Sunday, April 01, 2007
BUTCH DYKE LOOKS LIKE A DUDE
Dot back. It’s been a while! That trip to Houston really knocked Dot for a loop! Another entry, people. Another entry. Today Cunnilinga the Butch Dyke Muse is telling me to write about how difficult it can be for a butch dyke who likes butch dykes to find some friends to just fucking hang out with!
Here’s the problem, people. I’d love to hang out with nothing but butch dykes. But being a butch dyke who likes butch dykes there’s always the awkward attraction factor. I have a hard time just watching the Rams with another butch dyke because instead of thinking about the next touchdown, I’m thinking about how I’d like to go down on the hot womyn in the laz-y-boy next to me! Am I right people? It’s like the age old “can a man and woman truly be friends” question, explored hilariously in Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Well, there’s a less known version of that film (less known because it’s still in production and Wired Womyn’s latest funding check bounced!) called When Dot Met El. That low budget (no budget now—if any WW are reading this, need funding!) gem tells the story about yours truly and her last serious girlfriend, El.
El and I met during the playoffs when the Cards were out of this world. I was catching the game down at Absolutli Goosed when I heard a deep voice next to me make the comment, “That guy pitches like he’s wearing a strap on!” I looked over and saw the glorious butch dyke who made the comment. She had a dark brown dyke chop and was wearing a bright red Cardinals t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, making it into a muscle shirt. On her right bicep was a tattoo of a Betty Page-like pin up leaning over an air conditioner. Above the picture were the letters “H.V.A.C.” Immediately I knew I had encountered a kindred spirit.
“I hear that!” I said. “Dot.” I extended my hand.
“El,” she said and took my extended hand with her large calloused hand.
“So, you’re in HVAC? Heating, ventilation and air conditioning?” I asked.
“Well, that and hot vaginas and cunts.” El quipped.
From then on El and I were inseparable. We both loved crude humor, sports, Bud Lite, and equal rights for all sexual orientations. We spent hours watching the game together and drinking. We even shared stories of the dates we went on with other womyn.
And then it happened. Just like in When Harry Met Sally. El had been dating a “bi-sexual” hottie named Drew from Wash U’s master of social work program. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before El’s strap on was spurned for “in the flesh.” Didn’t I know it, before the regular season had ended, Drew said “bi- bi-” to El and her polymer phallus. The night it happened, I was sitting on the velour couch I keep on my front porch having a Bud Lite (naturally), when El walked up the steps, a crying mess. Long story short, we ended up fucking. Hey, my doormat does read “Pussy Playhouse,” people. As dykes are wont to do, El and I dated for a couple months, actually, until she moved out to Wyoming. But the lesson remained, I couldn’t be just friends with another butch dyke.
I can’t really be friends with a femme either. They’re always whining about their feelings and jawing about how they look. Can’t take it. Gay men are right out too for much the same reasons. Even Bears, although I have befriended the occasional Hippo. Straight women? I won’t even dignify that with a response. Thus, Dot turns for friendship where she would never ever (never has, never will!) turn for lovin’: straight men.
But lemme tell you, people, it’s not always easy as a butch dyke to be friends with a bunch of male breeders. Case-in-point, I’m taking in the Rams game at Slammers on the Landing, sitting solo at the bar over an icy cold Bud Lite. A group of four guys comes in and sits at the bar to do much the same as Dot. They’re yucking it up and as it turns out they know quite a bit about the Rams and pigskin in general—and I know from football, people!
*Knowledge of football: one point
One says to me “So, you think the Falcons could work on their offense a little this year?”
I retort: “Lemme ask you this: when don’t I think the Falcons could work on their offense a little.”
They laugh.
*Good taste in humor: two points
I introduce myself, but the Rams score a safety while I’m saying my first name and all they catch is “Lazarius.” I start to think they maybe think I’m a dude. When one puts his arm around me and says “Hey, this guy must have balls like a fucking kangaroo and a cock like a goddamn Alaska moose!” it’s confirmed.
*Inability to distinguish a butch dyke from a man: a wash
So they think I’m a dude, so what. I roll with it and we have a great time watching the game. Then, one makes the suggestion of Dot’s dreams: “Let’s head over to Titty-lations in East St. Louis! They expose full nipples, full bush, and they’re not prevented by health code from touching you during the lap dances like they are in Missouri.” I think, this must be Dot’s lucky day!
“This must be my lucky day!” I say. “I got my Toyota Takoma, or the ‘Twat Truck’ as I like to call her, right outside if anyone needs a ride.” They all laugh. Again, good taste in humor, these guys.
I get to my truck soon enough to remove the mullet air freshener I’ve altered to say “I break for dyke chops” and the guys don’t seem to see anything strange about my rainbow colored cat bumper sticker. Maybe they just know it means I like pussy. We head for Titty-lations.
I happen to know there are a couple of glorious butch dykes who dance at Titty-lations, mainly to get out their aggression by dicking (or should I say “cunting”!) men around. One is Sally and the other is Sue. I scope the club and see Sally working a pole for a group of sweaty fat guys that just got off at the Malinkrodt factory and Sue giving a lap dance to a sweaty fat guy wearing a Limp Bizkit t-shirt. I don’t know how those ladies do it, God bless ‘em.
Me and the guys sit around a table and tuck a few bucks here and there. Most of the strippers are straight-up femmes and the guys are loving it. Naturally, the strippers are loving Dot! As always, I’m getting free lap dance offers and tits of all shapes and sizes in the face. See, every stripper knows a dyke is going to treat them better than any man. You know the saying “Once you go detachable, you’ll never go natural”? Mmm hmm. (Except for Drew—am I right, people!) A lot of truth in that, people, a lot of truth. The guys can’t believe how much action I’m getting. But I don’t want a lap dance from any of these femmes. Finally, Sue finishes up with her dude and comes over for some Lazarius love. As we’re going off into the back room for “private lap dances” one of the dudes I’m with says “How do you do it, Lazarius?”
“You want to know how I do it?” I ask. “Okay, I’ll tell you: next time be born a butch dyke!”
*Rimshot! priceless
Dot back. It’s been a while! That trip to Houston really knocked Dot for a loop! Another entry, people. Another entry. Today Cunnilinga the Butch Dyke Muse is telling me to write about how difficult it can be for a butch dyke who likes butch dykes to find some friends to just fucking hang out with!
Here’s the problem, people. I’d love to hang out with nothing but butch dykes. But being a butch dyke who likes butch dykes there’s always the awkward attraction factor. I have a hard time just watching the Rams with another butch dyke because instead of thinking about the next touchdown, I’m thinking about how I’d like to go down on the hot womyn in the laz-y-boy next to me! Am I right people? It’s like the age old “can a man and woman truly be friends” question, explored hilariously in Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Well, there’s a less known version of that film (less known because it’s still in production and Wired Womyn’s latest funding check bounced!) called When Dot Met El. That low budget (no budget now—if any WW are reading this, need funding!) gem tells the story about yours truly and her last serious girlfriend, El.
El and I met during the playoffs when the Cards were out of this world. I was catching the game down at Absolutli Goosed when I heard a deep voice next to me make the comment, “That guy pitches like he’s wearing a strap on!” I looked over and saw the glorious butch dyke who made the comment. She had a dark brown dyke chop and was wearing a bright red Cardinals t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, making it into a muscle shirt. On her right bicep was a tattoo of a Betty Page-like pin up leaning over an air conditioner. Above the picture were the letters “H.V.A.C.” Immediately I knew I had encountered a kindred spirit.
“I hear that!” I said. “Dot.” I extended my hand.
“El,” she said and took my extended hand with her large calloused hand.
“So, you’re in HVAC? Heating, ventilation and air conditioning?” I asked.
“Well, that and hot vaginas and cunts.” El quipped.
From then on El and I were inseparable. We both loved crude humor, sports, Bud Lite, and equal rights for all sexual orientations. We spent hours watching the game together and drinking. We even shared stories of the dates we went on with other womyn.
And then it happened. Just like in When Harry Met Sally. El had been dating a “bi-sexual” hottie named Drew from Wash U’s master of social work program. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before El’s strap on was spurned for “in the flesh.” Didn’t I know it, before the regular season had ended, Drew said “bi- bi-” to El and her polymer phallus. The night it happened, I was sitting on the velour couch I keep on my front porch having a Bud Lite (naturally), when El walked up the steps, a crying mess. Long story short, we ended up fucking. Hey, my doormat does read “Pussy Playhouse,” people. As dykes are wont to do, El and I dated for a couple months, actually, until she moved out to Wyoming. But the lesson remained, I couldn’t be just friends with another butch dyke.
I can’t really be friends with a femme either. They’re always whining about their feelings and jawing about how they look. Can’t take it. Gay men are right out too for much the same reasons. Even Bears, although I have befriended the occasional Hippo. Straight women? I won’t even dignify that with a response. Thus, Dot turns for friendship where she would never ever (never has, never will!) turn for lovin’: straight men.
But lemme tell you, people, it’s not always easy as a butch dyke to be friends with a bunch of male breeders. Case-in-point, I’m taking in the Rams game at Slammers on the Landing, sitting solo at the bar over an icy cold Bud Lite. A group of four guys comes in and sits at the bar to do much the same as Dot. They’re yucking it up and as it turns out they know quite a bit about the Rams and pigskin in general—and I know from football, people!
*Knowledge of football: one point
One says to me “So, you think the Falcons could work on their offense a little this year?”
I retort: “Lemme ask you this: when don’t I think the Falcons could work on their offense a little.”
They laugh.
*Good taste in humor: two points
I introduce myself, but the Rams score a safety while I’m saying my first name and all they catch is “Lazarius.” I start to think they maybe think I’m a dude. When one puts his arm around me and says “Hey, this guy must have balls like a fucking kangaroo and a cock like a goddamn Alaska moose!” it’s confirmed.
*Inability to distinguish a butch dyke from a man: a wash
So they think I’m a dude, so what. I roll with it and we have a great time watching the game. Then, one makes the suggestion of Dot’s dreams: “Let’s head over to Titty-lations in East St. Louis! They expose full nipples, full bush, and they’re not prevented by health code from touching you during the lap dances like they are in Missouri.” I think, this must be Dot’s lucky day!
“This must be my lucky day!” I say. “I got my Toyota Takoma, or the ‘Twat Truck’ as I like to call her, right outside if anyone needs a ride.” They all laugh. Again, good taste in humor, these guys.
I get to my truck soon enough to remove the mullet air freshener I’ve altered to say “I break for dyke chops” and the guys don’t seem to see anything strange about my rainbow colored cat bumper sticker. Maybe they just know it means I like pussy. We head for Titty-lations.
I happen to know there are a couple of glorious butch dykes who dance at Titty-lations, mainly to get out their aggression by dicking (or should I say “cunting”!) men around. One is Sally and the other is Sue. I scope the club and see Sally working a pole for a group of sweaty fat guys that just got off at the Malinkrodt factory and Sue giving a lap dance to a sweaty fat guy wearing a Limp Bizkit t-shirt. I don’t know how those ladies do it, God bless ‘em.
Me and the guys sit around a table and tuck a few bucks here and there. Most of the strippers are straight-up femmes and the guys are loving it. Naturally, the strippers are loving Dot! As always, I’m getting free lap dance offers and tits of all shapes and sizes in the face. See, every stripper knows a dyke is going to treat them better than any man. You know the saying “Once you go detachable, you’ll never go natural”? Mmm hmm. (Except for Drew—am I right, people!) A lot of truth in that, people, a lot of truth. The guys can’t believe how much action I’m getting. But I don’t want a lap dance from any of these femmes. Finally, Sue finishes up with her dude and comes over for some Lazarius love. As we’re going off into the back room for “private lap dances” one of the dudes I’m with says “How do you do it, Lazarius?”
“You want to know how I do it?” I ask. “Okay, I’ll tell you: next time be born a butch dyke!”
*Rimshot! priceless
# posted by Dot @ 12:09 PM 
