The naked truth.

Last night, the AC in our bedroom stopped working. After living in denial for about two hours (“it’s not that bad! I can sleep!”) we both decided to move out to the living room and sleep on the couch, where the AC is strong and healthy and, best of all, COOL.

Coupla things suck about this, though.

  1. It’s not our comfy, amazing bed. Seriously, I’m in-fucking-love with our bed. It’s the best bed ever.
  2. The “couch” we have is a futon. A well-loved (read: worn in) futon. Which is hell on both of our backs.
  3. Sleeping on “my side” meant I woke up in front of a flat screen TV. Which is basically a giant muted mirror. This may not seem like such a big deal until you take into account that I usually, especially in the summer, sleep nude. So I woke up, sat up, stretched the terrible pains out of my back and realized I was staring at my sitting, naked self.

What happened next was odd.

(Fuck, now I sound like clickbait. Anyway. It’s staying. Because it was fucking odd.)

I…didn’t hate the way I looked.

No. That’s not even fully accurate. I actually kind of liked the way I look.

This proceeded to blow my fucking mind.

See, my three biggest sources of bodily fear and shame are my chin, my breasts, and my stomach. My chin and stomach issues are wrapped up in something an ex-partner said to me years ago during a fight about how they couldn’t see beyond my “double chin and rolls of fat”. That was a deep enough cut, but the look in their eyes…the utter derision from someone who vowed to love me forever broke my heart that day. It meant that all my other qualities that they had professed to love (in front of friends and family, no less) were now completely meaningless compared to what they couldn’t see past. I was ugly to them and no amount of the intelligence or humor or kindness or anything else they had previously said they loved could stop that sheer disgust in their eyes.

I hate to admit that that crawled under my skin so far and for so many years, but there’s still a small part of me that gets terrified the first time someone I care about and want to be intimate with gets near my stomach or my breasts. My jackass brain starts hauling out the past and screams something like this:

REALLY?! You’re gonna let them touch you there? You’re going to keep the lights on and let them see all of you? I thought you wanted to continue to have them look at you with dancing, sultry eyes?

You know what’s going to happen, right? That look will change and suddenly they’ll be looking at you just like _____ did.

Sometimes the whole script doesn’t play out, and all I’m left with is a simple terror that the sexy eyes and the amazing energy that’s mixing with mine is just going to change immediately to that derision and then my heart sinks and my brain goes into protect mode. Which I fight, so I freeze.

Except I don’t want to do that because I want to fucking enjoy the time I’m having. I want to be able to surrender if it’s a kink scene. If it’s straight up sex, I want to fucking enjoy the hell out of it.

Because here’s a secret…once I get past that initial step, I adore sex and kink and y’know what, fuck EVERYTHING, I will be joyously, proudly naked.

But it takes some time to get there with a new partner. And since I don’t meet new partners all that often, I don’t get much practice getting out of that jackass part of my brain.

So back to me sitting there, not hating the way I looked, actually kind of liking the way I looked…and then…and THEN I TOOK A FUCKING PICTURE OF MYSELF. Full frontal, naked, sitting. I even liked the picture. Holy fuck.

Fuck your fascist beauty standards. Or, I’m ready to be sexy again.

Some of my friends have started writing 2015 end-of-the-year assessment posts, blogs about what they want to change in 2016, and I’m sure more reflection on the past and hope for the future will come over the next few days. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been deep in my own mental review of the past year. What I liked, what I didn’t, what I want to change. But for now, one thing that’s affected deeply me throughout this year came screeching into the forefront of my brainmeats as something I want to phoenix the fuck out of in the coming year.

Earlier this year, I had to interact, directly and indirectly, with someone who opposed and belittled multiple facets of who I am, who I love, and what I do and in the course of a few days, total, managed to cast a pall of shame on things that I had previously been proud of: my ability to entertain, my sexiness, my kinkiness and the kink lifestyle, the self esteem I had built so carefully over the years and put back together over and over again. This person managed to also denigrate the sexiness of some of the most amazing performers I’ve ever been privileged to know and work with and, for some, call my friends and lovers. I’m not comfortable going into more detail but the experiences of this, and its aftermath, affected a large part of my life this year and continues to impact me in ways I’m still discovering.

For the most part, I’ve managed to make some sort of grudging peace with it and the fact that it will continue to nick at my skin for the foreseeable future because of reasons. Then I read this article entitled “My Right To Be Sexualized” by Little Bear. Who is now my goddamned heroine.

Y’see, I co-founded a burlesque troupe which I then co-directed for six years. The troupe is still going fabulously and about to hit its tenth anniversary being a body positive, all-gender-positive, sexy smorgasbord of theatrical awesomeness. For various life reasons, I took a hiatus/temporary retirement about two and a half years ago. Part of it was semi-planned, though not the specific timing. I knew I’d want, at some point, to be less involved because I eventually wanted to start a family. That took many twists and turns from 2012 through 2013, and all of them hit me full force in one heart-breaking day in the spring of 2013. Since then, I’ve worked on putting pieces of my heart back together, working towards a new life and new love, figuring out what I wanted, and working to make things I believe in happen. But in many ways, I wound up putting way too much energy in making things happen for other people than for myself.

The other part of the reason I left was because I was no longer feeling sexy as myself, only when I put on my character. And that scared me. I know RuPaul has told drag queen contestants on Drag Race to use their alter-drag queen-ego to enhance themselves, but I couldn’t find a way to do that so I wanted to take some time to rediscover me. What I discovered is something I’m still battling. Basically, I found that my dreams felt unreachable and unrealistic, that I haven’t been dealing with my anxiety and depression well at all, and that the self-esteem I’d built so carefully over the years was torn to shreds.

Shades of the past haunt me, even now. In my head I hear a  previous partner who, during a fight, said all he could see when he looked at me any more was my double chin and rolls of fat. Or I hear another partner who thought it was funny to poke me in the stomach and insist I giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy. I hear the people who used to serenade me in school because the funniest thing they could think of was to sing to the fat girl, telling her how “beautiful” she was, laugh hysterically, and ask her to marry them. Or the ones who used to pretend there was an earthquake happening when I walked by.

I’ve been told, more than once, that I have a great face, wonderful bone structure, a lovely sense of rhythm and movement, but that I’d be prettier if I lost a few pounds. And I’ve been looked at pitifully while enjoying a piece of candy or a cupcake, as if I shouldn’t be taking joy in it, because I shouldn’t be eating it at all.

The mixed messages have been fun, too. From the people who openly criticized my eating habits while they, themselves, were neither thin nor healthy eaters, to the family member who bought me a gift bag full of candy for my birthday…and then handed me a diet book…to what? Round out the present? She was also a leader in the “you’d be so [pretty, attractive, beautiful, insert adjective of choice here] if you lost some weight” brigade.

There are times when I can’t stop hearing these things, happening over and over in an endless loop in my head. They come up when thinking about wanting to do a sexy dance for someone I care about makes me want to crawl into a hole because I know he’ll laugh at me, yet there was a time when I used to be excited to do that sort of thing. When thinking about how I look or various positions to do during sex send me into a panic. “I can’t do that,” I think in a blind terror. The next thought is either “I’ll look like a blob folded like that.,” or, “I’ll kill them if I try that position!”

And I realized, sometime last year, that this also impacted how I felt about getting back on stage. I felt afraid. Afraid of how I’d be perceived. Afraid to be heckled. Afraid that I’d lost even that last vestige of sexiness I was able to feel, character or not. And then, as the situation I spoke of in the second paragraph unfolded, I felt a dying gasp of fight within me.

I tried to articulate it. Tried to do something about it. I didn’t get far. There were a few, select people who agreed with me. Who supported me. But ultimately, I’ve only been able to put words to it recently, after reading Little Bear’s post.

It’s because, “no one wants to see that.” It’s because “that’s not what people like.” “That’s not what sells.”

Therefore, our low “market value” (a phrase neo-masculinists actually use free of irony) doesn’t elevate us.

It neuters us.

In that one sentence I realized that feeling I couldn’t put my finger on…I felt neutered.

Others, from strangers to lovers to public figures, have looked at me and deemed me unsexy and unworthy. Said no one wanted to see people like me taking my clothes off on stage. Said people who looked like me weren’t “what sells.” That was the message I heard, that was the message I felt, and that is the message I have had an incredibly hard time overcoming.

And along comes Little Bear, who also has PCOS (poly-cystic ovary syndrome) and is in therapy for anxiety and depression from emotional abuse and eating disorders, all things I also deal with. And my heart sang with the recognition of crossing paths, even if it’s just on the internet, with a familiar soul.

But as I read on, my heart practically leapt out of my chest with gratitude for a stack of reasons. For her writing and for putting herself out there. For reminding me that, “sexiness is for anyone that wants it.”

And for this, especially:

I didn’t wait to love my body to strip. I began stripping to slowly learn to love my body. In doing so, I am being sexy not by “retaining a mystique” or showing you “flattering” shapes. I am showing you my shape—in all its soft, chubby, hairy, sweaty glory.  I have told “mystique” to go fuck itself.

Amen, sister. I’m about to tell “mystique” to go fuck itself, too. I have a few ideas about how to get back into burlesque, a little at a time. We’ll see how they go. But I’m no longer going to be held hostage by vocal oppressors. As Little Bear said:

“No wants to see that?” Tell that to the audiences who cheer for every pastie I pop and stocking I pull.

With that one sentence, I was reminded of all the cheers I got, the praise and compliments, the heartfelt thanks from people who never thought of themselves as sexy until they saw me owning my own sex appeal on stage. The people who thanked the troupe I worked my ass off on with Viktor Devonne, its current director, to go beyond simply sexuality (which, of course has its place and is wonderful) to deal with issues of abuse, fear, aging, death, love, longing, transformation, BDSM, alternative sexualities/genders/relationships, personal growth, and so much more on stage. I was reminded of performers of all stripes (like Amanda Palmer, Brian Viglione, Dolly Shot, Viktor Devonne, and so many others) who support diversity on stage.

And recently, as if to help usher me towards this decision, there have been the random people recognizing me when I haven’t been in character who ask me when I was going to be back on stage, friends who said they miss seeing me perform and wondering if I’ll do so at the last Wicked Faireand the one special, unexpected message I got from a dear friend a few months ago who just wanted to tell me how amazing they thought I was and linked me to one of my own performances.

“No one wants to see that.”

Fuck that.

Tell that to the over 50,000 people who’ve seen the video of me that Amanda Fucking Palmer herself called “two hot buxom girls in what looks like a stolen insurance board room doing burlesque” when she re-tweeted the link to it.

Tell it to the people who’ve cried with laughter (because it was a cheeky number, not laughing *at* me) and sadness (because I’ve done some heavy shit, y’all. Give the peoples the *feels*) over numbers I’ve done. To the people I made feel. Squirm with desire. Cheer. Tell it to the people who’ve complimented my voice. My body. My choreography.

And while you’re telling people that, I’m going to get back to practicing some numbers. I don’t know when they’ll see the light of day, but I’m sure as fuck getting back on stage again.