The Beaver Whisperer and the Oral Obstacle

Q: I am not able to orgasm from receiving head.  I enjoy it immensely, but am unable to cum from tongue action alone. My partners in the past become frustrated with this inability of mine and have put the deed on the “never again list.” I tell them I really enjoy it, but because of the lack of a explosive ending I get denied. What can I say or do to have cunnilingus back in my sex life?

A: I am so sorry for the way that you’ve been treated by your not-quite-up-to-standard butches! You have my sympathy. Any butch worth the title (any dyke, or really, even any sexually active human) ought to realize that we don’t all get off the same way. In fact, sometimes our favorite acts never lead directly to orgasm.

Most women need direct clitoral stimulation in order to reach orgasm, but just because we’ve had this drilled into our heads by every venue from MTV’s Loveline (am I dating myself?) and its corresponding radio show to the longstanding sex advice columnist extraordinaire (of both print and podcast fame) Dan Savage, doesn’t mean that every woman will get off through clitoral stimulation or through clitoral stimulation alone.

Here are a few different cunnilinguistic scenarios to share with your butches if they haven’t tried them in the past. (And I invite all of our readers to add ideas of your own in the comments!)

Oral Sex Tips

1. Tongue Fucking: Instead of focusing solely on the clitoris, fuck the vaginal canal with your tongue, literally. Push your tongue inside as far as it will go and repeat, indefinitely. For many people, this is actually more psychological than it is much of a physical sensation, but you’ll often need your mind in the right place in order to reach orgasm.

2. Suck Her Cock, er, Clit: Instead of just flicking or circling your tongue against or around the clitoris, suck the whole thing into your mouth and go at it the same way you want your femme to suck your cock. Butches tend to love this, BTW, but a lot of femmes get off on it, too.

3. Combo Clit Vaginal Moan, er, Orgasm: Fuck your femme with your fingers (as many as she likes) while you are enthusiastically licking, flicking, circling, or sucking her clitoris with your tongue. Find the tongue motion that she likes, then add finger fucking.

What does make you orgasm? Choose any of those activities and then have your butch do them while going down on you. You’ll orgasm while getting head, which is what she seems to want, and you’ll get head and an orgasm, even though the head is not directly causing the orgasm.

If you’re stuck in the position where your butch has already put cunnilingus on the “never again” list and thus don’t know how to get her to try any of my (and hopefully our) helpful suggestions, stick to your guns. There is no excuse for not going down on your girl, whether she cums from it or not. Tell your butch I said so. Tell her what you want in bed, and expect to get it. You can also offer a trade. Choose an act that she wants that you’re not that into, and offer her a swap. If there aren’t any that you’re not into (you fantastic femme, you!), choose her favorite and offer her the trade. I can’t imagine a butch (who is worth your time) who wouldn’t comply.

I wish you many happy orgasms and much luck on your cunnilinguistic journey!

The Beaver Whisperer

Butch Suit Shopping: An Odyssey

There comes a time in every butch’s life when she must embark on a journey of mythical proportions. The road is long and fraught with peril: gender-segregated dressing rooms, perplexed sales clerks, hostile tailors, and colossus-sized price tags. I’m talking, of course, about suit shopping. This past weekend, my own epic quest finally came to an end and – spoiler alert – it was a happy one. But getting there? Well, it was rocky, to say the least.

Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start): Two of my good friends from college are getting married in May, and I need something decent to wear. Generally speaking, decent people wear decent suits to decent events such as this (decently), and I was sorely lacking in that particular wardrobe department. The last time I bought a suit, it was my senior year of college. The year was 2008 and the U.S. economy had already begun its free-fall into the seemingly bottomless pit of recession and unemployment. While it wasn’t yet clear just how much the job market would come to suck in the following years, the Class of ’08 was acutely aware of the quiet, but persistent voice in the back of our heads whispering with sinister glee, “Wow, you are fucked.”

Against this backdrop, my one singular thought during the Spring of 2008 was, “Holy Mother of Perpetual Bills, I need to get a job.” That was my mindset when I bought my first suit – a women’s suit – from Macy’s and had it tailored to fit as a women’s suit “should” (according to society/patriarchy/Vogue Magazine) fit. I needed a damn job, guys, and I was convinced that I couldn’t get one if I showed up looking “too butch.” It was a sacrifice that I felt was unavoidable. And, well, after a few months of panicked application-a-thons, résumé revision after résumé revision, and exceedingly awkward interviews (I even, in a particularly desperate moment, interviewed at Abercrombie and Fitch), I did get a real Big Person job. Fortunately, said job came with a very casual (read: nonexistent) office dress code, so after that, Lady Suit was exiled to the darkest corner of my closet.

Fast forward to modern times, where I am now stubbornly entrenched in “I’ll never wear women’s clothing again and you can’t make me, nyah, nyah” territory. Unfortunately, in this territory, I was suitless. And what is a butch without a proper suit? She’s like a cupcake without frosting. A Christmas tree without a star. A lolcat without a cheezburger. It was a sad situation, indeed. But, until my friends’ upcoming nuptials forced my hand, I had avoided buying a new suit for three reasons:

1.) Suits are $$$.

2.) 99 out of 100 suits do not fit my dimensions.

3.) Men’s suiting stores are intimidating as hell.

So it was with great trepidation that I stepped into the suit department at K&G. I thought I would have a less scary experience there, as it was a store that sold clothes for both sexes, meaning I wouldn’t immediately be seen as an interloper. The guy who cuts my hair – an awesome tattooed, Rockabilly lesbro who shares my love of comic books and women – suggested this store to me as a good place to get suits on the cheap. He’s a husky dude, I’m a husky butch, so it seemed the size options there would work for me. Not so much. First off, finding a suit in 46S that didn’t hang off my shoulders like football uniform pads while also somehow straining against my chest was a Herculean task. When I did find a few jackets that fit me the way a human being’s clothing should fit, the pants they came with were either too tight on the hips or too massive in the legs. (BTW, “wide leg” suit pants? Really, people? I know we’re experiencing a 90s revival right now, but some things – like MC Hammer pants – need to stay dead.)

The cherry on top of this Suck Sundae was my fitting room experience. In this store, the men’s room and the women’s room were right next to each other (both located at the back of the men’s suit section), so I figured I might as well go into the women’s room since I’m, you know, a woman. My mistake. As I was walking in, I noticed a teenage girl who was watching my approach with the sort of wide, fearful eyes usually reserved for a wildebeest stampede or Genghis Khan’s invading army. The second I got too close, she snapped, “This is for FEMALES!” Already emotionally exhausted and in no mood to argue that I did indeed have all the anatomical trappings of “female,” I muttered something unintelligible and looked away. My GF, however, swooped in like a femme fighter pilot and declared to Lil’ Miss Nosey that I was “fine,” and then pushed me in the direction of a stall. She later informed me that she stood outside the curtain while I changed, giving the girl a death look until she finally slunk away in embarrassment. This, my friends, is why every butch should have a shopping wingfemme.

After all that, K&G ended up being a total bust. We moved onto Plan B – Men’s Wearhouse. I had really hoped to avoid that chain, since I’ve had bad past experiences with rude, unhelpful sales clerks who treated me like an alien life form, but desperate times called for desperate measures. When we first got to MW, it seemed this experience was going to echo the last one. Nobody was helping me. The sales clerks around us pretended they couldn’t see our queer little group digging through endless rows of suits. Then, just when all seemed lost, one brave clerk stepped forward and asked if we needed help. I told him the dimensions, styles, and colors I was looking for and he went to work. I was taken aback; this guy was treating me like I was any other customer. Maybe he thought I was a man? Well, that illusion was shattered when he introduced himself and asked for our names; he didn’t flinch when my butch buddy and I told him ours. Wow! This was really happening! In the flurry of trying on different jackets, pants, and vests, I didn’t even realize that he was dropping subtle hints into the conversation: mentioning where he and his “partner” lived, talking about how much he loved the Western part of the state where I grew up – particularly Northampton. My GF and friend later informed me that the sales clerk most definitely played for Team Rainbow. Talk about finding allies in enemy territory! Boston area butches, if you’re in need of a suit, call the Men’s Wearhouse in Medford and ask if Woon Cheul (pronounced “Winchell” is working). He’ll take care of you.

Finally, the impossible was achieved: I found a suit that fit me – or rather, would fit me with a little tailoring. The older gentleman who was the store’s “master tailor” was far less friendly towards me. Unsmiling, he followed the clerk and my fitting instructions with the sort of body language that suggested he really didn’t want to touch me. The gay, you know, it’s totally passed through bodily contact. He kept trying to walk away at every opportunity and Woon Cheul had to keep calling him back to tell him he wasn’t done taking my measurements. My GF was annoyed, but my mindset was more, “Whatever, fuck this douchenozzle – I have a suit.“A suit that, in the end, cost about three times the amount I wanted to spend, but a suit nonetheless. (Good thing I like PB&J and Easy Mac.)

A week later, we returned to pick up my beautiful, tailored, black pinstriped three piece suit. It fit perfectly and I was elated. The cherry on top of this Stupendous Sundae was that one of the same sales clerk who had been afraid to approach me a week earlier came right up to greet me with a big smile, even magically remembering my name. My GF pointed out that I may have “popped his butch customer cherry.” Next time somebody who looks like me walks into his store, maybe he won’t hesitate to help them.

And that, my friends, is what we call progress.

Proof That I Am Not Dead, Just Bad At Time Management

Hark! The Prodigal Butch has returned! Dear readers (if I still have any left), I am all kinds of sorry for not updating in two whole weeks (though, maybe, we could just say this post is very fashionably late?), but life just kind of exploded – not in the bad, IED way, but in the holy-moley-so-much-to-do way. I’ve been busy! Just, you know, not busy writing for my own blog. That will change! I pinky swear it, and I don’t take pinky swears lightly. You’ll get a real, bona fide post – in which I’ll tell of my trials and tribulations in suit shopping – real soon. In the meanwhile, here’s some evidence that I haven’t actually been spending the past two weeks on a beach in Cancun with tiny umbrella-adorned beverages and a team of dedicated Cabana girls:

The first ever meeting of ButchBoi Life was this past Sunday and guys, it was a great success! We had over 20 attendees, which was like three times the amount I had thought would show up (low expectations = the secret to success). BBL really is the only group of its kind in this area, which definitely helped boost the numbers; the second nearest butch social group I know of is in NYC. Our discussions covered a wide range of topics, including coming out to your family as a butch/stud/boi, butch-femme relations, haircuts, dealing with street harassment, and how to be a gentleman. Timeless stuff.

I was stoked to meet so many new people and engage in some good ol’-fashioned lesbian over-analyzing, and I loved how enthusiastic everybody was. But the best part, I think, was how diverse our group was. There were so many races, ethnicities, socioeconomic backgrounds, and ages present, which never friggin’ happens in the absurdly segregated Boston queer scene. Afterwards, we all went out to dinner at the delicious Redbones, because that’s just how we roll (covered in BBQ sauce). If you’re in the Boston area and like being surrounded by awesome butches (you know you do), I hope to see you at our next meeting! We even have an official Facebook page now, for “liking” purposes. Check it out for details on upcoming meetings/dinners/events/general debauchery.

Also, I did a guest post! It’s for the fantastic Butchlesque blog. If you’re in Florida and want to see a bunch of butches on stage, this is the place to be. Apparently they have a Single Femmes table, which I really wish would become a thing at every queer venue. Anywho, I Twittersourced questions from femmes about the mysterious Ways of the Butch and posted my sage responses. If any of you lovely ladies out there have a butch-related inquiry that I didn’t cover yet, send it my way – I’ll be doing a part two.


See how productive I’ve been? You can’t even be mad.

In Which This Butch Gushes Shamelessly About Her Love Of Hats

We cover a lot of heavy topics here at Buzz Cuts and Bustiers, from coming out and living with STDs to gender dysphoria and healthcare inequality. Sometimes, we just need to break up all the Serious McSeriousness with a light, frivolous, fun post, ya know? Well, I don’t have any new Dita Von Teese pictures to share with you (much to my dismay), so let’s talk about something else we all enjoy drooling over: hats!

Even the straightest of the straights and the freshest of the babygays know this to be a fact – dykes fucking love hats. It’s encoded into our Gay Gene, much like our innate need to over-analyze every sexual act or our inability to maintain long fingernails. Go into any lesbian bar on a Saturday night and you’ll see more hats than this guy could fit on his head. Baseball caps! Fedoras! Flatcaps! Beanies! Even cowboy hats, worn ironically or sincerely! The Mad Hatter was totally queer (look at that sassy pose).

Full disclosure: I, Bren, am a hardcore hat addict. (I’m also a hardcore tie, vest, and action figure addict; my episode of Intervention would be the most dapper/geeky ever.) Last year, Goorin Brothers opened a store in Boston and my wallet trembled in fear. If you’re a dyke – particularly a butch – who hasn’t yet heard of Goorin Bros. and is on a budget of any sort, stop reading now. It’s the chapeau-lovers answer to a candy store, or rather, a candy store where the best candy costs like $100. I really feel like I should just have an open tab at their Newbury St. store; I already have a customer loyalty card (only six more hats until my freebie!), which is just as dangerous.

Last weekend, I visited Goorin with my GF and a butch buddy of mine. We were the only customers in the store and the clerk was a fellow gender-nonconforming queer, so we had a blast trying on all manner of hats. Oh, should I say, my buddy and I tried on hats while my GF gave us the Femme Caesar thumbs up or thumbs down. Due to my ridiculously tiny head, which makes finding a good hat (fedoras particularly) a challenge, I got way more thumbs down. Or maybe she’s just a tougher critic when it comes to me; who knows? I finally ended up with the Lucas flatcap, while my buddy got the Andrew fedora. We were quite the stylish group, if I may say so myself.

When I asked my awesome butch, stud, boi, and genderqueer Twitter friends what kind of hats they like to rock, I got answers as diverse as our big LGBT family. Let’s explore some of our favorites, shall we?

The baseball cap. A wardrobe staple for sporty dykes everywhere, baseball caps are a great casual hat to throw on when you’re working outside, running to the store, or having a bad lesbian hair day (we all have ’em, even us short-haired types). Fitted or adjustable (or “snapback,” as the kids call it), there’s a cap for every taste. I like the trucker look myself, despite it being tainted by Ashton Kutcher. (Totally buying that beaver hat, BTW.) Since I’m about as interested in sports as I am in men, none of my ball caps have athletic logos on them. But I don’t like the plain Jane look either, though it can look kinda cool and vintage. So what kind of baseball caps do I rock? Superhero ones, ‘natch. Geek: wear it loud; wear it proud.

The flatcap. Also known as the driving cap, ivy, cabbie, or scally, flatcaps are my personal fave for adding a dash of dapper to any outfit. I have roughly 40 million of these guys tumbling out of my closet: plaid ones, striped ones, wool ones, cotton ones, linen ones, you name it. I like pairing them with a suit vest and tie for a sort of turn of the century casual gent look. The flatcap seems to be a popular choice for butches, based on my Twitter research and the crowd at most Boston queer events. And fellas, let me tell you – the femmes go crazy for them. Just putting that out there.

The beanie. Beanies are classic cold weather gear, but they’re not limited to blizzard conditions. I see dykes beanied-out right in the middle of July. While I get hot just looking at them (not necessarily in a sexy way), many can totally pull off the SoCal hipster-skater look. We queers are versatile like that.

The cadet. Atten-TION! At ease, soldier. The cadet, which also goes by the army cap or the unfortunate “Castro” – a shout out to that stylish Cuban – is a favorite of socialists and hip young urbanites everywhere. I have a Kangol cadet that I sometimes think I look really awesome in and other times feel really dumb in, so your mileage may very.

The fedora. This may be one of the hardest types of headwear to pull off. Do it right, and you look like a super classy, Sinatra-esque smooth operator. Do it wrong, and you look like an aging rock star and/or a douchebag. I recommend saving your fedoras for dressier outfits – a full suit, or at least something involving a button-down. If you’re pairing your fedora with a T-shirt (or, worse, a sweatshirt), you’re gonna look kinda toolish. Just sayin’, man, just sayin’. Since fedoras are not my everyday hats and can be quite pricey, I only own a couple right now. My spring/summer fashion goal is to procure a straw fedora that doesn’t look completely ridiculous on me. I’ll keep you posted on my search.

But enough about me (not that you could ever get enough of me, amirite?) – what are your favorite hats? How do you rock ’em? Pics or it didn’t happen!