Princess with a Pink Wand

Okoge. Fille à Pédés. Fag Hag. Yes, they all mean the same thing — that woman who loves gay men, and counts them among her inner circle. You know them. You love them, and you might even be one. Gay men love them, and straight men want their attention.  The fag and his hag can shop, go to the orchestra, do all the things the hag’s boy friend doesn’t enjoy. Okay I personally hate the malls, so shopping had better entail downtown streets and being out in the weather, and to be honest, I’d prefer to go to the football game to an expedition for your new purse. Seriously, if there’s shoe shopping on your agenda, I’ll pass. Unless they’re shoes for me that is, but I digress.

While it can be a very rewarding plutonic friendship, there are some basic rules. 

I’ve watched Mr. Goodbar check your tonsils with his tongue more times than I can count, so don’t give me an ick when Mr. Wonderful and I lock lips in front of you. And don’t get worked up either. If you find two guys getting hot and  bothered exciting , I’m down with that, and I’ll loan you some of my porn.

Yes, I’m genuinely friends with your husband. Hey, we’re both Saints fans and have to stick together. No, I don’t want to fuck him, him to fuck me, or any other sex act. Yes, he’s cute, but Sweets, I can do better  — remember Corey? The corollary is that you and I aren’t going to trade any body fluids either. Talk about an Ick Factor.

And yes, I’ll watch your 10 year old while you and Mr. Goodbar go off for a romantic weekend, but tell him to stay out of my toy-box. I don’t need another repeat of the last time he was here.

So, Sweets, what time’s the Tupperware party Tuesday?

Bear Pride

“What’s a Bear,” my friend asked. And I honestly didn’t have a great answer for him because it’s such a word of contentious definition among gay men. Typically though, Bears are seen as masculine, hairy, and usually bearded. Many of us are also a little hefty, but there are thin bears (sometimes called Wolves or Otters), and Cubs who are typically younger bears, but I’ve met 50 year old Cubs (indicating that he’s a Power Bottom). I often say that my goal is to be a Muscle Bear – a work in progress to be sure. I can’t talk about Bears without a nod to my favorite sub-category: the Leather Bears. Now just to make matters more confusing, I’ve got a lesbian friend whose, yes female, partner is so butch she identifies with the Bear Community. 

My take on all of this is that there’s room at the table for everyone: the big, the little, the hairy, the smooth, the muscled, the frail, and yes, Babycakes, even the occasional lesbian. Our community of Lesbian Gay Bi-sexual Questioning and Inter-sexed is growing, and most unfortunately sometimes growing divisive. My call is to stretch out my arms to the Bull Dyke, the Nellie Queen, the Fag Stag, The Princess with a Pink Wand, and anyone else who calls me friend. By embracing, not limiting, we’ll push past all the artificial barriers and make a land in which we can all live our lives without regret or fear. We’ll create the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

Sensing a Theme

Coming down the elevator this afternoon a man was commenting to a woman about her purse. Only recently have I learned that those symbols make it a Coach purse; it could have been a knock-off for all I know. Anyway, I walked into the gym, and said something about it to the two male trainers. “Come on Jack get with the times and discuss purses with women,” M said through his laughter. “I’m just not that gay,” was my only retort. On the way out, he commented on my gym bag: “It’s got all those zippers and pockets!”

And with the weather finally cooling down, I’m feeling it’s time to call the body place and see about getting a piercing. As much as I want a lorum, I know it’s best to start with the nipple and move south. After all I started with the little kangi Dragon and moved to the fleur de lys. And while I’m waiting for Musclecakes to compose a piece for my calf, I’m considering a dragonfly. I’m just not sure where to get it.

Two Words

I just spent twenty minutes writing, editing, and re-writing an e-mail to a friend who has had a pretty bad weekend. The initial drafts were full of everything but what I wanted to say. Finally on the fifth revision it dawned on me what I was doing wrong.. Two simple words were needed. There no need for anything else. Of course I empathize. Yes, were he caught killing kittens I’d swear they were rabid or some abberation, and he was doing Mercy. Moreover, I could have pontificated for a gig on the matter. I could have taken a stand and been filled with righteous indignation, sound and fury. A novella could have flown to the page. And after I sent the e-mail I’d have regretted it. It’s simple really. He didn’t need any of that. He needed to hear: “I’m sorry.”

He knows that the Sun will continue to rise and set. He knows that somewhere bands are playing and somewhere children shout. He doesn’t care. He’s hurting. He needed to know that I’m willing to hear him without judgement of any kind. Most of all, he needed to know that simply and foremost, I’m his friend. It sucks. I can’t fix it, but I am sorry that it is that way.