Guest Editorials

My Interview with Chris Butt

Lipstick Lesbian
Rachelle Graham

I begged my editor to interview anyone else in Salt Lake City; Boyd K. Packer, Mark Hacking, Ted Bundy?

No. He said it had to be Chris Butt.
I drank wine as if it had boobs for the rest of the day. I prayed for a concussion, deadly car accident, anything to keep me from going.

Knock. Knock.

I breathed in deeply, feeling a panic attack coming on. The door opened. I expected Butt standing there with a shotgun. But, what I did see surprised me.

Oh, I’m flattered. But, no you’re the best kisser,” a young man placed his fingers on his cell phone receiver and turned to me.

“Silly,” he waved his hand for me to come in. “No need to knock, darling. The door’s wide open at Butt’s domain,” he leaned in to give me, as ‘family’, a proper greeting; a hug and a peek on the lips. He introduced himself as Ryan. I caught a sniff of his delicious raspberry smell and immediately stopped sweating out drops of my three cups of coffee.

Too nervous to eat this morning, I went crazy on the wicked hot chocolate. As a client of ADHD; one cup of coffee relaxed me, two sent me to sleep and the third one turned me into the energizer bunny on speed.

I paced back and forth in the front office, my head spinning.
Ryan smoothed out his tight black jeans before heading into Buttars open office, “someone’s here to see you, honey.”

I blinked few times and then pinched my arm a few more times, but I wasn’t dreaming.

Maybe Butt wasn’t the anti-gay tyrant of Utah he pretended to be. A light-bulb flickered. He’s one of us.

Butt didn’t look up when I entered, “these kids only want their last year of high school so they can inject needles full of heroin and perform sex acts of all kinds.

My wallet is getting smaller and smaller,” he said, rolling the pig coin jar on his desk.

“Maybe, but the parents are not too keen on the idea of taking out an entire year of high school,” a hillbilly voice said through the speaker phone.

Well, make it happen, don’t care what you have to do,” he slammed down the receiver. He turned to me, wearing a grumpy scowl, “Who are you and what you doing here?”

My editor from QSalt Lake set up an interview with you yesterday?” I whispered as if it was a question. I sat down and then feeling restless I stood back up. He probably thought I was one of those kids who injected heroin regularly.

He grunted.

“Is that ok?”

“Isn’t that the queer paper?”

My heart jumped about a mile, knowing what was coming next. He’ll call the cops and have me thrown in jail for wanting to have sex with woman. Want being the key word.

“Sure. As I always say, any media is good media.”

I sat back down at the edge of the loveseat, “do you mind if I record you?”

He nodded, lighting up for the first time.
“What’s your opinion on protection for gays and trans in the workplace?”

“What?” he yelled, leaning his pot belly over the desk.

At first I think he’s yelling at me because he’s outraged by the question, but then I think back to the fact I’m deathly quiet when I’m uncomfortable..

I repeated the question a second time; figuring even though he didn’t believe in senior year, as a state senator he’d have an educated response.

“Hell no! I hate those fags. I’d never work with one,” Butt said.

A high shrieking noise came from outside the door. Ryan must be back on the phone, discussing more than just kissing.

Never underestimate a Mormon’s oblivion.

My next question was out of pure curiosity, since the man was obsessed with references to gays. I figured maybe he dug us, “What’s your view on lesbians?”

“Women are supposed to be behind a man, not the other way around. When I think of two women together I want to puck. The man needs to take part; he’s the one who has the fine parts.”

That explained more than just my question.

“How do you feel about the gay movement?”

“They’re the biggest threat to America going down on me, that I know off,” he followed my eyes, covering up an issue of PlayGirl on his desk.
I wished I had brought my camera with me. Not just to photograph the dirty magazine, but to verify I didn’t wear my boyfriend’s BYU sweatshirt.

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