How Many More Years

By roma | Published: April 26, 2012

Merry Thursday, heathens. I’m going to be busy as all hell the next week, so I’ll reward your forthcoming patience with some tasty personal tidbits. My “Things You May Not Know About Me” lists often don’t pack the same dramatic punch as other people’s, seeing as I’m an open book, but I think you’ll find a few surprises in here just the same. In honor of my impending birthday, I give you 24 tasty factoids. Enjoy.

1. When I was seven and my parents told me that we were moving, I got extremely upset. As a gift, they bought me a pet hamster that I named “Crystal.” Once we were settled in our new home, I made my first real best friend by the same name. 17 years later, we’re still like sisters.

2. When I was thirteen or so, my sister and I happened upon a box of sex toys in my mother’s bedroom. I stole one of her smaller vibrators, sanitized it, and started using it. When she found it in my room a month or so later, she beat the crap out of me and reclaimed it. We never talked about it again.

3. Despite my feelings about colors being “gendered”, wearing the color pink makes me feel weak.

4. I was never taught how to write cursive.

5. I only type with two fingers (my index fingers), yet I poke away at 70 words per minute.

6. I have never been jealous of my friends who attended Ivy League colleges after high school (there are five of them).

7. I had my first and only true panic attack in my bedroom during my college graduation party at my mother’s house in April 2010. I was without a full-time job, had just been rejected from all four graduate programs I’d applied to, and felt undeserving of the attention. My mother ordered me to pull it together, and my girlfriend turned and fired back on her. It is the only recollection I have of her defending me.

8. Above everything else, I am a creature of habit. I am extremely attached to my rituals.

9. I frequently have erotic dreams about the 20-year-old male lifeguards I work with.

10. While I love being a cisgender woman, I genuinely wish I’d been born male so that I could be a drag queen. Being a faux-queen doesn’t appeal to me.

11. Even though I wouldn’t change a thing about my current relationship status, I kind of wish I were still polyamorous with two primary partners just so that I could show up to my high school reunion in June with two dates. Two queer dates.

12. I miss riding horses almost every single day of my life.

13. I honestly believe that what happened to my dad (AVM bleed, series of strokes, partial paralysis, and compromised neuro functions) is one of the most deserving examples of karmic consequence I’ve ever seen. I have no guilt over this, even as I maintain a relationship with him.

14. I love to drive, but I’ve only been on one roadtrip (New Jersey to Boston).

15. If I could choose my ideal future, I’d get my Masters in Human Sexuality, open a horse rescue for off-track Thoroughbreds, and continue to both perform burlesque and strip well into my thirties, all the while dabbling in LGBT and Sex Workers Rights activism.

16. I need a calculator to do simple math, but I’m a spelling and grammar whiz – always have been. I still remember the word that disqualified me during my fourth grade spelling bee: “reservoir.”

17. All through middle and high school, as I befriended increasing numbers of gay men and became more articulate in LGBT culture/rights, I began passionately wishing that I too were attracted to different genders (I dated cis men exclusively until I was 20). Not to doubt the validity of my own identity (or anyone else’s), but sometimes I wonder if I literally willed myself into my queerness. I have only ever shared this perplexing concern with two people.

18. I am still never really sure what to call my vagina pussy cunt in bed.

19. I am just as attracted to my partner’s gender identity as I am their personality.

20. I’m not usually a “notch in the bedpost” kind of girl, but there is one person who I will fuck before I die, come hell or high water.

21. Sometimes, when I’m working out on a cardio machine and feeling particularly competitive, I’ll glance next to me to see how fast my neighbor is going. I’m well aware that this makes me a douche. It also often makes me feel superior.

22. From when I was 7-12 years old, I had the biggest, most palpable crush on my cousin Brandon. I don’t harbor any shame over this – actually, I find the fact that he later came out as gay extremely telling. When it comes to queer men, I don’t discriminate – apparently, not even over blood ties, haha.

23. If I love you, I really, truly want to help you to get healthier. Let me. I’d like you around as long as possible, please.

24. If we’ve ever swapped saliva, chances are I’ve used your toothbrush when I used your bathroom. You shouldn’t be grossed out – I’m not.

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Case of the Mean Reds

By roma | Published: April 23, 2012

It’s 40 degrees and raining. My ankle’s cranky. Due to both of these issues, I decided to cancel a photoshoot this morning that I’d been looking forward to. I’m concerned, but admittedly not as concerned as I should be about dancing and performing for the first time in months this Saturday. I’m still not running, jumping, or wearing those sky-high heels I so adore, and on less favorable days, days like today, it hurts to simply walk up and down a flight of stairs. But hey, I’ll persevere. That’s what codeine’s for, yeah? Later today I get to go on an adventure of sorts, hunting through Baltimore’s array of seedy sex stores in hopes I can find the hideous piece of ass floss known as a “C-String.”

Regardless of the fact that the C-String is for a burlesque act, I’m pretty sure my down-and-dirty stripper cred goes through the roof once I purchase one. That’s who they’re made for, right? Strippers? Because you know, there’s nothing quite like two bikini strings drawn across a sexy woman’s hips to kill the mood. The damn thing looks like a maxi pad sporting an alien probe. Don’t even ask me how they stay on (not yet, anyway. Give me three days, and I’ll be crouched in a corner of my bedroom, shivering, surrounded by double-sided tape, spirit gum, and the shredded remains of my sanity).

So, since we’ve determined that there could be better days than today, I present to you my guaranteed mood-enhancer: Jiz Lee. I could write so much more, but then again, unlike you, I’ve already spent a great deal of personal time getting off to appreciating these photos. Enjoy.

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Upcoming Shows! Come one, come all, come often!

By roma | Published: April 19, 2012

First, on Saturday April 28th, come help Paco Fish and I ring in Sugar’s 5th Birthday at SHE Productions’ Annual Red and Black Ball! Sugar is, in my humble and biased opinion, one of the best little sex shops in the game, and what better way to celebrate its existence than to take in spectacular burlesque, boylesque, pole dancing, and variety performances while dancing the night away?!

Then on Thursday May 3rd, don’t miss Gigi Holliday’s “Burlesque-a-versary!” revue at the notorious Red Palace in DC! Feast your eyes on the tantalizing talents of an INCREDIBLE cast of seasoned performers!

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My Daddy Wears Stilettos: A Review of “Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica”

By roma | Published: April 9, 2012

When I first received Sinclair Sexsmith’s newest erotica anthology, “Say Please,” in the mail, I squealed with delight. In today’s technology age, despite my longtime lust for the comfortable snap-crack of a book spine, you literally have to shove the pages into my hands with a strict order to “Read!” before I’ll submit. I’ve always worked best under pressure, even if I’m doing something I’m passionate about, and to be honest, I probably would have cast the anthology aside for the time being if it not for two things: 1. A looming April 9th review deadline, and 2. The fact that, HELLO, it was erotica. Delaying the absorption of a Biology chapter on cell division was one thing, but prolonging the litany of XXX-rated imagery that would result from reading a quality batch of erotica? Punishment. As I stood in my foyer cradling the paperback, ignoring my dog’s anxious cries for attention, I started daydreaming about the delicious torture I could inflict on my partner with these words. How I could ask hir to be a “good boi” and listen intently as I read choice tales aloud. Make them sit on their hands, binding them if I have to, so they can’t experience (or inflict) too much pleasure. Once I tire of it, rewarding them for a job well done by allowing them to act out their favorite scene. I’m not often so dominant in my play, but I got hot just thinking about it. I was still grinning to myself when they bounded down the staircase, impatiently commanding my presence in the bedroom, and peered over my shoulder at my gift.

“Ooh, that looks like a fun book,” they purred.

“It’s Sinclair’s newest erotica anthology,” I responded, somewhat despondently. I’d wanted to surprise them. “I have to read and review it….”

“Don’t suppose you want any help with that?” Ze interrupted, shimmying side-to-side ever so slightly, eyes widening with an effort to maintain a serious expression. I love that look. Before I could answer, they once again squinted at the book’s cover. Their eyes narrowed, facial muscles relaxed. Suddenly dismissive, they snorted, “Oh, it’s lesbian erotica. Nevermind. You know me – I need some dick to turn me on.”

I don’t identify as a lesbian, and neither do the majority of my lovers. I neither read nor write a great deal of lesbian literature. Therefore, I can’t explain why I had a flash of anger at that moment. Why I thought, You bastard. Just you wait. I’m going to pick the BEST passages of this book, the ones I know you’ll get absolutely sopping-fucking-wet over, and I’m going to read them to you. Slowly. Enunciating EVERY word. And in the end, you’ll be begging me to let you come.

So now that you know what I’ll be doing tonight, let’s get on to the book, shall we?

First, the details:

$14.95
Trade Paper
ISBN 978-1-57344-785-0
5 1/2 x 8, 232 pages

Description:
Say the magic word and fulfill your deepest desires for discipline and surrender, domination and submission, and the heightened sensations of BDSM play. One request opens up a fantasy world of classic dungeon scenes, bondage and restraint, floggers and spankings, sadism and masochism, very hot sex and so much more. True to form, Sexsmith queers classic gender dynamics, with a femme daddy in Alysia Angel’s “Feathers Have Weight,” and genderqueer bois who earn their right to flag black in Sassafras Lowrey’s “Black Hanky.” In “The Cruelest Kind,” Kiki DeLovely’s naughty narrator gets her just desserts from her butch in a back alley. D.L. King’s top makes her submissive strip before an unseen audience in “A Public Spectacle.” Face slapping can be a hard limit or the most delicious craving, as Rachel Kramer Bussel’s protagonist finds out in “A Slap in the Face.” Whether you dream of surrendering to a lover or of weilding your power, Say Please to the erotic inspiration within.

With contributed stories by Miriam Zoila Pérez, Wendi Kali, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Gigi Frost, BB Rydell, Amelia Thornton, Vie La Guerre, Sassafras Lowrey, Dusty Horn, Kiki DeLovely, Elaine Miller, Shawna Elizabeth, Sossity Chiricuzio, Meridith Guy, August InFlux, Maria See, D.L. King, Anna Watson, Dilo Keith, Sinclair Sexsmith, Alysia Angel, Xan West, and Elizabeth Thorne.

Contributing bloggers on this month’s blog tour (hint, that’s what I’m doing!):

April 10 Official release date! Sinclair
April 11 Dede / deviantdyke
April 12 Helena Swann

April 13 Kim Herbel
April 13 Say Please release party in NYC
April 14 Lily Lloyd
April 15 Kelli Dunham

April 16 Lyzanne
April 17 Lula Lisbon
April 18 Ali Oh
April 19 Jameson

April 21 Charlie Ninja
April 22 Say Please release party in Boston
April 22 Meredith Guy
April 23 Wendi Kali

April 24 Lolita Wolf
April 25 Audrey at Babeland
April 26 Seth B

April 27 Danika
April 28 DL King
April 29 Kiki
April 30 Dilo Keith
April 30 Xan West
May 2 Say Please release party in Seattle

Review:

Contrary to my partner’s belief, there’s plenty of dick in this book. There are femmes packing cock and butches packing cock. There are dolphin trainers whipping it out in public bathrooms, and victims of police brutality riding it cathartically on the floor. Despite the impressive amount of silicone being used to tease, tantalize, and teach lessons in this collection, it remains exceptionally diverse. Though the authors had to conform to the theme of “lesbian BDSM”, both of those labels were interpreted in a variety of ways, loosely and enthusiastically. For instance, when one thinks of “BDSM,” the tangible tools of the trade often leap to mind: floggers, clamps, crops, gags. In Vie La Guerre’s “Taking Direction,” a third party’s hands are the only means of taking a woman to the desperate edge of climax before leaving her hanging there. Likewise, in Sassafras Lowry’s “Black Hanky,” I’d bet my savings that neither one of the mischievous bois reveling in each other’s masculine power identify as a “lesbian.” But the beauty of it is, if they did, well, that’d be just fine. In “Say Please,” there are no baselines, no stereotypes, and certainly no “scissoring.” As the coquettish narrator of August InFlux’s “Counting Love” assures us when telling us to leave the candy hearts at home, the best acts of love are not universal. To me, “Say Please” is a beautifully structured vessel carrying creative, courageous, highly individualized demonstrations of respect and admiration.

I felt personal connections with many of the characters in the anthology. When Gigi Frost’s roleplaying housewife struggles internally with her desire to be objectified versus her shame for the desire itself, I felt a pang of comaraderie in my gut. I smirked sympathetically while watching the protagonist of “Call Me Sir: A Smutty Pulp Fiction Tale” feign interest while being picked up by loose-lipped, cocksure Jake Six. But my favorite tale of all had to be D.L. King’s “A Public Spectacle.”

In it, we join an audience of “watchers” as a nondescript, indeterminantely-aged wallflower transforms into a startlingly beautiful object of desire, one beating at a time. What struck me about this metamorphosis wasn’t just that King led us so eloquently from one extreme to another; it’s that they were able to perfectly capture what I have been struggling to articulate for the past year. When you meet new faces in the kink community, you meet people, not the parts they play. You aren’t introduced to doctors, real estate agents, office assistants, or stay-at-home moms; rather, you learn to identify others by their particular brand of rapture. When you witness a scene, you’re witnessing the purest forms of those involved. Somehow, what they “look” like is irrelevant. I have yet to find someone in the throes of passion “unattractive” – their complete surrender to their own pleasure is enough to awe me and erase any preconceived notions of sexiness. When “A Public Spectacle” opens, I was almost ashamed of the disinterest I felt as the narrator described the unremarkable “Janice”. As the story closed, however, I found my heart racing. I’d been unmistakably turned on by this “nondescript” woman’s submission. She was the very first character in the anthology that my vivid imagination hadn’t tried to conjure up. Truly, it did not matter what she looked like, and in my opinion, that is the mark of an excellent piece of erotica.

Cherry Popping Alert! For those of you who are unaware, this is the very first time I’ve had the privilege of reviewing erotica, and I want to thank Sinclair Sexsmith for allowing me to do so. Perhaps, if I’m fortunate, I’ll even get to thank them physically personally…

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Fucking and Punching

By roma | Published: April 6, 2012

I’ve got to come clean – I am having an absolutely stupendous day. A birds-chirping, field-skipping, daisy-picking kind of day. The kind of day where I can stomach an elongated phone call with my mother while managing to sound elated to hear from her. The kind of day where I pulled a few strings at work to give a lesbian couple a $30-a-month discount on their gym membership, because family’s got to watch out for each other. I attribute it to the following:

1. The weather is GORGEOUS. Now that I can “walk” (if that’s what you call my new disjointed, rambling penguin gait), I find myself enjoying a mobile individual’s pleasures, which include being able to comment on the warmth of the sun from firsthand experience.

2. Last night, I taught yet another new sexual partner how to fist. Which is becoming increasingly common as I: a) Embrace my capacity for sluttiness, and b) Bed increasing numbers of female-bodied people who typically (though not always) have smaller, more precise hands. I may be a size queen, but there’s a big difference between the slight, cunning fingers of a delicate aerialist and the gargantuan, bulging knuckles of a broad-shouldered mechanic. This is the fifth fisting cherry I’ve popped in as many months, and I get feverish with excitement when I learn of an opportunity to teach. I feel that this desire feeds the very core of my identity as a self-proclaimed “sex geek.” Now, if only I could find a willing recipient for my own well-hung hands….

3. I’m still basking in the delicious afterglow of Momentum Con! I attended such sessions as “Sex Work and Social Justice,” “Blogging 202,” “The Ironies of the Anti-Trafficking Movement,” “Erotica 101,” and many more. As a result, I am now up to speed on topical sex workers’ politics, have a working plan for improving the layout and quality of my blog to make it more attractive and user-friendly, and have successfully penned my first two pieces of erotica. There’s so much more that I could digress on, both academic and experential, but you’ll just have to attend the damn thing yourself next year!

4. I get to review Sinclair Sexsmith’s latest erotica anthology.

Holy deity of hotness, am I psyched! This Monday, April 9th, in salacious detail, I will be remarking on Sexsmith’s newest piece of work. Speaking of which, by the time I finish this anthology, I’ll need someone to work me over. Any takers? I’ll promise to teach you something new….just make sure you clip those fingernails first.

And now…..

TGIF Resources!

Forfeiting my equipment: How much does your vagina cost? But what about vajazzling?

Sexual Service Announcement: Tits and Sass. I’m addicted.

Burlesque-gasm: Montabahn Pasties. I MIGHT have just splurged on a set of their adorable mustache pasties…

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Built for Comfort, Not for Speed

By roma | Published: March 22, 2012

I’ve spent the last orthopedically-challenged five weeks of my life doing a lot of things. Eating Oreos, for example. Sleeves of them. Deciding that I dislike the “100th Anniversary Birthday Cake” varieties and pawning them off on my roommates. I’ve watched online episode after online episode of mediocre sitcoms, passionately willing Carl to stay in the goddamn house, Tara to get committed already, and Elliot Stabler to re-join the force (if you got any of those references without Googling them, I’ll suck your fingers raw). I’ve breezed through two Murakami books and temporarily lost my sense of reality. I’ve gotten increasingly adept at having comprehensive, concise phone conversations with my mother. Now, I wonder if I’ll ever enjoy them….

I’ve also been trying to figure out exactly why, when most of my time these days is spent icing, elevating, massaging, stretching, and hopping around on my shrunken right leg (not to mention getting a handle on my anxiety around re-injuring it and embarrassment over the way it looks), I’ve been having so much sex. Why I’ve been wanting to have so much sex. I went through “want and wan” periods, of course. The weekend of Winter Fire, where I initially fractured the ankle, I allowed myself a thirty-minute cathartic cry, and then, determined to not let the injury ruin the rest of the event (read: three days of fuck/play potential), I popped some Vicodin, ordered a wheelchair, and got my groove on. I’m pretty sure one of my favorite moments was when I got wheeled into a giant metal cage, shut in with two delicious bois and the most flexible woman I’ve ever seen naked, and proceeded to bump and grind for a bevy on onlookers, all while balanced on one leg. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Anyway, the two weeks after Winter Fire were pure hell. My fracture was finally assessed professionally, and due to nonexistant/failing medication, I was in constant pain, so I was barely sleeping. I also got my period. AND contracted a terrifying case of Strep, at one point receiving two aggressive needles in my ass to stop my throat from closing up. Delightful. In addition to all of my physical woes, I was battling a crippling case of guilt, being forced to depend on my partner for the smallest things. Yes, my partner is incredible, and yes, they literally get off on serving others, but a loss of mobility can do funny things to a person. Psychologically, emotionally. Moral of the story: I was not feeling sexy. And then, suddenly, I was.

I wish I could say that it was a specific moment, or person. Like the look I saw in my partner’s eyes as they reached for my throat. Like the musician strumming my body, down to my neglected, bruised toes, making me sing. Like the boi on the road, huskily commenting on my muscle definition in between calling me a dirty whore. But what I eventually realized is that the ground beneath my feet has become so alien, so treacherous and wrought with uncertainty and the promise of pain and failure, that I feel safest when I’m on my back. As though my bed fellow(s) and I, so poorly matched on land, have finally found a level playing field. I may not be able to walk, but I can still writhe, restrain, and submit. I can still feel. I can still fuck. And I can hone those small, intimate talents, the ones that don’t require two feet firmly on the ground.

My mother told me that after this period of “withdrawal,” I would reemerge stronger. That being said, I doubt think she anticipated me emerging as a stronger lay……sorry, Mom.

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For Everything a Reason: Part I

By roma | Published: February 22, 2012

So. It’s Roma again. (Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah! Roma-roma-mamah! ….Sorry.) And I have some important news to share. But I want to do all of it justice, so I’ve organized it into two parts, as it resides in my head. One part devoted to my future as a burlesque(er) performer, one part devoted to recent challenges and how I overcame them. That last one sounds kind of boring, so I’ll spice it up with some sex. Some really fucking fantastic sex. Some sex with men, ladies, and gender non-conformers alike. Sex in cages, on tables, in beds, and almost in wheelchairs. Sex while getting spanked with a putty knife and feeling the corresponding shudders run through the body attached to the beautifully sculpted hand I was holding. It’s like that dirty little fortune cookie trick: “You will overcome challenges……IN BED!” See? Doesn’t sound so boring anymore. Hang in there – I’m it’s coming.

Part I: Why I’m Leaving Sticky Buns Burlesque

Recently, Paco Fish of Sticky Buns Burlesque, the fantastically freaky burlesque and variety troupe that I’ve been a part of for the past two years, began advertising an April audition process to become a core member, guest performer, or stage manager with the troupe. While many reacted with excitement and hurried to submit their applications and score an audition date (as they should!), an equal number of people were confused. Was someone leaving the troupe? What catastrophe befell us that we were now holding auditions for core performers? Because I don’t believe it’s been officially addressed yet, and because those involved are very, very dear to me, I want to give it proper attention.

While we started out as a collective back in September 2010, the hierarchy of SBB has morphed over the past two years. It was eventually decided to vote Paco Fish as President/Manager of the troupe, and Marla Meringue as Vice President/Co-Manager. The vote was unanimous and based on the following points: 1. They were the original co-founders of the troupe, 2. Due to the larger amount of time they had available, their considerable passion for performance, as well as their talents, they were doing the majority of the work in terms of booking, producing, and promoting shows for the troupe, and 3. They wanted the positions. They deserved them. I have had the privilege of watching all of SBB’s original members (Paco, Marla, Gigi Holiday, and Shortstaxx) evolve into these sophisticated, complex, coordinated, empowered performers, but Paco and Marla really take the cake. There’s been a lot of debate in the burlesque community recently about “professionals” vs. “hobbyists,” and even though I promised myself that I wasn’t going to get into an in-depth discussion about why I think labels and categories divide our community and alienate individuals, or why discerning “hobbyists” as such often leaves those who don’t perform full-time feeling inferior or invisible, or why I believe a dialogue about the over-saturation of the burlesque community could have been approached in a myriad of more effective and tactful ways…..it must be said that I am a hobbyist, while Paco and Marla are professionals. And after lots of trial and error, it is my opinion that a burlesque troupe should be manned entirely by those who identify as either one or the other.

I love to perform; to create, to suggest, imply, tease, and challenge. But performing is not my top priority. I am constantly seeking ways to better myself as a performer, but not at the risk of letting the other important things in my life (my relationships, my health, my job) suffer. I can no longer make significant sacrifices of my time, nor my money. Spending hundreds of dollars on props and costuming is out of the question, and now that I’m a 9-5er, so is touring, or attending festivals. As I’ve watched my SBB family become bigger, better, and more beloved, I’ve felt an increasing distance from them, a sinking feeling of inevitability as I came to realize that soon, they would outgrow me. I felt reluctant, dismayed, nostalgic, but I knew it was the right decision. Ironically, I announced my decision to leave SBB before Paco and Marla even voiced that they had been considering holding auditions, including for core members. I had two reactions to their proposal: one emotional, one logical. My heart said, “That’s insulting.” My head said, “That’s amazing.” And in the end, I fully support them. This is what professional performance troupes do. They audition their core members year after year, giving them continuous opportunities to prove their dedication to the craft, ensuring that they retain the best of the best. Sticky Buns Burlesque deserves to be a professional performance troupe. We have spent the last two years working our asses off to attain a certain level of beautiful and bizarre notoriety that I could not possibly be more proud of. I truly believe that our vision, our goals, and our particular flavor of performance are all utterly unique, and the last thing I want to do is drag everyone down because I cannot commit to the same rigorous expectations as the rest of the group.

I consider my departure an act of creative maturation, and as the beginning of an entirely new chapter for Paco, Marla, Gigi, Shortstaxx and I. I will be auditioning to be a SBB guest performer this go-around, and I encourage all of you to get involved while you can. You don’t want to miss this ride.

Ps. I will be continuing to perform independently of Sticky Buns Burlesque on a regular basis. Please continue to keep me in mind for burlesque, performance art, go-go dancing, promotional modeling, and freelance writing opportunities………’specially if they’re queer :-) .

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You made your bed, now lie in it.

By roma | Published: January 15, 2012

I remember, with amazing clarity, the first time I ever went to a gay nightclub event as a queer-identified woman. Technically, I’d been to “college night” at Apex, a since-closed DC dive, prior to then. But when I look back on it, I mostly recall the car ride there, conversations with friends, not the actual outing itself, let alone any significance it had. In my opinion, it’s because I was still identifying as heterosexual. Not denying it, not struggling with it, just was. A year or two later, after I’d watched my sexual orientation ride the Kinsey Scale like a mechanical bull, everything changed. I hit a rooftop deck party with a good friend in the sweltering heat of summer, a raging monthly affair hosted by a local lesbian production company, and it was as though I’d finally thought to put on my prescription eyeglasses. No longer did I just see swarms of laughing, dancing partygoers – instead, all I could see were the chasms that hurt, lonely, angry women created among themselves.

“Those two?” my friend indicated, as though we were on a safari, “Those two hate each other. The blonde slept with the redhead’s girlfriend, and now they don’t talk.”

“What the fuck, I can’t believe she’s here!”

“Thank goodness I just saved you! That’s my best friend’s ex – she’s crazy, would have taken you home in a second! You totally owe me.”

And so it went on. With my new eyes, I keenly observed every cold stare, every whispered rumor, every tearful encounter, every empty threat bellowed across bathroom stalls. The tension was suffocating, yet so thinly veiled – after a mere hour, I was convinced that queer women were nuts, estrogen was mostly to blame, and that I’d never, ever date one of these crackerjacks, let alone be one. God, how I long for those days.

Now, I enter a favorite local bar, and I’m assaulted by memories, ghosts, reminders of my failures and indiscretions. I check my coat, grab a drink, set up camp in a corner with friends, wait for the dancefloor to fill. I shoot the shit with passerby. Bar staff waving away my money when I extend it. Old college acquaintances telling me how good I look. The smokin’ shooter girl asking me how she can break into burlesque. Ex-roommates sharing their surprise at how many AARP card-holders are present. The usual. Suddenly I’m finding myself having to entertain a woman who was sleeping with my former girlfriend for a spell after our breakup. A woman who’s been nothing but rude to me; a former girlfriend I would still jump in front of a bus for. No matter, no matter. I can make small talk. I can be better. Ten minutes later, I break to refill my drink, and bump into a girl whose mouth I fell into a few weeks ago. I had asked her if she’d like to go to the club with my friends and I that night, and she’d claimed to have other plans. Now she was looking embarrassed, and introducing me to the striking, willowy woman next to her. No matter, no matter. I can be gracious. I can forget about it. I return to the dancefloor, reminding myself why I came in the first place. Body’s in motion, mind is placid. Without warning, my eyes catch those of a girl whose face is ridden with regret, a ghost if I ever saw one. For a moment, I forget to breathe.

Now I’m retreating, with purpose. Claiming my coat, hailing a cab, cursing myself for staying in this fucking useless city, this city that set the stage for so much transformation and discovery and community, only to use its familiarity, an illusion of being a safe space, to remind me of what I’ve lost. Of how hard I’ve become, and how soft; how big, and how small. Of how I waste entirely too much time in the past. Of how I make irreparably poor decisions, justifying them by knowing that the only intention behind them is love, even when I can already see that my losses will be greater than my gains. Like seeing that my aforementioned former girlfriend is hurting for money, and dropping their favorite foods at their door (Gain: maybe she’ll eat them. Loss: $40, and that whole goddamn relationship). Or finally satiating the longstanding desire for a sexual relationship with someone I care deeply for, but doing so while they’re still partnered. Monogamously. (Gain: fleeting pleasure, shame, loathing. Loss: respect, two friends, and the ability to ever attend another nightclub function without anxiety over running into them. Again.).

Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone falls, struggles upright, takes down a lesson for later. I also happen to believe that everyone suffers karmically (I’d be silly to assume it coincidental, the fact that my car also broke down yesterday, that a visiting friend fled unexpectedly to aid someone up north). But the universe certainly has a sense of humor. In the early hours of the morning, I grumbled all the way up the walk to my partner’s front door (I swear, cab-fare rape is one of the most prevalent in this city), slid the key in the lock and softly cracked the door, and found a beautiful bouquet of flowers waiting for me, my partner fast asleep in their bed. The fact that someone can be so in love with me, both in spite of everything I’ve done as well as because of it, is the funniest, most wonderful thing in the entire world.

And may I say that it feels so incredibly, indescribably, insanely awesome to be writing again? No matter the topic. I’m back.

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Pain is Beauty

By roma | Published: December 16, 2011

Tattoo design by Evan Wilson. BAM.

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These were the only morals that I could afford

By roma | Published: December 14, 2011

Bitch, I’m on a budget.

So you might be saying to yourself, “Man, Roma never blogs anymore! She used to have such captivating and despicably dirty tales to tell. Once, I shared one of her stories with my great aunt Mildred, and she threw a blood clot right there in the nursing home! She’s turned into a total square with that day job of hers’.”

And you know what? You can sit and spin on it. Because you’re right (kind of). Working nine or ten hours a day while continuing to desperately fan the flames of a side career as an entertainer (read: go go dancer, burlesque(er) performer, and ecdysiast extraordinaire that will totally admit to scanning Craigslist for “private party” opportunities) takes a lot out of a girl. Did I mention that I’m still trying to keep my legs open on a relatively regular basis? Because I am. I may be held fast in the most exhilarating and rewarding relationship of my life, but that doesn’t mean that bells and whistles don’t go off when a beautiful androgynous and/or transmasculine piece of meat hunkers by. I’m such a sucker.

As usual, my life effortlessly divides itself into two categories: Things I’m Really Fucking Excited About, and Things I Can’t Believe Happen In Real Life. Let us begin.

TIRFEA (Not to be confused with TGIF, or TGMMFTBE, otherwise known as Thank God My Mom Forgot This Blog Exists)

1. My tattoo. For the past few months, the incredible talent that is Evan Wilson has been designing my next tattoo, a large thigh piece that is in the final stages of exquisite production. With a guaranteed amazing two months of sales at the gym quickly approaching, my goal is to have it finished by February 1st. I’ll post the final sketch before I get it inked – I’d love to get some feedback.

2.Queer performance art! I recently drove to DC to sit in on a meeting of The DC Gurly Show, and was super impressed. First off, the vast majority of the members are triple threats, skilled in dance, vocal performance, and theatrical performance. Second, for such a large group of individuals (over thirty at the meeting I attended), they’re a well-oiled machine, run precisely and democratically, with everyone seeming to genuinely enjoy and respect their fellow Gurlies. Third, they’re passionate. Headed by the sassy femme fury, Private Tails, the Gurlies mean business. They book scores of shows, competitions, fundraisers, and social outings without batting an eyelash. I’m very much looking forward to future collaborations with them.

3. My friends, who continue to surprise, delight and enlighten me. For instance, my roommate/beard/best gay, Jay Simpson, has recently pledged his commitment to the AIDS Lifecycle, the only AIDS fundraising bicycle event in California organized by the non-profit agencies that will benefit from the money raised by its participants (CLICK THE ABOVE LINK TO DONATE TO HIS RIDE!). In addition, he’s set up a website, My HIV Promise, to spread knowledge and awareness, and to keep people talking about what matters most: their health, and the health of those around them.

My HIV Promise :)

All of this selflessness ALMOST makes up for the fact that he’s leaving me AGAIN in January to spend six months in Cape Town. Almost.

4. My eccentric British supervisor, Barry, who greets me every day with an, “ ‘ello, darling!”, brings me back bottles of tequila from his tropical travels, and never fails to interrupt my dullest desk moments by rounding up our sales team and suggesting we play a game or discuss something controversial to liven things up. For instance, last week we all spent thirty minutes playing a celebrity round of “Cruise, Marry, Shag,” the English equivalent of “Date, Marry, Fuck,” at his suggestion. Later on in the week he dumped twenty-two packs of gum on my desk because he “owed me,” and that same day he spent an hour talking my ear off about how limiting our gendered options for membership are (“Bloody hell, what if someone’s transgender? What do they write? ‘Other’?! This country is so bloody frustrating!” I agreed, of course). He also lights up like a small child whenever he hears Michael Jackson, has a pet rabbit named “Bunners” that runs around his house like a dog, and convinced our general manager (for an entire day, I might add) that it was he who put a dozen red roses on my desk, and no, of course his wife wouldn’t mind, and yes, in fact he did think it was perfectly work-appropriate. I just might love this man.

…..And, as usual, I’m out of time (not to mention energy). I don’t know about you, but I don’t mind leaving things on a positive note. BEFORE YOU GO! Check this out:

Sticky Buns Burlesque at Illusions in Baltimore on Friday, December 16th! $15, show starts PROMPTLY at 9pm! See you there!

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