relationshipping, the sex

A meaningful first

My eyeballs need cocaineis possible.

“Sometimes I’m grateful that the first time I had sex was someone I was in love with but sometimes I think it set me up for years of disappointment,” says my insightful and beautiful soulmate.

I ponder this as first sex is on my mind this week.  With each new person, the sex changes; it’s always a totally different experience and not fairly comparable in the context of relationships.

I don’t have expectations of grandeur when it comes to first sex.  It’s been boring, unexpected, romantic, fun, exciting, drunk, awesome, exhausting, curious, painful, sweet, incredibly nerve-wrecking and possibly…love?  Never the same and always revealing.  What can I say, the nekked is an interesting tell, from grooming habits to…well, the naked truth.

So no grand expectations but in a relationship, evolution is crucial.  How it evolves depends on the other person and navigating that how has been the most fun and fascinating thing.  I learn about myself, my person, limits, curiosities et al.

Toys?  Sure, but not all and which ones really depend on my person.  And not all the time.  Public sex?  Why not?  But just how much of an exhibitionist is (s)he?  These are interesting reveals.  Cabs are fun, galleries and theaters too but as they give way to tiny, red-bulb bathrooms and I’m increasingly missing a warm bed and lazy sheets, a limit is within reach.  Then there’s open relationships.  Some, like S, can do this beautifully whereas I end up confused and emotionally drained; great in theory but a mess in my practice.  Or, You want me to tie you up?  Not a problem until I realize that I’m terrible at knots which is kind-of a problem and when it’s either do my damn knot homework or move on, I walk.  Then there are the myriad variations within the realm of two people simply doing it.

Oh relationships…sometimes the sex is disappointing and the ending even more so but looking back, I don’t remember the mediocre or even bad sex.

I remember the awkward sweetness of youth, fumbling out-of-sync, habits and routines, random on-drugs camping, the laughter, rocky boats, staying silent, the cocoon of stars so close to the equator we are floating in the sky, the most comfortable bed ever because it’s ours.

I remember making up, rainy days, early mornings, late nights, breakfast in bed, different beds in different cities, states, countries and seasons changing.

I remember the love.

open relationship, relationshipping, trans talk

I’m the Q

You are a slutpuppy“Bless your heart but you are so not a lesbian,” says S.

The fact that we can have this honest conversation is huge.
The fact that S can have her sense of humor about a hurtful point of conflict is even huger.

Until this moment, S would often wonder why I couldn’t stay attracted to her if she’s still the same fabulous person on the inside and I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade.  In her shoes, I’d wonder the same thing but the best truth I’ve got is: the attraction cooled to something tepid within me and tepid is a pretty lame concessionary temperature for a love relationship.

I nod and recollect, ” ***(my long-term ex before S) said the same thing when we were dating.”
S shakes her head and pats my own.  “It’s really LGBT-supportive and I love you for it but you are not gay.”

I concede this point.

Before S, I maintain that I fall in love with the person, not the gender.  Although that statement pretty much announces my bisexuality, by mentioning gender, I qualify being a lesbian and/or having been in a lesbian relationship.  It’s as though I can’t commit to simply being gay, even though I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade.  No wonder my long-term ex wouldn’t call me a ‘real’ lesbian; it took over half the length of that relationship before I’d say was a l-l-lesbian.  
Then we broke up.

As S transitions, I am forced to dissect how true this ‘not the gender’ assertion is.
It’s not so true.

Without a doubt, my relationship history defines me as bisexual.  However, every person I have dated since S and I have open-relationshipped and broken up has been male, which then makes me feel like a bit of a liar if I call myself bi in the present.  But the second I identify as a straight girl, I have a feeling the universe will find a way to have the last laugh.


In my apparent quest to self-identify, I’ll go with queer.
I’m the Q in LGBTQ.

Because one sure thing is that my past, present and future sexual identity and experiences sure as hell (will) fall outside the hetero-defined mainstream.

Thank. God.

trans talk

Did I ever tell you

HOW can you think it will stay the samethe first time I saw S en femme?


She is so nervous.  So much so that the first time I’m supposed to see her as a lady, she can’t do it.  So we put it off for a few days.

S is afraid I will reject her, judge her, dismiss her very early steps into transitioning.
I have my own insecurities.

Will I instantly feel differently towards her?
What will my reaction be?
Will my face give away any number of emotions- disappointment, relief, apprehension, rejection- that hit my heart?

I text her a heads-up and slowly make my way home.

Usually when I enter the house, I receive an insta-greet but tonight, we are both beyond trepidatious.  I have to call out; she’s nowhere in sight.  She’s in the bathroom, readying, steadying herself to come out.

It’s one thing to tell me she’s trans.  It’s another thing when I see evidence in the way of heels, makeup, clothes strewn about.  It’s another league of confrontation when I am about to see him attired undeniably as a female.

I am so anxious, I feel queasy.
I tell myself to calm it because odds are, S is more nervous than me.

And she is.

She super cautiously opens the bathroom door and so gingerly steps out.  She can’t look at me.

I take her in.

I give her an honest, deliberate once-over, starting with her nude pumps and traveling up to her above-the-knee dress.  I gaze at her bare arms, her wrists and her poor hands are trembling.  It hits me just how nervous she is; I look into her eyes and I barely notice her makeup, which I know took serious time to apply.

She is wide-eyed and terrified.

I immediately take her in my arms and give what I hope is the most reassuring hug ever.

“You’re so nervous…”
She can only nod, fear still screaming from her eyes.
“It’s okay.  Really.  You look different, more natural than I expected.  I love you.  We’re okay.  I’m so glad you came out to me.”

She finally starts breathing.


This is the first time I’ve seen this side of S.  I’m not talking about her physical transformation; I’ve never seen her so vulnerable before, so unsure and emotionally scared.

It then hits me.  The emotional transition process will be a time to face feelings that we often choose to deny or gloss over because they’re rather uncomfortable little fuckers.

And thus the adventure begins.


Happy New Year, beautiful readers!!!
2014’s adventures will be decidedly different but no less honest- yikes and cheers!


An impossible love

My eyeballs need cocaine

is not fun.

I was talking to a most awesome individual the other night, playing holiday catch-up, telling him what amounted to tales of a heart-hammering 2013.

At one point he said, “Wow…everyone loves you.  You have all these people who love you.  I have a lot of people I can fuck but nobody loves me.”

This disarmingly honest statement is the most endearing thing he could have said.

But what happens when none of that love is possible?
What good is being loved if life and individual circumstances don’t allow it to be fully realized?

Because that’s my situation.

2013 has been my year of impossible loves.  The love part has been tremendous but being hit with the reality of said impossibility hurts something equally tremendous.

Why impossible?
Physical and emotional unavailability, a waning sexual attraction, a disparity in levels of commitment…factors that can’t be compromised without compromising oneself.

So my year has been chock full.
Of expectations.
Of love.
Of letting go.

And the trade-off?
I stay true to myself and the situation at hand.
This truth fucking hurts me and causes hurt but it’s honest.

But truth?  I want to roll my eyes at pretentious honesty, ignore its gnawing presence and live in denial-land except I am incapable (thank you, fuck you previous life experiences).  I want to rationalize growing chasms in my relationships but I just can’t.  Once I feel that certain break, the one where my instinct high-alerts my heart and brain to prepare for impending sadness and grief, I know an ending is inevitable.  Ignoring my instinct isn’t an option as it has saved my ass too many times; my life, even, on occasion.

After an ending, I am a puddle of grief.

What to do between cathartic cries?

I focus on myself.
I hurt, I think, I grow.

And I appreciate this difficult thing that is love.

random love


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.




is a thing.
As well as a known acronym?

This one was introduced by way of a complete stranger to me but someone BF knew.  We’re sitting, having drinks at a regular bar after hanging out for a few weeks.  BF and dude are talking; I’m quasi-listening but mostly zombied to the TV screen (a glowing monitor entrances and renders me a deaf-mute) when I hear, “So…is she your girlfriend?”

Erm…awkward, long silence as he and I look at each other, eyes wide open question marks.

“Oh…right, y’all haven’t had the RDT yet.  Hehe.”

Whatever that is, okay, guess not.

But on the way home, I remember the acronym comment and curious minds want to know.

Me: What does RTF or RTD or whatever dude said stand for?
BF: You mean RDT?”
Me: Um, sure.
BF: Relationship Defining Talk.
Me: Wow, people really call it that?  I meant it’s a for real acronym?
BF: Yep, you’re probably the only person who doesn’t know what that stands for.
Me: Hmm….seriously?  I’m skeptical.  I feel that it’s not that I’m clueless in the dating realm but that my guy hangs out with some endearing but seriously geeky types.  Also, he really likes acronyms.  And lists.  I’m pretty sure he makes shit up on the daily just to mess with me.  Our text history is 80% ‘What does that meeeeean?’ from me and chronologized bullet points from him.  Ok, so are we supposed to have that?
BF: I guess so.  I mean I knew it’d be a talk we’d have soon but I didn’t intend it to be today.
Me: You can call me your girlfriend (insert smirky grin).

The truth is we both know we’re BF/GF.  Since the first night he spent in my bed, we haven’t spent a night apart.  But I do understand and agree with naming it, putting it out in the open where there’s a witness to the thought in our heads.

Clarification helps.
And It’s not real unless you share it.

The RDT is easy because what I’m pondering more is…I think I love him.


The brink

This is not love

is not a fun place to be.

I’ve been there and made it back.
I’ve also been the final straw that made a most important person in my life lose their shit.

This was my most disgraceful hour.

Sometimes life deals a truly shit hand, one that bypasses asking why and heads straight to anger, shock and a loss of faith.  This particular hand included an extremely vicious and unrelenting cancer.  When My Person’s mother was diagnosed, everything progressed so rapidly, I have no recollection of those years.  Many years later, it’s still a blur.  I remember specific mundane and major occurrences in extreme detail but it’s amazing how fast five years can whiplash you.

My Person was 868.3 km/539.5 mi. away.  This inter-state commute had paved a familiar course in our lives.  Cancer was a familiar occupant in our household; fucking cancer held all of our attention hostage all the time.  So while MP was trying to keep cancer and its toxic treatment’s effects at bay, what am I doing?

Getting drunk at a bar with someone I should NOT be getting drunk with.  He and I know what’s going to happen.  We are both someone’s boyfriend/girlfriend.  This was not a spontaneous meet, nor an “I got so wasted [fill in the blank]” situation.

Does it even matter that sex didn’t happen?  Not really.  With every passing second after leaving the bar together, I was smashing through years of trust, sometimes wavering but mostly solid and built with love.  How rapidly I  knowingly destroyed said trust was shocking.  I didn’t know I was capable of inflicting hurt like this.  I wouldn’t know the full extent until MP got back.


I could say that MP and I had gone through too much at that point in our relationship, that our intense life experiences combined with getting together at such a young age was about to strike us out.

Life experiences included: being rendered homeless, car wrecks, discrimination, almost death, hospitals, hate, death, chronic illness, psych ward, drugs, birth, unemployment, death, therapy, terminal illness, hospitals, mental illness, grief, rehab, alcoholism, motherfucking hospitals.

But really, I was a coward.  

I hinted at wanting out, we had many a fight and breaking up was articulated by us both at various points, but I cheated to force a confrontation that I couldn’t otherwise broach.

I cheated on MP whose mother was suffering from a horrific cancer because I was too weak to have The Talk for real.

No wonder I got the call from the bridge.

It was and will be my one and only cheat.


I gave it up.

I gave it up

It took love and a beautiful transsexual-in-transition woman to make it happen.

I’m talking control.
This control thing is a strange bird.  I liked having it but releasing it is infinitely better for me.
And that’s not been the easiest thing.

Looking back, all of our shared experiences were actively growing baby steps that ultimately enabled me to simply let go, a realization revealed many, many months after the fact and only upon sober reflection.

I now understand that our adventures, though seemingly 100% spontaneous, had a deliberate quality to them.  She purposely led me on a sometimes dark and mysterious path that forced me to let the fuck go of rigidly held expectations and change my mental processing.  Of course we got absolutely shit-up-a-creek lost at moments but always managed to find our way back.

Control was lost, trust gained.

That trust proved absolutely priceless when we were completely devastated by unexpected death, freshly flown too many damn miles to get back to grieve on-site.  So we quietly sat, side-by-side on bar stools in a strange city, shattered on the inside and shed silent tears in our drinks, absolutely heartbroken.

Shared grief strengthened trust and the presence of control was significantly diminishing from my life, which led to what has been my ultimate letting go experience…of him.

I decided to just be so he could as well.


I stopped fighting her transition, freaking out, questioning an ‘us’ and…
acceptance happened.  

It’s not overrated.


How we met.

How we met

Izzy and I are walking in the park.  She has just finished gutting the crap out of some pinecones and freshly sated from her daily dose of vegan cannibalism, we head home.

Him: Rumi?
I turn around, wondering who the hell is calling me because I never run into people I know in the park at this hour.
Me: Nic?  Wow…what are you doing here?  You’re back in Memphis?  I’m startled by his eyes, so clear and beautifully light hazel-green, playfully sparkling but staring into my soul.  Yikes, attraction just hit.  I might be in trouble.
Him: I saw Izzy and even though I haven’t seen her in years, I knew it had to be her.  And I knew where there’s an Izzy, a Rumi isn’t far away.

our first meeting

our first meeting

This little creature had been my permanent sidekick for nine years at that point.
It wasn’t lost on me that if she was enabling this reconnect, something significant might happen.


They say it happens when you’re not looking.
I wasn’t looking.  I was gloriously single, grateful to be free of the work and energy relationships require as I was planning my next destination move.  Izzy and I were busy making plans, thinking seriously about returning to NYC.  There was no desire, space or time for boy-like crap to be happening.  But he’d just moved from Brooklyn and friends are always good to have so yeah, let’s drink some beer sometime.


He pronounced my name Japanese-correctly, which hadn’t happened in years.
He knew things I didn’t.  So many things.
He was remarkably unpretentious for someone so smart.
And goofy, which makes me laugh.  And if you can make me laugh hard, my heart eases.

Then he started to like Izzy.
Damn it.

In the beginning, she irritated the crap out of him and this relieved me because as long as she annoyed him, there would be distance between us.  But little Izzy liked him back and they started to fucking hang out together and bike around town like this:


I find myself asking him to stay with her while I’m in Chicago.

And it dawns on me.

I trust him completely with her life.
Which means he possesses my heart.