Wedding Prom

I don't believe in marriage. I never have and I never will. I don't believe it is necessary for women in 2015. Except the gays. They should get married. There is something about the romanticism of tradition that makes so much sense when you fight just to love. Loving women came so effortlessly to me that it makes sense that I should want to spend the rest of my life with one. I'm just not there yet. Having said all of that, here is a narcissistic tale about my friend getting married and it is all my fault.

A few years ago, after rekindling a friendship with my high school best friend, I introduced her to a co-worker. There is no altruism involved here at all. I am admittedly and unabashedly, a sick fuck. I needed my dear friend to leave me alone. After years of not speaking to each other, within minutes of being friends again, she started to follow me around like a puppy. It made me very uncomfortable. It was very similar to my high school boyfriend telling me he wanted to fuck me all the time, except she never outwardly said it. There were shenanigans and whispers and some such that it had to come to an end. At 35 and still a virgin, I thought a boyfriend would be good for her. So, when my co-worker said he was looking for a girlfriend, I jumped at the chance and introduced them. They met and the rest is history. Or so I thought.

It became quickly evident my friend was now dating my co-worker to make me happy. She lost her virginity to him before marriage to make me happy. This did nothing to her apparent lack of self-control when around me. She still found excuses to touch me. Still wrote me things. Still bought me random presents. I avoided her at all costs. She was with him at least 6 months and still couldn't keep her hands off me. Something had to give. I had to break up with her.

So I met up with her one day and said we needed to talk. I asked her if she wanted to tell me something. She said she loved her boyfriend. I asked her a bunch of questions and she gave me one answer: she loved her boyfriend. I started to feel violent towards her whenever she was around. That's how she made me feel. I reminded her that she is not my girlfriend. I told her she made me feel uncomfortable and I could not be around her anyone. She cried. I needed to leave. She told me she needed to use the restroom and please don't leave. I waited for her outside and she was relieved to see I was still there. She asked me for a hug and she rubbed her hands all up and down my back. I pushed her off of me and said "that's exactly what I have been saying" and she said "please don't stop talking to me".

She is getting married. To that oblivious boyfriend. He knows we don't speak anymore and has never asked her why. Talk about wanting to believe what's in front of you. He is planning the whole wedding alone. I asked him if he is concerned that she is showing zero interest in planning her own wedding and he said no. He has picked the color theme: YELLOW. She is Asian and is now under the misapprehension that she should wear a yellow fucking wedding dress. He has picked the venue: somewhere in a park in NY for the reception. He has picked the menu: hamburgers and hot dogs. What woman gets married in a yellow dress and feeds her wedding guests hot dogs? The only thing she has decided was that she doesn't want to spend any fucking money to marry her beloved. I feel like I should put a stop to this. This is all my fault.

Jess and I talk about our Wedding Prom we plan to throw all of the time. Dress to the nines, feast on fine food and drink and no future divorce on the books. We are equally excited. Suits are virtually picked out already. Never in our wildest dreams did we imagine the lackluster enthusiasm coming from a straight bride-to-be that I am dealing with here. I don't know how to set things right. This feels like a freight train that has lost control. I don't know what's right in this situation. All I know is this: I am a very proud lesbian who has never hidden her sexuality. My friend is why I don't believe in marriage. If you can't get up for your own wedding prom and it's for real, I don't know how I could have helped this pickle in the first place.

The Tribe

I am gay and adopted. I have always found it easier to tell people that I am gay rather than I am adopted. I am gay is straight forward. I love women. But when i tell people that I am adopted, I see it in their eyes. I see them trying to figure out why my mom gave me away. I never think about it. All I can say is I am fucking awesome and it is her loss.

And then there are the kids. Of course my mother didn't stop at me. There are 7 of us that I am aware of. That is 6 new people I have to come out to. 6 new people I am afraid to meet. I am very self aware. I am not just smart. I am smarter than the average person. Why? I'm adopted. I have been fighting against my genetics my whole life. I have OCD. I follow the rules. I break no laws . . .I am not the one seeking out a litter of adopted kids or foster kids fucked up by the system. I don't know how to relate to them. When I met my older brother with his prison slouch and in-articulation, I just looked at him and looked at him and saw myself in his face and then lost it. It is like everything that i worked for is face to face with me and I refuse to admit it. Am I that? Am I him? I'm not. Then he sends the little ones my way. They are younger. I see what young fucked up kids are like everyday at work. Am I them? Are they me? So one by one, they trickle into my life and I have to say "I am gay". Because I am 36.  Because I am proud of who I am. Because I love me. Because I know I was never anything but this nerd, but this loner, but this gay athlete, competitive, driven, introspective, intelligent . . .I can go on. Because I am way past begging for acceptance or forgiveness for my own adoption . . .I say I am gay. I say I am proud and I ask "Now what of it?" And I wait. I wait til these new young doppelgangers fuck up. They do. I wait cause despite our genetics, they know nothing of me. Except that I am gay. 

They say it. Those that remember her say it. That I look like our mother. They are a lil afraid of me as I am of them. And I wait until they say something beyond repair. So the one most like me. Sarcastic. Loner. Funny. Says some off handed shit like "oh I tolerate my gay manager." I ask "tolerate? So you tolerate me?" His response, little me. I am literally looking at a younger version of myself. We all look exactly like our mother. Every fucking one. So I look at him and wait til he tells me how he is tolerating me. He says "I'm not judging you" I respond " you aren't in a position to judge me" He says he tolerates the gays you know as long as his kid is a gay girl but if his son was transgender, he would give him, or more aptly her, up for adoption. So I ask, sitting next to one brother I met two weeks ago and one brother I met two hours ago and I ask "are you fucking serious? You think foster care and adoption is a way station for kids you don't consider perfect like you are?" They agreed.

I come out and I wait. I wait for me to catch my breath. I wait to tell these kids they no longer need to tolerate me. I hate my birth mother. I hate her for fucking up these kids. I hate her for being everything that I despise. Her irresponsibility forces me to look in the faces of young kids so ignorant that they can live in a shelter and still judge others. I hate that these kids feel there is a reason to throw a child away. I hate that I came out and waited and has probably decided to cut my losses and forget the Tribe.

All our times have come

I did 26 in the hole. The world had stopped moving and I stopped breathing. It was as if I was submerged. I kept having dreams that I was swimming under water, beneath current, sucking in great heaving breaths. My eyes went dark and I watched myself as a specter through my mind. There I was, driving to work, sobbing incoherently. Here I was again, having drinks with my gf, lost not only to myself.

I made a very pragmatic decision, based on arithmetic. Who would support me? Who would produce the most successful life? Who shared my goals and ambitions? There were charts and graphs and more than one Pros and Cons list. I agonized over the decision, though really there was never any question. I would stay with her. Lonely, ignored, unappreciated – it made the most fiscal sense. There were cats to raise and a pile of shared debt and rent to pay and oh, yeah – I had already invested in her education. That’s OUR degree baby.

There is so much I am sorry for, so much I wish I could change. Every death is his death. Every loss is my loss again, magnified. And still no one knows. And after all these years, who would even care?

Our lives are a sum total of the choices we have made. I made a choice to berate and begot and beg all the days of my life because unconditional seemed a moot point. He never asked for anything in return. He never stopped listening. He never gave up on me. Until he did.

I did 26 in the hole. The hole of my loss and his death and our undoing. I stopped moving and stopped breathing and wished with every fiber of my being to be taken down to the soil with him. I wished to lie under the earth in that cold, hard place where we return to ash because he wouldn't be with me any other way.

We All Fake It

Every time I attempt to try to understand the MTV Show Faking It, my thirteen year old heart feels a virtual blow from a former bully. I'm not going to lie to you. I didn't struggle to come out. I was always Y'A. I hated my mother up until the day she died and everyday I discover a fondness for this heinous, unaffectionate woman who saw in me what took me 18 years to see. I was me. My mother, by not focusing on my OCDness, by not focusing on my GAYness, made me feel pretty damn normal by default.
So what is my issue with Faking It? Every time I watch, my feelings are jumbled. I didn't have issues with my gayness as a kid, but that doesn't mean I didn't have problems and people didn't have problems with me. My gay ass was damn near last on the list of my struggles. I was called tomboy so much I found it insulting. There was always venom on the tongue like I should be in the house baking at 7 instead of running around. My mother called me a tomboy with no venom in the confines of our walls in our house like an observation. Everyone else said it like they knew me more than I did. Like they were telling me my future and it would be hard because I like to run and jump. Life is lived half out of the house. I have adoption identity issues that trump my gayness. I remember when I was in junior high school and high school when you "accidentally" let a friend go too far at your expense. They laugh a lil too hard and you allow it. My problem with the show is simple. We all fake who we are. We become who we are out of necessity, but in 2014 when the restrictions to marriage equality are falling what seems like daily, should we even promote the idea of faking sexuality? Should we watch a show about a girl clearly struggling with her sexuality get VERBALLY abused by her best friend? We have made so much progress. So much so, that I no longer have to come out. Not that I ever did. But finally my coworkers don't find it a requisite speech on my first day. 
Do we really want kids to think it is funny and cool to pretend to be gay? The realities that homeless trans and gay youth are faced with after they come out is not funny. I have a few coworkers that are in the closet at a job that has a no tolerance policy on discrimination. A job that is great in that respect. A job that has many gay and lesbian employees. I have a job where I have to pretend to be stupid. I have co workers that stop speaking to me because they feared others would discover their long hidden sexuality. Even hidden from me. I have coworkers that run on the assumption that because I'm gay I understand, we nod and smile and are not seen in a corner alone talking. The show reminds me most of these people. This is why I know a 40 year old woman who just had a baby with her gf who is in the closet. What should be the happiest time in her life is shrouded in secrecy. I can't watch the show Faking It because we ALL know when people fake it is not funny at all.

Not An Addict

I learned my days of the week thus: Thursday my dad got paid. On Thursday, my dad came home a little later, arms full with parcels we were forbidden to touch. On Thursday, my mom would tell us the Pepsi in the refrigerator was our father's mixer. We couldn't have soda. Don't touch. We had rules. He didn't. Thursday thru Sunday we tried to ignore our father while he succeeded at ignoring us.

I drink everyday, but I am not my father. I pair; I savor; I enjoy. I lie. If I am honest, I don't know where the line is. If I am honest, I don't care. I don't come home after a long day of work to a family I hate to forget I exist. I am single. I love the quiet. I come home. I work on my body. I make a healthy meal and I pair it with wine or some white or brown liquor that will enhance its flavor. Seriously. I am not saying I'm not an alcoholic. What I am saying is I can't tell. If I am a cop I can watch a show called BLUE BLOODS and family dinners aren't complete without two bottles of wine, beer, and a scotch night cap. If I am a doctor, I can watch GREY'S ANATOMY and there is wine product placement. We live in a drinking culture. Who am I to resist?

The real problem with my society now is no one is left to judge me. I can judge a friend because they are broke and yet spend all of their money on booze. I can judge a co worker for the 2 bottle of wine nightly ritual and declining health. Who is left to judge me? I work out 6 days a week and eat healthily. There is really no checks and balances for someone who drinks everyday, fair trade or organic, just the doctor's recommended dose of red wine . . . . We should all let go. All embrace our inner Mad Men with a scotch, a cigar and zero inhibitions. I contend . . . I'm not an addict.

one drink

i have had that day before
when i start realizing and remembering
reflecting and admitting.
it always ends the same.
i weep and exclaim. i'm
rendered empty handed.
i don't count experience.
what do i have now?
nothing. empty handed
empty hearted.
i wish i was empty headed.

I have no furniture or My life as an emotional refugee

Jess

There is a disturbing phenomenon that I have noticed of late amongst my friends. We don’t own furniture. Now I don’t mean those hulking black walnut china closets our grandmothers would dust on Sunday or those Queen Anne wingback chairs your great aunt never let you sit in. No, I literally mean my friends and I, in our 30’s, don’t own normal, everyday, rest your arse, furniture. I’m not sure when the cross-over occurred. When I moved into my first apartment at 21 I had tons of furniture, all hand-me-downs my parents grudgingly gave up to their oldest daughter. My father, still kicking, surely would have requested he be buried with that damn orange velour sofa had it not lived in my apartment for many years (and met a TIMLEY demise when my ex ‘accidentally’ lit it on fire). Along with the sofa, I was given a kitchen table with chairs, book cases, an awesome green paisley Lay-Z-Boy, plastic deck chairs, and I used all of it! I can still hear my sister lamenting the fact that there would be nothing left for her when she eventually moved out (pretty sure I did her a favor). There’s some kind of magic that happens in your youth when you secure that first apartment. You feel like an adult and adults have furniture. My friends were no different – all of them accessorizing with cast offs from relatives, but at least no one had to awkwardly slouch against the wall like our living rooms were some kind of old man bar.

After I dug out my car this weekend, I was searching for a chair to hold my parking spot (parking chair – look it up) and I realized that if I wanted to save my spot, I’d have to sacrifice one of only TWO chairs I own. I no longer have a kitchen table and these two chairs are the last vestige of that suburban dream (it died in the divorce). I am careful to only invite over two friends at a time – they get the couch and I take the recliner. As I thought about it, it became apparent that I’m not the only one. My bestie has a habit of selling everything she owns every time she moves, and she likes to move. She bought a couch on Craigslist about two years ago and it’s a two seater. If you don’t call dibs, you are shit out of luck and stuck on the floor with the dog. My buddy JR had to split up his adult living room set when his gf moved to a different city for a better job prospect. I’m sure the couch believed it would one day be reunited with the love seat, but as I had already foreseen, they are on the rocks and the furniture set will remain incomplete. He doesn’t have a kitchen table either and it’s no wonder we never invite anyone else to hang out – no one wants to be squished on the sofa.  

Everything I own is left over from the adult life I led in a LTR when buying furniture and setting down roots was the ten year plan. When I shrugged off that relationship to emerge anew, I slowly starting destroying the furniture we shared. It was too big for my too small single-life apartment. I replaced it with economic, space-saving pieces from Ikea that were never meant to last the long haul. There is impermanence to my generation. We went from stable 20-somethings to nomadic, unsure 30 year olds. Everything I thought I’d have by this age, everything I was working toward at 22, is now a distant memory as I sit slouched at my Ikea computer desk, sitting on a new $20 plastic desk chair (I sacrificed the old, broken kitchen chair to hold my parking spot). 

Y'A

Jess wants to know how people in their thirties can still live like they are on a college campus. Well sit down. Here is why. I assure you this is not a sad story. It is just a life. When I was unceremoniously kicked out of the home in which I was raised a year after my mom died, I moved to Brooklyn. I hated Brooklyn and the only reason why I was willing to venture this far west was because my girlfriend at the time, Michelle, swore she would help me AND help me adjust. I lived in a Brownstone in Bed Stuy. I fixed it up like a home. Pictures of my nephew and my ex's son were literally covering every inch of the apartment. My landlord had two sons which was great for my nephew. Michelle spent most of her time in my house. It was small. I wasn't used to the neighborhood, but it was me and I was stressed, but felt safe. That is, until my landlord's husband beat the shit out of her unbeknownst to me. I was upstairs and didn't hear any of it. She left and I was evicted. Michelle and I were off again after a "respect my house" type of argument. I asked her for my keys and I was faced with finding a new place fast. The prospect of being homeless with my nephew weighed heavily on me and yet Michelle outright refused to help me. She refused to listen to me. So that's how I ended up in Bushwick. Further west . . . I was so far away from where I grew up, I would dream of the house in which I used to live. When I had to pack . . . took down every picture . . . I admired the fresh paint job Michelle and I did in the bedroom, I knew I never wanted to have that home-ripped-out -from –under- me feeling again. I now live like I am not quite unpacked. Don't want to make too many footprints here. We were in Bushwick for five years before I told my nephew we could get new furniture and paint his room. I was flush with cash and there was no excuse. I was also in no jeopardy of being evicted. Then my landlord said he was planning a million dollar remodel of the apartment building. I told my nephew and he was disappointed. The remodel, of course, never happened. Divorce rearing its ugly head again. So now I have been in my apartment for ten years with barely any furniture because I am afraid of packing and afraid of finality and I always have to be on the move. I am always careful of making more memories in a place not mine. I am in the beginning stages of buying my own house. Above all else, I think about the furniture and the painting and the garden and office with the bookshelves lining the walls. I don't even think about the neighborhood. I just think about what I would do with a place that is actually mine and can't be capriciously taken away. 

It's Cool They Say. I Wish I Could They Say

I killed my sister last night. It wasn't planned, but I knew eventually it was going to happen. She asked me to meet her somewhere for something. It was strange since we have had no contact since my mother died 13 years ago. I showed up and we met basically at the end of an alley. I am flanked by two buildings and only one way out . . . Fuck me. As soon as she sees me she makes a hand motion and two of her daughters, my nieces, come out of nowhere. My sister begins to berate me. I feel really small. I am wont to retreat; to slink back with my esteem and not berate myself for coming here in the first place. I look behind me. I'm fucked. My nieces begin to pummel me of course. I am a tiny person. I can only defend myself to a certain degree since I am outweighed and outnumbered. I am on the ground thinking about what I have on me and realize I have pepper spray. They are enjoying this too much. They are giving me way too much time on the ground to think. I rise to my feet and spray the idiot closest to me in the eyes. I actually thought for a second if she had asthma and I sprayed her again. She goes backwards blindly as I spray her sister. At this point it is just me and my big sister. I throw the can of pepper spray to the ground and I pounce on her. I straddle her and I pound her head into the ground. I pound and I pound and I don't remember if I am saying anything. Am I explaining to her what I am about to do? Am I grunting? All I know is that I am slamming her head into the ground and I can't stop. But I do. There is no more head to pulverize. I stop. I stand up and fall to my knees shaking. I am crying an uncontrollable cry. I am not crying because I killed her. I am crying because of how it feels to kill someone with your bare hands. That out of body, auto-pilot feeling that you are not yourself. I am crying because I was so full of hatred for my sister. This hatred was born of hatred. This hatred was born of abuse and I burned all of that hatred out of my body with every pound of her head on the ground. Every sound and splatter brought relief. It is finally over.

When I woke up I was shaking. And I needed a hug. The thing that people don't realize about lucid dreaming is it isn't a dream for me until I wake up. When I wake up, I am tired from all of the running and falling and slamming of heads into the ground as it were. This morning my arms were tired and my eyes hurt. It is scary as well. I am not only a lucid dreamer, but I can control my dreams. I could have easily gotten out of the dream once I realized it was an ambush. Sometimes I'll do this with myself. I want to see what my brain will come up with as if I am learning more about myself. I knew I would kill my sister. It was the only way out of that situation. But I guess what I expected out of the dream was not the actual feeling of killing someone with my bare hands. Whatever it is I expected, I did not get. Lucid dreaming is a curse and nothing to be envied. Look at me. I'm killing my sister and exhausted all day. It's not fun kids.

Rules of Entanglement

I created a list of dating rules years ago. This list has served me well. When Jess decided to dive into the dating pool a few years ago, I made sure to share this invaluable resource. She clearly took the rules to heart. Case in point – I found out only yesterday that Jess’s favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. If I knew this three years ago, we wouldn’t be friends today. For me, dating is an exercise in transferring the “I want to fuck you” energy into “I want to do more than fuck you” energy. By that standard, your favorite book should never come up on date one or two, or even eight for that matter.

Commiserating with Jess about my last few dates (horrible!) prompted us to write down, formally, my rules of dating – to be used by all women kind. We want women to get out of their own way and let dating be fun again. Full disclosure, we are lesbians and we do consider ourselves experts on the Hows and Whys of women and dating (we are experts on any topic we discuss, but that’s for another post). These simple guidelines can and should be used by women of all orientations. It would make life a lot easier for the rest of us.

Let’s begin, shall we?

1. Getting to The First Date
Women like to play coy. That's not demeaning or misogynistic. It is a reality and lesbians are some of the biggest offenders. Women will lead you on a trail driven by pseudo aggressiveness and copious amounts of alcohol and wait for you to do the "heavy" lifting. Once a couple of rounds have been ordered, the waiting begins. This is where we drop the ball ladies. If you meet someone and you are PHYSICALLY attracted to them, ask them out. Do not wait for them to ask you. Like most guys, I will miss the signals that you are trying to send out that you want to see me again. It is just that simple. The person doesn't have to be your soul mate. If you like what you see, don't pass up an opportunity to ask to see it again.

2. THE First Date
The first date should be completely casual. Not too early and not too late. It should be a one on one opportunity for you to talk about nothing. That's right ladies. Nothing. On date one I don't know you. If your attire is clean and you are remotely amusing, date one should lead to date two 100% of the time. On my most recent “first date”, the chick I was entertaining acted as though we were competing for the same job. It was not fun. I was completely physically attracted to her, but as I sat there trying to mull over whether I wanted to see her again she kept dropping nuggets and nuggets of information that was making my second date decision pretty easy. She hates her dad. Why do I know this? At the end of the first date I want to be able to say "Sweet, we both love RuPaul's Drag Race" not "Shit, we both hate our dad". Good clean fun. That's what a first date should be all about.

3. The Marathon Date
No first date, or subsequent date for that matter, should last 12 hours. You do no need to spend an inordinate amount of time with someone you just met. Your date may regale you with exciting stories of her time in the Peace Corps or his years spent summering in Cape Cod. You may find this banter interesting, intelligent, introspective – insert I word here. STOP. There is plenty of time on date 2, 3, 4 5, 6, and even 7 to learn more about your potential mate, to build intimacy and comfort. A marathon date does nothing but give you a false sense of closeness, which can lead to #9, sans testing (YIKES!).

4. The Thirty Year Old Virgin
For all intents and purposes, when you begin to date someone new, you are a virgin. Not literally. No one wants to date an old virgin, but in the figurative sense you have no exes. I don't even know when you should ever hear about an ex. Seriously. It is hard to grasp who you are while you are telling me about people I have never met. Inevitably, I will sit there trying to figure out why they dumped you. There are subtle ways you can go about never talking about your exes. Some people have a tendency to fall into the trap of confusing "What's your type?" with "Tell me about your ex". To answer the former I generally say that I have no type. As for the latter, I say I have dated humans in the past.

5. I'm O+ and You?
I have a very strict two date mental illness declaration policy. By the second date I should know if you have been diagnosed with ANY and all mental illnesses. This also goes for transitioning gender and STDs. I have a couple of things you will need to know before anything gets serious. The only declaration on date one is that I'm gluten free. On date one, you will notice I have OCD, I will admit it and I will, for the rest of the date, stifle most of my tendencies. Full blown OCD comes date two. On date two, I need the option of saying I can handle your bipolar disorder since I already like you. Knowing this on date one will most likely not result in date two.

6. With Friends Like These
I was hanging out with a guy a couple of years back. I have known this guy most of my life. I was invited by a different friend to meet up at a bar and watch the NBA playoffs. I asked the guy if he wanted to go. That was a mistake. As soon as I showed up, my friend was giving me the tenth degree: Who was the guy? Why was I with a guy? I'm gay. What the fuck am I doing with a guy? I said relax, just watch the game. And I was relaxed until the guy I brought along decided to claim his territory and inform me we were dating. So…this was entirely my fault. I raised the stakes. Because I let this guy around my friends, he felt the need to amp it up a bit by saying something stupid like he and my gay ass were in a relationship. This anecdote was shared for your benefit to emphasize that the later you introduce your new love to your friends, the better. My last date was talking about her birthday plans with her bff and I asked about it because I genuinely wanted to see if I could hook them up with a nice place. She thought that was me begging for an invite. I said "Oh, I don't want to go. You guys have fun". She got mad. You should never be too eager to introduce someone to your friend. A week later you will have to explain why you can't bear to hear their name uttered. Take your time. Get to know the person and see if they are worth introducing to your chosen family and then your actual family.

7. Pretty lady want a cocktail?
Here is where the waters get murky. We’ve argued over this rule and come to no compromise. Y’A insists there be a one drink max during a date. She has consistently refused to follow her own advice. Jess feels that as an adult, she can mind her own drinking and read the situation to see what seems appropriate.

Y’A would like to interject and clarify: “Jess thinks a pitcher of Sangria equates one drink. I have done this. All it does is make me thirsty for real alcohol. If you are driving, one drink. Far from home, one drink. Anywhere in Brooklyn, one drink. Trust me.”   

Bottom line – don’t get shitfaced on the first date. Be your shiny new penny self until you receive some confirmation that this person genuinely likes you, then peel back the layers a bit and buy the pretty lady a cocktail.

8. NO SEX
Do not have sex on the first date. How about keeping it in your pants for the second date, too? Str8, Gay, Queer, Genderful – we’ve all made the same mistake and paid dearly for it later. After spending the equivalent of a nurse’s ER shift together, you may feel that you know this person, have made a judgment of character in the positive, and there is no reason to wait any longer to seal the deal. I implore you – wait! Just because he’s good with dogs and volunteers for a No Kill Shelter does not mean he isn’t over his ex gf and experimenting with some strange to see if he can get over her. (Lesbians, just fucking stop. Leave the U-Haul on the rental lot and calm down.)   

9. Sex

Now that we have ruled out sex, let's talk about sex. Whenever you decide to do the deed, you need to have a conversation or two before you are caught in an awkward situation. I am not going to waste time saying get tested for STDs. You know what to do at this point and if you don't know to get tested before sex, then I won't be having any sexy times with you. What I am talking about is what KIND of sex you are in to. I don't want to be revved up and all excited and then I find out you are a power bottom. What am I going to do with that? If you like spanking, cool. If you like biting, that’s even better. Full on humiliation, remember I’m a feminist. I just want to know if I need a strength and conditioning coach beforehand. In the gay community, there are tops, bottoms, verse, and switch - I don't get into any of that, which makes it all the more important to have that pre-coitus conversation. Allow me to illustrate = without this convo some chick could show up at my house with an uninvited duffel bag full of toys, leaving us both limp, blue, and floating in an ice bath. I think you get the point. 

10. Remember, this is supposed to be fun.

I Have Had It

I have decided to try something new and talk to women that actually like me or at least admit that they like me. I would 110% of the time prefer to be by myself. My friends say this is unhealthy so I literally stick my neck out there once a year to prove them wrong. Dating in NY sucks. In just a couple of encounters with one girl, I have endured ten personalities; clear frustration; demeaning behavior and why? So I can say I did it? Well I did and where does that get me? At some point, our society will have to accept that some people don't belong with other people. We are slowly accepting the reality that some people don't want to get married. I am willing to stand up and proudly admit that not only do I not want to get married, I also don't want to be coupled up. It is not that I am adverse to compromise. I am charming and personable and talkative and a great listener and I remember everything you say and I don't want to get married and I don't want to share my space and I cook every single day and I don't want to cook for you and I am the abnormal One. I meet a woman who wants to get married and that seems to be her only shining light. She hates kids. She hates life it seems and she definitely hates me. How does one navigate the world looking for a mate with such hate in their heart? We have all been wronged. We all hurt. We also know to put on our best clothes; take an extra long shower; smile brighter on a first date. We know if that new person wants to see us after, we have to somehow keep it going. We all have to express a little and reveal less. We have to keep them coming. We have to play the game. Without these mating rituals, where would we be? Some people think reciting their resume is enough. What I say to that is at some point I will stop thinking with my dick. You have to play the game to win at love. I have no gamesmanship, but I convince people anyway. Those who, in their thirties, haven't figured out who they are and how they relate to others keep me in my woman cave with wine, tequila and beer thanking God I haven't succumb to the pressure of the coupled.

. . .And In This Corner

I went on a first date last night. Admittedly, I met this chick in a dark bar and I have really bad eyesight. I was just hopeful that when she showed up, I didn't have a beer goggle situation. Originally, we were supposed to meet up Friday afternoon for a late lunch (read early dinner date). Originally, originally, I had suggested having lunch together in a casual and not-at-all-date-like-setting sometime during the week. Here’s the thing. I can’t eat shit. No gluten, milk, soy, eggs, nuts…you name it and I’m pretty sure I can’t eat it. I spent all week stressing out about trying to find a restaurant that fit my non-committal vibe and also served food I could eat. No easy feat, even in New York fucking City. I wanted to avoid a gluten-free place cause, let’s be honest, that just plain sucks. So I found a place and by the time I had it all figured out, she rescheduled. Fine. Saturday night dinner date it is. I gave up all control and let her pick the place with the soft instructions of no Italian and no Asian.

When she showed up she was still pretty. She then proceeded to spend 30 minutes making fun on my gluten-free ass. Within the first 5 minutes I was told I was not ‘date material’ because I don’t eat Italian food (which, unless GLUTEN-FREE, would kill me!!) and because I don’t eat/like cheese (still made out of milk last time I checked). If we had gone to the restaurant that I had stressed to find for our originally scheduled casual lunch soiree and she had acted like the ass she ended up being, I would have completely lost my shit. At this point I’m about half an hour into this ridiculousness and decide I’m in it for the story from here on out. I am a curious person with thick skin. It’ll be fun and logged for research.

I'm a lover not a fighter. I enjoy a hefty serving of spirited debate. My friends and I are most often debating sports, Harry Potter, and unfortunately, politics. I don't like fighting with girls. Girls I like. Girls I want to date. I see no need to argue.  By this standard, this date is a fight…of the cock or sword variety. Typically on a first date, I leave my cock and my sword at home. This gal was double fisted and raring to go. She gave me her ENTIRE resume. I feel like I should have taken notes in case I meet someone that wants to hire an over-educated know-it-all. She was really smart, which is always my thing. It was hard to get off on the smart when it was heavily shrouded in her bitter and jaded anti-pregnancy, anti-breast feeding, and anti-children diatribe. I LOVE children. And I said so kind of just to shut her up, to which her response was a pedophile joke. I shit you not. ALL of this happened on a first date. A pedophile joke that was really painful and I had to literally beg her not to keep going with it.

To add to the growing list of ‘things this chick hates’ she also hates my neighborhood. I hate my neighborhood, too. Somehow, without actually living there, she hates it more than I do. It was a sticking point throughout the entire date. I hate Brooklyn. I also hate all of the Bronx. That's because I'm from Queens and people from Queens hate everywhere except Queens. That is the sole reason I still haven't adjusted to living in Brooklyn for the last 12 years. I didn't need to talk about my hatred of Brooklyn, nor did I bring it up, but apparently this topic quite intrigued her. What’s worse, she interlaced her hate expression with a completely inappropriate bad sex story. ON OUR FIRST DATE! The bad sex girl lives in my neighborhood. She complained, quite accurately, about every piece of shit detail that I deal with on a daily basis living in my neighborhood during her story of going to this chick's house to get laid. I interrupted and said "that poor girl". She said "why that poor girl?" (Disclaimer: I generally say what's on my mind. Usually, people like the fresh and frank way I speak. Jess told me not to be normal Y'A on this date. I was so fucking muted I had to go to the bathroom and look myself in the mirror to remind myself of the shit talker I usually am. This spontaneous utterance was the first sign of true me.) As I thought about how I would answer this, I reminded myself that I don't like to argue with girls. Even her. A chick I certainly did not like at this point. So I come back quickly with "you cast aspersions on a girl because of where she lives." Nice save.

I understand first dates are nerve racking. You don't want to seem anxious or nervous and telling yourself not to be anxious causes anxiety. I stress about details and things like that because of my mild, barely noticeable, OCD. This girl was on another planet. Having an agenda on a first date is very common. Her agenda was to let everyone in the restaurant know she had the biggest dick. Unfortunately, she ended up just being a big dick. When she cracked a joke about me not coming home with her I said "I thought we established that 5 minutes into the date." Not a trace of sarcasm or humor. I think she got it. So I walked her to her car and she is doing her big dick walk and big dick talk and I told her she is just too competitive. She chuckled. I thought I was competitive. I will kick your ass in Wii Tennis guaranteed. This chick was on a completely different level. It’s called not fun.

As I got on the train I mused to myself about how this chick should apologize, but knew she definitely wouldn’t. Imagine my shock when I got a half-assed non-apology apology for her assholishness (my word not hers). She blamed it on fatigue and thanked me for hanging. I responded ‘Thanks and sleep well’, to which she got pissy. I am the Queen of apologizing by not apologizing. It is a really bad trait. I could smell this shit a mile away. How was I supposed to react? As I sit in my shitty apartment in my shitty neighborhood drinking a cold gluten free beer that's actually good (despite her making fun of it viciously), I had to give myself credit for being a fucking saint throughout this whole ordeal.

Know When To Say When

"Hi I have OCD and food allergies. Would you like to go on a date?"

"Sure"

"Great. Let's go a week from now. I'll OCD the hell out of the plans. It's going to be perfect [the way God intended it to be]"

Then it happens. Not the date, but she asked to reschedule. At this point I would rather her cancel entirely. Rescheduling just starts the OCD clock all over again. I'm not anxious, but my OCD is. My OCD is not quite sure I will be able to plan whatever it is we are now going to do on no notice. So, I have decided to lay caution to the wind and not think about it at all. I'm going to try to do this date thing like the rest of you people. By the seat of my pants. I must give her major kudos for letting me know 24 hours in advance though... 

The moment you know you can't or don't want to make the date, inform the other person immediately. This might be the first sign that you are barking up the wrong tree. I once had a girl who shall remain nameless [EE] who would invite me to any and everything. I didn't even know these were dates that I was saying no to until Jess told me. She wasn't getting it. Not only was I the wrong tree, she would tell me I'm the wrong tree repeatedly. I didn't get it. I chalked it up to schizophrenia and cut her off.

My friend suffers the same daft inability to see real life. By not taking the hint, he goes around being a door mat. The weirdest thing is he is a HE. I didn't think guys had these problems. He meets these guys, sets up dates and they consistently cancel. He then hounds these guys to reschedule with bated breath. I feel bad for him. Why? Because he calls me close to tears when these guys consistently bail on him and I have to say "He's just not that into you".

So where will I go with this chick whenever she wants to actually go out? I have absolutely no idea. That is pretty refreshing. How long will this new found freedom for my brain last? I have no idea. I'm willing to bet it will last up until the minute she texts me again. In the meantime, I will take myself on a date today. I'm never late and I'm easy breezy. Clearly.

My Ten Commandments

10. I promise never to be compelled to take a selfie in the bathroom of my local Outback Steakhouse (or any public restroom).

9. I can’t wear makeup and if I could, I wouldn't, because all natural is hot and no matter how many times I hear I would look pretty with whatever, I’m not convinced. And I like imperfect teeth. Not meth mouth, just teeth that have character.

8. Never judge a book by its cover. I like women. Strong women. Smart women. Short haired women. Athletic women. OPINIONATED women. I don’t care how you dress. Have something to say and we can be friends. Gender expression is not sexuality. Just love.

7. I like to bite… ;)

6. Thou shalt not admit to liking Miley Cyrus. Rihanna is OK because of the, ummm, you know, artistic value of her, errr, videos and the message she is trying to convey. Errrr, yeah, so again no Miley Cyrus.

5. I’m a gay boy trapped in a lesbian’s body. I can’t explain it, but I enjoy the hell out of it.

4. Cleanliness is next to godliness. And I don’t believe in the traditional god, just the god of clean ass. So worship in the shower altar twice a day.

3. I promise no matter how drunk I get, I will never talk about my ex.

2. I do not believe in monogamy. The plus is I never cheat. The minus is I never lie. The bonus is a completely stress free relationship.

1. I will never marry. I know what I would like to wear. I know how I would have my wedding. I envision this all at gunpoint. I believe in love. Soul crushing, all encompassing love. I don’t believe legally sanctioned love makes it sparkle any more than it already does. Love free, live free, fuck marriage.

I'm Off The Sex

I'm officially off the sex. Well technically, you have to be on the sex to get off the sex. So technically speaking. sex is no longer on the table in the future, but like I said I wasn't previously offering it up as a main course on said table. So more accurately, I give up. I know my problem. I haven't dated in so long, I really don't understand the rules anymore. So I'm on the train reading my tablet today and people board what must have been 42nd st. I'm reading my tablet doing the introverted thing. Someone boards the train and stands in front of me. Let me be specific. This person, crotch first, is adjusting their position in front of me. I'm not paying attention. Adjust. Adjust. The train is not crowded enough for all of this. One more adjustment and the shoes of the person touch my bag. Enough already. I put my tablet in my bag and look squarely at the crotch positioned inches away from my face. I look up. I look up and down. Good GOD the hot dyke who clearly wanted to get my attention whose crotch stood before me was hot. Cute as hell. Black pants with a brown belt. Brown oxford shoes with turquoise shoe strings. Grey button down with the sleeves rolled up to the mid forearm. This chick was very fucking  cute. So what the hell was all of that primal bullshit going on before I actually looked at her? I personally like to keep my crotch as far away from everyone while on the train. I think it is rude. So some chick comes on the train does all of this bullshit to get my attention and says not one word to me. It doesn't make sense. And this is the reason why I am done. I haven't dated in so long, that I have no patience for the games and I don't get the rules. I'm more of a text me 4 days before you want to hang out kind of girl. So when girls do this and they do do this, I have no idea how to react. Is this the mating call of the modern lesbian? The kindergarten notice me notice me sort of way. If hot crotch would have said anything to me, I would have stayed on the train instead of savoring her crotch for one stop. 

Golf, Tennis, and Other White People Stuff

My co-worker likes to play the "If We Were Slaves" game. If you have never heard of this game, thank god for your blessings. It is a game I could only conclude was made by an only child who spent summers alone and wanted to distinguish herself from her imaginary friends. At least once a week she plays this game to her immense amusement, while I silently weep for the future.  Here goes: "If we were slaves, we would both be house Negroes, but I [she] would most likely be confused for an out of state cousin." You get it? We are both fair skinned, but she is the fairest one of all. This clearly means the world to her. I would rather be invisible when she says it. At work.  To the public. It is funny that she is obsessed with her lightness and yet everything I do is considered "White People Shit".  I love asparagus. White People Shit. I asked what I should eat as a black person and the answer was green beans. I like salad, raw spinach and kale and I sauté instead of frying. I read everything and do research and love the violin and I don't listen to rap music. White. People. Shit. The biggest laugh had at my expense was the word "cutlery".  I use the word regularly as would be expected from someone smart enough not to waste time saying three words that have been neatly summed up into one. Cutlery. A huge confused laugh was had. "Who says that?"  Who doesn't?  What should I have said?  "Forks, Knives, and Spoons"? What idiot would say three words when one has been created to sum it up nicely? This was also White People Shit, but more specifically, I speak like a white person.  I have heard this all before. Never by my black friends from HS and college who spoke exactly like me. Dare I meet people from different parts of NY. This is when I encounter the inter-race stupidity. I am told I know everything.  I correct them and say I don't know everything.  I try to learn everything and there is a difference.

What’s worse is that everyone assumes I won't date black people. Some of my oldest friends insist I won't date black people because I “don't like black people shit." Like when I cringe when some idiot says the word "nigger" around me. In reality, I like women and I don't care what color they are wrapped in as long as they are smart and have a good sense of humor.

I like golf. I love it. My mom bought me an indoor golfing set after I asked for it when I was nine and I have loved it ever since. I love tennis. Really love tennis. I mean Monica Seles, Maria Chonchita Alonzo, Arantxa Sánchez Vicario and not just Venus and Serena.  My favorite sport to play is volleyball. I am a huge sports fan. I like to read. I love music. Are these qualities black people don't like? I sat every night drinking tea while my family watched little house on the prairie. My mom, to my dismay, loved westerns. Is this not black people shit? Or is it people shit, which is probably what my mom would say about this whole stupid conversation.

Adrift

There’s a lot to be said post-divorce; or rather, a lot that you’d rather not say. After years of voicing every concern, petty grievance, and minuscule malcontent there is a freedom in not saying anything at all. I fought endlessly with the Ex. Challenged every single statement she made, questioned every difference of opinion as if mine was law and unequivocally accused her of mental duress because, more often than not, we didn't see a goddamn thing eye to eye.

Fast forward to my current relationship and it would appear that the problem is not she, but me. I don’t want to budge. I am a curmudgeon. I want to be left alone, free to speak when the mood strikes me and free to remain distant and aloof just the same. I spent ten years fighting the Battle of Codependence and realize that my definition of freedom may just be a bit extreme for the faint of heart. I speak a language unfamiliar to most. It’s a lonely space – this place stuck between trying to be ‘normal’ and trying to make sense of the lifetime lived with another person in cohabitation and complete dependence. How does one go from the tense ‘we/us’ to ‘I/me’ without missing a beat? How does one maintain a hard fought identity ensconced in a fairly solitary life while trying to maintain a relationship with someone who rightfully demands more than just the ghost of a gf? How do I keep myself while sharing my self, yet stand firm in my personhood?

I’m just one woman adrift, seeking an answer that is probably already apparent. I am easy to love. I am hard to comprehend. I am open and willing and funny and enticing. I am hardened and battered and stoic and cold. There is now a doorway so small, so conditional, that it doesn't really matter who approaches, I will cause a retreat. I will lay it bare and tuck it away so that no matter how hard she tries, I am impenetrable.

Another Year

I always knew I would have kids. I envisioned myself being married to a doctor, having two children and divorced by 26. I was going to raise my ingenious children with my ex-husband in complete amicable bliss. My children would grow to cure cancer. Reality is somewhat of a tempestuous beast. I had fallen in love at the age of 15 and that would render all of my plans moot. My nephew, Edwin, came to live with us October 1992. I was 15. He wasn't one. I was done for. We were inseparable.

As time went on, I came out. Of what I don't know. The closet, a cloud, a funk? No one, I'm sure, expected me to be straight. So when I had a girlfriend who had a son three years younger than Edwin, it was somewhat ho hum. My life changed. I didn't go away to college because of him. I told my mom I would take guardianship of him when she died. He was 8, I was 23, and she was gone. I had a college degree in my pocket, a kid I adored in my hands and a girlfriend I couldn't live without. I couldn't have been more overwhelmed if I tried. Eventually, I had to move out of the house of my raising due to circumstances beyond my control or anyone's understanding. To Brooklyn we go. Kid in tow and me with no clue.

I'm adopted. It took nothing for me to bring Edwin into my bosom as my own and bleed for him. It is that adoption laying over  both our heads that I thought would keep us together. I was better than my mom. I was better than his mom. I made sure of it. I maintained the shittiest of jobs that would help me keep him in the things he wanted and needed and keep us having dinner together every night. I was struggling, but we were happy. Or so I thought.

When it came time for my nephew to act like the man he thought he was, it was too late. I was no longer with my girlfriend. I decided I wanted to be single so I can focus on Edwin in this foreign land called Brooklyn. I held mindless jobs beneath my intellect so I could be the parent he needed. I was involved in school. Heavily. From Kindergarten on, I was that parent. The one all of the teachers knew. That is until he hit me.

My brother called today to wish me a happy birthday just in case he couldn't call me tomorrow. He told me Edwin came to see him. He tells me this not to hurt me, but to inform me. He said he was driving a brand new car with his younger brother. He said he gained weight. See, I sacrificed everything for my nephew. My education, my livelihood, relationships, sex, but I couldn't sacrifice my dignity no matter how much I loved him. My nephew was my child for 18 years and I couldn't see myself as a woman taking that from a child. My nephew's birth mother contacted him on facebook three years ago and he called me to ask what he should do. She hadn't seen or spoken to him since he was two. They were fast rekindling old times and this kills my brother. Like he raised him. Like he is me.  

So what? Why now? I'm having issues right now and I don't know why. I'm having dreams. I plugged my hard drive into my BluRay player and I saw a video "Edwin singing in the shower". It wouldn't play. So I sang the song he made up in the shower in the video like it was today. It was over a decade ago. When I think I'm good, I'm not. When I don't think about him, my brother calls me with an Edwin story. When friends ask me about him, I'm truthful but evasive. I don't know. When I'm honest with myself, it makes me sad. 

Now here I am 3 years removed from my nephew. I don't want to have kids and I don't know how to be in a relationship. I don't believe in regret. I believe in lessons learned. So what did I learn from this? The same thing I learned from my ex. Nothing. I would do it all over again.

Babies and all that jazz

Y'A

I don't know what letter the media assigned to my generation, but I consider people "my age" to be between 30-40. My circle of friends is refreshingly progressive. There is only one married couple in the bunch. The rest of us are either single or serially monogamous, but never getting to the U-Haul stage. It's pretty awesome to have Sunday Funday without waiting on babysitters. Ahhh the good life. Imagine my utter shock when, upon arriving at MID-THIRTIES, some of us (mostly the men) are suddenly talking about settling down. I don't know where they are getting this from. It must be in a Playboy or Men's Health because it basically reads like a script. "You know, I'm getting close to 40 so I'm thinking about settling down. We are the same age. You know what I mean?" No actually I don't. I, unlike most women, don't consider age a precipitating factor in my decision to marry. I have always wanted to have kids and even my rapidly declining egg production is not pushing the issue. This all makes me feel weird. A Peter Pan of sorts. And why aren't my female friends going through the same biological clock bullshit? Talking to these guys makes me feel old.

Maybe these male friends of mine waited so long to be mature that it all rushes them at once. One of my best guy friends asked me if he should ask out a single mom we know. She will never say yes because he is the most immature person that I know. He recently got a dog and I have no issue admitting I'm concerned about the well-being of this dog. I wouldn't trust him with a plant. I tried to tell him the single mom is awesome yes, but her son is like 12 now. He is basically a lil man and old enough to call out bullshit. The real problem I have is his reasoning for wanting to date her. He said "at my age, I don't know if I will ever get married or have kids so I think she is the type of person I should be dating." What the fuck does that even mean? I don't know what's going on with people in their thirties having a midlife crisis, but I cannot sympathize. I still have money to waste and wine to drink before I start feeling lonely and settle down to have babies and all that jazz.

Jess

This mid-life crisis business is hitting my friends a bit early. One female, 27, has already been married, bought and sold a house, and gotten divorced. So I guess you could say her practical age is accelerated. Instead of stepping back and enjoying singlehood, she’s been on a mission to find Mr. Right 2.0 and decided literally two weeks ago that she’s tired of renting and is going to buy a house. She’s already put an offer in and will be devastated if it falls through. Her boyfriend of 6 months must be shitting himself by now, knowing the next step will be the invite to keep his personal affects in several drawers at her new home. Soon after, she’ll let him know there’s just no reason to leave anymore, why not bring the rest of his stuff and settle in for the long haul. Oddly enough, I haven’t heard the K word being whispered. I think she just feels that in her str8 and narrow world, this is what she should be doing right now at this point in her life.  Which leads me to the BFF.

Last we saw her, she was recently enGAGed and loving the word FIANCE. This has not changed, it has merely accelerated. The wedding is 2/3 planned and it isn’t until next summer. New furniture keeps mysteriously showing up in her rental home. All in anticipation of the FIANCE moving in ‘soon’. Mind you, he owns his own home that he will be giving up to undergrad renters hell bent on keg stands in order to placate her need to live in the city. So they need more storage space – hence the new china cabinet.  He will need a room of his own in which to do ‘guy’ things (read jerk off to geek porn) so the basement has been cleaned out and a new couch arrived promptly. It’s like someone else’s life blew through her house and suddenly she’s trying it on for size, testing out the waters of spending recklessly (his money) and rolling the words ‘US/WE’ around in her mouth, getting a feel for the union.

I hate to nit-pick (not really, it’s my favorite pastime), but to recap this epic romance – 1. They dated for a little over a year and fought for half of it. 2. They painfully broke up for 5 months. 3. Death of a beloved pet bred reconciliation and 7 months later – engaged. If anything in this life seems rushed, it’s this engagement. I wonder if women look in the mirror and at the first sight of a grey hair, run screaming into the arms of the first available bachelor, convinced it was kismet and begin the process that ends with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.

Life flashes by in a millisecond and to feel that you are not in the right place within it, when really you are exactly where you should be, because you stand in this moment now, is unfortunately why these men and women are in the throes of a crisis. Rushing to the end of one’s life means only that you haven’t enjoyed the journey along the way. 

Single Parent Guilt

I am a lesbian. I have cats. The second point was probably obvious. My cats were born of my previous LTR.  As a product of gay divorce, they have taken over the apartment and completely dominate our shared environment. If Chobee wants to lie in the sink, who am I to stop her? If Luxie wants to walk all over me and smoosh her face into mine at 4am, what can I say? If Zeke….well he’s the baby and always perfect so, no complaints. Our family was broken and their other mom lives 600 miles away (fine with me) and so I have absorbed all the guilt of being a single parent to three rambunctious kitties. They have a step-mom (of course, who didn’t see that coming) who loves them dearly, but does not share my lackadaisical parenting.  She arms herself with the spray bottle, waiting patiently for one to jump on the table or scratch at the couch or try to eat our mac n cheese and BAM mist to kitty face. I keep thinking that tomorrow will be the day I start to discipline them again, but alas tomorrow never comes.  If we’d had to split a daughter, I swear she’d be knocked up and on meth by now.  I’m thankful there was no lengthy custody battle. I’m thankful I was able to keep them all with me. I’m thankful that my girlfriend understood early on that my kitties are always #1. But DAMN if these cats don’t take full advantage of that fucking divorce.    

The Virgin

When I was 18, I introduced my then girlfriend to my best friend of 3 years. We attended college together and I really wanted them to like each other. For reasons unbeknownst to me, that didn't work out. After the meeting, the gf said something I never forgot, but actually never thought about again: "She's in love with you". This was ridiculous. Joyce wasn't gay. I, myself, was just creeping into that minute path in life called bisexuality. I thought my gf was being territorial as usual. 

When I graduated college, Joyce unceremoniously stopped speaking to me. When my mom died, she was unreachable. When I was banished to Brooklyn, she was on another planet ignoring me and I couldn't understand it. By the time I finally broke up with my gf, I didn't give any care to reaching out to Joyce.
Imagine my surprise when 3 years ago a friend of a HS friend of mine invites me to a surprise birthday party. She asked if I could find anyone else from HS, namely Joyce. I said I would try, but don't hold her breath. That's how Joyce and I began speaking again. She came to the party and we sparked up the whole friendship again. It wasn't the same, but it was cool to have her around again. We hung out; went to the gym together; just talked. It took a month to sense something was off with Joyce. I asked if she was dating and she said she was still a virgin. Mind blown.

She offered to go with me to lesbian bars and dinner on Saturday nights. I'm still oblivious. One such night after dinner on our way to Ginger's she let it slip that she considers me her teddy bear and dreamt we would be friends again. I said "you what!" She explained by pantomiming hugging a teddy bear . . . . At the bar, she was on me like glue. She wouldn't let me talk to any girls. This still wasn't it. I was still oblivious. That is until we went to the gym one Sunday. This is the routine: gym, then quick bite. This Sunday I told her to pick the after gym eats. She tells me the reservation isn't for a half an hour. Reservation? Why on earth would she get a reservation for a post gym sweaty meal? We walk to the restaurant and it is packed. We wait at the bar for the table. I am viewing the scene. Small, intimate place. Nice. White table cloth on the tables. I'm under dressed. I see couples and happy families everywhere. What day is this? A cold, blistery Sunday attracted all of these people. I go to the restroom and all I see are more couples. Oh shit, it dawns on me. It's Valentine's day. I was beside myself. We get sat and all of the surrounding tables and the server is treating us like we are a couple. I silently weep inside. 

After that ambush Valentine date, I had a plan. Joyce needs a boyfriend. I know a religious guy from work and I thought they would be perfect for each other. They could worship God together in virginal bliss. Joyce probably sensed my relief at them hitting it off because she amped it up a notch. Every time we hung out she made damn sure she made her presence felt. Long awkward hug after long awkward hug made me avoid her at all costs. I would have nightmares of her running her hands up and down my back. She actually did this every time we saw each other. We had to have "The Talk". I asked her to meet me. This was murder cause she was so concerned about my allergies. I was just trying to break up with her for God's sake. We meet up and I asked her why she stopped speaking to me when I graduated. She said "because you had your gf". I replied "what does that mean Joyce? I had my gf for 3 years. That didn't stop us hanging out." She said "well you had your gf, and your nephew and Gabriel so . . . " My frustration was mounting. Going backwards and forwards with her faulty logic was giving me a headache. I had to cut to the chase. I said "look, I don't understand how my having a gf stopped us from talking before, but you need to understand you make me feel uncomfortable. I don't want you to touch me. You need to stop acting like you are my gf or I'm never going to speak to you again". She got weepy. When we left she said some more weird shit and I told her that is exactly what I was talking about. She begged for me to continue speaking to her. She came in for a chester molester hug and I walked away. 

After this "break up", I hoped never to be felt up by Joyce again. No such luck. She did this shit in front of her bf even. At some point I had to realize she probably had no control over how she was making me feel. She would send me wispy texts about the moon and the stars and the sky and a whole bunch of weepy bullshit. Just my luck, she is still dating my work friend. I had to tell her via text that I have been nice and one more text I will cease to be. I have to send her a warning text that I will be at a work function if i know he is going just so she can adjust to fact that she will see me and I will avoid her. She has yet and never will tell her bf why the person who hooked them up no longer speaks to her. That makes this situation all the more weird. I gotta say, this entire situation angered me and made me feel all kinds of ways, but I feel nothing about losing my best friend again. This situation was so creepy and molestory that I will be happy never to have her hands on me again. Another BFF bites the dust.