Pages

Showing posts with label butch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label butch. Show all posts

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Butches Don't Wear Pink (and other fallacies)



A few of you might remember that a couple of months ago, I mentioned a truly fabulous new project by Sinclair Sexsmith. That something, which had been unnamed at that point, but is now called ButchLab, has posted its Symposium's call for submissions #2: Butch Stereotypes, Cliches, and Misconceptions . As with the previous call, I feel compelled to participate.


Butch Women Don't Wear Pink (and other fallacies)

We, as human animals, feel compelled to categorize ourselves. It gives us a sense of community (I'm an X, just like those people over there are.) It gives us a sense of solidarity, and of comfort, to belong to a group. The problem is that as soon as we create criteria which allow us to belong to a group, we create assumptions about that group.

A person can self-define as butch for many reasons, but somewhere in there is the feeling that on this grand spectrum of gender continuity, they find they fit best toward the masculine side of centre. There it is: Masculine, of or pertaining to men. Walk down a supermarket aisle and you'll see cover after cover of women's magazines screaming “All Men LOVE X...If you want to keep your man, don't do X, Y, or Z...etc.”

Society and media tells us day in and day out that if you belong to a group, then you must have all the characteristics associated with that group. Yes, we say, that's racist, or sexist, or ableist...but ya know, it's also true. But, see, here's the deal. It's not. There is NOTHING in any commonly held idea about a particular racial, gender, or ability group that is absolutely true for all members. That's why they call it discrimination, and not scientific categorization. And even the people who agree that sexism, or racism is bad seem to make a glaring exception for categories with which people must choose to self-identify. Well, if they think that all this stuff is true about themselves, then why can't I think it?

The reason you can't think that is simple: you don't know what they're thinking about themselves. My experience with masculinity is different than yours, and therefore the part of my identity that I think of as “masculine” will not completely match yours. Period. For example, when I was growing up, it was my father who did the cooking in the house. All the cooking. To this day, I consider cooking a masculine trait, despite the fact that I'm clearly in the minority for thinking so. This is both a large and rather trivial example, but it will do to stand in for the thousands and thousands of small idiosyncrasies in each of our conceptions of what constitutes “masculine” and “feminine.”

It's actually a fairly simple thing to avoid, too, though it takes a conscious effort. DON'T ASSUME. It's just that easy. Just because K is butch doesn't mean that she will bristle or bite your head off if you open the car door for her. The fact that she doesn't like acts of chivalry directed toward her means that she might just bristle or bite your head off if you open the car door for her. G loves pink. Doesn't mean she isn't butch. That hot pink cowboy shirt she had on yesterday was WAY masculine, and super hawt, too! The only cure to making assumptions about people is not admit to yourself that you don't know what they like ,what they don't like, or how they'll act in a specific situation based on any group that they belong to.(Heck, how else do you explain the existence of log cabin republicans?) You only know these things about them once you get to know them personally, as people, and not as gender identities.

----------

You can read my thoughts on the prompt for Symposium #1 here
And that's not all! Many, many other fabulous responses to the same prompt can be found here!

Thursday, November 18, 2010

MicroFiction Monday Inspiration: Butch

If you've read any of this blog before, you know that I'm often looking for new inspiration to put in my less-than-stellarly-regular weekly mini-smut Microfiction Monday posts. Alison Tyler's delicious little “Flash Fuck Me” contestlings are a good example of inspiration that I use regularly. Today, I'm looking somewhere a bit different.
If you haven't heard of the amazing Sinclair Sexsmith of the Sugarbush Chronicles fame, then I suggest you remedy that situation. She is an amazing writer, educator, activist, and editor and she's got a new project. It's unnamed so far and the title is a secret, but what's not a secret is her first call in the project: Symposium #1 ~ What is butch? How do you define butch? What do you love about it? What does it mean to you?
I am not stereotypically butch. I am, even while quite overweight, shaped like a friggin' hourglass with extra curves to spare. I'm easily identifiable as female, even when I'm wearing a suit and my hair is 1” long. I have a lot of butch tendencies, though. My partner has been known to say on several occasions, in response to people who can't figure me out that “you just have to understand that she thinks like a man.” Despite my lack of outward masculinity, I have a love affair with the term butch. I think that every person alive has a masculine and a feminine side, and I'm incredibly turned on by people who ride that line between either extreme, be they femme men, butch women, genderqueers, androgynes, or anything else in that lovely big wide stripe of rainbow colour in the middle of the gender spectrum. Butches, though, are the ones most guaranteed to make me melt with their deliciousness.
I especially love it when butch is an expression of sexual abandon. Let's face it, there are a lot of genetically female people out there who don't fit the only two common labels for sexually free women: slut or whore. But damn are they ever cads, Romeos, Dun Juans, lotharios, Casanovas, or philanderers. Of course, butches are often charming, courteous gentlemen, it's just that I'm magnetically attracted to the rogues.
To me, a butch is anyone who lets the masculine side of their personality out to play, and I hope that some of them come out to play with me. And thank the gods for the butches who make me smile every time I see them walk down the street, reminding us all that gender isn't dichotomous, and it sure as hell isn't defined by the random luck of the draw that configured our chromosomes to be shaped a certain way.
In celebration of butches, and of the eloquent Mr Sexsmith's new project, this week's Microfiction's objet d'amour is deliciously butch. I hope you enjoy it!

Microfiction Monday: Trussed

Okay, I know. It's Thursday, but um... Thursday is the new Monday, right?  RIGHT? I finally have my computer back in my happy little hands, and I shall celebrate by giving you some smut. Voila!



~~~~~

Trussed


      I know your type. You clean up nice, and you turn the charm up to 11 for everyone in the room in a skirt and heels, used to having them eat out of your hand. And why not? You're gorgeous, and smooth, and generous both with compliments and drinks. It's just your bad luck that I decided to wear the heels tonight instead of my shit-kicking stompers. Well, I say bad luck, but if we're being perfectly honest, you're looking a bit flush. I wonder— if I plucked your packer out of your jeans right now, how slick would I find the base? 

       Damn. I love it when you growl like that. Nothing like it. I could sit back and watch you struggle and fight all day, as long as I left myself a few breaks to get myself off. You look just beautiful all trussed up like that. Especially when you shoot me that look, yes that one: lust and fury and pain, all at once. Even more than I like that angry hiss when my belt hits again across the lovely curve of the back of your shoulder. I know my way around a knot, you know, you're just going to tire yourself out.

      If I let you know how delighted I am with you right now with a chuckle, will I get another growl from you? I hope so. And yet, you're still so far way from the words that will make it all stop. Machismo. I love that about you, too, my boy. Not to worry, I'm in no rush—I'm sure you'll express your regret at calling me a “little lady” sooner or later. If you want to know...I'm cheering for later.