Magic Circle Butch


Recently, in the fabulous pilates studio I frequent, as my classmates and I worked our inner thighs and did secret upper ab curls and frogs and stomach massage and other exciting pilates moves known only to the select few, there was a butch having a private session on the cadillac directly across from my reformer.

I know there are a couple of other lesbians who take classes there, but usually I am the only queer in the room. All the instructors are lovely and I feel pretty relaxed there, but it is nonetheless an incredibly straight, incredibly girl environment. My heart went out to that brave butch. Was she there to recover from an injury? Does she have back issues? A hip replacement? Whatever the reason, there she was in her sweats and big t-shirt, surrounded by straight women in skin tight pilates wear, being bossed around by one of the more diminutive instructors. Who, as I watched, produced a magic circle, which is a circle made from thin, flat, springy metal with pads on two sides so you can squeeze it. The instructor had the butch lie down on her back with her knees bent, legs apart, and put that magic circle right between her legs.

“Now squeeze! Be determined!” urged Miss Diminutive.

*          *          *

Even when people know that I’m queer and am married to another female, they quite frequently use male pronouns to refer to Tex. This is really no problem at all, but usually they get really embarrassed about it. The other day, this happened, and the straight woman, true to form, apologized up one side and down the other, and then proceeded to refer to Tex as my wife the rest of the evening. Even other queers do this, and also often refer to the two of us as “girls” or “ladies”.

*          *          *

At the Brown Bag Lunch Talk referred to in yesterday’s post, I watched with concern as an old person sat herself down across the room from me. At first, all I could see was her walker, and how tired she looked, tired and possibly ill, as she kept listing to the side and then wrenching herself back up. Slowly, though, I began noticing other things about her. Her brogues. The way her jeans were cuffed at the ankles. Her button down shirt. Her short hair cut. How she snickered when the talk turned to the (very odd) idea that femmes “go butch” when they get old. By the time she got up to leave, that old butch was fully in focus for me, and the enjoyment I got seeing her butch that walker the fuck out of the room was intense.

*          *          *

Babies, Mama sees you. All you brave, brave boys. I try so hard to let you know that I see you, in my home, in the pilates studio, at a lunchtime talk, everywhere, everywhere. I know you’ve been hurt and I know you’re being careful, holding it all together, not making eye contact and just maneuvering your way through a world where your precious butch sexuality is ignored, misunderstood, denigrated and ridiculed. But look up sometimes, not all the girls are straight, and some of them have your back. Some of them are so glad to see you, and are working hard to make a little room in the world for you to shine. Some of them know who is the girl and who is the guy, the wife and the husband. Some of them, with ancient femme sorcery, are surrounding you with a sexy shimmering magic circle of love and appreciation and support and joy. Some of them are walking with you, every fucking step of the way. You know I am.

Published in: on March 14, 2013 at 2:49 PM  Comments (1)  
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One CommentLeave a comment

  1. So nice to read your words again. Like a very nutritious and delicious midmorning snack! I was really touched and laughed out loud both.

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