Althea Xtravaganza presents A 30-something's High Femme New Year's Convolutions — No, I mean Resolutions — No, wait, how about Evolutions?
1) Find a lip shade that's organic, cruelty-free, paraben- and PABA-free, gluten-free, unscented, hypoallergenic, moisturizing, long-lasting, and matches the color of that cute little butch's outer labia when she gets all worked up.
2) Find a cute little butch who understands the wisdom of showing a girl with an educated mouth and brilliant hands what her goddamn labia look like.
3) Develop at least three new responses to being queer-checked at the Lex. When met with the doorgirl's raised eyebrow, body scan, and cocked head as she ignores my ID and asks, “uh, baby, do you know this is a gay bar?” I will extend my short-nailed, well-manicured hand as though to retrieve my ID, but instead wave my fingers beneath her nose and ask, “Does this still smell of cunt? I washed these damn hands so many times, and I still can't get the smell of your pussy off my fingers.” Then slide my license between my tits and walk into the bar. Then, when one of the many fauxhawked or pompadoured, skinny, white, baby butches in outtucked, oversized men's shirt, vest, skinny tie, skinny jeans who've taken a hit off of their best buddies' T patch and feel this gives them license to police a joint I've belonged in probably since before they had any idea what a cunt is capable of leans drunkenly across the other fauxhawked baby butch they're trying to cruise and asks me— all I was trying to do is order my dirty martina – oops, I mean martini – asks me if I'm sure I'm in the right place, I'm going to try one of two options. Response one: ask Little Miss–ter Thing when they last pushed that sweet little naughty mouth between another girl's legs with the intention of bringing the woman as much pleasure as a mouth can instead of simply just wetting up a landing spot for that little piece of plastic she called cock and wields like four-year-old just beginning to play with trucks in the sandbox (you know – vroom vroom vroom – it's just fun to shove it anywhere wherever it will go.)
Or grab her by that tie she stole from her uncle's closet when she was 14 and always has to have her femme housemate to tie for her (wait, how does it go again? Over, then under?), drag her to one of the bathrooms, get her back up against that graffiti and come-smeared wall, kiss her hard enough that her hips start to loosen up between my hands, then peel down those trousers over her ass and down her thighs, before I slick my fingers inside these trendy boy shorts with the underoos logo on 'em—something intended to be a cute, butch conversation starter when she got her twin out there back to her bedroom before they got busy trying to figure out who was good to be the top for the night, the the big mean daddy to the other one's bad little boy – and people worry about what two femmes do in bed. Anyway I'd slip my fingers under those shorts, after I moving aside the athletic sock she'd've packed with, and shove into all that thick curly wet. Of course I don't need her gasp to tell me I'm in the right place, but I like it. I'll keep my mouth very close to her, not quite kissing her, while I find that clit with my thumb and push two fingers up into her cunt, fucking her right up to the edge with these dumb, painted, girly hands. Her cunt will tighten around me and her breath'll go sharp and high, and I'll whisper, “Jeez, I don't know – what do you say? Am I in the right place?” Then I'll pull my hand free, give her a little wave goodbye, and shove my fingers between my lips (painted exactly the shade of those labia she kept so well hidden) as I walk back up to the bar, ready to order another drink to throw in the lap of the next person who asks me what I'm doing in a lesbian bar.
4) Date. More. Femmes. Since when did Butch on Butch get to be the pinnacle of lesbian hotness? What makes me think I can't find a satisfying date among a group of dykes who've had to prove their queerness, not to mention their feminist, anti-racist, anti-capitalist bona fides, since the first time they imagined they might want to take a tumble with Betty instead of Bobby way back in the day. Peter piper picked a pack of overachievers, I am telling you. These are girls whose mouths got more moves than Missy Elliott, can make their hands as small or fat as the situation demands, wields a cock with the skill of someone who's had to pay close attention to cock-wielders for sometimes nearly as many years as they've been alive and have learned as much of what not to do as what they can do new to help a girl feel good, all while whispering a critique of Jack Halberstam's hyper-masculine privileging in your ears and reminding you how sweet and safe it is to open by quoting Cixous, Allison, hooks, and Holibaugh. And then will roll over and take half your arm when you're ready to give a little of your own good learning back to her. Plus, another femme doesn't pretend like she's never heard of menstroo-what? when you're bleeding (since she's not afraid of being associated with the blood of girlness), will tell you with kindness and honesty when you need to eat a sandwich (more often) and when your shoes are mistake (almost never), and wants nothing more than to be a sweet soft pile of ferocity for you to land in after yet another day out in the world getting cruised by straight men and ignored by the dykes – at least the faggots will see us, especially other Queens, which both of us will begin to think this might be our actual heart community.
5) Tell and listen to more truth. Listen closely when a sisterfemme gives me that shrug of the shoulders, a forced smile, and a laugh when she says, “you know it's been a hard little while but I think were getting through the rough bit–” and I remember that's what she said the last two or three times I asked how she and her butch were doing. I wanna be a safe place for her to tell her stories to. We all learn from somewhere (was it Stone Butch Blues?) that in order to be good femmes were supposed to keep our butches' secrets above all other allegiance, even our own wellness, and so we smash around with broken and sore in our hearts with no guidance or support from others who've been on the journey before us. It is my revolution this year to undermine some of that isolation – what if we told each other the truth about what we were experiencing while we're experiencing it, not after we've had to get ourselves out? What if abusive, misogynist, careless butches and trans men stopped getting play in our community, because we told and believed each other about them? What if we listened to the experience of our sister femmes rather than dismissing them as demanding, high maintenance, jealous, bitches, cock hungry, asking for it, drunk, crazy, or a survivor who sees abuse everywhere (never mind that, actually, abuse is everywhere)?
6) Figure out what the hell radical self-care is – isn't it just taking care of yourself? Are we so poisoned by activist analyses that we have to label it radical just to defend our need to take a fucking break sometimes? Anyway, I resolve to take a fucking break sometimes. Head over to the Japanese baths and take a soak, promenade in full drag more often (alone, or with sisterfemmes, or with dates), and spend more Sundays in my pajamas with a cup of coffee, a puppy, a newspaper, and a sweetheart. And masturbate a lot more. Replace the showerhead I broke during that New Year's Eve dalliance – who knew my thighs were that strong? – and get back in the tub again. Run a Kickstarter campaign to cover my hot water bill – this is radical work that deserves community support, after all!
7) Remind myself – and anyone else still struggling with the question – that being a femme is queer enough. Supporting other femmes is queer enough. I resolve to stop engaging this “debate” in any way. Yes, our communities will always love and fetishize the masculine – just as the whole world does – just as the feminine is fetishized and dismissed, but we can know who we are and we can know our power. In 2014, I will connect with more femmes who are powerhouses unto themselves. I want us not to be be disappeared under the onslaught of yes please more books and lists and calendars and blogs focused on Top! Hot! Butches! I'll create a list in my heart of Top Fierce Space-Claiming, Take-No-Shit, Demanding-Their-Desire, I-Wanna-Be-Like-Her-or-Him Femmes (honestly, whole bunch from my list are in this room) and take out that list and hold it privately between my lungs when one more butch refuses to acknowledge my existence when we're passing each other on Market Street. I will stride right past her or him on these too-tall heels and go meet my sisterfriend for our coffee date and we will offer one another's hands to gnaw on as we share all of our stories—and yours too. Sorry. honey. But it's about time.
8) And, In 2014, I commit to stepping away from femme-against-femme, junior high school Mean Girl, In Crowd bullshit – we don't have to do that with each other. We femmes could appreciate one another without fail, understanding deeply what it takes to put on a skirt in a culture that marks you as prey for doing just that and in a community that believes you have an easier time of everything when you brush on some blush and put your toes into pumps, who know intimately what it's like to be ignored by the objects of our desire, to be read as the opposite of our true selves, and to be asked to leave half of our sexuality on the floor when we get into bed with someone because our job is only supposed to be to receive, to take, be pushed into. Yes, sometimes we fuck up with one another and need to call shit out, but what if we called up someone we wanted to call out and met them for coffee rather than busting up someone else's facebook page with our nuanced, flame-wielding, well-analyzed critique, and then ever after exiling that called-out femme when we meet her out in the world?
9) Forgive my body for exactly how she's healed and what she needs to feel joy and to come. Give my body exactly what she needs to feel joy and to come over and over this year. Oh, and, I love you, Patrick, but after a decade or so of being ashamed of myself after reading one of your stories, I'm about ready to say a self-healing fuck you to that little dash of vanilla – anyone given the opportunity to spend as long as I need them to between these strong soft fucking thighs in order to get me off is the one who's lucky. In 2014, anyone who's got a problem with my telling them exactly what I need them to do in order for me to get off gets to just plain and simple get the hell out of the bar's bathroom and leave me to jerk off in peace.
10) Now for a little harm reduction. I mean I know myself so I'd like to resolve to not do it ever but let's at least say that I'll commit to to staying less long with significant others who expect me to carry their emotional baggage while they complain that I am undermining their masculinity by lifting such heavy stuff so easily—and then don't understand why I'm too tired to fuck all the time.
In fact, 10.5), remove myself from any and all situations from which I have the option of extricating myself that leave me too tired to fuck.
11) Oh – and one more: let's develop some with new responses to straight men who want more than their share of my attention, like the man in the shoe store who, because I smiled and said hello to him out of politeness, feels welcomed to comment on the shoes I'm trying on, saying, "oh, you've got the knock me down and fuck me heels – isn't that what we used to call them?" And I say, "oh no, these are my I'm gonna fuck you up heels." I take one off, hold it by the toe, and brandish the heel. "Did you look at these? This is a weapon." And even though I am smiling and friendly, he walks away. New Year's resolution achieved. I think I've earned a drink.
