I love wearing blue jeans, old pairs stretching to accommodate my hips, greeting me like an old friend whenever I pull them on. I love wearing boots, love the solid way each step feels, the connection with the earth and to my butch predecessors. I get absolutely giddy about hair cut day, the way my hair feels when I run my fingers through it, the way it frames my face, revealing angles that are otherwise softened. I especially love the way my short hair creates confusion in some and recognition in others. The confused ask questions like ‘mister or miss?’, ‘girl or boy?’. Recognition is delivered in the form of a chin lift or a knowing wink.
I especially love my jeans when I’m packing. At first, I was so self-conscious about the bulge, I’d push it further down so I could feel it but it wasn’t too obvious. Eventually, I stopped worrying about it and let it sit against the fly of my briefs. The presence of that solid mass of silicone changed my center of gravity, changed the way I walked. I already had a swagger, a confident stride, a “don’t give a shit what you think” attitude. The bulge was like a dollop of whipped cream on that attitude. I went from being afraid of what would happen if someone at work questioned my bulge, to being disappointed that no one did.
Though, I undoubtedly confused some people with my gender presentation, my people knew exactly what I was. The femmes and other butches, the gay boys and Leather Daddies, trans folks, androgynous people of all shapes and sizes, drag queens and bears – my people had no problem relating to me, seeing me, celebrating me.
I never felt more at home than I did in a queer space with other dykes. There is something so right about being with people who just understood where you were coming from, without explanation. We were buddies, exes, lovers, soon to be lovers or soon to be exes. As soon as I swaggered in, I got love, recognition and, on a very good night, a make out session in the corner booth. Everything a butch lesbian could want, I suppose.
So why was I always glancing over at the corner where the gay men clustered?
I could say it was because I was checking out their footwear, or wondering what brand of jacket one was wearing because I thought I’d look great in it. I definitely admired haircuts and imagined going to a barber, though I didn’t have the nerve. I could explain my fascination in these ways, though that explanation would be only partly correct.
The truth, though, the truth… It wasn’t something I could tell my girlfriends or anyone, really. I barely acknowledged the truth to myself.
I watched intently as big furry bear daddies presided over their cubs. They were rough, but not cruel. There was something in the way they handled the younger men: mussing their hair, smacking their tightly clad asses, holding their squirming bodies while others took turns squeezing and spanking them. It made my clit swell and my cunt ache.
The truth was that when I saw those gay boys being cuffed and squeezed and fawned over by the bigger, older men, I wanted to be one of them. It was as though my masculinity was pulled toward them, like iron filings to their darkly bearded magnetism. I fantasized and masturbated to scenes where I was in their midst being touched and held, the object of a bear daddy’s sexual desires. I couldn’t get rid of this desire, even as I was surrounded by sexy women, who wanted to touch and fawn over me and pull me into the restroom for a quicky.
One night, when a particular femme showed up in her infrequent way, I should have focused on her and taken up our long-running flirtation. She was certainly in the mood and when we’d last seen each other the evening had ended in a very hot make-out session. I remember thinking that the next time I saw her, I’d invite her to my place. The indications had been good. So why was I having a hard time keeping my eyes and mind on her when her hand was on my thigh and her breath in my ear? I should have sat facing the other way, because my eyes were tracking Gerry, a particularly handsome and muscular bear. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the bulge in his Carhartt’s. The Femme, realizing I was distracted, turned her attention to another butch.
Heading home later, I berated myself for torpedoing my chances. Instead of going home with a hot femme, I was going home alone. Part of me was quite upset by this, the other part was looking forward to my nightly session with Mr. Hitachi and fantasies of Gerry, with his hairy chest and big cock.
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