Sooooo.....I was at this party. Trying very hard to not make an ass of myself and be slightly dignified (which you may already know, is not so much a part of my special skills). This endeavour was mightily difficult, since I was super-anxious and hence had imbibed a wee bit too much wine. Which I then spilled all over. Including on my sweet-assed gorgeous new shirt. Right on my boobs. Smack in the middle, in fact,'cause I'm all lucky like that. Anyhoo - I was talking to this wonderful (and fabulously femme) woman, to whom I mentioned (grimacing at my red wine stained breasts) that I was a horrible failure at femme-dom. And she, bless her heart from here to heaven, said this to me: "Oh honey! Femme is ALL about failure!" I could've kissed her. Or wept. Really. Except I'm not into femmes, and both of those reactions would have been even more inappropriate than I already feared being. Suffice it to say that I will remember that exact moment for a long time to come, because, drunk though I was, this jogged many, many things into focus (and because I'm not sure I've ever loved a total stranger more). Instead of kissing her in gratitude or crying in relief, I just grinned and replied: "Oh well then, I'm a very, very successful femme." And so I am.
I've spent much of my life trying to blend, trying to please, and trying to be a chameleon. Very, very, very in tune with what other people wanted of me. Trying to reign in my too-muchness, the things about me that that I fear are too intense or potentially displeasing.(Things that might not be befitting of a mother or a lawyer's wife or a fledgling academic or....or.... or....).
But the thing is - all that tamping down is frankly exhausting. Also - I happen to be very bad at it - and bits of me keeping popping out and threatening to blow my (admittedly inadequate) cover.
And so, now, in the 38th year of my life, I'm coming out. Right out. Goodbye-closet-hello-world kinda out. Out, out. SHAZAM!
I'm coming out loud. (In fuschia and glitter and leopard print).
I'm coming out rowdy.
I'm coming out unabashedly trashy.
I’m coming out queer and loving and queer-lovin’.
I'm coming out undignified.
I'm coming out open as a good (no, make that great) book.
I'm coming out in heels so high, I'm gonna have to take them off by the end of the night and walk home in my bare, dirty, breathing-a-sigh-of-relief feet.
I'm coming out in a sex-pot dress. Or five or ten.
I'm coming out in-your-face emotional and intense and wide open.
I'm coming out contradictory and confusing and hard-to-handle. And maybe a little bit crazy. (But probably not nearly as crazy as I write myself). I like to think it adds to my charm.
I'm coming out in clothes that are everything I love: too young for my age, too fancy, too sexy, too tight, too short, too flouncy, too glittery, too everything.
I'm coming out with runny mascara and smeared lipstick.
I'm coming out all kinds of freaky. You know, when and if I feel like it.
I'm coming out sweet and kind and rock-steady.
I'm coming out bitchy and wobbly on my feet and totally unsure of myself.
I'm coming out dancing, wearing ripped fishnets, tall black boots and a collar. (And if you think that collar is somehow a personal message that you (or you or you or you) get to dominate me? Oh fella - you should be so freaking lucky. And only if *I* tell you to).
I'm coming out unbearably real.
I'm coming out holy-hell inappropriate.
I'm coming out all kinds of trouble.
I'm coming out in a prim 1950's dress in which I will swear like a motherfucker. (I'm very fond of this word. You should know that too).
I'm coming out demanding. Really. On my own behalf. (Okay - this one will be a work in progress. Who am I trying to kid. But I'm going to try really extra and especially hard on this one).
I'm coming out too fucking much. Too real. Too intense. Too physical. Too feeling. And very possibly also too drunk and spill-y (but just some of the time).
I'm coming out a big, beautiful, wholly honest mess.
A fine and fancy mess of femme-failure(s).
And Oh God! It feels fucking fantastic.
(Yes, I recognize the alliterative overkill, and no, I couldn't help myself.)
And while we're on the subject of coming out, I have a few other additions, which may actually shock you. God knows probably nothing above did - c'mon, a femme bottom? Could I be *any* more of a stereotype?
I'm coming out a writer.
(Maybe not a good one. But a self-titled one. I figure if this shit keeps me awake at night and I can't stop myself from writing notes at red lights, then goddammit, I'm taking the freaking title and trying it on for size).
I'm coming out a Carly Rae Jepson fan. Um, and a Taylor Swift fan.
(That last one is probably enough to digest, so I'll leave the coming out alone for now ;)).