Every so often, some clueless one will ask us which one of us is the boy in our relationship. It bothers Ms. P, because the fact that she's bigger and louder and more assertive than I am makes people assume she's the boy, and she doesn't want to be the boy. It amuses me more than annoys me, but I don't want to be the boy either. The whole point of being with a woman is that neither of us is the boy.
Neither of us is the boy, but neither of us is the butch, either. Because dichotomy is assumed to be implicit in dyad relationships, queer couples are often slotted into butch/femme divisions by those with a few more clues about sexual orientation. Butch/femme is an aesthetic and political and sexual orientation all on its own, but it's not one we're part of, despite Ms. P's heartfelt appreciation of all things butch. We're just two women, who are variously capable, making lives together.
Given that our culture so genderizes relationships, though, I think about it a lot. I do the cleaning, but she does the cooking. I mow the lawn, but she takes care of the gardens. I pay the bills and find things and fix things; she decorates and takes out the compost. We both do art. We take turns calling for takeout, because we both hate it. My behavior is more typically "feminine," but she's the one with curlers who can't leave the house without lipstick. We both wore dresses to our wedding. I really like wearing overalls and clogs and showing cleavage; she really likes wearing flowy skirts and armored bras.
One of the many pleasures of queer relationships is that we aren't slotted neatly into gender roles. Sometimes I fantasize about a man to mow my lawn, because it's not my favorite job, but no one is assuming I'll cook, either. There's more space to elbow our way into divisions that feel equitable, sustaining.
That's not to say it can't be that way in straight relationships. In my last big relationship with a man, he cooked and I fixed things and got rid of spiders. Even thought that worked for us really well, it was something we had to come to and it was something we had to assert against questions and assumptions about who did what. And even though our household tasks didn't split along gender lines, our emotional tasks did. I was still responsible for noticing and nurturing; he felt free to ignore and fix.
With Ms. P, I watch us both check in, watch us both work to nurture and support one another in ways the other recognizes. We both fix and we both notice and we both do the emotional work. We both like it this way. I read blogs with committed straight couples and they talk about their husbands being their best friend, and while I never experienced men that way, I have to believe that they do.
Perhaps this is what we're all looking for, queer and straight alike: a place where we can be authentically ourselves, regardless of what shape our bodies were born into, and authentically in relationship.
Neither of us is the boy. We are both girls, and we like it that way.