Debunking the porn myths and jerkin’ off with the boys.

Why do dykes watch fag porn? Well, for the same reason as anyone watches any kind of porn: to get off! Despite the fact that porn can have narrative, characters and a soundtrack - and occasionally make the bill at queer film festivals - for the most part, porn is porn, not cinema. Porn films have a purpose, and it’s not intellectual stimulation. They can, of course, be watched with friends, on a big screen, and even with popcorn if that’s what you’re into, but generally watching porn is a solo pursuit, consumed at home on laptops after a one-handed google search.

Personally, I’m an equal opportunities, pansexual wanker, who enjoys watching men, women and everyone in-between fucking in various combinations. I’ve given queer porn a go, and though intellectually I’m totally on board with the radical politics of Crash Pad, No Fauxx and the like, queer porn is fun from time to time but it’s not really what I’m into. It’s hot, sweaty man-on-man action that gets me off. And I’m not the only one. Plenty of dykes share my predilection, and no-one I’ve spoken to can give me a definitive reason - our scopophilic urges are as enigmatic as the rest of human sexuality. That this phenomenon seems so counter-intuitive, even to those who are part of it, makes it all the more fascinating.



My own fag porn habit started a few years ago when - and here’s the shameful part - I was still a confused sort-of-liberal feminist. Though I would always have described myself as pro-sex, I still couldn’t work out how to square porn with my politics. I had internalized the  assumptions made by anti-porn feminists and the sexually conservative media alike, but my own desires ran counter to these narrow and prescriptive ideas. I was forced to question ideas that have become a worrying kind of common sense in the mainstream feminist movement. Though I’m not suggesting that logging on to PornTube should be a new consciousness-raising strategy or that dykes watching fag porn is going to start the revolution, it’s certainly a pleasurable paradox and contravenes much of the received wisdom about pornography.


Here are a few of the ways that jerkin’ off with the boys might throw expose the flawed logic of the anti-porn brigade.


Myth 1: Women don’t watch porn - they’re just not turned on by visuals.

This is sort of a no brainer, so I won’t dwell, but despite the obviously ridiculous nature of this assumption, most discussions about watching porn are exclusively about male viewers. A surprising number of people still harbor the illusion that if women have sexual imaginations at all, they must be triggered by narrative, characters, satin sheets and cuddling. Fag porn is usually pretty short on plot, but big on action. The best scene in lesbian Hollywood film The Kids Are Alright addressed precisely this point. A teenage boy has the unfortunate experience of finding his lesbian mums’ stash of fag porn dvds. Though the scene is cut short before it can fully explore its comedic or sociological potential, Julianne Moore’s character begins to suggest that it’s precisely the visual dimension that draws dykes to fag porn, with the raging hard-ons an incontrovertible sign of arousal.


Besides which, even almost four decades after Laura Mulvey’s groundbreaking (though obviously flawed) essay ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, there’s still something exciting about centring the female gaze, particularly when it’s aimed squarely and full of lust at precisely what is not intended for its pleasure.


Myth 2: Porn is instructive.

Anti-sex feminists and their right-wing bedfellows seem convinced that the violence and misogyny found in the most heinous of mainstream porn is more than a reflection of the weirdest and worst of human desire, but is actually the source of those desires. Fag porn is by no means short of fucked up representations, with racist stereotypes in particular being just as ubiquitous as in straight porn, but the sex itself, at least within mainstream fag porn, is much less frequently based on the appearance of non-consent.


I’m not suggesting that there’s never a relationship between what we people see in porn and how they want to fuck, but the relationship between fantasy, representation and what people actually do in bed is a complicated one that can’t be boiled down to simple cause and effect.  Dykes watching sex acts that are pretty different (or at least involve different genitals) to the kind they partake in, makes the idea that porn is instructive seem pretty simplistic.


Myth 3: Porn is identificatory.

Anti-porn feminists seem to take it for granted that when people watch porn they imagine themselves within the scene, usually as one of the actors. It’s easy enough to assimilate straight men watching girl-on-girl porn into this theory, as often some dude rocks up and sprays cum all over the two (or three, or four...) women. Even when there’s no man in the frame, the camera is quite explicitly constructed as a stand in for a particular kind of viewer, whose gaze is elicited by the tongue-waggling, head-thrown-back-in-ecstasy fauxbians who look at the camera far more than at each other.


Fag porn usually circumvents this creepy convention, though if that’s what gets you off, I’m sure you can find it!. The men look at each other and often do so with a pretty convincing sense of lust. And as they’re looking at each other, the viewer is free to be a hidden voyeur, with fewer tricks used to direct, shape or gender her gaze.


Human sexuality is a mindfuck, full of kinks and contradictions that we can intellectualise but can never iron out. For me, dykes watching fag porn is one such delightful quirk, forcing us to remember that, try as we may, our desires won’t easily be categorised or contained. Instead we need to build a framework for sexual politics that’s queer, feminist and flexible enough to embrace the unexpected.

This post is also in Dissocia Zine.

You heard it here first, folks.

In publishing, as in most parts of the entertainment industry, no one underestimates the importance of building internal excitement about a new book. As such, I've learnt to take it with a pinch of salt when someone in the office is waxing poetic about a new book. In the case of Anna Funder's All That I Am however, the buzz feels a bit different. It's not just the Penguin office that's got Funder-fever, the industry press is a-buzz too, and a mere mention of the proofs arriving sent the twittersphere into a frenzy. Partly this is due to Funder's hugely successful debut Stasiland, and I think the title is perfectly pitched too, conveying that 'this-is-an-important-book' quality. More than that though, its subject matter is a source of endless interest. Alan Coren famously said that the key to success in publishing is is books on 'Nazis, golf and cats' and it's certainly true that the appetite for books on the Third Reich is pretty much insatiable. It’s easy to be critical of this and there are many reasons to be – why does rape as a weapon of war in the Congo not garner the same attention? Or colonial atrocities contemporaneous to Nazism? These are big questions, but the fact remains that the rise of the Third Reich has become one of the defining facts of modernity, and as villains go, you’re not gonna find one with greater cultural power than Hitler. There's a lot of rubbish that tries to cash in on this though, so when something comes along that's the real thing, as it were, you can often tell.

And All That I Am is 'the real thing' in more ways that having the potential to win awards and sell a lot of copies. It's a fictionalised account of the life of Dora Fabian, Ernst Toller and their comrades, who fought against the rise of fascism in Germany. Exiled to London, they continued their struggle despite the British government wilfully turning a blind eye to the plight of refugees and of the situation they were trying to expose. I knew nothing about Dora Fabian before reading the novel, and I’m content not to investigate her too thoroughly, as I’m content to keep hold of the heroine Funder creates. Dora is very much the perfect heroine – a beautiful, strong-minded, chainsmoking, promiscuous, fierce feminist.

Though it's very much a novel, Funder was a friend of the late Ruth Blatt, Dora’s cousin, and captured her story as an oral history before she died. While I'm not terribly interested in the veracity of historical fiction, All That I Am is certainly an eye-opener in terms of revealing the outrageous gaps in our collective knowledge even about the most studied period in modern history. The usual platitudes about learning from history, and 'never forget' have been made meaningless by rhetorical ubiquity and a lack of practical application. Funder knows this and allows herself few nods to the echoes of fascist Europe that we see in the erosion of civil rights today, but the scarcity of these references gives them space to reverberate through the text.

Politics aside – though of course we can’t ever separate the two (another blog post to follow about representing protest in literature – do nudge me if I don’t deliver it) – All That I Am is beautifully written and tells a bloody good story. There are a few issues that I expect will be ironed out (I’ve only read an uncorrected proof) but it’s an utterly compelling read, rich and funny and wonderfully observant. And if you can read it and not fall in love with Dora, you must be made of stone.

Lovely autumn weekend

I've been gearing up to write a snarky blogpost on my current disillusionment with just about everything, as usual zeroing in on the diy/queer scene as a focus for my cynicism, but thanks to the Ladyfest Herstorical Society, I might actually say something positive for once.

The one-off event included an archive of Ladyfest ephemera, lots of cake and mulled wine, an excellent zine collection and some bands, all at the recently-restored Lambeth Women's Project. Even though I hadn't used the space in its previous incarnation (before flooding etc put it out of action for a bit) I had heard good things, and the general vibe of the place is lovely - very inclusive and warm - and was the ideal location for a pop-up Ladyfest. And as it got darker and the mulled wine started to flow, the view from the window was a gorgeous backdrop for the bands.

The event was an alternative to the official Ladyfest Ten event (yes, I know the idea of an 'official' ladyfest is inimical to the fundamentals of a diy feminist project - yet Ladyfest Ten does have the glossy air of officialness, which is perhaps one of the reasons an alternative is necessary) and seemed to be mostly a chance for former ladyfest organisers to get together and reminisce. I've never been involved in organising a ladyfest, so might have expected to feel a little on the outside, but the atmosphere couldn't have been more welcoming.

It was a reminder that within the posing, the good queer/bad queer, the drama and drinking, the uncanny insularity of the scene, there is a community. It's a community in which you can talk about having a mental health crisis without people thinking you're fucked up and you can forget all the words to the song you're singing and no one will mind at all, and you can talk about big ideas - really giant epic ones - without being told to pipe down.

It's not perfect, but I'm gonna stop hating on it (at least for a bit, at least in public) because it's still pretty fucking wonderful.

Noizy Image

My wavering faith in activism - well-charted by this blog, despite my sporadic posting - was partially restored this weekend, by a fantastic event in Brighton. The night was run by Noizy Image, a human rights charity currently focussed on raising funds for LGBTI safe houses in Africa. I think they were also responsible for the black coffins draped in rainbow flags at a couple of pride events this summer, a rather stark - though certainly fitting - attempt to draw attention to the horrific treatment of queer asylum seekers by the British government. The event in Brighton was the first of its kind that they're put on, and despite the fact that we turned up super late and thoroughly rain-soaked, I was very much impressed.

We caught the harrowing tail end of Mosa, a short film about corrective rape in South Africa; saw the charming and talented poet Dean Atta; and saw another short film called The Kuchus of Uganda, which was sadly terminated by technical problems during a compelling interview.

It was the final performance of the evening though, that really stood out. An incredible musician whose name I didn't catch casually tuned her guitar and played a track - a good one, but I don't fully recall it as what followed was so memorable. She took out a ukelele - my disapproval of which has already been noted in an earlier post and by anyone who has heard my rant about dull East London tweeness - and gave an fantastic rendition of Day-O. Also known as the banana boat song and made famous by Harry Belafonte, then revived in Beetlejuice and slaughtered in an ad for cereal ('Hey Mr Kellogs Man'...remember?). The ukelele complemented rather than detracted from her powerful voice, and the familiar folk song rang out with a kind of melancholic sweetness. It was completely gorgeous.

An important cause, fantastic films, brilliant performers and all wrapped up in an infectious enthusiasm and sincerity that was really touching. So watch out for Noizy Image events, and let me know if you know the name of the singer!

Sita's Rules for Pride

As many of you will know, I absolutely love Pride. Despite the embarassing commercialisation, assimilationist agenda and the cringeworthy ubiquity of Tory MPs talking about equality, when the pride season starts, I'm always the first to dust off my rainbow flag and take to the streets! As such, I like to think of myself as a sort of pride connoisseur, and would like to use this self-appointed position of authority to advise the following:

1. DJs: do not play the same song twice. There is all of Madonna's back catalogue to get through, and every track makes me smile - including the turkeys - so quit repeating yourself!
2. Don't think about the hangover.
3. Those 118 outfits are seriously out of date (and not in a retro way): go with an old classic (sailor, leather daddy, priscilla) or something totally different.
4. Gaysians: an arranged introduction is not going to fly here - whether you want to make yourself known for romantic reasons or in solidarity, don't send your friends on your behalf.
5. Rad queer parties with food and zines are great, but if you wanna take a night off dancing for the revolution, pride is the ideal time to make the most of sweaty, filthy, mainstream clubs.

Happy pride folks!

DIY arts scene

With ladyfest fundraisers coming thick and fast, and the anarchist bookfair looming in October, I feel now is the time to get a few things off my chest. I'm too lazy to rant in continuous prose, so here are some lists for your perusal...

Things I Like About the DIY scene
1. The revival of the comedy song
2. Women at events say 'fuck' a lot and for some reason this amuses me. Maybe because they're often quite middle class and so it sounds kind of quaint.
3. That it really does encourage people to put themselves - their art, zines, poems - out there.
4. That there is almost always food. Why is food absent from so many mainstream events?

Things I Don't Like About the DIY scene
1. That everyone is dressed in 'ironic' 50s high femme gear all the fucking time.
2. Cupcakes.
3. The new and inexplicable vogue for the ukelele. What's wrong with a regular-sized guitar?!
4. The idea that knitting is in any way subversive. There's nothing wrong with knitting, but it is not in any way radical.
5. The disdain for 'high' culture.
6. The stench of unwashed activists: if this is what the revolution is going to smell like, you can count me (and my bourgeois ideas about hygiene) out!

Mothers / Bikes / Inspiration.

What would you call a small-scale project combining skill-sharing, recycling, supporting local charities/community groups and getting people cycling? Exemplary grassroots activism? That's what I think it is, but my Mother - a seriously feisty woman in her 60s and probably the best activist I know - is too busy doing it to think about naming it anything.

A couple of weeks ago my back bike wheel got nicked. While I was umming and ah-ing about whether to get a new one or to buy a new bike, my Mum had got hold of a bike for free (and had offers of several more) and got a friend who used to own a bike shop to do it up, in exchange for fixing some clothes for him. It all sounds so simple and neighborly, just as you might hope life would be in a small, parochial village in East Anglia. Now though, the pleasure gained from this transaction has inspired the retired bike mechanic and my mother to take up the other offers of free, broken bikes, fix them up, sell them for a reasonable price and put the money back into a local organization. No website, no local authority funding, no discussions , about safe(r) spaces - they're just getting on with it.

I spend a ludicrous amount of time in meetings, trainings and workshops. I read books on standpoint theory, community development and anti-capitalism. In short, I talk, read and think an awful lot more than I act.

This probably seems terribly sentimental ('oh! my mum is so inspirational!') but it has completely made my week. It makes it all the more clear that the bubble of activism found on campus is at best intellectually informed but frequently paralyzed by bureaucracy, self-importance and pettiness. I know, I know, student activism seems like my bugbear - I'm always complaining about it yet I am unable to just walk away from it. Graduation is perilously close though and perhaps, freed from the ease with which one can fall into the cosseting arms of campus politics, I'll be able to follow my mother's example a bit better.

Oh, and if you have a spare bike you wanna donate, let me know!