Femme FATale


leaving you.
March 31, 2008, 7:59 am
Filed under: exes, fucking, love, lust, memory, sex | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

friday night i’m with you and you’re fucking me in ways that make my stomach first and my heart second, feel like they are being pulled down from their place high up in my body cavity, out between my thighs. every time there is the slightest retreat in your touch or in your thrust my body tenses with the fear that you will stop and break this chain you’ve created that links all of my important organs – brain, heart, gut, cunt – with all of yours – brain, heart, gut, cunt, fist.

we’ve been fighting for weeks now over stupid shit because you can’t recognize what love and care looks like. or maybe you’ve just got an unquenchable thirst for it; for playing games, for mindfucking. you’re losing me now and you know it. this is irreparable. you’ve waited too long without giving me much. you’ve waited too long to fuck me heart-to-heart like this.

and, for a second, i think i have it figured out. i think that i’ve wound up on top in all of this because i’m realizing these things even while my whole body is beating around the hand you still have inside of me. but i can’t see that you’re also thinking beyond the fucking and the grunting right now too. you’re not processing shit the way my sweaty, little head is doing while mashed against my pillows and headboard. no, you’re still trying to figure out your next move in this long drawn out game of “who do you love?”

then you do what i fear most, but what i least expect – you pull your hand from me quick and cruel, causing me to gasp at the contrast of going from full to empty in less than a second. i hear conceit, a tonal snicker to your words, as you throw yourself down next to me and say low, a threat for my ears only, “i wanted you to feel me leave you.”

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just.
March 30, 2008, 11:51 pm
Filed under: butches, dynamic, exes, femme, love, memory | Tags: , , , , , ,

when i slip my hands in the pockets of your jeans as you’re getting dressed in front of the mirror, tying your tie with shoulders scrunched, brow furrowed, legs slightly spread in solid stance, i move up on tip-toe in order to position my mouth just behind your left ear. careful to avoid the collar of your shirt, lest i muss it with that carnal red shade of lipstick you love so much, i lean in closer, pause, whisper, “handsoooome.” i draw out the last syllable for amatory emphasis, of course. you pause, turn to me eye-to-eye, smiling. no other word could better describe you right this moment, you know. that face, that body…don’t even get me started on those hands of yours…fingers rounded, palms wide, wrists thick and strong.

i love the physical strength i associate with you. when my body responds to your first touches it is because of what i know is there lying asleep deep in the muscles beneath your blanket of skin. i also know, though, that this attraction, this pull is more than just good looks and strong forearms. to imply otherwise would be an insult to everything you embody and to the inherent infractions your masculinity and your queerneess makes in the world every day. this need i feel in my stomach for you, this yearning, is about gender fucking. it’s about a dynamic that i can’t describe to my best of friends despite the endless amount of words at my disposal.

it’s about…how you smile with both your mouth and your eyes when you tell me i’m “such a fucking girl.” it’s a statement meant to tease, but one that is ultimately filled with pride and with validation for my femininity and your masculinity. you, my butch, my lover, my whole heart, understand femme, understand me. to you, i am the definition of what it means to be femme – both physically and politically. you never forget the latter and it is as important to you as it is to me. for the first time in my life there is you who values who i really am. i know it the day you tell me that i fuck with gender as much as you do. you get it and you love it. it turns your head, it spins your heart, it turns you on.

it’s about…the look that we exchange every time you are called “sir.” how my stomach flips at the utterance. i blush with excitement for you – of all that you already are in this place, in this body, and with the anticipation of your constant evolution and the privilege i feel in witnessing it. you should know though, that in this moment, i am only two seconds away from scanning the room, looking over our shoulders, preparing for battle in case someone should realize the gender trespass being made here at this cigarette counter. because while you’re still enjoying your moment of passing, cataloging the details of this space – from the mismatched linoleum flooring to the smell in the air – i am planning our escape. to be on your arm, to be with you is to silently vow your safety as you have promised me mine. you will drop your guard, you will take this all in, you will revel in it. you will be safe to enjoy it on my watch. i promise you this.

see, this thing we call butch and femme is so much more than your chucks vs. my heels, though the way they sit side-by-side next to the front door of your apartment makes me smile in that way that causes me to, when i think about it long enough, drop my eyes, fold my chin down my neck, and bite the corner of my lower lip as it begins to sneak its way up my right cheek. this thing we do, that we feel, it is dependent, it is complementary. it’s not just a dynamic, it is dynamic.

i am yours, you are mine, show me where and i will sign.



musings on a first date.

so, i went out with e last night and it was a really nice first date. i’m a habitual friends-first dater so, like, everyone who i’ve been involved with in my entire life, save for one or two exceptions, have been friends first and lovers/girlfriends/boifriends later. this was different. e and i, as detailed by my previous post, met after i posted on craig’s list in response to some idiot’s posting about “what lesbian equals” and how sick and tired she was of butches and genderqueer folks who “just want[ed] to be men.” e wrote me back, complimenting my “defense skills” and then we just struck up conversation and out we went.

again, i mentioned in my earlier post that i had to out myself as fat to him over the phone. this was such a complicated situation for me. again, friends-first, but also, i’ve never done internet dating..if this can even be considered that. he had seen my myspace profile, but i wasn’t exactly sure that my body size was clear from that. so here i am, in this awkward situation, of thinking that i need to tell him because i want to be upfront, but also not put myself in a disappointing or dangerous situation where i show up exactly as he did not expect me. but also, simultaneously trying to figure out how i’m going to convey what is mere fact and not actually a value judgment on myself and my body. like, how do you tell someone you’re fat who you don’t know whether or not they’re in any way fat positive and, at the same time, don’t want to make it seem as if you’re dissing yourself. lord! what a weird situation to be in.

anyway, e handled it awesomely and so, out we went last night. i have to say, i was struck by how nice it was to have doors opened for me and this consciousness for chivalry on his end. i mean, i’ve dated a lot of butches and while chivalry has never been dead, so to speak, it hasn’t been as well attended to as it was with e. we even had ourselves a good laugh about it when i tried to pay for my drink at one point and he insisted on paying and responded with “know your gender role!” cute. i mean, door opening, meal/drink paying, cigarette lighting, car door opening and closing. i mean, cute.

but yeah, the date was fun. he’s interesting and has a great laugh and smile that made me feel comfortable from the start. it was too short, in all honesty. we met up at 9 and i was home by 11:30. mostly, i think, because it was easter night and a lot of places weren’t open late, coupled with the fact that i totally would have invited him to see my apt. and meet lula (my cat), if my place wasn’t such a disaster from living a spring break lifestyle the past week.

i guess we’ll see what happens. i’d like to go out again. he was really sweet and fun and i’m definitely attracted to him. i’ll see what comes of it.

also, not for nothing, but serious props to me. #1: i went out on a date with someone i didn’t know, who wasn’t my friend. awesome. #2: i went out on a date not even a week after deciding to end the destructive hook-up situation i was involved with. eat that.



open letters to my crushes.
March 21, 2008, 7:10 pm
Filed under: butches, crush, dating, genderqueer, swooning, trans guys | Tags: , , , , ,

crush #1:

dear e,

you weren’t the response i expected when i posted that craig’s list ad about stupid lesbians hating on butches, genderqueers, and tranny boys in the w4w section. you are sweet, funny and seem to have good politics. judging from that one phone conversation we’ve had and the slew of text messages we’ve exchanged, you seem like just the kind of guy i’d like to meet. your response to my being frantically upfront, due to the nature of our meeting, about being fat was pricelessly endearing – “it ain’t no thang.” thanks. i think you’re a “severe hottie” too.

i’m excited that i get to have drinks with you on sunday. i hope your snowy travels between mpls and wisc. are, in the meantime, safe.

xo,
hussy red


crush #2:

dear j,

i was swoony over you the first time i met you, but after your attendance at the femme mafia meeting where you claimed a “femme ally” position and sat back and listened, consciously making femme space and questioning what you could do to be supportive, i melted into puddles.

i know you’re already seeing someone not so seriously, i know you already casually asked out my best friend (good taste, but ouch!), and i know you’re poly and all that noise, but if you might consider kicking it with me for one minute, i’d mend that broken heart of yours like florence nightingale on speed, son.

just sayin’.

yours,
hussy red

p.s. stop sending me so many text messages. i read too much into them because i like you so much. the end.


crush #3:

dear e (which is actually your name),

i saw you at the bar after pride in june 2007 when you sold me a beer and then didn’t see you again until a few weeks ago. this time, you seemed to notice me…at least a raised eyebrow, big smile, and a “hey there” would suggest such. i tried getting up the nerve to talk to you, but every time i approached, you were surrounded by friends. you are handsome as all get out. i get all hot thinking of being domestic and cooking you eggs and bacon on sunday mornings.

they say you’re single. they say you don’t approach women. they say you like femmes. i say i’ma talk to them and see about you.

xo,
hussy red



i am my mother’s daughter.
March 20, 2008, 7:31 pm
Filed under: exes, love, mom, reciprocity, resistance, therapy | Tags: , , , , , ,

when i started going to therapy three months ago, i wasn’t sure what i was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what i got – an amazing queer-friendly, sex-positive therapist with pretty progressive politics for a heterosexual professional who looks like a nicer, cuter version of ann coulter. it took only about three sessions until she had me pegged and left me wandering home, mouth agape, with the realization that after 26 years, there was no denying i was my mother’s daughter.

i had suspicions this was going to happen. i laugh like my mother – loud, unchecked, and with legs stomping if you really get me going. when i’m upset, my words pour out 100 m.p.h. and my new jersey accent is as thick as molasses (…or maybe toxic, newark sludge). my feet are near mirror images of hers…save for my slightly wider instep and far superior baby toes. she is strong, she is loving, she is smart, she is beautiful. she is my heart and i am hers.

unfortunately though, being my mother’s daughter also means that i have been witness to a cycle of emotional abuse that i have not only endured personally, but through her pain and heartbreak as well. my father, a manic depressive, has made 33 years of marriage a task worthy of receiving sainthood. i mean, it would be if you absolutely had to stay or, like, you would die. the fact is, though he has caused us hurt for decades, she has only participated in this violence through her decision to stay married to him and living within the same home. despite her reasons for not leaving being (somewhat) understandable, her continued involvement has enabled a cycle of anger, depression, and neglect. years of debating our staying and going manifested itself into an inescapable pattern for her.

and here i am now – 26 years old and on my own, living and loving the butches and the bois that come and go in some repetitious narrative (dare i say it?) of life that finds me – the strong one, the loving one, the smart one, the beautiful one – playing second fiddle to a conductor without ears. the lack of mutuality, the ungratefulness, the emotional ineptness is staggering, but i have taken it from you. i have participated, i have enabled. i have tried, like my mother, to unsuccessfully make good times out of your bad times. i have put my hurt aside to fix you, to care for you. i have loved you, i have listened to you. i have made you lemon bars, pastina, brownies. i have sent you flowers, taken you shopping, made you care packages. i have kissed your eyebrows, i have sucked your dick. i have raised your self-esteem, i have inflated your ego. i have been your saving grace, your biggest fan, your desire, your love. i have been what you said made you feel whole….

to me, you have been a dearth of reciprocity.

i am my mother’s daughter because i believed you, despite the lack of tangible evidence and despite the harsh words, mood swings, emotional voids. i stuck with you. i let it happen again and again.

except then it stopped.

because i was not going to pay one more $200 cell phone bill to hear you tell me that you loved me, but that now was not the time (5 years from now, you say? go fuck yourself!). i was not going to spend one more long weekend/holiday/spring break without you because you couldn’t get time off of work, but could, in fact, find time to go to nyc and see your mediocre best friend…and her harem of strippers. i was not going to spread for you on saturday, sunday, and monday for you to tell me on tuesday that you “hated” me. yes, even if you meant it ironically.

you see, i am my mother’s daughter, but i am not her twin. i have learned from her mistakes. i have meticulously studied her scars.

i say to you now what my mother should have said to my father at 26:

you, sir, are fired.