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musings, poetry

Not Your Butch, Not My Lady

It is my hand on the small of your back
It is me stepping in front to hold open the door for you
I will carry your packages
I will install your shelves
I will hammer in nails; lay tile; hang pictures

But I am not “your butch”
And you are not “my lady”
Why must we label things?
Are we children who must give everything a name
For us to confirm its existence?

I will cook you dinner
I will not make you breakfast or lunch
I will do the laundry and fold everything
(except the fitted sheets)
I will not clean; there are limits to my domesticity
But I will happily pay for the service

But I am not “your butch”
And you are not “my lady”
I do this because I care for you
Not out of obligation because of how I may look
Or how you may look opposite to me

I love heels and boots and feathered hair
I love it on me and I love it on you
I enjoy picking you up and pressing you into the sofa
I love it when you do that to me, too
Unzip my dress; undo my tie
Unwrap me like a Christmas present

But I am not “your butch”
And you are not “my lady”
We are what we are
We are what we need to be to, and for, each other
Love me as I love you
Completely

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About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.

Discussion

2 thoughts on “Not Your Butch, Not My Lady

  1. Love this! x

    Posted by becca687 | 30 March 2013, 1516 EDT

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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

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