Two things that are owning me right now.

This:


and

This:



That's my dream lover and exercise dominant Jillian Michaels. She's the sort of horrible person who would make you cry by forcing you to holding a plank for three minutes while shouting abuse about your flabby abs, and then hold you tenderly in her arms as you wept. You better ask somebody.

Queer Enough

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 19^th 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.

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Blog, 2.0.

Bitches, I'm back.

Yes, it's in fact been two years since I posted here. The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Remember October of 2008, when the stock market fell apart and people lost their 401Ks? Around the time that my agent was sending out my novel, that I had a regular column and was getting offered featured pieces, publishing fell apart too. The only magazine that was semi-responsible about paying me went bankrupt on the day I filed an invoice for ten pieces, leaving me in the lurch for rent (I had to wait a full year to receive that check, until the lawsuit was finished...) I lost all my writing work. I lost all my other side jobs that kept me afloat too, ESL tutoring, demoing vitamin drinks at Whole Foods, babysitting, and most shamefully, the horrible phone sex company that paid me $10 an hour and fired me because I was "underperforming," when the truth was, they lost a lot of their call volume with recession panic. And if I couldn't afford to pay my bills with my side jobs, I couldn't afford to keep trying to make things work as a writer when the market had gone completely dry.

Some six months later, I found myself in a blissfully secure office job that was underpaid but fun at times had really great benefits. I had sworn I'd never go back to office work, but two years of self-employment had left me broke and I was ready for a job where I got paid to surf the internet half the day. And my coworkers were cool, and I liked the work I did.

Here's the thing, though. I had lost my desire to write. I felt like I had put so much energy into getting published, re-writing my novel, networking, finding an agent, sending out book proposals, and for what? Chasing down tiny checks from publishers that were months overdue? Having manuscripts and proposals and pitches shot down time after time, frequently by editors who wrote long, no-holds-barred replies about why they thought my ideas were terrible? (Perhaps they thought they were "helping" me, but cold indifference seemed pretty appealing at that point.) The people who had been excited to know me when I was a journalist became cold and indifferent, and all my exciting journalist privilege, free drinks and party invites and VIP treatment was in the toilet, and I had been reduced to plebe has-been status once again. I was frankly burnt out, and apart from the occasional rant on facebook, I had zero desire to write, and I was barely reading for that matter.

Thus began my two year descent into obscurity, fueled partially by shame at my self-perceived "failure to succeed" which was largely due to factors beyond my control. I knew that if I blogged obsessively there was a small chance I might someday gain a decent following and a modicum of respect, and could leverage my ways into media parties as a B-lister. But frankly, I didn't want to. I didn't want to write.

I wanted to work out at the gym. I wanted to bake cookies and sew embroidery projects. I wanted to stay at home and drink wine and watch TV. I lost 25 pounds, could finally afford to travel again, and had a really clean house. I had nothing to prove to anyone, because my delusions of grandeur went down the toilet.

I don't regret this two years of not writing, because I think they were necessary for my sanity. Years of no health insurance, no steady paycheck and little exercise had taken their toll, and I needed time to take a break and get my life in order.

But recently my job has changed, and it's become clear it's approaching time for me to move on and forward with a new set of goals. I'm planning to apply to graduate school in the fall, with the end goal of become a sex therapist and educator. And part of this process means it's time for me to start writing and publishing again. This time it's different because I'm not trying to make a living this way, and I'm not trying to impress anyone. (Well...maybe just a little.) But really, I'm doing this for myself now.

My goal is to update here once a week. I will mostly be posting about sexuality in a cultural and personal context, since this is a big part of what I intend to explore in my future academic career.

So...welcome back.