This is not a metaphor for sex.

(It actually, legitimately wasn’t. But I had that thought while brushing my teeth after writing this, and I laughed so hard that toothpaste got all over the mirror. And then I read it again. I … could see myself writing this in the future as a metaphor for sex (with, y’know, jelly kink). It’s possible. I even somewhat expect it. So now it sort of is a metaphor for sex. Just not … a real one? A current-events one?)


I like toast again! I thought as a kid that I liked toast. Or rather, that toast was a thing that grown-ups liked, and that I would develop a taste for it as I matured. Meanwhile, I was sort of indifferent to toast. The various jellies one can put on toast are pretty great sometimes! My favorite is mint apple, which most people look at askance and dismiss as “weird” or “unnatural” without trying it for themselves. But I always just wanted a spoon full of jelly, with no toast underneath.

However, I got bored one day last month and put a slice of bread in the toaster. It felt a little awkward – the toaster is huge, and there was just this one tiny slice of bread in it, and I wasn’t even sure I’d eat the bread that came out; it might have ended up in the woods for the birds, for all I knew when I plugged that toaster in. But I put the toast on a plate, and I covered it in so much jelly I couldn’t see bread anymore, and I ate it.

And I liked it okay.

And I kept on liking it, with less and less jelly, until now my toast looks the way I always imagined grown-up toast to be. A nice, big slice of bread with enough jelly to glaze the top, but not enough to drown out the fact that there’s toast underneath. I still think the jelly is the best part, but I’ve come to accept toast as a relatively positive vehicle for that jelly. Less dishes to wash afterwards than the spoon, at least. Fewer questions about a spoon with small chunks of green on it, to be sure.

But the thing is? I still like the jelly best. (I’m only pretending to be a grownup.)

Sex vs Gender … Again

It’s a common thing among trans people, especially genderqueers, to talk about identifying with our natal sexes. Some people seem to think that once you go GQ, you don’t look back on your binary past. Others identify as a male genderqueer. As you may imagine, these two views don’t always play well together, and I? I run the middle ground.

I am a FAABGQ – female assigned at birth genderqueer. While I find it overwhelmingly unnecessary (and indeed, sometimes damaging) to include the first part of that when introducing or describing myself, it’s still an important part of me. I’m not female, but I was raised as a female, and I still face many of the same things that females do.

If someone makes a post advising all women to read some important medical thing, I’m going to go and read that important medical thing, because I can be affected by many of the same medical things – problems and hooray-new-drug both – as many women. If someone makes a post called “Ten Things All Women Should Know Before Walking Alone At Night,” I will read it and (depending on content, of course) recommend it to people regardless of their genders. If my sister needs to know it, then I probably need to know it, and even though my brother is large and muscular and fast, it certainly won’t hurt him to know it. I’ve been socialized to expect that it’s more important for me to know it than him, and most people who would cause problems for a woman walking alone at night wouldn’t stop to ask me if I’m a woman before thinking to themselves “small vulnerable person! target!” And because that’s true, and because I was socialized to expect this to happen to me, I have a lot of the same worries that many women do. So women, I hope you don’t mind a GQMF hanging out in your spaces occasionally, looking out for sy health and well-being beside you. And I hope you don’t think that just because I look at these things, I must be a woman, too; my male cousin sent me the last female health alert I read.

I can understand wanting to leave behind a past full of bad memories and misgendering. I can also understand holding onto a past that wasn’t all bad, if a little misguided, because it made you who you are today. What’s right for you isn’t right for others. Let’s move past one invalidating the other and get to that point where we support each other’s differing needs, shall we?

Disability in Fiction: You Can’t Get Everything Right the First Time

So I was reading a story the other day that was, really, a very well-written story with interesting characters and an interesting plot and a pretty respectful look at disability. (The story also included a couple characters who were less than respectful of disabilities, and that in no way detracted from the actual respect in the story; these characters were unilaterally told off for their disrespect.) However, one thing stood out to me, a couple days later, as being less than awesome.

Character A walks into a college office with Character B to meet Character C to discuss accommodations. A is … let’s say A is using crutches to get around. From appearances, this could be because of a broken ankle that will heal in the next month, or it could be because of any number of more permanent conditions. C says, “Oh, I see that you are disabled.” B adds, “Yes, and A has a handicapped parking tag in sy car to prove it.”

First off, I’ve had temporary handicapped parking tags on several occasions for breaking various things in my legs. That does not indicate that I need to run on down the disability office on campus and get special in-class accommodations. (in fact, all I did was say, “Hey, Prof, broke my leg, mind if I change my assigned seat to one I can get into a little easer?” and the prof said, “Of course, pip!” I imagine if that scene had gone differently, I could have gone to student disability services for backup, but I would never start there. I would never register a broken leg as a disability.) The presence of a hangtag in one’s vehicle does not prove one’s disability.

Secondly, there are conditions that would result in a permanent hangtag that would indicate a need to register with SDS, and there are those that wouldn’t. There are conditions that indicate a need a register with SDS that do not involve a hangtag at all, that are completely invisible if you are just glancing up at me as I walk into your office. Take, for example, a traumatic brain injury that impairs someone’s ability to memorize long lists. This person may or may not drive, but either way, sa wouldn’t get a handicapped tag just for a memory impairment. Sorry, but your TBI (in this particular example) does not make it more difficult for you to walk further to enter a building. However, it does affect your performance in the classroom. The absence of a hangtag does not prove the absence of a disability.

Finally, the idea that a hangtag should be used as proof of anything is completely absurd. A couple years back, I kept a hangtag in my car, because I often picked up my mobility-impaired friend from classes. With this tag, I could park close enough for sa to get to the car. Yes, the tag was sy spare one, but it didn’t have sy name on it. (Tell me your local college or university would really go to the trouble of looking up the actual ownership of a hangtag.) If all it took to be registered at SDS was the presence of a hangtag in my car, well, I could have been registered despite no physical disability on my end. Likewise, I knew students who had their grandmothers’ spare hangtag, despite their grandmothers living hours away, simply so they could make use of the parking advantages and be lazy. (Their own admission, not me drawing conclusions.) I knew a student with documented fibromyalgia who had difficulty walking very far for classes but did not have a hangtag for various bureaucratic reasons – and sa was registered with SDS.

So, dear writer, I did enjoy your story, and you did an overall excellent job portraying a character with disabilities and sy home accommodations and characters interactions with sa. Overall, I have very positive feelings towards your story, both as a fun story and as a respectful and insightful look into the life of a person with disabilities. I just wish that one exchange had gone a little bit differently.

Pride

I have never really understood the concept of pride, okay? As such, I’m likely to offend someone. Instead of getting offended, though, please just explain how it is to you, because I am actually quite curious and maybe a little jealous. And you know, I’m not speaking out against Pride or pride, I’m just saying I don’t get it.

I grew up hearing that I should be “proud to be an American” – but I was never really sure why. For one, America isn’t the be-all end-all of awesomeness, and I refuse to pretend that my country can’t be improved. Whenever something good happens, I feel proud of the people involved in making that happen, but I never think “oh, I’m so proud to be American, because X just happened in the country.” If I didn’t do anything to make it happen, why should I be proud? Which brings me to my second and overarching reason for this post – I didn’t do anything to be an American. I was born in this country through no choice of my own and have never had to prove myself in order to claim the title of American (a topic for another day).

Pride is also a big queer thing. I should be proud to be asexual. I should be proud to be genderqueer. I should be proud to be transgender. Only … those aren’t accomplishments. Should I also be proud to have brown eyes?

I can say that I’m proud of the ace community much the same way I’m proud of the people who make good laws happen. I’m proud to be an out transqueer, but that is an accomplishment, in my mind. I’m proud to stand up with my peers for our rights – also an accomplishment. I take pride in my actions, in the actions of those around me, not in basic parts of identity that I can’t really control.

Maybe it’s because I also grew up hearing “don’t be proud” as a caution against overconfidence and haughtiness. So long as it’s not harmful to others, I have nothing against anyone who does take pride in their identity. I wish that I did – then I would always, always have something to be proud of. But I just don’t think that way. Anyone who does want to explain it to me?

A Carnival of Aces: Call for Submissions

What is this?

A blog carnival is an event in which many people write blog posts around a single theme. These posts are then collected at the end of the carnival and linked together by the carnival’s host. The Carnival of Aces is an effort to encourage a variety of different voices to speak about asexuality from their own perspectives. Anyone can participate, but the responses should deal with asexuality or the asexual spectrum (grey-As, demisexuals) in some way as well as relating to the month’s theme.

Theme: Invisible Intersections

Need some ideas to get you started thinking about what to write? Try one of these, or come up with your own:
+ Is there any aspect of yourself you feel like you have to play down when talking about your asexuality? What do you find important, but others feel that you shouldn’t care about, as an asexual?
+ Are there other aspects of your life where your asexuality is swept under the carpet? Do you feel like you have to hide your asexuality to be taken seriously when talking about disability, for example?
+ What are parts of your asexual identity that people don’t seem to think are related?
+ What kinds of things aren’t a part of your asexual identity that people seem to believe should be? (Do you consider your romantic orientation related to asexuality?)

How do I submit?

Share a link to your post in the comments here by April 1. If you don’t have a blog but would like to submit a post, Sciatrix is willing to host you – please email sciatrix [at] gmail.com! If for some reason you encounter a problem leaving a comment, feel free to email me: pipisafoat [at] gmail.com.

Celebrating Kink

whatawaytoburn is hosting a lovely kinky party on dreamwidth that seems to have taken off quite a bit: Let’s celebrate kink! Because why the fuck not? Archiving my comment here:


I love desperation. Maybe it’s being so turned on you can’t help but come in your pants, or maybe you’re holding your piss until you can’t anymore. Maybe it’s being desperate for nonsexual touch and calmed by hands on you. Maybe it’s desperately in love. Whatever you’re desperate for, I want to see it. It doesn’t have to be sexual at all; I’m not sexual. I want to see people alive like that, that’s all. Pure need, yearning. I want you to bare your soul to me.

I want to read a slash fic where you open your pants for me to come in them, followed by you zipping them back up and then getting off in them yourself, in my come.

I want to read a fic where we’re abandoned on another planet and only have each other to rely on; I want it to get serious and deep and close without getting sexual. I want us to be terrified that we won’t get home, and I want us desperate for each other, because we’re literally all there is.

I want you to cross my wrists and tie them over my head. I want you to stroke my body without pattern until I fall asleep, or I want you to lie down next to me and set a hand on my stomach and not move it, just talk until I fall asleep. I want to kneel at your feet and rest my head on your knee and float, and I want you to stroke my hair absently and otherwise ignore me – read a book or make a business deal or talk to your parents on the phone. I want you to call me your pet as a description of our relationship, and I want it to be clear to everyone that it’s not derogatory or humiliating but the most loving place I could inhabit. I want to wear a collar, and I want you to have the only key.

I want to hold you down and just look at you. I want you to accept it without struggle. I want to make you hold yourself still as I put out matches on the inside of your arm. I want to watch you fail to stay still as I put out a match on the inside of your thigh. I want to learn how to flog you exactly the way you want. I want to fuck you and hurt you and tease you and love you, and I want to do it because you ask me to. I want to do it all to your specifications, under your command, in your service.

I want to be chained up in your closet while you fuck someone else in our bed.

On Health and Privacy

Just because I swallow a pill in your presence doesn’t mean that my health is suddenly any of your business. You don’t get to ask me what I took, or why I took it, or what medical conditions do I have that make me need to take it. You don’t get to ask me how often do I take that particular medicine or how strong is it. And you most certainly do not get to become offended when I tell you that’s personal information instead of answering your invasive questions.

This is a situation that arose for me last night. My volunteer supervisor asked me these questions. In this case, it was a mild NSAID – certainly nothing that affected my ability to do my job or was dangerous for anyone. I suppose you could argue that he didn’t know that, but that doesn’t change the facts: Whether or not I tell anyone – and who I tell, and how much detail I give – is my decision entirely. As a casual acquaintance whose name I cannot even reliably remember (and who cannot reliably remember mine, either), he had no business even considering asking these questions. But wait, that implies that someone does!

Yes, a few people have the right to ask me these questions, but it is a right that I gave to them. My healthcare providers. My mother, who is my medical emergency contact, supplies my health insurance, and pays the bulk of my healthcare bills. My queerplatonic partner, who is my primary emergency contact, not to mention my partner and an important part of many of my major decisions.

But the list ends there, so if you’re not on it, keep your curiosities to yourself. It’s one thing to express concern if you have reason to believe I have taken something unsafe. Beyond that? I am not your museum exhibit.