‘I wore a corset; he wore jeans’ A.K.A. Why do men assume I’m dressed for their entertainment?

Hey guys! So, some of you may know this already, but I have a one year working visa for Canadia! Woop, woop! This means that I will sadly be leaving Berlin in 10 days, forever and ever and ever. Until I come to visit at least. It’s truly been a blast being here. Truly. I think I will blog about all the things I have learnt over my past 2 years here and post it soon. However, first things first. If you haven’t seen me perform and you want to, next Saturday is your last chance! I will be doing a solo at Berlin’s Trash-Deluxe. Sneaky sneak preview: I will be doing something involving oil and condoms. Oh, yeah.

Now, back to business. In this, the first of two posts on sexual norms at parties, I describe my adventures at an erotic salon. I ask, what dynamics do we agree to when we go to erotic spaces? Who is doing the looking at these events and how do we negotiate consent?

Last night I went to an erotic performance party. All in all, I am really glad I went. I got to see beautiful women doing bondage play and hang out in a small studio, where they showed silent porn films from the twenties in the cellar downstairs (so tempting to make silly voiceovers). I drank absinthe with flaming sugar dropped into the glass and chilled with an ice cube, and ate poached wild peaches with whipped cream. All of these things were great. However, as the night progressed, increasingly more men came into the private party. I was irritating by the increasing inequality of the gender ratio and couldn’t quite put my finger on why this bothered me, until my friend observed that none of these men were dressed up. This despite the fact that the event was promoted with a specific dress code, and the majority of the early party comers were dressed in extravagant, salon wear.

The kind of canape you might expect at an erotic salon

The erotic salon dress code had inspired all the early comers to wear clothes that suggested fantasies of 1920s Paris: flapper dresses, braces and white shirts, large kohled eyes and sculpted hair. Yet, nearly all the men that arrived after midnight were dressed in normal, casual Berlin wear: jeans, t-shirts, business suits and black shirts. One man even wore a beanie (not sexy!). Increasingly, the earlier participants were pushed to the walls while drunken men laughed and gestured raucously in the middle. The atmosphere of erotic tension and decadence that the organisers had been so careful to cultivate was destroyed as I gradually felt less comfortable and more angry at the shift in the dynamic.

My friend’s observation made me realise that I wasn’t just angry because a mixed queer-straight party had turned into an average Friday night heterosexual party, but also because the gender shift reinforced a really sexist dynamic of observer and observed.

As a promoter of themed parties, I know the importance of dress codes. Encouraging people to consider their outfits and dress especially for the occasion is an invitation to participate in the event. The sophisticated and sexy dress code for this party suggested that attendees would help to create the atmosphere of decadence, and were expected to participate in a respectful way, much in the same way as attendees of a sex party. Dress codes at sex and play parties are specifically necessary: tailoring your outfit to fit the event is a declaration that I am one of you, I am participating in this event; I am not merely an observer.

“the gender shift reinforced a really sexist dynamic of observer and observed”

Now, to be clear, this was not a sex party. This was a salon for erotic performers to network amongst ourselves, while enjoying an atmosphere of decadence and some subtle titillation from the performances. Making out was OK, however any bondage or more intense sexual encounters that weren’t part of a performance would have to wait for a less public space. It was a guest-list only event, and the dress code suggested sophisticated and sexy with a hint of smuttiness. Corsets and feathers and top hats were great; complete nudity would have been inappropriate.

Although it is normal to pay to get into erotic parties, this one was free and was promoted as a networking event for erotic performers. To me, this reinforced the idea that it was a participatory event. It was not as if we were paying money to watch performers on a stage. The canapés were free, and the drinks were cheap. The performers weren’t paid, and we therefore owed them respect. Of course, you should respect any sex performer that you see. But I kept thinking about London and how expensive a salon like this would be there and I realised that when you pay a lot of money for an event, you do expect the performers to perform for you. The cigarette girls walking around selling something, and the burlesque women and MCs in their expensive outfits are, then, there to be looked at (but not touched). You are paying for that experience of titillation; an erotic service. But as an attendee at a private party I had not bargained for performing for a group of drunken heterosexual men. I would have liked to flirt gently with a respectful man in a top hat, but I was not up for being the exotic treat on a straight lads’ night out.

The theme of the night was ‘don’t take a fucking picture of me, you jerk.’ I had to put my hand in front of the lens three times to stop a guy from photographing me eating. Another man sitting right next to us stared unblinkingly at my friend, as though she wasn’t really there, as if she were on a screen and he had paid to watch her. When he angled his camera at her face (he was close enough to touch her), I leaned forward and suggested, ‘maybe you should ask her before you take a photograph of her.’ It was only when I repeated myself that his eyes focused on me and realised that he was talking to a real-live human being and wasn’t going to get away with pure observation. He guiltily mumbled that he would delete the photo and soon afterwards disappeared into the crowd. The fact that he didn’t respond with a respectful, ‘I’m sorry, can I take a photo of you?’ but reacted as though I had shut him down, caught him in the act of doing something illicit, showed that he knew he had done something wrong.

“I would have liked to flirt gently, but I was not up for being the exotic treat on a straight lads’ night out”

At queer parties, or mixed parties where queers feel safe, I often don’t mind women taking photo of me. But every time a man tries to photograph me, especially when he doesn’t ask and assumes that it will be fine by me – that I have agreed to be there for his sexual entertainment – I, understandably, get really pissed off.

My friends and I concluded that what we was needed, as well as a stricter door policy, was an awesome detector. Like a metal detector, but which could detect awesomeness in straight men and admit them accordingly. I, personally, hope that one of you guys can invent this for me. At least, at the next party I organise, I am going to make damn sure that I enforce the dress code!

Check in next week for part two on the norms in straight vs. queer spaces, how to create a safer atmosphere and is there such a thing as unspoken consent? 

Advertisements

Is ‘Cupcake Feminism’ all Empty Calories?

Yes, I know, I know. I haven’t been around much lately have I? Well, as well as working away I am now moving to Canada in the next couple of months. So, everything’s gone a bit crazy with, like, a million and one things to do and I haven’t written any posts.

But, never fear! You can read more of my writing on amazing feminist website The F Word. I was inspired by the responses I received on Innocente(a)se and the Rise of the Cupcake to follow up on the classist and racist implications crafting chic. Check it out here and let me know what you think!

Normal blogging service will be resumed shortly.

Check the awesomeness! http://cunting.bigcartel.com/product/a-very-english-sweary-bunting

I Blame Disney

How Disney fucked up my love life and how it literally pays to get married. Plus, surprisingly readable musings on the nature of happiness. 

Hi guys! Me again. Yup this one is pretty long – I was going to post it as two pieces but I think it makes more sense in one go. I have inserted cunning subtitles and pretty pictures to keep you entertained. Plus, wittiness! Knock yourselves out. I would especially enjoy responses to my questions about how cis, trans and gay guys feel about romance. Do you, too, feel conditioned to love in a particular way?

“Hollywood is the devil and if you’re not careful it can ruin even the best of relationships.” – Feminism for Anarchist Men zine

In my post on careers last month, I suggested that, in a world which only allows women as value as girlfriends, wives, attached to another, maybe we don’t feel there is any point in nurturing women’s abilities. You may have a brilliant daughter who is hugely talented, but the most important thing to you is that she finds a partner, settles down (whatever that means) and has babies. And, of course, this isn’t only an external pressure. We have all internalised this pressure to mate. The idea that a monogamous long-term relationship is our only possible happy ending. I mean, I used to lie about my past relationships because I thought I was a failure if I hadn’t had one. Never mind my own talents, I only have value if I am, and have, a lover. It seems that being single is even worse than being gay. 

Happiness. That old bind. I remember my friend reporting to me how, at a dinner party, one of the guests said that women would have been happier without feminism. Apart from some possible responses to this – what, we would be happier without the vote, the criminalisation of rape within marriage, the right to own property? – it is actually quite a hard statement to argue against. Happiness is hard to quantify, and who feels happy when they haven’t got a man?
As a woman, it is virtually impossible to be happily single. With everything in our lives pushing us towards the ‘happy ending’ of a relationship, we can never feel completely happy in the moment of now. Now, I am single. Now, I am writing. Now, I am doing something I have always wanted to do, the thing that I am best at, but am I happy? Fantasies about meeting the ‘right person’ who I can ‘settle down’ with take up a lot of my headspace. Where is my home, if not with this imaginary other who is going to make everything all right?

“Will you marry me?” – pretty much ever movie, romantic novel, ever.

Sourced from this discussion on Feministing (click image for link)

I have spent a lot of my life waiting for someone to rescue me. A prince to ride up on a white horse and take me away from my tower. I won’t try to free myself, because that’s not how the story is meant to go.

Most little girls don’t know they have the power to make themselves happy. Because they have been told they don’t. As Betty tells her daughter in Mad Men, the first kiss is of huge importance in a girl’s life. The kiss is the moment that wakes Snow White / Sleeping Beauty, and the prince will then whisk her off into a world of affluence, orgasmic sex and, happiness. Of course, in a world in which men still earn a lot more than women, this myth does have some truth to it. Marrying is, for heterosexual women, still a choice of economics. If you earn less than men for the same work, then to have kids, be rich, to have everything you want, you need to marry a guy who will financially support you.

Despite the fact that both my parents are equally qualified, as a physician my mother earns far less than my surgeon father. It’s true that she could have chosen another specialty and thereby earned a higher wage, but she decided to give up her dreams of being an anaesthetist to be a mother. Even as a GP, she still was hardly at home and both my brother and I had nannies. As a woman who wanted to marry and live a respectable middle-class life, how much choice did she ever have to become an anaesthetist? Especially when the dream includes a nice house, money for holidays and to give your children everything you want for them. Even today, my female doctor friends are not choosing surgery because the male culture and long hours are inimical to family life. The main reason for my best friend getting married is to get better mortgage options, although of course the public commitment to her husband is meaningful. Plus, everyone know that when you get married you get a tonne of presents! (The financial rewards of marriage are obvious.)

“being single is even worse than being gay”

Of course, my argument here is very middle-class and I realise that marriage does not give most people these luxuries. But we would be kidding ourselves if we pretended that the Disney dream were only about love. How do we quantify happiness in this capitalist world if not in terms of money and possessions? Even if you are a girl born into a working-class family, you are still taught to dream of being rescued by a rich prince. Ariel and Belle married above their class and Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty both masqueraded as members of a different class into order to catch their man. (Prince Charming falls in love with Sleeping Beauty when he sees her, apparently a peasant, dancing in the woods with animals. Luckily, it turns out she is the daughter of the King and Queen so he is allowed to love her after all.) Romantic comedies of the past two decades like Pretty Woman and Cinderella remake Maid in Manhattan still sell this dream. It’s OK if you are a prostitute or a maid working in a hotel because a rich business man/politician will ‘discover’ and rescue you from your shitty job. We are all taught to wait for that special someone who will always find and save us. (Btw, check out this feminist run down of Disney princesses. It’s awesome.)

For heterosexual women, marriage is a compelling sell. It makes economic sense. It also (weirdly) offers the promise of autonomy. When are your parents ever going to recognise you as an independent woman if not when you marry? Marriage is the moment fretful mothers breathe a sigh of relief; their daughter has finally flown the nest and responsibility for her wellbeing has been passed onto someone else. Girls marry to be seen as a woman, a grown-up, even if the transaction of marriage still means that they have just been passed onto another owner.

“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn…” – Moulin Rouge


This is my Disney princess. I made her on this website. Check out how scared the basic model looks (click for link).

Heterosexual or not, we only take people seriously when they are partnered up. There is nothing weirder to us than a single person. It doesn’t matter if you are queer, straight or whatever, the most important thing is that you are in a relationship. As women, we are taught that it is our job and our destiny to seek out a guy and even in the case of a lesbian, a committed female partner is still better than none. When I was a teenager, all the talk with my friends was about when we going to get a boyfriend, kisses and who we were dating. Now, living mostly among queers, I still feel the same pressure to hook up. People expect me to be an actively sexual person and to have a (probably non-monogamous) partner. This pressure to be sexual feels similar to the pressure I experience from my family’s side to be in a long-term monogamous relationship. It seems that, no matter which community you live in, you are valued more when you are in a relationship. If you are a single woman, then you must be ‘unhappy’.

It is undoubtedly better, in our eyes, to be in a bad relationship than no relationship at all. I may recognise that other people’s relationships have some pretty major problems, but I will still be jealous of them for being together. It doesn’t matter if the majority of marriages end in divorce, getting married is still the best thing that can ever happen to you. I know women who will endure years of bad relationships just because they are terrified of being single. I recognise this clinging tendency in myself when I am desperate to keep dating a person even if I am not particularly into them; I generally find it extremely difficult to end the relationship for myself. Upon being dumped, I often feel relieved that that (right) decision has been made for me and simultaneously ashamed that I couldn’t make it for myself.

“who feels happy when they haven’t got a man?”

I remember being particularly upset when, a year ago, an old friend said she was ‘disappointed’ that I hadn’t been in a relationship since I had last seen her 2 years before. What could this disappointment possibly mean? It had nothing to do with concern about my happiness. She knew I had been depressed, at times suicidal and I told her I needed and wanted to be single so I could look after myself. So, we expect people to be in relationships even to their own detriment? Apparently, being in a couple is more important than my health, or even my life. If this is true, then what, for women, does happiness mean?

The social desire for women to be in a relationship is cloaked in false concern about our happiness. The conservative social dream, that keeps us neurotic, spending all our energies trying to make ourselves attractive in order to catch a man (whether he actually be a man or not) is sold to us as a dream of happiness. We are promised that our prince will rescue us from our insecurities by providing us with the financial security of (heterosexual) partnership. Of course, this isn’t so explicit and financial security is worked into a fairy tale of orgasmic kisses where I ‘just knew he was the one for me’ and ‘I had finally found my one true love’. Even some of my straight feminist friends still describe their boyfriends in terms of ‘the one.’ Just see Sex and the City’s Mr Big for an example of true love being sold to highly intelligent and otherwise sane, successful women.

I imagine that men don’t experience this urge to merge in quite the same way. Growing up with a different set of stimuli, they are allowed to be happily single. The rich older bachelor is for many men a figure of envy. He hasn’t been presented with a ticking biological clock and a deadline by which he must settle down and reproduce. He can play the field for pretty much as long as he likes.

Of course, if you’re a guy you are also (financially) better off being gay. You have double the top salaries and it’s less likely you’ll have children to support. Visit mainstream gay villages in the Western world’s big cities and the orgasm of commerce there will tell you just how much more money these guys have to burn than us lesbians. I also wonder where men who were raised as women generally fall on this scale of pressure. Do trans men dream of settling down and feel the pressure to desperately seek a partner, or does their gender allow them to ignore the conditioning directed at women? What do you guys think?

This dream of love seems to be blind to sexuality. I, still, wonder if my date will be ‘the one to rescue me’ at the same time I consciously recognise this idea is bollocks. No matter if the person I am with is male, female or neither, I have a constant internal dialogue about our relationship. Where is this going, are we going to settle down together, is this the person ‘I am going to spend the rest of my life with’? This internal dialogue has nothing to do with the person in front of me. Even if, on a date, I am thinking how much this person is irritating me, I will stil  desperately cling to them because I want them to save me. Even though I know, beyond a doubt, that this is a false dream I have learnt by some very successful (and ongoing) social conditioning, I can’t seem to get rid of it.

Not My Happy Ending

Belle from Beauty & the Beast gets a face lift. Check out more fallen princesses by clicking the pic

The dream of ‘the one’ has had some pretty disastrous effects on my love life. It causes me to cling onto my lover as if I were drowning, neurotic behaviour that is not very sexy. It also, as Germaine Greer argued in The Female Eunuch way back in the 70s, provides a very convenient distraction from myself. Linked to the self-abuse of fat hate, the desire to catch, keep (beauty myth) and be rescued by (Disney) a lover keeps me away from the realisation that only I can rescue myself.

I am unhappy. Am I unhappy because I am single? No. I am unhappy because I want to have more adventures (including love affairs), to be more creative. But I am too busy obsessing after someone I barely know to work on being happy for myself. I am never happier than when shut off from media, travelling, spending my days writing and exploring. But every time I fancy someone I obsess in a way that takes me away from the real world and more into myself. The dream of love leads me away from adventure into self-defeating masochism. This behaviour is also circular: the more miserable I get, the more desperately I look to the other person to save me.

If you are a single woman, you must be unhappy”

Having had depression over the past two years has forced me to do some hard evaluation of the way I engage with life and relationships. In her autobiography Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal Jeanette Winterson says that “creativity is on the side of health” (I will be reviewing this book on feminist mag The F Word so keep a look out for the link). I too have learnt that writing and other types of art provide me with an outlet for that nervous energy that I used to invest so destructively into my affairs. I believe this misuse of our energy is exactly what Disney and the myth of romantic love works to achieve. Keep our attention away from ourselves, and we, the oppressed majority will never rebel against our oppression. We will never rebel against our potential. 

All this isn’t to say that I don’t believe in love. I do, wholeheartedly, believe in love. Love which is sane and healthy and forms a deep connection between individuals. I also believe that the myths surrounding romantic love are deliberately harmful to women and the heterosexual men who love them. The imbalance of power in such obsessive relationships can only lead to destruction of some kind, whether of the relationship itself, or the independence and creativity of the lovers.  I would love to learn to form relationships that aren’t needy and obsessive but strong and calm. The kind of feeling I get when I am by the sea; the feeling I am home. When each wave is a new moment and it is constantly and calmly changing.

Disney princesses dubbed with clips from Mean Girls:

my breasts and the bras that don’t fit them

Yeah, I said I wouldn’t be on here for a while, but I am so you guys are just lucky. Buy me an ice cream to say thanks.

On having socially unacceptable breasts and trying to find bras that fit them. Includes gratuitous picture of me naked. NSFW bitches.

I have socially unacceptable breasts. When I was 18 my Mum offered me a boob job. She would pay, she said, because she had always been unhappy with her breasts. Hers were large, mine were uneven. I considered the option seriously for a while, and then decided against it. Major surgery and scars probably wouldn’t make me any happier with them. I was also worried about how they would feel. Later, I became glad that I made this decision. To keep my breasts, imperfect as they are.

Walking into Marks and Sparks I am already stressed. Hot in the summer, down to my last bra that doesn’t really fit. The underwire has pinged out of all of my favourites. I really need some more bras. I’m extra stressed today, because it is my last chance to buy English sizes before I head back to Germany (European sizes confuse me, and bras are way more expensive here) and I’ve put on weight. Being a responsible, feminist woman who wants her bras to be comfortable as well as sexy, I know I need a fitting.

I book myself in for an appointment and fill in the next hour trying bras of every size. The only bra I can find looks like it’s from the 1950s with the amount of material it has (not necessarily a bad thing, I’m way into retro) but it’s disheartening to imagine that all the other bright young things are wearing cute skimpy bras, while I am stuck with a heavy wad that even my Mum might shy away from.

You see, not only am I a fat chick, I am a fat chick with different sized boobs. Combine the fact that the fashion industry only caters to thin ladies plus the fact that it’s a gamble that any cup size will fit both my breasts, and trying on bras becomes a Russian roulette of chance.

You see, lingerie shops make me approach my breasts as if they are a problem. There must be something wrong with them. They don’t fit into most bras, they are a challenge to me and a challenge to fitters. And I refuse to wear a prosthesis to balance them out anymore. I just fucking refuse.

‘Teach me to hate my body, make me fight it, and I will be subservient. I will expend all my energies on dieting and become too neurotic to create art that fights this norm.’

Buying a bra for me is like tackling a huge problem – a mathematical equation there is no logical answer to. It’s a game of hit and miss and forget choosing style or colour. I’ll be lucky to find one bra that fits!

I go with the fitter into a booth and explain to her my problem. I don’t know what chest size I am any more and I have different sized breasts. She looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me. Oh, she has no idea what she’s in for, this fitter. No idea at all.

Several bras later the fitter sweats at the impossibility of my breasts and asks in exasperation, ‘what do you normally do?’ Pretty much this, I reply. Yup, battle shame and self-loathing and trawl the shops until I find one bloody bra that fits. That’s my shopping experience.

Lathering my breasts with yoghurt in my punk anti-diet piece at The Berlin Femme Show 2012. It’s all in the name of art, honest. Copyright Simson Petrol.

It’s strange really, you’d think the women that work in these shops would have seen it all. Fat girls and thin girls, large boobs, saggy boobs, wonky boobs. But all the fitters I have seen seem baffled by my breasts. It’s as if they’ve never seen any before. What, breasts that are different sizes? How bizarre! But I have it on good authority from women I have talked to that many of us have different sized breasts, so how come these women act as though they’ve never seen any like mine before?

Given the amount of shame and self-hatred I have to battle just to get myself into that changing room, I do not find it surprising asymmetrical breasts are a new phenomenon to the fitters. Not because there aren’t any out there, but because we who have them are too afraid to show them. I get my bras fitted because I think my comfort is important and I know that a well-fitting bra is worth any amount of shame I will have to combat. I know how much it takes to get me in that changing room, and I know that I will keep going it because nothing is more important than my comfort. And I will keep battling, because I will not let self-hatred and evil beauty standards beat me. It’s not my fault I feel bad about my body. I know this isn’t really about me, or my body. Or it is about my body, but only the indirect way of cultural misogyny. Beauty myths make me hate me body. But this hating is a waste of my super intelligent creative energy, so I just try to ignore the insecurities and get on with it. I always was a stubborn one.

It seems too much to ask the lingerie industry to cater to us fat women, women with bodies that won’t be contained, that don’t fit prescribed ideals, and it probably is. As a wise friend once said, they don’t make clothes to fit the women, they produce the women to fit the clothes. The fashion industry produces models and all media images of women are digitally altered to fit a whiter, thinner, younger, symmetrical ideal. Unless of course the message is just how ugly Cameron Diaz looks without makeup. It’s all about control. Teach me to hate my body, make me fight it, and I will be subservient. I will expend all my energies on dieting and become too neurotic to create art that fights this norm.

This waste of energy is exactly what the big ole patriarchy wants. So I won’t spend my energy on self-hatred. I will go out there, buy a comfortable bra and get on with my writing, activism, adventures. I will just suck it up and move on because there are more important and more fun things out there than self-hatred.

Oh yeah, and in the interests of the personal is political. I am a 38D/B or 40DD/B. Like this awesome lady, I think such ‘confessions’ help change the world. Also, here are some awesome fat chicks in bikinis.

Riot not diet, baby.

an apology

In my post Burlesque: Sexy or Sexist? I made the argument that the pressure to be thin and its resultant effects on women’s bodies was similar to the experiences of a body in the Holocaust. That the anorexic body and the body in a concentration camp experienced a similar kind of starvation. Some of you guys found this comparison insensitive to those affected by and killed during the Holocaust, and argued that comparing anything with that genocide is inexcusable.

Rereading that article, I can see how phrasing this argument using the words ‘fun fact’ was insensitive and seemed to belittle the Holocaust. This was never my intention and the words were meant to be sarcastic, but they were a bad choice of words. As a non-Jewish person I can also accept that it’s not my place to use the Holocaust as an analogy in my contemporary feminist argument. I sincerely apologise for any pain caused.

I would also like to draw your attention to The Beauty Myth, the original source of this argument which I replicated. While I take full responsibility for my use of this argument in my own writing, I think Naomi Wolf addresses the history of starvation in a far more eloquent and sensitive way. As an American of Jewish descent, maybe she has more right to this language and history than I do.

On a slightly lighter note, I would like to draw attention to a video by one of my favourite male feminists, Jay Smooth which partly convinced me I should apologise. Y’all should check it out!

“I want to disappear”

Part 2 on women in the workplace. From fat to periods to dressing for work; the effects of misogyny on women’s bodies and self-esteem. 

Hello! So, I know some of you are dying to hear all the juicy gossip from the sexism workshop I ran at Ladyfest Leipzig. No fear, I plan to fill you in very soon! But as I am also running the same workshop at the Antifee festival in Göttingen this weekend, I thought I would give you guys a summary of what I learnt next week. Do come say hi to me in Göttingen if you are around! And, for those of you who live in Berlin, there is a Femmepowerment workshop next Monday as part of TCSD. It’s gonna be run by some femme activist colleagues of mine and I think it is going to be great. I’ll see you there!

Lastly, feel free to get in touch with me and let me know if you agree or disagree with my theories, and why. I want to make this blog as interactive as possible, so feed me back! Phew! On with the ideas:

In part one on women and careers I wrote how we undermine our achievements in order to appear more socially acceptable. In a society in which we are still the second sex, women are taught to be modest and are habitually self-deprecating in contrast to a lot of men’s seemingly innate self-confidence. Men are nurtured from birth; women are not.

Maybe this refusal to encourage a woman to develop her abilities comes from a kinda ‘what’s the point’ attitude. I mean, women are still very much valued by our relationship to men. Our lives are only given meaning by our relationship status. You can see this attitude in the spinster shaming of successful single women. Wow, she wrote a book on feminism, became the CEO of her company, worked for the UN, but does she have a man? Lesbians, too, are not exempt from the pressure to mate. We experience a kind of second-best relationship pressure. It would be better if we were with a guy, but, failing that, anyone will do so long as we are in some kind of relationship! Cue false pity and ‘worrying’ about the woman who is happily single.

So, maybe in a world that only values women in relationship to our, er, relationships, we don’t bother to nurture the talents of our daughters. If all we are grooming are girls for is wife- and motherhood, there’s not really much point paying for violin lessons or a maths tutor, is there? I mean, you can’t be a touring musician or an astronaut and have a family, can you? It’s one or the other, and the family always wins.

“Wow, she became the CEO of her company and worked for the UN but does she have a man?”

I recently listened to a guest on BBC’s Woman’s Hour who explained that, of course women find it impossible to balance a career and children. The system was never set up for female workers in the first place! Whether or not this is completely true (I remember learning about whole families that worked in factories during the industrial revolution, and this probably still happens in the sweatshops of today), it makes a lot of sense to me. There’s nothing ‘natural’ about a system in which the most important years of your career fall at the exact same time most women have babies. Maternity leave is still only a temporary hiatus from the world of work (one year in the UK) and it’s not surprising that many women choose to leave their careers in order to care for their children for longer. It’s not only that childcare is extremely expensive, it’s also that of course you want to see your children grow up! Why do we have a working life that peaks in a person’s thirties? Why do we have a working day that ends 2 hours after school? Nothing about these structures is inevitable. They are all manmade.

Manmade. Ha! It’s almost as if the dudes are trying to keep us out the boardroom!

Butch sexpot Rachel Maddow has to femme it up for work

In addition to being excluded by the very structure of working life, it is pretty clear that women in the office stand out in other ways. Not only are we expected to be falsely modest, but we are meant to try and ‘blend in’ at the same time. How, exactly, we are meant to blend into an environment that is inherently foreign to us, I don’t know, but I am maybe I am getting too feminist theory on you guys here.

According to my imperfect knowledge of European history, the industrialisation of the working world created a system that depersonalised the individual. It was no more about individual skills, only the presence of a physical body. Any body would do. The invention of the conveyor belt and its innovative use in the manufacturing of Henry Ford’s cars is now symbolic of the extent to which capitalism just doesn’t care about the individuality of its workers. You only have to read Jonathan Safran Foer’s account of the Mexican workers in the US meat industry to understand that, to the big capitalist machine, individuals are completely dispensable.

“Women are are expected to be better than men and to look better while doing it.”

So it should come as no surprise that all workers in the office are expected to wear a uniform. For men, it’s kind of easy. Trouser suits and ties are made in all sizes and look kind of comfy. Women, however, are not only supposed to conform to a certain look, they are meant to do it with style. That’s part of the problem of being a woman. We are not expected to be as good as men, we are expected to be better, and to look better while doing it. Phew! And then of course we’ll be called vapid sexpots for it and not taken seriously. Oh, man, sometimes it sucks being a girl.

Women are caught in a double bind when it comes to appearances. We are fetishized as sex objects and expected to dress the part. Yet, we are routinely overlooked for promotions. It’s as if, in the context of work, we are not even seen. And this is after we’ve been made to stand out in the first place! And of course, this isn’t really about what we look like at all. Butches, who pretty much look like the guys (apart from being much hotter!), don’t exactly melt into the background either. They, too, are ridiculed for being women and then for being masculine on top of that. I mean, we really can’t win, can we?

Fun aside: I remember reading an article about butch dress sense in the workplace in British lesbo magazine Diva. I kept this issue under my bed as porn (shh! Don’t tell anyone!). Years later, I went on a date with one of the featured butches but it didn’t work out. And, no I didn’t tell her! Turns out pin-ups don’t necessarily make great dates after all.

But look how sexy!

I really believe that, faced with women in the workplace, the working world of men doesn’t know what to do with us at all. It sees us as a problem to be solved. ‘She’s dressed inappropriately, she must be mad.’ ‘Dammit, her ideas are better than mine, let’s laugh at her legs.’ It’s almost as if, threatened with our increased economic power and intelligence, they are desperate to keep us out. Ever heard of the glass ceiling?

“as a tall woman I often hunch my shoulders and slide down in chairs in order to not seem as big”

Industrialisation’s desire to make us disappear into the crowd affects all of us, men and women both. It comes from the depersonalisation of work by the mentalities of mass-production. However, women have it worse.

Women are asked to disappear in so many contexts. We are meant to dumb down, so we don’t threaten the dudes with our obvious intelligence. We are meant to fit into a dress code and simultaneously asked to stand out from it, and ridiculed for both these attempts. And we are meant to avoid, at all costs, the terror of being fat.

Women are always seen in terms of our physicality. To me, this seems like an excuse to not take us seriously on any level. Just think about the extent to which our bodies are abhorred. Fat, which is necessary for our health and an inherent part of the female body, is seen only in terms of how it can be made to just go away. Periods are, still, taboo. I remember how annoyed I was even as a child by TV adverts for menstrual products. In contrast to the loudness of the other ads that literally shouted their products at you (did you know that TV stations actually turn UP the volume for the ads? Listen next time.), these ads would suddenly be wordless and play soft musak while amorphous flowery (read feminine – argh!) shapes float on the screen and the word ‘period’ or ‘blood’ is never even mentioned. I remember being confused watching one particular advert because I had no idea what it was about until the box of sanitary towels came up on the screen at the end. Even these days, the ‘blood’ is still blue. I mean, what is that about? It’s blood. It’s natural! Get over it!

Fun aside number 2: recently, even after sterilising my Mooncup by boiling it after my period, the person I was staying with insisted on then sterilising the pan I had used again. Hello? I just sterilised it, you idiot! Yup, periods – and by extension all women – are dirty.

(See below for a hilarious spoof of tampon ads, albeit by Kotex, who are far from innocent in this respect.)

So women are physical, in touch with nature, dirty; men are intellectual, civilised and clean.

This abhorrence of female bodies extends to all the ways we are present in society. It’s no wonder that, being told we are unwanted in every way possible, women try to make ourselves as physically insignificant as possible. I have often been told that my wacky dress sense makes me easy to spot in a crowd, and I like that. However, as a tall woman I notice I often hunch my shoulders, sit in the corner and slide down in chairs in order to not seem as tall.  When I see myself in photos, larger than my friends, I often cringe at my own bigness. The happy expression of my personality in loud clothes is counteracted by my own desire to make myself smaller. This longing to be smaller reminds me of what Princess Di said about her anorexia and bulimia; that she “just wanted to disappear.”

Although the desire to escape a world which is so misogynist is not the only interpretation of anorexia and bulimia, for me, that quotation has always made a lot of sense. It relates to the fact when the US clothing market introduced size 0 for women, it caused an uproar among feminists. Now that less-than-zero sizes are available, it seems an unconscious expression of the social wish for all women to just disappear. Get off our street. Get back in the kitchen. Get out of here! To me, this size system expresses a similar logic to that of the Burqa. It wants to efface us.

(And, btw, before y’all start to say how it is Muslim women’s choice to wear headscarves, I totally agree, and they shouldn’t be outlawed. But you have to admit, the original patriarchal logic behind covering-up women’s bodies is pretty darn misogynist.)

So, it turns out the big ole’ patriarchy has a finger in every pie. It’s in our offices, in our pants and in our heads. Good thing we’re so clever and get to deconstruct it.

Lastly, I am interested in writing about eating disorders as an (albeit ineffective) expression of female rebellion. What do you guys think? Do you know any feminist takes on anorexia, bulimia and over-eating?

Oh, yeah, and here is a Marxist anthem for y’all. It comes from all that writing about industrialisation:

Coming soon: fascinating subjects such as, how Disney stops me from getting laid, what the terms ‘women’ and ‘men’ mean in my writing and workshop-inspired femmepowerment.

Femmepowerment at Ladyfest Leipzig this Saturday!

Pertinent to that little article I retweeted which questions whether in-fighting hurts feminism, I am going to be giving a workshop about sexism within the queer community at Ladyfest Leipzig this weekend! Yay! This is a workshop for feminine queers to share the ways in which we feel left out of the left-wing queer scene and brainstorm ways to make it more inclusive. It’s all about fem-me-powerment and LOVE. I look forward to meeting you all! Workshop is in English with a German translator.

Scroll down to read all about it or click here for the info in German.

Feminist zombies take on the world

Sexism in the Queer Community – feminine queers only

Saturday 9th June, 12:30 – 14:00

Linxxnet, Leipzig

Have you ever felt excluded from the queer community because of your gender expression? Discussion-based workshop that aims to share experiences of sexism and form femme and queer-feminine community. I’ll also introduce my zine project on this subject and talk about femme activism. Open to all feminine-identified queers, of whatever sex or gender. Workshop in English with the possibility of German translation