i w a n t t o f u c k y o u

by my girlfriend. 

I have the most beautiful girl in the entire city of San Francisco making love and breakfast to me. I’m the luckiest bitch alive. 

Mo and Kayla. 35mm Color Film by Rhiannon Schneiderman

This made me think of the following quote by my mama:

“A mi me gustan las tortilleras correctas that just bind the titties y se meten el dedo”

(Source: rhiannonschneiderman)

je suis un garçon

Female Masculinity

by La Lady Jade

EVEN STONE BUTCHES GET THE BLUES: butch-looking femme.

“A white working-class butch, Merrill Mushroom (…) defined  butch as ‘the aggressive partner in a lesbian relationship,’ but a strict butch in a ‘woman who insistently maintains the butch role at all times and who only goes with femmes.’ A ‘drag butch’ is a kind of passing woman who takes on the form of a heterosexual male in clothes and style, but a ‘stone butch’ is a ‘butch who does not let her partner touch her sexually.’ There are also ‘femmie-looking butches’ and ‘butch-looking femmes.’  There are indeed a plethora of categories available, and just as the term ‘lesbian’ tends to subsume multiple sexual styles under the heading of same-sex desire, so ‘butch’ has become a receptacle for all lesbian masculinity (…) we can still modify it when necessary and speak quite specifically (..) we may also think of terms of soft, baby, and old-style butches, not to mention studs, daggers, and diesels.

—Even Stone Butches Get the Blues by Jack Halberstam 

(Photo by Sam Hessamian)

Girlfriend in a Coma

by Me

 After two years the same Mexican woman is selling the same bacon-wrapped hot dogs and fanning them with Tuesday’s El Tecolote.  The smell of grease slaps your nostrils. You haven’t been to this corner of the Mission in two years and she is still equally fat, sweating just the same and screaming hodog! Hodog! Hooodog! As she puts more bacon on the fryer. You used to make fun of the gringos who bought her hotdogs imagining them throwing up later that night. But today you barely glimpse at her. You take a left into your ex’s building killing the sizzling of the onions from your ears.

                                                                 *********

When the police called last night you were naked watching a documentary on the Falkland Islands. She tried to kill herself, they muttered on the phone, and your business card was crumbled inside her jacket when they found her. At that moment you see the map of Argentina covering whole the T.V screen. Then the prune-looking face of some General or Lieutenant or Sergeant with a small thick mustache appears followed by a graph of How Many Dead People? and finally The British. The person calling you is a woman. You imagine the police officers at the station deciding who would better give you the news and you picture them pointing at the only woman officer. Her voice is dry. You think she may have a cold but you don’t say anything. For ten seconds nobody says anything.

Can I see her?

You regret saying this the moment it leaves your mouth.

We haven’t been able to contact any of her family members, the woman says in a sad voice.

Of course not, you think to yourself. Of course none of those fuckers are going to care.

And since you are the only person who has responded we need you to go to her apartment and bring some of her stuff down to the hospital.

The woman officer gives you the address of the hospital. She says she is on her way there and can meet you in thirty minutes and give you your ex’s keys. Okay, you say, not knowing if you really have any other option. You hang up right when some British professor discusses the military failure of the Argentinians. You realize you’re still naked. You realize your ex-girlfriend tried to kill herself and you stare at your black pubic hair and you feel immensely alone.

                                                               **********

Your ex’s flat is at the second floor of a Victorian house right on Mission Street. As you go up the stairs you can still smell the grease of the Mexican hotdogs on your hair. You curse the woman’s hotdogs. For a second you imagine La Migra taking her and her hodog cart all the way to Mexico; you picture her crying, praying to La Virgen in Spanish, then you open your ex’s door. This apartment never got much light. When the woman officer handed you the keys last night at the hospital she told you your ex was in a coma. You can see her if you want, the woman officer said avoiding eye contact. You noticed the keys were on the same rainbow keychain and that she had a small library card reading “READ” in pastels attached to it. 

I will, you said and took the elevator up to the 4^th floor.

Her apartment is dim even with the lights on. There is stuff everywhere and you notice she was painting and you spot her pink-laced bra on a brown chair but you cannot move from the front door. You cannot walk. Then the sudden smell of speed and rotten sunflowers awakens you and you are urged to move. You remember the time you were both on speed for three days locked in that room recreating Macbeth as a lesbian play.

Lady Macbeth is a total dyke, your ex had said.

Lady Macbeth kills herself, you think.

You pat your jeans searching for your phone and find the business card the police took from your ex’s jacket. The woman officer gave it to you last night with a terrible smile, pressing her hands hard to yours as she put it on your palm. It is your business card. The letters are faded but you can still clearly read your last name and the little note on the back:

Amor remember to buy soy milk

and drop off my books at the library

There is a small heart after “library”. 

You try to cry but you can’t. The silence of the moment is broken by the cacophony of Mission Street.  You play with the business card not really sure what to do with it. You think of your ex’s skin and how pale she looked at the hospital and how she smelled of cheap bathroom soap and cigarettes and how you leaned over to kiss her and how her lips tasted like yogurt. You put the card on your pack pocket.

She probably didn’t know that card was in there, you say out loud.

SHIT SON! IT’S HELLA HOT TODAY!

San Francisco is freaking melting today and there is not gonna be any of me left by the end of tonight

(illustration) from Fun Home by Alison Bechdel 

“I just dived down. It couldn’t have been too fast. Time was being so slow and warm. And there it was. A pussy, the singular place on a girl, it’s where I’m going. Wiggly thing, like soup. like a bowl.

Another mouth. Like lips between her legs and the taste of it. Piss and fruit. I pressed my face against its bone and it moved. She was letting me. All this was happening. I smelled the future right there, a present and a past. All that went through her, known through the soft sweet flesh of her lips and clit. It was like my face felt loved temporarily. It wasn’t even long this feeling of total rightness. I was telling her clit a story. If there is a warm disassociation this was it: placing my head one night on her warm puss and lapped. I felt plunged into a tropical movie in which light was bathing my head and her pussy, her cunt, her crotch was a warm smile and for a moment I lived in her sun.”

-Eileen Myles