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.