Why do you have to be so DIRTY, AJ?

When I began addressing my gender identity in my poetry, there were two things I was scared of talking about. One was just my gender identity itself. But the other thing that frightened me was writing about sex. Addressing sex. Talking about sex. Because, you see, when it comes to sex and sexuality, trans people - and trans women especially - have to face a hell of a lot of policing. This post, by Monica Maldonado, gives a really deep insight into that. I urge you to read it. What really got me was this bit:

'Trans women are given two options: we are either the mute eunuch, “approximating the appearance of a woman” (as Benjamin said), or we are the supposed pervert or rapist who must be denied access to either medical treatment or social accommodation. Given such little leeway, and the deep stigma ascribed to each of these two options, trans women so often end up very reluctantly going along with the “less frightening” of the two. We become the compulsory eunuch in spite of however uncomfortable it might make us. Both options are non-choices for which the table is stripped by cis people of any other possibilities of what a trans woman could be — or is allowed to be.' - Monica Maldonado, 'How gatekeepers made me hate my body', cisnormativity.wordpress.com

That is why I was so afraid to write about sexuality in my work, and that is why I will continue to do so. My sexuality is a part of me, and I don't see why I should have to supress a part of me just to fit in with what a cis doctor feels I should conform to. The single artist I most admire, Tori Amos, has never made any secret of addressing her sexuality in her performance - why should I shy away from doing likewise?

According to gatekeepers, and to a certain brand of prescriptive, transmisogynist 'radical' feminist, there are two strikes against me: one, the fact I'm trans at all; two, the fact that I'm not only a trans woman who dares to have sex, but I also dare to have, shock horror, kinky sex! It's no surprise to anyone who's attended one of my gigs or read my work, but I'm kind of a masochist. I like to be treated rough, slapped around, dominated, etc etc, blah blah, yadda yadda yadda. Only consensually, only with other girls, and only in safe space (and if you try beating me up without my consent, I will definitely do everything I can to put you in the hospital), but for some, even safe, consensual, mutual sadomasochism is going too far. It betrays the sisterhood. It replicates patriarchal power relations. It's violent (well, duh!). It's icky and dirty and pervy and why can't you be a good Catholic girl (actually, I do occassionally suspect that it's being a good Catholic girl that makes me such a masochist, but I digress)?

Sure, the radical feminists are hardly queueing up to get me back in with the Pope (though I am toying with doing a post sometime comparing second wave feminism to what St Paul did to Christianity, and of course there's always this cartoon), but you see what I mean.

There is massive pressure on you, as a trans person, to conform to a script that makes cis people feel unthreatened. So I knew, when I started writing about being trans, that the smart thing to do, the sensible, unthreatening thing to do, would be to leave sex, especially kinky sex, out of it. But, again, why?

The only reason for not talking about sex in my writing and performance was that to do so would frighten the horses. And that was the same reason I'd given myself for not writing about my gender for so long. And I wasn't going to waste any more time censoring myself.

So I stopped censoring myself, and I started writing about my sexuality as well as my gender, and I will continue doing so. Because no woman, of any sort, should feel afraid to talk about what she desires. And if you think that trans women should keep quiet? There's a name for people like you, and it starts with 'B' and ends with 'igot'.

Hangin' on the Telephone

Like what must be about 77% of the UK population, I now find myself working in a call centre. And it isn't exactly a bad job, and I'm reasonably good at it - working in the book shop gave me a chance to develop a certain manner with customers that's served me well, and my always charmingly weird voice seems to have a kind of beguiling effect on the callers - but it does mean that, about once a day, I find myself having the same recurring thought: if I'm going to spend my days talking pretty to people and occassionally being verbally abused, why not just work on a sex line?

Maybe the problem is that, while I'm good at selling stuff to people I'm a lot more service-oriented, and the job that I'm in - while providing a lot of opportunities to be of service - also involves having to make what are called 'add-on sales' i.e. having, at the end of the call, to try and sell the caller some additional product they don't yet have. People wouldn't buy the things we sell 'em if they didn't want them, obviously, but still, it can sometimes inject a certain sense of grubby commerciality into an otherwise pleasant transaction.

And, as filthy as you might consider the phone-sex industry, at least it's founded on a solid and honourable transaction: the customer phones up, you talk dirty to them until they make a funny noise, they leave happier (if somewhat wetter of trouser) and you pocket a slice of the 85p-a-nanosecond they've been paying for the privilege of wanking without the use of their own imagination. You say your goodbyes in a stilted and embarassing fashion, and you don't move in when they're at their most vulnerable with some kind of additional spiel.

Or do you? See, that's where my fantasy falls apart, crashing against the harsh rocks of reality. You see, I've never actually worked in the phone sex industry, nor, indeed, have I ever called a phone sex line myself (due not to some overly-developed sense of moral hygeine but because my mind is filthy enough already without me having to outsource my fantasising to somebody at the other end of a phone line). What if it is actually like working in a legitimate call centre? What if, at the end of the call, as the punter sits there, a shaking human battleground for the forces of relief, loneliness, pleasure and shame, you're expected to chime in and say 'now that I've brought you to orgasm, sir, I wonder if you'd be interested in buying our new DVD, Bukkakic Park: The Tossed World?'

That isn't even the worst possibility, though. You see, as part of the service we're expected to demonstrate, one thing we're supposed to do is summarise the call at the end. Imagine that: having to summarise a sex-line call before letting the customer go. 'Well, sir, let me just check on this for you: you called us shouting that you needed to come, dear fucking god we had to make you come, I've outlined a fantasy scenario in which I get on the floor and you fuck me hard in the ass with your big bad monster doomcock until I scream and call you 'daddy', and as a result of this erotic freestyling you've now reached a physical climax and are weeping gently on a soiled matress and wondering where it all went wrong. Would that be a fair summary of the situation? And is there anything else I can help you with?'

It's a terrifying thought. Perhaps, all things considered, it's best to stick to the respectable end of the phone biz, and content myself with slipping the odd innuendo into my customer conversations as I service them queerly...no sir, I said service your query. It's a bit of a crackly line.