Saturday, August 2, 2014

Butch in Femme Clothing

Breaking up with Quentin was hard to do for several reasons: she didn't want to be friends; she wouldn't stop emailing, calling, and texting me; and, rudeness was totally lost on her. However, thanks to modern technology, I eventually managed to ban, block, and spam-list her into oblivion - I hoped. 

I have always believed that when a relationship fails, the best thing to do is to get right back on the dating horse. That is exactly what I did. I fired up my OKCupid account and turned my search light back on. Naturally, Quentin kept showing up as a 90% match in all my searches. I couldn't resist taking a peak at her profile, in stealth mode, to see if she was moving on or not.

Not. She had changed her profile into a long complaint about how she had finally found the perfect woman, who had broken her heart, but she refused to give up... blah, blah, blasé.  Dang, if she gets that cut up after one month of casual dating, I'd hate to see her after a long-term relationship.

Luckily for me, New York City has no shortage of datable women. A few days after reactivating my profile, I had a correspondence with a nice, sane-seeming, woman named Kitty, with whom I had very little in common. Perfect. We agreed to meet at Bar Veloce for a drink and an in-person chat.

I arrived on time, and I recognized Kitty from her description of what she'd be wearing, sitting at the far end of the bar. She was tall, femme, and looked very pretty from across the room. However, as I got closer to Kitty, I smelled a rat, and I recognized that it was Quentin in femme clothing. 

I was pissed and turned to go, but Quentin hurried over to stop me. Who knew she could move so fast in heels like that?

"Hey, hey, Sissy. Wait a minute. Don't go."

"Look, Quentin, don't start another scene. I like this bar and would actually like to be able to come back here sometime."

"I won't, I promise. Just have one glass of wine with me, OK?"

I assumed the alternative would be something from a Divine movie, so I agreed, and joined her at the bar.

"You know, Sissy, I thought about what you said, about us both being butch, and you were right. That's why I decided to try to be more feminine for you."

"Quentin, I don't want you to change for me. You are a nice, smart, very attractive woman - except that lately you've been kind of an obsessive stalker bitch."

I expected Quentin to be offended by this, but she just nodded in agreement.

"You live in the New York City area (Newark), and there are lots of women who will be attracted to you for yourself. "

"Just not you, though?"

"No, not me."

True to her word, Quentin did not cause a scene. She calmly opened her Louis Vuitton bag, took a $20 bill out of her wallet (which I noticed still had the chain on it from its back-pocket days), placed it on the bar, then strode toward the door. As I watched her go, I had to admit, even from the back, Quentin looked smoking hot. Inferno hot.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Why Can't We Be Friends?

One thing I will never understand is why some women take the words, “I don’t want to date you anymore,” as a challenge to which they respond, “Oh yeah, we’ll see about that.” 

Not all women, not most women… in fact, only a very small percent of all the women I’ve ever dated has responded this way. But, when it’s happening, statistics is very cold comfort and the last thing on my mind. 

I found out, the hard way, that Quentin, the woman I’ve been dating for the past month, does not take break-ups very well.  I really, really liked her and thought she would make make an excellent lezbro, but she only wanted to have a romantic relationship with me. Unfortunately, Quentin was the only person feeling the romance. I was feeling annoyed.

I finally got fed up. Last Friday I asked her to meet at the Path Cafe, where we’d had our first date, so we could have a talk.

“Look Quentin, you know I really like you and all….”

“I really like you, too, Sissy! I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“No, I don’t think we are on the same page. I’m saying I like-like you, not love-like you.”

Quentin blinked. “What, are you breaking up with me?”

“Not as a friend, I just….”

“You are breaking up with me,” she shouted, loudly enough to make the heads of the cafe’s other patrons swivel in our direction.

“Calm down,” I whispered

“Okay, okay,” she said more softly. “It’s just that I didn’t see this coming. I thought everything was going good.”

“They were, they are, I mean, I want to be friends, but not girlfriends with you.”

Quentin shook her head. “No, that would never work out. I can’t just be friends with you. I like you too much. If I saw you out with another woman, I just don’t know what I would do?”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Just that. I don’t know. When I met you, Sissy, I said to myself, ‘I am going to do whatever it takes to hold tight to this one.’”

She illustrated how tight by closing her hand into a fist. 

“Are you threatening me? Seriously?”

Quentin looked down at her hand, like it was the hand of a stranger, then opened it, palm up, toward me.

“Come on, Sissy, you know me better than that. I don’t have a violent bone in my body.”

“That’s the problem, Quentin. I’ve only known you for about a month, so I don’t really know you. Right now, you’re scaring me.”

She stood up suddenly, and pointed her finger at me. “This is not over, Sissy. I love you, and I’m going to make you love me.”

Quentin stormed out of the cafe, leaving me to brave the humiliation of being the last character on stage following a bad scene.

I apologized to the woman behind the counter as I paid, leaving an extra tip. She smiled sympathetically, “Are you kidding? This is the West Village. Drama central. I could tell you some stories….”

Since the cafe wasn’t all that busy, I ordered a glass of wine, and she did tell me some stories. By the time I left an hour later, I felt a lot better. 

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Yang - Yang

I mentioned in my last post that I'd started dating, Quentin, a hot woman who I have too much in common with. We're both more yang than yin, but she is way yangier than I am.

After two weeks of free meals, doors being held open for me, and having things done to me sexually with an almost painful intensity, I decided it was time to have a talk with Quentin about establishing boundaries.

We were having dinner at her place, where she had grilled the most delicious steaks I had eaten since the last time I stopped dating vegetarians.

"Quentin, you know I like you a lot, and I really dig spending time with you, but I'm used to having more equal relationships."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm not used to having someone do everything for me like you do. I want our time together to be more balanced."

"Your wish is my command, My Lady. Let me pour you some more wine."

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about. I'll pour."

"Of course, dear!" 

Quentin sat back and watched patiently while I poured and then spilled wine all over the table. In my defense, I was a little nervous from our conversation, and my hand had been shaking.

"No sweat, pet," Quentin assured me. "I'll get a rag and clean that up in a jiff."

"No, let me clean it," I insisted then went into the kitchen in search of a sponge. 

I didn't find one. Eventually, Quentin came in to show me where she kept her cleaning supplies, and I got the mess wiped up.

The rest of dinner was a little tense, but after we'd snuggled on the couch with more wine watching "Doctor Who" on Netflix, we were cozy together again.

That is, until we retired to the bedroom where I convinced Quentin to lay back and let me take charge of the sexual activities, for a change....

After a very tense 90 minutes, we decided to call it a night.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Butchier than Thou

I met Quentin on OKCupid after she responded to my profile. She looked really cute in her picture, and we liked a lot of the same music, movies, and books, so I answered her back.

I’m not one to spend a lot of time doing the back and forth emails before meeting, so I suggested that we set up a time and place to meet in person. 

“Sounds great,” she emailed back. “Give me your number, and we’ll figure something out.” 

We exchanged numbers, and about an hour later, she called.

I have to admit, she had me at “Hello.” She has one of those smoky, sexy voices, sort of a cross between Nina Simone and Laurie Anderson, that I could listen to all night.

We agreed to meet after work the next day at the Path Cafe in the West Village. She said it was a nice place, and convenient for her since she would be coming over from Jersey City.  I know a lot of New York City lesbians tend to avoid what they call bridge and tunnel women, but I am not one of them. I've experienced enough dating bias for living in Flushing. Anyway, I'm the last person to reject someone based on her zip code.

The first things I noticed when Quentin came into the cafe was that she was really tall, really hot and really butchy. I consider myself to be a soft butch, and while Quentin isn't exactly hard, she definitely pegs the scale more than I do.

I immediately concluded that Quentin and I would not be a good dating match, and I assumed that she would, too. But, apparently not. Quentin was in full on dating mode, giving me little compliments, sending me flirty looks, and listening to every word I said like I was the most fascinating woman she’d ever met. In short, she was making all my usual moves.

We ordered coffee and paninis, and I was really glad to see that she was a meat eater, like me. After we were done eating, I reached for my wallet to pay my share, but Quentin wouldn't hear of it. 

“Let me treat you,” she insisted. 

Before I could protest, she had already whipped out her wallet (which was conveniently attached to her belt loop by a chain) and handed the money to the counterman.

“How about taking a walk in Washington Square Park?” she suggested.

I agreed and we headed up Christopher Street toward the park. On the way, Quentin took my hand and tucked it into the crook of her arm. It was a nice gesture, but it felt weird to me. I felt squishy, like a bicycle tire that doesn't have enough air in it.

Once we were in the park, we sat down on an empty bench near the fountain.

“You know, you have very pretty eyes,” she told me.

“I do? Oh, thank you.” 

“Yeah, and I really like your hair. I totally go for the natural look.”

“Thanks, it’s mostly laziness on my part. I've been thinking it would be fun to dye it red sometime.”

“May I kiss you?”


I was going to say I didn't think that was such a good idea, since she is way too butch for me, and while I think we could be excellent friends, there was no way that things would work out between us, romantically. But then, she kissed me, and neither of us said anything for the next two hours.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

This Is a Work of Fiction

When I started this blog back in January 2010, I gave an introduction and explanation that my intention was to write a humorous blog following the life of the fictional 24-year-old lesbian, Sissy Van Dyke. The heading of the blog also reads: "A weekly blog of comic fiction." OK, I often miss out on "weekly" part, because writing is hard, but the fiction part is definitely true.

The fictional Sissy is also the subject and supposed author of my two novels: The Adventures of Sissy Van Dyke and Further Adventures of Sissy Van Dyke. Of course virtual characters can't write, so the real author is the physical Sissy Van Dyke: humor writer, stand-up comedian, and singer of comical songs. And, of course, there is a third version of the author, who is not named Sissy, but this is an actual picture.

Photo by Joseph Palmer "Chicago Motives"
I know that all these versions of Sissy can get confusing, since people often come up to me and say things like: 
"I thought you were living in San Francisco?" (from Book One)
"Didn't you just move to Chicago?" (from Book Two)
"Twenty-four!?" (from obviously not being twenty-four)
 All of this to say, I love you all. I am not trying to fool you. I just want to make you laugh.

Saturday, June 7, 2014


A few people have asked me if I ever got rid of the Cap’n Crunch stealing mouse I caught in my apartment a couple months ago. Did I release it into Flushing Meadow Park, as planned? The answer is, “Yes,” I released it and “No,” I didn’t get rid of it. In fact, Edward G. Mouse is right now engaged in his second favorite pastime: sleeping. His first favorite is eating, and I’m sure once he wakes up, he’s going to dive right into that one.

When I caught Ed in the humane trap I’d bought, it was still mostly cold out, so I waited for the first nice day to take him over to the park. Well, the first nice day came and went, followed by the first nice week and the first nice month. In the meantime, Ed was eating, sleeping, and generally loving life. When I noticed that he was also getting chubby I decided that the time had come.

I strapped the cage onto the back of my bicycle and rode to the park. There, I found a  secluded mousy area, with lots of trees, and soft dirt to dig in. I opened the cage and told him: "Run, Eddie, run. You are free! Live long and prosper!"

Ed thought it was some kind of trick at first, and, being a canny New Yorker, he wasn’t falling for it. I moved several yards away and waited, while Ed kept one beady eye on me like he was saying, “What are you up to, two legs?”

He eventually stuck a nose out of his cage and began sniffing around. He sniffed his way over to a nearby tree, and sat studying it, like he was looking for the elevator button. After about ten minutes of exploring his freedom, Ed went back to the cage, snuggled down into the shredded paper, and didn't come out again. I waited, but it seemed that it had made up its mind. Nature was not Edward's idea of a place worth living.

After a while, I gave up. I closed the cage, strapped it back onto my bike, and my new roommate and I headed back home. 

Now that Ed is a permanent resident, I got him a bigger cage and bought him one of those exercise wheels. So far he has shown no interest in the wheel, but I’m sure he’ll get the hang of it eventually. Any mouse smart enough to know a good thing when he sees it, is also smart enough to know that too much of a good thing is fattening.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Online Dating: Greatest Misses

Meeting women online is interesting for a number of reasons. First of all you learn important stuff like a woman’s attitude toward drugs, smoking, and anal sex before you find out her real name. The thing I like best about online dating is that people with serious issues are easy to spot. That’s because folks typically write personal ads at home, in their comfort zones, possibly while having a few drinks. So,they forget that the ad is supposed to be a conversation with another person, not another internal monologue.

Here are examples of three types of ads that I not only wouldn’t answer, but that would make me want to slap that person in the face if we ever did met. Not a hard slap, but a nice Bette Davis slapping Errol Flynn in “Elizabeth and Essex,” wake-up you danged fool, sort of slap. 

Fighting with the Reader

"If you don't like women who are loud, opinionated, and won't hesitate to embarrass you in a  public place, well, later for you, then, you judgmental loser. I'm going to do me no matter what. No drama.”

Coming out as a Bigot

“I am a pretty, feminine, straight-looking woman who’s looking for another classy feminine woman. No butches, no studs, no BBW. Race is not an issue, as long as you are white. No picture no response. If you are ugly, do not waste my time.”

Advertising Past Relationship Drama

“My ex cheated on me with that heifer, Nicki who works at Home Depot in Starrett City. That's right, Beyoch, I am calling you out. What you gonna do about it? You already took my lady, and shot up my car with a nail gun. Well you’re gonna need a glue gun if you expect to hang on to that slippery female. The only way is to keep her ass glued to the couch in front of the television. Even then, if you don't keep her phone out of reach, she’ll be sexting ladies at the same time, using somebody else's body. I know that for a fact because that's how I met her. I knew those pictures weren't her cause I used to work at Victoria's Secret and I know the difference between an A and a C cup."

Although these aren't actual ads (that’s right, possible crazy person reading this, so calm down), but a blog reenactment of too many actual ads that I read online everyday. 

While ads like these sometimes make me feel sad and possibly marginalized, I'm just glad that there are plenty of other nice, sane, open-minded women sharing the same margin. I’m sure that it’s only a matter of time before we meet.