RRPD its really just another way of saying "I love you"

by rocdragon, (http://rocdragon.shoe.org/)

Dear Friends,

The subtle letters are randomly appearing on my facebook page and text messages. R R P D which is ironically short for my new 'family' name.

Most of us in the gay and lesbian community understand the term chosen family, because in reality many of us lost the connection to our blood families. This left a need to fill in our personal relationships so we banded together and made new families.

The idea spread and other people regardless of their orientation have created their own 'chosen' families. One such group is the Frank Welter Memorial for Wayward Awesome People. You can find them on their Facebook page under 'Awesome'.

The family, as it is known by it's short name, prizes the ideal of unconditional love. Really. I don't mean unconditional in the spoken form or just sometimes when everything is going good. No, the feeling of being loved for just who you are permeates everything. Including crazed ninjas, stripper pole olympics and my personal favorite; The Game. (You lost the Game.)

Our first family vacation was in Las Vegas, Nevada. We banded together to celebrate one of our beautiful member's birthday. In turn there were three cars that took to highway in search of a little insanity in sin city.

The teams are as follows:

Team: Phat Dyke Bitches
Team: Pink Pussies
Team: Doesn't want a Ticket

I rode in the suburau, also known as the 'gay' women's car of choice, or aka Phat Dyke Bitches. We will note that one male rode in our carpool who shall only be refered to as crazy ninja. We allowed him to stay due to the fact he was brown and otherwise may be in jeopardy in any other vehicle.

The ride to Vegas was filled with wonderful times, exciting moments of sexual freedom and the occaisional Ass Jumping Clown. Prior to this trip I was simply known as Rochelle. A beautiful, awesome and calming woman who has deeply penetrating blue eyes. After the trip to Vegas, I am simply known as RRPD. The rest is still true but may be a bit narcissitic to repeat.

Three days. That is the threshold for most visitor's to Sin City. By day three people find themselves dragging, done and quite ready to head back to reality and/or sanity depending on your definition. Our group is no exception, however we are awesome so we left on Day 4. The car ride home was filled with silence, weariness, and an occaisional sigh. Deciding that conversation was not my forte I placed a foot up on the window and leaned into my riding buddy for a good long nap.

Apparently day 4 sleeping is not happening. The sun was hot and irritations filtered through the rays as we spent the first hour in silence, brooding. This prompted the first gas station stop after only an hour; where water bottles are replenished, cigarettes are purchased and bladders are emptied.

This is where the story changes. Given an appropriate amount of H2O and nicotine my mind begans to formulate thoughts and conversations. So I tell my poop story, after all it is pretty funny story and we have a 'family' tradition.

The story took place several years ago when I lived in Casa Grande with my girlfriend and her son. She was an amazing woman who viewed love a little differently than I had encountered. She once told me that real love, true love was when you can walk through crazy shit and still be able to snuggle on the couch. I believe the actual analogy she used was taking a dump in the throne room and asking your parnter to come look. Several hours later the couple are kissing and loving each other while watching a movie on the couch.

The idea struck me on two levels, the first being: okay thats weird why would I ever show anyone my poop? The second was awe: amazed that someone conceived of such an idea. It had merit, and to this day I believe the "idea" is as close to unconditional love that I have experienced.

That is, until the ride home from Vegas with team Phat Dyke Bitches. Here, the 'family' took this beautiful sentiment a step further.

Missy, my sexual trainer and riding buddy, listened attentively as I recounted the spiritual experience of pooping a dragon. My words flowed and the story unfolded into poetry. The driver listened with one ear and kept the other trained on the car. Crazy Ninja who rode shot gun shifted in order to hear the storyteller unravel a most bizzare tale.

Prior to this story, Missy shared a revelation about Pussy Trolls. Apparently a hollywood movie discusses the existence of pussy trolls for women. They are used to protect the pussy from any sort of forgein objects or people from invading. Two days earlier during the drive back to the hotel from Freemont Street my sexual training buddy knicknamed me Red. Partly because of my hair but mostly because I tried to go at a stoplight and stopped on a green light. When she asked me the name of my Pussy Troll, the most obvious thought was Red.

Now we have Red Red. Notice if you will how these are the first two letters in my new 'family' name.

The story of how I shat a dragon held everyone's attention for a good twenty minutes. Questions were asked and giggles were had, it was a good story. It wasn't until Missy, said the next line that the poor subaru blew up in riotous laughter and adamant argument.

"Thats it! Your name is now, Red Red Poop Dragon!"

Crazy ninja lost it in the front seat and the driver leaned forward covering her mouth for fear the windshield would have brown coffee cascading down her field of vision. The look of shock and horror on my face sent Missy into tizzy of giggles.

'Of course she is joking' I thought. My name is NOT Red Red Poop Dragon.

"No, it is and you have the tattoo to prove it." Missy explained as her finger delicately traced over my right bicep.
Horrified and somewhat confused I looked into her dark sunglasses and said,
"Are you fucking kidding me? NO. This is not a Poop Dragon. This is a mark of getting over my fear of tattoos. A birthday present to my self for turning 32. This .. this isn't a .. WHAT?"

Clearly I am upset, and confused as her logic was quickly falling into place. Crazy ninja was nodding enthusiastically and the driver placed well timed 'yes's' and 'I agree' added only to Missy's description and interpretation.

"No one came to look at your poop dragon. When you asked she refused and you really wanted people to see it. Unconsciously your mind pulled the image up when you went to the tattoo parlor. The dragon you picked is the closest picture to what you shit in the toilet. Now everyone can see your poop dragon. This is why your name is Red Red Poop Dragon. Now you have to get the initials tattooed above the dragon so everyone can see. R R P D" she explained in a calm and confident manner. The last words punctuated by her fingers outlining R,R,P,D above my dragon tattoo.

Shaking my head, clearing the mental fog of too much partying in Vegas I exclaimed,
"Now hold on, NO. There is no WAY I am getting anything tattooed above my dragon. This is NOT a poop dragon. This is a the reward for overcoming a fear. Accepting a personal challenge and honoring myself. You are not making any sense and I refuse to accept that. It is isn't true." my piece stated. Firmly, and solidly. I put my foot down. I will not aquiese to this request. No. Thank you.

Everyone had quieted down, even the driver who holds a doctorate degree saved her freudian interpretation. I had spoken and that was that, there is no Red Red Poop Dragon.

Missy turned from gazing out her window and asked an interesting question.

"Did you get the tattoo sometime after you pooped the dragon with the flared neck in the toilet?"

I thought for a brief moment and replied. "Yes, I believe so but it.." She quickly cut in
"See it was unconscious. That is so Freudian and you know its the poop dragon otherwise you wouldnt have told the story. Unconsciously you wanted to tell us the story and that way we could see your poop dragon." Frozen, I couldn't speak. I was looking for some possible loop hole out of her logic. Then the doubt came through, a crack visible.
Did I really unconsciously want to share my poop dragon? Is that a plausible explanation? Remembering my last cult experience I quickly dismissed the idea. There wasn't anyway, this was not happening. Missy and I continued to argue for ten minutes. When suddenly the driver ducked behind the steering wheel.

"Did the bird die?" she asked

Everyone stopped, looking around the car, through the windows.

"What happened?" Missy asked.

The mood in the car shifted as the attack of the avian nation was clearly upon us.
"The bird, it just swooped straight down and right for us! I thought it was suicide bombing the car!"

"Thats it! its a sign we had a sacrifice and now its official your name is Red Red Poop Dragon." Missy looked at me, sober and sane.

Logically, I began to see perhaps in this family, or our fond knickname being the 'cult', my name is Red Red Poop Dragon.

"I am still not getting it tattooed." I told her.

Five minutes later, Missy mentioned that a new scavenger hunt item was being added to the list.

"Okay well maybe on the other arm, but not on my dragon. It is not a poop dragon."

Ten minutes later, another shot of cultaid, missy and I were designing the Red Red Poop Dragon for my next tattoo.

There you have it, my new 'family' name. Now embraced and accepted with love and gratitude as my sexual trainer held my head in her lap gently outlining my poop dragon.

Until next time,

RRPD