v u l v a l i c i o u s
hard femme flagging
There was a time when I worried about flagging femme. When I felt invisible, hiding under a work uniform, wearing jeans and t-shirts and wishing I had some sign I could flash over my head that said: QUEER HERE, with a big arrow pointing down at me.
Somewhere between then and now, things shifted. I started wearing skirts more. And dresses. Tights in bright colors. It's funny that the clothes that could easily mark traditional femininity somehow felt non-traditional on me, but they did. My body felt like it was mine. And the more at home I felt, the more I wanted tight skirts. Short skirts, too. When I look in the mirror, I want to see myself under my clothes, right there at the surface. Not hiding.
I've been here a year now, finally working a job where I can wear whatever I want. Every day is a skirt day. In the past few months, nearly every day has become a makeup day, too.
Makeup was always about playtime for me. As a kid I took out my little fake makeup kits and made bruises on my arms from the colors. I wanted everything to blend together. It was never subtle. I left that behind for a long time, and then rediscovered it very suddenly.
My eye makeup is bright. I make stripes, streaks, blocks of color; I accent with eyeliner that wings out in a stream of whatever shade I feel like. Green. Gold. Purple. Blue. Black. Pink.
Lipstick can be difficult. It will rub off quickly, so I choose dark or bright colors. My latest acquisitions are dark metallics--green and blue and purple--and rich, matte reds.
The stronger my makeup is, the more protected I feel. When I am wearing a short skirt and red lipstick, I feel hard, polished, strong, unshakeable. I feel femme.
Femme like don't fuck with me; Femme like I mean it.