Today I grabbed a latte at my local Starbucks. There’s no drive-thru there, and I found myself darting into the premises with a feeling of dread. The young lesbian on testosterone was at the counter again. Two other servers are also transing lesbians. I’ve seen them before.

I can tell they would have been young butch lesbians in any other era. I can tell because I was a young butch lesbian in this hating world once. The only difference between them and me is time – I was just one of the lucky ones to not be around at the time of the transcult.

Their voices have a strange pubescent ring to them that isn’t right in a tonal way. Their arms are women’s arms. Their jawlines are women’s jawlines. Their voices crack and give them away. I can’t imagine that anyone would think they are men. Pretty certain, too, that the one lesbian has had a mastectomy. As she gets my latte, I notice her feet. They are small. Her legs are female. Everything screams ‘woman, female, lesbian’ to me.

The horror of knowing they are lesbians who think they are men due to the current contagion of transactivism makes it hard to be there. I look around as I leave and three of their transing lesbian friends are sitting at a booth.

They are clearly butch lesbians to me.

It is painful to see them—my kind, if you will—destroying their bodies. Permanently. Cross-sex hormones, puberty blockers, binders, mastectomies. How is it brave to hate yourself that much?

I wonder what they think of me as I go up to the counter, all proud and real and butch and unselfconscious about it? Today I had a faded pair of Buffalo jeans on and a black t-shirt. Had black military-style hiking boots on. Might as well have a tattoo of ‘BUTCH’ across my forehead, really.

Guess I’m some kind of dinosaur to them. A remnant of some ancient group who thought that being who they were and learning to accept and love themselves was brave. Today it’s not cool. Butch lesbian isn’t cool.

Guess I’m some kind of dinosaur to them. A remnant of some ancient group who thought that being who they were and learning to accept and love themselves was brave. Today it’s not cool. Butch lesbian isn’t cool.

Yet, I could have sworn—as I handed over my payment— that she seemed a bit ashamed, you know. Her eyes glanced away from mine. She looked a bit sheepish. Maybe she knows somewhere deep inside that I am who she cannot accept inside her own heart.

A lesbian. A butch lesbian, at that. Comfortable in her own skin. Right out there to anyone who has a clue. Not hiding or pretending to be anyone but who I am. I wonder, if for just that brief moment, she had just a little regret or shame in her eyes? Dinosaur that I am, wishing that she could just look in the mirror one day and be courageous enough to live her life as she is. Butch. Lesbian. Proud. In spite of how much the world hates her. Hates us.

Every butch lesbian who is critical about this horrific trans. movement—a movement that would push young lesbians into believing they are male and amputating their healthy breasts and taking cross-hormones—every butch knows what they are seeing. It’s like looking into a mirror and recalling all of the angst, hatred, parental and peer rejection all over again.

It’s a horrific experience to sit in a room full of my sisters and know this. It’s like being one of the last butch survivors in a complete eradication. I can’t think of any other way to state the horror I feel at progressives actually thinking that the surgical violation of these young lesbians is somehow a brave and courageous thing.

It’s a horrific experience to sit in a room full of my sisters and know this. It’s like being one of the last butch survivors in the genocide. I can’t think of any other way to state the horror I feel at progressives actually thinking that the surgical violation of these young lesbians is somehow a brave and courageous thing.

They are telling these girls that they are not okay being who they are and wearing what they want to wear. These are girls like I once was. They sometimes have short hair, and that way of carrying themselves that is strong and independent. They don’t care about boys and when they were kids, they played with trucks and things other girls don’t really like. They liked collecting rocks and they didn’t giggle around the boys like the other girls did. They were never like the other girls.

But they were and are female, all the same. They just happen to be a different kind of female. They dress as they like. And yet, despite how much society says gender nonconformity is okay – they are being shamed. They are being told they are male.

They call it ‘gender non-conforming.’ That’s a fancy word for butch lesbian. What is happening is that tomboys are pushed to transition and the trans. net captures all the future butches. This is not mere speculation. Physicians who work in gender clinics are saying that homosexuality is the first ‘step’ to transing. This is gruesome.

This movement is about lesbian erasure, gay eugenics, the eradication of lesbians.

People sometimes try to explain this away and say to stop focusing on the tomboys and lesbian youth because other girls trans, too.

No. Let’s focus on the lesbians. This movement is about lesbian erasure, gay eugenics, the genocide of lesbians. We already know that over 80% of the youth who are transed would have desisted in their ‘gender dysphoria’ and eventually turned out to be adult lesbians and gays.

And now they are telling the tomboys that they are not girls. There is no such thing as a girl who doesn’t like pink, they say. And I can’t help seeing my own young, scared butch face long ago in the mirror, with all the ensuing harassment and rejection and judgment and hatred. Yet here the fuck I am, sitting in this Starbucks, watching all my young butch sisters falling over themselves to conform to some insane trans agenda. Falling all over themselves to become ersatz men.

Our lesbian spaces are already dead. Our bookstores, our dances. Everything we built is dead and taken over by the trans nightmare. I was there when we had it all. Don’t think I don’t have at least a modicum of hope that this madness will end. Because I do. But that’s not today.

Meanwhile at the local Starbucks, all the young butches who think they are men are serving up lattes and lemon loaf. And butches like me— we sit and drink that stuff in the bright sunshine.