Friday, September 3, 2010

Snap.

Someone wolf-whistled at me last Friday when I was walking down St Kilda Road to meet Sonic in my short skirt and long jacket. It didn't really bother me but I just realised I've worn trousers and a hoodie almost every day this week. Funny how these things work: apparently unwanted attention from men provokes immediate reactionary dykeification*.

  • red gingham snap-button shirt -- hand-me down from Sonic
  • white long-sleeved t-shirt -- Target children's department, $10 for two (the other one is grey)
  • black skinny jeans -- Camby markets, $3
  • black Converse leather sneakers -- DJ's, $40
  • black leather strap (covered by camera) -- present from Daddy
* By which I mean a particular, easily identifiable androdyke look. It's definitely not femme but it's not really butch either; it's kind of the same as what femmy hipster boys wear. About eighteen months ago I went to a lo-fi/DIY arts festival in Adelaide and I was amused to see that I'd happened upon the uniform -- in my skinny jeans, square glasses and checked shirt, I was dressed the same as several boys there; all I was missing was a skanky beard.

I was reading a story in Patrick Califia's Macho Sluts last night where the protagonist defensively lengthens her stride and takes care not to swing her hips as she walks, and I realised I do this too -- and when I get home I swap my heels for boots or kicks. It's strange -- it seems like most people get more shit for non-gender-normative appearances -- but I usually feel safer when I don't look so femme.

Read on!

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