The Futchy Blues

When I first arrived in this city I had never ever been to a 'Real' Lezzo Bar, the closest I had come was those Women Nights at various establishments throughout Australia. The first one I went to was in Melbourne when I had freshly ran away from a mortgage and fiancee, jumped on a plane and flew 3000km back to the state of my birth.
Not too sure what the hell I was to do next I found myself sleeping under the kitchen table of an old school friend. In a house where the only heat came from the open gas oven, it was the high life.
Jobless but Fearless.
Soon I got myself a job as a tram conductor, cruising the streets of Melbourne armed with a leather ticket bag and steel capped boots (they were regulation but pretty funky for required footwear). After a few months I got the guts up to go to a Dyke Night at this place in Fitzroy. All day I was nervous, what was I to wear, what do I say, what drink do I hold?
Thing was I always knew I was Queer, even my family knew. I don't have a coming out story to tell you because of this. Perhaps if I did I would have been more prepared for the public part of the act, it seems there are hoops to jump through in the coming out process that have nothing to do with you personally. It's all about the Queer world, I had no idea the two parts of Queerness were so polar, and from my experience as cold, at least the public part was.
There was no friendly welcoming committee, nope...
Instead I was shown judgement and suspicion. That Dyke Night was horrible as were the women there. It must have been obvious I was green in the ways of dykedom, or at least the outward rules of dykedom.
I left that bar feeling like a leper, which is the exact opposite to what I was expecting. Jump forward a few more years and I am in Perth, Western Australia, this time fresh from the break-up of my first lezzo relationship. Still a baby dyke in respect to public gayness, so I tried again.
The Court Hotel-
Grrl Night. I wear my favourite pin stripe suit, my shoes are so shiney I can see myself in them. I walk into that pub feeling sexy and ready for whatever hoops these arseholes have in store for me.
Hoop number one:
A flannel wearing roughy with tattoo's saddles up beside me at the bar and eyes me up and down.
" You're Nuth'n but a Futch "
Futch it seems means femme-butch, not a good thing by the venomous way she spits her words at me.
Oh Yay Gayness is Soooo Much Fun!! Yes, yes, oh please feel free to label me. Shit I can never get enough of it... More, more, tell me more. Say Yes to Judgement.

Hoop number two:
I go to the bathroom, sounds innocent enough but I had no idea the bathroom is the boardroom of Lezbo Central, it was like running the gauntlet.
"Ooh, who's the newbie?" laughter and gaffaws. I washed my hands focusing on my shiney shoes, as I did this there was a scuffle in one of the cubicles, a haggle of women started kicking and screaming at the door, as the occupant tried to close it.
A young drag queen was escorted out of the bathroom by the not so gentle touch of the flannel brigade. I was too scared to do anything at the time, I just clung to the hand dryer watching the scuffling of work boots surrounding cheap heels.

Later that night I sat beside the drag queen. I cannot remember his drag name, his real name however was Jason, I bought him a drink and we sat in the garden and became friends over Emu Export Lager and Eiffel 65. From then on that pub wasn't so scary, Jason and I ruled the Galaga machine and no longer gave a shit about the Muff Munchkins as we called them.
Jason and I became regulars at that pub, we also made a mean pool duo and nothing pisses off the rabid flannel squad than being beaten at pool by a pair of size 11 stilletto's and a futch.
So "Cheers" to those bitter and twisted women, thanks for making a hard thing harder. May your 8 balls forever sink prematurely.