It was a Thursday night, with nothing to show up for tomorrow. I was freshly broken hearted, and I needed a night on the town.

A friend came over for dinner, and we recorded a podcast together. Then we went down to the local tweetup. I haven’t been to one in years. I said hello to a few people and then was so bored by all the straight people in the fancy hotel bar that I grabbed my hoodie and headed out the door. At first I tried a club that I heard some friends were at. I looked around and didn’t see them, found the bathroom, and took a shit while checking my email. Oh the wonders of a smart phone. It was early enough, so I thought maybe I’d take myself out for a movie. I checked Fandago, and everything yet to play sounded pretty shitty, so I scratched that idea.

I thought about turning on my location on OkCupid, but my phone battery was running out of juice, and it’s always the same one or two dykes I’m not interested in on the Locals app anyway. Then I realized all of the hipsters hanging out in the window of the art school gallery were there to see my friend’s boyfriend’s band, who weren’t bad. I thought what the hell and went on in. The was no cover, and I saw some friends. I stood around with all the straight hipsters and watched the crowd. The people walking by the window outside were more interesting, even though some of the hipster girls were kind of pretty. I was still surrounded by straight people.

After that, I didn’t want to go home, so I decided to try that bar I heard was still a gay bar. I don’t even drink anymore so I was a little nervous about checking out the unfamiliar scene, especially when everyone outside looked straight here too. I went inside, and almost immediately saw one of my ex’s friends, who I pretended not to see. I walked into the little bar a few more inches and all of a sudden a punk band started playing. They were pretty good. They were playing songs with titles like “I just want to be alone” and “Go fuck yourself.” It was perfect for my mood. I hung out leaning on the wall for a while, scoping out the crowd and listening to the music. Every girl I thought was hot would suddenly kiss or grab the ass of some ugly guy. I went and sat on the couch near what seemed to be the only single girl in there and watched the rest of the band play. She seemed kind of out of it and probably straight. As soon as the band ended I got the hell out of there.

I headed down the hill and saw a couple weathered older dykes outside the gay dance club. I asked if there was a cover and they said no and convinced me to go in. Someone I cancelled a date with was supposed to be in there, but I figured I don’t even know her so what’s the big deal. I walked all the way to the furthest back corner of the bar, sat down and ordered a seltzer. A sad drunk man sitting alone at the next corner of the bar came over to me because he thought I needed a pat on the shoulder. Apparently sitting there in the corner of a gay bar broken hearted and drinking seltzer I looked sad enough for the drunk man to come care about me. As soon as he left me alone, a large black woman who referred to herself as Big Mama came over and wanted to do shots. I quit drinking a decade ago and somehow this didn’t make me break my resolve. She started telling me about her diet and her vacation and how her sister wanted her to be skinnier. The whole time she was rubbing parts of her body all over my thigh because her midsection would touch me as soon as she leaned in to talk to me. She started hitting on me a little harder and I got less and less interested in what she had to say until she left. Then the drunk man came back over. By the third seltzer, I was ready to get out of there, and I felt a little better, because I didn’t have the same life or problems as these two people, and I got to watch some dykes rub up against each other a bit. I had wished the dance floor was more hopping so I could get lost in it and dance, but it wasn’t, so I took a piss and left.

Instead of heading home I walked down towards the strip of bars and wandered into a happening dance club. There wasn’t a cover anywhere! The DJ and the lights were pretty good, but all of the people were so fucking straight except for one really young butch. All the women were in sparkles and dresses and showing a lot of skin, while all the men were dressed more like me, in shirts and hoodies, and jeans. I closed my eyes and danced a bit but then I had to pee again. This should be interesting, I thought. Every single woman I passed on the way into the bathroom stall kind of whipped her head out of a drunken stupor and then settled back down when they realized I was female, except on the way out of the bathroom, as a few drunk shorter women were heading in. As I opened the women’s room door to leave one actually put her hand right on my chest. She pressed into me to turn herself around until she realized she could feel breasts through my shirt. She looked up at me and drunkenly apologized while sliding past me into the women’s room after all. I left soon after.

I was still not ready to go home, so I cruised the strip to see if any other clubs were happening, but there didn’t seem to be any more with enough people in them where I could lose myself to the dance music. Then I came up around a corner and remembered the blues club that sometimes had some hippie bands that I used to like when I was younger and stoned all the time. Sure enough a Dead cover band was playing and I got into yet another bar with no cover. They played a lot of songs I knew and I stripped off my wet hoodie and my plaid shirt and danced around in my tank top, letting my armpit hair loose among the hippies. There was even a hula hoop that I danced with all through “Eyes of the World.” During “I Know You Rider” I got into my old groove and was really spinning around with centripetal force. It felt good and familiar even though in took a while to get into because the floor was so sticky. I wanted to get high. I somehow made it through all of the other bars without drinking to drown out my broken heart. I didn’t want to end up all droopy and bitter like the man who felt sorry for me at the gay club, or all crazy and stumbling like the guy that got asked to leave the floor at the punk band. Even still all this dancing to the hippy music made me want to smoke a bowl. Incidentally, this was the last club I ever drank at over ten years ago, before I went and  smoked a bunch of pot and puked all the way home. A few straight hippy dudes tried to dance with me, but I still had my oblivious-just-keep-spinning-around-in-the-groove trick going, so they were calmly deflected. Straight people again. I think if any of them had magically whisked me away to a carpeted tapestry laden candle lit room for bong hits I would have gotten, but I guess that wasn’t in the cards for me. Thank you higher power for keeping me safe I guess. And for helping me to get through the first day in a while that I haven’t cried over my ex girlfriend.

It was a more than eclectic evening out on the town. What is a broken hearted straight edge dyke to do?

I started this blog a few years ago, in order to have an anonymous outlet as well as a conversation forum for some of my thoughts as I explored a butcher identity.

I had come out a decade earlier, but still certainly had layers of “the real me” to uncover. (and still always will to some extent I’m sure!)

I was born into a white homogenous heterosexist suburb of Boston. I didn’t know anyone gay until I went away to boarding school, and even then my mother had been so critical of any aberration from any norm in my appearance that I think it really stunted my self esteem and self expression. I didn’t join the Gay Straight Alliance in boarding school (this was in the early 90’s) because I was too afraid that someone would think I was gay.

Though I saw girls kissing at a rugby social my freshman year of college, I drank too much and smoked too much pot to come to any sort of terms with my sexuality for many years. I sucked a lot of dick and had a lot of meaningless sex with men. I was actually too stoned to notice that there may have been some queer women or at least some cool feminist things happening around me. I spent most of my time with stoner boys. They didn’t mind my hairy armpits, were harmless compared to some of the men that had taken advantage of me, and thought I was pretty cool. And feeling pretty cool was a big deal for me back then, after growing up feeling very not cool. I guess I wasn’t ready to rock the boat just yet.

It wasn’t until after college that I finally had a close lesbian friend. She was a cool artist and I spent a lot of time hanging out with her and friends in my early 20’s. It was during this time that I broke up with my stoner boyfriend and started exploring my sexuality. I had absolutely no idea how to date women. I came out as bi, and wanted so badly to date women, but ended up continuing to date men on and off for years because they would hit on me, and I really didn’t know how in the world to ask a girl out.

It’s funny looking back on myself during my early years of coming out. I shaved my head and wore pretty big men’s clothes. I don’t think I was trying to look queer and had not much concept at the time of the word “butch.” I was doing a lot of drugs, pretty miserable, and a lot of the sexual assault I had experienced thus far in life was really hitting me hard. I was consciously trying to hide the female curves of my body from predatory men, and baggy men’s clothes did this quite well. Walking home to my first solo apartment in big pants, combat boots, and a big hoodie made me feel much safer. No one bothered me at night when I looked like a boy.

It was around that time that I hit a bottom with drugs. I overdosed, was pretty crazy for a while, but eventually ended up cleaning up my act and staying clean. Finally getting off of drugs certainly allowed me to come to whole new levels of exploring who I was that I had thus far missed in my life.

This was about a decade ago. I would say that it was during the past decade that I in a long roundabout way came much closer to getting back to the core of me (threads of which have certainly been consistent through all my tumultuous phases of life).

The key layers of this involved exploring what bisexuality meant to me, as well as to other people (who often had quite different ideas of who I was precisely because of my bisexual label). It was fascinating to see how differently the world saw me (and treated me) according to who I was dating. I was offended by the term “heterosexual privilege” at the time, because I was still going through a lot of emotional turmoil and didn’t feel the least bit privileged. I felt a lot of prejudice from within queer community at the time, and felt like I fit in no where (too straight to be gay, too gay to be straight).

When I finally had a long term relationship with a woman I came to a new level of understanding about my sexuality. Questioning my sexuality and starting to have sex with women was much different than being in a relationship for 3 years. I experienced a lot more homophobia than ever before, and yet as I was growing up emotionally (staying clean from drugs and alcohol allowed me to do this), I was really beginning to feel more myself than ever before as well. To come out in a heterosexist society takes a lot of guts. It took me a long time to fully come out. I could give a number of reasons: fear, heterosexism, homophobia, pressure from my mother to fit in and be straight, etc., etc. I’m not sure I can clearly put my finger on any one reason. I just knew so much more about myself after that long term relationship. By the time we broke up, I was already in my 30’s. As I started getting ready to date again, I was quite clearly only interested in women. In fact, when I was having sex during that relationship I remember thinking about how much better sex with women is. I know I had had a lot of sex with men, and some of it was certainly fun, but this was a whole new level of good, of satisfying, of exciting, of pleasurable. I know that I often thought “How did I have so much hetero sex before this?” “Oh my god, I am so gay.”

So to wrap it up a bit, it took me into my 30’s to really come out as gay, after about a decade of identifying as bisexual. In that long term relationship, and really before that too, I had never been interested in butch/femme identity, I guess in much the same way that I wasn’t interested in being gay before I came out. It was something I had preconceived notions and judgments about and I didn’t think it had anything to do with me. I’ve thought that about many things throughout my life, until some sort of experience and open-mindedness pushes me beyond some edge and gets me to see things in a new way and then suddenly I feel like I came home at last, to a place I never thought was mine. This process could describe so many aspects of my sexuality and gender identity (which I am just getting to). I thought I was straight, I thought I was bi, I didn’t think I would like to spank anybody or be fisted. Time and time again I got to new levels of comfort with myself and the world around me and would finally let myself be a new layer of who I was.

This is what has been happening in the past few years with my butch identity.


This is what I wrote when I started this blog:



“Ok. So I’m going through some changes. Self awareness, fashion, sex, gender, sexuality, presentation. Not sure I even have the words for all of this. Kind of scared to do this publically. But then I know how helpful it is for me to read the thoughts of others going through uncomfortable and beautiful metamorphoses. And how much it helps to share what is in my head, heart, brain and skin.
Allowing myself to tell myself the exact opposite of what I might have told myself growing up, or yesterday, or last year. Like, in my fantasies, sometimes I am a man, but I don’t want to be one in real life…or maybe I do? or not? or just a little…and what is female masculinity? who am I attracted to? am I attracted to you because I want to be you? or do you? or both?

And allowing all of that to just be beautiful, ok, honest, and fluid.

Whew…I like opening this fountain…of genderqueer butchdom…or something.

xoxo,

Zoey Rayal”

As I read these words today I thought it was time to change them, because I’ve come quite a long way in the past few years. I was scared to identify as butch, but I’ve heard myself say the word out loud more than once. I was scared to shift my appearance. I was scared to cut my hair short again, after years of positive reinforcement from my family and the professional world for my long beautiful hair. I was scared to change my dress for many of the same reasons. I was scared to change my underwear choices lest my lovers laugh at me or reject me when they got my pants off. I was scared of trying to claim an identity that might mean something different to somebody else. I was scared to claim an identity and have someone tell me I wasn’t enough of something to claim that identity.
I’m sure I still have a long way to go in life in getting to know me, and fully being me. (I certainly stumble with job interview outfits, new clothes for fancy occasions, and that sort of thing). And I still wonder whether my lovers will like my hairy armpits, my sports bras, and my men’s underwear. I hesitate to think that I need acceptance of these aspects of my presentation from other people in order to feel comfortable in my identity. I will say that my current lover finding me sexy not despite these things but precisely because of these things certainly helps.
In any case. I feel clearer about my identity (sexuality and gender) than I did when I first started this blog. I want to update my profile blurb, but before I did that I wanted to reflect on what has gone on it the past few years. Thank you to all of you who have liked, commented, or reblogged my posts. It has done numbers for my self esteem as I continue to explore who I am and how I express me.

Peace,

Z Rayal

I noticed how I am getting more comfortable with shopping in the men’s section the more I do it.  I know this has got to be easier for me than my male friend shopping for women’s lingerie, but, well, we all have our fears and insecurities, especially when we act outside of gender norms in public.

I used to go shopping for women’s lingerie with my male friend who preferred to wear such items.  We would pretend we were a couple shopping for me.  The first time I even held the money, and the panties, and made the purchase.  Over time, he has become more comfortable with this, and as I have been transitioning to more masculine dress as of late, he sometimes accompanies me into the men’s section too.  It’s quite a fun little escapade.  Sometimes we sneak each other a peak of our transgendered underpants waistbands at a stop light on the way to the movies.  That’s truly what friends are for!

I was at the mall last night and I happened into Express, for me a pubescent butch’s wet dream (I’m actually in my thirties, but as I come out a little queerer, a little butcher, I feel as though I am going through another sort of puberty).  They were having a sale, and I finally got to buy a sweater!  I have been attracted to the sweaters of some of the men at work.  I compliment them on their sweaters, and even go so far as to ask where they get them.  One very sweet man kindly motions for me to check his tag every time I do this.  He has quite a collection from Banana Republic.  I poke my head in that store from time to time, but find the prices overwhelming and the sale racks usually slim pickings.  Long before I started even coming out to myself as butcher than I thought I was, I have been drawn to the gorgeous colors and crisp attire in the men’s department at Express. Which reminds me…I must get myself to a Structure, if that still exists.  I used to date a guy when I was in my 20’s who had knit boxers from there.  I loved them.  I pretty sure I loved them much more than what was in them.  It’s exciting letting myself do what I want, and buying new knit men’s boxers!  They feel so good in my big baggy Lucky jeans.  My crotch just feels so comfortable and free, like I am in pajamas!  But back to Express - what a display they put on - what a palatable palette!

I noticed last night that I entered the store and shopped in the men’s section with slightly less insecurity and self consciousness than I have thus far.  I remember some times throughout my teen years, and even perhaps my early 20’s, when I shopped shamelessly in the men’s sections.  Somehow there were threads of style fads back then in the 80’s and 90’s that made it cool for women to shop for the men’s boxers to wear as sexy little summer shorts, or big flannel shirts to look a little grunge.  Car-harts were also quite acceptable amongst hippie, artist, and outdoor leadership crowds (all of which I frequented at some point or another) in those days, and probably still today.  In the fluctuations of my fashion sense over the years, I have certainly owned my share of men’s department clothes.

I have always felt a certain satisfaction in going right ahead and doing something generally assigned to the gender other than which I was assigned at birth.  I liked to beat the boys on the soccer field (I grew up in the early 80’s, and before high school, for me there was no such thing as girl’s soccer).  I instead was one of three 9th grade girls on the primarily 7th grade boys’ soccer team.  I always wondered if we truly were good enough for varsity, but didn’t make it because we were girls.  Even on JV the coach kept us (the 3 older girls) on the bench most of the time. In any case, whether at a team sport or out at recess, I prided myself on doing not only what the boys could do, but for trying to do it better.  When my younger preteen brother started using foul language in front of (and perhaps with?) my father, I followed suit, even when it was met with shock by my father.  When I have to go to the bathroom and there are single room separate sex toilets, I will head straight into the often empty men’s room.  I kind of like the confused face I might see on the way out.

So why, after all of that, do I still feel shy in the men’s department?  I still feel shy there, because I still feel shy claiming a butch identity.  For a long time (most of my early “out” years), I shied away from butch and femme culture as I saw it re-enacting the hetero gender binary.  I also didn’t think I fit into either category, nor was sure I was more attracted to one than the other.  It has only been in the last year that I have really let myself even begin to transition into a more butch identity.  Sometimes I wonder if I am really butch enough to be butch. I wonder if I deserve to be butch.  I wonder if there is some definition out there of butch that I don’t fit into clearly enough, and am afraid to name myself as butch.  I wonder sometimes if I am butch then will I only date femmes?  Will those I am attracted to be attracted to me?  Will other butches ever be attracted to me and want to date me?

All of these questions and all of these insecurities line my identity, and somehow make it even harder to buy a sweater.

As I have been going through my genderqueer butch puberty, I have gradually transitioned to wearing men’s underwear for the most part.  Last summer I remember looking longingly at the underwear in the men’s section at Target, nearly buying some boxer briefs that looked so comfortable, but then not, because the “package” would be empty.  I then wandered back over into the women’s section and bought some little “boyshort” style women’s underwear, which fit nice and snugly (albeit a little too snugly for my tastes lately).

At the end of the summer I was dating a wonderful person with some similar transmasculine leanings who encouraged me to go right ahead and buy the men’s underwear if that’s what I wanted.  It didn’t matter whether or not there was some extra fabric around the crotch.  I didn’t have to fill it out to deserve to wear it. (Or I could fill the package….wow…an even more exciting concept I had not let myself dare to dream at that point).

So, to make a long story short (boy shorts), or at least get closer to the point, I started buying men’s underwear.  I may have snuck some into my cart at Target, bought some along with vacuum cleaner bags at Sears, and even tried some on at Marshalls.  I’ve tried out a few different shapes, to include boxer briefs and knit boxers, and have explored a variety of brands and sizes.  I’ve played around with the gender intentions of the clothes I wear for work and for play, as well as with my hair, jewelry, makeup, etc.

As I let myself explore more sections of clothing stores, sometimes filling my cart up completely with clothes from the men’s sections and then traversing the store to try them on in the women’s dressing room (Oh the irony…I love H&M for having gender neutral dressing rooms) my men’s underwear drawer filled up, and my women’s underwear drawer was opened far less often.  Depending on where I am or who I am with (friends, lovers, etc.) I have noticed new comforts as well as discomforts with my new underwearshape choices.  When spending the night at a friend’s place, or sharing a hotel room with friends, I’ve found boxer briefs to be much more comfortable and convenient for casually sleeping and hanging out.  Less revealing than women’s panties, they feel appropriate to wear in lieu of pajamas if need be, and far more concealing for prancing off to the bathroom without a robe.  With a new lover this fall, I felt a little more self conscious, wondering, does she think these are sexy?  Do they turn her on?  Why does she take them off with my pants?  What does she think when I am getting dressed in the morning?

And then there’s the gym.  I’ll have to say, I don’t go there that often, not because I’m not sporty, but because there are many other active things I like to do that are far more exhilarating, fulfilling, and enjoyable for me, so the gym is sort of a last resort for me in the exercise department.  Like buying from the supermarket what I would have rather found at a farmstand.  But I digress.  The locker room was what I was getting at. I wasn’t prepared for how I would feel when I got to the locker room for the first time and realized I was wearing men’s underwear.  Not really prepared at all.  In addition, I have let my body hair grow out this fall as well, which brings another level of insecurities for me in occasional situations (though these I have encountered before as I have had my hairs every which way at some point in my life, going through hippy phases and the like).

So there I was at the gym one day in my office wear, which recently mostly consists of business casual pants (usually of some women’s size), a collared button down shirt (usually, but not always, of a men’s style), and underneath it all, knit boxers or boxer briefs.  I usually love the locker room situation.  I love being naked, and I love seeing women naked.  What a lucky lucky place to be, as long as I can keep from letting anyone think I might be ogling.  I hope no one notices when I occasionally have to smile to myself after tasty glimpses of breast and thigh….

And there I go digressing once again.  Sorry.  What I am trying to say is that the first time I caught myself in a women’s locker room with my pants down, suddenly revealing men’s underwear to a room full of ladies, I felt seriously self conscious.  What were people thinking?  Did they even really notice, especially if they weren’t oglers like me?  Would I be judged?  Was this weird?  How many other women actually wear men’s underwear?  I hadn’t ever seen it in a women’s locker room before.

I think the first time I took them off really fast.  Better to be naked than caught in boxer briefs.  My bush was more gender appropriate for that room if anyone was judging anyway, right?  The next time, I think I thought ahead just long enough to decide to pull them off with my pants.  The same self consciousness arose on the occasions that I showered and redressed into street clothes at the gym, or even worse, at the locker room at work.  I pretty much just pulled them on and then the pants right after really fast.  It was really the best I could do.

But then today, I noticed myself do something else.  Well, I think I noticed when I noticed someone notice me.  I was with a friend, post shower, getting dressed in the women’s locker room at the gym.  I had one of my favorite pairs of boxer briefs, my favorite jeans (men’s Lucky brand) a bra, a black tank top, a men’s thermal, and a cozy stylish men’s hoodie to put on.  I feel so much more comfortable in the casual clothes that I wear outside of work than those I feel I must wear to conform to the “business casual” standard at the office.  I pulled on my boxer briefs, in no particular hurry, and with absolutely no self consciousness…until a girl across the room looked up at me for just a little too long.  The way women look at me just a little too long in the women’s bathroom in my office building since I cut my hair short and have been wearing more masculine clothes.  Her look, not exactly a double take, but sort of an extra long glance, made me instantly self conscious.  I knew that she was looking at my grey and black striped boxer briefs, with the nice loose package in the front, the piss hole for the penis I don’t have.  I really have no idea what she was thinking, nor confirmation that she really was thinking anything I was self conscious about.  And then I proceeded to get dressed and be on my way, in no particular hurry.

I’m glad to realize that for once I didn’t feel self conscious, even for just a moment, about my butch underpants at the gym :)

(from a state that just voted against Marriage Equality)

I am extremely dissatisfied with the nature of the political landscape in my state.  I am afraid - of people.  I live in a state (and pretty much a country too) where it appears that more than half the people do not see me as equal, simply because of who I love.  I am near tears quite often.  I was near tears before election day was over, just thinking about the fact that the majority was voting on the civil rights of a minority.

I know that civil rights have come a long way since my parents were children, when racial discrimination was still legal.  Thinking of that both extremely disturbs me as well as gives me hope.

To think that slavery existed in my county is appalling.  To see how much has changed since then gives me hope, hope that the gross discrimination and inequalities of today might someday be changed.

There are moments when I try to fathom the thoughts of someone who stands smiling into traffic encouraging discrimination.  Those smiles, those freakish smiles make me so afraid of humans, and the power they have to control each other and cause each other pain.

One of the most disturbing things that came to light in the last few days was to find traces of that discrimination sitting right next to me…the guy in the next cube.

We’ve sat next to each other for the better half of 2 years, collaborating on work assignments, and sharing disgruntled thoughts about company imperfections and inconsistencies.  We talk about our weekend plans and the women we date.  We even go so far as to ask each other for advice once in awhile on how to appropriately responds to text messages from these women.  I thought we were buddies.  I bet he still thinks we are.

On election day, he was saying that he wasn’t going to vote because he didn’t feel strongly one way or the other about any of the issues.  I questioned him about the marriage equality vote, to which he ended up saying he was mixed, as he didn’t think “they” should call it marriage.  He says this to his buddy the queer in the next cube.  His buddy who suffers heartbreak just like him, timidly asks women out just like him, worries about relationship issues, just like him.

I was appalled.  I felt so disrespected, like he felt I was a lesser, less deserving, less holy being.  I think this felt weirder and more hurtful that the words of people I don’t know staunchly fighting against Marriage Equality.  Somehow the ambivalence he expressed was worse, especially because he somehow couldn’t see how hurtful that was to me.

In the past few days he has wanted to shoot the shit per usual, nervous about some wedding he is going to with his girlfriend.  I replied, “You should probably talk to someone else about that.  I don’t have the same rights as you.”

I like mrsexmith’s discussion of multiple meanings of trans… transitioning, transcending the gender binary, etc. I started this blog as an aid and as a documentation of my current coming out process. More than 10 years ago, when I was first coming out, I told a lesbian friend that I was bisexual. At the moment, I was feeling pretty proud of myself enough to be able to slap on a label. She promptly responded, “Labels are for other people, but not for you.” While her statement was so profound I am blogging it over a decade later, at the time I was disappointed. I think I wanted to just settle on a label & move on; stop trying to “figure things out.” Right now, I am noticing that the figuring out of things can be so wonderful & freeing and beautiful in and of itself. I am so shy and self conscious lately. And at the same time I feel bold & sexy. It’s true that I get used to the way the world outside me reacts to the me I present. I recently cut my hair short, in my first “butchy?” haircut I have had in 10 years. Only a few months ago I had long flowing red wavy locks just about nipple length which attracted lots of attention and compliments. Sometimes I forget why the world outside reacts differently and then I remember that I look different. I was walking out of my office building by some male construction workers the other day & I noticed something strange. They didn’t notice me at all. For quite some time I had kept my hair long because I was comfortable fitting into what I think an American standard of beauty for an office woman might be. It was just easier. I felt like a little girl playing dressup. If I dressed the part, I felt like people would take me more seriously. I didn’t want it to be like that necessarily, but it seemed to be working at the time. It’s a bold move to step out in a new way, whatever may be new, a haircut, a new style, bolder makeup, etc. What makes me so extra self conscious is the conscious reflection and reaction from people outside of myself. The bolder the change, the more the reaction (or lack thereof). I’ve been wearing butcher pants lately. Somedays butcher shirts, but not everyday. The other day I showed up to work in more feminine slacks & a top (something I’ve been doing a little more lately in conjunction with my shorter hair). A coworker (a sweet, flirty, supportive perhaps-gay one that has encouraged me to “let my butch flag fly”) noticed and said “those aren’t very butch pants:)” to which I replied, “I’m just me. Did you think I fit into boxes?” of course not. Tomorrow we will go out to lunch. I bet we’ll chat about sexuality & gender…maybe a little gossip… Maybe I’ll try and make out with her while we’re away from the office ;)

Ready, set, queerer!

Ok.  So I’m going through some changes. I think. Self awareness, fashion, sex, gender, sexuality, presentation.  Not sure I even have the words for all of this. Kind of scared to do this publically. But then I know how helpful it is for me to read the thoughts of others going through uncomfortable and beautiful metamorpheses.  And how much it helps to share what is in my head, heart, brain and skin.

I could start from the very beginning. Or just start where I am at right now, and unravel a little.

I think the hardest part of what I am going through is the world outside.  Just as soon as I come out a little more to myself, or allow myself to be just a little more who the fuck I am, then I take something from outside of myself personally.  Maybe it is personal.  Maybe I do a triathlon and think and think and think while I swim bike and run and wonder “can I really do this” and somewhere along the way as I realize that I am doing this I think so loudly I want to shout it, “I AM SO GAY!!!!!” and it makes me happier than ever.  And then the next day I mention a woman I am dating to my mother and I hear the disappointment in her voice like icicles weighing down a moustache.  “Do you still wish I wasn’t gay?” I inquire?  To which I receive the lovely, “I can dream a little, can’t I?”

OW. Wow. I felt like I was punched in the heart.  And that’s perhaps the way it always was growing up.  Except I don’t think I ever really got to the full moments of coming out to myself however I was before I got punched in the heart.  I just was stifled all along before I ever came out.  As a high schooler I wasn’t allowed to play ice hockey because as a girl I was supposed to be a figure skater.  As a hippy tour kid I would come to visit my mom and she would have a bottle of “Smells Begone” right inside the front door.  When I finally found someone capable of commiting to a relationship with me enough to bring home to visit, of course he wasn’t good enough.

And then, after coming out as bi, there was always the hope after every breakup that my next relationship would be with one of those creatures with a penis.  Once, while coming out of surgical anesthesia at age 30, I said to my mother, “Do you still love me even though I’m gay?”  She didn’t say a word.

It’s a wonder I even let myself be who I am.  Well, I do. One moment I feel great about it all, and the next self conscious.  One moment one thing feels great, and then the next I wonder about everything.  I think about boxes and labels and who needs to know what and/or nothing. And when it comes down to it, all that really matters is that I am comfortable with myself.  Even if I prefer femme tops and butch bottoms.  I’m talking about clothes here. Boxer briefs and a corset. Mmmm. That feels great right about now.  I feel queerer than straight, butcher than femme. And a little like…no…a lot like nothing that really even has a name.  Not that the general public understands anyway.  I’ve been reading a bit here and there.  Some S. Bear Bergman, some Kate Bornstein.  Wikipedia’s definitions of butch, boi, genderqueer, and genderfuck.

And then just living. Allowing myself to tell myself the exact opposite of what I might have told myself growing up, or yesterday, or last year.  Like, in my fantasies, sometimes I am a man, but I don’t want to be one in real life…or maybe I do? or not? or just a little…and what is female masculinity? who am I attracted to?  am I attracted to you because I want to be you? or do you? or both?

And allowing all of that to just be beautiful, ok, honest, and fluid.

Whew…I like opening this fountain…of genderqueer butchdom…or something.

xoxo,

Zoey Rayal