Saturday, January 24, 2009

Thanks, Daddy-O.

I love queer women.

No, it's not just a sexual attraction thing (although it can be). No, it's definitely not what most porn offers us as lesbian sexplay (although, ok, if it's genuine, sometimes that can be a little hot). No, it's not because I'm one of those men who has FFM fantasies all the time (been there, enjoyed that, have the Tshirt).

It's really something deeper, something more visceral than that. It's more of a cognitive sexual attraction than a physical one, most of the time, and almost borders on the spiritual. Inwardly, I feel a kinship with queer women of almost every stripe that practically tastes like brotherhood.

Perhaps part of it is that most of my friends in life have been women, and most of them have either been decidedly bisexual. Perhaps I lacked more male bonding as a kid. Perhaps that Old West prostitute that I was in a past life (or so the past-life psychic told me I was, so many years ago) was really a big-ass bulldyke. Or perhaps it's because, as I've often told friends, I adore women so much that the idea of having women friends who adore women lovers as much as I do is tantamount to having my cunt and eating it too.

I'm reminded of Joan. And my favourite queer woman of all, Shayne.

Sometimes, when seeing a lesbian couple strolling down the street, our eyes lock in pleasant ways, and I wonder if they feel my desire for their comraderie. It's difficult to explain.

My heart soars every time I watch Ice acknowledge Anybodys as a boy. "Thanks, Daddy-O!" she replies with a beaming smile.

Her hair was crisply short, blonde, and glistening as it tightly capped her head and left the nape of her neck bare. Her eyeglasses, in dark and thin frames, drew attention to her sharply intelligent green eyes. Her heeled boots, soft leather, shimmered as she walked, the wide hems of her pants moving freely and silently with each step. The leather Danier jacket she wore over her suit jacket framed her waist marvelously, and the lay of it against her hips easily detailed how her bottom was likely just slightly on the wide side but pert and round. She was the mirror image of the Grrl, and in that moment when I saw her in the train station yesterday, I was almost struck dumb in admiration, remembrance, and heartache. It was a beautiful thing. Especially when she turned to me, noticed me enjoying the sight of her, and flashed me the tenderest Mona Lisa smile as she went about her way.

A photo of Vancouver artist Amy Nugent took my breath away today. She reminded me of one of Shayne's friends. Something about the artist, perhaps her geeky eyeglasses, her masculine attire, or simply because she's found a creative moment from the collection of porcupine quills, made me smile.

It can be a frustrating thing, being a man into women into women. There are some interesting socio-political barriers in the various queer communities, sometimes riddled with its own world of judgment and exclusion. But it doesn't prevent me from enjoying the spirit, the charm, the revolutionary presence of two women strolling and laughing along Queen Street, hand in hand.

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