Hammers, C. J.

(2007, Aug) "Queer Bodies in Sexed Spaces: The Examination of a

Lesbian/Queer Bathhouse" Paper presented at the annual meeting of the American
Sociological Association, TBA, New York, New York City Online <PDF> Retrieved
2008-06-26 from http://www.allacademic.com/meta/p183789_index.html

Producing Queer Subjects in Space: The Examination of a Lesbian/Queer

Bathhouse
This article examines Pussy Palace, a lesbian/queer bathhouse in Toronto, Canada, and
its
impact on patrons of the bathhouse. Although a healthy body of work now exists
exploring the relationships between space and gender, gender performance and identity
formations, little attention has been given to examining the space-gender-identity nexus
of queer subjects in sexed spaces—this is particularly the case when it comes to
research focusing specifically on lesbians and queer women. Drawing on in-depth
interviews,
observations and survey data I examine the spatial aspects of identity negotiations and
contestations as they arise in a queer, sexed space, and the ways in which the bathhouse
facilitates certain practices while simultaneously disciplining bodies and behaviors. This

paper thus builds upon and adds new dimensions to the existing geographical, feminist,
queer and sociological literature which has illuminated the constitutive relationships
between gendered/sexed bodies, spaces and the practices found therein.
Introduction
Silenced and policed, we congregated in allotted spaces. Borders were marked
and real; vice laws, police, and organized crime representatives controlled our
movements into and out of our ‘countries.’ But what could not be controlled was
what forced the creation of these spaces in the first place—our need to confront a
personal destiny, to see our reflections in each other’s faces and to break societal
ostracism with our bodies. What could not be controlled was our desire
(Nestle, 1987: 61).
The literature examining the role of space in constructing embodied subjects has
gained momentum over the past decade. Illuminating work by feminist geographers and

sociologists (to name only a few) has revealed the ways in which space is inextricably
tied to gendered practices and subjectivities (see for instance, Bell et. al, 2001; Crossley,

1995; Leidner, 1991; McDowell, 1994; Munt, 1998; Rose, 1991, 1993; Valentine,
1999).
Grosz’s (1998) statement below highlights the increased awareness of, and interest in,
the
constitutive relationships between bodies and the environment:
I am interested in exploring the ways in which the body is psychically, socially,
sexually and discursively or representationally produced, and the ways, in turn
bodies reinscribe and project themselves onto their sociocultural environment so
that this environment both produces and reflects the form and interests of the
body (42).
Before this turn to the body as some “thing” that mattered, the body was as Longhurst
(1995) asserts merely the “geographer’s Other.” The disavowal of the body has its roots
in the Western mind/body dualism (Gatens, 1988; Longhurst, 1997) where in the
construction of knowledge, depending at it does on the “scientific” method and
objectivity, has meant mind over body—the body acting as a drag and encumbrance to
finding that “truth.” The body, not surprisingly, is also associated with all things
negative
—mortality, irrationality, emotion, and nature, all of which are represented and located
in
the female body. Thus, in order to reach that transcendent realm of masculine rationality

and logic, it was thought that the body had to be controlled and tamed—in sum, erased
from the scene (Lloyd, 1993).
This Cartesian mind/body split and as follows, the transcendent knower, has been
turned on its head by feminist philosophers and social scientists alike (see for instance,
Collins, 1990; Gatens, 1988, 1996; Rich, 1995). Rose (1993) describes this negation of
the body for the attainment of truth as a delusion (or as Haraway would say, a god-trick)

and states that “the assumption of an objectivity untainted by any particular social
position (or any particular body) allows this kind of rationality to claim itself as
universal” (7). Rather, bodies are inscribed, sexed and gendered, scarred and thought
through such that knowledges and epistemologies are embodied accounts of life—i.e.,
mind and body are one. Such insights have enabled researchers to take a more embodied

approach to their work by being cognizant of the ways in which bodies are placed, while

places are infused and recreated with bodies. This is highlighted by Domosh (1997)
when in describing Nast’s research on gender and embodiment at Kano palace, states
that
“material realms such as bodies and places are not transcendent categories removed
from
the critical, political analysis of discourse, but rather are constructed out of everyday
practices that are both spatial and linguistic” (83).
An embodied sociological perspective to studying gender has begun to make clear
the body-subjectivity nexus, which not only undermines the mind/gender dichotomy,
but
the sex/gender distinction as well. The sex/gender paradigm, invented by psychiatrist
Robert Stoller (1968), assumes that sex is “biological” or the “coat rack” with gender
being the socially constructed correlate of sex. Relying on this framework, social
scientists have been guilty of rendering the body insignificant in the cultural production
of gendered meanings and processes (Schrock, et. al, 2005). While critiquing this
sex/gender paradigm and thus providing their own invaluable insights such as the
denaturalization of sex and gender-sex (in)congruency (as exemplified in the theories of

Butler, 1991, 1993), queer and postmodern theorists have nonetheless played down the
physical, material and very “real” lives of these bodies (see for instance Bordo, 1993)—
the body becomes a discursive, cultural by-product that in itself has no meaning. As a
result, the physical body and the material realms it inhabits—key sites of knowledge
and
understanding, have too often been overlooked.
Recent sociological and geographical work has brought the body back in by
employing embodied methods that reveal the body-subjectivity-identity linkages. For
andinstance, studies examining body-work through the use of cosmetic surgery
(Gagne
McGaughey, 2002) makeup (Dellinger and Williams, 1997), and body building
(Johnson,
1998) have shown how manipulations and modifications of the body shape one’s very
subjectivity/consciousness. Insightful research on transgendered and female-to-male
(FTM) and male-to-female (FTM) transsexuals have highlighted how shifts in how the
body is read through body modification (such as hormone therapy, surgery etc.)
translates
into feelings of “authenticity,” which in turn impacts other behavioral and social
practices
and Tewksbury, 1998).(Dozier, 2005; Gagne Schrock et al. (2005), in examining the
transembodiment of MTF transsexuals, found that successful transition hinged on
practice and training (such as learning feminized bodily movements and proper
decoration), activities which over time began to feel authentic and fluid. These studies
all
share a common theme: not only did shifts in subjectivity arise when societal
perceptions
of them changed (they were read differently), which supports the fluidity of identities as

highlighted by queer theory, but these changes (which nonetheless have limits) were
dependent upon material bodies—fleshy, (in)congruent and (in)authentic bodies that
determined societal perception.
Johnson (1998), in her research examining female body builders, furthers this
body-subjectivity dialectic in looking at the ways in which spaces and spatial
relationships, in this case a “hard core gym,” construct and create gendered/sexed
bodies.
Not only did these female body builders use compensatory measures such as breast
implants to mark the body “correctly” as female so as to maintain their femininity, but
the
space itself was quite hostile to “serious” women body builders. The sex environment of

the gym was revealed in the ways in which women’s corporeality was contained within
certain feminine zones such as the aerobics room, while the free weights room—the
space necessary to achieve a muscular body, was typically off-limits, especially during
peak training periods. The organization and structure of the workplace also maintains
specific gender performances and spatiality, thus helping to maintain the intransigent
occupational segregation of women and men (see for example, Acker, 1990; Berk,
1985;
McDowell and Court, 1994; Valentine, 1999). Leidner (1991) reveals the ways in which

interactive service jobs, in this case a McDonalds and life insurance company, compel
embodied transactions that typify “appropriate” gender enactment. While both jobs
demand similar attitudes and behaviors such as being obsequious and deferential,
“window work” was typified as “women’s work,” while the door-to-door selling of
insurance was deemed a “man’s job.” The all-male insurance team reinterpreted
politeness and servility as matters of control and manipulation, such that winning over a

client became a “contest of will” (166). Gendered spatiality vis-à-vis the workplace is
also revealed in McDowell and Court (1994) examination of merchant banking, wherein

a range of masculinities and femininities were found, each of which was highly
dependent upon one’s place in the banking hierarchy. Such scripts, employed often
quite
strategically, were used to convey power, authority and authenticity. Exhuming such
processes illuminates the parameters of agency and spatial praxis, while revealing the
limits, flexibility and artificiality of gendered performances, wrapped up as they are
with
social, cultural, and historical prescriptions of a given place and time.
Sexuality and Space
When it comes to studies looking at embodiment and gender issues, only recently
has research taken seriously the sexualities embedded within the landscapes under
interrogation. In an attempt to “sexually embody geographical knowledge” (Longhurst,
1997), social scientists have set out to resurrect the queer body and embodiment (both
the “real,” discursive and symbolic body) from past theoretical and epistemological
omission —an omission due to the heterocentrism of the research community (see for
instance,
Wittig, 1992) and past assumptions that sexuality and desire were not in need of
elucidation. Interrogating space has meant the denaturalization of it in that the
multifarious processes involved that make particular zones possible in the first place are

exposed (see for instance Castells, 1993 and Knopp, 1989; 1992). For instance, it is now

well documented the ways in which heteronormative society marks off and delineates,
often with careful precision, straight, “family friendly” spaces (Delany, 1999; Warner,
1993), such that queer locales remain hidden and unmarked territories (Brown,
2000; Dangerous Bedfellows, 1996; Ingram et. al, 1997) that are typically
sequestered away from straight society. It is also in these spaces where queer
bodies, practices and identities emerge out of and are a response to the normative
order.
Feminists long ago made visible the extent to which space is largely a male
preserve (Duncan, 1996; Segal, 1994; Valentine, 1995). For instance, when it comes to
comparing gay male versus lesbian-only locales, those areas designated as lesbian are
few and far between. As a result, lesbian communities are often characterized as being
more impermanent (Valentine, 1995), dispersed and in some cases seemingly
nonexistent (Wolfe, 1997). Many factors help to explain the dearth of lesbian-only sites,
even in places known for their queer politics and large lesbian communities. Lesbians,
who have to contend with both patriarchal and homophobic oppression (Valentine,
1993), face qualitatively different challenges compared to gay men such as a lack of
economic resources and capital, more familial obligations, fear of male violence (Adler
and Brenner, 1992), and the increased vulnerability of lesbian-only bars to intrusion
(Eves, 2004) and insolvency (Bell, 1991; Huston and Schwartz, 1995; Wolfe, 1997), all
of which work to undermine attempts to establish permanency. Instead, what is
available is often of a peripatetic, episodic nature where gay male venues occasionally
hold “lesbian” events—a pattern Valentine (1995) found when examining lesbian socio-
spatial practices and networks in an unidentified area in the UK. Despite the
impermanence of lesbian/queer social networks, it is also the case that they are
constantly being (re)created and renegotiated—a finding which challenges Castells’
(1983) claim that lesbians do not have “territorial aspirations” like gay men (see also
Casey, 2004).
Although lesbian sites are more transitory, the significance of lesbian-only spaces
when it comes to feelings of community and belongingness cannot be underestimated
(Knopp, 1992; Valentine, 1993; 1995). For instance, Kennedy and Davis (1993) and
Wolfe (1979, 1997) show the historical importance of lesbian bars as early as the 1920s
and their pivotal role in the formation of lesbian communities and gender practices
(such as butch/femme roles). Lesbian bars are still to this day some of the only places
where women can find safety, sex and desire, and be themselves as Wolfe (1997) notes
when she states that “they [lesbian bars] are the only places outside of private homes
[and sometimes not even here] where lesbians feel they can be who they really are
—socially and sexually” (318). Moreover, although the significance of lesbian-only
spaces have been documented such as Valentine’s (1995) research on lesbian
networks and Wolfe’s (1992) work on lesbian bars, there is a curious omission when
it comes to exploring the sex, sexuality and desire that are part and parcel of
lesbian/queer environments— something I seek to redress in this article. In sum, not
only have lesbian/queer sexualities been relatively ignored by social scientists (Huston
and Schwartz, 1995), but when given a mention such issues have been played down and
flattened out. I illustrate this simplified, stereotypical and desexualized pattern with
Huston and Schwartz (1995) description of lesbian bars: Lesbian bars are rarely
“pickup” spots. Although it is possible to meet unattached women there, most are
already partnered. Therefore, lesbian bars are more oriented to socializing within well-
defined acquaintanceship circles than toward finding new love interests (95).
Such a depiction is a rather straight/laced picture of lesbian/queer zones. What do
women do in bars? Is not flirting, touching and the loosening of bodily boundaries not
part of the bar scene? As a lesbian who has had her fair share of bar experience, I know
that these erotic elements do exist, often in quite powerful and intoxicating ways—and
it is not just in lesbian bars, but in many spaces where lesbian/queer women congregate.
A chasm exists when it comes to an exploration of lesbian/queer sexualities and desire,
and the concomitant elements of discomfort, agency, inhibition, pleasure, danger and
risk that infuse sexualities and determine sexual praxis.
In this paper I attempt to do what other studies examining lesbian entertainment
venues have either ignored or mentioned in a rather perfunctory fashion. I highlight and
foreground sex and desire through an interrogation of Pussy Palace such that I
accomplish and produce the following: 1) how hungry women are for lesbian/queer-
only space in which to enact this desire 2) an embryonic and initial depiction of
lesbian/queer bathhouse cultures and the bodily practices as they emerge out of these
spaces; 3) and finally, a description of the contours and parameters of spatial praxis and
the contradictory tensions these lesbian/queer individuals experience within an
unabashedly queer and sexed space. In addition, I highlight how even within a “queer
space” such as Pussy Palace, bodies, flesh, dress and demeanor carry both fluid and
fixed meanings. Below I provide a brief description of Pussy Palace to contextualize the
scene before moving on to discuss my methodology.
Pussy Palace
Despite Toronto’s riotous and rocky relationship with vice squads (for the
rube, 1996; Kinsman, 1996) and hardliners, Toronto is knowninfamous 1981 raids see
Be
for being a progressive and gay-friendly town, with a visible lesbian/gay/queer
community and a substantial queer activist base alongside numerous queer bars, clubs
and bathhouses within and near the gay village (Warner, 2002). Unfortunately, these
venues are all owned by men and primarily geared towards a gay male clientele. That is,

there is no lesbian-only venue in the area (although that has not always been the case).
What is available is an occasional, or in some cases, regular “lesbian night” where gay
bars cater to lesbian/queer women. Pussy Palace is just this way—it becomes “Pussy
Palace” by taking over Club Toronto, a gay male bathhouse, about 6 to 8 times a year.
Although episodic, Pussy Palace events are predictable and expected, so much so that
one
of the original organizers has characterized it as a “permanent Toronto institution.”
Certain events are thus expected throughout the year such as their June Pride event, with

inquiries coming months in advance.

When it comes to entertainment venues, bathhouses have been one of the most
important spaces for gay men when it comes to freedom, safety, community and of
course the acting out of desire (Tattelman, 1999). Such sentiment is exemplified by Be
(1996) when he states that early gay bathhouses were (and continue to be) an
“oasesrube
of freedom and homosexual camaraderie…and one of the first identifiable gay social
and
sexual institutions”(191). Pussy Palace is one of the only bathhouses of its kind where
lesbian/queer women come to engage in casual sex and make use of other “sexual
services” (there is another lesbian/queer bathhouse that has since sprung up in another
city in Canada). Pussy Palace therefore challenges the heternormative and essentialist
notions of “women’s sexuality,” while also directly confronting the lesbian feminist
sexual “prescriptivism” (Echols, 1984) of the past. Finally, that Pussy Palace is public,
visible, and accessible, as opposed to being underground, secretive and invite-only—
which characterizes most sex parties and sex clubs, makes Pussy Palace a qualitatively
different event. The significance of having public spaces to engage in sexual activities is

noted by Califia (2000), when in describing the difficulty for lesbian/queer individuals
who enjoy S/M and casual sex, had this to say:
We don’t have bars. We don’t even have newspapers and magazines with sex
ads…Since our community depends on word-of-mouth and social networks, we
have to work very hard to keep it going…We must break the silence that
persecution imposes on its victims (159).
Pussy Palace was conceived out of the Toronto Women’s Bathhouse Committee
(TWBC), an all-volunteer and avowedly feminist organization, that wanted a space
where
women could come to “explore their sexuality and desire.” The first event was held in
1998 and has been going strong ever since. The philosophical underpinning of the
TWBC adheres to a pro-sex feminist, queer identified ideology, wherein the non-
normative—that is, the (dis)configurations of gender, sex and desire, is encouraged. In
essence, Pussy Palace attempts to create a space informed by queer politics and sex
radicalism. Tattelman (2000) describes queer space as one that “involves the
construction
of a parallel world, one filled with possibility and pleasure…replacing [the] fixed
principles and binary modes of thinking…In its space of opportunity we are free to
construct ourselves in flexible, unspecified and unpredictable ways” (224). The TWBC
consciously tries to do just that by for one, being as inclusive as possible as revealed in
their policy where trans individuals—here defined as “all those who are or ever have
been a woman,” are welcome. Although the trans policy posed problems for some in the

beginning, to not include all trans individuals is according to the TWBC anti-feminist
and
oppressive. The TWBC has also strived to create a welcoming environment for
individuals of color by putting on “Women of Color” events by, and for, queer women
of
color.
Pussy Palace is structured in such a way to make movements tight and bodies
close, with space punctuated with nooks and crannies where individuals were often
found
having sex. It is dark and dim with red lighting to give off a sensual feel, while loud
music pulsates throughout. There are four floors with each floor having a set of private
rooms alongside several sexually themed rooms so as to “get women in the mood,”
which
while I was there—the space is constantly modified and the “themed rooms” vary,
included the following: an S/M room where people congregated to watch the scene, g-
spot room (long lines and loud noises emanated from the walls), a porn room where a
TV
screen showed lesbian porn, a “chick-with-a-dick” room where individuals could get
fucked by a strap-on, lap-dance rooms, and the Temple Priestess room where a woman
would do anything you asked her to do. There was also a sauna and an outdoor area
which included a swimming pool—this space acted as a conduit for individuals coming
and going, and was an area where much of the flirting, gazing, sex, approaching and
taking in of the scene occurred. Nudity is encouraged at Pussy Palace and many
individuals were completely nude, particularly in the swimming pool area (more on this
later).
Methods
I utilize qualitative methodologies so as to capture the bathhouse participants’
attitudes, feelings and subjectivities as they relate to their experiences at Pussy Palace.
Embodied accounts of gender and sexuality, coupled with an account of lesbian/queer
women’s negotiation processes with their own and other participants’ sexuality were
ascertained through face-to-face, semi-structured interviews and more informally,
participant observation methods.
This research project began as my PhD research. The data presented here
includes interviews conducted over a two-year span, starting from the Pussy Pride event

in June of 2004 and ending with interviews gathered during the Pride event in June,
2006.
In total, I conducted 15 face-to-face interviews, one phone interview and 3 online
interviews. All face-to-face interviews were tape recorded, and soon thereafter
transcribed and analyzed using NVivo. Thirteen interviews took place at the bathhouse
—
either in the private rooms or in the outdoor area, while 2 interviews were conducted at
an individual’s place of work and at a tavern in Toronto respectively. Interviews lasted
anywhere from between thirty minutes to two hours. When not interviewing individuals
I
tried to remain somewhat distant from the bathhouse scene so as to map out the ways in
which individuals moved, took up space (or not), negotiated, flirted and utilized the
sexual services available to them. Finally, upon my last visit to Pussy Palace I had a
questionnaire which was placed at the front desk. From this I was able to get 40
responses, 33 of which were considered to be complete. The survey data were used as a
supplement to the interview information, and gave me the ability to assess the
consistency of information gathered among the multiple methods I employed.
Participants were selected through a combination of snowball sampling and
purposive sampling techniques—my target population being those who had participated

at some point in time at a Pussy Palace bathhouse event. Those interviewed included
participants, Pussy Palace staff—such as security personnel and those volunteering their

services in the themed rooms, and the TWBC organizers/committee members. Getting
interviews from TWBC committee members was important for the following reasons:
they had an insider’s perspective concerning the bathhouse when it comes to its
philosophy, history and objectives; committee members had extensive ties to the
lesbian/queer communities in Toronto; and were at an age (many in their mid-forties)
where they had seen substantial shifts take place over time when it comes to women’s
sexuality and the lesbian/feminist community—for example, many described Pussy
Palace in relation to, and as a refutation of, the lesbian feminist sexual self-policing that
took place, most fervidly, in the 1980s (see for instance, Vance, 1984).
Although my sample is not representative of the lesbian/queer pro-sex community
and it is relatively small, I did attempt to select individuals across a wide spectrum in
terms of their relationship to Pussy Palace (staff, committee member, participant), age,
and sexual/gender identity. The ages in my sample ranged from 24 to 43, with the
majority being in their mid-thirties. The majority of participants at Pussy Palace were
Caucasian, which is also reflected in my sample: thirteen participants identified as
Caucasian, one woman identified as Hispanic, while another identified as a “butch of
color.” My sample was highly educated, with just over 70 percent having a college
degree, with 7 interviewees having advanced degrees. In addition, all interviewees
except for two were currently living in Toronto at the time of the interview. Interview
questions for organizers and participants were different with research topics for
participants revolving around their experiences while at the bathhouse, including such
things as expectations, feelings while in the space, comportment, and the impact the
event
had for them (in terms of identity and their sexuality). Some of the topics discussed
among committee members included future plans for the bathhouse and lesbian/queer
sexual entertainment venues in general, as well as the significance of Pussy Palace and
its
impact on the local queer community.
My research utilizes queer theory in its critique of identity categories and its
emphasis on the fluidity and malleability of individuals when it comes to changes in
self-identification and behaviors. I use “lesbian/queer” in recognition of the fact that
“lesbian” has been deemed by some to be essentialist and exclusionary (Phelan, 1997;
Stein, 1993), while “queer” has been taken up to highlight the instability of identity
categories while also functioning as a catchall for the proliferation of identities that have

emerged in recent years. “Queer” has also been critiqued in that many argue that such a
word keeps women and lesbians invisible—that is, the specificity of women qua women

gets lost (Bordo, 1992; Cream, 1995; Jackson, 2001). Yet, when it came to sexual and
gender identities, I can only describe my sample as quite diverse (or queer). As for my
subjects, a majority identified as either queer or bisexual, less than one-third identified
as
lesbian, and five individuals identified as either transgendered or transsexual. In
addition,
more than half of the individuals identified as either non-monogamous or polyamorous.
Several other individuals used a string of descriptors when asked their gender and/or
sexual identity such as “butch boi” and “a dyke that sucks cock.” In sum, I use
“lesbian/queer” because of its convenience, but more importantly, as my attempt to keep

women visible, while at the same time highlighting and recognizing that individuals’
own
subjectivities and real lives surpass these very parameters.
Finally, I utilize a feminist methodology when interviewing my participants in
that a non-hierarchical relationship where connectivity, reflexivity and engagement
between myself and the interviewee are part and parcel of the research process (Acker
et.
al, 1983; Moss, 2002; Stanley and Wise, 1993). In refuting neopositivism and
objectivity, the feminist project has meant not objectifying and doing violence to those
who are being researched (England, 1994; Stanley and Wise, 1993). The participants in
my study are seen as the experts/knowers in that they are the ones directly participating
in
the action, while also being those most familiar with the queer community—in sum,
they
have an insider’s perspective. That I chose not to participate in sex acts—although I did
so (in)directly via my mere presence, was simply put a choice informed by my desire to
maintain a researcher role that was not intrusive and infused with power differentials.
Paradoxically, by not having sex and being fully clothed I automatically placed myself
in
the dominant position in that I was not opening myself up to exposure and vulnerability.

Unlike Bain and Nash (2005), who while conducting research at Pussy Palace, felt
vulnerable to “the gaze [and pressure] of the organizers” to participate, I did not feel any

pressure from the organizers or participants. Although I do not discuss the dilemmas I
faced as researcher in this paper, my role as researcher gave me a sense of security and a

mechanism through which to disengage from the bathhouse scene. Yet, this decision to
remain a “non-participating insider” has its own potential shortcomings. For instance,
Styles (1979), who researched a gay male bathhouse and began as a non-participant,
eventually transitioned into one who fully participated in sexual activities, wherein he
became more aware of the sexual cues, signs and the negotiation processes involved in
the sexual encounter. Humphreys (1975), in his study of tearoom sex, carefully
negotiated his research strategy when figuring out how best to study this phenomenon
before finally deciding on the “watchqueen”—the “voyeur-lookout”—a position that
provided the best possible means with which to observe the sexual encounters as they
took place in public restrooms. How far or to what degree researchers should participate

(complete detachment to full immersion) has been an ongoing debate among those
doing
ethnographic work.
Spatial Praxis and the Queering of Space
In thinking through Foucauldian (1971, 1978) notions of power and resistance,
coupled with poststructuralism’s emphasis on discursive practices, repetition and
representation, researchers have illuminated how particular spaces enable the production

and (re)configuration of identities while allowing new ones to flourish. So-called

subversive or transgressive spaces (and the individuals inhabiting them), despite being
products of the normative order that carry their own “rules of engagement,” foment
agency and change in that new practices, identities, and movements can and do emerge.
Such sentiment is illuminated by Nelson (1999), who in taking Butler and other
poststructuralists to task for their annihilation of a thinking, reflexive subject, states that
“Subjects can be constituted through hegemonic discourses of gender, race, and
sexuality
while remaining reflexive of, and intervene in, that process (341). Thus, while corporeal

freedom and agency are always and everywhere of a limited kind (Butler, 1991; 1993;
Foucault, 1978; Phelan, 1997), Pussy Palace has opened up for some lesbian/queer
women an alternative space whose sole purpose is just that—sexual exploration and the
attainment of sexual agency. That Pussy Palace organizes the space in a particular way
—
such as with the themed rooms and other accessories (e.g., the pornography), is a
methodical attempt to create an environment that induces and facilitates sex and certain
sexual practices. Interviews with the TWBC organizers illuminate how Pussy Palace
was
an intentional response to the hegemonic patriarchal, heteronormative and sex-phobic
discourses in society as revealed here by the Jessica, the 42 year-old who spearheaded
the
creation of Pussy Palace:
The big question became how do we let women discover that [their sexuality and
desire] for themselves, but also provide a space that is safe enough and can we do
that?...There were moments when I certainly looked around and went this is
historic! You know this is something that really hasn’t happened…and you felt it
when you were there because everybody was quite in touch with their own
sexuality and desire. Just walking in the door was a moment of empowerment.
Being that a lesbian/queer bathhouse is by definition, according to heteropatriarchal
standards, vulgar, immoral and unnatural, it is also here where a counter-hegemonic
discourse can materialize as exemplified by one 36 year-old organizer who has been
with
the TWBC from the very beginning:
Pussy Palace creates ripple effects throughout the community. People
hear about it, think about it, see advertisements for it. Whatever kind of sex you
are into you can find it [at Pussy Palace]…I know so many people, mostly
women, who never would have imagined coming here and trying it out. Never
would have imagined finding themselves here and they are. You know those
folks who are not the world’s most confident, sexually confident, find this place.
So that changes their sexuality in a way that wouldn’t otherwise have happened…

Not only do the available sexual services “maximize pleasure,” but as one
participant argued, it gives individuals an opportunity to “warm up so as to use this
experience to get confident and cruise.” One organizer quipped, when discussing the
bathhouse’s significance, that “this [Pussy Palace] is now a Toronto institution” and “a
culture is being born out of this.” She goes on to assert the following:

I think there has been enough bathhouses that people know how to cruise a lot
more. It’s becoming more part of our culture rather than just gay male culture.
People know how to ask for what they want.
Cruising involves intent, mobility, possession of the gaze and a degree of sexual
assertiveness (if not aggression)—behavior some feminists would see as objectifying
and
oppressive (see for instance, Jeffreys, 1990; 1994). For many lesbian/queer individuals
(and women in general), cruising is a troublesome and fumbling maneuver. For as
Young
(1990) has cogently and carefully documented, women’s corporeal praxis has been
rooted
and enclosed, such that women view their bodies as something to be acted on, rather
than
a thing to be actively extended out into space—a sentiment highlighted in Young’s use
of
“inhibited intentionality” to describe feminine bodily existence. That public space in
general and sexual entertainment venues in particular have been primarily for men and
often unsafe for women (Grosz, 1995), has further constrained women’s movements.
Thus, Munt (1998), in her essay on the lesbian flâneur, sees this figure as having radical

potential—the butch comes to exemplify movement and power, who while “swaggering

down the street…signifies a mobilized female sexuality in control, not out of control”
(43). This figure, both figurative and corporeal, is indeed provocative, representing as
s(he) does territorial appropriation and the right to look, disrupting in turn gendered
rules
of behavior. Opening up of lesbian/queer individual’s spatial boundaries, while offering
alternative sexual scripts for bathhouse participants is illuminated by Jackie, a 43 year-
old poly-bisexual Pussy Palace organizer, who in explaining how the bathhouse
counters
“deep-seated” expectations regarding women’s sexuality, had this to say:
We all carry baggage, that social environment and programming from our family
with us whether we like it or not. And I guess it [the bathhouse] is trying to break
that down…One of the advantages of being in this space is because sexuality is
encouraged, which makes it safer to take those risks. It makes it safer to approach
and to proposition and to take those risks…It is also safer because there are no
men here which puts many at ease automatically.
So, are lesbian/queer women constantly on the sexual prowl at Pussy Palace? Yes
and no. During the Pussy Palace events I attended, most of my time was spent
interviewing individuals. When not walking the floors to observe the action inside, I
positioned myself near the perimeter of the outdoor area so as to take in as much of the
scene as possible—an area where at any given time a substantial number of individuals
were talking, flirting, swimming and in some cases, having sex. While there were
always
several groups of lesbian/queer women standing around and talking to one another—
thus,
not cruising, on five different occasions I observed individuals having sex. One couple
had sex for about 15 minutes on a bench surrounded by chairs where individuals were
sitting. The femme partner, completely nude, was seated on a bench, while her butch
counterpart—topless but wearing pants, alternated between penetrating her and giving
her oral sex. The femme, with her back to the wall, looked out at the crowd and
occasionally smiled, offering herself up as a spectacle to be seen. Individuals honored
her
request, with a dozen or so individuals coming over to watch, whereupon several other
couples began engaging in sexual activities of their own. On another occasion two
individuals who were mostly clothed, one of whom was the partner of a gal I
interviewed,
began having sex up against the wall, whereupon several individuals came up, watched,