about love

“Hey, I wanna tell you some stuff, but it’s not romantic,” I said to my spouse.  We were cuddling.  This is about love.

“It’s ok,” he said.

“Ok, well.  You know I was reading that article about that health issue, and they mentioned one of those gene testing things.  I thought it was for determining racial stuff.  But the article said they can tell you health things too.  So that test can tell you if you have some genes mutated, to affect that health thing.”

“Mmm hmm,” my sleepy spouse said.

“I wonder if they can tell you if you’re not, like, a man or woman or what, that you thought you might have been, genetically.  Hmm,” I said.

I was thinking about how schools used to include gene tests, for some classes, but too many people found out results that disturbed them, about their own genetic anomalies.  Kind of like blood typing in science classes–too many people found out they were not biologically related to their relatives.  I guess the drama distracted from the intended lesson.

sex

“Do you think if you took a test like that, it would tell you you weren’t a regular man?” I asked.  “Like maybe you have something extra?”

“Yeah,” my spouse said.  He is so refreshing–has plenty enough dude-ness, but is charmingly unlimited by dude-ness.  He’s like the universe–some wild, varied, infinite force.

“You are perfect,” I said to him.  “Here, look at me.”  He opened his eyes.  “I wish everyone was like you.  The world would be so much better!  Yeah!  I wish everyone was like you!”

We were smiling.  “Except for me,” I added.  “I want to be like me.”  I kissed him.

“Do you think I’m a regular lady?” I asked.  “I bet I am.  Oh, but I’m hornier.  I think most ladies don’t want to have sex every day.”  I thought of the women I’ve known, the girlfriends I’ve had, a sea of imagined women of many ages and cultures.

“Oh!  But if they were with you, they would want to do it every day,” I said.  “Because you’re fucking amazing.  You’re the best person in the world.”

love

It would be cool to learn my spouse’s genes.  How fun, to feel shocked if they were normal man genes, or proudly “I knew it!” about less common configurations.

This is about love, but it’s also about gender.  And if he did gender normal style, I wouldn’t love him like I do.  I wouldn’t put up with that shit.  I’d run away with the circus.

Come to think of it, I hang out with a bunch of queers all the time.  I thought with my abundant breasts, kindness, nurturing, long hair, cooking skills, and rounded Earth Goddessness, I’m kind of a regular lady.

But actually, I’m dykier than most.  My friends are so creative with gender, that’s become my normal.  Guess I’m in a queer bubble.

Queer is happy for me, giving me freedom I need to love anyone.  Thank you to my queer foreparents who did good work, planting seeds of liberation.  I gather those flowers all day.