The extraordinary Lovejoy has been reticent about posting and instead emailed me this to “do with as I will”. So I am posting it instead. Maybe seeing people respond will get her to write more since her writing is fantastic

What does feminine mean to you?

Girly Girl.
Feminine.
Frilly.
Pump Squad.
Femme.
Womanly.
All of the above

feminine- changeable, child-bearing, delicate, effeminate, effete, fair, feminine, fertile, gentle, girlish, girly, graceful, ladylike, maidenly, matronly, modest, muliebral, oviparous, petticoat, pistil-bearing, pistillate, pure, refined, reproductive, sensitive, she-stuff, shy, soft, tender, twisty, virgin, vixenish, weak, womanish, womanlike.
-Dictionary.com

I fell in love with shoes at a young age. Unfortunately, I had extremely narrow feet. My mother and I used to spend all day at Nordstrom or Buster Brown trying on shoe after shoe. I would lust after the red ones or the shiny black ones with ties. I wanted to be one of those cherubic girls with my solid legs stuffed into white lace tights and pearly white shoes. This same cherub wore a short woolly soft dress and her glossy red raincoat matched her luminescent bubble umbrella. She was cute and rosey-cheeked. The moral of this story is that I left the store with plain brown or navy blue lace-up shoes that went up to my ankle where they showcased my legs that were the size of toothpicks. I was 8 years old and was so light the wind could pluck me up off the street. I guess substantial shoes were my only defense. Every shopping trip was an exercise in disillusionment.

As I grew up I shed the feminine, I gave it up as something unattainable and an expression of those girls who lacked intellect and savvy. I walked around with my inner-boy alive and well. Inner Boy protected my heart and preserved such childish proclivities as playing out in the streets with kids on dirt bikes and playing dress up with my younger cousin when I was in high school. But it didn’t protect me from broken hearts or secret yearnings for my girlfriend’s hand on my waiting breasts, or my confusion as to why sloppy kisses from boys didn’t turn me on and why oh why I kept falling in love with them anyway.

I was a trooper in the face of a jumble of information that I was trying to understand. I went to school everyday aspiring to be a hybrid of Annie Lennox, David Bowie, and David Byrne. I cut off all my hair like Annie Lennox. I looked and looked for a light grey suit just like the one David Byrne wore in Stop Making Sense. I tried to affect the delicious androgyny of Bowie. Did I forget that I was a girl? I look back and see that at times I did forget. I would have the sudden realization in public : I am not a boy, but I feel like one sometimes; a rakish, dashing, bawdy, yet sophisticated young man with a maudlin soul. I bought a fedora hat and several ties to complete my look. I got a rush from a newfound sense of power.
But I was fickle, at times showing up at school in a 50’s prom dress and Converse tennis shoes. My father would point out girls on the street in tight jeans with heels, asking me why couldn’t I be like them??? “Now that’s a good outfit”. I didn’t see myself in them. I saw something that I could never be. I saw a different sense of empowerment that could be used for good or for evil and the force was not with me on this one. The truth as I understand it today is that I was a little frightened of my sexuality. It was an unknown in a sea of unknowns. I was making out with boys all the time, but I didn’t feel anything. I kept searching for one who would change that. When I did find that one boy, another me emerged as a teenage girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. Inner Boy receded into other parts of my personality. He lurked around in my sense of humor and forthrightness. But the suit, hat, and tie got stuffed into the inner sanctum of my closet, both literally and figuratively. Those clothes did not attract most boys. Alas, that rogue boy went the way of Peter Pan; to a place where grown-ups can’t conceive, where all Lost Boys go, to Neverland. Let me sincerely apologize for the sappy lit reference.
I grew up. But I can’t figure out what happened. I can’t quite figure out how I became so girly. I got married. I had children. In that time I have acquired dozens and dozens of shoes and purses. I wore perfume and horrors upon horrors- makeup! Of course I was well-supported and appreciated in these endeavors. Additionally, having children somehow brought out the glam in me. I never went out the door in the ubiquitous Mommy Look, a la white t-shirt and sweats. I loathed tennis shoes. I loved my nursing breasts at their most buoyant. I felt quite womanly and sexy, thank you very much. I even switched over to thong underwear after years of resistance and by golly I never want to see an errant panty line ever again!
I divorced and discovered sex with women and men. High heels. Lingerie. More perfume. And Breasts. I decided to get my very own pair made expressly for me. I will not defend myself to the union of women who are against my decision, who say plastic surgery is evil, because girls, I am having the best sex I ever had in all my life. I feel fabulous. It changed my life in an amazing way. I did it for me, a gal with a breast fetish. I don’t care what anyone thinks. And I’m still a feminist. Yesterday I bought a pink wallet.
How far can I be from that wonderful masculine self? How far? A little closer than you think.
All boy-ness was erased, but not forgotten. You see, the boy in me shows up every time I hold a beautiful woman. Every time I kiss a woman or put my arms around her waist. Every time I make her come. I feel wickedly confident. So in one form or another that daring boy stays with me in spirit. However, I am here to tell you that I am still pistil-bearing, pistillate, pure as any ethical slut, refined, reproductive, sensitive to touch, she-stuff, secretly shy, soft, tender to my core, twisty like the wind, not much of a virgin, definitely vixenish, never weak, mostly womanish, and uncommonly womanlike with an awesome set of tools.