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.

“Who are these men noticing me? Who are these men giving me the long, soft stare, eyes holding mine like they got something for me, something they can’t talk about, something only eyes can pass along. Who are these men whispering ‘hi, papi’ to me? I don’t think I look more male today than I did yesterday.”

“When the doctor said that such and such a treatment was linked to health problems later in life, I didn’t even blink. I’ll hit 50 and keel over? Fine, I don’t care, get rid of these fucking pimples.”

I want to talk about shape-shifting, and clothing, and being a butch who wears things, because so much of butchness is tied up in the things we put on our body.

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.

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

“So what do you do in bed, then?” they always ask, but what they mean is “I think I already know what you do in bed because you’re a butch who likes femmes, so I’ve made assumptions on your behalf.”

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.

“There are so many terms for what I am – genderqueer, genderfluid, agender, pangender, neutrois – but none of them feel quite right. So Kade takes the place of that descriptor, and Kade feels right.”

“I continued to make intense eye contact with my interviewer, concentrating to the point of not blinking. To her credit, she did sometimes look down, but it was usually to take in my tie, skipping my face altogether.”

“If I wear my heart on my sleeve – and I do these days, much to the shock and dismay of a butch gone prematurely tender – then the sleeve itself is my masculinity.”