B

side B
m a g a z i n e

side

featuring
Maria Gvedashvili Timothy Dodd Evan Hallman Jessica Karbowiak Sonya Lea

Marie Efinger Laura Hallman Eleanor Bennett Ark Codex James Caroline Casey Rocheteau Marty McConnell Sean Patrick Mulroy

Sex, Gender, & Sexuality Issue

side B
m a g a z i n e
issue 06 / summer 2012

sidebmag.com facebook.com/sidebmag twitter.com/sidebmag sidebstaff@gmail.com Editor-In-Chief Nidya Sarria Managing Editor Danielle Bukowski Design Director Katya Sarria Marketing Director Tatiana Christian Editors Becca Pollock Emily ONeill Laura Hallman Alanna Okun Columnists & Contributors James Kennedy Stefan Cartlidge On the Cover Maria Gvedashvili Special thanks to former Side Bees Brittney Brown, Sarah Zickel, Alice Zheng, Tia Mansouri, Fiona Kyle, Arman Safa, Nicole Vazquez, Gillian Ramos, Kate Fisher, Nikki Birdwell, and Christina Pia. Also thanks to mensah demary for his work and support of the magazine.

Our Mission
Side B Magazine is a print magazine devoted to publishing unknown and underrepresented voices in the contemporary arts world. We believe that all people have the right to read, see, and hear stories that affirm their identity.

features 8| 30| 34| prose 16| 10| 26|

A Death Unseen
Timothy Dodd

Battle Cry

Marie Efinger

Mourning Adrienne Richs Identity

Evan Hallman

The Depth of Beauty: Tracey J. Whitney

Interview by Laura Hallman

Naked Me

Jessica Karbowiak

Practicing the French Kiss

Sonya Lea

contents
poetry 6| 12| 24| 37|
Blame it on the Song
James Caroline

table of

Before Shipping Off

Casey Rocheteau

The Hermit Prescribes Abstinence

Marty McConnell

Poem for the lost nudes of Rock Hudson

Sean Patrick Mulroy

art & photography 11| 13| 14|

Maria Gvedashvili (also: 18,23,25,29) Ark Codex (also: 33) Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Blame it on the Song

James Caroline
If Molinas voice is the acid bathed skin for a coat the petal blown from thorn a body floating in the Atlantic beneath an August moon then there is a lover on the shore who builds a fire that hides summer nights bursting smell of growth. How can I not hold you like a blade some shiny, deadly thing useful coming from a snakes tooth can be called milk or venom If he sings of a bodys hinges its fingers like wires for prayer and eyes as persecutor the cup of a heart tipping to pour how can I not try to hold you major keys worn sounding relaxed and radiant cyclone through a blizzards siege I take your boots in my hands unlace them to bind the hour and the snow deepens If these lyrics are the disappearing ice sickle dripping into an evergreen positioned fetal and lonely among drifts how can I not wish to swallow you hip first to knock at the door of your A frame chew the keyhole with skeletons wrapping their own bones with song your dead parts flexing new memories

6 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

If Televise constructs night from where God left off corners dusk and herds it over a desert then let my tongue sidewind the burst and dried pores the silver slipping into you while skinning fruit the crater of vaccinations kiss the maze of scars your skins constellations You and me were people who shouldnt be dared both perched like were seated at a piano ready to Bo jangle the promises of Loverman. I feel like a kid waving a bone in the face of a pit bull pulling against a splitting chain but I aint looking to be rescued. Dont expect this to be fair.

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 7

ts the most clich of moments: the moment when she takes your breath away. You see her from a distance and ones heart pounds to a hot, unfamiliar murmur. As she passed me, I tried to make eye contact but never caught her eye. She was too busy being in the moment or maybe she was trying not to notice how all the eyes in the room were on her. I couldnt tell. All I knew was she was more beautiful than I had ever seen her look before. I felt my hands get clammy and eyes sweat a little. I felt my girlfriends hand on my mine. She was watching me, but watching her too. Together, after sharing an adoring glance, we witnessed my little sister Martha marry the Marine of her dreams. The young couple had a mostly DIY wedding, which seems to be the new, and very practical, norm for the 21 century weddings. Most DIYers give themselves a year or so to curtail the madness. Not these two love birds. With only six months of engagement, a lot had to be doneall with the groom-to-be at boot camp. There was a registry to make, and not one of those oh we already live together, so lets get new things registries, but rather the old-fashioned wow, weve never lived on our own registries. The handmade invitations were addressed in soft calligraphy by her mother. One hundred place settings flung at tables, with finishing touches applied at midnight the night before the reception. Having put myself through college waiting tables, I had plenty of experience with banquets and hospitality. I helped manage the reception, so they could enjoy as many moments as they could in the few short hours of March 4, 2012. Fueled by OCD tendencies, I drunkenly maneuvered in heels around little cousins, big cousins, bitchy cousins, dropped napkins, and misplaced chairs to ensure that everything was in its place. Throughout these little laps around the fire hall, I intentionally avoided one particular encounter. It was inevitable though. While clearing the dinner course, in preparation of the cake cutting, I felt my dads hand on my shoulder. He was in a group of family friends, who graciously complimented me on my ability to carry an arms length of precariously piled dishes. My dad looked so regal with his graying hair accenting a tuxedo. Formalwear is not one of his many costumes. I say costumes because my dad is a life-sized action figure. Hes a volunteer EMT and a historical re-enactor who portrays a Native Lenape warrior. He can start a fire with a pocketknife and a rock, and he can put it out too, because hes also a well seasoned forest firefighter. Hes been on the wagon for 23 years. Hes given me his temper, his dry wit, his penchant for the outdoors, and his love of history. What he cant do is walk me down the aisle and give me away at my wedding. Thats because same sex marriage is illegal in most states, including the one in which I reside. So with this in mind and on our minds, he reeled me into a hug that lasted too long and echoed with the hollowness of the bittersweet unsaid. For that very day, I had watched him walk Martha, his stepdaughter, down the aisle. 8 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

My girlfriend, Ashley, and I have been together nearly as long as my dad and my stepmom. Kindly note that I prefer gff (girlfriend forever) because I find partner stuffy, though I do admire how it firmly states the significance and importance of one to the other. Anyway, weve been blessed with mostly ups in the six wonderful years that weve shared together. Growing up, marriage was never on my priority list. Having been a serial dater of straight girls, I never thought anyone would want me that long, let alone want to be with me for committed indefiniteness. As a child of a broken marriage, I admit that I possess some residual disillusionment and jadedness of the sanctity of marriage. Somewhere between the excitement of finally feeling at home in our post-grad apartment and the joy of adopting our kitten together, I discovered that I couldnt imagine being more content than I am with Ashley by my side. The allure of marriage became palatable. The honor of being the bridesmaid in a dear friends wedding has only intensified the feelings of certainty. The injustice of not being able to celebrate our love in the same way that our loved ones do is disheartening, but here I am to establish my battle cry. Perhaps to best understand the importance of marriage to us, one must appreciate its significance to the individuals who are denied the right of recognition. Im a sixteenth generation American. This year, I hope to finish my D.A.R. application. My country is very important to me, as is the idea of the American Dream. Im aware that homosexuals are the new communists to the Republican Party, so when I switched my residency to Pennsylvania, I switched parties too. Im now a registered Libertarian. I lead by example. I work for a small family printing business because I think that small businesses should be the engine that drives the American economy. Ive never collected unemployment, welfare, or disability. As long as I am able-bodied, I will work to provide for myself. I was born into that philosophy. I worked full time hours, often between two jobs, to put myself through college. I did it because I could. I did it because I was surrounded by people who loved me. Though I dont agree with each detail of his rhetoric, I live by a quote from Smedley D. Butler, There are only two things we should fight for. One is the defense of our homes and the other is the Bill of Rights. To me, home is family. In our home, in our family, ones neighbor does not go hungry. Three generations of my family actively feed the hungry through donations to food banks. We believe that no one should go hungry. Sadly, the truth is people are going hungry in our country. Furthering my ambition to being an active citizen who helps my neighbor, I strive to one day be a foster parent. There are young men who frequent my home, in its literal and figurative context, who call me Mom, and to whom society has turned their heads. I will not do the same. I welcome them, feed them, listen to them, and remind them of their self-worth. Its their right to be heard,

Battle Cry |
Marie Efinger
respected, and represented in our communities, just as its their responsibility to respect and serve said community. I dont know how my sexuality impairs my ability to do any of these things. Theres a flag in our kitchen window. No, its not rainbow. I dont believe our private life needs to be on constant display, rather just respected for what it is: private. The flag in my window is a blue star banner to remind guests that there is someone I love who is fighting for me, the woman I love, our nation, and its Bill of Rights. Thats my brother, Joe. While my brother was away on his five tours, there were nights I cried myself to sleep with worry. While Ashley embraced me, I cant say that it mattered to me if she was gay, straight, or blue. All I needed was to be held. My girlfriends upbringing was similar to mine. Currently, she teaches, coaches two sports, and takes post-grad classes. Coach makes every effort to secure the well-being and success of her students and her team. Shes constantly reinforcing the importance of responsibility, commitment, and hard work to the kids. Shes a selfproclaimed grandmas girl who spends a good part of her weekend helping her grandmother around the house and visiting her parents. Though some feel this undermines the commitment and sincerity of our relationship because often I have the house to myself on the weekend, I feel the contrary. What better display of loyalty and longevity could there be? Who better to share my life with than someone who holds their family in such high regard? Her parents raised her and her brothers with a strong sense of honesty, integrity, accountability, and self-sustainability. Their lessons preached are lessons lead by example. We had the privilege of throwing her parents a surprise party for their 30th anniversary last year. I hope to one day share that feat with their daughter. Growing up in rural New Jersey, I heard a lot of when youre free, white, and over 21 when I disagreed and would have preferred my own way over the status quo. While nowadays this seems more like an About Me on a fetish website, the concept of acquiring liberties and rights upon age stuck with me. Free and adulthood were tantamount. To most religious folk, marriage is a scared union between one man, one woman, and one God. To me, as an American with legal obligations, marriage is a contractual obligation, a union established between two individuals in a business sense. When lawmakers create separate but equal laws, a la civil unions or domestic partnerships, to prevent two consenting and committed adults from entering a legally-binding contract, we as Americans, are treading on dangerous ground. Im aware of the sin argument against marriage equality. Im also aware of a thing called separation of church and state. Judeo-Christian beliefs have been an excellent foundation for our laws in the sense that its universally accepted that hurtful actions ought to be banned. Theft, deceit, destruction, manipulation, rape and murder are nothing that one would wish or pray for their mother. Mothers deserve kindness, love, and passion. Its our belief that lawmakers ought not lie, cheat on their wives, or steal from the taxpayers. The truth is that most fail to obey the Ten Commandments let alone maintain the code of ethics for a representative of our great land. Some believe that the defense of marriage will save America. The truth is that time spent arguing about how to impose laws that deny certain citizens rights further delays action to encourage innovation, reduce our deficit, and remind Americans to love thy neighbor. The truth is making a law that says that I cant marry my gff doesnt make me stop wanting to spend every day with her. It only prevents us from signing a legal document in which we commit monogamy, perseverance, and a love of our families to one another while protecting our assets. This is where the difference between belief and truth need be established. So from the top of the Delaware Water Gap, I declare my battle cry as a love struck, rebellious American who is willing to stand up and say that enough is enough and love is love. No Pope will be my president. I will not stand judged in the eyes of man and controlled by tyrants when my soul thrives on nurturing a nine-year-old pen pal and brewing beer with my 80-year-old grandfather. Dont treat me like a pog, because baby, Im a slammer. sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 9

Its our belief that lawmakers ought not lie, cheat on their wives, or steal from the taxpayers.

Elly
Maria Gvedashvili

10 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 11

Before Shipping Off

Casey Rocheteau
Pardon the heathen chin stroke. When you sit down in the passenger seat, he will marvel that you do not shy away from physical affection, pluck a breast from the thin cotton dress, suckle and remark how beautiful, how you must hear that all the time. As he drives, do not hesitate when he tells you to remove this or play with that, writhe indelicately under the middle finger. When he asks about the biggest cock youve ever taken, try counting the number of times you can remember being told to be more ladylike. Remember that this is foreplay. A thin line between whore and detective. When you arrive at the destination, know that he will have you on your knees. Make your mouth a shotgun wedding Tongue knocked up on yeses. He is packing, so wrap the glassware, peruse a naval manual, stop at a page with a web diagram, something that looks like it was scrawled on a bar napkin some sloppy holiday in Qatar. The middle bubble reads SYSTEM FAILURE. It is connected to food shortages, economies of anxiety, panic buttons. Will he spend idle hours at sea daydreaming ways to balance the inevitable collapse of Western society upon your erect nipples? When it comes to it, will the faces of foreign women remind him of yours?

12 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

0:3:1: Now the ark is propped, folding into itself. A self-organizing cemetery of sentries waits for drop-dead signs, each pineal plank aware only of the next in the series, N (an exit strategy). We hold onto the idea of morning, clutching eggs out of habit, each oeuf carrying the weight of all that came before, each ovum feeding entropy, S. We prick the shell with a pin & suck the yolk out then replace with confetti letters. Our coordinates are fixed relative to ice but whos to say the glacier were on isnt floating? For that wed have to tap a spine.

Ark Codex

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 13

14 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

Eleanor Leonne Bennett

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 15

n old newspaper, faded and brittle, held the last dash of snuff. Making sure the breeze had ceased and would not interfere, long, skinny fingers untied the string and carefully opened the paper. Thumb and forefinger dipped inside, pinched a portion of the fine powder, and gingerly lifted it to the left nostril where it disappeared with a powerful snort. The process was repeated, the right nostril refusing to be left out. No snuff was saved because the old man would not live for a next time. He balled up the empty newspaper and put it in the pocket of his robe along with the string. Soon the tobacco mixture prepared by the local healer brought a calm focus to his mind. Both the immense sky and the rolling land in front of him began to float, merging with his introspection. More than an hour of early morning had passed since he stopped walking and took his position under a mango tree at the edge of the fields, but with the love of the snuff in his veins, he was not counting the minutes. He stared straight ahead at the land, his view of the village herd grazing in the distance blocked only by head-high termite mounds. The heads of cattle meant more than any visitor could understand, but he was not there to consider changes, contemplate how the land had fared of late, or what the community had lost. Instead, he came to the mango tree each day to ponder the fixed and permanent reality lying behind appearances. For he believed the essence behind forms did not disappear merely because it was unrecognized and forgotten. The old man rubbed his lips with his tongue, smiled, and looked down at the ground beside him. He reached and opened one of his two bags, distinguishing it by touch more than sight, and removed the fruit collected from a couple of nearby snot apple trees during his morning 16 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

walk. His teeth and gums were too old to chew through to the sticky sweetness, but he remembered how his son had loved them in his early years and thought how there would be more youth passing through who would enjoy them all the same. Now his son was in Brussels and the old man didnt know what he enjoyed, but he knew nothing was irreplaceable and some other tot would learn the same games. Several chickens had spilled out from the nearest homestead and the old man sensed their presence as they picked at the dirt on the nearby path. He wondered if his own spirit would be left in the soil to be pecked by the fowl, forcing it to haunt his vale, or if it would be honored and appeased. Far away, his son was too busy to keep the necessary obligations of their people, the rift was already wide, the fire of existence forgotten. Something else was more important now, prized beyond their people, valued more than wisdom. It was not the old mans preoccupation, however, for he had done his part and fulfilled his role. Minutes later he opened his second bag and pulled out three hard-boiled eggs, setting them on the top of the first bag one at a time. He cracked the first egg on a rock protruding from the ground to his left, then removed the shell. It did not come off easily and so he tore it away from the cell piece by piece. Each flake fell to the ground in primordial contrast with the soil. The old man lifted the slippery whiteness to his mouth, took a bite, and there was yellow. After much fiddling with his favorite gadget, Nick left his fathers pleasant cottage and set off on his morning run, iPod ear phones stuffed in his ears. With two years of college complete, the priests son had traveled overseas during summer vacation to visit his father for the first time. Within twenty four hours of arrival he had been ready to

A Death Unseen |
Timothy Dodd
return to his own English comforts and rituals, but he had little choice except to fake perseverance. Tall and lean, loose from his pre-run stretch, he set out across the mission lawn contemplating next weeks return home. Following the usual route he had established from his fathers recommendations, Nick admitted to himself that the trail was scenic and the air excellent for running. The course passed over church grounds and into a small forest where energetic mongooses ran and playful packs of Vervets tirelessly climbed. From there it winded through the grazing fields of the village and on to the river. A little over three miles each way, the jog took him approximately an hour to complete. The cold season had arrived and the morning brought a chilly air. The monkeys were particularly chatty, but otherwise the youth met no one on his path. Emerging from the forest into village pastures, his endorphins already clicking, Nick noticed a large figure under a tree in the distance. He slowed down to look more closely, but it was not identifiable. Thinking that it may be a warthog or other wild animal from the forest, Nick stopped, pulled out his ear plugs, and took out the pocket binoculars he carried in the event something interesting appeared. Holding the binoculars to his eyes, he twisted the left eyepiece into focus. Peering across the fields, he quickly saw that his subject was an old man in a disheveled, brown robe. The binoculars easily identified that much, but they could not detect the old mans impending death. Disappointment bordered on disgust as the youth clicked his lips and brought the binoculars down to his waist. Annoyed that his run had been interrupted, he put them back in his pocket and started off again. The old man carefully cracked the final egg just as he had cracked the first and second. Its shell followed the first two to the ground, spreading out like puzzle pieces that would never fit together again. He bit into the last egg, bit deeply, sought to reach far into its taste, to relish and to know a profound simplicity. He chewed and swallowed. Then, the last piece went inside his mouth and it too was swallowed, starting its journey until reunited with the others. Backing up along the ground until his buttocks reached the base of the tree, the old man relaxed against the smooth bark. He looked at the pieces of egg shells spread to his right before peering up at the sky and then out at the fields. He saw there was a boy running, approaching. He had seen him on earlier occasions, an obvious visitor. The old man took a deep breath and felt the eggs settling inside his stomach. Then he let his eyelids softly fall and cover the sockets. The eggs stopped moving. Nick arrived at the mango tree, passed by without looking at the old man, and did not wish to break his run. The flecks of broken eggshells did not shine as gold or diamonds and an old skin covered in worn out clothes held no attraction for him. Programmed drum beats were in his mind. Deaths arrival beneath the tree had gathered momentum, was no longer a mere phase or transition, but the young man would not delay. Neither would the old mans son delay after a quick arrival from Brussels. While holding the casket, he would not see that death had grown more muscular legs, insatiably eating the elemental dusts, cutting the umbilical cords path. But the run felt good and as Nick returned to the cottage he greeted his father who waved in the distance. Freshly dressed in uniform as he moved along the path to his church, the priest had several papers to file and accounts to adjust, full English breakfast digested.

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 17

18 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

High Hopes
Maria Gvedashvili
sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 19

Naked Me
Jessica Karbowiak
at the images on the screen, the dark felt circles there telling my life, moving from Where-I-End-Up-After-Trauma to the Acts-of-Reparation-I-Do. My small, pink nipples are completely covered in color. Marker lines shoot up and out toward the center of where my nipples maybe used to be. Dr. Turner assures me this sometimes happens after women get pregnant, womens bodies change and settle after, though he doesnt ask me any questions about this, for which I am grateful. If I have to remove and reattach the nipples, you may not be able to breast-feed when you have children. Dont worry about that. Do what you have to do, to fix this. I motion down at the blotches of multi-colored skin, and for some reason I am still bending my knees. I cannot wait to get home and scrub away the grotesque treasure map he creates. At four years old, I begged my mother to join a swim team. She did some research and found out Mr. Green, the town swim coach, held practice sessions for little kids at the high school pool on Saturdays. When we arrived at the pool, I carried protective goggles and wore a flashy blue one-piece I picked myself. I wandered away from Mr. Green, who spoke with my mother about my age, shes young, only four, usually the kids are five and older, maybe next year I can test her, and made my way to the deep end of the pool. The chlorinated and warm air was something I was familiar with. I swam summer days away in our aboveground backyard pool. I leaped into the water without notice until the splash of water echoed off the walls. I pulsed through the water, my body creating a rhythm so natural the ripples of water became my whole self, not separate but part of a new and liquid me, swimming there. When I lifted my head above water, Mr. Green leaned over the pools edge, his hand reaching for my own and he smiled. He decided to give me a chance, and made me the youngest team member. I am standing again in front of those damn bathroom mirrors and the washable marker wont come off. I stand naked, scrub myself red-raw with a coarse cotton washcloth, desperate and deep motions to remove

am standing in front of the double-wide bathroom mirrors of my Texas home brushing my teeth when I first notice the settled droop of my breasts. The left breast seems an inch or so lower than the right and positioned at an awkward angle. I feel a heaviness that was not there before. I wonder if they shifted while I slept and healed these past few weeks. They look like two asymmetrical teardrops my body created of its own accord. I run my toothbrush under water, replace it in the ceramic holder, and shift my body from left to right. I cover myself with a white bathroom towel and move through the house and into the front room to search out a doctor on the computer. A few days later, Im sitting in the plush Austin waiting room of Dr. Turner. I smile at the nurse who leads me back into one of the exam rooms, tells me to disrobe and shuts the door behind her. I see myself in a standing mirror on the opposite wall, and am doing some right to left movements with my body when the doctor enters the room. I smile sheepishly and sit back down on the table, my breasts lopsided and still exposed. Dr. Turner is shorter than I imagined and older, but his gentle Texas drawl registers kindness. He asks me to stand and though I am not tall, I have to bend my knees forward so the black-felt marker he holds reaches the skin of my left breast. He assures me the marker is washable, itll wash right off, but Im not really listening, just feeling coldness of the markers tip touching down and pushing into my skin. He explains about the corrective surgery as I blink back warming tears. I stand naked from the waist up, wearing only faded jeans and sneakers. I feel awkward bending my knees and unsure of where to place my bodys weight as I do this, so I shift from my left foot to right, a manic thing. The nurse snapped several photographs of my bare breasts with the preliminary paperwork, and she does againtwo close-ups and two far-aways for later review. The movement of her camera, the way the pictures become visible on the computer screen in the corner right away seem to stand for dark and drastic things, the livedthrough-things I must continually find ways to fix. I stare 20 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

the imprint. I shower at least three times the first night, the water on the hottest setting. Water pelts my skin as I move a scrub brush across my chest in circular motions, feel my spirit moving downward into the bristles puncturing my skin and drawing drops of blood. The marker takes hold for at least four days, and stubborns to disappear. By day five, it is a nearly-there childs drawing I tolerate, stop scouring hard, and let the rest dissolve finally, finally on its own. I get used to the jarring feel of naked, the setaparted-ness between myself and this body I inhabit. It feels we are two separate selves, so it is easier to keep myself from weeping in the different exam rooms of Dr. Turners office before the surgery. I notice the way the images in the room coalescemy bare breasts in the wall mirror, lit up on the computer screen, and my naked self standing thereso when I cock my head to the side and squint my left eye closed, the room becomes a triangulation of images; my asymmetrical breasts moving out of the periphery of my vision into infinity. My mother flies down to Texas only months after the second scraping. I notice how haggard she looks as she drags her beaten brown luggage through the front door and my dogs bark a mad welcome. We dont talk about the impending surgery, ignore the call of my history and healthshe will only say how lucky I am to be aliveand I listen with a fixed face, dont say what it is I know, how the body that betrays its owner too often becomes discrete and leaves loss in its wake, brittle and broken things. I fend off earnest phone calls from my family and friends, smoke heavily on the back porch sitting alone at the green metal table. I avoid my mother and boyfriend, my neighbors call hello over our shared fence, feel not solid sitting there but transparent, notice the teeter-totter way I manage my body lately, feel shamed and collapsiblenot the tough and brave girl my loved ones and

doctors admireand not the girl who always survives. When I was in sixth grade, my mothers friend Gwen treated my brother, sister and I to a day at Robert Moses beach. We waded out in low tide with her daughter Erin, farther out than my mother or father ever would have let us go. Gwen flirted with the young lifeguard on shore as we staked a spot on the sandbara layer of thick sand and pebbles formed by the lazy currentsand realized just how far from shore we were. Pebbles mixed with the silt layer and scratched at our bare feet as we did sloppy cannonballs over the right side of the sandbar into deep water. Erin and I were avid swimmers, but my sister and brother had to doggy-paddle back. Our skin chapped from the coldness, the water changing temperature as we stood and surveyed the long swim to shore. Erin jumped into the water heading back and her entire body disappeared beneath what was no longer a low tide, the ridge of sand beneath our feet loosening and slipping away until we were submerged in what felt like bottomless water. Erin swam halfway back to shore and when my head reappeared over waters edge, I could not see my brother or sister anywhere. I pulsed my body to bob with the waters now-turbulent force, groped clammy fingers in the water around me and felt the small ridge of bone, the shoulder of my brother. My sisters head became visible a few feet away as she struggled to move toward me. I lifted my brothers body out of the cold and onto my back. His fingers clawed my face, and my sister grabbed hold of my right shoulder to keep her head above water. The three of us shoved toward shore, my slender body pushed forward with the chill of waves, and we saw the lifeguard running into the water, Gwens hands to her mouth and screaming as Erin stood draped in a towel beside her. sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 21

I have to bend my knees forward so the black-felt marker he holds reaches the skin of my left breast.

It senses people falling apart as I move through the store, the gas station, the movie theater.
and closes the bedroom door, shout at him to please help me I cant do this anymore I cant do all this myself, and he gives me a look and walks out. My mother enters the room, trains her eyes on his back as he heads to the front room, turns to me and we share it, that look, the knowing I dont want to know, how trauma sometimes shows the real even when we arent looking for it, and I scream and sob, say mommy, mommy please do it, help at twenty-five and my forty-nine year old mother shoves the flat white tablet up my ass ever-quick so the awkward sensation gets lost amid the burning nausea bubbling up and moving off. A month later and the bathroom mirrors are covered with large patterned beach towels and masking tape because I cant bear to see the chapped skin, the blistering and swell of this alien body. A month later and the build up of what this body has been through sets in. It senses people falling apart as I move through the store, the gas station, the movie theater. The body smells the odor of need on them, these fallingdown people, and I smile and nod at these strangersthey share stories I have no room for, nowhere to placeand their sadness makes this body shiver from head to toe. One girl at the gas station on the corner has loud words with her boyfriend, him slamming inside and her on tears edge, and me at the next pump with my boyfriend rolling his eyes and filling the tank, she finds my face says hes not always like this, hes just in a mood, by way of apology, the good-looking kid in the gas station getting coffee, and its my body moving to where she stands, touching her shoulder and watching her well up saying hey its fine, it happens, sometimes you just have an off day you know, youre fine, things are fine and even the smallness of this penetrates, she smiles, less red now and thanks me, puts the pump back in the holder, enters the gas station wiping her eyes. This body becomes a destination, a safe place for people to come, admit weakness and fear, though I myself feel watery and feeble, a collapsible thing standing with still-bent knees in Dr. Turners office, naked from the waist up and trembling.

Water invaded my body and melded with my whole self as my brothers racing heart pulsed into my back. My sister shivered and cried as the riptide pelted our faces with pebbles and sand from our former sandbar, the illusion of fixed ground now completely gone. Adults watched from the edge of shore and cheered me on while my brothers hands waved frantically at them above my head. The weight of his body pushed me down, down so I had to buoy myself in a constant and measured pulse not to breath water, to live, to be alive and save us. When I wake up after my surgery, the nurse has her face in my face, the smell of coffee and something fetid, and I tell her to get away, get away youre too close, and make enemies at the nurses station. That night, I weep long and loud, press the call button on the side of the bed over and over, hear the shuffle and low murmur of women at the center desk. I sit with pain over-long until one finally arrives with arched eyebrows. Her lips pucker with attitude and she asks me what do you need tonight, and I sob and tell her Im sorry, Im sorry for being such a bitch, Im not good at this, it hurts please, it hurts and she catches my eye and drops the mask, moves in to help. I maneuver to use the cold metal bed pan several times. Urine tangs the pan and drips down my inner thighs, but I am embarrassed and cant ask anyone for help so I let the urine dry there and create an odor. Clear drainage tubes are attached to both breasts and move up into some sort of cylindrical container. I lay naked in bed from the waist up for the two day hospital stay, covered in cotton bandages white and rough so I beg my mother to buy off-color dressings for the weeks that follow the wrapping and ointment, the crusting over and bleeding outcannot stomach the bright whiteness of these bandages that always seem to cover my body and stifle. My first night home, nausea sets in, the risk of heaving dangerous right now, and I clutch a chalky white suppository in my hand. I kneel on my bed and will myself to just do it, its no big deal, but I have finally reached the place, that limit, call weakly for my boyfriend who enters 22 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

Actress
Maria Gvedashvili
sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 23

The Hermit Prescribes Abstinence

Marty McConnell
within a month, sex is another country. a place you recall visiting, fondly, the palm trees, the heat, the long journey and the landing, how the language turned your tongue into a new, more fervent creature. here you will learn to unknot your own shoulders, how to pop your own hip joints to release the calcium into the bloodstream. whatever you believe here is true; its only you needs convincing. revel in the smolder. wallow in the almost, bask in the tease like sixteen, like cat and string. youre nearly innocent. to go without touch you must endure your own skin, come to your own deliberate reflection with the adoration you reserved for the other, the beloved, make a braille of your warped joints, your petulant nipples, the rabbity skin of your palms, the rosary of your spine tumbling toward the ass you slide further and further down in the bath. what have you given the night that it has not given back? tell yourself its another country. an island you dreamed you once visited. what is it you can only accept slipping from a lovers tongue? why are your own hands damaged birds by comparison? distance has its benefits. the bed cups your predilections better than any lover. the pillow has never lied. you are electric, a bundled wire, more alive than at any prior minute. your body is a nation of pretty grenades. you finger the rings for hours. 24 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

Miss
Maria Gvedashvili

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sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 25

Practicing the French Kiss

Sonya Lea
with sensuality. Not the shout it from the billboard kind of kissing, but the kind we saw in front of the frightening Rousseau painting at the Musee' d'Orsay -- the young man and woman turning their heads toward each other under "War," their kiss an antidote, a communication of what could not be said, a politeness even, a way to hold the exposure to tragedy inside, amongst a room of visitors. The kiss showed itself to us, consumed us really in our trips to Paris. In the Marais one Saturday night we had dinner at a communal table, our ears trying to pick up the patter of a barely known language in the two men sitting next to us. We understood everything in the way the curlyheaded one twirled the ring on the finger of the one with the sideways grin, then leaned over and kissed his palm. The next morning, rushing to find a cafe' that served omelets, I stopped to watch the reflection in a patisserie window: a middle-aged woman wrapped her arm around another woman's head, leaned in, bit her lovers ear. I had been hungry for this, as it turns out. In another country I was satiated by the calm ease with which the gestures transpired, an effortlessness so transparent that it made me grieve for the loss of it on the streets of my own life. The kissing in the airport calms me; I'm not sure what effect it has on the screaming man, but he stops the tirade. Ten hours later we are in a hotel room in Detroit where we will wait for the next flight. My husband, he of the magnificent French kiss, turns on the television. Across the room I see him flip through ESPN and local news and stock exchange rattle, and the world we created over there starts to slide away. All I can manage is: "I can't watch this crap. I can't do it. I'm going out." But he doesn't let me. He turns off the television and we banter back and forth a few minutes, and because we have been to many countries that have changed us, because we act as if the world we have agreed to

"In dreams and in love there are no impossibilities." Janos Arony, Hungarian poet

or three months we lived in a village in Brittany, in a 400 year old watermill on an island surrounded by a fast flowing river, guarded by a goose. It was a time of quiet because my husband had lost his memories of our former life and his desire to speak, the result of a brain injury. We could live in a new rhythm in that place, our days composed of rural pleasures: dreaming, walking, reading, watching nature, building fires, retrieving the daily baguette, going to the village market and creating food a la Francoise. We were house-sitting for a friends father, counting the days until we had to return home, and confused about what home was anymore. In the airport lounge where we waited to return to the U.S., the first thing I notice is the loudness of the American voices. Some woman in a tracksuit who hasn't eaten red meat for a week shouts out her need for a rare steak. A pair of American women discuss their children, strident enough for us to hear about their GPAs, their summer programs. A belligerent man takes to smoking in the no smoking zone, yelling at his wife to "Fuck off! Leave me alone! I told you I wasn't going to take it!" The change in tone is so abrasive that I start to do tonglen, the meditation that Pema Chodron teaches, on how to breathe in and transform difficult situations. This is not working fast enough. The young bohemian couple across the room is transfixed and appalled by the way the man demeans his wife. People try to look the other way and can't. There must be an injection of love in the room, I think. I throw my arms around my husband, kiss him in the way I've watched French couples kiss each other in museums, on the streets, in the train stations. I run my hands along his hair, adoring him. Because he has been living in France too, he kisses me back, heartily. In the airport we fill ourselves up with love, suffuse our hair and skin and words 26 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

We often cannot hear the question mark that entreats us into conversation.

let in is kind, we go back to trying to understand each other. We make a compromise, one that will involve his need for a film in English, and my desire to soak in hot water. Later we eat pizza and a hamburger from the hotel restaurant. We ask, "What do you want to keep from over there?" I want to keep turning towards the person I disagree with, respecting them through exchange. I want to know when to kiss in silence, when to erupt in hearty dialogue. I tell my husband about the day at the Pompadeau, the museum of modern art, when Id watched two men, an American and a French man, get into an exchange about architecture as they exited a design exhibition. "It's the functionality, the ability to work," said the American. "But if there are no quality materials, then the design is a failure!" said the French man. And then the American hung back, his silence holding his disagreement, unwilling to go out on the limb of conflict. "We rely on the quality, n'est pas?" said the French man again, wanting the conversation to continue. Behind him a large color photograph of a Madonna concert glared, its circus aspects amplified by the giant stature of the camera frame. This is how our country is, I think: we are big and bold especially when the way is ours to take, when the performance is one that we control. We often cannot hear the question mark that entreats us into conversation; our discussion ends when the world's is just beginning. The American man nodded his head; that was enough. The French man walked with him explaining more. We hold hands across the table and remember one of our last hikes along the canal, trying to hold in our memory the people milling in the charcuterie, the polite, bon soir we hear along the trail as other couples perform this daily ritual of the sunset stroll. We ache to remember the polite exchange, the peaceful gathering of such places, the way it has both civilized us and brought us to our wildish heart.

That day, as we crossed the street towards the woods a strange form moved into in my sight line. In the sky a flock of about a hundred birds moved across the sky from south to north, in a revolving motion that replicated the movement and shape of a DNA strand. "Oh my God!" I said, as I stared, "Have you ever seen anything like it?" My husband, transfixed, shook his head. As the birds rotated within their shape they also flew across the sky, a sphere moving on an axis, each bird holding its position through flight and stasis. We speculated on what held them in this exact shape without the form disintegrating: perhaps their calls, perhaps their relationship to each other, perhaps a flutter of the wing. The birds disappeared behind the towers of a castle, and we stood for a moment to breathe, holding hands, trying to take in what we had witnessed. It was too much to speak of -- we didn't have the meaning, and yet the birds were already inside us, shaping us, the fact that their form did happen, this magic at twilight. Over the first American dinner my husband hands me the olives from his drink, keeps one for himself. "What's necessary now?" I ask, "How do you want to live?" He's ready to go back to work, but he also wants the quiet of rest, the spaciousness of naps, the inner sanctum of reading. "What else?" I press. He looks at me, open-eyed, wonder streaming through the jet lag. He tries to speak but cannot find the words. It's okay because when I kiss him later I will understand: he wants to remember that it happened; he wants to keep all the unknowing that sits at the center of a mystery. ~

Sonya & Richard are kissing somewhere in Seattle.

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Maria Gvedashvili
28 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 29

Mourning Adrienne Richs Identity

Evan Hallman

In March 2012, mother, lover, poet, and vast-influencer Adrienne Rich passed away at the age of eighty-two due to complications of her long battle with rheumatoid arthritis. In a time of great social change, and hope for change, we cannot let the importance of Rich upon this post-second wave feminist generation be lost. In the following, Evan Hallman recounts what weve lost, but also what weve gained.
nyone can simply log on to Wikipedia and look up who Adrienne Rice was; what's not so easy is finding out what she really meant. Rich's poetry is a testament to not only the sexual liberation of the time in which she was writing, but also to the sexuality and confused identity of women and lesbians across generations. Unfortunately, she may not be as relevant or widely known as she once was, but the loss of this important writer may allow her works to resurface; especially when one considers the recent events in legalizing gay marriage. Her legacy and the corpus of works that she has left behind is one that cannot be ignored and is essential to understanding queer theory in contemporary literature. Rich's poetry, on a superficial level, seems to be clamoring for an identity. Mixed into it is equal parts beautiful imagery, angry feminism, and new-found sexuality. The early 1960's saw a radical change in her writing. It was around this time that she began to explore her own femininity and what that really meant to her. This new take on her own poetry was not received well by critics, but to Rich it was a renaissance of identity. Pulled between woman, mother, and wife (constructions and identities that were out of her own hands), the verbose poet sought some semblance of reconciliation between all the spaces she viewed herself as occupying. This marks to real beginnings of her journey through feminist and homosexual literature. This inner struggle is not only what compels the work of Rich, but it composes and compels all feminist and queer literature. They are narratives of struggle: struggle on multiple levels. On the intrinsic level: it is a struggle to rationalize discoveries in identity with preconceived notions about the self. The 30 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality struggle of the feminist and homosexual is to replace the mainstream mindset that has been ingrained in them with their new marginalized one. Extrinsically, this is a struggle against society. The dominant heterosexual male society that modern value systems are built upon is vehemently opposed to these new notions that Rich expresses in her poetry. These notions of struggle and rebellion should come as no surprise coming from a writer like Rich. Writing in the 1960's and 70's, she must have been fueled by the exotic scent of revolution wafting through the airwaves across the nation. The Sexual Revolution did not only bring "Free Love," for Rich it brought an idea of "All Love." Something as pure and beautiful as love should not be defined by things as simple as biological gender. The Revolution is not one of acceptance only; it is also a fight for separation and independence. While there is the desire for inclusion in the mainstream as opposed to being subjugated by it, there is also the desire to be separate from it and develop a self-standing identity and ideology. As much as it is about being accepted by society, it is first and foremost about being accepted by oneself. To put faith in anything else is nothing short of submitting to the systems that they exist in. The systems are made up of individuals and they must work to keep it that way instead of the systems creating the individuals that it turn support them. Getting back to how this interplay of identity and system relates to Adrienne Rich: homosexuality is dissent to these systems. Rich's writing stresses how marginalized groups must come to be accepted into the mainstream of culture, while at the same time giving them a domineering identity to stand upon. Rich is part revolutionary and part philosopher; her introspections on her own female identity

are not only a journey of self-discovery, but a discourse in As the poem continues, it details the divers social change. As her work progresses through the years, it descent into an abyss of "blue light" and "clear atoms." This is increasingly filled with anger, angst driven by a nation on pilgrimage into another world is reminiscent of a journey the brink of cultural catastrophe and her own attempts to not only into the ocean but to one's very soul. I must sound reconcile her own existence within that sphere. like a broken record, but any connoisseur of Rich will notice This clash between the extrinsic and the intrinsic the overarching, almost overbearing themes of identity pervades the works or Rich and molds them. It all revolves that her poetry contains. Not only finding this identity, around this idea of identity. But what of her actual work? but running from it as well. The alienation, the anxiety, Of all her poetry, Rich is probably remembered best for the fear at being different and not being able to express it, Diving Into The Wreck. A very pretty poem on the surface it's all within Rich's poetry. The quagmire of the human about deep-sea-diving, the poem contains layers of subtext condition bogs her down as she wades deeper and deeper particular to the writers battle within herself and the into it, being unable to avoid her duties to her prescribed elements around her. roles but unwilling to deny the roles beckoning in her own The poem begins with a masking; the diver has head. This masking, this idea of being an identity chameleon, wrapped themselves in the trappings of their trade. The eventually almost comes as second nature as the narrator outfit is awkward and drab, unnatural. By covering herself realizes she needs, "to learn alone/ to turn my body without in this unnatural garb, the speaker makes herself acceptable force/ in the deep element." The diver loses her purpose to the hostile environment she is about to enter. This is a amidst the surrounding sea and finds it difficult to find clear metaphor for the assumed identity constructions one it when she is so out of place and there are so many who takes on in public. Rich struggles with the identity that is the belong there. The trepidation at becoming something alien true Adrienne Rich and within an environment that which is portrayed weighs heavily upon to the public. Although and Rich. This The quagmire of the human the diverconfusion of it is cumbersome and loss and awkward, it is almost seen identities causes nothing condition bogs her down as a necessary provision. but remorse, especially in If one is to exist in any young men and women as she wades deeper and kind of environment, they trying to find themselves must adapt what is on and their sexuality. deeper into it. the outside accordingly. Rich's poem is for these The feminist and lesbian downtrodden souls: for identities that Rich has fostered within herself must be the effeminate kid in school who's called a faggot, for the suppressed in public situations. This is not an outright denial housewife whos only still with her husband because she of it; it is a masking. It is also important to point out that doesn't know what else there could be, for the child who the speaker says that they must make their journey alone, will never come out to their parents out of fear of rejection. pointing out the importance of solitude and introspection Rich's own time was not as accepting as our own, and even into the creation of identity and at the same time the now pockets of bigotry and hatred still exist. As of this isolation and alienation of having an identity that would writing, North Carolina recently passed a law banning gay seem deviant to the masses. But it is not deviant to Rich; marriages. While the outward ramifications of this are surely there is strength and solidarity in the way that this journey controversial, just imagine how it impacts those who are into one's very soul is made independently. still on the fence about their sexuality. And so, because this

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 31

Life is plagued with the ambiguous strewn pieces of the wreck and the mythos that these pieces have inspired.
are. Its like looking on past memories with a fond sense of nostalgia only to find that youre looking at things through rose-tinted glasses. But this is the ultimate destination of Richs diver, nay, all of us. The sexual identity of a generation lies rotting under the crashing and oppressive waves. The people that this wreck was for are all but lost as the pages turn in, a book of myths/ in which/ our names do not appear. These ideas of sexual and gender identity might be antiquated and surface level when looking at a poem of such profound depth and impact, but the ideas presented are nonetheless ones that are important to not only the works of Rich, but American discourse in general. Rich suffered from an inner struggle over her conflicting roles as a woman and how that played into her sexuality. Alienation and confusion have become the mainstays of the homosexual experience. If one is to look at the poetry of Rich, however, they can find answers into how to rise above this degradation. First of all, identity and sexuality are situational. One must be willing to adjust themselves to time, place, and condition. This is not a denial of the self, even calling it a repression may be going too far, but the masking of identity is something that everyone takes part in and is a social expectation. What must never be forgotten is what lies beneath that mask. Strive to keep yourself honest and dedicated to the persona that you have created for yourself. And while notions of a society that is not bound by these gender constraints may be an unrealistic one, that does not mean that we should ever stop moving forward. It is unlikely that bigotry and hate will ever cease, or that everyone will have true peace of mind about who they truly are, but we can make a running effort. Generations have come and gone since Adrienne Rich had her existential crisis with identity. Hippies and revolutionaries have grown old and gray. And while the days of free love and sexual liberation may have passed, sexual confusion and gender identity have not. They are, unfortunately, part of the American way of life and social consciousness. Despite the relentless march of years and social progress, Rich remains as valid as she ever was. Her passing marks the end of an era; an era of sexual fulfillment and discovery, the likes of which has never been seen before. The world is a confusing place, and no one has all the answers. But it doesnt matter if youre gay, straight, or not quite sure yet, so long as you are you and love that person.

cycle of discrimination continues, the sexual outcasts of society must constantly wander from identity to identity like persona gypsies. Rich is all too attuned to their plight. The diver turns her attention back to the matter at hand, the entire reason she has come to this abyss of uncertainties and ambiguities: exploring the wreck. She seeks the wreck itself, no crude facsimile of it. Life is plagued with the ambiguous strewn pieces of the wreck and the mythos that these pieces have inspired, but the diver is getting at the truth of the matter, to the very core of its value and meaning. While literary works are always open to interpretation and contain any myriad of meanings, let us stick to the maxim that has served thus far concerning what exactly this wreck is the Rich's dutiful diver is plodding ever towards. The theme that has remained a constant in Rich's work is that of truth and real identity. The wreck is like a beacon, a glimmer of honesty in a realm of deception, offering the diver insight into what she exactly is. Simultaneously, the wreck is also what it explicitly is: a wreck. The elements themselves have degraded the once proud and mighty vessel into a shell of its former glory. Bereft of attention and use, it has fallen into a form almost unrecognizable. The constant forays into the shoes of other persona's and temperaments has left disfigured the true being beneath all the clutter, scared and mangled by the forces it hides from. The wreck is not only the last vestige of individual identity, but also the past, present, and future of the sexual identity inherent to the collective unconscious of every man woman and child. It is the journey that sexuality has made through American discourse and ideology. Visions of the diver as both a male and female populate the lines, a mermaid with beautiful hair yet also a man in grave armor. These are both vastly different images, but they both occupy the same space inside the diver. The sexual repression that is inherent in the American system is laid bare at the sight of the majestic wreck, and the manifestation of true inner sexuality is made apparent. They enter the wreck together and make manifest the claiming of sexual identity. It is here, at the end, that the poem takes on what almost feels akin to the recollection of a trauma victim. The exploration of the dilapidated bowels produces what is left of the vestiges of sexuality. The once proud and noble vessel has been gutted and rotted out, time-eaten artifacts populating the otherwise barren interior. This is the state of the individual, this is the state of society, We are, I am, you 32 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

Ark Codex

0:3:0: ChampaGne sprAy from The Arks iniTiation Gobbed CATGUT sTrinGs on the mean-spiriTed oBiTuarya nexted hox-schema nose inherited lingually as taste from other antennae. Sense is fuseless here. The actual fitting is complete & formica applied. We sole speakers bide our time in the masts umbra, sustaining ourselves for the sake of itever in need of a fix but not conscious of what needs fixing. Unable to tell spin up from down. Strapping ourselves to any fixed object in anticipation of the jettisoned turbulence. sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 33

Tracey J. Whitney
Having a several-hour phone chat with Tracey J. Whitney should probably be on your bucket list. Ms. Whitney is a beauty-blogger who is actually so much more. Shes funny, kind, smart, creative, and interesting. Your phone call will start talking about beauty post entries and body image and end talking about dating horror stories, people you mutually know from twitter, and Girl Scout cookies (all that last stuff was OTRoff the record). Tracey Whitney is a selfdescribed Pop Culture Geek, and graduate of Newberry College in Boston (Tracey says, Well, its in Brookline, but everyone says Boston) where she studied Media. To balance her life in the corporate world, Tracey started the blog PopTrashBeauty to dial into her creative side. You can follow Traceys blog at poptrashbeauty.blogspot.com, and her Twitter @TraceyJWhitney.

The Depth of Beauty:

An interview by Laura Hallman

SB: Where did the name PopTrashBeauty come from? TJW: It came from a Duran Duran song called Pop Trash Movie. I really loved what the song was explaining. I took beauty and put it on the end of it because it would be a good acronym. It encapsulated the diversity of the blog. Theres a part of the lyric that says Ill be famous for 15 minutes (finish). I felt like it fit with the whole theme, were all living in our own pop trash movie but its a good one. [Laughs] SB: How did you start writing a blog? TJW: Basically I needed a creative outlet. I was in corporate America, which we all know is a very restrictive community. I had all these things I needed to express. I needed a place to put all these things I was thinking about. I needed to keep up with my makeup artistry. I noticed women needed some kind of outreach, for someone to say, Hey, Im you. Im a crazy geek too. All that media stuff is crap. You are beautiful. I find putting myself out there brings strength to others. They think, If Tracey can do it, I can do it. SB: Where do you get your ideas? TJW: They come from everywhere. They come from Twitter. I pull from pop culture, Duran Duran. If theyre into it, theres some offshoot I can pull off. People I now, art I see. I keep an eye on the news, or any freaky, weird thing I see. A little bit of everything. Sometimes Duran Duran gives me a lot of material, not even about them, theyre just innovators and I think a lot of people dont realize that. SB: I know you sometimes reach out on Twitter to get help with blogs. This is very inventive in our new technology boom. Youre very active on Twitter and seem to have a close-knit, yet large in number, group of followers. How does social media play a role in your blogging and your every day life? TJW: I developed a big Twitter following, but I was always careful to follow people who were interesting and I wanted to connect with. I like to find the commonality. Watching people tweet, you find who people are. Im close to 5,000 followers. I have close relationships with about 150 of them. I really value my friendships on Twitter. I like the responses I get when I send out a question. I look at things in a whole different way. The- blog winds up being completely different and better. You can talk to a lawyer, a housewife, a mechanic and theyre all from different walks of life. The coolest experience was during Eurovisionit was like everyone

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all came together. A lot of my readers have an influence. A lot of PTB is driven by Twitter. SB: How long does a blog post take to create? TJW: It depends. I have two topics: random life post, just to update my followers on what Im going through and whats in development. I spend a week to two weeks in development. Some are time sensitive and need to go out in a day. A life post can be done quickly. Its just a way of checking in and letting them know whats coming up. My readers do ask for it, Why havent you updated. Its a great relationship, what you give out you get back. SB: What are you favorite kind of blogs to write? TJW: I love doing, actually, when we were talking about androgyny. I love exploring that. I like the abstract and different. Like the post about men wearing bras and men wearing heels. It was very different. Those are my favorite kinds, where I learn something. I also like the makeup blogs. I love using my artistry, I love to teach. SB: What are the hardest kinds of blogs to write? TJW: Id have to say the body image posts for me. I go through it as well. I go out of my comfort zone. You really have to peel away my insecurity and offer up yourself for you readers, basically. Im a curvy girl, but I do write about anorexia and bulimia, because were all sisters basically. Were all connected with what were going through. Body image is hard because its very personal but any uncomfort is worth it if Im helping people. SB: What kinds of blogs get the best reaction? TJW: You know, this has been funny. My readers have been changing. Theyre really liking the environmental things were talking about. People have been really receptive about that. We also have a new muse in Julian Lennon. I did not expect it. Ive stumbled upon it. In the history of the blog, the makeup looks get the best response. People are going out and experimenting with what we see. Duran Duran-based posts always get a lot of attention. Duran Duran put a post out on their page about it and retweets. They just loved it. Theyve done a couple RTs, including the lupus butterfly. Theyre starting to read, which is really amazing to me. That was a big thing to us. SB: Your blog receives a lot of attentionincluding awards. Tell me about that. TJW: The blogging awards were given to me by bloggers in my community, which is really an honor. Theyre peer dominated. In this little world, these blogs are much bigger than mine, which makes this so gratifying. These women I look up to are recognizing me. Theyre hard to get, weirdly enough. Then youre expected to give them as well. I try

to do high profile people and people who just need the confidence boost as well. SB: Where did your interests in beauty, makeup, and fashion begin? TJW: Its something Ive always had since I was young. I was always so interested in fashion and how it ties in with pop culture. Its such a time capsule to whats going on in our time now. What drives me in fashion and makeup is the artistry. I always want to share that with people. People say, Oh, thats the high end avante garde, I cant even look at it, and I say yes you can. Following Duran Duran as a fan throughout the years makes me look at things I never looked at before. Im curious about the world too. SB: Personally, lipstick is the most challenging part of makeup for me, so I particularly loved your recent 12 lipsticks post. What are some of your favorite tips? TJW: Lets see. I think first off with makeup: its not rocket science. Dont let it intimidate you. Once you have the basics, youre the boss. One things for the ladies, dont try to be something youre not. White eyeliner is the most amazing invention. People are afraid of it. Just apply it in the corner of your eyes and youll be amazed at the transformation. Its highly underused. You look like youve slept, even if you havent. It takes years off your life. Be very careful about your foundation. Were intimidated by it. Dont just settle, do your homework. A lot of women hate eye shadow. They are traumatized by it. It makes them look like a lady of the night or a clown. Read my cracking the eye shadow code post and watch my YouTube videos. Bring your skill level up, then master it. SB: You have multimedia on your blogsspecifically videos youve created. Does this allow you to be more creative? Is it more challenging? TJW: Definitely more challenging to do the videos. Let me tell you. Because, once again, were talking about body image and putting yourself out there. Ive been asked for them. I put it off, and finally Im doing it and getting comfortable. I like writing and posting pictures with captions because thats where my comfort level is. But my followers are forcing me to push past my insecurities. I shoot a lot of times because I dont like the way my nose looks in one or my head the other, so Ill shoot it again. My neighbors must think Im crazy because they keep hearing me talk in my bathroom. One of them said, I keep hearing you say Hi PopTrashBeauty. [Laughs.] SB: Youve been able to interview people for your blog. Explain this experience. Was there a highlight? TJW: The Jemma Kidd interview. Oh my god. It was a dream sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 35

come true. I had done a blog post about her because I would never get to talk to her. Thankfully enough she was going to be in my area for her line fall beauty. Her PR set up some interview with local writers and bloggers, and I was chosen! We had a hurricane. Her event was canceled. But we got to do an email interview. She was so down to Earth, so accessible. It was one of those things where you might be let down by one of your heroes, but it just showed how cool she was. Yeah, shes that cool. It just showed her character; she didnt have to. She seems like the kind of person you could just sit down and chill out with. I have a couple interviews coming up, but I cant divulge yet. SB: Tell me about the butterfly you created for Lupus Awareness. TJW: What I did is, I was on Julian Lennons facebook page. He talked about Lupus Awareness day, which was May 10th. I started reading about lupus. I have people in my own family affected by autoimmune disease. One thing I noticed is they kept talking about this butterfly mask. I thought about having me film this makeup segment with captions about lupus, and at the end take off the makeup and say I wish we could wipe away lupus. I actually got to talk to people struggling with lupus. I was able to get some words out. Kelly Martin retweeted the post and thanked me for the post. Julian Lennon liked it on his facebook page. Duran Duran retweeted it. We got a little bit of focus on the disease. I got to use my artistry to help. SB: I dont think Im giving away any secrets saying youre a big Duran Duran fanin fact, weve already talked about it organically. They frequently make it onto your page in different elements. Would you call the band inspiration? TJW: Yes. They are! I like to call them my subtle muse. They are inspiration to me. Theyre guys who keep it real. Through them I learned so much about pop culture and fashion. Ive made life long friends through message board and concerts. The whole culture. And then theres their charity work. SB: Explain guy liner. TJW: My favorite subject! A lot of guys got into this through the band culture. This goes way back to the New York Dollswho are the innovators of glam rock and everyone copied them. It seems in the mainstream guys are wanting to wear guyliner. Interesting enough, I got emails from guys on how to wear it. They were so cute about it. But I did a whole post. It was guys who wanted to wear it, or were in bands, or their girlfriends liked it, or drag queens too. I got that too. SB: Do you think about gender much while youre writing? TJW: I always include my guys in it. Men are also afflicted with body image issues. Youd be surprised how many men struggle with anorexia and bulimia. Its a lot of the same 36 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

issues women struggle with, but theyre much quieter about it because thats not manly, you know. Youd be surprised how many men are struggling with it too. I did a post called manorexia. I followed the journey of men with eating disorders. I got a lot of interesting emails from men saying, I go through this too and can relate to it. I try to include the men in a lot of things. PTB has a very healthy male following; you wouldnt think so but it does. SB: This interview is for Side Bs Gender & Sexuality issue. How do you feel about gender when it comes to style and beautydo you believe in firm definitions, or playing it fast and loose? TJW: Whatever you want to do. I think more and more that the line of what defines mens beauty and womens is blurring. Lets take metrosexuality. It was a big taboo at one time. It was defined to rock stars, corporate men, public figures. But its changing. Men can comfortably wear eyeliner and nail polish. In Japan theres male cosmetics, and theres a thriving market. We didnt have this even six years ago. I think its an improvement. A lot of men like to dress feminine but they dont feel comfortable. I go to the nail salon now and theres always a least two men there. And waxing. Theres a lot of waxing for guys. When I was in aesthetician school there was a lot of men coming in. SB: What is your favorite blog post ever? TJW: Oh my goodness, thats a hard one. It always changes. I have to say bacon beauty. I absolutely love bacon beauty. I know its not profound, but its the first time I felt confident as a blogger and used reader input. That and my happy little accident with Duran Duran. Actually, scratch the bacon, its that one. I had a photo and it ended up on the tour with Duran Duran. And my readers and I were all geeking out about it. Its very strange when youre on vacation, and youre finding a computer somewhere to check in with your followers on Twitter and your blog. SB: What do you think beauty is? TJW: Hmm. Thats an interesting question. I think beauty is what comes from inside. Your beauty is what, well aesthetics can extenuate it, but it comes from inside. You look beautiful when you feel beautiful. You can have a ton of makeup and look ugly as hell. But when you have it inside it glows. SB: Is there anything else you want to tell our readers? TJW: They should always love their selves as they are no no matter what your sexuality is, what you look like, or gender; just love yourself as you are. Now. Thats what I teach on PBR. If youre a geek or a freak love yourself as you are now. Thats why I do it. People come and say this girl is weird and so am I.

Poem for the lost nudes of Rock Hudson

Sean Patrick Mulroy
burned, probably, or torn into pieces, this story is actually three stories, and the last of them is fire. the fistful of pictures curling at the edges, hissing a slow dark smoke. in this way, the last story is like the first: once, a famous man burned for you, enough that he let you loose behind a camera. I might wonder how you pulled it off: negotiated with liquor, no doubt, and promises of trust you didnt know for certain would be false your hand steady on the shutter the movie star on his knees. it would have been better, if it had ended there, so lets not tell the second story. lets not dwell on your ugly and inevitable blackmail. Lets not follow the hired men he sent to your doorstep, or count your bloody teeth, scattered on the welcome mat. No. Lets focus instead on the photographs, writhing in flame, two naked men lit up so sweet, and so hot, if you were watching closely, youd have seen how they almost looked alive.

sex, gender, and sexuality side b magazine | 37

contributors
Eleanor Bennett
Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic,The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. The work of Boston-based poet and performer James Caroline is a mix of literary craft and vulnerability. With the intensity of his live shows garnering comparisons to Patti Smith, James has performed on three continents, competed in three National Poetry Slams, and represented the Cantab Lounge in the first ever Individual World Poetry Slam. He has twice been voted Best Local Author in a Boston Phoenix poll and won multiple Cambridge Poetry Awards for Best Slam Poet, Male and Best Erotic Performance Poet. He is currently working on a collection of poems and a novel in verse based on the myth of Dionysus. Timothy B. Dodd is from the hills of Mink Shoals, WV and currently peddles his Appalachian accent to 8th grade ESL students in Philadelphia, PA. He has lived in Zimbabwe, Ethiopia, and the Republic of Georgia, and outside of writing likes to oil paint and marvel at things such as Olmec heads." Marie Efinger spent the better part of her childhood roaming the East Coast, reenacting the Revolutionary War. Around campfires and strange men, she learned that most rules were merely made to manage the dumb and/or dishonest. Having discovered this at an early age, Efinger flaunts a subtle civil disobedience under the guise of compulsive altruism and grand displays of common sense. She graduated from East Stroudsburg University in 2009 with a BA in English Professional Writing. Maria Gvedashvili was born in Tbilisi, Georgia in 1986. Her grandfather, being a painter, instilled in her a love for art since childhood. She studied painting and drawing in art school and college, but was intrigued by photography, an interest that began from using her father`s old film camera, Zenith, at the age of 15. Her main sources of inspiration lie in her three children. Her daughter, Elly, acts as her main muse. as evident in her work. Evan Hallman is an avid literary critic with a keen interest in literary theory and post-modern literature. He is acclaimed for his frank style of criticism and cites Derrida as his chief source of inspiration. Besides criticism, he is also heavily involved in the theatrical scene, having directed multiple productions. In addition, he is also a busy researcher, having done studies of young adult literature for Shippensburg University.

James Caroline

Timothy Dodd

Marie Efinger

Maria Gvedashvili

Evan Hallman

38 | side b magazine sex, gender, and sexuality

Laura Hallman

Laura Hallman has two Bachelors of Art from East Stroudsburg University (Communications, Media Studies & English, Professional Writing), of which she uses neither in her everyday life. She is a regular contributor at Peripheral Surveys. You can catch her short fiction and poetry in Sea Giraffe magazine, Dr. Hurleys Snake Oil Cure, and 3:AM Magazine, among other places. Jessica Karbowiak has most recently been published in The Chaffey Review, Arcadia, Orion Headless, Canary and Blood Orange Review literary journals. Sonya holds a degree in English literature, and has written for The Southern Review, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, Tricycle, and for several anthologies. Originally from Kentucky, she lives in Seattle, Washington. You can find her at sonyalea.net and www.wonderingwhoyouare. tumblr.com. Marty McConnell lives in Chicago, Illinois where she works as a fundraiser for a youth and family center. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, and her work has recently appeared in A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry; City of the Big Shoulders: An Anthology of Chicago Poetry; Indiana Review; Crab Orchard; Salt Hill Review; Beloit Poetry Journal; Salt Hill Review; Drunken Boat; and is forthcoming in Gulf Coast. union army during the civil war to serve as a makeshift hospital. As a boy, Sean loved to peel back the carpets to show where the blood from hasty surgeries on wounded soldiers had stained the wooden floorboards. Now he writes poems. Check out http://www. thevanishingman.com. Casey Rocheteau performed poetry at Hampshire College, where she was one of the leaders of the Hampshire Slam Collective from 2004-2007. She has performed at Green Mill in Chicago and the Intangible Collective in New York City. Shes also led writing and performance workshops at Hampshire College, Brandeis University, Boston Public Library, Mass LEAP, Brookline High School and the College Union Poetry Slam. She has released two albums on the Whitehaus Family Record: Pump Your Concrete in 2008 and Chiaroscurro in 2011. I have self-published four books: Roguish Young Things (2006), Keelhaul (2007), and List of American Rituals (2008), 11:11 (2009). They are pages from an art book entitled ARK CODEX 0 that is forthcoming from Calamari Press in April 2012.

Jessica Karbowiak Sonya Lea

Marty McConnell

Sean Patrick Mulroy The house where Sean Mulroy grew up was built in 1801 and was commandeered by the

Casey Rocheteau

Ark Codex

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