Feminist comics fans have had quite the year: Wonder Woman broke box office records last year and Captain Marvel is set to premiere the Marvel Universe’s first female lead this spring. Even in bookstores, this year has seen hits like Comics for Choice and Bitch Planet that tackle overtly feminist themes. It’s a far cry from the landscape that feminist comic artists navigated in the ’70s and ’80s, when comics was an insular boy’s club of artists, writers, and publishers, and no one — not even feminists — would publish radical female cartoonists.

In 1972, realizing that no traditional, male-run comic book company would publish them, female comic book artists in San Francisco joined together to publish Wimmen’s Comix. The collective published 17 issues, the last in 1991.

One of the artists that Wimmen’s Comix published was the young Julie Doucet. At the age of 23, Doucet contributed “You know, I’m a very shy girl,” “The First Time I Shaved My Legs,” and “Tampax Again” to Wimmen’s Comix Issue 15.

But Doucet had bigger plans than publishing a few comics; she wanted to write her own strip.

In 1987, Doucet wrote the first comic of her eventual series Dirty Plotte (French Canadian slang for vagina) but due to its unrelentingly raw content — nudity, explicit sex, female carnality, violence, and of course, menstrual blood flooding streets like a rogue river — no one would publish it. She even asked a feminist bookstore to carry a self-published version. But no one would sell it. It was too uncomfortable.

That is until the Canadian comics publishing company Drawn & Quarterly — which describes Dirty Plotte as “quite simply one of the most iconic comic book series to have ever been created” — began printing her work in 1991.

(On October 2 of this year, Drawn & Quarterly published Dirty Plotte: The Complete Julie Doucet, a hardback, two volume collection of the full Dirty Plotte series.)

In the pages of her comic, Doucet’s self-inspired character “Julie Doucet” draws comics, masturbates with a cookie, dresses as a man, castrates one, cuts off her breasts, and sews a penis onto herself.

Julie skips cleaning her house, but pays special attention to her vaginal hygiene in the bath. She stresses about purchasing the perfect bra in a dream, even though the actual Julie never wore one.

For drawing such loud, provocative and seemingly vulnerable scenes, Doucet herself is rather quiet and measured.

This past November, she spoke on a panel at Comic Arts Brooklyn, an annual comics festival at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn.

The event—standing room only—was filled with an audience keen to hear Doucet speak with cultural critic Anne Elizabeth Moore, who recently published a book-length analysis of Doucet’s work, life, and contribution to the world of feminist comics called Sweet Little Cunt: The Graphic Work of Julie Doucet.

Several times during the panel, Moore tried to complement Doucet’s work and place her in a canon of influential comic creators — a woman from the audience even stood up to tell Doucet that the comic about Doucet’s first sexual encounter had a profound impact on her own coming of age — but Doucet shyly shrugged off the attention. Moore told Doucet that her art had fundamentally changed the world of comics; Doucet quietly laughed, “I wasn’t aware.”

It’s difficult to know whether Doucet is genuinely modest, or is keen not to take up too much space as a female artist exhausted by the dominance of men in the comic world. But it seems more likely to me that she was being honest: in the middle of the ‘90s, trying to draw comics about gender and sexuality as a woman, Doucet was just trying to get by. She didn’t and couldn’t know her comics would have such a profound effect on comics culture, and it seems, she might still not believe it.

Following the panel, the energy was palpable. I approached artists selling copies of Comics for Choice, prints of feminist figures, or zines about their or their female family members’ own experiences, and asked them who they looked to for inspiration. Many named Doucet.

When I interviewed Doucet over email however, she wasn’t sure if people like her comics more than in the ‘90s, but she was sure that the resurgence of feminism had an influence: “People seem interested in the gender theme comics in a whole different way, that’s for sure.”

Despite her celebrated success and rippling influence, Doucet stopped producing comics in the mid-2000s. She credits the comics “boys club” and the unreliable income with pushing her away from the medium.

And although Doucet recognizes the landscape has shifted for feminist creators, she doesn’t see herself reentering the comics world anytime soon:  “It feels like I don’t have any stories to tell,” she wrote me. It’s a strange phrase to hear coming from Doucet. After all, if her work was about almost everything—it was predicated on exploration. Her comics explored gender identity, sexuality, womanhood, power, and violence—what stories didn’t she have to tell?

Doucet hasn’t quit creating however. Instead, she turned away from text and towards images. She returned to printing—linocuts, woodcuts, and silkscreen printing—which she has originally studied at university. She published a book of collage and poetry called Elle Humor in 2006 and another titled A l’Ecole De L’Amour in 2007.  She even designed a cover for the Penguin Classics Little Women that looks like it could be a page from one of her comics. 

Doucet has shirked off the weight of the comic world, but her work continues to draw attention and glean recognition.  In 2006, she had a solo exhibition of her print work at the Galerie B-312 in Montreal; in 2007, she participated in the Biennale de Montreál; and in 2008, she appeared at the Triennale québécoise at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal. Most recently, in 2017, her comic work was featured in a retrospective exhibit at the Fumetto Comic Festival in Luzern, Switzerland.

“It was the first time I got to see the extent of all my comic and non-comic production,” said Doucet. “It was huge, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I hadn’t realized how much work I’d done in my life. That was very overwhelming.”

Julie Doucet's comics explored gender identity, sexuality, womanhood, power, and violence—what stories didn't she have to tell?
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Doucet remains a force in the comic’s world, especially now that Dirty Plotte has been republished. And she’s proving that female artists can be more than one thing. Just as her comics depicted Julie-the-lover, Julie-the-man, Julie-the-artist, Julie-the-woman; so her life is revealing Julie-the-cartoonist, Julie-the-print-maker, Julie-the-poet.

She wrote me that she’s started drawing again this year and has been working on a series of geometric cardboard structures, although she admits, “I’m not sure where I’m going with that.”

Doucet’s work continues to explore the infinite permutations of womanhood and artistry, but her role as Julie-the-publisher is perhaps the most radical to date. She started her own publishing house in 2013, Le pantalitaire, to publish her own work and has found herself full circle: from unpublished to publisher—from powerless to powerful.

Bianca Xunise is a Black goth and describes herself as “unapologetically hood.” An artist from the Southside of Chicago, her work is incredibly diverse, exploring anti-blackness, the reappropriation of problematic personas like Josephine Baker, beauty, gender, and of course, her love of goth icons. She was awarded the coveted 2017 Ignatz award for Promising New Talent for her comic Say Her Name, which took aim at the silence surrounding Black women killed by police violence.

My first exposure to Xunise’s work was at Pitchfork Music Festival 2017 in Union Park. I was looking through the book vendor area, when a print of Poly Styrene—the Somali-English frontwoman for the ‘70s jazz punk band X-ray Spex—caught my eye.

X-ray Spex was a band from that era that actually had a member of color, and seeing her iconic lyric, “Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard, but I think, oh bondage up yours!” memorialized in Bianca’s art warmed my heart.

I bought the print right then and there and continued to follow her work.

From her meticulously chosen outfits—made up of leather harnesses, berets, and ’70s-inspired high-waisted pants—to her unrelenting love of The Craft, and her penchant for singing along to songs by the Damned or David Bowie, Xunise is part and parcel of a very Chicago Goth experience.

As a Chicago transplant, Bianca Xunise seems to be an all knowing insider of the city. I was lucky enough to meet up with her recently to talk about nightlife in Chicago, her unique experience as a Black goth and comic, and the political importance of going out and dancing.

How do you identify your taste in music? I ask because I tend to use the words “new wave,” “post-punk” and “goth” interchangeably.

I use those terms interchangeably too and I feel like a lot of times people misunderstand what I mean by goth. When I say goth, they’re probably like, ‘oh she likes Evanescence and new goth from like the mid 2000s or early 2000s.’ But when I say goth I mean something older—bands like Batcave and Darkwave, The Cure and Siouxsie Sioux and stuff like that.

Sometimes I use the Pitchfork video to inform people. It’s been really helpful…

That video was really helpful! Again, cause I feel like people misunderstand what it means and in our modern society with the internet and everything else, all cultures have begun to be kind of melted into one. A good example of this would be like Lil Uzi [Vert]. He like does trap rap, but he’s also sort of goth and sort of emo at the same time—it all blends together. And say if you’re like 15, 16, 17 and if you think Lil Uzi’s goth, then what you understand as goth is not going to be where it actually came from. You’re gonna have a whole new understanding of what you think goth is.

Often, as far as they want to go is Evanescence or Avril Lavigne, but you gotta keep going further and further back. I just started listening to some older goth music like Virgin Prunes—that’s from the ‘70s—so I am exploring how goth intersects with my Blackness and listening to bands like Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.

Why did you start drawing about these experiences with the goth subculture? I saw one of your comics—Saturday at the Goth Club—where it’s just a little ‘slice of life’ comic where you’re just at the club and you have poison written on your shirt?

One of the reasons is I was just trying to find something to write about. A lot of my work is political. But when I first started out as a comics artist, much of my work was kind of simple—about everyday life—and I missed writing about those things. My work was getting so heavy.

I wanted to bring some more lightness to it. I thought it’d be fun to show people a window into this world—there’s a lot of misconceptions about it, ‘like what do you guys do all day, hang out under the highway underpasses and dance?!’ I think people don’t understand a lot of it is just a bunch of nerds hanging out ’cause we like the same music—we’re all pretty dorky.

What are your favorite goth clubs/nights in Chicago?

I go to Late Bar, which is a big one for me. I used to go to the old Neo when that was still open. RIP. Not everyone agrees with me on this, but I feel interested in what has been happening now, ‘cause I feel like everyone is splitting up and making new safe spaces—like a lot of things happening at Berlin now. And that would be more Wax Trax! [the industrial music label based in Chicago]. Exit is another place that does ‘80s music either on Thursdays or every other Saturday.  

And then there’s the new Neo. That was really rough at first. People were very against it. Actually, one of the things I really like about “Deboneo” as they call it, is how queer it’s become. There’s been a lot more black and brown queer faces showing up there. So for me seeing the goth culture blend with the club kid culture and become this one safe space of, like, weirdos and queers and drag queens and awesomeness—that’s super important to me. That’s when it gets to the best place—when it’s come as you are. No matter how weird. This is a place for you. Let’s all dance to this old shitty song.

What about them makes them feel safe?

Not all the clubs have done this, but I know Late Bar made a statement that they’re a safe space—I think this happened maybe during the election last year. Or maybe even the year before when we heard that Trump was gonna be running. They released a press release and they said, ‘we want to be known as a safe space. This is not a space for discrimination.’ They definitely upped their security after that. There’s always people on the floor.  

But I’ve seen it misunderstood as though they were being predatory—like, ‘there’s this man and why is he coming up and taking my drink away from me. Get away from me.’ But a lot of times when they do that, it’s cause they saw something put into your drink or something like that and they’re trying to make sure that you get home safe—they filter people out all day. And make sure that it stays a place that people can feel comfortable going to.

The best place is when it’s 'come as you are. No matter how weird. This is a place for you. Let’s all dance to this old shitty song.'
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The people there are of every race and gender and you know it’s grown to be a really great thing. I’m not really sure where the crossroads is of different cultures come together, but I think it’s just about the music. A lot of it is being borrowed from each other. Like punk has always been influenced by like the ballroom scene and the ballroom scene in turn is influenced by punk, but it’s all counterculture.

The goth community is a blend of everything.

Also it’s no longer just old white dudes anymore. Brown kids want to be a part of it and you should be allowed to identify with multiple things—you may be into goth music and goth culture but you also may be really into feminism and witchcraft. You might be really into drag and you’re also really into punk rock—you can pick and choose whatever you want. You shouldn’t have to choose what you love. Take it all in and make a new culture out of it.

It’s like, everyone else is kind of shitty, so like why be shitty here?

So your impression of goths and the goth community is pretty positive?

Yeah, I think that’s one of the reasons why I find goths to be pretty nice—they’re so used to everybody else treating them poorly. That’s how I felt about the older goths who set up the bar. They’ve always been kind of kind to me, which I’ve always kind of been a little nervous coming into the scene as a black woman who is used to—especially in like my comics world—white guys pushing back when they see me come and take up space. But in the goth community I see, ‘You’re weird. I’m weird!’ That’s all that matters.

I actually drew a comic about how the goth community is one of the few that I feel I’ve been able to be a part of and the first thing people don’t register about me is that I’m black. In every other space that I take up people think as soon as they see me—Black woman. And then with that they have all these other ideas about me in their head about black women and who they are.

But when I enter a space like Late Bar or Exit or Neo—I don’t feel like people see that right away, they just see somebody that’s just like them and they accept me.

That’s beautiful. Have you had any negative and racist experiences in the scene?

Oh yeah. I have racist experiences everywhere.

I think you mentioned an incident at a Nine Inch Nails show…

I was at a Nine Inch Nails show—actually this was before Nine Inch Nails—it was New Order. I was at New Order and this woman grabbed my hair because I was dancing—as you would—to New Order and apparently my hair touched her face and as I was bouncing or whatever and it brushed her face. So she dug her hand into my scalp and tried to rip my hair out. She grabbed my hair and said, ‘I grabbed your hair because I didn’t like it!’ That was her reasoning.

It was really upsetting and frustrating, but I don’t really attribute that to the community as much as being at a concert. I’ve always had pretty bad experiences at festivals and concerts in general. I’ve gotten into a few fist fights at concerts. It kind of goes hand-in-hand for me there.

In my comics world, white guys pushing back when they see me come and take up space. But in the goth community I see, ‘You’re weird. I’m weird!’ That’s all that matters.
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You try to reason with it and then you realize that racism is the only reason that’s going to work here. I wasn’t the only person there. It wasn’t just me being rambunctious in a group of people sitting quietly on the ground. It was me and bunch of other white dudes that were all dancing. But I’m the one that she decided to attack. I confronted her about that and when I called her out, the dudes that I was dancing with were like no need to call her that. [A racist]. That was really frustrating. And then what was weird was that the two dudes she was with ended up apologizing to my boyfriend and I was like, why isn’t anyone apologizing to me.

But it hasn’t gotten to the point where it’s made me feel unsafe—I also know the punk and goth community have done a lot to combat racism and fascism. I don’t feel like the first person I’m going to meet [in those spaces] is going to be a racist.

You try to reason with something that happened and then you realize that racism is the only reason that’s going to work here.
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I was working on a piece on if you want to check it out, about Rock Against Racism. A lot of the bands that I like—the Clash, X-Ray Spex and stuff—they did what they could do in the ‘70s to try to combat racism.

Going back to going out and goth nights as safe spaces. I’m going to reference your tweets. “I’ve been trying to figure out the point in society where we deemed going out and dancing a sinful thing to do.” I was hoping you could elaborate on this perspective. Why do you think it’s looked down upon and why is it so special and important that you are able to go out and dance? People obviously shit on it, right? Like, ‘you’re just going out and you’re drinking!,’ but to you it’s important. What is it that makes it important, in terms of your identity and your interests?

I definitely got a lot of feedback on that tweet and people brought some stuff up to me that I hadn’t considered before—especially us being a country founded on puritan beliefs and how that’s still affects American society—even in terms of our movies where it’s OK to show violence, but it’s bad to show sex.

We like to market things as sinful and I think that’s where it’s confusing to me—how is it sinful to have community and feel uplifted by this community and feel safe? Where is the sin in that? The drinking part is not super important—you can add or remove alcohol. Yes that exists there, but I also have friends who are sober and still go out to the goth club because it’s not about the drinking. It’s about being around your friends. It’s a chosen family. It’s a family you only want to be around so long and then you want to go back home.

I know I’ve mentioned this a few times but there’s so much happening in the world. I’ve noticed that I’ve gone dancing more this year probably than any other year because I just need that place, a place to not have to hear about Donald Trump, and not have to uplift all the hate that’s going on.

Every time I go to Late Bar they always play this song, “(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thing.” It’s a place be around people who are gonna give you love. Every time I’m there people ask me, ‘how are your comics? What’s going on in your life? How’s this art show going?’ We know each other enough to know what’s going on in our families and stuff like that. It’s never like a place of hate.

How is it 'sinful' to have community and feel uplifted by this community and feel safe?
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I’ve gone to normie clubs that everybody else goes to and I can see why people hate them. I feel like it’s a different experience. When you add “club” to something then people have this idea that’s it’s going to be this bump and grind, overly sexual, predatory space. In fact, I was at the Owl last Saturday and I was there for half an hour and I think I got groped like 8-10 times just from walking back and forth. Someone put their hands on my butt; they put their hands on my shoulder and tried to put their hands in the curve of my side. And I was like, I don’t want to be here.

Most dudes that I’ve dealt with at the goth club ask permission to dance with you or they have the nice Catholic school space between each other—where it’s just enough room for the holy spirit.

It’s good exercise too. I think everybody needs a space to be able to turn their brain off and just exhale. It saddens me that I try to explain this to my parents and they think I’m out living this life of sin when I’m really just sitting around with a bunch of nerdy people and we’re talking about Stranger Things.

What songs are a must for a perfect new wave night?

Love Will Tear Us Apart — Joy Division

Ant Music — Adam Ant

Girls on Film — Duran Duran

Spellbound — Siouxsie and the Banshees

I Know What Boys Like — The Waitresses

Let’s Go To Bed — The Cure

Cosplay is rooted in racist intellectual properties — and fans do everything they can to uphold this racism.

DragonCon 2013 (Credit: Wikimedia Commons)

Two weeks before my annual cosplay extravaganza known as DragonCon, my Facebook notifications began blowing up. Within an hour, I had more than 40 notifications about an article published on Bleeding Cool about a popular cosplayer who’d marched with the white supremacists in the Charlottesville “heritage” protests. Curious, I read the article and then went back to my day, entirely unsurprised. Just like water is wet, white people are racist, and racism in cosplay culture has been normalized and capitalized on for years.

At least, this was my perspective. But the white and white-adjacent people on my friendlist were having fits, acting like this was an anomaly. They demanded people unfriend the white supremacist Supergirl or else. Suddenly — despite years of rarely if ever acknowledging, challenging, or confronting racism in the cosplay community — these people wouldn’t tolerate white supremacists.

Racism in cosplay culture has been normalized and capitalized on for years.

Meanwhile, me and other Black cosplayers wondered how this was going to affect our experience at the convention. We wondered if the woman who marched was going to go to DragonCon (she didn’t). We wondered if her defenders would say or do anything (some uncomfortable, and frankly, white sympathizing conversations ensued, but they were not enough to cause disruption).

Once again, we had to navigate an event openly hostile to our participation, and to seek out spaces that felt safe. Once again, we had to consider the reality that true safety in any fandom is a lie.

It is well-known that euro-centric media is anti-Black and white supremacist; that it is rooted in erasing Black people from history, literature, science, pretty much everything. So it shouldn’t be a shock that the fandoms built around these properties are racist, too.

Take, for example, comic books, the source of a huge portion of popular culture and fan events today. For a long time, they were only publicly written by white men, and in 1954, their racism was enshrined in the propaganda-laden Comics Code. The code didn’t specifically say that Black people couldn’t be included in comics, but it did require the exaltation of police, judges, government officials, and respected institutions, and condemned all criminal activity, which at the time included things like a Black person using a “whites only” water fountain. Comics were written during the Civil Rights Movement, a time when Black people were arrested for daring to seek equality in the eyes of the law, something many white people to this day are fighting against, as evidenced by the current white supremacist commander in chief.

Sixty-three years later, and Black people are still fighting for civil rights and representation in media. And, as part of this same racist ecosystem, we have racist fans fighting to keep their fandoms as white and male as possible.

There are countless examples of fans working to protect comics’ all-white-men legacy, from Trekkies threatening to boycott a new Star Trek series because the protagonist is a Black woman and the captain is an Asian woman, to people people pushing back against Tessa Thompson being cast as Valkyrie, or Idris Elba as Heimdall.

Quite simply, racism is built into cosplay because cosplay is rooted in racist intellectual properties. Everything from the lack of Black women characters to the criticisms and outright rejection Black people experience while trying to participate in fandom illuminates this issue. We watch shows about futures that have no Black people, and fantasize about alternative histories that somehow have no Black people. Worlds with dwarves, trolls, orcs, wizards, dragons, unicorns, and all types of mythical creatures and possibilities somehow still manage to have no Black people.

White Men Don’t Own Nerd Culture, And I’m Not Stealing It

And then, in turn, this racist legacy is enshrined by fan culture, which tells us we don’t belong — on the ludicrous grounds of “reverse racism” — when we deign to include ourselves in these fantastical narratives meant to excite the imagination.

This is how the vicious cycle continues, and fictional realms remain firmly the domains of white people.

As a fat, Black cosplayer, I’m very much aware of the lack of characters who resemble me. I know that when I cosplay, it will be my version of that character, because there aren’t any characters who physically match my skin, my body type, my hair, me. Even when strides are ostensibly made, I am left out; when Valiant Comics released their fat woman superhero, for example, she was a white, blue-eyed blond.

The Cosplay Community Has Tried To Make Me Invisible Because I’m A Fat Black Woman

Just as mass media is a product of the whiteness that’s had a stranglehold on America for hundreds of years, so is geek culture and everything spawned from it — conventions, watch parties, movie franchises, hobbies, fandoms.

And just as with everything else, the unbearable whiteness of fandom won’t change without tangible effort by white people committed to changing it. Racism is a conscious choice that’s become the white noise of American culture, and addressing it takes conscious effort to disrupt how white people see the world.

I’m not talking about performative shit — like what happened with Geek Girl Con, a supposedly inclusive organization that saw several members leave en masse when their white allyship was questioned, and they were asked to actually do anti-racism work. Actual change requires actual effort — the kind that hurts white feelings and triggers white guilt. Unless and until that happens, not only will we continue to be erased from our cultural contributions, we will continue to be erased from society.

The unbearable whiteness of fandom won’t change without tangible effort by white people committed to changing it.

The reaction to the cosplayer who marched in Charlottesville indicated some change is happening on this front. But while white people seem ready to discuss the topic of white supremacy, which they skirted in the past, this isn’t enough. The same people who publicly expressed outrage over the racist cosplayer, after all, have by and large failed to question their own racism.

I want to participate more frequently in different fandoms, but I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore the misogynoir in most media content. I am tired of either not seeing Black women, or seeing them abused and hypersexualized. I’m tired of only being seen when some white character needs a sacrifice so they can find their shitty humanity. And I sure as hell don’t want to be surrounded by folks too willfully ignorant to even recognize what’s going on, who are tired of hearing about inclusion and diversity because, like, can’t we just enjoy shit anymore?

It’s never just a show, or comic book, or a game. Someone wrote that shit. Someone else edited it. Someone else reviewed it. Still more people offered criticism and finally approved it. Then the director and producer reviewed it and made more adjustments. So, by the time something reaches the masses, many people have contributed to that final product — and when that product is racist as hell, maybe fan culture shouldn’t work to vehemently defend and uphold its racism.

We Need To Talk About Racism And Sexism In The Cosplay Community

Fighting white supremacy in fandom, in culture, in society, in politics, in everything is hard, and it takes commitment from white people to reflect on their privilege. It takes the effort of addressing and analyzing how that privilege impacts everything they think and know. It means making intention efforts to include Black and NBPOC voices in decision-making, if not outright having them be the decision-makers. It requires the willingness of white people to be wrong, especially when working with Black people. To improve quality of life for everyone, you must listen to the voices of those who historically haven’t been heard. And you need to be willing to step back and let go.

Always strive to be better than you have been and make this world a better place for everyone.

Looking for a way to be less of a performative ally and be an actual ally? Subscribe to Safety Pin Box, a monthly subscription box for white people striving to be allies in the fight for Black Liberation. Box memberships are a way to not only financially support Black femme freedom fighters, but also complete measurable tasks in the fight against white supremacy.

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]]> https://theestablishment.co/the-case-for-bdsm-as-a-feminist-manifesto-in-art-5cf5bd724cb3/ Mon, 11 Sep 2017 22:28:57 +0000 https://theestablishment.co/?p=3228 Read more]]> Wonder Woman provides an (imperfect) road map for a new way of looking at BDSM in fiction.

The record breaking success of Wonder Woman has all but assured the superheroine a privileged place at the uppermost echelons of popular media for the foreseeable future. It’s drawn a lot of attention to the character and, for my part at least, brought the previously uninitiated into the fold of her fandom. But long before I’d even picked up a Wonder Woman comic I was familiar with one of the more unusual features of her origins: Her creator was rather into the whole bondage thing.

Wonder Woman’s creator was rather into the whole bondage thing.
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William Moulton Marston was Wonder Woman’s creator: a trained psychologist, one of the inventors of the polygraph, and a kinky, polyamorous, feminist-minded man whose wife and girlfriend connected him to such luminaries as Margaret Sanger (the lauded, but highly controversial Planned Parenthood founder).

His brand of feminism was a chimerical and eclectic thing, a variant on the old maternalist idea that women were less inherently warlike than men. It was further modified by his psychiatric theories, where he identified key drives he thought motivated human beings — particularly dominance (which men were reared into) and submission (which women were raised to embody).

Though this neatly fit sexist stereotypes, the difference for Marston was that he believed that these dispositions were the result of socialization; thus, they could be altered, producing a more balanced, equal world.

One way to do this, he thought, was with a healthy appreciation of bondage.

Jill Lepore’s excellent The Secret History of Wonder Woman touches on this, and is certainly worth reading for the expansive treatment Lepore gives to the women who inspired and helped create the character — but for a full, unblinking (and more sympathetic) treatment of the BDSM business, I can’t recommend Noah Berlatsky’s Wonder Woman: Bondage and Feminism in the Marston/Peter Comics, 1941–1948 strongly enough.

To be sure, women tied up in comics and genre fiction is nothing new, nor is the sexualization of such a predicament. There has always been a strong sexual charge to damsel-in-distress stories; the helpless woman is a site for manly virtues to be proven and for the indulgence of fantasy. Marston took things a step further, however; he wasn’t merely presenting us with sexualized images of bondage (of both men and women), but the full range of the BDSM acronym — bondage, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism. Further, he used each of these things to express political ideas.

There is no summary that does justice to the full scope of the, frankly, weird, quasi-spiritualist theory that Marston had in mind, but this must suffice: Men’s thirst for dominance has led the world to ruin, and only by learning submission to loving authority can the world be made peaceful and egalitarian.

Women, who have mastered the art of submission, can learn to dominate men, forcing them to submit and quell their bestial impulses. Wonder Woman is just this sort of archetypal new woman: strong, powerful, independent, yet unafraid to give up her power temporarily; able to dominate and submit at will, she has mastered both sides of human nature.

With this theory underlying the whole original comic, virtually every scene involving bondage and D/s was heavily freighted with a specific, somewhat eccentric feminist message. It’s also one that—Marston’s belief in socialization notwithstanding—chafes against feminist theory in its essentialism, and it still sets off alarm bells that Wonder Woman was just one elaborate fantasy for the spank bank of its male authors.

Wonder Woman is able to dominate and submit at will, she has mastered both sides of human nature.
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Yet Berlatsky makes a convincing case that Marston went further than his patriarchal contemporaries. Where the classic male fantasy of masochism is locked in the realm of fantasy — you submit to a woman, get off, then escape the fantasy to redouble your aggressive manhood — Marston advocated something more universal. Submission as a way of life, whose principles would inform and temper everything you did. Instead of the assertion of dominance and mastery being equated with success, one would leaven that through giving up power on occasion (usually to a woman), in an act of love and trust that also blew off steam.

Whatever one thinks of the theory itself — and I’m certainly no adherent — what I find fascinating is the attempt to spell out a political manifesto through BDSM (also known as “kink”), where it’s portrayed as the basis of an egalitarian society. The Amazons, in Marston’s rendition, are powerful warriors and people who tie each other up in elaborate rituals for fun.

This remains exceedingly rare in art. Most popular portrayals of BDSM fetishism don’t even get the fetish right, after all — Fifty Shades of Grey does quite a lot to promote abuse rather than the actual, negotiated consensuality of real kink. BDSM remains relegated to the realm of individualist fantasy; even when portrayed well, it is merely what it appears to be: sex.

What if it could be shown as something with greater meaning, and without all the baggage that Marston brought with him? Goodness knows, I’d certainly love to see what a kinky feminist woman could do with this material. Colorful metaphors and allegories populate our fiction — why can’t BDSM be among them as something other than a marker of evil? Think of how often a villainous woman is portrayed as a “dominatrix” type, all black leather and curves. Why is she so often synonymous with evil or tarnished virtue? Take the Drow in older versions of Dungeons and Dragons, say, and their patron deity Llolth. Nothing says “evil” like making it obvious that you like sex, after all.

Or even consider the sultriness endemic to Disney villainesses, like Ursula, Cruella de Vil, or Maleficent (who at least had a wonderful live-action film that undid some of the stigma and made her far more human). There’s a reason these villains beguile us and command a rather vocal fandom in feminist and queer communities. We love them for the reasons we’re told they’re “bad”: their confident swagger, their “vanity,” their power.

It’s certainly no coincidence that for many years, the rare portrait of female power we got in society was a darkly sexual one that neatly slots into popular portrayals of kink culture.

There was one thing Marston’s comics had going for them, though: Women in bondage were never “fallen” or “dirty.” Love was always in the equation for him.

In popular culture, what BDSM performs and parodies is often taken literally, undermining the transformative power of fantasy and consensual violence; the “sadist” becomes an actual sadist, the dominatrix becomes an actual torturer, and so on. What if their accoutrements, mannerisms, and tropes came to stand for something else?

Marston’s women in bondage were never ‘fallen’ or ‘dirty.’ Love was always in the equation for him.
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The actual experience of BDSM is replete with inspiration for what such art might look like. Truly being involved in a scene where you’ve negotiated its parameters is an immersive experience that is among the most profound acts of empathy I’ve ever known.

Pleasuring someone in this way gives me pleasure in turn, creating a rapidly spinning cycle of both physical and emotional sensations that far exceeds the stimulations of genital pleasure. There’s a transcendental mutuality to it; you know another person and their limits with such intimacy that you can artfully dance along those edges. The sensation my partner feels when I crop them, say, is instantly translated back into a parallel form of stimulation for me. I don’t feel the pleasurable pain my partner experiences, but something equally forceful fills me in turn, setting my nervous system alight.

This is the crucial part: There is no physical pleasure to be gained but through producing pleasure for your partner. It cannot be one sided. If I want to feel good, I have to make them feel good.

I’m sure there’s at least a few parables about socialist feminism in there.

This sort of thing matters for a number of reasons. Kink is often equated with abuse, in ways that both stigmatize its practitioners and endanger women who are into kink, in particular, as many presume that we somehow get off on being assaulted by men. The sharing of one’s body is always a delicate affair, bound up in trust; kink merely takes that sharing to a particular extreme, exploring limits with a partner while using a wider palette of sensation. What is masochism if not the enjoyment of an especially wide range of touch, after all?

How might a feminist woman use the visual language of BDSM to explore these themes and more? We do have an intriguing example in the form of Gail Simone’s take on the Wonder Woman character.

In Vol. III, no. 41, “Throwdown,” Wonder Woman asks fellow superheroine Power Girl to tie her up with her own golden lasso. The lasso, famously, compels anyone in its grip to tell the truth. Coiled in its length, Wonder Woman confronts the wicked Crows, sons of the God of War, who use a form of mind-control to turn people against their better natures. Bound in the lasso, however, Wonder Woman can only think and speak the truth.

So bound, she cannot be taken in by the Crows’ seductions — all while calling herself, pointedly, Mistress of the Hunt. And thus she finally ends their reign of terror. By spanking them.

Marston would’ve been proud, I daresay. But Simone manages to use her trademark sense of whimsy to be quite a ways more subversive with this episode. Bondage is equated here not with weakness or submission, but its opposite. Something that looks just a tad like the kind of rope bondage one might wear surreptitiously under their clothes becomes an armor of truth.

The Biblical verse from Romans, “let us cast off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light” is actually stunningly apposite here. But unlike the Biblical version (which precedes an injunction against “sexual immorality and debauchery”), what some might consider debauchery is Simone’s armor of light — in the form of the illuminated lasso — which casts off Ares’ darkness.

It’s a thin filament, hardly a whole philosophy, but it gives some insight into what themes more positive portrayals might evoke. Submission becoming a form of strength that, in turn, dominates masculinity, for instance.

The symbolism of bondage needn’t always be negative, shameful, or purely fetishistic. Whatever his faults, that was a lesson Marston imparted to us.

The videogame Bayonetta furnishes us with a (not uncontroversial) take on the idea as well, with a dominatrix in the role of hero, spanking and whipping her way to saving the world.

But that extra, long step toward something bigger than titillation or an expression of merely individual sexual agency, is yet to be taken in mainstream fiction, so far as I can see. Bayonetta, for instance, is a fantastic first step in many ways, yet still very much about an individualistic portrayal of BDSM that also, in many scenes, serves a rather boring idea of male heterosexuality.

There remains that strain of feminist thought that can only understand BDSM as an artefact of patriarchy, a means by which we fetishise our own oppression and literalize male domination to an absurd degree. But this should not be the only story feminism tells about our way of life; kink can mean so much more.

And just maybe there’s a way to use such a story to cast off the shackles this society places on the free expression of our sexuality, for in all the counter-narratives essayed against BDSM as both practice and symbol lies the notion of shame, and the specter of the perverted man and fallen woman.

Perhaps William Marston’s take on it was a bit strange and sexist in its own right, but it was a worthy attempt at using sexuality as a visual language for an empowering story — where weakness could be a strength and strength could be a weakness.

And now more than ever, we need women to tell such stories without apology.

Immediately upon hearing about the annual conference featuring people dressing up as characters from movies, TV, and comic books, I knew I wanted to be get involved. I spent a year deciding on my costumes and getting my shit together so I could be a part of the spectacle. I wasn’t concerned about my size, my color, or what people would think of me, mainly because I didn’t know that going in costume made me an interactive part of the convention. I didn’t realize that any of that mattered.

I didn’t know that I would be openly rejected because of my brown skin or my size. Or that people wouldn’t be able to recognize my character because I wasn’t white. I didn’t realize that a smaller woman in a bikini would always erase my visibility. I didn’t know that my being there was an act of protest…but I learned.

I didn’t know that my being there was an act of protest.
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As cosplay has grown in popularity and visibility, I’ve heard more stories of people being sidelined for being a POC, fat, or differently abled. To protect myself from that, I’ve learned to surround myself with diverse people who love cosplay and geek life as much as, if not more than, I do. Over the years, I’ve watched every one of them grow in different ways as they engaged in this passion.

It’s a passion we’ve been told is a waste of time — that we‘ve been mocked for doing. But we see, feel, and live the difference it’s made in our lives.

We create and share our Black joy in this community. We do it and we love it for a plethora of reasons. When we don’t find what we need, we construct it ourselves, developing the cosplay scene we want to exist in. Even if it’s just small pockets of monochromatic space, we bring color, fire, and life as we build the cosplay experience we desire.

We create and share our Black joy in this community.
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Being in Atlanta has helped me connect with a spectacular geek community. From tailors and prop fabricators to stylists, photographers, and fun-loving artists, I am now part of a group of creatives who each bring their distinctive personalities to the hobby. Atlanta is where I learned cosplay existed, where I built my community, and where I continue to enjoy and grow in this hobby.

Here’s a look at some of the people who keep my love for this creative and dynamic scene growing.

Cosplay as truth.

Dru Phillips, of AMP Cosplay, is an accomplished photographer who has a fun and beautiful approach to cosplay: Treat it like fashion photography. This approach works well for him, and makes his work stand out. He was producing high-quality, beautiful cosplay images back when people were still treating it like a side hobby.

Dru’s love of cosplay grew from his passion for comics and drawing, which led him to photography. It was while earning his BA in illustration that he realized he wanted to change his focus and pursue photography. Now, Dru works as a full-time photographer, enabling him to combine his love of the medium with his love of comic art.

Cosplay exposes a deeper, often more joyous and authentic side of the people who participate.
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For Dru, cosplay exposes a deeper, often more joyous and authentic side of the people who participate. From the care people take in choosing a character to the effort and attention cosplayers take in creating their vision, he seeks to capture the passion people have in making a full fashion garment from scratch. Revealing this depth that is, ironically, only visible when people are striving to look like someone else is a curious phenomenon that he feels compelled to share.

Dru is not only a creative force behind the camera. He’s been known to don a unitard and bring his love for the craft in front of the camera as he embodies some of his favorite characters. You can see his full portfolio of work here.

Cosplay as style.

One of the least understood aspects of cosplay is that it requires style. And whatever that style is, it needs to be intrinsic. It’s that special something that one personally brings to their cosplay — not the exact replica of the costume, but that which makes the costume meaningful to them.

While many people, myself included, had to learn this, JaBarr of Barr Foxx cosplay seemed to understand it instantly.

When you look through JaBarr’s portfolio on his Facebook page, you see that yes, his cosplay is immaculate, but he also keeps personal aspects of himself in his representation of the character. Although creating an exact replica is impressive, our humanity is what gives these characters life. JaBarr modifies his costumes to ensure that he melds with his character, rather than erasing himself to be someone else. In fact, this is one of the things he discusses as a cosplay panelist at conventions.

Cosplay requires style. And whatever that style is, it needs to be intrinsic.
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His approach to cosplay is no doubt influenced by his behind-the-scenes work in television and film. He’s worked in casting, writing, editing, and most recently, production with The Edit Factor. As such, he knows how to work with lighting and angles to get the best shot. He often steps out of his role as cosplayer to direct portions of the photo shoots to maximize the impact of both the photographer’s and cosplayer’s work. As a result, his cosplay has been featured in Cosplay in America Volume 2, on the Marvel homepage, and in various articles spotlighting cosplayers to watch.

Cosplay as family.

Sometimes you meet people at conventions and they become like family. While they aren’t in the spotlight demanding any attention, you always expect to see them at the con, and it feels like something is missing when you don’t. DeAnna Cooper is one of those people.

A veteran cosplayer and congoer, DeAnna Cooper has been on the scene for 15 years. Drawn to the hobby through her love of anime, DeAnna’s first cosplay was a hentai school girl uniform. Since then, she’s regularly been spotted at conventions across the country, dressed as characters from comics, movies, television, and anime . . . some recognizable, and others original creations.

For DeAnna, cosplay is a very personal endeavor. She’s developed a cosplay family made up of people she’s met and her actual relatives. If you encounter her at a convention, expect to meet some member of her cosplay family because she keeps them close to her. In fact, she can be found participating in group shoots, such as her Conan the Barbarian shoot, with some of her cosplay family. One of her favorite cosplay is Ryomou Shemei from Battle Vixens because of the close bonds she made both creating and wearing it.

Cosplay as creation.

Cosplay is a creative art. It is the ability to recreate, and sometimes actually physically create, clothing and items that only exist as art on a page. Many times, biology and physics are not considered when comic artists create these costumes, yet for cosplay, someone must breathe life into those images and make them a wearable reality.

For cosplay, someone must breathe life into images and make them a wearable reality.
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That’s where Walter, owner and operator of Dean’s Lyst, comes in. The physics of cosplay is a complicated arena, but he makes it look painless. This is quite the feat considering that he’d never made or sewn anything prior to 2007, when he bought his first cosplay. By 2013, he was making his cosplays from scratch. And now, in 2017, Walter takes cosplay commissions, builds his own props, and continues to pose for the camera as a cosplay model. Some of his most notable cosplays are Asgardian Storm, Aqualad, and Falcon.

Cosplay as Black geek love.

DragonCon is all things cosplay, and many of the people on this list met because of their love of the convention. This is true for the team of Dr. Law’s Photolab. Leigh Willis, Jeffrey Hall, and Latoya Simmons bonded over their love of geek life and decided to take on a larger role in the DragonCon photography scene.

Leigh has always had a love for photography, but it was a hobby that he fell out of doing until he attended his first DragonCon. A lifelong geek, Leigh found himself overwhelmed by the artistry of cosplay. He promised himself that he would bring his camera to capture the embodiment of characters he’d only seen in the pages of comic books. Over time, he began participating in DragonCon’s large group shoots, and this year he served as lead photographer at the 2nd Annual Black Geeks of DragonCon photoshoot.

“As a photographer, I could hear the comments other photographers made about Black cosplayers. I had a front row seat to the comments and exclusion. I knew I had the power to change that and that’s what I try to do — I focus on giving love to the Black cosplayers and cosplayers of color.”

Jeff, a Photoshop lover, was happy to feed his inner geek alongside Leigh. Acting as the team’s second photographer, Jeff is able to capture much of the overwhelming cosplay magic at DragonCon. After the convention, he works his Photoshop magic on the images, adding hyperreality and recreating the drama of the comic art form.

The third member is Latoya Simmons. You’ll learn more about her in the next entry.

Cosplay as connection.

Latoya created her first cosplay, Marvel’s Monet St. Croix, with her friend, Dwayne Woodard. The duo used the process to reconnect and reminisce while participating in a fun, artistic endeavor. Despite his recent passing, she continues the art to pay homage to her love of fandom and as a tribute to her friend. It also allows her to work with other creatives, like fashion designer Mikos Laron.

Since that first outing, Latoya’s been steadily bumping up her cosplay skills — not that she ever needed to. Drawn to cosplaying women characters of color, Latoya has cosplayed Akasha from Queen of the Damned, Black Panther’s sister, Shuri, and Marvel’s Roma. In 2016, Latoya unveiled her Moana cosplay.

As creative director of Dr. Law’s Photolab, Latoya is responsible for creating, researching, and managing the fantastical aspects of cosplay photoshoots. Her role includes reaching out to cosplayers, developing concepts for photo shoots, and cosplay modeling.

Cosplay as therapy.

Let’s be honest. Real life is often boring. The monotony, the routine, the same shit different day that we can all experience. For Ebeneezer Grinch, aka Sheridan, cosplay is a way to escape that tedium. It provides an outlet to be silly and creative. It also provides a fun and safe opportunity to temporarily embody other characters by learning some of the mannerisms and thought patterns of others.

Sheridan began cosplaying in 2012, when he first dressed as Scarecrow from DC Comics. Since then, he has cosplayed DC’s Black Mask and Hugo Strange, as well as Marvel’s Dr. Doom. His need to create has expanded past the cosplay arena and into creating custom decoupage shoes, usually with comic themes. For him, the freedom to create is everything, and it keeps him grounded when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Cosplay as party time.

Forget all the giving back and being an inspiration. Planning, creating, and wearing cosplay is just fun. Taking pictures is fun. Strategizing poses, photo shoots, shopping, styling, socializing — it’s all fun as hell. And DragonCon, the convention where many of us were introduced to cosplay, is a four-day, 24-hour party. And Larry is there for the party. In fact, you may have seen him smiling while dressed as stoic Luke Cage, villainous Black Adam, or ever uptight Icon.

If it’s not fun, why bother?
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Since childhood, Larry has seen himself as a superhero. As an adult, Larry busts his behind styling and creating the cosplay he envisions. That could require everything from doing research on the character, to creating and painting certain pieces of the costume, to working out the logistics of group cosplays. But ultimately, it’s a good time wrapped in the persona of a character he admires, which is primarily why any of us do it.

If it’s not fun, why bother?

Cosplay as confidence.

As much as we say cosplay is for everyone, sometimes it takes that push for us to believe it. This was the case with Randy, who has been an avid con-goer for years but only began cosplaying in 2013. A friend suggested he cosplay Wilson Fisk, aka Kingpin.

“I’ve wanted to cosplay for years. I never thought I was good enough to do it. Too short, too fat, etc. Then, one day a friend suggested I do Kingpin. After thinking about it I thought, ‘fuck it, he’s right’ and I cosplayed Kingpin.”

Since then, he’s smashed the game both as Kingpin and his now infamous Thulsa Doom, a cosplay that’s won him free nights at hotels and earned international notice. Randy is now iconic in the cosplay world. He’s expanded his repertoire to include cosplays from his favorite movies and ‘80s cartoons. Most recently, Randy’s cosplayed Venger from Dungeons and Dragons and Ja-Kal of Mummies Alive.

And to think, he didn’t think he was good enough to cosplay. Now he’s owning the game.

Cosplay as art.

Cosplay can be as much about art as engineering, something Dwight Dunbar of Shattered Images knows well. He has a background in 3D animation, which has been instrumental in his endeavors to build cosplay armor. For years, he’s leveled up his cosplay skills, building full Iron Man suits.

Dwight isn’t limited to foam armor; he builds helmets, wings, goggles, and a multitude of props for himself and other cosplayers. He is known for his attention to detail when it comes to bringing his cosplays to life. He’s drawn to complex cosplay pieces that challenge his skillset. Some of his past costumes include Archangel, Black Manta, and Ultron.

Cosplay can be as much about art as engineering.
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These days, he’s transitioning his love of design to creating statues and action figures using 3D printing technologies. His goal: to create new 3D art for the fandoms he loves.

Cosplay as engineering.

On more than one occasion I’ve heard Tanya say that if the world had been different, she would be an engineer. We don’t like to admit that racism and sexism can dramatically influence our career decisions, but they do. Thrill Builds creator, Tanya, loves how cosplay provides her the opportunity to do applied engineering in ways that are interesting and fun for her.

Tanya has attended DragonCon since its inception in 1987. For a long time, she was a fabric-only person, but in 2014, she created her first armor cosplay — a Pacific Rim drive suit. Armor building opened an entire new world for her, as she learned to use 3D modeling software to build wearable armor. Tanya also livestreams her work on her Thrill Builds Twitch channel a couple of times a week. If you are looking for someone who shares your love of building, she’s a great resource.

“I love the process of creating my costumes and am constantly amazed at the things other people are able to conceptualize and create. I encourage anyone who is interested to participate in whatever manner they find most enjoyable. At the same time, I really think everyone should try to build something at least once. I hear a lot of ‘Oh, I could never do that. I wouldn’t know where to start.’ The internet is bursting with information, just try it. You might surprise yourself and discover a new passion.”

Cosplay as everything.

Last, but not least, me, TaLynn Kel

For me, cosplay is everything. It’s my friends and family. It’s helped with my confidence. It’s art, creativity, fandom, engineering, connection, style, and a party. When I started this, I had no idea the impact it would have on my life — the relationships it would forge and the way it would strengthen my voice. Cosplay gave me back a piece of myself that I sacrificed in my bid for independence and survival. It gave me a fun reason to keep earning that paycheck.

Cosplay is another form of my personal truth. It gives voice to aspects of myself that often have no place in society. It gives me a way to express my creativity, rage, love, fear, and pain in visible, yet protected ways. It has helped me shape a community of peers who not only enjoy the same activity, but also strive to make it as safe and acceptable as possible for anyone who wants to participate. We know how it feels to not fit, so we try to make a place for others to feel free to be who they are. And if they don’t fit here, we hope they learn that they can create the spaces they need for themselves.

Cosplay gives voice to aspects of myself that often have no place in society.
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We are not all one thing. And none of us bring the same things to cosplay. The fact that we are different, doing our art our way, strengthens the entire cosplay community. There truly is room for everyone who wants to be here, and all I want is for more people to recognize, understand, and work to expand that idea.

We are not cosplay diversity. We are the norm.

In 2003, I was 13 years old. The Iraq War was just starting, the Pioneer 10 satellite had broadcast its final radio signal, and I was seated at a public computer in upstate New York, looking at porn. My house was still connected to 128k dial-up, and I was forbidden from having my own AOL password; as such, I spent an hour a day at the library whenever possible, browsing assorted Flash cartoon sites and quietly investigating the wide world of adult entertainment. (To the librarians: I am sorry for sullying your hall of learning. I had no choice.)

Since I’d already been reading comic books for eight years, it should come as no surprise that my smut of choice as a teenager was the cartoon variety. I’d open up Internet Explorer, navigate over to Penisbot (I know), and search their galleries for something different than the creepy Simpsons-cest that dominated the cartoon porn landscape. For the most part, everything I found was solidly heteronormative, with a few lesbian scenes here and there. And I didn’t think to question it.

Until Tilt Mode.

Created by an artist known only as Locke (who also published a few stories through Eros Comix, an adult-oriented imprint of Fantagraphics Books, but has since faded into relative obscurity), Tilt Mode is the story of Amanda, a student who discovers while masturbating in the shower that she can sprout a penis from her clit when aroused. She immediately gets a chance to test her new member when her friend Suzy comes over, and studying takes a back seat to sexy times.

It might not be a particularly good comic — Suzy’s stylized text-speak dialogue is grating at best — but Locke’s faux-manga style has a sexy-cute appeal to it. It wasn’t the bad dialogue that drew me to the story, though. Tilt Mode gave me my first look at the gender-bending world of futanari and started me on the road to realizing my identity as a trans woman, a journey that would take more than a decade to complete.

Futanari is a Japanese word literally meaning “dual form” or “to be of two kinds,” and is used to describe various states of hermaphroditism and androgyny, depending on the context. When discussing pornography — as we’ll be doing for the next 600 words or so — futanari, commonly shortened to “futa,” is a genre of Japanese cartoon porn that stars women with penises. Some have testicles, some don’t; some have vaginas, some don’t.

Internet perverts have argued for years over what types of futa, if any, make the consumer gay, but at 13, I had no interest in codifying the nuances. The extent of my thought process at that time was my sudden knowledge that being a dickgirl was probably the best thing I could ever be.

And then I carefully avoided thinking about the consequences of that idea for five years.

Instead, I spent that time navigating the barbarous wilderness that is Appalachian public high school, filled as it was with hyenas prowling for fresh meat to call “faggot.” (It’s not a perfect metaphor.) Though I wasn’t convinced I was gay — boys held little appeal for me, though I admit I was curious — there was something weird about me, something I tried to understand by reading queer erotica, which was easier to download and save for later, on the rare occasions that I managed to sneak onto the dial-up connection, than cartoons. But reading about gay boys and crossdressers didn’t quite scratch that itch, and for years, I could never find anything quite like Tilt Mode, having even forgotten its name.

In college, everything changed. Not only did I have access to high-speed campus internet, the student body had also set up an illicit file-sharing network that contained untold terabytes of movies, games, music — and porn. Between that and my newfound friends on 4chan (I know), I had all the X-rated resources I’d lacked in high school, and none of the supervision.

Over the next few years, the way I related to myself and my sexuality shifted dramatically. I read what seems in retrospect to be hundreds of hentai stories in dozens of disparate genres, always coming back to sci-fi and fantasy tales of my beloved futa.

I thrilled to the misadventures of the stud-slash-sub Yukito in Kawaraya Ata’s Kopipe, in which a mad scientist copies body parts from one person to another — a trope that thrilled me but was unrealistic enough for me to convince myself that this fetish was just that, not an indication that I was unhappy being a boy. After all, wasn’t I surrounded by hundreds of people on the internet who also got turned on by this stuff? And it’s not like anything like that could ever happen anyway, right?

But it only took so long before I had to admit: I was jealous. I could barely contain my envy when the hero of Hinemosu Notari’s Mirror Image crossdressed so hard he became a futa, and I saw too much of myself in the shy-but-slutty futas and femboys of the artist InCase. Still, I managed to convince myself I wasn’t trans; I just wanted to live in a girl’s body, like the protagonist in Custom Girl who plays a futuristic VR game that allows him to experience sex as a woman! That’s normal for boys to desire fervently and constantly, right?

I realized later that I’m not the only one who felt this way. Many trans women in my community with whom I’ve spoken have expressed similar feelings about futa and “trap” comics — about boys who are girlish enough to “trap” straight men into having sex with them. Thirty Helens, a trans woman who is herself a creator of futanari comics that she posts on her Tumblr, told me in an interview that consuming futa material before transitioning “helped partly fill a void left by being in the closet while maintaining a mental distance from transness.”

The fervor over whether futa “makes you gay” or “straight” that I used to see online is understandable, she says, “because I used to do all these logic backflips in my head to do anything to convince myself I wasn’t trans while still engaging with that side of me a little.” But, she continued, “it helped me come to terms with a lot of stuff after transition. It helped me to feel more secure and sexy regarding my body.”

Transitioning was inevitable for me as well. Once I read Katou Jun’s Avatar Transform!, there was only so much I could do to deny it. Similar to Custom Girl, the hero in Katou’s story explores a futanari body in a VR world, while slowly abandoning all pretense at maleness in real life.

The more I read the chapters in which he realizes a woman’s body in VR feels more natural than his own, the less I could deny it: I wanted that. I wanted to be cute, girlish, even beautiful. It took until the summer of 2015 — more than 10 years after I first read Tilt Mode — to begin coming out to my friends and family, and months more to begin hormone therapy. But I did it, and the results have been more fulfilling than I could ever have imagined.

All this is not to say that futa is intrinsically a trans genre, nor are all its aficionados trans themselves. But as Thirty Helens says, “I think they’re inherently linked. These bodies resemble our bodies and it’s time to stop pretending otherwise, it’s time to stop being afraid that it makes you gay . . . and maybe even more people can connect in a real way without doing the same thing I did, engaging but still keeping a distance from trans womanhood.”

Futa didn’t make me a dyke-y trans girl. It just helped me realize that’s who I wanted to be. Hopefully, it will help other fledgling dickgirls realize it sooner than I did.