Here at the AWOP GLBTQ page, we’ve had articles on coming out, first loves, politics, and just about ever other facet of everyday life. One of the unfortunate by-products of a divorce – gay or straight – is the sometimes very poor way some adults handle themselves in front of the children of their broken union.    We all struggle through our lives dealing with all sorts of tumult.  This essay, by Nina, brings to the fore that even while the story is not a new one in the annals of acrimonious divorce, the added element of being a gay parent can bring us even bigger challenges, especially in those states were gay relationships have no equal standing in the law. ~ GLBTQ Editor

Take it in for a moment.  Did it hurt your feelings?   Did it make you mad?  Think about it for a moment.  No, think long and hard about it.   If you are part of the GLBT community and did not actually gestate that child you are raising, YOU MEAN NOTHING.  And even if you gave birth don’t think that you children will not be taken from you.  You are gay, period.

I have been married twice. Seven years to the father of my first two children. The divorce had nothing to do with my sexuality. It had everything to do with verbal abuse, the need to create lame explanations for bruises, and because I was tired of finding drugs hidden in stupid places, like under our claw foot bathtub. I finally had enough and I filed for divorce.

My second marriage was eight years, and he gave me two more beautiful children. That divorce is all on me. Regardless of all his quirks and imperfections, it had nothing to do with him. I am a lesbian.  I didn’t begin to figure it out until after our second baby was born and truthfully, I would still be married to him if I hadn’t realized that my deep unhappiness and disinterest in being intimate wasn’t because I was emotionally broken and unfixable. Why I couldn’t have had this revelation at some other time in my life, I don’t know. Believe me, I have asked the universe more than once. And to clarify, when I use the word revelation, I don’t mean it was a sudden knowing. It had layers of discoveries and insights. Late blooming lesbians are like onions, and ogres I guess.

I have been married twice. Seven years to the father of my first two children. The divorce had nothing to do with my sexuality. It had everything to do with verbal abuse, the need to create lame explanations for bruises, and because I was tired of finding drugs hidden in stupid places, like under our claw foot bathtub. I finally had enough and I filed for divorce.

My second marriage was eight years, and he gave me two more beautiful children. That divorce is all on me. Regardless of all his quirks and imperfections, it had nothing to do with him. I am a lesbian.  I didn’t begin to figure it out until after our second baby was born and truthfully, I would still be married to him if I hadn’t realized that my deep unhappiness and disinterest in being intimate wasn’t because I was emotionally broken and unfixable. Why I couldn’t have had this revelation at some other time in my life, I don’t know. Believe me, I have asked the universe more than once. And to clarify, when I use the word revelation, I don’t mean it was a sudden knowing. It had layers of discoveries and insights. Late blooming lesbians are like onions, and ogres I guess.

It seems as if when I try to cite a reason why I am attracted to butch women, up pops an exception to the why. For instance, I love a woman with short cropped hair. Except when that woman like Amy Ray and Emily Saliers, Jodie Foster or Melissa Etheridge (before her struggle with cancer) all make me crazy and they have longer hair (I add in here my partner does too). So, it could be said that I love a butch with short hair except when the butch has long hair (a note: Melissa Etheridge without hair flipped my trigger too). Perhaps it can be said that I am attracted to butch women who have short hair, long hair, and no hair. I may be a reticent nymphomaniac, but I prefer to think I am just an equal opportunity femme just brimming with my new-found sexuality.

Butch women walk with confidence. This I know. They look like they are about to take a running jump to wrestle an alligator. Their shoulders are square and their chin never tilts downward unless it’s to tie the laces on their boots. Except that a butch’s laces never come untied.

Butch women smell good. They smell of cologne. They put on just enough so that you have to get close to smell it. You know that place right? Just under their ear at the curve of their neck and the edge their hairline? Sometimes they smell of plain soap and water, clean and scrubbed and perfect. And somehow, I don’t know how they do it but they never smell like cigarette smoke. Even if they themselves smoke. Somehow smoke never sticks to them. But above all, they smell like a woman. It seeps through their pores and permeates my senses. A smell so distinct and subtle that it literally vibrates with electricity.

Butches move as though they wrote the play. When asking you to dance they hold out their hand softly, palm up, fingers beckoning like Fred Astaire. When you put your hand to theirs they curl up their fingers tight, but not too tight. They touch you in places that honor your femininity. Your hands, your wrists, the small of your back. They will cup one hand to fit your jaw line and cradle your face as they pull you close enough to kiss you. And when they do they dive into you claiming their dominance and at that very moment, making you the most powerful woman in the world.

I want a butch to lead me to bed but allow me to wander… I want her to devour me then give me room to memorize every curve of her body… I want to watch her lose herself in her orgasm above me and have her watch me find myself in mine… her clothes stay on long after mine are thrown into a pile on the floor and she stays naked long after I have risen to make her coffee.

“Butch” is an attitude. An aura. It’s not tangible except that it is. It is easy to explain and impossible if the person isn’t likewise attracted. It’s sexuality, and we are all keyed differently.

Butches have tattoos … even if they don’t. Period.

Butches wear ties… even if they don’t. Period.

Butches play guitar… even if they can’t. Period.