But I always found Bianca

But I always found Bianca.

We bought our product from the same clan of fashionable bald fags on Sixteenth Street. They kept the drag queens supplied. Bianca served the lesbians. She also played guitar and sang like Kristin Hersh. She walked into the room and my leg bounced nonstop. I got love spasms. I’d dated women, but this was deeper than sex. This was fucking speed sex.

In our dealer’s apartment, she swaggered all cool breezes with a copy of J. D. Salinger’s Nine Stories in her back pocket. I sat in a zebra print chair with the Angry Women anthology and two hairless cats. They wiggled their tails in my face like eels. I was having a love affair with ideas about women and power and sex, ideas Bianca and our dealer had introduced me to. We talked about it like something that was borrowed from a phallic legacy. Woman was a set of symptoms, an “other” to man. The woman in front of me was making me tingle.

I bedded Cixous and her affirmation of hysteria: an inherently revolutionary hiccup in the binary logic of conformity and Christian law. I got behind her agenda to break up continuities and responded to intolerable emergencies with hysteria. I fell for a feminism that encompassed biotechnics and platform Mary Janes, all facets of technology, with a keen interest in exploring the things so many of us in San Francisco wanted to explore at that time: artifice, Baudrillard’s simulacra, Donna Haraway’s cyborgs, and vintage lingerie. I wanted to tear the woman inside me down and rebuild. I wanted to fuck Bianca.

Antonia Crane, Spent: A Memoir, Rare Bird Books, A Barnacle Book (March 18, 2014)

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