Sexcapades and What Impossible Feels Like

Yay, it's Wednesday!  That means I can tell you more about Veronica. If you need a refresher, please go to How I Fell.  

And so.

My life got complicated.  Veronica became the best part of every day.  In the sweltering summer humidity and heat, we escaped to the pool daily.  I brought my two baby girls and a couple bags of Little Ceasars breadsticks and she brought her two sweet kids and her rocking body in that tiny bikini.  She would sip on a blue Monster and I would 86 a couple RedBulls.  

I can't remember what we talked about, but there was never hesitation.  Comfort was our mode of operation and  I loved hanging out with her.  I felt like I could finally be myself even though I was still trapped in the LDS community, trying to squeeze my rectangular self into the tiny round hole that is religious Mormonism. 

For weeks I watched her rub oil all over her body, her beautiful tattoos, her breasts, ass...  She loved a good tan line and God, was she tan!  The white of her natural skin peeking out from her ever tinier bikinis was so bright, shiny with tanning oil and art-like, it made me want to reach out and touch it to find out if it she was crafted from oil paint or acrylics.   

As you may have surmised, Veronica is married. Two kids, nice home, husband has a good job, girl scouts, hockey, and all the rest.  My mouth was sealed shut, never to leak what I felt in my stomach, chest, the wetness that would come.  The thoughts in my head were repressed, pushed away.  I couldn't tell anyone.  And it was painful.  

When my husband and I decided to split and I drove to Salt Lake City, I called her.  I didn't want to tell anyone in the church, I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want anyone to tell me that God wanted me to stay.  I just wanted to see Veronica and tell her goodbye.  When I called I had the kids in the car, and all of my things were ready, I was specifically waiting for her.  But she was out visiting family in a neighboring town and wouldn't be home for a few hours.  The sadness I felt driving away without getting to see her and hug her and hear her sweet voice with the adorable accent was deep.  More deep by far than the sadness for my failed marriage, which at this point we both knew was long over.  

A year passed, and as we stayed in touch, I wanted her to visit and the trip was planned!!  Finally, a year too late, I would get to see my best friend again!  

I remember when the first hints at mutual sexual attraction began. 

Somehow talk led to thoughts on sexual experimentation and um, lesbian desires.  She sent me a photo in a text and asked "how does this make you feel?"  I remember the photo perfectly and when I was writing this, I emailed her and asked her if she remembered the first photo she ever sent me.  She did.  It was a kitchen scene, two lovely, tattooed ladies from the waist down, naked save panties, legs entwined. 

The image excited all of me in all of the ways that I had been wanting for so many, many years.  She arrived.  Her visit wasn't long, just barely three days.  I took her to the Pie Hole, RedRock, up to see the mountains, we rode the tram up to the top of Hidden Peak at Snowbird and there where we could see the whole world, I remember the feel of holding her hand for the first time.  

I also remember the night that I drank enough liquid courage that I walked up to her standing in my living room, put my hand around her perfect waist and pulled her towards me.  I kissed her for a long time and it was like spring had sprung or like a thousand doves cooing, or a million butterflies taking off all at the same moment.  It was like nothing I had ever experienced and everything that I could have imagined.  

The next part is pretty rad and I know what you're probably wondering.  Yes, I fucked her.  But it's more than that.  Years have passed and my love for her grows.  When I need to imagine a happy place, she is there with me, warm breeze, her laugh, her smile, her touch.  Together.  She is everything I could ever want.  In a partner, in a friend, in a lover, in a confidant.  

So why might I have stated in the title, what impossible feels like?  Simply because for Veronica and I, our time is not yet.  I cannot be with her.  It's tragedy and pain and agony.  Yet it makes my love for her and our bond stronger.  We grow closer over the thousands of miles between us. 

I ask each of you one question: think of the person who completes you or the person you are searching for and tell me in one word, who are they?  

For me, it's Veronica and she is Zen. Peace, calm, rest, stillness, tranquility, my center.  I love her so and one day, one glorious, delicious, deserving day, we will be together. 

I Don't Know How to Break This...

I baked a sweet red velvet cake.

Ate a delicious breakfast of cinnamon pancakes.

I spent a lovely day in San Francisco.

Cleaned my room since it needed it so badly.

I’ve done everything else I’ve needed to do.

But I did not write a blog post. 

The water rushed over me. Pouring every inch of my skin, I felt at ease. It was as if each drop cleansed of my day’s sins. The water gave me a second chance. My senses reminded me that everything was, is, and will be okay.

My body argued otherwise. Once reassurance rushed through my veins, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Despite my best stare, it wasn’t enough to stand out. Like a ghost on a TV show, with its body so faded the audience sees through it to the back of the studio set. There I stood, blurred and unsure. Why, despite my best efforts, could I not be registered as whole? Could I keep blaming this on my circumstances? Being the youngest child? The only queer family member blazing his own trail? Was I truly living in the shadows, dulled enough by others so that I myself did not make my own appearance? Was this a disservice done to me by others? By my community? By society?

Or was it me?

Did I believe in myself enough to give fully of myself? Or did I hold back, and my confident exterior was only a mirage in my head? The faded image that stood staring back at me that I so desperately wanted to see clearly in front me?

It’s time to begin. Off. On. 

Pictures, and Michelle Tanner, Say a Thousand Words

I had quite the week this week!

Each morning began with watching episodes of "The Hills," no matter who objected to it.

Courtesy of fullhouseforever87.tumblr.com

I attempted to increase the distance I run in the mornings. 

Courtesy of crushable.com

And with vigorous exercise comes vigorous eating…with an emphasis on healthy. 

Courtesy of fullhouseforever87.tumblr.com

I begun reading the brilliance that is David Halperin's "How to Be Gay," a book that studies the culture of homosexuality and how this culture is enforced by and learned from one another.

Because something had to keep me occupied once the weekend nights came around, and being away from Santa Barbara, my friends, and parties means I lack a social life.

I bought 4 books about varying sociological issues. While this was an $80 value, I got them all for under $5 at a book sale.

Courtesy of weheartit.com

I even had time to meditate and contemplate the deeper meanings of life.

Courtesy of imgfave.com

I updated my Instagram, but no selfies this week. 

Courtesy of weheartit.com

Of course, many online couples were making sure the Internet knew they were in a great, exciting, and busy relationship with their numerous pictures, check ins, and status updates.

Courtesy of whatshouldbetchescallme.tumblr.com

 And at the end of this busy week, I'm getting ready to do it all again next week.

Courtesy of fullhouseforever87.tumblr.com

If You Don't Go to Church, Then Why Do You Care?

As I delve deeper into LGBTQ Mormon activism, surrounded by individuals attempting to reconcile their sexual or gender identity within traditional Mormon spaces, others increasingly ask me this question. As a result, I have even begun to ask myself this as well. Indeed, I am no longer attending church, so why do I care about LGBTQ Mormon movements?

First, I think it’s important to point out the implications this question has: in order to identify religiously, one must regularly attend church services. For many of us identifying as LGBTQ and Mormon, ex-communication and being forced out of religious spaces is a common experience, and our desire to worship is disregarded. Thus, the problem with defining identity in terms of church attendance is that it erases the history of many LGBTQ-identified individuals, people who have been forced to leave and find religion some other way. Additionally, this definition of a religious identity prioritizes one way of having a religious identity over others. For me, this means I see the potential in non-active church members working with LGBTQ religious movements. Because disregarding current activity status, I at one point in my life was carrying out both my queer and religious identities simultaneously. Because I remember the pain and want to help create a space for others in situations I once was in. I also see connections between the LGBTQ Mormon movement and other issues within the Church, such as feminism (both struggle with the prevailing patriarchy). Many of these issues remain close to my heart and ones that I want to see resolved.

And truth be told, it’s not as simple as stepping away from the Church. Many of us are born into the Church, and brought up in Mormon households. Our households and families remain Mormon, despite our lack of involvement with the official Church. The customs and upbringing in Mormon spaces remains ingrained for many of us, as Matt demonstrated in his post a few weeks ago. And even if I seek spirituality elsewhere or nowhere, this institution exists and continues to halt the progress of the people and causes I care about. And it exists within us: our minds, our families.

It is this variation in experiences of LGBTQ Mormons that needs to be recognized. Whether active or inactive, single or in a relationship, there are many different ways to be simultaneously LGBTQ and Mormon. And in a political movement that aims at representing us, the fluidity of our experiences should be recognized, and none should be prioritized over another, or prescribed to the rest of us as the way to be simultaneously LGBTQ and Mormon.

A few months back, I had the opportunity to attend a workshop at UCSB presented by two of the authors of Original Plumbing (be sure to check out this wonderful blog here). During the workshop, an individual expressed the opportunity he has had to speak and educate about trans issues, despite many people being unaware that he identifies as trans also. He referred to this as a shift of consciousness from a trans-identified voice to a non-trans ally, and how this has allowed him to have a different approach and perspective in his activism.

This resonated deeply with me. In many ways, it’s how I feel currently. I may never return to Church, and I may decide existing in spaces of worship no longer works for me. But no matter what, I will still have my experience, at one point in my life, of being gay and Mormon. And while I’m working to create a space for those still in this or similar parts of their life, I’m also working to create a space for the teenager me that wanted it to be okay to be out, and find a more accurate religion of love and acceptance. And maybe it be a drastic restructuring of a flawed institution or resorting elsewhere to other means of worship. But I’ll never get closer to discovering what this all would look like if I don’t join in making it reality. And in no way does this invalidate my experiences and the identity I hold onto.

And It Shall Come to Pass

A simple thought today.

To anyone who reads my posts on here (which I’m not sure who or how many, but thank you to those who do!), it is evident that I am extremely critical of progress in social movements. My posts on marriage, pride festivals, Boy Scouts of America, and women’s position in the Church show how I am unable to accept change that does not address the larger issues, as well as change occurring while another individual/group is still being oppressed.

But I’m shifting the focus to personal progress today, because I don’t think I give myself enough credit. It’s crazy for me to think that 2 years ago, I was afraid to confess my sexuality to myself and live my life the way I wanted to, even if it went against what was religiously endorsed for me. That only 2 years ago today, I had come out to myself, as well as those most closely involved in my life. The person I am today has grown so much and come so far from the me 2 years ago, and I don’t get many chances to dwell on that. If I did, perhaps I would feel more confident in my path and better about the way my life is unfolding.

But when I do get to reflect, it’s because of people. Some people are sent to remind me of where I have been, all that I am, all that I can be, and all that is possible in life. These people make me happy, contemplative, emotional, and liberated. And these people may not be in my life forever; as much as I appreciate and try to keep these people around, they could very well be here for only a mere moment of my life. But maybe it’s not about how long they’re around for. Maybe it’s for the reminder they give me. And if I’m lucky, conditions will work out so that they can stick around. 

On Turning 21

Tomorrow (Tuesday) is my birthday! I will be turning the big 21 this year, and have already lined up the week with plans and outfits to properly celebrate the occasion.

Around the time of my birthday is when I reflect upon the past year: how that age treated me, what kind of year I had, and what I’m looking to improve as I begin a new age. This is something I’ve done since I was young, intensified by the fact that new advancements and privileges within the Church come with age. Thus, it’s always been a time for me to reflect and predict.

I have to say that when looking back at this past year as a 20 year old, I sigh. With relief. I started writing for “Breaking the Silence” 4 months into my 20^th year of age. And already, 20 had dealt me a few hard blows that I was still trying to catch my breath from. Had it not been for my classes, wonderful family and friends, and opportunities on campus, bouncing back may not have happened. It was only this past week that I realized this, and how much has changed since I turned 20.

In fact, thinking back, I wasn’t even excited to turn 20. Reflecting on 20 makes me extremely grateful for the place I’m in now. I’m learning to embrace new things, new experiences, and whatever comes my way. And I am beyond enthusiastic to turn 21 and see where the road will take me. 

As I turn 21, however, I realize that 20 is not completely behind me. I may turn a new age and start a new chapter in my life, but I carry with me everything previous: the lessons I’ve learned, the emotions I’ve felt, and the experiences I’ve had. I have always adored the following passage from Sandra Cisneros’ “Eleven” for this exact reason:

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are--underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.

You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.

A Weekend aLAy

Every episode of MTV’s The Hills depicts Los Angeles, California as the city where dreams come true. But even in my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined the weekend I had. If someone had told me I would have left LA trying sushi for the first time (and enjoying it!) and having attended a party at a phat pad in the Hollywood Hills overlooking Sunset Boulevard, I would have lol-ed. As it turns out, the joke is on me.

Before this past weekend, the extent of my LA experience has been...non-existent. Living in the SF Bay Area, there's no real point in traveling down south when you live in the greatest region ever all my needs and desires are met in the North.

But the city kept beckoning. And I finally answered the call.

Upon arriving, my astonished speechlessness and jaw on the ground hindered a proper greeting to LA, as I instantly became a fangirl of this new environment. Once that subsided, I was able to better analyze my surroundings. What did I observe?

Traffic. I completely understated the severity and affect this had on anything I wanted to do. "What's the quickest way?" and "How long with traffic?" became the 2 most FAQs of the weekend.

 Style. Sitting in a music themed barbershop, with posters ranging from The Beatles to Avril Lavigne covering the walls, affirmed the totally cool and totally hip trends of the region, musically and dermatologically.

 Heat. Okseriouslywhyisitsofreakinghot. Although I was prepared to leave behind the chilly beachside weather of Santa Barbara for the weekend, I was not ready for the hot inland that awaited me. 

Bodies. "Are people so bored that they get abs like that? Get a life!" "I wanna feed half of this city." 

Thinness. The prevalence of extreme thinness couldn’t be ignored. What also couldn’t be ignored, however, were the numerous places to eat at. Could this body type be indicative of the beauty standards and culture? Or maybe it's a sign that Umami should lower the price of their $11 burgers?

But the premiere event of the weekend was seeing Marina and the Diamonds live in concert. Joined by flocks of preteen girls and gay hipsters, my eardrums were treated to one of the best shows I've been to in a while. I featured a Marina song in my list of favorite songs from 2012, but I'm going to post another song, "Power and Control," so that my love of Marina is made evident.

(Note: screaming the lyrics and my hysterical shouts of praise during the song scared not only the people around me away, but also my voice away. Well worth it though). 

There you have it. Traffic, style, heat, bodies, and thinness. And Marina. My weekend in LA was one to remember, and I look forward to the day when I can return back. Apart from feeling completely out of place for saying “hella,” I developed a strange love for LA, and discovered there’s enough room in California for the Bay Area and LA to coexist. And what do the residents of LA think if you hate on their city? "Suck my strap-on."

I Didn't Ask for Morals With My Dish

I had a wonderful time visiting home this weekend. I was constantly on the go, with the exception of Friday night. As a college student residing in a college town, I'm always able to find something to do on a Friday, whether or not I want to or am trying to. So when I found myself home alone on a Friday night, with no plans and no one to hang out with, I did what any stereotype-abiding gay man would do:

I went on Grindr.

Now, the extent of my Grindr usage since it's release in 2009 is, to date, 8 days. 7 of those are when I first got my iPhone and decided to give the app a try in Santa Barbara, only to delete it a week later for my large dissatisfaction with it. But I was home. I was bored. I made a profile and let the good times roll.

I went in with a good attitude, a positive state of mind, and confidence. The only expectations I had were to have a good time and be safe. And as the chats rolled in and the ping sound became music to my ears (anyone with a Grindr knows what I'm talking about), I was disappointed at the discovery I made:

These boys wanted to talk and get to know me. They had standards.

Umm, I'm sorry. I thought I had downloaded one of the most popular hookup apps, not chit-chat-and-be-lifelong-friends app. My 7 previous days on Grindr taught me these boys are ready to go the minute you log on.

Does location make a difference? Is the clientele seeking something different, so much so that activity turns from casual to serious?

I guess a good lesson came from my bored, weekend night at home: to never assume, and that there are guys out there who aren't seeking to instantly bang. Not what I was expecting, but I'll take it.

A Time Out from the World

“You can’t always be reacting. You need a space where you can just be.”

As my Black Studies lecture came to an end, I scribbled down this piece of advice from my professor before packing my things and leaving. She explained that there are many stereotypes, oppressions, and political and social forces one can react to. However, reacting all the time to these things is not healthy for us individually, and we need a time and place to escape reacting and to just be us, knowing that who we are and how we are is beautiful and enough, contrary to how larger social forces paint us. Being involved with politics and being surrounded by others enlisted in the same battle, I found this quote very applicable. With the multitude around me always fighting and involved in some political issue or another, this unanticipated and fresh piece of advice rang true in my mind.

If my political/reacting self were who I am all the time, I would be a different person. I would be an angry, pessimistic, aggressive person who keeps pushing his individual wants and needs onto others (at least I hope I’m not like this normally). It becomes necessary, then, for me to separate my political self from my personal self. But more so than this, politics and current laws have nothing to say about my personal life. Even though same-sex marriage is largely unavailable, I’m still going to date men and even settle down with one, should that happen for me. No matter what happens to me politically, I’m still going to be me personally.

This is not to say that political happenings should be completely disregarded. Politics and having people fight for a cause is vital, and I am incredibly grateful for those who do this for others. Indeed, laws exist and are being created to limit our rights and the rights of others. It’s necessary to fight against this discrimination and wide scale oppression, because these laws can make an impact on us personally. What I am saying, however, correlates with the idea of “leaving my work at work.” Ultimately, what happens on a larger scale level should not limit how I act or behave personally. Even if same-sex marriage never gets legalized in all 50 states, should that prevent me from falling in love and settling down with my partner of the same sex? No.

Nietzsche said it best when he said, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.” In taking care of ourselves, it becomes vital to not always be reacting to social forces, and separating the political self from the personal self. While what happens politically may affect me personally, it will never stop me from having the personal life I want. The government does not personally know my name, face, who I am, or my individual case. Why, then, should I let them be a part of my life?