azurelunatic: A glittery black pin badge with a blue holographic star in the middle. (Default)
azurelunatic: A glittery black pin badge with a blue holographic star in the middle. (Default)
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azurelunatic: Hand-drawn XKCD map showing LJ Island with ONTD, and DW as an island off to the side.  (Online Communities)
Ten years ago today, I lost my current paper journal, which had an uncomfortable number of my thoughts, and contact information, and so much that I was very very unhappy to have lost. I begged a friend for a LiveJournal invite code, and started a journal that I would never be able to drop in a classroom.

It wasn't my very first attempt at an online journal -- the Angelfire site I made is still up kicking around somewhere, and I had a "rants" section in there that resembled a blog. But LJ was the one that stuck, and as you can see, while I may have migrated, I have not forgotten my first beloved journal, and I have every intention of keeping it warm and occupied until either I die or the lights go off in the data center. (And if I should die first, if any asshat should tell you that my journal should be deleted, please tell them very kindly that I would not have wanted it that way, and that you'll be honoring my wishes thanks very much.)

This particular lineage of journal was started twenty years ago in January. The US had started air attacks in the Persian Gulf, and I realized that keeping an account of my (sheltered, privileged little ten-year-old) thoughts might be valuable at least to my descendents. (I'd been reading Rilla of Ingleside.) I'd kept journals for school before, but this was the first one I was keeping for myself and my own purposes. It soon degenerated from my Deep Thoughts to my far more candid thoughts about Boys and School and similar. I kept the journal in a succession of volumes, and to this day still maintain a paper version, albeit infrequently updated.



Sixteen years ago yesterday, I had a very awkward phone conversation with my friend Bugs. He had a crush on a particular senior, and he'd walked from one high school building to the other with her. He was actually supposed to walk with me. We were going to take the path through the woods and make out. He knew about and condoned my crush on a friend of his (he'd tried to set us up, and it hadn't entirely worked); I knew about and condoned his crush on the senior. I had to convince him that I wasn't about to kill him. Once he realized that I wasn't mad, he suddenly realized that hey wait, I thought she was hot too!

This necessitated a call with our mutual friend, the single out-of-the-closet lesbian in the entire high school. (There couldn't have been more than a thousand kids there. I had to go trawl wikipedia looking for the answers, which wasn't very satisfying because then I had to go to other sources to get the frelling numbers I wanted, which weren't actually the numbers I wanted, just maximum capacity, which we'd exceeded my freshman year.) Out of our less-than-a-thousand, we had Savil, and a guy who I shall call Anton. No one else was brave enough to expose themselves to the possible static that could be generated by a school who thought that a fun joke when getting control of the scrolling LED sign in the commons was to put 'KKK' on it.

Savil asked questions, and I answered them honestly, and soon I was in possession of the nearest thing to a Certified Bisexual sign that you could get: the realization that I had a bit of a crush on this senior, and that I wouldn't be any more opposed to some hanky-panky with a woman than I would with a man, and that a Real Live Lesbian had told me that in her opinion I was bisexual.


It's been more than half my life now. I'm an adult. I started [community profile] beginningcocks, which is sex-ed as well as painful hilarity. I'm helping raise a chatful of fish. I get assorted questions about sexuality, gender, and the like. My fish are a lot more aware of the various possibilities out there as far as sexuality and so forth than I was. They are aware that bisexuality exists. I wasn't until 1995 January 13. They are aware that the gender of some people's brains don't fit the sex that they were described as being at birth. Most of them may even be aware that some people are asexual.



These dates are far more important to me, and have far more directly to do with who I am from day to day, than global events. Those build the world that I live in, yes, but I build the me who lives inside that world.
azurelunatic: (Queer as a) $3 bill in pink/purple/blue rainbow.  (queer as a three dollar bill)
So a number of authors, some I've never heard of, and some I love dearly, were invited to an anthology, "Wicked Pretty Things". Then Jessica Verday announced that the editor had asked her to change a male/male romance in her story to a male/female romance, and was withdrawing from the anthology because that is just not okay.

[personal profile] cleolinda has been keeping track of some of the fallout. Seanan McGuire withdrew.


Please allow me to digress a bit.


It was 1995. I was engaged. We were fifteen and fourteen. We'd met at a summer academic camp; I'd been taking a writing class. We lived some few thousand miles apart: Pennsylvania and Alaska. Around Christmas, I bought matching, interlocking silver rings, and sent one off in the mail with a promise and a proposition -- a proposal: if we still feel this way after we're done with high school, after we're done with college, why don't we get married? The ring I got back didn't quite cross in the mail with the one I sent out, but it was pretty close. We'd been making the same plans. We were officially engaged.

In the ensuing year, I met a local guy in my theatre class. Longtime readers of this journal will know him as Shawn. (That Idiot Shawn, to be precise.) I fell head-over-heels for him. I'd already tackled the polyamory concept at camp, though I didn't realize that there was a word for it until [livejournal.com profile] boojum sent me an email telling me that there was such a thing and here were some starting points for research. So I was polyamorous. So I was engaged, and I was also in love with this local guy, and while it wasn't exactly okay -- I was in denial about the love for the local guy, I let him know I was off the market on account of being engaged, I knew that I was wired polyamorously but the only permissable Other Significant Other in this case would have been [livejournal.com profile] pyrogenic -- it was not something that challenged my identity. I was able to trace the ethical stack that made polyamory, and accepting it where all parties were in agreement, the thing to do, back to preschool. Montessori school. Raffi. "The More We Get Together", "The Sharing Song". I should share my toys. I should share my treats. I should share my books. I should share my friends. So why shouldn't people share boyfriends or girlfriends?

It was a long-distance high school romance. The odds were already stacked against it. I fell harder for Shawn. Shawn started behaving dangerously, scarily, and I went right along with him as if I'd never heard that such thing as a lie could exist. I was a mess, jumping when the phone rang and crying at night, and dragging people into the mess with me.

Eventually (too soon, not soon enough) I realized that my engagement was dead, mostly on account of me being mixed up with Shawn.

1996. Summer vacation. Not even a year from when we'd first met. I felt horrible. I was still in love -- but I loved Shawn more, and it wasn't right to not set my partner free. It was a morning. Tuesday, I think. I was alone in the house, listening to the radio. It was the expensive time of day to call, $0.37 a minute. I'd already racked up a horrendous phone bill with all of the Shawn-related problems. This couldn't wait, and it wouldn't take long.

As I picked up the phone to dial the number my fingers knew so well, a song came on the radio: Roxette, "It Must Have Been Love". It was indeed over now. I made the call. The conversation was short, and a painful relief for both of us. Less than a minute ended the future we'd been imagining for ourselves. I'd already cried myself out. There were no tears, not until much later.

1997. Fairbanks Summer Fine Arts Camp. This year I was enrolled as a writing student, not a visual arts student. It was my first experience of a formal peer critique group outside the halfhearted attempts in my English class, and I craved the feedback of my peers, the more incisive the better. My ego wasn't bound up in the words I'd already produced, but in the determination that with enough people telling me what I got right and what I got wrong, I could write a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. I wrote fearlessly, edited relentlessly, and put out twice as many words as any other member of the class.

It was time for me to lay my soul bare before the rest of the class. I wrote the story of that sickening minute of breakup, simply entitled "$0.37". It was my turn to read. I started. I paused.

"... he ...", I said, and edited myself on the fly as I read aloud.

It was still my story, but it wasn't true anymore. I was erasing my identity as I spoke, afraid that my class would turn against me as my friend Sara, the one from the big Mormon family, had. I was polyamorous. I was bisexual. I was slamming the closet door shut and crying inside it. I felt horrible. My reading fell flat. I was still acting, as I'd been trained to do in those theatre classes, but it was no longer in service of making the audience feel their way through my breakup, but in service of me not crying in front of them, not betraying the edit. The praise from my classmates didn't make me feel any better. My ex-fiancée wasn't named Eric, and she wasn't a boy.

I confessed my crime to the teacher, afterward, in private. She comforted me, and said that she'd suspected when I read it. She told me it was more powerful the way it belonged, and I should not be ashamed of having written it.

1997. Winter. I had a new, local, girlfriend. One fine evening, her father invited a co-worker of his to a family dinner. When he found out that the co-worker had a son close to his daughter's age, the son was invited too. And since both of them knew me, why didn't Azzie come too? So I came. And ... it was me, my girlfriend, and Shawn. Awkward!

Eventually, we three teenagers retreated to her room, letting the grown-ups talk shop. It was quiet in there. Dark. Perfect for sharing the sorts of secrets you can't repeat in the light. You could have cut the sexual tension with a knife. We were on the verge of an enthusiastic bisexual polyamorous snogging session -- my fingers were skating up her leg, Shawn's hand tracing patterns on her arm, Shawn's other hand holding me by the shoulder, completing the triangle -- when her little brother barged in and entirely ruined the mood. It was hot and hilarious and deserved to be written down for posterity. So I did. And then an English teacher asked the class if maybe any of us had any essays or anything that we'd written that we might like to share with the class.

I started reading. This essay started slow, with all the hilarious mishaps of dinner, and my class was giggling and eating out of the palm of my hand. Things started to get hot and heavy, even though I'd only written about how we were sitting on her bed and looking at the stars. The class was totally in the moment, listening to me. I had that flash of awareness you sometimes get when you're performing -- I'm telling this story, I have this power, they are totally engaged, I am making them feel what I felt in this moment, all the anticipation, the sexual potential, the love -- if I finished reading this, the class would be all the way with me, they would know exactly how I felt, and they would probably agree with me.

I chickened out. "And-then-her-little-brother-barged-in-and-ruined-the-mood, the end," I babbled, and slammed the green notebook shut. It was truthful, but it wasn't true. (I lost that green notebook. I have hoped to find it for many years now. I wonder what became of it.)


Before I got engaged, I told my mother I was bisexual. She tried to argue me out of giving up on boys, because she knew boys my age could be trolls. That wasn't the point. If I'd been giving up on boys, I would have said I was a lesbian. She told me to keep it quiet, because people would try to hurt me if they knew, and it could hurt my father's career. I tried asking my friend Sara, daughter of the colleague of my father's who I later suspected Mama was talking about, what she thought of two girls dating, or two boys. She said it was disgusting. I stopped talking to her. She never knew why. I told my fourth grade teacher, the one who I told all about my love life and its complications even years after elementary school, that a girl friend of mine had a crush on me. "Eewww!" she said. I stopped confiding in her.

My fiancée and I looked desperately for signs that we weren't alone in the world. Michael Stipe refusing to label his sexuality was amazingly inspirational to us. There were other hints of respected adults who weren't straight, and it was a lifeline to us. Ginger gave me Dykes to Watch Out For clippings. We existed, no matter how hard other people tried to pretend we didn't. I ignored the chilling implications of "was bisexual: now he's monogamous" for the bisexual part. Aral Vorkosigan was attracted to soldiers, on a planet where heterosexuality was the only acceptable path. He was out there. I just had to survive long enough to see a world where I could live as myself freely and without fear.


Editing my stories as I did was an act of self-erasure: sometimes necessary to survive, but not okay, never okay, merely the lesser of two evils. Pretending that the world only contains straight people is not okay. Teaching your children that the world only contains straight people is not okay. It is a denial of that-which-is, a denial of c'thia. Treating any mention of same-sex romance as inherently more sexually explicit than an equivalent action of an opposite-sex couple is not okay. Trying to pretend that the only possible ethical instance of human sexual behavior is for reproduction is not okay. Teaching your children that is not okay either.


I support Jessica Verday, and the authors who have withdrawn from this anthology, and the authors who are choosing to avoid this editor until such time as she realizes the full implications of what she asked Jessica to do, and makes a meaningful acknowledgment of this. I can hardly do otherwise.
azurelunatic: Upstretched hands bound at the wrist and chained. (wrists)
Nearly two months later, I'm finally coherent enough to post this, which has been holding up a lot of my other writing, since this has been at the top of the stack.

Okay, we are having a round of You Obviously Do Not Share My Kink But How Fucking Dare You Dismiss Me And Mine.

Scenario: a QUILTBAG event (ok so far) is scheduled opposite (uh-oh) Folsom Street Fair (erk).

I went to Folsom Street Fair last year with a bunch of friends. I realized that I liked it a lot. This year I went with a smaller group of friends. It's not everyone's bag of tea. But even if I wind up going alone, I will probably go next year, because it is my bag of tea.

Now, it's a couple days beforehand. I have already decided and declared that I am going to Folsom. Poking at Facebook to declare that I am going to Folsom (to a carefully-selected subgroup of Facebook -- my newly-created QUILTBAG list plus a handful of other locals), I discover that there is in fact a QUILTBAG-activist athletic and fundraising event scheduled in conflict.

I rant a bit. )

Scheduling an activist event opposite a party that's held to the same schedule for years? NOT SMART. Especially when the overlap is high. COMPLAINING ABOUT IT, USING DISMISSIVE LANGUAGE? Argh.
azurelunatic: (Queer as a) $3 bill in pink/purple/blue rainbow.  (queer as a three dollar bill)
2:24 AM 6/17/2010
pixy stick in your bag or are you just happy to see us. spilled water all over everything :(.

4:08 PM 6/17/2010
Oh, [personal profile] amberfox, Balboa Park Station, the one I was complaining of last night, is the Muni/BART station that I got so completely fucking lost at all those years ago and I had to call you, the one where I was down a hill what seemed like several blocks in the wrong direction.

10:00 AM 6/18/2010
Bad news:
http://www.newsminer.com/view/full_story/7972569/article-Fire-destroys-Chena-Ridge-home?instance=local_news

Mama is a potter, and the Zelinskis are family friends. Their home was lovely, and the thought of handwritten journals going up in smoke, along with everything else...

11:01 PM 6/18/2010
Spent large bits of today tidying. Multiple little boxes make my life better.

Spent other bits of today writing. We'll see how that goes.

Apropos of the radio, I feel it important to note that I spent non-trivial amounts of pondering-time in my teens on White Town's "Your Woman", wondering whether it should be interpreted straight (as it were), or whether it was as queer as I felt it ought to be, but feared would not actually get airtime in relatively-conservative Fairbanks. (But then, see things like Tool's "Stinkfist", which was a common earworm of mine in electronics class.) I ultimately concluded (after a certain amount of research that did not turn up what I wanted to learn) that it didn't matter, and furthermore, that it served me right for attempting to research, and I should be happy with the uncertainty about authorial intent.

Parts of my day that were not good: discovering that my Yahoo address was compromised by spammers. If you got spammed by my Yahoo address, I'm very sorry, and please don't click the link. (My actual email address these days is my Gmail account, with my current ubiquitous username, rather than the username I picked back in '98 or so.) Yes, I have reclaimed the address.

My legs are also still made of ow from nine storeys of courthouse.
azurelunatic: DW: my eloquence cannot be captured in 140 chars (twitter)
In the last 24 hours, I posted the following to Twitter:


Follow me on Twitter.
azurelunatic: (Queer as a) $3 bill in pink/purple/blue rainbow.  (queer as a three dollar bill)
We join our heroine in medias res, having left her about to go to chicken camp, and returning to the tale some six weeks later clearly having accomplished chicken camp, and also having had One Of Those Mornings on a recent day.


...So when I *finally* get my ass down to the courthouse Friday morning, events have started for the day and I'm relegated to the overflow room, not that I mind, because it's less crowded and it turns out that you can see the lawyers there in a way you can't in the main courtroom (as I found out today).

Several hours of stultifying lawyer-ing later, and a reunion with JD at the first recess, and a hasty retreat back upstairs to the overflow room, I am about out of my mind, and I have commenced with the sketching.

The lady with the loud but awesome black and white print dress and the red sweater and the prominent scales pin hails me. "You're really good at that," she says. "Are you a courtroom artist?"

!!!!

I am not, actually. And the long and the short and the business card and the hissing from JD ("Do you know who she is?!") and the quick trip to borrow some scanner (already set up) and some Photoshop (I don't have it, and while I have The GIMP installed it's on the other computer) of it is that you right-click, view image, and then you see the full size version. I'll get them up myself one of these days too. http://www.marriageequality.org/index.php?page=sketches

And then there was the three-day weekend, and then there was today, and there I was; until lunch we were in the downstairs courtroom, the real one, and I drew my pictures.

Prop 8 trial observer makes with the binoculars to get a better view.

Then we went upstairs and by that time we were starting all of us to become punchy, and when defense committed a particularly egregious sin of statistics I sketched a quick diagram of I SEE WHAT YOU DID THAR and flapped my arms and completely lost English in my flapping and pointing.

A Prop 8 trial observer in the upstairs overflow room makes a bunny shadow in the light from the evidence monitor projector (which had no signal at that moment).

We came home the roundabout way. There was walking. There was grocery shopping. There was my first ticket inspection on the MUNI. There was scanning, dinner, more walking. Tomorrow, all being felicitous, there will be busting of myths, several women 18+ who have never had children at a time.
azurelunatic: (Queer as a) $3 bill in pink/purple/blue rainbow.  (queer as a three dollar bill)
In the last 24 hours, I posted the following to Twitter:
  • Tuesday, 0702: Headed to join @gameboyguy13 at #prop8
  • Tuesday, 0708: @llbbooks Hen, female chicken. Rooster, male chicken. Pullet, young female chicken. Cockerel, young male. Capon, neutered male.
  • Tuesday, 0751: On BART, got my sketch pad and caffeine on board. At Civic Center in maybe 20.
  • Tuesday, 0829: Waiting in line to get into courtroom. JD says some lawyers in the elevator had a laundry cart of binders. #prop8
  • Tuesday, 0916: "What in the world is a DP?" Sanders on his daughter's partnership. #prop8
  • read the other 18 )


Follow me on Twitter.
azurelunatic: (Queer as a) $3 bill in pink/purple/blue rainbow.  (queer as a three dollar bill)
You say "coming out" like it's a neat little package, sometimes: realize that X or Y person has likely assumed that you are a heterosexual (as it's the societal default, given that it is the mode of sexual orientations, so it's perhaps a 90% safe assumption, and depending on your high school teacher, a 90% might even have been an A), then declare to them, "Hello, I am your old [relationship], [name]! I bet you had no idea, but I am [orientation]!"

And then they react to it, and eventually both of you go on your merry ways, and with any good luck they would not have been one of the people who is inclined to berate/fire/beat/rape/murder you for revealing that you are not straight.


There's a feeling I pick up from the community at large, and the feeling is that no matter how long it takes, if in the end the result of you coming out to someone is that someone accepting it, then coming out is worth it, both on a personal level for you, and for queer society as a whole.

The other part of that feeling is that the big hurdle to be overcome that is preventing people from coming out is their own fears of being rejected building up the act of coming out into a big devastating hurdle: if only people would realize that in the end many people who come out are acknowledged/embraced by the people they come out to, perhaps they would not fear it as much.

(And yes, of course these are gross oversimplifications, but they're oversimplifications that stick like little toxic needles into the hearts of young queer folk.)


It's not the act of saying "Hi, I am Azz, and I am bisexual*" to a workmate that I dread. The words are simple, and I know that particularly these days, for a woman, my risks are relatively low.

The part I dread comes in between the declaration and the acceptance where we go our own directions, where I am likely to be called upon by someone in the full exercise of their heterosexual privilege, demanding of me at least some of the following:

The commonly-understood definition of my orientation (because they have never heard of it before, and/or cannot Google it themselves)
Defense of my orientation's right to exist and/or seek romantic and sexual fulfillment
Whether I meet their preconceptions of my orientation
Exactly how I personally align and/or differ from the commonly-understood definition of my orientation
My personal relationship and sexual history
Whether or not my history complies with the definition of my orientation (either the commonly-understood definition, their own preconceived definition, or some weird combination of both)
Defense of why I identify as my orientation and not another orientation that they feel suits me better
Intimate details of my sexual activity and practices
Education on any other non-majority sexual practices and preferences they may have conflated or associated with my orientation

If, after an extensive and painful session of being quizzed about intimate details that are frankly none of their business, they then deign to accept that the orientation I stated at the beginning of things applies to me, and continue to treat me warmly, or at least continue to treat me the same as they previously had or better, then I am supposed to be grateful that the coming-out "went well", and be grateful that I was given the opportunity to educate them so that they could learn to accept our community.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I have been reading and following the most prominent parts of Racefail '09, and I was ashamed to see that as a white woman, I have been guilty of expecting the People of Color to provide me with a free/neat/tidy education after they had pointed out problematical points -- even though in most cases I did not say anything to ask or demand this. Despite not often opening my big mouth to make the situation worse, I was still failing in my mind and expectations.

Only now, after having repeatedly seen why it is my responsibility as a would-be clueful white woman to do my own damned homework, not their responsibility to give me the answers, do I begin to see why the nearly inevitable question and answer session that near-inescapably accompanies a coming-out is an exercise of heterosexual privilege and heterosexuals not wanting to do their homework.

The ritual of "Coming Out" enjoins youth to become educators and ambassadors, but also sends the message that it is OK for heterosexuals to not do their homework, that the queer community will gladly do the heavy intellectual lifting, that it is okay to anticipate a lengthy debate during which one's instinctive and possibly not thoroughly examined feelings will be expected to not be found conflicting and adhere to logical principles after announcing one's orientation (directly or indirectly).

Oh yes. Indirectly. The stereotypical "Coming Out" is when the queer person becomes tired of hiding their true self, works themselves up to it, addresses an important person in their life, and tells them their orientation. This is not the only way it gets done, oh no. There are a thousand times when you have to come out or choose not to do it, and it gets very old very fast.

Someone says something that assumes you are heterosexual, and you don't feel like letting that assumption pass.
Someone says something that assumes you are heterosexual, and you actually have to correct them because them getting it wrong is going to cause problems.
Someone assumes your sexual orientation, but got the wrong minority orientation.
Someone makes a disparaging comment about your orientation (and you don't believe they know that you are).
Someone asks about details of your personal life that would not cause comment if you were heterosexual, and you can be rude, lie, or come out. ("Is that your sister?" "Are you married?" etc.)


On a personal level for me, coming out to every person I know is too damned exhausting, even though I am okay with 99% or more of the people I have met knowing that a woman approaching me in a potential romantic or sexual sense would not get an immediate veto based solely on the fact that she is a woman. Sometimes it would even be unsafe (that other less-than-one-percent).

For the greater good of queer society as a whole, I am sometimes made to feel guilty that I do not have the resources to devote to coming out to everyone to whom it would be safe to come out to. When I do gird my loins and speak out about my sexuality even when I know there's a painful discussion coming up, I know that while I may not immediately reap the benefits of it, I'm taking one for the team, so it's all going to be OK in the end, provided I don't die of it.

I am not exactly shy about allowing people to know my sexuality. I make references to both ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends. I make mention of bisexuality (mine) in public journal entries. I belong to orientation-specific communities. I state the orientation on Facebook. My car sports a rainbow sticker and a bi pride flag sticker. Generally I do not get flak about these things, so they are not a problem. I do not mind people knowing. I do mind going through the fucking third degree when someone finds out.


It's not OK for queer people to be made to feel that they must pass as heterosexual in order to avoid conflict or be safe.
It's not OK to add to a young queer person's misery by expecting them to be a debater and ambassador on top of their other issues (and blaming them if they don't), unless they feel like doing that.
It's not OK for heterosexuals to expect us to do their homework.
It's not OK for heterosexuals to greet a queer person directly or indirectly revealing their orientation as time to attack or debate their sexuality. Revealing one's sexuality is not always and without exception an invitation to start a discussion.



*Bisexual is an oversimplification in itself. I suspect my true orientation is more in the direction of sapiosexuality, particularly as dumbasses of any gender identity actively repulse me.
azurelunatic: Cartoon woman with wild blue hair, glasses, black lipstick, and fanged grin.  (Azzgrin)
Dear Mama,

It turns out that the blue hair thing wasn't just a phase, unless you consider starting to want blue hair in 1995, trying it in 1998 and 1999 and at various points thereafter, and still wanting permanent blue hair in 2008, to be "a phase". The only reason my hair isn't blue right now is that my job's dress code isn't so thrilled with blatantly unnatural colors. That and the fact that bright blue hair and long long hair really don't go together very well, and I do like my nearly waist-length hair very much. But indigo is still an option, given that my natural hair color is so dark.

Love,
Joanie
azurelunatic: Cordless phone showing a heart.  (phone)
I do not like you, Mr. Silver Sunglasses. You are one of those mainstream-attractive-trendy boys who goes around with a look of perpetual disdain and mild hostility on his face. Once upon a time, I heard that boys were supposed to go around looking slightly pissed-off at all times to make them look more attractive. It's a nasty habit and you should stop it, because it's not actually attractive on anyone but fictional characters.

So, Mr. Silver Sunglasses, when I walk up to someone in your area and hand him a folded 3x5 notecard, saying "I want one!" in the sort of tone of voice that says you're acting like a whiny five-year-old because you think it's cute, it's actually not cute. If you think whining like a spoiled toddler is cute, you can go and fuck off over in a direction that is away from me.

In addition to all that... what do you think was on that card, exactly?

There was a little smiley-face. There was a shiny rainbow. There was a message written in black ink, to the effect of: "If you have any workplace concerns or issues that you'd prefer to discuss with someone in the community, I am available. I'm generally in the training room from 9am - 5pm, Monday - Friday.
--AzureL"

My name was underlined first in pink high-lighter, and then again in blue high-lighter, with a slight overlap of the two transparent colors.

If you are part of the community that I mention, Mr. Silver Sunglasses, I suppose I could probably listen to any of the concerns or issues you have. But I honestly doubt you would know how to interpret that color code.
azurelunatic: Animated purple vibrator on blue background.  (Divine Oscillations)
My friends discovered that I was bisexual in my freshman year of high school. I hadn't really given it much thought until then. I'd been on a husband-hunt since I was 5, so I, and everyone in my immediate vicinity, was aware that I liked guys.

I don't remember anyone ever explaining the concept of "lesbian" to me. I do remember, vaguely, that 'gay' had to be redefined in my head when I learned that the most common current usage was to mean guys that liked to hop on top of other guys, and not 'happy' like it meant in all the old books.

I do remember, because I wrote it down, the day I learned that one of my better friends, Savil, was a lesbian. (Those familiar with those particular bits of Lackey note that both the caustic wit and the magic are the reasons for her picking that name...) It surprised me some, but it didn't jar my image of her at all.

I never considered bisexuality when I thought of sexuality at all. Either you were 'like Savil', or you were straight. Heinlein heroines were smart, bisexual, and horny, but they were fictional. It wasn't something I considered for real people, I suppose.

My freshman year boyfriend-type-person[1] Bugs Potter[2] told me that he thought that I would be happier if I were bisexual. I rambled about it in my journal for a bit, having looked it up in the dictionary and determined that he meant "sexually attracted to both men and women", not "a species having two sexes". I commented that I would not have a problem if I in fact were attracted to both men and women, but I wasn't even sure if I were attracted to guys. That's what I wrote; I have reason to believe that my analytical function at the time was separate from my sexual function, because I distinctly recall my hormones switching on at the beginning of that year, and being so horny I couldn't stand it because of this one guy who was just gorgeous.


At any rate, I was convinced that I was straight because I liked guys. I recall thinking, once, that I would have been in love with Galadriel if I were 'like Savil', but, sadly, I liked guys too much to give up being in love with them.


One morning, on Beltane, as it happened, Bugs and I were planning to walk from the school annex to the main school building together. Now, when we did this, we walked on the trail through the woods, and we generally made out. But since we weren't a couple, we didn't want to be seen together, so one of us would go first, the other would catch up, we'd remain out of sight, and then leave seperately. This day, he was going first. I paused in the ladies' room, brushed hair and re-applied lipstick, and wandered out of the building.

I saw Bugs, already halfway across the football field, walking with the prettiest senior, the one in band that he'd had the crush on, the one who was dating Savil.

I was more amused than anything, because he was just a smooching buddy, and I had nothing to be jealous about. Envious, perhaps, that he was getting to converse with his Major Crush Object where mine thought I was an icky giiiiirl, and a little disappointed that the snogging session had been called off, but otherwise amused. I caught up to them and joined in the conversation. For the rest of the day, Bugs was terrified that I was going to kill him.

Bugs and I talked on the phone after school. I finally got him calmed down and accepting the fact that I was not mad at him; I would have done the same thing in his situation. In fact, had I had the exact same situation, with the gorgeous cool senior waiting for me to walk with her, I would have gladly ditched him.

"Isn't she hot, though!" Bugs enthused, finally chilled out and more certain of his continued existence. It must have been a dire shock to him when I said, "Yeah," in cheerful agreement.


Some fun-for-the-whole-family phone tag ensued after I hung up on his gibbering statements that I was a lesbian and had perhaps been getting it on with Savil this whole time and not telling him about it. He evidently called Savil, who calmed him down, and extracted the news from him; she called me, then he tried calling both of us...

Savil asked if I were bisexual. I hadn't the foggiest. She questioned me, and found out that yes, I would date a woman, kiss a woman, sleep with a woman. So?

So, I was bisexual. Big whoop-te-doo.

It was more of a theoretical thing at that point, as my hormones had never become engaged. Theoretically, Savil's girlfriend was hot, just as theoretically, some of the guys were hot. There were a few guys who were practically hot, but not too many.


At camp that summer, of course, I ran into the Lady E., and my hormones switched right on. Yep, I was bisexual all right...



[1] there was a complex situation, involving him attempting to set me up with a person very much like a larval Darkside, resulting in a mad unrequited crush and making out with Bugs

[2] nickname from the Gordon Korman book of the same title: a fanatic drummer guy
azurelunatic: A glittery black pin badge with a blue holographic star in the middle. (Default)
This day at school, my quasi-boyfriend the drummer "Bugs" walked back from Hutch with the female senior he'd been lusting after instead of walking back with me as he'd promised.

On the phone with him and Savil later, it was determined that I am, in fact, bisexual.

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