Buck’n’Butch

I often find myself daydreaming about the day I get to come home to the love of my life. In that quiet little world we build together I’d take care of the bills, and she’d handle the grocery shopping. Not because it’s her job but because I loathe it and secretly love carrying her bags, watching the way she lights up when she’s picked out our favorite things.

She’d have a job she loves. something that fills her soul not just her wallet. Something that gives her both freedom and passion, and a little extra to spend on herself. Because even though I want to provide for her, I also want her to feel empowered, independent, alive in her own right.

If life goes according to plan maybe we both get to retire early. Preferably sometime in my 40s, or 50s at the latest. And after long days where I have to wear a hardened exterior coming home and melting into her arms would feel like the greatest gift. A sacred softness in a world that demands so much toughness.

I dream of creating a sanctuary with her. a peaceful chaos all our own where nothing outside really matters. Where I get to care for her in ways only I can, learning her rhythms, her thoughts, her little tells. I want to study her in every way, not just her body, but her mind, her soul. To understand how she sees the world. It understand how she feels loved and how I can meet her there, every time.

I crave a kind of intimacy that feels insatiable. the kind that scares me with its depth. I crave her—not just the version she shows the world, but the one she hides. And I know that to earn that vulnerability from her id have to give her mine, completely. It’s terrifying how deeply I want to love and be loved like that.

lesbians have got to get meaner