just.

when i slip my hands in the pockets of your jeans as you're getting dressed in front of the mirror, tying your tie with shoulders scrunched, brow furrowed, legs slightly spread in solid stance, i move up on tip-toe in order to position my mouth just behind your left ear. careful to avoid the collar of your shirt, lest i muss it with that carnal red shade of lipstick you love so much, i lean in closer, pause, whisper, "handsoooome." i draw out the last syllable for amatory emphasis, of course. you pause, turn to me eye-to-eye, smiling. no other word could better describe you right this moment, you know. that face, that body...don't even get me started on those hands of yours...fingers rounded, palms wide, wrists thick and strong.

i love the physical strength i associate with you. when my body responds to your first touches it is because of what i know is there lying asleep deep in the muscles beneath your blanket of skin. i also know, though, that this attraction, this pull is more than just good looks and strong forearms. to imply otherwise would be an insult to everything you embody and to the inherent infractions your masculinity and your queerneess makes in the world every day. this need i feel in my stomach for you, this yearning, is about gender fucking. it's about a dynamic that i can't describe to my best of friends despite the endless amount of words at my disposal.

it's about...how you smile with both your mouth and your eyes when you tell me i'm "such a fucking girl." it's a statement meant to tease, but one that is ultimately filled with pride and with validation for my femininity and your masculinity. you, my butch, my lover, my whole heart, understand femme, understand me. to you, i am the definition of what it means to be femme - both physically and politically. you never forget the latter and it is as important to you as it is to me. for the first time in my life there is you who values who i really am. i know it the day you tell me that i fuck with gender as much as you do. you get it and you love it. it turns your head, it spins your heart, it turns you on.

it's about...the look that we exchange every time you are called "sir." how my stomach flips at the utterance. i blush with excitement for you - of all that you already are in this place, in this body, and with the anticipation of your constant evolution and the privilege i feel in witnessing it. you should know though, that in this moment, i am only two seconds away from scanning the room, looking over our shoulders, preparing for battle in case someone should realize the gender trespass being made here at this cigarette counter. because while you're still enjoying your moment of passing, cataloging the details of this space - from the mismatched linoleum flooring to the smell in the air - i am planning our escape. to be on your arm, to be with you is to silently vow your safety as you have promised me mine. you will drop your guard, you will take this all in, you will revel in it. you will be safe to enjoy it on my watch. i promise you this.

see, this thing we call butch and femme is so much more than your chucks vs. my heels, though the way they sit side-by-side next to the front door of your apartment makes me smile in that way that causes me to, when i think about it long enough, drop my eyes, fold my chin down my neck, and bite the corner of my lower lip as it begins to sneak its way up my right cheek. this thing we do, that we feel, it is dependent, it is complementary. it's not just a dynamic, it is dynamic.

i am yours, you are mine, show me where and i will sign.