Reinvention Co - Dusti Arab

This is the poem I performed live at the Portland Poetry Slam this past Sunday. In many ways, it encapsulates the transition I went through this past April – moving from who I thought I wanted to be into more of who I actually was.

Guys, I have a confession. When it comes to sex… women have been lying. Yep. The ladies have been holding out on you. Are you ready for this? Here it is.

We think about sex just as much as you do.

Okay maybe I should just speak for myself. I think about sex at least as many times a day as you do. Possibly more. It can happen any time and without warning – kind of like a seizure. It’s practically a condition. There are many triggers that can start an episode.

There’s your run of the mill hot man candy memes. Hot dudes reading, hot dudes who play guitar, hot dudes with baby animals, hot dudes doing the laundry, hot guys drinking coffee, hot dudes playing with babies – Oh, be still my ovaries!

But don’t worry, guys. You don’t have to be all hey girl gorgeous to cause this reaction in women. Oh no. Everyone has their own brand of sexy, and I have unintentionally made it my personal mission to find it. Any situation played correctly can be a turn on.

Sometimes, it’s all intellectual, like that time you got my Firefly reference and then sang that Disney song at karaoke with zero prompting? Oh, I’d let you make a man out of me.

Sometimes, you’ve had a few drinks, like that time we were at the bar and I turned and suddenly realized you had such a glorious rack and I just wanted to… (pantomime face into tits)

Let’s be honest, it’s usually a purely physical instinct, oh god, like that time we were dancing and my hand accidentally brushed against your stomach and I felt your abs through your shirt and realized what a rockin’ bod you had and I just wanted to… (Insert obscene sexual gesture here. Deep breath, pause)

So I get it. I get how hard it is to focus. Oh my god, I don’t know how many times I’ve thought, if I could just. Stop. Thinking. About. Sex. I would get so much done. If I could stop thinking about getting off, I could get somewhere.

But I don’t want to get stuff done. I just want to get some. I just want to get with someone.

I just want someone to get me.

To get that I am more than this body I inhabit that is the constant subject of objectification. This body that is treated like a conquest, like something that needs to be controlled by anyone but its keeper. To get that there is more to me than my 27 inch waist.

I want someone to get how tired I am of being misunderstood, misinterpreted. To get how tired I am of being seen as this hyper sexual being because I am not afraid to ask for what I want. Because I am not afraid of my sexuality. Because I am assertive and sassy. Because I am *not* a dominatrix; and hey, if we’re throwing down labels, then I’m a creatrix, because what could possibly be sexier than possibility? The relentless pursuit of ideas and the act of breathing life into them?To get that I want reinvention and revolution because it fits me like a glove. To get that my fire, my voice, my heart is for you and that I will stand with you. To get that I long for depth and connection like a desert longs for rain. I want you to get me.And I want to get you. I want to know why you think the way you think, how you ended up so damn smart and compassionate, what it is that keeps you up late at night and makes you tick, who you want to be at the end of all of this.

I want to know those secret, hurting places you long to be kissed and press my lips to them like a salve. I want to know how to hold your heart so you feel like a missing piece of it has found its way back. I want to see your next stage of metamorphosis. I want to get you.

So I have a confession. When it comes to sex, I have been lying… to myself. I have been holding out thinking I could just get with someone, just get with you. But the terrifying thing is it turns out I just want you to get me.

But if you want to get with me, I’m totally down with that…

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