Effects of “Butch/Femme” on Lesbians

RESOLVED, that lesbians have the right to
be free from sex stereotypes in all forms…

– The Lesbian Bill Of Rights

This article draws on the experiences of one member of the Lesbian Caucus; however, like all Lesbian Caucus articles, it was written and edited collaboratively.

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For many years I was immersed in the cult of “butch/femme.” I not only participated in it, but also defended it. 

For purposes of this article, “butch/femme” means general conformity with the sex stereotypes of masculinity and femininity within lesbian communities.

From around 1985 to 2005 in a medium-sized university town in the Northeast, my crowd felt that our version of “butch/femme” was different from the mere appearance of “butch” or “femme” that aligns with how each sex is expected to dress. For us, “butch/femme” was a dynamic that included expectations of accepted behaviors for both parties, and were socially enforced by the “butch/femme” lesbian communities.

How I ended up in that crowd as a lesbian is simple: It’s where I found acceptance immediately after coming out as a lesbian.

At that time in my life, I felt that I had been born a “femme” lesbian. It thought it was simply who I was. Every day I went out into the world to my job, to parties, shopping, and errands in full “femme” regalia, hair “done” every day with hot rollers, a choking amount of hairspray (Aqua Net, no less), perfume, full makeup, a full slip, skirts, hose, purse, and a scarf. The pumps I wore every day hurt my feet and damaged them permanently, the blouses were uncomfortable, and I was endlessly purchasing panty hose that barely lasted two wearings. The hair appointments for cuts and colors – because nothing is more feminine than blonde hair – were expensive and time-consuming. In retrospect, the manicures, pedicures, and leg and Brazilian waxes all cut significantly into my tight budget and cost me time I could have better spent in other ways.

But it seemed there wasn’t much that my “butch” partner enjoyed more than dropping her “femme” off at the nail salon and waiting for a call to pick her up. My ritualized helplessness and dependency on her for transportation to and from the place where my feminized appearance was purchased became disturbing to me over time. I felt as though I was being railroaded into playing a theatrical role in someone else’s fiction; and that her fiction was her reason for living.  

But in that cultural setting I also thought I was being appreciated and admired by “butches” for who I was: an intrinsically feminine woman. I saw my femininity as a part of how I was born. I did occasionally encounter a lesbian who pointed out the cartoon I was enacting; but I would always be dismissive. I believed that “femme” was my identity.

Some of the most bizarre consequences of “butch/femme” arose from the frequent requirement for the “femme” to bolster the “butch’s” appearance of masculinity. The hair salon ritual was mainly a private one; but there were public rituals too. Perhaps because many employers are less likely to hire unfeminine women than feminine women, lesbian or not, I typically had more income than my “butch” partners. If we went out with our friends in the “butch/femme” cult,  I would give my partner cash before we left, so that she could then use it to pick up the tab for “her” woman.

We would always take my car when we went anywhere as it was a better vehicle, and of course I would drive. But if we were going to a designated “butch-femme” event, my “butch” partner needed to drive, so she could pretend it was her car, so she could pose as the “butch” with the nice wheels.

One woman I dated explicitly policed how I dressed. I remember getting up one morning and pulling on a pair of green cargo pants I had purchased to paint the apartment and kept because they were so comfortable, only to hear from the bed, “They don’t look very femme.” I replied, “If they’re on me, they are.” But it stayed in my mind that no one should tell me how to dress. My discomfort with “butch-femme” was growing. 

At a house party one night I met a woman who was fluent in French. We spoke for a long time as she told me about her travels to Europe and India and getting her doctorate. We sat in a corner of the living room, chatting mostly in French; it was a treat for me. Later, after my “butch” partner and I had waved goodnight to guests from the front porch, my partner walked past me into the house, deliberately shoving me with her shoulder hard enough to knock me into the door frame while accusing me of being disrespectful to her by flirting. I hadn’t been flirting; but I hadn’t remained in attendance at my partner’s side either. 

As the small slights began to accumulate, the ritualized deference I was expected to give to the “butch” began to increase my feelings of dissonance and of resentment. I continued to feel as if I was diminishing or hiding my own light in order to prop up a melodrama whose benefits increasingly eluded me. I struggled to understand how it was in the interests of any participating lesbians.

It’s not as though sexuality in the “butch/femme” cult was unaffected by the public charade. It was. Although supporters of “butch/femme,” like supporters of sado-masochism, often characterize dom-sub sex as far sexier than what they sometimes call “vanilla” sex, my experiences differed. For me, sex is “hot” when it’s an authentic, intimate interaction in which both participants react to and respond to each other. With some “butches,” it was like that; the “butch” facade was mostly or entirely discarded at the bedroom door. But other “butches” refused to permit me to touch them or to engage in any way beyond lying still and allowing access; I wasn’t even sure it mattered whether or not it was satisfying for me or whether or not I pretended that it was. 

Some time later a partner (not the shover) and I attended a dance specifically designated as “butch/femme.” The crowded hall was filled with women, about half of them dressed as masculine studs, and the other half as feminine divas; and all of us were judging one another based on how successfully we had fulfilled the stereotypes. I felt I no longer belonged there. The event struck me as a sad charade. It had required so much effort and expense – not in order to elevate women loving women in all their variety and authenticity and joy, but to parade once again the tired gender stereotypes of the 1950s.

Why were lesbians reenacting the most oppressive time for all women in anyone’s living memory? Why were lesbians, who are of course all women, creating and eroticizing dominance (“butch”) and submission (“femme”)? Didn’t we believe in the equality of men and women? Didn’t we believe in equality among lesbians? What kind of community were we building by polarizing lesbians and demanding that everyone conform to the dom-sub model? The “butches” were failing in their displays of perfect masculinity and everyone knew it, and everyone covered for them, and everyone failed at covering their failure. The “femmes” were failing at being submissive and failing at hiding their failure. Everyone was lying and failing in order to prop up an old order that always harmed women, and that doesn’t in any way support liberation or equality or community for lesbians. 

Further, “butch/femme” enhances the competition among women that all women are raised to participate in; only here we compete for most masculine and most feminine. By the way, if you win the competition by being the most masculine “butch” possible, then “trans” becomes the winning card – except that you still lose to any man. But it’s a win for patriarchy in that, insofar as lesbians are visible, lesbians model the inevitability of male domination and the futility of trying to escape it in the lesbian community. 

So “butch/femme” separates lesbians from bonding with each other as a community of equals, and also separates lesbians from straight women who seek equality. But it reassures the sometimes hostile or mocking public at large that at least lesbian couples have one partner who operates as “the man.” The “femmes” appear to be at least slightly under control at the household level. Isn’t patriarchy brilliant! 

The final chapter in my flight from gender occurred in a moment etched in my memory 20 years ago. I was driving to work. It was a summer morning; the sun was bright, and the air was cool and fresh. I was dressed up in my “femme” presentation, but had the car windows open since I was driving slowly enough on the city streets that the breeze wouldn’t mess my hair. As the traffic slowed and then stopped at a light, I looked to my left and saw a young man lightly stepping out of his row house in a white t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops. As the light turned green and my line of traffic began to move, I caught my last glimpse of him walking easily down the steps of the brownstone, and all I could think was, I want that. I want to walk out into the world in a white t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. I was consumed with envy.

Today I have a drawer full of white t-shirts, jeans, and sandals (flip-flops don’t work for me and that’s okay). Today I’m simply a lesbian who strives to have no “gender identity,” a lesbian with short, easy hair that’s naturally turning gray, without make-up, with various body parts exactly as hairy as nature intended, and with a confidence that comes from not having to be deferential to a partner or to lie for her, or to be controlled by a community ready to reel me in from transgressing the old sex stereotypes. I try to build a local, in-person lesbian community made up of equals and based on cooperation and love, rather than competition for conformity and domination. I try to make us visible as lesbians in all our diversity. I try to avoid participating in my own oppression or the oppression of my sisters. And I expect that if lesbian communities consistently treat each other as loving sisters, we will naturally attract more women to our ranks.

The WDI USA Lesbian Caucus 
Lauren Levey, coordinator 
KC Bianco 
Mary Ellen Kelleher 
Katherine Kinney

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