the
QUEER issue
April 2010
issue four
contents introduction
4
ted my little secret tran(s)gression
6
9
12
like you
16
18
november calendar girl
you don't join the team to sit on the bench
mahwage
23
sketching my desire 29
20
26
under covers
30
the pinkest float i have ever seen i do redux
the whole issue
32
34
queering the body one brown inch at a time 38
40
37
boxed identities
you can still call me sir
Although we’ve been hearing from queer identities since BODYTALK began, this issue is lovingly dedicated to our sexually “deviant,” gender bending and binary rejecting friends. Among other non-normative gender and sexual identities, The Queer Issue celebrates those of us who are lesbian, transgender, bisexual, pansexual, gay, genderqueer and/or genderfuck. It also recognizes the invaluable members of the queer community who may not seem queer at first glance but who love and defend people of all sexes, genders and sexualities: our queer allies. Admittedly, it may seem that queer identities alone are various and limitless, but the individual histories, anecdotes and contexts within these identities are what really give the queer community its diversity. In this issue, you will read about one’s dilemmas regarding queer sex, a weekly ritual of gender transformation, reflections on a queer friend’s life of secrecy and a woman’s once-inevery-ten-years flirtation with homosexuality. Even so, what is most important about these stories is not that they are combatively different, but rather that they represent a complex, multi-dimensional community comprised of people who value self-determination and demand respect. As you read, keep in mind that we do not represent one viewpoint, one ideology or one sexual narrative; we are a collective voice. You do not have to agree with us or condone what we do, you only have to respect what we have to say and appreciate our experiences. Welcome to BODYTALK.
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bodytalk 5
by sarah
6
bodytalk
Before I knew what queer meant, before I knew what homo was short for, before I knew the other meaning of gay, there was Ted. Ted was (and always will be) my aunt Edie's best friend. My earliest memories of Edie also include Ted. As a three or four-year old, I was enamored with all things pink and frilly and Barbie. Whenever Edie and Ted came over, I met them at the door with an oversized, silver canister of blonde, bendy-legged dolls by my side. They hunkered down with me in my room, and we played for what seemed like hours. Besides getting to spend time with the aunt I have always deemed the coolest, I got to know her best friend, whom I also grew to love. To my child ears, Ted had the nicest sounding voice. A barely-there lisp and animated gestures made it interesting and fun to talk to him. At one point, I remember wondering if Ted had a wife, or if he played Barbies with a daughter my age. I don't think I ever asked him about it, probably because Edie wasn't married either—and selfishly, I never wanted her to have kids because I wanted all of the attention. But the Barbies could only last so long. Edie moved to Chicago, then California, then New York. She only came to Kansas City for short visits, and for years, I didn't see Ted. Sometimes Edie would mention him in our telephone conversations. She'd say he asked how I was. It flattered me to know that Ted remembered and wondered about me. I remembered and wondered about him. I got older, and I slowly began to process certain experiences. The backyard of our house on Canterbury shared part of a fence with two men who lived together. I was about eight when my parents told me the men were just good friends. I'm sure it was a little difficult to lie, but my parents wanted to protect my naiveté for as long as possible. Later, from our back patio, I giggled as I watched our two neighbors host a pool party with everyone dressed in drag. My mom called me inside and told me not to stare. To me, it made perfect sense: who wouldn't want to wear girls’ clothes? Everything changed in middle school. Kids got mean. The biggest insult was to call someone any combination of derogatory terms associated with homosexuality. Rumors that Mr. Felzip, the social studies teacher, was gay flew through the halls. The situation grew so grim that Mr. Felzip called an emergency meeting to defend his sexuality, saying that he did date women and that he wanted to get married. I couldn't understand why what Mr. Felzip did was any of our business. Yeah, that naiveté my parents worried so much about? It was still intact. Even at thirteen, I barely bodytalk 7
understood sexual orientation, and unless it was a crush that somehow involved me, I wasn't concerned with who liked whom. I saw Ted again in middle school. On one of her visits, Edie brought him over to my parents' house for dinner. Aftewards, the three of us went upstairs and played with my fashion designer computer game for hours. I showed them my yearbook too. They wanted to know about my crushes. Edie went downstairs for a bit, and I talked with Ted about the gossip at school. He listened quietly as I told him about Mr. Felzip. "What do you think about it?" he asked. "I don't know," I said as I sat on my hands and looked down at my yearbook. "I guess he's a good teacher. And what he does is none of my beeswax." I looked up at Ted, who looked down at me and smiled. After that evening, I didn't see Ted for another ten years. He came to a party we threw for my grandmother's 80th birthday, and we instantly recognized each other. We talked so much that we forgot to eat. He worked for the post office. I was about to go abroad. He loved to receive letters. He was curious about college and asked about my friends. I told him about my roommate, Jack, who was also my best friend. I said that I hoped he and I could be as lucky as Ted and Edie, who have remained close for decades. Ted asked if Jack was openly gay. "Yeah," I told him. "Jack recently came out to his family. Things are going well." Ted said he was happy for him, and he sighed. "I regret never coming out to my family and coworkers," he revealed. "And it's too late to do anything about it now." I didn't know what to say. I couldn't breathe. It was as if, for that moment, Ted allowed me to feel how much weight he had carried — on his back, in his mailbag, in his heart — for so many years. "Why?" I whispered. "I never had the courage to completely be myself. I'll probably never have a partner either." He laughed uncomfortably. "How about a drink?" I knew that Ted didn't want me to feel sorry for him, but I was sad. I wondered what conversations Ted had with his own nieces. Probably not the one he just had with me. I can count on two hands the amount of times I've talked to Ted. Still, sometimes the briefest interactions can be the most meaningful. This is neither a new nor a profound statement, but it is how my feelings are summed up when I think of Ted. Although I am happy to have gotten to know him at his most comfortable, my heart hurts when I think about what Ted has chosen to keep closeted. I think about my parents who tried so hard to protect me by strewing the truth. Maybe it changes when children get older. Maybe Ted is protecting his parents. Maybe it's none of my business. Maybe Ted is protecting himself. 8
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my secret little
by m. parker
bodytalk 9
Right before I went into fifth grade, my parents sat me down for “the big talk.” They told me that when a man loves a woman and they decide to have a baby, the man uses his boy parts and puts them inside the woman and the woman becomes pregnant. I cried and cried and cried. They comforted me, but they were puzzled. Was I frightened? No. Was I worried that it hurt? No. What was it? I didn’t have the words to explain why I cried then, but now I think it was because I knew I never wanted that to happen to me. When I was in sixth grade I went to my room and wouldn’t come out—not normal behavior for a young girl who had an extremely open and loving relationship with her family. My mother came up to see what was wrong and found me sobbing into my pillow. “What’s the matter, honey?” But I couldn’t even put it into words. I thought I was evil, that something was fundamentally wrong inside of me, that somewhere, somehow, God had really messed up in my creation. I didn’t have a name for it then, either. I just felt isolated and scared of the rest of the world. I felt unspeakably guilty. I knew people of the same sex who lived together. Our family never talked about it, but the phenomenon existed in my mind. However, it felt so wrong for me to mention or even think about same-sex partners that I repressed all feelings and recollections. In eighth grade, I stopped speaking at school. I became very depressed, withdrawn and suspicious of everyone. I considered myself to be without sexuality, without needs or desires, because it allowed me to avoid thinking about the unthinkable: my desire for women. In high school, I never had a boyfriend. If a friend asked who I thought was cute or who I would date if I had the chance, I would pick a nice, young boy and talk about him with the sort of enthusiasm I thought was appropriate. When I had my first gynecological exam at fourteen, I screamed and cried the moment the doctors even touched the skin around my vagina. I was determined to completely ignore the fact that I had a gender, sexuality, desires and sexual organs. I never put in a tampon, I never bought even semi-revealing underwear and I hated my breasts. I became obsessed with neutralizing my attraction to women. It was unspeakable and unthinkable, and anytime I saw a female, I would engage in compulsions. I didn’t sleep at night so I could replay the day over and over in my head and reconsider, rethink, relive every interaction I had with a woman or girl. I had to make sure nobody knew. I’m not depressed. I’m not OCD. I don’t like girls. I’m not depressed. I’m not OCD. I don’t like girls. Over and over and over and over. I never felt like coming out because I was never in. I never considered myself to be
attracted to anything or anyone because I had such severe anhedonia. I didn’t like looking at myself naked. In fact, I would either shut off the lights or close my eyes when undressing. My hate of my attraction to girls converted into hate of myself: my body, clothes and thoughts. I spiraled downward, always covering my anguish with a smile in public but suffering horribly in private. One day, at age sixteen, I attempted suicide. It was unsuccessful and nobody noticed. One year later, I committed myself to my first psychiatric hospital and began to seriously reevaluate my life. With the help of a therapist to whom I will be permanently indebted, I slowly began to think of myself as a sexual being. It was, and still is, a very difficult ordeal. It wasn’t until months of work that I could say the words “homosexual” and “lesbian” without blushing and squirming around. Once I became even slightly okay with being a lesbian, and viewing myself as having sexual urges, it became something I didn’t want to keep within me any longer. I wanted to tell others, to let them experience the release I felt with this new revelation—a release that, like a newborn colt, was unsteady and unsure but was beautiful and held the promise of growth. I consider my coming out experience (which is always, always ongoing) to be fairly good so far. My parents reacted well, although they wish life could be different for me. My grandparents chose to ignore it, and my friends have usually been accepting. Coming out also gave me the life-changing opportunity to meet other people like me in the LGBTQ community, something I credit with saving my life. It was not until I spoke to other queer people that I realized my experience was unique. From my understanding of others’ stories, families are not always as welcoming as mine was, which is what leads to the depression, embarrassment and questioning of oneself that often occurs with LGBTQ people. I also learned that the severe aversion to one’s sexuality and one’s body, like the one I experienced, can sometimes be traced back to a childhood event or belief. While my family was certainly not hostile to the idea of my queerness, and I remember no traumatic event from my childhood, I still had the overwhelming need to cauterize every single sexual thought that entered my mind. I do not know why I had such a difficult time, but I did. I am sure there are others like me who, for some reason, viciously hate their sexuality. I have learned to be more loving and accepting of myself, although the idea of sex— with a male or female—still makes me uncomfortable. I am learning, and I am growing. I am a sensitive individual with the right to be sensitive. I have learned to say two things I never thought I would or should vocalize: I am a homosexual, and I have mental illnesses. They are separate identities, but they are both me.
bodytalk 11
tran(s) 12
bodytalk
)gression
by jgl(‘s doppleganger)
tran(s)g Every Wednesday night, I provide the stimulus for my body’s transformation. Taking it along its journey. My journey. For the better and worse parts of my 22+ years, science has told me my body has been shaped predominantly by estrogen. On October 21st, 2009, just before my 22nd birthday, I changed that. Every Wednesday night, I change that. I sit down on the toilet, in my underwear, rearrange the lamp so that it’s shining directly on my lap, and pull out everything I need: one 1mL syringe, one 23-gage 1-inch needle, one 18-gage 1.5-inch loading needle, one 2000mg/10mL vial of testosterone cypionate, a bag of cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I unpeel the wrapper from the syringe, unpeel the wrapper from the loading needle, screw the loading needle onto the syringe, take a cotton ball out of the bag, pour a bit of rubbing alcohol on it, wipe down the needle, wipe down the top of the vial, pull air into the syringe (twice the amount I’ll need for the testosterone), stick the needle through the rubbery top of the vial, push the air into the vial and slowly suck the liquid into the syringe. I draw it slowly to where I drew the air in and push the air pocket and excess fluid back into the vial to just a little bit before my required dosage. Then, out comes that needle and on goes the other needle. I wipe down the new needle with rubbing alcohol, as well as my leg, push the liquid up and stop when the first drip appears. Breathe. Slowly. The light hits my leg, illuminating every hidden blue line. Finding a veinless section, I push the needle through my skin, feeling the thick(ening) skin give way to the needle, feeling the needle slither through the next layer, then hitting the wall of muscle and poke on through into that layer. With the needle almost completely submerged, I release the fluid into my muscle. Another cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol goes on my leg where the needle was, picking up the red bubble of blood that starts to well up from the hole in my skin. Every Wednesday night. All this. All this for a little more hair on my skin, for a more angular jaw, for a body shaped by muscle tone, for broader shoulders, for a straighter line down the side of my body. All this for the struggle of how to confront this new white/middle-class/seemingly heterosexual/seemingly able-bodied/(seemingly) male privilege. All this for family estrangement. All this for not spending thirty minutes in front of the mirror trying to get dressed, crying and throwing my clothes to the ground because nothing fits like it should, taking 14
bodytalk
gression my binder on and off, compulsively rearranging anything I decide to wear. All this for not looking down and hating/not recognizing what I see. All this to feel more comfortable, to feel more at home in my body. All this for a scent changing, a clit growing, a voice deepening, a skin thickening, a complexion oiling, a b/acne blooming. All this for the twenty-two times (so far) I’ve seen little red scabs (sometimes bruises too) on my legs. All this for a little extra masturbating. All this for spending time in front of a mirror trying to be okay with where I’m at. All this for looking at my face up close in the mirror and seeing the moustache hairs thicken, counting the 4…5…6…7…8 little brown hairs underneath my lips, noticing the massive amounts of peach fuzz illuminated by the light. All this just to “switch” to getting “he” and “sir” when all I want is “ze” and “____” (nothing). All this for not wanting to be a girl, but not wanting to be a boy either. All this for no more menstruation. All this for a fear of being “recognized” by someone on the street, “Hey Zóra”, (to friend) “she…” All this for not really identifying with masculinity or femininity and not getting why that binary exists in the first place. All this for struggling with identifying as queer (gender/body/sexuality), yet still kinda wanting that cookie cutter body, still kinda thinking it’d be easier. All this for trying to find out when I’ll feel at home in my body, when I’ll feel comfortable. All this for still being invisible. All this? For me. Every Wednesday night.
bodytalk 15
Like You by lainey durand
16
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How can you hate that girl so much? The one who's kind and smart and strong. You never even gave her a chance To prove she's who she has been all along. You were so mean to that poor boy, The one you'd just met the other day. You told him never to call you again Because he told you he was gay. So much pain and hurt you've caused. Why can't you just realize? They're just lonely people too, Looking through the same sad eyes. You say they're a cult, dragging you in, But they just want to live as they choose. They aren't wrong, diseased, or disgusting. For once, put yourself in their shoes. You're scared by what is different. And deep down you know it's true: You fear and hate only because You can see they're just like you.
bodytalk 17
by jen vaughn 18
bodytalk
bodytalk 19
by rich
20
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I
am not a sportsman. I’m not a team player. When it comes to group activities, I shy away. No; I actively distance myself. That would be more accurate. Which isn’t to say I don’t like sport. I love to watch sport, and the few sports that you
can undertake as far away from another person as possible—well, sign me up. I’ve discovered a love for running, I enjoy cycling, I try and get to the gym three times a week. And I’m getting good at it. In fact, if you’d known me a year ago, you’d think I was a completely different person. I embrace activity, and one day, I truly hope to be a member of the team. But not yet; I need a little bit longer to prepare myself. A senti-
ment which echoes another stem of my personality. I’m gay. It’s not a fact I admit often. Indeed, it’s something very few of my friends know about, but I’m okay with that. I don’t feel like I’m living a lie because I’ve never really tried to join the team. I don’t play the game. I don’t have any gay friends. I’ve never been in a gay relationship. Gay culture is completely lost on me. I’m very straight-acting, and I’ve had girlfriends in the past of which most my friends are aware. The trouble is I’m getting older. I’m past the stage where I want to have casual sex or sordid romances; secret kisses in clubs when no one I know is around. I’m ready for a relationship with someone I care about. A relationship in the open where everyone knows about me, and I don’t have to hide. Which means I have two problems to overcome. The first is the classic gay dilemma. I have to come out. Well that’s no big surprise: it’s a subplot of every teen drama ever made. I don’t need to detail the difficulties of coming out to people of my generation. It’s a non-story these days. To be honest, I imagine most people have guessed anyway. There’s only so many times you can watch Glee before it’s considered a fact. Coming out is the easy part. It’s the second problem I’m going to struggle with: how to join the team. It’s easy when you’re young and beautiful. It comes with the territory. If you’re fun loving and bodytalk 21
good looking, you’ll fit right in. Better even, you’ll be top of the pile. But who wants an older, overweight, hirsute, ginger boyfriend? It’s hard enough convincing a woman to go out with me. The gay men I see are rarely bad looking and almost always healthy. They care for their bodies, while I have abused mine relentlessly since I was a teenager. Look at a billboard, a magazine, an advert—if you thought women were the only ones under pressure from magazines and celebrities to look good, think again. It seems like even an average looking woman could snare most guys, whereas gay guys have a wealth of fit men to choose from and aren’t about to settle. This all boils down to one thing. I’m not ready to join the team. Sure, if I asked they’d let me in. Gay people seem like an inclusive bunch. But my fear of rejection is just that; a fear. I don’t want to join the team just to sit on the bench. I want to play with the big boys (no pun intended). I have no intention of sitting on the sidelines. So I’ll carry on bettering myself until I feel ready. I’ll keep going to the gym and running and cycling and eating better and looking after myself until one day the team comes to me and asks me to join. Not because they need another player, and not because they feel sorry for me. Because they realise I’m one of the boys, and I always have been.
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Mahwage by allison braun
photo courtesy of www.helyn.com
bodytalk 23
Ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to get married. I would watch all the Disney weddings and Princess Bride and the ceremonies that took place in my life with awe. It was easy to see that those couples loved each other and that they had to be together. I knew in my heart that I absolutely positively had to get married. Now? I’m not so sure. Being queer, I’ve realized two key things. 1. I have to be angry because, if I don’t arm myself, I’m going to get hurt. 2. I can’t be like them. Them. Straight people. Heteronormativity. It’s everywhere, in every facet of our culture. This whole place stinks of “normalcy.” My dream and destiny to get married to the woman I loved? I didn’t know what to make of it. Sure, I have the fight for marriage equality, but then I have the other side that believes in equal rights but feels I shouldn’t try to be like them because (say it with me): Heteronormativity is poison. It sucks you dry and forces you into your place. But here’s the thing. We queers are different. Ok, duh, that’s obvious, but seriously. We are changing the face of marriage. Back in the day, it was considered a forced bond between man and woman. It was a slave trade, a sign of ownership. Women were handed off without choice and judged based upon shallow ideals. Over the years, it became even more religious and a trap. It became a way to normalize society and make everyone stay within his or her cultural, racial and/or class boundaries. Crossing the lines was struck down and those who tried were torn apart by force. Today, it is a tawdry reality show, a glorified glory hole. It is a 50% and rising divorce rate. It is a pregnant and scared, too young teen being forced into shacking up with her too young boyfriend all because they should. It is expected. It is what we’re supposed to do. Queers are changing it though. We as a culture, as a mass of amazing and beautiful queer people, are changing the very definition of marriage. For many of us, it is something that we must do to strengthen our bond and keep us safe from the cold hands of the law. We want to marry because we love our partner so deeply and so strongly that we want to have that ceremony and sign that contract to celebrate our love. We want every single fucking person on this planet to know that the bond between our partner and us is something powerful. We want to be able to share the benefits of being legally bound and get some bitchin’ tax breaks and not be forced out of our partner’s hospital room in times of trouble. We want to be treated civilly and not as “less than.” Marriage, for queers, is not what it used to be. We fight a brand new battle, a battle where we are not only fighting for legal rights and benefits, but a battle where we are 24
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fighting not to be normalized and fall under the same heteronormative category. We are different, we are a separate culture, we are not them. Many of the fighters try to put us in the same category in order to justify the cause and turn us into what we are not, but we must not let them disregard our differences and our uniqueness. We will not be ashamed of ourselves just because the rest of society tells us to leave our weirdness at the door before they consider accepting us. So in the spirit of being different, let me say this: I really do want my white dress and I want my ceremony. But more than anything? I want to be able to legally hold my lady’s hand and say, “I do.� That so much to ask?
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sketching my desire by curiousgeorge14
26
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In an instant message conversation during my senior year of high school, a good friend told me he was gay. Rumors of his homosexuality had circulated for years, but to read it on my computer screen left me feeling oddly surprised...and a bit reminiscent. While he was the first gay person I had actually known, he was not the first gay person I had “met.” Reading in that little message box that my friend was gay brought me back to several years before: to a game of iSketch, a young guy from New York and an uncharacteristically erotic chat. I don’t know exactly how I stumbled on this game—anyone can tell you I’m not much of an artist; I just know that after I discovered the gay-themed drawing “rooms,” I plugged iSketch into my after-school schedule for weeks. Entering the rooms felt deviant in and of itself, so I didn’t try privately chatting with anyone at first. To be honest, I hardly even participated in the drawing game. I just sat at my computer, half-terrified that someone would catch me and half-ecstatic that I was virtually surrounded by men who were interested in men. Eventually, I developed enough courage to send someone a message. After scanning the usernames a dozen times, I chose one that evoked a mixture of youth, beauty and unbridled libido—something like twinkcutie69 or 18hotandhung. I didn’t have much luck initially—I think most people were distracted with other private chats—but one guy finally took an interest in me. “ASL?” he probed. “17, Male, Missouri,” I replied, confident that my real age of 14 would be a deal breaker. “How about you?” “20, nyc…u gay?” Good question. I was admittedly in a gay chat room, and I was persistently trying to get self-described horny men to talk to me. But was I gay? bodytalk 27
“No. Just really horny. I mean, I’d probably do a threesome with another guy…but that’s about it,” I decided. “Are you gay?” “yes i’m gay. and really horny too. u wanna cyber?” Did I want to cyber? Did I want to have cyber sex with a guy?! I hadn’t even cybered with a girl—not that I’d done anything with a girl offline either—but, moreover, I was not gay. “Uhh....I don’t know.” “it could be a threesome if you want…you pick the girl,” he persuaded. “…Sure. I guess you can do stuff to me, but I’m not doing anything to you,” I said in an effort to convince myself that despite how all of this sounded, it wouldn’t make me gay. He agreed. We’d have a cyber threesome of rando-NYC boy, myself and an implicitlyconsensual, completely imaginary Shakira (yes, the Colombian singer-songwriter). It sounded incredible. And although the majority of the sex took place in my imagination, it was incredible. It was better than any sexual fantasy I had let myself previously enjoy. Even so, I had difficulty keeping Shakira in the picture, and she slowly became absent in our sex chat. Despite my hetero-oriented convictions, it became all about him and me—the selfproclaimed gay him and the “not gay, just really horny” me. After a climactic ending, we wrapped the conversation up without much awkwardness and logged out. We chatted a few times following this—sometimes to repeat similar erotic scenarios and other times just to talk. I had never spoken to another man before him who was open about his homosexual desire, and I often wrote off my own sexual fantasies about men as unique and inappropriate. With his help, I was able to legitimize my sexual desire for men without feeling pressure to adopt an identity, and although I didn’t know this until many years later, my conversations with him were the start of my coming out process. He disappeared from the web a few weeks after meeting him, but when my good friend came out to me during my senior year, memories of our secret chats and cybersexual fantasies came rushing back. After the initial shock of hearing that my friend was gay, I was able to digest what he told me without much difficulty because I had been desensitized to the idea of being gay years before. In truth, I was slightly jealous that he had enough courage to come out, but within a few months, I followed suit.
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under covers by joshua
muyiwa
Once in a while, I need to be more naked than I am right now, for people to listen to me. You know, clothes are so important when one is gay, there are the accessories – bangles and piercings, you could fuck all that if I showed enough skin. Skin to keep them coming back for more. He, over there, understands this most, he’s got three buttons open, chest hair and collarbones on display. When I see that, I can imagine licking all the way down, unbuttoning his pants with my teeth, and then once he and I are naked, we could discuss LGBT rights, 377, the hijras being beaten on the streets, The neighbour who likes to wear a little black dress and give blowjobs in the penumbra of street lights. Because, even you and I know Global politics has changed over pillow talk. bodytalk 29
The Pinkest Float I Have Ever Seen by kristin noe
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It was a sweaty June day in Chicago. The sun beat down on my shoulders and the air grew stickier as the sidewalks and streets grew more crowded. With my Chardonnay juice box in hand, I squeezed through the crowd behind my sister behind her friends like ducks in a line. People spilled out windows, down doorsteps and into the streets for the Chicago Annual Pride Parade. I stopped to take it all in—the people, the music, the costumes, the confetti—only to be swallowed whole by the crowd. As my sister’s hand reached back to grab me, I realized I better not stray from mother duck. We got right up to the barricaded street. In the distance, I heard the beginning of one of my favorite club songs from my semester in London. Yves LaRock’s “Rise Up” crescendoed up the street, and I instinctively began dancing with the crowd. Gorgeous shirtless men covered the pinkest float I have ever seen, and everyone in the crowd danced and cheered along with them as they passed by. It was easy to be an ally there. Everyone was an ally or a member of the community. No one speculates or assumes anything about the person they are shoulder to shoulder with because it doesn’t matter. As long as you are having a good time, you are welcome. If Disney World is the happiest place on earth, this was the friendliest. I have been an ally my entire life and didn’t even know such a term existed until I got to college. I never had a moment when I realized there was a distinction between people who happen to be gay and those who happen to be straight. As far back as I can remember, people were just people. So here I was, sweaty and smashed up dancing with total strangers that were as good as friends. Initially, I was there to show my love and support for my sister’s friend. I looked at her standing next to her sister, her sister’s girlfriend and her transgender brother—and then I looked around and realized they had all the support they needed. I am proud to have each one of them living as themselves in my life. They have opened my eyes and my heart to even more people on this earth and I couldn’t be luckier. It should be easy to be an ally when people you love are members of the LGBTQ community. And at Pride, it is. But there are times that no matter how much love you have for others, it cannot surmount others’ closed minds. My role as an ally has been challenged in varying degrees over time. Whether it was an uber conservative roommate provoking my feelings about gay marriage or standing up for transgender patrons in a clothing store that I worked at, I can proudly say I have held my beliefs firm. And in those moments, in the absence of the music, the costumes, and the confetti of the parade, I showed my pride for the gay community more than ever.
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I Do REDUX
by madeline l. kuennen
32
bodytalk
by jessica jennrich
I expected to be done with this a long time ago—the thinking about being queer and all the pointy little ways it affects my life. My partner and I met ten years ago this month. When it came time to have “the talk” about spending the rest of our lives together we decided against a commitment ceremony or other wedding-like performance because we believed that same-sex marriage would be legalized soon. Yet, here we sit, ten years, a three year old, two eleven month old twins, a house and a minivan later, and we are no closer to any type of legal recognition of our relationship than we were. In some ways, though, we are actually much further. Amidst the screaming for dinosaur books and wailing over misplaced baby bottles and dropped teething toys last week, my partner and I had another “talk.” “It’s been ten years you know,” I said. “I know.” “I thought more things would change,” I whined a little. “Oh, I think plenty has changed” she said gesticulating to the bedlam our house had devolved to since our conversation began. I immediately recalled an image from our past: us sitting on the porch of our tiny one-bedroom undergrad apartment, drinking beer, listening to music and talking about all the big things we would do. “Yeah, I know we’ve changed, but the world is just staying the same” I said, frustrated. “Maybe we should just have a wedding or party or something now” I said, betraying my secret need to put on fancy shoes and pick out pretty cakes with matching napkins. “We said we wouldn’t unless it was legal,” she reminded. “We can’t just change our minds now.” I sighed. Ten years had taught me a number of things, the first of which was arguing with my partner, a committed philosopher, was pointless—you try coming back from “fallacious reasoning” hurled at you during an argument. But really, she was right. For us, it was true that waiting for legality made sense. This is not true for everyone but is true for us. This may mean we are destined to repeat this conversation every ten years until the background music has changed to our kids fighting over who gets to borrow the car or why they should to be allowed to stay out till dawn because “everyone else is allowed to.” But I’m willing to take that chance, willing to wait with her and willing to keep our promise. miniature photos courtesy of stéphanie kilgast miniature van photo courtesy of thomas hawk
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the
whole issue
by alex pesek 34
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this entire subject is funny/ weird/unusual/uncomfortable/ taboo for me to discuss. It feels silly for me to talk about a subject whose genesis is unavoidably juvenile; for while the larger portion of what I have to say has substance, its discussion comes most generally from childlike reactions to something that for most is either unequivocally banal or potentially integral to their happiness or satisfaction. For me, however, this subject has more at stake, since questioning it has put me in a position of discomfort and uncertainty within relationships. So since I've so far spoken abstractly, I'll be as unambiguous about this as possible: my gut reaction to the concept of anal sex is one of disgust (although, to be fair with my words, this disgust has only to do with the act, and it's not directed toward the community who participates in the act). I can't define what my particular issue with anal sex is, since I am certainly comfortable with my body and presumably would be comfortable with the body of my partner. And it's not like I've never seen an ass in my life (I have one, of course). I simply have an intuition that tells me that something isn't right about the act, that it should be avoided at all costs, that the participation in it is dirty, animalistic, not in the least sense 'romantic.’ And to be frank, although I do have an ass and have seen asses other than my own, there seems to be something inherently wrong about using your ass for sexual pleasure. I honestly can't move past the idea of butts being anything but butts. I am certainly in the minority on this matter, but I'm willing to stick to this position since I can't really change what seems inherently evident to me. So why does this matter, you may wonder. I certainly have the right not to participate, to abstain from the act and find other options. And complaining about the bodytalk 35
matter gives me no sexual gratification (it really doesn't), so why dwell on it? Truthfully, the issue is not isolated just within the act, but extends more to my relationship with current and future partners, for whom anal intercourse may be a deal breaker, a sexual need, a romantic act designed to enhance emotional intimacy. With these people, is it fair for me to request that anal sex never happen? And even if that's not fair and I do allow it to happen for the happiness of my partner, what if I never find satisfaction in it? And it really isn't just these questions that bother me, since the implication of these questions extends beyond my own personal experiences. For me, and maybe for others in the gay community, the real issue is this: for homosexual men, intercourse is anal rather than penile-vaginal (although anal intercourse is an option for heterosexual couples), and this is obviously just because of our given biological tools. Using ambiguous terms, anal intercourse is the 'furthest' homosexual men can go with their partners; it requires (or at least should require) more comfort and devotion (and time to achieve both of those) than a simple hook-up. It's 'our version' of intercourse and is thus treated with at least similar salience to heterosexual intercourse. Thus, if I choose to abstain from the act, and if I see no romantic value in it whatsoever, on what can I actually place romantic value in terms of sexual activity? Am I supposed to just foreclose the possibility of sex ever being romantic because I'm not willing to move beyond high school-era playing around? Obviously romance exists outside of sex, and I don't need sex to be wholly gratified in romance, but why should I be blocked out of a heightened romantic sexual experience just because I'm not into the idea of only being able to put one peg in one hole? I don't think I really have an answer to this question. Part of my ability to answer that question will come once I actually find someone worth the time and (dis)comfort of experimentation, someone willing to give and take when it comes to sex. I don't think that the solution to this issue will be finding a physical replacement for anal sex; if anything, it'll come down to me conceding to my partner. But even if the issue goes away just because I stop putting up a wall, that doesn't mean it doesn't exist or won't continue to exist for some people who don't feel comfortable having to show love through anal sex.
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boxed identities
by nadege uwase
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B
oxes, compartments, and cabinets: we have them everywhere. My car has a trunk and a glove compartment. My house has different rooms and even those rooms have different nooks. I look at my kitchen and wonder who designed the cabinet system. It’s practically the same
everywhere you go, but there always seems to be a shelf that is too high. My pet peeve is the drawer for cooking utensils—it is never large enough! Every time I am in the kitchen, I have to nudge and shake it to be able to open it. All of this got me thinking about what we keep inside these boxes, compartments and cabinets. The items we keep inside are mostly due to a prescribed notion that all of us, with differing needs, will be able to fit our lives in them. For those avid fans of Weeds, you have heard the opening song “Little Boxes,” a song about the suburbs with people that live in boxes that look the same. The people who live in the boxes all went to the university where they were put into boxes and they all came out just the same. The song also talks about how all the children will follow the same path. I feel like our society is moving toward a cookie-cutter model. We are turning a blind eye to diversity. We are promoting assimilation—the same identity for everyone. Some people are taking to the streets, discouraging love, tolerance and inclusion. They are encouraging governments across the globe to create policies that will discontinue civil rights and liberties. For example, in Uganda, homosexuality is illegal and there is new proposed bill that asks the entire country to report any LGBT individual they know or face severe punishment—life imprisonment and death penalty included!* As far as I can tell, these actions are deplorable. They are fostering extraneous hate. I don’t understand how our so-called civilized society can put up with this. Who said that all of us had to share the same identity? And why do we have to abide by such an exclusive paradigm—man + woman? I think it is time to become more accepting and to be inclusive; not the same but inclusive. So let’s challenge ourselves to redefine sexuality and gender and not anchor that definition to genitals. Unlike my car and house, human identities cannot be categorized into boxes, compartments and cabinets. Mainstream labels do not fit everyone! I feel like we have known that for quite a while, but let’s come out of the shadows and support the queer community.
*Amidst international condemnation, the Ugandan parliament has yet to act. bodytalk 39
You can still call me
Sir
by billie liar
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“Whaddya have, sir? Whaddya have, sir? Whaddya HAVE, SIR?” “I have… a vagina.” —Gender Game by Alix Olson It’s not hard to remember the first time I got called “sir.” That’s mostly because my mom freaked out, and secondly because it was while trying on clothes at American Eagle, which in my humble opinion is the go-to store for female bodies wanting a masculine silhouette. But that’s beside the point. The point is, the first time I got called “sir,” I remember being excited, feeling rebellious, knowing that for weeks I’d been building up the precise outfit I was wearing that day: a loose grey performance fleece pullover, too-big khaki pants and a brown knit hat. My mom didn’t quite appreciate it as much as I did. Nowadays, I barely blink when I get called “sir.” Part of that comes from a period of intense “frattiness” that involved cutting off my hair and wearing lots of button downs and ties with aviator sunglasses, but I think it is more of a realization that being called “sir” isn’t reflective of me. It’s reflective of the person saying it (who, almost every time, looks at me for a second before a look of panic crosses their face, followed by frantic apologies). Like Alix Olson said, “I can’t cure this visual disease of yours.” As far as I’m concerned, I’m in drag twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Gender is a myth, but it’s a damn convincing one—and how can I blame a person for going off of something that permeates everything we say or do? I self-identify as genderqueer, a genderfuck, a gendercurious type of creature. But if a cis-man looks at me and sees a “sir,” who am I to “correct” him? This isn’t about sex at all. He isn’t looking in my pants for parts he can decipher. He’s looking straight at my gender. And in my belief, whatever gender a person seems to be performing at any given moment of any given day is the gender they are. It’s a state of complete fluidity, and no mountain of external commentary can change that. So go ahead. Call me “sir” or “ma’am.” Really, I won’t be offended. bodytalk 41
to bodytalk
Join us in celebrating BODYTALK’s fourth issue and first full “year” of publication (technically, it’s only been seven months, but we publish quarterly)! This significant landmark could not have been reached without the support from all of you: our writers, artists and readers. We thank you from the tops, bottoms and ooey gooey insides of our humble hearts. Since we've said through these first issues so quickly, we'd like to take some time to pause and plan for the future of BODYTALK. In the meantime, please don't stop writing and speaking out about your unique experiences because we'd love to hear from you! Write about anything and everything related to bodies, sexuality and reproductive health; don’t worry about the word limit or a deadline; just send it our way. All of the submissions sent to us will be published at some point in the future (provided you want us to publish them), and importantly, they could inspire us to create an entire issue about your submission’s topic. Submit to bodytalkzine@gmail.com with a title of your creation and name of your choosing. See you in a few months but hope to hear from you sooner! <3 [If you need an anonymous address to send from, use bodytalkvoices@gmail.com, password: talktalktalk.]
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The BodyTalk Art Department would like to thank the following contributing illustrators for their time and talents: Sam Everhart - page 20 http://lookatmeimsam.blogspot.com Marcos Romรกn - page 9 www.hellomarcos.com Joel Sager - pages 12-13 www.joel-sager.com Jen Vaughn - pages 18-19 www.mermaidhostel.com Stewart Wagstaff - page 26 www.stewwaggie.blogspot.com 44
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