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occamstfs · 8 days ago

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Typecast Troubles

After turning down twink roles for too long, Henry needs work. Now. Offered one final lifeline in the role of Brutus, a stereotypical meathead, he has no choice to accept. Worry not, by the end of the audition he'll be more than muscular enough to embody the brute.

Here's an actor learning the hard way that some roles can change you whether you like it or not. Muscle growth and himbofication! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Henry desperately needed some work. For a few years now he had been consistently acing auditions and getting roles, never a lead but never out of work. After being typecast one too many times as bitchy twink and gay best friend he was ready for something else.

Unfortunately for the C-inching towards D-list star the industry did not care about his desire to move on. Never was he in a position safe enough to turn consistent work down. It has now been long enough since someone’s expressed any interest in having him on set that the theoretical actor has begun to search for other work.

Inches away from applying to some unenviable job out of showbiz, his phone rings. Seeing it’s his agent Jeremiah calling, Henry slams his laptop shut and bashes his phone into the side of his head from the excitement. This does not distract from his anxiety at the pile of bills lying in front of him nor the fingers crossed that a solution is on the line.

“Okay Henry, I know what you said a few months back. I fought you on it at the time, after all why shoot yourself in the foot when you’ve got a mouth to feed.”

Henry’s halfway to agreeing and begging his agent to send his resume to every shitty teen drama and made for TV movie out there before he hears Jeremiah continue, “But, I think this little gambit might have paid off. The studio apparently asked for you by name, my friend! Of course there’s still auditions…”

His agent presumably continues, explaining details about the show and its production, benefits for taking the job, people who might be part of the audition process, but Henry doesn’t hear that. Despite the mail pile filled with aggressive red text still sitting in front of him, with the prospect of work on the horizon, Henry’s mind is preoccupied with what the role is. The fact that he was asked for my name obviously ringing alarm bells that he’ll be back in the circuit of playing teens at least a decade younger than himself, “so what is the part then exactly? Do you have the script?”

There’s a clear hesitation as if Jeremiah isn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, “Don’t you worry now Hen, as demanded it is not at all like your usual stuff. No screaming yaaas or clapping back to your fag hag. No, no nothing the studios y’know, want you to do.” The agent pauses and resets, putting on a saccharine tone as if he knows he’s about to pitch shit as gold.

“Okay! So all goes well, you’ll be going in for a series regular role as Brutus! He’s well- I’ll just read the casting call specs: Brutish and barely literate, this oaf has a heart of gold and mind like a sieve, loves hanging out with his bros-” With each word Henry’s face scrunches tighter. Eventually he has no recourse but to interrupt his agent.

“Jere? What the fuck is this? They asked for me, specifically to come in for this? Is this some kind of a joke?” There’s another pause before Jeremiah releases the telltale sigh of a man at the end of his rope, “Look, Hen. Kid. I get it, you got these big ideas about dream roles and artistic integrity, but you gotta understand. This is what you got, what we got. You know the agency’s breathing down my neck about cutting dead weight. I- Look, you don’t gotta take the gig if it’s no good, but if you’re not willing at least hear ‘em out. I mean shit kid, you’re the one who asked for new ground yeah?”

Were his piling bills and draining savings not enough of a wakeup call, Jeremiah’s words were. Maybe it’s ironic casting, or an animated project, Jere probably said as much earlier when Henry tuned him out. He doesn’t really have a choice. After a prolonged groan, Henry pinches the bridge of his nose and gives in, “Ugh fine- whatever. Just send me the details and I’ll, I’ll do my best.”

Ever the professional, and hearing his client despondent, Jeremiah shifts gears yet again, “Aces kid. Gonna be a star yet, remember they wanted you. They need you not the other way around. Sent you the information, let me know how it goes. Phone’s always on me.”

The audition is early the next morning, earlier than the actor usually prefers to be awake. The call said something about Brutus being an early bird which, whatever. Henry’s well past the luxury of getting to do what he usually prefers. He briefly tossed over dressing up in character, though checking his wardrobe there is simply nothing that would fit the bill of Brutus.

Instead, he just cleans up as he always does and heads out the door. Wearing a button up and borrowed shoes, with each step closer to the studio he must continually remind himself that they asked for him specifically. For reasons he can’t understand. For reasons he will hopefully understand soon. His questions certainly aren’t answered when he arrives.

Before the actor even enters the lobby the receptionist rushes to greet him, “You must be Henry Harris! We’re so excited to have you in today!” Escorting him to the elevator, Henry is on edge at just how much the secretary seems to be fawning over him. In between what can only be deliberate attempts at massaging his egon Henry catches a few strange remarks, ‘can’t wait to see what you become’ ‘hope you brought a change of clothes.’

It is upon this bizarre encounter Henry reflects as he rides the slow elevator up to the casting office. There he almost recoils away from the door as he’s greeted by another secretary, almost identical to the first who treats him similarly bizarrely. Frequently eying up the actor like a slab of meat, tossing cryptic wanting flirtations as they go. “Here we are! Director Marlowe’s office. Hope you have a productive meeting in there Brutus!”

Henry sneers at the strange escort, “It’s Henry.” For the first time he notices the glassy, almost mechanical look in the eyes of the secretary. Despite being too chatty in their time together, at this his guide simply tilts his head with a grin before turning away and wandering back towards the elevator. Under his breath Henry complains, “Ugh, already ready to write this whole thing off.”

“Mr. Harris, Henry, do come in!” Henry flinches as he turns to find the bearded tank of a man behind him. Welcoming him into the office with an outstretched hand, Henry shifts into his poised polished self and offers his own dainty hand to shake. “You must be, Director Marlowe? Thank you so much for having me in today! I simply cannot wait to see what you have in mind for me. This Brutus character is absolutely the kind of role I’ve been waiting for.”

The director’s wide toothy smile only grows wider as his face betrays nothing besides a desire to get this process started, “Please come in, come in young man, have a seat.” The director leads Henry to a cozy chair opposite his desk before going to sit down himself, “Of course Henry, after all what actor wouldn’t be excited at the idea of a role made for them in mind. Though let’s cut to the chase. You must be wondering why in the world we came to you for this role hm? Quite the leap from twink-phenom to thoughtless gym rat is it not?”

Henry was on the backfoot from the first moment he saw the man, his dark eyes and darker, well-groomed beard were more than enough to set the actor on edge. Now that the man has directly addressed the one line of question that has been preoccupying his thoughts from the moment he heard the name Brutus, Henry is not sure what his next move is to be.

Easily catching the smallest break in the actor’s facade, the director pounces, “Worry not Mr. Harris! Whatever questions you might have will surely be answered by the time you leave today! For starters though, I hope you won’t mind signing a small NDA and consent form? We’re trying something experimental with this show and we can’t risk the exciting details getting out early. I’m sure you understand.”

Only now does Henry notice the contract sitting in front of him on the desk. This isn’t his first rodeo though and he’s no fool, his eyes narrow at the document and he begins to open his mouth to assert that he’s not going to even humor signing a document without legal advice. Though just as soon as the thought appears he’s reminded how lacking he is in funds for a lawyer. His desperation and curiosity begin to mount his waning caution.

Marlowe raises his hands, feigning sympathy, “Oh of course, by all means if you want to go through the document with a fine toothed comb be my guest, we also have a legal team on site should you need clarity.” The director has a few more droll lines planned on how excited they would be to have Henry on board, perhaps even revealing some of his hand to further entice the actor. Though this is unnecessary as the actor’s apparently even more desperate than they had assumed.

Biting his lip and already kicking himself for the foolhardy action, Henry Harris signs on the dotted line. Caught off guard, the director frowns in surprise, “Well! Just like that is it? I do believe we can start this process outright Henry.” He reaches and tidies up the paperwork before filing into his desk. Templing his fingers his wide smile returns as he looks down at the actor who nervously stares off into space.

“The network wants to try something new. I’m sure you’re aware original content is suffering on streaming and the powers that be are tired of finding new creatives. My solution is simple: mold actors into characters so truthful to themselves that the creation of content is simply second nature. Does this make sense to you Henry?”

Having signed away at least some degree of autonomy, wholly unaware just how deep a commitment he just made, Henry decides to focus on the matter immediately at hand, sighing. “Sure yeah. Why me? This guy’s supposed to be a gym bro right? I mean, just look at me!” Motioning towards his pale, purposefully thin body Henry scoffs before looking at Marlowe.

The director’s expression shifts severe, chiding. “Now Henry. This negative self-talk, don’t you think it’s unbecoming of Brutus?” Henry reflexively rolls his eyes and scoffs, as he is wont to do. Or no, he tries to roll his eyes and does not. He tries to scoff but instead he finds himself nodding, agreeing. Brutus wouldn’t talk about himself like that.

He glares at the director as underneath thoughts of Brutus slowly flowing into his mind, he realizes something greater than himself has happened. Something sinister has begun to influence his thoughts and he must understand the rules before it is too late. Having spent a solid chunk of change at drama school he is well aware of Faustian bargains. The director simply grins, exposing too-white teeth, “You were saying Hentry?”

Henry’s mouth squirms as the name hits him like a punch. He knows it was deliberate, he knows it is not his name. He struggles to decide if he should dispute it but instead plays along, clinging to his years of experience at keeping up the act. “Sure. Mr. Marlowe, I am of course quite excited to see where the studio goes with this. As you know I will do my best to fill Brutus’ shoes with aplomb. I love a challenge, and playing this character will be more than interesting.”

Pleased, the director sees blood in the water, “Ah yes. His shoes you say, now what size shoes would those be.” Henry, Hentry? hesitates, struggling to play whatever sick game of 4d chess this is. His attention flicks down to his shoes and he discovers just how supernaturally outmatched he is. He knows he’s a size 8.5. He squeezed his feet into size 8 shoes he borrowed from his corporate friend forever ago for this audition, so it’s no wonder his feet feel a little squeezed.

This does not explain how his feet seem to be pushing against the shining leather with each passing second. Hentry’s hand flies to his mouth as he gasps at his feet bursting the seams of his friends shoes. His shock is displaced by grunting pain as toes burst from dress shocks and shoes he does not have the money to pay his friend back for are left tattered on the floor. He feels his soles stretch wider than the soles as his toes splay further, flexing from the pain as they surge onto the carpet of Marlowe’s office.

Clinging to reality in the wake of this impossible happening, pushing down the visceral bizarre feeling of his feet growing, stretching against socks before bursting from their containment, Hentry finds himself hung up on how much those borrowed shoes cost. Somehow making him more anxious than the fact his body has changed beyond his control. Drawing his attention more than the feeling of thicker soles and a wider foot flexing out of his control. Then from some recess of his mind comes a ripcord. What’s the problem? Why was he wearing dress shoes anyway, surely he should be wearing his gym shoes like always.

To the delight of the director, Hentry’s eyes shift slightly duller as he stares blankly at his feet as shoes begin to reform. The actor doesn’t hear the sound of leather stretching to hide his newly massive feet, doesn’t see as the tanned leather shifts to cheapening fabric, new laces bursting forth and knotting a few times over as the cheap shoes still struggle to contain feet that absolutely do not wish to be contained.

“Much of a runner are you Hentry?” The actor slowly shakes his head, uncomfortable with the memories that begin to surge through it. Clenching his jaw he can’t prevent his mouth from answering, his voice sloppy and slow, “y-yeah. Sometimes I’ll jog, I think? Gotta get the blood pumping before an- umph!-” Whatever admission of gym time that was surely coming is cut off as Hentry forces his arm into his mouth, doing everything in his power to prevent himself from finishing the sentence.

The wheels have been set in motion however as, sticking out from well-worn ratty gym shoes, slightly discolored socks begin to worm their way up his legs. Launching up past his smooth ankles they struggle to reach too high as new muscular legs begin to form. Eyes determinedly ahead at Marlowe can’t help but steal a glance downward as his calves begin to itch and burn. His mind races with new memories of running on treadmills and down streets as his legs surge larger. New muscle fibers and thick curls strands sprouting forth with every must-be artificial memory.

They flex in place as Hentry sits there. His calves bulge larger with every faux flex, soon enough they’re the size of baseballs yearning to burst from his dress pants. There’s no risk of this however as his pants rapidly pull up into shorts, exposing the hairy calves to the cold air of this corporate studio. They are however not nearly fast enough on the draw to make it unscathed as thighs larger than his waist begin to bulge into existence.

The chair creaks under the weight of his legs alone as his pale thighs send a few tears into his new gym shorts. Marlowe’s eyebrows raise in shock as he seems almost impressed. Seeing this, Hentry is unsurprisingly of two minds, though for their varied reasons they both yearn to address their boss’ surprise. Jaw slightly sore from pain, he removes his arm and allows his mouth mobility once more. His original self thoroughly convinced that the director's simply so impressed at how well he’s fighting back, Hentry can’t help but try and get a dig in. “Betcha didn’t think I’d put up such a fight huh big guy?”

Perhaps a sign at just how much his mind has been eroded already, Hentry fails to see through the truly pathetic performance Marlowe gives, “My my Huntry! Indeed my terrible powers have been unable to change you at all! Perhaps it is the strength of your legs that allow you to stand so strong in the face of my wicked ways!” He does a twee flinch back, leaving one eye locked on the actor to see his reaction.

Arms crossed and smirking, Huntry’s eyes narrow as he finds himself agreeing with Marlowe, that is after the name of course. His name is, uhh. Doesn’t it start with a B? His eyebrows knit together as he skips past this and tries to find what else is bothering him from the director’s words, his legs are built? He works hard for them after all? Squirming in his chair he feels his powerful ass push him higher as he fights the urge to stretch.

Failing to hold back, he grunts as he stretches taller. His dress shirt coming untucked from the elastic waistband of gym shorts they had no right of being tucked into to begin with. Midriff exposed it is clear that changes have not arbitrarily stopped at his lower body. Across his thin torso muscle has begun to pack on from nothing. His clumsy fingers scratch at his waist as a treasure trail begins to prickle up and decorate his new lowest rung of abs.

Eyes closed, Huntry’s mind is totally distracted by the pleasure of his body burning as it grows. Forgetting himself and where he is, Huntry feels his cock pulse as the growing pains of his massive form feel decidedly pleasurable. Feeling the beginning of new muscle on his chest his tight lips twitch into a grin as nipples larger and more sensitive are dragged against his button up by a growing chest.

In no time at all, under the frequent barely quieted moans of delight, his sleeves are strained by biceps that must have taken years to grow. His blue balls become much more of a problem as he feels the fabric begin to tear, thick arms wholly outsizing the tight sleeves by an order of magnitude. Raised in a flex his veiny biceps send tears down the length of his sleeves as they refuse to be held back. As they refuse to be the scrawny twigs that they may have once been.

Huntry bites his lips he feels pre begin to stain his briefs, no, his jock. His shaky hand begins to reach down, getting so far as gracing his new thick bush of pubes before his quest for relief is interrupted by the director clearing his throat. “Mr. Buntry? If you recall, we were in the middle of your audition?”

Buntry snaps back to attention, gasping in shock in a deeper voice at having been in such a compromised position in the middle of something so significant. His slightly thicker brows, now jutting out ever so slightly over his eyes, furrow again as he realizes he isn’t embarrassed. Though- why should he be. He’s just a dude, sometimes you gotta adjust right? Yeah. A dumb smile plasters its way across his face as his jaw thickens, his pretty boy appeal falling to the wayside as he shifts to become not quite leading man material, but someone who could easily play a soldier, a goon, a brute. “Whaddya need from me next boss man?”

Shaking his head Marlowe is shocked at just how well this has gone, “I believe you were about to take off your shirt. This is after all quite a physique intensive role if you recall.” Buntry guffaws and scratches his chest, seemingly pulling his pecs larger with every pass of his clumsy, calloused fingers. “Why didn’t ya say so boss huhuh!” He goes to unbutton the shirt before stupidly groaning as he finds obviously he’s not wearing a button up.

The sleeveless garment has turned into a tank, slightly stained around his pits from deodorant that was instantly rendered obsolete by his heady musk, joined by a dark sweaty patch in the center of his massive chest. Eyes caught up on the strained shirt, he gulps as he tries not to get distracted by his pecs overhanging, by the unmistakable hard nipples showing through the tight top. Barely hanging in there, he gets his fingers under the hem of the shirt hugging his abs and yanks. It gets stuck over his head and he laughs again, trapped in a prison of his own design, pits exposed to the open air as thick curls blossom further from his underarms.

Marlowe’s smile flickers as he wonders if this process was almost too effective. Lost in thought he watches as Buntry stands and struggles to escape, knocking over the chair behind him. Eventually the shirt tears before coming off and the brute guffaws once more, “Sorry boss! Guess I don know my own strength huhuh!” Free from the shirt however, he does what he has done in every audition he can recall and begins to pose.

Sweat courses down from his hairy pits and shines across his burly chest as he flexes and awaits Marlowe’s feedback. The director’s hitherto constant smile flickers as he wonders how he’s going to be able to run a set with a man who can scarcely find two two brain cells to rub together. Lost in thought he loses track of his polished persona and thorough plan and speaks aimlessly, sniffing the air he complains, “Do you smell that?”

The jock pauses his performance and turns to look at his own pits, bending his thick neck down he laughs and confirms that it’s him. “Huhuh Sorry bro! Thought you wanted me to come au natruale y’know! You’re always saying you want the real Brutus! Well here he is huhuh! Hup!” Grunting he launches into a most muscular, crab pose.

Marlowe’s eyes widen as the actor refers to himself as Brutus. Clicking his tongue, the director can’t help but feel this has gone off the rails somehow. The plan was to create a perfect combonation of actor and character, but clearly something has gone awry, whispering ‘god damnit’ under his breath, Marlowe forces a smile back on his face as he addresses the man who has yet to stop posing, flinging sweat across the room with every clearly practiced adjustment. “Bunt- er Brutus, yes? Would you mind taking a load off?”

The new bodybuilder smirks and nods with a “Yuh! No problem boss huhuh!” The director feels a migraine coming on as he sees the behemoth crash to the floor as he sits in a chair that can absolutely not hold his weight. “Oh shit! Sorry Mr. Marlowe!” His mouth is hanging vacant as he struggles to lift his impossibly heavy form. Panting as he often is, when Brutus stands he opts to take a load off on the directors desk.

“Pardon my asking, Brutus. But you are an actor, are you not?” The massive man scratches his defined jaw as his face finishes its transformation into a face that could sell any schmuck some protein powder, “Yeah guess you could say so? I’m always puttin’ out content y’know? Definitely a star huhuh.” A gym influencer? That Marlowe could work with. He temples his hands as he schedules a date to potentially give this process another go. See if they can’t bring back some of Henry’s refinement. These things are complicated after all.

Just to test the waters before concluding this ‘audition,’ Marlowe opts to toss out one final question, “Does the name Henry mean anything to you Brutus?”

In response the man lights up, “Yeah! Course it does boss! That’s my- uhhh?” Somehow the perpetually confused man looks even more confused for a moment, scratching his balls he holds back from smelling his hand in front of the director before continuing, “‘S that my last name boss? Do I got one of those?” Marlowe waves off the questions, foolish of him to try that.

“Let’s get you to the locker room hm, Brutus? The young man outside should lead you to the setup we have on site.” Without a second thought Brutus sprints out the door, like a dog chasing a squirrel. He runs right past the secretary, apparently already knowing his way around. Marlowe’s phone vibrates as he sees a text that the next actor is apparently on the way up. Some angsty goth who the network has requested to audition for the role of the show’s rich prep.

Hearing heavy footsteps racing down the hallway he wonders if they are biting off more they can chew. No matter though, these are not his calls to make. Still he sighs to himself as he checks the notes for his upcoming meeting, another tall ask, “No rest for the wicked,” Marlowe complains as a pale frowning form is ushered out of the elevator. This time perhaps he’ll try and take it slower.

#male tf #mental change #jockification #personality change #dumber #jock tf #male transformation #muscle tf

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 5 months ago

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Left to right. First row.

1. The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions by Larry Mitchell.

In a joyous and perverse intermingling of fable, myth, heterotopian vision, and pocket wisdom, The Faggots & Their Friends tell us stories of the 70s gay countercultures and offer us strategies and wisdom for our own time living Between Revolutions. These pages sketch a different shape to time and offer instructions for living within it. This story, like our own, plays out in liminal time. Not the time of revolution, and not after-the-revolution, the story occurs between revolutions. Being between revolutions: being enmeshed in slow entropy, in abandoned spaces, in lives forged without recourse to “winning” or “after.” The faggots feel this disintegration, and live best when empires are falling.

2. Be Gay, Do Crime by The Mary Nardini Gang.

Among the discordant chorus of anons who penned the defining texts of the queer anarchist network Bash Back!, none was more fervent in its glorification of criminal desire, decadent hedonism, and social undoing than the Milwaulkee-based Mary Nardini Gang. Their fiery “Towards the Queerest Insurrection” still circulates as an integral manifesto of riotous queerness, while the “Criminal Intimacy” and “Whore Theory” have made their more subterranean way into innumerable conversations and correspondences.

Ten years later, the secretive group supplements these collected writings with a subtle retrospective. Carefully unlocking the hidden layers of their theses on insurrection, they face up to what they got wrong, concede that the world ended somewhere between the Greek insurrection of 2008 and now, and insist upon the vital task of ushering new worlds into being as we live amid the decomposition and cataclysmic death throes of the old one. To their theses on insurrection, they prepend a new arcana tooled for opening onto the queerest of outsides.

Dedicated to their friends among the dead, this pocket edition is a necromantic mirror, an encrypted message to old loves, and an invitation to those finding these words for the first time.

3. The Criminal Child by Jean Genet.

“As for me, I have chosen: I will be on the side of crime. And I will help the children, not to win back access to your houses, your factories, your schools, your laws, and sacraments, but to destroy them.”

So reads this new clandestine translation of a previously censored and unavailable text by Jean Genet. “The Criminal Child” is a critical engagement with the French youth prisons, a reflection on Genet’s formative years within them, a document of hostility towards society and its benevolent reformers, and – as argued by the anonymous afterword – an initiatory magical system.

5. Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture by Arthur Evans.

This radical faerie classic, first published in 1978 by Fag Rag Press, uncovers the hidden mythic link between homosexuality and paganism in an elegy for the world of sex and magic vanquished by Christian civilization. From Joan of Arc to the Cathars and the underground worshippers of Diana, the author shows how every upwelling of gender transgression and sexual freedom was targeted by the authorities for total and often violent repression or appropriation. The concluding manifesto calls for pagan reconnection with the living world, the creation of armed anarchist cells, and the destruction of industrial civilization.

Left to right. Row 2.

1. What is Gender Nihilism? A Reader.

A collection gathering readings for discussions on an end to gender: not the proliferation or liberation of gender, but its catastrophic cancellation. The reader brings together writings as old as 1883 and as recent as 2015, juxtaposing nihilist, radical feminist, queer, trans, anticolonial, communizing and insurrectionary approaches with other unclassifiable textual/existential disruptions. Many of the readings are out of print or have only appeared online or in zine form, and include: Adrienne Rich, Monique Wittig, Michel Foucault, Judith Butler, A.R. Stone, Paul B. Preciado, the entities known as Radicalesbians, Gender Mutiny, Baedan, Ehn Nothing, Laboria Cuboniks and, as always, Anonymous. Also includes “My Preferred Gender Pronoun is Negation,” “Gender Nihilism” by Aidan Rowe, and the gender nihilism anti-manifesto that inspired the collection.

2. Baedan 1 – journal of queer nihilism.

3. Baedan 2 – a queer journal of heresy.

If the first issue of Baedan was a knife thrust wildly in the dark, the second is an effort to examine our enemies in a new light; enemies who bear scars yet endure. In a sense, this issue follows through our initial attack and pushes beyond our own horrors at the consequences of words. We write at a time when everything which seemed slightly possible two years ago has borne its rotten fruit; when queer recuperation has become more powerful and accepted than ever, while the fetish for technology has reached an unprecedented frenzy; when so many efforts at subversion languish under the tyranny of cybernetic identity and aesthetics (even our own etymologies have become identities!); when friends turn away out of fear of the unknown, turn toward all the comforts and certainties of the past (identity politics, traditionalism, religious morality, activism, et al). The old enemies rear their heads and the terrain is as bleak as ever. And yet we take seriously that adage: “There’s no need to fear or hope, but only to look for new weapons.”

4. Baedan 3 – journal of queer time travel.

Bædan: journal of queer time travel marks a further attempt to pose and to flesh out a queer critique of civilization. Queer not only in the sense of coming from those outside and disruptive of the Family, but also in the sense of a critique weirder than its more orthodox cousins. We imagine the Bædan project as an effort to pose the critique of civilization otherwise, to begin from another place. In this issue (and beyond…) we have conjured a strange bestiary of thinking, trying to unearth and trace the tradition of anti-civilization thought in the literature of queerness and in queerness as immanent critique.

*I couldn't find this one online*

#queer nihilism #queer anarchism

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gatheringbones · 1 year ago

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[“Coming out was very lonely. I had very few friends. Most of the adult lesbians I knew were alcoholics, chronically unemployed, prone to violence, self-hating, apolitical, closeted, cliquish. Lesbians hated each other. If you found a lover you stopped going to the bar because you could not trust other lesbians; they would try to break up your relationship. My first woman lover went into the military, where she turned in other lesbians so she would not be exposed. One of my dyke friends got a job as a supervisor in a cabinet-making company and refused to hire lesbians because, she said, they were unreliable employees who were disliked by the other workers. The only thing that seemed worse to me than the apolitical lesbian community I came out in was the strangulation of pretending to be straight. I came out only because I could not go back; there was no place for me to stand in the het world. I was driven out.

Moving to San Francisco improved things somewhat. There was more public lesbian space there—six bars instead of one. But it did not alleviate the loathing with which my family viewed me. Nor was San Francisco in the early seventies any sort of gay utopia. We had no gay-rights law, queer bashing was a frequent event, and everyone had lost at least one job or been denied a place to live. It was a relief to be surrounded by other lesbian feminists, but only to a point. Bar dykes and feminists still had contempt for one another. Feminism rapidly became a way to reconstitute sexual prudery, to the point that it seemed to me that bar dykes were actually more accepting of and knowledgeable about the range of behavior that constituted lesbianism. In the bars or in the women’s movement, separatism was pretty much mandatory, if you didn’t want to get your ass kicked or be shunned. Separatism deteriorated into a rationalization for witch hunts in the lesbian community rather than a way for women to bond with one another and become more powerful activists. The lesbian community of that decade did terrible things to bi women, transgender people, butch/femme lesbians, bar dykes, dykes who were not antiporn, bisexual and lesbian sex workers, fag hags, and dykes who were perceived as being perverts rather than über-feminists. We were so guilty about being queer that only a rigid adherence to a puritanical party line could redeem us from the hateful stereotypes of mental illness and sexual debauchery.

What did I gain? I came a little closer to making my insides match my outsides, and that was no small blessing. The first time I met other dykes I recognized a part of myself in them, and knew I would have to let it out so I could see who I was. For a time, being a lesbian quieted my gender dysphoria because it made it possible for me to be a different kind of woman. That was an enormous relief.

For a long time, I hoped that by being strong, sexually adventurous, and sharpening my feminist consciousness, I could achieve a better fit between my body and the rest of me. Lesbianism was a platform from which I could develop a different sort of feminism, one that included a demand for sexual freedom and had room for women of all different erotic proclivities. I had a little good sex and discovered that I was not a cold person, I could love other people. It was as a lesbian that I began to find my voice as a writer, because in the early days of the women’s movement, we valued every woman’s experience. There was a powerful ethic around making it possible for every woman to speak out, to testify, to have her say. But there were always these other big pieces of my internal reality that lesbianism left no room for.

The first big piece of cognitive dissonance I had to deal with, in my second coming out, was S/M. I date my coming out as a leather dyke from two different decisions. One was a decision to write down one of my sexual fantasies, the short story that eventually became “Jessie.” At the time I wrote the rough draft of that story, I had never tied anybody up or done anything else kinky. I was terribly blocked as a writer. I kept beginning stories and poems that I would destroy. I have no idea if they were any good or not. My self-loathing was so intense, my inner critic so strong, that I could not evaluate my own work.

So I decided to write this one piece, under the condition that I never had to publish it or show it to another person. I just wanted to tell the truth about one thing. And I was badly in need of connecting with my own sexuality since I was in the middle of what would be a five-year relationship with a woman who insisted we be monogamous, but refused to have sex with me. So I wrote about dominance and submission, the things I fantasized about when I masturbated that upset me so much I became nauseated. Lightning did not strike. As I read and reread my own words, I thought some of them were beautiful. I dared show this story to a few other people. Some of them hated it. Some of them were titillated. Nobody had ever seen anything like it before. The story began to circulate in Xerox form, lesbian samizdat. I found the strength to defend my story when I was told it was unspeakable or wildly improbable.

In October of 1976, I attended a lesbian health conference in Los Angeles and went to a workshop there about S/M. In order to go to a workshop, you had to sign a registration sheet. I was harassed by dykes who were monitoring this space to see who dared sign up for that filthy workshop. On my way, I had to walk through a gauntlet of women who were booing and hissing, calling names, demanding that the workshop be canceled, threatening to storm the room and kick us all out of the conference. The body language and self-calming techniques I had learned when I had to deal with antigay harassment on the street came in very handy, but how odd it was to be using those defenses against the antagonism of other dykes. Their hatred felt like my mother’s hatred. I am so glad I did not let it stop me.

When I got home from that workshop, I knew that I was not the only one. Not only were there other lesbians who fantasized about sadomasochism, there were women who had done these things with each other. I decided to come out again. If there were other leather dykes in San Francisco, they had to be able to find me, so I had to make myself visible. This meant that I often did not get service at lesbian bars, or I was asked to leave women-only clubs and restaurants. I was called names, threatened, spit at. I got hate mail and crank calls. But I also found my tribe. And because I had already experienced my first coming out, I knew we were not going to be an ideal, happy family. I could be more patient with our dysfunctions, and see them as the result of being scared, marginalized, kicked around. Being a leather dyke took me another step closer to dealing with my gender issues. I could experiment with extreme femme and extreme butch drag; take on a male persona during sex play. I gave up separatism because I needed to take support from any place where it was available. Gay men already had a thriving leather culture, and I wanted to learn from them. I also wanted to have sex with them. It still wasn’t okay as far as lesbian feminism was concerned to be bisexual, to be transgendered, but I could bring those folks into my life and make alliances with them. I could defend them in print. There was even more good sex, and people who loved me and received my love despite the fact that it was dangerous for us to show ourselves to one another. I faced my sexual shadow, and she bowed to me and then danced beautifully in profile against the white walls of my consciousness. My writer’s voice was unlocked.”]

pat califa, from layers of the onion, spokes of the wheel, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000

#pat califa #bi literature #lesbian literature #trans literature #history stuff #gender stuff #terra preta

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