Cha Cha Heels in the Woods

Recently, I went camping for the first time.

It’s not an aversion to nature that’s kept me away, it’s just that nature and I have never been properly introduced. I was raised in a concrete jungle by a woman who was quite convinced I would become pregnant if allowed outdoors.

So, I remained indoors doing what proper little Latin girls do: scrubbing toilets and training to be subservient to neanderthal husbands.

Things like learning to ride a bike and camping were not included in my “How to be a Wife and Mother” training. And it’s taken a while for me to get around to these outdoorsy activities on my own.

For one I’ve been busy learning other things – adult things – things that would make my mothers hair fall out if she knew, I knew how to do them. And two, I spend most of my leisure time with gay men who are more apt to be frolicking in da club than the woods. (yes, there are exceptions. See Radical Faeries.)

Despite being a latecomer to the world of camping, I was genuinely excited to experience this rustic rite of passage.

But, my gays ….. not so much. When I mentioned my intent to undertake a weekend in the great outdoors I received some interesting responses.

Mostly laughter.

I’ve never been a prissy girl: I love power tools and have no trouble using the “C” word. But, my flip flops do have 3 inch heels, mosquitoes do think I’m DELICIOUS and I do have a severe disdain for dirt and all things dirty. Perhaps that’s what made my decision questionable to some and downright hysterical to others.

Frankly, I was taken aback by the reactions. You’d think I was planning to scale Mount Everest wearing nothing but a bikini and a midget strapped to my back with the feedback I got.

Undeterred by the snickers, I made sure to pack a shit ton of bug spray and we were off. The “we” was my gentleman friend and I. He is not much of a planner, so I was left to handle the details, fully aware of the folly that is a camping virgin, planning a camping trip.

Undeterred by my inexperience, I made like Santa Claus, composing an exhaustive list and checking it twice, even thrice.

But, the list could not prepare us for my naivete. Did you know that places exist where cell phones don’t work? ………. I didn’t.

That is until we reached the campground: hours late, tired, hungry and not knowing exactly which camp site was ours. It would have been hilarious if we hadn’t have been so cranky.

Back in the car we went. We drove 25 miles to find a spot where we could use our phones and then 25 miles back to set up our site in the dark.

Note to self: Verify camp site number BEFORE you leave the house.

The tent went up just fine. But, when we pulled out the borrowed air mattress we both almost cried. It had a plug and we had no outlet.

Note to self: Check air mattress BEFORE you leave the house.

Luckily, the nice young couple (who we suspected to be good Christians) at the campsite next to ours had an AC/DC doodad that allowed us to use the 12 volt outlet in my car and saved our sorry asses from having to sleep on the cold hard ground.

It was tense. We set up, we ate, and we went to bed. A rough start to be sure.

But, the next morning we were up with the birds and ready to enjoy our woodsy jaunt. We hiked. We met colorful locals. We hiked some more. Such a good time was had that the gentleman friend and I decided to stay an extra day.

That would show the naysayers back home. Not only did I camp successfully, I camped overtime. HA!

Our final morning arrived and while enjoying each others “company” in our tent we became acutely aware that our neighbors had come to regret lending us that AC/DC doodad and thereby affording us a cushy, comfy surface to fornicate on.

We had been on our best behavior, holding back on the copulating while they were present. However, the night before I had eaten one of those “funny” brownies and hit the box of wine a little hard and maybe, just maybe I had gotten a little over exuberant.

They told us to get a room.

I thought we had, albeit with a zipper and an obvious lack of sound proofing.

They told us that they expected such behavior from toothless, classless rednecks but not educated middle aged persons such as ourselves.

Middle aged? Ouch!

They told the gentleman friend that I was obviously too ashamed to come out of the tent.

Ashamed? HA! I have no shame. I lost that a long time ago, along with my gag reflex. I’m just not used to dealing with sexually repressed religious zealots in a non-urban setting that’s all.

They told us to have a “swell” life and they were off. Thank God.

Note to Self: Choose a campsite AWAY from the cockblocking Christian Coalition.

Birds do it. Bees do it. Why can’t we do it? …. in the privacy of our own tent. We packed up and headed back home, laughing about our adventures all the way. As we got close and I could see the tall buildings in the distance my nipples got hard and I knew that even though I had enjoyed camping very much and I’ll definitely do it again …. my heart AND my hooha belong in the city.






What Cosmo Won’t Tell You – The Gays Will

You pick up a lot of useful information when you’re a fag hag. There’s the stereotypical fashion, make-up, hair and decorating crap. And then there’s the ultra handy “you and your poonanny out in the world” survival type stuff.

Such as:

  • If you don’t ask their name, you don’t have to remember it, OR
  • Never leave home without your “ho on the go” bag*……. and one of my favorites:
  • Life is too short for messy bottoms**

You know, it’s the type of stuff your mom would tell you IF you could have an uber frank discussion about your sex life and your girly parts with your mama.

My own mother is into a strictly hands off parenting style. So, a heart to heart about anything, much less my nether regions, is off limits. But, since I became a fruit fly at such a young age I haven’t had to fend for myself in the sex ed department. Gay men know A LOT about sex, because they have A LOT of it and they are always happy to pass on pointers.

Recently my homosexy friend Tony D enlightened me about prolapsing and I haven’t been the same since. Mr. D told me that a tranny doctor told him that a ridiculously high percentage of people will at some point suffer a prolapse of either the uterus or rectum.

The conversation went like this:

ME: “What does that mean, Tony?”

TONY D: “It means your shit falls out”

ME: “WHAT?!?!”

TONY D: “Yeah, your uterus and/or your ass falls out and you have to get it put back in”

Could. This. Be? What fresh hell is this? Your insides falls out? I had no idea this was even possible. I certainly hadn’t read it on the cover of Cosmo, which is where I usually go for my hooha insights (the gays don’t have vagina’s so there are bound to be gaps in their body of knowledge)

My mom did tell me that if I had sex with too many people my uterus would fall out but I dismissed it. Like I dismissed it when she told my boyfriend that I used to be beautiful or the time that she watched too much Fox news and became convinced the United Nations had disbanded. Could she possibly be right about this? There is a first time for everything.

Tony D told me that the reason I’ve never heard of the dreaded prolapse is because it mostly happens to “old” people and nobody wants to talk about “old” people’s shit falling out. How old is “old”?

The other night an early twenty-something approached me at a bar with “Hello Miss Older Lady”. He obviously thought I was old. But, does my uterus? Is it ready to go? How do you know? Do you get any warning? Or does it just plop out one day while you’re waiting in line at the post office? How do you look at anyone in the eye after your uterus falls out? And how do they get it to stay up there once it does drop…….staples?

I kept thinking: no, no, no….please don’t tell me my shit might fall out. God already hates me, I have proof: I’m getting wrinkles AND acne.

A day or two after my eye-opening tete-a-tete with Tony D I was watching television when I saw a commercial that just about scared the uterus out of me. It was one of those class action law suit ads and it was for trans-vaginal mesh used in prolapse surgery.


First I learn that my insides can fall out. And now I have to live with the knowledge that they can fall right back out again if they use this defective stuff to tack it back into place.


I’ve lost considerable amounts of sleep over this. But, after some research I’ve discovered that pregnancy is a large contributing factor to the big “P” and since I’m a childless spinster I’m hoping the goods stay where they are.

I’ve also got a new motto: A kegel a day keeps the prolapse away!



*ho on the go Bag : A sexually active persons bag of essentials. Contents vary, but should always include lube and condoms

**bottom: The “receiver” in a sexual interlude.

Why I’m a Fag Hag

If you know me, then you know that I have big boobs. If you don’t know me, then I have something to tell you…..I have big boobs.

They began to sprout sometime in the fourth grade and by the sixth grade I had myself a set of 34C’s. If you need a frame of reference for what 34C’s are exactly, just ask any flat chested woman and she’ll tell you she’s been asking Santa for them for most of her life.

And I, was “graced” with a pair at age eleven.

Hooray for me!

Except for the part where no one warned me about the attention one gets walking around with a rack like that.

One day the boys are laughing at you, calling you names, picking you last for the dodge ball team and the next they’re chasing you around the schoolyard trying to cop a feel.

Today the thought of schoolboys assaulting me is thrilling. Back then I was mortified. ALL sorts of mortified. So mortified in fact that I went into hiding. Not under a bed, or in a closet – but beneath the biggest clothes I could find.

Everyone assumed I was chubby, not stacked and all was good. Being a shapeless, sexless, frump was comfortable and safe. Not much fun, but better than being a sex object.

As the ta-ta’s grew (yes, they got bigger) so did my duds. At seventeen, me and my vagabond wardrobe longed to stray. Against my mother’s wishes I chose to rebel in a big way and go to college.(yes,that is correct I have the only mother on the planet who wished her child NOT go to college). I attended San Francisco State University, which you might have guessed is in San Francisco….and you know what they have a lot of in the S.F.? Victorian architecture, Chinese Laundries and GAY MEN. Lots and lots of gay men, so it was inevitable that I meet one or two. And I did…

Before you could say: Bay Area Rapid Transit l was shacked up with a couple of them. My mother was none too pleased. She was convinced I would get AIDS from the mere proximity to homosexuals. I, however was content, but finding it harder and harder to hide the “girls” from my roommates.

Inevitably the day arrived when my assets became apparent to the boys and to my horror they insisted I show them off. “GUUULRRL, those are fabulous, you need to get those out in public”

Be proud of myself? What a novel concept.

Slowly but surely they indoctrinated me into the world of accentuating the positive. My XXL t-shirts were traded for deep plunge v-necks, my minimizing bras swapped for the hardest working push-up bras in the western hemisphere and my big shapeless frocks replaced by sassy low cut dresses. In a few months they accomplished what my mother couldn’t or wouldn’t do in 17 years: teach me how to be a woman. And for that, I will be forever grateful.

But it’s not just gratitude that’s kept me in the “Iife”. Once I took a dip in the freaky deeky pool I realized it’s A LOT more entertaining. Although being a tried and true fag hag is definitely not for the meek OR the weak and there are many times when I question my choices and wonder what life would be like without the constant doses of drama and all the irksome Madonna dance hits. Then I hang out with some hetero’s. The boys talk about football, the girls talk about each other and I inevitably get invited to a baby shower…… YAWN. Back to the homo’s I go.

Out on the town the other night an admirer approached me and said “You are SURROUNDED by gay men.” to which I replied “They’re not just gay men hot stuff, they’re my family.” And that ladies and gentleman is why I am a fag hag ,…….a very proud, boobylicious fag hag.