Some thoughts on Bisexual Visibility Day

I talk about sex, consensual and not. it’s not graphic, and it’s not the point of the post, but it’s referenced. 

Bi-erasure is a thing. Don’t even pretend it’s not. Which is why I’m coming out as one of those confused cheating, polyamorous, greedy bitches who can’t pick a side, who is waiting for someone to turn them, who doesn’t exist…. Not really coming out, just popping in to raise my eyebrow and say “What… You didn’t know? Oh honey, bless.” But don’t worry too much about me, I hear it’s just a phase.

Although a label that I could wear, I choose not to. “bisexual” to me signifies the belief of only two sexes or genders. I do not believe this to be true. Or the idea that a bisexual identifying person is only down with two of the many flavors of sex and gender out there. It’s the root of the prefix that irks me. I don’t believe all bisexual identifying people to think there are only two genders. Just personally, I prefer the term ‘Pansexual’. Plus, it lets others make jokes about me “being attracted to pans”. Though it doesn’t get funnier the more I hear it, it makes my friends smile to themselves, and who am I to stop that. I like men, women, that beautiful space in between, masculine, feminine, androgyny, and many other things. I’m attracted to people; everything else is just details.

Looking back on my history, it seems I verymuch favor male/masculine. In sexual partners, emotional partners, romantic partners etc. I have a lot of self doubts because of this. That because I’m historically mostly on one side of the spectrum, because I present so cisgender & heterosexual, that I’m “not bi enough” or “not queer enough” to identify as someone living under the LGBTQIA rainbow umbrella. I’ve heard snickers from people in my queer-family spaces about people like me. Sometimes from the lips of people I love.

Because of this self doubt, I hyper-analyze myself. There are a few factors in my life that I feel have shaped me into leaning more ‘straight’ in my actions. I was raised in a time and culture where all I saw was straight representation; My environment raised me to be “straight”. I was conditioned by what I saw around me how to interact with male types. There was no guideline for how girls can flirt with girls. Just lots of examples of how boys and girls flirt, and how they are supposed to react. I remember as a child feeling the same way towards boys as I did girls. I never thought it was wrong. I always assumed everyone did, but just didn’t talk about it. I was 10 the first time I was called a lesbian. I had no clue what it meant but by the tone the kids used I knew it wasn’t good. When I came home and asked my mom what it meant, she was surprised I had heard that word, and explained it so simply and without judgement that I didn’t understand why the kids used it as a slur. This was the moment I learned that there was “gay” and “straight”. Although neither simplified definition fit me, I assumed I was straight because I liked boys, and gay girls don’t like boys. I didn’t hear the term “bisexual” until well after I had been intimate with a woman. When I heard it, it knocked the wind out of me. It felt so right; a term means that there are others like me and enough that they have a name.

I didn’t have a healthy relationship with the idea of being a women, of having women around me. I felt more comfortable with the boys in my classes than I did the girls. The words the girls had were far meaner than the things the boys ever did or said. But there was one moment that I will never forget. I’ve healed, as much as I can, but I will never forget how I felt. I was at a friends house, playing video games with my boyfriend, when he started to initiate sexytimes and I wanted nothing to do with it. He had other ideas. He raped me on the couch. My ladyfriend, whom I had been romantically involved with, was upstairs. I know she heard me scream. I know she knows what happened. And she never did or said a damn fucking thing. It took me years to forgive myself for not ‘fighting back hard enough” or whatever the fuck illogical brain tries to tell me. And it took me just as long to forgive her. We were 14, and that moment shaped my mistrust of women for far too long. How could someone who claimed to love you not do anything, right? I understand why she hid upstairs so much more now that I am an adult looking back at the memory with adult awareness. We.Were.14. How the fuck am I to expect a 14 year old girl to understand the complexities of what was going on and to involve herself in what can be perceived as a potentially lethal situation for her? She used the tools she had to do what she needed to survive that moment. And I did the same. We never spoke again, but I hope if she ever stumbles across this post that she is well and has forgiven herself, just as I have forgiven her. I don’t blame her for my fear of being romantically involved with women anymore. I blame the situation, and I am moving through it as gracefully as I can.
I think the hardest part of this all is that I will never know the answer. I can’t go back in time and change these things. I don’t know if I would want to anyway; they shaped me into who I am and I kinda dig who that is. My “I dig people, but I tend to get involved with the masculine more” tendencies may be nature, or they may be nurture. Who knows. This entire post was intended to be a little facebook status, talking about my experiences as one who is ‘Other than straight & other than gay” and it turned into so much more. Maybe you’ll take something away from this, maybe you won’t. But I know I feel a little lighter for sharing, and that in itself is enough for me.


Do Not Fall In Love With People Like Me

Do not fall in love with people like me. 
I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth.
I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.
– Caitlyn Siehl

Published in: on August 2, 2014 at 2:32 pm  Leave a Comment  

Calling the Moon Closer

“All at once
I find her taking root
in the soft earth beside me.
It’s hard to wake her.
Even when her eyes are open
she cannot decide
how to breathe—
whether to draw her breath
like a young girl
or let her leaves absorb
the light.
she calls the moon closer,
and lets me hold her
in my arms,
and all the while she shelters me,
the branches are filled
with a silver light,
as if the moon had slipped

—  Howard Schwartz, “Calling the Moon Closer,” from The Library of Dreams (BkMk Press, 2013)
Published in: on March 15, 2014 at 12:21 pm  Leave a Comment  
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“You have 6 ta…

“You have 6 tattoos.
Full lips. Good, strong hands.
You have 7 freckles on your back,
they map out the big dipper.

You have a scar on your left arm
you carved in high school.
The first time you pulled off your t shirt
I traced the line with my fingers and fell in love
with your strength.

You are a hero
for living from that moment
to this one. You never need to apologize
for how you chose to survive

Your body is a map I know every inch of
and if anyone else
were to kiss me, all they would taste
is your name.”

—      Clementine von Radics

Published in: on August 7, 2013 at 12:04 pm  Comments (1)  
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Published in: on June 1, 2013 at 9:36 am  Leave a Comment  
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Farewell Sophie

I remember the day you came home. Mom was wearing her winter coat (which was as big as she was!) and holding her belly. I was 16 & sitting at the kitchen table. Startled I got up and asked “MOM ARE YOU OK!?” and she went “shhhhh” and unzipped her jacket a little. The tiniest tan nose I ever did see popped out! I wanted to name you “Clue” because of the adorable paw print on the back of your head, but Sophie won.


13 years later I am grateful I could say my goodbyes on Easter. We’ve had some incredible times together. Thank you for the memories, the tail wags, the laughter, the kisses. Hell, I’ll even miss the incessant howling and barking. I take peace in knowing that your last day was, although chilly, perfect.


Mom wanted to wait a little longer, but you were tired. I could see that your body was ready to rest. You were having issues with walking; even the tiniest stair step was a struggle. Getting outside in time was becoming more and more infrequent between the time it took you to move and the nerve damage going on in your back legs. I’m glad you were able to make it to Cape May; it was always your favorite place. Mom sat and ate lunch with you in the sun before taking you to the vets office. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through right now. I hope you understand she always wanted the best for you.


Farewell Sophie. Say hi to your big brother Max when you get to the summerlands.Image(Little baby Sophie cuddling up next to her big brother Max)


Published in: on April 2, 2013 at 5:52 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Thing About Crotch Shots…

I love the sexy bits. I am not here to rant about how genitals are gross. I’m here post my opinion on the crotch shot. The cock shot, you’ve been accosted by it. you get a message in your inbox from someone you’ve been chatting up and BAH! there’s a shotty pic of an unwanted hard on in.your.fucking.face.
But wait, there’s more!

There’s the profile that is empty sans a sentence or two, and only one photo… what is that pic? RUN FOR THE HILLS ITS A COCK! Or you’re looking through someones profile, nice and happy, oh look, there is a picture of them on the beach -next- what a lovely photo. Oh they went to London, how great for them -next- oh here’s a..GOD DAMNIT! -close-

I did not ask to be assaulted by your junk.

I understand that your personal profile is what you want to put on it. But for the love of Gods I can’t figure out why someone would think putting a photo of their cock up is a good idea? Are there any persons out there who enjoy seeing this? I’m less upset when there are other photos of persons daily life up as well, but I personally lose a little respect for someone if they post a close up of their junk for no other reason than its a close up of their junk.

I am aware that I am bitching mostly about penis havers, and their belief that their penis is a god and must be photographed in a public bathroom with poor lighting and lotsa shadow with shaky hands as fast as possible before they get caught. I have the same issue for those with vaginae, and with those with breasts. I bitch less about them not because I prefer them, but because said havers often DON’T post without a purpose.

When their bits are posted its either more than just bits, or its showing off a tie/piercing/enhancement/scene where it is no longer bits for bits sake. Yes I’m generalizing. I’ll pull randomly 100 profiles of people identifying as male, and 100 profiles of people identifying as female and show you the results if you like. I assure you, as an avid perver of adult oriented social networks, the ratio to gratuitous cock shots to tit/cooter shots is crazy.

I love seeing photos people post of nudity, of art, of scenes from their kink or daily life. I enjoy genitorture photos, pics of implants or crotch ties… If you did something you’re proud of show it off regardless of if your crotch is in it. There are photos even in my profile of my nude body, breasts, and of play partners nude body. But in all of those shots, the focus isn’t intended to be “OMG TITS!” or “PENIS!” its showing a tie, bruising, or other moments of “look what I did!”

I guess one could make the argument that showing off your crotch for nothing more than a crotch shot could be identified as something you are proud of or something you can do. But really it come off, to me anyhow, as “Puberty treated me well” or as “look, my penis does what it is designed to do”. There really isn’t a level of skill or talent involved in either scenario.

So what is your opinion on the (not really) obligatory crotch shot? Like, love, annoyed? Do you have one posted, and why? do you loathe them like I do for other reasons? I would love to hear others opinions on this topic.

Published in: on January 19, 2013 at 11:17 pm  Comments (1)  
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On Being Adopted

I was reading a link at about a womans journey through her gender transition and her search for her bio parents. One of the first comments that popped up was from a person calling themselves Winona discussing their thoughts:


I’m pretty fucking open about a lot of things, my family history being one of them. So I added my two cents. Midway through I realized that this was totally a blog that should happen, and well here. Here is my thoughts on being an adopted child who seeks out their biological family.


“My sister and I are adopted from two different families. Our parents were honest from the beginning with us, answering difficult questions, calming our fears, and doing parenty things that parents do. Although my sister and I are raised in the same house, we have two very different stories that have shaped our lives.
My bio parents are dead. They died during the adoption process, I have virtually no memory of them, and have never met my siblings. I know I have two older brothers and two older sisters that were taken away by the state before I was born. I know they are scattered in Northern California, Oregon, and Washington. I do not think they know I was ever created. I have always longed to find my family, but am held back with the fear that they will not want me in their life for whatever reason. I don’t know why I have this yearning. I think for me its both logical and curiosity. I want to hear stories of my parents. I want to see who got whose traits. I want to know medical conditions, who gave me my RA, who gave me my impeccable eyesight. I want to know if my forehead wrinkles are nature or nurture. I want to know my biofamilies experiences. Do I have my mother or fathers hands? I don’t think my biosiblings or any biorelatives I meet will ever feel like anything more than a part of my life. My mom is my mom, and even knowing I didn’t come from her blood hasn’t changed a thing.

My sister’s bio parents are alive and well. We as a family kept in touch with her biomom from birth, and with her biodad for the first few years of her life (which has its own fucked up story for another day) Thanks to the magic of the internet my sister was able to find her biodad and now has an incredible relationship with him, his wife, their children, and their family. She has also been able to maintain her relationship with her biomom and meet her husband. It’s kinda a phenomenal story. She did this all with the support of our mom and me, kept us involved every step of the way, and was willing to let it go if one of us was not comfortable with the process. My sister knew how terrifying it could be for our mom, fears of rejection and replacement and who knows what else. She also knew how sensitive this could be for me, that I could never meet my parents. Not once did anyone feel replaced, rejected, or like they weren’t part of the process. Meeting my sisters biofamilies was just like meeting estranged cousins for the first time. It felt like we all belonged together.

I can’t speak on behalf of every adopted person out there, but I can speak for my family. There is a natural curiosity of it, knowing that there is this whole other unit that gave you away… It creates questions thought up in your childhood that dwell and grow with you into adulthood. I will never stop loving my mom. I will never think of another woman as my mom. She’s the one that picked me out of a cabbage patch, taught me how to be myself, and has supported every single adventure I’ve gotten myself into. There is no way my bio-family can compare to what she has done for me.”


So yeah. I’ve known since I was a small child that family isn’t always blood, and have lived my life knowing this. I think being adopted has given me the heart I have; I know what it’s like to be taken in as if you were family, and it is something I strive to do with the people in my life. With that I leave you with our family christmas photo from a couple years back. Adoption: it’s serious business.



Published in: on November 25, 2012 at 6:05 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Irrational Fears

I have them. I have a lot of them. Landing, mayonnaise, creature under my bed, creature in my closet, loud noises, going blind (i memorize walking paths and how many steps it takes to get places), million legged things….

The one that to this day though still gets me is costume events.

I love costume events. I do. However for some strange reason I am terrified they are all a prank when I get an invite. I know my friends are awesome and are an incredible clan, but the moment one throws a costume themed party I’m terrified that they’re all doing this to get me to show up in costume and mock me. Every.Damn.Time. I don’t know where this fear came from, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I’ve been working as a bartender part time now for a while and i love it. Halloween being on a Monday meant that we all could play dress up this past weekend for work; which is AWESOME. However the thought of being the only one in costume even though I talked to the other two girls on shift 18 million times was enough to make me almost show up in mundanes.
But then I’d be the only one NOT dressed up and that’s just as terrifying to me. So I dressed up and brought a change of clothes with me just in case. Logically I know that no one has any desire to do this to me, any reason to do it, and I have no rational reason to be afraid of this. I’m just being a stupid chickenshit. Doesn’t stop it from happening.
Needless to say everyone did dress up and it was an awesome weekend despite October dressing up as Christmas for Halloween. Thanks for listening to my plight.

Published in: on November 4, 2011 at 2:51 pm  Leave a Comment  

This man is an unsung hero.

Published in: on September 16, 2011 at 11:19 am  Leave a Comment