Author: CrazyWriter PM
Musings on the kind of butch I’ve always been and why and how I got there. Gender-sensitive issues, and lesbian innuendos. Please read and review.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama - Words: 1,413 - Reviews: 38 - Favs: 21 - Published: 05-17-03 - id: 1304704
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Title: That Butch
Warnings: Gender-sensitve issues, homosexuality.
Summary: Musings on the kind of butch I've always been and why and how I got there.
Feedback: please review, good or bad.
It's always seemed to me that it's butches who have the good head on their shoulders. That they're the ones who take you out for a cup of coffee and listen to your latest trial and pain. And you'll cry on my shoulder, and then finish your coffee and dry your eyes. You'll smile weakly and make the same old joke about me being a butch Mr. Brady. And I'll smile back at you and say, 'Marcia, Marcia, Marcia,' just like I did last week.
And I don't mean to say that all butches have a good head on their shoulders or will take you out to coffee just to listen. There's a fair share of us that won't give you the time of day. Who don't notice you the second you give the sign you're not going to put out.
But not all of us are like that.
There are those of us who are different, with our trademark arrogance, and our charming grins. Who will walk you home drunk and decline your offer to come upstairs, because we know you'd hate yourself when you sobered up. Because, well the fact of the matter is, it's not supposed to be me.
And you know what? I guess I don't see why it's not me.
It's always been so easy. But have you realized how hard it is for me? You see the typical butch when you look at me. You see me laugh and smile in a more realistic manner than any perfect femme hostess in her hair ribbon. You see my chuckle deeply and slap a friend on the back and engaged in typical guy talk. And you see me sweeping each girl around on the dance floor, smiling the same plastic Ken doll smile.
And you see them rub my arm suggestively, and you know I'm what they want. But what you don't know is that they don't really want me. They want me around for the night, to fuck them and tease them and make them feel everything they want to. And in the morning, they'll be gone.
But of course, to you it'll be because I have 'commitment issues'. Because I don't want them for another night, heaven forbid it might involve them not wanting me.
After all, with my cool charm and decent smile, I'm the perfect butch.
And what the hell are 'commitment issues' anyway?
What you don't get is that there are some butches who drift in between what you want us to be and what we can be and still be human. That one who give you the shoulder to cry on. That one who helps an old lady carry groceries to her car. That one who smiles and asks if your mother is your sister, even though everyone knows it's fake, but she still feels special. That one who knows that. That one who glares at every suitor who have with a critical eye, and tells you calmly that they're just not good enough for you, and that one who's usually right about that.
Yeah, those ones.
One of those perfect people, who we wonder how exist. Who you shrug and say to your friends, "that butch is handsome, and strong, and kind, and smart, and good. That butch treats me well, and makes me feel adored… But I don't want that butch."
Maybe you're not familiar with that butch. It's that one who sometimes makes it to Mass on Sunday with their mother, and who goes canoeing with their old man. That one who still visits their grandparents, and who laughs an awful lot. That one that seems to excel that everything they do. It's that one who spends an hour chasing a lost dog with a little girl, because she's afraid her puppy will get hit by a car. Yeah, that one.
It's that one who hugs you, and is such a good friend that you never think of them as a lover. It's that one who you can call at three AM, crying, and you know they won't get mad at you. It's that one you can call when you don't know how to change the oil in your car. That one who will grumble good-naturedly, but still watch that damned romantic comedy with you, and eat part of the pint of Hagen-Daz you insisted on eating. It's the one who's too much of a gentleman to ever push the issue of the mutual attraction between you, because that butch understands why you won't act on it. After all, you can tell when someone has a crush on you. But that butch is happy enough to be your friend and be the one you turn to.
Because it's that one who's always there for you.
It's that one who you get annoyed with because they go from girl to girl, and you never stop to think about why. It's that one who seems to be getting all sorts of sex and is always in a relationship in some form or another. It's that one you can use and yell at, because they're man enough to take it, and because normally, they'll bounce back and hug you until the pain that made you do it is gone.
It's that one you take for granted.
But I'll tell you something, that butch does it because she loves you, because that butch is in love with you. But it's not always gonna be just you and that butch.
Someday, that butch is going to find her femme. And someone's going to let her jump on that white horse and be the knight in shining armor, and that femme that's not you is going to let me take her away from it all. And we're going to ride off into the sunset, but it seems that the sunset is away from you.
And that butch is going to realize how good she really is, and how she was everything you wanted, needed, and still the one person you wouldn't let in. She's going to remember holding you in her strong arms (daddy arms, her ex-girlfriend, the one you didn't like, called them). And she's going to remember how she held that quivering body so long, waiting for the storm to blow over. And then she's going to remember how you pushed her away.
And she's going to remember why she never made a move on you. And that butch is going to remember it's because she watched all the people you gave your love to hurt you like you were nothing, and she knew she couldn't do it. That butch knew she could never treat you as any less than what you were, adored. And that butch realized a long time ago, you'd never want someone who didn't hurt you.
And yeah, I'm that butch. I'm that kind of butch, the dying breed of gentleman. The one who held the door open, and laid my leather jacket across puddles. The one who dated women I didn't want because I was too much of a gentleman to ever push the issue with you. The one who was always there for you, to take your anger and your pain, and to let you keep your love. The one who offered you a shoulder to cry on.
But I did it because I was in love with you.
And I'll let you in on a little secret. That kind of butch cries sometimes too. But we cry alone, without anyone's shoulder, and we don't cry often. And when we're done, we plaster our perfect Ken doll smiles on our faces and don't tell anyone. But yeah, sometimes we cry a little.
And here's another secret…
We won't always be in love with you.