Princess Olivia

On Sunday I was at the Milwaukee Children’s museum. My niece pulled us over to the small stage and asked me to narrate a story for her. It is what follows.

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Once there lived a beautiful princess named Olivia. Olivia’s castle was on a hill not far from a little valley. When the weather was nice, Olivia liked to go down into the valley and dance, ballet and interruptive style.

One day a big growling monster named Chad came to the valley. Monster Chad was mad and he growled at everything and everyone. He even growled at princess Olivia. Olivia was scared.

Olivia called for her mother, Queen Liz. Queen Liz arrived in the valley and immediately went to the Monster Chad. Queen Liz was able to calm Monster Chad, who turned out to be King Chad but just in a very bad mood.

Once everyone was calm and happy, Princess Olivia was free to dance in the valley again. And so she did. She danced and danced and danced and everyone lived happily ever after.

The End.

waiting

I watch him as he sleeps. As he slumbers I entertain myself by running my fingers through his hair and lightly running my nails up and down his arms. I try to wait patiently.

When he awakes, he will want to satisfy me. He’ll roll over on top of me and kiss my lips. I will feel him as he kisses my neck and my ears and whispers “I love you” in my ears.

He will hold me down by entwining his fingers in a basket weave with my fingers, stretching my arms above my head and then he will continue to attack my face and neck with his kisses. His warm breath on my soft lips, breathing me in with every movement. His aftershave will fill my nose as he kisses the tip of it before sweetly kissing each closed eye.

Eventually he will release me and I will roll on top of him and I will feel his hands as they massage my back and hold me securely in place. His head will bounce up into my approach, stealing kisses before I was planning on bestowing them. I will feel his arms as he grasps me and presses my body onto his. My hair will fly as he sinks those rough hands deep into my curly brown hair and string himself through out each last strand. My mouth will water with anticipation knowing that soon he will roll me back over and ravish my mouth. He will be between me, on me and making me wish we were married so that we could be one completely.
But until then, I just watch him sleep – content with the knowledge of what will come when he awakes from his slumber.

the sumo wrestler

I knew someday, somewhere, someone would come along and beat me. I have known for some time that I was not unique – just very very lucky. In fact, some days I prayed to be honestly beaten. Maybe then the cameras, with their crushingly loud flashbulbs, and the reporters, each talking at their cameras as I tried to concentrate on the match, - maybe they would all go away once I was soundly beaten. I was tired of being their frog in a jar. Especially because this is not what I wanted to do.

I had started out with a stirring desire to go into fencing. I loved the sound of the sword as it swished through the air. I loved the feel of the impact when your sword made contact with the shoulder of your opponent. I loved, more than anything, the reaction of my muscles as my sword and my opponent’s sword would meet and the opponent would attempt to strong arm my sword out of the way, my wrist trying to spring one way as my arm fought to keep the direction of the sword moving in an opposite direction of the where the other sword was sending it.

But just like why I can’t enjoy Wednesday night Country Dancing in town, I could never get my feet work down. Every instructor I knew told me it was just a count. You count in and you count out. Each step, each lunge, each retreat was a count. Just like every step at country – slow slow fast fast. How ever was I going to enjoy the girl I was with if the whole time I was in my head counting. How ever was I to know what my fencing opponent was going to do next if the whole time I was counting in and counting out. For a lunge I had to count three, but if at two I heard my opponent breathe in sharply, I knew I had to be defending, not attacking, so I would count out, but only to the point that I was sure I was clear of the opponent’s lunge. Then I would need to start again. But I often forgot where I was in my counts and so I would misstep and down I went.

Each time my feet would lose me a match, I would get depressed. Each time I got depressed I would eat. With the added food, came added weights and my fencing game slowed down. Eventually, I was too fat to fence. So my thoughts turned to the question “What do fat people play?” One day the thought occurred to me – Fat people sumo wrestle. So I started researching Sumo wrestling. It is played in a circle and the circle is raised up some how so you always knew where it was. There was a white line on the ground where you stanced as you prepared to throw the other fat guy out of the ring, but beyond that the rules were pretty simple. So I put my shift that way. Every day I ate and I trained. Some days I trained and I ate. But either route was a way to prepare for the first time I stepped into the ring.

Because I was not a Japan raised sumo wrestler, and because my training was not done in one of the Japanese stables, I was ignored by the international sumo wrestling championship. The media referred to me as the “Sumo Cowboy” or as “Sueme Sumo.” (Evidently America’s lust for lawsuits had been picked up on by the foreign media as well.) For my first match – I was on the losing end. The guy moved so quickly and just tossed me out of the ring like I was a rag doll. I was shocked.

But I also learned. I learned to pick up the clues. As I replayed the tossing in my head over and over again, I tried to focus on what sounds my opponent made right before he attacked. I listened for the point that his hands touched the mat and the point the ringmaster commenced the attack. I listened for the tightening of his muscles or the grunt as he projected his one ton weight toward me.

Much to the annoyance of my trainer, I refused to step into the ring again for months. Instead I had him gather up all of the videos of sumo matches he could find and we sat and studied them together. And I learned, and I learned and I learned.

The next time I was in a ring was 9 months after that first match. As the ringmaster commenced, I focused on all of the clues. As this opponent attacked I could tell he was heading to the left. I moved right, grabbed him by the arm and threw him as much as I could over my left shoulder. Before I could turn around to make a second attempt – the crowd erupted with applause. The ringmaster grabbed my hand, flung it in the air, and announced me the winner.

And that was the first of a long winning streak. Each time the opponent was bigger or stronger and each time I crouched before him in my sumo stance, closed my eyes and focused on the sounds that clued me in to this man before me. I knew how to stand up tall and then quickly drop on an opponent that did a full on attack. I knew how to move from one side to the other if the opponent tried to lean and get around me (For some reason they all thought they could sneak past me when my eyes were closed). After six months of winning, rumors started to pour in of other sumo wrestlers trying my technique – closing their eyes for the match. No one could duplicate it though because they were only closing their eyes and not widening their ears.

After 9 months of wins, The Cowboy Sumo was the main attraction. People in the U.S. put aside their basketball, baseball or football to make sure they got a chance to watch me. And I never disappointed. I was also doing cereal ads, car commercials (where I was allowed to stand by the car or ride in the bed of the truck, but never drive the vehicle), and other product endorsements (of course – as a sumo wrestler – restaurants were always trying to get me to promote their food). I was riding the wave. So I of course was not expecting last night.

Last night seemed like every other night. I never paid attention to the hype and my trainer was really strict about me not doing interviews in the weeks coming up to a match. All I knew about this opponent was that he was virtually unheard of and that he had challenged me on his online blog. His cult following of loyal readers promoted it and it got scheduled. I figured I was better because no one had ever heard of this guy. I was wrong.

As we got into stance I quickly realized this was going to be different. Other opponents were breathing through their noses like they were hyperventilating. Not this guy. He was relaxed. His muscles weren’t cracking or pooping with building tension. No – instead he was just relaxed. I made the wrong assumption that he was unprepared and would be an easy take, but when the ringmaster granted us on, I got taken.

Unlike others, I was the first off my mat and at him. Every other had attacked first and I had defended. He waited for my attack and then he defended. I found out quickly that I didn’t know how to attack – I only knew how to defend. He used this to his advantage and tossed me out of the ring. I was shocked, and devastated.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that the match loss really took on much meaning. I knew he was like me, but to the extent that he was like me was amazing. It turns out – the only way to beat a blind wrestler was with a man as blind as I am.

Finding Tuesday's Fiction

I posted today's fiction (the conclusion to last week's story) with the rest of the story. You can either read the story in the entirety starting here (Introduction, Character, Part 1) or you can jump to the Part 2 here.

Enjoy. Or don't. Which ever.

Sara's Choice - The Introduction

The day Kyle Murphy Fuller stabbed Gerald Smith, and shot Carrie Smith killing her and her unborn child – that was the day Fuller envisioned his perceived tragedy was extinguished, but it was a catalyst for a day that no one really saw coming and a day that would end bad for Fuller, his lover and every one who professed any type of desire to live that lifestyle. Gerald Smith had been the mayor of San Francisco at the time of his murder. For eight years, Smith had fought for the right of people in California to get married – whether they are gay or they are straight. Twice the people of California had voted that marriage was between a man and a woman. After the last loss, Smith drove his argument to the steps of the State Supreme Court. There he was given a definitive answer: No, not in California.

Many, including Fuller, looked to Smith as the reason why they would never get married in their home state. Every few years the number of registered voters that feel gay marriage is not a bad thing grows. If Smith had been more patient, some speculated, then the law wouldn’t have been so definitive. But Smith, and his damn political aspirations damaged the whole process. However, in death, Smith eventually went from Traditional Marriage foe to their hero. Old Fashioners (as they soon became known as) propped Smith up on a stick and used him as a poster of what gays are “really are like.” Old Fashioners, who had lied about a need to keep gay marriage out of the schools, now had a reason why gay marriage needed to be kept away from their children. Bumper stickers began to plaster cars “When a Old Fashioner wakes up on the Sabbath they go to church. When a gay wakes up – they destroy the mayor’s family.”

Using the death of Smith as the best example of what was wrong with the Gay community, being anti-gay took on a life of its own. Soon there were protests outside gay owned businesses and “straight sit-ins,” which was really just a place for straight couples to go and make out in front of news cameras. Straight people that helped out a gay were called “Straight Betrayers.” As this polarized both sides, Gays that helped a straight person became known as a “Gay Traitor.” It became socially acceptable again to single out gays. Billboards started to show up around the state with catchy slogans such as “Fear Queer,” “Man on Man be Damned,” “Girl on Girl make you hurl,” and “Choose Straight Every Time.” The billboards often showed what ever the undesirable activity was with a circle around it and a hash through it, like being gay was as bad as smoking in your hotel room or in a bar.

Politicians who were liberal began to fear for their lives after Kyle Murphy Fuller exterminated Smith. More and more conservative came out of the woodwork and took over the process of writing laws. Rather quickly, different aspects of homosexuality were outlawed. The first to go were gay kissing and sex. This was followed by new rules about only mixed gender massages. As the conservatives grew more powerful, their laws grew that much more stringent. Patting a ball player on his butt after a great play was gay. Dressing men in pink was gay. Guys going shopping for anything but power tools were gay. Women who hugged each other for longer than four seconds were lesbians. Women who bought power tools were lesbians. Some senators proposed women were only allowed to wear dresses, but their wives banded together and refused to give them sex, and that law never made it to fruition.

With each new law, homosexuality activities was driven deeper and deeper underground. Men were never gay in public. To convince anyone who might get suspicious, these men went through elaborate rituals to prove they weren’t. Surfing for straight porn on their work computers, spanking the fannies of the ladies at work (and then going and washing their hands afterwards), or (worse of all) telling a gay joke during a staff meeting – all of these were done to prevent people getting any other ideas.

The final act of injustice came on the eve of Kyle Murphy Fuller’s state ordered execution. Signed into law, while standing in front of a San Francisco Catholic Cathedral, the local congressmen inked an extermination order on all gays and lesbians. Just like when the Mormons were victims of an extermination order in Missouri a hundred years ago, it became legal to shoot a gay onsite with no prosecution. However, unlike the Mormons who ran to Utah, the gays turned to the days of alcohol prohibition to give them clues for their future. Instead of speakeasies, they created Slys. Slys were in a different place and only those who were told, word of mouth, knew where they were. A password was required to get in and one usually had to appear with someone of the opposite gender to get into the building but then had to touch someone of the same gender to get pass the sentinel guarding the door.

A group of people who hunted down these palaces of pleasure became known as Homo Hunters. It was the one profession that allowed for both genders to be in a police state. “Guarding our virtues and our children” was their motto, though really they were just marshaled hate groups bent on the destruction of every last gay in California.

Sara's Choice - The Character

Sara had never meant to become a Homo Hunter. It was a job that she sort of just stumbled into. The economy was stumbling at the time all of this was going on. Sara was laid off of her job as a wedding cake designer, and needed a way to pay the bills. She took the required training and passed the tests. The hardest part for her was the kiss test, not because she had a problem kissing boys but because she had never had the chance in high school. She wasn’t popular and never really dated. Growing up it didn’t really matter, but when she applied for the academy, she was grueled relentlessly about if she liked boys or girls. She really wanted the job, so she made sure she left no doubt in anyone’s mind. She practiced over and over again with her pillow (kissing a mirror was considered kissing the same gender and was outlawed) and evidentially did well enough at the test sight to get they guy’s number offered and a chance to wear the Homo Hunter Badge.

The work wasn’t easy. Sara found the work to be pretty miserable actually. They were responsible for working undercover and trying to get gays to come to them by walking the line of what was acceptable and wasn’t. Sara had a truck with a screwdriver and a saw in it and would often go to housewives homes offering to help with household honey do lists. Depending on the responses of the housewife, Sara’s crew might come back later, bust down the door and haul the woman away for being “Gay.” Often these actions were done in front of neighbors, children and husbands. If that man wanted to keep his job and his kids, he had to either disown his wife or present undisputable evidence that his wife was indeed straight. This was often a hard thing to prove. Sara was constantly being hounded by those with higher ranks to produce numbers. But Sara really struggled with the idea of breaking up families. Her mother had died when she was ten and she knew what these children faced without their mothers. Sara’s mother was drunk and hit a tree. The shame was comparable to that of having a lesbian mother.

However, Sara needed to pay the bills, so she did what she was asked. That is, she did what she was asked until that first day when she saw Krista.

Sara's choice - The Story Part 1

Sara was running with a group of men, who she flirted shamelessly with and who all thought they would get a chance to bed her someday, one day when they found out that there was a confirmed Sly in The Presidio in Northern San Francisco. They gathered up the forces and headed out. Armed with Gay Dars and tazers they approached the suspected place. Sara was assigned to go around back and watch for those trying to make a quick escape. Suddenly there was a loud crash as Sara could here the battering ram knocking down the door. There were screams, yelling and the sounds of brut force being used to knock those homos into submission. Sara heard the noise ever so quietly. On the north side of the house there was a cellar door opening up. Emerging was the most beautiful woman Sara had ever seen. This woman had brown curly hair and green eyes, her face was perfectly shaped and her lips looked like they could seduce even the most hardened asocial person. Sara took note of this woman’s average waist size and short-mounded bottom. Sara was also in shock over her immediate lust for this woman. She had never had these feelings before, but there she was wetting her lips in anticipation of a kiss or even just a peck on the cheek of this woman.

Over her ear piece, interrupting her outlawed thoughts Sara heard her commander. “Do you have any one back there? Are there any of those politician murdering homos that got away?” Sara paused. First the first time in taking over this job, she paused. She had never paused before. That was why she was allowed to go to Slys with the men – she knew she was the best at catching “these” people as any of them. But that day, as she stood there watching this woman, she paused in her response.

She wondered who this woman was? Beyond loving another woman, what had this woman done wrong? Just like how not every Muslim has flown airplanes into buildings, not all gays are the people at Gay Pride Parades of the past and nor is every lesbian to be equated with that monster, Kyle Fuller. This woman might be of some value beyond just being straight or gay. So Sara paused.

He squawked again at her and threatened to come back there to check on her. Sara responded this time “Nothing I can’t handle.” With that Sara rushed to this woman’s side. Sara inquired of a name and the name Krista Waters was revealed. Krista pleaded for her freedom, and again, Sara paused. Should she help this woman who looked so normal or should she turn her in?

I will answer next week on Tuesday Fiction.

Sara's Choice Part 2

Sara admired the jade green eyes that sparkled in the sunset. Her mind flashed images of those same eyes shining forth in horror as the people at the Straight Realign Center beat the gay out of this Krista. Krista’s brown hair glistened in the sun and reflected bright beams of sunlight, and Sara saw the images of the same brown hair being pulled while they raped the gay out of Krista at the SRC. (That’s not what a bottom like that should have done to it.) The lips of Krista drew Sara in momentarily before the violent kisses Krista would have to endure from old men, “expert kissers” as they were called, flashed across the cortex of Sara’s mind.

Sara had watched Sly detainees be put through the courses, their needed reformations to help them get back on a straight path. Sara herself had gone to the stocks and forced her lips onto Gay Men, in an effort to help them change their ways. She knew the violence those men faced day in and day out as the Medical staff of the SRC gave beatings and medications “necessary” for the convincing of these Sly participants to choose straight. For the hardest hearted, the last course of action before being banished to Arkansas, some were given Electro Convulsive Therapy. Electrodes were attached to each side of the brain causing the brain to have a seizure. It was called rebooting, when really Sara just saw it as reprogramming. The seizures caused the brain to have an amnesia state. During that amnesia state, the “patient” was told over and over again the joys of being straight over the horrors of being gay.

For some reason she couldn’t state clearly – she didn’t want this for Krista. She didn’t want to arrest Krista to have her beaten, raped or electrocuted. Suddenly these actions at the SRC didn’t seem like the humane sensible thing but instead the cruel thing to do. Instantly Sara’s mind flashed the idea that gays and lesbians were people first and inappropriate lovers second, and Sara wasn’t even sure that they were inappropriate when all they were trying to do was love.

Sara knew what she had to do. “Krista. Go hide behind that trash can. Right now.” Krista hurried off, quickly, although a bit confused of what was going on. To her surprise she saw Sara upholster her taser. Sara turned it on herself and fired. Instantly two electrodes shot out and attached to Sara’s chest. Within mere half seconds she was on the ground.

Any time a taser goes off, the taser emits a siren. Running from the house came all of the guys in Sara’s crew. “What happened? Are you Okay? What is going on?” The questions flew at her as the remnants of electricity drained from her heart and body.

Sara started, “I thought I had him. I thought… I thought…didn’t see him grab for me…damn fag!…” It turned out she had to act through this pain – her chest was on fire and she was actually struggling to get the words out. “He has ran off…over there…” she said as she pointed in the opposite direction of Krista. Several members of the crew jumped to there feet and were off. No one tazed one of their own and got away. Sara’s captain remained.

“Let me help you up Sara.” He gave her his hand and helped her to sit up. He squawked into his radio calling for all available Homo Hunters to seek out a gay on the run. “Sara, do you need anything?”

“A hug?” Sara responded.

“Sure Sara.” As Sara was being hugged, she motioned to Krista to run. And like that Krista bolted from behind the garbage cans and as far away as possible.

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Eventually the search for the gay was called off. The captured Sly participants were gathered up and taken to the SRC. After being treated in the Ambulance, Sara’s Captain offered a ride home.

“You know Sara, I used to worry about you,” he started, “but after today I don’t worry any more.” Sara was so sore she was barely listening. He continued, “I saw you taze yourself.” Sara instantly shot up in her seat. “I’ve seen the way you force yourself on the gays in the stocks. I’ve seen you beat and mercilessly taze those that step just a bit out of line. I thought maybe you were completely heartless, but today you proved me wrong.”

Sara was suddenly shocked and frozen. She didn’t know what to say or do. Having sympathy for a gay was as bad as being gay and was punished the same way. Was her captain to take her somewhere and beat her or rape her? Was she going to have to be electrocuted too? It would be with in his rights to do what ever with her. So she sat frozen.

He finished up, “I saw how you looked at that Lesbo. I know those eyes. I know them because occasionally I see them in my own mirrors at home. I know you aren’t a lesbo and I know this won’t happen again. I figured you went through enough, tazing yourself, so I won’t even report you. More than anything I’m just grateful to see those eyes of yours today. We need more compassionate people like you.”
And with that her captain patted her leg and she felt finally at ease. Sara never saw Krista again. 8 months later she quit her job so she could marry her captain. Their first child was a girl who Sara insisted be named Krista – to help remind Sara to always have a heart.

Bob and Fred at 4th of July

I’d like to dedicate today’s Fiction Tuesday to Cindy. She helped inspired the following.
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There once lived some guys named Bob and Fred. Bob and Fred were from Idaho and they loved to show their patriotism by blowing things up on the 4^th of July. For one Independence Day, Bob and Fred were in California. California has very strict rules against fireworks. This saddened Bob and Fred. They had brought all of their explosives with them for their stay in California.

One night at the bar Ted suggested to Bob and Fred that if they really wanted to use those fireworks in July, they should rent a boat and go out into the ocean a few miles. They thought this was a great idea.

On the Fourth of July, Bob and Fred rented a yacht and loaded it up with all of their fireworks. They took the boat out into the Pacific Ocean a few miles and waited for night to come. While they waited, they drank a good portion of alcohol. Before Dusk was upon them they decided they couldn’t wait any longer. They lined up the first round of bottle rockets and shot them up into the air. This was really cool to watch. For the next 20 minutes Bob’s and Fred’s eyes were directed toward the sky and not toward the ocean below them. So what happened next really surprised them.

Suddenly, as Bob was trying to hold his beer in one hand and try to light the second line of fireworks with his other, a shark jumped into the boat. Immediately it went after Bob and started biting his foot. With every bite the shark was moving up his leg. Bob dropped his lighter in his hair accidentally as he tried to get away from the shark, which lit his hair on fire. Then Bob got really scared and dropped his beer as well.

Behind Bob was Fred, who was really freaking out. He wanted to help his friend Bob but was very scared of the shark. Fred grabbed the flare gun and fired it at the shark, but he missed and instead hit the crate with all of the left over fireworks in it. Suddenly the back of the boat lit up as an amazing show filled the rudder and stern area. One benefit of this show was various embers burst onto the shark. This brought the shark’s feast to an abrupt end as the shark tried to get away from the fire on its belly. The shark flopped around until it eventually was able to flop out of the boat and away from that firestorm. While the shark was making its escape, Fred was attacking Bob’s other crisis. Fred took the fire extinguisher and started spraying Bob’s head and shoulders (as the fire had spread to Bob’s t-shirt as well.).

The second benefit of the fireworks show was a passing Coast Guard helicopter had seen the boat and come to the rescue of Bob and Fred. The Yacht was too far-gone and was left to burn and then eventually sink. Bob was taken to the hospital where he had the rest of his leg amputated.

Fred and Bob (once he was all better) returned to Idaho. For the next 4^th of July they were invited by some friends to return to California, but after the previous year when Bob had been being eaten by a shark and was on fire at the same time – Bob and Fred decided to stay in Idaho and drink beer and light off fireworks. This year went much better – until they got eaten by a bear. Oh well.

The End

training

“In the mornings as a youth I would get up with Mama and get the day going for the boys and my papa. There would be eggs to gather, hens to let out for the day and cows to milk. I wasn’t supposed to be out milkin ‘til I was 10, but when we lost my brother to the tractor, well then they needed me out milkin’ more that they needed my braided head in the house scurrying under mother’s feet getting the coffee on.

“Truth be told, milkin was my favorite part. It was always cold as I walked from the house to the barn but the barn was warm inside. And milkin for me wasn’t as hard as milking for daddy or grand daddy. Theys told me they had to actually grab the cow and squeeze. Then they had to grab again and squeeze. It sounds awfully disgustin and yucky to me.

“I just have to go into the barn and turn on the sucker. And then I have to run as fast as I can. The better I run, the better it sucks, the more milk we be getting. That’s what papa is always telling me. So I run and I run and I run. Some times my legs would start to hurt and the treadmill would slow down and the sucker would slow its suckin. That hurt the cow pretty awful and it would cry out in loud moo. If papa be near by, he’d rush in and start yelling at me. “Stacy what are you doing?? You better get running girl. We need that milk and you need to get it for us.” Some times he’d threaten to whip my butt and other times he’d threaten to not give me any milk, but either way I was off and goin again.

“When I was 12 papa won another cow in a poker game. He woke me up in the middle of the night and told me to get plenty of rest because in the morning I’d be runnin twice as much. And he was right. First I’d hook up the sucker to our first cow and then to the other. I ran all morning long.

“By the time I made it to high school, I was the fastest girl in school and I was only a freshman. I nice man in town offered to buy my papa a sun powered sucker macheen if papa would keep me in school and let me run. I miss the cows, but I loved having people cheerin for me when I ran. The cows only moaned and never cheered. When I turned 18 last year a big man from the city told my papa that I could make him big money. So now I’m here.”

“That is an amazing story. Thank you for joining us. We have just heard from Stacy Watson, who last night won her first gold medal in the 10K long distance race. This is Sean O’hara reporting. Back to you in the studio.”