
We’ve all noticed it.
Dad calling the power company a bunch of blubber-stealing sons of bitches.
Dad making jokes about seal-skin moccassins as if he’d had a pair that leaked in a snowstorm.
Dad telling Ernie, our Mexican-American dermatologist, that his people should stop making ice houses and start getting jobs.
Dad yelling at me for wearing my hood up like “some kind of wannabe Eskimo.”
Dad playing “polar bear” too rough with his grandson.
Dad saying things like,
“The Bering Strait is a two-way bridge,”
and
“Fucking sled-dogs drivers!”
and
“24 words for snow is 23 too many.”
None of us wants to approach him. Not even Mom.
Tagged as:
blubber,
Inuit,
Mexican-American Dermatologist,
Nova Scotia,
seal skin,
snow

You’re nothing but a shill for Big ‘Beetus.
Tagged as:
'Beetus
Chrysthanthemum means stop.
Now, Jason, I know you’ve probably got your own safety word in mind, something literary like Pickwick or Portia. I understand that you would mine the pages of fiction and drama for the word you’ll use someday–someday soon, perhaps–to get the dominatrix to cease from pulling on your testicles.
But I’d like you to consider a few things before you settle on a safety word.
Take, for instance, the use of a small word like grapes. Grapes is a fine safety word, and trust me the dominatrix will not judge you on your word choice. These are trained professionals who will humiliate you in whatever way you choose, but they will not police your morals or mock your fragile psychology–not unless you want them to. Now I get a lot of mileage out of having my rear-end burned with cigarettes, but that has more to do with your grandfather’s expectations of me to succeed in an Ivy League school. That’s a conversation for another day. Sometime after you’re a Princeton man we can unravel this strange ball of string that is our friendship.
Grapes. A small word. It will bring you quick relief, which is fine if that’s what you want from your dominatrix. Let’s set the scene: she’s slapping your hands with her love paddle and you say grape and she stops immediately. But once she’s stops, it’s over. Madame Corsica becomes Sally Pederson, divorced mother of two who obsesses over which Hamburger Helper to make for her kids. And there you are wearing nothing but your black socks. A horse bridle in your mouth.
Here’s my suggestion. And I realize that this probably has more to do with my fantasies, my desire for a transference of power with a leather-clad woman wearing my mother’s shade of lipstick, than it does with yours. Unless we share fantasies, which is not so uncommon among modern heterosexual males. That aside, you should pick a safety word for its elegance, for its musicality. Chrysanthemum, for example. Say it with me. Chrys-an-the-mum. Archipelago. Ar-chi-pel-a-go. The more syllables, the more time you have to come out of the fantasy.
Prolong the ending. That’s all I’m saying here, Jason.
I wasn’t going to do this, but I’m going to tell you my safety word. It’s Adirondack. That’s Adirondack singular. I’ve used it with several women over the past 14 years, and if you want to adopt it too, well, I’d be honored. No pressure, of course, you can strike out on your own with a word like harpsichord or consanguinity or, knowing my son the lit major, Raskolnikov.
Choose something that it clearly unambiguous. And choose something that will always rescue you when your nipples are being twisted past your comfort.
That’s all a father can say.
Tagged as:
black socks,
leather,
nipples,
Raskolnikov,
safety word,
testicles
More KD than KD
So, okay, you want to run this by me again?
Not particularly, Jake, no. But.
I knew it. I knew it when we were kids. You used to steal my tighty-whites and wear them yourself, didn’t you.
I found panties repulsive. And so yeah. Sometimes I did.
And now, what? What am I supposed to call you? Is it Brad, or Brian, or what?
Well, if you want to be cool, you could call me BT.
What’s that stand for?
Me, asshole. It stands for me.
So you’re a trans-man now. Is it cool if I call you Trans Am?
I’d prefer you didn’t.
It also sounds kinda Vietnamese. You and your friends all together. Trans Minh. You know–men, minh.
That’s terribly clever, Jake. So, are you going to be cool with this?
Me? Yeah. But dad. I don’t know about dad.
Dad’s blind, Jake. I don’t think he’s going to notice.
I thought, I don’t know, you’d sound different to him or something.
I’ll try to sound like myself.
Also, you might try going light on the Drakkar when you go see him.
I’ll keep that in mind.
And maybe gender neutral clothing, like jeans and a t-shirt.
I’ll leave the three-piece suit at home, then.
What are you going to tell mom?
I’m not. Not just yet. And you’d better not either. Unless you want me to kick your ass.
Man, aggro much? I guess those testosterone shots do their job, huh?
I don’t need testosterone to kick your ass, Jake. I never did.
Tagged as:
three-piece suit,
trans am,
trans-man,
trans-men,
trans-minh

Practice finger-style guitar picking
Read my friends’ unpublished short stories
Knit hats for my nieces and one of my nephews
Assess the windows; apply more tint when appropriate
Laugh about that one scene with the creepy van in Silence of the Lambs
Practice my Buffalo Bill voice
Repeat that line “Oh wait, was she a great big fat person?” in Buffalo Bill voice until I’m better than my friend Isaac
Sing “Take Me Home Country Roads” in Buffalo Bill voice
Laugh again when I’m singing and I get to the “mountain momma” part
Think about how gross cannibalism is
Talk about cannibalism in Buffalo Bill voice
Make some phone calls
"Life is old there, older than the trees..."
Tagged as:
Buffalo Bill,
mountain momma,
my yellow van,
tinted windows