Missed Her, page 4
I sit down with my back to the wall. The three good old boys have finished their cigarettes and shuffled back towards their newspaper-strewn table in a rush of chilly smoke-scented air.
“Close the damn door, Albert. I’m not paying to heat all of Ontario.” The waitress hustles through the swinging doors with a pot of fresh coffee.
I shudder at the thought of paying the heating bill for this province. Ontario is fucking huge. I know. I just spent the last three days driving across it. I study the menu. Burgers, burgers, and more burgers. What is a gluten intolerant homo in half-hiding to do? What is more gay, ordering a burger without the bun, or just ordering a burger and leaving the bun behind? I could just have a tossed salad, I think, laughing to myself. I’m not going to ask the waitress to find out if the soup of the day is thickened with flour or cornstarch, not with those three guys eyeing me from over by the pinball machine.
“I’ll have the breakfast special, please. Over easy. Bacon,” I tell her. “No toast,” I add, a little under my breath.
Two days later, just outside of Medicine Hat, Alberta, I am letting the little dog run around on the almost winter brown grass outside a rest stop bathroom. I heard the voice before I saw the guy.
“I got a little fella like that in my truck. He a Shih Tzu? Mine’s a Cockapoo. You should bring yours over to meet him.”
I look up. Late forty-something, grey at the temples, GWG jacket, cowboy boots, bit of a belly, clean-shaven, brass belt buckle, wallet on a chain. Was probably really handsome a few years ago. Still good-looking.
“My wife wanted a little dog. I thought she was nuts, but then I fell in love with the little guy. She got the house. I took the dog.”
I nodded. “Mine’s a Pekinese-Pomeranian cross.”
“Bring him on over to the truck to meet mine.” He gestures over his shoulder at a shiny light blue rig winking in the weak sunlight over in the parking lot. He smiles, looks down at my crotch, slowly slides his eyes up over my chest and back to my eyes.
It begins to dawn on me just what he wants to show me back at the rig. It probably isn’t his Cockapoo.
“Just got the truck. Bought it off an old-timer who just retired. It’s got satellite radio and a flat screen TV in the sleeper. All the amenities.” He runs his tongue over his lips.
“I uh … I like the colour.” I bend down and scoop up the little guy, shovel him into the cab of my truck. “Thanks, but I gotta run. Have a good one.”
I pull back out onto the highway, under a wide wide sky. Thinking. It could have been the little fluffy dog. Maybe that’s what he saw. Or the boots. I had changed back out of the snow boots for my gig in Winnipeg. Goddamn Fleuvogs. Get me every time.
Boner Preservation
Society
Last August my sweetheart and I had what we have now taken to calling a speed bump in the road of our love. We broke up for almost two tragic, tear-soaked weeks. When we finally talked about it, we came to the realization that we weren’t finished with each other yet. We still wanted to be in some kind of a relationship together; we just didn’t want it to look anything like the relationship we had just ended. After extended bouts of painfully honest talking, we emerged with a new game plan. We placed hot raunchy sex at the top of our list of priorities. We decided not to move in together when I returned to Vancouver. We restocked the toy box and signed up for a kinky weekend conference.
Turns out the brand new us model worked so well, we founded a little organization dedicated to keeping the magic alive, complete with a mandate (definitely no pun intended) and mottos and credos and guidelines. Due to both of our travel schedules and propensity for chatting, the Boner Preservation Society now boasts members (pun most certainly intended) all across the continent, a menagerie of like-minded folks of many genders dedicated to conquering bed death of all persuasions. The benefits of BPS membership are so vast and fulfilling that we decided it would be downright selfish to keep them to ourselves, and that in the interests of love and world peace we needed to spread the, umm … word as wide and hard as possible.
So here goes. Imagine a slick looking letterhead and a sturdy, no nonsense font.
The Boner Preservation Society. Our basic motto, in italics, would come right underneath the title: Feel This. Right after that will come our mission statement in bold letters: Putting the cock back in lesbian bed death since 2007. This will be followed by an explanatory paragraph that states that membership in the BPS is completely free of charge and open to anyone who wishes to preserve the boner, and that boner is a non-gender specific term, as are hard-on, blow job, and ejaculating. These terms are not open for discussion, as long-winded arguments about whether or not female-assigned individuals are capable of wielding boners or getting blow jobs are definite boner killers and are in direct conflict with the official aims of the Boner Preservation Society and are thus forbidden, please see above.
Next will follow the tenets of the BPS, which are malleable and flexible depending on the individual members’ tastes and predilections. Members are more than welcome to borrow or extrapolate on ours, but of course it is expected that each of us is ultimately responsible for seeking out, caring for, and maintaining our own individual boners, and as such, the BPS wishes to keep rules regarding the boners of others to a bare minimum, in the interests of boners everywhere, especially as of yet undiscovered techniques or tips. An open mind is a terrible thing to waste.
Some of the tenets and guidelines my sweetheart and I have decided on are:
Want is a need.
Two blocks away is living together.
If you like it shaved, keep it shaved. If you like it plucked, pluck it. If you like it hairy, then take care of it. Don’t slack on the personal maintenance. Even if you’ve been together for twenty years. Make like every date is your first date. She’s put up with you for twenty years, the least you can do is bust out the moustache trimmer. Moustache trimmers, of course, are for much more than just moustaches.
Throw out any underwear that is stained, faded to a non-colour, full of holes, or possessing elastic that is no longer interested in its work. Don’t argue, just do it. Yes, you do need that new matching bra and panty set or overpriced pair of briefs with the newfangled piping. You do. You probably need a new set of sheets, too. Think you can’t afford it? Even 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton will still be cheaper than buying out her half of the Subaru and replacing all the CDs you forgot were hers if she leaves you for her yoga teacher. Think of the big picture. Think of your heart. Think of your boner.
The dog gets his own bed.
Relearn everything you thought you knew about knottying. Foreplay is the new black. Do some research on pheromones, and when and how they are released, and the mental and physical effect of pheromones on arousal, and even love. Pheromones are secreted through the skin as a result of being touched. It’s scientific. Someone did a study. I even heard it on the CBC.
Kiss for a minimum of ten seconds at least twice a day. No matter what is going on, or how late for work you are. Involve your tongues. Necking is not optional.
Think of something you have always wanted to try, and try it.
These are a few examples of what works for us. We have found that when actively practicing the tenets of the Boner Preservation Society, the trickier aspects of a healthy relationship somehow become easier. Complex things like intimacy, honesty, tenderness, and trust are a whole lot easier to get a handle on when you are both sore from all that fucking.
There are things that we have decided are boner killers, but I have chosen not to list them here, mostly because thinking about them kills my boner. Please see above.
There you have it. Membership in the BPS is expanding everyday. We now have a heterosexual caucus and a menopause advisory board. We are currently seeking sponsors and are considering developing a crest that can be applied to products and services that are officially recognized by the BPS as boner inducers. So help us spread the word. Find your boner, and love it like it might be your last. Peace be with you. And also with you.
Objects in Mirror
Are Queerer
Than They Appear
Last month I spent ten days at home in the Yukon, doing research for a new project. I went through as many family photos as I could lay my hands on: sorting through the magic red bag of memorabilia my Aunt Roberta keeps in her basement and sifting through the gigantic mishmash of memories crammed into a box in my mother’s guestroom closet. My Grandma Pat won the organization award; hers were some of the only photos actually placed in albums, and each album had a glossary of subjects and decades listed on the inside cover in her bold, confident script. I found a citation for drunk driving from the seventies for one of my uncles, not totally out of character for him, but it was issued at ten o’clock in the morning, which was impressive. I unfolded a stiff and stern letter written by the principal of my father’s high school, which would later be my high school, explaining to his parents just why he was going to have to repeat grade ten. It wasn’t for lack of intelligence, he made sure to point out. I found a lot of pictures of me as a kid. Way more than I remember anyone taking at the time.
There is the one of me with my dad and my Uncle Rob, who are on either end of a broomstick loaded down with lake trout; I am crouching underneath the fish between the two men, blood spattered up to my elbows, proudly holding up a string of grayling. Me in a campground somewhere up north, exploding out of the willows, carrying a giant log of firewood on my back. Me on the first day of grade one, in a line-up with all the other little girls on the block; all the neighbour girls and my little sister are in sparkly new dresses, their chubby knees scrubbed and squishing out of the tops of sparkling white knee socks. I, on the other hand, am wearing blue corduroys, black rubber boots with red-brown toes, and my Davy Crockett fringed buckskin jacket. Me, in my grade two class photo, front-toothless in a plaid shirt, pearly snaps done right up to my chin, sporting an Andy Gibbish shag do. Me smiling in full hockey gear, lined up with all of my teammates, the only girl in the boy’s league.
None of this was surprising to me; I appear to be the same kid I remember being. What I couldn’t believe, in retrospect, is that anyone in my family could have actually been surprised when I came out of the closet at eighteen. The evidence was everywhere, right from the start; how could anyone have missed it?
I decided to investigate.
I called up my Aunt Roberta first, because it was almost eight o’clock in the evening, and she goes to bed early. I asked her if she ever suspected that I was gay when I was little, if she ever wondered about the hockey and the buckskin jackets?
I heard the kitchen chair complain about being dragged across the linoleum, and she sat down.
“I know this sounds silly, but I always just thought you were just who you were. An amazing little strong personality. Thought you got it from your dad.”
I asked her if Gran had ever said anything to her about me and the gay.
“Gran’s gone to bed already, but I do remember her saying to me that you were exactly right. All you kids turned out to be exactly who God meant you to be. I mean, you can call her in the morning if you want to, but I know that’s what she’ll say.”
My grandma Pat was good for an awesome quote, as usual.
“I never labeled you as anything. You were just boyish, and you did boyish things. Keep in mind that we just didn’t think like that back then, you see. Any knowledge of homosexuality I might have had would have gone back to Victorian times. All those novels. You probably skirted under my radar, because you weren’t wearing hoop skirts and high button boots.”
My mom swore she had no clue whatsoever. “My mind never went there. I just let you be what you wanted to be. Not very helpful, I guess. I’m sorry.”
My Aunt Cathy echoed my mom. “I just thought you were a little brat because you refused to wear a dress to our wedding.”
My Aunt Norah thought my sister and I were just polar opposites, that was all. “Carrie was the prissy little girl, and you … weren’t. You were just your own little people. When you were in your teens I remember thinking … knowing somehow that you weren’t happy, you just seemed tense inside your own skin. I knew there was something going on with you, but I didn’t know what it was. We didn’t have to have a label for everything back then.”
My Uncle John was cooking an omelet in the background when I talked to him. “Sorry, kiddo, but I can’t identify the moment we realized you had gone to the dark side. We were just glad you weren’t stupid. There’s no cure for stupid. There was that one time, you were only six or so, when you gave me supreme shit for not attending to my fishing rod, but I don’t think that had much to do with your sexuality.”
My Uncle Rob was pensive, thinking over his response a bit before speaking. “Well … you can see why we wouldn’t have thought much about it. There’s lots of hetero butch chicks out there, to be honest. Especially up here.”
“On the other hand,” he continued, “maybe a guy should have twigged due to your aversion to wearing a dress, but who cares, anyway? I’ve always said, it’s your soap and your dick, and you can wash it as fast as you want.”
So it appears that for all those years, in all those photographs of that little tomboy, there was only one member of my family wondering about me.
And that was me.
Truth Story
A couple of years ago I was backstage at a little music festival with my friend and guitar player, Richard. It was a breezy blue-skied July day, drawing quite a decent crowd for a small town. I pulled back the velvet curtain a crack to have a sneak peek at our audience. The entire first row was a beefy, bleeding tattooed wall of biker-looking types. I swallowed and pulled the curtain back.
“Rico …” I whispered. “I think we’re gonna have to change up our set a little. I think maybe we need to drop the Francis story and do the fishing story instead.”
The Francis story was a tale about a little boy who liked to wear dresses. I thought maybe a less faggy, more fishing-oriented piece might go over a little better with this crowd.
Richard took a deep breath and gave me his I-am-about-to-tell-you-something-for-your-own-good look.
“First of all,” he began, “the truck is parked right backstage. Second, artists are always allowed to talk about shit that other people would get punched out for bringing up, remember? It’s part of the deal.”
I nodded, because this was true. Richard inhaled again, obviously not finished yet.
“But most important of all is, don’t be a chickenshit, Coyote. Have some balls. What, you only going to tell that story to people who don’t need to hear it?”
“You fucker.” I smiled at him.
He shrugged. He knew me. Knew what to say to activate my stubborn streak.
The biggest and most bad-assed-looking of the bikers stood there in the front row, his veiny forearms crossed over his black T-shirt, for the first ten minutes of my set. He even laughed here and there, the skin around his eyes crinkling into well-worn crow’s feet every time he smiled. I started to relax a little, and when I started the first couple of lines of the Francis story, Richard tipped his head in my direction in approval and played like an angel beside me.
Halfway through the story, I watched the gigantic man in the front row start to unpeel himself right in front of me. First he uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides. Then he bit his lower lip, and his handlebar moustache began to quiver a little. By the end, he was crying giant man-sized tears, unabashedly letting them roll down his dusty cheeks and disappear into his beard. He almost got me choked up too, just watching him. I was used to the drag queens losing it in the last couple of paragraphs of the Francis story, but this was something else altogether.
After, when Richard and I were loading gear into the back of his pick-up, I looked up and he was standing next to the table that held the cheese trays and the juice cooler, waiting to talk to me.
He rushed up and picked me right up off the ground in a cigar-scented hug. When he let me back down to the ground, he still held both of my hands in his baseball glovesized hands, squeezing them until it almost hurt.
“I just had to thank you. Just had to tell you how much that story you told meant to me.” He pulled me up close to him, and lowered his voice a couple of decibels. “My baby brother James died from AIDS, ten years ago tomorrow. My only brother. I loved him like crazy when we were kids, but my dad … well … let’s just say the old man wasn’t very flexible in his beliefs about certain things. He never understood Jamie, right from the get-go, and Christ, he was hard on the kid. Beat the living shit out of him one time when he caught him wearing my sister Donna’s lipstick. Finally kicked him out when Jamie was fifteen. Nobody knew, back then, and by the time we did, it was too late. I never stuck up for him, never said a word, and to this day I have never forgiven myself for it. My baby brother, out on the street. How else was he going to get by? He was only a fucking kid.”
He looked me right in the eyes. By this time, both of us were crying.
