We often mask true commitment in archaic notions of sex and sexuality.
We sit in judgment of those who rest outside of the confines of societal constructions of monogamy, all the while ignoring the husbands, wives, and lovers starved of attention in traditional pairings—those who play house like dolls with vapid interactions.
They give their bodies but hide their souls. Rationing joy, withholding common courtesies—warm smiles, small compliments, a listening ear.
Herein lies the deceit...
The measure of my love is not in the span of my hips. My folds do not confer fidelity. And you, you my love, are not a commodity to be manipulated in an effort to garner attention, love, and affection. I do not wish to control you. I do not want to own you or your safe spaces. I do not need to possess you to love you.
Just spare me your warmth, your kindness—the stroke of your hand for a while. And allow me this—the freedom to travel the far away places of your mind, of your heart. I promise to do the same in return.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Saturday, April 03, 2010
I am in love with the feminine--drawn to feminine energy in all its subtle variations. My first experience in the feminine was at the age of seven—the year Sylvester died. Tasha and I held hands in alleyways after school. On weekends I begged my mom to let Tasha stay the night— precious moments created as we stole furtive kisses under strawberry shortcake sheets. She was soft like towels fresh from the dryer; her skin smelt of apple butter. In the middle of a gang of mangy boys, Tasha was the one I gravitated to—if I knew I could, I would have grown up to marry her, and she would have had our child.
As a woman, I find myself intrigued by the likeness of transgendered women and drag queens. The sweet vulnerability—the suppleness of unfulfilled wants and dreams. I understand the need to feel and experience WO-MAN, very much like my own need to reach out and touch Tasha’s skin.
Today, I’ve built myself a world of feminine. You can catch a glimpse of it when I walk by. It lingers at the nape of my neck and the flesh behind my knees. And every night, the feminine is wrapped around these thighs. Thank you, Tasha.
If he were alive, I would have invited Sylvester in to my fairy Sapphic world. I saw a documentary about this gentle man, gender bender of a singer I never knew. I think I would have loved him. He was so perfect and graceful—fighting the monstrosity of the world. He just wanted to pay homage to the womb. He just wanted to be beautiful.
They hated him because they hate the feminine.
Sadly, I am left to commune with Sylvester through his music. We dine together before dawn. We talk about the times, and how they have changed. And I tell Slyvester, he can find rest now--in all that is woman.