You Make Me Feel Mighty Real...

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.