BQFF 2014 - your time and other contributions.

BQFF 2014 is coming up - Feb 28th, March 1st and 2nd.

If you would like to donate your time, here http://blrqueerfilmfest.com/volunteer/ you will find information about what we need from our volunteers, and the volunteer registration form. Send it in, and give me a few days to get back to you! Volunteering at BQFF is a great way to meet people and be social, watch movies all day and feel helpful at the same time, and generally be an awesome fun-having person.


If you would like to donate financially to BQFF 2014, please go here: http://blrqueerfilmfest.com/donate/

We are almost entirely community supported, so anything you give us is helpful beyond belief. (If you have any ideas that you think might help, call me at 9611 978 132, or anyone at BQFF: http://blrqueerfilmfest.com/contact-2/


It's been a stressful few months for us all. BQFF is one of our regular annual events, happening come metaphorical rain or shine. If you're not donating, contributing or volunteering, you're still entirely welcome and desired to come and watch the movies, which are always interesting and thought provoking and other virtuous things.

Thoughts on the 377 judgement, collected from Facebook.

This one has been doing the rounds, but I'm stealing it right now from Varta:

Six things you should know after the Supreme Court verdict on Section 377, Indian Penal Code:

a) On December 11, 2013, the Supreme Court reversed the Delhi High Court ruling on Section 377, which means this law is back in force, as it was till before July 2, 2009.

b) Section 377 criminalizes any sexual act that does not involve penile-vaginal penetration. It applies to all people, irrespective of their gender identity or sexual orientation. That means straight people are also affected by this law, and not just those who are homosexual, bisexual or transgender in orientation.
c) Section 377 in itself does not mean that you can be arrested for simply being or saying you are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, Hijra or Kothi. Your freedom of expression is not under threat.
d) Arrest under this law requires medical forensic evidence of specific sexual acts having taken place - oral, anal or other non penile-vaginal sexual acts.
e) You cannot be arrested for being in a declared or undeclared same-sex relationship. Strict material evidence of specific sexual acts will be necessary for arrest.
f) Community, family, workplace or police harassment, blackmail and extortion may take place under threat of Section 377 or even because you appear or are known to be “not straight”. But more than anything else, it is these acts that are illegal and they can be tackled with a dose of courage and sound legal action

If you feel more points need to be elaborated, please do let us know here or at vartablog@gmail.com.

*************************

There are protests, petitions and places where you can say your say all over the place. You don't have to do anything. You could stay at home and rage in quiet, as I have been doing for the past few days. But you might be feeling like taking steps that might help make a difference (which is a nicely optimistic step, for those of us capable of it). 

 You could start here:

(If you're not in Bangalore, the same protest is happening at different cities across India and the world, so look here: 

https://www.facebook.com/events/1374294672825321/?fref=ts)

Or you could call a news agency, and tell them what you think:

Please participate in the Times of India campaign against 377.
1] Call  +9/11 Memorial 80 6700 6443.2] The call will get disconnected.3] You will get an sms :
Thanks for joining the Times Campaign: Repeal the Section 377 IPC provision that criminalises homosexuality. See campaign details on http://zpdi.al/74565419

Or you could sign an online petition:

Love is Not a Crime! Protect Our Right to Equality - #Repeal377

1. 1. 
    
   2. Petition by
      Jhatkaa.org

The Supreme Court has upheld Section 377 which calls for imprisonment of anyone who "voluntarily has carnal intercourse against the order of nature". This is an outdated 19th century law that is against freedom of choice, right to equality and right to privacy.

Our constitution protects the “right to equality before the law”, and this judgement does the complete opposite. Such clear discrimination is absolutely unacceptable and we must not tolerate it in our country.

Everyone is affected - this law does not apply only to those of a different sexual orientation - the vague and outdated wording is open to interpretation and violates the right to consensual sex in privacy. If we thousands of Indians speak out, theParliament has power to vote to overturn the Supreme Court.

Sign the petition asking parliament to immediately decriminalise consensual adult same-sex relations.

The Delhi High Court had on July 2, in 2009 decriminalised gay sex as provided in Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code and had ruled that sex between two consenting adults in private would not be an offence. But today the Supreme Court today overturned that order in one quick judgement.

The good news is that many Members of the Parliament have come out saying that the Government should decriminalise homosexuality. If more MPs know that this is something the public cares about, we’ll be able to ensure Section 377 gets amended.

Raise your voice to the government to make sure consensual adult same-sex relations is legal. Please sign now.

To:
Government of India 

Our constitution protects the “right to equality before the law”, and this judgement does the complete opposite. Such clear discrimination is absolutely unacceptable and we must not tolerate it in our country. Please amend section 377 and decriminalise consensual homosexual relations immediately.

Sincerely,
[Your name]

You could party:

I suggest a nice combination of all of the above, plus extra chocolate. 

Some thoughts on 377 and Laws Affecting Queer Women

After Wednesday's ruling, I think it's important to note how Section 377 affects us, as queer women: the law has been interpreted by the judiciary as applying to anal intercourse between two men, and that too requiring proof for any conviction to occur.  In a case from around 2003 (I've forgotten the exact details of which case this was, as there were several similar ones around the same time), two women seeking the right to live together were also charged with S. 377, along with several other charges related to abduction and unlawful confinement.  The judge ultimately ruled in their favour, seeing no reason to prevent two adult women from cohabiting, and dismissed the use of S. 377 on the grounds that two women are incapable of 'sodomy'.  As far as I know, no convictions of queer women have occurred under S. 377, for that reason.

This is not to say that S. 377 does not affect us: police and relatives do not see the law in the same way that courts do, and therefore there is reason to be concerned about police harassment (and possibly arrest).[1]  

Certainly, fewer queer people will be willing to come out about their sexuality, and being a queer person will have that social stigma of being unlawful.  This is why we need to stand in solidarity with the rest of the queer community, and advocate for the removal of regressive laws affecting us, regardless of whether we as individuals would actually be convicted in a court for our desires or our sexual activities.

It's also important to realise that there are other laws that have been used much more commonly to oppress queer women, and to separate couples by force (especially by disapproving families): Section 340 (wrongful confinement), S. 361 (kidnapping), S. 362 (abduction), S. 366 (compelling a woman to marry - this one could actually be used in our favour if there's ever a case that comes up in discussion and people are willing to take it up), S. 368 (concealment/confinement of a kidnapped person), and Habeas Corpus writs, among others.  

We need to voice our concerns about the misuse of all of these laws (because unlike S. 377, they all do have their place for protecting our rights in some sense), and bring up the issues facing queer women in the LGBTHKQI discourse in India.  Otherwise, I don't know that our concerns about these laws will be taken up by the queer community at large.  Had S. 377 been decriminalised Wednesday, I would have been afraid that many people (particularly gay men) would have gone home thinking that everything was fine, that the legal struggle is over now.  Now, we have a chance to take advantage of the solidarity that the queer community has demonstrated after such a regressive ruling.

It's also important to voice our concerns about women in this society generally, because regressive social views are what cause parents to file cases against their adult daughter (or her lover) for going against the family's will.  An adult woman should not have to deal with a Habeas Corpus writ against her, demanding that she be brought before the court and back to her family, regardless of her sexuality.[2]  This is a question of women's rights, not just about our innate desires and our right to express them (definitely that is our concern, but not the only one here).  

Additionally, the only way we're going to change anything is to create more awareness and acceptance in society at large, and to provide a safe and supportive space for all queer women.  

I'd like to see more initiative on the part of WHaQ to reach out to Kannada (and Tamil) speaking women in Bangalore (and the rest of Karnataka for that matter), especially middle and lower class women, because they have no space for support here.[3]  I don't think we've effectively done that (though the space that we have created is definitely important), but we can do more, especially now that WHaQ has a committee (and is working towards becoming a formal organisation, from what I know of the last few meetings).  How many of us, honestly, think that some young woman who is aware of her sexuality and lives in some conservative middle class family in Basavanagudi would come to WHaQ meetings and voice her concerns about family pressure to get married?[4]  It's doubtful, and we need be more supportive.  We should be asking ourselves what we can do.  .  . and ultimately doing something about all of this.

Cases like the recent incident in Madurai and the absolute lack of discussion within the queer community are something we should also speak up about.  When Vamshi Raju committed suicide, there was an immediate crisis meeting at Sangama, a press release, and much discussion in some groups such as Good as You.  When I brought up Radha's suicide, no one in Good as You really discussed anything further, except for suicide generally and what we can do if someone is at risk.  And from what I know of it, none of the groups in Tamil Nadu took up Radha's case either, no press release, nothing.  And this was an instance of a queer woman who had faced abduction charges and a Habeas Corpus writ, who been arrested for running away with her partner, ultimately to be dragged back to her family and the couple separated.  When are we going to take up issues like this?

It is important to stand in solidarity with the rest of the queer community, and I think this quote from Sappho fits quite well:

 I want to say something, but shame prevents me.
Yet if you had a desire for good or beautiful things
and your tongue were not concocting some evil to say
shame would not hold down your eyes
but rather you would speak about what is just.

---

[1] Section 377 has typically been used against gay men, kothis, and hijras from lower economic classes, and of course male sex workers.  Given the nature of the police in this country, it is unfortunately the case that police and the judiciary have differing interpretations of the law, and obviously people are booked under laws that would not result in a conviction.  For instance, if the Hassan case goes to court, it is unlikely that any of them will actually be convicted under Section 377, because the law is clear in that there must be ample proof of penetration.  Relatives could use the illegality of ‘unnatural’ sexual activities to validate their disapproval of queer family members.

[2] Habeas Corpus has long been used as a writ against adult women running away from their families, and the real concern is their use to control women, not only queer women. 

[3] Sangama had a project for queer women and trans men, but this has ended and Sangama seems to be focusing mostly on gay men, kothis, and hijras.  LesBiT has also been present at various times, but currently does not meet regularly, and anyway has no office space or structure.  The example of Sahayatrika in Kerala is the one case of a group for queer women that has had successful outreach in the past to all sections of society.

[4] I’ve used Basavanagudi as an example because I live there and I’ve had enough conversations with my neighbours to know the emphasis on marriage, but any conservative middle class Kannada-speaking area is similar in this regard.  Expectations surrounding marriage do vary somewhat based on class, and there tends to be more freedom for upper class women in this regard.  Again, this brings up matters of a woman’s personal freedoms, not only queer women, but generally speaking.  It’s a question of woman’s control over her body and her life, and her inherent right to marry and love no one if she so wishes. 

Bengaluru Pride and Karnataka Queer Habba 2013 needs YOU!

"The Bangalore Pride march will be held on Nov 24th, Sunday.The preceding 20 days will
be filled with Pride related events, such as Flash Mob, Queer My Mudra - aqueer themed choreography, Bowling, Poetry reading, Photography exhibition, Musical Performance, Screening of Queer themed short films, and the Diversity Fair. This year Pride is organised through CSMR (Campaign for Sex Workers &Sexuality Minorities Rights) Which is collective of many LGBTQ groups, allied supporters and individuals. It is Heartening and absolutely awesome to have all the various groups to come together to help organise this event. However, we also need to fund the event, and we are primarily looking at individual and organizational donations. Hence this is a call for all of you, and your friends, and your groups, to generously financially support Bangalore Pride and Karnataka Queer Habba 2013. For Information on how to make a donation contact sam(Shyam) at samuel.konnur@gmail.com (Please mention "Pride" in subject line.)"

Look at this pig. Is she not lovely? Don't you want to feed her?

Gaysi Zine vol.2 Launch!

Urban Solace, 6 pm, 19th October.

With performances by Dolly, Mari, Haider, Not a Number and others!

Slutwalk police permission revoked.

https://www.facebook.com/notes/slutwalk-bangalore-the-official-portal/a-note-of-victory/303434233020408

I'm copy-pasting the most important bitsfrom Dhillan Mowli's note below, but you should click the link above to read the whole thing.

I’m home today after a very long and very hard day. Amongst the many emotions that the events of today rile up, a sense of victory stands tall. Today was a day of victory. I met with the Additional Commissioner of Police (Law and Order), Mr. Suneel Kumar, at 3:00 P.M. in the afternoon; he was warm and receptive to the cause and only asked me to ensure that no “untowardly incidents” happen at the march. I gave him my guarantee (obviously enough) and walked out with a sense of nervous anticipation. 

 At 8:15 P.M. we get a call from the Police Commissioner’s office saying that our permission has been revoked. Why? Because of “security concerns” they said. Mr. Suneel Kumar, informed my mum (who has also been helping with organizing) that the BJP, RSS, Ram Sene and other organizations had aggressively protested against the march happening. Many of them had apparently even communicated in the tone of threatening violence if the march went on. And hence, just as we were at the printers getting the last of the banners printed out, SlutWalk Bengaluru was brought to a crude halt.
 ...

 Now let’s visit the issue that SlutWalk actually tackles – Victim Blaming. We were made an example of the very issue we sought to fight. Instead of providing us with the security we needed, the police decided to put the onus on us as the “ones who are attracting trouble”. True there may be “undesirable” elements, true there may be people wanting to cause trouble and true the risks may be many more. But the solution is not to shut down a perfectly legitimate movement that addresses an issue that has landed our country’s reputation at the bottom of the global barrel. The solution is to beef up measures and ensure that such “undesirable elements” do not obstruct a peaceful protest. Don’t punish the victim, punish the criminal. Don’t brand those protesting against Victim Blaming as a “Law & Order threat”. Blame those who think it’s NOT ok to protest against victim blaming.

And for an “upcoming superpower” such as ourselves, it is truly pathetic that all we look for is the smuggled tantalism of skimpy clothing in a movement whose true aim is to protest the act of blaming a victim of sexual assault. Burqa, salwar, sari, jeans, shorts, hot pants or a skirt; it doesn’t matter. It never did. The word “Slut” was simply a play on irony, something that is clearly lost on many of our extremists. We had 22,172 reported cases of rape in 2010. That amounts roughly to 1 rape every 34 minutes and 1 case of molestation every 26 minutes. 571 reported rapes of children under the age of 10. The conviction rate is 26.6 %. And this is just for rape, not any other form of sexual abuse. In the face of figures like that, it’s appalling that these “upholders of Indian culture” think they can tell me how to dress and how to behave, when i choose to protest for my right not to be blamed for a sexual crime committed against me. What they have done is not sent us back with our tails between our legs, but instead taken on an underdog that will chew their rancid mentality and spit it out for good.

You know, I went to the first Slutwalk meeting and then decided that I wasn't going to be able to work with them - the people in charge had styles that put my back up. SR went along a little longer, but stopped for much the same reasons - well, worse, because they'd had time to pile up.


Some of us dislike the Slutwalk campaigns because it's sensationalising, because reclamation is never an entirely successful project, and often not at all, because being sex positive needn't mean being publicity positive, because the Slutwalk campaign as it is a structured does not lend itself with ease to class/caste/race solidarity,


But one of the essential principles from the outside remains worth while - we can wear what we like on the streets and still have the right to not be raped. Our clothing is not someone's excuse to hurt us. We don't rape ourselves. Someone else does that, and then pretends that we deserved it, the way someone is sent to jail after being convicted in court for murder/robbery - and yes, rape.

People looked at the methodology of the march, and proved the Slutwalk point - they will blame us, shut us down, pull out the time-exploited phrase "Indian culture", threaten us with physical harm - all to stop us from openly, collectively, powerfully taking responsibility for ourselves, and denying responsibility for the actions of others.


We've just come out of Pride Week - which went off very nearly without a hitch. The police walked with us, talked with us, did crowd and traffic control with us. We spoke to reporters and were on tv, and in the print media. I was speaking to AC about this and she said"it's safer to be gay in this city than a slut" - which basically means it's not safe to be a woman, at all.


Well fuck them. Fuck them all. I'm out tomorrow in high heels and low necklines, 'cos I wanna, and they can't stop me. And if they try, it's on them, and not on me.

<looks for pepper spray and camera>

WHaQ! meeting 11th September

 

So  it's been a month since we had a proper meeting and yesterday I trudged up to the garage door. IT ALMOST DEFEATED ME. But since I am the heroine of my own story, I prevailed! 

One or two people came and left early. Three or two arrived late, just in time to come with the rest of us for coffee. Two new faces - Hi, guys, it was good to see you! Eight all told, I think.

What did we do?

• Slutwalk Bangalore - is this a good idea? A bad one? Are we taking part, not taking part?
• Coming out stories. Always and always, support is always such a lovely surprise, even when you know you're going to be getting it. And sometimes even the people who do not support you, who do not like the life you're going to live, can surprise you. They can detach, let go, even learn to accept. I'm a cynic. I think the world is fulll of horrible things and that even good people can show little chinks of crulty and insensitivity - we're all humna. But sometimes, it is nice to appreciate what some of us have, and hold onto a little hope.
• Coming out requires a great deal of honesty. But honesty in and of itself is context-specific virtue. Our sexualities are one aspect of our lives, as with everything else. All of us are out there sacrificing one honesty for another, whether we're out or not.
• Children. Ours. Having them, keeping them, loving them. And vice versa!
• Yesterday was the tenth anniversary of 9/11. 
• Underground gay bars around the world. You'd be surprised where you find them.
• Next's Sunday is games day! The event pages will go up soon.
• How to tell someone who's just told you he thinks homosexuality is unnatural that you're queer: it's a bad idea. But do it anyway!
• Lavender Nights. Nothing much has been going on there lately, and probably won't until after November. 
• Smoking. Apparently queer women smoke more than queer men. The smokers in our group were all, WOOO about this. I was, like,  aw, no! My sexual target demographic is smeely and will die young!

Then we went for coffee. Coffee, as always, was awesome.

Three rings (stop me if you've heard this one)

I've been thinking about marriage a lot lately - not for myself, but as a concept, an institution. For the purposes of this post, I'm not talking about two people (or more!) deciding to spend their lives together, I'm talking about two people (or more? usually just two at a time, though) deciding to spend their lives together and telling the government about it. For the purposes of this post, we're talking about a union of which some government, somewhere, has a record.

Since I'm not a romantic, or at least I'm not unspoiled idealist - the first bitch who comes along and reminds me that I'm a cynic I'mma cut - I have trouble as it is understanding a long-term commitment. The faith, the optimism, the promise - it's all a bit intense for me. I like the idea, don't get me wrong. If you are in a long-term relationship of the romantic kind that you intend to be in till death do you 'part, then yay for you. (I suppose.) I can say, well, I hope this works out.

I understand the above as a universal process - anyone who is capable of forming deep emotional bonds is hypothetically capable of finding someone or some people s/he wants and decides to bring into their circle of "me".

I get confused at the point where the commitment gets formalised in some way. (For the purposes of this, and every post, I am a Stupid Hermit Who Does Not Get People. Don't ask me why I'm asking the dumb questions. I'm dumb.) When two people who want to spend their lives together go to a priest, arranger, ordainer of some sort in order to make vows/promises/be wedded together - with witnesses, sometimes many, many, many witnesses, I am bewildered by the necessary, inevitable spectacle. The process is simultaneous show, celebration, and validation-from-spiritual/other authority; there's a part of me that says, your lives together don't in and of themselves need that.

Yes yes, it's a social institution, and traditionally, alliance-wise or romance-wise, there're social pressures, and sometimes pleasures, to the pubic spectacle. The ceremonies act as a public, communal, community milestone. I don't get it, emotionally, but I can talk my way through it.

I'm not confused by this social ritual because it's not necessarily open to all people capable of informed consent - even if it's often open to people who do not give consent at all. I'm not wandering around going, why do heterosexuals do this when so many places have LGBTIQ people who can't? I'm a little bewildered why anyone would do it, period. This is because I lack empathy and religion, and decidedly do not want to go the horrors of a Hindu Brahmin wedding for myself.

For the people who want to live together forever and not have a social, religious, wedding but still want to live together forever as a unit, there's "marriage" as defined, allowed and rewarded by the state they live in. In India, while most states did not until recently require that marriages be registered, the various marriage laws did. [In case you didn't know, we have the Hindu Marriage Act (under which the Sikh, Buddhist and Jain marriages have been categorised, for reasons of bureaucratic laziness), Indian Christian Marriage Act, Parsi Marriage and Divorce Act, the Special Marriages Act (for inter-religious/caste unions), Muslim Personal Law. The Hindu Marriage Act does not require that the wedding be registered. Hooray for democracy.]

I am not going to argue that LGBTIQ people should be allowed to marry and have that marriage recognised by their governments. Okay? I do not need to, it is perfectly obvious and right. If anyone is allowed to marry - and make no mistake, government recognition is permission, validation and reward, just as societal celebration is - then anyone should be allowed to marry.

Nepal is currently redrafting their constitution - actually, it's nearly done by now, and by July, if the people vote in the majority for it, all people of adult age regardless of sex, gender, sexuality, religion, nationality, what have you, will be able to marry. Brazil passed its same-sex law just a few weeks ago. Various American states are arguing yay and nay, and I link you to this lovely moment from the Minnesotan debates on the subject - just that moment, since the final results were not happy.

So. In our perfect world where anyone capable of informed consent is allowed to marry - and I mean, specifically, in the sense where said union is registered with the government, is probably licensed, recorded somewhere, is legal... why do we want to marry?

Well...

1. It would be nice if everyone who is in a committed relationship is allowed to bloody visit their loved ones in the hospital. Or in prison. Or when they move to family-specific zones, which does happen in some nations still, I think.
2. Tax breaks! Insurance breaks! Inheritance breaks!
3. Regulated break-up! Division of your stuff by someone else so all you need to do is fight about it!
4. Nationalities and visas!
5. Specifically for those of us who have to fight for it - respect, recognition. (Which is why we're only sullenly accepting "civil unions" as a sort of "marriage" for the purposes of this post.) This means the government doesn't say, Ew, icky, and put us in jail, or separate us against our will.
6. Comment at will, I am out of ideas.

I am going to beat the dead donkey now: 2, 3 and indirectly, 4, are about property. 1 and 4 are about acceptance, and permission, and mobility. 5 is acceptance, recognition, permission. As a practical woman, I get that these are very good reasons to have your government accept that you are married, and recognise, permit you that right, with the obligations involved.

I just... really do not see how it is the government's business. I find it incredibly creepy that people submit something so important to a only hopefully benevolent, definitely, actually impersonal authority. This is not a "someone" who loves you. Or has a plan for you and humanity as a whole. This is... THE MAN. Shouldn't this be private - or at lest just between you and your god/s?

We grant our governments too much responsibility.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gurl in the World has already blogged this, but this is a reminder: sign here, if you're from the States. Help a family get back together.

_______ and Violence. Far too much violence.

I've been trying to respond to Afreen's post for a while now, and my thoughts get tangled up in that morass of fear-of-guilt, agreement, indignation and what-have-you. Then my life took a vacation without me, and I lay about at home not watching the news or being online or being in touch.

I came back today gung-ho to respond to Afreen, and saw, amongst other things, a Gaysi article that made my blood freeze. I want to go back to not paying attention to the news.

I followed links around until I found a more complete story: In a McDonald's restaurant in Baltimore, USA, Chrissy Lee Polis went to use the restroom. She was stopped by two other women. These two women attacked her, dragged her around on the floor, beat her, kicked her. Why? Polis is transgendered.

(There's a video here. It's terrible; I can't watch it all the way through. Be careful if you click to watch it.) An emplo

That's it. A woman got up to use the restrooms. Two other women beat the shit out of her because - er. Because they don't like to share? They're afraid they'll catch cooties? The McDonald's ladies' toilets should not come in contact with peepees that no long apply?

The attackers are 14 and 18 (Teonna Monae Brown) years old. They're being charged, possibly with a hate crime.

The employees at McDonald's stood around and watched. (And laughed.) Vernon Hackett - an employee again - caught the attack on hir mobile camera and put it on youtube. Someone was being dragged around on the floor, beaten and kicked, and he taped it and put it on the internet. (He was fired. McDonald's as an enterprise does not want to be evil.)

The video received widespread attention because of the racial dynamics of the attack...

In America, this attack gets extra attention because the attackers are black, and the victim is white. No, seriously. A woman is beaten and dragged around on the floor of a public eatery, the video is put up on the internet, and it attracts comment because it might have been racially motivated. While racial attacks are an atrocity, something is still very wrong with this picture.

They said, "That's a dude, that's a dude, and she's in the female bathroom... They spit in my face."

Of all the people in the place, only two people went to help Polis. The manager, and Vicky Thoms. Vicky Thoms is 55 years old. I don't like it when people talk about the manners and morals of the older generation. I am subscribed to the old-people-are-more-narrow-minded school of thought. The vicious beastlings punched Thoms in the face. I'm subscribed to the wrong goddamned school.

As someone who grew up female and is acknowledged as female, I was and am conditioned to be female too - I negotiate my Inner Self with my Outer Self and my Social Self and all in all I think I have a fair grip on the bits of me I call "female" or "woman" or "feminine" or "I can has babies (but don' wanna)". But as a person, as a socially acknowledged female human, as a feminist, I have dealt consciously and unconsciously all my life with being relegated to my body. And just my body. Weaker, shorter, softer, bloodier, and therefore finer, more delicate, more nervy, more emotional. Right? Right. And I have read, heard, watched people - women, men, people I couldn't pigeon-hole - say, We are more than our bodies. Or We are our bodies, and we shall claim them. I've seen feminists increase the chasm between the sexes, humanists say, I just want us all to get along, asexual people say, I'm not frigid, all my bits work, I just never want to have sex. It's icky.

But we get to say it. Within the bounds of informed consent, people/our prdecessors/we have worked for decades to ensure it!

In a "queer" world - in a place where we consciously, inevitably, break with heteronormativity, surely it should be easier for us to say, We're Not "Normal", And That Is SO ALL RIGHT. We're together in this. In a world where I get to say, my vagina is not the Men's room (sorry, men, I love you but the metaphor seems funny right now), it's the Ladies', where I can say, I'll love, fuck, make love to, anyone I choose, and you can complain all you like, but if your complaint is their genitalia I'ma gonna tell you to fuck the fuck off -

One assumes that some sorts of tolerance become easier with time.

I keep coming back to those girls. They're girls. Not even women. I don't think they need to be gentle loving souls or whatever feminine crap American girls in Baltimore get fed. I don't know the details of the concerns they face and negotiate every day as a racial minority in a large country. I'm certain that as girls, as women, they are trained - perhaps sensibly, perhaps not - to be wary of male abuse, attack, oppression, chauvinism. But surely, surely, as women, as women pleased to be women, as women who must be careful as well as strong, female as well as women, protective as well as defensive - sure, when someone comes along who says, In my heart, I want to be like you. I have this aspect of you. I am one of you. When that person comes along, whether we're gay, straight, queer, mundane, asexual, misanthropist, ornery, giving - when that person comes along, shouldn't the most natural response be a smile, a hug and a "you took your time getting here, but we've saved some cookies! Dig in before Roh finishes them all, she's a greedy pig."

We're so busy, sometimes, naming things, knowing things, learning things. We're taught where things go, what the physical world is made of. We learn to categorise, to include, to exclude. That's how two young girls, not even women yet, were able to say, "That is a MAN. He does NOT BELONG in the LADIES' toilet."

What would have helped stop this? If Chrissy Polis were black? Would she have been "allowed" the restroom in peace if her skin tone said, "I like sunlight!"? Would she have been categorically safe?

We're a very clever set of apes. So we'll get to the point where we remember what all the learning is for. Hopefully. What being human ought to be for.

I am a noisy impatient spider

I'm one of those difficult people who can sort of behave themselves in society but are secretly and not-so-secretly introverted, morose and cynical. If I go out three days in a row, I take a day off from talking to people to recover. A friend of mine arranged to meet up with me tomorrow, and all I could think of to do was "hang out", go to Blossoms, or shop for necessities. Plus alcohol. I have NO idea what other people do for fun. (Well, I do, but a lot of it seems to involve extreme sport.)

I'm one of those people who need to be reminded that being alone can turn into being lonely, and that being alone has other, material disadvantages. You can't simultaneously live within society, dissociate from it AND mingle within it all at once. Or at least, I try but often overbalance - it's a crazy juggling act.

So coming out was a weird process. I was so wary of meeting new people - even people that I wanted to associate with - that I actively avoided WHAQ! women for a while, stalking them only on the mailing list. I forget now how I got suckered in to my first WHaQ! meeting, but it is very sad to know that I have someone else to blame for my new friendships, my new schedules, my new peers, my new enjoyments. Damn you, Some Who Made Me Socialise, how dare you make me do something that turned out to be good for me!

Anyway. I rebel against my newfound social life by being very doubtful about people in general and community-forming in particular. You must admit, on the surface it is a dubious process. Back when I was a teenager and didn't know what lesbians were, I'd've been bemused - utterly bemused - if my (default straight) friends got together and said, We're starting a support group for being (default) people who are attracted to other people!

So I tend to say, Am I "queer"? Should I tell people I'm "bisexual"? Am I proud? Aside from the fact that I like some of these people, why I am actively hanging out with them and calling them mine?

Some of these questions - not all - are so stupid I want t

o hide rather than ask them out loud. I don't think, however, that I dealt with the question of belonging, of community, until recently.

Not actually all that recent, to be honest. This is STALE, DULL, DEAD news by now, but back in February, a nominally decent news channel called TV9 did something pretty yukky. You probably know it already, but I'm rehashing it for you:

TV9 in Hyderabad put together a "sting" to tell the world that there are gay men in Hyderabad. They party. They date. They have sex. They have dating sites! (It's like they're normal people!)

The news item was called "Gay Culture Rampant in Hyderabad" [link to English translation], and was extremely homophobic, and worse yet, targeted specific men, displaying their names and pictures after entrapping them over recorded phone conversations. ("What do you like in bed?" Bitches, that sort of stuff is private!)

There were protests in Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, Hyderabad - other cities too, even if I didn't keep track of them. (Pink Nation and Party Square also threw a "No Panic" party, in defiance and affirmation.) AllOut sent TV9 CEO Ravi Prakash a petition telling him, in polite terms, to get his shit together and behave himself.

So, a month or so after the original item went viral, the News Broadcasting Standards Authority also told TV9 to get its shit together. Gaysi ran a fairly comprehensive article, so I'm not rehashing that.

Needless to say, we are all pretty pleased.

The thing is, until two or so days after my mom and I saw the apology (which Ma though

t was very gracelessly done, and it so was; the reader sounded shrill and sulky and flat) I didn't truly make the connections. I knew them intellectually, but in the middle of breakfast I straightened up from my I-hate-mornings slouch and thought: My friends in Bangalore go to parties. My male friends go to parties. My female friends go to parties. My friends use dating portals. Male friends, female. It's a regular part of our collective social life.

This wasn't "those poor sods in Hyderabad" with whom we have ties. This could

have been us. This WAS us.

(I tend not to go to parties, because I freak out at the thought of dancing with strangers/in the dark unless I am drunk. But that is a different story.)

No, I really am that stupid. I'd been wandering around for over a month wondering why the hell I cared beyond the requisite "those poor sods in Hyderabad", why I was expending so much energy caring what the hell happened to TV9. Why I found it so emotionally - as opposed to philosophically or academically or socially - important that TV9 get their shit together and fucking say they're sorry.

I'm not sure what would have happened if so many of us - LGBTIQ, what-have-you, straight allies (and otherwise decent people) had not said, online, in petitions, in slogans, in person, in protests - that this was not going to do. That this was atrocious. That we wouldn't stand for it. When so many of us have access to the media - as consumers, as sources, as producers - "our" issues have more weight than they would have if we all hide under the beds and shamefacedly went to parties where no one knew the others' names, if we were all strangers to each other.

It's strange to realise that no matter how anti-social I get, no matter how angry with people for just being people, no matter how leery I am of getting close, of caring - no matter how hard I try, as a functioning human being I have made these connections. T

hey go deeper than my beliefs and principles; they strengthen those beliefs and principles, they work against them.

It's very strange to realise that I am not an island. I'm not even part of an archipelago. I'm in the middle of my very own web, filaments of togetherness, principle, empathy, identification and liking stretching across the the otherwise yawning nastinesses of dislike, alienation and discomfort that makes up my inner self.

Dear you: Hello, I hope your day goes well.

Accepting Gina

Came across this story, it's an interesting story and makes for a nice share.

ACCEPTING GINA
by Bernadette
This story is dedicated to Maria.

* * * * * *

Paul left me months ago.

Six long, lonely, dreary months of endless darkness and
gloom. The weeks of crying, the days of yearning for a
phone call, the nights of empty wine bottles and morn-
ing headaches were all behind me.

I was healthy now, ready for a chance at a new begin-
ning. Life was looking fresh again. The sun was
bright, the air was clean. I was finally whole without
him. I had loved him so deeply. It had been unnatural,
unsettling, and uncontrolled. Now I could find the
paper and pen before me through the fog. I could see
the vision and the words. I was writing again.

Looking back, I realized the bad times were barely
lingering, whereas the good times were painted like a
portrait in my mind. But a portrait painted by a clown,
not an artist. All that time, what did we talk about?
I remembered the drinking, the parties, his friends,
the football games. All of it was one big celebration.
We laughed, we had sex, and we laughed some more. I
could not single out one time we had a serious con-
versation other than an in-depth analysis of his team’s
fortunes on the field.

Paul left me the night my sister was tragically killed
in a car accident.

He couldn't handle the intensity, my emotions, and the
horror of it all. He was gone when I needed him the
most. My memories of that night are vague: a dinner
party at my parent’s house, the phone call, and guests
leaving quickly. Lying in the grass and vomiting. The
sounds of shattered glass. Shattered pieces of my
heart. Shattered pieces of my sister.

After six months of therapy, I was finally able to talk
about him, but not Gina. My therapist told me this was
my way of shutting down - something about misplaced
emotions, the loss of my baby sister, substitution, and
obsessing over a man that never really loved me.

But today, the sun was shining and I was doing this for
her, and for myself. I was joining a local poetry
critique group and writing again. Gina would be proud.

There were about sixteen people in the group, ten women
and six men. The group leader was an older woman named
Kira. Kira had fled the Communist regime of Soviet
Russia many years ago, and her poems had been published
many, many times. She was a kind, older woman with
sparkling gray eyes, and obviously had experienced life
to its fullest.

I took my seat next to a woman who looked about my own
age, perhaps a few years younger. It was hard not to
notice her because of her striking features: unruly
black hair, porcelain white skin, and big, green
luminous eyes.

Kira led the group in an icebreaker game. We took
turns introducing ourselves, which was fun and awkward
at the same time. Most of the people there were
insecure amateur poets, who were simply looking for
something to do with their spare time.

When it was "her" turn, she spoke with a bold confi-
dence and radiating energy I immediately envied.

"Hello, my name is Cassandra. I am here for a one-year
appointment because of my husband’s job. I am from
Tasmania."

Her accent revealed she was obviously not from this
country. But it was more than that. It was the way
she said it. She sounded so exotic, so mysterious. So
distant.

"I have written over twenty poems, mainly dealing with
passion, desire and courage -- in particular, sexual
courage," she continued. Sexual courage, I thought.
That’s a familiar concept.

"The poem I am working on currently is called, 'En-
twined.' It is about female bonding, intimacy and
friendship in today’s world. I am very proud of it
and I hope you like it as well. I look forward to
sharing it with all of you."

She sat down and looked right at me. I assumed it was
because I was next. But I couldn’t help but feel an
attraction, the feeling that she and I would become
very close friends. I needed a best friend about now.
Mine were both gone.

It was my turn. I didn’t like speaking in front of
even small crowds, and I was acutely aware that my
hands were trembling. I miraculously found my voice.

"Hi. My name is Jessica Preston. I am from here. I. . .
I . . . started writing poetry when I was seventeen.
Most of it is of course, unpublished, but I hope to
learn some things from being here." I quickly took my
seat. However, Kira was not done with me.

"Jus-ik-aa," she said in her Russian accent, "what is
your, ah, latest? Hum? Or perhaps a current project
you’d like to share with the others?"

"Well, I. . . I haven’t written anything in six months,
although I was published last year in The Poet’s Haven.
A small literary journal."

"That’s wonderful!" Cassandra blurted out. "What a
great magazine! Wow! I have never been published. What
was it called? The piece, I mean?"

"Oh, it was just a little piece called, 'Unconditional'
It is about, well, unconditional love," I stammered
and blushed. I sounded like an idiot.

"Splendid! Will you read it to the class?" Her face
was lit up like a Christmas tree.

"I don’t see why not. Sure, I guess I will." I felt
so self-conscious, though a part of me was eager to
share.

Kira cut in, reasserting her leadership status. "What
is your next piece?"

Cassandra eagerly looked at me, her eyes shining with
interest. I paused for what seemed like eternity. Then
I said it and sat down.

"Accepting Gina."

* * * * *

She made me forget the loss. Over the weeks, we be-
came the dearest of friends. Cassandra was married to
a successful financial consultant named Simon, who was
assigned to spend one year in the United States. She
had been suddenly uprooted from her country and found
herself here. Since her husband traveled frequently,
she was alone much of the time, just her and her poetry.
And now, she had me.

We began our relationship at the coffee shops, reading
and critiquing each other's work. Slowly, more per-
sonal topics began to emerge, such as relations with
the men in our lives. She loved her husband very deep-
ly - something else I admired and envied tremendously.

"Simon is such a wonderful husband," she once said. "He
allows me to do my own thing. We got married quite
young, too young I must say. But I am very, very
lucky."

I told her about Paul, but never Gina. I found myself
so relaxed, so open around Cassandra that I could talk
about anything, everything but my sister's untimely and
clouded death. I was too ashamed to reveal the details
of what really happened that night. Even to Cassandra.
Anything but the secret, the truth.

On the many nights Simon was out of town, we went to
dinner, had a few drinks, and talked for hours.
Cassandra grew to hate Paul and everything he stood
for.

"My dear little Jessica," Cassie would coo. "What an
absolute oaf of a man. My precious angel, you can do
so much better. If you ever come visit us, there are
a few sexy little devils I could introduce you to in
my country." The thought delighted me! Handsome, sexy
devils from a far away place who spoke and sounded as
exotic and mysterious as my Cassandra!

"Besides, was Paul ever really good in bed? Really?"
She smiled. I giggled. Cassie had such a cute, infec-
tious way of saying things. I tried to remember what
it was like. Sex with Paul had been a roller coaster.
Hurried, fumbling, hardly a word spoken in passion. It
was animal lust. I remember longing for sweet words
spoken in whispers, a gentle caress that would’ve made
the difference. I found myself telling Cassandra all
this. I had never told anyone. Why was I telling her?

"And," I giggled again, "He had a crooked penis." We
burst out laughing. I thought beer was going to come
through my nose.

"There was a crooked man and he had a crooked smile,
had a crooked penis and he walked a crooked mile!" she
began to sing. We laughed and laughed. She was holding
my hand under the table. It felt like high school all
over again.

* * * * *

I had a date! For the first time in eight months, I had
a date! I met Joshua one night, while out having cock-
tails with Cassandra. He was of Syrian descent, with a
smooth, olive complexion and long, dark hair worn in a
sleek ponytail. Joshua was a professional musician.
He taught classical guitar at the local university. A
Greek god. A male muse. For the first time since Paul,
I was attracted to another man.

Excitedly, I went to Casandra’s to get dressed. We
drank champagne and I borrowed her sexiest little black
dress. It was made of a clingy fabric that went so
well with our hourglass figures and ripe cleavage.
Cassie and I both shared these attributes, and although
she was a few inches taller than me, the dress fit per-
fectly. We arranged to have him pick me up at her
house. Since I met him in a bar, I was a little
cautious, but Cassandra didn't mind.

So I planned to spend the night there. She had given
me the key, even told me to invite him in and said to
feel free to use the guestroom as "I pleased."

Joshua arrived in all his exotic glory. We were both
flabbergasted. He was wearing dark pants and an
expensive crisp, white shirt with a charcoal tailored
jacket. I winked at her as I left, and she gestured
back. Simon was on a business trip and I hated to
leave her alone.

She would never have thought of coming along with us,
but nonetheless, I felt terrible about leaving her
behind.

The evening was exquisite. Joshua proved to be a
charming, cultured, artistic man. We had a romantic
dinner at a quaint Greek restaurant, dancing at a local
jazz club, and sipped on expresso afterwards until the
wee hours of the morning. Our conversation was very
natural. We talked about everything: fascinating
stories of his parent’s native homeland, Paul, his
ex-girlfriend, even our views on sex. Joshua was very
open about this topic and I realized he was a very
passionate person. It was starting to intrigue me more
and more. We went on and on, about everything but my
sister, of course. What would he think if he knew?

"So, Jessica, do you have any brothers or sisters?" he
asked politely, but sincerely interested.

"I have one sister, well had." I stopped. I still
wasn’t used to speaking in that tense.

"Had?" He look a bit confused, but not pushy.

"Well, she died in a car accident about six months
ago."

He never used the worn phrase "I am so sorry." He
simply took it matter-of-factly, as thought it was as
simple as, "She is a senior in high school."

"What was her name?"

"Gina."

"Ah, Gina. A pretty name. Any other siblings?"

His ease at accepting the topic was unexpected and a
welcome relief.

"No, just Gina. She was the only one."

"I am an only child," he casually added. It’s just me
and my uncle. My parents were killed in a terrorist
bombing while visiting friends in Beruit, Lebanon."

"Oh, Joshua, I am so sorry . . ." I caught myself. Now
I was doing it.

He never paused. "My uncle is an amazing man. He came
to this country shortly after I was born. He and his
wife, Alla, were taking care of me while my parents
were vacationing. I was ten. They raised me." I sat
speechless. Despite my loss of words, I felt bonded in
ways beyond my comprehension. Losing both your parents
at age ten. Joshua had offered details of his story
but never asked for mine.

He never mentioned Gina again.

At the door, he leaned forward to kiss me good night.
It was light, faint on the lips. His lips were warm,
as warm as the Mediterranean Sea.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," he said.

I must have snapped at that particular moment, because
I leaned forward and began to kiss him hard on his
full, inviting mouth. The fire in his eyes matched the
fire on my lips. He responded eagerly, and I could
feel the passion unleashing rapidly through his hot,
Mediterranean veins.

We kissed for what seemed like an hour. I was well
aware of the familiar longing, aching and desire I had
not experienced in a very long time. The well was no
longer dry.

As he lightly fondled my breasts through my dress, he
whispered something in a very low voice. I was gently
pinned against Cassie's front door. I knew I could’ve
easily moved if I’d wished. Before I could speak, he
abruptly pulled away. Had I offended him?

He took my hand and stared so deep into my eyes, I felt
he could see the secrets I tried so hard to bury within
me.

"What?" I whispered.

"I want you to know something, before this goes any
further. Let me preface this by saying that I am very
attracted to you, Jessica. I can see a future in this,
if you are willing and interested." I could hear my-
self swallowing.

"But in order to be completely honest with you, there
is something you need to know. We talked a lot about
sexual intimacy tonight and I was so comfortable with
you. You are truly sensuous. I desire you. But, I
have had some experiences that you may or may not be
comfortable with."

I knew what was coming. I felt in it my stomach. My
hands began to shake.

"I have had sex with a man. Several times, the same
man. It was for my girlfriend, a couple’s thing,
experimental."

"Are you gay?" I found myself blurting out a blunt,
rude and forthright question. My voice was like a
bullet.

"No, I am not a homosexual. I love women. I love men.
But I am not saying it will never happen again, I
enjoyed the experience. I take it you have a problem
with it."

Silence. I was flabbergasted. My Mr.Wonderful, Mr.
Right, was bi-sexual? He was so manly, so handsome, so
. . . how could this be? I felt something else too. My
guilt came flooding back. The half open door, watching
them in the soft glow of the night-light. Knowing what
was happening, feeling aroused. I knew what he was
going to ask.

"You’ve never been with a woman?"

"Yes, I mean, yes it does bother me, Joshua. And no,
I have never been with a woman."

My answer came more defensively than I expected. I
paused. "I am sorry."

"I am not ashamed of my experiences. If they repulse
you, then we must move on," he said. His big, gorgeous
brown, disappointed eyes stared deep into mine. I felt
angry, confused, and most of all -- guilty. I wanted to
explain it wasn’t him - or was it?

"Friends?" He offered his hand. A muscular, brown
hand that I would have loved to have touching the
inside of my thighs at that very moment, bringing me
to the destination I’d desired for so long.

"Friends." I managed to barely whisper.

I took his hand and squeezed it. Then he was gone.

* * * * *

I never intended to wake her.

She walked in on me unexpectedly. I was changing into
my satin nightgown. It had been a gift from Paul. For
some reason, I became aware that she had caught a
glimpse of my naked breasts. It gave me goose bumps.
She was so cool, so relaxed, so beautiful and so brave.
Cassandra.

She came and sat on the edge of the bed. Her short,
dark hair was a bit rumpled from sleep, yet still sleek
and shiny. Her complexion glowed without make-up, her
green eyes were alive as lightening on a hot, summer
night. I noticed how naturally feminine and lovely she
was in one of Simon’s old cotton shirts. Cassandra.
What a provocative, erotic name, I thought. Cassandra.

She was asking me in her endearing accent about Joshua,
the evening, the details. I couldn't concentrate any-
more. The zombie feeling was taking over. She finally
asked me if I was okay. She was strong. Courageous.
I was a coward.

At first, I told her about Joshua. But it wasn’t really
him I wanted to talk about. It was Gina. Joshua had
stirred up something deep with in me. Something he said
reminded me of Gina. My darling, baby sister whose
death - I was convinced - was my fault. The guilt was
overwhelming. I had to confess to someone.

I began to tell her the story, as tears flooded down my
face and into lap. She never flinched. She just sat
there and listened, stroked my hair and held me.

I told her about Joshua and what he had told me. How I
hated myself for being shocked at his bisexuality. I
wasn’t a bigot. But somehow what he told me brought it
all back. About Gina and Cindy. About me.

She held me close and whispered it was all right.

* * * * *

It was a stormy night. The Gulf Coast fog was as thick
as molasses. My parents were having a small, elite
dinner party at their home for several important
friends including Paul’s parents. Paul and I were
there, putting on our usual act, masquerading as "the
perfect couple," with our polite, witty, and charming
banter.

My younger sister, Gina, who was only seventeen, had
invited her best friend over to spend the night. Cindy
was a pretty, delicate girl. They were inseparable.

The party was dull, but Paul was in typical form with
a scotch in one hand, talking about the stock market
and sports, while impressing my parents and everyone
else as usual.

My father, who was a stern, conservative man, had gone
upstairs to check on the girls. They were in Gina’s
room watching television. Looking back, I'm not quite
sure why he went up there. Surely a good host would
not abandon his guests so abruptly. Perhaps he sus-
pected what I was certain of?

Suddenly, he came down the stairs and asked to speak to
my mother in private. His face was white as the color
of her fine linen. After a few moments, the yelling
began. My father’s protests rang out, loud and furious.
I heard my mother’s muffled crying. The guests were
hushed.

Then the back door slammed and I could hear the sound
of a car speeding down the street. After what seemed
like an eternity later, my mother and father descended
from the stairwell as though nothing had happened. My
father addressed the crowd in his most composed speak-
ing voice.

"I apologize to everyone present. My youngest daughter
needed a little discipline. Please excuse the fuss."

The party continued. Quietly, I slipped upstairs.
Both Gina and Cindy were gone. I figured my father had
punished her for something, and she and Cindy had fled
the house. What could have been so awful?

The hospital phoned about an hour later. The news was
surreal. Both Gina and Cindy had been killed when
their car spun off the highway and into a tree. The
guests left quickly. My mother became hysterical. My
father approached me, tears streaming down his face.
I had never seen him cry before.

"Did you know about this? Did you know your sister was
having sexual relations with her little friend?" The
shock of my father’s brutal words were too much to bear.

I had known, watched in silence. It aroused both my
curiosity and sexual desires. I never confronted Gina.
I never told anyone. I just didn't know what to think
or feel about them. Somehow they made me terrified
about my own sexuality. It made me run to a "man’s man"
like Paul, as if to reassure myself that I was normal.

I ran upstairs to Gina’s room. Surely she was still
there, perhaps just asleep in her bed? This was all a
terrible mistake! Her room looked the same as it
always did. Cotton candy pink walls, Winona Ryder
posters, pictures of her favorite rock bands, school
banners, cute little framed pictures of her and Cindy
holding hands and smiling. Teddy bears and lace pil-
lows, nothing unusual about it.

As I was leaving the room I noticed a small pair of
white lace panties lying on the floor. Cindy’s panties?

I was overcome with a feeling of entrapment, confusion,
and frenzied emotions. As my head swirled like a whirl-
wind, I ran down the stairs, tripped down two and
nearly fell. The pain unnoticed, I managed to throw
the heavy wooden front door wide open and run out into
the blinding rain.

I vomited in the azalea bushes as my guts tried to
expel the grief, the shame, and the guilt from my body.
Wrenching violent sobbing seized my body as I fell, a
limp heap onto the muddy ground. My legs were no
longer capable of holding me up.

After a few minutes I heard Paul’s voice. He hadn’t
left earlier with the other guests. I looked up at
him from my pathetic fetal position in the wet grass.
I wanted so badly for him to hold me, just hold me
until the pain went away, if it ever would. Instead
he spoke with an indifference that shot through my
veins like an icy needle.

"Look, I need to go. I am sorry about your sister."

"What?" I managed to speak. "Now? Paul, I need you.
Don’t leave me now, Paul. Please."

His eyes were cold, lifeless, and ashamed. His lips
curled as he said his final heartless words.

"You knew didn’t you? You knew your sister was gay. God
what a family! I suppose you will be tempted too. My
Dad always told me it was genetic. It’s bad enough if
your girl goes with another man. Imagine what it will
do to me if you end up with another woman. I’ll be the
laughing stock of the locker room."

I curled up even more, each word a blow to my heart. I
wept uncontrollably.

"I said I was sorry. But I cannot stay. Goodbye,
Jessica. Goodbye."

"Paul, please . . . please come back. Paul?"

* * * * *

Cassandra spoke gently, comfortingly. She understood
the guilt and fear. She understood my confusion.

"Sex is beautiful, Jessica. It gets ugly if tinged with
guilt. It is to be free and natural. Sexuality is a
preference. Like everything else. If it gives you plea-
sure and happiness, comfort and understanding -- then
you take it with your heart and body, just as you give
these things to your partner."

It had been a long time. I finally felt safe, secure,
and loved. I must have looked awful with swollen,
puffy eyes, tear-streaked face and dry, chapped lips.
I couldn’t help but notice that she was erect through
her thin, cotton shirt. I stared at her nipples. They
were a work of art. I was again jealous.

Most of all, I wanted them. In my mouth.

I'm not sure how it started exactly. I was crying, she
was stroking me, holding me. Then I felt her lips on
mine. They were soft, lush, like tiny pillows. She
tenderly kissed my check, my mouth, my neck. Friend-
ship had turned to driving fire -- a burning sexuality
neither of us could harness. Not tonight.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I heard a little
voice begging me to stop. This was Cassandra. My best
friend. She’s a woman. Stop. Paul was right!

But I ignored that little voice and I gave in to my
desires, my fantasies. I knew this was natural. So what
if this happens? I liked men, but should that stop me
from liking this?

I knew all along, I had wanted her -- from that first
day in the poetry group. She began to lead, for which
I was grateful. Cassandra touched my breasts in only
the way a woman would know. Not like Joshua and not
like Paul. Her touch was tender, soft, and sensuous
-- and was as wonderfully exciting as anything I have
ever experienced before. Ever. Cassandra, the lovely
Cassandra.

There was something I could see in her eyes. She pos-
sessed a mysterious, burning hunger. Indistinguishable,
unnamed, deep within her, a persistent need calling out
to be heard.

Did she genuinely desire me? Did my eyes reflect my
wanting? Does she sense how I feel?

I realized I hadn’t had sex for more than six months.
This was more that sex. My pulse began to race. I
wanted to embrace her, to feel her body, to caress her
skin, to encircle her gently and passionately in my
arms. I gazed hungrily, longing to seize her and kiss
her fully on those red lips -- to explore her lips
with mine, to explore her mouth with my tongue.

Then she smiled. I knew it was right. I grinned back,
and she knew I was ready for her. She stood and un-
dressed before me while my eyes took her in. She was
so smooth and soft, so very much like me. Cassandra
reached over and carefully lifted my champagne colored
nightgown. She did it so delicately, as though it
were made of fine bone china. The satin gown I would
never wear again.

She sat next to me on the bed, and I touched her cheek.
Looking into her eyes, I kissed her nose, then her
chin. I moved down and kissed her breastbone. I felt
her shiver as I licked her stomach. As I moved down her
body, my kisses became more passionate, more willing.
I was no longer afraid.

I heard the rhythm of her breathing, soft and fast. I
pulled her close, and her arms surrounded me. We kissed
again, this time more feverishly than ever. Our mouths
were starved for each other. I felt her tongue in my
mouth, and I sucked it gently as I heard her groan.

Then Cassandra took one of my erect nipples into her
moist inviting mouth. I gasped at the sensation. Why
does this feel so good? Her lips were like home for
me, a warm, cozy abode. I wanted more. Cassandra’s
hands began to move up my legs, which I could feel
slowly parting as she teased me with her fingers.

I could not believe this was happening. I was making
love to a woman. And it was wonderful, so very
delicious. I found myself whimpering softly. She
seductively ran her warm hand between my legs to
experience my precious secretions. To see if I was
ready. I was. She lightly coaxed my legs wider apart,
and they fell open effortlessly.

Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined a woman going
down on me. Cassandra did so -- willingly, wantonly,
eagerly. Her tongue was more skillful than any man's
had ever been, she seemed more patient, more deter-
mined, more at ease. I could feel her breath lightly
on my blooming garden, now exposed to her, no secrets
held back. No more secrets.

I wanted her inside me, deep inside my body, my heart
and my soul. I wanted her to consume me. It was
different from the desire I felt for a man. Chills of
pleasure racked my body as her tongue found my pearl.
To my vast astonishment and delight, I reached my des-
tination rapidly.

After a while, my breathing calmed, and she gazed at
me and smiled again. I knew what to do, itwas her turn.
I wanted to know. I wanted to know what Gina knew.

I ran my hands up her soft, silky smooth thighs. She
eagerly spread her gorgeous milk white legs wide as I
explored the unknown. It took courage, but I found it.
Her special little spot, her secret treasure, her sex-
ual joy. Cassandra felt as soft as expensive velvet.
It was not frightening or foreign, merely an extension
of myself. She felt just like me.

I briefly thought of all those dreadfully empty nights
when I thought of Paul and touched myself. After my
climax, I always cried. I cried for Paul. Most of
all, I cried for Gina.

I caressed her with every ounce of passion, love and
tenderness I had within me. I caressed her for the
beautiful gift she had given me. I caressed her as
though it were my own. It was. I gently probed her
mouth with my tongue and Cassandra exploded in my hand.
The same tongue that read my work. The same hand that
produced my art. Cassandra in my hands and in my mouth
was a climatic chorus sung in poetry. Poetry in motion.

But most of all, I was at peace with myself.

I had accepted Gina.

* * * * *

It is April. The weather is cooler now, not as harsh.
The one-year anniversary of Gina’s death has come and
gone.

Cassandra and Simon are moving back home to Tasmania.
Drake and I have an open invitation to visit, one we
plan to take advantage of as soon as we get the money.
Drake is my new lover. He is a wonderful man who loves
me dearly and treats me with more respect than I ever
imagined. Most of all, Drake accepts Gina. No questions
ever asked. He loves her memory as much as I do. We
talk about her every day. We smile and laugh. Gina
would have liked him.

I heard through the grapevine that Paul is getting
married to his much younger secretary.

Cassandra and I kiss each other goodbye. We kiss light-
ly on the lips. Drake and Simon shake hands.

We have our secret. We both love our men with equal
intensity and we love each other. We are friends
forever. Poetry in motion.

* * * * *

"Accepting Gina"

by Jessica Marie Preston

My guardian angel watches over me
From the heavens,
My soul mate, my mentor, my guide.
I feel her presence
Surrounding me like a soft glow,
A misty haze,
She is my light.
I look in the mirror
I see her behind me,
Wings spread wide, ethereal.
I open my hands,
As she reaches for me.
Her touch, a rush
Of unconditional love, courage, acceptance.
I feel her through me
Consuming my soul
A loving force, a flame.
She is with me always,
I am in her hands.