What I Won’t Wear

MAC or Bobbi Brown. Maybelline and Cover Girl are out, too. Although Estée Lauder and L’Oreal make excellent moisturizers and everyone needs well-hydrated skin. And sometimes, I’ll wear a little Aveda brand lipstick just to freak out my girlfriend and because, in a strange way, it’s almost gender bending.

Mini-, midi-, or maxi-skirts. A-line, drop-waisted, jumper, or sundresses. A shirtwaist, a sheath, or a shift. A cocktail dress or a ball gown. A Kitty Foyle or a St. John’s Knit. A tunic. A crinoline. A bustle. That said, I don’t mind wrapping a Sarong around my waist (and over my shorts) to visit Catholic cathedrals in Latin countries. It’s sort of my butch version of a skort. Although, it’s not exactly flattering.

A twinset, cap-sleeved T-shirts, or anything called a blouse. A chemise, a spaghetti-strap tank top, or a tube top. A smock or a turtleneck (because I’m not a painter and my neck’s too short). A shirt with a Peter Pan collar. A choli or anything where my midriff hangs out.

Nylons, thigh-high or otherwise. Of course, Spanx are a miracle of modern technology that our forebears fought for—a twenty-first-century alternative to the merrywidow—and which I believe have their place in the well-dressed butch’s wardrobe.

Court shoes or elevator shoes. Platforms, stilettos, or kitten heels. No to mules and pumps, too. No to Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Charles Jourdan, Christian Louboutin, and Bruno Magli. Unless you’re talking about his two-tone oxford or the big-buckled, chunky-heeled loafer. But you’re not, are you? You mean his wedges and his spectator pumps, don’t you? In which case, no means no.