Missing, not missed.

white framed glass window



I just ate a hot, Italian sausage, 10 tiny potatoes, a cup of frozen brussel sprouts and a shit ton of fake, 25% less salt, brown gravy. I am not going to lie – it was fucking delicious. I was going to have some bread under the sausage to soak up the gravy, however I decided against it because of the carbs. The gravy was a great idea though.


I attended a wedding this weekend. I was super honoured to go, as I had not seen my friend (one of the brides) but once in three years. We used to be tight – like every weekend Dexter watching marathons tight. There were five of us on each of those nights. Five queers (two couples and me) crammed into a living room, super excited to watch Dexter’s latest moral kill, debriefing about it afterwards. My friend, the betrothed, always kept us sugar-filled with cakes and cookies she was testing recipes for. We ate a lot. I was happy. Happy with the sugar and companionship.

Betrothed and her girlfriend at the time broke up. The other couple also parted ways. There were harsh words and side taking. Betrothed was my only ally after the battle.

My heart hurt. There was so much that I missed about the sugar and companionship. There were misunderstandings and so many tears shed. I was broken.

But I let it go.

Without consideration.

Fast forward 8 years.

Marriage, breakups, and wrinkles.

There is only one other person at the wedding that I know. A remnant of a life I once knew. A one-nighter that intrigued me. She welcomed me with a smile and asked how things were.

‘The same.’

‘Me too.’

It is an awkward tension that only two beings that have seen and tasted parts of our bodies that not many have. I was happy to see her though. I had someone to sit with. I felt a bit of excitement, the kind that made me want to ferociously make out with someone other than my ex who I hate saying that I am not over.

I wondered though, at that exact moment, why I was so sad. Why I couldn’t say much. I was surrounded by love, but empty.


To be honest, I don’t know. I have thought about it over and over. I have mulled, contemplated, and mourned my happiness, my sense of belonging, my connection.

Where did it all go?

I have heard (don’t ask me where), that when one door closes, another one opens. My new door must be broken. I feel like a shell of myself, and it has taken me years and years of therapy, hospitalizations, food eating, and food avoiding to figure out where I went. This time at this wedding was an exact manifestation of where I was before – something – and where I am now.

I was a spectator of my life and what it could have been. Kind of like that Christmas movie that is really old and have never watched, where that guy sees what life would be like without him in it. This was what life was without me.

And I hate it.

I miss being a part of something. I miss connections. I miss having places to go. I hate that I can count my friends on one hand. I used to have another hand of friends. I love the friends I have.. I really do, but I feel like I have lost my happy. That time, that time with my friends, my family, is lost.

And I really don’t know why.

That’s a lie. I do know why.

As much as I want to blame everyone for my losses, I really have no one to blame but myself. And my crazy. But, really, the rest is me.

One can only use crazy as an excuse for so long. At some point you have to take accountability for yourself and your actions.

I didn’t have to listen to what others think, and what others wanted me to do.

I knew better.

I didn’t trust my gut.

This eternal search for my happy – the happy I knew, is still a search – but maybe not so eternal.

The only option I have is to rebuild, and I accept this challenge with courage and authenticity.



Missing, not missed.

I have to write it…

All of this pent up rage.. desire

Fucking raw energy

That has been building up forever

You want to just


Be everything you are

Sexual demon

Kind as fuck


Full of love


…. and so fucking queer


And because of that one moment

that thing

that person

that has allowed you to just be…

I have to write it…

Dykes Do It Better! Apparently went it comes to orgasms we know what to do…

So I was reading this article. Tell me something I didn’t know already. Of course, as this article points out, there are many scientific and sociological reasons for this:

1. We know our own bodies, therefore odds are we know what other women want.

2. Longer foreplay.

For me, in order to actually let go of all sense of self is the only way I can actually orgasm. This is difficult for me. As a counsellor once recognized about me, I have no less than one million things going on in my head at any given time. This is an annoying trait in intimate moments. There is nothing more frustrating than thinking about your grocery list when a girl is doing her best to get you off, especially when you are doing everything in your power to turn off the grocery brain.

There have only been two individuals in my life that have actually triumphed in the art of giving Dallas an orgasm. They were both women. I was in love with them both. I have not had a long list of sexual triumphs with either men, women, or gender non-conforming folks, but i have had enough to know that only two people is a small number.

The point I am trying to get at in regards to this article is that I believe that lesbians have more orgasms because quite simply, as women, it is hard for us to let go, and we know this. We all have a million things running in our heads. When we engage in intimacy we know this. We take the time to allow our partner to let go. We appreciate the struggle, and the process. We love the time it takes. We get it. We love.

Dykes Do It Better! Apparently went it comes to orgasms we know what to do…