ItGetsMoreGay
The larger the group with this commonality, the greater the breakthrough and the more driving the force. We all have one thing in common: we’re all human, so let’s change the world.
Here at ItGetsMoreGay, we believe that everyone should be loved for who they are and not based on race, sexuality, sex, gender, identity, physical or mental ability, or cultural background. This is a safe haven for all, anonymous or by name. We are friendly and all loving and are happy to be there for you in need or give you any advice you seek. Remember: YOU ARE LOVED and IT GETS MORE GAY!
CHECK OUT THE REST OF THIS AWESOME SITE THROUGH THE LINKS ABOVE!!!
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THIS SCARF IS GETTING SO LONG
I LOOK LIKE A DWARF THAT ACCIDENTALLY SHAVED HIS MUSTACHE
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Best part of drag…getting out of it!
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I recently finished editing a video I shot awhile ago! Here it is! Carol Channing Rambles - The Lost Episode.
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to do list
coffee date with myself- dinner date with myself
- movie date with myself
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Rocky Horror Picture Show. Queer Visibility. Sex Positivity.
Again, she steps onto the steel platform to cross over the highway. Today, she may be one of only a handful to have walked this path, interesting enough, when the murmur of the large city was still heavy in her ears.
She loved to come here; to see all of the tall buildings, full of people. It gave her the ability to find calm without ever stepping foot out of the city she found home in.
In a single building there may be thousands of people rushing about going here and there, always in a hurry to be somewhere, even when that somewhere was unknown. They rush past each other on the streets, one car thrusting the gas pedal in order to get in front of another, arriving at their destination maybe an entire second sooner at the cost of the burst of gasoline. The veins in their foreheads slightly raise; they put stresses on themselves, but she is at peace now.
She sighs. The sun is setting. She should head home now; get a full night of sleep before tomorrow begins at the office.
– –
He exists. He goes to work. He calls his mother at night. He comes home to his husband each day, and they have dinner. They talk about their day. They watch some late night television and he turns off the light to return to his husband to hold him in the night.
‘Fuck, I can’t be here right now.’ His body feels tense and out of place. ‘I’m not here right now.’ She is sitting in his place. He exists, but now, he isn’t out to answer for his name.
His boss calls his name. He isn’t there, but she answers in his place, “Yes?”
“Peter, I want that write up by three. I have that meeting at four and I’d like to read through it before hand.”
“Already got it; been waiting for you to pass by to give it to you.” They were a hard worker; it was an efficient distraction.
“Great! I’ll look over it in a bit then. Good work, Pete.” Her boss’ hand pats his shoulder as he hands over the completed report. Under the pressure, he grimaces slightly. He is uncomfortable with this type of contact; he is unfamiliar with this type of formality.
Peter had only been working at the company for a few months. He hadn’t really spoken at great lengths with many of his co-workers; they were mostly standard white male cubicle rats in his eyes. White button-ups with neutral tones; silk ties and polyester suits. He felt out of place. The only co-worker he had even attempted to connect with was Cassy, the receptionist. Cassy and himself had run into each other in the break room the first week that he had started working there. She had noticed the clear nail-polish and his shaven arms. There was a short exchange where she expressed her love of ‘gays’. She had many friends that were gay, and she was so excited to meet him. ‘It’s so stereotypical’, he thinks, ‘almost sounds like she’s collecting’. After that, he had decided he was not very interested in getting to know her, but he remained friendly. It might be good for him to claim a few friends in the office; to help pass the time at least.
It is lunch break, and Peter has packed his lunch per usual. Cassy is already settled in the break room.
“Peter! Come join me! I’m just sitting down for lunch!” Peter looks down at the table and notices her food is almost completely gone.
“Hi! I would love to. Just let me heat up what I brought.” He unzips the lunchbox and takes out the Tupperware to place in the microwave.
The third co-worker that had been in the break-room leaves and Cassy watches the door close behind him with a type of anticipation that puts her on the edge of her chair; “So, I have this friend.” She began so many conversations this way. Peter knew what was coming. “He’s just perfect for you!—He’s really nice.”
‘Yes, he’s nice. They’re all nice, I’m sure.’ His thoughts entertained him. He wonders if she has a picture of this one as well to show him. Also, he wonders why she never questions that he’s never followed through on any of her set-ups. She continues to make new suggestions, never wondering what happened to prevent the last.
“He’s a dancer, and he lives down town. You should give him a call. I’m sure he would love you!”
“Oh really…That sounds, good.” Peter didn’t wear his wedding ring to work. It was set with a princess cut diamond; not appropriate for the corporate office. Cassy had seen it once before, it fell out of his lunch box one of the first couple of times he had run into her in the break room.
“Here’s his number.” Cassy scribbles down the telephone number onto her napkin. “His name is Chad.” She is gleaming.
“Thanks.” His tone is apparent in its lack of interest, but Cassy never seems to notice. She hasn’t demonstrated to Peter an observant nature, and Peter has a default block towards new people.
As the conversation continues, Peter contemplates interjecting with the fact of his marriage to Francis. He figures it is more work than it could be worth, so Peter continues to nod and make small effort at replies. Cassy is content speaking without direction or intent, and Peter doesn’t ever bother to interject anything to Cassy about his life. He’s been conditioned to live privately. Peter wonders if she really just enjoys hearing her own voice and at one point, Peter neglects to listen to her at all, but she continues to talk without the slightest notice. He watches his co-workers walk past the break room window; they are all so basic, he thinks. They are all so normal. He remembers the days when he would long for that. As lunch break ends, Cassy and Peter say their goodbyes and they both return to work.
The remainder of the day proceeds mostly uneventful. It is a Friday, and after the workday had ended, they drive home. They call their mother that night, and they eat dinner alone; Francis won’t be back from his conference until the following afternoon.
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They are hermits today. He thinks to himself about the world. He thinks about society and how they don’t know her; he thinks about the community and how they don’t accept her. To them, both of them: society and the community, she isn’t concrete enough. She isn’t tangible, nor is she always in sight.
They think about this.
Her wardrobe sits in the office room closet. She has half a thought to go there and immerse herself in it. She wants to immerse herself into that life; let herself be comforted in it. Instead, he has already begun shoveling ice cream into his mouth. Quickly, it is all gone, and the feeling of fulfillment he had expected never came.
Again, the thought of her wardrobe floods her mind. She thinks she can feel the draped silk shirt fabric on her arms. She has a collection of chiffon scarves she would love to wear to work if only her co-workers would let her be about it. She thinks also of her cosmetics sitting upon her vanity. She contemplates whether she wants to paint on red smokey eyes or brush on a basic blue lid.
She makes her way to her vanity set and picks up a few cosmetics and a hand mirror. She returns to the living room and returns herself to the couch she was on previously, holding the mirror up to her face. She opens up the primrose colored lipstick and motions towards her lips.
Yet, she prevents herself. She refuses these indulgences. She sets everything down on the coffee table in front of her and stares blankly at it.
She had struggled so long to reach this point. She remembered long, violent arguments with her mother and father, and it had been many years since they had spoken. Since, she couldn’t even remember the sounds their voices made.
She had struggled to find herself, and society didn’t leave many options for her. They weren’t patient to sit idle as observers as she explored her own self; they had interfered, and they had been cruel about it.
She had emptied so many bottles of pills, washed so much of her own blood down the drain, and she had spent her time in the hospital, recovering. Yes, Peter had struggled for her to live.
Now, she sits, still unsure when she can come out.
There is a clicking of keys heard at the door.
Francis walks in and tosses his coat on the couch. He looks at them on the other end and notices the solemn mood across their face.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
“yes.” She nodded with a slight characteristic refrain.
Francis sits beside them. His expression is easily interpreted by them as to say ‘It’s okay’.
“Do you love me?” She asks him, barely voicing these words.
“I will always love you,” He leans over to the coffee table where the primrose lipstick lay, still uncapped, and brings the color to her lips. They could hear the words unspoken, ‘whoever you are.’ His husband places his hand on his cheek. Her husband brushes it in comfort. Their husband embraces them, and they fall into place.
“I love you too, Francis.”
“And that, Peter, is all that should matter.” Francis smiles, “No need to worry.”
When the workday on Monday ends, the wedding band had never left Peter’s hand. At some point, someone may have made a negative remark about it, and they not have even cared to, but if they did, Peter hadn’t even noticed.
My name is Victoria Sikora. I am the female ego of Timothy Elliot Lalowski, a gender-fluid person finding their way one step at a time. My greatest passion is working to create a better existence for humanity, however I can. (Check out my human-rights activist blog at ItGetsMoreGay.tumblr.com) I am currently attending the Illinois Institute of Technology, working on two degrees in Architectural Engineering and Civil Engineering and hope to one day begin my very own non-for-profit engineering firm working to create progressive design systems in third world countries so that their systems can grow and advance to a level of independence from foreign hand-outs. I am also very passionate about developing the world in a social setting as well. I am a large advocate for human rights and I fight for all peoples’ rights on a daily basis. That is where my passion for drag comes in.
I am passionate for drag for two rudimentary reasons. 1)Drag is an opportunity to express a part of myself that has been suppressed for a majority of my life. Victoria is as much a part of me as is Timothy. 2)Drag queens are voices for the LGBT community, and they are symbols of it to the rest of the world. Their influence is stronger than many of them even realize, and can be used for so much good, if properly utilized. What I stand for is Love. I stand for finding every bit of Love you can for each and every human being, regardless of who they are, where they’re from, the color of their skin, whatever may be between their legs, or whomever they choose to consent to in the bedroom. I live every day trying to demonstrate the tremendous human capacity for Love.
In order to achieve my goals, I need to gain visibility, and that means the super popular show, ‘Rupaul’s Drag Race’. I have been a big fan of many of the queens who have been on the show, such as Pandora Boxx and JuJu Bee, who’s hearts and compassion have blasted away much of the competition. It is my hope to be a part of this show and seize the opportunity to be an inspirational drag queen that youth can look up to, respect, and grow from.
There’s a lot of work to be done, considering how short of a time I have been performing drag (3 months!!!), but I need to pull together an audition tape and become polished enough to stand a chance in the competition. I need costumes and props, Make-up, film, time, etc. In order to really be able to put together an audition. (I am going to push myself to perfection and utilize every cent to its fullest) I do my own sewing, scripting, costuming, music mixing, photo and video editing, etc. and I’m really good at utilizing low budget items, but there is only so far a queen can push these things before the competition starts to swallow her up! I go to school full time, run my own philanthropic dance troupe, and work full time while I am trying to pull this together, so I’ve demonstrated determination to make it happen.
All donations will be used solely for drag materials and the lovely people who help make my video happen (All of YOU!!!), will be recognized in the credits as well as a few shout outs to the more generous donors. Please help me live my dream!!!
#VoteSikora!!! CHECK OUT MY PERKS!!!! THEY’RE GREEEEEAAAAATTT!!!
Short Bus: A group of New Yorkers caught up in their romantic-sexual milieu converge at an underground salon infamous for its blend of art, music, politics, and carnality.
*Demonstrates that exploration of sexuality and gender are important for all of us to go through, even cisgender heterosexual women.
Imagine Me & You — 2005’s ultimate romantic comedy. Luce and Rachel will steal your heart and leave you quoting the movie for days
ALL TIME FAVOURITE LGBTQ MOVIE!!!!
Check out Think Progress’ 11 most pro-gay US Senators. Also check out their list of the 11 most pro-gay US Representatives, and the 7 most anti-gay US Representatives.
— Brittany
by: Timothy Lalowski
Writer’s warning: Not for all types of innocence levels. This is a looking glass into the fucked up world we call my mind. I suggest to my relatives, and any others who wish to perceive me as perfect and innocent, that they refrain from reading.
I began masturbating at age 7. I didn’t know what sex was, and I sure as hell couldn’t ejaculate, but I was able to reach climax. From what I can remember, I don’t even believe I could get a full erection at that age, but when I touched it and moved it around a bit, it felt good. Later, I would call it “hand sex”, because masturbation wasn’t a term introduced to me by my conservative town until I hit high school.
Now, I didn’t come out to myself for another nine years, and even then I came out as bisexual, but I should have known from age 7 that I was really only interested in penis. There were just many too many signs from very early ages, yet I still remained ignorant to this ideal, mainly for the lack of knowledge on its existence.
At age 7, I figured that boys had pee pees and girls had some type of hole. That was pretty much the extent of my sexual organ knowledge. Somewhere along the line, I came to the conclusion that one fit inside the other. Luckily for me, I was correct, or else there may have been several very long and awkward conversations with my 5th grade sex education teacher.
Before the concept of sex could be introduced to me on a factual basis, my mind had already created scenarios in my head where the one would go in the other, and this got me aroused. I somehow knew, because of my biological reaction to these thoughts, that I was at least partially correct.
However, I quickly came to realize what type of scenarios would arouse my little ‘bits’ the most. I soon began to involve more and more men and generally a singular, possessive and powerful female figure. This leather clad dominatrix slowly evolved from a large chested ponytail sporting girl similar to my hero, Laura Croft to a whip handling abusive male slave owner. She surrounded herself with a growing number of men, and the most identifying characteristic of these men was in fact, their own little ‘bits’, or should I say, gargantuan ‘bits’. She required men of great ‘talent’ in her slave mansion. Then there was the abusive nature of this character. No man’s penis was ever large enough for her liking, and in order to achieve her desires, she had several lines of action, many seemingly painful. Details on these lines of action are unnecessary and likely more crude than need be.
As I grew older, the world showed its cruel face, and I became aware of this to a large degree. Sexual deviations became a concept of sin, hatred, bullying, beatings, and deaths. Televised images of homosexual and transgender corpses, speak of ‘Gay-Related AIDs’, and general hateful speech made my feelings and thoughts cower within myself.
I should have known at age 7 that I was different. I should have realized my disphoric nature, but for me, many years went by before I would even acknowledge differences, and many many more would go by before I would accept these differences. Now, I look back and I have a stronger understanding of my youth depression and my constant nagging feeling of not belonging. I understand now how desperate my subconscious mind was to be able to express my true self, my true gender, and my true sexuality. I understand the hints of masochism that my youth expressed greatly, but I do no longer. Self-hatred can have a great effect on your mind and how you interact with the world around you.
Today I identify as queer because my identity is too complicated to explain and not worth defining. I shift genders. My sexuality is ill defined. What remains true is my past, and I can only hope to understand it in my future.
by: Timothy Lalowski
Sometimes two people are meant for each other and sometimes they’re not, and sometimes, only one is meant for the other and not the other way around. For some of us, we’re cursed with the blessing of too much love to offer. We’re cursed with the ability to be perfectly happy with someone other than “the one,” because there are so many of fish out there that are just right enough.
Now, maybe I’m crazy, and maybe I’m a little fucked in the head, but never could it be said that I don’t understand Love. I’ve been in Love before. Actually, I’ve been in Love several times, and I’ll continue to be and fall in Love. However, I have never been in Love with. They have all evaded my entrancing glare and my amorous aura. The big fish have always gotten away.
I spoke with one of these fish recently, and in some sudden burst of hope, I expressed my true thoughts to him. I expressed that as I’ve gotten to know him throughout the time we have spent apart but not away, that I have come to realize that my feelings have grown stronger. Regardless of our official relationship status, my feelings have become to reflect how I perceive his character.
However, my hopes were in vain, and he indeed did evade me. He is just another big fish that got away. So here I stand, friend-zoned.
In my past, I’ve dated plenty, and each one has always had a different way to deal with break-ups and rejections. Most common: loathing and avoidance. I’ve never tried it, and I don’t believe I ever will; I’ve just always believed love and compassion were much more fulfilling life choices, but I tend not to experience so much of the latter. Some people live their whole lives acting as if ‘bad’ breakups are the only breakups, and I ask, why?
He got away. I’m not going to marry him. Okay? Move on. I still enjoy his company. I still believe he is a good person. Nothing has made me feel otherwise. I want the best for him, and if that’s not me, okay.
This latter mantra has revolutionized the way I live, the way I date, and the way I love. I have unlocked a capacity for Love that I never thought possible. I feel as if I’m a secret box, kept locked tight and handed to a little girl for safe-keeping, but one day, curiosity got the best of her and she opened that box, and instead of all the evils spewing out into the world, a brilliant glow emerged and Love was born.
Now, I’m not going to lie and fake that it doesn’t hurt to look into his eyes and picture the near perfect life I could have had with him, that I’ve accepted all his flaws, that I long for all his Beauty, because it does hurt. It hurts like a million tiny daggers piercing into my scalp as I try to raise my head to look him in the face. It hurts like a bolder dropped on each of my hands, preventing me from reaching out to feel the warmth of his skin. It hurts like all my vital organs falling from my body as it claims to be dead. It hurts. It hurts, but I still do Love. I am a body of Love.
