Rebuttal To Justice Scalia

Dear Justice Scalia,
     Sodomy will not be in my wedding vows, so why is it in your dissent?


Thank you,

A Human Who Loves 

Left Of Queer

Y’A

Despite the fact that she gets jealous if I even mention speaking with a lesbian, and by speaking I mean giving a lesbian directions to the L train, Jess wants me to date. For reasons unknown to me, she is pushing me to get laid or maybe split my rent with a young lady. I haven't figured it out yet. What she doesn't understand is that New York isn't really the lesbian wonderland she thinks it is. In her eyes, New York is fucking Lesbos. There are subtle realities that I have tried to drill into her, with futile results. So as far as this post goes, I will plead my case and she will undoubtedly plead hers. 

There are many obstacles with me, Y'A, dating in NY. Firstly, when Jess was a lil Jersey dyke she would come to the village in complete awe.  At the same time, I was hanging out in the same village in complete boredom. NY is a city of 8 million solitary folks. It’s a welcoming city if you are a smoker or a drinker. Drink and smoke at any bar in NY and you will find a friend. That's where the friendliness ends. You can't look at someone on the train without getting into a creep-out contest. Jess doesn't believe in picking up straphangers anyway. I'm listening to Macklemore and reading a book about Anxiety on the train, not at all engaging in society.  

Another obstacle is the type of women I like. On the Kinsey scale of sexuality, RuPaul is a 1 and Leslie Feinberg is a 6. I don't do extremes, so I'm not into 1 or 6. I would conservatively consider myself a 3.5, or at most, a 4.  My ideal girl would be in the 3-5 range. Complicated enough?  I'll go deeper, or more accurately, come up more shallow. If you have shit in your back pockets, I heart you. If, as a profession, you wear something around your waist: rig [gun belt], tool belt, EMS gear, fire department equipment…I heart you more. Essentially, not to sound narcissistic, I like girls that are like me – a chick who rides a bike for the sport of riding and not just to be green. Relax vagetarians, I'm green. I like girls that are completely unaware of their own skin. I like all women and according to Jess, NY is full of women. NY is definitely full of women…That won't date me. I see the hottest, dykiest tomboys ever eye-fuck the hell out of me on a weekly basis and then watch the internal struggle as they fight their good sense not to talk to me. I don't/didn't care because I don't date. But with Jess' insistence, I'm noticing more and more the women that I am most attracted to usually fight their attraction towards me. This is the gay reality in NY. It really is dykes lining up two by two in heteronormative pairings. It’s the Noah’s Ark of lesbianism. The problem is I'm far from normal. 

 Jess

NYC is a gay mecca. At the tender age of 18, I took to the streets of Manhattan to declare my gayness and find respite in the comfort of kindred souls. I wandered through the village, St. Mark’s Place, Washington Square Park in complete awe that NO ONE was looking at me. NO ONE gave a fuck that I was giggling and holding hands with my first real gf. I have always believed, after growing up in a town that prided itself on being wholly working class, a touch racist, and completely hetero, that NYC was OZ of the Gays. Y’A, however, has painted a very different picture.  NY is place where 8.245 million people look through one another, and by doing this, miss the unique atoms buried in the meat of each of us. It’s true that our initial attraction to people is usually skin deep. We see hair/eyes/lips/teeth/chin/ears and immediately decide if a look is/is not favorable. For lesbians, we get all kinds of messages transmitted by society about what a couple should look like – male with female. Since we pair up vagina y vagina, I think many of us revert back to that comfortable pairing – femme and butch.  I’m not going to wax poetic about the sociological and psychological reasonings for this (also, Y’A stole my soap box so there’s nowhere for me to stand while proselytizing). It just makes it hard to date, plain and fucking simple. 

During the OKCupid Chronicles, it became apparent that the chicks I found attractive and messaged were not necessarily out there searching for me! What does a middle of the road, not too femme, not too butch, female oriented lesbian do? Grow my hair out, slap on lipstick, and try not to break my neck in a pair of heels? Or chop the hair, buy more button downs, and dig out that long ago lost visor? It was oddly apparent that a whole lot about dating was based on appearances, and not just the overall cute vs uncute – it was based on gender expression. One need only to spend 5 minutes on Craigslist w4w to read countless ads with titles like ‘Lady 4 dis Stud’, Where all da gud Studs at’, ‘First time femme for femme’, ‘Butch Bottom’, ‘Single Femme lookin for a Daddy’. It goes on and on and on and on.           

So will Y’A find her 3-5 Kinsey scale dyke in shining armor? Who knows? Given what I now know about the complexities of even talking to another lesbian in NYC, I’m not so sure there is hope. I always believed dating was like the genetics theory – larger pool, better chances at survival. At this point I may try to convince Y’A to move to Missouri and shack up with the only other lesbo in town. At least the odds would be in her favor.  Or, I will enthusiastically applaud any and all gestures made toward a fellow lesbian, even if it’s only giving directions.   

Who Is This Guy?

REAL TALK: I wish this was funny

My brother has been out of prison for four weeks. His freedom has created interestingly frustrating challenges for me. There are obvious major differences in us. I'm smart enough to adjust. Unfortunately, he is not. Here's a little background which I believe is the root of the problem.

Y'A
I grew up in a quiet neighborhood in Queens the youngest of three adopted kids. I wouldn't say my mother was strict. I would say my mother was insane. She had rules for everything. When you eat; how you dress; when you can use the phone, etc. I swear that woman must have had OCD. While talking to my sibs as adults, I realize we all have OCD. Thanks mom. I was a very good student. I graduated college. I have a career. . . By no stretch of the imagination did my Mom and I get along. She died when I was 23. As I get older, I do realize that I miss subtle things about her. My mom let me be weird. She let my OCD grow to its full bloom. She let me dress the way I wanted to dress when I was a kid. I appreciate that now that I'm a thoroughly weird adult. As a kid, I viewed my mom's sensibilities as psychotic, but now as an adult, I'm slowly beginning to realize I'm turning into my mother. This is probably because I feel like I am raising my 37 year old brother. While in my house I told him to pull his pants up. I said you can't coming here looking like that and I had to repeatedly tell him to cover his mouth while he coughed. That does not bode well for Michael. My mom would have giving this guy the boot three weeks ago.

Michael
 . . . . . . .
Yup. That's it. I know as much about him now as I did four weeks ago. As much as I pepper this dude with questions, all of his stories are shifty. He never looks me in the eye and I told him he is the worst liar I have ever met. I told him we are supposed to be getting to know each other. I know HOW he is. I don't know WHO he is. Upon meeting me, it should take you about twenty minutes to realize that I will probably never get a drug reference and I don't speak slang. At all. I don't even understand slang. This means I understand about 30% of what Michael says. Every time I see him [which at this point is too many times], he talks about weed like I know what he is talking about. Michael's best friend is named "They". "They" and weed come up a lot. For example: I asked Michael about his Parole Officer. He said [I couldn't repeat it if I fucking tried cause I had to ask him several times to  repeat himself] "They" told him she is the best Parole Officer and she won't turn you in if you have a dirty piss test. I swear to fucking God he said this. I basically told him "They" will get his ass back in prison. He also told me about his friend from prison who is now "Pimpin' Hoes". His friend asked Michael if he wanted to be in on the action. Michael apparently being a feminist, declined because he "can't believe these women do not have self respect and that's not the kind of crime I want to commit". So I asked "What kind of crimes do you want to commit Michael?" Stammer, Stammer, Stammer. I asked him how often he thinks about smoking weed since I know more about that than I do about him. I told him he needs to stop listening to "They", don't pimp hoes, and maybe he needs a meeting about his desire to smoke a blunt. He said he only thinks about it once a week. Right.

My main problem with him is he has no concept of boundaries. He asked me to put his name on my mailbox and I refused. At this point, a whole bunch of shit started coming to my house with his name on it. He was pissed I wouldn't put his name on the box, but I don't care. I never gave it another thought. That is until I came home yesterday. I opened my mailbox and in there is a letter addressed to someone named Mark MY LAST NAME/Michael HIS FUCKING ALIAS. Michael 1-Y'A 0. I flipped my lid. This guy had his friend send mail to my house using a fake name that included my actual legal surname. This is just the tip of the iceberg of all of the things he has done that will eventually cause an aneurysm. If I met this guy under different circumstances, I would never speak to him again. The problem is I don't want to speak to him again. He seems to not give two shits about what my job is for him to do all of these things including using my name. He disrespects my hospitality and I'm running out of patience. The reality is, Michael has been looking for me since he was 5 years old. He made a promise to our birth mother that he would find me. He found me. Meanwhile, there is a huge divide. I am not 3. I am a responsible nerd that basically grew up in the suburbs and I don't understand how this man can roam the streets all day begging to get into trouble. You would think he would at least pretend otherwise in front of me. But like I said, he is a terrible liar. His "tell" is consciousness. If he is awake, he is lying. It is no wonder that he spent most of his adult life in prison. I have to figure out something fast or this will be a short reunion.

Dope Fiend Love

My co-worker has what Jess and I refer to as ‘dope fiend love’.  You’ve witnessed it. You may have even suffered from it.  My co-worker, who will be known as DF, is afflicted with ‘move out of my condo in a gated community to live with my useless unemployed boyfriend in a shitty apartment in Jamaica’ love. She's going broke, losing her mind, and has unceremoniously abandoned her family. This is the kind of love where you trust your partner to sell their ass to pay for your common addiction. I have always been envious of this kind of love. The closest I ever got was ‘I'll pay your tuition’ love. With that kind of love you always want something in return. Like for your paramour to actually graduate.

Since I am forced to watch DF rapidly fall off the deep end, I started to think about all of the egregious things I have done in the name of love in comparison. She has abandoned her home. That is no lie. In her home are all of her possessions, including her prized doll collection and her turtle. Let me repeat. Her very much alive, bigger than a dinner plate, turtle. Said turtle can climb out of her tank. I wonder if she lumbers to the kitchen to cook dinner cause no one is there to feed her. I scanned all of my previous sins and nothing compares to this.

Now there is some cheating. I will admit, I reacted to my ex's repeated infidelity in pure dope fiend fashion. She cheated with one of my best friends from HS, with a co-worker, with another coworker…passively I took it all. We argued, but I took it. It wasn't until she casually told me while playing pool for my birthday that while kissing the last coworker she felt that she wasn't gay cause she "didn't feel anything". I appreciated this valuable info on my birthday. That was the last straw. I didn't rile up my coworkers in an attempt to get them to kick her ass. Like DF did. On Christmas. 

I think the worst was listening to my ex’s grandma call me all kinds of dyke in Spanish. DF’s boyfriend's mother calls her a "Nigger". Not the n-word, but the actual word.  There is no way around a white woman calling a black woman that to her face. We all have our limits. Even though my ex loved to talk shit, a lot, the n-word in full pronunciation is something I would not bear.

What could be better than always having someone there to champion every bad fucking decision I make? The low expectations are very enticing. For example, the fact that your paramour makes it home in one piece, or at all, is a bonus; or that he/she has sworn off all other women/men/friends/baby-mommas/children (claimed and unclaimed). This includes cutting off daily contact with his/her mother, because she is obviously your competition for affection.

All told, I don't think I have the capacity for dope fiend love. As much as I want the deep passion that goes along with going into debt for your boo, there is something about being in a 10 year relationship with someone who still owes money to Blockbuster in my name that kind of enlightens me to the whole ordeal.

The Answer to Gay Marriaged

I've been pseudo gay-divorced (the answer to pseudo gay-married) for three years.  One would think the division of property, rights, and abuses would have ended like two years ago.  I am not so lucky, or so smart.  Gay divorce is not covered in civil procedure.  The break up is private; the division is never one size fits all.  I know a lesbian who left all of her worldly belongings in the house she shared with her partner and just walked away.  She left the couch, the spatula, her clothes, everything.  This seemed like an excellent way to move forward.  Unfortunately, when you’re staring down the barrel of lost love and forlorn madness, you hold tightly to anything and everything that is up for grabs.   

My ex was petty, and we were both fairly unstable during this difficult time.  We both said and did things we are not proud of, though it was indicative of our relationship on a whole and spoke to why I finally ended it.  One such example of our near inability to let go was The Bathmat Fight. I had started to venture out to stores on my own, something I had not done in ten years.  I picked out a shower curtain and a bathmat that I loved. ‘I’ was not a word or statement made in a very, very long time.  Later, this bathmat would appear on the chopping block. My ex fought tooth and nail for the luxurious purple bathmat I had chosen for my new apartment.  What I realized is that all materials acquired in one domicile are shared in the cocoon of ‘us’ until the absolute last minute of the relationship. 

Case in point – I took the responsibility in the breakup of housing all our shared crap.  Why? Because my parents have a large basement.  So really, it is not I who harbors our past life, it is my poor parents who have been staring at boxes and totes for three years.  I’m sure they’re thinking ‘WTF is up with lesbians?’  Our books and tee shirts and vacation memorabilia and tchotchkes and VHS collection and my record collection and all of her work gear from a former career have been lovingly packed and stored in south Jersey, far away from either of us.  Convenient because we don’t have to stare at our failure daily, or relive the pain of our separation, or deal with throwing away ten years of our life.  

These possessions have come back to haunt me many times over.  I received a text from the ex yesterday, she’s going to be in town soon visiting her mother. What an excellent opportunity to finally rid myself of this responsibility.  I told her she needs to get her stuff, it’s been long enough and my parents really want their basement back.  She responded in true form ‘Sure, I’ll take the couch and nice bookcase too while I’m there’.   Jab, stab, one-two punch.  We are NOT going to be adults about this.  Why the fuck am I arguing with someone I DIVORCED about shit that has basically become the property of my parents?? Despite the suggestions of friends and my current gf, I have not thrown her shit out or dropped it off at Goodwill.  I have maintained it, held onto it, kept it, honored it. I treated it as I treated our relationship, with respect.  And now she wants to take the couch? Which, by the way, would never fit in her small apartment in the Midwest, just as it does not fit in my small apartment in the Mid-Atlantic.   

Gay-divorce is ugly.  I wouldn't recommend it.  There is a joke amongst my friends – it goes like this ‘I know I USED to have a hair dryer, I remember my sister gave it to me cause she didn't like how it dried her hair.  It’s gotta be somewhere around here…..Oh, right, lost it in the divorce.’  ‘Where’s that damn System of a Down CD?  I know I had all their albums.  Oh, yeah, lost it in the divorce’.  Three years later and I’m still looking for shit I don’t have anymore! 

I spent my birthday alone this year. Quietly thanking the universe for 33 years and hoping for 33 more. There was one moment where I really broke down and felt lonely, then I saw the card the ex had sent and thought about every endless fight and the year we broke up when she kicked me awake while I slept on the floor of our second bedroom trying desperately to carve space between us, and I truly felt gratitude for those experiences that built me strong enough to weather that storm, to create something new, to appreciate the silence, to keep moving forward.