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Dispatches From Dystopia

~ "What man by worrying can add one cubit to his span of years?"

Dispatches From Dystopia

Category Archives: Gender Identity

Azulão (For Jade)

10 Sunday Feb 2019

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, Gender Identity, Sexuality

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

#menage a trois.

NSFW  Erotic Writing Adults Only Please
For Jade

I go to the pool a lot. I see the same faces, the same bodies, the same swimsuits. I know who will do what when I see the person exit their respective shower room door. At least I say that, so I can pronounce myself immune to surprises in all my jaded supercilious arrogance.

Until one day when even I was surprised. It was one of those afternoons when the middle school swim team, in all its youthful exuberance, were doing their sets and drills and flip turns, taking up five lanes in the seven lane pool. Sharing the pool comes with the membership. And sharing the pool often means sharing a lane. No biggie. Today, just as I entered the open lane, a women looks down from the deck, smiles and asks real friendly-like, “Mind if we share? I’ll take the right side.”

“No problem. I have to warn you, I’m old. I just do a long swim .”

“That’s fine,”, she answers, “I’m old too, not as old as you though, Gramps. And I will be doing some intervals.”

I liked the spunky “Gramps ” dig. As far as old is concerned, anybody who looks like they don’t remember Nixon isn’t old in my estimation. She isn’t old.

So we start. True to my word I am grinding the 2500 meter swim out. I check my watch at what I think is every 250 meters, just to see if my pace is consistent. True to her word, she is doing sets About the time I am in my last 500 meters, she does some kick drills with the kickboard. I finish up as she does.

“You’re like the Energizer bunny, You just keep going “

“Good analogy,” I say. “This is the time I have to myself. No phone. No interruptions”

“This is my escape too. It is required for me.”

Required? I think. This is unusual.

As she climbs out of the pool, I notice a tattoo on her left inner thigh, A bluebird. Quite lovely and in a most enigmatic place. However, this is the Twenty First Century. Women drive cars and even vote. I guess they can get inked anywhere they want. Walking back to the women’s locker room, she covers her ass with a towel. It’s a nice ass too, the kind you get when you are serious about swimming. Then takes off her white silicon swim cap, I expect her to shake her hair free, but no, her hair is damn near a buzz cut. With red-orange on top and blue on the sides, the same colors as in that bird tattooed on her thigh.
I shower off, wondering how long before my hair turns to straw again from pool chemicals. And I remind myself again to get one of those rubber hats like  Bluebird Woman wears.
I finish up, put real clothes on, head over to the coffee carafes, and fill my travel cup. Not the best coffee, but it’s free with the membership. I see her turn the corner,as I finish filling my cup.
“Fancy that. You drink this swill too.”
“I have very little pride and even less money. Truth be told, it’s my first time here today. But is it really that bad?”
“It’s about four notches higher than AA coffee.”
“Say no more. I know where of you speak. Sounds delicious to me.”
The witty repartee carried over from the pool.
“By the way, my name’s Bob.”
“How original, Bob. My name is Azulão, but folks call me Azu. My mother is Brazilian, Azulão is Portuguese for Bluebird. There was a song by that name she loves. But I was christened Maria Magdalena.
I know, you wanted to know my name, not my life story.”
“Not a bad story, Azu. I must admit”
Just then, our scintillating banter was interrupted when a powerful looking woman, also sporting a short haircut, absent the Technicolor enhancement, walks up to Azu, gives her a kiss on the cheek and says,
“I see you’re making friends already.”
She turns to me, extends her right hand, and introduces herself as Iris,  pronounced, “eh-REES.” Latino.
I shake it and notice, in the web between the thumb and index finger, a bluebird tattoo, same as Azu’s, only smaller.
“My name is Bob. Let me guess. That is short for Arco Iris, the rainbow.”
“We’ve been here a week and already I’ve met a clairvoyant.”
“Let’s just say, I figure stuff out quickly.”
Iris turns to Azu, tells her they have to go, mentioning a massage therapist with whom they have an appointment.
Off they go in an old VW beetle with the air-cooled rear engine.
Next week I run into them again, Azu in the pool, Iris later. Iris asks if there is a coffee place nearby, not a Starbucks. I tell them of the place, with home made pastries to die for, about two miles away.
“Please be my guests, this time,” I offer. They accept without any
phony “no we couldn’t possibly” hemming and hawing.
We settle in with Viennese coffees, heavy with schlag and slices of a Sächer Torte. As we sit,
Azu makes a gesture of obeisance to Iris, getting her a napkin, inspecting the cleanliness of her flatware, even asking for a cleaner fork.
“Very good. Thank you.”
I am happy it pleases you.”
They have a protocol. I notice.
We chatter on, getting acquainted, realizing we are something of kindred spirits.
The bottom line is they invite me to their place for dinner, to have something Brazilian, with lamb, from the South.
A few days later, I show up with mineral water and some tropical fruit, papaya and mangoes.
We sit and eat and talk. Azu is very attentive to Iris. I am getting euphoric from the good food, superb coffee, the beauty of the flowers which grace their home. It was an ambience of languid sensuality, from the lavender fragrance wafting from the oil diffuser to the Burmese cat who settled in my lap, intuitively knowing I would stroke her sable black fur.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Ten years,” answered Iris, “when I knew that I simply could not deliver another package for UPS, and the novel in my head would not write itself.”
Azu added, “i made enough from my photography free lancing to support us plus the money I saved from. covering the war in Colombia. You know, a war nobody cared about that lasted forever. Afghanistan with bigger snakes.”
She was more  blunt than a ball peen hammer. Her cynicism was showing, like mine when I got back from Lebanon.
I looked at Azu, then  Iris, the look shared among people whose hearts have held too much pain. And that maybe, just maybe, a night’s sleep after some hard fucking in the shared warmth of a big bed, might yet be the optimal therapy.
When you’re sober and you want to have a go with other sober sluts, you just put it out there. And if the women you’re hot for are queer with each other, well you just might be surprised.
I reached in to Azu, kissed her, then turned to Iris. She nodded. It’s OK, Cowboy, this isn’t our first rodeo.
I wasn’t interested in being God’s gift to Lesbians, just extruding the hard and dirty passion that had been inside me out through my tongue and fingers and, yeah, my dick.
I was amazed at how quickly and easily we found a rhythm. Iris and I made Azu the focus, then Azu and I shifted to Iris then those two to me. Simple kisses, caresses, stroking,probing, jacking up to a frenzy, , breathing heavy, a cry, a slap, a pinch, bellies sticking together, and a hand on my ass, Fingers up my butt, gloves, and dams and condoms, littering the bed like latex and vinyl leaves. If it was possible for me to do Azu while Iris did me, then surely Iris on Azu, while I slid my dick into Iris was possible too. We were busy fucking, not busy calculating the combinations. We were lovers, not mathematicians, after all.
Finally at dawn, when we woke up and I showered and dressed, Iris walked me to the door as I saw Azu on the bed, in all her lush nakedness, Iris said to me, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. That’s Emerson, Cowboy.”
Then she kissed me good bye.

Predicaments

19 Saturday Jan 2019

Posted by David in Family, Gender Identity, Health Issues

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Marijuana

How do I begin? And where? Number Two Son, age 30, (Yes he is an adult) called me and asked what it feels like to have a slipped disc. I explain as best I can and he shares that he hurt his back.

Somehow or other, he wants to diagnose and treat this problem on his own. All kind of crazy, but he says one thing, “They drug test if I file a Wokers’ Comp claim.” Suddenly, all the flanking maneuveres begin to make sense. He doesn’t want to test positive for marijuana, the use of which is illegal in Virginia.

But I get to work assisting him, and do way too much to help with his problem. He is seeing a chiropractor I know and have used on Monday at 5:00 PM. With luck the problem will be correcting itself over the weekend.

I don’t suspect my son is a heavy pot smoker, but he is now organizing his life around his habit. NOT. GOOD.

I get stressed because he has Asperger’s Syndrome. Even if he wasn’t using 4-20, he tends to argue, over-think, analyze, and question even the simplest of predicaments. Here two things are key. 1) He has hurt his back. 2) A medical professional needs to assess the injury. Concealing drug use complicates a simple task.

Here’s hoping for the best possible outcome. He sees the chiro. The chiro does his magic. He feels better. He realizes that he is planning his life around his marijuana habit. And stops using. We shall see.

Butch Voice On Thanksgiving

22 Thursday Nov 2018

Posted by David in Gender Identity

≈ Leave a comment

J woke me up early.  She had to be at work at 6:00 AM, getting the store ready to open at 5:00 PM. You know, Black Friday, that latest example of the validity of Pavlovian Psychology.  We’ve come a long way from bells ringing and salivating dogs.  Those dogs are probably laughing at us now in Dog Heaven.  

I suppose I could have gone back to sleep, but I didn’t. I will. I promise soon. What caught my ear this morning was a butch lesbian talking about the books she’s recently read on a YouTube video.  Her voice was a memory, an association with my late cousin Annette. It was that Butch Voice.  And it brought up a flood of memory and loss.  Like most of the people I know, Annette was comfortable living outside of the box, the culture assigned to her.  She no more fit her stereotype than I do mine and you do yours.

Butch Voice. Matter of Fact.  Friendly, in its way. Or maybe just familiar.  Annette’s enthusiasm for little things, like Pixie Sticks, was very inviting. She evoked that childhood memory of a penny candy when her nephew got them for Christmas.  Humour and irony would fill her voice when she spoke of her brother’s ability to find, bed, impregnate, marry, and , ultimately, divorce White Trash Women. 

This is the perfect memory for Thanksgiving, as I remind myself that the families that gather aren’t the ones that are depicted in TV commercials for Walmart, or Coca Cola, or Budweiser Beer. Thank God for that.

Basic Function, Larger Purpose

18 Thursday Oct 2018

Posted by David in Family, Gender Identity, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

#Breasts, Family

Here’s a thought. Female breasts are there to feed babies.

Yeah I know, we (men, mostly) have put more significance into breasts other than their biological purpose. Because of their purpose, they help define femininity. That’s not a bad thing.

Part of our dystopic thinking has us alienate ourselves from the natural world, such as the purposes of our physical bodies. We exist, in part, in no way solely and totally,  to survive and perpetuate our species and our cultures and communities. It follows that men and women have roles that the sexes dictate. Now I know women can do more than bear children and breast-feed. I know that men can do more than donate sperm in the facilitation of conception. I also know that families are the basic social unit and exist in order that children may survive and flourish.

Oddly enough, I feel that I have to apologize for the way things are, that I must acknowledge the validity of every variant from that “traditional” norm. Now I know that same sex partners are doing as good a job of raising children as heterosexual couples. But ultimately there has to be a point of departure. Making every bond and friendship, the equivalent of a family, no matter how valuable or tenuous they may be, distorts and devalues the family. They are, ultimately, artificial constructs. Families exist because individual identities become subservient to the larger paradigm of family. husband/wife, father/mother.

This is not to discount our individuality, our own uniqueness as persons. But there is a place and a time for the ego to submerge.

A Shift In Perspective

15 Monday Jan 2018

Posted by David in Amtrak, Autism Spectrum Disorders, Gay/Straight Dichotomy, Gender Identity

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

#perspective, #trainspotting

Most of you know that I am, through the miracle and magic of YouTube and the Internet, a trainspotter. I sit in my chair and watch the tracks in Ashland, Virginia, just 15 miles or so North of Richmond on the CSX North/South main line.

Well, this morning, the folks at Virtual Railfan LLC, moved the web camera. At first, it was a little disorienting. It took me a while to comprehend the change. Add to that an occasional shift from a view looking South to a view looking North. The camera can also zoom in.

I had gotten used to the way things were, tbe ancien regime´ of glorious yesterday. We joke about our curmudgeonly resistance to change in Richmond

How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb?

Three. One to change the bulb and two to talk about how great the old bulb was.

So what’s the take away from this?  Pespective is critical. Like the movie Rashomon, where the same story is told from different viewpoints, my perception is different from yours. My sons’ autism affects both of them differently and each of us could be seeing the same event completely differently.

I also think about Annette, my deceased butch lesbian cousin. She was loving and lovable, and her take on the world was not my take. At the same time, I could fully appreciate her insights. It is unsettling to see that world views are simultaneously different, distinct and, yet, compatible. At least they can be, if we let them.

The old view.

The new view.

Characters And Cockfights

18 Saturday Nov 2017

Posted by David in Gender Identity

≈ Leave a comment

I’m sitting in my chair on a Saturday afternoon, waiting for trains to pass through Ashland, Whereas the trains pass in and out of the camera’s eye somewhat infrequently, the gender-ambiguous Ashland Bicycle Crossdresser (ABC) regularly moves in and out of the camera’s view.

Ze (is that right?) is what we would once have called a “character“. Ze has a unique style of dressing, wearing tops of various pastels, today pale pink, a micro-miniskirt, pantyhose and a very low-heeled strappy sandal with a bit of a heel. ABC is wearing a helmet, a major concession to safety.

ABC may very well be happier than I am. ABC’s wife is really OK with their lifestyle choice, a newspaper article once revealed.  ABC does get plenty of exercise, we can safely say. Ze is living out hir dream.

Ashland has always had an eccentric or two. There was a chap who raised game cocks, for, uh, cock fighting. The legality of cock fighting once existed in ambiguity and still may questionable here in Virginia. Betting on an encounter between two roosters is illegal, but if two roosters find themselves in a cockpit, wearing sharpened spurs and a bit of a donnybrook ensues, that can’t be helped. It’s only natural that such testosterone-fuelled shenanigans take place. Is it surprising that the legal minds who made this distinction around cock fighting also came up with Jim Crow segregation? We learn not to be surprised at anything around here,

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