Style Thief: How to Dress Like Esther Quek
Grab your shades, your suit and all the style you can muster. We’re stripping down Esther Quek.
Grab your shades, your suit and all the style you can muster. We’re stripping down Esther Quek.
I’m a hairy short-haired sonuffabitch in plaid and denim that by that boy’s definition, and so many other definitions I’ve heard, is considered by society to be one of “those ugly lesbians”. And honestly, I ain’t even mad.
I have every faith in you, baby butch. I know you will be careful with this word and its legacy. It looks like a badge but it feels like a battleaxe, and I need you to know that it’s five times as difficult to earn and ten million times more dangerous.
Why is it that time and time again, people act like they can’t make me uncomfortable? That as a butch — as well as a queer person, a top, someone who likes to flirt and be sexual just like most human beings — it’s impossible to sexually harass me?
She looked me up and down, shook her head like she was clearing her ears, and then turned to check the sign on the door. Ah, I thought.
I want to talk about shape-shifting, and clothing, and being a butch who wears things, because so much of butchness is tied up in the things we put on our body.
Anxiety on a butch is no different than anxiety on anyone else, but somehow I feel an immense shame as a result of the two’s interactions.
“There are so many terms for what I am – genderqueer, genderfluid, agender, pangender, neutrois – but none of them feel quite right. So Kade takes the place of that descriptor, and Kade feels right.”
An open letter to all the male icons I have consciously (or subconsciously) based my butchness upon over the years.
It’s that tie-straightening and sunglass removal feeling.
“I’ve seen some queer people who insist on holding doors, and other queers who use their stilettos to step on the feet of the men who do the same. I love them both, but I’m not sure if I can call sides in a concept of gentlemanly behavior that’s much older than any of us.”
12. Do your goddamned laundry.
“I just don’t see why a woman would want to aspire to masculinity when she doesn’t like men.”
“That’s what you wish you could tell her when you’re staring at your shoes or finishing that drink or pretending there’s nothing else to say.”
“So what do you do in bed, then?” they always ask, but what they mean is “I think I already know what you do in bed because you’re a butch who likes femmes, so I’ve made assumptions on your behalf.”
“I continued to make intense eye contact with my interviewer, concentrating to the point of not blinking. To her credit, she did sometimes look down, but it was usually to take in my tie, skipping my face altogether.”
This week we’re stealing a lot of black, a lot of leather and a lot of swagger. I’m going to teach you how to dress like Hunter Valentine’s Kiyomi McCloskey.
“I get angry at myself for having feelings this big to begin with, and then I wrestle for a few hours with the unique mixture of self-loathing, rage, and sobbing.”
“If I wear my heart on my sleeve – and I do these days, much to the shock and dismay of a butch gone prematurely tender – then the sleeve itself is my masculinity.”
In which we steal the clothes off queer style icons’ backs. Metaphorically, that is. This week: Janelle Monáe