is there anything so fine on this fine earth as an older butch?
you’re irresistible. the way you smile, the way you cock your hips as you stand and the way you love, tender and rough, your fingertips and tongue skilled from years of practice. it is always you that catches my eye the most, the ones who’ve been around the block more times than the rest of us can count. who have fought and overcome and keep on fighting, who persist against the odds, and who bear the triumph and the tragedy of your lives so exquisitely in every careworn detail.
I love how warm and wise your eyes are. there’s a depth there that only a lifetime can bring and I could just about plunge right in when I get to staring into them. I love how they sparkle when you laugh, and how your eyes crinkle at the corners, furrowed deep. all the times that you have spent laughing and crying over the years are etched there and they only emphasise the more the fine construction of your features, the handsomeness of your bare, clean face. I wait for those moments, when you smile and your whole face comes alive with feeling and time, tenderly refined.
and your smile – nothing can bring me to my knees like a mature butch’s smile. bright and broad and always just a little cheeky, giving a glimpse into the young rogue you were and all the escapades that wicked smile led you into. I’m tantalised by the memories that hover behind that smile, as much as I am by your ruggedness and lined face. I want to listen to you for hours, then become another memory to add extra mischief to your grin.
I love the set of your shoulders, made strong from years of work – you’ve always worked hard labour and long hours; driving trucks, packing and stacking, security detail. on your feet, out in the sun, under a car, on a construction site. your bodies tell the story of your journeys, each tale unique even in commonality. your skin is worn and weathered, speckled with sun-spots and colourful, faded tattoos twining your arms and back. long marks stripe your stomach and thighs, criss-cross over scars. grey peppers your hair, adding dimension and dignity. I love that grey, how it looks mingled with the rest, how it all feels slipping through my fingertips. your throat is creased, the skin creping delicately along the jawline in a way that always sets my heart racing. I love an older butch’s jaw as much as the lines around her eyes, for all the mature definition it brings to her butchness. this is beauty; life and all its unfoldings, written in the flesh.
I love the rough beneath my palm as I stroke your back, soothing away your aches. I love how solid and sure you are to be near, how you always stand straight even when you’re worn down to the bone, how you let me lean into you and be reassured.
you’re always at ease, no need to posture or twitch. you’ve paid your dues, earned your swagger and you know you’ve got nothing to prove. it’s that confidence, that calm self-assuredness, that is so enticing to me, that makes me so weak at the knees and so hot between my thighs. what need is there for talk when you’re all action? you leave the pissing competitions to the young ones and get on with what matters. you’ve faced down the beasts that raged within and now you’re not afraid to be sensitive, and ardent, and even vulnerable with a fem. you know that true strength thrives always in honesty. you’ve learned that lesson too.
but for all you seem so relaxed, so cool, I know too that in an instant you can be on your feet, blazing and ready to fight off any trouble. that’s what your life’s long journey has taught you as well: what it means to stand together, to protect each other. that nothing matters unless we got each other’s backs.
there really is nothing so fine as that.