You have noooo idea how long we’ve been waiting to show you guys these “Beloved Butch” and “Beloved Femme” heart-shaped mini carabiners! ♥️❣️♥️
These will be available tomorrow, with the launch of our small summer merch collection in honor of Pride Month! The collection will NOT have pre-orders, which means there will be no manufacturing wait time after placing your order. However, this means that quantities will be limited! Once we sell out, we’re out. If you’d like to secure anything from the collection, be sure to check out our Patreon tiers! Any Patron in the third tier or above will receive early access to the shop today. :) 🤍
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saw a video of a butch talking about how they can tell someone is femme just by feeling, Not by how they present themselves. they said that no matter how you (femmes) present, butches will always be able to clock you and that just filled me with so much warmth! I love butches so much mwah mwah mwah kissing you all on the mouth
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Source: On Our Backs Guide To Lesbian Sex, edited by Diana Cage
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Love butchfemme couples where the femme looks like she has a 10 step skincare routine, perfectly done nails, reads classic lit and does yoga, and the lovestruck butch is holding onto her wrist trailing from behind like a rescue dog she found in an alleyway chewing on a wrench
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omg baby your tits look so heavy, that's really dangerous for your back, let me hold them for you princess don't worry you just have to sit on my lap and be all pretty for me, but ik I'm already holding them for you might as well play with them as payback. But don't mind me I'll just be here, holding your tits, pinching your nipples, sucking on them, leave your breast full of pretty hickeys, we can even make out while I'm squeezing your tits if you want I just love them so much can't keep my hands off of em 💞
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holding your gay lover ash wednesday afternoon is like. the myth of the ancient martyr wouldn't understand us but I'd die for love too, I would. and I will, we all will.
I'll take my pink eyeshadow off in a couple hours, to be replaced with a smeared cross, a bigger love, a love I'll die into. I'll wash it off when I get home so I won't break out (and so it won't get on my pillow) and it'll still be there when I look in the mirror out of the corner of my eye.
either life or death will separate my butch and I—whether God leads us diverging ways or Sister Death claims us one by one first, I only get this for now.
but God asks us to live for now, to love for however long we get to, and to remember the whole way how fragile it all is. I don't pretend to know the why, but I hope I never forget the way my hand is warmer in another's.
I understand the rib story now, y'know? not in a way that triumphs over the love for my sister or my friend or my grandfather, but in a side ache that means we're slowly becoming made out of each other. I would be complete without it (I have been all along)—and also: the more people I love, the more faces God lives in.
I don't presume to know how love exists after death, but I hope—I know—we all return to the same dust. till death do us part, to become something else that can love easier and forever.
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