Femme + Butch = Futch

See, it’s not like I wanted a cozy little box with a clearly defined label that I could comfortably fold myself into. I’ve always disliked labels. But nevertheless, I was curious. Curious to know which category or stereotype I fall under simply because they exist and they seem to be reference points for our community. But the problem was, the conventional ones made me extremely uncomfortable.

The Universe, apparently, was in a cheerful mood when body types were being handed out. And I was lucky enough to be bundled out of the manufacturing plant with ‘Lean’ stamped on my ass. This, coupled with the short hair and a love for jeans and tee was the perfect example of  “androgyny”. Much to my annoyance, though, I kept getting flung into Team Butch after a once over. Talk about judging a book by its cover. Sometimes when everyone projects the same image of you over and over, you become what everyone says you are. Maybe I was butch, after all.  But before I could completely get used to the idea of being Butch, an opposing group protested, while patting my head indulgently.

Alright, so I wasn’t butch. So then, was I femme? I thought about it. And realized that the term ‘Femme’ didn’t sit very well with me either. I was never a girly girl. And although I pay attention to dressing well, I certainly don’t dress up, save for the occasional bare minimum make-up.

All of which left me with a question. Which team did I belong to? Then I remembered a word, a friend had thrown around casually amidst jokes:‘Futch’. And I thought, well, that is something I can certainly get used to. It sounded right. It sounded good. Not butch, but not femme either. I liked this term. It was fluid, like sexuality. It was flexible, like the roles in the bedroom (Top, bottom, bottom, top. Fuck it. We’ll do it standing). It came with enough room to experiment. And it came with the power to break stereotypes.

So, there you have it Gaysis. I’m a Futch. What about you?

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Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?
Lady Jughead

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