Black t-shirt peeled over my head and on to the floor.
White and silver athletic shorts pulled down across my thighs and on
to the floor.
Bike riders abs barely noticeable in the stained glass window reflection.
Lavendar sports bra holding my body tight like a second skin tugged
over my strong neck and on to the floor.
You ok with this?
I will turn my eyes.
No. Don't make it uncomfortable for me.
Ok. Get in here.
Black boxer-briefs unveiling my full body whisked down my legs and on
to the floor.
I lay behind her in a porcelin tub.
A red light dangeled above us.
I held her from behind.
I hid my body from her.
She began to sing.
"Hello Seattle, I am the crescent moon, shining down on your face."
My knees covered by hands, her knees outstretched as her legs lay on
the bathtub interior.
Warm water caressing our bodies, in and out of skin folds and in
between our hands.
She turned to me.
Kisses that were as delicate as crunching fall leaves outside of the window.
Bodies melting in the warmth of our breath and the warmth of the tub.
As my head dropped and my eyes closed, and shook.
Tears spilling out.
I apologized in to her own deep eyes.
Is this ok.
Yes, I whispered.
Clutching the sides of our indoor pond I let myself go.
Deep emotions that exist in parallel with my body.
A long-standing hate for parts of my being are being lifted as she
kisses my chest.
Tangled together and feeling separate from my body as my mind searches
for ways to be ok with this nakedness.
I didn't ask for these accessories.
I sleep at night without my protection, but awake as gingerly as
possible and slide it over my head, and on to my body.
It feels good to be held, even if by too-tight lyrca.
We laugh and spill saline water over one another's heads.
She said we are now baptized.
New new new.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Great article, especially because it is In the NYT, which is important because principles and parents and youth and queer folks and straight folks may absorb this mainstream news coverage. I only wish that the writer would have focused more on gender fluidity where the binary is challenged. Here we see that, again, roles in these folks lives are cycling through male and female personas; an, often, unfair and stifling path for many of us. Genderqueer does not solely mean no gender, and bringing this variance up could free the mind from assumptions about biological boys in lipstick and girls in baseball hats (although I heart that look!). There is a lot in between those poles, and as a person who wears skinny jeans with boxer briefs, and small t-shirts with a body hugging sports bra, I may sit in this unapproachable gray that still gets stares, glares, and questioned accusations of what I am "trying" to be. More articles expressing the realness of identity - something very challenging to describe - would be greatly beneficial to those of us who also say (like the blog) that labels are for jars.