the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

I don’t know how to find the words … we have been together for ten years. Ten years!!! It’s the longest relationship that I have ever had. Through you I have learned so much about myself, found so many new paths in life, and you made me feel special and loved. You gave me the courage to do things that I never thought I could do; I mean, the only reason I got the chance to write that book was because of you!! In the beginning I wasn’t even sure if this was a relationship. I happily sat in front of my roommates’ computer hammering away about my thoughts on identity, desire, fears, parties, gossip, fantasies, failure and all those other things that causes knots in my brain. I wrote for you, but I never really thought you actually read it. Until that first time when a stranger came up to me and asked, “Are you the one who writes lesben.nest? I absolutely LOVE your column!!!” I couldn’t believe it. There was a person I didn’t personally know who actually knew my stuff? I still thought that she was a big exception. That only the friends whom I forced plus this one person read this. More and more I started to realise that there are people out there that I have never met who now know everything about my insecurities, hang-ups, butch-love and staggering fear of being naked in front of my friends. I cannot tell you what that felt like … it was amazing. It was terrifying. I got that email from an.schläge on February 25 2008 asking me if I would write for them. Me, who had never written a thing except for some song lyrics and naïve-pretentious school papers. And now here we are, ten years later, and I have so much to thank this column, an.schläge and you for. This was the first step into what would become my fabulous life as a queer femme in action.
So I can’t find the words and I wish this text were more profound and poetic, but all I really want to say is: Thank you, you have given me more than I ever thought I could ask for. This is my last lesbennest. I will miss you so much, but it’s time to go. To new beginnings! Cheers!!

To Eva Kuntschner for correcting my horrible grammar all these years, Meerweh for the gorgeous illustration, Jespa for putting up my column on the fridge and everyone at an.schläge, past & present; ich liebe euch alle.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

Why do we still use the word “sexuality” as a reference to what kind of people get our mojo going? I don’t know about you, but when I see or meet somebody I fancy, I don’t exclusively get high on the idea of a potential physical encounter. “I wanna kiss her*, I wanna touch her* all over, I wanna fuck her*” is not the only thing that runs around my head like grand prix race. I get intrigued, yes. I desire, yes. But more often than not I find myself not wanting to hook up because the thought of it is just too much. Too overwhelming. Instead, I swoon. I sit and suck in everything that she* says and does and I just want to be her audience. To me, this is what (currently) defines me as lesbian with a little pinch of queer. I think boys* & Co. can be cute, funny and smart, and their cuteness can even suck me into the idea of “making-out-a-little”. But it’s the being a fan of people who identify as girls* that makes me the dyke I am. Kissing and fucking is easy. I can do that left and right and up and down. It’s the feeling of connecting in that particular way that shows you the direction of whichever of the multiple gender identities feels fitting for you: the compatibility. Like “this is a person I can imagine holding hands with”. Regardless if this handholding image is a fantasy of the long term-kind or only in the taxi on the way to the one-night stand. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know that using the handholding metaphor makes me sound like such a lesbian cliché that I seem more out-dated than afterellen.com.
And I know many of you are into fucking only. And you all probably threw up a little just now. But I’m not tossing the sex-thing out the window. Hell no. Sexual compatibility is essential. If it won’t work out and the rhythm just isn’t there no matter how groovy you get, the odds that you’ll get into a perfect mambo are pretty low. You can’t force it, really.
So. I was thinking that we could maybe start calling ourselves “compatible” instead? Like pan-compatible, queer-compatible, hetero-compatible and so on.
What do you think? Too unsexy?

Denice doesn’t read theory. So if there are already hundred books on the topic and this whole column is dustier than monarchy, she apologises. She also promises that she will get back to writing funny columns again. Soon.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

Almost a year ago I watched an 8-year relationship fall into pieces. Mine. We were the couple that would never break up. We were the smug little fuckers who sat there holding hands watching friends build love houses just to have them torn down again. We fell in love with each other and our equal passion for non-monogamy. Score! But then. One day. There I was. A furious amazon walking all over the bloody piercing pieces of the life I had built around this love. With an Ikea bag full of the most necessary things on my bike while pulling my confused dog around Vienna as I moved from couch to couch for a place to sleep. Bitter much? Hell yeah. How the fuck did this happen? Who was to blame? Who could I blame? On the inside I blamed myself. To the rest of the world I blamed everybody else. I didn’t want to be perceived as a loser. Because only a loser would not follow her inner feminist 101 common sense of being aware of and honest with her needs and issues. “All relationships end.” Yes, yes. I should know. I’m the one who walks around repeating that to my crying heartbroken loved ones. Death or divorce. That’s it. Well, fuck me, I should shut up more often.
There are so many levels of heartbreak and grief, and it’s so hard to deal with it if you are a cynical, sarcastic worshipper of logic. No matter how little la-la-love has to do with la-la-logic. I’m still very confused about what exactly happened these past three years. Two years of pain, anger and screaming. And now finally approaching the end of almost one year of ice-cold silence, where I was the Snow Queen who did “not wish to talk about it”. Now we do it again. Talk, laugh and love. The thing, my dears, is that there are no answers to be found. There is no explanation that makes sense. There are no words to make it all good. There is only love, laughter and passion that after years can easily turn into frustration, anger and a competition over who is feeling offended and is not taken for granted. Time. There is only time. Time washes the pain away, well not away, but it makes it bleaker. Until it doesn’t matter anymore. Until you start to remember again how good times felt like. Don’t be unforgiving unless what happened is absolutely unforgiveable. Don’t be petty. It’s not worth it. Memories should be polished as well and not only twisted into different signs of “Aaa-ha! I knew it all along! I was always fucked over!!!” You weren’t. You loved and you were loved. Life is just a laughing asshole at times and shit happens.

Denice would like to thank Nick for an amazing ride.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

I am a bit upset. Why? Well … it has come to my attention that our favourite OITNB überbutch Big Boo (or Lea DeLaria as her name is outside the fiction prison) sat in a TV-studio a while ago yelling about how scissoring is “not a thing”. Say what? I could not believe my ears so I sat down and did some research on other queerios’ opinions on one of my personal favourite (sexual) practises, and I was shocked. Shocked! Ever since that cis-straight-middle aged-bitter man-made French lesbo-flick with the male-camera-gaze explicit sex scenes, queer/lesbians all over the place have felt the need to tell the world that scissoring only exists in porn dudes’ heads and that it is definitely nothing a righteous dyke would ever do in real life. Again: Say what? I mean, what does that do for our* community except shaming people for their sexaerobics? There is no such thing as “we* don’t do that”. Except for maybe the porn dude idea of lesbians wanting a cis-man-dick poking their faces while they fuck. That’s probably not a thing. Or maybe it is. So therefore I would never go out it public and tell people which sexual practises are a “thing” or not. I, for example, basically never use sex toys. It’s just not my thing. (I think that is as close to a sapphic hippie I will ever come; “just use your magical body, Sister Moon”.) I know that scissoring (or “tribbing”, which is the more accurate, and frankly better, word for it) can be quite the challenge. And it doesn’t work out with every partner you have. But neither does fisting now, does it? As a reader on my favourite internet place, Autostraddle.com, wrote: “I’ve had partners where we could scissor in all kinds of positions and others where the mere IDEA thereof was physically impossible.” Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But with you all as my witnesses, I hereby declare: I trib, therefore it exists!

Denice prefers the lazy-ass version of tribbing where both people are on their backs, heads in opposite directions. Just be careful to not put your toes in your partners nose. Unless they are into that, of course. 

* there is no homogenic “we” or “us”, of course.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

When I realized that my love affair with feminism was going to be a lifelong relationship, I also opened the door to a fireball of rage. The feminist glasses got superglued to my face and wherever I turned I saw misogyny parading around as if it was its goddamn birthright. Once I opened my mouth to scream I just couldn’t stop. I felt a constant disappointment towards my male friends for not giving up their privileges and joining the strugg­le as allies, and I was sick to the bone of being expected to walk around like a 24/7 information station educating them about sexism and homophobia. “Just read a fucking book for fuck’s sake! If you are really seriously interested in fighting discrimi­nation then just do something! Start your own political groups instead of moping around when we respectfully ask you to not come to our meetings taking up all the space with your feelings of guilt for belonging to the group who gets the most cake although you never asked for it. And no, I am not interested in being the token lesbian feminist at your events so that you can feel better about yourselves for being so supportive and open minded!” I had the right to air my anger without having to add an “except for you, of course” every time I screamed something about male privilege. So it came to me as a shock followed by a very embarrassed red face when I realized I myself behaved like those “nice and decent dudes” whose response to criticism was (is) to feel hurt and wrongfully accused. “Queer Vienna is a nice and cuddly little bubble and everybody is invited to come and play!” (My own words.) Bull. Shit. Yeah, sure, the door is open but you gotta count on a heavy dose of everyday “innocent” ra­cism starting the minute you step in, because that’s just the way things are and people just don’t know better and if you try to call them on it, you are being overly sensitive and just ruining the party!
Allies out there (including myself ): Shut up and listen. Open your mouth and say something. Just learn when to do which. Life is an ongoing learning process, there is no graduation. We are bound to make mistakes, and when that happens we apolo­gize and do (or fail) better next time. Don’t go hide, licking your wounds and behaving like you got your fingers slapped.

Denice believes in hilariously funny political satire without assholery. She also wonders when white folks deciding whether a joke is racist or not came back in fashion. WTF?

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

I have a new job to add to my very „interesting“ CV: Porn Curator! Bam! If anyone had told me this ten years ago when I was a very convinced member of the PorNo movement, that person would have been found the next day tied to a tree
with my dirty panties shoved down their throats. „Porn is the theory and rape is the practice“, was very high up on my list of the Ten Feminist Commandments. So what changed my mind so radically? Well, one thing was that my vehement anti-porn agenda made me very sex-negative. I couldn’t quite figure out where the „bad“ porn ended and the „good“ porn began. Porn was porn was porn. I already felt extremely guilty about my hardcore masturbation fantasies, and I was convinced that they were all a product of both a history of abuse as well as of a straight misogynist society. But then I watched „Pour une nuit“ by Emilie Jouvet, and something happened inside of me. An epiphany. I saw all those awesome, feminist people fisting, fucking, spanking, playing. And they did it consensually. Somebody once said that „Porn is our fantasies being acted out in front of a camera by professionals“. That is how it should be. And that is also where we step in: the queer feminist fighters! My suggestion is to beat the sexist assholes in their own game. Watch, buy and make awesome (queer)feminist porn! I’ve gained more knowledge about sexercise than I’ve done in my whole 23 years of being a bona fide slut by watching a gazillion films to be able to put together the ultimate porn program. I’ve seen so many hairy cunts, armpits, legs and asses being hot and beautiful that it’s been easier for me letting my ladyshave collect dust on my shower shelf. Big bellies and stretchmarks. Toys I didn’t even know existed. Gaffa, clothespins and lollipops. Punk attitude, laughs and talking; dare to tell your partner(s) what you want. In conclusion: queer feminist porn is brilliant and I can’t wait to share it with you!

Denice is „porn again“ and co-curating a porn programme for the Vienna film festival „this human world“, which will take place from December 4–13. She swears on her Bourbon soul that you don’t want to miss it!

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

I finally did it!! I went to… drum roll please… LESBOS! And when I left again I was at least two major lesbian experiences richer. 1. Me + Beach = naked. Something you faithful fans out there know I said I would NEVER do. But I did it. Jumping into the waves, sunbathing and hanging out with my friends, the whole bonanza, naked. Wearing only my tampon string. 2. I started menstruating earlier than expected, something that has never happened before in my whole life. And it was on the night of the full moon while lying in bed listening to drunk dykes howling at it. If that weren’t the Earth Mother and Moon Goddess making me bleed, then I don’t know what… You can’t really get a more lesbian experience than that now, can you? All in all it was a very pleasant vacation, even if the only hot stonebutch in the village was Sappho’s Rock. From there I flew directly to Berlin to meet up with the ex-wife who upon my arrival couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed for me or if she had found the perfect thing to make fun of me when I proudly waved my Lesbos-bought labrys necklace in her face. She chose both. That doesn‘t stop me from still wearing my 2.50-Euro-double-axe-hanging-on-a-fake-leather-strap piece of exquisite lesbian jewellery every day though. It makes me look like I stepped right out of a Melissa Etheridge video. Hot! In Berlin I had a little reading, a lot of beer and met some awesome an.schläge-readers. Everything was perfect there until the heat wave hit us, the ex-wife almost had a stroke and started having more murder in her eyes than usual. Especially when I took a photo of her walking around wearing her underwear on her head as a protection against the sun. Sun sucking up her sense of humour. Tss tss. Yeah well. She’ll get over it. Until it goes viral. 

Lovers, Valencia, Madrid, Friends, Audiences, Pride Parade Performance, Partner, Kvir_feminist_actziya, antirassitischer_migrantischer_queer_feministischer Block, Filming Lesbian Vegetables, Band, Book, Sex. Life is treating me well. Thank you.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

„Oh honey! You’re so funny and fabulous, you don’t seem like a lesbian at all!!!“ is not a compliment, ok? I have quite a lot of (flamingly) gay friends, which is apparently unusal for a lezzzbian. This becomes obvious in party contexts, where I am often read as a fag hag. Which is of course utterly absurd, since if anyone is anyone’s hag here, it will be them being my dyke mikes! I love my flaming gays with their cliché dramaqueen gestures accompanying their outrageous stories, I really do. But if there is one thing I am so fucking tired of it’s the extremly outdated and tiresome dyke-jokes that rain down on me every single time. Like an obligatory part of some gay male repertoire. And like typical men* they find it extremly amusing to make fun of women, in this case the stereotype „boring lesbian“, while thinking that they are somehow protected from being sexists since they are, well, gay. Fish jokes, bed-boredom, lack of humour, lack of style, lack of penis … the list can go on forever. Hahahaha … Super funny! Not. I have to honestly say that I can’t think of a single time where I brought one of my gays to the dykes and the evening entertainment ended up with poking fun at gross balls, lack of intellectuality and a horrifyingly bad taste in music. According to a very scientific proof (that I made up myself), there is no pattern of general gay jokes having been integrated in our lesbian herstory. Are we nicer? Is that it? No. We just have more interesting things to talk about, like saving the fucking world or how to stop rapists. But since I do like getting back at bullies, imagine my delight when I found a website dedicated at ridiculing gay men dating dudes who look like their identical twin. Now THAT is funny, honeys!

As always, Denice reserves the right to make extreme generalizations to prove her point. She of course also has gay friends who are not remotely close to the stereotype pictured in this text. Also a sorry about the categories „lesbian“ and „gay“ (meaning gay men*) for this text. BTQQIA and all the other letters of our rainbow alphabet were yet again made invisible. Will compensate!

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

Since last autumn yours truly, the self-proclaimed Queen of the Sluts, has made out with 0 women*. Zero!! Catastrophe! It already started in the summer when I began to notice that I didn’t really check out people anymore, not to mention major failure in charming anyone (aka trying to get into their pants). First I blamed this on a lack of mojo. A drought in Coochieland, if you will. It’s been known to happen. Nothing strange about that. But as the months passed by and I didn’t even think about doing something as innocent and basic as kissing someone, I started to worry. Where did it all go? And, as so many times before, it were my publishers (who needs a therapist when you have a publisher?) who helped me dig out the brutal truth: it turns out that I am deadly afraid of being “the creepy old lady”. It’s super silly. It’s a product of an ageist, sexist environment and I should know better than that. But fears aren’t exactly famous for being logical. The issue I’m facing is that, as the years have gone by while I’ve been out partying like the Groovy Granny I am, the (age) gap between me and the (baby) butches has grown bigger and bigger, until I’ve realized that I could be their mother. How sexy. “Why don’t you just find women* your own age then, Miss Bourbon?” Well. I fucking would! If it weren’t for the fact that “they” are all busy going to bed early to be fit the next morning for lord knows what horrible healthy reasons. Besides, “those people” are as interested in decadent, boozing, punk femmes as I am in Sunday brunches: Not. At. All. Regarding the few brave ones left … well … how should I put it … let’s just say it’s a lesbian duck pond out there. The thing is, I can live with people thinking I’m loud, obnoxious and superficial, even though it’s not fair. But old and desperate? Hell no!

Denice knows that people hook up in other places than bars, like at work and in yoga studios. But since going out is basically her job and lifting a wine glass is the only exercise she practises, she will now brush herself off and try again. Reclaim her wrinkles and own them! Total Diva Style!

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

I just saw this interview with Hermann Maier, aka “The Herminator”, where he states that he won’t go to the winter olympics in Russia because of the country’s stance on homosexuality. Wow! New unexpected ally! Why does it then still make me feel a bit weird? Why don’t I appreciate it as I “should”? Well, maybe it’s because even though (hetero) allies are really cool and much needed, I’m getting tired of heterosexual white men being the new voice in fighting homophobia. I’m not blaming the Herminator here. Or Grönemeyer for smooching a dude in a magazine. Whatever rocks your boat and you believe in. I’m blaming everybody else who makes them into heroes for doing something that should go without saying from the start. They are being celebrated for not being assholes. And still “nobody” (= the mainstream media) wants to start the discussion about how utterly twisted our society is when we raise our eyebrows in wonder every time a hetero guy opens his mouth to say something good. Something anti-discriminatory. Halle­fucking­luja. Queer people and women/feminist movements regardless of sexual orientation have been screaming for decades that we have to stop homophobia. No one used to care. But then Mr Man­Man steps in and holds a stuttering speech about how everybody is “normal”, and all of a sudden the discussion is going on full blast about how discrimination and phobias are maybe not so cool. I know. I know. I fucking know. We live in patriarchy and this is how it is. It’s just that I am soooo tired of it. I do not want a white heterosexual man to be the voice of my struggle, our struggle. I don’t want sexism, racism, homophobia, ableism to be dealt with only when The Man says so. When The Man is ready to handle it. When The Man tells Houston that we have a problem. “But it’s good! People listen to him! Like this we can have the change that we’ve been fighting for!” I’m sorry. It’s not good enough for me. This is going in the wrong direction. I want people to realize that oppression sucks even if they hear it from Dyke Dykerson.

Denice suspects that she is trying to simplify a complicated issue to prove her point. Don’t judge her too hard.

the fabulous life  of a queer femme in action

To celebrate my 30th birthday I decided to give myself the gift of a long and healthy life. I had read somewhere that if you quit smoking before you turn thirty, your lungs would be completely restored by the age of 35. It would be like you’d never sucked on one of those tar babies at all. What I didn’t realize: the article implied that decisions made up until the magic three-o would have an enormous impact on the rest of your life and anything after that; way too late, honey!
That is of course complete and utter bullshit. In my opinion life starts at thirty. Everything before that is just a test drive through landscapes of confusion, stress and crap with the occassional stop at an amusent park where you ride the emotional rollercoaster. Or you stop to have a drink from the “been there, done that and now I think I know it all”-fountain of delusion.

I didn’t really grow into my face or mind until I was about 32. Before that I was stuck in some kind of baby-face mentality with the looks to go with it. My bread wasn’t “baked”, if you know what I mean. I thought that I had to have my whole future planned meticulously and if I stood there celebrating the day where I was about to enter the 4^th decade of my life without knowing exactly who I was and what I wanted to do, I would be fucked. Luckily for us, an.schläge doesn’t think that life is over when you turn 30. The magazine still explores, plays with new ideas and isn’t afraid of the occassional change of image and style. It’s like a good Chianti that only gets more interesting with time. My only wish is that she could embrace her lesbian side a bit more. But on the other hand, one of my best friends had her coming out when she was 32, so I guess that if one waits for something good … Happy birthday you gorgeous thing! Here’s to another thirty years, honey!

Denice was smoke free for two whole months in 2006. Nowadays she inhales both life and Parisiennes with a passion. 

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

5 years ago the team of an.schläge asked me if I would consider writing the “lesbennest”. I was so flattered I almost pissed myself. I didn’t consider myself a writer, I was more of a talker. Evil tongues would say: “a gossip queen with a big mouth”. I asked them why on earth they thought of little ol’ me, since they didn’t know anything about my (lack of) writing skills. They said that if anyone would know/have an opinion about the lesbian scene, it would be yours truly, i.e., “a gossip queen with a big mouth”. I said yes, like I always do. Even though I sincerely doubted that I would be able to pull it off, like I always do. But they believed in me, and I was determined not to let them down. And I live religiously by the belief that you regret the things you never did. That’s why I never miss a party, and that’s why I found myself on the streets of Vienna with barely a penny to my name 11 years ago. So there I was in spring 2008, sitting in front of my room-mate’s old laptop, trying to figure out in which direction to go. Should I write political hot-topic stories? Should I gossip about my scene? Should I write about my adventures and conquests in the bedroom? Would I get in deep shit trouble if I didn’t watch my step carefully? I was super afraid the lesbo-police might come knocking on my door to ask me how I DARED to think that I could ever speak in their name and with such a filthy mouth, too?? But I had made a promise. So I just wrote. Some pieces were brilliant, some so crappy that even my hard drive is embarrassed to have them stored on it. I don’t want to sound like an American motivational speaker-cliché, but it is quite amazing what one can accomplish when someone believes in you. In the beginning I was convinced that there were maybe 5 people out there reading my humble little column, but over the years I have had strangers come up to me to thank me for what I do. Oh, blush! I’m still waiting for fanmail to flood my mailbox, though, and maybe this will happen one day. So darlings: Here’s to another 5 years (now raise your glasses), may they be as funny, cheeky, tasteless and naïve as the last 5! Thank you all!

With her insatiable craving for drama, Denice is aware that this sounds like a Good Bye. Hell it is! See you next month again. And oh, fyi: She has received the impressing amount of 2 fan letters in 5 years. Just sayin’. Hint hint.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

So, I got the invitation for my 20th highschool reunion. And I can’t make up my mind whether to go or not. To help me with my decision I decided to do the old „pros and cons“-list. Because, you see, if there is one thing I hate, it is making the wrong call. And I’m always taking it to the extreme. I can be found rocking back and forth crazy-lady-style for having ordered the „wrong“ pizza (after having eaten it all, I should add). And, since the reunion is kind of a „once in a lifetime“-thing and not a disgusting Pizza Cipolla with too many onions, there is a huge risk of a complete meltdown in Bourbon Town if I don’t get it right this time.

Cons:

• It is in a town in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Sweden. In November. Cleaning my ears in the morning is more exciting than that godforsaken dump. This means that I would have to invest in flights and trains and precious time to even get there. And oh, did I say it’s in November? Do you know what the middle of Sweden is like in November? Drape yourself in a wet, stinking wool blanket, crawl into your fridge and close the door. There! Difference is, your fridge probably has more interesting and colourful inhabitants.

• I have actually not seen 99% of my former classmates in the last 20 years. Most likely for a reason.

Pros:

• I will glide into the bowling hall (Yes. The bowling hall. Don’t ask …) being the decadent diva I am, dazzling everybody with my oh-so-exciting life while they will show pictures of their snotty babies. Me vs All the rest – 10:0.

• I will finally find out who turned out queer. And I will have my gaydar set on full blast for this one.

• I will smooch up at least three sad unfulfilled housewives, giving them a moment of lesbian bliss. That is a plan that I am very sure will go my way since I will pack my Shane-moves and some lube. Question is, is it worth 500 bucks to explore this slightly arrogant plan of mine? Or will I end up in a corner, wearing ugly bowling shoes, sipping moonshine from a plastic cup while watching straight people who can’t dance do the „Lambada“?

Denice was quite the Queen of her highschool. That is how she remembers it, so it must be true.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

When I’m writing this I’m on a well deserved vacation in northern Italy. My choice of where to go when I finally have time off from work is usually very functional. A five week trip through south east Asia is simply not gonna happen. Something I talk about, yes. Something I would actually plan, pay for and do; nope. I go to California because things have to be done there, Chicago or Barcelona to see friends and this time to Meran to see a friend’s parents and where she grew up. Every bloody year I tell people that I will go on a last minute trip to a Mediterranean island by myself to just relax and write. Never happens. Said it last time yesterday and already I know; fat chance.
One specific thing that has been topping my list of “ but this year I will REALLY go there!” is a good ol’ lesbian holiday. I even made a drunk promise last week to go and perform at Femö this summer … Femö = the Danish island where dykes from all over the map gather in the summer to join each other in ancient sacred sapphic rituals such as workshops, collective cooking and being naked on the beach. And for fuck’s sake; I still haven’t managed to get my flamboyant ass to Lesbos.
However, dears, your favourite columnist had yet another one of her legendary epiphanies today; EVERY holiday is a queer holiday! Each time I go on a trip I google “gay bars and clubs”. If I’m going anywhere, it SHALL be gay. And although I didn’t find many queer places on the Estonian country side or in Monaco, the intentions were always good.
My solution: tireless queerspotting, like counting cows on a five hour drive to nowhere. At the end of the day my first sentence to sum up my experiences is rarely about the beautiful basilica, but to proudly announce how many queers I saw walking the streets of Firenze. On this trip it already started when we changed trains in Innsbruck and a dyke was eavesdropping on us talking about Rita Mae Brown. I KNEW that she was listening to our conversation, totally lesbian style, while the others said that she was simply a German teacher, alas the dyke-look. But what do they know. They don’t have the same queer travelling experience that I do. And for the record, no. I haven’t learned nothing since my last column.

Denice hopes that her precious lesbian mafia crew won’t un-invite her to Femö after having put them in a quite prejudice dyke cliché context. She means it with love.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

Ten years ago I was still convinced that one of the most important weapons in our feminist struggle was the open and public display of (female*) body hair. I saw women who shaved their legs and armpits as traitors and spent more time on fighting for the right to wear our self-grown furs than for example on questioning my own privileges and whiteness. Another important aspect of female fur was that it represented my lesbian identity. Women who shaved only did it for heterosexual, patriarchal reasons, and if I fancied a chick and then saw her shiny legs, our affair was over before it had even begun. And don’t even get me started on my reactions to a hairless cunt … For me, that really displayed a victim of sexual oppression. So what has changed in the evolution of Denice? I still love hair. Just not my own. My body hair has this strange Scandinavian colour of dishwater/gold, and there are no cool curls in my armpits (only straight thing about me; the hair there). And I’m a lazy fuck. I have a lot of leg, and shaving takes an hour. So I usually just put on an extra pair of nylons to cover up the forest. When I realized that I needed a triple pair of pantyhose to not look like my legs were Italian marble pillars, I decided to try out a waxing studio. Quick, painful, and I only needed to lie there, babbling about my life in between screams. Needless to say, the place was an orgy of heteronormative clichées, and the guilt ridden, traitor-like shame that I already felt on the way there just exploded full blast when I stepped into this palace of peach Barbie. As you all know I have always put a lot of pride in „coming out“ everywhere and at all times to make my own contribution to queer visibility, and this place screamed to be educated by Moi. But when my very tough, sadistic, ghetto-chic 21-year old hair-removing girl was smearing hot wax on my vagina while asking about my love life, I realized that this is really not one of the moments where you talk about being a passionate muff-muncher. We shared a moment, though, when she tried to convince me to rip out my golden moustache, and I explained to her that me and my feminist gang love our facial hair. Because we do, right?

Denice did not only get a „Brazilian Triangle“. She also waxed her ass. And she is not afraid to admit that she will do it again … just a tiny bit.

the fabulous life of a queer femme in action

I have a chronic disease; I am suffering from hard-core envy of cool people. The symptoms are belly-aches, shaking, panic and sudden attacks of crying heavily and feeling sorry for myself as soon as I think that somebody is much cooler than I could ever be. I get a strong compulsive need to grab whatever it is that the person in question possesses and run like hell, screaming, “it’s MINE now!! AAALL MINE!!” Luckily this never works out since the things I so desperately WANT are of a non-grabbable nature. So I start whining, which takes me onto the next level where I feel ashamed and hate myself for not DOING instead of COMPLAINING. And I should use all the potential that I have; but hey! Wait a minute; what if I actually suck?? What if it all turns out to be poop?? Ok. It’s better to not even try at all. At least I don’t have to live with the humilitation of public failure, and it’s safer to just fantasize about all the greatness that I really will achieve one day. And times goes by, and BOOM! One day I stand there at some public event and see all these talented people doing great stuff and I wantwantwantwant, face green and boiling with envy. Just the past month I have experienced severe pain from envy- ing the following people: girlsrockcamp-participants for being younger and better, creative queer people in Berlin in general, two friends leaving for a South America-trip that I’ve always wanted to go on, a friend publishing a really great book, the band Austra, ambitious and good looking 21-year old hipster queer-dykes who make my 20ies look like a commercial for XXXLutz, Beth Ditto, all the feminist artists who sit in the Fett & Zucker-café working on their new awesome projects, my sister for doing great political work and, finally, to put the icing on the self-pity-cake: Madonna’s daughter Lourdes. I “read” her blog and started crying because she HAS EVERYTHING and on top of it all lives in New York. That is when I did realize that I really have a problem.

Denice truly enjoys it when other people succeed and promises that she has no voodoo dolls. At least not that many.