Enamoured
If you had met me when I was young you would have said I was boy crazy. It was the softer boys –the ones who wore pressed shirts and combed their hair down gently across their foreheads –who made my knees buckle. I’d watch the apples of their cheeks push their glasses up the bridge of their nose as they’d smile, or admire their agility as they weaved the soccer ball around their opponents. These were not the boys who started fights or had dirt on their knees. I fell in love with their sweetness, with their lean, square shoulders and soft eyes. But this was before the girls around me shed the skin that had been forced upon them.
In my teenage years I caught my gaze drifting. Tomboys seemed to emerge around me in an almost holy revelation. By the beginning of high school, my lesbian identity had solidified. Still, coming out challenged the way I saw myself. I struggled with gender roles, even within the queer community. My own gender reflection went through the motions as I tried to find peace in being truly femme, truly myself, but invisible. Inside, I was still a shy adolescent girl, hoping to catch the eye of the boy I liked as we passed each other in the hallway at school. It was still the short cropped hair and boyish grins that made my heart pound; I was wholly enamoured with masculinity. But it was difficult to not feel as though I had to justify my attraction to it while affirming my sexuality and my gender expression. I grappled with myself, with the world around me, to be taken seriously.
“I was wholly enamoured with masculinity. But it was difficult to not feel as though I had to justify my attraction to it while affirming my sexuality and my gender expression. I grappled with myself, with the world around me, to be taken seriously.”
As I grew older I fully embraced my love of butches. I had been welcomed into the beautiful rituals of their world. I straightened tie clips and rolled shirt sleeves, watched as binders were pulled taut across chests. I’d run my fingers through the hair at the nape of their neck while they were driving, and feel the curve of their waist through a favorite baggy t-shirt. I’d blush, endlessly turned on by collections of sports bras and boxer briefs. It was in this worship that I discovered I was worthy of the same. For the first time I felt that wearing dresses and heels didn’t make me weak, that spending time on my hair and makeup didn’t make me vain. I was lauded for my femininity, encouraged by my counterparts.
There is something very powerful about the duality of masculine women. Delicate, yet strong. Beautiful and handsome. Empathetic but unfaltering. They are endlessly diverse, boldly defiant, shamelessly honest. It requires bravery to be their true selves, challenging what they are told they should be for the world around them and daring to live in a way that claims their lives as their own. I have so much admiration for these gorgeous women who steady me through my life, hold me while I sleep, and love me without constraint. In many ways they’ve shaped my world, but have also given me the strength to live in it.
If you had met me when I was young you would have said I was boy crazy. It was the softer boys –the ones who wore pressed shirts and combed their hair down gently across their foreheads –who made my knees buckle. I’d watch the apples of their cheeks push their glasses up the bridge of their nose as they’d smile, or admire their agility as they weaved the soccer ball around their opponents. These were not the boys who started fights or had dirt on their knees. I fell in love with their sweetness, with their lean, square shoulders and soft eyes. But this was before the girls around me shed the skin that had been forced upon them.
In my teenage years I caught my gaze drifting. Tomboys seemed to emerge around me in an almost holy revelation. By the beginning of high school, my lesbian identity had solidified. Still, coming out challenged the way I saw myself. I struggled with gender roles, even within the queer community. My own gender reflection went through the motions as I tried to find peace in being truly femme, truly myself, but invisible. Inside, I was still a shy adolescent girl, hoping to catch the eye of the boy I liked as we passed each other in the hallway at school. It was still the short cropped hair and boyish grins that made my heart pound; I was wholly enamoured with masculinity. But it was difficult to not feel as though I had to justify my attraction to it while affirming my sexuality and my gender expression. I grappled with myself, with the world around me, to be taken seriously.
“I was wholly enamoured with masculinity. But it was difficult to not feel as though I had to justify my attraction to it while affirming my sexuality and my gender expression. I grappled with myself, with the world around me, to be taken seriously.”
As I grew older I fully embraced my love of butches. I had been welcomed into the beautiful rituals of their world. I straightened tie clips and rolled shirt sleeves, watched as binders were pulled taut across chests. I’d run my fingers through the hair at the nape of their neck while they were driving, and feel the curve of their waist through a favorite baggy t-shirt. I’d blush, endlessly turned on by collections of sports bras and boxer briefs. It was in this worship that I discovered I was worthy of the same. For the first time I felt that wearing dresses and heels didn’t make me weak, that spending time on my hair and makeup didn’t make me vain. I was lauded for my femininity, encouraged by my counterparts.
There is something very powerful about the duality of masculine women. Delicate, yet strong. Beautiful and handsome. Empathetic but unfaltering. They are endlessly diverse, boldly defiant, shamelessly honest. It requires bravery to be their true selves, challenging what they are told they should be for the world around them and daring to live in a way that claims their lives as their own. I have so much admiration for these gorgeous women who steady me through my life, hold me while I sleep, and love me without constraint. In many ways they’ve shaped my world, but have also given me the strength to live in it.
