Confession: I’ve woken up out of a cold dead sleep to suck dick within ten minutes notice. And despite my dedication to sucking the pink off many a white dick (perhaps *too* many – Are my ancestors upset? Did I really enter both the lunar new year and Black history month talking about white men?) I am still hysteric, neurotic, uncared for, clinically annoying to be around and single!!!
And despite being hyper aware of it all year long as I become more and more unable to zip things from the back, on Valentine’s Day I am especially aware of it: I’ve been single my whole life, minus like, a year of dating a schizophrenic guy who tried to kill me on a boat, and the occasional two week long relationship with a line cook. And while schizophrenic guy may have bought me a Nintendo Switch, I did not get dick: which, as we know, is the basis of my whole life and the thing that I have structured my entire off-putting personality around.
Perhaps it’s because my mother didn’t hug me enough, or because I didn’t have a dad; maybe the child psychologists were right about me. Maybe it’s more than hysteria —- maybe it’s Maybelline. Whatever underlying, deeply rooted trauma that exists within my expanding bosom (thanks, progesterone) notwithstanding, a day in my life is simply not complete without some form of approval, male or otherwise. And the lengths I have gone to attain it have really taken a toll on my self esteem, especially as I age and find myself with the odd desire to be sexually attractive, even as a corpse: something many have assured me is NOT possible.
Well, whores, I’m going to be the least bloated and fluid filled corpse in the morgue, and therefore, the most fuckable. This is my promise to you here and now, because I don’t ever foresee a time in my life where I can simply wake up and… be. And that’s not a trans exclusive thing —- many of us, with and without a need for laser hair removal, have to wake up at 4am and begin an insane beauty routine (mine features a double chin exercise device) to get completely ignored by those around us who will later hit us up on the weekend if they’re not with their actual girlfriend.
A therapist might say: you’re simply trying so hard to gain love, which is elusive, because you are used to always having to do the most to be appreciated. It’s entirely possible that one day you will freely attain that love, even with the occasional nipple hair or two. (“Might” is operative, because I ghosted my therapist.) But that will never happen, and I will not allow it. I will tweeze *all* my nipple hairs and argue for body hair policies that will set women back ten years or more (to be fair, I find all body hair icky – perhaps because I am shallow and attached to beauty standards that don’t benefit me because I demand that everyone suffer.)
I’ve got the neurotic tendency to overanalyze things I say, mess up, say too much. I am always saying too much. It feels like every decision I make for myself is incorrect, or goes over wrong. I second guess myself constantly. If I was different, could I be better? It’s overwhelming to be constantly aware of every imperfection, imagined or real, and to constantly blame my lack of love and care on those flaws. It adds such weight to everything! I can’t eat or not eat without thinking of calories or how my body might change. Every time I consume something I immediately regret it, and every time I starve I think: will I have a man’s body again if I keep this up? Will I be appealing to myself or others this way? And, of course, the moment I start to feel this way, I shut down any potential love interests or become completely balls to the wall insane and block them several times in a week.
Maybe I love the ritual. Maybe fixating on physical form is just another way to be dangerously vain and self-involved. Sure, it takes me at least an hour to get ready for anything, including going to the ER for an actual life threatening emergency, but isn’t that like, the price of being a material girl? The shaving, the plucking, the suffering, the uncomfortable fabrics and fear of an outfit repeating too quickly; body shapers, body waxers, body horror — aren’t these things just part of the beautiful neurosis that is living? And the men I want to love me, who I always think will be better (or worse) than the next – aren’t they mere stepping stones to adopting another cat and giving it up entirely? Beautiful!
Or maybe I’m brainwashed. But as Valentine’s Day approaches, I, like many others, want desperately to justify the time I’ve wasted, the times I’ve had my heart broken or been ignored– and before this reads too much like an incel post, I’d like to extend this reminder to everyone, including myself: You are the one who attaches worth to your experiences. “Time wasted” doesn’t have to be wasted, it’s all a matter of perspective. Yes, that man didn’t call you back and that top ghosted you and stole one of your candles — but you know what? You got an opportunity to go out, shave your entire body again, and thrust yourself into the night, reckless and horny, to yet again get rejected. And you know what? That’s so American, you should be proud. We should all be proud of our unoccupied, unloved, untouched holes.