in them that really gets me. It’s the swagger – the strut. It can be as understated as her steady gaze, but if you look for it, it’s there. It’s the written language of her body that reads, “this is who I am, this is the way that I am comfortable, and if that makes you uncomfortable, that’s your deal.” And when it comes to the old school look? The leather jacket and the steel-toed boots will get my butterflies going every time.
The musk of a good cologne clinging to curves does wicked, wicked things to me. And the soft tickle of neckline stubble under my searching fingertips when I pull somebody in close is a sensation I can’t ever get enough of. My particular cup of tea happens to be butch tops, who, as a group, have elevated the art of pushing a girl up against a wall and kissing her into senselessness to searingly electric new heights.
I love the confidence, and if you throw in the occasional moment of aw-shucks bashfulness, that melts me to my core. I love the smirk. But that confidence thing, that phantom butch phallus thing – that slays me. And I’m not just talking about sexual head space; I’m talking about a particular kind of masculine energy residing in a female mind and body, and the way that turns traditional conceptions of what it means to be a man or a woman upside down. I’m talking about the underlying strength of character required to live and present as a butch woman not only in mainstream society, but also in a gay community that all too often fails to appreciate them. I’m talking about the power that comes with unabashedly just being who you are, even when it’s not the popular thing to do. I love the way a butch can walk into a room and command the attention of everyone in it. I love that uniquely self-assured way of moving through the world and the safe haven I’ve found again and again in those arms.
But what I really want – what I really crave… is that thing. I want a big, butch… brain. I don’t think there is anything sexier on the planet than an intelligent, articulate, well-mannered butch, a gentledyke who knows when to take, and when to yield – the perfect marriage of hard and soft, before I ever enter the picture. I adore butch women. All the different ways in which they define themselves, describe themselves, manifest out in the world as women who embody butchness only serve to further pique my interest, my esteem, and my longing.
Maybe I’m just a girl looking for Prince Charming in a woman’s body, heart and soul, but the point is, I’m rewriting the fairytale to fit who I am – my strength to match hers. We compliment each other, coming from different sides of the spectrum, reaffirming our very identities in simply wanting one another. We meet somewhere in the middle, and make of it what we will. And in an L World that all too often seems to offer no place of honor, if any place at all, to my beloved butches – consider this testament a love song.