Scintillectually Yours

Yes, I realize it’s TMI Tuesday but in lieu of answering questions about what kind of animal best represents me, I had to get something off my…er…chest. Let me start by saying that most of my writing has some basis in fact. I really don’t do fiction well, yet I have found myself stretching with our MicroFantasy Monday assignments. I think it is a wonderful thing for a writer to be given a chance to pull that elastic muscle beyond that which you feel it should go and have it snap back into place, ready for the next challenge.

At the risk of bursting bubbles, I have to admit to a fair amount of squeemishness regarding yesterday’s post on role reversal. I had to masticate on this topic all day. Clearly, many of us went in the same direction and while I try to put a different spin on the theme each week, I was at a loss to do anything more than imagine what it might be to strap one on for a lover. Yet, here’s the thing: in reality, I I could ever pull off the same scenario. Well, let me back up…I strapped it on once (if we’re being completely honest here) and it was an utter disaster. If there were any truth at all to my MFM, it would be that very first paragraph. I remember well how completely awkward I felt and how…silly…it seemed.

I realize that everyone around me is busy fucking the gender binary. We’re here, we’re queer…yes, I understand that completely. I almost married a transman for Heaven’s sake! But me? I am old-school femme through and through. I honestly cannot seem to locate a drop of testosterone in this fuscia blood of mine. Nor do I care to. There have been many discussions regarding femme invisibility of late and someday I will probably jump into the ring with my own tales of the need for a tattoo upon my forehead that says “yes, I AM,” but here is where I ask you all to step outside the genderqueer box and accept the fact that I am so high femme I practically float and I am truly attracted to the butchest of butch bois.

I love that sense of chivalry. I want, nee expect, someone to open doors for me and to let me order first in a restaurant (or, perhaps, order for both of us). If you take a look at old photos of lesbian couples in the 50s and 60s — those grainy, black and white images like stills from The Celluloid Closet — I am the woman in the pencil skirt hanging onto the arm of a very masculine woman in the suit and tie. Not for one moment do I want to strap on a dildo and watch my lover…well, shit…I can’t even say it now that the image is in my head.

Don’t get me wrong, I am no pillow princess. I consider myself a femme top, but that stops short of being able to fuck my lover with anything other than my own hands (and as most of the women I go out with are stone butch, that doesn’t happen often either). Perhaps in this case, top for me simply means that I am assertive and in control, I don’t give over to submission easily, but I’m no hardcore dominant either.

This may, and I hope it does, provoke a lot of healthy controversy or at least discourse on the subject of traditional butch/femme couples and the idea of who feels like their cock is a true extension of themselves and those of us who take that cock and “get it” from the other side of the bed. Call me vanilla. Call me old fashioned. Call me out of touch with today’s sexual mores…but don’t call me Shirley (sorry, I had to make her laugh).

Ang, our Sweltering Celt has given us a theme of Photos this week. Although micro…this is no fantasy. Forgive me for wandering aimlessly among the detritus of my life.

The Before: A girlchild. Innocent. Wide open world filled with wonder. 14 years old. Unkempt hair, big glasses, a mouthful of braces. She’s had her first kiss. Her 13th birthday party. The boy had been eating M&Ms and when his tongue pushed into her mouth she pulled away with particles of candy coated shell and the taste of chocolate lingered rather unpleasantly. In the pictures she is smiling, still so young, untouched, happy and unaware.

The After: Three shots in quick succession. She is 15. Slim hips tucked into boys Levis. A red and white baseball tee. Her hair is blow-dried and feathered. She plays with the camera. She is cocky. In one shot her back is to the camera and she looks over her shoulder with a look befitting a much older woman. She already knows the power her body wields. She is cynical, hard. The wall she has built is almost palpable. In one short year she has become something other.

The Now: Digital shots of full breasts, sleek thighs, costumes and wigs and expensive lingerie. Provocative, evocative, erotic. She is older now than her mother was when the After photos were taken. She has lived a life in the aftermath. She has used her body over and over again to get attention. She knows now that she exudes sex but not because of this body. This body has borne a child, grown heavy, become tired. Her nearly suffocating sexuality comes with the wisdom of the ages. The blissful unawareness of the before and the nightmarish hell of the after.

These are my snapshots. This is my life.