An Ode to an Androgynous Superstar
She was aesthetic. She was the epitome of art and fashion, a walking time bomb conundrum. She radiated vitality. Jesse Flowers had everything from top to bottom in order. Her hair harkened back to Britney Spears circa early 2000s. It was a statement against the stereotype of women and pretty long locks. It was always conditioned with a citrus scent and the look of recent intimacy. Flower’s face was cached in cosmetics but never enough to take away from her rounded face’s beauty. The smoke around her eyes alluded to the cigarettes she tossed to the side more often than she tossed men to the curb. Her lips wore her favorite accessory, a deep vermillion accentuating her femininity. This created a strong juxtaposition in her life because just below her glowing face was a leather jacket two sizes too big. She stole that jacket, her favorite jacket, from her ex-boyfriend after she left him for his sister. Once the royal robe of a jock now a symbol of the genderbent spray painted a pale pick with embellished shoulder pads adorned with golden spikes. Underneath she was drawn to wearing an off colored tank top with special care to highlight her cleavage. Ironically, as it always was with Jesse, she despised the men who took note of her charismatic bosoms and made an effort to make sure they also noticed her middle finger right before she decked them in the throat. Her ripped up black skinny jeans had stains of every kind on them; stains that added to her character and how much she had done and seen and put herself through. Jesse only had two pair of shoes to her name: her granddad’s old construction boots and her sickening pair of homemade Louis Vuiton’s whose bottoms she painted red. However, she always wore the pair that never matched the situation. The grocery store visit elicited stilettos while a fancy dinner tended to bring out her boots. Flowers loved the attention and the stares that this strange contrast brought out of people.
Jesse had two words that struck her into a chord most dissonant: manly and girly. Those that dared to refer to her as either typically were met with a glare most foul and a fist. She always said,
“Just because I’m wearing a varsity jacket does not make me some kind of beastly man!”
Or “My lipstick color does not mean I want to be your little girl and “help you out with something””.
She had an odd allure to her. A siren song that both the male and the female ear fancied. Her strange take on expression created a melody most haunting, a symphony of polyphonic motifs. It was as if two composers from times long separated created the most beautiful pieces and then played them together at the same time. A precise cacophony. Jesse was this organized disarray. Jesse found that people stared at her often. In her eyes she saw repulsion but in her audience's eyes they saw a boldness in a shade most neon, an aurora of colors some may describe as undiscovered. People were hooked on her newness, on something so gross, so new, so refreshing that they could not look away. However, Jesse did not know this. She told herself she was a hot commodity, but she would never believe that people were enamored with way she strutted down the path of life. The onlookers' gaze was a language she could not translate and her persona was a picture that no one could ever make out.
Jesse Flowers was a punk driving down the street in a pink mustang with hard leather and lace interior looking to accomplish a drive by shooting. No one has ever been able to stop the contradiction she has created. She relished in that fact. Jesse knew that what she had crafted herself to be was a force to be reckoned with and that no man, woman, or anything any between could bring a close to the enigma that she embodied. A tumor to society, a thorn in the side of every expectation she had ever been given. Jesse Flowers perpetuated evolution in the most unique way she could.