Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Another phone call.

Take me.  Seriously.
No, no...really.  I think you should.

Playing with the ever-dulling edge of today's double entendres is something in which we all have to be well versed.  I do want to be taken.  Someone with as deep a set of control issues as I, should definitely be thrown against a wall and passionately explored by the appropriate suitor.  And maybe because of these same control issues, I constantly scan every set of eyes looking for someone to put down their decaf-skim-cap, lower their glasses (I'm pretty out of touch.  I don't think many people still publicly wear their glasses), listen to what I'm saying, and actually take me seriously.

I am not joking around.  I will tell you to "Fuck off!" with the sincerest of smiles.  And I will absolutely rock your entire world to it's core if you do decide to... well... Fuck me.  The two are much closer related than you think.

This journey I've been on is by no means a joke.  And do not worry, no one has referred to it as such.  Other things I've done in the past, yes, they were quite humorous, and not in a good way.  What I am currently building is a place where I get to be myself.  I am also fully aware and proud of the fact that I get to be myself out in the "real" world.  There is amazing power in my gait as I walk down Lexington Avenue from my shrink's office.  Getting out all the crap you let yourself absorb during the week can lead to some of the best sidewalk shade New York City has to throw.

I am building an artistic space that I can tangibly call my own.  If you don't like it, get out.  I won't mind.  I'm using every inch of this space and could use the room.  I've walked into several audition rooms over the last decade and had certain folks sum me up in a way that even some of my "friends" have.

"Oh, look at her."

Or one of my personal favorites, "Sing, girl."

I've even chosen to play into it in my act by embracing the women's music I choose to embrace.  I've despised the idea when, after playing a drag queen for the first time in a gay re-imagining of "Hedda Gabler" entitled "Henri Gabler" several years ago, a dear friend came running toward me in the lobby after my performance announcing "You were wonderful.  I'm so glad that you finally found your thing!  You were so comfortable up there.  This is it!!  You've finally figured it out."  She and I aren't that close anymore.  Yet, these offers to play drag queens have continued to come in every so often.  Thank you for thinking of me.

If I were to ask you to be a part of my show.  If I were to ask you to come be a part of my audience.  Or to play for me.  Or would you sing with me.  Or sing back up for me.  If I ask you to direct me and to harness some of the rambling that my story-telling is partial to.  If I do that, it is because this control of his show.  Me.  He wants it.  He knows what to do with it.  He wants you.  He wants you to go on this journey with him.  I take you.  Seriously.

If I were to ask you to dinner.  Or out on a date.  Or to my bedroom.  If my fingers actually grazed your profile pic on Grindr.  OR I dared email you on  If I found you attractive and I let you know.  Rest assured that this man who is in control of his emotions and his life.  Me.  He wants it.  He wants you.  He wants you to go on this journey with him.  I take you.  Seriously.

I am not a gimmick.

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