Janibeth's article might be of particular interest. For those of you outside of the northeast dish networks, Janibeth's presence at the New Year's Walnut Hill gathering was quite the controversy (read all about it in "Agnes Knows"). Although "Female Faerie Thoughts" is a little too ga-ga for my taste (I hate gushy testimonials), it does relate the very real benefit that Janibeth has received through hanging around the faeries. Generally, people feel her participation has either been innocuous or positive. However, others have very strong feelings that women should *not* be present in faerie space. Meanwhile, we continue to wear skirts and give ourselves girly names. What difference does "biological" gender really make? Especially among a group who already have really blurry genders, biological and otherwise. "Safe space" is an issue that is frequently invoked. The pertinent question is, safe from what?
Let's talk. Write Thyber.Thithie with your thoughts and feelings on the issue.
Now, what's clean and neatly pressed... Part 1 has:
FAERIE HOME PAGE: I'm putting together a Thyber.Thithie home page for the Web. It'll incorporate the complete text from the Faerie.Gram, classic sissie texts, Joan's faerie clip art, recipes for gatherings (thanks Willow! and I plan to be sending your recipes in TT #5), faerie chants, local faerie contacts, news... plus??? I'm interested in hearing ideas from you all. Although I definitely have enough to keep me going, I always prefer to work collaboratively. So folks, write to me.
FAGGOT FARMERS OF THE NINETIES: The theme of the next full scale Faerie.Gram and Thyber.Thithie will be our relationship to the earth. We'd love to get your essays, poems, graphics -- you know -- contributions -- about getting close to the land. E-mail them to mleger@panix.com, or send them to Faerie.Gram, PO Box 150296, Brooklyn, NY 11215-0296
And as always, to subscribe to Thyber.Thithie, e-mail mleger@panix.com. Put "subscribe TT" in the subject line.
I know that this is really unexpected, finding the "Agnes Knows" column on the pages of the Faerie.Gram. No, I am not defecting from the writing duties at my mast ship: Draghead. Let's just pretend that I am a guest columnist, subbing for a well known Star reporter who's taking a clump of personal days all in a row. My first assignment was to drive from Vermont to attend the fifth (or was it the sixth?) Wonder Winterland Hither and Thither en Hiver Gathering at Walnut Hill Retreat Center in New Hampshire from December 30th until January 2nd, 1995. Arriving at the center in my 1977 Red and White Volvo with "SSSSSSS" vanity plates, I soon discovered that since Draghead's November issue would not be in any of the readers hands until mid-January, the faeries present would not identify me as the author of any recent dish. For my purposes, this lower profile would suit me fine. The important job now was to sent up my encampment.
I selected a bed site by two see-through double French doors, practically on top of Anthony and Al Jaeger's love nest. the Rainbow Room across the way had all options of sxxual adventure: homo-, bi-, tri-olympic events on a 24 hour schedule. Sitting on the 2nd floor hallway sofas, the crowd of revelers could observe the backstage hysterics of Chuck channel surfing to find his new persona of Dee-Lilah.
Later on I dreamed that I was sleeping so close to the piano in the hall that if anyone played, night and day, I could lean from y mattress to see the bobbing head and flamboyantly flagging fingers of the pianist. One 2 a.m. concert included Ted(die) bear squatting on the piano top emoting "The Music of the Night" from 'Phantom" followed by 3 a.m. by Isadora Finkel-Poopie wailing on about his male cats eating each other. In my 4 a.m. hallucination, the faeries had all become munchkins as Judy Garland led them to the land of John Collis' 88 keys n Sing-Song-A-Long fashion. As the dreamer I was SEEING ALL without being seen, being as inconspicuous as possible.
That evening I showed up at the opening circle disguised as a Bawdy Electric dropout (Faerie Double XX) attending my first faerie event. I would later sneak out and return as Agnes so that I wouldn't blow my cover and arouse suspicion. As XX I walked in on the recurring reversed episode of the "Love that Jeff-Bobb Cummings Show" playing in perpetual retrograde. In this rerun Jeff-Bobbitt was pontificating on the value of time and how important it was to have too many appointment calendars. At that point J.B. shuffled a handful of 1994 desk calendars like a deck and requested that each faerie in the circle hereafter only discuss this topic: the days that one loved that days one hated in 1994. More than pleased to do what they were told, the faeries preceded to talk on and on about their up-and-downings of the past year. Trying to be a unobtrusive as possible, I took Double XX's turn with the talisman, repeating what the other faeries had already said, only using a more monotone and ho-hum voice, hoping to put even more faeries to sleep or at least take them to the yawning stage. When an Australian faerie elder (spoke-person) voiced the need for the group to go food shopping and get volunteers to cook dinner, the sound was echoed and boomeranged back to him as a chorus of snores without a musical score. (This was not one of Dolores' famous Snore, Wheeze & Sleepwalk Sonatas!)
T'Rick suddenly awoke. Red Warren Jay Bird was dispensing his hot oatmeal cookies, begging the group to please have an "emotional check-in." T'Rick though that Jay had asked the faeries to act like an "emotional chicken," so he started squawking, running in circles and flapping his arms up and down, finally smashing a large glass jug full of Aquarian-blessed holy water, spilling its contents all over Jani-Beth. The circle immediately stood up and began stomping and chanting around Janibeth's body as She laid prostrate in their midst. They shouted: "She was crucified, died and was buried. Five minutes later She arose again and was resurrected from the dead." This "She" goddess now ascended phoenix-like, all aglow, ashes falling off her, hands reaching to the sky. Double XX now read the oracle: "you are reborn this moment. Jani-Beth is dead. From no on you are know as Janey-Belle, Taurian Belle of the Beaus at the Ball."
For some weird reason Kevin Merry (Xmas) and 'More or Less' Morley's ghost (Sans de Clothes) thought that this was a perfect time to begin their pre-authorized agenda: an all male-dominated desensitized sxx-scene. As religious acolytes Sticky and Delicious assumed different yoga postures in reverence to the Janus Goddess Janey-Belle, Ms. Merry's group threw a large plastic cloth on top of them, started pouring hot massage oil on everything in sight and ran to the stereo to tune in a loud AM radio station. laude started jumping up and down with a large balloon tucked between his legs to push his balls up to his throat. He then declared himself the Nudist Nutcracker as he slipped off with Paul Topka, this own hippie elf. As the skirmish progressed, Cypress, playing Tiny Tim, tried to ease the friction by declaring gender irrelevant and throwing his crutches into the flames. Now the pro-gender Penis-Vagina Platoon held their ground singing "Sister Suffragette" from 'Mary Poppins," trying to keep up morale and drown out the radio broadcast. Then Chia (aka Steve Hardy) broke into Moon's private office and with stolen staple guns and scotch tape dispensers started shooting staples randomly into the crowd, first popping light bulbs, then sealing lips, anuses and bellybuttons shut. The scotch tape stopped the bleeding and sealed any other open wounds. Charles Simpson begged to be the martyr and said that if we didn't staple him to the wall he would go out of his mind. (Was it very faerie-like or not very faerie-like to play the scapegoat? Only the Faerie Purity Committee could say.)) Chia ran out of staples just as Kevin politely requested an extra on future faerie notices coming to him in the mail. Chia surprised us all by pulling a large staple out of her stomach and handing it to Kevin. "Here. Take this staple!" she said, as we all watched agape as Chia wound herself into a large ball of yarn and rolled over on her back in loving tribute to her dear friend Crazy Dog.
As XX I though I was seeing and hearing double when Agnes and Sticky flew into the room dressed as the Ice-Pack Princesses. Agnes pranced over t the heater and turned it off, then went on to the window and threw open the shutters, letting in the freezing night breeze. All the closed entrance and exit doors of this Multi-Purpose Room were cast open to let all faeries fly to and fro freely once more. Sticky and Agnes began a hot-erotic dance to the 1001 strings recording of Swan Pond, actually acting sxxual and steamy without removing all of the clothes, make-up or glitter. Ivan started reciting and dramatizing all three acts of his Pagan soap opera, "All My Avatars," simultaneously while running back and forth from the first to the second floor. Joan reenacted spraining her wrist for those who missed the scene the first time she played it on the ice at Beaver Pond. Sensing the end was near, Moon rushed off to get Sugar, his Plump Fairy. As the credits rolled, Sugar, body-pained blue from the cock ring up, manifested herself as Saccharine, that New! Sweet! Cough Drop with a Lollipop Dick designed for sucking with the wrapper on!
Communities of resistance, of which the so-called "lesbian and gay community" is but one, define themselves by their difference to a mythical mainstream. Many of these communities concentrate themselves in large urban centers. Lesbians and gays have, much like African Americans, "migrated" to urban areas for safety's sake. So we migrate and we flock and we swarm to safe spaces. The problem with ghettoes is that they are ghettoes: places which feel safe but which become self-destructive on the inside and look like pens from the outside.
The ghettoization of the queer struggle is much more a threat to our freedom than it is a boon. As queers come forth from long years of social isolation, the dominate paradigm reduces our rich cultural tradition to a matter of narrow "sxxual orientation." And ghetto institutions mimick the tyrannies and prejudices of the capitalism around us. We become our own worst enemies, distracted from creating cultures outside the normal. Our ghettoes become places where certain types of lesbianness and gayness become norms, and queers outside this picket-fence vision become either marginalized or relegated to the position of photo opportunities for right-wing newspapers and religious fund-rakers.
There seems to be no return to the early days of liberation when we didn't even have a word for homophobia, when we called it by its rightful name: sxxism. We have lost the vision of the heterosxxual paradigm as a function of patriarchy and capitalism. We have given up the knowledge that we are in the same boat with our sisters who love women and with the poor and with indigenous peoples. In order to pursue a path of pandering to electoral leaders for "rights" we have given up a vision of change and liberation in favor of taking on our own national queer identity, our own feeling of ourselves as one "people". Early writings of queer liberation critique the nuclear family, gender constructs- and patriarchal capitalism as the context and impetus for both. But when men and women went their separate ways because of the men's sxxism and the women's need to work out theory and lifestyle issues in freedom, the promise of that early movement was stillborn.
And now look at our ghettoes. Are we finally, after fourteen years of devastation beginning to get a handle on the spiritual implications of AIDS, or are we merely ignoring the political crisis? Have we been poisoned to sleep by the apples of a faux reformer in the White House and the lip service our so-called leaders pay to inclusion? Are we trapped by the parameters of our safe ghettoes or are they really free spaces like game preserves with their borders ringed with traps laid by clever skin traders? What will happen next?
This will happen next, if we continue to refuse to fight back: people who dare to challenge the heterofascist idea of family with ideas of real community will be corralled into ever tightly controlled ghettoes. We may feel safe enough to feverishly create a fabulous culture that we will sell to the highest bidder who will launder it to remove any serious critique of the heterosexual paradigm or of hyperactive multinational capitalism and then sell the purified product to the masses who will then be sufficiently convinced that they are individuals because they can afford a pair of vinyl hot pants. The religious right will organize the masses to hate us, to kill us, and to finally attempt an organized extermination of all "single" people who are not celibate. Our political fusspot leaders will throw up their hands in dismay and actually claim not to understand the backlash they've created by focusing solely on the electoral system. And we will be left to face the "showers." If you don't believe me, you haven't been listening to the news since the election on November 8. I am convinced that the pogrom that happened in the thirties in Germany happened because queers and other people of difference were effectively isolated from the rest of the world into ghettoes where they failed to realize that their frantic cultural creation was the only weapon they had against the Aryan conquerors.
And so I am trapped. Trapped in an endless cycle of waiting for the salvation only Prince Charming can sell me on a silver charger while trying to organize militantly to destroy the nuclear family and the heterosexual paradigm all in the abstract. I am trapped in a pornographic wilderness where I can never be pretty enough to be truly loved. Trapped in an endless pursuit of sex on the one hand and the ideal marriage on the other. I am trapped because I have never learned to get what I want from other men and leave it at that. I don't want only what I need, I want what we deserve, a loving, whole squirrelly-queer faerie tribe. I want to live and love freely in a tribe of people who offer each other whole lives of hope, pain, spirit and spunk.
I have hope. I believe I will be able to return to my past and remythologize it. I believe that my tribe will survive its own self-destruction. I believe that queer people of all people, and faeries in particular, may be able to provide a new way of being human that is at once redeeming and eleminates the need for redemption. "At first I was afraid, I was petrified . . . " We must go forth into the world as disciples. Above all we must not fight this cultural war as the superior Israelites against the unsophisticated Phillistines. We are all chosen people.
In the last days there will be a great tribulation. The righteous will be taken away from us and those of us faithful left to struggle on will have great battles to fight. We must try to be heroes.
Meditation: Sit still for a moment. Imagine yourself in a small cage. You are so cramped and you have been so for so long that you don't even realize how much pain you are in. Suddenly you have a presentiment of how much your body is really capable of. Your back begins to itch and you remember that once there were wings there. The wings are growing in again. Suddenly you can see the bars of the cage surrounding you. You can name them. You also realize that you are not alone. Thousands of people you know, who you have always thought of as free people are in cages all around you. Everyone's cage has a different shape, but everyone is in a cage. As you find your wings growing back in you realize that you are feeling stronger and more furious than ever at your predicament. You are all grabbing the bars of your cages and rattling them, chanting their names in a cacophony of feral voices: mysogyny I banish thee, racism I banish thee, manliness I banish thee, effeminacy I banish thee, bad drag and bad hair I banish thee. The process continues until you've removed the bars from your cages and suddenly you are singled out among the rest. Sissies who sew gather around you and in no time your flaming nakedness is partially covered by a fabulous red velvet gown, the skulls of the enemy are crushed to make the bones of your corset, your headdress is an emarald tiara kind of like the pope's but more flashy. Your wings have grown out now and are resplendent behind you. The huge pansexual tribe around you, their wings flashing in the dank dungeon air, circle and make the beast with seven heads which you are to ride on. When the parade begins you exit the dungeon via the garage door and still the beast is growing underneath you until it is as big as one of those Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade Mickey Mouses or Supermans. The people of Babylon are all around you as you move through the ghetto. As you and the beast move toward the boundaries of the ghetto you are aware of the razor wire which has penned you in for so long. Randall Terry is just arriving at the gate with Pat Robertson because he heard something was up. Cardinal O'Connor is there with a dozen or so altar servers doing some ritual. He's turning the candles upside down on either side of a makeshift altar. You ride right out of the gate disregarding the rubber bullets of the guards which can no longer hurt you. The mace is in your left hand and the chalice in your right hand when you smite Randall Terry and send the rest scuttling for cover. The altar boys and girls join your court and rush through the streets with you. You are the whore of Babylon. Be proud of your role, the battle has only begun.
"There is no place for me in this world!" and I have also found an important revelation: I want to live in community and to enjoy a communal lifestyle, potentially on a permanent basis. For someone who is of an independent nature, this comes as a real surprise. Perhaps being with other people who are equally independent has strengthened my desire for this particular community8A or maybe it's just the Broadway show tunes we sing together! In any case, I have seen the walls I built around myself in the past- my invisible shield- slowly melt away. The gatherings are a bit of heaven for me. I love being with people where individuality is not only accepted but expected! It is a joy to break bread and share space with people in a free-flowing atmosphere, where I always have the choice of either mixing with other people or being alone for personal exploration.
My writing flows more easily when I am in a communal setting: I gain inspiration through the connecting energy of others and then I find quiet space to release that energy into words. With the faeries, I have developed healthy ways of relating to people. I am able to let go of the old more easily, because something new and good is waiting just ahead! Faerie discussions are vital to where I am in my life's journey. So often in "normal" society, the greeting for any new verbal exchange is: "What's your job? And do you have children?" With the Faeries, these limited definitions of a person are often skipped entirely. We talk the same language, the Faeries and I: freedom to be oneself; freedom of expression (both verbal and visual!); freedom from possessions; reclaiming pride in our bodies; reclaiming lost childhoods; discovering way to live in community on a more permanent basis; discovering ways to earn a living, not earn a dying; using alternative methods to heal ourselves and our world; how to appreciate the moment8A and then there are the eternal topics of love, romance, and sex8A or is it sex, romance, and love?! Felicitously, these conversations take place amid an atmosphere of laughter and fun, gaiety and music, compassion and understanding, with just a dash of bitchiness and attitude for spice. Arriving at a gathering, I go a little crazy trying to absorb everything. It's as though an isolated individual has suddenly been offered a feast of opportunities. Roz Russell in AUNTIE MAME says: "Life is a banquet and most poor people are starving to death." With the Faeries, I have found that banquet and can feast to my heart's content!
My love affair with the communal lifestyle has led me to uncover an excellent resource book, the Directory of Intentional Communities: A Guide to Cooperative Living. It contains an extensive list of more than 400 existing and just-forming communal living situations, including Short Mountain. In the 1992 edition, there is an excellent article on the compelling reasons for communal living. "Prescription for Community" is written by Dr. Patch Adams, a certified M.D. and founder of the Gesundheit Community in Virginia. Adams believes that loneliness is one of the chief causes of disease and that laughter is an important remedy for the body's ills. His community was founded on the idea that "healing should be a loving human interchange" and their dream is to build a small but free hospital. (Visitors who would like to contribute to the effort through their participation are welcome.) I echo Dr. Adams' views, and furthermore believe that the healing effects of community are more necessary for those of us who see ourselves as outcasts from the "norm."
From "Prescription for Community:" "For tens of millions of years we primates have lived in tribes. I'm sure we came together because of mutual interdependence in . . . food gathering, security. The fun experienced as a collective came as a powerful side effect. I believe this is so much a part of our primate past that the drive to huddle together has become part of our genetic coding. I think this is why . . . loneliness [is] one of the most devastating illnesses in our culture . . . As villages grew into cities . . . [and] we moved further apart, our community diminished to the extended family, then to the nuclear family and finally to the solitary dweller. This [progressive fragmentation] has been heralded8A as 'the alienation of society. In my years of being an intimate physician with thousands of folks8A I have found the vast majority of people feeling lucky even to have a few close acquaintances. Even in marriages I don't often hear the serenade of chumship. Very few adults are capable of erasing this cloud of loneliness by turning to God, nature, pets, art, or their work8A Ultimately everything is better with a circle o friends within which to huddle8A Without this circle of safety, it is extremely difficult to erase the security fears that coat each of our lives, in our economics, health, and relationships8A It is in community that we find the basic emotional security we seek."
Patch Adams in his essay speaks of living embraced by concentric circles of friendship and support. I do have such concentric circles, especially in the form of the Quakers and Dignity in Hartford, Connecticut, and in my own long-time dream of a gay boarding house. (I have just one boarder now, but I've only just begun!) Still8A the circle that's most important to me right now, and the one that feels most like "coming home," is the Faeries. I am watching with eager anticipation the growth of the Faerie tribe and the possibility creating a new Faerie communal living space.
I have found that within the Faeries there are a few biological males who are either uncomfortable or resentful of my female presence. I experience these as two distinctly separate reactions. Though their numbers are few, their feelings are intense. I regret the discomfort and would do anything I could to work with someone, either by giving them space or by dialoguing with them. I regret the resentment, but there is very little I can do about it, short of denying both my own essential being and the needs of those who value my participation. Unfortunately, significant among those few who carry resentment is a dear friend.
Although this most painful part of being a Faerie is difficult to put into words, it is necessary as part of my healing process. My involvement with the faeries accelerated the division within a friendship which had been of great meaning in my life. This friend had been my soul brother and spirit guide for five rocky but rich years. We are alike in many ways, so it came as a shock when we had a great difference of opinion about my joining the Faeries. The friendship became toxic rather that nurturing, and on several occasions I considered leaving the Faeries because of my friend's feelings. However, I realized to do so would be a betrayal not only of myself, but of those who had been supportive of my involvement. I would also have betrayed those very qualities which my friend valued most about me: my commitment, honesty, and zeal, and my spirit of a child within. Had I abandoned those qualities, I would no longer have been the person my "lost brother" made friends with, so nothing would have been gained and much lost. I have not yet found peace in the separation. There is still much anger on both sides: he is resentful and I feel betrayed. In this outreach to all my Faerie friends, I would ask for your prayers and invocations for peace and a resolution for both of us.
In spite of the searing pain of loss, the growth I have experienced has been well worth it. The Faeries, in more ways than one, have been my salvation. In spite of at least one prediction that my female presence would rend the Faeries assunder and destroy them, in this past year I have witnessed the opposite. I have watched the NY/Northeast Faeries become stronger, more active, and more enthusiastically alive than when I first knew them. I like to think that my energy has contributed to that growing spirit. At Stonewall this year, I had the miraculous experience of meeting someone for the first time, introducing him to the Faeries, and then watching him blossom into his true Faerie self before my very eyes.
TRANSFORMATION TIME! He has flourished with the Faeries, and in that I find affirmation and validation of my presence, biological female or not. Thank you, Windsong, and blessings upon you and your fun and friendly spirit! Thank you also for your energy and inspiration in moving towards "regular" Faerie circles at the Connecticut Community center, adopting the idea of meeting in a "neutral space," which has worked so well in NYC recently.
May we Faeries continue to bring support and joy to one another. And to my lost spirit brother, I love you still and my prayer is that you will come to recognize and accept me for who I truly am: a human being with a Faerie consciousness that was born and bred in me long ago.
Destiny Lodge, a Faerie community in Vermont, hosted the "Sanctuary or Bust" Gathering from Friday, November 25 through Sunday, November 27, 1994. The gathering was called to revive our quest for our collective dream home in the Northeast, Faerie Camp Destiny. The faeries had raised over $8,000 (and an additional $8,000 had been pledged) as a downpayment hoping to buy the Life & Light Center, the current home of Destiny Lodge. The land was sold in July 1994 and the Destinettes decided to continue to live on the land as renters while they continued the land search.
The "Sanctuary or Bust" gathering began with a vision circle on Friday night where we all made our own little personal "inner journey" to a Faerie Camp Destiny of the future. We walked (some flew) around inside the space, seeing the shapes and the colors, hearing the hums and the twitters, smelling the perfumes and the odors, drinking in the love vibes and basking in the warm erotic glow. When we came back from our guided journey we wrote down and drew what we had witnessed. Then we shared our visions in the circle. These visions had a strange and uncanny resemblance to each other, as if we had all been to exactly the same place (were we all psychic or what?).
The Amazingly Unified Collective Vision of Faerie Camp Destiny (the AUCVOFCD) was of a large amount land with a forest on it. A long long road lead from the main road into the forest and came out on a central clearing. A round communal building in the center of the clearing which housed a kitchen, a ritual/circle space and a theater was surrounded by work buildings and cabins for faeries who "needed their own space" to live in. Faeries were busily engaged in a variety of activities to sustain the community. Activities/enterprises included: raising and selling food, flowers, Xmas trees; running a bed and breakfast/conference center located on the main road along with a thriving commercial complex including a beauty parlor, a faerie arts and crafts boutique and an erotic video and magazine store/sex club run by Roger (AKA Yolanda LaLuLu) (of course, we would also produce and star in the videos); touring as a world-famous rock band, musical/performing group ("The Cowslips" or "The Trapped Family Singers" or maybe "BABA"). One particularly inventive faerie saw a cliff that looked like a slice of chocolate cake floating just inches above the ground and sperm-shaped monks who were (can you believe it Mamie?) naked under their robes and were guiding an alien spaceship down for a landing.
We spent all day Saturday (and we mean all day) discussing more nitty-gritty, less airy-fairy matters such as: Where should the sanctuary be located? What are our minimum requirements for the land? How should we raise money for a down payment? How could we economically sustain the sanctuary.
The practical (read boring (it's OK to skip this part)) points of consensus we reached were:
Location -- We'll still be focusing on finding land in Vermont. We'll concentrate our search more on southern Vermont near the Massachusetts border, since it's more accessible to the rest of the Northeast Circle (it's only three hours from the NYC area). There are job possibilities in the Amherst/Northhampton, MA and Brattleboro and Bennington, VT areas.
Requirements -- The ideal land would be 50+ acres at the end of a road with an existing habitable structure which could serve as a home to the current Destinettes, who could use their current rent payments towards mortgage payments. (The current rent is $950 per month.) Land should have a road, as well and electricity. It should be priced at under $100,000.
Down payment/fundraising -- The down payment of $30,000 could be raised by: putting on fundraising extravaganzas in New York, establish FCD membership with yearly dues, getting articles and appeals published in the mainstream gay press (Out), sending grant proposals to gay or gay-friendly foundations or finding a super-rich gay business tycoon "sugar daddy" who wants to give guilt money to deserving gay causes (David Geffen?).
Ongoing financing --- The sanctuary population (those cute Destinettes)would make monthly payments that would be used towards the mortgage, taxes, firewood, utilities, etc.8A As the community grows, we would work on establishing cottage industries prosperous enough to make the sanctuary self-sufficient.
The closing circle on Sunday was a group tag team wrestling match with those evil inseparable Siamese twins, MONEY and POWER. Needless to say, the exchange got quite heated and emotional, as it does whenever these twins enter the ring. Questions that bounced us off the ropes, flipped us on our backs and stomped on our heads (ow!) included:
The quest for a sanctuary continues. Since the gathering, the Destinettes have traveled to Southern Vermont to look at possible sites for a sanctuary (thanks to Howie Swish). Right now, we are gearing up for fundraising efforts. We are planning to host a Spring Equinox Gathering which would focus on the topic of fundraising as well as on the land search. In the meantime, we would welcome any "input" from other faeries regarding the fundraising or the land search, as well as any contributions of time or (even) money. (Suggested dues for 1995 membership are $50. Make checks out to Faerie Camp Destinies, Inc.) Puhleeeeeez! We neeeeeeed your help! You can contact us at:
If you were to take a walk in the woods, now that the trees have no foliage, you would be able to see a log of different things. For the first time since last spring, the layout of the land, the hollows and the ridges are all visible. Without their leaves, the trees can no longer hide the forest.
Welcome to the month of Sagittarius-a time when we pay attention to the Big Picture.
Sagittarius is a mutable sign. The four mutable signs (Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius and Pisces) are the signs that precede the Solstices and the Equinoxes, the change of seasons. Since each of these signs sees a season to its end and-in turn-to the beginning of a new season, their energy is naturally very flexible, changeable and adaptable. The key interest of the mutable signs is learning. Gemini is interested in gathering information, Virgo's associated with leaning a craft and Pisces with learning to believe and trust one's emotions and intuition.
The learning that's "assigned" to Sagittarius is about expanding horizons, or, as I said earlier, focusing on the Big Picture. During the time of Scorpio, we went inside ourselves to connect with forces that are deeper and larger than us. Now we want to start to understand these forces; we want to know how the universe as a whole works; we want to see the Cosmic Plan.
There are different ways of going about leaning this: you can align yourself with a specific religion or spiritual practice; you can travel all over the world in search of the Right Belief System, you can take acid hoping to find out the Answer; or you can go to Graduate School to further you understanding of life (or you can try any combination of the above). All these options have one thing in common-the desire to acquire Knowledge. But they also share the same danger-getting too rigid with one system (that works for you) and forgetting that there are many-if not countless-paths to the Truth. The Sagittarian challenge is to remember mutability-in order to truly learn, one has to be open-minded and flexible.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22nd - Dec. 21st)
Life for you is a constant adventure, and since you are so outgoing, idealistic and optimistic, everything is an opportunity for expansion and growth. "Expansion" is the key word here. You are just really attracted to anything that's expansive or that would help you expand your horizons.
This past year, however, did seem to be a little more mellow than usual, even though I'm sure you made the best of it. And before we talk about next year, here's some Astrological terminology.
Each sign has a planet that's considered it's "ruler." The ruler of Sagittarius is Jupiter, and being the biggest planet in our Solar system, Jupiter naturally shares the tendency to (yes...you've guessed it) expand. [See this column in the August '94 Faerie.Gram for more on Jupiter. It takes Jupiter twelve years to complete its journey around the zodiac, which means that he spends about a year in every sign. AND FINALLY...after eleven years of breathless expectation...Jupiter entered its home-sign, Sagittarius, on December 9th, 1994.
So, for the next year your life will pretty much be one big party. Go ahead-travel to places you've never been to, meet people that speak languages you do not know (yet...), expose yourself to new ideas and beliefs, re-evaluate your current understanding of why things are the way they are, and-since expansiveness can take many forms-pay attention to the tendency to gain weight.
However, if as you read this, you feel somewhat low on energy or frustrated, don't worry. With heavy planetary activity in Scorpio-the sign that precedes you-there are a lot of subconscious forces that are working in you right now. And as is usually the case with subconscious energies, they work in they work in the dark, behind the scenes, leaving you sometimes to wonder: "what exactly is going on with me?"
Well, one possibility is that you're in an incubation period for a big transformative decade (yes, decade) that's coming your way. The first ones to feel it, most intensely, will be people born November 21st-22nd. For the rest of you it will unfold at a later date. But until it does, spend some time exploring the connection between your subconscious motivations and your conscious actions; focus on anything in you that you tend to overlook or take for granted; shed light on some ancient secrets; pay attention to the specific trees in your inner forest. Then you'll be able to step into the upcoming Jupiter adventure, discover your place in the general scheme of things, and do what you do best-have a lot of exciting good times.
This is the end of the first year in the life of this column. It was a year ago when I first wrote "When You Wish Upon a Star" about Capricorn-and now the first cycle is complete! If you have any ideas or suggestions as to how you'd like to see this column continue, please contact me through the FG editors.
FAERIE SEX WANTED is a reader written column of true life faerie sex stories edited by Fanny. All work is published anonymously. Please send your stories to FSW c/o Ken Cooper, 230 3rd Street, Brooklyn, NY 11215, or email mleger@panix.com.
Even though I had been on this stretch of freeway outside of Oakland many times, I had never noticed the huge, dead oak tree that stands in front of Santa Rita County Jail. But there it was, looming large and menacing as we passed through the gates into the city subtracted from a city. That oak became a symbol for me of the despair tangible as we passed through the gates.
Santa Rita had been built in World War II as temporary barracks. With military regularity, a series of one-story u-shaped buildings opened onto the main road. We had refused to give our names, so they called us out by number as they dropped us off in groups of one or two.
"OK, 55238 and 55239, you're going into C3."
I was lucky. I had a friend with me. "55239" wasa faerie named Jack. Jack and I walked through the courtyard to a group of curious and friendly inmates. It was sort of like arriving at a gathering. But instead of hi, what's your name and where are you from, it was hi, what's your name, and what are you in for? So we told them Jack and Henry, and we were arrested for civil disobedience.
Haircuts were in progress. One of the inmates sat on a bench while another wielded a pair of scissors. Someone explained that scissors were issued once a week, and the inmates gave each other haircuts. The scissors had to be handed back after a couple of hours. The barber was a handsome young hispanic named Jose, and he was giving a a beefy irish looking guy a "Santa Rita Special," which was kind of a angular fade, short hair on the sides rapidly shifting to a longer hair on top. The haircut seemed to be a group experience, with men sitting around kibbutzing. "Little more off the back, Jose." "No maybe longer, kind of like Henry's here. Punk-like. Yeah, that's pretty cool."
I blushed at the compliment, and looked away. So coy. As I turned my head, I noticed I was being watched in a very particular sort of way by one of the inmates.
He was scary and thrilling. Dark brown, intelligent eyes at once vulnerable and proud. Long, dark brown hair falling to olive-skinned, muscular shoulders. He had dropped the front of his prison overalls, revealing a tautly muscled chest shining through a forest of dark brown chest hair. He had a couple tattoos, the one I remember most clearly was a sailor-style one of a nude woman riding his hard biceps, high heels standing on a cloud of of hair that began above his elbows and thickened down to his hands that were long and well shaped - what I think of as prayer hands.
He nodded, and a hunger showed through surprised me. It was one of those rare times when attraction coincides and here it was, phucqing Santa Rita jail on a hot August day and what am I supposed to do, ask this guy directions to a good place for a cappucino?
But he took the initiative. He walked up to me, held out his hand, and said "Hey, I'm Larry. I'm the trustee. You need anything, anybody gives you a hard time, you come to me!"
"Uh, thanks
Jose walked up beside me and asked "Pilar?"
"Pardon me?"
"Pilar?" Jose held up the scissors and looked at me inquisitively.
I honestly thought he meant pillow, so I said sure, and followed him thinking he was off to the linen closet. He walked to the end of the room, where there was a row of urinals. (The urinals and the toilet were out in the open of a large room shared by twelve men. Prison is no place for the pee shy.) Jose stopped well back from a urinal, flipped out his cock out from his overalls, and nonchalantly started pissing. I stoodthere watching and feeling foolish.
Somebody said, "Oh, oh. He's following you, Jose!"
Jose looked at me, looked down at his cock streaming piss, bounced it a couple of times in his hand, then looked back at me. "You following me?"
I said, "I'm sorry. I , I thought we were going to the linen closet to get a pillow."
From behind me a voice said, "No, he said 'pilar.' Pilar means hair cut in Spanish."
"Er, um, no thanks. I just had it cut before I came. But thank you8A thank you very much!" Jose bounced his cock a couple more times and said "No problem, kid."
I retreated to the courtyard, where Jack was earnestly discussing politics with about four other guys. Safety. The talk went on through the afternoon. The inmates were knowledgable and aware, more so than most people I''ve encountered on the 'outside.' But they were also despairing and apathetic. They supported our committment, even if they thought it was foolhardy.
Shadows were lengthening, the day was cooling down and more prisoners from surrounding cells were out in their part of the courtyard. It was clear to me that they carefully divided the prisoners up into subcultural units. On my right were the queens, tough looking babes wearing mini-skirts fashioned from large men's t shirts, slashed in provocatively revealing strips across the chest, and decorative fringes at the bottom. To the left was a group of black men singing gospel songs, soft, rich rhythmic, and urgent in the warm early evening.
Larry, the trustee came out from building, holding a basketball. He called a guard over, who unlocked a gate, letting him into a basketball court in the middle of the yard. I stopped paying attention to the conversation, and watched Larry shoot hoops. He ran back and forth across the yard, dribbling the ball, hard and pounding against the asphalt. From different places he would try to make the basket. He would jump, extend his arms, and the ball would fly.
And whenever he made one, he would look over at me. I knew that he was putting on a show for me. Showing me his muscles. Showing me his skill. Showing me his prowress. Showing me his power.
I was disoriented. I had come from a world where people try to impress prospective lovers with their career, their fashion sense, their intellect-where desire is coded and oblique-to a world where sexuality was palpable, immediate, and lushly physical. For all my high moral purpose, and all I could think about was Larry''s armpits, how savory they looked in motion, how I would love to lick the sweat off the smooth muscles that framed that mossy nest of pubic hair, and then nose my way in. And his thighs, long and elegant, powerful as a jaguar, the contours of the muscles suggesting what a hard muscled ass he must have, cruelly veiled by pair of drab, prison-issue gym shorts.
Whenever he made a basket, he would look straight at me. Longing penetrated my being, and I would look back and nod and he would nod and then he would take off across the court again. I knew that the other inmates recognized the attraction, and respected me for it. All of a sudden, those tough girl-group songs from the sixties became much more meaningful. "My boyfriends back, he's going save my reputation."
But before nightfall, they rounded all the protesters up and segregated us in a gym. We were to sleep in cots lined up in rows like schoolroom desks. And at the head of the an actual desk, where the guard sat. We got a lecture about how "sexual congress in prison, fellows, is a federal offense. I don't want to see no cot jumping." At nine o'clock we could no longer speak, and were expected to sleep, even though the harsh flourescent lights were kept on (no cot jumping) and the guard made frequent oral reports into his squacky walkie-talkie.
Well, one form of my body may have been in prison, but another form was roaming free. It had been a long day, and I fell right to sleep, despite the harsh conditions. I dreamt, and as I dreamt I found myself leaving myself and floating out the gym, accross the prison, into the little trustee's hut of Jail Unit C.
Larry was sitting up in bed. He admonished me. "They got you in the gym, and their cancelling some games because of it. A lot of prisoners are really pissed off at you guys."
"Sorry."
"Come here." Larry pulled down the sheet and blanket. He was naked. His olive skin rich and warm against the cool white prison sheets. His eyes pulled me accross the room. I stopped short of the bed. I wanted my first touch of him to be naked skin against naked skin. I stepped out of my prison overalls, clumsy, because instead of looking at buttons and sleeves, I was looking at Larry's body. His cock was hard, and throbbing, goddess, it was throbbing, lifting up every now and then from his belly, leaving tracks of drool on his soft field of hair .
"Didn't know when, you would get here, baby, so I was jacking, thinking of your sweet body here in bed with me."
Finally I was naked, and fell into bed. He rolled on top of me, and hugged me tightly. He kissed my forehead, playfully bit my nose , gentle tongue at my nostrils. I giggled, then softly chewed on his lips. Our mouths opened wider, and we kissed, trading tongues, for hours into the night while our hands explored each other's bodies. He was so massive and so hard compared to the city men I was used to. Just when I was feeling embarrassed by my solid but not very muscular body, he said, "Oh, I like your body, baby. It's so fine and smooth. And such soft red hair. You Irish? Ohh baby8A" And before I could say Danish, his tongue was again down my throat.
Our hands spent more and more time playing with each others cock. Like me, he liked it slow, so we fell into a gentle jacking rhytm, our cocks becoming more and more slick as the flow of drool swelled. My mouth moved from his mouth, and I was off to lick and explore the rest of his body. Larry pulled me up every now and then for a bear hug and a long, soulful kiss. So in a stacatto way, I made a trail down his long neck to his sensitive nipples. I drove him wild, centering and decentering on those meaty points of ecstasy.
"Oh, bite em baby, bite em. You can be rougher. Yeah, that's it. You could just do that 8Aah8Aah8Aall night. Phew."
I went further down, licking his chest in long tongue strokes. I licked his hairy balls, and the sensitive skin underneath. He smelled salty and earthy, his scent growing stronger the more I tried licking it away. I wanted all that musty flavor, but knew that it was a bottomless well. I made some tentative licks up his shaft8A
"Yeah, suck it baby. Take it all. I want my cock inside you so bad." "Er, do you have a condom?"
"Condom, this is prison man. What do you need condoms for in prison?!" "Here I got an idea." I lay on my back and pulled him on top of me, guiding his cock to between my smooth inner thighs, which I had slicked with spit.
"Whoa man, this feels great. It's just like phucqing pussy. And I get to look at your handsome face! Ah man, that's it, tongue that ear. Feels great!"
And so he phucqed me, slow then fast then slow then resting, then slow. His cock felt massive, squeezed by my thights. I ran my hands up and down his back, feeling those firm ass cheeks, that muscular back, his broad shoulders. My own cock was rubbing against his belly, rolling this way and that, in sync to the rhythm of his phucqing.
"Oh god man, your cock feels great. Phucq me Larry. Phucq me."
I was getting close to coming8A I felt him shudder, and knew he couldn't last much longer, either. His body tensed.
"Relax, Larry. Ride the wave, man, ride the wave. Make it last."
He collapsed on top of me, his body shuddering release after release. I could feel a lake of cum swelling under my thighs. That sensation, and the fertile smell of cum pushed me over the top into an orgasm of electric blue light. Through one endless moment, I was aware of every part of my body and my mind touching Larry. Then boundaries dissolved, and part of Larry passed into me; part of me passed into Larry.
Then I became aware of how wet with sweat we both were.
Then I fell asleep.
I woke up to a night surreal by flourescent lighting and the sound of snoring. The guard was staring off into space. I got up to pee. I looked in the mirror. On my neck was the biggest hickey I had ever seen-and baby, it wasn't there when I went to sleep.
Larry is with me whenever I have to assert myself, whenever I have to wheedle those who have power over me, and whenever I want to display my power to someone I want to phucq. Who knows how I am present for Larry. But I know I am.
Please join us on this most sacred and holy of days to celebrate the naissance of our beloved and not too vengeful deities, Delores and Joan. Bring a percussion instrument, chants, any kind of consumable substance8A and you MUST bring an offering to the Joan and Delores altar. An altar ceremony will be conducted in which participants will be expected to submit an offering to the deities of Joan and Delores. What to bring? Whatever you want dears - it can be loving , serious, dishy , vicious, anything. (Editors: And girls, lets see some drag at this party. It's been too long, tooooooo long, since the New York circle had a full dress event!)
Faeries are invited to participate in a drumming ritual which will be part of a benefit for the PWA Housing Committee of ACT UP. Faeries who want to participate may pay a discounted price $0-$5 depending on ability to pay. Arrive early because the drumming circle is the opening event.
For those of you who like academics, this might be really interesting. Or it might be really boring. And aggravating. Here is the conference description pulled off the net:
This conference will investigate the disparity between gender diversity and gender's complex interplay with sexual orientation on the one hand, and the rigid categories resulting from a social insistence on gender dichotomy on the other. Some questions to be addressed include: What do we know about the formation of gender identity, in both its biological and social-psychological components? Do homosexuals comprise a third gender category, or is it correct to assume always a continuum of gender identity and behavior? What are the problematic [huh?!] aspects of gender "non-conformity," especially in children? Panelists include: Susan Coates; Ken Corbett; Adrienne Harris; Sabrina Wolfe.
For more information, contact CLAGS, The Grad School, CUNY, 33 W. 42nd St. Room 404N, NY NY 10036-8099.