stripper quing
By kevin martens wong zhi qiang
originally published Saturday, 3 august 2024
on tigri sa chang
Koitadu | Content warning
Please first read about my writing in the Skribadorang or Writing section on the Igleza page here before reading the piece below so you have advance warning about the rather spicy things that I often like to write about, and why I choose to write about them, especially in terms of subverting unhealthy stereotypes about gay people, Kristang people, Creole people, Indigenous people, masculinity, neurodivergence, the body, healthy forms of attraction and sexuality, and using my writing to process the severe individual, collective and inter-generational trauma and abuse I have faced across my life.
My throne room
is a good, meaty hug;
my crowning glory
is a gentle, very carefully heavy
tug
and there,
you behold
my huge and thick
and dreamy
story.
Creamily
unfolded.
Tightened up.
Embodied.
You tell me to
learn how to see myself in glory
and I fling myself onto the crowd.
I am made ever-so poorly
for the regard of someone else's God
and all things holy
according to some other man's plan.
I am not here to be
emulsified.
Denied.
I am here to make you
stand
hard and fast and tall.
I am here to make you
dance into my shimmering lap.
bite into
both of my apples.
To learn that there is no such thing as
A Fall
without some pining for the divine.
Licking the tips of my Luso-Yggdrasilic sap.
Without your psyche twisting
this way and that
to escape its own soul
its own body
its own heart
its own mind
that
yearns to slap me a
forty
where the sun really never learned to rise
above Lower Sex
and Upper Tan.
Now don't be
naughty
Kevin Martens;
just be alive.
Let me see you truly as was planned:
Nothing
but hyperrealistic
creole everyday royalty
to thine and only thine ownself
kneeling before me
and finally making me, too,
a man.