Drag

MilDred DRED Gerestant

MilDred DRED Gerestant

I didn’t realize I was in drag until the fire alarm went off and I hastily stripped out of my tie and suspenders. But even then I didn’t realize it. It wasn’t until the fire alarm turned off a minute later and I tweeted that “the fire alarm went off while I was practicing my drag.” that I realized that I was actually “practicing my drag.” I mean, I knew I had an idea for an outfit–something of a costume–in a masculine style–but it didn’t occur to me that deliberately dressing up in a styized male fashion, was actually drag! Especially with the whole: trying on the outfit ahead of time and having a mini photo-shoot thing.

I guess that some part of me knew it, or I couldn’t have tweeted it. But if that was drag, what made it different from the last event like this that I went to, where I constructed a stylized feminine image out of character with my normal version of gender-presentation? Was that drag too? I tried on my clothes ahead of time for that too.

I think it was. Butch drag, femme drag. Gender as performance.

I don’t think that I’m really a femme. Or a butch. I’m just me.

I’m sure I’ll feel different tomorrow.

MilDred DRED Gerestant as a Femme and a Butch

Drag King and Queen

 

Both Sides

A Midevil butch and femme

I really appreciate the butch-femme dynamic–from both sides!

See, even though I’m most often attracted to studs and butches–and love following on the dancefloor, having the door held for me, dinner paid for, etc., love, love love recieving in the bedroom–a part of me wants to be the one doing all those things.

I’ve mentioned her before, but I have a straight(ish) femme friend, and hanging out with her has given me an outlet for the butch side that I try so hard to hide. When I told her about my plan to dress like a stud for Halloween, she looked at me funny, and asked how that was different from how I normally dressed. I looked down at myself in my over-sized concert T-Shirt (Bob Marley) and baggy jeans, and realized that I did always seem to dress more masculine when I visited her. Now I do it consciously. Last time I didn’t even wear a bra. (When you’re already big, loose titts could be man-titts lol.)

Over time I’ve also been taking on more of the tasks that she usually assigns to her no-good menfolk: installing her AC, locks and curtain rods. When I come over I bring bread and salad and she cooks elaborate and delicious meals.

Recently she was talking about how she had to mow her lawn.
“Well I could have my son do it, but–” she started going through a list of possible dangers of lawn-mowing: dismembered limbs, gouged eyeballs, concussions…etc…this woman has a seriously over-active imagination.
“I’ll do it.” I told her, feeling wonderfully capable and completely disregarding the previously un-thought-of perils of lawn mowing.
“How much would you charge for that?”
“I couldn’t charge you.” I replied, unconsciously puffing my chest out and feeling deliciously chivalrous.

I could never be in a relationship with my friend, even if she was my “type”–I’ve seen how she obsesses over her partners, and I would not like to be the subject of that level of neurosis. (Plus, it may sound wrong, but she’s told me enough about her sexual  history to make me not want to go there.) Even so, sitting there at the dinner table with her and our six kids–I feel the greatest sense of peace.

Heading home from her house with the mantle of female masculinity settled comfortably around me, I wondered how I could make the transition back to femme to go out that night?
Usually switching is not so much a choice as an instinct, it’s like I get gender-role exhaustion: when I go out excessively feminine, the next day I’ll go out as a boi, and after a boi day, I get tired of the negative reactions and extra–idk–work that presenting as masculine in society usually takes for me. Then I settle back into my daily low-key femme ways.

But with my friend it wasn’t work, it wasn’t tiring, it just felt natural…and right…hmm…(?)

With the kids in bed, I decided to start by shaving. After shaving my chin, pitts and those random hairs on my chest–I started feeling more femme–and was soon dithering between four skimpy, sparkly outfits.

What can I say, I love to follow on the dance-floor!

The Reluctant Femme

If I was to write a blog with a less confrontational name, I would call it “The Reluctant Femme.”

I’ve never felt such pressure to be feminine since I’ve been actively engaging in the lesbian communities. I know I bring a lot of this on myself, since I seem to be attracted to bois, tombois, and–my favorite–studs. I’m attracted to women right up to the razors-edge of Trans. (I don’t think I’d want to date a woman who was actively trying to turn herself into a man. I support his right to do it, but I think that the chemical and physical alterations would turn me off.)

Of course, I’m also attracted to femmes. But the thing is, I can pull both dressed as a femme, and I can only pull femmes as a butch.  (And I don’t think I would be attracted to the kind of butch who likes other butches.)

I’ve been having dramatic gender-identity swings: I feel like a femme to a butch and a butch to a femme. But I do have a preference for butch women, and they want femmes!

I keep being told I’m a femme, and  I dress very femme when I go out to the club…but then the next day I wear my baggiest jeans, boots, a big T and chain. I’m a big woman with broad shoulders, and never learned the lady-like thing all that well, so trying to be femme can actually be harder than being butch…but I don’t yet know which side I’ll end up coming down on. If I come down…

After one of my “boi day’s” as I call them–which happen about once a week–I’m tired of the hostile looks from other butches (hilariously, the butch at my office practically hisses at me like a cat guarding her territory when I dress butch, but is totally friendly when I’m dressed femme) and some men–tired of, I don’t know–the type of energy I’m putting out…and I settle back into my normal girl jeans, blouse and necklace–my  low-key femme thing.

I can’t help it if I like auto mechanics and knitting

Fixing computers and fixing dinner.

That I worked for years as an adult to teach myself how to apply make-up–only to have my date ask why I don’t wear any!

The closest thing I had to a successful relationship was a totally non-sexual arrangement I had with a male friend of mine: he cooked and cleaned and took care of my kids, and I went to school and worked, paid the bills and shopped.

Which makes me think I should cut my hair and find a nice femme to settle down with.

And then I see a sexy stud across the room, and just want to giggle and twirl my hair.