Dirty Little Secrets (This Friday List is Not Worksafe)

Well. Now we're talking aren't we? (Don't know what I mean? Obviously you haven't read the comments thread for the last post.)

Inspired by your collective skillz & desire to talk about 'em, as well as my performance anxiety about tonight's rendezvous, today's Friday List asks the question: what's your best move?

Specifically, what's your favorite technique for sex or seduction? This could be a technique you enjoy doing or receiving. It could be completely physically technical (I put my finger in X place and do Y with it in a Z manner) or it could be social or emotional. Basically, it just has to be goooooooooooooooooooood...

(Bonus challenge: give me something I can try out tonight and I promise to report back in detail about how it worked with The Charmer.)

As is only fair, I'll go first:

Some of you may know that one of the effect of testosterone on the nominally "female" body is that the clit becomes enlarged. Many FTMs and their lovers call this the "trannycock." My ex's grew to be about the size and thickness of the top of my index finger (above the highest knuckle). Maybe a little longer and a smidge less thick. (There used to be a very helpful website showing pictures of trannycock but I can't find it anymore, sorry. You'll just have to imagine.) The best thing I've done in bed possibly ever is to stop stroking & swirling it and instead take it firmly between my thumb & forefinger and stroke it like the shaft we both imagined it to be. Not particularly tricky, but let me tell you, it WORKED. The perfect storm of physical and emotional gratification. My fingers are tingling just thinking about it. Plus, I love anything you can do and kiss the person at the same time.

Er, hold on a second, I need to take care of something...




OK. I'm back. Your turn.

Since greenyQ asked...

...I have Date #2 with The Charmer on Friday night. At his house. Ahem.

I'm completely psyched, and more than a little nervous. There's the normal early-dating jitters, as well as the likely-first-sex jitters, plus, because of my life being as it is, the still-totally-awkward- around-the-penis jitters. Which are of course compounded by the how-should-I-bring-up-the-dyke-thing jitters. And let's not forget the dating-has-been-pretty-brutal-to-my-ego-so-this-better-go-well- because-I-can't-take-more-bullshit-or-rejection jitters (or is that just part of the aforementioned early-dating jitters?).

But under all that I've been catching a whiff of the men-frighten-me jitters. I'm sorry to smell them, that's for sure. I hate being frightened by a whole gender of people. It's ridiculous and reductive. Most men are safe and some women are scary (and the same holds true of trannies, etc.). But there it is. Men frighten me.

To be sure, I've got my reasons. Yes, I was sexually assaulted by a man in college, but also my father abandoned us when I was very small, and boys were my primary torturers on the playground and in the hallway. The ones who spat on me and made games out of sneaking up on me and knocking me over without anyone seeing.

Sure, there was also plenty of Mean Girls aggression, but here's the catch -- I've since gotten much better at getting "girls" to like me. Not just sexually; generally. Socially. But boys? I dropped out of "boys" altogether. It's my clearest memory of coming out. One night I was kissing a girl for the first time during a gender-blind game of spin the bottle, and the next day I was leaving my office in my department building (where I shared space with another student researcher, whom I had been flirting with for months and who would soon become my first girlfriend), thinking "Do you know what this means? This means I don't need men for anything!" and floating off to fetch my nearly-girlfriend a diet coke.

That was a little more than fourteen years ago, and I only started dating boys again this summer. In total, since dipping my toe back in the world of factory-direct men, I've had dates or date-esque encounters with 5 of them, only one of whom I saw twice. And that, my friends? Was The Man/Child.

Which is all to say that I haven't had a chance to work through my fears about men the way I have about women. They're stuck back in 1993. I don't know what men want from me, but I do expect it's something bad. (Which again, is ridiculous, because men as a whole entity don't want anything from me, b/c they're not a monolith. And also: I'm a big girl and have agency now. Whatever "they" want, if I don't like it, I don't have to do it. I know this stuff. I really do. Sort of.)

All this leaves me with weird worries. Not of physical violence - I'd like to think I'm a better judge of character than that, and if I'm not, I'm quite capable of defending myself. It comes out more sideways, like how I keep steeling myself for what I'm going to say when he refuses to wear a condom, even though I know in my head that he seriously probably won't and even if he did it would be such a totally asshole thing to do as to be doing me a favor. Alternately, I keep wondering if somehow this is all a joke he's playing on me, like the time The Popular Boy in school not only came to my birthday party, but asked me to go into the basement with him. And then told me he'd bet his friend he couldn't get my bra, a la Sixteen Candles. Like all The Charmer's attention to date is the setup for some elaborate joke of which I am the punchline.

The good news: none of this is keeping me from freshening up my pedicure and shopping for some very sexy panties. After all, we must prepare for the worst, but hope for the best. And I suspect the best in this case may be very, very good, indeed...

An Important Question (and Some Other Stuff)

The question: do you, gentle reader, not want a Feminist Hanky Code, or do you just not have ideas to contribute toward the creation of it? Ruby and I were a bit discouraged by the lack of interest in Friday's conversation, but will forge ahead on our own and share our creation with you and the wider feminist blogosphere -- but only if you tell us you'll use it. We've already established (ruby & I, that is) that we're not going to date each other.

In other news, you'll notice that I've spiffed the place up a bit, the better to foster conversation and find new readers. (I've also added stats tracking, and discovered that in the last 24 hours, I've had not one but two readers in New Zealand! Welcome! Can I come visit you?)

I've also added a few folks to my wee blogroll, some of whom I found when they had the good sense to link to PFG. Welcome to The B List (home of the fab performance poet Cheryl B.), Feminist Allies (a lovely blog for feminist men), Chaos Theory, and The Hathor Legacy, two most excellent feminist-leaning pop culture blogs.

In completely unrelated news, did anyone watch the Golden Globes last night? I was so pleased to see so many of the female awards won by women who were, in at least one but sometimes two ways, not young, white and skinny. America Ferrara, Jennifer Hudson, Helen Mirren and Meryl Streep all beat out their more conventionally starlet-y competition. Plus, Grey's Anatomy & Ugly Betty both won in their categories, both shows with diverse casts created and produced by women of color (Shonda Rhimes & Salma Hayek, respectively)! It's enough to give a girl a glimmer of hope for the world.

Can I Just Admit This To You?

So, The Charmer and I texted some on Friday (nicely flirty & friendly) and the sitch at the mo is that he's away visiting friends this weekend and will call when he gets back. Which has left the weekend for the post-date glow to wear off and all my insecurities to kick in.

Which is why I was lying in bed this morning wondering what this smart gorgeous worldly sophisticated guy is doing with short chubby awkward pedestrian dilettante me? What will be the detail he discovers that finally horrifies him? That I know more about American Idol than I do about [fill-in-the-blank canonical author]? That I'm kinda a slob? That the weight I'm at right now is the low end of my range? That my passport has expired? That I like to spend a lot of time alone? That I really am too radical a feminist for him? That I'm a total amateur in the ways of the penis?

Or does he already suspect all these things and is just using me until he gets bored b/c he thinks I'm an easy target?

This Friday List Could Change Your Life!

Well, it really could if it helps you meet a potential love(r). As suggested by the brilliant ruby in response to last week's Friday List, today we are creating our very own feminist version of the Hanky Code, the purpose of which will to be to signal that we are feminists looking for some sort of love, sex, or romance, thereby encouraging other feminists or feminist allies to flirt us up even if we're at a Very Important Rally or Talk or somewhere else where you wouldn't want to just randomly flirt up a feminist b/c you don't want to suggest that you don't take her political commitments seriously.

Got it?

Some thoughts before we dive in:

-What should the base signifier be? I personally think we should use something other than hankies, so our code doesn't get mistaken for the original Hanky Code. It should be something wearable on the person which can be worn easily by people who like to dress feminine, masculine and inbetween/neither/blur/whatever.

-Consider attributing meaning not only to color but also to where and how the object is worn. But don't be limited by left/right/top/bottom -- our code doesn't have to address that dynamic (or it can).

-Should the code indicate the gender(s) of the type of date/mate you're looking for?

-We should probably keep it simple to start with, to make it easier for it to catch on. We don't need twenty or thirty submeanings.

Once y'all contribute your excellent ideas, ruby has offered to synthesize them and present The Code right here at PFG. THEN we'll hit up the feminist blogosphere to help us spread the word.

Then we get our flirt on...

So: Ready, Set, GO TO THE COMMENTS!


P.S. The Goths seem to have already developed a code of their own...

Charmed, I'm Sure

Date Report!

These seem to work best with bullet points:

-Lasted 6 hours. Covered three venues (bar, restaurant, second bar). Alcohol units: ummm... hard to say b/c we ordered sparkling wine (NOT Champagne, that's a region in France, got the whole speech which I mostly forgive him for b/c he's actually French, and also b/c he's actually HOT) and he kept refilling my glass while I wasn't looking. But let's just say I was nursing a lovely little buzz the whole night without crossing over into drunk. Over 6 hours, that's an accomplishment I think.

-Topics discussed included: The relative merits of Vancouver vs. Seattle and NYC vs. LA. The oppressive way masculinity is policed in the U.S., esp. through the use of homophobia (he brought this one up). My complex relationship with my dad. Why American women love soccer. Our mutual skepticism about marriage. His called-off engagement. The strategic fear culture underlying people's lack of willingness to challenge authority or get into political debates with people who disagree with them. The merits of Clint Eastwood's directorial ouvre (what do you think?). What the people sitting across from us were celebrating and what exactly was their relationship to each other...

-He seemed fully unfazed by the feminist stuff, agreeing with me at several points when I added a gender analysis to whatever we were discussing and sometimes adding his own. He also did this impressive thing where he rattled off numbers of countries who are way ahead of the U.S. and Europe when it comes to women in political power -- something I couldn't have done as well as he did. He did say at one point that sometimes he has a problem with "extreme feminism," though when I pressed him for an example of what that looked like he couldn't quite form one, though he mentioned a French group which translates to "The Guard Dogs" that he considers extreme -- anyone know anything about them? [UPDATE: They're called Les Chiennes de Garde and their site is in French, of course -- can anyone parse it? I see some defense of Andrea Dworkin, something about "the porn war" and something about lesbianism, but I can't really get the tone. The English site is sparse and old and certainly doesn't seem overly radical, but is clearly not the whole story) I told him we'd have to find out as we go along if I fall in his "extreme" category, but I definitely didn't seem to last night and I wasn't holding my tongue. Quite the contrary -- he was an excellent sparring partner with a lot of strongly held and well-thought-out opinions, so I brought it on and he really liked my directness. I suspect the "extreme" thing is a product of the media environment (beware of the scary, irrational feminists!) and not a reality he actually comes up against very often if ever.

-I did manage to work in that my ex is trans, as part of another conversation about trouble crossing the US border, and he really had no reaction to that at all, at least none that was visible. I didn't manage to tell him that, aside from a couple of one-night experiences this past year, I haven't interacted with penises since college.

-Oh, you want the good stuff? Here's what I'm willing to tell you: We're sitting in the post-dinner bar, knees touching, talking about how I can love the romance of weddings but not the realities of marriage, when he runs his forefinger through the salt on my margarita and holds it up to my lips. After I lick it off, he offers me some on his thumb. And before I've even finished with that he is kissing me and kissing me. In the middle of the bar. He tastes surprisingly sweet and clean, like soap and musk and iron, and smells faintly of good cologne. He does come on too fast with the tonguethrusting, but manages to tone it down a bit on my cue. And then we're talking again, and then we're full-on making out at the bar, and then talking and then making out and at some point he undoes my bra, one-handed and with one quick motion (this is a four-hook bra, people) and in the middle of everything, and I am stunned and pleased and also a little mortified and I start to hook it back up again and he does it again and I tell him he really has to stop b/c it's making me uncomfortable and he doesn't understand why so I explain and I'm not sure he got it but he did stop. [UPDATE: For more on the bra thing, check the comments]

-Basically, he's smart and interesting and beautiful and political and sexy and pretty damn suave. I'm not sure if he isn't a tad more arrogant than I like people to be, though it's a fine line with me since I really do prefer someone with confidence and strong opinions who'll test me a little bit. I'd like to see more of a sweet, dorky side, though. I can't do without a sweet, dorky side.

-After I convinced him that I really, really wasn't going home with him last night, I drove him home and told him he should ask me out again, and that specifically he should invite me over to his place, make me dinner, and show me a movie (he's a big movie buff). And that he had much better odds of seducing me on date #2. We shall see...

If You Love a Puppy, Set Him Free

That's probably very bad advice if you have a pet. But I think it's the right thing to do with my pretty young trannypunk.

As if the month of silence weren't enough (which: it wasn't, since I recently learned that The (Ex)Girlfriend isn't moving out until the 15th, inspiring new hope that he might still get in touch when she finally does amscray), he recently posted an entry to his livejournal about how he's realized that casual sex makes him feel like the person just thinks of him as a sex object. Considering that I basically offered him no-strings-attached-sex on a platter, well... ouch.

So I wrote him an email. Which went thusly:

Read your post. I'm not narcissistic enough to think it was actually about me in any way, but it did make me think, shit, did I make him feel like that too? So I thought I'd just take a minute to tell you that as much as I did try very hard (in my pathetic way) to seduce you, I figured out early on that you're more than a pretty boy I sometimes can't avoid.

Actually, the fact that you're smart and talented and radical and a little crazy and surprising and sweet and thoughtful and actually kinda grounded and self-aware for someone whose life is as chaotic and confusing as yours, is all part of why I made my pathetic attempts to seduce you in the first place. If all it took was pretty to get my panties damp I'd be having a lot more sex than I am. A lot. (Seriously. You might be surprised at how much sex I'm not having.)

Which is all to say, I very genuinely like you, as a person, even if you suddenly had a hot-ectomy or whatever. And I want good things to happen for you. And I'm glad you're getting some time to slow down and think about shit. And I hope you do whatever you need for your own self. And I've got no agenda in writing this, btw. I'm no longer trying to get in your pants. (Which isn't to say I wouldn't still welcome an invitation to your pants, but I get that I'm not going to get one anytime in the predictable future.) Just wanted you to know.

Not Shakespeare, but I feel much lighter. Like I can now just bookend the whole experience and file it under "Ones That Got Away (Subcategory: Bad Timing)" Which isn't to say that I'm not nursing a tiny hope that the email itself will inspire him to call me up and rekindle things. I'm not superwoman. I'm just no longer giving that more than a 5% chance of happening.

Meanwhile: date with The Charmer tomorrow night! Wish me luck...

Where the Boys Are (The Friday List)

So The Charmer finally called yesterday, and I must say he was kinda adorable, rambling to my voicemail about how sorry he is it's taken so long and he's been sick and we could do coffee or drinks or how about this film fest tomorrow night if I'm free and generally being transparently nervous and interested and lovely. And then texting me two minutes later because he forgot to ask for my email so he could send me the film fest info.

I called him back later in the day (he called while I was swamped at work, not sure what he does during the day), and got HIS voicemail, and told him the film fest sounded great but I was busy tomorrow night (which is now tonight) and drinks next week might be the best option for me. Which is all to say that it's looking increasingly likely that we may actually have a date-like encounter. Which is further to say that now I am really starting to worry.

If we do manage to meet, and I'm not reading the tea-leaves completely wrong, it'll be my first date since college with a "bio" guy I didn't meet through the personals. I'm not splitting hairs here in order to create another "first" -- the personals, while often hateful, have some real advantages for a girl like me. By the time I actually meet someone in the flesh, they already know I'm an opinionated feminist progressive whose exes have vaginas. And I know how they've reacted to that information.

Instead, The Charmer and I will have to tiptoe through that territory tete-a-tete, and that has the potential of going wrong seventeen different ways at least. And before you point out that he's the friend of my friend and therefore can't be that far off, let me remind you that I don't really even know the friend at whose party we met very well. She's more of an acquaintance I'm starting to become friendlier with.

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled he called and I'm up for the adventure. But that doesn't mean it doesn't make me want to throw up a little bit, too.

In honor of this tiny drama, I hereby proclaim today's Friday List: The Best Ways To Meet Feminist or Feminist-Friendly Men Who Are Available and Appealing for Dating. Spill it, everyone! Enquiring minds want to know. I want to know.

In Other News

-I told an entire room of (mostly) queers tonight that I sleep with "bio" men. I haven't really talked about being in the closet to my queer community about the guy thing, but I have been. And tonight I decided to start 2007 off right by trying to just be myself and let the chips fall where they may. Obviously there was no collective gasp or mass fainting spell, but it'll be interesting to see what the gossip mill in our very small, insular community does with the news. I'm trying not to care, but falling short. Still, it felt powerful and I'm glad I did it.

-I wound up with the perfect opportunity to invite The Puppy along to a social plan that's developing tomorrow night with some mutual friends and discovered that I really didn't want to anymore! Not that I wouldn't be psyched if he came on his own (if someone else invited him) or if he texted me or otherwise showed some kind of initiative. Because I'm pretty sure I would. But I've finally crossed over into Can't Try Anymore territory, and it is a sweet, sweet relief.

-In (possibly related?) other other news, two friends have already offered to set me up with two different guys this year! And it's only the 2nd. Looks like the pool may be expanding after all, but I'm not going to count my dates until they DATE ME (I'm looking at you, The Charmer, who still hasn't called two days later...).

I Kissed My Ex.

As in, tonight. So hard to explain how it happened, because it has turned my head incredibly fuzzy. But I will try.

We were at this thing, this public social thing which I can't say too much about for the sake of both of our anonymity, but suffice it to say that we both were involved in making the event happen, and it went really well, and afterwards we wound up alone together debriefing and I told him how much our working well together made me want to kiss him.

Now you will at this point surmise that this statement caused the kissing which followed, but in honesty, I say something like that to him practically every time we see each other. There just remains this crackling chemistry between us and it winds up feeling like the elephant in the room and I just can't stand there being an elephant in the room and not speaking of it. So I do. I don't expect anything to happen, I just have to acknowledge it. I find it actually often makes whatever the thing is feel less charged. Ha.

So tonight I said what I said and we wound up discussing what would have to happen for us to get back together. We had very different visions of this. He imagined we would return to our couples counselor and do a ton of processing and discussion at the end of which we'd decide whether or not to re-commit. I figured we'd have to go on a few tentative, no-strings dates and see if that made us want to see each other more or less.

The topics then progressed thusly: why we broke up (him: communication issues. me: not enough intellectual challenge) and whether those factors can change (both of us: erm, maybe?). Who's more optimistic about us getting back together in the forseeable future (both of us: him) and why that makes me want to sleep with him now more than he does me (because he thinks there's more to lose if the sex messes things up between us).

It was around then, though I couldn't tell you exactly what we were talking about right when it happened, but somewhere around then he leaned over and kissed me, softly, with closed lips. Twice. At first I almost pulled away because I didn't think he would really kiss me and I didn't want to pucker up and feel foolish when he veered to my cheek at the last moment but he didn't and I breathed one of those jagged, hitched breaths you do when the thing you've wanted for so long seems to be actually happening, and especially when that thing involves kissing. Twice.

Then he backed off a little and we talked more (don't ask me what about) and later I leaned in and we kissed a little more, and a little more open-mouthed. And then we talked a little more and then he left.

And now I feel so fluxy that I don't know how I feel, but it's not how I would have predicted if you'd told me I'd kiss Bob tonight and then not sleep with him. I feel like some emotional ice floe is breaking up and moving all around and I don't know where it'll end up. I feel more in touch with how much I love Bob as a person and want to be gentle with his feelings (and with mine, too) and less urgent about fucking him. Which is not because the kissing was a turn-off. Far from it. It was more a turn-on, in the turning on the emotional spigot kinda way. I didn't even know I'd closed it up so tight.

Happy New Year To ME!

Three things happened this weekend to make it a good Shiny New Year Transition:

1) I listened to This American Life's Christmas Spectacular episode (finally, considering it first aired a year ago, and it's already a week after Christmas this year), and heard David Rakoff's transformative "Twas The Morning After", the most beautiful and realistic ode to going it alone during the holidays that I've heard in a very long time, if ever. You can hear it here. (It's the first "Act" of the show. Hang in with it -- it sounds at first like it's going to be sad & pathetic, but I promise, it's totally worth it.)

2) Thus inspired, I decided that I wasn't in the mood to go to the party I'd been invited to, since I'd likely know no one there but the host, and I just wasn't in the mood for a bunch of strangers. Instead, I realized I'd much prefer to rent a movie and stay home with my knitting and my self. (Dear Host Of That Party: um, sorry, I should've called. Hope it was fun!)

3) En route to the video store, I received a text from The Charmer, which I'll quote in its entirety: "Hi [LadyRed], just back from a trip out west, on my way from airport. Got your msg, will call soon to meet sometime this week. Have a great new year's eve! [The Charmer]" My friend (and legendary wingwoman) H. and I agree that either he is wonderfully unafraid of letting me know he's into me (texting en route from the airport?) or the biggest playa evah. It should be fun to find out which (remind me I said that, 'kay?).

As for the moment itself, I'll admit that while I had a lovely evening avec moi seulment, I was a little sad as the clock approached midnight. I decided to meditate through it, which proved a good thing to do, but didn't keep me from wanting to call my ex as my first act of 2007. I can at least report that I successfully resisted.

How were your festivities?

Pretend I Am A Genie (Introducing the Friday List)

Back from my holiday travels and called The Charmer yesterday, and blessedly got his voicemail, on which I managed to leave a perfectly reasonable message. Now I know if he calls back he's at least got some basic interest in me. Did I mention how much I love the waiting? Love. It.

In the meantime, last week's I'm Fine Film Fest for Single Gals was so much fun I've decided to make it a weekly event: Introducing the Friday List. Today's topic is New Years related, since there it is, looming at us only two days from now. (My current plan? I'm trying to find out what party The Puppy will be at and get myself invited. I agreed to play it cool until January, and it'll be January at that party...)

I'm not a big believer in resolutions, but I do believe in speaking desires and intentions out loud in order to give the universe the chance to help you out with them. So, pretend I am a genie and can grant you three wishes for your love/dating/sex/romance life for 2007. What are hoping for in the new year? Extra credit if you can state them as facts instead of requests -- more power lies that way.

I'll start:

1) I will come out to my parents about the whole "flexisexual" business and they will surprise me with their generous love and understanding.

2) The predictions my friends made when Bob & I broke up will finally come true and I'll have to start fending off potential dates with some metaphorical form of a stick -- in other words, I'll have an abundance of appealing choices for dating & sex, enough so that I can be choosy.

3) At least once in 2007 I'll get emotionally involved with someone in a healthy, meaningful, ongoing way, for at least three months, and if we're not still together at the end of the year, we'll both feel good with that.

OK -- your turn...

A Clean, Well-Lighted Closet

Strangely little to say about the Family Holiday Festivities (though we've still got the Aunt to go today.) In the meantime, I've finally tackled this post I've been avoiding since Day 1. Which is fitting, because it's about silence.

I came out to my parents in the summer of 1993, just after I'd finished college. I figured I'd finish school before I did the deed in case they disowned me. I also purposefully came out to them as "lesbian," even though I knew the truth about my attractions was far more complicated than that. I just figured if I told them I was attracted to both men and women (I hadn't yet considered trannies or genderqueers), they'd say, "Well then, we expect you to choose men."

I have no idea if I was right or not -- it's not one of those things you can do twice to find out which is better. As it was, they struggled mightily with the news, screaming, crying, suggesting it was just a reaction to my having been raped the year before, and doing their best to forbid and/or blackmail me out of speaking about my "lesbianism" to anyone they knew, including my entire extended family.

But over time (meaning, several years), they really worked hard to understand. My girlfriend got invited to family holidays. My mother let me know she supported equal marriage rights.

And then there was D. D. was the very first transman I got involved with. You don't need to know much about him, as we didn't last very long, but it was being with D. that opened my eyes to the realities of the closet. Namely: there isn't just one.

There I was -- an out, proud "lesbian" lying to my increasingly accepting family about whether or not I was dating anyone. I refused to use female pronouns or a female name for him with them, even though he wouldn't know. It felt like too big a betrayal. And as far as they knew, I wasn't attracted to men, so I couldn't just suddenly be dating one. How could I explain D.? This was before Boys Don't Cry, even.

After D. and I managed to disentangle, I got involved with a woman quite seriously and figured that particular dilemma was in the past. My folks loved her, they wanted to know when we were going to get married. We fell apart at the two year mark.

Almost immediately, I met and fell for the person I've been referring to on this blog as "my ex." For the purposes of this story, I'm going to call him Bob, though I'll probably go back to calling him The Ex so that newer readers don't go, "Who's this Bob guy, and why doesn't she get with him?"

Anyway, Bob and I fell hard and fast and there was no possible way to pretend to my mother that he didn't exist -- I'm just not that good of a liar. But, at the time we met, he had a very laissez-faire attitude toward pronouns. His official policy was "call it like you see it," and while I had immediately taken to using male pronouns with him, he understood why I might want to use female ones with my family -- he himself hadn't yet come out to his family as trans. He also happened to have one of those names that can be "either" gender. So I skirted the issue for a while. This didn't mean I wasn't closeted. It just meant the closet was roomy and well-lit and had a glass door.

The thing I'm trying to get at here is the feeling of lying to my family. So literally familiar and simultaneously this intolerable pressure. I've been lying to my mother since the days of "Who broke this?" "It wasn't me!" Sometimes it's still like that: an act of self-preservation, an elision of consequence. Sometimes it's because I don't think she really would want to know the truth -- about my politics, my sex life, my cleaning habits, my generally debauched and radical ways. It's a way of maintaing her idea of who I am, an idea that serves us both. Most of the time.

A few Christmasses ago, we were at the home of a friend of the family, and for the first time in memory there were no minors present. Talk turned to drinking, and my mother claimed to have been drunk only twice in her life. Someone cracked that this was because shopping and drinking don't mix. I offered that the last time I'd shopped while drunk I'd bought a feather boa, and I hadn't regretted it one bit. My mother was shocked. Not that I'd been drunk (she's not that naiive), but that I was someone who would own a feather boa. Of all the people she knew, she said, I seemed the least likely to own such a thing.

If you polled all of my friends and acquaintances and colleagues, even the ones I don't know very well, and asked them how likely it was that I own a feather boa, I guarantee you no one would guess under 90%.

I understood completely and suddenly: she didn't know me because I had protected us both too much for that. It's like feelings -- if you cut yourself off from grief, or anger, or heartache, or whatever awful thing you'd rather avoid, you cut off the joy and passion and love and creativity and all the juicy stuff, too. There's just one spigot. I never got to share with her the very first story I had published in a book, because it was in an erotica anthology. No pronouns, no boa.

To be fair, my fears are not unfounded. I wore a dark red lipstick to Christmas this year and she called it "goth." When I teased her about the size of the American flag she was flying one Fourth of July, she asked me, only half joking, if I was a Communist. We just returned from seeing The Good Shephard, and while we agreed that it would have benefitted from a firm editor, my dad thought it completely useless because it wasn't the action thriller he'd expected. He literally said, "I don't want to be thought-provoked." Anyone who veers from the norm -- and make no mistake, the norm is considered to be white, affluent, suburban, them -- is derided, at least at first, as weird or deviant or wrong in some way.

Still, after that night, I've tried little by little to loosen my grip on what parts of me, well, come out. I explained to them about Bob and trans, and it freaked them right out, but once again they worked hard to understand and really came around, to the point where they still think I made a mistake in leaving him. But they also reinforced some of my original fears -- there were several points during my four year relationship with Bob that she asked me, if Bob and I were to break up, would I date men then?

And now I am. But they don't know that. In fact, as far as they know, I haven't had a single date since Bob & I split in May. Again with the boa: they think I'm sad and chaste and overworked, when in fact I'm just having casual sex with men, pining after a 22 year old trans punk (whom I haven't mentioned to them b/c of the age thing and the dramarama), and my sexual identity is complicated. (OK, it's true I'm sometimes sad and often overworked, but that's got nothing to do with it.)It's not that they don't ask. It's that I lie.

Or maybe I should say, I lied. Pretty effectively, it would seem, based on this very silent holiday visit. Eerily silent. The sound of dozens of coupled-off friends and relations decidedly NOT asking me anything. Which is completely uncharacteristic for my family. It's been a blessing in the short term, however it came about, but long-term means the ball's now in my court. If I want to say anything at this point, I'm going to have to bring it up myself.

I tell myself I'll come out to them again when and if I get involved with a guy in an ongoing way. That's not a lie -- I'm sure I will, if I do. But lately I've been wondering, why am I waiting? Why would it be different then? I think I really fear I can't put this genie back in the bottle. What if I wind up getting serious about a transman or a woman, either now or at some point in the future? Once they know I date men, I can't undo that. And I'm afraid after all of these years of struggle and accpetance and love, I'll find out they're really homophobic and judgemental after all.

In Praise of Good Girlfriends

I feel strangely guilty about it, now that I know there are people here looking for commiseration, but yesterday was Day 1 of Family Holiday Meals & Mingles, and I had a pretty nice time, all things considered.

The food was good, my sister and her husband expressed their distaste for me only in fairly subtle ways, my niece sought me out to hang out with me, and no one asked me a single question about my love life, which may be because they pity me too much or thought I would burst into tears or perhaps had strict instructions not to handed down by my mother, but I didn't want to talk about my love life with these people anyhow, so I mostly don't care.

But the single most important reason it went well was because my best friend from childhood came over for part of the time, making two singles into a couple of good friends. So I did have that person who could witness and secretly laugh at my family dynamics, and who I feel seen by, and who I can sneak into a corner and talk with for an hour or so instead of making conversation with some neighbor's new husband. A good reminder that sometimes there's more than one way to get my emotional needs met. If only I had any desire to sleep with her...

Today: Family Holiday Meal & Mingle Remix, with twice the people, sans friend and avec nosy and newly-engaged gay son of family friend, who is not likely to be so tactful as folks were yesterday. Then tomorrow is the Family Holiday Meal & Mingle Rewind, involving just me, my aging aunt and my very strange (and estranged) new-agey cousin, whom I haven't seen in years.

I'll post reports as I can but the internet connection is spottier here than I had hoped. Merry and happy to all, and to all a good friend!

My First Meme

What a week it's been here in Guvyille! No guys to speak of, it's true, though I did just yesterday manage to acquire The Charmer's phone number, which I plan to deploy next week when I return from the Holiday Visit, and January is closer than ever, which brings with it the prospect of The Return of The Puppy. (Or not. I know, I know.)

But even without those small, wistful developments, I feel as though it's the end of Pinocchio and I've been turned into a real blogger. Not only that, but one of my absolute blogging heroes, Jessica, is my fairy godmother! (Yes, I'm aware I'm mixing my Disney metaphors. Sue me. I don't really even know who turns Pinocchio into a real boy. Jiminy Cricket?)

And now she's tagged me with my very first meme. In which I'm to tell you five things most people don't know about me. With the optional twist of including one thing that's not true and making you guess. But seriously, I could be making them all up, since I'm writing under a pseudonym and most of y'all know very little about me, so I'm not going to bother with that bit. (And I'm not really making them up, I swear!)

So without further ado (drumroll please!):

5 Bits of Personal Trivia About LadyRed (In No Particular Order)

1) I knew Seth Green when I was growing up. Not well, but he was a staff brat at a camp I went to. He was a couple of years younger than me and had already starred in Radio Days, and his best friend was a kid who was playing Gavroche in Les Mis on Broadway at the time, and they were insufferably full of themselves. Once he asked me to slow dance with him and he came up to exactly eye-to-boob height.

2) While I don't believe in any sort of embodied, anthropomorphized and/or judgemental deity, I do pray on a regular basis.

3) I was the absolute least cool girl in school growing up and all through high school. As in, I got spat on.

4) Every night for the entirety of my sophomore year in college, just after I'd turned out the light and gotten into bed to go to sleep for the night, I'd play the song Somebody by Depeche Mode. The live version where he drags out the word "tenderly" and the crowd practically faints en masse. I still love that song.

5) I can apply lipstick using just my cleavage (no hands and no mirror), a la Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club.

Was it good for you, Jessica?

And now I get to do the tagging, which is superfun because it means I get to email people whose blogs I love and tell them a) I exist and b) I love them. And then maybe even get to read their responses! Mikhaela, Flea, Janice, Wendy, Echidne.

I'm home now for the parental visit. So far, so good. I'm sure I'll be blogging the Singleton Holiday Highlights as they unfold, so stay tuned, and stay safe out there, everyone!

The I'm Fine Film Fest for Single Gals

Since I wrote that post about Bridget I've been trying to think of movies about women & their personal relationships that have satisfying, happy endings which don't hinge on getting a guy (or reconciling with a father). I've been able to come up with Muriel's Wedding (a total fave), and my friend M. has suggested Walking and Talking (which I haven't seen) and another one, the name of which I may have already forgotten or may be Me As I Am or something like that. (Obviously I haven't seen that one either).

SURELY there must be others out there. Let's make a virtual film fest out of it -- bring on the suggestions and reviews!

Flexisexual

First off: welcome feministing readers! I'm so thrilled you're here!

I noted that the subject of my blog has sparked a conversation on feministing about the nature of queer identity. I'm not a theory expert, but I did want to explain what I mean when I personally identify as queer.

Basically, the undeniable fact is I'm not straight. While it's true I am attracted to men, I'm also attracted to people of other genders. And you'll probably notice from that last sentence that I don't believe in the gender binary. So the term "bisexual" is totally inadequate to describe my sexual attractions -- not only am I hot for people of more than two genders, I've slept with people of more than two genders and had meaningful relationships with them, too.

That's why I've embraced "queer." Queer means I live outside the heterosexual norm, and the gender binary as well. It also means I'm pretty odd, which is true. Queer also allows me to align myself with lots of other folks who live outside of those little boxes, whether or not their sexual identity is exactly like mine.

Personally, I also enjoy the term "flexisexual." Which I invented, but I invite you to use if you feel it fits...

Sometimes You Have To Turn Into the Skid

I've been feeling sad and loserish lately. No calls from The Charmer, no texts from The Puppy, just a personals message from a guy who wants his women to be "ultra feminine" and the discovery, while cleaning, of a used condom, wedged between my nightstand and my bed, which could only have been left there by The Man/Child, who it turns out is too lazy and immature to ensure his scumbags make it to the trash.

I am not this girl. I promise. I am smart and accomplished and interesting and have great friends and lots of creative and professional projects and yet the holidays are creaming me. I haven't been single at this time of year in seven years, and it shows. I miss my ex. We may have rightly split over the 20% of our relationship that just would not work no matter what, but I miss the 80% of the time he and I fit together like snug puzzle pieces. I miss having someone with me through all the familiar and tortuous rituals of the season, someone to make eye contact with at the dinner table with my elderly aunt, who I can say to later, "Can you believe what she said about _____?" I miss obsessing over the exactly perfect gift for him. I miss being touched, just being in physical contact with another human being, on a regular basis.

Instead, I am going to be the reason there are an odd number of people at the dinner table. The last few "singletons" of my generation in my family have ALL gotten engaged in the past month, if you can believe it, and I'm going to swan into all of that shit solo, the sad girl who couldn't hold onto her man. They will cluck about me, how difficult I am, how I can't let myself be happy. Behind my back if I'm lucky. And with the mood I'm in lately, I won't even really disagree with what they're saying.

I've been trying like hell to fight off this couple-culture poison melancholy, but sometimes the best thing to do with a mood like this is indulge it until it passes. Which is how I found myself alone last night with a newly-opened bottle of vinho verde and a rented copy of Bridget Jones' Diary. I am somewhat ashamed to say that I love this movie. It comforts me, with its urban family narrative and British ordinariness and its purported message that I can be sometimes bumbling and sometimes brilliant and sometimes bizarre and still, in the end, Colin Firth will love me just as I am.

But I've never watched it while single before.

Here's what pissed me straight off about it this time around: it pretends to be about Bridget finding herself. That's one of the things that sold me on the film -- the moment after Colin Firth and Hugh Grant fight over her, and she essentially turns them both down. She basically decides it's better to be single than to compromise what she knows she wants in a partner.

I made that exact decision earlier this year and it was the single hardest thing I've ever done. Strangely enough, 15 minutes later I didn't find myself on a snowy street in my underwear kissing Mark Darcy as though my life depended on it. But in Bridget Jones' world, that's exactly the promise: commit to yourself, refuse to compromise your values, and you will be rewarded straightaway with the very handsome prince you let go of in favor of choosing you.

Empower your way to true love, ladies!

Nor is this message exclusive to Bridget. It's there in nearly every chick lit/chick flick derivative out there. It's the way they sell us fairy tales these days. Feminism has had enough influence that the story can no longer be just about being virtuous and secretly beautiful and vulnerable and pure of heart and wanting it bad enough. No, now in order to sell us the "happy ending" (and all of the personal consumer goods that go along with it) we learn we must value our own independence and careers and dreams -- in order to get what we really want, which is clearly a man.

If you've been reading this blog, you know I do, in fact, want a man. (Maybe several.) But love is worse than a crap shoot. It's more like a spin on the world's largest roulette wheel. When you love someone (and I mean that term broadly, to include attractions, crushes, any of those moments our insides open toward someone else in a way which is beyond logic and our control), it doesn't mean anything except that you love them. It doesn't make them good for you, or interested in you, or anything else that ends in the word "you." If it turns out that they love you back, in a way that makes both of your lives better, that's one of the luckiest coincidences that can happen in the world.

And yet here I am, courtesy of Helen Fielding (and Jane Austen) and the romantic-industrial complex, trying to make deals in my head. I'm just going to let go of worrying about whether some nicknamed boi/y is going to attempt to contact me, and what it means if he does or doesn't. I'm going to focus on my friends, on writing my book proposal, on dipping dried fruit in dark chocolate and arranging it in lovely little jars as gifts for my colleagues and family, on working out, on refinishing the nightstand I just bought on craigslist, on painting my toenails the perfect shade of dark red. On doing whatever it is makes me happiest.

And then The Puppy will call, right? If I do all of that really well, he'll call?

Fuck you, Bridget Jones.

Life: Now With Twice the Waiting

So I went to a party last night. It was hosted by a fairly new acquaintance, so I brought along my friend H. for company. We were both excited at the prospect of a new circle of people to meet, and also at the invite, which encouraged the wearing of gowns & rhinestones and the bringing of sparkling wine.

We got all gussied up and got ourselves there. I was a bit overdressed (seems not everyone takes the invitation to wear gowns and rhinestones as seriously as I do). But there were interesting people (50 of 'em, no less), gallons of champagne, great food, and excellent flirting. My first target turned out to be the hostess' boyfriend, alas. Target number two was her ex (I guess we share taste in men), and he was fun in his hipster glasses and suit, talking about suicide literature and telling terrible jokes. But he was a little timid and maybe a little depressed, so I moved on (though the hostess told me later in the evening that he gave the best oral of her life. Hm.).

Target number 3, however, was a winner. Let's call him The Charmer. Tall, gorgeous, funny, opened by explaining to me in detail how to make a puff pastry stuffed with marzipan (our hostess had made from scratch a Buche de Noel, and decorated it with marzipan). Then he walked away and I realized I'd had chocolate powder down the front of my dress the whole time.

He was born in the Middle East and raised in Europe, where he acquired a lovely accent and learned to make oil lamps from vegetable oil and the peel of mandarin oranges using only his swiss army knife. Which he deftly demonstrated while I nibbled on the orange slices. I don't remember a whole lot else, b/c I was tipsy on champagne the whole time, but I did at one point hold him at sugar-cookie gunpoint (why were there sugar cookies shaped like guns? I still don't know.), and with much assistance* from our hostess and H. and said hostess' boyfriend (of the target #1ness), I gave him my digits on the way out.

Honestly, I'm finding it hard to get worked up about whether or not he'll call, since I'm burnt out from waiting on The Freakin' Puppy, but we'll see...


*The assistance looked like this: H. said I should give him my number. I said I had no idea how to do that. So she grabbed a paper dessert plate and wrote my name & number on it, folded it up and handed it to me. I panicked and flagged down our hostess, who flagged down her boyfriend, who advised against the paper plate, though not against the giving of the number in general. H. and I got our coats and did some surveillance. The Charmer was holding court in a group of like 10 people. I told H. there was no way I could just walk up to him, interrupt everyone, and give him my number. So she strolls right over to one of the women gaggled around him and starts saying her goodbye-it-was-so-nice-to-meet-you thing to her, creating the diversion necessary for me to say similar to The Charmer, with the added upper arm touch (nice muscle tone under there!) and "we should hang out sometime" opening. At which he whipped out his cell and took my digits. Then he called my cell so I would have his, though I tragically discovered later that my cell was off and therefore didn't capture his number, even though he thinks I have it.

The best part? After we left, H. confessed to me that she had never met that woman! Could there be a better wingwoman? Clearly not.

Back from Outer Space

Yes, I've been a bad, bad blogger. If it's any consolation, you haven't missed much. Here's the sitch:

-I still haven't slept with The Puppy. What happened? I'll tell you: The Girlfriend returned. As in, to his/their apartment. She's moving out Jan. 1, but in the meantime, when you combine that drama with the crazy end of his semester, he basically requested a time out from whatever was developing with us. Which I very reluctantly granted. Of course there's lots more to the story, which hopefully I'll get to in subsequent posts, but those are the basic facts. Oh, and also I'm still completely obsessed with him, perhaps more so than ever. Pathetic but true.

-The personals have pretty much dried up entirely. I decided to let Cute Guy fade away because of the aforementioned raging case of Boringitis. Just last week, in the throes of my Pupsession, I emailed someone new who looked, well, OK. He looked OK. There was nothing off-putting about him and he might have been interesting or cute but I couldn't tell yet. Anyhow, I thought emailing someone new would be just the thing for my Pupsession. But he never wrote back. This symbolizes something greater about my life right now.

-Meanwhile, all of my exes are returning to haunt me. I had a very explicit sex dream about a college boyfriend the other night, so naturally, I googled him -- he's a doctor in a teaching hospital in North Carolina. There's a picture of him on their website in his white coat, looking decidedly middle-aged. Ack.

So, on a roll, I googled a high school boyfriend, who for a long long time after we broke up I imagined was the love of my life. We're in touch once every couple of years, but not really. He's been married for ages to his college girlfriend (the only woman he slept with besides me, I think -- and it didn't happen in the order you might think, but that's a story for another day). Google turns up an embryonic myspace page for him -- he obviously registered and then didn't set it up. BUT -- he's listed as single! Could it be true? Could it be a sign from the universe? Could it be he's The One after all? Even though I no longer believe in The One or any of those bullshit patriarchal romantic constructs?

I send him a vague little email. A week later he responds, so pleased to hear from me and tell me about the condo he & his lovely wife just bought, and how they're going to start trying for kids soon.

You'd think that would be the end of it with the exes (as did I), but then just this morning I'm on the phone with my folks & my stepdad tells me how I'll never believe who he just heard from! On a business call! And I don't! Because it's my other high school boyfriend, the one I lost my virginity to at the ripe old age of 15. The one who taught me what my clitoris was and what it could do. The one I got caught with fooling around in my house, who came to my school to pick me up when my parents forbade me to see him. The one who once told me that if he ever found out I was faking orgasms with him, he'd rip out my ovaries and shove them up my nose.

OK, that last one was not so great, esp. since I was, in fact, faking it with him, because I hadn't figured out how to have an orgasm yet. But at least he was a teenage boy who cared whether or not I came.

Anyhow, I am being visited by the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past. Is there a reward if I figure out what the lesson is here?