Let’s call her “Genevieve” cause she seemed French even though she was anglo all the way. She had that Euro vibe… or she wore a lot of scarves. We got along well enough in a passing way. But her lips. Oh Her lips. On our first date we had wine and a picnic in the park, she wore something lacy, it was hard not to stare at her nipples. Later when we were standing naked and sweaty at the window of her apartment she fit right in the crook of my armpit. And for the first time ever I felt totally and completely- like a dude, no I mean it really…Masculine. Wait WHAT? Fuck that shit. Feeling like a man? When I’m here, in all my naked female glory, loving up on an incredibly hot woman. I don’t want masculinity here. It’s not its place. I decided it must have been that crook of the armpit feeling and chocked it up to me being tall.
What comes first the queer or the date? Chicken or the egg? Since I’m queer then technically any date I’ve been on has been a queer date right? Even those ones with really straight guys. I mean let’s be honest here I’ve always been queer. That much was obvious around the time of the honoured teenage tradition of sleepovers. You know, sleepovers? A friendly back massage, fingers straying just a little over the side of the back towards those delicious nipples. Jesus nipples again. Hey I’m a breast guy what can I say? (And there it is again, that DUDE voice. Gah). I was definitely queer that time I went down on my frosh crush in my dorm room, or before during and after the many hook ups in back alleys, bathrooms of bars, or in beds I shared with more than just my partner. Group sex. Sex Clubs. I’ve been on dates with men and women to all those places. So yeah. Queer dates. Technically though I guess, even though I dated men but fooled around with women all through my teens and early twenties, the first time I went out with a girl on a date was with “Genevieve”.
The weird thing that has stuck with me throughout my dating life since Genevieve is that feeling of dudeliness that I had with her. I am a woman yes. however ye old attachment to that gender is slowly moulting, springing forth beautiful plumage (pls. read sarcastically). Or one could say that these days it’s like a big old woman’s hat that doesn’t quite fit right on my woman head. I feel this dudeliness creeping up on into me at different, not just sexy/intimate times too. Like when I’m being a boss ass woman at work, sometimes I’ll feel like I’m “acting like a man”. Or when I’m really mad and I don’t know how to jam the words out of my mouth or communicate in any other way other than snorting and stomping around I’d also say that I’m “acting like a man”. Whereas when I’m looking at challenges and trying to better understand the WHOLE situation I would say that’s very womanly. So is processing. Processing is wonderful and very ladylike. And the lady like I can handle. It’s that damn john wayne voice? Like why can’t it be…Mae West? Right? She must have loved her some nips. What and why is the DUDE happening to me?
TRUTH: I think it’s because I’m tall. EX. Most of the women that I date are shorter than me and many of the men, taller. As such I find that with shorter women I take on a protector role. Like when she snuggles into my arm crook to sleep I’m “taking care of my little lady” (says the fucked up DUDE John Wayne voice in my head). I feel this way with butch women, femme women and women that fall somewhere in between or outside of any general binary concepts of femininity and masculinity- she’s just gotta be shorter. In comparison I am much more apt to take on the role of “little lady getting taken care of” when I’m dating a taller man. I like to snuggle into his armpit. Feel that sweaty, hairy man aura, feel protected. And I know that that is fucked up. I mean. I don’t need the protection of a man. And I can be protected by my short ass girlfriends too. I guess this bothers me. That my tallness has made me take on some kind of role. So you know what BLOG people, I’m gonna start dating some taller women and shorter men. Fuck with my own weirdo notions. Yah. Yah. Oh and things with “Genevieve” didn’t work out, though we had a couple more dates. She moved to Hamilton to go to teacher’s college and became the ire of a future boyfriend who got jealous when I wanted to give her back a book. I spanked him with it instead.