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!

Work it, Baby!

Some quick thoughts on what my wife might likely do for a living.
(This list is by no means representative of any professional requirements, just an assemblage of the type of people I am likely to meet and get along with and the type of jobs I find sexy or would be useful to me. Not a ranking of preferences.)

Most likely, or most attractive/compatible to me:
chef
sex worker
former sex worker
circus performer
work at a non-profit
non-sex work sex industry work
sex educator
trust fund/independently wealthy
landscaper/gardener/permaculturalist
herbalist
work at a co-op or collective with food, books, sex, art/art supplies
writer
maker of movies
musician
photographer
child care
mid wife
Douala
"alternative" health care practitioner
Chinese medicine
acupuncture
body work/massage
illusionist
librarian
carpenter
plumber
social services
therapist/counselor
witch
food service
small business owner
milliner
street performer
teacher
perfumer
jeweler
inventor
designer/seamstress
sociologist

Second most likely:
geek
yoga teacher
grocery store worker
retail
____ and grad school
cleaning/janitorial services
pet care service
scientist
nurse
stylist
engineer


What she will most likely not do for money:
practice law (unless its non-profit/social service or civil rights based)
police officer
banker
insurance salesperson
corporate......anything
middle management
advertising
tv broadcasting
professional athlete
military

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.

*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.

Nothing's Wrong With Me

Over dinner S and I discussed women, as we almost always do. She's got a major double-breakup on her hands (ah the joys of polyamory!) and I'm still dampened and dripping from my recent split. We discussed our relationship patterns and the ease or lack thereof of finding new partners, after. She mentioned something she's said before, that for almost 10 years, despite plenty of relationship difficulties, she's never had much of a dry-spell. I haven't been nearly so lucky, despite the common mis-perception that I am some sort of gondolier on the deep river of sexuality, my long pole always wet. This led me off to "the bad place" for a minute, trying to come up with reasons to explain my occasional difficulties finding dates. The first thing that popped into my head was "is it because I'm a sex worker or is it my facial chain?" Then I remembered my sobriety (will be 2 years as of Jan 1st) and how much less inclined many people are for a fun fuck, much less dating, without the aid of substances. (In fact I recently had a paranoid pondering that my recent ex probably enjoys dates with her other date more because she can consume without worrying about how I'll feel about it, I doubt this is true, but....)

Just yesterday a preferred client and I had an interesting conversation about the disconnect between how we feel inside and how we are perceived by the outside world. I constantly get the feedback that people are less likely to approach me because I am intimidating. Unless I've got a singletail in my hand or I'm barking off a street harasser, I rarely feel intimidating, more like a big squishy pile of leaking-heart mush. But I understand that my height and stature (5'10", big enough to notice), can intimidate alone, and when my loud and frequently used voice is added to many of the subjects I am known to spout about, I end up taking a lot of space. I can see that being intimidating, even while my internal little lamb-self demurely blinks in the corner. I've decided that if I'm going to be seen as intimidating whether or not I consent, I might as well own it and capitalize on my intimidation (for good!).

After S and I debated the relative weirdness of my facial chain to say, being a big ol' goth,(since she claimed that sex work wasn't visually apparent on me when walking down the street, though I'm not so sure) I figured out that it wasn't really the weirdness that mattered, it was whether or not it was a deterrent. We agreed that was something we couldn't know. I mean, obviously its a deterrent to some people, but we're talking anybody in whom I would be remotely interested. And then it dawned on me; it's not the chain, it's not my work, and it's not 'cuz I'm a teetotaler. I may seem intimidating sometimes, sure, but that's not what's wrong with me. I used to be positive that I was too much of a slob to love, but I know a number of folks with several simultaneous, loving, committed, long-term relationships whose homes make my room look like a zen center.

One thing I've learned recently is that people aren't generally into "perfect", it often makes them feel bad about themselves, unless they perceive themselves to be close to perfect or enjoy a heavily skewed power dynamic in their relationships (the classic 'young ingenue in love with the very successful, skilled and powerful older person' comes to mind). I would venture that what most people are really attracted to in terms of partner material is someone who seems to be at around the same level as themselves, or depending on their relationship to power, a little bit "higher" or a little bit "lower" as far as what they view as progress and success in life. People tend to commit to people that are similar in lifestyle, values, and "success" and an idea that they can grow in like or complementary ways in the future.

So, in fact, there's nothing wrong with me. It's just not as easy as one, or more pertinently, I, would like to get the attention and relationships I want, exactly when I want them. It's not because I'm inapproachable, or crazy or too weird; plenty of socially awkward, crazy-ass weirdos are happily partnered. It's just not easy, and sometimes it seems that knowing what I really want, and being less and less willing to settle for something unhealthy or unsupportive of my dreams, while simultaneously maintaining my commitment to flexibility, open-heartedness and deep, intimate loving, makes it just that much less easy. (The run-ons might not be helping, either. )And frankly, I tend to get most things I want within 2-5 years, but that can be hard to remember in the slow-moving meantime. But that's ok, because this way I get to figure out how to really love myself, making it easier and more likely for someone else to follow suit, and I get to have room for something and somebody super swell when the time is right.

Can you tell I went to a hippie retreat in Oregon, recently? Hey man, that shit worked. Loving myself is going pretty well. Check it out: Heart of Now

Oh, and S suggested I post this picture of me from Paul Reubens Day '06. She assured me it would pull the wifeys to me like a polygamist magnet!