouble and embarrassment I can recollect and get into over the next 12 months.  I guarantee shenanigans that meet various degrees of disapproval, foreign discomfort, some more emotional paralysis (and growth) and some plain dumb shit because I have a knack of doing some really dumb shit.

For instance:
It’s hot here.  Really fucking hot.  It’s the equivalent of 95+°F, I haven’t stopped sweating for 13 days (and counting) and the oppressive heat is literally suffocating me (I crane my neck upwards on the sardine trains to catch air- not exaggerating) and killing old people.  Which is why weather-appropriate food is de rigueur here.

Cold-on-cold foods like cool soba or somen dipped in refreshingly chilled broth (freshly grated ginger is an especially nice addition) is typical summertime grub.  Noodles here are seriously delicious; the texture is amazing and Japan has probably destroyed my standards for the rest of the world.

So my friend and I are moaning about the heat, looking for a place to eat…
My friend: Oh, look at this.
Me: Oooh…pork shabu-shabu?!  I’ve never had that…
MF: Well, that decides it then.

I am so excited.  I’ve had beef shabu but not pork because America is scared of serving beautiful, paper-thin slices of raw pork cooked tableside in a vat of boiling water with herbaceous veggies and tofu.

We sit, order beers and my friend’s body temp has mysteriously risen for being inside.  Strange.  He immediately asks the server to turn down the AC; I can tell from the eyes that are cut that it’s not going to happen.  I feel bad because he’s dressed all Tokyo proper from fancy-pants work meetings.

And we are stupid.  Because shabu-shabu entails sitting nano-inches away from a steaming hot-pot where we boil meat for hours.  Wait, that sounded weird.  The meal takes hours (and the veggies are simmering the entire time) but the individual slices of pork-cook only lasts a few seconds because the gorgeous cuts are sliced so pretty-skinny.  Once it’s cooked to your preferred doneness, get you some delicate greens and dip in yum sauce/broth.  Basically, shabu is quality ingredients at their best…mmm.

My friend asks the server to turn down the AC again and annoyed dude is looking at us like, are you for real?  You’re eating cold weather food in the middle of a heat wave and we’re still in energy-conservation mode from the earthquake, fuckers.  He is so not turning the shit down.  I point out the words I see in server’s head and my friend is like, right…we’re the ijiots who have chosen to subject ourselves to a pork steambath.

Yes we are.

But these are my people: damn fools who, in their excitement to share a new experience with me, abandon foresight and suffer sweating balls for hours.

I love when I find my people as they are the best.  Like y’all.
Seriously, thank you for the love and support.
Cheers!

 

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open relationship

The first date

The first date

in an open relationship is weird.
Duh, right?  I mean, most first dates are in the weird or boring.

As with most things, GF and I have radically different approaches.
Her: So I’m going out Friday…
Me: Oh, okay.  Out, like, on a date?
Her: …Yeah.
Me: Cool.  Wait, has it even been a week since we’ve open relationshipped?  And she’s got a date?  Of course she does.  Anyone I know?
Her: ***.  I’m not sure I want to go.  I don’t know if I’m even attracted to him but he’s been wanting to hang out for a while.
Me: Oh really?  For a while?  Interesting…
Her: So I might not come home tonight.
Me: Right.  Damn this bitch is fast.  She’s really good at this dating thing; is it because she knows how the male brain works?

Strange…to think of her spending the night with someone else.  Even though it’ll be completely outside of my physical sphere, I feel an emotional prick, like the reality of open relationshipping has just stung me.  And I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.  But maybe it’s just the total newness of it all that’s making me feel a little queasy on the inside.

Then there’s me and ***…
Imagine two people who speak multiple languages between them.  You’d think they’d be able to communicate, right?  Except when you factor degrees of fluency, the odds of non-communication are amplified (mathy people, back me on this).  Actually, here’s a snapshot from my brain instead:

The first date

WHY are we in the green?!
Sure, there’s some orange here and there but he doesn’t really want to orange because of the (lack of) fluency factor.  White is completely ignored (he doesn’t even know this exists), which is my doing.  I purposely steer clear of it because it’s just enough to navigate through the rocky green and I’m not up for a potentially even more challenging white.

So I feel like I’m in a really strange language lab (that serves really good food, by the way), borderline forgetting I’m supposed to be deciphering levels of romantical interest.

How did I even get to this strange and somewhat tortuous place, trying to read signs of interest in [insert non-native language]?
Short answer: Because he asked me out.
Real answer: I wanted to know how much chemistry trumps linguistics.
Truth: The above scenario requires a lot of chemistry.

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about Japan

I am so racist

I am so racist

about nail art.

As in, my homeland fucking rocks and aside from eating my weight in fried chicken (Alli-G, I swear I’ll have the KFC Tokyo report yesterday) I am adding another category to global reviews: nail art (inspiration: Holly Woods).

Y’all, I have a secret weapon.  I will call her M.  She is my friend, personal nailist and she ROCKS.
I would say don’t be J but honestly, you should be.

Here’s my amazing situation:
M recently switched salons and currently works in upscale Ebisu (think Harajuku’s grown-ass sister who looks so effortlessly beautimous that your instinct is to hate her except she’s so damn cool that you can’t, which hurts).  So you can already guess that Ebisu ladies are not to be bullshitted, which means your nail art technique better be perf-ect.  Which means M needs someone (me!) to be her practice person during her seemingly never-ending training at new salon.

So, yes, I am in the enviable position of receiving mandated gel manicures on the regular to help my friend be the best. nailist. ever.  Being her practice puppy means I don’t get to choose how my digits are decorated but no matter because M makes them look amazing.  Take the most difficult princess of manicures- the French.  Omg, bitch is so damn demanding because you cannot hide any imperfection (think nail tip length, perfectly smooth nailbeds, 100% symmetric everything) and there is no tinted basecoat here, just meticulously sculpted clear gel.

And the training whip is cracked harder than any dom I’ve seen in action.  Wow.  My last visit resulted in a solid bright coral (summertime punch!) and poor M got seriously reemed.
Nail Dom: Hmm…the base is a little thick.
M: I applied it in…なになに* technique #47…
ND: I suggest technique #39 because なになに more perfect なになに..
M: I see…yes, will try that next time.
ND: Her middle→pinky looks good.  Just work on the index and thumb.  And your filing. You’re shaping too close to the edge.
M: nodding, taking mental notes.

Poor M.  Nail Dom is so matter-of-fact that I wonder if my nails’ inherent imperfections are to blame for the harsh critique because M has passed all five levels of Hades-esque nail exams.  She’s got mad skills but this is just how standards are maintained in Tokyo.

Harsh, right?

Which is why Japan is kicking America’s ass.
Next up: Korea.

*なになに (na-ni-na-ni)=blah blah

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trans talk

Happy last birthday

My Mexico mistakeas a guy.

I surprised BF with a Tulum trip and we soaked up salty blue, delicious, windy, underwater caving, blazing, pyramid-gazing, path-climbing, crazyhappy, rocky, starry beautiful, challenging, mind-expanding experiences.

Also, driving in Mexico is fun.
Until you get pulled over by state border patrol police sporting AK-47s (intimidating) and Raybans (hot).

Why the hell are we getting pulled over?
In unison:
Him: You probably shouldn’t say anything.
Me: I’m not talking.

We are promptly ejected from the car and BF and hot Mexican terminator #1 are Spanishing…permiso de conducir…mas español…traficante de drogas…still hablaing…placa de matrícula…yo no comprendo.

I’m sitting on the side of the road, looking at the other border patrols sitting under a flap of canvas-like material supported by four thin, metal poles.  They’ve got a red cooler and I think I see Gatorade but it could be a mirage, wishful thinking because it’s sweltering.  The heat is beating me cranky but then my eye catches a flat-top concrete building that’s the same color as the dirt I’m sitting in and I feel anxious as I picture holding cells in there, holding people for what reason and how long I don’t know.  Then I start thinking about having to spend the night there and that’s no good so I force myself to look away.  So I switch to staring at their guns.  I can’t help it.  I’m terrified and fascinated.

And this doesn’t feel real.

Him: Do you have the rental car agreement?
Me: I don’t know.  I check my purse.  Nope.  Can I check the glove compartment?
Him: Spanishes my question.
AK-47 man #5 opens the door for me and I look in the compartment…nada.
Me: It’s not there.  Crap, where is it?  Did you check your bag?
Him: No, I know it’s not in there but I’ll check.  Do you have any idea where it is?  Basically, that’s my license.  My American one means shit here.  Since he doesn’t live in America, how’s he to know it’s not fake?
Me: Right.  That makes total sense and I’m forcing my brain to speedfire retrace our steps…beachwalkingcetlibanksmarg- oh crap.  I know where it is.
Him: And?
Me: In our room, in the safe deposit box, too many fucking miles away to matter, basically.
Him: Why- but he stops, knowing that it’s useless. 

BF updates AK-47 #1 about the definitive lack of legitimizing paperwork.

Him: He wants my passport.
Me: Do you even have it?  No fucking way.  You will never see that shit again.
Him: Yeah, I’m not going to give it, duh.  We need to call the rental car company and see if they’ll vouch for us.  Because right now they have every right to think we’re smuggling drugs.
Me: ???!!!!
Him: The latest cartel trick is switching rental plates and right now we have nothing that verifies who we are.  So we’re not guilty but we’re not innocent.

Thank god their number is saved in the phone; I dial and hand it over to BF.

|             /¯¯\   |\      |   /¯¯\        /\      |¯¯   |¯¯    \        /\        /   /\       |   ¯¯¯|¯¯¯
|            |      |  ||  \    |  |            /    \    |__   |__      \      / \      /   /  \      |         |
|            |      |  ||    \  |  |    __   /—–\        |      |        \   /   \   /   /—-\     |         |
|_____  \__ /   |      \|   \__/|   /         \  __|   __|         \/      \/   /        \    |        |

While I’m sleepyangrytiredhungryscaredasfuck, BF and #1 are passing the phone so many times it might as well be a hacky sack.

And then:
Him: The guy totally remembered us and everything checked out so now they want to search everything.
Me: Okay.  I have never been so happy at the prospect of a thorough search because this means we’re making progress.  A little relief sets in.  WAIT.  DO we have drugs in the car?  I’m superrapido thinking, going over last night especially hard.  

Because drugs are really easy to come by in Mexico, especially if your BF speaks near-fluent Spanish.  And you pick up a Mexican hitchhiker who tells you from which house to buy the shit after offering to smoke you up at his house.

HUGE Thank. Fucking. God.
The guys even wish BF a feliz cumpleaños.  Actually, they’re like, heh heh…cumpleaños because they think it’s hilarious that we were held up for multiple hours in the Mexican desert on his birthday.

They’re right, it is hilarious.  Because we’re driving away, screaming joyous freedom and elation after sweating bullets for some hours.  He, experience junkie that he is, loves everything that just happened.  But more than that, seeing him so deliriously happy and free makes my little heart burst.  These moments of pure abandon are rare in his life as he debates and thinks, thinks really hard these days about who (s)he wants to be.

So what just happened was priceless in the best possible way.

Happy (last) birthday, sweet.

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relationshipping

She expected me to leave

She expected me to leave

but instead I stayed.

If she hadn’t come out to me, I would’ve left.
Strange?
Not so much if you know the why.

7 months of dating, cohabitating and…
we’re still getting to know each other but a little something is missing…nothing I can articulate or am losing sleep over but there’s a faint yellow light blipping on my radar.

10 happy coupled months have passed but something’s up.  It’s like we were rambling through this curious and enchanting forest, noticing randomly fascinating, new and endearingly odd things about each other and then- bam.  I hit an unexpected beige wall.

Why the boring, all of a sudden?  I know there’s way more to him than what he’s presenting these days.  It’s as though his brain is on auto-pilot and a certain spark is missing.  It’s a vague-ish subject to broach but I try…
Me: Um, are you not bored these days?  Because I am.  And frustrated.
Him: I wish I had time to be bored.  He does have a crazybusy schedule.  Maybe he’s just over his lack of him-time?
Me: It doesn’t feel like we’re in a weird, stagnant place?
Him: Well, we are because we both want to move.  Okay, I didn’t mean it so literally.  And you’re not making enough art.  If you made more art, you’d be happier.
Hmm…if this is his way of deflecting, it’s working.  But he’s being sincere and he speaks the truth so…I put the focus on myself and draw some damn unicorns with exploding goiters.

15 months, we’ve decided Tokyo is our destination city and we’ve got 11 months to get our shit together.
As I ponder an us, looking towards the future, this bit happens:
Him: When I can completely share everything with you, then I’ll know I can really commit to you.
Me: Oh.  Ouch.  We’re about to move 7,000+ miles away and maybe at some arbitrary point you’ll know you can commit?  We don’t even have the same definition of commit, do we?  Oh fuckfuckfuck.  

And now I feel like a fool.
I trust him enough to trust him with everything; at the same time, there’s nothing more I can do/be for him to trust me.

So I start to retreat; clearly I had mistaken the us in the future.

At 18 months he comes out to me.
Thank. Fucking. God.
This is everything?
Now maybe we can try to have a relationship.

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