queer stuff: love, suffering and dancing
19 Oct 2010 1 Comment
in narrative Tags: aids, autumn, Brooklyn, dancing, eating disorder, garlic, gay, gay marriage, HIV, home cooking, justice, new york, peoria, queer, sexuality
i stood in the little cheese etc. shop watching yet another mom wrangle her Sports Utility Stroller through the door, like a camel through the eye of a needle, and public radio repeated…kidnapped, beat, tortured and sodomized. Young men in the Bronx by other young men in the Bronx. Over my eight hours behind the counter through the trickle of customers, that was the refrain of the day. Each hour: kidnapped, beat, tortured and sodomized. They did not say raped; I keep wondering why.
this drawn out headline followed by NY governor candidate Paladino’s speech about “gays brainwashing our children…” corrected with a talk show tour where he clarified that he is no homophobe, he just doesn’t think gays should marry. There’s a People magazine sprawled on the backseat of the preacher eater’s aunt’s car: cover story, bullying and teen suicide. Mostly queer kids.
gay men saved my life.
against all the recent news of suffering, I vividly recall:
the fire circle. after the talent show. drums cradled between knees in a ring in the dark.
standing woodside, pushing my hips off the beat, side to side, minidress sliding up black tights; the ground hard and cold under my thin soled boots, the laces tight. Wide-kneed stomping, he comes around the circle, naked from the waist down, pale cock half flopping, side to side, in a short formal jacket, wild white-faced with peaked sparkling eye make up glittering over his beard, over his big smile. The fire belches up sparks into the black, spraying light on his shiny elbows flapping. I step over the tarp where voyeurs curl up watching; he makes room. Slide into his square clapped out into the air for me, framing my body, we churn something older than us in the air, old like dirt. Snake through the warm pockets, sweating, long sweater sliding off. Turning, stomp hard at each other; asses jiggling. Beyond us, men share flasks of Wild Turkey, smoke out of an apple. Beyond them, a cluster of three slim figures stroke each other. My lover stretches on the blue tarp behind me into the folds of a big bearded man’s toga, glitter falling between them.
years ago, the back dance floor of DJ’s place, after the drag show, falling against the cook from the café where we all seemed to work, freckled, thin in his old jeans and white tee shirt. His arm curving around my hip and waist pulling me close, step to step, hips locked. His lips slid up my neck, “I never met a woman who loves food like you do.” “Talk to me about Garlic,” I hissed and bit his tongue.
i had a horrible eating disorder, lost whole days to it. Queers helped me get over it. All that affection. New scales for sexual desirability. New performances of femininity. All that unapologetic pleasure.
perched on a stool in the burgundy China Doll dress he had picked out for me, I looked up at his perfect cupid’s bow lips as the ice skater lined my eyes. We’d make-out with only lips touching in the parking lot before going into the Red Fox, the after hours gay club with the old high school lab tables. Kissing like the thirsty drinking water, crystalline, simple. He held me when I melted down after taking his boyfriend/my housemate’s ex-lover to the hospital when his mother had a heart attack he blamed himself for. After the little gay mechanic’s dad put his head through a windshield, and the opera singer went back in the closet so his parents would let him stay at home and in touch with his younger brother. After we unlisted our phone number because of the creepy calls. After my girlfriend’s gay sister was dragged to the front of the family church to be exorcised.
perched in the dirt at our campsite, I closed my eyes as the drag queen glued false lashes like pink polka dotted butterfly wings to my lids. Slipped into the circling conversations of foreclosure politics, fabric dying, and perverse non-sequiturs. After the majority of my closest gay men friends sero-converted to HIV-positive, and I remain relieved most live in cities with access to services and community. After the young violinist jumped off the bridge. After all the break-ups, layoffs, depression, and drama. After taking my friend to the emergency room to have a sex toy removed from his ass that, although beginning pleasurably enough, had been up there over 24-hours and another 24-hours at the hospital before surgery.
okay, the last incident was really one of the highlights of my year so far since it all turned out happy hinney. (sorry, bunny, but it was rather exciting…)
there was a Love-In in Times Square on Friday evening in response to the spasm of anti-queer hate crimes. I was in the boug-box, and Loved-In from there. I hope you’ll Love-In from where ever you are.
The Eastern Corridor Bus Service and the Great American Media Perversion
18 Sep 2009 Leave a Comment
in narrative Tags: Brooklyn, bus, DC, media, new york city, NYC, radical muffins love pleasure, sexuality, travel, Washington DC
I thought I had been to the pinnacle of bus-trapped insanity last summer, when I sat pinioned between adolescent girls popping jewel like jelly candies and chattering on cell phones about big city shopping shopping shopping, half drowning out the Chinese dubbed Tom & Jerry cartoons with Japanese subtitles but not the little butterball boy pin-balling up and down the aisle, burning off the giant soda and fries mama fed him at the rest stop. Oh yes, and oh—only to be topped by my most recent trip, coming home to Brooklyn breezes after an ill-timed vacation into the sweltering swamp that is our nation’s capitol in August.
I bought a ticket with a new company for some hope of not watching a movie, because the passengers vote whether or not to have one. I enjoy bus trips, even long ones, especially long ones, except for two things: the bad manners of fellow riders and forced media. I typically bring earplugs, but sometimes I forget and sometimes they’re inadequate. I’ve yet to acquire any nifty music playing/earphone device. So, I am compelled to at least listen which leads to watching whatever Hollywood swill they foist upon me.
As we’re departing, the bus is only three quarters full. There is a salt and pepper haired, tattooed dyke a row ahead of me, who delves immediately into her book. A Caribbean family with several small children make their way to the back. The white guy across the aisle helps me figure out how to work the seats and offers me a Ritz cracker before wrapping himself in wires and hunkering down behind his laptop.
Overall, the passengers vote to watch a movie.
“Tyranny of the majority,” I mutter.
I cannot remember the options now, but the group also voted for A Bronx Tale. “Good choice,” the bus driver approves. “It’s good for kids,” he adds. “There’s some swearing. And some violence. But no sex.”
And pops in the cd.
Some swearing, apparently, means the F-word as punctuation. And the N-word as an integral part of dialogue. This is a Robert De Niro film, and the violence is graphic. Mafia-style shootings. Threats and bullying. Racist brutality.
Excellent, edifying movies for children, no?
This is the great American perversion. Creation and tolerance of visceral violent imagery alongside puritanical veiling of sexuality.
Oh my God! Breasts! Cover the children’s eyes!
What would have been the same audience’s reaction had the driver shown, say, Boys on the Side or Philadelphia? I’ll admit it would probably be very uncomfortable to watch Shortbus or Fire with my busmates. Given the types of special gentlemen who often seat themselves beside me, it would be awkward at best.
What about Bend It Like Beckham? Wasn’t that rated G? I’d be fine to be trapped with a G movie to accommodate the most sensitive audience members. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Akeelah and the Bee—bring them on.
Really, though, can’t we all just read a book or something? Here are some good ones for your last long rides at the end of vacation season:
- Ultimate Gay Erotica 2009 by Jesse Grant (Editor)
- Baby Remember My Name: An Anthology of New Queer Girl Writing by Michelle Tea
- The Fan-Maker’s Inquisition by Rikki Ducornet
- The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters (not about sex, but in my opinion, very sexy and what I was reading or trying to read on this trip!)
beginning from the rear or ass demon
19 Aug 2009 2 Comments
in narrative Tags: anal health, carol queen, gay, health, michelangelo, pleasure, queer, radical muffins love art, radical muffins love pleasure, sexua, sexuality, wome, women's rights
After a fraught week, my beautiful friend Maria and I decided to spend a Friday afternoon licking our wounds in the marble womb of the Metropolitan Museum of Art off Central Park. The steps were thronged with tourists. I scooped Maria out of the crowd and arm-n-arm we ascended into the venerable halls of esteemed artists. The cherry on our culture sundae: Michelangelo’s first painting.
The priceless piece, a diminutive copy of a German print titled “St. Anthony Tormented by Demons,” has undergone painstaking, expensive renovations. We slid through the cluster of serious faced admirers, huddling around the painting in a small gallery. The haloed Saint is encircled by demons, brilliantly fish scaled and monsterous; the first kinda looks like it is humping his leg, and the last…
I slid out of the crowd towards the back of the room. Reunited with Maria and whispered aside, “Did you look at that last demon?”
“Oh yah- I looked at that demon three times and thought, ‘oh! he so went there!’”
At which point, we had to leave the room, collapsing in hysterical laughter against each other. Because that last demon can only be described as the Ass Demon, with a winking, gaping pink butthole worthy of all the gay porn in LA.
Perhaps he was just faithfully copying the original print, but I prefer to think he understood the taboo confronting his audience. It’s profoundly satisfying, imagining an adolescent Michelangelo meticulously painting each wrinkle around the anus, cracking himself up with the audacity of it. This is the spirit of the same genius artist who would later defy Church law by secretly dissecting cadavers to learn muscle structure to paint the truth of the human body.
And part of the truth of the human body is a zillion pleasurable nerve endings in all our pink parts, including our assholes. The great equalizer, I believe Tristan Taormino once called it.
Yet the taboo remains, tangled up with fear of gayness for many men and out of bounds, seemingly irrelevant, for many women. Of course, the whole shebang is associated with poop, so it can be literally dirty, which is high on the ookie scale for many folks. The good news, my friends, is that this is nothing a shower cannot remedy, and for the fastidious, enemas.
When the behind has been ignored as a potential erogenous zone, the pleasure from touching, rimming and penetration can take us by surprise. Ladies- spread the good word – it’s not just about the prostrate! Anal play also tends to require a slow hand (or tongue or toy) and a level of relaxing and presence that can be intense in bed.
While there is a lot to be said for normalizing (liberating!) anal sex for the masses, the transgressiveness of the act can be a turn on. Exploring new or disputed territory with a partner makes us vulnerable together, and the trust, gentleness and desire we can show each other through this process…also a big turn on!
So – look to the old masters for inspiration. Begin by looking the ass demon in the eye with Michelangelo then check out some of these excellent resources:
- Luscious, stories of anal eroticism Edited by Alison Tyler Forward by Tristan Taormino
- Anal Pleasure & Health: A Guide for Men and Women by Jack Morin
- Bend Over Boyfriend video by Carol Queen
And add your own to the list, por favor!
PS…the secret is lube lube and more lube.
art is good for everyone – go see some
05 Apr 2008 2 Comments
in narrative Tags: Brooklyn, craft, debt, etching, free stuff, Gen X, history, koi, local, martin luther king, new york city, radical muffins love art, sexual freedom, sexuality, spring, vox pop
at the coffee shop, under the watch of the statue of liberty chained outside in the grey, inside, ‘gypsy woman’ plays its tail end, repeating and repeating the phrase, fade out. I eat the frosting, yellow as my legal pad and lemony, off the edge of the wrapper. There’s fine lime green sugar glitter on the naked cake. The art is beautiful, fantastic.
Three pieces are made with compiled circular stacks of scrap paper. Topical relief maps of circumscribed, decontextualized, sliced pieces of images and ideas: tickets; documents; receipts; doodles; magazine pages; reports; letters.
In the centre of the wall display, a huge sweeping carp in fierce black etching on pink glass.
She has a lily pad green, jelly belly green head, and is orange & fuchsia with turquoise spots along the body, with feather-like, frond-like tail and fins. She begins at the tip of the tail at the halfway point up the left-hand side of the frame then curves along down into the corner along the bottom edge and up the right-hand side with the tip of the fin curving up over her head, curving in filigree delicacy at the halfway point of the top silver edge. She has stars and butterflies in her body. Glamour fish taking up the entire frame.
To her right: light boxes. Wooden frames backlighting monochromatic canvases in cerulean, kelly, and canary.
Then—the piece de résistance of wit—ink drawings of radical animal pairings. A grizzly bear embraces a great white along her great belly, and says: I love you Eloise. A shriek mouthed baboon, braced on her hands with her ass in the air, faces a motley pack of beasts, including a bear, jackrabbit, mongoose, and great heron. She says, I am woman enough for all of you. The bawdy mongoose and penguin you have to see for yourself.
The man beside me is happily doing a crossword. It’s gloomy out, he excuses himself over the phone. I am disgusted with CNN, he adds.
It is just the same story over and over again, you wait for something new to come on and it never does. Pause. I hate that show. All they do is talk about what they are going to show you.
The shop’s paper guide to this art show, Brooklyn Art Movement, identifies the papers in the constructed art as recycled bills and the titles: Debt Consolidation, United States of Debt, and Original Debt (I think then the shape of this piece is an apple).
The Fish: Sexual Freedom. She’s made with spray paint over marks in glass made by Edder Muniz. One of the women working described him as the beautiful guy with dreds who comes in all the time. He’s so beautiful that if he was a woman he’d still be beautiful.
The light boxes are titled Enthusiasm, Shoji, and Tokonama. They are by Julie Renee Williams. She also has a richly pink one—Naked Faith. Naked faith was tucked around the corner.
The bawdy beasties are by Mike Freiheit.
The whole collection –the other woman at the counter says—not to be obvious, but it is so Spring, with all these colors.
And light & wit. Amen.
day by day poetry
27 Jan 2008 Leave a Comment
in poems Tags: aids, alice walker, feminism, hilary clinton, hummingbird, journaling, queer, race politics, radical muffins love pleasure, sexuality
i keep a Skybright Studio canvas pad propped up on the table against the world map. It has a hot pink cover with a distant lighthouse under a full moon seen through sparse trees rendered in white lines and smudges; it is 16 x 20 inches. I write impulsive poems on it in sharpie marker. They often come from bits of conversation. It started in the fall sometime, and it is now full. Below is part of the resulting poem, annotated with links. Visually, it is beautiful on the pad, haiku format one to each sheet, but a ribbon like that would make the blog space too long so the lines are longer here:
she would ask, did you have one big love? What does love mean to you now?
she was radicalized around ideas of nation states & nationalism in high school English Lit class where she learned
America is a constructed country
American, an invented identity
with myths & traditions made in patchwork & whole cloth
the latest experiment
i get paid what i got paid in dc but now i live in new york.
i’m choking on it.
he was angry, when she asked if he had slept with a prostitute
after he said he had lived next door to a brothel.
residual feelings, she called them; like semi-sticky dust leftovers of love
“writing is like marriage—one should not commit one’s self until one is amazed at one’s luck”
even our complex, artful, deranged & joyful sexuality seems hopeless in the maw of this poverty, war & isolation
a fundamental human challenge
you are here; you are an agent of change; you are the butterfly effect
a flock of greckles in your face; a hawk circling far away
a pink plastic flamingo, an origami piece crane, and a hummingbird—
all in the same sky
i’ve only slept with 9 people, she said.
But how do i count the 6 dyke orgy in high school, or
that play-party where 20 people fucked the prince
while me & another femme pet him—how do i count that? She took the prince home the next night.
i count that
well, dunk me in buttermilk & call me a biscuit—
you’ve got grits, kid.
i like being part of a grand history. like she said: i cross the police line &
join the past 2 decades of AIDS activists
“writing saved me from the sin & inconvenience of violence”
part of that world
04 Jan 2008 2 Comments
in narrative Tags: disney, karaoke, little mermaid, pms, queer, sexuality, singing
the mermaid girl sent me this clip below, something totally unexpected after a ***k of a day, and filled me with a cracked joy. i was also turned on and kinda weepy, though that could be amplified by current hormone levels.
regardless of your hormone levels, now you too can feel the love for nick pitera and sing along lustfully, as if you had seashells on your titties.
“Are you so super excited for the Broadway debut of Disney’s “The Little Mermaid”? Lots of other people are, especially the kooky (but passionate!) folks at BroadwayWorld.com, who sponsored a contest to discover talented mer-hopefuls across the land. Send us your best “Part of Your World,” people! And the people did, in droves. This girl won the actual contest, but we really couldn’t tear our eyes away from boy crooner Nick Patera…”
From Gawker: http://gawker.com/tag/nick-patera/.
Let me know, sweat pea, if you want full credit, and I’ll put <YOUR NAME HERE.>
connecting with India
13 Aug 2007 Leave a Comment
in narrative Tags: dire warnings, sexuality
my internet was out, and i needed to reconnect it on the same day as my lovely lady friend’s dinner party. She had been cooking Indian food all day, and asked me to make dessert (recipes below! – oh, so good). Spending a day all to myself, I was excited to cross-read about the recipes I found in the cookbooks from the library that morning, post-farmers’ market. So – gotta have the net.
the over-the-phone technician and I are working through the issues cheerfully, and he pipes up, what time is it there?
twelve noon – what time is it there?
midnight.
where are you?
you know Bombay?
yes.
I am 600 kilometers outside of Mumbai.
oh! i am making Gajjar Ki Burfee for desert tonight!
Gajjar Ki Burfee!?!?!, he bursts out laughing. You are?!?!
am I saying it right?
yeah!
His favorite dessert is gulab jamun (“jamun” also a pet name for a lover, sweetheart), but he likes burfee a lot. I like desserts with fruit, he learns, also that I’ve never made burfee before.
where are you?
Brooklyn!
Only later I think that I want to know if he was drinking a Coke.
****
After the subways flooded to a halt throughout New York and the tornado in Brooklyn, and I was surprised I made it out of NY to DC, my train back into the city from DC lost power just before Philadelphia. Stillness and sudden absence of the train racket and air conditioning and the unnecessary glare of the lights gone. I am weeks-of-long-workdays tired, and I look up from midnight’s children. My seatmate is sleeping.
Outside, tracks run rusty through rusty, sandy rocks, and the dried-out, flat remains of a deer of all the same colors, with eyes and mouth outlined in black. A college student with shopping bags flips open her phone, and I turn and glare – she’s two sentences in then says, “oh, yeah…it is suddenly awkwardly quiet…so i’ll call you later.” Flips it closed. The deer is dry as bone but not yet bones, half-flattened into the patch of ground that looks like clay. The engine turns, and we ride on to Philly.
The jazz festival is playing, and the cute conductor with tattoos tells us to get off the train and stretch out legs, hear the music, smoke a cigarette. When the engineer comes and examines the engine, she will tell the conductor if we need to get on another train. The shopping bag woman’s friend in a hoodie scolds the voice of the conductor for promoting cancer-causing tobacco. I grab my purse and my pack, and sit on the platform on a small cement round between the edges of its metal beam, and do nothing but smoke and listen to the music. And watch bicycle t-shirt and yoga pants use the time to flirt and neck, and I smile at the old Indian guy pacing the platform. On his second lap, he approaches in his man sandals and gives me a bottle of water.
for your smile
thank you, and another smile under big sunglasses, behind red hair.
third lap: he came to America in 1965—when he was 21 years old (he was 3 years old when his country emerged as independent from the British empire)—to earn his masters degree in chemistry at a school in Washington state, where he was supposed to get a stipend. The woman who processed his paper work was no longer working at the school when he arrived, promises of his stipend were lost, and he couldn’t afford to stay. Invited by another Indian student with an apartment near Colombia, he came to in New York, where – he said – any one could get by. He has lived in every borough, and he worked in labs, processing movie film. Eventually, he moved to Pennsylvania, where he has lived for twenty years now. His parents – they came and visited him when they could, and only in the past three years has he been back to India.
and what do i do?
I work in women’s health and rights. I work with questions like: why do so many women still die in childbirth, and how do we change this? why are women contracting HIV faster than men now, and why aren’t they getting the care they need when they have AIDS?
this is mostly in the developing world, yes?
yeah – here too, but the global south is hit harder.
India does not want to say it has a problem, but in the cities like Bombay, I think, it is a problem Is it true it is through sex? Do they know that for sure?
yes—for certain. You can contract the virus through fluid exchange during unprotected sex, and also through blood – for example, if a clinic cannot screen its blood transfusions or through dirty needles. So HIV is epidemic among injection drug users too.
when they have dirty needles?
yes – when they cannot get clean needles.
and we talk about drug use in Asia, and how people do not want to discuss drug use or sex or AIDS or poverty. Our fresh train arrives, and we roll on.
two things to read (that I did not write) and two to eat (that I did create)
18 Jun 2007 Leave a Comment
in narrative Tags: aids, radical muffins love art, sexuality
Sex, Striptease & Feminism
by Sarah Katherine Lewis, posted Tuesday, 8 May 2007
A popular narrative about sex work, earnestly discussed in Women’s Studies courses throughout the nation and represented in countless “I stripped my way through college!” memoirs, is that adult labor is automatically, and by definition, feminist.
The argument goes like this: By using sexual stereotypes professionally, by “owning” them (using them consciously), and by “subverting” them (choosing which stereotypes to exaggerate and which to discard), a sex-working woman is participating in a feminist reclamation of both personal and economic power.
Her deliberate use of gender-drag turns wearing a g-string and gyrating on stage – or behind glass – from an act done merely to pay her rent into a strong, assured and transgressive statement more akin to political performance art.
You can’t objectify me – I am objectifying myself, shrewdly and self-consciously, in order to obtain power through money, and control through being considered sexually desirable.
It’s almost as if sex work is the most feminist thing a women can do – because if women are objectified every minute of every day against our will and without any personal benefit, why not grab the reins on that process and make a decent living wage at it?
If women’s bodies belong to everyone, some feminists argue, why not be the ones to profit from our own bodies instead of being consumed for free?
If we’re going to be forced to sell regardless, we may as well name our own prices and take comfort in pocketing our own net gain.
It beats working a minimum-wage job forty hours a week while performing a second, unpaid, full-time job as visual erotic entertainment for society at large, simply by existing as a female in the world. Why not demand payment for that second shift?
And, as it turns out, that second shift pays far more than minimum wage – and all you have to do to claim your paycheck is to agree to perform a ritualized acknowledgment of your status as entertainment by revealing your body or performing sexually.
Goodbye polyester smock and plastic nametag – hello tuition payments!
[To Read the rest of this fantastic article - at least to " There is nothing more objectifying than poverty." - please visit: http://edstrong.blog-city.com/sex_striptease__feminisism.htm.]
Young Women Re-Craft Feminism as DIY Project
By Courtney E. Martin – WeNews correspondent
NEW YORK (WOMENSENEWS)- Two young women- strangers – sit across from one another on the subway knitting brightly, multi-colored scarves on the F train heading into Brooklyn.
They give one another knowing smiles and one removes her earphones. “So where do you get your yarn?”
Knitting, crochet, quilting, weaving, silk screening, sewing, book making, scrapbook making and amateur interior design have hit the big time among many young women.
According to the Crafts Report, a trade magazine based in Iola, Wis., almost half of crafters in the $13 billion-a-year industry are under 45 years of age and two-thirds are women.
Boutiques selling handcrafts, craft fairs and Web sites such as GetCrafty, KnitHappens, Craftster, ChurchofCraft and Knitty are measures of a boom.
What’s going on?
Homemade wares were once the key to survival, but as industrialization replaced locally produced goods, they became basement hobbies by the 1950s, largely sequestered off in a cultural corner.
But in an era of rising anxiety about the effects of globalization – on everything from the economy to social cohesion to the biosphere – many young women in their teens, 20s and 30s are joining a push to make things local and more personally connected. And for many of them knitting and stitching is the way in.
“There’s something undeniably empowering about saying, ‘I made that,’ whether the finished product is a crocheted tea cozy, a water bottle chandelier or a rig to connect your iPod and a car stereo,” says Julia Cosgrove, managing editor of ReadyMade, a Berkeley, Calif., magazine chock full of craft project ideas. “The DIY movement offers its members the utmost independence, so it’s no surprise that feminists, who had long fought for independence and equality, should find a home within its confines.”
[To Read the rest of this fantastic article, please visit: http://www.womensenews.org/article.cfm/dyn/aid/3061/context/archive.]
plan b
13 Apr 2007 2 Comments
in narrative Tags: dire warnings, radical muffins love pleasure, sexuality
my colleague – who’s British and constantly offering biscuits, which I love (the offer & the biscuits)—has two stinkin’ cute kids. In a collegial way, I asked their ages, their names, and got a few stinkin’ cute stories. Then she asked me, in a collegial way, what about you? got any kids?
Biscuit in hand, I froze. The only other time in my life that question even came near me was when a friend of a lover asked him if I had any kids, after she learned I was 30, which felt bizarre in an entirely different way.
Lots of people have asked me if I want to have kids. My answer has varied radically. I mean – I like them. I think babies and young people are really spectacular to be around. I worked in this great office that was all feminist women academics for a few years, and my favorite was gorgeously pregnant then gave birth. When she brought in the new person to visit, I was immediately in line to snuggle up, and my boss was shocked that I looked so easy holding a baby. She delivered this entire amazed monologue.
With longer hair and a new audience, I suppose I appear more likely to have kids. To my BC, I smiled and said, no. But—the point is, really, what I did not say to her, which is, no, in fact, I am actively preventing pregnancy at this very moment!
Because I took emergency contraception in the communal bathroom this morning, and I really wanted to go off about how it cost $45. Then thank all the fabu advocates who worked to make EC available over the counter –kiss kiss to all those folks. Now we have to fend off politicians who would make it even harder to get. And I am glad it was in stock and that the pharmacist handed over the box (though she put it in the bag under the counter and would not look at me, with either kindness or embarrassment, maybe both). I just cannot believe two pills cost $45.
Here’s your good fact for the day – in New York , which recently joined Illinois and Washington, Medicaid covers EC.
I, however, do not have Medicaid; I am waiting on my health insurance to kick in.
In other news, you have until the end of May to write your entry for the Tofu Haiku contest.

