I am queer. I am a “biological” woman who likes to fuck men.
I am genderqueer. I have a vagina and like to wear dresses.
Confused? I will try to explain, though most of the time it’s easier not to.
Invisible queerness. Invisible transgender. Passing privileges- but exactly who and what am I passing as? People tend to assume I am a lesbian by my short hair and swagger. They looked at me like I’m a dirty tissue when I say, no, I mostly sleep with men. Soiled in their eyes. Un-queered. So much for queer as an inclusive “umbrella” term.
I’ve had sex with women, and I probably will again. But it’s not lesbians that identify with, as much as I love them as friends. It’s gay men. Gay men, I understand like none other. They understand me. And I can’t help but be attracted to them, even if I don’t act on my desires. Instead, I find the men, who, like me, are queer but like to sleep with women. Men who prefer anal sex and fisting to straight intercourse, men who wear eyeliner and skirts, men who sit down to pee because they don’t give a damn about being perceived as being “manly enough.” Men who have been called “faggot” their whole lives for refusing to conform, when ironically, they love women.
And we exist, queerly heterosexual, guy dykes and girl fags in love.
I am a femme androgyne, a fagette, masculine in short hair and muscles, feminine in lipstick and heels. I am man and woman as one, and I refuse to pick a side. I love having big breasts and rocking a 10” strap on at the same time.
My man- self is a femme faggot. Johnny Weir ice dancing to Lady Gaga in roses and sequins. Oscar Wilde, a sissy genius in lavender silk with a poison pen.
My woman- self is a lusty warrior. Grace Jones in a James Bond film, power-lifting a full-grown man over her head in haute couture and heels. French novelist, burlesque dancer and body builder Colette, dressed in a 19th century men’s suit.
I am queer. I am genderqueer. I am femme.
And if you can’t wrap your brain around that, well, I wasn’t planning on sleeping with you anyway.