Even as cynical, hard-hearted right-wingers ramp up their anti-gay and anti-trans attacks, some of my dearest pals are exploring their sexuality. Both have alluded to fluidity over the past months and years. Have sent me evocative, gorgeous photos and assumed feminine names.
One went through a time in their earliest phases of questioning of experiencing temporary blindness first thing every morning. They were unable to see for long minutes. It seemed so telling. The new name is also their mother’s.
The other assumed a feminine identity first in performance art, fully realizing a powerful, sexy shape with sculpted legs and a mop of tossable hair, but silent in each video, unable to find a voice they found palatable. I don’t know how to talk in her voice, they said, and this seemed deeply metaphorical. (They’d also put away one of her wigs, twisted it up tight and put it away in a drawer and couldn’t find it for a week.) On the apps as Her, they're taken aback at experiencing men’s vileness and capriciousness toward women.
I’m excited for my friends. Worried. Protective.
I know how wonderfully freeing it is to say yes to that inner voice, the one saying, go, do, be.
You.
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