Monday, December 15, 2008
Dot Doesn’t P. Freely
Whoa, it has been a long time people! Look at this gap in posts. No excuse, people, no excuse. You know how Dot said that she started her comedy act so she wouldn’t be depressed, sitting on her butch butt and drinking Bud Lite? Well that’s exactly what Dot did after her last break up. That is until her ass kicking mother, Fatima Lazarius, came all the way to St. Louis from Southern Illinois and dragged Dot’s ever-widening butt to a Coptic Christian retreat at Lake of the Ozarks beautiful Tan Tara resort. People, Dot isn’t kidding when she says she’s a recovering Armenian Orthodox but the Metropolitan that ran this retreat really made Dot think about a couple things. People, Dot had a vision while gazing into a gorgeous Byzantine icon of the Blessed Virgin – The BVM said it to Dot loud and clear – get back into your act, get back into your activism.
You know what I did people? Right when I got back up north, I quit my job as the manager of the Qdoba on Grand (another story, people, another story) and became a full time volun-QUEER for Barak Obama. Dot took a lot of heat for that, and not just from the regulars at Qdoba. I’m talking about the Hilary supporters, people. Dot lost friends over this election, and she certainly lost pussy to lick, but that’s okay people. Having a vagina doesn’t disqualify a person from office, but neither does it qualify a person, people. It does, however, qualify a person to sit on Dot’s face! See, it’s the old Dot back people!
Politics are for another post people, this post is about some wild shit Dot got into with a pretty kinky lady down at Tan Tara. That’s right, people, Dot got laid at a Coptic Christian retreat. Hey, I said I was depressed, I didn’t say I was dead!
So Dot’s kneeling down at the daily service, the incense parts, and I lay eyes upon a gorgeous dark beauty in painter’s overalls and a KC Chiefs jersey. And people, this lady was as butch as they come—almost as butch as Bathsheba Zyad, who, for those not in the know, was the only womyn butch enough to crash the Counsel of Constantinople. Dot’s eyes went out of focus at the cognitive dissonance of seeing such a perfect specimen – or should I say “speciwomyn”--of butch dykehood wearing the jersey of one of Dot’s most hated teams. But you know what people? Dot was in the mood for game and only beaver would hit the spot.
I tapped the dyke on the evil jersey. She turned around and looked at me suspiciously.
“Dot” I said, extending my hand.
“Kris” she said, smiling and extending hers.
“So…Chiefs fan, eh?” I asked.
“I bleed bits of arrowhead.”
This dyke was serious! But Dot’s no fair-weather fan. You might not believe it, but I’d go to the mat for the Rams, before I’d go to the carpet for a munch. Am I right people?
“Do you now?” Dot asked, thick eyebrows raised, “Well Dot eats arrowheads for breakfast.”
Dot thought for sure Kris was going to get pissed off, in fact I was trying for that aggressive sexual tension between butch dykes thing, but she seemed to get…I don’t know how to put this…sexually excited by Dot’s anti-Chiefs comment.
“Kinky.” Kris said, looking Dot up and down. I’ll tell you what, people, Dot was looking fine. I was wearing my Obama/Equal Rights Campaign long-sleeved T, relaxed fit Wrangler jeans, and hiking boots just in case some outdoor activity presents itself. Also, I had just been to Angie at Best Little Hair House for a touch up on my hair.
“So,” Kris said, hooking her thumbs into the empty hammer holders of her overalls and rocking back on the heels of her Timberlands, “think the trout are biting today?”
“I like the way you think.” I said, honestly. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Next thing Dot knew, she was skipping out on the afternoon session about Pope Shenouda III’s encyclical on touching the divine and renting a speed boat to go fishing on the lake. If Shenouda saw Kris, I think he would give Dot dispensation to skip out on the lecture in order to get a chance to touch her divine, if you know what I mean people! That is, of course, assuming he were a butch dyke and not a presumably heterosexual man!
As we walked down toward the boat, I got the impression that Kris and I had the same thing on our mind, and it wasn’t trout. I hefted my fishing pole and wondered aloud if it would hold up. Get this people, Kris says, “Dot, if that thing doesn’t hold up maybe you’ll have better luck with my strap on!”
“You get many bites on it?” Dot asked.
“Not from trout. But it usually gets me quite a bit of tuna.”
Hey-O!
Kris and I get in the boat and cast our lines. I’ll tell you what, people, if Kris works a strap on half as good as she works a fishing pole, Dot’s in for some good lovin’ in the ‘Zarks! We brought a six pack of cans of But Lite with us, and after a couple three brews, Dot started having to take a leak. Problem was, the trout were really biting and we didn’t want to lose our prime spot to someone who doesn’t appreciate great fishing. I told Kris the lease on the beer Dot was renting was about to expire. Again, Dot’s prediction didn’t match up with reality – I expected Kris would be a little irritated by the fact that we’d have to go ashore, but instead she seemed….sexually excited by Dot’s full bladder.
“Kinky.” She said, looking Dot up and down again.
“Not really,” I replied, “just uncomfortable.”
“Go here.” She said, not taking her eyes off Dot. She pointed over the side of the boat. Dot was confused. I looked around. There were a couple other old men fishing alone, not too far from our boat, but Dot could probably take a leak in the lake of the Ozarks without them seeing. The problem was that Kris, who I had only met two hours ago, would see. This seemed pretty intimate. Even at the end with El we closed the door when we took a piss. I mean, once, El was taking a shower and I really had to go bad but El promised to stay in the shower, with the water on and not peek out of the curtains.
Kris was still starring at me, now her gaze moved to my wranglers. She was clearly watching my crotch. I positioned myself closer to the edge of the boat. I told Kris to turn around but she kept starring at me with a naughty smile on her face.
Then it dawned on Dot (finally!): this lady is into golden showers. Now Dot has heard about the golden shower, but it has never rained down upon her. Dot’s attitude about piss has always been the same as that Jamaican guy in the circa 1980s 7-up commercial’s attitude about caffeine: “never had it, never will.” Dot just doesn’t see the appeal. I mean, maybe if her plane crashed in the desert and Dot needed water she would maybe drink pee. But it wouldn’t turn her on! I don’t know, I mean are these people turned on by toilets? Do they fuck toilets? Are they turned on when a car splashes water from a nasty puddle on them? Doesn’t compute, people, doesn’t compute.
On the one hand, Dot is anti-piss. On the other hand, Dot is willing to try anything once. On the third hand (aka the strap on – am I right people?) Dot thinks Kris is super hot. So what did I do, people? I dropped my wranglers, hung my butt over the side of the boat and took a piss while Kris looked on, excited. That wasn’t so bad. Kris got a strap on boner and Dot got to relieve her bladder without losing her prime fishing spot.
If only that were the end. That night after an awesome dinner at the Tan Tara Lodge, Dot and Kris retired to Kris’s room – Dot was sharing a room with her mom, which may have cramped the styles of two hot butch dykes! Sex in front of parents is never a fun thing. Am I right people? We get into the room and Kris pushes me into the shower. Dot wasn’t offended. I know I was a little ripe from the fishing and the excitement of being with a new lady (it’s been a while for more than just blog posts, people!). But Kris didn’t want to wash Dot off. Oh no. In fact, quite the opposite. Kris took off my clothes and then took off her own and piled them outside the bathtub.
The Kris laid down in the bathtub between Dot’s legs.
“Pee on me.” She said.
Well, Dot had to go, but nothing would come out.
“Release your bladder!” Kris said.
Dot looked up at the ceiling and tried. I began to pee. It went down my leg and splashed all over the tub. Hardly any of it hit Kris. Kris squirmed, trying to get her golden shower and yelled at me to squat down. I did but the piss just went out the side of the tub, for some reason. Hey, Dot wears a strap on people but she doesn’t have a dick, ok!
Around this time, Kris is getting pissed rather than getting pissed ON. She starts cussing like a sailor and gets up and turns on the taps. Dot apologizes. Kris says it’s ok, not everyone is as kinky as she is.
So, people, Dot’s first experience with water sports didn’t go so well. Dot and Kris may not be a love connection, but we’ll continue to be friends, bonded forever over our love of sports, fishing, and our Coptic Christian heritage. You know what they say, people, make new friends, and keep the old. One is silver and the other [likes] gold[en] showers.
Am I right, people?
Whoa, it has been a long time people! Look at this gap in posts. No excuse, people, no excuse. You know how Dot said that she started her comedy act so she wouldn’t be depressed, sitting on her butch butt and drinking Bud Lite? Well that’s exactly what Dot did after her last break up. That is until her ass kicking mother, Fatima Lazarius, came all the way to St. Louis from Southern Illinois and dragged Dot’s ever-widening butt to a Coptic Christian retreat at Lake of the Ozarks beautiful Tan Tara resort. People, Dot isn’t kidding when she says she’s a recovering Armenian Orthodox but the Metropolitan that ran this retreat really made Dot think about a couple things. People, Dot had a vision while gazing into a gorgeous Byzantine icon of the Blessed Virgin – The BVM said it to Dot loud and clear – get back into your act, get back into your activism.
You know what I did people? Right when I got back up north, I quit my job as the manager of the Qdoba on Grand (another story, people, another story) and became a full time volun-QUEER for Barak Obama. Dot took a lot of heat for that, and not just from the regulars at Qdoba. I’m talking about the Hilary supporters, people. Dot lost friends over this election, and she certainly lost pussy to lick, but that’s okay people. Having a vagina doesn’t disqualify a person from office, but neither does it qualify a person, people. It does, however, qualify a person to sit on Dot’s face! See, it’s the old Dot back people!
Politics are for another post people, this post is about some wild shit Dot got into with a pretty kinky lady down at Tan Tara. That’s right, people, Dot got laid at a Coptic Christian retreat. Hey, I said I was depressed, I didn’t say I was dead!
So Dot’s kneeling down at the daily service, the incense parts, and I lay eyes upon a gorgeous dark beauty in painter’s overalls and a KC Chiefs jersey. And people, this lady was as butch as they come—almost as butch as Bathsheba Zyad, who, for those not in the know, was the only womyn butch enough to crash the Counsel of Constantinople. Dot’s eyes went out of focus at the cognitive dissonance of seeing such a perfect specimen – or should I say “speciwomyn”--of butch dykehood wearing the jersey of one of Dot’s most hated teams. But you know what people? Dot was in the mood for game and only beaver would hit the spot.
I tapped the dyke on the evil jersey. She turned around and looked at me suspiciously.
“Dot” I said, extending my hand.
“Kris” she said, smiling and extending hers.
“So…Chiefs fan, eh?” I asked.
“I bleed bits of arrowhead.”
This dyke was serious! But Dot’s no fair-weather fan. You might not believe it, but I’d go to the mat for the Rams, before I’d go to the carpet for a munch. Am I right people?
“Do you now?” Dot asked, thick eyebrows raised, “Well Dot eats arrowheads for breakfast.”
Dot thought for sure Kris was going to get pissed off, in fact I was trying for that aggressive sexual tension between butch dykes thing, but she seemed to get…I don’t know how to put this…sexually excited by Dot’s anti-Chiefs comment.
“Kinky.” Kris said, looking Dot up and down. I’ll tell you what, people, Dot was looking fine. I was wearing my Obama/Equal Rights Campaign long-sleeved T, relaxed fit Wrangler jeans, and hiking boots just in case some outdoor activity presents itself. Also, I had just been to Angie at Best Little Hair House for a touch up on my hair.
“So,” Kris said, hooking her thumbs into the empty hammer holders of her overalls and rocking back on the heels of her Timberlands, “think the trout are biting today?”
“I like the way you think.” I said, honestly. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Next thing Dot knew, she was skipping out on the afternoon session about Pope Shenouda III’s encyclical on touching the divine and renting a speed boat to go fishing on the lake. If Shenouda saw Kris, I think he would give Dot dispensation to skip out on the lecture in order to get a chance to touch her divine, if you know what I mean people! That is, of course, assuming he were a butch dyke and not a presumably heterosexual man!
As we walked down toward the boat, I got the impression that Kris and I had the same thing on our mind, and it wasn’t trout. I hefted my fishing pole and wondered aloud if it would hold up. Get this people, Kris says, “Dot, if that thing doesn’t hold up maybe you’ll have better luck with my strap on!”
“You get many bites on it?” Dot asked.
“Not from trout. But it usually gets me quite a bit of tuna.”
Hey-O!
Kris and I get in the boat and cast our lines. I’ll tell you what, people, if Kris works a strap on half as good as she works a fishing pole, Dot’s in for some good lovin’ in the ‘Zarks! We brought a six pack of cans of But Lite with us, and after a couple three brews, Dot started having to take a leak. Problem was, the trout were really biting and we didn’t want to lose our prime spot to someone who doesn’t appreciate great fishing. I told Kris the lease on the beer Dot was renting was about to expire. Again, Dot’s prediction didn’t match up with reality – I expected Kris would be a little irritated by the fact that we’d have to go ashore, but instead she seemed….sexually excited by Dot’s full bladder.
“Kinky.” She said, looking Dot up and down again.
“Not really,” I replied, “just uncomfortable.”
“Go here.” She said, not taking her eyes off Dot. She pointed over the side of the boat. Dot was confused. I looked around. There were a couple other old men fishing alone, not too far from our boat, but Dot could probably take a leak in the lake of the Ozarks without them seeing. The problem was that Kris, who I had only met two hours ago, would see. This seemed pretty intimate. Even at the end with El we closed the door when we took a piss. I mean, once, El was taking a shower and I really had to go bad but El promised to stay in the shower, with the water on and not peek out of the curtains.
Kris was still starring at me, now her gaze moved to my wranglers. She was clearly watching my crotch. I positioned myself closer to the edge of the boat. I told Kris to turn around but she kept starring at me with a naughty smile on her face.
Then it dawned on Dot (finally!): this lady is into golden showers. Now Dot has heard about the golden shower, but it has never rained down upon her. Dot’s attitude about piss has always been the same as that Jamaican guy in the circa 1980s 7-up commercial’s attitude about caffeine: “never had it, never will.” Dot just doesn’t see the appeal. I mean, maybe if her plane crashed in the desert and Dot needed water she would maybe drink pee. But it wouldn’t turn her on! I don’t know, I mean are these people turned on by toilets? Do they fuck toilets? Are they turned on when a car splashes water from a nasty puddle on them? Doesn’t compute, people, doesn’t compute.
On the one hand, Dot is anti-piss. On the other hand, Dot is willing to try anything once. On the third hand (aka the strap on – am I right people?) Dot thinks Kris is super hot. So what did I do, people? I dropped my wranglers, hung my butt over the side of the boat and took a piss while Kris looked on, excited. That wasn’t so bad. Kris got a strap on boner and Dot got to relieve her bladder without losing her prime fishing spot.
If only that were the end. That night after an awesome dinner at the Tan Tara Lodge, Dot and Kris retired to Kris’s room – Dot was sharing a room with her mom, which may have cramped the styles of two hot butch dykes! Sex in front of parents is never a fun thing. Am I right people? We get into the room and Kris pushes me into the shower. Dot wasn’t offended. I know I was a little ripe from the fishing and the excitement of being with a new lady (it’s been a while for more than just blog posts, people!). But Kris didn’t want to wash Dot off. Oh no. In fact, quite the opposite. Kris took off my clothes and then took off her own and piled them outside the bathtub.
The Kris laid down in the bathtub between Dot’s legs.
“Pee on me.” She said.
Well, Dot had to go, but nothing would come out.
“Release your bladder!” Kris said.
Dot looked up at the ceiling and tried. I began to pee. It went down my leg and splashed all over the tub. Hardly any of it hit Kris. Kris squirmed, trying to get her golden shower and yelled at me to squat down. I did but the piss just went out the side of the tub, for some reason. Hey, Dot wears a strap on people but she doesn’t have a dick, ok!
Around this time, Kris is getting pissed rather than getting pissed ON. She starts cussing like a sailor and gets up and turns on the taps. Dot apologizes. Kris says it’s ok, not everyone is as kinky as she is.
So, people, Dot’s first experience with water sports didn’t go so well. Dot and Kris may not be a love connection, but we’ll continue to be friends, bonded forever over our love of sports, fishing, and our Coptic Christian heritage. You know what they say, people, make new friends, and keep the old. One is silver and the other [likes] gold[en] showers.
Am I right, people?
Sunday, April 01, 2007
BUTCH DYKE LOOKS LIKE A DUDE
Dot back. It’s been a while! That trip to Houston really knocked Dot for a loop! Another entry, people. Another entry. Today Cunnilinga the Butch Dyke Muse is telling me to write about how difficult it can be for a butch dyke who likes butch dykes to find some friends to just fucking hang out with!
Here’s the problem, people. I’d love to hang out with nothing but butch dykes. But being a butch dyke who likes butch dykes there’s always the awkward attraction factor. I have a hard time just watching the Rams with another butch dyke because instead of thinking about the next touchdown, I’m thinking about how I’d like to go down on the hot womyn in the laz-y-boy next to me! Am I right people? It’s like the age old “can a man and woman truly be friends” question, explored hilariously in Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Well, there’s a less known version of that film (less known because it’s still in production and Wired Womyn’s latest funding check bounced!) called When Dot Met El. That low budget (no budget now—if any WW are reading this, need funding!) gem tells the story about yours truly and her last serious girlfriend, El.
El and I met during the playoffs when the Cards were out of this world. I was catching the game down at Absolutli Goosed when I heard a deep voice next to me make the comment, “That guy pitches like he’s wearing a strap on!” I looked over and saw the glorious butch dyke who made the comment. She had a dark brown dyke chop and was wearing a bright red Cardinals t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, making it into a muscle shirt. On her right bicep was a tattoo of a Betty Page-like pin up leaning over an air conditioner. Above the picture were the letters “H.V.A.C.” Immediately I knew I had encountered a kindred spirit.
“I hear that!” I said. “Dot.” I extended my hand.
“El,” she said and took my extended hand with her large calloused hand.
“So, you’re in HVAC? Heating, ventilation and air conditioning?” I asked.
“Well, that and hot vaginas and cunts.” El quipped.
From then on El and I were inseparable. We both loved crude humor, sports, Bud Lite, and equal rights for all sexual orientations. We spent hours watching the game together and drinking. We even shared stories of the dates we went on with other womyn.
And then it happened. Just like in When Harry Met Sally. El had been dating a “bi-sexual” hottie named Drew from Wash U’s master of social work program. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before El’s strap on was spurned for “in the flesh.” Didn’t I know it, before the regular season had ended, Drew said “bi- bi-” to El and her polymer phallus. The night it happened, I was sitting on the velour couch I keep on my front porch having a Bud Lite (naturally), when El walked up the steps, a crying mess. Long story short, we ended up fucking. Hey, my doormat does read “Pussy Playhouse,” people. As dykes are wont to do, El and I dated for a couple months, actually, until she moved out to Wyoming. But the lesson remained, I couldn’t be just friends with another butch dyke.
I can’t really be friends with a femme either. They’re always whining about their feelings and jawing about how they look. Can’t take it. Gay men are right out too for much the same reasons. Even Bears, although I have befriended the occasional Hippo. Straight women? I won’t even dignify that with a response. Thus, Dot turns for friendship where she would never ever (never has, never will!) turn for lovin’: straight men.
But lemme tell you, people, it’s not always easy as a butch dyke to be friends with a bunch of male breeders. Case-in-point, I’m taking in the Rams game at Slammers on the Landing, sitting solo at the bar over an icy cold Bud Lite. A group of four guys comes in and sits at the bar to do much the same as Dot. They’re yucking it up and as it turns out they know quite a bit about the Rams and pigskin in general—and I know from football, people!
*Knowledge of football: one point
One says to me “So, you think the Falcons could work on their offense a little this year?”
I retort: “Lemme ask you this: when don’t I think the Falcons could work on their offense a little.”
They laugh.
*Good taste in humor: two points
I introduce myself, but the Rams score a safety while I’m saying my first name and all they catch is “Lazarius.” I start to think they maybe think I’m a dude. When one puts his arm around me and says “Hey, this guy must have balls like a fucking kangaroo and a cock like a goddamn Alaska moose!” it’s confirmed.
*Inability to distinguish a butch dyke from a man: a wash
So they think I’m a dude, so what. I roll with it and we have a great time watching the game. Then, one makes the suggestion of Dot’s dreams: “Let’s head over to Titty-lations in East St. Louis! They expose full nipples, full bush, and they’re not prevented by health code from touching you during the lap dances like they are in Missouri.” I think, this must be Dot’s lucky day!
“This must be my lucky day!” I say. “I got my Toyota Takoma, or the ‘Twat Truck’ as I like to call her, right outside if anyone needs a ride.” They all laugh. Again, good taste in humor, these guys.
I get to my truck soon enough to remove the mullet air freshener I’ve altered to say “I break for dyke chops” and the guys don’t seem to see anything strange about my rainbow colored cat bumper sticker. Maybe they just know it means I like pussy. We head for Titty-lations.
I happen to know there are a couple of glorious butch dykes who dance at Titty-lations, mainly to get out their aggression by dicking (or should I say “cunting”!) men around. One is Sally and the other is Sue. I scope the club and see Sally working a pole for a group of sweaty fat guys that just got off at the Malinkrodt factory and Sue giving a lap dance to a sweaty fat guy wearing a Limp Bizkit t-shirt. I don’t know how those ladies do it, God bless ‘em.
Me and the guys sit around a table and tuck a few bucks here and there. Most of the strippers are straight-up femmes and the guys are loving it. Naturally, the strippers are loving Dot! As always, I’m getting free lap dance offers and tits of all shapes and sizes in the face. See, every stripper knows a dyke is going to treat them better than any man. You know the saying “Once you go detachable, you’ll never go natural”? Mmm hmm. (Except for Drew—am I right, people!) A lot of truth in that, people, a lot of truth. The guys can’t believe how much action I’m getting. But I don’t want a lap dance from any of these femmes. Finally, Sue finishes up with her dude and comes over for some Lazarius love. As we’re going off into the back room for “private lap dances” one of the dudes I’m with says “How do you do it, Lazarius?”
“You want to know how I do it?” I ask. “Okay, I’ll tell you: next time be born a butch dyke!”
*Rimshot! priceless
Dot back. It’s been a while! That trip to Houston really knocked Dot for a loop! Another entry, people. Another entry. Today Cunnilinga the Butch Dyke Muse is telling me to write about how difficult it can be for a butch dyke who likes butch dykes to find some friends to just fucking hang out with!
Here’s the problem, people. I’d love to hang out with nothing but butch dykes. But being a butch dyke who likes butch dykes there’s always the awkward attraction factor. I have a hard time just watching the Rams with another butch dyke because instead of thinking about the next touchdown, I’m thinking about how I’d like to go down on the hot womyn in the laz-y-boy next to me! Am I right people? It’s like the age old “can a man and woman truly be friends” question, explored hilariously in Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Well, there’s a less known version of that film (less known because it’s still in production and Wired Womyn’s latest funding check bounced!) called When Dot Met El. That low budget (no budget now—if any WW are reading this, need funding!) gem tells the story about yours truly and her last serious girlfriend, El.
El and I met during the playoffs when the Cards were out of this world. I was catching the game down at Absolutli Goosed when I heard a deep voice next to me make the comment, “That guy pitches like he’s wearing a strap on!” I looked over and saw the glorious butch dyke who made the comment. She had a dark brown dyke chop and was wearing a bright red Cardinals t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, making it into a muscle shirt. On her right bicep was a tattoo of a Betty Page-like pin up leaning over an air conditioner. Above the picture were the letters “H.V.A.C.” Immediately I knew I had encountered a kindred spirit.
“I hear that!” I said. “Dot.” I extended my hand.
“El,” she said and took my extended hand with her large calloused hand.
“So, you’re in HVAC? Heating, ventilation and air conditioning?” I asked.
“Well, that and hot vaginas and cunts.” El quipped.
From then on El and I were inseparable. We both loved crude humor, sports, Bud Lite, and equal rights for all sexual orientations. We spent hours watching the game together and drinking. We even shared stories of the dates we went on with other womyn.
And then it happened. Just like in When Harry Met Sally. El had been dating a “bi-sexual” hottie named Drew from Wash U’s master of social work program. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before El’s strap on was spurned for “in the flesh.” Didn’t I know it, before the regular season had ended, Drew said “bi- bi-” to El and her polymer phallus. The night it happened, I was sitting on the velour couch I keep on my front porch having a Bud Lite (naturally), when El walked up the steps, a crying mess. Long story short, we ended up fucking. Hey, my doormat does read “Pussy Playhouse,” people. As dykes are wont to do, El and I dated for a couple months, actually, until she moved out to Wyoming. But the lesson remained, I couldn’t be just friends with another butch dyke.
I can’t really be friends with a femme either. They’re always whining about their feelings and jawing about how they look. Can’t take it. Gay men are right out too for much the same reasons. Even Bears, although I have befriended the occasional Hippo. Straight women? I won’t even dignify that with a response. Thus, Dot turns for friendship where she would never ever (never has, never will!) turn for lovin’: straight men.
But lemme tell you, people, it’s not always easy as a butch dyke to be friends with a bunch of male breeders. Case-in-point, I’m taking in the Rams game at Slammers on the Landing, sitting solo at the bar over an icy cold Bud Lite. A group of four guys comes in and sits at the bar to do much the same as Dot. They’re yucking it up and as it turns out they know quite a bit about the Rams and pigskin in general—and I know from football, people!
*Knowledge of football: one point
One says to me “So, you think the Falcons could work on their offense a little this year?”
I retort: “Lemme ask you this: when don’t I think the Falcons could work on their offense a little.”
They laugh.
*Good taste in humor: two points
I introduce myself, but the Rams score a safety while I’m saying my first name and all they catch is “Lazarius.” I start to think they maybe think I’m a dude. When one puts his arm around me and says “Hey, this guy must have balls like a fucking kangaroo and a cock like a goddamn Alaska moose!” it’s confirmed.
*Inability to distinguish a butch dyke from a man: a wash
So they think I’m a dude, so what. I roll with it and we have a great time watching the game. Then, one makes the suggestion of Dot’s dreams: “Let’s head over to Titty-lations in East St. Louis! They expose full nipples, full bush, and they’re not prevented by health code from touching you during the lap dances like they are in Missouri.” I think, this must be Dot’s lucky day!
“This must be my lucky day!” I say. “I got my Toyota Takoma, or the ‘Twat Truck’ as I like to call her, right outside if anyone needs a ride.” They all laugh. Again, good taste in humor, these guys.
I get to my truck soon enough to remove the mullet air freshener I’ve altered to say “I break for dyke chops” and the guys don’t seem to see anything strange about my rainbow colored cat bumper sticker. Maybe they just know it means I like pussy. We head for Titty-lations.
I happen to know there are a couple of glorious butch dykes who dance at Titty-lations, mainly to get out their aggression by dicking (or should I say “cunting”!) men around. One is Sally and the other is Sue. I scope the club and see Sally working a pole for a group of sweaty fat guys that just got off at the Malinkrodt factory and Sue giving a lap dance to a sweaty fat guy wearing a Limp Bizkit t-shirt. I don’t know how those ladies do it, God bless ‘em.
Me and the guys sit around a table and tuck a few bucks here and there. Most of the strippers are straight-up femmes and the guys are loving it. Naturally, the strippers are loving Dot! As always, I’m getting free lap dance offers and tits of all shapes and sizes in the face. See, every stripper knows a dyke is going to treat them better than any man. You know the saying “Once you go detachable, you’ll never go natural”? Mmm hmm. (Except for Drew—am I right, people!) A lot of truth in that, people, a lot of truth. The guys can’t believe how much action I’m getting. But I don’t want a lap dance from any of these femmes. Finally, Sue finishes up with her dude and comes over for some Lazarius love. As we’re going off into the back room for “private lap dances” one of the dudes I’m with says “How do you do it, Lazarius?”
“You want to know how I do it?” I ask. “Okay, I’ll tell you: next time be born a butch dyke!”
*Rimshot! priceless
Monday, September 11, 2006
A Coming Out Story
Dot Lazarius here. Rapping at ya from Vocal Vaginas: A Womyn's Space in Houston, Texas. This festival has been great and, let me tell you people, the southern ladies are second to none. Even the femmes down here are butch! Even better, the straights wouldn't be able to tell a dyke if she started licking their pussies. Seriously, people, the straights are clueless. Dot met one sexy butch dyke and made a perfect afternoon of helping her build a deck onto her house. At the Home Depot, the dudes were fawning all over Dot and her lady friend, talking about how cute it was that us girls were going to try to do home improvement. Same with her neighbors when we started building. In fact, we started sucking face pretty intently and they just commented on how close we were and how we must pick each others boyfriends!
Dot faced a lot of the same cluelessness growing up in the So. Ill (Southern Illinois to the uninitiated) in the Non-Isle of No-Lesbos, which I belive I have mentioned before on this blog. In fact, the cluelessness reminds Dot a lot of her coming out story.
As I've said before, Dot and everyone who knew Dot pretty much knew she was a butch dyke from the moment of birth. Everyone, that is, save for Dot's parents! Being hetero, or even acting hetero (well, except for wearing a strap-on--am I right people?), was never really an option for Dot. Nonetheless, Dot's parents still continued to ask Dot when she was going to meet a nice man and settle down. When Dot graduated from U of Illinois with a double major in Civil Engineering and Gender and Wimmin's Studies, I figured it was time to come clean with my parents.
It was Thanksgiving. I had just eaten a wonderful meal cooked by my lovely mother and had finished watching an awesome Cowboy's football game with my dad--made even more awesome that year from a sort of butch Dallas Cowboy's Cheerleader! Chandra from '91 - call me!! I turned off the TV and sat the Lazariai down.
"Mom, Dad. I have something to tell you." I took a deep breath, "I'm gay."
My mom smiled warmly. Great, I thought. But no--"Oh, Dot, we're happy too!"
"No mom, I mean I'm a dyke." Blank looks. "You know, a lesbian."
"Oh Dot," said my mother "we're Armenian! You know that! Have you lost touch with your heritage?"
"No mom, I'm a rug muncher." Confusion. "A muff diver?" Raised eyebrows. "A pussy licker." Giggles. "Vagina worshiper." Nausea. "A sister of Sappho." Extreme confusion. "I'm in the clitoris club." Sideways looks. "I ride the Vulva Volvo." Shrugs. "I like to climb Mount Pubis." Stage caughs. "I drive a Labia Lexis." Blank stares. "I like to have sex with women."
"We're not gettin' ya, Dot." My dad said, and got up to get another Bud. Dot saw this as a bad sign because my father, like his daughter after him, is no good after the 5th Bud! It was time to take action. I decided to go find a butch dyke, or at least a dyke, and show my parents what my lifestyle was all about. The best place to do this in the SoILL? The SIU Carbondale Jen Massengill Memorial Tennis Courts.
At the JMMTCs I found Leigh, swinging around a tennis racket like it was a strap on. "Hey gorgeous!" I yelled out the window of my Toyota Takoma. Then I said the words no alternative-lifestyle advocate could ever say no to: "Want to help me come out to my parents?" Leigh threw down her racket, told her partner a closeted dyke needed her, and ran to the truck, her Martina-yellow dyke chop blowing in the breeze.
When I got home, I found my parents still in the living room discussing why on earth anyone would want to drive a Volvo when everyone knows Swedens a communist country. "Ok guys," I said, "this is a butch dyke!" I pointed to Leigh. "I am also a butch dyke. And this is what we do." At this point, Leigh and I start playing some serious tonsel hockey (go Blues!)
"Our Lady of Yerevan!" My mother yelled. "Our Dot is in love! With Butch Dyke! Does this mean you're going to become Dot Dyke?"
"I have been for the last 22 years, Ma," was my retort.
"Butch," my dad extended his hand to Leigh, "nice to meet you, man. I hope you take care of our little girl. We never see her with a man, and we were actually starting to worry that she might be...you know..."
Seriously, people, you can't make this stuff up. Am I right, people?
Dot Lazarius here. Rapping at ya from Vocal Vaginas: A Womyn's Space in Houston, Texas. This festival has been great and, let me tell you people, the southern ladies are second to none. Even the femmes down here are butch! Even better, the straights wouldn't be able to tell a dyke if she started licking their pussies. Seriously, people, the straights are clueless. Dot met one sexy butch dyke and made a perfect afternoon of helping her build a deck onto her house. At the Home Depot, the dudes were fawning all over Dot and her lady friend, talking about how cute it was that us girls were going to try to do home improvement. Same with her neighbors when we started building. In fact, we started sucking face pretty intently and they just commented on how close we were and how we must pick each others boyfriends!
Dot faced a lot of the same cluelessness growing up in the So. Ill (Southern Illinois to the uninitiated) in the Non-Isle of No-Lesbos, which I belive I have mentioned before on this blog. In fact, the cluelessness reminds Dot a lot of her coming out story.
As I've said before, Dot and everyone who knew Dot pretty much knew she was a butch dyke from the moment of birth. Everyone, that is, save for Dot's parents! Being hetero, or even acting hetero (well, except for wearing a strap-on--am I right people?), was never really an option for Dot. Nonetheless, Dot's parents still continued to ask Dot when she was going to meet a nice man and settle down. When Dot graduated from U of Illinois with a double major in Civil Engineering and Gender and Wimmin's Studies, I figured it was time to come clean with my parents.
It was Thanksgiving. I had just eaten a wonderful meal cooked by my lovely mother and had finished watching an awesome Cowboy's football game with my dad--made even more awesome that year from a sort of butch Dallas Cowboy's Cheerleader! Chandra from '91 - call me!! I turned off the TV and sat the Lazariai down.
"Mom, Dad. I have something to tell you." I took a deep breath, "I'm gay."
My mom smiled warmly. Great, I thought. But no--"Oh, Dot, we're happy too!"
"No mom, I mean I'm a dyke." Blank looks. "You know, a lesbian."
"Oh Dot," said my mother "we're Armenian! You know that! Have you lost touch with your heritage?"
"No mom, I'm a rug muncher." Confusion. "A muff diver?" Raised eyebrows. "A pussy licker." Giggles. "Vagina worshiper." Nausea. "A sister of Sappho." Extreme confusion. "I'm in the clitoris club." Sideways looks. "I ride the Vulva Volvo." Shrugs. "I like to climb Mount Pubis." Stage caughs. "I drive a Labia Lexis." Blank stares. "I like to have sex with women."
"We're not gettin' ya, Dot." My dad said, and got up to get another Bud. Dot saw this as a bad sign because my father, like his daughter after him, is no good after the 5th Bud! It was time to take action. I decided to go find a butch dyke, or at least a dyke, and show my parents what my lifestyle was all about. The best place to do this in the SoILL? The SIU Carbondale Jen Massengill Memorial Tennis Courts.
At the JMMTCs I found Leigh, swinging around a tennis racket like it was a strap on. "Hey gorgeous!" I yelled out the window of my Toyota Takoma. Then I said the words no alternative-lifestyle advocate could ever say no to: "Want to help me come out to my parents?" Leigh threw down her racket, told her partner a closeted dyke needed her, and ran to the truck, her Martina-yellow dyke chop blowing in the breeze.
When I got home, I found my parents still in the living room discussing why on earth anyone would want to drive a Volvo when everyone knows Swedens a communist country. "Ok guys," I said, "this is a butch dyke!" I pointed to Leigh. "I am also a butch dyke. And this is what we do." At this point, Leigh and I start playing some serious tonsel hockey (go Blues!)
"Our Lady of Yerevan!" My mother yelled. "Our Dot is in love! With Butch Dyke! Does this mean you're going to become Dot Dyke?"
"I have been for the last 22 years, Ma," was my retort.
"Butch," my dad extended his hand to Leigh, "nice to meet you, man. I hope you take care of our little girl. We never see her with a man, and we were actually starting to worry that she might be...you know..."
Seriously, people, you can't make this stuff up. Am I right, people?
Thursday, December 29, 2005
ENVIRONMENTALIST, CUNNILINGUIST
It’s no secret that real estate agent is a popular career choice for dykes. Heck, Dot Lazarius even dabbled in the housing market herself when she was trying to find her calling (and people, I have some stories...). Real estate agents of a certain “lifestyle choice” tend to sell a lot of houses in the Lazarius stomping ground of South City/Shaw. I like to sometimes walk around and look at the real estate agent’s faces on the for sale signs, and see which ones I might like to sit on. It was my desire to do just that that convinced me to invite a bunch of my old real estate colleagues and their friends over to my place for a little afternoon soiree.
Dot Lazarius’s apartment is decorated in what I like to call 21st Century Butch Dyke. It’s unpretentious, people. The decoration reflects what I like--sports, beer, left-wing politics, comedy, and--of course--women. It is in this spirit that I have a certain magnet on my fridge, which was given to me by my awesome drinking buddy, Clay. The magnet reads thusly: “Save a tree! Eat a beaver!” I love this magnet. To me, it captures the zeitgeist of Dot Lazarius’s butch dykeness. I’m crude, I’m real, I’m an environmentalist and, above all, I love women.
Now among the dykes at my party was a certain femme called Cheryl. If it were up to Dot Lazarius, the party would have been exclusively butch dykes, but most things in life are not up to Dot Lazarius. Cheryl is easily offended. Seriously, people, the dyke is oversensitive. Let me give you an example. Once my ex Jill and I were double dating with Cheryl and her flavor of the month (who she of course was living with). We were walking down Delmar. I was holding hands with Jill and Cheryl was holding hands with her gal. Some meathead yells out “lesbians!” from his t-top. Dot’s reaction: to think “that dude sure calls ‘em like he sees ‘em!” and lean over to get some sugar from Jill. Cheryl’s reaction: melt down crying in the middle of the street and then require 5 hours of aromatherapy and hand holding.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, people, when I heard Cheryl scream in anguish as she walked past the fridge. “What the hell is that, Dot?” She asked, her shaking hand pointing at my magnet.
“Well, Cheryl,” I replied, “it’s a magnet that expresses humorously my personal philosophy of environmentalism and free oral sex among women.”
“Dot, that is offensive!”
Now to Cheryl, nothing could be worse than something being “offensive.” While to Dot, when I hear the word “offense” I think about how this season the STL Rams defense seems to be outshining their offense--am I right people? (Go Rams!) Unfortunately, most dykes do not agree with Dot. So when Cheryl drops the “o-bomb” the whole room goes quiet and every dyke in the place comes over to see what the ruckus is. It’s this time that several of my friends chose to tell me that they have long found my magnet offensive. I’m shocked, and I say so.
“Show of hands, people.” I say, “Who here is an environmentalist?” Everyone raises their hand. “Who here likes to go down on the ladies?” Again, everyone raises their hand. “So the problem with a magnet celebrating those to things is exactly what, people?”
My friend Liz says it objectifies women by referring to them as beavers. I say it doesn’t refer to women and beavers, it refers to beavers as beavers. Dot Lazarius loves women and she loves women’s beavers! Problem? Not to Dot!
But then my friend Chris drops this bomb: El, a hot as hell butch dyke Dot was after before El moved to Wyoming, spurned Dot, not because of Dot’s support for Lyndon Laruche in the primaries (as El told me), but because she found the magnet “gross” and couldn’t think about Dot the same way after she saw it. Now, the magnet offending Cheryl, I don’t care about. The woman was probably offended by the color of my fridge. But the thought that the magnet made it so Dot could not do the very thing the magnet advocated? That was just too much.
After the party broke up and Dot struck out with all the possible ladies there that evening, Dot sat in her laz-y-boy and reflected on the days events. I searched my sole, people. Was the magnet offensive? Was it wrong to have up? Maybe it was “in bad taste”, but it was not offensive--it doesn’t stereotype women and it was not displayed with malice. In the end I decided that the magnet perfectly reflects who Dot Lazarius is. If a dyke chooses not to get with me because of the magnet, that’s her loss because I could bring that dyke to a higher plane, people.
So the magnet has become sort of a litmus test for Dot. And when I finally find that special butch dyke who comes over, sees the magnet, and lets out a big laugh, I’ll know I found the one. Hell, I may even go all femme and move in with her!
Am I right, people?
It’s no secret that real estate agent is a popular career choice for dykes. Heck, Dot Lazarius even dabbled in the housing market herself when she was trying to find her calling (and people, I have some stories...). Real estate agents of a certain “lifestyle choice” tend to sell a lot of houses in the Lazarius stomping ground of South City/Shaw. I like to sometimes walk around and look at the real estate agent’s faces on the for sale signs, and see which ones I might like to sit on. It was my desire to do just that that convinced me to invite a bunch of my old real estate colleagues and their friends over to my place for a little afternoon soiree.
Dot Lazarius’s apartment is decorated in what I like to call 21st Century Butch Dyke. It’s unpretentious, people. The decoration reflects what I like--sports, beer, left-wing politics, comedy, and--of course--women. It is in this spirit that I have a certain magnet on my fridge, which was given to me by my awesome drinking buddy, Clay. The magnet reads thusly: “Save a tree! Eat a beaver!” I love this magnet. To me, it captures the zeitgeist of Dot Lazarius’s butch dykeness. I’m crude, I’m real, I’m an environmentalist and, above all, I love women.
Now among the dykes at my party was a certain femme called Cheryl. If it were up to Dot Lazarius, the party would have been exclusively butch dykes, but most things in life are not up to Dot Lazarius. Cheryl is easily offended. Seriously, people, the dyke is oversensitive. Let me give you an example. Once my ex Jill and I were double dating with Cheryl and her flavor of the month (who she of course was living with). We were walking down Delmar. I was holding hands with Jill and Cheryl was holding hands with her gal. Some meathead yells out “lesbians!” from his t-top. Dot’s reaction: to think “that dude sure calls ‘em like he sees ‘em!” and lean over to get some sugar from Jill. Cheryl’s reaction: melt down crying in the middle of the street and then require 5 hours of aromatherapy and hand holding.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, people, when I heard Cheryl scream in anguish as she walked past the fridge. “What the hell is that, Dot?” She asked, her shaking hand pointing at my magnet.
“Well, Cheryl,” I replied, “it’s a magnet that expresses humorously my personal philosophy of environmentalism and free oral sex among women.”
“Dot, that is offensive!”
Now to Cheryl, nothing could be worse than something being “offensive.” While to Dot, when I hear the word “offense” I think about how this season the STL Rams defense seems to be outshining their offense--am I right people? (Go Rams!) Unfortunately, most dykes do not agree with Dot. So when Cheryl drops the “o-bomb” the whole room goes quiet and every dyke in the place comes over to see what the ruckus is. It’s this time that several of my friends chose to tell me that they have long found my magnet offensive. I’m shocked, and I say so.
“Show of hands, people.” I say, “Who here is an environmentalist?” Everyone raises their hand. “Who here likes to go down on the ladies?” Again, everyone raises their hand. “So the problem with a magnet celebrating those to things is exactly what, people?”
My friend Liz says it objectifies women by referring to them as beavers. I say it doesn’t refer to women and beavers, it refers to beavers as beavers. Dot Lazarius loves women and she loves women’s beavers! Problem? Not to Dot!
But then my friend Chris drops this bomb: El, a hot as hell butch dyke Dot was after before El moved to Wyoming, spurned Dot, not because of Dot’s support for Lyndon Laruche in the primaries (as El told me), but because she found the magnet “gross” and couldn’t think about Dot the same way after she saw it. Now, the magnet offending Cheryl, I don’t care about. The woman was probably offended by the color of my fridge. But the thought that the magnet made it so Dot could not do the very thing the magnet advocated? That was just too much.
After the party broke up and Dot struck out with all the possible ladies there that evening, Dot sat in her laz-y-boy and reflected on the days events. I searched my sole, people. Was the magnet offensive? Was it wrong to have up? Maybe it was “in bad taste”, but it was not offensive--it doesn’t stereotype women and it was not displayed with malice. In the end I decided that the magnet perfectly reflects who Dot Lazarius is. If a dyke chooses not to get with me because of the magnet, that’s her loss because I could bring that dyke to a higher plane, people.
So the magnet has become sort of a litmus test for Dot. And when I finally find that special butch dyke who comes over, sees the magnet, and lets out a big laugh, I’ll know I found the one. Hell, I may even go all femme and move in with her!
Am I right, people?
Thursday, December 22, 2005
DUDE LOOKS LIKE A BUTCH DYKE
Dot here. I’m blogging from the Lazarius compound down in the Ozarks. Not a whole lot to do down here. I’ve been down here for a couple weeks of R and R.
Dot Lazarius is a simple dyke so my packing list for the trip was pretty straight forward (or should I say “queerforward” people?):
Human Rights Campaign long sleeved t-shirt
Camo hunting jacket
Extra pair of Wranglers (DL keeps her denim old school, people)
My .22
Strap on
Squirrel bait
Beaver bait - hey, that’s DL herself. Am I right people?
DL was shooting squirrel yesterday with her dad and uncles and also hoping to trap a beaver. But both bushy-tailed creatures proved too wily. The squirrel shoot is a tradition with the Lazarius men and the Lazarius Butch Dykes--namely, me! I love shooting squirrel and am quite the markswoman, if I do say so myself. It doesn’t help the squirrel that I once heard one of their kind make a homophobic comment. Just kidding, people, squirrel’s can’t talk. But seriously, people, I love killing squirrels.
So we’re out in the woods--just the Lazarius clan. There isn’t a Butch Dyke in sight--except, of course, for me. Dad Lazarius is talking about how he can’t wait to eat some squirrel. Dot Lazarius is more in the mood for a fur burger. Alas, both Lazariai would go hungry that night. But for a moment there, Dot thought she had a shot.
An interjection, people. It’s tough to be a Butch Dyke who likes Butch Dykes. I could write an encyclopedia on the subject, but suffice it to say it’s a little awkward when both of you come into the bedroom wearing a strap on! Am I right, people?
Dot Lazarius has historically had good luck getting laid in the ‘Zarks. The hunting, natural beauty, and clueless locals tend to attract Butch Dykes. Despite the fact that the place is home to the famous bible outlet store! And hey, Dot Lazarius even once got some there (that’s for another entry, people). But tonight just wasn’t Dot’s night. I went to a couple bars, cruised around in my Toyota Tacoma showing off my bumper stickers: the Human Rights Campaign equal sign, STL-Rams-shaped rainbow flag, and cat-shaped rainbow flag (just incase there was any question as to whether DL likes pussy!)
Just as I was ready to give up and head home to the family cabin and drown my sorrows in Bud Lite and televised bowling, I looked in front of me. There, at the red light, idled a red Dodge Ram. I looked through the back window and saw the most glorious dyke chop I had ever seen, framed by an American flag decal, a gravid gun rack, and--thank the Armenian Orthodox God-- a rainbow flag decal. Score, I thought, this is Dot Lazarius’s lucky day!
I pulled along side my conquest to get a better look. I was not disappointed. She was as butch as they come. DL’s only worry: would she be into femmes, or would she be willing to take a walk on the butch-on-butch side with DL! I winked and gave her a little salute. And the fish were biting people. She smiled and rolled down her window.
“Looking for some action tonight?” She yelled. Wow. This Butch Dyke cut to the chase! Me likey!
“Lemme ask you this,” I responded, “when am I not looking for action?”
She liked that response and told me to follow her to a little motel up the street where she was staying. I’ll tell you people, Dot Lazarius was pretty happy that she was about to get laid, but she had a big (well, actually not all that big) surprise in store.
I really don’t know how to put this people, but I’ll just tell you this. As awkward as it is coming in to the bedroom when you’re both packing a strap on, it’s far more awkward when you’re both packing, but one of you is not wearing a strap on. Get it, people?
Anyway, the dude was cool and we had a good laugh at the misunderstanding. Turns out the guy just likes rainbows! Actually, we discovered we had a lot in common--namely our love of STL sports and STL beer. Instead of banging a gong as planned, we spent the night beering it up and watching ESPN, which is just as good. Hey, wait a minute, no it’s not people!
Dot here. I’m blogging from the Lazarius compound down in the Ozarks. Not a whole lot to do down here. I’ve been down here for a couple weeks of R and R.
Dot Lazarius is a simple dyke so my packing list for the trip was pretty straight forward (or should I say “queerforward” people?):
Human Rights Campaign long sleeved t-shirt
Camo hunting jacket
Extra pair of Wranglers (DL keeps her denim old school, people)
My .22
Strap on
Squirrel bait
Beaver bait - hey, that’s DL herself. Am I right people?
DL was shooting squirrel yesterday with her dad and uncles and also hoping to trap a beaver. But both bushy-tailed creatures proved too wily. The squirrel shoot is a tradition with the Lazarius men and the Lazarius Butch Dykes--namely, me! I love shooting squirrel and am quite the markswoman, if I do say so myself. It doesn’t help the squirrel that I once heard one of their kind make a homophobic comment. Just kidding, people, squirrel’s can’t talk. But seriously, people, I love killing squirrels.
So we’re out in the woods--just the Lazarius clan. There isn’t a Butch Dyke in sight--except, of course, for me. Dad Lazarius is talking about how he can’t wait to eat some squirrel. Dot Lazarius is more in the mood for a fur burger. Alas, both Lazariai would go hungry that night. But for a moment there, Dot thought she had a shot.
An interjection, people. It’s tough to be a Butch Dyke who likes Butch Dykes. I could write an encyclopedia on the subject, but suffice it to say it’s a little awkward when both of you come into the bedroom wearing a strap on! Am I right, people?
Dot Lazarius has historically had good luck getting laid in the ‘Zarks. The hunting, natural beauty, and clueless locals tend to attract Butch Dykes. Despite the fact that the place is home to the famous bible outlet store! And hey, Dot Lazarius even once got some there (that’s for another entry, people). But tonight just wasn’t Dot’s night. I went to a couple bars, cruised around in my Toyota Tacoma showing off my bumper stickers: the Human Rights Campaign equal sign, STL-Rams-shaped rainbow flag, and cat-shaped rainbow flag (just incase there was any question as to whether DL likes pussy!)
Just as I was ready to give up and head home to the family cabin and drown my sorrows in Bud Lite and televised bowling, I looked in front of me. There, at the red light, idled a red Dodge Ram. I looked through the back window and saw the most glorious dyke chop I had ever seen, framed by an American flag decal, a gravid gun rack, and--thank the Armenian Orthodox God-- a rainbow flag decal. Score, I thought, this is Dot Lazarius’s lucky day!
I pulled along side my conquest to get a better look. I was not disappointed. She was as butch as they come. DL’s only worry: would she be into femmes, or would she be willing to take a walk on the butch-on-butch side with DL! I winked and gave her a little salute. And the fish were biting people. She smiled and rolled down her window.
“Looking for some action tonight?” She yelled. Wow. This Butch Dyke cut to the chase! Me likey!
“Lemme ask you this,” I responded, “when am I not looking for action?”
She liked that response and told me to follow her to a little motel up the street where she was staying. I’ll tell you people, Dot Lazarius was pretty happy that she was about to get laid, but she had a big (well, actually not all that big) surprise in store.
I really don’t know how to put this people, but I’ll just tell you this. As awkward as it is coming in to the bedroom when you’re both packing a strap on, it’s far more awkward when you’re both packing, but one of you is not wearing a strap on. Get it, people?
Anyway, the dude was cool and we had a good laugh at the misunderstanding. Turns out the guy just likes rainbows! Actually, we discovered we had a lot in common--namely our love of STL sports and STL beer. Instead of banging a gong as planned, we spent the night beering it up and watching ESPN, which is just as good. Hey, wait a minute, no it’s not people!
Friday, November 18, 2005
Baby Dyke
Just started the blog and Dot Lazarius is already falling down on the job! As promised, the Baby Dyke years:
I was born in a small town in Southern Illinois to a sweet, unsuspecting couple, who had no idea what they were getting themselves in for. My parents, their parents, their parents’ parents and their parents’ parents’ parents had all been born and raised in that small town. My mother insists that until Dot Lazarius came along, no homosexual had ever resided in that small town. And judging by the lack of action Dot Lazarius got in high school, I’m inclined to believe her, people! In fact, in order to protect the militantly heterosexual, let’s just call Dot Lazarius’s hometown the Non-Isle of No-Lesbos.
But into each breeder’s life, some butch dyke must fall, and Dot Lazarius entered the world, butch as the day she was born, on April 18, 1967. My parents were both in their early 40s when they had me so I was to be the one and only. Being farmers, they wanted a boy who could help out on the farm as a child and one day inherit that farm. Now I’ve told them that a butch dyke is the second best thing to a boy, but for some reason they haven’t accepted that logic yet.
Anyway, when I came out, the old male doctor grabbed me and dried me off. To my parents joy he announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Lazarius, you have a perfect baby boy!” While my parents were hugging and crying, a nursing student who had been to the city a couple times took a look at me and nudged the doctor.
“That’s not a boy.” She whispered.
“What are you talking about?” The doctor asked, gesturing towards Dot Lazarius’s large endowment.
“That’s a strap on.”
Of course I’m kidding, people. Just a little bit of my routine there.
But serious, I was extremely butch.
Just started the blog and Dot Lazarius is already falling down on the job! As promised, the Baby Dyke years:
I was born in a small town in Southern Illinois to a sweet, unsuspecting couple, who had no idea what they were getting themselves in for. My parents, their parents, their parents’ parents and their parents’ parents’ parents had all been born and raised in that small town. My mother insists that until Dot Lazarius came along, no homosexual had ever resided in that small town. And judging by the lack of action Dot Lazarius got in high school, I’m inclined to believe her, people! In fact, in order to protect the militantly heterosexual, let’s just call Dot Lazarius’s hometown the Non-Isle of No-Lesbos.
But into each breeder’s life, some butch dyke must fall, and Dot Lazarius entered the world, butch as the day she was born, on April 18, 1967. My parents were both in their early 40s when they had me so I was to be the one and only. Being farmers, they wanted a boy who could help out on the farm as a child and one day inherit that farm. Now I’ve told them that a butch dyke is the second best thing to a boy, but for some reason they haven’t accepted that logic yet.
Anyway, when I came out, the old male doctor grabbed me and dried me off. To my parents joy he announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Lazarius, you have a perfect baby boy!” While my parents were hugging and crying, a nursing student who had been to the city a couple times took a look at me and nudged the doctor.
“That’s not a boy.” She whispered.
“What are you talking about?” The doctor asked, gesturing towards Dot Lazarius’s large endowment.
“That’s a strap on.”
Of course I’m kidding, people. Just a little bit of my routine there.
But serious, I was extremely butch.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Dot Lazarius here. Getting in on the blog game a little late, like most things in life! Am I right, people? Since this is my first post, let me tell you a little about what makes Dot Lazarius tick and why she decided to start a blog.
I'm a queer activist, comedian and a butch dyke who likes butch dykes. Let me tell you, people, it's not easy being a butch dyke, and it's even harder to be a butch dyke who likes butch dykes! I've spent much of my life dealing with my sexuality in nonconstructive ways like drinking beer to excess, sitting on my ass watching sports all the time, and getting it on with any butch dyke who was willing to take Dot Lazarius home. In the past year, though, Dot Lazarius has turned herself into a clean, mean, muff-diving machine. I've drawn on my difficult times as well as my treasured sexuality and turned it into comedy gold. Maybe you'll see Dot Lazarius's name in lights on a marquis near you soon (particularly if you live in the Omaha's southern suburbs!)
My difficult times, or "Dot's dark ages" as I sometimes refer to them in my act or activism, are what led me to start a blog. In my home town of St. Louis, I see a wonderful thearapist who has helped me with so many of issues--she also happens to be a femme, but that's another story! Am I right people? But since Dot Lazarius has been on the road so much doing stand up, she can't go to the thearapist quite as often. So my thearapist suggested I start a blog and try to record my life, thoughts and feelings. Who knows, it could also provide some great material for a one-woman show! Dot Lazarius will chronical her life in this blog, from the baby dyke years to coming out to my parents (don't do it in a moving car, people!) with an occasional interjection from the present. Enjoy the ride!
Am I right, people?
I'm a queer activist, comedian and a butch dyke who likes butch dykes. Let me tell you, people, it's not easy being a butch dyke, and it's even harder to be a butch dyke who likes butch dykes! I've spent much of my life dealing with my sexuality in nonconstructive ways like drinking beer to excess, sitting on my ass watching sports all the time, and getting it on with any butch dyke who was willing to take Dot Lazarius home. In the past year, though, Dot Lazarius has turned herself into a clean, mean, muff-diving machine. I've drawn on my difficult times as well as my treasured sexuality and turned it into comedy gold. Maybe you'll see Dot Lazarius's name in lights on a marquis near you soon (particularly if you live in the Omaha's southern suburbs!)
My difficult times, or "Dot's dark ages" as I sometimes refer to them in my act or activism, are what led me to start a blog. In my home town of St. Louis, I see a wonderful thearapist who has helped me with so many of issues--she also happens to be a femme, but that's another story! Am I right people? But since Dot Lazarius has been on the road so much doing stand up, she can't go to the thearapist quite as often. So my thearapist suggested I start a blog and try to record my life, thoughts and feelings. Who knows, it could also provide some great material for a one-woman show! Dot Lazarius will chronical her life in this blog, from the baby dyke years to coming out to my parents (don't do it in a moving car, people!) with an occasional interjection from the present. Enjoy the ride!
Am I right, people?
