All month long, buddies is hosting a blog salon with some our favourite writers and artists responding to one question: How do I connect with my queer heritage? Follow the conversation on our blog, or join the conversation on Facebook and Twitter with the hashtag #GayHeritageProject. Here’s one final entry from Sonja Mills – it’s been a blast.
I am commandeering this important blog to moan about my latest breakup.
Hey! What the fuck and SO not fair! I really liked this one! Did someone get the number of that truck that just hit me? A fucking bomb just landed over here!
You know what? Gay, straight, all the permutations in between… it all sucks. Something that seems so right happens, and then it bites you in the ass.
This is personal. It’s all personal.
Queers and feminists, we made the personal political.
Besides, I don’t know that I can wax intelligent or shed any new light on the politics, or the art, of queerdom. You’ve heard it, this is all going out to the choir anyway. (p.s. loved Ryan G. Hinds’ homage to Judy. I’m a church goer myself).
So yeah, fuck it, I will take this opportunity to celebrate the hookups and bemoan the breakups. Because that’s what we’re talking about here, people… sex.
I’m not even sure what I call myself these days. Well, Sonny. People have been calling me Sonny for a little while now. My recent ex-love finally dragged that out of me… that I’ve secretly always wished to be a boy named Sonny.
I’ll get my tits lopped off at some point. May as well wait til I’m finished menopausing at this point though, I figure, to make sure they don’t grow back. It’s a fairly easy procedure now, you just lay down your credit card and bob’s your uncle. In order to get OHIP to pay for it I’m pretty sure I’d have to feign some kind of gender dysphoria and go through a bunch of counselling and crap, which I don’t need. I’m not dysphoric. I know exactly who I am, I just don’t have a name for it besides queer as fuck.
Okay, so I’m not a boy. Not a girl. A woman, yes, technically for sure. Not a man, yuck. But definitely a guy. Huge cock. Several, in fact. Pretty comfortable being somewhere near the middle of the gender spectrum, but I will admit I’ve had issues finding compatible partners. Basically, I need to be with a straight woman, which can lead to all sorts of trouble.
Let me say this while I’m in a rare vulnerable state of being as honest as I can bear. If you can relate to what I’m about to say, you can testify, otherwise just hear it and be respectful: I fall in love with every fucking girl I have sex with, and I intend to live happily ever after with each and every one of them. There, I said it. And though this condition, as I’m sure you can imagine, can lead to no end of heartache and drama, I have to say I’m grateful to all of them, the whole endless fucking string of them. Even the ones that were completely wrong in every way. Dude knows who I mean.
With the hooking up, and subsequent moving on, of each new partner, I have come closer and closer to understanding myself sexually and feeling comfortable in my own skin. In my earlier blog, I bitched a bit about how old I’m getting. But I tell ya, I wouldn’t be young now for all the money and pussy in the world. The sex was one big what-the-fuck and the breakups were brutal. Hey, young lovers? Just one piece of unsolicited advice for you, okay? If you’re making nightly trips to the emergency room together, it’s time to split up.
So here’s my favourite breakup story: 1994. She’s sitting in the kitchen reading some fucking thing, a book or something, and I’m rushing around late for work, and she says to me “can you make me a sandwich before you go?”, not a word of a lie, as if I’m the girl or something, and I say “sure honey, I’ll make you a sandwich” and I go upstairs and kick out the bedroom window and start heaving her stuff out onto the driveway. She’s on the driveway trying to retrieve her stuff, we’re both screaming back and forth at each other through the hole in the second floor of our house, I’m sure the neighbours had a good… hang on, I can’t remember why I’m telling this story.
Uh… so anyway, I’m trying to make the vaguest point that it is our personal stories, many similar, many completely unique, but all queer as fuck, that have ultimately created our politics, and our art, and our heritage.
And now I’m going back to bed for six weeks to continue my recuperation. I’m only at stage three of the grieving process (hard drugs and denial).