saunter (prowl) round the corner in an ankle-length lime green cream backless number belly full
of beer, face lined with mischief, the boys are squatting side by side (sitting ducks) watching me
approach, blue eyes like pools, one alludes to me as representing the feminine energy they are
lacking, hands me the joint, i have a toke hand on hip make some words some quip then whip
away, return to stasis, back to playing long haul games with hooded eyes and faces.
.
breasts press against my ribs. dont, have never had breasts, not really. tits, more like. they feel
natural in hands, eiderdown in my palms, wet mouth, wet wet wet, hairy this week but it doesnt
matter that much, not how it used to. boys, girls, how can they ? how can anybody be so
confident in any body ? holding another body close and basking in its femininity, feels like
hypocrisy. or maybe it is just the form in which im basking, people are made up of forms and
forms are beautiful.
.
sitting opposite handsome ones perched on a beer-garden-bench-cum stage, pouting and
staring and pressing cigarettes to lips, performing twisting convulsing, its not hard, nothing hard
about it, but its one constructed part, false, and the other parts of me sit patiently in waiting,
waiting waiting probably forever as they have no place, no face in the realm of heterosexuality,
there are no fitting actors for them, the roles are left unplayed decaying nestled amidst the hairs
on my chin, my marked skin, burrowed amongst six feet of in-between.
.
never felt wrong in my body, like my body in fact, not every aspect but as a whole it is okay. it is
made up of extremes, sharp shoulders small tits big bum long legs, even my pussy has
presence, it is not small and sweet like some other girls (eg the one in my hand on my tummy in
my mouth). do not want a male body. dont want to hide the female-ness of my own, but resent
womanhood, resent the imposition, can it not just be a female body, a menstruating ovulating
(with some difficulty) female body housing a woman human ? wear lipstick on weekends like
drag, power of queens, twisted hidden precarious femininity, creature that may only draw breath
around men (and their dicks). girliness is guilt.
.
it took me years to understand that you can wear different things on different days, can be curvy
on some and curve-less on others. am i a woman sometimes and not others i dont know. i think
i might never be a woman. the closest i get is when i bleed (if i was pregnant maybe then i
would know womanhood). i’m not sure i was ever a woman, but i was definitely a girl. memories
flicker: of men’s dismissal, of leaving houses early mornings with hole-riddled tights behind, of
traipsing in pale morning sun with dark rings under eyes thinking gee thank god i’m a girl after
all, he proved it that was proof.
.
not a girl. “girl” is a list of traits, a character adopted around 13. sometimes its strange not being
one anymore. strange to have sex and feel strong.