Butch Queen


By Christopher Williams

He lays next to me like a babe with his mother. He was dark. Darker than chocolate but not quite midnight. What other complexion cliche could describe his earthy tone? It’s so precious seeing him so vulnerable. It’s not that he lays next to me completely exposed as we’ve fucked before but never like this. The way his muscular body becomes so limp when he’s here with me. The way his typically clinched jaw loosens into a soft smile, a grin. Who was this grown child next to me? Where had my pinnacle of masculinity gone and why didn’t I miss him? In this moment, my thin physique felt ever so large. In the night I had gone from “Baby” to “Daddy.”

My femininity was never a prize in my mind but I had always used it to my advantage; finding the most manly of men to cater to my needs. Never once complaining that a submissive role in the bedroom wasn’t my idea of fun. I’d check my uneasiness quickly, if it meant that I could feel the security of arms holding me close like I’ve never felt before. Sure, I was a bit girly, just a tad sweet but always man enough to blend just enough in public. Never once would a lover or a partner have to tell me to “tone it down” or in the words of my close Judies, “never too much.” I was perfect for the gym rats who wanted to retain their manhood despite their gayness. Perfect for Jason, D’quan, Marcus, Leon, and Vincent but I never felt man enough for Shawn.

It’s just that Shawn was SO much of a man that by simple comparison, I was obviously a woman. No, not even a woman. I was a girl– a giggling, fragile, princess. He made me nervous that his Kingly nature would magically transform my snap-back into a tiara. The way he said my name in his heavy New Orleans accent– “Mason” with a heavy emphasis on the ‘a’ & ‘o’ would be enough to make me melt.

He usually called me “Red” or “Baby” when in public. He didn’t hide me or act ashamed of me. Not even after getting my eyebrows threaded and trying to play it off like those former bushes were the products of genetics. He made me feel confident. Not that confidence you project. The kind you fake hard enough until it becomes real, no. This was genuine confidence. But that confidence vanished the first time we entered my bed. He had piece. No, he had pipe. Actually, fuck that, he had a rod. It was mighty and solid by the time he dropped his jeans. I panicked, of course, trying to play it cool but he read right through it all.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to…” He whispered into my mouth before his dark and soft lips locked onto mine. If his mighty friend down there and dark brown color wasn’t enough to let you know this man was African, his lips could erase all curiosity. “No, I want this…” I said, but in truth, I just wanted to be there with him. I didn’t want the strain of bottoming.

After that night, I saw him almost every other day. He was usually busy at night, a nurse, so he’d come see me during my lunch break to bring me the leftovers from whatever he cooked the night before. The women in the office ranged from envy to fear whenever he was around. He looked mean, rough. Tattoos from his neck down and only smiled when he saw me. Gorgeous without showing teeth but when his pearly whites blinded the office it was a wrap. Everyone wanted him but he was mine. My MAN.

He had gone to visit his Aunt Ella in Houston for a week. It was his grandmother’s last remaining sister so he wanted to make sure that they remained close. He got back earlier today, hit me with a text:

Prepare the Jack…

His drink of choice. I was ready for him– had just got a mani-pedi and shaved what needed to be shaved. I was actually confident this time, knowing what to expect. I missed him so much, I would do anything for him tonight. I made the bed, brought the glasses and the bottle over to the bed, placed the condoms next to the pillow and ran my Jill Scott playlist. Baby was ready.

I know I haven’t known him long but what happened once he stepped into my room through me completely off…

Thirty minutes into mind-blowingly good foreplay– bent over on my knees and his waves emerge from under, behind me, I hear him say, “Flip over” as he wipes his mouth. I hated getting fucked in this position in the past but like I said, anything for him. So I flipped over and closed my eyes. Stroked my dick to prepare for him to ease into me but then, right as I’m about to take a deep breath, he removes my hand and I feel myself sliding up into a tight and warm cavern.

He was riding me. Moaning as he moved across my body. I hadn’t topped in years and I assumed, with the kind of men I was into, that I never would again. But I was topping him. It took me a minute to get back use to what to do, back into the rhythm, but it didn’t take long. I flipped him over and placed him in my classic position of all fours, he called me “daddy” (which is what I called him in bed last time) and began what would be a night’s worth of extremely passionate sex.

The entire time I still felt like the sissy that I am but it wasn’t until after that I began to question our–formally concrete–gender roles. I was the girl and he was the guy. He dominated me and I submitted to him. I was “baby” and he was “daddy.” But now I questioned it all. Was he now less of a man to me? Am I more of a man? Am I expected to act more ‘butch’ now and less ‘queen?’

But it just hit me, as I lay here thinking with Shawn by my side…his breathing as my lullaby that sings me closer to sleep, none of that matters. Our manliness, our sexual needs, what we call each other in our intimacy, none of that needed a label. I was his baby and he was mine. That’s all I’ve ever needed to know.

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Follow Christopher Williams on Twitter: @hyfrchrilliams

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