As I sat down to write this weeks column I found myself lost for words. Now this doesn’t happen very often, words usually come easy for me. So as I sat here and ponder, I thought of a conversation I had the other day with this friend of mine, am I butch?

When I was just a little tyke, and visions of GI Joe, baseballs, and the ever so elusive secret agent spy suitcase danced around my small but inquisitive mind, I was labeled a Tom Boy. Here I am at 51, and I am a Big Dyke, visions of women in corsets, stilettos , lips red as roses, run through my all so mischievous mind, stirring that stream of thought to slowly run down my commando jeans.

Every time I get one of those e-mails showing the wonderful Wal-Mart customers I fear there I will be, with the all telling neon sign, Dyke. Of course my neon sign will be rainbow, I am full of pride.

When I was working in corporate America, there were women in my office that had the silly idea that they would take me to the mall and get me a make over, bribe me to wearing a dress, my answer to them was, NO, not only no but hell no. I would look like a bad drag queen, Ru Paul would not have a thing to worry about, my engine would stall in that drag race.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a woman, I just don’t like dresses, well not on me, and though I have paid homage to the femme, it is not a requirement of my partner in life to always be poised upon a pair of marvelous stilts. I have bent over a few of my butch counter parts, and a little Tom Boi….mmmm.

I guess when I jumped out of the closet, I left behind all my girlie attire, and knotted up my best tie.

So call me Butch, Boi, Dyke, Daddy, mmmmm yes you can call me daddy, but realize this I am all woman.