Archive for September, 2008

eye candy: LP

September 30, 2008  |  miscellany  |  3 Comments

I’m kind of insane this week. It’s one of those weeks.

So here’s some lovely butch eye candy combined with a new singer-songwriter combined with a catchy tune.

This is LP doing “Good With You / Cling to Me”:

The Femme Show in Boston

September 30, 2008  |  miscellany  |  No Comments

Announcing: The Femme Show’s Second Annual Boston-Area Appearance

October 10 and 11, 8:00 PM
Cambridge Family YMCA Theatre, 820 Mass Ave in Central Square
$11 in advance, $12 at the door

After a summer of East Coast touring, the femmes et. al. of The Femme Show are back in the Boston area with an all new show. From Barbie dolls to garter belts, from 1950’s dyke bars to suburban back yards and late night taco joints, from hula hooping to clowning, this show takes audiences on a wild ride. The Femme Show offers a variety of diverse perspectives on femme identity with subject matter that is at times thoughtful, sad, sexy, funny, and fun, with film, dance, storytelling, burlesque, drag, and performance art.

Visit www.thefemmeshow.com for tickets, volunteer opportunities, preview shows, and femme community.

fancy tie a tie trick

September 29, 2008  |  on butches  |  4 Comments

I’ve posted this before, but it was nearly a year ago and I still get a lot of questions about it, so it’s about time to repost.

It’s a full Windsor knot, the instructions on the video below, and perhaps in some ways it’s not so impressive on the table as it is to do on your neck, but I can’t quite get the full Windsor tie on the neck to come apart as smoothly as the tie trick Windsor does. I can’t quite figure out how to explain this other than to say that the two knots, though they appear similar, are slightly different in their construction, and the narrow-tie-end pulls smoothly out of the trick tie, but the knot has to actually be untied in the version on the neck.

So, if my drunken explanations at parties don’t quite teach you how to do the tie trick, here’s the video, which is much easier to learn by. It took me a few days of trying until I could really do this – it’s great, now that I got it, but it’s not all that easy to pick up. That’s exactly why I love online instructional videos, ’cause I can pause and rewind and pause and replay and do it over + over without any teacher getting exasperated.


How To Tie A Tie Under 10 Seconds – Unbelievable!!Watch today’s top amazing videos here

when waitresses are kinky

September 28, 2008  |  essays  |  1 Comment

If you didn’t see it in my Google Reader shared items or on my shared items sidebar (over on the left), There are a few photos of me & Jesse James over at Jesse’s blog from my recent visit to Seattle. I didn’t have much time with Jesse, but it was enough to go get tipsy at some swanky bar and then go shopping.

Jesse took the afternoon off work to come play with me. A little snippet:

Sinclair to Cute Waitress: I’d like a Knob Creek on the rocks please.

Cute Waitress: Certainly.

Jesse: Hmmm, what do I want, what do I want. I can’t decide. Something fun.

Cute Waitress: Like a Manhattan? A — eeee!

Leggy Blonde Waitress walks by behind Cute Waitress.

Cute Waitress: She just pinched my butt! [Laughs, a little flustered and blushing.] Oh gosh, I’m sorry.What did you want?

Jesse and Sinclair exchange significant glances and try not to laugh.

Jesse: Can I have a bloody mary with tequila instead of vodka?

Cute Waitress, still laughing: Sure, got it.

Exit Cute Waitress to behind the bar.

Jesse: Dude, I am so totally in lust for you!

Ah yes, good times are had with good friends in Seattle. Jesse tells the story about what we did after that, which was basically have a little party in the dressing room and buy Jesse an entirely new fall wardrobe.

It was hard to come home this time, I needed the down time of being away from my life and obligations and freelance and writings and work and social life, but I didn’t get the real rest I need because I was running around with family so much. So really one of the very best parts of the trip was seeing Jesse for an afternoon, and then having a lovely dinner with about half a dozen of my closest friends in that city. I got my favorite black bean burger at my favorite brewery-slash-pub, made a visit to the famous lesbian bar, and slept on Jesse’s (very flat) futon while the Seal dozed in her cute dog bed nearby. I didn’t see Violet much but she was quite lovely and warm, and I so appreciate them letting me crash their place for a few nights.

Sugarbutch Star: Eileen

September 25, 2008  |  dirty stories  |  26 Comments

This is the first Sugarbutch Star 2008 story, the submission is from Eileen at A Place to Draw Blood Laughing.

Her Best Line

I’ve heard the New York City subway referred to as a “hotbed of sin,” and it’s true, New York has the most attractive people with their most attractive fashion at any given moment.

Tonight, I’m on my way to meet the guys, play some pool, drink more whiskey, share weekend conquest stories. Jesse’s got the night off and will join us later.

She gets on at 9th Street, I notice her immediately. Petite, dark hair, gold glowing skin, big dark eyes, a thin swingy white wrap dress tied at her hip, simple white sandals with a small kitten heel and four straps over her ankles. She sits across from me and doesn’t notice me, she’s absorbed in Murakami’s Wind-up Bird Chronicles.

She’s gorgeous. She crosses and uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately. She’s got this smoky eye makeup on that makes her dark brown eyes even bigger, liquid and pooling and I haven’t seen her lower her lids and look up under her lashes, but I’d like to.

I wonder if she’s queer. Then I wonder if that matters. Sure it does – it’s more fun to sleep with a girl who knows how to treat a butch in bed. We’re strange creatures, to some, after all. I think what I often think when I see a gorgeous leggy girl, reading some intellectual book, in barely enough clothing: if she’s queer, man, all is right with the world. I keep an eye on her, watching her movements, the way she brings a fingertip to her mouth and laughs to herself, the way her eyes dart, how her palm flips as she turns pages. She leaves her legs uncrossed once and turns her ankle in slightly, an unconscious but slightly submission that makes my hands ache.

I turn up my iPod, attempting to stop staring. She slips me a tiny bit of eye contact, just a sip, and a sideways smile that says she’s known I was there all along.

Damnit.

I shift unconsciously, take my leg down from the seat in front of me and cross my legs, sit up straight. My cock shifted wrong in that maneuver and now it is digging into my inner thigh, but I can’t adjust it – how tacky to go poking at my junk when she’s watching. I can’t shift my position again yet either or she’ll know I am adjusting myself for her gaze. I’m starting to wince from the way the cock is pressing into me, dull pain that may be making a bruise. That’ll be attractive.

I try to look casual and stare out the window as the subway takes the Manhattan bridge into the city. She turns pages, crosses her legs again. I reach into my pocket and finger one of my cards with only my name and cell number, black text on a simple white background. Classic. Minimal. I don’t need adornment. Except maybe her.

At Broadway/Lafayette I adjust my cock – finally, finally – as she shifts and other passengers block our view of each other, then I move to stand above her, holding onto the rail. She doesn’t look up. The train pulls into the station and I place my card in her book. She looks up, startled, and I get that amazing view of her eyes, the one I was waiting for, peering under her long dark lashes, open and big and I could get lost in the way they shimmer. She sees me and blinks.

“In case you want to call me,” I say, then step off the train.

I’ve stopped sweating by the time I get to the bar. My cell rings while I order my first Jameson rocks.

“Hello?”

“Well, if it isn’t Sinclair Sexsmith.”

No caller ID. Could it be her? I gulp. Does she know me? It must be her. So soon? “Yes, who’s this?”

“Jane,” she says. “On the D train. I thought I saw you notice me.”

“… You were impossible to miss.”

I can almost hear her blush. “Are you busy tonight?” she says.

“Out with friends at the moment, but I could be free later,” I say.

“Good. Come out to the bar at 24th and 10th. 10pm. Alright?”

“… Alright.” Why would I argue?

*

The bar is nearly empty, low lights and a few single patrons at the dark counter, quiet. Some low music is coming from somewhere, soft and subtle and electronic. The bartender is polishing pint glasses and laughing low with a woman in red, candles reflected in the glass as she polishes.

“Hey,” I say as I approach the bar, making eye contact with the bartender. “Can I get a Jameson rocks?”

She nods, but continues to wipe the glasses. I shoot her a puzzled look. She nods again – a gesture this time, I catch it, she’s directing me to look behind me.

I turn and she’s there. Jane. Same white wrap dress, same long legs and strappy sandals, same gorgeous dark eyes. She’s sipping a martini. A smile on her face like she’s amused. She has a second glass on her table: whiskey. On the rocks. Ready for me.

I take one, two, deliberate steps to her table. Place both my palms on it and lean over her, still standing, so she has to look up at me.

I tip my chin to the drink. “That for me?”

She swallows, holding back a smile like she’s the cat who got the canary, and nods. Almost nervous, but she’s covering it well. She’s so sexy with her tiny little movements, fingertips on the glass, looking at me shyly from the side. I don’t believe she’s queer. No, that’s not it – I don’t believe she’s the kind of femme who primarily sleeps with women. Yet. She picked me up, sure, but I’m beginning to fear I’m her experiment. Maybe she’s just a fan – but then again, so what? So maybe she knows what I like – am I being taken by the ways femme can undo me? Am I so preoccupied by her smooth legs (oh my hands on her ankles running up to her knees), her big eyes (looking up like she could swallow me), that I become willing? I’m a sucker sometimes. I’m skeptical. This girl clearly knows how to wield her power.

I keep eye contact for just a flicker, say “thank you,” sit down, and take a sip.

*

“I changed it,” she’s saying. “It’s my middle name, really. My grandmother’s. My mom is a second-waver, gave me one of those gender neutral names I always hated. But I never was a girly girl until I started dating butches.”

She leans in, as if telling me a secret. My second Jameson is melted ice and she’s halfway through her second martini. “I grew up a tomboy, I have three brothers. I mean, I was the bully on the playground! I begged my parents to let me play T-ball and little league like my brothers did. I was the only girl in the league, for a while. Others came after me. My first girlfriend in high school, we met on my softball team. I know, so gay.”

We laugh. I knock the ice around in my glass. High school girlfriend. Duly noted.

“I used to dress up for dances and stuff and get made fun of so much. ‘Hey, I thought you were gay!’ So I put my dresses away. Tried to fit into the lesbian uniform.” Jane shrugged, fingering the speared olives in her glass, leaned back again. “But, Sin, seriously – once I finally took my real gender out of the closet, it’s been adolescence all over again. New desires, new awakenings. I feel like a teenager.” The tip of her toes brush against my ankle.

“Is that so.” I lean in, catch her gaze; her eyes are alight.

“’Femme is knowing what you’re doing,’” she says, looking down into her drink, then giving me a penetrating stare. “Isn’t that how you say it?”

She’s quoting me. It’s hot. She gulps the martini, the liquid too much for her mouth, and chokes a little, sputters, then smiles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. My cock stirs.

“C’mon,” she says, and gets up.

*

Her place is nearby. It’s why she chose that bar – to interview me before taking me home. She planned the whole thing. Those were here best lines back there. She wants me, and she’s willing to work for it. I like that.

She locks the door behind us, positioning herself next to me, taking a few steps like it’s a dance and she’s leading so I follow, and then my back is against the door and she’s sighing and flipping her hair and waiting for me to kiss her.

So I do.

She tastes like cream. Smooth, just a tiny bit of thickness, mostly ease and softness. She waits for me to guide her. To show her how I like to be kissed. She doesn’t rush in and thrust her tongue, just makes herself warm, wet, open, available.

I let desire increase slowly. Start soft as I get a grip on her hips, her lower back cradled in my forearm, fingers eagerly pulling at the thin fabric of her dress. She lets it get stronger in me, slides her ankle against my calf as she wraps one leg around mine low. I start growling a little, that ravaging tone that is not quite a moan, but a hunger, building.

She arches her back, gasps, cries out, leans into me like she’s nuzzling, and starts laughing, delighted. “Fuck,” she says and looks at me, catches my gaze, then gets shy and looks down. She fingers my buckle.

“Unbuckle your belt?” she says. And I take it back – that’s her best line.

I do, swiftly, pulling the button open, popping the fly, taking my cock out as she kneels, knees wide and pelvis tilted like she’s already on top of me and easing down on something big.

She takes me in her mouth tentatively at first, just the head, wraps one hand around it, gauging the length. Can she swallow it all? She’s thinking. She laps her tongue, runs her lips down the shaft, then draws a breath and swallows me whole. It’s too much for her mouth and she makes a little gulping sound, choking a little. Her smoky eyes water and she looks up at me, keeping it in her mouth. I fight the urge to thrust in again. I can feel the tight O of her throat clenching and she tries to get hold of her gag reflex, then pulls her mouth off and puts her hand back. She rocks her pelvis a little as she sucks, the pretty white fabric of her dress between her knees is falling open and I want my fingers there, want to hear her gasp and oh and yes.

Goddamn she feels good.

She keeps hold of my cock at the base, keeps it pressed against me so I can feel everything. She works it good, pressure and speed and oh god I’m going to burst in her mouth. My hands in her hair, on the back of her head. Her gorgeous smoky eyes are smudged and she looks even more beautiful.

I love it when they start to dishevel. Makes me want to tangle her hair, pull at her dress, smear what’s left of her lipstick.

*

“Fuck me,” she whispers, a command, a request, a desperate need, as she pulls me on top of her on the bed and wraps her legs around the backs of my thighs. I drag my palm from her knee up under her dress and push it aside, tear at the tie and it falls away in one neat cascade of fabric. She nuzzles into my neck again, arms around my shoulders as she sucks my earlobe into her mouth and flicks it with her tongue.

I groan. Fuck. Exposing her skin I take her all in, tracing my gaze along her body, her curvy waist and small soft belly, round breasts, small but thick, a handful, cherry nipples and no bra. I catch one in my mouth and encircle the other with my hand. She arches her back, sighs a little, taking a breath in and leaning back, her mouth open, eyes closed, hands at my shoulders, gasping.

I lift up to kiss her. Her mouth supple again and she’s eager, open. I’m hard and a little fierce, desire honed and sharpened and ready. Her noises are muffled by my mouth.

I bring my hand to the back of her neck and take hold of a fistful of hair. A gamble with some girls, but Jane wants to be taken, I can feel it. She responds immediately, like a cat does to a stroke of its back, arching and curling into the touch of a hand. Eyes closed, she’s taking it in. A gasp and she’s still, waiting. I keep my grip. I drag my other fingers down the side of her body, gently, and her nerves are increased from the immobility. She shivers but does not squirm. Waiting.

My hand at her stomach, on top of her thigh, pushing her legs open. I smile. I’m smug in these moments, I can almost start laughing from the waves of power and dominance and pleasure. Go ahead, try me. Go ahead, give in. I’ll take you, I’ll catch you. I’ll make you. Come.

I cup her pussy with my hand and drag my fingers along her lips from on top of her sweet smooth panties, I can feel the outline and she’s swollen. She unhinges her hips and spreads them wide, but I need them together so I can slide her panties off. I twist and pull and toss them aside, pull her up by the wrists so I can push the dress from her shoulders, expose her fully.

My mouth on her clavicle, her skin sweet and smooth.

“Please,” she whispers, airy, her breath hot. “Please.”

I nearly laugh aloud, nearly chuckle, something strong moving deep in me, grinning and restraining myself. I push her gently back down, grab at my cock with my hand.

She reaches for it, lifts her head and shoulders and her stomach flexes. She licks her lips, looks at me. My eyes are on my cock, pushing at my jeans, peeling back the split around the zipper so it doesn’t obstruct. It’s a silicone cock, just boiled, and doesn’t need a condom. I find her cunt with two fingers, my thumb along the shaft, and she’s wet, eyes begging for it, waiting, mouth open, jaw tight, one hand behind her on the bed, grabbing at the blankets and waiting for me, breathing in, trying not to growl or scream or hit me, trying not to roll right off the bed and run with all the energy buzzing under her skin right now.

“So sweet,” I murmur, tip of my cock touching her cunt. “So, so sweet.”

She’s tight, I can feel her contract, thick, around me as I slide in. Slowly, slowly. I get to the base and extend my torso, she’s watching me and I capture her mouth in a kiss as I slide out. Softly, softly. She adjusts her hips. We are quiet. Sounds of breath and bodies. Her brown eyes are smokier than ever, big and open with flecks of gold that catch the light and I swear I can see myself reflected as she gives me the shyest smile.

“Oh – oh – fuck,” under her breath, she leans her head back and her neck is long, stretched, as I pull out quicker, slam back inside. “More –” she gasps, “more.” Right in my ear, a whisper. I shudder, work in her faster.

“Goddamn,” I mutter, a little breathless, my dick swelling and I can feel how she tightens. Her legs around my waist now. Pressing hard against me with resistance, friction.

She bites my shoulder. Claws into my upper back with her hands and I take a sharp breath in, like a splash of cold water, a sudden sharp sensation.

And it’s there again, that urge to laugh, to chuckle low as I regain my breath and control. I take hold of her hair again, position my arm across her chest so I’m holding her down and lift myself to my knees, legs apart and slid under her hips. I get the angle just right. Low and tight. A little room to wiggle and the strap of my harness is hitting my clit just right.

This goddamn girl is going to make me come.

She can feel the shift in me and her eyes widen, gaining a look of intensity, concentration, focus. So much effort, so much work, to let someone in, to trust a stranger to hold you up, even your dirty, dark, private places. I want to. I want to be able to catch her, I feel she’s falling into some other space and her stomach contracts, she clenches everything as I thrust in, and again, and again, until finally it is precisely right, that one perfect spot and pressure and we are both unraveled, bursting, shaking at the seams, simultaneously, all at once, then shuddering, shaking, gasping, reveling in each other’s bodies, and in our own.

“So,” Jane says after a moment, low murmurs in her throat, happy sounds of quiet satisfaction, satiation, saturation. “Indian or Thai?”

“Thai,” I say. My hand traces lazy circles on her hip, over her skin, delicate as lace.

She kisses me, soft again, supple and deep, and gets up to make the call. She doesn’t ask me what I want. She pulls on a robe that barely covers her ass and winks at me as she leaves the room. I tuck my cock into my pants and tidy my perfectly messy hair.

She returns to the bedroom with another whiskey rocks and a glass of white wine, replaces the phone on the nightstand and opens the curtain on her bedroom window, revealing a sliding glass door. She opens it and gestures to me; I follow. It is a lovely view of 10th avenue, a dozen floors up, and we watch the traffic. I marvel at the quiet when I am just above the city.

The quiet is a little long and I should say something. I open my mouth.

“So, Sinclair,” says Jane. “Where are you from?”

I grin, and take a sip of the whiskey, so smooth, and the mouthful goes down easy.

Carrying the torch: Obama ’08

September 25, 2008  |  miscellany  |  4 Comments

It’s hard to admit, but I’m terrified about the upcoming election. I know, many of us are, especially the liberals who so desperately want Bush out of office, who want the democrats to regain power and attempt to undo some of the changes that are eroding our civil rights.

It is no small thing to write about politics on a public forum like this one – it is probably safe to say that my readership is primarily progressive liberals, but certainly not 100%. It is not impossible to get death threats.

Though I was raised by parents who are registered independents and who vote Green, who say the democrats are too conservative for them, who have been activists for decades, who believe in grassroots organizing and social change and that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world, I have been often disillusioned with the political process in this country.

I grew up in Alaska, where the polls close last and we have three electoral votes. This means that as the polls closed around the country, my parents would watch the results roll in and would wait to vote, often until the president had already been announced.

Clearly, our votes really mattered.

I understand now that it was a political strategy – that they would be certain Alaska would not be any sort of swing state or tiebreaker so they could comfortably go vote for the third party. But at the time, it was confusing. I believed that voting was a key important part of a democratic process, that by not voting you’re showing apathy and disinterest, and the only way to contribute is to make your position known.

This is how I witnessed voting until I was 18 and began voting in my own presidential elections – two so far – 2000 and 2004. Which, as certainly you remember, were a disaster. 2000 did not help to restore my faith in the political process of this country. Hanging chads? Seriously? And what happened to all those missing ballots? Oh, they were found in the dumpster out back? Really? Why did all those people get turned away from the polls? They were voting democrat … I see. And someone could win the popular vote but not the electoral vote? Isn’t there something wrong with that? And 2004 … I was kind of excited about Howard Dean and Dennis Kucinich for a minute there, but who’d we end up with? A cardboard cut-out. I don’t remember a single thing the guy said, he was so flat and boring. I could for a while quote some of the things Dean and Kucinich had said, but nothing memorable ever came out of Kerry’s mouth.

Maybe I’m being too harsh. I did support Kerry simply because he was the democratic party candidate. Although I resent that part of this system, too – that the political parties to which I am closest aligned do not have serious candidates, or, if they do, they are blamed for the democratic loss of the election, having “stolen” votes away. (This is another can o’worms entirely that I’m not willing to open – debate whether or not the third parties are valid or detrimental somewhere else, please.)

My point is, ever since I was old enough to vote, I’ve lived in George Bush’s America. And even since I was a kid, though I had a brief babyhood with Carter, I’ve grown up in Reagan-Bush-Clinton-Bush America. Capitalism rules – votes are for sale, influence is for sale, lawmaking is for sale. It’s depressing!

I grew up in the shadow of the civil rights legacy – social change through grassroots activism that clearly worked, that stopped the Vietnam war, that changed women’s gender roles, that shattered segregation, that united queers around the country. Parents and teachers who taught the political movements of the 1960s and ’70s like scripture, and I was – we all were – the next generation, the new movement, those who would pick up the torch and carry on.

And yet … and yet. The Right has been incredibly well-organized and effective. This country is divided on issues vs values. I find it so goddamn hard to believe that the election is so tightly close – I mean really? There are really just as many people voting for Obama as are voting for McCain? How can that be possible? It’s so hard to believe. Just like it’s so hard to believe that Bush Jr. was elected – twice – and took office – twice – and we didn’t stop him – twice.

However much those elections were fixed or rigged or fairly won or a systematic corruption of our voting system, we didn’t do enough to make it stop, did we?

I’m not a political scientist, I hesitate to even write about this because I feel like so many other people are so much more well informed than I am. That was one of the things I loved so much about The Ex, actually, was that she was a political scientist and could engage with me about political issues in ways that really helped me understand. So I know enough to know that I don’t know very much. (Which is why I’m linking like crazy, not only to source myself, but to encourage information gathering from other places. And to put all the links and resources I’ve been collecting in one spot.)

Oh jeez, and then there’s Sarah Palin. And the nonsense about Palin vs Hillary Clinton, which I don’t even want to speak to.

I do have some information about Palin, being that the Alaska Governor’s mansion is down the street from my mom’s house and my aunt works for the legislature. But if you’re paying any attention to the email forwards that are going around about Palin, then you probably already know what I know: basically, she’s vindictive. You’ve probably seen the Kilkenny email, the commentary by Gloria Steinem, and Women Against Sarah Palin. I probably don’t need to tell you about Palin’s anti-feminist, anti-woman, anti-choice, anti-LGBT, anti-freedom philosophies: pro-gun. Anti-abortion. Against same sex marriage. Bans books. Anti-evolution and pro-creationism in public schools. Against sex education in schools. The list goes on.

This stuff depresses me. About now I start thinking, wtf can I do?

Check out the Action Center on barackobama.com for more ideas about what you can do to get involved.

Donate to the Obama campaign.

Encourage everyone to register & vote – voteforchange.com has registration, absentee & early vote info.

If you want Obama buttons for your own site, they’re at /downloads – took me a bit of poking around to find them. I even downloaded an Obama wallpaper for my work computer, which is going to be slightly controversial in my conservative office, but I don’t care.

Meanwhile, fivethirtyeight.com‘s electoral projections are keeping my hopes up.

upon returning, a small complaint

September 24, 2008  |  journal entries  |  14 Comments

I was out of town last week, and now have returned from the other coast, the coast where the sun sets correctly into the water rather than over land, where I was in the Pacific Northwest primarily visiting my very large extended family for five days. I have all sorts of ideas about family and heritage and where I come from, about having kids and having a traditional structure, about how much my sisters and I are the freaks of the family.

Also strange to be referred to as niece, daughter, sister, granddaughter. Those words have never felt so ill-fitting. At some point I went to the bathroom and the door was labeled LADIES and I nearly stopped right there and turned around.

I am not a “lady,” not really. It’s not that I’m necessarily offended by it – I feel lucky to be part of groups of ladies at times, I love that I’m in women’s circles and women’s groups and women’s friendships, but even that word – woman – I’ve never quite felt right about it. I never refer to myself as such.

It’s not that I’m offended by it, it just doesn’t fit. Like too-big clothes or trying to put a hippie in black goth lipstick.

I have a friend who tells childhood stories that always start, “When I was a little girl …” and it struck me when I noticed it that I never refer to myself that way. I’ll say “kid,” as in “when I was a kid.” These days, I say “guy” – “I’m that kind of guy” – when referring to myself. Sometimes I use dyke or queer or butch I suppose, but I don’t ever use woman, lady, girl, or even sister, daughter, niece.

Still, it’s not that I’m transitioning – I’m not – and it’s not that I don’t identify with the lesbian/feminist communities – I do. Maybe I’m too much the poet, too much the semantics theorist, but some of these words just don’t fit.

I suppose this is just one of those frustrating gender binary things, and yet another of the reasons why butch is a trans identity of sorts. And yet another reason why I am still, continuously, inspired to keep doing this work, to understanding gender and creating new language to adequately describe myself and others, to contributing to the community and lifting each other up.

So there was a wedding in the Pacific Northwest, which is what prompted the large paternal family reunion. There are few events that are more gendered than a wedding. I thought it was going to be a small family wedding, as a few of the others had been, but the 20-something family members were actually in the minority and the community of friends and colleagues were abundant. At the church, I got sneered at by the small-town strangers. I was a bit flamboyantly dressed – pink button down, black argyle vest, no tie (I didn’t think it was going to be so formal!). But certainly I was not the only one dressed up, it was a freakin’ wedding!

Just served to remind me that I’m an outsider. I forget that, in New York City, where I don’t generally get noticed walking down the street unless I have a particularly good hair day. I fit in, I don’t stand out really.

The throwing the bouquet / throwing the garter felt like very strong gender-defining moments in the evening. No way in hell I was going to go out there and catch the bouquet – and actually I’m not sure I have ever been to a wedding where one was thrown, now that I think about it. But I did get out there when it was time to throw the garter. I couldn’t stay, though – I was too much on display in a room-full of too many people who had been giving me too many bad looks throughout the day.

I was little more than The Dyke From New York City all weekend.

I’m lucky, I suppose, is what I should take away from that experience – if I lived there, I would not dress as I do, would not have the fun I do with my hair and pink button-downs and vests and ties and belt buckles and cufflinks and jackets. I’m glad I have that opportunity, that I live in a place that not only accepts it, but encourages and, at times, demands it.

I didn’t expect it to be the reason, but really, I came to New York City so I could learn how to dress. Nothing has taught me fashion or style like this place.

Sometimes it is so uncomfortable to not conform to gender roles.

PS: I’m tremendously behind on email and correspondance, forgive me as I catch up.

Protected: universe to Sinclair: high five

September 24, 2008  |  journal entries  |  Enter your password to view comments.

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sex blogger calendar 2009

September 23, 2008  |  miscellany  |  9 Comments

I’m going to be one of the pinups in the The New York City Sexbloggers 2009 Calendar.

This is a brainchild of Tess Danesi, aka Urban Gypsy NYC, and I can’t even believe how fast she pulled together sponsors, models (Audacia Ray, Desiree, Diva, Elizabeth Wood, Jamye Waxman, Lux Alptraum, Mariella, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Riese (who was also a TLL blog of the year finalist), the famous Tess herself, Twanna A Hines, and me), sexbloggers, designers (that’d be me + Jack), a photographer and stylist and makeup artist and hairstylist, a venue … This was a very difficult undertaking and a definite labor of love. I’m so honored to be a part of it!

Proceeds of the calendar will go to Audacia Ray’s Sex Work Awareness Project, and you can buy a day in the calendar for thirty bucks, which includes a copy of the calendar itself, or a day all by itself for $10.

Can’t wait for the photo shoot where all these hot ladies dressed up in burlesque gear start takin’ it off at the Slipper Room. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing for my shoot yet, but I will tell you that I got a shiny new pair of black and white wingtips.

accessing the protected posts

September 16, 2008  |  miscellany  |  269 Comments

So the former password protection post is spilling over with requests. With the intention of me not missing requests for access to the password protected posts, this is the new post where you leave a comment.

It would be best if you left your website, too, even if it’s your myspace or facebook address, as I’d like to know you’re a real person. You can email that to me if you’d rather it not be published publically. It’s not a requirement, if you don’t have one, but I’d appreciate it, as these are very personal writings.

About the password protected posts:

They are primarily my personal journal entries: reflections on my relationships, and my real life sex stories. Sugarbutch started so that I could have a place to reflect on my relationship difficulties, which included the problems with my relationship with my ex where I wanted to be more butch (and wanted her to be more femme) but felt unsupported to explore that, and the problems we were having with sex, which was that we were having none. It evolved into a place where I processed my relationship with another girl that I immediately got involved with, and when that relationship ended spectacularly awfully, it has been chronicling my evolution back to myself, my committment to myself, my “aspiring stud”-ness in trying to get laid, and trying to get my shit together such that I can enter into a healthy, stable, positive, committed relationship again.

Meanwhile, though, it has been lots of gender theory. Lots. And some smut stories. Which are also fun.

And as I’ve gained a larger and larger readership, the personal stuff is entirely too exposed, so they have gone under password protection. I still want a place to write about my relationship evolutions, and I still love having writing and blogging as a medium to explore my own sense of self, so I tend to write a few of these a month.

So, if you’d like to read the personal posts, leave a comment at the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

Beep.