Tranni, Panicked
Second crap incident for the week: Just found out that the same person who stood me up for a playdate the other week is seriously in lust with my monster. Of course. Not only am I completely mis-read in this town, but I am completely undesirable to even the kinky ones, as a kinky one. Geezus, how many ego blows am I supposed to withstand?
I hate this city sometimes. Yes, there is amazing art and cultural stuff. Yes, there are some nice folk. Yes, I am settling down to the pace. But I am SO tired of not having a queer community as such. Sure, there are a few isolated enlightened creature, but the rest of them seem to sort of stop dead at the GL in the GLBTQ.
Gay/lesbian. Boy/girl. Butch/femme. I feel like a freak, and a monster, and not in the same happy and exciting and lovable way I do in Sydney. Here I half-expect them to come chasing me down the street with torches for having the audacity to wear a man's suit AND girl lipstick, or dress like a faggot whilst possessing a twat, or wearing a tutu without identifying as female, or being breasted yet still wanting to dirty dance with stinky boys, for not being predictable and safe and living within the prescribed dichotomies. Heck, if I don't want to me a WOMAN, where's my T-shot? Why aren't I being a MAN then? What the hell do I think I am doing with this mixing and matching? MAKE UP YOUR BLOODY MIND? How can you be trans* but not 'transitioning'?
But instead of bearing torches, they bear the ultimate weapon- making it clear that you are not desirable. Not shaggable, not even someone to play with. I feel like some sort of exotic plant, to be examined and admired for its difference, but kept at a distance in case its toxic. Yes, thats me, imported from afar with my stories of debauchery, of orgies and play parties and blood fetishes, of hanging from hooks and bathing in body fluids. Sort of sexual attractive somehow, all visceral and damp and inviting-- but possibly carnivorous so best go with what you know how to manage. Don't take any risks, stick it in a glass case and see what you can learn about it without actually engaging with it. Maybe I should offer small specimens of myself for microscopic inspection? Have myself tested so that people know I am safe to eat? Change my packaging in order to lure in the unsuspecting?
Apparently it is not enough that I am a filthy pervert. It is not enough that my arse looks amazing in my Mephisto leathers. It is not enough that I have the best cock on the block, and that my red hanky topping skills are pretty hard to beat. It is not enough that I make interesting performance art, or write for a queer magazine, or was once catheterised on a pool table in a leather bar. It is not enough that I can take a good flogging, that I have a high pain threshold, that I know how to manage many things. It is not enough that I smell damn fine, or look amazing in a gas mask, or have a fetish for boot polish. My scars aren't sexy here. Everything I have worked for means nothing, and I would be better off having internalised the LOTL manifesto and learning my proper place and lines.
Damn, the hard yards can be SO hard sometimes. I forget how privileged I am in Sydney! That there are places with no Spunk, no Slit, no Kooky, no Gurlesque, no Man Jam, no Bad Dog, no Phoenix, no Tranni Panic.
I need to bleed, very very much. If only there was a piercing top in the whole state that would consider it!
I hate this city sometimes. Yes, there is amazing art and cultural stuff. Yes, there are some nice folk. Yes, I am settling down to the pace. But I am SO tired of not having a queer community as such. Sure, there are a few isolated enlightened creature, but the rest of them seem to sort of stop dead at the GL in the GLBTQ.
Gay/lesbian. Boy/girl. Butch/femme. I feel like a freak, and a monster, and not in the same happy and exciting and lovable way I do in Sydney. Here I half-expect them to come chasing me down the street with torches for having the audacity to wear a man's suit AND girl lipstick, or dress like a faggot whilst possessing a twat, or wearing a tutu without identifying as female, or being breasted yet still wanting to dirty dance with stinky boys, for not being predictable and safe and living within the prescribed dichotomies. Heck, if I don't want to me a WOMAN, where's my T-shot? Why aren't I being a MAN then? What the hell do I think I am doing with this mixing and matching? MAKE UP YOUR BLOODY MIND? How can you be trans* but not 'transitioning'?
But instead of bearing torches, they bear the ultimate weapon- making it clear that you are not desirable. Not shaggable, not even someone to play with. I feel like some sort of exotic plant, to be examined and admired for its difference, but kept at a distance in case its toxic. Yes, thats me, imported from afar with my stories of debauchery, of orgies and play parties and blood fetishes, of hanging from hooks and bathing in body fluids. Sort of sexual attractive somehow, all visceral and damp and inviting-- but possibly carnivorous so best go with what you know how to manage. Don't take any risks, stick it in a glass case and see what you can learn about it without actually engaging with it. Maybe I should offer small specimens of myself for microscopic inspection? Have myself tested so that people know I am safe to eat? Change my packaging in order to lure in the unsuspecting?
Apparently it is not enough that I am a filthy pervert. It is not enough that my arse looks amazing in my Mephisto leathers. It is not enough that I have the best cock on the block, and that my red hanky topping skills are pretty hard to beat. It is not enough that I make interesting performance art, or write for a queer magazine, or was once catheterised on a pool table in a leather bar. It is not enough that I can take a good flogging, that I have a high pain threshold, that I know how to manage many things. It is not enough that I smell damn fine, or look amazing in a gas mask, or have a fetish for boot polish. My scars aren't sexy here. Everything I have worked for means nothing, and I would be better off having internalised the LOTL manifesto and learning my proper place and lines.
Damn, the hard yards can be SO hard sometimes. I forget how privileged I am in Sydney! That there are places with no Spunk, no Slit, no Kooky, no Gurlesque, no Man Jam, no Bad Dog, no Phoenix, no Tranni Panic.
I need to bleed, very very much. If only there was a piercing top in the whole state that would consider it!
posted by Zoo at 2:14 pm
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