Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
During my Childhood.
a New Hampshire father of twin boys named Joe taught me that friendship, love, and respect,
meant wrestling.
He was a burly man
with glasses and a salt and pepper beard
Who loved guitar hero, dunkin' doughnuts and Motorcycles.
One day joking to his adult friends I heard:
"I'm a lesbian trapped in a mans body"

Now, Joe did not mean this the way
we think of it in this community.
He was not transgendered.
probablly didn't even know they exist.
He was simply saying.
"I have an attraction to girls who will never love me, because I have a *****,
and Isn't that tragic enough for a punchline?"
Though a young boy,
I identified with that.

In middle school, the media convinced me
that gay boys were getting all the ladies.
So I needed everyone to know I was gay.
that way, they'd be my friends,
and get naked in front of me.
It worked.
However, I still could not get a girlfriend.
And I did not want a boyfriend.
because again, It was all a 10 year old me's
Con just to see girls undress.

A year or two goes by
being gay
To get a girlfriend.
when on the television:
I see Tila Tequila.
A bisexual Bachelorette reality Show.

Wait! I said to my mother.
"I CAN LIKE BOTH?"
"Sure you can! I do.
This one time, aunt spider and I"
"Mom! That's enough."

So in my living room,
Surrounded by fold-out tables
And chicken parmesisan
I pronounced myself bisexual.

I had the best of both worlds! I could watch girls undress, AND have a girlfriend.
This was not relevant however, for a while.
As I still had not developed social skills.

Enter highschool awkward bisexual boy.
I'd never actually been attracted to a man before...
But I wasn't ruling it out.
zero percent of the woman I fell for seemed to like men,
Or more accurately, me.
I was resonating closer to the
"Lesbian trapped in a mans body"
line then ever before.
I probablly asked out every female senior, every girl I grew up with.
every girl who looked at me, to go on a date.
All to be turned down.
Except one.
I entered college with a monogamous Long-term relationship raising A beautiful Nerd girl's daughter.
Seemed like I had it made.
Young parents.
Both bisexual.
Together we flushed out Every kink and curvature of what pleasured us.
Then two years later.
My grandmother died,
I lost my job of four years,
She left me,
taking our daughter with her.
Devastated, I turned to the most destructive of known vices.
Tinder.

I went on first and last date after parking lot hookup after rooftop romance with these girls.
Writing poetry all the while to document my stresses.
I was no longer "A lesbian trapped in a mans body."
If anything, I was a lesbian
Thriving! In a mans body.

This came up at a party once
We were playing rockband when I said it.
A woman spoke up:
"You're devalueing the phrase for transgendered woman who use it!
It's dissrepectfull."
When I tried to explain myself:
That it helped me rationalize
years of rejection
laugh at my own failure.
Build the foundation
for my optimistic attitude
By saying it's not me.
I just like lesbians.
it made my failures a predictable Punchline.

But I was weak.
They convinced me.
I stopped identifying as
"A lesbian thriving in a mans body."
from then on, I was a man.

Years have passed and I've given a lot of love to a lot of people.
Learned a lot about my preferences
Sexually, romantically, personally.

At the momment:
I am a:
Hetero flexible
Polyamorous
Male.

But deep down I know.
Even though I'll never say it.
Because it isn't really true.
Or maybe because it's offensive.
Or maybe because i'm scared.
I'll always be a lesbian
Thriving as a man.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i love women, don't get me wrong, i finally succumbed
to watching the female world cup,
since the lionesses reached the semi-finals
against u.s.a., but the man in me just kept thinking:
yeah yeah, great footie, but those beauties...
where's martin keown, i need to look at
a mugshot of a brute, i can't concentrate
on the skill without a girl that looks like
martin keown... oh god... alex morgan...
              julie ertz... steph houghton...
   don't get me started on the swedish team...
    wimbledon has also started...
                    i do enjoy female tennis more than
the male variation of serve-**** tactic...
or the terminator that's serena williams...
     cori "coco" gauff... wow...
                i wish she would win the championship
and replicate martina hingis wimblendon 1996...
problem... she's under 16...
so she's only allowed to play 5 matches
in the tournament... and what if she wins
the 5th? that's the quarter-finals...
7 to win the tournament... the rules should be bent,
she should be able to continue...
end of an era... the dinosaurs are being chased
by the younglings...
prof. green (roger federer) still has it in him...
but... well he is a professor of tennis...
his style? his backhand? immaculate "conception"...
who played as well as he does?
roger sampras... the list is very short...
but i don't have a problem watching woman's
tennis, it's so much better than the brute strength
of the serve akin to the game played
by: ivanišević, rusedski, roddick, čilić (chy-lea-'c -
piquant, that acute c)...
   n'ah... in terms of tennis?
i think the males are over-rated,
                except for the prof. of grass court...
i do love women... apart from the nostalgia
for primary school playground banter with
the girls: when we still had an asexual
sense of it... before all the **** jokes,
before the greatest schism in ether of existence:
beyond the religious and in the biological realm...
o.k.: i tease... which is something a prepubescent
girl would understand:
   if i was also a prepubescent boy...
times, have, changed...
i'm with ms. amber and ginger ale,
cigarettes and a decent soundtrack...
               i still don't want to understand incels...
i listen to them, but then i reach a limit...
thank god i didn't lose my virginity to a *******...
but... if you have to?
         isabella of grenoble...
               a fine fine catch...
          mind you... have you ever been
to an 18 year old's birthday party,
   and it was not what you were used to,
i.e.: bal samców / cockfest?
   this 18 year old's birthday party?
  my friend ian tagged along for about an hour
or two... then he suddenly bailed on me...
i was the only male... among... um....
20 or so girls...
              why, the, ****, are, muslims,
blowing themselves, up,
for a reward of 72, virgins?! eh?! can anyone
please please tell me?!

no brainer question(s)
   (as dictated by h'american girls in venise):
the beatles or the rolling stones -
to be honest? neither.

   top three songs with the bass guitar
setting the rhytm:
   1. tool - forty six & two
  2. the offspring - bad habit
3. róże europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

roy orbison or elvis? m'hahaha... royo...

  a lot has happened since i attended that
18 year old's birthday party...
why are muslim men so eager to entertain
eternity with 72 virgins?
      will they be keeping them virgins
or what? that would be the best way
to not move past kissing and oral ***...
once 3rd base is entered: the third eye
of transgender shiva opens up...
    
              why did solomon give up his harem
for the monotheistic monogamy associated
with the queen of Sheba?
   beyond one, what good is a harem?
if you've never been around 25 or so virgins...
you really don't know what you're talking...
or getting yourself into...
                    herrdildomaschinekopf...
look, i just changed the background to show
you i'm not lying:
  that evening i came home: ex-haus-ted...
did i spend the past few hours in
the company of teenage girls or was i being
ripped apart by a pack of wolves / hyennas...
and you know how drunk teenage girls
behave... you're shreds... they're competing
like it's both the 100m sprint and the marathon
cooked up into one!

i really could have chosen a different path:
***** ***** all year round...
   well, why didn't i, why did i become
voluntarily "celibate"?
            as much as might want the company
of the opposite ***: picking up a thai surprise
bisexual in the park one day...
******* her in the garden...
   walking her home while she drowned
in my jacket... she telling me i should stop
drinking... now... drinking...
i was taught to listen to rules under the arch
of pedagogy... now? i'll be as stubborn as
i am expected to be...
i don't like being told what to do,
thank you for telling me to do for the first
21 years of my life...
  now? welcome to the plateau!
even the best advice is the worst advice
after a certain period of time...
do i look like a ******* puppett that will
listen to such things: oh, but if you don't
do x, you'll become homeless...
   i've met some happy homeless people...
one even told me why he became homeless:
'my mother told me to never lie'...

i don't even think these jihadis know what
they're getting into,
wishing up 72 celestial virgins...
i'll take to the count of "72" valkyrie serving
me drinks than expecting me to **** them,
and the eternal library of text and music...
don't get me wrong...
receiving attention from women:
esp. those younger than you,
while they're intoxicated: it is fun...
but when it comes to the sort of
intimacy of a relationship with a women,
when she starts to read you the cosmopolitan
magazine's questionnaire as to whether
she's the perfect girlfriend /
you're the perfect boyfriend /
   you're a perfect couple?
i love women outside the realm of a molten
heart... i don't like finding myself
vulnerable...

              am i missing out on something?
oh i know i am...
but it's like owning a car:
great! you own a car!
             "mobility"...
  but you also own car insurance...
the m.o.t. payments and spare parts...
and washing the car on the weekend...
oh i'm so jealous!

  what's that famous saying?
women... can't live with them,
  can't live without them...
       well... more like: can live without them,
but much harder to live without them
and stop wanting them...
whatever glimpses i've had of past
relationships: i sober up even if i'm drunk...
she didn't want to split the restaurant bill...
this "modern thing": feminism,
my "toxic masculinity"...
  whatever, whatever...
                   i guess i'll have to end
on a note superstitious of a teenage girl's whim...
i'm bored, the end.

_______

.now i have a fox, without a leash, that i tend to feed everyday... keep feeding him, or her, lamb fat, cat food synthetics, and once in a while a frankfurter... and the Polacks you minded so much? only attacked ****** night0club owners... made plums and figs out of their faces... bulging and caress worthy... same ****, different cover, with the easy girls of Liverpool and Newcastle... back down in London? the story goes: she's an exchange student from New Hampshire... riddled by the madonna-***** complex... and i'm not really adamant adamant on stealing the cherry... if you've ever ****** aa ******? one, is enough...  i'd sooner become ****** up by a ******* tornado... and giggle... dying with a half breath... before plummeting face down onto the hearth; watching daisies, growing, roots up!

i've had one irish migrant educate me:
you know...
there are plenty of neo-nazis
in Poland...  
       and? am i one of them?
   liked him, a high school friend...
i'm sorry the friendship ended...
so i am?
   **** me... better i brush up on
reading some Heidegger!
         oh look 'ere i go...
        can't stop me now...
unless befriending Pakistanis
who have kept a null of Urdu...
              because you know...
   if there's a culture that's integrating,
and doesn't,
   have the honor, capacity,
to keep in line its origins?
no problem...  not worth it...
           people who do not retain their
skeleton -
their basics -
  their language -
   they, "magically" lose it...
half-castes... half-people...
   no pride in an origin,
   not upkeep with a language?
might as well call your mother a,
*******, *****!
      ****** by an antiques dealer!
******.
      no pride in origin,
  no subsequent pride in a "return"
on foreign soil...
   plethora of antagonizing Islam...
good look...
    i have mine,
but i hide it...
      ex-girlfriend -
almost took a ride on one of those
buses in the 7/7 bombings...
     what?!
               guess what...
i'm an ex-pat...
  i know that you wouldn't call
your similar genetics of
a "family" an ex-pat
and neither a migrant or an immigrant...
   (economics comes later,
doesn't it?) -
  but i'm sure the english
are loved up with Hindu grannies
and their grandchildren
taking them to the doctors to
translate symptoms...
   fine by me... you do the math...
   apparently i'm not speaking
English, but? ******* Urdu!
         no problem...
thank god i never allowed myself
a pledge of allegiance to the people,
rather, the language they spoke...
the language is all i pledge my
allegiance to... and for...
the queen... and her people?
        **** it... shooting albatrosses
off the shoreline of Cornwall...
attempting to spot
  porky Siamese twins...
        one does the eating,
the other does the oral ***...
             what?!
             i have not pledged any allegiance
to the english people...
  they love their **** curry
and their Afghan foot-soldiers...
   i'm doing the Pontius Pilate
washing of hands...
   which is a secondary theater of
a baptism...
                      no...
no allegiance to the people....
but the language?
   i'd give my life for it...
           the people are not exactly
the main ingredient in terms
of existential coordinates -
but the language is...
    on a per se basis mingling with
the appropriate focus.
All yesterday it poured, and all night long
I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat
Upon the shingled roof like a weird song,
Upon the grass like running children's feet.
And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed,
Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed,
Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist,
And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast.

But lo, there was a miracle at dawn!
The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze,
The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn,
The songsters twittered in the rustling trees.
And all things were transfigured in the day,
But me whom radiant beauty could not move;
For you, more wonderful, were far away,
And I was blind with hunger for your love.
Winston Churchill (novelist)
(Nov. 10, 1871 – Mar. 12, 1947)
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
For the literary career of the British statesman of the same name, see Winston Churchill as writer.

Born November 10, 1871
St. Louis, Missouri, US
Died March 12, 1947 (aged 75)
Winter Park, Florida, US
Occupation Novelist, writer
Genre
Non-fiction
Short story
Historical fiction
Notable works
Mr. Crewe's Career
Mr. Keegan's Elopement
Coniston
The Crossing
A Far Country
A Traveller In War-Time
Spouse Mabel Harlakenden Hall

​(m. 1895; died 1945)​
Children 3
Winston Churchill (November 10, 1871 – March 12, 1947) was an American best-selling novelist of the early 20th century.

He is nowadays overshadowed, even as a writer, by the more famous British statesman of the same name, to whom he was not closely related.

Early life
Churchill was born in St. Louis, Missouri, the son of Edward Spalding Churchill by his marriage to Emma Bell Blaine. He attended Smith Academy in Missouri and the United States Naval Academy, where he graduated in 1894. At the Naval Academy, he was conspicuous in scholarship and also in general student activities. He became an expert fencer and he organized at Annapolis the first eight-oared crew, which he captained for two years. After graduation he became an editor of the Army and Navy Journal. He resigned from the U.S. Navy to pursue a writing career. In 1895, he became managing editor of the Cosmopolitan Magazine, but in less than a year he retired from that, to have more time for writing.[1] While he would be most successful as a novelist, he was also a published poet and essayist.

Career
His first novel to appear in book form was The Celebrity (1898). However, Mr. Keegan's Elopement had been published in 1896 as a magazine serial and was republished as an illustrated hardback book in 1903. Churchill's next novel—Richard Carvel (1899) — was a phenomenal success. The novel was the third best-selling work of American fiction in 1899 and eighth-best in 1900, according to Alice Hackett's 70 Years of Best Sellers. It sold some two million copies in a nation of only 76 million people, and made Churchill rich. His other commercially successful novels included The Crisis (1901), The Crossing (1904), Coniston (1906), Mr. Crewe's Career (1908) and The Inside of the Cup (1913), all of which ranked first on the best-selling American novel list in the years indicated.[2]

Churchill's early novels were historical, but his later works were set in contemporary America. He often sought to include his political ideas into his novels.


Churchill at his home, Windsor, Vermont
In 1898, Churchill commissioned Charles Platt to design a mansion in Cornish, New Hampshire. Churchill moved there the following year and named it Harlakenden House. From 1913 to 1915, he leased it to Woodrow Wilson, who used it as his summer residence. Churchill became involved in the Cornish Art Colony and went into politics, winning election to the state legislature in 1903 and 1905.[3] In 1906, he unsuccessfully sought the Republican nomination for governor of New Hampshire. In 1912, he was nominated as the Progressive candidate for governor but did not win the election and did not seek public office again. In 1917, he toured the battlefields of World War I and wrote his first non-fiction work about what he saw.

Sometime after the move to Cornish, he took up painting in watercolors and became known for his landscapes. Some of his works are in the collections of the Hood Museum of Art (part of Hopkins Center for the Arts at Dartmouth College) in Hanover, New Hampshire, and the Saint-Gaudens National Historic Site in Cornish, New Hampshire.

In 1919, Churchill decided to stop writing and withdrew from public life. He was gradually forgotten by the public. In 1923, Harlakenden House burned down. The Churchills moved to an 1838 Federal estate, part of the Cornish Colony called Windfield House (now called Hillside) at 23 Freeman Road in Plainfield, furnishing it with items saved from the fire.[4] In 1940, The Uncharted Way, his first book in twenty years, was published. The book examined Churchill's thoughts on religion. He did not seek to publicize the book and it received little attention. Shortly before his death, he said, "It is very difficult now for me to think of myself as a writer of novels, as all that seems to belong to another life."

Death
Churchill died in Winter Park, Florida, in 1947 of a heart attack. He was predeceased in 1945 by his wife of fifty years, the former Mabel Harlakenden Hall.[5] He is featured on a New Hampshire historical marker (number 16) along New Hampshire Route 12A in Cornish.[6]

Churchill and his wife had three children. Their son John Dwight Winston Churchill was married to Mary Deshon Hand, daughter of Judge Learned Hand.[7] Another son Creighton Churchill was a well-known writer on wines.[8][9] Journalist Chris Churchill of Albany, New York is his great-grandson.[10]

The British statesman
In the 1890s, Churchill's writings first came to be confused with those of the British writer with the same name. At that time, the American was the much better known of the two, and it was the Englishman who wrote to his American counterpart about the confusion their names were causing among their readers.[11]

They agreed that the British Churchill should adopt the pen name "Winston Spencer Churchill", using his full surname, "Spencer-Churchill". After a few early editions this was abbreviated to "Winston S. Churchill"—which remained the British Churchill's pen name. The two men arranged to meet on two occasions when one of them happened to be in the other's country, but were never closely acquainted.[12]

Their lives had some other coincidental parallels. They both gained their tertiary education at service colleges and briefly served (during the same period) as officers in their respective countries' armed forces (one was a naval officer, the other an army officer). Both Churchills were keen amateur painters, as well as writers. Both were also politicians, although the British Churchill's political career was far more illustrious.[13]

Works
Novels
Mr. Keegan's Elopement in magazine format (1896)
The Celebrity (1898)
Richard Carvel (1899)
The Crisis (1901)
Mr. Keegan's Elopement in hardback (1903)
The Crossing (1904)
Coniston (1906)
Mr. Crewe's Career (1908)
A Modern Chronicle (1910)
The Inside of the Cup (1913)
A Far Country (1915)
The Dwelling-Place of Light (1917)
Other writings
Richard Carvel; Play produced on Broadway, (1900–1901)
The Crisis; Play produced on Broadway, (1902)
The Crossing; Play produced on Broadway, (1906)
The Title Mart; Play produced on Broadway, (1906)
A Traveller In War-Time (1918)
Dr. Jonathan; A play in three acts (1919)
The Uncharted Way (1940)
Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,
The stars too gloriously bright,
For me to spend the evening hours,
When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,
Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
world-wide.

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.
Day 20
Kirsten Martin Oct 2010
I have scarlet cheeks and the hottest hands
Once your firm lips press upon translucent skin
A dizzying reality, a crashing universe
That compel my blood and thoughts to race, all for you
My heart beats and beats

These forrested roads pass as streaks of rust and green, magnificent
Only one turns to reach a destination
The rest we take lost in hope of a journey
With dripping ice cream and melting passengers
You drive and drive

I feel tiny icey shatters through me
With each touch from strong hands callous from art
And each bead of sweat or water is a tear
Shed for the beauty of our braided bodies
Entwined, shooting impulses electric
We love and last
m  Dec 2013
New Hampshire
m Dec 2013
My mother was never a swimmer,
she signed me up for lessons when I was nine
so I would never drown.
That summer, I did learn how to swim,
but no one prepared me for the sinking that would come
10 Augusts' later.
I can smell the whiskey on your breath
as you touch my cigarette mouth.
I've never missed anything as much
as your hands meeting every crevice of
my body during those winter nights
in your twin sized bed.
Half-clothed, pressed against each others bodies,
holding each other like the last life jacket on the Titanic,
we decide we'll never see stars like this back home.
Seaweed entangles our feet
and I throw mine up around your waist,
because I need you so much closer.
Forget Death Cab.
Transatlanticism is real but
I don't need you to be across the ocean to know
the distance between us stretches for miles,
though I'm staring at your apologetic eyes in front of me.
I fought to stay afloat that summer,
reminding my limbs the motions of the backstroke,
the butterfly.
But with one glance, you had me at the bottom of the deep end.
Marsha Singh Mar 2012
If time is a convincing illusion, then as I am writing this,
you are reading it; you are remembering me years after
we have spoken last, and I am noticing you for the first time.

I'm a young woman waking up in an apartment in Albany,
New York, realizing that I am finally broken enough to fix,
and an East Boston moppet in ***** pink overalls, riding
Big Wheels through the sprinklers with a boy named John Henry.

You're delivering newspapers on a cold New Hampshire morning.
I am falling asleep wondering if you could possibly love me.
You are saying that you do. You are stardust, and I am long gone.

— The End —