Cunt and I drove up to Portland today to see an old
friend of her's perform at Embers. I'd never been to something like
that. When she asked me to tag-a-long, I was game. I was so horribly
unprepared for the little mental trip it took me on.
It wasn't until about half way through the show that I had, what might end up being, a life changing epiphany. I'm horrible with names, but the girl who took the stage seemed to be a local favorite, very well loved. A big girl. She had the look of one who had possibly (recently) undergone gastric bypass surgery. I noted her top. It was a cute little satiny nightie-type top. I really, really liked it. A lot more than the song she was doing. Beonce's Put a Ring On It. (I really hate Beonce.)(With a fiery, stab-it-with-a-rusty-pitchfork passion.) Her smile lit up the room. She was having the time of her life. Two others hopped up on stage with her, just to have fun and be her backup. They danced. They gyrated.
At first, I spent more time critiquing their outfits. (I really hate that song.) Not on -them-. I mean, yes... on them, but more in relation to myself. I don't know how to explain it without sounding completely rude and insulting, and that's not how I mean it. Simply put, I was seeing myself in their bodies. I was critiquing me.
Until I got to their faces. I couldn't see me in their faces at all. They were so happy just to BE. And I realized that in my whole life of being a girl, I had never been that happy to just be me. They didn't care about rolls and fat. They didn't care if their boobs were real or fake. They didn't care if there was a penis tucked away in there. They were just incredibly happy to be carefree and feminine, and they felt good and that was all that mattered.
I've never felt that while sober. Or not while mid-orgasm. I've never, ever had that sort of comfort with myself. They dressed to enjoy the feminism they embrace, I dress and use my feminism to hide away the parts of me that I don't want others to notice. I dress so that I don't stick out as an eye sore. They dress to feel good and world be damned if you don't like it.
When I'd gotten dressed for the evening, I picked a top I love. An aqua satin babydoll cami with a princess waist. I love that top. It's perfect for my waist. It hides the fat and accents that beautiful flair from the waist to the hip. That's my favorite curve on a woman. It wants to be held. It calls to the hand, the cheek, the lips, the tongue. To me, that curve is more feminine than breasts or vagina. And I have it. And I covered it up with a black sweater so no one would see the turkey wobble of my upper arms.
I sat there in that hot room, sweating in my sweater while these (wo)men celebrated something I had no clue about.
I felt shame. I'm sure the world isn't always kind and accepting to drag queens. I could never get up on a stage and do what they do. I could never stand to have others look at me and critique me, as I did them. I fight so hard to keep people from looking at me. Here, they saw what they wanted and they (rightfully) took it. And I can't take the same joy in what was given to me on a silver platter.
I got a little teary watching them and I spent the rest of the show in deep self-evaluation. Afterward, Cunt and her mom talked to her friend while I kind of stood back. I didn't know what to say... As people started to filter out, Cunt's mom was talking to another performer, Vanessa... and I couldn't leave without saying something to someone. I needed her to know that this had changed something in me.
I'm not very good at the emo stuff. Pretty much as soon as I start to bare my soul, my words disappear and the tears start. I approached her.
"I just want to say... in all my life, I've never been that happy to be a girl... and that makes me sad."
I really, really wanted to leave it at that, but she wasn't having it. She talked to me a bit.
She gave me a hug and insisted I friend her on Facebook.
She said, "You have to love you for who you are. You have to accept you for you, because in the end, you're the only one you can count on."
It's not like it's the first time that's ever been said to me, but maybe... It might be the first time I heard it.
And I cried.
It wasn't until about half way through the show that I had, what might end up being, a life changing epiphany. I'm horrible with names, but the girl who took the stage seemed to be a local favorite, very well loved. A big girl. She had the look of one who had possibly (recently) undergone gastric bypass surgery. I noted her top. It was a cute little satiny nightie-type top. I really, really liked it. A lot more than the song she was doing. Beonce's Put a Ring On It. (I really hate Beonce.)(With a fiery, stab-it-with-a-rusty-pitchfork passion.) Her smile lit up the room. She was having the time of her life. Two others hopped up on stage with her, just to have fun and be her backup. They danced. They gyrated.
At first, I spent more time critiquing their outfits. (I really hate that song.) Not on -them-. I mean, yes... on them, but more in relation to myself. I don't know how to explain it without sounding completely rude and insulting, and that's not how I mean it. Simply put, I was seeing myself in their bodies. I was critiquing me.
Until I got to their faces. I couldn't see me in their faces at all. They were so happy just to BE. And I realized that in my whole life of being a girl, I had never been that happy to just be me. They didn't care about rolls and fat. They didn't care if their boobs were real or fake. They didn't care if there was a penis tucked away in there. They were just incredibly happy to be carefree and feminine, and they felt good and that was all that mattered.
I've never felt that while sober. Or not while mid-orgasm. I've never, ever had that sort of comfort with myself. They dressed to enjoy the feminism they embrace, I dress and use my feminism to hide away the parts of me that I don't want others to notice. I dress so that I don't stick out as an eye sore. They dress to feel good and world be damned if you don't like it.
When I'd gotten dressed for the evening, I picked a top I love. An aqua satin babydoll cami with a princess waist. I love that top. It's perfect for my waist. It hides the fat and accents that beautiful flair from the waist to the hip. That's my favorite curve on a woman. It wants to be held. It calls to the hand, the cheek, the lips, the tongue. To me, that curve is more feminine than breasts or vagina. And I have it. And I covered it up with a black sweater so no one would see the turkey wobble of my upper arms.
I sat there in that hot room, sweating in my sweater while these (wo)men celebrated something I had no clue about.
I felt shame. I'm sure the world isn't always kind and accepting to drag queens. I could never get up on a stage and do what they do. I could never stand to have others look at me and critique me, as I did them. I fight so hard to keep people from looking at me. Here, they saw what they wanted and they (rightfully) took it. And I can't take the same joy in what was given to me on a silver platter.
I got a little teary watching them and I spent the rest of the show in deep self-evaluation. Afterward, Cunt and her mom talked to her friend while I kind of stood back. I didn't know what to say... As people started to filter out, Cunt's mom was talking to another performer, Vanessa... and I couldn't leave without saying something to someone. I needed her to know that this had changed something in me.
I'm not very good at the emo stuff. Pretty much as soon as I start to bare my soul, my words disappear and the tears start. I approached her.
"I just want to say... in all my life, I've never been that happy to be a girl... and that makes me sad."
I really, really wanted to leave it at that, but she wasn't having it. She talked to me a bit.
She gave me a hug and insisted I friend her on Facebook.
She said, "You have to love you for who you are. You have to accept you for you, because in the end, you're the only one you can count on."
It's not like it's the first time that's ever been said to me, but maybe... It might be the first time I heard it.
And I cried.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment