"can i help you, sir?"

At some point in 7th grade, I decided to put a note my friend T’s locker, asking him to go steady with me. I mean, come on: he liked sports, and I liked sports. We played basketball together all the time. After school the following day, I’d decided that was plenty of time for him to come up with an answer (not really taking into account the fact that his non-answer was his answer), so I called him.

G: Hey, T. Did you get my note?
T: Oh, yeah. I did.
G: So. Do you want to go with me?
T: Well, we can be friends.
G: All right.

That is not an exaggeration. The conversation was really that short.

Writing about it now makes me cringe. Looking back, I see that I certainly wasn’t his type; he was interested in the delicate, pretty girls who made sure their flavored lip gloss was just right before the school dances. Surely it never occurred to them to ask a boy to go steady; the boy was supposed to ask. I didn’t know there were all these rules, you know? And I thought it was a waste of my damned time to do all this work to impress these … boys, in whom I had no interest beyond playing ball or hanging out.

I went off to college, and wow. I met plenty of guys (and also my first girlfriend). I never had sex with any of the men because um, it was against my religion (also, no thank you). This will always remain one of the funniest things to me. I was raised as a Mormon, and they don’t believe in premarital sex. That was totally my excuse when it came to guys – I can’t have sex! I’m Mormon! – but in the meantime, I was having sex with girls that was blowing my mind. Continue reading

I toe a line between masculinity and femininity that feels like home and chaos all at once. I love the space between, where it’s neither female nor male. It also messes with me a little bit because I am a person who likes labels, order and definition. I think that is why I feel so at peace with butch, because I feel like I can comfortably live there. In fact, I’ve felt more authentic since settling there than I ever have in my life.

Not too long ago, I was reading from the transfiction book Boys Like Her, and I really connected with one essay in particular called Sweet Boy. In that piece, the three authors (Anna Camilleri, Ivan Coyote, and Lyndell Montgomery) discuss what the phrase “my sweet boy” means to them, with their interpretations varying a bit based on their gender perspective.

While the specific phrase of my sweet boy doesn’t necessarily hold any meaning to me, I could understand where the writers were coming from based on how they described their reactions to saying and hearing it. I was really intrigued by how much I connected with some of the emotions, and since then I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what it was that reached me and why I think it had that effect.  Continue reading

I love a woman with good hands.

I don’t look for anything in particular, at least not on the physical level. I mean, hey, I like a nice-looking set of hands (also, I have to say it; fake nails? Not a fan). Although they look good with my hands – the delicate, feminine complement to my bigger, more functional hands – it’s more than how they look; it’s how they feel on a physical and emotional level.

I like hands that are real. Capable, and competent. They don’t need to be muscular, but I like ‘em strong. I have such a weakness for a woman’s hands in my hair, on my head, on my arms. Of course, I’m very pro-touch and pro-massage (I get massages on a regular basis for my sensitive/jacked up back), I know. But when it comes to hands, it really comes down to how a woman uses them. How she touches, how she grasps, how she pulls or pushes. Her fingers wrapped around my arm while we walk down the street. Her palm tousling my hair when she laughs and teases me. The back of her hand brushing my cheek when she tells me something and really wants me to pay attention. Her insistence at taking my hand for reassurance. And I like to take care of the hands that take care of me. Let me handle the chores and the rough stuff any day, and she can handle my tense shoulders, my stressed lower back, my aching head, or maybe just my disconnected soul.

It’s difficult to explain verbally what exactly makes up a great set of hands, but it’s something that is easy to recognize once I feel it. The best hands can express urgency, compassion, desire, intensity, comfort, desperation and love. A little touch can go a long way. A savvy woman can sense a connection with me, and she’ll learn to use touch to enhance it.

Photo borrowed from Jessally’s collection over on Flickr. If you want to see some amazing photos, what are you waiting for?

Those of you who follow me on Twitter know that my chatter about working out has increased in the past few months. I played in a softball and basketball league for the better part of the summer, and one day in early July I decided to get a little more serious about it.

I started working out at a local park, doing an hour of cardio and sets of push-ups. In the last couple of weeks of that workout, I was doing 250+ push-ups per session. The weather has grown wetter and colder, as it tends to do in the fall, so I joined a gym. I’m still doing the cardio, but have switched to weight training, which I particularly love and have missed since I was last working out regularly. One thing I love about my body is that it responds quickly; since I started working out, I’ve lost about 15 pounds. My pants are loose, but my shirt sleeves are fit more tightly around my arms.

There’s something to this though, something that is a little deeper for me than just getting back in shape. Sure, the exercise is a plus, and I love that post-workout high. But the way my body looks and feels plays a huge part in my identity. I know so many people who also say that, so bear with me. Everything from my height to my build to the way I move all figures into my comfort zone of feeling bigger. Stronger. Dominant. And yes, more masculine. Continue reading

Someone asked me the other day what my weaknesses are when it comes to women. I have no shortage of weaknesses, but found it funny that I have them somewhat categorized. I have immediate, incendiary physical weaknesses that I can feel a mile away and intellectual weaknesses that feel more intimate, like a slow burning flame. I’ve found that while it’s the physical that attracts me initially, it’s the mental that keeps me interested.

In a perfect world, my match would have a great balance of the physical chemistry and mental draw (who wouldn’t want that?). But I find myself most often meeting one of two types of women. There’s the woman I think is beyond hot, and I could look at her all day long – but I could never ask her to carry on a sustained conversation about anything substantive. Or there’s the woman who can converse, debate and banter with me, which totally attracts my brain. But my body? Not so much. I have to have that. And more often than not, that physical need wins.

Is either the physical or mental weakness more powerful for you? Does one take a clear backseat to the other? If you are in a relationship, what was it that attracted you first?