“I was always considered butch. Feeling beautiful to me is when I feel good in my leather pants and my husband grabs my ass.”
The word “butch” took me by surprise.
Hey, that’s my word. My thing. Me. I am Middle-age butch, after all.
Why is a straight woman like Pink using the word “butch” in reference to herself?
Sure, Pink is an edgy, bad-ass rock star who looks hot in leather pants. If a straight girl is going to use that word, it might as well be Pink.
I guess the flannel on my shirt stood straight up for a moment there because the word “butch” means something to me.
After I came out, I considered myself a “soft butch.” Something like a tomboy with harder edges and more rigid views about my sexuality.
I transitioned to what I consider a regular butch a few years later. The more butch I became, the shorter my hair. I’m sure there’s an algorithm for that somewhere.
I hit my butch stride when I first started dating W. I was rocking jeans and flannel shirts from the young men’s department. Thick black belts and Dr. Marten’s boots. I felt good in my body. Like things fit — like I fit — for the first time in my life.
I carried myself differently. With more confidence and purpose.
At the time, I was participating in a weekly therapy group related to coming out. I used to leave therapy and head over to W’s apartment for a quickie. Feeling large and in charge. Taking her in my arms and kissing her deftly and with purpose. (We later determined that there is no such thing as a Sapphic quickie.)
Lately, I’ve felt restless in this body. In this butch body. Stagnant.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t changed things up in awhile.
Don’t get me wrong. I still love wearing ties, Dr. Marten’s and studded bracelets. They make me feel sexy and alive.
But maybe it’s time to stir things up a bit. Butch up. Be more butch. Butcher. Live butch. Love butch.
Butch. It’s not just for breakfast anymore. And if it was, it would beat the hell out of oatmeal and OJ every single day of the week.
Maybe I should wear my hair shorter. Trade in my Hanes Her Way for the ones on the other side of the store.
There’s still a lot of unexplored territory.
In the end, “butch” is just a word. Like “femme” and “dyke,” “queer” and “queen.”
It only means more if you want it to.
To me, butch is power and comfort, sex appeal and swagger. It reminds me of a young girl long ago who didn’t know who she was or how she would ever be anything other than scared and unsure.
To me, butch is more than a label. More than a way of life. It’s who I am and how I came to be.
So, if Pink wants to say that people have always viewed her as a butch, who can blame her?
Not this butch.