Butch Femme Planet - View Single Post

Ginger · 08-02-2012, 03:52 PM

If you really knew me, you'd know:

that I have a turkey baster in my office, and I recycle the water from the dish under my plants, back into their soil. This makes a sound like I am in gastrointestinal distress; but I swear, it is the turkey baster
that there are eight elevator banks in the lobby of my office building, and I like to stand with my eyes closed, seeing if I can guess which elevator is on its way to me—I love that quiet whooshing sound
that twice this week, men have given me their seat on the subway, and this morning, a man stood holding open the elevator door, though I was way on the other side of the lobby, walking toward it
that I sometimes fantasize it is a handsome butch performing these acts of kindness, which snap me out of the spaciness that helps me float unbothered through the rude experience of day-to-day public transportation
that I listen to movie soundtracks at work while I write, and my favorites are composed by John Barry, like the theme song from Last of the Mohicans—and I don't care how schmaltzy the soundtracks are, they chill me out and let me think
that I am so excited about the Reunion, I go back to the threads on it over and over, trying to figure who is going, and what they are like, and how it will feel to be in that hotel, in that city, with that crowd.

08-02-2012, 03:52 PM	#475
Ginger Senior Member How Do You Identify?: Femme lesbian Join Date: Mar 2012 Location: East coast Posts: 2,416 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 5,829 Thanked 12,297 Times in 2,057 Posts Rep Power: 21474852	If you really knew me, you'd know: that I have a turkey baster in my office, and I recycle the water from the dish under my plants, back into their soil. This makes a sound like I am in gastrointestinal distress; but I swear, it is the turkey baster that there are eight elevator banks in the lobby of my office building, and I like to stand with my eyes closed, seeing if I can guess which elevator is on its way to me—I love that quiet whooshing sound that twice this week, men have given me their seat on the subway, and this morning, a man stood holding open the elevator door, though I was way on the other side of the lobby, walking toward it that I sometimes fantasize it is a handsome butch performing these acts of kindness, which snap me out of the spaciness that helps me float unbothered through the rude experience of day-to-day public transportation that I listen to movie soundtracks at work while I write, and my favorites are composed by John Barry, like the theme song from Last of the Mohicans—and I don't care how schmaltzy the soundtracks are, they chill me out and let me think that I am so excited about the Reunion, I go back to the threads on it over and over, trying to figure who is going, and what they are like, and how it will feel to be in that hotel, in that city, with that crowd.