One of my most inspired and brilliant ideas ever was to volunteer at the registration desk for Butch Voices. Not only did I get to meet everyone as they arrived, but I had a wonderful excuse to ask them their names and flirt outrageously in the name of selfless public service.
One very cute butch woman I met happened to share my given name, but with an “e” where the “a” should be. I don’t know what it is about people with my name – perhaps it’s the years we spend correcting spelling on everything from birth certificates to driver’s licenses to pay checks – but we are fiercely attached to vowels being placed in the right order and we tend to get a bit uppity about the “right way” to spell it. When I asked her how she spelled her name, she responded, rather cheekily, “I spell it right, the way my parents did.” I laughed and told her that I would be willing to forgive her parents for their poor spelling ability, just this once, and she broke into a gorgeous smile that lit up her face. She laughed and suggested something about my parents and we laughed together as I handed her the rest of her materials and she went on her way.
*****
On the last day of the conference, I was helping with the raffle in the ballroom. One of the final items left was a length of black rope, and I had put in half a dozen tickets myself with the hopes of winning it. (There’s just something about black rope that makes the mind wander to deliciously bad places, don’t you agree?) When the announcer called my name, I squealed, “hot damn!” and ran around from the back of the table where I had been working to collect my prize. The cute butch with my name also ran up to the front. We saw one another and, with big smiles, badgered the poor announcer with “it’s spelled with an e!” “no, an a!” “no, an e!” until he finally just gave us the ticket. Whoo hoo! It was my name on the ticket, and she walked back to her seat, more than a little dejected.
As I walked back to my seat behind the table, holding the sexy black rope in my hand, it was already whispering wicked things to me. The rope was slick and new and gorgeous as I fingered the length of it, imagining black against creamy white skin and moans as I pulled it tight, but the sight of her sitting in the seat looking disappointed was too much…and I walked over and handed it to her.
She looked up at me and shook her head. “No, you won it. It was your name on the ticket.”
“But you’re a butch,” I replied. “You need a black rope.” She was unconvinced.
“Do you have someone to use this on?” I asked, and her eyes lit up with wickedness. “Yeah,” she said, looking off into the distance and imagining scenes I could see reflected in her face.
Ivan Coyote had performed his “Butch Roadmap” the night before and so I looked at her with mock seriousness and asked, “do you have a pocket knife?”
She pulled it out and flipped it open. My heart nearly stopped right there, but I think I covered well – I only gasped slightly as I drooled on the floor.
“Do you have a lighter?” She nodded, “at home.”
“Can you do tricks with it?” She smiled and nodded again.
“Well, then,” I smiled. “You have to have a black rope.” I handed it to her and she took it from my hand, still not sure. “A butch with a pink rope would just be silly.”
“But,” I said, with a twinkle in my eyes, “I expect to hear some good stories in two years when we see each other again.” She laughed and agreed, thanking me.
****
Later on, she caught up to me in the hotel as I was heading towards my car to go home.
“Thanks again,” she said with that beautiful smile.
“Remember, I expect stories,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, with a wicked chuckle and a devilish look in her eyes. “In two years I will tell you about the time my motorcycle broke down and I used the rope to keep the bike together long enough to get me home.”
“That,” I replied, “would be awesome. It’s a deal.”
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