Where Did All The Butches Go?

Read Time:4 Minutes, 13 Seconds

“Butch is masculinity without men, femininity without compromise, and queerness without apology”.

If you’ve been in lesbian circles lately, or especially if you’ve tried dating as a lesbian, you’ve probably heard people joke about the “masc shortage”.

Well, if we’re facing a masc shortage, then we’re in the midst of an all-out Butch Crisis.

But what does that actually mean? What does it mean to be a Butch lesbian? How does the idea of being ‘masc’ fit into that? And what does that say about the modern lesbian community?

Let’s start with a key distinction: Butch is a noun, not just an adjective. While “masculine” describes a presentation or energy, Butch describes a person, a gendered identity, a way of being. As Leslie Feinberg, author of Stone Butch Blues, argued, Butch is its own gender experience, blending presentation, identity, and sexuality. But importantly, Butch is also a verb, a way you act. Butch shows up in how you relate to others, the roles you take on, the responsibility you carry.

To be Butch is to step knowingly into a loaded history: to take on roles within the queer community as protector, guide, lighthouse, spokesperson, and even human barricade. Butches often shoulder the brunt of transphobia and homophobia because we are so visibly queer. Butch means you don’t blend in; your gender nonconformity marks you instantly as queer and defiant, but also as the first beacon for those looking for recognition. I think of Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, where young Alison sees a Butch woman in a diner, the first time she sees herself reflected in the world. That visibility is both a burden and a gift; it shapes not just how the world sees us, but how others in the queer community learn to see themselves. That visibility is both a burden and a gift, and it’s part of why we end up at the center of so many conversations about masculinity in the queer community.

When people talk about “the queer community’s anti-masc problem”, too often they get shut down with, “Well, society loves masculinity!” Okay, yes, but that’s not what we’re talking about. Cishet society loves cishet masculinity; it does not love gender non-conformity. It doesn’t celebrate Butches, masculine trans people, transfeminine people who do not/will not/cannot pass for female or embrace femininity. And often, queer women’s spaces mirror this bias, treating femme presentation as more palatable, desirable, or safe.

For many Butches, identifying as Butch is also tied to Butch4Femme desire, being a Butch person attracted to Femmes. While some Butches are Butch4Butch and some Femmes are Femme4Femme, the Butch-Femme dynamic has long been a defining part of lesbian culture. It’s not about copying heterosexuality; it’s about building a uniquely queer and affirming way of loving and relating.

Society has long painted “dykes” as jokes, the hairy, manly women no one could love. Young girls are taught they must be feminine to be lovable. Many Butches grew up as gender nonconforming kids, tomboys who pushed back against gender roles, or girls bullied for not being “typical girls”. Even after embracing lesbian identity, many still fear that being Butch will make them unlovable. Many hesitate to even use the word Butch. I often hear, “Are you even allowed to say that?” There’s a common belief that Butch is a rude or outdated word, and that “masc” is the polite substitute. But Butch is not a slur, and it’s not interchangeable with masc. It’s a proud, specific identity with its own weight and history.

That, I believe, is part of why “masc” has become a more popular label, it offers a way into masculinity without invoking the heavy stigma of Butch. But when we step into the world as baby dykes, many of us do so, convinced we’ll be alone. Mainstream beauty standards don’t leave space for us, so we assume we’re not desirable.

For me, that changed when I found the Butch community, and, just as importantly, when I found the Femme community. In Femmes’ attraction to Butches, I found, for the first time, a way to believe I could be beautiful, hot, sexy, wanted, all the things I was taught weren’t available to me as a Butch.To be Butch is to stand as a visible, undeniable, unashamed queer person. It’s to know you’re on the front lines, the easiest and most accessible target for homophobia and transphobia, but also to know that every time someone calls you a slur, they are unknowingly making you louder, prouder, and more visible for the baby gays and vulnerable members of our community who are watching, waiting for someone like them to show them how to be proudly queer.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this: to remind the world that Butch isn’t dying out, we’re right here, and we’re not going anywhere.

Written by KC Hooper