(no subject)
Currently roaring through Stone Butch Blues for my Queer Lit class. It's... gah. Really. A memoir of pre-Stonewall growing up butch in Buffalo, NY. It's by Leslie Feinberg, an unbelievable trans activist.
This is a breathtaking passage, but could be VERY triggery. Hence, under cut.
I punched Bobby's chest as hard as I could. I must have hit his equipment because I skinned my knuckles and Bobby just laughed. He pressed his forearm against my throat. One of the boys stepped on my ankle with his cleats. I struggled and cursed them. They laughed as though this were a game.
Bobby unlaced his uniform pants and jammed his penis into my vagina. The pain traveled up to my belly, scaring the hell out of me. It felt like something ripped deep inside of me. I counted the attackers. There were six.
The one I was angriest at was Bill Turley. Everyone knew he tried out for the team because the kids teased him about being a sissy. He scuffed the grass with his cleats and waited for his turn.
Part of the nightmare was that it all seemed so matter of fact. I couldn't make it stop, I couldn't escape it, and so I pretended it wasn't happening. I looked at the sky, at how pale and placid it was. I imagined it was the ocean and the clouds were white-capped waves.
Another boy was huffing and puffing on top of me. I recognized him--Jeffrey Darling, an arrogant bully. Jeffrey grabbed my hair and yanked it back so hard I gasped. He wanted me to pay attention to the rape. He fucked me harder. "You dirty Kike bitch, you fucking bulldagger." All my crimes were listed. I was guilty as charged.
Is this how men and women have sex? I knew this wasn't making love; this was more like making hate. But was this mechanical motion what all the jokes and dirty magazines and whispers were about? This was it?
I giggled, not because what was happening was funny, but because all the fuss about sex suddenly seemed so ridiculous. Jeffrey pulled his cock out of me and slapped my face, back and forth. "It's not funny," he shouted. "It's not funny, you crazy bitch."
I heard the sound of a whistle. "Shit, it's the coach," Frank Humphrey warned the other guys. Jeffrey jumped up and pulled up his pants. All the boys scattered toward the gym.
I was alone on the field. The coach stood a distance away from me, staring. I wobbled as I tried to stand. There were grass stains on my skirt and blood and slimy stuff running down my legs. "Get out of here, you little whore," Coach Moriarty ordered.
And with that passage, I sobbed my eyes out. Fuck the 1950s. The book gets so much better when Jess starts sneaking away to Niagara Falls and finds surrogate lesbian parents (one butch, one femme--there was a serious binary back then) and they both start to rear her as a baby butch. Butch Al tells her how to be tough, and Jackie tells her how to stay tender. And I cry and want them to stay together forever as a little found family (my trope!) except then it gets depressing again.
LOOK AT THIS. It is Imogen Heap covering Thriller. WHAT:
On another note, friends, I so very badly need a therapist.
This is a breathtaking passage, but could be VERY triggery. Hence, under cut.
I punched Bobby's chest as hard as I could. I must have hit his equipment because I skinned my knuckles and Bobby just laughed. He pressed his forearm against my throat. One of the boys stepped on my ankle with his cleats. I struggled and cursed them. They laughed as though this were a game.
Bobby unlaced his uniform pants and jammed his penis into my vagina. The pain traveled up to my belly, scaring the hell out of me. It felt like something ripped deep inside of me. I counted the attackers. There were six.
The one I was angriest at was Bill Turley. Everyone knew he tried out for the team because the kids teased him about being a sissy. He scuffed the grass with his cleats and waited for his turn.
Part of the nightmare was that it all seemed so matter of fact. I couldn't make it stop, I couldn't escape it, and so I pretended it wasn't happening. I looked at the sky, at how pale and placid it was. I imagined it was the ocean and the clouds were white-capped waves.
Another boy was huffing and puffing on top of me. I recognized him--Jeffrey Darling, an arrogant bully. Jeffrey grabbed my hair and yanked it back so hard I gasped. He wanted me to pay attention to the rape. He fucked me harder. "You dirty Kike bitch, you fucking bulldagger." All my crimes were listed. I was guilty as charged.
Is this how men and women have sex? I knew this wasn't making love; this was more like making hate. But was this mechanical motion what all the jokes and dirty magazines and whispers were about? This was it?
I giggled, not because what was happening was funny, but because all the fuss about sex suddenly seemed so ridiculous. Jeffrey pulled his cock out of me and slapped my face, back and forth. "It's not funny," he shouted. "It's not funny, you crazy bitch."
I heard the sound of a whistle. "Shit, it's the coach," Frank Humphrey warned the other guys. Jeffrey jumped up and pulled up his pants. All the boys scattered toward the gym.
I was alone on the field. The coach stood a distance away from me, staring. I wobbled as I tried to stand. There were grass stains on my skirt and blood and slimy stuff running down my legs. "Get out of here, you little whore," Coach Moriarty ordered.
And with that passage, I sobbed my eyes out. Fuck the 1950s. The book gets so much better when Jess starts sneaking away to Niagara Falls and finds surrogate lesbian parents (one butch, one femme--there was a serious binary back then) and they both start to rear her as a baby butch. Butch Al tells her how to be tough, and Jackie tells her how to stay tender. And I cry and want them to stay together forever as a little found family (my trope!) except then it gets depressing again.
LOOK AT THIS. It is Imogen Heap covering Thriller. WHAT:
Click to viewOn another note, friends, I so very badly need a therapist.