when mother is a mutha’

Sunday is Mother’s Day. It’s a day that fills me with dread and sadness as my mother hasn’t really fulfilled the traditional role of ‘mother’ in many, many years. And at this stage of my own advancing years, I’ve no hope that she will receive some divine awakening to an understanding that while her children are adults, our desire for a loving, devoted mother –is still something of a goal.

I have a friend who tells me to let go of my expectations for a change; mother is not going to change now. No ma’am. This friend also states that I understand that while mother’s bitter, narcissistic points of view, her smothering overlord ways, and her deeply crippling emotional abuse, were — on some level, the best she could give.

And I, having survived her ‘reign of terror’ years –well, I should understand that all of that bullshit made me the fabulous person I am today.

But those notions still don’t make me feel much better. Or make my desire for a ‘real’ mom any less. The last crumb of anything good or best quality about mother went into the ground with my father’s casket. She gave up seemingly overnight. Depression? For sure. But it’s hard to wrangle sympathy for a woman who repeatedly kitchen table gossiped with her own children about “should’a left your father year’s ago.” That conversation was craftily framed with guilt: “…but I’ve stayed ‘cuz of you. I didn’t have a daddy but I’ve made sure you kids have one.” I can still see the wafting, lavender smoke from her KOOL cigarette as she waited for the iron to heat.

Cue Tennessee Williams. Our family dynamic swims in southern gumbo gothic. Don’t forget that dash of bitters. Meh. Most of the time I really don’t care that mother is missing in action. I’ve learned to give myself props for the good times and empathy for the bad times. Mother, in my opinion, failed to launch, period– minus her orbit the chance of her being pulled into the magnetic field of her children’s lives is not likely. We’ve grown accustom to that dark void, the lack of love, and the hollow surface conversations that define our phone calls out here in space.

Some day she’ll be gone. And I know in my heart that when that time comes it will either represent peace, closure, and a chance for healing or a spiraling nose-dive of emotional loss from depths that offer no reasonable return.

 

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the invisible man

The muse has struck. Actually I just plowed through six pieces of toast with orange marmalade and have decided to move my fingers to a keyboard versus stuffing carbs and sugar into my pie hole.

Do you follow Astrology Zone for your monthly horoscope? You should. It’s a fascinating read and one I enjoy monthly. There have been the few scattered predictions that have occurred and I suppose it’s my penchant for ‘waiting for the big one’ (which only truly applies to orgasms and heart attacks) that keeps me a stalwart returning reader.

For the month of May my horoscope states that the time for procrastination with regard to writing a book is over. There is no more time left to delay. I’ve had a couple of friends through the years tell me that I need to write a book. But while I maintain everyone has a story to tell — a book that resides within the framework of their life experiences, I’m not certain I have a clue as to what I’d write about. Do we really need another tell all tome on growing up gay? Or a novella on emotional abandonment from a narcissistic mother? I think not. Some legit author or published poet that I used to follow stated that one should “write what you know.” I know a lot of trivial bullshit. And my heart knows betrayal, lust, and revenge. My brain knows the engulfing fog of depression–who, like a good dog, is never far from my side.

But do I have a book within? I remember very few details, actually, from my teen years. Not that I’m suggesting my teen years as a jumping off start point, but those years decidedly created who I am today just as much as any genetic DNA coding.

My family moved to a new town as I entered freshman year. Those clique friendship circles were already locked and loaded; I would be the proverbial ‘new kid’ until I walked across that stage and grabbed a diploma four years later with a kiss-my-ass stride. I walked so purposefully to get out of Dodge that I’ve never been back for a single high school reunion. But I digress.

I can’t tell you much of what I learned from books during those years, but I do know deep, secret shame, the self-doubt, the wobbling insecurities, and the burning flush of embarrassment–with regard to being different and KNOWING one is different, at the hands of ignorant bullies.

There was no “it gets better” program back in my school days. (when dinosaurs walked the earth) and while so many find me the center of attention nowadays with a command of sartorial status and sparkling wit I am also very adept at receding into the shadows without much notice. Those high school years taught me how to become invisible. And if I had to choose a super power that is the one I’d reach for minus hesitation. But those torturous years served me well: I will always see the humanity in those perceived as ‘less than’ and I will always pull from within myself when times are tough. When one has nowhere else to turn for empathy, look deep inside.

My stretched out boi hole

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Clever headline, no? Well, I reckon it’s been awhile since anybody who cares if I’m living or six feet under has stopped by to read any of this bullshit. That’s why I went balls-to-the -wall with my headline. Did it peak your curiosity as to what tale might unfold here? Yeah, well…sorry. This is just a check in to dust off the cobwebs on ye’ olde blog.

I miss the golden days of blogging. The early 2000’s were halcyon days for people who wanted (or felt compelled) to commit their thoughts, views, perspectives, and well… stretched out arse hole pics to the realm of cyberspace.

I always enjoyed crafting a fine tale or sharing some gay bitchery from a night out with faux friends. Who doesn’t love a cup of snoop?! At my original blog, a somewhat private place –much like this space, I entered everything under a pen name; the tales were oftentimes a bit too revealing so my pen name gave me a shield to stand behind. After all nobody needs to know that I jacked off in department store fitting room. But maybe under my pseudo name…sure, spill it bub.

My stats on this site are nonexistent. Five views a day is a good day. Though I don’t have much wiggle room to bitch and moan when I don’t keep this site active with my tales of single-handedly rising from the pits of unemployment (I mopped bathroom floors for nine bucks an hour during my part-time stint with a nationally known home decor retailer) to today’s camera flash effervescence on a society gala’s step & repeat carpet. I don’t Facebook much of what I do on the scene because it would be deemed as ‘explainabrag’ and I’m far to cognizant of the personal brand I’m building to fall victim to any lookie lookie posts. Well. I TRY not to post lookie lookie posts but shit happens.

My point is this: I do miss the constructive stream of consciousness that defined the experience of my past blog life. But truth be told: does anyone really want to hear the musings from a depressed old queen nowadays? I think maybe not. I’ve been relegated to PornHub twinks and the sad, lonely task of sponge cleaning cum from velour upholstery. That shit is a tough stain nut to crack, lemme tell you.

Hello? Anybody here?

Hello ladies. Meh. Not even going to try to explain how my last post was in January. Here it is March and this year is flying by just as quickly as last year. But that’s the thing as one gets older. Time literally flies. I heard some psych pro discuss this ‘racing time’ phenomenon on NPR, I think it was– several years ago. It has something to do about aging memory cells in the brain to simplify the topic. When one is young, the brain is young and therefore not filled up with a lot of life experiences. But as we age we gain experiences/memories and run out of memory space, so to speak, like the floppy disks of yesteryear. The brain discards past memories to make room for today’s experiences and in doing so creates some brain fuck of a time warp wherein the older brain senses the passing of time much faster. Make sense? I’m paraphrasing, sweetie, and more than likely screwed up the core thinking on the topic but at the time I heard the explanation it made such perfect sense. Go figure.

Ugh. I have corporate travel on the horizon. Again. Don’t mind the being there but it is always the getting there that sucks donkey dick. The last trip that I noted was timed during a nasty head cold which left me with a severe case of ‘airplane ear.’ And, no, it’s not a matter of extreme yawning and blowing my nose. Back in the 80s I had a similar bad experience with an airplane’s descent that had me in my doctor’s office 48-hours later. He essentially said that the tiny capillaries behind my eardrum had ruptured and that stuffed, odd blocked hearing loss was actually a tiny pool of blood behind the ear drum. I took some antibiotics and in a few days it passed. Still, I have to take a sinus decongestant and chew two pieces of “ICE” hyper-minty gum to clear my nasal passages for takeoff and landings. This is the core reason I’m not a fan of travel anymore.

Insert odd segue here: What with all the angst and heartbreak of the modern world, and with half the nation on anti-depressants I’ve been questioning why we stay here on this green earth at all. If the good book promises an afterlife of bliss, tranquility, and a sense of overwhelming love from benevolent Jesus why then are folks not offing themselves by the hundreds? I mean, right? If my version of happiness is just a quick step (leap?) from this apartment window what is the hold up? Maybe it’s just the unknown, the uncertainty, that the white light is even waiting for us. I have not figured this out and maybe it requires a theological pro for a more advanced answer. I make no bones about it: the one thing that keeps me here is my inability to get my affairs in order. I do not need my family combing through my massive wardrobe, thrift shop tchotchkes, and porn stash. You all only need worry when I have a walk-in closet that one can actually, like, walk in.

Still, I’ve pondered my demise and what that might look like as one does at this advanced age. And that aspect of offing myself is also a problematic facet. Who will do my bronzer? Where will I get planted? Do I want to go in ground or be cremated and spread on high, somewhere up a mountain overlooking Palm Springs? I just don’t have answers. But it should all be painfully tasteful and discriminatingly invitation only. Oh. And one more thing keeps me here: that lightning-in-a-bottle chance that I may, once again, fall madly in love and find that unicorn individual who will complete me and support my better shoes addiction.

New year/old shit

Well here we are. 2018. Advancing to our graves with the advent of the new year; the old year gone and along with it all the missed opportunities and failed coulda/woulda/shouldas. I recently read a quote from some senior citizen fuck who stated something along the thought of ‘…I have more years behind me than I do ahead of me. Best to make the most of the years I have left…’

Oh fuck you, granny. Sorry. My new year’s resolution is to be even more curmudgeonly and annoyed with humanity. And I don’t have to try too hard; look at the state of the world we now inhabit. Let’s roll back environmental protections, kick damn foreigners out, and grab everyone by the pussy! BOOYAH! I’ll circle back on the P word. Hold tight.

bw-drnksantaChristmas trim is about 90% packed away. I was feeling mighty accomplished until I realized that I have yet another box load of Xmas shit residing on the breakfast bar in my kitchen. It’s an easy oversight: “kitchen” is a wing I rarely visit. I just know that the room contains a metal box to make stuff hot and a bigger metal box to keep things cold. Sad, no? I used to throw down dinner parties for ten and not lose a beat; why, I’ve been known to paint the entire living room/dining room a fresh coat and entertain the same evening. But my desire to cook for one is limited nowadays; I haven’t really whipped up a dinner party in ten years. I’m rambling…

Oh. So Christmas was so so. I had zero expectations and those were met and exceeded. Mother sent a package in mid-December and followed up with a phone chat like this:

“…Did you get my package? Let me know when you get the package cuz’ I sent it priority mail. They said you should have my package by Wednesday. Now if you don’t get my package…well, you will probably get it but it was a shirt. So now you know…but anyway…that’s what should be coming Wednesday. If you don’t like it give it to someone who can use it…”

smokin_jesusOh the surprise and delights of the Christmas season are never ending. Such is the bounty of the unwilling and bitter. And the shirt did arrive; no tissue, no wrapping, no Christmas anything –just a shirt in a United States Post Office mailer pack. I suppose I sound like a bitch but I know damn well mother is at Dollar General 10 times a week and can surely grab a goddamn gift bag. Color me disappointed but what was I expecting?! GUCCI resort 2018?

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I’m still sick. I’m nursing a damn head cold that won’t die. On top of that misery I had business travel this past week. I’m called to corporate every 8 to 10 weeks; it’s okay once I’m there. It’s the getting there that is problematic. I am not a bad flyer but I don’t think I’m a good one either. I had to drag my balls out of bed around 4:00am to make an 8:00am flight. Which was pretty miserable but only because I was headed to the airport and not my sofa for a porn buffet.

I’m of the generation who still wears a sport coat to get on a plane; folks do question my penchant for an ‘airport outfit’ but it’s rather an easy explanation: if that jet falls from the sky I’m meeting Christ in a tailored jacket and possibly a tie. I do not need a $15 buck-an-hour crash site crisis crew to find me dead in sweatpants and no bronzer. No ma’am.

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Over the holidays I made a radical porn discovery and it was quite by accident. I landed on ‘ruff fuck pussy boi’ movie clip, etcetera, as one does– and was literally shocked to a steel stiffie to learn that the “pussy boi” in the particular artistic endeavor did –in fact, have a pussy! I’m now all caught up on female to male trans men for future cocktail chatter and wank fests. Maybe this current penchant for vajay and furry chest combo is what OPRAH meant when I read that changing one’s narrative is always a good notion at the onset of a new year.

Mary Christmas, bitch

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Hello and holiday greetings from my chardonnay haze and tuna sandwich breath. You see, kind reader, I am off work this week. On holiday at the holidays as it was; a staycation! And this much I can share: day drinking is highly underrated. I can’t wait for my pending retirement years to start my days with sparkling mimosa and burnt sausages; I’ll segue into a lunchtime spicy Bloody Mary that will carry me through to cocktail hour promptly at 4:00pm. No wonder old people go to bed early. If they’re doing ‘old’ right they should be properly hammered and pissed in their big drawers by 6:00pm. But I digress.

BW_tree-trashChristmas 2017 is over. I had zero expectations and those zero expectations were met. There were no OMG gift highlights this year. And while well-meaning coworkers afforded the awkward “…thinking of you at Christmas” notecards I’d rather some spent their money on better dentistry.

Sweetie, I don’t need ‘fun socks’ at this age. But that snaggle tooth is going to ruin some dude’s uncut manhood in the coat room at your next ‘STAR WARS PRINCESS’ Quinceañera. Just saying.

People collectively agree that I’m that picky individual on their gift list that is ‘hard to buy for.’ That is, to be gentle– a fucking cop-out. Walk through Neiman’s. I’m certain one can find a suitable gift that I’d enjoy on the very first floor. But, no, they would rather fear my arched brow when I sense that their ‘designer candle’ gift is from Dollar General. Do not regift me that shit, Shirley. I wrote the book on regifting and a goddamn candle is the very first regift item on the top ten mutha’fuckin’ things that folks regift. So there’s that.

Let’s tarry forth. I have zero New Year’s Eve plans. I did not have NYE plans last year. Or the year before that. And, I believe– maybe the past five New Year’s Eves I have had no plans; I was home–very much alone. The last few years I broiled a filet mignon, smothered a baked potato in sour cream and chives, sipped some champagne and sailed off on a kitten soft cloud of champagne infused Xanax chill well before 10:00pm. Those pot lid banging fools out on their high-rise balconies are wasting their fool efforts to get a peep out of me come midnight; I will be nowhere near any ball drop.

BW_ONE-BALLWhich makes me a bit nostalgic for the one-balled dude that I dated let fuck me in my early 20s. I mean, in retrospect, the topic of his solo testicle didn’t enter our casual morning banter as we punched in at ye olde time clock back in my retail maven days. Yes, I used to be a ribbon clerk and was quite good at it because I was a superior salesperson an easy fuck. Where was I? Oh, so one-ball-dude really had the heavy hots for me in a grand way; he was an artist and viewed me as his next muse, you see; he lived in a wacky sprawling apartment on the city’s north side. I recall it was mostly painted a hunter green color as was the early 80’s rage with a nod to emerging Ralph Lauren style. But that’s where the nod to Upper East Side stopped. The rest of his apartment was filled with Mexican folk art, feathery wind catchers, painted tribal masks, and the odd ball taxidermist furry animal. There were layered, frayed carpets that suggested exotic, distant Morocco and crawling, vine clinging houseplants; a heady scent of YSL’s ‘OPIUM,’ oven baked muffins, and used sex poppers hung thick. In a word: DIVINE.

BW_BackdoorWe dated fucked for about a couple of months until he found someone even younger and more beautiful. And I feel no shame in being boldly narcissistic in my self assessment commentary: I WAS young AND beautiful; how the fuck do you think I got into Studio 54? And the half-dozen or so men who finger banged my hot hairy hole back in the day are still dreaming about it. But I am sooo digressing. There is no thread of consistency here as I’m deep into cocktails early today and rambling along my keyboard. I can see this clearly. Just like I can see my hazy memory tip toe back to Reed’s shit show artist’s apartment and the shared showers post-sheet biting sex where I’d let him rub Tiger Balm on my tight Italian asshole and wait for the ball to drop.

Bitters with a twist

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On occasion {read: every other hour} I surf unknown posts via the “because you liked” algorithm that my INSTA feed provides. Earlier today my research based on non-stop swipes lead me to this conclusion: I hate young, 20-something gays with perfect tousle-haired boyfriends. Or Husbands.

diamdsYes. I know. Please add my name to the legions of tired, bitter old queens with better jewelry because we can afford it. And I suppose “hate” in this context is far too scathing and unmerited. Maybe acid green ‘jealous’ is a better, truer word.

Mother said “Life is not supposed to be fair; you get what you get.” Which in my early thirties made no sense when I shared at a family gathering that I’d been passed over for a promotion that afforded a pay increase. I should have known better to root around for empathy from a narcissistic parent but daresay I was much more open to hope and dreams that my nuclear family would– one day, act like a family. But I digress.

When I INSTA viewed a young gay couple holding hands pulling their wagon filled with a bound Christmas tree with the caption “Corbin’s first Christmas tree at our new apartment” I wanted to vomit. Okay. Okay. Again with the too harsh criticism and judgement. If I were to vaporize into their Kodak moment I would ask them how many goddamn HRC chicken dinner galas and AIDS candlelight marches they’ve engaged for the privilege and right to haul ass through mid-town holding hands in broad daylight spat from the pages of L.L.Bean.

wagonWhen I moved in with my boyfriend 35+ years ago it was indeed a different world. We were first and foremost ‘roommates.’ A term I emphatically voiced to tell my parents that I was moving into a new apartment with a– gasp, man! I was madly, deeply in love; you see– frankly, I would have moved into a cardboard box with him but my young, first love is not what this missive is about.

No. We had everything working against our success as a gay couple. Society. Workplace. Family. We maintained two separate phone lines; when I phoned home I shut the bedroom door for fear that my then partner might make some human noise like a mere sneeze or yell an ill-timed question like “…did you fold the towels?” which would implicate me living in sin. With a man.

In the workplace, at the peak of my career, I placed a 10-second delay on my Monday morning responses to “What’d you do this weekend?” Those inquiring questions were always met with “I did this…” or “I did that…”   Single; never ‘we.’  Because “we” in the eyes of the mass, general public did not exist. In a nutshell: we were the sick and depraved homosexuals who spread disease while preying on young boys; some of us committed suicide for having our dirty secret life of shame exposed. One doesn’t have to dig too far back during the early Reagan era to learn I stand correct on this line of encapsulated thought.

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There was no bridal registry for us. There was very little support. Ever. We burrowed into our circle of gay friends– that extended family of choice, to share our joys and sorrows as a partnered couple. And that well spring was a sustaining fresh font of kindred spirits either partnered or looking for Mr. Right. That tribe split up with the demise of my relationship. And their absence in my life today is no one’s fault or even surprising. It’s like carny work; as long as the circus is in town, they have a job.

sadparrotWell. This reads all rather sad as fuck. I don’t know if there is a point of view contained in this mish mash or not. I suppose no generation ever truly understands the sacrifices or thanks the prior generations for making their path in the world somewhat easier. I can’t say I’ve ever thanked a WWII vet for stopping the Nazis from taking over the world so I could enjoy consumerism by shopping Neimans in our modern day democracy.  And to the young, 20-something gays, well — my apologies for a green-eyed monster perspective; you just keep the fires burning for the next generation. Don’t coast on today’s rights; while our President seeks to close borders his larger initiative is to close minds. If I live long enough maybe I’ll see a gay President and ‘first husband’ at 1600 Pennsylvania. Now wouldn’t that be a lavender kick in my light loafers?