barely with words.

with your lips to my ear and your fingers on my skin, you deftly trace across my body the lines and boundaries you have drawn for your own. "like this..." you say and with your mouth crushed against my cheek, your palm cups the side of my neck, slowly but decisively making its way past the top of my chest to the space between my breasts. your hand rests here, avoiding the flesh that surrounds it, flesh that you usually cannot resist to feel with hands and mouth. but tonight is not about this. tonight, with touches applied to my skin so that i might begin to understand your own, you teach me what "stone" means to you.

channeling the steady hands of a master cartographer, your fingertips pull channels down my abdomen, flowing free and unchecked against the soft roll and lower expanse of my belly. with palms wide and flat across my sides, you work harder, rougher, to push aside my ripples of curve so that the depth, the marrow of my bones, will remember the contrast in touches the sharp angles of your own hips demand, will retain the memory of distinction between my body and yours. when your hands reach my thighs and then skid along the tops of their inner slopes, you fall still. and with a deep breath settled in your lungs, you draft for me with the mere tip of one index finger the minefield of this place.

tomorrow, with you asleep next to me, i let my eyes follow the shape of a body recreated under the tightly wound ropes of sheet rolled over and passed over one hundred times in the night before we both stopped long enough to catch our breaths.

misplaced(?)

this afternoon, my mother called me from the hospital in nj. my dad has been admitted for vomiting, dizziness, shortness of breath. he's undergoing some tests, specifically an m.r.i. of his head to see if there is anything to be suspicious of there. my dad's had cancer for the past several years. it started with his kidney, which was removed and he enjoyed about a year and a half of remission before it crept back up again in his spleen and liver. through chemotherapy, those tumors wound up shrinking significantly, but it's always been made very clear that there's no more opportunity for him to "beat" cancer. it's more just a waiting game of where it will pop up next and with what kind of vengeance. earlier in the year, it was discovered he had a spot on his spine. it wasn't particularly large or intrusive, but once cancer hits bone, especially spine and its column of connecting fluid, it's not the best of signs. needless to say, it seems the dr. is going straight for scans of his head to see if there is any brain tumor or lesion to be found there.

i've always feared this moment and i've been pretty realistic in knowing it would probably come soon, at some point. spine and brain are so connected and usually once one has had a taste of the cancer stuff, the other is next to follow. all the reading i've done has told me that brain cancer is a quick and slippery slope with fatal results. it's strange to write these words. my father's and my relationship has been so strained my whole life. there have often been times since his diagnosis several years ago, not to mention times before that when he was still a healthy man, that i've thought of how it would be easier, especially on my mother, if he passed away. and now, with that reality staring me in the face, part of me regrets ever thinking it and the other tells me not to forget the long history of emotional violence that stems from him.

but what really gets me every time i worry about him or start to contemplate his death and what that will be like for me, i almost always lose sight of the reality, the right now. i eventually, without fail, always wind up overlooking him and land up at the fact that i will take care of and console my mother, what's needed anyway, but who will take care of and console me? every time i think of his illness and his passing, i come back to this right here...and i miss you terribly; in ways that make me clutch my gut with the pain of your absence. because despite everything we went through and regardless of how you never knew what to say when i was upset over his illness, you were and still are what i think of when i think of comfort. when i consider all that i might need when his final decline begins, it's only you that comes to mind. you, the person who struggled most with knowing what to say to me in times of sadness. you, who thought i needed more than just your silence and support or the physical strength and safety of your arms and shoulders. i have every reason in the world not to trust you and this won't change that; this won't find me dialing you aimlessly at 2am needing to hear your voice. yet still, it's your absence i'll cry for right now and not the eventuality of my father's.

you were my safety net despite all of your fears that you were never strong enough for me. did you ever really know that?

did she really do that?

i've been busy spending my days since getting back from vacation endlessly visiting the apple website as i make and remake my new dream computer, as well as working on a conference paper for this big schmoozy national meow meow academic conference i'm leaving for tomorrow. at least they're showing the film "female to femme" by kami chisolm, which i'm totally amped about seeing. i've heard a lot of praise and a few seemingly viable criticisms, so i'll report back more on that later and let you know where i throw my hat on that debate.

in the meantime, i just wanted to post quickly about the absolute hilarity that is life sometimes. my most recent, serious ex (i.e. love-of-my-life, broke-my-hearts-to-bits ex) has resurfaced over the past several weeks. we stopped talking in november and i instituted one of those "don't contact me again, you ruined my life" policies. she didn't really abide by it. tried to contact me in february with no response from me and then sprung up again right before i left on my trip. it's a bad idea for us to talk. ever. i resent her for 100 reasons, she's perpetually unsatisfied with life and whoever she's dating, i'm over feeling like someone who just fills time for her, etc.

anyway, it was a struggle the past few weeks deciding what i wanted to do. had i moved on enough emotionally to let her in a bit or see what she had to say? should i just stay the course and run away faster than i ever had before? i was undecided. somehow, i managed to do both with the end result being a reinstitution of a new and improved "don't contact me again, you ruined my life, you arrogant butch fuck" policy. hopefully she'll stick to it this time, though who can say?

...and then today, because the internet is amazing and because sometimes after a bunch of lemons life actually just hands you lemonade in a tall, chilled glass... [insert dramatic pause]... i found out she got a cat and named him after me.

ok, so not exactly after me. i mean, we don't share the same first and/or last name, but she named him the stupid, cute nickname we used to call one another when we'd get grossed out over how "made for each other" we were. is that fucking precious or what? if this was 6 months ago, 4 months even, i'd feel sad or sentimental or some other nonsense, but at this point, it's just comical. and incredibly just and vindicating. mostly, though, just hilarious. i mean, can you think of a better, more ridiculous foray into an anecdote about dyke drama only to say, "...so she named her cat after me..."?! i challenge you all to post any stories of the like. come on, i need something to keep me laughing while i'm being all studious in a terribly unappealing, midwestern* city!


* this is not to hate on the midwest generally. after all, i do live in the midwest. just the particular city i'm going to is hardly somewhere to be stoked over. so yeah, tell me funny things, no? xo!

excess baggage.

i'm thinking more and more lately about the intersections of fatness and queerness, particularly now in my own day-to-day life, not just academically, and what that means for the spaces i'm comfortable in and those where i'm not. it's interesting how when i'm in public and looked at because of my size, it is absent also of a queer read. because i'm femme and thus usually invisible as queer, the spectacle that my body becomes is only because of the "excessiveness" of my size and not also a reaction to my gender or my sexuality. this, of course, becomes complicated when i am in the presence of people who are visibly queer and takes on another dimension entirely when that person is clearly romantically linked to me. these are moments that i both cherish and fear because the transgressions are actually palpable. my fatness and my queerness, when they're both noticeable, create opportunities for rethinking love, desire, and sex despite size and despite who i'm fucking. these opportunities for conceiving differently, progressively even, of fat queer bodies, though, is also of course, made possible by the fact that i'm white and that i'm seemingly within a normative economic class. so there's potential here for blowing people's minds a bit, but there's also this overwhelming sense of danger that goes beyond queer bashing and the already serious danger of that. because now what must be taken into consideration is not only hatred of queerness, but also of fatness and the feelings of repulsion that inspires in people, let alone when fat sexuality is being made so open.

this is all to say that yesterday, when i was at a may day festival, surrounded by thousands of people and my friend - a brown, non-American, butch, my former lover - attempted to hold my hand as we made our way through cheese curd stands and kids running haywire with pink and purple paper streamers, i froze for a reason. and not because i didn't want her to take my hand because i feared what holding hands would signify in a relationship that is already complicated by our past as people who once loved a little and fucked a lot. i hesitated because of just how queer - because of the "excess" present in my size, our gender, our intimacy, our difference in skins - we were in a space where things seemed safe enough, but how and when do you really know? it was only two seconds worth of deliberation before i folded my fingers up with hers, but it's another example of thinking about this junction between sexuality and size and how it's real world stuff, daily stuff, that constantly reinspires my academic work on all of this.

leaving you.

friday night i'm with you and you're fucking me in ways that make my stomach first and my heart second, feel like they are being pulled down from their place high up in my body cavity, out between my thighs. every time there is the slightest retreat in your touch or in your thrust my body tenses with the fear that you will stop and break this chain you've created that links all of my important organs - brain, heart, gut, cunt - with all of yours - brain, heart, gut, cunt, fist.

we've been fighting for weeks now over stupid shit because you can't recognize what love and care looks like. or maybe you've just got an unquenchable thirst for it; for playing games, for mindfucking. you're losing me now and you know it. this is irreparable. you've waited too long without giving me much. you've waited too long to fuck me heart-to-heart like this.

and, for a second, i think i have it figured out. i think that i've wound up on top in all of this because i'm realizing these things even while my whole body is beating around the hand you still have inside of me. but i can't see that you're also thinking beyond the fucking and the grunting right now too. you're not processing shit the way my sweaty, little head is doing while mashed against my pillows and headboard. no, you're still trying to figure out your next move in this long drawn out game of "who do you love?"

then you do what i fear most, but what i least expect - you pull your hand from me quick and cruel, causing me to gasp at the contrast of going from full to empty in less than a second. i hear conceit, a tonal snicker to your words, as you throw yourself down next to me and say low, a threat for my ears only, "i wanted you to feel me leave you."

just.

when i slip my hands in the pockets of your jeans as you're getting dressed in front of the mirror, tying your tie with shoulders scrunched, brow furrowed, legs slightly spread in solid stance, i move up on tip-toe in order to position my mouth just behind your left ear. careful to avoid the collar of your shirt, lest i muss it with that carnal red shade of lipstick you love so much, i lean in closer, pause, whisper, "handsoooome." i draw out the last syllable for amatory emphasis, of course. you pause, turn to me eye-to-eye, smiling. no other word could better describe you right this moment, you know. that face, that body...don't even get me started on those hands of yours...fingers rounded, palms wide, wrists thick and strong.

i love the physical strength i associate with you. when my body responds to your first touches it is because of what i know is there lying asleep deep in the muscles beneath your blanket of skin. i also know, though, that this attraction, this pull is more than just good looks and strong forearms. to imply otherwise would be an insult to everything you embody and to the inherent infractions your masculinity and your queerneess makes in the world every day. this need i feel in my stomach for you, this yearning, is about gender fucking. it's about a dynamic that i can't describe to my best of friends despite the endless amount of words at my disposal.

it's about...how you smile with both your mouth and your eyes when you tell me i'm "such a fucking girl." it's a statement meant to tease, but one that is ultimately filled with pride and with validation for my femininity and your masculinity. you, my butch, my lover, my whole heart, understand femme, understand me. to you, i am the definition of what it means to be femme - both physically and politically. you never forget the latter and it is as important to you as it is to me. for the first time in my life there is you who values who i really am. i know it the day you tell me that i fuck with gender as much as you do. you get it and you love it. it turns your head, it spins your heart, it turns you on.

it's about...the look that we exchange every time you are called "sir." how my stomach flips at the utterance. i blush with excitement for you - of all that you already are in this place, in this body, and with the anticipation of your constant evolution and the privilege i feel in witnessing it. you should know though, that in this moment, i am only two seconds away from scanning the room, looking over our shoulders, preparing for battle in case someone should realize the gender trespass being made here at this cigarette counter. because while you're still enjoying your moment of passing, cataloging the details of this space - from the mismatched linoleum flooring to the smell in the air - i am planning our escape. to be on your arm, to be with you is to silently vow your safety as you have promised me mine. you will drop your guard, you will take this all in, you will revel in it. you will be safe to enjoy it on my watch. i promise you this.

see, this thing we call butch and femme is so much more than your chucks vs. my heels, though the way they sit side-by-side next to the front door of your apartment makes me smile in that way that causes me to, when i think about it long enough, drop my eyes, fold my chin down my neck, and bite the corner of my lower lip as it begins to sneak its way up my right cheek. this thing we do, that we feel, it is dependent, it is complementary. it's not just a dynamic, it is dynamic.

i am yours, you are mine, show me where and i will sign.

i am my mother's daughter.

when i started going to therapy three months ago, i wasn't sure what i was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what i got - an amazing queer-friendly, sex-positive therapist with pretty progressive politics for a heterosexual professional who looks like a nicer, cuter version of ann coulter. it took only about three sessions until she had me pegged and left me wandering home, mouth agape, with the realization that after 26 years, there was no denying i was my mother's daughter.

i had suspicions this was going to happen. i laugh like my mother - loud, unchecked, and with legs stomping if you really get me going. when i'm upset, my words pour out 100 m.p.h. and my new jersey accent is as thick as molasses (...or maybe toxic, newark sludge). my feet are near mirror images of hers...save for my slightly wider instep and far superior baby toes. she is strong, she is loving, she is smart, she is beautiful. she is my heart and i am hers.

unfortunately though, being my mother's daughter also means that i have been witness to a cycle of emotional abuse that i have not only endured personally, but through her pain and heartbreak as well. my father, a manic depressive, has made 33 years of marriage a task worthy of receiving sainthood. i mean, it would be if you absolutely had to stay or, like, you would die. the fact is, though he has caused us hurt for decades, she has only participated in this violence through her decision to stay married to him and living within the same home. despite her reasons for not leaving being (somewhat) understandable, her continued involvement has enabled a cycle of anger, depression, and neglect. years of debating our staying and going manifested itself into an inescapable pattern for her.

and here i am now - 26 years old and on my own, living and loving the butches and the bois that come and go in some repetitious narrative (dare i say it?) of life that finds me - the strong one, the loving one, the smart one, the beautiful one - playing second fiddle to a conductor without ears. the lack of mutuality, the ungratefulness, the emotional ineptness is staggering, but i have taken it from you. i have participated, i have enabled. i have tried, like my mother, to unsuccessfully make good times out of your bad times. i have put my hurt aside to fix you, to care for you. i have loved you, i have listened to you. i have made you lemon bars, pastina, brownies. i have sent you flowers, taken you shopping, made you care packages. i have kissed your eyebrows, i have sucked your dick. i have raised your self-esteem, i have inflated your ego. i have been your saving grace, your biggest fan, your desire, your love. i have been what you said made you feel whole....

to me, you have been a dearth of reciprocity.

i am my mother's daughter because i believed you, despite the lack of tangible evidence and despite the harsh words, mood swings, emotional voids. i stuck with you. i let it happen again and again.

except then it stopped.

because i was not going to pay one more $200 cell phone bill to hear you tell me that you loved me, but that now was not the time (5 years from now, you say? go fuck yourself!). i was not going to spend one more long weekend/holiday/spring break without you because you couldn't get time off of work, but could, in fact, find time to go to nyc and see your mediocre best friend...and her harem of strippers. i was not going to spread for you on saturday, sunday, and monday for you to tell me on tuesday that you "hated" me. yes, even if you meant it ironically.

you see, i am my mother's daughter, but i am not her twin. i have learned from her mistakes. i have meticulously studied her scars.

i say to you now what my mother should have said to my father at 26:

you, sir, are fired.