​I never noticed it before. But then it hit me, suddenly, like a flash of awareness on this glorious day. Society has a uniform. No, that’s the wrong metaphor, or at least not quite the right fit - pun intended.

Society has a strict cadence - which extends somehow to it’s look and then bleeds into a specified momentum. A rhythm that pulls everyone into it’s vortex. Only…

Somehow, I never received the memo.

​“I adore you. Truly. You mean everything to me. At least let me be your sugar daddy for the day. I’ll take you to dinner, shopping, you name it. No strings attached. I swear it.”

It was 1:30am and I was wearing nothing but a tiny little G-string and a 100-watt smile, while straddling the lap of the man issuing this proclamation. We had been having a wonderful time in the club’s champagne room, laughing and talking as I danced a private show for this patron. 

We had only met a few hours prior. And despite the fact that I was certain the couple beers he had downed up at the bar had contributed to his sense of adoration, I was also just as sure that he meant the affectionate offer he was giving - at least in this moment.

The issue therefore, that I was having in accepting this generous and seemingly innocuous proposition, lay not in the doubts of the veracity of the overture, but rather in a very simple truth.

Most people have no clue what a sugar relationship truly entails. So allow me to enlighten you.

What you see when you look at me, and what I see when I look in the mirror, are two very different people.

According to what you tell me, you see somebody who’s relatively fit and (conventionally) pretty.  Secure in herself, with a wide-smiled approach to life. Some of you indicate you wish you had it all together, as I apparently do. 

It’s funny when people say these things to me. Not funny as in “haha that’s hilarious”, but funny as in the universe seems to have played some kind of cosmic joke and made it so no one can see me as I am.

Because “as I am”, is a girl who feels morbidly obese, unlovable, failing at everything she ever does, and well, add in every untrue mean-girl cliché any of us have ever thought about ourselves, and you get the gist of where I’m at.

I tell you that I’m comfortable in my skin, that I like who I am. And it’s true. I do. But two ideas can be true at the same time. 

Two truths, one Tink. 

​It started out as a nonsensical dream. 
Rather innocently, in fact, almost whimsically ridiculous. 

I was out and about in a rather nondescript, could-be-practically-anywhere-really, small, iconic looking all-American town with a man, who claimed to be my father. We were going on a father/daughter outing to have a special meal. 

A silly fun meal. 
An all-American iconic meal. 
A hot dog.

A part of me registered that this man leading me by the hand, was in fact NOT my father. But he said he was, and so his authority was set in stone despite the evidence of my memory intruding. 

Plus he took me by the hand, and smiled so charmingly. Surely his role was trustworthy. 

I wish I could capture this moment in a painting. 

I’m at a friend’s home for a special dinner planned weeks ago. A simple gathering for us all to catch up after the rush of the holidays.

To my left is the best friend of the hosts, who are seated across from me. Always with a twinkle in his eye, we have engaged in many lively conversations about performing (he’s an accomplished drag entertainer), and living life while staying true to yourself. I always smile when I see him.

​My hosts are a dynamic couple whose 20+ year relationship is beautiful to witness, with each quip, glance, or casual touch, the husbands give one another. They have lived such interesting lives, and I enjoy hearing the stories they tell. I met them at a local coffee shop, and am grateful they included me into their group of vibrant friends.