outies

The term catcher has come to be a slang word in the homosexual community, along the lines of the word bottom. A "catcher" is a man who prefers to be on the "receiving" end of anal intercourse.

The term was popularized by Showtime's Queer as Folk in Season One, Episode 10. One of the main characters, Brian, brings home a pair of twins to have sex with, and one of them is wearing a shirt that says "catcher", while the other is wearing a shirt that says "pitcher". The connection is never directly explained, but the message is obvious.

The catcher shirt itself is light gray, with the word CATCHER written across the middle in maroon, with the picture of a baseball catcher beneath it, also in maroon. The shirt is 90% cotton, 10% polyester and made by the company Ajaxx/63. The shirt can be ordered online at Kleptomaniac.com. One of the interesting things about the shirt is that to the casual heterosexual observer, it appears to be a shirt supporting sports, which is a pretty manly thing to wear. In a way, this makes it a relatively safe piece of gay apparel to wear, since it is mostly understood only by some homosexuals.

Or, at least... it was, until you read this node... I might get my membership card revoked for telling all of our secrets.

Androstenedione is sometimes sought among pre-operative (and non-op, thanks oakling) female-to-male transsexuals for the same reason it's sought among bodybuilders: it converts to testosterone.

Testosterone, when introduced in sufficient quantity to the female body, causes development of male secondary sex characteristics, including voice change, rearrangement of body fat, increased hair growth, and, of course, easier muscle development. Unfortunately for FTMs, it's only available through prescription, and getting that prescription often involves a lot of therapy and hassle. So some transguys turn to supplements, including androstenedione.

Andro, however, doesn't always produce the desirable effects of testosterone, and often causes some of the more damaging ones. Usually the best that anyone with a female body can achieve is increased muscle mass, growth of the clitoris, increased sex drive, and maybe a little scratchiness of the voice. On the other side of the coin, use of andro can lead to acne and increased risk of heart or liver disease.

Since testosterone itself can also increase these risks, one of the things that an FTM's endocrinologist has to check for before he goes on testosterone is whether he has any heart or liver problems. If use of androstenedione has caused these, he might be denied testosterone, which is a Very Bad Thing.

The general consensus in the FTM community is that using andro, especially in high doses, really isn't worth it. The only real benefit is for muscle mass, and the potential risks outweigh that. So most of us just bend to the system and jump through whatever hoops are required to get a prescription for actual testosterone.

So, I couldn't help but notice that you were writing with your left hand. When did you decide to become left-handed, just out of curiosity? And why--I mean, with the way society works and all, there are so many tools designed for right-handed people, and I can't imagine why you'd want to put yourself at a disadvantage like that.

You know, they didn't used to let people like you just run free, using whichever hand they wanted. They'd make you write with your right hand whether you wanted to be stubborn about it or not, and if they did it for so long there has to be a reason behind it. It's a tradition that has to be protected, if you ask me; it's just not proper writing if you're not using the correct hand. There has to be a good reason behind the meaning of the word sinister, and I think they're up to no good. It seems like in the past fifty years there's been an explosion in the number of lefties, and it's probably all due to them softening up and letting them practice that strange behavior unchecked. It's going to destroy the fine tradition of writing if we let them keep at it!

But I still don't understand why you'd ever want to do that. Write with the wrong hand and all. Frankly it seems a little unnatural to me; I can't imagine not using my right hand, can't see why you'd ever want to do it. My god, how awkward! It's not like you don't have a choice, like you can't just pick up a pencil with your right hand and write like that. Nothing's physically stopping you, so why should we let you pervert our writing system if you can just write normally like everyone else? Yes, that's right, you're just doing it to be perverse, it can't have any biological root whatsoever. They haven't isolated a lefty gene yet, have they? Unless you can prove it's genetic, it's a choice and you should change it.

And don't give me that crap about one in ten people being left-handed. That's just an overinflated statistic to make us think you're everywhere. Get back in line and use your right hand, and if your handwriting sucks it's your own fault for turning away from the right way to do things in the first place.

Christ, what's next? Lefty pride parades?

We were fighting again. Not that that's anything new. This time, I was trying to explain to her that the reason she felt cut off from God was entirely her fault. God is not silent, she was just too wrapped up in her music and her theater and her primadonnaness. Of course, she wasn't accepting my point of view very well. She was changing into her pajamas in the bedroom closet again, so I wouldn't see her naked. I could hear her wimpering as I watched her shadow peek between the slats in the closet door.

I'm sick of her tears. I won't allow her to manipulate me with them anymore. She cries at the slightest change in my tone of voice. She needs to toughen up or something. I dunno.

But she was weeping there in the closet when Angie knocked on the door. She screamed, "Don't let her in here!" from behind the slotted door, with a harsh desperation in her voice that I rather liked. She should have known that a comment like that would get an equal and opposite reaction from me. I left her there in the closet to get the door.

As it turns out, Angie had left her piano books with Mindy at her last lesson and was hoping to pick them up. How well timed. Angie can back me up on this and get Mindy to change. "Lemme check with her," I said. "She's in the closet."

"In the closet?" Angie asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Don't ask me." I entered the bedroom and whispered harshly through the door. "She's your friend, your piano student. You'd better wipe your face and get out here."

"I told you not to let her in," Mindy hissed through the door.

"She's waiting in the living room. Go get her books from the car." I stalked back out to the living room where Angie was waiting. "She'll be right out," I informed her. "Have a seat."

Moments later, Mindy made her appearance, clad in white cotton pajamas, curly hair mussed, cheeks streaked with the evidence of her tears. Without a word, she left the apartment and returned with Angie's piano books. She was doing it on purpose, I could tell; playing the role of the abused wife, hoping to get a sympathetic reaction from Angie, which was exactly the outcome.

But I wouldn't allow Mindy to direct the conversation. No, I would get my point in, make sure Angie understood my side of things. Anybody can hear from God if they're listening. If Mindy's not hearing, she must be doing something wrong. She's constantly keeping busy, it's like she's married to her hobbies and not to me.

Damn her hobbies. Damn her ministry. Damn her music. She thinks she's so cool because she can sing, because she can act, because she can write plays or whatever. Because everybody loves her, because she's everyone's pet, everyone's prodigy. She's not so great. They should all try living with her, dealing with her leaving papers lying around everywhere, her bitching about my being distracted, her wanting to buy everything in sight, her need for constant reassurance about her body...

I must have allowed my thoughts to consume me, because shortly, and without fully realizing it, I was telling my entire life story to Angie. I have no idea how we got from point A to point...where the hell were we, anyway? Somewhere around point V, I would guess. And then that bitch Angie had to ask that question, and she had to phrase it in such a way that there was no ducking out of it. No matter how I answered it, the truth was about to come out.

"Have you always been faithful in your marriage?" she asked.

Now that was a pregnant pause. "I..." Mindy's eyes met mine, and I flinched, ever so slightly. That moment seemed like days, and I knew there was no going back, no denying it, because she already had arrived at my answer. I allowed my face to fall and blinked back tears with wide eyes. "No," I quietly admitted. I suddenly found reason to notice the color and texture of the carpet. "I cheated last November."

Mindy ceased breathing for I don't know how long. But Angie couldn't let it go at that, she pressed it, speaking what she somehow knew without my saying. "It wasn't with a woman, was it?"

There it was, hanging in the air, mocking my puppy dog face, drawing liquid into the corners of Mindy's eyes, furrowing her brow.

I decided to admit it. There was enough clues, enough indications, now that Angie had spoken the accusation. It was like that part at the end of a suspenseful, confusing movie where all the parts that didn't seem to add up suddenly came together and formed this terribly clear, sharp photograph, colored by a bit of irony:

The whole thing began with Mindy in the closet.

And it all unravelled from there.

One year ago today, I stopped and stood before two paths. One was inviting; clear of obstacles, downhill, sunlit as if Nature herself smiled upon it, and the reasonable direction to take. But I knew it would grow steeper and darker as I went further. It would lead to a place where I could no longer move forward nor turn around. I would become lost, whither, and die there alone.

The other was unpleasant; gnarly, uphill, shaded beneath reproachful trees, hardly even a path at all. And I couldn't be sure what was at the end of it. Perhaps it was merely an alternate route to the same forsaken conclusion. But it might go somewhere else.

I didn't want either of these choices. I hadn't asked for them. I hadn't sought them. But I had to keep walking, to keep going somewhere, and here was the fork.

I took a breath, heard a cacophony of half-formed voices, and listened to the one that spoke softest but surest.

I haven't looked back.

A year ago I said two words; two simple, unimportant, stupid words that have yet been made into an oath of allegiance, a dire prophecy, a confession to crime, and a keystone to identity. I'm gay. Were this world a perfect place, saying these words would have been no more difficult than saying, "I have brown hair," "I wear glasses," "I like to read," or "I'm a human being." But this world is not a perfect place. It's a place where people love each other, hate each other, fuck each other, kill each other, and most of all misunderstand each other. We make do with what's given.

I rendered myself vulnerable all over again to my parents, gave them all the tools they needed to beat me to the ground or lift me up. They chose the latter. They've stuck by that choice. I am desperately grateful to them for their support, understanding, kindness, and love. I know they will be there for me as long as they can, that I can trust them to push aside every idiotic instruction society yells in their faces for one overriding duty, I will love my child.

The next steps have been more difficult to take. With one friend, coming out was an uneventful passing word in conversation. With another, it was a joke. With another, an argument. The sphere of people who know I'm one of the 'abominables' is steadily growing, in sudden bursts. Some voluntary, some not. It won't take much longer before the dam breaks in a rush of gossip and rumor. I'm not sure what will happen then. The school I attend is of the regal, Catholic sort. The kids there are good underneath. I don't hold any animosity towards them. But they have some basic assumptions which will conflict with experience. I don't how they'll handle the cognitive dissonance. But I'm not going to be one of those people returning to the high school reunion to sheepishly introduce my partner. Or not introduce him at all. Goddamnit, I'm not. So it will happen sometime soon. After a year, I'm ready.

This year has been an eventful one for the broader community as well. A war took everyone's eyes off the simmering conflict for some time, but now that dead Iraqis and Americans are no longer primetime newsworthy, things have gone swinging back into action. A respected Senator declared we were not people, somewhat more like animals that need to be regulated and controlled. The Supreme Court decided otherwise. One nation gave men and women permission to fall in love and commit themselves to one another. Another vows it will never do the same. My mother often regaled me with a Chinese blessing/curse, "May you live in interesting times." I swear mothers are clairvoyant.

Amongst all this bustle I've been gifted with the best base of support for which any confused teenager could ask. Outies has been a wonderful group, embodying the precept of 'family' in every sense of the word. We've cracked jokes, laughed, argued, got angry with each other, supported each other, circled the wagons, and opened them again to admit new friends. From their ranks I've made some of my truest friends in this quirky, epic little community. You guys have saved my life. I do not hyperbolize. Queer teens are twenty to 35% more likely to attempt suicide than their peers. Persons diagnosed with bipolar disorder are 20% more likely. I've gotten pretty damn close. The care and support from many noders, gay and straight, has been a strong force for holding me back long enough to come to my senses. To everyone who's ever shown me kindness, whether it was a long fascinating conversation, a quick concerned message, or just a passing compliment, thank you. I am in your debt.

So, to another year of being queer, of cheerfully working my way up this path with people I love towards a better future. Cheers.