Love in the Time of Corona: When RuPaul Put Me in Drag, Part 3

Although I’ve had sex with more women than some of my straight buddies I don’t really consider myself bisexual. Most of those experiences are ancient history by now anyway, except for a couple years ago at Burning Man when I had sex with a fellow Iraq Vet and his wife. It was in a huge circus tent with about 75 other people lounging and loving on hundreds of velvet pillows.  I passed this beautiful couple. She was making her man feel good. They are doing it in this tent so I know they don’t mind someone watching. After a moment she looks up at me, mouth full, but with smiling eyes. “You need some help with that?”  I ask bouncing an eyebrow. “You bet big boy.” (Sometimes I surprise even myself). She passed off her duties on to me and I made that boy feel like he didn’t know he could feel. After it was over we “talked it out” in true Burning Man fashion and I learned that it was his first time to ever do anything with a dude and also didn’t know we were both Iraq Vets until after when we sat in the pillows talking. I must also say for it to have been his first time having sex with a man (and I do believe him) he jumped in with both feet though. He made out with me like a teenager on Saturday night. (Straight guys are often down to fuck around, only no kissing.) His wife even said he was down to “go the distance” and he concurred. I told him I admired his Army fighting spirit but I’d already been scouting around back there (ass cut out of Wranglers, I shit you not) and God didn’t really build my body as a “starter kit.” 

When I mentioned I’d been to Iraq (something about the sand on the Playa, I’m sure) he kinda choked up and said, “Awe man, I knew I connected to you. I’m glad my first time was with a brother.” Then he hugged me tight. And I’ll agree his sweet statement does come with a nuance of incest but at the same time I can tell you that the fraternal bond I share with him by virtue of our sharing a war somehow made what had just happened more beautiful and precious for me and clearly for him too. And that he’d trusted me so deeply with his wife! Before that day it had probably been twenty years since I had sex with a woman. (She said I knew what I was doing so apparently I hadn’t forgotten what my horny twenty-something self had learned.) I think women liked having sex with me because what gets me off most when I’m with a woman is making her moan. I love to make women feel good, in and out of the sack. If you even glance at straight porn it mostly looks like a crime scene to me. The man walks in, sticks his weenie in all the holes, pulls her hair,  wipes said weenie on the drapes and walks out. Anytime I’ve ever helped a woman have an orgasm we’ll just think of it as a tiny piece of restorative justice for all the shitty ways men have treated women. Women ought to feel good. Women deserve to feel good.  I’m not confused that I am much more attracted to the male body sexually but when the pistol’s in that holster you can tell it was built for it and that’s all I’ll say.

Well, not exactly all because I need to talk about her boobs so that can (eventually, we hope) get us back to the bathroom with RuPaul putting on my makeup. The Iraq Vet’s wife’s boobs were large and soft. In the language of waterbeds (that dates me) she would have been more semi-baffled or even closer to full-wave. I loved holding them and kissing them. There’s the sex part but there’s also just so many more amazing things about breasts. I mean there’s something deep in our DNA, our genetic encoding and, if you believe in such, our Spirit that says that we are to go to mother’s breast for nourishment.  The Lakota call Her Unci Maca, grandmother earth. My favorite ancient Hebrew name for G_d is El Shaddai, “The Breasted One.” As the Divine offers Itself to humanity through the embodiment of the planet, since our most basic yearning is to return to Mother’s breast for nourishment,  we do come again and again, our ancestors, us, and (perhaps) our descendants (should we have them), to Mother for nourishment. But now we’ve come to a time where the milk has turned poison. We have poisoned the milk. In the name of industry and greed we have demanded more and more until her body is simply tired. In mythology and legend (and Jungian dream analysis) water is often said to represent emotion. When the surface of the earth could not sufficiently gorge the gullet of our rapacious appetites we pierced her skin and went beneath to find that slow-black substance which, in all its oily goodness, seems to me, (all the ways it has helped us notwithstanding), if there were such a thing, a geological manifestation of dark secrets, crude oil would be it. When there wasn’t enough oil on the land we pierced her in the ocean (remember water representing emotion) we honestly, after all she has provided for us, thought we needed more, stabbed her in the emotion. Em Ocean. M Ocean. Mother’s Ocean. Earth being the corporal manifestation of the Divine in our myth, we have honestly stabbed Her in the place where She loves. I am not a denier of Science in any way. I also do not believe oranges come from apples or that they come from nothing. I have Consciousness and I believe that is because something conscious passed that to me in some way. Within the totality of Consciousness is the Ocean of Love. We are stabbing her in her heart. We are stabbing her in the place from which She loves. Talk about the picture of a sociopathic toddler! And consider the chances for that toddler in a vicious world without Her protection and nourishment. 
This is depressing. Let’s go back to talking about breasts. 

Well it doesn’t have to be depressing. It’s close to too late but not too late if we start right now. 

Now boobs?

Now boobs. 

So clearly women’s breasts have been elevated for me to be more than the sum of their parts and I used to feel guilty because I was always getting busted looking at boobs until I had enough conversations with other gay men and with straight women who confessed to be boob gazers too so I cut myself some slack. As long as I realize they aren’t some disembodied thing but rather are connected to a magnificent and complex human being. And the powerful thing that breasts represent to me, all the powerful things, they are so much more than the physical breast because the women I’ve known who a radical mastectomies still had what I’m talking about and they wore them with pride, prosthetics or not. I hope none of what I’ve said is offensive or restimulating to women who’ve been hurt. If it is, let me know and I’ll fix it. I want to be a good ally to women. I’m willing to risk getting it wrong to get it right. 
Sometimes women have touched my body or put my hands on their bodies in ways that didn’t feel good. It often confused and frightened me at the time. It’s become very fashionable for the attendees of bachelorette parties to descend upon gay bars to get handsy with and make out with gay guys. Whoever you are, you get to decide. Your body, your choice. 

When I was a baby, mother had a small cyst removed from her breast which proved to be benign. The doctor said even so “it probably would probably be best if you stop breast feeding, Judy.” (But why?!) So she did and I guess I drank formula of some sort, it was 1965. I always wonder how that affected me. I know that it affected me. I was exceptionally close to my mom (imagine!) so it didn’t draw us apart. Perhaps my longing to be near her kept me nearer her all along, to the end, and I was holding her when it ended. 
Maybe that abrupt end to my intended source of nourishment as an infant explains why, even though my partner Matthew has about as much milk as will cover two bowls of cereal each week, we still have to buy four gallons of milk per week and stand there in boxers, the fifty-four year old’s replacement for a diaper, and I drink from those gallon jugs basking in the cool light of the open door of the refrigerator and I suckle it like, well, like a babe at the breast. Maybe that’s why I’ve been sucking on things like cigarettes (for years but no more thank God), penises (lots of those), and straws for my entire life to help me feel better. (Straws on the first round, then the gloves come off.)

So I’ve risked taking too much time but in earnest to let you know how I feel about breasts, not just physical breast but of the power of all they symbolize, the ones you see molded in light on the chests of cancer survivors. 

The Lakota believe, as do I, that there are certain people walking the planet this planet who live in a different relationship to gender. Please here me that I am not (necessarily) talking (just) about affect or how someone dresses. These are people, “Winkte,” as they are sometimes called who are able to “sit both houses, the male and the female.” While their ceremonies are ancient, the Lakota aren’t a people stuck in time. We are all evolving hopefully in issues around gender. “Winkte” literally means “wants to be like a woman” which I assure you is not the pan-gendered spiritual identity I’m describing but perhaps it was the best they could do at the time to try to make a space for all. The Native Way is to waste nothing, especially people. When I have witnessed “Two-Spirited” people “sitting in the house” that is not reflective of the gender they were assigned at birth, I have their bodies also transform and the Light Body of the assumed (even if temporary) gender sits superimposed upon the physical body of the person. Gay men and Lesbians who couldn’t pass for straight have helped us throughout the past and often paid a high price for it. Their gift to us was to direct light and attention on a whole tribe of people who were non-heteronormative types. Otherwise we might have tended rather to keep up with our historical habit of secrecy out of fear for our lives. 
Look, it looks like I’m nearing my self-imposed fifteen-hundred word limit on the blog and I realize that I’m stringing you along with the whole RuPaul putting me in drag thing. I also realize like that could look like it was just to keep you coming back like some Saturday afternoon serial Western but I swear I’m not. If I thought that would work, I would do it. I want people to read my blog. I want to learn how to make myself write daily again. I want to finish the story about Ru.

I don’t think too many people read my blog these days. They may again if I got faithful again. Share it with someone you know if you think they’re weird enough to understand it. Or smart enough. Or both. I had built up a pretty big readership when I was consistently (almost daily) putting something up. Hopefully I can get back to it. I’m seeking help. 

So. Boobs.

And spiritual bodies. 

And misunderstood people who wear important mantles.

All that won’t seem so arbitrary and there’s especially one point in the story where everything I talked about today will fit into place.  

I promise the first stroke of the quill tomorrow morning will be to tell you about the next stroke of Ru’s makeup brush on my face so that I can move forward with and, hopefully tomorrow, complete this story I set out to tell. It’s time to move on in so many ways. 

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