A Queer Life

I am made of flowers. I used to keep them hidden. Sometimes I picked a flower and gave it away but not very often. My flowers are sacred.  I gave John a flower. He smiled and set it down. The wind blew the wilted petals to the ground as he walked away. I gave a flower to Tyler. He loved it. He put it in a jar with water. He wanted more. He danced and sang about the flowers. I gave him more whenever he asked for more. He loved them so much he started picking them himself. My flowers thinned and died. I began hiding my flowers and only picked a few for him when they felt healthy, but that was becoming rarer. I stopped giving him flowers altogether. He cried and said I didn’t love him anymore. I said I loved him but he couldn’t have my flowers. He didn’t understand and kept crying. I picked another flower and gave it to him. Then I met Steve. I didn’t pick any flowers for Steve but he saw them. He sat by them and watered them. He fed them and they grew. Even when he wasn’t there,...

One of my readers said: “This blog is really good; depressing as fuck, but really good.” Depressing as fuck, huh? Well it’s about to get even more depressing….. just kidding. I don’t have anything depressing to say. I mean I could probably come up with something…actually, maybe I will. Okay, onward depression ho! Let’s talk about abuse (abuse is totally depressing). When I was a Mormon I would hear stories about people being sexually or emotionally abused by leaders and how that led them away from the church. My response was always: “Why would you leave the church? Just because that leader was a bad person doesn’t mean the church isn’t true.” My response was not unique. Members are taught to defend the church, attack the people. I was a little robot programmed to spew assholery. I would like to apologize for the person I was when I was Mormon. And now that I’m not, my response to those people is: “I’m really sorry that happened to you. That is really awful. I hope you have gotten he...

I keep writing blogs and not posting them. Will I post this one? We shall see. My life keeps changing from moment to moment. Steve and I weren’t seeing each other and then we were, and planning an ongoing relationship, but within days he called it off again because he saw my failing marriage as a mine field, which it was/is.  Then, days later, I had a meltdown and realized I couldn’t live with Tyler one more day. My body is in a constant state of panic around him. So we had a stand off and then I left just because I had to, and then I came back and then I planned on moving out, but instead he found a place in town so I could stay in our house with the kids. But with him paying rent, that delays our plans to fix up the other house which is my longterm housing solution. That is the only reason we didn’t separate sooner.  I haven’t seen Charles in months and we barely text or talk anymore. We may never see each other again. Our tiny relationship ran its course and that is okay...

When I was in high school my addiction was at its fever pitch. I thought about it all day. I thought about whether I would give in or not when I got home. I didn’t want to. It was an addiction. Addictions are unhealthy. I was out of control. How long could I go without losing control? Never very long.  Could something so simple create such relief? Was it simple or insidious? I didn’t know, I just knew I had to relieve the pressure. When the pressure built to intolerabile levels I would rush home after school, dash into my room like a full bladder dashes to a toilet. In my bedside table lived my dirty little secret: my notebook and pen. Was it really so simple as that? Would it really work this time the way it had in the past or was this when the rug would be yanked out? Addictions could never be trusted.  I would lay on my floor, open my notebook and empty the vault with the pen. It took hours to get everything out but relief always came. Addiction fulfilled.  It needed t...

When paradise falls apart for one side of a couple, we find the other side never had paradise.  Tyler said our paradise began falling apart when I told him I might be gay. My paradise might have always been a lie.  “You can be anything you want!” Is one lie I believed.  I made myself into what I wanted. It never occurred to me that there was a “Me” inside who might not like the person I thought was ideal. But Me will not be silenced. Me will fight to be heard, throw tantrums, get depressed. Me will have panic attacks because Me is not getting its needs met. After a lifetime of not listening, I barely know how.  Even after listening, I want to impress people. I want to be liked. I fear losing love. I fear losing everything. I have built my life around so many lies. When I start telling the truth what will fall away? Will anything remain? I thought I wanted to be sexually liberated. I had sex with Charles and partnered with him. A new relationship has some fun...

The party was wild, but not so wild we didn’t notice each other. Not so wild we didn’t discover we spoke the same language. He said I put my hand on his leg. I don’t remember that part. We left the party and ended up in my friend’s guest bedroom. Clothes on, souls touching. We wanted to be close, holding each other.  We talked. I poured my fairy magic onto him and he loved it. People don’t always love it but he did. We breathed each other swirling among the planets, Steve and I. What the hell was I doing? Was I using my fairy magic irresponsibly? Did that make me an evil fairy? Who the hell cares? Steve activated my pixie dust.  In the morning things might look different but it didn’t matter in that bed, arms mouths minds.  My cup was full, I said. We couldn’t have a relationship, I said. But we exchanged numbers. He came over the next day and met Tyler, ate dinner and played games. I thought of him all week. He returned the next weekend bringing food and wine. This time ...

  He was big but not fat, just overwhelming. Tall and solid looking, he kind of leaned over me when he talked and when he spoke it was more like shouting despite being less than twelve inches away. His name was Brock.  My first impression when he started shouting in my direction was that he wasn't very bright. His voice was like a caricature of a stupid person, and his West Virginian accent didn't help matters. But when I really listened, he never said anything dumb. In fact, he was quite articulate, which made his story all the more disturbing. The other day when the machines were down we started talking, which is more like him monologuing than a real conversation, but he was interesting so I always listened. "I played football in high school," he told me as we leaned against the unmoving conveyor belt. "The coach kept telling me I should be quarterback instead of front linemen. I said no, but he said, 'I really want you to be QB you've got one hell...