Strap-Less

Maybe I’m the only on this side of the fence but I kind of hate strap ons. Like in my head, in theory, I fucking love them. But in reality, in practice, in the time of fucking I kind of have some real beef. (no pun intended)

So as a male presenting person with a female body who has the sexy times with cis women a strap on would appear to be a god send. I was born without a dick poof here’s a dick (an expensive fucking dick) viola le sex can commence. But it never really happens like that. It’s more like:

Man I want to fuck you so badly right now.
Great I want to fuck you too.
Awesome where’s the strap.
Fuck idk it’s so dark.
Check the top drawer.
(slams head into dresser)
Ok found it.
Wait shit I really can’t see.
Is it on?
Uhm…yes. I think…wait yeah we’re good.
Lube?
Shit.
I’m so wet.
Let me just use my hands.

No this doesn’t happen every time but seriously 7/10 times that I’ve used one this has been the situation. And like I JUST WANNA FUCK.

Now as someone who thinks of themselves as (mostly) a dude. I do like the idea of having a dick. It’s nice. And sex is as much of a mental thing as a physical thing. So for me, mentally, having a strap on is really amazing. BUT I’m not naked. Because with straps come harnesses. So no matter what I’m going to feel like I am wearing something that isn’t a part of me.

I’m also really about touch. I like to be able to actually (truly) feel what I’m doing. Which as much as I am mentally about it the thought of being hard and being inside someone I do like you know TO FEEL IT.

I have friends who are on all sides of the gender spectrum and whose sexualities run the sexuality unicorn rainbow trail; they love straps. Lahve them. And whenever we get to talkin about sex I’m always intrigued to hear about why they love it so much. Everyone’s opinions differ but the consensus is always yesss please.

I want to so fucking badly be all about the strap. I want it to feel like an extension of me. It can in the moment, but I could also do without it when it comes to actual sex.

Is I a crazy queer?

The Lucky Ones

This piece is a compilation of many feelings. Of many thoughts. It is the pouring out of the things that have been going through my mind for the past 5 months while interning. They have all come to a head now that I have left my internship feeling no more connected or accomplished than I did when I started. The length of my internship had no limit or minimum. Other interns had been there for going on a year. Seeing no employment opportunities within. The company I worked for was lovely and our work atmosphere was amazing. But the underlying fact is we were working full work days without pay. In a city like New York it is almost impossible for 20 something’s to make ends meet with entry level jobs. Never mind no source of income. Does “experience” really override monetary payment? I worked at a pizza place in high school. I had no experience working in a restaurant. I quickly learned how to answer phones, make pasta dishes, top pizzas, and handle money. I also received a paycheck every week. I gained experience while earning. And to this day can still make pretty delicious Italian food. In 2013 only 37% of grads who worked unpaid internships received jobs from the companies they worked for. Who can afford to work for 6 months to a year for free? That question is mainly rhetorical as we all know the answer is: The Rich.

Many jobs now require intern experience as a prerequisite to being hired. Entry level which is what an intern used to be is now a notch above being an intern. Which means in many fields you should expect to work for free well after graduation without anyone thinking anything about it.

New York is a city that will test you in ways that you never even thought would come across. From judging the correct way to side step the person yelling at you on the subway, to dealing with a bug bed outbreak in your apartment. New Yorkers deal with shit daily that would break most people down. But we keep on grinding. You don’t move to New York by accident, you’re here for a purpose. To fulfill some dream no matter what it may be. The problem with dreams is that sometimes they are just that. We all imagined our lives going towards a certain trajectory. If we put the time in, networked with the right people, and worked our asses off we would get to where are parents always told us we could.

Right off the bat I will say there are some factors that immediately get in the way of my trajectory going as planned.
1. I chose to work in the arts and activism.
2. I’m black.
3. I’m transgender.
4. I think way too many people are full of shit.

Let’s attack each of these bullets.
The Arts and Activism/Non Profits
LOL
So you’re a musician, a writer, a designer, an actor, an artist, a…you catch my drift. This world was not made for you to make a shit ton of money. You’re a professional activist? Good fucking luck. No one is trying to pay you. You’re fighting battles because the government and mainstream don’t give enough of a fuck to. Which means you will forever not have enough funding and will be climbing what will feel like a metaphorical Mount Everest for the rest of your life. Some artists get lucky. Some musicians and actors go on to fame. And some writers find themselves in great positions. But those are the very small, fortunate, lucky few. Activists much like teachers will always fight the biggest fight and always make the least. That’s it.

Being black.
I mean I don’t even know how much of this I have to explain. More often than not when I talk to an older white person they look back at me and reply: Well aren’t you articulate? I’m surprised good for you.
I think that about sums up what my skin color attracts and pushes away.

I’m transgender.
Remember puberty? Remember how shitty that was? PUBERTY WAS THE WORST. Now let’s imagine shall we coming out of the closet, and also realizing that the gender you were born wasn’t the gender you wished to be. This happened for me around 20 and for the last 4 years I’ve ben trying to piece together who the hell I am and how I want to present to society. Which let me tell you, is super fun. I haven’t changed anything legally. My ID still has my very feminine birth name and says Female. I however present as a male. This causes daily anxiety and fear. Now the good thing about New York is that for the most part people are either too preoccupied with their own shit to care about yours or are extremely LGBTQ friendly. But that does not mean that a percentage of ignorant individuals and homophobes does not exist. And those motherfuckers, well they are motherfuckers.

When I apply for jobs online there is always a moment of hesitation before I send out my resume. If I land an interview how will I explain within the first few moments meeting that I am trans*? Will the interview than shift from my skill set to my gender? Will it kill my chances of getting a job altogether? And if I do get it, what will life in the office be like? How often will I have to correct pronouns? Or have awkward conversations?

Do not think for a second that I pity myself. I don’t. I pity neither being gay or being trans*. In fact I am thankful. I realize for instance that my climb in the nightlife world would not have been as easy as a straight person. Being gay often is horrible but if you tap into your community and win their support you will thrive. It is a lot easier to be a big fish in a little pond. Being gay and trans* in New York definitely makes you a big fish, but as a big fish you are also a bigger target.

The Shitty Ones.
The quicker you learn how many people are full of shit, the easier your life will be. This is not to say that there aren’t wonderful beautiful people out there. There are. Treasure them. But in a city of dreamers, in a city of people working towards fame, money, power, or all three you are bound to meet a lot of assholes. A lot of them who will use you and manipulate you as they see fit. Someone can use you and not be an asshole. Those are the trickiest kind. You know who are the trickiest users? Companies using your wide eyed dream having self as an unpaid intern.

First of all working and not being paid is only ok if you are doing charity work OR helping out a good friend or family member. Which even than has its limits. But working a full work day without payment is a crime.

Are you paying for my meals? Or commute? Or housing? Are there jobs open at your company for me at the end of my internship?

Would you date someone who brought absolutely nothing to the table but the promise of CONTACTS and EXPERIENCE? Look I won’t say that internships don’t provide some base of experience of course they fucking do, you are working a full motherfucking work day. Which you should be compensated for. Since when did experience overshadow payment? This isn’t an apprentice position. This is what used to be an entry level job position, that companies realized they could hire rich college or post college kids to do for FREE.

Note that I said rich. I also forgot white.

When I was a wee gay I had a huge problem with the word queer. It felt incredibly exclusive. It felt incredibly high and mighty. It felt incredibly white.

I now feel very similar thoughts to the word “intern”.

The kids who were using this word: queer. Were those whose parents were ok with them going to school for poetry and gender studies. They were white liberals with money who had the patience and time to let their kids find themselves. Which is great I guess; an amazing education is something that should not be snuffed at. But none the less these kids have always made my skin crawl a bit. These same kids who I would later in life be invited to parties with and see what I had thought all along the word queer did in some ways means white. Want to see a party with little to no black people? Advertise it as queer.

This is not to say that queer black spaces and queer black people do not exist. But it has taken some the for the word to spread past the halls of liberal arts colleges and lofts in Brooklyn.

How do I say this without – ah fuck it black people were slaves for long enough. Working in offices for white people for no money just hit very close to home for me. I realized that most of the people around me had parents that were still funneling money into their bank accounts. They could work 40 hours a week for free because some way or another they were being paid for it.

I also realize that I am in a different situation than most black people my parents are white (twist). Granted I did not have a fairy tale childhood, but my family are liberal open minded Jews. My entire life I have been told by black people that I was too white and by white people that I was the whitest black person they knew. You’ve heard the story before so I won’t preach it again. My point being that just like being trans and gay me being black with Jewish parents has lead me to opportunities that I do not think many other black people my age with similar life stories can say.

Black trans people go through hell. From their families. From society. From within the black community. Of all of the people you would see interning in an office in Manhattan a black trans person is probably dead last.

So I guess I’m lucky. Yes I am lucky, lucky in the sense that I am able to navigate through a very white world. I understand this. I understand that I will probably never meet another me working in an office. Because other “me’s” were never afforded the chance. I feel grateful while also feeling angry; feeling sad, feeling used, and being broke.

These are as I’m sure you can imagine a mess of feelings to be feeling while also starting the process of going on Testosterone.

New York is a whirlwind. No where else do people have roommates well into their 30’s. No where else is Happy Hour essentially mandatory at least twice a week. And totally excusable every night of the week. Drugs of all kinds are norms. Adderall to get more work done. Xanax and Ambien to calm the fuck down. Alcohol and cocaine because you either have way too much money and it’s making you sad or way to little and it’s making you sad. Marriage? Children? You didn’t move here to fall in love. This isn’t Paris. You came here to make it. There is something about New York that is beautiful. The amount that people hustle, the communities that flourish here that would not be allowed to exist anywhere else. The food, the entertainment, the breathtakingly beautiful people you see everyday. But New York wears you out. It’s like the rope swing in gym. It takes you years to get anywhere, and you often feel like you’re just dangling in the wind. Waiting for something either really good or absolutely horrible to happen. You get higher eventually, and closer to the top, but what the hell do you do when you get there? To the end of that rope? The ceiling. Are you now the master of your own life? Or have you just spent years climbing to meet a wall?

Fiction and Fairytales

I wanted to say I love you and goodbye at the same time.

The moonlight peaked in and hit her skin as I tried to numb my brain by slipping inside of her.

It wasn’t enough that she was beautiful, hell maybe it was too much. She spoke with confidence that my charm could not shake.

But she was letting me in. Telling me those things, that kept her awake at night. That made her fall behind at work. Daydreams of the past.

I listen with eager ears. And an open heart. I can’t help that I already love her. I can’t help that I will eventually leave her.

My own daydreams don’t leave my lips. My tongue will not allow it. And if anyone asks I tell them with a smile that we don’t need to talk about it.

When I’m alone. I let my hands connect with pencils and allow them to take over sheets of whatever is around.

Blank spaces that quickly become covered with memories.

The kind that I can now erase. At least I can on paper.

She is one of who knows how many. Lovers that I love but can’t hold on to. Maybe don’t want to.

My friends say that I’m just too preoccupied. They don’t realize that I’ve always been this way. I seem to do distracted the best.

Say don’t ever let me go. And I’ll tell you I won’t. And I mean that I won’t. But we won’t always have nights like these. Where we are so wrapped and entwined that your thoughts are blurred with mine.

You hair covers my face. My hands scan your body and I’m left wondering maybe I could not let you go.

But the intention was never to make this a contest. Love should not be about who can hold on the longest.

And because you leave or because I beat you to it doesn’t necessarily mean that we ever stopped the actual act the actual depth of love.

It means so many things. It means that we are human beings. It means that we didn’t want to turn into our parents.

God. We don’t want to turn into our parents.

So you can leave me.

Or we can try this thing out. Just please don’t slam doors and throw words of hate when this amazing meal has become overwhelming and your taste buds are sick of the taste.

I mean what I say. But there are many times where my mind doesn’t reach my mouth the way I want it to. I can’t tell you my daydreams because they can’t be translated into words.

I can’t tell you fully about my past because so much of it just seems like archived photographs.

And there are nights that I wish I could take a flame to and light. I’ll take the burn marks instead.

You don’t lose someone when they die. You lose yourself. Whatever way you had convinced yourself was up is now completely contrived.

Life is the ride that you never chose to get on to. But fight the longest to hold on to.

And that’s what I’m saying when I hold you. Your life lights up mine. And I hope mine does that for yours too.

But it’s life that I have no idea how to keep.

So I stay restless. And I sit down for meal after meal an indulge myself in whatever I can get my hands on to.

She told me she loved me. For years on end. But then life told her it was time to rest. So those in her life could become wrecks. What’s done and done.

And though you’re never actually alone. You can’t help but constantly feel that way.

If you were a sweater you would constantly be needing yarn. Except it would always be tangled. And you would always be worn.

Everything does come to an end. But I’m not so sure that has to be such a daunting statement. I met you and her and you and we made something. We created.

A fairy tale is what someone else told you was a dream. But you create those yourself. The nightmares too.

Cat-chya Later

The definitive list of why I do not like cats:

1. Litter boxes.
You have a shit filled zen garden tucked away in some corner of your apartment. If said box is in the bathroom most showers will result will you having ever so lovely litter feet. Every few days you have to scoop said litter as your cat licks its paws and laughs on the inside about how you are actually its pet.

2. Cats meow.
Look I know, barking is annoying. But there is something about a meeeeow that is just god damn annoying MAINLY because the cat is literally just saying: Me. Now.

3. Hairballs.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.

4. The moodiness.
Humans are hard enough to read. I will not try and understand your moody pussy attitude. Be like a dog, love belly rubs and walks. Whenever a cat owner instructs me how to approach their cat I have to stifle back all the angry feels. I will not adjust the weight of my pet to appease your feline.

5. The sneakiness. The deception.
You never know what the hell is up with a cat. One minute you’re scratching kitties neck while it’s purring, the next second you have a gash in your hand.

6. The sleeping in places you need to access.
Yo puss why you in my sink? Why are you giving me judgement eyes for turning the shower on? I’ve been shoveling your poop and cleaning your hairballs. Get out.

7. No protection.
A cat would essentially yawn at a robber. Or rub its body on said robbers leg. Or claw their face out. YOU NEVER KNOW BECAUSE
ME NOW.

8. No good toys.
Scratching posts? …ugh be better.

9. Lack of team spirit.
If your cat was a roommate it would be the roommate who leaves post its on dirty dishes and labels all their food. They wouldn’t chip in for cable and would veto all apartment bettering. They would also never let you throw parties but WOULD randomly smoke a joint with you.

10. They aren’t dogs.

Not Liking What Everyone Else Likes Is The Struggle to Beat All Struggles.

For far too long have I been verbally berated at parties. Given stank face after stank face. Yelled at. Snuffed at. Laughed at. And otherwise been made to feel like a mother fucking leper. Why, you ask? Because of my absolute hatred of avocados. Now I am the first to admit that I do not like a lot of foods. Foods which I understand people fucking love. For example, I hate seafood. Sorry about it, but the thought of eating something directly out of its shell is fucking disgusting to me. I’m envious of people who can eat everything and anything, because I know that I seriously can not. Like my tongue will actually not permit me to do so. Like I gag and it’s embarrassing and well yeah no one needs to see that.

Now back to avocado. People love avocado in a way that is borderline, well borderline insane to me. I am all about texture, and the texture of avocado makes me want to die. This green mush goop that you all fucking pine for literally makes me want to throw up. Whenever I admit this to someone I am met with a face that I feel is the same face one would make upon finding out that their crush was an axe murderer. People legitimately freak the fuck out on me. Which like. Look. You are eating what looks like baby food, and I understand that everyone else in your life is telling you that this love is a ok, and you know what I am not going to tell you it isn’t BUT don’t look at me like I’m the insane one here.

Now the thing is I am aware that I am literally preaching this to no one. Because fucking everyone LOVES avocado. Do you know how hard it is to hate foods that people would literally marry if possible?

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But YOU KNOW WHAT?
why_working_in_retail_is_like_the_worst_torture_ever_05-1

There are 2 other foods I have this problem with. Chocolate and peanut butter. Oh how I wish peanut butter didn’t make me gag. But, it does. When I am at my brokest, I wish that I could eat peanut butter sandwich after peanut butter sandwich. I wish I could dip into jars of it late at night and have the perfect snack. But you know what? It just isn’t the case. Now chocolate on the other hand is just not important to me. It’s aight. But I could gladly go the rest of my life without ever eating it. People talk about Nutella in a way that I will never understand. It’s good. I get it. But it isn’t my life fruit.

So, here’s the thing. I am never going to like avocado. I am never going to go HAM on a PB&J. And I will never be able to make it through a Hershey bar. So can we all just maybe get past this? At parties can I just happily make my way through the cheese plate? Stop telling me that your guac will change how I feel. It isn’t. I promise. And I am sorry. I am sure your guacamole steals hearts at your community mulching party in Park Slope, but it just isn’t going to give me the boner you’re thinking it will.

There is only one other thing on this planet that grosses me out more than avocado.

aun-666_1z

I would eat a tree of avocados before I would let a knife full of mayo touch my sandwich. Mayonnaise is actually the most disgusting thing to ever exist. Ever.

Like…no.

Just. No.

It’s Ok.

I want to take you to a place that I used to know well.
I want you to feel what I feel in my bones.
The place that gives me hell.
It takes awhile to get to this place.
It takes awhile to look in the mirror and be ok with the face –
that stares back at you and realize that the person your heart beats for doesn’t make you a sinner.
When everyone is telling you that everything you feel is wrong.
When everyone song you turn to is about heartache and break and holding on –
you lose yourself in the moment.
You lose motion.
Because you are too flooded with emotion.
Please don’t be afraid.
Those voices in your head are just telling you to love.
And in love there is no wrong or right way.
I am so sorry that not everyone sees it that way.
And I am so sorry that you may lose friends and family along the way.
But stay –
stay true to who you are
look into mirror after mirror until you can’t help but smile back.
Opinions of others are opinions of their own.
What is factual is that you are a human full of love.
Who wants to be loved.
And will be loved.
Because there are a million of us out there.
Who you can walk to with open arms.
Look this world can be shit.
I know and so do you.
But it can also be so bone crushingly beautiful.
You can have these moments where you swear some part of you must be in pain.
Must be about to break.
Because everything in that moment is The Most Beautiful.
It can come in the arms of a beautiful girl.
It can come in the arms of a beautiful boy.
It can come from the best meal of your life.
Or realizing that you just met the person that is that.
Is your life.
I wish that I could sit down and show you a crystal ball.
One that shows you the future and how this time will fall.
It will be a distant memory and a hardship that once happened.
But it won’t cut as deep.
When you are laying in bed realizing that you have no more secrets to keep.
You are young.
You are gay.
And baby you are free.