I want to live in Dude Land

As a rule, I pre­fer men to women. I believe that I was bathed in extra testos­terone in the womb and that is why I am able to dis­sect a dead snake for the edi­fi­ca­tion of my two sons with­out flinch­ing, and why I love to poke poop with a stick if it looks interesting.

I enjoy women and cher­ish my women friends, but I can­not stand being in a group of straight women.

Surprisingly, as recently as yes­ter­day, the thought came into my head that liv­ing in a les­bian com­mu­nity might be just what the doc­tor ordered. And not for the rea­sons one might think. I longed for a woman’s touch because I was dis­tinctly unwell.

Yesterday was my date with the pain doc­tor and his giant syringe. I am pho­bic over nee­dles, espe­cially when they are in my spinal cord. For me to get through the expe­ri­ence meant I had to have recourse to phar­ma­ceu­ti­cals. My doc­tor said I if I took two xanax  “I wouldn’t care.”

Indeed, I did not care. My Royal Consort brought me home, and I floated up the stairs and spent the next sev­eral hours sleep­ing on my side as instructed, so the med­i­cine could per­co­late down onto the enraged nerve in my back.

Being a phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal light­weight, I could not seem to snap out of my state of not car­ing. Day became night, and still I had not sobered up enough to really stand up and walk very con­vinc­ingly. My hands were like oven mitts and I felt like a bob­ble head.

Eventually I got hun­gry. To be fair, My Royal Consort had sweetly offered to make me some­thing to eat, but I knew what that meant. I would have to think of what he should make, assist him in the lit­tle mat­ter of Male Refrigerator Blindness, and then, because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself, I would prob­a­bly want to chop an onion. It was too over­whelm­ing so instead, I ate a bag of Gimbels Sour Lover’s Gum Drops and some jalapeño pret­zels from Job Lot.

If I lived in a les­bian com­mu­nity, some­one would have made chicken soup the day before and known when to bring it to me. There would have been a cold drink with a bendy straw sweat­ing on my bed­side table for me to sip from when­ever I awoke from my coma. I would have had all the TLC that women, and some gay men, instinc­tively know how to pro­vide when some­one is ill.

I love My Royal Consort and appre­ci­ate all the fun we have together, but it sure would be nice to have a les­bian cou­ple liv­ing on the prop­erty with us. Why a les­bian cou­ple? Well, we don’t want any jeal­ousy issues in our utopian com­mu­nity. What we want is har­mony and pro­duc­tiv­ity. Since I seem to have fallen down on the job, it would be super to have another woman to pick up the slack in the kitchen and bring me chicken soup when I need it. As the song says “There ain’t noth­ing like a dame.”

If there was an extra dame around the place, I could expe­ri­ence what it must be like to belong to The Fraternal Order of the Penis. In other words, I could occa­sion­ally inhabit the place that I call Dude Land.

In Dude Land, those net­tle­some details of life are qui­etly and effi­ciently man­aged by some­one else. Nutritious and deli­cious meals appear in a timely man­ner, there is always soap, appoint­ments are made and kept, taxes are paid. Animals get immu­nized, school books are pur­chased, dis­ci­pline is admin­is­tered to the junior dudes.

In exchange for this seam­less effi­ciency, we ladies do reap many rewards. In my case, my dude is build­ing me a barn. I never asked for a barn because I already have one, but I’m get­ting one, and far be it for me to shirk my domes­tic duties when some­one has been kind enough to cut down a for­est, bor­row a sawmill, mill up the wood and then build me a pole barn. When he comes in all hot, sweaty and exhausted from build­ing my barn, I am not going to bitch about anything.

I was an hon­orary dude up until just recently because for many years, I worked in con­struc­tion with My Royal Consort. We were house painters, and house paint­ing is about as dirty and low down a job as you can get. It is smelly, noisy, dirty and phys­i­cally ruinous. I was right in the mix with all the sub­con­trac­tors from the day the plas­ter cured, until the final walk-through with the mil­lion­aire client’s wife.

After a long day on the con­struc­tion site as an hon­orary dude, I would come home and shed my filthy work clothes. Literally and fig­u­ra­tively stripped of my hon­orary dude sta­tus, I’d have to get busy rat­tling those pots and pans pronto, unless I wanted to eat microwaved spaghetti with jar sauce at mid­night. Because I am not of the Fraternal Order of the Penis, I care about what we eat and stub­bornly insist on cook­ing from scratch.

Had we the fore­sight to invite a les­bian cou­ple into the house, I could have done what dudes the world over do after a long day of work. I could have show­ered, opened a beer and had a leisurely romp through the paper while din­ner was mag­i­cally con­jured up in another part of the house. If I was a dude in train­ing like Youngest, I could have played some gui­tar, or poked around on face­book while wait­ing for dinner.

I’m not look­ing to pawn off all of my dudette duties onto our res­i­dent les­bian cou­ple. I like cook­ing, I like car­ing for my peo­ple and pets, and some­times I even enjoy clean­ing. What I am inter­ested in is the idea of not hav­ing to always think, and being cared for when I am sick by some­one who knows what to do. And that some­one is usu­ally another woman or a gay man.

If we had a les­bian cou­ple in the house, the odds are good that one of them would be like me, bathed in testos­terone, but able bod­ied. This would be ben­e­fi­cial to My Royal Consort because she could help him build my barn, while her girl­friend and I hung out in the garden.