A little death now

A little death now:
The numbing cold of winter ends my reverie.
The year ends and I’m
Grateful for what was before,
Yet pine for what could not be.

I came to her

I came to her,

Heart afire,

Soul all redness.

She spoke blueness to me,

And I was at peace.

Breathe

Breathe in the moon and the stars.
Listen to the dark.
Fall night tells me its story.

-- 11/18/2008 0031 Hours, On duty

Alright with Me

It was just another day.
On the job.
Flagged down by another citizen.
Nothing special.

How can I help you, sir?
Are you alright?
And he leans into my car
And he shakes my hand.

A city cop by experience,
I’m still adjusting to this.
But, I make myself smile
And I shake the extended hand.

And then he starts in.
He tells me of his terribly ill
Little boy in Kentucky.
He doesn’t know if he’ll be alright.

He tells me, the stranger in uniform,
That he had to leave his little boy
In the hospital there and come back here
To work so he can pay the bills.

And he smiles and he thanks me.
And I can’t imagine why, but he
Tells me. He says thank you, brother,
For all you do. For our community. For us.

And he tells me of his family members who
Were cops before me. And of his service
To his country, my country.
And I tell him I will pray for him, his family.

And that is all. I drive off. He is just one man.
But he is real to me now. No longer a stranger.
And, even though he is only half right about me,
He is alright with me.

-- 02/26/2008 Clifton, AZ

I’ve never stopped (or a long, slow suicide)

I’ve never stopped
Being disappointed
I am not my father.

I am not my hero.
And I will never be
What he was to me.

I am not larger than
Life. Not invincible. Not
Perfect. Or perfectly noble.

I am not dead
Before my child knows I
Am not perfect.

I will never be anyone’s
Perfect ideal, never
Their light house.

I will never know what
It is like to have my
Beloved child mourn me always.

Never know the grace
Of my daughter’s selective,
Revisionist history of me.

Every flaw, every failure
Is all I can see of the
Me that is not him.

I have written backward on
My forehead in permanent marker:
“Not good enough”.

Everyone else sees a
Mysterious and lovely
Birthmark. But I know.

It is my reminder to myself
That I am not him.
And never will be. Ever.

I could try harder.
Start drinking more and
Never talk about my pain.

I could find some children to leave behind,
Young, hopeless, at the mercy of
A gray world, a broken mother.

Filled with my idealism and
None of my strength or
Knowledge or courage.

No idea how to be what I was.
No idea how not to be what I was.
No idea how to be.

Yah, I could do that.
But it will never be good enough.
Because.

Because to be tragically heroic,
You have to be seen by
Someone not you.

So, here is what I really want.
I want to save one life worth the saving,
Correct one horrible injustice while there is time,
Write one poem that truly moves one soul,
Love well one true and worthy woman,
Inspire one act of mercy and grace,
And do it all in front of one innocent witness.

Then, perhaps, I will forgive myself
For living. For going on
Without him.

-- 04/26/2007

The Arc of a Goddess

She leads her life
As she swims through waves.
As if she is water.

Pouring herself out
In raging torrents, crashing,
Flowing with all the force of natural grace.

As if her attack on life
Is a force of nature.
Impatient. Inexorable. Relentless.

Like gravity.
Like water
Seeking level ground.

All white caps and chaos one instant.
Then a limpid pool,
Reflective as glass.

When I remember her,
I will remember the arc
In the small of her back,

As she kicked into the wave,
In one fluid movement, like a dolphin.
Or a mermaid. Or a goddess of the sea.

No creature was ever lovelier
Or more perfectly,
Naturally at home.

-- For CJ, remembering her diving in La Jolla in early July while flying into PWM 07/30/2006 2020 hours

Drunk

I am drunk
on cheap liquor,
loud music,
wild abandon.

Drunk on the intimacy
of dancing
and talking all night
with this beautiful woman by my side.

I am drunk
on the touch of her fingers,
the light in her eyes,
the music of her laughter.

I am drunk
on this very moment,
as we stand on the pier
looking east over the river.

Our whole world
illuminated
in surreal relief by
the pre-dawn light.

We watch the sleeping ducks,
heads tucked perfectly into wing feathers,
gently rocking to the beat of tiny rippling waves
that lap at the rocks on the shoreline.

Our hands find the rhythm of the waves.
They caress each other.
Gently.
Hungrily.

I dare not
gaze into her eyes
lest I break the spell
of this perfect moment.

“Look at the ducks”, she says.
“Yes, aren’t they perfect?
Like this moment.”
This one perfect, precious moment.
Eternity is as close as the
infinite number of shades of blue
in the very-early-morning sky,
or the constant river, so close we can touch it.

And I say to her,
“This is why I write poetry.
To capture perfect moments,
like this one.”

Rare and fleeting as they are,
when I grasp them,
pour out their essence in ink on paper,
I touch the infinite.

And I know,
at this moment,
I am drunk
on love.

I am in love with this moment,
with these perfect, sleeping ducks,
with the perfect white, infinite light
on the pre-dawn horizon.

And, at this moment,
I am in love with the woman at my side.

I am drunk
and in love
with this perfect moment,
this glimpse of the infinite.

-- For CJ, 06/17/2006 0330 Hours, 5 and Diner Restaurant, Remembering Laughlin…

Dazzle me, baby, dazzle me!

You dazzle me!
Always, you blind me
With your brilliance,
Compel me with your ferocity.

You inspire me
To live my life,
Out loud, boldly
Cutting my own path.

No wilderness too vast,
No challenge too daunting,
I am braver, bolder, better,
Because my path crossed yours.

Drawing your own
Maps with big bold
Multi-colored crayons,
You forge trails.

Living your life with
Drive, adventure,
And more imagination
Than any thousand others.

I blush at my own thoughts
As I smile at your sheer joy,
Your child-like giddiness,
Your absolute clarity of vision.

Your intellect is as distracting,
As tangible, as alluring
As the shimmering lotion on
Your arms, your breasts…

I dream of exploring the
Terrain of your mind,
Climbing your mountains,
Showering in your waterfalls.

-- 02/06/2007, for CJ, after Vegas trip

Everlast

I tape my hands
And my heart beats faster.
Lub-dub, lub-dub.
One-two, one-two.

I tape my knuckles with
Loving care and I think of you.
I see your face, hear your voice.
One-two, one-two.

And I wrap my wrist a little
Too tightly as my fingers
Clench and unclench.
One-two, one-two.

The lies you told me
Over and over
Echo around my skull,
As I yank on the gloves.

And I dance.
Round and round.
Just like I did for you,
And then I strike!

Finally, I strike!

I hit the big bag
Over and over
One-two, One-two,
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight!

Fuck you, fuck you,
You fucking, fuck!
You lying, unfaithful bitch.
One-two, One-two-three-four-five-six!

Everlast, I send you flying.
Sideways, like she fucked me hard
And with fierce fucking blows,
Like she dealt my bleeding heart!

Relentless, I pound you, pound you,
With all my rage, letting it go,
Letting the sweat wash out pain,
Pounding, pounding, like my heart!

ONE-TWO-ONE-TWO-ONE-TWO-ONE-TWO!

One-two, one-two, I feel the pain.
Slowing down now,
One-two, one-two,
Each blow brutally precise.

Still seething,
One-two, one-two,
I aim through the bag,
One-two, one two.

Punch it through,
Punch it through,
One-two,
One-two.

Breathing harder,
One-two.
I fight for my life, my heart
One-two, one-two.

I beat the bag
Over and over,
And I grow strong,
One-two, one-two.

One-two,
One-two,
One-two,
One-two.

-- Jan/Feb 2007

Apple Cap

Apple Cap, that’s what she called it.
Teacher said her brother had one just like it.
No harm she can see in me wearing it in class.

Nope no harm, at all, with me being such a good student and all. I am her favorite, Teacher’s favorite.
Not the best distinction in sixth grade, but I don’t mind.
I want only to be left alone to dream some more.
Apple cap, jumping jacks, thumb tacks.
With a knick-knack paddy-whack, give the dog a bone.

My work done, I am idle again and my mind wanders,
Wishing, I make it so, drifting like a dust mote up and away,
Far from here, now, today.

“Pay attention, class. We will hear more today from Ms. Angelou…”
Effortlessly, I surrender to the rhythm, the cadence, the tone.
With a child’s ease, I conjure the woman through her words.

Sway-backed and swaggering,
She is righteous and reviled,
Snapping her fingers, demanding my attention.

I sit at her feet,
Anticipating with confidence
That I will savor the fruits of her hard experience.

Her difference, not mine.
Yet, her difference, like mine,
Distinguishes but does not define her.

Nostrils flared, chin high,
She is well worn, beautiful and free
In my child’s eye view.

My teacher’s voice, like burnt caramel, is thick and bittersweet.
Her kind eyes sooth my yearning soul.

Proud, serene, to me, she is indistinguishable from the woman in the story.
Both raise me up on their shoulders that I may see beyond today.

I listen hard that I may grow to see the time they seem to dream of for me.
When the dignity and courage of maturity replaces the fear of my youth.
When the sweet song of an old woman replaces the keening of a child.

When the careening search of my young mind is replaced by peace, wisdom.
When my knarled, loving hands sooth another’s brow.
And
I am free.

I listen hard
To their songs of courage
And dignity

I forget my
keening and careening
and I am free.

-- For Mrs. Wright, 6th grade teacher and phenomenal woman

Butch Tales: Then I met Kat.

She was a beacon of loveliness, beckoning to me with a warm, friendly smile. A tall, strong, striking woman in blue jeans, white dress shirt, and a black wool blazer, she seemed just slightly over-dressed to be just another neighbor attending this half-Luaou-half-block-watchy-police-safety-lecture-Sunday-evening shindig at my apartment complex. Confident and composed, she seemed relaxed, yet somehow “on”. My guess: she was there in some official capacity, but this party was not her “show”. Intriguing.

I’d lived in this apartment community a few months, long enough to meet all the staff. So, I knew she didn’t work here. Hmmm… Having been raised by a cop, I felt fairly confident of my built-in police radar. Nope. Definitely, not a cop. So that ruled out the idea that she was the officer scheduled to speak this evening. OK, so I was more than intrigued. Beguiled is more like it.

My feet had followed my heart over to her vicinity. Something told me she would talk to me. Maybe it was because her eyes had lingered too, for just a moment when I had caught her gaze from across the courtyard. I was pondering what to say, and remembering why I didn’t ever do these things, when she spoke first.

“Those kids must be crazy to be swimming in that water.” A soft, deep, throaty laugh perfectly complemented her delicious voice of caramel tones and coffee notes.

Oh goodie. She’s really talking to me. Uh oh. Don’t panic. Think, think, think…

“Isn’t the pool heated?” I asked, grateful that an appropriate response occurred to me before too much time passed. I’ve never been very good at the whole talking to strangers thing. Apparently, my whole plan had been just to go stand near her. Proximity seemed important, but that was about all I had.

“No”, she said, “The water must be freezing. Of course, at that age, I wouldn’t have cared either. Any excuse to go swimming…”

“Me, too…” And so it was that before long we were telling tales of long summer afternoons, of the eternity of the thirty-minute wait after lunch, of the incredible lung capacity and other superpowers of the eight-year-old. Minutes before, we had been strangers, but in those few minutes, holding up the same clubhouse pole from opposite sides, watching the kids swim, we talked like new/old friends, like grown-up teenagers, like fellow travelers delighted to find each other once more after long, solitary, separate journeys.

Before long, I remembered again that we had just met.

“Oh, I am sorry. Where are my manners? My name is Sandy Shotwell. I have the corner apartment just down that path behind us,” I said as I extended my hand to shake hers, in a gesture at once so formal and so intimate that it seemed overmuch yet just right.

Lucky for me, she found this charming—I would later learn that this simple gesture placed a large checkmark in the “raised right” column, a counter-balance to the big question mark raised by my attire, which might best be classified as “Sunday afternoon grunge”, including boots, jeans, wallet chain and big comfy plaid shirt—and she took my hand and introduced herself.

Was she? Could she be? Yes, surely she was. The firm hand shake, the no-nonsense style, the twinkling in her eyes when they met mine again…but I was not really sure. I only knew that I wanted this moment to go on and on. I was enchanted. Yep, a definite goner.

“Hey Kat, where’s that gorgeous husband of yours?” The bouncy, little guy who had leased me my apartment, bounded up and into our conversation.

What? Huh? Husband? Had I heard right? Fortunately, their chat gave me a few moments to think.

A husband. OK, so that’s my answer. She’s a straight woman, a very attractive, charming, don’t-tell-me-she’s-not-flirting-back, straight woman…No, no, that can’t be right. There’s something more here. I just know there is…but a husband? I don’t need that kind of complication in my life, not now, not when I am just barely ready to try again. That’s it. I’m giving this ten more minutes. Then, I’m out of here.

Little did I know, that those ten minutes would be the best investment of my life, that I would relive and retell the story of this night over and over. After all it is “how we met”. It is how I met the love of my life. Nope. I couldn’t have known what would happen next. I was lost in thought, stroking my chin and carefully considering my boots, when she startled me back into full consciousness.

“A few of us are going to go to Roscoe’s for happy hour. Would you like to come?” she asked. An invitation. To a bar. A gay bar.

“Uh, that sounds like fun, but I’ve got to get up early for work in the morning…”, I stalled. But I wanted to go and before I knew it, bouncy Matt, the intruder, was giving me directions and I was agreeing to meet up with them in an hour.

I would take my own truck, a small measure of control, a reminder that I was a confident grown-up and not really a gangly, awkward teen. Not that you could tell from my nervous pacing back in my apartment. When I finally stood still, it was only to confront my closet. Demanding that it produce something appropriate for the occasion, I stared accusingly at my formerly entirely adequate wardrobe.

Then, of course, there was still the much more important question of whether this whole thing was at all a very good idea. My misgivings about my wardrobe were trivial by comparison to the safety concerns about meeting strangers in a strange bar, concerns raised by the ghost of my long-dead cop dad, who sat on my shoulder as I got ready to go out.

As always, I consulted with him about the important things in my life. She did seem nice didn’t she? Would you like her, Dad? Of course, you would. She had an honest face, a firm handshake, and a steady gaze. All marks of a good and decent sort, eh? Yes, I would take it slowly, carefully. Thanks, Dad. Love you too. Did you ever feel this way? Was it like this when you met Mom?

My cats were no help. Heedless of the fact that my world had shifted on its axis, Ben and George continuously rubbed against my boots until I fed them. Hypnotically, I served up ridiculously expensive kitty food and then petted Ben, my half-feral 23-pound purr box of an alpha cat. I told him how incredibly stupid his human was. How could I have skipped the whole shopping for new clothes step of the dating cycle? OK, so it had been a few years since I last dated and I never was any good at it. But really. How could I have picked up a woman at a party and agreed to meet her later at a bar. On a “school night”, no less. That kind of daring was simply not me.

Skritching behind George’s ears, I thought what a snuggly snow kitty my omega kitty was and how spending the evening with this peace-loving critter would be just lovely, when I noticed the clock on the wall above my kitchen window. Yowza! Only forty minutes to go, and I thought I had at least a ten-minute drive. OK. Time to get serious.

I had less than thirty minutes, if I wanted to get there early enough to get a safe parking spot and not keep Kat waiting. Jarred back to the task at hand, I hurried through a shower and quickly found some acceptable clothes: definitely nicer than I wore to the party, but not on the “trying too hard” side of the pendulum. Somewhere between combing back my jelled hair and polishing my boots, I caught site of myself in the steamed up bathroom mirror and I almost laughed out loud. How foolish I felt: all butterflies and shaking hands. Yet, I was no eighteen-year-old pup. Lately, I could see my father’s face when I looked in the mirror. I paused to consider the crows feet that time had recently begun to etch in my weathered face, the small funny gray spot on the back of my head, the eyes that looked back at me with a mixture of tender hope and terror, with the knowledge of too much heartbreak…but not today. Today, I would turn off the bathroom sink after Ben finished his after-dinner drink and scoot out the door. I had done well. I still had 20 minutes.

I lamented that I had not recently washed my little purple truck as I drove the few minutes it took to get to the neighborhood gay bar. A “neighborhood gay bar”. Cool. Yes, it was a good decision to move to central Phoenix. I was doing all right. Wasn’t I?

After circling the place three times, I had to concede that the only decent parking spot was near the back door. So, I parked there. I had arrived with ten minutes to spare. Screwing my courage to the sticking point, I stalled for only about two or three minutes, as I checked and double-checked that my truck was all locked up. Then I strode right on in, just as bold as you please.

OK, maybe not so bold. As I navigated my way through the loud, smoke-filled corridor, swimming upstream in a river of sweaty young men that filled even this back hallway, I wondered once more whether I was mistaking stupidity for courage. I had been to many a gay bar, including more than a few men’s bars. Why was I so nervous? After all a crowded place is just the thing for a first meeting of a woman you have just met this afternoon. Perfectly normal. Happens all the time. Right.

Elbowing my way to the bar, I opted for a soda water, just in case. While, I waited, I began looking around at the others at the bar. The eyes boring into me from behind turned out to be owned by one of the guys, in whose face I glimpsed an all-too-familiar expression—a mixture of embarrassment, disappointment, and annoyance at his error—before he casually turned aside in hopes of more promising cruising in another direction. Poor guy, natural mistake from behind really. I should probably take it as a compliment, but mostly I was embarrassed for him.

So, now that my eyes had fully adjusted, I turned my back to the bar and oriented myself to my surroundings. The bar was really just a typical low-rent sports bar, but somehow the place just reeked of nautical camp, even while televisions in each corner broadcasted sports, sports, and more sports. At first, I assumed that the televisions were muted, but gradually, I realized that the roar of the crowd simply absorbed the blaring from each set. Once my ears adjusted, the white noise all blended together into what seemed a friendly din.

In the sea of men, I glimpsed the faces of a few women, but none I knew. Not that I knew the woman I was seeking.

I had come in on the East side, just about in the middle of the bar. The narrow strip of the North end of the club was dominated by the bar behind me on the East side, while the West side was filled with far too many tables and chairs, containing fashionably loud and flaming young men, who occasionally looked up and sometimes even shouted in the direction of one of the games they were ostensibly there to see. Further south, the tables gave way to small booths along the West wall, crowding the players at two pool tables. Further still were the dart games along the south wall.

Still, no Kat.

Finally, as I peeked around an outcropping from the East wall, I saw the booths with tall stools huddled together in a cubby that was almost entirely paneled in mirrors. There, at the corner table, I glimpsed one of the Matts waving madly at me. Relieved, and more nervous than ever, I started toward the table they had been saving, wondering vaguely how long they had been there.

As I approached the table, my eyes met hers again, and I stood stock still gazing at her for what seemed a long silent moment. Her eyes. They were the softest brown, with flecks of green and gold. Dazzling.

Remembering my manners for the second time that day, I waved in greeting at each of the vaguely familiar faces. Then, I extended my hand to the owner of the second pair of eyes to bore into my head that night.

“Sandy”, I yelled.

“I know”, she shouted back. “Lee.”

“This is my little sister”, Kat helped me out.

Sister. Hmmm. “Doesn’t seem so little to me”, I thought. I should have been more than a bit daunted to meet her family on our first outing, but I instantly liked Lee. She had the fierce gaze of one with a keen mind and a loyal heart. I would be tested by her, and suddenly I feared I might not pass, but I would willingly walk through whatever gauntlet lay ahead. We should all have such sisters, and such friends.

Taking the only open stool, the one on my side of Kat, I noted that her glass was a bit less than half full. Nervously, I leaned close enough to ask if she would like another drink. My knee was no closer than six inches away, yet I was keenly aware when it approached hers, and exquisitely aware of the softest peach fuzz that graced her jaw just next to her ear. Feeling flushed and transparent, I was relieved when she accepted and I had the excuse to flag down the waiter. Waiting for drinks, we talked a bit more, but mostly we shouted at the people around us. Thus I learned that Lee was visiting, but considering a move here. I learned too that Roscoe’s was a place the Matt’s had picked. I got the idea they came here frequently and knew everyone.

After the drinks arrived, Kat and I gradually used the excuse of the din about us to talk more and more just to each other. It was so effortless that somehow we seemed to be cheating. Every now and again, one of us would remember the others and a bit grudgingly, we’d poke our heads up to shout some more. Each time, it seemed that Lee was more and more anxious. She had to go and she was not about to use the restrooms at Roscoe’s. I could not blame her. Each time, though, Kat put her off a bit longer, and each time, as Kat and I spoke more in what certainly must have appeared conspiratorial tones, I was more exquisitely aware of our physical closeness, my knee between hers, her lips close to my ear. I was grateful, for the semi-privacy that this form of communication afforded. Yet I could not help but be privately embarrassed by my realization that I was bordering on pheromone intoxication. I had not felt like this for a long time. No, I had never felt exactly like this.

Thus, I was both exquisitely pained and relieved by our parting, when finally, Lee could take no more. In the parking lot, I dared no more than to hold one of Kat’s hands in mine for a long, sweet moment. Then, I promised to call.

Later, as I lay in bed late into the night, whispering to Ben and George of my grand adventure, my head spinning, I thought back on how brief and yet how filled with portent the evening had seemed to me.

I reflected on all that I learned on what would soon become “the night we met”. That night I learned that both of my suspicions were true: she was gay and she did have a husband. She was just coming out, and I was a first of a sort. I learned that her sister is a fiercely loyal, brilliant woman, who just happens to be the only woman I have ever met who can hold a candle to Kat. I learned too that the bouncy young man, and his buddy who also worked for Kat, were dear, sweet, misguided ambassadors, who were trying their best to help her navigate this queer new world, but who were more lost than she in the land of Lesbos.

New truths were revealed to me as the tender buds of early spring. I was amazed to learn that she too feared, but could not ignore, the siren song of the possibility of us. That night we spoke with naked honesty of our hopes and fears, we created our “no harm” compact, and we glimpsed just for a moment what might be. I began then to learn the extraordinary lesson that doing things differently, going our own way, was as simple as deciding what we valued and holding on tight to those values as the precious treasures that they were. And that was the night I learned that it is possible for my hand to tingle for hours with the memory of her touch. That night, I began to appreciate the simple truth that I must, that I would, see her again.

Flying

I lay my head down
In the sweet clover
Panting and grinning,
Limbs stretched out, open.

In supplication
To the blue sky, the summer day.

My head is spinning.
I am dizzy
From the motion of the earth,
The rush of memory.

I close my eyes and see the sun
Shining red through my eyelids.
And I feel the caress
Of jasmine-scented breezes.

I close my eyes and float upward,
The keen sharpness of memory
Cutting clean through
The tethers of the now.

No longer burdened
By grief, regret,
The certainty
Of what I can not do.

I am young and strong,
And so light I float to the heavens.

I am eight years old again,
Brave and free.
Strong like my father
And sure as sure can be.

I can accomplish anything I set my mind to.
Because my father says so.

And as the gravity
Of the real world
Pulls me down, the earth
Is scented with my father’s sweat.

And I am a child again.
All light and hope and laughter.
Sure. Because I know not
What I can not do.

Butch Tales: The Woman In The Hall

So lost was I in my own thoughts that I might never have noticed her, except that, at that moment, we were entirely alone.

I walked with my usual purposeful, long stride, perhaps a bit more swiftly and distractedly than usual, down the now-familiar wide, sterile hallway of one of the many buildings that comprised the sprawling corporate campus that hosted my evening class. At the gloaming of this winter day, the hall was mostly empty. Having arrived a bit early to prepare for my test, I could hear my thoughts as clearly as the echo of my footsteps. The office workers had mostly gone home and students had only started to trickle in. Rounding the corner, still processing my workday while striving to focus my mind on the midterm for my class that would begin in twenty short minutes, I was on a mission to find sufficient coffee and sugar to make it through the rest of my long day, when perchance I looked up directly into her startled eyes.

I hadn’t noticed her before. But she had noticed me.

She wore a look of controlled panic: darting eyes, slightly flared nostrils, ready stance. This was a woman clearly concerned for her safety and not sure if she should be angry or embarrassed about it, but clearly focused on her primary task: getting to safety.

I recognized the look. Any woman whose heart has ever raced to match the pace of the eerie staccato of heels clicking on pavement behind her as she walked alone after dark, any woman who has ever quickly assessed how many steps (or how loud a scream) she is from the safety of a crowd, any woman knows.

I slowed my pace, smiled slightly, looked away first. Reflexively, I turned more obviously to profile to allow her to see that it is OK, to allow her to see that I have, well, breasts.

Did it do the trick? Hard to say, really. You see, the next moment a man – did she know him? – rounded the corner and I heard steps coming down another hall and, suddenly, she was not alone. And it was alright. The moment had passed.

That night I dreamt of awakening alone in a dark strange room.

I could not, at first, remember where I was. I did know that I was there to visit my mother, who was – oh yes, that’s right – in a mental hospital. With this remembrance, my nerves grow more alert and I strain to pull my sluggish, sleepy brain to consciousness. I see that the only light comes from the hall outside the door in front of the other bed.

A mother-shaped person enters the room, fails to notice me, and sits wearily at the dressing table. I catch the scent of Jean Nate and fabric softener on the smallest breeze that wafts in the door with her quiet movement. I am home. Yet, though I can’t tell what it is, I sense that something is terribly wrong. Then I see, but I do not understand.

In the flash of momentary light, when she turns on the dressing table lamp, I peer at the mirror and what stares back at me, unbelievably but unmistakably, are the eyes of a man. Startled, she/he turns off the light in an instinctual self-protective move, just as a lizard retreats from the porch light. I feel my heart beating faster, but I cannot make my legs move toward this mother-man, who may as well have been a wall between the door and me. I am paralyzed. Finally I manage to reach for the bedside lamp. But the light won’t turn on. Panic. Fear. Must have light. It is all that matters.

He/she comes toward me slowly, hands raised, perhaps to show me no harm, perhaps to shield his/her face. Kneeling to check the lamp plug, this person who looks like man, but smells of mother – this person is just too close to me. Blood pounding in my ears, I hear muffled voices down the hall. I make my decision. Still not sure my legs will even work, I decide I must try. I must leap suddenly and in one movement get to light, to people, to safety. Only then can I assess the situation rationally and decide what, if anything, to do next. Nothing else matters. Only getting to safety.

And I wake up.

And I know what happened to that woman in the hall. She had been in the restroom when I entered a few minutes prior. She heard the click of my shoes – men’s dress shoes, black cap-toe oxfords – on tile. Saw those same shoes appear in the stall next to her. The only other stall. The one nearest the door. In a bathroom down a hallway, in the evening. With all the calm and dignity she could muster, she had washed her hands quickly, exited quietly, and hurried back toward her desk. Only to hear those clicking heels behind her again, bearing down on her.

Making it at last to “the light”, the relative safety of the threshold of her office space, she turned to face her “pursuer”. Searching my masculine face, unable to reconcile it with anyone who should be in the women’s room, she hesitated to show even the smallest portion of her worst fear, but smelled of it just the same. Even now, I can feel her quiet panic, her need for light, for people, for safety. It is not rational. It is lizard-brain response. Pure amygdala. But it is real. It is all that matters.

This fear is like a primitive beast. It bears no malice, but it shows no compassion, has no empathy. It is pure instinct. It can be cold and even dangerous, but it has helped countless women live to fight (or flee) another day. I bear it no grudge, wish it no harm. I only wish to show it, from a safe distance, that I am safe and will not approach.

I know what happened. I know it on the same primal level that every woman knows.

Butch Tales: May I Help You, Sir?

“May I help you, sir?” asks the clerk politely.

Wearing a nametag that reads “Tori” pinned to the label of her red blazer, she is waiting eagerly to serve me. She is the third such young woman to ask me this question since I started browsing in Macy’s ten minutes prior. Tori wears her long raven hair up in a way that makes her look sophisticated despite her age. I have seen women effect this ‘do’ a thousand times before, their educated fingers working unconsciously to gather up the wildest tendrils into an elegant style in one sweeping, feminine motion.

Once again a tumult of conflicting emotions swells within me. I’d dismissed the other two helpful young women with a quick “No thanks”, but this time I do need help. Assessing the situation quickly, I opt to allow Tori to remain ignorant and to take advantage of the service afforded me by her assumption.
”Chanel 5”, I mutter as I continue to stoop down to peer into the bottom of the glass encasement that is the perfume counter. “I’m a bit lost, really”, I confess as I look up to see her standing before me, her full attention focused on me. “You see”, I continue, “my girlfriend…she loves Chanel 5, but she already has the perfume and I think she has one of those travel perfume things for her purse…I know there is some other Chanel stuff, but I don’t know what it is…I guess I was hoping you could tell me what you would like if you were her…”

I still haven’t figured out what ‘perfume accessories’ are, so I am actually relieved and grateful when the young woman starts to pull items out of the case before I can even finish my confession. She opens boxes and sprays samples and explains the mysteries of the world of Chanel to me.

When I leave ten minutes later, I have spent about $70 dollars, I have some powder and lotion in white boxes and I am headed for the gift wrapping department following Tori’s directions. I am convinced Kat will love my choices. She will think I am the most thoughtful suitor she could hope for, I am certain of it, so well has this young woman performed her duties. I will be back, I think to myself – and then I remind myself.

I remember that not two weeks ago, Kat and I had been strolling in the courtyard and stopped into Macy’s. Kat had found easily the Clinique eyeliner she was looking for in some specific shade that was out of stock last time or something like that. She required no help from anyone except to take her money, but when she was ready to make her purchase, she was kept waiting for no reason I could decipher, and then for some reason known only to the clerk, she’d had to walk to yet another counter to make her purchase. By the time we left, I was thoroughly dusted by the many odors of the perfume department and visibly aggravated by the unhelpful clerk. Kat was confused – or perhaps bemused – by my aggravation. This was always how it was. Macy’s has good service compared to most department stores, she’d said, that’s why she pays these prices.

I know perfectly well why I had just received such stellar service. I am wearing a blazer, so I may look a bit more formal and moneyed than usual, but there is nothing else special about me. I display no signs of wealth or prestige. I don’t know the owner, nor do I regularly spend large amounts of cash here. Nothing would warrant the undivided attention this young woman had just lavished upon me, while other customers – all obviously female – waited. Nothing except that she saw what she wanted to see: a romantic, clean-cut man buying a gift for his sweetie, a gift she would love for a man to be thoughtful enough to buy for her.

I know she did not realize her error even when she processed my debit card. She’d said “Thank you for shopping at Macy’s” when she handed me the bag filled with my purchases just as brightly as when she first greeted me.

Was she even aware of her prejudice? Did she realize she had given me preferential treatment because of my apparent masculinity? Had I taken advantage? I had not sniffed her wrist when she tried to model the fragrance for me.

There are lines I do not cross. Ignorance is not consent. It is my own brand of chivalry, a custom blend, from the grist of my own mill: part respect bordering on reverence, part knowing all too well what it is to be confused by feelings of attraction. I live in the borderland where masculine is not necessarily male. It is the only home with space enough for me to spread out, put my boots up on the table, and relax. But to most, my home is unfamiliar territory. It is easy to assume, natural to fill in the blanks, to fit me to the maps that are known. So, I take special care not to make my truth into her lie.

Taking care for me means asking myself many questions. I plot my course with care, revising hand drawn maps to mark hazards. Unlike her, I was given no map to my own territory, yet I am not entirely at home in hers. So, as ever, I am alert and vigilant, a reluctant explorer, ever conscious of the dangers inherent in traveling the uncharted path.

Was it wrong for me to take advantage of a prejudice she had been steeped in her whole life, one that seldom worked to her advantage? Should I have corrected her error and dealt with her embarrassment? Should I have made my gender more obvious and actually invited and accepted poorer service than I deserved? Why should I? Why should any woman put up with that? Why should any man expect preferential, even deferential, service?

I hand my bag over to the matronly gift wrapper. Her name tag reads “Marion”, but I would never dream of calling her anything but “ma’am”. She calls me “young man” in a gentle tone that tells me all I’ll ever need to know about how much she adores her grandson. She oohs and clucks over the romantic gift and wouldn’t she love for her Jack to buy her this for Christmas. Poor Jack, I think. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. She wouldn’t dream of asking for anything so frivolous. When I compliment her anniversary ring, she smiles and her violet eyes twinkle and flash with the love of generations. She tells me about her five grandchildren as her capable, experienced hands make magic out of paper, ribbons, and bows. How beautiful she has made my gift with her loving care. How beautiful she is. How beautiful women are, all of us.

One of Many

I am the cop on the street.
Your street.
Going after the bad guys.
In the house next door.

I am the blood in my veins,
The rain running down my nose,
The voice on the radio.

One of many.

On the perimeter
Poised to strike
To neutralize any threat.

I am the bringer of justice,
The vessel and the sword.

One of many.

Drawing a thin line around evil.
Keeping you safe to sleep
For another night.