Tag Archives: tattoos

You Know How I Know You’re Gay?

No surprises in this little story. My best friend is a lesbian, we have matching tattoos that take a few minutes to explain. And we spent an interesting dinner at my parent’s house listening to my father defend his theory that all Lesbos have tats. Myself, straight, Schu practically a daughter to my dad cried we were laughing so hard. I mean, how gayer could it have gotten, our tattoo is placed appropriately so when we side chest bump they touch.

When Schu accepted her gay-ness, it was about a year and a half after we had become very close friends, and about a year and a half after I had already known she was into the ladies. We went for a “drive” five blocks from our house to the McDonalds parking lot, I assumed we were just getting dollar sundaes, until she pulled into a parking spot, deep heave, and said “Janeo, I need to tell you something.”

I stared at her for a second, “Well yes? I’d like to go in soon.”

“Jane, I’ve figured out who I really am.”

Here’s the pivotal moment of our friendship, do I sympathize her position? Do I tell her I understand what she’s going through? Do I run through the very few girls she could possibly hook up with? Nah, I’ll just talk to her as I always do.

“Schubie, are you gonna go full blown dyke on me?”

She gave me permission to give her all the lesbian jokes and comments I possibly could.  I don’t think I’ve abused it yet…

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Serva Me Serva Bota

In my creative writing classes, it is so easy to get sucked into my own stories- nonfiction focused, feeling like I might betray someone by not telling something accurately, or doing so and exposing some unwanted truth. As for this piece, I turned a story about an amazing friendship into a prose poem.

We stole these leather bracelets on our sporadic road trip to Berkeley. They were from the Marc Jacobs store stuffed tightly into the Haight and Ashbury streets of San Francisco. We called it an accident, I had already spent a pretty penny on plaid boxers and a wallet that I probably didn’t need. We held this Latin phrase, save me and I will save you, on our wrists not realizing the truth in it. Two months of weathering the leather through midnight runs to the pier for a quick dip and letting sun dry out our over tanned skin, you and I both lost our bracelets in the lake nearby. The seaweed and ducks took them down to the depths of the silken mud. But not to worry, in a few months we gave our phrase a permanent home; me on my left hip, yours on your right. We didn’t tell anyone when we went downtown and let the ink sink into our sides. It’s one of my favorite tattoos, did you know? People always ask us why the hell we did it, and if I had the time or care to indulge them, I think I would tell them something like this:


I lay with you out on our rooftop. Our bodies just barely fitting between the ridges of the tin garage cover supporting us. It wasn’t a clear night, but we could see enough through the gray smug clouds for you to imagine past nights of star gazing with him. I made the hot chocolate too strong. Sorry. But you still craned your neck up to the oversized mug to dip your lips into the steaming concoction. We bundled in thick soccer socks and two sweatshirts apiece. I held your hand while you tried to cry silently; I heard you the whole time, did you know? I’m sorry I said. But you only laughed and replied, Why? We’re celebrating his birthday, not his death.

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