I’ll Be Your Arbiter


Baby.

We both laughed.

“I want little placards that read ‘straight pepper diet’ and ‘imperious urge’ and one small gavel.”  I then laughed uproariously.

I amuse my own self.

I have been asked to run a workshop on sexuality and body image in recovery and though so flattered, did I want to do it?

No.

Fuck no.

Hell no.

I think not.

“God alone can judge my sex situation,” I explained to her, “which means, I can’t judge my sex situation.”

Always a good thing to be reminded of.

“I just immediately thought of you and how you embody your body and you’re fabulousness, and you just seemed the right person for the job.”

Again.

So flattered.

Then I thought, well god damn, I best get me laid before the event on the 28th of the month.

What does that give me?

25 days.

Let’s go boys.

Bwahahaha.

Ah.

Chuckle.

I mean, yeah, hey, I’ll take some loving other than self lovin’.

I’m down for the latter too, but my vibrator isn’t really made for making out.

Ahem.

For me, however, it’s not just about sex, it’s about letting myself be sexy.

“You sort of ooze sex, I think a lot of people think you’re getting laid all the time,” he said to me.

“Not like that,” I slapped my leg, “Jesus, no wonder I don’t get approached.”

I may not get approached also because, well, I’m fucking flamboyant as hell and got up and it takes some balls to approach this woman.

Unless of course you’ve been smoking hella weed in the soccer court at Mission Pool and Playground, then it doesn’t even matter that I’m with two young boys under the age of five, I’ll get heckled.

Or leered at, same thing really.

This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, no particular reason, I just did.

I tossed my grumpy ass in the shower and washed up and dried my hair and decided what I was going to wear and I climbed into my attire for the day.

I made my bed.

I read some things.

I said some things.

I ate breakfast.

I drank coffee.

I washed my breakfast dishes.

I pulled out my notebook, aqua blue glitter, thank you very much, and started to write.

I wrote about being cranky for no particular reason and what that brought to mind.

I drank my coffee and decided I had time for a half cup more, and time to do my make up and fuck it, I’m cranky, I’m going to fake it til I make it.

And I swept my hair up into flower clips.

Not one, but three.

Because why the fuck not?

Then, yes aqua blue eyeliner, and silver hoops in my ears and glitter aqua blue stars in my ears, the second and third piercings on the left ear, and why not, I’m not saving it any longer, the lipstick from the Monoprix in Paris on the Champs Elysees that I ducked into one day on my way to Charles de Gaulle Etoile Metro stop.

I was a wild mix of purple, glitter, aquamarine, and hair flowers with feathers and glitter.

I looked mad good, in case you were wondering.

And I felt fantastic.

I’m living the Burning Man dream, riding my sparkle pony up Lincoln Avenue with a big smile on my face.

If a little face paint and a few hair flowers can change my mood, then why the hell not embrace it.

I embraced the fuck out of it.

She smiled and said, “you’re so colorful.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled, as I pushed the stroller through the gate at the front of Mission Pool and Playground on Valencia Street.

That is what sexy is for me.

When I am having fun with myself and being bold and not caring what the world thinks of me.

“I used to keep a hula hoop in my kitchen,” I said, laughing, “not because I really hula hooped all that much (although for a weekend I got into it), but because it was a good visual reminder (being oversized and vibrant lime green with dark green sparkles threading the outer edges of it) to keep the focus on me.”

“What is outside of the hula hoop is none of my business,” I said and made a circle with my arms to represent that.  “What’s inside is my business.”

“Who are you dressing up for,” my ex boyfriend asked the week before we broke up.

“Ah, nobody, I always dress like this,” I said.

Although, truth be told, I had been taming it down, my way of dressing and makeup weren’t to his taste.

Which in hindsight is a red flag, note to self.

How I attire myself is also a reflection of myself as an artist.

My body, my hair, my tattoos, my choice in makeup, my way of dressing, of expressing my sexuality, of allowing myself to be sexy, are done in ways that I believe, really, truly, in my heart, to be an artistic expression.

I am my own walking poem.

Sometimes the stanza is a dance move, a twist of the hip, a rotation of the foot, a twirl in my bedroom, listening to Daft Punk and grooving out to my own little dance party.

Sometimes it is the sweep and swoosh of eyeliner, I like a cat eye, or a retro glam look, or it could be that the color on my eyelid matches my shoelaces, which match the second heart glitter earring on my left ear.

I am a palette and I glow and fuck yeah.

Bring it.

I’ll run a workshop on sexuality and body image.

I may even wear my leopard print, pony skin, black platform heels and make everybody get up and shake their gorgeous booties to a hot track.

I just got to step into my body, my self and be the awesome creature that God made me.

You’re not the arbiter of my conduct.

God damn it.

I’m here to enjoy this life.

This body.

This everything.

Bring on the dating.

I got 25 days to practice.

Giggle.

Break a girl off.

 

 I want a little sugar in my bowl
I want a little sweetness down in my soul
I could stand some lovin’, oh so bad

 

 

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