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Posts Tagged ‘dating’

Something that flat startled the hell out of me, several months into our relationship, was finding out that Jim is nearly two years my junior. I’m coming up on twenty-four my next birthday (which granted isn’t until September), and he’s coming up on twenty-two. Our birthdays are only ten days apart, which is convenient for someone with an awful memory for dates, and that’s all I knew for a while. All evidence suggests that this must not be true, since we met on OKCupid, which lists your age, but all the same; I remember being totally floored when I found out he was so much younger. I tend to automatically assume that anyone who doesn’t have gray hair or baby fat is essentially my age, and treat them as such. Jim and I are at parallel stages in life, and we’re stupidly happy; it’s only when someone points out that he’s my brother’s age, and I’m his sister’s, that it becomes in any way relevant.

This is what you might call a trend—and not just with partners and lovers, but with all different kinds of people in my life.

My best friend since I moved to Westford (not where I live, but essentially where I’m from) is someone I met as a very young child, the summer before I turned nine. We both have extremely vivid memories of meeting each other with our mouths full of blackberries and my hair in my eyes; we were pretty much inseparable for the next ten years. She tells me that when I went to college, she felt lost–I did too. You spend your life with someone, and then move, and there’s a big empty space where they were, a quiet spot in your day where before you talked for two hours at the barn. The thing about Meg—who I love, who became my sister—that always amuses me in a low-level way is that she is well over two years younger than I am. That means she was, when we met, six. Six and almost-nine is a big difference at that age–I’m not sure I even noticed. I have no memory of ever thinking about it, until I moved up to middle school or high school or college, and she was left behind.

I am not a stranger to leaving people behind.

When I was in Australia, I met Jory in the flesh.  I actually met Jory online a number of years ago; he was one of the most established people on the forum we were both on, incredibly well-spoken, very smart, very thorough. When we met up, in the Melbourne zoo in August of my Junior year, I wasn’t real clear on what Jory looked like, having never seen a picture and not actually knowing what a quoll (the stuffed animal he said he’d be carrying) looked like. I spent the first five minutes walking through the zoo, peering at all the people around my age, or very slightly below it–and so was deeply disconcerted to encounter a small and obviously much younger person grinning and swinging a spotted rat-like toy by the tail.

At that point, Jory was still a teenager. I was just about to turn twenty-one, only a few weeks shy. Our experiences to that point were continents and countries apart, because between your late teens and early twenties—between highschool and college—is sometimes this yawning gap where you do an enormous amount of growing up.  We should not have had much to say to each other. The ensuing visit with his family should have been awkward. I should not have come back to their house again and again, should not have attended birthday parties, slept over, memorized the walk from Glen Waverly to his house—

And yet. But still. Because in not very long at all, I was reaching out to hold Jory’s hand in the dark as we talked about all the things you can’t say during the day. I remember that grip so vividly, so viscerally—in that moment, there weren’t years between us, there were two exhausted, lonely, shaken young adults who needed to hold someone’s hand, who needed a lifeline.

…I have a friend right now is quite literally old enough to have birthed me; in a few more years, I’m sure I’ll haves ones young enough to be my kids. (Give me time, I’m only twenty three.) Because when I fall for someone, as a partner or as a friend—and don’t let anyone fool you, all good friendships involve falling a little bit in love, the same way all good partners are also your friend—I forget everything about them except the things that made me love them in the first place.

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When We Talk About Love

I watch the TV show Bones because I am crazy for two different people.

I mean it’s also great television, or I wouldn’t still be keeping up with it, you know? I love Tempe and Seeley; I think it’s a smart, blunt, funny, gruesome show. It gets a little too human once in a while (I just like the dead bodies and Bones’s complete inability to figure out how to be a real person), but mostly I enjoy it to the hilt. I like Angela’s ludicrous magic art-science solutions and Hodgins’ crazy eyes and the faces Cam makes and the Gormagon killer.

But mostly, I watch it out of love.

I started watching Bones with my girlfriend at the time and our mutual friend Em. Now, I liked Fe (short for Favorite Ex) pretty completely, but it’s Em I want to talk about here. I respect her in a shy, cautious, adoring manner, and loved that she seem reasonably fond of me. She’s very smart and very outspoken and very independent.  Although she has a romance-novel streak, her entertainments are typically very intellectual.

And as I said earlier, Bones is a smart show.

So we three, and sometimes others, would sit and watch it. This was a highlight of my week, sitting with Fe and Em and being shushed every time I tried to say something. I seek community, no matter how tiny, and I felt accepted into a group those days–because Fe and Em are so tightly connected, so linked to each other. Those evenings ended when Em moved into the Archaeology Dork house, and I didn’t keep up with Bones as I should have. Wasn’t the same.

Two years later I met Jim.

He watches Bones too, and I idly started watching the newer episodes with him because I remembered the Gormagon plotline from when I watched with Fe and Em, and remembered liking it–but mostly because I really, really like Jim. And when I have a partner, or want to be friends with someone, I tend to try to access the things they do, look at the things they like, see if I can love the things they love. It’s a way of falling for someone, and showing them that.

 

And whether it’s reading Rumi or watching Bones, I usually end up in love with something other the person I’m after.

 

 

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I work at a camp two days a week (or rather, I’ve just finished working there). Once in a while one of the kids will ask me if I have a boyfriend. I never know what to say. Mostly it’s little girls, between, oh, 8 and 11, and one of the best ways to put them off is to ask if they aren’t a little young for boys? They inevitably ensure me that THEY do not date boys because boys are ucky, but they have these friends, right, and they date boys, and it’s all very dramatic. It’s an excellent diversionary tactic.

Two weeks ago was my last day, which was good because working at camp is pretty exhausting. So this little girl (who has been to the workshop I’m teaching twice already, and seems to be rather fond of me) has already commented on my pretty rainbow belt (shut up) and listened to me tell her how bad I am at being a girl because I was never any good at braiding gimp (SHUT UP). After a while she asks me where I got the belt, and I laugh, and say half under my breath that my girlfriend gave it to me (sorry, Jim). She either missed this or misinterpreted it — but she gave me another shot to out myself within ten minutes, although I didn’t think of it like that at the time.

“Do YOU have a boyfriend?” she asks. And I sort of blink at her, and then I think of Jim. About seven times out of ten I’ll call Jim my boyfriend, or my gentleman, and it feels a little odd to call hir her; if I’m not talking to my parents I usually use the masculine pronoun. Although I will tell people I don’t know well that I have a girlfriend, in my head I have a boyfriend. I’ve always been wildly attracted to androgyny and masculinity in females, so this isn’t as startling as it might seem to people who only know me as “the lesbian.” (I’m queer, guys. There’s a difference.)

The moment with the little girl has passed by now, and that’s fine. Because inasmuch as I glory in having this handsome funny gentleman of mine, I also really hate appearing straight to other people. Like. Really hate it. I’ve had for the last four years an enormous amount of lesbian street cred, and I’m something approaching a Gold Star lesbian (has never slept with a man and has no intention of ever doing so), and I’m a combination of appalled, amused, and puzzled by people who want to sleep with people of the opposite gender. I don’t want to be seen as straight because my queer identity is super important to me, and because I don’t like the idea of BEING straight. (I am aware that I am being – to a degree – intolerant, but fuck y’all, this is MY being.)

But I love Jim.

And Jim looks like a guy. Ze passes excellently and is really handsome and that is a big part of why I love him. I respect and like hir gender identity. We talk about it a lot and I’m right there for hir, whether it is a skirt-and-bra day or a binder-and-boy-pants day. In fact I rather prefer the latter! I just. I am very secure in that I’m queer, and fuck what people think, but it does scare me a little, that I could spend a whole day out with my boy and people would think I was straight. It feels like when I first came out, but in reverse.

Let me also make very clear that this is completely my problem, and not Jim’s. I hate people who make their issues someone else’s fault and responsibility. It’s my job to work it out in my head, the same way I first worked out how I felt about dating someone who wasn’t exactly a girl, when I’m a lesbian. It’s already starting to feel like it’s not a problem. I love who I love, and I know what I am.

And that’s got to be enough.

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My boyfriend calls me Bones.

I call her Jim.

(…and frequently I find I must inform her that I am not certain pertinent things, and am in fact something very specific. Her tag here is dammit jim; mine, when I talking about myself, is is dr. bones.)

(And yes. All the tags do start with D.)

He calls me Bones after – who else – Leonard ‘Bones’ McCoy, who he has a special spot in his heart for. I call him Jim for James Tiberius Kirk. This all started when I mentioned a family tendency towards drinking gin&tonics and mint juleps (but only on Derby Day), and he began yelping about how I was totally Bones. I was a combination of delighted and utterly horrified – one of the many hilarious text messages I recieved on this theme reads:

I MEAN YES I LIKE GIVING YOU NECKRUBS

BUT JESUS CHRIST

YOUR SHOULDERS FEEL LIKE PART OF THE SHIP, BONES

TAKE A DAY OFF

The only recourse I had was to give in and call her Jim.

The nickname works on two levels for me – the obvious jaded-grumpy-charming-doctor level, and the I-collect-bones level. (I have a badger skull, horse teeth, an unidentifiable rodent skull, some mystery leg bones, a unknown vertebrae, a rabbit skin, a fox tail, an Australian possum tail, and some feathers.) (Jim thinks this is weird, but he totally collects them too.)

Jim is genderqueer, and I’m just plain queer. I consider her to be something between girlfriend and boyfriend; I use the former with my parents, and the latter with my friends. I switch pronouns regularly and call her my Gentleman; he calls me his Lady, although admittedly somewhat less often and perhaps without the capital letter. And yes, for those of you wondering, I’m a girl – and for those of you who are nosy, Jim is not a girl. Or a boy. Not precisely. Not right now.

…Jim’s just Jim. And I’m just Bones. Nice to meet you.

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