I Imagine the Butchesâ Stripper Bar
At my butchesâ stripper bar you can watch butches fold laundry, iron. Objectify them while they slowly refinish a rolltop desk, take off a trailer hitch. They file taxes, wear waders, bake you a layer cake. Iâll lay her cake, my imagined patrons mutter. I think of who I eroticize, how: theyâre always getting stuff done. At real stripper bars women just danceâso many things they could be checking off their lists. I guess men donât want to see women work? They get that at home? In my Champagne Room the butches plant bulbs, build bookshelves, clean basements, write checks to the ACLU, retrain your dog. Fantastic grow the flannel plaids; they lean and squint, lick pencils, adjust a miter box. They make box lunches, chicken stock. The butches make your day.
                                                                                                                                             -Jill McDonough
Hee.






























