another butch pride post—i really like this one
god bless that big ol’ bitch with her knees full of gravel and breakfast jack daniel’s, coming sideways off the curb because the good lord made concrete hard and then had the nerve to invent hips. every step costs her. the little catch in the leg, the mouth going flat, the hand out like she’s blessing traffic and threatening it in the same motion. she ain’t taking her sweet time. she ain’t making a parade out of being alive. she’s hurrying because somebody in a hot car is waiting, because respect was beat into the woodwork where she came from, because a butch with any raising knows her pain don’t give her leave to act like the only person on earth.
and still she’d beat that eight year old boy in a playground race if there was a lady at the finish line needing walked to her car. that boy could have all the new sneakers and summer knees god gave him. she’d come dragging up behind him, breathing like a lawn mower full of bad gas, tits smashed down, shirt wet at the spine, cussing low enough to sour the grass, and she’d pass his ass out of pure principle. she’d win ugly. she’d win sideways. she’d win because chivalry was down there waiting with a purse in one hand and a sorry-looking man standing too close.
god bless the fat fucking butch.
backbone of america, if you ask me. more backbone than any clean-cuffed preacher sweating through revival, more backbone than every rooster-hearted man at the diner talking about hard times over eggs he didn’t cook and coffee he didn’t pour. the fat butch knows hard times in the body. knows it in the knees, the back, the blood sugar, the boot heel worn crooked, the walmart sports bra sawing her raw by three in the afternoon. still she stands. still she opens the jar. still she checks the oil. still she carries the case of water in from the truck because a pretty woman said, oh, i can get it, and everybody with sense knows that sentence is a trap laid by pride.
i learned a lot from the fat butch.
how to be a man without turning into some sorry son of a bitch. how to stand with my hands still. how to talk from the ribs without puffing up like cheap bread. how to tie a tie in the mirror while sweating through a shirt and calling the knot every foul thing in scripture. how to hold respect and confidence in the same shaky breath, which is near ‘bout the whole art if anybody has the sense to shut up and study it. too much respect and you turn into a servant. too much confidence and you turn into a man. the fat butch taught me the narrow road between: head up, voice steady, hands worth a damn and a dime, ego kept on a leash with a choke chain.
she taught me the old rules. open the car, then move your ass. don’t hover there waiting to be thanked like a doggone pageant queen. the gesture belongs to the girl, not to your performance. if she wants your hand, she’ll find it. if she wants to climb in on her own, let her. the point ain’t to make her small. the point is to make the world less rough where she has to touch it.
same with flowers. don’t bring some gas-station rose wrapped in plastic like an apology for cheating unless you enjoy looking cheap and guilty. get the bouquet that shows you stood there confused in front of the buckets and made a choice anyway. trim the stems with the kitchen scissors. put the damn things in water before they hang their heads like baptists after gossip. write the note so sweet it makes your stomach hurt. sappy as hell. humiliating. the kind of note a lesser butch would fold into a joke before it had time to be honest. hand it over anyway. if love don’t make you look a little stupid, you probably kept the best part for yourself.
she taught me cooking. real cooking. onion in a pan. grease popping. paper towels laid out. meat seasoned by sight because measuring spoons are for people who still believe the world can be reasoned with. she taught me how to feed a woman after a bad day without asking twenty dumb questions. plate first. talking after. she taught me a shelf ought to hold. a screw ought to bite. a loose hinge ought to be handled before it gets on everybody’s nerves. love, in her house, had a hammer in it. love had dish soap and a socket set. love had somebody muttering motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ goddamn cunt under the sink and coming up sweaty with the problem fixed.
and yes, god bless the fat butch for the nasty education too.
she said quit acting scared of the pussy, for one. said it plain as ordering tea. start from the hole and go up. there it is. christ almighty, you’d think they hid the thing in the county records the way some people go looking. pay attention. don’t jab around like a boy trying to kill a wasp. use your hips. you got hips, don’t you? then quit standing there like a fence post with feelings. if she says right there, stay right there. if she grabs the sheet, learn. if she laughs at you, live through it. pride has ruined more women’s nights than bad headboards and cheap whiskey put together.
the fat butch taught me how to cuss until the cussing got respectable from exhaustion. fuck where other people put like. goddamn where other people put um. shit as punctuation. bitch as love and as hate depending on who you’re talkin’ to, and most of the time nobody can tell the difference. she could say get in the truck, bitch, and it sounded warmer than most people saying i missed you. she could call a man honey and leave him bleeding without ever lifting her voice. southern women know that trick, but a butch—a real butch—makes it lethal. sugar in the mouth, axe in the shed.
god bless that fat bitch who hears i’m taken and lets the want rot where it stands.
the old code. the pretty femme smiles, and any damn fool can mistake a smile for a gate left open. the fat butch knows better. she knows friendliness has been getting women cornered since eden, knows a femme can be sweet without offering herself up like sunday pie. she hears i’m taken and steps back clean. maybe it burns. maybe it pisses her off. maybe she’ll go home later and say something ugly to the ceiling fan, something she’d slap another woman for believing about herself. in the parking lot, she behaves. she walks the girl across anyway. watches the cars. keeps the body between danger and beauty without making an invoice out of it.
because wanting ain’t rare. wanting breeds in the trash if you leave it alone long enough. discipline is the thing. manners with lust behind them. hands that know when to stay empty. a mouth filthy enough to strip paint and still decent enough to say yes ma’am, no ma’am, you need anything before i go?
god bless the fat fucking butch. the one with sore feet and a mean laugh, with a lighter in the console and ibuprofen loose in the bottom of her bag, with sweat in the crease of her stomach and a love note folded in the glove box because she got embarrassed and couldn’t hand it over yet. the one who looks rough and acts right. the one who could ruin a whole life in the best possible way and still ask whether you ate. the one who knows masculinity ain’t some thrift-store costume or a haircut or a pack of marlboros, and that it sure as shit ain’t standing in the corner looking wounded and mysterious.
masculinity is getting up when the knees say no because somebody is waiting.
masculinity is wanting the girl and leaving her free.
masculinity is knowing to use the flat of your tongue when you’re chin-deep in some pussy.
it’s knowing where the wrench is, where the good vase got put, where her spare key lives, where the streetlight quits reaching at the edge of the lot.
masculinity is a fat butch in a heat-warped town, sweating through cotton, limping like hell, cussing like a deacon’s worst daughter, carrying flowers in one hand and a toolbox in the other, every step hurting like a motherfucker, every step still aimed toward care.
god bless the fat ass motherfuckin’ butch who taught me how to love with my mouth dirty and my hands clean.
snowghoul
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
