#lesbian writing

[that-butch-archivist]

"Femme correspondents connected with me in a different way. Many were grateful for my past work and for the opportunity to announce their identities in their own voices. Their statements reflected one bitter irony: if, in the straight world, butches bear the brunt of the physical and verbal abuse for their difference, in the lesbian-feminist world, femmes have had to endure a deeper attack on their sense of self-worth. Leather and denim, flannels and vests--butch women could easily adapt these prevailing signs of feminist gender resistance into superficial passports to acceptance, but the femme woman, in her lace and silk, high heels, and lipstick, had no place to hide. Many learned to pass as a "dyke" in public while in their homes and in their beds, they flew their flags of color and sensuality. The femme voice is underrepresented in historical records, though markings of her presence abound. Often, she is the security behind the butch display, the one who makes the public bravado possible. Lady Una Troubridge's words to Radclyffe Hall, while spoken by a white, upper-class, Christian woman, capture some of the enduring aspects of femme power: "I told her to write what was in her heart, that so far as any effect upon myself was concerned, I was sick to death of ambiguities ..." Yet to others, the femme woman has been the most ambiguous figure in lesbian history; she is often described as the nonlesbian lesbian, the duped wife of the passing woman, the lesbian who marries. Because I am a femme myself, I know the complexity of our identity; I also know how important it is for all women to hear our voices. If the butch deconstructs gender, the femme constructs gender. She puts together her own special ingredients for what it is to be a "woman," an identity with which she can live and love."

- An excerpt from "Flamboyance and fortitude: An introduction," written by Joan Nestle, the introduction essay for The Persistent Desire: A Butch-Femme Reader. (Emphasis in bold my own.)

[androgynealienfemme]

"I was born thirty eight years ago and raised to be a nice Chinese girl. But nice Chinese girls don't grow up to be dykes and rebels. And I turned out to be both.

I grew up on silence. Though I was part of a large extended family, we ate in silence. There was no conversation or laughter, just the sound of soup spoons and chopsticks against rice bowls. I was not encouraged to talk, express emotions, or ask questions. I grew up with a heritage of silence.

I was a girl child, the first born in a traditional Chinese family, raised to be seen but not heard, raised to excel in school but not be curious, raised to be someone's wife but not to be a person of my own. When I was growing up in England, Hong Kong, and San Francisco, I read everything I could get my hands on, but none of the books spoke of my own experience. I started writing when I was eleven years old to fill the silence and to turn the years of rejection into affirmation.

You're probably wondering what the hell any of this h as to do with sex. The answer is- plenty. What I write is shaped by my history and experience as both a Chinese woman and as a lesbian.

Chinese is my first language. But I was fluent only in the words my parents deemed it necessary for me to know. I was certainly not taught the words for breast, cunt, ass, or orgasm. There were no words for sex; therefore, sex did not exist.

I came out as a lesbian when I was twenty-one, but I didn't start writing about sex until almost a decade later. Sure, I wrote love poems, but I never wrote about sex. I was, after all, a nice Chinese girl and we didn't''t talk about things like that. --

I have always loved women passionately. I love the way a femme moves across a dance floor, knowing all eyes are focused on her. I love the hard eye-to-eye look from another butch as she sizes me up as competition- or her next conquest. I love the fluid seduction in a femmes eyes. I love the long line of her neck, her delicate earlobes and soft lips, painted some shade of red or unpainted but deeply flushed from having been kissed long and hard. Many times. I love the curve of her breast, the hardness of her nipples, the softness of her stomach, the fullness of her ass, her legs with a faint covering of hair or long and sleek in black silk stockings. I love the strength of her in her thighs, the firmness of her biceps, the feel of her forearms as she takes me. I love the smell of her heat and the place of pleasure between her legs. I love her ankles and her delicate toes and her soft instep where I run my tongue until my teeth are gripping her Achilles tendon. I love the smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her, the sight of her. I love women passionately.

--

Some women do not attend my theater or literary events for fear of supporting my sexual politics. I have been accused of recruiting. Never mind that I have a long history of writing, community organizing, and activism. Now I am judged solely for my leather sexuality. It's never been easy being different, but I have always survived. I will continue to speak out, write truths, and make waves. My countryman Mao Zedong wrote, "Dare to struggle, dare to win." I say, dare to write. Dare to be different. And who says nice Chinese girls don't talk about sex?"

"Who Says we Don't Talk About Sex?" Kitty Tsui, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

[thuesdaynightdykelife]

A love letter to my flamboyant butches,

Those of you who talk like a melody, accompanied by the dance of your hands. The theatrics in the way you converse, a show anyone would be lucky to see.

Your exuberance isn't at odds with your masculinity. Your flamboyance doesn't soften your butchness.

A peacock ruffling it's feathers, train-rattling, carabiner, chain-rattling. The elaborate adornments you cover yourself in, cloth, ink, metal.

Taking full advantage of the range of expression that queer masculinity offers. You blow me away, you send stars to my eyes, you show me all that could be.

You are unmissable, you are unforgettable, and you add so much vibrancy to this beautiful community.

[ohwrite]

Heroine grasps the attacking Villainess’ arm, she makes eye contact with her nemesis and, in a flurry of movements, restrains her with only her arms. Villainess squeaks, looking up at the heroine who caught her with rose tinted cheeks.

“Holy shit…” She whispers, daring not to breathe.

Heroine laughs, smiling down at her, satisfied. “‘Bout time someone put you in your place huh?”

Villainess’ face lights up even brighter. She stammers, attempting to get a sentence out before her nemesis places a finger to her lips, shushing her.

“You’re much cuter flustered out of words, so be a dear and be quiet~”

The villain nods, and Heroine giggles. Dragging her away to her home rather than The Agency.

[the-sappho-of-lesbos]

Source: The Exploding Frangipani ; Lesbian Writing From Australia and New Zealand -edited by Cathie Dunsford and Susan Hawthorne

[aphrodites-serenade]

Look at me.. not for too long

Her eyes are the most beautiful gems on this earth

She's loved by the moon and sun, with the way they glow and shine in any light

They dart all over the place, not able to stay on one thing for too time

Look at this... Oh no, look at this

She's a spark of joy, but the light becomes dimmer the farther her figure walks away from me

A dreadful thought overcomes me,

I'm fading into the background, into one of the many normalities in her life

My body moves faster than my mind, and once again, I'm near

I have to hold onto her, make sure she doesn't forget me

She swings around abruptly, her locks falling into place as she searches for the reason of this sudden action in my eyes

There's heat rising to my cheeks, I must surely seem pathetic and ridiculous

I wanted her to look at me, and yet…

I look at my feet before she notices any signs of the fear that has overtaken my body

Her eyes are still on me, looking at these imperfections, all of them

I'm a child again, apologizing to my parents for being so needy

It's her touch that now makes me search in her eyes

Her fingers draw circles into my skin, dotted with blemishes

They trace my cracked lips and overgrown brows

The longer she touches me, the more I barrage myself for not hiding my dark eye bags, for letting my face get round, for not taming my hair

The thought that she would stop loving me because of all this makes me want to sob

Don't look at me any longer, please

Comfort envelopes me as her lips press against mine

It's her softness that makes me forget what I was even saying

I've never felt so beautiful as when I am with her

[rosebudprincess]

imagine mamma mia, where donna still falls in love with harry, bill and sam. except sam is a butch lesbian she falls in love with in her youth.

yes, bill is sophie’s bioligical dad. but deep inside, donna’s heart is with sam. a woman she loved, didn’t want to leave but because of multiple circumstances she had to.

instead of discovering that sam had a fiance, donna instead chose the life of hiding her sexuality and looking for the stability in raising her baby on her own and left sam to her own devices. sam who was so free and comfortable in her own sexuality and expression.

so when sophie finally gets engaged and discovers the diary, she finds sam, bill and harry. except she assumes that sam is a man. so when the invitations are sent, sophie is shocked to see an older butch woman.

obviously, to her own terror, so is donna. finally seeing the woman she left years ago, right in front of her.

^ this retelling is brought to you by my daydreamy haze listening to “the winner takes it all” from the mamma mia soundtrack earlier today and imagining an older femme/butch couple reminiscing on their relationship in their youth that eventually went sour due to many complications and in revisiting their relationship now find that the pain of leaving one another is still there. but it’s in the past and the likelihood of changing their reality is slim.

additionally, here are the lyrics that inspired this:

| the winner takes it all by ABBA

• “I don’t wanna talk about things we’ve gone through. Though it’s hurting me, now it’s history.”

• “I was in your arms thinking I belonged there.”

• “But tell me does she kiss like I used to kiss you? Does it feel the same when she calls your name?”

| SOS by ABBA

• “Whatever happened to our love, I wish I understood. It used to be so nice. It used to be so good.”

• “You seem so far away though you are standing near. You made me feel alive, but something died, I fear.”

[reliablegal]

Do not put two neurodivergent transfems who are writing in the same room. We’ll will come up with the most heinous tragic comedy this side of the planet.

Yes my story has some brand new ideas and a million more are on the way. Are they any good?

What are you a cop?

[toxins-private-collection]

At fourteen, I dedicated my life to a girl.

She spoke with life and loved like fresh bruises.

I found she was the only other person who'd stand up for me,

And in return, I'd be anyone she needed.

A friend, a warrior, a wishful dreamer, a devoted follower.

I could never touch her hand, for I was a better friend than lover.

But never will I forget, the girl whose name rhymed with mine.

[bookmothic-dyke]

I’m a monster fucker.

[geminicorrects]

the other day

[lavenderviolin]

When I was 13, I overheard my uncle call a woman a dyke. I didn’t know what it meant, I just knew my father thought it was amusing, and that my mother told me to never repeat it because that was a dirty word.

When I was 14, I stumbled across a music video. It showed the story of two girls falling in love. Watching it made my stomach hurt, and made my face feel hot, but I couldn’t understand why. I watched it 9 times before I started to feel like I was being creepy.

When I was 15, I had my first crush. I had been denying my feelings, and then she walked in and I felt that sick feeling in my stomach. For the first time, I had to reckon with the fact that straight girls don’t feel flushed and scared when they look too hard at another girl’s neck. That night I locked myself in the bathroom and hurt myself until I felt like I’d made up for my sin.

When I was 17, I sat through the most intense sermon of my life. The preacher was red in the face, spitting and pacing and condemning people like me. I listened to my friends saying amen, saw them nodding their heads in agreement. Terrified, I begged prayed for God to fix me, because I knew I couldn’t do it on my own. Nothing changed.

When I was 18 I told a mentor that I was gay. It took a gut wrenching 27 minutes just to get that word out of my mouth, and when I finally managed to say it, I felt filthy and exposed. We spent the next 2 hours praying and reading the Bible while he explained it was an attack from Satan. After I got home, I was sick. It was the first time I had seriously considered suicide.

When I was 19 a close friend admitted that she was a lesbian, and so I confided in her as well. She told me it was evil and immoral, but we could still make it right with God if we just had faith. I watched her struggle and fight and mold herself into an image, up until the day a young army man proposed and she said yes. I really, truly hope that she’s happy.

When I turned 20 I told my therapist that I liked girls. She was a Christian counselor, and I envisioned some form of therapy where she could help me fix my sexuality. Instead, she told me that I’d been punishing myself for too long over something that needed love and acceptance, not shame and hatred. It was the first time I felt like someone actually saw me.

I turned 24 this year, and I realized something. For the first time since I was 13, I had a crush on a girl and didn’t immediately fill with disgust. For the first time ever, I said the word “gay” out loud without flinching. And for the first time in my life, I came out to someone without immediately feeling like I needed to destroy myself to make amends for it.

I still think about that little girl who was so, so scared, and so unprepared for life, and I wish I could hold her hand. I can’t help her, and it’s too late to protect her, but maybe from here she can finally begin to heal.

[androgynealienfemme]

"I know what I am when I look at old pictures long, wavy hair, eyeliner, mascara demure and mysterious. I know what I am when I wander on my lunch hour to sample new fragrances and linger near lace lingerie. I know what I am when I paw through these old letters still warm with old passions held firmly in wide rubber bands. I know what I am when the sight of old white t-shirts and the smell of Old Space can still make me shiver and smile I know what I am in the dark when you fill me your hands and your mouth in the head of the heart of my center I know what I am." "Old femme", Madeline Davis, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

[thuesdaynightdykelife]

If I'm unfortunate enough to see you die before my time has come, I'll be tattooing your ashes into my skin, have you always by my side.

[wlw-venting-blog]

I want to be with you. I want to get married to you, I want to live in a cottage with you and to have kids with you and raise bunnies together and have a garden. I want to write about you, to spend hours writing poems and plays and songs about you. I want to spend my days watching our children while you work at her dream job as a nurse like the superhero you are, and I want to write and bake for you when you get home. I want you with me when my plays are performed, when my poems are read and when my songs are sung. I want to grow old with you and to read with you and plant flowers with you and bake with you and live with you. I want my life to never be without you. I want to be with you.

[sappho-ism]

I’m going to write my lesbian ocs so in love.