The requirement that a woman maintain a smooth and hairless skin carries further the theme of inexperience, for an infantilized face must accompany her infantilized body, a face that never ages or furrows its brow in thought. The face of the ideally feminine woman must never display the marks of character, wisdom, and experience that we so admire in men.
Thick everything. Thick thighs, thick eyebrows, thick lips. Thick maple syrup on my pancakes, thick everything.
Anyone who takes the time to be kind is beautiful.
Why is it considered a legitimate research question to ask if we exist? Because bisexuals are framed as liars, by both the straight and the lesbian/gay communities. Because it’s a way to other and exoticise us.
Because there is a long tradition of not taking any marginalized group’s experiences seriously until their lived experience was "verified" by someone in the majority.
"To the Heterosexist Barfly:
These knees hunt gum trailed cement through the heel of my combat boots. They cut diamonds with the fire-laden diaphragm they settled into me, when they furrowed with crooked necks and pinched eyelids.
My hand is wrapped in hers, and they talk in pointed words from pews and rolled-down windows.
These are bodies that curled into each other under ribbed blinds and incandescent stringed lights while you watched lesbian porn last night.
Sexualize these figures that peel cuffed Hendrix tees off one another to see the mountains you left along our backs. From the way her mother purses her lips and the way her father bends his head and the way her brother no longer calls her.
Paint on your picketed fists the way we need love. My spine is still cold from seats they talked sermons into.
I learned the deep features of my cheek bones after I met her. I repeated ninety-six times “I am gay, I am gay, I am gay” in the full length mirror that hadn’t seen me get dressed in two weeks.
You stumble into us at 11PM Wednesday night specials with stubble that understands the long necks you collected at puckered bar tops. Asking for three-way fantasies and measuring your dick up to the way I make her shake at night.
And the heel of my boot cuts into the glass of the cement and my words carve space for her fingertips on my thigh without you lingering. I swear to the climaxes you are small to.
"How many fucking orgasms have you ever given?"
If I could speak in odes of the way the gap in her teeth causes my chest to plunder, and how we tousle with sleep lines and stanzas with the way my skin mixes with hers, I would.
But you are fifteen years deep of long fingernailed moans echoing from your PC to see the way my knees wobble when she sighs into my neck.
You cinch up your tie and you twist Cordovan toe caps into polished floors on Sunday and your tongue is sharp with two breasts that burn into featherweight pages. You flip from hardcover to the way we need saving, with the thumb you held her chin with.
They speak of us in plurals, in scathed breath from heavy candle wick smoke, kneeling for the forearms their of closeted son. And the overhang of Saint Joseph will feather onto their clubbed knuckles when the sun breaks.
Some will hum about his affliction. Others will praise his pain for teaching a family to love. I don’t know which his worse.
There are seven thousand sneaker tongues that exhale holidays into checkered quits and barbecue smoke, and their pinched eyelids will always find how the femininity in my forearm tailors her child-bearing hips.
And they say we are all the same inside.
We fiddle with the $5.99 bouquet, while our chests jives when we muse over the simian lines in her palm. And our cheeks will hurt when her silhouette finds the doorway, and ache when streetlight overhangs retire us to separate beds.
And I will always see the difference in the sifting in our bellies.
She fortifies plated dinners with invisible blinders as a pre-date ritual. We walk in bee-lines with muffled words in our wake, while you pore over the way headlights and cityscapes flirt with her collarbones. And our pericardiums will quake when she maps brow line to bridge with the tip of her nose, and mine will quicken for the shadows who are watching.
At 2AM, you look for her eyes after tugging on her lower lip with giggle-laden breath on street corners.
At 2AM, I look for their eyes after tugging on her lower lip with giggle-laden breath on street corners.
And they’ll say you held her hand in movie theater light on your second date.
And they’ll say I am brave for the political statement of touch.
And they’ll ask her when she will be introduced to your family.
And they’ll ask me if her family knows.
I tell them no, because of the way her mother purses her lips and the way her father bends his head and the way her brother no longer calls her.”
- Haley Wilson; hayywil.tumblr.com
Thank you for looking. I was wondering how my ass looked in these jeans. Your whistle cracks like a drum against my unlucky skin.
Against this morning’s shower and last night’s fingertips.
Thank you for asking to speak to the man of the house.
You’re right. I am incapable of purchasing sprinklers from your pamphlet.
Isn’t it “cute” that I tried though?
Thank you for darker nights. For the imprint my car keys have left in my fist.
For exit strategies and pretend phone calls when the battery was dead.
Thank you for turning my sexuality into a spectacle.
For underground hand holds and whiskey river kisses at the bar that only exist for your eyes.
For your viewing pleasure.
Of course you can watch her slide into me. There is a sign-up sheet at the window. Be sure to leave us a good tip. I’ll also accept screams and hollers
Please tell me all the places they can nip and tuck. Tell me where my woman can be smaller. Tell me where my androgynous clothes are supposed to fall to the floor.
It is May now, and I am tired of you asking my vagina to take up less space in the room.
My vagina does not whisper, it roars:
My intelligence is not “cute”.
I am done with your collision fists and your business suit dicks and your cotton candy love songs. Play a fucking fiddle.
This body builds things. These muscles are heavy and these calloused hands sink into her waterfall elbows. Her September whispers.
Dear meaningless tattoos and feminine caverns
there is a tornado at the door that is daring you to speak up.
Dear fancy home and floral dress and black blood bow tie there are rings under my eyes from all the fucks I actually give.
This is my leaking battery and the release of my feminism termites.
I am a who and not a what.
I am daring you to open the wooden door.
Growing up, I didn’t read novels by women. It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s almost like I didn’t think that I needed to or, I guess, I didn’t know that I needed to. I was perfectly happy in a world contained by men. I adopted the posture of the brooding male as my own. I was Salinger, I was Kerouac, I was any male protagonist in a novel that one of my boyfriends recommended. I didn’t know that there was a specific female sadness so I was content with relating to a generalized one. And in a way, reading these novels was less of a way to relate and more of a way to learn how to be the type of girl that these male novelists liked. One of my first ambitions wasn’t to be a writer – it was to be a writer’s muse.
Hey! So I know this is random... but I'm doing some solo travelling and will be in the Denver area third week of August. I searched some tags on tumblr in the hopes of hopes of finding queer friendly folks to give good rec's on what to do, where to hang, etc. My kik is the same as tumblr if you have suggestions... you seem like a cool peep and, regardless of response, hope you have a lovely day!
Hey! I can definitely give you some recommendations. Denver has a huge queer scene. I personally love tracks, which has a good mixed crowd. On the first Friday of every month they have a “ladies night” which is really just a lot of female-bodied folks who go, but anyone is welcome. Thursday nights are always great at Tracks as well. There is also Charlies, X Bar, Vinyl, and a few other queer-friendly bars in Denver. Denver also has pretty swell drag shows that many bars put on depending on the night.
I am not sure about day-time hanging for queer-friendly spaces. Denver is overall a more liberal pocket, and I have had positive experiences when visiting.
There are also websites that I have dabbled on about queer traveling. If you google “Queer traveling” or something of the like you can find out more information about things to do. I am mostly in the Northern Colorado/Fort Collins area, so I have limited expertise on the Denver scene.
Good luck on your queer travels :)