Caught in a Masquerade?

Walking through the Gallery on the way to the train at the end of the day I observed a security guard ogling a young lady, her sleek body sauntering past oblivious to his keen observance.  As I watched, his eyes transfixed, a naughty thought popped into my fertile feminine mind.  If I had a faux eyeball I might have stooped as if I was retrieving it.  Turning to the man with the paralyzed gaze handing it to him saying “I think you dropped this”.  His reaction might have been priceless.

“What’s the point here Nikki dear?”

Nothing other than being on both sides of this gender continuum I watch the lovely ladies to learn from their tutelage and I can’t help noticing the men with seemingly one thing on their mind.  So I laugh at human nature.  If we can’t laugh we’ll cry, right?

Somebody please ask how my first day back on the plain vanilla side of my life worked out.  Spending four glorious days en femme made transitioning from my costumed hero to my secret identity gut wrenching.  Yes even those of us on hyper-happy pills have gulleys on our road of life.

Since you asked, I’ll tell.  The transformation was emotionally difficult. Physically  easy but mentally draining.  She is me and I am her.  This façade, this charade, is becoming more difficult with each passing week.  The song “Masquerade” by George Benson and other artists comes to mind.  Am I caught in a masquerade?

Consolation does exist, assuaging the letdown.  If I didn’t have a safe harbor in which to protect my emotions I’d be a basket case.  You know, one of those tightly woven baskets with the psychedelic colors and fancy handles.  The bands of cane would be thick.  The handles shaped and formed into an intrinsic design with hearts, butterflies and flowers adorning both risers culminating in a cross-woven surface for gripping and carrying.

Contrary to a few thoughts included here I am high on life.  Every day is a blessing, even those that force me into the conventional.  Live life in Technicolor (remember that moniker?).  Black and white is so, well, black and white.  We’re not funereal, right?  Life’s for the living.  Even though the body into which I was born isn’t my version of calypso, I use it for what it can do – you know all about that.  Sometimes I feel like I’m in an Edgar suit (Men in Black for the uninitiated).  The beauty of this situation is that I can play the game, be subtly different and prepare for the next time I can peel off the dermis to reveal the real me.

I hope to see you on my next frolic as the real me.  Something small and quiet, the respite of a quaint eatery with an open air feel, down home cooking, the aromas wafting suggestively, enticing passersby to partake; like Puttenesca that inhabited the window sills of the ladies who performed favors for a price for enterprising men straying to the dark side for feminine pleasures.

That’s all she wrote for today my friends.  I hope you can express yourself today in ways that fulfill you.

Love and hugs, Nikki DiCaro