My Toxic Assets
Toxic Assets are not just about finances. They’re about family, lovers, friends, maybe even pets. I’ve had them all, although I suppose you could say I’ve had more than my share. There was the Balinese rock star, who was not a rock star despite dressing like a drag queen, and was into climaxing by asphyxiation—my asphyxiation. Then there was the guy who was married, fell in love with me, left his wife, had another affair, got her pregnant, married her but wanted to keep having an affair with me… And that was just the men. The women were much better, at least at first. My first girlfriend was a rageaholic who would greet me at the door with a glint in her eye that said we were going to have a fight, whether I liked it or not. My second was an alcoholic who would not greet me at the door at all unless it was at the local watering hole; we got through that hurdle and made a lives for ourselves amid 12 step programs and then she fell in love with one of my former students. I introduced them so my student could get help staying clean and sober. Big help. So when it comes to relationships, well, I’ve seen both sides of the fence. And neither is all that pretty. Perhaps that was why I wanted to go to England in the first place—it wasn’t just for tea and sex, it was for the other side of the fence—where it is always greener—and let’s face it I hadn’t been over to that side in a few years, about 18 to be exact. That’s right—it is finally okay to be gay and I’m not anymore. I have always been perverse, so it would make sense that I choose to reverse the lesbian fad—despite the fact that I find Shane just as sexy as every other “L Word” fan on the planet—I have left the ranks of my former sisterhood and betrayed them for something more than dildos and vibrators. The penis. So how could I have done that? Why would I? It’s that attraction to toxic assets of mine and the fact that I got tired of the nagging. Let’s face it. Women nag. I should know, I am one. And lesbians nag just as much as straight women. So after eighteen years of being in relationships with women, I’m relieved to be in a relationship with someone who just doesn’t care about what color the drapes are or that I’m working late on a project—all he cares about is what I’m wearing; preferably as little as possible. My ex-girlfriend used to complain if I put on a skirt or designer jeans. “Why are you getting all dressed up?” I should have known something was wrong then. My mother used to equivocate lesbianism with my other phase—vegetarianism, which lasted almost two decades too. And perhaps the metaphor works both ways. I went back to meat because I was so damn hungry! Maybe I am simply on the rebound. Again. You know, I bounced over to homosexuality when I got fed up with straight men and now have bounced back to see whether women are faring any better than they were in the 1980s, when I tossed the whole gender out with the proverbial bath water. It wasn’t hard to develop an appreciation for women. What’s not to like? Women have breasts. Everyone likes breasts. There is nothing like burying your face into a double D, and flicking your tongue across both nipples. Yum! Becoming a lesbian was a logical decision for me—men are only fifty percent of the population, so why limit myself? I left the straight world behind and discovered that I could have much healthier relationships with women. The sex was good too. Of course, as I’ve found out, there’s not a whole lot of difference between men and women in the heart breaking department. Toxic assets are still toxic.
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