Walking Between Worlds

March 21, 2010 at 8:30 pm (Walking Between Worlds) (, , )

Thoughts on Coming to Own My Butch Cock:  [Part One…I think] 

Like many lesbians of my generation, I grew up in the peak waves of the civil rights and the women’s movements, as well as the human rights political efforts and grassroots movements that were inspired by and birthed by those earlier attempts to progress our society.  And, like many of us, I read fervently every piece of feminist literature I could get my hands on from High School onward. [I still read feminist theory even though I find I disagree with most of what I read; I guess I keep reading now and then in the hope that I will disagree less and more of it will seem applicable to a life as a human being human.]  I became politically and socially charged at an early age.  I was 16 when I came out and I was in school at a fairly well known art school at the time.  I was surrounded by “people like me.” Artists of all kinds; actors; dancers; musicians; and women—lots of women of various ethnic, racial, religious and socio-economic backgrounds, my own age and older.  We did what people in a community like ours did:  we read, we studied, we played and fooled around, we talked; we sought [as we all do] to understand the world and our place in it; we sought to better ourselves and our world.

Naturally, it was a wonderful environment in which to come to know oneself and in which to come out as a lesbian.  And, as one would expect, there was an array of common and differing views on feminism and lesbianism.  I was not impressed with the separatists.  But, I did find myself responding to the rhetoric regarding the oppression of women as the first cause in all subsequent oppression of all who were “other” and the psychosocial evils of “the Patriarchy” for both women and men.  I drank the Kool-Aid.  Thus, for some time anyway, I fell victim to the scattered logic and dogma of the lesbian feminists.  Our elder role models—who had, indeed, suffered much so that we could be a little better off—delivered the message, on paper and in person, that anything that appeared male-emulating was bad form at the least and woman-subjugating at the worst. At the same time, we were sent the loud and clear messages to be ourselves, to be true to our identities, to own our love of women and of ourselves and to never let others define or diminish us.  Walking that walk was difficult to say the least. 

Particularly, if one was oriented toward things that, typically, were viewed as being connected to male social and cultural roles.  It was OK in the community to be “butch” as long as you were not too butch and did not appear to emulate males.  It was even worse if you actually looked ambiguous—androgyny was not cool at that time.  For many, it harkened back to the darker times in history when women over-emphasized male and female roles in ways that implied lesbian relationships were deranged caricatures of the existing male and female norms.  It was only in the fringe groups of our community that using a dildo was not seen as some kind of frustrated attempt to compensate for not being born a man.  Worse yet, the dominate voices in the lesbian community viewed the fringe groups as traitors to the cause, unenlightened, and as sexual deviants. It never ceases to fascinate me how effectively minority groups create minorities within the greater group:  we prejudge and discriminate against ourselves and wonder why the society as a whole does not see us as normal in the range of human experience and expression.  Because of this fact, the primary focus of most feminist literature addressed [and still does] the problem of developing a common, inclusive, and practical overall vision—a kind of mission statement of the equality of women as persons and the kinds of change that need to occur.  Interestingly, even though sexual behavior is part of sexual identity, the dialogue is still woefully convoluted in regard to the range of sexual exploration in the actualizing of ourselves as lesbians.  I just read, for example, a recent piece by a respected lesbian writer that plainly states that being butch and/or femme—and all that these orientations might involve behaviorally—somehow betrays us all in the fight for equality.  Stunning…and not in a good way.

So, what are we to do, those of us who are biologically disposed to love women, to be androgynous, and to enjoy and be good at things traditionally viewed as masculine?  I cannot speak for others, but I chose, a long time ago, to become a recovering feminist.  In my early 30s, I found myself returning to my more Peter-Paul-and-Mary roots and becoming more focused on the issues of simply being human and the internal and external struggles and joys inherent in being alive in the world and in relationship with it and its inhabitants.  After the ending of my last long-term relationship almost four years ago, I began to realize that I had sexual inclinations that I had not felt comfortable enough with my partner [or the previous one] to explore.  The last four years have been a time of greater self exploration and have resulted in a deepening sense of self regarding many aspects of my identity.  I have come to deeper levels of understanding and acceptance of my androgyny, my butch center, my mission in life and, in particular, my needs and dispositions regarding loving relationships.  Several months ago, I reconnected with a woman I have known and loved since college.  Aside from the fact that she and I have always had wonderful chemistry, I love her deeply and hope to spend the rest of my life with her.  

Her role in my freedom to explore the sexual aspects of my nature is large indeed.  We both are evolving sexually—and emotionally, spiritually, and personally.  Her understanding of me as a person, the dispositions of my personality and personhood, have been and are a much needed echo of my own growing self acceptance.  My understanding of her, I believe, has been the same kind of liberating and affirming acceptance for her as well.  In fact, in her high femme way, she is the perfect mate to my androgynous butch identity; she not only accepts my whole personhood, she revels in it.  It thrills her.  As her femme nature thrills me.  I not only accept her and her needs, I revel in them as well.  There is much healing and self-liberation going on between us. We have a truly loving, hot and adventurous sex life that would completely offend a large number of lesbian feminists.  I believe I speak for both of us when I say that we are thrilled that our behavior might offend some of our peers. 

We engage in all sorts of raucous and irreverent and loving behavior.  And, recently, we bought a cock for me.  Then, last week, we got another one.  It should not have taken me so long to do it.  It wasn’t that I was opposed to it.  I had long ago digested and recovered from the feminist Kool-Aid and moved on to bigger things politically, socially, and spiritually.  It, really, simply had not come up before. [No pun intended.]  I can honestly say that the first time I strapped and approached her with my newly acquired dick, I was a bit nervous and concerned about the mechanics of it all.  That lasted about a minute.  

Then, there was only the feel of her legs at my sides, her heels pressing my buttocks, the sight of this life-like cock moving inside her.  There was only this embrace.  The feel of the silicone balls against my clitoris.  The sound of her responsiveness: her breath at my neck; her breast beneath my tongue.  The explosion of freedom between us.  The wonder of her wrapped in both my arms, tightly.  It was as if I began to grow some kind of synthetic nerve endings and became attached to the thing—this appendage both me and not me, part of me and not part of me.  This thing we share is not male emulation; it is not some misogynistic thrusting away at her womanhood in order to subjugate her and keep her in her place.  It is simply one of many ways to penetrate her, to join with her, to be in communion together.  It is the loving—and exuberant—expression of a deep desire to please her, to enjoy her, to be as close to her as possible.  And, it is one of many ways to express my very real need to be both inside her and outside of her, to be free to touch her everywhere in every way I can.  It is my butch, baby boi cock.  And, I like it. I like what it does for me and for her. It is mine.  Part of myself.  Part of my identity with her, with us.  It is mine and I own it…and so does she.  It is part of who I am and always have been—finally finding freedom.  It is a deep embrace, indeed.  Not only of her, but of myself as well.  And, it is good. 

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