welcome to the next chapter...

once a long time ago, i read on a blog, "i am a lesbian but thats not all i am". i was then just teetering on the edge coming out as a lesbian. back then, although i understood what she was saying, i was completely drowning in that one dimension of my identity. i knew then i was more than also but such turmoil tends to shrink your field of vision. it is scary and exciting and anticipatory and it is exhausting.

i am almost 5 years out now. some things look differently in my life. some things are the same. but i revel in the knowledge that i am a lesbian and in the knowledge that i really am more than just... my field of vision has grown to include the wide open spaces of life's endless possibilies.

for those of you who know me, you will be able to find the familiar places of my old writings which i will have on the sidebar. for those who stumble upon me and find yourself confused by fragmented references or are struggling to come out later in life, you will find the Closer to Fine link most helpful. I recommend reading it from the beginning, it makes more sense.

one more thing, blame my lack of capital letters on e.e. cummings...

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

nothing more than fiction...

The Brick Wall
Just today, she took off her glasses gracefully and tilted her head backward, the way she always does and we laughed, as we always do. Then, she gazed into a place that only she can see. A secret place where she has locked things inside her (weights and measures, memories or fears perhaps?) and she is the only one permitted to see and to know it‘s content and it’s equations..

Sometimes its less clear why she does that and I wonder if her interpretation of the context of my contribution to our conversation is mirroring mine.

Just pondering that makes me CRAZY… but in a good way.

Though, when it gets to that point, I mean after a minute… okay, a second, it stops mattering to me… I confess! I begin to feed off of my interpretation of her interpretation and that, my friends, is how I roll. I like to watch her expressions and I do so with fascination and imagination.

Then all too quickly, she brings her long, strong fingers up to cover the gaze from her eyes into her secret place, as if to hide it’s address, it’s emotional impact and it’s physical manifestations. Sheltering her, me, many, from it’s possible consequences… When I try to look the same direction as she is/was, all I see is ceiling.


We always gather ourselves again though, because…

We both are living in clarity. We know, who we are, who we have become to ourselves and who we have become in other people’s lives. We know who we were, and the Chernobyl-esque landscape we left in our wake. We know.

The summers in Boise are intoxicating. Small town-ish enough to feel safe. Bigger city-ish enough to feel the tension, the electrical hum of life, expectations, of wishful thinking… the sidewalk vibrates with these human emotions… the cement bounces back the days discontent and the heat of solar energy.

It is the catalyst of our collective frustration and unbridled, undeniable craving for connection. It offers us space… space enough for those who have been just walking that line, and there is more than enough space for those who have subconsciously decided to step over that line. Be it for a night or a life altering event that they cannot lie about in the morning.

We both knew the draw of the city when we headed out to “just to take in the surroundings“. The music filtering out of Pengilly’s… “Is that Rebecca Scott?” I said to her… she stopped and listened one door down… “Yes it is.” she said, then she took her hand and placed it on the small of my back and grabbed my hand in hers… my always sweaty hand that I have when I am around her. She moved forward against me, in time with the music and I followed… my other hand moved slowly from her hip to her shoulder, so far above me. I curled my fingers around her shoulder once I reached it, as a climber would reaching for the summit. I secured my hand hold over her muscle and swayed. I love to be lead… but I am just not good at it. I stumbled a bit and we laughed but she urged me on to learn her rhythm.

People passed by our sidewalk dance floor. In the background, a Vendor was shouting out his wares. Some stupid people said stupid stuff. Some young, first timers just giggled at their “exposure” to “real gay people” but carried on because that is what they had came there for. Some men made crude comments and we released our waltz with a “you are a fuck” look as we left to find greener, less insulting, less voyeuristic pastures.

Hannah’s, then the Balcony… we were dancing and happy but still restless. What was worse is that we could see it in each others eyes anytime we locked in on each other. When we would sit down to drink a glass of water between the hard stuff, there were hands on knees or hands just lightly settling down on top of the other’s. Shoulder slides and the complete breakdown of the traditional American personal space… nothing more delicious than that cognizant mutual disintegration of our prized personal space.

There was a moment when we looked at each other and realized we needed air and sobriety. So we exited the bar into to the parking lot. Though we were parked on the bottom floor we began to climb up the ramp to the top of the garage. Breathing deeply, trying to find the sober part of ourselves within the mix of car exhaust and the smell of sushi and deep fried onions.

We hit the top and the sky opened up to us. Beautiful, though muted from the lights of the city. The moon hovering over us… we took advantage of the view… we walked around each side of the structure, pointing out landmarks and silly things. Shoulders becoming reacquainted again. We turned to the east and Table Rock and the Cross stole our vision, stole our breath for a moment. Her hand slid silently into mine. We both, clutched each other as if we were about to be thrown from the face of the earth.

My heart, it was beating in that weird way that it does when I am flooded with desire and “the perfect moment” situation. When she squared her shoulders with mine, I knew by those eyes, by our situation, isolation, this was just between us. Both her hands interlaced with mine. She glanced over my shoulder and smiled in a fashion unperceivable to someone who was not as aware of every movement that she made, as I was.

I didn’t look behind me while she moved me backward. I trusted her to be in control of my body and my environment. I studied her expression as we moved toward the center of the structure. It felt like time stood still. It was quiet except for the street noise way below and the sound of our feet echoing on the cement.

She stopped. She made me stop. I was mesmerized. She put her hands out and leaned against the concrete wall that was just inches behind me. Her hands spread out to feel the rough texture of the brick. She leaned into me, I teasingly moved slowly backward until my head made contact with the wall.
She smiled that smile I had thought she could but never saw it in real life. Not until she tilted her head and kissed me so hard that we fell against the brick wall together.

Before I knew it, she had my wrists. She was in control and my knees tried to betray me. She smirked but held me tighter as she kicked my left leg up and it came to rest on the bumper of a Sarah Palin special.

Her thigh slid perfectly between my legs and my hip bone was the perfect target for herself. There was a moment. We stopped, frozen… listening to our heavy breathing, the street noise and perhaps our conscience. It was our last chance to back out.

She started moving… slowly, gracefully. Listening to my breathing and waiting for a moan to indicate she had hit the spot. Then while continuing the rhythm she found her’s. She tried not to groan when she hit it but I heard her and it made me crazy.

We danced against that brick wall, not like the waltz on the sidewalk earlier but we danced nonetheless. I didn’t stumble, she didn’t stop. She sank her teeth into the flesh of my neck and I yelled in passionate pain. She moved down between my neck and my shoulder and dug her teeth in harder. The guttural moan uttered from me, triggered her into making a sound that can only be described as warm liquid honey with a baritone vibration. It moved through me, through the brick wall I was pinned against and then into the moonlit sky echoing forever. Adding to the electricity that was being created all over the streets of Boise a million floors below us.

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