Here hair, there hair, everywhere a hair hair

Photo by BotheredByBees

Just a quick note on hair.  I know I've written about this before but I can't help myself. But really it's about living with an adult adolescent. So remember adolescence? It's that thing that happened when your body became – you know, an adult body. Now imagine if you were living with someone who
was watching your body all the time. That must be what it's like to be A.  I mean it's totally different because watching an adolescent's body is kind of creepy, unless you happen to be a fellow adolescent.  anyhow I don't feel like going on today and frankly I'm not sure if anyone is still reading this blog but I  just wanted to say it's weird. I mean I wake up and look at his chin and there is new hair. And then I look at his chest and there's new hair. It's just bizarre to live with someone whose body is changing like it is. It's not bad. In fact most of it is good because you know – men have hair. It's just different.

Should I come out??

Photo by sonofabike via Flickr

I've been laying low on the blog a little bit. That's not because I'm not into blogging. But I sort of reached transition overload. You know? When people ask me, "Hey! Whachu been up to and my response is my partner's transition... " I know it's time to take a break. Besides, R. (now A.) is in a good place. He had his surgery, is sporting new muscles along with body hair (if T didn't make your voice change and add hair I'd be on it) and is generally happier. So it's kind of been my turn to you know, quietly freak out a little, not necessarily put on my I'm-supportive-no-matter-what-face and just be. Those of you who know me also know that I've had my own health issues. Without getting into it, I had a little scare that made me think: hmmm. I need to focus on my own bad self for awhile. So that's what's going on. And frankly, processing is tiring. Like it would be easier with scotch, except I'm not drinking now.

And notice I'm giving more details? (Yes, I'm fully aware that if someone for some reason wanted to ID me, they could).  I'm just about ready to come out and be public. And guess what? I'm thinking most people will be like, eh. Oh, that's cool but no biggie.
So should I come out? Does it matter?

That thing between your legs

As soon as I tell you that my partner's transitioning I know exactly what you're thinking: You are thinking Dick. You know --  Cock, penis, junk -- whatever you call the thing that dangles between most dudes legs. Because in the world we live in the thing that's the thing that separates men from women. Right? 

Photo by Mid-Century Pretty via of Flickr

And you want to ask, right? Sometimes you do. But guess what? It may be rude, but I don't really want to talk about it. It isn't my place. And really, I don't really want to talk to most people about their sexual organs. (There are some with whom I have had in-depth discussions but the operative word here is "most." 

I know that most dudes have penises and most women have vaginas. Right? And that's just fine. Do we really need to discuss it? 

It reminds me of the days long ago: there was a time when I would come out to people and they'd ask, hey, like how do you do it? What kind of sex do you have? Seriously. Now they don't. Because guess what? Being gay is ordinary. Boring, even. 

And as Chaz Bono and many others have said, it's about what's between your ears and not what's between your legs. Trust me, once you live with a trans person, you get this. R is a dude. Plain and simple. Maybe he's a special dude -- an FTM dude. But trust me. He thinks like a dude. He acts like a dude. He talks like a dude. And now he's starting to look like one too. 

Reflections on a bigot I loved

I wrote this for a class. But I thought it would be appropriate here since bigotry is obviously a major theme here. (It's only sort of fictional)

--

He misses the old days. You know the days. Fewer people. People knew each other, who watched out for each other. People knew people. They took care of each other. Life was simpler. Maybe not easier, but simpler.

Photo by canorus via Flickr

Not the way it’s becoming now. Where gays get are everywhere and women leave their children. And worse. Where people who were born men become women and women become men. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. Not the way God meant it to be.

He stares straight ahead, sitting on the couch, his belly big, his milky blue eyes staring at the TV. We were watching the news, me and grandpa. My special sweet grandpa who used to take me camping and throw me over his shoulders and carry me around like a sack of potatoes. I loved that game. I knew it was old. A sack of potatoes like he was back in Russia. I imagined him in peasant pants and knickers, selling potatoes, even if he never did. But it was my exotic projection. My grandfather with a smooth chest and a quick smile. My grandpa who I have known in my heart was born old with bristly gray hair. Because he seems perfect that way.

But now, he is sitting there, busting my illusion. He is just like those men on the TV. He’s just as bad, just as crazy. I like to forget this part of him. Because you can’t argue with it.

He knows I’m gay and said he didn’t care. But now he talks about the way gays are ruining the country and I feel a clenching in my belly. He looks at me. His eyes right on mine so intense I turn away. He’s almost spitting, he’s so mad.

“But I thought you were OK,” I want to say, “about me.” But I don't. Just stare straight ahead.