Just another WordPress.com site

Picture this: your fave venue for your own crip art events is not accessible. The front door, counters , bar and stage are, but not the toilets!!!!! Quelle horreur!

There is only one thing to be done.

HOLD AN ACCESSIBLE DUNNY FUND-RAISER! And hold the beast on International Day of People with Disabilities and be proud you are some of the few crips in the world who are actually DOING SOMETHING for the day instead of having cups of tea with the local Disability Services folk, the local Council dignitaries etc, all non-disabled (usually) all raising funding for their own IDPWD tea. For next year…

So we had the PISS ON IDPWD EVENT: QUIPPINGS FREAKTASTIC – ACCESSIBLE DUNNY FUND-RAISER.

I took the stage with this Romp thru IDPWD Fear and Loathing alla way to Toilet Love.

Quippings KD piece Dec 8 2012

People tell me sometimes that my writing and my performances are confusing – that I don’t have a solid line or approach I stick to… It’s true, I don’t.

I’m mixed about everything, about me, about you, about International Day of People with Disabilities..

And I’m not a person who keeps my thoughts and concepts fixed either… I keep educating myself and shifting.

Perhaps if you remind me of what I said 10 years ago, ten days ago, ten minutes ago, I might say, oh I feel differently about that now…

To me this is Freak Life, this intense contradiction of me versus you, vs them, vs my family, vs the world, vs IDPWD.

This focus on us can be life and society changing… International Year of Disabled People was 1981. I was alive then. I was 20. And I was about to see social change.. Seriously lots of my fellow crips and I went on ads, on the radio, on tv and so on and the more ads and pictures, the more the name calling and social phobias just sort of started oozing away…

But is IDPWD really benefiting us?

The phone rang maybe ten years ago when I was in northern NSW. It was somebody from the IDPWD state organizing group inviting me to be an IDPWD Ambassador. It sounded cool, they wanted me to attend events in Casino, Lismore and Sydney. I was imagining my fab Syd hotel room when the crash came that I was expected to pay for all that travel etc myself. What? What was in it for me? ‘The opportunity to be seen doing something,’ they said. I told them where they could stick their opportunity..

And so, what is in this for us? I really am torn on this… because…

What has been the greatest gift of all from all this guff, this special day, this special need, this IDPWD bandwagon, the whole shebang, yes? What have we received? It has to be – what? (Put to audience…)

For me it’s accessible toilets….

It was a hot wet night in Maleny and I was wearing a ginger plug up my arse.

She asked me to call her Sir for the night.

I liked what the word did to my mouth. And my every cell.

Sir drove me to dinner in the town and on the way she passed me a few more delicate circular slices of fresh ginger. ‘They are for your clit and your nipples. Work them into your bra and panties and keep them there.’

‘Yes, Sir!’

Ginger makes its presence felt that close. My ginger butt plug was carved very carefully by Sir with a gleaming Swiss army knife. It was a perfect fit with a little gingery neck and flare, to hold it in.

The effect was warming on this tropical Queensland night.

Driving along over unsealed roads for 30k felt like I was being invaded from the groin upwards by army ants, with artillery positions on my nipples. They bit; a bite of love, of pungency, of deep internal wooing.

Ginger kisses.

Sir said the ginger buttplug would make me want to get fucked like never before. Squirming to both move away and get into the heat was persuading me this was the case.

By the time we reached the Italian restaurant I was not particularly interested in food. I remember we ordered and Sir passed more ginger slices to refresh me, and I worked them into my underwear, removing the older slices and putting them stickily on to the table. The heat settled and stung and the ginger called and then shrieked to me. Sir lit a cigarette; I set off to scope out the bathroom.

In one of those fantastic unexpected quirks of life the bathroom was not only nearby, it was a fully equipped universal toilet with a mirror and those handy bars around the loo. I couldn’t wait until dessert, I had to persuade Sir in to show me what she had in her pants.

Sir was pleased by the bathroom and putting down the toilet seat, Sir ceremoniously unzipped and pulled out Sir’s brilliant black cock. ‘Prepare me,’ Sir commanded and I did that cute little teeth rip on the condom trick and same with the little lube packet. Warm and slippery, Sir’s cock was a thing of loveliness as she settled on to the toilet with it standing up staring at me.

The bars around the toilet are ideal for a wench like me. I seized them, hoiked my leg off, spread myself and positioned myself above that open lap, that hot beast. My panties were messy and so was I, in a good way… As I slid down into place, gasping at the pleasure and yes, the relief of having sensation other than the ginger to get my attention, there was a bang! And like being doused in ice, I realised we had broken the toilet seat.

‘Fuck!’ shouted Sir.

‘I wish,’ I gasped.

It was a shambles. We had snapped the stupid thing in half. Way big time coitus interruptus. We stared at each other and laughed, and didn’t stop for a while.

‘I’m going to have to tell them,’ I said.

‘Shit, this will be funny,’ Sir said.

I didn’t care, my blood was up, my mind was in my ginger and lube speckled softness and I was casting about the room.

Now you’ll get crips that whinge about bloody baby change tables in accessible toilets, yknow the parents and kids should go somewhere else, and you end up arguing with them outside the loos over who is more entitled to go in first, you or some parent with their squalling dirty brats etc…

But not me. The potential of that baby change table hit me like that ginger buttplug was setting off fireworks in my arse and I drew Sir after me to the table and held him there as I bent over it – ideally pelvis height and presented Sir with my damp buttplugged gingerclitted vulva and begged,

‘Please Sir, please fuck me.’

And we did.

I howled and couldn’t get enough.

And so, I urge you all to dig deep tonite. Really reach in there and find that compassion and charitable urge to give, to give hard, to give it like you never gave it before.. Think of us freaks who really do find accessible toilets liberating. Necessary. Unforgettable.

And fuck IDPWD being just this one day for those special ppl.

Make IDPWD every day. Flirt with someone you really want. Fuck someone you really want. Don’t hold it back, just let it all fucking out….

And support universal toilets. Everywhere.

MIDSUMMA 2013.

QUIPPINGS FREAKTASTIC: THE HOTNESS: Wed Jan 30 @ Hares and Hyenas, Fitzroy, Vic, Oz  http://www.hares-hyenas.com.au/

It’s Midsumma 2013, it’s live! It’s Quippings! It’s Kath Duncan’s turn… Usually I do a dirty thing, some porny piece… But tonite it’s time for my other passion: Flowers. Yes, blossoms. With text. I’m a Text Junkie; for me pics are even better with text all over em… I take pics of flowers all the time and I made this live powerpoint mix of some of my flower moments, which go in splendid unique randomness, with any track you like.

ON THE NITE IT IS:

Nina Hagen “Naturträne”

 

Kath Duncan (Live multimedia mix with a Nina Hagen track, minimal script)
Tech requirements: Data projector, mic, computer to run live powerpoint flower program, system to play Nina Hagen track.

Quippings flower show 2013

BLUE BOXERS

 By Kath Duncan (10 min max)

Performance piece for Quippings, wed, feb 2nd, hares n hyenas, midsumma 2011

Start with Dirty Three: “The Restless Waves” (5:16)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6byhkpCFvfs&feature=related

 

Why am I here? I always wanted to go to Woodford folk festival and mingle joyfully with the ferals and the hippies but I didn’t think about 20,000 people in a valley of rain and mud.

We have set up our camp in the disabled zone which is a sea of slop and every step is precarious. Stomping my way through this mess means I watch every step.

 As for the festival program on offer, well that’s pretty theoretical for me. The mud has meant that exploring the site is impossible for me. I cant even get to the loo cos theres a 5meter moat – not deep, wide – between me and the loo. My assistant and friend Jally builds me 2 bridges by the third day..

 So I catch the special disabled buggy up to the main gates and through them, but everywhere I go is full of mud raddled straight teens, older folk and bogans, very well dressed in amazing wet weather designs but even with their all their color and movement all they are are obstacles in my dreary course, and I hate them all.

I need to get away and be by myself somewhere but everywhere slides away from me. As for my friends,  it seems to be some green-linin thinking n prayin – and no im not talking bout pot – point of pride not to give in to the stinking awful conditions but to carry on wading and sliming, to see one more band, do one more workshop, enjoying while drowning. My campmates are so dirty and happy

Not me. Im on a fun strike. I am keeping to my camp site, smoking too much pot and watching in high growly mood as everyone else has a great if sloppy time.

I look at people and hide from them at the same time.

Fuck  it, if I was in Melbourne I would be pursuing my limp romances with Romaine or Julie or Rita or Michelle… going out, hanging out, maybe… maybe… maybe…

Here I cant see anyone special for the crowds.

My favorite place…every day I sneak outa camp and using my walker, scrape it thru the 5 metre moat that leads to the main road – glassy clay with gravel – and make it to my haven, the disabled toilet. How I adore a disabled toilet. The space, the mirror – usually but not here – the acres of toilet paper for us freaks, the shower stall and toilet, the not too disgusting drainage, the rails, and most of all, the powerpoint.

There is no individual power source at Woodford. You can pay to get your mobiles or computers charged up 5000 ks up into the site… or you can beg the wet helpers in the 10cm mired in bog Disability Camping Area Tent to suck at their power outlet.

Talking to people, urgh. Asking for stuff bah! Having to be friendly, no way. I try to make myself do all that hopefully all at once every day for oh about an hour. That’s as much as I can take.

Ok, I know I havent made this sound very exciting but it kind of is, with hundreds of performances and workshops per day and an endless stream of good-looking if damp young folk past my tent every day, but I just don’t care.

It doesn’t touch me. Im too haunted by my past year. Im still bereft over my last breakup. I haven’t got over her, I cant move on.

So.

Here it is new year’s eve and Im crying in the disabled toilet. Alone.

I exit my friends and their jolliness as soon as I decently can after the traditional Woodford 3 minute silence with candles at 11:30 moment followed by the interminable midnight screaming and hugging ritual. It is over, I and my walker have got away from it all as fast as I can – which is not very fast – to get to the muddy, fetid disabled loo.

Hello again my old friend.

Just as I close and bolt the door, the clouds open and there is a mad storm going on out there, thundering rain on the corrugated roof, a sound so loud and intense that I figure no one will hear me howl.

Im sitting on the loo, my clothes up round my knees, partly for convenience but mostly to escape the brown red lumpy skid-marks  on the floor.

Im wearing the blue boxers.

I found these amazing undies on the first day it stopped raining.

Euphoric. I couldnt resist.

They are extra large and shiny teal blue with stripey blue and white edges. They have:

this pic of a busty ranga pinup ‘Whisper’ showing you her black stockings;

a stage ad for the Midnite Spook Show, guaranteed to scare… Ghosts!;

as well as text: no marks;

tormented and unavailable;

speak to me lover of all you desire.

 

Well to be straight with you all – as straight as I and you get – Im a lil under the influence. I sit on the dunny, roll myself a scoob, think fuckit, light it and puff.

The thudding of the rain gets louder, I see my own breaths in the tropical air, the air swirls around me like a twister, the winds pick up and Im taking it all in while rubbing the blue boxer fabric.

Right here.

What Im thinking about is hell, I miss her.

My X.

If she’s here right now we will find some crazy way of getting off in this dunnny…. Im looking round and rubbing and stroking the ghost show and seeing the erotic potential in this filthy space and the storm is building

and we dammit lose power but the moon full

and the lightning horrifying –

 

And there’s a bang at my door.

 

Shit.

I hope its not the cops. Oh no, don’t tell me some idiot upstanding qlder has called the cops on an innocent tragic crip blowing a joint in the dunny… It sounds like a cop’s knock…

 

Better front up to it, bluff it up.

 

‘Ahh, Im a bit busy in here,’ I shout.

 

The voice comes back.

‘Can I come in?’

 ‘Aah,’ I say. ‘Look, are you disabled?’

Flash of lightning and an almost instantaneous thunderclap.

And then I hear the voice.

‘I was told to come here and talk to you. To you… Will you let me in?

It’s a strong voice; sounds like a performer.

But is it a man or a woman?

Why is this not creepy? Lets just say its new years day by an hour or so and maybe someone knows me

and maybe maybe maybe

I get up and open the door.

Im looking at this gorgeous person. Im gobsmacked.

Its like I order him/her from God.

I cant work out quite who or what this is

and the power flickers on and off and holding isnt helping.

‘Can I come in?’ She asks quietly, respectfully.

 

I look around and the rain is still pouring, the lightning is around the valley near and far and I see a few people straggling thru the downpour like always.

‘Uh, ok,’ I say. ‘But Im leaving the door open.’

‘Suit yourself, ‘ he says smugly.

He struts in. There’s something about that gait. Hmmm

‘Ok,’ I say. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Do you recognise me?’ She asks.

Im looking over this nearly 2 metre, strongly built man with tits, a woman with a man’s energies and running thru my broad array of mental data files who’s who.

‘Have we met before?’ I say quizzically, yes, we sort of know each other. There’s something about him.

‘Often,’ she says. Confidently.

I hope he’s not that drunk pilled-up big dyke I refused at a tragic party a while back. Or a psycho facebook stalker.

Dark hair, cut short at back and slides, floppy on the top, enough to pull on and play with.

‘I think I remember…’ I say. ‘Didn’t I ask you if you were a performer at that… at that… maybe maybe maybe…

‘And you wanted me,’ he says. ‘But it wasn’t right…’

‘And now it is…’ I say and this is crazy cos I don’t do strangers, or not strangers like her, like this, not for oh ten years…

‘Now it is,’ she says. The air is buzzing between us. The storm is slowing but the rain pelts down and really we’re shouting to be heard.

‘Have you been crying?’ he asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘I miss my X a lot. Especially tonight. We used to squeeze at the stroke of midnight and watch the fireworks go off.’

‘Ah, the X,’ she says. ‘Do I remind you of him?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, you do.’

‘That makes tonight your lucky night,’ she says. ‘Im available. I could wash that X right out of your hair.’

 

I realise I am staring at this mystery person’s pants. There is something moving quietly in there, something feral, something thick. I feel almost hypnotised.

 

‘Yesss, I say. I think you could.’

‘Tell me how much you want me,’ he whispers.

Fuck.

I realise I don’t remember what you’re supposed to do, how you speak of, how you touch someone with desire. Why does it feel so complicated?

Torturous. Im stuck for words.

I close the door.

‘Uh, I don’t know if I do want you um…’

 

‘No wonder you broke up,’ she says bluntly.

‘What!’ Im pissed off

He breathes hard. ‘Lets take a reality check here – its pissing down outside. Im offering myself in whatever way do you want. Have you got anything better to do?’

 

Well he’s right. I don’t.

 

‘So, how much do you want me?’

 

‘Ok, I want you a lot…’

 

(argument)

Its getting heated and then while Im regrouping my thoughts – theres a lil click and there it is, she has me up against the wall with a flick knife – mmm nice 1 too, clean and polished… Civil war – freaked out and searching for the door and calculating how long it will take to get there… and too stupidly aroused – dammit the fuck! – and I hate myself, getting damp…

 

Her fierce eyes are inches away…

‘Aaaah, I really really want you…

 

‘Where?

 

‘Everywhere please…’

 

‘Strip’, he says. ‘Entertain me…

 

(Kath strips off to track Sirena – The Dirty 3  (4:06) while talking

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rn8eN02nBss

 

How mad is this and Im in the toilet and the ground is muddy so I gotta leave my dirty boots on but I do it cos what the fuck…. Etc…

 

 

 

Kath – after that well, we had lotsa fun. Use your imaginations. At some point she just made me get down and on the floor and suck her cock and then she turned me around on that dirty toilet seat and she fucked me long and slow and hard and fast and every which way….

 

And by the time the seat was talking to me and the frogs were rising and the floor was moving and the walls were sweating and the water was slowing and the air was vibrating and I was saying all sortsa crazy shit like,

you’re beautiful

and I’ll never forget you

and you were the love of my life

and I forgive you

 

Roll in Dirty Three – Sea Above, Sky Below (6:10)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6mkjocat84&feature=related

(and hold in under dialogues till the end)

 

I go off like a nuclear explosion of the combined energy around me…

And the last thing I feel is his lips on my arse and she kisses me and says, happy new year….

 

And a cool breeze.

 

It takes me a minute to get myself together….

 

And I go to the open door and its dawn and there are hundreds of stragglers chasing the sun and I see him and her among them…

 

And then I leave and except the bit that Ive told you which I haven’t told anyone…..

believe me I couldn’t wait to leave, its the best part of Woodford, leaving.

But then the car Im running away in explodes into flames in northern nsw. It really does.

 

While my driver friend Heidi is running for help, Im hauling everything out of the car. Others join me. We save everything but my leather hat and Heidis phone. In 15 mins the car is ablaze and a right off.

 

Guess what Im wearing? The blue boxers…

 

Im wearing them now.

 

With the magic of the blue boxers, the magic of our combined queerness, plus the combined diversities in the room, let us wish each other everything we desire in 2011.

 

Thankyou….

 

 

(I was invited by the Femme Guild http://www.femmeguild.com to be a keynote speaker at their Unpacking Femme Conference in Sydney, Oz Feb 8-9. Below is more or less the text of the proceedings, bar the odd ad lib or excision. Thanx to everyone who was there for making this such a memorable, groundbreaking experience...)

You Can Never be Too Femme or Too Smart

I was asked to make a keynote at this Femme Guild Conference and my first thought was, oh noooo, am I Femme enuf?

Of course I didn’t say that to our esteemed Femme conf organisers because right after that I knew I wanted to be here, whoever I was.

I was still pondering the extent of my Femme status as I moved house just after accepting to speak here and unpacked my stuff in mid January. I found 6 texts on femme-ness among only 30 books and realised that whoever and however I am, I am fascinated by femmeness. Wherever it is, I want to watch. And learn.

This keynote is interspersed by desire, by text creations of mine on femmeness and butchness… inspired by otherness, diversity and difference as well… So there will be different voices, reading the non-fiction and fictional materials…

Though and as a warning, all of my material draws on real life.

I am proposing that You Can Never be Too Femme or Too Smart

Ode to Butch

Ruff trade butches
With your knowing eyes
You know it doesn’t matter how smart I think I am
How many degrees I hold
You know I am a fool for your touches
Your blunt fingers
Your pants creased at the exact sexiest angles
Zipped until you say so.

Your neat heads all clipped with
Intensity
The stubble of your skulls
Presses like fur under my fingertips,
A dog’s pelt. I want to press my lips
On your necks to melt you
Is there anywhere soft and willing
On your bodies? There between your legs
If you choose to open them
I might find something not quite soft not quite hard
if you let me

Your pants stay
Closed
Snap!
On bold fingers
Control is your game.

The power and the grace
more than those words can tell
more than I can say
even if I used
every word I could
think of
I could not contain your magic
Fierceness
Pride
Boldness
Force
Fucking
Fucking
Fucking
Me
And
I don’t know your name yet or who you’re with
But im already fucking you

My mum hates bois like you
These scruffs her poor daughter picks up
She searches for the faintest trace of the bourgeoisie
Shows shock where she finds any
But doesn’t stop trying. Disapproval
Is her bread
White bread
Nice rising fluffy bread

And there you are
With your swagger and your leathers
Strong n tuff
Hot stuff
Burning holes, carpets, bedspreads, boots, roads, tyres
Hearts, bodies and cunts

You’re not in a suit
Unless it’s a man’s with bizarre touches
Of your own
You’re looking like you’re slouching
There against the wall in your jeans
Hiding your face under your carefully cut floppy fringe
But you are a tensile coil, shocks in your veins.

You return to this pose
This hold
This stance
holds you

if you knew
how much I wanted you
and what I would do for you
you would be

unbearable
Let’s talk about smartness. I have friends with learning and neurological and cognitive differences so I’m not talking about some sort of medicalised hierarchy of smartness. I’m talking about smartness as:
Working out what you want;
asking questions;
asking for what you want, and
not stopping till you get it.

We all come to fem from different places. Some of us have more barriers than others in arriving here. My crip colleague Stella Young (ABC Ramp up editor http://www.abc.net.au/rampup/) says, if you can’t see it, you can’t be it…

With our Femme Guild missions here being Visibility Solidarity Celebration, I I believe it is all our responsibility to be as loud and proud as possible, not just for us in the room but for those to come. To be guiding lights for any fem to develop their own smartness, and that you can never be too smart. And Femme to me is all about Smart.

Has anyone else here wondered if they were fem enough?

Why is it so?

We hold the notion that’s almost a sexist stereotype ideal of Femmeness as high heeled, made up, curled, bouffanted, strapped in to a skirt and tight top oozing charm and wits and fuck-me power, and we imagine this glorious Being as exclusionary, but is it? I say not.

We all actually know that we attain our own version of Femme every day and those special nights out, sex nights, movie nights, every night, whatever. Femme is like a frequency that’s always there for those of us who hunger for her siren song, the desire to perform Femme, to have her Smarts and her Wits, her Honour and her Courage, that’s for all of us. You simply can’t be too Femme. There is no such thing as Not Femme Enough. As Femme Mystique editor Leslea Newman says, each femme has her own mystique. Find yours and never let anyone take it away from you.

What can a freak like me express about femmeness? I’m limited in some ways in terms of accessories: High heels for instance… I cant wear heels in public, can’t walk in them, never have been able to, never will, my body and my prosthetic leg and my other leg are just not made that way. So I can wear one. In bed. It’s fun.

How do I tune into Femme Frequency and make her sing for me?

Kimberly Dark: …my first femme mentor who comes to mind is Mae West… What I mean by “femme” in the case of Mae West is that she was a feminine creature of her own creation – an exaggeration of flesh molded by others into something vulgar; she made of herself something extravagant, funny and smart. She was fully aware of her erotic power and wielded it with humor. 

If ‘female’ is in itself a performance, then femme is definitely performative. As Chandra Mayor says in Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme, One is not born a woman, says Simone de Beauvoir. One becomes one. I was born a femme in a long line of angry, fucked up femmes. I just never really got the hang of being a woman… She goes on to say, Femme is the indomitable will in me, in my mother, in my grandmothers and in my daughter. Femme is knowing (and knowing that you know) that you can hurt me but you can’t break me. Femme is the deepest part of me, the softest and fiercest, all at once.

I am as interested in the internal strategies of this performance as I am in the external trappings. I especially enjoy the edges where femme gets blurry and intermittent and dirty. And I think in the heart of Femmeness is the love of performance and a performative life, whether in text, in electronic media, in the self as living art.

Femme Goddess Joan Nestle wrote in the introduction to Persistence, 2011: My fem body scarred in ways I had not imagined then, looks upon its younger self with gratitude for the kindness of that 1992 gay publisher who did not flinch at such an image (of herself semi-naked, exposed, as queer porn pic for the femme butch Bible, The Persistent Desire). Even one’s thighs are historical documents. Time has shifted not just the contours of my body but the streets I walk, the skies I see.
I really like this opening line from ‘Reflections of a Young Femme Dyke’ by Jan E Bevilacqua, out of 1995’s The Femme Mystique:
Being a femme has its drawbacks; I have spilled face powder on my combat boots and it ate up my morning… I wonder sometimes if I’m really a femme. If all this hasn’t been an illusion perpetrated by her biceps and the knife in her belt… I wear makeup it’s true, but not much. And somehow putting on a dress over my unshaven legs and lipstick rather than aftershave makes me feel more like a dyke… And I wear, day by day, little that would bring the impression that it is I who lie vulnerable to her leather-butch whims. My men’s jeans are the same as hers, my flannels alike. My hair is shorter and my boots make the same solid sound on the floors of the places we go to show each other off.
If pressed I describe myself as a bisexual queer femme top, but this is a movable feast. I like labels and flagging and as much identity politic shenanigans as I can grab but for me my sexual identity is flexible and change-able. For instance, sometimes I bottom, but only for love…

I’m madly in love with a cis male at the moment tho he certainly likes me to do queer things to him… But my point being, I happen to feel that nothing is fixed in my life, not even my body. It all changes and flows, all the time. I respect however ppls choices to have defined sexual orientation, body politics, gender, dress code or whatever it is.

And I get it. For me too no matter who I’m fucking or how I’m fucking or if I’m not fucking anyone, Femme holds me. Femme contours my secret and shifting identity landscapes…

I refer to myself half jokingly as lo femme, the sort of femme who doesn’t dress like a girl unless I want to. Who spends money on travel and drugs and adventure, not clothing and make-up. I love op shopping and even more, I love a butch who op shops for me…

Femme is also a place you reach, a place where you can breathe easier, relax, be the woman of your dreams. I think Femme gets its happiest expression when we find belonging places, both inside and outside of ourselves… But these journeys are complicated and hazardous:

From ‘Bandit Queen of Manchester’ Jaheda Choudhury, in Femmes of Power:

My bloodline is from Bangladesh, specifically Sylhet. I’m connected to it through the stories my parents and other elders told me growing up: Islamic stories of kindness, stories of independence and three fights for freedom – from Empire, from India and from Pakistan. Despite all that, my life’s in danger when I express my love for my girlfriend. My sexuality puts me in the LGBTIQ community, which has also had to fight to exist. Yet, when I wear my sari or my kameez to a queer event/night, I’m told I’m in the wrong country. The artists community sometimes feeds my ego, yet artists are killed and persecuted too because of how they tell a story. My arrogance and self-belief keep me writing and feeding audiences’ hunger to learn and be entertained.

Disabled women have also felt excluded from queer cultures, and that it is dangerous for them to go there. It’s noteworthy how straight, dull and rigidly conventional some disabled groups are. The pressure is on, especially if you grew up disabled, to be straighter than straight, more decent than decent, and stiflingly ‘normal’ – perhaps so that your disabilities seem less than they are, I don’t know, why exactly but believe me, there are lots of disabled ppl suffering in the closet out of fear of their community’s reactions, their families’ reactions, their employers’ reactions, their funding body’s reactions, their friends’, their care workers’. Seriously.

I have a disabled friend who hides all her dyke books and art from her home care workers because she has had to answer to reports from higher up in the home care food chain that her home is not straight enough for the delicate sensibilities of her workers.

Disabled UK academic Carol Thomas quotes Michelle Fine and Adrienne Asch in her Female forms: Experiencing and Understanding Disabilitywomen with disabilities have traditionally been ignored not only by those concerned about disability but also by those examining women’s experiences. Even the feminist scholars to whom we owe great intellectual and political debts have perpetuated this neglect. The popular view of women with disabilities has been one mixed with repugnance. Perceiving disabled women as childlike, helpless and victimised, non-disabled feminists have severed them from the sisterhood in an effort to advance more powerful, competent and appealing female icons. As one feminist academic said to the non-disabled co-author of this essay: Why study women with disabilities? They reinforce traditional stereotypes of women being dependent, passive and needy.’

In my experience the intersections of femme and disability are contradictory, complementary and fascinating.

On the one hand, the stereotype of femmeness and the stereotype of the disabled woman work together neatly, meeting in notions of passivity and display; on the other hand, disabled women are pretty much assumed to be either asexual or up for anything they can get, and I mean anything, and so our efforts to fem up crip, or crip up fem, can be misread.

Here however in this environment here at the Femme Guild’s Unpacking Femme Conference and happily, Femme is powerful; disability is generally perceived not to be powerful, although for me it is. I believe I am yet to convince the world that disability is powerful… but I feel the potential here like nowhere else… As Madeline Davis says in her essay, ‘Forever Femme’ in Femme: Lesbians Feminists and Bad Girls, ‘A femme who recognises her erotic power and resolves to live within it fully is formidable indeed.’

Decades ago I was invited to join a Sydney group called Access Plus which was an activist group for queer disabled people. Attending their conference was a landmark time for me feeling as though all my identities could be present and happy. These days I curate and perform with a group of ppl in Melbourne who identify as Deaf or disabled, and queer and queer friendly. We put on shows we call Quippings and we just got local government funding for four shows this year. We are creating culture, we are making it fun to express all that you can be, in company, safely, with an audience and some cash as reward for all that public boldness. We are outlaws. And successful.

Sound familiar?

I have a different body from most women. I was born with one full length right arm and left leg (with little bits missing) and half my left arm and right leg. I stand out everywhere I go and don’t always feel comfortable in public space. So why does Femme feel like my belonging place?

I believe that Femme is my natural home as a femmy disabled woman also because of our collective Femme championing of bodily diversity. From Femmes of Power again, Kentucky Fried Woman Krista Smith:

I was not born with all of the hyper-feminine clothing, accoutrements, and movements that help identify me to the queer eye as a hi femme. I intentionally put these things on to perform femininity. This performance is closely tied to my body, and part of the subversive nature of femme identity is to value bodies in all of their varied contexts. If femme identity is constantly engaging with femininity and one accepts that femme identity is not merely an essentialised identity but also a performative one, then we must engage with what it means to perform this identity…

Femme is forged in resistance to multiple norms at once, says Ulrika Dahl, co-editor of Femmes of Power.

The last time I was here I felt I belonged, an unusual feeling for me. It is because we are all fighting norms. Even the norms that suggest Femmes should only look a certain way and only wear certain things. It’s obvious here that the rules are ours to be made, resisted, broken.

Let us shift our gaze upwards from my absent high heels to my undies.. I love it all from corsets to strap-ons from one high heel to Docs, ya, flimsies and boxers.. BUT I don’t wear women’s undies comfortably, they just don’t work with my leg. I can wear them for moments, like false eyelashes. So I love boy leg undies and guys’ jocks. I mean, LOVE them. And am no less Femme.

Our surfaces are open to interpretation, and for me Femme is deeply performative. I am yet to meet a femme who does not adore public performance, whether they’re doing it or not. It’s something powerful, fun, smart and feisty.

I haven’t talked much about Butchness have I?

Deliberately.

I really want to open up Femme-ness as I and others experience it, but my interactions with Butch form a vital part of my erotic text output. And here is some more…

Sometimes, despite the power of Femme, the power of performance and some magic in the air, you just don’t land your prize. Who else finds that Femmes make the moves? If we waited for Butches and others to hit on us we would not get enough action… We are intent focussed risk-takers.

This is a poem about an unrequited lust, my desire for a Butch who wasn’t into me on this occasion. I tried to seduce her but failed. One day I will have her because she is so gorgeous and talented and desirable that my life will be incomplete without having her…

Butch Breasts

I didn’t think you had breasts!
You have a broad fine chest, lightly dappled
With
Golden
Fur.

Your nipples are large and flat,
Nondescript.
Umberish dull brown
With bumpy edges.

All the days I saw you I didn’t look beyond
Your surface tension until
Under the glow of a lightbulb gently fogged
By a silver-edged shade
You are in your pyjamas.
You have
A
Rack.
You
Have
Breasts.

I want to ask you
Where did they come from?
You look like you’re slinking across my gaze
With tightened shoulders, like you’ve done something wrong.

Silence.
Who is this an issue for?
I want to comment but you’re scary.
You might explode;
You might have better breasts than mine –
On a footstool
Breast to breast
What would we feel like,
These giant rollicking
Breasts rubbering rubbing.

The time is ticking in your kitchen.
Silence.
Despite your height, your power,
Your expletives
And pronouncements
You are fragile with your breasts on,
Sheltering them in your baggy greeny-grey unknowable
Untouchable
Pyjamas.

Silence.
This aching pause while I stare
At your breasts
And you look down at
Something fascinating
On the floor.
There’s time tapping at the glass
Of your ground floor flat
You lock so
Fastidiously, scared of intruders and people with ladders.

And waterstains on teak
And disorder in the kitchen
And strangers in your writing sanctum
And questions.

I join a special club of people you let in.
You say I observe you!
You are a fucking
Crazy cunt
And I cant
Follow you.
I almost get to ask you questions.

Your breasts are still there
Swinging in the air.
Our chairs creak.
I suck away at the passion
Fruit vodka cruiser
Like a farken pimply teenager.
I talk about shit –

(Im pretty sure if you could have brought yourself
To throw me in a cab
Going
Anywhere
You would have done it)

– I choose the awkward dust of
Oblivion:
Pot n booze.
To stop me staring at you,
To blur me out of my curiosity and desire
And pass me out
In your bed.

We hug for the night
Cumbersome.
A razor cut of light through your carefully parted
Curtains spills across your floor.
You can’t bear light to sleep by, you say,
Twitching at the cloth.

You flinch away from my suggestion
We share this broad bed
And throw me off a sheer Irish Liverpudlian rejection
Like a sailor turning down a whore
At the wharf
Cavalier and detached, not tonight, sweetheart.
And stomp off, leaving your height and your curves
Against the pale walls,
In the cool impersonal night air.

I cant sleep!
Thrashing around squeezing and harassing your pillows,
Sniffing your sheets for you,
I find you on the books beside the bed,
Your ruffled notes.
You are loitering there, text scent;
My impossible crush,
In the flutter and whisper of the paper.

The light spills over your words,
Your golden fur
Your graceful length
Your boy movements
Your shifting pyjamas.
Your voice is honey
smoke
burnt candy;
Your lips a feast,
Your hands frenzied.
You stand over me on your bed, raw fullness.

I want every inch of you against
Everything of mine –
Have you been binding them all this time?
Your breasts are yours
And therefore divine.

Kate Bornstein in her review of Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme – hey, does anyone else have a twinge of annoyance about the way it’s always Butch first? Like Butch and Femme, it’s rarely – ever? – Femme and Butch…. I think we could address this here and play with the ordering of this binary… Anyway, Kate says, The butch/femme dynamic is a conscious loving binary of desire and trust; it’s a dance of love and outlawed romance. Butches and femmes share a sense of tribe, extended family and kinship – no matter what our genders may be…
Jewelle Gomez says in the same book, We (fems) are actually guerilla warriors, fighting undercover in the war to save women from the continuing campaigns to make us irrelevant fluff…
The power of the text. The power of those 6 books in my meager Melbourne library to make me rethink my Femme status…

Chandra Moury instructs her writing students, Think of the thing you are most afraid to say out loud. Then say it. Start there. See where you go

Who else writes their experiences, or turns it into pictures, photos, multimedia, cakes, clothing, shoes, colors their walls, makes toys, quilts, crochets and so on…?

We will all suffer, pain, loss heartbreak, separation from our communities, upheavals, disappointments, grief. I can only suggest we use this intense Femme energy to create. Where would culture be without misery and aching hearts? I write about stuff that’s beautiful and stuff that’s horrible because I love the way Art transforms Experience. You feel it, you transform it, you share it. In the sharing the original impulse to release pain gets transformed into something everyone can use, can learn from, can pass on.

And so, in this rambling talk which I hope goes some way to suggesting you can never be too femme or too smart, I would like to end on the end of a Femme Butch Love Story. A true story because the personal is still political, bitches…

I have a box.
In it there are letters and jewellery, a witch doll, photos, 20 cards for special occasions, bracelets, a 10cm cast iron one armed Jesus, a scroll with a Dalai Lama text:

Today I am fortunate to have woken up, I am alive, I have a precious human life. I am not going to waste it..

I receive the box 3 days after we cremated its maker.

Its maker was once the love of my life, Tyren, who some of you have met, others you may have heard my sexy stories based on our adventures together over seven years…

To My Prince: As we approach our first anniversary together I want to tell you how blessed I feel to have you in my life. I have never been so in love. I have never been so attracted. You are my dream come true…

We broke up three years ago.

I want to make each day your birthday and love you and hold you and carry you lean against you

relish the opportunities you grow through

walk

bound

run

hop

and swim beside you

give you joy

make you laugh

make you rage ….

I left her.

She took a lover I couldn’t stand and I left her, leaving 3 teenagers, our house, our community.

I ran away to Melbourne.

I feel I have become to understand something of the possibilities of love and honesty and devotion

Our bilious vituperative texts and emails and voicemails and diary entries to each other after we broke up… I can’t face them. Yet…

Happy 44th my love, you know I cant live without you…

I hold a love so intense and intent and full and deep and loathsome and vicious and fierce and huge and forever….

Forever.

Forever.

Kath my body has taken a turn for the worse.. I am nearing the end..

Half way through the time we had left together on the planet.

After the breakup.

Tyren gets a diagnosis.

Stage 4 advanced bowel tumor with 17 secondaries in the liver.

9 months before this she was in Richmond Psych after a suicide attempt. That was the weekend I discovered

compassion…

I am going to have kind thoughts toward others. I am not going to get angry. I am going to benefit others as much as I can…

I so appreciate 4 years with the yummiest sexiest, woman I’ve ever known… I’m so thrilled that we are taking big risks together because I feel so ready to make a commitment to you…

About a year ago at St Kilda Beach, both of us on scooters for the day, over huge serves of perfect fish and chips, we forgave each other.

We could see we needed to.

The box holds her scent. I love it and I hate it, it is comfort and sex and the deepest filthiest tease.

Tyren has written my name there on the inside lid, in dolorous pencil colors crimson purple green, an opening, a hand crafted goodbye

The Jesus makes me laugh out loud.

I get my crucifix back.

I get a 1955 Playabout NSW Education Dept text about Aboriginal kids who explore for a day… I’m not sure why but I like it and yes I have searched it for hidden msgs.

There are hidden msgs.

It will it will just get better, trust me…

My darling – a lil token of my everlasting appreciation of your slavishness and eternal servitude – with all due esteem – The Mistress

Just making it clear – I was The Mistress, Tyren was the Butch Bottom of my dreams.

Treasures.

I riffle and sniff, and howl.

Fondle.

The box glows.

The box is just mine now.

She is right beside me.

Tyren is everywhere, in the rainbows and the rain, the grass and the dirt.

This isn’t necessarily… comfortable…

Facebook chat. Nov 27, 2012

 Tyren: Is there anything you feel the need to talk with me about… To feel resolved on any level?

Kath: Babe, there is something… Do you blame me for being sick? I kind of blame myself… I blame myself for you being so sick. Thats the big thing…

Tyren: Not in any way. Absolutely. How do you blame yourself?

Kath: I should have noticed, I should have told you to get that gut of yours checked… I could have treated you better, have cared more, have noticed more. This is really important, its eating me alive.

Tyren: You maybe feel the need to blame someone. And by blaming yourself you have some control over it. I have at various stages blamed work chemical overload even god but never you. I want you to let go of this right now.

Kath: Me, I feel forgiven. I feel like you forgive me for everything. Now I just gotta forgive myself.

And in the box, the last letter….

Sealed. Weighty. Hand written…

Oct 12th 2012… Kath I know you find loss and death and grief very hard and my heart aches about that. I do however want you to know a few things and I hope they make a difference. I am prepared for my death, I have had the time to do so … I firmly and knowingly trust that life doesn’t end at death and so I know I am setting off on a whole new adventure in a different form. So don’t be sad for me…

Keep flying Kath and keep being the unique and gorgeous person you are, you will stay firmly in my heart and my soul loves you and recognizes you darling. Let’s let everything be clear as we let go together of this lifetime shared…

She

Let

Go…

Have a fantastic conference, nurture each other, let’s build community and let’s be aware that together we are making history.

Thankyou.

Refs:

Coyote, Ivan E and Sharman, Zena (eds) (2011). Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme, Arsenal Pulp Press, Vancouver

Franson, Leanne (1999). Assume Nothing: The Evolution of a Bi Dyke, Slab-O-Concrete Publications, Hove, UK.

Harris, Laura & Crocker, Elizabeth (eds) (1997). Femme: Feminists, Lesbians and Bad Girls, Routledge, New York/London.

Newman, Leslea (ed) 1995. The Femme Mystique, Alyson Publications Inc, Boston.

Rubel, Robert J & Stassinopoulos, Angela (eds) 2007. Power Exchange Books: Playing with Disabilities, The Nazca Plains Corporation, Las Vegas, Nevada.

Thomas, Carol (1999). Female forms: Experiencing and Understanding Disability, Open University Press, Buckingham, Philadelphia.

Volcano, Del LaGrace & Dahl, Ulrika (eds) 2007. Femmes of Power: Exploding Queer Femininities, Serpent’s Tail/Profile Books Ltd, London.

Year of the Psycho Butch

I had many reasons to celebrate the beginning of 2011: a whole year and a bit since Worlds Worst Breakup, a year since I’d lobbed into beautiful exciting Melbourne, and the vain but overwhelming hope: No More PsychoButches….

You see, the Psycho Butch (PB) is the sort of creature who slimes out from under her rock when she gets the whiff of a broken-hearted femme. The details of the femme’s breakup aren’t important (only the PBs breakups count) nor are the interests and inclinations of the femme. What matters is that the femme appears lost and desperate (in my case, quite so) and the PB knows she doesnt stand a chance with anyone neither of those.

And so, I begin. First let me say you are about to read thinly-disguised portrayals of PBs we probly all know. And I mean that in the broadest possible sense, in that we all KNOW PBs just like these. You may actually know these PBs in real life. Goddess help you.

My disclaimer: this is all my truth. If you want YOUR truth, dont be a lazy bitching bore, write it yourself. Use mine as a link if you’re really outraged. I fancy that idea lots.

As for the below PBs, SUE ME FUCKERS. I suggest you get therapy first, but I really don’t care.

 

Ok, well no list would be complete without my X, a very gorgeous part-time PB with intermittent tendencies to dissemble, pick up repulsive morbidly obese piles of sloppy shit grrls and insist I welcome them into our menage, detach completely from me on a dime, fall madly in love with said filthy pile of rat piss, then dump the lot. Get maggoted drunk at parties and flirt with the fugliest, messiest chick there. Over and over. I wasnt into any of this. Thats why we broke up, after 7 years. My X insists she is NOTHING LIKE these other PBs. She has a point. I still love her cos she’s so fucking gorgeous and lovable, and funny and smart…. erm unlike anyone else below. But really she’s also here to indicate that unfortunately maybe I have a sneaking attraction for PBs, one Im trying to conquer via a few methods, including this blog.

Ok, PB#1 – lets call her ET, like the alien. ET was quick off the mark. She emailed me via a friend within weeks of my breakup..

PB TIP NO. 1 – the biggest PBs are those who attempt to jump on your bones while the imprint of your X is still warm. HAVE NOTHING TO DO with anyone who tries to crack on to you in the first 6 months after breakup. They are the worst offenders and the original sinners, on the PB Honor RollShake, do not bake.

ET seemed human enough. I’m a sucker for a great writer and ET is a very bright, quick-witted interesting person. However after looking her up on my beloved Facebook I quickly realised ET seemed to have a male partner and kids she had neglected to mention. When quizzed about this, ET breezily admitted, yes, all that was the case but she had two very separate lives. And a bad breakup with her last female X.

PB TIP NO.2 – PBs with tragic tales of their latest X are to be strenuously avoided. The more disastrous the tale, the more you should keep your distance. They are looking for a patsy femme, a sweet pile of titty nothing who would never ever diddums hurt Daddy like dat nasty last bitch etc etc… Next.

I listened to ETs forlorn post-breakup blues and have to admit I was moved by it. See, thats how it works. You open your heart, and praps are not at all prepared for – yes! – another PB.

Howver, at first I turned down ETs offer of some sort of connection because of the family thing. My X had had kids too – I don’t – and the last thing I wanted in my life again, however casually, was the Kid Komplications.

PB TIP NO. 3 – Listen for what they’re NOT telling you. A True PB will have a creative reconstruction of their lives that leave out vital events and circumstances.

However in a weak and horny moment a few months later I emailed her and we started corresponding. Now this was where I really started to ponder how anyone gets it together to have an internet romance. Text is tricky and very removed from absolutely anything REAL. ET indicated she liked my Top Femme-iness, then was repulsed by virtually all of my suggestions about what I wanted to do with her. She was a switch but I quickly realised she was one of those fussy dull bottoms who has so many parameters around what they’ll do that you end up doing nothing. Or just a big ol set-in-her-ways Top Butch (yawwwwn) who was lying about the bottom thing to suck me in cos really she prefers to do things her own way. Always. Totally not my type. Still I persisted. Sadly I loved her text, if not her.

We finally meet in Sydney, my hometown. It was not an auspicious meeting. And quite bizarrely so… She’s OK looking, not really my type – I’m a shortarse but I like taller butches, at least 5’6″ and upwards. But still, whatever, she has a very very cute norrrty butch face. Very important for me, being a huge face person.

We get to talking on my sister’s lounge and she asks me, do I look like my photos? Yes, I say happily enough, yes, you do. Do I look like mine? I ask. Yes, she says, only I’m glad you’re not a midget. A what? I gasp. A midget, she repeats. What’s that got to do with anything, I ask. She then proceeds to tell me that she has a midget phobia, dating back to when she was a child. I cannot believe I’m hearing this shit and the whole fantasy comes crashing down. I explain that that’s as stupid as when the Irish kid in the classroom is mean to you once so you hate them forever or some such, but she doesnt get it. I explain that I thought she knew I was a disability activist and what she has just said is the equivalent of racism. She doesnt get it. Im aghast. She then goes on to say, I dont do anger. I dont get that either – everyone gets angry, I say, whats the problem? No, she says, she doesnt do it, and smiles that slow crocodile smile.

PB TIP NO. 4 – if the PB asserts it doesnt do Anger or any other interesting emotion, drop PB IMMEDIATELY. Do not hesitate. All that expression means is that they give themselves free rein to get as angry (or whatever) as hell, but wont recognise a second of it as being theirs. And they will blame everybody conceivably else for their emotional display. Denial is Death. Skip.

She leaves. We carry on corresponding and really I love her updates and turn of phrase, but dont like her much at all. One day out of the blue the PB not only dumps me as her FB friend but blocks me as well. I email and text her asking why, and no answer. The True PB is one to make her mind up about stuff with no explanations and no reasoning. Farewell my lovely first major PB, how glad I am I no longer have you in my life….

 

PB no.2 is unfortunately just my physical type, big, muscly, musical. expressive, colorful, all that yummy stuff. But totally a PB. This one however is all my fault cos I pursued her, not yet being attuned to the latent PBness lurking under that yummy exterior. Again we met in Sydney and hit it off really well. We were quite connected and comfortable together. Big plus – no midget or other bizarre phobia. That I know of…

PB TIP NO. 5 – beware of an immediate accord. Why are you connecting so hard so fast with an immediate stranger? Because you are both faking it, madly projecting and not at all revealing who you are….

I take full responsibility for leading PB 2 on. I ended up flying her down to Melbourne and putting her up at an expensive hotel because I could – and because I had this crazy idea that we could collaborate on a script Im working on. PB 2 seemed perfect – adept in performance, interesting etc. One disquieting element – she had another tragic X tale – complicated and still together but with an unwanted 3rd party, I never did work it out but it nevertheless preoccupied PB 2s consciousness.

The Melbourne trip was a disaster. PBs latent PBness was on the rise the whole trip but truly did rise to the occasion full force at an event I took her along to as my guest when a very dear friend of mine was leaving his workplace. PB2 acted as though the event was about her, insisting my friend accompany her outside to watch her perform, then doing the same to me. Unlike my friend I complied but Im afraid my desire was talking louder than my reason, as well as those lil alarm bells…. PB2 then ran amuck with the guests, telling one manager how we should best stage an upcoming event, asking a young butch friend to sit on her lap, on and on. She left the next day – no, we didnt have sex THANK FUCK – and the next day my phone and ears ran hot with complaints from people she’d offended.

Oh well, ok maybe it was just a bad night. I whizzed PB2 off a pointed email where I explained the aftermath of her visit and asked her what was going on. It was at this crashing moment that her complex PBness came to the fore with a virulent diatribe from her blaming me for all of it. It was quite the most unapologetic driveling nasty rant Ive probly ever received in my life.

PB TIP NO. 6 – it is best not to engage with the PB where the essential PBness is revealed. Back away. It can only get worse…

I sent her back a polite enough reply, suggesting she reconsider the events and her behaviours. Our correspondence ended there. I defriended her but didnt block her. Hell, blocking is for complete 100% arseholes you wish were dead. I only have one of those.

 

PB no.3 I met in Melbourne. PB3 considers herself only a Top Butch (ho hum) and is not attractive. We met at a night out and realised we had known of each other through an Australian lesbian dating site. PB3 got drunker and tried to chat me up. I explained I loathed alcohol and only went there occasionally so no thanks. PB3 didnt understand any of that. As far as PB3 was concerned I was meat, and disabled meat at that, and I should be grateful. Who I actually was was unimportant. I left. Yes, I know this one’s is short and not sweet but you could say by this time, over half way through the year, I could spot a PB a mile off. There is a sniff.

 

PB TIP NO. 7 – a very easy way to spot the PB is to attempt to talk to it when you are out. A true PB will not hear a word you say, or keep asking, What? And expect you to repeat it. That’s ok if you have hearing loss, but under no other circumstances is that ok otherwise. Get away from PB. It will only end in tears even if only for a night. No one wants to fuck a douchebag. Not even once.

 

PB no. 4, another Melbourne lovely. PB4 is so cute that this story is a total shame and Im at a loss to cover it, but I must. I had originally met PB4 somewhere else, but only got to know her in Melb. Again, we connected well when we first spent time together and while I didnt get that sexual energy dynamic happening, I thought we could be friends. We both needed friends. We spent a few jolly months meeting up here and there and corresponding a bit, then going out a bit, by ourselves and with other friends, and it was fun and she was funny and happy.

 

PB TIP NO. 8 – the PBs facebook/online behaviours will be erratic and unpredictable. The PB is the one who writes negative shit all over other peoples’ walls, like ‘I dont like this’, ‘Could you stop posting this’, ‘pissed off Im not there’, ‘I dont eat/drink/do that’, as well as posting on events’ walls why they wont be there. Unless they’re the organisers, who cares? Only the PB. Pass.

But then one night PB4 suddenly changed… We were at a big performance venue and I had got us a cab there and got us in past the queue out the front, playing my cripple card. I was a bit excited pre-show and we had ok enough seats and the place has maybe 500 people in it and bars and different levels, all very gorgeous and we are sipping our drinks in the pre-show hum and fuck knows what Im saying really when suddenly PB4 leans in with a smirk and says cuttingly, Do you ever shut up? Gobsmacked. Wow, I lead a fucking brilliant life cos you know what? No one has ever insulted me like that before… Especially when we are just starting a friendship. I might let my sisters get away with that but even they wouldnt say that… So lucky me, I exist in a yummy dynamic bubble of love where fuck me if everyone doesnt just always say the craziest shirt and enjoy saying it – and hell, Ive worked as a radio journalist for 20 years and have been at times BORED DEAD by people, and never ONCE have I said that either…..

I think I gulped and carried on and shut up cos I am after all a nice bourgeois grrrl and anxious not to make a fuss in public. I moved my chair a lil away from her, watched the show, thanked her, left.

 

PB TIP NO. 9 – Watch the PBs social behaviour. How comfortable is PB in public? If PB is awkward, clingy, pissed off, absent, drunk, AVOID.

 

The lil sojourn with PB4 came to a shuddering halt after another social event where a good and new friend came along. In the preshow warmup we were talking about love, all of us somewhat heartbroken. I made a joke to PB4 about the way that lesbians swear they will never fall in love again and in the blink of an eye they’re virtually married and living together yada yada. PB4 took unwieldy offence at this remark and practically bit my head off at the gay table, insisting (stupidly) she would NEVER fall in love again, never ever, ho fucking hum. Bummer was if PB4 had a grain of thought for anyone else at the table, it goes like this: our friend was a recent breakup trying to pull herself together, mine was a year old, and crankyfuckballstupid pants was 2 years away from her breakup, had said all this before and was not only rude but a crashing bore as well… A deadly combination.

To cap it off again an email exchange where I accused her of being aggressive but she replied saying I was, like a game of Simple Simon. When I asked what was so aggressive about my preshow remarks, poor ol PB4 admitted that wasnt her best behaviour. But importantly, she had to be pressed to say this, being quite happy to blame her ridiculous reactions on me. I feel for PB4 cos she really is a great person, but far out, she has some work ahead of her. I told her being with her was too much hard work and to get back to me when she had learnt some manners. I wish her well.

 

PB TIP NO. 10 – in communications with a PB, be very clear and concise. A true PB will only read the first word or so of every sentence, and be working themselves up into a reactive defensive fury, their favourite mode of expression. Their default position, you might call it. They wont read what you’ve actually written. Keep sentences short.

 

PB5 is not officially butch and should be in another category but hell, at this point, this behaviour is so classically PB that it belongs here. PB5 is a much younger person who I met at a Melbourne event. PB5 liked the performance I gave that night and we chatted. I thought PB5 was cute but kept non-comittal about what I would be up to… Not long after PB5 posted that they really wanted sex. So did I so posted PB5 that I was up for it if PB was. PB was and we exchanged nos. PB texted first, a brief hello. I texted back telling PB5 I thought they were cute so lets meet up for dinner or coffee and chat about who we were and what we liked to see if we had stuff in common. A non-threatening enough message, I wouldve thought. But PB5 made the mistake of not replying for more than 24 hours, not even a friendly, ok lets do that, or a friendly, oh well no, im not up for that. Any response would have been gracious especially when as I might draw your attention to it, I was the one who had put my neck on the line and told PB5 they were cute. And during this time PB% was online, indicating there were no probs technology-wise.

So being the feisty wordsmith that I am I fired one off saying I withdrew my offer and thought leaving that text unanswered for over 24 hours was rude and slack, considering I was the one taking the risk. What is wrong with these PBs? Have they no refinement whatsover? PB5 did reply, claiming shyness. Well! I fucking DETEST shy people. I find them really selfish and solipsistic – ooooh everyone, im not capable of good communicating cos im so fucking SHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY – bullshit. Shy people are only ever thinking about themselves and their pathetic puling lil problems, never once considering that maybe everyone is sensitive, not just them… And in any case, far out how much more detached from shyness reactive potential is a fucking text? And after all, there were only 2 answers, either of which I was happy to receive – yes lets meet, or no, not interested. How much easier could it be?

PB TIP NO. 11 – be extremely judgemental about PBs text communications. If PB seems abrupt, disengaged, withdrawn in text, dont assume its you reading too much into it. That’s what they’re like in real life. Sever with kindness and compassion.

 

Aaah well, all this venting brings me to the present day. I could tell you more on the psycho butch scale stories, but Im hoping you get my points by now.

Just glancing over what I have written – a quickly-written vomited toxic brew of bruised feelings and confusion, I probably should have titled this, HOW TO HANDLE A TOP FEMME. But THE YEAR OF THE PSYCHO BUTCH sounds better.

I hope you feel provoked to tell me what a nasty cunt I am. Bring it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BLUE BOXERS

By Kath Duncan (10 min max)

Performance piece for Quippings, wed, feb 2nd, hares n hyenas, midsumma 2011

Start with Dirty Three: “The Restless Waves” (5:16)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6byhkpCFvfs&feature=related

 

Why am I here? I always wanted to go to Woodford folk festival and mingle joyfully with the ferals and the hippies but I didn’t think about 20,000 people in a valley of rain and mud.

We have set up our camp in the disabled zone which is a sea of slop and every step is precarious. Stomping my way through this mess means I watch every step.

As for the festival program on offer, well that’s pretty theoretical for me. The mud has meant that exploring the site is impossible for me. I cant even get to the loo cos theres a 5meter moat – not deep, wide – between me and the loo. My assistant and friend Jally builds me 2 bridges by the third day..

So I catch the special disabled buggy up to the main gates and through them, but everywhere I go is full of mud raddled straight teens, older folk and bogans, very well dressed in amazing wet weather designs but even with their all their color and movement all they are are obstacles in my dreary course, and I hate them all.

I need to get away and be by myself somewhere but everywhere slides away from me. As for my friends,  it seems to be some green-linin thinking n prayin – and no im not talking bout pot – point of pride not to give in to the stinking awful conditions but to carry on wading and sliming, to see one more band, do one more workshop, enjoying while drowning. My campmates are so dirty and happy

Not me. Im on a fun strike. I am keeping to my camp site, smoking too much pot and watching in high growly mood as everyone else has a great if sloppy time.

I look at people and hide from them at the same time.

Fuck  it, if I was in Melbourne I would be pursuing my limp romances with Romaine or Julie or Rita or Michelle… going out, hanging out, maybe… maybe… maybe…

Here I cant see anyone special for the crowds.

My favorite place…every day I sneak outa camp and using my walker, scrape it thru the 5 metre moat that leads to the main road – glassy clay with gravel – and make it to my haven, the disabled toilet. How I adore a disabled toilet. The space, the mirror – usually but not here – the acres of toilet paper for us freaks, the shower stall and toilet, the not too disgusting drainage, the rails, and most of all, the powerpoint.

There is no individual power source at Woodford. You can pay to get your mobiles or computers charged up 5000 ks up into the site… or you can beg the wet helpers in the 10cm mired in bog Disability Camping Area Tent to suck at their power outlet.

Talking to people, urgh. Asking for stuff bah! Having to be friendly, no way. I try to make myself do all that hopefully all at once every day for oh about an hour. That’s as much as I can take.

Ok, I know I havent made this sound very exciting but it kind of is, with hundreds of performances and workshops per day and an endless stream of good-looking if damp young folk past my tent every day, but I just don’t care.

It doesn’t touch me. Im too haunted by my past year. Im still bereft over my last breakup. I haven’t got over her, I cant move on.

So.

Here it is new year’s eve and Im crying in the disabled toilet. Alone.

I exit my friends and their jolliness as soon as I decently can after the traditional Woodford 3 minute silence with candles at 11:30 moment followed by the interminable midnight screaming and hugging ritual. It is over, I and my walker have got away from it all as fast as I can – which is not very fast – to get to the muddy, fetid disabled loo.

Hello again my old friend.

Just as I close and bolt the door, the clouds open and there is a mad storm going on out there, thundering rain on the corrugated roof, a sound so loud and intense that I figure no one will hear me howl.

Im sitting on the loo, my clothes up round my knees, partly for convenience but mostly to escape the brown red lumpy skid-marks  on the floor.

Im wearing the blue boxers.

I found these amazing undies on the first day it stopped raining.

Euphoric. I couldnt resist.

They are extra large and shiny teal blue with stripey blue and white edges. They have:

this pic of a busty ranga pinup ‘Whisper’ showing you her black stockings;

a stage ad for the Midnite Spook Show, guaranteed to scare… Ghosts!;

as well as text: no marks;

tormented and unavailable;

speak to me lover of all you desire.

Well to be straight with you all – as straight as I and you get – Im a lil under the influence. I sit on the dunny, roll myself a scoob, think fuckit, light it and puff.

The thudding of the rain gets louder, I see my own breaths in the tropical air, the air swirls around me like a twister, the winds pick up and Im taking it all in while rubbing the blue boxer fabric.

Right here.

What Im thinking about is hell, I miss her.

My X.

If she’s here right now we will find some crazy way of getting off in this dunnny…. Im looking round and rubbing and stroking the ghost show and seeing the erotic potential in this filthy space and the storm is building

and we dammit lose power but the moon full

and the lightning horrifying –

And there’s a bang at my door.

Shit.

I hope its not the cops. Oh no, don’t tell me some idiot upstanding qlder has called the cops on an innocent tragic crip blowing a joint in the dunny… It sounds like a cop’s knock…

Better front up to it, bluff it up.

‘Ahh, Im a bit busy in here,’ I shout.

The voice comes back.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Aah,’ I say. ‘Look, are you disabled?’

Flash of lightning and an almost instantaneous thunderclap.

And then I hear the voice.

‘I was told to come here and talk to you. To you… Will you let me in?

It’s a strong voice; sounds like a performer.

But is it a man or a woman?

Why is this not creepy? Lets just say its new years day by an hour or so and maybe someone knows me

and maybe maybe maybe

I get up and open the door.

Im looking at this gorgeous person. Im gobsmacked.

Its like I order him/her from God.

I cant work out quite who or what this is

and the power flickers on and off and holding isnt helping.

‘Can I come in?’ She asks quietly, respectfully.

I look around and the rain is still pouring, the lightning is around the valley near and far and I see a few people straggling thru the downpour like always.

‘Uh, ok,’ I say. ‘But Im leaving the door open.’

‘Suit yourself, ‘ he says smugly.

He struts in. There’s something about that gait. Hmmm

‘Ok,’ I say. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Do you recognise me?’ She asks.

Im looking over this nearly 2 metre, strongly built man with tits, a woman with a man’s energies and running thru my broad array of mental data files who’s who.

‘Have we met before?’ I say quizzically, yes, we sort of know each other. There’s something about him.

‘Often,’ she says. Confidently.

I hope he’s not that drunk pilled-up big dyke I refused at a tragic party a while back. Or a psycho facebook stalker.

Dark hair, cut short at back and slides, floppy on the top, enough to pull on and play with.

‘I think I remember…’ I say. ‘Didn’t I ask you if you were a performer at that… at that… maybe maybe maybe…

‘And you wanted me,’ he says. ‘But it wasn’t right…’

‘And now it is…’ I say and this is crazy cos I don’t do strangers, or not strangers like her, like this, not for oh ten years…

‘Now it is,’ she says. The air is buzzing between us. The storm is slowing but the rain pelts down and really we’re shouting to be heard.

‘Have you been crying?’ he asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘I miss my X a lot. Especially tonight. We used to squeeze at the stroke of midnight and watch the fireworks go off.’

‘Ah, the X,’ she says. ‘Do I remind you of him?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, you do.’

‘That makes tonight your lucky night,’ she says. ‘Im available. I could wash that X right out of your hair.’

I realise I am staring at this mystery person’s pants. There is something moving quietly in there, something feral, something thick. I feel almost hypnotised.

‘Yesss, I say. I think you could.’

‘Tell me how much you want me,’ he whispers.

Fuck.

I realise I don’t remember what you’re supposed to do, how you speak of, how you touch someone with desire. Why does it feel so complicated?

Torturous. Im stuck for words.

I close the door.

‘Uh, I don’t know if I do want you um…’

‘No wonder you broke up,’ she says bluntly.

‘What!’ Im pissed off

He breathes hard. ‘Lets take a reality check here – its pissing down outside. Im offering myself in whatever way do you want. Have you got anything better to do?’

Well he’s right. I don’t.

‘So, how much do you want me?’

‘Ok, I want you a lot…’

(argument)

Its getting heated and then while Im regrouping my thoughts – theres a lil click and there it is, she has me up against the wall with a flick knife – mmm nice 1 too, clean and polished… Civil war – freaked out and searching for the door and calculating how long it will take to get there… and too stupidly aroused – dammit the fuck! – and I hate myself, getting damp…

Her fierce eyes are inches away…

‘Aaaah, I really really want you…

‘Where?

‘Everywhere please…’

‘Strip’, he says. ‘Entertain me…

 

(Kath strips off to track Sirena – The Dirty 3  (4:06) while talking

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rn8eN02nBss


How mad is this and Im in the toilet and the ground is muddy so I gotta leave my dirty boots on but I do it cos what the fuck…. Etc…

Kath – after that well, we had lotsa fun. Use your imaginations. At some point she just made me get down and on the floor and suck her cock and then she turned me around on that dirty toilet seat and she fucked me long and slow and hard and fast and every which way….

And by the time the seat was talking to me and the frogs were rising and the floor was moving and the walls were sweating and the water was slowing and the air was vibrating and I was saying all sortsa crazy shit like,

you’re beautiful

I’ll never forget you

you’re the love of my life

I forgive you

 

Roll in Dirty Three – Sea Above, Sky Below (6:10)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6mkjocat84&feature=related

(and hold in under dialogues till the end)

I go off like a nuclear explosion of the combined energy around me…

And the last thing I feel is his lips on my arse and she kisses me and says, happy new year….

And a cool breeze.

It takes me a minute to get myself together….

And I go to the open door and its dawn and there are hundreds of stragglers chasing the sun and I see him and her among them…

And then I leave and except the bit that Ive told you which I haven’t told anyone…..

believe me I couldn’t wait to leave, its the best part of Woodford, leaving.

But then the car Im running away in explodes into flames in northern nsw. It really does.

While my driver friend Heidi is running for help, Im hauling everything out of the car. Others join me. We save everything but my leather hat and Heidis phone. In 15 mins the car is ablaze and a right off.

Guess what Im wearing? The blue boxers…

Im wearing them now.

With the magic of the blue boxers, the magic of our combined queerness, plus the combined diversities in the room, let us wish each other everything we desire in 2011.

Thankyou….


 

CLASS


Ruff trade bois

With your knowing eyes

You know it doesn’t matter how smart I think I am

How many degrees I hold

You know I am a fool for your touches

Your blunt fingers

Your pants creased at the exact sexiest angles

Zipped until you say so.

Your neat heads all clipped with

Intensity

The stubble of your skulls

Presses like fur under my fingertips,

A dog’s pelt. I want to press my lips

On your necks to melt you

Is there anywhere soft and willing

On your bodies? There between your legs

If you choose to open them

I might find something not quite soft not quite hard

if you let me

Your pants stay

Closed

Snap!

On bold fingers

Control is your game.

The power and the grace

more than those words can tell

more than I can say

even if I used

every word I could

think of

I could not contain your magic

Fierceness

Pride

Boldness

Force

Fucking

Fucking

Fucking

Me

And

I don’t know your name yet or who you’re with

But im already fucking you

My mum hates bois like you

These scruffs her poor daughter picks up

She searches for the faintest trace of the bourgeoisie

Shows shock where she finds any

But doesn’t stop trying. Disapproval

Is her bread

White bread

Nice rising fluffy bread

And there you are

With your swagger and your leathers

Strong n tuff

Hot stuff

Burning holes, carpets, bedspreads, boots, roads, tyres

Hearts, bodies and cunts

You’re not in a suit

Unless it’s a man’s with bizarre touches

Of your own

You’re looking like you’re slouching

There against the wall in your jeans

Hiding your face under your carefully cut floppy fringe

But you are a tensile coil, shocks in your veins.

You return to this pose

This hold

This stance

holds you

if you knew

how much I wanted you

and what I would do for you

you would be

unbearable


 

BUTCH COCK


I haven’t seen yours, this mystery zone that lurks

There between your long legs.

I have imagined it for you.

For me.

In there.

Did you know

you have

a stallion’s penis a metre long when hard

tied to your right leg?

Its light brownish, more tanned than the rest of you

with a slick of chestnut fur.

The head is massive, fist size

I can see you shifting it

As you strut.

Did you know

You have a penis like a purple

Dolphin dildo leaping about in your pants?

He makes a sound, a deep yip yip when you least expect it.

He’s stubby, with flippers

And snout.

His tail where he attaches to you is

Fluked blue and crimson.

When tired from jumping he curls up into a seashell

And tucks his snout in last,

To protect himself.

Did you know you have a man’s penis,

One befitting your status? Huge and curved,

It gets away from you sometimes

And you have to troll the brothels in the nearest

Village, sniffing and listening. Where the most

Fishy fug is, where the girls are screaming loudest

There he is ploughing not tiring, obsessed, manic, frenzied

Detached and happy.

You watch for a while then grab him mid thrust

And put him back in your pants.

His chaffed skin makes you smile.

Your pants dangle in front of me in memory

Only.

The desire, the need

To know

Lingers

In my cunt.

 

Im a loudmouth Australian writer/multimedia producer Freak. That is, I have one arm, one leg and two dogs. I live in Melbourne Oz with the worlds best queer extended family EVER.

 

I like provoking comment. Ive been doing it for a while….

 

Welcome and watch this space…

Tag Cloud