Leather Daddies...AND Mommies!!

So I've found a fabulous addition to the world of fashion. It just screams deviance and defiance and pushes it's stiletto heel into the eye socket of conventional dress.

Skin Graft fashions, seen recently on several somewhat notable celebrities (Margaret Cho, Fergie, and let's not forget everyone's favorite little wannabe bisexual skank-a-thon, Tila Tequila! Jk, jk, lol lol).


I don't know what about it makes me think gay, I suppose because the whole line has a tendency to throw the male/female dichotomy into a blender and hit puree. Chicks in assless chaps, boys in lace n' leather. It makes my inner demon-dyke lesbian princess simply sing. It also makes me wish I bled rhinestones and raven feathers.

Pardon Me, Is That Lipstick on Your Strap-on?

There is a serious lack of femmey blog outlets on the internet. I had no idea that lipsticks were such a joke amongst the general dyke community:

When exiting the tube station this morning I witnessed something I thought didn’t exist. I saw two lipstick lesbians kissing. Obviously I know of the existence of lipstick lesbians, I know they’re out there but I don’t know any personally and for some reason I always imagined lipstick lesbians as a species of trashy women who wear too much make up and dress in short skirts and ultra-high heels. I’ve always regarded Bette Porter and Helena Peabody as fantasies of Ilene Chaiken and I never for one second thought that there could be real life versions of them. I guess it’s just me mingling with the wrong crowds. -Dykes and the City blog post

Well pardon me for not slapping on the chucks, leather cuffs, and Got2B Spiking Glue. Don't get me wrong, I love me some butchies, but for Christ's sake I know there's some other women out there who can check out a girl's Manolo's as WELL as her ass. My life is AMAZING in that way.

Honestly, I'm very rarely attracted to skirts. I like my women brainy, brooding, and often addicted to Hugo by Hugo Boss. Gimme a dyke in a collared shirt with 47 K.D. Lang tracks on her iPod any day. Do not assume, however, that I will not rip off your ruched-silk bubble skirt, fuck you silly, then ask to borrow it in the morning. Just sayin'.

Location, Location, Location.

My ass is sticking to a wooden chair, cheeks glued firmly to the seat by my own fluids. I'm in the boiling hot current apartment of my future roommates, can't move into my new place 'cause they're dropping down new carpets. It's a three-story brick building shoved unceremoniously into the armpits of two other brick buildings. I love it.

The street is small and quiet, bright window boxes spilling flowers, a myriad of colors twinkling down the street. I plan on shoving as many bunches of fake flowers into my dusty collection of wine bottles as I can, and plonking them down on every available surface in my room.

I used to live in State College, PA, home of Penn State University, the Nittany Lion, and incalculable numbers of sweaty drunken mongoloid freshman. I graduated from the university two years ago, then bummed around from job to job, hoping and praying for some beam of genius to burst through the clouds and penetrate my molding brain. No such lucky luck luck.

So. A change of perspective. A new set of beaten-down sidewalks for me to traverse. I'm gonna peel my ass of this sweaty chair and take a breath of Philadelphian air. It'll probably smell like cheesesteaks and crackheads, but I'll risk it.