So where did we leave off? Oh yeah… Friday was a blast – we were drinking at the White Party. We did some dancing. And then we did a little drinking. You know, seeing and being seen. Or in our case, I was seeing and my wife was being seen. She looked amazing (obviously).
It’s hilarious to me how odd it is when she straps on those gorgeous heels. They are always high. And she’s not that much shorter than me. So in the heels, she’s got about an inch or two on me. Even if I stand up really straight. In dress shoes.
At first, it threw me. I like being bigger. You know, the butch. Care taker, protector. Bigger. But then, I realized… She looks unbelievably hot in those heels.
Yes, her legs for sure. But also, they change her attitude. Right? No heels, beautiful femme. Heels, beautiful power femme. Am I the only one who’s noticed this?
Now, don’t freak out and send me nasty notes about chauvinism and misogyny. Heels are evil. Designed by men to make women miserable and put them on display. Yes, I know. Don’t wear them. No one should ever have to. Period.
But, if you want to – cause that’s your thing – go right ahead. It’s your choice. I’ll happily validate your choice either way. Like I said, beautiful femme with or without. I can’t help the fact that high heels are very hot.
I was so pleased to be at The Dinah with my wife. I’m probably in danger of being gross about it. We are in that googly, cute (just this side of obnoxious) phase. So, I’m standing up straight and we were hanging out with two friends. After a late night drive-thru run, we made it home.
We’d made loose plans to meet for breakfast at Sherman’s the next day. I was doubtful, but held out hope. Sure enough, Saturday morning came along and we made it to a late meal as planned. While waiting for our table, I grabbed a quick photo op with a dog who had a Mohawk. Heh.
I think this is when my wife said, “Baby, you should get pictures of all the Mohawks at The Dinah.” What a great idea!
So, as we headed to the pool party, I had a purpose. Find every lesbian there with a hawk and shoot a pic. I note that the ideal would be butches with hawks, but this would present several problems – identification and exclusion. You can’t identify a butch just by how they look, and if I limited it to butches, I’d exclude all kinds of rad hawks.
First, let me set the scene. Palm Springs is hot and dry. The pool at the Hilton is sparkly and blue. There are palm trees dotted about, lounge chairs, and several bars. Over in one corner is a giant stage and not one but two DJs are spinning and pumping up the crowd. The crowd is women. Lots and lots of women. In bathing suits. Bikinis. Board shorts. Lots of skin. Not that I noticed, of course. My wife had “suggested” it might be better if I did not oggle the women in bikinis. As a photographer, however, I did see my – erm – subjects.
Add to the heat, pool, bikinis, music, and palm trees, alcohol. And me. Cruising around taking pictures of all the hawks. And my wife. In sexy heels.
Here’s a fun tip: lesbians see a press pass and a camera (I’ve got a serious one) and they want you to take their picture. In all kinds of crazy poses! I’m taking these pictures and thinking, “Are you going to be excited about this picture tomorrow?” Suffice it to say, I got some fun photos.
Right. Photos of lesbians with hawks. What fun I had! We’d spot a hawk and I jog over to the hawk-owner, explain that I’m ButchOnTap and “I’m doing a piece on Mohawks at Dinah. Can I take your picture?” Yes. Yes. Yeah. Of course. Rad. Really? Ok. And so forth. Only one woman said no – and I totally respect that. I got so many great pictures of butches, lesbians and femmes Rawking The Hawk! The photo journalistic piece will be up soon.
So far, two days out of two days and The Dinah rawks. For me, and my high-heeled wife.
It’s butch to highlight those that are Rawking The Hawk. Be Butch.