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All Red Inside

@allredinside-blog / allredinside-blog.tumblr.com

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I know there’s a widespread lack of understanding/context on this, but “butch” and “femme” are not a spectrum with every possible experience falling in between them somewhere. they are not just synonyms for “masculine and feminine”. it’s more than that. butch is not synonymous to “gender nonconforming” and femme is not the same thing as “gender conforming”. 

butch and femme are a distinct identity framework that developed around certain forms of expression, presentation and interactions between women who loved and had sex with each other and that remains true now. butch falls within the category of gnc womanhood, but there are things specific to butchness that are not shared by every gnc woman. likewise, femme women may be feminine, but are not gender conforming. there are gender nonconformances that femme women share, culturally indicated behaviors, markers of expression etc that femme women engage in that do not read as gender conforming - which is why I can often (not always but often) tell a femme woman from a straight woman. not to say that one can always read an identity from stereotypes, but indicators/signals are a thing.  

the “futch spectrum” post(s) that went ‘high femme, femme, futch, butch, stone butch’ or w/e, was brought up as a lesbian tumblr joke, but ended up confusing a lot of ppl about what butch and femme are. ppl who took that spectrum seriously got this perspective of it as “super girly, girly, in the middle, not girly, really masculine” which is… not at all how butch and femme work as identifiers. if you don’t identify as one or the other you don’t have to pick an awkward spot on a spectrum between them because those things aren’t a spectrum. you’re either butch, femme, or neither and being neither and not identifying with that framework is just fine and not uncommon. 

I think in order for ppl to understand more about how “butch” and “femme” came into use (especially in the gay bar scene among other related places in the 60′s), and what those identities entailed, it’s important to read literature, for example, like Stone Butch Blues. that’s only one title and there are others but that’s the first one that pops into my head. feel free to reblog with others. the way butch and femme developed in the time portrayed in that literature are not necessarily reflective of the exact way they are today, but it does give a background context, and introduces the concept that not every gay woman identifies as butch or femme and that’s been true since the start of their use.

summary: the butch/femme framework is a specific cultural dynamic. there’s variety within it, and sub-groups and labels that different femme and butch women use to describe themselves. but even with that variety, not every gnc woman is going to fit within a butch narrative (or want to at all). femme women are gnc to certain degrees. many women are not either. and u just can’t equate “femme” and “butch” with masculine and feminine, or with an all encompassing spectrum that everything falls in, because it doesn’t. 

I love this. thank you. 

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Anonymous asked:

I really despise this whole queer femme stuff that usually becomes butches are evil and exactly like men way of thinking that is becoming so prevalent like it seems to have also taken up makeup as radical or something and i personally feel deeply uncomfortable using makeup myself and because somehow the more feminine the more radical i just feel so alienated from the idea of being femme like i feel more connected to the idea of femmeness from many years ago not current

That’s super common and I’m sorry you’re going through these messy politics. The good thing is they will pass. The bad thing is they could get worse rather than better, but I sure hope not.

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Facinating. Of course if we become critical then we get in trouble. Typical sexist bullshit.

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My gender, queer femme, and fucking you.

I wanted my gender to be enacted upon like I did for you. I wanted just as much for you to affirm my femininity as you did for me to affirm your masculinity. And in the moment of fucking it felt totally dialectic. But then outside of our bed I am faced with the reality that me being femme means nothing in your eyes or anyone else’s.

And us femmes could only get in trouble for voicing such things. but aren’t we just as entitled to explaining our own experiences and receiving empathy? I have been part of queer communities for the majority of my life but I am not allowed an opinion about any of it.

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My Queer Comrade, 

Once in college, I pushed my best friend up against a rock and kissed her. I think we had tried to kiss before. It didn’t feel right for the both of us, I think. But it was like wtf “why can’t we just be in love with each other? We are both dykes.”

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My Dear Queer Comrade, 

In New York, I saw a Sadie Benning film at the Moma , called Play Pause. I have the handbill/poster hung on my wall. Barbara Hammer was there. There was a Q & A session after and Barbara said something totally 2nd wave. Then someone I was with said something snarky to her (it might have been me).  

Sadie Benning has big Buddy Holly glasses and short gray hair that is swept back. Her hair is wild. she doesn’t give a shit. She is butch and seriously hot. I feel like you will look like her when you get old. 

Watching that film made me feel so emotional/confused. The whole film is stills of black and white drawings. For straight people, it is subtly queer but for queer people it is obvious. i like that. I like knowing that i am in on a secret. 

There is an interview with her on Vimeo. In part of it she is running her fingers over her i-phone making a neon triangle shaped drawing. It makes me cum a bit.. 

All of her art is really sexy in a subtle way. Solid colored shapes against black backgrounds. Triangles, circles, ovals, rectangles pointing sideways. Then little shards of shapes exploding. I want to fuck that. 

 And don’t you just want that type of queer culture? I want to see you make art. 

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My dear comrade,

A few years ago, almost five, I climbed up a tilted staircase to be told that I am bipolar.

My best friend told me that it is amazing how I just functioned through it. “You went to fucking grad school” she says. and I did. I always got my shit done, even when I realized how crazy I feel/am.

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My queer comrade,

I am surrounded by the best people and feel completely validated in my love for my best friend. It feels good to be around people who really know me.

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a series of letters part 6

Dear My Queer Comrade, 

I am thinking through what it would be like to be around you and not want to touch you. I am wondering if that is even possible. Is the line between friendship and romantic love already too blurred? 

I am going to try to describe what I mean by this “blurred lines” stuff by telling you a story. The first person that I really loved is named Jamez. I was 18. I am looking back, right now, at my diary from that age so I can adequately describe to you what it was/is like. 

When Jamez and I started dating, I was living with my girlfriend Holly. Ladyfest happened in June and then I turned 18 in August. We were both canvassing for RAPP (the rape crisis center). We started looking at each other and talking a lot during work or at happy hours. So I cheated on Holly with him. I feel no regret about this, btw. But I think Holly still hates me for it. 

This is what I wrote in my Diary before I fucked with Holly’s chemicals:

“I have a crush on a boy. I have a crush on a boy!! He is so smart. I love his voice. Today I was drunk at the Thin Man (a place that I am not even old enough to go to). I wanted to kiss him so badly. He kept looking at me. I wonder if he knows that I have a crush on him.”

Then one night, I ended up at his tiny house in Baker. We stayed up all night talking and making out. It was such fucking magic. 

Shortly after that, I moved out of Holly’s house and got an apartment on Gaylord. I painted all the walls pink and laid on my bed listening to records. 

In my diary, there are big hearts drawn all over surrounded by writing about about Jamez. He would sleep over at my house and then leave little notes for me that said “the best thing in my life right now is cuddling with you.” Jamez would stop by my house at night and throw pebbles at my window to get my attention. It was just like a a fucking Molly Ringwald movie. 

“I want Jamez’s arms around my waist. He makes me feel so pretty and femme, without even saying anything,” I wrote.  I think he was the first person who treated me like a femme, who interacted with me in that way. He was also the first person to give me an orgasm.  

Jamez was always leaving for some place or other. When we broke up, I think he left for Wilmington, NC. He doesn’t know this but the morning he left, I watched him, from a few blocks away in my car. I saw him put all of his things in his car, hug his friend, and leave. Watching him go was so melodramatic of me, I know. 

I would see Jamez every so often after that. It always felt the same.We had such love for each other. We gave each other long hugs and when he touched me it still felt so fucking good. Years later, Jamez organized the Tranny Road Show and I booked them at Sarah Lawrence. I lived in the dorms so he stayed with me. It had been so long. I didn’t feel heartbreak or like I necessarily wanted him to be my boyfriend but those tender feelings were still there. He slept in my bed and we cuddled all night. I still think about that night and how he is someone that I will always have loving tender feelings for. I still feel like if we saw each other, I would feel the same like I would still want him to kiss me and touch me. 

So my queer comrade, this is what I am wondering; do these tender feelings ever go away? Once the dynamic of being affectionate with someone is set up, is it possible for that to change? Will I always want you to scooch yourself close to me and touch me in someway? Will I feel heartbroken, if I am around you and you don’t interact with me in that way? I want your company but how can I shed these tender feelings for you? How will I feel around you if you treat me differently? But maybe this isn’t even an issue for you, which would make me feel even sadder. 

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a series of letters part 5

Dear Queer Comrade,

I miss my best friend more than anyone else ever. I think this is what Adreine Rich talks about. I love her so much that it is a bit lez but it also itn’t. Isn’t that what Gail Rubin would say? There is no primitive lesbian utopia. My love for her is too special for it to be just about that. 

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a series of letters part 4

Dear Queer Comrade, 

In reading Chris Kraus, I realize/know that letters are the best cathartic form of satire  and take on a life of their own. Fuck your subjectivity.

 so dear dick, I realize that I like femmes the best and you barely figure onto that plain.  

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a series of letters part 3

Dear Queer Comrade,

When I was 25 in Brooklyn, I spent 6 to 8 months fucking a natorious asshole.

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a series of letters part 2

Dear Queer Comrade,

Hasn’t every dyke wanted to fuck their best friend? So where are those emotional lines drawn? Does the kind of dyke friendship I seek only happen between femmes? What happens when you also want that person to pull you close to them and kiss you? Am I just socialized to be “boy crazy” for wanting that? How can I honestly cultivate the platonic love I want for you? But isn’t that the contradiction of slumber parties? Every dyke secretly loves their best friend.

When you are queer everything is supposed to feel so neutral. But Comrade, I just don’t. I don’t feel neutral at all.

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a series of letters part 1

Dear Queer Comrade, 

When I was 25 living in New York, I had an odd emotional relationship with a group of people. Beth (who then changed her/their/or whatever’s name to Buzz), Wessly Flash, and Kade Collins. The four of us would make dinner, talk about what it means to be queer, and then cuddle together and watch movies. Kade and I would talk about being butch and femme. We were really into talking about that then. The other two were fascinated but didn’t get it. We liked that we got each other and he was really hot. 

There are some pictures of all of us together on facebook. In one of them we all look bad ass in jean jackets and me beautiful. There are a bunch of us that I love walking down the middle of the street in Ridgewood in the fall.

Ridgewood was our backdrop and it feels/felt like such a magical secret in Brooklyn. It  is just on the north side of the L train. On the south is Bushwick, where it is super industrial. Gritty or whatever. Ridgewood is an old German/Polish neighborhood that still houses people’s grandmas and crotchety old men at polka bars. On the east side, where it gets industrial/hipster again, there is an old Dutch house with a thatched roof. Right there in the middle of post-industrial hipster brooklyn. It was built in 1709. Can you believe it?

In that picture, the street is cobbled and there are leaves on the ground. It felt so crisp and fall and that was the best. We all wanted to eat apples. So that is what we would do. We would walk down the tree lined streets in Ridgewood and feel like we were so magical and queer because we had found this place and because we had found each other. 

I liked being with those people. I especially loved Wesly Flash because he would read my tarot cards and talk to me about all my feelings. I had a lot of feelings back then because I wasn’t medicated and was trying to date in Brooklyn. 

Wesly had a crush on Kade. We talked about it consonantly and he obsessed about whether or not to tell Kade. The whole crush thing got kind of out of hand and it was pretty silly, if you ask me. Kade was not into other transguys. 

On those nights, with the four of us, there was Kade and me talking about what it is like to be butch/femme and be touched or date someone. I never thought he would like me because I didn’t feel pretty and I wasn’t skinny like his girlfriends. One night, we were all sleeping on the floor of Wesly’s living room. Kade reached over and touched my back. It was so fucking electrifying. I scooched up close to him and let him touch me. 

After that night, we would be at one of our queer slumber parties reading Leslie Feinberg out loud to each other or making art. Kade and I would look at each other across the room. A few times, we walked home together and kissed. It felt like such magic to me, I think, because I was finally getting some attention. My chemicals were all fucked up and I got a bit crazy for him. He had a lot of intense/weird sexual fantasies that involved stalking/hunting girls in the woods. I loved that. I wanted to be hunted. 

One night, there was a huge blizzard in New York. I had been home and got off the plane to “snowmegendan.” I think it was after Thanksgiving, which meant my grandfather was dying then. It was so bad that MTA busses were stranded in snow banks. The cab driver wouldn’t go all the way up Knickerbocker Ave, because the snow had blocked it off. So he dropped me at Flushing, the biggest intersection. Somehow I drug my suitcase through the blinding snow and got home safely. But then guess what happened? I got so fucking “boy crazy” that I locked myself out of my apartment. Hannah and Sarah weren’t there to let me in. I was in the cold. I couldn’t even get into the entryway. I thought about going to Wesly Flash’s apartment but he hated me because I fucked Kade Collins. I gave my parents a heart attack and called them. Then I found a number for a lock smith that would come. 

I wanted Kade to keep fucking me but the whole thing had gotten out of control. Kade and I had ruined our intensely emotional queer slumber party club. I was “too boy crazy” so I got mostly blamed for it. Wesley hated me and it was fucking devastating. When I went home for Thanksgiving, my sister had taken me to Herbs and Arts. I bought him a care package of crystals and candles. I wrote a note and left it on his stoop. He never forgave me. I am pretty sure that started the rumor mills that I am a fucking slut (aka I have “no girl solidarity” or only give a shit about getting fucked by boys). 

The whole thing was so fucking sad. We loved out little queer crew. We talked about how exuberant it made us feel and how special it was. We were all so emotional about it but then it was ruined. 

It feels like only those kinds of emotional connections can happen between adolescent girls or in romantic relationships. That sucks. 

I have felt some of this excitement with you. Like I just want to talk to you all the time about queer stuff and read Kathy Acker out loud to you. And then I want to write to you and tell you what I am thinking. But then it sucks when feelings of desire and jealously get in the way. I don’t like that. I want to stay in that slumber party space. So this is why you are not a “place-holder” for me.

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In the post-90s identity politics of womanhood/feminism/queer subjectivity, one is to feel empowered by acts otherwise viewed as demeaning/distasteful/deviant. Gender is performance and the best performance of its kind is always vulgar. Upon actual experiences of patriarchal dis-empowerment, one is instructed to reclaim them or (at least) re-frame them in a more radical ‘stick it to the man’ way.  

But there are somethings that I don’t want to reclaim. Insanity, for one. 

So much of this politics feels dysfunctional. Identity politics has run amok. Fuck class reductionism and all of that but the material experience of being in my body, fucking, and loving cannot be abstracted to the point where acts that make us (femmes) feel shitty or dysfunctional suddenly feel fine or good in practice.

I have felt the need to aim for a calm stability, instead of acting upon queer people’s perception that deviant sexual behavior equals radicallity. But, obviously, I still want to get fucked in all sorts of ways. I just don’t think everything is worth “reclaiming” in actual practice and I don’t think that some acts lead to long-term happiness. Duh, I am in my 30s and that shit just feels so fucking boring now.

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I have recovered all my things from my 20s and arranged them in a pink apartment. Sitting here, I feel conflicted. Nostalgic and like a failure for having to leave my life behind in New York.

Looking back in my journals from when I was 19 or 20, I realize that I have felt the same about fucking and dating always.

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I can never forgive you for taking New York from me. I know I am better off here but it is not what I wanted for my life.

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an abortion is in many ways a form of violence against a woman’s body and her hormones.

Even the most queer and liberated woman feels this. the opening of the cervix. the sucking of tissues and fluids. the bright light above you. the helplessness of being spread open on a table with someone between your legs.paying extra to be knocked out so you don’t feel the pain. paying extra. paying at all. feeling lucky that I did have the money because two weeks later it would not have been possible to get an abortion. the antibiotics you take for weeks after to remind you of what has passed through your cunt. 

And this is the injustice of it. Knowing that only you experience this violence but that the one responsible can go on unknowingly. 

I do not miss the beating of a heart inside of me. A friend of mine, that has had several abortions, likens it to a parasite. I don’t. My body felt right and calm in that moment. I did not want something to come out of me but I would have stayed in that calmness for as long as possible.

now with my cunt and my cervix severed again, I realize why it was hard for me to spread myself open in front of another doctor. 

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