RANDY & PATRICIA CALL IT A DAY

RANDY & PATRICIA CALL IT A DAY

By: Randy Gillis

It’s hard to describe the moment it happened.  Patricia and I were huddled together in my office, staring at Facebook.  It was Friday, June 26, 2015 at about 10:00 a.m.  We knew the decision on ‘gay marriage,’ ‘marriage equality,’ or ‘end-of-the-world (depending on your personal alliances),’ or however else you’d like to refer to it, could come down today which would be an awesome kick-off to Pride weekend and the anniversary of the Stonewall riots (the night all this shit got started). 

Not-to-mention making it much easier to remember for future anniversary celebrations.   We also knew it was down to the wire.  If it wasn’t today, it would definitely be Monday.  Our fingers were crossed.  We were watching Facebook as it is the fastest news source currently available. 

I glanced over at Patricia.  She was staring at the screen with an almost nervous expression, something rarely seen, by me anyway.  I couldn’t help but to think back to that day in 1972, on the playground of the elementary school, during recess, when a scary 10-year-old tomboy walked over to where I was sitting (far away from all the other kids), and quietly crying.  She plopped down beside me and asked why all the waterworks.  But how does a 10-year-old boy express in words the agony of reading in TIGER BEAT that David Cassidy is a ‘has-been’ and that Donnie Osmond is now cock-of-the-walk.  But I rambled my best effort, explaining all the levels of David Cassidy’s superiority in admittedly obsessive detail.


When I looked at her face, I thought that maybe I had made a mistake by confiding so much about my unshakable loyalty to the eldest Partridge because she seemed somewhat stunned.  She then spent the next 10 minutes lecturing me on why Susan Dey was the only Partridge with any real talent.  And we’ve been bickering ever since.

What followed was 4 decades of love, support, spats, love, anger, hate, love, loyalty, boredom, but always, always love.  We leaned on each other and kept the world at bay.  Okay, I did most of the leaning, but Patricia didn’t seem to mind.  I remember that one time some redneck kid started harassing me on the street and then having to intervene before Patricia did any real damage. 

I remember sneaking around the library and finding only a few cards in the card catalog (for all you youngens, a card catalog was like a manual Google) with the word ‘homosexual’ on it, finding the books and reading them secretly between the stacks and being horrified by what I read.  It was all terrible and it all ended in death.  It was Patricia who put it all into perspective with one simple proclamation.  ‘Fuck it.’ 

Then, I thought about our own well-intentioned but misguided wedding.  We were going to change the world by making lots of gabies.  Hind sight is always 20/20, plus I had a suspicion (that I kept to myself) that Patricia was premenopausal.  But our bond was never stronger. 

And here we are, the moment of truth.  Shortly after 10:00, and there it was.  ‘BREAKING: The Supreme Court just made gay marriage legal everywhere in the United States!’ And then, well, my newsfeed exploded with rainbows and with pictures and videos of a weary but elated community.  It was finally done.  Scars from years of torment, arguing, self-doubt, shame, fleeting suicidal thoughts,  coming out, the new-found determination to never again be shamed by others, the anger, the parades, the marches, the sign-waving, the defeats and the victories, all seemed to fall away.

I looked over and tears were streaming down Patricia’s face.  I’ve never seen that before.  She’s just not the crying kind.  I, on the other hand, cry at a Kleenex commercial.  She grabbed me and pulled me into a bear hug, our tears mingling as we sobbed cheek-to-cheek.  She leaned back and, laughing, wiped the tears from my face.  “I love you, you old queer,” she said.  “I love you too,” I choked out. 

 

Only, my tears were from a different place.  Journeys begin and journeys end, and I knew, just as surely as Antonin Scalia’s heart pumps a thick, oily, ooze that my journey with Patricia was over.  She is still a grade-A prime lesbian, and she deserved the happiness that all those years have built to.  I couldn’t continue holding on.  I had to let her go.

 

 

As we were dancing around the kitchen, or rather, as Patricia slung me around the kitchen a few times, I never felt more disoriented (and not from the spinning).  In that one headline, everything changed.  It felt like a beginning and an ending, a death and a birth, all at once.

Patricia let my hand go and took off toward the back door.  She turned around and, with tears still streaking down her face said, “It’s really a new world now, isn’t it.”  “It is indeed my love,” I smiled, wiping a new batch of tears myself.  She smiled again, blew me a kiss, and she was gone.

Goodbye Patricia.

 

Randy & Kyle vs Evil

RANDY & KYLE vs EVIL

By:  randy gillis

I was sitting at my wheel in my little pottery shop working on the (as of this writing) elusive moon jar, listening to Simon on the radio (because what other station offers Blue Oyster Cult and Tiffany in the same music block), and just being happy.  It's a little cinder block building nestled in the deep woods of Montgomery County, and my escape from all that troubles me in the world.  Well, almost all.  Sometimes my gay demon Kyle pops up from hell to hang out and bug me.

Come on now, we all have our demons.  I’m just thankful that I got the gay one as opposed to say, the ‘God hates fags’ demon because frankly they’re a dime a dozen in these parts, smelly, and a bit repetitious, and I've always preferred the path less traveled.  It helps that Kyle looks enough like a sunburned Harrison Ford with a 10 point rack to make him tolerable.

It was a beautiful day, the shop door was open to allow a nice breeze to circulate, and I was approaching something very close to a proper moon jar.  Kyle was going on about how his support group in hell just doesn’t understand him when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement.



I turned to the open door (right beside my wheel), and looked down as a python, or maybe it was an anaconda (okay, it was a black snake but it was at least ‘OMFG are you kidding me’ feet long) had crossed the threshold and was working its way into the shop.

The first casualty was the moon jar as I jumped up, catching the top of the jar with my wide swinging leg as I tripped over the power cord and fell into Kyle’s arms.  To be fair, the jar only had a few minutes left to live anyway as I had knocked it off balance and was desperately trying to salvage something out of it. 

The serpent froze from all the commotion (or it could have been the screaming).  Kyle dropped me immediately and started his climb up the closest set of shelves.  I asked him why he was running as I had always assumed that demons and snakes must be pretty tight.  He said there were no snakes in hell as they tended to upset the unicorns.

I looked back and the snake was still frozen in place.  For a second I hoped maybe it had had a heart attack and died but I remembered that evil has no heart so, I jumped up as I was way too close to being eye level with pure, agonizing death (I know black snakes aren’t poisonous, but that meant very little at this particular moment).  I literally started throwing myself against every wall in the shop, desperately looking for a weapon to do battle with the beast when I suddenly realized that to kill this snake would mean to get close to this snake, so that’s off the table.  Kyle’s helpful hint was for me to ‘shoo it out the door’. 

I saw a long-handled shop broom sitting in the corner just screaming to be used for something heroic just once, so, I dove for it like an arthritic Indiana Jones, stepping into a spare bucket full of water I keep around for just such occasions.  So, now I’m scared AND wet and getting pissed.  I whip around with broom in hand to the still motionless predator and, with all the moxie I could muster, screamed, “Die you bastard!”

Not a flinch. The harbinger of pestilence remained motionless across the threshold of my doorway, probably because as opposed to the Sigourney Weaver from Alien that I was shooting for, the scream escaped my lips, riding on an octave closer to Julie Andrews at the beginning of Victor/Victoria.  At least Kyle gave me a thumbs up.

I decided against a full on charge as my legs were a bit on the rubbery side, so, I started a slow approach with the end of the broom on the floor and pushed as far away from my body as a muscle spasming arm would allow.  I got to within about 6 inches and….IT  REARED  UP  AT  ME!  Two and a half feet of this snake were now in the air and my genitalia were no longer alone in my underwear.  Kyle’s screaming added the perfect touch.

I used my free hand to fumble with my I-phone to try and Google ‘black snake’ as I was almost positive that they were incapable of this kind of maneuver, but I dropped it into my slip bucket.  This was no ordinary black snake.  It was obviously some sort of black snake/cobra hybrid that’s escaped from some mad taxidermist's lab (and these woods be thick with them) and is now in my shop.

I raised the end of the broom slightly in hopes of maybe pushing it just enough to allow me to close the door.  IT  STRUCK  THE  END  OF  MY  BROOM……TWICE!!  With a force strong enough to be felt in the handle of the broom and  the inner depths of my soul.  The last thing I remember before everything went completely black was trying to get saved, which is no small feat for an atheist, and Kyle screaming “It’s crawling inside!”

I’m not sure how long I was out, but when I came to, I was alone in the shop.  No snake, no Kyle, just Tiffany on the radio singing 'I think we're alone now'.  I have no idea what happened, but based on Kyle’s last words, I’m considering having an x-ray.

The Trouble With Trannies

THE TROUBLE WITH TRANNIES

By:  Randy Gillis

Captain’s log.  Just kidding!  I’ve always wanted to start a non-pornographic piece with those words.  Anyway, let me get my credentials out there quickly.  I proudly, joyously, belligerently, consider myself to be a tranny (in mind if not in body).  Trannyism has nothing to do with plumbing (okay, maybe a little to do with plumbing).  But, it’s also about a mindset, a worldview, a sensibility, it’s the gift that allows you to see through eyes not hampered by gender roles or rules.  It’s why we find team sports and war so tiresome.  But, for some, it’s about plumbing.


And, much like the L’s, G’s, B’s, and Q’s (and whatever other letter we arbitrarily decide to co-opt), there are hundreds of subspecies of T’s out there. There’s the Vegas showgirl trannies, the mid-western housewife trannies, the drag queen to tranny converts (thanks RuPaul!), the square state trannies, and the ‘ass-on-my-shoulders, politically ultra-correct, sense of humor gone the way of the penis’ transsexuals (trans-woman or trans-man for short because that’s not offensive like ‘tranny’).  But I wish they all could be California trannies.  And now, the newest category to the tranny family, the white, rich, privileged, conservative, republican, entitled, Christian, granny tranny, or, as I affectionately like to say…Bruce.  I’m not throwing shade, I’m totally one too.  Well, except for the rich, conservative, republican, Christian part.

I remember Bruce Jenner back in the day, with those short-shorts and those legs.  I prayed to the gods that he would be on my team (and when Can’t Stop the Music came out, I thought the gods were listening).  I should have been more specific.

I asked Patricia (my lesbian wife) the other night what kind of tranny she considers me to be.  When she answered, I politely pointed out that ‘boring, bitchy, bellyaching, old tranny queen’ was not among the options.  But let’s get back to Bruce.

It probably shouldn’t have shocked (disappointed, bewildered, astounded, infuriated, saddened to the point of urinary incontinence) me as much as it did.  But it did.  It felt like a betrayal. I hear ‘Bruce Jenner is a woman,’ and I’ve got the pom-poms out and I’m practicing my splits in order to give her a proper cheer, and then I hear ‘blah, blah, blah, Republican, blah, blah, blah, Christian,’ and I turn into Daffy Duck, staring dumbfounded, with my jaw on the floor.

I’m sure there are scads of reasons for why a prominent letter in the alphabet soup of sexual anarchy would turn all republicany and christiany.  But I can only think of maybe two.  Actually, just one….money.  Because in this country, at this time, money trumps everything, especially humanity.  And I don’t want to generalize but it seems money creates a rightward lean the more of it you have in your pocket. 

How else could you justify aligning yourself with the two human institutions that are peerless in their relentless attacks on the very community you want to claim as yours?  Or do you want to claim it?  I would be lying if I didn’t own up to the fact that, in a small corner of my mind, I harbor the thought that maybe some trannies don’t want to be the ‘T’ in LGBT.  They want ‘normalcy’ so badly they want to distance themselves from all the messiness of the community at large.  I’ve even heard whispers of some trannies who don’t support marriage equality.  But in fairness, there are queers out there who don’t support marriage equality as well.  We hate them too.

 

All of these conflicting attributes and trying to juggle a meaning out of them is playing havoc with my dreams.  Just the other night, I was dreaming I was having massive sex with Harrison Ford while hanging on to the ropes of a swing bridge dangling on the side of a cliff, over a river of crocodiles (or was it alligators?), you know, my typical recurring dream, when all of a sudden, I lost my grip on Harrison’s…lifeline, and fell into the open mouth of a tranny hippo carrying a republican armadillo.  As the hippo’s mouth began to close I heard the armadillo’s whispered words, ‘I believe in the constitution.’  I began flailing wildly and would have knocked Patricia out of bed, but even in REM sleep her reflexes are like a snake and she soon had me restrained and snatched from the jaws of tranny horror with nothing but her dove’s coo of a voice shrieking ‘wake the fuck up’!

When my breathing returned to normal, and Patricia released her grip, I told her what I had just been through.  Her only response was, ‘you’ve got to stop watching The Temple of Doom for Christ’s sake.  As she rolled over to return to sleep I asked her if she would do Bruce Jenner once his journey is complete.  She yawned and said, “Why would I settle for store-bought when I can get fresh from the sea?”  As is becoming the case more and more frequently with Patricia these days, I’m not exactly sure what she meant by that, but I’m pretty sure it was offensive.


So, here we are Bruce.  I don’t know where exactly to file you yet, but, we are all still learning.  Maybe time will help clear things up for us both.  Until then, I promise to be supportive (of the tranny part).  And when the dust settles and if you decide to go lesbian, give me a holler.  Patricia buys from the store all the time.


 

RANDY & PATRICIA RUB ONE OUT

RANDY & PATRICIA RUB ONE OUT

by: Randy Gillis 

 

 

I was doing some deep knee bends in the kitchen when Patricia walked through the door carrying our dinner, two #3’s from Wendy’s (I’d forgiven them for pulling their advertising from Ellen’s famous coming out episode back in 1997 with the advent of ‘the Baconator’).  She walked passed me and put the food on the counter and pulled out some paper plates.  “You’re really going through with this?” she asked.  “I have to,” I panted, “I have to make a change in my life.”

How, oh how, did people survive without ‘Lifestyle Designers’?  I was a bundle of energy after visiting Tim Ferriss’ blog and accepting the NOBNOM challenge.  For 30 days men vow to abstain.  No Booze, No Masturbation.  Well, the booze part is easy.  I have exactly one frozen margarita per year.  Now, as for masturbation, I knew I’d have my hands full with that one.  But I’m feeling really up for it.

I switched to push-ups as Patricia began unpacking the seductively glorious, grease-soaked foils to my efforts.  “I’m really getting a déjà vu sort-of-a vibe with this.  Do you remember that little ‘ex-gay’ thing you tried a while back?” she asked coyly.  I grunted, counted off number 5, and collapsed on my belly.  “You made it, what, 45 minutes?” she needled.  I looked up, breathless.  “It’s already been almost 9 hours, and I feel great!” I boasted. 

Based on what I’ve read on his blog (including comments from guys offering support), Alpha males don’t masturbate.  Okay, maybe they do, but it’s a time-waster, especially when coupled with booze and porn.  It makes you weak, indifferent, lethargic, passive, etc., all ‘beta male’ characteristics. Patricia bent down and put a French fry in my mouth.  “Sweetie, I’ve told you before, I’m the Alpha male in this household,” she said, patting my head.  “But you are a solid second in command.” 

She walked back to the kitchen counter and sat down.  I groaned my way up to my knees and then to my feet and hobbled over to her.  “Well, according to Tim Ferriss, I will be 50-100% more productive during these 30 days,” I said with a slight wheeze.  “Great,” she said, “I’ll make you a ‘to do’ list.”  “Hey, maybe you should try this with me,” I suggested.

You know that split second of unearthly silence that happens in horror films right before an explosion, or hatchet murder, or someone just showing up behind you?  Patricia looked piercingly into my eyes.  “Do you have any idea just how many people are walking around alive today for no other reason than because I DO masturbate on a regular basis?” she stated matter-of-factly.  “My masturbation is a service to humanity and worthy of some sort of ‘peace prize’.  The fact that I have a biological pressure release mechanism so conveniently located has already saved the life of one pimply-faced drive-thru ass-wipe with an attitude, today alone.  Now, if you want to follow the lead of some hyper-inflated, blustering, egotistical, alpha asshole of a banty rooster, pushing his snake oil by shaming self-love, then that’s on you.” 

I sat, silently, stunned again by Patricia’s rapid-fire response. As I was mulling over what she said, she reached into her Wendy’s bag.  “Why, what do we have here?” she mused.  She pulled out something in plastic. “Why lookie here, a Han Solo action figure. Is that timing or what?”  I watched as she removed the figure from its plastic confinement.  “Ooh, Randy, his arms move,” she teased.  I refused to react.
What happened next is the result of that ‘whatever it takes’ school of winning that would make Mr. Ferriss proud.  “Hey,” she added, “have you seen the latest porn parody of Star Wars?”  I braced myself for the death blow.  “Yeah, I hear there’s a scene with Han Solo and Lando Calrissian that’s like 20 minutes long.” I furiously snatched the figure from her hands.  “I hate you.” I muttered through clenched jaws as I headed to my bedroom.

And now, a special message from Randy & Patricia:  We hope you enjoyed our little dramatization.  We simply want to let young and old alike know that masturbation is……AWESOME!  Really, it’s fun, it feels fantastic, is available as an option virtually any time of day or night (especially if you don’t mind the occasional fine and subsequent police record), it relieves tension and stress, for men it’s essential for prostate health, and it’s a better sleep instigator than any pill.  And frankly, at my age, that fact that I can still manage it routinely is a source of pride.

With porn and booze or without, although I personally I prefer without because you can create an entire universe based on your most depraved fantasies and no one gets hurt. In my case, I’ve helped Harrison Ford reach his full potential in thousands of ways. You can even replay your actual sexual experiences and get them right this time. And as Patricia rightfully points out, negative energy redirected through nature’s fire extinguisher equals many less homicides per year.

And most importantly of all, never ever let anyone attempt to shame you for something so natural and amazing and…..yours.

So, relax, kick back, and rub one out.  The life you save could be your own…..or a pimply-faced drive-thru ass-wipe with an attitude.   

 

OFFENSIVE BY DESIGN

OFFENSIVE BY DESIGN

By:  Randy Gillis

 

Patricia walked in the back door and I froze in place.  She paused only for a second and walked to the counter that separates the dining room from the kitchen, pulled out one of the bar stools and sat down, waiting for my explanation.  You see, the counter, the stove, the sink, basically every surface in the kitchen was covered with flour, baking pans, Pam, mixing bowls, measuring cups and sugar. I was wearing the modified chef’s outfit that I picked up at the fetish store.  I say modified in that I was wearing pants under the apron.

“Before you get pissy,” I explained, “just listen.”  She smiled pleasantly and waited.  “I’m just trying to come up with some signature dishes for our new business venture.”  “Ooh,” she cooed, “starting a business at our age.  Sounds promising.”  The sarcasm dripped from her lips like venom.  “If you’d let me explain, you will see that this is what we’ve been waiting for,” I boasted. 

I got the idea while reading about the baker that is being sued for discrimination because she wouldn’t make a cake for some piece of shit….uh…I mean a future valued customer, who wanted something gay-bashing written on it.  Probably something that ends with ‘in Jesus’ holy name I pray.’  Then BAM!  The idea hit me like a chocolate-covered, hate-filled doughnut. 

“What if we offered to create the offensive desert of choice?” I asked.  “I mean, anything goes.  Whatever vile, sick, disgusting thought that oozes from the darkest corner of the spiritual bowels and can be made with icing.”  Patricia scrunched her nose (her thinking face) and after a thoughtful moment, “Aren’t there already bakers who specialize in that sort of thing?” she asked.  “Yes,” I conceded, “but they’re mostly about penises and vaginas.  I’m talking about something much more hardcore.”

I drew in a big breath and started my sales pitch.  “Okay,” I began, nervously.  “The infomercial would go something like this.”  Patricia leaned forward and, being his usual rude self, my gay demon Kyle pops up from hell and takes the stool next to Patricia.  “This, I’m dying to see,” Kyle huffed.  “I’m choosing to ignore you,” I snapped.  Patricia looked around confused, as Kyle is my gay demon, I'm the only one who can see him.  “Who are you talking to?” she asked.  “Uh, no one,” I answered, cutting my eyes to Kyle.

“I’m thinking that we go straight for the kill with this.  No sugar coating.”  I over exaggerated a wink causing Kyle and Patricia to roll their eyes.  It was great!  “We cut straight to the chase with something like, ‘have you been turned away by bakeries trying to hamper your God-given freedom of speech?  Are you tired of having your pettiness impeded by prejudice?  Just bring your dark thoughts, attention whoring, and desperate compensating for personal powerlessness to Offensive by Design!  The bakery that never says no.” 

“I’m liking what I hear so far,” Kyle snorted.  Patricia was a bit slack-jawed.  “You know,” she finally conceded, “this might actually work.”  I had them.

I next laid out some possible advertising strategies.  And since everyone hates someone, the world is our target market.  I explained that hate (or righteous indignation, or god’s love, however you want to justify it), doesn’t have to be a bitter pill.  It can now be a delicious pastry.

CAMPAIGN 1:  The Anti-Gay Market:  Let’s be frank.  Do you hate fags?  Then come on in, and let us show you our entire fag-bashing line.  We have cakes (made from the freshest ingredients including farm-fresh eggs) shaped in the form of the AIDS virus, ready for the poorly translated bible verse of your choice, or pearls of wisdom from your very own mind.  And if your hate isn’t particularly bible-based, why not try sinking your teeth into one of our delicious butthole Bundt cakes (heavy on the chocolate drizzle? No problem!).  With as many possibilities to offend as there are perversions in bathhouses, we dare you to be filthier.

CAMPAIGN 2:  The Anti-Christian Market:  You know’em, you hate’em, so let us help you express it.  For starters, how about our ‘Ménage a Trinity’ sheet cake (our biggest seller) featuring the Father, the Son, and the holy ghost involved in a daisy-chain with some backdoor finger action thanks to our famous cinnamon sticks!   Homosexuality, blasphemy, incest, and necrophilia, all on one delicious desert.  And that’s just the tip of this holy iceberg.

CAMPAIGN 3:  The Anti-Muslim Market:  Islam.  Who doesn’t hate it, right?  Thumb through our professionally designed Islam chewing cornucopia of incendiary classic confections. We’ve got more images of Allah than that blogger has lashes left on his sentence.  Allah as a top (2 images), Allah as a bottom (46 images), Allah as a power bottom (736 images). 

“That’s my favorite one!” Kyle screamed out, referring to the ‘Allah as a power bottom.’ I’ll explain to him later that it isn’t complementary in this particular context.   

“And that’s just 3 campaigns off the top of my head.  There are endless opportunities for expansion,” I explained.  “We could create lines for women haters, for men haters, for Twilight haters, for Harrison Ford haters (of which there are none and if there were we would refuse them service because even I must draw the line somewhere) and for people not hampered by menstruation when satisfying sexual needs (ever since Googling the phrase ‘vampire Popsicle’ I’ve been dying to bring it to life….with red velvet cake mix!”).

And that doesn’t even include racial and national hatreds.  I, personally, would love to introduce the phrase ‘dyke-jumpers’ to an American audience because frankly, the Dutch are annoying and because it has cross-over potential with the lesbian haters.

Patricia bolted to her feet after what was an apparent epiphany.  “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.  “A perfect slogan.  ‘Put your hate on our cake, take it home and….EAT IT!”  She then stormed to her room.  “What a dyke-jumper,” Kyle huffed. 

I can understand why Patricia wouldn’t be completely on board with this, but she didn’t have to be so offensive about it.