i was invited out last night to 'wet underwear night' at a local gay club.
at first, i was too tired, too broke, too 'blah' to attend. i had a drink with friends at a restaurant and went home, politely declining. i got home, relaxed, and realized that i was totally and utterly bored.
i buckled, as you might imagine, and showed up. jovial and content, i sipped a cocktail and admired all the attractive gay men filtering through the place.
not long after we found a great location with which to watch the show, an adorable man with a clipboard came bouncing up to us. he was recruiting wet underwear participants and had only one name on his list.
my companions implored me to participate. and the lure of a $500 prize was indeed tempting. but could i bare myself in all my curvy, voluptuousness to complete strangers? a crowd of them?
after some cajoling, i relented.
as showtime approached, they gathered all of us at the back bar for a bit of liquid courage and a few rules. our name would be called and we would take the stage. we could take our time stripping down to our skivvies and then step into the onstage shower. after that, the crowd would be asked to decide the winner.
if i had thought thoroughly about it before i agreed to do it, i probably wouldn't have done it. granted, gay men don't really care how tan or thin you are or that you aren't a statuesque blonde with huge tits, but they are fairly picky and can be downright mean. but none of this went through my head at the time.
i was third in the lineup. i was one of two women in the competition, the rest of the contestants being young, gay, and toned.
as my name was called, it became a blur. i recall stepping up to the stage and peering through the lights to see a much larger audience than expected - mostly men. i stalked up the stairs to pink's SO WHAT and flirted with the crowd under an array of bright lights and cheering onlookers. piece by piece, my clothes came off until i was left with bra, underwear and skin.
the time came to step under the shower of warm water, and i did so without hesitation. fear and trepidation never entered my mind, and i found that standing there, soaking wet and singing along with pink, i felt oddly serene. it was catharsis erupting in the oddest of circumstances.
i won second to a ripped young kid in tight, white briefs. it was the best loss i could imagine. and it didn't feel like failure for the remainder of the evening as i was approached by strange, gay men who commended my performance as "hot". i had more drinks than i knew what to do with, and a gift bag with a dvd of gay porn, gift certificates, and assorted prizes.
the part of me that was wishing she won a much-needed $500 quieted this morning as my friend karisse, who was there with me all the way, called to check in on me. when asked if she and her friend, an adorable gay boy who i had met an hour before the event, had a good time.
"yeah, it was fun. i took michael home last night and he said, 'this is the most fun i've had since i've been in san diego. that girl made my night.'"
moments like that transcend money. well, almost.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
dog's death, john updike
duplicate post, amazing poem.
Dog's Death
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
Dog's Death
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
eBay
d'you know those things you find on eBay and bid for, never really expecting to win them.. particularly if you bid on them before you lose your job and you're not too worried about income?
"my name is.. shake zula, the mic rulah.."
"my name is.. shake zula, the mic rulah.."
Monday, October 27, 2008
non-events
i went to sunset cliffs last night. i sat in the cold and listened to how menacing and deafening the waves sound at night. the ocean seems more of a monster when all you can see are the frothy, white crests of the waves.
today was productive, but not exciting. a few moments ago, i sat and watched lost in translation and had a few fat tires in homage to my hometown. the movie, and the last week of my life, swelled all into a few disjointed thoughts. and i thought back to earlier today when i heard from a previous coworker that i'd be moving out of state. and i remind myself of why i'm solitary. nobody knows what i am, how i feel, or what i'm doing. and it makes me want to shove anyone who gets near me.
i'm angry, and apathetic. everybody seems to know what's in store for me but me. judgment, assumption, idle gossip. and all i really want to do is walk up to a stranger on the street and find out about them, hoping there are people in the world that still have something. and another part of me wants to wade out into the water and float there, falling asleep, dissolving into the water.
i got a nice text message. the air through my open door is crisp and cool. and the alcohol in my bloodstream has my cheeks warm and wet. fighting the urge to do anything else, i'll sit here in the dark and enjoy my own silence.
today was productive, but not exciting. a few moments ago, i sat and watched lost in translation and had a few fat tires in homage to my hometown. the movie, and the last week of my life, swelled all into a few disjointed thoughts. and i thought back to earlier today when i heard from a previous coworker that i'd be moving out of state. and i remind myself of why i'm solitary. nobody knows what i am, how i feel, or what i'm doing. and it makes me want to shove anyone who gets near me.
i'm angry, and apathetic. everybody seems to know what's in store for me but me. judgment, assumption, idle gossip. and all i really want to do is walk up to a stranger on the street and find out about them, hoping there are people in the world that still have something. and another part of me wants to wade out into the water and float there, falling asleep, dissolving into the water.
i got a nice text message. the air through my open door is crisp and cool. and the alcohol in my bloodstream has my cheeks warm and wet. fighting the urge to do anything else, i'll sit here in the dark and enjoy my own silence.
my first job offer so far
thank you, myspace:
"If you've read my profile you know that I have a thing for seeing beautiful, dominant women like you puffing seductively on a cigar or cigarette, especially while topless. If you are into dominating weak men like me, I would love to do this scene with you in a private modeling session for which I would offer a $500 tribute for the hour. Note that this is for modeling, and there's no contact or any other illegal activity involved, and this would be very discreet."
"If you've read my profile you know that I have a thing for seeing beautiful, dominant women like you puffing seductively on a cigar or cigarette, especially while topless. If you are into dominating weak men like me, I would love to do this scene with you in a private modeling session for which I would offer a $500 tribute for the hour. Note that this is for modeling, and there's no contact or any other illegal activity involved, and this would be very discreet."
Friday, October 24, 2008
emptiness
as dispatchers, we dealt with a lot of emotions. we heard the worst in people, realized there were far too many awful things going on in the world that never made the papers. we walked and talked people through the most awful, scary, terrifying moments that they may only have once in their lives, and we did it over and over, ten or twelve hours at a time.
at first, parts of the job were difficult to get used to. you hear people's children stop breathing, feel the terror in a woman's voice as she whispers for help while her abusive husband sits unaware in the next room. you hear detailed accounts of sex abuse against someone's own child. you, through a phone line, sit in a room with someone who recounts as they are alone and a prowler is trying to get through their front door, or try to talk someone out of suicide knowing that you could say the right, or wrong, thing at any moment and change people's lives in a word.
after a while, each of us learned to cope in our own ways. we used laughter (as odd as that sounds) and each other. we couldn't think too much or dwell on anything, because it would slowly erode us as people. we did our best to keep people safe while they were in our care, often feeling like we were right there with them, experiencing things as they did. and often, when the responders took over and our part of the job was done, we didn't want to know how things turned out. sometimes, it was easier to disconnect emotionally when that phone line did and move on to the next call.
still, there were calls that each of us took occasionally that we couldn't shake, either because we had been there before, or that subconsciously the subject hit a nerve we would never be able to identify. for some, it was unbearable to listen to the sound of a parent's voice as their child clung to life. for others, a friend warning us of a suicide attempt from someone they loved was too emotionally staggering. and during those times for each of us, we turned off our thoughts and pulled out everything in our bag of tricks we could think of to save people, in often unusual and creative ways. and once it was over, we tried not to let the surge of emotion swallow us. because if we did get immersed in every situation, none of us could return to work for hours, days, or years at a time. we became the masters of being emotional people that could turn it off when needed. but it didn't always work.
late one night, a dispatcher of mine, and good friend besides, and i took a medical call. it was nearing the end of our graveyard shift, and we were the only two working until 7am. when a major event happened with two of us there, one would take the call as the other dispatched law, fire, and ambulance (as well as handling any other 911 calls that came in as a result, unrelated radio traffic, and any other 911 calls or holdup/burglary/fire alarms that happened simultaneously - coincidence, and poor timing, reigned at that job more than one might imagine.)
a woman called about her husband. they had been on a 40th anniversary vacation in vail and she woke to find him not breathing. as my friend walked her through giving him CPR, i alerted everyone in the area from police to paramedics and updated them on the caller and the victim's progress as they responded.
continuing to dispatch, i listened closely to the call and read the call-takers notes as she typed to get an idea of what was happening on the other end of the phone. the woman was continuing to administer rescue breaths under the direction of my friend, and excitedly exclaimed, "i think he's breathing - he's making noise!" to which the dispatcher on the phone said, "you're doing great, just keep giving rescue breaths," as she looked at me and shook her head.
there's a sound that a person makes in that situation that sounds like a lot like life, but it's not. it's an indescribable noise, often called a 'rattle' or 'gurgle', and for those who have heard it, know exactly what it means. my friend kept this woman's spirits up and commended her efforts as she continued CPR until the paramedics arrived and took over.
not too long after, one of the officers who met the woman and the ambulance at the hospital came into dispatch to catch up with us, as her shift would be ending as ours did. she looked ragged and tired, and had spent the last hour talking to the 60-something woman on an anniversary trip who had just become a widow.
the woman was as you might imagine. inconsolable, lost, bewildered. she was in a strange town that she had spent the last few days in with the love of, and the only person left in, her life. they had gone out to dinner, seen the summer beauty of vail mountain, spent two days enjoying life as any happily married duo should. and now, this lovely vacation town turned into a city where she was a stranger, knew no one, and felt utterly alien and alone.
i couldn't help but imagine what the next week of this woman's life would be like. she would return to the hotel they shared as she left it, with items belonging to her husband scattered through the bathroom, folded in the drawers, hanging in closets, items set neatly before bed on the nightstand. she would have to pack all of these items up and load them in into the car that belonged to her and her husband (and that most likely he probably drove while she sat in the passenger seat) and drive back to their home. and even there, returning to it as they left it for a wonderful journey away, all items put into their places - books hugging the bookmark at the bedside where he left off reading, sweater draped over a chair, coffee mug still in the sink.
and more than anything, i could imagine the feeling she must have had leaving town to return home, a feeling that many of us get while traveling - the sinking feeling like we had forgotten something or left something behind. and how the feeling she may have had was similar but magnified a thousand times, like she was leaving vacation and leaving the most important thing to her behind but not being able to do anything about it or erase the feeling away.
it's all part of the grief process, i suppose. but it's something you want to save people from, to help them fast forward through. because without those necessary awful moments, people might never make it through - those parts of life that feel unbearable at the time and that never seem to get easier. and through them somehow we hope that on the other side, no matter how far away that seems, things will eventually be okay.
at first, parts of the job were difficult to get used to. you hear people's children stop breathing, feel the terror in a woman's voice as she whispers for help while her abusive husband sits unaware in the next room. you hear detailed accounts of sex abuse against someone's own child. you, through a phone line, sit in a room with someone who recounts as they are alone and a prowler is trying to get through their front door, or try to talk someone out of suicide knowing that you could say the right, or wrong, thing at any moment and change people's lives in a word.
after a while, each of us learned to cope in our own ways. we used laughter (as odd as that sounds) and each other. we couldn't think too much or dwell on anything, because it would slowly erode us as people. we did our best to keep people safe while they were in our care, often feeling like we were right there with them, experiencing things as they did. and often, when the responders took over and our part of the job was done, we didn't want to know how things turned out. sometimes, it was easier to disconnect emotionally when that phone line did and move on to the next call.
still, there were calls that each of us took occasionally that we couldn't shake, either because we had been there before, or that subconsciously the subject hit a nerve we would never be able to identify. for some, it was unbearable to listen to the sound of a parent's voice as their child clung to life. for others, a friend warning us of a suicide attempt from someone they loved was too emotionally staggering. and during those times for each of us, we turned off our thoughts and pulled out everything in our bag of tricks we could think of to save people, in often unusual and creative ways. and once it was over, we tried not to let the surge of emotion swallow us. because if we did get immersed in every situation, none of us could return to work for hours, days, or years at a time. we became the masters of being emotional people that could turn it off when needed. but it didn't always work.
late one night, a dispatcher of mine, and good friend besides, and i took a medical call. it was nearing the end of our graveyard shift, and we were the only two working until 7am. when a major event happened with two of us there, one would take the call as the other dispatched law, fire, and ambulance (as well as handling any other 911 calls that came in as a result, unrelated radio traffic, and any other 911 calls or holdup/burglary/fire alarms that happened simultaneously - coincidence, and poor timing, reigned at that job more than one might imagine.)
a woman called about her husband. they had been on a 40th anniversary vacation in vail and she woke to find him not breathing. as my friend walked her through giving him CPR, i alerted everyone in the area from police to paramedics and updated them on the caller and the victim's progress as they responded.
continuing to dispatch, i listened closely to the call and read the call-takers notes as she typed to get an idea of what was happening on the other end of the phone. the woman was continuing to administer rescue breaths under the direction of my friend, and excitedly exclaimed, "i think he's breathing - he's making noise!" to which the dispatcher on the phone said, "you're doing great, just keep giving rescue breaths," as she looked at me and shook her head.
there's a sound that a person makes in that situation that sounds like a lot like life, but it's not. it's an indescribable noise, often called a 'rattle' or 'gurgle', and for those who have heard it, know exactly what it means. my friend kept this woman's spirits up and commended her efforts as she continued CPR until the paramedics arrived and took over.
not too long after, one of the officers who met the woman and the ambulance at the hospital came into dispatch to catch up with us, as her shift would be ending as ours did. she looked ragged and tired, and had spent the last hour talking to the 60-something woman on an anniversary trip who had just become a widow.
the woman was as you might imagine. inconsolable, lost, bewildered. she was in a strange town that she had spent the last few days in with the love of, and the only person left in, her life. they had gone out to dinner, seen the summer beauty of vail mountain, spent two days enjoying life as any happily married duo should. and now, this lovely vacation town turned into a city where she was a stranger, knew no one, and felt utterly alien and alone.
i couldn't help but imagine what the next week of this woman's life would be like. she would return to the hotel they shared as she left it, with items belonging to her husband scattered through the bathroom, folded in the drawers, hanging in closets, items set neatly before bed on the nightstand. she would have to pack all of these items up and load them in into the car that belonged to her and her husband (and that most likely he probably drove while she sat in the passenger seat) and drive back to their home. and even there, returning to it as they left it for a wonderful journey away, all items put into their places - books hugging the bookmark at the bedside where he left off reading, sweater draped over a chair, coffee mug still in the sink.
and more than anything, i could imagine the feeling she must have had leaving town to return home, a feeling that many of us get while traveling - the sinking feeling like we had forgotten something or left something behind. and how the feeling she may have had was similar but magnified a thousand times, like she was leaving vacation and leaving the most important thing to her behind but not being able to do anything about it or erase the feeling away.
it's all part of the grief process, i suppose. but it's something you want to save people from, to help them fast forward through. because without those necessary awful moments, people might never make it through - those parts of life that feel unbearable at the time and that never seem to get easier. and through them somehow we hope that on the other side, no matter how far away that seems, things will eventually be okay.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
i hate to say this..
but i miss the cold.
it has been too damn hot here lately. too hot to do anything - take a walk, complain.. i'd go far as to say that it's too hot to think. certainly too hot to type.
this is the first time since i've lived in california that i remember wanting to be cold. to bundle up with a cup of something hot and snuggle in not too far from an icy window pane. to walk outside and feel cold on my nose, to see my breath. granted, i wasn't a fan of the snow - hence my decision to move to sunny southern california. but truly i don't mind seeing it, and i don't mind being in it as long as i don't have to shovel my car out of it daily. vail was a bit of overkill for me. delicate snow is nice. blizzarding over vail pass and having the roads impassible is not.
but i do wish it were cold here. rain would be nice too. anything but this 88 degree in late October crap that is happening. even my desert-dwelling reptile isn't happy. he knows he's supposed to be brumating and can't figure out why his house feels like July.
on a completely different note, i bought a turkey today, complete with stuffing, rice and gravy, and all those other yummy things that used to be on my mom's southern-cookin' thanksgiving table. i figured turkey would feed me for a while, and it sounded like a fun project (i learned how to cook one not too many years ago, so having it turn out well is still a bit of a novelty for me.) i just have to wait to start until later tonight or tomorrow morning so my house won't evaporate.
in the meanwhile, i have to get this laptop off of my lap. i'm already uncomfortable in jeans and having a heat-emitting electronic device on my lap is just not making me happy. i feel like filling up my tub with champagne, aloe and icecubes, though it would be easier and more cost effective to pull my shades, turn on both fans, and pretend i was in a vegas hotel room.
it has been too damn hot here lately. too hot to do anything - take a walk, complain.. i'd go far as to say that it's too hot to think. certainly too hot to type.
this is the first time since i've lived in california that i remember wanting to be cold. to bundle up with a cup of something hot and snuggle in not too far from an icy window pane. to walk outside and feel cold on my nose, to see my breath. granted, i wasn't a fan of the snow - hence my decision to move to sunny southern california. but truly i don't mind seeing it, and i don't mind being in it as long as i don't have to shovel my car out of it daily. vail was a bit of overkill for me. delicate snow is nice. blizzarding over vail pass and having the roads impassible is not.
but i do wish it were cold here. rain would be nice too. anything but this 88 degree in late October crap that is happening. even my desert-dwelling reptile isn't happy. he knows he's supposed to be brumating and can't figure out why his house feels like July.
on a completely different note, i bought a turkey today, complete with stuffing, rice and gravy, and all those other yummy things that used to be on my mom's southern-cookin' thanksgiving table. i figured turkey would feed me for a while, and it sounded like a fun project (i learned how to cook one not too many years ago, so having it turn out well is still a bit of a novelty for me.) i just have to wait to start until later tonight or tomorrow morning so my house won't evaporate.
in the meanwhile, i have to get this laptop off of my lap. i'm already uncomfortable in jeans and having a heat-emitting electronic device on my lap is just not making me happy. i feel like filling up my tub with champagne, aloe and icecubes, though it would be easier and more cost effective to pull my shades, turn on both fans, and pretend i was in a vegas hotel room.
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