mouth full of rocks

Yesterday K and I were bantering about something or other, housework I think, and she said “You just don’t appreciate what your boyfriend does around here!” (or something to that effect).

Now, I am fairly used to thinking of K as male, male-ish, I mean it’s kinda hard not to at this point. And in my own mind I use a fuzzy mix of pronouns and descriptors. But this is the first time I have heard K use such a word in self-reference out loud.

[Cut to thought: why is the word “boyfriend” so much more powerful than any of the sex-related gendered words we use (e.g., “his big cock,” etc? Why does it feel so much more socially significant?]

Anyways, I would love to say that I didn’t skip a beat and carried on like I didn’t notice. But, dear readers, I am just not that smooth. I said sputtered something like, “Uh, what? Did? You just say?” and K repeated it slowly, breaking out in a blush. So I initiated Instinctual Minor Hug and Comfort Response Protocol #62 and it was, as I said, no big deal. But I’m sure I’ll fuck it up a few more times yet, as things change.

There’s nothing wrong with all of it but all I want is to do and say the right girlfriend things, help us through this with patience and grace. Please.

Protected: she’ll always leave you for gravity

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Protected: sweet notes

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

alteration, permutation, transformation

You’ll note the blog has a new address. No particular reason for this other than that I got tired of the old name, and wanted a new, easier-to-understand look. Which appears to be the theme of the week….

One result of my girlfriend’s fabulous new haircut is that other people read her as butch. We have always been recognizable as a couple, because I am girlier than most (though not as much as some, due to a lack of time in the morning), but I do not think K. has been particularly noticeable on her own. Perhaps because she is somewhat shy and used to have a habit of making herself invisible. Either way, this is all different now.

She comes home from her retail job ecstatic because, in her words, “a girl flirted with me! That’s never happened before!” I am fairly sure this cannot be true, but I will admit she is not a magnet for attraction. At least, she hasn’t been before. From now on, I’m thinking I might have competition—and that’s a surprisingly uncomfortable thought for me.

But for now the jealousy is an entirely different subject. I struggle on and off with a feeling that I have no community, and as she described the thrill she gets from being noticed by older women coming through her line, I couldn’t help but feel my heart sink a little. She says there’s something in the way they glance at her, some kind of connection, “that little spark of recognition, you know?” and I say, “not really,” but tell her that must be a good feeling and I’m happy for her.

K. seems to me a butterfly right now, some holometabolous creature emerging transformed in brilliant colors. I am slightly in awe, and held in expectation. I am eager to find out who she’ll be, to see her unfold and stretch out, privileged to be here as it happens–and hoping that some of this newness will rub off on me.

Protected: shower time

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

the sea was airtight

Five days without her, counting from now. The house and me, sleeping pets, silent plants. If we had TV I’d turn the news on just to hear someone talking. It’s entertaining, really, how much it upsets me–the memory of her hand on my shoulder, fingers brushing tears off my cheek, whispering be a good girl, now–how silly I am.

When we were still in college, we would go days and days without seeing each other. A date on the weekend, looking forward to the next. That was fine; I liked the space. That was being a real woman, an independent person– I was me and she was she and that’s how I wanted it. And now she’s been gone for three hours and already I can feel the silence invading my head.

You are driving your little sedan on the highway, singing to some bad rock station, swearing at the other drivers–you hate the ones who skip three lanes to get to the exit. You are going home to your family, your annoying teenage brother, that sister I’ve never met, your mother and your cats, and you will have a great time with them, and I will miss you and wait, I will miss you and wait until you come back.

I will lie in our bed and touch myself the way you would, imagine your fingers in my hair, the way you hold me still and tell me I belong to you. I will wake up with your scent on the pillows, soft and full, holding myself tight. I will miss you and wait, miss you and wait until you come back.


Cold, cold mornings. Seventeen degrees outside, no more than sixty inside, I pull myself out of bed like a marionette. Turn the shower up to steaming, run a comb through my hair (when did it get so long, I wonder, looking down at strands below my shoulders), waiting to wake up. Wake up. It’s awful getting up before dawn.

When I finally manage to drag myself out, in a towel, hair on top of my head, she’s standing there smiling at me. Like she’s got some smug secret. I’m confused. And then I see–she made me breakfast.

Aw. She doesn’t even have to work today.