The water rushed over me. Pouring every inch of my skin, I felt at ease. It was as if each drop cleansed of my day’s sins. The water gave me a second chance. My senses reminded me that everything was, is, and will be okay.

My body argued otherwise. Once reassurance rushed through my veins, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Despite my best stare, it wasn’t enough to stand out. Like a ghost on a TV show, with its body so faded the audience sees through it to the back of the studio set. There I stood, blurred and unsure. Why, despite my best efforts, could I not be registered as whole? Could I keep blaming this on my circumstances? Being the youngest child? The only queer family member blazing his own trail? Was I truly living in the shadows, dulled enough by others so that I myself did not make my own appearance? Was this a disservice done to me by others? By my community? By society?

Or was it me?

Did I believe in myself enough to give fully of myself? Or did I hold back, and my confident exterior was only a mirage in my head? The faded image that stood staring back at me that I so desperately wanted to see clearly in front me?

It’s time to begin. Off. On. 

Excuse Me

Why should I require abs?

I want a man with a soft stomach so that when I rest my head on it, I can feel comfortable.

Why should I require a flat stomach?

I want a man who will go on ice cream, frozen yogurt, and dinner dates with me.

Why should I require someone hot in bed?

I want a man who knows the skills to satisfy me in bed. And physical attractiveness is no guarantee of that.

Why should I require clear skin, blemish free?

I want a blemish or a few to remind me that no one is ever perfect, ever. And that his scars make him better, not bitter, about the way his life has gone.

Why should I require a full head of hair?

I want a head that can understand my rants about gender, heteronormativity, and queer theory. And give me feedback.

Why should I require a man to be masculine?

I want a man who is unafraid of being who he truly is, even if it contrasts with what the world wants from him.

Why should I require someone like me?

I want a man who expects these same sentiments from me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for letting me indulge in some creative writing. I’ve been getting pretty fed up with societal expectations of people, and moreover, people’s adhesion to these ideas. Society isn’t an individual; it isn’t one personal being that you will ever interact with. And its production of beauty standards and other expectations, dispensed through the media and culture, does not account for the majority of people in this country. While I enjoy the occasional depiction of a “Ken doll,” we must meet these images and the expectations that accompany them and that govern the rest of us with a critical eye. Will they truly bring us happiness in our individual lives? Should we police others by these standards?

Praise the Lord for hip ‘90s music. Because I’m not going to be a pawn in society’s game. And for that I respectfully say, “excuse me.”

Spellbound

Hey all! This is Bradley and for my Thursday post this week, I’ve decided to share a prose poem I wrote about my first boyfriend. I originally composed it for a creative writing class. I hope you like it:

Spellbound

My fascination with dyed hair began with Clint.

Hypnotic black with traces of metallic green the color of a beetle shell,

His rude outfit included scuffed converse, jeans, and a tight purple t-shirt:

It had an upside-down tree splashed across the front.

He had one ear bud in at all times, and smelled nicely of cinnamon.

I remember the night we met:

Everything and everyone smelled distinctly of chlorine from the pool outside.

About 30 people were swimming in their underwear.

All kinds of junk food littered countertops and floors.

With a “Clint, Bradley… Bradley, Clint”, we locked eyes, laughed, and he took my hand.

We sat in the crater of the gumball-green beanbag where we compared music tastes

We sampled music by sharing a pair of headphones.

As we got closer, the divot in the beanbag got deeper.

My head lay against his shoulder above a spaghetti tangle of limbs.

Clint leaned in closer and kissed me softly.

I felt a huge wall crumbling around me. There it was.

Something inside of me melted and I felt warm sticky goop wash over my soul.

Again he kissed me, and I felt suspended in midair.

An invisible puppeteer had lifted me by the spine.

As we kissed, I think I blew a fuse somewhere inside me.

He had pierced my armor and tickled my soul.

I was utterly spellbound by that choppy green hair the color of a beetle shell.