Scintillectually Yours

It seems like the only time I come around anymore is to apologize for not coming around anymore.

Scintillectual started out several years ago as FemmeBLT (with Mayo). At the time, it was a great way to elucidate my relationship with former HTB. I had no real outlet to discuss the myriad topics that being with a transman brought up. We had milestones to celebrate and identities to redefine and we also had a lot of issues. He hated that I kept a sex blog. At the time, he accused me of using it to get attention and I scoffed. I qualified it as a creative outlet for a little harmless erotica.

But he was right. I resurrected FemmeBLT as Scintillectual when he packed his things, left one morning, and never came back. I pulled the covers over my head, smoked a lot of cigarettes, wrote very maudlin blog posts on my (other) site, and eventually I packed away my engagement ring, the wedding magazines, and the photos of us, and started taking baby steps into the dating world again. The overwhelming reaction to the writing I did on Scintillectually Yours fed my hunger for attention. I was awash in my loneliness. I thrived on the comments and the accolades and the occasional appearance of one of my submissions as a top pick for one of the sex blogger digests.

Then DPR came back into my life. We had a smoking hot reunion and our week-long trysts once a month were passionate and exciting and my blogging became infectious. DPR started Androgynonamous and we both burned the midnight oil writing some of the best stuff we’d ever put out.

Then life changed.

Life became…life. Moving to the same city, 900 miles from where I’d been, our lives became tangible and interwoven and complex and wonderfully domestic. I found a fabulous job and my part-time hours became full-time hours. I started acting in community theatre–pursuing a lifelong passion that I’d never had either the time or a supportive partner for. We found a church we loved and became members. I started singing in the choir. My son fell into a rhythm of his own. There was no awkward transition, no missing his old friends. He moved easily and gratefully into his new life. He and DPR take scout camping trips together and go “man-shopping” for my birthday and Mother’s Day. I coached his basketball team and sit on the sidelines cheering his flag football games.

Our sex life is no less passionate than it was…but it’s admittedly less frequent. We’re busy. We’re older. We’re parents. And we’re tired. When we get the chance we go for it with gusto but we’re not feeling part of the fetish community. We’re feeling like a couple. A family. Just your average middle-class suburban Southern dykes with a kid, a station wagon, and a couple of pets.

We’re planning our wedding. It’s going to be a big affair. My big fat gay wedding. My days are filled with appointments with caterers and florists and bakeries and phone calls to and from my bridesmaids and oh, did I mention how positively beautiful my dress is?

We’re spending our honeymoon in Sedona. Spiritual. Romantic. Relaxed. Beautiful.

Just. Like. Us.

For those of you that still pop by on occasion…I hope to keep writing. The tone of Scintillectual may change some. It doesn’t need to serve the same purpose it once did. I live with more integrity now. I have all of the attention I could possibly need. I’m in love and I am loved and sex is the icing on the cake of my life. Perhaps I’ll stop by now and then and serve up a slice.

Just don’t hold your breath for too long, now, ya hear?

I’m a horrible blogger. I have neglected this site for so long that just coming around to muse the fact that people still actually stop by here every single day (and not just a few…more like…50) even though I haven’t posted in a coon’s age (yes, I am picking up southern colloquialisms) makes me cough and sputter through the dust and cobwebs in the corners. So, I thought that, while I don’t have anything remotely sex-related to write about today, I’d at least let my faithful readers know I’m still alive and well.

DPR and I have settled into somewhat of a routine since I moved down here in July. Although we don’t live in the same house, we do spend most of our nights together. Some are hot and steamy, others are lovely, quiet times when we lie next to each other with books and reading glasses, holding hands, and then drifting off to sleep with hir hand on my breast (it’s by far my favorite way to fall asleep). Our life has become fairly domesticated and we no longer need to cram all that we can into a too-short week’s visit once a month or so. We are both busy with our respective jobs, our extended families, entertaining friends for dinner, and co-parenting my son (DPR is rock solid in that department and I thrill to watch my son wait at the window for hir arrival and wrap himself around hir like a monkey).

Additionally, I have finally had the chance to pursue a lifelong dream of being on the stage (no, not as a pole dancer, although the fantasy is a good one). Since July I have auditioned for three shows, gotten three callbacks, and landed a small role in To Kill a Mockingbird. Through 5 weeks of grueling rehearsals and 10 performances, DPR would work all day and then shuffle my son off to Scouts or help with homework or play games and then put him to bed so that I could get my first experience in live theatre. Needless to say, I loved every minute of it. The set was unbelievable, the cast and crew were amazing, and I learned so much in the process. I am forever grateful to finally have a partner that actually encourages my interests rather than laughing them off. For 10 years after my son was born, I put aside all of my own wants and needs in favor of his because my partners weren’t willing to step up and share responsibility. DPR does all that and then some…and it doesn’t hurt that I’m marrying into a theatre family. Zhe gets it. Zhe really does. (Oh, the pronouns? Yeah…I’ll explain that some other time.)

Wait, you caught the marrying part, too? Yes, on top of all that we have on our plates, we are planning our wedding. We set a date and we will be married in front of approximately 100 of our closest friends and family October 1, 2011. Afterward, we are jetting off to Hawaii to stay at a friend’s B&B in South Kona. While I sometimes feel the chill in my toes—having been divorced once and left at the altar a second time—I really am quite content to know that I’ll be spending the rest of my life with my best friend, my lover, my anam cara.

So, you see, we’re here…we’re just busy living life together. I am keeping up with some other writing projects—my letter writing challenge is taking far longer than 30 days, but I do get my article in for Our Big Gayborhood on time every month. In fact, yesterday my article posted about gender issues and the lines we draw for our children. Check it out here.

DPR has given me a few choice assignments for Wicked Wednesday that I need to work on and I am about a dozen products behind in my sex toy reviews. Rest assured, I’ll have some time over the holidays to do some writing and I promise not to neglect you all for long. My thanks for your loyal readership and willingness to be patient.

It’s not erotica. It’s not a toy review. It’s not an HNT or an MFM. DPR and I have had a bit on our plate lately and as usual, writing is my catharsis.

I hold the phone in my hand just a fraction of a second too long after my mumbled “thank you.” The receptionist, large, dark chocolate brown with kind eyes immediately gets up from her seat and comes around to the outer door—enveloping me in her mighty arms, my head against her shoulder, her hand in my hair. She is a stranger to me, but her contact is welcome. I had expected the word. We both had. We all had. But we had done such a wonderful job of glossing over it—knowing the risks of another hour of surgery.

Cancer.

I pulled away. Turned away. Stood looking out the plate glass window trying to regain my composure before your mother returned from the Ladies Room. I thought back to the last glimpse I had of you, embarrassed in your blue surgical bonnet. I bent over to kiss you, whispering my love, and stepping back so the nurse and orderlies could wheel you into the operating room. I thought, fleetingly, would this be the last time I would see you? No. No. I wouldn’t think that.

Before the parting I had entertained you. I pulled silly toys from my purse and lay them on your blanketed lap, careful not to jostle the intravenous umbilical. A Lego motorcycle rider. A bouncy ball in green and orange. A large plastic die. A tiny monkey doing a somersault. You seemed to relax a bit now that you were no longer keeping company alone with the constant beeping of the monitors. We played. You peered down my cleavage and mouthed double entendres unseen by your mother, reading in the corner behind you. We laughed and joked.

Before the hospital we kidded morbidly about what to do with your body in the event that you didn’t make it out alive. You told us to clean out your bank account—one way tickets to Scotland where we could spread your ashes over the highland cows (heeland coos). I thought perhaps we should be able to return so perhaps you’d like to live on a shelf in my son’s room for a year or so. Then I decided that we should stuff you and create an art installation of people frozen in time at the hands of a local taxidermist.

Looking out that window, none of it seemed funny.

We made our phone calls, your mother and I. We sat together as the waiting room emptied out. We sat silently, each with our own books, pretending not to notice whenever the other would steal a glance at the multicolored electronic board—your initials still in pink, marking your place in the operating room. This hour, the worst. It seemed as though we’d crossed into an episode of the Twilight  Zone. In that waiting room minutes became hours and hours became days. Shadows lengthened. The receptionist closed down. Occasionally a security guard would pass through. Still, your initials, alone on the board now, marking time in the operating room.

Cancer.

I felt a fist-sized ball of hurt in the pit of my stomach. I thought of all the complications we had discussed. I imagined the worst of all and wondered how I could possibly live without you. I felt selfish. How dare you bring me all the way down here and then leave me alone? I fought off anger and worry and sadness and despair and when we finally looked up to discover an empty board we rose in unison and silently moved to the elevator to find your room.

I spent the night fretfully at your side. I wouldn’t leave you now, no matter the condition of the sleeping arrangements. I had the rest of my life to sleep. I wanted to be there to hold your hand, to stroke your hair through your horrible sickness and pain, to do what little I could to make this first night just a bit more bearable for you.

Now, it has been 24 hours. You are home and I am home. Our homes are not the same homes and I miss you. I worry for you. I want to hover and fret. I want to distract you. I want you to distract me. In a few days we will have more test results. You promise me they’ve gotten it all.

Cut. Or burn. Or poison.

That is what you do to Cancer.

Can you promise me you won’t leave? Can you promise that?

If I have any loyal readers (well, I can think of a few at least) then you know I’ve been rather AWOL lately. And what I have posted has been mediocre at best. I am behind on everything including the literally dozens of product reviews that need to be addressed, some of which have been outstanding for months! I’m beginning to think I’m going to start getting invoices from these wonderful companies assuming I just took the products and ran with them. I promise, I will catch up.

In the meantime, there will be no Wicked Wednesday this week and likely I won’t get around to an HNT. I just haven’t got the energy or the motivation. I have been decompensating rapidly due to the stress of my upcoming move and it is all I can do to drag my sorry ass out of bed every morning with some semblance of sanity. That, my friends, is slipping. I am working all hours of the day and night, including the entire holiday weekend just past, and still I’m shy of my financial goals for the move by several thousand dollars. I have no idea where that’s going to come from. With barely five weeks left, even if I did get new work, getting paid in a timely fashion seems unlikely. I may be carrying my belongings on my back as my son and I hitchhike down south.

If you follow DPR’s blog at all, you probably think our relationship is all wine and roses and sunshine beaming out of our perfectly bleached assholes. Trust me, it’s not. It’s hard work being apart, it’s hard work orchestrating this move, and I sometimes wonder why she even puts up with me. I’m also surprised my kid hasn’t packed a small suitcase and tried to run away by now. I’ve become this total shrew. I am cranky and bitchy, I’ve lost my sense of humor, I snap at both of them, and I take everything personally. While DPR maintains this butch pollyanna sense of optimism, I sink further and further into the third circle of hell. Today we had a massive thunderstorm and I just sort of sat here and prayed that lightning would strike me down and then I’d have a good excuse to fuckitall.

I don’t quite understand what is holding me back from being all gung-ho and cheery about our impending move. There are 101 practical reasons to do this. Unfortunately, the closer the day comes the more I dig in my heels and want to live under the covers. I can’t remember a day without a migraine. I just never realized how much I’d grown to call this place home. I’ve lived in this state longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my life (and I’ve moved a LOT), but most recently, I developed a true sense of community here and some real friendships that I’m loathe to step away from. I swore that I would NEVER move back to the buckle of the bible belt. I did not want to live down south again and deal with all of the misogyny and homophobia that comes along with being there. Add to that the fact that my only sibling hasn’t spoken to me in almost 4 years and what we have left is…me moving into DPR’s life. Her life. Her homeland. Her family. Her friends. I love them all dearly and feel entirely accepted there but what I built here I’m abandoning. I finally got a sense of self and I have to hope that I can keep that self alive once I’ve made this 900 mile trek to where she is.

I hate to sound bitter. This month apart has been extremely hard. Harder than any other time we’ve spent away from each other. DPR is flying in on Thursday and the timing couldn’t be better. I really need to be sure of her. The phone just isn’t cutting it. Emails are scant and we don’t seem to know how to communicate this time around. I feel a certain disconnect that I’ve never felt before. I’m scared and I admit it. My love for her is strong indeed but my soul is weary and the tears flow too freely these days.

So, dear reader, forgive my absence for a bit. I need to take this time with her to cement our bond and find the strength to move ahead with whatever comes. If I can muster up the motivation, you’ll see a review or two, but I may not be back at the helm until next week—after my darling DPR has taken to the skyway one more time before she returns to help me pack my belongings and begin a life anew.

I have been thinking a lot about labels, lately. Specifically, the L word. No, not the show and not Laboutin (although if anyone wants to donate a pair of killer open-toe combat boots with a rockin’ stiletto heel, I take a size 6 ½). Lesbian. That’s the one. It may sound utterly ridiculous, especially as I’ve been “out” for roughly 26 years, give or take a few years of trying to conform to nonconformity.

Everyone wants to eschew labels. Everywhere you turn, you’ll hear that old adage about not wanting to label oneself. Or we have new labels: “queer,” “genderbent,” “pansexual.” I tried pansexual on for size recently on Fetlife. I had read a wonderful post by Curvaceous Dee and felt inspired by the term. At the time, I was still dallying with my ex-fiancé who happens to be an FTM transsexual. During the time that we were together, I actually let him talk me into claiming I was “straight.” Although to be perfectly frank, we’d have never even dated, much less become engaged, if we hadn’t met on Yahoo Personals…as women looking for women. He wasn’t even considering transition then and had come to terms with the fact that, as a man trapped in a woman’s body, he had to label himself lesbian although he truly is straight (long, complicated story…perhaps for another time…perhaps not, as it is over and done).

“Bisexual” didn’t cut it for him. He didn’t like the idea that I was still open to 50% of the population even though we were monogamous and headed for marriage. I wanted to respect his wishes to be man and wife, man and woman, (can we all sing together? “Little houses on the hillside, Little houses made of ticky-tacky…”) and so I tried to adapt to this June Cleaver image. I even, and it still shames me to remember this, shrugged my shoulders (publicly) at Prop 8, thinking it had nothing more to do with me. This coming from a woman who had married my female partner of 14 years, 4 days after my home state of Massachusetts began handing out marriage licenses to same-sex couples (another long story…moral is: just because you can doesn’t mean you should). I turned my back on the community that had nurtured me from the day that I came flying out of the closet to tackle the woman who now, 26 years later, is my lifelong love. The fallout that ensued was horrific. My BFF, Femme Fairy GodMother, and I had the first and only fight we’ve ever had. I mortally wounded her along with every other gay man, lesbian woman, and queer soul I was ever lucky enough to call friend or acquaintance.

I even, if you can believe it, tried to tell myself that I didn’t miss pussy. Me! I may be high femme but I am the world’s leading carpet muncher and dammit if I couldn’t wait to get my face all in it the first opportunity I got after the old man walked out. Okay, admittedly it took awhile to find that someone with whom I really cared enough about to bury my face in her crotch (this isn’t the 80s anymore, after all) but wow…I sooooo missed it.

So here’s the thing (to borrow a phrase from another Sapphic sister of mine), I am SO a lesbian. I am not straight, I am not bisexual, I am not queer, I am not pansexual. I kick it old school in that great butch-femme way. My woman looks like a man (check it out for yourself…Androgynonamous rocks my fucking world!) and gets called sir more often than not. As a baby dyke I listened to Chris Williamson, Tret Fure, and Meg Christian. I was there when Amy and Emily came out. I heard Ellen’s toaster joke on TV the night it aired. I listened to Betty at Boston’s Gay Pride before anyone even knew who they were. I read all the lesbian pulp fiction and prayed for glimpses of women who actually seemed to enjoy other women in porn long before The Crash Pad series came out.

So, stick it to me, glue it on me, tattoo it on my fucking forehead. I AM A LESBIAN. And I am thrilled to take back that label and call it my own. I will forever love the company of women and I honestly missed my community. You can take the girl out of the MichWomen’s Music Fest, but you can’t make her drink the Kool-aid. Never again.

And you? You can call me Ms. Dyke, thank you. Because yes, yes I am!

So, as anyone who has been following my blog knows, yesterday was the dreaded 45th birthday. I actually came through it unscathed. As the Mayan Calendar does not stop on December 2, 2009, December 3rd happened inevitably. I was told, and I believe it to be true now, that the anticipation of an event that you aren’t looking forward to is often more traumatic then the event itself. Indeed. I am now officially five years from 50 and far from feeling as though I’ve got one foot in the grave, I actually feel as though my whole life is unfurling in front of me and it is ripe and rich with the promise of something so very exciting.

As you may also know, former HTB and I have had this ongoing thing. I don’t even know what to call it now. Basically, we said we loved each other and we had a lot of sex. Pretty much the equivalent of high school dating where the quarterback tells the head cheerleader he loves her so she’ll give it up but what he really wants is to hang out with the guys most of the time and then get his dick wet whenever he feels like it. Yeah, that’s the thing. Not that I don’t believe he loves me, I’m sure he does. He loved me enough to have proposed to me but he also left me and moved on. I tried to move on but became mired in the desperation that accompanies a middle-aged mom who is afraid she’ll be single forever.

So, early this week, I had a conversation with a friend/sometime lover/date (I don’t know what to call THAT thing either…but it ain’t high school), and she helped me realize that I will never, ever find someone who truly wants to be with me until I let go of the fear that binds me to FHTB. So I wrote him a letter (he doesn’t do verbal communication well—tends to tune out after about 5 minutes—and hates the phone except for text messaging) and basically told him that although I loved him, I couldn’t sit around and wait for him to be the kind of person I wanted him to be. It just wasn’t ever going to happen. I had been clinging to him like a life-raft with a hole in it. It was time for me to set out on my own and sink or swim.

Yesterday he shocked me by texting birthday greetings at 7 a.m. Hell, even my own kid forgot! Then, a bit later, he invited me out to dinner at the Thai restaurant that we used to go to every single month on our anniversary without fail. I dressed up…I did the big shave…I packed a bag. For some reason I assumed that we would probably wind up having sex. Then, during dinner (while we made so little effort at small talk that I kept wondering how we ever would have made it through a lifetime together) he announced that he was going to his Dad’s for the evening. I actually was really kind of shocked and it showed. I told him, half-laughing, that I had packed a bag “just in case.” He told me that he read what I wrote and he respected that. There was a part of me that felt tremendous relief in the “over-ness” of it. There was also  a part of me that held my pompoms to my chest and watched the quarterback walk away. I thanked him for dinner and hugged him, he said it was the least he could do. I walked to my car and came home.

So, I am alone in the house, snow on the way, my Christmas lights twinkling. Dirty dishes and a pile of work call my name but I have all weekend with the spawn at my ex’s. I also have a warm feeling that somewhere out there (cue the Disney soundtrack) there is someone waiting for me. I now have the absolute and utter luxury of time. That and inner peace. Somehow, I was given a cosmic birthday gift of clarity: the realization that I do NOT have to settle and I don’t have to jump into a relationship with someone else just because their resumé fits the job description I’ve set out for a lifelong partner. It’s going to be about more than just total sexual chemistry (been there, done that, have the stack of wet t-shirts to show for it), it’s going to be about a deep, deep connection on an intellectual and spiritual level. Someone I can hope to grow old with. Someone who loves me for me, warts and all, and has been waiting all of her life for me to turn around, take the hand she extends, and walk through the next 45 years with.

So. There are endings and there are beginnings. And in the middle of it all, there is me.

I had known from a very, very young age that I was equally, if not more so, attracted to girls as to boys. There were many adolescent fumblings—at 12 a girl named Kathy with long dark hair and a penchant for riding naked on my thigh when her mother wasn’t home. Teenage crushes that never went any further. Jealousy over the first butch/femme couple that I’d ever witnessed…the beautiful blonde that sat on the lap of the captain of the volleyball team at parties where most of us were stoned and no one cared. It was the very early 80s. We were always high. Always sleeping with a different somebody in search of elusive attention. Thinking that the next one would provide the love and devotion so craved. Disappointed yet again and again and again.

I went off to an all-women’s art college far away from my family. There were scandalized whisperings in the dining hall of girls who slept with other girls. I feigned disgust for my friends and then snuck off to masturbate in our dormitory bathroom, fantasizing about being one of those girls. All of my life I thought about the first time. What it would be like. When would it happen. How would I know.

I arrived at school early in the fall of my sophomore year. I had been named as a resident assistant and was assigned to work the desk to welcome incoming freshman and transfer students. I had my routine down pat until she walked through the doors unaccompanied by a parent. My breath caught. My heart stopped for a fraction of a second. There she was. Tough as nails in a black muscle tee, the requisite blonde mullet, baggy jeans with a chain hanging from the back pocket, and wide leather wristbands. She was tiny. Small boned, wiry, shorter than me—but when she signed her name her biceps rippled with sinewy muscle.

I cleared my throat and managed to start my greeting. She looked up and met my eyes. “Hey there,” she drawled. Her thick southern accent was as familiar as grits and sausage gravy over biscuits. “You’re from North Carolina,” I said. “Now how did you know that? Is that on your little piece of paper there?” “No…I’m from Greensboro.” She returned a lopsided grin, “Well, damn girl, we’re practically neighbors! We should get together and shoot the shit. Why don’t you come on by my room later and we’ll talk.”

I knew. This was the one. I knew I’d be having sex with this girl before the end of the week.

We talked a lot that week. About home. About our art. About our pasts. About her girlfriend she’d left behind. I had a boyfriend. My high school sweetheart. He knew, though, that someday I would act upon my attraction and that was okay with him.

On Saturday night, one week to the day after she arrived, she told me a story about a girl she’d been with who had never been with another women before. She told the story of how she had asked the girl if she could kiss her. The girl replied, “God, yes.” We kept talking. It got late. My roommate was gone for the weekend. She asked me if I had ever thought about being with a woman. I looked her right in the eye and said, “God, yes.” She smiled, leaned in, and kissed me. My heart took flight and my head exploded. Everything I had ever fantasized was right there. It was really happening and it felt absolutely perfect. The last piece of the puzzle I’d been missing all my life.

I was frantic to do everything I had ever dreamed of. She was stone, but she let me have my way. After exploring my body in ways I never could have imagined, I rolled over on top of her and took over. I needed to try everything. I wanted to know what she felt like, what she tasted like. I spent what seemed like hours between her unshaven legs. At one point she managed to say, “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” I mumbled something into her cunt. Only in my head.

After that night we spent a lot of time together. I have pictures of her on a park bench, sunlight in her hair, a glare bouncing off her mirrored aviators. One leg crossed over the other…not like a woman…one calloused hand resting upon her black Doc Martens. A few weeks later I went to her room late at night, wanting. wanting. I heard a noise on the other side of the door, a rustling, a murmur of voices. The door opened and I was greeted by my best friend, clad in nothing but “my girl’s” plaid, flannel shirt. I was crimson and silent. I turned away and ran down the hall. Back to my room, frozen and betrayed.

I moved on to other women after that. I became known as the school heartbreaker. “Don’t go out with her, she’ll do you and ditch you.” And I did. That girl, the first of many, became my fuckbuddy throughout college. Whenever we were both hard up and no one else was around we turned to each other. A midnight fuck after watching The Wizard of Oz. Frenzied sex in her tiny apartment in the worst neighborhood imaginable. Groping in the teacher’s lounge at 2 a.m.

I saw her years later. She had softened a lot. Years of rehab had broken her early morning routine of rolling over, sleep in her eyes, to grab an unfiltered Marlboro and a can of Bud out of the small fridge next to her bed. I never understood how she did that without getting up to pee first. She had become a psychotherapist and ran her own state-funded rehab center. That bad boi was gone. Replaced by someone older, wiser, more responsible.

I had a different ending to this blog. One in which I never expected to see or hear from her again. Yet, somehow, I found myself looking for her after I wrote this. She stayed on my mind and with a little Internet ingenuity, I wound up with her on the phone today. It seems I have been on her mind a lot lately too. After all these many years. In all of my life I have never been so reticent to commit myself to a relationship and yet have so many open possibilities. I do look forward to rekindling our friendship, if nothing else. But, as is my mantra these days, you just never know.

Cancer.

That word has been looming in my frontal lobe for two weeks now. Like Winnie-the-Pooh’s little black rain cloud, it has hovered over me, causing me to behave irrationally, snap at people, become irritated at the slightest “tone of voice,” and be easily distractible—my work has lain in piles, untouched, ignored.

About a month or so ago, I started having severe pain in my right breast. Pain so bad that I couldn’t sleep at night. Wearing a bra was uncomfortable at best, yet without it, I had to walk around cradling it in my hand. Over Labor Day weekend it became unbearable and the I was forced to admit that I needed to see my doctor first thing Tuesday morning. She found a lump. Small, but there. I tried to take the news stoically. Be brave. It’s probably nothing. She got me this first available mammogram and ultrasound. First available meant this morning…almost two weeks later. Two weeks to deal my worst fear, second only to losing a loved one.

My stress has been palpable. Almost a physical presence. I thought about death and leaving my child alone in the world. I thought about chemo as a single mother with no real support in the area. I thought about life without my right breast. I thought about sex.

I have three physical features about myself that I like. My eyes, my lips, and my breasts. At almost 45 years of age, they are still firm, still ride fairly high, are not too big or too small, and create great cleavage with a good bra. I seem to choose lovers who love my breasts. Of course, everyone may be that obsessed with tits in general. In high school, one of the boys I dated came in his khakis just from touching them. But that was then. Now, they get kissed, caressed, lightly bitten, sometimes bitten hard, nibbled at, licked, and pinched. They love a good, hard cock between them just as much as a nestled head. They adore a face buried between them, drinking in the scent fresh from a shower or misted with Chanel no. 5.

So, this morning, I get up early and wish for my mother…or my best friend, both of whom live far, far away. The miles stretched before me as I drove myself, alone, to have my tests done. I thought about cancer. I tried to be upbeat. The “C” word became an unwelcome mantra in my head. I disrobed and donned the soft, worn white garment tied in the front. The radiologist called me in immediately. Ahead of the other women in the inner sanctum. I faced the mammogram machine head on. I dealt with the pain. I reflected on the fact that I had been negligent in keeping up with my yearly appointments. I had not had a mammogram in five years. Perhaps it was too late.

I was returned to the waiting room, but seconds later they collected me for my ultrasound. The technician was silent as her wand glided across my gelled breast. I tried to watch the images on the screen. My last ultrasound had shown a child within me. A life. Would this reveal a death? I was told that diagnostic patients always received their results immediately. There would be no dreaded wait period. The technician left me on the table with my arm over my head. The doctor returned a short while later and I held my breath.

I left the room and silently dressed. I walked through the crowded outer waiting room without meeting anyone’s eyes. I walked through bright sunshine to my car. I called my parents. Then I called my best friend. And a torrent of tears let loose for the first time since that pain had announced itself, carrying with it all of my nightmares and worries and concerns.

I recently took one of those ridiculous applications on Facebook called Death Day. The idea was that if you input your birth year then you would be returned your year of death along with the manner in which you die. Mine said that I would swallow a toothpick and die of peritonitis at the age of 99. That silly app could be right…

My tests were negative.