loving love

:: i LOVE love. i love the goosebumps, and the butterfly moments. i love when you meet someone that challenges your routine- someone who makes you think twice about things you never thought more of. i love when you first kiss, and there’s that tingly feeling at the tip of your tongue, yearning for more. i love when he leans in to your ear and is whispering something completely natural and normal, and yet it somehow is erotic- paired with his natural scent blended with tom ford oud wood, and his accent both harmonizes and contrasts from your breathing and your heart beat. i love when he reaches in for a hug, and my fingertips graze the back of his head, hair gel and jet black hair. i love when we walk out of a restaurant and he leads in front, yet subtly leans his arm back to grab my hand and level me to him in our walk. i love that even though i shudder at PDA you somehow make me forget my rules and sneak a kiss in on bart when im in mid sentence. like seriously, that could go really wrong, but somehow it always go right. i love when he’s drunk, bow tie untied and draped along his neck and his shirt is unbuttoned slightly revealing a small tuft of hair, and he sits in his chair legs spread apart in intoxication and we argue and argue- because it’s in that moment that he’s professing his love to me, and i continually disregard verbally and reject- dipping my toe in the water of boundaries of what will make him completely disappear. yet he never seems to leave my life completely. my favorite feature feature besides his troubled eyes are his hands, they’re so big and surprisingly soft- and yet hard at the same time. my most favorite feature is his heart. his mind i hate because it hurts my ego because it tells him and convinces him to leave me, to be ashamed of his love for me. his mind polices his emotions towards me, and encourages him to stab my vulnerabilities deeper than they should be. but his heart? my gawd, his heart is the sweetest i’ve encountered. his heart forces him to show up at my door with a single rose and apology. to get on his knees and apologize. his heart incessantly yearns for me and my presence. in my absence his heart is sending smoke signals and constantly attempting to find me and in others. his heart validates my essence, and sensuality and vibrates for my being. his heart forces him to retract, and ponder, and wail, and seek, search, and patiently wait. and do i grow tired? i do. i grow too tired of it all because it confuses me how one can be so double minded in their expressions of love. double minded in their convictions- one minutes they want me near, one moment later they want me far. who am i to navigate the indecisiveness of his spirit- his mind is too analytical, and too concerning, and his heart is so unyielding. i thought love would be simple but it’s so complicated and decorated, and it’s potential is reduced every singe time. i just have to remind myself that i LOVE love.

the sad part being, that all my writing is almost always inspired by heartbreak. as a writer, it’s really the yearning and the longing and the pain that inspires me and i try to express that in my writing process. that being said, i have a hard time actually writing about joy and love- because while i love those emotions they don’t inspire and possess me in the same way. -aria.

Dumpster

I will forever remember the smell. the smell of crisp air that wet from nights and nights of rain. the smell of rotting compost mixed with expired milk in cartons paired with the stench of deceased food and sauces from the restaurant nearby. I can only imagine the color of the fluids seeping out of the rusted, jagged corner of the green waste management trash cans. the big ones, with wheels and big black lids. and I’ll forever remember his smell- smell of sandalwood mixed with vanilla and a musk that I can’t quite articulate- the scent of pristine and opulence that I hadn’t known. 
I walked along market street outside of the Orpheum theater, dragging my feet along the wet bricks without an exact destination in mind. I was tired. so tired- the fatigue clenching to the back of my thighs and the middle portion of my torso- that burning sensation kept knowing at me. I knew I had to keep moving, but to where? I knew it was going to rain soon- I could sense it but it was comforting to know it has finally stopped for a moment. my soggy socks were squishing against the brick through the enormous holes in my boots. I kept walking, curling my index fingers and thumbs to the arms of my jacket. I was so hungry. soooo hungry. so hungry that the Glide kitchens powdered eggs and watery coffee seemed so appetizing- how they repurposed gray trash cans loaded with ice and powdered milk and wheel them around the cafeteria to refill the huge plastic pitchers on each crowded table. it seemed so appetizing. 
Marc would bring me food in the morning, after he showers and treats himself to those La Boulange bagel donations, and I hope he saves me one. or shit, two. I have to stay awake because he’s meeting me on Ellis and Polk. it’s going to be Saturday snd the sandwich man is going to make sandwiches for everyone which means I have to wait outside and hustle a single cigarette from the tourists until I see him again. 

I kept walking, or rather, squishing up the street- my body felt like it was on an incline- but I know that it’s just my wet clothes sticking to my skin coupled with my three pairs of socks now sopping. the balls of my feet are tender and achy from the pressure of San Francisco. literally and figuratively. 

I stop to rest at the bus stop and sit, watching sports cars and nissans drive by, SUVs and priuses splashing the ponds of water up and then back onto the sidewalk. a group of girls tip toe slightly slippery bricks in their stilletos as they cross market onward to SOMA night clubs. they cackle and laugh and the sounds are like harmonies to my ears- since I haven’t spoken to anyone in 2 days. not have I eaten in 2 days, and while my flesh is weak, my vanity feels on fleek now that you can finally see some rib cage. those girls though, they’re still laughing and it echoes through 7th street back to Market street and fills the silence of the streets. 

I get up, and walk some more. 

I’m at the civic center bart station entrance next to the chase bank, and I look down the steps. it’s murky and wet and smells like pee. I knew I should’ve went to Montgomery station, since that one is way cleaner and you can kind of feel the heat through the metal gates, and keep warm. I sigh, in frustration. 

you ever know that feeling you get when someone’s watching you? except, in this moment I thought sure I was finally going mental, everything is just finally caving in on me. but I looked to my left, and I see a man smoking a ciggarette, standing at the bus stop. I looked back in his direction. he smiled and flicked his ciggarette. 

I’m stunned that someone actually sees me. like not literally. y’all know what I mean. I’m sort of frozen like one of those animals on national geographic that noticed the camera. I’m too tired to move, but not willing to be stationery. it’s like a 20 minute argument I’m having with myself condensed and expanded into a mere 40 second moment. 

he starts walking in my direction, looking both ways while crossing, one hand tucked into his jeans. he paces himself mid stride, and decreases his speed of his steps. 

he stared intently, and I look back wondering if he’s going to attack me or talk to me. 

“ohhhhhhhh” he says, eyes scanning me up and down and drifting his gaze down the street. 

“wwwhhhhaaaa”, I clear my throat. “excuse me”? 

“I thought you were a woman”, he says, averting his gaze from me, to the brick sidewalk. he fixes his mouth in this awkward position like he’s biting his bottom lip from the corner. he sniffles and snorts and brings his eyes back to me. 

“oh yeah, sorry no” I respond. goooo aaawwwayyyy I keep thinking. but again, I’m frozen. 

“you have a very beautiful face and such womanly lips”, he comments- drifting his gaze from me back to the ground and sniffles three times. as I’m writing this I’m like girl, you should’ve known he was high but I wasn’t that perceptive back then. 

from this moment, he has decided to express his interest in me. and im completely flattered because I’ve been wearing the same wet soggy socks for 3 days straight in hand me down Payless boots, and I reek of mildew and I haven’t showered in 2 weeks beyond bird bathing it at the starbucks at fox plaza. he smells of sandalwood and his tshirt has a faint scent of gain laundry detergent. his breath smells of whiskey and cocaine, and he’s wearing loafers with no socks in the fucking rain which means he has a fucking coin bish. 

he’s flirting as we were walking to Hayes valley and he’s telling me about how he’s from Istanbul and how I would love it there. I’m so hungry and conflicted and confused that I can barely comprehend what he’s saying. 

“do you like sucking dick?” he asks, with a slight grin. 

how’d we go from talking about partying to dick? 

“umm….. sure… I mean yes I love it… but I need food” I mumble as we turn down streets. he frantically searched and visually combs through each block for a discreet hiding place. 

“yes baby, I give you money for your time”, he says. 

my stomach is already imagining the two spicy chicken sandwiches I’m buying as soon as I get this coin. 

he finally settles for a dark area behind two dumpsters behind the opera house or ballet theater or whatever. the rain is starting to sprinkle. 

now that we’re in this dark area, I notice he’s becoming a bit more aggressive, and he yanks my head towards his dick and he hurriedly unzips his jeans. 

“cmon get on your knees” he demands, whilst looking over the dumpsters to see if any life forms are in the area. he looks down at me as I obey, my socks and soles squeaking from the position change. I feel the asphalt dig into my knees, and my pants are instantly a sponge for the puddles I just kneeled into. 

he whips his long, thin dick out and I wipe the opening with my index and quickly run my fingers around the base playfully checking for sores or bumps in the dark. the scent of sandalwood and dank must fill my nostrils as I inhale his dick into my mouth. he groans, and tilts his head all the way back- his eyes squeezed shut and nose angled towards the moon as he slowly gyrates his hips- his dick stabbing my esophagus with each thrust. I’m choking, and he grips the back of my neck- his thumb clenching my collarbone uncomfortably. I keep choking, and pull up for air.

he stares down at me, and I look up at him. his hand eases higher- resting his palm on to my hair bun- his other hand yanking my breasts out of my shirt, and he twists my nipples until they’re hard from the pain and the air and he’s thrusting into my mouth. I can’t stop him from forcing me because he has my bun in his hand which means if I pull away my wig will fly off and I won’t get the money so I’m trapped! 

he keeps groaning and tilting his head back towards the sky as he thrusts faster and faster- my gag reflex is screaming and caving in as he bucks and bucks and bucks harder and harder- each thrust paired with his aggressive groans and his biting his lower lip. I’m choking for real for real, and his grip on my hair and his other hand gripping my neck keep getting tighter and tighter with every thrust. the muscles in his thighs tense harder and harder and I don’t want to swallow so I finally grab his hand off my hair and pull up for air, and lightly backwash bom it from the gagging. he instantly snd forcefully grabs my jaw as I try to break free from his grip and he cums all over my face, my jacket and my neck. 

it all happened so fast that I sat there kneeling in asphalt and puddles for about 40 seconds of being frozen. I want to scream. I look up at him using his handkerchief from his blazer to wipe his dick clean, and I put my hand out towards him as a request to use it next. I feel his semen stinging a corner of my eye, as I wince at him. he wipes his dick and balls squeaky clean and tucks his handkerchief back into packet. as I start to ask to use it, he presses a $10 crumpled bill in my hand and chuckles. he clears his throat- glancing at me one last time and without saying a word walks away. 

my eyes darted every which way, to survey the scene. two large dumpsters and a peeling painted railing behind this opera house. I look down into my palm at the crumpled bill and use the arm of my jacket to wipe my face and neck clean. some of the cum is crusted on my forehead and throat area and won’t come off. I spit into the arm of my jacket and wipe hurriedly to get it off of me. I can still smell him, and taste him. 
I stayed kneeled in the puddles, my knees grinding the asphalt, my mouth quivering from heart break. Was it heart break? Or was it ego break? My spirit and will to survive in the wild urban jungle was mutilated with a robbed pride. My innocence that I carried and cherished like young white girls with lockets of their deceased was shredded and crumpled, like the ten dollar bill I received moments ago. I could be optimistic and say that this very moment awoke me. I can be pessimistic and say that this moment broke me to my core. Daily it changes, because the incident either way is sealed into my mind and memory forever. 

I wear sandalwood infused parfum with a hint of jasmine and vanilla just to be sure that I have a fragrant reminder to never be the dumpster again. 

Love drought

:: 6 months later and I still think of him every day. every single day. thoughts cradled in the idea of him, dismissing the actuality of who he is/was to me. he is that guy you talk ish about to your friends, yet somehow when he would knock at my door with a rose and smile and a hug, everything I had bottled up, would go away. and that eventually grew old, and withered just like our love and infatuation, just like the unfulfilled promises, just like us. but he was so different than all the others- because he saw me in a way no one else did. the dude before was on the down low, and the dude before that was sliding his business cards to girls at the club while with me so this had to be different right? I win at everything except love, and yet and still my ego is here convinced that this year long arrangement has some deeper meaning than what it did. 
dang, I really wish I knew how to get over you. I really do.
Nine times out of ten, I’m in my feelings

But ten times out of nine, I’m only human

Tell me, what did I do wrong?

Feel like that question has been posed

I’m movin’ on

I’ll always be committed, I been focused

I always paid attention, been devoted

Tell me, what did I do wrong?

Oh, already asked that, *sigh* my bad

But you my lifeline, think you tryna kill me?

If I wasn’t Aria, would you still feel me?

Like on my worst day? 

Or am I not thirsty, enough?

I don’t care about the lights or the beams

Spend my life in the dark for the sake of you and me

Only way to go is up, them old bitches so wack

I’m so tough, wassup?

Exfoliating Skin #tsatcbeautyhacks

Sometimes, I’m not super serious. Or profound. Or analytical of relationships.

Sometimes in real life- I give beauty advice 🙂

Beauty Tip: Exfoliate your skin!!!

Ladies- I cannot stress enough the importance of skin care in beauty tips. You can beat your face, and tan (or not), you can contour and highlight, etc.

But the largest organ of your body is also the most visible part of your body and you have to treat it like gold. It’s your ticket to wash faced realness, your ticket to heaven on earth. Your ticket to FLAWLESS.

Typically, most people shower on the day to day as opposed to bathing, and everyone has their preference. Some like to use bar soap, some like to use scrubs, some like to use body wash (me), and some don’t shower at all (no!!).

Our skin collects grime, dirt from the airways; product build up from those Victoria’s Secret Body Butter creams… our skin reacts to stress, dehydration, our diet.

So, since I’m always asked how I achieve flawless skin (face and body) I thought I’d share 5 tips for exfoliating:

1. If you are still shaving or actively engaging in laser hair removal- every time you shave, Exfoliate! This, I think is crucial, because a lot of girls I meet that transition discontinue aftershave because it’s masculine/manly/burns, etc. But the whole process of aftershave is alleviate irritated skin from the razor AND reduce the likelihood of razor bumps. Since our skin becomes a lot more delicate/softer over time from hormones, it’s essential to ensure that the abrasiveness of shaving is met with a process to reduce as much harm to the skin as possible. Exfoliating post shave is going to make it so the follicles from the shave or dulled (so when trade touches your face you’re not super prickly), as well as make it so that the follicles don’t curl into themselves in the hair shaft (ingrown hairs = razor bumps attack). I personally love to use Apricot Scrub by St. Ives or the drugstore brand when I’m being a cheapy, or Clean + Clear Morning Burst oil free wash. However, I’ve heard lots of estheticians complain that this scrub has triangle shaped beads which can be hard on the skin. If you have more sensitive skin- a hypoallergenic acne wash with exfoliating beads should do the trick. BONUS TIP: If you suffer from hyperpigmentation from shaving (5 o clock shadow) and razor bumps, a dope trick I learned from a barber shop back in the day is to use a face towel with super hot water and to do compresses on the area you shaved for about 10 minutes after you shave.
2. If you want silky smooth and radiant legs- Exfoliate after you shave them. It’s so easy to forget and miss this step when you’re in a rush or doing a quick run through. But for soft to the touch legs without the prickly feeling (now if you missed a spot- that’s on you… exfoliating isn’t THAT magical), using any of the products listed above should help. Again, I recommend the Apricot Scrub because you can scrub is vigorously on your legs to reduce ingrown hairs, goose bumps, razor bumps, etc. Make sure you rinse thoroughly.
3. For softer skin, use a loofa or sponge when you shower. Remember how I said I’m partial to body wash? I LOVE body wash. It’s probably because I use a big fat loofa, and I scrub when I bathe, BUT I also love Body Polish or Body Scrubs. Using a body scrub sort of allows you to not have to use a loofa because of the formulation of the product, and it also kinda feels weird to rub exfoliating beads AND a loofa all over but you can certainly do it. Using a loofa everyday when you bathe is definitely a foundation towards smooth skin you’ll want in your arsenal. For my sisters using bar soap straight on the body… that’s moisturizing, sure, but not exfoliating.
4. Genital Area exfoliating. This is more towards my pre-op sisters as they wouldn’t have an exposed orifice (post op sisters), but I can edit this post to feature an alternative. If you Nair or Veet or use any depilatory creams on your genital area/ or you know “dat ass” or “back/down there type tea”, you want the area to remain smooth and healthy (depilatory creams are super easy and convenient, but its BURNING THE HAIR OFF OF YOUR SKIN… and if you leave it on your sac too long….. hunnnyyyyy…. the skin sheds for days). What you can do is the day you use a depilatory cream of sorts (or even waxing), after the process is complete and you’ve showered and such… moisturize the area with tea tree oil or aloe vera or hydro cortisone cream (what I use). Avoid putting scented lotions and all that ish on the day of since you’ve exposed your skin in the most abrasive way (almost burned it). The NEXT day (not the same day… trust me), you want to use any of the exfoliating products I mentioned above and Gently exfoliate with a scrub the area. The remainder of the week (until you nair again) you can use a loofa as you normally would. Make sure you are restoring moisture back into those areas ladies!!! In between thong wearing and sex and such those spots you’ve used Nair on can become dry hella quick. Shea butter, coconut oil, baby oil… anything to put hydration back into your skin is a must- every day. For my post op ladies- to be on the safe side (who wants exfoliating beads everywhere every which way?), you’ll want to begin to use that loofa the next day, and moisturize with any of the products I just listed. This is assuming you’ve gone through treatments of electrolysis and/or laser when you had surgery so you’re hair cycles are minimized in a way that should reduce chances of ingrown hairs. My pre-op sisters may not have had those procedures, therefore the hair is still quite dense down there, and therefore might be prone to break outs, ingrown hairs, razor bumps, etc. Also… if you are shaving down there as opposed to Nair: Follow the same steps 🙂
5. My sisters on limited funds: You’re reading this like GIRL, I can’t really cop anything you listed at the moment. I feel it. For the times I couldn’t, I simply used a loofa ($1 at local drug store). I also used baby oil back then too. So yes, use the loofa every day and know that there is a hierarchy to moisturizing (oils are the best; lotions are second best), so you can use baby oil, olive oil, etc.

And there you have it.

 

4 easy steps to exfoliate towards flawless skin.

 

xoxo,

 

A

TS Valentine’s Day

  

cocaine part ii: unavailable men

When I wanted you the most – you were unavailable.  
I felt I couldn’t have you. I, always wanting to win, felt/feel like I was challenged to win your gaze.
I know you weren’t mine completely. so I romanticised the moments spent, expanded them in my mind so as to comfort my heart in knowing that there was a current there. Knowing and wondering and wishing are all completely different battles that seem worth losing on the inside, and in this weird way the gumbo of these feelings somehow blend together to form a uniqueness in love affairs with me. 
part of my process in loving you are those long weeks without you, where my phone vibrates with texts of love from everyone but you. it’s those moments where I stand on the subway platform scanning the speeding train windows blurring past me in search of your face to look back at me. it’s those moments leaving the office late at night with the sound of heels clicking on pavement, half expecting to round the corner with you standing there in a pea coat and scarf, smiling and grabbing my hand to walk with me. it the moments where I sit in a cafe sipping espresso, and it’s raining, and I see a wind swept couple entering together in laughter as he reaches his arm around her bundled waist and they order drinks together and I wonder if that could one day be you and I.
so when I’m with you, and we lay in bed together post sex and radiating in warmth- my face buried beneath your bicep and clinging to your ribcage- your index finger lightly stroking my neck to the rhythm of the downbeat of your heart- it seems that I’m missing out on all of what we could be. It feels comforting to finally reach this level of euphoria- the religious nature of me internally feeling guilty for indulging in bliss, secretly awaiting pending consequences for inhaling carelessly this very moment.
because hell is seeing you and me in my dreams, only to wake up alone.

 
but then, like always, you cave in to my pleads and threats of ending us, and you promise to put me first. the mind games with each other slowly dissipate, and the eery sense of wonder evaporates. 
and then I, manicured nails scrolling through my iPhone call log with your missed calls and texts… 
don’t want you anymore. because you were once unavailable and now you are- a motif in the majority of my relationships- I then transition from your recreational high to your addiction, become more unavailable and prized to you then you are now to me.

 
I fall in love with unavailable men. I can’t articulate if it’s the thrill or the taboo or if it’s insanity or if it’s a branch from some unaddressed trauma in my past. I wish I could tell you where it comes from. it’s so much more complicated than I ever realized before- and this epiphany weighs on me more and more. because I should now want you more and more. but the more available you are for me, the less I want you. and this is a struggle within my heart I will never comprehend…
Xoxo, A

TDOR

I couldn’t let TDOR pass without writing and commemorating the lives of our sisters that were taken this year. I apologize for the belated post, as I realize the ceremonies were this past Friday. 
271. 

271 angels were taken from this life prematurely. Taken with anger and the most gruesome deaths. As I sat in the pews of the Mills College chapel and the list of names were read- detailing their deaths with the incidents before their last breath, I couldn’t help but shiver with the feelings of their blood crying out of the ground. I couldn’t help but literally place myself in the massacre as the victim- imagining myself clinging to the ground as the men who seek to terminate my existence stepped towards me hurriedly, seeking to eliminate my life force they come with knives and guns, acid and stones. As I wail to to the heavens pleading for someone- to God- to finally hear my cries. 
I liken transgender women to Angels because of how beautiful we are, how magical we are. How powerful and feared we are. How misunderstood we are. Anyone with a sense of angel references in the bible know that Angels were beautiful, feared, and more importantly treated in the most cruel ways. (https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Genesis+19) 
TS girls are the most spiritually enlightened people on the planet. It’s such an amazing thing to know gurus and popes and preachers. But they don’t fight a war with the other 6+ billion people to survive. They’re not challenged with the day to day reality that to question your God given sex and to change it- the only disposition were born with- is a cause for us to be punished. They’re not followed as beacons of light for their resiliency in being, of forsaking stories and actualizations and precepts of religion and God to live authentically in a way in which you have to do away with everything you know and live. They’re not revered for journeying the planet alone- the lonely weeks and months spent post transitioning, and battling the insecurities of a decision that leaves you without family, friends, respect from others, and pride. They’re not seen as knowing the way, or guiding the life paths of others because they are not labeled are crazy, or abominations.
 The sweet, tender, fun loving souls of my sisters with all these obstacles against us, still find ways to have a hearty laugh on the sex stroll of the seedy urban jungle. We still find ways to bring culture and class and the epitomization of beauty and perfection in the ballroom scene and pageants- a testament that the most beautiful souls can have been in a fiery furnace and still come out lovely as ever. We still prevail, against all odds,, to breathe day to day- an act of revolution, but an act of resilience. To redefine our bodies and like artists, create anew against the vision and perceptions of others. 
we are more powerful than our minds will ever digest. 

271 angels had their inner light, their innocence, their dreams of being, their fight, their light- vanquished in the most undignified ways- with the misunderstanding that we don’t deserve to live. That we don’t deserve to breathe. Our light is to prominent- too era descent for the simple vision and ziplocked brains of this dimension. They continue to seek a way to diminish that glow, by stoning us as examples to others; burning us on stakes in village squares; dismembering and decapitating our physicality as symbolically destroying the power of our very essence. 
To my sisters who were taken against their will since the dawn of time, year after year, I pray that heaven is rejoicing in your return. I pray that God granted special significance to you in the afterlife, and that you imparted a particle of your spirit- a piece of your torment in your last waking hours as fuel, motivation for the rest of us Angels on this side of heaven- to continue to fight the world for liberty and the pursuit of happiness; to continue to fight the world day to day, to live. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Exist. Shine our lights and radiate whilst travailing the fiery furnace of this life and its rules and the humans who misunderstand us through their actions. 
Each day I await what might be my inevitable end- I wait for when the man who asks for my number to then become the monster who destroys me. Hyper vigilant, I walk in both fear and expectation that the corner I turn will be my ending destination; that the man I let upstairs into my apartment will be different than the others because he will be the one to extinguish my fire. The radical nature of existence, my wails to the heavens as my nails dig into asphalt clinging to survive, my light, my breath. My last breath will magically scribe my name to the scroll of other Angels to be read with candlelight on November 20th, and that that will be the only legacy I leave behind. And when time passes, I will become a fleeting memory to those I loved, reminisced on with cognac at social gatherings for only a moment, and that the world will subconsciously write me off as a deceiver of man- a man in women’s garments who got what she/he deserved.  
This year, I pray, that we do everything we can towards the advancement of all the TS covens: the hijra; the stealth girls; the old white transwomen; the bricks; the passable ones; the pigmented ones; the drug addicted ones; the poor ones; the rich ones; the lesbian ones; the weird ones; the showgirl ones; the gender fluid ones; the ambitious and androgynous ones; the ones who throw shade and the ones that don’t; the incarcerated ones; the ones with HIV; the ones with SSI; the ones who strip and escort; the ones who are ghetto and ratchet; the ones who are reserved; the ones who’s gender identity does not match their sex assigned at birth. Let us fight for the advancement of our kind regardless of where the fiery furnace led us to be. Even if it is simply breathing day by day. 
Because we’re all beautifully and wonderfully made Angels who are and were more powerful than our mind can digest. We’re all fiery flames who fight to keep burning, who could all face the same end. 

cocaine part i

Cocaine. 
The thread that seemed to bond our union in posh upscale hotels and small expensive dinners. You wore a black diamond chain, and I looked like a young rich girl, as we snorted lines across mahogany colored coffee tables of our city view hotel suite. I never thought to think of any parallels to this thread- sporadic and spontaneous evenings with you kept me momentarily high and intensely engaged, dilated; part thrill seeking, part breath taking the dangers of our nights together were always like cocaine. 
You ever the gentlemen, presented me with two dozen fragrant red roses and a car service driver from my abode to an undisclosed brunch spot in downtown berkeley where we chatted over beignets,omelette and cappuccinos; your English somewhat broken- the least perfect of your seven languages; I taught you words like “likewise” as we strolled telegraph in search of hookah from the nearby smoke shop, and shopped small gift shops during our conversation on “life in the first world”. 
First. First kiss to not be awkward, we kissed under moonlight next to that elderly black man in that circle park area playing the stand up bass with his straw hat and the tow of homeless hippies cheered from the stone bench seating nearby. You gripped the small of my back with your right hand, and your left rested beneath the curvature of my ass in that taupe sundress that you commented made me look like your “desert flower”. Our first kiss was my first perfect kiss. There wasn’t awkwardly grazing teeth or jaws smacking. It was like a movie with a soundtrack playing almost inaudible. It wasn’t long enough, and the smell of your Cartier cologne won’t leave my scent memory. I craved you intensely. 
Perfect. The perfect couple that everywhere we went- from the bart train to union square restaurants to the de young museum we heard and accepted compliments from strangers on the aesthetic of our union. The memory of you reaching for my hand as I climbed out of the backseat of that town car on powell street in high heeled gladiator sandals onto the busy street corner with an indigo blue sky and well lit buildings as our backdrop- I felt like royalty- watching ordinary men and women gawk at the God and Goddess leave their chariots. I felt like your equivalent- a queen with my own territory to share. As you gripped my hand entering a restaurant with a menu I couldn’t ever afford, you smiled as if I were the prize, the trophy of me with perfect hair and skin, perfectly curvy and beautiful; next to to the perfect gentleman in the corner of the restaurant we chatted perfectly, about how bland the food tasted; and giggled about the old white people in here staring at the ethnic couple deigning to enter the place. 
Ducks. The sound of ducks murmuring nearby as we sat on rocks in golden gate park and I confessed my flaw- the deal breaker that would end this high. I told you my dirt, my tea, the physical complication of loving me and you looked so angry. So angry that I was afraid it would be the end of me. The end of us. You stared at me in disbelief as I told you I was a transsexual, and your voice grew more shrill as you punched the predictable questions with overt enunciation and open ended questions. I clenched my nails into the curvature of my palm while clenching my fist, having an out of body experience where this very moment somehow continues to replay in a loop like fashion in my life. As we descended down the trail, you muttered curse words in Arabic and I, weary of my “deceit”, declined slowly but wanting to run. Your neck and the hollows of your cheeks were a burnt red- such an odd thing to see on your caramel skin, and you ever the gentleman hailed my cab, and as I climbed in expecting you next to me, but instead watched you slam the door; that deafening sound making me shiver. You handed the cab driver $50 through the passenger, and glared at me with hurt eyes as you tapped the passenger door with your hand as dismissal and walked away. My heart sank as I was chauffeured home, forced to replay the previous scene over and over again. 
berkeley bart. I’ll never forget when we nearly bumped into each other- you were transferring onto a richmond train to el Cerrito and I was transferring to Fremont as I missed my bart stop, and we locked eyes and it literally looked like you’d seen a hallucination. You grabbed my arm as I attempted to continue passage, headphones dangling from my phone as you ushered me up the stairs with a mumbled “let’s talk”. After I apologized profusely, You told me you loved me as we stood near the frozen yogurt shop next to us, and I shed a tear you wiped away and I whispered “I do too”, you smiled. You confessed that you felt betrayed by me, but in this stretch of time you couldn’t stop thinking of me, and that you wanted me forever. 
Somewhere in the world I live in my mind, exploring corners and nooks and crannies of thoughts and feelings; and somewhere in the world, you are forever happy- living in the present, and always having fun. It’s what I think I love the most about you. You’d always look over at me as I gaze at the white lines of the freeway deep in thought and make terrible jokes to get me to laugh and to be “not so serious”. I flashback to that night we walked the wharf in the freezing cold and you danced with me to “classic man” blaring from your iPhone. As we walked, I never realized that the only reason “why did the chicken cross the road” is only as funny as it is because of your accent and broken English, and of course, the most obvious answers. In the photo diary of my mind, I flashback to you singing the lyrics of “sex machine” as you shave, in your both towel early in the morning, and lean back into my view of the doorway and say, “aria, you sing no? Sing it!! Sing it!!!” Or those moments we danced in our socks and in those fuzzy Four Season bathrobes with champagne glasses, toasting to us, and juicy j’s bass notes filling the room. 
You didn’t know I could twerk on it like that 😉 
Distance. You stood on my back porch with our wine glasses and you asked me to marry you. I hadn’t seen you in weeks nor had I heard from you. I took your hundred dollar bill and snorted three lines on my kitchen counter before I responded. You asked for me to respond, because I said “maybe”, and I remember your voice fading into a mere murmur as I stared at the black granite wondering why in the hell, am I being asked in this way. I’m unconventional sure, but after nearly all of our most recent encounters involving cocaine, hashish and whiskey- I was beginning to lose the fuel to chase after a “high” that I’ll never get back again. I was beginning to lose sight if you because life was happening without you in it. 
I was so angry and bitter at you for these disappearing acts. Days. Weeks. No calls, no texts. No contact. I stood back on the porch, high, and told you that I’d rather you be free from me. That I’m not really want you want. You looked down at me, and I looked away. You held my waist and pulled me into your chest and said you hated that I didn’t trust you, and that you weren’t like most men- that you were and would be different. I had a plane to catch to Chicago the next morning for that conference but you didn’t want to come. 

from that moment the energy changed to aggressive sex in upscale hotels, arguments in luxury cars, calls forwarded to voicemail, and unanswered questions both of us wanted to know the answers to. 

The trouble with any stimulant is the consequence that comes from reaching a high that isn’t a gradual, naturally growing one. Our connection was so stimulating, and yet the consequences of coming down always make me reconsider whether chasing the first high is even worth it. And yet and still I do. 
The thread that seemed to bond our union in posh upscale hotels and small expensive dinners. You wore a black diamond chain, and I looked like a young rich girl, as we snorted lines across mahogany colored coffee tables of our city view hotel suite. I never thought to think of any parallels to this thread- sporadic and spontaneous evenings with you kept me momentarily high and intensely engaged, dilated; part thrill seeking, part breath taking the dangers of our nights together were always like cocaine. 
To be continued. 

xoxo, 

A 

East Oakland Part II

I lay in his arms, my room lit by soft vanilla candlelight, watching the flickering of light against the walls and bouncing shadows of small city apartment. I could feel his tense warm arm wrapped across my rib cage and his fingertips gently gripping the underside of my waist; his warm bated breath against the lowest part of my neck. His breathing was like the humming of a car in neutral- steady and vibrating breaths almost like a metronome at the 2 second interval collapse of his lungs and his clear and soft inhalesperking my watchful ears;  I gently moved my leg so as not to disturb him, the heel of my foot grazing his shin slightly. With the creak of the futon mattress, I anchored myself out of his grip and out of bed cautiously. The bed creaked with him turning in his sleep, as he scratched his groin through his red basketball shorts and released an audible de crescendo yawn. 

“Come back to bed” he grumbled, as he scratched again and lay his head deeper into my pillows. 
I stared at this scene like that of the observational intensity of an artist surveying landscape scenery post sketch and in preparation to paint as I stood quietly in the doorway of my bathroom doorway. It was awkward in a way- it’d been so long since I’d had a man stay the night that I didn’t really know how to sleep with company. I’ve always been this way I suppose- with overnight guests I suddenly become vigilant and protective and thus, I sleep with almost one eye open- mentally ensuring myself that I am forever the “girl in the picture” in those hours- conscious of my sleep, snores and headscarf. But as I stood there, I inhaled his presence in my life and in this very moment. So rare, this moment, that I had to lock it away in my memory bank forever. 
Here he was, laying asleep in my bed- his adonis like body almost glistening in the candlelight. The smell of his fresh fade reminded me of the end of your haircut at the barbershop where they clean your “line up” with a Kleenex and alcohol, and rub that green grease stuff on your scalp. His natural scent was that of baby oil and kush, and a hint of old spice. He lay there, awaiting my return back into his arms; anticipating, I assume, my comforting scent to fill his nostrils and calm him back into a deep sleep. I glanced out of my studio apartment window towards the lights of city hall and the city skyline and prayed this moment would never end. I prayed that I would have the comfort of my back cradled into his chest and that I would feel both liberated and trapped in his love. I prayed that there’d be many more nights where I would tip toe to the bathroom only to hear a half growl and grunting demand for me to return to his protective arms; that he would whisper my name into my ear as we lay almost reaching rem sleep. I prayed that these moments would linger because none of the previous moments ever lingered long enough. They escaped me – evaporating quickly the moment I grew expectant of this normalcy- or is it consistency?- in my life. I prayed that this moment would last even after the vibration and backlight of a cell phone at 2:15am held prisoner in tangled sheets- that the phone calls wouldn’t interrupt or disturb our current embrace- that that  awkward feeling when someone holds you and they abruptly pull away- reminding you that your hospitality made you a lowered priority by even giving in. I prayed that the next moment didn’t have to involve condom wrappers scattered across my living room floor and lube stains on my satin sheets; that the linings of the blunt wraps would make it to the real trash can (not the reusable grocery bags) next time and the empty bottles of Patron and pineapple juice cans would be only optional accouterments. I prayed that my sexual obedience and lack of inhibitions didn’t have to be an obligatory contractual agreement for the exchange of this experience. And that even if disappointed, he would still hug me when I would say “no not tonight”. I prayed that the hum of his breath would continue to reverberate in my hollow room and sound like a gently strung stand up bass in the imaginary jazzscapes of my mind. I prayed that his presence would be more frequent because I was obedient and provided penetration exclusivivity only to him; that that somehow would be the ink equivalent signature to ensuring that he embrace me whilst my longest pillow is nestled in between his legs and knees against my thighs. 

I’ll always remember his breath against my neck- warm like melted wax burners or warmed cider in the kind of cold where your breath turns to fog. 
I’ll remember because just like that, in a blink of an eye, a second too soon- it all went away.All I’m left with is the memory of that landscape and the echoing of my prayers, and the phantom jolt of his instant release of my frame as the sound of a vibrating cellphone filled my ears, and the piercing sting of that backlight pierces my half open eyes; the sound of a belt jostling across the floor; the crack of air of jeans shaken out and snuggled up on strong calves; the rippling of the shirt cascading across stern shoulders and arms thrusting through shirt armholes with the sound like the backfire of an old car; the sound of steps across my floor; the scent of old spice and kush immediately entering my nostrils and the feel of a silver chain awkwardly gliding across my chin as he places an obligatory partially wet parting kiss on my cheekbone; the sounds of murmurs and mumbles of “I’ll hit you up” and “aight then” and “don’t change your number…. Yo! Answer when I call”; and the sound of my deadbolt door creaking open and then being forcefully slammed shut and clicking locked by the air draft of the high rise hallways; and the sound of silence… Deafening silence that slowly brings me back to the low murmurs of the city sounds through my paneled windows like the last exhale of a yoga mediation . 
And as I lay alone, my bed suddenly cold and awkwardly indented with the impression of another soul, my breathe hazy and slow, my throat expanding inwardly, I held myself to sleep, crying and sobbing as my eyes speedily surveyed the new reality of alone; the cold of my apartment and the most empty feeling I’ve ever experienced  in the pit of my stomach. 
And yet, I repeatedly memorized that landscape while yet having relived this whole scenario over and over and over and over again in the many remake moments of my life each with a different leading man castmate; my prayers echoing at the end of each déjà vu; hoping and praying once again that the better portions of this landscape will transform from merely disoriented puzzles to a small portrait series of love that could eventually be ever mine for eternity. 

Xo,

 
a 

BAE got this season’s Versace bag… at Ross?!?!?!?!??

How much are you worth?

We live in a world (thanks, Capitalism and Globalism) that bases all our activities to our earning power. Time is money- if you’re wasting time, you’re wasting money. Investing time means that there’s potential for something to grow- short term investments, long term investments, retirement. How we spend our day, and how we evaluate our time- always seems to go back to those wrinkly George Washingtons and Abraham Lincolns in our wallets- and how much we gained or lost.

Pay attention to that analogy because it’s part of the point.

My first real boyfriend and I looked like quite the couple. I was 19 years old with big fluffy Corrinne Bailey Rae curls, an MIA face, super fit and with Kelly Rowland skin- fresh from the fields of Oregon (lol). I was that girl who came to the “big city” with ambition- bright eyed and unknowing of what kind of journey and shade the world had in store- hoping to make it like that Empire State of Mind song. Back in those days, I was so naiive- and I think back to those days and shake my head sometimes.

And then I meet this guy… we’ll call him BAE.

BAE was a 21 year old Samoan native of the city, and had this charismatic smile you couldn’t help but feel like the most special person in the room. At 6’4 and 280 he had that solid big guy kind of aesthetic- approachable, fun to be around, and all around good guy. He approached me at a Youth Pizza Night at a rec center. As part of my city tour- I’d only been in the city for a month and my girlfriend was taking me to all the freebie events to hang out. So, there I was gorging on pizza, when this guy approaches me. Well, to be honest- more like he was creepily staring at me. And I had seen him earlier that day- pushing his stoner friends in a stolen Safeway cart down the boulevard. So as strings of cheese danced along the side of my face, he stared.

“Ohhh emmm geee”, I laughingly said, wiping cheese from my mouth.

“Nah, nah it’s cool. I like a girl who can eat”, he chuckled, slouching into his chair. He grinned. I rolled my eyes.

“Now I can’t eat… stop looking!!!!!”, I grinned back, holding my two new slices of pizza- waiting for eyes to avert so I could inhale.

He jokingly looked away, and my girlfriend grabbed me, rushing me away to meet our curfew at the youth shelter we were staying at.

And time went on a few weeks.

I’m at this Queer Youth Prom, my tour guide BFF forcing me to yet another freebie event- to dance the night away. At this time I’m in life I’m definitely dissuaded- having had several job interviews; blatant discrimination in the city where everything is supposed to be ‘anything goes’; and no pending opportunities that would keep me in this city too long- I need the night to dance away.

As Too Short played in a musty, crowded room of semi-homeless teens and young adults, I drank spiced apple juice from the corner store with the girls and bumming newport cigs from the young’en trans boys trying to holla outside.

Buzzed, I sat on the window sill and exhaled. And there he was- in tow with his stoner/skate boarder boys cruising for hot trannies.

“I heard you’re from Oregon, so I know you smoke right”, he goofily pointed to a freshly rolled blunt. I glared.

“That’s too hood for meeeee…. In oregon we do bongs and shit”, I whined, buzzed off of that apple juice and taka vodka. Thinking back, my attempt to be “cool” probably was super lame.

“Whatever man, look, in the hood we do blunts. I’m from this fucking city. it ain’t happenin’ unless it’s a blunt”, he bragged.

And so, I joined in the circle of ten sweaty teens on an overstuffed blunt. As people dispersed, I stayed- wondering when my BFF would whisk me away. And he stayed- his crew tipping back in to sounds of The Pussycat Dolls blaring through the glass doors as they opened.

He leaned closer.

“I didn’t ever get to introduce myself”, he murmured, rolling another blunt. And as he lit, inhaled… blinked… made screaming frog sounds, and then exhaled… we chatted, getting to know each other over a blunt and newport cigs.

And as the dance let out, he grabbed my hand as my BFF summoned me to journey with her back to shelter before our extended weekend curfew would end.

He kissed me, and everyone around made catcalls and frat boy sound affects, his crew slapping him on the back with laughter and cheers. And I, smitten and virginal, finally had a boyfriend- grinning like a cheshire cat as my BFF interrogated me on all that happened while she danced the night away.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

My alarm clock blared from my metropcs phone plugged into the wall charger across my room. I sunk my face deeper into my pillow, wishing it would turn off on its own. A sharp tap hits my shoulders twice, and grunts of “turn that shit off” fill my ears. good morning to you too– i murmured crawling off of the old futon mat on the floor. I turn off the alarm, and pat my braids tucked into a headscarf and start my shower.

BAE and I have now been together for 3 years with a tumultous relationship as a past. After not finding work in my anticipated timeline, I moved from transitional living housing to hotel hopping, eventually moving in with him and his mama in the public housing over in the Sunnydale Projects- paying my welfare checks directly to his mama. And then we became homeless together, sleeping on the train together, me being a street hooker, him selling weed, to me getting a part time job at a community center and getting an apartment in the tenderloin. And him coming to live with me after his mama put him out for the 7th time.

I stood there brushing my teeth, as he snored and slobbered on my pillows.

Why won’t he get a job? I thought. Thinking of my day and all that it had in store.

He let out an audible fart and rolled over, scratching his nuts and resuming to snore as he pulled my down comforters up to his neck. I rolled my eyes, as I took out my hair rollers.

I looked in the mirror and had that moment…. that moment every girl has when they wonder if there are better alternatives in the world. I wanted the world- and guided by dreams I was hustling to survive… like Rihanna’s “American Oxygen”, I was trying make nickels and dimes into an empire. And here I was, in love with a man who I always bailed out- thinking we would conquer the world together. He lost his 7th job again for showing up high and late to work. And I let him live with me.

10 hours later, I get home- unlocking the door to smells of marijuana, semen and feet as I kicked off my heels in the entry way- setting the take out onto the kitchen counter. BAE is there laying on the futon mat playing Xbox games.

“Hey”, I said, preoccupied taking my blazer and tights off and flinging them on to the clothing rack.

“What’d you get for dinner”, he mumbles, clicking away at his game controller thingy.

“Chinese”, I sighed from the bathroom- wiping baby wipes to dispose of my daily mask.

“Again?….. dang babe, hold on hold on”, he says, scrambling up from the futon mat. He kisses my neck. And looks into the mirror to match my gaze. “You look hella sexy today”. He grins.

“Did you take a shower today? I swear it smells like you’ve been jacking off all day and smoking weed”, I complained moving away from the mirror. This has become a day in and day out routine for almost three months now.

“Bae… don’t be like that” he says, and heads to the kitchen and fixes himself a massive plate of chow mein, orange chicken and egg rolls and slumbers onto the mat, putting a Kevin Hart DVD in.

I take a nice, long hot shower and pour myself some cheap white wine. Thank God he doesn’t even like wine otherwise it’d be gone.

I head to the kitchen to find that from the take out, what’s left over is like three nuggets of orange chicken with tons of those red peppers, a spoonful of chow mein, and half an egg roll.

“Seriously”!!!!!!???? I yelled from the kitchen. I turn back to him and he looks at me with one of those animal looks. “wut”?

“Like for real, you ate all of that. That was supposed to last at least until tomorrow”, I whined. Me, the responsible one. Budgeting food. Cause you know- BAE sold his food stamps for weed.

“Ain’t no food in the fridge. A nigga was hungry”… he says, continuing to shovel food down his mouth, his eyes never averting from the TV screen. I gulp down my wine in frustration, pouring another glass.

I lay on the mat, as sounds of Kevin Hart blend in with my thoughts, and an occasional bellowing laugh from BAE next to me. Eventually the lights go off, and a thud on my left side. Ten minutes later, I’m told to roll over, and for 3 minutes I’m a vixen- a blow up doll being tossed around the mat until he squeals, his big hands releasing my ribcage after he finishes, and tossing me back to my spot on the bed like a teddy bear. And day-in and day out it continues.

Until one day.. when I had an “AHA” Oprah type of moment. When I was chatting with another BFF of mine telling me about my no good boyfriend.

“Girl… I don’t know why you fucks wit him all like that”, she exclaims in between sips of our Patron and Pineapple juice cocktails. She definitely is ratchet Puerto Rican TS realness.

“It is what it is, and he’s trying to get another job”, I, as always, come to his defense.

And the conversation goes on. She brags about the guys in her life, showering her with money and trips, every now and then inserting a comparison to BAE and my potential. I sip. And then she showed off her new bag.

“Giiiirrrrlllll… catch my new Versace”, she squeals. I eye it, knowing damn well it’s a fake. “I got it Ross or Burlington for $20 and it’s the tea. I’m a boss ass biiitttcccchhh”, dangling in front of me.

“Well then it’s most definitely not real”, I said. My degree is in Fashion. Don’t do it boo boo.

“Who cares”, as she placed back onto the bar.

And then it hit me. Like, what if it was real? I mean, we know it’s not. But hypothetically. What if it was real? How much of a steal would that be?

And when I think of it like that, the possibility of purchasing a Versace bag- luxe leather, gold crest finishes, sturdy handles, easy on the eyes and a product that will make you the envy of women as you walk down the street- at a store like Ross- where the cost is easily accessible and affordable for the masses- then that would be either an amazing find or a rip off depending on how you looked at the situation.

For me, my dilemma was complex. Since I transitioned in high school until my early adulthood- I had always considered my transgender status as my biggest flaw. I would work hard at everything- have a hot body, a good weave, excel at work, be well dressed for any occasion, and be a really likable almost pushover person just so I could overcompensate for the fact that no one would want to be with me because I was transgender. So in terms of my relationship with BAE, that was the hugest reason of why I sold myself short in the longhaul. Because to be honest, I was just happy to have someone proud to hold my hand down the street. A man who was happy to meet me at a restaurant for lunch. I was ecstatic for the times he would pick me up from work, or pick flowers from Golden Gate Park for me when he thought of me. Or to have a man to come home too, especially when my nagging girlfriends would complain about the loneliness of single life. I was the greatest girlfriend- always footing the bill, the breadwinner, best dressed and well put together, a trophy to his stoner friends because I had the money to buy the weed and pizza, and a classy fun woman to be around- all the while being ripped off. Because the cost to have me was for someone to be there, hold my hand down the street, dick me down a few times a week, and be there. And for simply showing up, I was providing him three meals and a cot, a paid phone bill for him to download porn, an Xbox, Jordan’s… always the pushover. And that’s how BAE ripped me off.

Never again. And the cold part about it… BAE stands for “Before Anyone Else”… including yourself. 😉

xoxo,

A