Sunday Morning Stumps

Some lingering questions after a late night out on the town

1. I am tired of gay men telling me I’m a “cute lesbian”. I know they mean well and have good intentions, but it is exhausting to defend my sexuality. (The irony here is depressing.) Why is that women with short hair are assumed to be lesbians? Where does this cultural association come from?

2. Why is an influx of heterosexual men and women in predominately homosexual spaces so problematic?

3. Where, oh where, will I get my penis, vulva, and breast-shaped desserts now? Goodbye, Erotic Bakery. Your comestibles will be sorely missed.

4. Why do I constantly pursue men who play me, and why am I such a glutton for bad treatment from my lovers?

5. How hard is it really to text someone back, even if it’s to say “no” or “rain check”?

May

Here’s a poem I wrote in September ’12. I think it sums up #lushlife quite perfectly–what do you think?

May

With this El Jimador
I mean business.

Picking up the glass
Watchful of the rim
The quaking liquid
clear/sheer/invisible
I raise my hand and
like the pills I never
swallow or the
caress no man here will offer,
libations slip down
and I feel revived

Momentarily, the sharpness is
true.
Inside, outside
the bitter flavor
an echo
tips of hairs to round skin of toes
this libation speaks truth.
And when you look surprised
dumbfounded that
unlike others
I can bear the brunt
take my truth with neither
salt nor lime
My pupils retract
my face stiffens
my lips, cold,

I know business with you
contains as much possibility as
the emptiness of this
glass.

Pool Hall

Here’s a poem I wrote back in September ’12,  about three months after my escapade with “The Mountie”.

Pool Hall

Crack.
Balls scatter. Solid, left pocket.
Change of hands, stick
glides across the table
tan on felt

slick on stiff

my snug skirt slips and

all eyes on that space

inches from the edge
the tipping point
a slight nudge/an intake of breath,
in the right direction,

with the weight of force,

and the ball drops

your turn.