In a dusty box under my bed, in the same region as “potentially cursed strap-on from failed relationship”, is a pair of heels. It’s hard for me to describe them with my limited shoe vocabulary. But they’re suede and inoffensive, and I wear them about twice a year. And when I do – usually at weddings – I feel like the world’s dullest drag queen. I look down at my feet and they look back at me, seemingly just as uncomfortable (both physically and emotionally) as I am. As gracefully as a swan opening a packet of crisps, I move towards wherever the drinks are.
These days, “butch and femme” (like a lot of other binaries) seems a bit stale. Queer women, it turns out, aren’t legally obliged to wear either rugby shirts or ball gowns, and nothing in between. At the same time, I’m feeling increasingly uncomfortable and potato-ish every time I put on a dress, and I can’t help thinking this might have something to do with my sexuality. If I’m allowed to be old fashioned and place myself on the butch-femme spectrum, I’d identify as what’s referred to in cult US lesbian web series F To 7th as a “tweener”. I fall right in the middle, like a sartorial Lib Dem. Think, unflattering button-down shirt and bright red lipstick. Think, kind of a confused mess.