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c
o v e r s t o r y
Pursuing
the Femme Identity
by
Andrea Spoehrer
f e a t u r
e s
Revealing
the "psuedo-invert"
Una, Lady Troubridge
by
Alison Phipps
Ashes
in the Paint
by
Michelle Bancroft
c o l u m n
s
Health
by
Dr. Lipstick
Wealth
by
Ms. Moneygrrl
Sex
by
SexySuzi
Advice
by
Victoria
Fashion
by
Dara
Femme
Perspective
by
Kenya
Butch
Perspective
by
D
Publisher's
Note
Letter
from the Editor
Contribute
to Femme
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My
Stonebutch Daddy/husband was diagnosed with a recurrence of breast
cancer in April 1999. Darion was "given" just six months to live.
He died November 6, 1999. This is a letter written to him six
weeks after his death. It is not a pretty letter. It is not a
sentimental letter. It is, however, a letter of raw and exposed
truth. It is a letter of a butch and
 femme
facing the ultimate lesson in life in unending passion, courage,
devotion and love. It is a letter of a femme's truth...
This
letter is for you, Daddy, my butch. But you knew that, didn't
you? And you know why I am writing this, don't you? I have questions
for you. I have things to tell you. I want you to remember. Remember
as I do, remember as the living must.
The
day you died I spent the morning reading to you. You never awoke,
but I could feel you. Oh, how I could feel you…I read all the
letters written to you of our love, faith, yearning, passion,
suffering and devotion. I read crimson words written before we
knew of the demon called cancer lying dormant in your powerful
body. And then I read of our suffering delivered to us at the
hands of this unmerciful demon. I would pray for that bastard
to inhabit me, to let me fight him, to let me die for you. My
prayers were left unanswered.
Do
you remember? I laid next to your body, holding on tight, crying
and whispering to you… "Remember what we were together, my darling,
my husband. Know that the ravages of this disease does not change
our souls, does not change anything. I will forever be owned by
you - my butch, my Daddy and keeper of my soul..." I kissed you
long and hard. I went upstairs to take a shower. When I got out,
my friend was reaching for me. She held me hard and told me you
were gone.
You
had left. Death arrived. After your long, harrowing struggle,
I gazed at your peaceful body. I was confused, not understanding
why I was still breathing. I guess I fully believed that your
last breath would be my own as well. I knelt next to you and kissed
your soft lips once more. They were still warm. And so I screamed
to you, dear Romeo, where is your happy dagger? I heard no response,
only hollow echoes of the promise you extracted from me to live.
That promise now tightens itself around my neck as a noose. I
pray for it to strangle me, to stop this cursed breath that animates
me. It does not.
Widow.
The word drips from my mouth as persistent as vomit. Thank you
for the new personal nomative. Widow - a simple word, really,
yet deadly in what it depicts. It depicts a world without you,
my lover. It is a world of frightening desolation; howling longing;
prolonged, sleepless nights; and unwelcome mornings. I tell people
I did not "lose" you. You died. Dead. Yes, my Beloved, you left
your precious girl behind. Where could you possibly go that I
would not be allowed to follow?
continued
page 2
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