Poppy Z. Brite's Blog, page 58
September 22, 2011
Happy Birthday
Will you still need me,
Will you still feed me,
When I'm 64?
You bet I will, Big Steve. May you live another 64 years at least.
Will you still feed me,
When I'm 64?
You bet I will, Big Steve. May you live another 64 years at least.
September 21, 2011
FetLife Friend Requests
You guys, I am accepting all friend requests on FetLife, so please don't feel like you have to send me a personal message (even though the site recommends it) before requesting. If I already know you from here, real life, or elsewhere, by all means drop me a line saying who you are, but I've already got 35 messages in my box and I don't know when I'm going to get to all of them.
September 20, 2011
New Adventures
I've been wanting to write about some of my more explicit adventures, but you guys came mostly (I assume) for the writing, though you stuck around for the food and the birds and even Billy Joel. I definitely plan to keep chronicling my transition, but I realize that some of you may not want to read raunchy details of my resulting sex life. So, following
![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380451598i/2033940.gif)
theferrett
's example, I started an account on the kink site FetLife, where my handle is "billythetwink." You'll need an account there to read my posts, but it's free and very easy to set up.
If you go there, please do me a huge favor: Don't, um, interrogate these texts from any kind of social justice perspective. I realize that the culture I'm seeking to enter can be quite misogynistic. My feelings about exclusively male/exclusively female spaces are complicated and not very well thought out. If that aspect of the posts offends you, then don't read them, but please don't comment negatively on it here or over there. I'm still figuring it out for myself, and I'd like to be able to chronicle these things without feeling guilty about it.
I am going to repost the first part of last night's adventure here, because this was the first time I've confronted this situation and handled it well instead of slinking away and feeling awful, and I'm pretty damn proud of that. Here goes:
Cruised for action tonight. I am known by name (Billy) at the Phoenix now, but the upstairs is closed on Mondays. I go to the Quarter, find nothing going on at the Bourbon Pub, decide to brave the Rawhide (a fairly hardcore gay leather bar) though I have never been there and had planned to wait until Grey -- much beloved and respected in the local gay community -- could take me. I order a Wild Turkey and soda from the friendly bartender, go into the back room where I've heard the action happens, start watching the porn on the TV screen. A few minutes later, a security guy approaches me.
SECURITY: I'm sorry, you need to stay toward the front -- women need to --
ME: I'm not female.
SEC: You're not?
ME: I'm a trans guy.
BARTENDER (comes over): What was your name again?
ME: Billy.
SEC (to bartender): ... A tranny ...
BAR (to sec): It's OK.
SEC (to me): Oh, you can stay. I'm sorry.
ME: It's OK.
SEC: I'm really sorry.
ME: It's OK, man.
The sound of my liberation is "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty. I've always liked that song. I sit on the back shelf and continue watching the porn ... (To read the rest, come on over to FetLife. As they say there, no one will bite unless you want them to.)
theferrett
's example, I started an account on the kink site FetLife, where my handle is "billythetwink." You'll need an account there to read my posts, but it's free and very easy to set up.If you go there, please do me a huge favor: Don't, um, interrogate these texts from any kind of social justice perspective. I realize that the culture I'm seeking to enter can be quite misogynistic. My feelings about exclusively male/exclusively female spaces are complicated and not very well thought out. If that aspect of the posts offends you, then don't read them, but please don't comment negatively on it here or over there. I'm still figuring it out for myself, and I'd like to be able to chronicle these things without feeling guilty about it.
I am going to repost the first part of last night's adventure here, because this was the first time I've confronted this situation and handled it well instead of slinking away and feeling awful, and I'm pretty damn proud of that. Here goes:
Cruised for action tonight. I am known by name (Billy) at the Phoenix now, but the upstairs is closed on Mondays. I go to the Quarter, find nothing going on at the Bourbon Pub, decide to brave the Rawhide (a fairly hardcore gay leather bar) though I have never been there and had planned to wait until Grey -- much beloved and respected in the local gay community -- could take me. I order a Wild Turkey and soda from the friendly bartender, go into the back room where I've heard the action happens, start watching the porn on the TV screen. A few minutes later, a security guy approaches me.
SECURITY: I'm sorry, you need to stay toward the front -- women need to --
ME: I'm not female.
SEC: You're not?
ME: I'm a trans guy.
BARTENDER (comes over): What was your name again?
ME: Billy.
SEC (to bartender): ... A tranny ...
BAR (to sec): It's OK.
SEC (to me): Oh, you can stay. I'm sorry.
ME: It's OK.
SEC: I'm really sorry.
ME: It's OK, man.
The sound of my liberation is "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty. I've always liked that song. I sit on the back shelf and continue watching the porn ... (To read the rest, come on over to FetLife. As they say there, no one will bite unless you want them to.)
September 19, 2011
Sunday Morning Coming Down
I'm sitting in bed drinking beer and listening to Johnny Cash sing "Sunday Morning Coming Down" on repeat. The image is probably somewhat spoiled by the fact that the beer is Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale. I doubt that was the kind Johnny had for breakfast.
"Sunday Morning Coming Down"
Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing.
Then I headed down the street
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
One of my favorite songs of melancholy and, let's be honest, self-pity. I'm having mood swings again. One day I haz a happy, the next day I haz a sad. I don't really want to tell y'all about the sads because you have all been so happy for me being happy, but it's unrealistic that I will be happy one hundred percent of the time, forever, just because I'm on testosterone. There are reasons for these mood swings, though; they don't feel particularly chemical. Lots of things are changing in my life. Few things feel stable. I miss Grey terribly and don't know when he will be back -- just another week or so, but it's hard not having an exact day to look forward to. Things are weird with Chris; I'm not sure how well the poly thing is working for him. He's lying to me, definitely by omission, possibly in other ways, and it seems to me that polyamory is unlikely to work without total honesty. I don't necessarily mean sharing details -- no one should feel compelled to share the details of their encounters unless it's a turn-on for all parties -- but hiding things can't be good. Especially when we have mutual friends who mention things to me assuming I already know about them, but I don't know, and I feel humiliated and left out of the loop. So I feel as if the people who love me most are far away, either literally or figuratively beyond my reach.
But I saw my first Saints win in the Dome today, and I went through the male security pat-down line without getting a second glance -- a guy even said "Excuse me, buddy" as he brushed past me. And I bought a nifty leather cuff on eBay for just $3.89. And I've got my copy of The Stand that Del and Sue Howison of Dark Delicacies so kindly sent me in September 2005, when I badly needed it, and I'm browsing through it and comforting myself with old friends and vivid descriptions of people strangling on their own snot. Hey, I take my comfort where I can get it.
"Sunday Morning Coming Down"
Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing.
Then I headed down the street
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
One of my favorite songs of melancholy and, let's be honest, self-pity. I'm having mood swings again. One day I haz a happy, the next day I haz a sad. I don't really want to tell y'all about the sads because you have all been so happy for me being happy, but it's unrealistic that I will be happy one hundred percent of the time, forever, just because I'm on testosterone. There are reasons for these mood swings, though; they don't feel particularly chemical. Lots of things are changing in my life. Few things feel stable. I miss Grey terribly and don't know when he will be back -- just another week or so, but it's hard not having an exact day to look forward to. Things are weird with Chris; I'm not sure how well the poly thing is working for him. He's lying to me, definitely by omission, possibly in other ways, and it seems to me that polyamory is unlikely to work without total honesty. I don't necessarily mean sharing details -- no one should feel compelled to share the details of their encounters unless it's a turn-on for all parties -- but hiding things can't be good. Especially when we have mutual friends who mention things to me assuming I already know about them, but I don't know, and I feel humiliated and left out of the loop. So I feel as if the people who love me most are far away, either literally or figuratively beyond my reach.
But I saw my first Saints win in the Dome today, and I went through the male security pat-down line without getting a second glance -- a guy even said "Excuse me, buddy" as he brushed past me. And I bought a nifty leather cuff on eBay for just $3.89. And I've got my copy of The Stand that Del and Sue Howison of Dark Delicacies so kindly sent me in September 2005, when I badly needed it, and I'm browsing through it and comforting myself with old friends and vivid descriptions of people strangling on their own snot. Hey, I take my comfort where I can get it.
September 18, 2011
Airplane Dream
One of the stranger dreams I've had in recent memory. Thought I'd quickly share it before we leave for the game.
I was on an airplane flying home from Amsterdam. Throughout the dream, I was almost completely immobile (due to disability, I think) and was carried around by other people.
The first hint of strangeness was when the pilot came out of the cockpit naked. At first he seemed to be showing off (and he did have a lot to show off), but then he looked down at himself with an "Eek, I'm naked!" expression and ducked back into the cockpit.
Then a bunch of flight attendants were running frantically through a different part of the plane, an industrial-looking part with no seats or carpeting. One of them was carrying me in her arms like a baby. She pointed through a window to something on the outside of the plane (I want to say a beacon) that was broken. "The others will probably work, but what if they don't?" she said. "Will that be enough when we're falling into the water?"
Is that really the kind of thing you're supposed to say to a passenger? I wondered, but didn't say.
She carried me back to the "public" part of the plane -- a very nice loungey part with banquette seats arranged in a circle -- and plopped me down in one of the seats. Soon, three handsome young black men dressed only in tiny silver shorts and capes came and sat around me. I noticed that I, too, was naked, and felt embarrassed at first, but they didn't seem to mind, so I rested my head on the nearest guy's shoulder, snuggled up against him, and peacefully tried to prepare myself for a fiery/watery death.
Interpret at your leisure.
I was on an airplane flying home from Amsterdam. Throughout the dream, I was almost completely immobile (due to disability, I think) and was carried around by other people.
The first hint of strangeness was when the pilot came out of the cockpit naked. At first he seemed to be showing off (and he did have a lot to show off), but then he looked down at himself with an "Eek, I'm naked!" expression and ducked back into the cockpit.
Then a bunch of flight attendants were running frantically through a different part of the plane, an industrial-looking part with no seats or carpeting. One of them was carrying me in her arms like a baby. She pointed through a window to something on the outside of the plane (I want to say a beacon) that was broken. "The others will probably work, but what if they don't?" she said. "Will that be enough when we're falling into the water?"
Is that really the kind of thing you're supposed to say to a passenger? I wondered, but didn't say.
She carried me back to the "public" part of the plane -- a very nice loungey part with banquette seats arranged in a circle -- and plopped me down in one of the seats. Soon, three handsome young black men dressed only in tiny silver shorts and capes came and sat around me. I noticed that I, too, was naked, and felt embarrassed at first, but they didn't seem to mind, so I rested my head on the nearest guy's shoulder, snuggled up against him, and peacefully tried to prepare myself for a fiery/watery death.
Interpret at your leisure.
Bears Are Awesome
Thank you to whoever sent me this lovely shirt, if you're reading!
Yes, they certainly are, and I certainly miss mine. He better get his hairy bear ass back from Derry soon.
[ETA: This post is in NO WAY intended as an endorsement of that team my Saints are playing tomorrow ... and by the way, I get to go to the game!]
Yes, they certainly are, and I certainly miss mine. He better get his hairy bear ass back from Derry soon.
[ETA: This post is in NO WAY intended as an endorsement of that team my Saints are playing tomorrow ... and by the way, I get to go to the game!]
September 16, 2011
My Boyfriend Went To Bangor!
So it wasn't just a bad pain day; it was actually a pre-sickness day. All day Tuesday, in addition to the pain-wracked bod, I had a little sore spot in my throat that I kept trying to ignore in hopes that it would go away. By Wednesday morning it had blossomed into a full-fledged swollen gland, painful to the touch, painful to swallow. I've been living on smoothies, juice, and the occasional slug of Wild Turkey. The gland has gone down and I'm feeling mostly better now, though delicate. This is actually something of a relief -- I don't want to be sick, of course, but I'd rather have a minor illness that makes me achy than a return of the constant chronic pain. I guess it was to be expected after hardly socializing for months and then meeting about 10,000 new people during Decadence (and kissing some of them).
Grey was in Bangor today. BANGOR!!! That blows my mind more than it probably should. I mean, that's DERRY! I've never been there, but I feel I know it well. Of course, if I actually visited, I'd be looking for clowns in the sewers, ominous voices coming out of the drains, little bald doctors, leprous corpses crawling out from under the porches of abandoned houses ... and would probably be disappointed if I didn't see them. Tomorrow they're driving up the Maine coast (Grey and his traveling companion, not the various monsters of Derry), which I've also always wanted to see.
I'm tired as hell and won't make this long, but I wanted to let y'all know I am more or less OK.
Grey was in Bangor today. BANGOR!!! That blows my mind more than it probably should. I mean, that's DERRY! I've never been there, but I feel I know it well. Of course, if I actually visited, I'd be looking for clowns in the sewers, ominous voices coming out of the drains, little bald doctors, leprous corpses crawling out from under the porches of abandoned houses ... and would probably be disappointed if I didn't see them. Tomorrow they're driving up the Maine coast (Grey and his traveling companion, not the various monsters of Derry), which I've also always wanted to see.
I'm tired as hell and won't make this long, but I wanted to let y'all know I am more or less OK.
September 13, 2011
Skeleton
This is the first really bad pain day I've had in a long time. This morning I thought it was from too much cleaning -- I've been sublimating most of my energy into housecleaning, determined to rid myself of CAPOS* by the time Grey gets home from his trip -- but it also feels as if some things in my body are changing, including my bones. Very likely they are. Testosterone increases bone density. I don't know why that should hurt, though.
Calling M. Munigant, I have some peppermint sticks for you.
This is the kind of day when I have to remind myself that opiates are a dastardly dead end for me. A literal dead end. If I were to get back on that shit, I wouldn't be able to be with Grey or Chris, I wouldn't be able to help my mom, I'd be sick all the time, I'd be counting pills and hoarding denial. I'd be useless. I don't even want opiates; the thought of them turns my stomach more than tempts me. I just want to stop hurting.
Must remember that these days are rarities now, not the norm. I am lucky. I know people who live with this kind of pain every day, forever. I used to. Lately I've been able to maintain a kind of detachment from the pain even when it got bad, but not today. Time has slowed down way too much for my taste. Send me spoons, please.
[ETA: A couple shots of Wild Turkey seem to have helped a bit. Perhaps I will continue to administer medicinal doses throughout the evening.]
*Can't Ask People Over Syndrome
Calling M. Munigant, I have some peppermint sticks for you.
This is the kind of day when I have to remind myself that opiates are a dastardly dead end for me. A literal dead end. If I were to get back on that shit, I wouldn't be able to be with Grey or Chris, I wouldn't be able to help my mom, I'd be sick all the time, I'd be counting pills and hoarding denial. I'd be useless. I don't even want opiates; the thought of them turns my stomach more than tempts me. I just want to stop hurting.
Must remember that these days are rarities now, not the norm. I am lucky. I know people who live with this kind of pain every day, forever. I used to. Lately I've been able to maintain a kind of detachment from the pain even when it got bad, but not today. Time has slowed down way too much for my taste. Send me spoons, please.
[ETA: A couple shots of Wild Turkey seem to have helped a bit. Perhaps I will continue to administer medicinal doses throughout the evening.]
*Can't Ask People Over Syndrome
September 12, 2011
Hey Neighbor, What Kind Of Beer Do You Like?
Beer for dinner last night, pot roast for breakfast this morning: The Manly Man Diet. Without realizing it, I've gotten back into drinking training again (I mostly quit last year because it seemed to disagree with one of my medications -- I don't remember what, some SSRI I'm no longer taking). I guess that's what happens when you do all your socializing in bars. Last night a couple of guys I met during Decadence asked me to come down and have a drink at the Phoenix, so I did. Since I've had intermittent agoraphobia, it feels like a big deal to just go have a drink with friends on the spur of the moment. A good big deal.
Also, I never really thought I'd even be welcome at the Phoenix, and now I am known there. This makes me happy.
Not so much with the Wild Turkey, though. I occasionally drink liquor, but I seem to have turned into a beer drinker in my old age -- or my new adolescence, if you like. (My friends variously call me a twink, a frat boy, and a cub.) Blue Moon is my favorite (without the nasty orange slice, please), closely followed by the local brew Louisiana 31.
Also, I never really thought I'd even be welcome at the Phoenix, and now I am known there. This makes me happy.
Not so much with the Wild Turkey, though. I occasionally drink liquor, but I seem to have turned into a beer drinker in my old age -- or my new adolescence, if you like. (My friends variously call me a twink, a frat boy, and a cub.) Blue Moon is my favorite (without the nasty orange slice, please), closely followed by the local brew Louisiana 31.
