Fashion and Design (a rant)

I do not want a fashion designer

 

I want a goddamn engineer

to make the speed of my curves rival that of the autobahn

 

I want an interior designer

to mold my frame with gold lame

 

I want a mathematician

to calculate the exact type and tautness of my fabric

so that when I strut I get exactly .25 rps (ripples per second)

anything more than that would cost the voyeurs extra

 

I want a chemist

to observe me from sunrise to sunset

manufacturer the perfect color to offset

my skin from bedroom to deskjob to blowjob and back again

 

I want a visual artist

that works exclusively with billboards or at least the broad sides of buildings

to make a pattern so bold that foundations crumble under the weight of it

 

and I want fucking pockets

 

I’ve given my power to the wrong people

they’ve crossed my lines and erased them

leaving only a narrow slice of what beauty, fashion and originality can be

they challenged me to dance on this garrote tightrope

the challenge is not mine

the challenge is theirs

to bend

to yield

to be submissive to my bounty

conscious of my curves

 

i do not want a fashion designer

set on razing this land or recreating it in their image

I want an innovator, a map maker, an explorer to chart this untamed wilderness

and attempt show all its wonder to the world

My Body’s not a Cage

“My Body is not a Cage” was written for “Burlesque and Why”   a stage play produced by Dottie Lux, the founder of Red Hots Burlesque.  Her goal was to give the audience an insight into what is beneath the glitter and glam.  A chance to see that our performances are deeper  than the foundation that goes on our faces.  I was incredibly honored to be a part of this production which included: Burlesque Legend Ellion Ness, POC powerhouse The Lady Ms. Vagina Jenkins, Queer creatrix Lay si Luna, hilariously talented Alexa Von Kickinface and the amazing Dottie Lux herself.

We were supported by an amazing team of people including Kitty Von Quim, Ava Lanche and many others.  I am so happy to have had my voice heard and lovingly received.

I think I was nine. We were parked outside of an old brick building. I was dressed in a black leotards with pink opaque stocking underneath.  (Alexa enters… doing a bit of ballet) Crushing cotton candy colored ballet shoes in my hands as I strained against my seat belt ready to run in. My mother put a calming hand on my arm. She looked worried and she said.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to”

“There are a lot of girls in there and with your… you just don’t have to do this”

I insisted.

I walked into that building with my head held high and full of wonder.  (Alexa moves puppets) All day I watched women and girls older than me move across polished wood floors with perfect form and flow. They were my dream. Twirling delicate clouds flying through the air and plucked from the sky. Caught in the arms of their partners. Precious. I wanted to be that.

When I walked out of that building five hours later I had been cast. I had a part in Ballet Hysells annual production of the Nutcracker. This was no after school special either. This was the real deal. This show had a fancy opening party at the Museum of Art. People would come dressed in their Sunday best and opera gloves. And I was going to be there on the Sangaer Theater Stage in Downtown New Orleans for one show a week, two on weekends for a full holiday season as one of the rat kings lackey’s.

The costumers were thrilled that they didn’t have to pad my costume with a belly because I already had one, I was thrilled that I made it in and my mom was thrilled that she didn’t have to have the you’re just as good as everyone else conversation.

I didn’t understand then. It was before I learned that I was too fat to dance. It was before my body had become a cage. Founded in fear. Forged in anger.Sealed in shame.

I was nine years old and it was my mother’s fear that encouraged her to tell me I was fat when I wasn’t.

She was so afraid that I would end up depressed, requited, undervalued, irrelevant and invisible. Her angst surrounding her own body image was poured into my veins like some dominant hereditary gene. I’d rather have her perfect teeth than this disease.

I was eleven and angry at my elementary school peers who raised white cotton blouses and heavily starched pleated skirts to compare bellies and thighs to pictures of airbrushed models in Cosmopolitan and 17 Magazine. It was a test none of us could pass teaching us to stick fingers down throats to achieve mass media regurgitation of what was pretty

and we were supposed to be oh so pretty.

I was twelve and ashamed because anorexia and bulimia were considered a vicious malady and its bearer’s victims to be loved and looked after while my obsessive compulsive over eating disorder was considered MY CHOICE a self-inflicted, disgustingly gross weakness of character.

I was pissed at every doctor who refused to believe that my period went away before the weight gain. They saw my fat first and not my affliction. It would be six years before they found the cysts lining my ovaries and tubes. Cysts…a string of bright wet pearls across my ovaries. It would be another four years before they would find the tumor in my brain.

I was  17 and so scared of rejection that I would not let her make love to me; I would not let him see me with the lights on. I went seven years without photographic evidence that I indeed exist. Pictures or it didn’t happen. I wanted to pretend I never happened.

I was 22 and  shamed by every colleague and coworkers for their pettish pats on the back

when they saw me at the gym, when they congratulated me for “finally doing something good for myself”. I’m incensed by the audacity of complete strangers spewing their condescending concern for my health and well-being. They were never worried about me. They were afraid of being like me, of being trapped in this body, afraid of touch me as if I were contagious and in some cases…

in the worst cases afraid to love what society as deemed as unlovable. Fuck me all night but won’t hold my hand in the sunlight, abuse me, assault me.

I was 25 and I  stayed because I believed I wasn’t precious. I measured my worth in weight and was found wanting.

I wasn’t skinny, or blonde, I didn’t have blue eyes or white skin. I am completely the opposite.

No one will love me. No one will catch me if I fall. I’m too heavy. My issues are too heavy.

So Burlesque? Why?

Because they were wrong.

I was wrong.

This body is made to dance,

to be seen,

to be beautiful

to be feminine.

I’m 32 and every time I take the stage it is a free fall comprised of blind trust. It is a leap that tests my faith of the sacred within the sensual and 100 hands (and lets be real… on some nights only 10) reach out and catch me every time.

I dance to exist, to break through glass ceilings, shatter concrete beliefs, reshape worlds and retake space.

I burlesque because there was a part of me that hated me and sadly still believes even to this day that I could never be what I am now.

Every time I shimmy I shake this loose… and I welcome those around me to do the same.

From head to toe this is my body. Within it lies boundless joy. Monumental motion. Voluminous love

Fathomless fierceness. I will not let anyone shame me away from it. I will not listen when anyone tells me to hate it. This is my body. It is not a cage. This is me. I am precious. And I am free

image

(Fuck you)I’m Still a Woman

I saw it happen to someone today and it reminded me of what I went through myself.

I remember struggling under the weight of a massage table and my various bags while some asshole chatted on his phone just outside the door. Once I was inside I paused to readjust my shoulder strap and watched as this summer’s eve opened the door for a thin woman who was carrying only a purse.
I
Was
Pissed.

I began to notice it everywhere.

-Clothing stores that cut off sexy at a size 12
-Television shows where the hefty girls are comedic relief, the dateless best friend, the asexual sidekick, the compassionate caretaker.
-People thinking that I was strong or capable of physical labor they would not have asked someone half my size to even consider.
-Websites and comments that compare women of size to animals and furniture,
-Classified as pretty but never beautiful, photographed boobs up.

This idea by the general population that my weight makes me invisible as a person and non applicable as a woman.

(fucking sigh)

My dress size does not dictate the diverseness my femininity!

My “Womyness” is something within,
It goes past my hips and thighs and as my trans sisters can attest to it is deeper than even my vagina.
It is not measured by the size of my breasts or their ratio to my stomach.

The honor of being a woman is something you are born with.
Not something that is earned.
Not a gift given to you.

So fuck you society. You don’t get to take this away from me.
You don’t get to take away the feeling of hands brushing up my legs, or silk curling around my sides.
You don’t get to take away the thrill of the tease or the batting of eyes.
I will not surrender to you and consider this shell to be a sin.
I will not pay a penance for my plumpness.

I defy you with every v-neck top
Every short skirt
Every lacey bra
Every ruby red kiss
Every dip of my hips
Every laugh of joy and cry of orgasmic release.

You don’t get to tell me who or what I am.

You don’t get to tell that woman… that beautiful beautiful woman who she is either.

Fat on Phat Violence

Disclaimers: the following post contains multiple, continuous and flagrantly shameless use of the words: fuck, bitch, and FAT If any of these words offend you or if you’re one of my former English teachers please navigate away from this page now

Dear Ungrateful Fat Bitches,

WTF
nobody put’s baby in a corner

I expected hate from the “mainstream” but from you. You’re breaking my god damn heart. I knew when I started doing burlesque that I would have an uphill battle to fight but I can’t believe you are trying to drag my ass down too. Oh you are flag waving for equality, bitching about how people treat you differently, crying about all that bullshit you went though in grade school but when it comes down to it sometimes you are just as much part of the problem.

Lets start with the thing that pisses me off the most. More than the fuck-me-never frumpy grey clothes you wear, the constant newest fad diets you go on, or the enabling support groups where you get together and cry. Lets start with this: The whole. utter and complete dismissal of yourself as a sexually potent human being…

I keep getting these response from other big women:
#1 We are about celebrating our curves not sexualizing them
#2What you are doing is perpetuating a harmful fetishism
#3 We deserve to be loved not put on embarrassing display

1
Ummmm… you lost me sweetness what better celebration of your curves, then covering it with glitter and dancing the night away.

2
The idea that my particular thunda thighs are floating her boat or rockin his cock doesn’t break my flow sugah. It’s not like I have to stand there and watch them do it to it. I’ll pose for a picture for private use…and if they want panties that costs extra (you freaks know how to reach me 😉 ) . Besides like someone pointed out to me the other day skinny women don’t get pissed off that people find them attractive just because they are skinny. Or do ya’ll?

3
I really wished you believed that… because if you did then you would not fall for prey to being what Kathryn calls the “grateful fat chick”. I am not a grateful fat chick but I used to be. I was that fat girl that would be oh so happpy that someone was checking her out, asking her out, or calling her pretty. I was that fat girl that was content to let him touch her in private even if he didn’t hold her hand in public. I was that fat girl that was starving for his compliments and hungrily eating all the bullshit he spit out. I am no longer a grateful fat chick… now I’m a phat bitch

I’m out there shaking my wide ass and jiggling my tits not just to appease my behemoth sized ego but to liberate you, reeducate the masses and fuck with the heads of fat-o-phobs. I’m fighting to be free in mind and expression. Yeah I’m taking my clothes off but if you look past that you’ll see that I have the ovaries and intestinal fortitude to live my dream at my present size in my present body unapologetically and that is something that extends beyond the stage.

That’s the real reason you fat bitches hate on me. I am shoving in your face what you want to run from most,what you cover up with girdles and cinch in with control top panties. Because you have not let go of your shame, and self loathing. Because someone beat you down so hard you are trying to beat me down too.

But I don’t want to beat you down,
I don’t want to embarrass you.
I want you to really see, to really accept how fabulous you are, how deserving you are how damn pretty you are.

And don’t give me that it’s so easy for you bullshit either. I went though it too, from sneak eating to starving, from depression so deep that I could not step outside… I’d binge and purge on self hate with side orders of hot steamy shame. I may not always be fat.. you may one day be skinny but we are ALWAYS human beings. And as human beings we have basics needs that are physical, spiritual, emotional, mental, sexual.

Because I believe fat bitches need love too
Because I believe that this phat bitch needs love too I refuse to let your fear, past rejections and negative reflections suppress my sexuality, my sensuality, my personality .

Nobody puts baby in the corner!!
Besides there is too much of me to even fuck around at pretending at being invisible.
All 5’6 279 pounds of me demands to be respected to be loved, to be touched, to be sexualized and fetish-ized and glamorized and seen for the powerful beautiful woman that I am.

so do me a favor
cut a bitch a break
and stop weighing me down with all your misplaced hate.

oh and Dr Phil… BITE ME!!