A tantalizing selection from the pages of issue 7...
By Cheryl B.
In my dream, I am at a party in the apartment I have recently moved from, where I lived for seven years.
I drink from a glass of blue juice and wander around the crowded room. I recognize all the furniture. It’s my furniture, stuff I was sure I had taken with me when I moved but it was still there and in the same configuration
A woman is sitting on the arm of my big velvet chair, I’ve never seen her before but somehow I know who she is. Her name is Kathy and she had dated my ex-boyfriend, she gave him a blow-job while he was driving up a winding road in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He had told me it was the best blow job ever but that he never called her again, he had issues.
I turn my head and there is Dan, a guy I’ve never met but I know that he gave my ex-girlfriend crabs during a Grateful Dead Show in the late 1980’s. I remember her talking about his thick beard - she was positive that was where the crabs came from.
Down the hall stands Bella, I’ve never laid eyes on her, but she is a bit of a legend in my mind having slept with not one, not two, but five former lovers, both male and female, she had a heart shaped birthmark on her outer thigh and she liked a good spanking.
There is Joe with the carrot fetish and Mimi who had a hard-on for hickeys, every time I turn my head, the crowd seems to grow larger until the place is just filled with people who wear their sexual histories like medical charts around their necks.
I knew all of their kinky secrets and their naughty desires. You know that saying, “when you sleep with someone, you sleep with all the people that they’ve slept with…” Well, here they were, former sexual partners of former sexual partners having a party in my old apartment.
It was as if all the stories I’d heard about past loves and conquests in the wee hours of the night, snuggled against a girlfriend/boyfriend/best friend/one night stand/somebody had come alive and here were their flesh and bone explanations
Someone shouts over the music blasting from my computer speakers, “Hey there’s an orgy going on in Cheryl’s old bedroom!”
This, I had to see.
I made my way through the throngs of people, pushing aside Kevin who liked to wear bunny ears and Julie with no gag reflex.
When I reach my former threshold I see a mass of naked bodies on my bed, writhing together like a bad performance art piece. Is that all there is? Is this what it’s all about? Is it really all just friction?
Suddenly, I am gasping for breath in my new apartment, dropped onto my bed from another planet.
My cat stares at me as if she’d been watching the whole time. I reach out to pet her and she runs away, off to play in one of the many boxes that sit open yet unpacked around my room.
by Ruth Anthony-Gardner
It’s no good, telling straight and gay friends that you’re not just in transition. They discount wordy objections like, “You’re making a monosexist assumption. It’s really possible to love both men and women.”
It’s time for words to embrace our anger. “Monosexual presumption” and “monosexist mindset” echo of “I’m smarter than you are.” Let’s shorten it to “monomind.” Not for namecalling, but to put down the attitude. As in, “You think bi’s are flippers? That’s so monomind!”
The word sounds like a prejudice. It focuses on how that person thinks rather than which gender she chooses. By labeling her attitude with a put down we challenge her. We need to put others on the defensive to crack that smug certainty that we couldn’t possibly exist.We’re the norm, those who can love all. Let’s face it. Monosexuals are often monosexists. When they act that way, they make themselves into “the Other,” the prejudiced. The capacity to love is our human center. They have to start by recognizing the fear and hatred embedded in their denial that we’re possible. We have an obligation to educate them with our anger. Try out “Monomind”, and share your story in The Fence.
How Not To Get A Woman
By Kythryne Aisling
Dear Random Woman Who Called The Office Again Today:
No, I still do not know how you can "get a woman." In fact, I'm beginning to suspect that you're enough of a chauvanistic pig that the only way you'll be able to get a woman is if you pay for one. And even then, your chances are likely pretty slim, because most of the sexworkers I know have a rather finely honed ability to tell when someone will be entirely more trouble than they'll tolerate for $200 an hour.
Here's a little hint for you, since you seem to have somehow managed to dodge the cluestick until now: women are not sex objects, nor are they merchandise. And it's pretty widely known that if you want to get into a woman's pants, you'll have the best luck if you start out by trying to get into her head.
Forgive me if I seem a bit reluctant to divulge the directions to Sappho Avenue, but you see, I've had more than a few encounters with women like you before, and frankly, the queer community isn't going to welcome you with open arms. Or open legs.
You see, there's a reason I'm reluctant to claim the label of bisexual, and it's not the oh-so-politically-correct "bisexual implies that there are only two genders" excuse that I usually offer up when someone asks why I scribble in "queer" on any forms that inquire as to who I'll do. The real reason is that I'm tired of having people hear "bisexual" and immediately translate that into "skanky ho who'll fuck anything that holds still long enough." I may be a slut, but I'm a choosy slut with high standards and a strong sense of ethics.
I'm also tired of being hit on by "bi-curious" women who want to venture into the Big Scary World Of Pussy Licking, but only if it's accompanied by the restriction of (pick one from Column A and one from Column B) My Husband Won't Find Out or Can My Boyfriend Watch? and I Only Like Skinny Femme Women With Long Nails or None Of That Kinky Shit, without stopping to think that perhaps there's a person attached to the genitalia who might not enjoy getting dumped when the aforementioned "bi-curious" woman decides that she really does prefer the cock after all.
Not to mention that I'm very tired of having to explain that yes, I am a bisexual polyamorous woman, but no, I won't fuck you unless you're already my friend, reasonably well acquainted with either latex or the doctors at the STD clinic, and willing to introduce me to your (check all that apply) husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/domestic partner/chewtoy/pimp/significant other not otherwise specified, and even then your chances are pretty damn slim because my dance card is already full and there's a waiting list just for dates and phone calls, thank you very much now go away.
And if you can't connect the dots between those three statements and my reluctance to help you on your quest to Get A Woman (But My Husband Can't Know About It), then you're even dumber than you sound over the phone and I'm going to have to trade the Nerf Cluestick in on a 2x4 Cluestick for the next round of Why I Wouldn't Help You Even If It Was In My Job Description, Which It's Most Decidedly Not.
Have a nice day.
The Very Unhelpful Woman At The GLBT Counseling Organization