Butch tightened his grip on his cell and wished there were an app that let you reach through a phone and bitch slap someone.

What’s next? The size of my cock?” “Hey, even pencils can get the job done—I’ve heard the moaning from your room to prove it.

I am a rare species, not a stereotype.

I don't switch much, don't really want many people to fuck me, because there's a whole code, unwritten but no less rigid than if it were chiseled in stone, about how Tops Must be, how Butches Must Be, and it does not include taking off one's pants. It does not include admitting to one's own desires, only quietly serving the desires of others. It certainly does not include taking a break once in a while to inhabit some other gender, role, or sensibility, even for half a delightful, sweaty hour, in the company of someone who feels like a mirror of me rather than a complementary piece I can fit myself against.