When did my gender confusion begin?

Probably 18 months ago in New York. I threw myself into dancing the 5 Rhythms, and I had multiple dance floor male attractions. I thought “Wow! Male energy is cool!” which had never really occured to me in real life. Some of these exalted attractions turned into proper desire, which has ongoingly thrown me off.

Till that point, my world had mostly been vertically split, a binary boy/girl division between whom I could like or not. But I’m finally finding out that there is no split, no opposition. Male and female energies are entangled in a circle.

I’ve started rethinking the concept of sexual orientation for my own self. My belief is that attraction is the result of a mysterious equation between people, which takes into account a yin/yang balance and their respective wounds. Gender is a minor factor. But I’ve been left with a conceptual void to identify how I feel.

If you screw the concept of sexual orientation, what do you replace it with? Bi-sexuality? Too binary. Pan-sexuality? Too voracious. The trendy concept of sexual fluidity? I don’t like fashions.

I learned the term ‘two-spirit‘ in San Francisco. It is a native Amerindian concept for people who have both male and female spirit in them. Amerindians were way more advanced than Westerners. They had four admitted genders instead of two. That’s the term that I like best amongst all the options.

It feels like there are new designations for human sexuality every month. Of course, you can always get away with it by saying “I refuse labels”, and I understand that. But look, I am an intellectual (LOL) and I am obsessed with articulating my thoughts and defining my feelings with accuracy. I therefore need a meaningful vocabulary for everything, including the map of desire. Isn’t violence supposed to be caused by a lack of words? Also, I’d rather pick a descriptive for myself before someone else does it wrongly for me.

I am agitated with all those questions because the beyond sexy Í came back in my world and in my bed.

He visited me last week, to bring me back the luggage that I left in Brighton after the Gay Pride (with my house keys in it, cause I love trouble). We went dancing the 5 Rhythms and he slept over at mine. He had no pyjamas, so I lent him my cropped T-shirt of the Kinsey Sicks – a drag-queen band – and my see-through black lace knickers, the largest I’ve got. He looked terrific in that outfit. I was wearing the male Ralph Lauren boxers that my New York gay husband gave me. I had an astral projection of what we were looking like while cuddling in bed and I laughed my head off. “We are gender fuckers”, I said.

We talked in the dark for a long time. We discussed our sexual attraction, which is the most natural yet the most odd thing in the world since, dare I say it, we are both gay as fuck. We don’t act on it, because this would make us momentarily straight and we are not ready to assume that. “I could make you feel very feminine”, he told me. I am sure I blushed in the dark. I am not saying I wouldn’t like that. He added: “We are genderly equal. You can be stronger at times and I’ll let go my feminine side, and the other way around.” I have been craving for gender equity. It is a total illusion to believe that there is gender equity between two girls. Fuck no. The most feminine-looking tends to be dominated at every level – I ironically wonder why?

My relationship with Í is awesome. I love him. He sees through me, beyond the shiny surface. He nails me. I am not used to people grasping me accurately. They usually see me either too good or too dumb, or they are thrown off by my contrasts and handle that for drama-queenness.

He diagnosed me “bisexual”. “For sure”, he insisted.

OK. Maybe. What now?


The Misfits II


Yesterday, µ, who is Greek, dragged me to a chic piano recital in the Hellenic Centre of London. I had picked the ideal occasion to look punk (for my standards). I had a dirty hair and was wearing baggy jeans and my torn T-Shirt of the Kinsey Sicks, an American drag queen quartet. (H’s brother is a drag queen called Daisy Buckët and I am éperdument in love with her. On the picture above, Daisy is the one with a finger up her nose. I used to tell H to tell her bro that he’s sitting on my right boob, but I guess he’s not sensitive to that kind of tribute).

Everybody else was super dressed up – borderline Christmas tree in some instances – but we sat down on the first row anyway, to have a better view of the pianist born in 1984. These prodigies younger than me just get on my nerves. I was also concerned that Daisy Buckët on my chest would distract him from his score but we were all safe in the end.

When he sat (late) at the piano, µ told me in a whisper: “He has a very stiff upper body. He would need some body-mind centering.” 

At the interval, I picked the program of the Hellenic Centre and we headed to the ladies bathroom. µ turned around and asked me (about the program): “Did you find anything interesting?” As she was saying that, she intercepted the gaze of a gentleman in his 50’s who was coming out of the male toilets. There was a moment of suspension and the man seemed super confused about the nature of the question. I told him: “Don’t worry Sir, she was talking to me.” He looked visibly relieved and said: “I was trying to think of something to reply!”

We rushed into the bathroom and peed our pants laughing.

After Beethoven and Chopin, we hanged out to eat petits fours and make connections in order to exhibit at the Hellenic Centre. µ talked to a poorly dressed plastic surgeoness who requested a proposal by email. Then an older guy chatted us up about social dance, cha cha, jive, ballroom tango, and was like “Call me, we’ll go dancing at the Rivoli together!” Sure.

We continued the evening at the pub around the corner and ordered 2 peppermint tea leaning on the bar. Colombia was playing against Japan and we were shouting at Colombian players because we wanted to see their victory dance when they score. The bartender asked us: “You are not really Colombian or Japanese, right?” I think he was trying to figure out what a regular dressed girl and an overly dressed girl with fucked up accents were doing in a Marylebone pub shouting at football players with a cup of peppermint tea in their hand.

Yeah. That’s just an average London night for µ & I.

Our life is about throwing people off.