Trick…(Halloween Pt 3)

Start the night.

Two hot brown women kissing

I Just Read This Blog For the Pictures

The squat Latina angel flounced in, her white leotard hugging every curve and white tulle skirt barely covering her spandex bottoms. Not a good  look for her, I thought, quietly bemoaning the loss of the tomboy who greeted me at the door.

It was picture time, and I posed with the ladies. Looking back at the pictures, I towered over thick and juicy Gina and the small boned narrow Sheniqua. Adelina was a dwarf in front of me at under 5′.

Sheniqua posed for one picture with her thick booty pressed against my crotch, bouncing in time to the music. I matched her rythm along gamely. Was she?…naw!

She rolled another joint and pulled me into the porch doorway to smoke it–and–standing close to me as she was–she gave me that look. That look. That smile that says: I want you!

I just about melted into it, smiling involuntarily back.

But..wait…isn’t she straight?

She smiled at me, deeper and unmistakably direct. The look of a player.

She’s straight alright–a straight stud!

I thought as she leaned in to kiss me.

Butch For A Femme

Marlene Dietrich in a 3-piece suit & fedora--swoon!

Marlene Dietrich--Swoon!

 Part 2 of Too Many Dudes.

She changed into a thigh-length flowered dress and heals. I stood watching her primp her artificial locks in the mirror, thinking how much work a wig is. I mean, sure it looks good, but I’ll bet her natural hair would look good too.  Of course, I thought–tracing the curve of her shapely calves, thigh and ample booty with my eyes–she looked fine without heels–but then again I wasn’t complaining about how she looked in the heals, either!

Standing there against the wall, I couldn’t help wishing I was dressed as a boi. I would feel soo much sexier with her on my arm if I was wearing a tie, fedora and slacks! But she said she liked femmes–so there I was, feeling like a guy, but dressed femme in my sparkly tank & short-shorts!

She said she had to take her son to her sisters house (oh yeah, her son was still up at 11Pm! ) and he came out of his room bleary-eyed and sobbing quietly.
“Don’t worry about him, he’s just being dramatic.”
We drove about four blocks with him sniffling in the back while I wondered what horrible abuse awaited at her sisters. I offered to go back.

“Please!” She replied gratefully.

We got back to her house and now another dude was there–her room-mate! She finally made her son go to bed, and we smoked a blunt on the porch.

Once again the man dominated the conversation, and once again I edited my words so as not to mention anything gay. When he got up, I moved into his spot next to her and tried to explain how hard it was for me to be back in the closet.

“Why–did he ask you questions?” she responded defensively.

“No, it’s just…if I want to say that my ex girlfriend said something, I want to say that, not ‘my friend'” I tried to explain. I’ve worked so hard to be out, and as a femme that means not censoring my experience to conform with the straight world. I tried to explain it to her.

“Well ok,” she allowed, “You can talk about it for you–just don’t…”

Dude was back. As we small-talked,  all I could think about was her arm touching mine. But it started getting late. I went in the kitchen to get some water before heading home.

Next installment: Home or Hmm…?

That Kiss

CU of two women kissing--with hands

When I was in High School I was very involved with the gay community: the GSA was my social life, I was in the Governors Commission for gay & lesbian youth, etc…but over the years of living on the streets & then  raising children, I lost touch with the gay community.

At first it didn’t seem to matter much, since almost everyone on the streets seemed to be  Bi–but, I didn’t seem able to attract women, while men circled me like sharks smelling blood in the water.

For a long time it seemed like the only girls who liked me invariably had a guy with them who would fidget miserably as she publicly kissed me.

Although I never stopped being attracted to women, I became convinced that women were too scary, too unavailable, something to be “appreciated” but not pursued.

And then she kissed me.

We were talking at a party, and she smiled, leaning unexpectedly in mid conversation to connect our lips. I looked around, expecting to see a pathetically jealous man hovering nearby–but no! Only her blue eyes sparkled at me. For once, a single woman liked me!

We went on a date in Central Square on Valentines Day–holding hands on the street like it was nothing! Dinner and then back to her place…

Walking with her small but curvaceous body pressed into my side, every woman and girl that I had ever had feelings for came back to me, and my heart overflowed.

A Butch in Queer Space

Close up of White Boi w/a Tie
I looked up from fixing my laces into the wide-open smile of a tall heavyset, “sporty”  woman. Unused to such enthusiasm from total strangers, (especially butch strangers) she was gone before my returning smile reached my eyes.

Why was she smiling at me?

Because I was wearing a tie.

And suspenders. Over a wife-beater with some big black boots.

I was butch. Very butch. During the daytime. In public.

Now, I was in central square in Cambridge, where this is not all that unusual. Creative self expression is as much the rule here as the exception. For example, on my way to the club I passed a woman skimpily clad in a homemade leopard print skirt and tube top , among other characters.

Even so. I could feel people looking at me different–but I felt the same.

I was wearing butch clothing–but I felt the same.

There are times when I feel like a boi, but this wasn’t particularly one of them. To mask my insecurity, I lengthened my stride into my street strut and puffed out my shoulders, dangling my arms in studied nonchalance.
Just let one of these fools mess with me, I projected with my body language.
I felt transgressive. Transgressive in a way that I don’t usually feel on a boi day. My normal boi clothing is butch enough to register, but it doesn’t scream butch the way a tie and fitted does.

But as strange as it felt to walk down the street with my masculinity on my sleeve, it was stranger in the club. You see, while I’ve been wearing boi clothes on the weekend and even to work, I’ve been carefully policing my gender presentation in queer space to present purely as a femme.

I wasn’t the only butch in the club, but I was definitely in the minority. I was surprised that the butches there didn’t react to me with the hostility that I’m used to.  Instead their eyes slid over me as if I was of no interest. (Maybe the goofy glasses made me not non-threatening.)

Because it was a themed event, there were lots of femmes and adros  in ties and hip/hipster outfits, with a sprinkling of effeminate guys mixed in.

I walked up to a social friend of mine and said:


She stared at me blankly for a long moment before erupting into a big smile.
“Oh my god I didn’t recognize you!” She smiled and laughed uncomfortably.

This same interaction was repeated two more times with two more people. I really looked that different. The third person was a really cute stud that I’ve seen around before.

We chatted flirtatiously, and throughout the night I could feel her looking at me in a way that she hadn’t before, but every time we got close enough to dance, she turned around and danced with either a femme or a gay guy.

And–I found myself doing the same.

I think that I finally “get” the thing that some butches have about gay guys. I always knew that there was an ego boost to having my masculinity “recognized” by cis males, (something I’ve gotten even dressed as a femme on occasion)  but having it acknowledged and–deferred to–by a more feminine cis male was heady stuff!

Throughout my evening,  I spent a little too much time worrying about my presentation: was I acting too femmey? Should I be leading on the dancefloor? Um, how do I lead? (Still haven’t figured that on out!)

Besides some dramatic dancing with a narrow-boned black guy, I danced with a rather boring light-skinned femme for a while, then found myself matching rhythms with a slender, long haired femme with a Spanish flair and a tomboy edge.

After a short convo that proved she had a solid head on her shoulders, all thoughts of the (closetted stud-for-) stud dissapeared as the femme and I bounced up and down on the dancefloor, her pussy pressing through the fabric of our clothes as she bounced up and down on my thigh.

My own pussy felt wet and swollen and strangely naked in the cavern of my boxer-shorts.

I gripped her slender, well-shaped ass, matching her rythm even as my knees screamed in protest.

When the lights came on we wandered out.

“Can I give you a ride?” I offered, at the turn to where my car was parked.

“I don’t now…” She looked at me, knowing that my offer held the possibility of more kinds of rides than one.

“I’ll walk you to the T-Stop then.”

We hugged for a long time, then I watched as she descended the steps to the train station. With some finesse, I probably could have turned her maybe into a yes. But if I’m with a woman, I want it to be an unconditional, unthinking, YES!

Why We March

Lesbian Pride Flag

The Closet Sucks!

I just want to scream every time I hear about how someone doesn’t care what I do, as long as I don’t “rub it in their face.”

So what exactly is rubbing it in your face? Mentioning my girlfriend? Commenting that I went to a lesbian club last night? Unless you’re reading my blog, I’m not going to regale you with intimate details of my love life!

When you’re in the closet, everything that you say about yourself becomes a lie, or at best a heavily-edited version of the truth.

Casual conversations become mine-fields of potential outing. Unless you flat out lie, simple questions must be met with a delicate dance of truth evasion.

In an effort to not make straights “feel uncomfortable,” when you are living in the closet you are always off-balance.

Always uncomfortable.

Living a lie.

That’s why I came out. I figure you can get over your momentary discomfort at my truth easier than I can get over a life of constant evasions.

But I also know that coming out is not without a price. Your discomfort at my casual reference to my girlfriend can lead me to the greater discomforts of social ostracization, violent hate crime and loss of income and the ability to provide for my family.

Fear of all these things is what keeps so many of us in the closet.

Why should your comfort come at the cost of my terror?

Why should I hide, hate myself, and try to change, just because you don’t understand and are afraid of my attractions?

I won’t. No longer. I am out! We are out!

That’s why coming out is brave. That’s why we’re out and proud!
That’s why we March!

Young Stud

Young stud crouching down--looking pensive & fly.

DZ from Studology 101:

“You know you are a lesbian when you are physically, mentally and emotionally attracted to another woman.”

Between the Lines

I was waiting in the clinic with my daughter amidst a miasma of coughing, praying I didn’t catch whatever they all had, when an older Butch struck up a conversation with me. She was there with her daughter.  (I’m guessing the girl was adopted, she was Asian, I’m guessing Thai, Vietnamese or maybe Cambodian, while her mom was white. I know a lot of folks find it easier to adopt from Asia than here in the US. There’s a whole generation of Asians being raised by white families all around the country, especially in my white upper class neighborhood. It should be interesting to hear some of their stories as they come of age–but I digress.)

We got to talking, and she told me she was a teacher.

“What grade do you teach?” I asked.

“Oh I teach all grades.” She replied. “I’m a gym teacher.” Can you get more cliched? I’m not dissin’–just sayin.’ She ran a hand heavy with double masculine styled wedding rings through her hair. “I keep my hair short, because I sweat all day at work, and if I have it longer I get acne.”

“Acne? really?” I replied, but I was really thinking: you don’t have to justify your hair to me, you’re butch, I get it!  Why do butch women always feel like they have to explain themselves to me? “Yeah I used to have short hair too…but I let it grow out.” It feels like an inadequate reply. I wanna say, yes, I’m a family too! But how to work it in?

“Yeah my son says,” she took a deep breath and faced with a smile. “Us guys have to stick together.” I smiled back.

“Oh you have a son too?”

“Yeah he’s at home with his other mother.” She changed the subject, “Your daughter has nice hair.” We get that everywhere we go. Through the genetic convergence of Irish, Black and Jewish, she came out with a flaming red head of ringlets/afro, depending on how it’s styled.


“Yeah my daughter always want’s curly hair.”

“I think everyone wants what they can’t have.” I replied. “My daughter wants it straight.”

“We curl it sometimes with a curling iron.”

“Oh really? I don’t know how to do anything with hair except wash it and let it dry.”

“Me neither, her other mother handles that.” I couldn’t help thinking how much I had in common with this butch woman.  I wonder what she saw in me? It was a casual day for me, so I was in a hoodie, loose jeans (they used to be slimming but now they’re baggy lol) and hiking boots, I guess I looked kinda butch too, despite my shoulder length, somewhat unkempt hair. Or maybe the slightly greasy unkempt thing added to the affect.

“This is my guilty pleasure in waiting rooms.” I told her, grabbing a copy of Glamor off of the coffee table. Heavy perfumes wafting off of it, stinging my nose. “I hate when they load it down with perfume, I like natural smells!”

“Yeah me too.”

Leafing through pictures of sexy women and wishing I could take it home to add to my collage, it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that my ex-girlfriend’s cologne was the only artificial smell I ever liked, but I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. What’s wrong with me? Am I afraid to be out? She’s living fearless, why can’t I?

We talked a bit more, and I satisfied her curiosity that I was a single mom. I never did tell her explicitly answer her unspoken curiosity about my sexuality, although I laced in plenty of hints I think. Still, again, what’s wrong with me? Why is it still so hard to be out and proud?