Oh closet, how I sometimes miss you

Being obviously lesbian is hard.  Tonight I went to a USC young alumni event and the night started off at the check in table, where the VERY gay man checking people in gave me That Look.  The "I'm judging you" look.  And so I smiled at him: defense mechanism #1.  He gave me a more extreme version of That Look.  It went downhill from there.

Have we discussed: The Bathroom?  For me, it's like: The Locker Room - that place you go because you have a vagina but where you try to keep your eyes to the floor so no one will give you That Other Look which means, "You are a disgusting pervert.  How dare you casually look at me."  USC is not exactly gay pride so I'm not sure what I was expecting but as soon as I came out of the stall conversation STOPPED.  STOPPED.  Like your period when you're pregnant.  Like a stick shift when you shift without putting the clutch in.  It was embarrassing.  I was peeing in the stall and all the girls were chatting about meaningless, trivial, drunk girl things and then I came out of the stall and started washing my hands and conversation STOPPED.

I returned to find Robert, who was casually chatting away to several straight girls and a few closeted gay men, and I entered the circle and smiled at each person and an aura of discomfort settled over the group.  They knew Robert was gay.  But when the lesbian got there everyone but Robert felt uncomfortable.

Why is that?  Why is a dyke less popular in a straight/straight acting crowd than a gay man?  Straight girls love gay men, gay men love gay men, some straight men are ok with gay men, and some lesbians love gay men.  How many people love or are even just ok with lesbians?

Lesbians are (usually) ok with lesbians...gay men are sometimes but usually not ok with lesbians...

That's it.  That's all I've got.  A gay man is sure to find a horde of straight women eager to be his friends.  He may encounter straight men eager to learn the secrets of manscaping and decorating their apartments. He may even meet lesbians who are happy to see him.  But a lesbian will never walk into a crowd of straight men eager to make her acquaintance.  A lesbian as dykey as myself will often make straight women uncomfortable, gay men confused, and straight men angry - because they will assume she's a man hater.

I used to be "straight" and I (think) hot and no one ever treated me like this.  I was much more insecure and bitchy when I was straight but no one ever treated me like they treat me now that it's obvious that I'm a lesbian.

I'm trying to be a different person now that I'm gay; I'm trying to be more genuine and comfortable with myself.  I'm trying to accept other people as they are and be less insecure.  I smile genuinely and I listen when people talk and I try to approach each person I meet as an individual with value regardless of what they look like or what my first impression of them is.  But sometimes I feel like none of that makes any difference to some people.  I am so tired of being treated like a man hater/desperate pervert/dyke.

My closet felt wrong but in some ways it was so much easier to live in.  

Things I Do on Company Time, Part I

1. Poop while reading the news on my phone - approx 45 min per day, + or - an hour
2. Look up and print out google maps directions - approx 3 hours per month
3. Compose and send emails to Johnathan - approx 5 hours per week
4. Masturbate - approx 30 minutes every 2 weeks

Hear ye, hear ye

To all my four followers, and perhaps that person who randomly stumbles upon this blog, I would like to announce that I am deleting my blog's link to my facebook page.  What this means is that no one, save you four + or -, will be able to spread the gospel of the GLORY of spankyme@blogspot.com.

I have chosen to remove my blog from facebook because I hate restrictions and I would really like to write about things that could possibly get me fired.

Therefore, it is your responsibility to spread the gospel of my blog to all corners of your acquaintance or to no one, whichever you prefer.

Thank you.
--The Now Mysteriously Anonymous Author of Spanky Me

We're here, we're queer, but not at the doctor's office

The last woman to stare with rapt attention into the cavernous depths of my vagina was, unfortunately, my gynecologist.  I'd never been to see this gynecologist before, and I was anxious to make a good impression.

There is something about visiting the gynecologist that is intrinsically awkward, but I hazard a guess that being a (rather perverted) lesbian increases the awkwardness of a pap smear exponentially.

Like my first (and so far only) experience getting waxed DOWN THERE (where the cute girl doing the waxing politely requested that I remove my pants, turn my face to the wall and get down on my hands and knees so she could apply hot wax to my asshole) my most recent trip to the gynecologist had rather confusing personal undertones.

My gynecologist--a young, attractive black woman--strutted merrily into the examination room in 4 inch stilettos and a mini skirt and shook my hand with genuine enthusiasm.

"Oh no," said my brain.

Five minutes later I found that I was actually enjoying myself.  Wanda (I honestly cannot remember her real name, thus assuring her anonymity) was both personable and professional.  As she massaged my breasts, peered inquisitively at my nether regions and stuck several fingers inside me Wanda and I chatted pleasantly about where we were from, how many children she had, and what school we'd gotten our degrees from.

And then it got awkward.

The problem with being a lesbian at the gynecologist, or in any doctor's examination room, is that you will inevitably be asked the seemingly innocuous question: "So what type of birth control are you using?"

My honest response is that I'm not using any type of birth control, at which point I watch my doctor struggle to resist smacking me around the face with pamphlets on STDs and unplanned pregnancies.  Wanda seemed equal to the task of resisting this urge, and simply asked me why.

"This is it," said my brain.  "Tell her it's because you're a lesbian and all these birth control questions will go away."

But for some reason I couldn't do it.  I couldn't tell Wanda I was a lesbian.  Perhaps if she'd been less attractive, or wearing clogs and scrubs like a normal doctor, I could have told her.  But my mouth wouldn't say the words.

I told her it was because I'd just gotten out of a relationship and I wasn't interested in having sex with anyone.  She laughed.

"Well I guess that's understandable but you never know when Mr. Right is going to come along.  How about I write you a prescription for the pill just in case he shows up?"

"Ok," I said.

I still have three months worth of birth control pills sitting in my bathroom, which I went and paid for because I felt like I deserved it.  I've thought about taking them, because my miserly Beck blood boils within me when I think about the money I've wasted, but honestly, what would be the point?  Unless I trip and fall directly onto an ejaculating penis I have an exactly 0% chance of becoming pregnant.  So the birth control sits there--a reminder that gay, proud and fabulous as I am--there are still some places I just can't come out.

Wanda was not the first doctor I've decided not to come out to.  When it comes time to decide, as it always seems to, if I should tell my doctor that I'm gay, I always struggle to carefully weigh my options.  In that instance I have to make a split-second judgment based on very little information: is this person homophobic, or not?  If I tell my doctor that I'm gay, will they treat me as they always have?  Will they listen carefully to my concerns, meet my eyes when they shake my hand, and answer my questions with real thoughtfulness and honesty?

In the world outside the doctor's office I could care less what other people think of me.  But inside the doctor's office I want the best service possible.  And so I'm scared to come out when it's time.  I know about the Hippocratic Oath, but people are people.

I think it's important for gay people to come out, whoever they are and wherever they live, because gay people become real people--and not some faceless, perverted enemy--each time someone a homophobe loves admits that they're gay.  A lesbian has no use for birth control pills, and I have no right to preach the gospel of living life openly when I can't even tell my doctor I'm gay.

Wanda dahling, sit down.  Your feet must be tired in those heels and besides, I have something to tell you.    

More lube please

My dog needs to have surgery.  Do you know how much that sucks?  It sucks $3,000 to $4,000 worth of being fucked in the ass that's how much it sucks.

I'm trying to convince my credit union to give me all that money.  Last time I asked for $250 and got approved in a day.  This time I have a feeling they're gonna sit and think about it.

I got my last loan from this guy named Matt, so I called and asked for him again and tried to work my straight girl voice magic like last time.  I'm not sure he fell for it.  Bankers love money more than sex.  I know this because I know Robert.

Robert owns Camp Robert Resort, Spa, Casino and Fertility Clinic.  One-stop shopping so to speak.  We were united in a passionate faux marriage for 8 months before he disowned our dog child and threw me out of the house.  He lives in Orange County which is kind of like what I imagine Mars would be like if it had a thriving economy and a caste system.

I used to drive a Daewoo in Orange County and people did not appreciate that.  Sometimes when I looked in my rearview mirror I could see their knuckles turning white as they gripped the steering wheel in righteous fury.

I always drove in the far right lane because I thought maybe that way they would know ahead of time I was going to be moving slowly, but in Orange County every lane is the FAST LANE.  I calculate that I have been personally responsible for 162 rage-induced heart attacks in Orange County alone.

Now I live near downtown LA in a tiny little studio apartment with a stained carpet.  I fucking love it.  No one here goes to the grocery store in 5" stilettos and a new boob job.  Most of the people I pass on the street have way LESS money than me.  People get that I'm a lesbian and they usually feel some type of way about it but I always know exactly what type of way that is.

Of course, I also work at SC, which means that whenever I'm feeling nostalgic I can take a short walk across campus through the haze of expensive perfume and judgment.  Fight on.

Don't get me wrong, I love USC almost as much as my dog who I spoon every night.  SC fucking rocks.   They gave me an almost free education and a job with nice benefits.  Every summer they give me toned girls in skirts riding bikes into the wind.

And hopefully, they're gonna give me a loan.

Why America is Great, Part I

It's President's Day and as USC was kind enough to pay me to exist someplace besides The Graduate School today I've had the time to post this lovely and accurate synopsis of American history so that you may all fully appreciate how awesome our country is while thinking fondly back on all the brilliant, visionary presidents we've enjoyed in our lifetime.

Source

Now that you're done having that extremely brief depressive episode let's get back to American history.

American history started in 1492 when Christopher Columbus sailed across the ocean blue and discovered an entire continent already covered with people.  He then claimed this land for another group of people living someplace else by sticking a flag in the ground.  I don’t remember if claiming an entire populated continent required a more elaborate ritual than flag planting but I do remember multiple drawings in historical texts depicting European explorers posing robustly, their respective colors flying proudly, while dark and swarthy natives minced reverently around them.

I can only assume that flag planting had at least some relevance to the process.
Source 

Once their flags were anchored safely in the savage ground of the Americas the European explorers (of whom there were multiple groups who planted flags in different geographical areas) spread out throughout the land pillaging and raping it.  Only the history books I and my fellow victims of the Sumner School District were provided with never said anything about pillage, rape, slavery or genocide until later when somebody pointed out that the history books had left some things out and the publishers were confronted with the daunting task of making American history palatable to a population not composed entirely of those who had come out on the winning side of the flag planting extravaganza. 

Source

But I digress. 

Following the raping and pillaging it looked like England had won the war for what is now known as the continental United States, Spain had been forced to settle for the beautiful (but unfortunately, also populated) Central and South America (except for Brazil, which went to Portugal), and other, less important countries (such as France and Holland, sometimes mysteriously referred to as the Netherlands) had slunk back to Europe chastised by their failure to conquer the world. 

At this point the wildcard, the American colonies, erupted messily all over the Western Hemisphere by declaring their Independence from England and then kicking England’s ass in an kickass war led by totally awesome guys who wrote down really progressive things and created Our Country, the United States of Fucking America. 

I don’t remember exactly what happened after that because at that point in my historical education I had reached puberty and stopped paying attention in class.

Boobs

Then the country had a big blow out when the southern colonies realized the tea sipping hippies up north were holding them back economically and decided to hightail it outta there.  At this point lots of people died and some more stuff happened and here we are today, the greatest country in the world because look at that, look at our history.  Our country valued democracy and respect for individual rights before anybody else even thought of that.  

Therefore, fellows lovers of America, because our founders had a good idea first, the United States of Fucking America is the most amazing nation on the planet, even if other countries have higher standards of living, less crime and sometimes elect female presidents.

And that is why America is great.  Happy President's Day.  

Silly Boys, Vaginas Are for Girls

There is a tiny man who lives in my head and is obsessed with boobs.  You may not have noticed this, but many women in our society wear low cut shirts, and some of them even wear pushup bras.

They do, I've seen them at it.

What this means is that there are very nice looking breasts walking around every day, practically in full view.  BUT...............Do not look at the breasts.

Try not to look at them.  Just try.

I KNOW!  It sounds crazy.  I thought so too when I first discovered I liked looking at breasts.  There they are, see?  They're so close you could touch them.  But don't even LOOK at them.

How am I and the little boob-loving man in my head not supposed to look at the boobs when they're right there?  We see them and the little man starts saying, "Don't look at her breasts, don't look at her breasts, don't look at her breasts" and suddenly looking at her breasts and maintaining the act of NOT looking becomes all I can think about and the next second she turns away or looks down I LOOK AT HER BREASTS and hope she didn't catch me when she turned back and I was still looking but I'm pretty sure she did and oh god now what?

Sometimes giving in to temptation helps because then once I've looked I feel like I can relax because I've verified that she does in fact have breasts and so now everything is fine.

Good thing she's a camera whore.

But sometimes that plan backfires when I discover that looking at her breasts has brought new meaning to my life and that I want to keep looking at them more than I want to keep living.  It's times like these that I find being a lesbian tiresome, because while men may be excused for occasionally becoming distracted by a woman's cleavage, most women are not super jazzed to catch a lesbo ogling their funbags.

Yes, sometimes being gay can be a drag but the many women who frantically scramble to haul their breasts away to a safer location when I enter the room are more than made up for by the occasional woman who is happy to take her boobs out and slap me in the face with them.  Thank you, sweet magical Jesus, for boobs and gay women.

Oh, and ass.

The end.

Thank you Jebus, Lord of Ganja

So I picked up a quad tonight.  I'm taking unprescribed medical ganja smoke, as JuelzyT so poetically refers to it.  I keep forgetting and rediscovering that weed treats my anxiety.  Chelsea said it was anxiety the other night, so I went home and looked it up and realized that she was right.  Son of a bitch.  Why didn't somebody say something sooner?

You can't tell someone something until they're ready to hear it.  My new hookup to the ganja ganj (again, ©JuelzyT) said that she was living in a glass closet back in the day.  Glass closet is right, except that my closet was more like a one-way window with rainbow light beams shooting out of the side I couldn't see.

Since my sophomore year of college every person who's come out to me has been relaying old news.  I've got the gaydar thing down to a science but it could never turn inward.  People would say things and my busy brain would go about picking the comment apart and proudly presenting me with a host of alternative explanations to choose from and call my own.

Speaking of homo stuff while also returning to the whole ganja smoke situation, Nena and I had the most awesome mini rave just now.  She sat between my legs while I listened to music and gave her a massage.  The sour diesel had me flying around and thinking I'd found the most important task in the world right then and life was pretty damn spiffy.

I have no patience for transitions or a cohesive story right now.

That is all.

Back in my Costco days

Back in my married, Orange County living days I used to do really adult things with my "husband"; like get high and go to Costco.  We would eat samples and Robert would return things that he had bought and grown tired of.

Most people return things only if they've bought the wrong size or if they've been given a present they'd rather not have.  Not Robert.  Robert keeps the receipts for everything and he knows exactly how long Costco's return policy is good for.

One day Robert told me we needed to go to Costco to return the table that was sitting outside on the back patio.

"Robert, you can't return that table, it's dirty.  They're going to know you've been using it."

Not to be dissuaded, Robert got a cloth and some soapy water and cleaned the table.

"Robert, you can't return that table, they're going to look at the receipt and say you've had it for too long."

Robert explained that Costco never questioned you when you brought something back to the store, as long as you had the receipt and brought it back within 6 months.

"Robert, you can't return that table, we burned a big hole through it with one of those candles."

This one gave Robert some few seconds of pause, before he flipped the table over, peeled off the sticker that had come with it, and slapped it over the hole.

"See," he said.  "This is why I always keep the original sticker."

That day we went to Costco, I let Robert stand in the return line on his own.

I drank my milk and all I got was fat.

My mom used to say, "Finish your milk so you can grow up to be fat and sassy!"  Us three kids tilted our glasses back and guzzled that shit.

I don't drink milk anymore because I aspire to be one of those little old ladies who wilt under the weight of their knit sweaters and break bones when the wind blows too hard.  Also cuz it makes me fat.

Milk is for baby cows.  Do you know how much fat they (probably) put in baby food?  Babies are nothing but fat.  They're like one big, wrinkled ball of fat except way less cool because they make lots of noise and wet themselves.

But I'm not a baby.  At least in the physical sense.  I don't need the delicious fat of mother's milk anymore, I need beans and rice and beer and shit.  I'm a grown woman and I'm tired of having that little extra on me that the boys seem to like so much.

I hate it.  I'll take a woman with a little on her but I don't want to be one.  Also I don't like boys.

The Graduate School

I work at The Graduate School, which is always capitalized, because it's Powerful.  I guess.  I've worked there since I was a freshman in college.  They finally gave me my own little office space where I can shut the door and hide from people and everything.

When I has hired to the new, improved, little office space job I moved to a department with far fewer people.  Only three in The Graduate School's building to be exact.  There are two other people in our department who are housed in a different building but that's it.

My boss and supervisor both used to be women but they left for greener pastures and I got stuck with two guys.  At first I was like, "These guys don't appreciate my feelings," but then I realized that they were guys and they just felt their feelings differently.  And THEN I remembered that I'm a big dyke and I totally get along better with guys anyway.

The other day I developed my boss's celebrity power couple name.  I like to imagine them as one powerful entity.  I've combined their two names and called them Markael.

The big boss, the one who works crazy hours and probably makes crazy money I call Markael the Mighty, while my supervisor, who works crazy hours as Markael the Mighty's personal slave, I call Markael the Tired.  (names subject to change as they grow more/less mighty/tired)

I like working at the same university I got my degree from because I can take walks on my lunch break and reminisce over fond memories while I take a tour of all the places on campus I've gotten high.

Here you go David

Across our bowls of Galen Center chili David the Vanpool Co-pilot fixed me with his best fatherly stare, "Do you really wanna be a writer?  Then you'd better start writing every day."  I hemmed and hawed about how this and that and that and the other thing but I knew he was right.  So here you go David.  Perhaps not quite what you had in mind, but I'd say this is a start.