random love

Gratitude

i wantmakes life better.

Aside from overarching things like my health, a cozy abode and the fact that I’ve still got all my limbs and five senses, this is a sampling of things that have made me so, so thankful this year:

 laughter, my Right-Hand Bitches, LOVE, subways, croissants,
the power of choice, subtitles, excellent footwear, unanswered questions,
magical bath additives that transform my bathwater into a cappuccino,
MusicMusicMusic, real life gay proposal videos (I need feel-good tears in my life), WordPress, sparkling water, Japanese gel manicures, being understood, my phone,
the vintage, my transsexual ex-GF (who is incidentally my wife), delicious hot pots,
the ever-expanding Bitch network, graphite-paper-colored pencils-nibs-ink, poetry,
the Internet, all of you- beautiful people who stop by and read some shit-
Thank You

Love y’all, Happy Thanksgiving.

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random love

5-7-5

Truth or tactLet’s haiku.

I
one. thousand plates fall
forty thousand rain: drops.  Hit
mute.  sanctify me.

II
flurries.  hard madness.
as bunny-milk ice cream pools,
red stream breaks even.

III
quiet   tulips give
chase, beckon.  ephemeral.
sharp edges   .cut.  Free

IV
sun rays…..rapid beat.
They whisper: Run.  Fast.  Faster.
Burn. Spin. Break.             vanish

V
grey november days.
pine trees bend, invite…sadden.
it was always you

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random love

NC-17 search terms

NC-17 search termshappen with a blog title like this one, apparently.

“But can you sell horsetail butt plugs to middle-aged straight men with a straight face?” asks my potential new boss as she nods towards a pretty massive plug with a serious tail.  And it just so happens that as I made my way down to the interview chamber I saw a middle-aged guy in the shop, seriously contemplating the sex swing hanging in the corner.

Can I sell this?  My mind draws a cool grey, absolute blank slate.  Then so many questions squish-crowd my brain: what do I know about butt plugs?  What the fuck do I know about horsetail plugs?  How do I go about selling this?  Oh crap, do I need to try this out?  And what do I know about wanting to be a pony?  Shit, I need to find a fetish group?  What if I end up liking pony play?  I look at my interviewer, I picture the middle-aged guy and the image in my head amidst the questions is a verdant forest with all manner of whipped and leather-clad big and little people and animules as a verdant me is attempting to get schooled in this particular fetish scene.

Wait, how did I get here?

Right, my attempt to find a tolerable part-time gig at a very progressive, women-run (read: lesbian friendly) boutique sex shop.  I pictured talking about silicone, electric, metal, glass vibrators and dildos, condoms, harnesses, lube, basically everything except anal toys.  I feel inadequate and ill-prepared.

Shit, I still haven’t answered the question.
How many minutes have passed?

Also, I am high.  Ridiculously giddy high.
I can’t keep a straight face as I attempt to answer.  I hear myself say something about being a lesbian, dildos are cool, harnesses too, honestly hor–…and I lose it.  I can’t help it.  Horsetail plugs are funny.  No?  Thing is, the fucking rabbit vibrator that’s been around forever makes me giggle.

Because I’m that mature.
I so don’t need to work here.  Bosslady agrees (imagine).

I was twenty when I failed this interview.
Why the recall?
Those NC-17 search terms I mentioned?
This is what I thought was searched:
‘fucking a japanese lesbianin [sic] the butt’

Turns out this was the not-cut-off-by-a-smartphone version:
‘fucking a japanese lesbianin [sic] the butthole until it hurts’

Wow.
What a difference 3.5 words make, no?

Let’s talk painslut later.

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random love

Good grief

The other dayis another familiar.

You need to try to master the ability to feel sad without actually being sad.

~Mingyur Rinpoche,
(quoted by Laurie Anderson, November 21st 2013 issue of Rolling Stone)

I believe in the good grief.

There was a five-year period in my life where I grieved.  A lot.
There were deaths and a most significant break up.  One terminal illness was such an intimate part of my life, I might as well have been in bed with it.

A dear friend recently shared a death experience.  The feelings, confusion and questions brought on by the grieving process- how and when to deal or not deal- makes me think, look back and consider who I was then and who I am now as a result.

Grieving is inconvenient.

I realize that the sly workings of grief overwhelm at the most unexpected moments.  I think I am okay, I feel myself smiling because I feel a genuine, warm happiness from within when suddenly, my heart is hollowed out and I gasp, in shock that I am felled so immediately and completely.  It doesn’t matter that the tears don’t fall because I’m wrecked from the inside, can’t catch my goddamn breath and there goes my plan for the next few hours because I must simply feel out this pain.  I am immobilized.

Except this time when I look around, you aren’t there.
This time it’s the death of us that I grieve.
There’s no you to talk to, cry with, come home to.
It hits harder, sadder because before, with you, sharing the grief was so…unlonely.

Time can help.

But it’s not the ultimate panacea.  My heart still breaks 2, 5, 8, 10, 13 years after the fact.
It’s not as raw but it still hurts and…truth?  Sometimes, every so often, it is as raw.

Sometimes it takes a friend from long ago to identify changes within myself.  It seems that I am more open and caring.  But then again if I didn’t evolve after confronting childhood demons, heartbreak, grief, and probing and challenging relationships, what a waste of life experience on me, no?

I can sit in death’s aftermath, maintain a clear line of reason and be optimistic about the future, even, but I can’t not be sad when I’m feeling the sadness.

Feel sad and not actually be sad?
I’m working on it.

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This is not crossdressing…

Truth or tact

or is it?

Some men wear bras.
In the everyday.
Why?
They say for physical and psychological comfort.
I think the psychological comfort in the vein of security and safety trumps the physical.
In short, they wear them because they want to.

Here’s my source.

On the one hand I think, so men wear bras…and?
Who cares, right?
Except anything that defies the majority thinking regarding traditional gender roles is fascinating to me, especially since my most recent relationship witnessed crossing gender boundaries and then some.

Someone said in the JapanToday article, “…this shouldn’t be a problem since men and women are supposed to be equal.”
I couldn’t agree more and yet I’m still curious as to the why.
Perhaps it’s because I’m completely cisgender (I so identify in my physical female self) that I’m very interested in the male processing.

But as I think about it, is it any different than the underwear women who aren’t so cisgender choose?  I’m not so fascinated when I know a woman prefers boy shorts/boxers/briefs and avoids underwire, padded, push-up, lacy, satiny ‘torture devices’. Yet men in bras fill me with curiosity and more than a few questions.

And it’s not a gay thing.

There’s still that annoyingly inaccurate and immediate ‘must be gay’ shout-out whenever anything remotely deviates from traditional gender roles.
Gotta love that insistent mentality that is so dismissive, ignorant and dated.
Get with it, people; meaning- think smarter.

So is it any more or less different?
Not really.

Then why do I get the feeling that when it’s found out that a guy wears bras, it’s a deal breaker?
IS it a deal breaker?

When my BF turned into GF, that was a deal breaker because I’m not so much a lesbian.
But if he just had a thing for bras would it have been?
I don’t think so.
Well…if he bought his own.

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Witnessing the sex

This is not love

happens.

Aside from the hindsight hilarity, it is really fucking uncomfortable to witness people I know having sex.

For instance, we take a detour and get a room in DC.  There are five of us and two beds; I get first pick of sleeping position since I’ll be driving at daybreak, which will be happening in a number of hours.  Really big guy chooses the other bed, the side that hugs the wall and as far away from me as possible.  I don’t remember anything else as I must have crashed.

Because the next thing I know I’m getting jostled as someone elbows me in the kidneys.  And I hear make out sounds next to me.  Awesome.

Why am I awake?  Just sleep.  Just fucking go to sleep, Rumi.

They move to the floor.  Good.  Just stay there.
And they do.
For eight minutes (maybe it was longer, maybe shorter).
I try to block out loud and drunken, right-before-sex kissing sounds.  I also try to block out the rapid humping sex sounds that soon follow while feeling a little sorry for her because it sounds so…lame.

Aw crap, guys.  Why are you crawling back onto the bed?  Really?
I’m really hoping they stay put.  I mentally command them to just go to sleep, while hoping even more so that I pass the fuck out.
But neither happens, of course.
Instead, there’s more stupid lame sex rightnexttome and there’s no way I’m sleeping because at this point I’m getting mad.  There’s the whole floor, for starters. Why not go back there? And a bathroom.  Why not try it out? And I have to drive for so many hours the next day because not enough people in this room can drive a goddamn stick.  AND I do not get off on witnessing the sex like this.

This is my introduction to my new roommate, by the way.
And because she’ll be moving in after this trip, I hesitate to say anything. But because she is who I’ll be living with for at least six months is exactly why I should jump up and tell them to get another fucking room.

Setting precedents is not always a strength of mine.

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My first unlove.

This is not love

This is what qualified as almost love:
He comes to meet my drunk ass and takes me to the forgotten housewarming party I’m cohosting with my roommates. Halfway there, I’m too fucked up to stand, collapse on a street corner and attempt to make snow angels in the rain. He waits as I try to drift out of consciousness and I hear him say to a random guy passing, “Hey man, do you have a pixie? Everyone should have a pixie.” I think he’s trying to offer me to the guy because he can be an asshole like that. But antagonizing me (intentional or not) gets me on my feet and we head to my new home.

We have a series of debauch adventures, mostly revolving around his trying to get me to like a girl enough for a threesome.

I know this isn’t love.

And yet, we’ve just had sex and made out in every room of an empty apartment, which feels romantic.  I’m 19, feeling vulnerable in front of him and my eyes are pleading him to say he loves me.
If he says it, I’ll say it back because I think I need a secure something in my life.

And he’s mostly been there for me.

My hopeful eyes wait for him to say something.

He meets my gaze.

And then:

I’ll pay for your AIDS test.

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We didn’t get arrested in Thailand.

We didn't get arrested in Thailand

Thank god.
Because that means we weren’t caught buying, possessing and using pot.

I don’t recommend doing what we did to anyone.
Looking back, our actions were at the very least risky and in general, really fucking stupid. Really fucking stupid.

Ok, GO.

My heart is pounding in my throat so hard, so fast.  We’re at the colorful night market on Silom Road in Patpong (infamous ladyboy district) and as we look through stalls selling random tchotchkes in the vein of cheap jewelry, counterfeit bags, sex toys, DVDs (basically everything you can think of and a lot more curious crap that you didn’t know existed), we come across a paraphernalia stand.

BF starts to make friends with the cute Thai guy whose face reads hopeful as we peruse one-hitters and glass pipes.

Here’s the thing about BF:
He can make friends with anybody.

I suppose he’s had enough experience dealing with drugs and drug dealers that I ought to trust his this-person-is-cool-or-not meter.  “I can tell by looking in their eyes, reading their body language, if they’re trustworthy.”  And it’s true that this young dude has a genuine air about him but I couldn’t help but notice that when we approached the stall, the older guy (whom I feel actually owns the stall) has disappeared into the black minivan with severely tinted windows parked on the street.

Granted, every stall has a large vehicle parked on the street behind it (how else are they going to transport their wares?) but the timing feels portentous.  Why did the guy disappear?  Because we’re more likely to buy shit from a young person who speaks decent English?  Probably, but as BF’s negotiations are leaning more and more towards the actual procurement of weed, I get anxious.

Young, cute Thai boy hollers at his friend and they’re parlaying fast and serious Thai that we shouldn’t comprehend.  But, as is often the case when illegal substances are the topic at hand, we get that they’re debating how far they’re willing to go to help us out.  The friend disappears into the black van which makes me fucking nervous.  This damn van is my ominous raven and my nerves veer towards paranoia.  Who’s in there?  Is this a set-up?  Are we making a huge mistake?  Is there no turning back?

Cute boy’s friend comes back and while we’re talking about random shit like American beaches and where people in Thailand go to vacation, BF shows me the bag that cute boy has passed on.  Okay, we are now in possession and my jangly nerves are acutely drumming through my skin.  So we buy a pipe and at this point I’m trying to Jedi mind trick BF into: Let’s. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.  I keep looking at the van, expecting undercover assholes to intimidate us out of all the baht we have and then some.
Or arrest us.

Finally!  Things are wrapping up.  Hugs?!  Why are we hugging?  Fucking hell, if this isn’t the most obvious drug deal ever I don’t know what is.  Why would we be so affectionate if we hadn’t just scored something?  Fine, yes, loves all around- now can we get the hell out of here?

BF: So…you think we should just head ba—
Me: Fuck yes.  Are you kidding?  No way are we walking around with this shit on us.

I get so paranoid on the walk back, I’ve halfway convinced BF that we’re being followed and I grill him 10,000 times over, making sure he didn’t give our hotel deets to the young one.  I’m ready for this adventure to be over so we run the rest of the way back. Because that’s not obvious or attention-grabbing at all.

And then we get high.
And it is magnificent.

We flush what’s left down the toilet and trash the pipe the morning we check out of Thailand.
We briefly consider giving the leftover and pipe to our cab driver but c’mon, y’all.
That would just be reckless.

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This is personal.

This is personalI might be one of the unhealthiest healthy people in the world.
God, what a fucking grandiose statement, right?
Who is this bitch?

Nobody, sometimes.
A damn good friend/lover/partner sometimes.

I don’t remember every minute of my small self being locked in a dark closet for hours on end, day after day, weeks in a row. But I can connect the cause and effect dots between the entrapment three-year-old me suffered and the fucked up neural pathways that scarred my brain as a result. For instance, security is incredibly important to me. Because that means options. I could give a shit about my old ass having a comfortable cushion in the sun as I get closer to inevitable death but I care immensely about always having an out. I need to know I can run if I want to. Historically, I don’t run away but when I feel I don’t have that choice, I alternately freak out and go fetal.

I don’t think that’s so healthy.

Want to know what’s even more fucked up? A pattern emerged; a deranged acceptance of being held hostage (physically, mentally, sexually, hooray) became my familiar. I had no out again (age 8) and again (age 12) and again (age 15, 18, 19)— what, was I asking for it? If asking for it means being shocked into submission and unable to make out the words NO, STOP, I’m going to tell my parents on you, I’m going to call the cops, or just screaming my fucking head off, then yeah, I sure as hell asked for it.

In an attempt to get healthy, I’ve parked my disgruntled-at-best ass in front of many a therapist. I’ve sat silent while a certified woman sat even silenter; this was beyond a Mexican standoff and I totally lost when, five minutes before end time I said, “So this is your way of helping me?” I’ve entertained the crap out of another as she made me so fucking mad with each passing minute because she sure as hell wasn’t asking difficult questions, or entertaining me for that matter. I got really hopeful when I clicked with this really awesome dude but then I ran out of money. So it goes, therapist musical chairs, a routine occurrence among the obstacle course of getting help.

Currently, I just do the best I can.

Sometimes that means really awesome: maintaining healthy, meaningful relationships, moving across the globe and successfully assimilating to a new culture and language.

Sometimes it’s disturbing: the tears freefall while I rapidly figure out how quickly I can get on a plane. Out. Of. Here. Fuck my job, lease, funds. I just want to disappear.

Usually my best is good enough. Because I’m still here. Sometimes my mind still reels me back to that dark place and I want to give up because I can’t see two inches in front of my face and I still don’t have all the tools or coordination to unlock the fucking door.

But these days I smartly use my voice (I don’t even have to scream) and it reaches those who love me. We make sure I get out of that dark place.

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120 seconds

120 seconds

at a time is the best I can do sometimes.

The first time:
I’m on a bus in NYC, 19 years old, and why can’t I breathe normally all of a sudden?  Fuck, is this an asthma attack?  I haven’t had one of those in years and I feel so weirdly tingly, like I’m about to throw up.  I’m trapped.  I have a habit of eyeballing every exit upon entering a room.  I have to know where the bathrooms are as well.  But I’m on a bus.  And it’s crowded; god, there’s no negative space on which to focus.  It’s too busy around me; too many faces, limbs, too much air taken up, just too much.  I feel like my eyeballs are rolling in the back of my head and I might freak out.  I don’t want to freak out.  Look out the window, look at the street numbers.  Count.

5 blocks.
Hold on for five blocks.

I debate running out at every stop but I’m fucking paralyzed.  I can’t move.  My brain and body won’t fucking connect and I hate it.  I wring my hands together until my fingertips are red then white and my nails leave crescent-shaped dents on my hands from gripping tight, tighter and I don’t care if I break the skin.  If I can cause and focus on other physical pain, maybe it’ll trump this other shit that has suddenly taken over.

Three more blocks?  Eternity.  The weird numb feeling won’t go away.  I have a block in my throat and I don’t think I’m going to retch anymore because this tingly sensation is different and there’s no pre-puke hyper-salivation.  Just let me not lose it.

But I can’t get air.

I can’t swallow.  My heart’s in my throat.  My organs are choking me and I DON’T KNOW WHY.  Why is my body torturing me?  And then a memory file superfastforwards; lots of images, like worst thing that ever happened to me images flash by.  I tell myself that another part of my brain is trying to help me, like:

you got through those events so this should be ok.  you’ve made it so far.  no one is hurting you.  you’re not locked in and trapped, at someone else’s mercy.  you’re just on a bus.

Okay.  If I do lose it, what then?  If I pass out, medics and a hospital?  I’m not so scared of hospitals even though I hate them.  As much as I hate attention being called to myself, if that’s what happens I can deal.  Except I feel so fucking uncomfortable, I want to scream and if I scream then I’ll be sent to that other hospital, the one with rubbery walls and shifty eyes all around.  And then I’m grateful that my heart is in my throat, still choking me because at least it means that I can’t scream.

Omyfuckinggod.
26th street.
Sweet fucking relief.

I made it.

This still happens, what I suppose are panic attacks.  Almost always in subways and trains these days, which doesn’t diminish my love for public transport.  Luckily it’s only occurred on train lines where it’s 2-3 minutes maximum between stations.

So I count 120 seconds.
If I can make it 120 seconds, I can run out.
I’ve made it so far.

The relief is the same as the first time: immense and so, so sweet.

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