Old, fluey and flabby
The skin on my body still feels nice, but it feels like a girl’s skin, and I look like an old drag queen, and there’s no reason for any straight man to want me when they can find a real woman, and there’s no reason for a gay man to want me when they can find a complete male, but I’ve given up self-pity for Lent, so I just have to trust that I too have some place in human sexuality, although I think I may adjust my expectations somewhat. I’m REALLY old, but have no interest in straight blokes with calcified brains and carnivorous corpulence. Maybe I should be less disappointed if I go the odd year without getting laid. The bright young men who catch my fancy don't catch me eye. Put brutally, they can do much better than this bulbous old wrinkly infertile sexually ambiguous eunuch.
The weather’s colder, so drapey things are all the go. Surprisingly, my hair is lovely. But I’m still shockingly old to most attractive men on the look out. And I aint rich. I can’t imagine why any guy would want me. But that deficit of imagination may not be shared by the Universe. But I am SO old and fat!
And then, after writing that last sentence, the radio plays me singing “My Vagina”(unexpectedly, from a recording done last year for Queer Noise on 2SER), and I am manically happy, and then it’s followed by a public service announcement about manic depression.
It’s a funny old world innit.