I love my Butch brothers. I really do. Few people in our lives have seen us as clearly as we see each other. That is why lone islands are sometimes shy with each other. That is why a gentle punch on the arm is almost too intimate and too wonderful to bear. Even when we are chuckling easily over Femmes, it is not posturing. The connection is in fact so real, simply standing together on a curb with my brothers makes my chest swell.
I love the gallant tin god in all of us. Some of my brothers try to git the girls by riding the edge of badassedness. Others insult the vulgarity of the badasses with a righteous swing of their cape… to impress those other girls. Then there are the Butches are peacemakers, out of heart, out of habit, and sometimes to get the girls. The shy contenders stand on the fringes hoping some sweet Femme will see the stud inside. I have a nod for the fat ones who stride with their chests high and mighty; thin ones who saunter with rounded shoulders to hide their breasts; the short ones who stand with such *gotdam* authority. I feel affinity for young ones with their arms jacked awkwardly at the hips, afraid someone might notice they haven’t found their center yet. The poets, the civic-minded, the quiet ones who only yell at football games. Those ardent hero lovers, sudden Romeos after being whacked to awareness by some seductive Femme. Brave charmers who plot the move, smoothing qualm into calm. There are some Butches who appear achingly tender because of the life they have led, but we all know they are sinewy and fierce for the same reason. Knights, all of them.
My favorite brothers? Those open Butches who don’t have the sense to damper their own earnest. Profoundly generous… with a love so sweet they seem almost out of place. Extravagant chivalry is built right in. Happily comes complete with corny grand gestures and batteries that rarely run down. A Butch who will faithfully help strangers simply because it is the right thing to do. Even though women are his weakness, you can ask this brother to guard your jewel. His scars still sting, but they are not stitched with his pride. Finding that boi is so special, I am guarded against any delicateness in my voice when we speak. Graying but still flapping like old dog ears out of a car window. The bright voice of that schoolboy will never break.
Queer Commentary, The Saga of Swagger, Highlights | 9 Comments »
Fourteen and naive, I had a crush on a beautiful boy in my art class. His name was Kenny. He had huge brown eyes with lush lashes that brushed his cheek, and a wide smile. He also had unusually long nails for a boy. I was admiring them and said “You should paint those.” You know how a queen loves to shock. His cheeks went rose, his eyes lit up and he replied, “I do.” What a curious thing to say.
