#i also never felt any strong pressure to shave my legs or use makeup

[some-stars]

im so grateful that my various neurodivergencies made this and all other social guilt programming just slide right off me. when people are at my place, i enjoy feeding and taking care of them. when i'm at someone else's place, i let them feed and take care of me. i go through exactly one round of "oh let me do that, it's fine" (put sheets on the couch, wash the dishes, etc.), and if they insist that they want to do it, i let them. i mean obviously if i'm visiting someone frail or sick i will firmly insist on carrying my own bags and doing any physically demanding chores, but it's so bizarre to me that people feel guilty for eating what their hosts offer them. and yet apparently i'm the weird one for not feeling that!

I love learning about other culture's Houseguest Protocols but I hate hate hate when they don't match up cause like

I (PNW Canadian, raised with etiquette from my old British great-grandparents) sleeping over: Can I help with dinner. Can I do the dishes. PLEASE let me do something useful. Im sorry I'm here. I can sleep on the floor it's fine. You don't need to cook for me I can go outside and drink pond water. Do you hate me

My friend (Indian, raised by entire extended family in Dubai) hosting me: Why won't you let me feed you. Do you need more coffee. Am I doing something wrong. Do you have enough blankets? I will buy you warmer clothes. Here, you can sleep in my room, I'll take the couch. Why are you crying? Oh God am I a bad host

[mostweakhamlets]

Untitled Sheep Project: Vegan Cheese and Wine

CW for mature, semi-explicit beginning. Nothing is described in detail, nothing is actually sexy, but stuff is happening. 

This is an original story in project I’m working on. I’d love to hear any feedback or if anyone enjoys it! It was posted initially on my patreon where I’m gradually building this project up! 

“We’re going to be late.”

“I know, my darling, but it ruins the mood when you keep saying it, and that’s just going to make us even more late.”

Cherry Bomb knew that when she focused too hard on maintaining her arousal, it made the whole situation that much less sexy. Once she felt herself start to lose it, she couldn’t force herself back into the proper mindset. She had to think about what was sexy about looking down at her bored partner propped up on pillows, doing the bare minimum to help her out.

And then her thoughts wandered to what she had to do after: laundry, shopping, meeting a client. In this case, she thought about how she had to shave her legs and how she should really try to put on a little makeup. Then, she thought about what her newest step-sister would look like, and while she had no hard feelings about the woman, she did feel a sense of competition whenever they were going to be in the same room.

She thought about Peggy’s usual well-lined lipstick and neat eye shadow. She owned expensive, luxury brand makeup from across the globe while Cherry Bomb bought most of her makeup at Boots and let it expire in her bathroom before she managed to use even half of it. If she were lucky, her mascara wouldn’t be dried up and clumpy yet.

“Fuck it.”

They lost it.

She climbed off and crawled off the side of the bed, picking her panties off the floor and pulling them back on for the walk to the bathroom. Richard lifted his hands in defeat and threw the sheets off himself.

“I’m glad we wasted our time with that,” he said.

“Don’t start with any of that,” Cherry Bomb mumbled. “Let’s just get ready.”

And half an hour later, when she heard the unmistakable sound of him jerking off in the shower as she left the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, she said nothing.

—

Vegan cheese turned out to taste not much different than dairy cheese, but it was just different enough for Cherry Bomb. She sipped her Spanish rosado wine to wash away the taste of the fake ricotta, and then scraped her tongue on her back teeth to get the coating of sweetness off.

Perhaps if she had been to an actual cheese and wine tasting before, she would know what to compare the vegan option to. Perhaps if she had a more refined palette, she would be able to make better conversation about it.

Her father, meanwhile, spoke about his latest research with the colleagues they had met. They droned on about studies and their results and gave little teasers about what they were going to present.

“You know,” Richard said, keeping his voice low. “The bar has other drinks.”

Cherry Bomb looked over at the bar that stretched across the back corner of the room, partially hidden by the crowd. Servers were leaving with trays of wine and individual people were gathering for hard liquor breaks. She waited for a lull in discussion.

“We’re going to step out for a smoke,” she said.

“Neither of you smoke,” her father said.

“We’re hoping that someone out there might peer-pressure us into it.”

She grabbed Richard’s wrist and pulled him away as he explained that they were just looking for fresh air after their many glasses of wine.

With her generous glass of whiskey and his generous glass of tequila, they stepped outside onto the empty patio. Groups hovered around the garden, smoking and making conversation. Maybe even gossiping about those around them.

Cherry Bomb took a moment to admire Richard. He was in a jumper she insisted he wear because the dark red looked so nice against his complexion and hair. That and she believed that a pale top would be a bad idea for a wine tasting—just in case of accidents. She reached up to re-tuck his white collar into his jumper.

“Can we talk about earlier?” he asked.

Cherry Bomb shrugged and took a sip of her drink. The stinging oakiness to it was a welcomed change from the sweetness of the wines that still clung to her tongue. The flavors did mix horrifically for a moment, but the next sip was that of strong liquor only.

“What should we talk about?” she asked.

“I think it might be time we talk to someone—”

Cherry Bomb cringed. Sex therapy was never something she wanted. She had always associated it with other people—people who had run out of options and were unable to communicate anymore. They were the people her father studied and wrote books and essays on. They were the fake names that appeared in studies next to stories about their failing marriages and deep parental issues.

“I don’t think it’s come to that just yet,” she said. “I don’t want to waste anyone’s time when there’s people who genuinely need that help. Besides, what are they going to tell us that we haven’t read on our own?”

“A lot.”

“I don’t think we need to resort to a therapist.”

“We’ve been having problems for nearly a year,” Richard whispered. “And it is multiple problems at this point. I’m keeping a list.”

“Then, let’s wait until it’s been a full year, okay? If February comes, and we’re still having problems, then I promise you that we can start looking for people. I’ll ask my dad if anyone he knows is taking new patients.”

“And that’s another thing we need to talk about. I don’t want your father involved in our sex life. If we do it, I don’t want him to know.”

“That’s reasonable, and I will respect your boundaries. We can Google it like other people.”

Richard smiled down at her. He looked far too sweet to deny anything. She wanted to cup his cheeks and pull him down for a kiss on the forehead, but she refrained.

Cherry Bomb watched the people around them. They all looked very posh with swanky dresses and suits and jewelry. But they also all looked the same, obsessed with being perceived as successful and upper class but not wanting to go too far as to look as if they were bragging. Though they definitely were bragging. The dress codes of the upper-middle class were all about being just relatable enough to people below them while also signaling to those above them that they had taste and money to spend as well. It was a balancing act in a circus of classism.  

Cherry Bomb counted only a few women without dyed-brunette, chemically straightened up-dos and two men in blue suits that they were trying so hard to look casual in. They swung their drinks around and pursed their lips and rolled their eyes.

It was who her father had become. Obsessed with appearing not out-of-touch but then flipping a switch once he safely could complain about how much he lost to taxes that year and how his gardener did a poor job planting new bushes.

The patio door swung open. Cherry Bomb looked over her shoulder to see Peggy scan the room before spotting them. Cherry Bomb swallowed the rest of her drink, clearing her throat after.

“I can’t blame you for wanting to get away.” Peggy walked to their side. She smiled at Cherry Bomb. “Your father is a brilliant man, but I cannot, for the life of me, follow what they’re talking about.”

Her eyeliner was perfect. It was a nostalgic style—something that would have fit in in the 1990s and went around her entire eye—and it fit her well. Just like her lipstick and foundation and dress. She wasn’t attractive in the conventional way. Her nose was a bit wide, and her face was more square than most women would have liked theirs to be. But that made her all the more attractive, Cherry Bomb thought. It made her unique, and she seemed to know it judging by how she held herself with so much confidence.

Or maybe she believed that she didn’t need to be attractive. That for her, looks were truly superficial and she had found happiness in her work and personality and social life and it had all reflected back out to give her a clear complexion and a few beautiful, silver wisps of hair.

“Imagine being raised by him,” Cherry Bomb said. “My bedtime stories were about debunking the Oedipus complex—he wanted to start me off with the Introduction to Psych basics.”

Peggy laughed. Cherry Bomb laughed, too, only because the liquor and wine she had had were all catching up to her and making her head float above her shoulders. Laughing made sense to her. Richard pressed his hand into her waist, and it felt distant.

“I’m leaving in a few minutes,” Peggy continued. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Cherry Bomb leaned in for a half-hug and a cheek kiss she would never give anyone else.

Richard leaned in for an awkward hug. Peggy wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed tight, though it wasn’t reciprocated in the slightest. She hummed as she pulled away and smiled up at him, letting her hands rest on his shoulders.

Maybe Peggy wasn’t that great.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” she said.

She walked off the patio and back into the event room. Her heels clicked the entire way.

“That was a bit weird, wasn’t it?” Richard asked. “I didn’t imagine that?”

“No. No, it was weird.”

They looked through the glass doors, eyes on Peggy until she completely disappeared in the crowd. Maybe Cherry Bomb would keep her distance next time they met. Surely, Peggy would catch the hint.

“Do you want to leave and get chips?” Richard asked.

“Fuck, yes. Please.”

[ayuwatanabe]

Pink Feminist English ver.

　You will see hundreds of advertisements regarding hair removal, plastic surgery or diet supplement everywhere in Japan. That makes me uncomfortable and it seems like the beauty industry is trying women to feel shame and have complex with body image. Having body hair, gaining weights, aging… they all are natural in terms of living but they are considered as ugly things of women. However, human being is very beautiful for me even though it is seen as dirty. Also, why are these propagandas for female ONLY? Why are armpit hair and leg hair called Muda (waste, useless) -hair while women are required to take care of their long hair which stands feminine? Shaving hair can be beautiful but not shaving hair also can be beautiful. Both are just fine and it is our choice. No one has the right to comment negatively to others’ appearance. Even if you are fat or skinny, remember that there are always people who likes and dislikes, you cannot be everyone’s favourite because there is no standard of true beauty. I had been suffering eating disorder and social anxiety for years. When I lost tons of weights, no one actually cares. When I got fat because of overeating, no one also cares. People around me actually do not care how I look than I thought. The cause of this problem is that, no one loved me because I did not love myself and I did not love myself because no one loved me. My self-hate could not stop and I feel very uncomfortable with being myself and my appearance. I was scared to look at mirrors. The only thing I could control is what I eat but that was not a solution. I just wanted love from someone special, I care about and I realized that being skinny is not what everyone expects me. Therefore, I focused to accept myself first and have a healthy life. Now I might be fat comparing with the Japanese beauty propaganda standard, but I feel better with myself than before. Self-love is beautiful no matter what appearance because your body is for yourself, not for someone else. Here, I want to celebrate everyone’s scar, tattoo, body hair, cellulite, acne… everything is just so LOVELY and they have the possibility to be seen as beautiful!

  I had been avoiding to confess that “I AM A FEMINIST”. Because here in Japan, the image, the bias of feminist does not follow the true definition. Feminist is considered as the aggressive woman with masculine appearance. If you are following my social medias, you can probably understand (and some of you might be like me) that I am far from those images. I am sensitive, weak, and I respect all gender and sexuality. I do not think that every woman should be strong and independent. You can call yourself feminist while wearing very girly, lace outfits if you would like. Men and women are different but both sexes have its own powers and beauties. I do not claim that I want to completely eliminate the wall between men and women. We should be free from from gender stereotype, pressure, which social bias consists. The original definition of feminism is the belief that both men and women have equal rights. Men do not have to be masculine and women also do not have to be feminine. We can be whatever be like. For instance, Japanese medias use the word "女子力（Girl Power）" for product promotion activities. Gaining Girl Power means becoming a girl, who can cook, wearing clean make-up (putting too much make-up sometimes considered as a slut / bitch) and fashionable clothes. I was disappointed that such as propaganda vocabularies only focus on female and everyone naturally accepts without any doubts. One of the most famous magazines, “VOGUE” wrote the article about the ideal women for getting men’s attention. The title of the article is "The best way to seduce men is not improving language skill, there are more important things." It says women's appearance is the most important for men and there is no need to study, learn foreign languages, cultures, traveling because it is meaningless from the point of view to get men's attention. I was sad to see that such a famous fashion magazine said like this. Both internal and external of women are not for men’s attention, we learn / dress up for ourselves if we want. In addition, there are thousands of articles besides VOGUE magazines, mostly not for men, but only those made for women. First of all, women do not need to be interested in makeup and fashion. No matter how painful, boring and lonely my life is, I can be happy just wearing my favourite outfits, so fashion is for myself and I was shocked to see that many Japanese medias tell people that being fashionable is equal to seducing men. Certainly, it is nice to dress up just for someone else but if you like dressing up purely, please enjoy it for yourself first. Every Woman does not need to be interested in them and it is waste of money, time and stressful to make effort what you do not like. Plus, I realize the personality comes out on the appearance, so the core of being fashionable is not what you put on outside actually. The person who is charming and having confidence all look cool in appearance naturally.

　I’ve never seen a parade of LGBTQ before my first travel to England. There were many men wearing pink, frills, lovely clothes, walking with boyfriend…it was just so beautiful. In Japan, many X gender or gay people cannot confess their sexualities because people make fun of them just like Japanese TV shows do. Many medias treat LGBTQ people like they are the funniest creatures and the audience take it seriously. I did not like pink and those girly stuffs personally, but I feel strong power from it since this parade. Women wear pants but men do not wear skirts and everyone call sissy / gay when they see men wearing pink, feminine items. That ambivalence is interesting that I felt strong power from pink, but it is also seen as socially weak and childish. This project, I create it very pink and put feminine atmosphere on purpose. It is kind of ironic because I call myself feminist, but the image which the society created is completely different with me and my works. I want to break the traditional prejudice of the feminist women who has short hair, male looking and isolated women (never fell in love with men). However, I believe feminist women can wear adorable and romantic items while showing body hair or spreading their legs like ordinary men in public. I want to be feminist but I also want to be seen as cute and feminine. Historically, the images of women are created by mostly male artists such as paintings and pictures. That’s why it feels very meaningful that an ordinary girl like me captures the female gaze.

​

[benbarnesescape]

Dive - Part 3

Warnings: None

A/N: Don’t hate me for this Chapter! I actually love the dynamic for these two parts in regards to understanding the reader and even though it’s back to PG life I think it’s going to help drive the story. Also let me know if you guys like this series – I am having a ton of fun writing for it but I also don’t want to invest in it if it’s not getting a good response rate.

Charles watched you carefully as you got ready, finishing the last touches to your makeup. You hadn’t thrown on the dark red couture gown he had surprised you with, and it hung beautifully next to you. You stood up, propping your right leg on the chair you had been sitting on to double check the black thigh garter you had slipped on earlier, tightening the straps before checking the other leg. He watched, his hands temporarily going slack against the soft fabric of his tie as he watched you caress up your leg, humming a song underneath your breath. You had been doing that these past few months, throwing on special lingerie that made him go wild. 

He hadn’t noticed that you were doing it until recently. Like everything else you did, he had thrown a blind eye to it.

And he wondered why you had been acting distant lately.

He stopped fumbling with his tie all together as he continued to watch you step into the floor length gown, the soft ruffles caressing your body as you pulled it up to your chest. The strapless Vera Wang gown looked stunning on you as it clung against your curves, the extra fabric flowing around you. You looked good in a lot of things, but he loved when you dressed up. You began to fish for the zipper, unaware of his presence until he was behind you, easily finding the hidden piece.

 “Need any help?” he whispered, his breath tickling the back of our neck as he pulled the zipper up to close the dress. He clipped you in before his hands caressed down your arms, causing you to involuntarily shiver. He watched you in the mirror as you looked at him, your mouth slightly agape. 

“You look beautiful.” the words barely touched your ears and you smiled – warm and sincere. A smile he hadn’t seen from you in a long time. You turned, picking up his tie and starting to easily fold the silky fabric.

 “You never were good at tying a tie.” You chuckle softly, giving a final tug before looking up at Charles. He always knew how to wear a good suit. His long hair that he had moussed back was falling in his face and he had shaved his face so it was clean. Charles was handsome in all the traditional ways a man was handsome but for all his strong features – a chiseled jaw, defined cheek bones, a tall, sturdy body he was also soft. His hair was growing out and lazily he just moussed it back, absent-mindedly pushing it from his face throughout the day. His mouth naturally upturned into a smile and his eyes were soft, the ocean blue irises unknowingly connecting with you long before words won you over. It was made him a persuasive lawyer and had won over the partnership into both of your fathers firms. 

Any woman would be lucky to be with a man like him. 

You should know - plenty had told you. 

“That’s because I always know you are here to make sure I do it right.” He smiles down at you and you laugh, shaking your head. 

“What makes you think I’ll always be around?” You give a playful slap to his chest, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes and Charles frowns. He was losing you. The small sibilance of hope that you had clung on to for so long was slowly start to fade away and he didn’t know how to repair it.

Instead, you both stare at each other before he bends down to kiss you. Your arms wrap around him out of habit as he bring you closer to him, his tongue begging entry into your mouth. You concede and he gives a shameless moan, lifting you up as your legs wrap around him as he pushes you against a nearby wall. His hands are all over you, trying to rediscover your body all over again as his mouth trails down your neck, caressing against the spot on your neck that he knew drove you insane.

 You’re eyes flutter open as you stop him, thinking about how Ben had just hours earlier softly kissed you in the same area and you’re instantly wrecked with guilt. You push Charles away, holding his face in his hands as he looks at you with mild alarm in his eyes. Alarm, fear and love.

 Eyes that you both have been branding each other with for months. 

“Y/N….” his hooded eyes look at you with lust and you swallow, turning your head the other way. 

“We should go soon. You know how my dad gets when we’re late. He’ll be freaking out and you don’t need that kind of pressure tonight. You made partner - you deserve to celebrate.” Your mumble barely penetrates the air and you feel his hold around your thighs tighten around you. 

He sighs along your neck before his lips return to their journey on your neck, your skin tinder from the treatment it’s received from the two different men in your life. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to get drunk in Charles. The way he smells and the new way he is touching. 

He was becoming more aware of the shift between the both you of you as well. 

“I want to make you happy Y/N. I know I have a lot of work to prove that I can but I’m willing to do that. You just have to let me in again.” You open your eyes to his pleading blue iris piercing into you. You push a strand of hair out of his eyes, your fingers skimming his forehead causing him to shiver.

 “Charles...”

 “I’m willing to wait. As long as it takes. I’m willing to fight for you.” 

The words echo in your brain. 

I want to fight for you. 

Ben had repeated the same words earlier to you. You wondered if Charles would feel the same way if he only knew how much you had distanced yourself from him. 

He bends down to kiss you again, his eyes searching yours for assurance and you give a subtle nod before his lips are on your own. The kiss is slow and languid and uncertain, but the passion behind it causes you to moan involuntarily. 

Charles pulls away, a small smile on his lips.

 “I know you’re worth fighting for.” He helps you down, helping to straighten your dress before he caresses your face. 

Then he turns on his heel, grabbing his jacket and leaving the room. He doesn’t see the tears falling down your face, before you wipe them away gingerly. 

What the hell were you going to do?   

What the hell were you going to do?

It was the question on Ben’s mind as he sat on his balcony, leaning back on his deck chair as he watched the dark sky, a cigarette lying limply in his hands. For the past six years, he had weaned himself off of cigarettes. Not so much wean as in cut back in the amount he sucked a day, limiting it from ten cigarettes down to two. This past month; however, he had been hoarded with stress and had picked up the familiar habit. He was on cigarette number eight today and he watched the cancerous stick as it glowed in the dim lighting of his balcony. He was already committing adultery, might as well as add unhealthy habit back to the list. 

He was currently trying to figure out you and Charles relationship. It was obvious that Charles had done something – manipulative and hurtful that had initiated you seeking Ben’s arms instead of his. If he was a betting men, he’d put all his money that Charles had cheated on you so you wanted to get your revenge. That you had used him to get back at Charles and Ben had been a pawn. 

But then you had fallen for Ben and had complicated things. 

He put the cigarette back to his mouth, taking a long drag before expelling it. He watched the wisps of smoke spiral against the dark sky and closed his eyes in frustration. 

What the hell was he doing? He should have taken your cue and just let you go. Allowed himself to wallow in the pain of heartbreak and move on to someone else. He opened his eyes, checking the time on his watch before reaching for the beer he had been cradling for the past two hours.  

He couldn’t do that though. Because he loved you and he’d be damned if he didn’t do everything in his power to show you that the love you had both found was worth fighting for. 

His thoughts were broken from a soft knock at his door and he ignored it, leaving it to his room-mate to grab. He was startled when he heard the balcony door open and turned to find your frame standing among it. You wore a long red gown and it flowed in the soft summer breeze that had picked up. You had your hair pulled back in a coif and tendrils were falling from the perfect style. He felt his heart drop, words failing to form in his brain. 

You were beautiful and perfect in all the ways you were imperfect. And that was why he was allowing himself to get pulled into the melodrama of your life. 

“…I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just…I know it’s earlier than I planned but…” you bit your lip as you walked onto the balcony, closing the door softly behind you. He smiled, pushing a chair toward you for you to sit in before sitting up. He put out the cigarette and bent down beside him, grabbing a beer and opening it before sliding it you way.

 “You’re here early. I wasn’t expecting to see you until later. Much later.” 

You nodded, taking a long drink of beer before your eyes found his. The worry behind it caused him to reach over and grab your left hand, hoping to give you a squeeze of assurance. 

He wasn’t expecting to caress over the smooth, hard curve of steel, the white gold band meeting with a large square cut diamond. He looked down surprised, a storm of emotions overtaking him as your mouth quivered. 

“…Charles proposed to me.” You mumble and your eyes meet again.

 “And you said yes?” he asks incredulously and you bite your lip, looking away.

 “I didn’t know…our parents were there and his business associates and I didn’t know what to do so I said yes. Then I left and came here.” You look back at Ben whose face stayed neutral, before he starts chuckling shaking his head. 

“Your boyfriend proposes to you and you say yes and then leave him to run to your….what am I in this scenario, your lover? Yes, you accept this proposal and you run to your lover’s house? What am I supposed to say to that?” His laughter is taking over his body and you fall back in the chair, taking another long sip of the beer. 

You had done it. You had broken Ben and know he has lost his mind. Great – add that to the list of fucked up things you’ve done over the past six months.

You were just locking in the front row seat to hell.

 “What do you want me to say to that Y/N?” he asks incredulously again once he’s calmed down and you throw your hands in the air, sloshing beer over you.

 “I don’t know Ben! I don’t know what I want you to say! I…..I know what I’ve done gives me no right to demand anything from you. I used you to deal with my relationship problems and ended up falling for you and now I’m too  fucking afraid to break up with my boyfriend…my fiancé…whatever the hell Charles is to me. I just…..I’m scared and I love you and I want you to know that. I don’t know.” You fall back in your chair, sighing and closing your eyes, trying to bite back the tears in your eyes. No one deserved the shit you had placed Ben in, least of all him. 

You’re both silent, taking in the sounds of the city before you feel Ben’s hands on top of yours. You turn to him and he sighs, shaking his head. 

“I know I’m probably still the biggest idiot on the planet but...I love you Y/N. We gotta figure this out. You and I. Us. And the only way we can do that is for you to tell me all about you and Charles.” 

You take another long swallow of beer, giving his hand a hard squeeze. This was exactly what you wanted to avoid. Even if you knew he was right. 

“Where to begin…..” you mumble and he gives an encouraging smile, though his eyes are still looking at you concern.

“Where all great stories begin,” he falls back in his chair, “What made you stop loving Charles?” 

[lagomorphlore]

gender ramblings

I feel like I’m failing at doing gender at all. Like all things in my life, I’m lazy and half-ass most everything. When I bother to change out of sweatpants it’s usually just into a pair of jeans and t shirt and comfortable walking shoes. And I think because I’m afab and don’t wear make up and short hair, sometimes I get defaulted to “masculine”.Which is okay sometimes but not okay other times.

What does masculine even mean anyway? How come the absence of traditional feminity makes me masculine? I’m not a man I’m not a man I’m not a man. I’m a lazy lesbian. 

I try to reassure myself that words can’t capture the nuance and complexity of a human, and I should dress however I want and make myself look however I want to look regardless of how people read me or what word people use. But half the time I’m offended when people think I’m not a woman, and half the time I’m offended when people don’t seem to recognize ways in which I’m gender non-conforming. 

For instance, my best friend is a very masculine (what does that meannn) looking butch, and people usually direct questions and comments to her as if she’s the only butch person in the room. And I’m usually upset when people don’t see me as butch....But I’m also really upset when people see me as butch, but associate that with masculinity.

And I feel a lot of pressure. If I wear make-up, will people see me as “less butch”? Do I want that? Do I not want that? Why or why not? 

I like butch aesthetics. But I don’t ONLY like butch aesthetics. But what does that mean anyway, “butch aesthetic”? Anyone can wear or do anything they want. Someone who identifies as butch can wear makeup and girly clothes. Someone who identifies as femme can pack and bind and shave their head. Words are words, everyone gets to find their own meanings. Identity label words are great because they help bring people together and identify common experiences and create solidarity etc etc. But words make me so goddamn sweaty. I don’t fit anywhere and I don’t even know where I want to fit.

I know this is controversial and I know it’s not true for everyone but I think it might be true for me: when it comes to gender, there’s no “authentic” part of me that is innate, untouched by social influences. I know that because of formative experiences in my life, many of which are related to trauma, I feel most comfortable wearing clothes that are not associated with traditional concepts of femininity (dresses, skirts, long hair, shaving my legs, makeup, etc etc). That comfort isn’t because I born with a “butch soul” or whatever (lol). I really believe I am who I am because of socialization and experiences. Being afab and embracing femmeness was like very very hard for me when I was younger and resulted in a lot of social anxiety and being mocked by my peers. It’s very tied into fatphobia and self-esteem issues and being excluded by people who were very femme, straight, afab women. If I had not had these experiences, I feel my gender presentation might be wildly different. I’ll never know. But what I’m saying is, the way I present in terms of gender is not the me-est part of me. It’s the result of surviving and adapting and finding my way socially. 

I’m sad a lot of the time. A lot of how I present in terms of gender and style is about how I feel safe and about how I feel like I can defend myself and put a wall up between me and people. And I’m sad when people see me as “masculine” and nothing else and I want to scream like “this is very complicated and I don’t identify as masculine (please stop calling me masculine) and I don’t know where I can belong safely and be loved”

I know that identities like butch and femme and masculine and feminine and man and woman and non-binary and agender and the millions of other words run deeper than just being about what you wear. Identity labels encompass things like styles usually associated with that identity, but also encompass how people relate to themselves and their communities and loved ones, commonalities and experiences people share and build communities on, and other critical things. Anyone can identify as anything, and wear/present anyway they want to. And that’s awesome!! But it’s really stressful to find my place in the world and navigate community building. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. And there’s no way to know what I am until I just decide what words feel okay for me. And I hate that?? I hate that I have to figure out what words feel okay? I hate that i have to figure out what words feel okay for me on the inside, and what words feel okay for me on the outside, and how to bring the two together.

This is not true for all people or for all butches or femmes (obviously) but in my life I have externally presented more “butch” as I’ve dealt with heartbreak and feeling betrayed and feeling overly exposed or like I was too vulnerable with a person. It makes me feel brave and strong and like I can do anything When I wear a nice pair of dapper shoes. I look this way because I’m in pain and I’ve been in pain and I’m coping with loss and betrayal and hurt. But that doesn’t mean I also don’t celebrate how I look and I love how I look. Simultaneously, when I’ve been happy in my romantic relationships I feel like I become a lot more “femme” when I’ve felt safe and happy to be vulnerable. I’ve felt so pleased to wear lacey lingerie and make-up and be a “girly girl” in that context. And I have felt strong in those times. I have felt unstoppable and beautiful and whole. But that changes when I feel like a person has left me or thrown me away or betray me. 

I know the emotional associations I have with different ways of performing gender are at the very least influenced by traditional understandings of gender norms and binary approaches to gender. I know this. But it doesn’t make it less real for me. It doesn’t help that I keep getting thrown away by people I’m comfortable enough around to be more girly with. Which is a cycle I create, by only behaving this way with people I’m romantically in love with. I keep setting myself up for failure in the event of a break-up. 

I’m really sad. I miss my ex. I miss being her girlfriend. I miss the life we had together and the life we were planning together. I’m sad and unhappy with my gender presentation and how people read me. I’m sad that I feel like I’ll never be apart of any community. I’ll never fit in anywhere. I’ll always be an outsider. I’ll never have a forever family. I’m confused and I don’t how who I am or how I want to be known. I’m very very stressed about all of this.