butch/femme

Last night, just as I was settling comfortably into bed, Tickles the cat strode triumphantly into my room. He had a mouse in his mouth. I found myself trying to figure out who to call out to, who to ask to deal with this. With a start I realized that there was nobody to turn to except myself. Everyone else was asleep, and even if the house was fully awake, the only one who’d readily take on this task is Karl, who will be moving away in a few weeks. Karl has always been reliable in regards to dealing with spiders, mangled birds, rats, rattlesnakes and other assorted unpleasantnesses. He’s also willing to carry heavy objects, no questions asked, or objections made.

As I looked Tickles in the eye, I faced the fact that this was one of the downfalls of not being involved with someone. It’s been a year now that I’ve been single; the longest stretch since I first hooked up with someone at fifteen. Every one of my exes would have readily dealt with this situation, would have assumed instant responsibility for it. I’m no slouch for work; I’ll cheerfully tackle cleaning up the kitchen, whipping up a meal for a slew of unexpected guests, or re-arranging the living room no problem. I am the oldest of three sisters and we grew up out in the country. As such, I dealt with all manner of gross situations. I’ve been in charge of burying a sheep that got attacked by wild dogs, and to keep reburying it when it kept getting dug up by the same said dogs. I was not a coddled girly-girl. I can deal with gross stuff if I have to. I’m capable and I’m strong.

As Tickles dropped the mouse, I sighed with self-realization. Despite my childhood, and my feminism, I am a girly-girl, a real femme. I’d rather do just about anything than deal with a dead mouse. And thankfully, the mouse was indeed dead. It lay there not moving.

I shooed Tickles away and got some paper towels. Overcoming some deep resistance and fighting my inner girly-girl, I picked up the mouse, feeling the warmth of the departing life-force thru the paper, and I carried it down the backstairs and left it in the garden.

How strange and mysterious this life-force is! What makes me cringe at such a task and others assume it? I thought of Friday night when Fern and I went to the Butch-Femme Social. When our table was jostled and a glass broke, Jude jumped up immediately, admonishing me to be careful, and gathered up the shards quickly. She, of course, is butch. In my book, butch is not male, and certainly not macho. Karl is not macho, but he is damn butch. Butch is protective and nurturing in just the way I like it. Not just willing to carry out the dead mouse or carry up the heavy box, but doing it with the spirit of caretaking. A few of my male partners would do such tasks with a macho sensibility, which always seems to contain a dash of resentment and hostility. Butch is different. I love it.

I talked to my best friend about this today and we both laughed heartily. We are both queer as queer can be, true Aquarians. She is gorgeous, sexy, and I love her so much sometimes I can feel my heart stretching. We’d make excellent partners except for this small and mighty matter of the mouse. What a wonder it is this spirit, this energy of butch and femme! I’ve been a therapist and human long enough to know that it’s innate, something natural, not just cultural programming or socialization.

Who knows what the coming years will bring? I may fall in love with a woman, or I may fall in love with a man. Male or female, I’m guessing my next partner will be butch. It’s a quality I love. Especially when I’m facing a dead mouse.