My Name is Lina

and ever after

2011-11-26T03:28:00.000-08:00

designed to break

fractured rib and broken wing

a bird on a wire no more

then a bird has no place to go

for every forgotten moment

I will cut off one lock of hair

until it clogs the drain pipes on every street

in every city

in every space in time

people for miles will know the shade of my disheveled locks

and cast a lonely shadow on the street as they stand over it in the gutters

with stars in their eyes

These are the hairs of a lover

A nightingale's song is forgotten

And she sang with such forlorn once long ago

That every star in the sky fell down with each note

But that song is listless

its heart is in its throat

for every blistered hurt

there will be a ceremony of remorse

and spanish dancing

in a flurry of flamenco reds and golds

and the sky will cry when it remembers the dance of girls in red dresses with smiles on their faces

the street lights burn with dim blue lights

two fire flies

swim around and around the light

flicker in the last moments before the dawn

and make perfect reflections of each other

Day breaks

for every dew drop in the garden

there will be a tear on my cheek

every morning

upon rising

for here and ever after

Blood Music

2011-06-19T02:57:00.000-07:00

For lack of sleep and recriminations

We weave this way and that

The lull as beckoning and bright as it seems

That wavers in the dark alleys of our minds and hearts

James Taylor bleats about sweet dreams and flying machines

in pieces on the ground

and seeing you somehow one more time again

and amidst it all

was it always this deep?

If my politic is music

and my rights drawn from the views I propose

please then,

grace me with a harmony to ease this silent night

Let it ring through the hallways

And sound down the avenues

And give light to the street beggars on corners

And be what it is,

and not what it seems,

and this makes all the difference

My grandmother married a Captain

My Father was a great tree of protection

My mother was a sparrow resting upon the branch

Comfort was always my friend.

Over my years,

I've been broken hearted. I've been a scorned child. I've been a brat. I've been elated. I've enjoyed. I've been enraptured. I've been moved so heavily I was shaking.

I've been scared.

I've been spoiled.

I've been sorry.

Does my music match my story?

I don't claim to own music, it translates cultures and fills hearts and evokes passion and love.

It shares politics.

I only claim to know the music of my heart.

everything is everything baby

2010-10-16T23:01:00.000-07:00

I was taken by conversation

and stiff stalactites fell from the roofs of caves

all over our words

cutting up the dawn of revelation

lying still on the bottom of our love

You were broken by punctuation

stopping short of what you thought you wanted to say

all over my heart

emptying out a lonely secret

sitting silent in our throats

without motion

there is no cause t o stop

we would portion our kisses into units

one kiss is one moment

and so on and so on like that

until they add up to a number greater than the value

of time

a kiss for a daydream

a kiss for a lie

a kiss for a coin in the swear jar

remember when we rode the world?

and held on tight and didnt stop for nothin and nobody?

aint nobody going to do that like that darlin.

For fifty kisses Ill give you fifty moments

and i wont promise that they will all be precious

but the trade off is sweet

I drift through the night

with a shamless sense of despair

that clocks will stop

and time will forget

i would travel across galaxies

and move glaciers

to know your heart

and to have you know mine

I would break my favourite china

and fight a bull in a ring

if my victory meant

that you could hold me

for fifty kisses Ill give you fifty moments

and I cant promise that all of them will be good

our sentences fall deep under streetlights

and sit silent

at the bottom of our love

King Size Papa

2010-08-23T23:45:00.000-07:00

I got a man that's more than eight foot tall.
Four foot shoulders and that ain't all.
King size papa,
He's my king size papa.
I take the door off the hinges when my baby comes to call.
There's such a lot of him,
the way he grew.
Enough to last 'til 1992.
King size papa,
he's my king size papa.
He's a real super daddy and he knows just what to do.
No one can thrill me like my baby can.
He's such an extraordinary man.
King size papa.
He's my king size papa.
Never was nothin' like him since the day the world began.
When he's around there's not a thing I lack.
When he loves me he holds nothin' back.
King size papa.
He's my king size papa.
Everything that I need he carries in his king size pack.
They built the Boulder Dam, the Empire State.
And then they made my man and is he great!
King size papa,
he's my king size papa.
He's the one in a million who can really keep me straight.
He's got big strong arms to hold me tight.
Then he squeezes me with all his might.
King size papa.
He's my king size papa.
He's my one big moment and I'll keep him right inside

Check mate

2010-08-09T20:47:00.000-07:00

Do you ever see the devil dance the continental swing?
ripped my heart from my chest
Says he wont be back again

Wingtipped son of a gun
Backflipped off the couch
after too much stout
black as dart board's cloud lining
black as shoe shining

Falling on the checkered floor
Lock the front and back door
Keep your head under covers
Counting rosary beads and lovers
Hes coming to get you
He has all the moves
all the moves

I shouldnt play this game of chess
All in the name of tenderness
Roll the dice
Slam the jar
crash the next whiskey bar

I wanna see some fire
Show me behind the mask

Kicked it off to show him
With a heel that stops a nation

You keep on reeling
on and on and on

There s a dream that wakes you in the night and you feel that you are in it
Theres an end to this story but you dont feel you can begin it

I wont forget my heart
I wont forget what i am
Let it wash over me again

I have seen a fake. A carbon cutout. A counterfiet dollar bill in my hand.
The urge to see the real is getting bigger, bigger, indelibly bigger.

I take a bath in my marble ship
Swing the water with my hips

Dropped in a torrent ocean
I remember how to swim

Praying for the devil to take me there again

I wont forget my heart
I wont forget what I am
Let it wash over me again

2009-09-03T23:24:00.000-07:00

bongo, bongo, bongo, I don't wanna leave the Congo, oh no no no no no

Bingo, bangle, bungle, I'm so happy in the jungle, I refuse to go

No room for wankers

2009-08-27T20:05:00.000-07:00

Got involved in a femme flare up with homophobia last weekend.
It was fabulous and fun to stand up to boganic drunks.
My friend took the "best ever" award when she threw her drink in the face of an obnoxious and unwarranted slander.
My jaw dropped. That usually would be me.
I did threaten with stiletto action.

Had drunk idiots screaming "katy Perry! katy perry! katy perry!" at me.
Fuck off.
Nat would have sung the wanker chimes... "Waaaanker waaaaanker"

then we went to moni's apartment and dirty blues danced until the wee hours.

i love my friends.

thank heaven for little girls. No?

songs cant get out of my head

2009-08-13T08:46:00.000-07:00

driving me bats baby

you driving me bats baby

another plane flies through a cloud
I hear it loud

we are all alone
waiting for a mircale to come

lying in our beds

waiting for a miracle to come

cant help it baby
I just love hanging round with bad company
everybodies talking
and everybody's giving birth to something

another plane flies through a cloud

I hear it loud

we are all alone

waiting for a mircale to come

driving me bats baby

you driving me bats baby

ooooooooooh

oooooooh oooohhh ooooooh oooooh

Q and A

2009-08-10T17:08:00.000-07:00

Hopeless heart
How do you mend yourself?

rotten

2009-07-27T03:37:00.000-07:00

things can turn sour. not just milk or yoghurt. but fine things. you thought never might.

2009-07-19T08:09:00.001-07:00

You wanna fight for this love

But honey you cannot wrestle a dove

and baby its clear....

Puppets of Patriarchy?

2009-06-29T00:59:00.000-07:00

“The media are instrumental in the process of gaining public consent. Media texts never simply mirror or reflect reality, but instead construct hegemonic definitions of what should be accepted as reality.”

Iconic Emblems of Female identity: Prophets of Post-Feminism or Puppets of the Patriarchy?

I want to look at the ways in which the media manipulate public conception of social ideals and cultural representations. In particular, the ways in which highly gendered, overly produced and highly constructed female celebrity persona’s present packaged attitudes to the media consumer. The ideologies suggested by these celebrity iconic females are often constructed from a foundation beyond the ideal representation of woman you see on the stage before you. These ideologies in fact have been heavily crafted to seduce consumers into a comfortable position of non-resistance.

The two cases in study are highly gendered depictions of women in mass mediated popular culture, pop music performance artist Lady Gaga and burlesque icon Dita Von Teese. I will argue that the facets of a new kind of feminism suggested by Gaga and Von Teese are borrowed , distorted, parodied and marketed as accessible attitudes for young women, ironically wrought with contradictions that render them hegemonic. (Shugart & Wagonner, 2001)

Through the misrepresentation of principles of post-feminism, third wave feminism and the phenomena of Girl Power (or an amalgamation of all three), the consumer is fed a constructed set of attitudes that imply progressive movement but are so contradictory that they have the opposite effect and work to compliment an antifeminist system. By appealing to the interests of a demographic of consumers and dressing up commercialism as a brand new feminism, there is an adverse reaction. The message is confused and consumers are lulled into believing that they celebrate and even partake in socially progressive antics, but in actuality they are nullified by means of paradoxical contradiction.

I will discuss, in particular, these characteristics of assumed new feminism and explain the ways in which they are negated:

I. reclaiming traditional modes of femininity that would be considered tyrannous by second wave feminists in a way that implies subversive politics, (e.g. Highly maintained femininity, fetish fashion, wonder bras and makeup) whilst being heavily immersed in popular glamour culture and the fashion industry (e.g. Eccentric and exclusive costumes, branding an image.)

II. largely interested in sex – positivity, sexual self exposure and female empowerment (e.g. burlesque performance and sexualized video clips)

By analyzing these elements of Von Teese and Gaga through the eyes of the consumer to whom they are marketed, I will discuss these facets of a new feminism and how iconic representations of women are used as marketing tools to sell not only products but a values system and in turn implement a patriarchal value system. I will expose the very obvious nature of conflicting motions in Von Teese and Gaga’s attitudes and in doing so unveil the industrial construction of celebrity for the sake of capitalism and reinforcing patriarchal values.

Looking at the characteristics I have described above, it is not difficult to correlate such ideals with representations you have seen in popular culture. They are out in the thousands, young female celebrities who are unafraid exhibitionists, self assured, stiletto donning, corseted, sequined, girlishly glamorous, outspoken about sexual diversity and blasé about gender bending, ‘don’t take no shit’ daughters of divas who own the pop scene and stick it to the authorities, refusing to fit into heteronormative housewife and homemaker boxes. From Lindsay Lohan to the Pussy Cat Dolls, from Pink to Lily Allen, pop culture icons are announcing their power as sexual and feminine entities that define their values on their own terms in magazines and on television screens around the world.

It is difficult to deny then, that this excess of confrontational ‘in your face’ feminine sexuality vogue resembles characteristics of feminist beliefs that followed the backlash of second wave feminism.
The three movements I will refer to are post-feminism, third wave feminism and Girl Power discourse. What I am analyzing is the implicit facets of these three movements that seem to appear in representations of women in the media and not the movements’ themselves. However, in order to understand how such beliefs are represented in icons such as Von Teese and Gaga, it is important to recognize the origins of these social movements.
Post feminism, coined in the 1980’s, was used to explain a counterattack against second wave feminism, adopting an analytical approach to subsequent feminist discourse and spoke for women who essentially concurred with the ambitions of feminism, but did not identify as feminists per se. (Rosen, 2000) Post feminism supposes, amongst other ideas, that gender is an artifice, a constructed image and therefore performative in its very nature. It is this supposition that I will examine further on.
Third Wave Feminism, beginning in the early 1990’s, sought to dispute definitions of femininity set out by second wave feminism, which repeatedly classified women with a unanimous female identity, which was predominantly middle class and white. This approach lets women identify their feminist ideals on their own terms, embracing gender diversity, sex positivity and self assurance. (Freedman, 2003)
The Girl Power discourse, taking the lead in the 1990’s with icons like The Spice Girls and Xena the Warrior Princess denotes a sprawling media culture that tells women they can be empowered by identifying as conventional feminine objects and at the same time as strong feminist agents. Power is achieved by the use of sexuality and beauty over men and through the expression of one’s determination. (Zaslow, 2006)
Born out of these movements and into the celebrity spotlight is a copy cat medley of common ideals represented in highly produced icons like Von Teese and Gaga, that highlight the concept of individual success but seem to ignore the objective of collective political outcomes. For the sake of succinctness I will refer to this set of amalgamated ideals expressed through Von Teese and Gaga as new feminism.

In this development, power comes from the “choice making of individuals rather than from structural supports or systematic change.” (Zaslow, 2006) These icons communicate a laid back freedom and power over their selves, flaunting material symbols of wealth and femininity that make up their ‘individual’ identities.

Lady Gaga and Dita Von Teese, paradoxically, whilst using the language of choice and freedom, delegate a narrow set of hegemonic options for young women with which to build their own gender identities.

Role Models Remodeled: Reclaiming Traditional Modes of femininity: Subversion or Slave to the System?

“Imagine being considered not for your mind but for how you look. Sort of fun, don’t you think?” Dita Von Teese

New Feminism (representing ideals of Third Wave, Post feminism and Girl Power) celebrates conventional ways of being feminine, particularly in the sense of the aesthetic. To be pretty and lord it over men is a powerful weapon in mass mediated culture.
This new creed of thought promotes the idea that a woman can be feminine and sexual and not be confined to the trappings that traditional femininity once bore. New feminism makes extreme femininity subversive, as if to say – I assume this image because I like it and I feel powerful. Men are attracted to my femininity, but I make my own choices.

My cases in study typify this dolled up aesthetic, whilst still touting their independence from patriarchal control. However, in replicating this tenet of new feminism, as products of the marketing industry and therefore rife with conflict in their message, these icons fail to substantiate any real grounds for political action.

On visiting www.ladygaga.com, I was transported into a glittery galactic and highly gendered experience. Gaga stipulates she is going to – “infiltrate human culture one sequin at a time”, instantly defining her power through unfettered feminine guiles. (www.ladygaga.com)

I was mesmerized by images of decidedly stylized pulp culture femininity, an avante garde pop fashionista extravaganza. YouTube clips, interviews proclaiming her love of fashion, clinging costumes of neon colours, thunder bolts, diamante leotards and legs in heels flashed all over the webpage. The site is littered with highly produced and synthesized music and it’s Gaga leading the procession of pop with the lyrics “Lets have some fun, this beat is sick, I wanna take a ride on your disco stick”.

Instantly, there is a persona emerging for the consumer to indentify with.
The system of Celebrity is at work. (Marshall, 1997)
Marshall suggests that, driven by the culture industry, celebrities “transform and transfigure themselves… present a moving subjectivity… enigma about their authentic selves” (Marshall 1997)
The idea is that there is a concept of “individualism” at work, where the persona of Gaga is constructed and sold to audiences as a feminine ideal. Bold, brash and over stylized.

In her “Poker face” video clips she is writhing by a poolside in scant and provocative outfits, donning the dress codes of the conventional feminine aesthetic, where the female body is the focus. She sings about winning over lovers and being the all powerful young female icon of self determination.
What these images put across is power in traditional modes of aesthetic femininity emerging from wealth and individual choice. Lacking, however, is the shared desire for real social change. The extremely feminized images fail to communicate the political backdrop of new feminism and its indefinable nature and only propose a limited set of ideals for women to relate to. A white, middle class beauty that is attainable through wealth.
The sexualized female body is the focus, and feminist politics take a back seat. The ideals that are appropriated by Gaga are rendered a masquerade of new feminism and ultimately negate the purpose they appear to have. Furthermore, as endorsement vehicles of brands such as M A C cosmetics and Wonder bra, Gaga and Von Teese merely propose ideals of power in femininity for the purpose of capitalism, inserting them into the dominant paradigm and making use of them as puppets of patriarchal values.

Upon visiting Dita Von Teese’s webpage, I noticed she is constructed of an old world aesthetic, a vintage darling with an overt and glamorized feminine sexuality.
Von Teese with her passion for corsetry has been known to cinch down to 16 inch waist, has fervor for fetish costume and traditional feminine attire such as stockings and lingerie. With red lips, stiletto heels and classic pin up dress code, she sports an aesthetic that draws on the concept of individualism, advertising her persona within the culture industry.

“She is one of a kind. She is the biggest name in Burlesque since Gypsy Rose Lee. She tops international Best Dressed lists. She is a modern day Fashion Icon. She inspires designers from Marc Jacobs and John Galliano to Jean Paul Gaultier and Zac Posen. She is credited for bringing back the glamour and allure of Old Hollywood stars. Self-created. Distinctive. Iconic. Flawless. Often imitated, never duplicated. She is Dita Von Teese.” (www.dita.net)

“Women’s engagement with their looks is interpreted as imposed by patriarchy for men’s gratification” (Frost 1999) however Von Teese suggests that the notion of women enjoying hyper femininity is liberating. (Betts, 2006)
Von Teese stars on YouTube in glossy lingerie ads and striptease burlesque performances and in interviews where she promotes her created femininity. The idea behind this constructed beauty has a vague resemblance to subversive notions of post feminism of performative gender as an artificial craft. “I use make-up and hair and all these magical feminine tools to create something I am not. I like the idea of artificial beauty…dying my hair black and wearing make up and heels is a security thing for me. I feel completely strange (without it). This is what I do. This is what makes me me.” (Betts, 2006)

At first glance one might mistake this apparent subverting of gender paradigm as new feminism, reflective of post feminist ideas of reclaiming a connection to feminine beauty and power. What becomes more obvious at closer speculation is that Von Teese only promotes one type of beauty ideal and performed gender. A westernized feminine beauty ideal that is only a marginalized percentage of the femininity post feminism celebrates.
The system of celebrity (Marshall, 1997) places these feminine aesthetic goals in the realm of capitalism by Von Teese’s endorsement of beauty products and bosom enhancing undergarments, ultimately making her a marketing vehicle of not only products but a set of attitudes, hence part of a patriarchal value system. She can appeal to a set demographic with her monochrome beauty and sell products accordingly. She proposes a tenet of new feminism that may seem appealing to a group and therefore assumes iconic status of that group’s ideals and interests, but celebrates new feminism through individual action and falls short of any collective social movement. By binding this one type of gendered beauty to what is thought to be a new feminist thought and doing it conspicuously through a celebrity persona, the belief is rendered hegemonic.

Showing the girl: She only reveals what she wants you to see

“Being a woman in the pop world, sexuality is half poison, half liberation. What’s the line? I don’t have a line. I am the most sexually free woman on the planet, and I am genuinely empowered from a very honest place by my sexuality. What’s more primal than sex? I mean, it’s so honest. If I didn’t think I had the talent to back that up, I wouldn’t have done it.” (Lady Gaga)

Sex positivity is a big part of new feminism. There is much importance placed on women exploring the freedom and self navigation of their sexuality’s and sexual expression, to be in control of their bodies, the ways in which they are sexualized and the ways in which they are sexually revealed.
Both Lady Gaga and Dita Von Teese personify glamorized and self determined overt sexual expression that rings true with the new feminist tenet of sex positivity.
Von Teese, as the iconic spokesperson for modern Burlesque, herald’s sex positivity and feminine sexual expression as a way of “women being inspired to find their inner bombshell and have fun with it” (Von Teese), giving them a sense of sexual empowerment.
In order to unveil the contradictory nature of these appropriations of new feminist characteristics, I want to briefly put burlesque dancing in a historical context as to examine the political suggestions behind the art form, and then highlight the discrepancies with the modern versions of such politics we see in Von Teese’s burlesque performance and concurrently in Von Teese as a celebrity persona entity.

Burlesque was considered a bawdy type of theatre later transpiring into striptease that flourished between 1840 and 1960. The first female burlesque performers “instigated public debate on the proper display of female sexuality and forever changed the face of theatre.” (Pullen, 2005) Burlesque was originally a male dominated arena and the addition of women into the picture brought up conflicts about the kinds of theatre women could participate in.
“Lydia Thompson and the British Blondes (one of the first all female burlesque troupes) were reviled in the press as…real threats to both US-American womanhood and theatrical tradition. The Blondes, inadequately described by labels of actress, whore or feminist, offered new ways to think about female sexuality, ones that exceeded familiar narratives.” (Pullen 2005)
Early burlesque was controversial as women performers often played the roles of men and the humour was tongue- in-cheek, laced with sexual innuendo and vulgarity. The revealing costumes drew attention to female sexuality.
What has made burlesque feminist is its unashamed spirit of sexual revolution. Burlesque displays the female body but supports female sexuality from within rather than concentrating on a limited concept of beauty that represents only objectified bodies that exclusively match westernized standards of beauty. It discards the conception that sexuality can only be established within the narrow range of western male ideals and instead acknowledges the sexual appeal of all women.

Von Teese advocates these ideals but she herself is constructed in such a way that ultimately cancels them out. The paradox lies in the fact that the burlesque icon, Dita Von Teese, supposedly representing the subversive nature of this new feminist celebration of women, epitomizes the westernized standards of conventional feminine beauty that burlesque is said to refuse. Von Teese assumes this facet of new feminism at a surface level, but only offers one form of beauty for women to regale in: a white, middle class, thin and surgically enhanced femininity. By only offering this standard of beauty and failing to represent the plethora of diverse femininities that burlesque is said to celebrate, the ideals of new feminism that are appropriated by iconic media persona’s, in this case Von Teese, are distorted and sold back to the consumer and in turn become antithesis of what they claim to be.

Lady Gaga exemplifies a similar irony in her video clip ‘Paparazzi’.
The clip starts off as a farce of an old style film, set in a beautiful villa with a balcony that over looks the ocean. The scene is picturesque and refers to glamorous and affluent lifestyle. The romantic opening scene sees Gaga is depicted as the celebrity star; the man we assume is her boyfriend is Paparazzi. They are in bed entwined in each others arms. Gaga asks “Do you love me?” He answers “Of course I do”. They engage in a passionate embrace as he slowly removes items of Gaga’s ultra feminine and glamorous clothing. He carries her outside and sits her in the edge of the wall of the balcony where they continue to kiss and touch in a highly sexualized manner. Photos are being snapped of the two on the balcony. The scene escalates, becoming dramatic, his kissing becomes more forceful and rushed and she asks him to stop. He keeps going; she struggles to get away until he bashes her and throws her off the balcony.
Whilst Gaga defines her sexuality as “fierce”, and her music empowering to women, exemplifying tenets of new feminism by way of overtly sexualized and glamorized imagery in her video clips, Paparazzi contradicts the values Gaga seemingly stands for.
With images of rampant sexualized violence, Gaga only serves to illustrate that even though such tenets of new feminism may be represented by her celebrity persona, there is no real social change, and women are still victims’ of the trivialization of rape crimes in the media. With the mixture of sexuality and violence and hints of brutality, the difficulty in differentiating between the passionate embrace in the beginning and the violence that follows and a number of women featuring in the clip that appear to be dead or injured in sexy clothing, ( Sut Jhally, 2009) the resolve for any type of resistance to the patriarchy is reversed.

As mediums of mass marketing, both Gaga and Von Teese personify a particular set of ideals so that they appeal to a generation of interests. Sex positivity and sexual self exposure are appropriated in the examples I have given and marketed to the consumer but are rife with contradiction, causing them to enforce patriarchal values rather than free women from them.

I have shown you the ways highly gendered representations of females in mediated popular culture adopt codes of new feminism (post-feminism, third wave feminism and Girl Power discourse). These packaged ideals are marketed with such inconsistency that ultimately these appropriated feminist values are decorated, commodified, and put on the market for us in a way that render them hegemonic. The viewpoints they project are presented to the consumer with such oscillating contradiction that they become akin to the dominant paradigm they appear to resist. The result is that feminism is misrepresented by popular culture production into an organized array of cultural signifiers that carry meanings of individual autonomy related to feminism but do not equal an actual social change.

Insomniac

2009-06-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

2.15

still awake

is sleep deprivation constructive for creativity?

i want sleep to hold me

A movie in my mind

2009-06-12T00:07:00.000-07:00

I heard a secret today about a woman who is close to me. Very close.
It was something she was doing that was particularly demeaning to her. Or rather something that was being done to her. Something unpleasant and almost abusive. But consential none the less.
There is a strong visual in my mind.
It made me so sad.
Its a secret so I cant let on that I know.
I wish more than anything that I could tell her that I know.
That she doesnt have to do those things.
To please never do them again.
That she is worth so much more.

I am sure she knows.
We all have dark moments.
Moments of self loathing where we can allow things we perhaps would not normally.
I want to protect her.

How can I when the world is so huge and I am just one tiny speck, and things happen, things keep rolling whether we like it or not?

I can only be an example. A strong woman. A powerful and brave woman.

Doesn't help the sinking feeling inside of me... today.

Coming Along Nicely

2009-06-11T07:25:00.000-07:00

she thinks her breasts are coming along nicely.
just right. for a girl of her age.

i am a big girl. she thinks.

i dont need a story.
but some nights i get frightened in my bed all alone.
can I sleep with daddy? she thinks.

she

thinks

too

much....

its not fair and i think your really mean

2009-06-10T15:27:00.000-07:00

its not fair and I think your really mean
i think your really mean
i think your really mean

i am dreaming of all i have come to know

and if i hadnt what would i think?

shy heart
angry heart
little heart
full of lies

deep shadows

im sad

for I have lost

a lot

Learnings

2009-05-28T07:01:00.000-07:00

Hard to swallow, make one's throat swell, pulse rise, head hurt.
Move between indifferent to crazy angry to devastated back to angry.

Why

Oh

Why?

When Betty saw Butch

2009-04-07T00:35:00.000-07:00

A grimace is the best description. A flick of the wrist, my cigarette lit from the hand in a french cuffed sleeve, when I had looked beyond the boi for the fire.

And then ,

after the grimace, (a look we femmes know so well, but one would never shatter the illusion)

an inscription

on my neck. I felt his eyes burn there, longer than usual.

It said

For fingers to be wrapped around
delicate flesh
and hold you down
whilst I devour you

It was getting late and until this fine boi caught my eye I was imagining the inside of my eyelids where all the stars turned out in their finery, the star studded cast of my dreams.
The moon fell upon the rim of his hat and reflected off his one gold tooth into my eyes.

A white sports coat and a pink carnation began to play, and dancing would be too much of a cliche for this moment.

He leaned in as I dragged on my cigarette to ask me my name.

I breathed it into his collar "Betty"

I waited with baited breath for a name in return.

"Well hello Betty..."

true heart

2009-03-06T22:45:00.000-08:00

In the dark
In the musty damp
In a place where feelings fester
that i cannot suppress

this little girl has a secret purpose
secret simplicity
secret want
that dare not speak its name

don't

get

caught

this is the place were demons chitter chatter
in the dark
in the night

its also the place were trust grows
like a pot plant for a little girl
to look after

to water
and nurture

and not forget about

and treat with care

so that it may grow tall and strong

and shade her in the summer time
casting shadows in the dirt
painting our reflections on the dam

A secret desire
so embedded in pain
but so far removed from it

keeps whistling my name
my song
my soft lullaby

and I am safe

in the knowledge that one day I will find it
live it
trust it
know it

to be my own

Homophobia : The rubix cube

2009-03-06T14:25:00.000-08:00

Why do I feel different, even when my lesbian friends are concerned by comparison?

Why do I feel like a modern amalgamation , a deranged and morphed reflection or a twisted cardboard cut out.

I spent some weekend time with some lesbian friends of mine.
We hadn't seen each other for a long time. A friend from Sydney was down and we went to hang out in their place in the suburbs. Far out from the burrows of the city.
The girls have converted their garage into what looks like an old English Pub. With a fully stocked bar in the corner, a dance floor that is coloured like the pride flag, disco lights, full sound system, couches and arcade games. They tell me they stay home in the bar each weekend rather than going out and facing the nightlife. And understandably so.
They also tell me there are three young straight women that live next door, who have never met lesbians before they moved in seven months ago.
They drink in their bar quite regularly, donning cocktail dresses for my friends and flaunting newly aquired lesbian jokes.
I think to myself "This will be interesting. I wonder what they will do with the concept of Femme"
I assume they have made a neat little box to put lesbian in and my friends fit it. I cant even attempt to climb into that box and shut the lid. My stillettos will puncture the cardboard. The lid wont close over my high hair.

When the girls turned up, they were uncomfortable. They were territorial and suspect about the foreign women that were taking up space in what was to them, their space.
The differences between us were very obvious. They were not quite sure where to put me. I knew I belonged outstretched on the bar singing torch songs. But they were not aware... yet.

Interestingly enough, this time they had men in tow, even though Sarah had said they never brought men before.

Ill give you three guesses as to why.

If you are queer you will most likely get it in one. As later we tried to explain to the girls, us queers have been experiencing this type of homophobia all our lives. Even though the girls felt comfortable with our suburban lesbian friends, they did not yet accept or understand their complex identity in it's entirety, which included butches and femmes and sexually liberated women who did not swoon when a drunk footyhead bloke who resembled livestock would refer to their breasts in an obvious and lewd way. Who did not welcome the men to sit down and at the very least have a crack and who did not hesitate to tell them exactly what was staring everyone blindly in the face.

So the girls brought boys, who behaved like pigs.

I became known as "the singer", as if I was ordered in to entertain the heathens, and they refused to learn my name.

As they got drunker, I heard one of them stage whisper "Yeah, shes hot. And shes a lesbian!"

Like side show freaks in our own freakin space.
I felt crazy angry.

When one guy tried to make a pass at me, my Sydney friend and I told him firmly, not welcome, thankyou.

That caused an uproar and almost fisty cuffs.
A butch amongst us asked one of the straight girls "Please can you get him out of here, it's causing everyone grief"

She threw her hands up and said "I didnt bring him here"

Well. We didnt bring the men. So take some fucking responsibility.

Finally he was kicked out.
By Sarah, who was behind her own bar, watching this whole thing unravel.

I have experienced homophobia in many places. Rarely in a lesbian home.
We ended up keeping to ourselves in a corner, so as not to disrupt anymore bad energy.

The girls were scrubbers. Homophbic and revolting. The men were inexusable, and of course, exused by the women. Which makes me ill.

Sarah went over to them the next morning, as she needed them to move their car.

Some of the men were still lounging around at the scrubbers place.

A bloke says to Sarah, " Hi Roger"

She says "Roger? What the fuck?"

He says "Oh, I thought Roger would be a good name for you"

I mean really, his humour is so base, that was the best he could come up with.

She brushed it off and said "Yeah whatever mate"

And he fiegned a cower and said "Oh dont hit me man! Dont hit me!"

What kind of stereotype is being perpetuated here?

I'm revolted.

And Ill never be part of that again

Crazy to witness.

A bizarre experiment, but I don't think I will play guinea pig again.

Butch and Betty : The beginning

2009-02-16T20:10:00.000-08:00

Betty was mine as instantly as I set my eyes on her. She could have been anybody's, in a room full of lazy liasons between flirty girls and dapper dressed boi's with a whole lotta charm and not a lotta grace. But my body masqueraded as a tuning fork, my eyes the prongs. Her the vibration.

My gaze traced the femme before me. From the seam of her stocking my eyes followed. She was Sophie Marceaux and I was a an older Zulawski, studying beauty behind the camera lens. At that very moment I could be anyone and she could be anyone, and who could we be in eachother's arms? The fishnet ran a criss-cross dialogue between skin and cotton. Whispering a sweet stroke me with forbidden mumurs. From the incline of her ankle to the crevices in the backs of her knees my eyes followed, hoping to catch her skirt on the hook of my imaginary fishing line and raise it slightly.
The hem of her black woolen pencil skirt sat just on that crevice and refused to bid entry to the pleasures that lay in waiting. Making me beg the question :"Feast or famine?"

Her skirt and blouse glorified the curve of her hips and breasts but left a lot to the imagination.
Mine was peeking through keyholes like a child trying to spy Father Christmas at midnight.
She stood before me in a line to the balcony where people could smoke. She was with another woman and they were chatting as she fumbled through her handbag for a lighter.
As a group of boys came off the balcony and back into the club, the lady that had caught my attention turned to look back and did not face me but looked over my shoulder to her friends inside, waved and motioned for a light.

Three Valium Down

2009-01-29T14:32:00.000-08:00

There is a heatwave in this city. More seriously all over the country.
The other night I took comfort on the kitchen floor in a bikini with three joints to help me reach a state of zen.
It reminded me of another time I took to bunking in the kitchen.

After September 2000 I remember a lot of media hype about the following war for oil.

The sky teared up, with a black and swollen face. A massive storm was chortling at us under its breath, preparing to shred the ominous white cloud blankets and announce doom.
Like a child slapped and taunted before she starts to cry.
That moment of pause, between the realization of sorrow and release of emotion.

That day my butch came home from work white as a ghost, faced me with the same expression.
We took to the kitchen by the light of the oven, wrapped in doonas, three Valium down.

And hid from the world.

I believe it takes a political crisis or a dramatic natural turn like a heatwave to push people to share humanness. Fear, anxt, inability to compose oneself.

The other night in the sweltering heat, I was not a lady. My legs splayed, I sweat (that's right, not glowed) and I cackled like a child. I flailed like a fish on the hot banks of the January River.

My mother was talking last night about a certain joy of life that is noticeably different about those who really struggle. Those truly face with adversity. They kind of take life by the balls I suppose.
Whereas those of us with privilege, with our comfort and war and poverty on television where we can conveniently switch it off and off and off again, seem so wrapped in idealism that we build a fence between ourselves and reality, and somehow, therefore, such excitement that comes with it.

I will try and choose to tear down such a fence. Or at least acknowledge it is there.

Today is hot again. I am writing from an air conditioned room. I may take myself outside today.

And feel it.

quiet monumental brat hangover

2009-01-23T20:31:00.000-08:00

hush in the morning.
I woke after three hours of almost sleep spooning in bed with my little sister.
Her boyfriend had moved onto the floor.
I'm across the bridge and I have to work at 11.

It'll be a queazy 45 dollar taxi to the shop.

In these moments I have little quiet epiphanies.
Its like a catastrophe of dreaming.

I think about trawling conversations last night on the floor of some teenage indie club where everyone is dressed awkward and scruffy and skinny and ubercool.
I am in contrast with an extra few years and more junk in the trunk.

Im old. It seems. Or so the door security want to remind me. When one goes out with a troupe of 19 yr olds, fresh in their thoughts and brazen with beliefs, one can feel like Mrs. Robinson.

And my mantra, I must spend more time with this openess. I must spend more time with this openess. Opening. to new.

I have big love inside me at the moment. For so much. So much gratitude.

Is this the light of self acceptance?

Rumours are

2009-01-12T17:10:00.000-08:00

Rumours are rumours are rumours.

I pay no mind.

I dont live by what others may be saying.

I make my own rules.

The art of illusion can be created by the onlooker a lot of the time.

Love Hate Relationship: Dear diary, My body is a bitch.....

2008-11-14T01:28:00.001-08:00

I start at the tips of my toes, and little by little

I will attempt to make the most of my attributes. I will try to make amends with my loathing.

Make little less burden, make most of flesh.

These attributes fall upon critical eyes. Ones own.

A heavy going relationship with this mound of flesh we call a body.
Bitch bitch bitch. Stand up straight. You should be at the gym. Why why why are you on the couch, on the bench smoking, staring into nothing is favourable to being kind to oneself when Love Hate is at work.
Incessant dialogue in my head.
Enough now, I might state quite clearly, but still it is relentless.

Constant Comparison.
Which is stupid really. because nothing compares. we cant compare.
and to whom do we compare? or what? pieces of imagery that exists only in a balloon of perfection that I created, dreamed up one lonely night.

There are parts of me that get too much attention. I give in to the evil. Alone. In the darkness.

What is missing from this face?

written on the body. carved into the skin, and inked with the darkest shade of permanence.

tattooed across the forehead - I once had - Little girl. Lost and broken. Weathered by giving in to average lust and abuse.

That seemed at least more pertinent than - Love me. I Can't. So somebody should.

Dear diary,

My body is a bitch.

She wont harden up where she is sposed to. She stays soft in some spots.
She craves the forbidden.

I am strict with her but she wont listen.

Thursday night I worked.
After having a bad bust up with my body, I felt out of steam. Inside I hid that feeling.
Outside I had a strut.

Four or five people made comments about my body. This is not unusual. People feel they can comment I guess when you wear your flesh with confidence.
Waist, tits, ass and so on. Complimentary comments, I guess you could say.

people believe they are giving you a compliment. its an interesting opposite to the conversation going on inside my mind.

I want to get off this ride.

Its making me sick.

No more's and Never ever's

2008-10-23T03:27:00.000-07:00

the butch's baby guitar strums in my heart

playin Happy Birthday Mr president

and Cupid

draw back your bow

and Go away Little girl

Most times music makes it all better, sort of, at least it's melodic

I re write the lyrics to old songs, changing pronouns, or the visual association in my little femme mind

Life is a 1950's movie and I am Sophia Loren
The woman who walks with a very prominent swing in the hip
for whom?

I ask

for whom?

what an ironic picture

lonesome beautiful lady

every time we meet we clash
for this reason or that
until the chips are down
we gamble with what is left of us

and forget anger

and remember it

and forget it again

and all the little pieces dont matter when the big picture is in tact

how many times will I say never ever and no more?

How many times do I really mean it?

thats like that joke, how many ........... does it take to change a light bulb?
How many times does a femme change her mind?

Winehouse sings the blues

2008-09-15T05:32:00.000-07:00

Lent you outsidaz and my new Badu
While you were thinkin I didn't have a clue
tough to sort files with your voice in my head
So then I bribed you downstairs with a Marlboro red
and now I feel so small discovering you knew
How much more torture would you have put me through?
you probably saw me laughing at all your jokes
or how I did not mind when you stole all my smokes, yea.

And although my pride is not easy to disturb
you sent me flying when you kicked me to the curb
With your battered jeans and your beastie tee
Now I can't work like this, no, no, with you next to me

And although he is nothing in the scheme of my years
it just serves to bludgeon my futile tears
And I'm not use to this, no, no, I observe, yea, I don't chase
But now I sit with consequences, thrust in my face, yea
And the melodramas of my day delivery blows
that surpass your rejection it just goes to show
a simple attraction that reflects right back to me
so I'm not as into you as I appear to be, yea.

And although my pride's not easily disturbed
you sent me flying when you kicked me to the curb
With your battered jeans and your beastie tee
Now I can't work like this, no, no, with you next to me

His message was brutal but the delivery was kind
maybe if I get this down I'll get it off my mind
It serves to condition me and smoothen my kinks
despite my frustration for the way that he thinks
and I knew the truth, when it came, would be to that effect
At least you're attracted to me, which I did not expect
didn't think you get my number down and such
but I never hated myself for my age so much

And although my pride's not easy to disturb
you sent me flying when you kicked me to the curb
So. with your battered jeans and your beastie tee
Now I can't work like this, no, no, with you next to me

Nobody's Dolly

2008-08-29T15:10:00.000-07:00

At my house we smoke under the willow on a green park bench at meal breaks.

My sister and I find strange things on the internet, like documentaries about polygamy, interviews with the wives of men who live on American ranches like Big Love. The women seem possessed. Well, they are. But not me. I am possessed by nobody.
Free.
this time.
We find movies of poltergeists. We get scared even though they are not real.
We get stoned and try and sing along to Shakira songs that we dont understand. I dont think Shakira understands them either.

At my house, I cook.
When I am home, everybody takes a back seat.
As I get older I am more controlling in the kitchen.
They are all happy to be controlled.
I cook fish with fennel. always vegetables. always meats.
there is always good wine.

At my house I listen to my ipod in the dark before sunrise when I wake up in a big bed in flannel sheets.

At my house I stumble into the kitchen at night in polka dot underwear and dolly hair and puffy lips and sit by the light of the fridge to drink water straight from the jug.

The classical music is always playing. All over the house.
Dogs wail in the morning. Cats scratch at my door.

I take out a heart shaped box filled with nail polish, buffers, files and creams, and manicure my feet and hands.

The grandfather clock chimes every fifteen minutes. Sounds romantic. But every fucking fifteen minutes?

At my house I miss my sister all the way across the world.

Ding dong.

I write erotica but keep most of it private.

I write healing stories. Some true, some taken from a place of dreams.
Always from the heart.

For the past few months I became so disjointed. so unmotivated. sad. empty. monotonous.

All those things? yes.

Sick of talking. need action. Need to be doing what I promised myself.

I'm writing a cabaret show to put on with my friend who dances in a burlesque trio. We will have a showcase with other performers from the city. I will work with a new friend who writes soul tracks. We will play covers to earn some cash. I will write and try to publish. I will study. I will work out. I will mediate. I will book a ticket for New York City and rent an apartment for three months next June. My friend will come stay and we will go to shows and put on our show and drink like fish and laugh til we cry. and when I am feeling a little romantic, I'll take myself to bed and write a letter or two and perfume them with rose petals.

I'll do it by myself.

Nobody's possession. Nobody's Dolly.

My own.

Thank you very much.

Now isnt that liberating?

hearts on motion

2008-08-27T22:09:00.000-07:00

I went to see a healer the other night, for this one particular haunting thing that keeps coming up. Tight throat. Not speaking my truth.

Over the past 12 months I have confronted abusers.

I have opened doors and used my voice.

Lets keep on doin it.

and keep still. to reach a common ground with the motion that goes on around us.

I plan to travel across the world next year in search of a road less travelled.

Something tells me I will find it right back where I started.

But until then, New York New York.

I book my ticket soon..

What was Done

2008-08-25T22:07:00.000-07:00

I wonder why circles of abusive are circle. I wish they were oblong, or zigzag, so that with enough force you could get thrown out of them, straight off the corner.
Instead of spiraling over and over into despair.

Not long ago I was faced with a demon.

I know it is because I have not dealt with something in my life, that the universe is continuously throwing it back at me in different forms.

I was confronted by a man who could not keep from touching me and in turn silencing me, rendering me voiceless through my own omission. Under the guise of massage, his hands went straight to my cunt and pinned me there. So much went rushing through me, hot anger, "How could you think that this is ok?" , regret "Why the fuck did I allow this in the first place", weakness (and this is perhaps the most prolific for me) "How can I say no?"

I gasped for breath, pulled myself away and shook. But said nothing.
I am crying inside that I could not face it.
Just tried to get away.
But how could I not, with the voice I have built up for years since childhood abuse, say -
"This is not appropriate.. and.. I am leaving now. How fucking dare you?"

I feel a sick sense of guilt when I cant meet someone's sexual expectations.
Which is all the time these days.

But I should not feel that. I should not feel sorry for them, as if they deserve my body.
As if I am just a toy.

This experience challenged my feeling towards men in general, and my love of myself.

Thought I would write about this as part of a healing excerise.

Thanks for listening.

Until I learn a certain lesson, perhaps I am destined to come across this again and again.

Memoirs 2003

2008-07-30T18:25:00.000-07:00

Arrived in Oslo today.

It seems boring, but that is an understatement. We have spent the day in the
hotel, Nat and I feel like Eloise, the five yr old who grew up inhabiting
the Plaza hotel, up and down elevators and stairs, day in, day out...

We are starting to drive our parents mad. My stomach aches from laughing.
Apart from that, I am soaring through books, which cant be all good.
Mum and Nat and I decided we were slightly depressed about our fate. Norway
smells like fish and its not offbeat or exciting. So I decided to cheer us
up and find some things for us to do over the next week. I got all the
pamphlets the hotel had to offer, only to find that all the tourist
pamphlets are in Norwegian, so we cant understand them.

It is only dark for two hours at night, so this will remind us of just how
many waking hours we have to spend here. I think we will be hitting the
bottle. ALOT.

I am about 2 gin and tonics away from taking my sister to the gay clubs (i
am sure it would be frightful, full of stirrup pants and explorer looking
types, not to mention blondes, Norway gave birth to the blonde.

Gonna hit the museums though, walk around town, try and take the edge off
the delirium.

Hope you had a good time at the footy baby. Bet you are out drinking
now...(it's three am where you are...) and I know you said you would
decline, but I know you better not to take your absolute word for that. I
hope they are taking care of you. if you are tucked up in bed I hope you are
having sweet dreams.
your words make me get that quiver all over.
you drive me crazy
i long to feel the firm touch of your hands around my waist, on my
shoulders... and in your sleep your little monkey legs climbing my limbs
like i am some sort of jacaranda!!!

We had a great night the other night at the fancy shmancy restaurant, I
tried to be elegant and sophisticated to impress the consulates wife,
Magdelina, because she has always kind of had a personality clash with me. I
tried to be charming and funny.
It's so stupid, but i have always liked her. She has a strong character, she
has this sexiness about her, in a old Chilean pashmina and gold pearl
earring wearing kind of way. She is outrageous, materialistic but doesnt
care, she's amazingly beautiful. I sort of wanted to be like her. It killed
me that she found me... well, there was friction between us. i just let go when i realised she
was just this older woman feeling threatened by another personality that was
eruptive and emotive.
And that really i didnt want to be like her, i dont know if her smile is
real, she is uprooted from her life every two years to move to some fancy
new city in some new part of the world. And she is adored by her husband and
given everything she wants... sounds grand... but not simple enough.
Sometimes i am all glitz and gold, but baby, thats not real is it?

Anyway, she was eating out of my hand by the end of the night. and I was
myself...

Learn something every day ha?

I gotta go babe, sposed to fix snacks for my family in the hotel room, they
are returning from a cocktail party soon...

three paper joints and musings

2008-07-18T05:38:00.000-07:00

I am chipped red nail polished and all over it.
dolly'ed up in the top room. thinking about the day.

"I turn the other way. I never turn you down. you turn me on."
roisin murphy sings i tunes.

tomorrow is reserved for lingerie window shopping. if its not too cold I'll grace a fitting room or three.

so tonight, I stay quiet. just tapping on the keys. dreaming of piano chords.

I saw a man on the tram today. He had a book that he clutched in his bony hands.
In neon bold I spied

Jesus Christ
and
Adolf Hitler

Hypnotism Works

He looked strange

He looked into my eyes for a second and then away
and I thought

Ok so now I'm hypnotised

And went straight home to drool over Agent Provocetuer and Chantal Thomass online.

and roll three paper numbers.

and restack my Vogue collection.

I wonder about modesty. and if I really understand it.

been thinking a lot about my distaste for men.
and that brings me back to this room I sit in.
Where abuse began when I was so small.

I wonder about my own understanding of my body image, and if it is inextricably linked to self loathing. An overly sexualized relationship. With myself. My obsession with Lingerie. With stillettos.
With the gym. With Vitamin D. With make up and hair products and all things pretty.

With breast size. And cellulite. And body hair. And god damn I am tired.

I am chipped nail polish and by my self with scruffy hair and no make up. Tonight. Going over why why why the morning promises hours of preening and scarlett lips.

Friends I have, lovers I have known, my mother, my sister - all of us with these warped and tenuious relationships with our hips, thighs, breasts.

Who are we beneath this and how on Gods Earth did we get to be so far removed from it?

And all this because of the wierd little man beside me in a rattling carriage on Glenhuntly Rd, blundering through the rain on a Friday afternoon.

Mao Zedong

found me in a crowded tram

and put a little red book in my hand

I was hypontised

and I liked it

My sister said, whilst tripping on acid, on looking at her legs as if for the first time
"Are these my legs? How embarrassing"

We laughed about that one many times. And how telling.

After reflecting on what got me to here, I say

"Is this my realtionship with my body?

How embarrassing"

Sunday lunch

2008-06-21T19:53:00.000-07:00

Family Sunday Lunch.

Roast and potatoes.

I will try not to dominate the kitchen when I cook with my Old Man.

Love to rain today. Peaceful. Sweet, Dropping on my cheek when I smoke under the willow.

PS

2008-06-19T20:28:00.001-07:00

My mind is not a war field

Exes perplexes

2008-06-18T20:42:00.000-07:00

Ex's...

For those that need clearance.

I have had a few.

The one I talk of with resentment is referred to as Tub. A drug addict. A homophobe. One who does not identify as butch. Violent and messy without the capability to love anyone let alone herself.

It lastest only for 18 months.

Just so there is no confusion.

Tub is the one I split from in may last year, and created this blog as the begininngs of self expression and exploration.

The other more significant I have known for over ten yrs and is very dear to my heart.

Clear?

Egg timer

2008-06-18T20:37:00.000-07:00

Time goes by without a blink of an eye sometimes.
I stop writing for the opposite reasons I started.

It has become apparent to me how much I need to leave this country.
It has always been a flickering lampshade, threatening to leave the room dark. Now I feel I am ready, simply because there is little left to hope for anymore.

And so much to hope for on other shores.

New York, San Fransisco, Vancouver, Ontario, even someplace in Europe would do for me.

Anyone have any visa stories that might excite and encourage me>?

I set my own egg timer.

I will be on a new frontier by July next yr. Ladies and Laddie's, we are on a countdown, a process of rebirth over one yr.

Let it begin.

Late night emails

2008-05-29T06:47:00.000-07:00

Up late. Late night emails. To open a picture file.

hiya
only just got this now. I am up smoking joints actually. ha. been blogging and starting to write a lot more, but havent yet published...

I have been smoking pot and putting on lingerie that I just bought for myself after getting through the last month at the gym... woo hoo
thats how a girl spends her thursday night. Sadly this pot makes me want to head for the fridge and eat toast and honey, which undoes all my good fucking work on the abs etc. he he

What you doing spud? (remember we decided that fruits are feminine and veg is masculine and you and Maxy fought over the spud title?)

arrrrrr

I miss you guys x

Then I came across emails from the ex that make me cringe that I even went that way. I forgot the desperation of wanting to get away.

And old lovers

and new friends

and people chasing me for money

why do I open email at night when there is nowhere to hide in the vast open and unforgiving silence of 2 minutes to 12?

goodnight. sleep tight. dont let the bed bugs

bite, a'ight?

Gender Bender babies

2008-05-29T00:50:00.000-07:00

I work everyday with children.
Everyday I get another snap shot of innocent musings, of real freedom of spirit, glimpses of unlearned and natural ways of being.

Sometimes it hits me like a truck. Other days just washes over me.

Amongst the poetry of youth - the rich tapestry of discovering life and how one fits into it, there are a few children that are of particular interest to me.

One girl I have known since she was in her first year of school. On that first day she refused with tears to even step foot in the girls toilet block. She cut her own hair and would wear only the range from Boys wear Target.
She cringes when you don't abbreviate her name to it's masculine alternate.

I looked at her today. She is nothing incredible. By that I mean, she doesn't "behave" in this way for any special reason. Not to be different or make a statement or adorn the costume of gender arrangement. She is only this way because she is.

Another family adopted four brothers from Ethiopia last year.
Mother is bowled over at Friday morning assembly by the youngest two that cling to and clamber all over her. The smallest child has just started walking around in the past few months.
I watched him bawl at the assembly until finally Mother succumbed to letting him reach the treasure he had been grissling over.. her make up bag.
He pulled the red lipstick from her case and smeared it all over his small cherub face.
Happy as Larry.

I saw him yesterday and knelt down to say hello.

"You have some jewelery on today sweetie!"

Mum: "Yes he is wearing Mummy's special necklace"

The child is beaming. And I can already see their morning getting ready.

There have been a few pass through who, at such a tender age, redefine the meaning of gender fluidity for me.

How wonderful, to witness such a natural and lovely expression of something to them that is not embedded in social construction.

priceless musings

2008-05-26T22:23:00.000-07:00

Liv looks up at me today and says "Do you have a Dad?"

"Yes" I answer

"Is it still alive?"

Blue blue eyes

Beautiful Simplicity

why

2008-05-24T15:43:00.000-07:00

I write to have something released
and choose those words deliberately
as words can not hold the right weight
and get lost between the heart and the tongue
When the senses are stumbling

I write to redeem myself
And say penance in the lines
that your eyes follow on the screen
the last sounds in the night were tap tap tap on a keyboard in the dark

I write to celebrate
and create room for thought
when hope dwindles or lights don't shine so bright
as they should

I write to reinforce and revoke
what ideas came from you and what ideas came from me?
to change a notion or tend to it's ego
with the flick of the forgotten digit on the Enter key

I type with two fingers
and sometimes throw in a few more
The process is just as delicate as self discovery
and sometimes just a reckless and filled with pain

I write in a costume
an outfit concealing the little nuances
and as if I am so very very big
but I know i am little

I write for a small audience
of challengers and thinkers
and such an escapist attitude
here in my little office
up in the sky
with the surrounding wood
and the drone of speaker box

to the birds that whistle on a winter's morning
to the cicadas that buzz on a summer's night
and all for what purpose?

can anybody find me..?

Celebrate Stretchmarks

2008-05-17T00:13:00.000-07:00

Just recently I read a piece about stretchmarks on Sinclairs blog and went on to read comments about the beauty of such a telling mark on a womans body. How they trace history and show strength.

I have always felt that way.

Long live the stretch

Taken to

2008-05-16T20:19:00.000-07:00

She has taken to coming home of an evening and putting on a little white nightie and black knee high socks with big pink satin bows pinned at the calves, wrapping herself in her hot pink fluffy dressing gown and rolling a number as big as Herodotus's fat finger.

She has taken quite fondly to the Opera playing in the big house she sits in, in the warmth, in the glow of winter evenings, in the French provincial kitchen where she feels so small.

She likes to sit upon the counter whilst her porridge bubbles and swing her legs back and forth.
One sock up one sock down.

She likes to be peaceful and braid her black hair and rub lotions on her hands.

And at night when the moon is leering in her window and there is not a sound she reads Classics in her over sized bed with a pink eye mask on her forehead, that says 'good in bed' - how fitting, did someone read her mind?

In the morning it is still raining and she sits on the floor of the kitchen drinking tea, still in long socks and messy hair and naked face.

She dreams of Daddy

She has taken to the thought of been taken

Submit to me again!

2008-05-14T22:30:00.000-07:00

Hey

It has been brought to my attention that my email address for submissions has been bouncing your mail back. Please use bijoumarc@hotmail.com for all further submissions.

And if you have already submit, please do so again to that address.

I will extend the deadline date to November as I want to make it a bigger project than I first planned.

xx Femme Kisses xx

Lina

Top Performance

2008-05-01T23:59:00.000-07:00

I was thinking the other day about Stone butches and femmes.

I have known a number of stone butch tops, but not all will identify in exactly that way.
I consider it part of femme mystique and natural lilt in the nature of the dance to delicately nurture the sometimes sensitive and many times non verbal nature of stone butch desire. The conversation is often had without words and becomes more intuitive waltz.
I greatly admire anyone who is strong in their sexuality, whatever it may be, and it is that strength that appeals to me. Let me just say that the kind of strength in sexuality that appeals to me the most is a strong butch top, powerful in her gender identity and humble and natural in her topping.

How bout Stone Femme? It means something different to all of those that adorn this identity, and I think the meaning can change over time and experience, like a motion picture flickering through a process of transformation and growth.
In my life I have actively taken part in short and long term intimacy with Stone (or more or less Stone) Butches so I guess at times I have performed the part of Stone femme.
I have also been with butches who want to be topped at times (never always, as I am a natural bottom and I think I attract tops, or bring out the top in most) and these experiences have done different things to my identity at the time of engagement. I have, in brief moments, experienced feeling that the nature of topping and bottoming, if not completely natural to you, can be very performative.

I was just thinking over this the other day, as I heard someone identify as Stone femme - and specify that that meant "no penetration" - I am guessing she will not penetrate. (Correct me if I am misreading this, or if there is another way to understand this, I am ever so confused sometimes by identities and what they mean to those who hold them in their hot little hands)

I just wonder, is it so necessary to stipulate what sexual acts one will and will not perform in accordance with ones identity? Are we not open to the idea of topping and bottoming as a dynamic consequence of chemistry between two people and the fact that that might be more fluid?
I understand for some this is not the case. I do not dispute that. I just throw questions out into the wind, and hope for another persons experience to be enlightened by.

I know that for me, I am a bottom. Quite naturally. Openly. Powerfully.
I have felt the most natural in sexual situations that have allowed my expression in this way.
And in the times I have been faced with the opportunity to top, I have thought about topping and bottoming as performative. This image of a Femme Top always comes to mind, my best friend, for one. Then the classic sexually dominant raven haired mistress comes to mind. and then the femme top heaven's open up and I imagine so many different shades and colours... There is something so very hot about that idea, to me, that I play with the idea of being like that.

It stays in my fantasies. Like a lot of things at this point.
Because the more I unfold the thoughts in my head, I question whether I feel sexually powerful as a Femme bottom.
Yes.
And whether I have the ability to be sexually dominant.
Yes.
But always a bottom. Topping from the bottom.

We all have the ability to create a performance element in our sexuality that is reflective, but not always exactly definitive of the natural way we swing.

Submit to me

2008-04-25T18:01:00.000-07:00

Hey All,

I am putting together a self published Fanzine based around the theme of Queer Gender Exploration.

If you think you have something to contribute, in the form of essays, poetry, cartoons, photography, interviews, diary entries, illustrations, letter, thoughts or any other creative medium you can come up with, please send it to me!

The theme can cover or touch upon anything from Gender theory, queer theory, (and of course queer/gender experience!) gender or trans related issues, social issues, activism, Queer SM dynamic, queer sexuality, fantasy, real life, history, amusement, butch femme, gender blurring culture, Daddy/girl, Daddy/boy, ANYTHING you think might relate that you have created and would like to collaborate to circulate! YOU GET MY DRIFT YAH???!!

The idea is to collect pieces from everywhere so dont let your location stop you from submitting.

Please send your entries to bijoumarc@hotmail.com or mynameislinalina@yahoo.com

I look forward to seeing your work.

Last date for submissions is July 30 2008...

Loving it, Lina xx

Michael Finnagin, Begin Again... Music in my ears

2008-04-17T00:54:00.000-07:00

Every time I go to write, something is shutting me down.

I think the easiest way is just to start. with whatever. Sometimes it feels like "If you dont have anything poignant to say, say nothing at all" but then we would mostly be mute, so maybe thats not the right way of thinking. One girl's "yawn" is another girl's "just what I was looking for".

So here we go. with not much to say. I will BEGIN again.

Full of new beginnings.

On the tram the other day, I had a strange experience. I actually havent mentioned it to anyone. Not that it was ground breaking. It just impressed upon me the way in which we connect. With the wisps of spirits and personalities that live within each body making their way through life.

Sitting in a sunny spot, and always transfixed by the soundtrack of the journey that blares in my ears on my ipod, I let myself mime the words, as if I am the star of the video.
Across the crowded tram my eyes met with a middle aged man in a suit and tie. He was also demonstrating his emersion in his own little music world.
Miming along to whatever song he chose to light up his commute, tapping his knees like drums, I wondered which hero he was. Which legend in his own lunch box.
We shared a moment. Kind of laughed it off. and back to our own separate but somehow connecting video clips.

Sometimes I am Beyonce strutting down the street, standing on street corners, bouncing my ass and turning my gaze on passing cars.. sometimes I am Witch Woman with sparks flying from my finger tips. Dancer in a 50 cent clip, Beth Ditto crankin it, Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy, I could spend my whole life waiting.
Taper Jean girl, or Kings of Leon girl with an hour glass body, who had problems with drinking milk and being school tardy, I'll lend you my toothbrush, I'll bar tend your party.

Sometimes its music to cry to. Or Mary J Blige without shame.
or a Rich Girl, who can rely on her old mans money.

And I wonder what music plays in your ears and how it changes your walk and pushes you through the colours of the day. Like a fine finger sculptor.

Who plays in your ears? And who are you when they sing to you?

High Femme in Harajuku

2008-01-17T08:29:00.000-08:00

Gracing the streets of Tokyo in 4 inch heels in the midst of winter where the distance from one body to the next is what seems like an ants leg. It`s January and the Gods promise or threaten snow. Promise or threaten. Depends which way you deal with the cold.

I just see snowflakes in pretty shapes and wonder what a dress of snowflakes might look and feel.
I imagine light and elegantly glamorous.

Tonight I am tapping at the keyboard in an apartment in Setagaya, Tokyo. Third floor up. In cashmere and socks. every now and then my pinky taps the CapsLock and my words turn to hiragana. beautiful little characters, fluid and picturesque, even in Times New Roman.
cigarettes are 300 yen. so I smoke three times as much.

We bathe and sit in the warmth of the apartment at night, smoking hashish and talking in different languages, then the same language, then different languages again.

now it is 8am I am drunk and I have just got home from breakfast and karaoke.　I long for sleep but long more for a familiar shoulder

where are you?

TOKYO IS DIFFERENT I WISH FOR THE SAME RIGHT NOW

Gender Outlaws: The Dance that we do

2008-01-07T16:34:00.000-08:00

Media representations of dominant cultural norms are constantly recognized and reiterated. It is when we begin to shift our focus onto a subset culture and the media that represents it that we recognize how intricately and subversively ‘meaning systems’ might be applied to diverse communities. My focus for this essay is those that identify anywhere along the broad line of butch to transgender within the butch/femme dynamic of lesbian culture. For the sake of creating a common label, I will sometimes refer to this particular subset as Gender Outlaws. This is a description that re-appropriates a negative term given to a marginalized cultural group, hence giving privilege to their title.

As there are little number of texts produced for people within this subset to relate to on an identity level, the “heroes” or “idols” of the butch/femme world are few and far between. Medhurst suggests that queer audiences “refashion heterosexual images to suit our own purposes, reworking them with enough adroit subversivness until they speak to our needs and desires.” (Medhurst 1998) Certainly it has been alluded to by many academics or phenomenologists that focus on the application of ‘meaning systems’ or ‘frameworks’ within a cultural subset in order to interpret the world around them, that butch/femme role-playing or identification emulates the exact heterosexual construction from which lesbian’s are seemingly free. The suggestion that one’s sexual identity might be dependent on or develop from application of such ‘cultural distinctions’ in this role-play is considered an indication of one’s successful socialization of the dominant ideology – in this case heterosexual norms. As if by appropriating ‘codes’ and ‘signifiers’ that are typically assigned to heterosexual males, gender outlaws are in essence creating a replica of a heterosexual model. However it should also be considered that lesbian roles within a butch/femme dynamic, particularly for those identifying as gender outlaws, not only challenge the constructed nature of heterosexual roles but are, infact, subversive of the sex/gender system as a whole.

Through examining 3 media excerpts from a Television Series The L Word, one might begin to trace the codes and conventions that depict gender outlaws. In this essay I will examine these ‘rules’ applied by this particular marginalized group and attempt to draw conclusion as to how relevant ‘meaning systems’ are produced and applied. I will also look at the “dual nature of meaning systems” (Alasuutari 1995) and the way in which Cultural studies “seeks to unravel juxtaposition between reality and conceptions of reality.” (Alasuutari 1995) In examining the ways in which Gender outlaws identify, make sense of and orientate themselves in this world, we can begin to hypothesize about whether infact people apply ‘meaning systems’ or whether frameworks that are already in place constitute social reality and people merely adhere to them.

As Alusaatari suggests, “meaning is not just a quality of certain specific beings; nor a stamp for labeling objects – reality is socially construed – composed of interpretations of meanings and rules of interpretation on the basis of which people orientate themselves in life.” (Alasuutari 1995) It is interesting to note not only the way in which gender outlaws subversively rearrange the meaning systems that constitute the roles available to them in order to own their identities, but that rather than submitting to the dominant construction of butch identity as an identity deficiency, they instead subvert gender roles by exposing them as positions that can be assumed by either sex. Sub cultural groups resist dominant forms of culture but still apply certain ‘meaning systems’ in order to make sense of the world.

The media texts I have chosen make an example of this.

The excerpts chosen illustrate the character Moira/Max, a character identifying as butch – transitioning to transgender. Max is a media representation of this cultural subset within a subset of an already marginalized group that doesn’t submit to the dominant ideology of the social construction of gender/sexuality. He is re-shaping his body or appearance to suit his interior gender fluidity. His identity defies conventional description. Note that I use masculine pronouns to describe his gender than biological sex.

Text 1: The Mirror Max shows Ilene Chaiken, Producer of The L Word and Daniela Sea, the actor playing Max tackling the issue of how to portray a transgender character with honesty and dignity. They discuss how this form of media is giving voice to this diverse culture. Ilene Chaiken states “We want to be known. We want to be represented. We want to have voice.” The scene in discussion is a scene where Max stands naked in front of the mirror. This text deals with the aesthetic ‘codes’ of masculinity and how in telling the story of one member of a marginalized culture group, in highlighting these ‘codes’ of gender/sexuality that gender outlaws rearrange and reappropriate, it may “resonate with others who have had comparable experience”. (Chaiken)

In Max’s physicalisation, taking on these “masculine” codes that have been proclaimed through mainstream media messages as innate and socially appropriate for biological males only, the producer of the text is visibly disrupting the dominant ideology of gender roles. This in turn implicates, that gender outlaws have a set of ‘meaning systems’ beyond those ‘meaning systems’ applied by people living their lives within the binary nature of traditional gender roles. Although it may appear they are merely adopting a set of codes already in place that comprise a social reality of “maleness”, they are infact transcending and radicalizing traditional gender roles.

For those who identify as butch or trans, or anywhere in between that spectrum, masculine signifiers take on a new meaning. Masculinity becomes no more than a social role. Therefore when a woman denies the prohibitive role of “femininity”, this rejection is symbolized by taking on masculine appearances, or “butching up”, appropriating the codes and symbols of masculinity. Then butch identity becomes a challenge to heterosexual norms rather than a carbon copy of them.

It is symbolism associated with specific “objects and activities” (Alasuutari) that define culture within society and too often media is generated that exhibits the ‘rules’ and ‘codifications’ applied to a dominant cultural group in order to construct their ways of life, behaviours and identities. With this in mind, I would like to focus on Text 2: Max and Jenny. This text is an actual excerpt from the television series. It depicts Max and Jenny in a hotel room. In this scene, the producer is drawing upon ‘code’s and ‘meaning structures’ that are applied by the butch/femme community in order to identify. Jenny plays a femme who wants to engage in penetrative sex with Max. “Tell me you want me to fuck you… you never let me fuck you.” Max refuses her advances. This point's to an interesting shift in the paradigm of gender/sexual ‘meaning structures’ or ‘rules’.

The symbolism associated with certain “objects and activities” (Alasuutari 1995) that define a culture in this instance are sexual interaction. In traditional heterosexual gender roles it is understood through mediated messages that the male penetrates the female. However in a butch/femme relationship between two women, complications to this dichotomy may arise when sexuality is concerned. In Text 2, the issue of butch desire is touched upon. Not wanting to be touched sexually is usually a trait of someone who identifies as stone butch or someone going through gender transition. There are many cultural distinctions tied up in this paradigm.

That it is an issue at all reflects upon the fact that this diverse culture draws upon its own ‘codes’ and ‘conventions’ in order to make sense of the world.

Traditionally, penetration in sex is received by the “woman”. For a gender outlaw, penetration can symbolize weakness, translating into a failure to safeguard oneself. Considering the importance of protecting oneself for a butch or transgender woman nowadays, not to mention in the 1940’s and 50’s when historically, these roles became apparent, (Nestle 1992) it is evident that this is a large part of gender outlaw identity that does not comply with the same set of ‘codes’ as traditional masculinity.

In Text: 2, Max says no to penetration. However, to put this application of cultural codes in context, I should mention that in later episodes Max surrenders to this desire to be penetrated. This immediately shifts the paradigm again of the “rules” of conduct and how they are applied to certain identities. This is worth noting, not only concerning ‘roles’ and ‘identity’ and what the ‘rules’ are in terms of who is supposed to do what, but because of what penetration symbolizes in this sub culture.

There is a recurring question suffered by butch/femme couples. “Which one is the man?” which means “Who fucks whom?” There again is the allusion to the butch/femme dynamic replicating the binary construction of traditional gender roles. However, a lot of the disinclination when it comes to unmasking the desire for penetration or the lack of desiring it at all is about gender ‘codes’. “That’s what girls do; I am not a girl, so no way.” (Bergman 2006) This demonstrates the significance of the fact that people within cultural groups apply ‘meaning systems’ and ‘cultural distinctions’ to make sense of the world and orientate themselves within it rather than adhere to pre-defined ‘models’ or ‘codes’ of behaviour. ‘Meaning structures’ that beget sexual identities change the ways in which we relate or interact with someone sexually. So, if gender outlaws are constructed along the lines of the “male” role and hence expected to take a dominant role during sex, then such interpretation relies on the suggestion that “maleness” innately holds these behaviours.

Text 3: The Legend of Max begins with a series of images of Max and all his complexities. The song playing throughout is “I fought the law and the law won…” Similar to that of the label “gender outlaw”, the signs produced in this lyric signify rebellion. To fight the law, or to go against the already set ‘rule’s of conduct, ‘codes’ of identification. What we witness in this text is Max appropriating what seems to be masculine ‘codes’. The physicality’s that are usually assigned to males, such as his walk, hair style and clothing, Max uses to disrupt and subvert the notion of gender categories.

Max uses signifiers through language such as “take a piss” and “If I didn’t work out I’d want to break someone’s face.” These ways of speaking are cultural ‘codes’ of masculinity. Adopted in this situation by a gender outlaw, hence shifting the model of “maleness” to mean something different.

We briefly witness Max’s interaction with his femme counterpart, Jenny. He carries her bags for her and pours her wine. The butch/femme dynamic also plays a significant role in this shift in paradigm. Coupled with a femme counter part, butch is seen to replicate the role of man in heterosexual exchange. With all the signifiers that are assigned to this role. However this exchange between butch and femme, this “dance that we do” is an analogy that refers to a dynamic of a cultural subset expressing sexuality in a unique way. It is not a replica of the socially constructed ‘codes’ and ‘conventions’ of heterosexuality. Butch femme roles are counter part subjects that do not contest themselves on issues of sexual difference or metaphysical ideals, but forever “seduce the sign system through flirtation and inconstancy into the light fondle of artifice, replacing the Lacanian slash with the lesbian bar.” (Case 1988)

The artifice of butch/femme role playing, in reappropriating these signifiers traditionally assigned to man and woman, is it’s contention on roles purely as roles, as a dance which reveals the nature of roles entrenched in a construction of reality.

According to Rubin in “Of Catamites and Kings: Reflections of Butch, Gender, and Boundaries”, the role of the gender outlaw is “most usefully understood as a category of lesbian gender that is constituted through the deployment and manipulation of masculine gender codes and symbols.” (Rubin 1992) Therefore this adopted masculinity is made up merely of mediated messages through which we make sense of the world. In the case of the texts studied for the purposes of this essay, we can take an ethnomethodoligical approach – that is avoiding interpretation of this cultural group’s world of ‘meaning systems’ through which they pin their sexual identities, but rather attempt to decode the parallel between actual reality and the social construction of reality through media messages.

As highlighted in texts 1, 2 & 3, gender outlaws apply ‘cultural codes’ and ‘distinctions’ in order to identify. They reflect a subset culture that rejects limiting themselves in a hetero-restrictive gender binary system. Gender outlaw identity, from social necessity to self definition, defies the conceptual mainstream understanding of masculinity.

“The does not present itself to us ‘as is’ but always through the relationship we have to this world.” (Alasuutari 1995)

References

1. Alasuutari, P. “What is Cultural Studies?” in Researching Culture: Qualitative Method and Cultural Studies, Sage Publications, 1995.

2. Bergman, SB, Butch is a Noun, Suspect Thoughts Press, 2006

3. Case, S.E. “Towards the Butch-Femme Aesthetic.” Discourse 11 (Winter 1988-1989) Reprinted in The Lesbian and Gay Studies Reader, eds, Abelove et al, New York, Routlegde, 1993.

4. Davis. M, and Kennedy, E.L “There was No One to Mess With” : The Construction of the Butch Role in the Lesbian Community of the 1940s and 1950s” in The Persistent Desire : A Butch-Femme Reader, Boston Alyson Publications, Inc, 1992

5. Medhurst A. “Tracing Desires: Sexuality and Media Texts” in A. Briggs and P. Cobley (eds), The Media: An Introduction, Addison Wesley Longman, New York, 1998

6. Nestle, J. “Butch-Femme Relationships: Sexual Courage in the 1950’s” Heresies, in A Restricted Country, 1981.

7. Rubin, G. “Of Catamites and Kings: Reflections of Butch, Gender, and Boundaries.” in The Persistent Desire: A Butch Femme Reader, Boston Alyson Publications, Inc, 1992

On my mind

2008-01-07T16:20:00.000-08:00

The inablilty for butch/boi's and little girl femmes to grow up
Femme visibility at work, in general public and socially in relation to crusading and discrimination
Internalized homophobia in lesbian women I know
Regretfully, Butch - as a dirty word among those who most closely connect with the identity
Trans as a trend
The aging femme
The act of intellectualizing gender identity becoming a barrier to identification
Exploration of femme topping in literature
Topping and bottoming as performative constructs
My own personal queer pride and the only woman I have ever known who matches it

It's time again

2007-12-17T17:47:00.000-08:00

tonight I will write. I have been wallowing in the pit of a very lame excuse called "block", if it is even worthy of that name.

I am sure there is more to post. In me. Somewhere.

Some thoughts for inspiration:

The Journey of Femme discovery
True nature of identity
Polarity when it comes to gender...does it exsist?

Butch cock
Taboo Role Play
Elitism in misunderstood minorities
Sex and gender
Trans-atlantic

Things that have happened to me
Things that havent happened to me

And never the twain shall meet

I'll be back friends

stood up by solitude

2007-11-21T23:34:00.000-08:00

Sitting making rollies in the dark, the screen gives my expression illumination, but does not attempt to alter my perplexed grimace.

When one is absolutely alone one has the opportunity without interruption to delve deep within ones fantasies.

Or no, strike that..

What i mean is.. Maybe one is pushed to unravel by the state of solitaire.

Whichever way it is,

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Delores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta.

there is something left unsaid.

I Open Packets in Supermarkets Anonymous

2007-11-08T17:54:00.000-08:00

Hello, My name is Lina and I am a fruit and nut kleptomaniac.
I have joined this group for support from my fellow supermarket stealers and also hope to reach a stage where I am not tempted by the perspex boxes filled with nutty delights.

I would say I am more of a almond and macadamia nut pincher. I also like to try grapes. I usually do it quite openly giving any supermarket staff close by a glare, challenging them to dispute my obvious grape stealing. I have all my answers thought up if, by chance, I am approached and told to stop eating. The first response I would give is simply to explain that I am trying them to check the quality of their product before I purchase - which instantly puts it back on them and they start to question their right to stop me... If that fails there is the old trusty "No speaka da English!" and keep on getting into those grapes and nuts...

Thanks for letting me share.

New faces, New Streets

2007-11-08T15:44:00.000-08:00

Its coming on Summer. The streets are filing up with smackies in skirts and twisted faces.
Beach towns are sleepy but not here. No sir-ee.
What would I give to hear the beat of a new drum. My left toe. The largest one. I would offer it up. But I guess you want more than that.

I am nobody's girlfriend. What a free feeling. Nobody's doll.
So what is holding me here?
No real job nor love, not even for habit.

This morning when I woke up at 7.40 I came into the kitchen with huge hair like a five year old, pressed eyelashes and a big t shirt. Living at home with my mother again so the kitchen is always peaceful and clean and there is always classical music playing.
I made a milky tea in my favourite fine glass tea cup.
My ma said

You look like a doll.

Nobody's doll.

It is Friday. I never work Fridays.
I walked to Carlisle Street with my ipod in, listening to jill scott and badu, bought 2 coffees from Bruce's cafe. Mine was a little strong. Perhaps burnt. Took them to Charlie's place where we sat in the sun on her balcony. Talked about getting out of here.

"Maybe the key to writers block is to write mundane.
Then get the flow back."

"Let's go to New York. Why cant we? People do it all the time."

"You can illustrate, I can write and sing and work... who cares what... new faces, new streets.."

Gold teeth and a curse to this town

Today I will think about it, listen to Opera, and then maybe the Beatles.
Think about a queer fanzine I want to publish.
Put my bikini on and lie in the patch of sun in my garden.
Read. Surrender to effortlessness.
paint my nails red.
toenails too.
make tacos.
margaritas.

On the weekend just gone I got really messy and smacked my friend in the mouth.
I cant remember doing it.
I also remember earlier she ripped my dress off me. Until the buttons fell on the floor and I was open wearing lingerie and a broken dress. Maybe I was angry.
It's highly possible.
The experiences I have had with invasion of space... I can be lethal.

Been thinking about it all week...

I think I have more anger than I care to acknowledge.

Funny that.

Hit it

2007-11-08T15:39:00.000-08:00

I wanna move to New York

I gotta get out of this town

I'm the mask of a clown

Dont get me wrong

I'm not unhappy
Just stationary

"Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.
Only, i don't know how they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet that i was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.

And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.

New slang when you notice the stripes, the dirt in your fries.
Hope it's right when you die, old and bony.
Dawn breaks like a bull through the hall,
Never should have called
But my head's to the wall and i'm lonely.

And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.

God speed all the bakers at dawn may they all cut their thumbs,
And bleed into their buns 'till they melt away.

I'm looking in on the good life i might be doomed never to find.
Without a trust or flaming fields am i too dumb to refine?
And if you'd 'a took to me like
Well i'd a danced like the queen of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well."

How is it done?

2007-09-30T20:47:00.000-07:00

The misconception about queer folk. The trouble with gender. Are the lines blurred? Where does one begin to explain one's self?

Just the other week I had a woman ask me

"Are there as many woman lesbians as there are man lesbians?"

To this I just swilled my champagne until my glass was dry, turned on my heel and walked away.
How do we begin to comment on that one?

I quickly called one of my "man lesbian" friends to keep me grounded.

An email of confession

2007-09-28T00:01:00.001-07:00

In response to a friend's email :

S: Who brought you out as a femme? And did you rebel against it? And how did you come to accept your identity?

Lina: I guess I just brought myself out as a femme.
Obviously i realized I had a big connection and affinity with butch femme culture and identity, I have only ever really been attracted to butch girls, physically and their sensibility. And I began with trying to be butch, or at least look that way, as that was where my interest was... I sucked at it. ha! it was funny because sometimes I would walk past a window, catch my reflection and for a second think "oooh who is that, she is hot..." megalomania I know.
I can still appreciate myself now, but on a different level... Through the eyes of a boi.
I didn't really know much about femme identity... thats that visibility problem we have I guess.
I hated it when the girls I dated liked looking at straight girls, and once I had established my look, which was pseudo-soft butch, like young and funky hip style.. a huge mohawk, jeans and shirts... I was afraid to change. I thought it would be too recognizable as a shift. I was way too concerned with what folks thought. That is why I used that character Portia. as a vehicle. an over dramatized version of how I wanted to present everyday.My first girlfriend when we were both 18 was insanely into Salma Hyack (infact a lot of my lover's have been since, so I guess there is a look and attitude that I identify with) and I was so jealous. I wanted to have that feminine power and aesthetic.
It was a slowish process...
And when my ex (who was my true counterpart on an identity and emotional and political intelligence level) and I were together we didn't really talk much about identity. She really let me discover it for myself.
When we first started going out I definitely had the sensibility, but I was certainly not high femme to look at. I was more girly than before, girly jeans, cute little tops, not much make up, sometimes heels...
I think in the time we were apart we began to explore it more, without each other. we always had that dynamic, and by the time we broke up I was certainly high femme, just didn't claim that as an identity. Well, not as strongly as I do now perhaps.

My best friend the femme top was a pivotal person for my discovery.
She was one of the only real visible and out femmes in my city ten years ago, but I mean as far as the scene goes, socially and politically.
She started Pride here, she was a pioneer.
She gave a speech in front of thousands and was very active in the community as a femme. also she is beautiful and smart and a lot of fun so she was kind of an icon for me.
And we have become absolutely best friends. We speak or see each other everyday. Just the other night we watch If these Walls could Talk 2 and cried together. ah femme bliss. ha ha
There are many similarities between us. She is older than me and I have learnt a lot from her.

And to be honest, I feel absolute freedom in my identity...
I never rebelled against it, per say, but I did find it hard because I thought everyone would laugh if I started wearing makeup and heels! But no one did. They were probably laughing more at me in a suit and tie!

Even when i look at my yr twelve formal photos, I look like a baby femme dressed as a boy!

Can you tell me your "coming to understanding" story?

"Dear Anonymous"

2007-09-27T22:46:00.000-07:00

I was going to write something in response to my friend "Anonymous" who has been stirring up arguments in my comments sections. I thought some of the comments were fair and interesting enough to retort. And I assume at some stage I will do that.
But today I am feeling lazy and can't muster up much that articulately construct an argument.The questions that came up were mostly to do with identity. Duh.
I feel that gender expression and identity are very personal things. We all have our own take on things.
So I welcome more comment from those that disagree, or agree for that matter.
I never claimed to be the Gospel on these matters, I just know my experience as a Femme.
My experience is credible, as is anyone else's who identifies as butch or femme.

The questions that came up were about perceptions and reality.
About the existence of submitting butches. I do believe they exist. I have met a few. To be butch is not to do with Topping or Bottoming or switching. It is an identity that sits apart from sexuality.
Questions also arose about heterosexual privilege.
I have a strong understanding of what that is.
I do, however, believe the phrase is a contradiction in terms.
And hat is a personal thing.
If it is a privilege to be assumed straight - and all the hoy polloy that goes along with this assumption, I could certainly do without that privilege.
The times I have been asked to explain why I am attracted to butch women rather than men is not in my book a privilege.
I have lived my out life so far by the side of strong and courageous butches who openly express their masculinity as a woman. I am in no way unaware that women who can pass as straight may be assumed straight and therefore not discriminated against as harshly.
However, I feel the nature of femme is as subversive.
And by no means do I consider "looking" straight - therefore people relating to me as straight - a privilege.

But I don't wish to say much more on the matter today.
I would rather....

Have some fun!

I found this "meet and greet" on Miss Avarice's blog and thought it might be fun to copy it in, answer the questions and invite others to do the same in my comments if they so desire...

Wrath
Whom did you last get angry with?

A man at a concert who grabbed my friends hand from the back and shook her head. I consequently did the same to him in return.

What is your weapon of choice? Intelligence and knowledge

Would you hit a member of the opposite sex? I would. With my heel. In the balls.

How about the same sex? Never. Unless I was asked to.

Who was the last person who got really angry at you? The list is long. I would say it would have been a bouncer

What is your pet peeve? People who are stupid and opinionated. What a horrible combination.

Do you keep grudges, or can you let them go easily? Hmmmmm. It depends. I think I can let it go if I trust things change.

Sloth
What is one thing you're suppose to do daily that you haven't? Touch base

What is the latest you've ever woken up? I have had times where I have slept for days.

Name a person you've been meaning to contact, but haven't? My old piano teacher

What is the last lame excuse that you made? It was probably an illness feigned to get out of work

Have you ever watched an infomercial all the way through? only when stoned

How many times did you hit the snooze button on your alarm clock this morning? I was lucky not to wake to an alarm this morning. But I usually go for three to six snoozes. Lazy girl.

Gluttony
What is your overpriced yuppie beverage of choice? espresso martini

Are you a meat eater? I love meat. I requested it at the hari khrisna restaurant at the age of five. When I was told they had no meat, I only requested it with more force.

What is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting? This could be embarrassing... too much to say...

Are you comfortable with your drinking and eating habits? In a word...no.

Do you enjoy candy and sweets? on occasion's. I prefer salty fried things.

Which do you prefer: sweets, salty foods or spicy foods? see above.

Have you ever looked at a small house pet or child and thought, "lunch"? That's ridiculous

Greed
How many credit cards do you own? one. maxed.

If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it? go shoe shopping in milan, set up a bar in mexico, fly my friends up on a regular basis and donate a sizable amount to a charity.

Would you rather be rich or famous? Both. Please.

Would you accept a boring job if it meant that you would make megabucks? Yes until i got totally bored and realized how unfulfilled my life had become. By that time I would have saved a decent amount to support myself and a family.

Pride
What's one thing that you have done that you're most proud of? Inspire people to new levels of their self discovery, create a comfortable space for people to be who they are. There are examples but I may be breaching confidence.

What's one thing you have done that your parents are most proud of? They are proud of my strength and tenacity. They are proud of my ambition and self-assuredness and my caring nature.

What thing would you like to accomplish late in your life? I would like to establish equality and self-recognition for subsets within society. And sing for the world.

Do you get annoyed by coming in second place? Perhaps

Have you ever entered a contest of skill, knowing you were of much higher skill than all the other competitors? Ha. Once I entered a colouring in competition for children... I was 14. Is that bad?

Have you ever cheated to get a better score? I think I have. Honesty. Oi.

What did you do today that you're proud of? Got some work done

Lust
How many people have you seen naked (not counting movies, family, strippers, locker rooms)?

Is this meant to mean in a sexual context? Well the answer to the question, if you read it literally is... plenty.

How many people have seen you naked (not counting physicians, doctors, family, locker rooms, or when you were a young child)? Oh god....

Have you ever caught yourself staring at the chest/crotch of a person of your chosen sex during a normal conversation? Oh yeah. Woops. Or hands... (you know me and butch hands. oh yes please!) - This was Miss Avarice's answer and I cant change it! I am the same!

What is your favorite body part of a person of your gender choice? Hands and arms and shoulders, oh my.

Have you ever had sexual encounters (including kissing/making out) with multiple persons? yes

Have you ever been propositioned by a prostitute? No. but for the record, my answer would be no.

Envy
What item of your friends would you most want to have for your own? I covet shoes

Who would you want to go on "Trading Spaces" with? I am not sure what that is... Maybe American...

If you could be anyone who existed in the world, who would you be? Me! or Sophia Loren

Have you ever been cheated on? Yes. By a straight woman who was my girlfriend at the time. Years ago. And perhaps since, but i am not aware of it. Generally I go out with people who are very monogamous.

Have you ever wished you had a physical feature different from your own? Bigger breasts. Better hair. Longer legs. Of course. Don't we all? But overall I am happy with what I got.

What inborn trait do you see in others that you wish you had for yourself? Inborn..?

I am not sure about this one. I was going to say strong work ethic but I don't think that is innate. I think you can change your life in just one moment, so that goes with traits too.

What deadly sin...
Do you do the most often? Toss up between Gluttony and wrath. Sorry boi's.

Do you do the least often? Envy

Is your favorite to act on? Lust of course.

And that's a wrap. So please copy and past into comments with your answers if the mood takes you.

Femme de la creme

2007-09-12T00:38:00.000-07:00

How does one discover what one is? In this world of high queer, double standard, fluid gender bending, faux identifying mixed up mashed up sexuality, how does one highlight the path of how they came to be?

My first butch lover gave me a mirror to my femme sensibility.
What it felt like to hold this gender in my heart and live it, regardless of one's length of hair or height of one's heels.
She told me I could go either way. My look was not recognizable as absolutely femme, but my sensibility, she said, was spot on the money.
As the element of performance in gender play becomes more and more escalated, the sensibility becomes easier to define, or maybe just easier to see.
Blind eyes.
Who has blind eyes?
Some of our broader queer community do.
How do we give them braille to read?
An easily translatable script with fine bumps to follow with their fingers, bumps that are foreign but hold their touch and to coerce them to read on?

What is high femme about a woman like me?
I know the dance, very very well.
It is about the nuances and discretions, the eyes and the pout, the tricks used only when appropriate.
It is about sheltering and sharing. And being sheltered and having someone share with you, although sometimes having to draw it out of a counter part, with a fine toothed finger comb.
It is about ritual that comes naturally, and even though it is performed, it is never rehearsed.

My first butch lover didn't speak often of identity. Not comparatively anyway. So I was given room to explore my own.
And that I did.
She did tell me about other femme women she had dated. And I was jealous, which says something to me now.

My first pair of heels which I wore out to a club.
They were impractical and not a word was said about this from my femme best friend. She knew the delicate undergoing of change taken by a cocoon becoming a butterfly.
At first it can be clunky, and uncertain.

I took on a persona to come into my femme-ness.
Her name was Portia and she was a slut.
Long blond wig, suspenders, corsets and heels, all borrowed of course. She had a television show called Portia's Corner, and she was outrageously sassy.
In a way she was a vehicle. A heightened version of myself now. A way for me to explore options I didnt think possible for me to play out in everyday life.
Until it just started to fit.

When Portia went out, the barmaid would ask her in jest if she had just been to church.
Portia replied "I have been on my knees for 24 hours darling"
And then shuffle off with her vodka cranberry to re-apply lipstick.

I would meet my friends in bars, stand next to them in a black wig and a faux fur coat, extending a hand with a ciggarette holder and blow smoke into their faces until they noticed it was me.

Portia came out more and more, and the girl in the jeans with a clean face, the girl who was mildly girly and completely bottomy transformed. Definitely physically, definitely charismatically.

The brain was the same. The attitude was the same.

Just High Femme was born.

Wild child, some thought. I was 19 years old and didn't give a fuck.
Or perhaps i did.
Now I am unashamedly femme. I indulge in it.
How many true femmes are there out there?
I suspect more than true butches. But how many are willing to share their experience of how it is they got there?

The Dolly Lama

2007-08-27T01:23:00.001-07:00

Fantasy is getting thicker and thicker as my mind skips and jumps along the peripheries of boundless possibility, with scant regard for what is considered "taboo" anymore. Or perhaps, with an abundant regard for ALL that is considered taboo... Yes, thats more like it.

I want to talk about fucking. I want to think about fucking. Immerse myself in the pleasures of the flesh. I am mildly obsessed with fucking.
Topping, bottoming, rampant and lustful pounding, power play, role play, fantasy, foolery, fisting, binding, slapping, sucking, devouring, talking filth, letting go and coming hard all over your boi's hard cock.

I think what is clear here is that simply, I WANT TO FUCK.

Something that punctuates my desire for sex is gender fucking. It's is playing on my mind. A lot of my fantasies are based around the sexiness and subversion of gender ambiguity, and then gender certainty, depending on which way you look at it.
Some of the people I have spoken to lately on this topic have a sure stance of how they identify, what their boundaries are, and won't be swayed by the natural fluidity of progression.
Some just prefer to flow in that river and let it all wash over.
And everyone has an interesting point of view.

I want to write about Femme identity. What it means to me.
How I feel I need to express my femme-ness and how much it is an extension of my personal identity, and how much this extension is a representation of my gender.
And how important is gender? Third gender, fourth gender..?
To those that don't hold it as important, or pivotal, what luxuries, what pills or dollar bills have they been fortunate enough to possess in order to feel this casual indifference? In terms of what i am attracted to and what turns me on, I know that gender and the recreation of it is a focal point in my day to day life.

Well i could tell some stories, or explain why i feel this innate femme in me.
I could contemplate and navel gaze, write poetry or just film a day of shopping, an evening of cocktails and a night of debauchery - document and discover.

But I am buying some time. Because I need to separate the fucking from the theory.
If my sick little mind is capable.

I will find a way to express it. I will try and share the paradigm that dare not speak its name. In the name of my sisters. And articulate the subversion of a social role or identity that is misconceived by many as it wears the mask of something quite different.

Or does it...?

femme for the pleasure of women

2007-08-15T03:18:00.000-07:00

I would just like to add....

I commented on butch femme dynamic as a counter part duality. And I feel there is a lot more to say on the subversive nature of "Femme" as a counter part identity that has not been fully explored in contemporary literature.

Most eloquently stated by Sinclair of Sugarbutch Chronicles :

The femme identity particularly, but both the butch and femme genders, also draw attention to the performatibility of gender, how the symbols and codes are adopted, and, specifically, since femme is a version of femininity and is used not for the attraction of men but for the attraction of other women, which challenges the assumption that femininity is for men.

I thank you for making this apparent..

More to say when time allows.

Butch/femme roles : a suberversion of tradition, thank you very much

2007-08-14T23:29:00.000-07:00

It's a dark day in my community, and by that I mean the larger subset, or that which skirts on the peripheries of Queerdom; a community I always hoped and dreamed would serve me as I have served it in turn, - when the politics of Butch-femme roles begins to knot up and fray, aggravated by the under-educated and right wing purists amongst us.

The article published in the MCV made me angry. I want to reflect upon why. And what we, the more astute, know as reasons for it's denigrative ignorance.

It has been alluded to throughout history that butch/femme identification emulates the exact heterosexual construction from which lesbians are apparently free. The suggestion that one's sexual identity might be dependent on or develop from application of such 'cultural distinctions' in this role play is considered an indication of one's successful socialization of the dominant ideology - in this case - heteronormative paradigms. As if by appropriating signifier or traits that are typically assigned to heterosexual gender roles, butch/femme dynamic is essentially creating a replica of a heterosexual model.
I see how this might stand up in court. It is a seemingly foolproof understanding of why it could be miscontrued that butch femme couples are in fact an emulation of straight people.

So let's get a little more cerebral about the whole thing.
Leave the "obvious" and ever so 1970's surface views to the "less astute section" of the gay community (Jason? Might that be you?) and dig a little deeper.

It is my understanding that lesbian roles within a butch/femme dynamic not only challenge the constructed nature of heterosexual roles but are, in fact, subversive of the sex gender system as a whole.

From the mouths of self described butch femme lesbians, there is another way of understanding this powerful identity role play. That is far from replicating heterosexual norms, butch femme challenges heterosexuality by exposing it's roles as nothing more than paradigms which are far from authentic.

Academics have argued this contention by employing a historical approach which examines not "male" representations of lesbian sexuality but what lesbians themselves have said about role playing in their own lives. This approach draws upon the writings and oral histories of lesbians, focusing primarily on three main areas of contemporary lesbian history: the emergence of the "New Woman" at the turn of the century, the butch-femme working class communities of the 40's and 50's and the lesbian feminist movement of the 70's and 80's.

The rise of the New Woman - where woman rejected the common apparel of femininity and became financially independent, were accused of being mannish. Smith Rosenberg notes that, women who desired independence from men and freedom from patriarchal oppression did not want to become men but would instead adopt the appearance of masculinity to signify their rejection of the male defined traditional role of female. In doing so they exposed questions between the relationship of biological sex and gender roles, exposing gender as a construct rather than a natural label.

Butch femme gender roles become subversive once gender roles applied in the heterosexual world have been exposed to be "outfits" of a sort, that can be appropriated by either sex.
What is disappointing is that there is a failure to see the power of butch femme roles as a challenge to stereotypes rather than a fulfillment of them.

The model of butch-femme in the 40's and 50's is the example of a historical foundation that people like Jason may not understand. Or perhaps they feel that role playing in the 50's had it's place as a working class phenomenon, but now post the women's movement, subversive gender role playing is archaic, and we should release ourselves from the shackles of heterosexual normative.
I could weep for those who set out to rally against the subversive nature of butch femme dynamics, as they cannot consider the power of such role playing serving the deconstruction of the patriarchal ideology.

Joan Nestle tackles the issue from experience against the feminist critique that butch femme role playing is an emulation of heterosexuality : "none of the butch women I was with, and this includes passing women, ever presented themselves as men; they did announce themselves as tabooed women who were willing to identify their passion for other women by wearing clothes that symbolized the taking of responsibility". Nestle insists that these women, the butch femmes from the 40's and 50's were in fact beacons of feminism, as they revealed the very autonomy of social and sexual identities that feminism claimed to idealize.

It is my strong belief that gender traits are socially constructed and that we as people apply signifier s or meaning systems in order to make sense of and orientate themselves in this world.
Alusaatari suggests, "meaning is not just a quality of certain specific beings; nor a stamp for labeling objects - reality is socially construed - composed of interpretations of meanings and rules on the basis of which people orientate themselves in life" It is interesting to note not only the way in which butch femme lesbians subversively rearrange the meaning systems that constitute the roles available to them in order to own their own identities, but rather than submitting to the dominant construction of butch identity as an identity deficiency, they instead subvert gender roles by exposing them as positions that can be assumed by either sex.

There is a recurring question suffered by butch/femme couples. "Which one is the man?" which means "Who fucks whom?" There again is the allusion of butch femme dynamic replicating the binary construction of traditional gender roles. However, a lot of disinclination when it comes to unmasking the desire for penetration or the lack of desiring it at all is about gender codes.
"that's what girls do. I am not a girl, so no way" (Bergman 2006)
This demonstrates the significance of the fact that people within cultural groups apply meaning systems and cultural distinctions to make sense of the world around them rather than adhere to pre-defined models or codes of behavior. Meaning structures that beget sexual identities change the ways in which we relate to someone sexually. So, if the Butch within the butch femme couple is constructed along the lines of "male" and hence expected to take the dominant role during sex, then such interpretation relies on the suggestion that "maleness" innately holds these behaviors.

The butch femme dynamic plays a significant role in a shift of paradigm. Coupled with a femme counter part, butch is seen to replicate the role of a man in a heterosexual exchange. With all the signifier s that are assigned to this role. However, the exchange between butch and femme, this dance that we do, is an analogy that refers to a dynamic of a cultural subset expressing sexuality and gender in a unique way.
It is not a replica of the socially constructed conventions of heterosexuality. Butch femme roles are counter part subjects that do not contest themselves on issues of sexual difference or metaphysical ideals, but forever "seduce the sign system through flirtation and inconstancy into the light fondle of artifice, replacing the Lacanian slash with the lesbian bar."

The artifice of butch femme role playing , in re appropriating these signifier s traditionally assigned to man and woman, is it's contention on roles purely as roles, as a dance which reveals the nature of roles entrenched in a construction of reality.

Thee is still so much to say about gender theory, and not enough time in my day to express, how remorseful I am at the blatant ignorance held by so many. Particularly that such views are allowed to be freely expressed in our Gay paper.

Shame.

It's a dark day.

A gay shame

2007-08-13T03:31:00.000-07:00

On the issue of getting worked up...

This article was published in the MCV Gay and Lesbian paper recently and had caused much outrage...

How might I begin to catalouge my disgust.

To those of you who feel similarly revolted by the absolute ignorance and discrimination that B/F community is being subjected to not just by the puerile mind of the writer but the paper who published his inane thoughts...I welcome your comments...

My response will follow.
There is a fire within, and best be expressed slowly and carefully in the name of political eloquence.

Of all the things that amuse and bemuse me about the gay community, the one that really cracks me up are butch-femme relationships. There's nothing quite as droll as a same-sex couple doing the me-Tarzan-you-Jane routine. Like the lesbian couple I saw in a Brunswick Street café a couple of weeks ago. They were so caught up in the straight stereotypes that the femme was delicately sipping a glass of white wine while the butch insisted on swigging a stubbie over dinner. Strangely enough, the straight males at various other tables all seemed to think wine complemented their meals better than beer, but I guess they didn't feel they had anything to prove.

Personally, I could never put up with a partner who wanted me to play Romeo to his Juliet, or vice versa. To me, the very source of attraction in a same-sex relationship is that the partners are the same. In fact, the whole butch-femme thing has always looked kind of perverse and silly to me, even amongst straight couples.

In its more extreme forms it becomes positively offensive, since it tends to rely on exaggerating some of the least constructive aspects of human behaviour in order to separate the boys from the girls. And I have to say that, in my experience, among both heterosexuals and non-heterosexuals, it often seems to be the...err... less astute sections of the population who most eagerly conform to himbo and bimbo stereotypes.

As for butch-femme gay relationships, to me it always seems that the people in them are trying to squeeze themselves into a heterosexual mould in order to gain themselves a sense of legitimacy. But homosexuality is never going to be really accepted if everyone who is same-sex attracted shapes their relationships around a heterosexual paradigm.

The butch-femme division is intrinsically heterosexual, since it's based on an attraction between opposites, whereas homosexuality is about an attraction between people who are the same. Thus butch-femme coupling between same-sex partners is always going to seem like a second-rate heterosexuality. It's the people who are ditching boy-versus-girl gender roles as irrelevant to same-sex relationships that are really challenging heterosexism, while those who are caught up in the butch-femme pattern are still playing by the straight rule-book.

Fortunately, among gay males in particular, the butch-femme routine has largely become passé. I've only met a few couples over the years in which there was a perceptible differentiation in gender roles. Most guys I know tend to form relationships in which it's never decided who wears the trousers and who gets the frock. Why butch-femme coupling remains relatively popular amongst lesbians is a mystery to me. Maybe some dykes feel more comfortable with their sexual orientation if it's hidden behind a pseudo-heterosexual veneer? Perhaps some butch dykes are really transgender heterosexuals?

Of course, when it comes to relationships we can only expect each person to go with whatever works for them. But as gender roles continue to loosen up in the broader community, it'd be a shame to see non-heterosexuals clinging to something they don't need, and that's never been in their best interests anyway."

From Top to Bottom, Bottom to Top

2007-07-29T21:42:00.000-07:00

My best friend is a femme top.
We recognize each other's place in our little sphere, our little subset within subset. On either side of the see saw we sit, and admire each others tenacity.

She appreciates my projects and my very sly ways of topping from the bottom. A bottom is never truly a bottom. Of course we wear the label and want to be topped, but only when in control. This is the truth and we all know it.

I appreciate her commanding and naturalistic approach to switch boi's. Her strength and unwavering glamour, and delicate coyness even when holding a boi by the throat and coaxing him into submission..

We can learn from each other. In the most intricate ways.

From each others intelligence. And candour. And most definitely from the gift of each other's hearts. To one another and friends around us.

When I was younger and coming into my own, I met her. Tall and delicious, she took me out to girl bar. She looked like an amazon in black hot pants and fishnets that clung to the length of her lavish legs. Boots that made her height more prominent, red lips that moved incessantly and a cheeky grin. Men called out to her in the street. I wanted to tell them to fuck off. How dare they objectify my icon of femme.
And later I learned to be objectified but not be made a tangible object was the idea. Or at least part of it.

And now we revolve on the same axis.

For this I am ever grateful...

xxxxxxxxxx to my darling girl xxxxxxxxxx my favourite xxxxxxxxxx femme to femme

Miss Lina on all fours

2007-07-28T10:02:00.002-07:00

I want you in your leather armchair, in a three piece suit and black shiny shoes. Wear those cuff links you told me about. I want your knees apart, sitting like a confident boi, with your head cocked to one side, that arrogant smirk on your face.

Your smalls Hercules hands in your lap, resting beside the hard dick in your pants, stiff as a board and throbbing like the real thing.
I want you to stare at me. Let your eyes traverse my body, my soft curves and pouting lips. I am giving you that look and you know what that means. Watch me crawl toward you, my eyes wont leave yours, not for a second.

I am in pink la perla lingerie with skin like chocolate and an ass like a cherry.
Lolita on all fours.
I want you to command me, tell me what to do, demean me then caress me then pull me under you with one hard yank.

Come closer Lina. Let me see you.

Yes Mister.

I advance until I am an inch away from your crotch, with my mouth nudging the hump in your trousers..

Can I touch it?

I look at you with little girl eyes, lower my eyelids demurely.
The arch in my back deepening as i give a little moan of desire.

No sweetheart. Not yet. Come a little closer, on your knees for me.

I rise. On my knees. Pert tits in pink lace, straps on soft square shoulders.
You raise your hand and push the strap from my shoulder, run your hand along my clavicle bone, down across my breasts and stop at my neck, wrapping your strong finger around my throat, giving an ever so slight squeeze so my desire wells up in my throat and is trapped there, cant move, cant breath, knees trembling, pussy swelling, panties dampening.

The other hand unhooks my bra and it drops to the ground.
Your eyes are on my tits and a sound comes from your mouth that I recognize. A sound I love.

Ohhh sweetheart. What gorgeous tits you have.

Your hercules hands forget about my neck and hold onto my breasts, cupping them firmly and squeezing my nipples in between your fingers.
Hands run down my stomach, bare, brown, over my hips..

oooohh baby girl, I am getting so hard
Down girl! On all fours.
And turn around.

I do as I am told. arch my back so my ass is planted in your lap.
You are now down on your knees with that cock rubbing up against my pink la perla, the inside of my thighs damp from yearning..... and thats where you stay, just holding my hips and burying the shape of the shaft into my panties, not entering me but rubbing it on me, making me dizzy and crazy and wanting more. then you push me forward and my face is planted on the carpet, my ass still up. I can feel one hand on my ass, a thumb rubbing my pussy, still my panties are on. With the other hand you release your cock from your pants.

I don't feel displaced with you. I feel fulfilled with your cock inside me, riding me hard like lightning jack, pressing deep into every corner of me... I want you to fuck me from behind Mister, then swing me round and hold my throat with both hands while you fuck me fast, pound sweet pussy, all the time gripping my throat and then releasing it slowly, with a red face that says "I want you, I want you, I want you."

You are teasing me. Making me wait.

I want you inside me now!

Not just yet...

Shall I beg?

Yes baby girl.. I want you to ask for it. my cock is really hard for your pretty little pussy. How much do you want it?

mmmmmmm please please wont you fuck me fill me up please ooooh give it to me i want it so bad baby wont you give me that hard cock I surrender to you fucking me please please fuck my pussy

But you are not ready.
You sit back up right. Cock standing to attention.
Order me to stand and turn to face you and straddle you. I sit on you, holding myself over your dick. It's the big boy today. Black and sleek and hungry. I look up at you a grin. Lean over and whisper in your ear, "Thank you" and lower myself onto you slowly. You hold my ass in your hand as I push down on it, taking it all the way in and sliding back up the shaft. You are watching my cunt swallow you up over and over again.

I start to move up and down on it faster until my cherry ass is bobbing up and down, slapping on your thighs. Hold my ass with both hands now, don't let go, pull me onto your cock.

You get excited and thrust me backward so I am flipped over, my head hanging upside down, hands on the floor, legs still wrapped around you and you start pounding with full force.

Oh Lina Lina you are one sexy fucking little bitch

I panting a groaning
A mattress actress
To the enth degree

and you, my boi, love that don't you?
I think you do.

You throw me on the floor and flip me over without pulling out, one of those tricky maneuvers where I rotate my leg around you until I am on all fours with my ass on your belly, that cock still holding tight in there.

I'm hungry for you baby... you push yourself all the way back for me, as I slide in and out of your pretty little cunt...

OOOOH fuck me baby come on just like that

I turn around and look back at you
that look that could make a priest faint
cum hungry slut with her mouth agape
sweaty and soft and shaking her tits as you mount her from behind

You reach under my body and grab my breasts in both hands, ramming my cunt
harder and harder fucking me and fucking me and fucking me boi, until I am screaming and filling the room with sounds of the throws of passion, sweat and pussy and sex
until crescendo
you come
beneath your cock
still hard in the moonlight
still in me, miss Lina on all fours

and I come with you
violent and vocal
as always

wet pink panties around my knees
you collapse on my trembling body
holding me
and we laugh
with your face in my hair

Damage Done

2007-07-25T03:22:00.000-07:00

Try not to gag and choke and fill up with regret and rage and sickness when the counterfeit keeps on writing text messages that don't clearly depict the truth. Don't clearly depict anything rational.
Try and stay calm and clear and... well... sober.

Wanted to write about something a lot sexier. Vitriol ain't sexy. Or at least not to me.
But today I am filled with fire.
It's not that gleaming passionate fire that knocks a bad boi on off his feet. Its a fire that wells up in your belly and makes your eyes feel tight in your head.

I want to show her what I feel inside. Show her what a fraud she turned out to be. Tell her complacency is not an excuse for breaking someone's heart. Shake my angry fist at her. And in turn watch her continue to hate herself to the point that she is not capable of loving someone who gave her a chance. To grow. To love. to be. With me.

she does not know who I am. What I am. I was too scared to show her me. I was veiled and masked and wrapped in gauze, bound so tightly I could no longer breath let alone whisper.
This nightingale lost it's song.

Reclaiming it takes a long time. To piece back together the parts that fell so far from me.
I forget the tune, and hum a little, then stop, and start, in interludes....

And where are you now? Lost and forgotten ?
Gone back to the young straight girls who let you fuck them and are shocked by your crass jokes, who dont hold a mirror up to you because they are not queer and wouldnt begin to understand what it is like to walk in these shoes, these very expensive patent leather black gucci stilletos. The straight girls that dont remind you of your identity and force acceptance of your nature.
Or are you lonely, or back on the pipe?
Who do you yell at now?
Who will you find to do all those little jobs for you? When your cat vomits, when you want the door shut and you cant be bothered to get up, when you want a drink, when you want something shifted?
And when you lie on the couch do you get your straight girl to maneuver around you so you can look at her? What is she allowed to do, what isn't she?
Do you bark at her?
Do you slap her?
(did you forget about that? the time I cried quietly in your bed)

Do you tell her she is pathetic or do you just patronize her?
and would she or anybody else put up with it again?

and tell me... how does a nightingale remember their song?

It was ingrained in my mind when I sang it by heart, and with time and trauma it drifted away, note by note, until there was nothing left. not a single wisp of sound.

and with each little insult or unkind word or fight in the night, a little bit was scratched off with the sharp head of a nail, until a scar remained like a tattoo across my forehead,

that said

"DAMAGE DONE"

What an ugly scar to have, tattooed across your forehead.

Winter in Hicksville

2007-07-17T01:06:00.000-07:00

The winter takes a girl harder than usual this year. It's snowing in the mountains and I never dress for the season. Spent four days in a cabin on the outskirts of New South Wales feeling lonely with a crackling black and white television screening nothing but fuel for depression and a laptop with quiet i tunes. I arrived in this small town for business and checked into my room. It resembled a militant caravan. I forced myself to drink the instant coffee and draw the M.A.S.H green blinds. I smoked 16 cigarettes on the front step until a huge spider came along and there were no boi's to save me. I text my butch friend in Brisbane to see if she could come to my rescue. She said to shoo it outside. It was already outside. Am i a drama queen?
She said yes and that I would be ok.

Ok then... "femme dies in Caravan Park... attacked by large aggressive spider... found drunk and naked and dead... aka Marylin... come to my funeral... by the way, don't forget the song I want playing... I want my sister to sing it, but if she is too upset then find someone equally as good."

I walk down the street in hickville only to be yelled at by men in utes and kingswoods.

Oi sexy... show us your tits! show us your front bum!

What the fuck? Please! What a joke! Are you fuckers serious? On second thoughts... No, don't yell that out... better just keep my head down and keep walking. No boi's here to protect me. Hicks dont like smart mouthed femmes.
Displaced?

I have always hated kingswoods. As a little girl I called them rape mobiles. The headlights look like beady eyes.
I head to the walk through bottle shop and purchase a bottle of vodka, a packet of smokes and a magazine. I ask the man what his dog's name is. "Dog" he says. Humourless. What the fuck is a girl like me doing here?

I am going to die in this place.
I need some serious action.
I text my trannyboy friend and tell him we would get killed in a town like this. Strung from the eucalyptus like strange fruit.
As i head back to the cabin my blood runs cold. It is dark in the shadows and I start thinking of being attacked.
I call my friend in hysteria, ask her to talk to me until I get home.

As I walk up the driveway of my motel and turn the little key in my little door... I am making a plan. How to get laid in hickville 101...

Drink myself to sleep. Listen to sad songs. Try and meditate but its no use when drunk.
Give up on the non smoking rule and fill my cabin with the haze of my disease.
Take a series of self portraits whilst crying.

This is the first time, I realise, that I have really been alone since I left her.
This is the first time I have sat with myself.

And what a strange pleasure it is.

Stay tuned... for little girl's pleasure to come.

When femme dumps butch...

2007-06-28T07:54:00.000-07:00

There is a level of untapped emotional fervor in the butch women I have known that screams "stay with me, stand by me, don't reject me"... The fact that it is untapped makes it all the more subversive..
There is a sense of stability that butch women carry, there is a groundedness, a belief in the concept of tradition... and there are a lot of faux femmes out there that perhaps do not adhere to these kind of values, therefor are first to take flight when it comes to leaving relationships..

Butches hold their women in high esteem, some for the sake of real love, some for the sake of having a binary counterpart to affirm their identity, some for the sake of a pretty trophy, and for this reason I think it is harder to let go of a good thing. Or a bad thing for that matter.

I don't think it is as important for femme girls to have a counterpart that affirms their identity as it is for butches, particularly if they are single. Perhaps this is because they receive heterosexual privilege, whatever the hell that is. Personally I think it is a contradiction in terms. But that is another post....
But for a true femme to dump a butch.. not a summer frock femme or a fly by night femme, but a TRUE femme, depending of course on the reason for the demise of the relationship, well that is something only they can tell...

Lookin for love, for my poor toe...

2007-06-18T06:57:00.000-07:00

Thank you for being kind and gentle and being my pillar. You have always been strong for me. Thank you for your hands, your grace, your patience. Your ability to maintain your faith in me.

I have not always been easy. I know that. I have not always been kind, or loving or gentle with your heart.

I wanna tell you that I wish you no harm, wanna tell you that I felt safe in your arms, I wanna tell you that I wish you no harm and I felt safe in your arms

I trust you know this.
But just in case you forgot.

Trans Fags and Femme Handbags

2007-06-18T06:38:00.000-07:00

I have just rolled a huge number and smoke in a dark room as I start to think about gender politics, the truth about self identity, how one's identity is innate or how ones creates oneself from what is accessible to one throughout history.
How I met a trans fag and became a little more enamored with the strength of those who stand up in the face of adversity and truly be what they are with great courage and grace.
How I experienced the voice of whom I truly believe to be the greatest gender outlaw amongst us all.
The heroes of gender fucking.
Standing tall among us, brave like knights.
Femme handbags. I feel there is a niche in the market.
This boy spoke to my heart actually. This young man.
He held the contents of my handbag before I even introduced myself.
As my boi searched in my purse to fetch my lipstick, she gave him the contents piece by piece.
He found me a little strange I think. That I would have so many odd things in my purse, the picture of Mary Poppins.
But then the lipstick was found and we met.

He gave his story to me and that was something I found endearing, with honesty and sincerity.

Two spirits are a true picture to all of us of what it is to be courageous.

And that is something I thank diversity for.
Thank you for my "label", thank you for the opportunity to identify, to be my innate self, and allow myself to be truly me. What a gift.

I believe in freedom. And now a little bit more.

Trans fags and Femme handbags.
I am happy to hang from that type of hero. With pride.

Where is Sancho?

2007-06-14T16:50:00.000-07:00

I held these secrets back.
Always, the master of disguise, or so I liked to think.
Everything always looked so appealing from my eyes, all things, from every direction.
That is why it is so easy to be a chameleon. Or anybody's girl. Like the church gossip's used to "whisper" so everyone could hear.

That girl with the flair. The loud one. The drunk one. The one who always breaks the limit. The one whispering no no no no to herself in the shower the morning after, as if saying it aloud would erase the truth.

Did I say that? Do that? Be that?

Terrible in the mornings.

In my third year of primary school I was called boy crazy. By parents of girls who were dull looking and had lifeless eyes. By parents of girls who never stood outside the square and wondered how to get back in it.

I am boi C R A Z Y

Chomping at the bit
for just a little sugar

in my bowl

daddy

I want to be pushed and twisted and turned inside out
your hands in me
all over me
making me push against the weight of you

your hand over my mouth

no no no no no

yes yes yes yes yes yes YES

take me hard
swallow me under the cover

roll on me in the morning and make me your treat

I was wondering what you would like to do with me?
flip me over
grab fist full of hair
hold it tight
making my neck bend back so it's slightly uncomfortable

say something nasty to me
degrading
demeaning
make me wet between my legs
and hot between my tits

make me cry out
struggling in the sheets in the moonlight that bellows through the window
like a visual fog horn in a calm night
pouring itself over my sweaty body like milk
twisted up
hands behind my back
tied together with your grip
your other hand in my hair

you will have to let go of something to fuck me

and you know this

ass bucked in the air
in the moonlight

push my face into the pillow
I'm eating cotton
shove my head down further

with the same vigour you will use when I have my mouth on you later
sucking it until you blow in my face and on my tits

I writhe against the sheets
hoping you will fill me
but you tease me
tapping hard cock inside jeans against my ass

and where is sancho tonight?
with his rough hands and barking tones
wont you play that role for me?

The mothers of the plain catholic girls are shaking their heads at me now
My dress at the first communion was too glitzy
not traditional
and my hair was braided by an artist who weaved into it gold and silver and flowers and beads

I sang at the alter
all eyes on me

The Lord is my Shepard
And I want to follow
Wherever he leads me
Wherever he goes

focus now on the girl in the bed. slutting it up for her big boi like a porn star.
watching her own reflection in the dirty glass window in a cheap and damp mexican hotel room

Thats it.
"Thats it baby girl" I hear you mutter in my ear
in your best Sancho grunt
"Stay down "

Your kness on my ass on my back pressed hard into the back of my thighs

The next time I see you I am going to fuck you up against the rails of my bed. from behind. your hips will be bruised. sorry.

You are spreading my ass now. spreading my legs while I buck and moan lying flat on my stomach

I'm trembling

Sancho
Come for me
Come in me

hot and sticky

if only you could

your on top of me now, riding my ass, thrusting and fucking with full force

you are a top who knows how to please me

you pull my hips up by looping one hand around me and yanking me up
so my pussy is ripe for your cock

and then

you pull it out

I feel it slapping on the inside of my thigh

oh god fuck me now now now now

and push it inside of me
deep inside
exploring the depths of me

slowup
hold it right there

this time I will come fast
and again
and then one more time

you like to watch that lubed up monster slide in and out of my tight cunt
dont you?

you smell like an ashtray
and breathe down my neck
making deep grunt sounds with your voice

just as I am going to come
you hoist me up, pull me onto you, I am riding you like a cowgirl
with my ass on your belly
nice and slow
in and out, ease it in, pull it out

ooooooh baby
you love to watch that

face flushed with moonlight
and street light

and then the sounds of mexico flood my ears

strange musical car horns
hot chilli rellenos on the street awash wih colour and smelling like a corn tortilla
mexican sun on my bare legs

Sancho my back door man

making me come in the moonlight

then flipping me over

on my back

and taking me again

this time with my face softened, eyes closed, dreamy and light headed

your cock hitting the back of me reaching that spot your body pressed against my body

soft and sweet

flesh on flesh

how I love that
let me count the ways

Held these secrets back

and of course they knew
all of them

especially the women down in the street below hanging laundry

when they heard me cry out

Damn Fuck Sancho fuck me harder
in some etherial state of mind

Where of where is my Sancho now?

Counterfeit dollar

2007-06-05T05:43:00.000-07:00

This one is for the unlucky one...
Ripped my heart from my chest.
Caused me so much shame. That i would stand up again and again and tell those who watched me cry that it was worth it.
I became one of the weak women. I never thought it possible.
I was the preacher, the word, the liturgy of strength. At least for women under the scorn of a lover.
Oh, how the tables can turn.
Starting to come to terms with my status. It is something i have struggled with for some time.
A blind and naked little girl braving the snowstorm, dreaming of the fire within.
A little lamb in the skin of a lion.
I was dropped in the middle of a torrent ocean and had forgotten how to swim.
To kick and breath and tread.
I was flailing.
And all of a sudden I float on my back, looking up at the sun.

There is a reason I feel so liberated, and it's because of you. Or perhaps the dynamic we created. As tight as a corset with no room to breath. As strong as a boa constrictor, wrapping itself around my throat and chest, squeezing everything that was me from my lithe remains.
The imagery is vivid. I am sure it will be for some time. Like a dream that wakes you in the night and you feel like you are in it, like it is in you, you have amalgamated.
The imagery...
You in the winter with your same old black coat wrapped around your ears.
That image always plays.
You by your heater, demanding King position.
You in our restaurants ordering my meal and yours.
Our drinks, not ever asking if i prefer something else but what you are drinking.
Me with no voice.
No sound.
(How could a woman like me loose her voice?)
This question will echo amongst those who know me for a long time to pass.

I dream of you and you would be hurt to know... The dreams haunt me like those that haunted me before.
The one's you wanted to save me from.
But didn't know how. Didn't know how. Did you?

You and I taking up space in your domain.

I have forgotten my heart. I have forgotten who I am.

I let it all wash over me again.

You were not my counter part. Although at times I wanted you to be.

You were a fake. A carbon cutout. A counterfeit dollar bill in my hand.

Now i have left you and I take to the road again, thumb out to the blue, like Sissy Hankshaw. Pride builds in this cowgirl, thinking just like a cowgirl.
It wont go away anytime soon.
It's getting bigger, bigger, indelibly bigger.

I take to the sky like a Phoenix rising up to the East

What were you when you were not with me?

I was rotten inside.
I was a wedding cake that hadn't been cooked properly.

Telling me things I said, ways i behaved, (inherently me) didn't suit me.
Didn't suit me? Or didn't suit how you wanted me to be.

All this is not your fault.

I should have seen that this love could make me sick. Like a desperate fondness for cherry liqueur.

The saddest thing is I know you loved me. But in your own selfish strange way.

So many times I felt it.

And so many times i told myself it wasn't enough.

To be loved by a woman who cannot love herself.

Now it's too late to ever go back. I pack my things and walk out for the last time.
You told me all those times, ridiculous threats, that if I left I could never come back.

Called your bluff.
Counterfeit note.

Thanks for the memories.
Thanks for showing me how to be free.

broken teeth

2007-06-03T19:37:00.000-07:00

I just woke from a dream where I was ready to prostitute myself to a group of greasy men eating potato salad. I had to pay them to fuck me. There was a very common looking girl scratching her back and scabs were falling off her. Smiled and her teeth fell out.

I asked for my "deposit" back. It just wasn't me.

The funny thing is I thought at the time, "How liberating. What a thrill."

I wonder where my head is at sometimes.

Contact can be a glance

2007-06-03T07:49:00.000-07:00

Copy and paste this into my comments and fill it in...

Contact can be just a whisper or a glance...

1. Your Middle Name:

2. Age:

3. Single or Taken:

4. Favourite Movie:

5. Favourite Song or Album:

6. Favourite Band/Artist:

7. Dirty or Clean:

8. Tattoos and/or Piercings:

9. Do we know each other outside of this blog?

10. What's your philosophy on life?

11. Is the bottle half-full or half-empty?

12. Would you keep a secret from me if you thought it was in my best interest?

13. What is your favourite memory of us?

14. What is your favourite guilty pleasure?

15. Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you:

16. You can have three wishes (for yourself, so forget all the 'world peace etc' malarkey) - what are they :

17. Can we get together and make a cake?

18. Which country is your spiritual home?

19. What is your big weakness?

20. Do you think I'm a good person?

21. What was your best/favourite subject at school:

22. Describe your accent:

23. If you could change anything about me, would you?

24. What do you wear to sleep?

25. Trousers or skirts?

26. Cigarettes or alcohol?

27. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together?

28. Will you repost this so I can fill it out for you?

Text Tennis

2007-06-03T04:09:00.000-07:00

Last week she gave me two different sizes of cock and a fisting.

Walking and sitting has caused minor pain. Feels like i have been slapped around a little. ridden bare back over the rocky terrain, cross country, cross rivers and streams and cold mountains and have been laid to rest with aching bruised body.

But watching her as she places the biggest one into the cock ring, standing erect like a proud tall boy, her grimace very endearing, I start to throb again and somehow forget that tomorrow I'll be shifting from cheek to cheek on my swivel chair at my desk.

Last time I was escorted home, no sooner than I had gotten out of the car and sashayed up my drive to my door with her eyes on my ass with every step and bounce, the text messages began to roll.

What a pleasure to be fucking u. xx

Why thank you mister. you ain't too bad yourself

This is where we tread the line of flirtation, the fine line of too much, too little, how much to say, when to say it. Keep cool, give in, but mama, don't give in.
I can see you in the morning all sleepy and vulnerable, the way you were everyday for all those years in my bed, in my pressed linen, smelling of sweet salty sex, your hands, your skin, your hardness diminished by my incandescent vibrancy.
Nobody knows you, nobody knows you, nobody knows this you, but me.
You look like a child when you wake from sleep.
I'm not quite ready to know that little boi again. I am keeping a part of me separate. Holding these things back.

Sometimes i get glimpses of how much we hurt each other. I forget sometimes, until I see that little boi, or a look in her eye's or a comment is made about this or that or some other lover.

Keep it simple. Until it cracks....

But all i care about today are the flashes I am getting whilst I work.

My own personal xxx film running through my mind, with sound effects ripe and raw in my ears.

The heart the pulse, the river the flesh

It is now late into the night. I am out at a bar with friends. I am getting drunk and feeling a bit crazy. That bad girl could come out of me at anytime. We are keeping up through text's every now and again, dirty flirtation. All very relaxed, but far from decent.
Fingers must be moving quickly over that little keypad, i keep hearing the drum of my text tone. What's next...?

Paint the picture for me boi.

Loving the scent of your cunt on my hands. And nice mess you made on my sheets. horny fuck.I am thinking we should make a film. There is a shot I want.

And what's that Daddy?

U on top, riding my cock. U got sound on your cam? write a script, it'll be filth. don't care as long as it's porn featuring your hot pussy

I have sound. I have vision. look forward to it. Now u get in bed, jerk off, go to sleep and have sweet wet dreams of your hot little bitch. I just want you to ease that big cock in me

Plenty more of my cock for your mouth and pussy Babe xx

Leave those kisses out.
Leave them on my mouth when you see me. But don't let me feel like you love me. That could be dangerous.
This is just fucking. Just fucking.

Am I fooling myself this time?
I am always fooling myself. She of many faces. Tell all truth but tell it slant.
And that is the mask of a queen of hearts.

Goodnight fuck boi. Love your sexy cock slut til next time when i suck it. p.s hold my head down

Fuck you sideways...inside outside upside down. just spread those honey thighs... nite sweet hot bitch

And with that, I throw my phone into my bottomless handbag. Along with the traces of my night, cigarettes and elegant cigar cases and lipstick ruby red and a few spare panties as a girl never knows... and I am finished with the text tennis. I spit a lemon pip from my gin and tonic on the floor beneath the bar. Disdain. somewhat.

What am I doing?
Sometimes I am not sure.
But fuck it feels good.

Don't think. Better.
Simple
Simple Simple
Single
Simple

goodnight
stud

I'll be back there tomorrow. Taking it all again.

Saturday Night : Part 2

2007-05-30T22:20:00.000-07:00

When we got to her house she ushered me indoors. I was feeling hot as all hell, having built myself up to be sitting on this edge of desire. And there I would sit and wait politely for exactly what I wanted. She has a rhythm in which she goes about things, a natural dance made up of an equal balance of strategy and impulse. A delicate dichotomy that is weighed up so perfectly, it's a turn on to watch it unfold. I had forgotten this about her. I loved to be reminded.
I am a patient bottom.
I will wait to be taken.
This is all part of the allure that got me here in the first place.

I think we must have gone straight out onto the verandah to smoke, despite the cold. I am no good with the cold. It makes me feel emotional, resistant, at times thwarted.
I am still trying to project a calmness within.

With a little lipstick, a little paint, a sad girl maketh what she aint

I have been through some unbelievable changes over the last few weeks.. and even before that, constantly changing and processing, like a motion picture. Nothing is stationary. Always fluid, always moving. And i recognise my sadness. I am not consumed by it. On many levels I feel enlightened to have experienced such pain to then have it counteracted with a sense of harmony. I am feeling more alive than I ever had. How you can change your life in just one moment.

And now I am back at her place. In her kitchen, flicking my hair, flirting, posing just the way she likes to see me.
I hope she is packing under those jeans.
I watch her walk around, trying to determine. Watch the crotch. Don't take your eyes away.

She begins to cook and i remember how comfortable i feel in her presence. Something I forgot.
Another thing i forgot.

She insists I sit and relax whilst she muddles about in the kitchen fetching me things and cooking our meal.

I have forgotten what it is like to be served. Waited on. How I took that little part of a dynamic for granted.

My last lover wore me down. And proclaimed to be a butch top, which she was to some degree, most definitely the top part... I'm not so sure about the butch, in the traditional sense of the word. I take the definition of butch very seriously. I see it as a counter part to femme, so in this instance, I want my boi to carry my things, treat me like a precious jewel, take care of my needs and desires. Of course I take care of my boi, but in an entirely different way.
I understand these definitions are lose and apply to me in a broad context, people will define themselves within the parameters with which they feel comfortable and functional.
But with my last lover, an incredibly powerful and charismatic woman who tore shreds from the very core of my person, there wasn't a moment where I wasn't lugging my own bags around the city, taking the heavy parcels, getting things for her, always getting things for her, until it was just expected that I would do them without thanks.

As I sat at the table waiting for my dinner to be served I felt a strange sense of relief, with a sort of stunned and obscure amazement at the power of change, the power of the vast soft universe contracting around my body like a fine fingered sculptor.

She served entree then main and we continued to drink, lubricating our senses.

We have been playing a very careful game of chess. Neither of us want to surrender too much power to the other. Dont want to leave our Kings vulnerable for the check mate. Testing the waters with stories of other lovers and moments of insecurity and tinges of jealousy. Its a game only we understand. Tit for tat? perhaps. But never letting oneself be dragged out into the vast ocean of negativity with that current of raw emotions and seriousness.

Keep it simple sexy. KISS
Kiss me now, on my forehead, on my eyelids, slide your hand under my ass and hold it in that way you do. Bury your face in the soft sweet perfumed skin of my neck, bite me gently, leave me wanting more.
And may i be so bold as to say....
Just fuck me. Here in the kitchen if you like. Sit me on the polished wooden table, legs spread slightly, dress so short it rides up my ass. Start to fondle my hair with your pawing hands, strong little hands, the hands of Hercules.
Strong hands everywhere, gripping and holding me with just the right amount of force.
Ooooh I like to be held down.

Why is it no one could ever do it like she could?

I know what i like and I go out to seek it. There is no harm in that. But when you find a lover that fits with your rhythm, be aware that it is a rare find. A diamond in your back pocket.

She is nuzzling into my neck, and yes she is packing, I feel it now hard against my thigh. It turns me on to feel how turned on she is by me. I love to watch her eyes as she rubs it against me, rocking me back and forth on the kitchen table.

She takes me into her room.

On all fours

I oblige.

We are beside the mirror. She is kneeling behind me, focusing her intense eyes on the arch in my back and the curve of my ass, following that curve slowly with her hands and giving a slight groan. I have propped myself up at just the right height.
Slightly drunk, my head is buzzing with champagne bubbles, my hair long and messy all over my face. I study my reflection for a moment.
Cum hungry slut.
You want me. You want to take me hard.
I study the reflection of counter parts. Butch femme, two proud fire throwers, looking sleazy as all hell and skirting on the edge of the law. Heading straight for the edge like Thelma and Louise.
Thelma and Louis. Bonnie and Clyde.
"The only time we don't talk is during Sex and the City"

I am outside my body. She is kneeling right over me whispering in my ear, so seductive and tender, but with a commanding tone "Thats it, thats it, baby"

Damn it makes we wet when she says that.
She takes a fistful of hair in her hand and yanks me back into submission.

Watch yourself. Watch yourself in the mirror. Aren't you a sexy mama?

She appeals to my vanity. Always has. Clever boi this one.

Rolls up her sleeve and lifts my dress over my ass, shimmies down my stockings and cups my cunt in her hand. I'm spread and waiting for it.

She drives her hand into me with full force, holding my ass and making me take it all. Her entire fist is inside me and she is pumping me harder and harder, I buck and moan and push back against her Hercules hands.

Nice ass. pump it pump it, come on baby, work it harder, ooh look at that ass
back it up back it up thats nice, what a hot fucking cunt

A deep guttural gurgles comes to my throat, and looking down on myself on all fours like a dirty slut who take it all, I am overwhelmed by the beginnings of an earth shattering deep intense orgasm

Fisting me harder, faster, deeper. I am the queen of my own filthy smut, porn star princess, loving every inch of her inside me.
As she fucks me harder and deeper she pushes my face into the carpet, my ass is bucked up, my knees are burning, her face is red and she is holding me down hard and fucking me just the way i like it.
She is grunting like a pig. So fucking hot.
With a mouthful of carpet fluff, screaming out her name, begging for mercy, I come in rhythmic waves, shuddering from my tits to my toes.

She wraps one arm around my hips and presses her weight on top of me as i lay helpless and spent, breathing heavy into the floor.

I hear the doorbell ringing. Now who could that be?

*************************************************************************

Saturday Night : Part 1

2007-05-29T01:15:00.000-07:00

It is 5.15 and she has asked me to come to dinner. I insist she picks me up. It's raining and I am precious about a new pair of suede boots that I don't want to spoil in the wet slick streets. The train ride is a long commute. It is 5.15 pm and the sun is dying, shedding it's blood all over the place against the brooding indigo of the sky. I am waiting for her to arrive and take me out to her house in the suburbs, where it is darker and colder still.

Text conversation had sculpted my vision of our date over my entire afternoon, but by this time had petered out to a few simple one liners, like a rough ride that crescendos to a massive climax, where you are left writhing and contracting and covered in mess, and she is spent, all over your tits, with just the tap tap tap of her fingers on the walls of my insides.
The build up is always nasty, in text conversation. I love it.
Sometimes sexy, sometimes flirtatious with the occasional allusion of filth and smut, sometimes matter o fact, and always, I mean always, leaving me throbbing and smiling coyly and rocking in my seat so the seam of my tight jeans rubs against my clit.

The first time we fucked, first time in so long, since we broke up, we decided to create a scenario. A loose scenario, but a scene none the less. Our minds were always half the essence of our hot sex. Cerebral masturabation. Something we have in common. And being starved of that particular interaction for so long, I was up for it.
I didnt want to create a scene where we were tied into characters, of course when you are in someone's bed again for the first time in a long time, it is easy to slip from your character when you take in the sights, sounds and smells that were all too familiar.

Something sexy, something to play act a little. Turn each other on.

A business meeting, I wanted to be corporate and terribly important and terribly serious, just for an hour before she bends me over the table and takes me hard, gripping the length of my hair with the strength of one clenched fist, hiking up my pencil skirt, tracing the length of my stocking clad and trembling thighs and plunging into my pussy with reckless abandon. Me cooing beneath her weight.

any ideas for our next meeting? give mama a preview?

next meeting...it will b trrbly high brow. I will be the chef. you will be dessert. Shame we cant go out. would be just right goin out packn, dancn close a few hrs, u rubbing up against my hard cock, then taking u home and fuckn u all nite with it. another time perhaps.

I could lose my shit just with a message like that.

It's 5.15 and i am distracted by the visions of what may await me in the dark and cold suburbs. I expect fully to be warmed up, filled up until I am begging for mercy. I hope it hurts a little. I want her to fuck me, rock me, take me somewhere else.

I think the idea of a second business meeting, a second scenario, got lost in all these senseless thoughts of being consumed by her, being taken and devoured. I forgot to act, to play, I was just wet and weak at the knees.

would u like 3 or 4 courses? I am deciding on a menu..
i cant eat that much anymore hon. but i'm sure what you choose will be fabulous. what are you feeding me?

my mind wanders..
big hot fucking hard throbbing cock fuck me now oh god put it in me yes harder now now now blow in me make me come come in me fuck give me that cock feed me feed me feed me baby

entree: gnocchi with homemade cashew and basil pesto, main: rockling in cilantro butter, sweet potato chips and dill sour cream... something pastry for dessert, you will be the cherry on top

ok close. I know your thinking along the same lines I am. gentleman.

sounds delicious boi. pick me up what time?

i was thinking 6.30? x

6.30 is fine

5.15 and I have been reading bloggers entries, just to make it that little bit harder to contain myself.

I am clean and waxed and putting on my pretty face and my lingerie in the marble bathroom. I am consciously vain, study my breasts in my perfect cupping black stain bra as I lean in to apply my eyeliner. My grandmother taught me to lean over and shuffle your breasts into your bra, a gentle wiggle, cupping them in your palms. I do it every time I dress, and watch myself in the mirror intently. Head on, never divert my eyes. I love the reflection. I want you to stand behind me...

The process of preening is one I love. I like to think of it as gift wrapping. It's those fine intricate details that make the difference to the lucky devil receiving the gift.
Slip on my tiny new black lace panties, paint my nails cherry red and apply thick lashings of mascara. Coat after coat. thinking about that big hard cock. Shall i wear lipstick?

"When i wrap my lips around the shaft I want to leave an impression. I want to look straight in your eyes when i take it all in my mouth, straddled over your knees with my hand down my panties, flicking my soft wet cunt as i suck on you."

Yes. Lipstick. blood red. Perfect.

When the doorbell rings i am not quite ready. Of course I'm not, I am femme. No matter how long I give myself to get ready, I am always rushing when it's time to go.

She is at the door in jeans and casual shoes and a hoodie. Actually one of my favourite looks.
Scruffy hair and hands in pockets. Nonchalant. Cool. But I sense maybe a little nervous.

I am turned out like a petit fou, delicate but sexy. Short red dress, black stockings and 4 inch black paltform heels.
She doesnt look corporate, and i am pleased our second meeting is to be more relaxed. She looks like the boy I am employing to run errands for me.
"Get on your knees and lick my gaping sweet lips until i come with a rush of sticky wetness all over your chin."
Or she is a rich and carefree high paid...something, ( those details are irrelevant) dressed casually with an air of sexy arrogance and I take care of secretarial duties when they come up. And they do come up. Again and again.

There goes the mind again.

She opens my car door, always a gentleman, and drives me out to the suburbs.
We talk seriously all the way there.

* * * * * * * * * * **************************************** * * * * * * * * * * * * *

2007-05-28T09:06:00.001-07:00

2007-05-28T09:05:00.001-07:00

reborn

2007-05-28T05:58:00.000-07:00

I don't know how we started up again. But now she is fucking me. She doesn't mind if I call her she..not he.. She is comfortable, if not certainly attached with a great fondness to her label. As am I. We are not propelled by it, nor bemused by it. We are proud of it. We hold it up to the sun, knowing it wont melt. We stand strong like stone walls. We are what we are. Gender Outlaws. I fought the law, and honey, this time, guess who was victorious?
That's it. Sweet honey thighs and her butch packing cowboy, all cocky and strutting through the living room harbouring a swell in her pants the size of a pachyderm.
Now she is fucking me again.

We agreed to keep it simple. No tears, no I love yous... Although hard to avoid when your legs are wrapped around your ears and she is pounding sweet flesh, every quiver moving through you like you remembered. Way back when. When we were together and I took things like that for granted...

But now she is fucking me again. My Gender Outlaw. Like two proud flame throwers. Throwing flames in the snow and laughing later when orgasm subsides. Me on my back, she on her knees, then on her back with her cock standing up for me to swallow.

Fucking me again. Traversing this map of land. The earth the flesh, the river the pulse.

Many more stories to tell on this skin, with every mark, bruise, welt and fingerprint.

And so it goes on....

From the lightning and the tempest, Oh Lord deliver us...

2007-05-28T05:49:00.000-07:00

Cardinal sin tastes sweet this morning.
I woke from dreams of you chasing me across the mattress, as if navigating a map; my body, your hands, our skin.

You pressed down on me like Atilla the hun, with the weight of a viking, heavy on me.

"Put your weight on me. I love feeling you press down on me, in between my legs, hold me down"

I remember when you looked up at me, fucking me in the dark, the look on your face so rotten, so vinegar, fierce and willing to corrupt..
I don't need corruption baby
I am already so dirty so dirty dirty so dirty

I fly out
I fly away