Toemageddon, queerness and beyond spectrums

Woah, gender has been on our (as in mainstream culture’s) minds a lot lately.  ABC, CBS, and of course Fox News picked up the story of Toemageddon (The Daily Show is, of course, my favorite coverage of this non-story).  This is a reflection of the deep seeded homophobia and transphobia in our culture. I also find it horribly irresponsible for a physician (Fox News op ed author) to add to the social stigma that transgender people face, for we know discrimination and institutionalized hate increases stress, decreases health and increases rates of depression and suicide.

So this had me thinking, once again, how much I love being queer, embracing multiple genders, gender bending, and looking at cute and dirty pictures (more).  Blake recently stumbled upon found this amazing queer, feminist, pro-male, all-inclusive porn blog, Sex is Not the Enemy.  In addition to awesome pictures, including many of people smiling and excited about their and their partners' bodies, there are some fabulous quotes:

            “Not only isn’t gender an either/or, it’s not even on a spectrum. The spectrum model, while allowing for more possibilities, still presents it as a zero-sum experience. It makes it seem as if, the more you have of one, the less you must have of the other. That approach reifies and reinforces the idea that there’s an opposition. In reality, any of us can have any of the characteristics that our culture defines as male or female. Each of us is a unique mixture of these traits and rather than being scared of that, we can embrace it, we can celebrate it, and we can enjoy it.” (reblogged from Sex is Not the Enemy, originally from here)

"There are more locations than girl and boy, man and woman. Decamping from one does not have to mean climbing into another. There’s plenty of space in between, or beyond the bounds, or all along and across the plane or sphere or whatever of gender, and it is entirely okay to say, 'I do not like being a girl, and so I shall be a boy.' But it must also be okay to say, 'I do not like being a girl, so I shall set about changing what it means to be a girl,' and yes, okay to say, 'I do not like being a girl, and so I shan’t.'" (reblogged from Sex is Not the Enemy)

Cate Blanchett reblogged from Girlsin Suits

Weak in the knees? I am.  

Cate aside, I really hope there comes a day where we do, indeed, embrace a mixture of "masculinity" and "femininity."  Even within our LGBT/queer communities, you're often labeled as one or the other - butch or femme, maybe andro(genous) if you're one of the sexy in-betweenie-weenies (like my genderless ball of love).  It frustrates me endlessly that our (very diverse) communities have about as much trouble with the concept with gender as a spectrum (or beyond a spectrum) as the general mainstream culture does. 

Another wonderful blog I've come upon is queerradical.com, and this post. "Queerness is a negation of fixed identities; it exists within the realm of that which will not be defined by language—the incomprehensible, ridiculous, and baffling."  

This is what I love about queer. I do think I know who I am, and I acknowledge that I constantly change. I change my preferences all the time; what I prefer to eat, to wear, to work out on and in, the type of company I prefer to keep, and the traits I look for in a significant other. Why shouldn't I be fluid in my sexual preferences? Why shouldn't I refuse to decide, to box myself in, to make a false claim of who I am, when it is constantly shifting?

I hope the world catches up soon on the beauty that is the variety of gender expression and the freedom that comes with always redefining ourselves. 

 

Her

Draped across her lap as she studied. Things had been difficult lately, and we both questioned the benefits to staying together. But right there, in that spot, head on her shoulder, everything seemed perfect.  Drifting into sleepiness as she did her problem set.  Later, head on her chest, listening to the lub-dub of her heart; two crisp, distinct sounds through her chest wall.  I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but there.

She had wanted to walk away. To spare me. To let me be happy. I wanted her, everything we need to deal with is worth it. We’re both smart people who care deeply for each other and each other’s happiness.

We had a lazy conversation about kids and heated garages and married life.  It didn’t scare me one bit. I guess that scares me a little.  Easy, naked laughter, and a desire to hold on to the moments she’s in my arms.  Poking fun at each other, and just listening to that lub-dub.  

Spring Sprung

It’s finally, finally warm out!  You know what that means*?  Shed clothes, bare legs, tank tops, and skin. It means bold looks at attractive people because it has been so very long since I’ve seen smiling faces on the streets of this city.  It means the city coming alive at night, waking up from hibernation.  I caught an old man staring at a slim, bare-legged woman today and I gave him a dirty look that said, “don’t look at me that way old fart,” before realizing that I am also a dirty old man.

I like to think of myself as a professional person, but sometimes I talk about my colleague's amazing ass. Totally, completely inappropriate. I like to think of myself as a feminist, but sometimes I have to say, “love me some titties.” (because, really, who doesn’t? and if a woman is doing performance with her body, who am I not to appreciate it?).  Does this make me any less professional (maybe) or feminist (I don’t think so)? 

I love spring, blooming trees and bare skin. The breeze that comes in the door of the coffee shop and runs by, beneath my skirt, as a cute dyke smiles at me.  The bold gaze of a suit as I walk down the street, heels clicking on the pavement, who is surprised when I return his gaze with a smile.   Spring is the time when we remember just how beautiful our neighbors are.

*of course you do, everyone, everywhere is proclaiming their love of spring

To be desired

It’s dark and I’m pressed up against another body. Another body whose hands are on me, and we’re sweaty. We’re dancing. Or swaying, or grinding, moving together, wanting. In my fantasy, this person is a woman. With long hair or with short hair, it does not matter.  I’m wearing a dress, a short dress, and stockings. She pulls me even closer to her, grinding her hips against mine, her leg between mine, mine between hers. The sweat and desire is palpable between us, but I do not kiss her. Kissing her would ruin the fantasy, extinguish the desire, and kissing on a stranger on a dark dance floor is rarely satisfying.

The fantasy changes, now the body against mine is male, taller, bigger hands on my waist, on the small of my back. Someone I know, someone with a very strong, attractive jaw. I’m in high femme drag, fake hair on my face, but he doesn’t care, he likes it, is as turned on by gender bending as I am. Maybe his mouth meets mine, maybe not – it’s inconsequential to the fantasy. All that matters is our bodies pushed together, our sweat, the wetness between my legs, my hips pressing into him. I can feel his want, and that is all I want – to consume his desire for my body.