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Cin · 05-06-2012, 01:21 PM

Reading the last page or so of this thread made me think of the last time I wore a dress. It was at my father’s funeral. I hadn’t worn anything of the kind for many years before that. I did it to make a statement. I did it as a kind of tribute to my dad. Yet, my father would have been the last person to give a fat rat’s ass what I wore.

He was always very okay with the way I dressed and pretty much with me in general. It was because of him that I had any boy toys at all to play with growing up. He always defended me to my mother. My poor mother could never get her head around my behavior. She really couldn’t get it. She would glance my way with a puzzled expression as I rode the ends of the couch up to the saloon, swaggered in and put a crayon or a piece of dry spaghetti in my mouth as a stand in for a cigarette and drank water out of shot glasses while I played cards and got in fights. These fights consisted of punching myself and throwing myself around the room and wrestling with myself on the ground until I beat the shit out the bad guys.

Then my sister was born. She was very feminine and loved to wear my mother’s high heels and put stuff on her head and play wedding. She wore tiaras and loved being the princess. My mother was so pleased. Fast forward fifteen years and she was completely flummoxed when she brought her butch girlfriend home for a visit.

My dad seemed to be okay with whoever his kids were. When I was little he always tried to make peace in the home while not squashing who I was. When I wanted to wear my guns to church instead of freaking out about how girls shouldn’t be playing with guns like my mom did, he would explain how guns, even toy ones, didn’t belong in church. When I complained about how I had to dress to go to Mass, he would tell me how lots of real bad asses wore long coats. All the better to hide stuff in and besides he would say, it just looked cool. He taught me to fight and he was proud of how good I was at it. Keep your hands up he would say as he smacked me in the mouth to emphasize the importance. He would tell his friends what a good fighter I was. He also taught me to fish, hunt with a bow and arrow and shoot a gun. Not to mention how to throw a football, hit a baseball and pitch a wicked curve. Put some English on it he would say to me. He taught me to swim and dive and always told me I could do anything I wanted to do.

He was quite a dapper dresser. He never considered certain colors off limits. When I think of my dad I often see him in a pink shirt with a pink and purple striped tie, a very cool handkerchief in his jacket pocket and a fedora on his head. I loved to dress in his clothes as a kid.

So when I decided to wear a dress to his funeral it was a surprise to me. I don’t know why it felt right, but it did. It was something I did for him even though he never would have asked me to or even really cared if I did or not, except in that it would please my mother. So the reason I wore a dress was not to make my mother happy even though it did, it was because my mother’s happiness was important to my father and also because throughout my life he tried so hard to keep peace between us. It was for him, especially because he wouldn’t care and he wouldn’t ask.

I don't imagine I will ever do it again. Even reading this sounds like I think wearing a dress is some kind of immense sacrifice. LOL, I guess it is. It feels like it compromises who I am. It feels like I am participating in my own oppression. I'm speaking just for myself here. If you're butch and you like dresses, I mean like them on you, that's cool. I don't feel good about wearing stuff like that. It's wrapped up in all kinds of baggage for me.

05-06-2012, 01:21 PM	#102
Cin Senior Member How Do You Identify?: Butch Preferred Pronoun?: she Relationship Status: Truly Madly Deeply Join Date: Aug 2011 Location: In My Head Posts: 2,815 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 6,333 Thanked 10,408 Times in 2,477 Posts Rep Power: 21474853	Reading the last page or so of this thread made me think of the last time I wore a dress. It was at my father’s funeral. I hadn’t worn anything of the kind for many years before that. I did it to make a statement. I did it as a kind of tribute to my dad. Yet, my father would have been the last person to give a fat rat’s ass what I wore. He was always very okay with the way I dressed and pretty much with me in general. It was because of him that I had any boy toys at all to play with growing up. He always defended me to my mother. My poor mother could never get her head around my behavior. She really couldn’t get it. She would glance my way with a puzzled expression as I rode the ends of the couch up to the saloon, swaggered in and put a crayon or a piece of dry spaghetti in my mouth as a stand in for a cigarette and drank water out of shot glasses while I played cards and got in fights. These fights consisted of punching myself and throwing myself around the room and wrestling with myself on the ground until I beat the shit out the bad guys. Then my sister was born. She was very feminine and loved to wear my mother’s high heels and put stuff on her head and play wedding. She wore tiaras and loved being the princess. My mother was so pleased. Fast forward fifteen years and she was completely flummoxed when she brought her butch girlfriend home for a visit. My dad seemed to be okay with whoever his kids were. When I was little he always tried to make peace in the home while not squashing who I was. When I wanted to wear my guns to church instead of freaking out about how girls shouldn’t be playing with guns like my mom did, he would explain how guns, even toy ones, didn’t belong in church. When I complained about how I had to dress to go to Mass, he would tell me how lots of real bad asses wore long coats. All the better to hide stuff in and besides he would say, it just looked cool. He taught me to fight and he was proud of how good I was at it. Keep your hands up he would say as he smacked me in the mouth to emphasize the importance. He would tell his friends what a good fighter I was. He also taught me to fish, hunt with a bow and arrow and shoot a gun. Not to mention how to throw a football, hit a baseball and pitch a wicked curve. Put some English on it he would say to me. He taught me to swim and dive and always told me I could do anything I wanted to do. He was quite a dapper dresser. He never considered certain colors off limits. When I think of my dad I often see him in a pink shirt with a pink and purple striped tie, a very cool handkerchief in his jacket pocket and a fedora on his head. I loved to dress in his clothes as a kid. So when I decided to wear a dress to his funeral it was a surprise to me. I don’t know why it felt right, but it did. It was something I did for him even though he never would have asked me to or even really cared if I did or not, except in that it would please my mother. So the reason I wore a dress was not to make my mother happy even though it did, it was because my mother’s happiness was important to my father and also because throughout my life he tried so hard to keep peace between us. It was for him, especially because he wouldn’t care and he wouldn’t ask. I don't imagine I will ever do it again. Even reading this sounds like I think wearing a dress is some kind of immense sacrifice. LOL, I guess it is. It feels like it compromises who I am. It feels like I am participating in my own oppression. I'm speaking just for myself here. If you're butch and you like dresses, I mean like them on you, that's cool. I don't feel good about wearing stuff like that. It's wrapped up in all kinds of baggage for me.