Butches and femmes and everyone in between

I began this post with the intention of writing about our progress on the fisting front (fisting me, I should specify) and the progress I made last night toward taking Daddy's ass, but this morning I am finding that I need to mull over both a bit longer. They feel too new and too tender, so I shall let them marinate.

Instead, I have been thinking quite a bit about butch/femme identities and how that applies -- or doesn't apply -- to my life. I've always been reluctant to quantify "my type" when asked. I mean, I am attracted less to a specific physical trait than I am to a personality quality; I am mesmerized by charisma. Daddy has it in spades; when he turns his attention to you, you can't help but feel bathed in his interest and approval, a heady combination that draws people to him like moths to an especially bright porchlight. It's an addiction in me now, and when you add his dominant personality to the mix...well, it is the perfect storm for me.

For a while, during the past couple of years, his doctors told him that physical transitioning would be impossible, that his liver couldn't take it and he might die trying. After such crushing news, he tried to move forward with his life, unable to accept that he might always have to be trans but pre-T and pre-surgery. So he tried to re-mold his personality and rebirth himself as the butchest dyke possible. He even managed it for a while -- after all, it wasn't all new to him. That's where he was for at least some of his life as a queer woman. But, of course, it didn't fit him, and he was able to take sufficient steps to achieve a level of health at which he could transition. And now he is and he is so thrilled with it, and so am I.

But that's a bit beside the point: when we are out on the street in our neighborhood we are routinely read as a lesbian couple, sometimes even if he is binding. I, with my shoulder-length hair, curvy figure, and clothing from the "girl" stores at the mall, read as the femme; he, with his mohawk, broad shoulders, over six feet of height, men's clothing, and gorgeously visible tats, is read as the butch.

At first, this bothered me. I thought it would (of course?) bother him, as well. He is from the deep South, where passing as male is less a political statement and more a matter of survival (at least sometimes, even in the year 2007 and beyond), so when he came here, to this queer, queer, queer enclave in this city that I love, and rarely passed, even though he changed NOTHING about his appearance...it was strange. And yet, when we talked about it, it didn't bother him. People seem to be more open to different gender expressions here, and many are so polite that they don't want to assume that he is trans, or step on either of our toes by suggesting that he ISN'T female, so they acknowledge him as a butch lesbian. I may not be able to explain that correctly...the point I'm trying to make is that people try to acknowledge him as butch and yet female, which is, to me, an expression of respect.

And I, of course, am by default the counterpart to his butchness. This does bother me because first of all, not all butches partner with femmes, nor do all femmes partner with butches, but that's not even it. What is it is that I don't identify as femme, no matter what I look like. Yes, I can dress feminine-ly, but I am not comfortable in heels and lipstick. Nor am I comfortable as a butch -- I just don't identify, personally, with either of those roles. But that isn't to say that I don't respect those expressions of gender and sexuality in others because I do. I am very often attracted to butch women, and I am very often intimidated by femme women, (and yet also inexplicably drawn to them). I just am neither one nor the other, as many of us aren't.

Which brings us to the thing that I most wanted to talk about: living in the grey. Daddy and I often talk of this because it's where we both are, always, and it's something that we love about each other. For me, I am neither butch nor femme, (and I know I don't have to be either, but for the purpose of explanation, I'll pretend I do), and at times I express (small) aspects of one or the other or even both at the same time. I love that I don't have to be one or the other for him or for me.

As for Daddy himself, yes, he is trans, and yes, he prefers male pronouns, but he also dwells in the grey area between male and female and is most comfortable there. He doesn't want gender-neutral language applied to him, (and, really, I have a hard time slipping them into conversation anyway -- lack of practice, I know) but he does see himself as genderqueer. I love that about him: I love the man in him and the woman as well and at the end of the day, to me he is my Daddy and that's all I've ever wanted. He's on T and he's going to have top surgery, but never bottom surgery. He loves his cunt, as do I, and wants to keep it. It's not a source of anguish for him, as it can be for many, many other transfolk.

The best thing about being as fluid as we are is that the friction between us is constantly changing. There are days when his male/butch/top energy is waxing and it brings out a very feminine/submissive side of me, but other days that same energy will bring out my own butch/aggressive side and we'll fight, wrestle, attack each other -- in a very good way. But no matter how things evolve between us, we bring out the best in one another.

I may need to return to this later. Hmm.