High on mushrooms with my best friend on my 22nd birthday, sitting in the dirt, watching him play in the trees on the mountain, all of time seemed to have collapsed on itself, and at the risk of sounding like hocus pocus, everything in material reality seemed like a big inside joke. It seemed obvious to me that our bodies are new, but our souls old, if old is even measurable at all; but that the soul and body are not the same. Faced with the physical reality that is my body; one of a young woman, of what I’ve learned is “classically beautiful”, “striking”, a genetic lottery of sorts, and at the same time, in a constant immune battle against itself and in near daily danger just for existing, just for being a female person, the lesser sex; all things I struggle to consolidate inside myself everyday, I remembered, re~learnt, decided, that my body carries lessons I can learn, this time around. That the vessel I carry doesn’t define me, and doesn’t decide my fate necessarily, but has much to teach, it has much to inform my experience of living, and is an essential tool in my art.
when the only tampons available at a gas station are size super super plus with cardboard applicators (literally cruel!) and, having to change your tampon in a bush between bus-metro-bus transfers on an hour and a half trip because not even the transfer stations in the middle of nowhere have public washrooms. Dude!
Some drunk guy called me late one night in a mutual friends kitchen.
Moving in closer, eyes wild in the reflection of my own, he said,
“Suck my cock, Blondie Beeeaatch!”
Placing a hand on my shoulder, pushing firmly, nodding towards his crotch.
“Suck my cunt first then.” I said,
raising an eyebrow, almost bored, without missing a beat.
“YOU’RAAAaaaaaa CUNT!” he spat,
and I stood:
still, smirking, staring him square in the face.
Eyeing me up and down, he grit his teeth, he bit his lips,
“Will you suck my cock Puuuuuhleeeeeze!?”
His words like grunts, forced through cigarette breath.
If nothing else, I knew, he was way too wasted to get hard anyway;
making his request really kind of funny,
laughable, cute, emasculating.
“Hmm, not today.” I shrugged,
twirling my long blond hair, taking another swig of my whisky mixed drink.
“Can’t say I wont ever, but not today.”
Our friend, effeminate in a silk floral robe,
was bent in half laughing, cackling at this, he loves a show.
“Will you suck my cunt tomorrow?”
“Well, I don’t know now do I…” he snarled.
“Right, so, if we see each other tomorrow, we can discuss it.”
“He really respects you.”
the friend said later, earnest.
I laughed at this too.
I know that sometimes, to some people, in some states,
I’m nothing but a mouth and a cunt, hair and lips and legs;
and to them I say, suck it.
…be dissolute, be despotic, be an anarchist, be a suffragette, be anything you like, but for pity’s sake be it to the top of your bent… Let’s live, you and I, as none have ever lived before.” ~ Violet Trefusis to her lover Vita Sackville-West (who never did leave her husband) (early 20th century), quoted in Janet E. Hardy’s book, ‘GirlFag’.
A man says in a Spanish accent that he’s closing the window beside me and I say,
“It’s going to rain?”
Disbelieving, liking the air untill yes it’s pouring.
Sitting under a coat rack in the corner, our legs intertwined.
His best friends girlfriend keeps calling me his girlfriend,
loudly and giggling.
“Not girlfriend!” I say from under the coat rack.
He’s sticking his hands in through the rips in my jeans,
we are high on MDMA.
A black capsule split in the bathroom,
he wrapped it in toilet paper.
I made a face,
asking does this actually work?
I swallowed it anyway since he’s been doing drugs for like as long as I’ve been alive.
“Would you like a bump?” Asked another,
the kind of aquaintance I haven’t known how to bond with previously and I hesitated,
“Oh…,” he said, “I dunno, I’m just trying to be nice.”
So I did two off my triangle tattoo because why not and this is how to make friends.
Then I met a guy who looks like Nickelback and we did a bump together too.
Then he stalked me all night like a fucking softcore Canadian nightmare.
Standing way too close, staring, following.
As if I owe him sex for a sniff of Coke.
Haunted by his terrible haircut,
lurking in the shadows of the shadow loft.
So I crawl under the coat rack,
digging in my bag for my soggy gum.
I need three pieces to save the skin inside my cheeks.
And we watch as he lurks at the bar,
watching us be watched.
His best friends girlfriend keeps slipping us free vodka drinks.
We watch super models hullucinate and I rant about friendships.
Beside the bar,
under the coat rack,
he says, “Not girlfirend!”
His eyes coaxing and scanning my face like the first time,
when he was the stalk-y one.
“She’s just teasing us.
You do whatever you want,
I’m just happy to spend time with you.”
And I smiled the smile I feel for being so happy to hear men say that.
And the spanish man with a cigerette in his mouth and a coffee in his hand,
slides back open my cafe window.
Even though it’s still raining,
the wind has softened and the storm has passed.
We exchange smiles and I say, “Thanks.”
I’m really interested in ultra-femme power imagery, and an esthetic quality so beautiful it shatters all traditional understandings of what ’empowered women’, femininity, female sexuality and/or ‘beauty standards’ can look like. I also quite literally believe that ‘selfies’ are a revolutionary movement, and that aided by the internet, they can change the worlds perception of women, and women’s perception of themselves, in a really profound way.