Black Sheep Holidays

The holidays afford us a great opportunity to spend time with friends and family. For some of us it also affords us the possibility to pull our hair out in frustration. Family gatherings can be especially difficult for the black sheep of the family. Even if you are accepted by your parents or siblings, inevitably you will find yourself in the company of someone who doesn't 'know' you. Bringing a partner to the occasion adds more eggshell walking moments to the mix.

In a perfect world we would be able to stand by our convictions and not care who thought what of us. But in reality it does matter, at least deep down. Nothing is more unsettling then knowing some twice removed family member is staring at you and sizing you up. You can feel it in the air and see it out of the corner of your eye. Nothing says happy holidays like whispers and distorted faces. You know darn well they are intrigued even if they are disgusted, and are assuredly attempting to picture your most intimate moments in their head.

For most of my life my partners have been introduced, by my own family, as my friend or roommate, the ultimate act of their shame. The lack of acknowledgment is very painful, especially when you know your relationship trumps the majority of the ones in the room. In order to save face or not have to explain me, my family can single handedly belittle all that is good in my life. The moment screams of their embarrassment and inability to think not everyone shares their feelings. Self protecting becomes very selfish.

Sitting on the couch, making sure not to accidentally show any public signs of affection for someone I have been with for almost 15 years is difficult to say the least. People's lack of acceptance has driven me to the point where I attempt to avoid their embarrassment of me. I go out of my way to not be who I am. Their selfishness has conditioned me to fear myself.

Holidays are a great way to spend time with loved ones. For me, its a great way to wish I was back home.

Amends

Recently I have felt the need to make amends for things I did to people long ago. I am not talking about the rock throwing, name calling nonsense as a child, I am talking about things that have emotionally impacted people. I don't consider myself a selfish person, however I do consider myself a master at avoiding my own emotional trauma. I can flick the "I don't feel anything" switch at a moments notice if I need the protection. That ability has caused many friendships and relationships to fail in unnatural ways.

Being the emotional basket-case I am, I have always ran when things got the least bit uncomfortable. I never learned the art of discussion, working things out, or even debate. So in my attempt to avoid things, I have ultimately left others hanging, wondering what the hell just happened. It may have taken me a very long time, some over 20 years, to realize how devastating my quick departures were. And for that I am truly sorry.

And though in the end we all find our way, and realize if those departures hadn't taken place we wouldn't be where we are now, I feel I owe some people a lot of gratitude. Gratitude for what they gave to me. Gratitude for what I have learned from them, not just then, but apparently now. Allowing myself to look back I don't see just failed relationships. I see people that taught me how to love and what family really meant. I see people that appreciated me and ones that showed me hard lessons learned. What I don't see are the feelings that made me run, and I think thats a great thing.

So as I make my amends, even the silent ones, I am grateful for those that loved me long ago; they have enabled me to be able to stick around with those that love me today.

Gay Soldier

You said I didn't matter

That I was just a gay

You made me fight for rights

That you had every day

You chanted hate on corners

Held signs up of disgust

You've protested my marriage

And other things unjust

You've said I can't compare

To what a man should be

I shouldn't be allowed to fight

To keep our country free

I hid my sexuality

To serve my fellow man

I slept by you and shared your food

And lied the best I can

You never knew my partner

Until that faithful day

When you looked at my photograph

And found out I was gay

Your haste to leave the trenches

So you would not be near

Your impulsive reaction

Certainly cost you dear

The shots rang out in unison

Your body on the ground

An instant change in thinking

A moment quite profound

Staring up into my eyes

I wait for what you'll say

Will you save my life today?

I can't, I'm just a gay

And for that very moment

I felt justified

But reached out to my brother

And held him as he died.

~EB 2010

My Hiatus

Although I have attempted to take a mental hiatus from my blog and writing in general, the need to write has been too overwhelming to stay away. My decisions to retreat are the same ones that have brought me back, overwhelming emotions.

It was difficult at best to drum up two articles and send them off to the editors today, even though I was very passionate about my topics. Something is boiling deep inside, something I am not quite sure of its identity. My emotional roller coaster of late has had me reflecting all over the place. I am finding myself experiencing the most extreme of emotions. And while some are terribly sad in nature, I am truly enjoying the levels in which I am able to feel right now. For me negative feelings aren't always just negative. They evoke passion in me, and passion is what fuels me.

So in my uncontrollable emotional state, I have taken many recent journeys down memory lane. I do this often. Not to remember better times, or those I lost, but to see where I have grown from the experience. It may seem a tad masochistic to relive painful memories, but for me the sadness enables me to appreciate all that is good in my life. And for as many things as I can still find wounds, I can find what's healing them.

The holidays are especially difficult for me. They bring back many haunting memories. But I allow them in. I allow myself to feel them and to realize that I can feel them from a much safer place now. And I am grateful. This time of year is supposed to be about giving and loving and appreciating what you have. It may have taken the majority of my life to finally get to a place where I am grateful for more things than I am burdened. But I am there.

Thanks to all that have supported, encouraged or loved me through my writing endeavors and personal growth this year. May your holidays find you safe and nurtured in the best possible ways.

~EB

Dual Gender Hairdo

About 10 years ago I had hair well down to the middle of my back. Some time a few years later I felt I needed short hair. I have had short hair ever since. I like my short hair, except when I feel I want long hair. Being gender fluid makes having a hair style very difficult. No matter what my hair is like, I will see people or old photos of the complete opposite and want that. However, like most things that have to do with me, I will not ever feel satisfied with one or the other. When I wear my hair short it feels more masculine to me. So when I am feeling feminine it doesn't seem to work. I am simply not 'sexy' enough to have short hair look 'hot'. It just looks dyke'y some days. However, when its longer, I feel like I am conforming to the physical body given to me, and thats not who I am either.

I wrestle with my hair on a daily basis. I want it to fit what I look like but want it to fit who I am. I have no idea how to do that. I obsess about it all day. Each time my internal dynamics change, I would love a telephone booth to run into and change the outfit and hair to match the moment. Instead I am usually left being someone I dont look like and unable to express myself honestly. I spent many years lying to people trying to be something I'm not, and now I am lying to people because I cant show them who I actually am.

In the late 80's my hair was probably the most suited for who I was, even though I didn't know who I was. As a matter of fact I didn't even know I liked that hair cut. It was short and cropped on one side and long and curly on the other. Pulling only one side of your hair back was typical for that era, cropping it was not that much of a stretch. But it was the best of both worlds in a hair cut. As funny as that style may seem today, I bet it would still suit me well. I'm not sure I can pull off the dual gender hairdo at my age, but I think I might give it a try.

Looking Back

This weekend I wrote another chapter for my book. I started questioning how far into my life I am going to take this. Typically a memoir spans a certain time period or focuses on a series of events. It should essentially have a story to it, a purpose, an explanation if you will for who you are and why. I am finding if difficult to place more importance on one part of my life over another. My childhood and my adolescence, the two areas I am covering, are so drastically different but blend together to create who I am now. Each has a significant impact and each equally noteworthy. Until I wrote these pages, I had no idea the impact these times in my life had on me. When asked, I would have said my younger years had little mark on the person I am today. But in actuality, it has everything to do with it.

Many people blame their past negative experiences for their self destructive patterns and behaviors. Professional victims I call them. I have always been so determined to overcome my past that I essentially went completely opposite with my thinking. I have never blamed my disturbed mother, the pedophiles in my life, bad parenting or cruel friends for anything I did or thought as an adult. I made a vow to myself to be a rock, to never give in to my sadness or fears. And while I never played the victim, how I handled it very well may have been worse.

Looking back on my life I can see where the need to stand strong overshadowed allowing myself to feel. In an attempt to feel no pain or anger, I essentially felt nothing. Keeping secrets and shame to myself kept me from my freedom to love properly. I walked with my head held high, untouchable by those that could hurt me. However I was untouchable by those that could love me too.

In reading my old journals and reflecting on my past there is a lot I had forgotten. Selective memory has always served me well, or so I thought. In having to relive these moments lost in time, I feel empty for the opportunities missed. As an adult I can see where sharing, being honest, and allowing myself the vulnerabilities all this time very well could have changed who I ultimately ended up being.

Don't get me wrong, I am in a good place now. However I probably could have gotten here a whole lot sooner if I would have allowed myself to feel.

Validation

I like validation. I need validation. I know its a character flaw, but honesty is not. So, yes, I admit, I need to know that I am wanted, needed, useful, appreciated, and hopefully someone certain people feel they cannot live without. But sometimes the need for validation holds me back from doing or saying things that might not warrant such validation. Validation comes in a lot of forms. For me, I prefer the non verbal type, particularly in bed.

I have always read that you should talk to your partner during intimate times, that you should say what you like, what you don't, what you want and where. And while I agree that communication can be very helpful in finding a really nice intimate connection, I find holding conversation during sex a kill joy, unless of course the conversation is raw in nature. I am very aware of how my actions effect my partner in bed. I pay attention. I use all of senses to make sure that I am finding that connection not just having sex. Part of my lovemaking stems from my self esteem issues and my need to make sure I dont do something they wont like. Another part is my constant drive to do things 100% all the time. If my mother only knew her warped desire to have all things perfect shaped my love making skills.

Validation for me in an intimate setting comes in the form of moans, whimpers, lubrication and orgasms. It appears in body language, new experiences and returning to old favorites. There are a lot of clues that I look for and use to create a better experience. If my partner is not enjoying themselves I have failed. As a matter of fact for most of my life I didn't even enjoy being touched. I placed all my value on what I could do for someone else, how I made them feel. Their pleasure was my validation, and secretly it still is the most important thing in that moment to me. However I have learned to allow myself the pleasure derived from being touched, even if most times I still feel as though it being done out of obligation.

Occasionally my wife does something while we are intimate that I have never said I truly love. I have never told her that when she does that, when she reacts to me like that, it validates me like nothing else right then. I don't tell her because I am afraid she will do it just because she thinks I like it. I don't ever want her to do something just because she knows I like it. I want it to happen because she feels me and she is reacting to me.

Last night as I was cooking dinner I replayed a moment in my mind. I remembered the last time she reacted in that way and I remembered how I felt. I wanted to turn to her and say "I really really really love it when you.......", I wanted to share what I was thinking and how it made me feel, but I didn't. I didn't dare risk the possibility that next time the validation occurred it wouldn't be honest.

I notice

You bring me coffee in bed each morning......even if I am awake first

You send me an Email before you do anything else......even when I forget to open it before I do anything else

I find my clothes washed and folded on the bed.....and sometimes sigh when I have to put them away

When I cook dinner, the dishwasher is clean and empty.....as it is every evening

You bought me warm snuggly pajamas.......just because I didn't feel well

Each day I receive a text at noon......even when you think you are the last person I want to hear from at that moment

Sometimes I think I am the one that isn't appreciated......

Where is the humility?

We all enter into relationships because we need something. Maybe we need companionship. Maybe we need to feel loved. Most often, its a combination of reasons. For me, its because I need the way I am needed. It took me a long time to realize that is what I was ultimately looking for, and probably walked away from a couple of times already. My perception of experience told me that doing things for someone was a sign of weakness. That by doing so you were agreeing to boot wiping on your back.

I walk around a little jaded by past relationships. The relationships we all have experienced at one point or another. The ones where you give everything you have and get nothing in return. There is one specifically that stands out in my mind. One that has unfortunately effected my trust with each relationship after. It was the one in which I let all of my defenses down, allowed myself to admit my neediness and did, did, did for her. That was the one that took advantage, cheated, and left me stranded. A time in my life that I cannot remember the actual pain of, but still see the scars.

Its so easy for people to tell you to get over things. To move on, that everyone is not THAT one. And rationally it makes sense. However when our defense mechanisms kick in, we find ourselves protecting ourselves too much. In the twenty something years since then, my defenses are still trying to protect me from her. Unfortunately she isn't the one in the picture anymore. They are now protecting me from something that doesn't exist. And while I appreciate the armor, I do not appreciate always feeling that I need to be ready to battle.

I can site a lot of moments in my day where instinct tells me to do something, something that may put me in a vulnerable position, but I resist. Afraid of ever looking weak, I don't do and say so many things that probably would enhance my current relationship. In an attempt to be the rock at all times, I am short changing myself the feelings that come with moments of humbling myself. I am not allowing my partner to experience me in my entirety. At this point, so many years later, I do not think it is genuine fear as much as it is a pattern of behavior engraved in my brain.

Why does it seem so easy to incorporate defense behaviors into our lives and so difficult to find the humility?

Dreams

I don't normally try to analyze my dreams. Between the medications I take, stress, and being all over the board in personality and thoughts, I usually assume they are pretty much an extension of my normal chaos.

Lately my dreams have been odd, even for me. I know emotionally I am a bit of a mess right now, and perhaps it is playing out in my sleep. That being said, I am finding it strangely peculiar the vulnerable positions I am allowing myself to find in my latest dreams. If you ask most people they will tell you I am loud, brassy, confident and a bit obnoxious. They will say I am witty, quick to the punch and an open book. They may say I am a little too bold, bossy and sometimes someone to be afraid of. Seldom do they say I am timid, small, quiet, and shy. Never will you hear them say I cant hold my own, that I will back out of a confrontation or admit defeat. You will never hear those words. Unless its from someone who knows me.

I am truly all of those things, the big and the small. However I am most comfortable when showing my peacock feathers. Its safer. I spend the majority of my time in this role with most people. It enables me to keep distance. It keeps vulnerability out of the equation.

The last few days I have felt emotionally defeated. I have been unable to stand up to myself. So I suppose its no wonder that my dreams are taking me to places unfamiliar and what should seem uncomfortable. While the situations in my dream are not typical, the feelings are. They are honest. Certainly more honest than I give away when I am awake. I woke up this morning after an interesting dream and found myself feeling very vulnerable and needy. It's a place I have truly only allowed myself to feel a couple of times honestly. I was surprised by the dynamics but quite comfortable with them.

I know my dreams are not my reality. I know they are not a prediction of the future or even a memory of the past. I know they are simply my thoughts and feelings grouped together into a vivid creation. But they are true. And honest. And sometimes I like how they feel. And maybe I need to take a lesson from them and allow myself to feel and be what dynamics dictate and not what I try to.

Someone I don't miss

I found you in a dream last night
It isn't something new
I think of you when I'm awake
Not how you'd like me to

I picture all the things you did
Your melancholy smile
In dreams you have the tendency
To effect me for a while

My heart feels heavy while I sleep
And you appear to me
Reminders of the way things were
And what they came to be

When I awake I feel the need
To tuck you out of sight
No explanation of my dream
To the one who makes it right

I could let you leave my dreams
And never reminisce
But I think I'd like to keep you there
As someone I don't miss

~eb

Both ends of the spectrum

I went to see Trans Siberian Orchestra last night. I had wanted to see them live for a very long time. Not just because I thought it would be a good show, but because I wanted to 'feel' it. The music they play is such a representation of who I am; two ends of the spectrum coming together to form something there are no words to describe.

I knew I would have a difficult time with the fact that it was their winter show and they would be playing Christmas songs. Christmas songs have a tenancy to depress me. They bring me back to a time in my life that I don't particularly wish to relive. I knew hearing these songs would make me feel sad and hollow and very small. On the other hand I knew they would be incorporating very intense guitar chords in heavy metal ballad form. Raw energy with the ability to touch me at my core. This type of music speaks to my powerful, confident, primal side. The marriage of the two was what I wanted to experience, what I wanted to relate to.

I was not disappointed in my quest. In two and a half hours I felt more emotion than I allow myself to most days in their entirety. I took the sad, let it mingle with the intense and found a really awesome middle ground; something I don't find in many places in my life. I tried to express this to my wife, but believe it or not, unless I write, I cannot speak. Too many years of who I am and what I have to say being misinterpreted or dismissed has made me very apprehensive to let words out face to face.

When I look inside myself I see a constant battle. A battle between genders and dynamics. I am constantly switching my roles, my feelings, my demeanor. I am always making decisions on where I fit at that moment. I am never 'just me'. I don't expect anyone to truly understand what I felt last night. I wish I could give you all a way to feel it. It wasn't about the music, as awesome as it was. It was about finding comfort in all my energy all at the same time. It was about not having to just feel one way and then the other. It was about feeling everything all at once.

The Mustang

As I was looking at the demographics of this blog, who visits and what they read, I found it funny that the most widely read post was "Strap on, Strap off". I would assume most people that saw "strap on" took it for what it was. Does that mean we are a community of perverts? I hope so.

I vacationed in Hawaii this past summer. Naturally I packed the essentials everyone would need, clothes, toiletries, bathing suits and yes, my detachable appendage. When I buy things, I don't buy cheap. I am a perfectionist by nature and my cock was no different. It truly is an extension of me in that moment, so glass, steel, purple or polka dot isn't going to work. I want it to look right and feel right for my partner, and it needs to be a representation of what I feel and who I am inside. I don't use one to become a man, but I do use one to do what seems to come naturally to me. I am an insatiable female with the drive and talents of a teen aged boy in the height of puberty.

Unpacking when I got home from a fabulous seven days, I realized something was left behind. I would think most people in that position would start adding up the dollars lost. In that first few seconds I, however, felt like I lost my best friend. I suddenly felt incomplete. In an instant my mind ran through a slide show of pictures, memories lost, new ones unable to be made, the housekeepers touching it! I was truly depressed.

I could rationalize that it's just a "thing"; a tangible, replaceable item. It didn't feel that way. I don't bring it to bed with me every time I have an intimate moment, but the thought of being intimate without the possibility of having it if I needed it was devastating to me. "Its a rubber cock for Christ's sake". I tried to convince myself. I spent the next several days with my eyes searching the internet for a suitable replacement. Unfortunately they don't make the exact one anymore, nor do they make the harness I could never part with, despite its rusting snaps from the million washings.

With a lot of research, a heavy sigh, and a wife aiming to please, I chose a new "set". It arrived a few days later in the mail. Being the person I am, I immediately found things to dislike about it. I compare everything now to what was good in my life then, a terrible personality trait, I know. The harness seemed cheap, the cock small. Prepared to be disappointed I brought it to bed for the first time. I felt performance pressure for the first time in a long time. I felt self conscious. I was worried I wouldn't 'feel it' or that my wife wouldn't enjoy it. But I learned something that day. I realized that comfortable isnt always the best thing. That sometimes stepping outside of the comfort zone yeilds great results. After that night I no longer missed Magnum as I had loving dubbed it. I began a new relationship with Mustang,a much better representaion of who I am.

Now if I could just get the images of the housekeepers fucking each other out of my head.

She gets me

Driving into work this morning I was listening to music as usual. There is hardly a song that I hear that cant produce some kind of emotion in me, even if I don't particularly like the song. A pop song was playing at one point and I decided to listen to the words despite my urge to change the channel and find something more soothing to my ear.

The song was typical in that the artist was singing of his appreciation for his girl's beauty. As a writer I know how easy it is for strong emotions to inspire lyrics. Most songs you hear are about passionate love or the failure thereof. I realized that I have never written a song lyric, a poem or anything about anyone in a superficial way. While I have a great appreciation for a good looking woman, I don't write about it, I'm not inspired by it and it has never been criteria for me.

I began to reflect on what it is that inspires the sticky love dripping words I sometimes jot down. And all I could come up with was feelings. I write about feelings. Feelings that run much deeper than anything you can see. I recalled a line I wish I had penned, "her hair reminds me of a warm safe place where as a child I'd hide". That's not about beautiful hair or the appreciation of it, its about the feeling the hair gives you. Those are the feelings that inspire me.

When people ask me about my significant other, they usually want to know where we met and what attracted me to her. Its hard for me to answer the latter because it doesn't have words. It's a series of feelings that can create a series of words, none of which would make much sense in a conversational setting. I end up looking like I am lost for words, like I cant pick out a single thing that would explain my love. The truth is, there really are no words to explain it.

My wife wont win the Miss America pageant, she doesn't have influential friends, she isn't rolling in money, her job is less than high profile, and her car is a typical four door sedan; hardly conversation stoppers. But she gets me. And no one in this entire world but her 'gets me'. No one else would have the strength, patience and selflessness to even try. I cant write about her hair or her eyes or how she shakes her booty on the dance floor. But I can write about how it FEELS when she gets me.

From now on, when someone asks me what attracted me to her, I will simply respond with that......."she gets me".

Replacement

Last night my wife was laying her head on my shoulder in bed. Lightly running her hands over my body for no purpose other than to feel me, I asked her what she was thinking. She had no answer, though I find it difficult to imagine a completely quiet mind; something I have never experienced. She then directed the repeated question at me, to which I always have an answer. I told her I was wondering if she had ever pictured someone else laying on my shoulder, touching me the way she was. I know I do it all the time.

For me, removing myself from the relationship and looking at it from an outsider's view is a great way to remind me how horrible it would feel to not be in that space anymore, to see someone else replace me. I picture a scenerio that includes me as the 'ex'. Perhaps sitting on the couch sipping cocktails. Me on one couch, my wife and her new flame cozy on the other. I replay an intimate moment and replace me with someone else. I imagine someone else touching her, doing the things I do, and worst of all, her responding to it. This is usually where I get sick to my stomach and stop thinking.

In that moment, its that nausea and gaping hole in my heart that reminds me to never take what I have for granted. To never let life get so dull and mundane that my replacement looks like a better option. To leave yesterday's spat (not that we have many) in yesterday because bringing it into today could leave me sitting on the other couch tomorrow. The ill I feel from my clearly masochistic thought processes requires me to reflect, constantly, on how easily life could change. How quickly a replacement could come into play. It reminds me that I need to work every day to show the appreciation for what my relationship affords me.

So as you read this, try it. Remove yourself. Watch your relationship be had by someone else. I promise you, the loss you suddenly feel will be replaced with a much needed adoration for your partner.

The Antidote

I had a conversation with someone today. It was really just about her teenage daughter and the good for nothing boy she chooses to spend time with. While I sat and listened to my colleague she made the statement about all of us having that one poison or toxic person we just cant seem to shake. At first I thought, nah, not me. Then I realized, I was lying to myself.

I know the conversation was about having a relationship that is toxic. About wanting to be with someone that everyone in their right mind tells you not to be. Usually its for your own good, and the advice most times, should be heeded. I see it happen all the time and its very easy as an outsider to shake your head and think "what is wrong with them?".

Although I have had toxic people in my life, I cant say that I have any relationships with those people anymore. Well, unless you count my mother, who is poisonous to my heart and soul and doesn't even know it. But family isn't what I'm talking about here.

I would like to think that ridding myself of poison people has rid me of their effects on me, but that's not the case at all. And even though I don't keep running back for another shot of death, I still carry the effects of their lethal ways with me every day. I think this is pretty normal. Its normal to be effected by people. The relationship, no matter what kind, molded some part of you. But what does it mean when you find yourself capable of letting the toxins go, but unwilling?

For me, I find safety in knowing who I am and how I feel. Even if I don't like how it feels. I am a realist. I know life is not all good, and sometimes I will feel bad. I don't dwell on the negative impacts on my life, but have to admit that I venture back to them in my mind. I find a strange comfort in remembering the sad and empty times; the yearning etc of some of my adult relationships. I seek out the feelings of loss in an attempt to remind me that I don't feel like that anymore. Its my way of never taking what I have now for granted. A way to appreciate things even when they seem mundane and unimportant.

There are people that still haunt me. I find them in my thoughts, my photos, my dreams and many times, my disgust. But I still find them. I just cant seem to walk away; not because I enjoy their poison, but because it reminds me that I found the antidote.

No Longer Baggage

So lately I have focused my writing attention on my book primarily. Being a memoir, it has understandably given me an opportunity to look at my past again, from fresh eyes. Putting my life down on paper, sharing with someone, has started a transformation within me that I was not expecting.

When I began the book, I was very apprehensive. I have always been known to divulge anything someone wanted to know, however that information was always in a tailored format. I always made sure to reveal only what I felt that person was capable of understanding. I have taken the advice of a friend, and have tried very hard not to edit myself in my writing. I am putting down events as they happened, not as I wanted to remember them happening. I have found that as the memories are released, in their honesty, they are becoming less and less things I want and need to think about. It seems they have found their way to the same memory bank as the normal childhood events. They don't seem so big and important.

I feel a sudden stillness in my memories. I don't feel the constant swirling of emotion. I no longer feel like a balloon is going to pop if I don't allow someone, anyone, to share them. I spent decades with these experiences kept to myself. Not because I didn't like them, because albeit wrong, I did like many of them, but because I didn't think anyone one else would understand them.

I started this book very fearful of who would read it, what people would think and how small the audience of acceptors would be. But now I want to finish it. I want people to read it. I want the appalled reactions and the reaction of those that can relate. I want to share it all. And even though I know those experiences shaped who I am and my life as I know it, each time I let one out completely, it just becomes part of my past, not part of my baggage.

It Gets Better

I find it really sad that it takes the media and multiple deaths to wake up a country to the fact that bullying is real and deadly, emotionally and physically. However as sad as I am at that fact, I am elated at the availability social networking has offered our community to get the word out. Even if it doesn't change the views of those that bully, it is providing resources and support for the victims. Bullying will never end, but being able to combat it enough to move past it is a skill that most kids are lacking, yet one that is being taught through this medium.

I have a particular interest in these kids, I suffered severe depression and suicidal ideations most of my teenage life. Just last night I sat and read a 'letter' I wrote to someone, 78 pages long, that told of my struggles. It broke my heart to realize I thought I had no one to turn to then. At that time, I was writing to a poster on my wall. That letter was what saved me. A celebrity hanging over my bed was the one person who I could talk to, endlessly and who would understand.

At that age I was unsure of my sexuality completely. I was trying desperately to fit in at a new school, in a new town, and with feelings that were different than everyone else. I loved deeply, hurt often and was a product of a childhood full of despair and completely inexcusable moments. I was an outcast from day one; poor kid in the rich town. My clothes didn't measure up, my house was shameful and it was obvious I was different.

My family was never close. My mom was already out of the picture. My dad, just trying to survive. My friends treated me like a tag along and no one took me very seriously. For a long time I thought the advice "people will pity you only so long" written in a yearbook to me was sound advice. I replayed those words over and over trying to convince myself I was looking for sympathy I obviously didn't deserve. I drowned myself in alcohol and drugs for many years. Self medicating to avoid feeling.

I came out some time in high school and although it was a very small school, I was far from alone. I at least had a small group that I could relate to. People seem to remember those days as being OK for me. Someone actually said to me the other day 'we sure had it easy'. I am not so certain I should be included in that 'we'. I distinctly remember watching my father scrubbing the spray paint off the driveway so others would not be able to read the word "dyke". I can still recite, word for word, the derogatory song the football team made up and chanted as they jogged past my house. Senseless bullying for the sake of bullying that took an already lonely, unstable child to the edge. I didn't want to die, but it sure seemed like a much better option than living.

So I wrote. I wrote a lot. I wrote to my friend on the wall. I wrote in journals. I wrote letters I never intended to send. It was my only true connection to something. I focused on removing myself emotionally from people to avoid hurt. To this day, I am still trying to recover from that time in my life. It had a huge impact on my relationships now. It left me afraid of being me, unable to embrace myself, and watching my back at all times.

Everywhere I am seeing, "It gets better". For me it didn't get better, it got easier. I am still bullied to this day. Maybe not by chants or spray paint, but by a world that still cant accept me. However I have grown and I have learned and I would have missed a lot of fabulous things in this life if I had given in and let them win back then. I want to hand my phone number out to every kid that needs someone to talk to. To every kid that needs that poster friend.

Dominant Force

There was a time in my life that I obsessed about everything, mostly girls and women. As much as I adored certain women, reality told me that I was not what they wanted. I had a particular fascination for straight girls. I liked the challenge, and more probable, the safety. I could love them as deeply as I wanted without them ever knowing. My every breath could revolve around them but would never be taken for granted.

I have been involved in the sadomasochism circle for my entire adult life. My natural tendacy is to be dominant in those relationships and I have always felt secure in that role. When I look back on my past I clearly make the connection between experiences then and my roles now. However I wonder sometimes, how much is who I am and how much is trying not to be something that I was.

When I think back on the days of my obsessions, mostly before adulthood, I only remember craving everything that had to do with the women of interest. I recall constructing shrines next to my bed that housed items touched by them; clothes, jewelry, cigarette butts. I would have given anything in my power for their attention. Willingly I would have submitted to whatever whim they had. I wanted to submit. All I wanted to do was please them.

As I cycled through my first few female relationships, my thought process stayed that way. I felt the need to do, all the time. A combination of poor self esteem and the baffling thought that these women might actually want to be with me, led me to assume that without complete and utter attention from me, they would go away. And many times, despite my attempts to be everything, they did anyway.

I found myself hurt emotionally a lot while learning myself. I was happy to lay myself out there but unable to protect myself. As years went by, I found myself putting more and more armor on. I would enter into relationships under the premise that I was in control, I would not do what my emotions told me I wanted to and that the relationship would not last anyway. I wasted a lot of time and energy trying to escape myself within the confines of other people. Naturally it didn't pay off and I relationship jumped as soon as the waters got the least bit hot.

When I entered the world of BDSM, I found the perfect marriage of safety and the ability to control my environment while still being who I was, honestly. I was able to give 100% of me in a way that I was comfortable and I responded to. I was able to incorporate what I thought was a twisted sick side to me with a loving relationship that I needed to have emotionally.

In retrospect I don't think I became the dominant force I am today because I could no longer take the pain of the submissive force I thought I was. I am who I am because I realized the position I hold is not one of take, it is one of give. Giving of myself in the way someone needs me. Controlling and protecting what I adore most. Its not about taking what I want, its about taking what others need me to.

Mornings

I truly hate mornings. Aside from not wanting to wake from my last dream of the night, I cant stand the way my head spins.

I start with my shower. That in itself is horrifying. I don't like what I am feeling and I don't like what I see. There is not one day that goes by where I wash my breasts and don't wish for them to become diseased and fall off. I have often thought of mutilating them to the point that removing them would be the only medical option. I throw my robe on as quickly as possible.

I choose my clothes in my mind before I fall asleep the night before. If I don't have a plan in place for the morning, my frustration levels are immense. There are no clothes in this world that fit my body the way I wish they did. What I want to wear doesn't come in my shape. Period. If I left my clothing choices until the morning, I would try on everything I owned and never be satisfied, not to mention very late. Having OCD I have to have routines in place. If I make a plan, I cannot deviate from it without a lot of stress. I have found choosing my clothes mentally before bed prevents me from being able to change my mind easily in the morning.

Some mornings I feel good as soon as I am dressed. I look in the mirror and although I am not pleased with what I see, I am not completely disgusted. As long as I stand still I don't notice my flaws as much. However, by the time I go from my bedroom to the bathroom that all seems to change. And by the time I finish doing my hair, I am utterly disgusted with myself. I look fat, my boobs are gross, my clothes don't fit who I am, and my illness has caused me to have thin uncooperative hair. I used to just focus on my eyes. They were always awesome. People everywhere would tell me. However now even my eyes look sad and unappealing. My lashes have thinned and my eyes seem dull.

By the time I leave the house I feel completely out of sorts. My mind has switched genders so many times my clothes couldn't work if they wanted to. My body, at 130 pounds feels grossly heavy and awkward to drag around. My sneakers are dirty and that is unacceptable. I look around the house at all that needs to be done. I am overwhelmed. I wish I had some energy. I wish I had something positive happening in my life right now. I wish I could just go back to my dream.

All In Relativity

The funny thing about memories is our ability to change them to suit our needs. Put two people in the same room and they will say they experienced two completely different things. Sure certain parts of the scenario will be similar, but when asked, you would get two different explanations. That's because emotion alters perception. Everything we experience is a product of relativity.

I am in the midst of writing a book. Essentially it is a memoir. In my reality it is an explanation of who I am now and I how I got there. It is chuck full of taboo topics and experiences. It is highly sexual, deviant and sometimes disturbing. It is my past, my experience, and what molded me. However to many, it will just be a book of erotica or otherwise disgusting material, depending on your own life experiences.

If you ask what happened to me when I was a child, I am likely to tell you a completely different story than my mother. We were both there in the same place at the same time. Yet somehow we see things from polar opposites. I know I was a victim, she thinks pretending it didn't happen means not having to deal with it. I wanted to talk about it, she wanted to sweep it under the carpet. I wanted to be empowered by my experiences, she wanted to make sure I didn't humiliate her. Emotion was the only difference in how we experienced things. The experiences were what they were. Undeniable. Ask her, they never happened. Ask me I will give you stories to make your head spin.

Memories are so easily twisted. We have an uncanny ability to use selective memory as a defense mechanism. We have choices in how they effect us and how we allow them to effect our relationships with people. I could have chosen to live the life of a child scorn. To fall back on that excuse for my misfortunes and bad choices. Instead I chose to own my experiences; to use them, learn from them. It taught me how not to behave, what not to do and how people want to be treated. I learned that sex was not love, and those that should love you the most sometimes dont. I also learned that everyone has become who they are by way of how they have digested their past, and that my way is not the only way. When I reflect on my memories I see that I should never have to be obligated to those that hurt me, no matter the relationship.

My experiences are mine. Even those that shared them with me cannot make the rules in what I take from them. I may not be able to alter what they take with them, but I don't have to feel guilty for not sharing the memory their way.

Riddle

I heard a riddle today. Its not a new one. And I'm sure I have heard it a few times before.

"A man and his son were in an automobile accident. The man died on the way to the hospital, but the boy was rushed into surgery. The emergency room surgeon said "I can't operate, that's my son!" How is this possible?"

I admit, at first my mind raced for the possible answers, as I am sure yours may be right now. I thought, grandfather, uncle, brother, anything that would combine male figure and family. Fortunately the answer came quickly, but not from me, from the radio host. The surgeon was his mother.

The conversation turned to the fact that in a study (and yes, I'm sure this was a completely unofficial study), all the adults that were asked this question had no correct answer. When this riddle was aired on All In The Family in the 70's most people would have been baffled, including children. However today, it was the children that had the answer. Apparently 60% of the kids that were asked this riddle came up with either the correct answer or guessed the son had two dads.

This says a lot about where we are today as a society. It shows progression, albeit small. It shows that people will naturally absorb what they are exposed to, or at least children will. Most kids dont know real gay couples, especially gay dads. But more than half of the kids quizzed, thought outside the conventional box. I couldn't be more outside of that box in reality, and still managed to be fooled into thinking inside it.

Our children are listening. They are paying attention. They have the ability to change the world. They will soon be the adults running this country. I have faith in them. If only I had faith in what we give them to work with.

The Other Box

I was talking to my 13 year old the other day about gender. She was questioning pronoun etiquette. She wanted to know if it was OK to ask someone that was obviously crossing gender lines what they preferred to be called. I told her that most people would rather be asked than called something that made their skin crawl.

The conversation then became focused on gender labels, male and female. While I don't openly discuss my gender fluidity with her, I guess I haven't hid it either. We were discussing a gender in between male and female, or one that included both. She piped in with "like you". I was taken back a bit at her observation, but responded with, "yes, like me". At that moment, from a parent's stand point, I wondered if that was an embarrassment for her. If I was giving her one more obstacle to get over. One more thing she needed to 'explain' to her friends.

We spent some time discussing what that 'other' box should say. She cited many example sentences that would make 'other' sound ridiculous or not as fair as male or female. "Other went to the store". She tried abbreviating it to 'oth'. And even in her joking manner, it was obvious even she knew that clearly there was no way to make the 'other' feel as comfortable as the male or female.

We talked for a bit about how different things would be if there truly was an additional gender. And how so many more people would fall into that category if given the opportunity. That people living with the hell of feeling they need to fit into one or the other box, sometimes don't ever find their true selves, no matter what they change on their bodies.

It wasn't a new conversation for me, but it was a eye opening conversation. I was proud that without direct conversation I had raised a kid to recognize people suffering with gender issues, and those that have found comfort in changing what they were born with. I was grateful that through no words, my kid knew that these were sensitive issues that she wanted to know about so as not to offend someone.

And most of all, I was happy that she knew me.

Someone Else's Dream

Its not news that music is seemingly vital to my existance. I gain and release a lot of emotion through music. I have a gazillion songs stored in my brain. I seem drawn to certain melodies and tones but not neceesarily genres. I listen to the lyrics and allow then to provoke me into reflection.

Yesterday I heard "living someone else's dream". I thought, "who's dream could I possibly be living?". Who would choose to grow up queer, after a nightmarish childhood, live with gender identity and mental illness issues, suffer a debilitating auto immune disorder and loathe themselves in every possible way? Who in their right mind would ever want what I have? Who would dream of this?

Then I realized. The people that don't have what I have would. People that wish they didn't go to bed alone every night. People that don't have a home. Those without a job. People that aren't driving a brand new car. Those suffering with real weight struggles, not the superficial ones I project on myself. The people who are already crippled and disabled from disease. Those that were not fortunate to have been born genetically intelligent. People with no ability to put forth their pain in words. The people that have been denied parenthood due to health, nature or law. These are what I take for granted as most people take for granted the things that they don't need to focus on, or work on so much.

We all see things in others we wish we saw in ourselves. Things that make us feel envious or even a little inadequate. However if we spend all of our time looking at what everyone else has, we will never be able to appreciate those that are looking at us.

The Suicide Door

Today's topic was going to be written from a purely selfish position. Although there are always people out there that will relate, the topic itself would have been fueled by me and how it effects me primarily. I decided that I needed to not only write for myself today, I felt obligated to write for others.

Yesterday I commented on someone's post regarding teenage suicide. The topic itself always hits home as I struggled with depression most of my life. As an adult I am more capable of finding ways to combat those feelings. I have more life experience which to draw from and more resources. Suicide kills more young people each year than traffic accidents. We spend a considerable amount of money in this country trying to keep our youth safe behind the wheel. Why don't we spend the same, or more, trying to keep our kids safe from their own sadness?

As I look back now, I can see how things unfolded in my life that created my depression. My friends knew little of it, my family chose to ignore it. I felt I had zero outlets and resources. Dysfunctional household relationships, violence, rejection, substance abuse, self esteem, sexual orientation, gender issues. Likely you know someone that has experienced at least some of the things listed above. Just living through one of those experiences can be enough to trigger an emotional imbalance.

I want to say I don't blame anyone when a suicide occurs, but actually I do. I don't believe for one minute the people that say "we never saw a sign". The signs are there. Someone doesn't become suicidal overnight. Anyone close to a young person should be able to see the signs. Even when teens are so off the wall and ever changing. The key is to 'know' these kids. Really know them. To form bonds and healthy relationships with them so you are in tune with the warning signs. Not all kids will sleep all day, cry all night, doodle dead people on their notebooks. Its not that simple. But they ALL exhibit some behavior that says "please, the door is open, come in and find me". All too often, people walk past the door or choose to ignore it.

The worst thing you can ever do for someone feeling suicidal, is to diminish those feelings. In an attempt to 'kick start' their strength, the most common response is "get over it". Many times all a person with suicidal ideations needs is validation that they are feeling bad. Trying to 'help' them ignore their feelings is the same thing as saying they don't exist. Even trying to explain why what they feel is irrational sends the same message. What that young person hears is "YOU are irrational".

I know from experience that suicide is not the first option you think of, and certainly not the end result you truly want. Its a long process of constantly being invalidated that eventually reinforces the notion that no matter what, no one is ever going to care or understand.

Its not easy to deal with young people these days. Its difficult to understand where they come from. Its distressing to see the world they live in. But one thing that has never changed are human feelings. They have them and they need to be acknowledged. It IS the responsibility of those close to them to learn these kids. To pay attention to these kids. To know when that door is open and to walk through.

Chasing Your Losses

I am not a gambler. But I am fueled by human instinct. And sometimes instinct overpowers common sense. For most people the natural response to loss is to first assess any way possible to reverse the situation. Even if we know there is no way to change the inevitable such as death of a loved one etc.

However we are geared to find the quickest way to find comfort. The path of least resistance. For most people the means trying to get back to where you were before feeling the sense of loss. Obviously we cant do this in many situations, but we do have control over that with others. We do have the ability to attempt to 'right the wrong'. We can try to make amends or forgive. We can pretend it didn't happen, or make promises that it wont again.

This is chasing a loss. Trying to make right a wrong that has adversely effected you. Spending time, money, and energy on an outcome that has already occurred. Sometimes it works. We see it 'work' in relationships all the time. We mess up, we grovel, we put it behind us. We have chased a loss, and corrected it. Or have we? Gambling. Losing money. Spending money in an attempt to recoup the loss. Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn't.

Loss is a part of life. A painful yet integral part of life. Because we are programmed to seek out comfort, most of us refuse to take loss and learn from it. To accept it for what it is. Nature tells us to lick our wounds the fastest possible way in order to 'heal' and move on. We, as a society, have discovered that going backwards is the way to do this. Run to the comfort zone. Unfortunately then you must relive those moments, albeit with variety, and most likely blinders on, to prevent the original loss from reoccurring.

So are we truly experiencing what we should be if we chase our losses? Isn't it better to live in the raw moment and experience life rather than rewinding and playing it again hoping for a different outcome?

Loss builds strength. Essential strength needed to tackle the next situation that may result in a painful moment. To not acknowledge that pain, to seek out comfort only, we deny ourselves the protection we need.

I am a who

An article I read today got me thinking. Thinking about how, even with the best of intentions, I have always come with an attachment of 'what' opposed to an explanation of 'who'.

Straight people don't carry labels that refer to their sexuality or their gender. Bob is rarely referred to as Bob the straight guy. Bob is usually linked to his job, his town or something of the like. Bob from Main Street, Bob in accounting. You get the idea. So why is it that Steve the gay guy is referred to as that? Why isn't Steve's address or job title indicative of who he is?

When people objectify others, even without a malicious intent, it immediately puts the one in reference in a position of minority in a negative way. Similar to referring to someone by skin color alone. It is unacceptable to refer to Barbara as "the black girl" so why is it OK to refer to Steve as "the gay guy"? While not OK in any circle Steve may travel, it seems acceptable as a society to describe Steve by his sexuality as if that is the majority of his makeup.

I am a lesbian. I get described as such often. Many times I think people are trying to show others that they are OK with my sexuality by saying it. It doesn't bother me in that I feel offended, however it bothers me that being a lesbian seems to be the first and foremost thing I have to offer. Its seems my ability to raise children properly, stay gainfully employed, manage a household, and stay committed in a long term relationship take a back seat to who I choose to sleep with. Add to that the knowledge that I am gender fluid and basically all normal perceptions of me as a productive part of society fall by the wayside and are completely unimportant.

If I was lucky enough to spend the majority of my life having lesbian sex and nothing else, I would hope someone would refer to me as the lesbian....you know THAT lesbian. Until then I would prefer to be referred to as who I am not what I am.

Today I feel like a woman

I responded to someone's blog today with the beginning sentence "as someone who struggles with gender....". I felt comfortable saying that. But do I struggle with my gender really? I think struggle is far too negative in this case.

I am as gender fluid as they come. I weave in and out of every variant there is, sometimes daily. I don't dislike any of it. I feel privileged to have the ability to feel, react, and do things from both sides of the street. Most days I am standing in the middle on the yellow line, waiting to see what comes rolling down the road and what side I will escape to. I like the flexibility. I like the protection it offers me.

What I truly struggle with, is my body. It doesn't have the ability to change with me. It fits so rarely, that most days I am plagued with the mismatch. When I stand on the yellow line, I want my body standing with me. I want to be genderless in shape and form as well as mind. I want to morph. But I cant. I could never permanently transition to something else, because no matter what I do to myself, I still wont always fit. I will always be missing one side or the other. Therein lies the true struggle.

But today. Today I feel like a woman. Today I fit what I own. I may not be happy with my body, but it fits. For as long as it lasts today, I will not have to stop my hips from slightly swaying as I walk. I wont have to constantly pull my shirt out to hang loosely on my chest. I can walk into the ladies room and not feel in violation of the women that belong in there.

I love being fluid. But I sure enjoy the break fitting the body I was born with affords me some days.

Nostalgia Lane

Yesterday I took a drive down nostalgia lane. Literally. I had to attend a wake near my home town. Actually I grew up in three different towns, but they were right next to each other. I took my daughter on a tour of places I lived and places that were memorable to me many moons ago.

The house I grew up in as a young child, until age eight, is by far the one I remember the most and would like to forget just as much. Sitting in front of it, I answered my daughter's questions about living there, while inside my thoughts, memories and feelings were reeling. Before I even looked at my house I looked at the neighbor's. THE neighbor's house. An overgrown tree prevented me from seeing the window that would eventually be the distraction that saved me.

I remembered the yard so much bigger than it was, the distance to my house seeming an eternity. I thought back to how I wondered why someone would let me go there unsupervised at such a young age, just turned five. Why the police would take me to a neighbors house up the street to speak to me when it was over. Why so far away? I now realize my going there was undetected because their back door was truly only twenty feet from my house. And taking me to the neighbors porch for questioning was simply to get me as far from that house as possible while they took him into custody. I still have no idea why it took them so long to find me.

I found it difficult to find happy memories from that street. In the few minutes I was there, I racked my brain for a time when I smiled, laughed, felt loved. I came up empty. A word that completely describes my childhood there. A time in my life that I was too young to control my surroundings. A time when I was unable to create my own reality, to rebel, to run away mentally.

I left that house in third grade. I was eight. I had a snow fort in the yard that winter. It was still standing as we prepared to leave for the final time. I hugged it. My snow fort. The only hug I truly gave all year. The only attachment to the first eight years of my life.

Wrong and Right

I think its accurate to say that when people do wrong things, we automatically think it causes a bad effect. When people do things right we associate that with good. Wrong is negative, bad is negative. Right is positive, good is positive. It makes sense.

Yesterday I was thinking about all of the 'wrong' things I have experienced, especially as a child. And honestly, as wrong as they were, they didn't all make me feel bad. In fact, some made me feel pretty good. That doesn't mean that they haven't effected me in ways that have been trying at times as an adult, but the feeling, when experienced, was not bad at all. Its no wonder people repeat certain cycles of abuse, especially when they are able to eroticize them.

I have a great disgust for those that preyed upon me. I find them weak and cowardly. I credit my morals and ethics for those feelings. If I were to allow my sensations to rule me, I may possibly have become one of them myself. We all have that choice. "I did it because it was done to me" is a cop out of the nth degree.

On the flip side, as much as I eroticize my past, I also find that what didn't feel so good then can creep up as an adult when it should be 'right'. Right doesn't always mean good. Someone sexually skilled with the best intentions has the unknown ability to toss a curve ball into the situation without warning. Most times it is simply a matter of the stimulation I need is just a little off the normal mark. So the curve ball may just result in boredom. However there are things that have happened in the bedroom that bring back moments that are not sexual at all but had a lasting negative effect. There are reasons I don't like certain sexual things, and reasons why I crave others. You might be surprised to learn that they have nothing to do with the experiences common sense would tell you they did.

Every connection we have is a direct result of who we are, where we come from and how we have processed the journey so far. You can know every factual thing there is about my past and have no idea how how I choose to use it. My mind has twisted, remembered, forgot and/or eroticized everything I have ever lived through. I have chosen to use those memories how they best suit me to live within the confines of my own morals, ethics and values.

Wrong isn't always bad. Right isn't always good. Its all in perception. How we choose to use it is what matters.

Internal Homophobia

I read the phrase internal homophobia yesterday. I found it pretty amazing that it was the first time I had even thought about such a topic, and more specifically how it does and doesn't relate to me. The definition is fairly blurred with so many people having their own experiences and opinions to base it on. But the concept in itself was very easy for me to understand.

I knew from a very early age that I was attracted to women. It took different forms throughout my growing up process due to situations and environment. I didn't truly understand the attraction and the need to be in a woman's company, since as a child it made no sense. I didn't dislike boys, and I don't now, they just didn't and still don't have anything to offer me emotionally.

As I grew to know that my feelings were genuine, no matter the reason, and that I was sexually attracted to women, I found myself very interested in the 'others' of the world. I had a keen gaydar and an even keener ability to pick out the straight ones that were approachable. I was drawn to the freaks of the world and loved the free spirit ways about them. I was drawn because I was unable to find that within myself.

I never thought that I was homophobic as I loved to surround myself with the most off the wall characters. I never hated that I liked women, so I had no fear of myself. What I was uncomfortable with was people being uncomfortable with me. I am still am. I want to blend in with the masses. I want to do what I do without wearing a sign. Not because I am ashamed of myself, but because I don't want to be different. I don't like being picked out of the crowd, judged and made opinions of, as they are usually wrong. I disliked those that were blatantly gay and 'stereotypical'. I always said it was because I didn't feel you needed to advertise, that it was fake. Now I realize that my feelings were dislike for my own self coupled with envy because I was not strong enough to be and do what I was and what I felt.

In a like crowd I am very outgoing, fun, loud, a leader. In a diverse crowd I am quiet, reserved and unsure. My comfort level determines everything, and unfortunately I am not usually comfortable. Am I internally homophobic? If I don't embrace my diversity within a group does that make me phobic of my own sexuality and gender confusion?

If fear is the premise that homophobia is based on, am I homophobic of my very self? If I choose not to take the risks of outing myself in every situation, or allowing my fluid gender to show, does that make me as bad as those that judge me when I do?

I love my complexities, my genders, my sexuality. I avoid those that cant love them completely. Is avoidance a product of phobic?

Euphoria

The air is heavy, the lights dim. A familiar smell of leather, latex and metal filling my senses. An atmosphere that allows me to walk with pride and confidence. As if nothing matters but who I am and who I am with. I feel no self consciousness parading through the crowd. Trying not to be an obvious voyeur, I glance at the scenes taking place around me. My hunger grows, even witnessing things of disinterest to me. Its not the scene that fuels my craving, its the connections I feel.

It seems my mind can race through a million thoughts in the amount of time it takes to cross the floor. What can I do to feed myself? Do you think they know how intense I am...or feel? Is there any way their submissive can connect on the level mine can? Who is feeling the energy exchange? Who is simply role playing? Will I be able to reach deep enough to achieve the dance?

The newer players stand out. Their excitement and desires obvious and uplifting. What they lack in experience, they make up for with anticipation and willingness. The older players more subdued, concentrating on honing skills and finding deeper connections. I relate to some, envy others. I wish I had a little of both within me. I miss the eagerness the most. Even before I make it to the other side of the room, I have replayed my most memorable moments. I recall the intensity, the desire, the wantonness. I picture the eyes looking up at me in pure adoration.

I allow myself one more scan of the dungeon. The sights and sounds intoxicating me. The painful cries, the primal moans, the marks that accompany them. I focus on the bottoms. For the skill set of the top is of little interest to me. Its the bottom that has control. The bottom that runs that show. The bottom that fills me with lust and things there are no words for.

I watch you set the bags down. I wait for your silent "I'm ready". When I hear this. Feel this. Somehow the room that filled me with such desire disappears. You become the euphoria.

MM

Paradise

I was recently on vacation in Hawaii. It was beautiful and laid back with perfect weather. It was filled with obvious tourists, but didn't seem inundated. The locals seemed genuine and willing to talk about, explain, and direct to the same things they probably do on a daily basis. Some times it was difficult to pick out on the beach who was a 'local' and who was on vacation. It seems that so many people that now call the island their home are obviously transplants and not native.

Its obvious why someone would chose to relocate to Hawaii. Its weather is amazing, and its atmosphere is guaranteed to make you lose your stress. There is little room for snobbery, and dress up means a newer floral print shirt than the one you had on yesterday. But what brought these people there to begin with? Was it a realization of love after a vacation there? Was it just a no-brainer? Who knows.

What I do know, is that these people have and had a lifestyle that allowed them to pick up and move to this paradise. A lifestyle that through lack of work, a flexible job, and/or little responsibility, afforded them the opportunity to pick up and go. I admit I was envious. And the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I regretted my life path. I pictured what life would have been had I been selfish and lived just for me. I thought about never having lived carefree. About how my responsibilities took hold of me way before my time, and have never ceased.

Then I thought about why I chose the path I did. How I like to take care of my family now that it is a choice not a mandate. How I appreciate my accomplishments and responsibilities. How I like the pride that goes with it. I thought about how incomplete I would feel if no one depended on me, especially emotionally. I remember how I gave up friends and good times and replaced them with children and work. And how much deeper one touches you over the other.

Yes, I would love to live with absolute freedom from life's quandaries. But I have realized my life's quandaries are not responsibilities or emotional attachments. Those are the very things I live for. I will stick to vacations in paradise.

Accidental Soldier

Accidental soldier. A phrase I am sure I have heard before but apparently never paid much mind to until about a week ago. I was at a music concert and that phrase happened to be in a song I hadn't heard before. I was very tuned in trying to 'hear' the words, since I felt the melody very strongly. Perhaps that is why the phrase grabbed hold of me. Accidental soldier. Yes I am.

An accidental soldier, to me, is someone who has had no choice but to fight in life. Someone who has been drafted into battles from which they must choose to live or die. Someone who wears scars, seen and unseen from situations they would never have chosen to put themselves into. Someone who fights for themselves and ultimately for others, known and unknown.

A soldier is not a victim. A soldier rises above. A soldier gives all they have to ensure the welfare of themselves and those they are fighting for. A soldier understands sacrifice is sometimes necessary, and entitlement is nonexistent. An accidental soldier is no different. A soldier by chance, but a soldier nonetheless.

As an accidental soldier, I have lived through my own battles. Taking them as they came, fighting to remain who I was and come out on the other side. I have won many, lost some. I have never asked to fight, but fought when it was necessary. I struggle with my scars, but appreciate what they represent. Survival. I wear my conquers with pride and dignity, but most times where no one can see them.

Accidental soldier. Proud of the victories, heavy-hearted from the war.

Phone call

The other day I was having a phone conversation with my mother. I sent her a picture text and being that she is old and cell phone challenged and near sighted, she thought it said she missed a call from me. So she called me 'back'. Hurray for me. I was not in the mood for a superficial conversation. Usually her calls entail passing judgment on someone or just obviously false terms of endearment. This particular conversation involved a woman that administered my mother's motorcycle road test many years ago.

My mother has pretended for quite some time now to be OK with my relationship. I know she isn't. She probably truly wants to be, but she isn't. So I hear the false tone in her voice that most people don't pick up on. The "Oh it's great to see you" comment translates to, "now I have to wonder if you are going to embarrass me". I am well aware of her fake demeanor, and honestly I no longer care. I think she thinks she has come a long way.

During the phone conversation regarding the motorcycle test lady, I mentioned that she must have passed my mothers friend Robert and not her because he was such a stud muffin. Those of us who know Robert, know he is a wonderful guy, but far from a stud muffin. My mother's reply, "That woman would have had a hard time even getting the attention of Robert......". She could have stopped there. I knew it was typical Robert teasing, and I got the point. However the comment continued..."or a woman for that matter. It wouldn't have mattered what her orientation was or wasn't."

Now I ask you, what was the purpose of that part of the comment? I am sure it was her attempt at showing me how 'cool' she is with gay people. Or perhaps it was her way of stating that even in the worse case scenario (gay) this woman was going to stay lonely. Her comment reminded me of the racist comments some of my elderly family members made long ago. They never quite understood that by adding "He was a nice guy THOUGH" or "I know SOME I really like" or "I went to school with ONE" you don't neutralize the rest of the racist comment. And its no different with my mother. By trying to 'add' in a gay reference where it doesn't need to be, it just says to me that she is still ignorant and does not accept me entirely.

I cant say that I spend too much time worrying about what my mother has to think anymore. Her thought processes have caused enough damage to my life already. However, I will keep diligent on whose calls I answer next time.

Mechanically inclined

I was putting together a new scooter last evening. It was shipped disassembled but with assurance "it is only a matter of two bolts." Cool, no problem.

After spending 45 minutes just disassembling the steel frame it was shipped in, I noted ten separate pieces, a couple bags full of various bolts, nuts, washers, and screws, and no instructions. Hmmmmmmmm.

Now, I am a pretty mechanically inclined person. I can fix most common things on a car and I have many years as a motorcycle enthusiast to know the basic mechanics of those as well. This is why I chose not to pay for assembly. Ultimately, after thinking, sorting, thinking, sorting, I finally figured out what pieces belonged to what bolts etc. In the end I prevailed and after a couple of hours I was able to take my first trip around the block. Wheels stayed on, nothing fell off, electronics did their job. I was proud of my accomplishment.

I'm really not writing about my mechanic skills however. I wanted to write about how I felt putting that scooter together. Typically I am very self conscious about everything I do, wear, say etc. But when I am engrossed in my latest butch project, I don't feel any of that. I love the sweat, the grime, the pride in fixing something. I am not aware of my hair or how my T Shirt is laying on my big breasts. I feel very untouchable and capable of anything in those moments.

I wish I was able to understand what it was that happens during those times that enables me to remove myself from the constant self judgment I do. I would love to feel that big and strong and confident and unaware of my flaws all the time, not just then.

Maybe I am just more comfortable in a more masculine role. That maybe my self consciousness is the female in me. Perhaps my lack of fitting the societal norm for 'woman' keeps me from ever feeling comfortable. And when I am working, and dirty, and being more masculine in activity, it fits more of who I really am. I am a female that is able to problem solve and think, and a male who is physically capable of handling the task at hand. Perhaps it is in those moments that I am neither male or female, but my own gender. The one that is me.

Fish

I have no idea how fish operate. I don't understand their behavior and have never looked into whether or not they even have genuine thought processes. However, I do not need to know how they operate scientifically to appreciate the relationship I sat and watched last night in a giant tank.

The tank sits in the waiting room of my doctor's office. Ten years ago there were about a half a dozen pair of fish. Each having a mate or friend or whatever of their species or breed. It looked very balanced. Today, many of those fish have been replaced. Three of the originals remain and are quite large. They no longer have partners. As a matter of fact, none of the fish have a matching species in the tank. The tank didn't appear as aesthetically pleasing with the mismatched fish, and if at that moment I thought fish could actually have feelings, I felt sorry for them.

I went from simply watching the fish to almost studying them. I could pick out who ruled the tank and who didn't. I was able to see what part of the tank each had chosen as their own domain. I watched other fish trespass and the owners balk. I still wondered if these were actions from thought processes or simple instinct.

There was a gourami fish that was small and must have been relatively new to the tank due to its size. Another new addition was some sort of goldfish with a mouth that remained open in the shape of an 'O'. It appeared that both of these fish had claimed the same territory as they appeared to take turns in each others spot.

As I watched these two fish it was very apparent they were actually interacting with each other on purpose. They seemed to be 'playing'. One would coax the other in a very childlike fashion to come near. They spent a lot of time 'kissing' each other. The gourami seemed to be more in control with the goldfish seeking the attention. If the gourami swam away, the goldfish looked for it. It really looked like this goldfish was smitten and almost needed the gourami to share its space. If I didn't know better, and actually I don't, I would say this was indeed a love affair of a very innocent kind.

I was very touched by the attention they gave each other. I have never witnessed fish paying what looked like adoration to a fish that was not its species. Perhaps it happens all the time, I have just never seen it. Either way, it just made me very aware of how even the simplest of animals in our world have the ability to see past the obvious differences in each other.

Its saddens me that the most complex animals, us, cant seem to get past the most simplest of diversities.

Soul Mate

In two weeks it will be 18 years since my best friend died. I have a particularly hard time dealing with it since the anniversary date falls on my birthday. I also still live with the guilt that I, albeit not responsible for his death, could have very well prevented it. However, this post is not about guilt and what ifs. Its about the relationship I shared with him and how it forever changed my viewpoint on what a soul mate truly is.

Most people, when asked, would say soul mate refers to two people sharing an intense unusual love, including sexuality and intimacy. We all think that soul mate refers to the one person who you can be yourself with no matter what. We view the relationship in terms of marriage or permanent commitment. What we don't usually acknowledge is the fact that soul mate doesn't always have to be about sexual relationships.

My best friend Richard was indeed my soul mate. On the outside our friendship seemed that of convenience, both of us taking what we needed from the other to push on through a very troubled time in both of our lives. But that very convenience is what connected us. Each one of us relying on each other for an incredible amount of things, both tangible and emotional. Richard was gay, as am I. We had absolutely no desire to 'be' with each other. Yet we shared a bond that went beyond what intimacy usually brings to the relationship.

As much as I loved Richard. As much as I needed him. He drove me crazy. It was like always having to be with myself. And I didn't necessarily like myself very much. Richard was a junkie and a drunk. We was loud and rude and flamboyant in public. He was embarrassing at times and would let his passion over rule his common sense. He was violent at times. His behavior an unfortunate side effect of drugs and alcohol. And I knew this. I was the only one capable of seeing who he was, who he was hiding behind and what he had to offer. A gentle sad soul lost in a world that didn't fit him. That is where we connected.

I received a call from Richard the night before my birthday. He was drunk and loud. He wanted a ride to my house to crash. I refused. The baby was asleep and frankly I didn't want to deal with him in the sober state I was in. He hung up on me. The next morning I received a call saying he was dead. After the phone call with me he allowed someone to shoot him up with heroin at the party. It was a lethal injection.

My heart still aches for him. There is hardly a day that passes that something doesnt remind me of him. There are so few memories of the behavior he displayed that people avoided at all cost. What memories I can still recall are the tender moments. The vulnerable times. The need we had to balance each other out. We were soul mates. We walked the same path inside. It was difficult to breathe alone. We shared a love that didn't include sex and obligation. It was genuine with no strings attached.

I learned a lot from Richard. I learned what I needed in my life and I certainly learned what I didn't. I learned that love and connection don't come in the form of sexuality. That sexuality and intimacy are a by product that don't truly dictate how your soul feels.

I have photos and trinkets that still link me to Richard. But I will always have a hole in my soul where he used to belong.

Striped Shirt

In a reply to a post I wrote last week, a friend refereed to those not fitting the societal norm as "others". And how we, as others, rarely have the opportunity to be who we are without some political stigma attached.

Keeping emotions aside, when I am in a group, as I often am, with no other 'others', I tend to try to fit in instead of allowing myself to be who I am. I don't feel it should have to be my job to familiarize who I am to people. I dont think that throwing my diversity into their faces helps them find tolerance. I think it puts me in more of a compromising position than I was to begin with.

Why does being who I am have to be about my pride, about representing something. Why do I have to constantly fight for my position? You don't hear people greet each other normally as "Hi, I'm Bob, I'm straight. Just wanted to get that out there because you will hear about it later". However that is exactly how I feel I need to be. I come with a label and a disclaimer. "Pleased to meet you. Yes I am a lesbian. And yes I look a little gender confused. And no, you don't need to hide your wife or worry that I am undressing you with my eyes".

So most times I say nothing and feel half of my whole. It seems easier than being a freak show. Even in the most gay friendly group of straight people, someone is talking about you, even if only in their own head. I understand its intriguing to some. I understand they are trying to see what makes me tick. But honestly it is exhausting. I am so conscious of everything I say and do in a group setting in order to minimize those thoughts.

My presence is all about my sexuality. There is hardly a time when my presence is about who I am. I am my sexuality and my preference, the rest of me comes after that. And while I have absolutely no problem with people knowing who I love, I have a real problem with that being who I am to most people. "You know, the lesbian over there." Instead of "You know, Bob, the guy in the striped shirt".

No one ever sees my striped shirt.

Chicken or the egg

While I was traveling over the weekend, I had the opportunity to do a lot of thinking. As usual I was playing my IPod and allowing myself to mentally go from space to space as the music changed. I started to wonder if people would be interested in the effects music has on my brain and its ability to make me switch. I thought maybe I would pursue a research or study team to check it out. I find it fascinating, even if no one else does.

The act of what I refer to as 'switching' can be looked at from many angles. I suppose the most notable might be the possibility that it is a product of mental instability. That its a manifestation of post traumatic experiences and borderline personality disorder. A simple case (well not so simple) of personality identity disorder. Another strong possibility is that I truly am both genders and physically there are multiple sides to me.

Since music has such a big influence on my emotions, I began to wonder if the fluidity I experience in gender is emotionally based or physically based, or both. It is very apparent that emotionally I am in different places when in different spaces. And it is also apparent that I am physically in different places as well. I have noticed that my hand writing, my driving style, the way I walk or carry myself, is all dependent on 'who' I am in that moment.

Do my emotions change the physical state or is a physical change (eg: brain chemical or neuro activity) changing my emotions? Rationally I would think that most things are emotionally based and therefore behavioral, but I am not so sure I am ready to give in to rationale on this one. I can say, with the utmost certainty that I truly believe I am both genders. I have way too many characteristics to say otherwise. Characteristics that are not just behavioral. And being able to trace these attributes back to childhood well before I would have taught myself to behave differently just makes me think I am not just a girl.

So my research project would be to see if there are chemical or neurological changes that take place when I 'shift' from one gender to the other. And then to decide if emotionally I can cause those changes (if they exist) or if those changes are causing my difference in emotion.

Certainly not your classic chicken or the egg experiment.

What Can I do For You

I am dealing with a particular situation within my relationship. Not a bad situation, quite the opposite. We have made a collective decision to find a common dynamic between us that seems to have found its way to the back burner. The dynamic was what brought us together in the first place. It was who we were to each other, who we grew from, who we experienced many firsts through and who we truly are as people deep down. Unfortunately it is the easiest dynamic we share to overlook. Most likely because they are the pieces of us that need the least nurturing. However, out of sight truly is out of mind. Out of mind means neglecting who we are as a whole and allowing pieces of us to fall by the way side.

My role in this particular dynamic is quite dominant. I make the rules, I make the decisions, I dictate what occurs. Well one would assume that to be the way things unfold. In actuality, it is much more complex than that. I, as the dominant force in the relationship also have the responsibility of self humility and humbleness. It is my job to find what works for everyone. Being a bully is not an option. Brow beating one to fit my desires is counterproductive. As the dominant one in the relationship it is my job to see that everyone is taken care of.

Yes, it is my way or the highway. And yes, I can be very demanding. But always. And I mean always, those demands are made in a way that my needs are met and so are those providing for those needs. The dynamic is intricate and particularly difficult to share within the realm of every day life. Those that say they live this way 24/7 are probably not being completely honest. There are some that can manage, but with jobs, family, children, chores etc, it becomes exceedingly difficult.

I have seen many relationships start out very deeply committed to their D/s dynamic. I have also seen most of those relationships die. Many times vanilla life becomes something they cant overcome and usually don't wish to share together. My situation is different. We were very committed to our D/s relationship. For many years. But we did grow to add everyday life as well. And I do wish to share that as well. But we have let life take over and that original commitment seems to be a memory. A memory I am determined to add to.

I am the dominant. I am the Ma'am, the Daddy, the Mistress, the Sir. I am the boss. But I am humble and gracious and nurturing. I want you near me. I want to give you a reason to want that too. And so I ask, what can I do for you?

The Wedding

I attended a wedding this weekend. A young family member on my partner's side. No one in actual relation to me was there.

Weddings are bitter sweet for a lot of people I think. You go there, expecting to be elated for the couple, and instead find yourself questioning your own life. Some people looked genuinely happy to be there for the couple, some looked miserable because they just realized they aren't in love, some are just drunk fools, and then there's me.

We were the only (that I know of) gay couple that attended. And while the bride's family (and blood relatives of my partner) are well aware, accepting and welcoming of me and our relationship, I cant help but feel like the red headed step child.

I know "its 2010" and people are "cool(er)" with gay people, especially the ever popular and trendy lesbian. However, I had many reasons why I didn't wish to be the 'token' anything at this wedding. Some of it is fear from decades ago. Some of it is the fear instilled by my mother that I reflect poorly on my family. And a lot of it is simple respect drilled into my head as a child. I was brought up that if there was a possibility you, your actions, your clothing, whatever would offend someone in some way, you don't go, do that, or wear it, etc. This didn't just teach me respect, it taught me to loathe myself and fear every single situation I encounter that is new. But this piece is not about my mother or my self esteem. Its about the deep sadness all of that creates.

I have been with the same woman going on 14 years. That is longer than the majority of people at that wedding could say about their relationships. I share a very passionate love with my partner and have wooed her continuously since day one. I am a hopeless romantic and spend an uncountable about of time choosing and making gifts that are meaningful. I send flowers and chocolate dipped fruit to the house just because. There is hardly a time I walk into a store and leave without something for her, even it is just the Peppermint Patty she likes. I choose to spend my free time with her, and have happily given up nights out and friends for that time. We always go to bed together at the same time. We still brush our teeth together. We have 'our songs' and 'my song', the one even she doesn't know is for her.

As I sat at my table during the wedding, I watched. Watched all the young couples and a few married couples interact. The mood in the air at a wedding brings out more lovey behavior in most people. None of them seemed to share the deep connection we do though. However, they shared the one thing that I deperately wanted to but couldnt.......a dance. As I sit here now I can feel the tears well up at the realization that we probably loved each other more than most people in that room, and yet I was unable to share a moment that they all took for granted.

Could I have danced? Sure. Would it have been the end of the world? No probably not. But I have seen and felt first hand the possibilities that can exist. I have felt the stares, heard the whispers and have even been removed from the premises because I took that chance before. I have lost family, friends and invitations to return.

Being the romantic in the relationship, I may be the only one that shares in this sadness. The question "did they even play any slow songs?" was asked of me. My reply, simply stated, "yes, a lot of them". What I didn't say was, "they even played my song".

Owned

According to urban definition, owned refers to what is otherwise known as embarrassing or beating someone, and calling attention to the 'epic fail'. I don't speak urban anything. I speak middle aged pompous ass sarcasm mostly.

According to good old Webster, owned can mean a variety of things. Most commonly, it means to have or possess as property, or being had or possessed by someone, having an owner.

My idea of owned is probably a little risque for the average Joe, but I assume the average Joe isn't reading this so I will share.

Ownership in my world isn't about staking claim to someone. It isn't about an opportunity to puff up my chest and say "MINE". It isn't about finding someone to crawl behind me. The only things those own is a title of cowardly bully.

Ownership for me is about finding a connection with someone, a trust so deep that their soul screams to belong to you. A connection that makes me only half a person without it. Its about learning everything about someone's psyche. Its about getting into their head, their mind and peeling away the layers until you reach the raw core.

Being owned is not about being a doormat. Or about being taken advantage of and demeaned. Its about being held highly with the utmost respect and allowing someone the gift of owning you. Its about knowing although you don't control the time and place, you do control the energy.

Ownership is unfortunately given up way too easily and with little regard. Ownership is also taken unjustly and abused all too often.

I am not really sure where I am going with this today. Maybe it is just my round about way of thanking someone for knowing who they were, what they deserved and allowing me to receive that gift. My acknowledgment that submission is a sign of strength and not of weakness. My gratitude for making my journey possible through you.

Owned. Never taken for granted.

Nurture the Entire List

In light of some positive writing feedback, vivid dreams, and questions from a friend, my head has been inundated with the thoughts, and the missing of sadomasochism in my life.

A wise man once told me that you should never allow your D/s relationships to die under the pressure of vanilla life. Apparently I am too stubborn to listen to wisdom. In all fairness, it takes two to tango, and I am not the only one to blame for the diminishing desire, but I certainly didn't have to go along with that plan.

In the twenty plus years I have been involved in the dark seedy world of kink (that was a joke folks), I have had times when the lifestyle came dead last on the priority list. Not because I opted to place it there, but because other perceived essentials ranked higher. However, we seem to neglect things that make us different before we neglect things that we as a society deem normal.

When we allow society to dictate what should be important to us, we short change ourselves. We pretend to believe that our needs and desires for anything else should not over shadow our 'normal' life's expectation. And this holds true for all things different, not just kink. If its been oppressed or put in a taboo box, it should end up at the end of the nurturing list. And until today, I might have agreed with that.

Yesterday I wrote about hair pulling. It flowed out of my fingertips like lava. It came freely and intensely hot. It was written in about 2 minutes (or as long as it takes me to type that many words). I had to put zero thought into that post.

The day before I had a friend seek intimate advice from my dominant viewpoint. Again, no thought necessary. The answers came quickly and easily. I enjoyed the conversation, the memories and the offering of my experience. In fact, I was a tad bit envious that it wasn't me.

Last night I dreamed of woman standing, restrained and beautifully marked. I remember thinking how beautiful she looked. Not because she was pretty, because I could not even see her face. But because she was so eager and hungry and marked with the most delicious signs that only a masochist is willing to wear. Her sounds made me sad. Sad I was not sharing in the moment.

In a very mundane moment yesterday, I remembered my wife, my submissive, and a moment we shared together long ago. It wasn't about pain or play or sex, it was a simple moment of trust. A trust that is capable of giving me butterflies when I think about it. I suddenly felt a huge appreciation for who she was and what she gave me. I wondered if she would do that today. I reached my hand out and rested it on her back. She, having no idea where I was in thought, most likely thought nothing of it. I was hoping she would 'feel' me.

I know life has changed for me. But only because I have allowed it to. And perhaps my days of hard core heavy play is behind me. I am not getting any younger or any stronger, but its never really been about that for me. Its been about allowing who I am, at my core, to surface and be received. Its about not taking pieces and keeping them stuffed out of view because it doesn't fit in with the rest of the 'list'.

A wise man also once told me that I should listen to myself. I think this time, I will allow myself to hear the wisdom.