PHOTOS
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My girlfriend smudging my freshly applied crimson lipstick with urgent kisses. Seamed stockings on the wonk as I dance up a storm at G-A-Y. Blister-ridden feet from trampling all over the patriarchy wearing sparkly peep-toe heels. Welcome to life as a vintage-loving femme. Some might assume that two of my greatest passions – retro fashion and seducing women – are mutually exclusive. To them I say: I like everything girly, including girls. I channel old-fashioned glamour, not old-fashioned values. And the only thing I want oppressed is my waistline, preferably in a fetching longline girdle.
In these fluid times, plenty of LGBTQI folk feel little or no connection to terms like “femme”. But, for me, claiming the label affirms the fact that, despite what I’ve been told by both straight and queer people, my love of the trappings of traditional femininity in no way diminishes my love of women. Like so many girly gays, I’ve been denied entry to queer clubs for “not looking like a lesbian” – I literally am a lesbian, so couldn’t look more like one unless I was mid-sesh with my GF. When I first came out, I flirted with a trendier “lezzier” aesthetic. I pierced my lip, bought a checked shirt from Topshop and consciously suppressed my inner femme, but this project was doomed. It just wasn’t me. And it wasn’t only the butchness that didn’t feel right, it was the modernity. In my more grandiose moments, I imagine I’m an old soul. I fancy that embracing vintage style connects me with queer femmes of the past. By donning nothing but a satin nightgown, I give a cheeky nod to Tallulah Bankhead, the “dah-ling” actor of yesteryear who devoured bourbon, codeine and starlets, then cartwheeled into parties with no panties on. At the weekend, my gramophone plays backto- back Billie Holiday, the lady-loving lady who sings the blues.