A slow grin spreads across Emma’s face. The 19-year-old leans on the cafe table, beams at Sue, her friend and former ‘butch mentor’, and reminisces about how liberating it felt to wear a man’s tuxedo for the first time at the London Lesbian Ball.

‘It just felt so good. I couldn’t believe how comfortable and right it felt – especially considering how nervous I was about going into the hire shop to ask if I could try on men’s clothing. I would never have done it without Sue.’
These days, Emma wears men’s suits all the time. ‘It’s my favourite thing to wear when I go out to a bar. It’s just so me.’



Sue, 36, looks at her fondly and ruffles Emma’s hair. ‘And now you know how to tie a tie properly. And you’ve definitely got more confidence than when I first met you when you were 17.’

This is the essence of a tradition known as ‘butch mentoring’ that’s all but dying away. In 1950s’ and early 60s’ bar dyke culture, when butch–femme culture was in its heyday, older butches would often take younger ones under their wing. Typically, younger butches would be introduced to the scene; hotheads would be steadied and taught manners, sartorial slouches were taught about dress sense and etiquette. Most importantly, seasoned butches would try to provide a role model of a butch who was proud and strong in her identity in a world that was violently terrified of female masculinity.

The tradition was still alive in some parts of the UK 19 years ago, when Sue came out. She met her own mentor – J, a butch in her mid-30s – at a dyke club in Colnbrook, after she’d already been on the scene a couple of years. But the lesbian scene in those days wasn’t exactly welcoming. ‘The acceptable look was boi-ish – women who wore their jeans down their arse. The scene was very fashion-conscious – Diesel jeans, trainers – or dykes that wore trainers and a football shirt to the pub. It was all about dressing down. But being butch was not ok. The looks I used to get!’

Sue struggled to find a niche, and tried to tone down her identity so that she would be accepted. And she battled her own demons. ‘I didn’t understand my own female masculinity – it was something I fought against, really. It’s like fighting against being gay. Society is so against you as a lesbian, and then you come out into a community. You feel you belong, you’ve overcome a hurdle – and then you find that, as a butch, you’re seen as a wannabe man. You don’t feel accepted.

‘I internalised their prejudices. As much as I’d identified as butch, I worried what people would think. I didn’t want to be a man, but I was so hung up that that was how I would be seen.’

Enter J and her high-femme girlfriend, sauntering into the bar in Colnbrook. Says Sue: ‘I looked around and just grinned. I’d never seen a real butch–femme couple before. They were like the perfect couple – they complemented each other in every way – they represented both extremes.’

Sue and J struck up a butch-buddy friendship, with J guiding Sue through the minefields of dating, dressing and identity. ‘After a couple of months of meeting, we were talking about labels, and she said, “You’re a butch at heart”. She recognised a kindred soul in me.’

J understood Sue’s struggle against her own butch phobia. She even taught Sue how to strap on: ‘I wasn’t inexperienced, but I didn’t use toys. I was closed-minded about them – because I felt that if I used a strap-on, I would feel I was taking on a male role, and I didn’t want to do that.’

J gave Sue a dildo and harness. ‘I looked at her in shock, thinking she was making a move on me. She laughed and said, “No, it’s not that. We’re going to a mirror”. She put her own harness over her clothes, and showed me how to put mine on. I was in fits of giggles – it was hilarious!

‘She wanted me to feel ok, to not have to go into my first experience without knowing how to put on a strap-on, without knowing how it feels to be wearing it. She and her girlfriend also invited me to watch them having sex with a strap-on.’
Sue was embarrassed, but also recognised the spirit behind the offer. ‘They gave me a very personal gift because they wanted me to feel ok in myself.’

Sue is grateful that she had so much guidance when she was young. ‘If I hadn’t found a butch mentor, I’d have lost a lot of years. She was an older figure for me to lean on, who could teach me values and manners. She was someone who helped me to be myself openly and confidently. In her, I saw all the parts of me that I rejected – except that she was enjoying those things, enjoying her butchness. Meeting her was an eye-opener for me.’

Maggie, 49, is a butch who was never mentored when she was young. ‘Life would’ve been a lot easier for me if I’d had a butch-buddy to lean on, a mentor in the UK. It wasn’t until I started going out on the scene much later in my life, in the US, that I started to get some good butch friends.’

Maggie herself mentors – online and on the phone. ‘The person I mentor identifies as a boi, and uses the pronoun “he”. He lives in San Francisco. We met five years ago – he was 19. He had no sense of belonging, of community – because he couldn’t find a place in mainstream lesbian communities.’

It’s a fulfilling relationship to her: ‘Being a mentor has given me a sense of arriving. For someone to value what I’m saying and appreciate my traditions and respect me – that all gives me a sense of being valued in a community as an older butch, of being respected for the fact that I’ve lived life, that I’ve had a lot of experience.

‘He’s a mirror for me. Mentoring him gives me an opportunity to reflect on myself – what I value and where I’m at. Also, there’s a real warmth between us – we have a real buddy relationship, despite the age gap. And he’s as cute as hell! He doesn’t know that yet. I’m seeing him come into his own, though.’

Maggie bemoans the loss of the mentoring tradition. ‘Times have changed – the butch–femme thing isn’t nearly as big as it used to be in this country, and butch mentoring has really died out. It’s because of a combination of things. Feminism has had a big impact. There’s a misconception about butch–femme being repressive to women because it forces us into having to identify as either butch or femme, and because it supposedly follows traditional heterosexual roles. But it’s just not about either of those things.’

Another reason for the apparent demise of mentoring could be that in a world where popular culture now tends to forget its historical roots, where would Kylie be without Chuck Berry? It's unsurprising that dyke culture should follow suit. After all, butch mentoring is a handing-down of knowledge, of culture, of tradition. It's unsurprising but somewhat sad – our communities have abandoned a ritual that could help younger butches come into their own in a world that still hates them for daring to transgress the gender divide.

But another possible cause is that butches of the last couple of decades have re-invented many forms of female masculinity outside of the realm of butch–femme. Now, you get all sorts; there are many more shapes for butches to grow into – butches who go with butches, who go with bois, who go with trans men, who go with daddies. For every lid a teapot – but it’s possibly had some impact on traditions which have emerged from the old-school world of butch–femme, like butch mentoring.

Maggie also acknowledges that maybe some younger butches these days don’t need mentoring. ‘In a way, if a younger butch has got to that point in their identity where they’re out about being butch, they’re in a strong place. They’re in a happier place than I was when I was young, but I think there’s still that same struggle for younger butches.’

In a modern illustration of this, Emma has outgrown her need for Sue as a mentor. She says, ‘I need to find out who else I am apart from being butch.’

Equally, Sue understands that sometimes being a good mentor is about knowing when to step aside. ‘Emma should be around other people. She didn’t feel comfortable in any gay space for a while – she didn’t feel that she fitted in anywhere. She felt that people were seeing her as a baby butch, when she didn’t know if she was there herself. So I moved away to give her some space to find out – I’m aware that my influence could push her into being something she’s not. But I’m always still on the end of the phone if she needs me.’

So speaks a true butch-buddy. Sue and Maggie end the night, laughing and punching each other on the shoulders. It turns into a hug – and you see a bond that could only exist between two people who have survived the same struggle and defied a hostile world to take them as they are – butch. Now they’re ready to hand this strength on.