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Finally, in a soft tone of voice I’d never heard from her before, she said, “Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I answered warily. Were we the kind of friends who talked like this, like we were familiar? Definitely not.
“It’s… I dunno. Sensitive? It’s lesbian stuff.”
I hadn’t meant to laugh again, but I couldn’t remember anyone ever phrasing a question like that. “Lesbian ‘stuff’?”
“Never mind.”
“No. I’m sorry.” That was rude of me. It was clear she wanted to ask a serious question. “Please, ask me.”
“Okay.” She fidgeted a little. I felt the movements under the dingy cloth upholstery covering my truck’s long bench seat, but then she stilled. She removed her hat and rested her hands over it on top of the pizza box on her lap. While I tried really hard not to notice how her hair cascaded down her back and how static inside the truck drew it to stick to the seatback, she asked, “What exactly does ‘butch’ mean?”
“What?” Wasn’t that Lesbian 101? She didn’t know that already?
“Am I… that? Do I dress butch? I wear flannel a lot. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to. When you look at me, is that what you see?”
“Why’re you askin’ me this?”
She hesitated, and there was so much vulnerability in that pause.
“No,” I said to ease the uncomfortable air surrounding her whole body that was pulsing out around her in waves. “I mean, I don’t really know the official definition of the word butch, but in my view, it’s a lesbian who prefers to present in a more masculine manner than feminine.” I risked a quick glance in her direction and saw her deep in thought, her eyebrows pinched together and a frown on her lips. “You know? Like women who might wear their hair in a guy’s type of hairstyle, or maybe they wear clothes that are traditionally more masculine. Maybe clothes that don’t accentuate the female parts of a woman’s body. A butch lesbian is more masculine than feminine.”
I shook my head. “You definitely don’t fit that description, and it has nothing to do with you wearing flannel. Everyone wears flannel.”
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop my eyes from finding their way between her thighs. Every time I looked her way, my eyes caught on her legs in her sexy, hip-hugging jeans. That wasn’t what I considered “butch.”
In fact, I considered myself more on the “butch” spectrum than Abey was. She wore her hair in a severe style for work, but like tonight, it was loose and gorgeous. Definitely feminine. She’d grown it out over the last year. She used to wear it the same length as me, maybe a little longer than my messy bob, probably for her job, but now, every time I saw her in town, it had grown longer.
“Actually,” I said, “the flannel looks really good on you. It brings out the highlights in your hair.” I nodded to her shirt. “And that flannel fits you well, in a feminine way.” I’d already imagined running my hands underneath so I could wrap them around her hips to pull her closer for a kiss.
Great, Devo. Way to be supportive of a fellow lesbian. Imagining mauling her with your tongue is not support.
“But does that mean… If I were butch, would that mean that I think like a man? Like I see myself as a man?”
“No, not necessarily. Some women might, but it’s not a prerequisite. Abey, LGBTQ is a spectrum. You fall on that spectrum wherever you choose to. There is no parameter you’re required to meet to be butch or not butch.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything.
“You are who you are,” I said. “Whoever you want to be.”
Had she never had friends she could talk to about this? What about her family? I talked to my mom about everything.
“Yeah, but…” she hedged. “Does it mean that I’m supposed to be with a certain type of woman?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Still, I could tell she felt uncomfortable, so I thought for a moment. Maybe I could find a better way to help her understand.
“Take me, for example,” I said. “I consider myself to be smack-dab in the middle of the spectrum. I’m one-hundred-percent gay. There’s no in between for me. I’m only attracted to women, but all kinds of women. My last long-term relationship was with a woman who’s extremely feminine, but then Dede, remember her? The bartender at Manny’s?”
“Yeah. She moved away, right?”
“Yeah, she did, about a year ago, I think, but we hooked up a few times before she left, and she’s more butch than anyone I’ve ever dated. Definitely more than you.”
“So then what kind of lesbian am I?”
“You tell me. How do you see yourself? What do you prefer in a partner?”
