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Delia and I have been together since 2002. We’ve wanted to get/be married for seven or eight of those years. But we also wanted to wait until we had money to have all of our family there, and for Delia to be able to have as much of the bridal experience as she might want.
Having that kind of wedding requires 1) money and 2) family to be knowledgeable and supportive enough to be able to celebrate with us instead of coming to our wedding with distracting and unpleasant amounts of confusion, discomfort and judgment. We still don’t have enough of 1 and 2 to be able to pull off and actually ENJOY that kind of an event, especially since Delia’s family lives halfway across the country and some even farther than that and they haven’t seen her since she transitioned (it requires some people a lot of time to get used to someone they knew their whole life and even raised themselves as a boy turning out to not be a boy).
There are things that mean way more to me than being “married”, or signify a lifetime commitment much more profoundly to me than a ceremony and/or “marriage”: owning and operating (a) business(es) together, as Delia and I have for over a decade, or buying a house and making a home with a person or persons (as I did with my ex).
Strangely enough, even though I felt very solid in Delia’s and my partnership, this weird thing started happening where I’d see my naked, ringless finger and suddenly panic that I’d lost my wedding ring. SUPER funny since wedding rings are another thing I was never into (until I got engaged the first time and suddenly had flocks of women looking at my hand like it was the most important thing EVER . . . it was weird, but some part of my brain must have caught that disease in a way). So yeah. I felt like something was missing . . . that I’d forgotten or misplaced something important.
We eventually realized we couldn’t wait for everything external to be perfect, and we wanted to get the same tax benefits as straight married people instead of paying extra the way unmarried people and those with state-recognized same-“sex” domestic partnerships or other as-yet-unaccepted arrangements have.
Basically, we had to get married while Delia still had an “M” on her drivers license so we can have all of the rights and benefits that were then (and in many cases are still) only provided to hetero spouses. We had to get married so Delia could proceed to change that letter on her drivers license to an “F” and hope to be treated by the police and others as the woman she is without closing the tax loophole on our queer marriage. So far in our country this has worked to grandfather in a modicum of straight benefits/privileges to people when one of them officially transitions after the marriage — it has gone unchallenged as far as I know.
It may not sound romantic, but paying thousands of extra dollars in federal taxes every year when you already have tens of thousands of dollars of debt isn’t super fucking romantic either. Neither is having people question your identity and think about your genitals whenever you have to show them your identification.
As you may have already guessed, I find true partnerships much more profound than symbolic romantic bonds and white veils and shit. I’ve been much more brainwashed by capitalism and dude-designated cultural ideals of success than I have romance and chick-designated cultural ideals, so for me being bonded by money, business and property are the REALLY meaningful and intense things. Of course, that’s really what marriage is about anyway, but most people have shrouded that in so much tulle and crying flower-girls that it’s not really egalitarian and the profit motive is all hidden in shame and diamond illusions.
WE GOT MARRIED A FEW YEARS AGO!!!
And it actually was really romantic! Stress-free, with a respected judge who gets it and a couple of our best friends: two women who’ve also been together for more than a decade and are also our wise and patient elders. Just the five of us, doing what was important for just the two of us, with only support and love around us.
It’s also pretty fucking cool and powerful to be at a wedding with only women present.
And with that, I magically stopped getting anxiety attacks about having lost my nonexistent wedding ring. Clearly I have bought into SOME “romantic” bride-magazine symbolism, for that relief to have happened (but without an actual ring on my finger or hers).
We kept it a secret for a long time, not telling even our supportive family members and friends, hoping the time and resources and progress would allow us to tell them with invitations to a party or other ceremony of some kind where they could celebrate with us and not feel left out or excluded. Hoping we could even have TWO ceremonies – a family-friendly one, and a debauched, decadent, porn-site wedding we could share and commemorate with you on our sites!
Eventually we started telling people. Because we want them to know. Because they love us and were worried wondering why (they thought) we HADN’T gotten married yet. Because some thought/think all the gay marriage horrors and hoopla are relevant and think whether we do or don’t depends on all of that and were asking tiring questions. Because most of us have been trained to think gender prescribes sexuality, so now that they see Delia as the woman she is, they assume SHE WILL NEED A MAN, and TRIXIE WILL NEED A MAN, because now THERE IS NO MAN (none of which are true or problematic in the ways they think).
We wanted to tell people because regardless of how we two people feel about our romance and marriage — whether we are or aren’t (in our hearts and minds and on paper), marriage really is a lot about how other people perceive us. Like gender, for better or worse, the present reality is that marriage (and the words “man” and “woman”) still have HUGE meaning to the majority of people in our communities, our country, our governments and even the world. And we want people to recognize as closely as they possibly can what we mean to each other. We are not just pals, we are not “just” / business partners or “girlfriends” (though it’s lamentable that the words “friends” and “girlfriends” don’t carry more weight and meaning and room for a range of possible commitments and ways of relating to each other).
I still love the word partner — always have, and it will continue to mean more to me *personally* than “spouse” — but I also want people we know and meet in the world to recognize what Delia and I have — what we mean to each other and how we relate to the world — is at least as big and real and ROMANTIC and legal and COMMITTED and purposeful as whatever they think of as marriage. Being “really” married and telling people so helps. And every time I tell people Delia is my wife it helps challenge and even break down some old, limiting paradigms. Plus, I like having a wife! And I still kind of subscribe to a lot of old BS myself so it makes me feel like a fucking KING being able to brag that SHE MARRIED ME!! She’s ****MINE****, mwahahahahaha!!! It’s a fucked-up thing for a feminist to feel, but it’s true. I feel successful and powerful because a rare and beautiful woman loves me and cooks for me and we belong to each other on paper. WHO WOULDN’T?
Another huge reason we started telling people we’re married (and want YOU to know that we’re married) is that we took our open relationship from mostly-theory to practice and, as you know, have been having sex and romantic friendships with other people in addition to each other. Since most people a) don’t think relationships between women are as important as relationships where women are bound to men, and b) don’t think relationships are real if they aren’t monogamous, letting people know we are married removes or at least challenges some of those diminishing assumptions.
Yes, we may fuck and/or date and/or love other people, but we are only married to each other. That is as important for us to know as it is for other people. It’s also a boundary that I really need to be able to retreat behind emotionally.
Delia is my home.
Last month I wandered into our backyard and got a surprise: these fragrant white roses we didn’t know were there, climbing high above a fence into sunshine and dripping down in a shady corner. I was so excited to show them to Delia — to share their beauty and to triumph together (they would never have made that showing without her work taming the blackberry jungle in the yard and her work giving us money to pay for help doing that). This is not really our house and cabin and yard (we actually rent it from her ex-wife who owns it), but the “discovery” of these roses are one of those quiet, intense, beautiful reminders of what marriage and happiness and love and peace and safety and home and Delia mean to me:
She is the one I want to plant things with.
She is the one I want to be with every week, season and year to witness the trees and plants growing and changing over the years.
She is the one I want to find new things with.
She is the one I want to work with in a garden.
I can’t imagine a home without her.
I can’t imagine the joy of a frog or an owl hooting in the middle of the night or being surprised that I love some magically-appearing roses this much or the smell of damp wormy soil without wanting to immediately share those joys with her.
She is the one I want to hear saying, “COME LOOK AT THIS, HONEY!” and be the one I say it to for the rest of my life. Even if it’s some music video on youtube I totally don’t want to watch and vice versa. Know what I mean?
That’s not all of the stuff, but it’s a glimmer. We’ve been meaning to announce this for a long time . . . it’s kind of like a post-dated soft-launch or something. Need to reword a lot of stuff on our site tours still, but now you know! And just as I posted this she came out to the cabin and said “you should see the moon out here . . . it’s pretty cool.” 😀
I was slapped on each side beforehand and sent home without a sucker.
Look how long my hair is getting!
Still . . . not nearly long enough to be fetish-length. And because of Lightning Allie I’ve been thinking a lot and learning about different (head) hair-related fetishes.
I have never done any long-hair fetish stuff because it’s never been THAT long, it’s chemically processed, and it seems like the hair fetish people like really shiny medium brown and brunette hair. I have always found shampoo scenes hot, though, and love the variety of ways to approach hair cuts and head shaving. Not to mention all of the ways gender is supposedly articulated by how and where and with what you cut and style your hair.
It has been awhile since I thought about a time my brother was threatened and eventually punished with a buzz cut. I think they outsourced it / had my grandpa do it to him. I remember him coming back home tear-stained. I don’t remember everything about it except that it was kind of horrible. And now, as with a lot of emotional memories, I have crossed-wires when I look back on it, so I can relate to the ways a haircut can be fetishized or a trigger stimulating a variety of responses.
I definitely have a barber shop “fetish”. As a child, I *loved* going to the barber shop with my grandpa or my dad. It was the seventies . . . small town (I think there’s a scene in a second-season Twin Peaks episode or two where you can see the barber shop I’m talking about, or at least the space it inhabited).
Anyway, I loved being in that men-only space. LOVED the sound and swing and shine and elegant shape of the razor against the strop. OMFG I just googled “barber shop strop” and just SEEING this drawing turned me on:
When I walk by barber shops — REAL barber shops — in Vancouver, BC, in Portland, in Chicago — I just . . . I don’t know. I always have to stop or at least slow down and try to appear nonchalant while I try to soak up all of the sights inside. I want them. I want to be in them. I want to spy on them. I want to sneak into them at night. I want to dream about them. I want to play in them. I want to dress up. I want to have my neck shaved. I want to smell the combs coming out of the blue stuff. I want to look at the men’s shoes. I want to look UP at the men. I want to BE the men. I want to sit on their laps. I want to go in the back room. I want to adore the big chairs. I want the curtains to be pulled and the cocks to come out. I want to snap the suspenders. I want the strop.
I’m sad I’ve never had the budget and contacts to make barber shop porn. OH MY HOLY FUCKNESS IT IS WITH EXQUISITE LONGING THAT I THINK OF THESE THINGS.
Lady hair salons? Not so much. Do not do anything for me. Even when they look really cool. I get how they could be appealing to other people, but for me they could never hold a candle to a barber shop. Unless there was some CFNM going on, maybe some forced femme – DEFINITELY a gang of women toying with and degrading a beautiful young man. And I don’t mean me as a boi, either, because it hits way too close to the mark and I would start crying immediately.
Which reminds me of the time my mom made me get my brows waxed in junior high. These were the eighties. I didn’t even know such a thing as waxing EXISTED. Brooke Shields obtained Endless Love WITH THICK BROWS. Not that I ever got to watch that movie because my stepdad was always watching football and Chuck Norris movies and Death Wish on our tiny tv set. And pretending he’d never seen it/all of them before. And I would actually prefer to watch any Charles Bronson movie rather than Endless Love, but I digress.
My mom halfway thought she was treating me to something special and the other half was just really wrong; if she had all of the information back then I could give her today, I kind of hope she would be mortified that she did that, even if she thought she was doing me a social favor by feminizing me.
I wouldn’t call the experience devastating, but it was fundamentally fucked-up and torture for me. Not because waxing hurts, but because it was humiliating and she made me do it even though I (think I remember I) vehemently protested / said I didn’t want to, and I felt miserable, powerless, self-conscious, and degraded knowing I would get in trouble if I wasn’t nice to the salon lady while they both talked down to me and made me feel worse.
I wonder if that’s why I have loved getting my brows waxed as an adult, to the point where it’s erotic. I wonder why I never put those two things together until now.
Actually, I don’t think the forced wax has anything to do with what I enjoy about being waxed now. Or not very much. Hmmm . . .
Note: I am not judging any parent who takes a kid WHO WANTS TO GO to the salon FOR SERVICES THEY WANT. I mostly don’t give a fuck if someone spray tans or waxes or makes up their kids if their kids desire such things. And I’m sorry if my mom is reading this and feels bad about something she can’t do anything about now. I’m not trying to make anybody feel shitty, I’m just talking about part of something that happened as I perceived it, and part of what it meant to me. Which I’d actually like to talk about more (the make-up, body hair, fear of ugliness, etc. messages and how I received and/or rejected them and how I’ve dealt with them as an adult and a sex worker). I’m not a parent, and I wouldn’t be surprised, actually, if I were and wound up pressuring my teenager to do things that I thought would make them more attractive / be more socially accepted.
Oh, so are you wondering how that worked out? I actually don’t think any of my peers had a problem with my eyebrows (though their prominence may, in fact, have contributed to my general expression of dorkiness). For sure my social stock didn’t go through the roof the following week, though. But who knows? Maybe I just don’t remember all of the compliments and cheers I got.
Maybe I was too surly and resistant to acknowledge anything positive about the wax job. Maybe I was too socially moronic to leverage my less-hairy face into an immediate loss of virginity. Maybe if I’d have been told to SMILE! five billion and ONE times instead of just five billion, I’d have radiated a confidence that, paired with my newfound freedom from excessive facial hair, would have propelled me into a higher tier of popularity and dispelled any of my mom’s concerns that I might be a lesbian. Maybe I would have gotten “dates” and stopped wanting to read so many books about socially awkward teens trying to be more popular. And/or lose their virginity.
BUT PROBABLY NOT.
Maybe I don’t remember grudgingly thinking it actually wound up looking pretty nice (I doubt it, or I would have asked to have it done again instead of waiting to experience brow waxing again until I was over twenty to go along with a college friend who was doing it).
Maybe back then I actually really would have watched Endless Love than Death Wish. PROBABLY. Teen sex and stuff? For sure. Who am I kidding????
By the way, here’s one of my favorite songs from the eighties, including Brooke Shields’ eyebrows:
Maybe if I looked like Brooke Shields and my eyebrows were straight caterpillars instead of unruly Eddie Munster styled brows, things would have been different.
The Hunter said I could shave him. With a straight razor even. But then it never happened. So many ideas, so few willing exposed necks . . . .
At least that’s how *I* remember it.
Yesterday I was supposed to take it easy to keep the pukey migraine I got the night before at bay, and because it was supposed to be my second day off for the week. So I didn’t take any fresh nudie pics (hence these cozy samples from my latest members-only gallery). I also failed to actually take the day off, though.
Don’t get me wrong, I did manage to accomplish almost nothing of value, but instead of doing anything fun or relaxing or just closing my eyes on the pain in my head, I frittered hours and hours and hours away compulsively checking stats and stupid things on the internet. Oh, and I masturbated (quickly, very quickly!! Like that somehow excuses it instead of just indicating that I get so turned on by fucked-up shit that I orgasm super fast) to a pretty fucked-up/questionable video and worried about people finding out that I’m a disgusting human being.
The good news is I haven’t played any computerized solitaire games in a couple of months. Not on my phone, Kindle, or computer. I should spend more time sitting on the stoop sipping a hot mug of whatever flashing my panties.
The first couple days of fall I had some mixed feelings about the days getting shorter, but now I have that magic feeling of anticipating the coziness and enchantment of autumn, like the way the full moonlight looks shining down on & reflecting off of the glossy salal leaves around our place and all of the stories I might get to read and how much fun it is to clamber into bed with Delia knowing we have hours of darkness to dream inside. I just need more practice taking advantage of the time I take off to actually do things I want to do instead of being afraid to seize those moments mindfully, with complete freedom and ease.
It’s a grey afternoon, above and on my body. The vine maple behind me likes it:
I’m wearing my new cozy birthday-present sweats that stevi got me – thank you for picking out the most unglamorous thing on my wishlist that I really really needed!
These kinds of sweat-pants are part of my daily do-everything uniform and I think people in town will be glad I have a pair now that doesn’t include a hole in the crotch. Also: they’re super soft inside!
Note: I’m sorry that I haven’t made a blog entry and/or posted pics of everything people have gifted me – it’s not something I promise to do, but it IS something I *like* to do.
If I haven’t gotten around to you or one/some of the things you’ve lavished me with, it’s not because I don’t appreciate it or you. It’s also not because I tackle them in a prioritized/ranked list of who sent the bestest or most expensive present or is most-loved. It *is* often because I have grand (sometimes undoable) plans to take pictures and/or write something that will really do the goodies justice, and that takes time & resources I rarely have right away upon receipt. Sometimes it even depends on the weather. Example: Shrdlu bought me an awesome pair of coveralls – I love them BIG TIME. I love them SO MUCH I want any/all pictures I take wearing them to be super duper awesome, which requires the right place, the right time, and the right complimentary accoutrements. That’s kind of ridiculous, but that’s who I am. There are gifts that wound up in pictures in my members-only area many months and even YEARS after I received them. I think it’s been at least a year since I got the coveralls, and many other fine things.
I’m sorry to say that there are also many gifts people have sent me that I’ve loved very much and never acknowledged at all. But there are ZERO gifts I’ve gotten that didn’t touch me or make me feel special or that I just tossed to the side as though they were meaningless or without value (though if I were more “famous” and got more gifts, I can imagine it becoming that way). I’m sorry if you’ve sent me something and you wound up feeling that way; I know that is disappointing even if you weren’t asking for or expecting anything in return. It might not seem like it, but I do know what that feels like!
I often contemplate what the best “policy” is on gifts and how best to communicate it. I haven’t come up with a perfect solution, but it’s a part of life, sex work, modes of expression, and the human experience in general that I’m endlessly fascinated by. I don’t think there’s a perfect or guaranteed-emotionally-safe-and-rewarding-and-realistic-for-everybody approach to giving and receiving gifts. Even if there were, I think you’d have to make it your full-time job to perfectly execute it (and some people DO, and my hat goes off to them).
I know that it’s impolite/bad form to take over a year (or sometimes even YEARS) to thank somebody. I also know I didn’t even call my mom on Mother’s Day (or SINCE then, even) or get her anything so in that regard and with work in general (oh my god how outdated is SpyOnUs.com?!? etc. to infinity), I do have to prioritize and most things I want to or should do can’t possibly make it onto my TOP priority for each day list.
I also know that I’ve done my best (and will keep trying to do better) to not promise to do things or lead people to expect things I can’t deliver. And I cringe inside at things I *have* promised or led people to look forward to and didn’t/haven’t delivered. Not because I wasn’t/am not sincere, but because I am over-enthusiastic and unrealistic about how much time and brains and ability I do/don’t have (and how much time in a day/week needs to be devoted to life-and-sanity-maintenance endeavors), so some stuff gets squeezed out. If I forget something I said I wanted to do, it’s not because I didn’t/don’t want to do it, it’s because it got elbowed into the sidelines by a constantly-refreshing jumble of tons and tons of things I want to do. And that should be part of why you like me in the first place!!
One of my special traits is that I actually DO pull out and use the ideas and stuff and to-do’s I hoard. I maintain internal enthusiasm and love (and guilt and anxiety) for a fuck ton of stuff and people and concepts. I am pretty inaccessible and appear unresponsive and to not be making progress by normal social terms, but I have and continue to mine resources (both tangible and internal ones).
It’s hard to predict when they’ll materialize, but I press and poop out that mined stuff into little golden nuggets of variable value from time to time that would have been lost or not even processed by most people’s machines. Their wonderfully efficient, productive, reliable machines.
At the end of my life, I’d love to have a time-lapse movie depicting the conveyor belt at the end of my brain’s assembly line. There are huge spans of time where the belt just loops and loops and loops with no product being conveyed (and maybe you get glimpses of me and my crazed clones building and jamming up and scratching our heads looking at and feeding materials into and retooling all the other machines in the plant), but in totally unpredictable fashions, little things plop out. Made out of funny stuff where I’ve synthesized things other people don’t usually mix together. Usually for good reason, and the plops on the conveyor belt aren’t in a form that’s suitable for shipment.
IT’S HARD TO FIND THINGS IN MY WAREHOUSE but there’s a lot of variety in there. Not enough stock to meet demand when demand arises (also unpredictably), though (plus I forget to even go in there because I have MACHINES to attend to and INGREDIENTS to mix and sometimes I just stand there and look at all of the parts spinning or get sidetracked making minute adjustments). But I like to think that if I’m lucky enough to keep going, that some interesting stuff will plop out onto the conveyor belt at the end of my line. I totally like the movies where everything runs smoothly on the line and everything that plops out is perfect and uniformly made exactly to spec. But I think it would be fun to watch movies like mine, too. And actually in my movie if you put it all on the line, we’re plopping out some lumpy cookies and colored doohickies on a pretty regular basis, too. AND MY SHIT IS RUNNING ALL NIGHT, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK – there’s always someone in there working, something at least being tinkered with, some machines going.
I’m actually really really disappointed that I can’t see this movie of my life and other’s lives. I’m also kind of embarrassed wondering what this blog entry would look like on the line and if Quality Control would just roll her eyes, chuck it, and resume filing her nails and snapping her gum waiting for the next random gooey turd or stale fortuneless glitter-cookie to be transmitted via dull black rubber to her in a week or three months. I would totally run down there right now and tell her it was a mistake so sorry still fine tuning didn’t know she was down here “you should clock out and take a day off, honey” while I fished it out of the garbage with tongs and put it into a shoebox.
I also think if you were watching this/my assembly line movie you wouldn’t fuck with me or interfere with my machines or ask me silly questions like “when will it be done” or “how does it all work” when you could see with your own eyes that this shit is custom and complex. AND I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO HEAR YOU ANYWAY. And some of the machines are held together with rubber bands and shoelaces – if you distract me with some dumbass advice about how I could get it all to conform to normal factory standards, sharp pieces of metal are liable to hurtle out and shave off your face before I even got done saying, “are you fucking kidding me?!”.
That’s okay if you can’t answer with your face shaved off like that. It was a rhetorical question, anyway.