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@agenderfailure
This week I've had to fill out a lot of forms with this mandatory question:
Which feels like "there are only two genders" wearing a woke hat
i got this one a few days ago
A personal fave I came across
I have a contribution courtesy of my ex-dentist
I love vague labels that make people go "but that's confusing" or "but that could mean anything" Good. Keep guessing lol
"Queer doesn't actually tell me anything" who says I wanted to tell you anything. Who even are you.
Butch
I don't know what to say. I started calling myself butch sometime in 2025. It felt silly at first, something that I found in my closet and said "well where did this come from?" But isn't that how this always goes, this building my queerness from the ground up? Isn't it always a costume until it's not? Many other words have filed to stick, but this... feels right.
And maybe I truncate it sometimes. Maybe I worry my girly taste in decor, and the way I giggle when someone flirts with me and the way I still like to fuck men makes me need to add the word 'soft' to the beginning. But it's still butch.
I have never wanted to be a woman, but that doesn't mean I want to be a man. I want to be myself - masculine and gentle and denim clad. Fat and needy and reliable.
I love being butch. Still being womanish, but in a way that is subversive and thoroughly boyish.
Tomboy, butch, dyke, girlboy, me me me me me.
late 90s 01/02 on our backs magazine covers from bishopsgate institute archives. | originally posted by on your.knees on instagram.
butches who are boyfriends who are girlfriends who are wives who are husbands
🔪🔪🔪I MEAN IT🔪🔪🔪 (ID in alt text)
get the print and sticker here
“A guy strides right up to me and pokes me in the middle of my chest. “Are you a female?” he squints at me. “Kind of,” I tell him. “What kind of an answer is that? he asks me. “What kind of a question is that?” I ask him back, and then add, “And what kind of man goes around poking strangers in the chest anyway?” He nods his head, like he agrees with me on that point. Then he gets into a black and navy blue late seventies El Camino and drives away. I have a choice: to feel pissed off that he touched me like that, talked to me like that, or vaguely triumphant that he seemed to reconsider his behavior, at least, if not apologize. I pick triumph. It was almost sunny that January morning and way too early in the day to turn my day the wrong way. I am a witness to a hit-and-run-accident. It is dark and raining. A sports car hits a pedestrian and then screeches away. I call an ambulance, wait with the older woman while it comes. A policeman takes my name and phone number and address and writes them in his book. He narrows his eyes at me under the knife shape of light coming from the streetlight above us. He appears to be considering something. “Do you, uh, have a gender?” he asks me. “Yes, I do,” I tell him. A long couple of seconds of silence hang in the dark between us. “No need to be smart about anything. Are we going to have a problem here?” His words are clipped, severe, like his brushcut. “Hey,” I said, “I’m the witness here. I stuck around, I called you guys. I thought I was the good guy.” “Well we can change that in a second if you don’t co-operate,” he informs me. “I am female,” I tell him. “You’re sure about that now?” he asks me. I don’t say anything. “That’s better,” he says. I am out to dinner with my sweetheart. She is wearing a little black dress and a rhinestone bracelet, and I am in a shirt and tie and dress pants. The waiter keeps mercilessly referring to both of us as ladies. Can I get you ladies some more coffee? Are you ladies going to have dessert? Can I bring you ladies the bill? I am obviously anything but a lady. I realize that the English language is sadly devoid of names for people like me. I try to cut the world some slack for this every day. All day. And the day after that, too. But the truth is that every time I am misgendered, a tiny little sliver of me disappears. A tiny little sliver of me is reminded that I do not fit, I am not this, I am not that, I am not seen, I can’t be recognized, I have no name. I remember that the truth of me is invisible, and a tiny little sliver of me disappears. Just a sliver, razored from the surface of my very thick skin most days, but other times right from my soul, sometimes felt so deep and other days simply shrugged off, but still. All those slivers add up to something much harder to pretend around.”
— Ivan Coyote, Gender Failure
Kinke Kooi – Butterfly (1997)
Acrylic paint on chromogenic print
John Duncan - Angus Og, God of Love and Courtesy, Putting a Spell of Summer Calm on the Sea (1908)
some leather and denim from Drawing the Line: Lesbian Sexual Politics on the Wall
it’s ok to be obsessed with me, this is a safe place
boys: jacking off
girls: jilling off
non binary : ferching a pail of water
"The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I'm not a trannie or a fag so I don't care, just give 'em the medicine they need."
"This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility."
One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.
Someone who says they don't care if dudes wear dresses and makeup is a better ally than someone who says they're a safe space for women and non-binary people. I am not joking.
yeah I went to a gay bar recently with my husband tumblr user beemovieerotica, and a VERY confused capital S Southerner straight man in cargo shorts and a trucker hat showed up
apparently he (who through my drunken memory I remember only as Earl) liked some woman, and she told him that he wasn't cultured enough and needed to attend his first drag show (she also flaked on him)
Now I'm reasonably androgynous and was wearing makeup, a short leather skirt, and black heeled boots, but still when this guy came up to me when I was standing off alone and asked "So. Do you come here often?" with a very earnest expression, I thought. Surely not. This guy doesn't think I'm a straight woman does he????
Anyway I start talking with this guy and he has no idea what the fuck is going on but he is just a very kind and earnest dude and asked a lot of questions (while asking if it was alright if he asked those questions). I track down my husband and friends and I'm like y'all. We need to make sure that Earl has a Good Fucking Time tonight.
Man was completely out of his depth. At one point they put on a puppy auction to raise money for Pride, that started with a 6 ft drag queen in all her glory leading a leather pup out on a leash to the tune of that damned RSPCA "in the arms of the angels" song
We look at Earl. Nervous. He squints, laughs, and then goes "I was wondering why people were dressed like that!" He turned to me and asked "So they're like dogs?" And I said yeah pretty much. And he just chuckled and went "Yeah I thought so with the tails! Never seen this before!"
When the first drag king came out, Earl looked at me wide eyed and went "There's a dude version too?!" And I said yeah they're called drag kings. And he said, low, "Drag kings."
During one of the queens performances, he frowned, shook his head and told me, "Your legs are better than hers." in a tone that implied he thought there was some travesty taking place and I should also be getting paid
When he found out I was there with my husband (and that I am not a woman) he profusely apologized and said "I'm so sorry, it's dark in here and I thought you were a hot chick! I wouldn't have said nothing if I knew you had a husband, I'm so sorry about that."
When beemovie invited me to the dance floor with him later and I still had a drink in my hand, Earl said "Oh don't worry about that I can hold your drink, you get on out there and shake your ass with your husband!" Then before we left, Earl bought me drinks for "Putting up with me all night and answering everything. Y'all helped me have a great time tonight."
like. You gotta recognize there's going to people who have never had interacted outside of their of their own community. This includes you. And just because your community is familiar with all the right vocabulary and how to correctly say something, it doesn't mean they're actually going to support you. If someone like Earl shows up, confused and out of their depth but kind and curious and earnest, you gotta have patience and truck through the small things, so when he goes back to his friends and his coworkers and they snicker asking how the drag show was, he can genuinely talk about how included we tried to make him feel and that he had a great time
The person matters more than the language
I will reblog this EVERY TIME.
Sanitized language is a tool of oppression, always has been and always will be.
And yes, I get being pissed off by slurs. I do. But in the times we are living in right now, we really need to all pivot our priorities to safety.
"Earl" will talk to all his Busch drinking, tractor-pulling, gun toting, conservative voting friends about the nice and friendly and harmless trannies he met, and they will understand him.
They do not know what gender non-conforming, trans-femme/masc, demiboy, agender genderqueer bisexual lesbians are, and quite frankly, they do not need to.
What we need from Earl and his friends is for them to feel neutrally enough about us to not become violent with us, and to spread the idea that violence against us is not necessary or warranted. They are simply not going to do that in a language that is not their own.
Andreas Kronthaler for Vivienne Westwood AW18 Details
