Good Luck, Friend: Butch Perspectives on Female Friendship

Female friendship is wonderful, and even more so when you’re butch. You sit back and watch your friends discover their beauty through each other; even though you can’t provide any tips on makeup or hair, you bask in the love that comes with their exchanges of knowledge. You tease them about taking so long to get ready, but secretly, watching them help each other is more fun for you than the actual events you go to. You know that this intimacy is unmatched and that womanhood, perceived or actual, is integral to this experience. They push you to love the things about yourself that no one has told you you’re allowed to love before. You get to peel back the hard shell that you wear in the outside world. You know you are safe and that you are seen and while you are fundamentally different, you are still family.

Being butch in an all-female friend group is romantic. You take on the role of the “man” of the group, and therefore take it upon yourself to provide for the beautiful women you find yourself surrounded by. You hold open doors, stand in between them and unwanted advances, carry heavy bags. You listen to their problems and are tasked with holding them until their tears subside. You compliment them in ways they can’t compliment each other, even without trying to. There is tension, whether you want it or not. Your existence in their space defies the rigid bounds of sexuality and sensuality and monogamy. You allow them to experience masculinity in a way they never have before, and it excites them.

With time, the tension becomes palpable. There are times when you can’t tell if the flirty comments are those of a friend or a prospective lover. You catch them looking at you across the room, and the adoration in their eyes is different than it was before. They joke about questioning their sexuality and hold eye contact with you while doing so; you say nothing, but know what they’re trying to say. You know they can’t say it, not yet at least. They complain about boys and wish they could find someone like you. When they cry and you hold them, they squeeze you and hold you closer, almost too close for comfort. You are idealized for the way you represent the men they’re supposed to want but exist as the partner they’re scared to want. Your muscles juxtapose your empathy; your clothes stand opposite to your consideration.

You try to draw some more defined boundaries. It’s hard for you because it feels good for you to be needed in this way. You like being the shoulder to cry on, you like being the protector, you like being the strong one. You like being quietly pursued and desired in ways you never have before. At the same time, though, you know it’s not fair for them to use you in this way, especially while they insist upon their straightness. You know you can’t keep overextending yourself to be the person for everyone, especially when you don’t get it back. You know there’s a girl out there who you can be that for and that will claim you, and her queerness, loudly and proudly. You know you will hold her tight and she will hold you back tighter. You know she will be secure in herself and in your bond in a way that will make you feel safe. Knowing and being assured by these facts, you try to dispel the tension between you and your friends and return back to the pureness of your bond that was once there. You still hold doors and stand in between unwanted advances and carry heavy bags, but you scale back the romance. You still watch in awe as they get ready in the mirror, but you do so quietly. You try to hold them less tightly.

Their flattery quickly turns to anger when they realize their feelings aren't reciprocated, as if you existed solely for their self-discovery. Big-eyed gazes turn cold, long talks turn to awkward greetings, friendships wither away. You were meant to be a tool, a means to their end of knowing who they are. They kept you around because it was fun to explore what they wanted without the real stakes of flirting with boys. Despite their alleged disinterest in girls, you were supposed to be theirs, and theirs only.

Now that you aren’t there, they have only themselves to answer to. Instead of using you as a vice, they must look in the mirror and accept that maybe they’re different in the way you are. They hate you for it. They hate the way in which you embrace who you are openly, because they cannot yet. They hate how much space you take up. They hate how happy you are with yourself because of how much they hate being them. They hate you for being the reason they are forced to confront these feelings.

There’s nothing you can do but let them figure themselves out, however long that might take. You mourn your friendship, and deep down, you know they do, too.