Proceed Gayly Forward
“It turns out there are a thousand different ways to be gay. Several of them involve being of service. Sex as an act of service to a cis man always felt completely gross, and I could never bring myself to do it, no matter how much I loved a dude and how easy it would have been to make him happy. Sex as an act of service to a queer, on the other hand, feels right, and possibly sacred.”
I wrote an article for a BINADW print magazine a few years ago about coming out as a straight butch. That isn’t the whole story. There will never be a whole story. But there are more chapters. The one about how after I came out, I went back in, and then came back out again. The one where I found out about leather. The one about Idaho and Chicago.
We’ll start with the one where, at 42, I found out I am not a straight butch.
It happened like this. None of the girls I messed around with in elementary school and junior high and high school and college and my 20s really did it for me. The only women I got really crushed out on looked like men, who I also got crushed out on. Obviously, this just proved how straight I was.
After ambivalently dating cis guys for 20 years I came out as asexual. Yes, I got crushes, but relationships never lasted, and neither did my desire and at some point, I realized if I never had sex again I’d be totally fine with it. Being asexual, or ace, meant I could dress like I wanted without having to worry about attracting men. Aka like a total lesbian.
This felt great. I started replacing my weird half-assed straight girl wardrobe with boxy t-shirts and men’s jeans. I had no idea how to shop for men’s clothes, so I jumped down the butch social media rabbit hole. For fashion advice. And then I was like, “Holy shit, some of these people are really fucking hot. Wait. OH.”
The butches I found myself staring at were not just hot in the ways they were like men, but also in the ways they were unlike men. The particular fit of men’s jeans on a butch ass. White t-shirts riding up wide hips and stretched taut across the chest. The softness of muscular arms.
The softness, in general, and the contrasts, soft skin under heavy leather, the round yoke of big shoulders, a hard stare from a soft face. And the unprotected way I wanted them, not complicated and defensive the way I was drawn to men.
It turns out there are a thousand different ways to be gay. Several of them involve being of service. Sex as an act of service to a cis man always felt completely gross, and I could never bring myself to do it, no matter how much I loved a dude and how easy it would have been to make him happy. Sex as an act of service to a queer, on the other hand, feels right, and possibly sacred.
I want to say I never was asexual, I was just gay. I want to say discovering this made everything make sense. That I met the butch of my dreams and suddenly found myself in a rewarding, committed relationship, and understood for the first time what love really is.
Well, that didn’t happen. I am still kind of ace. I am also, in the words of the great Hannah Gadsby, a little bit lesbian, and everything does make more sense now.
I was hesitant to come out as anything because I didn’t feel like I was anything. Mostly not into sex, mostly not into emotions or relationships. Mostly I just swooned. I didn’t think I had anything to offer. But I do. I can give pleasure, and I can inflict pain.
It turns out there are a thousand different ways to be gay. Several of them involve being of service. Sex as an act of service to a cis man always felt completely gross, and I could never bring myself to do it, no matter how much I loved a dude and how easy it would have been to make him happy. Sex as an act of service to a queer, on the other hand, feels right, and possibly sacred.
I don’t give emotions to my sex partner. I don’t give them access to my body. I just pull orgasm after orgasm out of them, with my fist, a cane, my boot, because they fucking deserve it. I don’t think ace is the right word for how I feel when their muscles clench around my hand.
I will always have imposter syndrome. It is getting a little smaller with all of the fucking. It got a little smaller when a butch gave me my first leathers, and again when one broke my heart. But it never leaves.
Sometimes I wonder, why now? This could all just be a product of going on antidepressants or my reproductive system starting to break down. It all happened around the same time, about a year ago. Part of me is terrified that if my prescription or my hormones change I will snap back to my awkward, insecure straight self and this will all have been a phase.
That could happen. I could grow out my hair and go back to dudes someday. It’s hard to imagine, but you never know. One consequence of having changed so much over a lifetime is never being able to trust who I am or what I like, because I’m liable to keep changing. I have already gone back and forth between out and not out a few times over the years: Feeling emboldened and letting the snake out, then shifting and buying something pink and tight to try to make yet another go of it in the straight world.
What stands out to me, though, is that none of this feels new. Who I am now is not a recent invention. This is someone I’ve been before, someone I’ve always been. This is who I was when I was young and cocky, before heteronormativity got its hands all over me. In some basic way, this is as real as it gets.
I wrote an article for a BINADW print magazine a few years ago about coming out as a straight butch. That isn’t the whole story. There will never be a whole story. But there are more chapters. The one about how after I came out, I went back in, and then came back out again. The one where I found out about leather. The one about Idaho and Chicago.
We’ll start with the one where, at 42, I found out I am not a straight butch.
It happened like this. None of the girls I messed around with in elementary school and junior high and high school and college and my 20s really did it for me. The only women I got really crushed out on looked like men, who I also got crushed out on. Obviously, this just proved how straight I was.
After ambivalently dating cis guys for 20 years I came out as asexual. Yes, I got crushes, but relationships never lasted, and neither did my desire and at some point, I realized if I never had sex again I’d be totally fine with it. Being asexual, or ace, meant I could dress like I wanted without having to worry about attracting men. Aka like a total lesbian.
This felt great. I started replacing my weird half-assed straight girl wardrobe with boxy t-shirts and men’s jeans. I had no idea how to shop for men’s clothes, so I jumped down the butch social media rabbit hole. For fashion advice. And then I was like, “Holy shit, some of these people are really fucking hot. Wait. OH.”
The butches I found myself staring at were not just hot in the ways they were like men, but also in the ways they were unlike men. The particular fit of men’s jeans on a butch ass. White t-shirts riding up wide hips and stretched taut across the chest. The softness of muscular arms.
The softness, in general, and the contrasts, soft skin under heavy leather, the round yoke of big shoulders, a hard stare from a soft face. And the unprotected way I wanted them, not complicated and defensive the way I was drawn to men.
It turns out there are a thousand different ways to be gay. Several of them involve being of service. Sex as an act of service to a cis man always felt completely gross, and I could never bring myself to do it, no matter how much I loved a dude and how easy it would have been to make him happy. Sex as an act of service to a queer, on the other hand, feels right, and possibly sacred.
I want to say I never was asexual, I was just gay. I want to say discovering this made everything make sense. That I met the butch of my dreams and suddenly found myself in a rewarding, committed relationship, and understood for the first time what love really is.
Well, that didn’t happen. I am still kind of ace. I am also, in the words of the great Hannah Gadsby, a little bit lesbian, and everything does make more sense now.
I was hesitant to come out as anything because I didn’t feel like I was anything. Mostly not into sex, mostly not into emotions or relationships. Mostly I just swooned. I didn’t think I had anything to offer. But I do. I can give pleasure, and I can inflict pain.
It turns out there are a thousand different ways to be gay. Several of them involve being of service. Sex as an act of service to a cis man always felt completely gross, and I could never bring myself to do it, no matter how much I loved a dude and how easy it would have been to make him happy. Sex as an act of service to a queer, on the other hand, feels right, and possibly sacred.
I don’t give emotions to my sex partner. I don’t give them access to my body. I just pull orgasm after orgasm out of them, with my fist, a cane, my boot, because they fucking deserve it. I don’t think ace is the right word for how I feel when their muscles clench around my hand.
I will always have imposter syndrome. It is getting a little smaller with all of the fucking. It got a little smaller when a butch gave me my first leathers, and again when one broke my heart. But it never leaves.
Sometimes I wonder, why now? This could all just be a product of going on antidepressants or my reproductive system starting to break down. It all happened around the same time, about a year ago. Part of me is terrified that if my prescription or my hormones change I will snap back to my awkward, insecure straight self and this will all have been a phase.
That could happen. I could grow out my hair and go back to dudes someday. It’s hard to imagine, but you never know. One consequence of having changed so much over a lifetime is never being able to trust who I am or what I like, because I’m liable to keep changing. I have already gone back and forth between out and not out a few times over the years: Feeling emboldened and letting the snake out, then shifting and buying something pink and tight to try to make yet another go of it in the straight world.
What stands out to me, though, is that none of this feels new. Who I am now is not a recent invention. This is someone I’ve been before, someone I’ve always been. This is who I was when I was young and cocky, before heteronormativity got its hands all over me. In some basic way, this is as real as it gets.
