Cruel to be kind, in the right measure?

by middle
the latest installment of "one fey's tales"

I’m sleeping in a tent in a wooded hollow on a farm in rural central Tennessee.  

I start to wake up.  

I remember wondering as I fell asleep last night whether or not the nature sounds here (one of the things I love about camping) would match those of another local gathering space.  I’m relieved as I start to stir that more and more birds join the morning chorus.  At some point, they seem almost too loud and too vivid – am I dreaming?   

Are there birds INSIDE the tent?  

I force my eyes open a bit and it’s damn near true.  Looking up I see and hear a wren darting around between the screen of my tent’s roof and its bright red rain fly.  It dawns on me that the bunch of leaves and forest debris that I noticed there yesterday wasn’t random.  Floating in and out of consciousness, I catch glimpses of a winged couple alternating deliveries to the nest.  At one point, what I see looks like a bulging, wriggling burlap bag full of snakes; Mom is re-arranging it from within. 

 
I’m visiting this art-oriented queer intentional community for the first time in several years.  The land features scattered gardens and farm buildings as well as a couple of outrageously whimsical outhouses.  

The fields are peppered with gaggles of queers and trans folk, anarchists and punks, faeries and freaks.  It’s the annual IDApalooza Fruit Jam, a festival that specializes in edgy, indie, homegrown, alternative music.  On the back porch and barn stages, around the fire and in the camps, queers connect through music, theater, art, and conversation.  It’s immersion in the true diversity of our community: a gorgeous antidote to what can sometimes be for me a tiresomely commercialized, bar-centric, danceteria-dominated culture of form over substance.  

Beyond the music, there are workshops on everything from local flora to self defense for sex workers, hikes, and fabulous vegetarian and vegan meals served up collectively by incredibly organized kitchen volunteers. 

It suddenly occurs to me that my tent and I must leave tomorrow.  What to do?  Are there eggs in the nest?  No, the parents wouldn’t be working so hard if there were.  I finally realize it’s best to remove it now – before more energy goes into its construction and before she lays.  

I force myself up off the air mattress and unzip the door.  I grab most of the nest in one hand and deliver it to the crook of a nearby tree, take a leak, and return to bed.  I’m still dozy and my eyes droop.  I see one of the pair hop under the fly with a scrap in its mouth.  I feel a pang of guilt as it looks around in its spastic, jerky way and then flies away.  Nature having realized its mistake, I observe no more visits.  An old Nick Lowe song comes into my head:  “You’ve got to be cruel to be kind, in the right measure…”

After breakfast, I hang out in the main yard, watching and listening.  I wander over to the front barn to check out a class.  I’m a bit nervous – it’s probably been five years since I’ve done yoga.  The leader has that special knack for reaching everyone, regardless of their experience or skill level, and I revel, sweating profusely, in a much needed practice of breathing, stretching and balancing.  

After lunch, I sit in on a passionate discussion of Arizona’s SB 1070, immigration, and oppression in general.  One of our hosts lists the relevant stories of the territory we occupy which includes links to the Trail of Tears, the KKK, and more recently, nighttime ICE raids.  By then the weather is steaming.  I nap, catch an amazing series of mostly unplugged performances in the barn, and take a rejuvenating afternoon dip in the icy creek. 

After dark, under a sky full of stars, I snuggle up to a local faerie and share with him my feeling that the surrounding ridge seems to insulate and protect us from the rest of the world.  I join with other locals on a blanket, catching up on the feyborhood gossip.  They drink beers and I nibble on an enormous dark chocolate bar I bought from a superstore thought by many here to epitomize all that’s wrong with the world.  Philly bands Dangerous Ponies, A Stick and a Stone, and Signals pour out an aural assault.  A monochrome montage of nude dancer loops and real time doodles is projected onto the steep forested ridges that form the geographic bowl we occupy.  A pair of DJs go to work (oh my God, are those actual turntables?!); they slam a hyper-eclectic collection of dance anthems, pop oddities, Latin beats, and 80s tunes together.  

Eventually I head to the tent and get ready for bed. As I fall asleep, I’m triangulated by live space music from one direction, the percussion of an extended spanking scene from another, and screaming multiple orgasms from a third – all painted against the Tennessee soundscape of crickets, dogs, frogs, and birds.


Driving back to Nashville I pass from cellular purgatory into five-bars territory.  Text and then voicemail icons appear on my phone.  Re-entering civilization is a profound transition so I delay checking them for a while.  When I do, I hear the voice of someone I’ve been seeing.  Over the weekend, I’ve struggled with the memory of our last encounter – which was uncharacteristically hurried and rife with emotional red flags.  It’s a friends with benefits thing – no – that’s what I’d like it to be, but the cold reality is it’s a benefits only thing.  He and our lovemaking are beautiful in exotic ways, but our relationship is strictly limited to a mostly regularly scheduled bi-weekly booty call.  

I can handle that, but his voicemail is an overly romantic “I really miss and love you.”  The boy’s a paradox.  No time for dinner, no time for a movie, but he wants to talk long-term exclusivity.  I know – bullshit!  

Thoughts of what I really want are stirred.  Monogamy is not part of my reality these days, and it’s just silly to bring it up given the small compartment we occupy in each other lives.  I’m definitely seeking more than what we have.  On top of that, despite our serodiscordancy, he fights me over condom use.  The call of the wrens and the Nick Lowe lyrics come back into my head.  I’m not good at being cruel to be kind, especially when it comes to lovers.  Years of work have moderated my once rampant co-dependency, but I still find traces lurking in unexpected corners of my life. 

Should I stop seeing him?  Are the hot times worth the irony and the stress?  Who needs me to be cruel to be kind - and to whom?  Him? Me?  Both of us?

One Fey's Tale - A Blissville Weekend in Asheful - How to Have a Fabulously Fey 60th Birthday

When the time comes, forget about calendar restraints.
Who says it has to be a birth-day?
by middle
the latest of his "one fey's tales"

Why not a birth-weekend?

Set your intentions.  Imagine a space in time where you and your friends don’t just celebrate but live celebration to mark the occasion.

The occasion was the 60th birthday of a faerie friend, and the experience was an amazing gift.  For a number of years I’ve been struggling with yet unable to find the right balance between responsibilities and fun in my life (not that they’re always disparate).  I’ve wanted to visit Asheville for some time, and I’ve been in desperate need of something – anything – to get me out of a rut.  Two different friends unwittingly confirmed this by responding to news of my trip with, “what AIDS conference was in Asheville?”

In December, this manifested in a short bout of frustration, anxiety, and depression that led to what I hope was a minor breakthrough.  Thankfully it passed in time for me to enjoy the holidays; by then I’d finally decided to plan and aggressively pursue some changes in 2010 and beyond.  The birthday invitation helped me to identify a concrete way to cement this intention.

Afterwards, as I drove alongside the French Broad River through the North Carolina and Tennessee mountains, the idea for what follows came into my head.  How could I unpack what was for me a glorious weekend and construct a more balanced vision of living fully?  The big 6-0 isn’t really that far in my future, and I refuse to approach it with dread.  So, I created this fantasy version of how one faerie elder and his tribe came to enjoy this weekend-long celebration of life.  Think of it as a sketch of a recipe we might use to find our own similar paths.


How to Have a Fabulously Fey 60th Birthday 

First, live an amazingly free, radically queer, open life, spreading joy, (yes - that “joy” too!) happiness, wisdom, and music.  Love your queer self, revel in learning, embrace and engage counter-culture, practice varied rituals of your own choosing and creation, be an activist, create and share music, and contribute to others’ and your own healing.  Travel, exploring and adventuring in your region, your country, and the world.  Experience the loudest and largest metropolis, the quietest rural hideaway, and everything in between.  Make a gluttonously diverse multitude of friends, have lots of lovers, love and be loved.  Be both student and teacher, mentor and apprentice, without prejudice or bias about who plays which role.

read more

How is middle healthy?

Some folks have this idea that I’m Mr. Organized. If they only knew… Sure, I get things done, but I struggle with priorities and what to do now. I have a rebellious personality that chafes at too much structure – even when it’s self-imposed. I make plans and lists and keep a calendar, but sometimes I simply ignore them.

Since fatigue is a major issue in my life, I constantly struggle with finding time and energy to do all I want. I need to ask myself “What am I unable to do because I make time for or am distracted by ______?”

Cell phones that ring, email that dings, websites that fascinate, and broadcast voices that share my space have a tendency to interfere. I recognize that sometimes I need to unplug for a time from one or more of these. This occurs most completely during major faerie gatherings twice a year. Regardless of what is going on in my life then, I make a conscious decision to unplug. This means that in the week or so before, I take care to clean up loose ends. It means I decide - and make it known I’ve decided - to be essentially unreachable during the gathering. Personal electronic devices are left behind for the duration.

During the gathering I wallow in the isolation from electronic messaging, voicemail, utility grids, media, corporate culture, and fast access. I make love with my honey, take multiple naps, help prepare and eat great food, and cuddle in puppy piles. The music of nature, laughter, conversations, passion, and amazing unplugged performances are the soundtrack for the gathering. Renewed, I invariably come home with different and challenging ways of thinking about my life, love, and work on my mind.

Between gatherings I explore how these ideas fit into my everyday life. One thing I can practice at home is recharging by unplugging – a lot or a little, not always radically or totally. Perhaps I choose not to take calls for a day or check my email for several. Maybe I impose a weekend or week-long news embargo. PBS and NPR often keep me company, but the 69th gay marriage debate this year won’t feed my body, mind, or soul like a book or CD from my collection, an advertisement-free magazine, or (imagine!) several hours of relative silence.

There are other questions I ask myself about being plugged in: Are these things useful tools or just mindless distractions? Is this a meaningful ritual or just another addictive habit? How do the seemingly comforting connections and environments I create affect my mood, perception, and productivity?

-- middle
Nashville


How are you healthy?
Join in the conversation.
Tell us HERE. Send a pic to the same place.
And we'll blog it, right here.
Read past posts.
Learn more about the campaign.

Masturbation Matters (part 2)

[click here to read part 1]

by middle
[read his "one fey's tale" posts]

Solo masturbation circles (during which participants pleasure only themselves) bring new meaning to the term circle jerk. I’ve attended and hosted a few of them and experienced their potential to generate a very intense collective sexual intensity.

First, they’re safe in a way that’s extremely difficult for other group sex encounters to be. The risk of transmitting sexual infections is reduced to nil. An ideal environment is created for those who have anxieties about their bodies or sharing sexual energy.

Second, it’s a great way to focus intention for specific purposes (healing, magick, changing the world, whatever.) Whether you’re masturbating for inner or outer peace, for stability or change, for more love or less war, there’s a powerful energy that can be channeled.

Not least of all, for we pozzies, it is a great way to get off with others while avoiding the mental effort of thinking about statuses, disclosure, and the like.

How to host a solo masturbation circle

Here’s the kind of experience I’ve shared with my fey families. You may want to give it a try and create your own version (but dammit, if you’re rimming, sucking and fucking, you’re not having a jack-off party!)

Prepare

Do you need mats or pillows to sit on? What kind of lube do you prefer? Choices are good. I recommend providing at least one each of the following: water-based (consider silicone free to acommodate those who prefer that,) plant-based (like coconut or olive oil,) and petroleum-based (environmental considerations not withstanding, some folks swear by baby oil and the aforementioned Albolene rocks!) You’ll probably want a roll of paper towels or a pile of clean wash cloths. Drinking water is a must. I also recommend a bowl of fruit (more about this later.)

Circle up

In addition to masturbating, most participants will want to share. You need enough space for everyone to sit in something approximating a circle - everyone should be able to see everyone else. Indoors or out, you want to ensure access and comfort. Excessive distractions of any kind are a no-no (in one very focused session I went as far as turning off the power in my condo). If your circle is happening in the context of a larger gathering, it should be easy for those inside and outside (non-participants) to recognize the space’s boundary.

Talk first…

Intentions are important for growth, healing, and magick. It’s good to start by going around the circle a time or two, using basic customs. In fey settings, this usually means passing a wand or other talisman (it needn’t be fancy – a nice stone or crystal will do.) The idea is for all to focus on the person holding the talisman; talking “across the circle” or addressing individuals is generally avoided. Folks can choose to “pass” but are encouraged to at least introduce themselves. Good questions to focus on are “Why am I here?” and “What do I expect to get out of this experience?”

The facilitators might want to explain how the ritual will proceed and reassure those in the circle that everyone is invited to participate in their own way with one caveat: it is not okay to “just watch.” At this time, you can address logistics such as establishing when the circle is closed to additional participants. Encourage folks who have not already done so to begin disrobing.

During this “warm-up” stage, it’s good to encourage folks to feel free to begin touching themselves sensually. Some may have joined seeking growth or adventure. Other individuals may share that they are bringing spiritual or personal issues to the circle for healing. These may relate to self-image, a recent loss, or miscellaneous sexual baggage. Our groups are ejaculation neutral. If you want, go for it. If not, that’s cool too.

Masturbate

At some point talk will naturally fade as folks begin to fondle and stroke themselves, each at their own pace. Energies will begin to move within and around the circle, the total being greater than the sum of its parts. You’re likely to find the experience heightened in a number of ways. These circles tend to create their own narrative; you’ll notice a natural beginning, middle, and end. Individuals will experience their self-pleasure with grimaces, laughter, tears, or quiet smiles. Some will come quietly . . . and others won’t!

Since everyone may not desire to or be able to reach a climax, knowing when to bring the masturbation phase of the circle to a close can be tricky. We ask our fellow masturbators to signify when they are finished by ritually choosing a piece of fruit and taking a bite. The group doesn’t move on until all have done so.

…talk again, then close.

It’s not uncommon for at least one participant to feel a need to leave early or bolt towards the wrap-up. That’s fine. Most of you, however, will want closure. Pass the talisman a couple more times. “What did you feel?” “Was it what you expected?” When the time is right, circle up, hold hands, and close with a meditation or group hug.

Without exception, I’ve left these circles each time feeling very moved and connected to others who shared the experience. Your desire to talk about it may extend beyond the session, or you may find yourself speechless. If you didn’t think so before, it’s pretty certain that you’ll leave the circle with a feeling that masturbation really can matter.

Masturbation Matters (part 1)

I think that it is part of human sexuality, and perhaps it should be taught.
- Joycelyn Elders

by middle
[read his "one fey's tale" posts]

During the brief time Dr. Elders served as the United State Surgeon General, most of cheered her on. Today as advocates we talk a lot about combination prevention and tool kits, but why don’t our polished power point slides include masturbation as a prevention technique?

Several among my all-time most enjoyable sexual encounters were exclusively masturbation-focused. Beyond being a fun pastime, a source of energy, an instrument of growth, and a balm for healing, masturbation can also be a handy tool for prevention.

One of the first AIDS-related articles I encountered in gay media was a version of the New York Jacks’ “How to Have a Jack-Off Party.” Right there in my favorite digest-sized mag I found a practical guide which covered every detail from how to set up your clothes check (paper grocery bags and magic markers were recommended) to what kind of lube to use (never use KY jelly which the article claimed “turns to glue and causes dick damage,” but always include a theatrical make-up remover known as Albolene.) During these parties, the article said, sex play was limited to masturbation – “lips above the hips” and “no penetration” were the watchwords. At the time I was much too inhibited to find or create a real j/o party for myself, but I loved the idea.

From the time I became old enough to discuss such things, I’d heard about circle jerks but never participated in one. Certain neighbor kids and I and played games of titillation, mutual masturbation, and eventually more, but I didn’t ever encounter what I first imagined and later saw depicted in porn.

In the late 90’s and over a decade after I’d gotten my HIV diagnosis, I finally attended a New York Jacks party and had a blast. It wasn’t the first time I found limits to be exciting. I enjoyed the level playing field a nearly clothing-free environment provided, and the intensity of focusing on a singular aspect of sexuality was way hot. Moreover, I finally got to experience that fabulous but elusive Albolene.

A couple of years later and nearly two decades after I first read about it, the lube finally came to Tennessee. I was so infatuated I bought three jars, enough to last for years.

Still, I was frustrated. One of my pet peeves was the misuse of the term jack-off party. It bugged the hell out of me that local hosts applied it to lots of their organized sex parties. My reaction was related to my impatience with internet profiles seeking “j/o only, must be HIV negative.” Sex parties can be fun, but in addition to the previously enumerated thrill factors, a true jack-off party would have obvious stress reducing advantages for my HIV-positive self. In a supposedly liberated, out, post millennium world, why can’t horny men own their desires? Internalized homophobia? Maybe. Good old Baptist shame (this is the South)? Probably.

Eventually, I lucked into unique opportunities to explore the potential of a different kind of group masturbation. It began one faerie gathering with the announcement of a big jack-off extravaganza. Knowing what I knew, and given the impromptu timing and anarchic setting, I decided it best not to attend.

As it happened, there were a few surprised and slightly traumatized faeries at breakfast the next morning. They had entered the space thinking that the party would be about masturbation and masturbation only. They’d wanted to dip their respective big toes in the waters of group sex, and everyone else just canon-balled off the high-dive. As the party evolved into an all-out suck-and-fuck-fest, they left, disappointed and a little freaked.

Fortunately, word gets around at gatherings. Immediately, in that magical faerie way, a response manifested itself. We’d hold a different kind of event – a masturbation circle where folks would only pleasure themselves.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” I thought…

(...to be continued next Friday)

Porn, RFD, & Me

i'm all about liberty, choice, and exuberant sex. i have nothing but support for those who make an informed choice to have what my activist friend reminds me is natural sex. still, i feel a negative visceral response to the promotion of so-called bareback media.

there's a human impact I've encountered first-hand -men and boys who feel their willingness is a commodity to be traded against their perceived shortcomings: age, ability, cock size, weight, femininity, hiv status.

i'm repelled when terms like bareback, pre-condom, and raw are used to brand, commodify, and attach a premium to risk.

where the vulnerable or clueless pursue fantasies fueled by glamorization of risk with little or no brotherly support, unhappy results range from name -calling to seroconversions, addiction, and worse.

by middle

[click to enlarge]

the piece appears in the current autumn issue (#135) of rfd magazine,
second only to the advocate as the nation’s longest-running queer publication.

One Fey's Tale - Installment 7

My Own Ritual
by middle - only on lifelube

I close my eyes and it feels like I’m floating a foot above the ground. I’m standing in a garden on a hillside, naked, surrounded by seven friends who’ve just helped me shed my skin. As our gift to tomorrow’s larger observance, we’ve ritually shaved all of me except my eyebrows. I’ve given each a token, a buckeye, redeemable for bodywork as thanks for their loving help. We gather a length of purple cloth at one shoulder and tie it around my waist...

My first HIV-positive lover was the favorite son of a small neighborhood church. When he asked me to join him for Sunday services, I was reticent. Over time my adolescent atheism had morphed into adult agnosticism. I held a harsh opinion of all organized religion, to which I attributed much that was wrong with the world. Still, in the glow of new love…or lust…or just the possibility of either, I agreed to give it a try.

Senior citizens formed the core of the tiny Lutheran congregation. His Mom, aunts, cousins and neighbors all offered greetings and hugs. Intermittently residents of the neighboring women’s shelter, a trans woman, homeless patrons of the church’s food bank, and lost souls my case manager encountered joined the dozen or so regulars each Sunday. I watched, amazed as the elder women of the clan, who suffered from myriad illnesses, found strength to scrub floors, polish pews and prepare breakfast for the homeless. If you darkened the door to this church, you were welcomed, no questions asked.

On Sundays, I attempted to mentally translate the language of the service to serve my own vague non-Christian spiritual beliefs – no easy task. The “high church” customs – constant movement from standing to sitting then kneeling positions, the sharing of the peace, a more formal Eucharist – were new to me. Still, I came back every week or two.

Aspects of the service that were idiosyncratic appealed to me. The Lord’s Prayer was regularly sung to an oriental melody – a multicultural vestige of a former priest who loomed large in the church’s history. There were debates about details. For instance, in an era of frantic infection control measures and devastated immune systems, was it still reasonable for the congregation to share a single chalice for communion?

I realized my judgments about religion didn’t apply to these individuals or their church. Something about it all soothed my spirit. Finally it dawned on me that I had an affinity for the more ritualistic components of the service. That was a surprise. The Formality of Church was something I had rejected along with the accompanying dogma. How did this reconcile with my self proclaimed “drug, sex, and rock-and-roll” identity?

A decade later, when I discovered faerie gatherings, I encountered a similar conundrum. Although many of us clearly had been driven - rejected, traumatized, and alienated - from mainstream establishment faiths, we avidly explored alternatives and passionately embraced the opportunity to participate in new and different rituals.

I became aware that during preparation for major observances individual faeries sometimes diligently worked to create separate, unique rites. These served their specific needs and contributed to the greater collective energy. They were often intensely personal and creative interpretations of ancient ideas. I learned by example to embrace both my own intuition and the wisdom of tradition, to use virtually anything that has meaning for me – whether elemental or beautiful, object or substance, poetry or song, food or drink, dance or sex act - to create meaningful ritual.

The shaving concept was born of erotic fascination. Months before the gathering I recruited five fey friends to help me manifest my vision. The plan and its meaning morphed over time into something with more depth and breadth. Most significantly, I gave myself permission to ask others for their help.

Finally the day came. Two more conspirators were drawn into our circle. The loving trust exchanged was at least as powerful as the sensual undercurrent. The ritual transcended by far my simple expectations. I was inspired, sensitized, and transformed.

In faerie space I’ve learned the importance of cultivating a relaxed self-trust when contemplating ritual. I carefully consider my intentions and make sure joy (and usually humor) is in the mix. Whether it is a space cleansing, a tarot reading, or a sex magick circle; openness, sincerity and love are key to realizing potential. I try to remember that I first realized the value of ritual in a most unexpected way.

…A circle of hundreds has formed. I’ve traded my purple “robe” for mesh underwear, body paint, and a bindi. I visualize the small hair bundles I added to last night’s ritual fire and to the opening where we’ll insert this year’s maypole – tokens for sorrows, burdens, and obsessions I hope I’m ready to release. I meditate on the coming New Year. It seems like I can feel each blade of grass tickling my bare feet. The tiniest air movement is translated into a thrill on my skin. More than before, I feel the energy of the earth flowing up through me into the circle. By tapping into my own innate wisdom and the love of comrades, without indoctrination, dogma or creeds, I’ve created my own ritual.

Read previous installments of One Fey's Tale here.

One Fey's Tale - Installment 6

Frocking Fabulous
by middle

only on lifelube

Last week as I carted my tent, supplies, and faerie drag to my campsite at a gathering, I caught the eye of another man on the trail. Smiling, he paused to remark, "there you go in that girly dress," (I was wearing a short knit lavender number over my long johns and work boots,) "but you have such a butch walk behind that wheelbarrow!"

Describing the San Francisco roots of the Radical Faerie movement in The Trouble With Harry Hay, Stuart Timmons wrote, "Genderfuck, an outrageous form of costume combining exaggerated signals from male and female -- such as a beard, bouffant hairdo, and glittering kabuki eye makeup all on one person - was employed as a cultural guerrilla attack on rigid sex roles."

Right on. I’m sure not all of the faeries I encounter these days have such serious intentions. Others’ motivations are likely more personal and range from the frivolous to the profound. Perhaps their favorite frock brings out the cosmic clown inside. Maybe a particular gown simply makes them feel fabulous. The right dress can facilitate careful exploration of your feminine side or help your inner drag queen burst onto the scene.

Wearing a skirt can be sensual, whether you just enjoy the feel of the fabric or pursue a full-blown fetish. A straight guy at a very mixed party once guessed what wasn’t underneath my broomstick skirt. Professing pleasurable experience with sarongs, he intimated, "I get it - you’re walking around damn near naked."

There are practical aspects as well. Squatting over a woodland latrine, for example, is simpler in drag than in pants. Long skirts and dresses offer protection against bug bites and nippy weather without unnecessarily restricting ventilation, movement, or most importantly, access.

I remember well the first men in dresses who were targets of my gaze. One was a beautiful and extraordinarily hairy communard who favored sundresses. Another was a very smooth, well-defined twink from New York who wore a navy mini-dress. The low neckline provided a peek at his gym-pumped chest and the short hem length revealed the bottom half of his perky, pair-of-grapefruits ass. Woof!

One night around the campfire, I noticed a particular fey boy in a skirt. Other men in the circle inspired lust, but this one fascinated me. I was struck by how perfect the skirt looked on him. It wasn’t particularly flashy or cool, but it matched the color of his black hair and rode low on his waist, contrasting with his fair complexion and accenting those sexy lines that curve from the hips down to the groin. It struck me that I’d finally shed most of my crap about who wears the pants in this world.My first cross-dressing experience was in grammar school. A close friend had a 45-rpm record of David Rose’s The Stripper. He and his younger brother thought it was hilarious to act out a little routine while it played. For kicks I suggested we borrow dresses from our moms for the 6th grade talent show. We got lots of laughs, but he had no interest in the school-wide event and I signed up solo.

Mesmerized in the wings of the gymnasium stage, I watched another boy’s fiercely convincing impersonation of Flip Wilson’s "Geraldine." I asked about his make up as he came off stage, and he told me his mother had done it. Shocked, I realized I couldn’t follow that act. When they called my name, I pretended like I didn’t hear and the parade of singers and baton twirlers rolled on.

I wonder if one day in some backwoods discoteque I’ll run into "Geraldine" dancing his ass off in a fucking fabulous dress. Meanwhile if you ask me, my own number one, most important, all time favorite reason for wearing a dress is . . . because I can.

[to be continued]

Read previous installments of One Fey's Tale here.

And remember, every Friday is for Faeries on LifeLube.

One Fey's Tale - Installment 5

[a partial list of faerie sanctuaries and faerie circles]

The question

by middle

only on lifelube

I know I’m not the only one. I’ve talked to others about it. After our first experiences – a few months or years after we start hanging out with faeries – we find ourselves wrestling with the question.

Ironically, after a short while we have no qualms about slapping the label on someone else. "He’s such a faerie . . . he just doesn’t know it yet." Sound familiar? When we gaze in the mirror, though, there’s this weird crisis of commitment. In quiet conversations with friends I hear phrases like "I haven’t decided yet," or "I just don’t know if I am or not."

It’s hard to keep a straight...um...poker face when some curious type asks, "how do I apply to attend a gathering," or "how do you become a member of the radical faeries?" My mirth reveals much about both the "normal" world and the fey realm. "Ask three people to define the radical faeries," my friends always say, "and you’ll get four answers."

I hang out with fey folk in fey spaces, participate in faerie rituals, and think I share core faerie values (whatever that means when you define everything for yourself.) I love the earth, believe our queerness is a fabulous gift to the universe, and revel in the energies of intention, magick, and love. I wield an understanding of collective process and power that I’ve learned best from faeries. Yet when asked directly, I still sometimes hesitate, hearing echoes of that old internal debate.

I think it’s a reminder to focus on my path instead of any destination. It probably represents a subconscious reversion to conventional thinking – a useless investment in labels, a sometimes necessary but troublesome concern about things politic, an obsession with perceptions about rejection vs. admiration.

It’s a dilemma that stems from being part of something that defies convention. How can it be possible? Tens or hundreds of diverse humans, ostensibly strangers, gather, feed and take care of one another, share zany and profound experiences, and embrace a new home and a new family.

A counselor once reminded me, "It’s ok to sample things. You don’t have to marry them." She was right.

I believe what Joey Cain wrote on the lifelube blog shortly before I began this series: "As Faeries, we share a view of the world in which the dualities of either/or, minority/majority thinking are dissolved in the experience of ‘both/and,’ ‘I am you’ ways of thinking and being."
No application. No membership. No marriage. Just being.

So the truth is this: Last week, when a table full of queers asked me, "Are you a radical faerie?" I answered, "Yes!" without hesitation. On other occasions, often when the outside world permeates my existence, I sometimes answer differently, smiling, "A radical faerie is one of the things I am."


Read previous installments of One Fey's Tale here.

One Fey's Tale - Installment 4

Dressing Up

by middle

only on lifelube

The gorgeous folk pictured here each Friday (Friday is for Faeries) surround me every time I enter faerie space. Their outward expression of freedom, exuberance, and possibility inspires me. Pushing myself to be free and joyful with things like clothes, makeup, and hair has helped me to shed baggage about everything from masculinity and femininity to race and class, from gender identity to fashion and life.

I never thought of myself as someone born with the “gay gene” for style. If I had any fashion sense, it was way out of sync with those around me. Who had the money for all that anyway? Resigned, I became utilitarian about clothes. Every five or ten years, I’d latch on to one uniform or another and replicate it endlessly.

For example, I spent most of the 70s and part of the 80s wearing a uniform of Levis and imprinted t-shirts. Remember those? The kind you bought in a strip mall shop that smelled like steam heat and melted plastic? You chose your shirt, browsed the airbrushed art and cartoon slogans on the wall, and waited while the clerk used a countertop press to iron it on.

In sanctuary, I wondered if I also lacked a critical “queer gene” for glamour and costumes. I certainly didn’t have a clue at my first gathering in spring of 2000. Before I knew it, the day for celebration had arrived and I had failed to plan an outfit. Panicked, I grabbed the rainbow flag hanging by my tent, tied it around my neck like a cape, and slipped on a pair of crayon plaid flannel pajama shorts.

Dancing with me after the ritual, a leather-clad faerie asked, “What are you supposed to be?” Laughing, I responded sheepishly “super fag?” I learned later that there had been not-so-complimentary laughter about the flag among a few of the more experienced faeries present.

I felt of twinge of defensiveness. None of them knew my close friend’s mother had given it to me when he died of AIDS in ‘93. His former lover’s chosen family had given it to him after his AIDS death in ‘85. When I told my faerie informant this, he simply said, “That’s different.”

So the choice was mine. I could recreate the hang-ups that weighed me down in everyday life, or I could revel in the magic of the space and dance down a new path to my own potential.

My attitudes about masculinity were all mixed up. I’d “acted straight” so long, the idea of exploring aspects of my own identity was daunting. I was sometimes attracted to feminine men, but years of living in binary American macho bullshit culture had inspired me to erect barriers and establish crazy rules about my interactions with men. I could intellectualize all day about the way things could or should be, but I failed to internalize any of it.

Did I have the balls to wear a dress? use makeup or nail polish on any day besides October 31st? cut or color my own hair? At one of my first gatherings, I started with my nails. I was uptight, but I hatched a plan.

A brick solid hairy hunk of a man who I fantasized as a lumberjack was camping on the same ridge as me. I asked him to paint my fingernails, and he obliged. Later I did my toenails. My lumberjack turned out to be a spank bottom who does renowned hag drag on the west coast (and occasionally at gatherings.) He was sexy, sweet, loves to laugh, and a hell of a nice guy.

Since then, I’ve learned a few things. I know where nicer thrift stores and some really cheap ones are. I habitually cruise the end caps in chain drugstores for blow out nail polish, temporary hair color, and makeup. I’m picky about glitter (the coarse crap you used with Elmer’s glue in grade school won’t do, dear.) I prefer multiple colors of nail polish – mostly metallic - and a glitter topcoat.

I still don’t love clothes as much as some in my tribe. I still reach for my “uniforms” as often as not. But other times I grab something I just love, without consideration of what anyone else thinks. Often I’ve made it my own with bleach, dye, scissors, sharpies, or paint.

My choices regarding both clothes and men are now infinitely broader. Dressing up has done more for my attitude than my wardrobe. The gay flag accompanied me to each gathering for a number of years until one fall when I “harvested” its energy by throwing into the evening’s fire.

[to be continued]

Read previous installments of One Fey's Tale here.

One Fey's Tale, Installment 3

by middle, only on lifelube

Buck naked in the woods . . .

He’s lying sunny-side-up among a handful of faeries on a sanctuary hillside under a blue spring sky. He’s a natural looking next-door type guy, definitely not over-groomed. An amazingly thick shock of unruly black hair is splayed on the quilt beneath his head. He is not skinny. There’s a slight padding to his buttermilk-complected face, belly, and thighs that invites caress. A matching trail leads from his navel to the bushiest set of pubes I’ve ever seen - no manscaping for this one – and they sparkle as if they’re made of spun onyx.

His eyes are closed. I don’t move. I imagine he’s a little shy and it’s his first trip like me. As the pale morning sunlight warms our naked bodies, I sense a slow movement in his groin. His member slowly rolls around to one side and extends in a waking stretch. After a few minutes, fully realized, the curve of his erection veers determinedly towards the sky. It stays that way…

“Damn,” I think, “I remember just how that feels.” Hormones raging, just the sensual heat of intense sunlight on my bathing suit was enough to spur a hard-on. I think of the places where it first happened and the images and thoughts that filled my mind just then. Watching him is like watching pure potential, pure energy, pure life. No regrets, but my own energy takes different forms and has other beauties now.

I don’t know who he was. I’ve probably shared a shower or had dinner conversations with him since without knowing. That first-gathering innocence he radiated doesn’t last long.

Yet, every gathering I attend provides these moments of simple joy. A quiet voice trying out a just-written song that sounds better than anything on the radio. The sight of someone quietly journaling during the precise moment when afternoon meets evening. Mythical creatures realized, dancing fervently around a fire. The peal of a banjo ringing across the lawn. The smell of curry and sage and lentils cooking from the communal kitchen that lets you know you’re home. A quick outdoor shower after hot, urgent sex in a tent.

And sometimes I just love skipping clothes.

(to be continued...)

Read Installment 2.

One Fey's Tale - My Path to Sanctuary

[LifeLube is delighted to announce a special new semi-chronological, autobiographical series to accompany our very delicious Faerie Fridays. Our pal middle will be contributing a series musings called One Fey's Tale. Welcome middle!]

by middle

It’s clear that from an early age my path was destined to lead to faerie space and culture. Born in 1962, I was raised by parents with values that predated those of my friends’ parents by a generation. Though some would’ve considered them conservative, they valued things like independence, honesty, and compassion and taught me that bigotry was wrong. I don’t know if they ever “got” that my dogged idealism was borne of their example.

Too young to experience the summer of love first-hand, I was introduced to sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll by my brother who was four years older. Rock music became the source of my philosophy, religion, and politics. I spent my seventies adolescence smoking weed, listening to head music, going to concerts, and pondering my cosmic connection to an era it seemed I’d largely missed.

My awareness that there were faeries in the woods nearby stemmed from two significant realities of my life – I’m gay and HIV positive.

I got the results in 1987, about two years after the first local AIDS organization was created. As I passed in and out of the one-room office as client and volunteer, I heard a story or two from others about the commune they’d visited to talk about AIDS. Meanwhile, participation in early local gay pride events led me to take for granted the participation of long-haired, bearded men in boots and dresses. I listened as assimilationist gays decried these cross-dressing men (and the local drag queens,) wringing their hands over the supposed public relations impact.

Strangely, during subsequent years, before I’d ever really heard the term - before I ever met a faerie - before I ever entered faerie space - I held the idea in my mind that this place could be a personal sanctuary. Still frustrated by my separation from 60s movements, I occasionally thought about the commune in the woods. When I was struggling with life, I thought it might be a place I could run away to, but I never did.

Finally in 1999, I met a few queers who told me I was probably a faerie and long overdue for my first trip.

(to be continued)