Guess Who Is Not Wearing A Safety Pin?


In 20+ years of being catcalled I have never had anyone else confront the harasser or ask me if I was ok. Not even once. If the person cat-calling was with a posse often times they would participate or laugh at their friend’s bravery. Barf. I have been followed for blocks by men asking me for my number, if I was married or had a boyfriend without getting a response, obviously. None of the persons we encountered stopped them or asked me if I was ok. Call me a pussy if you want, I’m not big on confrontation so I have pretty much avoided eye contact and kept my head down to prevent further harassment or being raped my entire life. There were a few occasions where the token Valentino wannabe caught me “on a bad day” and I talked back or had an epic meltdown like the time a dude followed me around the supermarket asking me to make him dinner. I looked at him like: “really? Really!,” asked him to tell me again what he wanted me to cook for him, and, when he said he fancied some chicken, I told him I was going to make him a roasted chicken stuffed with tampons screaming to the top of my lungs while holding a box of super super tampons (the red ones) so everyone in the supermarket could see us. He took a few steps back and screamed back I was crazy and surely a lesbian for not wanting to make him dinner. Yes, I have my moments. If you speak Spanish you can read the whole story here.

Three or four months ago, I got off the subway at the wrong stop in Harlem. It was only 9:45 pm, I was right outside the projects and I thought instead of waiting for a taxi like a sitting target, it made more sense to start walking the six or seven blocks to my apartment. Two blocks from my street a guy riding a bicycle spat on me while I crossed the street. It happened super fast, and before I could react he was getting away on his bike. In a matter of seconds, I stopped myself from yelling: “What the fuck, asshole?!” because I was afraid he would drop the bike and come back to hit/stab me or shoot me from where he was. None of the four men that were talking shit less than half a block away asked if I was ok when I walked by.

In early November a It’s show time! crew member came to an inch of my face and yelled “fucking white bitch!” to the top of her lungs because I had ignored their show and I didn’t look like I was going to open my handbag, take out my wallet, and give them money. Again, I’m extremely non-confrontational. I didn’t think about a gun or a knife. I thought: “this bitch can knock me out with a slap.” No one in the entire wagon reacted or asked me how I was after they got out of the train. I guess it’s a New York thing: we don’t get bothered by much.

My point being – if I’m unable to defend or stand up for myself, why would I even think about wearing a safety pin? Am I willing and able to take a punch or be stabbed defending someone else? Hell to the no honey boo boo child!

In theory the person wearing a safety pin is letting women, LGBTs, African Americans, Muslims and other minorities know that they will walk us home when we feel threatened, stay with us until we feel safe, and stand up to our bullies. It looks great on paper (who doesn’t want to be Batman?!) but in real life I don’t think we are equipped to handle an attack on ourselves or someone else. Last weekend a Muslim woman was harassed by Trump supporters in the subway and no one moved a finger to help her. In NYC! I wonder how many passengers had protested outside of Trump tower after the election, how many had instagrammed pics of the Union Square subway station post-it wall, and how many wore safety pins on their scarves or under their coats that day.

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Surviving Trump: Safety and Self-Defense Tips


With over 800 hate crimes reported since Trump won the election, with no one else to look after us because, let’s face it, the coworkers, relatives, and friends who justify their voting Trump with “not all Trump voters want to electrocute LGBTS, are KKK members or hate Jews,” won’t lift a finger to protect us, all we can do is be prepared for the worst.

I have always lived in a bubble. I have been cat-called and harassed in different ways but, since I don’t look like what society dictates a dyke looks like, I have never had to worry about that extra layer of lesbophobia, fuckupness, irrational fear, and hate that butches deal with on a daily basis. Binge Law & Order SVU and Forensic files watcher me, Trump’s winning the election hasn’t changed my daily routine. Unfortunately, the below safety tips are not news to me or millions of women for whom street harassment and rape prevention/avoidance is part of their everyday lives.

I do worry about my butch, stone butch and FTM friends’ safety. I think they (you) are wired to ignore the below information. Some of them because up to three weeks ago they had very supportive relatives, friends and coworkers and, despite knowing LGBT history first hand or through books, they lived in the same bubble that made me, a single, independent femme who doesn’t need no man, walk alone at night feeling relatively safe (more about this later on a separate post, will insert link here when published). Some of them because they suffer from what I call the Braveheart syndrome (“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!”) and will literally die before they let a man touch them in any way – or at least that’s what I have heard for years. I don’t understand them (still hung up on semantics), but I do worry about queer youth who have ignored LGBT rights history, who don’t like to label themselves or their peers, who grew up thinking everyone is equal and might not be equipped to deal with the real world and the fact that a teacher/classmate/parent might be a neo-Nazi.

When Trump won the election, I went into grandma mode and spent a good three or four days calling, texting, and emailing my butchy friends to remind them I love them and I need them to stay safe by following these tips:

– Use common sense. Avoid walking/running alone and distracted with your phones or iPods.
– Learn the best routes between our car/subway entrance and your destination. Take the SAFEST route, not the fastest.
– Stay alert to your surroundings and the folks around you.
– Don’t think no one will bother you because it’s not that late, you are not in a sketchy area, or you don’t look like a dyke.
– Have a buddy system when you workout. If you are at the gym, as fucked up as this sounds, make sure your friend announces you in the locker room (or avoid the gym showers all together and shower at home). If you are outdoors, follow the safety in numbers rule. If you must train for a marathon, join a local group, bring a friend or bring a dog.
– Have a buddy system in place when you go out on a date or travel. Let a friend know where you will be and a general idea of when you are due back. Check on each other to make sure you got home safe if you take different routes/trains going back home after dinner or drinks.
– If you are online dating, meet them in public and make sure your friend(s) have a general idea of who you are meeting and what the agenda is for the night. Not too long ago Russian neo-Nazis were catfishing and killing gay men. Who says that won’t happen here? Corrective rape anyone?
– Be bitches and trust your guts. Don’t spend time alone with a friend, relative or coworker who makes you feel uneasy. If you don’t feel good about a situation (say being in a supplies room or kitchen alone with a known LGBTphobe or racist, say sitting in front of a religious colleague who uses your lunch hour to show you the path to Jesus {all you need to do is stop sleeping with women, silly goose!}), it’s ok to walk out. The only explanation you owe is to yourself.
– Know when to walk out. No, I wasn’t telling you to quit your job above. Only you can decide when to ignore a coworker, go to HR or walk out. I have a friend whose husband, after twelve years at his firm, started being called the n word two weeks ago. While he obviously would have loved to quit the first time he heard it, they have a mortgage and kids in college so he is moving his resume around and won’t leave until he finds something better.
– Get in shape so you can run away from an attacker and find self-defense classes so you know how to punch and kick or take a punch if you can’t get away.
– More importantly, get in shape mentally. Known and understand that even the most prepared, army strong women freeze during an attack. Don’t beat yourself up if you are cat-called, groped, touched in any other way, kicked, punched, hit or raped and can’t move while it’s happening.
– Wherever you go, try to have your phone at hand in case you need to video or take pics of your attacker.
– Do no harm but take no shit i.e. educate yourself on your state laws and get armed if you feel the need to and you can afford it.
– Know your own limits. For instance, trigger-happy me, I know I can’t have a gun or a can of pepper spray because I would spray the shit out of everyone from the moment I leave my house in the mornings till the moment I come back at night. Am I that angry or special? Not really. 95% of New Yorkers feel this way. Oh the joys of living in a big city!
– Let people know you are armed. Put a sticker on your car windows and home. I have always believed that if more women were armed and men knew about it, the number of rapes would decrease considerably.

After an attack

– don’t blame yourself. The only person to blame is the asshole who attacked you.
– call someone you trust who can give you moral support.
– seek medical attention. If none is available or you don’t feel safe seeking medical attention in your area, take pics and keep taking pics the day after the assault and the following days. Some bruises don’t show up till the morning after.
– call the police and have them meet you where you are or at the hospital. If you don’t feel safe calling them, again,: take pics of your body and, if still at the place where you were attacked, take pics of your surroundings. Document everything.
– if you can’t go to the hospital or a precinct, get yourself to a safe area. Google LGBT Centers and non-profits, call them and get a referral for LGBT shelters and/or organizations who offer housing.
– write down everything that happened to you – especially a description of your attacker – to help you remember what happened in case you need to go back to the cops or end up going to trial.
– get an attorney. Your local LGBT Center should have a referral list. You can also google LGBT Centers in other areas and/or find pro-bono attorneys yourself.
– if the attacker is someone you know, avoid any contact with that person. If it is a coworker, go to HR. If you don’t have HR, seek legal advice before talking to a manager or higher-up. When you talk to your bosses, try to get something from them in writing.
– spread the word. There’s nothing to be ashamed about. Talk to your friends, get in touch with local LGBT centers. If anyone has media contacts, use them.
– I repeat: don’t blame yourself. Self-loathing hinders the process of healing after assault.

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Surviving Trump: Self-Care Tips


Last week everyone I know and I had a collective mental breakdown. At first no one could believe that Trump won the election. Then we couldn’t believe people we knew made it possible. We cried. We couldn’t sleep. We were literally sick. We overate. We overdrank. We overfucked. We overslept. We called our exes. We had mad make up sex. We got back together. We broke up. We called a different ex and repeated the cycle. Basically, we made every bad decision on the Very Bad Decisions book and then some.

Now, before we can start organizing and working on surviving the next four years, it’s time to get back to reality and fix ourselves.

These are some of my self-care tips:

– Stop analyzing. Was every single Trump voter sexist, LGBTphobic or a racist? Probably not. Did every single Trump voter decide that blatant misogyny, LGBTphobia and racism wasn’t a big deal? Yes, yes they did. Stop trying to understand why your relatives, friends and coworkers voted Trump because we’ll never know their reasons.
– Don’t waste time and energy explaining yourself (regardless of how many times they tell you you are overreacting) or trying to win them over. There is no worse blind person than the one who doesn’t want to see and, if they chose to ignore everything that came out pre-election (upcoming trials, misogynistic and racist remarks, etc.), well, you are not going to open their eyes. Go no contact if needed.
– Go technology free for a few hours or a few days to mute all the post-election madness. I avoid Facebook like the plague on weekends. I also try not to text/email those days (key word: “try”).
– Eat healthy. I don’t know about you all, but I eat like shit – especially when I’m stressed. I’ll only admit to being 40-50 pounds overweight and if, I don’t do something about it soon, next thing you know, I’ll have diabetes, a stroke, need a walker to move around and will end up on TLC’s “My 600-lb Life” lying to Dr. Nowzaradan about my eating habits. So I’m doing myself and my future husbutch a favor by going back on Atkins not as a phase, not as a quick fix, but as a lifelong commitment to eating healthy.
– Exercise: I used to think I needed a gym Daddy to kick my ass all the way back to the gym because I just didn’t have it in me to get up at the crack of dawn to go work out before going to work anymore. I had no problem power-walking alone (from my apartment in Harlem to any of the museums in 5th Ave, from my office to South Ferry, from my apartment to Chinatown…) but the gym was a complete different monster. Turns out all I needed was to go dress-shopping (as in: “oh my God, what the fuck happened to you darling?!!”). Back to the gym on Monday. All I need now is someone to help me find my fake iPod and the charger. Oh yes, exercise is good for the body and soul and all that shit. You already knew that.
– Own up to your own feelings and moods. If you are in a post-election funk, go out for a walk, hit the gym, write, dance, paint or sing… don’t blame your colleagues, friends, relatives or significant others for your own misery.
– If you can’t break out of your funk, make an appointment with a mental care professional. There is no shame in looking for help, nothing wrong with being on psych meds, and those around you will thank you.
– Take care of other pressing and non-pressing health issues. Better use your medical benefits while you have them. Go for that full physical, ophthalmologist, dentist or OB/GYN appointment you have been postponing.
– Take care of your finances: reduce your credit card debt, open a savings account, and look at your 401k options. Create a financial safety net or improve the one you already have… in case you need to bail someone out for peacefully protesting or pitch in to help someone cover their legal/medical expenses.
– Reassess your priorities and (re)learn not to give a shit. Like I said, don’t waste time and energy hanging around people who will probably give you a cardiac because they voted Trump and won’t shut up about it or simply because they are the run-of-the-mill toxic, clueless token assholes that makes your blood pressure rise each time you see them. It’s ok to put yourself first and say no when someone invited you over. Guess what? Your family will still eat their turkey if you decide to spend Thanksgiving with friends.
– Surround yourself with people who uplift you and bring on the happy.
– Have lots of sex to keep the endorphins and happy mojo going.
– If you are curious about anti-Trump activism, think about what you can do and how much you can take on. Don’t run yourself to the ground trying to save the world!

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A Fuckboi Is A Fuckboi Is A Fuckboi Is A Fuckboi


A harmless fuckboi is someone that somewhat IDs as a butch/stone butch/stud or within the queer masculine spectrum (whatever that means) who you call for good butch cock knowing that’s all you want.

The fuckboi one needs to stay away from is that who:

– prides themselves on not being a fuckboi but behaves like one.
– lies and does whatever needs to be done to get in your pants.
– is totally self-absorbed. 90% of their social media pics (if not all) are selfies where they pout or touch their lips a la martini guy (fast forward to 0:22) and/or dramatically squints their eyes to appear mysteriously sexy.
– is easy to spot at a party checking themselves in the mirror or making sure everyone is looking at them while they dance with you.
– gets your number from facebook or through a friend. Asking you directly is too much effort.
– never calls. They will contact you via Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat and what not and/or text you. Actually calling is too 1999.
– has little interest in you as a person. Rarely asks you who you are, what you like/don’t like, or how your day was because she doesn’t care about you.
– has short attention span. You can explain something to them four times and they still have no idea of what’s going on. However, you are expected to remember and celebrate their likes/dislikes down to the t. They have so many groupies and you are oh so lucky they have chosen to spend time with you! Barf.
– displays a limited command of the English language with texts like “hi,” “hey there,” “what’s good?” or “hey, hey, hey!” (are you a butch or fat Albert?).
– responds vaguely if you ask any personal questions.
– only texts you when they are horny or bored.
– writes “not here for a hookup” on their tinder profile.
– demands a lot of your time and energy. They can disappear for days but how dare you not spend every single second thinking about them, sexting them, texting them, liking their photos online, writing about them or cooking for them? Are you ok, do you need to go to a hospital? Because they are the best thing that has ever happened to you and you sure aren’t showing enough appreciation! Barf.
– spends most of their time on their phone. I’m not even going to mention a museum or a Broadway show because fuckbois seem to be allergic. If you are at a bar, you can spot them by the amount of time they spend on their phones or by their staring at you over their date’s shoulder.
– asks for head to toes pictures or nudes almost immediately. Doesn’t send any in return.
– can’t believe you don’t trust them and won’t send them nudes.
– expects you do to wife stuff for them like cooking, cleaning, and their laundry.
– is an expert on tinder and other dating applications, but needs help with their resume on Word format or a fan-page/webpage for their side business.
– is chronically unemployed, has the best ideas (personal chef or trainer, real estate agent, dog walker) but no real ambition. Again, needs fully employed while also going to school full time you to waste time and energy doing their website.
– texts you with “let’s chill”, “let’s hang” but rarely follows through because staying home sexting other femmes consumes all their time.
– only wants to see you at their place. It’s all “netflix and chill” without the netflix part.
– doesn’t put any effort or thought on what you do if you hang out outdoors.
– is cheap. Technically you two are not dating so why buying you a drink or paying for dinner?
– (on the opposite side of the spectrum, someone who) is on top of you from dawn till dusk, showers you with just because flowers and cards, plans picnics in Central Park, day trips out East, museum outings… but introduces you to their friends as just a friend and screams you are nuts if you think things are getting serious after six months of “hanging out.”
– keeps the number of femmes in their life a mystery. You can’t tell who is their friend, their fling or an ex because everyone is liking each other pics and calling themselves “bae,” “boo,” or “precious” online.
– struggles with competition and talks shit about other butches. Everyone is a fuckboi (except them!) and no other butch is as funny, charming, sharp, dandy… as they are.
– calls themselves Daddy and encourages you to call them Daddy two texts/messages in. Barf.
– calls you “babe,” “boo,” “cupcake,” “princess,” “baby girl,” “angel,” “baby boo”… (probably because they can’t keep the names of all the femmes they sext straight) yet lectures you if you catch feelings.
– is a hot and cold butch who keeps giving you mixed signals. They say they are not ready for a relationship, but they would like to know you more. You spend seven hours together one day, then they disappear for three. They need you to be loyal and don’t get mad if they start fucking or spending time with someone else because you are not together. If you catch feelings, it’s your fault. You knew what this was. They told you they are not ready for a relationship.
– pretends not to know what the butch honor code is or acts as if it doesn’t apply to them. Will sleep with femmes who are dating other butches, engaged or even married just to get a notch on the belt.
– has a thing for married femmes and straight women.
– preys on unattainable femmes. The more damage they can cause by adding a femme to their list of conquests, the bigger the thrill. They go after femmes who just lost a child, had a mastectomy, were diagnosed with something major, have kids with special needs… they tell them what they want to hear, wine and dine them, and after sex, when things get serious, they gradually disappear.
– keeps hitting on you after you reject them. You stopped responding to their texts/messages/emails long ago, but from time to time you’ll get a text or email trying to get a reaction out of you – especially if they are bored or in between not-girlfriends.
– flips things around when you catch them playing.
– is too much of a dick to admit they’ve been playing you, knew from the beginning you were looking for something serious, and they lead you on while talking to seven other femmes.
– thinks femmes are stupid. It’s 2016. Polyamory and open relationships are now mainstream. There is literally no reason to lie to a femme. Yet two-timing fuckbois keep saying shit like “you’re the one I’m talking to” thinking we can’t put two and two together.

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International Butch Appreciation Day


Today is International Butch Appreciation Day and the first thing that comes to mind is how grateful I am for the butches in my life. It sounds clichéd but I am truly blessed with butches who help me move apartments, make me feel like a princess by being chivalrous whether or not we are dating, take my calls at 3:00 am when I’m heartbroken (wait a minute, I have a heart?!) or dying of Ebola (drama queen much?), hide my Disney plush toys if we are in a hotel and another butch unexpectedly shows up and I’m still in the bathroom (wait! What? Oh yes I do!), encourage my Hello Kitty addiction, come to the Disney Store with me and don’t pretend they don’t know me, send me never-opened loads of fancy lube they need to get rid of before they move, let me play with their dogs, get dressed and come over with chilled prosecco at 4:00 am for a booty call, change their plans last minute to join me on crazy adventures around the city, organize weekend road trips, call me on my shit, understand last minute plan cancellations because I work crazy hours, and leave me speechless with their amazing grace (how sweet the sound) when they show compassion and take the high road despite going through the craziest things a butch could go through.

Showing your appreciation for the butches in your life doesn’t have to take a lot of time or money. Something as simple as a text (“Happy International Butch Appreciation Day! Thank you for not being a fuckboi”) will do.

More small little things that could go a long way year-round:

– Tell them you love them (and mean it!) daily. Maybe you tell her you love her before you go to work, when you are about to hang up the phone, or before you go to sleep. Try to be spontaneous. Don’t let routine kill the meaning of your I love yous.
– Don’t take them for granted. Let them know how lucky you feel and how much you appreciate every little thing they do for you from doing the dishes to paying half the rent/mortgage, co-parenting, doing the laundry or making breakfast while you sleep in…
– Love yourself and take care of yourself so they can love you because they want to and not out of some sense of responsibility. No one wants to be their girlfriend’s doctor/therapist/personal trainer 24/7.
– Ignore your phone when you are together. Live your relationship for you and not for people you don’t even know who (you think) follow your every move on Facebook, Instagram, or Snapchat.
– Give them space when they need space. Sometimes, when work or other relationships (friends, family) get too heavy, butches tend to withdraw and go into a quiet mood. Let them be.
– You don’t need to be together 24/7. Give her some room to breathe, do her own thing, and have her own interests. If they ask you to join them, good. If they don’t? It’s not the end of the world.
– Hold them close when they need to be held. Nothing wrong (no brownie points lost) with a butch having a bad day.
– Tell them they are beautiful/handsome and not only because of their looks but inside out. Yes, butches need to hear this too!
– Let them chill with their friends. Whether you are just friends or in a relationship, you don’t need to be present every single time she goes out with her friends.
– Don’t let them be the ones who always have to plan things and surprise you. Get tickets to their favorite game/movie, plan exciting nights out, book tickets to a winery tour with chauffer included so you both can drink…
– Pamper them. Maybe they are not into spa days, why not dropping them off at their favorite golf course instead?
– If you’re watching TV or doing something stupid or whatever, stop, look into their eyes and tell them you love them.
– Surprise her with nights in. Spice it up. I can believe it’s 2016 and I still have to write this: take the initiative. There’s nothing wrong with a femme making the first move.
– Wake them up at 4:00 am to tell them you love them. Just kidding. Wake them up at 4:00 am to have hot steamy sex, and let them roll over and go back to sleep.
– Cook their favorite meal. Not on top of my list/a top priority for domestically challenged me. I can’t remember the last time I cooked for a butch but I do pay attention, know their favorite restaurant and have something delivered if we are celebrating something.
– Hug them out of the blue, look at them in the eyes, and tell them: “I’m so happy you are not a fuckboi!”
– Don’t cheat. If you are not happy, end the relationship. Yes, it is that plain and simple.

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the 28 stages of seeing kd lang live


Stage 1 get tickets months in advance.
Stage 2: choose what to wear months in advance.
Stage 3: rethink what you are wearing.
Stage 4: get a manicure and pedicure, and waxed the day before of the concert. Rethink your outfit a few more times.
Stage 5 (day of the concert): charge your camera and iPhone, check your purse 7,000 times to make sure you have your tickets, make sure you have cash for merchandise, and change your outfit last minute. Do your makeup (if you are into that) and get going.
Stage 6: get to the venue, locate your seat, go to the bathroom, get something to drink/eat depending on the venue. Scan the audience for butches if you’re going with friends. Scan the audience for friends/acquaintances if you are going with your butch/fotw.
Stage 7: listen to the opening act and mentally threaten to get onstage to kick them out after two songs. No offense anyone – love your music, but I’m not going to a kd lang concert for the opening act.
Stage 8: smile like an idiot, hit your butch/friend, and OMG a few times as you see kd lang finally taking the stage.
Stage 9: hyperventilate, I mean, breathe deeply a few times as you take in all the visual and auditory stimulation.
Stage 10: count your blessings. You are healthy, you have a job, and you are at your fourth of fifth kd lang’s concert, beatch!
Stage 11: close your eyes and let her voice/music transport you to your happy place.
Stage 12 (a): shamelessly get up, get close to the stage and take pics. Go back to your seat smiling like an idiot and hit your butch/friend in the arm and say stupid shit like: “oh. My. God. Like. I can’t believe we are here. Seriously. Thank you for taking me/coming with me. I’m SO excited! And I’m so wet. Look at that ass!!! And her neck! And her feet! Oh. My. God”.
Stage 12 (b): send your butch/friend closer to the stage to take pics for you. Promise a bj or to name your first child after them. Hit them and say stupid shit (see above) when they come back with the camera.
Stage 13: hit your butch/friend a few more times. Freak out because kd lang and you are breathing the same air.
Stage 14: finally calm down and enjoy the fucking concert like a normal person.
Stage 15: spend two nanoseconds thinking about that ex who bought you Invincible Summer and gave you the best sex of your life with Consequences of falling in the background. Ask your butch/friend if s/he is bored. Squeeze her knee or slap her arm a few more times to wake them up. YAS! You are so excited and you can’t hide it!
Stage 16: when kd lang takes out her banjo, you know what’s coming… run back to the front to sing and dance.
Stage 17: while dancing, control the urge to jump onstage to lick her mmmm mmm mmmm sweaty neck!
Stage 18: go back to your seat walking on sunshine.
Stage 19: run back to the front of stage when she comes out for the encores.
Stage 20 (optional): stop by the merchandise booth.
Stage 21: leave the venue butchering Sorrow nevermore or some other song, floating on a cloud of unicorns and happiness, thinking you’ve got your kd fix and are all good till next year.

If you go to the concert with your butch or fotw

Stage 22: skip dinner. Go straight home, take a quick shower, get into a little something something while your butch/fotw mixes some drinks. Play kd’s last CD. Have tipsy sex.
Stage 23: order food in. Have more tipsy sex. Eat. Drink some more. Have more sex.
Stage 24: (morning after) ignore your neighbors’ dirty looks as you leave the building to go to work or the gym.

If you go to the concert with a friend

Stage 22: find a place to eat. Talk about the concert ad nauseam during dinner.
Stage 23: play kd’s last CD, shower, and post pics online.
Stage 24: magic wand time!

Stage 25: (day after) keep playing her CD ad nauseam. Look at your pics. Look at the pics your butch/fotw or friend took. Look for/read online reviews.
Stage 26: write a long assed email to friends describing every second of the concert. Laugh with their “I’m glad we didn’t have to bail you out” texts. Remember what you’ve done during/after past concerts, talk about the token six degrees of separation, and laugh with your friends because you are indeed a crazy beatch.
Stage 27: more kd lang induced sex (with or without others)
Stage 28: post concert depression sets in. You now must wait 6-12 months till she comes back to the Tri-State area.

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Following My Own Advice


In case you haven’t noticed, I’m on the fast track to becoming a single crazy old cat lady. Around this time every year the token butch acquaintance proposes doing things together. Brunches, fundraising walks in Central Park or Chelsea Piers, free Pride events, Pride weekend parties and after parties, fireworks on the 4th of July, a museum or two in August… all innocent, all leading to or helping build a new friendship in my 2×4 femme book. Come September, with their blue balls about to blow up, s/he will tell me I’m a slut who is debasing herself for dating/sleeping with other butches throughout the summer. Doesn’t matter if it was five butches, 50 or just one. My mortal sin is not sleeping with said butch even though I made it perfectly clear that we were never dating and I wasn’t into them.

Butches who use self-deprecation to try to get in my pants make me sick. I have zero patience for women who repeat ad nauseam they think they are too tall, too short, too fat, too skinny, too light, too dark, too loose, too uptight, too mono, too poly…. for me to date them. In the past I have made the mistake of playing therapist/cheerleader partly because I was hosting the now-defunct NYC Butch Femme Socials and Outings and I believed making everyone feel welcome and appreciated came with the territory, partly because sometimes I’m too nice for my own good. Hard to believe, I know. So the token butch would hear from Yours Truly’s lips there was nothing wrong with them and I simply wasn’t into them; again, me trying to be nice thinking we could be friends, obviously delusional and living in La la land.

Last year I met this deliciously mature butch who turned out to have a girlfriend. I don’t roll like that (*) so I told her I was keeping my distance. That turned into her thinking she wasn’t “butch enough” for me (fine, whatever) and compulsively dropping that in casual conversations to let everyone know I wasn’t into her. I’m pretty sure none of my friends has ever heard me say I’m not sleeping with/dating a butch because s/he is not “butch enough” for me, but whatever.

There was also the clueless recent divorcee who asked me out “as friends” in front of other people (**) and asked mutual friends why I had blocked them on Facebook. I get not getting the message and I acknowledge my part in the problem because when s/he asked me if we were friends and we were going to do things together not once but twice in front of some femme acquaintances I went along with it. I blame it on: (a) the way I was raised/socialized: can’t give a butch a piece of my mind in front of strangers because that’s not ladylike and it would humiliate her, (b) the two mojitos I had that day, and (c) momentary “deer in headlights syndrome”. But, couldn’t s/he fucking read? I mean, I’m probably the only femme who comes with a manual. I have blogged about how I don’t want to be asked out in front of other people and how I go no contact. Claiming to be a huge fan of this blog, s/he still didn’t get it.

Another butch kept pestering me to read and review her short stories. Poor little thing, she kept sending material to magazines and being rejected, femmes were also ignoring her… and I was there to listen to her and cheer her up while we walked the High Line.

Then came the larger than life butch who made sure I knew how lucky I was to spend the day at Folsom Street East with someone of their stature (barf) {which a friend later discredited by the way (double barf)}. She picked me up almost an hour late, was an asshole at Folsom Street, and finished digging her own grave during dinner when she made me feel like I was at an American Idol audition. She kept PMing me on fetlife, telling me about her submissive’ s abandoning her, and personal stuff in real life. And she’s still at it even though I haven’t responded to any of her PMs since October 2015.

The draw of the above characters is that NYC can be a very lonely place. Sure I have my share of dates and/or flavors of the week, but if I want to go to a museum or the movies things get complicated. When your closest friends live in Brooklyn, out East or upstate going to the movies or out to brunch on a Sunday becomes a fucking project. Not to mention that I don’t know many butch/femmers who are into museums, Broadway/off-Broadway if they have to pay for their own ticket (don’t we all love a freebie?!), walking around the city without a clear destination or exercising (not that I need a gym partner, but it would be fun to do a mud run this Summer {writes the femme who uses hand sanitizer after washing her hands just in case regular soap doesn’t get rid of all bathroom cooties}).

This year I’m doing myself a favor and staying away from all butch acquaintances that will only add stress and aggravation to my life. I don’t care if you just lost your cat, your ex kicked you out of the house or left you, you relapsed after three years of sobriety, you are recovering from surgery and need someone to bring you soup (I ain’t cooking for anyone anyways)… If you are not my friend already, I’m not uplifting and elevating you. I don’t have the time and energy to play an insecure butch’s cheerleader or a larger than life butch’s groupie.

(*) never chase, never compete. Plenty of fish in NYC, baby!
(**) what’s a butch who wants to date me to do? Ask me for my number, call me, and ask me out using the word “date” like it’s fucking 1955!

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Memo To The Clueless Butch 4


More unsolicited two cents from Yours Truly and my femme friends:

– good manners open more legs than the best pick-up lines you can come up with.
– words without action don’t mean shit.
– “so, do you cook?” is not a pick up line.
– “I am a Capricorn and you are a Taurus. Well, we are supposed to be compatible” is not a reason to date you.
– handle your own shit, don’t expect femmes to clean your strap-ons after sex.
– please have condoms in your house. Plural. Throw out the pack you bought in 1978. Most LGBT centers hand them out for free. And get some dental dams while you are at it.
– stop changing your mind about what you want in a femme every other day.
– stop flip-flopping or rephrasing yourself to adjust your likes to the femme you are courting. It’s ok to not agree on everything.
– before pulling a Shallow Hal, look yourself in the mirror and make sure you don’t look like Jack Black.
– during a fight, don’t bring up the fucked up shit that your ex or your parents did a lifetime ago. Let’s discuss what you need to do to work on YOUR relationship.
– femmes can’t fix the void inside you. The only thing that fixes that is self-love, self-discovery and awareness. Find your own happiness before dating/making someone else miserable.
– buying us flowers, paying for dinner, getting Broadway tickets and all the money in the world you put into wooing us don’t guarantee that you will get laid.
– if after the above you don’t get in a femme’s bed, that doesn’t automatically make her an user or a bitch. Sometimes the chemistry is simply not there. If you wouldn’t sleep with someone you don’t find attractive, don’t expect us to sleep with you just because you paid for dinner.
– femmes are capable of making good dating decisions. No still means no even if you think you are the best thing that’s walked on Earth since Elvis.
– find your own voice, form your own opinions, and grow a pair.
– Speak up! Please open your mouth when something is really important to you and/or you need to be heard. We are not mind readers!
– don’t chase a femme asking for pity sex or a date leading to pity sex even if it’s the middle of winter and you haven’t gotten any since last summer.
– whether single or in a relationship, your mental and physical health comes first. You can’t court/keep a femme if you are not taking care of yourself.
– cut the shit with the mixed signals. If you only want to get in a femme’s pants (not date her), don’t send her flowers for her birthday.
– if after three dates a femme hasn’t kissed you, she’s either there for the (free) food or has friendzoned you.
– your soul mate is not some other butch’s wife #sorrynotsorry
– your “annoying femme” is some other butch’s “damn baby where have you been all my life?!”
– “I’ve had no luck dating other people, you’ve had no luck dating other people, maybe we should go out on a date” only works when you’ve been friends for ten years and are making a “if we are single when we are 45…” pact. Giving any random femme that line will only get you a “I’m not that desperate” look and silence or a polite refusal.
– asking a femme out when you are drunk and chasing her to the bathroom to try to convince her that you are a great catch because you remember a conversation she and your ex had about sex a lifetime ago is not going to work well for you.
– you are born a top, you can’t make yourself be a top because you think that will get you in a femme’s bed.
– you don’t want to put your life on hold just because you are a raging alcoholic, drug addict or gambler who can’t make rent after spending all her money on her addictions? More power to you. Respect femmes who won’t date you because they don’t want to be your personal ATM, though.
– if you like a femme, grow some balls and ask her for her number. Call her, talk to her, ask her out on a date using the word “date” like it’s fucking 1955.
– (something I read somewhere) when going on a date go to a horror movie. Elevated heart rate and adrenaline is strongly tied to sexual attraction. I’m not naming any names, but there’s a femme who gets super horny with the Saw movies. Allegedly.
– when a femme tells you last night she rode some other butch’s cock into the sunset that means she has friendzoned you or she is sick and tired of you asking her out and hopes brutal honesty will open your eyes.
– when you get a phone number where a four could also be a nine, you send a text to both numbers and don’t get a response: she is not into you.
– if you are a stone butch, say so from the get go. Waiting two years to let your partner know, not really talking about it, just not letting her touch you all of a sudden fucks with a femme’s head. It’s not fair. I’m a stone butch enthusiast, and I hate when they pull that shit on my friends. After two years of touching someone, the last thing in your mind is that they are stone; you immediately think there’s someone else or there’s something wrong with you.
– nothing you read or hear about a femme can prepare you for a real interaction so stop saying: “I’ve read your book and I think I’m ready for you” because it makes you sound like a moron.
– if you are crushing on a femme, ask her out. Don’t waste time/energy telling other people about your crush or seeking advice from folks who might not know the femme/what she is into/how she likes to be wooed and/or who might have ulterior motives. I have seen it again and again: femmes who trash other femmes to butches they both like, femmes who trash butches they want to keep for themselves, butches who throw other butches under the bus thinking that will increase their chances with a femme acquaintance, someone who plays both parties just for fun… the list goes on and on and it’s sickening.

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Worst Dates Ever – Butch Edition


aka Maria please make this anonymous. (All you all are so cute!)

One of my friends met a cute femme on match.com. They talked for about two weeks when they decided to go out. She liked the femme so she stopped at the florist to buy her a beautiful bouquet of flowers and took the train into the city even though she hates public transportation. The femme was as beautiful as in her profile, but weird. The whole time she talked about depression, death, her ex, and spent about 30 mins in the bathroom while my friend ate alone. When she came back from the bathroom she said she had a great time, asked for her food to go, and rushed my friend out. My friend still asked if she could kiss her. The femme agreed. Before kissing, she removed her invisalign and handed it to my friend to hold it for her while they kissed.

One femme spent all night talking about her ex: how she dressed, what she did for a living, how much she made a year, the restaurants and places they went together… she then proceeded to take out her phone and show my friend pics of her and her ex’s last trip to Cabo. At that point my friend told her she didn’t fucking care and left.

One other femme spent all night twitching and tweaking like a crack addict. My friend didn’t know if she had allergies or she was high on something. Turned out the femme was on painkillers and on disability. My friend never found out why because there wasn’t a second date.

Another femme looked great on her matchmaker pics, said all the right things over the phone, presented herself as a sweet wall flower… but when my friend showed up to pick her up she was more aggressive/butch than my friend. She tried to brush it off telling my friend that she didn’t believe in labels and was going through a butchier phase, and asked her if they could still grab a beer together. My friend declined and drove away without looking back.

One other butch went out with a soon to be divorced femme wannabe who spent the date trashing the father of her two boys and flirting with the waiter: touching is arm, laughing as his comments, giving him puppy eyes… while reassuring my friend she was done with men for good.

Another of my friends went out on a date with a femme who didn’t want to know her age, in case my friend was older than her mother. When they got to a fabulous little bar the femme had been telling my friend was the only place to go, it had closed down. They made it into another bar and the femme got a photographer to take pics of them for the next issue of the local LGBT newspaper without asking my friend first. The femme ordered really expensive drinks, complained about her feet hurting all night because she had had to walk from the original bar to the second bar two blocks away, and her conversation was inane. She then decided she didn’t want dinner (my friend was ravenous). My friend drove her home, but then the femme was hungry and everything was closed. They ended up at a Starbucks and my friend spent another tortuous hour listening to stories about the femme and her friends, her amazing talents and academic achievements, how original and cutting edge and hip she was… so she made all these smart remarks about old butches not having the energy or stamina to keep up with her, walked her home, and never called her.

A friend recently went on a date with someone who started talking (unprompted) about her experiences at kink conventions and practicing BDSM with her friends. My friend is by no means a prude, but she felt the femme was hypersexual and maniac.

Another friend went on a date that didn’t end well for the femme and boy was she pissed. They went to a concert, grabbed a bite, and went back to the femme’s place where my friend fucked her for about three hours before leaving. My friend never invited the femme on a second date because she got her milk and didn’t need to buy the entire cow. When the femme realized what was going on, she stalked my friend and some of her friends’ for about two months on Facebook, texted and left increasingly crazy and threatening voice messages.

Another friend asked out a femme for drinks at Cubby. The femme showed up super sweaty and told my friend she was going to go home and shower after biking from Brooklyn to her yoga class, but then changed her mind. She wanted my friend to see her in the raw. My friend says she was gorgeous but bad hygiene is a turn off. She didn’t even wash the grime from her bike wheels off of her hands and smelled like a sweaty unwashed yoga mat. My friend didn’t want to kiss her, but the femme grabbed her and showed her tongue down her throat. First and last date!

One other friend had been seeing this femme for about a month before they decided to have sex. That night they had gone out drinking and dancing before going back to my friend’s place. When she went down on the femme kissing and undressing her, and took off her jeans, the stench was unbelievable. My friend used walking the dog as an excuse to get fresh air and told her date to get comfortable and take a shower if she wanted while she waited for them to come back. She gave her 20 mins to shower. When my friend got back her date was naked but hadn’t showered and the smell in the bedroom was too much. She still wanted to have sex so she undressed and playfully tried to get the femme to shower with her, but she just didn’t want to shower. They ended up having sex without cunnilingus and my friend never called her again.

And the award for worst date ever goes to… another friend who shall remain nameless who met a femme online not long after joining a butch femme forum that shall also remain nameless. The femme described herself as a high femme who loved to wear nice clothes, go out for fine dining, Broadway shows, museums, classic music, and more. They flirted for a few weeks and agreed to go to a lesbian party happening a month later out East in Long Island, NY. As time got closer, they continued to flirt and my friend asked her if she could take her out to dinner the night of the party. The femme said yes and they spent time deciding what type of restaurant to meet at. This was before Yelp and google maps so my friend put a lot of time into finding the perfect restaurant based on what the femme had told her about her dining preferences.

When they met outside of the restaurant the first surprise was that the femme looked nothing like her profile photo. My friend should have run for the hills right there, but she really liked the femme and enjoyed their banter so she didn’t leave. As they walked into the restaurant and she could see her more clearly, she saw that the femme was wearing dirty white jeans and sneakers. My friend is a gentleman so she didn’t mention anything about her outfit. She thought perhaps the femme planned to change before the party, but she had known that the restaurant was upscale so my friend was surprised and confused. The waitress brought their menus and this femme who described herself as a “foodie” said there was nothing on the menu she could eat and asked if they could just make her a burger. The menu had options that were simpler fare– steak, chicken breast, etc. so there were plenty of options. At the table she flirted with my friend and she said a few nice things to her. My friend noticed her fingernails were broken and had dirt crusted under them. She was still very polite and tried to make her feel comfortable because that’s what butches do. The waitress was friendly to my friend and her date became angry and said she was flirting with her. It just went downhill from there.

At the party the femme got drunk and danced with some other drunk person. By the end of the night my friend was talking to other people and the femme was literally falling down drunk. My friend was afraid to leave her in a strange place in a town at least an hour from her home. So she sat at the bar and tried to get her to drink some water in hopes she would sober up. The femme then accused my friend of trying to control her and went dancing off with another butch. Of course that butch didn’t stick around because who wants to be with the drunkest person at the party and watch them fall down? It was last call, the femme went up to the bar and got another drink and fell down on her way to a table. Someone helped her up and my friend sat there wondering what to do. She knew the femme had her car outside and was afraid she would try to drive. She wouldn’t talk to my friend other than to accuse her of liking the waitress at the restaurant. The bar closed, the event was over, and there they were. All of the femme’s new friends at the party had left. She was vomiting in the parking lot and my friend just wanted to go home and forget that night ever happened. There was a small but clean motel a few doors down from the bar so my friend asked her date if she could get her a room. The femme started bawling and asked my friend to stay. My friend politely declined, got her settled, paid for the room and left. They never talked again.

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Worst Dates Ever


Blessed with a psycho gene, I don’t think bad dates are a total waste because I can always write about them. I haven’t really been in that many bad dates – the worst I can think of are two first dates with two butches who each showed up with their ex sitting in the back seat of their car (I’m still trying to wrap my head around it!). I know a lot of hot mess butches (like the sloppy drunk who asked me out on a date and followed me to the bathroom to find out why I had rejected her and left her talking to herself at the bar recently), but I normally see the trainwreck coming so I don’t date them.

Some of the not so smooth operators my friends have encountered through the years:

A butch looked normal on her online profile, my friend and her exchanged a few messages before she asked my friend for her number. They hit it off over the phone, talked for four hours, and decided to go out for drinks. When the butch showed up she looked nothing like her profile pic (which must have been taken 20 years prior), and her hair was greasy and reptilian – as if a cow had licked her head right before their date. To make things even worse she had “left” her wallet in her car so my friend had to pay for drinks. The butch wanted to go out for dinner, but my friend came up with an excuse and left.

Another friend went on a date to the American Museum of Natural History with a hipster butch. Her date thought they could get in for free with her student ID, but didn’t bring it. She made my friend pay for tickets for special exhibits and 3D movies for both of them, and disappeared right after they entered the Ocean Life hall. Two hours later my friend got a text from the butch saying she wasn’t feeling ok and had gone home.

A butch spent all night looking at another one of my friends with “crazy X files liver eating monster,” intense eyes and talking about getting married and having kids with her. It was their first and only date.

One butch asked my friend out and took her to her favorite restaurant after asking her where she wanted to go. They kept talking and talking and talking. The check came and never once did this butch pick it up. Twenty minutes went by and my friend picked up the check to see if the butch would offer to pay, but that woman had no intentions of paying. When my friend told her there wouldn’t be a second date because she hadn’t picked up the check, offered to go dutch or at least left the tip, the butch told her she had picked the restaurant so she had to pay. Hmmm. We are pretty sure that’s not how it works. Next!

Another butch wanted to see my friend really bad and chased her for months before they went out on a date. When my friend got there, the butch smelled like weed. She said she did it to calm her nerves down and she doesn’t do it often, but she felt my friend was so out of her league she had to calm her nerves smoking one right before dinner. My friend walked out of the restaurant without even ordering a drink.

A friend went on a date with a butch who looked great on paper. In person, she matched her online profile to a T, looked even better than on her photos, was funny and charming… but she got drunk and fell asleep at the bar. My friend wouldn’t let her drive and she didn’t drive herself so she ended up spending $100+ on a cab to the butch’s place in Brooklyn and a cab back to her place in Manhattan. The butch’s roommate thanked my friend from saving her the trip, said it happened all the time, and that normally she would get a call from whatever bar and she had to go pick up the butch herself or find someone else to do it. Best part is the butch texted my friend ad nauseam asking her why she had stood her up that night.

One other butch was so handsome, gentleman by opening the door and really, really nice. She is a correction officer in Long Island and just kept coming unexpectedly to my friend’s house and/or asking where she was. One time she waited outside of my friend’s house for three hours until my friend left a birthday party and got home. Another time she kept calling my friend at work asking her when she would be back. When my friend said she didn’t want to see her again, the butch kept showing up at her place unannounced and uninvited. That’s how my friend the “don’t let her pick you up/drop you off” on the first dates rule.

There is this another butch my friend met at a park. She was friendly, gorgeous, and asked my friend for her number on the spot – which was a great plus since nowadays no one has the balls to ask a femme for their number anymore. They talked a little here and there and decided to go out to eat. At the restaurant the butch kept saying inappropriate things to my friend (like she had found her on fetlife and was up all night masturbating thinking about her in her bikini pic from two summers ago) and going into details about what she thought my friend would like in bed and what she would do to her. Then she proceed to read my friend the prices of everything on the menu and tell her what she could order/calculate how much the date would cost her mixing it with, again, all the things she was gonna do to my friend in the bedroom later that night. I think my friend finished her glass of water, excused herself to go to the bathroom, and left the butch talking to herself.

Another femme met a butch online. While getting to know each other the butch told her she had a buddy to call her to check up on her and determine whether the date was going well. If the date was no good, then the butch would say she had to go with a stupid excuse like a friend got locked out of the apartment or her cat got sick or some other crazy excuse. So they met at a restaurant, my friend saw she wasn’t really her type, nothing like her profile pic but she wanted to be polite so she decided to order just coffee and told her she just ate. Five minutes later a call came, the butch told my friend that her friend had locked herself out of her apartment and left. My friend was relieved to say the least since the feeling was mutual, but it’s funny the butch forgot she had shared her MO with my friend.

Another of my friends met this wonderful butch in a meeting at the LGBT Center. They went for a quick bite to a dinner around the corner and ended up talking for hours. Everything was going great, they exchanged numbers and planned on going on a “real” date. The butch asked my friend if she could do her a favor and write something in a piece of paper. My friend thought it was the weirdest thing ever, but did it. Then the butch asked my friend if she knew that lots of employers use a person’s handwriting to determine a potential employee’s personality. After that, the date went south since my friend felt she was in an interview and being analyzed by some butch she didn’t even know. The butch kept calling for that “real” date but my friend had lost all interest.

Last but not least, chinchilla butch! (*) This was years ago and the woman wasn’t really a butch. My friend lived in a rural area where finding butch women was hard so she lowered her standards. She saw what she thought was a butch’s profile online. This masculine presenting woman wrote in grammatically correct complete sentences as she aspired to be a writer, she was good looking enough, she was in school, and wrote about how much she loved her pets. On paper she looked great and somewhat “normal,” so my friend messaged her. They went back and forth for a few weeks and decided to meet at a local cafe for the first time.

Her date was about twenty mins late (red flag for me but not a big deal for my friend and other femmes who aren’t as uptight as Yours Truly. When she finally got there, she awkwardly approached my friend and made some small talk. Her outfit was all over the place, including jeans under a dress (a dress! barf) and some doily type disaster on her head completed with a cheetah print purse. Not the butch my friend was expecting to see. Her date put her stuff down, got something to drink, and told my friend she looked “super pretty,” she thought she was “super smart,” and she liked her calmed disposition. She asked my friend if she wanted to see something pulling a dirty sock out of her bag and slamming it on the table. It was a dirty mens sock. Within inches of their beverages. The nausea and fear kicked in. What the fuck was in that thing? Dildo? Dead fish? Dear God, a human foot?

She pulled out her phone, started flipping through all the photos and told my friend to take a look. They shuffled through a handful of pictures of her chinchillas doing chinchilla things. One of them was taking a dust bath, another sleeping, both of them cuddling, and other various cute things. My friend told her they were cute and handed the phone back, and her date told her she had to see ALL of them. My friend politely said she had seen enough and her date told her she MUST see ALL photos and videos. My friend obeyed her since, you know, crazy always wins. Near the end there was this video of one of the chinchillas peeing over her date’s hand. My friend passed her the phone back and told her, again, she had seen enough. Her date said: “Oh, you saw [chinchilla’s name] pee on me. Yes, what a naughty, naughty girl. Bad, bad girl.” She started talking to the chinchilla on her phone as if it was in front of her.

She continued yelling to the phone as the other patrons and wait staff started staring at my friend and her. My friend tried to change the subject. Her date kept talking to the phone. Then the transformation began. My friend says it was like watching one of those Sailor Moon transformations except instead of transforming into a kick ass girl in a school girl uniform it’s…a fucking chinchilla. Her date started making squeaking and “yipping” noises. “Yip! Yip! Yip!” She not only had embraced the chinchilla, she had become the chinchilla. She was…chinchilla girl! She kept yelling what my friend and I assume were chinchilla curse words to no one while my friend sat there in shock for what felt like a lifetime. Then she started holding her hands in a pawing motion as if she had paws. She “burred” and made purring noises and nuzzled her nose into her hands. Folks were staring at my friend and the barista gave her the “please leave” look.

My friend tried to get out of there with some excuse and her date immediately snapped out of chinchilla mode and looked at her directly in the eye. “You, you, you don’t like me do you? Oh God. You hate me!” This rant was followed by tears and loud sobbing without any additional words on my friend’s part. She spent the next 10 minutes or so trying to tell this woman that she was a nice girl, but she just had to go. The girl was smart and wasn’t buying it. My friend was stuck between a rock and a chinchilla soft place.

(*) I thought about changing the animal to protect my friend identity but then I said fuck it! I’m sure chinchilla girl has done the same thing to other femmes. Plus, my friend and I are strong, independent femmes who listen to Beyoncé and fear no chinchilla freaks!

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