Posts Tagged ‘gay lesbian’

just to be sure

February 10, 2010

“If I could change the world; mould it to my own design, then I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be the world anymore. What it is and what I want it to be are two very separate ideas and they can never be truly one.”


I feel like a liar.

Not to say that I’ve been lieing, but I have been compromising who I am.

I spent majority of the past two years alone and I never realised the affect that it had on me. I never saw myself through everyone else’s eyes.

I’m narcissistic and self-righteous, I want what I want when I want it and I’m boisterous enough to tell people that. I’m cold-hearted, I lack empathy or sympathy and I’m pretty sure my own mind works against me when I feel sad. I have little or no belief in anything or anyone. I’m paranoid and I believe it’s survival of the fittest by any means necessary.

I’m not sure if these are natural attributes that have just become recognisable over time but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t this blinded before my isolation.

In my time alone, when I worked and I studied and I did anything I could to get ahead and prove everybody wrong, I forgot what it was that I really wanted to do it. I’d forgotten what I had spent my whole life  doing, and that was telling stories.

Take it from me, someone who can blatantly with a smile on their face, stories are my forte. They twist and wind around my mind with barely decipherable plots that boggle even myself sometimes, but those are the stories that have grown over years of observation.

I’d forgotten in my haste to prove myself to others that I am just one person and that others will not always bend to my will. I can ask them, persuade them or even try to blackmail them, but whatever it comes down to I know that this, in itself, was my world that I was trying to pull others into.

Strong-willed and emotionally decrepit is who I am now, and I’m not so sure that I can find my way back to who I used to be.

I want to be the brave person I always thought I was. I want to fight the battles of the world the way I always have: with words and pictures and sound.

I want to prove to myself that I still know who I am, that the things that used to always matter to me, still do. I want to prove that my heart isn’t as cold as it’s sometimes percieved to be. I want to prove that I’m human, and that I feel that way too.

I’m confused and wondering how on earth I got here.

I love who I love.

I write what I write.

I am who I am.

I can’t change this but I can change my perception of the world I live in. I can fight oppression and I can bring people to their knees in a way that doesn’t leave my morals to suffer.

I am strong and I am brave.

I am an 18-year-old Media Arts student from the University of Canberra. I sometimes lock myself out of my room and I always find myself flustered in attractive company. I like women but have a certain soft spot for attractive, polite men. I am feminine and I can still appear that way even when sweaty and bruised from learning MMA. I am genderqueer and I’m learning to accept it, no matter what it takes.

I am who I am, and just to be sure, I’m going to check myself in the mirror.

This blog doesn’t say much to you, probably, but it says a lot to me. My own personal review of the way my life twists and turns without my direction from myself. I hope I don’t bore people because I know that sometimes, I even bore myself.

Confused and cornered but a little bit more graceful in defeat…

– Cal.


Tip toe-ing softly, nobody can hear

Crouched and waiting…

Are you watching me?

Watching me, watching you…

Hidden but sure.

Just to be sure.


you dont have to

February 3, 2010

“Could you imagine your life any better? Yeah, I could too.”

My mother: You know, you don’t have to have short hair to be gay.

This was a breakthrough point for my relationship with my mother. I’d been cutting my hair short for about 5 months now, give or take a week, and all I had recieved in return for my stylish new cuts was: “You looked pretty with long hair.”

So does that random snippet of conversation mean that it’s finally alright for me to be gay in her eyes? Does it finally mean that she’s stopped trying to tell me to ‘give the nice boys a chance’.

I’m not sure. I don’t know. It’s all a little too confusing for me currently.

But being at Uni now, this hair that I have, these markers that I portray to the world, they are now my world.

I’m not sure what people think when they first see me. Maybe it’s ‘Oh, she’s gay’ or maybe it’s ‘Oh, she’s one of those crazy, punk girls’. I just don’t know, so being able to look the way I do makes me feel more confident with my sexuality and gender for some reason. I can’t understand why it does but it reminds me that I am what I am and just because people don’t know it or recognise it, it doesn’t devalue it in anyway.

Another problem I’m finding is meeting other LGBT folk. Personally, I think we should all wear signs on our head. But then again, some people might actually have gaydar compared to me who has… none.

I always thought when I moved I wouldn’t feel so cut off from the world but right now, this is the most cut-off I’ve ever felt. I want to meet people like me, I want people to accept if they aren’t like me and I want people to know who I am but I can’t exactly shout it from the rooftops, now can I?

A little lost and confused but at least I’ve got all my subjects chosen, now I just have to pay for the first semester, my books and all the software I need. I’m anticipating a $5 000 drop in my savings account but oh well, hopefully this will turn out to be worthwhile, and if not…

– Cal.

packing pegs and that damn thing called an orgasm

January 25, 2010

“If I praise you then I can swear whole-heartedly it was by accident. If I insult you though, be well assured it was all done with premeditation.”

Isn’t it amazing when…

You’re only five days away from moving out of your home (yet again) and you’ve only packed pegs. But still, I guess I’ll be able to hang my laundry… That’s of course if I had any.

Yes, the dastardly days of packing and squishing and attempting to make that huge amount of clothes fit into a suitcase that was never meant to hold that much in the first place. The week has arrived and as usual I’m horribly behind schedule.

But besides the fact the only thing I’ll be taking to Uni is pegs, I spent majority of my morning showed in contemplation over orgasms and the variety that I’ve experienced in my life.

Now, being one of those few people who orgasm quite regularly and easily, sometimes it even taking me by surprise, I sometimes forget that others aren’t so easy in the sack. So, while sitting on the shower floor wondering why on earth I had yet to fix the leaking shower head I thought about how I would classify my orgasmic experiences.

I’ve come up with three:

Orgasm A: clitoris, G-spot, penetration… The whole deal here, not saying that I need all at the same time to reach climax (considering that my arms are not that long, neither are my fingers sadly) but these are the three main things that result in one of those ‘oh-my-god-i-can-see-the-light’ orgasms. You know them, the ones that make it feel as though your lungs had de-compressed and that your muscles might snap under the pressure. Now, being the egotistical person that I am (even in the bed, sorry to say) I practiced and practiced this orgasm until well, I eventually got sick of it at some point. Currently, (my lovely boasting) I can have six consecutive A orgasms. I haven’t reached any further because, to be truthful, it made me too damn tired.

Orgasm B: also known to me as the pressure orgasm… This is a preparation orgasm, or one that you just squeeze in between you’ve spent the better half of the morning watching pornography and had forgotten you were meant to be out at lunch 15 minutes ago. This orgasm is quick and easy, well for me. Considering research that the clitoris, while seeming small and very localized for some, is actually about 16 to 17 centimeters long in the average woman. Now that is a lot of pleasure that can be taken use of right there. Of course the G-spot is located along the clitoris, and further up into the vagina to if I’m correct but what the pressure orgasm is, is that it focuses on a small length of the clitoris between what we formally know as the ‘clitoris’ and the ‘G-spot’. And then it’s simple. No movement, just pressure, and lots of it. Using anything I, or you like, usually. It takes only a minute as it has the same effect as Orgasm A but is a bit ‘duller’ I guess you could say. Still works to get you prepped and ready to go though.

Orgasm C: also known as the ‘look-no-hands’ orgasm… This is in fact one orgasm that I can have just reading an article on sex. It’s quicker, a bit longer lasting, even if the climax isn’t all that appreciative of the effort my brain has put in to supply the necessary pictures. I usually barely notice this nowadays, not to say I don’t enjoy it or I’ve become so used to it then I won’t ride it out for as long as possible, it’s just that I’ve been having these for three years without any stimulation of a body part; besides the brain. I’ve only ever met a few others who can have an orgasm like this, but I feel sorry for those who can’t. Some people really miss out on all the fun.

I might also add in a side-note here for all those who love a good bum-waggling femme. Apparently the most a woman wriggles her bum or ‘shimmies’ when she walks, the stronger her orgasm will be. I guess this has to do with the muscles and how we use them, so get bum-waggling.

Now, enough of my orgasm talking-mind… I also just noticed that I’ve already written 700-off words. Funny how it’s so easy to write when you’ve really got nothing interesting to say.

So, what else do I have to say?

Save me, is one thing, and save her, is another. Neither of which make any sense even though in the horror movie I was watching last night, it make all the sense in the world. Maybe I need to a hire a guy running around with a chainsaw to motive this kind of logical screaming.

That’s my little insight into the strange workings of my mind, today. Hope you enjoyed and stay tuned for more runaway-through action tomorrow.

– Cal.

double post: nudity and fear

January 22, 2010

“I have a funny feeling that Santa Claus is behind this.”

It’s a double post today. Why? Because I’ve got so much to say and so little time.

Okay, so yesterday, as I was avoiding the cover letter I had to write for a scholarship fund I somehow decided it would be a good idea to go through my old computer and have a look what’s on there.

Oh and behold, what did I find?

Pictures. Of me. Nude.

It seems my fascination with sexuality, gender and nudity goes back further than I can remember. Not to mention the need to express all my ideas in photographic from.

In my stumbling I found three hidden folders, each containing a photographic series in which I’m nude. Now if the time stamp on these such folders is correct then the first series, titled: Sex with Light was taken when I was 14 and I believe that it was also a joint project with a fellow photographer friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in years.

The second series was: Bare the Truth and was taken when I was 15. It displays me and four of my friends either nude of partially nude with different drawn versions of the sign ‘Bare the Truth’ as it were.

The third series, and probably the most dastardly for someone of the age 15 was… Erotic Language. Yikes! What on earth was I thinking at young, clean age 15?!

Then I realized that I’d  been watching porn since I was 13 so it didn’t really matter that somewhere in my fifteen year old mind I found it alright to pose erotically using the aid of sign language to actually point out the differences of male and female sexual culture.

But, that was then and this is now. I like to think I’ve gotten a bit more subtle. Apparently not. You see, looking back I can tell that majority of those messages I was trying to send, they’re about all the same things that I’m currently fighting for.

I had thought I’d evolved (and sure my technical photographic skills have) but the way my mind processes such issues as sex, sexuality, gender, eroticism and society seem not to have changed since that tender age. (Though I do use tender in reference to my buttocks which seems a little bit fuller in some of them photographs than it is now. But then again I can’t swivel my head 180 degrees on my neck either.)

Seeing these earlier expressions made me realize that I wanted to show these to the world. Young, and counting as child porn, yes but I feel it was the most untainted view I had on some issues back then.

Right now my focus is on sexuality and gender, trying to fill in the gap between normal and abnormal (in society’s dictations). But some of the ideas I must have had back then were just… well a little mature of my age. Seriously, what 15 year old things about eroticism in terms of sign language? (I believe I was influenced by a young deaf girl I had met on one of my many travels in those days.)

It’s a little unnerving, but it also gives me a sense of certainty. I’ve been doing this for awhile I’ve realized. Sure, awhile is four to three years but better than nothing.

And the fear…

I’ve written something similar to this before, in my very first post as it were, but I don’t know how many people and read that and for starters, if I don’t self-express somewhere soon (why does that sound so dirty to me?!) I’m probably going to end up screaming at some inanimate object.

And nobody wants that.


What on earth would I be afraid of?

Um… Life in general actually.

You see in my ‘practically-a-new-years-resolution-and-goal-post’ a.k.a. Wanted: Dead or Alive, I set myself many standards and many things to achieve.

I’d almost forgotten the fact about why they were still undone.

Self-doubt, not the ‘oh-i’ll-wake-up-in-the-morning-and-it’ll-be-gone’ type but the crippling, ‘please-don’t-take-the-covers-off-me-I’m-dying-inside’ type.

I’ve written majority of this before but I’m writing it again because it never really disappears for me. No matter how much I talk about it, try and get over it, think I get over it, realize I’m not over and fall flat on my face again, I can still never seem to anticipate it.

My self-doubt is an odd beast I think.

I’m terrified of not having my dreams come true.

And I’m terrified of having them come true.

So how does self-doubt fit into this equation?

I doubt that if I get everything I want that I’ll be happy, and I doubt that if I don’t I’ll probably still have the same feelings.

I want to change the world, but I also want my life.

I haven’t yet figured out how these to mix evenly enough to coincide in my heart yet, and I figure it’ll take a little bit more time.

But now, being in the questioning society that I am, other thoughts have begun to seep into my mind and further feed my fear of the future.

“What if I turn out not to be queer?!” – Kind of stupid really and even the thought of kissing a guy is kind of gut-wrenching, no offense to them or anything.

“What if I decide I don’t like what I’ve done to my body?!” – Another stupid one really, it’s a bit too late to go back on several tattoos and many piercings. But then again, with the rate of plastic surgery, who knows?

“What if I hate what I’ve become?!” – This is probably a more legitimate one. I’ve always promised myself that I would be a righteous person. Fight for the little people. Bring perspective to an ignorant world. But what happens if I turn out to be my own worst nightmare?

That’s what stops me from falling asleep at night.

It’s officially a week till my 18th Birthday, so it’s also officially a week until I move into my Uni accommodation.

Suddenly my future is right there and my door and all I want to do is turn on the TV or pretend I’m not home.

But since, knowing myself and my huge ego, I won’t ever admit this to anyone vocally. I’ll admit it to this blog because well, I don’t know if I’ll ever meet any of you in real-life, unless of course you’re reading this as one of my few friends who know the truth about me.

But anyway, there it is. Fear of the future and what I might become, but a fear that nobody will ever know because my pride eats up the air I breath it’s so domineering.

I’d like some thoughts about this… Or at least some advice.

– Cal.

femme is not a gender

January 20, 2010

Today I had the unwelcome experience of being question by another member of the small LGBT community I belong to.

I was asked how could I be both genderqueer and a femme.

I’ve stated this before but I’m going to reiterate: my queerness in terms of gender takes two forms; a. the days I feel particularly masculine and exert this physically to society and b. the days I feel without a gender, like I’m floating in the middle of a giant gender ocean meeting no harbour.

What pissed me off about this question was that after I answered, they told that I wasn’t correct.


I’m not correct about what labels I choose for myself?

I was told that someone who associated to society as a femme could not be genderqueer.

I swear I could almost hear my knuckles cracking on their own accord.

You see, it took me a long time (a year at the most, which is a long time for me in regards to my ideas of time) to coalesce myself into the person who states proudly: “Hi, I’m a genderqueer kinky bottom femme who sucks at cooking and anything domestic.”

I, myself haven’t met any other genderqueers, and I have yet to stumble across a genderqueer femme, so I guess that lends to the theory that we might not be very common.

But for me, the gender association of ‘femme’ in which I present a more feminine approach to society is a choice. I wasn’t forced to suppress my gender because of it. I chose to be a femme because I liked the way it makes me feel.

Now I admit, some days, I wish that I could just be cis-gendered. I wish everything was just laid out plain and simple for me to understand. But it’s not, and that’s one of the things that makes me who I am.

Not understanding my own gender took a lot of understanding and researching on my part, it look a lot of exploration in regards to what felt comfortable to me and when.

‘How would I change my appearance to suit the gender assignment of the day? ‘ was a common question in my mind and slowly I fashioned myself an identity that allowed me to accept my gender, however I was feeling at the time, and still maintain the femininity in my outside demeanour.

So what made this person so openly question who and what I was?

A lack of knowledge I’m hoping. They barely knew me, though they did know of me, but I found it hard to consider judging someone and even second-guessing them before I even knew them. The thought is incomprehensible to me, and yet it happens a lot more often than I would care to know.

So this is my little rant session, trying to vent all my anger at being, not discriminated against, but misunderstood in my own ‘supposed’ community.

I might also stress the point that I ran into a horny teenage boy in Omegle today. Omegle of course being the latest internet chat craze where you talk to complete strangers for no reason.

Anyway, he stated something that worried me: ‘Yeah but all lesbians are bit a bi, aren’t they.’

It looks like the youth still have a long way to go in terms of sexuality and gender understanding.

But that’s me for today.

Over and out.

– Cal.

should i write it on my forehead?

November 23, 2009

“Nurture vs. Nature. Does it really matter anymore?”


‘What’s a femme?’

It seems this is a question I get asked far too much when trying to describe myself to people. You see, my description goes along the lines of: ‘Hi, I’m a kinky genderqueer femme dyke and feminist who sometimes doubts herself and who, majority of the time, is invisible. How are you?’

As soon as I hit the word “genderqueer” I see heads turn, but they never ask what that word means, instead it’s always: ‘What’s a femme?’

The irony is that they’re a femme, a straight femme of course, but still a femme. Then when I do explain what it is I’m met with a pause and then the famous…

‘But you’re gay.’


That’s a wrap.

I can’t take anymore.


Being a femme in a small homophobic community where the closest LGBT association I have is a two-hour drive away is something that requires a lot of talking. I’m almost at the stage where I’m going to write a report on it and hand it around the next time someone asks me, ‘What does _____ mean?’

But aside from my hometown I’ve found that in the LGBT community that I have been apart of, there is really no such thing as butch or femme here. This might be because majority of them are still finding their gender or are still trying to work out if they really are gay, but even then, in a community that I’ve chosen, I feel out of step.

My invisibility comes not from not being seen as “gay” or a “dyke” but because this community I associate with is young andfrom the fact that there is no real gender classification here. A lot of them have no idea what it means if I were to throw out the word “cisgender” and even the word “genderqueer” creates many raised eyebrows.

So I can’t adequately write about femme invisibility from the point of view as “femme” being particularly or not particularly acknowledged as a gender choice (for me, anyway). But I can say how a lack of knowledge can perhaps make you feel even more invisible. One day, maybe when those tomboys find their inner butch or when those sullen looking androgynous girls fit their feet back into those heels that I can just see are sitting in their closest; maybe then I can complain about my invisibility, but not now.

So, a little ragged and a little off-topic, but I think it has some zazz to it.

– Cal.


P.S. Don’t ask me what “zazz” means because I sure as hell don’t know.

P.P.S. This is my warped reply to the following posts:


Standing tall;


Did you hear that?

The deaf call…