Hear Me Out

Contrary to many gay stereotypes, I generally love my body. In fact, here a list of the top 5 things that I'm thankful for:

1. My skin
2. My frame and build
3. The way my facial features are arranged
4. My inability to grow body hair
5. My butt

Don't get me wrong, I've got wild insecurities – like my weight and my silly, feminine arms – but I'm pretty much on board with the hypothetical concept of having sex with myself based on my appearance. 

What worries me, though, is that the one thing that I would change about my physical presence is the one thing that I can't change. Because if there’s one thing that I hate about myself, it’s my voice. I cannot stand to hear the sound of it. When I speak, I sound like a young, female chihuahua. In person, it’s bad. But on the telephone or on tape, I sound like Kim Cattrall with a mouth full of balls.

In terms of anatomy, my tongue is too big for my mouth – not lengthwise, but widthwise. So it's harder for me to execute most fricatives and dental sounds. Plus I'm a big 'mo, so that doesn't help anything. Long ago, I'd forsaken my heirloom Westbank accent for a gay one. I'm not particularly observant, but even at a very young age, I recognized that gay men spoke with an authority that sounded worldly and educated, whereas the people that I grew up around in Gretna, Louisiana spoke like Gambit from X-Men. So I jumped ship, which meant annunciating "-er" and being conscious about not running words together. I learned to transition from "Imma beet cha'ass," into "I'm going to beat your asssstttt." I saw it as a different kind of tribute to my New Orleans heritage – less Marrero and more Mid-City. 

You would think that someone who runs out of the room screaming when he hears a 1992 home movie of himself singing “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid would hate his voice in all forms, but I don’t. I’m actually a really loud and mean person, and when I get Kwanzaa drunk, I ruin everyone’s night with my talking. My booze confidence makes me believe that I sound like Alec Fucking Baldwin. And everyone needs to hear how melodious I sound. So I sing, and I rant, and relentlessly hit on strange men. That last one is the worst, because watching a grown man mistake his shrill, annoying voice with something that's sultry and alluring can be like watching a penguin try to fly. It's sad because it's true.

But I accept the fact that my voice is grating and forces people out of windows. I can't change it. I also want to go back in time and save Aaliyah from getting on that plane – but it's not going to happen. Like voice augmentation, it's a pipe dream. So I'll just have to rely on other physical characteristics to trick guys into dating me.

I mean, who needs a personality when you've got kissable, pasty skin like this?