my night inside a chick flick

I shouldn't have listened to my insecurities. I shouldn't have worried so much. I shouldn't have been so pessimistic about it. Although, I guess that's the thing about optimism, is it always seems that much more striking in the face of such persistent negativity.

But I should have known better than to think I could resist. Not that I really wanted to. Or wanted to at all, in fact. Because just like I remembered, as soon as he smiled at me, I was disarmed. And I think I made it an entire five minutes before I just HAD to kiss him again. What can I say? I had to see if it lived up to what I remembered.

And, good lord. Did it. He put his hand along my jaw, just barely grazing my neck, and pulled me into his kiss. And just like I remembered doing, I melted. Urgency increased, his grip around my body strengthened, and we found ourselves falling into my bed. Or maybe it was the lounge chair in my room. I really couldn't say - I was already floating away.

I didn't used to be this way. What I mean is, I haven't been this way before. Where someone's kiss literally makes me weak in the knees. Clouds my head and distracts me from everything else I should be doing and where I should be going and who I should be seeing. But that's what happens. I forget there's anything else, and focus on the butterflies. Damn butterflies. Sneaking up on me like that.

At some point, we remembered that we had places to go and people to meet and time to spend together. So we walked, hand in hand, to the neighborhood bar to meet my roommates for a drink.

When the spontaneous evening plans we had fell through, we turned the car around and headed back to town. "We could take a walk around the lake near my house, if you wanted," I suggested. He agreed, recommended we grab a bottle of wine for the stroll. A bottle of wine became a bottle of champagne to accompany the perfectly warm night. And the stroll became finding an outcropping of grass and sitting near the water's edge, looking at the stars and the city lights.

Over champagne we shared secrets and laughter and those kinds of conversations that only come about when you're really interested in what the other person is saying. I kept looking from the city buildings to the sky which had cleared itself of clouds ("Just like I knew it would. I knew it would be a beautiful night," he tells me, without irony.) then back to him and I can't believe how often he's smiling at me. And how all of this seems so surreal and cinematically perfect.

Like when I suggest I want to go spin, and he stands up with me and takes my hands and we spin in circles until we're giggling and collapse on top of each other. And he kisses me in the grass until I'm breathless again and then helps me up.

We strolled back to the car, his fingers intertwined with mine. I drove us back to my house, where my roommates were drinking and listening to music. They greeted us with broad, warm smiles, told us how happy they were that we were back early. By the time I'd returned with our drinks, he was already engaged in conversation with my roommates, who seemed to be enjoying his company nearly as much as I was. ("Beautiful social graces," was my roommate's term for how open and inviting he was, and how he brought conversation out of even my quietest roommate.)

I lost track of what, exactly they were talking about, because the conversation went on for at least an hour. If there was any break in the flow, I didn't see it. As I stopped buzzing around the house and returned to the party, he situated himself near me, and put his hand around my waist. We stole a kiss here and there, and eventually excused ourselves. I blamed the need to wake up for work in the morning.

I stepped out before he did, so I sat down on the grass outside and stared up at the stars again. Took a deep breath, and couldn't stop smiling a smile I felt through my entire body. He followed a minute or two later. Kneeling in front of me on the grass, he murmured, "do you have ANY idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you in there?"

"Well, why did you, then?" I asked.

And with that, he was on top of me. Kissing me hard, and passionately, and so perfectly that I could do nothing but melt into him.



And the best part? None of this is fiction.

We're here, we're queer, we're fabulous, don't fuck with us!

This past weekend was Pride here in my hometown. It's always one of my favorite times of the year - I love summer here in general, largely because there are so many festivals. And Pride, of course, is like one of those festivals... taken over entirely by teh gehys. Really, it's a queer takeover of downtown. And while I do love the festival and the parade, both seemed a little tamer this year than years past. The festival, in particular, felt more like any other fair held downtown, just with more rainbows.

In any case, though, Pride this year was no bust. My favorite part is the parties, and there was no shortage there. Friday night found myself and my roommate at a women's party, where I'd gotten comped admission so I could interview New York-based lesbian hip-hop and soul duo God-des and She. They were friendly, talkative, and, oh yeah, really sexy. I was so excited to meet them, and even more excited to watch them perform. They put on a wonderful show, and the crowd really seemed to love them. My roommate and I had a great time at the party, and she seemed genuinely glad to get out of the house for a girl's night on the town. Oh, yeah, and she got hit on. And kissed. It was a good night.

Saturday I covered the state's first-ever Dyke March, interviewing attendees (and Dykes on Bikes), listening to speeches, and running into the lovely Essin' Em and her partner, Q. I always love seeing her, and I've been looking forward to meeting Q since Em is always speaking so highly of her, I was just sorry that I had to cover the event as a journo and therefore couldn't really hang out with them.

That did make this year's Pride an interesting experience. Everything except for the party on Sunday was part of something I was covering for my magazine, so I felt I had to maintain a relatively professional demeanor. That meant just one drink at the party on Friday night, and wandering around awkwardly and approaching random people at the Dyke March. I wouldn't say it exactly hindered my enjoyment of Pride this year, but it certainly changed the way I experienced it. But the money will be much appreciated when it comes in a few weeks.

Sunday was my day off from professional capacities. I made it downtown just in time to watch the entire parade and meet up with The Pilot's younger brother, who had never been to Pride before. It was fun to show him around, and we got along more easily than I thought we would have. We knew each other casually from years ago, but haven't spoken in easily over a decade. I know he, like The Pilot, can have a tendency to be a little shy (as, actually, can I), so I made an effort to be a little more outgoing than I usually am. I think he had a good time - he also joined me for a BBQ back at my and my roommates' house. Where, lo and behold, Friend also stopped by! (I say this mostly teasingly because he and I have a tendency to go several weeks without seeing one another, despite living only a few miles from each other.) The BBQ went well, although I had to leave early to go to the official Pride afterparty, where, thanks to my fabulous coworkers at the magazine, I was VIP, as was my date, The Scientist.

The afterparty was, like last year, held at a club downtown with a great rooftop bar. As VIPs, we had a cordoned-off area, complete with bottle service. A few of my coworkers were there, and they seemed so genuinely happy to see me that I was really quite flattered. They said incredibly nice things to me, and insisted that they're sure I have the full-time job I've been gunning for at the magazine. (I have a meeting with the editor-in-chief and publisher next week to discuss my salary... so it's promising, but I'm not willing to believe anything until I sign some paperwork.) The party started early in the evening, and being that the sun doesn't go down until nearly 9pm lately, sitting on the rooftop probably didn't help my sunburn, which I began work on earlier that day, standing in the sun for nearly an hour and a half watching the parade. People kept commenting about it, asking if I'd ever heard of sunscreen. I have, of course, and I usually don't burn quite this badly. Oh well. It's already tanning out in all but the worst areas. I'll survive, I think.



In any case, The Scientist and I had a nice time at the party - it was mostly laid back, and we got a chance to talk, he met my coworkers, all around good things. Of course, being that I was in a good mood, I was due for something to screw it up. Cue...

Edward.

Yes, you read correctly. Edward. Of 70+ phone calls and twice as many texts and a few emails and facebook messages. I swear he has some sort of radar for when I'm happy. Since all that insanity back in March and April, I have blocked his number, blocked him on facebook and any other social networking sites, and I hadn't heard from him until about a month ago.

It was the night I was meeting The Scientist's friends, and about halfway through the night, I got a phone call from my mother. She told me someone had broken into her house (where I also used to live). Nothing was missing, but they were still calling the police. And the only things they found rearranged were in my bedroom. And whoever it was made their entry through the basement, which was where Edward used to spend most of his time when he was at our house (which was often... As I said, he's been in my/my family's lives for 10 years.) It seemed like too much of a coincidence. Edward had sent me a facebook message about a week before (I hadn't realized that I hadn't blocked his sending messages), which was about the same time frame as when he showed up at my mother's house right before I graduated. So we don't technically have any proof that it was him, and since nothing was stolen, we couldn't do more than file a report, but I can tell you that it terrified me to be back in that house the next day. (I stopped by to assess the situation, I don't live there.) I am essentially convinced that it was him, because there's no one else I can think of who it could have been. I was hoping that when he went in my room and saw that it is very obviously not lived in (no clothes in the closet, bed covered in cat fur, nothing on the dresser), he would give up and at least believe that I really don't live there anymore.

And I didn't hear from him again until Sunday. He called me four times in the course of an hour. He was calling from someone else's phone. He left a message each time. In the third message, which was the nastiest, he actually implied that perhaps I just didn't have his number anymore, so he left it again. Of course, that also functions as evidence that that was NOT the number he was calling from. He didn't say anything directly threatening, but did swear at me some more and tell me how it's so obvious that I never gave a fuck about him. And he told me he was coming into town "pretty soon here." Which is just vague enough to be rather terrifying.

And I hate that I get so skittish when he calls. I didn't answer any of the calls, because thanks to him, I don't ever answer numbers I don't know. If it's someone who knows me, they'll leave a message and I'll call them right back. But just hearing his voice on the messages (which I've copied onto my digital voice recorder, as evidence should I need it), hearing his tone change from pained to angry to that sleazy, faux-pained manipulative tone I recognize all too well, really throws me. I was Skyping with The Pilot last night, and I eventually had to hang up because I was just so upset and I didn't want him to see me all curled up and teary-eyed and pathetic.

I'm not really sure what to do at this point. I am a little scared to do anything active, like get a restraining order. I'm worried that would provoke him further, and it's not like my holding a piece of paper in his face is going to stop him from hurting me if he wants to. My current address isn't listed anywhere, and the only people who know where I live are close friends and family, all of whom know about the situation and understand the need for secrecy. But I was reading over some resources The Pilot looked up for me online, and one of the recurring themes about how to deal with being stalked was to tell people. So, dear readers, I'm telling all of you. I've kept some of the details and events quiet over the past few months, but I felt I should update everything now. I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I can rationalize that he probably isn't really dangerous, but his persistence makes me nervous. And I hate that. I hate being scared in my own city, where there are so many great things and beautiful people who I love so much.

And there's only so much anonymity I can assume. I'm a writer. I refuse to publish under a pseudonym (well, aside from here, but I mean for paying jobs), and I refuse to let my fear of Edward totally run my life. It helps that he doesn't know where I live. But I hate that he seems so fucking determined to contact me. The Scientist and The Pilot have both suggested I change my phone number, but, again, I have contacts, professional and personal, who have my current number. Changing it would involve calling all of those people and explaining the situation, and it's so fucking frustrating. And terrifying.

The night Edward called, I got sufficiently sauced (The Scientist and I took a cab back to my place), and The Scientist stayed with me, so sleep wasn't as nerve-wracking as it sometimes is. Last night, I took some Tylenol PM to knock myself out so I could sleep without freaking out and waking up at every car that drives by my window. But if this continues, I'm really not sure what to do. It's draining and I don't know how much longer I can tolerate it before it takes an even more significant toll on my life, my happiness, and my ability to trust people.

Foreign Identities

Now that I've been in Spain for approximately a month, I'm starting to get settled. I'm living in an apartment with an older woman and her twenty-something daughter, and my roommate (who is in the same program I am and attends the same University back in the States) and I share a small bedroom. It's a little snug, but for the most part, we get along famously. I certainly get along with her better than anyone else in the program, so it's a good thing we're rooming together. In fact, last night, when we went out on the town (to a mutual friend's bar where they always give us free drinks or, as was the case last night, free dessert), we were talking about what would have happened had we not met one another in the pre-semester seminar - we think we both would have been living in singles. Which, at least in my case, likely means I never would have gone out. Or I would have gone out only alone, which is not a particularly bright idea in a major city in a strange country with a language that is not your first.

But my roommate and I did find each other, and started rooming together early on in the seminar, which was a tour of four cities along the Mediterranean coast. During those few weeks, she and I obviously talked a lot, and one night, over tapas and sangria, I came out to her and another girl on the trip. It wasn't a drunken confession, but rather something I thought the girl I'd be living in such close quarters with all semester should know about me, almost like a medical condition. (Which, I realize upon writing it, sounds very self-hating, but it isn't meant to be. It's an important part of who I am and dictates some of my behavior, so I didn't want it to catch her off guard.) Anyway, after the obligatory questions about my past and whether this was really just a phase, or if I was the kind of bisexual woman who just makes out with other women or if I'd actually dated/slept with women, the conversation moved on.

Now, in general, I'm used to the following reaction after telling someone I'm bisexual: U.S. cultural stereotypes tend to dictate that bisexual women are really straight, and just wanting to experiment. Consequently, I have many friends back home who assume I'll end up with a man, and encourage me to do so in who and how they ask about who I'm sleeping with. I've come to accept this and just tend to correct them, using gender-inclusive terms when I respond to their exclusive questions. It really freaks some people out. But that's their issue, not mine. I'm generally very comfortable in my identity.

But my roommate here has taken a different stance. I'm not sure she really knows any queer people who don't identify as outright gay or lesbian. For the record, I'm not a lesbian. I have slept with men, I'm interested in men, and will continue to be so - in addition to my past, present and future for and with women, of course - and therefore am not a lesbian. I validate that identity, but I don't claim it. It isn't representative of me. Same goes for the label "gay." If I identify as anything outside of bisexual, it's simply queer, as an overarching and inclusive term. There are many things about my sexuality that are queer, and so I actually prefer that title. But sometimes, that's hard to explain. Especially in a different culture and language.

So my roommate, who is Domincan and Puerto Rican and lives in New York, has taken to introducing me as gay. When we were at the friend's bar for the first time, she happily told everyone there that I was gay. Granted, I think it was for the most part a misguided effort to help me find common ground with the mostly gay male staff we were hanging out with, but I have a few problems with this description:
1) As I said, I'm not gay. I'm queer. Or bisexual. Either label is fine, but gay isn't representative.

2)Telling people, especially those I've just met, that I'm gay offers them a certain image of who I am and what I like and what I do (stereotypes do exist, afterall) that may well not be accurate.

3) Calling me gay invalidates the identity I've struggled to define and come into.

4) And this is a little more shallow, but telling men especially (which tend to be most of who she's talking to) that I'm gay effectively either indicates to them that I'm not interested in them - which in one case was completely the opposite effect I wanted - or leads them to believe that they could possibly "fuck me straight," which will never happen and is misleading to them.

I truly believe that for the most part, it's just ignorance on her part. I'm very conscious of validating people's identities as they see them. I ask about preferred pronouns, identities, labels, and correct others when they're using something I know makes someone uncomfortable. I know that she doesn't have that experience and isn't as aware, but it's getting a little frustrating.

I've approached her about it, in as non-threatening a way as possible, asked her not to describe me as gay to people we're just meeting. I've told her the labels I prefer if she feels the need to label me to people we're just meeting, but she persists. Again, I think some of that is the language barrier with the people we're speaking to, and some of it is just ignorance on her part in understanding the importance of identity. Although, perhaps I should compare it to how she gets offended when people here call her Black. She's proud of her Latino heritage, and while she has darker skin, she isn't Black or African American. (Here in Spain, "Morena" is a kind of pet name, but she finds it terribly offensive when people call her that.) Maybe explaining to her that my queer identity is as essential and specific to me as her cultural identity is to her will help her understand. Then again, maybe also will the queer sexuality class she's taking with me this semester.

And no, the irony isn't lost on me that most of the time, especially in the States, I'm considered straight, and here I'm automatically considered gay. But it is essentially still a problem of invalidating and ignoring my actual identity. Which sucks. To put it as un-academically as possible.

*le sigh*

The lowdown on the get down (Dec. 07)

While my girlfriend and I were talking about ways to spice up our sex life, she mentioned she'd be interested in a threesome. I'm definitely up for it, but we're both a little confused on the details of how to have sex with each other and another girl. Any tips?


The key to a good threesome is the key to a great relationship: communication. You and your girl already seem comfortable talking to one another, so you've got your foot in the door. Sometimes the trickiest of arranging a menage a trois is finding that third person who's as comfortable with the two of you as you are with each other. Once you've secured a third partner, you have to set up the rules of engagement before you get down to playing the game.
Talk with everyone about what they are and are not OK with doing. Be open - this is no time to hold back. Lay everyone's expectations on the table, to make sure you're all on the same page. As a group, you might decide that intercourse is reserved for you and your girlfriend, but oral, manual or anal sex is OK for everyone involved; or you might deem everything fair play. Whatever you decide, it needs to be something that everyone is completely comfortable with.
That's not to say the experience won't be a little awkward or bumpy - just like losing your virginity. But now, as then, you'll improve with practice. Go in with an open mind, a good sense of humor, and a full box of condoms.


My roommate and I have a lot in common. We like similar music, art and girls. I'm out [of the closet] to my family and friends, but she's only just starting the coming out process. How can I get her to see me as more than just a roommate?


Despite what the Grimm brothers would have us believe, there is no magic spell to make someone fall for you. Life would be too easy if that were the case. There are, however, things you can do to try to get her to realize you're more than just a great roommate.
Of course, you first need to clarify your intentions. If you're looking for a serious relationship, then your approach will likely require a good deal more time and effort than a simple seduction (if such a thing existed). Either way, you'll want to highlight the things you both have in common. The more of a connection she feels with you, the more likely she'll realize how you feel. Once you've established that connection, it's up to you to personalize you tactics in ways you think would attract her. One note of caution: Roommate sex is always convenient, but if the relationship goes awry, you can be left with an uncomfortable, awkward living situation.
Also keep in mind that if she isn't oped about her sexuality yet, she may have some reservations about what you two do outside the apartment. Of course, you also have the advantage in being roommates, since that gives you plenty of alone time to turn into - you guessed it - sexytime.