"We go from store to store, trying to things on and inspecting them. I give my opinions on dresses and shoes, blouses and lipstick colors. Sometimes I say things that make the other women look at me, agape, as though my mouth has been possessed by that flighty queen from Queer Eye even while the rest of my body still looks like any other big dumb boy's. I say that I like a skirt but I wish it were bias-cut instead of A-line, or that I am not fond of the fashion for surplice tops, or that the post-WWII idiom in shoes this season is amusing but rarely looks good on actual feet, or that I like the look of a bolero jacket. I know the names of colors, heliotrope and coral and Nile blue, and I can say without hesitation whether a lipstick might look better matte with a bit of powder.

These other women look at me with wonder, their boyfriends and husbands having made a fetish out of refusing to learn such words under any circumstances, as though merely pronouncing the word "periwinkle" or "princess seam" could easily turn a strong man gay as a box of birds. They say to her, "That's your husband?" in voices that loiter between admiring and disgusted, as though they know that there's no force on earth that could make their men or boys take such interest in their clothing and they think they might really prefer that to the spectacle of me, filling an armchair, legs crossed ankle over knee, looking just right until I say "tea length."

The point is that she wants other girls to see what it looks like to have a boy so cracy in love with you, as I am, that he will spend an afternoon talking about capri pants to have a boy so delighted by you that he never calls you by your name, but addresses you always as "beautiful girl," or "my love" or occasionally and with great fondness, "boss." To have a boy who will happily fetch your next-size-down and carry your bags and charm the salesclerks at the register without flirting overmuch and just generally try to make himself as useful as possible, all for the dizzy and undying pleasure of making you happy. And even though I am not a boy, I look like one, and so I can be complicit with her in this kind of wonderful afternoon, part indulgence of her great beauty and style, part guerilla feminist activism.

Later, when we walk through the mall or down the sidewalk, me laden with packages that are clearly hers, I watch the eyes of the people we pass: the women who look at me with a certain longing, wishing they had their own boys to carry the bags. The men who look at her with an unmistakable hunger, wishing that they had the honor of schlepping for a girl like her, and then look at me with a certain edge of disbelief, not quite clear about why I get to squire this marvelous example of femininity around when they are clearly wealthier, more handsome, better hung. I have learned to meet all of these gazes with a calm kind of sweetness. There's no point in defensiveness or sheepishness or challenge. I'm the one holding her bags."

"Being a Shopping Switch” Butch is a Noun essays by S. Bear Bergman (2006)

sometimes she takes a while to cum, and i never want to make her feel bad for that. i want how long it takes to be part of the fun—so what if i gently eat her out for 45 minutes straight? she has so much shame attached to sex, i want how she experiences pleasure to be a feature, not a bug. i want to take my time opening her up, making her feel loved and wanted. never rushing her, never expecting more than she wants to give. being in control but letting her take what she wants. she deserves to be worshipped, to have my lips and hands and tongue run along the seams of her being. kissing all over her face after she cums, letting her curl up in my arms to be hugged however long she wants. calling her my sweetheart, pretending we’re the only two people who exist, who have ever existed. taking joy in soft, caring sex is good for the soul.

they’re butch-femme your honour

Butches are the softest lovers.

Yes, we’re rough lovers some of the time. We grab, bite, pull, and spank. We’ll fuck you so hard that you won’t remember your own name.

But we are also soft lovers too.

We’ll give you all the kisses you desire while we hold you in our arms so that you feel all small and safe. We’ll spoil you and be all chivalrous and gentleman-y with you because you’re a princess so it’s what you deserve. We’ll blush and loose all ability to speak when we see you all dressed up because you just look that pretty. We’ll lie our heads on your chest, nearly falling asleep while you run your fingers through our hair.

Butches are the softest lovers.

"Needy femmes" this! "Begging for butch cock" that! Well what about needy butches begging for MY holes, huh? What about butches grinding against your ass and begging to take your panties off so they can get closer to you? Begging for your cum in their mouth and down their chin?? Huh? What about THAT????!!!!

Got brand new dildos to go in my strap so I can slowly stretch you out until you can take my thickest. Who's first?

daydreaming about a butch kissing me, teasing me, marking me up as they please, and taking what they want from me however they choose.

strong hands in my curls, on my hips, the curves of my back bringing me to my hands and knees for them. submissive for them and them alone, their plaything.

being forced by a firm hand to arch for them, told to let them hear the moans falling from my lips as they slowly drag their strap through the wet they’ve created. the gasp and groan as they finally sink into me.

taking every thrust, every snap of their hips, guided by their touch and sinful words. slow and steady pulses that drive me wild, pushing back against them asking for more, only to receive a slap on the ass and a promise of ‘you’ll take what I give you’.

I’d promise to be a good girl, beg for the rough fucking I crave. my reward, my favorite necklace- their hands around my throat.

need to talk more about gentle, tender fucking. not just having sex but taking care of her, tending to her, making her feel good and safe. gently touching her as her eyes are screwed shut and she buried her head into my neck. leaving reverent kisses all over her body, paying just as much attention to her tummy and face and shoulders as i do her little boobies and ass.

every time i look up and she has this little happy expression on her face, a knot of stress is undone. respectful slow fucking with lots of check ins, slowly fucking her deep and strong while she grabs at the sheets, keeping a reassuring hand at the back of her neck. stretching my long body down next to her ear and whispering praises and pet names that roll off my tongue. my pretty girl, my princess, my baby girl. how proud i am that she’s taking me so well, how pretty her swollen pussy is from behind, wrapped around my strap. treating her like a dumb, soft n easy little princess who was made to be pampered and babied and served. mine alone to worship and please.

Butches that um....that uh they... they um ugh.....they the bu-butches that.....

These tops from Spirit Halloween 🖤🦇

thinking about our height difference when they push me up against a door frame—how intimidatingly hot they are and how quickly my knees buckle.

I keep on thinking about bending a pretty girl over while she’s wearing a cute little skirt with no panties underneath. I’m in my boxers and I’m hard packing underneath so that when I grind into her, she can feel my hard cock pressing against her pussy. When I pull away from her she whines and I can see that she’s gotten the front of my boxers all wet. Maybe I’ll give her a little slap on the ass before I pull my cock out of my boxers and give her what she needs

Femme bottoms are familiar with the hours of preparation and labor that happens far before the top even arrives. Making sure they look and feel and smell and taste their best, they put in so much effort. I want femme bottoms to know it doesn’t go unnoticed. I cherish everything you do, and it always makes me feel so special that you chose me to do it for.