So, I did (of course I did), and we did.After two whiskeys for me, two beers for her, and almost two hours of conversation, Joy (as she will now be known) said, “So do you want another drink, or should we get outta here?”

“I’m good. Two whiskeys is enough.”

“Alright then.”

We walked out of the comfortable, dark classy dive bar. “Are you leading me, or am I leading you?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m taking you home now,” Joy answered.

I laughed. “I see.”

We continued the conversation on the way to her apartment in Queens, and things moved quickly once we got there. Before I knew it she was blowing me, then on top of me, then fucking me to glorious orgasms.

My favorite moments were when she had her guard down. When she snuggled against me. When her voice changed and she was open, laughing and open.

Later, she said, “Have you been wearing that all night, or did you just put it on when you we got to my place?”

“I went home after work and changed.”

“You don’t wear it to work then?”

I shrugged. “I don’t much find I need it there.” We laughed. “I debated wearing it tonight, actually.”

“Really? Why?”

“I didn’t want to be too … presumptuous.”

“You didn’t think I was a sure thing?”

“I wouldn’t assume.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman. So why did you?”

“I decided I wanted to be prepared, in case.”

“I do have a backup, you know.”

“I’m sure you do …”

“So, you’ve been wearing it all night. At the bar.”

“Yep. You couldn’t tell? I’m glad it was … subtle. I always feel like it’s very obvious.”

“I couldn’t tell. And I was looking.”

We talked about gender a bit, too. She wanted the update on the gender rant that I’d told her about last week, and I tried to articulate what I’ve been thinking about. There is still more for me to write.

She doesn’t really consider herself femme. Her sense of gender seems very much tied to the history of her body, actually; I don’t quite understand it yet, but she’s very articulate and interesting, and I would like to know more.

I asked her about how she said she didn’t fuck like a femme, and she laughed - she said, “I have no idea what I meant. I would’ve said anything to get you to leave the bar with me at that point.”

I laughed too, and told her the story of this exchange that happened last week, the morning after Joy & I first slept together:

me: mmmmornin (that’s me mumbling)
femmecolleen: Now THAT…that is adorable. Sleepy Sin.
me: yes. sleepy. and hungover
femmecolleen: ::heh:: What were you up to last night?
me: got laid
femmecolleen: Nice!
me: picked up a beeeautiful girl at a little bar party [ ... ]
femmecolleen: So, how’d it all come about? You saw her and you were all like, “Hey, baby, that shirt’s very becoming on you…of course, if I were on you, I’d be coming, too.” ?
me: ahaha, that was exactly it! how’d you know? damn, did I use that line on you?
femmecolleen: Heh. It was a line a friend of mine used on me (jokingly) in high school. It’s still my favorite tacky pick up line.
me: well, so I met her at a party a few weeks ago, and knew she’d be there last night. she definitely made note when I arrived, and came over and sat next to me
femmecolleen: Oh, honey. So when you said YOU picked someone up in the bar, you were just a big liar.
me: um. yeah. she totally picked me up.
femmecolleen: ::sigh:: you butches are such easy marks sometimes.

The version I told to Joy was more succinct. A playful way of telling her how much I knew she’d worked it that evening.She walked me to the subway around midnight. “You really don’t have to walk me there,” I protested, “I’m sure I can find it. Just tell me where to go. I take direction well.”

She looked at me coyly. “You sure do.” I laughed. “Sorry,” she said, “you walked right into that one.” Indeed I did. Set it up intentionally, in fact. Joy - it is clear - is very much a top.

“Is that going to be a problem?” she asked as we were walking to the subway.

I paused. Hesitated. Not exactly, but I’m a top, and my topping identity is the newest in my roster, so it is not so solid. Also, I’m not sure what to do when someone is not … surrendering. My force, my knock-down take-out style of fucking isn’t quite working with her. Which is okay, I’m adaptable, adapting. But it has meant that there is something missing, for me, something that is not quite satisfied. I can’t place it yet. She’s very sexy, very good in bed. And yet … something.

I hesitated a little too long. “No?” I said, not really sounding confident, getting lost in my head with ideas around identity, topping, bottoming, surrender, and that question of What We’re Doing Here Anyway.

“Your hesitation does not exactly instill confidence,” she laughed, eyes warm.

I tried to explain. “I do consider myself a top, but I’m not stone. I like to get off.”

“So I noticed.”

Although it kind of occured to me that perhaps I want to be stone for a while. Try it out. Continue to get better at this making-girls-come thing, at this chivalrous attention, this game of picking girls up in bars (which I have clearly not mastered, nor ever really attempted).

When we got to the subway station, she said, “Since you’re so good at taking direction, I’m going to tell you that you’re going to email me this time.”

“Alright,” I agreed.

Now I just have to figure out what to say.