There is a cafe downtown Vancouver called Cafe Deux Soleils. It is a lesbian cafe. I learned of it through my daughters, one of whom is gay and the other of whom is undecided but finds lesbians are less pushy about hitting on people, so prefers lesbian to straight spaces when she is dressed up.
We were taking a trip into Vancouver so they could enjoy a Cat Cafe, a Cafe in which grown people pay to spend time in a cafe filled with dozens of overentitled cats. I know we have between us three cats in two households already, but that does not detract from their desire to eat overpriced muffins and drink coffee surrounded by cat fur and pee stains. I would join them for the trip down as they are not winter drivers, but I would not go there.
I had quietly scouted the Cafe, and knew that I would be free to attend a poetry slam. I wrote poetry when I was in the army. Surprised? Don't be. My father gave me the copy of Kipling that he carried through the Congo and his father carried from Normandy through Holland and the Schelte. Poetry is good for dealing with those feelings that don't fit inside words, but between them. Poetry is good for those feelings too powerful to process with the rational mind.
I had not written as a civilian. There had been nothing like the soul twisting fear, rage and hunger of deployment that called for it. My Lady fixed that. Now there was a storm inside me. I was falling for her the way I fell for the army; she was my new crucible in whose fires I would reshape myself, and whose desires I would serve in turn for this reshaping. Her goals were now my goals, her will my will. So not going to win any prizes for setting limits or boundaries, probably not going to win any prizes for mental health either, but I muddle through. I muddle through because I pour into poetry those things I need to say but don't have the words for.
I shared my poems in the army sometimes around a coffee at a check point, or manning an OP. In the silence of a far off place, in the magic of a moment no one else would ever understand they reached some of those I served with. Captured the thing none of us could put into normal words, and once someone said it, we could all process.
Now my poetry was terrible lesbian love poetry. I am out of practice as a poet and a neophyte lesbian. More of a bisexual who has fallen so deeply in love with My Lady that it is hard to remember I like men who aren't My Lady as well as I like women who aren't My Lady. In all honesty, I wouldn't care if it was a man, woman, or fence post, if My Lady ordered me to please it, I would be transported in delight to do just that for her.
I am getting bolder because of her. You would think being made more submissive would make you weaker in the rest of your life. Either the opposite is true or I am doing it wrong. I don't really know, but I am getting bolder.
I booked online a spot in the poetry slam. While my daughters were paying to play with strange pussies, I would talk about being made to please them.
The Cafe was on Commercial drive, dark wood tables and chairs, dark wood floor and bar with stainless steel devices that either bent time or space, or made coffee depending on what buttons the baristas pushed. The stage was a small affair, little more than a two foot raised platform at the back with a spot light above it and a mic stand.
I listened to the poetry, feeling inadequate before the young passionate lesbians who seemed so sure of themselves, and so rooted in their own culture. I felt like one of those aquarium whales who gets released into the wild. Hearing the song of the free whales as they own the ocean, while I remain terrified in the harbour, dreaming of the deep sea.
I was in the front table, not wanting to see the crowd's reactions to the other poets so I wouldn't have to compare my own reaction to that. This was my first public poetry reading, my first public admission of being lesbian, I needed the cuff at my wrist, and the two at my ankles that My Lady gifted me just to have the strength to do this.
I stepped to the mic, and looked up. I had a piece of paper in front of me, less because I needed it, more because I gave myself the out of looking down if my nerve broke.
My heart just about stopped. My Lady was in the cafe. She was feeding a bit of cheesecake to a younger woman. One elegant leg was crossed over the other, and I saw her shoes. Those shoes. The ones that used to be mine, like I used to be my husband's.
She was paying little attention to the stage, so I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and began my slam.
"This is for My Lady, who is here tonight, as are Her Shoes."
"Her Shoes
I had worn them for my husband
When I thought I knew myself
Then I came upon a goddess
I came, I came, I fell
She took me with a whisper
