This weekend in New Orleans I was part of an amazing performance weekend for the Palimpsest Novel book tour.  Performing on stage with the likes of Catherynne M. Valente and S.J. Tucker was such a joy, with the audience decked out in finery, masks, steampunk gear, and maps writ upon their flesh.  Trains of heaven had snaked us from Chicago to the Bayou, and I was in bliss having never been to the city before and getting to do it surrounded by some of my favorite people.

But neither the show itself (including me spinning poi on stage for the first time in 3 years,  me doing arial ropework involving a really powerful piece about emotional angst and rape, or doing ropework on the floor that involved the painfully cathartic work of destroying a novel ripped from the bound author' hands) is not what I want to write about today.  Its about my green corset.

We all have that one piece of our wardobe that has seen so much, done so much for us, with us, against us.  It has been there during the hard times and the good.  It has seen us fat and thin and every shade between.  It has laughed at us, supported us, held us.  It might be an old brooch or a favorite pair of shoes, a scarf or a coat.  I have a number of these, and this corest is one of them.

Green Corseted as a Woman

I got this corset from Morganna Femme Couture many years ago as a custom piece.  I loved it, though snapped the front busk quickly, shipped it back and the second held.  I tend to be hard on my clothing.  It is emerald green silk duploni and it used to fit like a glove- I could tightlace down to a 38D-28-42.  It was amazing.

I gave away most of my corsets, or sold them, or traded them, when I gender transitioned.  Firstly, no longer having breasts, over-bust corsets were silly to own.  Secondly, though I still identify as a drag queen, its been hard to get "girly" when trying to train folks to call me he.  I apparently confuse, baffle, make it hard for folks. But I had to keep this one, my orange and black PVC one by the same maker, and my leather waist cincher from another creator.  I could not would not part with them.  But neither could I wear them.

I have worn a corset "out" twice since transitioning until this weekend.  It was Dark Odyssey Winter Fire 2008 for the formal dinner.  Stockings, girdle (the one shown above), super-tall stripper platform heels, layers of black satin skirts and crenolines (long in back and short in front), tight orange and black corset, custom orange and black tall anime wig from Peacock Blue... eyeliner, glitter in my beard, and a flat chest under a black shirt.  People were baffled and yet had fun... but those who had known me as Bridgett (above) tripped over their tongues, unsure how to address me.  The femme fag boys were very supportive and loved it, and me. It was good.

The second was a drag piece for the Baltimore Erotic Arts Festival- where I came out in full drag queen/fetish model (for how different are they really?) glory, danced, stripped... then ripped off my fake boobs, got fully naked, removed my makeup, and got dressed into men's garb before a "mirror" (held up by my friend Graydancer) all to the song "Unpretty" in the 2nd half by TLC.  I walked away in my own skin, comfortable, hand in hand with my refletion.

But I haven't had the stregth.  Emotionally.  The whole drag queen thing is a lot of work, and currently rocking an amish-style beard I realized I need it.  The beard.  I don't get she'd.  Ever.  Ok, except on the phone once in a while.  I love being being high femme fabulous for an evening, but if it means I have to shave it all off which will lead to me having to juggle the depression and frustration of getting she'd again... I just don't have the strength right now.

So the corsets have lay quiet, borrowed by friends or just bundled and safe.  They lay fallow.  They were untouched, unheld, pulled no skin tight and forced no lungs to contort.

Wearing my Green Corset as a Man

Until this weekend.

The night before leaving on the trip I had a hair-brained idea and put it in my bag.  Black boots, black trousers, black shirt unbuttoned under the corset showing my chest fur.  Hat, goggles, key on a necklace, leather fingerles gloves.

It was good.  I've put on a lot of girth since going on testosterone, so instead of closing it it was open 4+ inches in back, and yet the look was still very dramatic.  Perhaps moreso because most folks in the audience had no idea I had ever lived, loved, and dressed as a woman.  Had no idea that once I was the woman above.  They saw a bearded young man with a 32" corseted waist wasped in and gasped.

I could only wear it for an hour.  Costume chaanges, and I was out of practice.  It was good though, if hard.  I kept fearing that people would know, would care, and yet I knew I had to.  For me.  And in the name of art.  I'm still femme, and sometimes, I need to accept, that that means my love for corsetry needs an outlet.  I won't be shaving my beard any time soon, nor my legs, but the boning is needed, the cotortion of flesh.  I need to feel it, to see my waist cinched in, to feel my power over my form, to feel light as I dance and laugh.

My love of corsets has not faded.

Technorati Tags: clothing, corsets, ftm, gender presentation, insecurity, queer, trans, transgender, transition, transmasculine

Sometimes we need to nurture, comfort and care for ourselves if we hope to serve the world to our fullest.  A lot of femmes I meet seem to fogret this fact- we are the lover, parents, warriors and poets upon whom Atlas' load is balanced.  Without us the world would crumble and fall, without us we have this feeling the turning would stop and gravity would let everything we care about fly away into the ether.

One of my comfort foods is what I have deemed Comfort Garlic Toast.  I have made variatons of it since I was a child.  Powdered garlic, shredded cheddar and cheap bread were all it took for my mother to make me smile on a day someone had been mean to me or when I'd not aced a test.  But I've grown up and the idea of a pool of cheddar grease leaves me wanting.  This is my version of this treat and sometimes side dish to italian, french, or american cuisine... with a bit of grown up and a lot of childhood memory.

Ingredients needed for this recipe:

- 3/4 stick of butter (or an equivalant of margerine for my femme allies on a diet)

-5 cloves of garlic

-Italian spice blend (there are tons of great options out there)

-A few slices of wheat bread (or some other healthy-ish bread... the more texture the better in my opinion)

-12 minutes (20 for me, see below)

-Shredded Asiago Cheese (I get mine at Fresh&Easy in a round tub and keep in my fridge to use as a condiment; Parmesean, Romano, or other hard cheeses will also work, and for the flavor adventurous, you can use a blue crumble cheese or feta but use less garlic in my opinion).

-Cutting board

-Paring knife (this all black one was a recent gift from my mother as part of my housewarming package)

-A happy thought somewhere in your heart

Pour yourself something to drink that makes you smile.  I chose to make mint drinking chocolate using nonfat milk, and my lips, tongue and belly was delighted.

Remove butter from the fridge, and cut it into cubes, tossing it into a microwavable coffee mug.  Mine matched the one I was drinking choclate from, another thing to make me smile   Brek it up with a butter knife a bit, venting agression stored in your muscles, then set it in the microwave.  Hit the "Express" button twice, totalling 1 minute on 80% or so.  Check consistency.  Can you push the butter around without it being runny?  Perfect.  If your microwave runs hot, then do 30 seconds, check, etc.

Once the butter is pliable, grab the garlic and do not despair on how to peel it.  Schuck off the obvious dead stuff that you see in the top right of this image- the part where the tendrils and roots ran into the ground.  This was once a flowering plant, and you are eating its bulb. By consuming bulbs we are absorbing the potential to be flowering beings ourselves, harnessing our ability to grow by spreading roots between our friends and loved ones, and reading towards the skies to show our potential.  We become grounded in the bulb inside us, and for this we celebrate.  So pull off the tendril sction with your thumb, having the individual cloves fall away- or cheat!  Take the paring knife and just cut it off!  That will remove the hard section from the bottom part of each clove, and take some of the skin away with it.  Instead of fiddling with each piece, you can expose their naked pearls in one speed-strip.

Look at how cute they are as bottomless.  Bottomless and ready to be consumed, or bottomless potential... either way.  Both are very sexy.

Now pick up a clove, and either slide the tip of the paring knifein the space between the dead skin and the pearly white beneath- or if you are rocking long nails, that is even better.  Slide in slowly, then twist- the skin pops away... about half the time.  To gaurantee it, use a meat tenderizer to help separate the skin, but if you are lazy, just try again on the other side.

You now have naked pearls of garlic, and your kitchen is smelling of your endeavors.  Remember the last time you had a good date at an italian restraunt.  Remember the taste of marinara or alfredo sauce.  Remeber the love that goes into hand-pressing olive oil, and the love you are pouring into your own creation.  Now to mince! Start by lining up each clove one after another and slice them thin.  Do all of them.  By turning it into a repetitive motion you save time and are more likely to create something consistent.

Look down and *look*.  Snowflakes each.  You can stop here if you like huge chunks of garlic, but most folks prefer smaller pieces.  ow we go from slicing to mincing.  Put all of the sliced garlic in a pile and begin doing downward pressure strokes with the whole knife at one time.  One hand is on the handle, and the thumb and index finger on your other hand are holding the tip.  Lift together, push down together.  Note the line created.  Repeat.  Over and over and over again.  Every 10-20 strokes, wipe off the blade, pile it all back up, rotate the cutting board one quarter, and do it again.  Keep repeating until you are happy or have totally tranced out and snap back when the song on the iPod changes.

Add minced garlic to the coffee cup of butter.  Mix with the butter knife.  Knock over your beverage.  (Optional).  Curse yourself loudly at having forgotten it was there and reach for kitchen towels to start mopping thedrinking choclate off of your foot, the floor, the counter, the cutting board.  Throw it all in the sink and be annoyed for a moment until you realize it is an opportunity for self-compassion.  Shit happens.  Dishes are washable, kitchen towels cleanable, and there are worse things for your floor to smell like.  Fess up to yourself that you were daydreaming about the guy you played with last night who was really hot who you'd had a minor crush on for years.  Shake head in amusement and move on.

Add two large pinches of shredded cheese to the mix.  Blend.  Close tub quickly for fear of dumping it over too.  Open up mixed italian seasoning, turn it over the coffee cup, and pat it 6 or 7 times like it was being lightly spanked.  Blend.  If it doesn't look like enough of either, add more to your taste, but this is usually about right.  Set seasoning down to put lid on it an note that the top looks like a flower, a reoccuring universal theme from this toast lesson, and meditate on it.

Blend one last time and the start buttering toast with the mixture you have created.  Not too much, but enough to cover the whole piece of whole wheat.  Note the connection between whole piece and whole wheat, and reflect on how whole you are being in your life.

Turn on your oven to Broil (and Broil on the other dial- make sure it says so on both lest your stove get confused and look at you funny).  Set the buttered bread on the rack not on the very top rack slot possible but one down from there.  Push the rack in and laugh about the word "Rack".  Close door to oven 75% but not all the way.   Wait 2 minutes and peek because you're nosy.  Shake head at dishes and decide to do them a bit later.  Come back a minute or so later.  Remove when it looks perfet to you.

Put on a plate.  Serve.  Love yourself.  Sit down and enjoy.  Put the leftovers in a tupperwre and store in the fridge for easy comfort a few days from now.  Feel free to double the batch or triple it for speed comfort for the coming weeks

If you are not craving garlic, consider replacing the garlic with 1/3 of a tart apple (Granny Smith works well) or pear, the cheese with shredded coconut, and the italian seasonings with cinnamon-sugar.  Its a really great dessert for folks on a budget.

Enjoy the Alchemy.  May the Philosopher Stone of your life unfold before you, and may you enjoy the journey, and the matching flaatware, along the way!

Technorati Tags: cooking, DIY, edible alchemy, how-to, meditation

I personally believe that cooking is more than an act that enables us to feed our bodies. It nourishes our souls, allows us to offer love to our partners, connect with our friends, and dance in the decadence between the bites. We are questing magi with olive oil and garlic in hand, shamans armed with flour and nutmeg to ward off angry spirits.

Thus I believe in the art of edible alchemy. We have the power to transform base ingredients to a higher purpose, and in my recipes I prefer to thus share more than the ingredients that went in. This first recipe in the Edible Alchemy series thus came to me when given an opportunity to sustain the lives, friendships and joys of friends and more of mine in Maine.

Needed for this recipe:

• 30 minutes (or an hour if you will be reading a book or simultaneously dealing with email while doing the initial food prep)

• 3 people whose hearts and lives you want to feed (hopefully including yourself)

• 6 asparagus stalks (7 if one of them reminds you of an ex-boyfriend that you once had back in London... long, hard, straight...)

• 3 slices of smoked bacon (best if obtained from a corner shop where people know your name, and if not possible, drooled over for a few days so that the potency of your desire for more tasty bacon is boiling in your blood)

• 6 eggs from happy chickens

• One tomato

• A handful of cilantro

• Bag of mixed spring greens

• Sourdough bread leftover from last night's feasting

• Parmesean cheese

• 3 splashes of milk

• Olive oil

• Applewood smoked sea salt

• Cracked black pepper

• 2 cloves fresh garlic

• One nonstick saucepan

• One nonstick frying pan with lid

• One mixing bowl

• One garlic press

• One slotted wood spoon

• One whisk

• One flipper/turner

• a heap of love and sense of humor

Wander into the kitchen while your friends who have been hosting you for the week are upstairs packing their bag for the conference you are all heading towards. It is best if you packed your bags the night before so that after breakfast you can do the dishes and they can continue their panic with full bellies and full hearts. Once in the kitchen get yourself a beverage of your choice (I recommend Moroccan mint tea) and take a deep breath. Absorb one last day in their space and say a prayer under your breath for coming back to Maine and visiting them again. Obviously, if you are not in Maine, insert a location that gives you pleasure... especially if it is your own home- for our own homes should give us pleasure.

Clear off the food prep space and set dirty dishes in the sink to do later. Or do them now, but if so, adjust cooking time above. Run your fingers over the wood cutting board and thank the tree that gave its life as you set out your ingredients and begin your work.

Cut the bacon into small chunks. Bite-size or smaller. This is an art, not a science. As it sticks to your fingers laugh under your breath at the voices upstairs asking where the books that need to be taken were stored. Peel the garlic and set them aside.

Heat up the saucepan with some drizzled olive oil in it to some middle temperate and be amazed at how nifty their flat topped stove is. Press the garlic into the heated oil and mix it around with the wood spoon, being delighted as the garlic hits your nose and the folks upstairs proclaim “yum” within seconds of oil and garlic sensually embracing each other in the pan. Toss in the bacon once the garlic is tan like the girl you had that secret crush on back in Austin. Enjoy the crackle of their threesome, stirring regularly.

While the bacon crisps, start cutting up the asparagus into chunks that make you happy. Be amused about the one that looks like your ex boyfriend. Cut it up anyway. Toss it in with the bacon/olive oil/garlic to create an orgy for the senses.

Put a lid on it, adding a splash of water as you do so to help steam the asparagus while it fries. Keep the eyes on the back of your head on it to make sure nothing sticks or burns to the saucepan... you will have to use that spoon and mix it up from time to time.

Slice up the tomato. Rinse and mince up the handful of cilantro. Slice the 3 pieces of bread from the sourdough round and set these all aside. Check on the orgy.

In the mixing bowl, crack two eggs and add a splash of milk. Make cute patterns in the milk if it makes you happy.

The add some flavored salt. I prefer the Applewood Smoked Salt, but any flavorful smoky salt will work. Brands I enjoy include Artisan Salt Company in Washington and Auntie Arwen's in Connecticut.

Whisk with abandon. Take the orgy off of heat and let it lay in its own afterglow.

Heat up the frying pan to medium heat. Pour in the egg mixture so that it is even across the base. Let it bubble a bit. Put some water in the edge of the lid (not much at all) then pour it slowly down the side of the pan and quickly put the lid on top. This steams the eggs.

Once the eggs look firm, Take the slotted wood spoon (to drain off the oil) and take about a third of the asparagus bacon mix to put on the left side (right side if a lefty) of the omelet. Add a few pinches of cilantro. Add some slices of tomato. Add some Parmesan cheese. Take a picture (optional).

Grab the flipper and slowly slip it under one side, make an offering to the universe to have this go well, and fold the omelet. I tend to break one out of five or so... so have the broken one be yours when you sit down to eat. Its just as tasty.

Lay out your plates, put on a handful of salad on each, and slide the first omelet onto the first plate. Accidentally drop the bag of salad as you try to put it back in the fridge and have the dogs descent upon it all. This is of course when one of your hosts will come in and let out a howling laughter at it all. Curse it all and ask him to grab a broom. While you repeat the omelet making steps above (minus dropping the salad as that is all done)- bowl, whisk, pour, steam, layer, fold, plate- let him know that its his job to make coffee if the house wants it as he has the coffee magic. Put laughter in kitchen on repeat.

Plate the 2^nd and 3^rd omelets. While the 3^rd one is steaming, throw the bread in the toaster. Set the flavored salt and the pepper on the table and do other table prep. Tell everyone that food is served in 1 minute. Correct yourself and say 2 minutes.

Tell them out loud how much they mean to you. Smile and consume each others joy between bites of asparagus bacon omelet. Leave with a full belly and a full heart.

Technorati Tags: cooking, DIY, edible alchemy, home, how-to, meditation, recipe

When I decided at the age of 26 that I was going to finally gender transition, I was lovingly informed that I had to hang up my heels and become a real guy. One photographer friend of mine offered to give me “dude lessons” (sadly, not a euphemism for having sex with him). Another old friend informed me that transguys don’t do drag, or wear makeup. A small army of FtM folks and their allies I knew said that for the first few years after transition you have to stay a mans man in some way… its hard enough for people to get used to the pronoun change.

So I did. I would dress sharp in 3 piece suits or maybe on a brave day wear a pair of goggles and go a bit steam punk… but that was it. I bound back my breasts, started on hormones, jumped through hoops getting ready for surgery, and always dressed as butch as I could imagine. I found this all hilarious, mixed in with the hilarity. I mean, hadn’t others challenged me into being a high femme woman?

Growing up I didn’t identify femme. I wasn’t allowed to really. I was a genderqueer kid who was taller than anyone else in her class, sprouting up to 5’9” in 4^th grade before settling in just shy of 6ft. I was strong, a math wiz, and brainiac. The reality is no one who knew me as a kid was surprised when I came out as debating gender as a teen or finally transitioned in my mid-late 20s. And as the strong brainiac one who would never dream of being under a size 16, it was oh so easy to become a street punk butch dyke.

But I was doubling as a femme fag. My first boyfriend saw it and encouraged it, but the women I dated all saw my size and firmness and boy-ness and went “oh- BUTCH!” The lenses we each wear, right? But that vision from the men I dated of me as super curvy goddess led to that flicker of femme to grow. To simmer. To bubble. And eventually it became this thing I wore, a fine layer of lip gloss under the surface of my being. The thing I broke out and put on high volume when I needed to sneek into a nightclub- breasts first and deep red lips following.

I finally fell in love with a bloke in England who, based on our Dominant/submissive dynamic, informed me I would become a woman. More accurately, a high femme he’d be proud to have on his arm. Well, the lip gloss just beneath the surface was there, so he just scratched and peeled away the outer flesh and built that gloss up to a high shine. Platform boots, velvet skirts, growing my hair out, learning how to do makeup that wasn’t for the stage. But it always was a bit drag queen or costume… which was oddly hot for me. It was femme, but looking back, it was femme fag.

By the time he and I broke up, it had become habit for venturing out in public. Lipstick as my sword, corset as my armor, handbag as my shield. I was still a mix- punk patches, combat boots… I always will be, and I personally believe that all of those things are femme too. Thus when I arrived in the adult film industry, I had a great rack, a collection of heels, over the top makeup… and a career was born.

But 6 years later I shaved my head, and another year later I began discussing my transition out loud. People looked at me and started arguing. But aren’t you femme? Don’t you love corsets, heels, and being fabulous? Don’t you perform, cook, and do sex work?

I had flashbacks to being in high school at my therapists office. I had heard about this FtM thing and decided it was me. She looked at me and said, but don’t you prefer men? Overall, yes, but I sometimes like girls too. But don’t you say you like wearing women’s clothes? Yes, I do, so what. Stockings are sexy. But didn’t you say you are not dysphonic about your vagina? Its true- I like having sex with my vagina.

We’re not interested in creating a fag, she said.

It was all back. You have one right way to do it. That’s it.

Bullshit.

It had been 14 months since I had publically come out as being trans, changed my name in the public world, and 5 months after my chest surgery. I was going to a sexuality conference called Dark Odyssey and was going to go to their formal dinner night. Everyone I knew was dressing to the 9s, and I had no idea what to wear.

My orange and black corset tumbled out of the closet.

I sucked in my breath, and heard them all yelling. The friend with the dude lessons. The councilor from high school. The what you should voices.

Girdle. Seamed stockings. Platform high heels. Layers of black skirts, short in front and long in back. Tight corset. Flat furry chest with a black wrap shirt over it to stay warm. Huge wig. Eye shadow. Mascara for miles. Lipstick. And glitter in my beard.

Whatever I am, femme is part of it. And its not about pleasing the world. Its about pleasing myself, and living fully.

A dude with glitter in his beard.

Technorati Tags: gender, gender presentation, identity, memories, queer, sex vs. gender, trans, transgender, transition, transmasculine, what femme is