Category Archives: Butch/Femme

A Lesbian Holiday Tradition

This is the time of the year when Joe over at Joe.My.God posts his holiday classic, Dance of the Sugar Plum Lesbians. It’s up for the eighth year and it’s still one of my favorites. Wander over and check it out.

Mistletoed

mistletoe.jpeg

This is a re-post of a holiday story from 2007…

It was one of those holiday-gathering-slash-game-night things.

We were drinking sweet beverages ladled out of a big bowl, and took turns calling out the answers to Trivial Pursuit questions until we all got restless, and wandered off to the kitchen for another round of snacks.

“No. Really,” Cara was saying. “If I was on ‘Jeopardy’ and the topics were food, shoes, human genetics, and bad date stories, I’d have it in the bag.”

“Right,” said Perry, “you do know a lot about shoes.”

Cara rolled her eyes at me, and slapped Perry’s arm.

“All I’m saying, is outside of work, there’s not much going on these days.”

I looked at the black and white zebra-striped pumps she was wearing. I had noticed earlier that they had a red sole.

“Judging by the vintage Louboutins, I’d say there’s at least one area of your life that’s rockin’ besides work.”

“Thanks for noticing,” she said. “But… hey… how did you know these are Christian Louboutin?”

“By the flash of red – I keep up.”

“You never fail to amaze me,” she said.

“Or me,” Perry said, looking up and down my lanky frame, covered in faded jeans, a starched white shirt, and a grey cashmere vest, and coming to rest on my well-worn Tony Lama boots. “Who would have guessed you were a closet fashion queen?”

“There’s nothing in my closet but clothes. You know that better than anyone, Perry.”

We exchanged the sort of smile that passes between old friends and and even older lovers.

“Well,” Cara said. “It’s that time. I’ve got to get myself home. Alone.”

“I’m glad you were here,” I said. “You brought beauty to an otherwise dull night.”

She flipped her hair back off her shoulder and gave me a coy look and a little drawl, “I’m betting you talk to all the girls that way.”

“Nope. She never talked to me that way,” Perry said. “Not once.”

Cara started for the front door.

I grabbed Perry by the arm. “Come on. I helped you hang the mistletoe in the hallway. Let’s go kiss her goodnight.”

“Together?” Perry said. “Both of us?”

“Hell, yeah,” I said. “She’s hot and it’s the holidays. Let’s have a little fun.”

We followed her to the front hall.

“Can I help you with your coat, Ma’am?” I said in my deepest voice, trying to add a touch of Rhett Butler to my inflection.

“Well, you sure can, you sweet thing,” she said, playing along.

“Can I find your purse for you?” Perry asked.

Cara looked from one of us to the other. “What are you two up to?”

“Nothing really,” I said. “It’s just that I came over early, before the party started, to help Perry hang the mistletoe. She said it was good luck to help put it up, and maybe I’d get lucky and kiss a pretty girl.”

I tried to smile a winning smile.

Cara looked at Perry. “Did you tell her that?”

“You know, standing under the mistletoe almost guarantees you’ll get kissed,” said Perry looking up. “See, there’s a big ball of it above my head right now.”

She reached out and took Cara by the hand, pulling her in closer. “And now it’s right over your head, too.”

Perry kissed Cara gently on the lips.

“Oh, my,” Cara said, feigning surprise.

I tapped Perry on the shoulder. “Excuse me. May I cut in?”

Before she could protest, I wrapped my arms around Cara and began to kiss her lingeringly, showing off a little for Perry.

I stopped when I heard Perry clear her throat. She turned Cara around kissed her again.

Cara came up for air. “Girls, girls. My heck. This is some holiday tradition you’ve got going here.”

She stepped back and smiled a little wickedly.

“Well look at that, now it’s just the two of you under the mistletoe.”

Perry and I looked at each other.

“We couldn’t,” I said.

“We never do,” said Perry.

“But you did,” said Cara.

“It’s been years,” I said. “That was college.”

“We’re buddies,” Perry said.

Cara crossed her arms as though she meant to wait us out. “All in good fun.”

She tapped her zebra-striped toe.

I shrugged and stepped a little closer to Perry and kissed her lightly on the lips and started to turn away.

But Perry surprised me by grabbing my belt and and pulling me back to her. Then, digging her fingers into the back of my cropped hair, she began kissing me for real. As startled as I was, I felt my lips soften and open, as if of their own volition, responding to her still-familiar touch and scent. From somewhere far away, I heard a soft, deep moan. Honestly, I’m not sure if it came from Perry or me. The tip of her tongue began to trace a smooth oval just inside the rim of my lips, and I felt one of her hands slide down to the small of my back, pressing me even closer to her. I let my tongue find hers, and they danced there for a minute.

Then – as suddenly as it started – we broke away, each of us gasping a little.

“Whew. Just like riding a bicycle,” Perry said.

“Yep,” I said, trying to hold on to what was left of my cool.

There was an awkward silence.

“Damn,” said Cara. “Two butch girls like you. Now that was a holiday treat. Thank you. A lady knows when to make an exit, so I’ll leave the two of you alone.” She opened the door and shut it behind her.

Perry and I stood in the hallway, looking at the closed door.

“That was hot,” I said.

“Sure was,” Perry agreed.

“Had a real effect on Cara, didn’t it?”

“Seemed to,” Perry said.

“S0… when do you think she’ll come out of the coat closet?”

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The Closeted Butch and Femme (shoes, that is)

Speaking of Ellen, she and wife, Portia de Rossi DeGeneres, have one heck of a hers-and-hers shoe closet featured in this month’s Architectural Digest.

It’s rumored that the house is currently for sale, but the marriage is fine.

See if you can guess which side of the closet belongs to whom.

Brief, Specific, and Sincere

I survived a femme crisis this weekend with a little help from my friends.

My love and I live a distance apart. Think counties, not states. We’re close enough to see each other several days a week, but far enough apart that we can’t run home to pick something up on a whim.

So Friday I showed up at her place toting all my usual stuff: My computer (duh!), my weekend bag, and a bag of shoes and boots.

What I forgot were my clothes, which I had very carefully hung near the door. I was facing down a busy Pride weekend with only the things I had stuffed in my bag – lovely red lingerie, a vintage black slip, stockings and garters, a tank top, and a cardigan – or had on my back. I had no dress, no skirt, no fetching tops.

To make matters worse, I had stopped for a hair appointment on my way to the Bay Area, and I was dressed in the most daytime basic – a t-shirt, ripped vintage Levis, red ballet flats, and my black leather motorcycle jacket.

When I arrived at my sweetheart’s, we had less than two hours to jump on BART and sign in for our volunteer shifts at a certain women’s party at a certain private location. Yikes.

Since my t-shirt was black and white striped, my girlfriend joked that we could add a beanie and red scarf and I could be Waldo for Pride weekend. Funny and not funny.

I finally cobbled together an outfit that was a little tougher than my usual evening wear, and definitely not what I had planned for our weekend kick-off – fishnet stockings under my torn jeans, my red bra under one of my butch sweetheart’s white ribbed under-tanks, and my jacket. (I was so happy I had a fresh haircut and pedicure and had not forgotten my makeup. These things go a long way toward making me feel pulled together every day.)

I was feeling awkward and I know exactly why. Lately, I’ve been suffering from a little femme invisibility. My professional life has necessitated growing my hair out a few inches. In my daily life, I feel like I just don’t look as queer. Plus, I’ve somehow become une lesbienne d’un certain age* (which sounds SO much nicer than “middle-aged dyke”).  Because of these factors, I look forward to queer events, where I feel much more attractive than I do in the world at large.

(Side note: I’m probably not alone in this. I suspect there are lots of queer women who, like me, felt uncomfortable, unattractive, and misplaced until they came out and found their place in the community of women.)

I wanted to look pretty and witty and gay, damn it.

But really, this isn’t an essay about my fashion travails. It’s about compliments and how thoughtful people can really make your day.

During my volunteer shift at the party, I was sitting at my station on a stool by the door, greeting people as they came in. A woman took a moment as she passed by to tell me that she thought my outfit was “perfect”. She said (something like), “you’ve hit just the right balance of sexiness there”. Awww. I felt better already.

But later that night, a young woman** rocked my weekend. My sweetheart and I were sitting on a couch, getting ready to face the cold winds on the way to BART. She approached us and said to me, “I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re really beautiful.” She delivered this in a way that was completely un-ironic. I said “thank you” and told her she was very sweet, but I was really too stunned to formulate a proper thanks.

The next day, when the three of us ran into each other again at the Dykes on Bikes party at El Rio, I explained about my missing clothes and how funky I had been feeling, and how she made my night. We introduced ourselves and ran into each other one more time, at the Dyke March, before the weekend was over.

I know I’m supposed to be able to move through the world without needing the feedback of other people to feel secure, happy, and attractive, but I’m not always completely at peace with myself. A heartfelt compliment is a mood-booster.

In my days as a department manager, I was told that any effective compliment should be brief, specific, and sincere. And I think that’s true in our non-work life, too. For most people, it feels uncomfortable to be gushed over, when a simple “that haircut is great on you,” sounds so real. Statements like “you rock,” “you go, girl,” and “you’re hot,” feel as ubiquitous as “wassup?”.

So when someone takes the time to approach and say something meaningful and nice, it’s special.

The best part of this sort of exchange is that it inevitably pays forward. On Saturday, we passed a young woman sitting on a curb in Dolores Park. She was wearing a long, vividly printed halter dress that looked absolutely amazing against her dark skin.

I stopped right there and told her so.

*une lesbienne d’un certain age: Probably too old to be a MILF, old enough to hunt younger cougars, and not old enough to star in granny porn.

** A special hug to Vanessa in case she reads this.

Be Still, My Appreciative Heart

Blending gender

Deyn circa 2008

The first time I really sat up and took notice of edgy, sometimes androgynous appearing, model Agyness Deyn was in a menswear-inspired phoot spread in W Magazine.

I think it was about 2008, and the blatant butchness of the photos just knocked me out. They weren’t the glamorous “le smoking” looks we’ve been conditioned to think of as menswear for women, nor were they playful, like Annie Hall. Deyn brought a seriously masculine energy to the photos, and although that well-thumbed issue of the magazine is long gone, I still have the memory of it. (Sigh.)

Then today, I stumbled across a new photo shoot by James Franco. His photography debut for Elle — a biker-flavored editorial called “Chateau Dreams,” he says was inspired by actor James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. The pictorial features Agyness Deyn roaming Los Angeles, along with models Natalia Bonifacci and Imogen Poots in similar gender-bending aesthetic — ties, men’s shirts, and leather jackets. The shoot is part of Franco’s contemporary art project which debuts this Summer at the Venice Biennale, and you can see all of the photos now on Elle.com.

From the new shoot:

Butch Origins

More great dyke cartoons from Vaïnui de Castelbajac, here.

Scent of a Femme

After writing about actress Kate Walsh’s new scent “Boyfriend,” billed as “a women’s fragrance tinged with the scent of a man,” I had to check it out for myself. I dabbed a little on my wrist in the local Sephora, and I’m here to tell you this fragrance only smells like a boyfriend if he was freshly scrubbed, taking supplemental estrogen, and coated in vanilla bath oil. There’s not a darn thing butch about “Boyfriend”.

I should know. I’ve worn both men’s fragrances and women’s fragrances over the years. I know my own fragrance preferences pretty well, gravitating toward scents with a little darkness – leather, spice, pepper, and musk. I like a drop of vanilla to smooth things out, and while I like fruit scents, I steer away from anything powdery or overtly floral. Roses and lilies make me sneeze, in vases and in bottles. And, what perfumers like to call “white flowers” – narcissus, jasmine, etc. – often smell like cat pee to me, and give me screaming headaches.

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Please Stop Calling Us “Ladies”

It’s become ubiquitous.

Everywhere we go we hear, “Hello, ladies”. “Ladies, how can I help you?” “What will you ladies be having?” and “Thank you, ladies, please come again.”

There’s nothing grammatically wrong with these phrases, despite the superfluous “ladies” dumped into the beginning, middle, and end of them.

What’s wrong is that one of us – a lesbian couple – doesn’t identify as a “lady”.

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Butch Hair Inspiration at the Grammys?

Clicking through some of the photos from the Grammys, it seems that well-groomed metrosexual hair ruled the night. It’s hard to find good inspiration for fashion-forward butch hair styles, but Bruno Mars delivers in high style. (Sigh. If only he was a girl.)

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Adam Lambert took it beyond the pale to a look that may have been, well, more femme than butch.

 

Happy Valentine’s Day

Femme Eye for the Butch Gui

TheSartorialist.com features women's and men's fashion shot on the street. The photographer has a great eye for androgyny.

Because women, in general, are assailed at every turn with feminine fashion images and opportunities for style consumerism, femme lesbians naturally have more fashion resources than butches do. It’s tough to find good butch fashion advice, and even tougher to find images of butch women in mainstream fashion media. So what’s a fashion-forward, or at least fashion-leaning, butch to do?

Here are six of tips of my own and some of my favorite fashion resources I like to share with the butches I know and love. Please share your own tips and resources in the comments.

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Cute Butches with Animals

A butch teamed up with a soft fuzzy animal is an overload of  sexual energy and cuteness that makes my teeth ache. Check out this new project by Kristen (the lucky she of Sugarbutch fame) and consider it dessert.

Steaming Hot: Kimberly Dark’s “Dykeotomy”

A while ago, I had the deep, deep pleasure of seeing one of Kimberly Dark‘s spoken word performances in San Francisco. This powerful femme goddess held the room transfixed: butches, femmes, and everyone on every part of the gender/sexuality identity spectrum was sitting up and paying attention. Some were even straightening their ties and squirming in their seats. Check out the calendar on her website and if you have any opportunity to see one of her performances – run, don’t walk, to get a ticket.

These are some highlights from her one-woman show, “Dykeotomy”:

Ivan Coyote’s Butch Road Map

I’m a fan of Canadian author Ivan Coyote, and I’ve mentioned her in several past posts.

On Saturday afternoon, I had the pleasure of hearing her read at the LGBT Community Center in San Francisco, as part of a writer’s event called “Outspoken,” organized by Center Women Present. The event also included presentations by spoken word artists Kimberly Dark of Hawaii, and Lex, from Santa Cruz.

Filmmaker Arielle Elizabeth posted this video of Ivan’s reading on YouTube  to share. Enjoy…

Brandee’s Last Dance

Original fiction:

“Damn!”

Brandee looked up from her book at the clock duct-taped to the wall above the cracked, lipstick-smeared mirror.

“It can’t be time to do it again.”

She glanced around the empty dressing room, strewn with pizza boxes and coffee cups. Stockings hung over a pipe that ran along the wall. A rolling wardrobe rack held an odd assortment of bits of lingerie, leather, a white vinyl nurse’s uniform, a silk kimono, and a fuzzy chenille bathrobe. The space heater humming away under the counter just barely eased the chill in the air and kept condensation from forming on the whitewashed cinderblock walls. Brandee kicked off her fleece boots and slipped into the purple satin heels that sat on the floor by her chair. She pulled one knee into her chest, stretching out her leg and hip, and then the other. Then standing, she leaned into the mirror, swiped on another coat of lipgloss, and headed for the stage. Continue reading

Another Butch Voice – Ivan Coyote Speaks Up

Back at the end of August, I wrote about my experiences as a femme ally at the Butch Voices conference held in Oakland. That first post, and the ones that came after, engendered a few comments. (You can read the posts here.)

This month, on Canada’s queer website, Xtra.ca, the site’s monthly columnist, author Ivan Coyote talks about her experiences at the conference. This is well worth reading.

The room smelled like hair wax and Old Spice deodorant and cigarette smoke caught in clothes.

There was the clunk of shitkicker boots and the creak of leather jackets and talking. Always there was talking.

I was in the conference room of a hotel in downtown Oakland, at the first-ever Butch Voices conference.

Read more on Xtra.

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Uh, No, Rachel. You Look Like a Dyke

CagleMaddow

Thanks to the awesome Susie Cagle for loaning me this comic.

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I’m taking a little umbrage at Rachel Maddow’s recent comment about her looks.

She was quoted by the New York Daily News blogger Gatecrasher as saying “I’m not very pretty. I sorta look like a dude, and I have short hair…”

MSNBC’s Dr. Maddow was drawing a comparison between herself and other female television anchors, specifically the ones on Fox News.

While I agree with Rachel that her personal style is a departure from the industry’s “beauty pagent” (her words), I don’t think she looks like “a dude”. I think she looks like a dyke.

There are painfully few images of lesbians in the media. The ones that make it to prime time – the L Word castmembers, etc. are usually straight actresses, painfully feminized, to make their lesbian roles palatable to middle American television markets. Producers seem determined to make television lesbians look like someone a straight girl could imagine accidentally making out with at a slumber party (“She was so pretty and so soft… I guess I just slipped!”). Or, like someone they think a straight guy would want to do.

Rarely do they look like someone I would want to do.

Rachel does.

Or at least I suspect she does when she isn’t all tarted up in network drag to go on the air. Who can forget those vacation pictures of her fishing, looking like the dyke next door?

On air, she looks smart, neutral, unaffected and (despite the drag) gay.

Finally, a face on television any PFLAG parent could love.

Of course I realize there are plenty of butch and transmasculine lesbians who take pride in the fact they’re often mistaken for men.

But I don’t think that was what Rachel was saying about herself. I think she just made a flippant remark, expressing that she feels pretty low maintenance in comparison to the overblown looks that are the television industry’s standard.

And, I’m not going to try and guess how Rachel identifies. Butch, femme, top, bottom, sassy switch… I think that’s her business. But I will say that every time I see her on television, my heart swells a little because she looks like the women I know and love.

She looks like she’s on our team.

Go team.

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A Butch Voice for Freedom

malkiacyrilThe final keynote speaker at the Butch Voices conference held recently in Oakland, was Malkia “Mac” Amala Cyril, the founder and executive director of the Center for Media Justice. The CMJ is a national media strategy and action center building a powerful grassroots movement for racial and economic justice through media change. It’s based in Oakland.

Cyril’s powerful speech, “From Identity Politics to Political Power: The Butch Voice in the Movement for Justice,” addressed a personal history as a queer, working class African-American/Caribbean born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, and dovetailed it with with a call to the needs and rights of all groups pushing back against oppression:

Family, can we talk about freedom?

Can we talk about what it is to live in a nation that has so manipulated that word many believe that simply by joining, by integrating, by sitting at the table of those whose media distorts our image and whose governance denies us our future- that this alone is a guarantee of freedom?

Can we talk about what it is to believe that freedom can come for the part of us that is female masculine, butch, tranny, faggot, stud, ag, genderqueer- and not come for the parts of us that are black, brown, south/southeast/east/and west asian, native, poor and working class, disabled, old and very young… can we talk about freedom? I think this is the right time and the right place to redefine its meaning.

Please take the time to read the rest of Cyril’s address here, on Democracy Guest List.

Read other posts from the Butch Voices conference here.

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Femmes Aren’t Straight Girls Who Took A Wrong Turn

I spent the weekend at the Butch Voices conference in Oakland. It was an amazing weekend, with many insightful and joyful moments. (More about the conference here.)

I realized today that I was really happy I wasn’t PMS-ing during the conference. There were so many touching moments, and I found myself tearing up so many times, that I’m sure if I was on the downside of a progesterone spike, I could have cried all the way through the weekend.

But there was a moment during the conference that left me thinking my ears had deceived me and I want to talk about it.

I was in a workshop discussion between Jack Halberstam and Kim Peirce. Jack (Judith) is an English professor and director of The Center for Feminist Research at USC. Kim is the director of Boys Don’t Cry.

The discussion was about moving beyond Boys Don’t Cry into a next generation of butch/trans/genderqueer representation in the media. Jack and Kim are friends. In fact, Kim pointed out that Jack set her up on her only blind date, resulting in her current engagement.

At some point during the conversation, when comments and questions were moving quickly, Kim said something to the effect that butches have superior qualities to men and “that’s why femmes are with us and not men”.

Uh, no.

(Jack, why the hell didn’t you call her on this?)

I almost jumped out of my chair, but the moment to comment without rewinding the whole conversation had passed. Instead, I got distracted mulling it over and soon left the discussion and retired to my hotel room to rant a little.

There are many ways I think butches have it hands down over men. (And don’t write and call me a man-hater. Preferring one doesn’t mean hating the other.)

But that’s not why I’m with a butch woman and not a man. I’m with a butch woman because I’m a lesbian who loves butch women (and what butch/genderqueer author Ivan Coyote called “largely estrogen-based lifeforms” that fall anywhere on the masculine spectrum).

I came out later in life, after having been in heterosexual marriage, and I keenly feel the results of my coming out process and my “choices”. (Which, let’s face it, weren’t exactly choices, but internal imperatives.)

Femmes aren’t straight girls who have been won over by butches. Ask any butch who tried such a conversion and lived though the pain of watching her beloved return to a life with men. Admittedly a few of these projects work, but the vast majority don’t seem to.

I dated one woman who experienced this so many times, we joked about her being the “back door” lesbian  – the last thing a straight girl saw on her way back to heterosexuality.

Femmes are lesbians, no less than butches. We are dykes, queers, and homos. We are your counterparts, the yin to your yang. We grow more feminine in your reflection, as you become butcher in our glow. We exist in tandem.

But make no mistake, our sexual agency is only as great as your own. We don’t choose you over men and you didn’t win us as prizes in some sort of competition.

We chose you because you’re not men.

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