I was born in overalls.

As a kid, I'd throw fits like you wouldn't believe whenever someone tried putting a frilly damn dress on me. I hated skirts. I hated pink. All I wanted were my overalls.

But you're not me. You call yourself a chapstick lesbian-not a frilly femme, no makeup, no heels, but you're no butch either. You won't conform to anyone's idea of how a dyke is supposed to look or act. I like that about you.

There was lust between us right off the bat, but you didn't seem to notice my legs in the beginning. It didn't take long, though, did it? Soon the sideways glances began. You'd look at my legs with tempered disgust. You'd shake your head and ask, "What am I gonna do with you?"

After the first couple weeks, when all your sex toys had met all my sex toys, I finally said, "You hate my hairy legs, don't you?"

You rolled your eyes. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well...yeah."

You thought my legs were gross, ugly, unfeminine. Maybe you were right, but that's why I liked them. If I had to femme it up, even for one night, it would feel like cross-dressing.

"I'm a tomboy," I said. "I'm butch, always have been. If I shaved my legs and put on a short skirt, I'd feel like a guy in drag."

"Oh really?" You smiled like a vixen. "That kind of turns me on."