Tag Archives: androgyny

Dura Lex Sed Lex

Dura lex sed lex.
The law is harsh, but it is the law. [work in prog, but it fits]

Only ten more days or so and I’ll be going to the States to participate in the ALAN convention for adolescent books. Excited and nervous and…

About a month ago, I got an email from a lady from ALAN to talk about my panel and what kind of questions will be asked etc. and if I was okay with the introduction for me and then as an ending note to the email, she said something to the effect of, ‘now this is a little bit awkward, but you have an unusual name, so I wasn’t sure if you’re male or female. On your Goodreads profile, it says you are male and I have assumed that to be correct. Please correct me if otherwise…’ And I sat there and just kind of stared at the email for a while, because honestly I’d never had the questions before and now what do I say?

Yes, that is correct.

No, that is not correct.

Actually, it’s sort of correct.

Pass!

(My life needs a ‘pass’ button. Programmers I know? Please? Program the pass button?)

In the end, I wrote something like, ‘yes that’s correct, I’m trans.’

It was weird to write that. I’m not sure I’d ever written that about myself before. I suppose it had never come up. Either it didn’t come up for me or it didn’t come up for them, because times in my life it mattered very much and other times it didn’t at all, or it was so obvious even to myself what it was.

My good friend: Oh jesus, you told her you’re trans, what if now everyone thinks you’re trans because of this? And I told her, what if they do? It’s the truth.

You know, when I was growing up, I didn’t want to be a boy or a girl, I wanted to be a cat. I remember we were walking on the streets of Budapest and my mom ran into her old flame (who incidentally looks like Keanu Reeves, Lord Have Mercy.) And she, having not seen him in years, trying to look as good as she could introduced me and then she said, darling, why don’t you say hello to Peter? So I nodded and said:

“Meow! Mrowwwww!”

:mother buries head in hands::

::old flame gets an expression like god DAMN am I happy I didn’t toss my hotdog down that hallway::

I remember looking at porn magazines in the magazine stalls (they had them out, not really hidden either) and the old lady would shoo me away, stop looking at those, you filthy little boy! It was weirdly humiliating and satisfying.

When I was a teenager, I talked about cutting certain parts of my body off when I became an adult. I didn’t know you could actually do this yet, but it seemed like a gold idea to me and everyone thought I was just saying weird radical shit. But I think about that still. I look in the mirror and I think if I had the money, and if it wouldn’t absolutely kill my mom, I would go in today and say cut this please and add this please and here is my money and thank you very much.

The thing is though that even amongst trans peoples everyone is generally in a big rush to get somewhere. “I’m a boy but I want to be a girl; I’m a girl but I want to be a boy,” Oh, so when will you start taking hormones? Me: Probably never? There is nowhere to take hormones TO. There is no destination, only a feeling that neither zero or one is what I am and when I think about am I a man or a woman, saying either feels like a lie. It’s like, no. My answer is no.

I draw like a girl and I X like a boy and I love like a cat and I wear clothes like a woman, but only because I think that makes me look better, because I’m silly and vain like that, but it feels like a costume. Platform shoes and pants tight enough to tell my religion and this perverse joy in thinking, I fooled you. This is a costume and it’s a lie.

Clothing. This goes way back. You know holidays like Halloween and Carnival, where you dress up in a costume? And incidentally, a lot of guys will dress up as women? The whole purpose of these ‘dress-up’ holidays started because of sumptuary laws designed to regulate what type of clothing people could wear. Essentially, in many societies and through much of history, people have not been allowed to dress counter to their gender/religion/social status, it was considered subversive, but on these special festival days in the year, those rules were relaxed—you could be a prince if you were a peasant and a woman if you were a man.

Then women started cutting their hair short and wearing pants and a few decades later Katharine Hepburn and her pantsuits and all of that was again considered undermining men who are in Power and women shouldn’t be trying to grab a piece of that pie, but now at the turn of this century, more and more teenage boys want to be cute and wear makeup and female clothing and grab a piece of the Cutie Pie Power girls have always had. You have more little boys being allowed to play with dolls and people are wringing their hands and oh this is a sign of the End and what I want to know is: When will it stop being shameful to be a girl or to want to be a girl? When?

I had a conversation about this with a good friend not that long ago. He was commenting on an earlier post where I said I had put my kid into a dress. He didn’t like it, he said it was pushing my agenda on the kid… and I said, what agenda? The one sex isn’t better than another sex agenda? Because I don’t see anybody putting little girls into pants being accused of pushing agendas on little girls. Because being a male is still better somehow.

Now I want to be a good mother, father, whatever the fuck. And I honestly DON’T believe in pre-emotively confusing kids, because I feel many people are truly happy in a gender box and totally satisfied and there is nothing wrong with that. And if my kid wants to play football, have a crew-cut, play with firetrucks boy stereotypes ad museum aha, that’s cool. Whatever. But it’s very hard to subscribe to this whole idea when 1. I don’t believe being either gender has any more or less worth than the other and 2. I spend literally a week vacillating as to what I should respond when a woman asks me the simple question, are you a man or are you a woman?

I want to be eight again and write her back ‘meow meow’.

There, I said it.

My sex is cat.

~_~

PS: If someone who does feel strongly about this but on the opposite side of my opinion happens to stumble upon this post, could you do me a favor and leave a comment as to why you believe it IS important that clothing and certain behaviors remain gender restricted? I am dying to hear an educated opinion or have a conversation about it.

Further reading, thank you, Paintblotch.

This Is How To Be a Heartbreaker

[AKA cute brunette interrupts hot gay gang bang in the shower. Watch the video here. No, this is not dirty... it's a music video. ~_~]

Ahem.

Teen Idle – I want to be a virgin pure, a 24 cent cherry whore*, I want back my virginity so I can feel infinity….. (N.L. <3)

Dear Marina Diamandis,

I realize you will never read this so I can say whatever the hell I want and what I want to say is that I think your music is ultra. Super. Amazing! I am a tremendous fan. It’s like innocently popping a panty colored gum ball and finding a spike inside. (Okay, so that actually sounds massively unpleasant, but you know… metaphorically). Oh well, words seem to have failed me, so I have drawn (!) in pictures (!!) some of my favorite songs from you dear Marina, securing membership in the rank and file of your no doubt hoards of creepy fans. But in all earnestness, I can sketch for hours to your songs and I hope for you every success and happiness and for us more videos with underwear models, please!

As for you, dear readers, I have made many embarrassing posts over the almost two years that I’ve been the lord and master of this blog but this posting of fan-art for one of my pop-idols might just be up there in the top five most what the fuck am I really publishing this? But I am.

State of Dreaming – I live my life inside a dream, only waking when I sleep, my life is a play…. (A.D.)

Buy the Stars - ‘All my life I’ve been so lonely, all in the name of being holy, still you like to think you know me… you keep buying stars.’ (B.E.)

All right. Nothing more to see here, moofs. Big kisses to you and to you, Marina!

Get a copy of the excellent album Electra Heart here.

*24 cent cherry whore. Do you ever have it where the lyrics you thought were the right ones end up being in your humble opinion cooler than the actual lyrics? I was sad when I found out she really sings ’21st century whore’ there, having thought before, wow, not a 23, not a 25, but a 24 cent cherry whore, now that is some kind of vague sounding nasty right there…

There Were Girls Without Clothes and I Drew Them

My weekend looked like this.

I’m too tired to come up with a more euphemistic title for this post.

Dear moofs, what’s good?

Me, well I’m so tired, I literally spent all weekend drawing hot, naked babes. ALL WEEKEND.

W and I took workshop with bondage cuties totally normal models with an artist friend of his who is also a teacher–I drew so much that my hand hurts–I had about 30 cups of coffee over the two days and my nose is now permanently filled with that weird sicksweet sweaty smell ateliers seem to always possess. All in all, it was a productive, fun weekend with W, Stefan H. and the gang–

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Yay, more girls… I dedicate this picture to Michael B., my WP figure drawing friend.

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If I was king, this guy would have been required to be one of our models too.

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RIP II – Hair practice– [I drew this out of sheer happiness because I finally got the balls up to contact one of my art heroes who I've been admiring from afar for months and he's been such a nice guy =)

All right moofs, nothing more to see here. Thanks for dropping into my lair and have a great week ^^

Rolling Stone

I’m talking to the man in the mirror. I’m asking him to make a change. This random sketch brought to you by W, coffee graphite, and Michael Jackson.

What’s good, moofs? How are you? Me well… everything’s been so busy lately. I was in Hungary last week and New York this last weekend… Every time I travel to the states I make a vow never to travel to the States again. The hassle! The questions. I’m sick of all these fucking questions that have nothing to do with anything. Or they have to do with something, but they are so transparent and asinine, I could fall on my knees. Please! Can we stop this retarded mating dance and can you just come out and ask me, man to man?

ARE YOU A TERRORIST? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING WANTING TO HARM OUR CREW OR PLANE ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR BAG THAT WE HAVE MISSED AFTER WE HAVE INAPPROPRIATELY TOUCHED YOUR BODY ALL OVER AND HAVE RIFFLED THOUGH ALL YOUR SHIT??

Why can’t they just ask that? Do they think burying the question under ten other ones will catch anyone off their guard?

-Did you pack your own bags?
-Was anyone standing near you while you packed your bags?
-Did anyone ask you to pack anything for you?
-Were you by any chance high or drunk when you were packing your own bags, thus introducing the possibility that you do not remember if you have packed your own bags yourself?
-Do you like the color blue?
-Are you following ‘Game of Thrones’?
-Have you ever eaten fried chicken at midnight?
-How long have you been in this country?
-How did you get to the airport this morning?
-What do you do in this country?
-What do you do for a living?
-Point to the person who asked you to pack something illegal for them in your bag.
-What do you, what do you, what do you….

Guh, seriously, I could puke.

But then I go to the states and it’s so nice to see everyone again and we have our silly times and old friends that I forget all my vows and next time I’m gnashing my teeth again. Anyway. I have a billion things to do before we leave tomorrow, bright and early to trudge off to the puma den, so all y’all wish me luck please, though you know it wouldn’t be Italy if some shit didn’t go down… Thankfully we’re taking some buffer friends, including trusty Uncle Fail and my Hungarian buddy. I will not hesitate to use either of them as a meat shield, should the need arise.

The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul…

…is over.

Yeehaw, it’s spring.

Dear Alexandre S, I draw pretty picture of you, we get married now, k? Haha, silly Moof, you’re not a Mormon!

So, I’m done being a whiny little bitch–thank god, I was starting to annoy the frig out of myself. Back to drawing. This was an experiment in pastels and charcoal, two mediums I’ve always been a little scared of, because they’re pretty messy and unforgiving and I’ve got youngish person’s palsy. But I think Mr. Szymtko turned out pretty okay… I’d marry him. If I wasn’t already in a lifelong union. And if he couldn’t do better than me. ::sigh:: Universe, why you put all these obstacles in the way of my love?!

In other mews: It’s The Worst Idea Ever, but I did it anyway, checked out one of those stupid parenting websites on what my kid should be doing now that he’s passed twelve months. And here it is!

Starting to walk: Nope.
Starting to talk: Haha. Nope.
Starting to feed himself with a spoon: 0_0 Are these people nuts?? Why don’t I just put a friggin’ chainsaw in his hand and be done with it?
Getting really freaked out when we leave him, because he loves us and knows by now that he’s dependent on us: Ahaha, I have yet to witness (–) care that we leave–I think when he sees us leaving, he secretly hopes that these clowns are not his parents and that once we go, the king and queen will finally step out of the shadows and restore him to his rightful place as Crown Prince…

So what, he’s not doing a lot of things on that list, does that mean my beautiful little (–) is …slow, or something? Mais non, mon ami! Behold the skillz they seemed to have overlooked for their little compilation…

Gourmet: I think my kid might be the world’s youngest foodie. He just turned one year, but he eats Korean, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Italian… I believe he senses that if he doesn’t love these foods, I will throw him in the river and start over. Ha. Ha. If anyone from Child Services is reading this, that’s a JOKE. Please don’t come knock on my door and try to take my kid away from me.

Parkour (for the uninitiated, it’s the French martial art of running away and (–) has a brown belt in it).

Sleeper: One year old and he’s sleeping through the night. Praise the Lord!

Flirter: Equal opportunity flirter. Man, woman, young, old. Does not matter to (–). I think if you can make a crusty German cop smile and get all goofy, that shows some serious skill. He does this thing where he looks at the person from the side, then drops his head and smiles up at them with just the right mixture of coy and shy… Makes them melt and I roll my eyes thinking, oh please. He’s NEVER smiled at me like that–probably because he knows I’m up to his bag of tricks. ‘Mark my words’ a good friend of ours exclaimed, while at our favorite Mexican watering hole (Joe Penis). ‘When he’s older, that kid’s going to get so much @#(%@#, you’re going to weep.’

(–) waved his quesadilla and nenned his ascent.

O_O

Tired

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In Japanese there is a specific word for death by drowning. 'Water death'. Those resourceful Japanese. Or he could be asleep. I'm not pushy about it...

I’ve been with thousands of men, again and again,
they promise the moon.
They give you Byron and Shelley then jump on your belly
and bust your balloon.
I’m so tired. Tired of playing the game.
Ain’t in a crying shame? That I’m … so…. tired….

Warning. Bitching ahead.

Letter to Self: Get Stuffed

Dear Self–

I’m tired. Like really really tired.
Dissatisfied. And cranky.

Are you about to unleash ye olde period again?
Because I feel like tossing us under a bus. (Again!)
I want a vacation from my life, from my kid, but most of all, from You (me?)
I’m tired of being neurotic, obsessive, compulsive, impulsive and us in general.
Can we dissolve our partnership?
Because my mind, my heart, my soul and my body makes me want to puke.
(Mainly my mind and mainly my body, but you’re all on my shit list.)

I’m sick of being confused. I am too old to be fucking confused.
People are confused when they’re 15. I have not been 15 for so fucking long, it’s a joke.

I hate the feeling of going in circles, taking one step forward and two back, or two left and then two right. Waking up and being in the same damn place.

I wish I could be satisfied, but that would involve perfection and perfection is not possible. I’m tired of being in love with things that are not real; of possessing the things that I think would make many people happy and not being satisfied nonetheless. Can I wake up not wanting shit anymore?

Do I have to become a Buddhist?
Do I have to be in a life-altering accident or find out I have a rare and deadly cancer of the butthole that is 99.9 percent fatal, to finally appreciate my remaining days?

I am not a materialistic person. My threads mainly still hail from the early 2000s; my phone could soon be placed into a tech museum as a stuffed specimen of an extinct species that once blazed a trail for modern communication technology. I don’t want a car, I don’t want a house, I don’t want a ‘perfect family’, I don’t want a fucking llama farm, I don’t want fame and bitches, (okay, I’d maybe take bitches, but fuck the fame)… I don’t want things, and yet I feel guilty, because I am wanting stuff all the time. What? What? God only knows, because I sure as hell don’t. For once, I understand my kid perfectly: He stands by my feet and cries–I pick him up. He squirms to be put down, and starts bawling as soon as his little bum is on the floor, reaching his hands out in a plaintive ‘lift me up’. That’s how I know he’s mine and not the postman’s! Indecision runs in the family!!

More and more, I am taken with the idea of fixing my outside to look like my inside, but what is inside, exactly? It’s chaotic. Might as well cut off my ear and sew it onto my ass for all the good that would do.

It’s so silly, like drowning in a bathtub of water.

><

 

 


The Couple That Cleans Together…

You have a friend like this? I think we ALL have a friend like this:

“You know I’m not the type of person who likes to tell people what to do, but you really need to stop going to that hair dresser. That haircut is horrible!”

“Now, it’s your business how you live your life, but when are you going to stop having a roommate? All my friends are asking if you guys are all sleeping together…”

“So, I’m only going to ask once and then I won’t mention it again: When was the last time you cleaned your bathroom? It’s a health hazard in there!”

Ok, so maybe she had something about this last thing. Cleaning our bathroom was a bi-annual event (generally performed for Thanksgiving and if someone important enough came over to shame us into having a clean bathroom.) For ourselves, there was no shame. The kitchen was always slightly pungent with a few stratas of abandoned cook-offs. The living room swam in art supplies, back issues of Vogue, video game controllers (are those things breeding??) and the Spirit of Takeout Past, Present and Future.

Now my friend wanted to know if we ever cleaned the bathroom. Us! Bachelors!

To tell this story properly, I have to tell another story. When I was a little kid, my mom, though a reasonably clean person herself, always had doubts about her own cleaning prowess.”You should see how clean Icu nagymama (my grandmother) kept her house!” she kept saying, whenever I asked her why we had to clean weekly. Weekly? I mean, really? Is that necessary? Nobody ever came over. “You should see how clean Icu nagymama kept her house…” she’d say though, right before she ordered me to go outside and sweep up the courtyard. Are you fucking kidding me? As I kid, sweeping OUTSIDE seemed absolutely daft, but weighing about as much as three sizable cats back then, it was much easier to beat me up persuade me to do something I didn’t want to do than perhaps it is today.

I remember pushing the dirt morosely with the broom tip from left to right and back left again thinking how horrible it must be to be a grown up and still be looking over your shoulder in fear of your mother vis-a-vis cleaning. When I’m grown up, I vowed, I’m not going to clean my house ever, and I ain’t going to feel guilty about it either. So hah!

Oh the promises we make to ourselves when we’re ten!

Flash forward a ridiculous amount of years and now I’m telling my friend to bugger off, because I’m not cleaning, my bathroom or anybody else’s for that matter, and if she has a problem with it, she can take her bodily wastes home and dispose of them in the cleanliness and comfort of comelier environments, for all I care.

But then, about two weeks ago, she came over after a long absence, stretched her legs in the living room.

“Did you hire a cleaning lady?” She asked, glaring around.

“Nope,” I said grandly. “We’ve started cleaning.”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Schopenfags are growing up. About two months ago, okay, maybe only four weeks ago, we instituted a chore chart, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I lived back home with my mother. On it is written clearly each person’s task for the week, and I’m amazed to say that it seems to be working. 0_0 How did an unrepentant soap-dodger get into such a situation? I don’t quite remember, only that one night we were talking about the state of the apartment, and one finger pointed to another and next thing I knew, there was a chore chart hanging on the fridge and now nobody gets a wet butt and the gift of gonorrhea when they sit on our toilet seat.

Huzzah!

Reading time!!

In other news: I’ve got a reading. Yes, me! My own reading, courtesy of the wonderfully nice Lisa Yarger, who cordially invited me to read from my book at one of my literature watering holes here in Munich, The Munich Readery.  Come one, come all, it’s this Saturday (April 21st) at 7 pm (and I’m sorry for the horribly short notice, but I’ve been so occupied and then Jesus’s death and all, you understand??) Anyway. my reading is at seven with finger-foods (read: sushi 0_0) to follow… J will be reading the boy part, I’ll be reading the girl (how romantic is that!?) Lisa is jumping in as the mother–and if the prospect of us doing voices can’t entice you, well, come for the free food! (Anyone who’s been to any number of readings knows that the free food at the end is the only really enjoyable part : D) But seriously, I won’t be taking attendance :3 so no sweat if you can’t make it, but if you can, I would love to see your smiling happyfaces at the Readery this Saturday!

Peace out, moofs ^^

Is Lincoln to Blame?

Da-yum, when is someone going to pay me 1,000,000 bucks to sit on the beach, get high and draw hentai? …..Not yet?

I wish I could blame this picture on an early morning visit from Lincoln, but no, this time, I’ll take full responsibility! For every tail! For all cat ears!!

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Boys with Tails II

A friend asked for a picture. I was skeptical…

“I don’t do ‘finished’ stuff, you know this right?”

He said not finished was fine.

If possible, the drawing was to contain the following elements:
-him
-another boy of equal or greater physical attractiveness
-them engaged in some way … (hopefully, an erotic way, not an I’m pouring you a glass of lemonade way)

I was like… ‘Hmm. Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever done before, but I’ll give it a whirl :D”

Tails! Cat ears! Ruffled underpants! Tentacles… I threw those in gratis.

I drew another nice pic this weekend but alas, as nice as it is, it is not appropriate for WP ><

In other mews: We were in Berlin to visit the new addition to the family. I guess ::grumbles:: she was kind of cute. Not sure if she’s a Nazgul though, time will have to tell. Like with our baby, maybe we’ll start hearing of bodies lying in the streets of Berlin like empty husks… Ahh, we’ll whisper then knowingly. Another little Nazgul after all.

In other other mews: Starting some new anime series as soon as I’m done with this post. And I’m going to try to draw…. curly hair. 0_0. I don’t do curly hair, it scares me (to draw, that is, it’s fine on someone’s head) but a certain picture requires it…. Anyway, I’m rambling.

Hope you guys had a wonderful Easter ^^

A Nazgul Is Born

She might be a Nazgul. She might also just be a normal baby. To check, J and (–) and me are off to Berlin for the weekend. Oh, and here is a random picture for you in the meantime. Whoo, why not? Pretty pastel blue, for Easter.

This is Stav S., he is a beautiful Russian boy with very sad eyes. Bird skull in hair inspired by this lady's beautiful photography ^^

So I will be spending my weekend oohing and aaahing over a baby that may or may not have a conehead. (I hope she doesn’t. Paintblotch has basically taught me to distrust coneheaded peoples and I do have a pretty bad prejudice about them now.) Mingling with the inlaws. Keep me in your thoughts.

Sadly, (–) is too little yet to do anything kind of fun like egg dyeing or Easter egg finding, though he did get some nice Easter presents from my mom including (another!) talking animal.

Talking toys rant: You know, I have a love and hate relationship with those creepy talking toys. The kids love them, and they probably do help teach kids some vocab blah blah blah, but… they are so damn creepy. The newest addition to our talking toy menagerie is a dog. All its parts are labeled, and once you turn it on, the kid is encouraged to touch different parts of the dog’s body by this high-pitched sexless voice. [You see exactly where this is going??]

My kid likes this toy a lot, and I’ll be at my computer while he’s on the ground. I can hear the toy:

-Red heart!
-Touch my red heart!
-Touch my ear! Touch my foot!
-I love you!
-You’re my best friend!
-Don’t tell anyone…
-This is our secret!
-Touch my…

Me turning around. Wtf? My kid is smiling. Dog is staring at me with it’s creepy painted on smile, like ‘What? What did I say? I’m just teaching your kid the different parts of the body. Heh heh.’

God, I need to get more sleep.

Happy Easter, moofs. ^^

Thorn Collar, Lace Collar – Illu Frito

Or 'The Thumbsuckers' This is a picture for everyone who wants to return to the womb...

For the last two Illu Fritos, I was so unhappy with what I had drawn, I did not submit >< But this week, I am okay with this drawing, maybe. I sucked my thumb for a horribly long time. I won’t say how long. But I remember how amazingly comforting it was to suck my thumb. I wish I could go back there, to those times. Just pour the bathtub full of water and sit in it and suck your thumb when you’re scared or down…. Go back to the womb. The first picture I saw of my kid in the womb, he was sucking his thumb too… Too bad prolonged thumb sucking fucks up your teeth AND your thumb. (I learned this the hard way….)

But yeah, that is my submission for the prompt ‘Return’.

In other mews, the Baby Nazgul will be officially celebrating his first year tomorrow ^__^. Wow, can you believe it? One year with the little soul-eater. It’s gone by so fast. Let’s review his skillz, shall we? He can rage poop. He can parkour (In fact, he has successfully parkoured into the kitchen and off of both flights of stairs..) and he can almost walk. He can say ‘yes’ in Russian and ‘Change my diaper now or I’ll fucking kill you and your unborn children’ in Nazgul.He has already attempted his first french kiss with a man at the age of seven months, which is how I knew he was, indeed, my son.

Thank you to everyone who came to the unofficial birthday at Aunt Paintblotch’s…. and for all the presents and the baby bath soap I will be using while I sit in the bath tub and suck my thumb and read my lesbian zombie book be using to bathe the little curly brace. It was wonderful to see all you moofs. Have a great week and Happy April to all. <3