Roles and Growth

In high school, I was damn sure I was submissive. I remember wandering around with a friend, just hanging out, talking about how she actually had confidence, but failed at seeming confident, whereas I was good at seeming confident without actually having any. I didn’t want to have to be confident, I wanted to submit.

In college, I realized I was a switch. Pretty early on in fact, because by the end of my freshman year I was identifying as a switch, though usually with bottom tendencies. Somewhere along the way I started getting more comfortable being dominant, being toppy.

There are times when I think maybe I’m just one or the other. I’m pretty sure life enjoys reminding me exactly why that is completely false just at those moments. Any time I’m starting to wonder if I’m just one or the other, something happens. For instance, cuddling on a couch with a very scary top, who pulls my hair, controlling my head, and for those moments at last I’m finally out of my head. The relief washes over me of not deciding, not being responsible, not being careful, of not having to pay that kind of attention. Instead, I get to push through pain, through challenge, and show my strength in giving up that control… and it is a relief to let go and submit. Because I’m not any one thing and I need breaks from whichever roles I chose to take on.

But until more recently I really hadn’t much bottomed (with regards to pain) in a long while. T has dramatically altered not just how I process pain, but the physical sensations. Pain feels different. It is really hard to describe. I’m more jumpy, though less sensitive technically. I don’t know my physical limits as well, I want to push those boundaries more and more because I like not liking the sensations. The first real time I pushed past the pain I liked into the pain I seemed to not like in a consensual, trusting manner got me incredibly turned on… and left me with wonderful bite marks all across my skin for quite some time. In a way, I really hated those bites. Because, dammit, they hurt. I told her more, not to inflict harm but to feel that hurt. I was nowhere near harm, and the pain wasn’t bad for me, it got me wetter than I had been in a long time. But that was before T. So, now bites send me writhing, whining, and twitching far more than before. I don’t know how to process this new sensation, but damn am I enjoying learning.

Also, stingy pain got a lot different, and a lot more intense.

Yet, even while I’m relearning my reactions to pain, even while part of me is seeking out chances to bottom, I pull out The New Topping Book to read. I seek out new opportunities to top, to dom, to control. After years of relationships trying to throw off the politics of owning another person, I’ve come to find how much I want someone else to be “mine” (which, me being me, has absolutely nothing to do with monogamy. Just because something would be “mine” does not mean exclusive rights…) Unless I actually feel my more submissive side reacting to someone, another person’s attempts to dominate me lead to entertaining times of wrestling and me biting them a lot. Probably biting them very hard. A certain puppy learned this the hard way. Or maybe I should say the fun way.

Hmmm… One of these days I should get a picture of someone’s bruises from my bite. They can be really pretty.

No Really, I Haven’t Fallen Off The Face Of The Earth

S and I broke up. For a lot of reasons, I’m not going to go through the details on my blog. I’ll be writing of other things, but yeah that is a lot of why I haven’t written recently. There are a few things about it that I’ll write, or reference, but don’t expect too much.

I’ve been flirting with the idea of getting a mini skirt. I first voiced this out loud to some friends I was visiting over Halloween weekend. I don’t think I’ve ever actually worn one. But part of me really likes the idea, even though I usually hate wearing skirts of any kind, or shorts, because I hate my legs touching skin on skin.

T has been going. Acne is still a constant battle. The hardest part for me is remembering to stay hydrated. My skin always has broken out drastically less when I’m thoroughly hydrated, and when I actually get pretty dehydrated my acne gets a lot worse. So, I’m trying to remember to drink more water. My kidneys are probably thanking my skin for getting me to do this more.

My voice has leveled out. It doesn’t shock people every time I see them with how much deeper it has gotten, and I feel like even my grandmother has started to get used to the sound of my deeper voice. No more cracking (yay!) and it definitely passes. I like how I sound. I like that I haven’t changed speech patterns at all, just my vocal range has shifted downwards… but it also shrank. I have a lot less control over my tone of voice, which is to be expected seeing as I have little practice with my new range, but I also have a many fewer options of tone. I’m not just deeper, my range has actually shrunk which makes my range of expression different. I’m not intentionally more monotone, I just end up fading out a lot quicker.

Surprisingly, I really seem to like my newly coming in chest hair. Didn’t expect that. I was looking forward to darker and a lot more leg hair, and darkened arm hair. I’m still waiting for my facial hair to be something worth growing instead of just needing it shaved every few days. But chest hair? I mostly expected to feel neutral about it. Unexpectedly, I’m really liking it, and even looking forward to more. The genderfucker in me wants it darker and to wear my corset. Because honestly, I think it’d be damn hot.

I just started getting hungry again recently. After a few weeks of legitimately not being hungry and having to instill a pretty strict schedule to make sure I ate, I’m glad that it is back. It is strangely comforting, a sense of normalcy returning. Also, I just don’t like living that strictly to a schedule. I prefer being hungry all the time to messing up my schedule a bit and risk passing out from forgetting to eat.

I’ll be back to writing more often now.

Tales from Travelling

Travelling is always a bit of an experience, especially when flying and having to deal with airport security. This is what I wrote while sitting in an airport without wireless last week while travelling:

I’m, not big on flying. It isn’t the airplane part, minus the motion sickness and tendency for my ears to kill with pressure changes regardless of how much stupid gum I chew. I’m not afraid of flying, but I really am not big on traveling that way. Or perhaps I should say “this way” as I am presently sitting in an airport.

The government has new delightful ways to invade a person’s privacy as we travel through security. Laptops must be out of bags. Shoes must come off, leaving us to walk through security in socks or bare feet. To travel with film, you need to ask them to hand check it, giving you lots of unfortunate looks (And yes, even though TSA claims that the X-Ray machines don’t expose film under 800 ISO, it does. So really, get it hand checked if you happen to be like me and still do film photography.) Metal detectors are no longer enough, not anymore.

What happened to the country of Franklin’s “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither.”

Oh wait. We never lived in that country. At least, it hasn’t existed here in my entire lifetime.

Now though, instead of a simple metal detector there is a backscatter machine. Step inside, and blurry images of people without clothes pop up. Apparently the images are “stored in an off site location” even though they claim that said images are “not saved.” On so many levels, this machine made me uncomfortable, so I opted out. Yes, there were signs saying anyone who wants to may opt out, and that is what I did. Glad I made it to the airport with plenty of time because opting out meant waiting a bunch while they got the guy to pat me down.

Opting out meant a pat down, a very close, personal pat down.

So this older TSA guy was patting me down, and first got very confused as he touched my upper back (I travel in a Frog Bra over a binder, because airplanes are uncomfortable enough without my binder digging in) and once he got to my waist, he finally walked over to where my ID was and looked at it carefully. He called to someone else, and they both looked at my ID, then back at me, then told me to wait a moment. A few minutes later, a girl walks over, and says, “I’m sorry about that.” What are you sorry about exactly, that a male patted me down when I am legally a female? I really was tempted to say something, but bit my tongue and sighed instead. She then said that the pat down would be more extensive, and would go over “sensitive areas” so she would use the back of her hand. Interestingly enough, the guy never said this, even though he was going to be touching similarly sensitive regions. Apparently, ass and groin aren’t “sensitive” areas on a guy, but they are on a girl?

So, she pat me down. Extensively. Back of her hand and everything.

Turns out, I managed to forget a pencil in my pocket, and the TSA agent needed me to unroll my sock for said pat-down, just to make sure that there wasn’t anything hidden in my rolled up sock.

And the most uncomfortable part of all of this for me? No, wasn’t that some random guy was patting my ass (in the name of security) and it wasn’t even the change to a female TSA agent. It wasn’t even the realization that apparently as a guy, my ass and crotch aren’t sensitive areas that was the most uncomfortable, though that was probably the most confusing. The most uncomfortable was the moment that I had a very attractive female kneeling in front of me and touching me up from the ankles up to my waist. Because know what? Yeah, that made me feel fucking awkward.

But really, my gender is now identifiably on demand any time I fly because I will always opt out. I will always take the pat down over the backscatter machine, for political reasons I really don’t feel like typing out. And anytime they happen to notice that yeah, I have an “F” next to gender on my license, I will have a woman patting me down and that can put me at physical risk. Because I’m not changing that gender marker until I will not need any future medical procedures that health insurance will only cover for women, so I am putting myself at physical risk every time I fly. Maybe it is paranoia, but for my gender to be put out there in such a public manner throughout the USA is not safe.

Yeah, that was my gender filled moment on my trip. Other than that, I do believe it was the first time I flew when the person taking my boarding pass didn’t apologize for calling me sir at first.

Back With Thoughts On Compliments

I haven’t written in a week and a half, which is a long absence for me, and also missed two AwaAs. I’ve been good, but busy in my own way, and decided two things. One, I’m going to force myself to write in here regardless of level of busy, and two that I’m switching AwaA to every other week.

Life is a crazy thing. Lots of updates to come on things like my relationship with S, kinky thoughts, and of course, more on transition.

Because getting cat called and honked at by passing cars is not something I am particularly used to. I was walking down the street, to a free outdoor movie, and some guys in a passing car honked, waved, and shouted at me. Now, I was confused for a moment, looked behind me to see no one there. I figured they had to be waving at someone else. Or maybe they thought they knew me? Regardless, I returned to the phone conversation I was having. Then, walking back, I was eating falafel (mm, tasty) and some random guy I passed said “Hey, hoststuff.” Again, I looked around to see who he was talking to.

I eventually realized both times the people were talking/honking/waving at me. Which was really strange. I pass, so that meant they were doing that to someone they saw as a guy? Because for a second I wondered if I just didn’t pass, and then I looked down at myself… Even to my overly critical eye, (chest sticks out too much, god why are my hips so big, etc.) I knew I passed. And if I didn’t, then I certainly wasn’t the stereotype of a “girl” to be catcalled.

Because I’m used to people shouting shit like “Are you a boy or a girl?” or “What are you, harry potter freak?” (I used to look a lot like harry potter, at least, when my hair was shaggy, I had glasses, and I wore my trench coat.) I’m used to “Faggot” or “Dyke.” I’m used to insults, to assholes trying to shit on my one-person pride parade.

But “hotstuff” ?!

Part of me is flattered. I mean, sure it is always nice to know I still look good when I pass. Hell, gay guys finding me cute? Definitely a compliment. But shouting or saying stuff at me while I’m clearly tuning out the world, as in on my cell or eating a falafel wrap, is still being an asshole. My body is not yours to objectify, unless of course we’re in a scene and I’m in a mood to be an object and give my consent to such. But yeah, getting stuff shouted to me on from a car while I’m on my cell phone? Doesn’t matter that you see me as a guy not a girl, it’s still being an asshole. Why? Because you are interrupting me.

I’m all for compliments. I like giving them, and I’ve gotten better about taking them with grace. And know what? I’d actually be perfectly welcoming of someone walking up to me, and telling me honestly that they find me attractive. I mean hell, I met C when her friend walked up to me and said, “You see that girl over there? She’s been staring at you all night.” Another time someone said “I want your cute boy butt.” Neither of these times was I offended. The first left me stammering awkwardly and eventually engaging in a conversation with C. The second lead to a hookup that night. Forwardness is not a problem. Compliments are not a problem. The main difference? Situation.

Walking down the street while on my cell phone, I’m busy in another conversation. No, I have no interest in being hit on. While I’m walking down the street, eating falafel on my way home, I’m far more interested in food than any random person I passed who feels the need to make me feel like an object without my consent. It is situational, it is tone of voice, it is thinking before doing.

It is something I honestly didn’t expect to be dealing with again. Admittedly, the only time I dealt with it before was dressed up for Rocky in high school and running a few blocks from my car to the theater, and it was directed less at me than who I was with. Part of me assumed that with our cultural fucked-up-ness being very much cismen objectifying, I didn’t expect to be the objectified when I pass as a cisman.

Maybe that is its own form of internalized sexism. My mind is still so wrapped up in battling the internalized dialogue of “I’m a freak, who could ever want me,” that I’ve let something else slide.

Because it didn’t happen like I’ve watched it happen to my female-presenting friends. The guy just walked on, didn’t even turn around to watch me walk away eating my falafel. They just drove on after honking and waving and shouting. No follow up, no more harassment. And it mostly stuck out because it happened twice in one day. I was just wearing jeans and a tee-shirt. Nothing special. So part of me thinks I should just be grateful I look good.

But I know that isn’t right. Backhanded compliment of asshole-ness is not something I should be thankful for. Things I should be thankful for? Friends in the area who are awesome and invite me to stuff and thus make me be social. A really great and healthy relationship with S. Good phone calls with Q. Having my brother back safe from Israel. Somehow, being objectified without my consent just isn’t on that list.

Also, I am going to be on KinkOnTap tomorrow! Come join us in live at 8pm. There is a fabulous chatroom too, so it isn’t just listening, but interacting as well.

Current Pet Peeve of T

The first time through puberty I got incredibly lucky. I had great skin, from day one through the bitchy days of middle school and the angst-ridden days of high school. Acne was never a major problem, except sometimes on the backs of my arms. But my face? I rarely got zits. My back, never. So here is a demonic duck to express my frustration.

I knew that acne would come with T. I knew that, I had been told that, and naively thought because I got so lucky the first time through that it would be the same this time. S and C are probably shaking their heads, laughing at me, because even though I have been dealing the worst acne of my life, it isn’t that bad. I haven’t felt the need to go to the dermatologist, so long as I scrub my face a few times a day with acne wash, and every other day with a deeper exfoliant.

No, the pet peeve are zits just inside my nostril. They hurt. Moreover, I have pretty terrible allergies, and so every time I blow my nose, it hurts even more.

It drives me crazy. It annoys me endlessly, or at least until it goes away again. I know I’m lucky, I’ve never needed Accutane, and I still barely get break outs on my back. My arms have also been calm this time through, so that’s better than last time. I know I’m lucky but it is still driving me crazy. Because it isn’t angering, it is incredibly annoying, constant, and every time one goes away, within a week another one appears at my nostrils. Recurring, highly frustrating… yup, pet peeve of T.

Generally speaking, acne also makes shaving a pain in the ass. Or perhaps more accurately it is a pain in the face, as it makes cutting so much more likely. Shaving is difficult enough, but adding painful bumps I have to dodge just makes it worse. At least I have some whiskers to shave, right? Still…

Owie.

Six Months on T

And what do I have to show for it?

My voice dropped into nice, low, masculine ranges. My neck sized increased, which greatly affected the shape of my face, even more than the more subtle changes on my face itself. My clit increased size, my sex drive shot up, shot up again, and then dropped a hair to a nice, steady place. I’m hungry all the time, but figuring out how to handle it, and making sure I eat at least mostly healthy food.

I’m in a surprisingly healthy relationship. Surprising because healthy relationships have been so rare for me, and it has been a really pleasant surprise. She sees me for who I am, not for my body, but also does an amazing job at being careful about what I want with my body, how I exist within my body… and how in many ways it isn’t mine.

My clothes don’t quite fit right anymore, I need to go shopping. In the last six months, I’ve moved, gotten a new job, met some amazing people, and found some awesome things. I lost friends, and found friends in places I had not even thought about.

I’ve been heartsick, and crushing. I’ve been freezing and melting into a pile of liquid xMech from the scorching heat.

I’ve stretched my comfort zone, gone to play parties and allowed penetrative sex. Hell, I’ve started asking for it more than ever. I’ve broken down mental barriers, and brought myself to the point where I can slap S… though still not on the face. I’ve marked her again and again, bites, bruises, hickies, handprints, and been marked in return. I’ve entered male bathrooms and confronted some of my ableist tendencies and language. I started relooking into religion, pushing myself past the “I don’t want to do this, I can’t examine this” and into books and articles on Judaism, Buddhism, Neo-Paganism and all kinds of alternative spiritualities. I’ve accepted that I can’t keep friends forever, and strove to rebuild my own mind.

But what do I have to show for it all?

No matter what I do, for me it will never be enough. Part of me loves that, loves that I always want more from myself, never to be static, always growing, looking for new connections to help me grow and change. I’m a person of becoming, not being, and I love it. But no matter how I contemplate Nietzsche, I am tired of never being enough for myself.

Years ago I realized I couldn’t keep a promise I made to myself, so instead I completely reoriented my life. I started to strive to become the person others saw me to be, to become the person my friends, family, lovers, and teachers saw in me, or at least saw that I could become. And it is never enough. Not because they tell me that, in fact they usually tell me the exact opposite, but I see how awesome they are, how much they deserve…

and after all these changes in the last six months, or six years… I still wonder what do I have to show for it?

A few whiskers and ill-fitting clothes just don’t quite seem to cut it. About only one thing does: I’m genuinely happy. And that is more than enough to show for anything. Just need to manage to get my mind around the concept.

Packing Scares Me

I’ve decided I want to conquer that fear. Okay, maybe fear isn’t the right word, but it sounds better than “nervousness, foreboding, and slightly paranoid unease.” Yeah, I’ll stick with fear.

(That is a lot more cock than I'm used to seeing at one time...)

It’s not that what I do or don’t want has changed. But I want to know, to understand the feeling, the walking, the positioning of my body and legs, and how it will alter how I’m read. I want to see if it changes my behaviour, and if so does it impact my life positively or negatively. If it changes my behaviour, will it be positive or negative for those around me?

It isn’t that I’ve never packed before. I’ve just never packed with a packer. For some of you, that doesn’t make much sense, but trust me when I say there is a huge difference between sticking a sock down one’s underwear and using a soft packer (which have varying degrees of realism.) And even there, there are a variety of ways to pack, from hard or soft, just stuck in or using some kind of sock/strap… There are a bunch of things to do.

An example strap...

The person who makes that one in particular, Gear Guy, also runs a great site, The Transitional Male, which I have been referencing for years. So, I confronted my fears and my wallet, and got a packer and strap. More on this to come once they actually, y’know, arrive.

For a comparison of packers, check out the TransGuys article, “The Packer Showdown” (and they’re awesome and syndicating my blog.) For some other great information on packing, see Hudson’s Resource Guide or FTM Passing Tips.

Bathroom Anxiety

Bathrooms are a big deal for me. The basic functioning of life become a daily series of questions and fears because of the frequency that I must use a public restroom. Every time I step through the door of a Men’s labeled bathroom I start questioning… Is my chest obvious? Are there stall doors? What if they notice? What if I don’t pass? and I am afraid. Admittedly, I am much less afraid here in the Northeast than I am when I’m home in the southern parts of the Midwest, but I am still afraid.

I don’t have an STP that I carry around. Mostly because I don’t have the knack yet (apparently I’m incompetent.) So I sit in fear, wondering if someone walking through the bathroom will wonder why I’m sitting down. Because I pass too well to use a Women’s labeled bathroom. I can’t quote Andrea Gibson saying, “I’m sorry, I didn’t feel comfortable sticking this tampon up my penis in the men’s room” with my voice being as deep as it is. Thus, I use the Men’s bathroom… and I sit in fear hoping no one notices I’m sitting to pee, hoping no one notices when my chest isn’t perfectly bound down, hoping no one notices I’m trans, because if they notice I might get my ass kicked. Funnily enough, I don’t particularly want that to happen. I may be a masochist, but for consensual pain thank you very much.

And then, I moved to Rhode Island and discovered a much greater frequency of single-use bathrooms. Maybe it is just where I keep going, like the awesome bakery down the street, or the coffeeshop across town, but there are more single-use bathrooms I’ve come across in this tiny state in the last month than I saw in four years around my college.

From Genderfork

Changes and Pianos

I have whiskers, and it is strange. There aren’t a ton of them, as in I am not even close to getting a 5 o’clock shadow (or a two day shadow for that matter.) But they are definitely there, and definitely very dark. The ones that are there that is.

I was looking in the mirror, and thought something was on my chin. I tried rubbing it off, and it didn’t move. Looking closer, I realized, “Oh, it’s attached!”

My shoulders are broader. I noticed this past weekend while bound, and on my way to NYC for Pride weekend. A shirt that used to fit in that “really awesome but rather large on me” kind of way now fits in that “fits perfectly to my shoulders” sort of way.  I don’t quite know what I think of my clothes no longer fitting, but I am happy with the way my body is shifting. Like, I’m no longer in the position of having my pants barely fit, but that may be due to (possibly) eating less because my schedule has been rather bizarre recently. Either way, I’m looking different, and apparently am reading as a straight guy? Which confuses me, because I haven’t changed my mannerisms at all… and my wrist? Is limp like a wet noodle.

My voice has gotten really damn deep, though. As in, multiple friends have asked me to change my voicemail message because it is a bit jarring to hear my nice, high pitched old voice, after it has gotten so much lower. Q was particularly amusing about it, when we finally talked and had a break from phone tag. Other friends have flipped out for most of a night after hearing me say “Hi,” and I consistently get “Sir’ed” on the phone. Actually, I get sir all the time now, in person or on the phone. I pass…

And it’s weird for me. I actually reached something I set out to do, what?

There is so much more I want. Some of it is coming, at least, like my facial hair. I want more, and it slowly appears. I want top surgery, but that isn’t going to be until some undetermined time in the future. I want, I want, I want! And… I’m getting it. That is the constant strangeness with my life, I want, I do, and then I actually get it.

Years ago, in my slightly more innocent years of high school, I used to claim that if a person wanted something badly enough, they would get it. If they didn’t, it was because they didn’t try hard enough, didn’t work enough, etc. A major reason I thought this was because life sucked, and I was a huge underachiever, and it was a convenient way to blame myself. Except that I was harshly proven wrong, that everything a person works their ass off for does not happen. Life sucks, and no need to blame myself any extra, but it also took away my hope that things could change if I worked enough. That was the real thing that made me a bit more innocent back then, that I actually thought if I tried, things would change. Which is part of what makes this so confusing for me.

I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and things just keep falling into place as a result. Transition, apartment, friends, job, and my wonderful relationship with S didn’t just fall into my lap, but part of me is very confused…

And mostly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or piano, because that would so be my life.

So, there is some transition update goodness. Tomorrow is Answers with an Agenda.

Gendering Spaces for Safety and Privilege

I don’t feel entirely comfortable in non-cismen spaces. I understand it, and have even organized similar spaces at various times. But a space that specifically states it is for lesbian, dyke, straight, bisexual, queer, and trans women… or rather, FtMs and other trans folk… such a space gives me a sense of discomfort. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate what is attempting to be done, and it is nice to have something to remind me that just because I’m no longer a part of the lesbian/dyke community doesn’t mean that community automatically hates me. I like queer women. I really like queer women. In fact, I am rarely attracted to straight women anywhere near as much as I am attracted to queer women. Actually, I’m more attracted to queers in general than to heterosexuals, especially cisgendered heterosexuals.

In college a friend and I discussed how “women’s only spaces” were morphing into “no cisgendered men” and that such a definition could next become “no heterosexual cismen” but really what all those are striving for isn’t exclusion, it is the comfort and safety of a space without male privilege.

All of that makes sense and isn’t something I necessarily disagree with, but walking into such a space after having been passing so well, walking into a space that means anyone who looks like me, sounds like me, and acts like me isn’t a butch but is trans… was incredibly disconcerting. I felt like there was a giant neon sign on my head saying “Look, here’s an FtM!” And the image of a giant neon sign saying that, made me smile. I want that kind of neon sign sometimes, preferably in a green or blue. Rainbow would work too…

But what bothers me about the space isn’t feeling like my identity is on display, that was a strange sense of relief. What bothers me is that there is a need for a space that specifies such restrictions.

It is needed because frequently safety means not having those who are so often a categorical threat to a group of people. So many friends of mine are not just skittish around frat brothers, but truly afraid of them unless there is a clear introduction and “these are safe people” moment. Or that certain groups of people tend to dominate spaces in such a way as to make it difficult for others to express themselves, speak up, or interact with people. For the opportunity to be safe, remove those that are the problem, separate them out.

But how is all of that really so different from the arguments for separate bathrooms based on sex? Men apparently cannot behave themselves enough to use the same restroom as women. Even worse, then people might decide to have consensual sex in the bathroom, oh no! As sarcastic as I am about that, there is a serious point some people make about the need for gendered spaces. How can people, usually women, be safe otherwise?

To me, that societal dialogue is part of the problem. Creepy ass people who would take advantage of a situation like that in a bathroom aren’t going to be stopped by the gendered bathrooms. Not to mention sexual assault can happen within a gay community, and gendered bathrooms contribute to the likelihood of gay-bashing for when people don’t match up to expected standards of “men” or “women,” which includes things like being a sweet little dyke who looks like Justin Bieber (Disclaimer- I had never heard of Bieber until I found that tumblr.) But there are some who vehemently oppose gender neutral bathrooms for the safety of either themselves, their families, or most often, their values and expected notions of what “should” be.

I’m not saying that queers spaces that limit the identities who attend are the same as gendering bathrooms. Bathrooms exist in response to the human necessity to shit and piss. Limited spaces, like the example from the beginning of this entry, are usually social, sexual, supportive, or other such spaces that are not “needed” but are for pleasure. Restricting access to a necessity is a much bigger problem than what the queer community is doing. Queers limit the attendance because of the safety risks of those same imposed limitations on bathrooms; the phobic, sexist, heteronormative, etc. views that make gendered bathrooms an unsafe space are what we don’t want around when limiting attendees’ identities.

Really, my point is two-fold. The first is that it is still policing. Limiting the attendance to certain identities is inherently policing. That isn’t bad in and of itself, just potentially dangerous. The second is that limiting identities doesn’t help the wider problem. It doesn’t alter the behaviors that create the safety problems. It doesn’t move to change the societal script that states certain groups of people are a problem, and that such people will cause safety or discomfort to other groups by their mere presence. These problems aren’t just gender, but race, religion, class, political affiliation, and any other identity category our minds/society has come up with. I mean, a specific Goth Night at a club falls into this as well. Except the difference between a Goth Night and something based around sexuality, gender (or conflating them,) race or other such identities is that Goth identification is a choice. And no matter what the religious right says, my “too-queer-to-be-gay” identity is not a choice, it’s who I am.

On the other hand, sometimes these requirements exist for a slightly different purpose- sexual spaces that limit the identities often do so to make sure that the people there are potentially interested in each other. But even then, what does it mean to limit a space for “gay men only,” are transfags included? Bi-guys? Pansexuals? Whatever the intent… it made for pensive thoughts this Pride weekend.