YES ON PROP K

A wee break from the usual wife news.... though since any wife of mine will be exceptionally well versed and supportive of sex workers rights issues this is not completely irrelevant.

The election is in one week. In San Francisco we have a measure on the ballot that needs serious support. If passed, Prop K will essentially decriminalize prostitution and de-prioritize persecution and racial profiling of sex workers in San Francisco. If strongly supported, it could set a crucial precedent for dismantling the legal persecution of sex workers not just in San Francisco but throughout the nation, as well as make leaps in granting visibility to the public's support of sex worker's rights thereby chipping away at social stigma.

Please read a very well-written email my friend Harvey Rabbit sent out today regarding Prop K and make a stance as an ally to sex workers by donating money, telling your friends about, and (if you live in San Francisco) voting for Prop K.
It is 10,000% more likely that I will marry you if you do some active support for all of the people making their living through eroticism. Your odds for recieving oral sex from me also sharply increase with working as an ally for hos and their ilk. Any way you slice it, it behooves you and your sex life to vote Yes on K.


Friends,

Truly, I never do this. I'm not really into politics, but I am writing this from my heart, beseeching you to vote yes on K if your voting county is that of San Francisco.

I appeal to your sense of decency.

By voting yes on Prop K, you send a message to our local (and hopefully someday federal) government that sex workers are people, too. Sex workers are women and men with feelings and families, just like you. And they have to pay rent and eat food, just like you. And some of them love their job, just like you. And some of them hate their job, just like you. Some are clean and sober and some are not, just like you.

Really, the only difference, when it comes down to the nitty gritty, is that sex workers have made a different career choice than you have. So why should they be penalized for their decision?

If a person who has chosen sex work as a means to pay her way through college, graduate, or medical school gets arrested for prostitution, what does this do to her future?

If a person living in a residential hotel or halfway house gets thrown out of their rehab program because of an arrest for prostitution, where will they go and how will they stop using?

If a person is raped and they practice sex work as a means of survival, how can they prosecute?

Just because you wouldn't want to be a sex worker doesn't mean it should be illegal. After all, I don't want to be a coroner or a garbage man.

Please Vote Yes On Prop K on Tuesday!

R.I.P. Del Martin, One Bad-Ass Wife

Del Martin, lesbian activist, co-founder of Lyon Martin Clinic and the Daughters of Bilitis, first out lesbian elected to office in the National Organization of Women, and wife to Phyllis Lyon, died this past Wednesday.

She was partners with Phyllis for 55 years, and they got married during the first wave of Newsomized gay marriages a few years again, and then were the first couple to (re-) wed once same-sex marriages got the green light in the state of California this year.

Del sounds like not only a totally amazing person, who personally did a lot for the openness and acceptance of queers in this country (including me being able to conduct my wife hunt out here on the internets, for all to see), but also a wonderful and committed wife.

May we all, those of us who want partners anyway, be so lucky.

Rest in Peace, Del Martin. You kicked a ton of ass, and we are incredibly grateful for it.

I love my wife day: October 15

Man if only my special one were with me now, I could spend days talking about the glory of my matrimony at the I LOVE MY WIFE CONFERENCE. Apparently God (not my god/dess, but the one with the beard and the smiting and whatnot) wants you to do marriage a certain way, and then get together with a bunch of other happily marrieds and talk about the grandeur of their joyous unions with their righteous wifeys.
For realz.
Not only that, but they made a day just for lovin' on your little legally bound muffin: October 15 is "I love my wife day". Now I doubt I'd be welcome at the con, and I know everybody loves to hate on the forced attention and emphasis of love-related holidays (as one parent of a friend, long un-married to his life partner said: "I don't need the man to tell me that I'm in love"), personally I believe that the wives of the world probably need a little more love and attention, and don't give a shit that such a thing calls attention to my wifelessness. In short, screw the wackjobs, but I think their "I love my wife day" is a sweet idea.

I may also be a wackjob though, depending on who you ask.

Lactose, Legal and 'Lyst Free

Well good ol' snake-loving redheaded ice cream scooper never wrote back.

Neither did the hot cop (!?) who elicited dazed tingles from the top of my pigtailed head up and down my peace loving, hippie skirt clad body to the rings on my toes in the produce section of Trader Joe's. I know... a cop!? Who knew? But it's cool; she's exempt because:
A. She is the Capulet to my anti-authoritarian Montague, cop love would be so star-crossed for me I'd need the Enterprise to get me to a date.
B. Well, we just looked at each other. She never actually got any information with which to write me in the first place.


Nor did the gorgeous queer writer from LA, who though male-bodied could totally pull-off some sick bastardization of wifehood. Which would be great by me. I think we'd make a gorgeous Todd Haynes flick. (And now that gays can get married in CA, he and I could even make it legal!) But he's famous and lives in L.A. so he's also exempt. Plus he *did* give me a free copy of his book and a spontaneous hug upon first meeting, so I feel pretty special about all that already.


Anyhoo, the good news is, I'm actually kind of trying. I took a little winter slug break from ye olde wifey chase, but now; well I may not be back in the saddle exactly, but I'm at least in the stable and giving some of the horses the eye.

Yee-haw.

Brand Spanking New Gay Day Proposal

I took the snakes for a walk to the ice cream parlor yesterday and Wendy convinced me I'd be arrested if I went in the nude so I wore the skimpiest slip that still covered bits I could find.
The heat really makes me want to act out. There was a new scooper I'd never seen before and she freaked out, in a good way, about the snakes. She was beautiful: long red hair, nice arm tattoos, looked like a lovely femme but sounded like a rough and tumble dude when she talked. Perfect. Did I mention she works at the ice cream parlor?

As I was sitting outside with Wendy, covered in snakes and ice cream dribbles, I realized; hey, that's my wife.

I borrowed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote a note:
"Gay Marriage is legal in CA as of today. Whaddya say?
<3 Sadie and the snakes" and my email address.

I folded it up, kissed one side with my smeared and ice cream sticky lipstick (an accurate, if not glamorous representation of me) and squeezed past the line to go back inside.
She was bent over, her arms deep in the freezer, hair blocking me from her view.
So I took the passive agressive approach: handed the note to her co-worker at the register, said "Will you please give this to her?" and ran away.

Hah!

So far, no email. No surprise. But at least I celebrated brand spanking new gay day to the fullest extent I was able, i.e. proposing to a stranger.
You can't say I'm not trying.

Too damn hot.....

Where's my wife and her biodiesel truck!?
Take me to the beach! I'll slather you with sunscreen.
I made really good ice tea from super fancy tea I bought in France. Let's complain and get naked together! I want to act out and you know just how to goad me into doing something crazy.
We might have a little fight, but its just because our blood sugar is low and its so damn hot. We'll make up by smearing bodily fluids all over an alley when the sun goes down.
Get me some water?
I love you!

Sick :(

Being sick makes wanting a wife an intense and pragmatic desire. I'm a really good sick nurse, and I want a wife who is too, a lovely lady laden with tissues and juices and dvds. I want the kind of wife that will hug and snuggle me even when I'm sick not one who won't touch me for fear of her own contamination. And we'll work out a system of herbal remedies with western medicine as the back up, and try to avoid anti0biotics together. She'll have wet cloths in a rainbow of temperatures and read a mean story. Most importantly though, she'll kind of enjoy the chance to baby loud, headstrong me, definitely not resent it, and know well that when she's the one sweating snot I'll be there with a bottomless glass of water, some tinctures, her favorite story and a smile.

8:34 p.m.

Tonight, at about 8:34 pm, my biological clock went off.

I felt it ring like an alarm in my body. I've wanted a baby for years, it's been one of the most stable aspects of "the plan", in fact I used to want seventeen, but as I've gotten closer to a time that such an undertaking would be a good idea I've lowered the number to one or maybe two. I've also started wondering "oh yeah, when is *that* going to happen?" as I've gotten out of 'too-young' and into 'exceptionally reasonable' child-bearing age. This is true for a number of my bigger life goals; I sat in 'too young' long enough to totally miss the beginning of 'auspicious time'.

I kept meaning to address this issue, the baby thing, here, but I wanted to write some big fancy essay about the history of my desire for motherhood, the implications of overpopulation and my goals as a parent and yadda yadda yadda, but instead, I'm ovulating and in the middle of my first Mindfulness class I had a visceral feeling of a baby alarm. I laughed out loud when it happened. As usual my elaborate and procrastinated intentions get severed and overthrown by immediate reality. I want a baby. Growing, inside me. I want to be pregnant and I want to raise a child and I'm scared shitless of it but I want it anyway.

It's not surprising that this happened now. I just got the news this week that my two best friends from high-school, one of whom was my first love, are both pregnant. I've known of their marriages for some time, but the fact of their simultaneous pregnancies felt like a big bowl of cold spaghetti falling in my lap. (This image possibly courtesy of The Sopranos.)

Feelings ranged from the classic: "Holy Shit!?!?!"
to the skeptical: "Really? Both? Married? And pregnant?... Holy Shit!"
to the childishly jealous: "I want a spouse and a baby!...and *I* wanted to knock her up!!!!"

On further investigation of my high school coterie, it seems that most of them are married, and many be-childed. While this may seem like a big ol' duh of normal life, I live in queer San Francisco and I, for one, was shocked. I really haven't heard of so many people I know being straight, married, or breeding....ever. It puts a new perspective on my search for a wife, like, gender aside, actually it's not such a weird thing to want...or to get! Everybody else seems to get them, and some of them used to be the people who projected their wedding fantasies with me. Not just that, but people I fucked! Quite a few people I have fucked are now married. I know, its normal, no one else is impressed, but my mind, she is blown. How this whole marriage thing happens (and so regularly!) amongst 20-somethings remains a mystery to me; most of the people I know in the day to day who are married got married in their 40's or so or did it for health insurance. The decisions, the process, the family dinners...all foreign and intriguing to my little colonialist anthropologist mind.

So now I'm out, not that I was ever trying to be in, but yes; I want a hot, sexy, healthy loving commitment, and make that with a side of progeny. No, it doesn't have to be immediate, but no, it can't be ignored.

Mommy once told me when I was very young and I asked her why it took her three years of marriage to get pregnant with me, "It's fun to be married for a little while before you have a baby." I'll buy that, though if I was her, I'd already be married for two years by now....

Jetlagged and Cranky

Pretty much sums it up.

My international P-W (potential, prospective, or possible - wife) meeting didn't go as plan, but was nevertheless delightful, except for both of our sneezing and coughing and my snoring. We ended up only having one night to meet, the limbo of my trip when I arrived back in Berlin from Paris only to leave for the States in the morning. I arrived as a kind-of pathetic bride/groom; voice half there, burdened with baggage, running low on Euro. I came bearing a droopy wilted rose and a real Parisian croissant.....totally forgot she was vegan. But she took care of me and let me relax from my capable, independent traveller mode into a happily ignorant follower. The sick leading the sick. Each of us, independently was hoping to convince the other to go to the new Holocaust Memorial for our one-night, International date. I introduced her, in concept and image only, to Pee-wee. She translated everything and explained why Sweden may need my pleasure activist gospel. There's strange, mostly solo, soft-core porn on free Berlin TV late at night. She bought me octopus, and ate the croissant anyway.


Back up weeks ago to Berlin when I'm really there, there for more than the great, snotty, between flights date. I find and ad with a compelling photo on the artists section of Berlin Craigs List. I email the artist, telling her that while I realize she is not posting in the personals, I think her work and name are hot. Then I check out her site. She seems to be in the states, and holy shit, I think this may be my wife. The themes, the images, the my-typeness of it all....we are cut from similar conceptual cloth. I almost write her again just to say " And I think you may be my wife..." but refrain for the sake of appearances of sanity. Surprisingly, I get a reply, and quickly.
Even more surprisingly, she seems to have addressed my unspoken, unwritten lunge towards connection...well, ok, betrothal:

"Haha...well, thanks but I am happily hitched. Glad you liked the work.
~Kalliope"


Beautiful, talented....psychic!? But alas, apparently not for me.
It's cool though, I think the practice lunges keep me in shape.


I encourage you all to check out her site and give her money and shows.

My First Missed Connection

This weekend at dinner with friends I was the big ol' 5th wheel. Two butches, two femmes, and well, me. Like many people, especially in this city, my gender is more complicated on the inside than it may seem on the outside, but as with most things I tend to qualify as kind of a: yes, please, some of each and all of those, and..and..., mixed up, not easily boxable weird amalgam of genders. Think of a mermaid-cat with a curly French villain mustache and a dapper hat and you're close. So. Anway.

One of the femmes was Irene, who was proclaimed to have "porn-star hair" that night. It's fun watching her dimple dance while she blushes.
At one point during the meal the other femme turns to me and tells me she was perusing Craig's List Missed Connections at work and found an ad for a Miss Sadie that mentioned a play party and a scene with a submissive and I should check it out. I love this weird little world, where an in-person dinner conversation can lead you to your online CL stalker. We go both forwards and backwards and in swirling loops these days.

So at home I looked up my name under Missed Connections for the first time in some months, and, sure enough, pop comes an ad that really must have been written for me. It references a BDSM party at which I had a fantastic time last fall as well as some hints that were obscure enough that it took me another full day to remember who this person was. The timing also added another layer to the host of strange and unexpected messages coming at me from the past this last great weird weekend. We have since corresponded and I am very flattered.

But that's not the point. The point is, that after oh, say thirteen years of scouring missed connections, from the small print in the back of the Baltimore City Paper to the occasional traipse through Craig's List, fantasizing that there is someone out there, someone whose sticky mind is stuck on me, someone intrigued and interested and compelled enough to toss that message in a bottle out in the hopes that by slim chance or fate it'll end up on my shore....that one of many simple adolescent fantasies has actually come true. Oh happy day.
I'm quite pleased.

Maybe that means this will also be the year I *finally* get fucked in a graveyard. How many fucking goth clubs does it take to make that happen? Apparently more than I've gone to and sadly I stopped going. Years ago. Except when I travel of course, for some reason gay bars and goth clubs are both still interesting and more fun when in a different town. I always feel a little bit like a colonialist, turn-of-the-century anthropologist when I'm traveling and venturing to these exotic venues; one of the kinds of anthropologists that believed in order to fully
understand and document foreign cultures it is necessary to lay them or be laid by them. Not that that necessarily works, but hey, can't blame a scientist for attempting thorough research.

But back to Missed Connections. While I am super excited that it *finally happened to me* ( I feel a little like a middle schooler with her first menses, thrilled and just slightly disappointed) let it be known to future wives and courtiers that this does not mean that appealing to me through MC is now irrelevant or no longer necessary. There are still many points to be gained there, and this is for sure a good birthday/special occasion aide. Frankly, with all the people I've dated in the past and told about my dream of having my connection missed, I'm pretty surprised none of them picked up on that hot tip and got themselves tons of free, easily attainable credit and appreciation. Though if you are thinking about acting on this, remember: I don't check super often these days, so be vigilant.

Of course, there's always W4W....

Something's Brewing...

That's what I generally say when a whole bunch of strange, surprising, intense and generally weird things happen in a short period of time. This was one of those weekends, I had a strong feeling about it from the get go, actually starting early in the week, and it did deliver, though as usual, not quite how I expected. I had another one of those "my worst fear" feelings about this weekend, which I have learned to really listen to, because in the last 5 months or so they have almost always been true. I did a lot to prepare myself, much of which worked wonders. Turns out my worst fear came true, or almost true, but I only had to deal with it remotely. Both damned and spared in the midst of a lot of unrelated astonishment and delight.

I was truly happy pretty much all Saturday, which was great and I had one of those days with which the summer was lousy, where multiple costume changes and destinations and purposes all kind of ran in a flurry together, always a little late, but with excellent results none the less. I don't really give a shit about Saturdays anymore, but this was a real, old-fashioned, early (for me) morning to late night party Saturday, full of fun, wherein I yelled at pro-Lifers while dressed in tampons, performed a stage-warming ritual in fancy lingerie and a transparent dress, celebrated Dolly Parton's birthday with a bunch of queers, and then went to a house party to give an ex a late solstice present. I had great, beautiful company all day, got exercise, looked consistently but variably weird and generally had a ball.

Today was a lovely affectionate late rise, long volunteer training, and the Sex Workers Art Show. Someone I once pegged as my possible wife was one of the performers.

Amongst all this a slew of unexpected communiques and correspondences from hazy distances, both physical and especially emotional, made their way to me. As well as a solid handful of strange coincidences. And more than one conversation initiated by another about this blog. I am left kind of reeling, over-stimulated and confused and feeling 50 flavors at once. I have an image of an off-kilter, beautiful but exaggerated carousel in my head. These times always feel significant but in a trapped-in-the-honeycomb sort of way, I can never really tell what shape the hive is or will be taking seen from the outside or from above.

Maybe my new theory about these things are that the compression points, those days that are so full of events and symbols and strangeness and joy and hurt and action that they leak into a brain flood and leave me scrambling for a dinghy of comprehension, and oar of direction, these times are the bits where the material bunches because the seam is about to change its course.
Like bones which have outgrown their muscles, maybe the life path pushes against its new growth, new turns, old territories sometimes, and the feeling of it is intense and confusing.
That was just so many very different metaphors right plop on top of each other. Obviously another sign. No, but seriously, this shit is BIZARRO all up over the place, every which way but loose, including loose, tasty, and gut-churning.

Maybe I just need to get out of the Mission.
Maybe things haven't been quite lively enough lately, so its all coming at once.
Maybe I just really need to go to sleep.

Testimonials From the Past

A bizarre series of events caused me to log into Friendster fro the the first time in 3 years. What I found was like an archaeological dig into the distant history of my own life. I feel that I used to be a very different person, you see. Not too long ago, even; these past three years have been a strange and prickly artichoke for me. As for Friendster, I didn't spend too long there; it was too intense. Archaeologist, cum grave-robber, cum colonialist, I took the easiest and most useful plunder and ran. I came away with some old long red hair pirate pictures and a slew of testimonials from old friends and former lovers.

Warning: I am terribly nostalgic. I love to love, and continue to hold people and things in my hands and my heart. While I am not ruled by my past and my memories I am undeniably shaped and often very grateful for them. I can take a break from loving; actively, daily, someone present and before me, but I have no intention of ever stopping. My heart is a very large home with a special little room for each most cherished person and even many of my favorite belongings, whether they are still tangible in my life or not, and there seems to be no limit to the space for new additions. It may be both my blessing and my curse. A wife should know these things before hand, I would think.

If you can't understand or relate to that, if you find yourself telling people to "get over it" you probably shouldn't continue to read, and we probably will not get along.
What can I say; I like it deep.

So here are some things that people I've loved and who presumably once loved me have said about me in the past. Remember, these are more often than not some of the better things said, and said about a me who is not quite the me who is today. But if not for direct reference or referral, I thought these statements might give some small insight into the me that others see, or at very least the writing skills of my beloveds. There might not be any very recent quotations, perhaps because of the relative dearth of recent partners, perhaps because some wounds are too fresh, perhaps because my more recent slightly more moderate behavior has not been quite as inspiring for writing or memorable comment, perhaps because I quit online social-networking sites about 2 years ago. So here is a slight glimpse into the not-so-distant past. I see that my life used to be much more full of men and boys, nancy- , though they may be. I see that I don't have many memories of sound-bites from the loves of the last few years. Maybe I will remember, or maybe it doesn't matter...


"Sex artist extraordinaire"
-SF Weekly, 2007*
*To the best of my knowledge I neither love nor am particularly beloved by anyone at the SF Weekly, I am just inordinately proud of this quotelet they printed about me this Fall.


"Sadie is a sane woman trapped inside an insane woman's mind."
-Tim Kreider around 2004



"Elegant and Floppy."
-Kyrstyn, 2002




"Best girlfriend ever!"
-anonymous (no doubt opinion has been revised since) 2004





"I have no doubt she will be a revolutionary"
-Angel, 2002



" the third time i saw her, she peed on
my boot. what more needs to be said?"
* Pale Eddie
* Posted 09/9/2003 12:10 am



" * Forces of nature come big and small.
Some might say that Sadie is like a
hurricane, but there's a smaller force
of nature that I find to be a more apt
metaphor. Sadie is a catalyst. Not
that she doesn't do her own thing, but
her doing of her own thing brings big
big change into the world. She's
magnetic, hilarious, loving, and
brave. My life was absolutely changed
for the better by this altogether
beautiful wunderkind."
-Jason 2003



"* Turbocharged electrocutie who walks
carefully around powerful magnets and
gets naked at the slightest
provocation. Can drink you (though not
me) under the table. Will turn boys to
men (and sometimes women) just by
walking through the room. Cooks
delicious meals with love and cheese.
Generous about sharing her life of
adventure and ridiculousness with
anyone who has the wisdom to ask.
Laughs at my jokes, thereby
demonstrating good taste. A quality
fleshie."
- Rev. Dr. Splashy-Pants, 2003







"Ladies and gentlemen, grrls and bois, allow me
to introduce the lovely Pirate Redbits, a
fabulous, demanding spectacle of a woman.
"Elegantly floppy!" cry the Baltimorons.
"Excessively froppy!" shouts the Dobbs-head.
"Frequently toppy!" exclaim a chorus of
simpering subs.

To which I say "all this and more." Much, much
more: Pirate Redbits contains multitudes,
attitudes, natty snoods, shady 'ludes and
eight-hundred-and-eighty moods. The
proverbial "tall drink of water" except that
someone's switched the water with grog, and
she's drunk it all. Flamboiant, debauched
socialite, her milkshake brings all the boys
_and_ girls to the yard and they're like...

Well, you _know_ what they're like.

Pirate Redbits, how do I love thee? Let me
count the ways.

- Polish (Polish!)
- Beautiful
- Inspiring
- Smart
- Brave
- Absinthe Connisseur
- Burner
- Pansexual, Polyamorous Sex Worker
- Patient
- Giddy
- Stupid
- Creative
- Sexy
- A merciless right hook
- Adventurous
- The Original DRS #1
- Still Polish
- Piratical
- Organizer
- Responsible
- Dizzy
- Sensual
- Loonaps!
- One-time co-habitant (see above: brave
and/or stupid)
- The best-dressed woman in any room
- The best-undressed woman in any room
- A good friend of Devon (that dashing rake)
- Splendiferous
- Vociferous
- Bold
- Tasty
- Redbits (w00t!)
- Pierced and inked
- "On Our Backs" centerfold girl (Dec/Jan '04)
- Pleasure Activist
- Haight Street Dreidel Club
- Petite Louis
- Goat-beard braider
- SF's official Naughtiest Schoolgirl
- Giselle
- Travels in France
- Storytime
- Fancy
- Loving
- Queer
- Crafty
- Cook
- Kinky
- Intercontinental Ballistic Sex Bomb
- Geek (or at least geek-friendly)
- Costume queen
- Curvy
- Supportive
- Incindiary
- Unstoppable

And oh-so-much more. Impossible to imagine
what my life would be like now without you, so
greatly have you perturbed the dimensions and
limits of my already strange universe. And I'm
far from the only one who can say this. You're
the Erisian force made manifest, a "fountain of
blood in the shape of a girl". A sexual
singularity, embodying both Lolita, Mrs.
Robinson and all points and forms in-between
simultaneously. And beyond: obliterating the
bi-polar gender axis, your identity and desire
exceeds the poor boundaries of language. In
both essence and action you are a true
revolutionary and an inspiration, loonaps and
all.

Xoxoxxx"

-Aaron, probably 2003

Mojo and Crush Death

Apropos of absolutely nothing, I was thinking about how I love crush death. What I mean by that is: I find realizing that a crush has passed quite heartening. While the experience of lustful infatuation, when I feel so very excited and covetous and almost possessive of that certain person(s) who crosses my path, is fun and invigorating, adding spice, intrigue, and obsession to the rainy or maudlin days; equally joyful to me is the moment when I look at the person (usually someone I barely know) for whom I've been longing over weeks, months or years, and realize that I just don't give a shit. I love that experience.

I think because it teaches me, without pain or harshness, about how things can change, how the energy and attachment and tension I feel so intensely over someone can relax, and how its perfectly ok and natural when that happens. It doesn't hurt them, they're generally oblivious to the crush in the first place, and it is contrary to the traits I usually attribute to myself. Usually I'd still be down if the crush in question suddenly decided they wanted to make out with me, but would not and nevermore change my trajectory just to catch a glimpse of their shining face or swoon over their memory. Letting go is generally not easy for me, so this small harmless practice, of noticing when I let go of something not terribly crucial without trying, warms and lightens my mushy heart.


I know we all know this by now, but a lovely lady brought up the topic of mojo recently, and while that's not my favorite term for it, I am reminded of how legitimately and surely the concept seems to operate out in the big, strange world. As far as I can tell, the theory of mojo, or continuous, auto-regenerating sexual appeal, is basically identical to Newton's first law. Once you are deemed hot by the universe's magic sex wand, a plethora of factors (possibly including heightened self-esteem, pheromones, less attachment to the outcome of flirting, power of advertising, etc.) conspire in your favor to keep that sexy fairy dust sparkling. I think the dust eventually settles for all of us, but it sure is nice when it's happening, and with some effort, luck, and a strong enough inner sexual pilot light, we tend to flame back into irresistible at some point, again.

It's no secret that everybody wants the wanted. I personally tend to want the underdogs of the wanted, those that obviously should be wanted, but aren't often noticed because everybody's got their heads up their asses. Though this method often eventually ends up working against me, I love being the bellows to that sexual pilot light, and yes, I will often just keep blowing and blowing until the fire is set to heavy boil and the kitchen in slight danger of incineration. But I've lost my point. The point is mojo is communicable, and creatable by the seemingly mojo-less. If it's sparked and fed, you never know when the sweaty, handsy, fire-persons are going to suddenly burst through the door.

An interesting update for me, now that I'm finished speaking conceptually, is that I'm encountering a funny by-product of writing and semi-advertising this blog. Remember, please, that I often forget that these words and pictures and revelations are actually out there, floating around like perverse pigeons, nesting and shitting in the big strange world. In much the same way I used to always be shocked, truly, shocked when I heard someone was talking about me when I wasn't actually around (don't worry, I got over it), I keep being surprised that anyone reads this stuff. So it always cracks me up when at least once a week (and often more) someone that I'm not terribly intimate with asks me: "So, have you found a wife yet?" As far as idle chat goes, "Have you found a wife yet?" is the new "What shows are you in?"
I love it.

I mean, mojo or not, I've been doing this for exactly one month and I think most quality wives are more hard-won than that. One of the foxiest wives I know took a good six weeks before she decided that 'she did', so give me at least until mid-January. But it's encouraging , none the less. And as we look down the barrel of a cocked and loaded new year, I can only hope for the best. I'm excited about '08. I'm foregoing my general 'hopeful pessimism' for balls-out optimism this time. Well, at least one ball out, I still have my actual Saturn Returns coming up in August, but I've got at least one, cheerfully jiggling ball out for '08.

As for '07, well you taught me much (originally typed as "mush", Dr. Freud.) Sometimes I get tired of learning, but I'm glad I get to take these lessons into the future. I feel like I'm actually getting practice changing a bunch of those old, no-longer-helpful patterns that seem dug into my back by rusty nails. I'm excited about that. I don't seem capable of stopping the whole loving process, and I think that's my gift as well as my curse. I accept it though, even when it's really annoying, because if I'm going to do anything in this life I'd really like to spend mine loving more. I just hope to keep getting better and smarter and truer at it.

So Happy New Years, folks. I wish you all much mojo and all the things you need most, as well as at least a few of the things you want most. I wish me a more comfortable and engaged relationship with self-love and art. And a hot righteous wife wouldn't hurt.

Best Xmas Ever!

At the old BDSM dungeon/queer sorority/house of pancakes, there was a magnet on the fridge that I'll always remember. It was just a quotation from Tallulah Bankhead which said "It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time." It always struck me as very true, whenever I had all of the intriguing plot devices of my life working, I never wanted to stop and record them, but if I was lonely or lamenting or procrastinating unpleasant or difficult tasks, suddenly I found I could write again. The quotation always made me feel a little proud, a little guilty, a little absolved and a little sad. This week has been a perfect example of not feeling able to take the time to write because ever since the solstice I have been in a great mood and busy and having lots of fun. Let me just take a minute to note how nice it is after this year of valley and then brief shining peak and then more fucking chilly valley, to just feel good and happy and fun for no particular reason (though of course the new bed magic, solstice, my horoscope, the new "Lighten Up" tincture I've been taking, creating a fun and loving space with my chosen family for holidays, etc. have I'm sure all done their part). It's like being able to breathe deeply again after not realizing you've been holding your breath.

So here's the brief, crucial elements, best xmas ever break-down:
1. Food-prep with the ever diligent and tolerant and sweet and fun Marko, the low point being when all of our lovely pierogies stuck together in one big mush pile, which quickly turned into a gleeful monstrosity mutant pierogi mother which was boiled all together and threatened to be forced upon Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants to eat in one sitting whilst we cheered him on. Marko brought Slavic music and was a delight to cook with, though I fear I may have over-worked him. Hopefully he will call me back soon.

2. Wigilia party! Wow, it just felt amazing to share a part of my heritage and family tradition with a bunch of lovely freaks. It made me so happy and was very touching and everyone seemed to love the food and have a good time, even participating in the wafer tradition and eating all the "Sledzie" (herring marinated in oil and onions) which I was sure no one would eat. I wore a fancy red velvet dress stolen from my sister and Pee-wee slippers given me by my mother. Kilo showed up and fried fish like a fish-frying master and people brought non-Polish food (you could tell it wasn't Polish because it was green) and everyone looked great. I got lots of beautiful loving friend time, some gifts and hugs and new-bed cuddles. The whole thing made me so happy.

3. Party at Tricksie's house. A real, old-fashioned, hot-young-people, holiday pleasure fest. So much food. Plenty of drunks (but not too-drunks.) Mistletoe and lapdances (ok, I started the lapdances). The Rolling Stones and Gremlins and Muppet's a Christmas Carol. Special non-alky egg nog made just for me. Queers and straights and hipsters and weirdos. Kissing and cuddles. Lots of laughter and a beautiful tree. A festive new mocktail created by Chris: a peppermint candy in a glass of chilled tonic water. Party time into the morning.

4. Unexpected lovely mistletoe/party payoff: Santa brought me sex!
Super sweet and fun! Hooray!

5. Waking up in the afternoon to this text message: " I got engaged!", from a Baltimore number. Tiredly fumbling through my numbers, deciding if it was my sister or beloved ex, I would loose my shit, but if it was my other friend and former date, I would be ok. Good friend and former date it is! Holy shit! One of those moments of "Oh yeah! Here it begins! A big ole new phase of life events starting in my little world!" (Perhaps a fortuitous sign for our wife-bent heroine?) Many congratulations to Erica!

6. Pie and sparkling cider with pomegranate juice for breakfast. Calling the family, everyone is happy. (Benefit of calling the family over being on the family's couch during this time of year.) I totally forgot that I also get presents! A slow and leisurely progression towards 16th street. The streets are so quiet and calm, the Mission feels like a ghost town and it's glorious.

7. 16th St. giant backyard TRAMPOLINE party! Snacks and queers and silly dancing! Wearing my new beret and a mustache. Sexy Madlibs! Trampoline!!!!

8. Sweeney Todd! Too sexy to criticize except to say that the vocal track wasn't loud enough during the songs, but knifeplay and blood and Johnny and Helena! ACK! So exciting. Probably a poor movie, but too exciting. Dark theater groping. Cheering for the mental patients.

9. Finally home and a very sweet gift exchange with Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants. New Leatherman, AWESOME! Bonding and dozing during Cry Baby (double Depp?! Hellz yeah!) reminding us of our homeland and bizarro roots. Finally plodding off to new bed cozy sleep.


More dates for this week, one pseudo, two real. It's exciting to be happy and feel real and in touch with pleasure in some deeper way again.

Not to mention the leftover Barszcz.
(And to all the non-Poles, just because "uszka" means 'little ears', doesn't mean they're not vegetarian. )

Merry Happy Joy and Love to everyone. Sleep well and warmly, I wish you much peace.

Tiny Update. Oh wait, I can't do tiny.

The holidays are kicking my ass. I keep working on posts here but not finishing them, though I'm sure after all the madness (presuming the the madness does end at some point), I will get back to them. Here's a teaser: definitely up-coming is a post all about my hygiene preferences! I know, I know, I'm just killing you with anticipation....

My second pseudo date was very sweet and unfortunately very pseudo. Tonight is the Lusty Lady Holiday party where I get to be a judge of the candy cane sucking contest. I'm feeling pretty low and hoping a tidal wave of scantily clad Lusties washes me onto some bed somewhere and does bad things with me. Not like littering or genocide though, I'm not up for either of those tonight unless someone gives me roofies in a big cup of coffee.

And that's mostly because my other big fantasy, that my bed will magically sprout a beautiful woman who *already* loves me, *already* knows me, just wants to stay in bed and cuddle and read each other stories and have kinky sex and get out of bed and pee on each other and make hot chocolate and then get back in bed with hot chocolate and watch movies and share our beliefs and snore in each other's armpits and make really cool bruises on each others backs and thighs and butts and necks and breasts without having to ask again where she grew up because I know where she grew up, I've heard all about it and how she hates it and loves it and maybe I've been there or we're planning a trip together.... well, I know that its too far-fetched for even me to believe. Its not the way it works, you have to go on dates and chit-chat and try new restaurants or sit in the park or whatever until you suddenly find yourself snuggled up in a hotel bed with your good friend and this new person, chastely nude, but wishing you could put their (the new person, not your good friend) genitals in your mouth, you know, just to try it.... and then two months later in another hotel bed, high on sugar and lack of sleep and amazing sex, you realize for sure that you love them. I mean, the hotel beds and sugar aren't required, I've just found that often while dating the person that I turn out to love kinda sneaks in from the side.

Yes. I like to pee on people. If that totally grosses you out, you are probably not my wife.
At this point I'm not sure whether a marriage where I never peed on my spouse but got to do it a lot with others would work, it may, but it most certainly *will not* work if you think that the mere idea of me peeing on someone is gross. There. I'm out. Possibly a big mistake, but oh well, its true.

I also really like reading out loud to people in bed (or out). I also enjoy being read to, but if I could only do one, I'd probably be the reader.

And, yes, it's true, I honestly *love* hot chocolate. I refused to be shamed for my adoration of the "steamy brown", as it's known. I hope by my confession I can pave the way for other warmed-dairy aficionados to feel comfortable about themselves, and their predilections, however un-vegan, just the way they are.

I don't yet know what to wear tonight. I used to wear miniskirts all the time and don't anymore and kind of want to wear a mini skirt for that reason, but I'm not sure I still own any festive enough. I know, big problems, what a fucking dilemma. "Fairy godmother, bring me a warm naked wife in bed, with her arm sticking out holding a hanger with the perfect outfit on it! "Of course, I would probably never make it to the party if that happened, but from the cold living room with a lap full of Mac, it sounds just peachy.

I've been having a lot of weird sex dreams all this week. Last night there were two, one involved me helping with a workers' revolt at this country-club type place where the boss was kind of a mix between Tony Soprano and the dad from the family guy. I riled everyone up and then people were playing golf and I was going to an art exhibit but my ex showed up, nude, and so I started groping her. We were just standing there, in the grass, side by side, surveying the grounds. At first she said "no need for that" or something basically telling me I should probably stop touching her genitals, but I kept doing it anyway and then she started getting excited and then...I don't know. The scene changed or something, I think maybe I was suddenly down by the water with a bunch of golf clubs in my hand.

The second one, I don't really remember the context for, possibly I was in a castle? Anyway, this cute dog, kind of grey hound like, came up and started nuzzling and licking me and I'm not a huge dog fan but I liked this dog and was petting it and then it started turning into Lynee Breedlove all dressed in leather, and I understood that this dog was really just Lynee's puppy play persona. There was a bunch of licking and what not, but I've never really been attracted to Lynee so I have no idea where that came from. Thank *YOU* twisted mind!

Alright, alright. Shower and dressing myself. One of these days I will let all the kids in on what a sham adulthood is. But tonight I'm schmoozing with the peep-show ladies, so the kids might just have to wait for their insight.

2 Pseudo-dates and the Importance of Symbolism

Two pseudo dates, one per day, today and tomorrow. I doubt either of these lovely women are my wife-to-be, but one never knows. And not every pursuit in life must be a means to an ultimate end. Especially not for me.

Let it be known that I am trying, however, and also really appreciate it when people hit on me in a cute and friendly way, and will often go out at least once with them because I think that type of behavior should get positive feedback.


Update! First pseudo-date successfully completed and actually so successful that it turned into a real date! Of course she found this page directly after the date, causing me to e-scream in embarrassment and panic. (It's always such a strange and conflicted line between the overwhelming urge for exhibitionistic, bare-all spew and the painfully self-conscious, highly mortified realization that other people can actually see me. Pema Chodron calls this something like "the overwhelming embarrassment of being me". So far, my only explanation is that its really easy for me to both imagine only the vague concept of the audience and attention I want and forget that my work is available and accessible to actual humies. ) And then, all of the sudden other offers are coming in as well. Perhaps as Tim Kreider says, "I think this time things are really going to turn around." Stay tuned for the possibility of against all odds, everything actually turning up Milhaus.

I was having a conversation with my friend Aundi, who is an excellent poet, working on her Master's in poetry in England (see links at bottom of page), about the importance of symbolism in both of our lives. It's one of my most intimate and heart-felt languages, and to me is tied to my sense of magic and spirituality as well as my narrative-based literary sensibility and my belief in dialectic processes. My best connections and partnerships have had respect and some understanding of the value and meaning of symbolism in my life, and I really cherish and appreciate those with a similar way of moving through and with the world, an affinity towards the scenic route of meaning, belief, correlation and understanding.

Re: symbolism, Aundi said : it's way too outside what's cool presently

it's nice I think. to have. it's like having peripheral vision on a grander scale

I wouldn't trade it to be any cooler

for shiz

Gotta love that, a lovely, insightful metaphor followed with "for shiz". She and I speak similarly that way sometimes.

Which brings up the question of 'woo' (otherwise known as "woo-woo", "the woo", "that hippie shit", etc.) which has a long and convoluted answer in my life. To try to make it simple, which is rarely my gift, I believe in esoterica, but not all of it, I appreciate an awareness and respect for non-tangible energies, though not when used as a mask for true intention or a tool for manipulation, and I think that logic and rationality are just two shades of a full spectrum of truth and understanding. I appreciate pluralities in modalities and perspectives although I often feel in didactic extremes.

While the value of symbolism is as often intellectual as emotional or spiritual (maybe there need be no hard distinction) it affects my thoughts and feelings and influences my behavior and view on the world daily. Both my parents are scientists and I believe in and value science, as well as emotional intelligence, multiple truths, omens, spiritual rituals, astrology (to an extent), psychic insights (also to an extent), karma, ghosts (because its fun), Goddesses and Gods (because it improves my enjoyment of life and myself), old medicine, witches, magic spells , synchronicity, dreams, and intuition. I see the world a little bit like a muti-dimensional puzzle, and sometimes connective pieces or clues can be analyzed and understood through one framework or set of tools and sometimes another fits better or makes things clearer. Often I feel strongly the sense that something is being shown but I don't know yet how to decode it. In the end, the majority of my beliefs are most strongly based on what seems like the most pleasurable, interesting, helpful, reassuring, fun, and true-feeling options I've encountered or can come up with. I also hold onto and cultivate beliefs which support me to act in ways that are in keeping with my sense of integrity. (i.e. I believe in karma and I believe in spells, so I don't cast spells intended to harm or do anything negative to anyone or anything else.)

Wow, so reading all that, I guess I sound pretty woo, at least for someone who grew up in Baltimore I sound pretty woo to me. But its a discerning woo, a selective woo, a patchwork woo that works for me without making me feel spacey or irresponsible or crazy or self-destructive/aggrandizing or inaccessible or overly out-of-touch or vulnerable to exploitation or too judgemental. My woo does often spark my curiosity and inspiration, console and make me feel better, and get my creativity, compassion, playfulness and sense of humor about myself flowing.

But beyond that, my mind likes making connections, so much so that sometimes really good ones give it the feeling of soft honeyed many-fingered ripples of delight tickling my brain. (I had that experience recently while reading 'Lolita', man, that Nabokov can write! English isn't even his first language! For whatever reason, the Poe references at the beginning of the book, especially before they get overly overt, tickled me gleefully.) And when those connections come in real life surprises, well-formed coincidences, evocative imagery, ironic mysteries and powerful symbols, I have no interest in denying myself the innate pleasure and intrigue and wonder that engulfs my body/mind and spirit.

So, a potential wifey would not, one would hope, find this crazy, or insufferable, or stupid, or silly ( a little silly is ok, silly rarely means to hurt anyone) or ridiculous or too high-faluttin or too uneducated or anything but somewhat weird (no qualms with that as long as its not seen in a derogatory light), maybe not totally in keeping with her beliefs, though adding a depth to my interest and involvement with the world as well as a useful, compelling and entertaining resource.

Whew, once again, more spew than I expected. I feel a little blushingly embarrassed again with outing all of that in one place, like I should don a witch hat and go do some Tantric breathing exercises with another spiritual being having a human experience while drinking colloidal gold at Cafe Gratitude. Truthfully, I would do all of the things in the sentence I just wrote, but all at once would be too much for me. Hopefully my next post will explain more about my serious hard-core no bullshit edge to balance this out, if I can find it.

A Small Realization Regarding Age

Today my brain is sizzling with lack of sleep so the ideas are live ones, unfettered and from wild waters. My PMS/stress/general emotional sensitivity rage of the past few days has subsided, and now there are a full spectrum of feelings washing up on the shore.

But one thought I had today, which struck me for a moment and is relevant here, is what I take to be a further sign that I am ready or near-ready for lady-marriage, or at least partnership.

The breif backstory: I am a notorious chickenhawk. I have enjoyed the barely-legal fetish since I myself was barely legal, and it just seems to become more prominent the older I get. I love introducing people to firsts, teaching and turning people on to new experiences, especially sexually. I like hunting the PYTs, the dolphins (as we call the boys) and the precocious younger girls. I've dated quite a few 18-21 year olds and I find them a very tasty snack though I've usually gotten hurt by their youthful impetuousness.

Leaving the bathroom at a bistro today, after watching an Opera students' version of the Magic Flute (still crusty eyed from the Studio 54 party last night, see the above picture- "Girl! You're a Hot Mess! Love it!" they said), something struck me.
I haven't been interested lately. Don't get me wrong, there are some gorgeous people in my life in their late teens and early 20s, and I don't find them any less gorgeous, but lately I haven't been so intrested in trying to meet people under 25. I don't look at their personal ads, I don't start salivating, I don't do much of anything except look around for more wife-age-appropriate friends. In fact, I remember distinctly thinking "Oh, too bad, probably too young" when I met the lovely girl at the bar the other night and she told me she was 23. Which for me is kind of mind-blowing. When I think about the age my imaginary bride may be, I tend to start the thinking at around 26 and then go up from there. This may seem like common sense to some, but really, if you knew me well, you would understand what a shock this is to me.

I feel like this is a direct result of finally having enough experience with people, younger and not-so- younger, to understand that the kind of commitment, self-awareness and accountability, as well as breadth of experience and trial and error that someone who might be a good and appropriate partner for me would have is much more likely to exist in someone over 25. I think it's also about a little more self-awareness around what I want from a partner or regular date, and what I like as sexual novelty or more casual date/mentor relationship. I have had almost all of my more satisfying relationships or encounters with the 18-21 year olds in the context of a primary partnership with someone closer to my age.

So I see myself naturally veering away from the more youthful pursuits. I think my body/mind are really gearing up for deep lasting love in a healthy relationship. Now I'm just working, albeit slowly, on my shit and also, of course, impatiently pouting and whining, until it becomes clear to me (finally!) where, and when, and with whom that love will be.

*Prospective Brides Do Not Read*

Post-Footnight picture.

Not the most attractive time for SLWaW, but true none the less.

A story from last night:
Irene and I dress up for a foot fetish party. I haven't had a pedicure in a month but with all the hibernating and a couple of dabs of off-color polish and I can fake it. I almost break down in the car on the way to Dublin (!?) thinking about: 1. all the kinds of sex and relationships I've never had 2. not remembering where I put a good vibes gift certificate and a new compact. Obviously PMS was politely making itself known.

The party is surprisingly brightly lit and lucrative, apparently the lack of dimness I was counting on when doing my make-up in the car didn't deter the toe-hungry. It's more man than I've dealt with in some time, and while fun and distracting, I feel a little overwhelmed and start running out of things to do with my feet. They don't seem to care or notice.

Afterwards we're thinking about going to the Bump, an unfortunately named queer dance night at the Cat Club. Neither of us have gone, but I figure there is a small chance of getting laid there and at least it would be funny to invade the quipster space with our un-cool super-glam femmeness. After a double drive-by with no cute smokers or parking spaces outside, we say 'fuck it' and go to the Lex instead.

It's late enough that people are drunk enough to smile at us, and one cute and gregarious girl starts in with compliments right away. Which is shocking since usually the Lex is where we go to really externalize our internal feelings of alienation; when we want to be "out" but can't deal with anyone looking at or talking to us, we know we'll be safe there. I smoke an unnecessary cigarette to flirt and learn that girl used to be a sex worker. I give her my card and go in for a hug. When Amy Winehouse comes on, my heart threatens to explode, so we leave.

More pleasant than expected, for sure. But then I'm home alone again, Irene's holed up in her with Craigs List and her hot new shoes. I stay up later than relevant or sensible.
Ok, and here it is, the crux of the story: I get naked in my room, shivering and scrambling for my pajamas, but for a minute there I am, suddenly naked in front of my mirror. In single winter times, this is a far too infrequent occurrence. And you know what? I got PISSED.
I screamed : "I'm hot! WHAT THE FUCK!?"


Then I resigned myself to my cold bed and my angry dreams.


Funny how finally figuring out that you're hot can be spoiled by the context. I'm just having a kind of angry bitchy time. I do little gratitude rituals and sometimes remember to breathe, but dammit, I just want a hot fun exciting new connection, or better yet, someone to go test mattresses with me that's been in love with me for years. I'm impatient. It feels like my body is being wasted. I went to breakfast at a cafe today in my pajamas and a fedora and on the way home had a little tantrum, screaming: "Why doesn't anybody love me! WAH!" to the middle of Mission St. I know that's no way to get a wife or girlfriend or even an alley-fuck, and I know I am so blessed and so very privileged and live an amazingly beautiful, strange and fulfilling life, but right now, in the moment, its just one big ride in the Wahmbulance for me, and every meal is a wahmburger with a side of cries.

So I hope all you potential wives didn't read this, because I'm working on my attitude, though not as actively as I have in the past, and I just had an amazing weekend last week, but it wore off, and basically, what I'm saying, is this is not the pro-active, strong, woman with agency type of me that I'd hope you'd find appealing, but a pissed-off, can't wait for the year to be over, curmudgeonly couch-nester. And I don't want to attract people who are attracted, either in a fix-it or similarly bitter way to that. However, I would like to be with people that can understand and accept a holistic emotional spectrum, and realize that while this is me, yes, there is also so much that isn't this and it's ok, if not my favorite, to be all of it.

Anyway, wah. Fucking wah.
At least all of this spew got that awful picture off the top of the page.

My Friends Overestimate My Abilities

I just got a hilarious email from my friend J, who is apparently in, or just got kicked out of Europe (though not for any of the reasons that would make the best story), and is half of an incredibly hilarious and delightful band with his lovely, elegant and naughty wife.

He said that they enjoyed my blog and also:
"When you find a wife, push
for a late Feb or late Mar wedding. We'll be back in SF at that time.
And we do weddings."

I would love to have J and C play at my wedding, in fact it would probably be as close to perfect as can be expected from reality (my secret dork fantasy was that They Might Be Giants would play at my wedding), but really J and C's band would probably be even more apropos. But the point here is the belief that I can have a wife lined-up by February or March puts a lot of pressure on a girl type person. I mean, I'm typing in here and completely ignoring my very important school work as much as I can, but still, I can only do so much. I've even been leaving the house lately and smiling and hitting on/getting hit on. But in order for me to be marriage ready in 2-3 months, someone is going to have to work a little harder. So any ladies out there interested in falling in love with a confirmed weirdo, please start emailing now. March is really right around the corner and I'd like to at least remember your favorite color by wedding-time.
I mean, it seems unfeasible to me, but maybe this is one of those things where I underestimate my own wife-attracting powers. I could see that. And while I generally think that its prudent to wait *at least* one run of all seasons with someone before marriage, I'm also a romantic. If someone really great came along and was *really* into it I can't say for certain, that even with my much-improved mental health and emotional intelligence, I wouldn't go for a two-month courtship before matrimony.

So email up! I'm just sitting here, not doing very important schoolwork, waiting. I mean, filling my life with amazing and fulfilling achievements and endeavors! While still taking time for friends and simple pleasures and playtime! Yup, that's me, fulfilled but still open. Constantly learning, and growing yet grounded and relaxed. Busy enough to imply favorable social status, but not too busy for you. So write me a damn email already!

sheesh.

My First Partial Offer

Well this weekend marked a milestone for SLWaW and a number of them for me, personally, but the most relevant of them was that I got a partial, mostly joking, potential offer for a maybe wife.

Someday.

She is gorgeous, over 20 years my senior, the girlfriend of dear friends of mine, and lives out of town. So there are some potential drawbacks (mostly the out of town part) and also a great deal more of getting-to-know in ways other than biblical. The road to wifey is neither short nor easy, well, at least it hasn't been for me. But I feel much encouraged by even casual interest in my proposition. It's exciting!

It reminds me of the rule I learned in my Arts Administration for the Independent Artist class (thank you Krista DeNio!): the guideline for promotion is a 10-1 ratio. If you flyer for an event, about 1 out of every 10 people who pick up a flyer will show up. Now I know that marriage is a little more specialized of an event than a Hanukkah-themed burlesque circus, or a plague of masturbating Pee-wees, at least in this town, but I figure after several hundred, or no more than a few thousand drunken offers of"oh, I'll be your wife!", something has got to pan out.
(The lovely lady in question was not drunk by the way, that's just how I envision future encounters or offers emerging: them drunk and clinging to their seething date, me Charlie Chaplining it out of there.)

Wow, I was just about to get so 90's lesbo. Well, I've been accused of being a 90's lesbo before, so I might as well go for it. What I was going to say was: as the fine film 'Go Fish'* taught us, "The Girl Is Out There."

So, one down, countless more to go. Hooray for the first, not-totally-single, step.







*As a 16 year old living in Baltimore, I went to the local small art theater no less than 3 times when Go Fish was in the theater. I clearly remember one time arranging for a mixed group of boy-girl couples and friends to go with me so I wouldn't seem so damn gay, though I'm unclear about to whom. (Same thing with 'The Incredibly True Story of Two Girls In Love'. As far as media went, if there were ladies who liked ladies, I ate it up, though I remember being a little confused at the time by the boxing butch.) Even at 16, I identified most with the butchy lethario, Daria. After at least one of my gleeful viewings I went, by myself, to the cute dyke cafe, the now defunct 'Cafe Diana'. My head swimming with Guinevere Turner's comely image, I got myself tea and cake and sat there amongst the lavender walls, glowing with feelings of satisfied lesbianism, about to burst with my own queerness, dying for someone to talk to me. Of course, no one ever talked to me, I must have looked like some very strange kid who (as Irene and I say about dudes in suits at the Lex, the local dyke bar) 'didn't know where I was'.
It turns out that I never really got the hang of 'lesbianism', per se, sexually I'm too curious and flexible, though I may be one in spirit. But it was the 90's, in Baltimore, and I still refused to say 'fag' out of respect and hadn't ever met a transperson yet and was desperately in love with my best friend and didn't even know I was goth. So lesbians, wherever I could get them, see them, be around them trying silently to make them love me, were it for me. No wonder I'm a 90's lesbian, I never really got to be one when that was all the queer I knew. Well, another psychological mystery solved. Ima go listen to some Ani.