Linger

i wait for him to finish his shower, steam escaping into our bedroom like tropical mist, reminding me how cold it is. i am calm and breathing deeply. i feel self conscious in my jammie pants and sweat shirt, maybe i should change into lingerie. the water stops and large droplets fall from the faucet, announcing the end of his shower. several steps and he is there. using the towel to ruffle dry his short chop of hair, he dresses, even though i plan to undress him several minutes later.

throwing the heavy comforter aside, he cozies in beside me. kiss of lips, kisses on neck, sucking of breath, escaped sighs, touches of tongue; the dance has begun. clothes disappear and damp flesh presses to flesh. from foreplay to hard and fast. loving long, greedy and hard. i cry out and melt. he collapses. we linger.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/17/daily-prompt-linger/

Message in a Bacardi Bottle

i would have to think that if i was laying on the beach and a bottle washed up that the ONLY possible reason i was there would be working as a maid at some swanky resort in the tropics.  so basically, this scenario sucks ass.

i clean for a living, the disgusting crusty remains of dirty dishes, unspeakable toilets, endless pet hair, constant stuff everywhere, every day.  it’s like not leaving home. it’s like picking up everyone’s bath towels and putting the toilet paper ONTO the dispenser- about thirty times a week and it’s wiping ramen noodle spice packet dust and coffee residue from six or seven counters weekly.  countless shoes and pillows put in their correct places, endless crevices to be vacuumed, cobwebs galore, constantly and all week.  so, it might seem that moving all of this “fun” to someplace seaside or tropical might be nice.

pina coladai imagine, i’m there in my hawaiian print shirt and turquoise cotton work pants, wandering the beach side cabanas, cleaning up after honeymooners and spoiled people that don’t know how much i’d like to break one of the resorts hurricane glasses and shank them with it.  these lovey dovey couples don’t realize just HOW CLOSE they are to me bashing them in the head with the bar’s novelty coconut shells. they are making out and dropping drink umbrellas, cherry stems and condom wrappers all over the place for me to clean up.COCONUT

i can hear them giggling and grunting and groaning, not hidden by the bamboo “privacy screens” as i fold the seven thousandth bleached beach towel into yet another fucking swan.  i pick up trays of half eaten strawberries and pretend these jerks aren’t sucking each other’s faces like an octopus sucks mollusks from their shells.  i walk quiety by leathery brown tourists snapping their fingers for more champagne and fruit platters, squirting each other with cocoa butter and KY like NO ONE has to clean that crap up.  i replace the newly folded swan towel next to a dry-humping, drunk couple that are feeding each other chunks of pineapple, and the couple immediately picks up the towel to sop the runny juice from their faces, giggling, only to then drop it to the ground to  possibly later to use a rag for their “love juices.”  yuck.

the heat is getting to me as well as the squeals and ecstatic giggling, so i wander away from the cabanas and notice trash in the water.  i walk towards it expecting more condom wrappers or even the usual bikini bottom and realize that it’s just a bottle.  from as far away as i am, i can’t tell if it’s an empty bottle of lube or booze; either way, as “Housekeeping”, it’s my damn job to pick up litter like i’m some golden garbageman in paradise.

Bacardi_Light_Rum_1_75_L_1_75Li make my way  through the honey colored sand, littered with bits of shells, ground up pieces of old hotel guests’ credit cards, and porsche glass, and stop to pick up the bottle, ready to chuck into the jewel encrusted trash bucket i’m carrying.

“what’s this, i ask to myself,  “a cliche’d message in a bottle?  who’da thunk?  how novel!”  i glance around nervously before i open the dirty old bacardi bottle, wondering what hotel protocol is for “lost beach articles.”   i chomp-pull out the crammed in cork with my teeth like a pirate, uncaring what people might say if they saw.  i pull out the rolled up note and park myself on a nearby lounge chair, figuring it will be some gag from one of the local kids.  as jaded as i am, i’m still excitedly curious and unroll the note, expecting a Target receipt, an expired Dunkin Donut coupon or at best, a menu from Polly’s Tropicano Pizza Hut.

i slowly read the note, and then read it again, this time, out loud, not believing the scrawly inky words that are in front of me.  it is a will.  “Last Will and Testament of Sir Bubbaloo DePaulo“, the island’s richest resident and he has written that he will bestow the entire island along with all of his riches and money to the finder of this note.  !!!!  i cannot believe it!!!  some luck for once! i dance through the sand, kicking up waves lapping my feet.  i am ecstatic!  i turn and head towards one of the vacationers that is yelling at me for more Rum Runners and dump the ice bucket right on his pretentious asshole head.

“FUCK THIS SHIT!  I’M RICH! and i am OUT OF HERE!”  i yell to his startled and sputtering wife, who just happens to be the color of a bucket of extra crispy KFC. i tear off my uniform, hideous turquoise scrub bottoms and all, leaving me in just my hole-y zebra print underpants and matching ill-fitting bra to run like hell back to the hotel.  i can’t believe my luck, my new fantastic life is about to begin!

“I OWN THIS FUCKING ISLAND, YOU DIPSHIT OVERPRIVELEDGED SNOTTY ASSHOLES!  so get the FUCK off my beach and get real jobs!”   laughing, i grab a pitcher of pina coladas off of serving tray and chug the whole damn thing!

i jubilantly run and run—- (A SPLASH!) a bucket of ice water is dumped onto my head, snapping me back to reality.

“Hey! Lady?  are you okay? ” someone asks.

i look around and see that i’m laying in the sand, probably drunk off the pitcher of pina coladas.  no matter, I’M RICH and drunk on the pina coladas from the ISLAND THAT I OWN, mother fuckers!!!!  a circle of people are gathered and staring at me as if i was a rabid animal and worried that i might strike again.

i look down and someone hands me a towel to cover up my nonsensical and unsexy zebra print under-garments.  i start to yell at everyone to get away from the new queen of the island when my boss wanders up, looking super pissed.

he starts yelling at me in his broken english “Mister Morales say you make fun of wife and dump ice on head. You are fired, yoong lady! get OUT!”

i pull myself up and start to yell at him about the newsflash he obviously missed, about me being the new SUPREME RULER of the island, when i reach up to touch a horrible swelling spot on my forehead.  looking down i notice a bacardi bottle, the note missing, just as a plate of crab claws, shrimp tails and lemon wedges rains down onto my head, courtesy of Ms. Bucket of KFC, Extra Crispy.  cocktail sauce oozes down the side of my face as my coworker explains to me that i suffered some sort of heatstroke and flipped out on Mr Morales and his fried chicken-colored wife, so he cracked me in the head with a bacardi bottle and i passed out.

soooooooooo apparently, i guess, it’s back to cleaning toilets in pittsburgh, no thanks to Sir Bubbaloo DePaulo, which may or may not be the name of my friend’s pomeranian and NOT the richest man on an island somewhere.

 http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/daily-prompt-water/

Time, Life and My Beautiful He

I let reality wake me this morning. with my head still on the pillow, crystallized white shimmers twinkled and flew by the window. warm face on a warmer pillow, i listened to the gentle resting breaths of the person beside me. so familiar was the face, so connected are our lives, so much in love with the human form next to me.

endlessly dripping toilet. the hum of the refrigerator. clicking heater. home sounds. tucking my feet under extra folds of crinkly cotton comforter, i listen to the scree-ing of branches scraping the frosted windows. outside winter was celebrating with another round of snow, ice and blasting shivering cold. i inhaled deeply, my nose not yet cleared from the dryness of a blowing furnace-warmed room, and placed a hand on the muscled flesh beside me. scattered freckles, dry, overworked hands, prickle stubbled face. bright white cotton tee shirt holding it all in, giving his shoulders, arm and back soft comfort.

my hair is constructed into its usual bun. my face is worn and weather beaten. dry. dry. everything is dry. parched lips, craving bubblegum or lemonade flavored lip balm. tired eyes. i am not the age of my body. too many pounds, muscles unused, neglectful habits, under appreciated flesh. overeager mind trapped in an ungainly, unworkable body. my eyes trying to answer the questions my brain seeks.

“why does he love me?”
“am i good enough?
“am i deserving?”
“how did i get so lucky?”

nine years. nine years of a combined life with this freckly person next to me. short hair, always short, the color of champagne after it has lost it’s bubble. lines of worry, denting his beautiful face, caused by money stress, job stress, responsibility stress, too-much-on-his-shoulders stress, it-has-to-get-better stress. i wonder if those weathered lines will disappear when the money worry is gone. will mother nature erase the damage? will she unfold the creases? will she show kindness on a weary face? does life apologize to those who have tried so hard to succeed? we never get the chance to go back, those that have suffered, those who wade through life’s shit; those among the others in the world that carve our paths through stone.

my mind goes through the TO DO list for today, turning pages as in a child’s flip book. and i glance over at him again, stealing just one more moment of his quiet beauty.

feelings

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/18/daily-prompt-people/

You Don’t Have To Go Home, But You Can’t Stay Here

I USED to have a reputation as a party girl. and this fatbitch here lived up to it. i was pretty proud of it in fact. you could lay out four shots of ANYTHING on the bar, and girlfriend here would drink it. again, i’m actually proud of it. i had my very own custom drink at a bar and even would get the old “NORM!”-from-cheers-type of yell when i would walk into certain places. it was a very nice ego boost and helped my morbidly obese self esteem a lot. alcoholic-ally speaking, i realize that’s not really a good thing. eh. *shrugs* i had the reputation of being the first person on the dance floor and was going strong until the house lights came on and the dj tried shooing everyone away with Closing Time by Semisonic. i was a diva and people enjoyed it. i was a plus sized goddess and i had lots of followers (none of which were chubby chasers, thank you very much). i had a reputation. but in a very very positive way. people looked to me for a fun night of dancing and partying. i was everyone’s cruise director; friday night would roll around and i’d get a dozen texts of “what’s going on for tonite?” i was fun. and everyone had fun when they were with me. there was no shame in that. i was an inspiration to fat girls. they saw me dressing the way i wanted to, i got hit on, picked up, always had people buying me drinks, i always had dates, got hookups- you name it. anything us fat girls envied the skinny girls for- i did. and people noticed. it was fantastic. i was a chubby girl hero for fucksake.

now before you go and think i was some boozy slutbag (which in actuality, i was) i was also a good mom. i truly was. not in a Jerry Springer- “I GOT SIX BABY DADDY TO MY KEEDS, BUT I’M STILL A GOOD MOM”-defense-type of way- i really was. i was a proud mom. a boozy partier- mom. go ahead and judge all you want. my former marriage was rough and admittedly i married too young. so i got my second chance. and i didn’t waste a second.   but for as much as people loved the party girl part of me- they also loved how much i cherished my son.  i had a reputation for being an awesome mother.  IN YOUR FACE, NAYSAYERS!  i did it all!  true story!

but that was back in my hayday. i’m pretty much the same person as i ever was- but not really. i’m still a good mom and i still can do four shots without thinking, but i don’t go home with different people anymore. i volunteer a lot and spend more time in my jammies than i used to, but i still enjoy life. i don’t feel as inspiring to anyone anymore, especially fat girls, but, i hope that a younger version of me is out there somewhere, dancing with strangers, having all of her drinks bought for her and living life for all it’s worth.

but beyond good mom and a very active member of the Pittsburgh GLBT community, i don’t have much of a reputation anymore and i’m okay with that. i’m involved in a lot of things and do as much as i can, whenever i can, but don’t really mind blending in with the scenery. i still manage to stand out as i will never fit all of the way in because i’m am an obnoxious loud mouth with a hearty laugh- and that’s okay with me. if that is what i am known for, i’m absolutely okay with that.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/17/daily-prompt-you/#comments

My Name is Theresa- And I’m a Realist

I realized something the other day when people were still throwing new year’s resolutions about, and i was steadfast in my resolution to not make any resolutions.  i was sitting quietly in the car as we drove around Atlantic City listening to Christmas music. we were trying to get the last of the holiday spirit before it disappeared into the chaos of another three hundred-and-some days.  i watched the blazing marquees blink and flash and i wondered what was in abandoned and broken down buildings.  i watched the groups of casino-goers scuttle about and i saw lonely people trudging home from their late night jobs.  i felt so small, like you do when you are disconnected from rushing crowds and noisy happenings.  i wondered, as you do, what those people were celebrating, and felt lonely for not being a part of their fun.  i was quiet and introspective, like you are when you miss your friends and wondering if they were  missing you too.

there was talk about what we would do if we were to inherit a lot of money.  my boyfriend and i were dreaming of owning a campground or a bed and breakfast, and building the house of our dreams and traveling.  realistically unrealistic, but with the right circumstances, possibly attainable miles and miles in the future.  we talked about the past, and things he used to do in his old neighborhood, and like i do, i listened, wondering what my childhood would have been like if i was in his shoes.  talk of ‘the way it used to be’ was brief, if only because it’s just talk, and there’s no potential in dwelling on the past, so the conversation went back to buying a boat and a camper, specific kinds of dogs, special vacations, all excited with possibility.  my life being what it is, however, full of so much missed opportunity, so much disappointment, i didn’t give myself the chance to get filled with dreams. or even hope.  i’m a realist.  and we realists no better.  we live in the now.  we only allow ourselves realistic thoughts.  we don’t dream or make WISH BOOKS or say things like “someday i’d like to…”.  we just can’t.  we can talk about the future in the short term, on practical attainable goals like- “in six months after we pay off our credit cards-…”, or “after i lose ten pounds, i’d like to-…”, or “next week after i finish work for the week-…”.  attainable. practical. realistic.  i am a realist after all.

i wasted a lot of my life wondering about the ‘what if’s’, and crying over my problematic past.  neglectful parents, correctable mistakes, broken promises.  these are things i know. but these are also things that i can no longer do anything about.  they are done. they are in the past. they are the past.  thankfully.

the future?  i want to believe, and dream and hope and wish.  but i can’t allow that.  i don’t want to say, “after i lose 100 pounds i’ll buy that bikini to wear on our caribbean cruise”– there is just SO MUCH WRONG with that.  it’s almost laughable.  i won’t say things like, “i would like to go back to school if-…” because, well, i just won’t.

i can however, let myself say, “after my car is paid off next summer, i’ll feel more relaxed” and “by next year, our credit cards will be paid off, and we’ll finally be able to breathe a little easier”.  these are things i can say.  these are things that will happen.  these are things that i know (*knocks on wood*, barring some unforeseen disaster- that is NEVER out of the possibility).  but MOSTLY, for the most part, BASICALLY, (probably) those are things i know.

now, having said all of that, i still WANT things to happen.  like, winning the lottery, or getting a huge burst of creative energy and also a miracle publisher and get my books onto shelves. or losing 25 pounds.  i can hope for a dream job for my boyfriend.  i can dream that my son will find his way through life easier than i did. but will i wait for it?  will i dream about these things?  will i allow myself the luxury of HOPING for them?  absolutely not.  i’m a realist.  and realists don’t do that.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/11/daily-prompt-forward/

Not So Much a Hero

Today i’m supposed to talk about a hero, eh?
well, i aint got one. nope. no way, no how. not wonder woman, not spiderman, not martha stewart or even any of the horrible disney princesses. i grew up with a mad crush on Michael Jackson and slept with a giant hard plastic King Kong bank—- does that count? i didn’t think so.

so. hero… hero… um. how about someone i admire?
because that’s an easy one. i admire my boyfriend. i admire his courage and strength. i admire his ability to ignore the assholes of the world. i admire him for having the guts to come out. my boyfriend, of nine years, came out to me this spring as male. let me back up and explain.

way back when, nearly a decade ago, i got a divorce and started what i liked to call, “guerrilla dating”.
being bisexual, i was happily dating both guys and girls, and one crazy night at a favorite club, i ran into the cutest person i can recall having met up until that point. very low-key, very casual, quite gender ambiguous and yes, quite drunk. i was hooked almost instantly. some heavy flirting and a bit of a ‘whirlwind romance’ later, we were in love and together ever since. that tale, however, is very long, and for another time.

through the nine years, i was labeled as ‘in a lesbian relationship’, and by default lumped into the ‘lesbian’ category, despite being bisexual and explaining constantly that one’s sexual identity or preference is NOT defined by their partner or relationship status. i held fast and true to my blatant bisexuality, all the while dispelling the myth that bisexuals are ‘greedy’, ‘confused’ and ‘cannot be monogamous’. i never cared about the gender of my partner. i just knew that i loved that person.

years and years after we met and fell in love, combined lives and built a home together, he bravely came out to me that he finally realized that he was a transgendered male, i.e., born with a female body, but inherently male. he risked me not accepting him, of me breaking up with him, of me not understanding or wanting to continue our life together; none of which happened, because i do accept him and want to continue our life together no matter what. and although i may not understand SPECIFICALLY what he is going through, i will support him every step of the way. so, since he came out to me and started his transition, things have been the same as ever; for me anyways. for him, unfortunately, coming out to me was just the beginning. next he had to tell our friends, which, although seemed easy, wasn’t. he still had to overcome the fear of being questioned, or not being taken seriously. everyone was supportive, however, and for them, as with me, it was all very easy-peasy. for my boyfriend, however, who hates any sort of attention, things weren’t as simple. he was having trouble fielding all of the questions and even responding to the overwhelming support, when he was still just feeling his way around this new step of his life. he had to learn to respond to his newly chosen name, and even remember to use the masculine pronoun when referring to himself. thirty-six years is a long time to just change something simple like your own name, especially when dealing with having to use your ‘birth name’ at work. there was so much stress from trying to decide how to come out at work, or even if he should, or even if he COULD and risk getting fired. it was so hard watching him struggle and be afraid of getting outed. he had to explain the situation to HR repeatedly, and unfortunately his company didn’t even know how to deal with the situation, which didn’t help ease his troubles. at every turn, there was a new scenario, a new situation to have to consider whether or not coming out as a trans-male was the best thing to do. he was under a microscope so often that i saw him crack occasionally, and those cracks lead to more stress. but he always managed to get his chin up and at least fake his way through it. he was so very brave then.

hardest of all, he had to eventually face his family and struggled with the whole situation for a long time. it is sadly a step in his journey that he will constantly have to revisit many more times to come, but at least, the initial conversations are over. i have always known my partner to be brave, but these things took the most courage of all. but even still, with what seemed the hardest part behind him, there were more steps, each more complicated, each another chance for exposure. he cannot hide, no matter how much he wants to. his whole life, he has always drawn attention, despite being quiet and withdrawn. every day he has to move forward, and every day is an introvert’s nightmare; stares and sideways glances; whispers of “is that a BOY or a GIRL?”, constant questions about whose credit card or license he has, and a never-ending stream of screwed up pronouns. waitresses usually seem to address him as ‘sir’ whereas blue collar workers call him ‘a lady’, and when people realize their mistake, it’s more exposure as they try to correct themselves, apologetically. and now, he has the added fear of the BATHROOM DILEMMA. he’s too boyish to use the ladies room, and men’s rooms aren’t usually fully equipped for his current ‘equipment’ and there’s always a fear of being called out, or openly questioned and embarrassed; not to mention the scariness of backwards people who don’t understand the world; people who can’t accept that how we are born isn’t always black and white, or male and female as the case may be.

even more, there’s always an underlying fear of what happened to Brandon Teena who was portrayed in the movie based on his true story in Boys Don’t Cry. i am admittedly nervous for my partner at times, a lot of times actually. there’s always the underlying fear of hate crimes. always. no matter how much i pretend, the fear still lingers, even if just in the cobwebbiest of corners. i want to protect him from everything- the stares, the snickers, the pronoun game, and hate crimes; mostly, i want him to be able to transition quickly, both with legality of paperwork and also physically with surgery. but the reality is, i am not always with him, i can’t always be there to be a buffer when he needs to use the bathroom at work, or when he needs to use his old driver’s license or credit card. i can’t always be there. and at these times, when i can’t be there for him, he has to put his bravest “i don’t give a fuck”- attitude forward, just to do things that we all take for granted. and he is brave. i love him for that. he may not be my ‘hero’, but i admire his courage to just be who he really is.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/10/daily-prompt-hero/

The Question Jar Pt. One

As much as i enjoy fantasy, writing about what fantastical mystical being i would be and what my special powers are is a tad cheesy- even for someone as cheddar-riffic as me. HOWEVER, i am trying to get into the habit of writing even if it’s not something that’s my usual flavor. i suppose that it can only help me grow as a writer- so—– i’m some sort of wizard or something. here i go-

Walking slowly on the sandy shore in the dead of winter, i watch the foamy gray water roll back and forth towards my feet and then back to the endless ocean. jagged remains of shell fragments stir as water fills them and swirls back out to sea. my mind is as calm and empty as the beach is, now that summer is long gone. a wintry gale adds to the color in my cheeks and it encourages me to continue walking done the shore line. i walk, as all beach wanderers do, slowly, purposefully, and staring down, scanning the sand for perfect shells. my boots scrum across the thick wet sand, leaving footprints that will be erased only seconds after. looking up i see the glitz of Atlantic City in the skyline and wonder how many steps in the wet sand i would have to take to meet up with the towering buildings.

like a child, i stop and let my feet get sucked down into the thick sandy muck, becoming frozen, becoming part of the beach to stay forever, and i feel something heavy drag across the toe of my boot. i look down and see a glass jar. my heart stops a beat when i see silver shimmer glittering inside. i bend down and pick it up and work the lid off. peering back inside, there now appears to be nothing in it at all, and i resist the urge to hurtle it away into the ocean, deciding instead to carry it off to a trash can.

the second before i replace the lid, i hear a tinkling and a puff of glitter is released into the brisk morning air. crystals rapidly form in the jar and a thin line of diamonds fall onto the beach, disappearing as they touch the sand. it doesn’t take long before i realize the jar is full of magic of some kind and i quickly unstick my boots and walk away towards home. as i walk, i look at the newly forming crystals and wonder all of the wonder-able things about this jar, particularly why it had come to me.

almost instantly the answer came to me- i had been wishing for some hope only moments before allowing myself to get sucked into the wet sand. i was in despair. my life was not going as i had planned, certainly not in the way i wanted, and i was feeling lost and desperate. i was wishing to be drawn into the earth, wanting my soul to become a crashing white wave. all of my negativity was swirling around my ankles just moments before, but somehow, the toxicity was diminishing. why now? why after so long of constant sadness and life beating me down was it disappearing? another tinkling and my mind brightened as if by magic and i looked down at the jar. diamonds were still trickling out and down onto the sand. i tried to cup them in my hand, but like liquid silver, it rolled right off. was this jar the answer? was this simple glass jar enchanted? more crystals, and more glittering diamonds skittered down, melting into the sand. yes, it had to be. but why? what did it do? what does it mean? why me? the tiny crystals seemed to be bubbling, foaming, popping, as if excited to answer my questions. it finally occurred to me that this jar was giving me answers to my questions. my brain exploded with joy and a thousand more questions. i turned and hurried myself off of the beach, thrilled at the promise of my new treasure.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/01/daily-prompt-do-you-believe-in-magic/