single and sanitary

single and sanitary

finger fashions

because in these std-riddled times, what's sexier than a lady who's colorfully prepared?

queerFAQtor wednesday

queerFAQtor wednesday

apacowayner's movin' in!

way to be topical queerfaqtor. that wasn't at all painful to talk about...

femme-femme

femme-femme

unlike it's medical sounding counterpart, will not kill you

fen-phen has been linked to cardiovascular disease, hypertension, diabetes, high cholesterol, sleep deprivation, and cancer; femme-femme relationships have been linked to aesthetically pleasing make-out photos, an immediate doubling of ones wardrobe and praise from frat boys around the world. bringing nothing but joy into the world, you would think that femme-femme relationships would be encouraged by the masses but it would seem as if things are stacked against the flirty flipped hair of femmes.

the biggest supporter of femme-femme lezzyiasons goes to the porn industry. i guess 'supporter' is awfully kind of me, 'exploiter' would be more accurate. the lesbian porn community to a heterosexual is chalk full of bodaciously bouncy, rock-of-love rejects (except for that one who confirmed she was in porn, she's no reject). the girls often times are uncomfortable or stiff; their movements clearly dictated by a man who wants a sexy shot. now in mainstream porns defense, i will admit to both watching and enjoy such filth from time to time. the shots are indeed sexy but as a woman i know that she can't possibly be driving pleasure from a straight girl, playing gay, poking at her vagina like a gynecologist.

it's little wonder why femme-femme relationships have trouble being taken seriously. once, while out at the bar, a friend turned to me and pointed out some ladies across the room. "look at the one in the hat- hellloo loverr" she whispered in my direction while eyes locked on our new friends. i chimed in, "i'll take the one in the tank top." her head spun around and she looked at me confused, "but ashley- she's a super femme and you are..well, you are pretty fuckin' femmey."

i rolled my eyes, not like i haven't heard that bullshit before- i just don't get it. for one, i classify myself as 'quirky' and 'unique', not 'femme'. two,why is it so challenging for even those within the gay community to recognize the validity of a relationship, regardless of how the two dress. some argue that it's jarring seeing two lipstick lesbians in an embrace...that the mind wants to call them sisters, or drunk party girls. conversely, people are also uncomfortable with two butch ladies dating. are the only acceptable match-ups femme and butch? can we not cross lines without fear of jeers? i'm sorry but when did gender roles become the mainstay in gay relationships? do gay men face this same unspoken scrutiny?

femmes are just as much lesbians as dykes on bikes, the leather is just distributed differently. there are a lot of "party-lesbians" that are tainting the waters for the rest of us. flaunting their sexuality (or their claimed sexuality of the moment) and demanding attention from all who will give it, these ladies are living their life and i applaud them for it. however, my frustration comes from the fact that i have to defend myself for their attention seeking actions. much like bisexuals constantly have to defend their sexuality, femme couples hear the all too often "you two are too pretty to be gay" or "you guys are sisters, right?".

lipstick lovin' ladies- i say, date whom you please and follow your heart. people can shove you into a box but it's your choice whether or not you stay in it. to all of my less-than-femme-sisters, i got your back too...we are all in this together. it doesn't matter what color the m&m- they all are stuffed to the brim with chocolate. so what if i date butch ladies? who cares if my tastes include hyper-feminine women? there is more than enough love in this world for everyone to be happy.

quarter life monsters

quarter life monsters
under my bed & within my head

the term "quarter life-crisis" always struck me as a bit dramatic. don't get me wrong- i'm in no way trying to diminish the magnitude of a quarter life-crisis, but just as with the 'terror level' in america, the name instantly sets a tone...and it isn't an uplifting one. why couldn't psychologists dub it the more friendly, "quarter life-kerfuffle"? i for one wouldn't mind talking about that ad nauseum. whereas admitting that i might be in the throes of a life crisis (amidst my early-to-mid twenties, no less) is overwhelming and kind of embarrassing. i'd even settle for the appropriate "quarter life-cluster fuck" or the alliterative, "quarter life-quandary" having the word crisis in the title is the equivalent to having death in the name of an illness- it doesn't instill a feeling of optimism.

i keep telling myself if i don't classify it as a crisis then it isn't one. this theory was born of another that worked out great when i was a child. as a fresh faced babe i was terrified of the dark. i had night terrors and trouble turning off my mind...a normal sleep pattern is something i've never known. my parents chosen form of protection was in a monster-light (which was actually just a normal lamp with a colored bulb...my parents stopped at nothing in their quest to help me get to sleep soundly) but nothing could ease my restless mind.

i had a particular fear of wolverine hiding under my bed. if i where i to move just a fraction of an inch his giant blades would tear up through my mattress- slicing each and every one of the major organs housed in my tiny body. nightly i would stand atop my bed and jump on different pieces of furniture in order to escape his clutches.

my bed wasn't the only place i feared. in my mind my closet was a portal to another world. during the day- it was where all my dreams came true. i would climb into it and close the door- pretending i was an astronaut locking myself in the shuttle. when i would open it again my bedroom would transform into a new world. with the flick of a switch that dreamworld would turn into a horrorfest. i never knew what exactly was so terrifying inside my closet, all i knew at that age was that i was not to go in there when it was dark.

i'm not sure if it came out of sincere concern or he was sick and tired of having me come into their bed to sleep night after night, but my father finally broke down my monster-walls. he put me back to bed one evening and simply told me to close my eyes and go to sleep. to help ease my fears he did a run down of my room; first flipping up my bed skirt- nothing there; then he pulled back my bi-fold closet doors- still no monsters. he assured me that i was the only one besides him in the room and the monsters i feared so much only lived in my head. he then proceeded to slip his legs under my bed and scream, "oh my god- ashley help! they've got me!! HELP!" i burst into tears and began screaming as well.

some might mark this milestone as traumatic one. others might tearfully recount the events to a therapist later on in life. but in my slightly-off young mind i understood my fathers intentions, even if his execution gave me nightmares for weeks afterwards. his attempt was to teach me that even if there were monsters under my bed they could fucking eat my father, so for me it was certain death. there is a sense of comfort in knowing that the man you see as untouchable could also be nomnom'd on by some subconscious creatures.

after scaring the shit out of me my father gave me a big hug. "i'm sorry honey, i didn't think you would get that scared. everything is ok- i was just playing around with you. monsters are silly and they are not real- you should laugh at them instead of crying about them." with big, blue, tear filled eyes i looked up at him. my superman just told me everything was going to be ok and i should laugh about it. "but seriously ashley...go to sleep, it's late. i'm done joking- close your eyes and it will all go away."

i wish i could say that in the trying times i've faced in recent months that i've clung to my fathers positive advice from years ago. truth be told if i had chosen to believe that everything was going to be ok and that i should be laughing about my worries versus crying about them, i'd probably be on more stable emotional footing. instead i chose to close my eyes and believe it would all go away.

my world has taken a shift and i don't like what's going on within it. i don't like seeing people act in ways that are unbecoming. i don't understand how people can treat each other in such terrible ways sometimes. i don't like feeling anger grow inside of me. i don't want to live in a society that throws respect away in order to be more self-sufficient. the shroud of negative energy that surrounds me this summer is a self imposed one. i've placed myself in a position where i don't actually have to engage with people. i've not been ostracized as much as i've been awol. even knowing that, i've found it hard to shake this feeling of having no fucking idea what i'm doing with my life. i push as hard as i possibly can when it comes to work not knowing if i'm going in a direction that will lead me to ultimate satisfaction.

i feel like i'm on a scavenger hunt looking for little scraps of happiness. along my walk through life i've picked up all sorts of things that bring me joy. one day i believe i'll be able to construct a whole world for myself filled with all the things that i enjoy. the tricky part with life is that yes, you will find things that fill you to the brim with excitement and elation but you will also have to deal with things that bring you unmeasurable pain. it's how life balances itself out.

so, am i in the middle of a "quarter life-crisis"? i can't lick the envelope on that one just yet. if i admit that's where i am then in a way i'll have admitted defeat. as for now, all i can do is continue to ride out this storm and remind myself that monsters aren't real- and life isn't worth crying over...and if that doesn't work keeping the lights on never killed anyone.

The Soggy Showdown

The Soggy Showdown

apacolyptic productions

The Soggy Showdown Saga

Written/Directed/Produced:

ashley, apacolyptic productions

Featuring the talents of...

Lisa; Ayna; Melissa; Eleana; Kathy; Anna;

Thuy; Dana: Jackie; Megan & Ashley

My Bits

My Bits
apacolyptic productions

My Bits
a lesbifriendly remake
to mickey avalon's, my dick

re-written/produced/directed:
ashley, apacolyptic productions

featuring the talents of...
jackie; keri; emily;
sammie; donna; & danielle

rant: shoe vs sock

rant
shoe vs sock

as far as foot housing is concerned, i generally opt for the simple cotton sock. all too often people neglect this classic, dare i say perfect, covering for heels and toe alike. shoes don't provide the uniform comfort of a sock. any enclosure comprised completely of fabric that cradles my foot, not unlike baby jesus in a manger, is a-ok in my book. tightly bound, secure, safe- socks truly provide feet with the luxury they deserve. sure, i'll give you that skater shoes feel lovely on the tops of my feet. (with their giant pillowy tongues it comes as no surprise that lesbians love DCs). the soles of a shoe however, is what forces it behind the sock as supreme paw cloak.

the foot is placed in an interesting juxtaposition when harnessed in a shoe. the more tender 'top of foot region' is worshiped and caressed by a gentle lick of a shoe tongue. even if the tongue where absent, as with sandals, the foot will either kiss the sky or play peek-a-boo with some laces. conversely, the sole of a shoe, is treated as the literal underbelly of ones soul. it lives in dark often dank conditions. after years of at worst abuse, at best an acknowledgement via pedicure the bottom side of the foot is kicked one final blow. in addition to shouldering the burden of supporting you or me, the bottom is full of bacteria. creepy...infectious...nasty...ok- i'm going to gag- germs.

admittedly, i've always been acutely aware of sensation on my little feetsies...err- they aren't little. i've got some flappers down there, 9.5US (but i've notice recently they have shrunk, i'll keep you posted on this as i'm not sure if i'm devolving into stumps). everything my feet touch- i feel. when i was very young it was amazing- i loved nothing more than dragging my feet through crisp, dewy, mildly-firm grass; my family dubbed it "carpet grass". but it was always weird during the summertime. typically this would be my afternoon:
running around outside;
kicking off my shoes;
stepping in mud;
freaking out it was poop;
being assured it was not;
freaking out poop was mixed in the mud;
think about what animal pooped there thousands of years ago;
now KNOW i'm standing in poop- prehistoric or otherwise;
hose off feet;
put on socks.
socks always clean up the mess.

i'm not ashamed to say that i take a disinfecting wipe to my feet every night, even if immediately after the shower. call me ocd or call me sensible but feet and hands are no different! i just think of all the things feet can get into- it's downright scary. i know i might be alone in this tirade and if that's the case- so be it.
feet are friends...not giant breeding grounds for infections- and SOCKS RULE.

rant complete.

hopedar

hopedar
don't stop- believin'

have you ever noticed no one seems to shout about their marginal skills when it comes to spotting gays? people love to tell you how fabulous their gaydar is; how they can spot lesbian in a sea of straw-fedora-clad hipsters. mirroring their tenacity, those whos gaydar sucks are equally as proud. their claim to fame is finding the most flamboyantly gay person alive, then swearing it was a curve ball when they came out.

a woman at work and i nearly came to blows regarding one, 'ricky martin'. she claimed that she was in love with him from day one and just could not wrap her brain around the fact that he came out. now, i'm not a pro in spotting gays but 'curve ball' and 'ricky martin's sexuality' don't exactly go hand-n-hand for me. his hip control alone lead me to believe years ago that, at the very least, he's seen some male-tail. she said that he's spanish and happy- not gay... that was literally her whole defense- an emotion and his lineage.

then others, much like my mother, think every woman with a wide stance and a pixie cut is checking her out. any frumpily dressed woman in wal-mart is a giant dyke in her eyes. everything with a vagina in home depot; all vegetarians; women who have neglected (by choice or convenience) to shave their legs- all of them are snatch goblins. their gaydar sounds the alarm at every boy in a speedo and any fella with a small dog. i wouldn't exactly call this "gaydar" as much as it's "reinforcing stereotypes"...but this is also from the mind of the same woman who told me i wouldn't ever get my period i would just turn into an ape on account of my ample, blonde, arm hair- so i get that sometimes her logic is a bit off.

there is yet another set of people who have no clue what the fuck they are doing in this blog post but they're really happy to be here. they don't cite reason or a vibe for assuming someone gay- these select few dig deep in their pants for others sexuality. you may call it 'wishful thinking'- i call it hopedar. through a dream and a scantily clad vision in their head, these folks look super-straight girls in the eye and tell 'em they're gay. you know those moments when you meet someone who you're just so blown away by that regardless of how long her nails are, you believe you have a solid shot. it doesn't matter than she has never heard of ani d. or tegan & sara... she's totally interested, or at the very least she will be gay for you.

i am not a stranger to hopedar. lindsay lohan captured my heart in her timeless portrayal of not one- but TWO adorably precocious twin girls separated by divorce in the 1998 remake of "the parent trap". her freckles danced across the screen and into my young heart. our one-sided love affair has done little to enrich my life but i've supervised hers in a way that would make any stalker proud. i tell myself she is gay. i want to believe the words as they trickle out of my mouth. i want to believe it has nothing to do with being 'edgy' or 'a media hot button'. i want to believe that one day i will see her semi-to-half naked in real life. i want to believe i will make her feel loved. i want to believe these things just as much as i want to believe miley cyrus and lilo might hookup with megan fox at a party...it all boils down to hope.

gaydar, hopedar and archaic ways of thinking are fun ways to mask the fact that we still look at each other and make snap judgements. we all know judging and assuming are wrong but if waldo taught is nothing else- at least he gave us the joy of the hunt, the thrill of the find, and the ultimate crush of realizing that it's not waldo but that douchbag who wears the striped hat. it doesn't matter if your gaydar is on point or you are shooting blanks...all that matters is that you do it with a smile on your face and love in your heart.

fire

fire
a breath of fresh air

fire has always been fascinating to me. i can't exactly pinpoint why... something about the way it quivers when perched atop a candle- the way the smell weaves its way into your clothes- the way its brilliance is best displayed when against the backdrop of a clear night. maybe it's the way the sulfur burns your nose when you flick a match and inhale deep- or perhaps it's the simple fact that holding raw power makes me feel strong. there is just something undeniable about fire that keeps me mesmerized.

that sounds eloquent but truth be told it's a fancy way of masking the fact that i'm just a pyro.

there are several ways to snuff out a flame. a painfully typical task, people forget that there is a grace and beauty that comes with extinguishing fire. you must always respect the fact that the allure of a flame is a double edge sword. lean in too close- leave burned; pay it no mind- miss out on natural magic.

if singeing all the hair off of my lower arms one summer night while testing out the flammability of nail polish remover taught me nothing else, at least i learned to respect the power of fire...also how to quickly put out your arms when they are fully engulfed. one can put out a flame through means of dowsing it with a non-flammable liquid; one could lick their fingers and pinch the flame out; and if you are feeling like a douche and want someone to think your cool- then just snuff that lil fella out in your mouth.

but what's the most beautiful way in which a flame is turned off? air. simple, crisp, unassuming air. after a strong gust blows through one of two things will happen to fire- it will either gobble up that wind and grow and spread, burning everything in its path...or it becomes overwhelmed and snuffed out, leaving only a smoke trail behind.

my world has been burning. i know that a breath of fresh air is all i need to turn down this oppressive heat. i also know that when i leave this chapter and move onto the next i'll only leave a smoke trail behind.

queerFAQtor wednesday

queerFAQtor wednesday

late night questions, interesting takes on "answers"

sure it's late...but of course i'm up.
when it rains it pours.