As a femme I am both the Mother and the Whore. Some men say lesbian sex is not real sex - therefore I am the eternal virgin, in their eyes untouched and unbled. In a way it pleases me, forever shrouded in a blanket of holiness, whether I take a cock or not, a Madonna to be worshiped but never, never touched. But then, of course, I am also the Whore — when I stand in front of the mirror and go through my femme rituals; mascara, blush, pink or red lipstick. I think of my ancestors who took part in fertility festivals and painted their faces for beauty and protection.
The femme rituals always start the night before. I oil my hair, focusing on the scalp and the ends, before wearing a scarf around the house like my grandmother did, with two of the long ends over my shoulders. My friends always tell me I have very soft hair despite the fact that I am a very stereotypical bottle blonde. It makes me preen because, for everything I do to my hair, I make sure to soothe it by spending a long time brushing it out and applying the oil to the ends and rosemary water that I have made myself to the roots. I treat what my ancestors valued so highly with care, and I want others to notice. When a butch takes a perfectly curled lock between their fingers and marvels at the softness it makes me blush, it makes me proud, and I know they feel that way too because it is special to touch something so sacred to me.
When the hair has been washed and part-way dried, the dreaded set begins. I both love it and despise it. The vintage diagrams in the magazines of the 40s and 50s do not typically have patterns for hair like mine, which is long, far past my shoulders, and somewhat fine and thin. I have considered cutting it often but every time I think about giving up the long braid it makes me shudder, so I make do and set it anyway. I apply the setting spray to my dampened hair and put the rollers in five rows; two on either side of my head and one down the back. A new headscarf makes an appearance, this one is usually prettier because I do not have to worry about the oil getting everywhere. One time I explained the painstaking process of the hair set to a butch I was dating, and they listened in wonder as I told them about sitting in front of the mirror holding a bunch of hairpins in my mouth and maneuvering with the hair comb like a sword. We laughed about it and agreed that it would be much easier if femmes would help the short-haired butches with the hair clippers for their undercuts and buzzcuts, and if the butches would help the long-haired femmes with the rollers at the back of their heads.
It is annoying to sleep with the rollers in, but the result is always worth it in the morning, because I have yet to be able to achieve with a curling wand what a good set does overnight.
Taking the curlers out is the last step for me, and many more rituals come beforehand.
If I am wearing pink or blue or another pastel colour, usually a summer dress, then I try and match my eyeshadow to it. If I am being more subdued, wearing what I like to call my high femme uniform (a nice pressed blouse, skirt, and heels and accessories to make it a little more exciting), then I settle for neutrals on the eyes in the form of two wings from brown eyeshadow, and then two lines extending from my waterline, like that Marilyn Monroe trick to fool people into thinking you have longer lashes. I always use three colours of blush; the deepest closer to the outside of my face, around my temples, and a little under my chin, I blend it with a lighter pink towards the middle of my cheeks and use a light, almost translucent colour to diffuse it just under my eyes.
The most exciting part, perhaps, comes with picking the lipstick shade. I have tried many lipsticks that claim to be ‘kiss-proof’ with varying degrees of success. None really do hold up to the test, although the stains are fairly good at not getting onto a cheek when you give your date a goodbye kiss. I take out the bag where I store all my lipsticks and empty it out on the counter, sorting through them and thinking about whether I will be eating, whether I think I will be kissing them, whether I want to leave that imprint of red or pink on the rim of a teacup.
I have many lipsticks but I love wearing red on my lips. There is something about reclaiming what the Eastern European aunties in my childhood called improper, devilish, too much too western too slutty too dark. I am not looking for the attention of the boys they told me I would be attracting with the red lipstick as a child, and so once again I am both the Virgin and the Whore as I apply it to my lips, smiling in the mirror.
The trick to making it stay longer is to dab a little bit of powder on top.
I always use two types of perfume, a spray, and an oil. This ritual feels most holy because once I have finished spraying on my pulse points and in my hair, the oil (usually rose) is spread on my chest, right above the cleavage, like I am a king in the olden days being anointed in a religious ceremony. It certainly feels sacred, in a way, when they bury their face in my hair and blush and tell me it smells sweet. I have them guess what flowers I am wearing on my person today.
Then comes dressing. Whether I am wearing my high femme uniform or a sundress or something else, I always have to have beautiful lingerie on underneath. Even if I do not intend to even take off my jacket, the process of rolling up my sheer stockings and clipping them onto the vintage garter belt I thrifted is a ritual I have to perform. And If I do plan to take everything off, it makes it all the better to either see them fumbling with the clips or skilfully unclasp all the fancy closures. Pulling my clothes on top of these many clasps and closures and lace and ribbons makes it feel real, like a closure to the preparation.
The femme rituals continue all the way, they continue in the way I press my lips to a cup and leave a red stain behind, in the way my long nails tap on my thigh at times, and they continue all the way until I arrive back home and slip off my heels and put a scarf on my hair again and carefully wipe away the lipstick in the mirror.
Xena, this is so adorable and I believe blogs like yours carry historical value. Lesbians in the future will be learning all about 21st century femmes and butches just like we do now about butches and femmes from the past. Maybe one day someone will compose a 21st century version of the “persistent desire - a femme- butch reader” it will contain different writings, including yours❤️