I went to a French brasserie, or cafe, or whatever you’d call a little French-inspired Parisian-decor’d restaurant in Park Slope, with Betty and Donna and Caprice before the Joan Jett show. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, and unconsciously read the signs for which one to enter. FEMMES, said one.
And I swear, for a split second I was sure the other one would say BUTCHES.
(I have been reading, and very much enjoying, The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader.)
I gotta get glasses. As first glance I thought you were talking about a French brassiere.
I wonder… there’s got to be an establishment out there somewhere that -does- have just such restrooms. If there isn’t, open one.