The Museum

There are moments in our shared history that feel like museum exhibits in my memory. Perfectly curated and preserved, they loom, threatening fresh hell to me if I fail to unlock their hidden lessons. In wallowing I stroll among the artefacts and try to decrypt the enigmatic puzzle of my sorrow. I replay conversations, and relive intimacies, recalling with acute agony the decadent fulfilment of needs. Such cruel irony that those very pleasures became the fine edge of a blade upon which I repeatedly throw myself, heart first. This exposition brings me no pleasure to patronize, but I suspect somewhere in my psyche a choice has been made in favor of suffering over you rather than finally letting you go. So I scroll backward in our chronology, allowing myself the disappointment to which I cling, with the higher goal of completing this catharsis. With any luck I will find peace from the tormenting thoughts of you on the other side.

What a thrill the beginning was. From across an ocean we spotted one another. I could see you. You could see me. We both remembered meeting backstage in a dressing room what feels like a hundred lifetimes ago. When you said, "I was wearing four inch heels and still had to look up at you," you salved a tenderness in my ego. My insecurities withered under the full sun of your sincere admiration. You reminded me the pleasure of being consensually objectified, and I found it in myself to flaunt my most underappreciated qualities for you, while basking in your ogling. You adored all the things I despised about myself, and amazingly enough it was reciprocal. Essentially both of our least favorite attributes were the subject of the other's paraphilia. It was perfectly symbiotic...quixotic, even.

Only the greatest loves of my life have felt as present as you were. Waking nearly every morning to recordings of your rich voice; hearing the narrative of you wrapping up your day, and welcoming me to my own; you daring me to begin my morning with a smile; every detail of the fabric we wove together was a priceless textile; a foreign delicacy. We shared so much joy that I can recall with perfect accuracy the crescendo of your laugh when I said something you found particularly compelling. We were personal. We were political. We were deviantly sexual. Together we were an endless conversation.

Like a pair of pioneers we navigated the discovery and negotiated the exploration of sexual boundaries effortlessly. There were so many interlocking edges that I lost count. When and if we were ever finally able to act on these desires, it became clear that there was a mutual willingness for me to transactionally possess your body and satisfy both of our delight with an extensive endurance test of our profound sexual drives. For how long can you remain receptive to my sadistic lovemaking? For how long can I draw out the pleasure before allowing the release? For how long can I dominate you? What will it take for me to make your body sing? To play you like an instrument of ecstatic pleasure? And how will it feel to finally surrender control to you when I'm exhausted? What catalytic sexual energy! When you and I connected in this way I felt like it was not a far leap for me to accept the power and efficacy of sex magic if it originated in feelings such as these, because it absolutely felt alchemical and supernatural. It felt like you and I together could change the world just by fucking.

In retrospect it all sounds absurd now. This promenade down memory lane has intentionally heretofore omitted all of the warning signs I ignored, in the same sense that they were obscured from my direct awareness until it was too late. It was far too late for me to recover unaffected by the time I realized you were not capable of being honest with yourself about what we were doing. You lied to yourself and thus lied to me. When you tell this story to others you will give them the acceptable version of events, that you turned me away to protect your other relationship, except you will not tell them that your other relationship required no protection from me. You will give them the redacted report with the particularly inflammatory embellishments you texted me about how I was "lashing out" and that "our expectations didn't align." I cannot tell you how sorry I was to read your revisionist perspective. There is no amount of spin that can erase the catalog of media and communications I have of our affair. You cannot take it back from me. You can cauterize our connection and stuff all our memories deep into the inky black abyss that must be your inner shadow, but you cannot disabuse me from my memory. We may have never gotten our real, live, face to face date, but energetically speaking I know that our connection was fast and deep. I know I fucked you like you always wanted to be fucked, and you let me fuck you the way I always wanted to fuck. That isn't arrogance. That was real. I know it. I know we were falling in love, regardless of the distance between us, and however terrifying it was for both of us.

You know how I know it was real? You told me in so many ways. Your time and attention were significant. Your physical response. Your trust.

You did make me doubt it for a time, after I acknowledged to myself that you only showed me what you wanted me to see. At that point everything you said became suspect, and required reexamination. But I have this fucking museum of our shared history etched into my heart and mind that has been my taskmaster for the last 2+ weeks. After several days of trapping myself in there to study it, I emerged knowing what we shared was about as real as anything could ever be. You ranting to me that "monogamy is death" a mere two days before you closed your relationship was not my imagination. I still have the recording, actually. I still have everything you ever sent me. Every photograph, every voice text, every word uttered in SMS. My phone is a museum, too. I've moved them so I don't see them anymore, and I certainly don't plan to open the tomb of our text thread anytime soon, but it's all still there. I haven't been able to get rid of it yet. So while I am happy for you if you've convinced the people who matter to you that your latest version of events is true, I will always know how you felt about me. I know that you crawled as far out onto the limb as you could, clawing toward the life that you most crave, and I know that you got scared, tucked tail, and returned to the arms of your possessive fiancé, slamming the door closed on your polyamorous proclivities till death do they part. GROSS!

Was I a bit of a crush blind fool? Perhaps. I fail to see the harm in that, except to myself. For that you can be sure I have already thoroughly repented and will continue to self-flagg-urbate.

I've catalogued here the most iconic highlights of our short yet epic chapter. I've been working very hard to let it go. I'm trying to release my frustration and forgive you, forgive myself, forgive the universe. I know that I don't miss you as much as I miss the way I felt when we were connected. I miss the friendship, the laughter, the heretical and sexually provocative nature of our interactions. Unfortunately however, you have left me with little but memories, a cache of sexually perverse media, and scorched earth. You are not what I want back in my life. I want the feelings again, but certainly not from you. You have hurt my pride sufficiently enough for me to pass on that, thank you.

For what it's worth, you might like to know that I think I am close to forgiving you for treating me the way you felt about yourself. I'm sorry I got caught up in your self denial and broken dreams, but I suppose it was worth it for everything I learned about myself. I will always be grateful for that evolution, and for the memories that I have of us which remain unsullied by our abrupt ending. I really, truly, deeply hope that I'm wrong about the inevitable dumpster fire you're going to have to put out when you realize these sacrifices were made in a vain attempt to repair a relationship that could not be saved. I hope that you can paradoxically forget every word you ever said to me about hating monogamy and requiring freedom, for the benefit of your pending nuptials. I hope it doesn't feel like settling. In fact, I hope for both of your sakes that it feels better than anything you and I ever shared. I, too, would like to create some new memories, and let this museum go on to collect dust.

Ascii Art Portrait

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Poly don’t live here anymore

I probably need to write a book about the poly couples who structure their boundaries so that their partners can never fully bond with another (ahem, to keep them from leaving). In my mind this is not really polyamory, it is polyamory with training wheels. I understand that deep down we are all afraid of being left behind, but historically we know there is no relationship structure that will prevent your partner from finding love in another. Even monogamy doesn’t work that way. Cheaters gonna cheat and there is not a promise to be made which will stop that from happening. In the same sense, lovers are going to love each other even if you ask your partner not to XYZ with partner B. But you know, go ahead and close up your relationship even though you preach the poly gospel. Go back into the closet with them. Make sure you bring all of your newfound clarity about relationships! I wish you the best of luck trying to retrofit monogamy back onto your relationship style, even though it was ill fitting prior to all of that growth.

Things that don't exist:

Never
Forever
Utopia
Ideal
Perfection
Binary gender, sex, or sexuality
God
Satan

The Only Woman in the Room

Every smart and powerful woman who dares to challenge the status quo in a male dominated field will find she must endure room after room filled with men in power, many of whom are fundamentally undeserving of such a position, who will be vested with the authority of passing judgment on her accomplishments. Any time she wishes to proceed another level upward, she will encounter another room (or series of rooms, more likely) full of those men, and in every one of them she will find at least one small brained, insecure man, who would sooner burn the institution to the ground than to feel himself emasculated by her; to see his abilities and evolution eclipsed by her success.

Within the walls of these rooms he will exploit the collective fears of men, capitalizing on the implicit trust they share with one another, the same trust they deny the female sex. It is in this way that the achievements of women are usurped and erased by lesser men. To compete with men in a male arena where judgment is passed by men, a woman must accept that her ideal outcome should be modified to incorporate this reality. Whenever possible it may be prudent to realign one's goals so as not to be in direct competition. When that is not possible and a direct comparison must be made, a woman must take every measure possible to load her arsenal with strategic firepower. Generate channels of influence. Invite feminist allies to represent her. Create a team, or better yet, a following.  Keep transparent intentions and obfuscated plans of action. Do not let them see her become emotional. Do not let them antagonize her feminist sensibilities. She must keep her head down and do her work. If she is extremely lucky, perhaps her ideas will be accepted by mankind, but not before assigning credit to one of their own (men).

Such is the way of this patriarchal world. For centuries the accomplishments of women have been rewritten, stolen, lost, and/or destroyed. If woman is to ever find a way out of the supporting roles in the great machine of humanity, she must first accept and understand its current assembly.

Real Magic

The sky was ominous that day

A portent for the natural destruction

That would topple a power line in the mountains

And turn our friend's labored storytelling into

A type of ghost story

We used our modern appliances

To illuminate your garden

To play music that drowned out the violent nature beyond

Lattice protected in climbing ivys

Sheltered us from the winds that brewed

With us in the cauldron

We listened to a tail of woe so alien to my ears

That when at last he finished my hands found his

And my eyes met his

And I offered words of thanks

Gratitude that he felt safe enough to share

We sat around a tabletop littered affectionately with the spoils of pleasure

Rolling papers and lighters and a dusting of tobacco and weed

Bottles emptied of their spirits

And then the song played

The song that would lift us all from our seats

And we danced

We danced like no one was watching

But we did watch each other, did we not?

For a few songs this went on until our friend made a polite exit into

The still dark early morning

And it was only moments after that you led me to your room

Few words were exchanged

Perhaps because nothing needed to be said

We both already knew

So much good humor already shared

Trust and understanding accumulated in genuine conversations

Sunsets

Afternoons languishing in the sun

Shared spliffs and quaffs and meals

And then at last this perfectly magical night brought us alone together in the dark

There was an unspoken knowledge

We found each other's edges and they interlocked like puzzle pieces

Shapes 

Shifting together

Breathing labored but rhythmic

Love overflowing

Spilling out onto the sheets

And into my dreams which came so easily

Wrapped up in your space

Folded carefully together into a tiny bed

Until morning came

And the magic still present in the room

Was hidden when the light and power returned

A truly supernatural connection

That shone brightly on the eerie night to illuminate a darkly electric evening

I left your bedside knowing

We had performed sorcery that night

The Idea of You

I remember every detail of that first night
When you turned your full attention on me
My surroundings blurred into the background
Your caramel eyes shone
As your intention revealed itself

I was caught in your enchanting spell

That night, there would be

Glittering plankton illuminating our waking reverie

Moonlight dancing on our skin

Eyes beaming as we relished in seeing each other

Nude

In both the physical and philosophical sense

We swam in that dark night in the Aegean Sea

Approaching one another's mystery

Pausing to catch our breath just outside the gate

More nights with you and

I remember how

You sang so sweetly to me

Spellbinding me with your stories

Lips painted with red and a trace of blue glitter

Changing dresses

Multilingual flirtation

Filling all the plates on a buffet of both intellectual and fetishist desires

You reawakened my instincts to hunt

I let you work your magic on me

I wanted it

I wanted your magic

To dose myself on your potent remedy

To feast upon your flesh with a Dionysian appetite

However

Your magic was sadly

Not what I imagined it would be

Quite early on I got the sense that our story

Would be a tragedy

Looking back, one can see plainly

The foreshadowing was more than obvious

But I was blinded by hormones

Blinded by your enchantments

Transfixed by your steady, heady gaze

I was so intoxicated that I

Prostrated myself and ignored my own needs

To accommodate the particularity of your situation

Accepted your inaccessibility

And remained hopelessly oblivious as the warning signs began to appear

Then one night early on in our exchange

I walked into a dangerous scene

We were drunk when you put a strap in my hand

Asked me to restrain you

And slipped on a blindfold

I'm sure you already warned me

About this pattern of behavior

And your aftermath

Before I myself became a player in your production

Still the blindness

I am so grateful for my instincts that night

You willed me to abuse your body

Enthusiastic consent tasted so sweet

With the utmost of self-control

I revealed only a brief glimpse of my inner sadist

You were warned previously that this was not a simple task for me

That the aftercare is special for repentant sadists

But I choked on the bitter fruit of its absence

And later on your shaming of me for needing it

This scene became the site of our undoing

The beginning of the end

You characterized my earnest and most heartfelt needs

As demanding praise

You punished my tender female masculinity

Worst of all

You insulted me in the way that hurt the most

By telling me it wasn't enough

Perhaps that should have been the end of the story

But I refused to see reality

I continued to abuse myself for your attention

While you continued to deny me access

Refusing 

To see me

To accept my compliments

To let me cook for you or buy you dinner

To leave gifts at your doorstep

Yet still wanting me close to you

To walk you home at night

To sleep in your bed

To hold you and never ask for more

Amazingly I gave you everything you asked

And you still didn't want me

You began to seem

Rather impossible to please

And the more you avoided me and withheld

The more I compromised my needs

At last we were able to reconcile that fateful night

And you told me then that it was done

In more ways than one

And yet somehow I found a shred of optimistic hope

In the closeness we shared for those final days

On that mountainous island

Walking hand in hand

Climbing and photography

Dining and sitting close

Dancing together and having fun

It all meant so much to me

You even bought me a very special gift

A charm that still pitifully makes me dizzy

For thinking of you now
Like a horcrux

(I need to get rid of it but I have not yet)

But that final night when I walked you home

I at last had to walk out the doorway of my illusions

I asked you for hope

And of course you withheld

So I left you there to begin my journey home

To return to myself alone

It was not quite over though

You had one final stone to cast

Just in case I had any lasting good impressions

You made sure to give my heart one last stab

Apparently I was too familiar in social media chat

Speaking too frankly

Too late

How dare I bother you with my feelings after all that has passed?!

You were so hurtful

You told me we are not that close

Your tone so condescending I gagged on it

And even after all of that

I have been unable to relieve myself of you

To rid myself of this burden of psychodramatic warfare

When I really let myself think of all these painful scenes

And even your passive aggressive instagram memes

For which you later accused and unfollowed me for doing

All the while it was you who was truly mean

Oh the crippling irony!

So I process and I process

I can see this pattern clearly playing out

Through my romantic history

This clinging to past dreams

When clearly they have disintegrated completely

And at last my moment of clarity

Came to me just this morning

I finally see exactly what I have been doing to myself

Somewhere in my mind remains the naïve hope

That the person I thought I met

Is still in there

That our friendship could survive

That all of these innumerable offenses can somehow be rationalized

And my idea of you

My idea of what we could have together would be realized

Alas I think that ship has sailed into the sunset

Past the fisherman who sold fish we would never eat together

Away from the bus stop we saw being vandalized

Beyond Sappho's Face and the mountain we climbed together

Across the Aegean

Smuggling away my idea of you

Leaving wakes that could cause a man to lose himself at sea

Goodbye.

Crush Blindness

Do you ever wonder what is going on in your brain when you have a crush? I have been wondering about that lately, because I was recently reminded that crushes are the brain's hallucinogen. You see things that aren't there, you act against your own nature, and you ignore information that might otherwise divert you from your current path.

I did some research, and what I found is that hormones are once again controlling everything. When we feel lust our brain is awash with what is essentially adrenaline and pleasure. Some research has also suggested that lowered levels of seratonin are a part of the cocktail, which incidentally are similar to the levels seen in patients battling with OCD. So next time you ask yourself why you cannot stop thinking about someone you barely know, remember that it is likely your brain has taken you hostage! It is actually a normal physiological reaction to get nervous around them, and think about them more than you would any other new relation, because your brain is basically drowning in thrilling happiness juice.

So, in short, you are crazy for a time. The symptoms were literally referred to by one article I read as a "temporary mental illness" that can last up to two years.

What does this tell me? Hold the commitments back for at least two years when you are dating, because you are just plain not in your right mind when you have a crush.

Open Letter To My Fellow Butches: Stop Dating Straight Women

Growing up knowing you are gay has a way of forcing you to learn some interesting coping skills. One of the first things I remember having to cope with in relation to my queer sexuality is crushing on straight women. At my large high school with a student body of roughly 3,500 students, even back in 1998, I was one of few people who could be visually identified as queer, even before I ever contemplated the word "lesbian" or "bisexual" as a label for myself. What that really means is there were no other women around like me to help me learn about myself. Instead I was able to see and be seen by a couple of flamboyant young men, and a couple of male friends who were still in their adolescent closet but would come out soon enough.

During this developmental age when most kids are busy mooning over angsty teen romance, I was alone. My increasingly less frequent interactions with boys my age were fraught with disappointment, and my interest in women swelled like a prize winning fruit in summer...and yet, there was no one for me to even crush on, so I allowed myself to lust after the only women around me, who were, at least back then, 100% hetero.

Next year marks my 20 year anniversary of completing high school, and it has taken me a long time, but I've finally added heterosexuality to my list of romantic dealbreakers.

How can a lesbian date a straight woman? Honestly I'm probably not the one to answer that, but I assure you that it happens. I could wax poetic about the allure of her curiosity and the ego glory of giving someone truly proper sexual satisfaction for the first time, but that is not what I'm writing about today. The allure of curiosity is a trap, and at my age I no longer relate to women who spend their whole lives without getting to know their own bodies.

Furthermore, if you are butch like me, you must know by now that you are a rare breed. As I explained earlier, a lot of butches from my generation started out alone, not knowing if there was anyone else in the world like us. For the younger generations, I think it is a different kind of pain; they grow up knowing there exists a fierce subculture of bull dykes and drag queens and queer femmes and bears, terrifying and brilliantly bold as brass, but they must wait in isolation to access the majority of it.

You are that rare breed, that beacon to mankind which exposes the error of binary thinking where it relates to humanity. Just by existing you challenge the status quo, and you owe it to yourself and your community to withhold all that makes you a unicorn from the unappreciative.

Why's that?

Because you are magnificent. Somehow you managed to escape all of the "girlifying" and "pretty making." You play with the boys and win. You get dirty, and clean up handsomely. You walk with a sexy strut. You are not afraid to wear a tie and suspenders, even if they hang differently around your breasts. Still, underneath all that toughness, you are purely female; all softness and curves, and only the right woman can unlock the gates and penetrate your walls. (shameless entendre, I know)

Of course all or none of these may apply to you in particular, because butch is not defined by clothing, but by attitude and an unyielding lack of cooperation with being treated subhuman because one was born without a penis. Regardless of what butch is to you, merely being yourself is precisely what makes you so interesting, and although you may not have found any butch loving queers yet, trust me when I tell you there are loads of them out there who can't wait to meet you.

You know what is better than curiosity and beginner's sex? Meeting a woman who takes one look at you and knows that you are a certain type - HER type. She swoons at your big hands and muscular arms. She wears that outfit that makes you check her out all night. She works for YOUR attention, and not any male gaze. She is thrilled to let you open her door, not because you're a butch and you act like a man, but because it is both polite and sexy to do things for someone.

So! Stop chasing straight women. Let the discovery of her fundamental heterosexuality turn your blood cold. Let the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Let your stomach churn, and your spidey senses send you running from that situation like it was a house afire. Let it repulse you in any manner necessary, as long as it saves you for those lovers who TRULY SEE YOU at first encounter. Do not let a person's fear of being outed dull your fabulous gay shine. We are the special ones. We glitter like gold wherever we go. Let them suffer. Let them wish. Let them fantasize. And when they can't take it anymore, let them come out and join our rainbow family. If they cannot do that much, they do not deserve you!

Communication Expert?

The truest test of your communication skills is being able to speak effectively with someone who has none.

Don't stand still

Becoming Arrogant

If I had a dollar for every baby king I observed going from a butch lesbian with low self esteem to a total egotist, I could probably take my girl out for a steak dinner. I have learned it is a part of the process of becoming to learn to love yourself and often it is not graceful...it just shouldn't be the last change you undergo. I guess for some it is like coming home to themselves. They always wanted to be an asshole and now they finally love themselves enough for that to be possible...sigh...

To all of you baby kings out there, my wish for you is that you learn quickly that arrogant is not who you are.

Pakistani Queer

I met a queer couple the other night. One woman was from Pakistan. Luckily she was from a loving supportive family, but listening to her describe being a queer woman in Pakistan...her fear of death was palpable.

Count your blessings.

Lala/Juanito

For 17 days this winter my cat, Lala, was sentenced to the cat collar of infinite shame while recovering from a dubious laceration on his tail. For more than two weeks I fed him his wet food every day, because the poor guy couldn't eat in the collar without making a mess. We napped together. We bonded. We synergized.

About halfway through this ordeal, I noticed he seemed to be more obedient in the collar. Of course his limited mobility would be the more obvious reason that he was getting into less trouble than usual, but there seemed to be more to the story.

Then toward the end of his recovery, I removed the collar to let him bathe himself. When I went to put it back on him, he sat so calmly with his chin pointed straight up in the air, and patiently let me adjust the tension of the cord, tying a bow he could not undo. My girlfriend and I watched him together in quiet wonder; this normally quite rebellious and difficult cat was behaving like a trained show dog.

The wheels in my brain started cranking. We joked about the possible similarities between BDSM collars and cat collars. We wondered together how much of the obedience training might remain once he was fully healed.

Then I remembered a guy I worked with about 150 million years ago. For the purpose of this story, the only thing you really need to know about Juan was that he was a successful gay male bartender whose arrogance can only be described as an objet d'art. By that I mean, he thought so highly of himself that he scarcely ever had any reason to speak to me, in spite of the fact that I was his barback at least a few nights a week. To be fair, he was well tipped and he tipped me well, so I didn't really care much. I had no illusions about our status. Nevertheless, it has to be said that Juan was a catty bitch.

Then one day Juan showed up to work exhibiting symptoms from a condition called Bell's Palsy. For anyone who hasn't heard of it, it results in paralysis in a main facial nerve on one side, leaving that side of your face slack while the other side functions normally. It is rather unfortunate, especially since doctors don't seem to know much about what causes it. So Juan showed up to work for a week or two like that. No matter how I felt about the guy, I felt compassion for him. No one deserves that nonsense. I'm not joking about his condition in any way. What I did find funny at the time however, was that Juan was suddenly nice to me. Just like that. I'd worked with him for years and he barely ever spoke to me, but when he was dealing with this condition he actually said hello to me and interacted with me quite a lot more than usual.

What do you think happened when the palsy symptoms went away? Juan went right back to being a big old bitch.

So when my girlfriend and I were wondering about Lala, and whether he would return to his status of unholy terror once untethered from his shameful salad bowl shaped necklace, I told her the story about Juan the bitchy bartender and his bout with Bell's Palsy. Together we debated the rhetoric of whether Lala's inner Juan is gone? Or is that catty bitch coming out when we untie the collar? Is Lala only being nice to me because he is feeling weak and sorry for himself?

Yesterday we freed him from his restraint. He spent the first few hours in that twitchy sort of trance only cats can achieve, darting around like a frenzied maniac. That was when he earned the nickname Juanito. As it turns out, Lala's inner Juan is not gone. Then later on he crashed and slept most of the day, and we saw his snuggly, lovable side. He really seems to have two personalities.

Now that we are on day 2, I really think he is a changed little man, Juanito moments aside. I cannot officially attest to the efficacy of collar training your cat, but it seems to have made a difference with mine. Who knew?

International Women's Day 2017

Recently a friend and former colleague who works for a very posh company shared with me that his company has set the goal of hiring X Number of female developers. It is a big company and I seem to recall the number was small, like maybe ten. My reaction was positive. He said, "Okay good, tell me more about why you feel that way because I have a female co-worker who was very upset by it. She said she didn't want to find out she was only hired for her gender." To which I replied, "Why not? It happens to men every day. Men have privilege and they don't know it. It comes so natural to them they wear it like skin. Perhaps they get more credit than is due, just like when men are hired because they are men. And one company has dedicated a single objective for themselves to extend that extra favor to probably ten lucky women.

You may not like it, but if you really want equality between the sexes, women have to acknowledge that while we are underpaid and under praised, men are also OVER paid and OVER praised. They are promoted without reason, taken into the fold, and groomed for success starting at a young age.

Normally women have to be better than all of their peers just to avoid appearing inferior. Here is one small example of a very smart company shifting the balance for a brief moment in time. So don't fight the progress, friends. We have earned it, collectively, and I applaud everyone involved for giving women an edge, albeit a tiny one.

So take whatever they are offering and do not think twice about it. Do it for all the women who are blocked from management. Do it for the women who can't rise up. Do it because we all deserve a little favoritism once in a while.

Rebuilding routines has me like

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

Every Day You Are New Again

The best existential gift is renewal. Every dawn that rises above you wakes you with the promise to try again and create a new path.

My superpower is being American (obnoxious)

Sometimes when I need to get things done in this country, I bust out my inner American without even thinking about it. It is effective if you don't mind being patronized a little. It happened yesterday and I almost felt guilty about it afterward. Almost.

Even feminists are guilty

Female value is measured by their use to men.

One night in Antwerpen, circa Feb 2016

Last night I was lost and found myself drawn toward a purple light, which gave an allure of nightclub. I approached the massive doors to read the sign above that said, "Club Silk, an American club." I went to open the door and realized I had to ring a bell. A beautiful woman cracked the door open to talk to me. I asked if she would speak English with me. She said of course. I told her I was American, and lost, and what not. Apparently I passed inspection, which presumably included identifying me as male, because the next thing she did was open the large door under the purple lights to reveal the plush interior of Club Silk. She turned to her colleague and said, "He is American," and walked away to let them deal with me. I knew the moment I realised I had to ring a doorbell that it was not a nightclub, but I was damn curious by then. The mystique lingered a moment longer as I peered in through the open door to the harem of barely dresed femmes slowly coming into view. When I asked where I was, they replied, "This is a strip club."

I was definitely not in the mood for a strip club last night (though under the circumstances it certainly felt like a warm port on a cold stretch of road), but it made for a vivid memory. I especially liked being recognized as a friendly face and welcomed in, even if they were a bit off the mark.