My new femme crush

is here: sublime femme

because of this quote:

High Femme— Lesbian or queer gender marked marked by a highly stylized and aestheticized form of femme gender expression or identity. Uses exaggeration, artifice, and/or theatricality to denaturalize femininity. When combined with parody or irony, the effect achieved is akin to drag: femininity in quotes. No particular style of dress or external signifiers; may or may or may not wear dresses, heels, and/or makeup. May or may not be a “bottom” or a “top” in a sexual situation; may or may not partner with butches, studs, or stone butches. No particular personality traits. May be passive and demure or aggressive, independent, strong, etc. Not equivalent to a lipstick lesbian or stone femme. *

And discussions of the fact that high femme is not better, more worthy or classier than femme, or low femme, or any other variations.

I also like that sublime femme knows that high femme doesn't have to be an expensive, elitist demonstration of class. Most of my best femme wear include lurid pink polyester negligees from local thrift shops for $6, and hair accessories from the kids wear section of shops because they have cupcakes on them, or home made creations, because everything in the shops were too tasteful and dull for my desires.

Visible: A Femmethology

Femme–an identity that has caused controversy, celebration and ridicule–is now the topic of a two-volume set from Homofactus Press and editor Jennifer Clare Burke titled Visible: A Femmethology. Femmethology calls the LGBTQI community on its own prejudice and celebrates the diversity of individual femmes. Award-winning authors, spoken-word artists, and totally new voices come together to challenge conventional ideas of how disability, class, nationality, race, aesthetics, sexual orientation, gender identity and body type intersect with each contributor’s concrete notion of femmedom.

Femmethology is a two volume wonder all about femme identity, it's available from March 2008, published by Homofactus Press. I am very proud to say that I have contributed an article, as well as a few other Australian femmes. Check it out, at http://femmethology.com/ or on FaceBook or MySpace, as the very diversity of voices, plus the contribution of serious, respectful thought about femme (in some cases minus the lofty academic language) is a valuable thing.

Adventures with gender

As one of my femme identities is that of drag queen - emphasising that there is nothing natural about most people's performance of femininity - regardless of what is on their birth certificates, I don't mind not passing as a woman - I do most of the times, but in particular environments (particularly about a decade ago in Adelaide, where dyke spaces were a sea of jeans, waistcoats and short hair), with very big eyelashes, heels and hair, I have had people approach me and tell me that I tuck really well, and ask if I'm on hormones yet.

.... I am going somewhere with this.....

Some of the definitions I've heard for the term woman/ womyn/ wombmoon from separatist feminists leave me out - sometimes the definitions end up being more a list of 'acceptable' sex practices, uniforms and political views, more than anything else. I certainly don't fit those definitions - despite an "F" on my birth certificate, XX chromosomes, a menstruating uterus and other traditionally associated body parts.

Being punched once in 'women's space' (it's a long story) and having a femme ex of my abused for having long hair and a skirt at an International Lesbian Day dance, I long ago decided that 'safe women's space' often wasn't all that safe a space for me. Diversity is occasionally paid lip service to - with perfume-free policies for those with chemical sensitivity, alcohol-free space those with substance use issues, and lip service paid to issues of racism and classism - as long as working class women don't want to work on class issues with working class men, or women of colour don't want to organise with men of colour, homophobia is spoken about but gay men are still men ..... Often women's spaces become hijacked with a particular fundamentalist feminism that is so narrow and prescriptive that it lacks relevance to all but a minority of women.

Those of you that know me well will probably know that I am utterly obsessed with labels. While I am a fan of many aspects of pomo discourse, who gets to call themselves what, and how labels and identity allow us to work together, to unify and to create boundaries are issues I find immensely meaningful. This doesn't have to mean an essentialist world view, with membership of a community being etched in stone - shifting labels and identities are powerful, but I have yet to see affective community development, or activism come from a position of fluidity. Maybe when I do witness thins, I'll stop wearing my many, varied and occasionally contradictory labels on my tee shirts, soap boxes and inked into my skin.

Oh, and don't get me started on the woman-born woman issue! I don't know about you, but I was born a baby. Whoever decided on that F on my documents certainly didn't consult me. Any more that the Catholics that baptised me. Both of them got it equally wrong in my case. If I present gender cues that are consistent with what Western society considers is appropriate with my gender-assignment-at-birth, that actually feels somewhat coincidental. As many femmes who have "M"s on their birth certificate will tell you (not always transwomen, some men, not always gay ID as femmes), this works, it makes sense for us, this is how we feel powerful.

When hideous people like Janice Raymond (who wrote that nasty, mean-spirited piece of trash The Transexual Empire) also started dissing sex workers, it just made the coalition between sex workers, transwomen and to a certain extent femmes as the targets (far more so, often that str8 white, able bodied, cisgender men) of mean spirited fundamentalist feminism, and thus natural allies, on at least some issues. When I was in a long term relationship with a transwoman, I decided to no longer identify as a woman. This wasn't coming from some weird desire to guiltily reject cisgender privilege but more to use labels as an opportunity to create meaningful coalitions - and to reject those that didn't work for me. Being in the same room with a group of transwomen has always felt safer and more affirming than being around anyone with the same views as Janice Raymond, Sheila Jeffreys et al. If anything being in the same space as separatist fundamentalist feminists actually feels oppressive and abusive, as that branch of feminism spends more time critiquing my hair and heel length, my clothes, my sexual practices and my allies and friends than it does doing anything to dismantle institutionalised sexism.

This branch of feminism sees all gendered presentation as oppressive - particularly femininity as it is seen as declaring yourself as sexually available to men, unworthy of equality, fluffy and not to be taken seriously or simply making yourself a rape target. Compulsory androgyny is seen as the acceptable way to present yourself. To this I say - to those that say a binary gender system is oppressive and the way of dismantling sexism is one 'choice' not two is as depressing as that crap song that suggests the end of racism by building a 'great big meltin' pot' and producing 'coffee coloured people by the score'. I am really not resigned to the only chance for equality is when we are all exactly the same.... that isn't harmony or equality to me - it's some creepy fascist fantasy! To me the answer always feels like more choices, not less. A different gender identity and presentation for each person on the planet!

So when I have to fill in a box on forms, I put a W for whore, or - if pressed, an F for femme. I find most of the time official forms that ask people to declare a letter, do it for no purpose whatsoever, simply convention. I encourage you, gentle reader, to ask why the collection of this information is relevant, or to start coming up with your own gender identity - might I suggest wonky (just cause I really like the word) asparagus (as you then have a great opportunity to wear loads of green clothes) or 9..... because it's a really nice number.... my point is that humour, complexity, queering bureaucracy and being wilfully obtuse is more fun, and less oppressive than fundamentalism, and might just change one or two small things.

More on slut bashing/baiting

I was doing some more thinking about slut bashing and came across these pieces online. They speak about the focus on the sexual habits of women who have been raped - worth checking out, as they demonstrate some of the worst aspects of the hatred of sexual women in our culture, I am particularly interested by the idea of shifting the idea of sex from commodity to performance, and the possibly that this will shift expectations that consent is an active thing, rather than simply a lack of 'no'.

http://feministblogs.org/2005/03/?paged=51

http://ourhiddenplace.blogspot.com/2007_06_01_archive.html

Slut bashing (the latest in an irregular series of posts about the whore stigma)

I have written in this space before about the whore stigma, which I see as bigger and broader than specifically about discrimination against sex workers, although the criminalization, stereotyping and institutionalized prejudice against sex workers is definitely the most obvious aspect of the whore stigma.

Examples of prejudice against sex workers continue to jump out and slap me all the time: I was speaking to someone I know who has recently started doing sex work, only to find that one of their partner's partner was suddenly very worried about sexually transmitted infections….. this is someone who never raised any questions about safer sex practices up until this moment – the whore stigma is so ferocious that this person might have been taking on entire football teams and their cheer squads up until this point, specializing in barebacking, felching and unprotected blood sports, prior to working in the sex industry, but as we all know STIs are primarily transmitted by the handling of money or credit cards….

What I call slut bashing or slut baiting is the more common form of the whore stigma, the everyday persecutions of (usually women) who put out, who sleep around, who don't dress like ladies, who I have noticed are also usually seen as dumb, as you can't be smart and sexual in our culture (see bois don't make passes at grrls who wear glasses). I think the slut (or overtly sexual = dumb construct is also responsible for the idea that sex workers must not be able to do other forms of work, if we had any brains or skills, we couldn’t possibly choose sex work, that must be a decision made of desperation and reduced choices.) And, after all, masculinity and stupidity couldn't possibly go together.... (Take a bow Beavis and Butthead, Homer Simpson, Al Bundy, et al).

While slut bashing/ baiting is a commonly practiced form of the whore stigma, which means that women are divided into the virgin or whore categories, and set upon each other, for the benefit of neither group, and thus I believe that it is in all of our best interest to challenge the whore stigma, I think the experiences of sex workers are quite, quite unique. While living in a culture that ruthlessly polices the binary gender system has harmed me and other cisgendered folk, my experiences of gender oppression in no way mirror those of genderqueer people. While it is my responsibility, and in my best interest, to challenge gender binaries (as it is for all people) I don't feel that I am in anyway in a position to speak about the experiences of genderqueers, and as I consider myself an ally to trans and other genderqueer folk, I think it is important that people from those communities have the room to speak about their own lives, and I try to avoid taking up those platforms, lest I further marginalise people who are often spoken about rather than consulted.

In the same way, I feel like it is important for sex workers to speak about sex workers experience - we are so often silenced, spoken about or for, and used as a symbol or metaphor for people who are working out their own stuff around sex, that, well, until things are very, very different, non-whores, even 'promiscuous' or 'unchaste' women who speak about sex work just feel like they are appropriating the experiences of my community, and using us as symbols to work through their own stuff. As the whore stigma has silenced whores – sometimes in extremely overt ways – in some areas of the world, including where I first started sex working, to do any activism as an out sex worker attracts the attention of the vice squad. However our liberation will only come when our voices are heard on our issues, so when non-whores speak out about sex worker issues, that is often taking up the platform at the expense of the sex workers voice... And frankly, non-whores might have felt like they have been badly hurt by the whore stigma, but, love, I have a criminal record from working in Adelaide brothels, I have KP (known prostitute) on my record which has the capacity to affect travel to the US and Japan, so when you have sprinted out of brothels in 6 inch heels to avoid a vice squad bust, or hidden a sex work client in a cupboard during a raid as he has a panic attack, because he is terrified his wife will find out, then come along and we will compare whore stigmas.... If I sound bitter and ungrateful, consider that being an ally to marginalised communities is a challenging balance in which there is the need to speak out for social justice, however, we also need to be guided by the needs, priorities and opinions of the community in question, otherwise we reinforce hierarchies by telling the marginalised what is best for them, and speaking for them, and standing in the way of the empowerment and capacity building of that community.

But back to slut bashing:

Sadly, but predictably, alternative queer chick culture, that is culture that seems, at least on the surface to be cunt positive, sex positive, kink friendly, poly friendly, supportive of genderqueer and gender diverse, informed by feminist thought, still isn't immune from slut bashing – in some ways women who present in less alternative ways, longer, non-spiky hair, who might wear their dresses, skirts, Supre tees, heels and stockings with less knowing, less irony (at least to the casual observer), less body mods, etc are sometimes spoken about particularly savagely, as if they are both slutty and dumb, more helpless, trying to catch husbands or husbutches to do the hard work so these fluffy, nonthreatening girlies can not worry their pretty little heads about anything…..

In some ways it's easier for this stuff to be perpetuated in alterna queer culture - which has room for diverse gender expressions, with room for feminine performance from queer women. In more mainstream lesbian culture with androgyny being the norm, how, in a room full of jeans and flat shoes and short hair, will you single someone out to label them a slut? And, after all, people end up in those subcommunities, sometimes because of their politics or values, but often because of their aesthetic attractions, musical preferences, sexual kinks, etc, so to assume that anyone has done their 'homework' in analysing their value system and ways of being in the world to see whether or not they have some residual sexism floating around is possibly a bit optimistic.

Let's look at there this stuff comes from: it is misogyny. Simply the hatred of women, female bodied folk, femininity, etc. Let's face it, (trans or cis)boys and butches still have a lot of room to fuck as they please (as long as they aren't bottoming, ankle grabbing or appearing like fags) to be as sleazy and slutty as they like, without pejorative language used. When, oh when do we get beyond this same old same old? The boys/bois high five each other while the grrrls tear each other apart. If you get left, it's not the fault of the commitmentphobic butch, or your own needy and clingy reverting to type, the result of swallowing all that *girl medicine during childhood. No. It's the str8 girl like Barbie who the butch-that-got-away dates next. It's all her fault. All that long hair takes so much brain power to grow, she can't possibly have read feminism 101, and damn it, she uses her siren's call of looking like a str8 grrl from a distance and looking all uncomplicated and pwetty to lure boys to their doom....

The alterna queer communities are often home to many whores, (as they are often at least on the surface, sex positive, whore friendly places). **Female sex workers have often traditionally presented a hyper feminine gender performance, for work related reasons, with street based sex workers occasionally using hyper femininity as a mechanism of advertising for clients, and many sex workers portraying such an unnatural, drag queeny femininity (as so much of sex work is playing with fantasy, and utilising the most obvious symbols and signals to get a cock hard, and get the client off in a discrete time period. So long hair, heels, lingerie, frocks, and sometimes a minimum of non-traditional body modifications are tools of our work. Thus, despising trad-femme signifiers is a particularly rough judgement when applied to whores, who may often utilise femininity to make a living (as diesel mechanics, storepeople and footballers often utilise aspects of trad masculinity to make a living). Whores are sometimes attracted to sex work exactly because of the excesses and delights of gender games and performance involved. As I grew up watching Marilyn Monroe playing honeyed mantraps to wealthy men in movie after movie, matching her status as sex object with his as success object, the idea of performing the role of the irresistibly femme object of desire who is worth every cent is an absolute hoot. Playing with gender, fantasy, power and pleasure has made sex work compelling for me for many many years; but that doesn’t mean I have lost any cognitive powers along the journey, or that I lack analysis of gender and power issues. Whereas those observers who will see my heels, cleavage and long hair and assume that this makes me dumb, easy or uncomplex should probably review their thinking about these issues and dig a little deeper.

Why do we buy into this self-hating crap? Why do we use the language that restricts the appearance, sexual behaviour and choices of women, femmes, feminine people, queers? Why do we as feminists not understand that while we need to promote femininity as one choice among many, rather than some default position, hating and slandering femininity is similar to hating and demonising women, that disrespecting femininity is truly the first step on the road to reinforcing that everything traditionally associated with women’s culture and traditional ways of being in the world is unworthy of being taken seriously or valued - you end up being Shelia Jeffreys. I understand that the early second wave of the feminist movement did powerful work in untangling notions of ‘natural’ femininity and that women’s destiny was tied up in our biology – most of us can get pregnant, give birth, lactate; therefore we must do the primary parenting and stay put at home and leave the public world to men – but questioning the ‘naturalness’ of this position and asking who benefits from the binary gender system and how we all lose out is very different than devaluing of women's roles, and many aspects of the second wave feminist movements - such as the Wages for Housework campaigns, were all about acknowledging the value of this work and role.

I shudder when I think about how easy it is to fall back into this way of being in the world. It's so high school, where the chicks fight over the popular boy, and destroy each other’s reputation for the casual power rush. I don’t think we have stopped oppressing each other as women, queers, gendered beings, feminine folk, femmes and humans until we stop demonising femininity, the sexually active/ aggressive and the sluts. And we don’t get to decide how smart, how politically aware or how valid someone is based on the length of that person’s hair, how excessive their frou frou is, or the shortness of their skirt.

*Girl medicine – a term used by Helen Eisenbach in Lesbianism Made Easy, I have since appropriated it and am running with it, because it is such a great term. Girl medicine is that stuff fed to those socialized as female in our culture, the 'some day my prince will come' bullshit that encourages us to put more passion and attention into our romantic relationships than anything else in our lives, to be reliant, to not be focused on achievement - but people pleasing, and to only value ourselves by our popularity.

** I would like to point out that I know of female sex workers who present in andro or butch ways, sometimes within a work context as well as the rest of their lives, and some will put on a wig and heels at work, and have a fantastic time being drag queens for a living. Some boy whores do butch, some do femme, and some do andro. Some whores don’t identify as boys, grrrls, butches, femmes or andros. Most sex workers I have met have interesting things to say about gender, however, sex workers don't need to be particularly politically savvy or oracles on gender or anything else in order for their sex work or gender presentation to be totally valid. I just wanted to be clear that sex workers don’t fit in boxes any more comfortably than anyone else.

Backwards and in High Heels...

(A reference to the {falsely attributed to Ginger Rodgers herself} quote, that she did everything Fred Astaire did, only backwards and in high heels.) How gorgeous is this seriously meringue frock, though? And I do love that quote - it's always resonated with me, as I've long been a fan of the idea that the trappings of femininity don't have to mean incapable.

High Heel Race in St. Petersburg

http://www.gadling.com/2007/07/30/high-heel-race-in-st-petersburg/

Hah! This is nothing.... when I started working in brothels in South Australia, they were regularly raided by the vice squad, so I had a lot of practice running in heels, scaling fences in heels, etc. I consider myself to be a high heel athlete!

My real primary identity just might be....

Stubborn.

stub·born (stŭb'ərn) adj., -er, -est.
Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bullheaded.
Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.
Characterized by perseverance; persistent.
Difficult to treat or deal with; resistant to treatment or effort: stubborn soil; stubborn stains.
[Middle English stuborn.]

I was rereading Hanne Blanks' 'Tits of Clay: Genderphilia and Changing the World, One Lipstick at a time' the keynote speach for the Femme 2006 conference, and again struck powerfully by the inherent stubborness in femme performance. Of course... in a culture that denigrates the feminine, considers women to be second class citizens and considers frippery and frou frou to be the ultimate in vain, insignificant, superficial stupidity (whereas beer and football are the vitally important aspects of life) femme is going to get a lot of opposition and not much support. Even femmes ourselves aren't immune from internalising these ideas and acting out self-oppression in a variety of ways...

When I am on the receiving end of anti-femme stuff: watch me wear higher and higher heels, watch me pout and hair flick, watch my dresses get lower and lower cut.... to a point where I may as well run around topless in a pony costume on stilts.... And watch me do this with my head held high, an articulate critique on enforced gender systems and knowing that a world that is safer for me will be a world safer for so many more than me.

In much the same way, I get stubborn when other aspects of my identity that are dear to me are denigrated. If people are reacting negatively about sex work, I get outer and outer about it. Talking more about the 'ins and outs' (if you'll pardon the pun) than just the industrial rights issues and other sex worker rights stuff. People who are weird about sex work (and let's face it... that would be most people, on some level) are forced to either have whoring normalised for them via the absorbtion method, or get so freaked out that they go away. Either way, I create safe space around myself.

All the same it gets really, really fucking tedious to have to be wearing my community educators hat all the time... I don't always want to do sex work 101 (or demystifying femme plus queer theory stuff) for two hours everytime I meet someone new at a dinner party. I'm not always going to correct a taxi driver when they assume I'm straight, or tell them the truth about what I do for a living when they pick me up from my house. For a long time I was considering producing a pamphlet covering frequently asked questions - maybe I'll just hand out my blog URL...

I wonder sometimes if I expect too much - that people will see beyond the outness, and know that even though I shout loudly about these issues (and I might feel the need to stop shouting quite so loudly about the same time as the world becomes less whorephobic, sexist and genderphobic) there are many aspects about me that are more subtle, less loud but still there - I am not a stereotype, or a cardboard cut out. I can't walk in flats, but I'm physically stronger and more athletic than most people I know, and I have never played dumb in my life...... I guess only those that pay attention are going to see all of my flavours, or know that just because I care passionately about femme visiblity and sex worker rights, I, like all people, am a million and one things that aren't easy to define, sum up, reduce or package.

Delirious tired thoughts of someone who has spent too much time lately thinking about femme theory stuff...

BDSM between femmes: Flicking hair at each other and insulting each others outfits.

Anti-Femme

So I’ve been dealing with some anti-femme attitudes and behaviour lately. I’m not really blogging to address those attitudes – I’ve mostly dealt with those things with the people concerned, or don’t have enough respect for the people concerned to let their attitudes affect me. I am blogging about it, as I am so weirded out that queers – as opposed to loony anti-sex, anti-everything ‘feminists’ would walk around with unexamined issues about femme…and I wanted to reflect on what it is that I mean when I refer to myself and my actions as femme, as well as create some space for myfemmeself to reenergise and reempower. All of these words are my thoughts, my opinions and refer only to my identity and are not meant to speak for other femmes – we are all too damn good at speaking in our own voices. I would love to hear feedback from other passionate articulate femmes I know that read this. So - I'll begin random snippets of ranting...


Actually, anti-femme bigotry isn’t any more fun for me to be on the receiving end of than sex workerphobia, sexism, racism or homophobia (and I believe anti-femme stuff is linked to both sexism, homophobia and sexworkerphobia).

F is for femme, and fierce, and ferocious and fuck you, you fucking bigot. I am not light weight anything. I am not weak, and I may be fluffy, but I am also as sharp and dangerous as my stiletto heels, baby. Femme is not necessarily easy, passive, bottom, pretty or brainless. Oh, and by the way, passivity and bottom themselves can be powerful valid spaces to occupy.

Femmes continue to fight sexism and homophobia and invisibility and be seen as non-feminist and non-queer and still won’t stop reapplying lipstick in our own totally gorgeous stubborn ways. Stubborn, defiant and glamourous? What’s not to love and respect?

Many things seen as being femme ain’t necessarily so…femme is NOT the same as feminine – femininity is a bunch of qualities that are traditionally seen as inherently female, or imposed on those seen as female, and punished if demonstrated by those seen as male. Femme is not default, it is chosen. Femme is not normative, it is transgressive.
However, I’m sure most people on the planet have unaddressed residue from the gendered behaviour that was imposed on them by their culture. Unexamined behaviours, such as avoiding assertiveness, by going in round about ways to get what we want, rather than explicitly asking for it –should be seen as evidence of a history in which women haven’t been encouraged to have needs or desires let alone pursue them openly. Traditionally, women used whatever tools where available to them, including manipulation, sexual attractiveness and misdirection. If we are still using those tools, then the pervasive nature of institutionalised sexism, rather than women should be blamed.
If femmes slip into unexamined, undesirable behaviours, that doesn’t mean that behaviour is inherently femme. If you are unclear of what femme is, maybe you need to do some reading, rather than just apply this term in arbitrary ways.

I find it strange and creepy that people who binge drink, smoke, probably don’t exhibit great self–care practices and may do more traditionally edgy permanent body modification will be okay about telling me how crippled my feet will be when I’m older if I continue to wear heels all the time….

Femme identity isn’t only about frocks, heels, makeup or other accessories – there are actually significant texts out there about it. The accessories are important to us as signposts, as metaphors, as armour, as come-fuck-me plumage for the mating dance, and as fun, but strip us naked, scrape off our makeup, and make us walk barefoot *shudder* and we’ll still be femmes. Angry femmes, but femmes.

And I'll finish off with the femme allyship statement from the Femme 2006 conference:

Femme Ally Statement
Our femme allies stand beside us in support of our endeavours to be known, seen, respected and acknowledged; You know that we have always been a force in our community, you know that as femmes we have made our own journeys, fought our own battles, and always had your backs. You want to remind us of our value in the community when we grow weary because some see us merely as ornaments or trophies. You are not afraid of our femininity or our feminism or our need to be visible in our own right. You resonate with our power and know that it compliments and supports your own. <more>

Another rambly relationships post

I found this online today, http://www.blackheartsparty.com/

It is gorgeously over the whole lurve thing. Where else can you get your greedy little paws on cards featuring road kill, and the inner message,"thinking of you" or the 'sorry we're breaking up' cards with a cutie love teddy with an axe through its head? Where else can you acquire t-shirts proclaiming "needy and clingy" and "will fuck for attention"? These fashion statements are (almost) guaranteed not to put you at risk of falling into a relationship. If these don't work, consider customising your own tee, with the big headline 'Bunny Boiler'. That ought to do it. I am feeling cynical enough that I've decided that next time I break up with someone, I'll use the fake your own death and skip the State method. Much less likely to result in hostility than if I actually engage in discussion.

On other lurve related matters, a whore friend of mine gave me The Rules (I and II) stating that my thoughts exactly fitted with these writers' on the lurve thing. I was utterly freaked out that this may have been the case, so carefully read both of them, let them sit for a while, then read them over again, taking notes this time, in order to give them a chance, so that my prejudice against 'how to catch yourself a husband' material didn't get in the way. The Rules II, I was happy to see, included a section on same sex relationships. So here is my thoughts on The Rules - for str8 girls, who are looking for a quite traditional marriage, with a quite traditional str8 man, following the Rules, will, in my opinion, almost guarantee it.

The Rules are based on desperately hiding how 'needy and clingy' you are, in order to not scare him away, and never letting him be too sure that he is 'the one'. Pretty damn fail-safe, really. Hide the needy lurve-obsessed psycho aspects that seem to be part and parcel of the female conditioning thing, and he will fall for the new improved version of you. However, there is lots of stuff in The Rules that I don't mind so much, such as keep yourself really busy doing other things, so you don't get relationship obsessed. And based on the idea that you can get the practice right, and then the attitude will follow (or fake it until you make it), act as much as possible as if you were a whole person, with or without a relationship. So, yes, there are aspects of The Rules that fit in with how I see things, however, there is so much about the whole thing that makes me a little ill. The fact that it originally came out about the same time as the 'surrendered wives' movement (the 1990s) has probably affected my view here, also the idea that you should never ask the guy out, pay for anything in the early stages, etc freaks me out.

Obviously, there are quite a few femmes in this town that would agree with those ways of functioning in a relationship, however, while some part of me loves the idea of being a creature unlike any other, some part of me thinks that it should be enough for women to be merely human. That the same notions of chivalry that put us on pedestals also lock us into oppressive, inflexible social roles.

On non-lurve topics, my voice has gone from, according to others, delightfully husky, at the Call Girls Launch on Wednesday night, to non-existent by Thursday morning. In between trying to sleep it off (my remedy for all things), I have be wondering around, loudly whispering, to housemates - which of course means everyone else starts whispering back. It is all very odd, as aside from my voice being gone, I feel fabulous. I'm off to Hellfire tonight, to be very silent and mysterious, however I really need to see MooZoo doing Bovinity. Sadly, I've consumed about 12 large garlic cloves over the last 24 hours to ward of illness, so being bitten by Vampires tonight is unlikely.

On Cats and Femmes

Cinnamon, one of my beautiful furry beasts, was entertaining the household this morning by doing delightful full body roll and slide maneuvers on the lounge room rug. Zoo commented on the similarities between Cinnamon's and my approach to getting attention. It reminded me of how I used to see a client when I was fairly new to sex work, who asked me to act sexy. It's a difficult thing to summon up on command, so I just started moving around the room like a cat, slow and slinky. He was quite happy, and it's worked for me ever since.

I decided at one point that all cats are in fact femmes - including the toms (whereas there is something rather butch about dogs - except maybe poodles). After all, cats all walk around on heels. And female cats are called queens. I know I feel most sexy when in cat drag. My Lawrence has a hesitant pitter patter, rather like Audrey Hepburn in her ingenue roles, and Cinnamon walks like a drunken Elizabeth Taylor, with the shoulder straps of her slip about to fall off.

Moving and down time

Well, I've finally moved in to the queer grrrl frat house. The move was making me crazy and I was acting like a total cranky frock with working days at my various jobs, then heading over to the old place to pack more boxes, then on to the frat house to sleep for about 5 hours before starting all over again. There was a couple of weeks when I was trudging about in jeans with my hair scraped into a bun.... I saw a few friends who hadn't seen me in anything but skirts and frocks... after a while of this, I started to feel so disorientated.

One of my favourite books Jitterbug Perfume speaks about a time when Pan has become so weak from the prevailence of Christianity that he has become completely invisible, leaving only his voice and his musky, goaty odour. When two of his companions want to smuggle him to the new world (America) they work at devising a perfume to mask his scent in order to take him on a boat. Half way along the journey, he starts going mad, not knowing who he is anymore without his scent. I was starting to feel similar, wearing jeans day after day, until I decided against practicality and put a skirt and cleavage maximising top on to go and do packing (of clothes), one night. Much better.

Then last weekend, which was to be the last of packing, I had a melt down and instead of going to work at my parlour on Sunday, I ended up going to a photoshoot with Zoo and other lurvely queer grrrls. I had previously pulled out of this, being too busy. With most of my frou frou still in boxes, I made do with what was immediately available, which was the contents of my workbag. Even though all of us there were tired, stressed, floppy, or menstrually affected, we still looked damn cute, and with some forced feminisation and some cock sucking Zoo, I was made quite happy. I did get a mite carried away and stomped on Zoo's poor head with a stiletto. . . It was a fun way to spend the afternoon, and a much welcome respite from the move that seemed to never end.

I've been attempting to pull back from activities a bit, to better manage my stress levels. Sydney is such a busy place, and it is so damned easy to get sucked into the void of always going out because there is always something going on. I have been spending down time on You Tube way too much, reigniting my lifelong love of Boy George. I was even considering going to the MG party this year, as he was DJing. I had to remind myself how much I hate big parties, and that it was highly unlikely that he was going to ask me to marry him (one of my childhood dreams). Instead, I get to watch much old videos on You Tube, and even found this gem, of a live performance of Culture Club with Dolly Parton, doing Your Kisses are Charity. Dolly Parton and Boy George - together! Does life get any finer?

The next thing I'm focusing on - having just started to sleep better, is to have some hassle free fun in order to decrease stress. The Easter Show, Gurlesque (attending -not performing) and watching the Bettie Page film over the next week or so.... before things start in earnest with organising International Whores Day, and saving more money and reducing debt - which is a big aim for this year. I have yet to reduce my activist involvement to managable levels. Partly because I don't want to. As much as I need more time to relax and unwind, there is still much to be done, and my community isn't big enough to pull back entirely and leave it to others, yet. Balance always seems to be the biggest challenge of all.

Disaster Strikes

I've been pretty stressed since about September last year. Having to do lots of organising work, which is so far from being my forte, it may as well be the work of a diesel mechanic, along with a death, and ongoing financial issues (thanks to the Howard government economic and welfare reforms the sex industry is ridiculously oversupplied and is now a very unpleasant buyers market), my coping mechanisms, such as they are, no longer exist.

I have been experiencing such reduced social skills, that my tiny bit of MG swanning about has meant strange, awkward conversations - which is a bit sad, as those conversations have been with people I like a lot, and would like to know better. Waking up tired, and going to sleep with a list of things I couldn't fit into my day rattling around in my head. Last years plan of socialising madly to counteract isolation as both the symptom and cause of depression - which seemed like such a nice idea to start with - has spiralled out of control. I need to step off the rollercoaster, and I need to do it now.

Over the last week - my body has let me know in the most unpleasant way possible that I need to take action, in terms of self care, and to take ruthless measures around reducing this ongoing stress. For a femme who would rather lose a limb than cut my hair, this is the biggest red flag ever. A circle of hair close to my hair line is missing. I have a bald patch! It's only about a centimetre in diameter, but this has terrified me. If I don't stop being so damned stressed, I may lose the lot! Okay, so it's vain and superficial to be worried about hair, but my hair - big, messy and careening, all uncontrolled, untamed and just-been-fucked has been the ultimate symbol of all the things about my personality that I like and want to preserve. I also have a sneaking suspicion that without big hair, I'd look like a girlier version of Bert Newton. Even if this is unlikely, I have no intention of finding out for sure.

Damn my body for using such drastic persuasion. Couldn't I just start developing migraines, nervous tics and sleep walking? Must pull back, must destress, must eat better, must listen to dolphin CDs, must pay attention to my needs, must get some damn sleep.

Femme Fest

The multitude of glorious femme presences in Sydney is very exciting. I attended the opening of Domestic Love @ Kudos Gallery, Paddington on Tuesday. Gorgeous art by glorious femmes, some serious frockage worn by attendees and they served pink iced cupcakes and musk sticks *sigh!*
If you haven’t seen this exhibition yet, I highly recommend it – femmy/ domestic/ housewifery themed art, all curated by the amazingly beautiful and talented Lady Penelope.

Another femme happening I've been a part of (as participant, rather than voyeur) was Zoo and my roving Milk 'n' Cookies roving performance at Velvet. A quick rundown: Us wearing sturdy foundation garments and aprons roving through crowd. Zoo wearing fake bosoms, one full of soy, one full of cow milk. I am carting picnic basket full of cookies. Crowd members asked if they would like milk & cookies. Cookie inserted in cleavage - Zoo squirts with milk of choice, people consume from cleavage. Lots of fun with femme/ mummy feeding/ nurturing paradym. I ended up with crumby, milky, salivery cleavage and bra. Messy, grrrly, silly fun had by all.

I loved the fact that the most enthusiastic feedees where dykes around the 50+ mark. Much burying of heads in breasts and noisy joyful sounds. Yummy. (Oh, and I can now die happy, having fed a former Playschool presenter from my cleavage, and while most managed to get the whole cookie in one mouthful, it took her at least three bites - I love my life sometimes). Despite pre-performance prop dramas (and some considering of calling in a good-with-hir-hands butch), this was one the most hasslefree piece I've ever been involved with. No lines to learn. No 'fluffing' required. Quite liberating to know that sometimes all you need in a great concept - thanks and spanks to Madam Phantasm - cute costumes, well behaved breasts, up-for-it performers and a receptive crowd. This was also the only non-whore related performance I've done for about 10 years, and first time ever with Zoo - except for some strange nights at Sly, that could arguably be called performance....For Zoo's write up of the frivolity, and more pics, see here.

Pretty Ugly

I've been thinking lately about the high price of femme. I've always had a hard time defining exactly what it is that I'm talking about - what I'm meaning when I speak of femme. What is this word code for? When asked by an andro dyke I used to work in a parlour with, I described it as 'restraint as art form'. This still kinda works for me as a description of my own femme expression. I know that as a woman, I don't have to take up smaller space, use a more limited range of movement, but there is something very satisfying and sexy about occupying that limited range - and about achieving all you need to in that space, without having to throw tantrums. I don't feel particularly inadequate or fearful about presenting my unmadeup face to the world, but I feel most powerful and dominant in big lashes and cocksucker red lipstick.

On some level, the women in my family were always the strong ones - although more or less staying within traditional gender roles, they managed to go about their business, doing most of the work of creating homes, raising children and using their social skills to smooth over bumps and to create group cohesion. Compared to this, the men in the family went to work, sat in armchairs, were trained to piss sitting down so as not to make a mess, occasionally attempted to assert their masculinity and dominance to the amusement of all present, and then retreated within. (Please note, at no time will you hear me idealise my upbringing as an example of a healthy dynamic).

It's unsuprising then, that I never got the idea that women were the weaker sex, or that I needed a man to be big and brave and protect me. Also unsurprising that I've never associated femininity with passivity, only ever with power and sucess. However, I was raised believing that some of the really amazing things about woman is their ability to achieve despite restricted circumstances. All of this sounds very politically dodgy, as if I'm suggesting that women don't need equal rights, that second class citizenship is some kind of badge of honour - that actually isn't what I'm suggesting, just that I was raised with the consciousness that women did the significant work in society, so of course we are amazing and strong.

Which brings me to all of the ways I've done femme body modification - as a way of revelling in my body's femme strength and power - I've shortened my achilles tendon by constant wearing of heels since about the age of 15, it is now extremely uncomfortable to wear flats (or sensible shoes). My feet are also usually calloused and blistered as I often break in new shoes by going out on 2 hour walks in them, or wearing them out for a night of dancing. I can relate to ballerinas who produce such images of grace and beauty until you take off the pointe shoes. Wearing corsetry and the kind of bras that create the best cleavage will often mean I have callouses around my breasts or under my arms from the harsh rub of boning or underwire. My hair is so big and heavy as to sometimes give me headaches. Body hair removal has left me scarred from ingrown hairs, and makeup does horrible things to my poor skin..... What ends up being important for me in my gender performance is not flawlessness or perfection, but the warm inner glow of my arches being stretched in 6 inch heels, that feeling of tightness, of regulated movement from stern foundation garment and pencil skirts. Femme for me has always been a fetishistic expression of constraint and restriction - fierce rather than pretty. And as with most forms of fetish, it can certainly look ugly and/or incomprehensible to those that don't get it.

I get that femininity as defined by this culture ain't natural for anyone - as imposed on everyone with an F on their birth certificate, and denied to all those with an M it's a hideous form of social control. Femininity as a chosen tool and sex toy for femmes is so very much fun (at least as long as I can still walk in heels...)

*Please note - this post is all about my own ownership and expression of what femme means for me - I would never suggest that someone is not femme, or is less femme if they don't do the make up, heels, big hair or tight skirts. I think femme has the capacity for enormous fun and power, I want it to be available to anyone and everyone who wants to play - regardless of how they play it.

Must clean or the spiders will be wearing my clothes next

After taking it a bit easier for a few weeks, less trashiness at the Sly Fox, more relaxed forms of socialising - Wizard of Oz watching with Madam Phantasm, lunches and coffees with Zoo, walks in the park with a charming gentlebutch and New Years Eve picnicking with whore activists - the last week and a bit has been full on - adventures at Gurlesque (in which Wife was amazing - all exuburance, sexy bondage and a very lucky bottle) and Veronica from the US reminded me that good spoken word is hotter than nudity, any day of the week. Back to the Sly for rather disappointing show with Sex and Glita away (hooray for the fabric twirling boy though), and dinners out all the time, Spurs For Jesus for Zoo's natal anniversary and dinner for mine, I'm a leetle puffed out and need a good lie down.

The aim of taking space is to ease back into my own body - to recover from the energy I put out in frantic social spaces. And I need to recover sufficiently to feel up to engaging with the housework, right now.

My space is in absolute choas. I keep finding diamantes imbedded in my carpet - I don't know where they've come from. Everything is covered in a thick film of my (head) hair and cat fur. There has been a silver false eyelash caught in a spiders web half way up my kitchen wall for at least a month. I guess I should be pleased that at least my chaos is undeniably femme chaos. However, I think June Cleaver would be horrified, all the same.

I do have this grand plan of wearing a french maid uniform in the hopes that this will inspire me to clean (will turning it into a fetish activity be enough motivation)? Or possibly erecting an altar to Hestia (Vesta in the Roman tradition) a goddess after June Cleaver's own heart she rules over the hearth and home, never leaving or involving herself with outside concerns (will turning cleaning into religious practice provide the imputus).?

Glimpses of a Baby Whoretic

First sign I was a feminist:
Sitting in church every week, listening to the sermons given by the Priest. Thinking that's what I wanted to be when I grew up (I was maybe 4 at a guess). I thought I'd be able to give really inspiring sermons, shifting people's attitudes and lifestyles for the better. When I worked out I could never be a priest because I was a grrrl, a cold core of anger formed in my heart and Catholicism died a personal death for me. Kids always know what's fair and unfair.

First sign I was a femme:
In that same church, sitting in the same family pew every week, a woman sitting in the pew in front of us had hair so long she could sit on it. I was hungry and transfixed by her hair every week, imagining the day when I would be old enough to own hair as gloriously long myself. (I still do)

First sign I had a life-long boner for gender queers:
I was about 8 and madly, deeply in love with Boy George. I (somehow) knew he was gay, but just didn't care. I'd never seen a more beautiful creature. I collected every magazine, every poster. I slept with a Boy George doll. It feels a leetle creepy now to think of it - it was a Barbie-type of plastic doll, not a rag doll. But it was Boy George! With beautiful painted make up and the colour by numbers suit *sigh*

First sign I was into women:
A childhood spent watching 60s TV show reruns on the afternoon. Ginger Grant (the movie star) from Gilligans Island - the curves, the beehive, the shimmering evening gowns, the sexy music that played whenever she entered a scene. I now get that she was a second-rate Marilyn Monroe impersonator, but at the time....

And Catwoman from the old Batman TV show. Cat suits, claws, growls and purrs, ballet moves, sexy and dangerous in the one combination.

If there were sexy butch characters in 60s sitcoms, I just might have skipped a few stages in erotic development.

First sign I was kinky:
Playing Batman and Robin with my two male cousins. It was about the age where for a year or two most grrrls are stronger than most boys. I (of course) was Catwoman. Every time we played, I'd beat them, capture and tie them up, before revealing their secret identities to the world and killing them. They used to complain that this wasn't what was supposed to happen, but somehow it always did.

First sign I was going to be a whore when I grew up:
Finally familiarising myself with the original Monroe - late night movies: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, How to Marry a Millionaire. I decided having a sugar daddy was better than getting a dreary job or catching myself a husband. Freedom and diamond tiaras! I could never quite work out how to obtain a sugar daddy (and after watching my friends manage the demands and controlling behaviour of theirs, I decided I didn't want one) so regular sex work it was.

Debby Doesn't Do It For Free Update

The Debbys performed our HoHoHo Whore Variety Show last Sunday, and I'm at a stage now where I can speak about it with any degree of persective. I'll briefly speak about the show itself, but I'd also like to reflect on some of my choices in relation to performance.

Most of the Debbys are involved with several other whore activist activities - plus sex work on top of all of that, plus our recent loss impacted on all of us, so the decision to do a variety show - involving the fabulously funny and sex positive Sex and Glita from Gurlesque, the very sexy, political and supportive Kitty Minge and out/proud/glam Team Princess - as guest artists was a profoundly good decision.

The night started of with a rousing sex worker Christmas carol, followed by a beautifully silly, tasteless and highly political Steve Irwin inspired piece *crikey!* Much thanks to Kooky Divine for the opportunity to be a bloodsucking sexual health nurse and wear my vinyl nursie uniform, vampire fangs and carry a bottle of Dettol. Kitty Minge followed with much flashing and sex worker relevent stand up. Debby Desiderata did a gorgeous dance piece including (in loving memory of Drag Debby) some fire. Team Princess explored the whore stigma and crucifixion.

After the break, we showed a DVD of Drag Debbys final performance, then Mr Big Pants and Ms Big Wig did another cynical piece about politicians then Ginger Snapps did a fan dance with dollars, Debby Jett performed I Love Hocking My Hole, Sex and Glita did The Telephone Man (Sex looks uncannily like some of my early street work clients for this piece - a bit disturbing, really) and the finally piece, involving Decriminalise Debby, Disorganised Debby and myself was Don't W.H.I.S.P.E.R., SHOUT!

We've previously done Don't W.H.I.S.P.E.R, SHOUT! for Gurlesque and personally, it's a really difficult piece for me to perform. I have many moments during rehersals and the actual performing of asking myself why I get people to do such terrible things to me on stage. How much I'm struggling with it is apparent for some of the audience - I've had two people who identify as subs at different times comment to me after seeing it that I'm definately not a sub.

I guess my approach to performing is a similar one to my general community education approach - get people to make a connection and identify with me in some way, so it's easier for them to 'experience' my experiences, and to see the world through my eyes for a short period of time. Most of my performance ideas are layered with theory, so getting people to make an emotional connection, and/or throwing some sexiness into the mix is a powerful way of encouraging an audience to hang in there for the ride. Embodying the whore (rather than being one of many flesh and blood whores) for people, then acting out experiences of oppression/ disenfranchisment/silencing/stigma/being the archetype for patriarchy/ sex negative feminists to play with when exploring their sexual neurosis - is a major function of my performance work. I hope that by embodying the archetype - by putting a face, brain and opinion to the nameless, faceless other, it allows the audience to explore what we do as a culture with that archetype (and the human beings that embody it). And if I'm obviously experiencing discomfort, I think that fits in perfectly.

Because I'm really wanting to connect emotionally with an audience and to present something with layers of sex radicalism/ critique of patriarchal religion/ queer theory - plus a bit of cultural studies thrown in to the mix, my performative style is often a tricky one. I'll often put my body through an ordeal, flirt with Catholic energy and offer myself as the not-so-virgin sacrifice. The discomfort and confusion that creates for some audience members is important. Confusion is often a powerful place from which growth and learning can come.

Some feedback from some sex worker audience members who know and like me is interesting - it is hard for them to see these things being done to me. I just know I need to do this. I need to comment on a culture that comments on me and my choices. I need to take for myself the right of reply. It is a healthier choice than sitting in my own anger and frustration.

I also love being very, very femme and very, very strong - even when I'm 'subbing' in some way or recieving penetration or sensation play, I like to use my voice, body language and point of view to express agency, autonomy, power. I like to offer alternatives to strict binaries. I love to queer the popular perception of femme. The overwhelming majority of the femmes I know are articulate, powerful and very political people. How the hell the opposite characteristics emerged as the femme stereotype, I'll never know. After all, it takes a powerful, grounded character to navagate life in stillettos.

I wanted to say thank you to the Debbys audience. Gorgeous, intellegent people who are willing to engage with bad karaoke, politics, cunts, drag, and whatever else occurs to us to present you with. In listening to the voices of whores you do more than the politicians, bureaucrats, academic feminists, mainstream media and often AIDS Councils.

Swimming laps in the queerphabet soup

For many, many years I identified as bisexual. Actually for a decent chunk of that time, my personal sexual identity was pansexual – pan being all encompassing. Having had a range of partners including trans and intersex people, I acknowledge that there are certainly more than two sexes, and probably a different gender expression if not identity for each person on the planet.

So while I generally (publicly, politically) called myself bisexual (so many people struggle conceptually with the broadness of bisexuality, let alone moving even further away from binary thinking); I really embraced pansexuality. I loved the largeness of the word. All encompassing; wide open spaces; don’t fence me in. As a pagan, *Pan is one of my all time favourite poster gods. Half-animal, all musky smelling and feral. Earthy, goaty and sexual. A leering, queering trickster deity. Silly looking with little horns, cloven hooves and little fluffy tail. Yet to those of us who honour the wild gods of the earth, and the body’s intelligence – he is all wisdom and nobility.

Over a long time – years and years, my attraction for bio guys was on the wane. So was my comfort with heterosexuality. My one significant relationship with a str8 man was fraught with a fundamental lack of compatibility. Although an anarcho activist boy, how could he a str8 white able bodied man get my experience of marginalisation – and how my whore activism, and queer community space nurtured me (and why I insisted on wearing queer tshirts on our dates).

I was never ever comfortable with passing for str8. I never wanted, or knew what to do with heterosexual privilege. It pissed me off that my parents were ready to embrace any guy I was with– no matter how casual – as my life partner, and any woman, no matter how much she made my heart sing, as just a good friend. I still hate the stereotype of bi women always prioritising their relationships with male partners - that was never my practice, or the practice of the other bi community attached women I knew. I recognise that for some het community attached bi women, there is little incentive to honour the women in your life, I'd like to see that as being more about the heterosexism and general misogyny in our culture, that takes some personal awareness and internal work to move beyond.

So for a long time I was narrowing my partner choices to women, gender queers and bi guys who I could put in lingerie and fuck their arses. This worked for a while, but then many of the bi guys I was fucking were so very into their own cocks, so penis in vagina sex became The Main Event. All the other fun, creative, sexy things people can do together were sidelined. While I’m not averse to being fucked, it’s certainly not my most favourite dish on the menu.

Then – of course there is politics. The grooviest, most progressive boys I was playing with were still too far from being comparable to the gorgeous, smart feminist women in my life. Unfortunately the pro-feminist men’s movement seems just as tiny and lacking in influence as it did 10 years ago, while the other men’s movement is full of intimidating black shirts and seething resentment towards women.

The acknowledgement that bio men were no longer part of my erotic world was a sad one for me. My sexuality was no longer the neat reflection of my coalitionist politics, my instinct for inclusion. The tiny but sex positive bi community had always been so much cooler about my sex work, about my trans partners, about the dresses and heels. I also would like to believe that men will one day be better at understanding the impacts of sexism and refusing to participate in it; but who has the time to wait for that fine day? So it took me a damn long time to stop mourning my loss and to be comfortable identifying as a dyke, even now I usually add some words – femme dyke, queer dyke, dyke whore.

I now really like being a part of the shift in the dyke community – away from lesbian separatism. Away from policing our own behaviour. Towards a more diverse community. Towards sex positivity. Along with lesbianism, my attraction towards butch women has increased. While I make more sense in dyke spaces if I’m with a butch – I look less like a str8 girl who’s lost her way – my interest in butches isn’t around anchoring an identity, or around fitting in, or safety. It’s more about my life long passion for gender queers. I’ve always loved and appreciated the bravery exhibited by people who look uncompromisingly queer. Who are never going to pass as str8.There is a certain way butches communicate, inhabit their bodies and spaces that makes me weak at the knees. I never feel like I can even explain this quality, let alone understand it – as how I live in the world is quite, quite different. I don’t get much homophobia as I walk through the world; I get constant unwanted sexual attention from men instead. Obviously, I’ve capitalised on that by doing sex work – but who can say what is harder to live with – the invisibility and sleaze experienced by femmes, or the homophobia experienced by butches?

In many ways, I'm a very unstereotype femme. I didn't date butches at all up until relatively recently, partly because there isn't much of a butch-femme scene in Lil old Adelaide when I was growing up - and also, as a bi whore, the experiences of marginalisation I had felt within the lesbian community meant that up until the last 4 years or so, I wasn't dating dykes at all. It was safer and easier to stick to other bi whores (usually also femmes) than risk the impact of stigma up close. And as someone with a strong femme identity since my late teens, but without the expectation that femme means I must date a certain way, I don't feel like I have to be dating or fucking anyone at all to validate my queerness, or to justify my presence in the community. I know in every cell of my body that I'm queer as fuck.

My journey continues, swimming my way through queer waters. I’ve always tried to tell the truth about my life and feelings – and that means embracing change and growth. I hate that my life experience might somehow add to the pervasive notion of bisexuality as a phase one goes through, however I have always felt that the goddess meant me to walk a certain path – and that my path so far seems to be a fluid one.

*For further ideas about the personality of Pan, and his importance, I recommend Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins