Pride Month

I do not ask for the room.
I simply walk in, and the room adjusts.

Soft power, sharp mind, the caption knows what it is talking about. There is a particular kind of woman who holds a glass the way others hold a gavel: with absolute calm, absolute authority, and the private amusement of someone who has already decided how the evening will end.

I have been in the Lifestyle for ages, spanning one side of the globe and coming to rest in the cradles of Europe. Formal, not cloistered. Fierce, and entirely feminine. The upstairs to everyone else’s downstairs, and if my grammar occasionally takes a wrong turn, I chuckle at the resulting mayhem, I remember I am doing this in my second language.

Pride, for me, is not a month. It is a posture I was born with. Not defined by your gender. Not limited by mine. Pansexual and entirely unapologetic, because it was never about what is between the legs or on a chest. It was always about the person.

There is a language older than labels, written in the beautiful tension between Butch and Femme. I am the Femme, silk over steel, lipstick and authority, the one who looks soft until they realise I am the one holding the room together for both of us. The Butch brings the anchor; I bring the current. Both entirely themselves yet choosing to spend the time. It is not a costume. It is a covenant.

I tick my own boxes … equality, visibility, kindness, boundaries, freedom … and yes, a good glass of something, because standards are standards. I show up to the discussion, spirited and unhesitating. I present at conventions, I dance the night away, I write on occasion, and share. I do not separate my worlds. I simply move through all of them, entirely myself, and invite the ones worthy of my time to come along.

“We didn’t just break the glass ceiling, we redecorated the penthouse.”

That is not a quote I borrow. That is a report I filed.

Ambition has no gender. Neither does elegance. Neither does joy.

Happy Pride, everyone. Go live it.