Archive for June, 2007

a thousand small discoveries
June 30, 2007

While I was in Toronto just recently, one of the things I did was have dinner with an aunt of mine. She’s a really cool lady, and I very much enjoy her company. She’s never batted an eye at any of the things she’s learned about me over the years, starting with the queer thing and on through non-monogamy and SM. But I realized during our conversation that we’d never actually talked in any depth about most of it. The reason I realized this is because she asked me, for the first time, one of those simplest, most basic questions – the ones we’ve all heard a million times before.

“When did you know you were queer?”

There are definitely a set of standard answers to this one. Some of us like to say we’ve always known. Some of us say we figured it out around puberty. Some of us, when we met our first same-sex love. And some like to answer with a question of our own: “When did you know you were straight?” Just to get ’em thinking a little bit. Y’know, because being queer is not an aberration that must be discovered, like a tilted uterus or a mole behind your knee. Hey, Bob! Lookee here on my elbow! Looks like I’m a queer! Wonder if I can have that removed.

The thing is, I came out years ago, and as a result I haven’t heard this particular question in quite some time… so I can’t honestly remember what my standard answer used to be. Of course coming out is an ongoing process; the world still assumes people are straight by default, so no matter how out of the closet we are, all it takes is a new pair of eyes to put us right back in. But it’s been a really long stretch since I last had a “now that you know” discussion with anyone. And the intervening time has given me a new perspective on the answer to the age-old question.

So I told my aunt that I never really figured out I was queer. I just figured out, over a period of many years starting in early childhood, that everyone else wasn’t.

It’s the kind of thing we’re taught from a really young age. In kindergarten, when I had a crush on Roger Needham, who was the cutest boy in my class, all of a sudden my schoolmates were calling him my “boooyyyyfriend!” whereas nobody did that no matter how much time I spent with my best friend Jocelyn. The people who kissed on TV (when I stayed up past my bedtime) were always man/woman couples, never same-sex. The kids all had one mommy and one daddy, or sometimes only one of the two, but never two moms or two dads.

I always just figured, in my childish little way, that everybody must have feelings for both boys and girls, but for some reason the girl-girl things happened in private instead of in public. Of course, when my girlfriends and I played doctor, or whatever other excuse we came up with to figure out our own and each other’s bodies, there was a tacit understanding that we did it when our parents were not around to see us. Nobody quite needed to say it out loud, we just snuck under the neighbour’s deck before pulling down our pants instead of doing it in the backyard proper. So it just seemed… logical, in that odd elementary-school way, that all sorts of other things probably happened that way, too.

Every once in a while I’d forget, and I’d hug a girl for too long or touch her hair too softly, and someone nearby might tease us a bit, which is usually when the girl would recoil or make a joke. So I learned to curb that behaviour before I ever even had a name for what it was. It was a constant process of where the lines were that governed behaviour, children’s and grown-ups’ alike, and figuring out how to toe it so I wouldn’t get in trouble.

Once, in the car on the way to church when I was six or so, I asked my mother, “What does the word bisexual mean?” (Don’t ask me where I’d heard it.) She answered, “It means a person who loves both women and men,” which was remarkably straightforward – maybe it was the shock? – but then she looked mighty uncomfortable. Ooops. I didn’t realize. That must be one of those things I’m not supposed to say. Maybe I just let the cat out of the bag.

Was I a big raging six-year-old bisexual? No, that’s way too simple. I was just me, a curious child who liked people and enjoyed being close to the ones I liked the most. But by the time I was in late elementary school and early high school, it was crystal clear where the lines were drawn. Lezzie. Faggot. That’s so gay. No matter how sure I was that it was perfectly normal and fine to be attracted to girls as well as boys (how could it be wrong? It wasn’t hurting anyone!), it was stubbornly repeated to me in ways too numerous to count that only one option was acceptable.

It never sat very well with me. I made subtle references to my own interest in women starting at age 12 or so, and the reactions from my friends and classmates ranged from completely neutral to excited to disgusted. Some friends of mine were really genuinely OK with it, but I got enough of the negative reactions – including a boyfriend who started calling me “fucking dyke” when he was mad at me for anything – that I realized this was simply not a safe course of action. If I was going to risk alienating all the support systems I had, well, I needed to have new support systems built first. And where on earth would I find those, living in a suburban wasteland populated only with the heartbreakingly mainstream? Where would I find the girl of my dreams, when the girls around me had eyes only for guys? Not a clue.

So I stayed in the closet until I was 21. Not because I didn’t know who I was; not because I didn’t know what I wanted. Simply because I couldn’t find anyone anywhere who was able to see all of me when they looked. I couldn’t find a space where it was safe to be myself, all of it at once. So the acceptable pieces of me stayed visible, and the unacceptable ones went into hiding – much the way they did when I was four years old and playing doctor. The entire world saw the backyard, but nobody peered under the deck.

When did I know I was queer? Way before I ever heard the word. I knew it when I pulled my hand away from my best friend’s cheek, realizing that my caress was too much like a boy’s and she might suspect something. I knew it when the kids’ movies I watched felt like they were telling only one side of the story. I knew it when my fairy tales always had the same happily ever after. I knew it when my father switched off the TV in disgust when they showed images of cross-dressing dancers. I knew it when I read my step-aunt’s copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and found myself just as intrigued by the drawings of women’s bodies as I did the men’s.

I knew it every time I realized that how I was feeling, what I was noticing, who I was attracted to was something I shouldn’t be telling anyone. I knew I was queer every time I realized that the rest of the world was straight. I never discovered that I was queer; instead I discovered, in a thousand small ways every day for almost twenty years, that everyone else wasn’t like me.

Until I started discovering that some people were. And that, my friends, was worth waiting 20 years for.

what do women want?
June 28, 2007

This morning, after a meeting with a client, I found myself wandering into a secondhand bookstore downtown, tucked away on a side street I don’t usually take. It’s tiny; the whole thing could fit into my living room twice over.

The person at the counter was a long-haired guy in his mid-40s, by my best guess. He smiled and told me that if I wanted anything, I should just ask. After a few moments of browsing, I noticed the sounds of old Leonard Cohen wafting through the space. Soon after, the scent of some mild incense. Why the atmosphere all of a sudden? Whatever. I was focused on other things.

By that time, I’d found the tiny Sexuality section – how pleasant that even the little stores seem to have one, however modest – and was browsing via my usual intense method: cock head to the right. Read each title one after the other, not skipping any even if they look cheap or outdated. Then go back and pull out the ones that interest me – in this case, three hefty tomes on the history of sexuality, one highly academic, one more popular entitled Sex In History, and one published by Playboy. (The back cover of the academic one, entitled simply Sexuality, tells me that people seem to think sexuality’s history is only a century old, and it aims to correct that misperception. The Playboy one provides the history of sexuality split by decade, from 1900 to 1999. The irony makes me smile.)

Next, flip through to find the table of contents. Chapter topics? Contributing writers? If all is satisfactory, check the price. Acceptable?Add to the mental list of today’s purchases. If there are many, make a tally, check against my mental bank balance; if it makes me cringe, decide which books to sacrifice for the moment, or whether it’s worth a bit of a splurge.

Then, look around. Make sure nobody’s watching too intently; by experience I can tell you that people sometimes get a bit weirded out by the next step. Lift and smell each book between the pages, so that the scent of old bindings and paper pulp hits that lustful area of the brain and spins all sorts of promises about what comes next. They are soon to be mine. Other hands have touched them, other eyes have read them; no problem. I’m not the jealous type. What’s that Starhawk poem? “I bless all who have shaped you / The lovers whose delights still dance patterns on your back, /Those who carved your channels deeper, broader, wider, / (…) I bless those who have taught you / and those who have pleased you / and those who have hurt you, / All those who have made you who you are.”

Yes, they are almost mine, with all their unknowable secondhand stories ghostwritten on their covers and page corners. Marked by their pasts, they’re all the richer today. 

Once I own them, I may even lend them out to a discerning soul or two, people who know how to treat them right and appreciate them in all their glory. But they come home with me.

Three books. I brought them to the counter; no interac. Okay, I said; hold them for 15 minutes until I get back from the bank machine. No problem.

When I came back in a few minutes later, cash in hand, the counter guy (owner?) was engrossed in Sex In History, glasses sliding down his nose, hunched over the tiny counter. “Interesting stuff, eh?” I asked. He looked up at me and said, “I’m very interested in this. I mean…” and he gestured ruefully at the piles on his counter. That was the first time I noticed the titles: Mordecai Richler’s Cocksure, with cover art depicting a dildo aimed at a closed mouth. Josey Vogels’ latest book, a collection of her “My Messy Bedroom” sex columns. A book about sex and aging. Another about female pleasure.

He asked me, “Are you a student? Or a collector? Do you have a library?” I answered, “Collector and student of sorts. I have a very big library.” His face lit up, and he said, “Teach me something! Tell me what you know. I read, you know, all the time, but books are one thing, and reality is a different story. Do you have anything to recommend? I want to know, I want to learn!” He eagerly handed me a little black book and a pen so I could write down a title or two. I asked for a bag to carry my three heavy books.

More questions. “What do women want?” I answered, “Most of the time, we just want someone to listen to us. Can I have a bag? I need to go.” I had a date with three books. 

But he was too busy asking his questions to hear me. “It changes so much! No matter how many times you ask, the answer’s always different… You do one thing, and that’s not what they want after all, now they want something else. It’s like we have to always be alert, always…”

By this time, I was stacking my books myself, and reaching for the bag he’d halfheartedly pulled out of his drawer. “Oh! Okay, here it is. But… stay a while, talk with me. Do you have to go?”

Yes. Yes, I have to go. I have three new books to explore, and I’m not your girlfriend or your therapist, and I don’t hold the key to all women’s pleasures and desires. And I like Leonard Cohen and incense and long-haired bookshop owners with smudged glasses, but I don’t want to sleep with you. And I don’t want to give you answers when you’re more interested in drowning in your questions, and trying to build a life raft with your books.

“Will you come back?” he asked, reluctantly handing me my books, bagged. Mine, mine, my glorious new old books. “Will you come back and talk to me again?”

“Yeah, I’ll come back,” I said.

“Really, you will?”

“I’ll come back.”

If he had asked me what I might be coming back for – if he had asked me, as a woman, what I wanted – I would have answered, “I want your books.” But he didn’t ask. In essence, he didn’t need to; the answer was right in front of him the whole time. But I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to read it.

post-pride and pre-pride: a short note
June 25, 2007

I’m still in Toronto and enjoying the many lovely sights and sounds and people here… another one of those instances when there’s so much good stuff going on that there’s no time to write about it. Among other things, I’ve marched in leather in two parades, seen the Indigo Girls rehearse, purchased some Canadian sex writing, and had intriguing encounters with a long list of delightful people. For example, I can’t wait to write about the super-faggy sales clerk I met last night in a sex shop who spent a good 15 minutes boasting about his ability to make women come in ways they’d never even imagined. He backed it up with a great deal of rather intricate anatomical knowledge that far surpasses that of most men I’ve met, so I’m forced to believe him. Fascinating! Even the CN Tower seems to have become rather Prideful – or maybe that’s just a coincidence and it’s always a huge phallic symbol pulsating in rainbow colours until the wee hours of the night, I don’t know.

All that being said, I have things to do and people to, um, see, so I just wanted to post a quick note, also on a Pride theme though this time regarding Montreal. It would appear that the Montreal Pride group has found my blog, because they posted the following comment on my Pride post from a few entries back. I figured y’all might not be backtracking to read old comments, so here it is in case anyone’s interested:


Hello Sex Geek,
Just a note to let you know we will be holding a press conference to announce the route and line-up of the parade and community day on Wednesday June 27, at 11am at SKY.
You and members of the LGBTA community are more than welcome to attend and learn more about these upcoming events.
Best regards,
The team at Célébrations LGBTA Montréal


There you have it! I’ll certainly aim to be there. Perhaps I’ll see some of you fine sexy Montreal folk there too. In the meantime, I have a few more days to enjoy the hell out of Toronto, and I plan to do exactly that starting in about 10 minutes. Buh-bye now!

the problem with polygamy
June 22, 2007

This week’s issue of MacLean’s magazine (Canada’s weekly news) contains an article entitled “Polygamy: Legal in Canada” by Ken MacQueen. The article has inspired me to think, for the first time, about religious polygamy as whatsoever related to (or contrasting with) my concept of polyamory, and specifically in a Canadian context to boot.

Before I go anywhere with this, just a quick terminology check: polyamory = many loves; polygamy = many marriages.  Polyamorous relationships may or may not include marriage; polygamous relationships may or may not include love. To get really specific, polygamy is a general term; if you wanna gender-type it, polygyny would mean many wives and polyandry would mean many husbands. 

In the States, it would seem that the strategic alliance of polygamous Mormon and other religious groups with modern-concept polyamory/non-monogamy communities is in the process of being hotly debated. I don’t have a specific source to point you to on this one, but my honey Pepper (San Francisco-based writer of Freaksexual fame – check my blogroll for a link) keeps me frequently updated on the status of this debate as it plays out over various poly lists and discussion groups nationwide.

From what I gather, the gist of the discussion is that some polyamorous folks feel that polygamous communities may do a good job of pushing forward legislation that would make it possible for people to engage in multiple simultaneous legal marriages, and because of this, polyamorous people should stand in solidarity with religious polygamists. Their stance is that we’ll all stand to benefit in the end. They do, in some ways, have a point; on the Poly Canada list, for example, there’s at least one couple (Canadian and married in Canada) who are trying to figure out how the heck to get their partner into the country from the States since they can’t marry him due to already being married to one another. And certainly, in the various poly configurations I see among friends and acquaintances, it’s clear that if they had their druthers some groupings would all marry together rather than only being able to do so in pairs.

On the other hand, other polyamorous people feel that standing in solidarity with the polygamists is a really bad idea. They cite a variety of reasons – mainly, that the values espoused by most polygamous religous groups run counter to the whole idea of unions based on love rather than tradition or community pressure. Not to mention that, although there’s no obligation to be a feminist if you’re going to be polyamorous, a pretty huge percentage of the polyamorous world holds to principles of feminism and queer-positive politics. Not exactly on the menu for your average polygamist.

I just want to take a look at the current news for a sec. As the MacLean’s article says, “Polygamy, in many Canadian eyes, is defined by the activities of Bountiful, where powerful bishops hold sway, often dictating the selection of partners, in marriages that frequently match teenage girls to much older men.”  Well, Canadian eyes are being led by the media to understand polygamy this way because the media’s pretty much only reporting on Bountiful – a tiny rural town in British Columbia where the activities of a small fundamentalist Mormon community have captured public attention in recent months. Winston Blackmore, the big cheese of that community, has apparently “sired, by various estimates, more than 80 children by some 26 wives, some perilously close to 14, then the age of consent.”

Yes, very icky indeed. Not that each instance on its own is necessarily an issue, and not that each woman may not have consented… but when you create a situation in which all the power in a community lies with (male) religious leaders and those leaders dictate that all kinds of older men get to boink as many teenage girls as they want, it’s a little hard to swallow the idea that there’s no coercion involved. I’ll grant that it may not be violent coercion, but nonetheless, the whole idea leaves a foul taste in the mouth.

What’s going on here is actually quite specific though. For the most part, the media uses the term “polygamy,” but the overwhelming majority of polygamous situations (in the traditional religious sense) are actually quite specifically polygyny. You don’t find too many hardcore Mormon communities in rural B.C. in which women marry two dozen men, and you certainly don’t hear about women being accused of marrying multiple 14-year-old boys, now do ya.

So it’s not that polygamy – the simple concept of multiple legal marriage – is necessarily the big issue. It’s the overwhelming and potentially coercive religious push, in those particular contexts, encouraging multiple women and teenage girls to marry one man – and the resulting questions about women’s rights, the abuse of minors and so forth – that’s a genuine problem. I truly do think that if an urban professional woman wanted to marry two guys somewhere in Ontario, the public reaction would be very different indeed. Not necessarily positive, but certainly there would be no outcry about women’s rights and child abuse. With that in mind, is it really the multiple partner question we’re worried about? Or is it the potential for spousal abuse, cult behaviour, tax evasion and child abuse (facilitated by the context of religously enforced polygamy that’s specifically polygyny) that’s the problem?

And in truth, it’s not even the question of legal polygyny that’s an issue – because legal or not, these marriages are still taking place. So it’s not really about whether or not we should change Canada’s laws… it’s about looking at the situtation of a very tiny and exceptional group to see whether or not women and children are being sexually abused within it. Winston Blackmore can blather all he wants about religious persecution and how the Bountiful people are victims. But if he and his cronies have coerced women into marriage or sexual situations, then that’s where we need to be targeting the accusations.

I think that for any debate on polygamy, it’s crucial to separate the issues, and sadly I haven’t seen any media doing a good job of that. Through the media, people are learning to see polygamy as exclusively about men having multiple wives, learning to equate those multiple partnerships with coercion and abuse, and learning to see the fight for legal recognition of multiple marriages as a shady maneouver pulled by fundamentalist individuals with questionable motivations and an eerily strong grasp of the Constitution and legal precedents. (The article states, “Laws against plural marriages are so rarely prosecuted that a strong case can be made that they are already de facto legal.” … “Should polygamists win in court – a real possibility – Canada’s already suspect polygamy law would be blown out of the water.”)

In contrast to the picture this paints, I’d say it’s essential to look at the situation from a much wider perspective. Let’s take Winston Blackmore and his crew, and put them on one end of a very wide spectrum. To this spectrum you would want to add a whole whackload of other forms of non-monogamy, virtually none of them coercive or abusive. As I see it in my little world, for example, polyamory is a fairly common thing, whereas actual marriage, singular or plural, is relatively uncommon. And the average polyamorous person, in my world at least, is more likely to be a loosely affiliated Pagan, Buddhist, Jew or atheist than a fundamentalist anything; more likely to be queer or super-queer-friendly than ramrod-straight; more likely to be an urban high-tech geek or cafe owner than a farmer; more likely to have one or two kids, or none at all, than 80; and more likely to hang out at the local BDSM club a couple times a month than attend church twice a week.

So… would legal multiple marriage be a good thing? Sure, I suppose. For some people.

For people like Winston Blackmore, it could potentially make their existing coercion easier because it would be sanctified within the bonds of marriage. Then again, spousal abuse is already illegal, as is child molestation… so perhaps, legal marriage or no, if the Canadian investigators pulled their heads out of their monogamous asses and started looking at the real issues in Bountiful, they’d still have a case. And such a case wouldn’t hinge on how many partners anyone has but on whether or not anyone’s being hurt.

For other people, legal plural marriage could be a real boon. This might include people like, say, a lesbian couple I heard about from a friend yesterday – apparently, they were trying to get pregnant and one of the ladies fell in love with their sperm donor. The other one thought this was OK, so they invited him to join their household. Nowadays they’re taking prenatal classes as a triad, and the lucky preggers gal gets two sets of hands to hold when she starts her contractions. Sweet!

For me, though, I’m gonna stick with my usual rant: marriage kinda sucks. Why don’t we stop trying to contort it to suit our needs and just abandon the institution altogether? We should have a list of legal protections that can be signed up for individually, in whatever combination suits the partners involved, rather than a single package deal that we expect will suit the needs of a pluralistic and diverse society.

While I’m at it, I’ll also say that no, I don’t believe polyamorous people should join hands with creeps like Winston Blackmore, however dubiously positive the potential outcome may seem. Let’s just stay waaaay the fuck away from associations with anyone who represents religious fundamentalism, wife coercion and child abuse. The theoretical benefits of marriage are not worth that kind of terrible PR. I’d rather throw in my polyamorous lot with the trannies, queers, sex workers, BDSMers and people involved in other sex-positive political movements hinging on personal freedom, thank you very much.

That being said – one last little point to make. I firmly do not believe that multiple marriage has anything at all to do with same-sex marriage. The MacLean’s article says, “Marriage, already open to same-sex couples, could become a very crowded institution.” Oh, for Chrissakes. Did you really need to toss a sprinkling of homophobia into the mix? Because we queers are crowding the straights, is that it? Invading their personal space, perhaps? I didn’t realize that marriage was a room with a maximum capacity. Are we a frickin’ fire hazard now? Screw you. Get the fuck over it, people.

Oh, and nobody’s going to try to legalize interspecies marriage or incest anytime soon, just in case you were curious. Just to bring up another one of the absurd things I’ve heard homophobic pundits say. Maybe they’ll get a bleeding ulcer from the stress of worrying about it, though. That might distract them from spouting bullshit for a while.

In addition to all this, it’s really hard for me to see the common ground in a bunch of queer activists fighting for the social recognition of marriage across gender lines, and a potentially child-abusing religious zealot challenging the law based on an obscure reading of the Old Testament so he can legally impregnate his 27th wife, who may be no older than some of his daughters and may only be letting him fuck her because the “bishop” down the street said she’d go to hell if she didn’t. The queers deliberately left religious reasons off the roster when fighting for same-sex marriage, and I somehow doubt that Winston Blackmore and the fundamentalist Mormons are champions of queer rights, y’know what I’m saying? Puh-leeze. You find me a group of polyamory activists fighting for plural marriage, and then maybe I’ll have a listen, and maybe, maybe, there will be some common ground in the arguments. Anyone?… Anyone?… Ya. I didn’t think so.

boobies, boobies everywhere
June 21, 2007

Y’know, I travel around a fair bit, but I really don’t go deliberately in search of naked breasts. And yet somehow, I’ve been in Toronto for less than 48 hours, and I’ve managed to see more boobs than I have in… days. I mean months! Months, yes.

Last night, my friend V and I checked out Annie Sprinkle and Elizabeth Stephens’ “play,” Exposed: Experiments in Love, Death, Sex and Art at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre. (Note: this town has a queer theatre. Like, a whole institution devoted to queer performance. How cool is that?! Add one more item to my list of reasons for my ongoing love affair with Toronto.) Anyway, it’s in quotes because it’s not really so much a play per se… more like a piece of performance art. And not the kind of performance art where you’re wishing it was over halfway through and by the end you’re all confused and then you have to pretend you found it deep and meaningful to impress all the other people who were wishing it was over halfway through and are confused and trying to impress you.

Basically, Annie – famed prostitute (she seems to prefer the old-fashioned term to “sex worker”), artist, PhD sexologist, massively well-endowed gal and general sex-positive shit disturber – and her absolutely charming girlfriend, a self-described California diesel dyke/academic (tenured professor at… was it Rutgers? I don’t remember) got together to create a seven-year-long art project about love, using one of the seven chakras (Annie’s kinda woo-woo) as the theme for each year. Part of the project involves them getting married once a year in a ceremony themed with the colour of that year’s chakra. They got an actual legal wedding in Calgary for the yellow year – apparently they only actually knew four people at the ceremony. I think they’re on year four now, at least if the colours indicate.

The evening began with Annie and Beth asking if anyone in the audience would be willing to have a photo taken of their breasts. (Breasts are a big thing with Annie. Pun entirely intended.) This led to my friend R, a committed lover of the boobies, leaping up from her chair in front of me and screeching “booooobieees!!”, running out into the aisle, and yanking up her shirt. Beth didn’t waste any time popping a polaroid. While dozens of other gals began to follow suit, my dear friend V – a more-or-less straight guy – leaned over to me with his eyebrows somewhere up in his hairline and whispered “Are all lesbian plays like this?!” And when I was laughing too hard to produce an answer, he settled for saying, with a degree of reverence usually reserved for moments of spiritual conversion, “Th-thank you.” And then he sat back and looked dazed for a while.

The performance involved them sharing the story of how they met – talking simultaneously right over top of one another, no less – and how they fuck and how they make art and how they got through Annie’s bout with breast cancer and all kindsa other stuff. They passed around a sheet of paper listing ten reasons why marriage is a bad idea, and explain that they decided to do it anyway. Which is a little odd, or at least a little dissatisfying. I would have liked to hear more about their ten reasons for going through with it, since they took the time to give ten reasons why not to. But I digress.

The crowning glory of the piece had them stirring up a “love elixir” and handing out little cups of it to the entire audience, each drink coming with a sentence starting with “One of the things I love about you is…” Which is, admittedly, very California indeed, but kinda charming, too. Annie said to me, “One of the things I love about you is that you’re really sexy.” Which was nice, though I hesitate to think she really put much thought into it, given that she was handing out compliments to several hundred people over the course of ten minutes.

Anyway, after a brief post-performance chat with the artists – during which I got to sniff Beth’s neck (yup, she smells like a very nice, clean butch) and snapped a sweet photo of me sandwiched between Annie and Beth, or perhaps more accurately, between Annie and Annie’s boobs and Beth – V and I took off to wander the Village a bit.

Which is where yet another set of boobs made its appearance. I swear, they’re just popping up everywhere in this town.

We were quietly enjoying our ice cream, sitting on a ledge near a little streetside park, when a super-hot girl came rushing up with two gay men in tow and declared loudly, “We’re gonna wrassle! You guys wanna call the winner?” and barely paused for an answer before jumping into the park, kicking off her shoes, yanking off her t-shirt, and tackling one of her man-friends. The ensuing fifteen minutes were definitely some of the most entertaining of the entire evening, especially the part where she pulled off her bra for a bit too. V was completely taken aback – I really think the poor guy might believe lesbians just can’t wait to, um, expose their assets to the world. Having walked in on my lovely Toronto hostess half-naked not once but twice now in as many days, in addition to all the rest, I’m starting to wonder if that’s perhaps accurate.

And now I’m about to head off to a big huge dyke Pride party called Libido. Lord knows what might happen there. Not to mention at tomorrow’s lesbo event, Moist, or Saturday’s Dyke March, or Saturday night’s all-girl Pride Paint Party (featuring copious amounts of body paint). 

Gawd, the things I endure for the sake of community participation…


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