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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