He was a sexy, sexy man, testosterone–a human drug–he was always ready to sex me up. Always in my pants and I could not get him out of my crotch. He was single-minded; he was driven. I loved him for that, and I hated that man even more for same.
Now my sexuality and sensuality are vague dreams, mists of sandalwood and patchouli incense, wandering through and around me and also just out of reach, constantly, periodically and never–and now I long for someone to come and make it all clear–really crisp and bright for just one moment now and then–like summer lightning that flashes on rain-pelted fields for just a moment. Maybe even that man, that sexy man–only this time I swear he’ll have to be in somebody else’s body.
On my gender:
I said of/to myself, “I am Ridiculous; Ridiculous is my gender. It is my nature and my choice. I have no other nature and no other choice. My color is all the colors of a rainbow of purple, and all the raspberry, and also every color that clashes with them truest and best. If anyone asks me, in tone or in upraised eyebrow or by misgendering me (‘Sir?’ and ‘yes sir’, etc. etc.), I’ll tell them this truth; that a life without ridicule is a life only half-lived.”
On the sorry state of your self-love life:
If you’ve lived 40 or 50 years, and you’ve not learned how to be your own best, truest and deepest lover, why would I think you could do anything for me? You had the raw materials there with you all this time; why were you not practicing your arts on that person who would tell you the truth about your skills, and perfecting them? You had all the pigments, colors in your body, in your sad heart, that you needed; why did you not paint the miracles you wanted, needed, had to have, in your own self until they manifested?