loves labours lost and found

Love is a many splendid thing,
Love lifts us up where we belong,
All you need is love!

- Moulin Rouge



Love.

Love is awkward...messy...fun...painful...beautiful....

Love.

You say it to your parents, your friends, your dog....

Then you say it to a person. "I love you." This one is different.

I have said the words "I love you" to four people. Each time was terrifying, and hilarious.

I would like to share these stories with you.



First it was Sami. Sami is my best friend.

We were 15, I think, at the time. She was my first girlfriend. We had been dating for, oh say, five-ish months with a 15% margin for error.

Being 15, being new to everything in love, I had wanted to tell her that I was madly in love with her and wanted to elope that night. Well, since I started to have romantic inclinations toward her. I managed to wait it out a while, but my timing was a bit off.

We were at my house; we were in my bed; we were getting it on.

As I recall, we were both fully clothed, making very awkward noises on my very creaky bed; I think my parents were home. We were a tangled ball of teenage thrusting-moaning-mess. I was about to hit the high point of the event when I said it for the first time. "OHGodIloveyou!"

Wait for it....

Wait for it....

...waiting....

And Sami says something to the effect of "I er...you?"

Close enough!

Almost...and I'm spent.

Yeah. It was not classy. It was not what I expected, but it did set the tone for my love life. And, it’s been along that tune ever since. Me, throwing myself head first into something, giving it my all, and grasping at the hope of what could be. Sad but true; really only funny in hindsight.



Let’s move onto Cate, whom I moved onto before I moved away from Sami....

When I first saw this girl, I was at work, and I believe I started drooling.

5'7, long dark red hair; curves, curves, curves; and, she spoke French.

She was B-E-A-utiful; I was stupid.

We started dating and about four months in she told me about a dream she had:

Her mother (who, I might add, is BAT SHIT CRAZY) and she were fighting.

Her mother said: "I want you to stay away from that girl, she is trouble!"

Cate replied, with tears in her eyes, "But Mom, I love her!"

She proceeded to board a bus with me and we drive off into the sunset.

I was driving us to her house when she told me about this and I was trying really hard not to laugh.

So, I just said "...did you mean it?"

With much conviction, she grabbed my hand and said, "Yes, I did!"

WOW.

What do you say to that, really?

I think I said "oh."

About two weeks from that day, we were in my car again.

This time it was parked. On a hill. At night, in a newly constructed neighborhood.

The drivers seat was leaned back, and I was in the middle of giving Cate the hicky to-end-all-hickies when I popped my mouth off of...well, I’d like to say it was her neck, but it wasn’t...and said, “I—” (HONK!) “—love you.”

Cate's ass had hit the car horn and it blared into the silence, covering my words.

“Shit!” Cate was panting. “Did you say something?”

"Uh...tell you later."



Now it’s Samantha's turn. I seem to have a thing for Sams.

We met on the internet, I was cuter than her...by a lot, but she was funny and charming. I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress; Sam was a drug addict. Suffice to say, I let that slide.

Let’s set the stage:

I had pneumonia, for the last two of the first three weeks we were dating. She came over almost every day and took care of me. I thought I was dying.

As I started to get better, I started to walk her to the porch when she left. We would make-out in the dark. One night, it was like a movie, a cheesy cliché movie. The porch light was the only light we could see and it lit a circle around us. Sam had me pushed up against the brick wall, hands on my hips, lips on my neck. I said "You make me feel things that can't possibly be true."

She did not remove her face from the nape of my neck when she said "tell me."

I think I said something like "I'm scared..."

She said "please" in a way that I could not say no to.

"I think I love you."

Why do people believe that adding “think” to that statement makes it less scary? The words are out there either way!

She repeated the sentence back. We kissed, and we kissed some more. She told me that if it came down to me or the drugs she would always pick me. I was so much more important. I believed her.

Six months later, I found out that pain pills and marijuana are slightly more attractive and defiantly more addictive than I am. I cried. She smoked. I loved her, she loved pot....

It’s funny, now.

Now its M.R. not using his real name is hard because when I picture his face or think his name I feel the love I have for him.
That pounding, aching, dizzy love feeling, It makes writing this easier.
I knew the fist time I saw him years ago, that I wanted to know him. I felt the closest thing I can imagine to love as first sight.

Now that we are together I wanted to say it. for some reason I'm not just content to feel the emotion I had to verbally put it out into the world.
I started by trying to be sneaky, I'd wait till I knew he was asleep.
I'd whisper "hey...baby...? I love you!"

Then like I was a 5 year old child I'd giggle to myself and cover my head with blankets to hide from my oblivious sleeping boyfriend.
I did this over the course of weeks.

One night when M.R's mom's dog escaped at 12:00 in the morning I had to go outside in my T-shirt, shorty shorts, and bare feet...it was January.
I was lazy and it seemed like a good idea.

After spending a good 15min in the cold trying to catch the little runt I finally got to go inside. MR was in bed.

I said "3 things, 1. We got her. 2.I cant feel my toes. 3. I love you."
Mr said "that's only 2"

"no" I said, "there was a third thing."
he said "yeah but that's completely unrelated."

"no its not." I'm sure I looked very mischievous, "you are whats going to keep my toes warm!"
I proceaded to jump in the bed and press my ice cold feet against MR's toasty warm legs.

He screamed, I was content.

Sometimes I think I hear him say it, I love you.
But I never quite catch it, its in passing or something whispered.
I'll ask, "what did you say?". when he answers, its always something different than what I thought I heard.


I love the lyrics preceding the post, but I find these to be more appropriate:



You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
-The Rolling Stones

MR. T(estoerone)

My boyfriend started "T" a couple of months ago. Let me tell you, THAT is an Adventure. When MR, my Boyfriend, finally—finally!—got approved to get his testosterone shots, I was very...alarmed to find out that I was to give the first shot. I assumed that the Dr.’s would want it done right and would at least show me how to do it; but, no-no-no, that's an entirely different appointment. MR, being so eager to begin the official chemical part of his “man-ification,” wanted it done that night.

We got the T at a place called the Apothecary. When I heard the name, I could not help but think Romeo and Juliet. You know, the place where Romeo got the poison... I was hoping that this was not a bad omen.

We procured his prescription and made our way to his friend’s house. His best friend is also Trans, and his best friend’s wife (who MR used to date) was going to show me how to administer the shots. She has been giving her hubby the shots for a while now, and it helps that she is in nursing school. So we get to her place, and I'm practically shaking; MR is practically bouncing with giddiness. We go to the bathroom and the first words out of MR's ex's mouth are: "present me with your ass." Now that was both hilarious and alarming. While the ass needs to be present, I am very territorial over this particular ass and would prefer for it to be used for my sole viewing pleasure. ‘You had your chance jerk’, I was thinking; ‘my butt!’ But, these are irrational thoughts. She has a man that she is very much in love with, and I know she harbors no lingering feelings for my boy. So, I try to be rational and learn.

(Let me side note and say that the "my" in front of boy in the last sentence implies that I have ownership of some sort over MR. This is clearly not the case. Saying MY boyfriend, or MY man, just gives me a lovely blanket of false security. I enjoy it. Don't take it away from me.)

So, MR drops trow. About an inch and a half above the ass crack, to the side in the squishy bit, almost to the hip bone, is where you give the injection. There were a lot of technical elements that were covered, but, honestly, it would bore you to talk about how you draw a shot; make sure the bubbles are gone; what to do so you don't kill the shotee...

There I was, on my knees on the cold tile floor of a strange bathroom, (MR's friend/ex had left, because this was an "intimate moment"), trying not to stress. MR is saying, "C’mon, do it!" and I'm having a fairy book moment in my head, being all sentimental. I envision standing up, turning my boyfriend around, and kissing him passionately; saying "I love you" and hearing it back. I think, 'this is the moment that will forever bond us. I'm here for the first big step; I'm administering the first shot that will help you become the man I know you are.' As mushy as it is, that's the way I see it. The love I felt for him at that moment would literally be embodied in his new form. But, none of this translates beyond my mind. The best I can do is whine "give me a kiss jerk, I need to calm down." A peck later and I'm back on my knees, staring down the most intimidating ass I've ever seen in my life, and I remember what my instructor said, "it’s like throwing a dart." Darts I understand.

I plunge the syringe in, pushing the thick, oily testosterone into my boyfriend. I could not believe I did it! MR was not howling in pain, and I had never been more proud of myself. I bandaged the tiny hole to absorb the little dot of blood that oozed out and kissed the band-aid. Honestly, I think it was more of a mile stone for me than it was for him.

Afterwards we ate leftover BBQ. Not very climactic, but isn’t that life?

Bleat Your Prayers to Jesus (He Listens to Goats)

Let me tell you about a goat.
Today, I find myself lacking anything closely resembling motivation or inspiration, but I know if I don't write again, I'll fall off the wagon. After talking to my best friend, I decided I'd tell you about our Epic Goat Maneuver.
It all started with a prank war.
My parents were deep into a prank extravaganza with a couple of friends from their church. Roger and Cathy were winning after filling a toilet with flowers and planting it in our suburban front yard. I loved it; our neighbors did not. After much scrutiny, my parents got to talking about retaliation. Their diabolical scheme: chain a farm animal in Roger and Cathy's front yard. Which animal, of course, was a topic of high debate. A cow would be too large, a chicken too small; a donkey, although fantastic, would be far too expensive. Finally, they settled on a goat. Being the daughter that I am, I took it upon myself to acquire one.
"Give me three phone calls," I declared, "and I'll get you a goat!"
So, I made my three calls. My calls made some calls of their own. And then we waited.
Wednesday next, phone calls having never come to fruition and myself having nothing better to do, I spent the evening driving around with Murphy.
"Where can you get a goat at eight on a Wednesday night?" He curiously inquired.
Determined to answer such a heavy question, Murphy made a call to his dad. Murphy's dad made a call to his sister. Murphy's aunt, it so happened, lived on a farm about two hours outside of Springfield. Lo and behold, this aunt's goat had recently given birth to a couple of kids.
Adventure! I thought.
Eighth of a tank of gas, replied my car.
Eh, that's enough to drive for a few hours...right?
We hit the highway.
We drove. Past small towns, through smaller ones, and finally into the smallest of them all: Buffalo, Missouri. A few dirt roads later we pulled into his aunt's driveway. As we did, the gas light clicked on and obscenities flew.
Too high on adrenalin and evil goat-filled dreams, I didn't worry about it. Instead, I went to retrieve my kid.
It was tiny, red and white, with itty-bitty, baby horns. After convincing Murphy's aunt we weren't going to eat or injure the animal--other than chain it in a yard--we got back in the car and took off once more.
Goat happily bleating on Murphy's lap, we hunted for a gas station. As it turns out, in the country, gas stations close at ten....
So there we are, the middle of nowhere, car about to conk out, a lesbian and a goat in KKK country. I could just hear the banjos now.
Murphy assumed, being a white evangelical male, that he was more than safe. I was all too quick to point out that he was tiny, with long hair, and has "a purdy mouth"; republican or not, he was just as fucked as I was should a rogue band of countrified, neo-Nazis come upon us in our stalled out car.
I feared should my car "shit out," Murphy and I would go meandering down dark dirt roads past eerie white churches, carrying a rather unhappy fluff ball with horns. I want to make a lamb of God joke here, but I'm not sure it would work.
It is at this point that I begin to pray as I nervously patted the goat.
"Hi, Jesus. So, did you know gas stations around these parts closed at ten? Yeah, I didn't. So this whole running on empty thing, could you maybe make that work out for us? I know you have important things to do that don't involve goats and gasoline, but I'm sure you can appreciate the outlandishness of the situation, so if you'd help out here that would be awesome. I'd really rather Murphy, Steve the Goat, and I not be murdered by hill people. Thanks, your awesome, talk to you later, amen."
Murphy is one of the few people, aside from Jesus apparently, who does not frown upon my unorthodox style of prayer. Steve was dubbed the miracle goat. Like the oil lamps of Hanukkah past, the gas in my car lasted infinitely longer than it should have. I may never know what truly got us home that night, but whatever the case may be, I will always remember Steve as my little miracle goat. Jesus listens to goats. Either that, or God really doesn't have much to do up there.
Incidentally, the goat never ended up chained in Roger and Cathy's yard. He was too good for a prank.

"Penis Ambivalence"

I have, for some time now, thought my life was normal. Well, as normal as any life can be but, since I have started telling my new friends of my many misadventures, I have started to realize that my life might not be extraordinary, but it is definitely odd.
Let me start by saying...my boyfriend has a vagina. This, to me, not so strange. You see, I am a Lesbian and am quite fond of the lady bits that he currently possesses. My boyfriend unfortunately is not. He is transgendered, Female to Male, and I am very supportive of this change. I love him, so I see no issue in his desired acquisition of a penis. I, however, have a penis phobia, thus far in my life it has not been an issue. Being of the homo persuasion, I have had limited interaction with the male anatomy, until now. Here is my issue with "the penis." They are awkwardly potruding, are covered in lumpy veins, and--quite honestly--I just don't understand testicles.
The current penis I am acquainted with is made of something like rubber or silicone, and is removable. I like it, moreover I like the person that it is attached to.
To protect my boyfriend and my relationship I'm just going to use his initials and call him M.R.
As I typed that I just realized that his initials spell the abbreviation for Mister, I promise this is not just a poor attempt at a joke, that's really how it works out.
Now this relationship is totally different from any one I have ever experienced, not only because I am with a man, but because I pulled a total U-Haul lesbian move. We moved in together after only 2 months of dating. My job had started going down hill back home after my boss asked me if I was gay, and I foolishly decided to be honest. I think she was a little let down when I told her she was "not my type". There was a mounting tension between my parents and me; I felt I should be able to do what ever I liked whenever I chose to once I turned twenty, they didn't see it that way. Nothing was working out quite the way I planned, so I moved out of my parents home, out of the state, and started a whole new life an hour and a half outside of Tulsa, OK with my new boyfriend.
I spent the first month of living here desperately searching for a job. No luck. I decided sense I was pretty much stranded by my own doing and felt like a horrible mooch I would play "Susie Homemaker". I cleaned our tiny little lake house continuously, baked cookies, took care of the entire food chain we have living with us (2 rats, 2 cats, 2 hell hounds), and looked damn good while doing it. It was exhausting. Finally after a month and a half of filling out and turning in applications I got an interview and a job at a cafe' in Tulsa.
Now you are fairly caught up.
Let me back track and tell you some more about MR. He is pretty much a Bad Ass.
About a month ago I started giving him his testosterone shots. I find it to be very therapeutic on my end. On the one side, I'm being a sweet little girlfriend helping out my man; from another perspective, when he gets on my bad side, I get to stab him in the ass every 2 weeks. It's a total win-win. However, if you are unfamiliar with the affects of testosterone, MR. is basically going through menopause and puberty all at once. It's hilarious and awful. He is always horny, and hungry, and having hot flashes every ten minutes. His voice cracks when he sings the high notes in girlie song, but on the plus side, we did find one chin hair about a week ago. He plucked it before I could take a picture...
I think I am one of the few people who can say they have heard their boyfriend say the words "I think I have a yeast infection". I did struggle for a while with the issue of what to call the sexy parts. Do I refer to his vag as his dick? I mean like an invisible limb sort of thing. In theory it should be there...but, it's sort of odd to ask. If we are playing around and I go for a crotch shot is it a nut tap or a twat swat? I hope you get where the confusion lies. I have found he is content with a happy median, whatever word seems to fit best at the time. I tried to be PC for a while but gave up from sheer mental exhaustion. My boyfriend has a vagina, deal with it, we do.