barbara smith, the dance of masks, from the persistent desire, edited by joan nestle, alyson publications, 1992:
[Well, that’s what you want, isn’t it, sex? You want a good fuck don’t you? Of course, I do, but I want an interesting chase. Don’t want a pushover, don’t like it too easy. I like a little challenge on the way to foregone conclusion: fancied you the minute you walked in thought you’d never come over blah blah. I want to be obvious, obviously butch, obviously someone. Steaming with passion, I want to smell of it, I want to ooze it, I want it sweating out of every pore, written in and between every line with no room for ambiguity, hidden behind every gesture and always on the surface, manifest in every easy joke that always gets a laugh, so far into me that it’s almost in the background, my hungry cunt standing behind me like a predatory shadow. Watch out, here comes Barb with her cunt on a lead again. Yeah, but which one’s the cunt? And does it bite?
So I’m gonna stand in that bar, real cool, and hunt. Stand where I get a clear view of the door. Watch them all come in, eyeing them up and trying them on for size. I want to play that frightening, dangerous game with myself— how long can I act the cool butch? How long can I stand there looking mean and moody or bored and uninterested when my heart is racing with anticipation? How long can I pretend to them that it doesn’t matter, easy come, easy go? How long can I keep it going before I run out of steam and they realize I’m lonely, shy, and embarrassed?
You can see through me if you want, but be gentle with what’s underneath. In these situations I only have a patina of power, lying along the surface of my skin. I want to want and be wanted so badly that the merest finger touch, the slightest lifting of a femme’s eyebrow when she evaluates me, feels like a knife slipping under my skin. But sometimes I can balance on that knife edge; sometimes it doesn’t cut my skin. Sometimes I’m so on the spot, so well measured, so poised with my posing, that I can breakdance on the point of a needle.
Tonight all the jokes will be funny. I will be the entertaining, laugh-a-minute, woman-of-the-world butch. I will be the writer with the funny anecdotes, the witty comments. I will be barbed and bristling, busy, busy with my butch performance. I will stand at that bar and select my femme, who picked me out moments beforehand anyway, and I will dance my butch’s dance for her. I will be dapper and aching to please this woman who spied the shark and reeled her in with a hand line. I will stand there with my strong, clean, straight sharp lines and wait for her to lay a gentle hand on me that will barely touch me, that will stroke me like a feather, that will soften the hard edges, but not take away their power to cut.”]