Friday, September 29, 2006

Presenting... LactoGrrl!

This is the bones of a talk I (as LactoGrrl) gave today to a USyd postgraduate conference. The great majority of it is taken straight from my Honours thesis, and it seemed to go down quite well I think. Was a little nervous as have never formally presented on this work before. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, most of the questions afterwards came from vet students! The obligatory 'what theory are you using? came up, but I fobbed him off nicely I think. still working out theories that might be useful. If anyone has any ideas, please comment on this blog or email. On with the flow...

I'm Cath, aka LactoGrrl, and I've been asked to discuss my PhD thesis topic. My thesis is in the Media and Communications department, and will have as strong focus on breastfeeding as a way of transmission between bodies, not only of physical and immunological benefits but also knowledges, cultures and kinship. I've decided to use today's paper to analyse my own personal motivations and inspirations for choosing the topic of lactation in general and the more 'non-normative' forms of lactation and breastfeeding in particular. So to begin, a little bit about how I came to choose this area of research, and how it reflects my biography, my beliefs and my curiosities:

In late 2004 I attended one of the fortnightly Gender Studies department seminars. The last speaker was Fiona Giles, and though I can't recall the main thrust of the paper she gave, I was struck by the following quote:

'Unfortunately, it is only in pornography, and some rare examples of religious art, that alternative images of lactation are currently available' (2003: 166).

Defiantly ex-Catholic, a feminist, breastfed baby and pleasure activist, and with an Honours project to propose my interest was aroused. I contacted Fiona, and concocted myself a proposal for a thesis looking at the way lactating bodies were visually represented. Somewhere along the way this morphed into more of a study of the way lactating bodies were constructed as grotesque, spectacular, abject and carnivalesque.

For most people (myself included), lactation has always and only been an activity consciously considered in relation to maternity- a particularly feminine physical phenomenon. Born in the mid-1970s, I was raised with a steadfast belief in the wonders of colostrum and a fondness for recipes from the Nursing Mothers' Association Cookbook my Mum had stashed in a kitchen cupboard. All of the children in my immediate family were breastfed. When my youngest brothers (twins) were born seven weeks premature and ill they endured lengthy hospital stays, and a curious new machine entered our living room at home. I watched as my mother pumped sustenance and hope into bottles to be fed to these tiny creatures in their humidicribs. My grandmother questioned whether breastmilk was suitable for such sick children, and I questioned the thinking that led to such a doubt. Breast is best, naturally.

Years later, I became enamoured with bodily modifications, and configured myself as a Self-Made Freak. Hair every colour of the rainbow, shaved off in parts or no hair at all, dressed as Goth or Punk or Generic Alternative Girl (GAG). A pierced navel started a chain of perforations (both temporary and permanent), tattoos, a scarification, a branding. My favourite body artist explained to me that she would never ink the bellies of young girls, lest in future years they had babies and the process mutated her artwork (though she never mentioned the middle-aged 'masculine' beer-baby phenomenon as a deterrent― or that that mutation might not always be negative). It was for parallel reasons that I found it unthinkable to give my nipples up to the needle. They weren't my own, or at least not only mine. They belonged also to possible babies, to possible lovers, to other people. Eventually I gave in, and two metal bars signified the (at the time unspoken) recognition of the decision that my body would in all likelihood never bear children. I was most distressed when one bar needed to be removed, but later I began to reconsider my one remaining pierced nipple as somewhat Amazonian. One 'maternal' breast for feeding, one 'armoured' breast for fighting. My jewelled nipple to me signified a queer sexuality also, knowingly and unashamedly erect, whilst my unadorned nipple seemed to link back to a time before the question consciously arose. Now it seems that these singular meanings are hopelessly inadequate, and that positioning breasts in dichotomous pairings― passive/active, good/bad, natural/technical, masculine/feminine forces these breasts into pre-scripted parts and prevents spontaneous dialogues. Mammaries are multi-dimensional. My war breast may attack or defend, my milk breast might be a tool to nurture or destroy.

And its not only biological mothers who can lactate, or do. My first experience of adult nursing was rather unanticipated, and raised many questions about the capacities and capabilities of all bodies:

Its late afternoon on Leather Pride Fair Day and I'm strutting the streets in my chap skirt and biker boots. First place in the Best Body Modification competition sees me cock-sure of the queer status of my flesh; my inked Medusa and branded belladonna take on all comers. A friend is having drinks for her birthday, and we meet up in the cocktail lounge of a favourite bar. I'm perusing the menu, tossing up between the passionfruit caprioska and a vodka martini. My friend leans over the table and asks me if I like milk. A simple enough question, and still thinking cocktails I start to answer that I prefer something with a bit more sting as she grabs my hair and puts my mouth to her breast. Others in the group are giggling with ghoulish delight as I am force-fed for a moment or two. My friend revels in the capacities of her transformed self, the ability of her body to provoke and entertain― 'I can squirt it straight across the bar!' And she does. I'm still spluttering with surprise at both the attack and the uncanny familiarity of this action when somewhere in the back of my mind it registers that 'she' was actually 'he' not so long ago, and that the milk I am tasting is a by-product of the same chemical cocktail that has mellowed her voice and rounded her hips. My pierced nipple and scarred flesh don't seem quite so modified after all.

Its not every day that I am breastfed in a surprise attack by a kinky corset-clad transsexual at my local watering hole. The experience left me a little unsettled somehow, like there had been a breach of the boundaries between who and what could properly be connected. She is feeding me her milk, yet I am not her child. My mouth is on her nipple, though I am not her lover. Her bodily fluid is incorporated into my own cells, but we are not family. I am partaking of her flesh, but at the same time she is gobbling up my affect: our bodies simultaneously occupying the places of devoured and devourer. It's all sort of grotesque and a little bit monstrous really (although I tell myself that it is a learning experience). The laughter of the crowd acknowledges all of these elements, and I find myself laughing too. In the carnival space of that moment the whole world is turned topsy turvy and I can't quite tell if I am participant or audience to the spectacle. Either way, I am enjoying myself, but I wonder if this kind of thing is permitted or whether the barmaid is about to call security against our 'drunk' and disorderly throng. Certainly, I feel slightly out of it. And the most intoxicating brew in this bar certainly did not come on the rocks or decorated with a paper parasol. There was something slightly disconcerting about the taste and the temperature of the milk, something that made me feel a slight disgust. But although I squirmed away on initial contact I was soon wondering if perhaps I might be game for another drop. Ah, the sweet push and pull of the abject! It was in some regards a pornographic and unholy display of bodily parts and fluids, yet I came away feeling somewhat blessed. Relaying the story afterwards to my friends, I wished somebody had taken a photo― mostly to affirm to myself that it actually happened. Finally, there was the confusion that this was a body that I assumed not to lactate in the first place. What type of self-induced evolution had incarnated this hybrid goddess?

By the time my I had started my PhD I had come to the conclusion that I needed to try inducing lactation myself. Partly out of a desire to push my bodily limits, but more than anything from a belief that to participate in something is a pretty good way to learn about it. So I started pumping, taking fenugreek, drinking milk thistle and fennel teas and three weeks later my milk came in. I have set up a blog to keep notes of the process, which will later become a chapter in its own right. Once I am producing enough milk I will undertake a number of art projects, from performances to photos to making ice-cream and invisible ink, and include these too. To paraphrase Helene Cixous, I will write myself, and my thesis, in white ink…

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Meet Mammarella?

Was having coffee with friends the other day when it was decided that we must go at play in the sex shop upstairs from our fave gelato bar. I was innocently discussing who buys lactoporn, and my lacto project, studies etc with the new owner, when he mentioned that he had something I might be interested in. Did he ever!

As of tomorrow when I collect her, I will be the proud 'owner' of a Lactating Blow-Up Doll (and the Inflate-A-Date pump with which to breathe life into her). She is blonde, of course, with three functional orifices (no points for guessing which) and two vibrating parts (which two I'm not sure). As a quirky extra feature she comes with a pubic hair tattoo which may be applied if you like your girl to be furry. Or at least as furry as a transfer can get. Then, of course, are the BREASTS, which you can fill up with milk and then suckle from them, squirt milk across the room or over your face or... endless hours of mammary moistness and mayhem!

Think she will be a great performance partner. But what to name her? Could do a Daisy, Clover or Bertha 'cow' name I suppose. Or maybe choose one of my 'Milk Fever' cast members such as:

La Milquetta
Fugitive Fluid and Milk Diva.
Italian, not shy of melodramatic displays.
Highly theatrical with a biting wit. Prone to histrionic outbursts and most often found bitching and getting up to no good with Bludzilla.

But then again, perhaps I would be more suitable as La Milquetta! Maybe Mamma Milkenstein? Any other suggestions? (BTW I have named my pump Lactentia Sugentia aka The Suckling One). Will post a photo of her once I have collected, inflated pube-ified and milk-ed her.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Mother Milk Talk


As I mentioned before I had been strangely uneasy about telling me mother about the LactoGrrl Project. Seemed odd to be discussing it with the woman who breastfed me (after birthing me), like it was a 'womanly art' that daughters ought to share with their Mums- but I was cheating at being a woman!? What type of 'pseudo-daughter' am I?

Eventually bit the bullet and told her last night. She didn't even blink. Seemed to be expecting it, especially after having read my Honours thesis. And she knows me well enough not to consider it out of my range of inquiry... was nice to 'get it off my chest'. Although I still waited until everyone was in bed until I pumped it was considerably less nerve-racking. Showed her my pump (with my milk) in it this morning and it was all matter-of-fact chat about when she fed me and my brothers, weaning, expressing etc. Nice, if odd.

On a different note, am enjoying being a bit bigger in the breast department. Having lost quite a bit o weight my tits were a mere shadow of their former glory and I missed them spilling out of dresses and into mouths. Hoping to feed some dear friends tonight, want to see what it is like with adults. When I was in Melbourne recently a friend let me try her young child at the breast and it was beautiful, if short-lived 'cos she wasn't getting much (that's us in the photo)...

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

I Make Milk (front)... What's Your SuperPower?(back)

So proclaims the t-shirt I was wearing yesterday. Got MUCH more of a reaction than I anticipated! In Newtown: 'that's a very cheeky shirt' from an old woman, plus two Reading Out Loud, one from a teenage boy who nearly wet himself when I told him I meant it, and the other from a mother/daughter duo who laughed when they read the back. In Randwick at the Hospital a few mean looks from middle-aged bitches, then a big smile from a Mum with a young kid, then two boys selling phone products stopped me in the shopping centre to ask about it.

I had assumed that not many people would take notice of it, or would presume it was some sort of band promo or the like. I mean, I don't look like most people's idea of a breeder/feeder. And the shirt doesn't have any reference to breastfeeding, so I figured it would be read as a little ambiguous. It seems I was wrong.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Milk Me A Rainbow

I can see a BIG trip to the produce market required for my latest milky experimentations. The lovely LRC ladies have just been filling me in on how to make my milk different colours. Already had yellow (colostrum), but wanting to add these to the spectrum:

Green-
Kelp
Spinach
Green Vegies
Wheatgrass

Pink-
Beetroot

Orange-
Carrots

Any other suggestions?

Also found out that one can ultrasound one's breasts and see all the ducts moving as you express milk. This is one to investigate. Anyone have access to an fancypants ultrasound machine and the technology to record it?

Curious Yellow?

From 19/09
Pumped this morning when I got to the Lactation Resource Centre. What came out was YELLOW. Was mildly weirded out, but didn't photograph it. I should have taken a happy snap, because later that day I was walking past a big board showing you what different types of milk looked like, from different stages of breastfeeding. The first one was colostrum, the stuff that your body produces first thing post-partum and that is thick and full of nutrients. IT IS ALSO BRIGHT YELLOW! Damn, shouldn't have tipped my 'mutant milk' down the sink- should have tasted it at least as it appears it was the really good stuff. Next pumping it was back to being white, which was rather disappointing. Hoping that tomorrow is the same as today so I can take a picture and also show it to the women there. Will probably be grossing some of you casual readers out about now, but to me it is VERY exciting! And I bought myself the 'I make milk/What's your superpower?' t-shirt. Fantastic! And I am finding TONS of articles that will be extremely useful for my work, all sorts of quirky things filed in these huge folders from the last 30 years or so (and fortunately there is a database). Think I will need a couple of days more there!

Today:
Pumped again when I got here. Not as yellow, and a bit more watery, but I took some photos anway which I will download here when I get back to Sydney. Nobody seemed too excited or suprised about it as I was. Had been told that when inducing you didn't produce colostrum, and in addition to this I presumed that as I had already been getting thin white (fore?)milk that colostrum wouldn't be making an appearance.

Have run out of Dom Peridone (or Mo Tillium if you prefer- they both sound like gangsters) and thinking maybe just try to kep going with the fenugreek and see what happens. Not pumping very often while on this trip, and don't want to dry it up completely. Hmm...

Apparently asparagus consumption may turn my milk black. And green cordial or spinach may turn it green. This MUST be tried!

Lezzo Mother Artiste Makes Cocktails

Forgot to post this link on a piece by Jess Dobkin a while ago:
Art school serves up breast milk cocktail

And you can check out Dobkin's site.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Drip, splutter, squelch

Have been taking the Fenugreek for four days, 1000mg four time a day. I am smelling like maple. Breasts feeling and looking fuller than ever. When I had finished pumping last night I realised that milk had spilled down onto the newspaper I was reading. This morning it dripped all over my thigh. Might be time to actually attach the bottle to the pump and see if I can catch myself some LactoGrrl Juice. Worth bottling I reckon after this much effort.

Have just bought some fennel seeds to brew up which may help with letdown. If not, they're kind of yummy and probably good for me anyway!

Bataille and I

'Now in the corner of a hallway there was a saucer of milk for the cat. "Milk is for the pussy, isn't it?" said Simone. "Do you dare me to sit in the saucer?"

"I dare you," I answered almost breathless.

The day was extremely hot. Simone put the saucer on a small bench, planted herself before me, and, with her eyes fixed on me, she sat down without my being able to see her burning buttocks under the skirt, dipping into the cool milk. The blood shot to my head, and I stood before her awhile, immobile and trembling, as she eyed my stiff cock bulging in my trousers. Then I lay down at her feet without her stirring, and for the first time, I saw her "pink and dark" flesh cooling in the white milk. We remained motionless, both of us equally overwhelmed…

Suddenly, she got up, and I saw the milk dripping down her thighs up to the stockings. She wiped herself evenly with a handkerchief as she stood over my head with one foot on the small bench, and I vigorously rubbed my cock through the trousers while writhing amourously on the floor. We reached orgasm at almost the same instant without even touching one another'

Yesterday my morning began with Whoretic reclined on a lounge in the backyard reading aloud the above passage from Bataille's 'Story of The Eye' (10) whilst I sipped Milk Thistle infusion and pumped. French surrealist porn in the early sunshine as my breast get all wet. Perfect.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Milk Thistle Tea

And now, its all changed again!

Not so much drops, as DRIPS... is wetter and thinner and seems more to seep from whole areole in genereal than appear as a single spot from one in particular. And whereas my breasts where feeling full and hard and tight now they feel more floppy and soft again, and not so much of the shooting pains business. Began drinking a pot of milk thistle tea (2 teaspoons) a day from Saturday, and hopefully the fenugreek will be in today at the shop and I can start that this evening. Still pumping religiously and taking the Motillium. Today marks the start of the third week of this routine, and starting to get impatient... hmmm... just got to keep on keeping on I guess :)

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

MilkBrained Again

Aborted July's attempt at inducing due to the inconvenience of lugging big heavy pump around everywhere. Bought myself a new hand pump though, totally manual and light and small-ish. Then had a few days away road-tripping with the Boy, and decided that sitting in the passenger seat for hours on end was the perfect setting to just kick back and relax and pop motillium and pump. This was 8 days ago.

Still pumping 4 or 5 times each day for around 10-15 minutes each breast (if I have time), and taking 20mg of motillium 4 times a day. Its working I think. Getting white drops, which do appear to be milk. Breasts get sore when its time to pump. Much bigger. Getting shooting pains when I pump, and sometimes in between. Short but sharp! Fingers crossed that these are let-down ouchies.

A friend who is a nurse told me this afternoon that I had that look of new mothers, like I had just put the laundry in the oven or driven away from the shopping centre and left the kid at the checkout. Its about how I feel. Keep wanting to cry when I pump, and its not the pain (that is bearable, and more like a hard massage that hurts good than completely undesirable agony) but more some wave of hormonal(?)emotion. A welling. A spilling. A bursting of a dam. Or maybe more of a slow seeping.

Still very self-consious about pumping in public. Have organised access to my supervisors office when am at Uni during office hours, and can also sneak into one of the empty research rooms in my building. Stayed at my parent's place over the weekend and pumped in the middle of the night and massaged when I could so that I didn't need to explain it. Is funny, its something that my mother taught me in one way- breast is best. I knew that lanolin was good for cracked nipples when I was a child, knew that breastmilk was a wonder fluid and made biscuits and playdough from recipes in the Nursing Mother's Cookbook. Milkiness is something we could bond on in another context, woman to woman, sharing tales of milky trials and tribulations. But I am not a mother, there is no baby, its a natural womanly function brought about rather unnaturally. Or...? Anyway, I can't imagine how to explain my reasoning, or justify it. So I snuck around with my hands up my shirt, didn't wince when the pains struck me and didn't show my drops to anyone.

Went to the Ginseng Bath House last night for a soak and a scrub and while being sluiced down and having my skin sloughed off it occurred to me just how fabulously funny it would be if my tits were to suddenly start spurting while being massaged. And then I imagined my milk flowing out into that warm ginseng bath, milky tea...