Sla0wer
Tranny P*nk
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TsPx WORKSHOP see if you can decode my garbage notes in to a workshop big hit at parties and tr!nny summer camp TRANNY PUNK DEATH FUCK SUMMER CAMP 006 THIS IS JUST MY PERSONAL NOTES. i am trying to write a motherfucking workshop in an hour and a half <td>LINKS TO OLD MATERIALS THE TRANS PUNK UNDERGROUND CATASTROPHY NETWORK BUILDING COMMUNITEE AND MUTUAL AID PEER SUPPORT WHILE BEING A FUCKED UP LIL A-SOCIAL COUNTERCULTURE FALLOUT DIRT BAG AND ALSO TRANS last year two ago ! tranny con 2005 program origional workshop plan crap. complete itinerary of the trans punk perspective workshop 2005 old outdated attempt to explain the trans-punk equation that i never was happy with !! i can do better now but i dont have time. trans outsider identity rant that birthed the seeds of the workshop TRANNYS ARE PUNK DAEMONS fetishising evil trannys are tokens of the queers— really old. man o man… the worst part of blogging is that you can go back 2 years ago and see how you used to be a lil more fucked up and dumb and uncertain… and that other people can see it too cuz its the internet. fortunatly… the internet is way to big to bother reading all yer year old crap… only the most devoted cyber stalker would try… unless you go posting links to it… eating some shitty lil kids lunch box !!! </td> fuck fuck fuck fuck… i totally have no time to do this… i even stopped having sex on drugs with gunther for a night and sent him off to go get wasted and get in to fights with his dumb ass white trash drunk boys crew… i gotta pack a tent and do dishes… i got no times to plan this crap. eeeeek. i’ll write it out on a napkin… xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx new topics of discussion we came up with this year -counter culture is a ghetto -opression VS. outsider pride // the balance -mental illness as component to outsider status -am i fucked up cuz im trans or trans cuz im fucked up most of the above things are hard to talk about singularily, they tend to mix together -creating family type structures in queertranspunk communities -majoring in queer-gender theory: accademic allies are inaccessble and alienating -learning to like the non trans queers i was dissing a year ago. if you can understand my trans with out treating me weird we can be frineds. -punk or trans enuff ?? labels are bullshit. trans and punk are adjectives not nouns. you choose yer own involvment like tyler durden. BONUS QUESTIONS if we have time -what the fuck is tranarchy? -transGOTH ! -fuck punk, i am a poser hipster. -punk is dead, welcome the new psychedlic trans movement. -lets argue about what is and is not punk divide a white board down the middle right side is PUNK left is NOT PUNK this excercise is deliberatly supoose to be stupid. -tell a short story about how you came in to trans and punk +++++ self realisation and validity ===== communitee — most TsPx kids got trasn punk simultaniously or used punk to support there trans. did anybuddy here get in to punk with trans as their gateway ? – i think thats the last of it… now i just gotta go through my other notes and i’ll have an excellent and complete if not kinda jerry rigged total overview of the TsPxian philosophers stone. i will do the trans punk workshop at your conference or gay university thing in return for train fair and accomodation and my rider which will include beer, weed, a selection of cheese, maybe some different kinds of cookies, maybe a steak… and uh… cocain and icecream. cuz i’m selling out. |
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Advice for new baby Shemales. And worse advice for haggered old Queens Blackmarket Mones Identification Chart How to Survive Getting Tr*nny-Bashed with an Iron Pipe |
The Power That Was
Sherilyn Connelly 6-8 minutes
Live in San Francisco long enough, and addresses of certain
long-gone places will make you a little wistful. After 22 years, the
ghosts that haunt me include the former Dark Room at 2263 Mission St.,
the original Le Video at 1239 Ninth Ave., and the second location of the
Power Exchange at 74 Otis St.
The original Power Exchange opened in February 1996 at 960 Harrison
St., with a second location on Otis Street opening three months later.
Dubbed the Main Station, the Harrison location was pansexual, while the
Substation on Otis was for gay and bi men. (Never quite enough places in
this town for them, are there?) Both locations ran afoul of the
city for assorted permit violations, and in 1999 the Harrison location
was closed for good, though by then the Otis location bore the
distinction of being not only the city’s largest sex club, but the only
licensed one, too — thanks to legislation introduced by then-Supervisor
Tom Ammiano in 1996 to establish standards for their operations. Power
Exchange owner Michael Powers supported the legislation, noting that
without it his club wouldn’t be acknowledged as a legitimate business,
while Mayor Willie Brown opposed it.
I was a regular at the Power Exchange for a few years in the
mid-aughts. Most nights, I just hung out in the fenced-off area of the
basement Dungeon known as the Cage, where I made many new friends, and
felt a sense of community stronger and more welcoming than anywhere else
in San Francisco’s sex culture.
Early on one of my first nights there in 2006, I went into the
upstairs women’s restroom. Studying myself in the mirror, I took out my
eyeshadow and made a dark band across my eyes from temple to temple.
With my bleached-blonde bangs edging close to my eyebrows, the makeup
job resembled Daryl Hannah’s replicant Pris in Blade Runner. That was the intention, anyway.
Upon arriving downstairs, I was promptly invited into the Cage by a
transvestite named Robin, and she soon became one of my best friends
there, someone I always looked forward to hanging out with. (It’s
something that can’t be overstated: so many people were just so nice
at the Power Exchange.) Robin was about 6 feet tall with a long brown
wig, and tended to wear demure blouses and skirts; she wasn’t shy about
lifting up those skirts, or anything else.
The consensus among the regulars in the Cage was that I belonged, and
being a carny at heart, Robin enjoyed showing me off: “Isn’t she hot?
Look at those legs, and that face.” It was nice of her to say, but it
didn’t stroke my ego as when different people throughout that evening
said I looked like “that one woman in Blade Runner.” Hotness is
subjective at best, but you either look like Pris or you don’t, and
independent verification suggested that I was pulling it off. Mission
accomplished! And I’d found a new home.
By the way, Pris’ incept date is Feb. 14, 2016. Celebrate Valentine’s Day accordingly.
When you arrived at the Power Exchange in 2006, an imposing yet
polite man at the door checked your ID, made sure you had a rudimentary
understanding of what the club was about — i.e., that it was a wholly
consent-based club where “no” meant “no,” and all sex was safe — and
sized you up to ensure you weren’t drunk or otherwise likely to cause
trouble. This process could take a while with newbies, especially as the
pricing was explained: Thursdays and Sundays, men got in for $15;
hetero couples were $10 total; and women got in free, whether they were
cisgender or trans*. The definition of the latter was necessarily
expansive, running the gamut from transgender women such as myself to
weekend crossdressers, and were referred to in the local argot as
“T-girls.” (I was fine with that term, and it’s still used as a positive
self-identification in some circles, perhaps because it never leaked
into the mainstream like certain other words that are now considered
slurs.)
On Friday and Saturday nights, couples were a mere $20, and once
again women — cis or trans* — got in free. Men in men’s clothing either
shelled out $75 to enter wearing their street clothes, or paid $35 if —
once inside — they took off their pants and wore a towel around their
waist or went naked. Single men were referred to as Tourists, and those
wearing towels were Towelboys. (All Towelboys were Tourists, but not all
Tourists were Towelboys.) On the third Saturdays, for the monthly
Fetish Ball — themed nights, such as the self-explanatory Swalloween
Ball in October — everyone paid $20, and those were usually the busiest
nights for cisgender people.
The pricing is a crucial detail: other than Fetish Ball nights,
T-girls of all stripes got in free, and were always welcome and
protected inside, with zero tolerance of transphobia. This effectively
doubled the number of completely safe places we could go late at night,
the other being the trans* bar Divas on Post and Polk streets (which is
another article altogether), and there was usually an influx of sex
workers at the Power Exchange after Divas closed at 2 a.m. This is not
to suggest that Divas and the Power Exchange were the only two options
after sunset, and I knew many respectable trans* women who avoided both
as a matter of principle, considering them ghettos to be risen above.
But to me, it was important that both places existed, particularly in a
queer community that worships and rewards masculinity so much.
This was also why I wasn’t bothered by the Tourists or the Towelboys,
many of whom had their penises in their hand at any given time, just as
the Power Exchange’s sub-gutter reputation suggested. I find cis male
penises icky, but they did me no harm; boundaries were closely guarded,
and nobody ever got closer to me than I wanted them to. Yes, they would
often staaaaaaare, even when I was just sitting in the Cage
writing in my notebook (and I got a lot of writing done there), but
those men paying to get in subsidized me being there for free, and I
owed them nothing in exchange. It bordered on a scam, and I loved it.
Feminized for Sissy Slavery 