Things not to say to a dying person

What now seems like an ice age ago, someone said to me "What if your father dies and you never confront him – how do you think that you'd feel?"

It hit me like a mac truck..

Well, thanks a fucking lot buddy!! I became obsessed – I had dreams of standing over a deep grave – peering down into it saying "Um, excuse me, um I just had a few questions".


At this juncture I hadn't spoken to my father in 4 years or so and actually had no idea if in fact he was still upright – with a pulse. I gradually became a stalker. The 5 hour time difference between America and the UK meant that when I got home from work and worked up the nerve to call his house… I would wake him from his trouble free slumber… he would answer the phone disorientated…listening to him repeat his greeting over and over – I would feel re-assured that the prick was in fact still with us on the planet and then I'd hang up.

Eventually there was a 6 hour international telephone call – which took care of my needing to know whether dude was still breathing or not. That is a whole other story and not the one I'm here to tell. How the frig is it relevant then, you may ask…? It was the source of and prodded many conversations over the years about the regret of not saying stuff to people before they take that final leap from the physical world to the great spiritual beyond.

There were varied threads:

Not telling people how much you loved them or how important they had been to you

Apologizing for things you had done or said that were less than gracious

Utter remorse for that last stupid argument (which of course you didn't mean)

Abject guilt for cutting someone out of your life over something petty

Not having the balls or the opportunity to confront difficult relationships or difficult events that ultimately were left with no closure

I think it was an Oprah show… some chick crying into her Kleenex needing some peace between her and her mother. The therapist suggested she write a letter which she could read at her mothers' graveside – she could even bury it right there if she felt moved to do so. Flash – the show- Forward 6 months. Like the 1-800 Jenny commercials, this woman looked like a different person – happy, calm and confident. Wow!! This chick had been able to let go of the pain that was holding her life in a vice grip – just by sending her dead mother a letter…. Damn near genius, I thought!!

You pretty much get the jist of my topic, right? Ok…. The series of events began with a premonition.

I awoke from a horrendous dream in which I am dry heaving; choking… tiny white things are flying from my lips with every stomach spasm. Amidst my dream vomiting I am also sobbing uncontrollably.

The choking and heaving stay in the dream world… the sobbing however, yeah I bring that one through the doorway with me.

I frantically woke up my girlfriend with sobbing pleas… "I need the phone, please get me the phone, please…Oh my god". To her credit – she would never judge, she accepted that it was not a choice for me, it was (and is) a driving compulsion to act.

She ran downstairs to get the phone and in those brief moments I took stock of my physical state. My throat was raw, my stomach was cramped and sore – the physical sensation was as if I had been throwing up for hours and tiny fragments of glass had been stuck in my throat.

Have you ever gotten a potato chip stuck in your throat? The one with the nasty broken pointed edge sticking right into your esophagus? Holy "enough said" Batman!

I call my mother in England. It came as no surprise to me, that she answered the phone immediately as if she had been expecting my call…. In fact, she had been expecting something and couldn't sleep.

My rush of breath comes out urgent and demanding

Me:
"What happened?"
Mum:
"I didn't want to wake you"
Me:
"Ma, what happened, something happened"
Mum:
"It's my mother, it's Kate… she has cancer"

With those words the power of the dream slipped away, as always - once I have the answer it's grip releases me. I whisper down the phone line, across continents and oceans to a woman who didn't want to wake me but had unknowingly sent the bat signal into my sleep.

"Oh, mum… I'm so sorry"

I explained my dream in its few details. My mother filled me in on the rest. My grandmother had cancer in her stomach, her esophagus and one other place. She had been vomiting repeatedly and that day had been eating nothing but white rice – trying to keep something in her stomach. No symbolism to misinterpret there… it was a pretty straight forward translation.

The problem with diagnoses like cancer is that the grieving begins with the results. Once they say it's fatal, you and your loved ones now have a measured amount of time until the patient passes. Family members project how they are going to feel with the loss and start grieving there and then or they get very business like and want to take a good run at wrapping up affairs that may get messy later. Either way the process sucks…

In my experience, death can come at you out of nowhere. We are all on a measured amount of time and the beauty is… we don't know what that is. If the response is to grieve whilst the person is still living – should we not then grieve for every person around us? I could get hit by a bus tomorrow – so if you'd like to send me flowers today… I would love that!! (I am such a flower whore).

My mother is the eldest of four children, three girls and one boy. Her Mother was cold, stoic and didn't like kids much. Did I say much? I meant to say, she couldn't stand kids … any of them… yours… hers… it really didn't matter. She cared very little for being a mother and even less for being a grandmother. The mothering responsibilities for her own brood fell onto my mothers shoulders. If household chores did not measure up to her standards, there would be hell to pay. All four children were terrified of this iron fisted matriarch.

Don't get me wrong, Kate is a huge part of why we are all the women we are today. She is an icon that I could write movies about. Later in life, she lived an avant-garde lifestyle; a jet setter living among millionaires on the Costa Del Sol, Spain. She was as infamous as she was glamorous. She was also controlling and manipulative.

The fear and control carried over into adulthood, they were all uniquely affected. It seemed that there were times, for no other reason than her own entertainment or perhaps a deep seated resentment, she pitted sibling against sibling; parent against child and child against parent. She was not a joy to be around at family gatherings.

Desperate to be a part of the fabulous four, I was raised as an only child and wanted in on their tight knit sibling club. Being the eldest of my generation I took on an almost peer role within theirs. They never excluded me from family discussions, no matter the severity or adult nature of the topic. I would listen and absorb whatever situation everyone was currently up in arms about and invariably my uncle would turn and say "Let's see what Nik thinks about all this", all eyes would turn to me and I would be given the floor. Honored, I would weigh out the neutrality of the issue and give advice removing as many of my own personal biases as possible.

Kate didn't have the same effect on me as she did on her first generation offspring– so in those matters – I was able to step back and see a broader view of situations. They were simply incapable of standing up to her. I was, however, fiercely protective of them when it came to interactions with their mother. I refused to play her game and I refused to be in fear of her. I had fears even she couldn't compete with. She and I played a hard core game of offense and defense – we didn't speak for seven years – though in some strange way we had a tenacious mutual respect for each other. In later years she proudly announced that I was more like her than anyone else in the family…. It's a declaration I bear willingly.

The news that she had a terminal cancer rocked my family. A powerful figurehead, this tower of a woman who on a whim could cause a civil war, this woman could not die. It was unfathomable.

It's often harder to lose someone with whom you have a troubled relationship versus someone with whom you have had a loving relationship.

Our family gatherings were consumed with a pendulum of emotions from anger to threats of peeing on her grave. It wasn't pretty. These people were shell-shocked and had no idea how to handle it. When the news broke that she planned to move from Spain back to England it was ill- received. No-one wanted her trouble making presence to become a constant and all shuddered at the thought of caring for her. Sound awful? Not really, it was simply adult children freaking out about losing a mother they never really had. I knew it was going to be a long road.

During an evening of volatile emotions, my uncle turns to me and says "Let's see what Nik thinks"… If I could only turn back time I may have gotten up to use the bathroom at that exact moment or maybe just have pled that I was sick and needed to lie down – excusing myself from the whole affair. I didn't do either of those things…I threw out the line that had been thrown out to me, I said…

"What if your mother dies and you never confront her – how do you think you'd feel?"

I asked each of them to visualize themselves standing graveside.

"Look inside yourself. Do you have things you wish you had said or questions you wish you had answers to?"

They got kinda quiet (a miracle in itself), they all agreed there were things they had carried with them for years.

"This is your opportunity to say anything you have been afraid to say before. You have been given a gift. You have been given time to heal old wounds and develop a relationship with your mother so that you can hopefully spend time loving her and not harboring resentments"

I had their full attention and so I ran with it.

"My suggestion is that you each write her a letter, you don't even have to send it. It can be between you and her when she passes or you can confront your fear and actually try to have a real relationship with her"

They all bought the idea and this became the new obsession. All but one sibling decided to write a letter. It sounded like good advice at the time, besides why would anyone listen to me… what do I know?

Kate moved to England and began to give away her belongings. Fur coats, jewelry, ornaments, memorabilia… all of it. She gave it away, not generously but in more of an underhand game fashion that created trouble and tension between her children.

Hospice registered her as a client and she received hospice benefits from the government. Medically, she was under going treatments on the long shot that her aggressive cancer may respond to extend her life expectancy even just a little.

From three of her children she received emotional letters addressing issues of the past. The exact contents of these letters remain a mystery but we could take an educated guess and surmise that it wasn't all sunshine and roses. The letters were not well received.

The three authors were written out of her will.

It was ugly. Not my best work for sure. Despite the fall-out from the postal deliveries, her kids still came around and they all continued on. They now had another unspoken wound to add to the heap, the unacknowledged letters of adult children who really just wanted to feel their mothers love. She was a tough old bird and Leopards do not change their spots, even if they think they are dying. She had everyone jumping at her beck and call. The letters asking for closure were added to the weapons arsenal; it exposed the vulnerable underbellies of the writers and gave her a powerful tool to use against them. If their original fears weren't enough – they now had this new self imposed twist.

Trying to support my strategy and not negate the outcome completely, I re-assured my mother that at least she would not regret the things she hadn't said – even though right in that moment she was regretting the things she had said. I convinced her she would feel differently once her mother had passed.

Then the bomb dropped.

Kate went to her doctors for a progress report and sat across the desk from men scratching their heads…. My mother called me at home…

"It's gone"
"What's gone?"
"The cancer is gone"
"Where has it gone?"
"I don't know, it's just bloody gone"
"Holy shit, what does that mean?"
"It means there's been a bloody miracle and they can't explain it"
"But she's in hospice"
"Not anymore, she's going home and she wants all her stuff back"
"What?"
"She called everyone and asked for her stuff back"

I began to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Of course her cancer was gone – had any of us met her? She was cured. The doctors were amazed and they couldn't find any trace of the cancer they had predicted would kill her in just 6-12 months.

She was gonna be just fine, which was great news except for the fact that now she was really pissed off!!

I considered our options… ok there really weren't any. We all just sucked it up and tried to make nice pretending it had never happened; after all she was the queen of ignoring the looming white elephant. My last hope was that she's had enough of England and would go back to Spain – giving everyone a little breathing room.

The cancer did come back a couple of years later, this time it took her with it. There was no talk of healing childhood wounds and shit, everyone just got on with the job of caring for her and spending time with her. She was a trouble causer to the very end and actually managed to create some family cracks after the funeral was done and dusted. Her antics were viewed as par for the course and didn't anger everyone as much as they had historically. It all became kinda funny… beware of what you say or do, this lady may not be headed out the door anytime soon!

I learned some seriously valuable lessons from these events. These are a couple that stand out:

Painful childhood memories don't compare to the pain you could currently be feeling - so it may be better to keep your big mouth shut!

If someone terminal gives you something, don't get attached and be prepared to give it back.

If you want to write a letter to gain closure, do like the Oprah chick did and read it to the sleeping spirit of the person once they have reached eternity– she seemed much happier with the outcome.

The Mormom Years - Part 1

On a recent road trip to upstate New York my co-pilot and I saw billboards proclaiming the wonders of Mormonism…The Church of the Latter Day Saints. The billboards were kinda weird and my companion declared her dislike for this particular religious group and went on a small rant, ending with:

"They just seem creepy".
"You know I got kicked out of Mormon camp, right?"
"Oh My God, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were Mormon, I didn't mean to say anything bad…"
"I'm not a freaking Mormon. Honey, no-one dislikes the Mormons more than me. It's a misogynist oppressive religious cult… My Father is a Mormon or he was last I heard".
"WHAT? How did I not know this about you? They have Mormons in England?"
"Sadly, yes…right along with Pizza and French fries. God Bless America!"


Thus began a lengthy conversation about the Angel Moroni appearing to Joseph Smith and telling him where he could go to find invisible plates – which he must transcribe. The only way for him to see these engraved plates was to wear a special pair of eyeglasses… Oh and he was to sit behind a curtain and dictate to some poor scribe… Hallelujah the Mormon religion was born!

I always found it amusing that the angels name was "Moron(i)" because you'd have to be a complete moron to believe that story… kinda like the immaculate deception theory!


My counterpart was amazed at how much I knew about the subject. So amazed that she asked me to write this and include it in my blogs… It's a tough decision whether or not to skip over the ugly parts – I'm not gonna make that call… I'm gonna just write it and see where we go. I'm along for the ride! So here goes the whole fandangle….

My parents divorced when I was a toddler. My father was a handsome and charming abusive sociopath who was always running a scam of some description. He had a passion for young girls and virgins. My mother was a naïve 20 year old and got pregnant right out of the gate. In their 5 years of holy matrimony they conceived 2 children, myself and my older brother. Throughout their marriage my father continued his life as if he were a young single man and conceived a third child during this same time period. It was a continuous string of affairs and sexual encounters. My mother, then a young woman with two small children, chose not to see what was plain as day to everyone around her.

My mothers' childhood friend was a tiny petite girl raised by her aunt and uncle. She came from a large catholic family who apparently didn't believe in contraception. Her parents had so many children they shipped off the eldest ones to be raised by other family members. The couple, as devout Catholics, encouraged her interest in joining the church to eventually become a nun. This holy minded, meek and mild individual was nominated to be my Godmother. (Nice choice, Ma!)

My mothers' sister informed her that this girl was having an affair with my father. My mother was enraged at the allegation. She defended her friend and pointed out that the poor thing was planning on being a nun and hadn't so much as kissed a boy, let alone had a boyfriend. It created a family feud resulting in this poor creature moving into the attic in our home and a rift between the sisters. All seemed well until my saintly Godmother got knocked up. Apparently there were some fertile mice in the attic.

It was the last straw. My father was out on his ear, alongside his now pregnant connection to all things holy. They proceeded to marry and had two children. I'm pretty sure there are many other half siblings out there but the only verifiable tally I have is a total of five offspring. Their two children were raised in the same devout manner of her childhood… because that worked out so well…..everything Catholicism has to offer and more. Yeehaw!

This mere mortal of a man was lost. He had always been searching for something, what exactly that was is not really clear. He fits the profile of a sociopath: superficial glibness and charm, grandiose self image, pathologically lying, seeking out victims, shallow emotions, no remorse, promiscuity, criminal enterprises, callousness, lack of empathy and an incapacity for love. Not that I have researched it much….

Beyond his sexual deviances he dallied with criminal activity. He's not too swift though, he once burned down his own warehouse to collect on the insurance money. Stupid bastard let the policy lapse and although the police knew it was arson, there was no real crime – other than destroying his own property. Any little scam or fraud to make money… he was all over it. He would go to extremes. One Sunday he took me to a dentist friend, they had struck some deal between them… Who knows what exactly was going on there… but it resulted in yours truly getting a mouth full of fillings in milk teeth. I swear the tooth fairy should have paid more money for those suckers! Jewelry came and went on a regular basis and oddly so did dogs. He would bring them home, keep them for a while then he would give them away… kinda strange. Professionally, he has been a Butcher, a Supermarket Manager, a Salesman of Windows and Doors, a Jeweler, Maker and Seller of Dog Food and I'm sure a plethora of other things I am completely unaware of.

That is a snapshot of the man I could write volumes about. It was this same man who answered the door when the Mormons came knocking. Ever the opportunist, he invited them in to his home. He listened to what they had to say and he was moved! Filled with the spirit and the testimony, he believed he had found the very thing that had been missing from his life. A religious organization that believes in polygamy and child brides… he had been treating women and children badly his whole life and taking heat for it… And NOW he finds out there is actually a religion that condones, promotes and teaches it! Woweee!! He had struck pay dirt! He very well may have dropped to his knees right there in his own living room and performed fellatio on those two young missionaries… they had just handed him the keys to the city!

No longer meek and mild, now more feisty redheaded angry midget… His wife flipped her lid. Since divorce was out of her equation she did the next best thing, she refused to step foot in his church, she refused to have her children or any member of her family step foot into that church. Meanwhile she confessed and prayed and hail – mary'ed a lot!! I was the only family member he had direct access to with no rules or bounds and fortunately for him, he had an every other weekend visitation schedule. The church of the latter day saints and I began to get acquainted.

It was freaky. The women all just blended together in a mass of nurturing, fussy feminine grayness. The girls my age wore knee socks with skirts, blouses and black sensible shoes. They were quiet and well behaved. The boys were out of control, they knew they had the world by the balls and acted as such. The common denominator factor was that they all pitied me, after all I wasn't yet one of the flock. I didn't know how it felt to live with a true testimony. I was an incomplete person but with their kindness and guidance I could become whole.

My father was the equivalent of a rock star. He moved through the ranks of the church faster than had ever been done before by someone not born into the faith. Handsome, charming, well groomed he was respected by the men and adored by the women. Ever the salesman, he sold and refitted all the windows and doors in the church, a huge package deal that, no doubt, he made a small killing on. He visited with the single mothers (often), he volunteered for the battered women shelters…. Because what could be better than that? It's like being handed a box of chocolates on your birthday, no guilt in eating those today!

They fussed over me; everyone wanted to talk to me about him. How great he was, how proud of him I must be, what a hard life he had had. I was the only family member to witness his baptism. I was sitting in the back pew as he stood up on the stage and delivered the testimony about his life. I felt trapped and nauseous; I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs and run out of that building and just keep on running. His testimony was built on lies, blame, my evil mother and the death of my brother. His presence always struck me mute and immobile. Despite my ever-present terror, I had mastered the stone cold art of showing no emotion. Not on this day. This day, I wept.
In that back pew surrounded by cooing women who assured me, through their tears, they were equally as moved by his journey, I wept.

The world was a bleak and hopeless place. I wept for me and my family. I wept for these strangers that accepted and didn't question what being was among them. I wept for a religion that kept these women down and they welcomed it. I wept in terror that this one man that had so much power over me could command all these people, an entire community, it was devastating. In that moment I knew I didn't stand a chance. All of my childhood fears came together in a blur of coo'ing consoling women and somber authoritative men. I was no adversary for this man. He had an army behind him, I was just one small sullen girl with no charm, no glib feel good lies that people wanted to hear. In my arsenal were small ugly truths that should not be spoken aloud. Even at that age I fully understood that I would never be hoisted above their shoulders – carried to the stage amidst adoring cheers for speaking the truth. I would be hushed and ushered into a room or a corner for questioning truths.

Even now as I go about my life it often occurs to me that we want to feel good at any cost. It is all around us and we buy the lies because we want to. I can see you ask, why would we choose the ugly truth when the veneer makes everything pretty and perfect?

I could be him. It's within me to be that. I could stand in front of crowds charming them, amusing them, making them feel good. There is tremendous power in that.

Or, I could be me. I could be candid and sincere. There is freedom in that.





To be continued in The Mormon Years - Part 2

The Mormon Years-Part 2

I was the antithesis of the good Mormon girls my age. I was a rebellious teenager who had ultimate freedom. I smoked my first cigarette at eleven, got served alcohol in an actual pub at twelve and in my thirteenth year I was admitted to my first nightclub (which co-incidentally was a seedy gay club) and I got a job at the local rugby club as resident bar-tender.


For those of you that don't know, the Mormons do not believe in the use of mind altering substances apparently it interferes with the brainwashing process. By mind altering we are talking: drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, tea, soda – anything caffeinated and no excessive meat consumption.

This is strangely reassuring to me. Take a bunch of men that are entitled to multiple wives and have hoards of children and tell them they can't crack a beer after work with the boys at the local bar and grill. It is yin and yang at it's finest! It's ok to live your life oppressing the fairer sex and their offspring as long as you don't indulge in a big old steak and a couple of cold ones. I mean really, why should they have it all? I am here to tell you they suffer too.

You probably just have one wife and I'll bet she drives you to drink sometimes…imagine having six or seven? Shudder the thought!

Although I am not and never was a Mormon, every other weekend since the age of twelve – some part of it was spent in conjunction with the Mormons and their church. They brought their best game forward to get me over to their side of the fence. Sadly, for them, they hadn't gotten to me soon enough. I had already been out in the world of strong women and had proof that as "one complete gender" we weren't second class citizens. I was a very frustrating subject for them. Luckily they had blind faith or they may have strangled me. I just never understood why all the Mormon boys got to go on a 1-2 year mission, usually overseas, which is exciting and adventurous…. Meanwhile the girls were expected to stay at home and develop their homemaker skills. They may have had me if they had offered me an overseas mission. I have always had a love for travel and exploring new places….. So a ticket out of town fully paid for? I may have overlooked some of those weird beliefs of Joseph Smith and grabbed the offer.

A difficult child to live with, I'm pretty sure. Independent and opinionated with a lot of angst. I was a runner, nope not track or field like the good kids, some shit went down and I was outta there – I ran. I had been running away from home back when I wasn't even allowed to cross the street. I either had to walk around the block or go sit in a field and convince myself – this was my new home, my new life.

My Fourteenth summer was a burden on everyone. Don't all fourteen year olds know everything? Hormones, puberty, blended families, trouble at school, no longer a child and not yet an adult, ugh it was painful.

That was the summer my step-father and I decided to declare war.

What did I do? I ran away from home.

I didn't have too many options and although I was terrified of my father, my teenage hormones kicked in supported by my determination to punish my parents and move out completely. I'll show them!

My Father was happy to take me; if it meant hurting my mother in any fashion he was onboard. I moved into their guest bedroom among my stepmothers craft supplies which she couldn't be bothered to relocate. The room was small and sticky. From their bedroom window you could see right into the guest room, it creeped me out – every night. I had too much pride to call my Mother and tell her I wanted to come home and I had too much fear to tell my Father that I wanted to go home. Not a good combination. My stuff was at home, my room, my life, my friends…. Freedom was at home…

The stepmother was not happy with the arrangement and would much rather I didn't exist. I was her tool for discipline with her own kids, "See, how you will turn out if you don't listen to me" ever using me as the example. I hung out with a girl down the road, we smoked cigarettes in her garage… it was an empty joyless pastime.

My newly mormonized father came home from a meeting with the "elders" and announced he had signed me up for Mormon camp! I confess, it was like music to my ears. I was getting out of there, away from the fiery redhead and the preaching religious zealot. Anywhere sounded better than where I was. I packed my bag and I was ready to go.

I arrived in the middle of bloody fucking nowhere, England, There were hundreds of us, it was crazy. Apparently, Mormons had kids like the old school Irish Catholics. The girls' dorm was huge and we all slept on the floor. Each with our own bedroll and a sleeping bag. Since these were not exactly the kind of kids I typically hung out with, I gravitated to a blonde girl who had a great haircut. How bad could she be, she obviously had some personality and flair. It was my best call all summer.

Fiona

Fiona came from a family of seven kids, she and two of her sisters were at the camp. The four of us found floor space at the furthest possible point away from an adult supervision. The girls were born into the religion so they weren't as fanatical as the recently converted families. They were fun and normal like the kids I grew up with. I was so desperate for peer company I would have done just about anything for Fiona's attention. It was also the year before I came out – it's a pretty safe bet to say I was enamored with her. She was hot in that short haired, girly tomboy way. Looking back, I'd like to think that it was kinda mutual… she squeaked me through the necessary Mormon rituals barely leaving my side. The great thing about Fiona… she was open to every crazy ass idea I had. We were sidekicks with trouble brewing.

The very first day Fiona showed me where the camp store was. We stocked up on supplies. We bought junk food and candy. I bought packets of instant coffee and 2 litre bottles of diet coke (Fiona and her sisters drank soda). Back at the dorm unloading our loot, a fellow camp attendee wanted to point out to me that I had contraband and it was against the rules to have it. I tried to explain to her that I wasn't a Mormon and therefore those rules did not apply to me. She didn't much care for my explanation and was threatening to turn us in for having diet coke in our possession. My partnership with Fiona flourished in the face of adversity – so the sales pitch began.

We tag teamed the argument. Fiona explained that her family drank soda and it was an old religious rule that not too many people followed anymore. We had gathered quite the crowd and the debate took on some life. Now I don't care what your opinions and beliefs are but if you are willing to enter into a debate and think for yourself, you're alright in my book. Fiona scored us some plastic cups and we began to pour samples for any of the girls that wanted to try it… free will – right? As we are getting ready to hand out these samples two of the camp supervisors walked into the dorm to see how we were all settling in. Not a good moment, I could see the anger below the thin veneer of control – this little ducky was pissed at me. I made it clear to my new friend that I was to be the one and only fall guy for this.

The contraband was disposed of and I was taken to an office where it was clearly explained to me what were unacceptable supplies to have in my possession whilst I was at the camp. Properly chastised, I was returned to the dorm where to prove to my new friend that I truly was a renegade….I proceeded to make myself a cup of black coffee. The mischievous glee that she gained from my refusal to conform was worth every second of Mormon prayer I had to sit through. Then, I fell in love. Fiona looks around and whispers "Hey, do you smoke?". It was all over…. I could have kissed her, well maybe I should have… I couldn't speak, the grin on my face wouldn't let my mouth make words – so I just nodded through my laughter. "I have some and I know where we can go so we won't get caught". Things in my life were definitely looking up, this wasn't going to be an empty joyless smoking buddy – she was my partner in crime. I followed her outside.

Whatever we did, we did together. Late at night we would have pillow fights and wrestling matches. Our punishment for disturbing the dorm was an interesting choice; we had to stand outside in the pitch black for half an hour. That first night we weren't prepared for our punishment. We were cold and suitably scared. The woodland creatures make all kinds of suspicious noises at night not to mention the wind and creaking trees. It's amazing what you think can hear when you stand outside and just listen. Every twig snap was underneath the foot of a half crazed killer coming to get us. We weren't like most of the other girls who were easily kept in line – so even though we were scared out of our minds, we tried our hardest to get kicked out every night thereafter. Each time not forgetting to be dressed warmly with a supply of ciggies on our person ready to go.

The other girls were drawn to hang out with us, you could see it was a moral struggle since we had gained a big reputation in a short amount of time. How could you not? We were always laughing and goofing around – making the best of every situation. Rebellious girls aren't high on the attendance list for Mormon events and these girls had mixed reactions to us. You could see the ones aching to break out of their shells but just not being able to. To some degrees it was quite sad.

The shower block was a standalone concrete building. Girls entrance on one side, Boys on the other. Midweek, the hot water broke on the girls side and we were told it would take a few days to fix it – so we had to suck it up and take cold showers until then. The boys would come around and brag about the nice hot showers they had just taken. Finally it became too much for Fiona and I to bear – we sprang into action. We enlisted one of the boys to scope out the showers and when it was totally empty we would stand guard at the door allowing the girls to shower in groups. Even the most prim and proper girls thought it was a brilliant idea and were desperate to take a hot shower by any means necessary.

Of course we got caught. We thought our idea was ingenious. Apparently the elders thought differently. We had organized naked girls to go and stand where naked boys had previously been standing not too long before. I didn't get it then and I don't get it now. They were livid! There was some serious wrath to be had that day. I got the lecture of what a good man my father was and all he had done for the church and how I was disgracing him by my poor behavior and if I didn't start to show some promise I would be on the next bus out of camp Mormon. My penalty was that I had to lead morning prayer every day for a week. Now I was horrified, I had no idea how a non believing person would go about such a thing. Fiona squeaked me through it – somehow.

We kept our heads down for a couple of days and earnt the sympathy of most of the girls. After all – they just wanted to take a damn shower too.
Camp Mormon was fast losing it's appeal. The boys got free reign to do whatever they wanted, including midnight hikes. The girls had early curfews and were not supposed to be wandering around unsupervised. There were ways around everything but it was a lot of hassle for a little freedom. All the women at camp– even the ones from other districts – knew who my father was and wanted to talk about how wonderful and great he was. He was the Brad Pit of Mormons… ugh, it was disgusting.

The camp's annual tradition to end the summer on a high note was to have a big bonfire and invite parents and elders from the church districts to come and join the last night of festivities. Because this was such a big event every year they had built benches into a hillside around a hollow. The first week of camp the boys were assigned the task of building this humongous bonfire and trust me the thing was huge!

Fiona and I were constantly on the lookout for new smoking hideaways – that way we wouldn't get seen going to the same place over and over. The campfire was in our rotation of locations. We headed down to it for our afternoon smoke. The boys had done a fabulous job, the fire was built and ready to go… kindling, newspaper, everything. It was impressive.

It rains a lot in England and in my defense… the newspaper looked wet. When I lit my cigarette with a match and tossed the match away – I did not know the paper was so dry it had yellowed giving it the appearance of being wet. That is a mistake you only make once in a lifetime. The blazing inferno was a shocker, Fiona and I panicked… we ran.

We had gotten into trouble for so many things already but nothing that we had done was malicious or damaging. We were just teenagers trying to have fun and break a few rules. Neither one of us would ever deliberately do something like this – it truly was a stupid accident. We both realized the gravity of the situation and for the first time, we had nothing. No plan, no story – a big fat nothing.

How did we get caught?

Everyone on the camp ran to the burning bonfire, to see what was going on. The only two very obvious absentees… yup – you guessed it. Me and my sidekick.

We were cold busted!

At this point the elders realized that their stepford'esque indoctrinated children weren't rubbing off on me as they had hoped – I however, had definitely left my mark on the girls in the dorm. We had been like an Olympic debate team on crack every night – no girl left out of any discussion. Slowly, they had all begun to explore and push boundaries in their own ways, no matter how small. Even if it was them trying to tell Fiona and I not to do something, I respected that it came from their point of view and was open to debate. Sometimes we even listened, mostly we did not.

I was frog-marched to pack up my stuff. Like a prisoner being sent to her fate, I was allowed one last phone call. I was told to call my father and tell him what had happened and give him the time he could pick me up at his local church.

I, called my mother.

She was at work and I begged her to move mountains if necessary to get me a ride at the exact time the bus pulled in so I could come home. God knows, I had learnt my lesson for the summer. She called my step-father who in turn sent Roger the Dodger (one of his employees) to come pick me up. As the bus pulled into the church parking lot I spotted a familiar face. Roger was waiting for me; the wave of relief that flooded through me was like ten thousand muscle relaxants hitting your body at the exact same moment. I could breathe.

I threw myself into his car, I hugged him, I kissed him. I had never been so happy to see Roger in my whole entire life – Roger wasn't without his own creepiness to a teenage girl but I cared not one jot… I think I would have done a pole dance for him – just because he was taking me home. As we pulled out onto the main road – I spied at the far intersection, My Fathers Jaguar, stopped at a red light… I had just made it!

It seems my lovely Mother had anticipated that I would be coming home at some point and had decided to do –over my bedroom as a surprise for my return and I suppose as a sweeping gesture to tell me how much she missed me.

My room had previously been a light green with record albums and magazine lay-outs of Duran Duran and Spandeau Ballet – taped wall to wall. It was now a stunning pepto pink! The curtains and the bedspread were matching fabrics, a combination of pink and white love hearts in a reversive pattern. Never having been a pink love heart kind of girl … It took me a minute to digest what I was seeing, and then I began to laugh…..

This was truly defining, Poetic Justice. It appealed to my twisted sense of humor. In a serves you right kind of way, I loved it. I believe my room stayed that way – under the wall posters and crap – until they moved out of that house. No pink or white love heart was going to chase me out of that room any time soon, that's for sure.

I had no way to get in touch with Fiona and it was probably better that our rebel without a cause friendship stayed in that summer… I know we could have gotten into some serious trouble together. I still gravitate to people who have funky haircuts, it's a detail that speaks to me, it says something about a person's individuality.

Many years went by, I had relocated to America and the Mormon experiences were just distant memories. I excitedly picked up the phone to call my Mother in England….

"Ma! You'll never guess"
"Guess what?"
"Who was just here"
"Who?"
"Guess"
"The entire cast of Footloose? Really how would I know?"
"The Mormons"
(audible gasp)
"No?"
(Me, proud as all get out)
"Yup"
(My mother begins to laugh with expectant glee)
"You invited them in, didn't you?"
"Yup!"
"You've waited years to make this phone call"
"I sure have and it was worth the wait, I got one re-evaluating his faith and the other one couldn't get his buddy out of here fast enough – they are gonna black list this house, for sure!"
"Congratulations, Honey"
"Why thank you Mother, you would have been proud"

I stopped apologizing for who I was a long time ago. Please forgive me if you are one of those people who laugh at everything – giggle nervously – say something not pleasant and immediately laugh to soften the blow…. You people make me nervous. Religious nut jobs do that. They tell you about an angel named Moron and then they laugh nervously as they continue with the invisible plate theory…. See they too, know it's a crock of shit – but they are "praying" you buy it – along with 15% of your annual income in tithe fees…. nervous laugh…..


I have little tolerance for people who hide behind their beliefs – the bible bashers wig me out. However, you can usually find me playing with them at the Boston Pride Parade.... a girl has to have fun somehwere!

Anytime someone is supercharged with enthusiasm for any reason – my radar kicks on and starts scanning the situation…

Beep Beep ….what's wrong here?
Beep Beep …There's something wrong here….
Beep Beep… The enthusiasm is covering up some fatal flaws – I guarantee it


If there is ever a wager on whether or not I'll be attending functions in Salt Lake, Utah.... there's 50/50 shot it could go either way.

The LDS and Warren Jeffs make me nervous but it can be so much fun to play with them - having had an insiders view into the life.

On second thoughts, the fact that the area is dry and I wouldn't be able to go and celebrate my Mormon bashing with some good hard liquor... leaves the probabilty of me being there... quite slim.

Now bring me a couple of those boys with the black backpacks - combine it with a bottle of scotch and after they leave I will toast to Fiona and her coverted question "Do you smoke?"



*** I think the inital request was for the story of the mormon boys coming to visit.... that in of itself is a tale - albeit a much shorter one. It wouldn't hold the same impact if you didn't know my colorful history with the mormons***

( the mind altering substances reference was complete poetic license - it just worked better than the real reason).

LESBIAN SEX!!

Sunday, August 03, 2008




OK!! So a friend and I were reading the "on our backs – lesbian sex manual" yesterday, which I had bought hoping a - then current – now ex gf - would read it. Apparently I should have read that shit first because IT SUCKED!!! Explains a lot!!


Really People? Knives? Needles? Fire??


I think there needs to be a collaboration of real advice from those of you who are sexually active…. There are some pretty good basics – right?


1. If you kiss her and she screams…. Take the cigarette out of your mouth
2. Shaving …. Isn't just about you
3. We love the hair pulling….. but you can't just grab a handful and hope for the best! You gotta run your hand up the nape of the neck to the base of the skull - close your fist around a good amount of the hair closest to the head and pull – hard and deliberate à works! – Fast and indecisive – leads only to premature baldness and whiplash.
4. Please – for the love of god – Talk in bed!!! ….. I don't mean – "you're on my side or pass me a pillow". We don't care if the only thing you say is – You're a dirty fucking bitch - commit to it – say it like you mean it and keep saying it. We don't care if it's repetitious – we're not looking for new material!
5. Oh, and if you're gonna talk in bed ….. Speak up! Mumbling does not work. It's just not sexy when you have to stop and ask "what did you say"? Or if you hear something about wearing a helmet and she's really saying - put some elbow into it….
6. Teeth and biting are great…. Please don't act like you are trying to take a chunk out of a granny smith and don't file or sharpen the fangs first – Thank you!
7. Exercising a little power and control isn't such a bad thing. A strong flat palm to the breastbone with even & increasing pressure combined with 4 ….. Well, it's a start!!
8. Put down the porn….. Sex is not designed to LOOK pretty!
9. Slapping versus spanking…… Ahhhhhh….. ladies, again with the strong flat palm – applied decisively to the bottom of the ass cheek… where leg meets ass – ya know? It's as much about the sound as it about the spank. General slapping of the target without a plan – well…. notsogood… ok? ok!
10. From behind… it's pretty popular… try it once in a while …. Combine it with 3…. Now – you're starting to be a rockstar…. The rock concert comes later…
11. Role playing….. Hmmmm…… command, demand, instruct! "You're going to be my two dollar whore" is better than…. "What Steel Magnolia's character do you want to play tonight, honey"?
12. I realize walking and chewing gum at the same time can be difficult for some of you – but it is possible to push and pull at the same time without getting too confused.

13. RULES….. is it possible to give up your pre-determined… Oh I don't do this – I don't do that …. I can't do THAT…. I want to know where these rules came from… What, you tried it once with someone else and it ended with a 911 call??? Really? Really? Can't we try being a little open minded?

14. BDSM…. Look it up – trust me, at least ONE of these letters will appeal to you
15. Fantasy….. there's a difference between fantasy and reality…. That's why it's called FANTASY!
16. Donkey Punch….. Probably good to have a conversation about that before trying it out on your lady!
17. Baby, with me – you won't be needing lube! Apparently you just came out of the closet – Lube, buy it, own it, use it…. Put some elbow into it!
18. Kiss her like you wanna Fuck Her…
19. And, Fuck her, like she stole something from you…
20. I know On Our Backs – dedicated a whole chapter to it – but truly, setting your girlfriend on FIRE – is illegal. My advice? Don't do that!


Any Other Advice Out There???

Sparkles





Currently listening : I Want Your Sex By George Michael

Chivalry & The Girl... AKA... Tank Girl

I'm not all that great at the dating game and am not likely to ask you out on a date and I certainly won't be standing there with a pen waiting for your phone number. Usually, if I really dig someone… that across the room – "OMG, She's Hot" kinda way… um, yeah I'll be the one that won't be able to talk to hot girl – at all!

I will be staying well out of the way – not putting myself in the path of said "hot girl". I'm pretty sure if you were to poll the chicks I thought were all that – their impression of me would be that I was ignorant, aloof or kinda mean. It's amazing that I have ever even had a relationship – surprisingly quite a few die-hards have gotten through the force field!
And so it was…

In my early 20's, the object of my desire was a slim hipped, spiky haired butch girl whom I had never spoken to. I didn't even know her name but I was acutely aware of her every move in the club on a Saturday night. The kicker for me? She drove an old, beat up, pale yellow, pick-up truck… Sigh, be still my beating heart!! I was smitten.

Years earlier someone had bought me a copy of Tank Girl. Which is an Australian comic strip book – of a girl with a shaved head who wore army issue dog tags and big black boots. She lived with a renegade Kangaroo; they drank beer and toted automatic weapons to blow shit up with. I'm not a comic strip lover but this chick had major sex appeal… thus my no-name lovely became "Tank Girl".

Months and months went by – I was obsessed. I made my friends dance on the opposite side of the dance floor; I was never accidentally next to her at the bar or in the line for the bathroom. Frankly – there was no way I was ever going to put myself in a situation where we would have to exchange words, of any kind!

My best friend had the pep talk down to a science and she was on her personal mission to convince me I had to ask this girl out on a date. I had never asked anyone to go on a date before and it seemed like someone was asking me to climb Mount Everest in a poodle skirt & tank top – barefoot. I was adamant that on a scale of 1 to no fucking way… that was a definite "no fucking way".

Enter alcohol and peer pressure!

My BF, against my pleas and threats, found her way to strike up a conversation with Tank Girl while I died a thousand deaths on the other side of the club. I cursed her name as I watched how with great ease she chatted; laughed and struck up an acquaintance with the girl of my dreams. As if that wasn't bad enough she started waving at me and motioning for me to come over. I tried desperately to pretend I didn't know it was me she was "who hoo'ing" at, but that only lasted for so long. I eventually had to give in and join them… omg… please let the earth open and swallow me whole.

Amazingly "Tank Girl" was a normal person. She was friendly and apparently put her pants on, one leg at a time like everyone else. I was horrendously shy and didn't say much at all while my friend chatted up a storm for both of us. As Tank Girl walked away and the club began to shut down I was handed the wrath only a true friend can wield so succinctly.

Are you kidding me? You couldn't say anything? What have you been struck mute? I totally hooked you up and you blew it! You BETTER be going out there and asking her out – YES, YOU! I mean RIGHT NOW! Go, or I will never speak to you again! I mean it, ok I don't mean it but I am daring you to do it and if you don't, I will lose all respect for you…..

That did it. I decided that she was right; it was time to pony up. I walked out of the front door of the club on a mission. She was already in her pick-up truck… I knocked on the window…. Urgh, I shudder at the memory…. Down that window rolled and I believe I asked her to go to breakfast. Ok, Ok, I don't "believe" anything… I did… I fucking asked hot girl to go to the diner for breakfast. That was my version of asking her out on a date. So from totally mute to asking her to come eat with us… I'm sure she probably thought I was a fruitcake. Anyway, she said (drum roll please)… NO!

I was crushed.

I was mortified.

Life as I knew it, was over. Tank Girl had turned down my invitation. I know all the sane people in the world are thinking… Hmmmm, it was 2am – you didn't actually ask her on a date… it's not like you threw yourself in the truck bed and refused to get out unless she agreed to marry you…. All valid points…. It didn't make my humiliation any easier to bear.

The following week Tank Girl was at the club making out with some new girl. They were laughing and having a grand ole' time. In my humiliated paranoid state – of course I made it mean that they were laughing at my feeble attempt the week prior. The girls began dating and of course, now… I bumped into them everywhere!! At the park, the mall, the grocery store every pride/charity event and it was as if that night had never happened. We went right back into complete stranger mode, no "Hi", no eye contact, nothing!

The only residual effect of that night was that anytime I saw my pick-up truck driving beauty, I turned crimson and felt acutely embarrassed all over again. Time did not lesson the humiliation, in fact it compounded it. Obviously we all knew each other – since the local Lesbian community can fit on a postage stamp - so the fact that neither she nor her girlfriend acknowledged me led me to believe that they thought I was the village fool. In retrospect, I'm sure I didn't even register with them and if I did they probably thought I was ignorant, aloof or just plain mean (right?)!!!

I swore I would never again ask anyone out on a "date" and as I post this blog, that has yet to be proven wrong! Dramatic response to such a millisecond of an incident, I know! But, for whatever reason I couldn't get past it. Even today the magic 8 ball will tell you … it does not look promising… I'm just not gonna ask you to go out with me, ESPECIALLY if I actually like you!! Sorry, but you gotta do it or I have to resort to the tried and true method…. Bodyshots!


Only someone who knows you and "gets" you can understand how the smallest detail, the tiniest fragment of time can shape who you are. I can tell a story a hundred times and laugh at myself – inviting others to laugh alongside me. There are so few people who will know the true impact each "tall tale" may have had.

I met Foxy Brown at a cookout she was trying to throw. As I arrived – she was still trying to put the grill together. (If my memory – serves me correctly, I believe I may have taken over the project and to her amazement, this girly girl – threw it together in a New York minute). Foxy and I just "got" each other. We had crazy chemistry from the first day we met. We didn't acknowledge it and we didn't act on it. She lived in my house during her college years, we became confidantes. We blew in and out of each others lives for over a decade and the chemistry never faulted… true to our lesbian heritage… eventually we dated.

If you think chivalry is dead I must disagree. The most debonair, charming and chivalrous individual I have ever had the pleasure of meeting speaks with a Kentucky drawl, has a distinct blonde, floppy, boyish head of hair and calls the smallest State of the Union, Home. Undisputedly, Fox has a charm outmatched only by the pied piper himself. Men, women, gay or straight, old, young, single or partnered… all feel like the most important being on the planet when The Fox turns her attentions toward them. There is nothing our southern boy belle wouldn't do in the name of chivalry and has been known to land a Boeing 747 if that what it takes to get the girl. A passion for women as a species… Almost as if her calling in life is to make every woman she encounters feel great about themselves… she rarely misses her target.

Dating Ms. Fox, there is no possible way you could ever feel less than the sexiest woman alive in her company. If for some reason you are not getting the message, she is more than eager to assemble a group of complete strangers to agree and back up her point … That, indeed… you ARE the sexiest woman on the planet.

Sure, there are pro's and con's to dating longstanding friends but the great thing about having that kind of history is that you have an insight into the person, their idiosyncrasies, their stories and wounds.

My Tank Girl humiliation is an old staple in the story telling repertoire so the Fox had heard it more times than a dozen. She was well aware that every time I saw T.G. the humiliating moment standing outside her truck from almost 15 years earlier, would come back to me. Silly as it sounds, there was always a twinge… the fact that Tank Girl hadn't aged well… didn't help (well, maybe a little).

In more recent years, the sightings of her had been few and far between. Now we started to run into her every time we went out and at this point, I knew her name and had conversed with her, here and there. Occasionally she joined whatever group we were hanging with. It was fine and no-one could tell I experienced any discomfort in her presence. It was the same old thing, we would head home and I would proliferate… ugh, I was such a pathetic 20'something… I can't believe I was that ridiculous and wimpy!

In the name of chivalry and the girl, Fox declared… "I am going to heal this wound for you".

Almost the equivalent to landing a Boeing 747, I had no idea how she planned on doing this… but I believed her, kinda sorta.

Thinking no more about this grandiose sweeping statement we go about our lives.

The gift "years of friendship" gave us is that no-one can work a room like the Fox and I. Whether it be in Vegas, The Deep South or a random Kitchen near you… people will gravitate and all of a sudden the social wheels spring into action and that's when the party really starts! Foxy Brown is the master at including everyone, even the most reticent. We know each others cues, side by side or across a crowded room, it takes no more than a look and perhaps a gesture to put us on the same page.

Life always seems to change for me on Thursdays. For some reason – major events always fall on that day. One random Thursday, we find ourselves at the local Lesbian Gin Joint. Already installed at the bar was Tank Girl, minding her own business, drinking her beer. We said Hi, got our drinks and headed outside to join the throng of smokers. It didn't take long till we had the place buzzing. In rare form, we had a group fully engaged and entertained.

Part of the Foxy Brown show always includes how tortured she is by the sexiest woman alive. The name may change but the story remains the same. This display invokes a compassion and camaraderie among strangers who can relate to this poor confused creature – rubbing her head - as she tries to figure out if the girl is just playing hard to get or really never wants to see her again. Everyone has an opinion and it's not a potentially explosive subject like religion or politics… It works every time.

In the midst of her… I just don't understand women routine, T.G. comes out to smoke. Fox immediately draws her into the throng and the discussion. For this particular display, I am the object of torture. Fox, is building agreement from the group that indeed I am the sexiest woman on the planet, the only reason oceans have tides and the earth remains on its axis – is because I live and breath. How can she possibly pursue anyone else when I am this devastatingly gorgeous?

You will find me convincing the same group that she is completely crazy and should be committed to an institution, against her will.

I see the glance, I know the gesture and I hear the theme from every Western Showdown in history. I can feel something coming… Oh No… what is my favorite fictional character gonna do now?

She turns to Tank Girl.

"Did you ever have that one girl that was the rock concert? Not the rock song… not the bleeding heart love ballad… I'm talking the whole damn concert… You know, beach balls are flying… lighters are going… a whole football stadium singing at the top of their lungs…"

Tank Girl looks confused by the imagery presented. The Fox gestures towards me…

"Now, THIS girl is the original rock concert, the reason beach balls were invented. Sleeping with her is a life changing event. I would advise anyone to do it if they ever had the opportunity and anyone passing that up… Well, that would just be stupid".

In that moment my admiration for the mistress of spin, flies right off the chart. The guns have been drawn and the shots fired…I have to step in…

"Don't believe one word of it. She's insane; in fact I think she's on crack"

Amidst the parody that has got the whole group laughing, Tank Girl looks at me. She is sizing me up, renewed interest, as if someone just told her I was next in line for the Throne. She is evaluating these outrageous statements and in my mind – her inner voice is saying …

"Shit, did I turn that down?"

The Boeing 747 had been landed. No-one was hurt and everyone survived.


I'm still not all that great at the dating game and probably won't ask you out on a date but you may find me at the bar, asking tank girl if I can buy her a beer and not really caring if she says yes or no.

Cheers to Downtown Foxy Brown, her life of torture at the hands of some feminine seductress… it's your game babe and you play it well.

When your mother says the "C" word in front of the in-laws

The British are coming…. The British are coming…. And they wanted to meet the parents of my Fairfield County, CT girlfriend. Her Mother in particular, who made no bones about her hatred of gays – I was the bull's-eye on the gay target for flipping her daughter to the dark side… not much love lost there.

Their intentions were honorable… My father conveniently forgot his own struggle through the coming out years and now just thought it "Ridiculous" that anyone should have a problem with the Gay Factor.

Famous last words as I recall them – came from his mouth, something like this…

"We can take care of this situation for you girls"
"We'll just have a couple of drinks, totally informal"
"They can relate to us"
"We have old heads on our shoulders"
"Once they see you have parents, they will feel differently"
"Everyone loves the British"
"You watch, this will be a piece of cake"

I was 21yrs old, skeptical but hopeful…. My girlfriend was 27yrs old and terrified out of her skin. We set up the meeting.

GF on the phone to her Mother.

"Nik's parents are flying in for Christmas and they would love to meet you guys, so I um, I um, I um…. Thought that we could stop in on our way down to New York just for an hour or so – for a couple of drinks"
Mother

"icy silence"

GF

"I mean – if you can't that'd be ok too, I just thought it would be nice for them to meet you guys but um…"

Mother

"When? What Time?"

And so, the arrangements were made… D Day loomed.

We packed, threw some stuff in the car. Dressed in casual attire, jeans and sweaters, we embarked on our 2 ½ hour drive to CT.

We dilly dallied, stopped along the way… got something to eat – pointed out landmarks along the way... The Casino, New London, Mystic CT… In our minds it was an informal meet and greet, drive-by with an aprox time of arrival, just a couple of drinks right?

How can we always be so wrong?

We pulled into the driveway, LATE, and found – Hmmmm, nowhere to park. GF, starts hyperventilating in the car. There is no way out now!

Her entire family was assembled in the formal reception room. Fire A' Blazing, food on platters, skewers, cocktail sticks, a variety of formal picky foods laid out. Men in sports coats and cream pants, women in suitable cranberry sweaters with pearls.

Her Father; Brother; Sister; Mother; Aunt; Aunt's Mother and a few other assortments I no longer recall. All looking uncomfortable.

We looked like a rag-tag bunch having just spent hours in the car – my parents smoking with the windows closed… ewww, nasty. So we smelt even better than we looked. We trooped in, 2 dykes and the British scotch drinking, chain smokers… AWESOME!

My parents, never intimidated by anyone, were a little overwhelmed and taken off guard. To their absolute credit, they stepped up their Queen's English and recovered quickly.

My Mother can be an engaging conversationalist and soon had the ladies tell of their trips to London. The saving grace was that both the GF's Mother and Aunt loved their jaunts across the pond. An exchange of stories began to flow and there was a nice banter going back and forth. The men said very little and all looked like they would rather be shoveling the snowy driveway. I sat on the floor by my fathers' feet drinking scotch watching the scene unfold – it was definitely an out of body experience. The tension and the ice in the room was thinly veiled by the social veneer, you could taste the discomfort.

The ladies were telling my Mother of a bus tour around London they had taken. They loved the double decker bus and found things to be quaint, charming and amusing. Not being from London, my Mother apparently had taken a similar bus excursion around London Town. She however, did not have the quaint or charming experience the Ladies were waxing poetic about.

I think she was drinking Gin and Tonic. Yup I believe – that was the poison of the evening – since $4.00 Spanish Brandy wasn't on the menu…. I truly believe – Gin could have been the culprit!

My Mother is an enigma. Possibly because she truly cares not one jot – what other people think of her. It must be a recessive gene that skipped my generation – my own skin can be so thin at times, I often wonder if you can see the muscle and bone below the surface.

The woman that bore me 21 long years earlier, launched into a story of how Londoners rip-off the tourists and try to make as much money off them as they can. She was particularly offended by the sign written by the bus door – that read:

It is customary to TIP bus drivers in this country

Not being a true statement, this enraged my Mother. She and the Gin had a lot to say about that sign – Oh yes, she did!

"It's a cunt I tell you, a bloody cunt"

The room stopped moving. All heads turned. No, they swiveled on their uptight necks in shear horror.

My Mother thought they didn't understand what she said… so she addressed the room…

"It's a cunt, a bloody cunt trick… We don't tip bus drivers in England"

The ladies of Fairfield County, well their heads began to spin on their shoulders – reminiscent of a horror movie I once saw. The men exchanged eye contact without moving, without breathing. They were simply waiting for the explosion…

My darling Mother still thinks that no-one understands what she is saying and repeats herself a few more times. My GF is in full Holy Fucking Shit panic mode… she considers explaining that the word CUNT does not mean the same in the UK as it does in the US. Trying out the words in her mind… it is a widely used term there and, and, and, and…. She couldn't even bring herself to vocalize an excuse, she was struck mute.

Aunt Gladys saved the day. Well, kinda…. Well, let's say she tried?

"So, where will you be staying in the City?"

To which my Mother responds "you don't like the word cunt?"

Psyche… Just kidding….

My Mother tells them we had planned to wing it – knowing there were a million hotels in New York and we were pretty sure we'd find something! The Ladies were suitably horrified. They didn't go to the city unless they had a car service pick them up and drive them in…. got the picture?

"You can't possibly do that; I will call my contacts and make sure you have a reservation and suitable accommodations"

Beautiful Aunt Gladys, known fondly in the family as BAG… does her absolute best to get everyone redirected into a conversation about where the British guests should stay. I was impressed, she really created quite the buzz about the issue whilst also illuminating the point that we would all be leaving SOON.

BAG jumps on the phone; my GF's Mother is hovering and fussing – looking for phone numbers…. As BAG proceeds to make a reservation…. all was just lovely until … the reservations clerk asked:

"How many rooms do you need?"

(My GF and I were mandated to stay in separate bedrooms on the rare occasion we had to stay at her parents home, on the other spectrum, my Mother delivered us coffee as we lay naked in bed… slight difference in lifestyle principles)

BAG – looks at GF's Mother…. Realizing she has just opened a true Pandora's box.

"How many rooms?"

Mother looks at GF, not knowing if we are booking 2 rooms or 3 rooms – and realizes we are now addressing the "SLEEPING" situation…. This is WAY WAY WAY worse than the term CUNT!

"How many rooms?" she asks her daughter, not wanting any answer but… 3 rooms.

We were not paying for accommodation; we were broke – world travelers at the time – living on the same dollar for about 3 years.

GF – looks at me sheepishly. I turn to my parents….

"Ma, how many rooms do we need to book?"

My Father pipes in … finally!

"Aren't there two beds to a room?"

I confirm that American hotel rooms usually have 2 double beds, yes he is correct.

I don't know who said what between my parents and myself. The three way conversation was an exchange of….

"Well that's fine right?"
"We'll take one bed and you two can have the other"
"That makes the most sense right?"
"You girls don't mind sharing with us, do you?"
"That's fine"

I turn to my quivering GF – who looks truly shell shocked by this whole exchange.

"One room is fine"

And even though everyone can hear everyone else just fine – it is repeated from Daughter to Mother to Aunt to Reservation Agent.

The hotel room was booked and there was an odd hush. No one knew quite what to say anymore. I could see images of heathens dancing around fires in the eyes of my pseudo mother-in-law. Orgies and 4 way sex with her daughter tied to the stake – in the center of a blazing bush inferno. Priceless! (Now THAT, should be used in a credit card commercial!)

We are given our coats and murmurs of social grace are exchanged and we get the hell outta dodge! Not one mention of our gayness and how gay is really the new pink – etc… In the car, I turn to my Father and ask him what happened to his plan of taking care of the situation for us. It was a Major Break with tradition …. The British NEVER admit defeat, ever… the rise and fall of the Empire and we still think we rule the globe…..


"Sorry, there was nothing we could do. That is a lost cause"

A full round of I told you so's – ensued. We stopped at the bank so my poor GF could hit the ATM. As chance would have it – her sister's car was parked outside the bank and they had a minute of sisterly bonding in the lobby of the savings and loan.

"Can you believe Nik's Mother said CUNT in front of our Mother?"
"Oh My God, I think I'm going to die"
"I didn't know what to do"
"I was going to explain that it meant something else in England – but I couldn't bring myself to say the words"
"Dude, Good luck with that… you're screwed"

She get's back in the car and regales her conversation with sissy. We all turn to look at her – dumfounded…..

"WHAT?"

She almost screams in pure frustration, incredulous I respond:

"She said… it's a con-trick, a bloody con-trick"
"I didn't say cunt, I wouldn't say cunt in front of your family… in front of my own – well, sure… but not yours"
"They really thought she said cunt?"
"I heard you say cunt… that's what we all heard"
"She said… con-trick, she said it's a con… as in it's a rip off"
"Fucking Accents…. Well, that's a bummer"

We (not including gf) dissolve into hysterics…. She did eventually find the humor in the situation.

We arrive in NY, we don't use their reservation – we find someplace cute and funky. My Mother makes the declaration that if the Americans think she is saying the word cunt… well then she's just going to bloody say it anyway. We had a great time in NYC. Especially the part where my Mother went in and out of electronic stores in Times Square…

"How much is that camera?"
"$400.00 maam"
"Well that's a cunt isn't it, a bloody cunt trick"

This blog is dedicated to my parents who have surrounded themselves with rose covered mirrors…. They create a path of devastation and walk away from it… apparently oblivious….

My Mother-in-law and I tolerated each other. Oddly enough we had so much in common and shared many interests – more so than she did with her own two daughters… it was never a warm fuzzy loving relationship – but it was ok.

Apparently she really bonded with the next girlfriend. Having been pushed to the extremes by the Brits, the Southern Bell who was mindful of social graces and knew the rules of conduct was far more palatable than I.

This story is legendary and gets told in mixed company all the time…. Especially when we accidentally drop the term 'cunt – trick' into the conversation or we feel like throwing my Mother under the bus, in the name of humor – oopsy!

It has become a household staple phrase for things that are outrageous or overpriced. I am asking you to pay it forward and next time you are shopping for a car or designer imitation purse in Times Square…. When they tell you the price … please, please, please…

Step back and say "Well that's a bloody cunt"


For me???


xoxo

Come to the Dark Side Luke

No Straight Girls and No First Timers

So here I am New York City, 20 years old… a green army sack with a couple of pairs of jeans – 2 pairs of shoes and $200.00… the thickest Northern British Accent in town. I remember being terrified coming through immigration, the police had automatic weapons and the ones that didn't … had firearms strapped to their belts in plain view!


OMG – I thought I was gonna get creamed by some jack-off who had just argued with his wife that morning because she didn't make his lunch! Not to mention the female cops – who possibly had PMS or were going through the Change!


British Police Officers "Bobby's" wore tall hats and carried a bobby stick. As kids we would dare each other to stick marshmallows on their windshields while they were busy scolding other derelicts for throwing bricks or sniffing glue. In truth, we weren't all that afraid of them. Had those coppers had guns well, Good Golly Ms. Molly! We probably wouldn't have fucked with them all that much. My childhood would have been such less fun had those coppers been armed and dangerous.

I digress, fast forward to 1990.

I found myself in Fairfield County, CT. One of the most boring places on the planet and freakily, a lot like a movie I'd seen about a place called Stepford (Bugga, Bugga). I became a British Nanny to wealthy people who just did not wanna raise their own children. I was suitably freaked out but the money was good, they gave me a car and enough time off to get drunk and find all the gay hangouts. Local Amtrak service gave direct access to Manhattan, so I was golden!

First week in the country, I get an offer to go into the city to see Suzanne Vega… WHAT? Hell Yeah!! So it's me, this girl I know Sandra and a straight chick she plays soccer with. Sandra is smitten with the straighty. I pay very little attention because I am so enthralled with every American experience coming my way. Yellow Taxi's, Homeless People in cardboard boxes, Sky Scrapers, The filth of Manhattan and the fact that Broadway was not paved with gold nor illuminated by neon, with a background in Theatre – where we ended every childhood sentence with "I'll see you on Broadway", sadness descended for a lickety split second.

The concert was amazing. New York was amazing. The game of gin rummy I won on the train… amazing!! We go to Crazy Nannies ( NY lesbian bar) for a drink.

Sorry but I gotta refer back to my British life again… I was never the hottest woman in the room but because I was a bartender and known by the lesbian masses… I had a mojo that wouldn't quit. I didn't even have to have game. I could get laid any old time I felt like it, no problem. It's easier to decide you want to sleep with the bartender because you are forced to interact in order to get hammered and maybe hit on the cute girl in the corner….

Advice: If you can't seem to get laid to save your life, get a job in a lesbian bar or club… trust me – you don't even have to work it.

Back to NYC. So I'm in an American Lesbo bar and no-one… I mean no-one is even looking my way. No-one knows who I am and no-one really cares. This was a shock to the system; I was having a serious small fish in a very big fucking pond moment. Panic began to set in, I was 3,000 miles from home and the chances were loomingly large that there was no way I was getting laid in this country!!! Oh, no… what had I done??? I didn't even have game… remember – never had to practice that before now…

The Brits mating ritual is brutal. We see how sarcastic and cutting we can be and whoever has a razor sharp wit enough to come back for your jugular, the one chick that has mastered the power to stop you in your verbal tracks… that's the girl you're gonna be fucking. That kind of sex is aggressive and uninhibited. Not fun for you? Sounds like the insect that bites its mates head off after they are done, right? The funny thing is… all that upfront sparring and sexual energy… behind that is the softness. I can't give away any more secrets… The British Lesbian Counter-Intelligence will make me turn in my membership and I will have to resort to playing softball, drinking light beer and slapping high fives in order to get laid….. uuurrggghhhhh – the sheer horror of it all.

In my highly panicked state, it finally dawned on me that the straight girl was googley eyeing me…. She was stuck in a conversation with Sandra who was trying to impress her with the by-laws of the Soccer field. Straight chick, Hmmmm…..Either, she was asking me to save her from this scintillating conversation or… well the "or" didn't bear thinking about since I've only ever had two rules about my own personal brand of lesbianism…

"No straight girls and No first timers"

I'm not good with naked chicks that freak out – so I thought my rules were pretty good ones.

"Do you dance" I ask straighty – over my friends shoulder,
"Dance?" she looks confused – I must have just fixed her with the… what are you stupid? ... look.
"Yeah, I dance" she finally spits out
"Let's Dance"

For a straight white girl raised on a private road with a private beach – the product of ski bunny winters and tennis lesson summers…. Shit… This girl could actually dance!! A little intrigued, I start a gentle sparring exchange with her – pushing her buttons about her stereo type and my personal judgments of what that looked like from my window. Damn, this girl was funny too… she kept right back at me and refused to get offended. As all good conversations do, this one turned to sex. This offspring of a dentist and a school teacher knew more sexual terms than anybody I had ever met. She had me captivated and taught me the term "Felching" (That term has gotten me far in many circumstances over the years).

I like a double edged sword and apparently so did she. We became friends. We went everywhere together – it was a blast. The sexual tension never wavered between us and we talked about sleeping together (a lot). I was clear on my position about straight girls and first timers. She thought it was a ridiculous rule, both of them. It is true that double negatives usually cancel each other out so we struck a deal.

Here was the deal:

I did not want to be in a position where I had to show her the ropes – subsequently leaving enough rope to hang myself with. There was an outside chance that I could do something that would completely freak her out and send her into therapy for ten years and have charges brought against me for taking advantage of the privileged white woman… Not my gig.

She, while having more intellectual sexual knowledge than anyone I had ever met – had the least amount of hands on experience. She knew what she wanted to do – she just couldn't break her own vacuum packed wrapper.

My declaration was that – while I would enter into this sexually jacked up relationship… I would not be getting my kicks below the waistline. That was all her… no sexual rejection in sight, whenever she was ready to figure it out… I was an allied troop!

We made out. A lot!

She polled her friends. She went to lunch everyday with a guy from her office, she bought him lunch and he gave her step by step instructions on what he would do to his wife if he didn't have a male prop to consummate his love.

My goal was to drive her completely crazy – so that in order to resume a normal life of eating, sleeping and working she would have to pop her own cherry or join the cast members of one flew over a cuckoo's nest.

It was the longest two weeks of life as we know it, for both of us.

When Vesuvius finally erupted & she realized she was actually good at it, well… we didn't do much of anything else for a long time… I forgot being a first timer meant you wanted to try EVERYTHING….

I was in a new country; it was like reinventing the lesbian sex wheel. Having sex on the wrong side of the highway in a sedan being stalked by truckers driving eighteen wheelers…. Was not the same experience as having sex in a right hand drive mini-cooper on the M1 motorway being passed by nuns giving you the thumbs up as they drive by in motor coaches….I was an American now!

How is it, that when you are having sex all the time… everyone knows it? You stop to pump gas and the kids in the next car start peering at you as their parents usher them away to safety. At the grocery store, the deli guy gives you that knowing look… rock on dude – I just watched this lesbian porn last night and…. The dry cleaner doesn't apologize for not being able to get that "spot" out… I mean really he did try but…. At dinner, the waitress gives you your check with the appetizer… apparently it's obvious you may not make it through the entire meal…

Total strangers are responding in telekinetic ways and now the chick wants me to meet her Mother? See? See? Straight girls are so dumb sometimes.

Private road. Private beach. Four children. Two Boys, Two Girls. All graduated from college. Swims, Ski's and plays Tennis. Married a Dentist. Teaches middle school and catechism classes. Has a formal reception room, donned with white furniture and a fireplace. The family can usually be found watching television in the "playroom".

Enter; Moi… ripped jeans, doc martins with orange laces, short hair and the general air of "Hi, Nice to meet you, I'm fucking your daughter".

We had a strained relationship for four long years. I blame it on the first meeting. In hindsight, I should have taken a few tennis lessons and studied up on Catholicism, I think that may have been the way to go. I know I certainly paved the way for those trailing behind in my wake… Those bitches had it easy!!

Her mother was a matriarch to be feared. If nothing else I had respect for the woman who could reduce her children to shivering wrecks with just a look. Ironically, her eldest brother married a British chick and moved to London. I recall his wife saying – he would pale and start to sweat anytime she would say the words "Your mother is on the phone".

My parents loved their new "American Daughter" - I think a little more than they loved their British one. Our struggles with the Mother-in-Law became legendary and so the Brits decided to help the cause and organized a meeting of the families…. Oh boy! Oh boy!


That.... my friends is the next installment.



http://sparklesmagee.blogspot.com

Strap Ons and Boxing Gloves

In my prior British life, I was a bartender at every lesbian venue in town. There were a solid crew of us who pretty much ran everything. Fiona and Jude were the older solid staples – the rest of us young 'uns, just kept it hopping…Penny and Lynne…Jemima Boot; Peachy Sue; Fraggle; Lisa and myself.


Mad Props to Nic Keleghar – from London – she kept us all in business by drinking 3 square meals a day.

I met Maxine the same year I left for the USA. She started dating Fraggle (Lorraine, an adorable sexy lesbian who had an air of having actually stepped off Fraggle Rock…) and thus, Maxine, became a welcomed member of our little family.

Maxine was an aids outreach worker. Her job was to give out condoms, needles and bring HIV education to the streets of Manchester. In the late 80's, early 90's …. height of AIDS and HIV awareness, there was an exchange program between New York and Manchester for the outreach workers that had the grisly job of working the streets. New Yorkers came to Manchester to work alongside our folks and vice versa.

I was over the moon … a true "Bobby Dazzler" moment; when I heard Maxine was coming to New York… a member of my own little clan was coming to stay!!!

Maxine arrived and worked the streets of Manhattan alongside her American counterparts. It was here she met a group of women, not unlike our own clan from back home. These gals worked the streets by day and ran the New York club scene by night.

I had arrived in America just in time to catch the NYC wave of Lesbian Erotica, S&M clubs, go-go dancers in strap-ons and boxing gloves (kinda hot actually).The Clit Club and Dagger were the places to be… Can we have a moment of silence please for that one go-go dancing androgynous beauty… I believe her name was "SLAM"… Sigh, I was so in love and I would have liked to have known "SLAM" a little better. My girlfriend discouraged the love connection and our ships sailed off into different harbors.

Meanwhile, Maxine had formed fast friends with these colorful ladies and we were VIP'ied into everything – in her final week, we received an invitation to be "special guests" at a private play-party. Not knowing entirely what to expect, we were re-assured that we would not be required to participate and advised that non playing members were usually excluded from such events, which made us very "special" guests indeed.

Fully geared up in a variety of rubber and leather articles of clothing, we arrived in the meat-packing district to a fish warehouse. The smell was insidious. The eagerness to play or party took a hike and was replaced by terror… what the hell had we gotten ourselves into?

We made our way into the warehouse elevator with some trepidation. As the elevator creaked and clanged its way upwards – there was a rhythmical banging noise – no possible idea of what it could be… we all agreed it could not be anything good.

Oddly, as we got off the elevator we realized that the fish smell… in some wondrous way had managed to contain itself to the lower floors and was deliciously absent. The banging noise was loud and intense; it was definitely coming from behind the huge warehouse door… the door we had to pass through….

Ok, Alice… into the Rabbit Warren…

I can only describe it as an assault on all the senses… I didn't know where to look first and was having a hard time taking in everything before me. The Loft apartment was tremendous. Picture an entire floor of an old warehouse with ceilings as high as the sky above, wood floors worn smooth by age and industry, Beams, Nail Holes, Exposed Pipes, Open Plan Rooms, Custom Kitchen… it was my dream home… and someone was handing us money!

It seems we walked right into the middle of a slave sale and the money – while no street value – could absolutely buy you a lot of "services" on this particular evening. A seemingly 7ft Amazon in a red plastic, crotch less, jumpsuit walked by with her slave trailing behind on all fours. The Noise, we realized, was the rhythmic beating of a woman chained to a cross on the far wall, next to the leather horse that was being used for activities I had never had to master in gym class!

Looking back, I'm sure my gym teacher and her friends must have had a good time after hours.... Oh for a leather horse to call me own...ahem! I digress!

The people, the costumes, the accessories… it was a visual wonderment. There was an overall sense of order to the whole thing. The level of trust fostered is incredible… I mean really... if you were about to be shackled to a wall and beaten with a paddle you wouldn't want some little minion whipping out a camera phone and sending pictures to your partners at the Legal Headquarters for Ending Humanitarian Cruelty.

Ok! Ok! A little farfetched, I know….. Of course we didn't have cell phones back then and certainly not ones that would take pictures and play music!

Anyhow, venturing into the throng of activity and beginning to mingle, we were drawn to a group of women assembled around a TV screen. It turns out – the hostess thought of everything!! You could make your own porn, right there. The bedroom was all set up ready for a scene of your choice and the video camera inside fed out to a Television – so if you didn't want to be in the room – you could watch the action from outside! This Lady – should write a book on hostess etiquette… Genius!

The ladies in the bedroom were setting up a scene comprised of a number of Doms, Subs and extras… it all seemed quite intricate. Just as they are about to begin, one of the Doms comes out of the bedroom looking quite harried… "Shit, we don't have an anchor!"


Whoa! An anchor? These chicks are creative with their props… I was impressed! That was until she turned to me…. (True Fucking Story and welcome to my world!!!)

"You… (gesticulates towards me) …Can you be our anchor?"

Let me point out that I am 21 years of age and have no fucking clue what an "anchor" is…. (yet)

"um, I don't really know, um, I'm not really here to, um, I'd like to help but I, um"

She grabs my hand and is leading me to the bedroom… "It's easy, you don't have to do anything. You are just going to be there to make sure nothing goes wrong and no-one gets hurt, if you hear the safe word – it's your job to end the scene- ok?"

Now, there is no way I'm gonna argue with this leather clad, whip wielding dominatrix. Who am I kidding, I was a very willing participant… well, I was up to the point at which my leather clad goddess slapped the face of the unruly submissive and…. Ooohh…ouch… that stupid sub, slapped her back!!

Even I knew, with my limited exposure to the community, that in no circumstances – whatsoever – should the submissive chick do that to a mistress. It was ugly… U. G. L. Y. ugly! Apparently the girl was kinda new into the whole thing and had convinced those around her that she was properly schooled in the art of playing a scene.

My anchor skills weren't put to a good use, I sat with the chick as she cried and told me her life story and how she was from Maine and she didn't have much experience but she really wanted to learn … I rubbed her back and handed her tissues…. Someone called her a cab. The matter was resolved quickly and somewhat quietly.

The party didn't miss a beat. We had a great time. The following morning our hostess made brunch for the houseguests and clean-up crew. As we ate eggs and toast, we were given a hands on demonstration of how to make a variety of sex toys/accessories of saleable quality … it's much easier than you would think. During brunch we realized we hadn't seen Maxine in a while… Hmmm…. Where could she be?

Maxine was embroiled in an athletic threesome on the pull out couch. A thoughtful and quick thinking houseguest broke out the Polaroid camera and proceeded to give us a photographical play by play. It crossed my mind that my girlfriends mother (who already did not like that the big dyke from England that had scooped up her daughter whilst she was busy teaching catechism classes) probably wouldn't approve of Ms. Fairfield County CT, eating her eggs with one hand and shaking Polaroid's pictures, hoping they'd develop faster, with the other.

We took the lesson in homemade saleable goods back to England, later that year and hosted a kick ass club night called "STRAP-ON"… thanks to the New Yorkers we created plenty of items to sell and made enough money to pay for our excursion to the Greek Isle of Lesbos… where Ms. Fairfield County, CT got to sit on a beach with naked lesbians frolicking in the Aegean sun. (Sorry Fairfield County, another one of your flock has been corrupted by the Brits).


For Christmas the following year I got the well sought after Madonna's Sex book. I opened the book to the first page where two S&M chicks are posed with Madonna. All eyes in the room turn to me as I begin to excitedly exclaim

"Look honey.. it's … um,um….MADONNA" .

In my head I'm begging her not to explain to her family - that we don't know these girls, we have never met them, we have no knowledge that such things go on and we definitely have never seen these girls engaged in similar activities....


There's some hard living to be done in New York…. I often wonder if "SLAM" aged well.



Boxing Gloves.... Sigh.....Be Still My Beating Heart