Wolfsong wrote: "Throughout the course of my day I would say that I get addressed as a equal times as Sir or Ma'am. There are times that, for no apparent reason, when people address me as Sir I just want to scream at them "Are you fucking blind? Do you NOT see these tits? If these tits got any bigger they'd be required to have break lights and a license plate you dumbass!" but I just smile and move along. I've come to believe that this reaction is more about being hurt at being invisible to people than it does to my gender identity."
Wolfsong, your response to being mistaken for a man, despite your impressive boobage, made me remember fondly a butch lover who was almost always called "Sir," and who was confronted by security not once but twice in the time I knew her—after women reported a man in the ladies' bathroom.
She too marveled that anyone could mistake her for male, as her breasts were (and are, I suppose, though I haven't seen her for a while), absolutely huge.
What's interesting is that I read her as butch from the first moment I heard her beautiful deep voice on a friend's answering machine (she was trying to set us up, and knew I would swoon for it), and my reading never wavered, even though she is much more endowed upstairs, than I am.
Her breasts, in other words, did not feminize her. She didn't "present" them the way I present my own little girls, when we are dressing up to go out. She kept them under wraps, snugly out of the way. And they behaved, of course.
I think we "read" people based on certain indicators, and that we do this instantly and subconsciously. The signs that masculine energy is approaching were so clear, in my lover—physical aspects like her walk, her way of holding herself, her gaze, as well as cultural indicators, like her clothing—that the signs she is a woman became secondary.
I raise my glass (I mean, paper cup with coffee), to the large-breasted butch women out there in the world, who emit a welcome and much-appreciated vibe.
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