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From: Hammon Wry <Hammonwry@Spamtrapyahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Hammon Wry's Words of the Day for February 17, 2003
Date: Wed, 23 Apr 2003 18:10:04 -0400
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Hammon Wry's Words of the Day for Monday February 17, 2003

Note: Due to copyright laws, I am hesitant to include the definitions
and pronunciations of the words of the day.  I have provided the
websites for each so that you can look up the words for yourself.  

This is an excersize in writing discipline.  I am trying to get into
the habit of writing something every day.  I figure if I use the words
of the day from two sources in a sexual context, I will have
inspiration and motivation.  

And now, on to Hammon Wry's Words of the Day!
(C) E. Howe   2003
All rights reserved

Dictionary.com's word of the day: sub rosa 
http://dictionary.reference.com/wordoftheday/archive/2003/02/17.html
M-W.com's word of the day: lapidary 
http://www.m-w.com/cgi-bin/mwwodarch.pl?Feb.17


Well I'll be damned 
Here comes your ghost again 
But that's not unusual 
It's just that the moon is full 
And you happened to call 

Now you're telling me 
You're not nostalgic 
Then give me another word for it 
You who are so good with words 
And at keeping things vague 
Because I need some of that vagueness now 
It's all come back too clearly 
Yes I loved you dearly 
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust 
I've already paid
   Diamonds and Rust, Joan Baez

She called me one day, out of the blue.  "I need to talk with you,"
she said, "And get some information on AIDS". 

I was stunned.  Some part of my brain kicked in, took over.  I became
The Priestess of the Tarot, scrolls spilling open across my lap.
Knowledge over loins.  "Where would you like to meet?"
Silence followed, brief and eternal.  "How about Gina's?"
It's usually quiet there on weeknights.  "That's fine.  Tonight,
9:30?"
She laughed, apropos of nothing, a sign of nerves.  I knew it from our
days together.  I had found it endearing then.  Now it echoed over the
telephone like the jangle of a wrong number at 3 am.  "OK, I'll be
there". 

I worked at the local AIDS Project.  I was the "Facilities
Coordinator", a nice way of saying that I was the janitor.  I was also
a trained volunteer, a "Buddy".  I had access to materials, and the
training to use them to educate and support.  I tried not to
speculate.  Not her, surely.  Not any one of our friends.  I thought
of Mike, and of Rich, lovers.  No, please, not them.  

I worked that night cleaning the Project's offices.  It was situated
in an old jewelry factory.  Printed materials were kept in the huge
vault that once held the crystalline fruits of the lapidary art. I
collected a library's worth of pamphlets and contact sheets.  My hands
shook.   

I put on my jacket, over my tank top.  Earrings swung from my
earlobes, tiny garnets on gold wires.  My hair was gone, I'd shaved it
earlier that summer, an act of radical defiance.  I ran a soothing
hand over the stubble on my scalp.  It felt like puppies.  

I walked into Gina's.  The heat engulfed me.  Again, another jewelry
factory, converted to upscale shops and the only lesbian bar in the
state. She sat facing the door, a glass of white zinfandel before her.

My gut clenched.  It have been less than a year since I moved out of
her apartment.  She was the reason I had shaved my head.  I needed to
get the memory of her out of my hair.  

I sat down and handed her the material.  "Please tell me this isn't
for Mike and Rich", was all I could muster.  

"No.  Sally."

I was stunned.  Sally was a distant relative of hers.  She was
married, and pregnant.  It seems that her husband had given it to her.
It was a foreshadowing of the statistics of the following years--the
fastest growing risk group are sexually active straight women between
18 and 30.  Of course, this was all sub-rosa.  She trusted me to not
reveal the fact that I knew to anyone.  She offered to buy me a drink.
I asked for a brandy, I think.  I smoked non-stop, answering
questions.  

Finally, she looked at me.  "What have you done with your hair?"  I
shrugged, and could feel the earrings brush against my jaw.  Smiling,
I said "I shaved it.  You would not believe how it attracts baby
dykes."  She laughed, a real laugh this time.  "Well, it's radical.
You know it doesn't suit you--you look like a chemo patient."
"There you go again.  What ever happened to that legendary tact?"
She had the grace to look chagrined.
"I know, you're right though.  But I like the way it feels.  It feels
like puppies."
She reached across the table and stroked my head.  I felt oddly
detached.  "Besides, you did the same thing when your parents disowned
you for being a dyke." 
"Not that short, I didn't!"
We laughed.  
We talked for hours, it seemed.  Eventually it turned to memories. 
"You were always the one to introduce new things. I miss that.  Kathy
doesn't like anything but vanilla..."
I stiffened.
"I miss the sex we had. I miss BD/SM.  I've even considered cheating
on her."
I looked at her.  She looked me in the eye.  I saw the question there.
I am sure that my nipples must have been hard.  I'm sure that I was
probably wet as hell, too.  I've heard it said that dying men get
erections, nature's last-ditch effort to spread the genetic material.
But like that dying man, my focus was torn between possibility and
reality. 
"Do you have anyone particular in mind?"
An eternity passed.  I could see her swallow.  Her eyes dilated out,
and her lips parted.  And then the door slammed shut, and we both
started.  Like every other woman there, we turned to see who had
entered. Another dyke, no trouble.  I looked back to my ex. By then
her sanity had returned. She sighed. 
"No, you know me.  I would die of guilt afterwards.  So I just
fantasize about it when I masturbate."

I murmured some inanity about being sorry that she wasn't fulfilled
sexually.  Another part of me howled in pained triumph.  "That", a
small, snide voice said in the back of my mind, "is what you get for
shoving me aside."  We finished our drinks, and said our good-byes in
the parking lot.

Hammon Wry

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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