Pisces. She will be the one to destroy me. The one who either floods my earth, or nourishes it.

I am a woman. She is a woman. Not just any woman though. She is my first. And our relationship is beautiful, sexy, disastrous, and crazy all at once. She is a lesbian with a serious live-in girlfriend. And I…I am a single, 25 year-old mother, who is completely and totally in love with her.

The drama gets better. We work together. People always tell me I need my own reality show but I never believed it until now.

This journal is about exploration, self-discovery,lust,romance, tears and poetry.It’s about how far two people are willing to go, and how much they are willing to sacrifice for love. It’s about practical, down to earth Virgo, succumbing to the magical, hypnotizing charms of the beautifully intoxicating Pisces. It’s about a fantasy romance, blooming in the real world. Where people do not always accept or understand what is different.

Toothaches and Heartbreak
Posted on 2037.02.06 at 00:40
Current Mood: jealous
While my son attempts to sleep through the agony of his first toothache, I attempt to write through the agony of another heartbreak. It’s different this time though. My heart breaks when I am not with her, but becomes completely whole again, when she is around. It’s been months since I have thought about anyone but her. My heart of mind won’t even entertain the possibility of me being physically or emotionally invloved withanyone else. I feel stupid even typing that considering the fact that the hands that feel so soft against my skin, are probably caressing someone else. The lips that leave me in a trance,are hypnotizing another.

I know she loves me. I can feel it in every look, every kiss, every touch. I don’t understand why this need is taking over me. The need to be a part of her, to have her and possess her. To keep her. I have serious commitment issues and usually when a relationship gets to emotional for me, I run away from it. I feel myself running, but instead of running away, I’m running right to her.

My friends think I have the perfect setup. That I get the best of my Pisces, and when she gets out of pocket, I can just send her home to her “wife”. They say I’m pimpin’. That all I have to do is buy her nice things, give her a little change, then go out and do whatever the hell I want . She can’t get mad because she is not my girl. Repeatedly, I tell these fools that I love her, but they think its some kind of joke or a game. It has me wondering why they so adamantly believe that I do not love her. Why is it so impossible to fathom?

Where All My Queers At?!

Having only recently moved to NYC, I’ve been missing my regular dose of gay and I’m having the worst trouble finding a faggety liason to introduce me to an appropriately purple posse. Now, really, I know I just need to jump in heels-first and hope my booty lands upon a cushiony, rainbow boa, but it’s a big city and I’ve been feeling a touch apprehensive. So, as stray Catholics are want to do, I prayed nightly for some sort of sign; an answer to my lingering fears of rejection and listlessness. I prayed to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost homos and to St. Joan of Arc, the patroness of righteous, cross-dressing soldiers. I prayed and prayed and prayed and, after many weeks on my knees, I received the phallic prodding I’ve been searching for.

Picture it: the subway, rush hour. Tired, Monday faces as far as the eye can see. I’m reading Iris Murdoch and antisocially listening to my iPod when my ears pick up an all-to-familiar sibilant “s” from behind. “LaShonda! That motha’ bitch…” WTF?! I turn to find a gaggle of little black gays, complete with relaxed, blond-streaked bob cuts, purple vinyl blazers, lime green patten-leather Converse and Baby Phat baseball caps. Truly, it’s all I can do to stifle my school-girl giggle. It must be a sign! They defy description, appearing to be a bizarre combo of Rue Paul and Flavor Flav (save the golden grills). They make no attempt at hushing their conversation in the midst of the crowded car. Gratefully, I dislodge one of my ear buds and listen in: “You know I told that ho that girl had to keep her 6-inches taped down, but she don’t never listen! Bitch ain’t got nobody to blame her own damn self.” A chorus of “ooh, girl!” calls back. I’m dumbstruck by the immediacy of their excruciating gayness. My eavesdropping, however, does not go unnoticed, and they all pause to shoot me a “Mm-hmm, what?!” sort of look. I flush red and, thinking quick, gesture casually to the one on the end: “Oh, nothin’. I was just noticing that Ms. Girl’s mini is riding up her Spanks.” Silence. They look at the accused, take to one another, and then roar, laughing.

I smiled all the way home that evening, finally understanding the folly of my existential crisis: one doesn’t need a bar-hopping posse to enjoy gay New York. Just an open ear and purple heart. In the name of the Judy, the Liza and the Holy Babs. Amen.