I Love Bieng a Girl

Listening to the Eurythmics Greatest Hits. I really need to get cracking on working on my presentation. Final touches, making sure I'm not leaving anything vital out, looking busy so that my boss doesn't give me more to do.

I'm looking terribly spiffy today, which in straight people land always serves to remind me of how QUEER I am. Shiny black doc three hole shoes, black dress socks (duh), black chinos, my new gray with white diagonal stripes button down from Structure. I look hot, and I can think of quite few women I know who would tell me in no uncertain terms how good I look. Here, however, no one says anything. This is not because they are the type of people who ignore things like clothes, I think that it's just so foreign to so many people. kathrot posts about her cute outfits, and I think of how much fun I would have going out to coffee with her looking all fabulous, how much I love having a cute femme (even if it's just that day's gender incarnation) with me-not even in a romantic sense. I love having feminine friends who flirt with me and let me be a gentleman. I miss that more than almost anything about Smith-outside of being in college. I love being allowed to treat the women around me the way they deserve. I hate feeling like I can't look at the girls on the bus, that any attempt at being a gentleman is shot down when the men around me call me "miss" and hold the door. Sure, I appreciate politeness, it's better than the occasional poisonous look I get when someone figures out what's up. Still, I feel so invisible and useless.

Debauchery, coming to a cafe near you....

Salutations, Mr. Richard "Dick" Divine...

Would you be willing to switch our plans for coffee Saturday to Friday night? I'd already made plans for Saturday but still want to see you!

Jeffrey Stroker

Only if you bring that hot little boy toy of yours, Jeffrey. Shall we dine at the Medici, and then try to get a night cap at the Tap? I think a beer is in order to celebrate my victorious end of the semester and impending departure.

Yours, Richard Divine.

Splendid.

I think I'll get dressed up. I want spats, just so I can say "Jives, please fetch my spats." Of course, that means one of my friends has to agree to be called "Jives."

(no subject)

From The Village Voice

( Gay Catholics )

Done IS Good

I just took my final. I can already feel the muscles in my back uncleanching. I feel like I was pretty right on with what I thought I knew. It was an identification test, 22 out of 27. I definitely did a few where I wasn't sure if I got it right. In fact, there's Tizac, which was the lava bed that the Aztecs (briefly) settled into, and Tizoc, their first leader. Guess who mixed them up? That's right. But hey, at least I knew what one of them was! At no point during the test did I find myself pulling stuff out of my ass. It was definitely laborious, and I did take nearly the full hour and twenty minutes. But I did good. And my professor likes me. And hey, maybe it was A work, but I already have a B, and I'm pretty sure it's not going to damage my grade any.

On the way to the exam there were huge numbers of frustrating things, but it was made all better by my bus ride. There was a woman a few rows ahead of me that I kept checking out. Very hot, very butch, but with fingernails. I know, I know, but it totally threw me, especially because she was pulling the whole "I'm gonna look at you and pretend I'm looking through you" thing. I mean, so was I. So the whole ride we pull this shit. Her twisting in her seat like she's stretching, me pretending to watch out the window...yeah. Til we get to her stop, and she goes out the front, then walks around to the back of the bus, stretching up to look through the windows at me the entire time. When I looked at her and grinned, she took off her sunglasses and turned almost all the way around to give me this big gorgeous grin through the back door. Some days the racial tension in Hyde Park and on the bus really gets to me. Feeling specifically ignored, and realizing that I'm probably perpetuating it every day. But really, there's something about getting checked out on the bus (and checking out) after a day of feeling like a big queer sore thumb, and feeling like maybe eventually we'll sort this all out. It also, though, reminded me that by far most of the dykes I know are white, and really, that's sad. Hrm...okay. This is getting really serious. Not that that's bad, but there's a southbound bus and dinner at home calling my name. Not to mention resume revision. Right.