I’ve spent a lot of the past week or so thinking about gender-fuckery and how to look as queer as possible. Yesterday, I celebrated Fishnet Friday and wore a new t-shirt – pursuing a queer-punk look. Apparently my word choice revealed that I’m a Dildorks podcast listener in this being-teased-in-public story, and I am borrowing their gender-neutral word again for this poem.
For their birthday, they cut their hair.
Tired of being quiet, tired of being scared.
Short hair, a statement, a middle finger to the world
They were certain they could take whatever it could hurl.
It didn’t change anything, except making them more brave
And more determined that they wouldn’t behave.
Badge with their pronouns on, rarely any make-up,
Ready to tell the world they didn’t give a fuck.
The sticks and stones fall hardest
On the first who step out of line,
But they were ready to fight the world:
Being queer is not a crime.
Shirts that outed them as political, mentally ill, and gay
Leftist sex-positive feminist, their anger here to stay.
Still making mistakes, still fucking up, still with a lot to learn
Including learning to turn away, to hide the tears when their eyes burn.
Six months on, not yet disheartened
In fishnet tights and scuffed Doc Martens,
In a short denim skirt and a Stay Angry shirt,
And a leather jacket – a filthy pervert.
They’re strong, angry, they don’t give a fuck
Laughing at anyone who calls them a slut.
Transgressive sex, and learning to speak out
Their voice rising from a whisper to a shout.
Question their gender identity, fall in love
In a sex club, fingering her with a latex glove.
Taboo kinks, protests, and holding hands in public.
Maybe a beacon of permission; to inspire, to uplift.
Cut their hair again, aiming to look more queer,
With an electric-blue dyed mohawk, walk out with no fear.
Bold and unashamed, gender potentially undetermined
Looking so gay-punk that mothers tell their kids to fear them.
They know one day they might get tired of being loud,
Tired of being angry, tired of being out and proud.
Even today no longer sure that they can change the world
But they’re damn sure that they’ll make their voice heard.
Image, as ever, sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.