Leslie Feinberg set me up.

Not set me up as in "set me up with a hot date." Set me up as in Catch 22, as in "any way you play, you lose," set me up.

It all started in 1993, when I first read Stone Butch Blues. Don't get me wrong, great book, I loved it. It meant a lot to me. I'd come of age as a queer in the early '80s, in a college edjumacated feminist-lesbian world where sex and power were evil tools of the patriarchy and butch sexual power simply didn't exist. Really, you had to be there to believe it. We were the Incredible Invisible Butches - but nobody ever used that word. We were so invisible we couldn't even see each other - or ourselves. Ten years of that, and Stone Butch Blues felt like a lightening bolt illuminating the landscape in which I'd been travelling blind. "Hey look, I'm a butch! Wow, that really explains a lot...."

Discovering a piece of butch history didn't just give me a new sense of identity. It also gave me permission to be stone. I mean hell, I thought I just didn't like sex. But once I realized that I could be a top and didn't have to roll over for reciprocation, I liked sex just fine. I liked it a lot. I gladly claimed my stone butch self.

There was just one problem. Other people read the book, too. People I was dating. And what struck them wasn't how stone was a perfectly valid way to be. What struck them was this: a true butch is stone, and anyone less than stone is less than butch. A stone butch will melt in the presence of true love and intimacy. Catch 22 — Feinberg set me up.

Feinberg's focus was butch/femme relationships, but it's not just femmes who got invested in the "I Can Heal Your Wounds" syndrome. True, many femmes who had survived the gender and sexuality vacuum of the '70s and '80s had epiphanies similar to mine when we dykes collectively rediscovered gender. And a lot of us took Feinberg's word as gospel in defining What is a Femme. But I've found that queers of all stripes hold the deeply cherished conviction that butches are broken and need to be fixed. Especially those of us who are stone. After all, we're reclaiming sex here. Isn't being stone proof that something is wrong?

The idea that butches are broken leads us to the idea that all stone butches really want is to find The One - the one who can feel our pain, heal our wounds, and make us whole. This sets up our lovers as well as us: they've got to either be The One, or be failures, and we've got to demonstrate that they aren't failures by ceasing to be stone. The subtext is: "Once I know I can trust my lover, I won't need to be stone, so of course I won't be." Which means, of course, that as long as I am stone, I'm demonstrating that I don't trust my lover. Not a good relationship dynamic if I happen to like being stone, if I choose to be stone, if I find it personally empowering, if that's how I feel sexy. Even less good if I can't be a True Butch in the eyes of my community without being stone, and I can't be a True Lover unless I melt.

It also means, if the one I'm with is The One, I must have been stone with everyone who came before. That might work just fine if you're monogamous. My observation is that someone who's monogamous and a romantic - and I think Feinberg's character Jess qualifies on both counts - can rationalize meeting The One at least four times without having any trouble sleeping at night. But me, I'm a slut. A non-monogamous slut at that, and let me tell you, overlapping saves all kinds of time. I've dated approximately three people a year for the last twenty years. Even if you don't count the relationships that lasted less than six months, it's pretty clear that they can't all be The One.

Oh, but they all wanted to be. Feinberg set them up, too. During seven years as a stone top, I dated only two people who weren't invested in hearing that I'd been 100 percent stone 100 percent of the time until I met them. I dated only two people who didn't want me to roll over and spread my legs to prove it.

Now, let's be real, this is not entirely Feinberg's fault. After all, Stone Butch Blues is a novel. We were the ones who decided it was the word from on high. But who could blame us, really? A long line of butch mentoring had been broken, and those of us who had somehow turned out butch in spite of being maligned, reviled, and rendered invisible were hungry for someone to tell us how it's done. All we'd heard so far was "Butch is an oppressive reproduction of heterosexist patriarchal roles. Shape up and start acting like a girl. Oh, but could you fuck me first? Don't tell my friends, okay?"

It's no wonder that we took the only burning bush in that desert and invested it with the power of gospel. We youngsters were creating a culture based on something we'd never seen before. We failed to notice that there were a lot of different ways of being butch. We took the only blueprint we had, and engraved it in, well, stone.

And the blueprint said: "Thou shalt be stone until you find the one who heals your wounds and makes you whole." But even if you are the coupling type — and let's face it, many of us are not - what if you like being stone?

I'm not stone because I'm damaged. I'm stone because most of the time I like fucking other people a lot more than I like getting fucked. I have more fun that way. Having permission to be stone allowed me to finally really enjoy having sex, and I'm not going let anyone take that away from me. I don't want someone to heal my wounds. I want lovers who can give me room in bed to be sexy, and fully present, and fully myself, all at the same time. It was being stone that made me whole.

For a while I thought that the solution was to date pillow queens. I've heard a lot of talk in the past few years about pillow queens. It's never said like it's a good thing to be. After years of being pressured to flip, I had to wonder: what's wrong with a pillow queen? Hell, bedding someone who doesn't expect me to do things I don't want to do sounds delightful to me. But being stone doesn't mean I don't have needs. It took me a while to figure out that there is a difference between a pillow-munching bottom and a pillow queen. The difference is the word "queen," as in entitlement. A bottom is invested in making sure the top has a good time. A pillow queen is convinced that if she's having a good time, everyone else in the room must be, too.

The girl who expected me to go down on her all night, but wouldn't suck my dick? Pillow queen. The boi who, after I'd spent hours on my knees with my fist in his cunt, wanted me to give him a backrub? Pillow queen.

It's not that I think my lovers should be dripping with gratitude because I deigned to fuck them. I'm just saying that there are a lot of different kinds of reciprocation. I may not want to receive the same things I give my partners - after all, I tend to be a top, and they tend to be bottoms - but I do want my relationships to be equitable. No, I don't want to lie on my back with my legs in the air, and yes, I can have a completely satisfying sexual experience without ever taking off my pants. But I do have needs. I do want my output of energy to be met. I don't want a relationship that's a one-way valve, sucking me dry. But my needs are my needs, and I want them met on my terms. I don't want my partner, guided by some book about someone else's experience, to define them for me.

The narrative of stone butch mystique says that in exchange for sexual pleasure, my lover is responsible for creating a safe space for me to experience my pain. Hold it right there. What if I don't want to experience my pain? What if I don't want to process my emotions? Being expected to give it up emotionally can be as big a problem as enforced sexual reciprocation. Let's face it folks, there are emotional pillow queens as well as sexual ones.

I'm not saying that I'm never vulnerable. I sure as hell am, even though some would take away my butch card for admitting it. But I get the safety to show my vulnerability through lack of expectation. No expectation to be invulnerable, tough, baddass. No expectation to break down and cry just so someone else can be assured that they're being adequately supportive. I don't want to make myself vulnerable on demand just because it's on someone else's agenda. If I'm not feeling vulnerable, or if I'm feeling too vulnerable to show it, it's not a dysfunction. Nor is it an indictment of my partner. In fact, could be it's not about my partner at all. Remember, we are talking about my needs here. If this is about doing something for me, it needs to include things I actually want.

And speaking of needs, I'm pretty damn tired of hearing that stone butches need to be fucked, but we just don't know it. I call this one the myth of rebirth. You know, the idea that once we're properly fucked we'll be suddenly re-born as the penetration-hungry sluts we were always meant to be. Excuse me, but last time I checked, biology was still not destiny. Possession of my very own cunt does not obligate me to put things into it, and the words "I know what you need" are just as insulting when dykes say them as they are when men do.

Actually, I know perfectly well when I want to be fucked. But if and when I want it, it's on my terms, when the time is right, when I'm ready. I can enjoy and appreciate being fucked without wanting to do it very often. Getting fucked can feel good, and it might even make me come. But it doesn't make me feel powerful. It doesn't make me feel sexy. It doesn't make me feel that I'm fully inhabiting my body. Usually it makes me feel terrified. Mind you, I'm a perv. I know that on occasion, abject terror can be a good thing. But only if it's freely chosen and carefully negotiated. If I go there, it won't be on demand, and it won't be to prove my love. When I say in a clear and direct way that stone is working just fine for me, it's a boundary — not a challenge.

Of course, not all butches are tops, and not all butch tops are stone. Nor does stone have to mean all the time, every time, eternally. Far be it from me to say that no bottom should ever offer to flip a butch top, or that a bottom whose offer is declined should never ask again. Desire is slippery and malleable, and I'd like to think we are entitled to a little complexity. But if a butch top does flip, it might not be an earth-shattering revelation of trust and intimacy. It might not mean anything, other than "I want you to fuck me now."

Butch tops who aren't stone got set up, too. I've heard plenty of butches complain: "I told my girlfriend 'no' once, and she never tried again." Well c'mon, guys - let's not let our butch mystery prevent us from getting what we want in bed. Isn't that what it's for? It would be great if our lovers could read our minds - some of the time — but until that day comes, we're just going to have to talk to them. When I want someone to fuck me — and I have done my share of time on my hands and knees with my ass in the air — I let them know what I want in a clear, direct way. Like, for instance, "I want you to fuck me now." Try it, it's very effective.

Effective, but not necessarily easy. Being up front about our desire can be difficult when the common belief is that anyone less than stone is less than butch. Butches who want to be fucked shouldn't lose butch credibility because of it. No, wait: no one who wants to be fucked should lose credibility because of it.

Let's not waste any more time tearing each other down over what we want, in or out of bed. There are plenty of people willing to do that for us. For me, butch pride has been hard-won. Every day I've got someone trying to give me girl lessons. Because I also identify as trans and genderqueer, I often have dykes trying to give me lesbian lessons, and FTMs trying to tell me why and how I should be a man. And then there's the competition between us butches: our favorite game seems to be "Who is the Real Butch?" Not a Real Butch, the Real Butch. After all, it is universally acknowledged that there can be only one Real Butch in any room, virtual or otherwise. Our queer culture's Pavlovian response to butchness seems to be whipping out our yardsticks to see who measures up. Doesn't leave a whole lot of room for mentoring, does it?

Somewhere along the line, butch has become one of the most fenced in, closely guarded identities in the fenced in, closely guarded world of identity politics. I can hear the litany now: "Real butches only date femmes. Real butches are tops. Real butches are stone. Real butches don't cook, sew, cry, read, talk, feel...." Apparently the only two things a real butch can do are fuck femmes and work on engines. Oh, and drink. Let's not forget that one. Butch has become so narrowly defined that it's a wonder anyone claims the identity at all. The liberation I once felt at being given permission to be myself has somehow transformed into a dangerous high-wire act. Step out of line once, and SPLAT! Your reputation is ruined for good.

We've got a set-up that hurts us all, but it's not too late to change it. I want us to stop thinking of being stone as either a requirement for being butch, or some sort of pathology. I want us to stop seeing getting fucked as either a requirement for intimacy, or some sort of breakthrough. I want allies who aren't invested in telling me what I need and how to get it. I'm able to identify and willing to state what I need, and I want some credit and respect when I do. I want allies who will read Stone Butch Blues not as a rulebook, but as a starting place. I want allies who aren't invested in telling me how to be butch. I want allies who will stand beside me while I'm doing what butches have always done — saying, "To hell with the rules, I'm gonna be myself."