"The delightful and dreary sides of gay life. The views and experiences of a thirty something guy trying to navigate his way through life. Sometimes funny, sometimes serious, but always entertaining."
Punch me in the gut and call me Gucci! I have got the male PMS and it just isn’t funny. Now, I know what many of you will say. Male PMS? Come on you must be kidding me? Well, I kid you not, it’s true and it does exist. Recent research discovered that many men do suffer from a condition similar to PMS which they have dubbed Irritable Male Syndrome (IMS) and it is linked to the drop in the male hormone testosterone. The same as women, men have hormone cycles too. But unlike women who once a month have a crime scene in their pants, men’s IMS can manifest at any time and without any warning. Just falling short of being on my period (which I am sure I will have if it lasts any longer) I have been suffering from IMS for the past three hellish days. If you have not had it before, here is what you can expect when you do.
Now, normally I am a tad of a bitch. I just can’t help, it is programmed into be genes. But roughly around mid morning on Monday I noticed a distinct change in my normally sunny but with scattered thundershowers disposition. For no apparent reason I found myself in a foul mood: I was irritable, hypersensitive and slightly anxious. At first I thought it was due to the fact that I only got to bed at 1am that morning as we were out celebrating the victory of our friends who had just won an international competition. But, not really having drunk all that much the night before I could not blame my dismal mood on a hangover which could easily have been fixed with a Bloody Mary. I was feeling like crap, slightly bloated and as emotional as a nun who just lost her virginity. What made it worse is that I didn’t know why.
A few emotional outbursts and going from happy to crazy in 6.5 seconds, the rest of Monday was pretty much a total waste. The whole of Monday night and the early hours of Tuesday morning I was tossing and turning and only got about 2 hours worth of solid sleep. Needless to say when I eventually got out of bed to go to work, I absolutely hated everything. I hated all the clothes in my wardrobe and was ready to take a pair of scissors and/or canister of gasoline and torch the lot. Or at least that’s what crossed my mind and what I pictured in my head. But I managed to stop the crazy train just long enough to get dressed in something cheerful in the hope that the calming and happy pastel colours of my outfit would magically and positively transform my state of mind. But it didn’t.
Some people get road rage, but when suffering from IMS I get road emotional. Ordinary I will be the first to admit that I am an aggressive driver. After all in South Africa you have to be. Not only do you have to be vigilant for bad drivers you also have to avoid getting hijacked or smash-and-grabbed, dodge pedestrians and taxis on the fucking highway and tolerate being harassed by beggars at traffic lights. Under normal circumstances I am really good at doing all of that, but not on Tuesday. Tuesday I found myself to be one of those annoying people with a social conscious. I actually felt genuinely sorry for all those people who I never pay any attention to begging next to the road. Consequently my drive to work was like a bad Hallmark movie as narrated by Oprah Winfrey – a real tear jerker. It was then that I realized something was terribly wrong with me. I mean honestly, I never cry, I don’t even think I have working tear ducts left anymore. But the best was yet to come.
The whole day on Tuesday I felt lethargic, depressed and still reeling from the morning’s unexpected emotional trauma. I pushed through the day and with great effort I tried my utmost not to bite anybody’s head off. Later that evening while hubby was in the shower a KFC add came on to television depicting an old couple who relive their years together just by smelling fried chicken. I balled my eyes out and after that was done I was freaking starving. Starving for fried fucking chicken and a happy fairytale ending - not quite the thought pattern and/or behavioural process I normally have. So came Wednesday I knew I must be suffering from something like PMS. Either that or I was pregnant!
So I did what I usually do, I consulted Google and lo and behold I discovered I was suffering from IMS. “Fucking great!” I thought “Just what I need right now in my life! But at least it’s not menopause, I am way too young for a midlife crisis. Too young and in no way rich enough!” So I knew what was causing my mood swings and also learned that it would only last a few days. I just had to ride it out for a little while longer with as few casualties as humanly possible.
The biggest breakdown I had was on Wednesday during the apex of my IMS and it was with an unsuspecting telemarketer. I answered my phone and once I realized it was a telemarketer I said in my version of a straight accent and in my outside voice “If you are selling something I am not interested!” to which the guy insistently responded “But Mr Pierrie le Rocks, you don’t even know what I am offering you”. I loathe it when people pronounce my name and surname wrong and that guy unwittingly double crossed the line. I completely lost it! The profanities that left my mouth even surprised me and half way through screaming at him in a high pitched voice like a psychotic raving bitch, I realized that the guy had hung up on me. As I stood there staring at my phone in my hand, realizing what I had just done, I was praying for my IMS to just go away. So I went to the fridge, grabbed a large jar of pickles, got some peanut butter, sat flat on the kitchen floor and felt sorry for myself for a good hour.
I have IMS and it sucks worse than a geriatric blow job. Having gone through the last couple of days being all hormonal and shit I have a new found respect for all the women out there. I do not know how you gals do this each and every bloody month and after all this, I now know that I just would not have coped. Looking back at the last week I realized that my unexpected rendezvous with IMS may have been brought on due to a lack of sleep, the change in my diet and/or underlying stress. I guess my testosterone cycle is as a pedantic bitch as I am; a bitch’s whose routine is best kept and not messed with.
Apparently there is a Catholic woman from Massachusetts (USA) who is so utterly “disgusted” by gay people that she refuses to leave the house. The poor woman’s name is Stacy Trasancos and she has a Blog called “Accepting Abundance” (quite ironic blog title don’t you think?). This mother of seven (did I mention she’s Catholic) who clearly should be intelligent as she use to work as a research chemist, noticeably is in need of a big fat gay reality check. A reality check that I am more than willing to provide. So Mrs Disgusted, pay attention this will change your life!
In one blog post titled “Can’t even go to the park” Mrs Disgusted ranted about the queers. Or as I believe she wants to call us – those darn sodomites. Apparently two men “unnaturally close to each other effeminately rubbing elbows” at a pool or two women “rubbing each other’s backs” in a park freaks her out. Clearly her religious and small minded constitution just is not build to observe affection of any kind - after all she is Catholic and loves and obeys the Pope.
I can just imagine seeing her lounging next to the pool watching the two gay guys like a hawk; patiently waiting with bated onion smelling breath for them to do something depraved. Then it happens. As their elbows touch she gasps for air with religious horror, swoops up from her Jesus Christ crucifixion towel and like a duck that lost her ducklings she franticly runs around gathering her brood, all the while reciting Hail Mary’s. Then as she leaves (in disgust I should add) she gives the queers that telling religious “you are destined for eternal damnation” evil eye. But with the lesbian missy bible basher and self professed agoraphobia suffering homophobe behaves somewhat more cautiously.
Everyone knows never to interfere with a lesbian while giving or receiving a massage. Clearly Mrs Prissy did actually get this flyer from Queer HQ on the windscreen of her station wagon with the “Jesus Loves You, but not if you are gay” sticker on it. As such shameful Stacy only observed the lesbians with revulsion. She probably thought to herself “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, those darn sodomites! Now how the fudge balls am I going to explain that to my innocent children? The debauchery!” Poor woman! Life must be terribly hard, frightening, frustrating and confusing for her.
Sad Stacy claims to be so sensitized to the strangeness in her community that she has developed an ever present jumpiness when out in public. She lives in a constant state of fear as she never knows what tarnation she will face once she leaves her front door. No wonder she’s housebound. She seems to be the only pure soul in Massachusetts and all the rest (who naturally outnumber her) are immoral sodomites headed straight for hell. Well, scared Stacy you are on the right track but let me set the record straight and lay the facts bare for you.
Stacy, I will not lie to you. You are justifiably terrified. You see, 90% of the people you come across in public and think are gay are in fact Queers! The other 10% are on our To Do List and we will still get to them! Oh, and just to let you know - you are on that list too! As for your children, I do pity them for having to grow up in your house with your moral influence. You are going to make it so very hard for us to recruit and reprogram them at our reconditioning camps.
We have found that recruits coming from strict dogmatic backgrounds, once cracked, make for fabulous flaming faggots. Converting them just takes a teeny tiny bit longer. This is mostly due to the fact that at first they resist our techniques. But our camp trainers are a tenacious bunch and once they make a breakthrough we have found that the new recruits flourish and wind up trying to make up for lost time. Usually they end up being the highly sought after superstars on our gay orgy and porn circuits, something I suspect you will excel at once we have reprogrammed you too. But this is not the only thing you need to worry about there are so much more licentiousness heading your way.
Have you ever heard of the gay agenda? Well it exists and is alive and well! It is our life mission to destroy the aberration that is heterosexuality. After all it is not natural for a man and a woman to engage in carnal knowledge. How can that be natural if their genitals aren’t even the same? State by state, country by country we are also systematically and purposefully destroying the sanctity of marriage with Gay Marriage. We rub our matrimony and children in all our neighbours’ faces and with fairy dust and feather boas we scream from our perfectly decorated porches “Look at us world! We are fabulous and we are doing this marriage thing so much better than you!” thereby shaming all our straight neighbours right into divorce court.
As if that isn’t enough we fought hard and long to get Don’t Ask Don’t Tell repealed. Now that we have succeeded, we will have a plethora of weapons, fighter jets, submarines, tanks and fighter ships to our disposal. Who knows, one day we may even have our perfectly manicured little fingers on that all important nuclear detonation button. So do not piss off the queers stinky Stacy, we have an army now!
Yes, stupid Stacy have every right to be scarred out of your tampon when you tippy toe outside the relative safety of your Catholic home. The Queers are everywhere and we are coming for you. The world will be ours and if you are not for us you are against us. But just a word of caution, be careful to turn your backs on us as we never leave the house without KY. Turning your back on us will be interpreted as an invitation by you to fuck with us and we will happily oblidge.
Coming back to slow Stacy, dear it’s best you never leave your house ever again. There’s a big bad gay world out there and we know what you look like. Also best get rid of your television set because if we can’t get you on the street, at the pool or in the park we will get you right in your home with our gay network programming. Scared Stacy, be afraid, be very afraid....
...1...2...the queers are coming for you... 3...4...you better lock the door... 5...6...grab your crucifix ...7...8...better stay up late ...9...10...never sleep again...
Here are some little-known sex facts that may surprise you – or at least give you ammunition for a fascinating dinner conversation!
1) The best medicine... According to the Museum of Sex, the vibrator was originally used as a medicinal treatment for female "hysteria" during the 18th century. The vibrator-induced orgasms helped doctors dissipate hysteria's anxiety-related symptoms.
2) Say cheese! Semen contains zinc and calcium, both of which are proven to prevent tooth decay.
3) Hop to it. The iconic "Rabbit" vibrator is renowned for two things: excellent orgasm results and an odd smiley face on its tip. Women's Health tells us the smiley face was actually a result of conservative Japanese customs. Apparently, Japanese consumers frown upon "the production of sex toys that too closely resemble phalluses" so the smiley face was added.
4) Does your man measure up? The average size of an erect penis is 5 inches, and the average flaccid penis measures about 3 inches.
5) The sad truth. While this sex fact is neither entertaining nor humorous, it’s shocking to note that homosexuality remained on the American Psychiatric Association's list of mental illnesses until 1973.
6) Protect our troops. Today the US government issues "Support our Troops" paraphernalia; however government-issued brochures and videos featured a slightly different slogan during the WWII era – "Don't forget – Put it on before you put it in." During the Second World War, many soldiers returned home with venereal diseases, costing the government millions of dollars in medical expenses.
7) Hate the gym? You burn about 200 calories during 30 minutes of active sex.
8) What a tease! Burlesque costumes are the epitome of sexy – think Dita Von Teese and lingerie; however, a few centuries ago, the outfits had a slightly different purpose. According to the Museum of Sex, merkins (the bottom half of burlesque costumes) were originally created as "pubic wigs" for 15th century prostitutes. The designs helped hide pubic lice and syphilis symptoms. Nasty!
9) Justice is served. In Hong Kong, adulterous husbands get more than a steep monthly alimony payment – a betrayed wife is legally allowed to kill her husband if he cheats on her – but she may only do so with her bare hands.
10) What ever happened to Southern comfort? The sale of sex toys and vibrators is banned in Alabama and Mississippi in the US. Weird isn't it?
This whole Ugly Betty adult braces thing is seriously cramping my style. It’s been a couple months since these god awful contraptions have been affixed to my wayward teeth and not a day goes by without me cursing them to hell. Earlier today I managed to spill a soft drink all over my cute outfit and had to spend the rest of the day walking around in my stain soaked and now not so delightful fashion statement. Then over lunch time a piece of food got stuck in my braces that I, as of yet, still have not been able to dislodge. Rather glum and reflecting back on my day I can’t help but be reminded why I hate my adult braces.
Having had my braces now for seven months, one would think that I would be quite use to them by now. Well, one would think wrong! I do not think you ever quite get use to wires and brackets in your mouth that’s systematically moving your teeth and grating away the insides of your mouth. You also never quite get use to food that’s forever lodged in between your teeth concealed by metal in impossible angels that not even the best contortionist with the most modern of orthodontic tools would be able to dislodge. You also never quite get use to the idea of speaking with a lisp that you never had before. A lisp that you now have because foreign objects in your mouth are preventing you from enunciating your words properly. You also never quite get use to having your lips caught in your wires during important meetings and then desperately trying to discreetly extricate them without causing yourself significant embarrassment. No, seven months on and I am NOT used to my braces. But the day-to-day gripe of having adult braces being as bad as it is, it is only surpassed by one thing - those damn orthodontist visits.
For some inexplicable reason I always seem to suffer some injury, ailment or embarrassment just prior to my appointments. During the last seven months I had surgery, an eye infection, had a nose injury and accidentally poisoned myself, all just days prior to my orthodontist appointments. Needless to say pitching up for my appointments with some disfiguring injury and/or ailment must have had my orthodontist and her assistants seriously wondering what I do for a living and whether my job is dangerous. But being the consummate professionals they are, they have never once asked me and I have never volunteered any explanations. Injuries and ailments aside the visits to the orthodontist are unpleasant in itself and for those of you who dislikes dentists I recommend you skip the following paragraph.
Have you ever heard of inter-dental scrapping? No? Well then let me explain. In the past several months I had the misfortune of experiencing that nasty procedure three times. Three times! It is a procedure where the orthodontist assistant takes a very small file like gadget and pushes it in between your teeth and then pulls it out again, repeating this action several times. Apparently this is done in order to help make space in between your teeth and help them to move faster. Essentially they are filing down your teeth and it is barbaric! This first time it was done to me I was caught completely off guard and was too traumatized to resist. The second time I tried to negotiate with the assistant not to do it, but she did it anyway. And the last time I almost resorted to physical violence, much like a cat not wanting a bath, but the bitch was strong and she pinned me down with her elbow, leaving me squirming in the chair like I was having an epileptic fit.
Apart from being tortured every six weeks by having inter-dental-scrapings and having my braces adjusted (which hurts like a mother fucker), nature also decided to through a spanner into the works. From the onset I decided to get porcelain braces as they are less noticeable but unfortunately much more expensive than regular braces. They are manufactured in Japan. Yes Japan, you know that place which had that bad ass earthquake. That Japan! And the earthquake completely destroyed the factory that manufactures my braces and they currently cannot be found anywhere else in world. The factory is now being rebuild but this time in the United States and in the mean time if I break anyone of my little porcelain devil brackets I am screwed. Do you know what kind of stress that causes? Every time I bite something and I feel something crack, I shit myself a little and pray it was not a porcelain bracket. Imagine, I whole top row of teeth with porcelain brackets and then on your top front tooth a regular one. Gawd! I am not biting into anything hard until I get conformation there are at least four or five spare brackets in a volt somewhere for me in case of an emergency. It can even be taken off a dead man I don’t care.
I have by my orthodontist’s calculations another ten months left of suffering adult braces. Damn you orthodontic relapse! Damn you! Seven months on I won’t lie; I have seen some major improvement towards getting that perfect smile back again. The braces are doing their thing and I guess it will all be worth the pain, embarrassment, drama and unpleasantness in the end. However, the end cannot come soon enough! So until then I will be Ugly Betty, lisping and drooling my way through life until I am free from these damn braces.
Here are somethings that make me feel old. Sure they bring back fond memories, it's just a pity our younger generation have no clue what some of these items are or what they were used for. Please tell me you do!
Social media have proved to be the most powerful medium of our generation to communicate, share, educate and connect. Recently we saw revolutions, riots and protest organized, mobilized and carried out via social media. With this in mind I'd like to ask all of you who have a social media presence, what are YOU using it for?
Those who know me well are very familiar with my little man crush on Anderson Cooper. Personally, I have never had a problem with his lack of a tan. After all his pale skin does match his hair just fine. So imagine my surprise when I stumbled across this video of my man Cooper getting a spray tan. Obviously it was orchestrated by none other than Snooki of the Jersey Shore, bless her little spray tanned heart! So here's two minutes and twenty six seconds of Anderson Cooper getting shirtless for a spray tan.
There’s no two ways about it, the world after 9/11 irrevocably changed. And no industry felt the effects of 9/11 more than that of the aviation industry. Gone are the days when flying was relaxing, when checking in for your flight took just ten minutes and your biggest concern when boarding a flight was being seated next to a morbidly obese dude with chronic flatulence. Nowadays, the biggest threat to flying, apart from the odd annoying volcanic ash clouds, bird strikes and/or wind shear, are terrorist and airlines have devised intrusive and humiliating measures to counter this threat. Having had my fare share of humiliating run-ins with airport security, customs officials and cabin crew, I thought I’d share some of my tips on dos and don’ts to help make your next flying experience as smooth and stress free as possible.
Do NOT look like a terrorist. Now you may ask, what does a terrorist look like? Well, I cannot tell you for sure, but suffice to say if you do look like one you will be searched and interrogated. Therefore, always make sure you are abreast of the newest fashion fad for seasoned terrorists and then avoid wearing that! Avoid reading any material containing the words Al Qaida, Osama Bin Laden, Jihad, Taliban, Hijacking and/or Bomb Making in its title, as it will land you in an interrogation room. Pre-ordering a Halaal meal while you check in online is also not a good idea, especially when your name clearly indicates that you are not Muslim. I talk from experience people. Earlier this year I mistakenly clicked Halaal as food preference and I was harassed by airline staff 4 times: once during check in, once during boarding, and twice during the flight. But, even remotely appearing like you may be a terrorist, sympathetic towards terrorists or in any way affiliated with terrorists are not the only hurdle you will face at an airport.
No matter what your mood when you arrive at any airport always be cordial. Sure you may smell and feel like shit after your eleven hour flight. Sure you may be tired because the dude next to you snored the whole flight through keeping you awake. But no matter what your situation may be, know this - security and customs officials do not give a rat’s ass about your problems. Even if you are late for your flight they will take their time and any snide remark or inkling of an attitude or noncooperation from you will, in all probability, lead to a full body and/or cavity search. Which leads me to another important rule to remember – always wear nice underwear! Because you never know when or where you may be asked to strip down to your tidy withies and we don’t want to be any more embarrassed than we need to be. And then there are those tedious security questions.
The airport has no place for a sense of humour. If you think you are a stand-up comedian please make sure you stay very far away from me when checking in at the airport or going through customs. All airport staff has their sense for humour surgically removed on their first day on the job. No matter how stupid or fantastical the questions they ask you may be, answer them as brief and concise and non-incriminating as possible. I once made the mistake of answering “Did you pack your own luggage?” with “No, my husband did”, causing a twenty minute delay as they searched my bag. I was also recently asked in Kenya whether I “ever assemble or tried to assemble a nuclear or chemical device”. Naturally after being asked this question I paused as I was trying to figure out if the natural poison concoction I developed last year to ward off pests in our garden constituted a “chemical device”. So I answered “No, not recently”. Needless to say both my luggage and I were thoroughly searched and each item carefully inspected. Speaking of luggage...
Be very mindful of what you pack in your hand luggage. A couple of weeks ago I took a national flight for a short business trip. As usual when I checked in the check-in-counter-chick was adamant in reminding me not to leave any electronics in my luggage that’s to be loaded into cargo. Being the seasoned traveller that I am, I knew not to do this and I had my laptop, BlackBerry, their respective cables, a digital recorder and its batteries and my camera and its cable in my hand luggage. (Guess you can see where this is going). I gaily made my way to the security checkpoint, got my little plastic container, took off my watch and belt, took out my laptop and BlackBerry and placed all my items in the container.
Make an effort to look like your passport photo. Sure many of us don’t look our absolute best on our passport photos and there is a reason they don’t allow us Photoshop or Airbrush these mug shots – the reason being that if you don’t look like your mug shot customs won’t allow you to enter the country. Exactly this happened to hubby and I with our last trip to Madagascar. You see, a few days prior to our departure both hubby and I decided to bleach our hair. We figured that blonds have more fun and therefore being platinum blond on an island would be ten times more fun. Boy were we in for a surprise.
Once we departed from the aircraft in Antanarivo and completed our little entry form, we fell in line to have our passports checked and stamped. When we reached the top of the queue our trouble began. The custom official looked at our passports, looked at us and looked at our passports again before handing them off to a second customs official who then took us aside. With a thick French accent the bearded lady asked “Is this you? Is this you here in the passport?” pointing to our pictures. “Yes it is, it’s only the hair that’s different” we responded. “No, not you, no, no, no.” She responded clearly befuddled. A good 15 minutes of negotiation later which also addressed my weight gain and subsequent weight loss, at that time, she was finally semi convinced our passports contained our likeness and we were allowed to legally enter Madagascar.
Yes, flying after 9/11 and the subsequent stringent security measures do, at times, make our lives difficult and drive me mad, but at the end of the day it’s all done in an effort to keep us safe. After all I do prefer landing at an airport rather than the alternative – intentionally crashing into a building. It is an inconvenience that is here to stay and an inconvenience we best get use too. I do hope my dos and don’ts will contribute to making your next flight less stressful and a much more pleasant experience.
I, like millions of other people, watched the horror unfold on that fateful day on September 11 2001. It was late afternoon here in South Africa when I received a call from my sister telling me to turn on CNN, "a small plane crashed into the World Trade Centre" she said anxiously. When I did, I saw one of the Twin Towers burning with a gaping hole to its side. Still trying to digest what I was seeing, a second plane struck the second tower. As fire and smoke bellowed out of it from the tremendous impact from the second strike, I realized the world as we knew just changed.
The rest of the day I spent glued to my television set, watching people leaning out windows trying to escape from what must have felt like hell. I watched people jump and falling to their deaths. I remember the horror and disbelieve when both the towers came tumbling down. People running for their lives and those who escaped covered in a grey ominous ash and dust. I remember hearing the high pitch sounds of car alarms and sirens as pieces of singed paper and debris came floating down from the sky like snow. I remember hearing that another plane crashed into the Pentagon and another went down in a field. I watched a country under attack. I watched a country in shock. I remember wondering how many people had died.
Today, ten years later, much have changed. Where the towers once stood now is a memorial park, the damage to the Pentagon is repaired and the lives of those affected by this tragedy have been rebuild. But the memory lingers, like a bad dream. The "War on Terror" have since became an unfortunate familiar term and Osama Bin Laden is finally dead. As we remember the events of that fateful day, I also urge you to remember the fallen heroes, not only those who sacrificed their live on that day but also those who gave their lives in the years that followed.
The world will never forget, but will live and overcome. My thoughts are with all those who have lost loved ones on this day 10 years ago and also all those who have since lost loved ones in the fight against terror.
What would you do if you overhear a father rebuke his gay son, saw a gay kid being bullied or see a waiter berate a gay couple in front of their children? Well, ABC News asked the very same question in a series of scenarios using actors to see how the general public will respond when confronted with homophobia. The results are quite surprising, see for yourself!
It’s not often that you get the opportunity to spend an evening in the company of royalty. And this past weekend I had just such an opportunity. Hubby and I were invited to sixtieth birthday dinner party at the Queens’ house and as a result of hierarchy, for a brief four hours, I was demoted to the royal status of Princess. But I didn’t mind my royal demotion as the guest list was far too impressive for me to be bothered by it. After all how many people get the chance to be in the company of a Dutch Baroness, a lesbian couple who has been together for well over 6 decades and other gay couples who have been together longer than I am old? It truly was a fabulous evening and a night that I once again got to appreciate how far we have come in terms of gay rights.
Last Friday night hubby, I and the matriarch of the family were invited to the birthday dinner of hubby’s uncle’s life partner. Like all queer event’s the guest list was well thought out, the house immaculately decorated with elaborate bouquets of freshly picked flowers from their French style garden. The large dinner table was dressed to perfection with the good China and silverware being proudly displayed in such a manner that it would have made any ambassador’s wife green with envy. Upon arrival and as the customary introductions were made I soon came to the realization that this evening was going to be very interesting one.
You see, amongst the quests was a Dutch Baroness. Dressed in a little black number which perfectly showcased her beautiful legs and with her stately shoulders draped with a shawl that accentuating a striking and expensive looking necklace, she had an air of mystique about her. She came to South Africa 25 years ago, leaving her family behind in a town called Enschede which borders with Germany. It became apparent that her relationship with her family was tense and she had rejected her royal heritage. She was curiously stingy with details and even though, on the surface, she had a bounty of tails to tell about her past, I did get the sense that she was guarding some sort of secret.
As luck would have it I was seated next to the Baroness during dinner and I was determined to learn her secret. The only problem was I could only understand about half of what she was saying. She would shift between languages with such ease I came to realize that she thought she was continuously speaking the same language, but she wasn’t. She would start a conversation in Dutch, move to English, then to French and end in German. With my Dutch and French being as rusty as a dirty old nail I struggled, but with great effort I still tried to follow and interrogate her best I could.
Never in my live had I met a woman of Nobel heritage with such a potty mouth. The breath of her curse word repertoire far exceeded my own and she even taught me a new Dutch curse word – “neuken”. Suffice to say I was immediately impressed and liked her a whole lot more! The only curse word she didn’t like and had an enormous problem if used by women of any age is “cunt”. She explained that she just can’t understand why women would speak badly of their own women parts in such a distasteful way. And I have to agree she did make an excellent point! But the Baroness wasn’t the only interesting person at the party; there was also the other queer royalty.
I cannot imagine what it must have been like to be gay in the 1930’s and 1940’s. It was a very different world back then and far less tolerant. Yet, there were gay folk who managed to find life partners and live full productive and happy lives, albeit in secret. One such couple was seated across from me, a lesbian couple in their mid to late eighties who have been together just over 60 years. They met in their early twenties, fell in love and have been together ever since. The only children they have ever had were their dogs, one of which escorted them to this dinner. Speaking to them was like going back in time.
They and another couple, who have been together 25 years, reminisced over a time where being gay was illegal, how they had to meet in secret and how getting married always seemed like a dream they thought would be forever unattainable. They spoke about how the police raided suspected gay parties, barged into houses of their gay friends and to the extend they sometimes had to go to conceal their relationships. As we spoke I noticed a glimmer of envy in their eyes, as I could tell they looked at us, the younger generation, and wonder if we realized how profoundly lucky we are. I could see in the older lady’s eyes that she wondered if we would use our freedom and opportunities wisely. After all we, the younger generation, have achieved our freedom and the civil rights we have today due to the battles they started fighting when we were only a twinkle in our parents’ eyes.
There are days that I forget how lucky I am. Lucky that I can be openly gay. Lucky that I could marry the man I love. Lucky that we can have children and lucky that my human rights are acknowledged and protected. Some days I forget that not all generations were so fortunate, and some days I forget that in other countries in the world there are gay folk who still live in fear and in secret. It is nice to sometimes just receiving a small dose of a reality check that puts your life in perspective. In this case it was fully achieved by our gay Royalty. They lived with discrimination, intolerance and ignorance and yet they survived. They have been together many decades and they are still in love.
Driving home that night I had allot to think about. I thought about the Baroness and the secret she hides and whether I will ever uncover her true past. I tried to imagine what my life would have been like had I lived in the 1940’s and whether my husband and I would have been strong enough, in that period, to sustain our relationship. I thought about how brave the two frail old ladies must have been to have been a relationship during a time it wasn’t accepted and I tried to imagine them 50 years younger. That evening I decided to never let a day go by without acknowledging and protecting all the blessing I have: my accepting family, friends, my marriage and my civil rights. Because far too often in life we take the small things for granted, and in life more times than not, it is the small things that matter!
There's nothing like a good old fashioned pool snog fest to make a point. Din [A] Tod, a German musician, recently released this music video for his song "Cold Star" and called it "an appeal for the acceptance of your own and other's sexual identity". A bit raunchy it may be, but it does bring the point home loud and clear. Watch for yourself.
When I was little there was a show on telly called ‘My Two Dads’ about a girl being raised by two gay men and I always wished I lived in that show. Ok, that and I would daydream that I was actually a princess who was swapped at birth and one day my ‘real’ parents would swoop down in a great big helicopter with two rotors and rescue me - on the despised school grounds naturally.
I also had a fabulously flamboyant gay uncle who would bring me fantastic gifts from all over the world that would send my imagination on a wild ride every time, I had my journey around the globe mapped out in an Atlas before I was 10. I LOVED spending time with him, listening to his tales from far and wide - I’m pretty sure he edited a lot of his stories to make them suitable for my young ears, especially the ones that were set in Bangkok, but still! So, clearly I was destined to be a fag hag, I didn’t stand a chance!
I’ve never really had a lesbian friend before. Well, I did in High School, but I didn’t know she was gay until I found out she was telling people I was her girlfriend, so technically that doesn’t count. Lezzie’s in the family, yes. But no actual friends.
Suddenly I found myself becoming a lettie bag and befriending one for the first time at my *cough* rather advanced age! A real lezzie. A dyke lezzie. I call Jonesey my Gentledyke. I don’t know whether she can fix cars or do plumbing but she is one of the few people who can hold her own in the Rabbit Hole almost as well as I can when it comes to alcohol consumption – that doesn’t make me a lesbian, it just means I have a cast iron liver... *ahem*
She’s quite a little lezzie but she has already leapt to my defence more than once. If my passport ever allows me to go to the kind of bar that brawls break out in on a regular basis I would happily pick her and her ‘Beast’ to have my back any day. Come to think of it, I would NEVER look for shit with them either. Beast looks fukken scary man, like she could break you in half with one hand tied behind her back! Rumour has it that she’s actually a very gentle soul but I wouldn’t try my luck.
I’ve had many gay men as friends, some I’ve booted out of the closet, some are clinging to that door handle for dear life and some are Out and Proud but there are two who are especially dear to me.
One of my oldest friends is an absolutely fabulous drag queen known as Tarren with more than his fair share of gay beauty titles who is a hairdresser by day and a flamboyant queen by night. We always have a scream of a time in the Rabbit Hole – he also flirts shamelessly with my husband but fortunately Himself just takes it all in his stride. He’s actually one of the few drag queens I know who doesn’t lip-sync or wear a wig and lives his character, the only difference is that when he does a show he puts his slap on a LOT thicker. Tarr can sing anything from ABBA to Crash Test Dummies with perfect pitch and is blessed with a mane of beautifully coiffed long blonde hair, his brows are always perfectly plucked and his manicure and make-up immaculate. He can also be a total blonde... We were at Woolworths one day buying a few bottles of pink Veuve Cliquot bubbly for his birthday celebrations and as we were walking out of the store he turns to me with a look of undiluted horror on his face and says ‘Gawd ange, that’s fucken expensive for Woollies champagne!’ I was on the floor!!
He’s so camp that he’s my secret weapon to weed out the undercover homophobes in my life – and he loves playing that game with me. There are few things that amuse me more than dragging him along to a stuffy family gathering and watching people pretend to be cool with him and the whole gay thing because they know they’ll get a bitch slap from me if they don’t play nice. Hey - anything to get through those things, a secret stash of Bloody Mary fixings in my handbag doesn’t always do the trick you know.
My sister-in-law is one of those unfortunate souls who have zero social IQ as well as being a 45 year old spinster with the emotions and mannerisms of a 10 year old - I’m talking cutesy hair clips, matching plastic jewellery, the whole shebang. I have a very strong suspicion that she’s a lesbian who hasn’t cottoned on to the fact yet, but anyway, that’s a story for another day. She’s always desperately wanted to have gay friends and from the moment she laid eyes on the fabulousity that is Miss Tarren she has stuck to his side like shit to a wool blanket whenever we’re all together and I swear he can smell her desperation. He takes an almost cruel delight in saying things to her that he knows will shock her, yet the poor clueless cow keeps coming back for more. She made the grave mistake one night of telling him she does Scottish Dancing once a week and has been for years.
Now, she’s a rather uhm... big girl with the grace of a Sumo wrestler and I don’t think Tarren could resist the temptation of seeing her bouncing around the Rabbit Hole so he asked her to demonstrate. Encouraging comments like ‘Oh ange, you’re so light on your feet’ and ‘It’s just like skipping, show me again’ had the rest of us rushing outside like a herd of buffalo before we fell apart in front of her. After the demonstration he turned to me and said ‘Fuck ange, I hope those classes she’s been taking are free!’ Tarr is such a bitch (and I love it) but before you judge you need to know that Himself’s sister has given me all kinds of hell in the 25 years I’ve known her, so it was time for some light revenge. He’s also got a potty mouth that would make a sailor blush and I wouldn’t want him to be any other way...
I’ve also learnt the hard way NEVER to look when he thrusts his cell phone in my face and says ‘Oooooh Ange! Look here!’ Let’s just say that he’s really into Bears and I’ve seen more hairy asses and ball bags than any woman ever should!
That brings me to my gay husband Hawtentawt. From the moment we first laid eyes on each other something clicked and the Terrible Twins were born! We can gossip without saying a word to each other, a look is all it takes. Unfortunately sometimes those looks cause snorts and chortles and all sorts of sound effects that get us into trouble at the worst times.
Himself and Hawts get on like a house on fire and over weekends we’re the Three Musketeers - we cook, drink, talk shit, party and generally get up to no good together. Hawts doesn’t look gay at all and is very proud of that fact – girlies are checking him out constantly, if only the poor things knew he prefers cock! Himself calls him ‘a straight man’s moffie’ and they take the piss out of each other constantly – but let anyone else say anything negative about either of them and all hell breaks loose!
Unfortunately Hawts doesn’t get on that well with Tarren - he says he’s gay because he likes MEN, not FAIRIES! I don’t have the heart to tell Tarr this, although personally I think it’s because Hawts doesn’t want to share his fag hag! Lolz...
I’ll never forget the day Hawts met my in-laws for the first time. Nobody and I mean nobody who’s ever met them can wrap their heads around the fact that Himself is related to that lot – they’re just so... uhm... left of centre. Anyway, it was Christmas day a couple of years ago, we were all doing the handing out presents bit and Hawts was sitting sort of behind everyone with a very bemused look on his face observing the curious interactions taking place. Remember I mentioned my sister-in-laws emotional age? Well, one of the gifts we bought her was a battery operated cup that mixes your hot chocolate for you. Very cutesy. My mother-in-law took one look at the wrapped box and the batteries we put in the gift bag and said, completely deadpan, ‘I hope that’s not a Dildat’. I was in absolute pieces, I couldn’t even look at Hawts and he made a very discreet and quick exit from the room. Hawts can also be a real bitch – he found a Chrissie hat somewhere that said ‘Ho Ho Ho’ on it and gave it to my sis-in-law to wear, telling her how good it looked on her. Poor cow had us take a picture and made it her Facebook profile pic!
Shortly after we met I was diagnosed with a brain tumour and where most ‘new’ friends would’ve run screaming for the hills not daring to look back in case they turned into a pillar of salt, Hawts was there for me. I mean THERE for me. Loooooong story but it involved countless hours of hand holding, doctor’s visits, hospital visits, blood, tears, laughter, head shaving, 70 metal staples, a Bride of Frankenstein lookalike, a titanium plate, home visits, gallons and gallons of ice-cream, Will and Grace, Queer as Folk, movies, flowers, pyjamas, wigs, prescription drugs, weed and tattoo parlours. After the amount of morphine injections and Vitamin B shots he’s given me he also knows the layout of my ass far better than he should.
Since our friendship started we’ve both had more than our share of the shit pile life can sometimes be and that’s why we make a point of having as much fun as possible. We’re both Piscean so luckily we have a healthy dose of black humour – we need that as we both suffer from ‘foot in mouth disease’ too. We sit for hours discussing who is banned from our funerals and we both know where our respective hidden stash is we don’t want anyone to come across when we die, especially our mothers! We have agreed under pain of haunting each other to uphold our pinkie swear promises regarding these incredibly important issues.
Last year we talked Hawts’ ex into coming to Gay Pride 2010 in Johannesburg with us. Being a Medical Professional *said in respectfully hushed tones* who comes from a much respected and well known line of Doctors, Doc doesn’t ever really let his hair down and it was his very first Gay Pride. I found that hard to believe until I saw the way he carried on that day – we practically had to carry him to the car when we wanted to leave and he was protesting all the way. He was a great sport and in all the time I’ve known him I’ve never seen him let loose the way he did that day, like a kid in a candy store! On pain of death I had to promise not to put any pics of him without his carnival mask on in my Facebook album.
By the time we got there we were already quite well lubricated, having bubbly for breakfast gives one quite a good buzz – especially if you skip the food part. We chose drinks instead of food all day and were like energizer bunnies on speed. On the way home to the ‘after party’ where our friends and Himself were waiting for us Doc spent most of the journey hanging out of the sun roof flying the massive gay flag we’d brought with us in one hand, drink in the other and lustily singing along to ‘Alejandro’. We were all full of beans, bragging about how we were going to ‘rock the house’ when we got there. By 7 o’clock we were all passed out cold and the party went on just fine without our glitteringly entertaining company, so that didn’t exactly pan out the way we’d planned... erm...
Three weeks later an official letter was delivered to Doc’s practice and his receptionist opened it to be confronted with a pic taken by a camera on the N1 of Doc’s Range Rover happily speeding away with the Gay Flag flying proudly out of the sunroof. As I explained to him it could’ve been much worse, at least the picture isn’t of him hanging out of the sunroof too, topless with his black painted lips and nails!
Hawts is single and has been for ages but after the last 2 dates I nagged him into going on I don’t think any will be happening again for a while – the one guy apparently had a ‘bulging eyeball’ and the other one ‘funny fingers’. Gawd, he is SO full of shit!! I really wish he would get himself a partner but clearly any prospective candidate would have to be thoroughly checked out first PLUS he would have to fit in with the merry misfits – quite a tall order.
I really have the best of both worlds and feel very blessed with the gorgeous men I have in my life who wrap me in cotton wool. A Husband AND a Gusband I adore who will do anything for me. Hawts does everything with me that Himself isn’t into and Himself does the rest. How lucky am I bitches??
So, to all the fugly homophobes out there I flip a big fat cow’s hoof and say fuck you all. You don’t know what you’re missing. Either that, or you DO know and you’re terrified you come rocketing out of the closet by accident. Pierre wrote a post for my blog a few weeks back entitled ‘Beware the Sodomites Want to Recruit You’. As far as I’m concerned the Sodomites are more than welcome to take over the world, they’re much more fun than most straight people anyway. As for recruiting me – I’m not too sure about that, I love a good dick as much as any gay man and could never give it up and become a lettie! ;-)
Till next time Butterflies....
GeeGee Curtained xOx
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It's Raining Men - This is for you Hurricane Irene!
Lady Gaga's new music video Yoü And I was released this week and once again it doesn't disappoint. Gaga also makes for a rather handsome guy as well, if I do say so myself, and a Mermaid if you are into that kinda thing. Check out the music video.
