Sera Miles

Last week, I attended a discussion/talk at Self Serve, Albuquerque’s hot and friendly sex shop.  Self Serve puts on several workshops and classes each month, and most carry a small charge. For this event, the gorgeous Princess Frida donated her time, so I and some friends were able to participate and enjoy free of charge. We did all buy things, though–how could we resist? Brat_toy and her friend bought gorgeous tails that will make a hot appearance at the New Mexico FetLifers party on Saturday (if you’re interested in attending, message me on FetLife). I bought a book, a memoir of a male escort, that I’ve been dying to read (and will review here,  eventually).

Frida opened by asking us to introduce ourselves and state why we were there. The group included gays and lesbians, straights, polys, FTMs, MTFs, intersex individuals, people considering transitioning, crossdressers, and probably more identities that I’m forgetting or wasn’t astute enough to notice. As I listened, I wondered: how do I define myself? My gender?

For over a decade, I was a lesbian high femme. From ages 19-27, I dated women almost exclusively. Oh, I had sex with men, but I subconsciously/purposely tended to only sleep with men who were already attached. I love sex, and when I find a hot partner, gender is unimportant to me. But, when I was 19-27, I eschewed the idea that I was bisexual. I am not one for gray areas. As I get older each year, I find myself more willing to accept and embrace gray areas, but in my twenties–hell no.  I wanted to be one clearly-defined thing. I also felt like a lesbian. I loved the word. I never thought of myself as  “dyke” or any other euphemism. And I was clearly a high femme: even in straight crowds, I am usually the most femininely-appearing person in the room. Lipstick, heels, cleavage (the best accessory), painted toes, jewelry, and an outfit I’ve considered for days: that’s how I present myself.

When I was 27, I met the man who later became my husband. We dated for a year and a half, then split up; and I dated a woman for about a year thereafter. So during those three years, I still identified as a lesbian high femme. Then he and I reunited, married, and had a child.

Two+ years later, I feel like a fake, a liar, in calling myself a lesbian. High femme still fits–but how can I say “high femme,” I ask myself, without “lesbian”?

Last week’s discussion turned to difficult, intense topics of patriarchy, the women’s liberation movement, the benefits of transitioning from F to M, and the dangers/drawbacks of transitioning from M to F. If you move from F to M, we discussed, you move into a more powerful position in our culture; and the other way … well, let’s just repeat “patriarchy” to ourselves. Of course, that’s not to say that an F to M has an “easy” path; no one with internal conflict over gender identity, no one who decides to make a gender transition, be they part of the trans community or another community, has an easy path. I’m describing this point in the evening to get to what I was thinking about, what I talked about.

I heard the word “heterosexual” a lot, and I wanted to replace it with “heteronormativity.” I spoke to this, with the group. I talked about my own struggle: since I married, I have spent time (not an enormous amount, but for me a significant amount) with people who are very different from those in the sub-cultures in which I have generally spent time. In other words, I have spent time with the dominant culture, the heteronormative culture.

The first thing I noticed about heteronormative culture is that those within in it seem to know all the rules, but very few are actually “normative.” Not all are “heterosexual.” My sex work informs my sense of this as well: I have dollars from every gentleman I ever spoke with who struggled with not feeling like his sexuality was normative or, at times, hetero. I worked a lot. Many, many people struggle within the dominant culture. But most, I have found, play at heteronormativity, and play at it well.

I don’t know how to. Correct that. I know how the culture works; that’s what a dominant culture is/does: everyone within it and outside it knows its rules. But I find it taxing to play by those rules. I find I don’t know what to talk about within the heteronormative culture. If I say what I think, I believe they’ll find me offensive. If I stay quiet, I feel I’m disrespecting the worlds in which I felt whole and accepted, and of which I’ve long felt protective.

Last night, I wondered if I struggle within the heteronormative culture because my gender identity has not altered, or even shifted. Am I still a lesbian high-femme, I wondered? I am still more often attracted to women than I am to men, though I do now admit to myself that I am bisexual. I suppose I’d really be pansexual, as I’m attracted to a wide variety of gender identities. But hey, I just accepted “bisexual” in the last few years; I’m not ready to change labels already!

Labels. So many people rail against them, but I admit: I like them. I like having words. I write, I edit, I live within words. Words I love to say roll off my tongue like mini-climaxes. Me wanting a set of words with which to define myself is, for me, wholly natural, unavoidable.

In most situations, I am still the most femininely-appearing person in the room. Within the heteronormative gatherings I attend, I wonder if the other wives don’t know how to talk to me because I’m so damn done up. They put on a little make-up when they leave the house, wear nice-enough clothes, pretty flats. For me, that’s just not good enough for going to an event. I have a toddler, so of course I leave the house, at times, in little make-up and work-out clothes and a ponytail. But I don’t attend anything in such attire. I don’t expect anyone else to do what I do (except maybe Frida ). I wonder, though, if within a heteronormative environment I stand out, because I look over-the-t0p to them. I’m presenting my gender, wearing my gender. It’s more, of course, than what’s between my legs and what my bra holds. That’s just my sex.

Inside a lesbian environment, my high femme identity is respected (most of the time, but that’s another topic). Perhaps I should say it’s recognized. I am something identifiable within a lesbian environment. I would claim the same is true for any environment that is not heteronormative. Within that heteronormative environment, though, I wonder if I’m seen as a caricature.

In the anthology Brazen Femme, one of the authors defines “femme” as “playing at femininity.” (Forgive me: I don’t remember the exact author/essay, but I do highly recommend the book to anyone interested in gender identity.) Femme, this author says, is much more than feminine; it’s playing femininity to its extremes. Femme is wearing heels for an afternoon casual meeting. Femme is carrying your heels around so that you’re ready to slip them on for going out after work–and wearing low heels to work. Femme is having a dozen lipsticks in your purse at all times, so you can tone down or jazz up your look. Femme is having a love for fashion, make-up, beauty–whether you shop at Target and Walgreens or Dillards and Prada. Femme is, in my expression of it, being able to match pieces from Target with a Tadashi or Kenneth Cole or Donna Karan piece, and making it all look like a million bucks. Femme is, to some degree, looking expensive in even the cheapest clothes.

Femme is being just this side of slutty in appearance. The turtleneck half a size too small. The fishnet knee-highs under a demure pantsuit. The red lipstick on Sunday afternoon, hungover and out for brunch.

Can femme play in heteronormative culture? Or does femme become slutty? Do I put off some of the women I meet because I look slutty and thus dangerous, threatening, hyper-sexual? Does playing up one’s gender identity equal playing up one’s sexuality, to the, as Matie of Self Serve put it, “straighties”?

I’m beginning to think the answer to those last three questions is “yes.” I look loud. I look unafraid.

But I am, at times, afraid. I’m afraid that I will never fit in with my husband’s friends. I’m afraid that I will never connect with my daughter’s friends’ families, that even though my community and event organizational skills are excellent, I won’t be wanted on the PTA. Will I have to put on a different gender identity to organize the school fundraiser? Should I swallow this internal conflict and shop in the “Misses” department, put together a few outfits for outings that involve those in whom my expressed gender identity might cause anxiety?

I admit that I understand very little about how one chooses to transition from one sex to another, very little about more complex gender identities. I attended Frida’s talk because I wanted to learn more about these experiences. I do understand that people who are not decidedly masculine or feminine within a heteronormative paradigm cause anxiety in those who subscribe to the dominant culture. I wonder, now, as I’ve parsed through these feelings in this post, if that’s what I do: my presence leads some women to questioning if they are feminine enough. Were they to ask me, I would readily assure them: they are feminine. Heterosexual, or bisexual, or lesbian, and definitely feminine enough. I’m just high femme.