LipstickGirlyGirl

Oh man, I hardly know where to even begin on this one, because your questions touch on so many hot topics within the girls-who-like-girls community (whatever their specific labels may be). The first ones I saw were the issues of femme invisibility—expounded upon by Sinclair of the Sugarbutch Chronicles, Essin’Em, and writers right here on Femmes Guide—of the “lesbian sheep dance” aptly named by Nadia the Kinky Librarian and an issue very close to my own heart: that of tracking down those rare femmes who go for other femmes.

Sadly enough, it’s true. Femmes who like other femmes (whether it be exclusively or in addition to liking butches and/or those who fall somewhere in between) are not anywhere near as numerous as the femmes who like their women a little more masculine. Obviously I’m one of them, and I’m willing to bet that more than one of my fellow FG writers is also at least partly a femme’s femme, but out there in the world of gay bars and queer neighborhoods, they’re not exactly as concentrated as they are here. So chances are, you’re not doing anything wrong. There’s no one method of attracting another femme to you, so long as you’re making your interest clearly known (which goes back to the aforementioned “lesbian sheep dance,” a hilariously named but frustrating phenomenon to be avoided at all costs). Chances are, you just haven’t come across a femme’s femme yet.

Now, as far as approaching said femme, once you have her in your sights. In my experience, my flirting tactic doesn’t change much between butches and femmes. I could tell you that sometimes I have to be a little more aggressive with other femmes since they’re used to being actively courted and wooed by those bold butches, but how stereotypical would that be? I have had to be aggressive with shy butches too, so being bashful is definitely not solely a femme phenomenon. Just go with your instincts, which are probably a lot more spot-on than you realize, and tone your approach up or down in strength as you feel is necessary. Your main goal is get your message of interest across, and then the ball is in her court to either respond favorably or not, depending on if she is into other femmes.
As to your question of where to go to meet other femmes: well, where do you go? Or perhaps the better question is, where would you go to meet new people of the queer variety? It may happen in a gay bar or it may happen at the grocery store, or at a concert, or a flower nursery, or… the options are really endless! The real trick isn’t in going somewhere special; the trick is to always keep your eyes open and to never give up the search. Being a femme who likes femmes, you have certainly got a more difficult path ahead of you as far as finding a partner (either short- or long-term), but it’s not impossible. Sure, femmes don’t stand out as much as a butch usually does, but you said it yourself: you can usually tell. There’s just a certain energy about a femme that makes her stand out from the rest. And someday, probably when you least expect it, one of those femmes will see that same energy in you.

Now! Fellow FG writers and dearest FG readers, what have you to say to LipstickGirlyGirl? Please, chime in with your comments to assist a femme in need! We’ve all been there in one fashion or another; sometimes a few words of advice or support can make all the difference.

I think that underneath it all, I was struggling with the societal norms that had been ingrained in me for all of my life. It wasn’t that my parents forced a traditional outlook on me at all, but let’s face it: the media, literature and just people we see every day in our lives, whether or not we interact directly with them, reinforce the idea that the man or at the very least the more masculine party is always the aggressor, the pursuer. Of course there is nothing wrong with the more masculine person being the pursuer, but the idea that it must always be that way was a sad and outdated concept I essentially had to deprogram out of my brain.

Slowly but surely, I am getting the hang of it. I think it helped discovering that I am kinky and have a Top side that doesn’t sacrifice my femme identity, but what’s really doing it is just becoming more and more comfortable with my own brand of femme-ininity and thus, more comfortable in my own skin. As I have grown more comfortable, I’ve started flirting with those cute butches, or hell, even the cute fellow femmes, and every positive response is reinforcement that no, I do not have to be the wilting wallflower who always waits for the other party to initiate and that yes, I can pursue who I want and still be the femme I am.

Outside of cultural programming, there is nothing inherently masculine or butch about being the aggressor. Yeah, their sexy swaggers and cocked eyebrows certainly lend a little spice to the game of pursuit, but we femmes can absolutely add our own flair and come out on top. Or on bottom. Or however we like it!

My biggest issue in coming out? It was coming out to myself. Not because I was ashamed of what I was, but because I didn’t know what I was. My impression of “femme” for the longest time was that best-known faction, the high femmes. It was red lipstick, spike heels and full-skirted dresses. And that certainly isn’t me, at least, not most of the time. I am usually more of a lip balm, Converse and dark wash jeans kind of girl. So surely I didn’t fit in with the femmes, right? But I knew I wasn’t butch. There was no question about that.

I don’t even remember where or how I heard of the idea of a “tomboy femme.” I do remember the feeling I got when it dawned on me though. It was a dawning. A sun had risen in my head and suddenly the gloom was brightly lit and clear to me. That was me. “Tomboy femme” was me. I was no less femme because I preferred Chucks to heels, or because I was more comfortable in denim than silk. I was just a different kind of femme. I was – I am – the kind of femme who takes elements of a more masculine image and incorporates them into a femme identity, making them both into my own. I am the kind of femme who walks with a bit of a hip sashay and a bit of a swagger. I am the kind of femme who pairs a floral blouse with a leather motorcycle jacket. And above all, I am just me, which is something entirely beyond names and labels. And finally I am comfortable with that; I feel like I fit into my own skin just as well as I fit into those jeans that make my ass into a work of art.

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…!

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!

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.

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.

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!

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, 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.