Daily Ritual Ch. 2

punk show is the perfect place to go with a demon who doesn’t quite understand that fashion changes. He was dressed more for a sex pistols concert than anything else, with a shiny pleather overcoat, white under shirt, suspenders and doc martens.

This is chapter 2 of a series that starts here:

Chapter 1.

WordPress doesn’t allow css formatting on a free plan so feel free to snatch the pdf from the patreon. If you don’t mind reading it like this. By all means. Read on:


The day of the concert they met at Rosario’s place to smoke a joint and take a couple bong rips before heading out. A punk show is the perfect place to go with a demon who doesn’t quite understand that fashion changes. He was dressed more for a sex pistols concert than anything else, with a shiny pleather overcoat, white under shirt, suspenders and doc martens. He’d asked Rosario what colour shoelaces he should use cause he knew nazis used to wear white but he’d heard they’d changed it and he didn’t want to accidentally signal anything. Rosario didn’t know either and after a bit of googling they had no answer so he just got black.

For her part Rosario wore a simple black dress and black boots with only a bit of heel on them. She enjoyed leaning back and just standing on the heels of her boots which were just wide enough that this wasn’t a very impressive feat.

They showed up to the venue, Plaz paid for both of them since he inexplicably always has money on him, and whenever Rosario asks where he gets it he just answers “demon business”. They got beers, and hung outside for a second since Bren wasn’t on for another hour and the band that was currently playing, an outfit of 3 white dudes called Flax Seed, was terribly uninteresting to both of them.

“So is she here? Point her out to me.” Plaz asked Rosario.

“FAE. And no fae is not here yet. Or possibly fae’s backstage.”

“ok, sorry.”

“You’ll just have to wait till faer band is on.”


“do you have any more green.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if we can smoke here though.”

“Those people are smoking.”

“yeah, tobacco.”

“so, if they can smoke tobacco, a far more disturbing substance, if you ask me, why couldn’t we smoke some grass.”

“The long answer is really long, the short answer is that tobacco is legal and weed is not.”

“I thought this was a punk bar.”

“yeah, but it’s my first time here and I don’t want to risk it.”

“Hold on, I’m gonna ask.”

“What, Plaz no!”

“Hey! do you know if it’s cool to smoke weed here?” He asked a random stranger in an against me t-shirt.

“Totally, just keep it in the smoking corner, which is over there.”

“Sure, thing, thanks, bud.

See, it’s ok.”

“Plaz I am mortified.

“Oh come on.”

“fine I guess.”

They hung out in the smoking area, passed around a joint to other smokers. And then it was time for Bren’s band to come on. So they walked inside. As soon as fae came onstage and introduced the band Plaz got really anxious.

“Hello everybody! How’s it going?!” Fae said excitedly. The crowd hooted and hollered in response.

“All right! We are Woodland Melody and we’re gonna play a few of our songs for you, how’s that sound?” more hooting.

Woodland Melody was a simple outfit of four people. Aside from Bren on vocals and guitar, they had a bassist, a drummer, and a violist. Rosario only knew Bren personally and so didn’t want to guess at the gender of any of the other band members, but she suspected none of them were cis.

The first song they played was a sort of slow moving, entrancing tune, that broke into a faster dance music. The verses alternated between English and Irish so Rosario only caught half of it. It was about people getting lost in the forest. She was jamming to it, but Plaz was getting more and more agitated. Finally he grabbed her and said:

“Ok, now I’m sure of it. Fae’s fae folk for sure.”

“What cause fae sings in Irish, faer family is from there.” Rosario responded, annoyed at the interruption.

“No, not because of that. Look around you. Everyone’s entranced.”

“They’re just jamming.”

“Nu uh, it’s more than that, the last band didn’t have that effect.”

“yeah, cause they sucked. Anyways, I don’t feel entranced, do I look it? It’s just good music.”

“you’re a magician, Rosario, one that’s had multiple demonic contacts. That might be protecting you. Demonic magic and faerie magic are like oil and water. Oh and those fingers.”

“Well, whatever, if you’re having so much trouble, just wait outside, I’m gonna stay and jam.”

Plaz didn’t leave, but he stood by himself leaning on the wall staring intently at Bren and back at Rosario, as if keeping guard. All of Woodland Melody’s songs had a similar feel, they made you think of partying around a bonfire in a meadow in the forest. Rosario danced with another girl, and by herself and before they knew it, the set was over.

“Thank you, everyone!” Bren said. “Find us on bandcamp, we’re Woodland Melody, and keep rocking out, whoo!!”

They went outside and Rosario texted Bren, to Plaz continued protests as he thought they should just leave now and Rosario should forget about Bren forever.

“Ugh, stop being so jealous.” Rosario scolded him.

“I’m not jealous, fae’s a faerie!”

“whatever, hush, here fae comes!”

“Hi, Rosario! thank you so much for coming! Did you like it? were we good?”

“Totally, I was totally jamming out, dancing, it’s great, you have a beautiful voice.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Oh, where are my manners” Rosario said ” This is my friend Plaz.”

“Nice to meet you, Plaz. I’m Bren.” Fae stuck out faer hand for Plaz to shake, but he refused, and he looked at faer with hell in his eyes.

“Oh come on!” Answered Bren. “I know you’re a demon, but since you’re hanging out with her, I thought you’d be cool.”

“Wait, what, how did you know that?” Rosario asked.

“Well it’s not exactly hard, faeries have good senses for this sort of thing.”

“See, see I fucking told you!” Plaz said.

“You ARE a faerie? I had no idea.” Rosario said.

“I thought you knew, I mean, you’re a faerie too after all”

“What?!” Came the chorused reply from Rosario and Plaz.

To be continued…

Read on! Chapter 3

Sex and the City and I, Episode 03: Bay of Married Pigs

So I watched this episode over a week ago and then the curse struck and I haven’t felt as much like writing, and what little energy I did have I put into finishing up a different piece that you should go read cause it’s probably more important than sex and the city. But, it is Saturday, I’m at the Library, I have two friends with me that as far as I can tell are writing, so I should get to it and write.

Here we go.

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve lived in New York a couple times for a couple years. I’ve been visiting New York since I was like 7. I have never been to the Hamptons. I think the farthest up Long Island I’ve ever been is Far Rockaway. It doesn’t strike as a place queers tend to go. However, a certain type of New Yorker, I’m told, by television, goes there quite often. Carrie Bradshaw is one of them.

One of the best parts of living in New York, she says, it’s leaving it. She goes to the Hamptons, to stay with a married couple, a pair of New York City exiles, it would seem. As payment for their hospitality she renders the traditional sacrifice of regaling them with tales from her single life. The married couple is satisfied and Carrie goes to bed. The next morning the tragedy happens. Mr Husband whose name I don’t care to remember or look up, surprises Carrie by running into her in the hallway, fully nude from the waist down.

Can I just take a moment to wonder about this. I’ve slept in various configurations of clothing. I don’t think the t-shirt no bottom has ever been one of them. What… what is the point of it. Did they bone last night and he didn’t bother taking off his shirt. Sounds extremely boring, but then, this is heteros we’re talking about.

Screenshot from the episode of the dude with no underwear. The shot is from the waist up however.
I can see why his wife is worried, look at this hunk of a man /s

Moving on, Carrie tries to laugh it off but when she tells Mrs. Wife about it she’s very VERY uncomfortable. Carrie is forced to make an early exit. Once in the city she debriefs the girls on her encounter and the episode’s topic du semaine is set up. The usually cold sometimes uncomfortably hot, war between the city’s singles and the city’s married couples. Miranda thinks married women fear her, Charlotte wants to be them, Samantha is happily committed to sleeping with anyone (I want to say anyone within her standards, but we’ll see later why that doesn’t apply) and any time regardless of marital status.

I’m tempted to say this is a whole bunch of straight hullabaloo, but the show anticipates me. In the middle of one of those interview segments that I’m pretty sure doesn’t survive past season one, she ends up with my man Stanford who is sick to his stomach of all his friends flying to Hawaii to wear a caftan and recite vows. I assume he said that because Hawaii was the only state at the time to allow gay marriage, but not quite. I’m afraid I’m not super familiar with the history of marriage equality in the US (so sue me). Now would be a good time to go on a thorough exploration of that question. Why were Stanford’s friends all going to Hawaii… Find out in a special issue of this column next week (not really (I mean maybe) (an addendum to this one??) sure why not)

So Stanford, the straightest gay man in New York, is here to remind us that being Gay does not exempt one from service in the Marriage Wars (oh that’s why it’s called Bay of Married Pigs, it’s a Bay of Pigs reference, also men are pigs). They happen to run into one of Carrie’s old friends who’s now openly gay, and he’s there with his Life PARTNER, now there’s a dated term. Upon hearing Carrie’s Single. they bafflingly ask her if she’d be willing to donate one of her eggs so they can have a baby. They already have a surrogate they just need a top-notch egg. I guess Breeder is a proper despective, since it turns out gays can be breeders and when they are, they are AWFUL. I want to say I hope that this is an example of straight people writing gay characters and that no gay person would commit such a faux pas, but actually no, we would. I mean I wouldn’t but SOME PEOPLE.

Moving on. Miranda, who I’m expected to believe is not a homosexual, is going to a softball game. Where she’s agreed to be set up, but is disappointed to discover her colleague has set her up with a lesbian. This is something that, according to television, happens very often. She explains, all is good, they decide to play together. And do great and have great synergy despite, again, Miranda being entirely straight. Miranda is pleased that being paired up is getting her recognition from her boss, which is treated as proof of marriedship bias as opposed to, you know, her boss fetishising lesbianism. So when he invites her and her date to his house for dinner, she decides it’s worth it to pretend.

Meanwhile, in the middle of a casual encounter wherein Carrie is doing research for her piece by talking to one of her apparently many married couple friends, she’s blind-sided by a guerrilla attack. She’s been set up, on a date. The guy, whose name I again can’t remember and don’t care to look up. Seems fine at first. Successful, reasonably attractive, in the middle of buying an apartment. Carrie, decides to go for it. See where it goes, but soon she sees she’s being roped into a bigger plot. She’s being recruited. He keeps talking about children and how great that apartment is gonna be for two people. I don’t know if I can call those red flags, and white flags are already taken. What would be the flag that someone is hot to marry. Unfortunately the hanky code does not seem to cover this edge case. Let’s say Mauve. Carrie sees these flags, but she’s hoping she can maybe push him into her corner a bit.

The episode’s various threads culminate on the night of Carrie’s boy’s house-warming party. To which she brings Charlotte and Samantha as backup. This is the same night of Miranda’s lesbian dinner party at her boss’ house so she’s unavailable. Honestly the Miranda plot is so much more interesting, but there aren’t very many scenes. Let’s wrap up Carrie’s plot so we can get into it a bit.

The party is a trap, everyone, EVERYONE there save the 3 girls is part of a married couple. Samantha hates this and starts knocking back drinks. I can’t remember if it’s her or Charlotte or both of them that are having pleasant conversations with men only for a wife to show up to whisk them away. Threatened presumably. Charlotte takes Samantha home because she’s unbelievably drunk, and Carrie stays till the end of the party and breaks up with her boyfriends before he has a chance to propose to her. Not that he was about to, but it was certainly where he wanted to be headed, and they’ve been dating for all of one week.

Samantha, whilst Charlotte is sleeping, goes downstairs to seduce the door man, which let’s be real, it’s more of a door boy. He can’t handle a woman like Samantha, but it’s his lucky day she’s too drunk to care. She just needs something quick. This is what my previous comment about her standards was about. I’m not even gonna touch the issue of what constitutes consent and what constitutes harassment in this case. Samantha Jones is a force of nature and is unstoppable in getting what she desires. God help those who would deny her.

A screenshot from the episode with Miranda and Syd in the elevator
Don’t give up, you two. Love awaits you elsewhere.

So Miranda. Miranda, has an amazing dinner party, she talks shop with her boss, is angling for a promotion. Nevertheless, she’s a woman of scruples, and she’s not gonna hurt a poor lesbian by continuing to rope her into some sort of professional scheme. She comes clean to her boss, which seems to respect her shrewdness. No harm done, he says, and tries to deflect using his wife. Saying she’ll be disappointed since she really wanted to add a lesbian to her circle. I have no idea what’s going on in this marriage, but Miranda would do well to stay well away from any more of his dinner parties before he tries to get her to unicorn.

On the elevator, Miranda takes one last desperate shot at happiness. She kisses Syd (of course, she I care to know the name of, she’s a lesbian, she deserves a name). Nope, she says, definitely straight. Which Syd confirms, yeah, you are.

This is also a common television trope. The character everyone thinks is gay tries to give it a go only to be told by the queer person that no, their gaydar never lies and they are definitely not pinging. And this to me belies a deeper issue. Specially with people Miranda’s age. A lesbian in that age range, and any queer person, does not want to be part of an experiment. They’re out there, just like everyone else, apparently fighting in some sort of war for happiness in the form of a stable relationship. They’re don’t exist as a device for straight people to test themselves for gayness. Nevertheless, in heteronormative society, it can take people a LONG freaking time to figure out if they’re queer, specially if they’re bisexual, and you’ve already been dating people of one of the genders you’re interested in. I wish there was an easier way for them to explore those feelings. But it doesn’t always play out very well.

A quick word of advice, if you happen to be a person in this situation. Just communicate effectively. Some generous souls might be willing to embark on such a journey for you, but they need to know what they’re getting into. I’d like to imagine that this is why Syd agreed to go on this dinner party. She really had a good time playing softball with Miranda. They had good chemistry. She thought, well, she says she’s straight, but what if, she’d just never questioned it. There were plenty ways to hook up in the 90s, but what if Syd wants to defect, what if she wants that everlasting happiness and is having trouble finding it. Then this incredibly hot, well positioned lawyer falls into her lap. Maybe she wanted to say no right away, but what if, she couldn’t let it go, what if.

You can’t tell me one kiss is enough to dispel those doubts on either side. It’s the 90s but Miranda’s in her 30s. She has a fully formed ideal of herself. She doesn’t want an experiment any more than Syd does. Did she feel nothing in that kiss. Or did she choose not to feel nothing. Would she know the difference. It wasn’t a very passionate kiss. I wouldn’t have felt anything if I kissed my deepest crush like that. Miranda. You do you, but don’t throw it all away in one non-kiss in an elevator. Syd, best of luck. We’re never gonna see you again, I’m sure, but you’ll find your girl. You’ll got to Hawaii, or whatever the lesbian equivalent of Hawaii is (New England?). Hang in there kid.

As for you, dear readers. That’s our column for this week. Until next time…

Pride Sucks now, and that’s why we should all go to Pride

As Pride Month kicks off in the  US and many cities are gearing up to organise their various celebrations, the very concept of Pride is under threat not only from the same conservative anti-lgbtq groups of decades past and present, but in a roundabout way, from queer activist and queer people who more and more want nothing to do with pride.

This is because for years now Pride has less and less centred the supposed celebrants and centred mostly brands, the state, the police, and bizarrely, straight performers.

Take for instance what happened in Manchester pride, which for some reason takes place in March. Where Ariana Grande, a musician loved by the gays but who has never publicly come out as anything but straight was slated to be the main performer, and her and Pride were ready to charge attendants 70 GBP (almost 100 USD and 40 pounds more than previous years). I don’t mean to reignite the arguments from those days, and Ariana’s history notwithstanding, this left many queer people with a sour taste in the mouth.

Or more recent Edmonton Pride in Alberta deciding to cancel Pride altogether after lgbt activist called for a ban of uniform police marching in the parade.

So when I was commiserating with my friend, as one does, about the state of the world today and she told me that maybe we should get rid of pride altogether, my first instinct was to say, “yeah, maybe that’s for the best”, my second instinct was to panic.

Panic because, at the same time as brands as tripping over themselves to get money from lgbtq folks by showing how progressive and gay friendly they are to people who’ll already receive that message well. We’re probably living through the greatest backslash against queer people this side of the millennium divide.

With gender and sexuality protections under fire by several lawmaking bodies, country leaders promising to kill or jail lgbt people around the world, nazis being nazis, and major news outlets in the US and UK fighting an all out campaign to vilify trans people and paint trans women as enemies of women (never mind the inherent contradiction). Pride is needed now perhaps more than ever.

The attack now is coming from both sides, if you can call the far right and the centre right sides. On the one hand the traditional conservatives are pushing for an eradication of lgbtq lifestyles longing to push us back in the closet. On the other, brands are not trying to eradicate our spaces, they’re trying to make them their own. And in doing so sucking all the colour and diversity out of pride. A straightification of pride not even the most adamant Mattachine could have wished for back in the 60s.

Because it is these same corporations that want to sell us their product, and have us on our websites as long as we’re not too ourselves. Youtube turns their logo rainbow in June, but demonetised videos that contain the world lesbian on the title. Patreon made it’s whole business on the work of adult artists, both queer and not, but now that it’s successful these artist are finding themselves booted of their platform. Many a queer person has been driven to suicide after debts could not be paid when a world that asks us to give them our rainbow dollars is not willing to employ us, pay us or keep us from getting fired. And then banks want to march in the parade alongside us. It is insulting.

The truth is, none of what we’re dealing with now could have been predicted on the day of the first pride parade. The world has become an entangled mess of complex allegiances, promotions and denunciations. It’s usually those with less scruples who would take advantage of such chaos. This leads to a chilling new trend of homophobes and transphobes getting queer people to spread their message for them by masking it in the trappings of modern queer discourse, for instance, as a call-out post.

This lead to a situation we saw recently on twitter. I could go find the tweets, but individual tweets aren’t as important as the trend. In short, the message was put out that leather should be banned from Pride, because it’s a kink and there are children at pride parades and they shouldn’t be exposed to kink. This message was amplified by a lot of ill meaning people who are happy with pride being primarily a show for straight people and corporations, ill meaning people who want to get rid of pride altogether, and well meaning people who think they’re looking out for queer children and asexual people. After a few cycles through the discourse machine, people are arguing that queer people should queer up be having sex at pride, right on the parade, and people saying well that’s obviously wrong.

Meanwhile the question of whether we should have cops and corporations and pride has been superseded by the conversation of which kinds of queer people we should have a pride. An imaginary argument between asexuals, allosexuals, victims of child abuse,and somehow communists. It’s part of a meta problem of people fighting fights for people who don’t want that fight fought and doing a terrible job of it. Are there asexuals who don’t want kink at pride? Probably, but I think, as an outsider, that most just want a seat at the table they rightfully deserve. No one’s having sex at Pride, because that’s illegal. If you want there to be no acknowledgement of the existence of sex at Pride or anywhere, you’d do well to question that instinct

Pride has become toxic. The whole point of pride is that people find us disgusting, so we turn around and say “fuck you, we’re proud to be disgusting then.” but as certain flavours of queer become mainstream, and develop a fuck you got mine attitude. The rest of us are still fighting the same fight as centuries ago, but now we can’t be proud. Cause proud means rainbow coloured beer bottles we can’t drink, rainbow chequebooks we can’t write, rainbow flags we can’t burn. We turn instead to that second most queer of deadly sins Wrath.

And Wrath parades do take place. Alongside pride and sometimes in protest of it. Alternative Pride Marches, Dyke Marches, events that are more true to us begin to pop up in most major cities. However, other smaller cities remain with a subpar experience.

I find myself incapable of choosing what the proper course of action is for times like these. Abandoning pride altogether and disappearing into the shadows whilst the straights, the brands and the straight friendly gays keep our pride, seems unacceptable. An alternative pride seems like a solution, but I think the best course of action is to follow in the example of our elders. Miss Major who’s still with us, and Sylvia Rivera who is not.

I am thinking, as I often am, of that famous 1973 video wherein Rivera got up on the stage amongst boos from the crowd and started screaming, on behalf of our queer siblings in jail, in prison, in shelters, in poverty. Almost 50 years ago, and we’re still fighting those fights. Some people wish to believe that things have gotten better and maybe they have. But trans people, are still in prison, demanding and being denied their right to transition. Queer people are still at much greater risk of homelessness than the general population. Trans people still have a much higher rate of suicide. Black trans women still face a much higher rate of violence both from police and civilians.

Maybe the best thing to do is to wrest those mics, and to scream.


L020A Sylvia Rivera, The original authorized version by the LOVE Tapes Collective at 1973 Gay Pride Rally. L020 from LoveTapesCollective on Vimeo.

Sex and The City And I Episode 2: Models and Mortals

Episode 2: Models and Mortals
Episode 2 and the show hasn’t quite hit its stride, but it marches confidently forwards. What I like about Sex and The City, what I like about a lot of shows from that era, is how they straddle the line between problematic and progressive. What’s scary about these shows, is that 21 years later, they remain sharply relevant instead of hopelessly outdated.
This episode might fall closer to the outdated side of the scale though.
It begins with Miranda on a dinner party date, that’s seemingly going very well. This scene gives us the first line by a black character in the show Deanne, a married friend of Miranda’s date says “Oh we won’t go there! Montgomery Clift”. The crux of the episode is soon revealed, Miranda’s date Nick Something (you can’t really expect me to remember the name of the one shot guys) is a serial modelizer, a guy who dates models almost exclusively.
Cue a montage of the exact same conversation around the dinner table with a model in place of Miranda, except everyone sounds more bored and the models don’t seem to able to come up with a coherent answer to the ice breaker question: “Old movie stars you’d have liked to fuck when they were young” (Julianne Moore, by the way)
Cut to the girls, well, shit talking models as well as themselves. My first thought was “how unfemenist”, but honestly probably more than a little accurate, and probably considered very feminist at the time. The girls talk about their insecurities and complain about the pressures of living up to the unattainable unrealistic standards of beauty. Loses some points for nor mentioning airbrushing or lighting, i.e. the show treats the models as the source of the unrealistic standards of beauty and assumes that they do have the impossible looks they don on the cover of Glamour, instead of what we now know, that they too are victims and that no magazine, or billboard in the history of advertisement has shown a real human that exists.

Carrie is holding up a copy of Glamour Magazine. Charlotte is looking directly at the cover.
The Culprit

Samantha, has the opposite problem. She loves the way she looks, she believes she’s as beautiful as any model, she just happens to work for a living and so she considers herself “a model who’s taking the high road”. So she doesn’t hate models because they’re beautiful, she resents them because they don’t work for a living, which, brings to mind a conversation about the meaning of labour, as 4 women who don’t necessarily make anything, but instead provide a variety of services. Is Art Dealership, Journalism, Public Relations, and Legal Representation that much different than modelling? Work is work. But I guess, the show’s not called Work and The City.
The story moves on, there’s interviews with models and modelizers, there’s Stanford (see I learned his name) slobbering over his client, a male mode who he claims is too gorgeous to be straight which, fair, but who we’ll learn is too dumb to be gay (it’s well known fact that gays didn’t gain the right to be dumb until the early to late 2010s). There’s the rich boy artist modelizer who Carrie wonders how he affords to live in SoHo despite never selling a single painting (a trust fund is how Carrie). Who reveals to her that he videotapes all his sexual encounters and plays them back in a Videodromeesque mesh of old CRTs.
After the girls all go to a Fashion Runway show, where Stanford, his boytoy, and the aforementioned modelizers are also in attendance. Mr Big, who I might or might not find incredibly charming despite him also being prime guillotine material shows up to throw Carrie for a Fashion Loop. In the same interaction he tells her he’s read her column, calls it “cute”, asks her where she works, refuses a sweet potato puff, and chimes in on the topic du semaine. According to him guys who date models are very lucky and just happen to appreciate extreme beauty. Carrie challenges that, and his question of “is there anything wrong with that?”, however ineffectively.

This scene really threw me for a loop. I’ve always considered Carrie to be an incredibly confident character. Not overconfident, rather, very knowledgeable of her strength and limitations and in that way, not unflappable, but also not very easily flapped. So at first I thought the way Carrie became an absolute mess, just a complete collapsing scaffold, whenever Mr. Big was involved was a result of early show not yet cemented characterisation. But no, actually, that’s just the effect he has on her. He’s her cryptonite… and that’s… good?
Romance is weeeird. I guess it’s part of the central premise of this show and also a lot of television since television was invented. Somehow we want someone who at first makes us feel like a shambling mess who can’t string a sentence together, but eventually we want them to become someone who strengthens us. On a personal level, this show is also helping me process an interesting evolution I’ve gone through on the last couple months. It seems since I married my wonderful beautiful wife, my interest and attraction to men has increased to a degree that’s statistically significant.
I’m not an evangelist for polyamory, I’ve heard enough horror stories from friends and acquaintances who practice the queer version, and I wouldn’t touch the straight version with a hundred meter stick and a hazmat suit on. However, I must say when it works, it works extremely well, and having one supportive partner to discuss with and explore feeling of changing attractions is a godsend. I’ve long considered myself homoflexible, attracted primarily to other women, but occasionally to men and people of other genders as well. Am I now becoming a full fledged bisexual… likely not. Most of the men on Sex and The City I forget nearly as soon as they leave the screen if not before. But Mr Big (whom I’m aware has an actual name that I’m also helpless to remember)… what can I say, it works for me.
Back to the episode.
The knot is tied finally with Carrie going home with the incredibly dumb male model and not having sex just talking, and Samantha going home with the videotaping modelizer whom he has to ask to turn on the camera since, as he says, he only tapes models. He says he’ll make an exception and this pleases her. The next morning Stanford finds out his boytoy spend the night at Carrie’s and is relieved to learn they didn’t have sex, to which he says “I knew he was gay”, no honey.
At the cafe as Carrie’s putting the finishing touches on her column, Mr Big walks in, says he can’t stay but that he must give her his latest take on her work before it goes to publication: “First of all, well there are so many goddamn gorgeous women out there in this city. But the thing is, after a while you just wanna be with the one that makes you laugh, you know what I mean?”
Yes, I do know what you mean, if what you mean is that you just flirted with Carrie by calling her not gorgeous and that the fact that I did not realise this until know means you’ve actually mastered the forbidden technique that so many dumbasses have crashed and burn with, you negged her, you bastard! He leaves hurriedly and the one who laughs is Carrie. The episode closes with her last remark on one of New Yorker’s favourite topics of conversation, rent controlled apartments. Which if you want my take on it, my aunt has one and unfortunately I’m sure there’s several other people in line to inherit it before I do.
Oh, and Miranda goes on another date with Jiff peanut butter or whatever. If she keeps this up I guess we’ll have to talk about it, but for now. I’m signing off. Until next time…

Sex and The City and I

Episode 1: sex and the city

In 2019, a recently married young woman goes on a road trip to Michigan with her wife. They go to a concert and spend the night in a hotel. The next day, whilst her wife is in the shower, she decides to flip through the channels on the hotel television. She stumbles across an old flame. Sex and the City.

A mere two weeks eve of the 21st anniversary of the revolutionary HBO show, this chance encounter encourages the woman to finally pursue a pet project she’d had in mind the last few years. To watch and review every episode of Sex and the City.

As you might’ve guessed. That woman is none other than yours truly, Aisling Fae. Kicking off what is sure to be an exciting series of Blog Post with this introduction and dive into the first episode, with a little background.

Sex and the City and I go way back, in the mid aughts when edited reruns were on TBS every night, I would watch a few episodes simply because nothing else was on. Mind you this was before I knew I was a girl, let alone a woman. It went into the pile of, not quite guilty pleasures, of shows that I took an odd delight in enjoying because I felt I wasn’t supposed to. When I thought myself a boy I thought myself a sensitive boy, confident enough to enjoy TV made for women. Sex and The City was kept company by Gilmore Girls in the live action end, and all sorts of shows on the animated front: Totally Spies, Cardcaptor Sakura, Corrector Yui, the doll anime whose title I routinely forget. I loved my not quite a secret.

In 2010, in my last summer before moving to the States for University, I was with my group of nerdy male friends trying to find a movie to watch. There was nothing on, I think that movie Nine was playing and I sheepishly suggested it and the least bad choice. A friend suggested Sex and the City 2 as a joke. I protested but couldn’t keep myself from showing a bit of excitement and curiosity. Eventually we all talked ourselves around to actually doing it. Four 18 year old boys and one girl in the making settled in to watch Sex and the City 2.

The movie, as those of you fortunate or unfortunate enough to have seen it, is not very good. Eventually I will have to watch it for this blog, but until then my memory of it is very vague. What I do remember is the confused questioning of my friends as I started talking about the characters, gushing about Charlotte, my favourite and my personal Sexsona, and how I excited I was when Chris Noth, the one and only Mr Big showed up. I also remember my friends favourite scene at the end, when Charlotte and Barry’s babysitter turns out to be a lesbian with a hot girlfriend.

I don’t know if I watched any more of the show during the next 9 years, perhaps a couple times in college, again the edited ones on TBS. The show does come up every once in a while, specially after I came out as a woman, specially after I moved to New York City, where aspiring trans women writers could sometimes be heard talking about wanting to write the Trans Sex and The City. At which point I would chime in and helpfully explain that I’m a Charlotte and that Miranda’s Bi and Steve is a woman (Don’t worry, we’ll get to it).

More recently, as we’re all hit with a phresh wave of 90s nostalgia, and I’m constantly hit with waves of New York Nostalgia, the city I will always be returning to. I started kicking around this idea. To finally watch, the unedited, unbleeped, original version of the show. And what’s more, in what I hope becomes an increasingly more Carrie Bradshaw Esque voice, to review each episode from the point of view of a 2019 once a Midwesterner, then a New Yorker, then a Berliner, then again a Midwesterner trans woman, and all the insight which that lens might bring. Without further ado, episode 1: sex and the city.

As far as pilots go this one is pretty standard. The narrative device of Carrie writing her column as narration is used to it’s full extent and main characters are introduced complete with titles and subtitles. As Carrie interviews them and a variety of presumably one off male characters, The Toxic Bachelor, over the question Why are there so many successful attractive women in New York who are terminally, hopelessly single.

A screenshot of the episode showing the character Charlotte with the caption: "Charlotte York. Art Dealer. Unmarried Woman."
There she is, my girl.


Carrie frequently talks to the camera, which I can’t remember if it’s a device that’s kept or dropped (it wasn’t present in the two later season episodes I watched earlier today.) The catalyser for her most recent column the recent London transplantee who promptly fell victim to one of New York’s rich male Toxic Bachelors, is dropped almost immediately as we focus on the 4 main girls griping with the question, can women have sex with men, No, not with a Dildo, Samantha is compelled to clarify. Without emotions.

Lest you think the show is going to be too straight, first the girls celebrate Miranda’s Birthday in a restaurant where a fully made up drag queen with a green wig brings them dessert, and this being New York in the 90s after all, and no self respecting rich female New Yorker is going to be caught dead without a gay best friend. Carrie has one, who’s a recurring character who’s name I’m not going to look up right now, I’m sure I will learn it. She’s having lunch with…Stefan? Who tells her what we’re all thinking right about now, this is a straight person problem. Nevertheless the show is determined to show us how alike we all are by immediately revealing that Stefan too is single and career obsessed, no time for romance.

Carrie carries out an experiment, she has a one afternoon stand with an old ex. Leaves feeling powerful, drops her purse, make-up and condoms fly out. A helpful stranger helps pick them up, I exclaim: Mr Big! Chris Noth’s character is introduced in the very first episode.

He shows up later at the Club “Chaos”, wherein Samantha points him out to Carrie with the incredibly poorly aged line: “He’s the next Donald Trump.” Carrie’s boy toy is there and he deflates all her ego by telling her actually he’s glad she used him and loosed him cause that’s what he wants something casual he then goes on to mac on another woman, a black woman who doesn’t have any lines and it strikes me, no non-white character has had any lines so far…

Samantha crashes and burns trying to hit on Mr Big, Charlotte has an amazing date with an art collector who then shocks her by being brutally honest and telling her she’s very nice, but she doesn’t want to have sex and he NEEDS to have sex, so he’s sharing a cab with her so he can be dropped off at the aforementioned club “”””CHAOS””””.

Finally as Miranda starts to make out with the nerdy Skipper a character and a plot line so uninteresting that I haven’t mentioned it until now. The show ties off the other 3 girls storylines in a non-comedic version of the Seinfeld Gordian knot, where disparate threads come together. Carrie’s is driven home by Mr Big’s chauffeur as she and him talk in the back seat. He tells her she’s never been in love, and when she ask if he has, he answers with a smoothness The Current Donald Trump (oh god) can’t never even dream of achieving “abso-fucking-lutely”. And Samantha, is about to have sex in the apartment of Charlotte’s date, who is by now, so unbelievably horny, he refuses her request to show her the painting with he apparently uses as some sort of bait and switch fishing lure. Credits Roll. Until Next Time.

Daily Ritual Ch 1.

        Rosario came home from work in need of Spiritual Guidance. She came into her room, dropped her backpack on the bed and set out about the summoning. She lit the middle candle of her altar, inviting the all mother, Satan, to watch over her proceedings. Just in case.



This is chapter 1 of a series. You will find a link to the next chapter at the bottom.

CW: Cannabis use


       Rosario came home from work in need of Spiritual Guidance. She came into her room, dropped her backpack on the bed and set out about the summoning. She lit the middle candle of her altar, inviting the all mother, Satan, to watch over her proceedings. Just in case.

        Rosario liked to think of herself as the successor to her aunt Tía Nana, who wasn’t really her aunt but had helped raise her mother. No one else in her direct family was particularly spiritual, though she was sure some of them had gone to Tía Nana, the family Santera, for advice or workings, they would never admit to it.

        There was one difference between her and her aunt though. Rosario didn’t practice Santeria, she didn’t know the first thing about it. What she practised didn’t have a name, chaos magic, maybe, but she loathed most chaos magicians she encountered. She’d cobbled together a practice out of random books she’d read, the internet, her other spiritual friends. And this practice had become super charged when she actually took the plunge and summoned her first demon.

        She was calling to him now, with their usual, daily ritual:

        She took a tiny strip of cardboard, two centimetres high by 7 long. In it she drew a sigil, the calling sign of her demon Plazhol. She rolled the cardboard into a tiny cylinder. Tight but with plenty of space for air to flow through. She picked the dried herbs from their tiny ceramic pots. Taking from the green and the purple, dried flowers. Delicately grinding them in a special herb grinder, etched with the symbols of her practice.

        She took the ground herbs and spread them on a small sheet of wax paper, together with the little cardboard “filter” she’d rolled earlier. And started rolling the wax paper around the herbs, as she did she said her incantation.

        “How do you feel about a lavender joint today, Plaz?”

        And as she finished rolling the joint. Plaz materialised next to her on her bed. He had the appearance of a young tan man. Light hair that looked bleached. Piercings on his eyebrows. Donning a sort of worn green jacket over a black t-shirt.

        “Sounds fresh” he said, rubbing his hands.

        He took the joint from her hands and lit it with a flame he sprout from his finger. He took a puff.

        “Damn, that’s good shit.”

        He coughed.

        “Strong, too, what’d you say was in this?”

        “Lavender” She replied. “a little bit of mint and then a new strain of indica my dealer got. I haven’t even tried it yet.”

        “Well be my guest” the demon said handing the lit joint back to her. She took a couple puffs before handing it back.

        “So, how’s it going today? You need something from me?” Plaz asked her.

        “Actually, yes.”

        “Damn, I was hoping this was going to be just a social call, what is it?”

        “I met someone”

        “Rosy” he said somewhat disapprovingly.

        “It’s different this time!”

        “That’s what you said last time”

        “Well, so what I can’t date people?”

        “You can absolutely date people, but usually, when you tell me, you met someone, you’re not about to date them, you’ve already fucked them and then something has gone awry.”

        “Well not this time, we haven’t had sex at all.”


        “We only kissed”


        “And like touched and cuddled”


        “but with clothes on”

        “So what’s so different about this person?”

        Rosario thought about this for a second.

        “Well fae is–”

        “Hold on, Hold ON!” Plaz interrupted her.

        “They’re a faerie?!” He asked, alarmed.

        “No fae just–”

        “Listen to me Rosario and listen to me closely, do not fuck with faeries, literally or figuratively”

        “Fae isn’t–”

        “I’m a demon and I don’t even fuck with faeries, they freak me out. Their fingers, oh god those fingers”

        “Those are just faer pronouns, fae’s human, I mean I’m pretty sure fae’s human.”


        “Some people use fae and faer as pronouns, it’s a type of neo-pronouns, we’ve talked about these.”

        “Oh. Ooh.

        He sat down on the bed.

        “Thank Satan.” he said, he took a puff of the joint.

        “It’s cashed.” He said.

        “I’ll roll another one.”


        He sprawled on her bed.

        “That fucked me up.”

        “You’re such a lightweight.”

        “well, I’m sorry milady, I’m not exactly the demon lord of drugs.”

        “What are you the demon of.”

        “A different addiction, but it’s a secret.”

        “It’s gaming isn’t it? You’re a gamer demon”

        “I will never tell.”

        “How old are you? You’re always saying you’re pretty young.”

        “In demon terms, in human terms I’m ancient. You could not comprehend how long my life has been.”

        “try me”

        “I was old when your pyramids were young.”


        “excuse me?”

        “You mean the pyramids at Giza? In Egypt.”


        “you know there are other pyramids.”

        “yeah? huh, the more you know.”

        “And that’s only 5000 years, that’s not that much. But I don’t even believe you.”

        “Listen didn’t you have something you wanted to ask me?”

        “Now I’m not sure, I thought I was talking to a font of ancient forbidden wisdom, but if you’re from like 300 years ago, I’m not sure you’re the right person.”

        “Well who else you gonna ask?” He said with a smirk.

        “Good point.”

        “And I’m not 300 years old.”


        “I’m much older, aeons older I’ve seen civiliz–”

        “Yeah yeah.”

        She plopped on the bed next to him, lit joint number 2.

        “I made this one a little lighter for your sake.” she said, handing him the lit doobie.


        “I just. Want this to go well, you know?”

        “of course.”

        “And fae’s so cool. Fae’s in a band!”

        “You’re not exactly boring you know, Rosario?”

        “Yeah, but fae’s cool type of cool, I’m the weird type of cool.”

        “Well, what if that’s what fae’s into.”


        “You’d be surprised. I’ve laid with many humans, of all genders, shapes, and sizes. And the number of times I’ve told them I’m a demon, only for them to say shit like ‘oooh, can I see your real form, ooh I bet it’s grotesque.’ humans are freaky.”

        “And, did you show them?”

        “Only sometimes. It gets old. Fetishy.” He grimaced.

        “Damn, I’m sorry.”

        “I happen to like my human form, it’s why I picked it. ”

        “I like it too.”

        “so is that it, you just need an ego boost?”

        “No it’s not that. It’s, well how long have we known each other. You and I”

        “you tell me, as you know your human years are like seconds to m–”

        “Ok, ok. Well, I think it’s been at least 2 years. Like today’s March, so yeah, 2 years. And how many girls and enbies have you seen me date in that time.”

        “At least a dozen.”

        “And it never lasts, what is it about me that wrecks relationships?”

        “Well there was that girl, you broke up with her over her, music taste?”

        “Right, Camila, she was too into dad rock, I couldn’t be in the car with her.”

        “And that person who you said their poetry was mediocre.”

        “That was mutual, they didn’t care for my papier mache recreations of n-dimensional topological objects.”

        “Well don’t you think you need to adjust your standards a little bit. And maybe take it slower. Get to know a person before you decide to date them, and move in with them, and get a cat.”

        “That only happened once and we were together 6 months, which is a record.”

        “Also, aren’t you dating someone right now?”

        “yes, Mildie, but we’re polyamorous and currently long distance. She’s in Florida.”

        “And what’s this new person’s name.”

        “Faer name is Brenta, Fae goes by Bren.”

        “Bren, huh?” He said, looking at the ceiling.

        “Well tell you what. How bout. How bout I meet this Bren, maybe I can advice you better then.”

        “I don’t know.”

        “Come on, we don’t have to tell… faem?”


        “We don’t have to tell faer what I am. I can just be your friend from out of town.”

        “You’re not proposing a Cyrano de Bergerac situation, are you?”

        “A whom what now?”

        “Never mind.”

        “So it’s settled.” He said

        “When do you see faer again?”

        “Fae invited me to faer show next weekend.”

        “Very well. I will see you then. Thanks for the smoke. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have souls to pester, I mean torture.”

        He tried to stand up off the bed, stumbled and fell back on the bed.

        “Or maybe not, maybe I wait a minute.”

        “Haha. Lightweight.” She goaded.


        “You wanna watch some TV.”


        She pulled an episode of Seinfeld on her computer and cast it to the TV.

        “This one’s really funny. It’s the one where George tries to name this couple’s baby.”

        “Costanza! Hahaha.”

        To be continued…

Read on! Chapter 2

Gender in the Mushroom Kingdom

This article was written in 2015 (whew, that was a while ago huh) and posted on my tumblr, which has since been abandoned. Since gender on the mushroom kingdom has become a hot topic as of late, I figure it was time to repost and revisit it.


First, the original article:

The inhabitants of the mushroom kingdom, widely known as Toads, are indeed monosexed. They all have the same sexual characteristics and reproduce asexually, like fungi. This does not mean they are monogendered, they may have been at one point, but perhaps by the influence of other creatures have developed a concept of gender, as demonstrated by several toads who take on human genders, such as:


Toadette, who takes on a female gender. And uses she/her pronouns. And


Toadsworth, who takes on a male gender and uses he/him pronouns.

Most toads are genderless and are often confused for male.


Possibly because in English they use male pronouns as the default. It is currently unknown if Toads have their own language and what they use for pronouns, or if they have adopted pronouns for adopted and new genders.

It is indeed possible for toads to take on completely different genders than humans take, including genders exclusive to Mushroom society.

To contrast, consider the Dwarfs of Discworld, who are polysexed and reproduce sexually, however are monogendered and apparently lack secondary sex characteristics that would help them differentiate. Indeed, they all use he/him pronouns and traditional male monikers such as King and foreman. More research is necessary to ascertain how this relates to their own language and it’s attitude towards gender.

In short, Toads are monosexed, but polygendered, however, often genderles. Whereas Discworld dwarfs are polysexed, but monogendered.

ETA (Apr 2016): This Article implies a distinction between sex and gender that the author now understands is a harmful concept since, at least in humans, sex and gender are social constructs that denote the same thing.


ETA Jan 2019:

So now, onto this week’s news. As mentioned above, there’s a new powerup that has been causing a stir in the mushroom kingdom gender discourse for months now, I’m talking of course about the super crown.

Long thought to be a gender transformation item, the revelation that it can only be used by Toadette, reveals more details about the nature of the item. It is not a gender or sex change item, it is a species change item. It transforms toads into humans.

This is actually good news for Luigi (Luigiella? Lugiette? Gina? She hasn’t picked a name yet). As many have pointed out, she doesn’t need the super crown to be a girl, she’s already human, the rest is presentation and hormones should she want them.

But what about other Toads, why cannot they wield the crown? Maybe there’s something special about Toadette, but being a fungal person, how different can she be from other Toads? I believe the answer lies indeed in her chosen gender. As far as I know she’s the only playable character in this game who identifies as a female toad. It is untestable whether another toad woman, such as Tayce T. from paper mario would undergo a transformation should she wear a crown.

The Super Crown is a magical item, and magic is as much inside us as it is outside. Princess Toadstool, the eternal regent of the Toad People, is someone nearly every girl in the mushroom kingdom would have grown up looking up to. Whereas Toads who opt for a more male identity might instead look up to Mario, the kingdom’s hero. So the super crown would allow female toads to become their ideal. Who’s to say there isn’t a super cap out there that could turn Toad into Mariotti?

super mario hat

We can only wonder.