I was just sitting here at my computer daydreaming. About last night’s Super Bowl.
I’m sure you’re thinking that’s not so out of character for Middle-age butch. You are, after all, a flannel-clad, masculine-leaning, sports-obsessed lesbian, you might say. Isn’t watching football mandatory for your kind?
Why, yes, I did watch the game.
But the truth of the matter is that I really wasn’t that into it. I’m not a fan of either team. The match-up didn’t excite me. And I gave up betting on sports years ago.
Looking all Amazon warrior in that black leather outfit/lingerie. Like the fucking queen of the Amazons.
Her long legs stretched all the way to the top of the Superdome. I’m pretty sure that’s why the power went out.
Now, I have never been a Beyonce fan. I’ve always preferred TLC over Destiny’s Child. I usually like my rock stars a little more edgy (see Melissa Etheridge), and soulful (see Melissa Etheridge) and angry lesbian (see Melissa Etheridge).
But then there was Beyonce.
Shaking her perfect hips and wagging her finger. Looking all Sasha Fierce.
The all-girl band didn’t hurt, either. Damn.
I politely clapped after each number.
The kids kept telling me that Beyonce can’t hear me.
They are rude and impertinent. And know nothing about sports.
Besides, it really didn’t matter. During those 12 minutes, it was just me and Beyonce.
So, the highlight of Super Bowl XLVII?
The half-time show.
I’m pretty sure someone is going to be showing up soon to revoke my Butch Lesbian card.