In the pool hall, my sweetheart and a close friend tease me one night: “unimpressive,” “pure luck,” “you aren’t that good.” They were trying to get my ire up so that an hour later when I told them to stare into each other’s eyes as I fucked my sweetheart’s body, I would mean it with a snarky competitive vengeance, I would mean it with power and control, I would be pushed to take what I want.

She looked me up and down, shook her head like she was clearing her ears, and then turned to check the sign on the door. Ah, I thought.

“I shouldn’t have to “reclaim” my dapper style. It was all of ours to begin with.” Two essays on dapper from Anita Dolce Vita and Blakeley Calhoun.

Anxiety on a butch is no different than anxiety on anyone else, but somehow I feel an immense shame as a result of the two’s interactions.

It’s that tie-straightening and sunglass removal feeling.

“I just don’t see why a woman would want to aspire to masculinity when she doesn’t like men.”

“I’ve seen some queer people who insist on holding doors, and other queers who use their stilettos to step on the feet of the men who do the same. I love them both, but I’m not sure if I can call sides in a concept of gentlemanly behavior that’s much older than any of us.”

“I’m all about Lisa Frank right now because of what she means to my understanding of gender, sexuality, and the fluid nature of both.”