HOLLY WARCUP

Under the dazzling smoke screen of cisnormative make believe

There once sat two separate distinguished states divided by a never-ending no man’s land
A land stretched so far and wide that no matter how far you travelled it would forevermore spill over the horizon
In this eternal wilderness in between lived people whose identities were too complex to be neatly packaged into a singular idea of how to look or act
Those who lived in the great cities at the fringes of the boundless borderland knew very little of the people who inhabited it
And if the people, the queers, dared to ever enter the great cities they were once birthed and expelled from, they found themselves met with violence
utopia within anti utopia

Where there was once the eternal wilderness now sits a solid concrete box
A prism of light, a mirrored casket, creating the illusion of an infinity while simultaneously propagating the cold hard edge of this prison that holds me
It projects onto me a totalitarian vision of gendered dystopia
The reflective walls of this box perform counterfeit acts of care
They sell me fabricated promises of approval
They repackage cisnormativity and market it under the guise of liberal dreams
Masqueraded under cheap theatrics and flashing lights
They have pleaded with me for too long not to become erased under a collective universal feeling of belonging
They are cornering in on me
If they can’t remove my identity, they’ll appropriate it, beating me down until it loses all meaning whatsoever
My queerness shall not be commodified
My queerness is not for sale
My queerness does not seek the acceptance of those who persistently fail to understand me
Their false assurance does not believe in gender free from limitation
Instead it constructs a third container to categorise and divide its citizens
A binary into a trinity
An entire galaxy compacted into a single atom
one-size-fits-all
The cisgendered evasion to the humiliation of admitting there are things beyond their comprehension
The Flattening of all Integrity
I am non-binary
I am anti-binary
The Non-binary shall never be contained.




.

To live without gender and to love the men is a precarious thing.
Many of the men wish to fuck me. To relieve their throbbing fuck poles inside my body’s orifices.
They ache to feel the hot slippery embrace of my cunt.
They beckon me to spend night after night in the city.
Visiting the city makes me fearful. I can pass as one of their women but not well enough to go unnoticed. Just enough to slip by relatively unharmed.

Some of the men do not see me for what I am.
They see me, their vision clouded with lust, as an apparition of a rare breed of woman.
They mistake my grand displays of sexuality as a projection of their own fantasies.
They live in 3 bed family houses and new build sky rise apartments.
These men and I act out scenes in which I play the role of a heterosexual woman.
The sex goes one of two ways.
The sex is boring and I leave dissatisfied.
Or the sex is violent and I am, unwillingly, turned on. 

Some of the men see me for what I am.
Many of these men are neither straight nor queer and live in constant terror of the very things they desire.
They love my masculine and feminine energy simultaneously and seek comfort in the assigned female body I inhabit.
They live in ex council flats and the post industrial ruins of the city.
Many of these men wish for me to fuck them.
To wear a faux fuck pole in place of my cunt and penetrate the depths of their bodies that have never before felt human touch.
I let the men act out their violence on me and in turn they let me do to them.
I seek pleasure in the reproduction and subversion of violence.

Some of the men shut their eyes and pretend I do not exist altogether.

The men envy me as they grow old and marry their women and birth their children and keep their parents happy.
They surrender happiness and pleasure in brutal pursuit of authority.
They lie and deceive and let their fuck poles wither away.
They fantasise about the things they cannot have as they try to get it up.
They will never know what it is to love someone who is not a woman.

The cities at night are still and dormant.
A small number of the men and women manage to slip away after twilight.
They wear long trench coats to mask their latex and leather clad bodies.
They descend into the depths of the wilderness fleeing authoritarianism.

The no man’s land at night is alive and vibrant.
The genderless stay awake making moonlight love and throwing grand fuck parties.
They act out and dissect scenes of the men’s violence and the men and women come to unlearn.
Genitalia becomes secondary to the binary of dominance and submission.
Costuming transcends dual categorisation.
The cisgendered dissolves.

In no man’s land the body looses all inhibition.
It is cleansed by the humidity of pheromones, dopamine and oxytocin.
Flesh mounts other flesh accumulating into a polycephalic organism.
The men, the women and the genderless mutate into one entity.
Whole bodies undergoing the process of mitosis.
They navigate intricate systems of fuck poles in search of fuck holes, and fuck holes in search of orgasm buttons like an ever mutating jigsaw.

At the end of the night the men and women hide under their trench coats and return to the cities.
Tomorrow they shall return to their nuclear families and their corporate jobs and never speak about what happens in no man’s land again.