experimenting with more poetry

Road Trip




I want to take a road trip with you Dear.
The sunroof open, crumpled chip bags littering the floor mats,
and plastic cups of fountain soda so enormous they won't fit into the cup holders


The important thing is
don't leave without me
as you are so often inclined to do.


Or maybe we can time travel together
back to the days before psychotherapy, prozac, and twelve-step meetings.
When everyone managed to get along or else secretly poisoned each other,
a slip of Bella Donna into blood red wine.


You say you are willing to talk
but when is that portal of opportunity
ever open?


Perhaps it is wiser to just hold you in my dreams.
My head silent and still on the pillow as it fills with images of you
playing the romantic conqueror.
A role both of us know nothing about


So kiss me my love,
and I promise to be satisfied
inhaling your arid breath into mine.

10 reasons why I am with an unavailable man

My boyfriend is unavailable.  Emotionally and even most of the time physically as well.  In fact he is so unavailable that if you were to look up the word 'unavailable' in the dictionary you would find his name written there as the definition.  Such a cliche but it's true.


And it's my own fault that I stay with him.  Yet to say that I choose to stay doesn't accurately describe it, because many times I don't feel that I have a choice.  I lack the power of choice.  I have been programmed from a young age to accomodate emotionally unavailable men, and even though I have had years of therapy and countless "ah-ha" self-realization moments, my relationships don't seem to get any better.  After all these years I still can't resist a good fixer-upper.  If only my hobby was houses not men.


So for all you healthy, full-to-the-brim-with-self-esteem women out there let me try to explain why I am still with my unavailable man:  


#1 He tries.  To some extent I think he really wants to be there for me....if only in his world it were possible .  


#2  His smell intoxicates me like no other lover I have ever had.  Once I get near enough to catch a whiff I lose all reason.


#3  He's cool.  And my inner high school student still can't resist that handsome/intelligent/hip badboy combination.  In silicon valley, the land of tech nerds, where I live he stands out like a peacock among pigeons.  


 #4  Past lives together?


#5  When he does manage to show up he is spectacular.  This includes the sex which is phenomenal and the cuddling which he excels at.


#6  I obviously have not finished working through my unavailable father issues.


#7  (probably in relation to #6) he is a broken man and I feel compelled to help heal him (not, God Forbid, hurt him further by breaking up with him).


#8  I have an OCD reaction to his hair.  It is thick and black and wavy with a gorgeous shock of white in the front that kind of fans out and I must, at all costs, run my fingers through it.  It is a true obsession - I cannot not run my fingers through his hair!

#9  He engages me intellectually and creatively and as we all know, a woman's greatest erogenous zone is her mind.

#10  I live in a perpetual fantasy land where things are always just about to get better - all on their own.

I guess what it all boils down to is this:  I haven't had enough yet.

trying to love me

here's a game I like to play.....


I love the chubby me
I love the restless me
I love the fearful me
I love the cranky me
I love the me that settles
I love the me in baggy flannel pajamas and unwashed hair
I love the tired me
I love the bitter me
I love the me that reads trashy romance novels
I love the soft tender vulnerable me
I love the failed me
I love the childless me
I love the addictive me
I love the me with the constant credit card debt
I love the single me
I love the selfish me
I love the lonely me
I love the isolated me
I love the horny me
I love the dilittante me
I love the judgmental me
I love the me that makes mistakes 
I love the me that can't forgive
I love the me that can't let go
I love the me that makes obsessive lists.....
I love me

more poetry drama

Catholic

crimson robes swish by single file

the monks’ chanting echoes in stone pillared halls

where moss grows on the north side

We could be in Rome

so rich and sugared my back teeth ache

that is the measure of our relationship my love

when you deign to care

the translucent petals of my heart unfurl

but apparently you still have a penance to pay

veiled and unholy

in this city demon gargoyles look over the ledge

not to leap but to judge

full of rancid jealousy

a wound left unhealed

what am I to do now

the angels want to know

what am I to do 

with this fragile husk you have left me

my manifesto

Once again I am in tears of hopelessness and frustration after yet another dating website disappointment.


E-Harmony didn't work.  Plenty Of Fish didn't work.  Match.com didn't work.  And the truly cringe-worthy thing about it all is that my skeevy, skirt-chasing, ex-hairdresser Antonio was chosen as a match for me on every single one of those sites.  I know for a fact he is just a horn-dog, allergic to relationships, and is only on line to hit up as many women as possible.  And this is the kind of man they are trying to set me up with.  Yuck!  No thank you!


Instead I have resorted to a frenzy of shopping and ice cream binging as the only possible consolation left to me in this world.  I am out of control.


Then last night, in an effort to wrest myself from the pity-party, I came up with a manifesto for me to live by - something to shore me up in my hours of loneliness and desperation.  Here it is (don't worry it is short):


I believe that the beauty of art and nature is worth living for.


I believe I will always be at the mercy of my addictions.


I believe that the only way to redeem myself in this life is to help others.


That's all.

no longer just another fag hag

I have often said that I am a gay man trapped in a woman's body.  My first teacher-crush was on Mr. L my French teacher freshman year of high school, and he was as effeminate as they come God bless him.  His whole demeanor screamed homosexual but I refused to acknowledge it because he made my heart flutter. Ever since then I have been attracted to gay men while at the same time being a most seriously straight woman.  I suppose that just makes me a fag hag, but recently I have come upon a better solution.  The solution's name is "Carlos".


"Carlos" is a guy I have started seeing and he is what Sex and The City so quaintly referred to as the gay straight man.  In other words he is a straight guy with all the admirable qualities of a gay man ie: he likes to shop, knows his Jo Malone from his Tory Birch, wears pink, and likes rough and raunchy sex.  In my eyes "Carlos" is the perfect blend: equally comfortable and confident with both his feminine and masculine sides.  


And being a gay man trapped in a woman's body I love taking it in the back door (if you know what I mean) and "Carlos", being a gay straight man, likes the same.  We are an esthetic and sexual match made in heaven - so I bought my first strap-on for us just the other day.   Now I can't decide what I am more excited about, taking the new sex toy for a test run or going shopping together at Barney's this weekend.  Either way, it's like having a hunky boyfriend and an amusing girlfriend all rolled into one.  I am smitten.

healer/whore

I have been fascinated with hookers ever since I was nine and my uncle was babysitting me.  I was put to bed and my uncle went to the living room to watch a cop show on tv.  Having trouble falling asleep, I got up and wandered into the living room.  My attention was instantly riveted to the tv screen where a curious cluster of women loitered on a city street corner.  They were wearing the most flamboyant outfits I had ever seen:  hot pants and striped stalkings, outrageously high platforms and glitter baseball jackets (this was the 70’s after all).  I couldn’t stop staring.  Who were those women I asked my uncle.  He told me they were called hookers and did certain illegal activities with men but beyond that he wouldn’t elaborate.  He literally had to drag me back to bed and I fell asleep wondering what if would be like to dress so provocatively and earn the attention of all who passed by.

Obviously there is much more to being a prostitute than dressing immodestly but I felt that I related to those ladies on a deeper level as well.  It was intrinsic.  But how, as a pre-adolescent, was I aware?  Did I have a past life as a prostitute?  Or did I just resonate with the archetype.  It was as if I knew I would be spending a life time selling my soul to fix the broken man.  I have never exchanged sex for money but I am an emotional whore nonetheless (others may prefer to call it co-dependent).  I don’t know if all this makes me sound like a feminist or an anti-feminist so let’s just call me a sympathizer.  

But I have this theory that hookers are the unsung healers of this world.  After all, did not Mary Magdalene anoint Jesus’s feet with her own hair? Hookers take in all the aggressions, all the perversions, all the degradations, and all the loneliness of the human race, dished out to them on an hourly basis.  Of course the same could be said of therapists I suppose.  But the hooker takes it viscerally.  She is like a shock-absorber, a giant sponge soaked in blood and cum, and spit and shame.  Twisted and used, the only way to cope with all these unwanted energies of others is to turn to booze and drugs to numb the darkness imposed upon her. And then she is reviled for being a junkie as well.  Or perhaps it is the other way around where the demons of drug addiction drove her to sell herself.  But either way these women are being of the ultimate service, and is not service one of the most valued spiritual traits?  This is not to say every whore has a heart of gold.  Oh no, I’m sure they can be avaricious, calculating, and self-serving too.  Like the rest of us.  

Though not an expert on biblical figures or life on the streets, I do feel this:  whores should not be looked down upon as the scum of the earth.  I say look upon them as sinner AND saint.  They are doing a job, some as high powered business women, others as the victims of circumstance, that precious few of us would want to do. It is just unfortunate that taking on the taboos of mankind is associated with abasement and indignity. 

I try my hand at poetry....please don't laugh

Zodiac




On the verge of love and revelation
you gave me nothing to work with


Emotional water signs
wear me down
Washing over me
with their erratic nature
Until I am driftwood
twisted and worn, detached and lost
from myself and the world


Surely passion does not equal
sustainability
As I struggle to make it right


But bare down on me, wear me away
until I am so tired I retreat
into the land of sleep dreams
and oblivion
For I am mercurial too

faux queens, cross-dressers & Mrs. Doubtfire

I think I may have found my niche in life.  I think I am meant to be a Faux Queen and I can't believe I have already gone so long without even knowing what a Faux Queen was.  For those of you who are unenlightened as I once was, a Faux Queen is a woman dressing up as a Drag Queen.  In other words, it is a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman.  Fabulous isn't it!?!  Now I no longer have to be just another fag hag.  And I no longer have to date cross-dressers either - I can be a cross-dresser.  It's the perfect excuse to be all-out glam as glam can be!  Because I tell you, dating straight male cross-dressers was not nearly as glamorous and sexy as I thought it would be.


First of all,  I found that there was really only room for one vain glamour girl in the relationship.  It seemed to me that many cross-dressers needed constant attention and affirmation of how pretty they were, and I began to resent that they were getting all the attention.  Secondly, straight male cross-dressers came in all different styles ranging from Aladin's Princess Jasmine to the somewhat less delicate look of Mrs. Doubtfire.  It may be a sweeping generalization to say this but the really stylish and glossy looking cross-dressers were gay.  The straight guys, well..... let's jus say that they often needed a little help styling.  


Also, I was hoping to develop an fascinating new fetish for myself but it turned out that when in drag many of these cross-dressers liked to take a submissive role when it came to sex. The problem is that I do too.  I like a man who has throwdown - even if he is wearing a corset and garters.   So it wasn't long before I decided to "be just friends" with my lovely cross-dressing connections, and I chalk it all up to an interesting experiment.


Because what it all boils down to for me is playing dress up.  My two most favorite games as a little girl were 1. playing dress up in my mother's discarded cocktail frocks and costume jewelry and 2. dressing and undressing my Barbies.  I'm sure I did both well past the recommended age just because I loved it so much.  But now that I get to be a Faux Queen I can play dress up as an adult!  I can do the dramatic makeup - do the outrageous (yet ever so stunning) outfits.  And maybe, just maybe, one of these days I will get up the nerve to perform.