When I was a child among adults, I’d listen in on adult conversations, just as a child is wont to do, and be seen, not heard. Perhaps they’d mention daisy dukes and apple bottom jeans, a family friend’s new, new and newer boyfriend, or the length of her lashes and the height of her shoes.

That’s some hoe shit — the adults would discourse, accusatory.

In so many ways, I am a “common” woman. That is, “usual.” Perhaps “known,” “non-subversive.” I, like many other women, participate in common behaviors: in conventional rituals of femininity, conventional types of attractions.

Sometimes I take a razor to my body hair, or paint my face in blush pinks. I can perform hyper-femininity with lashes and a high-heeled shoe. I like men, maybe, sometimes. I can appreciate hair and muscle on a mal

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