:: Edgeliving: Master Jim and slave marsha ::

:: Monday, December 01, 2003 ::

And Now, For Something Completely Different -- Bootblacking, Butches and Femmes

i don't do a lot of creative writing, but recently i wrote a very short piece about a bootblacking session. The piece doesn't speak to Mastery and slavery, except in a very peripheral way -- but if you enjoy bootblacking or the butch/femme dynamic, you might find it interesting.

Just a couple of notes about the piece.

First, i got the idea for it from something the bootblack in the story wrote to me. This is essentially a companion piece to what he wrote to me.

Second, for those of you not familiar with the butch identity, the bootblack/butch in this story is, indeed, a woman. He, like some other butches, prefers to be referred to with male pronouns.

i hope you enjoy it... and rest assured, we'll return to the regularly scheduled program of Mastery and slavery very soon.

--slave marsha

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Boots to Flirt With

i watch him as he blacks my Owner's boots. Hands sure, intimate with polish and brush and cloth. Not one of these new "bootblacks" who do it because it's trendy -- oh, no. This is a Bootblack, one who has studied and reveres an old and honored tradition.

And he's a butch.

How few there are in my community. And even fewer who still hear the song... the song that calls the femme to dance.

i watch.

Soon, my Owner turns to me and says,

“There’s time for your boots, too.”

Oh god. i panic a little inside. For while i am a femme i am also a slave... no tight corsets to support and flaunt my breasts... no skin tight skirts slit to my thigh... no heels, high, higher, highest, to help me walk like the woman i am. No plumage to attract and announce to the butch... here i am. Come to me. Join with me.

Just me. Simple black blouse, plain black skirt. And boots. Combat boots, as my Owner requires.

Maybe this butch, this bootblack, will understand.

Suddenly, i am embarassed by my boots. No matter how hard i try to keep them nice, the toes are usually scuffed from kneeling. Mentally, i shake my head. This is a bootblack. And a butch. Maybe he will understand.

i slide into his chair. He lifts my feet to his thighs and smiles a little. Inside, i give a sigh of relief. i feel his hands on my feet through the boots. Thank god... someone who understands that bootblacking is about more than shining the boots -- it's about a connection. A physical connection. He touches my feet through the boots... and my whole body, too.

i watch him as he works on the boots, trying to follow the technical details, because i do love bootblacking. i know i'm not very good at it, and so i love to watch those who have the gift and who have honed it. But i keep losing track... because this is a bootblack... and a butch.

We talk a little. And i surprise myself by saying,

“You are an old school butch.”

He is, after all. It's so clear to me. Far away, i hear music.

He says, “You like butches.”

Oh yes, i want to say... i like butches. i like the way they look and feel and smell and taste. i like the way they offer me their hand and open the door for me. i like the way i feel delicate and precious and strong all at once when i take their arm.

my mind snaps back. i realize he is telling me that he has no partner. What? This butch, this rare and priceless butch has no partner? Are all the femmes in the world blind?

He begins licking my boots and i give up. i lean forward, crooning into his ear... nails on his back, fingers in his hair. Smell and sound and sight of a butch. The music grows louder in my head.

He brings my booted foot to his chest. Then his crotch. my mouth is dry....

Too soon, far too soon, he is done. i know people have been staring, walking by... i don't care. Does no one in the world honor the music of the butch and the femme anymore? Is that sound so... strange... even discordant... in our community?

i don't care. i hear it. And i know he does, too.

i rise from his chair, knees weak. How do i thank him? How do you thank someone who has given you back your essence? Who has taken you as you are... and in everything he does, tells you that what you are is good and right and has a place in the world.

i try to offer him the traditional tip for a bootblack... for he has performed his art and craft beautifully on my boots. And his butch magic on my soul.

"No, ma'am," he says.

Then a kiss is all i have. All i can give this butch who has given me so much.

And so, with my femme soul on my lips, i kiss his cheek. i can hear the music again, swirling around me, calling me. my feet in my beautifully shined boots want to move in time to it. A femme dancing in combat boots... yes... i am a femme in boots.

Boots to flirt with. Boots to dance with.

:: 11:59 AM [+] ::
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