�

Femininity, you silly thing, with your tongue-tripping staccato march of syllables and your hidden "ninny". Your curtsies and ruffles, your pink and shining cherry lip gloss.

You, downy-cheeked giggling sister of the no-nonsense, austere Feminist.

You are, I've read, the quality of being female, womanliness, femaleness. Obvious; how could there be more? Oh, but see also the other, more telling suggestions: gentleness, softness, kindness.

You lush gardenia bloom, you sweet summer melon, you feminine thing.

(Feminine but a goddamn wildcat in bed, what's best, they say. Watches the game but brings you a beer, they laugh. Best of both worlds.)

In my gym, women swing uppercuts, right hooks, left hooks. Breaking their knee, shouts the instructor, you're stopping their advance. Go harder. Stronger. Don't let an attacker catch you off guard. Faces fierce, wet with exertion. Breath coming in short ragged pants. No one is gentle, soft, or kind.

Then, what? Surely still feminine - we are, after all, still females?

Femininity, what do you think about hard edges, stony glances, holding a grudge. Drinking whiskey instead of wine. Laughing in great openmouthed gasps; yelling fuck yeah, man.

You gilded bridesmaid dress, you.

(He acts so�feminine, they say. Disgusted. Fag.)

Femininity, you contradictory thing. All your implied rules and baggage. Half your time spent on a pedestal, preening; the other half sullied, scrambling for a foothold. I want to flaunt you, hide you. Turn you on and off.

(You throw like a girl.)

You girly girl, you screamer-at-spiders, you helpless parallel-parker. Blind eye. Glass ceiling.

You gentle, soft, kind cradle of cliches.

Go harder. Stronger. Don't let an attacker catch you off guard.