Butches

It seems as if when I try to cite a reason why I am attracted to butch women, up pops an exception to the why. For instance, I love a woman with short cropped hair. Except when that woman like Amy Ray and Emily Saliers, Jodie Foster or Melissa Etheridge (before her struggle with cancer) all make me crazy and they have longer hair (I add in here my partner does too). So, it could be said that I love a butch with short hair except when the butch has long hair (a note: Melissa Etheridge without hair flipped my trigger too). Perhaps it can be said that I am attracted to butch women who have short hair, long hair, and no hair. I may be a reticent nymphomaniac, but I prefer to think I am just an equal opportunity femme just brimming with my new-found sexuality.Butch women walk with confidence. This I know. They look like they are about to take a running jump to wrestle an alligator. Their shoulders are square and their chin never tilts downward unless it’s to tie the laces on their boots. Except that a butch's laces never come untied.

Butch women smell good. They smell of cologne. They put on just enough so that you have to get close to smell it. You know that place right? Just under their ear at the curve of their neck and the edge their hairline? Sometimes they smell of plain soap and water, clean and scrubbed and perfect. And somehow, I don't know how they do it but they never smell like cigarette smoke. Even if they themselves smoke. Somehow smoke never sticks to them. But above all, they smell like a woman. It seeps through their pores and permeates my senses. A smell so distinct and subtle that it literally vibrates with electricity.

Butches move as though they wrote the play. When asking you to dance they hold out their hand softly, palm up, fingers beckoning like Fred Astaire. When you put your hand to theirs they curl up their fingers tight, but not too tight. They touch you in places that honor your femininity. Your hands, your wrists, the small of your back. They will cup one hand to fit your jaw line and cradle your face as they pull you close enough to kiss you. And when they do they dive into you claiming their dominance and at that very moment, making you the most powerful woman in the world.

I want a butch to lead me to bed but allow me to wander... I want her to devour me then give me room to memorize every curve of her body... I want to watch her lose herself in her orgasm above me and have her watch me find myself in mine... her clothes stay on long after mine are thrown into a pile on the floor and she stays naked long after I have risen to make her coffee.

"Butch" is an attitude. An aura. It's not tangible except that it is. It is easy to explain and impossible if the person isn't likewise attracted. It's sexuality, and we are all keyed differently.

Butches have tattoos ... even if they don't. Period.

Butches wear ties... even if they don't. Period.

Butches play guitar... even if they can't. Period.

Closer to Fine

AWOP Contributing Author

Who's Judging Who?

When I EXPECT someone to judge me before they actually do it, I am actually judging them.

Here’s how this particular lesson presented itself to me.

My partner, April, and I decided to escape for the weekend, driving about an hour to a small river house we like to frequent. On the agenda – nothing but lounging, DVDs, Scrabble, reading and watching the sun come up. The perfect getaway.

After holing up in the house all weekend, we decided to go into town for breakfast.

Picture your very typical, stereotypical small Southern town.

At the edge of town is a small country cookin' restaurant no bigger than two of my grandma’s pantries.

The second we pulled into the parking lot, I began to feel uncomfortable. Several elderly couples were waiting for a table and for some reason, I felt like other patrons would begin to run screaming the moment they saw us, fearing THE GAY STORM.

I told myself I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t help it. Normally, I don’t think twice about how April and I are perceived. But this was a small town. A small southern town.

Past experience has resulted in stares. Whispers.

We’ve never been rudely confronted, but we have felt uncomfortable before.

Believing that in order to affect change, we need to live openly, I cowgirl-ed up and April and I walked through the front door.

The hostess that greeted us was friendly and in her early sixties. She spoke with a twang sweet enough to be honey.

I peeked around her to see the elderly couples had been seated and were already ordering dumplings and veggies.

There were about 10 tables in the entire restaurant and she sat us in the very back. Immediately I wondered if she was trying to hide us lesbians from the rest of “regular folk.”

Before I could finish that thought, a young male, as gay as he could possibly be, descended on our table to take our order.

Turns out he was the owner’s grandson and every single elderly person in that restaurant adored him.

As we headed up to the cash register to pay for our amazing meal, a second, very gay waiter passed by us with a smile.

And as we paid our bill, our Southern hostess warmly greeted a male-to-female transgendered person who had come in to place a to-go order.

I left that small restaurant feeling small minded.

It was a great lesson.

Heather Fitz
AWOP Contributing Author