Stealth Lesbian...

Playing Another Round of "Who's my Daddy?"

2011-08-11T22:54:00.000-07:00

Now, Now, Sugarpuss don't be alarmed but, Momma is single. Now, I know that must come as a shock to those of you that think that Momma spends her days being doted on and getting her nails done by a whimsical and doting boi with hair of spun glass.

Alas, that is my fantasy but yet, life is not like a fantasy. No matter what Madonna said. Or, did she say mystery? Either way I blame Madonna for many of my life's misconceptions. The ease of 'striking a pose' among them. She did say 'there's nothing to it.' but you have to remember all of those steps and then I don't know what to do with my hands when she starts naming all of those names. But, to be fair, I was never good at the Macarena either. Maybe I'm just bad at choreographed dances.

What if I accidentally end up in a relationship with someone who line dances? Oh god, would they force me to wear a matching outfit? I will NOT wear a matching outfit. Unless she's really persuasive. All I know is she will not get me to bedazzle anything. No matter how hot she is. I draw the line at Bedazzling. Or, Vajazzling for that matter. Although I know some queens who would kill for a star spangled whoo-ha. I support them, because I don't judge.

Anyhooo, rough trade, there is nothing like dating. Unless that nothing is a stroll through the valleys of craziness unparalleled by either Muddy Waters lyrics or Michelle Bachmann's eyes. Finding a new relationship is like a mining excursion; you don't know what you're going to find and you hope what you do find is not hazardous to your health or your criminal record.

I've come to realize in this latest round of "Who's my Daddy?" that apparently there's a dyke recycling policy I was not aware of. Apparently when we say reduce, reuse, recycle we don't just mean buying that recycled bike tire strap-on harness. (There's no way I would know this, lemon drop, but those bike tire thingys are really uncomfortable and pinch unexpectedly. Again, I have HEARD that it's true, so don't buy one.) It apparently means that after you move out of town, come back into town, and become single it is then necessary for people you have known for 15 years to confess their undying love. Ok, no one has confessed their undying LOVE...yet. Although, I have had a few tempting offers of naked time.

(If you would like to confess your undying love, I can be reached at Femmegrrrl@gmail.com)

But this is the big secret, my little tattle tale, women in their 30's (and above) are amazing. They've gone on to get their Master's Degrees in psychology, or learned how to fly helicopters or developed their own strains of 'medical' marijuana. Two out of three of those things are very helpful to me. Who doesn't want a girlfriend that can land a blackhawk on a dime? And we all know that a master's in psychology should really be a prerequisite to dating me or, let's be frank, at least a bachelor's.

Oh sure you're laughing now but someday I will get my marijuana card, defeat my issues, and I will succeed in recreating Wonder Woman's invisible jet. And then I will need a pilot because Momma is as blind as a bat. And you can't stop me from being Wonder Woman either just because I can't see who I'm chasing. That's discrimination.

I do! And you can't stop me.

2010-08-05T10:32:00.000-07:00

Well, sugartoes, sometimes when I go sleep late at night Momma has nightmares. In these, I'm wearing a long white dress with a train, and I'm not even in a remake of Carrie.

Now, if Momma is dressed up and yet frightened of the prospect, there must be something wrong. The only time I've been hesitant to dress up is the one time my Mystery Mister wanted me to be entered into a Lady GaGa look alike pageant and the only song left was "Alejandro". I'd rather have gouged my eyes out.

So, last night when I lie down to slumber in my four poster princess bed atop my down mattress filled with dreams; and kept waking up to visions of picking out colors, little babies dressed as corporate bankers, and people throwing uncooked food as a projectile toward my HEAD, I knew something was up. And it was.

My greatest fear had been realized. Proposition 8 was overturned.

Now sugarplum, don't get Momma wrong. She was pleased as punch that the Supreme Court of California said in part: "Moral disapproval alone is an improper basis on which to deny rights to gay men and lesbians ... The evidence shows conclusively that Proposition 8 enacts, without reason, a private moral view that same-sex couples are inferior to opposite-sex couples".

It's one thing to disapprove of my morals, even I do that. But it's another thing to think my relationship is inferior to your relationship, when the only difference is my partner keeps his toys in a drawer and I never have to deal with shaving dust in the bathroom, or the seat being up. Anyone who has had to be around me in a full on tantrum yelling "Don't you even KNOW me, I'm done! DONE!?!," should really get some sort of prize. It's not easy dating a drag queen.

Now sweet-tits, back to my nightmare. When I was a wee dyke, head freshly shaved, in my Levis and chain wallet - during what Mystery Mister terms my "dark days of butchness" - I thought being gay was my get-out-of-jail-free card. All the butches a girl could want, none of the commitment! It was like a 5.99 all-you-can-eat buffet at my house. Now, times have changed, and this year I have been invited to five baby showers, three weddings and not one dungeon party. It's as if the gay community is growing up and leaving the ass-less chaps behind.

Now, lotus blossom, (as you are, of course, known as in the ashram) lest you think I have an issue with marriage, I'm newly converted to an idea of commitment that doesn't involve a little white jacket and a extended stay at a spa made of concrete. I'm all for building a life with my partner and laying a foundation for the future. Although, I am wondering why marriage involves an extended construction metaphor. I just worry about any contract I've decided to sign that has a current failure rate of sixty percent. I want to get married, I just don't want a sub-prime partnership with a high rate of default.

With the overturning of Prop 8, it is feasible that we could see gay marriage federally sanctioned within the decade. My only hope is that when that happens, I'm emotionally mature enough to throw my life away.

Hail, Mary!

2010-05-04T12:04:00.000-07:00

Well, butternut, It's coming up on June and it's time for Mamma's favorite time of the year! Gay Pride! Or, if you prefer, Queer Pride. Or, as it's known in certain circles, GLBT pride. Or, if you are so politically correct that nothing but fair-harvested hemp has touched your vegan skin since 1978, GLBTQIIPPXYZ Pride.

It's that time of year when Queens are Kings, women are men, and the twinks are on Ecstasy. You pull out your glitter eyeshadow and rainbow lame armbands (They make me feel like a superhero, don't judge me), go down to the festival and find out how many ex-girlfriends you really have.

Baby Drag Queen Flashback: The year was 1993. Yours Truly - a young, apple-cheeked knave- had recently joined the Lesbian Avengers, purely for the dating opportunities, and had come out to the masses, via the media. Her Mother, Miss Aquanetta, meanwhile is chagrined by the fact that Yours Truly will always be loud and talk about things deemed inappropriate to the general public. After witnessing a stunning rendition of "Walking on Broken Glass", Yours Truly forever binds herself to a life of rhinestones and tiaras.

*End Flashback*

Needless to say, butter blossom, Gay Pride weekend has produced some of my best memories, and a few of my better one-night stands. This year marks the 40th anniversary of the parade that started it all, The 1970 Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade. And, after writing that title, I'm starting to think the acronym wasn't such a bad idea.

Gather around children and let me give you a little his/her/ze-tory lesson. Before you turn into a educational narcoleptic, this lesson includes sex. Not one on one though, the logistics of that would be a nightmare.

The Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade was held to commemorate first anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. There may be some of you think that The Riots are a reference to an obscure indy band, or believe Stonewall to be a hot new masonry. If that's the case, I beg you to read a book and have thoughts deeper than you hair product. In fact, I am sending members of the Gay Mafia to your house right now to revoke your Queer Card.

In 1969 there weren't very many Gay icons. So few, that lonely queens had nary a Rupaul to look up to. Luckily, there was Judy Garland, most notably of Wizard of Oz fame. The day she passed was a black day in the community. I won't go into the breadth and width of the gay love for Judy, but suffice it to say; that bitch sure can start a riot. Ends up, if you mix grieving gays, systematic oppression and a bar raid, wackiness ensues. Why that never was a plot for a sitcom, I couldn't tell you.

Contrary to legend, sweetums, when that first parade began in 1970 it was not sponsored by Absolut vodka. We didn't even have a single corporately sponsored float. In actuality, they started with only a few hundred very brave participants and with throngs of people joining them along the way; at the end they numbered in the thousands. Proving you don't want to piss off a Queen, they will straight up start a revolution on your ass.

Now here we are forty years-and a entire movement- later, getting ready to do it all again for 2010. It's easy to get all "been there, done him" about Pride. And personally, eighteen Pride years later, I could write a libretto of Dyke March chants alone.

This year, take a moment to thank your foredaddies' and founding sisters that you have the right to bitch about how many churches are in the parade... again. Because it would be unthinkable if we were still hanging out in a dark bar, being afraid of being found out; instead of counting down the seconds until the parade ends so we can get over to the beer garden to pick up on that piece of hot trade we saw on the Leather float.

I have a confession

2010-03-19T17:03:00.000-07:00

I have something to tell you, sweetstuff. It's the kind of confession that is usually preceded by 3 triple martinis and a promise to not shed underwear in public. Ok, here it goes:

I'm not as slutty as I used to be.

Oh sure, there was a time that I had so much sex for sport that I had my own category in REI catalogue. They called me Salacious Sally. That's mostly because my entourage of lovers wasn't allowed to know my name. It cut down on the stalking. But, just as all swallows have a inherent desire return to Capistrano, I've had to succumb to a even more disturbing migration pattern: a migration toward meaningful relationships.

Calm down, lemondrop, I'm not talking about moving to the suburbs, collecting ceramic chickens while professing my love for Pottery Barn. If you ever catch me knitting, owning camping equipment, or saying "I think Uruguay would be a great place to get our designer baby"; get me to the next Castro Street Fair, find the first short-haired butch in a A-line shirt and have her slap the sense into me. That's actually not a bad idea at anytime.

What I'm talking about is my late teens and twenties; where despite all odds, I was bound and determined to propagate the species. That didn't go as planned because eggs don't fuse on their own, no matter how hard you try. Although, I shudder to think what my child support payments would've looked like had I ever had access to sperm. I was one lucky biological difference away from being the star of Baby Daddy week on Maury Povich.

The issue is, my little rack of lamb, that I actually would like to know a person beyond what cocktail they prefer and how flexible they can be while riding memory foam. Although, I will say that if you can find someone capable of power yoga on a waterbed, it may not be required you know every little thing about them, let's not ruin a beautiful dismount.

Have you ever been attracted to someone mysterious, pussy-willow? Someone who you couldn't quite figure out, someone who constantly made you guess where they were, what they were thinking, feeling, and what kind of drugs they were on? Of course, that's exciting for a minute, but when the chips are down and I'm hysterical because I've just found out that MAC discontinued Diva Red, I'm going to have to go with Buttery Brown, and that means changing my entire wardrobe; I want someone who will assure me that Lancome has a color that is slightly more burgundy but serviceable. Crisis avoided.

The idea that to attract and keep your lover interested you have to hide your indosyncratic differences is a myth, sugarpie. (although, pending felonies still hold true) Think about it, how long can you downplay your love of Cheez-Wiz, or the fact that once a year you have a Sponge-Bob Squarepants marathon? Long enough for her to look in your fridge and realize that unless you own a catering business for rednecks, no one owns 6 cans of Cheez-Wiz and the costco size box of snack crackers.

Even if a person is on your life for a night or for a lifetime, you will be much more comfortable if that person understands you are not James Dean and are in fact, closer to the awkward kid in Superbad.

Now, let's go tell each other our deepest secrets and see what acrobatics can be achieved on memory foam.

Repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell

2010-02-02T09:20:00.000-08:00

Hola! My little butterblossoms! I know Momma has been remiss in writing down her mental whimsywoos for the masses (or let's be honest, 3 of you), but here I am, coffee in hand, waiting for a mistake of epic proportions to be reversed. No, sugarnipples, k.d. lang didn't write back to say she was flattered, and she is joining me in my Peruvian love den. That is actually a relief, as I don't have a Peruvian love den and I would have had to convince her that Oregon was Peru. But I digress, as I do.

We are talking about Don't Ask, Don't Tell. No, not "don't tell anyone you bought your outfit at Target" (why are you still shopping there?), I mean the policy by the US government,denying Gays/Lesbians/Bisexuals/and Transgendered folks the right to be open about their uniform fetishes.

What? I'm sorry, I've been corrected. Repealing it would give Gay soldiers the right to be open about their sexuality and serve in the US Armed Forces without the fear of being dishonorably discharged if anyone can prove what team they are batting for.

For those of you that are so honorable that they've never been accused of being dishonorable, I say, drink more. But, beyond the life experience alcohol provides, I think you can put two and two together. We all know you put two and two together that one time on the Yacht...Oh sure, now you're all for Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

Now. Momma loves a good debate, especially a good debate that involves a pair of fatigues and the victor collecting their spoils. I always win then, no matter the outcome. But when it comes to my people not being able to be open about who they are, being silenced and being excluded, Momma gets angry, buttercup. I'm not a fan of silence or exclusion, as any of my lovers can tell you. Come one, come all is my motto.

There's a few politicians that I love. Not in a breaking news, TMZ way. That's so 1997. But a politician that can speak up and make a oh-so-good point, and make me want to high five the nearest bulldyke. Normally, I keep one on hand for just those occasions. No other reason, just high-fives.

Claire McCatskill (D- Missouri) is just one of those people. She won my heart when she asked Mike Mullen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff 'are there Gays and Lesbians in the military currently?' (Yes) And 'if so, how are we going to canvas them to effectively change DADT, as they will get discharged under the current policy for admitting that they are gay?' Oh SNAP! I've dated a lot of women and I can spot a catch-22 from a mile away. This catch-22 is much more important than 'does this harness make my butt look big?'.

Now apparently, according to Sen Chambliss (R-Georgia) the Armed Forces are places where 'the normal rules of society are suspended' and things are permitted including 'Drinking, Body Art and Adultery' and that DADT is a 'live and let live' policy. I don't think Sen. Chambliss has left the house since the Eisenhower administration, nor has he watched a episode of Sex and the City. However, Big Gay Memo Mr. Chambliss, a live and let live policy doesn't include losing your career and livelihood because you are who you are. I would say that's the opposite, but what do I know? Sen. Chambliss probably thinks that I should be quiet and in the kitchen. And not in a roleplaying, Saturday night fun kinda way.

As much as we in the U.S. would like to believe that we are on the forefront of everything, snickerbutt, you can't believe everything you see on Queer Eye. We are one of the last NATO countries to get rid of the policy banning our fabulousness from gracing the annals of Military history openly. What impact did the lifting of the ban have on the effectiveness of say, the Canadian Military? Nothing. Nada. Zero. That's right, my little sweetcheeks, lifting the Ban had less impact than a spinoff of Friends.

I know I am preaching to the choir here, and speaking of honeypot; it would make Momma proud if after I finish, all of you would sing 'Oh, Happy Day' in three part harmony, (as that's how I finish all couplings) but it's time to reverse DADT.

Please put fingers to keyboard and this time instead of going on www.ManHunt.com and doing what comes naturally (and we all know anything comes naturally with enough lube); write to your Senators, President Obama and your Mom, if you feel it'll help, and let them know how you feel. Especially if you are former/current military. If you still have the uniform, write them and then call me. We can play Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

Email Addresses of U.S. Senators I'm a link!

Now you see me, Now you don't...

2010-01-13T08:15:00.000-08:00

Yours Truly in 1995

I'm going to be upfront, love muffin, the words 'femme invisibility' make me want to stick a shrimp fork so deeply into my optical nerve that I can no longer see those words written on a page.

Being a certain kind of girl,(no not that kind) I realize that I'm treated like a wandering and confused straight girl at even the gayest of events. A gaggle of butches try to help me; "Ma'am, are you lost? Do you know where your fag is?". The only recourse is to throw the cutest one up against the wall and show them how it's done. Of course, by 'it' I mean a Taekwondo takedown. I show them where their kata is. What did you think I meant? We already covered that I'm not that kind of girl. Keep up.

See my issue, lover pants, isn't the term "femme invisibility". It's the fact that we queers have a visual 'is she or isn't she?" that rivals the U.S Army. Without the haircut, no one knows you're a soldier. And sweetcheeks, I tried the haircut. I looked like a quasi-butch reject from Miami Vice. I just couldn't stay away from pastels. Don't judge me.

What we need, my little tattletale, is a kick in the gaydar. Just because I wear a dress and more make-up than Hedda Lettuce doesn't mean I can't throw you around and make you call me Daddy. I have references. The question becomes 'is she looking you up and down because she likes your shoes, or is she checking your credit to make sure you can afford her goods?'

Now, my dykeness, the inclination is to assume if she's in a gay bar or at a gay event then she's probably, at the least, looking to expand her horizons or at the best, she's about to expand yours. I've had many people say that they don't want to approach the devastatingly beautiful siren (DBS) in the corner because they don't want to offend. Well, it's better to ask forgiveness than permission, I always say. Plus, your DBS probably spent an hour to look like that and her feet are killing her. If you don't approach her, she's going to try the haircut. You don't want that kind of guilt on your conscious.

But you say, 'I don't go to gay bars, Momma, I'm a Buddhist monk.' Well, even if you are trying to let your DBS know that she's the love of your life at an AA meeting, or a bookstore if you're into that sort of thing; there are certain clues you can look for to reduce the chances of a restraining order.

We queers are like snowflakes, no two are exactly alike. Well, unless they are on the same softball team, but let's not muddy the waters. But just as all snowflakes are white when they fall, there are things that we do carry in common. The ability to mate for life on the second date, you say? Well yes, that is a commonality. Now stop interrupting twinkletoes.

When looking for your very own DBS, I suggest you begin at the skin. No don't touch her without permission, although I do admire your go-get-her attitude, but does she have any tell-tale signs; a rainbow flag pin, a pink triangle patch, a tattoo that says 'I (heart) sex with femaled bodied people, and sometimes male bodied people if they identify as female'? That last one was a little long perhaps, but you get the point. For example, Yours Truly has two women signs joined on her upper arm to let people know what team I'm batting for. Who could have foreseen in the early 90's that my sex life was going to get so convoluted that my pickup line was to become 'what pronoun do you prefer, kumquat'? Now, I just keep it as a Queer Warning Signal. Thank God I didn't get something horrifying, like a labrys or a homage to Melissa Etheridge.

If she's missing the oh-so-subtle clues that a carving of Sappho on her forehead provides, you could do something revolutionary by not assuming and talk to her. Even if she's as straight as Donna Reed (although that theory is contested), she may appreciate the company. If she drops no hint as to her libidinous tendencies, take the plunge and ask. If she's offended, then good. She needs the gay in her life. You may make her think, and then there's a toaster oven in it for you. Who doesn't like door prizes?

So my little perishable, please take a chance that the girl in the high-heels and eyeliner is queer. Even at the grocery store. She's not only being friendly, she's checking out your produce.

Belinda's Guide to Radical Lusciousness

2010-01-03T12:02:00.000-08:00

Ok my sweets. I am a rotund, Rubenesque, zaftig, brickhouse kinda girl with more 'back' than 'baby' owned, and I have had the occasional wayward fat girl come to me woefully and lament that they can't find anything to wear; nothing flatters them, and they may as well go out in yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

Let me tell you, pumpkin butt, nothing makes your ass look more like a dairy case and hides your delicious beautiful curves like terry cloth, heavy knit cotton or a partner who doesn't understand that we are queens, and should be treated as such. Take it from me, the only way to celebrate your glorious poundage in proper form is to wear clothing that makes you feel like the va-va-va-voom that you are, and find a lover who thinks that every inch of you should be bronzed and put on display.

Now, you may be thinking, my sweet, that you are the exception, but you would be sorely mistaken. Even if you are the kinda girl that prefers Tivas to Prada, or a well pressed trouser to a flowing gown made of rhinestones, that is no reason to look like you just got out of bed, or worse, that you just finished baling hay just in time to hit the club. Unless of course, the 'hayseed' look is all the rage in your town. Then do it up.

If I had to give you one piece of advice, chickadee, it would be your own winning attitude is the best pretty-maker money can buy. If you don't have a good personality, self-medicate. It worked for Elizabeth Taylor. First and foremost, a positive attitude is the one accessory that no Fat Girl on the make should be without. Now, you may be the Queen of owning a room, and if you are I say; let's go have drinks and be fabulous. If, on the other hand, you are the kind of girl that wonders how to win friends and influence people, I want you to do a little exercise with me. No, not that kind of exercise, you didn't even buy me dinner. However, let's roll back those shoulders, take a good long look at yourself in the mirror and conjure up everything you love about yourself.

Is it your angelic face, your dimples or your incredible way of making a quiche using nothing but eggs and string? No matter. Make a list, or a litany if you will, of things that are fabulous about YOU. Focus on the large (my bubble-butt), or the small (I have rather adorable thumbs),of what makes you want to date you. You and only you can know how incredible you are and convey that information to others. I want you to take that list, hang it up where you can see it, and add to it everyday. Before going to socialize, to a job interview, or to go see Aunt Harvey who always comments on your thighs, I want you to memorize and recite that list like you are Harry Potter and that list is the spell that will keep Voldemort at bay.

Sometimes, my little butter blossom, you have to take life by the love-handles and create change. Whether that is getting rid of a old tired hairstyle or changing the ability to melt into a wall without anyone noticing, sometimes it's necessary to step out of that teeny tiny box you call your life and find out there are people who think that a size 16 ass, a corset and a pair of fishnets is a damn good time. Add that to the list: You are a damn good time.

We've all heard the cliche, "all you have to do is be yourself," and immediately wanted to burn the person at the stake because they are feeling superbly self-righteous and giving you unwanted advice. While this may seem like the same thing, I beg you not to recast me as Joan-Of-Arc just yet. Because, butterbean, as unbelievable as it is, Yours Truly has also felt the wrath of an outfit gone horribly awry,the dying breath of my social life, or the horror that my skirt has blown over my head and it's laundry day; and had to convince myself that I would live again to be smashing. The key to being 100%, lovably you, is to embrace not only your gifts from heaven, but also your dorktastic bumps and bruises. Because nothing says fantabulous like self-acceptance. One of the things I have learned over the years: while I think that the fact I bray like a mule in heat when I laugh is something that should be kept secret, like a third nipple, someone else may think that's it's the most musical sound in the world. I ignore the fact that that person is probably tone-deaf.

Now, go buy new pants.

Day 4- She'll be comin' round the mountain when she comes.

2009-12-06T15:17:00.000-08:00

Last time we visited, muffin butt, Mistress Wild Side and I bedded down in a cloud of comfort and beauty that rivaled the beds of the angels. The problem with that? The pure mechanics of Yours Truly lifting herself out of the heavens and lodging herself into Mustang Sally for another marathon driving day proved to be nightmarish. Had there been a dyke of the masculine persuasion on the cloud, I may still be living at Sabra's.

However, this was the day. The day that my skin became dewy, my hair magically full of body, my clothes completely inappropriate to both the weather and most social situations. I was going home.

Now, mushroom cap, allow me to wax sentimental for just one moment. Normally the only kind of waxing I do is Brazilian, but this was a homecoming of epic proportions. Much like the prodigal son, or George Clooney making a cameo appearance on E.R.,I was coming back to open arms; sans the fatted calf or free Green Room martinis. I guess you can't have everything.

I ain't no nansy pants, chicken little, but I was feeling the nostalgia coming over me like a daytime soap opera dream sequence as we drove North and started to get into the mountains. I would usually attribute this to hormones or vicodin, but since one was not available and the other was improbable, it seemed I was having a real feeling.

Baby Drag Queen flashback: The year was 1985. It was a momentous occasion. I had just got my first Madonna LP, 'Like a Virgin' and I discovered my one true love: the high heeled shoe. My Momma, Miss Aquanetta had just bequeathed me a pair of kitten heels and I was overcome with the knowledge that someday, someway, I too would be dancing on a stage with nothing helping me but a bustier and gay boys. I felt like Diana Ross when she discovered the sequin. Momma Aquanetta was chagrined when later, Yours Truly, was found sneaking heels to school in second grade.

Addictions begin early, my sweets.

I don't know if you've ventured into the Sierras on a clear day, but I felt like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music as Mistress Wild Side and I clambered up the mountain. OK let's be honest, I always feel like Judy Andrews in The Sound of Music, but today I had the backdrop. It's always about the backdrop, snickertoes. Or the outfit.

I would say that it felt like homecoming when we ventured from the California side to Oregon, except that there was a conspicuous lack of the "Welcome to Oregon" sign during the transition. Did Oregon decide to stop welcoming people? Have we finally closed our border to California? I always knew that Measure would pass. Did someone tell Vera Katz former Mayor of Portland that I was coming back to the state? She had been against me since 1997. You know, you yell at a Mayor ONE TIME at the Pride parade and she never lets it go. Pfffft, Mayors.

Although Mistress Wild Side assured me that it probably wasn't a vast government conspiracy and more likely the shenanigans of a vandalistic pair of elderly people driving a Winnebago, I am still harboring my doubts. However, now was not the time to pish-posh about the likelihood of our nations' AARP members committing Class C Misdemeanors. I was already traumatized by the knowledge that they are sexting, which is for those of you that don't know, doing the ramalamadingdong via text messaging, and the equally horrifying thought that I probably will not change much in my life. I'm going to be the dirtiest old woman alive.

As we've discussed, twinkletoes, Yours Truly is not very mechanically inclined. By that my little Rough 'n' Ready, I mean I have to call customer service every time I lose a screw in my Hitachi Magic Wand. However, there are times when a loud rumbling from Mustang Sally anytime we slow down causes someone with the mechanical ability of the average ground worm to know that we have a problem. It helps to drive in that feeling when the Gas Station Guy looks at your car with the kind of alarm reserved for national disasters, or the one time your date showed up in flannel and cargo pants to a formal ball. You know who you are.

Well, denial ain't just a way to stay with your girlfriend for six more months, I always say. Mistress Wild Side and I brushed off our impending doom, and flew off into the night; armed with nothing but a AAA card, an Ipod to drown out the sound, and hope.

Like a movie from the 40's with like, Lauren Becall, or someone equally as fierce; the rain cued right on time as we approached Portland. Unlike that same movie I happened to look more like Orphan Annie than Lauren Bacall, and I was perilously close to turning around and going back to Austin. Who drives in this weather?

Let's take a moment to really acknowledge Mustang Sally for her injuries in the line of Duty. No one could have predicted that a long drive and rain would incapacitate you as it has. One would think that your primary purpose in being a car, one of those dependable milestones would be one long trip in your whole life. But alas, apparently not if you're a Ford. We thank you for at least getting us to the driveway. It feels as if you dropped out in college after one semester and I'm glad you're not my child.

As Mistress Wild Side and I rounded the bend to Mistress Wild Side's house, I was overcome with the kind of emotion that you only feel when you are watching Steel Magnolias and Ouiser says-and I paraphrase- "I am too spiritual! When I was in school, a bunch of my friends and I would dress up as nuns and go bar-hoppin'. " You really feel the scope of what was to be. That's right. Mistress Wild Side and I were shacking up...in platonic way that almost guarantees we will never awkwardly avoid each other in a bar.

Fatigued yet elated that we had survived a grand total of 52 hours in a car, 3 guest houses, and 2413 miles. Mistress Wild Side and I settled in for the night. I'd finally arrived home, let's hope that some of my exes had moved.

What will happen to Mistress Wild Side and I in Portland? Will Thanksgiving include meeting the family of a famous GLBT Activist? Would I just come up with that only to bait and switch you next time? Do I have to ask questions at the end of everything?

Day 3- When confronted with a crisis, put on a little lipstick.

2009-11-29T16:29:00.000-08:00

When you have lemons, make lemon drop martinis, I always say. The Cross-Country Crisis of 2009 was well underway, and Mistress Wild Side and I divvied up our labor like two people who knew that I shouldn't be allowed to touch things that have more than one gear or five speed settings. It depends on the situation.

My job was simple. Find a bed for us for the night somewhere in Northern California. As fortune would have it, this wasn't my first rodeo. Sometimes your past comes back to help you.

As I say most days, thank the goddess for social networking. I mean, I don't know who first invented the idea of having your useless opinions thrust upon anyone that's been foolish enough to accept your friend request, but he/she is a genius. I don't know if his intention was to have facebook friends come stay the night with you, although knowing most computer geeks, that may well have been the entire inspiration.

Now, snickertoes, let me tell you that Mistress Wild Side isn't just a blond with a nice rack. No no no! She was on the phone to AAA like a cougar on a 19 year old college freshman. Let me take a moment to tell you of my deep and abiding love for AAA. If I could marry AAA I would. Or, maybe I should just marry someone with a lifetime AAA card. If you have that and comprehensive health insurance, call me.

Oddly enough, noodle, I found out that it is a good idea to change the battery in your car at least once since 2003. Lesson learned.

Car situation rectified, due to the swift actions of Mistress Wild Side, we were again on our way. Fortuitously, facebook came through in the form of a kick-ass Amazon Femme named Sabra in Oakland.

Normally, chickadee, I don't stay with strangers from the Internet. There was a brief period in 1998, but it was the beginning of Craigslist, it was a wild time. However, Sabra and I go way back via the web. It's was like meeting a friend for the first time, only I already knew way more about her corset preferences then one should about someone you've never met.

The drive was mercifully uneventful. Mistress Wild Side and I were over the moon about a short seven hour drive. I never thought that Mistress and I would run out of words, but we did. I'd finally proved my Mother wrong. I can actually stop talking for more than 5 minutes.

Once we shuffled into Oakland, vocal cords rusty from so little use, and a hankering for some femme omghowareyou! kinda bonding, we settled down for a comfortable and delicious time. Delicious because Sabra is also a caterer who has the sweetest rack...of lamb this side of the continental divide , comfortable because her daughter gave up a bed that felt like magic. I may have been that tired though. When I ask the universe for a cool place to stay, I don't fuck around.

Will we ever get over the Sierras in Mustang Sally? Is Mistress Wild Side a natural blonde? What will yours truly do at the sight of trees?

Day 2- What's wrong with US border security.

2009-11-26T13:59:00.000-08:00

Nothing beats the vistas of Northern New Mexico, snickerdoodle, unless it's the sighs of a satisfied dyke after a good...glass of wine. The scenery was prettier than most scenes I have been involved in.

I mean onstage snookiums, because I would not be involved with anything else.

Mistress Wild Side and I, traipsing through the desert were tempted to stop along the way for a little retail therapy as we passed little roadside stands full of cheap turquoise. Personally, yours truly thinks turquoise and dream catchers live in the same trailer park, but alas, Mistress Wild Side likes to slum sometimes. We put up with it. I told you about the tits, right?

I don't mean to alarm you but, US Customs is not doing it's job, muffin pants. I know this because I was stopped twice during our liaison in New Mexico and Arizona, and I have nary a strip search to show for it. Not even a wayward hand. This trip has been sorely lacking in bed company, but phone company was a different story.

Now, my little wet-nap, I don't do the ramalangadingdong with just anyone, despite persistent rumors to the contrary. Mostly spread by me. I mean, who else is going to hyperbolically promote me? Nor, am I able to stay on the phone for long periods of time without wanting to stick a cocktail fork in my eye. However, I was being highly entertained on this trip by a certain Mystery Mister. I won't divulge the identity of our Mister of Mystery except to say if Mistress Wild Side has a BA in Queer Studies, she was about to get a PhD, whether she likes it or not. He's toppy that way.

Our residence for the evening was with Lynn Ballen and Jeanne Cordova . If you've been following my blog since the beginning my little poodle rat, you know that I met Jeanne and Lynn at the Butch Voices Conference and was convinced that Jeanne was the love of my life. However, Lynn would have none of it, ends up she's the love of Jeanne's life. I always show up late to the party.

I had so much fun in my short time at the Ballen-Cordova residence I don't even know where to start. Their home felt immediately like home, and for a couple of wayward femmes like us, that brought a tear to Momma's eye. When Lynn, the oracle of all things femme, finally let it known that the biggest butches have the smallest dogs, I knew I had finally come home. I had found my people. And a tiny cadre of wiggling fur. Jeanne is really, really butch.

This is when things went horribly awry.

The next morning, buttercups, my car wouldn't start. Now, I'm not the most mechanically inclined person alive, to be frank I have to say aloud "lefty loosey, righty tighty" just to get batteries in my vibrator. Mistress Wild Side on the the other hand, knows her way around a AAA card.

Add to that the voice message that, in fact, we don't have a place to stay in Modesto, my always stopover away from home. You see, love muffin, my friend Teresa had dysentery and was unable to host. Ok she didn't really have dysentery, but it's my fucking blog. I was going to make her have TB or something equally as tragic, like a haircut so bad that she was unable to be seen in public. But alas, it was really just a bronchial infection.

Yours truly has about the coolest head in a crisis you ever did see, once she calms down and stops hyperventilating. But two in one day? As much as I felt like I could live with Jeanne and Lynn, it was almost overwhelming to consider the fact that we might be stuck in Los Angeles forever. Luckily I had everything I owned with me so really the move would have been easy. However, trying to convince Jeanne and Lynn that what they needed was a giant drag queen and Mistress Wild Side in their life would have been a tough sell.

Stay Tuned! Will I ever get out of LA? Will I finally meet my match in Oakland? And will Mustang Sally make it to Oregon?

Day 1-Looking for love in all the wrong places.

2009-11-24T18:10:00.000-08:00

Last time we visited, my little buttercups, Mistress Wild Side and I were traveling down I-35 in a Mustang Convertible packed with my life whimsywoos, which is mostly clothes, books, high heels and sex toys. A girl has got to have her priorities.

Now, Texas is a big state. As the bumpersticker says 'Texas is bigger than France'. What they neglect to tell you is that although bigger than France, it is much much more boring. That may not have fit on the bumper sticker though. We were settled into 12 hours of sagebrush and beige. It was like Bonanza, only without the drama and costumes. Luckily, Mistress Wild Side and I made our car a gaystravaganza, replete with dance numbers, and only slightly hindered by the fact I was operating heavy machinery, and there was no vodka.

First stop of note was when we stopped in San Angelo for a nibble at the local Dairy Queen mid-day. Now I don't need to tell you that the lack of actual queens there was almost heartbreaking and the overabundance of rednecks in diesel Ford trucks was almost terrifying. It was as if the town had passed a law that you must drive a F250, or be run out on rails. As The Mistress and I walked in, I could tell that everyone was thinking the same thing "Y'all ain't from around here are ya?" and I could tell that question didn't come with an invitation to a cocktail mixer and a air kiss.

Now, muffin pants, if you know me at all you know I have two volumes; loud and sleeping. I may also have the slight tendency to talk about inappropriate things in public. I learned two very important lessons that day; one, if you ever want to stop conversation mid-sentence at a DQ in the middle of Texas, say the word queer really loudly, and number two, I don't want to die while eating french fried jalapenos and wearing flats. *shudder*

If anyone knows how to pass the time it's Mistress Wild Side. We must have talked about everything two people could talk about and she wasn't even paying me $150 an hour. I won't go into details about our conversation but let me say this, Mistress wild Side now has a BA in queer studies. And this was just day one.

300 miles into Texas flatlands and we were ready to see something, anything besides the horrific monotony of brown. I mean, no one should even wear brown, I don't know why the Earth does. It should know better really.

We saw a sign for Bakersfield, Texas. It ends up Bakersfield is one gas station. Just the gas station. There was a sign on the door that said "closing early on Sunday". No specification of time, or why. There was nothing for 200 miles in either direction. Who worked there and where would they have to go? Well, puddin' pops, we had to mosey on up to the next gas station because Momma needed a Energy Drink and Beef Jerky. Don't judge me.

Ft. Stockton was up the road a piece, and for you playing at home, that means 'not very far' in Texan.

We walked in to the local "Stop N Shop" to be assaulted by the most curious of sights and sounds, electronica dance music and candles of various Catholic saints. Now the candles I could understand, but the music was transcendent. It was as if I was in an episode of Queer as Folk, but it took place in a dirty convenience store that also sold confederate flag shot glasses.

As we were making our way through the store, Mistress Wild Side saw what seemed to be purses adorned with the Texas State Flag, and suggested that perhaps this would be a good present for a certain Mystery Mister. I laughed and blurted out that yes, a purse is just the thing to get a butch. Walking to the counter with my aforementioned snacks, I was hit with a feeling that I imagine people that see aliens experience as I laid eyes on the cashier. It was a butch. In the middle of West Texas, there's not a gay bar for 500 miles. I heart did a little pitter-pat. And not just any butch either. She had a name tag on that said 'Perez', that was also conveniently tattooed on her forearm, her knuckles were tattooed with what I assume to be her phone number and to let me know she dug girls like me, a kiss mark had been artfully tattooed on her neck. She had apparently heard my earlier comment as when I got to the counter she looked like Christmas had come early and I have never heard "would you like a bag?" said so lasciviously. I, as I do in any situation like this, immediately began giggling and giving her the eye. I can't help it; short hair and a dyke in a men's dress shirt is my mating call.

As much as I didn't want to leave my true love, Perez, it was time to leave the hamlet that was Ft. Stockton and wander on.

Next up, Albequrque!

By the time we got to the great state of New Mexico and the happy home of Annie and Karla, we were as loopy as anyone who has been in a 15 hour therapy session while trapped in a Mustang. Now, my little pumpkin' butts I have to say that their home was like an oasis in the desert. Literally. Have you ever been to New Mexico?

We had a wonderful time. They had opened up their home to me even though they only knew me from online, and they didn't even try to take advantage of me. I guess you can't have everything. They were gracious hosts, and we talked into the night, ironically on Facebook. I do believe that we may be in a overly wired society. Or maybe it's just me.

Next Installment: Will we ever get to L.A? Is Jeanne still as dreamy as I remember? Is Lynn going to be my new femme BFF? Will we find a place to stay in upper California?

Leaving Austin- I throw my own fuckin' party.

2009-11-17T10:06:00.000-08:00

'Ok my puddin' pies, since I decided to take the big plunge and go back to my native puddle, Portland, I thought that I wanted to take all of your beautiful faces with on the trip. But the logistics of getting a billion people in my car, plus my shoes, seems a little bit less practical than say, regaling you with a blow by blow of my exciting adventures.

(now get your mind out of the gutter, it's not that kind of blog)

Since being in the Land of the Neverending Sun there are things that I have learned to live without. You may think that is the innate talent to be in the rain for 11 months without molding. Good guess my little puddin' pops, but I am talking about my friend Mistress Wild Side. Now for those of you that haven't had the auditory pleasure of being in the same room with Mistress Wild Side and I, let me say that the only thing louder is a sonic boom, but sonic booms don't have vodka tonics and great tits. Seriously, AMAZING tits. Mine are seething with jealousy and sobbing right now by the mere mention of them.

But I digress, as I do.

Horrifically, Mistress Wild Side is afflicted with the inoperable and rare disease "Sure, I'll go!". (Now SIG). SIG is a disorder in which, if you lose track of your crazy queer stand-up comic friend for 5 years, reconnect via facebook, and said crazy femme queer decides to move 3000 miles away, you immediately jump on a plane and join the roadtrip that ensues. SIG is a serious condition and is only cured by monetary donations and free drinks. Both at the same time help so much. Do what you can to help Mistress Wild Side and others like her, today. Payment via pay pal and bar tab available.

Austin sent me off like a reluctant lover who needed that one last orgasm. My last show was like the triple-lutz of orgasms. If the line-up was any more over-the-top awesome, I might still be in Austin, because of my inability to walk. This is where I do shameless promotion. Normally , as you know my little wagon wheel, I only engage in shameless self-promotion; but since they preformed for nary a dime, and all of them managed to have me get out of town without becoming an ex-girlfriend, I feel obliged. And disgruntled, but that's a different blog.

(Clips!) Allie Rolison hosted. Now it's very hard to get Allie to host. Not only because she's the funniest thing this side of queerville, and no one wants to follow her; but also it's hard to get 4 shots of scotch down before 9 pm. Nevermind. It's Allie, let's make those numbers 8 shots and 4 pm. She opened the show like an experienced gigolo looking for a free ride. Smooth, and you never knew what was coming until you gave her all you had.

Now, my little buttercups, as you know, there is nothing else I love more than artists asking me what I want them to do, unless a butch in a tie and a open mind is asking the same question. I got my wish with both in Holly Lorka.Now, don't get excited Snickerdoodle, Holly is recently and happily married to a amazing woman that would take me out like Bruce Lee, and then do her lipstick over my dead body.

I don't even know where to start with the amazing singer/songwriter Ginger Thompson. Well, I know where, but I'm not her type. But believe me, if I could get enough Cuervo and a dark room she'd be mine. At least until the roofies wore off.

My one and only Queen Nishelle Diamond also performed. Now if you didn't know puddin' pop, Yours Truly speaks American Sign Language; because if there's another way to talk, I'll find it. Nishelle is Austin's only performing Deaf Drag Queen, and she performs her songs in ASL. She also happens to be my best friend and the one person I really would have taken with me. I would have given up a few pairs of shoes and my sex toys. That's love.

Former Miss Texas, Miss Sheena Simmons is like a breath of fresh air; but only if in that breath, Fresh talked about the KKK and booty calls. She is such a dirty dirty beauty queen, that Yours Truly feels like a Mormon bride on her wedding night, violated and yet, wanting to do it again.

There were so many people that I felt like I was on 'This Is Your Life' and I was in awe that I had slept with so few that there wasn't any drama except for on the stage. Frankly, I'm moving because the Butches are sluttier in the Northwest. I think the fact that you can't go outside without getting the wrong kind of wet for 9 months forces you to mate. Sure, we can't procreate, but I can certainly try. I'm not deterred by improbability.

I put myself last, only because I'm a fuckin' drama queen and this is my night to shine. It almost made up for the 8th grade birthday when no one showed up to my party. Almost. I didn't even want to go up after all of the glory that proceeded me. I felt like David Hasslehoff on Baywatch. Who's going to pay attention to you when you're standing next to Pamela Anderson's not-so-god given talents?

Then, just like that the show was over. I'll be a little more than forthcoming and admit that I cried like a teenager who's prom date didn't show. I also may have drunk dialed a Mystery Mister, and lamented about leaving all of my friends behind. Don't tell anyone though, it'll ruin my rep.

I spent my last few days with Mistress Wild Side and Ms. Diamond, and it was like a chick flick. Only if that chick flick happened to star a girl that was born male, a woman with a blond flat top and a pair of DDs, and a trash talking loud mouth femme. Mistress Wild Side packed up my convertible Mustang, because she's good at managing my ADD, and off we went. 13 hours in the car. First stop, Albuquerque.

Tune in next time...Will we make it through Texas without getting shot by a redneck in a Ford 250. Is it true there are Butches in Ft.Stockton, Texas (pop 4000), who are the lovely couple who allowed Yours Truly and Mistress Wild Side to invade their home, and importantly, will I get enough cell coverage to allow a certain Mystery Mister call?

The Show

2009-09-01T06:43:00.000-07:00

After Bear's group hug, I went to meet Kelli Dunham downstairs so we could go set up the Butch Nation show. Kelli is a stand-up comic from NY and VERY fucking funny. She used to be a nun. So did Jeanne Cordova. I think I'm ignoring a possible dating pool. I wonder if I could convince young nuns that I was there to flog them as spiritual enlightenment? Who am I kidding, they probably own their own floggers. Yes Mom, I do understand what I'm saying. I figure if I'm going to hell it might as well be in a hand-basket.

The Humanist Center was beautiful. At first I thought "Big homo queer fest in a church? Someone cover up Christ and tell the Virgin Mary to put on her best Doc Martians, we're all gettin' saved tonight!". It ends up it wasn't that kind of church and Mary wasn't even there. Bitch.*

I put on my brand spanking new Diesel Femme finery (seriously OMG please check them out!), my high heels and somehow got roped into putting up chairs and taping off the VIP section. How did this happen? Oh that's right, it's because Blaze was in charge. Blaze was seriously the back-bone of the conference. Blaze was also the tough guy of the conference. Hy made you feel as if you were going to get in trouble, and not the kind of trouble that involves bondage tape and giggling. I cannot tell you how much I love (fear) hym.

As the people filed in, I was struck again by how beautiful our community is. It was so wonderful to see everyone dressed up in their various outfits, dresses and suits picked out for the night and the buzz of anticipation about the show. I wanted it to be my always world. Someday when I'm a multi-millionaire I'm going build a place like Neverland Ranch and invite only queers. And then I will have my own 'special' petting zoo. I'm looking for volunteers to train right now.

Oh the SHOW!! First off let's start with the fact that the host was Fairy Butch. If you haven't read hyr articles in Curve, do it! Hy's like a queenie, butchy, roller-coaster ride of a good time. Hy wrote 'The ultimate guide to strap-on sex', and I would have been all over that if it hadn't been for the femme in the fierce dresses on hys arm. She could SO kick my ass and have time left over to do her lipstick. *swoon*

When the show started I had no idea there was a butch anthem, but in retrospect it makes sense, and gives me something to sing during copulation.

I can't even begin to tell you how much joy I got out of Delicio Del Toro, and all he brought was a burrito. Maybe it's the fact I live in Texas and he was a Mexican hurricane with a side of salsa. Maybe it is because I'm from Oregon, land of the WWE. All I know is after his number I felt like I eaten Chinese food, all I wanted was more. If none of that made sense, I suggest you look up his act post-haste. Yes, I said post-haste. I throw down like 1853, bitches.

Do you think Butches can tap dance like some 1950's musical and still look tough? Well, fuck you, cause they can and Butch Tap was there to prove it, and bring it and...I'm sorry I need to go get water.

I'm going to get serious for a minute. I know, it's my one time a year. There was 2 performers that really blew me out of the water. Their performances stuck with me and still do. Pippa Fleming and D'Lo. A lot of times in the queer community we get caught up in camp. This coming from the girl who does Camp but only goes camping if there's an incentive. I don't have to spell out the incentive. That's right, kayaking. These two performers made me laugh, made me cry and I also had no idea what was going to happen next. They both talked about hard and painful things, like race, in a way that brought humor but also the sharp knife of remembrance of our own pain. They were pretty phenomenal. I would suggest my pretties that if you have not heard of them that you look for them and love them like I do, only not in a way that will garner a restraining order. We learned our lesson on that one.

You may think that I am just being overly effusive because these are my people and I want to date them all. You would only be half right. I wouldn't say no to a well-timed proposal, sure, but in all actuality this was one of the best shows I have been to. Ever. And as you know, Mama gets around. Even Jeanne Cordova said that it was one of the best shows she'd been to, but it could be because I was femme-y clapping and asking her "Isn't this AWESOME!" and I'm sure she didn't want to ruin my enthusiasm.

Oh Angie Evans, how I love thee... let me buy you a beer. I got to listen to her sultry, soulful performance at the show and then got to hang out with her after the show at the after-party. Listen to her music and know, she IS actually just that cool and has amazingly good eyebrows. I'm serious.

Dallas was in the house! I'm going to try not to use slang, because let's face it I just sound stupid, but suffice it to say Illicit was the bomb! (sorry couldn't help it) Butch/Lesbian-centric rap, with crazy good hooks (Take a Picture, it'll last longer) and great beats. And I love to dance. If anyone knows how to get their album, let me know. I want one. I'm even willing to pay for it, and I'm a cheap bastard.

In the same vein was Mama's Boyz, who have been together for 5 years and do queer covers of some old favorites. My femme sister in cahoots Sahara Dunes and myself had a wild time to "Baby Got Back". Let's just say I've never enjoyed the song so so so much as dancing for 200 of my people. If that was the real world I would gladly be a stripper.

Oh god, must we go here again? Oh, I just can't. Hy has gotten way too much attention from me already. Damn it, I thought I was over crushes like this. OK FINE. Ivan Coyote. Again. Hy made me, CRY. Hy does this so much, we should just move in together and immediately start couples counseling. If you have not read it PLEASE read "Hats Off-to beautiful femmes" .

I know you are thinking 'Damn it Belinda, I didn't want homework!!', but this is homework that you can...savor. Over and over, you know, if you want. *Ahem*

The weekend was almost over and I had an after-party to attend. But alas, I must keep the after-party goings on to the next installment. Sadly, the last installment. *

Belinda

*Singing 'The way we were" in my head
*Kelli says my comments make people from her bible college unfriend her on facebook. I'm not sure why.

Night 2/Day 3

2009-08-27T20:26:00.000-07:00

Friday night started with seeing five folks headed to a play party get into a cab called, I am not kidding "the BJ Express" I would like to tell you that I was the mamma-lamma-ding dong at the play party later that evening. I sure was, in my head. I had my "femme power top" shirt on. I had my erstwhile Canadian. I had the kind of cognitive dissonance that causes deep conversations in the corner while hanging out by the snack table.

It is here where I realize: I am not the same as my twenties, I am worried about people's feeelllinnngggs. I wasn't ready to take the nearest butch and do what was the plan of nature; having sex in a swing suspended by chains. Alas, no. I watched the scenes with interest but didn't have the energy to follow through. I did meet interesting people though.
One that stands out is Corey, who was the faggiest genderqueer ever!! (except for my friend Ricky) Hy was so sweet and I had a couple of good conversations with hym. Someone called me a "lady" for not participating. Time to call a cab, because I ain't no fucking lady.

I went to bed early so I could be ready and willing for tomorrow's journey into the unknown. Unknown because I am chronically not able to keep a schedule on me. Where's my butch bottom? Oh there hy is. Hy's found a butch top and doing things in a corner that are not appropriate to this blog. Think about how much appropriateness is in this blog, it was worse than that.

I woke up at 9:30 am with a start, the butch Burlesque workshop!!! I love when butches get naked! I ran downstairs (after doing my make-up and getting dressed) to find out it had been postponed to 11. YES!! Except Ivan's writer's workshop was at the same time. This has been the problem the whole time. I want a time-changer like in Harry Potter, and then realize I am the biggest geek ever.

I went to the Butch Burlesque workshop with Sahara and Amy, but then something inside my head said "Go to Ivan". My head the whole weekend had been saying that, but this time I had a reasonable excuse beyond being a fawning school-girl. *pause again for short fantasy*

and I'm back.

I'm dead serious when I say that Ivan's workshop was amazing. Hy really knows how to get to the core of why we write. It's our stories, it's our lives, it's our expression. We are the only ones that can create our own his/hys/herstory. It's obvious that hy is really passionate about writing. If you think I have a crush on Ivan, you are totally wrong. I think I may be a little in love with hym. Don't tell hym though, hy may get a big head.

I decided for lunch I was going to just walk and see what I found.

I went into a cafe and got my paper to read, and lo and behold as soon as I sat, there was my roomie, Mary, with Krys and Wolf walking in. There were three people I would always like to run into, and I've been in a couple of great accidental triads. Don't judge me.

The conversation was amazing. You know those conversations you long to have, where you are connecting with everyone and you are really talking about things that matter to you? It was all of that, plus they are all really hot. My inner 17 year old femme was in awe that I was even here. Lunch lasted almost two hours. I've had relationships that didn't last that long.

I went upstairs to write my set for Sunday's spoken word. Now I know that theoretically I should have had everything written weeks in advance, but I was hoping for inspiration. I found it. I felt like Newton when he first discovered gravity. Only my gravity wore a chain wallet and boots.

I looked up and it was 3:30. I'm late for Bear Bergman's keynote. I loved 'Butch as a Noun' and was really looking forward to this. I walked in in the middle, which typifies my twenties. Hy was speaking of *us* and how we need to come together as a community. Hy was a beacon of hope in a sea of change. Hy was funny, smart and articulate. It was like when Sophia on the Golden Girls would complain, but it really said how much she loved people; and then they had cheesecake. I love cheesecake.

Then it was time to get ready for the big show. The Butch Nation Show, and instead of burying it into a long blog, I will save it for tomorrow. It was that good.

Goodnight.

Friday! or Day 2 for all of those counting at home.

2009-08-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

If life could be described with one moment that sums up all frustration, it was me waking up to a Canadian butch bottom that I didn't sleep with saying "could you move over, you're squishing me". Apparently, I am a very aggressive cuddler. Let me tell you I understood the frustration that straight girls feel when they date gay men. It was nice having candy on my arm, but not when the candy is aspertame.
The first workshop of the day was a workshop about conveying consent, which considering my night was almost too ironic, it was definably more ironic then that Alanis Morisette song. That wasn't ironic at all. Argh another fucking Canadian!
The lovely and talented couple Sophie and Nico ran the workshop and they are almost a blindingly beautiful couple. I'm serious, it was like seraphims in there at 11 am. Meanwhile I smelled of cigarettes and sexual frustration. I didn't get to go to as many of the workshops as I wanted to, but this is one I'm glad I made. People seemed uncomfortable at first talking about sex with strangers. I, of course, being a slut had actually had sex with total strangers so I was comfortable with it. Once everyone loosened up, no pun, we had a great time. I don't want to mire down in the minutiae of the workshop, but suffice it to say that I think about consent differently. It ends up that tying her up, gagging her, and then asking is totally not OK. Who knew?
Skip ahead to Jeanne Cordova's keynote. Now normally when someone says the word 'keynote' I immediately take a nap. I have academia narcolepsy, but it was Jeanne. For those of you who aren't familiar with her work I suggest you click on her name. She's been a activist for 39 years, been in or written a ton of books. She's also who I want to be and who I want to marry. I have a big huge femme-y crush on her. More than that, I have a giant respect for her. My Mom's first queer book to me was "Dagger: on the butch woman", throwing it down and saying "THERE! I bought this cause I know you like those boxer short lesbians!!". One step forward, 2 steps back.
One of the main contentious moments in the Q and A was a butch woman standing up and stating that she felt that she was being 'oppressed' by people transitioning. That people that want to change to align their bodies and their minds are somehow taking away from someone else who has not made that choice. Like if one of the cast of Friends left during their run and had a spin-off. You know no one would accept the spin-off.
But alas, this is a fear-based reaction to losing something you love, or depend on for support. It's a primal fear. That doesn't excuse the behavior of placing your fear on someone else's decisions,but I can understand it. It takes emotional security to understand that what we have is changing, not becoming obsolete. Like it took strength to know that Justin Timberlake was leaving N'sync, but we weren't losing him. His solo career was going to be much, much better once he really became himself. Now if only he'd come out of the closet.

I'm going to head off to nighty night time, where I can imagine sweet nothings being whispered in my ear.....please stay tuned for 'Friday night, or why Belinda knows she's getting old and day 3, the day I fully fell in love with Bear Burgman and Ivan Coyote.

Butch Voices Day 1

2009-08-25T18:57:00.000-07:00

It felt like the first day of summer camp. Only if camp was campy and everyone had short hair. I don't know if I could have been any more excited, especially when I met my new and fabulous roommate to be for the duration of the festivities. Hy was one of those people I felt instantly at ease with. Well not THAT instantly at ease, hy's happily married.

I met Joe Lablanc and Angie (LOVE HER) up at the registration floor. One of the best parts of the conference was we had the whole hotel, and it made you feel as if you had ended up at some butch wonderland where magically everyone was not only beautiful, but also smart and funny. My Xanadu. If you are too young to know what Xanadu is I suggest you get really high (on life! I wouldn't suggest anything else!) and watch Olivia Newton John at her finest. But I digress.

It was queertopia. If you think I am exaggerating, case in point my first 20 minutes of the meet-n-greet I had Ivan Coyote teasing me about the word dirty and what it meant in relation to a peice of art. I had to walk away and giggle like a little schoolgirl. I'm not kidding, all I needed was some knee socks and pigtails. Wait, that's a great idea. *pause for short fantasy*

Ok I'm back.

One of the highlights to the conference my femme sister-in-solidarity Sahara Dunes. You thought I was kidding when I said everyone was beautiful. She was my go-to for "ohmygodlookathym, hyisdevine!" And she would whisper back, 'ohyeshyisohlord' and then turn to her very understanding and wonderful girlfriend and say " I love you honey" and her very wonderful partner would just shake her head at our...let's call it enthusiasm.

The meet-n-greet was so full of awesome people that I couldn't even catch my breath. It seems as if the organizers had thought of everything; there was art by butches, photography by butches, great conversations with butches. I was more impressed than that one time when my butch friend Amy went to the club with 4" heels on to prove me wrong and lasted the WHOLE night. I personally had suspicions that she may have cross-dressed before though.

Then, it was off to the after-party at The Den. Now I am a fan of a good dance club and this place had it. Dressed up femmes, bois in ties, and just enough random hook-ups to make it eye candy for the recently single. Did I actually hook-up? Well, a girl doesn't kiss and tell. Especially when the girl has nothing to tell. The closest thing I got to action was getting into bed with a 23-year old, room-less butch bottom. That sounds LOVELY, but hy was a fag butch through and through. My Xanadu was turning into the 7th circle Dantes' Inferno.

What workshops did I take, what did I learn? How cool is Jeanne Cordova and S.Bear Bergman? Most importantly, will I ever meet a butch that is not interested in other butches? Tune into the next installment of the Butch Voices Comedy Blog.

5 am. I don't know who would be up at this hour. My heart goes out to all Dr's, Nurses,and those that make the donuts.

2009-08-20T02:59:00.000-07:00

It's 5 am and likely the only time I will post this early unless I am going to bed. At least I hope. This hour REEKS of being a grown-up.

I was just thinking about how much I owe to Ex's. As a queer, I have an interesting experience as I am really great friends with most people I have dated. In example, my ex-Dylan is taking me to the airport (at 6 am!), my ex-Teresa is joyfully (I hope joyfully, I'm happy about it) meeting me in Oakland for dinner and driving over an hour to do so, and my ex-Courtney is my last text message (take THAT Facebook quiz!!). I was talking to a straight co-worker of mine, and she said "Oh my husband would never go for THAT!" , and I thought anyone I date HAS to go for that. There isn't an option. On the bright side you can be pretty sure that when I say "let's be friends", you'll have the confidence that you too will someday be a person I ask to take me to the airport in the middle of the night. You're welcome.

I'm going to the motherland

2009-08-19T10:37:00.000-07:00

San Fransisco. Well, Oakland really, but it's the Bay Area and it's not hot there. I feel as if I own a condo in the 7th circle of hell. The only time I go outside is to get to the next place with air conditioning. It's like Dante's Inferno with a internet connection.
The thought of going to anyplace called Butch Voices has me trembling with excitement. If I could go back in time I would tell my newly coming out 15 year old femme that someday your life is going to be so cool that you will be surrounded by hot hot Butches, and taking workshops like Getting What You Want: Sexual Boundaries for Tops, Bottoms, and Everything in Between. Sure, my inner 15 year old would probably freak out and be afraid for her future, but she'd get used to the idea.

Eventually.

I've decided to blog about my experiences with the Butch Voices Conference to memorialize the event and because if you 'blog' it can't be called 'bragging'.
I'm not saying that I'm planning on being slutty, all I'm saying is that I bought new fishnets, lipstick and my skin hasn't been this soft since I was newly ejected from the womb. Let the games begin.