Spirits and Charades

My friends suckered me into going out tonight. I got to talk to Lauren first. I'm really glad I was able to, because I spent much of the night watching young gay life juxtaposed with the thoughts in my head of being with you.

I kept thinking, "If Lauren was here, I'd do this," and "If Lauren was here, we'd do that," and "Lauren needs to come here, even just for an hour, to see this much queerness in one place. To know that it exists." There's something empoweing about standing in a crowd of people your age and older, some people in their fifties, men with their arms wrapped around men, girls bumping hips with girls, butches strutting and showing off while the fags look on curiously.

I don't know. There's just something that feels like home, sitting on the patio at Spirits, picking on Dan and watching a random friend of mine chatting with a queen while the dykes roam about. It's like my people, and when we're all in that small space it feels like everything and everyone are in harmony and everyone is gay and its safe. I know, though, that no place is ever really safe.

And then there are the annoying parts. Lets get into that now. First, attention gay men of the world. I love you all. But if you're shy at clubs and can't bring yourselves to go get a male partner, please don't frotteurize the lesbians. We're lesbians because of this. When I joined the lesbian club and got my complimentary rainbow panties and membership card, I did not ask for a dick poking me in the small of my back. Save that for the queens, please, and stop scaring the lesbians.

Next. I love gender benders. I love them. I kind of am one. I live for fucking with gender. I mean, Lauren is trans. But... please... for Christs sake, if you're a transman who is too short to look me in the tits, please don't dance with me. I know that's so close minded. I sort of feel people ought to know I'm not available and let me dance with my friends in peace. I don't need a replacement transman. And please... don't take off your shirt and dance in a sport bra. Especially if you look like you're a twelve year old boy with tits.

Then baby-faced stone-butch was waiting for a drink and I guess Marielle told baby-faced stone-butch that I was engaged. I think the reason was that baby-faced stone-butch told Marielle that s/he had a hunch I liked her (Marielle, and I don't). So Marielle explained that I was engaged... apparently. So baby-faced stone-butch turns and asks me, "You have a fiance?" and I replied, "Yes."
Baby face asks, "Man or a woman?"
I grinned, "Both."
Confusion. I clarified, "Transgender."
"Female to male?"
"Yes," I said.
Then, s/he shook my hand, "I'm so glad there are people who can accept us. I'm trans too. Call me Jaques."

These conversations should not exist. There should not be the need to pat someone on the back for being open minded enough to love someone who transcends their gender. People are people. We need to start treating them like it.