Category Archives: Relationships

 

Many thanks to Randal.

boot-black-pride

On a blog I was reading I saw a quiz for “What Kind of Boots Are You” and decided to invest the time to find out that it thought I was combat boots. Now, there’s nothing wrong with them, but they aren’t me. I’m not western boots or jack boots — though I’ve owned and worn both. I love a good pair of hiking boots in the summer, but I’m a pair of engineer’s/harness boots. I love them. I wear them, and I put up a picture of mine (along with one of my whips) to demonstrate that the quiz was flawed. I noticed that my boots needed the attentions of a good boot black. They need to be buffed and polished and have some sole-black taken to them.

I realize that a professional shoe shine guy can take care of them quite well — and replace the heels while he’s at it, but a guy with a boot shining fetish would be a better deal. There are competitions for bootblacks, and as evidenced above there is a Bootblack Pride Flag. So while my fetish isn’t shining a Sir’s boots (being a Sir myself), I have no problems letting a guy given the a fine matt finish and dressing. Let’s hear it for the boys! 

misc-pics-007

My Boots.

In honour of National Coming Out Day…

Some years ago, I read an article that discussed how to come out to family and friends. It talked about neutral, safe spaces and trying not to answer hysteria (if met) with hysteria. As I recall, it was a good article, but (much like the one I read on the perfect kiss) I’ve done a little better following my instinct. I’ve found that just being who I am is enough to get me through any situation.

Often in gay themed media parents and friends are supposed to freak out or answer “I know” when you come out to them. I got neither. By the time I came out, my father was dead, and Mom, being the fag hag, had a fairly lackadaisical reaction. “Oh, okay,” was what I recall getting. And the only time my sister had any freakishness was when, a few weeks after telling her, she realized we were lusting after the same, cute construction worker as he jackhammered the asphalt.

To be honest, there are people who don’t realize that I’m gay. After all, I’m a bear. I’m not a nelly queen (Gods bless ‘em) or a twink. I don’t drag. Think of all that shaving! Despite my BDSM affiliation, I’m not one of the Castro Clones. I’m just me. Sometimes I forget that my sexual preference is not quite as obvious as my tattoos, and I’ll just start talking about some gay topic. It’s amazing when I have to go back and come out before I can move on.

To me being out is not some political statement. It’s being free to be me with all of my fortes and foibles — some tied to my sexuality, some not-so-much. My homosexuality does influence my world view, and when others know that fact, they can being to better understand, and know, me. Only by being true to ourselves can our potential become kinetic. Only when we all learn mutual acceptance and mutual respect can our community become that city on the hill we hear about so often, and only when we strive to our own greatness can we help humanity earn its place among the Stars.

It’s September’s last Saturday, so tomorrow must be The 25th annual Folsom Street Fair. While Jack will be at the opera on Main Street in Louisville instead of at the festivities on Folsom Street, he will be up for all of the fun, frolic, and fetish. Of course he would like to be at the 12th Street Stage at 1700 for Shiny Toy Guns, but alas, it isn’t quite possible.

One important thing that I’ve learned being part of the Fetish Community is that respect is the biggest part of what we do. I know that’s hard to understand when you see a guy in a pup hood and paws being ordered around or a woman being spanked while a crowd watches. It’s difficult for the vanilla to realize that these relationships are actually quite healthy. RACK or SSC both participants are aware and accepting of what’s happening between them. They’ve established their boundaries and set their limits. While human toilets and electro-stim are not my thing, finding a 6′2″ bear pipe with size 12 feet and making him mine is something I can get into — totally.

Are we freaks better than the vanilla? Nope. We just need more intensity (in some cases considerably more), realize our need, and are willing to work to have it. Like a Gay Pride event, Folsom (or any leather pride event) is a place to be one’s self — something we can’t always be — without fear. Within those confines we can follow Chuck Berry’s advice: “Live like you want to live — ain’t nobody gonna knock it.” It’s too bad we can’t have that sentiment in all places in the world.

The art I used in this entry is one of the 2008 Poster Competition Finalists.  The artist is Christopher Meand of Long Beach California and entitled: Folsom Poster #5.

This article was posted to a site I subscribe to:

SM ORIGIN of RACK: RACK vs. SSC

During a discussion of SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) on the TES-Friends list, I proposed RACK (Risk-Aware, Consensual Kink) as an alternative. Here’s my motivation: Nothing’s perfectly safe. Crossing the street isn’t perfectly safe. Remember that it’s technically called “safer sex,” not “safe sex.”

If we want to limit BDSM to what’s safe, we can’t do anything more extreme than flogging somebody with a wet noodle. Mountain climbers don’t call their sport safe, for the simple reason that it isn’t; risk is an essential part of the thrill. They handle it by identifying and minimizing the risk through study, training, technique, and practice.

I believe that this approach will work better for us leatherfolk than claiming that what we do is safe. We want to foster the notion that we develop expertise, that to do what we do properly takes skill developed through a similar process of education, training, and practice.

Negotiation cannot be valid without foreknowledge of the possible risks involved in the activity being negotiated. “Risk-aware” means that both parties to a negotiation have studied the proposed activities, are informed about the risks involved, and agree how they intend to handle them. Hence “risk-aware” instead of “safe.”
The “sane” part of SSC is very subjective. Who’s making the call? Person A might think fisting is insane; persons B and C might enjoy it very much. “Sane” always reminds me of Pat Paulsen’s campaign slogan from the old Smothers Brothers show: “Vote for Paulsen; he’s not insane!” If you go around constantly reassuring folks that you’re not crazy, they’ll start to wonder. I’ve heard “sane” interpreted as: “able to distinguish fantasy from reality” and “not intoxicated,” which are both perfectly valid, though the latter is similar to the above — you don’t go around constantly reassuring folks that you’re not drunk, either.

“Consensual” is the crux, implying negotiation which implies being able to distinguish fantasy from reality, as well as dealing responsibly with risk factors. If you don’t know the risk factors, if you don’t know what will happen in reality, then you don’t know what you’re consenting to. Meaningful negotiation must always take place on the common ground of consensus reality.

The “kink” part went in to make a snappy acronym and because SSC doesn’t tell you what you should be SSC about. Safe, Sane, and Consensual trout fishing?

Alluding to the rack, an archetypal torture instrument,has been criticized, but to me it signifies our transformation of atrocity into ecstasy, and admits that though we may enjoy some dark fantasies,we realize them harmlessly.
RACK is admittedly more confrontational than SSC. It’s defiant, the same way the GLBT community uses “queer.” RACK allows us the freedom to have non-PC fantasies. Don’t a lot of us enjoy non-consensual fantasies, either from the top side or the bottom side? We enjoy them in our literature; we may very well enjoy them while we play.

But we act them out responsibly and consensually.

by Gary Switch, Contributing Editor, Prometheus magazine, GarySwitch@aol.com

I forgot I’d written this erotic escapade as an homage to a painter from my past.

I looked up the flight of wooden steps and began my climb. The studio was on the third floor. The building had certainly seen its better days, but it was clean and seemed in decent enough repair. I’d only posed for this artist once before, but I’ve modeled for painters, sculptors, video animators; my basic form is actually part of a video game, and the character’s sword swing is mine. I keep hearth and home together with a day job, but life modeling is what I do for fun and a slight profit. Let’s face it, you either have to be desperate for some cash or a complete exhibitionist to want to get naked for a room full of people and let them reproduce you. Plus, there is pay involved. It’s a little different with an individual artist. It’s my preference. There can be a bond that forms among the artist, model, and medium.

Anyway, it’s summer, sweltering hot, humid as the rain forest, and I’m about to melt. Finally, I’m at the top of the stairs, and Jim’s there to greet me. “Come on in,” he says as he waves me through the door. He’s got the air on. Wonderful. Last time I modeled for him, I was clothed. He needed me so he could put the finishing touches on some portrait he was painting. I had to wear a tux. At least it was winter then. “Take a moment to get comfortable,” he said while he fiddled with his easel. I took off my backpack and pulled out the paisley silk robe. I know it’s a little silly, but I don’t like to be naked when I model except when the artist is working. With my back to him, I took off my shirt, kicked my sandals off, pulled on the robe and dropped my shorts. “I’d like to do some charcoal drawings of you today before I start the painting next week,” he said. “Just pose however you’re comfortable. In fact, leave the robe on for a little bit.”

I took my place on the model’s stand and struck a pose. Okay, it’s not at all like fashion modeling. This is serious. You have certain traditional poses at your disposal for warm ups or classes. Typically for gesture drawing, you hold the pose for a short time, so you can be really creative. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, so I went with something I could hold if I had to. “Great. Can you face the window and drop your robe to about mid back? Please be comfortable. I want to take a little longer here.” No problem. Okay, there was a problem.

This guy’s cute. He’s about six feet tall, dark brown hair, brown eyes, a build that isn’t really muscular but could do a hard day’s labor if it needed to. He’s kind of swarthy, but then he’s really not. I always think of him as being from the ancient courts in Persia. It’s been a couple of weeks since I connected with someone else. I can imagine him pounding away at my ass. Before I get too out of control, he’s call in me back to reality. “Not too cold in here is it?” Fuck no, I’m on fire. I mumble that I’m okay. Damn, he probably thinks I’m a complete idiot.

Now it’s time to face him and toss the robe off. I do it casually like I’ve done it a thousand times before–which I have. He looked around at me and his eyes widened. I’m not bad to look at. I’m about five feet nine inches, a little skinny, but I’m working on bulking up with the help of creatine and my personal trainer–who’s also my best friend and unfortunately hopelessly straight. I’ve got red hair–with carpet matching the drapes. In truth, my dick’s not anything to talk about. It’s cut and quite average. “Very nice” he said almost forcefully. “I like the tattoo.” I almost forget about having the tattoo. It’s a dragon just above my navel; I always think of it dancing along my happy trail. A boyfriend who was really into tattoos took me in and had me inked as a birthday gift one year–his birthday not mine. His brown eyes met my blue ones, and we didn’t need to say anymore. His paint splotched t-shirt went flying across the room, his pants were around his ankles–then he stepped out of them. He turned to get something from the stand next to him. Ah, a cockring enameled with the black and blue bondage stripes and a red heart. He slipped it on with the same ease I’d slip a ring on my finger.

Our mouths met. He grabbed my ass and left charcoal prints of his hands there. I think it was intentional. I’ve had guys do odd stuff to my body before. Remember how I got the tattoo? Anyway, before I realized what was happening, Jim was kneeling before me–not to give me a blow job. He was making out with my tattoo. Once I got over my “what the fuck” moment, it was very pleasant–very enjoyable. His mouth followed the dragon’s trail to my dick. If he could drive me to near ecstacy with his mouth on my abs, what would it be like once he started on my cock? Damn! It was far different than anything anyone has ever done. His technique was quite indescribable.

I am not a person to wait patiently. I managed to get his attention and lay us down so I could get his dick in my mouth. Damn! It was the size of a cucumber. I greedily started out with a deep throat and went from there. The next thing I knew I was having one of the strongest orgasms I’ve ever had. I nearly passed out with his dick in my mouth. I let go to be able to breath and hopefully stay conscious. When I back in my body, I turned to look at Jim. I had to kiss him and lick that lingering drop of my cum from his mouth.

ii

“You distracted my work,” he said with a scowl. “You’ve got to be punished.” My hands we tied to his easel. The cold aluminum felt good against my hot flesh. The belt met my flesh, and I took a deep breath to keep from crying out. “And look at that. You’ve gotten charcoal dust on your ass.” Again the leather met with my ass. My dick was a solid rock, and I was aching for him to fuck me. He stood before me looking almost sad. “Think you can behave?” I nodded. He untied me. “I can’t work with this hard on. Can you take care of it for me?” I knelt before him and took him again in my mouth. His nuts were as big as billiard balls, and I did my best to get one into my mouth. “I appreciate your efforts,” he said as he tussled my hair. “It’s no use though. I’m going to have to fuck you.”

He was gentle with me know. He fingered and thumbed my hole then he licked it some more. He slid into me easily as though afraid he’d hurt me. “Just fuck me,” I begged. Then I realized this slow, deliberate action was another part of his mastery over me. I was willingly becoming his slave. I tightened my sphincter to keep him inside me. He pulled out and tossed the condom aside. He pulled me to him and held his dick over my tattoo. His hand reached for his dick, but I pushed them away. I jacked him off, the cum ran over the dragon. Together we worked it in like some sticky lotion.

Now I too have an enameled cockring with black and blue stripes, but where his has a heart in red, mine has a circle of chain. I am his as surely as if my bill of sale were complete and my deed filed at the courthouse. The bondage to him is mine, but he swears he’s bound to me. Maybe his story is the mirror of mine. He just happens to wield the leather that paints my canvas.

The Angel of Death.

The one who would take you to Hell and leave you standing in a pit of oil with the previous inhabitants clawing at you and gnawing at your flesh — because that was his job. If Death came for you, there was no getting away from him.

Possession: A Soul Mates Story
by: Jourdan Lane

However in this case, The Angel of Death is named Jonas, and he’s retired from the profession. He’s living with a succubus named Katerina. He’s a tattoo artist — who wants to use sterile needles on immortals. All very well and good. The question the other afternoon was about an accomplished and apprenticed partner embedding ink. But what in this case? What about an Angel of Death? Of course in Houston (where the novella is set) there are vampires, lycans, angels, and a multitude of “creatures of the Night.”

So, Jack’s thoughts? Well, if his portfolio is good, it’s a resounding yes. After all, I like tattoos best when they have good stories behind them. I am also in the market for that tribal wolf tattoo on my left calf, so it sounds like a win – win situation to me.

Possession: A Soul Mates Story  is published in Spiked and available from Torquere Press (www.torquerebooks.com).

Trefnepunk stood idly toying with the bar mop as he watched the rain give way to mist and finally turn to a thick fog. Running his hand through his blond hair, he checked the clock for the fourth time in as many minutes. He was the only person in the pub. Even the kitchen staff had left, but as bar manager he had to keep the doors open until last call – ninety minutes away. He yawned. Not given to the ennui most people would feel when alone in a bar on a rainy Tuesday night, he was restless. The blues drifting down from the speakers amplified his longing for company. To help pass the time he kept watch outside for some bit of life on the deserted street. A customer in for a quick pint on his way home would be a welcome diversion.

Finally the fog seemed to swirl, and something that looked like a person was coming toward the doors of Black Lake Island. Tref first thought it was fog shadows but then realized it was indeed a person. He turned toward the entrance in time to see the visitor enter. “Trefnepunk,” he shouted. “They told me you’d be here, but I wasn’t sure.” 

“Fabglitter!” As boys they’d been the best of friends – almost inseparable. When Tref was exiled, he had to leave Fab behind. He’d mourned the loss of their friendship for months and daily expected that Fab would show up. He’d all but given up hope. “You come into my bar on a night like this and think I’m just going to drop all my regular customers for you,” Tref said looking hurt.

“What customers,” Fabglitter said looking around. “I thought Make Believe ended when you were exiled.” He’d always hated Make Believe and thought that he’d be free of it now. That coupled with the fact that Tref didn’t seem happy to see him killed his good mood and overshadowed the joy at finally being in the Grownup World.

“When did you get here.” Tref said trying to hide his glee.

“He kicked me out last night, and I’m got here this morning. I’ve been at the Office of Repatriation all day. I got some money, identification, and some clothes that actually fit,” he said turning ‘round to show them off. “And they were happy to tell me where to find you. I came immediately,” he said quite solemnly as he lifted off the floor and came to a stop directly in front of Tref.

“Fab be careful of doing that. People here won’t understand.”

“You can still fly can’t you?”

“Of course,” Tref said as he lifted into the air, spun ‘round in a circle, and settled back down into place. “Faery dust doesn’t wash off the way regular dust does.”

“What’s that you’re wearing,” Fab asked.

“It’s called a kilt.”

“I like it. How do you get a kilt,” Fab queried.

“You buy it. Didn’t they tell you anything at all about the World?” Tref had completely forgotten his own na vete upon arriving.

“They gave me a book about what to expect. I haven’t had a chance to look it. There aren’t any pictures.”

“Can you still read, Fab?”
 
“Not well. He took the two books away when you left, and Make Believe reading isn’t very good practice.”

“I’ll help you…”

“What about your ‘regular customers,’” Fab countered still hurt and confused.

“You can be one of them. We’ll start now. Have a seat. I’ll fix you a nice drink. A nice gin and tonic is what you need.” Fab watched amazed as Tref made his drink. “Taste it. It might take some getting used to.”

“I like this,” Fab said gulping his drink. “Can I have more?”

“Not right away Fab. I don’t want you getting so drunk you pass out your first night here,” he said. “Seriously slow down. Have you eaten?”

“Not in a while. The last three meals were Make Believe. That ruddy bastard was probably off filling his stomach with real food while we dined on Make Believe Porridge and What Not Stew.”

“He always has been a fuck,” Tref agreed. “What’d you do to get tossed out?”

“Same as you,” he said sheepishly. Trefnepunk raised his eyebrows and laughed. “Well, it feels good.”

“There are things that feel a lot better,” Tref answered. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Not Make Believe?”

“As real as gin and tonic,” Tref said walking toward the kitchen. The staff had left him a plate of food in the oven to keep warm. “Fish and chips to keep the growls from your belly Fab. Here’s some vinegar for the chips, and I’ll get you another drink.” He would make this one barely stronger than a Make Believe one. He was serious about getting Fab home conscious. “Did you get a place to live?”

“No. Can I stay here?”

“This isn’t a place to live Fab. It’s a pub. You can stay with me if you’d like.”

“Just like before?”

“It will probably be better. He’s not there,” Tref said flatly. “Are there many others left?”

“Only three. Not many babies fall out of their prams anymore.”

“Gotten smarter I expect. I wonder what he’ll do when they…”

“I don’t want to think about it. It was bloody awful after you left. I swear I wanted to follow you but I couldn’t.”

“I know, and it took you four years to get out.”

“Is that a long time here,” Fab asked. “I still don’t really understand time. Nothing ever really changes there.” Tref picked up the empty plate and glass and took them to the kitchen. He grabbed his coat from the hook on his way back.

“It’s time to close down here and go home. Wait by the door, and I’ll turn off the lights.” Seconds later the doors were locked, and they were on their way home.

“Where do you live,” Fab asked.

“Second on the right and on til morning,” Tref said laughing. “I’ll race you.” They lifted off the ground and flew up above the city. “We can’t do this all the time, but tonight, I want to fly.” For what seemed like hours they played tag above the city. Finally, Tref was exhausted and suggested they go home. “Follow me, it’s close to the pub.” In fact it was across the street and two doors down on the right, so Tref had told an interesting variation on a simple truth.

Inside the flat, Tref kicked off his boots and peeled the sox from his feet. “It’s been a long day for me Fab,” he announced. “I’m going to take a shower…”

“What’s a shower,” Fab asked looking puzzled.

“It’s to get clean. It’s kind of like playing under the waterfalls, but it’s got hot water.”

“I want to take a shower,” Fab said with an excitement in his voice that made Tref smile.

“As soon as I’m done. Then I’ll fix us another gin drink before bed.”

“Like the ones at the pub?”

“I’ll do something different now. I’ve got better ingredients – the stuff to make things,” he clarified for Fab.

Tref stood on the mat and looked up from drying his beard to find an equally naked Fab looking at him with an air of awe. They’d seen each other naked hundreds of time, but now their bodies were adult. With the layer of muscle over his wiry frame, Tref could have posed as a discus thrower for a Greek sculptor. Fab by contrast was the kurios  – younger, sleeker, shaven, in need of experience. As if reading his friend’s thoughts, Tref brought his hands up behind Fab’s neck and pulled him down until their lips met. Their bodies moved closer, and Tref felt Fab’s response against his thigh as their lips parted and their tongue’s vied for dominance. Fab pulled away from the embrace. “You’ve done this before, Tref?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“Enough. Fab, does it bother you that there were others?”

“No. I like that.”

“Really,” Tref said with astonishment in his voice.

“One of us should know what to do.”

“I assure you, I’m nearly an expert in ‘what to do.’” He helped Fab step into the shower, showed him how to regulate the water, how to lather the soap. “Did you see me dry off,” Tref queried.

“Yes.”

“Do you think you can do that for yourself?” Fab nodded. “When you’re done, come into the kitchen. I’ll have your drink ready.”

“Is gin necessary,” Fab wondered aloud.

“No, but it’s nice to have.”

“I like gin,” Fab said with glee.

“I thought you would.”

Half an hour later Fab entered the kitchen. “I used a comb I found in the shower room. Is that alright.”

“Yes. It’s fine. Here’s your gin drink. I made it with honey and lime.”

“Lime…”

“You’ll like it I promise,” Tref answered. He watched as Fab tasted the drink.

“It’s better than the last,” he exclaimed. “I want…” Tref quieted him by placing his mouth over his friend’s. “That’s a thimble isn’t it?”

“He called it a thimble. It’s called a kiss here.”

“I don’t care what it’s called; I like it Tref,” he said looking at Tref with confusion on his face. “What are those?”

“On my arms, are tattoos,” Tref explained. “These are piercings,” he said pointing to his nipples. “You can touch them if you like.” Fab ran his hands across Tref’s shoulders and upper arms, then moved down to his pecs to feel the barbells through his nipples.

“Do they hurt?”

“To get, but not now,” I told him.

“I want some,” Fab declared taking a long drink of his gin drink.

“Maybe this weekend…”

“Not bloody Make Believe either,” Fab complained. “I’m tired of Make Believe.”

“Alright,” Tref said. “What’s all this about Make Believe?”

“Your bloody ‘regular customers.’”

“I do have regular customers. They just weren’t there tonight.”

“No one was.”

“Fab, I know that. I was there. Be nice. I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“You didn’t come back for me.”

“Because you can’t Fab. Once you live here you can’t go back there. You can fly as long as you keep in practice, but you can’t go back there. I tried it one time and was lost for three days. You didn’t come to me either Fab. I waited.”
     
“You waited for me?”

“Yes. Then tonight you show up, and…” his words were cut off my Fab grabbing him and giving him a thimble. It was full of hunger and passion that had been pent up in Fab for months. Tref had been able to express his lust and learn from masters of the concupiscent arts, but Fab trapped between boy and man had only known what he could discover on his own. Now the fruition of his desire came shooting out like a stream of champagne from a shaken bottle. Fab broke away filled with a satisfied guilt showing plainly on his face. Tref took a moment to regain his composure and his breath. “I guess you’re ready,” he said picking Fab up and carrying him to the bedroom. “I’ll teach you things you never even dreamed existed.”

The Sun came through the window and Fab untangled himself from Tref’s embrace. He’d learned many things last night, but he knew there was more Tref could teach him. “Wake up Tref,” he commanded petulantly.

“Fab,” Tref groaned with a smile and sat up to kiss Fab. “I’ll fix us breakfast in a minute,” he said placing a thimble on Fab’s lips. “Then we can go out and explore.”

All this happened ages ago, but Tref and Fab still explore everyday, and that’s what keeps us young.

leather-pride.png

Tony DeBlase is the creator of the Leather Pride Flag. It was presented on May 28, 1989 at International Mr. Leather in Chicago, Il. The meaning of the components are left to individual interpretation. While the flag is used extensively in the gay community, it is not a flag depicting gender preference. One thing to note is that in the World of Kink, homo and bi-sexuality are generally accepted.

I’m saying all of this because I think I need a change in my personal vocabulary. Maybe it’s time to come out again — like self-identifying as a Pagan Leather Bear was somehow shrouding me in mystery, and my penchant for OUUCH was something people didn’t quite understand. To be sure, I am seeking a permanent guy in my life, but I want a sub not a boyfriend. Is there a difference? To me there’s not. It’s a matter of nomenclature at best. But perhaps on the psychological level it does matter more than I’ve previously thought. It could be that I’ve been confusing myself by placing external, societal standards on boyfriend that keep me from finding the sub.

Essentially, nothing’s changed. I still want what I’ve always wanted. I’m just calling the Lily Prince by the right title now. And I’m certain that he’ll understand and fully appreciate the whip on my calf.

Pax.

joephilips6263sm.jpg 

Today began Freedom to Marry Week (http://www.freedomtomarry.org/) — an outgrowth of Freedom to Marry day (February 12). It may not be important to everyone, but to me and several of my Siblings of the Soul it’s an important time we come together to celebrate how far we’ve come instead of bemoaning how far there is yet to go. Yes, heterosexual couples are still allowed to get married in Las Vegas on a drunken whim and have it annulled three days later as, well, a drunken whim. We children of a less god, to borrow a phrase, are left “living in sin” in most parts of the country.

Both my religious and spiritual traditions will allow same sex marriage; I assume that the church to which I belong would have someone perform a same sex marriage ceremony as we have a banner about civil marriage on the front of the building. But it’s not the same. There 1100 rights and responsibilities given to the legally married that wouldn’t be given to us. My husband wouldn’t automatically be given say in my care, treatment, or burial method. I would not share in his Social Security benefits — at all. I work for a company that offers same sex domestic partner benefits, so he could sign up — but those benefits would be subject to taxes because he’s not legally my spouse, and he’s not entitled to use funds from my Health Savings Account. These are both IRS stipulations not from my employer. And should the Lily Prince be a military man, we can live in total secret, break it off, or he can leave the service — not winning choices in the least.

But we have come further than we were ten years ago. Marriage is recognized in Massachusetts. An appellate court in New York ruled that “valid out-of-state marriages of same-sex couples must be legally recognized in New York.” In New Jersey registered same sex partners are eligible for same sex domestic partner benefits regardless of where the employer is domiciled. Al Gore has championed the freedom to marry cause — gotta love liberal Southerners. These are all major wins.

I’m not some wide eyed, ingénue, Pollyanna by any means. We have far to go. If we never try, we’ll never get there. You know the platitudes about single steps and winning races. If we sit back bemoaning what we don’t have, we’ll only get more of the same. By celebrating our success, we energize ourselves to continue the push for equality — if not for ourselves, then for the generation coming after us. It’s important to be who we are, celebrate what we are, and work for equality for everyone. Civil Rights are to protect everyone, exclude no one, and ensure that if you’re sitting in the back of the bus, you chose that seat of your own accord.

Peace,