An illustrated interpretation of Stone Butch Blues Chapter 24 | PART II

A REPRINT / ODE TO LESLIE FEINBERG’S  (1949 – 2014) AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOVEL, STONE BUTCH BLUES, CHAPTER 24.*

TEXT : [ PART II. JESS INITIATES A CALL TO AN OLD FRIEND, FRANKIE, TO APOLOGIZE FOR DRIVING A RUPTURE IN THEIR FRIENDSHIP & IN THE LESBIAN COMMUNITY OF THEIR YOUNG ADULTHOOD. ]

I almost hung up when I heard Frankie’s voice on the other end of the phone. “It’s me—Jess. Do you remember me, Frankie?” That’s all I could think of to say.

There was a long silence. “Jess? Jesus, is that really you? It’s been a long time.”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, it has been. Listen, Frankie, I really want to talk to you. If you don’t want to, I’ll understand. But I owe you an apology, and it’s long overdue. I’d like to offer it to you in person, if you’ll see me. I’m living in New York City now, but I could come to Buffalo.”

Another long silence. “You know something, Jess? I’m still mad at you, but not as mad as you’re afraid I am. And I’ll tell you something else. It matters to me that you called to say that. I’ll be in Manhattan on the 15th, at the labor college. I could meet you at the Duchess for a drink around 11:00.”

I paused. “Is that the lesbian bar in Sheridan Square?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t know if they’ll let me in. Can I meet you outside the bar?”

“Sure,” Frankie said. “I’ll see you then.” When the night finally arrived, I paced under a streetlamp outside the bar chewing my thumbnail.

I saw Frankie approach from across the street. We stood awkwardly. Neither of us knew where to begin. I reached out my hand; she shook it. I found our shared past in her grasp.

I’d forgotten how much I love mascs until I looked at her standing there—the defensive defiance of her stance, one hand jammed in her trouser pocket, her head cocked to the side.

I don’t know which shocked me more, the ways Frankie had changed or how much she looked exactly the way I remembered her. Strange to see soft wrinkles in that freckled teenage face, silver hairs among the wiry red ones. “It’s good to see you, Frankie.”

They scuffed their shoe against the pavement. “It’s good to see you, too.”

I tried to keep my lower lip from trembling.

“I don’t just mean it’s nice to see you, Frankie. Just looking at you is bringing back a whole part of my life I really need right now. It’s really good to see you.”

I opened my arms and we hugged each other tight, then we wrestled playfully. I scruffed her hair; she punched my shoulder. “Jess, no matter what went down in the past, we’re still from the old days. You still matter to me,” Frankie said.

I thought that was such a generous thing to say. “You ever see anyone from the old crowd?” I asked.

She nodded. “I see Grant a lot.”

“What about Theresa?” I held my breath. Frankie shook her head. “You remember Butch Jan? She and her lover got a flower shop on Elmwood Avenue—Blue Violets. I can’t think of anybody else, except for Duffy. You remember Duffy, the union organizer?”

I smiled. “Yeah, I remember Duffy.”

Frankie leaned forward. “You don’t know how sorry he was that he fucked up that job for you. He really didn’t mean it, Jess.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know he didn’t. I want his phone number, if you’ve got it. I’d like to talk to him, too.” Frankie nodded. We stood in shy silence.

“Frankie, I’m sorry. I always thought I was so open-minded. But when I came up against my own fears, I tried to separate myself from you. I’ve done some growing up since then. I can’t take it back, but I’m real sorry.”

Frankie gestured with her thumb toward the Duchess. “You don’t know if they’ll let you in there? Well, in our day I was afraid if I showed who turned me on, my own people would shut the door in my face. That’s a terrible way to feel. I’m sorry that’s happening to you now. Shit, Jess, what hurt the most is I respected you. I wanted you to respect me.”

I rubbed the sadness out of my eyes. “Well, you deserved it. C’mon,” I took her by the shoulder. “Let’s go to the piers.”

We walked slowly down Christopher Street toward the Hudson River.

“You know, Frankie, when we were younger, I thought I had it figured out: I’m a masc because I love femmes. That was something beautiful. Nobody ever honored our love. You scared me. I felt like you were taking that away from me.

Frankie shook her head.

“I wasn’t taking anything from you. But how do you think I felt when you told me I wasn’t a real butch because I sleep with other butches? You were taking away who I am. Jesus, Jess, when I walk down the street, guys fuck with me. I don’t have to prove I’m butch to them. How come I got to prove it to you?

I shook my head. “You don’t.”

I put my arm around their shoulder. We crossed the West Side Highway and walked to the end of the pier. The full moon illuminated the clouds. Light shimmered on the dark water.

Frankie’s voice dropped low. “Jess, which old bull really brought you out?”

I smiled at her memory. “Butch Al, from Niagara Falls.”

“For me it was Grant,” Frankie said.

“Grant?” I remembered Grant as a mean drunk who could offend everyone.

Frankie watched my face. “Grant meant the world to me. She taught me that I am what I am, that I got nothing to prove. It was a very liberating concept for a baby butch.”

I smiled gently. “I never thought of Grant as very liberated—Not that any of us were.”

Frankie nodded. “Grant never took her own wisdom to heart. She’s a prisoner of her shame, but she didn’t want us young ones to end up like her. She only seduced baby butches when she got real drunk. But I never felt like we made her happy. I think they have some secret passion that scares the shit out of them.”

I frowned. “Like what?”

Frankie shrugged. “I think she’s horrified by something inside of her she thinks is twisted, like maybe she fantasizes about being with strong old bulls, or men, or something. Poor Grant. I wish they’d let me in. I love that old bulldagger so much.”

We sat in silence, listening to the waves lapping against the pilings beneath us. Frankie sighed.

“You know, Jess, I never learned to love myself until I gave in to loving other mascs.”

I laughed. “I don’t know why, but I have this image of you sleeping with a different femme every week.”

Frankie nodded without smiling.

“I thought that was what I was supposed to do. Inside my head I was asking each one: Could you love me? Do you love me? Am I loveable?” Of course, the minute they did care about me, I knew I couldn’t respect their judgment, so I moved on to the next. God, I was a shit to femmes.”

Frankie looked out over the water.

“It was only when I finally admitted it was masc hands I wanted on my body that everything changed for me. The more I saw what I loved about other mascs, the more I began to accept myself.”

“You know who gets it for me, Jess?” I smiled and shook my head. “An old bull with graying hair, a cocky smile, and sad eyes.

“You know the kind of butch with arms as big as your thigh? Those are the arms I want to hold me.”

I ran my fingertips over the dark wood near my thigh.

“I love them so much, too. But what gets it for me is high femme.”

“It’s funny—It doesn’t matter whether it’s women or men—It’s always high femme that pulls me by the waist and makes me sweat.”

Frankie rested her hand on my arm.

“You and I have to hammer out a definition of butch that doesn’t leave me out. I’m sick of hearing butch used to mean sexual aggression or courage. If that’s what butch means, what does it mean in reverse for femmes?”

I shook my head.

“I never thought about it like that. But I have to admit that when you told me about you and Johnny, the first thing I wondered was, who’s the femme in bed?”

Frankie leaned forward. “Neither of us were. What you meant was, who does the fucking, and who gets fucked? Who ran the fuck? That’s not the same as being butch or femme, Jess.”

Frankie moved closer to me and touched my shoulder. I tensed. “Relax,” she whispered, “I’m not coming on to you, Jess.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not so used to getting touched.”

Frankie’s hands kneaded the soreness from my shoulders. “You know, I have a confession to make. I used to have a crush on you in the old days.”

I laughed nervously. “Oh shit. I was just starting to relax with you.”

She patted me on the back. “You’ll get over it.” Frankie rubbed my neck. “You were like a fucking legend when you started to pass. What’s it like, Jess?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just trying to survive has pulled me through, but it hasn’t left much leisure to think about it.”

“Am I so different from you?”

She whispered her thought out loud.

“You have to decide that. To me we’re still kin.”

A cruise ship passed; laughter from the people on deck floated across the water. I sat, facing New Jersey, with Frankie’s hands on my shoulders. “Are you still with Johnny?”

I felt her body sink against mine. “It’s hard for two butches, Jess. It’s very hard.”

I sighed and nodded.

“Hey, Frankie. When two butches are together—like lovers, I mean—do they talk about their feelings?”

“Feelings?” Frankie asked. “What are those?” We both chuckled, warm and relaxed. We laughed harder and harder, until tears streamed down our cheeks.

For the first time since she touched me, I relaxed my body against Frankie’s. I allowed myself to enjoy the strength of their arms around me.

“You know, Frankie,” I whispered. “There’s things that happened to me because I’m a they/them that I’ve never talked about to a femme. I’ve never had the words.”

Frankie nodded.

“You don’t need words with me, Jess. I know.”

I shook my head.

“But I do need words, Frankie. Sometimes I feel like I’m choking to death on what I’m feeling. I need to talk and I don’t even know how. Femmes always tried to teach me to talk about my feelings, but it was their words they used for their feelings. I needed my own words—butch words to talk about butch feelings.”

Frankie pulled me tighter. Tears welled up in my eyes.

“I feel like I’m clogged up with all this toxic goo, Frankie. But I can’t hear my own voice say the words out loud. I’ve got no language.”

Frankie opened her arms wider, took more of me in. I leaned my face against her arm. She offered me refuge, the way I held Butch Al years ago in a jail cell.

“Frankie, I’ve got no words for feelings that are tearing me apart. What would our words sound like?”

I looked up at the sky. “Like thunder, maybe.”

Frankie pressed her lips against my hair. “Yeah, like thunder. And yearning.”

I smiled and kissed the hard muscle of their biceps. “Yearning,” I repeated softly. “What a beautiful word to hear a butch say out loud.”

—
Design and illustration by TAY-BIRD.COM, 2025. | ORIGINAL PUBLISHING INFO : Feinberg, Leslie. Stone Butch Blues: A Novel. Ithaca, NY: Firebrand Books, 1993.  | TYPEFACES USED : “Street Transvestites Action Revolutionaries Font” BY GENDER FAIL, “Lacrima senza” BY MILIEU GROTESQUE, Helvetica by Max Miedinger.

*In this edition, some transmasc synonyms have been updated to reflect expanded understandings of the masculine and gender-variant spectrum. Download the original text free, or listen with ads.

Get relevant and uplifting local news by subscribing to OFM‘s weekly newsletter, and picking up the latest print.