Why the fuck would Drag Queen’s be Feminists?

Thursday, October 28, 2010


Recently, I started Reading some feminist blogs. I have a long running interest in gender and sexuality and feminists seem to be the ones doing most of the talking about those topics. I’m actually a pretty big fan of Clarisse Thorn after reading a bunch of her stuff, particularly after reading this article. Unfortunately, there are so many other feminist writers who are utterly infuriating – this being a prime example.

First and foremost, I should say that Feminism as a concept bothers me. Feminism is by it’s definition, a vehicle to advance the agenda of a single interest group, exclusionary to the interests of all others. Fundamentally – I think that’s disreputable. Masking that process as the pursuit of egalitarianism is I think disingenuous and misleading. I mentally cast that notion in with ethnic segregationists and and misogynistic patriarchalism.

In reality, I know that most feminists are actually egalitarian. Which is a concept that I support whole heartedly. I also know that most supporters of Men’s Rights groups and the like are also fundamentally supporting egalitarianism. But so very many activists are actually supporting their own interest group’s agenda with no real interest in egalitarianism, except in a creepy, Orwellian ‘Animal Farm’ context where they’re more equal than everyone else. So I try and filter my reading down to people who are smart and are actually interested in discussing gender and sexuality in a reasonable way – rather than pushing an agenda.

Today I read this. Convoluted series of links from something Clarrise posted. Wow that was a mistake.

The thrust of the story was that an alarming number of men who dress in women's clothing do not have an accompanying interest in women's rights. Which is frankly astonishing to me. Why on earth would Drag Queens have any interest or concern as a group, in Women’s Rights? Human nature is clear in that we’re self interest. If Drag Queens, as a group – were going to have an active interest in any kind of equality/anti-discrimination agenda – they’re much more likely to be concerned with anti-homosexual agendas. Discrimination against Cross Dressers, and the Gender Queer would also be a pretty big concern I’d imagine. But fundamentally, Cross Dressers aren’t Cisexual women. Most Cross dressers don't even self identify as women. The discrimination that they’re exposed to isn’t discrimination against women. And if any group of people was less likely to see a downside to being biologically female and not having the same rights and considerations as Cisgendered men – I can’t think of who they might be.

You would think that these men would be natural feminists. They are intimately aware of the performance of femininity; their gimmick is based upon societal discomfort with gender nonconformity; they are forced to perform absurd tasks in ridiculous footwear.

The writer was at the Dupont High Heel Race. Does she really think that the queens she was interviewing have a serious problem with ridiculous footwear? That they feel ‘forced’ to perform? Seriously? Drag performers are typically people who enjoy the role and enjoy the footwear. Cross Dressers and Transgendered parties moving towards a female identity aren’t the same Demographic as Drag Queens at all – and in the CD and TG communities – there is a reasonably visible propensity towards fetishizing the ludicrous shoes, but there are also many many people who wear comfortable shoes and pursue their gender role because they find more joy and truth in it. Who find joy and benefit in being feminine.

Also, and this is a little politically incorrect in a time when so many transgender parties are stressing that their change is based in need, not desire – but I know a good number of pre-op M to F, or fully transitioned parties who sought a feminine gender identity because they thought it was better. Sexually and socially – they compared masculinity and femininity and found either the middle ground, or the female transition to be preferable. I don’t mean to imply that it’s a universal truth, or that it’s even reflective of a majority of transgendered parties – but I’d estimate that among my personal acquaintances and friends it’s reflective of somewhere between a third and a half of the gender transitions that I’ve observed. And for reference, I think it’s awesome and those people are tremendously sexually interesting to me. But I think it’s indicative of why they’re the last people I’d expect to see being a woman as a disadvantaged position that needs balancing.

Also, and lets be honest, lots of Cis homosexual men, who typically make up a majority of drag queens, are kind of misogynistic. Again, it’s not universal or anything – but lots of gay men have issues with women and apart from close and trusted friends – see women as anything but sympathetic. Admittedly, among my friends and family – there’s some pretty profound misogyny – so maybe I’m seeing that as a broader characteristic than it deserves – but Alan Down’s excellent ‘The Velvet Rage’ gives some great insights into why men only club nights might about more than focusing attention on valid potential sexual partners.

So what's Drug sex like?

Friday, October 1, 2010

When you first drop (swallow a pill, or put it under your tongue and hold it there while it dissolves, feel the tingle, acid burn, diesel and vinegar, powdered bass lines and throbbing dreams of togetherness); it doesn't feel dirty, hell it it doesn't feel anything at all. Until the first time you crush it up, put it in the mortar and pestle your mom bought you from that snooty kitchen store, grind it up with glucose, split it into long white perfect lines, railway tracks to oblivion on a mirror that you can't let yourself look into, acrid and horrible as you inhale, a drop of water makes the burn go away, but the feeling of being dirty lingers when it starts to drip down the back of your throat, burning mucous chunks of filth, that's when it starts feeling dirty, but hey at least you're not one of those freaks who puts them up other cavities, that's something right?; Its like being in an elevator the moment before the cord snaps. Something momentous is coming, but you don't really feel anything at all. When you've done it a few dozen, or a few hundred times, when you're a junkie to the core, you feel the anticipation, feel the intensity building. You're Pavlov's Dog and the dinner bell is ringing. You feel your jaw starting to wobble with an impatient sense of impending something. You never really know what. You hope its going to be perfect.

You go and you lose yourself. Throw yourself away. Burn away the trail of breadcrumbs with a chemical flamethrower, napalm on the wildflowers of your sanity. Hide in the dark and the anonymity of the crowds, Let the lasers wash away what you were in case you come looking for yourself. You dance because you love to dance, or because it makes the high come faster. You think it’s because you love to dance, physical exertion accelerates absorption, but you think you always loved to dance, maybe that was it, you never really know.

You go and buy a bottle of water. You throw a mouthful back and it tastes wrong, sweet, the acid dried saliva washing out of your mouth. You feel that rumble in the base of your belly, you feel your heart starting to pump faster, you can't relax your jaw, one thought burns your brain, "Get me to the fucking dance floor, I hear my train's a’comin."

You dance and you dance and you dance. You spin your hands through the air, little lasers or those stupid sticks you snap to make a glow, you space out and realize that the lights are just a blur. So many colors, so many lights, everything is wrapped in peach fuzz. You brush against something, fur covered pants, made by somebodies mom, you're hand brushes across them, lingering, sensual, Jesus you're shaking like its an earthquake, and baby it’s the big one.

You throw your head back in the lasers, tasting the lights as they wash over your face; washing you away, you find a water bottle in your hand and water washing over your face. You feel the temperature change but you don't feel the water. You're dancing with somebody, or maybe you were just dancing with the bass. You feel her hands on your thighs, fur covered patches sewn to your pants by your Nana. She just doesn't understand kids fashion today. Fuck those are on the other pants, these ones are just comfortable and ordinary, except for the perfect pair of hands wrapped around your ass, pulling you against the most perfect skin you've ever had wet dreams about. She asks if you've got a cigarette, you don't smoke, you put more shit down your throat and up your nose then you can remember, but you don't smoke, that shit will kill you. You tap your friend, or some guy who was next to you and smoking, you can't talk right now but you can put two fingers to your lips, your jaws are wobbling, your eyes are rolling, everything is a blur as he hands you the cigarette, you put it to your lips and she reaches down the front of her pants, fingers lingering over something in there before she pulls out a lighter and hands it to you. You take a drag and remember that you don't smoke, you hand the cigarette to her and blow the smoke out, coughing slightly, trying not to remember that first hit of meth, or the times when you promised yourself you'd never smoke, never end up an addict like your parents. You think she's got that look in her eyes. Is she really there or is she just the bass line? Fuck how good is this DJ? She's taking you by the hand and leading you off the dance floor. You linger, dragging your fingers over random people's flesh, fur, skin and hair as you trail after her. You stop to watch that guy doing that thing with the lights that you love but can never do right. Jesus Christ did you see that? That guy just did a back flip!

She's leading you up the stairs and into the bathrooms, the ones with the doors that stretch floor to ceiling. You blink, you've got her pressed up against the wall, your hands holding her wrists above her head, her body arched, aching against you, you open your eyes and read the graffiti on the wall behind her hair, one of her hands is free, pulling up your shirts, skin on skin, you can feel her, crushed silk and velvet, a kittens fur and perfection, unbefuckinglievable, Christ its hot, you're pouring water down over both of you, you don’t remember pulling the water bottle from your pocket.

You’re soaked to the skin with sweat and ice water, burning up, her hand wrapped around you, your hand in her hair, mashing your mouth against hers, her nipple in your mouth, she's got the cutest freckles and a tattoo of something, your vision blurs and you can’t tell what, you’re pretty sure its cute though. You know time passes but you can't remember it, she's on her knees, her shirt on the hook on the back of the door, don't want to get it dirty, Jesus Christ she's got her mouth around you, everything blurs and she's bent over and you're inside her; am I hard? Fuck! God what is this feeling? Pounding on the door? Bouncers are telling you to get out now. You aren't finishing any time soon with the chemical flood rushing though your blood.

You aren't sure how but you talk your way out of getting kicked out, you're back on the floor, she's dancing with you like you're still fucking, you've got your hand down the front of her pants, inside her panties, rough plastic baggie full of something crystalline and her wet lips against your fingers as you dance, and then she's gone and you never know if she was real. A hundred photos on your camera phone the next day, was that what she really looked like? Or was it her? Maybe it was that one? Maybe it was just the bass line.

What's the epilogue? Where's the morality tale? Every one of these stories has one. Eventually, if you push the recreational narcotics envelope far enough, if you're hardcore, old skool, last of the real ravers, dedicated to the pursuit of the perfect high, or just persistent in your stupidity, you reach a point. Some people see the point coming and stop early. Some people never really push themselves, their bodies or their minds far enough to reach the point. But if you push hard enough, long enough, everyone reaches the same point. You get depressed, nothing feels real, you feel sanity slipping away. You realize you can't stand any of your friends in the cold light of sobriety. You start to hate the scene, the bullshit, the desperation, the depression, the paranoia. You fuck up some friendships and you hate yourself a little more every day. You clean up or you break up, little pieces of yourself lost and gone away. You are never the same person again. But it's a long, fun road to reach that point.

Do I miss it? The journey? The chemical safari? Riding the Disco pony to funky town on a road made of rainbows and dream? Nah. I don't miss it. Not at all. It's not me any more. I don't still Jones. I don't hear Pavlov's dinner bell ringing. I hear the music now and it's cleaner. Pure without the drugs. My brain works now. I don't miss the drugs. The escape. Not at all. I'm not a junkie. Not any more. Not at all. I'm fine. 100%. A-Ok. Fuck I could do with a trip.

Drug sex - We bump and we grind
Drug sex - We lost track of time
And you never fuckin' done it 'till you done it fucked up
Drug sex - I can't believe I'm still up
~ Machinegun Fellatio