Category Archives: GLBT

Gay Marriage on the news today.


The Catholic, Anglican, and Greek Orthodox churches are uniting against it.

They had nothing more to say than “You just can’t change it. If you do change it, then bad things will happen, and it’ll be in our schools. Marriage is between a man and a woman.”

You know, I read it on the net all the time and it doesn’t get to me so much. There are morons on the net. There are morons in the real world, but I never really run into them.

Somehow, actually hearing someone say it- their actual voice, as I sit and watch their actual face on television- causes me great pain. It’s not like reading it on the internet. On the net, people are faceless. I can ignore them. When they’re right there and I can see them, and see that they are human beings, it hurts me. I recognise them as other human beings. I know, if I hadn’t heard them say that, I could be friendly to them. I could treat them with respect. I could smile and charm and we might have something in common.

I like to believe that all people have some good in them.

Watching their faces and hearing their voices as they protest so loudly, so ignorantly, against marriage… Against letting people who love eachother to swear to eachother their eternal devotion, to visit eachother in hospital, to have children, to feel safe…

Listening to them say that, it takes a moment, but I realise that it’s me they’re talking about. That it’s my closest friends they’re talking about. My father, my mother, my family. My sisters. Good people. Good, true, strong, honest people, who love just like they do. People who might even believe in the same god, and go to the same church as them. People who breathe the same air. People who deserve the same level of respect as these people on the television take for granted.

The person in the screen is someone I would go out of my way to treat kindly, and he is telling me and mine that we are wrong.

That we do not deserve to be treated like he and his wife, his children, and grandchildren are.

That we are threats.

That we are abominations.

That if we were somehow born to fall in love with someone with different genitals to our own, that only then would we be worthy of kindness and respect.

That because we were born (or made) as we are, we are less than human.

And all I can do is sit there and try not to cry, and wonder, “What did we ever do to you?”

It’s just love. Just… love.

What is so scary, so threatening, about love?




Am I the only queer girl who didn’t experience dread and fear the moment I realised I liked other girls?

I’ve been through my fair share of bullying and all that other bullshit, but it never, ever made me feel like I was ‘other’. My family was wholly accepting, though I can’t say that coming out/being outed didn’t come with its collection of “it’s just a phase” and “it will make you miserable” lectures from certain family members.

I read these stories from gay girls around the planet and hear how they suffer and experience all that outcast misery… And I never felt any of that, even when what I experienced matches what they experienced. Is it a different outlook? Am I somehow more emotionally stable? Was I just in a better environment or headspace?


The worst thing for me, I think, being queer… Is that I feel I don’t deserve to be, because I never suffered for it. How messed up is that? I feel like I should be straight because my life being queer has been easier than my life before I came out.

Am I hardcore, gold-star lesbian? No.

Am I bi? No.

I’m just queer. I’m as homogay as every other queer kid I’ve met. A different variation sometimes, but no less infected with teh ghey.

My struggle with being queer is not that I feel I don’t belong in society. I’m aware that I’m different to others in some way, but I’m different to everyone in some way. You like boys? That’s cool. I like chicken and you’re a vegan? That’s cool too. You have blue eyes, and I have green. You’re left handed and I’m right handed. Our freckles are not perfectly aligned!
Differences. There is no person on this earth who is identical to another person on this earth. Even twins have differing personalities.
My issues with being queer stem from the concept that I’m not truly queer unless I’ve felt wrong at some point, and I never have. I know I’m exactly what I am supposed to be… and that is what makes me feel wrong.


Bit of a catch 22, I think.


(Post Script: I just wanna say that in no way do I think GLBT people should suffer. The fact that everyone I know with a queer streak has experienced something heartbreaking is distressing and entirely wrong. No one should be harassed for their sexual or gender orientation… I’m just commenting on the fact it’s become a sort of initiation into the ranks, y’know? Without meaning to giggle at obvious trauma, it’s a sort of bonding conversation piece. “Oh hi, you’re queer too? Lets share coming out stories and talk about all the horrible things that happened to us.”)


Her skin tastes like salt.

My tongue points behind my lips and as I bend my head to place another delicate kiss along the sharp edge of her hip, that dainty place between thigh and belly, I can taste her; clammy and smooth and salted like a fish. Her legs twitch slightly under my hands and the faintest of giggles erupts from her cherry-flushed lips. She sighs with relief. I smile. My fingers pull a cup of ocean up along her ankle, right up her calf to her knee, letting it slip back into the vast abyss in tiny transparent rivulets.

Under the stars she shimmers, all bald head and gracefully bony body, a delicious nakedness that has nothing to do with our current nudity. Out here beneath the night sky her bad girl façade is gone, leaving the meat of her, the brilliant and fragile beauty that enchanted me so completely. Something in what we had done calmed her, allowed her a moment freedom from the defensive shell she’d carried with her all this time.

I’m still alive! Tidbit.


“I can’t do this without you!”

The wind whips my voice from my lips and casts it out into the dark, ripping over the rooftop, catching in Sierra’s hair, echoing in her ear. She turns her head towards me slightly, her eyes unmoving from the city below. She refuses to meet my gaze. This yearning I feel, this need, it hinges on that glance. Those stunning green eyes, so sharp, so clear. She looks at me and knows who I am, who everyone is. One of a kind.

She’s perched on the edge of the roof, barefoot, clad in silky lingerie and a rough brown farm coat. The coat catches in a powerful gust, making her stumble, and for a moment my heart is in my throat as I wait for her to tip, to windmill, to fall into the oblivion nine stories below. She heaves up onto her tiptoes at the edge. I throw my hands out to catch her but pain shoots through my belly- like needles pushing through my hips- and in that horrible, fatal moment, I can’t move. I can’t do anything but grit my teeth and glare through tears at her wobbling silhouette… But then she catches her balance, splaying her fingers in the air, a stifled gasp escaping those smudged, ruby-red lips.

Tidbit: Trite Nonsense

Book Review: A Density of Souls


Having not yet finished reading the book when I started writing this, I can only comment on what I have realised so far. When I have finished it, no doubt I’ll write some more. ^_^

The reviews for A Density Of Souls differ largely, fluctuating between 1-2 star ratings with bitter comments, and 5 star rave reviews. This book is a troublesome one that covers a lot of incredibly unpleasant realities, bundling up a dozen serious experiences that happen to people everyday, and then wraps them all up in a wonderfully written (if complicated) story. My guess is that the people who enjoyed the book are probably people who have experienced one or more of these- whether the destruction of friendships, the emotional damage of abusive relationships, the trauma of death and suicide, the difficulties of mental illness or the social otherness of being gay- and these people find themselves drawn to the characters they feel the most connected to. It takes a talented writer to involve the readers in what has been written, to absorb them in the story. I think those who didn’t like the book didn’t feel that connection, hadn’t felt those feelings.

When I picked up A Density of Souls, I expected Christopher Rice’s writing to be a pale imitation of his mother’s. I couldn’t have been more wrong. He has his own style and while some of the places mentioned are familiar to Rice fans, everything is somehow different. Intense and beautiful and ugly all at once, and sometimes, incredibly uncomfortable. I would recommend anyone read it, regardless of how they might feel about it. It’s certainly an experience to be had.

That said, they say that an author’s first published novel tends to be heavily autobiographical. The way some of this is written… Well. I wouldn’t be surprised.

5 stars.

Adventures in Queerdom


So perhaps I am finding my feet on this rainbow-brick-road that I have discovered myself wandering, dancing awkwardly, unfamiliar with this new beat. I haven’t been sure, but I’m finding myself steadier and steadier these days. My feet aren’t shaken on their helter-skelter travels.

The girl.
A first in my exploration of fearlessness.

She was cute, rectangular glasses, blue neckerchief. Her hands were soft and cold and brushed mine like an electric shock. It made me giddy and silly and I babbled something about being obsessive compulsive about organizing things. She laughed and said I could obsessive-compulsively organize her table anytime. I think I swooned. I fled.

Jai teased me and flicked a game cover at my head, chastising my shyness. He pointed out the neckerchief. He repeated her words as he had heard them, tinged with his arrogant certainty.

It was the neckerchief that convinced me that maybe all would not be lost if maybe… This once… I grabbed my girl-love-lust and ran with it. One must be fearless, no? Fearlessness in all things, not just adversity and the unknown.

We (Jai and I) went for dinner. I wrote my number and a brief apologetic compliment on a scrap of a receipt. My fingers were slippery with avocado and sweet onion sauce.
I fought down the feelings of terror and nausea, uncomfortably aware of the fact that what I was doing was not only something I could never see myself doing, let alone do with a (socially acceptable) male, and certainly never with a girl…

But with Jai’s hand in the small of my back and his laughter in my ear, I made my way to her work and stood there, furiously blushing, enveloped in awkward silence. She was busy.

I handed her workmate the note.
I fled from the store.
I watched Jai peer over shelves and customers for a few minutes before he returned to my side.

“She’s looking around,” He said with his trademark cocky grin. “and she’s smiling.”

I got her message this evening, after I got home and was able to charge my exhausted phone.

She wants to meet for coffee.

I feel fearless.

Lover, Lover Lover


I want so badly to be in love again.

I’ve decided to stay single (well, to stop pursuing relationships) until valentine’s day next year. I need to work on me, I need a break. I need to know who I am before I can know another person.

I don’t like this. I’m determined not to settle for someone out of loneliness or the desire to be part of someone’s life. I want to fall in love. I want to chase someone because I desperately, intensely need them. I want to find a lover who rocks my world and a who wants me like I want them. I don’t want to do this trial-and-error dating stuff, it feels like it cheapens the concept of love.

I’m such a romantic. I believe in true love.

I don’t know if there’s someone out there who fits into my complicated and picky view of love, but I have to hope they exist. True love has to exist. Romance has to exist. I need it to.


Wish me luck.


It is the autumn of 2012. I am nineteen, naked in the studio of Yelena Konstantinov. It is the first time I have met her in person, and though I don’t know it yet, I am in love.
Yelena’s hand peels carefully from my hip, the only slice of flesh unswaddled by silk, and hovers nervously above her handiwork. There on the faint olive of my skin is an off-white hand print, lined and spiked in the shapes of her long fingers. Even the scar on her palm came through, a slight depression in the paint. A chill sets in immediately and then my skin begins to tighten, the paint already drying in the cold air. I peer at it a moment and then lay down, sprawled and relaxed.
“Stay there.” She flashes me a smile. Cherry lipbalm, shiny white teeth. “You are comfortable?”
“Yes, thankyou.” The couch is surprisingly comfortable, if ancient and broken. A bass cacophony erupts from the aged support beams whenever I move. The silk rustles. I let it brush my lips, watching Yelena’s perfectly shaped ass swing from side to side as she returns to stand by her canvas. She twists and I look away, feigning disinterest.
She begins her work.
Half an hour passes as I lie sanguine on the couch, wrapped in black silk, watching her sketch shapes onto a canvas with an oil pencil. She sings to herself in melodic Russian, a lullaby I’ve never heard, and glances at me through stray strands of her hair. Animal green eyes flashing through a torrent of dark chocolate.
“You are a good model.” She says eventually, standing back from the easel, her gaze flicking rapidly between me and the canvas. She sweeps in suddenly and adds a few quick modifications to the image, and then repeats the process. “Do you do this often?”
“Modelling?” She nods, and I roll the silk against my lip again. “No, not really. It’s not that hard just to lay still for a couple of hours.”
A tinkling laugh graces her lips and dimples her cheeks, lending her body a cheerful exuberance that translates into the painting. Bright colours emerge through the back of the canvas as the light seeps through. Rose Madder, Indigo, Australian Grey. I can see the tubes of paint resting on the splattered table next to her. She paints with great energy, using sweeping movements for lines, scrubbing at the canvas with a rough-haired brush to fill in the white space. It’s almost as if she is dancing with the image, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet in tandem with the movements of her arms. Dust particles drift down from the ceiling, caught in the fluorescent lights dangling overhead. Night falls outside and I find myself getting sleepy, drifting off to the sound of her singing and the scratching of the brush. Euphoria takes me.

Yelena wakes me some time later with a gentle touch, murmuring my name.
“Mary.” A whisper, soft against my shoulder. “Mary.”
She hovers near me, peering into my eyes. I smell turpentine, oil paints and liquid medium, and suddenly I want to kiss her.
Her eyes are warm. Understanding. She beats me to it, grasping my neck, pressing her mouth to mine. Her kisses are hungry, sweet, tasting of nougat and coffee. Her breath is hot. Her fingers are cold.
We roll together and crush the silk, and forget the world outside.

Tidbit: Patient Zero

My Opinion


Wow, I’m all up in the ranting and yelling about big political issues these days. I’ll no doubt get back to posting my writing when November comes, don’t worry.
Now, this is just my opinion. Opinion can be changed through debate, so if you don’t like what I have to say, by all means formulate a polite and intelligent argument and post it in the comments. I’d love to hear your point of view.

Today, I’m going to talk about a Queensland MP who is complaining about the gay communities’ “Heterophobia.”

There are a lot of very angry comments on that article, and honestly, I don’t blame them. There were a few things in there that annoyed me, and I’m in a pretty mellow mood today.
I mean, the paragraph or so at the end about “Homosexuality can be grown out of”… I don’t even… just, ARGH!
But thankfully that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the man who thinks his religious beliefs are under attack by people who just want to be equal.

Heterophobia exists. It exists just as much as homophobia does. It could be a side-affect of being loathed and hated for so long, it’s natural that you’d start to hate the person who hates you. It could be jealousy over being an outsider, looking at all the joys of the insider’s life and not being able to have that. It could be a dislike of a different lifestyle. I’m sure there are as many reasons as homo/heterophobes.
Do I think this counts as heterophobia? Well…. No.

Let me explain.

I’m not a christian. I don’t think I could really understand the fervor with which the people in organised religion can follow their god. I have my own faiths and beliefs, but they are far from clear-cut with rules and laws, let alone a big book of words. What I have seen of the christian community is that each of them love their god more than most other things in their life. That’s a whole lot of love. If I were christian, you can bet that I’d be distraught that the world wouldn’t let my relationship with my significant other be recognised in the eyes of the most important being in my life. They want their love recognised by their god, and I don’t blame them. Family is one thing, deity is another.

That said, the whole ‘marriage is between a man and a woman’ thing trips me up.
Religion depends on how seriously you stick to it. If you follow it to the letter, then sadly, you need to follow that rule too. If you don’t, then don’t. Stand up for what you believe in, by all means. Mr. Messenger seems to have great faith in the book, and thus, great faith in the rules. If I take everything he says in that article at face value, supposing he’s honest, it’s just unfortunate. The rules of his faith can’t be bent for other people, they were laid out by god. I understand where he’s coming from. He must do and say what he believes is right, and in this case, his religion wins out. His relationship with his god wins out. I get that.
Personally, I don’t like it, but I do understand.

Now, if we are just talking about legal and social recognition, I like the concept of civil unions. It doesn’t help the religious, but it does help the rest of us who just want to be permanently and officially tied to their loved one. It’s a long way from equal yet, I’m not disputing that, but the concept of ‘equal but different’ has never really caused me any problems. I think civil unions should be available to everyone else as well; a way to legally bind a relationship outside of a religious context. Honestly, I think it could apply to any relationship structure- gay, straight, religious, atheist, monogamous, polyamorous, whatever. I’m a firm believer in the “Love is Love” quote, and if people want to be legally recognised as forever bound to another human being (or human beings, if the case may be) then I believe they should be permitted to. It’s not a gay rights issue, it’s a human rights issue.

I’m aware this puts me at odds with a lot of people, but I don’t mind. I’ve never really been the type to stick to a side just to avoid an argument.

The gay community is rich, and full, and beautiful. It’s developed under pressure, and like most things that have been through the rough, it’s come out gleaming and fabulous. I think complete absorption into society would gradually dissolve it, dull the shine. If it were a choice between being equal and being a rich, bright community, then obviously I’d pick the equal choice… But I hope that will never be necessary.

I’m aware that to hundreds of other people, ‘seperate but equal’ is a horrific thought. I’m aware that there are people out there who are struggling every day with their faith and their identity. I don’t speak for them, and I wouldn’t dare to even attempt to assume how difficult these things must be for them. All I can do is speak for myself, so I am.

Love is the most glorious, amazing, wonderful thing in this world. It should be celebrated, admired, adored, worshipped, and experienced by everyone, at least once. It should never be loathed or feared.
All people are equal, regardless of what they believe or who they want to spend their lives with. All people deserve the same rights.
Does it really matter what we end up calling it?

I hope one day these things can be fixed.