The Allure of Michfest: Why Trans Must Colonize This Unique Event

Michigan Womyn's Music Festival

Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival

The Ohio Lesbian Festival is open to transwomen, so why all the fuss over the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival? Why Camp Trans and Transwomen Belong Here? Why the trans-activist pressure guilt-trips on Michfest performers to stop playing at MWMF?

The biggest reason why male-to-female transwomen want in at MWMF instead of just going to OLF where they are included, is specifically because the intent of the Fest is a barrier; a barrier which must be overcome by any means.

The Age of Exploration

The Age of Discovery: Exploration of the secret and the unknown is its own reward

It has been my experience that men are (much) worse than women when it comes to a personal sense of entitlement and inclusion. In my experience, many, if not most activisting transwomen bring that sense of entitlement with them into their woman-identities.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

Transwomen belong here

Transwomen belong here

Transwomen want in to Michfest, specifically because they weren’t invited. The festival and The Land it takes place upon is a space to be explored, marked out, fought for and over, and ultimately conquered.

Roadtrip: In search of a mysterious location known as, "The Land"

Roadtrip! In search of a mysterious location known as: “The Land”

Michfest2

Have you seen an all-female gathering in these parts?

If you have ever been socialized as a boy from birth to adulthood, it is very easy to understand where transwomen are coming from, and why it is such a big deal that Lisa Vogel be forced to submit to their demands.

You gender heathens must all convert to Trans or else transphobia, which makes you a bad person

Yeah, I am going to have to demand that you gender heathens all convert to Trans* or else transphobia. Which means that you will go to hell and burn in a fire

Remember, military training and military culture are a part of many trans women’s narratives. Some of us have experience in the Army, Marines, Air Force, even Navy SEALs. Trust us, when it comes to trans-activism, we know how to do war.

Sir! Good news to report. Indigo Girls, Hunter Valentine, and Lea DeLaria  have surrendered to hurt feels trans-activism. We must keep up the pressure. It's only a matter of time before they all surrender and Michfest will finally be ours

Sir! Good news to report. Indigo Girls, Hunter Valentine, and Lea DeLaria have surrendered to hurt feels trans-activism. It is only a matter of time before Lisa Vogel capitulates and Michfest falls.

Once we’ve colonized MWMF it will be considered a “glorious victory for trans inclusion” an achievement to boast of and tell future transwomen about. How we bravely fought and beat the bigoted and ignorant FAB women and took over their space by making them invite us. We sure taught them a lesson! Social justice ftw!

Colonization: Forcing the "T" onto GLBT whether you like it or not

Colonization of Michfest: Forcing the “T” onto GLBT whether you like it or not. We can do it!

Sorry about your socialization!

Male socialization: yeah pretty much this

Male socialization: yeah pretty much like this

Shhhhh!

Shhhhh!

Posted in feminism, gender politics | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 178 Comments

My encounter with another transwoman in the women’s locker room

Pool

It was the whistling that clued me in that there was a man in the women’s locker room. I had just finished my lap swim, and I was taking a shower when I heard whistling in the next room over. I thought to myself, “what the hell?” and “it must be the janitor”. And because I had no desire to walk unclothed into the locker room with a man present, I dallied and continued my shower. I assumed the whistling would stop in seconds because the janitor would finish quickly and get out. But the whistler kept whistling, so I kept showering.

I kept listening for the expected sound of the locker room doors crashing open and shut as the janitor departed, but it did not happen. Cautiously, I wrapped myself up in my towel and peeked around the corner of the shower room into the locker room.

showers

The whistler was a six foot tall woman in late middle age. Her back was to me as she stood at a locker arranging her things. I knew instantly, that she was trans. Given my past history, I had no desire to be seen naked by a late transitioner. I ghosted over to my locker and grabbed my bag and darted to a changing stall.

As I was putting my clothing on, a young Asian woman had come out from the lap swim and started showering off. At this point, the transwoman ceased whistling, and I could tell by the sound that she had sat down on the bench to change.

The Asian woman, probably twenty-something, finished her shower quickly and walked naked from the shower to the locker room, toweling herself as she went. At this point I came out of the changing stall, dressed in my street clothing, sans my socks and sneakers which were still in my locker.

I glanced sidelong for a split-second at the tall, broad-shouldered transwoman as I approached the benches. The transwoman was gawking at the Asian lady as she was getting dressed. The woman had her back to the transwoman as she finished drying off and began dressing, so she did not see what I saw. I saw The Gaze. The gaze I had avoided by dressing in the changing stall, when I realized that the whistler was a transwoman.

womens-locker-room

The transwoman continued to disrobe and put on her own bathing suit in preparation for her swim. But as she did, she continued to gaze at the Asian woman as she got her clothes on. I saw the whole thing out of the corner of my eyes. The Asian girl looked at the floor. The transwoman looked at the Asian woman. I shot glances at the transwoman. The transwoman never looked directly or indirectly at me, perhaps because I was clothed.

Very. Very. Awkward.

I suspect that the transwoman frequented another public swim location, and that her appearance at the pool I liked to go to was a result of maintenance at the one she attended. I had no desire to share that locker room with that transwoman again, and I avoided that particular pool for a couple months afterward in the hopes of not encountering her again. I haven’t yet, so I assume it was either a random encounter or that she frequented a different pool.

The main point of the story is, whistling in the women’s locker room. Dead giveaway that there was a man in there. Only it was a transwoman. A transwoman who could not keep her eyeballs off the young Asian girl, whose back was turned to the transwoman as she got dressed.

Even though that transwoman is recognized as female and did not have a penis, she doesn’t belong at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival any more than I do, for the reasons I described here.

While I know that some women do whistle, that’s not the issue I am trying to highlight. The problem was the fifty-odd years of living in a man’s body, with a brain bathed in male sex hormones and a culture that teaches men that women’s bodies are theirs for the gazing at.

A transwoman may claim that she feels like a woman inside, but transition and a sex change does not remove the lifelong Patriarchy socialization that conditioned the transwoman to feel entitled to gaze and gawk. And I do mean gawk. There is a difference between a transient glance at someone else in the locker room, and the long, lingering, scanning stare that the transwoman played over the Asian woman’s body. In this case the transwoman’s actions spoke more about her socialization than her feminized body or her identity.

This example that I share with you highlights why places like Michfest are important. They give born-females a chance to organize and be away from both Male Gaze and the man-culture that encourages women to be the gazed-upon.

Posted in gender politics, shared boyhood | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

on becoming a servant

Goddess watch over me

Goddess watch over me

When I went and started living full-time as Plastic Girl, I started my life, all over again. Because I was young, with no degree or trade, I had no marketable skills.

My resume had previously been filled with blue-collar stuff, like working in factories, doing janitorial work, temp work in construction, that sort of thing. I mean, once I was out of my teens as an adult, I left fast-food and pizza delivery to get into the 12-hour graveyard shifts of industrial labor. Such is the life of working poor. You take what you can get, and you make the best of it. When the labor demand dries up, you find another job.

In the post 9-11 world, blue-collar industry was destroyed in the slow downward spiral they call the Great Recession, or something. When I transitioned into Plastic Girl, I still had nothing but my blue-collar background.

When I went on to live my life “full-time” as Plastic Girl, I moved from my transition town to a new city for a fresh start, where ostensibly, no one would know me from my old life.

The problem was, I was no longer living in an unincorporated area on the edges of an industrial and warehouse sector. I was living in a Big Name City which has a clear middle and upper class, as well as a lower class. It really is a caste-system based (partly) on what skills you have on your resume. I had no white-collar skills on mine, to save my life.

Very soon after I started my new life, I ran out of money! Getting a nine-to-five gig where I could stand on my feet all day, forty-plus hours a week and do mindlessly simple and repetitive manual tasks for minimum wage was Freaking Hard! It just was not happening, thanks to Nine-Eleven.

In no time at all, during the course of using up my money for the job hunt, I became destitute. And due to my trans-related medical issues, I needed access to medical care. I found a GLBT-friendly clinic with a sliding scale fee schedule.

While I was in the waiting area, I met other transwomen and men. Some of these transwomen fell in love with me, on sight.

Others could barely believe that yours truly was in a free clinic for the underclass. Mainly because, to put it simply, I was young, white, healthy-looking, in good spirits and fairly confident in my identity as Plastic Girl. This made me magnetic, or something, because I attracted transwomen and chasers like nobody’s business.

The fact of the matter is, I was alone, in a new city, in a new life, and I had no friends. I accepted the attentions of some of these transwomen. And that is when I got my education about surviving Teh Street. Surviving being (truly) poor. Getting by, as an underclass.

There was a time when I thought people who applied for welfare were just too lazy or too unmotivated to keep striving until they got a job. I had always associated welfare as being for families of immigrants, or women with children. That was when I was younger, and stupider and far more mabtastic.

I found out from my new trans-friends, that I could collect a small stipend, food stamps and some vouchers for public transportation, if I was willing to humble myself in order to go to the city welfare agency, and ask for help.

So. Because I could not get a job doing what I knew how to do best, I destroyed my mab-ego-pride a little more, and went down to the welfare office to apply for welfare, right alongside those immigrants and single women with children.

I had never done anything like that before, and I felt ashamed that I was left with no other choice, simply because I could just not get a regular honest job. But I did it, and I qualified, and I got food stamps and the whole nine yards.

One day, one of my trans-girlfriends asked me if I wanted to make some easy money to augment my welfare stipend. Of course, I said “Yes”. So. Then we went to a bar that caters to hooking up TGs with MABs who like them.

My friend showed me the ropes. I watched her, and I learned. In no time at all, she had brought some older guy in his fifties over to our table. Turns out, he was willing to pay us each $100 dollars if we would let him watch us make out/make love while he fapped and did a bump of meth or two while fapping.

We brought him back to our place, and everything went according to plan. He was a decent guy to us both. We both “earned” our trick money that night, and it paid for internet, clothes, toiletries, that sort of thing.

My friend used to do the street walk scene. This can be very dangerous work. It is fraught with abusers, some of whom will think nothing much of pulling a knife on you when you get into their car, insist on a free BJ, and then kick you to the curb after he comes in your mouth. This actually happened to my friend one night, while I was inside the bar pacing myself on a glass of red wine, scoping out potential dates.

She picked up a trick from a sidewalk pull-over while she was outside having a cigarette (or fag, as you Brits say), and she was assaulted the instant the door closed and the car pulled away. The john left her without due compensation for services rendered, about four blocks away from the bar I was in. It was pretty awful.

I realized I didn’t want to do the street scene, if I could avoid it. I have done it a handful of times before, but, I trust my spidey-sense and so, when I would get a bad feeling about the vibe coming off a john who is scoping me, I walked back into the bar. It was much better and safer and generally paid better to screen my dates at the table over a drink, then to actually step up to a J that pulls over to the sidewalk for you.

My friend was not very good at saving money and nor did she have a head for business of any kind. So, she spent her meager street-walker earnings as fast as she got it. But I saw a better way to survive and thrive and get ahead and move up financially.

What happened over the course of two months was, I slowly saved up my bar-trick money, and then used it to launch my own business as a call-girl. Then, I got into hyper-femininity.

Within two weeks I had burned up all my saved money on a sexy wardrobe, makeup, grooming stuff, all the girly things a bottom girl wears to show menz she is a bottom.

During my first week of being a real call-girl, I made more money in cash for a few hours of work, than I made in a forty-plus hour-a-week job where I worked my fingers and back to the bone while standing on my feet all day.

With that kind of money, I got off welfare. I didn’t need it! I didn’t want to collect it, unless I really and truly needed it. My welfare stipend for a month was like, $220 dollars, with $100 dollars in food stamps to go with it. I was able to get into better housing of my own effort and new-found financial privilege. This kind of quick and easy cash under the table, upgraded my standard of living and consumption in no time at all.

I had my first ‘girl-friend’ date soon after I started advertising. I was called and booked for an appointment. I got ‘dressed’ and performed all the femininity rituals, including foot-hobbling and short skirts.

I took a cab to a Big Time Ritzy Hotel and was admitted to an amazing hotel suite with a near-panoramic view of the night-time city. It was, well, lovely. For that evening I was a faux-girlfriend and sexual servant to a (nice) VIP mab. He left me a white envelope with five hundred dollars in it. For four hours of work. Less than an hour of the total time spent with him was actual sex-worker stuff.

I would take a couple of these kinds of appointments a week. I would sometimes take quicky appointments at my home that involved various short and sweet sexual services, but my specialty was the “girl-friend” experience. This means, being a servant-girl and submissive to menz for a couple of hours. Being his “date” to dinner and drinks, and or whatever.

I learned to be a good listener. I learned to let guys talk and let them relax and enjoy my femininity and openness. I learned to please someone besides myself. And after awhile, I got good at it. De-stressing guys who wanted no-strings faux-intimacy with a girl they did not have to see ever again, was my job for the better part of a year and a half.

If someone had told me when I was eighteen years old, that I would be living as a woman and a call-girl in a Big City three thousand miles away from my rural hometown in a mere seven years down the road, I would have laughed at the insanity and imagination of the idea. But that is where I found myself, within five months of going full-time with my life as Plastic Girl.

When you are poor and you ask others for help just to stay alive, your ego goes away. It has no choice, but to die. This will change your personality.

Your ego gets shattered a bit more, with each and every new level you are forced to bend and yield to. You learn to say “please” and “thank you” and “I am sorry (if I offended)” with total sincerity, because, after enough repetitions, your submission will no longer be an act, but just a fact.

When rich MABs, or educated and business-type women look at you momentarily as you pass them by on the street on the way to the bank to deposit the money you made the evening before, you avert your eyes and look at the ground. Because, you know your place as a transwoman and prostitute.

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why gender “identity” is frankly ridiculous

gender identity vs sex identity (revisting the true transexual competition).

for myself ive said this before: my transition goals involved becoming as close to sex: female as possible. for me this boiled down to srs and hormones, thats it.

i have a sex identity as female, not trans woman. my gender=whatever dressups and behavious i feel like projecting. my gender is fluid and not an “identity”.

the problem inherent with gender identity is that gender is social behaviors. how does one “identify” as a set of behaviors socially imposed on males and females?

the problem with gender identity is that unlike sex identity, gender is not set in stone. if you break your sex-based social gender construct, then you reject a set of performances.

essentially gender is a transient social phenomenon. any identity based on cultural behavior expectations is not a solid and well thought-out identity.

sex identity dysphoria is slighlty akin to intersexism, maybe.

but gender dysphoria is ludicrous. it is mental illness that needs therapy, not medical transition.

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in praise of magickal thinking




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are you there God? it’s me Margaret.


i just finished reading Judy Blume’s “Are You there God? It’s me, Margaret”. I broke into tears at the end. A book like this makes me keenly aware of missed shared girlhood experiences. the sense of wistfulness for something ive always dreamed about was overwhelming.

i wish i had a period. i really do. even if it hurt. a lot. it would be my cycle and i would obsess over it with charts, journals, i would get absorbed over the nuances. id monitor my body temp, my weight, my smell and taste. my food cravings or revulsions.

id get myself totally in tune and try to listen for the follicle releasing the egg. time everything with the moon…it would be gorgeous. i would become the moon-blood queen.

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ode to summer moons

with one percent of the third supermoon remaining and the beginning of the new lunar phase, i thought id post this for the three witches.

also. i figured out the missing link to understanding how to get Yin energy to stay in the blood.

estrogen and progesterone contribute mightily.

always being a little hungry helps energy contract.

absorbing yin energy spiritually helps.

but the final piece of the puzzle is iron loss through menstruation.

my new female doctor had glacier-fingers two days before the third full moon.

my guess, the heavier the flow, the grester the iron loss. iron oxidizes. it rusts. this may be another reason women trend to live longer.

monthly blood loss can be simulated, ritually. :)

Posted in genetics, spirituality | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Be-ing a Bitch with a Capital W: Radical Feminism is Witchcraft

plasticgirl:

if its in your blood, this all makes perfevt sense.

tis the season, if you know what i mean

enjoy this compendium of womyn-wisdom

Originally posted on when women were warriors:

In this Realm, Shrews shrink the alientating archetypes drawn by drones and dangled by flashers to fix/frame women in amnesic oblivion. In courses of anamnesia, of unforgetting our Archaic origins, Lusters uncover the Archimage—the Original Witch—within our Selves. We re-member Isis, cosmic writer and librarian, and weave the way toward naming our own Real Presence. Weirds conjure the Courage to Sin—to Realize be-ing. Brewsters brew potions, primevally potent. Our Archaic active powers are unleashed. Angelic forces are awakened.” - Mary Daly, Pure Lust: Elemental Feminist Philosophy, p. 31

note: All words followed by an asterisk(*) can be found in the Wickedary/Metadictionary* at the bottom of this text.

    “She’s a witch with a capital B,” the conservative Christian woman says to me, blushing, contorting her furious face in an attempt to suppress her rage. She’s as mad as she ever gets right now. Walked off the job…

View original 2,779 more words

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time is on my side

the long funnel game.

probably going to check in at th hospital again. i’ve lost track how many days i’ve gone without sleep in a safe place. eating solid food when i can and when it appeals to me. trying not to aggravate/exacerbate the ravaging. i

i am fine, though. i have no anger in me about anything or anyone.

time, sink, funnel, weaver

time, sink, funnel, weaver

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super moon three, coming to you, live

natural ecstasy. you can heal from hot injuries using water and moonlight.

ive been experiencing protracted periods of spontaneous mirth since june 6

 

as the moon ascends, i am getting searing knots of quasi pain that seem to grab from within, then fade and release.

 

Selene

Selene

  pretty heavenly

 

 

 

 

 

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help, please.

 my spouse is abusing me and my aunt is violating me and they know im a rape survivor. i need a safe hotel, money, and a feminist attorney that specializes in domestic violence.

. i cant trust my aunt not to hurt me and deliver me my righful inheritance. i need serious committed backup immediately. i am going to start using blood magick

if people keep trying to hurt me.

 

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victorian secret

just cant sleep at the moment. im calm and cool. i feel fine. i feel. i am. 

kind of on sentinel duty. trying to be institutionally aware, but not hyper vigilant or over-guarded. 

its an awkward place to be right now 

anyway, thinking about past convos…

if you are a prospective or would be male to female transsexual, tell me, if you could be made entirely female, and spawned alive and well and passing 100% in all ways as the woman of your dreams, you would probably accept that, right?

especially if you got to keep your white collar or even blue collar privilege. i mean corporate and unions pay way better than non union shops or service work. generally speaking.

now picture this. you go through the transition machine and come out looking like the techno-babe of your dream and…you are in Victorian Era of England.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victorian_era

and instead of transitioning on the job as a policewoman, or computer programmer or tech consultant or whatever. you land or spawn like Gordon Freeman, only a female version or something. and instead of waking up in the future, you wake up in the past. with no family, just a purse with some coins in it. no husband. and no education or privilege. you wake up in Victorian England.

you know what women did back then, oh STEM career AGPs?

if you didnt have a man, were lower class, and you had little or no connections, then as a woman, a perfectly passing female (thanks to the transition machine but by reverse Buck Rogers Quantum Time Weirdness), you went backwards and in England at that time, unmarried underprivileged and underclass women had few options.

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Workhouse

2. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victorian_era#Prostitution

now, if you, my dear mtf readers, could be made 100% female copy of the techno-babe of your pornstar dreams, but lose all privilege that you gained, like family, friends, children, and your wealth. but you would be 100% passable and guys would want to have sex with you.

would you still want to transition?

think about it. really hard. and reflect also, on what that says about modern transition and our culture. its way better to aspire to be like one of the empowered sex pos women from Sex and the City, than to become a janitor, housekeeper, factory slave or sex worker, don’t you think? and privilege, well… it doth has its privilege.

so, would you transition perfectly, but accept living out a full measure of a passable life as female, as a lowerclass unmarried woman starting from the bottom with only options one and two readily available?

i doubt it!

its much better to be a computer geek girl. right? have the cubicle job of your dreams, the benes, and identity yourself as a trans and make “it gets better videos”. right? because after all in your dream, you weren’t being born again as female, you were becoming a trans woman. 

right?

Posted in and synthetic people, cyborgs, gender identity politics, women's health | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments

an ending is just a new beginning, part 2

If I had to
I would put myself right beside you
So let me ask
Would you like that?

becoming a feminist and sticking with my opinions and speaking heart to heart has cost me the person who was nearest and dearest to my heart.

my es-o has violated me at least eight different ways since my father died last year… i mean wtf.

i never did anything to her, but love her as best i could.

i was honest from Day 1. I said, “i am a prostitute, and i occasionally do other semi-legit errands, yeah, that’s where i am at right now”

total transparent disclosure. accept me, or not. 

we got married. took vows.

she was not honest.

her best friend told me over drinks (oldest truth serum in the book) that she had been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic within two maybe three years prior to our meeting on public trans it.

she concealed that from me for almost ten years, sans the year past when her best best best friend in the world let it slip. oops.

ive done my work and taken care of my biz. no offense to those battling personal demons and mental or spiritual or emotional issues, but ive mostly had my fill from way waY way too much (over)exposure to it. i need my mental space unpolluted. especially my nest of all places.

ive been able to read her in all things like an open book, until last June when she passed the Turing Test.

so much for three laws compliant…if you know what i mean???

yeah.

apparently, she read my blog while i was overseas and i may have seeded a mutating psychic virus into her not-adequately-therapied-brain. not to mention she has always been a paranoid to the point of deviation from significant norm. STEM careerist. loves she-male porn from incidental glances at her monitor over the years. has utterly no interest in srs, which i totally and completely do not get. and she requires the girly point scale stuff to feel “womanly” or feminine or whatevers.

anyway, its been wild. 

im still not angry with her, thats the most messed up part. im bummed. im disappointed for sure. i even forgive her. but i will never forget. when it comes to dating transwomen or tgs, i have a new policy,

 

 

Never. Again.

 

i literally can not trust her to sleep next to her, or accept food or drink from her. like ever. i feel like id be participating in my own lulling to trust again. for another attempt in a month, or a year, or five…

 

and thanks again to my angels watching over me. <3

 

 edited 8-30-2014 to add, when i came home on the 29th, the first thing i noticed on my desk was my opened personal private and legal mail, containing my replacement drivers license. she opened my mail without my consent or knowledge, when she could have left a message that legal mail had arrived at the hotel i was staying at. or just left it alone.

 

trans boundary failure!

yyy

Posted in artificial persons, feminism, transhumanism | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments