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#gender stuff
I think the older I get and the more I reflect on myself, the more I love macrolabels. I don't call myself bi anymore, but I know I'm not straight. I like how vague and open-ended queer is. it leaves room for the fact that I'm a girl mostly because why not and not actually because I feel some kind of girl-energy in my soul. I go by whatever pronouns I'm called and date whoever I want at that moment, and I don't feel a need to look at it any closer than that.
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drueginger · 6 months
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Folks, it has happened again on another job I applied for.
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tumbler-polls · 5 months
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So I have a gender-related question to y'all. It's something I've been wondering of as of late.
Please reblog for a bigger sample size!
Use 🍇/🍈/🍉 and so on, if you'd like to share your answer in the tags.
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transonlyspace · 3 months
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"queer identities are getting too complex" good. be complex. confuse cis people. confuse straight people. aim to be what cishets call cringe. be incomprehensible. be unfathomable.
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androgynealienfemme · 10 months
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"I know what butch is. Butches are not beginner FTMs, except that sometimes they are, but it's not a continuum except when it is. Butch is not a trans identity unless the butch in question says it is, in which case it is, unless the tranny in question says it isn't, in which case it's not. There is no such thing as butch flight, no matter what the femmes or elders say, unless saying that invalidates the opinions of femmes in a sexist fashion or the opinions of elders in an ageist fashion. Or if they're right. But they are not, because butch and transgender are the same thing with different names, except that butch is not a trans identity, unless it is; see above."
-"I KNOW WHAT BUTCH IS", Butch is a Noun, Essays by S. Bear Bergman (2006)
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queerism1969 · 2 years
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bookwyrminspiration · 5 months
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every time I think about my gender I get confused so I simply stopped thinking about it. it is not my problem
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let's clear something up
femme does not mean long hair. butch does not mean short hair.
femme does not mean skirts. butch does not mean trousers.
femme does not mean make-up. butch does not mean no make up.
femme does not mean clean-shaven. butch does not mean unshaven.
femme does not mean thin. butch does not mean fat/muscular.
femme does not mean pretty. butch does not mean ugly.
get cishet people's idea of gender presentation out of your head
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justdavina · 1 month
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Sweet cisgender girl!
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siriusly-remu · 2 months
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i wish you were gay.
i wish you were gay so that i would be able to talk more freely with you about being queer.
i wish you were gay so i wouldn't have to lie to you when i feel dysphoric, since you don't get how much it hurts.
i wish you were gay so i wouldn't be so scared to tell you my pronouns.
i wish you were gay so that there wasn't this huge chasm between us, constantly.
i wish you were gay so that we could be gay together.
i just want you to be able to love me the way i love you.
i just want you to love me and my queerness, not to love me despite my queerness.
i just want you to love me, queerness and all.
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bizarreaizen · 8 months
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shout out to people who have complicated/complex genders
shout out to people who are genderless
shout out to people who don't use/have labels to describe their gender
shout out to people who are still questioning their gender
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shamebats · 4 months
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The way ppl unironically say they couldn't possibly identify as a man/masc bc toxic masculinity exists... how is that different from mlm with internalized homophobia saying they don't want to identify as gay/lgbtq bc they hate the community and see only the ugly in it. Gatekeeping your own identity based on things other people who also use that label might've done...aren't you tired, don't you want to be your own person.
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drueginger · 6 months
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New gender dropped at some job I was applying for
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pademelonluck · 14 days
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Reblog to give a transphobe indigestion.
*gurlegurgle*
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punkwasp · 5 months
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Last night I was feeling kind of shitty out of the blue, and for no reason in particular, I decided to put on my chest binder.
Very quickly felt a sense of relief come over me, and same thing happened when I put it on today.
So here's a little reminder in case anyone else is like me and tends to minimize their dysphoria: sometimes dysphoria isn't always obvious. Sometimes it's just this sort of unexplained bad feeling. So if you're dealing with unexplained bad feelings and you've tried other things (making sure you're fed, staying hydrated, getting enough sleep, taking a shower, all those basic things) to deal with the bad feelings with no luck, maybe check if doing things that give you gender euphoria or at least lessen your gender dysphoria help.
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gatheringbones · 5 months
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[“It was only after I came out as a dyke that, for the first time in my life, I felt ready to celebrate being a girl, and I did. Actually, I overdid. Armed with Esther Newton’s Mother Camp, Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, and Joan Nestle’s A Restricted Country, I embraced femme. I dressed up in short flowery dresses, pushup bras, satin panties, and lacy stockings. I paid great attention to my long, curly, perfectly-coiffed hair, my glamorous makeup, and especially my pouty lips. I spritzed Lola’s smell on my skin—Estee Lauder’s Private Collection—and painted my nails. I wore all of it with black combat boots and a brilliant sense of irony. I reveled in my girliness, went over the top, learned how to tweeze my eyebrows and line my lips with a lip pencil.
My gender presentation was unmistakable: blatant female sexuality. I was a proud, in-your-face, take-no-prisoners, uppity, don’t-assume-I’m-straight-because-I-wear-lipstick-and-dresses femme dyke. Because femmes are always assumed to be straight or sleeping with men, and I do sleep with men, I made sure to always have a butch on my arm so I’d be read as femme. Even though I was sure I’d be mistaken for straight, the boys took one look at me and steered clear. It was as if I was too much of a woman for them to handle, like I was a handful, and I was. But butch girls love a handful—a handful of tits, a handful of ass, a girl who needs to be handled, a girl who can handle herself.
How I figured out I was a femme had a lot to do with the women I was attracted to and the dynamic between us. When I was in junior high, I used to mess around with a friend of mine named Angela. Angela was one of those girls who developed early; I remember she had big breasts in like sixth grade. We mostly kissed and touched over clothes, and we played out various boy-girl scenarios. I was always the girl—my early femme roots. My favorite of all our little scenes was the one where she was my male boss and I was the secretary. The boss made me have sex with him and told me if I didn’t I would get fired. Now this was all before Clarence Thomas, Anita Hill and the media awareness/obsession with sexual harassment. I remember she’d tell me to suck her dick and push my face unmercifully into her crotch, which smelled amazing,. The drama of it all—the force, the degradation, the power games—really got me off. After that, there was no going back to simplicity. I was hooked on the power.
Jen really epitomized all the girls I was attracted to then and still am. Being with a butch girl, I was valued for my combination of strength and vulnerability, for dressing up, for wanting an arm to hold onto, hips to wrap my legs around, being able to give my body over to her and say, I trust you, I’m yours. My butch loved me in low-cut dresses, appreciated my sexual voraciousness, worshipped my inner slut. I reveled in the fact that I could be strong and submissive all at once. Surrender and still be a feminist. Being a dyke is not just about who I fuck and love, it’s about being a girl who doesn’t play by the rules.
Butch girls don’t play by the rules either, and I love butch girls. Girls with hair so short you can barely slide it between two fingers to hold on. Girls with slick, shiny, barbershop haircuts and shirts that button the other way. Girls that swagger. Girls who have dicks made of flesh and silicone and latex and magic. Girls who get stared at in the ladies room, girls who shop in the boy’s department, girls who live every moment looking like they weren’t supposed to. Girls with hands that touch me like they have been touching my body their entire lives. Girls who have big cocks, love blow-jobs, and like to fuck girls hard. Every day, it is the girls that get called Sir that make me catch my breath, the girls with strong jaws that buckle my knees, the girls who are a different gender that make me want to lie down for them.
Someone else said it about me recently and it’s right on target: “She gets off on all different sorts of people sexually, but she falls for butches.” Like the poet who bought her first strap-on with me and then wanted to sleep with it on. The shrink-in-training who got harassed every time she drove down South. She did look so much like a fifteen-year-old boy: blue button-down shirts, neatly-combed blond hair. The ad exec who had names for her dildos and used to love for me to spit-shine her wingtips. The photographer whose face was so mannish she could pass almost anywhere. The writer who wanted a body like Loren Cameron’s. The telephone repairwoman who drove a truck. The cook who had a boy’s name. The academic who got cruised by gay men on Castro Street. The cornfed farmboy from the Heartland with arms so hard and strong you swear they’ve been working the land, not the iron at the gym.
And there’s the one who’s got the James Dean stare down, and dresses like a clean-cut fag, and looks at me like she could look at me forever and never blink or grow tired or move from the spot she’s in. She’s a girl who loves girls like me—girls in velvet bras, girls who want to surrender to her mouth. She’s a girl who isn’t afraid to throw a femme down on the bed and fuck her. Possess her. My kind of girl. This girl is different.”]
tristan taormino, from this girl is different, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000
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