Saturday, January 7, 2017

Into the Great Wide Open


Hiya, deviants!


It’s been a strange holiday season.  


Strange and long.


It’s been so weird that on Tuesday, I was actually grateful to be back at my desk at work.

It was nice to be looking out the window at the sunshine on the snow, thinking, “What am I trading the precious and irreplaceable hours of my life for?” on a regular schedule again, coffee cup in hand.


I need structure in my life. A serious schedule.

Apparently, I need to be forced to wake up and go somewhere in -8 degree weather, to be strong-armed by capitalism into putting on clothes that are clean and could be seen by others.


Otherwise, I can’t be trusted to function. I’ll get hold of a long weekend and end up wearing the same pilled leggings for three days and watching Real World: Season 32 while tearing at a rotisserie chicken in the dark like a wolf.
[via pamlovesferrariboys]

Why were the last two weeks so weird?


I’m so glad you asked, faggettes!

Along with holiday-related things:


  • An intense windstorm ripped off my neighbor’s metal chimney cap in the middle of the night. I like to imagine it sailing gracefully through an arctic sky aglitter with stars before landing, in a freak coincidence, directly on my car’s rear windshield.


“It looks like a giant on meth took a crowbar to the back of this thing!” the woman at the insurance repair center chirped, examining my car. She poked playfully at the three-inch-deep crater in the metal under the windshield. “A chimney cap? How the heck could that even happen?”


I don’t know, Maggie.


She sent me into the waiting room to fill out forms. There was a mini-fridge filled with Diet Coke in there, but even the four cans I carefully put into my coat pockets didn’t make me feel better about paying the (shocking) deductible.




  • The New York Times published an article I wrote, in which I offered my hypothesis about where hipsters get their style from (hint: they steal it from us! aka the people that bring society many things worth having, including water-based lube and candid pictures of Holland Taylor and Sarah Paulson’s relationship.)

The NYT! Printed gay content I wrote!
WHAT.


  • I bought a bra and three pairs of underwear.


That last one—the bra—is actually the weirdest thing of all.


I bought undergarments.


It’s because I realized something in the last two weeks, sluts:


I have no idea how to date people.
At all.


I don’t know what “normal” behavior on a classic date—where both parties are single and interested in getting to know one another better—looks like.


I’ve always, always been in a relationship.
My first major relationship lasted 8 years, and it was open. Whenever I went on dates with new people, it was with my partner’s knowledge and permission. Anyone I went out with knew I had a partner at home who was OK with this arrangement.

My ~outings~ were usually implicitly designed around the idea that my date and I would both be DTF if the evening went well and we liked one another.


I used the internet. It was easy.

My second major relationship lasted 4 years, and it was monogamous for 3 of those years, so I didn’t date anyone else.


But now?


Dating is really confusing when you’re not just there to fuck.

How do people do this??


The underwear thing is what made me realize I know actually nothing about dating.


Ready for a backstory?


OK.



So: I don’t really...wear underwear on a day-to-day basis.


I don’t need it; I don’t understand what it's for.
For me, it’s like this extra layer of clothing that is totally unnecessary that also can really fuck with my outfit—pantylines are a real thing when all your clothes are spandex-blend dresses.


Now, please don't misunderstand: I love underwear on other people, and I love and own a lot of Structured Undergarments that I wear for the sole purpose of making myself feel like I'm wearing armor under my clothes when I go out.


But daily, regular underwear?


That’s too much, you can’t ask me to do that. I already take a shower every day and wear mascara, I’m exhausted.


Now that you know that:


I was telling Tawnya and her wife, Seven (I live with them), about an upcoming date I had the next night. They were asking me what I was gonna wear, and I was telling them about the planned dress and shoes.

Tawnya looked over at me from the table she was working at and said, “Yeah, but what about underwear?” (She knows me.) “Have you thought about it yet? What if you guys come back here and make out?”

“Why would it matter what underwear I’m wearing if we make out?” I asked.


Innocent as a lamb.
Fresh.
Newly new to this.


Seven looked hard at me. “Because what—you’re going to make out on the couch and it’s gonna get heated and your date is gonna maybe get into your clothes and find...nothing?”


“...Yes? So? I don’t wear bras or anything unless I’m at work,” I said.

I was getting alarmed.


Tawnya: So you’re telling me that if this date turns into a heavy makeout session, and maybe someone’s hands go into your pants, because you want them to, that what they’re going to find is...your naked crotch?? That’s like—that’s like skipping bases.


Seven: Yeah, that's like 0 to 100 real quick.


Me: Are you telling me that I should be wearing underwear to be polite to others?


Seven: No! You should do what you want. All I’m saying is, if I’m going into someone’s pants during a makeout, and it’s our first time making out, and there’s no underwear, it changes the energy a bit.

Tawnya: With underwear, you have another barrier. Something to play with. Time to think. Without underwear…


Seven: Decisions have to be made.


Tawnya: Exactly.


Me: [bleating] But I don’t have any underwear.


[Silence. Tawnya and Seven glance at each other.]


Seven: Are you serious.


Tawnya: She’s serious. She doesn’t.


Seven: Get your coat, we’re going to the mall.


And that is how I found myself stripped naked to the waist with my cackling roommates in a hot pink dressing room while a saleswoman who smelled aggressively of vanilla flung lacy “balconette” bras with matching thongs at me.


I was buying politeness underwear.
Underwear for dates.



I walked out of Victoria’s Secret (yes! my god) with a pair of pink “boyshorts”, a pair of black panties with a see-through mesh ass window, and a pair of black lace panties that matched a black lace bra that made my boobs look like two elegant, steep sledding hills.


I had to carry a big, pink-and-peach-striped Victoria’s Secret bag through the mall.


Everyone could see me.
Everyone knew.


An old man winked at me.



I’m still not OK.


I went on that date, you sluts.
And I wore my goddamn politeness underwear.

It was, I realized, my first-ever “classic” date—I’m fucking 33 years old, and this was the first time in my life I went on a date with a brand-new-to-me single person as a single person who did not have to factor having a partner into the equation.


The date went well.
We drove back to my house and sat in the car.


Things got a bit quiet and awkward. I didn’t know what to do.


We had just met that night! Were we supposed to kiss? How could I kiss someone I’d just met?!

It felt awfully fresh—cheeky, even.


“..OK, well...thanks,” I said, reaching for the door handle.


My date wanted to kiss, I think, but they weren’t initiating anything.

I wasn’t about to make things easier.
In my new life, I’m not helping people date me. If you want it, come get it, you know?


My date smiled, nervous.
“See you soon?” they said.


I touched their shoulder and opened the car door.

“See you soon,” I said, and walked into the house.

The first thing I did was take off that stupid underwear.


What else don’t I know about dating, gays?

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Happy Holigays! Effing Dykes is BACK!



Well, helloooo, homos!


You know that thing that queers do when they get into a serious relationship and then just… vanish?


Gays.


My sweet, loving, tender gays.


I did this. I pulled this shit on you.
I got myself into a new, serious relationship and fell off the face of the earth.

Three years ago, I stopped writing on this mess. I said I’d be back.
I didn’t come back.


I lost myself inside my new relationship. I never looked at this blog, not even to check to make sure the comments on posts from 2012 weren’t being spammed by weird spell-casting scammers or penis-enlargement sellers.


A year into my “break,” I started to miss writing on here.

I began making excuses.


“This isn’t the right time to talk—the internet does not need to hear from a cis, white lesbian right now. I need to leave room for other voices to be heard.”

“What even is a dyke? Am I a dyke? Is this a word I can still claim? What does it mean? Is a “dyke” a cisgender woman who is only attracted to cisgender women? Because I’m not that. Is “dyke” even a word for me anymore? AUGH.


“If I start up the blog again, I want it to look sleek and new and have a cute new logo and be on a new hosting platform and not look like it was built in 2009. Wait, that’s a lot of work… I don’t know how to do any of that… OK forget it.”


“I’m in the first 100% monogamous relationship of my life, I’m going out way less, and I used to write about sleeping around a lot. Who would want to read anything about what I’m thinking anymore?”


“OMG, there’s a new season of American Horror Story. I’ll write tomorrow.”
[all hail AHS: Hotel season]

I could keep going, gayelles. I had plenty of excuses for why I wasn’t writing anymore, and I don’t mean writing just on here, on this blog.

I stopped writing almost entirely, about anything.


It was because I got really sad.

It happened slowly.
In Chicago, I started to feel lost and quiet and grey, more often than not. Like a light inside me had dimmed, somehow, and I didn't know how to take steps back to when it was bright.


I used to be a person I liked. I used to think I was rad, and be thrilled to wake up and see queers everywhere I went, and to go out, and to fool around with my friends. I lived alone, in a beautiful little studio, just me and my pet rabbit, Timothy Maxwell Thumperton.


I loved to write and talk obsessively about homos, and I liked to date everyone.


One by one, without understanding why, I started shutting the windows into my life. I stopped doing the things I loved. I stopped dating. I stopped writing in my journal, I stopped going to queer events, I stopped wearing lipstick.

I moved out of my cute lil' studio and in with my new partner. We loved each other intensely, and had good times. We also fought a lot. Awful fights; fights I didn’t even know I had the capacity to be having.


I stopped talking to my friends about what was actually going on with me. I stopped posting on social media—what would I say? How could I post anything personal when I felt less like myself than I ever had? How could I post anything at all when so much terrible shit was happening in the news, every single day?


I stopped wearing my ~signature look~ (startlingly tight dresses and high-heeled boots) and started wearing oversized, baggy tunics in a limited color palette: grey, light grey, charcoal grey, and black.

Baggy grey tunics, sluts!
CAN U IMAGINE.
And all of a sudden, years had gone by, and I couldn’t actually remember what had ever been fun about me.

I had a vague memory in the back of my mind of being happy, maybe, a long time ago, but I wasn’t anymore, and I didn’t know why, or what to do about it.


One day, this past April, I had a particularly nasty fight with my partner. We’d just moved into a house in Chicago six days prior, and I was upstairs in our bedroom, wondering what the fuck I was going to do and how I had gotten to this place. I called my best friend, Tawnya, who I hadn’t called in a year, and just started crying. I told her everything. She listened and then cried, too. Without even thinking it through, I falteringly asked her if her new house in Minneapolis had any extra rooms.


She laughed, snot through her tears. “Do we have any extra rooms??? Come tomorrow,” she said.


My hands shook as I held the phone to my ear.
My best friend. My ride or die.

“Do you need money?” Tawnya asked. “Do you need us to come get you? Do you want to fly here? Come home. Live with us. Do we have any fucking extra rooms.”

I moved to Minneapolis in August.


I’m entirely single now, for the first time in my adult life.

This should be good.


I had no idea how sad I was, until I wasn’t anymore.


And I’m back! And I feel 300% better! And I missed writing this blog! And I missed you, more than you know! AND WE’RE GOING TO TALK ABOUT FUCKINGGGGGG omg are we ever.

Effing Dykes is officially open for queer business! I don’t know if anyone will even check this anymore, but it’s OK—I really, really just want to write about gheys again, because that used to make me happier than anything.


I’d love it if you wrote to me at effingdykes@gmail.com. Ask me questions! Tell me funny stories! Look for shorter posts, more often. Eventually, there probably will be a sleek new blogging platform, and a cute new logo, and all that other great shit, but for now?


I just wanted to write to y’allfags again.

Lez chat it out, faggettes.