What if?

I was wondering the other day how I would react if I happened to wake up one morning and my body had turned male. Would I mind? I don’t think so.

What would I look like then? How would my body change? I’d not be that muscular, I don’t think, but I wouldn’t be skinny either. I’d have broad arms and a broad chest and big hands and arms and thighs.

Most importantly, my attitude towards hair would change. I’d have body hair without having to worry about it. The other day I found a lonely hair on my chest and I was horrified by it, just like by the lonely hair on my chin or the ones on my thighs. As if a woman’s body was not meant to grow hair. But fuck yeah it does and I spend way too much time plucking and shaving and worrying. And after a day or two it itches and I scratch till I bleed. And yet, I still keep doing it, because it scares me to have visible body hair. I know I shouldn’t care – my body isn’t anybody’s business but mine. I don’t think that anybody will ever come up to me to complain about the stubbles on my legs. Or rather, people on the streets or in the pool won’t do that, but I’ve heard the lesson a thousand times:

Do a double take in the mirror after getting dressed to check those hard to reach areas like the back of your knees and thighs making sure no stubborn hairs get in the way of your confidence.

But if I was a man, that wouldn’t matter anymore. My confidence would no longer depend upon stubborn hair on the back of my knees. Or on classmates proclaiming my lady beard, on friends calling me lazy because of my stubbles, or boys wondering: “Oh wow, it grows all the way down to there?”

No, none of that would matter anymore. I’d have a hairy chest and hairy legs and hairy fingers even and I would love it. Never ever would I worry about the state of my stubbles again. I’d make sure not to have a monobrow and that’s about it. It feels like relief. Instead, the first thing I’d do that morning is probably check out the growth of my beard – god, I’d love to have a beard. And I know it’d be a great one, since great beards run in the family (unfortunately, also with the girls). A few years ago I’d have grown side burns and a goatee, but by now I’d have stubbles all over my face, all the way down my throat. A week old, at least. So.very.hot.

I would not miss my breasts. In fact, I’d love them to be gone and to have a flat (hairy) chest instead. Most of the time, my breasts are uncomfortable. Before I get my period they hurt. Bras that fit and hold are a nightmare to find. When I walk there’s constant movement and the way I want to carry my bag, sideways over my chest, makes them look even bigger. I hate having to worry about my cleavage or not being able to buy shirts because they’re all made for A cups. So yes, if people never ever stared at my breasts ever again, that’d be freaking awesome. If there was nothing to stare at, even better.

Would I miss them when it gets to sex? No. Not at fucking all. I hate the way some guys grab them as if they were a separte part of me. Or the way they’re generally so fucking focused on tits. Nipples, yes, that feels good, but god, that’s not all there is about my body. So no, my breasts really aren’t important to me at all.

Funnily, though, I’m not that bothered about having male genitalia. I like my pussy. It feels nice and it smells nice and my clitoris is quite awesome (even if nobody but me knows how it works). I don’t mind menstruating, either. So having a penis and testicles instead of my vulva leaves me somewhat unimpressed compared to all other aspects of having a male body. Sure, penetrating would be nice. A lot more exciting than being penetrated, I guess. But other than that…

So if I woke up one morning in a male body I’d happily get up and grow my hair and put on a plain shirt and loose jeans and boots and go about my daily business feeling probably more comfortable than now. But then I started wondering about my daily business. Say, having a shower – would I still use soap that smells of honey or roses? What about all my purple and red necklaces, my flowery rings or my pink shirts and stripy socks? All the eye liner and nail polish and mascara, my hair dryer and straightener and even my Pocahontas towel – might as well throw it all away. They’d no longer be of any use to me. My morning routine would no longer be the same at all.

I can’t see myself lifting weights, but neither can I imagine going to my belly dancing course as a man. And would my aunt still ask me to come babysitting – or would she ever have if I was a man? I can’t even quite picture myself attending the gender classes at uni (I’d often be the only one or part of just a handful of guys). Would I still write papers about the World Conference on Women? What’s a man got to do with that? Would I still care all that much about inequalities once they didn’t effect me as much anymore? (I guess I would since I’ve grown up making the experience of sitting on a shitty part of the power differentials, but I can very well imagine why people lacking that experience wouldn’t understand all the noise about gender issues.)

And wouldn’t I change my flat as well? There’s pictures of flowers and witches on the walls, and butterflies and little fairytales. It confuses me to think I only got these because of my gender and not because I like to look at them and because of how they make me feel or dream. Hell, would I even have the same day dreams as a man? So I guess I’d take all that down and finally let my boyfriend put the Easy Rider poster back up. And then there’s Saint Sebastian and a picture of kissing men on my desk. Wouldn’t I look at them differently, too? After all, would I become straight once more or keep my preference for guys?  (Would my boyfriend stay with me?)

No, waking up in a man’s body wouldn’t just change the body. I’m sure absolutely everything would change even though I’d remain the same person. Funny thing is, I wouldn’t want to become someone else. But to have a male body – I’d love that. Though there’s a little bit of doubt in the back of my head: What if I only want it so very much because I can’t have it.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

This is all I have to say about this… You have to click, because I could not bear the horror of having this on a site I’m responsible for.

Now, please, can I have thousands of chocolate cookies? I need them. I’m devastated.

Wolverina

It might be time to rename the blog. “Ireen’s obsession with Wolverine and Gambit.” And last night I seem to have tried to fuck my boyfriend like Schreibertooth. With teeth and claws. But do not worry – it’ll pass. I am like that. And no boyfriends have been harmed.

That said – it hasn’t passed yet. So let’s take another minute to ponder high levels of testosteron.

A while ago I read a thriller by Lee Child with this Jack Reacher character, who apparently is “Clint Eastwood, Mel Gibson and Bruce Willis all rolled into one”, as the book wants to make me believe.  I had no other expectations than to be entertained and so I was. Until I turned the book round and read what it says on the back.

Jack Reacher.

Men want to be him.

Women want to be with him.

And I just wanted to rip the fucking book apart. What, in the name of sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, is this crap? Why would they think that just because I have a vagina I don’t want to imagine myself in the place of the “fearless and capable loner”, “the enigmatic stranger who rides into town to sort everything out with a fist and a gun”, ” a wonderfully epic hero, tough, taciturn, yet vulnerable”, “ballsy, dynamic and not for the faint-hearted” yadda yadda?!

Who do I want to identify with then, feeble angsty creature that I am? The poor women who need to be saved from the ebil Russians/South-Americans/Italians? Why yes, let’s make the villains not quite so white;  let’s add a little racism to the sexism and surely it’ll sell like hot Leberkassemmerl. (If you don’t know what that is – DON’T EAT IT if you happen to come to Austria. Because nobody does. It translates as “liver cheese”, which not only sounds particularly mouth-watering, but is also a full on lie, because neither of which is part of the ingredients. I think.)

Jack Reacher is not just “utterly irresisitible” because he’s “a superman of our time”, who “gallops along with the pace of a bullet from the muzzle of a Colt Magnum”. No, no. He’s the kind of cop “no woman could help falling for”. “Reacher knows how to strip a gun and how to strip a lady”. Sweet – I love being put in the role of the hot accessory. What a handbag is to a woman, that’s what a woman is to a man, especially to our “battle-hardened, footloose, sexy and compassionate action man”. (Unless you’re The Ramos.)

So apparently my greatest desire is to sit back with my new and shiny handbag and bake some cake and watch the children play while Jack sorts out the world with his wit and his fists. Is that true, Lee Child? Oh no! Actually, the women who fall for Jack do work! A little, at least. Aspiring journalist at the local TV station waiting for a story. Looks hot. Young lawyer, waiting for her first case. Looks hotter. Of course both fall for Jack. And somehow manage to get themselves in trouble and Jack needs to save them. Yaaaawwwwnnnn….

Let’s discuss this on a nicer subject. Wolvie. And sex, since this is kind of a sex blog. See, I got kind of obsessed with this trailer. I had to watch it very very closely so I could do a good description of Wolverine in my dirty little stories. I had to watch it over and over again because that’s how hard my life is. Since we’re on it, let’s give it another go.

Now, not that I actually want to be Weapon X. The point is: Nobody does.

It’s kind of… painful. In the bad kind of way. Nor would I want to be anyone on the Lost island or Han Solo or Jack Reacher, for that matter. But I still watch the films/series/read the book and identify with the characters and imagine to be in their place, to live a different live, to have their strength and power and be a hero and what not. I want to think about how cool I’d look in my leather jacket and my boots and the cigar in the corner of my mouth, riding along on a motorbike and blowing up a helicopter. That’s what stories are for, right? You get to imagine to be someone you’re not. Someone you cannot be in this life because you’re not actually indestructible and you’d rather have a job and a home and a boy/girlfriend instead of being on the run all the time and because you’re actually scared of trouble and well, things are always a little more complicated than in the shiny movie world. But that doesn’t stop us dreaming about these things and enjoying these stories.

And hell yes, I want to identify with that roaring animal. I do not – NOT! – want to identify with Kayla Silverfox who tries to safe her sister by teaching children and having to fuck a man who puts her in mortal danger every night. Even if that man is Hugh Jackman with a healing mutation, which, given the nature of my sexuality, would come in handy. I don’t want to identify with Kayla Silverfox because she gets killed twice in the movie. I don’t want to identify with the voice of reason – “you are not an animal, Logan!” – as if all women were only there to civilize the men. This is a dream world and I want to be uncivilized! So weighing the options, an indestructible superhero vs a mutant who doesn’t actually use her powers until before she dies and doesn’t seem to have a plan of her own throughout the whole film… you know… I’d just rather opt for the man with the mission.

But that doesn’t mean I opt for him because he’s man. Give me a Wolverina and I’ll be her. And with Wolverina I mean: Just change the pronouns. Do not, in god’s name, change the character! And don’t put her in a skin tight latex suit because I’m allergic to these things and as Ranat has pointed out, you cannot fucking run, fight and do crazy flips in these things. I doubt you can actually breathe in them. Whereas jeans and boots and a shirt seem to be just fine for that. Not so hard, is it? Or, you know, make Kayla Silverfox survive fucking the man with the healing factor. And write her in a way so she does more than just what other people tell her to do. Because I just lack that submissive streak. The woman-gene that makes me want to be saved. Or serve. And I’m so sorry if the world of the big white man starts crumbling because he loses all his motivation, but yeah, here’s a great big FUCK YOU to whoever is responsible for those storylines.

But all that is not what I actually meant to write about. I wanted to write about kinky sex and Wolverine and submission until Jack Reacher got in the way. So let me give you the short version: I had kinky sex and I switched and while I got beaten up, I had a mask over my face. So I started entertaining myself with making that face Wolvie makes when he comes out of that tank, equipped with a new and shiny adamantium skeleton, with veins and sinews bulging out and gritting teeth. I like to think it’s my orgasm face. Obviously, it’s not. It’s more my all sweet pain and rage and totally not submissive face. My I’m-not-behaving-very-feminine-face and I’m loving it, too. Because as much as I love pain, I don’t give a shit about serving and kneeling and whatever and I’d rather growl than whimper. Which is not to say that being submissive is bad. I’m just very very tired of the assumption that all women are submissive. Because I’m not. I fight back. And it feels fucking good and it is incredibly hot, playing the animal. So there, that’s what I actually wanted to tell you. I fuck like I’m Wolverine.

Now where’s my cigar and my whisky?

Pic Post

I am ridicously much in love with these two pictures. All little fan-girl giggly. Guh! So guh!

Even if I still find Wolvie’s mask ridiculous. And usually I’d say I find the whole dominatrixing outfit ridiculous as well. Especially because people tend to pose in it instead of doing the whole hot dominatrixing stuff. And as everyone knows, Wolverine is the ultimate pain bottom! So here he is with a hot dominatrixingly styled woman who looks all bad ass and is equipped with knifes and guns to use on him – and what is she doing? Posing. Sigh.

But I’ll let them off the hook this time because as I said: Guh!

via Heartless Hippie

And then this! I want to frame it and put it on my desk and look it all the time instead of working! I want this picture to be on the cover of all my boring uni scripts! I want a life size poster over my bed! I want it tattooed on the inside of my eye lids!

But after all this time looking at it (and what tells you that I haven’t actually managed to get all of the above?!) I still haven’t figured out what Gambit’s headwear is all about. Surely it’s some sort of kinky toy that Logan knows how to handle.

by Ponderosa (who has lots of other super hot pictures too)

I’ll be in my bunk writing dirty kinky slash.

What did you just say?

Sometimes my jaw drops. In the middle of a conversation, with friends or family, all of whom I know as nice and friendly people, open-hearted and open-minded. “What did you just say?”

“That sect? Oh yeah, they’re bat shit crazy. Funnily, I actually know someone who joined them. Nice guy and all, wouldn’t ever have expected that from him. Although, thinking about it, he was a bit strange too. I once wanted to go for a beer with him after work and you know what? He doesn’t drink any beer. And I thought – what? What’s wrong with you? Every man likes beer! Well, I actually have to be careful what I’m saying here-” (nod towards a close member of the family who doesn’t ever touch alcohol). “But if you don’t drink beer, you at least have a glass of wine. But no, do you know what he ordered? You’ll never guess. It’s incredible! Strawberry juice. Straw-berry-juice!  What is this? So I thought maybe he was gay or something, ’cause seriously, you have to be gay if you drink strawberry juice! Real men drink beer!”

—

“Well, yeah, sure I think gays should be allowed to marry. Nothing wrong with it, right? But when it gets to adoptions, I’m not so sure about that. I mean, a kid needs both a mother and a father so they can develop a healthy personality. Don’t you think that’s important? What would that be like if you grew up and you had no male attachment figure, for example, but two mothers? I think those children would be missing something.” (Because your children were so much better off with their father addicted to alcohol.)

—

“Did you see the guys in that bar? God, what’s wrong with them? Do they ever look into the mirror? That’s not a tan anymore – they’re just freaking orange! It’s ridiculous! And then their hair cut, god, no! And did you see that? They all pluck their eyebrows, looking like fucking Christano Ronaldo! They’re such cock jockeys.”

—

“Look at that guy [football striker]. Play acting all the time. He’s built like a bull and falls like a little girl as soon as anyone touches him.” (’cause little boys don’t fall. Ever.)

—

“How was the marathon? I heard you were doing really well.”
“Yeah, thanks, I’m happy with it. I would have liked to be a little faster, but it was just too hot. Luckily a few friends turned up to cheer me on on the last few kilometers. They were actually riding along on their bikes on the side of the track, shouting stuff like – pardon my language – What the fuck are you doing there, pal? That’s not fucking running! You run like a little girl!” (I still haven’t figured out whether he wanted me to excuse his language because of the “fucking” or because of the sexist insults.)

—

“Is that the story you’re writing?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, cool, can I have a look at it?”
“Sure, but it’s only the start.”
…
“So what do you think?”
“Yeah, it’s good. But the bit where the two guys start kissing… ewww. Stopped reading there.”

—

“Oh my god, your friend is so hot! D’you think she wants to have a threesome with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you actually want to have a threesome?”
“Why not? It’d be hot, right?”
“Cool. Go ask your friend!”
“But I wanna have one with you and another guy.”
“What?”
“Sure. Two guys. Superhot!”
“Eww… no. Not so much.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Yeah, but all women I know are bisexual anyway. Aren’t you? Women are just totally hot and so much more beautiful.”
“I think guys are really sexy and hot. We can have a threesome with another gal if we also have one with another guy.”
“Oh… hm… Is that really necessary?”

—

“Well, it does fascinate me, the whole bdsm thing. But somehow it all seems to far away. I don’t know. Submitting, surrendering like that to a woman? Sure, I do phantasize about that. To be fucked by a woman, the ultimate humiliation for a man. But whether I want to really do that? Not so sure.” (Funny how a woman fucking a man isn’t humiliated. Must be inherent in the being fucked. Or in being a woman? And don’t forget about the gay, because yeah, they’re so humiliated all the time. Life of misery.)

Genderfuck Deluxe

All the sexy dreams I’ve ever head, I can count on one hand. Usually they are either very much about my own body or about someone I have a huge crush on. (Then there were also these teasing dreams in which I was surrounded by teammates or best friends of that guy I had the crush on, but couldn’t actually get to him! How mean is that?!)

Recently, though, I had a dream of an entirely different kind. I was walking through the city on a hot summer afternoon, the kind where everything goes quiet and slow, because it’s too hot to move. I went into a small library. Through the blinds, orange light bathed the room in a warm twilight and dust was dancing in the sun rays. Books were carelessly stacked on the floor and small tables and falling out of the shelves. There was one man behind the counter, the one I know from my local library, displaying the same cool friendliness as ever as he scanned in my books. A slim nude man was standing beside him, looking over his shoulder, like he was his lover. I turned my head and saw a third man lay on the counter. He too was naked, head resting on his arm and looking at me through heavy eyelids. I looked at him while waiting for the books, followed his long, stretched out limbs, his clean shaven chest, and the thoughtlessly displayed genitals. And that’s where it gets unusual. There was a vagina.

Never in my life has the thought of a man with a vagina crossed my mind. I’ve thought about women with dicks, be it real or artificial ones. I thought about having a dick. I have imagined, multiple times, fucking men with that faux-dick and how I good I’d be because I go bellydancing and my hips are so versatile. But not about men with vaginas.

And then the way the man looked so isn’t usually part of any of my sexy thoughts. Thin and hairless and young with Asian features. I usually lust very ethonocentrically (which is part of a different story) and over hyper masculinity. Muscles and beards and body hair and broad shoulders and deep voices. (If they ever do a Wolverine porn-movie, can Tober Brandt play Wolvie? Pretty pretty please with sugar on top? Guh!)

So there he was, in the middle of my early morning dream: The man with a vagina, and he was smoking hot. And I was turned-on and fascinated and perplexed. And woke up.

Since then, I’ve kept coming back to that picture. I’ve looked for pictures of men with vaginas and found Buck Angel, who claims to be the only pornstar of his kind.  Given the inflationary numbers of male-to-female transsexuals in porn, it’s more than strange that there’s only one female-to-male. John Phillips suggests that the ftm pornstar is a fantasy advertised towards the desire of heterosexual men, who’re maybe troubled by their homosexual tendencies, maybe unconsciously desiring a pre-gendered wholeness. Porn for women is rare as it is and all too often women are  assumed to be bisexual anyway (is that why feminist porn is so often full of women but devoid of men??), so there’s a possible explanation for the lack of ftm porn actors. Also, the feminine body as well as the male genitalia are object to cultural fetishization, whereas male bodies go largely unseen and, well, vaginas have been defined as “the penis that is not there”.

If the shemale gets to have and be the phallus, as Phillip argues referring to Lacan and Butler – where does that leave my man with vagina? And, you know, me, since I’m the one who dreamt him?

Now comes the part that is basically just guessing and rambling without any coherent thoughts. Since Phillips mentioned Butler, I was reminded of that film about her I saw a while ago. There’s a bit where she’s walking through a photo exhibition and looks at pictures of women. At one point she says (paraphrasing wildly) “It’s so important to show women’s vulnerability without always depicting them as weak or victims.” And I do think that I too have that cultural image stuck in my head, namely that woman equals weak. And that also goes for my sexuality – that it can never be seen as both strong and vulnerable. It’s always either passive and exploited and therefore a problem – or completely the other way, namely rampant and slutty and therefore again horribly problematic. I’m either a pussy or a vagina dentata. There’s no place where I can just be a sexual subject without being a problem and to be examined.

And I thought of that while I was reading Gambit slash fiction. And although it’s difficult to draw a conclusive picture of a character that is written by so many different authors, there’s something remarkable about Remy LeBeau. He’s both. He’s the one who does the seducing, who can have any sex partner he wants anytime. He’s the one who takes the dick in his ass sometimes with, sometimes without taking control. And then there’s all these stories in which a feral Wolverine goes rampant and hurts him. There’s those in which it’s implied that Gambit’s been raped or at least harassed.

But though vulnerable and hurt, he’s not a destroyed victim. Not a passive object. He’s strong. And though beautiful, still masculine. And not reduced to his beauty, but actively desiring. Though overtly sexual, not dangerous. Gambit? D’you wanna be my man with vagina, s’il te plaît?

Nom Nom Nom

For the first time in my life I’ve made Gumbo. It’s so incredibly delicious! So nom-able! So have-to-lick-my-plate-clean! So cannot get enough!

I used this recipe here, which is a Chicken, Sausage and Shrimp Gumbo, and took some freedom cooking it. For a start, I don’t like shrimps (or rather, I’ve never had the courage to try them), so I left them aside. Also, since I didn’t even know Gumbo existed until I started reading lots of X-Men slash fiction recently, I take no claim in the meal’s authenticity. But all that counts is its deliciousness! And how very delicious it is!

What you need is this:

about 50 g butter
1/2 cup all purpose flour
2 celery stalks, chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
1 medium sized onion, chopped
1 can of skinned tomatoes
750 ml chicken broth
1 can of Guiness (350 ml)
1/2 kg chicken breast
150 g chorizo sausage, cut into nomable pieces
1/2 cup parsley leaves, chopped
1 tablespoon minced fresh thyme
1 tablespoon minced fresh sage leaves

Start with the roux. Melt the butter in a large soup pot (big enough for all of the ingredients!). Over med-low heat, gradually stir in flour and keep stirring until the mixture has a nice smooth consistency. If it’s too clumpy, add butter. Then cook until the roux is dark brown, which should take about 15 minutes. (Well, so says my source. I lost my patience at a shade  a little darker than peanut butter.)

In the mean time fry the vegetables in a large pan with a bit of neutral vegetable oil until they’re tender. Boil the chicken broth in a separate pot.

When the roux is dark brown, mix it with the broth and again, make sure it doesn’t get lumpy. Add chicken, chorizo, tomatoes, vegetables and herbs.

Add the Guiness and heat to boiling. Then reduce the heat to low and simmer the stew uncovered for 40 minutes. Skim off any fat that comes to the surface.

Apparently this is usually served with rice as side dish, but I prefer bread.

Finally, season to taste with salt and black pepper and enjoy!

And after three plates of Gumbo, when you’re as full as I am right now, I suggest relaxing to these spicy stories.

Doing Gender.

In a seminar a professor once started asking every single student how he or she was doing gender. Although I had thought that I had understood the concept, answering the question on this personal level proved to be strangely difficult. Basically I just repeated what others had said before me – I put on make up, I wear women’s clothes, shave my legs and pluck my eye brows etc. But all those answers seemed somewhat unsatisfying, not getting to the core of it and that question has been stuck in the back of my head for a while now.

What gets me is that none of the individual points on the list make me pass as woman. There are lots of male teenagers plucking their eye brows nowadays and guys with long hair don’t make anyone look. Professional cyclists shave their legs without having their masculinity questioned. Plus I often wear unisex boots and jeans, and although by now I usually buy better fitting shirts, I used to wear normal band shirts for a while. None of that made me pass as male – it didn’t even slightly question me passing as female at all.

I spent some time thinking how I do gender the way I move. On the one hand, I go bellydancing and learn how to move my hands and arms gracefully, how to shimmy and accentuate my curves and I actually take a lot of pride in these ways I can move. On the other hand, though, I often watch closely how men walk and to a certain part try to imitate them. I like to sit with my knees spread, leaning back, taking up lots of space. I took a few Flamenco courses – again a dance rather for women than men – but what surprised me about it was how you learn to keep your elbows out. Again, taking up space, making yourself look big and strong, as oppossed to the feminine beauty ideal of being petit.

One of the places I’ve always felt very comfortable at where music festivals with a mostly male audience. I strolled around in my heavy boots, with a beer and a cigarette in my hand, not concerned about make-up or hair do, just trying to look cool. I loved to make my way through large crowds, making them part in front of me simply the way I was walking.

Anyway, back to doing gender. If none of my bodily features alone can explain me passing as female, what does then? I wondered whether it comes from outside. If you’re ascribed to the “female” category for whatever reasons, then maybe it doesn’t really matter so much anymore what you do. You’re already always viewed through the “she’s a girl” glasses. One of my relatives used to confuse me heavily when I was very young. Because of how she looked and what she did I couldn’t tell whether she was a man or a woman. But none of that made anyone in my family ever question the fact she’s a woman – although I have to admit that it is well possible that I might not have been aware of such discussions.

What, though, if I am the one who set the category? I identify as female – I might often be at odds with cultural stereotypes and expectations (which so often seem to blur into each other), but I have never in my whole life questioned my “place”. What if therefore the aims are already set; the ideals to aspire are clear…  and by identifying as female I have accepted them as my own, copied them, made them part of myself. Maybe my doing of gender is hence always present in the underlying believe that I am female, shared by me and my surroundings.

The point of all this? I need to find out. I need to see what it’s like playing another sex to know how much I play my own. I want to look at everything from a different perspective. Where’s the next drag king workshop?

What’s wrong with what people think why women watch Wolverine.

I went to see Wolverine the first day it came out. There were only a handful of people in the cinema (maybe because it was in original version? or too early on a Thursday?). So there was me and my boyfriend, another het couple beside us, two women in front of us and a bunch of guys and gals in the back. About half men, half women, I’d say. Didn’t give it a second thought.

Then the other day a friend sent me a link to this graph. I know, it’s a joke. I’m meant to laugh, right? Right. Well, I ain’t.

On the one hand, I absolutely appreciate the fact that it has gotten into people’s minds that women lust over men. Too often women are assumed not to look at all, or if they do to rather look at women “because they’re just so much more beautiful”. As if sex was all about beauty. And my heterosexual desire got dumped somewhere on the way.

And yes, I am one of the weirdos who’s gone to see Wolverine mainly for sexual reasons – not necessarily because he’s naked (come on, those are two seconds!). And that’s not necessarily how my sex works anyway. But the line about giving him more pain than any other person could bear? Yeah, that worked for me. Sheesh, I only ever got into X-Men for the “every time” line. So fair enough, replace “naked” with in pain, and I tick both the red and the orange box.

The green box? Hah. I dragged my boyfriend to the cinema. And I’m dragging a couple of other people too. Yeah. Me. Woman. Making men go and watch a comic/action film. Unheard of.

How’s that? Because obviously women don’t like comics, right? And women don’t freaking go the cinema to watch films that are not cheesy love and princess stories. That is what the green and blue box say: Women do not enjoy comics, they do not read them, they do not buy them and there are no female comic fans. Women do not go to the films to watch films based on comics. They do not enjoy action films – probably because it’s all so violent. And that’s nothing for the poor sensible emotional girls. Implicitely this graph says why men go to see Wolverine: Because they’re into action movies and read the comics. It’s a men’s film. Testeron-driven with a little angst.

But see, the last films I went to watch were Wolverine, Watchmen, Australia (okay, now that really was only for Jackman reasons. Jackman with bullwhip. Didn’t turn out as expected.), A Quantum of Solace and Wall-E. I’ve seen 300 and Sin City and the Batman movies and even that last Superman movie in the cinema. The next ones I’m gonna see? Star Trek and Terminator. I tried to make my boyfriend watch Underworld with me. Hell, basically all the films I’m paying for to see are action/sci-fi/comic films.

You’d expect someone out there to acknowledge that fact? To cater towards my taste and put female lead roles into those movies because I’d like to identify with a strong woman? But hey, I’m obviously only paying because of the hot male leads, right? Not because I want to be entertained by fights and explosions and space races and I’m a total sci-fi geek. Because I enjoy crime stories and suspension and thrilling plots (not that Wolverine necessarily had a consistent one.). Because I want to see and identify with strong and witty and bad ass characters.

So if all this is not for women anyway and I am once again proven a unicorn, why put women in those films at all? For two reasons. As eye candy for the guys. And as storyline device. Woman gets in some sort of trouble, hero must safe her. Woman dies, hero gets angsty and angry and the story kicks off. Silverfox, anyone? Vesper? Rachel Dawes? Nancy Callahan? Personally I find the “must safe poor women and children” meme even more annoying than the bloody refrigerator.

That graph up there? Yep, that’s exactly the kind of thinking that kept Ellen Ripley from being joined by other female leads in action/sci fi movies. And believe it or not, I go where I wanna go. Not where my boyfriend or my sex drive make me go.