Femme FATale


maddow mania & the new poll tax
November 4, 2008, 12:45 pm
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if you’re not twitter friends with me and this little blog crew of ours, you should know that we’ve all got maddow mania. as a regular viewer of rachel maddow’s show and as someone obsessed enough to make her my desktop background, there is no denying she’s the handsome. she’s also incredibly smart though (i do prefer my butches with brains) and passionate about progressive politics (also a requirement. applicants, take note!). so smart and so passionate that if you’re even thinking *for one second* that you can’t afford to spend the time and effort in line waiting to vote today, you need to watch rachel explain how waiting and inaccessibility have become the new polling tax meant to disenfranchise you.

watch. get angry. and then go vote if you are physically and financially able to do so…though i can’t believe i even have to type that. voting should be accessible to everyone. arrrg. seriously. go watch the maddow, stealer of queer hearts everywhere!



my, my.
October 20, 2008, 1:07 am
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a recent coversation about letters of recommendation we would give to one another’s other and/or future lovers, led a certain butch to say the following about yours truly recently:

makes great brownies.
moans better.

ahem! i do declare…



pittsburgh sweet.
October 11, 2008, 9:32 am
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it’s almost something sacred. the word “you,” when you speak it in reference to me. it is one word in a sentence made of many others, but it’s the only one that hangs on your tongue like the way honey drags down the length of a spoon – slow and thick at first and then rushed and ribboned towards the end. my punched down, plumped up heart doesn’t care about the sentiments or about the words that surround this mention of me in your mouth. i am focused only on the way it feels to be cradled by your lips like that; attention paid only to the feel of your breath grazing when you exhale me.

this is about absence. the kind that causes me to rock away grief. because sitting still with it is just too great an ache.

i am responsible for near tidal waves.

when we were a part of one another still, i noticed not the way you held me in your mouth – pulled me in, pushed me out – but more the sound. the gravel of your generations-deep, southwestern pennsylvania, coal miner family accent and the way it snuck out between the cracks of a crooked smile passed down from a grandmother every bit as pretty then as you are handsome today.

my concentration on the way you spoke me, the way you still sometimes do when i let my guard down a little too early, is about the ways i loved you. i wonder now if something as simple as how you wore your lips when you grinned – practically a right angle instead of a more even, upwards bevel – should have been a sign of the unpredictability of you.



a fall aesthetic.
October 10, 2008, 8:34 am
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fall has always been my favorite time of year and it’s no doubt for many of the same reasons as the rest of y’all: cooler weather, the change in foliage (if you live somewhere where this happens), and of course the transition to a different and, in my case, better wardrobe. for years my summer wardrobe was a sorry excuse for clothing and i’m sure that was in relationship to where i was in my head as far as body image. i grew up with a pretty fat positive mom, but still one who enforced some sort of “sleeve at all times, on all shirts” rule that i later tossed out as being total bullshit. my summer clothes have evolved into something i no longer dread, including skirts i’ve sewed myself in recent years and new and thrifted dresses. oh, and tank tops. and tube tops. lots of them. behold! a fat person with fat arms! gasp! how unusual!

but fall? fall is my joint. say it with me: sweater weather…mmm. and this is ironic because i’m not huge into sweaters. going to class and teaching in colleges and universities, as well as several office buildings in between when i lived in d.c., made me a fan of layering: cute camisoles, light sweaters, carrrrdigans (drool), and shrugs. jeans, of course too, pencil skirts, dresses, but with tights. this season, because i’m hopelessly flawed in keeping tights for long without running them? black ribbed ones, deep purple, turquoise, and gray! fall equals jewel tones after all, no? oh, and scarves! fall is scarf weather and thanks to a grandma with fast crocheting fingers, i am a queen to many lovely, homemade ones. my favorite is made of a deep red wool that is of the same skeins my grandmother knit my baby blanket.

oh, fall aesthetic! you are, of course, not just for the femmes either. the butches and bois, the transmasculine folk, this is button-down shirt and sweater weather. argyle sweaters. wide striped sweaters. sweater vests. tweed pants. boots. plaid wool scarves. swoon! the fun of thrifting with a butch for a fall wardrobe. or merely just observing their dashingness from across the street…with a wink!

fall, it’s about time you got here. last night, you had me dreaming of houndstooth and herringbone.


i took this picture in northampton, ma two weeks ago. the trees there are already so stunning. my foot? maybe not quite as much!



Protected: northampton: land of nostalgia
September 27, 2008, 11:51 am
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body deliberate.
August 19, 2008, 1:28 pm
Filed under: butches, chicago, crush, dynamic, femme, femme conference, lust, swooning | Tags: , , , , , , ,

“are you two going to kiss?” the man who stumbled before us asked. he was drunk and wobbling on his two long legs in a way that suggested too much alcohol had mixed with a heart too weighted to keep balanced, to keep the body stable.

but i barely noticed.

because when you started to walk across the sidewalk to me, before he showed up swaying and destroying lazy-to-arrive-but-so-glad-you-finally-fucking-got-here moments like this, my vision tunneled to you. a body deliberate. calculated, intent on reaching, on doing, you sidled up to me mumbling some words about how it had been some twenty minutes since we’d talked and hadn’t that been too long? i searched for a response from a brain too tired of producing witty banter for you all day. see, those past 24 hours, saw me in a contest with myself, racing to see how fast i could make those crevices in the skin around your mouth deepen and turn darker as your smile stretched further every time. found me delivering package after package to you of smartly wrapped snark and flirt all wound tightly and made ornate with knotted heart strings for bows.

so i just smiled. and for once in the whole day, despite the frenetic swirl of drunk, happy queers tapdancing on cigarette butts outside the barroom door, allowed a bit of quiet between us. maybe my body sensed what was about to happen, knew that if it didn’t curb the firing of my brain’s synapses, i’d make some joke and we’d erupt again in a series of guffaws that of course felt good, but that didn’t end with the mingling of each other’s sweat on our upper lips.

when your hand found the bend in my waist that gives way to my hips that roll strong but pliant when you pull them just right, i knew silence had been the right choice. knew it twice as hard when, in seconds, there i was three inches from your face staring into eyes that wouldn’t release my own unless to quickly survey the state of my mouth which was, on this night, stained scarlet and heavy with the anticipation of you.

did you feel the drop when we fell into the vacuum of each other? when things around us slowed almost to the point of nonexistent as we considered the idea of halving and then obliterating all together the slowly shrinking space between us?

i remember i was thinking about your glasses and about the angle at which i’d bend my neck to avoid any sort of minor calamity of frames smashed into browbones or lenses fogged to the point of visual impairity when his voice, loud and sluggish with booze, slammed our feet back down on the concrete. i swear now that there were tiny spider-like cracks around our shoes from the impact of so brutally being forced to once again find the ground.

“are you two going to kiss?” he slurred with whiskey breath.

but we barely noticed. we didn’t even speak. not even to each other.



the plural of haiku is … haiku.
August 7, 2008, 9:46 pm
Filed under: butches, fun, haiku, strap-ons, yay | Tags: , , , , ,

haiku about strap-ons. because they’re fun, it’s friday, and why not?

1.
you: new to strap-ons
me: so not interested
bruised cervix? no thanks!

2.
jersey femmes bring it
lipstick perfect, hair teased right,
nails that match your dick.

3.
harness in your drawer:
two-strap, white leather, studded
makes this girl say “ohh!”