Gina de Vries Archives — San Francisco Bay Guardian Archive 1966

Perverts give good poetry

Andrew Lam

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July 27, 2011

culture@sfbg.com

LUST FOR LIFE I work at the St. James Infirmary, an occupational health clinic for current and former sex workers. The clinic is a beneficiary of Dore Alley’s Up Your Alley Fair — a pride celebration for kinky people and little sister of the Folsom Street Fair — so every year I have to a work a shift at the festival. I haven’t been able to enjoy the actual street fair aspect of it for a while. But I always look forward to this week, and to Dore Alley Eve (as those of us in the kink and leather communities jokingly call it) because of Perverts Put Out (PPO), which this year takes the stage Saturday, July 30.

Now, it’s impossible for me to write about PPO without bias. I’m good friends with the producers and I’ve been on their rotating roster of performers since 2007. But I’ve also been coming to PPO as an audience member since 2004, right about the time I graduated from teen poetry slams and started performing my own works around the Bay Area.

Attending PPO for those first three years as an adult performer (in all senses of that term) and newly-minted sex writer trying to find her place in the SF spoken word scene, I received an amazing lesson in our sex and art communities. PPO is responsible for much of my education about both writing and performance. I sat back. I watched. I learned. I took a lot of notes.

So consistently well curated it borders on absurd, PPO is an impressive mix of genre and content — everything from poetry to performance art, diatribes to elegantly crafted erotic short stories. The unifying theme of PPO is of course sexuality, and most of the performers are queer in some way. But queerness and sexuality can cover a lot of ground.

Some of my favorite PPO memories from over the years: Kirk Read’s tragically beautiful piece about going duck hunting with a new lover. Daphne Gottlieb’s gorgeous poem “Carpe Nocturne” about (among other things) desire, lineage, death, and love. Lori Selke’s razor-sharp breakup letter to the racist and sexist mainstream BDSM scene. Meliza Banales’ riotously funny story about doing crystal healing sex work in Santa Cruz. Steven Schwartz’s “Bearlesque,” a smart and funny rumination on bear identity, complete with dancing and tassles. Jaime Cortez’s eerily beautiful short story “Excelsior,” about queer men cruising not in the Castro or SoMa, but in the Excelsior District. Fran Varian’s secret and brutal cop fantasy, told from the perspective of an anti-imperialist queer activist protagonist. Pretty much everything poet Horehound Stillpoint has ever done, ever. I could go on. But really, you should just come to the show.

PERVERTS PUT OUT: THE DORE ALLEY EDITION

Sat/30 7:30 p.m., $10–$15

Center for Sex and Culture

1349 Mission, SF

(415) 902-2071

www.sexandculture.org

Runs in the family

Andrew Lam

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July 19, 2011

2

culture@sfbg.com

LUST FOR LIFE My Calabrese grandmother is 98, but people routinely mistake her for 75. Nana’s tiny and round, witty and brazen, with laughter in her voice and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She stays up late to watch World Wrestling Federation matches, swears like a sailor, cooks like a goddess, crochets, and maintains a garden full of fruit trees.

Most of my femme tricks and working-class paisan survival skills are lessons from her. Nana’s taught me everything from how to do my lipstick to how to stretch the polenta and the pasta-beans when money’s tight. When I named this column “Lust for Life,” I was thinking about sex and the Iggy Pop song and how I aspire to live my own life with gusto. But I was also thinking about Nana. Because Nana is the first person who taught me to have a lust for life.

For a little old Catholic lady, Nana has been amazing about my queerness. She tells homophobes who give her shade about having a queer granddaughter that queerness “runs in the family” (she’s convinced that her own father was bisexual). She used to knit blankets and pom-pom hats for an ex-girlfriend of mine.

But Nana is also human, and flawed. She’s fatphobic, extremely critical of her own body and other people’s bodies; she’s also pretty sex-negative. When her comments about my body cut right to the bone, I try to remember compassion and patience. I grew up with access to a counterculture that has given me the tools to love my body and love sex. Nana was not as fortunate.

This weekend, I got news that Nana is dealing with a serious medical issue. I was at NoLose, a conference for queer fat people and our allies. NoLose was held at the site of the former Edgewater, a notorious swingers hotel. Imagine 150 fat queers descending on a kitschy 1970s panopticon built for cruising, and the debauchery and delight that ensued. You can stand out on your porch and see into the pool, the conference room, and other people’s rooms. It was easy to imagine the hotel as a former swing palace, and there were a lot of shenanigans (spur of the moment play parties, make-out parties, cuddle parties, and a “den of desire”) at the conference.

I didn’t partake in the grand tradition of queer conference booty. I felt too bowled over by the news about Nana to hit on a stranger. But I did want the comfort, connection, and sweetness that sex with a friend can offer when you’re sad. So I texted a new friend I’ve been sleeping with, a sweet queer boy with doe eyes and smooth hands. I told him I was stressed out and asked if he could come over and fuck me. He could, and things did not feel quite so awful the next day.

Nana would be aghast that I’m talking about conferences for fat people and my own sex life here. But to use her phrase: our lust for life runs in the family. I’m grateful for the ways Nana’s fierceness, tenacity, boldness, and mischief have influenced my life. I am who I am today — embodied, brazen, and sexual — because of her.

Hot reels

Andrew Lam

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July 12, 2011

0

culture@sfbg.com

LUST FOR LIFE In 1969, San Francisco became the first American city to legalize screening hardcore pornography. In honor of director Michael Stabile’s documentary-in-progress Smut Capital of America, which chronicles the 1969 event and SF’s ensuing pivotal role in the adult film industry during the early 1970s, Yerba Buena Center for the Arts is sponsoring a festival from July 14-Aug. 24 that will screen Stabile’s project and seven vintage porn films.

The festival kicks off with an evening featuring Smut Capital, a post-screening Q&A, rare vintage porn clips, and a discussion between Stabile and YBCA film and video curator Joel Shepard on SF sex culture in the 1960s and ’70s. After seeing the 16 minute-excerpt of the film, I ‘m already intrigued, entertained, and offended.

Smut Capital does more than give a blow-by-blow (sorry for the pun) porn history. It is also one of the few existing histories of sex work and queerness in the 1970s Tenderloin district. There is some pretty transphobic and sexist language in the footage (said by interviewees, not the filmmaker), and its treatment of street sex work and survival sex feels weirdly lighthearted. But because documenting the Tenderloin’s importance to queer and sex cultures is rare, I’m glad this film is in the works. I’m interested to see what other footage Stabile has for us down the road.

YBCA is also screening good old-fashioned smut — a passel of 1960s and ’70s blue shorts and full-lengths are on the schedule. And for another take on the era, a perspective piece from right in the thick of things, look to director Alex De Renzy’s Pornography in Denmark (1969), a controversial (at the time — but then, what wasn’t?) documentary he made during the first Danish adult trade expo to shoot its load after the country rescinded many of its anti-sex laws. De Renzy went on to direct such gems as 1989’s Bring on the Virgins and 1997’s Trashy Ass Deliquents, so you can probably guess where he stands on matters of sexual freedom.

Pornography in Denmark is far more interesting as a historical document than as a documentary or a porn film. As far as docs go, it’s slow; as far as porn goes, well, there’s nudity and sex, but they’re not very arousing. The film is a bit dry and long-winded, with the narrator earnestly explaining the history of porn in Denmark, right down to reciting the national average of production costs.

The interviews with sex industry workers are interesting, though, and some of the dialogue is priceless. I was having giggle fits over lines like “Probably not many men carry a vibrator in their attaché case”; “A tourist’s raincoat has deep pockets”; and “Making a pornographic film can raise a sharp appetite!”

All in all, these events are definitely worth checking out. I’ll be at “Smut Capital” — see you there?

SMUT CAPITAL OF AMERICA: SAN FRANCISCO’S SEX FILM REVOLUTION

Smut Capital , Thurs/14, 7:30 p.m., $6–$8

Pornography in Denmark , July 21, 7:30 p.m., $6–$8

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts

701 Mission, SF

www.ybca.org

Fetish and armor

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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July 5, 2011

1

culture@sfbg.com

LUST FOR LIFE The year I was 16, I wore nothing but thrift shop vintage lingerie. As outerwear. I’d layer two slips or two half-slips on top of each other so they wouldn’t be quite as see-through and clomp around in impossibly high heels. I bought my actual underwear from the Victoria’s Secret at the mall when they had their blowout sales. There and at places like Forever 21 — flashy, clubby, and cheap.

I tell you these details because it’s important, naming the places I picked up armor and fetish. Because it felt like armor and it felt like fetish — in all senses of the word. Sexual but mythic and protective in proportion, too. That lacy magenta push-up demi-bra, the one that was just a little too tight, the one that was always uncomfortable. But I’d wear it anyway because I understood the importance of armor. Of having something that would protect me if bad shit went down.

The refrain from my mother — and from the more prudish crowd at my school, the tough homophobic boys in my neighborhood, the cat-calling older men at the Mission BART Station who didn’t realize how young I was — was that if you wear clothes like that, you are asking for it. You’re putting yourself in danger.

But didn’t any of them realize that this was my way of staying out of danger? I felt so much more powerful in those impossible heels, tits pushed up and out, cleavage for days, fishnets encasing my thighs, tight leather boots hugging my calves. I felt so much more powerful and able to fight if any shit went down.

I get that kids are sexualized young in this culture, especially girls. That’s creepy, and I’m not saying it’s okay. When Abercrombie & Fitch sold thongs to preteens, it disgusted me. Toddler beauty pageants scare the hell out of me.

But whenever people get moralistic and concerned about teenage girls’ slutty outfits, about how sexual teens are these days — I cringe. Because I was that girl who got into screaming fights with her mother about fishnets and cleavage and dresses that were too tight. And I want us to actually talk to that girl without screaming at her. To see how she feels about what she’s wearing. To see if she’s doing it solely to impress people, or if she’s doing it to go along with the crowd, but she really hates it. Or if she’s doing it because it’s a way to claim power in a world that hates sexuality and hates femininity.

I was a queer chubby girl wearing sexy clothes trying to learn how to love herself in a viciously fatphobic, sexist, homophobic world. Honestly? Cobbling together a wardrobe of vintage lingerie was one of the ways I coped. I spent a lot of time figuring out what clothes worked for my body. Like most fat people, I had to figure it out on my own.

There is no cultural road map for being fat and sexual. We’re taught that the two are at odds with each other. I have lost count of how many times I have heard people say — in person, on the Internet, in print media — that fat people should not go out in clothes that are tight or revealing or provocative. That the very sight of our flesh — and in particular, the sight of our sexual bodies — is cause for disgust, even for violence. I wonder sometimes if people would have reacted as strongly to my outfits as a teenager if I’d been a size 2 or 4 instead of a size 12 or 14. How much of it was fear of young people being sexual? How much of it was fear of fat people being sexual?

I was speaking at a reproductive justice conference a while back, on a panel called something vague and cutting-edge like “The Politics of Sexuality.” I was supposed to be talking about my work in the porn industry as a fat queer woman — what I like and don’t like about doing porn. But the panel moderator opened the session by referring to Andrea Dworkin and Catherine McKinnon (who are famously anti-porn) as “sex-radical feminists.” My eyes about bugged outta my head.

It all went downhill from there. Women in the audience started disclosing their rape fantasies during the Q&A: “Why do we like this? Are we fucked up?” It was like group therapy and second-wave feminist sex guilt were getting together to have a really terrible party. By the end of it, I was bowled over and exhausted.

And then a pretty young fat girl — white, maybe 19 or 20, kinda punky, with wire-rimmed glasses and fine blonde hair with an orange streak — walked up to me as I gathered my things. She had tears in her eyes.

“I’ve …” She had to gulp, she was that choked up. “I’ve never… Gina, you’re the first fat person I’ve ever heard talk about being comfortable with your body and comfortable with sex. I really want to be there, and I’m not yet. What do I do?”

I was floored. I almost started crying too. I hugged her. I told her she was beautiful. I scribbled down some websites and some book titles. And then I hugged her — again — and told her she was beautiful — again. I felt like I could not say that enough times.

I wish I’d had time to tell her my story — how wearing clothes as armor and fetish helped and healed, and got me to where I am now. If that girl wants to wear nothing but vintage lingerie for a year? For the rest of her life? More power to her.

Gina de Vries is a San Francisco-based writer, sex worker, activist, and writing instructor. Hear all about her at www.ginadevries.com. Hot for Lust for Life? It’s our new sex column, stay tuned.

Lust for Life: The true meaning of Gay Christmas

Andrew Lam

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June 21, 2011

22

Lust for Life: The true meaning of Gay Christmas

Yeah, Pride’s got its problems – but that doesn’t mean it can’t be epic

Every year without fail, my friends and I talk about how June is Gay Christmas in San Francisco. We pronounce it like it has to be capitalized and ends with an exclamation point. Sometimes I even sing the words a little — “Gaaay Christmas! La-la!” — like the holiday comes complete with its own carols.

Sometimes I say “Gay Christmas” with a hint of irony and sarcasm. I bitch every year about how the Pride parade in San Francisco has become a big corporate conglomeration (not unlike Actual Christmas, right?). I bitch about how Pride has become an expensive and boozy festival celebrating the worst, most consumerist, most assimilationist parts of queer culture. I bitch about how Pride is a festival that has amazing roots and history and import, but at least in San Francisco, it has lost its way. That Pride has morphed from being a glittering and debauched radical celebration of queer love and life into a hokey tourist trap designed to sell rainbow key chains and pink triangle tea towels.

The disgusting thing is that it is dangerous to hold a Pride festival in most parts of the world, even in other parts of the U.S. (have you seen what’s been happening in Texas lately, let alone in Uganda or Russia?). I’d like to think that when our brethren in other places are seriously RISKING MURDER to march down a city block and declare their queerness and gender variance, those of us in the privileged position of living in the queer Oz would be doing more to help them out. I’ve dedicated my life to queer activism, but I’m implicating myself here, too: not knowing how to help in situations that are so desperate and scary can feel hopeless and overwhelming, and the whole mess just ends up making me cynical about Pride in the Bay Area.

I will probably always be cynical about the big corporate festival on Sunday, but the rest of June in San Francisco is a privilege to experience, a wonder to behold if you chill out and count your blessings and get some perspective. So in that spirit, I wanna tell you about my best Pride – what Pride can be like when you’re inspired and enthused, when everything feels alive and shimmering.

Pride 2008 was my best Pride. I was 25 and newly, deeply, madly, stupidly in love. The kind of love that pumped my heart up so big I thought it was going to expand like a balloon and fill my entire ribcage. The kind of love where I threw all responsibility and caution to the wind.

I took the week off work to stay home and fuck my new long-distance girlfriend. I didn’t say that to my job, of course, I said “my girlfriend is visiting from Oregon for Pride,” but I’m fairly sure my supervisor knew what I’d be doing when I asked for the vacation time (it was a queer non-profit). Me and this girlfriend have since broken up (in classic dyke fashion, we’re friends and artistic collaborators now). But the memory of the Pride week we spent together still makes me grin.

We had eight days together, and we made the most of it. We rolled around in my bed, in alleyways, in parks. One night she threw me up against a fence by the UC Extension school at the bottom of Hayes Valley, slipped her hand up my skirt in full view of all those cars and pedestrians.

But eventually the San Francisco summer evening fog won out, and we made our way back to my apartment to warm up. Aside from public sex, we ventured out of my bed for the following: Take-out Thai food on my couch, pancakes at It’s Tops (the preciously tiny 1930s art-deco diner), a movie at Frameline, the last Queer Open Mic hosted by Cindy Emch, the Trans March, the Dyke March, and a porn shoot.

I’m amazed that she and I managed to get so much done, fucking as much as we did. For queer people in love during the gayest week of the year, we were extremely productive. Our productivity was probably bolstered by the fact that we didn’t sleep much. We’d crash out at five a.m. after having sex for hours, and then we were up again at 10, but we wouldn’t manage to actually remove ourselves from each other or my room till two in the afternoon. We’d roll out of my bed hungry and bleary-eyed, covered in the salt of each other’s come and sweat, utterly and deliriously fuck drunk.

So we’d shower together, lather up our hair and skin with her rose castile soap. Sometimes the smell of rosewater still makes me think of her. Then it would be time to put on sexy outfits and go off on another adventure.

It was a magic and manic way to spend Pride, getting lost in my best girl, my sweetest butch, the smartest kindest hottest person I’d ever met. (Falling in love makes me prone to hyperbole.) It makes me feel radiant, brilliant, witty, and drop-dead gorgeous, it makes me feel like I can change the world in one fell swoop.

And me and my girl, we were gonna start a revolution together. We shot a scene for her porn movie that week, the movie that would become Doing It Ourselves: The Trans Women Porn Project – which is actually a revolutionary project, the first and only film of it’s kind: a porn movie made by, for, and about trans women and their partners. I was fucking a total genius, and I was thrilled and proud to have her on my arm. “Yeah, that’s right!” I felt like shouting to every single passer-by, “My girlfriend is BAD ASS, and so am I!”

My girl bought me bondage rope the exact color of the magenta streaks in my hair. She’d picked it out for me before she came to San Francisco, carefully looking for just the right the color for me. That week was like waking up every morning and opening up a present. It was like Christmas, goddammit! Every day was an adventure! There was a hot girl in my bed! There were awesome friends to hang out with who told us what a cute couple we were! There was pad thai and French toast with nutella & bananas to eat! Fences to get thrown up against! Movies to see! Marches to march in! Porn to shoot! Spin the Bottle to be played in Dolores Park! Could life get more amazing?! I felt Crazy With Love!, like all my emotions had to be capitalized and end with an exclamation point. Suddenly Gay Christmas made a lot of sense.

That Saturday we marched in the first ever Femme Sharks and Sea Creature Allies contingent in the San Francisco Dyke March. Forty femmes paraded down 18th Street wearing hot pink fake-satin fins on their heads and backs, fins that were cobbled together with cotton balls and staples, precariously taped to us with Scotch tape or tied to us with yarn. People carried signs: “THE IMF CAN KISS MY DORSAL FIN!” “FEMME SHARKS CAN FUCK YOUR ASS AND CHANGE YOUR OIL!” We chanted: “FEMME SHARKS WANT JUSTICE – AND WE WANNA GET BANGED!” And when she and I got home, she tied me up with the magenta rope she’d bought just for me. Afterwards, we spooned and moped about the fact that she was leaving the next day.

Falling in love over Gay Christmas made the original intent of Pride feel real to me – the glitter, the fun, the exhausted exhilaration, and that feeling of being absolutely enthralled with how brilliant and awesome we are, how much we can accomplish as a community when we put our big, pumped-up, loved-up hearts to it.

So, reader, for this Gay Christmas, I wish that for you. I hope that you fall in love, and I don’t just mean with a sweetheart. I mean I hope that you feel love with your whole body and heart. Love a political movement, an art piece, yourself. Put on your best duds. Treat your lover or yourself to some rope, a cockring, a strap-on that matches your hair or your signature eyeshadow. Eat some chocolate-chip pancakes at an art deco diner and make sure to ask for extra whipped cream. Stay up till 5 in the morning having sex or masturbating. Above all, remember how fabulous and brave and bad-ass you are, and celebrate it.

Gina de Vries is a queer writer, performer, activist, writing instructor, cultural worker, and native San Franciscan. She has a long history doing political organizing and arts work within queer, trans and gender-variant, and sex worker communities, and has performed, taught, and lectured everywhere from chapels to leatherbar backrooms to the Ivy League. She’s currently pursuing her master in fiction writing at SF State, where she’s working on a book. Find out more at www.ginadevries.com and queershoulder.tumblr.com.