Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Mmmm, love that blonde-gone-to-white mini mop on your head!  And you’re holding an actual book!  A very good sign.   Oh, but is that a wedding ring?  Next to a GIANT engagement ring?  From your husband, I assume, because I don’t care how much money you guys have, there’s not a lesbian alive who would get down on one knee and offer you a blood rock like that. Get over yourself, girlfriend.  You are gay.  G-A-Y gay.  Toss those rings back to your man and come over to my team.  Only don’t expect me to be your first.  Been there, done that.
Ooh, cute haircut for sure!  Nice muscles, too.  And a smile for me because I let you walk in front of my car to get to yours.  Friendly!  Oh, but that fussy Mercedes?  And you’re carrying an umbrella when there’s only the slightest threat of rain?  Nah, too high-maintenance.
Well, we’ll, well….  I saw you with that side shave, walking out of the gym in your yoga pants and tight-fitting tank top.  Nice calves!  Were you just on the treadmill?  The elliptical?  Oh, and nice shoulders and biceps!  But… wait, what?  How can your body look like that when you have triceps made of, I don’t know, oatmeal?  Have you heard of pushups?  Or triceps curls?  Who is your trainer?  We need to talk.  Yes, of course, all women are beautiful.  I truly believe that.  But I’m allowed to have a type, no?
Too young.
Too young.
Too young.
Whoa!  Grrrl, I love your purple streaks and your DUMP TRUMP tee, but did you just come out of that Chick-fil-A?  Oh, hell no!
Those short and brand new locks are my favorite!  I love how they burst out of your scalp, black mixed with wisps of silver, patiently waiting for the day when they’ll be long enough to sway back and forth against your sexy hips.  Oh, hello, is that your wife?  Ouch, you two win hot lesbian couple of the year in my book.  Not that I’m writing one.  Well, I guess I sort of am.  But enough about me.  Go be fierce together.
Hey there!  That looks like a very healthy vegetarian meal.  I’m sitting outside on this bench trying to not-too-obviously spy on you because, of course, your cute haircut caught my eye.  No, don’t look over here, silly!  Oh, look!  A squirrel!  Are you still looking out the window?  Now that would be funny; me watching you, you watching me.  Yes!  It looks like you’re getting ready to pay.  Do you eat meals out by yourself a lot?  I do.  I don’t care what people think.  C’mon, stand up already.  If I’m going to fantasize about the perfect woman for me, I might as well be particular about how tall or short she is.  Yikes!  A giant!  I’m sorry, honey.  I am good at climbing, but I’m not that good!
Oh, yes, I see you sitting at the bar with your rainbow-dyed Mohawk.  It’s pride month, Mama!  Go for it.  You look sun-kissed and athletic and that smile really lights up your whole entire face.  No, your whole entire body.  And you’re using ASL to communicate with your friend but plain old regular speech to chat with the bartender.  Now that’s pretty awesome.  I need to learn ASL for sure.  Maybe you could school me.  Ugh, did you just fish a cigarette out of your pocket before heading outside?  Okay, nevermind.  I guess no one has ever been brave enough to inform you that grrrls who don’t smoke taste like heaven and grrrls who do, taste like… ashtrays.  Remember ashtrays?  Ick.
And you over there, with your blonde bob.  Hanging out in this here dyke bar.  Hello?  Is that your boyfriend?  Because I see you holding his hand while checking out every fierce lesbian who walks through the door.  Maybe you’re looking for a third?  Yeah, been there, done that too, but with two women.  Women who love women.  Don’t even glance at me; I have samurai swords in my eyes.
Oh, yum!  A Grrrl with short, pink fingernails.  And ink.  Or is that paint?  On your hands and elbows.  I do love artists!  Yes, I see it now; the splashes on your sneakers, the splotches of wild color on your very old Georgia O’Keeffe t-shirt.  And that gray in your otherwise jet black, wavy short hair tells me you’re of a certain age.  Wanna have coffee?  No, wait!  Why are you disappearing into that Subaru?  With Vermont plates?  Come back!  Ugh.
Wow, that shaved head looks really powerful.  And that rainbow flag tattoo fluttering down your neck is kind of hot!  I could do without the stud in your nose but whatever.  We could get past that.  I like the ivy tat that grows up your arm.  And the peace sign on your thigh.  Oh, but wait!  Is that a Red Sox tattoo on your ankle?  No, no, no.  I’m sorry but that would never work.  Think about the number 27 and about how your boys will never, ever catch my Yankees.  No, just no.
My mom, also a rabid Yankee fan, told me a lot of things.  One was that I had a champagne taste on a beer budget.  Oh man did she ever get that one right!  We never had a lot of money but we always had enough and we knew quality when we saw it.  Another was that beggars can’t be choosers.  I never thought that second lesson was as accurate as the first.  Anyone who’s patient enough will eventually get to choose.  But I have zero patience for this shit.  I have decided to save all of Lesboville a lot of grief by taking myself out of the game.  Am I available?  Technically, yes, but really, no, I’m not.  I’m way too picky.  And you should be, too.

I Get It

Posted: May 4, 2019 in Uncategorized

I’m very happy being single right now, I truly am.  It’s great to be able to move about freely, without discussion, without processing, without negotation, and go wherever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want.  Once my responsibilities to my 16-year-old twins are met each day, I can pretty much do anything.  It’s refreshing.

I’ve taught my twins to be very independent,  so even if I need to be gone all day, they’ll get themselves home from school, do their homework, make themselves dinner and even get to bed at a reasonable time if they know I won’t be home until late.  I am totally embracing my new-found freedom and kind of looking forward to the twins heading off to college next year so I’ll really have the ability to do what I want, for the first time in a lot of years.  They’re not ready yet, I can tell.  But they will be.  And even though I’ll miss them like crazy, I’ll be ready, too, to let them fledge.

I think “single” is the appropriate situation for me, since I haven’t done very well in the relationship department.  I’ve tried.  I’ve worked hard at it.  I’ve been loyal to a fault.  I’ve even accepted a years-long sentence of celibacy with a partner who “needed me” but alas, eventually, “not in that way.”  THAT was difficult!

So, here I am, 60 and alone, a single mother since 2011 when I finally had to call it quits (after 20 years or so) with the impossible-to-please, crazier-every-day partner who, towards the end and for a pretty long damn time, was no longer interested in sex.  It was a rough process, getting out of that relationship, but it was what I needed and it was definitely what my three kids wanted and needed.  They were 12, 9 and 9 at the time and bugging me to get a “divorce” and take them with me.  We’ve all been happier since.

I’ve had two lovely girlfriends since then but those relationships didn’t work out either.  It must just be me.  So now I’m happily single and keeping the lesbian world safe from me by declaring to be done with coupledom.

The thing I didn’t count on was the loneliness.  I ache with it.  I mourned my last relationship for a time; just about the entire fall of last year and into the early winter of this one.  I had my eye on a few women, too, but nothing happened, in a way that made it feel as if nothing was supposed to happen.  I’m basically dreaming of a casual sex partner now, not a relationship, and lesbians are loathe to go there.  Because of the old joke, you know:

Q:  What does a lesbian bring to a second date?

A:  A U-Haul.

Because lesbians are women, obviously, and so many women like to feather a nest and settle down.  (No disrespect to any lesbians who do not identify as women.  We’re talking strict generalities here.)  If I were a gay man, I could cruise down Christopher Street or around the piers in Provincetown and find all the anonymous sex I could handle.  But lesbians don’t play that way.

I get it.

There are other obstacles.  The biggest one of all, I would assume, since I’d like to hook up with a city grrrl, is the fact that I am currently stuck in New Jersey, at least until my twins graduate from high school next year.  And I do live in a sweet NJ town with lots of lesbians  but they’re all married to one another, with families and mortgages and fire pits in the backyard and I’m more interested in the urban scene right now.  But no self-respecting New York City grrrl would ever bother with a dyke who lives in the burbs.

I get it.

Another problem is my age.  I have been smiled at and flirted with by lots of women over the last few months.  One was a really cute, artsy dyke in Red Hook, near where my softball team was getting ready to practice at the batting cages.  We smiled at each other as I walked by and even said “hi” to each other, but that was it.  Another was a woman out dancing with friends at a club I like to frequent.  She watched me move through the crowd, twice, smiling both times as she grooved to the music.  I smiled back, of course, but i kept going.  And going and going and going….  Both these lovely women were maybe half my age.  I’m betting once they discovered I had more in common with their mothers than with them they’d run in the opposite direction as fast as their young, athletic legs would carry them.

I get it.

A lot of women hear me mention that I still play softball and immediately think, “dumb jock.”  But that’s not true at all.  I like to talk about physics and philosophy and politics and science-fiction movies and literature and yes, it would be cool to find a fuck buddy, but it’s sometimes fun to talk about interesting shit between multiple orgasms, no?  Still, some women can’t get past my athletic tendencies and so are absolutely not interested.

I get it.

Sometimes I wonder if all my political activism is a turnoff for certain women.  And if it is?  Goodbye and good riddance.  In this climate of growing fascism, with a wannabe dictator in the White House, enabling racists, homophobes, misogynist and generic haters of all stripes worldwide, if you think it’s okay to sit back and do nothing, I want nothing to do with you and your apathetic ass.

That, I absolutely do NOT get.

Some women think I’m too butch.  Some women think I’m not butch enough.  I’d like to make something perfectly clear right now: I am not into labels.  I do not consider myself a butch.  I know a lot of truly butch women who would laugh in my face if I tried to pass myself off as one of them.  It takes a fuck of a lot of courage to be a true butch and you either have it or you don’t.  And when pressed to label myself by people who insist that I choose between butch and femme (as if those were the only choices) I will eventually cave and gently let them know that if they really need to categorize me and put me in a box, they can stick a label on a brand new one and mark it with the words, “Grown Up Tomboy.”  And then put that box somewhere on TOP.

Get it?

I don’t like being labeled.  I am different every day.  You shouldn’t hold your breath waiting to see me in a skirt, but don’t be surprised if you rip off my clothes and find some seriously sexy underwear next to my skin.

My twins keep telling me I am three things.  The first, amusingly enough, is butch.  I respond by letting them know that I can easily introduce them to some really butch lesbians and then maybe they’ll get what I have been trying to tell everyone else.  The second is that I’m a player.  Ha!  I am 60 years old so, yes, I’ve had my share if sex partners but no, I am most definitely not a player.  I don’t have a good enough bank account or memory for that.  The third is that I am a cougar.  That’s even funnier than me being a player.  I have had two GFs/lovers who were considerably younger than I am but that just sort of happened; i did not go out looking for it the way a “cougar” would.

What to do, what to do?  Nothing, it seems.  Because I’ve become obsessed with my non-existent sex life so I need to just leave it alone for a while.  I need to stop thinking about it.  I need to stop cruising cute chicks.  I definitely need to stop any weed consumption unless I am hone alone with some favorite toys  because all weed does to me is make me… crave organic oranges, act like a goofball and then, finally, need to fuck somebody’s brains out.  So, no more when I’m out because that shit is hard to contain.

Do nothing.  For now.  Maybe a magic woman will come to me.  Maybe she’ll knock my socks off.  Maybe she’ll bring me those amazing orgasms that go on for minutes and then, just when they feel like they’re ending, drag you up to an even higher plateau.  The kind that make you feel as if you’re floating in the center of the universe and if you could just stop shaking long enough to reach out a vibrating hand you would touch God’s face.  The kind that make you feel so sorry for women who don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.  Not everyone is so blessed, I guess.

I get it.

I also get the distinct possibility that I’ll be alone and lonely for the rest of my life.  And that would be okay.  There’s no law that says you have to partner up or that you need to constantly exist as a sexual being.  It’s lovely when it works out but its also lovely when life reveals other plans for you.  There are 8 million different ways to be a human being.

I get it.

 

 

 

Letter To Myself

Posted: September 13, 2013 in Uncategorized

Dear Kim,

I’m 54 years old and writing a letter to the you that existed 50 years ago, captured in a picture that someone took of you at Knott’s Berry Farm in the summer of 1963, just before you turned 5 and started kindergarten.  How cute you are!  And such an imp!  It’s great that you have a wonderful sense of humor and a desire to know and explore everything, but maybe you should stop wandering off and making people look for you.  And maybe don’t play so many practical jokes on your loved ones.  They might laugh at first, but they might also get really upset with you.

So, your dad is gone and your mom is raising you and your sisters all by herself.  That’s profound and I don’t expect you, at 4 years of age, to realize it yet but maybe as you get older you can help out more often and show appreciation to your mom and oldest sister for all they do to try to take the place of your dad.  It’s a very bumpy road ahead and you should learn to pay better attention so you can understand how to be a part of things, a part of solving and fixing things rather than just focusing on the next fun time, the next happy occasion.  There’s a lot of life happening in-between the parties and the big family gatherings and the road trips to California and Florida and New England.  Pay attention!

I know, if you were four years old today, you’d probably get some sort of attention deficit diagnosis because it’s obvious that you still have a hard time concentrating and listening.  If you can focus on that problem now, as a kid, and try to fix it somehow then maybe it won’t be so difficult for your future self.  Wake up, Kim!  Absorb what is happening around you!  But don’t worry too much if you can’t make it happen.  You’re four.  Go get a popsicle and find an anthill to watch.  Your mom will find you when it’s time for dinner.

Mostly, you’re a pretty good kid.  If you could concentrate and not daydream so much you’d eventually be a straight-A student because you’re very smart.  You’ll search outwardly for a lot of years, through a lot of different philosophies and religions for something meaningful to you, something to help you frame your life.  The searching and reading are good, but the one place you’ll avoid looking is within yourself and that’s where all the answers are.  Start tearing the walls down now instead of building them higher and higher as you grow.  Try to look inward honestly and stop being in denial about how sad you are.  Maybe then you can do something about it.  Maybe then they won’t send you to a shrink in five years, when you’re 9 and almost nothing makes sense.  It’s a crazy world but it’s not your fault.  Stay on the path of goodness and everything will turn out okay.

Love, Kim

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