Archives for category: LGBT

Those who know me in real life know that I don’t shy away from criticizing queer people as a category.

I have the usual gripes, I expect:  An overemphasis on fucking, and subsequent fleeing.  An underepmphasis on intersectionality (@WhiteGayBois).  BI-ERASURE(!!!!)  A lack of knowledge of – and faithfulness to – our politically active queer predecessors.

This isn’t really a post about that.  This is a gripe about a much more general fucking-bullshit-ness found in human beings.

I am referring to the unaccountable expectation folks have of others’ telepathy.

Basically.  Stop, uh . . . stop fucking saying, “take a hint.”

Let us say, dear reader, that you are in an ongoing interaction with a human person.  Maybe they’re a friend, an acquaintance, someone you’ve been dating, someone you are hooking up with for the night.  Let us say you no longer want to be in an ongoing interaction.

Q: At this stage, can the other person be reasonably expected to know you don’t want to talk?
A: No, dumb-dumb.

Correct!  You have done well.

Let’s say you start responding to this person’s correspondence less quickly, or maybe stop responding at all.  The responses you do make are short.  Curt, even.

Q: At this stage, can the other person be reasonably expected to know you don’t want to talk?
A: Yes.  Except, oh wait.  I misread everything you said in that paragraph up there as, “You express your feelings to the person.”  My bad.  Of course

You got there eventually!

The thing is, I’m afraid of everything.  I empathize with the impulse to avoid confrontation.  I understand hoping that this human takes your hint.  You can hope that your friend brings you cocoa on a cold day, but it isn’t their job to know you want it.  Or to make it peppermint like you like and . . . yeah.

If I seem to be stating the obvious here – I agree!  This is all very obvious, and nobody should have to point it out, but here I am pointing it out.  Almost as if . . . some people .. . have given me reason to reflect on it.  (Here I am venting on my “creative platform.”)  But being the non-hint-taker a lot of the time situates me uniquely to give you some food for thought:

  • I generally think each of my friends hates me, secretly.  (I’m a cliché.  Moving on.)  I twist every behavior that could possibly indicate dislike into a sure sign our relationship is over.
  • When I express this fear – to the friend or a third party – I am assured it’s just my anxiety.  An irrational fear.
  • I have therefore developed the habit of reassuring myself of the same.  “This is your anxietybrain talking.  They do not hate me.”   See that ambiguous behavior?  Not a threat.
  • In other words, I work very hard to not “take” hints that aren’t actually being dropped.
  • See why this is problematic when hints are being dropped?

I guess I am just hoping you’ll remember to treat people like people.  That is to say, treat people like deeply flawed clouds of swirling insecurity and meat.  I will work on it too.  Isn’t that what non-denominational winter holiday is all about?

Anyway, back to my gripes with queer people.  What the shit is the deal with Grindr?  I know I’m not the only one who does this: delete, install, delete, install, delete . . .

Okay, bye.

– J


I am sitting in the train and wondering whether how imaginary a barrier it is that queer people cannot flirt at random.I know, I think, that everyone has the barrier and that everyone’s seems impenetrable.

Oh, but you are lovely. And I am in a way satisfied with your loveliness.

I do things that are not “stare at you.”

I notice again the clever mechanism they use to slide the posters seamlessly into the train walls.

I look at your shoes.

 I listen to the typical Boston-voiced guy talking on the phone. About that “crazy fucking bitch.” And how many times he has been to probate court. (So. Many.)

I notice your old phone.

I do not guess how old you might be because it is not important. I cannot make it important.

I’m sorry that the probate court guy lost his mother. I’m sorry that I know it too. I wonder if his ex-wife really is crazy.

The Asian woman next to you is in the pictures I stole. If you didn’t know me, you might not know whom I was photographing. If you didn’t know me (and you don’t.) you might not have known I’d steal three pictures.

 Maybe she is less in the photos than I thought.


We will see how long it takes me to delete these.

First of all, my very good (for once) excuse for being a dismally neglectful blogger is that I’m participating in my first NaNoWriMo this month!

So! While I’m busily trying to bump up my word count, and while I have several, longer-form blog posts in the slow cooker, I thought I would share a weird anecdote.

(I’m sorry for the title.  It’s truly unforgiveable.  Let’s move on.)

For those newly aware of their sexual orientation, coming out can be a major challenge.  For those whose friends or family members are socially or religiously conservative, coming out can be a daunting obstacle.  For those in the public spotlight, whose image is their career,  coming out of the closet can seem a terrifying gamble.

For an openly gay, blue-state, twenty-something-year-old amateur actor and sometime-wordsmith, coming out is not a big deal.  But it can still be difficult.

Not . . . emotionally, in this case, so much as logistically.

There’s a weird trend out there, which you will be familiar with if you’ve recently existed.  Straight guys love – love! – to pretend to be queer.  It’s the funniest thing.  (I guess?)

And the thing is, I can kind of get it.  It’s silly in the same way it’s silly to feign creepy sexual interest in your friends.  (If that’s your thing.)  And straight people who think hitting on their guy friends is hilarious are probably a huge step forward, in some ways, from straight people who think the queers are disgusting and out to get them (which we are, by the way).

But here’s the weird thing.  I was recently with a group of straight guys who were totally unaware of my sexual orientation, because whenever I’d say something about being interested in men they’d jump right in and expand upon my “joke.”

Here’s an example:

I want to marry a man.

I want to marry seven men.

And fuck ’em in the ears.

Okay.  Maybe I fabricated that particular example.  But the point is . . . really?

How can we acheive equal status for LGBTQ people if being queer is a punchline?

I dunno.  It’s funny, but it’s . . . so not, also.

Leave your thoughts below.  I love you.  I love your nipples and your handwriting.

Here is my obligatory apology for having not blogged in such a long time. I don’t have any excuse for this. Did you miss me?

I’ve rejected gender. How are you?

My friend Jerry once (harmlessly – so harmlessly) complained to me about somebody who had used his knife without permission. “You don’t touch a man’s knife!” he said. He considered this act an insult to himself. To his manhood. This person had taken his knife and that’s something you don’t do (dammit!).

But.  I don’t have a knife. So . . .

I took a course on interpersonal communication once, where differences in gender featured prominently. “Men talk like such-and-such.”  “Women express themselves like blahdy-blah.” That kind of thing. And I learned a lot from the course – most surprisingly that I’m a woman.

Is this unique to my life?  This can’t be unique to my life.  No!  Look.  Has this kind of thing happened to you, too?  (This example is man-centered because I have a penis, not because I think this doesn’t happen to women.)

Men love camping!
All men love camping!
All real men love camping.
As the old rhyme goes, “Has a penis;
fuckin’ loves to camp.

I do not love camping.
I feel as though this makes me less manly.

Don’t be silly! Your dislike of camping
in no way diminishes your manhood.
Also, this presents no kind of gaping sword-wound
to the torso of Logical Thought.

It has!  Hasn’t it?!

Let’s put it another way:

Seems legit.

Seems legit.

Now I hate math just as much as the next guy.  But I think something . . . something has gone awry.  Somebody has broken into the tomb of Emperor NotBeingIdiots and ransacked it.  Stolen the gold.  Upturned beautiful, priceless artworks.  Peed on the walls.  Covered the place in misspelled graffiti.  The police aren’t ready to make an arrest, it seems, but I think i have found the culprit.  That masterful burglar – We Are Making It the Fuck Up.

See, what we have done is made these two categories and said, “Ah-HA!  These two shall encompass all of humanity!”  And, in our excitement, we immediately began quickly shoveling attributes under the banner of either “feminine,” or “masculine.”

Now, with time, and the gradual removal of heads from asses, has come a sort of collective, “huh . . .”  People have begun pointing our how wrong society’s assessment of gender is. 

You don’t have to wear make up to be feminine and beautiful!”

“You don’t have to play sports to be a ‘real man’!”

“Girls can cut their hair short!”

“‘Men can wear pink!”

I don’t think anybody remotely intelligent is denying these things anymore.  (Maybe I should say I hope  nobody is.)  I certainly don’t think they’re false.  I just also don’t think they’re . . . well, true

Let’s imagine, for a moment, a conversation between two zoologists.

I say, my fine colleague. Have you ever seen
an animal as magnificent as the emerald-tusked
gardener walrus?

Verily, I cannot pretend to have ever seen one.
The beast’s fondness (and exceptional ability) for
growing tulips is incredible.  And naturally,
those tusks are unlike any tha–

DR. P:
Pardon me, my good doctor, but did you say tulips?
Surely, you are referring to Odobenus horticulturalis’
chrysanthemums. They are beyond compare.

You’re an asshole.

 Who’s right, here? 

Neither of them,” you’d be inclined to say.  And you’d be right!  So right.  This is a matter of opinion!  Neither of their opinions is right.  Neither is wrong.  You might have another opinion entirely.  “The walrus’ calla lilies are clearly its flora optima.

Well said.  Well said.

Except for, um, well, a tiny little detail that, uh, I kind . . . made the emerald-tusked gardener walrus right the hell up.  Conjured him from my little brain.  Its attributes are irrelevant, in a Debbie-downer kind of way, because you will never ever find one.  Ever.

And that’s how I’ve come to see gender.  There is no “right” or “wrong” of gender because gender is, really, something people made up.  A bazillion years ago.  Before science was anywhere near its state today.  Before science was a thing.  Like myth, gender was invented to make sense of the world.  And, like myth, gender makes sense of the world in a way that makes no fucking sense.

Not even penises or vaginas are “masculine” or “feminine”!  Not really.  Look at transwomen and -men.  Look at people born with ambiguous genitalia.  When you get right down to it, the only manly thing is a y-chromosome.  The only womanly thing is . . . no y-chromosome.  And even then . . .

Now, I’m not a scientist or a sociologist.  You may be convinced by this point in the post that I am an absolute idiot.  Or a cynic.  But I hope you can see the point I’m trying to make.  And I hope that if, like me, you are feeling like not as much of your identity is tied up in gender as you thought, you have the freedom in your life to express that.  For my part, I’ve started thinking of myself as neither masculine nor feminine.  I’ve begun to think of myself as “ze” and “hir,” instead of “he” and “him.”

It just makes the most sense to me.

There is a certain segment of society – I’m not sure quite how to delineate its make up – that favor the use of certain, unorthodox tactics in the execution of argument.  Namely, the quality control workflow for their talking points appears to run as follows:

This behavior is, of course, very frustrating to us all.  My favorite example, though, was an assertion much too absurd for me to even be frustrated by.  I was delivered – with a gotcha! type of flourish – the sad news that I “don’t even believe in God.”

That’s right! I’m an athiest and I didn’t even know it.  Now, I can’t say with any certainty why this person would draw a conclusion like this. (She and I had, at the time, a passing-head-nod level of intimacy.)  I definitely can’t hazard a guess as to why she would believe it with sufficient confidence (or fancy herself adept enough a verbal sparrer) to try and use it against me.  I couldn’t even look you in the face and say I know per se that she has a brain.  But the point you have been waiting so patiently for me to arrive at is what I expect may have been her reasoning.  Why do so many people draw the society like this?

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