In fact, I probably get called Sir more often that I get Ma'am-ed. I usually get Sir, or no gendered address at all. e.g. "Can I help you, Sir?" vs. "Can I help you?"

I think that's partially because a lot of women in their 30s are horrified at being called Ma'am and have berated counter people for it. It kinda feels like I get more respect and better service when people think I'm a man. Hmmmm. Makes you think, doesn't it?

It used to be fun when people would call me Sir and then immediately realize their mistake and apologize profusely for the next three to five minutes. Now I just try to shut them up as fast as I can and get them to complete whatever transaction I wanted in the first place.

What I like best is when the person who calls me Sir never realizes that I'm a woman. That makes me think, "Hey, cool! My huge saggy tits must be completely invisible!" and I feel like I'm getting away with something.

Deb and I once went through a cafeteria line where the servers alternately addressed one of the other of us as Sir and the other as Ma'am all the way down the line. That was fun. We felt like real gender fuckers that day. It must've been during a time when she had a pretty short haircut herself. I don't think she ever gets called Sir now.

Several years ago, a guy friend of mine took me to the Ramrod in Boston, a men-only SM/leather club that used to be a haunt of my favorite porn writer, the late, great John Preston. That's the closest I've ever come to intentionally passing, and it was great. I just blended into the walls and observed the gay male cruising ritual that a lot of women don't ever get to see. I saw several guys pass their eyes over me, and on to someone else. But still, it was cool.

So what does all this say about me being butch? Not that much. There's too many flavors of butch to go into them all. Deb says I'm a courtly butch: polite, quiet, helpful, solicitous�qualities that seem in conflict with my toppish side, but not really. I only do the aggressive alpha top thing when I've got full permission from whoever's playing bottom.

And then there's just the normal butch stuff: belching loud, never wearing skirts or dresses, a loathing of all things pink, blowing my nose in the shower, scratching myself in public, doing the "guy" chores like mowing the lawn, squashing bugs (or picking them up and throwing them outside), vacuuming and washing dishes.

Eh, it's a mix.

I guess being butch is so enmeshed with what I consider just being me that I can't pull the two apart. Ever since I was a little girl, I tried to emulate my father, and I suppose that's how I turned out the way I did. I try to be responsible, a good provider, a good neighbor, fun in a low-key way, thoughtful, avoid emotional conflict, affectionate and caring with my partner.

Every day growing up I saw my dad come home from work, wrap his arms around my mom, kiss her three times, and then pat or grab her ass. He was a great guy. I tear up now just thinking about him.

So, if I can be a fraction of as good a man as he was, and manage not to die at 67 and leave Deb by herself, I'll consider my life well-lived, butch or not.

This post didn't come out nearly as light-hearted as I had intended.