The Silence of the Vaginas

My apologies to Layce Gardner for the title of this blog. You can find her blog, “The V-Word,” that prompted this response, here:

http://laycegardner.wordpress.com/2013/04/24/the-v-word/

I know Layce was using her finely tuned sense of comic writing and I do try not to take myself too seriously, but alas, I am one of her "brouhaha" makers. The titles were funny and I did get a laugh. By the way, "The Devil Eats Vagina," that I spoke of in my post and that I believe Layce is referring to in her blog, was not on the best sellers page, but showed up in the kindle book search results for my name only, implying that the search engine had been tweaked to batch anything with the word lesbian together, or the tags had not been removed. (Tags were supposed to be removed by Amazon, because of misuse by authors tagging their books with best sellers’ names to draw readers. If you search for my name now, those books will not show up. Amazon addressed my complaint quickly and asked that I capture any further misplaced search results and report them.) This occurrence is a symptom of the problem. I was disappointed that with all the great Lesbian Fiction titles that could have fallen at the end of my list of publications, Amazon’s search engine inserted three titles that in no way resemble anything I write or would suggest to others. These titles don’t show up in my “people who bought these books also bought…” selections either. Most, not all, but most people who read my books are not reading “The Devil Eats Vagina.”

Here is my issue—and it is not the existence of Lesbian Erotica or crotch shots on the covers—but being crammed into a one-size-fits-all genre. It’s the assumption that because it says lesbian in the book then it must be about salacious, gratuitous sex. I don't know about you, but "Teen Lesbians Love Cock" is not something I want showing up in search results for my name. I suppose I'd feel the same if it said, "Teen Lesbians love Vagina." That's not the type of literature I read or write. It’s not the type of Erotica women I deeply respect write either. Yes, I said respect. It takes skill to write erotica well, a skill I do not possess. Again, my complaint is not with Erotica. I don't want my name associated with the “Love Cock, Eat Pussy” books. Is it true you can tell the difference between porn and erotica by the type of music playing in the background, or was that the lighting? I can never remember. If it's porn, it's porn—just because it is lesbian porn doesn't mean I have to like it; just like being a lesbian doesn't automatically make someone a good athlete. A non-athletic lesbian should not be thought of as less than a true lesbian, any more than my not liking Lesbian Erotica or porn makes me unworthy of true lesbian status. I swear I hear seventies “Chicka Bow Bow” music in the background.

The word Vagina doesn't bother me a bit. In fact, I’m rather fond of the word and the noun it names, one in particular. I am not the sex police. Read and write what you please. All I ask is that a dialogue open concerning Erotica being categorized as Erotica, and that porn trash find a home somewhere other than the lesbian fiction search results. Having a divided system of classification in mainstream publishing has not hurt Erotica sales. Look at 50 Shades—it was listed as the #1 Best Seller on the NY times list, but still clearly labeled Erotic. It was not, however, popping up when one searched for John Grisham novels. Lesbian Erotica doesn’t pop up when you search for Patricia Cornwell novels, and she is a lesbian and has lesbian characters in her books. It doesn’t show up when you search for Fannie Flagg, Rita Mae Brown, Dorothy Allison, and Sarah Waters. Something is amiss here. It’s worth pondering if these authors purposely distance themselves from the Lesbian Fiction genre, and if so, why?

Let’s just take the word lesbian out of the equation. Now we’re just talking Romance, Mystery, Thriller, Paranormal, Erotica, etc—categories that tell the reader exactly what to expect. It would be just as wrong for me to label my books as erotic. Someone seeking erotic material would be very disappointed in my writing style. That would be dishonest of me. And the few that have expected more gratuitous sex from my books have complained loudly in reviews that there wasn’t enough sex to be called a lesbian book. It seems there is a question as to what a lesbian book should contain. I think clear labels could take care of misunderstandings. I clearly label my Thriller series, so as not to confuse readers of my other styles of writing. Still, some people ignore the blurbs and press on to find themselves in a bloody murder. They are not happy. I go out of my way to let people know what to expect because of this. I don’t want people to be unhappy. I want that erotica reader to be able to find that clearly labeled erotic novel. I want the romance reader, who does not like erotic sex scenes in her books, not to be turned off by a mislabeled erotic novel and dismiss all lesbian fiction as such.

People say Vagina in the title sells—Yep, they're right, sex sells, but other types of books sell too. I had 3 titles in the Amazon Lesbian Fiction top twenty the other day, which have very minimal sexual content, appropriate amounts, but not erotic by any means. In fact, only 2 titles in the top 20 at that moment were Erotic in nature, or at least the covers and titles did not suggest that there were more, demonstrating that many readers are buying the non-erotic covers, titles, and content, as well. I'd say my success in this genre, and that of other authors, clearly points to lesbian readers looking for a wide variety of books, including those that do not revolve around vivid descriptions of the sex lives of the characters.

No one has suggested that sex is a bad thing or should not be a part of lesbian fiction. Just like the books are divided under the main heading of Lesbian Fiction—Romance, Mystery, Sci-Fi., etc—there should be a clear distinct listing of Erotica. Who decides what is Erotica? If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it's a duck. It really isn't that difficult to tell the difference between Romance and Erotica. And I’m willing to concede that this genre likes its romances very steamy. Still, my not so steamy romances sell too. I’m pretty sure we all know the difference between Erotica and Romance, and if not, ask an Erotica writer. They should be able to tell you.

I'll take the friendly poking and the implied "prude" label in stride; because yes, some of us do want to be taken seriously, not only as writers, but also as lesbians and women. I am a sexual being. Sex is happily a healthy part of my relationship. It is not, however, all that I am and all that I stand for. I'd like the world to see lesbians as everyday people—not just sexual beings, but human beings. I have been doing a lot of research on the lesbian evolution through the years and one thing sticks out—lesbians love to pick sides and decide who is and who isn’t demonstrating appropriate lesbian behavior. I’m sure some folks think I’m not very lesbianese, because I don’t want to read erotic sex books or chat about my sexual fantasies in open forums full of grown women giggling like middle-school girls. Surely there must be something wrong with me, right? No, really, I’m fully lesbianized—I just have a different tolerance for what I deem private, or appealing. I don’t judge—so why am I judged for not wanting to be associated with “The Devil Eats Vagina,” a title I expect to see on a Westboro Baptist Church protest sign, right beside “God Hates Fags.” My momma always said, “If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.” It was her way of saying you only have one name and one reputation to protect, be careful where you make your bed.

Ann Bannon and others like her are celebrated for taking the soft-core porn that was lesbian pulp fiction (the majority of which was written by straight men for straight men,) and attempting to treat the characters with more humanity and truth in the tales, as much as the censors allowed them. Dorothy Allison said of Ann Bannon, “Her books come close to the kind of books that had made me feel fatalistic and damned in my youth, but somehow she just managed to sustain a sense of hope.” Salacious lesbian antics sold and happy endings were not allowed or were carefully slipped between the lines in order to subvert the censors. Ann Bannon threw a lifeline to so many, because it was all the lesbian in a small town could know of others like her. The lesbian pulp fiction industry faded away around 1969, when women took to the presses to tell their stories, wrestling control of the lesbian voice from men.

I get that it is important that we be allowed to represent ourselves as sexual beings, celebrating lesbian sex and vaginas in our art, music, written word, etc. I am not asking for censorship of any kind and I am not slinging arrows at Erotica writers. Again, read and write what you wish. I am simply asking for clear product labeling and the removal of the assumption in search engines that if it says lesbian then it should all be together in one category. We are more than what takes place in our bedrooms—or any other place we’ve decided to get busy, because after all, forbidden is fun—and we should be allowed to celebrate the parts of our lives that are not sexually motivated. We've graduated from hiding our real selves between the lines of lesbian pulp fiction pocket-books. Our literature should and does reflect that. It’s time we were willing to admit that there is a place for lesbian literature that does not revolve around our Vaginas.

I know sex sells. Watch how my contribution to Layce’s titles, "The Silence of the Vaginas," gets my blog re-tweeted. 

It's "Fanbloodytastic"

This is the third in the award winning Rainey Bell Thriller series, following Lambda Literary Award Finalist Rainey Nights. Each book is stand-alone. It does help to read them in order, but it is not necessary. In The Rainey Season, former FBI behavioral analyst Rainey Bell has settled into her life as a wife and mother with Katie Myers and the triplets. Consulting and private investigative work occupy the time not taken up with the one-year-olds crawling around her ankles. As always, her eye is on the security of her family, because Rainey knows is out there and that it is probably watching her. Rainey may be paranoid, but she’s generally right. If it feels wrong, it usually is.    Buy at Amazon.com     Buy at Barnes and Noble

Pecans, Texas, Birthdays, and Destiny

(Follow me; it may be hard, but give it a try.)

I love pecans. I have always loved pecans. My grandparents had several giant pecan trees in the yard. There were always pecans on the coffee table, and this fantastic little pecan cracker that I spent many hours operating. I would sit happily shelling pecans for Grandma, stuffing paper sacks with nature’s candy, a squirrel’s dream and mine too. Cooked, raw, in pies or cookies, fresh off the tree, it really doesn’t matter how they are presented; I love pecans. There are little containers of pecans all over my house right now. Did I mention I love pecans?

(Major missing segue – but you’re still here, so that’s a good sign.)

I had a fascination with Texas from the time I could talk. Not sure if it was the steady diet of westerns I fed on or the fact my dad was doing rodeo stuff back then, whatever the link, I loved the cowboy way. This fascination followed me through the years. I remember meeting a friend’s mother for the first time and my jaw dropping. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen and she had huge hair. She was beautiful, tanned, and drawled Texas so thick; her “Pam” came out more like, “Pa-yam.” I loved Miss Joan. She was everything I ever thought about Texas rolled into one tall, big-haired beauty from just outside of big D. That’s Dallas in case you didn’t know, (sing it - big D, little a, double L - A, S.) Yep, loved me some Texas.

I have just discovered that these two things are related, my love of pecans and Texas, and are part of my destiny. It’s my wife’s birthday today. From the very first time I spoke to her, I sensed I had known her my entire life and many more lives before this one. People say we appear as two pieces of a puzzle, like we were made for each other in the giant puzzle factory in the sky, a matching set. My attraction to her was instantaneous. I have often wondered about that. Why, after years of ignoring and dismissing an attraction to women, would I suddenly say, “Yep, this is the one. This is the one for whom I will lose everything and gain so much more in return. This one will change my life.” And she did.

So how does my love of pecans, Texas, and a blue-eyed girl from Oklahoma prove there is such a thing as fate? Searching the 1956 headlines in the small town where my wife was born, I came face to face with my destiny. I knew the first time I heard my wife’s mother speak that I was honing in on something. When she says Deb’s name, it sounds like, De – yeb. Then I see the claim to fame of the little patch of earth southwest of Dallas, not far from Waco, where my wife was born. Yep, this was destiny – San Saba, Texas, Pecan Capital of the World.

I think that girl deserves a pecan pie for her birthday, don’t you? 

Coming out of the Woods

Recent events led to this letter. I have rarely talked about this incident. I am doing so now in the hope that it helps someone, somewhere. After forty-four years, this was a long time coming.

To my molester:

When I was seven years old, a group of you took me to the woods and molested me. Your deeds were discovered, but not because I told. I remembered the threats, so I kept quiet, but I wasn’t your only victim and you were all eventually found to be molesting more than one of the youngsters in our neighborhood. “Young adolescent boys being boys,” they said. “Don’t talk about it,” they said. “You must have done something,” they said. And in typical 1960’s fashion, the stain was covered with an area rug, like the spot where Uncle Joe spilled the wine at Christmas. If it couldn’t be seen, then it never really happened.

To my credit, even though I felt like damaged goods in my parents’ eyes, I instinctually did what it takes some victims years of therapy to accomplish. I moved on with my life and never really gave the incident much thought. Sometimes I would wonder why I didn’t think about it, why I was able to dismiss those memories completely. To this day, I only remember walking in the woods and the aftermath of the discovery of what happened under those tall pine trees. That’s really the part that sticks out, the aftermath, the shaming.

See, it wasn’t what you did that hung around for years. You were all a bunch of sick, stupid teenage boys, who should have received what was coming to you, but you didn’t. Back then the shame brought to the victims’ families overwhelmed any need to get justice for them. So, “the boys” skipped away free, while the victims carried the burden of “keeping the family secret.” It was never discussed again, NEVER. That is until I came out of the closet.

My mother wanted someone to blame for my being a lesbian. Guess what, she blames you. I find that amusing. Being a lesbian is the one true thing I do know about myself. It has nothing to do with “man hating” or the trauma experienced by a seven-year-old-girl. I loved several boys and later men, married, divorced, and raised an exemplary young man. I simply found my soul mate in a woman, and discovered the missing link in my life. Really, my mother gives you way too much credit, and I certainly give you none for the best thing that ever happened to me. Finding me had absolutely nothing to do with you.

Still, my mother cannot let go of the blame game. She has to have a reason for her daughter being a lesbian. It certainly can’t be something natural, there must be an explanation, and it can’t come back on her. So, for more than twenty years, since discovering I was gay, she has searched for answers and finds them in blaming you. She runs into some of you from time to time. She likes to call and tell me when she does. Now, the thing we NEVER talked about is her obsession. She wants me to be angry. She wants me to walk into your offices and let fly with the accusations. (By the way, I see you still run in a pack, with a few exceptions. Nice political positions some of you have, too. Sure would be a shame for people to know what you did. That next election or political appointment might be hard to pull off.) Besides the fact that the statute of limitations ran out years ago, I think it’s just too little too late.

The time for marching up courthouse steps was forty-four years ago, when standing up for a little girl’s dignity would have meant something. Fortunately, that little girl stood up for herself. I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are and what you’ve become. I did just fine, and never give you a passing thought, until my mother calls with another sighting. I look back now and know that the thing that affected me the most was not what was done to my body, but what was done to my self-image by those who let me think I was damaged goods. What you did, well, I hope you can live with that. What the people that were supposed to help me during the aftermath did, well, I hope they can live with that too. What I did, learning to depend on me and only me, I most certainly can live with that.

My father apologized to me, just three years ago. He’s had time to think about how the incident was handled. He’s very sorry, now. I just told him, “No big deal,” and walked away. See, the time to have talked about it passed long ago. The little incident you experienced with my mother the other day, her innuendo in front of your wife and kids that she knew your deepest secrets, the way you flushed white and the joy it gave her – I get no pleasure from that. It makes her feel better to call you out now. I would have preferred she called you out forty-four years ago, when it mattered. You don’t matter at all to me now.

So why am I writing this to you? Because somewhere somebody will read this and think twice before telling a child, “Don’t talk about it.” Maybe they will see that the trauma to the body is a passing thing. The trauma to the mind is not, and that emotional trauma is multiplied when you shame the victim. Maybe someone will step up and be a child’s hero, remind them that they’re worthy of love, and this bad thing that happened, it wasn’t their fault. Maybe someone will realize that being molested as a child can be overcome more readily than the aftermath of accusations and denial.

I’m going to tell my mother to leave you alone. I’m going to tell her that this attempt to blame someone for my sexuality is ludicrous. I will tell her that your demons are yours to deal with, and hers she needs to own. The trip to the woods did not damage me as much as she’d like to think. The shaming in my own home was worse. Have a good rest of your life. I know it’s getting down to the wire for you. Make your peace. I have.

I am not your victim, I am a survivor.

Duct Tape Can Mend a Broken Heart

I live just off of a major thoroughfare, several actually. Occasionally, one of the homeless people that live under the overpass will stroll through the neighborhood. There is a dead end street, about a block from here, with a few good places to “live,” so we see them often. Never have any trouble and they are rather like neighborhood folk, they just live outdoors. If you live in a city, then you know these people. We do what we can, when we can; give to the soup kitchen, and help out in other ways, but it always tugs at my heart to see someone struggling.

Today, I was writing on my laptop in my warm and cozy home, drinking Starbucks coffee, listening to music, a life is good kind of day. I am jarred from editing the same sentence ten times by the sound of something crashing outside. It wasn’t a loud sound, more like something was dropped on the street beside my house. I live on the corner, so I hear all the street noise. It wasn’t the sound that made me stand up. It was the stream of screamed obscenities that followed it.

My dog jumped up beside me and we both listened, as a man yelled out one expletive after another, raving mad. I slipped to the back door and peeked out. I see an obviously homeless man righting one of the three wagons he has trained together. He is so caught up in his raving that he doesn’t notice when my dog pushes out the door. Buddy, my male dog that would eat someone before he would let them near me, growled low and then pushed back in the house. No barking, just a whine, like, “Mom, that man is all kinds of crazy.” I agreed.

Part of me wanted to ask if he needed help, and before all of you write in about what a heartless person I am for not doing so, this guy was on another planet, completely lost in his rage. I am alone at home with a dog that thinks it’s better if we just let the man be. His ranting went on for fifteen minutes, while he tore through every bag he had neatly packed into his wagons. I know, because I stood in the bedroom and peered through the blinds.

My heart was breaking for this man and I took a step toward the door several times, but his demeanor was quite frankly very scary. I also thought about calling the police, but then he was just in the street, voicing his displeasure loudly. Was that against the law? Hell, I’ve had a bad day and cursed the Gods, so why was he any different. Granted, my outbursts were usually alone in the car, with no one to hear my rant. But then, I had a car to rant in. This guy had three wagons.

When I thought he may have been having a genuine meltdown, and was possibly in need of immediate mental health intervention, he found what he was searching the bags for. He stopped ranting immediately, and then knelt down on the road by the wagon that had fallen over. That’s when I saw the source of his rage and I my heart ached for him.

Ever so gently, he lifted a radio from the street. It was a little red plastic boom box and obviously his most precious possession. It had fallen, breaking the door to the battery enclosure and the casing was cracked off one end. I watched as he tore strips of tape and tenderly repaired his treasure. That radio was his connection to the world and his world was in chaos for the time it was in disrepair, but as he lovingly reassembled it, I saw his demeanor change. When he turned it on and I heard music begin to play, I rejoiced with him, as his shoulders straightened out of their slump and his spine grew erect. A defeated man turned victorious, it was a sight to behold.

I watched as he reloaded his wagons, smiling now, and then moved on his way. I was struck by the magnitude of loss, when it is put in perspective. A devastation to one may be a mere inconvenience to another. A broken radio might not seem like the end of the world to most of us, but to this man, it was his world.  Watching him walk away with a smile on his face and a spring in his step – well, I was smiling too. He was victorious over fate today, and though he lost his mind there for a bit, he recovered and saved his precious possession. Two lessons learned: 1. The loss of something trivial to one could be a life altering devastation to another. Respect that.  2. When things look the bleakest, a little rant may help, but always carry duct tape in your wagon. It can mend a broken heart.