Anyhow. The short version is: I’m a cis-female person who damn well likes to look like her name is Carmilla DeWinter, and also likes the attention that goes with that. Or, in other words, I am a middling-vain femme, though I don’t wear skirts much, mostly for the reason that I find nylons absolutely disgusting.
This feminine look is actually a rather new development.
As a child, I remember that I liked pink, magenta and purple, though my clothes of choice consisted mostly of jeans with a t-shirt or sweater, depending on the weather. Frills, skirts, blouses and dresses weren’t really my thing, I rarely played with dolls and, to my memory, never actively proposed playing house. Though I did have a slight obsession with horses for a couple years there.
Then puberty hit, and, well. Looking back, I did a wonderful job of not looking female, and therefore, desirable, by hiding behind a not-so-thin figure, loose clothes, old sneakers and long greasy hair tied into a ponytail. When I was around 16, I replaced that with a better kept chin length haircut, hoodies, Doc Marten’s boots and t-shirts advertising obscure bands I liked. Also, I tried to evade everything feminine, cute or girly looking for years, apart from a few experiments.
When I was 13, 14, this led older strangers to refer to me as „young man“, which I didn’t mind in the least. I also believe some of the people in my later school years suspected me to be a lesbian.
It wasn’t a comfortable place to be in – on the one hand, I wanted to be noticed, on the other hand, I was dreadfully afraid of the wrong kind of notice, read, attraction. I had this idea that a certain inviting look meant that, if I was noticed, I’d have to follow through with whatever the look suggested.
This was, obviously, utter, convoluted nonsense, but it took me a while to untangle all this. It’s also anecdotal evidence that Bogaert’s theory of asexual women having no „object-of-desire self-consciousness“ isn’t all that solid. In hindsight, I did a great many things to avoid being read as an object of desire…
Anyhow. I grew older, maybe I’ve managed to grow up since then, too. Somewhere along the line, and I can’t put a finger on when, exactly, I realized that I wasn’t all that disappointed when guys didn’t show sexual interest in me, and that it was perfectly okay to signal disinterest if they did. Heureka, eh?
So I decided I might as well do as I liked with my outfits, and if someone got disappointed in the process, it wasn’t my problem. I eventually grew the punk attitude to match the look, meaning I had less reason to look like a punk rocker. I’m now taking great care to keep that inner middle finger cranked up to eleven… Finding an identity as asexual has actually made it worse, if you’d call it that. No matter what I wear, or how I look, all you lovely ace and femme bloggers out there reinforced the notion that I don’t owe anyone anything. Showing cleavage is not a promise.
So, for a few years now, I’ve been approaching clothes and stuff mostly as I would toys. I’m female, and, if I feel like it, I get to play dress-up, with all the stuff fashion offers. It’s fun.