Butch Conversion Therapy

A few months ago I decided to do something stupid. When I think about what I was trying to do, it doesn’t sound like me, but yet at the same time it does have some of the hallmarks of my regular behavior. I’m a scientist, truly analytical at heart. If it was possible, I’d rigorously test every feasible option available for everything before making a decision.

So that’s what I was doing when I decided to dabble in Butch Conversion Therapy.

It’s not that anyone is mean to me or violent towards me individually about my gender presentation. In fact if I had a few fewer IQ points, I’d say my discomfort was all in my head. But it’s not. The role cut out for me has never quite matched what my brain seems to desire. Everyone can tell something about me is off. Can’t you?

All my boyfriends have been kind of… sissy. Not in a bad way, in a great way. An amazing satisfying way. I’ve enjoyed and do enjoy my friendships with men. My best friend is a man, but not a good example of the patriarchy’s finest. So when I discovered I just really don’t enjoy sex with men that much (WHAT) I thought I could fix it. With a different kind of man.

Yes I know that’s stupid. But I tried it anyway.

Maybe I should explain why I tried, because whenever broach this topic people dismiss it with “you’re attracted to whomever you’re attracted to.” I appreciate the acceptance, really I do. But I am in love with a man. I live with a man. I’ve been with the same wonderful man for seven years and I have been in sexual romantic relationships with men my whole life. I always envisioned being engaged to a man, with the ring and everything, and marrying a man with the whole dress deal and the cake. I even used to entertain the idea of having babies with a man (what a joke). So for me, this is a big deal and can’t be brushed off with appeals to the rainbow flag.

In other words… I was “out” but also deep in denial. I am still in denial. I am confused. Hello World.

Back to my experiment.

The guy knew what I was up to because I told him. And he was up to the challenge of converting me as any Real Man(tm) should be.  Because no matter how depressed I am that I’m not the primary breadwinner and assumed owner of the car, I still look like a superhot saveable damsel in distress. Never mind that I’m distressed because I suck at being a damsel and I refuse to let anyone capable of saving me do it.

There’s no real point elaborating the conditions of our relationship, since it’s over now. He didn’t wander into my life. He inserted himself. Pun intended. I’m not ordinarily attracted to that, but this time, I let myself be. I let him tell me things I knew I was supposed to want to hear. I might even partially have believed them. I rolled my eyes a lot but I also opened myself to the possibility that I could be cured of my butchness. That the nagging feeling of “I do not like penises or being talked down to” could be put somewhere else. I leaned because girls are supposed to lean. I even made a few whimpering pleas to try to keep him around the first two times he bolted. The third time was the charm though.

Raise your hand if you’re surprised I couldn’t make it work with an alpha male manly man. That’s what I thought. I wasn’t all that shocked either, yet somehow a dam of repressed wailing came up after it was over.

I had to spill out and explain the dumb thing I had been up to for five months or so. Everything I’d been hiding. Not exactly hiding, but more like incubating. Baking. And that cake was baked. However it turned out better than I thought. All the problems I had before remain(ed) but at least I’m not actively trying to ungay myself.

Don’t ask me why JO wants to be with a confused lesbian but for now he does.


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