I think I understand now why I was having such an issue with my femmeinism before. I was in the wrong career field!  And maybe this is just my own personal difficulty - I imagine some femmes could probably be garbage truck drivers and still rock their femmeininity, but I’m one of those whose environment contributes to their internal attitude and external image. Being a vet tech in scrubs every day, usually sweaty and covered in you don’t even want to know what, hair a mess, no time or will to put on makeup just for the animals - it took a hit on my femme rockage!

I was unhappy in the field for other reasons as well, and finally I found a job in a completely different field. Basically I’m at a desk, in front of a computer all day, and I have to look professional. Casual business attire is the name of the game. I’m not running around sweating my arse off, and am in a field where it really does matter how I look (which also meant I had to put clear jewelry in my nostril piercing to hide it, but hey, sacrifices). This is doing wonders for my femmeininity. I wear nice clothes every day. Makeup. Hair done. Nothing extravagant mind you, but enough to make me feel quite fabulously femme. It’s transferred into my non-life work as well. Jeans are still a large part of the uniform, but the tops are prettier, the shoes are prettier, the walk is sassier, and the makeup and scent are being applied more frequently. I didn’t have self-confidence issues before, but now it’s rockin’.

I must say, it feels good to rock the lifestyle. Now to find the perfect pair of heels…!

Well, it’s about that time of the year. The time of the year when the year ends. 2008 has had its ups and downs, but above all it has been a year of great change. Political and socioeconomic change – do I even have to mention that whole first black U.S. President bit? – but also a time of personal change. 2008 marks the year I discovered and entered the world of kink and BDSM. It marks the year I really began to explore my gender identity and sexuality. I came out as a kinky switch. I came out as pansexual, finally settling on queer because it just seems to suit me so much better. (I don’t think I ever actually blogged about settling on queer. There’s another New Year’s resolution: blog more!) I came out as femme.

Now to me, that’s the biggie. I had been experimenting with my sexuality for quite some time. Probably since I was 12 and first realized I was attracted to more than just guys. But experimenting with my gender identity – now that’s something that never even occurred to me until I started reading the blogs of people far more enlightened than I. It never occurred to me, even though I grew up as a tomboy, no girly girl by any means, that I could be anything but what I have now learned is called cis-female. That was a huge revelation.

It is now a goal. My big goal for 2009, aside from not being such a half assed blogger, is to really delve deep into the caverns of my femme-ininity and map every niche, stalactite, stalagmite, trench and crevasse. To test the waters of the underground streams and rivers that have shaped me. And while I’m doing that, I’m going to celebrate it and play with it. What is the point of such a glorious thing as femme-ininity if a femme can’t enjoy it, am I right?

This new year is positively brimming with possibility. I for one am eager to seize it in both hands, wrap myself in it and let it carry me away into an eyes-wide-open life.

Oh, and did I mention it will also be my birthday? Happy 22^nd to me!

Allow me to begin by explaining that I go through phases with my hair. During one phase I want to grow it out; during another I want to hack it all off and just not worry about it. I recently got over a growing out phase. It was almost to mid-back - actually, it was there, but the ends were looking really bad so I cut off a couple of inches. Well, Thursday I went and got it chopped. At its longest it resides right at my chin, and in the back it just hits my neck. Shows off my pretty little tattoo back there, which is nice.

I can’t explain why I started feelings doubts about this hair over the last day or so. I think maybe I just got used to having the long hair. I certainly did enjoy twisting it up into a bun with a pretty clip. It made me feel kind of Naughty Businesswoman. Of course, that’s about all I did with it. I hardly ever wore it down because it drove me crazy. That was the major prompt in getting it cut. But then after the cut, I started feeling… almost less femme than before. Nothing else had changed - I still had the nice clothes, the nice undies (ooooh, do those go a long way to making me feel fabulous). The attitude is still there. So what about not having long hair is making me feel so different?

I couldn’t say. Certainly I do know that short hair isn’t just a butch thing. Hell, plenty of butchier people have long hair; I’ve seen them! And plenty of femme people have short hair. I’m one of them! And really, the shorter hair doesn’t make me look any less femme. It’s kind of flippy at the ends and really quite sassy. And even though my girlfriend says she misses my long hair (pooh, I say), she plays more with this short hair, which I love. (Have I ever mentioned how damn much I love my hair played with?)

In the end I guess I would just call it a bit of a shock to my system. I wanted it, that’s for sure, but it’s still no less of a pretty big change, considering I’ve been growing my hair out for well over a year, if not into two years. It certainly makes getting ready a hell of a lot quicker and easier! The girl who cut it did a great job; I’ll definitely be going back to her.

I just have to settle it in my brain that I am no less a femme without the long, luxurious (ha) locks. Hairstyle does not a femme make! The attitude, the way in which the femme rocks that hairstyle - THAT makes a femme. The confidence which leaves every femme-lover gaping in her wake - THAT makes a femme.

And oddly enough, sitting here in my black track pants and my Save The Ta-Tas t-shirt, barefoot, without a stitch of makeup and with short hair… I feel very femme.

Sex vs. Gender

An interesting concept, the thought of sex versus gender as though they were two opposing fighters in the boxing ring. Think about it – how often on, say, applications or other miscellaneous forms do you see “Gender: M___ F___” or “Sex: M___ F___?” (The fact that there are only two genders on these forms is a whole other, and often addressed concept.) The vast majority of the world sees these two terms as completely interchangeable, although some might argue that “gender” is slightly more appropriate, given the obvious double-entendre of the word “sex.” (Cue Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me line, “Sex… yes please!”) However, in my cognitive travels, I have reached a fork in the road, with a sign on a pole in the middle:

Yes, please forgive my shoddy photo editing. It gets my point across. And that point is: we are no longer in a time where sex can unerringly equal gender, where the two can be swapped back and forth like partners at a swingers party. If we are to adopt the theory of orbiting in a gender galaxy as opposed to standing in a spot along the linear spectrum of binary gender assignment, then we also have to make the conscious decision to separate the two terms and use both to specify the context in which we are speaking. No longer, I feel, does “sex” always equal “gender.”

Sex, aside from being a pleasurable and sometimes procreative act, should ideally refer to the reproductive and genital organs a person was born with. A person of the male sex would have the XY chromosome, a penis and testes. A person of the female sex would have the XX chromosome, and at the very least a vulva, if not also the vagina, uterus and ovaries. (I am trying to take into account those born with defects. Bear with me, for the sake of my point.) Those who are neither, or in between in the biological sense are often referred to as hermaphrodites, or intersex. (See, there’s that term again. Intersex. Not intergender.)

Gender is a whole other ballgame; one, as mentioned before, often discussed. Gender is a huge hot topic in the world of alternative lifestyle. Going even further beyond the now-well known ideas of transgender and transvestitism are the ideas of genderqueer, cisgender, and genderfuck. Those terms do tie in with the ideas and various practices of transgender – they’re almost “umbrella terms” under which the more specific identities and practices exist – but oddly enough, while transgender and transvestitism are better known and more or less accepted (even if the people who practice them are not), the terms that describe them in their general state are new, buzzworthy, revolutionary even. The genderqueer concepts of “butch” and “femme” in the newly discovered gender galaxy are becoming more widespread and being more deeply explored than ever. No longer is “butch” just a term – or a nickname – for the burly, leather vest wearing, ‘do-rag sporting Harley biker with bad tattoos. No longer does “femme” just bring to mind the movie title Femme Fatale and more importantly, no longer is femme interchangeable with the term “feminine.” The era of gender enlightenment has been born. I for one cannot wait to see it flower into maturity.

Can A Femme Be Butch Too?

I’m sitting here on my couch – okay, futon – belly full of awesome Thai food, agonizing over the fact that it’s been too long since I’ve updated my portion of TFG, then agonizing even more over the fact that I cannot think of a single thing to write. Talk about a brain explosion.

Then it occurred to me. Maybe I’m thinking too much inside the box. Of course, can there be a box when we’re discussing such things as the genderqueer identity, gender fluidity, and the deliberate turn away from rigid, binary gender rules? In any case, I was restricting myself, which is ridiculous because I don’t restrict myself in my everyday life when it comes to my gender – or lack thereof, not biologically speaking of course. While I do identify as a femme, there is still a part of me that feels a little butch. Even more so, perhaps, because I identify as a tomboy-femme.

Maybe there’s a little butch in every femme.

And why shouldn’t there be? If we’re so opposed to rigid gender identification, enough to declare ourselves femme in lieu of adopting the heteronormative “feminine,” why wouldn’t we also accept that we can also be butch? Maybe not predominantly, but certainly for most if not all of us, there is a little baby butch curled up inside, sporting cropped hair and a packing cock. Every now and then she – he? – ze? – wakes up and suddenly we put away our rockin’ halter dresses and peep-toe heels, put on a men’s tee and walk with a little less sway to our hips.

But at the same time, maybe that’s part of what the term “femme” connotes. Maybe by adopting “femme” instead of “feminine,” we are giving an unspoken acknowledgement that there is a baby butch inside, curled up and mostly dormant but still in existence. Because in essence, that is what “femme” is all about. “Femme” is a genderqueer identity, so in theory a femme would be embracing all genders by default, even if she doesn’t actively embody more than one or two.

So can a femme be butch? Well, isn’t she at least a little bit just by embracing the femme identity? And can’t she every now and then be a little more tomboyish, or butch? That’s the beauty of these identities; none of them are permanent or incapable of change. These identities are not labels; they’re orbits to which a woman can gravitate, inhabit for a while, then disengage to float off to another orbit. And why not? After all, we inhabit quite the diverse gender galaxy. Might as well explore the reaches of this new frontier!

..And hence, the very nature of Femme is revealed.

Last night I performed at a local community bellydance venue. Cue bouncy Egyptian music and sparkly bra-and-belt costumes, right? Wronnnnng! My solo was to “Black Betty” by Spiderbait, and my costume consisted of grey-black jeans under a black sequined miniskirt and silver coin belt, and a black crop top. Hey, gotta play the part, yes? In any case, it was a blast. Rocking out to “Black Betty” while bellydancing isn’t something a girl gets to do very often. (Next up? A veil dance to the overture from Phantom of the Opera. I’m pretty stoked.)

ANYWAY! Back on track. Afterward, I was very hot, sweaty and ready to get out of most of my costume. I stripped down to the jeans, changed from the crop top to a black cami-tank and whipped my hair back in what could barely pass for a chignon. The makeup - dark, smoky eyes and very crimson lips - stayed. Out I walked into the restaurant, back to my table, dripping sweat, barefoot, wearing casualwear only a rung above sweats and a tee - and god did I feel sexy. I mean hip-sashaying, sidelong-glance-through-lowered-lashes, paint-the-town-red sexy. (Of course, the post-performance endorphin rush helps.)

Naturally, because of this website and my own explorations, I’ve been thinking about the concept of Femmeninity a lot. And particularly how it can occur at any time and place, not just the times when we get all dolled up and ready to rock the casbah. This particular occurrence struck me as a prime example. You’d think I’d feel sexiest during the dance, right? Well, I admit I did feel pretty damn awesome. Bellydance comes in second only to a good, long, continuous, moaning, writhing orgasm in my world. But no, the real WOW moment came after, after I’d deconstructed and casual-fied myself.

I guess I should wear those jeans more often.

Oh, and for what it’s worth, M must have picked up on those vibes as well, because those good, long, continuous, moaning, writhing orgasms I mentioned? Yeah, I got lots of those last night. Mmmm.

So, I’m new here. *cue chorus of hellos* And for the past couple of days, I’ve been racking my brain – and even the posts of this very blog – for any kind of inspiration. Naturally, now that I’m here, I don’t have a clue in hell what to write. Except that again and again, I find myself contemplating Scarlet’s definition of femme/femmeininity as “a conscious genderfuck in the rouse of traditional femininity.” That didn’t just strike a chord with me – it struck a freaking GONG, leaving my bones – and brain – positively resonating in its wake.  

So, that raises the question: how do I consciously fuck with gender in the rouse of traditional femininity? How do I, in essence, wave the finger at traditional gender roles? 

Well, does it help that my life partner is a genderqueer, butch female? That should be a biggie, right there. Not many traditional feminine cis-women date other chicks, particularly other chicks of a more masculine sort. However, I generally try not to let other people define me, so in the spirit of sticking to that credo, I move on. 

Well shit, then how do I fuck with gender? How am I a femme, besides in heart? What exactly makes me femme? Sometimes I wish it were a list easily ticked off on my fingers. Thisandthisandthisandthis. 

I guess I could start with outward appearance. My hair is long. “Yes, so what?” you ask. Well, it doesn’t tend to stay long for… well, long. Every couple of years, after I’m sick of letting it grow out, I chop it off and rock the boyish pixie or quasi-punk look. My clothes, too, are an interesting blend of tomboy and girly. 

Oh, yes, yes, that beautiful term, “tomboy!” Let’s go back to that one. I identify as a tomboy femme. Aside from the hilarious, somewhat oxymoronic irony of the term, it fits me like a glove. I am most definitely not one of the high femme variety. I own exactly two dresses, both of which I have worn exactly zero times. They even still have the tags on. The only skirt I wear is long, black and flowy a la hippie-style. (Even then I wear it over shorts – thigh chafing, anyone?)  

Oh, but the heels. And the pretty flats. The strappy sandals. The cute little polka dots on my favorite pair of round-toed stilettos. Oh, oh, oh. 

There. You have found my point of femmeninity. It’s all in the shoes. 

Okay, not really. I keed, I keed.  

Honestly, I really can’t put my finger on what precisely makes me a femme. Maybe it is all in the heart after all, and the rest is what Sinclair Sexsmith wrote about: markers. Come to think of it, I couldn’t really respond to that question, either. I have no idea what my femme markers are. Or even if I have any.  

All I can tell you is, I belong here, I am a femme. I couldn’t really tell you how, but despite that lack of clarity, I still hear a soft but distinct click every time I see, hear, speak or write the word “femme.” (And no, I swear it’s not the verbiage; “femme” is nowhere near palatal. Just sayin’.) 

Maybe I’ll figure it out in the future. I’ll get back to you on that.