Tag Archives: stereotypes

Leaving Normal: An Interview

I had an opportunity to sit down for an interview with Mrs. Fever over at Temperature’s Rising.  She’s doing a whole series on coming out and asked if I would participate and lend my butch perspective.

Mrs. Fever has been a Flannel Files follower since back in the day and one of my all-time favorite commenters.  Go check it out.

Bonus: There’s an excerpt from my book at the end of the interview from that time College-age Butch got busted checking out a girl’s ass.  You know you want to read that.

Throwback Thursday


Baby butch in Dad’s shoes.

“How did you not know?” W asked when she saw this photo.

“Geez, I was 2,” I replied.

But still, you can see my penchant for men’s shoes, especially Converse sneakers.  And my good sartorial taste.

Even at 2 years of age, I liked to bust gender stereotypes and expectations.  I also had a developing sneaker addiction.

* * *

What about you?  Do you have a picture that foreshadowed who you were destined to be?

Free flannel!

ContestWhat’s that you say?  Free flannel?

Oh, Middle-age butch, don’t tease us like that.

Fear not, my flannel-lovin’ followers.  This is the real deal.  An honest to goodness contest that gives you a chance to win a fine flannel shirt.

I just hit 500 follows on The Flannel Files and thought I’d share some of the love that I’ve been receiving.

If free flannel makes you say “yes, please,” “more,” “pile it high and deep” or something like that, here’s what you need to do to do:

Comment on this post by answering the following statement:

You know you’re a butch when …

Here’s a few to get you started:

  • You know you’re a butch when you do all of your shopping in the young men’s department even though you are not young or a man.
  • You know you’re a butch when your instructions to the person who cuts your hair involves at least one number.  A number 4 on the sides.
  • You know you’re a butch when you have different kinds of flannel — everyday flannel, good flannel, weekend flannel.

So, get creative and give us your top response.  I’ll pick the best one.  W will help.

Flannel shirtsYou don’t have to be a butch to enter.  Everyone can use a little flannel in their lives.  Am I right?  Ain’t nothing hotter than a femme in flannel (and nothing else), but I might be a tad bit biased.  Or win a flannel shirt for your butch.  She’ll be forever grateful.  And you know what that means.

Winner will be notified by e-mail and details on size, etc. will be exchanged at that time.

May the flannel odds be forever in your favor.

Alice B. Toklas and the giant bag

Well, W and I are back from our big weekend in the big city.

Sometimes I am so accustomed to living in the suburbs that I feel a little like Country Mouse when the buildings exceed three or four stories.

The Addams Family musical was entertaining, especially if you grew up with the TV show.  It certainly isn’t Les Mis or even Hairspray, but then what is?

You had me at budino

Dinner was delicious.  Highlights: a sheeps milk ricotta appetizer and an Italian custard  called a budino.  Best dessert ever.  It had a dark chocolate bottom, a creamy, velvety middle and a salted caramel top.  I told W that it made all of my taste buds come alive.  I felt like Top Chef judge Tom Colicchio  for a moment.  The budino was way sexier than Padma Lakshmi, and that’s saying something.  This is evidenced by the fact that I am posting a picture of the budino and not a gratuitous photo of Padma like the one that appears on the cover of French Playboy.

I couldn't help myself

I couldn’t help myself

On Sunday, we were able to sleep in, enjoy a nice breakfast and do some in-town shopping.

Alice B. ended up joining us for the play and dinner

The most unusual part of the weekend occurred before the play.  We were looking to kill some time and wandered into a gay bookstore.  W and I browsed, and I found a copy of Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas on the clearance rack.  I decided that I needed to own the book and went up to the front counter to pay for it.

There was a very skinny gay boy working the register.

I gave him a nod.  The nod spoke volumes.  It said: “Hello.  How are you?  Nice day we’re having.  I have enjoyed shopping in your store.  I am glad that there are still gay bookstores around. ”

I placed the book on the counter.

He looked at me quizzically, unable to decipher the nod.  It always works with butch women.  Straight guys, too.  I was puzzled.

The clerk picked up the book very gingerly, possibly concerned that it might contain lesbian cooties or something, and announced the price.

I silently paid in cash.

“Do you want a bag?” he asked, unable to mask his annoyance.  I wasn’t sure if he was put out by my literary selection — it certainly wasn’t Sexy Sailors or Bend Over! — or by having to push a few buttons on the cash register.

I thought about the bag for a few seconds.  I wouldn’t be carrying around The Harder She Comes: Butch Femme Erotica or something racy like that.  But, I would be taking the book into the theater and a restaurant, so a bag might be nice.

“That would be great,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to sound friendly and approachable.


Alice B. and the giant bag

That’s when he bent down under the counter, pulled out a giant white paper bag and placed Alice B. Toklas inside where she slid about, bonking her head here and there, because the bag was so fucking large.

When we are outside, I tell W that the big bag was a big fuck you to the big bull-dyke buying classic feminist literature.

She tells me to be nice.

On our way to the theater with Alice B. Toklas and the ginormous bag in tow, I play a  game that I like to call “I could fit a _____ in this giant bag.”

“I could fit this week’s groceries in this giant bag,” I say.

“I could fit a loaf of French bread, a large wheel of cheese and three bottles of wine in this giant bag.”

“I could fit a pair of Dr. Marten’s 8-eye boots and four flannel shirts in this giant bag.”

“I could fit two of our cats in this giant bag.”

(At least two.  Maybe all three, I think now as I write this post.)

And off we went to the theater, me, W, Alice B. and the bag.  We all had a lovely time.

I tell W this afternoon that I will be blogging about the bag.

“Be nice,” she says.

I am not sure why she is constantly reminding me of this.

She’s talking, of course, about the clerk in the gay bookstore.  Not to rip him to shreds over a giant paper bag, especially one that is 100 percent recyclable and biodegradable.

Upon reflection, I realize that my approach was all wrong.

Warning: The Text Below May Contain Extreme Stereotypes

No Harm Was Meant in the Writing of This Blog

Blog Is for Entertainment Purposes Only

I saw skinny gay dude and thought show tunes, see-through shirts and attitude.

He saw non-communicative large woman and thought angry butch lesbian.

That didn’t leave much for either of us to hang our hats on.

I think now that I should have opened differently.

For example:

Me: “Hi.”


Me: “Hello.”


Me: “Great bookstore.”


Me: “We’re in town to see the Addams Family.   It’s a musical.”

Because just like the Addams, we are family after all.

The Addams Family Musical