mae 2d

every time you teach her that masculinity is strength,
you put a nail in her newborn coffin.
because you have taught her that she is simply an extra to a man's story,
she will wander hopelessly trying to find that strength in men who will only give her half-truths.
she will endure pain because she is nothing but a weak willed woman.

every time you teach him that feminity is weakness,
you have tied the noose for his little neck.
because he will always put himself down because he should be a man not a boy and weakness just doesn't fit in that box,
he will never learn how crying is an artform.
he will forever be a boy.

so keep your bigoted ideologies inside and throw away the key,
because the greatest gift you could give to your darling is to be free.

for those who have spent many years questioning gender.

"Those women ought to put on some clothes. They all act like a bunch of sluts nowadays!"

"But don't you think we ought to focus on more serious issues like Global Warming"

"Ah, you damn Liberals want to over-regulate the Economy. You're all a bunch of Control Freaks!"

"But why don't we have straight pride?"
"I don't mind them really, I'd just rather they didn't shove it down my throat".
"Did you see those lesbians holding hands?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?"

These moments are usually filled with silence. The room is suddenly so quiet, that I can almost hear my fear in the key holes, tucked away inside draws, behind laws, In the space between us.

I sit there and I swallow my pride. I swallow the thoughts of years of coming to terms with who I was and kissing boys to try and feel the way I was supposed to. I swallow walking down streets and staring at strangers, trying to figure out who I found the most attractive. I swallow every time I used to think to myself "It's not real. I'm making it all up. I'm not gay". I swallow the first time I said it out loud. I swallow the first time I was proud. I swallow the way I traced her freckles softly in the sunlight. I swallow the fights with my father and the tears behind closed doors. I swallow the stares in public and the glares and hushed whispers that stayed with me for days. I swallow every time someone would say "but you don't look gay". I swallow being told I can't take a joke. I swallow teachers talking about "homosexuals" as if there were none sitting in the room before them. I swallow being myself. I swallow the very essence of who I am. I swallow loving who I am. I swallow reclaiming the word lesbian, the word that used to sound like a slur. Like a dirty piece of language that only lived in porn videos and his wastepaper bin. I swallow falling in love with women. I swallow each time I stared at my body, and didn't recognise myself. I swallow all the shame in the world. I swallow my pride.

But then fifty voices are swallowed. One hundred loving hands. Two thousand threckles. 20 different countries. 1 million breaths. Fifty hearts whose beats echoed in pride.

And suddenly, I stop swallowing, and start living. For they can take our lives, but they will not take our pride.

Written in memory of those who lost their lives in the Orlando shooting

June 2016

No, you cannot join in.
Unless of course you also want the backlash that comes with kissing girls in public?
Take it-
share the homophobia.
I have had enough to last me 18 years of shame

no, this is not a game and you do not have the right to take photographs of me while I kiss her.
Unless of course you are a photographer  
here to celebrate our queer love in all of it’s natural beauty.  
For my love does not exist for your enjoyment
we are not the characters in your fantasy novel
my love is magical and you cannot publish it.
My love rains all over your non existent parade because your homophobia does not exist at pride

wide-eyed boys
encircle us as if to say that our mouths brush only so that they  
can paint the picture,
but you do not belong within my self portrait
you will not dip your dirty brush into my rainbow coloured paint set.
Clean your homophobia into the water
for our love is art
but you are not the artist
and my love is not yours to keep for later  
for wanking your anxieties into pleasure whilst you turn my pleasure, into anxiety.
This, is plagiarism.

Copyright my love.
For I should not have to be aware of who is watching
or pointing or shouting or stealing, my love.
So put your hand down your pants and think of your homophobia.  
No, you can’t come now
no, you cannot join in.

July 2016

I expected slow tenderness but,
like two cars in a rush to
get somewhere else,
our clumsy lips and tongues
for less than a minute.

Your crooked teeth bit at
the coyness
I tried to mask with red lipstick, and
the hardness
of your mouth and jeans
pressed against me,
but I didn't want this right away
and I should've told you
when you asked,
"So what do you want to do now?"

I wanted to lay with you and talk.
I wanted you to hold me.
We've got time.
Slow down, I'm new to this.

I should've told you.

But you guided my hand
and women on laptop screens guided
my mouth,
my body on auto-pilot.

It's right there, I can't say no.
I like you.
This is fine.

I'm fine.

I lay next to you.
You hold me.
I finally got what I wanted.
Did you?

It's two months later.
You tell me a hookup is going through the motions.

I like you. Why did it feel like that?

Tricia 7d

With pesto and chocolate breathe I lay
Topless contemplating today.

14 de Juliet.

Why am I not thinking about this moment,
this second, this sensation, this exploration?

The feeling of the carpet on my naked skin,
the feeling of my silk undies of sin.
The wetness of my vulva as I lay against the earth
Tightening loosening faster faster I need some girth.

Aren't we created to pulsate, ruminate, procreate?
Then why does this feel so wrong?
After all its only natural to want to love yourself
please yourself feel yourself to get along.

Yes I'm turned-on turned on by the thought of the act of the motion of the ocean of the reality that I could get off.
But frightened when it's all done and even fun.
A fear to release, let go, lose control and roll.

no, It's about me it's about you.
Loving you and getting you to cum a rum dum dum.
For so long you don't know how or why but you just knew you almost died.
in a good way
Rub me
touch me
lick me
stick me
Just be gentle,
Just be free.

On Tumblr,
I am  not going to offend anyone with my posts.
Absolute liberty is the rule there.
No one is going to tell me
That the video I posted
Of a nude woman in Queretaro, Mexico,
Putting lotion on herself
Is obscene.
However, I have one warning for men
Who try to use Tumblr.
Don't try to befriend
A nude model!
Appreciate looking at her,
But don't try to get in a serious discussion. with her.
These ladies have passionate feelings about things
That are hard for most guys  to understand.
They might believe in What they're doing
Just as much as Religious Zealots!
Exhibitionists need Voyeurs
Just as any entertainer
Needs an audience.
It's a SYMBIOTIC relationship.
If you try to befriend
Someone who you like to observe in the nude,
The fantasy  will fade.
You might start to perceive her as ignorant and vain
Rather than sexy and smart.

Call us perverted,
But read on first,
Then, by the end,
After our verse,
Call us your worst:
Dirty old men, gutter snipes,
Lecherous gawkers,

Cause we gaze in wonder and awe
At girls from eighteen to ninety-five.
Don't step back and feign aghast,
Whisper covert tsks, and gasp,
What? Oh such dirty old men!
But we are most the same.

We don't ogle or use a scope
Waiting behind a bush at night,
Til the lights go on
Through windows known to be un-drawn.

We don't visit public pools
With goggles and a snorkel,
That's just sick, that's not us,
Our admiration's not so twisted,
We grew up to respect the sisters.

We wonder at the parade of beauty,
So pleasing to our eyes,
They dress to allure
Younger looks,
They swagger, tilt and sashay past
With legs as long as trees,
No VPL to interrupt
The curvature of our minds,
The girth of Mother Earth.
Compare it to one window-shopping,
Admiring wares and worth;
But please, read every line I wrote
Before bellowing, Pervert.

If we were eighteen years again,
We're lads out plowing fields,
Sowing wild grains,
Reaping refrains of They're boys just being boys.

We had our ancient pleasures,
Still comparable to now,
But the lushness of the ripened fruit
Is hanging on the bough,
For younger hands, not ours.

The columned temples of runway models
With flying buttress thighs,
And the bull-frog fronts and volleyball stunts
Have us pleased, but we don't pry.

          (We're not a pussy grabbing lot,
          That's not how we usually talk,
          In fact I haven't shared these thoughts,
          I'm reluctant to do so now).

You know you can't blame us
For what a blind man sees;
The cleavage, high-slits and commando style,
The augmentations meant to beguile
Has caught us in crossfire.

The soft unbleached skin,
The bosom and the neck,
The falling, twirling tresses,
Grace the backs of backless dresses.
Wear grotesques to dissuade us,
To disapprove our ageless looks.

Our eyes don't linger on the bust,
We don't display old men's lust,
In fact we're rather obsequious,
To the point where we're air,
You'd not notice that we're there.
But we are, and we look;
And I remember what it took
To be young and on the hunt
For the Yeti, Loch Ness, alien sort.

Don't tell your friends we're perverted,
Scurrilous id-focused men;
We're neither. We're average fellows
Watching from the stands.

Yes, our daughters are older than
The babes seen on the screens,
But that has naught to do with us,
We still think like eighteen.

We watch re-runs of Mary Tyler Moore,
Drink tepid tea with toast and jam
To the credits of The Golden Girls;
But when the grandkids come to visit,
We take them for ice-cream,
Or if I take poodle to walk,
They pool like thirsty fleas.
It isn't my intent to bait, but I have eyes to see,
Those girls somewhat eighteen,
Like to please by teasing:
     I really like your wire rims.
Their eyes grip, the wind flips,
Their hands soft and supple...
I'm at a loss-
What's a man to do-
Between forty and a hundred and two.

Well, this reaper's aged,
The harvest's in.
The grain that bowed the straw
Has now been threshed,
And milled to flour.
Add heat to rise again.

Apology for aging men
VPL: Visible panty line.
grotesques: gargoyles that don't spit water
Sam Anthony Jul 7

What’s the harm in joining with a crowd of people
United around a rainbow and a passion for equality?

If it’s true that
God Hates Fags
Then we’re in real trouble
Under the colours of His great judgment on the party of depravity
Entitling the parade as
Which goes before destruction

If it’s true that
God is Love
Then let’s not be offended
There is no need for
Straight Pride Day
Unless I missed the memo
Threatening the death penalty for love and marriage

Is it not the case that the driver for Gay Pride
Is that some are treated differently, judged by their inside
When the rest of humanity can step up and take Pride
In their efforts and achievements, and not what they confide
In their most trusted friends so as to dodge that stereotype?

So why has the parade become the world’s greatest collection
Of the loudest, brashest versions of the most extreme ideas
When almost every gay person I know is almost disappointingly…

My Gay-Proudest moment was when I gave a job
To an LGBT chairman, who stood out from the crowd
Not because of his leaning and not because of pity
But for being the best fit and better-skilled than the rest

The Day on which we can be
Gayest and Proudest
Will be the day when there’s no need
For Gay Pride Day

Gay Pride Day has such a polarising effect on people, and the story told in the media seems to be either one of hatred against homosexuality or passionate love for the parade. I'm all for equality and I'm not convinced that perfectly normal men dressing up in the twinkliest ball gowns does much to help those filled with hate to realise that being gay doesn't have to be A Thing.

I knew it was impossible
To change someone's sexuality
But with you
I tried anyway
Only to discover
How heart-shatteringly
And truly
Really is.

Falling in love is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.
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