ATTACK!

When I have nightmares, I really go to town. No ‘clowns will eat me stuff’, I dream of scary, apocalyptic happenings. I dreamt the other night that Neo Nazis were taking over, and were herding up all the queers and assorted freaks, to take us away to the camps.

You might think, with my long hair and high heels, that I’d be relatively safe…. But then there is that *black triangle tattooed on my wrist, with the words QUEER DYKE WHORE bordering it…… Well, I just made it real easy for them, didn’t I? They didn’t even have to take the time embroidering a patch for me.

As the odds were, I was going to be killed anyway, I figured I would just go ahead and lecture them all, stern mummy style: “You do realise, don’t you, that you are targeting minority groups in order to avoid dealing with your own issues. And it won’t help one bit. Once we are all gone, you’ll still be stuck with the same problems!”

I don’t think my finger wagging and ranting made an ounce of difference, or turned any one away from their minority-persecuting ways. Those who have heard this story so far have remarked that this is exactly what they would imagine me doing, under the circumstances. “I’m not frightened of you, you nasty little Nazi brat! What, do you think that gun distracts every one from your insecurities? Have you tried a self help book, or some counselling?”


* Black triangle (badge)

The black triangle has sometimes appeared as a lesbian or feminist symbol of pride and solidarity.
The symbol originates from Nazi concentration camps, where every prisoner had to wear one of the Nazi concentration camp badges on their jacket, the colour of which categorised them according "their kind." Individuals deemed "asocial" had to wear the black triangle. The majority of black-triangle prisoners were mentally retarded or homeless. But smaller groups of prisoners were also given this badge, including alcoholics, the habitually "work shy," prostitutes, and others.
…
In the Nazis' meticulous records there is no word of the black triangle having been imposed on lesbians, or of lesbians as a group being confined to concentration camps. However, some have reasoned that since the Nazis believed strongly in a traditional social role for women, lesbians and other sexually unconventional women might logically have been considered "asocial" from the Nazis' point of view.

And oooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Orangutans!

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2007/10/05/2051504.htm

(thanks to Mr Bear for the linky)

Surely the easiest test for pre-pubescent queerness

“I was the only kid in the audience who didn’t understand why Dorothy would ever want to go back to that black and white farm and those smelly animals, when she could live with winged monkeys and magic shoes and gay lions.”

John Waters from This Filthy World
(playing at the Dendy through Queer Screen) lookie here: http://www.queerscreen.com.au/j/index.php?option=com_jcalpro&Itemid=265&extmode=view&extid=2

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.

Exciting Animal Tails

So there is this moth recently found in Madagascar, that feeds on the tears of birds. It has a long, harpoon like proboscis, which it inserts under the eyelids of sleeping birds, in order to drink from their tears. This latest find joins other moth species who drink the tears of elephants.

The good news in all this that even at my most bouncy and boundaryless, I have yet to decend to this level of creepiness. In other animal news, the Box Jellyfish has 64 anus's. No, I have absolutely no idea why.

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.

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.

The joys of Quitting

I've been on patches since Saturday. As usual, when trying to quit smoking, my dream-life becomes vivid, and remarkably filled out. A cast of characters that rather resemble the sexual role call that my life has become over the last 6 weeks or so. On Saturday night I was wearing Mayhem's vulva mask (see her user pic) for at least half of an epic dream that seemed to take hours. My dream imagery is often very unsubtle and unimaginative. It became clear upon waking that this is a comment on my lack of shagging action over the last month, and my feelings in relation to this. Arrggghhhh! You'd think that my subconcious could come up with another metaphor for sexual frustration that walking around with a giant cunt on my head...

Sunday night I was living in a trailer park (is this a statement about my anxiety over the high costs of living in Sydney? Or a reflection of class conflict?) Within the first day of not smoking, my hideous flu returned. Flu-like symptoms are usually associated with detoxing from herion, leaving no illusions about how damned addictive cigarettes are. The good thing about this flu is I'm too busy being sick to notice withdrawl symptoms.

I had a client the other day who seemed to be wishing to help me out with any oral-fixation issues I might have as a result of not smoking- with a 45 minute blow job! Anyway, I clearly don't have any oral fixation issues - thanks Mr Freud (sometimes a cigar is just a cigar). This is a guy who has clearly watched way too much porn.... he seemed to really think that cock sucking would be such a treat for me. It's kinda funny that he picked the dyke top out of the line up. It would've been more fun for me if he wanted to suck my cock.

I'm actually enjoying the detox time. It feels good to release all this stored crap. The timing may seem a little strange, but being away from my non-sex work job for a couple of weeks means that I can be so brain-dead from withdrawl, without it impacting much on me.The thing that concerns me is not drinking, and having such a minimal illicit drug intake, I'll be left with no vices. there is something so smug and puritanical about str8-edge types, I'd hate to resemble them. Quitting feels like another valuable way of demonstrating my commitment to myself.

Fight the Right

jesus_excuse_300
Originally uploaded by whoretic.

Many exciting things on the internet. Some of my current favourites include this site for Ladies Against Women, a parody of the anti-feminist women of the Reagan era - almost as terrifying as the surrended wives movement and Ladies against Feminism. However, I want several Ladies Against Women badges, such as Born to Clean and Close your Eyes and Do your Duty.

I'm also a fan of http://godhatesshrimp.com/ that looks at one of the other insane abominations from Leviticus other than the thou shalt not fuck person with similar bits to you section.

With the scary rise in the religious right in Australia, I'm interested in performance protest as a creative way of being heard. I love the idea of using creative performance protest against the scary rise of right wing christianity in Australia. I want to picket along with a group of loopy christians holding a placard saying god hates shrimp. The only thing freaking me out about Ladies Against Women is that I think they look great, rather than silly..... It's a femme thing.

Who was that masked fluffer?

During a day into evening shift at my brothel last week, I had three clients in a row say I reminded them of an ex girlfriend. Spooky.

Now clients will choose a particular worker for a range of reasons: she seemed the least threatening and he was feeling shy, he has a thing for blondes, he saw her last time and had fun, she offers a specialist service that he wants, he likes curvier or bustier women, she reminds him of an ex he has fond memories of or someone he has a crush on, he's never had sex wih someone like her before, she seemed the most friendly, she gave him a wink during the introduction and he thinks that means she'll be fun in the room, she tripped over when coming in to the intro room but laughed it off and he found that attractive....

Three in a row who think I remind them of an ex is a bit much though. I was finding it creepy initially. I was also offended that I remind anyone of anyone, I do like to see myself as unique. Then I thought about it some more.... there is some nice woman out there fluffing all these guys for me who then pay me for sex. Thanks anonomous fluffer. Much appreciated.

A Retraction

I take back some of my earlier comments on the Hair Monster post.... apparently it takes a femme to know what to do with all that hair....

Three things that have made me happy this month:

1 The return of Gurlesque! I was at the October 1st Gurlesque Sleaze Recovery, and was very, very happy to attend the first show of the season. It occurred to me how healthy and thriving the dyke/ queer women's alternative sex culture in Sydney is right now, and how important Gurlesque is to cultural change - the huge variety of acts on the one stage - lots with political content, or just very queer, and celebrating of diversity makes me very warm and fuzzy.

A huge highlight for me was Wife's piece. Beautifully cut (and later cut through) black satin frock, images of queer, anti-racism, sex worker rights, women's and broad left activism flashing up on the screen, red beads, silver sparkly stilettos, gorgeous lingerie and "Love is a Battlefield". Wife is always so amazing - a lovely, articulate, passionate, present femme woman. An inspiring human being as well as a performer. I love her use of trad-femme props - the name Wife, fabrics, sewing, fashion, cooking in a way that makes them metaphors for dissent, protest and empowerment, rather than buying into seeing femme frippery as inherently mundane, silly or symbols of oppression.

I also spent some of my time at Gurlesque buying loads of pussy pounds and tipping the cage dancers. I'm not usually that comfortable in the buyer mode; however it feels important for women consumers of erotic entertainment (stripping, sex work and porn) to get out the money and adequately reward the workers. While the cage dancers at Gurlesque may not always be professionals, it's about shifting the cultural messages that say that women don't pay for it. I'm hoping to lead by example.

Another highlight for me was that Zoo was one of the cage dancers, wearing her new cock and not much else. I had lots of fun giving her Spanish and blow jobs while tipping. Also leading by example in this area, it seems, as people stated being much more interactive with the cage dancers after that.

2 In preparation for an intense phase of concept development for performance pieces for the afore mentioned December Debby Show, I've been spending some (at the moment quite rare) free time steeping myself in sex worker culture. I've particularly enjoyed revisiting my long-term goal of promoting adelie penguins, one of the few (recognised) non-human species that engage in sex for gain, as mascots for the sex worker rights movement. This article , this one and this one are the basis of my obsession. I have also found joy in the fact that I can get stuffed Adelie penguins on line.

3. I seem to be on top (which is always good for me) of my latest depression episode. About six to eight weeks ago I started noticing a return of early depression symptoms. Increased sleeping difficulties, decreased motivation and concentration span. I've been off meds since the new year, and 2006 has been about self-care and a focus on mental health as a way of life for me. Some of the strategies that I've found really helpful have been: working through it - just head down, push on through stuff - being stronger and more focused that the depression, long brisk walks for about 5 - 8 hours, really committeded socialising and building up networks in Sydney, and saying affirmations (sounding like a complete egotist as I'm doing so, but it actually works).

When I recognised this new episode for what it was, I was really frightened - I know that after a decade of chronic depression, I'm not going to snap out of it easily, but I was terrified of losing the gains I'd made so far and slipping back into despair. What I did was immediately made a counselling appointment, informed my boss of my concerns and the possible affects on my work, and increased my busyness levels. I've found I can out-walk depression, and generally keep my body in constant motion (something about keeping the metabolism sped up seems to do great things for the seretonin levels. Having a brain too full of work, socialising and short and medium-term plans is also helpful at keeping the cognitive distortion negative thinking stuff at bay.

So my life feels pretty fabby right now. I feel very much in control of my mental health, and although pretty over-loaded and sleep deprived, I have so many joyful moments all the time, and some special things on the horizon. The best part is that all of the things that are important to me - sex worker activism, my pride and outness, my sex radicalism, my queerness, my femme identity, are all intact and nurtured.

Anyone who tells you you have to conform more, get in the closet (any closet) or develop hobbies that involve more knitting and less saving the world in order to find peace, stability or good mental health are lying and deeply cynical. Sometimes I feel that being true to the complex creature I am is the real achievement of my life. To discover I can maintain my messy, careening, passionate self and find community and emerge from depression is awe-inspiring. Blessed Be.

Hair monster

The deliciously spikey one (Zoo) took this photo of me during lounge room picnic on Sunday. I've decided that I'm nothing but a life support system for my hair.

When you have hair that permanently looks like it's just been fucked - it's easy to slip into a space where your hair becomes a sex organ - draping, flicking, tickling,- using as bondage rope for piercings. I shed hair whereever I go. On clients, on lovers, on friends - long brunette strands - I mark my territory (at least it's more polite than pissing on legs).

However, despite numerous lovers avowed affection for my hair - very few have treated it as a sex organ - pulling, using as a handle, using as reins, grabbing great handfuls.... The options present themselves but are seldom taken up...

Maybe despite my obviously strength they still can't see past the 'delicate little petal' femininity and are afraid I'd break. So my hair fucks but goes unfucked. Did someone say stone?

The Pick-up line of the century

“You’re really beautiful, and you’d look even better with your fingers up my arse”

I was delivered this line a couple of weeks ago; it was so good, I had to record it.

On Pissing and Providence

I should know by now to never brag and to never say never. Last night at the Sly Fox I was bragging that I'm never piss shy - sex work broke through any culturally enforced discomfort about urination. I'd rather piss on a client than do penis in vagina sex - particularly as golden showers earns me more, so that's pretty good insentive to get over any weirdness.

Anyway, the golden shower grrrl who was proud of managing to piss on one guy 3 times in a 45 minute session (he paid extra, he was a fun regular client who had a great sense of humour, and he wanted to video the event but was having technical difficulties) was today stuck in the toilets at my non-sex work job waiting for two seven year olds (one of their mum's works on the same floor) to leave so I could do what I was there to do. So I can piss in the mouth of a 50 year old male stranger, but not in a cubical next to two chattering little girls?

I think I was swept into a seven year old state myself, and full of the mortification that comes with any bodily function at that age, and as a femme, I think that horror of being an unpolished flesh puppet full of physical reations that you don't have complete control over is still very close to the surface. Thank the Goddess for guiding me towards my whorish path - without that glorious earthiness, and regular reality checks, I'd be a mess of neurosis!

Different people have different conceptions of the divine - to me the Universe (made up of Goddess, God, the Divine Hermaphrodite and others) primarily has a sense of humour. Every time I make a definitive statement about myself, I find the opposite occuring. Beautifully humbling; however it makes me live in fear that I'll turn around and start having lots of free sex with bio boys.

Maybe it's all that reading about the trickster deities of various 'tribal' religions. Or maybe the Divine exhibits all the qualities towards us each as individuals that we expect. So those Christians that believe in an awesome fearful God get what they ordered;and a pagan whore with a sense of humour that gets me in trouble experiences a group of deities that jerk the rug out from under me in order to keep me from getting too comfortable.

I like it my way - as a queer person, I want to embrace destablisation with pleasure.