Get out your rainbow T-shirts and your labrys necklaces. Your Birkenstocks, too. You know the drill. It’s June, which means Pride is here in all of its ROYGBIV glory.
And what’s Pride without your butches. It’s like french fries without catsup (I did, too, spell it that way), Melissa Etheridge without water — somebody bring her some, a lesbian couple without a cat or a Subaru.
What does being butch mean to you?
Leave your best answer in the comment section. I’ll mail out prizes for the top 3 answers. Y’all like free stuff, don’tcha?
You can win a copy of my book or a pair of these cool socks. Are you butch enough to wear them?
You don’t have to be a butch to play or to win. But if you are a butch, then you are always winning. Because you look good in a baseball cap.
Here’s a sample of what being butch means to me:
- Always carrying the heavy stuff for her, even though she is more than capable of carrying it herself.
- Listening to anything I want to in the car with the window down. Even Barry Manilow. That’s “Weekend in New England,” motherfucker.
- Rocking a necktie when every other woman in the room is wearing a skirt or a dress.
- Owning regular T-shirts and dress T-shirts, regular sneakers and dress sneakers, regular flannel and dress flannel.
Tag, you’re it.