Femme Noir by Clara Nipper Page B

popping fully formed into the clean bright air of my mind. Why had I done that foolish thing? I asked myself. The preacher droned on about tragedy and potential being cut short and God calling us when He needed us and what lessons can we draw from this? He used the phrase “in our midst” every few minutes, as was required of clergy. Sloane shifted, adjusting her collar. She left the sunglasses on. She reminded me of a black Schwarzenegger.
    Why had I allowed Michelle in my life? My merciless mind persisted. Because I was so lonely, the answer came in bold. I was so lonely, that’s why I did it. I felt such profound relief at the truth finally being named, a tear almost squeezed out of my eye. Instead, I clenched my fists and every muscle of my body and breathed raggedly. It had been desperate hope and misplaced longing that permitted me to act against myself. I willed the damn tears to stay back, deep in my dry sockets, my eyes red and bulging slightly. And why then? Why did I fall for that one at that time? I was scared, getting older, and so unconsciously lonely. And why Michelle? She was just next in line. Someone handed me tissues. It was permission to cry. Well, I wouldn’t. Not until later. Maybe not ever. Sloane put her hand on mine long enough to squeeze gently, and then it was gone. And I, who worked through everything with the swiftness and efficiency of a strategic game plan, went further.
    As my grief slowly ebbed into containment, I realized I knew what I wanted. I wanted a wife. A wife who was tailor-made. I wanted a real woman who lived with courage and gusto. A woman with authentic appetites. Hunger for great sex, great food, great love, and great fun. One who was big and generous and who could stand up to me but could also melt. One who was beautiful without vanity and without trying. A woman who could dress up or down and had confidence no matter how she looked and didn’t depend on me for forced praise, fishing for compliments. One who didn’t always ask, Do I look fat? Does this make my butt look big?
    Yeah, I would say with a grin, get all your clothes like that.
    Someone who was juicy and ripe and luscious and large and knew the value of such a thing. One who could fight with me and play with me too. Someone who commanded respect and fidelity just with her breath.
    Someone who could soothe me and make me laugh. Someone I could make to laugh too. A laugh like ice cubes tinkling in a glass…
    Most of all, I wanted a woman who didn’t emasculate. Someone who treasured the sort of butch I was and adored me for being so. Someone for whom the complexities of butchness were as precious as they were to me. A woman who appreciated the perfect balance of male and female in the female body of a butch dyke. I cringed inwardly as I thought of my many misunderstandings and disappointments at the hands of truly well-meaning women who wanted me. A lot of femmes took their power from shrillness, bossiness, controlling, disdain, and contempt for the butches they desired and showed no respect for the gift of difference. How many women had I dropped cold after they tried to dress me? How many femmes had I abandoned, heartbroken, when they tried to get me into a skirt or a frilly blouse or other article of women’s clothing?
    They came into my life like entitled matriarchs and I was the fixer-upper. They proclaimed I should wear my hair thus and so or wear just a little makeup to soften myself, or a little jewelry or carry a purse. Then they were traffic cops in bed and I was done with it. And that was just the beginning. What were these women thinking? Why were they attracted to me if they just wanted to change me? I decided long ago that women like this didn’t want love and harmony in their lives, they wanted aggravation and dissatisfaction and frustration. Maybe it gave them something other than their empty selves to focus on if I was their pet project and I was never completely acceptable and therefore never