“Broken-Hearted Butch”

Maybe she likes you back. Maybe she wants you back, maybe she says she’s attracted to you but she’s confused, but you doubt yourself anyway. Because why would she want you, broken rough-edged you, when she could be “normal”? Why would she want to be with you when she could be with a nice man that her mom will like? Why would she choose you when she could choose him, someone that she can take home to her family, that she can marry in a big field with flower girls and a ring bearer. Everyone at that wedding will be happy because they’ll feel like she’s safe with this man, she’ll have a beautiful life with this man, someday she’ll have babies in the image of this man and of her and of a future that doesn’t involve shame, confusion, having to jump through hoops, having to lose family or friends, having to make sacrifices and tough decisions just to hold a hand on the street. She could be normal, she could be blissfully normal, and all you have to offer is a pair of empty palms with the lines all out of order.

But god, you can do things with those palms. That’s what you wish you could tell her when you’re staring at your shoes or finishing that drink or pretending there’s nothing else to say. You can do things with those hands and those fingers, you’ve spent a lifetime in bedrooms preparing for a body like hers. You learned to love her on a sea of skin and spines that spelled out “soon, you’ll meet her soon,” and you want to show her with your own skin, your own lips, your rough and soft edges, that you can give her something no one else can. You learned how to desire and pleasure in your own way, and you want to show her life through that pleasure. You want to turn her towards your window and let her see the view.

Butch Please on Autostraddle


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