"Butch-Femme lesbians have existed within the public imagination as stereotypes to be fought against, dupes of heterosexuality, toxic dynamics that are outdated and irrelevant– As Butch-Femme lesbians ourselves, we know that these claims could not be any farther from the truth. We know the hurt that comes from hearing our own community reiterating these messages when Butches, Studs, and Fem/mes have built our community to be what it is today. Even among other lesbians and queer people, we are an underrepresented group, often going unseen and dismissed. Butches and Studs are constantly accused of perpetuating toxic masculinity and emulating men, while Femmes are shamed for daring to love them for who they are. Accusations that ButchFemme culture upholds harmful gender roles and heteronormative stereotypes feels like a bold faced lie when historically (and presently), these dynamics exist to subvert these roles and turn them into something that can be safe and loving. Beloved, our zine project, emerged from our desire to celebrate that love and highlight the beauty that comes along with both identities. We want to revel in the love we feel for our community with those in it, and showcase as many different perspectives and voices as possible in the process."

Lottie Valiente (@toothfairyfemme), Beloved: A ButchFemme Zine Issue #01, Letter From the Editor

thinking about my butch coming home from a long day of work. i undo her tie and she flicks her eyes over my form, noting my outfit but seeing something in my eyes that tells her shh, play along, so she does. it's her favourite little flared skirt that's too short for me to wear out, a cropped baby tee with no bra underneath, and i shudder with the way her eyes linger on my hard nipples, with her hunger that flares in her pupils.

"sweet girl," she'll say, because she understands what i want, the games i want to play, and she wants nothing more than to give it—everything—to me. because she's mine, and i'm her princess. knowing this, i'll sink deeper into that floaty place where everything is okay. "daddy's had such a long day. come sit with me, baby."

she disappears to the bedroom for a moment—there the sound of a familiar cupboard door resonates and i wonder which one she's choosing. the naughty girl in me wants the biggest one, daddy's favourite—the one that can fill me up, the one that'll stretch me real good. i get wet just thinking about it.

when she emerges, still in her office attire, hair tousled from the day and eyes ravenous, she's sporting an obscene bulge that makes me swallow. she sits on the sofa slowly, eyes never leaving mine. when they do, when they drink me in, i find my home on her lap so she gets a better view. she hums, because i'm being a very good girl.

"i missed you," i murmur.

"you missed who?" she always insists on this. and i only get wetter when she does. she adjusts her leg against my bare pussy to feel it. my dirty daddy.

"daddy," i whisper, still shy. still feeling naughty. still revelling in that filthy feeling. "i missed daddy."

she flicks my skirt up and massages my ass, giving it a spank for being such a tease. after that, she gives me just what i need. she lets me sit on her big cock, but not before i give her a good suck, let her fist my hair while i listen to her groans as she watches my lips accommodate her.

then she bounces me on it, crooning how sweet and pathetic i am for needing daddy's cock like this, and when i come, she pinches my nipple just so.

(thinking about this because my butch just left for work. help♡)

i should literally be in the arms of a handsome butch right now and feeling their strong hands groping and exploring every single fold on my soft body while i kiss them sweetly and giggle every time they pinch me but instead i am forced to brave through The Horrors

"sorry my flirting really sucks i probably made you uncomfortable you don't have to pretend to like it" butch 🤝 "i will ride you until you forget you ever doubted how much i want you" femme

"I know what I am when I look at old pictures long, wavy hair, eyeliner, mascara demure and mysterious. I know what I am when I wander on my lunch hour to sample new fragrances and linger near lace lingerie. I know what I am when I paw through these old letters still warm with old passions held firmly in wide rubber bands. I know what I am when the sight of old white t-shirts and the smell of Old Space can still make me shiver and smile I know what I am in the dark when you fill me your hands and your mouth in the head of the heart of my center I know what I am." "Old femme", Madeline Davis, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

oooh religious theme femmebutch poetry dropping near you

more kokoran

reblog this if you want more friends on here!

The Lesbian Paradox

Lesbian. Homosexual. Gay. Queer. Dyke. Femme. 4Butch.

These are some words I describe my sexuality as. But I am not sure that any word will fully be able to illustrate what I really feel inside.

Yes, I am a lesbian. I am a female homosexual. A woman who is exclusively attracted to other women. Yet, because of my exclusive attraction, my "womenness" is hard to reconcile with.

Girls are often taught to like boys and girls are taught that boys like us. Moreover, girls are taught to respect boys who are mean to them because of said likeness. Heterosexual women are tormented for not tolerating such behavior but can ultimately have their womanhood left alone as long as they like men enough to have a defined affection for them. Lesbians, on the other hand, are harassed for turning down the attraction all together while society tries to paint a picture of what version the lesbian makes them comfortable. It is hard for me to call myself a woman for many reasons, and this is one of them.

Of course, this isn’t to say that women who are attracted to other women cannot identify as such but rather to explain why some lesbians like myself don’t do so. From this, I often find myself being more attracted to women loving women who are not women (confused yet?).

Something about the queerness of gender in a lesbian context is just so, safe. I think many things that I don't say out loud in fear that straight people (and even some queer people) will see me as odd or a threat to our binary norms. But I feel like the non-binary lesbians give me a sense of understanding without having to say any of those words. We don't base our sexuality off of the orthodox traditions of the heterosexist, cisnormative world we are in. We don't copy and paste our rules off of the way straight society has formed there's and just switch around some of the wording. Instead, we make our own rules, which are none. We use labels but there is not much more to them as what feels right from our own experiences.

Transgender lesbianism is beautiful. Non-binary lesbianism is beautiful. Butch/Femme lesbianism is beautiful. Even if one word can't truly be defined to describe me, all I know is that being a Genderqueer Lesbian is complex, mystifying, but also simply beautiful.

I am beautiful. We are beautiful.

"We have all been thoroughly conditioned to think the adjectives male and masculine are interchangeable, as are female and feminine. This is a mental straightjacket under which not only lesbians but all of society suffers."

The butch-femme question, Rita Laporte

(The Persistent Desire: a butch-femme reader, pgs 208-9)

IT'S HERE!!!

Beloved: A ButchFemme Zine, Issue 02 is officially here and ready to download! Get your copy here! 💌🤍💌

The other night I went to a Halloween party my butch was having at her house. We had been excited about it for weeks. I planned the perfect costumes for us— vampire & victim. For the week or so leading up the party, she started to get worried. What if she’s overcome by lust and unable to maintain her gentlemanly reputation amongst her friends? I would always tell her, “abandon shame”. I say this often when she gets shy or embarrassed. Every time we’d talk about it I would tease that it’s going to become a self fulfilling prophecy. And… yeah, it did.

We start getting ready for the party. My usually flannel clad butch was wearing my flowy low cut top (with a real bra!) and corset. I styled her accessories, stacked necklaces and an askew belt with chains. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her… the best part, is when she’d bend over I could see the waistband of her boxers which was so sexy and gender I couldn’t contain myself and had to cover my smitten grin. She saw the look on my face and laughed at me. Well deserved.

Then, she wanted me to do her makeup. Without saying a word she knelt on the floor in front of me, I was sat cross legged at the edge of her lofted bed. This brought us face to face. Again I avert my eyes and fight a blush coming on. The height kink within me was going wild. And with her on her knees in front of me… the power dynamics felt shifted if even just for a moment. I held her face and smudged black eyeshadow around her eyes. Telling her where to look and when to relax her eyes. When she opened them to look me right in my eyes I knew I was going to be in for a long night.

So the party kicks off, we’re socializing, I’m making impressions on her friends, being my regular social butterfly self. And people keep asking, what’s my costume? I say, a little too eagerly, oh no I’M not a vampire. I motion to my “I ❤️ Vampires” tank top and the “bite marks” on my neck. I’m a willing victim, of course! I’m really into it. It’s like a symbiotic relationship. I say this all with a smile, and I can see her hearing me tell people this… all night, enthusiastically declaring my consent and devotion for my vampire master. This drives her crazy.

Now, she’s having fun at the party. It’s a party full of HER friends. And I’m happy for her you know but, deep down I just want her so bad. I pull her aside and ask if she wants to smoke alone on the porch. We go out there and I say look, you’ve been hyping up for weeks how bad you want me at this party. I want you to want me. Cuz I want you. I think that made something click in her brain because we went back inside and sat on the couch for probably less than 5 minutes. She’s all over me. Hand on my thigh, arm around me, holding me closer.

And you know, I just can’t take it. Her lofted twin bed in her room that’s in the middle of the apartment wouldn’t do. I ask her, looking innocent enough, how busy is your street at this time of night? Oh not busy at all? Great! Let’s go fuck in your car. She agreed immediately. We made a swift exit maybe muttering some kind of excuse of having to get something from the car. I teased her for how easily convinced she was. She had no rebuttal. We got the car, she pushed the seats forward, I got in and hiked my skirt up, she got in on the other side and then she was on me.

Biting into my neck, I moaned loud to let her know how badly I wanted her, how I painfully waited, how I had been so good for her. She wouldn’t let up. Lying me down on the backseat her hand moved down to pull my panties to the side and I was already dripping wet for her. She remarked on this, and said how she heard me declaring myself as her victim all night and now she can’t help herself. I just grinned and leaned back to encourage her teeth in my neck. She sunk them in again, then started slow down below, rubbing my clit lightly and gently but even then I was already going crazy grinding against her. I needed her bad. She always tells me, I’m barely touching you and you’re so needy? Whining for more, she sped up. It didn’t take much and I came so quick, my legs shaking hard. But I still wanted more.

I totally lost count eventually. We were in the car for around an hour and a half. My brain switched off probably halfway through. Finally I sat up and— oh. I had soaked completely through her jeans on her thigh. This was an accomplishment for me! I had a major case of fuckbrain at this point and could really only giggle involuntarily and say incomprehensible nonsense. My makeup was smeared, my hair had come undone, and my neck was covered in hickeys. Despite this, we returned to the party and “acted normal”. Deep down, I loved that it was so obvious. I want everyone to know I’m hers. 💘

Butch/Femme Ares/Aphrodite??? Is that anything??? bc it is everything to me.

it is everything to me too. why did this get angsty accidentally instead of smutty help... anyway ares comes back from fighting in troy for a night, boinks their bae and feels sad abt hephaestus or wtv

-

ares drops their spear with a vicious desperation and falls to their knees before their goddess. I knew you'd be here, I knew you'd be waiting for me, they chant. if they were anybody else, they'd be moved to tears—by the curve of aphrodite's hip in the moonlight, the sheer surety of her presence here, her flesh under ares' hands, the smell of her bare thigh, creamy and tart.

but ares can't cry anymore.

they make love the way ares knows their lover wants it. they swing aphrodite's legs over their shoulders and rut deep, skin ablaze, and ares thinks, I am stupid, stupid, stupid. I am pining after the wind. but aphrodite's teeth catch ares' shoulder as she cries out, cries ares' name, pussy milking ares for everything they have.

and they have her. she's here, isn't she? is ares' arms, all around them, clenching around them; her nails familiar like swords, their lovemaking a familiar battlefield.

aphrodite begs ares to come inside her. she's close, ares can smell it. it's primordial. aphrodite comes like the vibrant burst of a pomegranate, seeds spilling like jewels. she always screams, throwing her head back in an ecstacy that's all hers. ares likes to think that every time they makes aphrodite cry out like that, ares gives a bit of themself to do it.

do you let him do this to you, ares wants to beg. they hold it in every time, but it makes them feel all the more pathetic, and all the more powerful. because ares loves like it's a war; it's not enough for him unless victory is just slightly out of reach.

but when ares comes, aphrodite kisses them right on the mouth, and their name, whispered on their lover's perfect lips—

the first light of dawn trickles in through the window. ares' forehead falls onto aphrodite's.

they need to be back troy by morning.

i know that you see all these posts about femmes needing to be respectful of butches and don't sexualize or romanticize or anything like that, and that's all fine and good in principle, but it's really no use when i can tell you're clenching your thighs together anyway, sweetheart.

i mean, it was obvious from the moment you laid eyes on me. big boots, black tee, short hair, keys on my belt-loop— i dress like this for a reason, y'know. and it's definitely not so cute, ditzy femmes like you don't start breathing heavy at the sight of my bulge (yes, i caught you looking).

you can just give in to it, no point in resisting it, really. i'm flattered, and it's not like i didn't drag my eyes across every curve of your body too. and it's tiring me just to watch you try and stop your mouth from watering every time i absentmindedly twist the rings on my fingers. you can look at 'em, i'm not offended. i know you want to, and it's not like you're doing a great job at stopping yourself anyways. you're clearly desperate and haven't had a single coherent thought since you saw me adjust my belt, so why don't you just say it?

say you want a big strong butch to use you cause you can't handle being polite and respectful anymore— cause you don't know how to be around a butch without getting wet and needy.

tell me you need it, and maybe, i'll give it to you.

"When I was eleven or twelve years old, I used to shop in the boy's department at Bloomingdale's, just as the other prepubescent private school girls did. That was where you could purchase polo shirts, Shetland sweaters, and all the other socially acceptable androgynous clothing for our age group and gender. They fit and suited me just fine, but what would have suited me even better was nothing other than an actual suit: the three piece variety mad of thin-wale, beige corduroy with brown simulated leather buttons.

I knew exactly where they hung in the boys' department, and I paid them a visit each time I was in the vicinity. It's funny, but though I can't remember at the time ever seeing a girl or woman in one of these suits, that did not hinder my imagination of what that would look like. Neither did the shortage of real life models ever lead to any questions about why exactly there was one. Somehow I had simply gotten it into my head that such a sight would be wonderful. And, though once again I felt no need to ponder precisely how I knew this, clearly, the most appropriate person to wear such a suit would be me.

Picturing myself in the suit, I was suddenly a lot taller and older and stunningly sophisticated,. The suit seemed to have the almost magical power to make me strong, wise, just. The vision of myself naturally included physical as well as mental capabilities well beyond those of an eleven-or twelve-year-old, but who was I to disbelieve the suit's mystique?

I never tried one on. Although the desire to own one felt perfectly natural to me, it had been met with a mixture of mocking laughter and horror by my mother. Something about her response definitely said, "No." and, "Tell no one." So the suits, like forbidden fruit, remained there untouched by me for years, moved at times from one corner of the department to another, but always just out of reach of my young body's many secret yearnings.

Roughly fourteen years later, as I was walking in the rain, I suddenly realized I was butch. Everything made sense. My butchness came as much more of a surprise to me than my lesbianism, which, despite some years of procrastination on my part as to actually adopting it as a daily lifestyle, I always knew and comfortably accepted.

The way I ever so swaggered and stomped my clunky boots when I walked, and felt sort of proud of it, now made sense. The way I firmly held the umbrella over the woman I love and protected her from the rain as I guided her down the Brooklyn street took on new clarity. The freedom and invincibleness I feel after a close haircut I better understood. The pleasure and vanity I indulge in when I stretch my muscles to lift something that looks heavier than I can manage all at once held new meaning. The childlike glee I feel every time I discover something needing to be fixed in the house and the puffed=up self-importance that fills me each time I fix it had new significance for me. Even my tremendous need for control could now be explained. And my assertive overtures of passion in the dark where I gently bur firmly demand submission most of all seemed to fit.

I gripped the handle of the umbrella tighter and walked along with, I'm sure, the stupidest grin on my face, flashing the woman I love periodic glances of affection as she continued to talk happily, oblivious to the volcano that had just erupted beside her. There, in the rain, as a flood of feelings and enlightenment washed my insides, I had one final glimmer of insight. I at last understood that without ever actually buying the three-piece suit made of thin-wale, beige corduroy, with the brown, simulated leather buttons, I had been wearing one all along."

-"Sweet Suit Suite" Audrey Grifel, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle (1992)

I REALLY WANT A SUIT. SHOULD I BUY ONE?