One of the things that being femme did was relieve me of having to perform certain duties that I actually don’t like to perform. You know, how real women are supposed to be able to do everything for themselves, from opening the door to operating a skid steer? I am not one of those femmes who can brag about wielding chain saws and changing the oil whilst rocking fish nets and 6 inch spiked heels. I don’t like to change the oil; I would hate to have to remember how to change a tire; I have no interest in using a chain saw or chopping wood or any of those other things. And I really don’t like putting gas in the car.
Usually my butch does these things for me, and that actually makes me feel more femme, more queer, and I don’t have to feel less of a woman, less of a feminist because I don’t like to do these typically “manly” things.
Today, however, the tank was on empty. And I was a bit far from home. I was in a town that had self serve gas stations, unlike my own darling town where that is outlawed. You can’t find a self serve gas station in my town! It’s fabulous. So, even though my butch has assured me that when the tank warning light goes on I can still drive for 20 miles, I’m actually not very good at gauging miles, so I didn’t know if I would be able to get home.
Bravely, I said to myself, “Suck it up and go into the self serve gas station, ‘cause it’s not like your dad didn’t teach you how to do this when you were 14 and learning to drive in the VW bus.” So I did.
I drove up. I got out. I put in the credit card and I had to fiddle around with it for a long time, but finally it let me start pumping. And I did. I filled up the tank and I got back in the car, and I said to myself, “Good job, little lady!”
That’s when I noticed there was gas all over my leopard skin patterned gloves.
Femme Friday will return soon! Watch this space, and don’t touch that dial.
The Total Femme 