From the day I blossomed into selfhood, my mother somewhat-lovingly and honestly characterized me immodest. Through conflict cloaked in concern and protective intentions, I often found myself faced with external pressures of covering up: moments of motherly tough love, public shaming curated by high school administrators and even the whispers of peers underneath searching eyes whose scratchy throats sounded the sentence, “she is such a slut,” in between spirit chants at school games. 

These experiences fed the soil in which the seeds of my hyperfeminity were to sprout. 

My gender identity expanded more fully into the spaces of lingerie and swimsuit stores that I had the pleasure of working at as a young femme: surrounded and supported by folks that celebrated sensuality, femininity, expressive style and showing-off-our-skin wrapped up in lace and tied together with a bow. I learned that this body and the body of those that sought our styling assistance, bodies demonized by so many—both externally and within—could accentuate and influence their own curations using the shape and style of the fabric we choose to wear. 

After getting an education in feminist studies and the science of the mind, brain and consciousness, I discovered gender as performance and communication. My gender presentation in itself grew subversive to fables of feeble femmes, lacking and worthless in the absence of constructions of beauty or a masculine companion. I discovered beauty as a weapon—inviting confused men in who believe that beauty is a welcome mat—only to shut them out, meeting their entitled attempts of possession with the declaration that this body is mine. 

It is in this regard that I perform and collaborate with artists as their muse. Through contortions on stage, I am able to reinforce or deny stories imposed on my body by shaping my own narrative and curating my own catharsis. I am free to make the edges of my body sharp with elbows, bent spines or contorted faces. I am encouraged by the audience to embody my emotions, clutching my heart on stage to demonstrate personal experiences with painful partners before entering the door to my performance. Sometimes I am in the nude; other times I am embellished in corsets, faux fur and fishnets with lipstick to match. Embracing my own identity and paying tribute to the foundations of figure modeling in sex work, I imbue sensuality with autonomy and strength. 

There are some stories that words can never tell. There are some stories that I am tired of sharing despite never quite achieving shared understanding. This is where shape in performance art comes into play. Emotional displays in physicality function like phonemes in speech; fashion replaces punctuation and tone; being seen is the catalyst of being heard.

I have recently noticed-—as a young twenty-something hyperfemme just below six-feet-tall—that my role as a muse extends beyond my relationship to the artists themselves. The youth, especially the queer and femme kids, turn to look as I walk down the street in feather-clad kitten heels. My presence alone—my embodiment of my identity—is exciting and inspiring to them. I see their smiles, feel their innocent wonder and hear them whisper to their parents, “I love her makeup.” By being myself, a self that stands tall, grounded in soul and defies limitations, I play the role of the muse for future femmes and queer folks. I would like my expression to be loud enough that it shouts over any judgment they may face when simply embodying who they are. 

Louder than any words could possibly be, so that they learn that the world is our stage, that we set the scene and that we are the stars of our own show.