Gentleman, let’s make a deal. You don’t touch my body without asking, and I won’t assume that you are the authority on hair, fashion, figure skating, and other things stereotypically gay.
I love that queer boys run the entire spectrum of the rainbow: from hippie pot heads to queens to bears to an infinite number of beautifully blended identities. Guess what? Queer women are equally diverse. I am not your hag, I am not a hag. I am a queer femme. Don’t make me feel invisible or oppressed by dismissing my identity and grabbing my body. In fact, don’t reduce me or any other woman to a body part.
Don’t get me wrong, I do like the attention. I like dancing, grinding, and cruising with the boys. Who wouldn’t like to feel like Madonna with a harem of hot queer boys surrounding you, fawning over you? At times, it’s heaven and I feel like the Material Girl herself. But guess what’s not flattering: you touching my breasts, asking me to bend over to get a better look at my ass, or referencing parts of my body in degrading ways.
It doesn’t matter that you are not sexually attracted to me; it’s oppressive. When I go out dancing, I go to queer clubs because I want to be with my community. Usually, it’s where the boys are, and I’m often one of the only women, but none of that matters. I want to dance, feel safe, be myself, and let’s face it: no one mixes pop icons and divas like a queer club. But I don’t want to feel like I’m being man handled.
Compliments? Yes please, keep them coming. Care to dance? Why yes I would love to. But I’m not a buffet, you don’t get to walk by, see something you like and grab it.