Here is Val's favorite poem from the book:
DIAGNOSTIC TESTS
You can tell she's a butch because
She lays on top of her woman
And puts her thigh up against
Her mound -
Holding her own cunt inches away
From skin and bone -
And rubs, pushes, watches
For the turning head,
The mouth opening as the eyes shut,
The tendons in the neck that stand out
As the clitoris retreats,
Heralding the femme's orgasm.
You can tell she's a femme because
She slips her leg up
Between her butch's thighs
And spreads her knees wide
And groans, "Oh, that's good, honey,
Stay right there!"
(Thus beguiling her woman into
Allowing her own cunt to be
Rubbed gently as the femme responds
To each thrust,
As if some pleasure were being forced
Inside of her,
Crying out for her lover,
Timing her own whimpers and moans
To coincide with the butch's
Real, badly needed, but silent
Come.)
You can tell she's a butch
Because she makes you cry
When she's angry at things or people
Too big to slug it out with.
And you can tell she's a femme
Because she makes you cry
When you can't give her everything
You imagine she wants,
Things it would be easy
For a man to give her.
You can tell she's a butch
Because her hair is close-cropped.
But she wears a businesswoman's
Sensible jacket and skirt
When she carries her briefcase
Into the work-a-day world
To earn money even if it is at a woman's job,
To bring home to her female lover.
You can tell she's a femme
Because she has long hair and wears earrings.
But she puts on her jeans
And a leather jacket
When she goes to the supermarket
To pore over the produce
And ponder the chopped meat
And calculate if the food money can be stretched
To afford a steak or a good bottle of wine
For Sunday dinner -
And is there any way they could
Go out for dinner on Saturday night?
She carries four bags of groceries
Up three flights of stairs,
All by herself,
Bringing home food
For her woman.
You can tell she's a femme because
She brings her lover
Breakfast in bed
And you can tell she's a butch because
She does the dishes and makes dinner,
Keeping an eye on the evening news,
Figuring it's the least she can do,
Keep the house from falling apart
Since her girlfriend is supporting both of them
Until the plant reopens.
And then she makes love to her
Even though she's tired and
Needs to get up early
Because what else can she give her
To say thank you,
I'm sorry I'm a freak,
I'm sorry for the world you lost
Because you love me.
And the femme lets her
Just like she lets her
Put gas in the car at the self-service pump,
Paint the bathroom,
Hang the pictures up -
Because how else can you give your
Smart and competent lover
A little dignity and pride
In a world that has no use for
Women's strength or women's intelligence?
You can tell she's a butch
Because she's one of the boys
(And fucks one of them occasionally
To prove it).
And you can tell she's a femme
Because no man will ever
Lay a hand on her again
Now that she's with another woman.
Look behind the shaded window.
There's a woman
Eating cunt
In the dark.
Look close.
Now that you've read this poem
Surely you can tell me
If she's a butch or a femme.
This book is no longer in print, but is available from the author. To order, get the form, fill it out and send it to
Pat Califia
2215-R Market St. # 261, SFCA 94114
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