to promote a greater understanding of masculine of center gender identities, expressions, and presentations, through encouraging: 1. visibility, because we feel alone; 2. solidarity, because there are many of us out there, but we don’t always communicate with each other; and 3. an elevation of the discussion, because we have a long history and lineage to explore and we don’t have to reinvent the wheel.
What is butch? How do you define butch? What do you love about it? What does it mean to you?
Butch is that red-and-white, candy-striped, aftershave-and-razor hair cut, the hand you wish you dared reach out to feel those strong, ripped shoulders, that neck that slides up, close-cropped, under the fabric, like she was born with that cap on, like they were made for each other, lookin out at the world like it’s one big fight or maybe just last night’s lay. The way she shines those boots that have known the ground, walked miles outside this town, out of her house and never looking back, marching and dancing with her girl, but always easy, hips that were built to press up close when her girl sways and leans her head back, stretching out her neck, long and graceful, inviting her inside.
It’s the jeans that leave a little, or a lot, to the imagination, but never tell their secrets, like a well-worn friend, with a belt thicker than your arm shoved through the loops and a buckle from mom on Christmas that says “I get it.” It’s the bulge of a brown leather wallet in the back that’s been shined with every step in those ground-knowing boots, the one that fits the shape of that damn sexy ass almost as well as her girlfriend’s eager hand. It’s the pocket knife that waits at the ready, heavy in her hand and full of power, the shiny chrome chain that hangs down like a challenge, the flask of tequila on her hip, the old pocket watch that used to belong to somebody’s grandpa, the plaid/flannel/seersucker/denim/tweed that says, “no, I meant to look like this” as she walks down the street projecting hard-won courage, meeting gaze for gaze, never missing a step.
It’s that hard leather jacket, pulled up with a shrug and zipped up tight to hold in her shape, that zipper that lets your mind wander to what’s hidden underneath, not just a guy, but something beautiful and dangerous all wrapped up in gasp-with-your-mouth-open handsome. It’s a steady hand, that practiced lean, the wink that melts you, those arms that can hold a soccer ball or a baby with the same tenderness and strength, that subtle nod of recognition in a passing crowd. It’s the mouse-catching, spider-moving, shelf-building, oil-changing young James Dean that blushes with pride when his girl asks him to pick up tampons at the store. It’s the strong arm around your shoulders and the warm, sure chest when the night is dark and the walk home is long and cold. It’s a thousand brave acts that challenge the world to keep up, to see what’s right in front of them. It’s a swagger, an affront, a tribute and, at the end of the day, a drink with the guys in that little corner bar that’s no bigger than a postage stamp, where the beer is cheap and the company is certain.
It’s a look and I’m gone, baby, gone, a growl in my belly, a second and third and forth glance back because I can’t keep my eyes off you hunger that I can’t deny. It’s that attitude that gets my attention, and the grin that knocks me to my knees. It’s the most beautiful sight in the whole damn world and everything that I’ve ever wanted. It’s the butterflies in my gut, the thanksgiving prayer to god, and the shy smile I can’t help when I say hello.
It’s butch, and I’m thankful every day of my life that you were born to be that way.
There are times when I read something, something really good, and it makes me want to crumple up the virtual paper of my computer screen and chuck it over my shoulder in frustration over what I write. This is beautiful, gorgeous, evocative, it breathes/moves/lives/smells/tastes. Makes me feel a bit flat in my post.
Thank you for loving me, and all butches, so well. Your appreciative eye and mind put the cocky in our walk, love.
Thank you, my love. I read your piece and then this one grew in my belly and wouldn’t let me sleep. You can attest to the fact that I emailed you the first draft around 3:30 am. You are some fierce, sexy inspiration. Thank you for loving me so well and encouraging me, even when I feel like the only one doing an interpretive dance at the Western line dance bar.
I love when you write like this. My brain is soaked in a puddle of writers jealousy but I can’t help but be turned on at the same time. Thank you!
Awww, thank you, Sephani.
YES! Beautifully said.
Oooh I just told vic to come and read your entry + look, she already did
Goddamn woman. Your writing…
It’s as Sephani said: I’m jealous of your ability and turned on at the same time.
Bloody hell!
Signed,
A sister “butch-o-phile”
Wow. This is amazing. It makes me feel damn proud to be butch and incredibly grateful for beautiful femmes.
Thank you!
(While I don’t identify as femme, I’m still gonna take that as a compliment ‘cuz I’m like that.
)
[...] utterly envious, because Roxy nailed it beautifully, poetically, and had me nodding along for her entire post in response to this [...]
This post has been kicking around in my head since you wrote it. I finally got mine shaken loose enough to publish today, and that’s thanks to you. I love that I’m not the only one to see them this way. Beautifully done, friend.
[...] at Uncommon Curiosity writes about butch from the perspective of loving someone butch: Butch is that red-and-white, [...]
[...] and you can now see links and pop-out quotes from all the bloggers who joined in, some of my very best friends contributed their thoughts and prose and I think it’s a great [...]
I love, love, LOVE the rhythm in this piece. What Kyle said. It made me want to go write some poetic prose instead of the dry toast that is my post. It made me want internal rhymes, sight rhymes, and my butch partner to come home asap just so she can read this and point at my computer screen and say yes, that’s exactly it.
The bit about “It’s the mouse-catching, spider-moving, shelf-building, oil-changing young James Dean that blushes with pride when his girl asks him to pick up tampons at the store.” is the only definition of butch I’ve ever seen that encompasses someone as traditionally feminine as I am. It warmed my heart to read it. Thank you.
Now, off to hang some bookshelves… :0)
Thank you!
I’m so glad you liked it. Yours gave me a lot to think on, and I’m thrilled to see there’s another not-femme, not-butch writer out there talking about labels and how they do and do not fit. 
Thank you for this. You have no idea how much it means to know that you are out there and that you feel this way.
And thank you for saying that – you’ve made my whole day.
as a poet and lover of prose, this entry went straight (pardon the word) to the core of my being to expand understanding of butch beyond my experience of it…to broaden the scope of mind’s grasp to include a whole that is much greater than the sum of it’s parts.
reading your words has opened parts of my kenning that lie outside the great walled city.
This was simply a most delicious post.
mind watering wanting more
sense beyond words
by words enticed
to deeper depths and
higher heights
Thanks. I work in the trades, and some of what I go through each day . . . it is something else. It’s nice to read something positive.
I also just want to say that some of what femmes say they like about butches (bravery, attitude, etc) is more true of femmes in my opinion. To walk around being unapologetically feminine is very brave.
Thank you.
I agree.
Beautiful.
Just beautiful.
o.g.