Too Queeny for Their Own Dam Good (World AIDS Day Speech at CSUDH. I met Lou Gossett Jr.)

My coming out experience was drenched in effeminate male energy. My click was a bola of loud and proud young jotos too queeny for their own dam good. They faced taunting from the jocks, cowardly threats left at night stuck to their dorm room door and the snickers from girly-girls as they, these young, brave, smart queeny boys, made their way across campus skipping hand in hand. These hombres, with their staunch rebelliousness against anything boring, intolerant and hetero-normative taught me about standing up for my right to be who I am. I learned to be proud, outspoken and how to be comfortable in my butch skin. Yes, they even helped me feel desirable- I do make a cute boi after all.

“I like your sideburns,” he said then giggled.
“Thanks! Why do you laugh?” I asked
“Cause I don’t think I’ve ever told a girl that before,” he replied and giggled some more this time he covered his mouth with his palm, very ladylike.

We both laughed and continued to walk across campus, him leaning his tall lanky body on me the way a prom queen would lean on her king’s shoulder; we walked on to class ignoring the stares. I laughed cause I’ve never had anyone comment on my sideburns, long and always trimmed and I laughed at how I was sure not many other women had ever been complimented on their facial hair. My boys were young Latino men who didn’t take shit from their daddies and definitely not from any asshole walking the street feeling entitled to shout any homophobic comment that came to mind. They were fiery fieras burning with gayness and pride- explosively showing all the disappointed mommies and daddies of the world that despite being jotos they were men in their own right. No one was about to take their manhood and humanness away from them. Together we were a tight bunch ready to wittingly cut down any homophobe that crossed our undergraduate paths. We were young, educated jotos/dykes after all; the world had already looked us in the face and spit in our eye as far as we were concerned. What did we have to lose? We didn’t come all the way from our barrios to the privileged world of Westwood to fail. We were not going to return back to our hoods with our heads hanging low, shit save that for the fun stuff -if you know what I mean (Wink).

I make us sound aggressive huh? That’s not what we were we were more like uncompromising when it came to who we were, UNWILLING to shed part of our identity to make others be it friends, family or society more comfortable. Blood is thicker than water but not heavier than hate and intolerance. We were a tight bunch, we were each other’s friends when all the other Latino organizations on campus decided that the issues they actively addressed such as; immigration, family, higher education, women’s rights, etc had nothing to do with who we were cause we were gay. We were each other’s family when our families chose not to welcome us home and closed the doors to our haven because we were gay. We were each other’s support system when the news flashed on about hate crimes and violence committed against other gays in LA, California the nation cause we too were gay. You have to understand my jotos had been fighting for their right to just be for more than half of their lifetime; for some it began the minute someone noticed that something was “funny” about them and used that “funny” factor to continually oppress them. And since then they had to be fighting, verbally, physically and spiritually scratching their way to the top, their right to be. So they had years of experience with fronting toughness, invulnerability while I was just beginning to see and experience it first hand. But that’s how in “your face” we had to be so as not to be silenced and rendered invisible in the utopia, micro-microcosm of society we inhabited.

The truth is that we were harmless, a nonviolent group of Queer activists enjoying the fact that we destabilized many with our mere presence. We were definitely stigmatized. For example:

“Boo!” I ran up to Marcos, this guy I met at the summer program, Marcos was cool ,very smart and I liked talking to him. He had a cold look on his face. “Did I scare you, little ole me? Nothing still from him. “I’m the same one that used to meet up with you in between classes, chit chat about this and that.
“Yeah, I know, how was your summer?” he said followed by nervous laughter.
“My summer was good, things changed, I’m sure you heard by now…”
I had changed, I had morphed into my self. That was the last time I talked to Marco- he seemed to avoid me. I didn’t understand why folks didn’t like me anymore, some said they missed the old me. But since I now paraded around campus: a butch lesbian with sharp sideburns surrounded by a bunch of jotos, loud, flamboyant and affectionate with one another I seemed to have inadvertently repelled some folks. People chose to reject us rather than be labeled “gay by association”. We dared to show we loved each other and ourselves. Que cosa mas disgusting. These jotos, maricones, puñales, putos were my brothers unidos por la puteria that ran through our veins. And as I learned about Chicana/o consciousness in class, understood how our families were the pinnacle of our existence as a community and as individuals; we conceal our bastardized hearts, the sting! With our loud, smiling rainbow colored pride. We turned that rejection from our families on its head by becoming family to each other.

Many of the feminists/activists I read as an undergraduate talked about their relationship with gay men and painted a picture of sorrow, relationships built around the need for survival, need for support to fight the disease known as AIDS that was ruthlessly taking away all the jotos. I got a picture of an era full of men weak from not enough T-cells and too many opportunistic infections. I pictured an era where not enough resources or sympathy towards the black and brown jotos to far off the radar of any white gay activist to survive. Seem familiar? Seems familiar, things change and things stay the same. Now I find myself, a student of life, and employee of an HIV/AIDS organization and as a Professor at CSUDH for a year now continue to fight the fight for the survival of our communities. And we can all do it in our own way. Each semester I have made it a point to talk to my Sociology students in ‘Women in Society, because:
• Women of color (especially African American women) are the hardest hit.
• Younger women are more likely than older women to get HIV.
• AIDS is a common killer, second only to cancer and heart disease for women.
For those of you not familiar with HIV and AIDS, or GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency) as it was once called because it was originally thought to affect mostly gay men. But women have always been affected too. And even though more men than women have HIV, women are catching up. In fact, if new HIV infections continue at their current rate worldwide, women with HIV may soon outnumber men with HIV. That is why it’s important to talk about it with our friends, families and communities. That is why it is important for us to talk about it here today at CSUDH where 65% of the undergraduate and 75% of the graduate population is composed of women. We have to talk about it because it doesn’t make sense not to.

For many of the feminists/activists, theirs was any era where lesbians nurtured their dying brothers, an era where everyone- lesbian or gay attended more funeral services that one should endure. I then looked at my relationships with my gay male friends, how we were all so young, full of life-not attending funerals at ridiculous rates. I’m sure that our foremothers and fathers knew it would get better, they had to believe or else things would fade as fast as their brothers were. I felt lucky, for myself to have healthy friends, lucky to have ancestors who had given us the chance, through their activism, their loss- to have greater opportunities and more attention to the education and prevention needs of communities of color. I felt lucky just to have them with me. I’m one of the lucky ones, rejection is the worst I’ve experienced. For many of us listening to these words makes things feel pretty bruised inside and out, feelings get so silenced and the pain in our hearts gets louder- we may only see one way out. But there are other ways to turn things around. Our survival is crucial for the change. It can start with one thought, one word, a page a book on things getting better, that you read then submit for the next issue of it or start another one, build on to take on the next degree of the struggle, one so beautiful, needs to be kept alive. Like a chain letter only this doesn’t end with a warning or cursedly ending…

I was flying

I dreamt that I was flying on a magic carpet. A nice thick one, with burgundy threads and of course laced with gold. Golden tassels flowing in the wind charmed like snakes. A carpet like the one Aladdin used to reach Jasmine’s lair and shit…but BIGGER! Big enough to cover the whole of my floor, from the living room to the back door. I wasn’t afraid- it was too big to drop me plus the force of the gravity pressed me down like thumbs into the carpet’s fiber. 100, 300, 600 thread counts and counting as it went up. Higher and higher it went till my lips, my entire face went numb then on fire. My skin felt peeled from the chill of the night. I felt a shrill building up inside. I couldn’t release the scream,Edward Munch, I was about to burst from the silence…suicide. That’s where shit got out of control, more and more feet I climbed but my guts they never left the floor. The moon was coming at me! Looking fuller than a workaholic’s agenda and blinding like Friday Night Lights. Even through closed lids I could see Orion’s belt on the left, Big dipping on the right. Your eyes, your eyes appeared in the flashes behind my lids all cinematic and shit, like constellations blinking at me – open, shut, open, longer shut…mores code for “it’s ok, let go”. There went the flood gates and tears streamed down my face, warm tears turned to ice-cubes, I was so close to fading out close to being a twinkle in your eye. But I let go, the carpet felt solid, cold cobblestones pressed against my back, solid, taking me back. Solid (due Black Power fist)
Pressing my back into her tendrils; the Woman who looks like a tree, taking me back pulling me into the forest of colors. I fell into greens and browns and she pulled me in with her curled branches, golden smooth like sand, wrapped around my legs, chest, hands. Around my legs, chest, hands turning me into a cocoon. I can’t breath. Like in my others pieces I can’t breath. Am I fixated with asphyxiation or just with words that have the letter x. Excuse me! I got wrapped up in my thoughts and nothing but, that’s what it is! I lose my self in the ideas and not focus on the feeling. Deep inside, the silence it’s there like a cocoon wrapped tight…let it expand like a lung.
I felt a thick drop flick against my cheek, then this sent crawled up my nose stinging my sinuses, I was dazed out of my sleep. Opening my eyes felt like peeling back scabs, as if I were awakening from my deepest sleep. It felt like forever for my eyes to adjust cause I blinked and blinked turned to my left saw black, turned to my right and still more black. I blinked, and blinked my eyes watered, the black turned shiny, my tears cleared and I saw my reflection in patent leather- a boot pressed to my neck, the heel Ahhhh! pinched my skin. I tried to straighten my neck out but the other boot dug into me. Ahhhhhh! My neck clamped between strong legs? It was…worth it. I knew to stay put, I stay put, won’t resist. I saw her face appear before me, “Mistress? How did you get here? I wondered not knowing exactly where here was.
She looked either proud or drunk or just drunk with pride. Hands on her hips she bent forward, snickered at me, standing over me with no panties and wet pussy. Or had she showered me again, she stood above me dripping all over my face, she snickered at me and I heard her say,
“Ground control to Major Tom”
“What?” I replied.
“Ground control to Major Tom” she repeated.
“Huh? What are you saying”
“I said, I like you on the ground, makes my clit hard with control,” she repeated shaking her head.
“I’m happy that I can please Mistress,” I said all raspy. My neck was clamped down as was the rest of my body. A bodice made from cotton clothesline around my neck, chest, hands, across my neck, chest, arms behind my back.
“ My pretty-boi-slave you really went deep this time huh?”
“Mistress anyone can suck a dick anyone can suck a pussy but Mistress blows my mind.”
“I like that. You were on some trip, and to think only you will know what that experience was like”
“I want to make Mistress happy, take all that she gives me.”
“Ah slave you do make me happy, so happy, and for that…”
Suddenly I catch whiff of that sent, kicked my sinuses like wasabi as her pussy got closer to my face, my face got wetter with her pussy-juice-drops her and from my sweat.
“For being such a good slave you get to give me an ass massage” she said as she plants her pussy on my shoulder and proceeded to unravel me.
I get a sudden pain on my sides, down my arms as my skin comes to back to live. That along with the familiar feeling of the onset of blue balls. It hurt, her getting my clit all engorged both from the ropes and her teasing cunt. But that’s why they call it discipline! Cause normally I’m all Pavlov’s Theory over fine wet pussy…but it’s not about me, and at the same time it is. I want to continue growing and being true with the things I wanna experience. And I wanna experience rubbing a woman’s ass, because that’s exactly what she wants me to do, or maybe she wants me to make her some lunch, for me to be her surface where she digs her knife, pink row after pink row on my skin, or write her row after row of prose and level after level of recording us through poetry. Yes, yes, yes and yes. I fail to see the negative in all this. She finished untying me, I floundered around with my numb limbs trying to get up to eagerly.
“You stay there,” she pushed me back down with a single finger to my forehead. “Let the rest of your body come to. I will go upstairs and get myself ready. Come up when you’re good and ready. (She grabbed my chin and looked straight into my eyes. “I need for your arms to be VERY awake” then walked away.
“(moaning in painful ecstasy) Yes Mistress”
“Slave!” she screamed from mid-stairs.
“Mistress?”
“I mean it. My ass really needs to get worked, you’ll be pressing, HARD!”
“Of course Mistress, I aim to please. I know how much Mistress enjoys getting her ass worked.”
No response just the fade away clacking of her heels. I heard her door slam shut. I laid there letting the doughiness of my muscles melt away loving the idea of digging into her doughiness. From sub-space to cloud 9 and to think that I had already been drifting in outer space.

It's B-D-S-M Bitch!

It’s B-D-S-M!
Bitch!
Pick a letter
Any letter
I chose M.
Mine is M
Mamamela mas
Mami mas!
Ohhhmmm
mastica mis mecos
munch on my meet curtains
mmmmMistress
muñequita
metete mas
M
M
M
Envuelveme mas
Mas-oquista.
Not a typical slave
but definitely a masochist
a kinky mother fucker
Shit-no-I-ain’t-vanilla!
Not into humiliation either.
You know, being put down?
Like a convertible I’ve had that covered for years
Now trying to ride topless
Which doesn’t make sense if I’m trying to get topped.
But to put it simpl\y Masochist
I like it rough
Get tough on my skin.
Go crazy on my back
But I gotta pull back,
realize I don’t
call the shots
You Mistress are the one
that plots the scene.

Leather, leather all the time
Mistress wants me in it.
I will
get all up in it
for her.
I will
her pretty-boi-slave.
Are you kidding!
She growls at me when
I wear it.
I wish one day
She’ll bite me hard
on my back,
really her back
her canvas
creating colors of
crimson and blues.
Mouth on canvas?
She’s a canvivore.
Not out for the blood
out for the love
of the game
The fame?
The love.
Out smarting
out creating
to inspire.

Wish I could cut the wire
don’t want to be a liar
don’t want to be an outlier
of this outlying community
Such a fucken apprentice!
Gonna get myself fired.
Just cut to the Chase
I’m talking banks
As in secure and insured.
trying to be secure with myself
do me, and feel assured…
reassured that I’m doing the right things.

I write things
cause I have a bad memory
I write things
down to share the memories
stir those memories
like I stir this alphabet soup
B-D-S-M
Bitch!
Pick a letter any letter.
M
M
M
Masters in Fine Arts
Mastering my heart
Mastering myself.
Don’t want to be famous.
Don’t need to be a billionaire
to know I’m fucken bad.
All I need is oceans of ideas
keep spoiling me
spilling over me
so I can spit ideas.
Ridding someone’s coattails
resting on my laurels
not part of my vocabulary,
not down with that lingo.

Everybody deserves a bomb orgasm
in their life.
That’s what I get-
Life.
From doing what I do.
You know what I do.
That thing that does that thing to you
makes you gag like a big dick.
My malicious delight.
Grant me immunity
from writer’s block
I’ll take that shot, or pill
I will sacrifice
pay the price- go for broke
for endless birth.
Don’t think that we pros don’t create
Life.

It’s B-D-S-M!
Bitch!
Pick a letter
any letter.
I chose
M.

your heart is my art

You know
you know
you a trip!
Hanging with you is visiting
the unfamiliar
not knowing where I’m going
not raising any expectations
and I don’t carry any baggage.
Each visit or ‘art play’ I rack up
air miles, nothing but smiles
as my CV grows
artistically and otherwise.
Don’t take offense but what we
are doing is bartering
each other’s skills to enhance our own.
You know my creative button is always on
you asking me to thread my words to your
installation pieces is nothing but a good reason
to write, so I write you Mistress
write the things that flow
to my head, those moments I feel in my heart.
Your heart, your heart
your heart is my art.
Don’t cry me a fucken river with that mental block shit
I only allow that to happen to my cock
I’d rather walk around all blue-balls
then black ball my art.
Your heart, your heart
your heart is my art.
The chemistry is there, careful with the sparks
our shit is toxic, not like bad
but sick…like when you get off a rollercoaster ride
or the way I feel when you ask me to
I get off
right.
I get off this writing.

I recently learned to embrace the term
“Cause I deserve it”.
But still I, I , I trip
I’m a tripper, I’m tripping over myself
trying to write about shit.
“my creative button is always turned on”
making, faking, stirring shit up
and our collabos keep me outta trouble,
But you say to me “you’re funny”
which = I’m cute
I wonder what “You’re trouble” = to
I’m no trouble at all
really easy, I am
just want you to be pleased
with me Mistress.
I know I’m a shit talker, forgive me
but do know I’m not full of shit
I’m as real as real art can get.

I can’t forget that she asked if you were my girl
my subject… the magical creature I paint
in my narratives, a unicorn of a woman
who knows how to make me trust
trust in love.
I spread my “social graffiti”
on your psyche
my words seep inside your head
like a Mistress gets inside my head
she, the first and last thought of my day
Could I think about her
more than I pray?
No way, that’s just the wrongest
thing to say…
Does it matter?
I can have faith in another.

The Woman Who Looks Like a Tree

Daughter, you’re grown now you should really find someone to love you, respect you; a woman who knows your worth. Daughter are you listening?

Mama, you are my mother and I know it is your duty to worry about me. You won’t rest until you’re certain that the love you have for me, an unconditional love, be not replaced but at least replicated by another. I assure that the news I bring to you will ignite you not with rage but with brightness. For who would’ve ever thought that this other being, this woman would arrive in my life. She is a woman like no other, my, my, tongue stutters, I don’ know where to start. No, I didn’t meet her on some dating website, nor through mutual friends, it was simply one of life’s coincidences. She is known in various places as the woman, who looks like a tree, well because her contour is that of a tree, her long limbs skinny aged branches raised towards the sky like a Russian ballerina. She is my Muse, her visions shoot through her mind onto the canvas like strips of shooting stars. She stirs me, and like a dandelion I lose my shit, can’t control and don’t want to control my emotions.

Her love reminds me of a Granada, pregnant with tiny seeds, packets of wine that bloomed from those little flowers that bloomed on my grandpa’s tree. Remember?
Mama, that is exactly how she is, blooming with love, not seasonal either, she is there for me 24 hrs a day, in me. Although I haven’t relished in her fruit per se I do relish from so many intimacies- the fruits of her labor, her praises. Her praise like her roots, this woman who looks like a tree helps me grow. She lets me know with an honesty as clear and steady as the waters that enrich and nourish, she tells me when I say, do or look good.

She is grounded like a ripe fruit, she grounds me like a weeping willow. She carries the wind in her soul; she makes my soul shiver with her passion. I see her and I really don’t see her for, days, months until I find her again, then I find myself under her umbra- she doesn’t eclipse me she takes me into her world.

The dream continues. Our lips barely graze each other like leaves licking away at your window on a breezy night, with her it’s always a breezy night; laughter, talking and listening. She loves me tender, “if you love them show them,” she told me this one time and time and time after time she shows me. Like a Mistress, she helps me master good habits.

Where did I meet her? I met her there in those cross roads, where paths are passed and crossed over, there in those cross roads, cross she wrote in my skin 2 degrees deep- I think. Ring? No mama she gives me no ring, I AM a ring forever and ever prettified like a Redwood in her trunk. I will be part of her being for eternity, her visions and my words will survive like the constellations to be discovered in ceremonies hosted amongst the tress, surrounded by green, mordant, green, mordant, mort? Strengthens? like the woman who looks like a tree. Mama, trees give shade, shelter, food…they feed us unconditionally. Listen to me little Ms. Hug a Tree. YES! Especially if it looks like the lady that brushes her branches up against me.

I right you Mistress

She walks into the green room
Gives hugs all around then
like a sub who’s had enough collapses
in my arms.
My Mistress,
I can’t touch without permission
yet I took in her scent
pressed her into me,
her hot breaths erasing
anxiety, insecurity that stirred in me.
It was our night
our audience awaited
to see our play unfold
Yes leather, yes dominance, yes submission
and pain
she rummaged through her suitcase of accouterments
looking for that single tail, whip or knife to
tenderize my back with.
We’ve done this dance before
in private and on stage
underneath
the heat of the lights and collective silence of the audience
a deeper intimacy goes unnoticed.
Two pros engaged in creative exchange.
Yes play, but definitely procreating
without reservations
artistic instincts on high
as we set out to inspire
give you something to Tweet about.
She felt my vibe
she had to the way I did hers
the audience, numbed by our chemistry, did too.
Each come up to us one by one, smiles wider than
the black smile on Mistress’ face, eyes dilated
from witnessing artistic souls colliding on stage.

Mistresses come and go
bruises disappear
brandings fade
artistic exchange remains in my core.
She’s the first artist I’ve mixed intimacies with.
I am her first too,
first butch
first pretty boi, first papi
and want nothing more than to
make her smile and call me love
even if she puts me in a corner
silent, newbie voyeur watching
women’s bodies slither over
across each other,
turning the Moroccan
room upside down
to exchange kisses
caresses and finger fucks.
Lips on tits, asses and pussies
my lips dry from heavy breathing
as all I can do is watch and lust.
Shit I don’t give a fuck, put that plump ass on my head,
fuck her brains out on top of me,
ride that bitch hard, grind in my face
tie her to my waist as she sucks on my titties.
Ordered us to manhandle you, more fingers than you can count
crawling over you
till you put us to bed.

You are happy, pleased with the performance
pleased with our performance.
You remember, said so yourself…perfect
Like my ass in those leather pants
like your bondaged breasts
like your ass grinding on my cock
the one you grab so freely
making sure that like your
Slave, it’s at attention
for you.

You wanted me to write you a poem
so I right you Mistress
cause this will be the third…
Carve a cross
Across my chest
Or hit me
hit me back to heaven
through ceremonial play
I’ve discovered
the paint in the dark
the touch all that you eat
the blow beautiful notes side of you.
Ain’t no secret that I think you’re hot
I enjoyed just massaging you
unloosening the knots in your calves
warming up your ovaries,
knotting my fingers around your ass
pulling your toes
being spread over you
getting wetter
as imagined what it would feel
to fuck you
to burry my face in between your ass cheeks
and feast on it.
You said it best
“I love our relationship”
you inspire me
to be creative
to be nice
to be positive and loving
to be sensual and sexual

Enslave Me

Carve a cross

across my chest

I want you to be my Mistress.

Cross, cross,

crossed your heart and hoped to die

by my side my love

but all I FEEL is outside of your

gravitational force

a black whole

My Love.

My sister tells me que tengo a dolor en mi corazon

No, I tell her, I don’t love misery

She’s my muse

she looks soooo good in reds.

Besides

it’s a feeling just like the rest.

…across my chest

Pain is so different than misery-

Pain is like the cycle of water

pours down hard on you

evaporating with time.

Release

…it’s what it is

I want you to be my Mistress…

I need a coach in letting go.

If I already feel lost

what the fuck do I have to lose?

YOU

got my back Mistress.

Have it, have it

Take it

take it!

The more you give it

the more I take

-I can take it

but YOU will have it all.

Have the thumping

of your flogger

against my back

haunt me

days after days

Mistress

cause You have my back…

ass, legs, chest, sex.

Hit me with that sense of urgency

I’ll take it with that sense of Ohmmmm

Ohmmmm…. Ohmmmm

That sense of urgency?

Mindfulness

nothing else.

Who…is out there?

Who…cares?

All the cares

cares, I let go

And I’m there

hovering.

Your flogger

each hit

louder

in my ear

the breeze blows

out of me the wind goes

each thumping against my back

reverberates against my lungs.

Asphyxiation?

Look Ma, no hands.

I free fall into that subspace

Cross, cross my arms

across my chest.

Enjoy the free fall

hold it, hold it tight

make muscle memory.

Mindfulness-

nobody else

not even the stars that have

come out tonight

matter.

We’re all made out of matter.

Then why does shit, little shit matter?

Put me in that corner Mistress

put me in that space

There’s nothing but space

Subspace, subspace, subspace

Enslaved in the…

Enslaved by the…

subspace

created by your

delicious flogging

Mistress

Just let me continue to hypothesize

dramatize

hurt

As I get up again from every breakdown

Mistress

I promise to get up

Just let me remember you there

with me.

Paint a perfect picture

dance your brush against the shadows

Mistress

my Angel of Mercy

stroke on that canvas

stroke on me

enslave me

helpless and vulnerable

not hiding from you

no hiding behind an ego

I breath deeply in

ecstasy and agony

perfectly

filling up

the Black hole.

Mistress

you brought it to me

again…took my trust in your hands

Hurt me the way I like

to be.

Catch You on the Rebound!

Things have to come full circle. I am checking my self here… because back on May 27, 2009 I wrote an entry called “Because I’m Fucken Queer till 2010” and said basically that I will catch you on the rebound. So here I am- one day after Judge Vaughn R. Walker of San Francisco struck down Pro. 8 declaring it unconstitutional. (Yes this post IS late- cause it actually happened on August 4th and today is not the 4th). I’m happy about the results, we know that the battle is not over (rolling my eyes) but we can still celebrate- we have to celebrate the small victories to keep us going to the next one. Small victories that fuel our strategy, fuel our passion. Even though my niece is already making plans to plan my wedding, dolphin themed at that! I am not ready to take that step. Not because I don’t believe in marriage etc I am familiar with it’s chameleon-and-one reasons it’s been institutionalized in societies, I believe in the principal of the thing and of course there is the emotional and spiritual definition the ritual validates as well. The big L-O-V-E! Yeah, I’m down for marriage cause I don’t like how Prop. 8 feels too much like “separate but equal” status. It is the principle of the thing, think about it: not all women or people in general who are pro-choice would go out and get an abortion or support the idea of their loved one getting one. So be against marriage but don't be down for Prop 8 either! Whatever, Down with the bullshit already. Hey but you know what, smart and persistent that was the key to the Civil Rights movement. One victory- desegregating education, desegregating counters. After another victory- boycotting buses and sanitation workers striking. The people kept on keeping on because they believed that change was possible- there had to be a better way to live. I will continue believing because I believe in change. I’ve had my probaditas of cohabitation and I’ve liked it. Nesting, some call it, entangling more and more into each other as the years go by and then maybe have some little chicks. Sure, why not it’s not so bad. Some Queers would argue that why go for marriage when there are so many other pressing issues going on that we can and should address. And I say to those Queers, hey guess what they are being addressed- read the newspaper, read someone’s wall for god sake, post a comment, SB 1070, the fight for a national HIV Prevention Strategy which we finally got, education reform, US out the Middle East and I’m sure we can still hear ‘Free Mumia” shouted across college campuses. There is a cause for everything and everything is its cause. So WHY NOT this one? Cause we should remain Queer and not be forced to morph into straights clones to be treated as equals, we should be equal just as we are, and....? Well you know how the rest of the argument goes. The irony is that Judge Vaughn R. Walker used the whole Queer/Outsider argument to support this case- he argued that gays are a minority group that deserve equal protection! He is arguing that the courts should use what is called “strict scrutiny” when dealing with sexual orientation in the same way that all race-based classifications are subjected to strict scrutiny to ensure that policies are not violating constitutional rights, as in gays having constitutional right to marry. So we are queer, his opinion says so now that that’s settled let’s go and be equal protection Queers. Sure maybe marriage isn’t your thing but look at the political/legal ramifications this case has brought. Look, maybe you’re not wearing the veil but open your eyes man! It’s not just about being accepted in society, as if that were so bad, it’s not just about “gay-lesbian-trans-love” it’s about gaining some sort of political leverage, having the laws work for us when filing for discrimination, leverage for when we as Queers turn to the system and don’t have to still feel disempowered cause the law don’t treat us good neither. Sure it could’ve happened some other way but this is the opening that we have and the lawyers are gonna run with it, try to take it to historical proportions.

On another note let’s talk about gay student suicides, why is it that nationwide, gay youth are four times more likely to attempt suicide than their heterosexual peers? Studies show that 90% of LGBY youth have experienced some form of harassment at school due to their sexual orientation and two-thirds of LGBT students reported feeling unsafe at school.[1] But the problems don’t end there, as a community; we have to deal with alcoholism being an integral part of the gay/queer scene. This friends, has to do, at least partially, with the alienation that many of us experience not only from our families but from various types of social support. Many youth feel like they can’t report their experiences to school administrators- who are they going to turn to? The church, their families…school is already crossed out of the picture. I’m not saying that marriage is a panacea and will make these problems go away but it will set off a ripple effect in the many institutions set up in our society to directly/indirectly provide social support to young/older people alike

Healing; circa 2007 but gotta keep it REAL-evant

I look at my wound

A fleshy calaca

Speckled with pink and red dots where hair follicles

Once existed.

It is my cortada with its rosada edges

an umbra of swollenness.

I look at my wound

Slimy como un gargajo

Me llena de asco

But why does my mouth water when I look at it?

I focus on the pain

Feel it throb up and down my arm

Makes my nails tingle

I feel the throb until my clit tingles.

I ignore my cut for days

Leave it exposed, victim to the elements

Vulnerable to infection.

“Huh I should put something on it. Some ointment or something.”

I research the web under branding and in the process

Learn about the highly infectious nature of burns.

One degree more and I could’ve damaged the nerve endings.

I cover my wound with a Band Aid

To silence the pain.

My thoughts get the best of me

I get chilled with loneliness, paralyzed with irrational fears

My thoughts run wild

ever present

bare

like bones

I reach for the Band Aid

And as I pull it off the stinging mixes in with another type of pain

The pulling of tiny hairs from their root “sssss, uh.”

Pain.

Pains

make me who I am, makes us who we are

Our bodies are screaming with pain

Physical, mental and emotional

Pain brings us together

It repels us

“Get away! You pained me.”

“get away you’re damaged goods.

Look at my wounds.

“Cover that shit up.”

I struggle not to be hostage to my pain

But it is my pain

Fuck you for giving it to me

Fuck you for not knowing it.

“Can you see my wound, it’s only residue?”

Abandon: HIT ME BACK TO HEAVEN

(sound of voices praying)

I stopped being a Catholic when I was thirteen, but I still can’t stop confessing, professing my shit, yeah exhibitionist to the core, the showing must go on. I was borne to be an artist. I like pain. I do. It’s always lived in me, so I learned how to like it. I learned how inflict it on myself, cutting, pulling the scabs, branding. I’ve always done it alone, to myself the technique growing with time. Why? Uhhhh it feels so fucken good you just don’t know. The next day any movement reminds you of the soreness, breathing alone can cause it to sting. Maybe I’m really a submissive. Submissive. It’s an exercise in letting go. I’m not gonna try to control my life. I have to let it go, like I once did. I’d close my eyes believing in the feeling, the safety I felt in those prayers those fears laid down to rest in between those pages. But that type of faith seems so long ago and the memories turned bible page thin. I didn’t want to stop believing that things would change, that:

(in Prayer tone)

I would not lust otras como yo.

Not be broken down by rejection

Not be so fucken horny

Those prayers ceased, as did the weekly rituals.

(Sound of hand slapping face)

Te va castigar dios. If he was going to do it why can’t I do it to myself? Take my faith into my own hands. I searched for a replacement, not sure how many miles my pedometer has tracked of my strolls up and down the beach, como la pinche llorona trying to figure how I let things get to here. And still I don’t learn that like the waves you have to ride it out. Found a way to some other commandments. S/M felt like a way to command who and what would hurt me. Did I say controlling pain? But if pain is my pleasure then…oh what a tautological bind. The welts, rakes and burns, are they not strong enough to exorcise my demons.

Let me believe in myself.

If I can’t believe in my ability to love and be loved, the most basic of things then how can I succeed, how can I stop being a FUCKEN TOOL! Yeah, I am a fucken tool, look at what I build, you tripping over it right now. Just call me craftsman…I build what I can but sometimes it was hard to build me. Couldn’t jack up myself so I jacked myself up, physically. A tool, beating myself against that hard surface that would never change, never chip and sculpt to my heart’s desire, one so muddled in self-doubt.

Submissive

I feel crazy like I need to go off, fireworks, like the motha’ fucken Drake of theater, only prettier. Bet you no rapper knows this definition of busting on stage,

A black box MC, mistress of cock-inesssss, of cocks and circumstancesssss that keep bringing me back to this place.

Cual de los dos amantes sufre mas pena, la que se va o la que se queda

The one that stays, in that moment, in those feelings, suffers cause when they leave it feels like they’re yanking me from my roots. I struggle to recover and get caught up in the

(in singing tone)

anything you can do I can do better, anything you can say I can be meaner, I can be colder…I can do better, I can do better, better, better. For myself each and every day. My hands are bound and I pray, bound in prayer, bound in play-

Some people measure growth spurts with markings against the wall

Scribbles

The 3rd year, the 4^th year, 5^th year, 5^th scar on my arm. Growth entails making better decisions, they say but all I’m doing is trusting love (huh) seeing where it takes me. And it has taken me to a lot of beautiful places, people have touched lots of special places.

People leave traces

on my soul

And when it’s time to grow you have to, like the roots you have to yank and re-pot. Pick a bigger pot, more soil, water and it will grow.

Blessed is this blood that I shed for my art

Blessed is this blood (chuckles) that pumps from my heart

Blessed is this blood that I shed here today hoping to grow in an amazing way.

No catechism, no communion, just confession, cutting, cicatrizando, caressing, I’m the worst communicator in the world, a writer, a story teller, the worst in expressing my needs. So I write pieces and then I master pieces to make sense out of my life…(chuckles) My life, my life, my life a constant conversation with myself

(sound of voices praying)

pushing me to go and to go and I don’t know where that is. And damn these headaches! a constant halo of heat squished in between my brain and top of my dome. Tension, caused by my apprehension, cause I don’t speak, I don’t speak my mind but my mind speaks to me all the time and won’t fucken shut up and I have no choice but to listen.

Submissive

Clear, honest consensual the basic rules of play, but when it’s for reals, you can’t hear, what I say…I say I’m not topping enough, not good enough, not good enough, not enough.

Submissive

Give up control. I am not even gonna try anymore…acts of kindness fade like cicatrices- it’s only when it’s hot, warm and sore that you pay attention to the wound, then it, I fade into the rest of your skin, the rest of you. And too bad that we only see ourselves from the inside out, not outside in, except maybe on Facebook, seen, seen, oh to be seen.

I am not even gonna try anymore gestures are always left to be misinterpreted and my questions kill more than just the mood. I am not even gonna try anymore, no more of this topping from the bottom, topping with a soft caring hand mistaken for weak but quick bitch feel my grip- as I grab at…nothing, still coming up empty handed.

Submissive

I surrender so that you

MY You

You hear me…

Will one day too

I surrender, I surrender

I submissive

I a tool…. Come- play- with- me

Involve our entire being

Abandon what’s been played

Hit me, hit me, hit me back to heaven

Through ceremonial play

Baptize and purify me

Pressed that hotness onto my skin

Forever and ever not even death will do us part

With this brand

I me

wed

to this life of abandonment

on my journey

doing it for love

doing it with faith.

(photo credit: Raquel Gutierrez)

Exhale...finally

Such a childish gesture
one I haven’t been able to shake.
I, a child
shrugged my shoulders
little mountains,
peaks already icy,
I lifted them
looked over my right one
saw no one there
and committed
to “I don’t care.”
No kicking and screaming
the hurt away,
face didn't turn colors
no trail of tears down
my gumdrop cheeks-
I heaved
all the thinking about you
in one breath
washed away my want for you
with
a solitary
tear.
I didn’t care!
Really…
couldn’t care
any more
that you didn’t want to
see
hug
know me.
Stupid pangs
surfaced
making my heart-hiccup
and I knew I still did
care.

Wanting didn’t help
nine years of wishes blown away
the smoke cleared
you still weren’t back.

My other half
Mi otro yo?
If I am you and you are me
did you abandon yourself too?
I wanted to be more than a bastard
no box full of recuerdos
under my bed to sneak peeks at
when the missing you hurt too much.
Nothing
to remind me of your absence except
you’re absence.
The neighborhood kids’
outings to Dodger games
with their dads,
the rattling of keys by calloused
bread winners making their way home
to dinner with their families served
as sour reminders.

The heart of a mexicano
leaving to another pueblo,
another woman’s arms
another family.
No looking back
Not worried for those left behind.
No heavy heart?
Years of silence tell
me no.

How was your heart able to love
those kids and
didn’t love me.
Was I not worthy?
I believed I wasn't
for a long time
till yesterday in fact.
Wore
abandonment like a lead vest
impenetrability shielding
me from further pain me
the damage was done
and love couldn’t get through

Today
…at this moment
I know
I am not worthy
of this burden.
Want to melt the ice away
relax my shoulders
stop looking over my shoulder.
I have to stop looking
for you
for
love
comfort
to lay blame.

I hear the pangs
I see
that I have been a bastard
to myself.

Mi Gatita

Que bonita es mi gatita Siamés

Con sus múltiples tonos de café

Café tostado

Café quemado

Algunos tonos

De café bronceado

Sus ojos azules claros

Que resaltan como dos

Estrellitas sobre

El mar

Mira la saltar

Tan alegre

Y cuando duerme

Bien estirada

Sus patitas al aire

Que bonita se ve mi gatita Siamés

R.I.P Saira 09/13/2006-12/10/2009

BdSM

(Soft yellow light center stage shining over bench. Bench is draped with a soft throw)

Claudia enters stage right. She is wearing a black tank top, white tight shorts (aka booty shorts) lays down on the bench. BdSM audio and video footage begin playing at the same time.

(Audio is playing and video footage of Nadine is projected on screen. Claudia begins simulating masturbation or actually doing it depending on how she is feeling that day. She occasionally looks up at the image of Nadine projected on the screen who also looks down on Claudia).

To my butch scholar

what is Butch aesthetic?

Is it when you reflect what you see before you into words?

If so then you have to talk about my big boobs.

If so then you have to talk about my tight ass

and how you salivate at the thought

of your fingers

sliding up and down your keyboard

as you recreate me, separate me, turn me upside down

and label me.

ME-your idea!

For you to relive every time you, she, I read.

Butch aesthetic?

that captured by your eyes

digested by your mind

and ends up on everyone's tongue.

If you reflect what you see before you into words,

please include the smells.

Is that hot wax or the smell of hot skin?

Shhh listen.

It’s your heart beating in MHz at the sound

of the whip against my back,

Um, my moans.

Butch mystique?

that surrounding my butch Papi

who stirs fag/boi/tranny fantasies

like you fucking me in your mind

as you witness

gender fucker

fucking

gender fucker

performing Butch identity against what is Queer/Butch.

Gender fuckers gender fucking,

performing Butch identity against what it means to be a chicana/butch

butch violating butch…

This is butch to me…

I feel the marks of my identity

I've been the butch top in this femme-butch matrix

where my desire IS draped in femme fatigues

where my identity manipulates my desires

where I’ve been somebody's bitch

Really, I just want to be ok with wanting to be manipulated by you.

Feeling your cock-hard Domness

makes my cock hard

femme or butch both can top me the same

as long as I get spanked the way I want to be spanked.

The personal is political

but the political is not always written on the skin

I know you see me as a cabron ladies…don't deny it

can you tell I like to fuck boys/bois?

Yes

I am

one of those butches that flew over the coo-coo's nest

the kind that fucks other butchas.

Go ahead and say it "where are all the real butches."

Act surprised that I'm really down with getting down butch on butch?

(Claudia lifts herself from the bench and straddles it, begins gyrating on it (i.e. she is riding the fuck outta that bench, sensually of course))

Hola Papi,

I was thinking about you, how the other day you stretched yourself out before me, slid your hand under your boxers and touched yourself. You scooped some of your juice up! I know cause I saw as you first smelled your scent then ate it.

As if nothing you slid your hand down there again. You face twisted this way and that with pleasure and lips parted with your moans. You got the legs twitching, chest heaving types of motions. I watched until your eyes rolled to the back of your head with satisfaction and closed with bliss.

Here I go again

Talking all that little boy fetish

I like short hair,

peach fuzzed, tittie tottin' cara de niño

The prettier the better

I'll say it

Son mi cochinita pibil

Carne tierna y picosa.

Won't I ever quit

Shed this skin

(Here Claudia thrusts harder)

Step into the post pony-tail dyke

Post-drag king

Post-andro

Post-trans

Post post

Post Pomo (Claudia simulates reaching orgasm, ass tremors she and leans forward onto the bench, breathless)

all I want is to step into my post-heroic masculinity

Stop suppressing mine to uphold others'

Does it make you feel good?

Does it heave your imaginary man pecks

to put me down? To walk around me like everything is cool

even though you didn't play by the rules,

Then I'm down to let you

If you think you're Top enough to top this.

Reflect what you see before you into words….

(BdSM audio stops but video footage is still playing and then fads out. Red light shines on center stage)

(Play track 9 off CD Song: “Only When I Loose Myself” by Depeche Mode )

Nadine enters stage left. She is dressed in a dark button up shirt and tie. She circles around Claudia inspecting her. Claudia is still leaning forward on the bench, breathless, senses Nadine’s presence but does not lift her head. Nadine pulls off her belt, and snaps it once- that’s when Claudia lifts her head and attempts to get up but Nadine pushes her back down. Then the BdSM scene follows, Nadine teases Claudia, with belt, hits her ass a few times, hits her across the back HARD. The scene goes on, more teasing, taunting and slapping.

Nadine ( goes over to Claudia, yanks her by the hair)

Who’s the bad Boi?

Claudia (with a painful look, but also pleased)

You are !

Remnents

Standing with my toes

brushed by the shore

so sure

that I float

in your subconscious

tonight

a night when the moon

has cast it’s shadow upon

earth- swallowed.

I wish for a bottle

long neck, green glass

the color of algae

extra protection on it’s journey.

Una botella para embotellar

estos versos

mandarlos con esperanza

de que lleguen a ti.

Que atraviesen estas

aguas del pacifico

aguas frias, que entumecen

hasta no topar

con las arenas

del atlantico.

Versos que te recuerden

de lo mucho que te echo de menos.

Something Good

“Give you a reading? I will tell you something good.” the lady sitting outside the coffee house said to me as I passed by in a daze. Payday is not for another three days but I was so tempted to give her my last 5 bucks to hear something good. That’s what we all want, just to hear something good even though I know things will be the same, her message of hope was as fake as her powers to predict the future.