big – I mean really big

Speaking of really big cocks (we were, weren’t we?) – this just shipped for me to review:

Uh.Wow.

Eden says it is 5 1/4″ long, and 6 3/4″ around. Um … that means it is thicker around than it is long.

I’m not even sure it’ll fit in my harness. Do I have an O-ring big enough? Can I weild this thing, wearing it? Will I have any idea how to use it, how to fuck someone else with it? And … secretly, I want to know, can I take it?

I’m incredibly interested, and shuddering at the same time.

I guess I’ll find out.

Unwrapping the Present (Excerpt)

She perches on the edge of the bed, spreading her legs, eyes on me. I take two quick steps to stand between her thighs and she pulls my boxers down past my knees. She wraps her fingers around my new cock again, and works it expertly …

– From a story I wrote, a fantasy posted over at Eden Fantasys adult toy store: Unwrapping the Present.

After I wrote this fantasy, I wasn’t sure Eden was going to accept it, because of the queer content. So if you like it, tell those folks over at Eden, wouldja? And maybe that way they’ll ask me to write more of them.

These fantasys over on Eden are quite impressive. The erotic story includes with it a ‘basket’ of the sex toys used in the story, so you can buy all the toys and recreate the story.

What’s in mine? Why, I’m so glad you asked: a really big cock, decent harness, and sexy lingerie made primarily of pearls.

Why are you still here? Unwrap that present already.

Roses on fishnet stockings: yum

On the V train:

Caramel skin and she smelled like vanilla. Her hat was knit, covering her head like a something poofy and french, brown ringlets poking deliberately out from under it. Her jacket was mocha coffee colored suede with white fur at the seams, it came in stylishly at the waist and flared at the bust, unbuttoned to reveal delicious curves, cleavage. I don’t usually notice cleavage. Hers was near perfect.

On the E train:

Snow white: ruby lips, raven hair, creamy skin. Stop staring, I tell myself.

At Union Square:

Roses embroidered on the backs of her fishnet stockings. Black heels, not delicate, but not clunky either, rather very solid, firm. I wanted to bite each rose from her calf. Tear it with my teeth.

Clearly something is happeneing to my libido today. I do go through these moods occasionally. I wonder where I am in my cycle, if this corresponds.

Makes me wish I had someone to call & fuck.

Closest relationship I’ve had to that is Belle – but apparently, she has a girlfriend now. I haven’t talked to her much recently, we really only saw each other a few times. Too bad, though. I thought she’d be on the market for a while longer – I should’ve played with her more while I could, I really enjoyed her. And – on top of the physical chemistry, she never put pressure on me, never needed anything from me. That’s how we both laid it out at the beginning of getting together, and I had my doubts as to whether or not that could happen, but it did.

I guess it’s good to know that I’m capable of a sex-based relationship, in theory.

Cross-Country Girl Adventures

This is an honorable mention Sugarbutch Star submission from Jefferson. I have to include his original submission with the story here, because he’s a wonderful writer, and it sets the scene.

You and I have been driving all day. We decide to wash off the road with a few bourbons, and stop at the next neon sign. We park well away from a long row of Harleys and head inside.

Hours later, we are feeling no pain. A very cute blonde has been flirting with us for a long time. She keeps asking us where we’re from, how we know each other, and so on. She’s fascinated by us. We’re fascinated by her bee-sting lips, her cut-off denims and her long, tan legs. She situates herself between us; you fondle her thighs as I finger her crooked teeth.

None of this sits well with her boyfriend. He watches, glowering by the jukebox at a table covered by empty long necks.

Much of what happens next is a blur.

We wind up in a local jail. You and I share a cell. Beyond the bars to one side is the blonde; beyond the bars to the other side is the boyfriend.

The only light is the moon from a single barred window.

Cross-Country Girl Adventures

Jefferson is pacing.

“Sit down,” I say. “Can’t you just calm down?” I have enough bourbon in me to keep me horizontal for days. The coil-spring mattress is the most uncomfortable thing on which my back has ever laid, and I won’t get up for anything, not even if the door to this jail cell was open.

Jefferson, too, has had bourbon. More than I have, in fact. “I can’t relax,” he says.

“You’re giving me a fucking headache,” the blonde in the next cell says, a little too loud. She’s sitting against the wall. We learned somewhere around the third drink that her name is Ella May.

“I can’t relax,” he says again, going over to the bars that separate our cell from hers. She lifts her head and sighs.

“Fine,” she says, rising and walking toward him. I hear them both moving but keep my eyes shut. “Unzip.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

She glances back at her boyfriend, in the cell adjoining hers, passed out cold. “This offer’s gonna expire,” she says.

Jefferson unzips and meets the black bars with his bony hips, cock poking through.

“Might as well make this a good story,” she says, and licks the tip before guzzling the length of his dick down her throat.

His shoulders drop immediately and he leans against the bars, groaning. Relaxing into familiar territory. I peek through one eye and can’t see her through him, but can see her knees and bobbing elbows as she licks and sucks. He leans back into it. She makes a little mmm noise and brings her hand to her cut-off jean shorts, back pocket ripped out where her boyfriend had hold of her earlier tonight.

I can’t see her hand go inside her jeans, but by the way her elbow is moving, she has clearly taken hold of her clit and is working it. My internal butch cock awake and hard. My head pounds, but I find enough clarity to sit up.

I want to feel her cunt when she comes.

As soon as Jefferson and I entered the highway biker bar I noticed her, but it wasn’t until she pulled me onto the small space of empty floor near the pool table for a dance that I wanted to fuck her. A girl like her would usually be too straight for me – I like ‘em queer. But then she moved her hips against me, drew her long leg up mine, dipped her back low when I led it and didn’t pull away when I held her close. She responded so easily to my gentle, subtle suggestions of movement and twirl.

They say you know exactly how someone will be in bed based on how they dance. That, in my experience, tends to be true. And if it is true of Ella, she is bold, eager, receptive, subtle, and hungry.

I watch her suck Jefferson for a moment longer before I stagger over to the jail bars. I keep an eye on the passed-out boyfriend and watch the muscles in Ella’s jaw clench and move. Jefferson barely notices me, he is finally unwinding, forgetting his surroundings.

I crouch next to him. Ella watches me approach, approves with her eyes, soft, pushes her own shorts down on her hip bones to reveal a tiny patch of fine, soft light hair on her mound, downy, which seems even more blonde because of her tan skin.

She keeps his cock in her mouth. Expertly works it in and out. He wants to increase depth and speed but she isn’t letting him. One hand on his cock, she reaches for my hand and brings it in between her legs. I awkwardly sit sideways next to the bars and slide my hand inside her shorts. She isn’t wearing any panties.

Her skin is so soft, supple. She’s totally shaved except for that tiny patch, and my fingers explore her tight outer lips, all muscle, strong, and thin inner lips, so smooth and slick, luscious. Her cunt is dripping, sticky already. She likes sucking cock. She rocks a little against my fingers and I slide two inside her; she moans a little, muffled, and her eyes roll back as she gulps and sucks, one hand still twisting around Jefferson’s cock, one hand on my wrist.

My angle is awful, up underneath both of them, wrist upturned and restricted by her jean shorts. But she feels so damn good, she’s gripping my fingers with her cunt, forearm with her hand, I can’t exactly move. As I work my fingers in her, my thumb on her clit, she takes Jefferson deeper, faster, into her mouth and this gets him hotter, thrusting what little he can against the cell bars. He’s got a grip with both hands, leaning his head and torso back, hips pressing forward.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants under his breath. Ella moans into his cock, throaty. She glances at me, then up at Jefferson, back at me – a look that clearly says, he’s going to come. I bring my twi fingers to her clit and swirl. Watch her face for her reaction: she closes her eyes reluctantly, opens her mouth wide as Jefferson still pounds into it. Muffled noises in her throat like she’s swallowing. She is swallowing. Her clit swells and she rocks her pelvis against my hand.

Jefferson pops first. His panting stops and he holds his breath in, for just a second, then “uggghhh,” groans on an exhale, thrusts hard a few times, lets go of his grip and bangs his fist against the bars.

“Mmmm,” Ella licks and sucks, using the flat warm of her tongue to lap his cock with a few wide strokes, then she lets out a cry – “Ah!” – falls forward, lets go of Jefferson’s hips to bring one hand to the bars, holding herself up, cheek pressed against the gritty cell bars, gasping, her cunt contracting on my hand and she cries out.

“Fuck yes! Fuck yes! Please do it, do it harder, fuck, fuck!” her voice gets shrill and she starts whimpering as she rocks back and forth on my arm, the wrist of it feels like it’s about to snap, then she lets out a scream and I’m surprised whatever glass is nearby is not breaking, then I realize there is no glass, we’re in jail.

“What the fuck,” I hear, a grumble, low and mean, from the shadows back behind Ella. It’s the boyfriend. Awake. Witnessing.

Jefferson starts laughing, intently watching Ella’s orgasm and me, sprawled on the floor, but he’s stepped back and zipped, cleverly removing himself from incrimination. If only I was a little femmier, he’d think it was hot. It’s only because I’m so damn butch that he thinks I am a threat.

Ella lets the orgasm drain from her and gains enough movement to come to her hands and knees. “Just stop,” she scolds as she would a dog or child. “Knock it off.”

“Ella – baby – what the fuck!” he slams his palm against the bars as I scramble to my feet, attempt to steady myself. I am suddenly drunk again. I can smell Ella’s pussy on my fingers when I straighten my shirt, and notice that they’re all sticky. I want to lick them, suck them clean, just to spite him. But these bars will only separate us temporarily.

“Mr. Johnson!” A police officer calls, shoes clicking with his approach down the concrete hallway. He walks past us and continues to the far cell. “Turns out, you have a few outstanding blemishes on your record. As in, more than two, you little punk. Tricking and evading an officer. Doing 125 in a 50. Driving with a suspended license. Leaving the scene of an accident, a crime,” he’s reading out of a folder, face up against the bars. “Did you think that wouldn’t catch up with you?”

The boyfriend’s eyes get a little wild, wide, and he shrinks back from the bars, sneering.

“Mr. Jefferson! Mr. Sexsmith!” He turns to us. I don’t correct him on my gender. “You’re free to go, boys. Don’t you be getting in any more trouble. I expect I won’t hear see your faces in here again, ever.”

He unlocks the cell door. Jefferson steps through eagerly and blows a kiss to Ella.

“That was fucking hot, Ella,” I say, walking toward her briefly, holding onto the bars. “Thanks.”

She smiles and nods her head, once, a dismissive gesture. “Have fun on your cross-country girl adventures,” she says. “Tell that one to stop getting you in trouble.”

I laugh, and join Jefferson, already halfway down the hallway.

He claps me on the back. “There’s a motel just up there,” he says when we get to the door, gesturing down the parking lot that looks over some desolate road. “What say we get some rest before we hit another state. I think I can finally sleep.”

I yawn. “Yeah, me too,” I say, slinging my arm around his shoulder. “Man, what a night.”

what is it you … want?

I am currently working on a guide to holiday gifts for the butch or femme in your life. I’ve got plenty of my own ideas, but I want to open it up to comments: what would you love to receive?Specifically, here, I’m thinking of things that are kinda gendered – cuff links, ties, perfume, silver-handled dresser set. But I’m open to all suggestions!

Hmm, and while we’re on the subject, What about sex toys? What toy have you always wanted? What are the best basic toys to have in every collection?

If you’re feeling shy, email aspiringstud (at) gmail (dot) com. I’ll compile the answers, combine ’em with my own, & repost them.

Fucking a Porn Star

This Sugarbutch Star submission comes from Avah of Designing Intimacy. Thanks Avah!

Fucking a Porn Star

The girl knew how to submit.

Even before Avah had her clothes off, even before they entered the hotel room, there was something, some lowering coyly of her eyes, some demure way she kept fluttering her wrists like dinner napkins, something in the way she would purse and slowly lick her lips that made Avah feel strong. Powerful. Wanted. Something that gave Avah permission to take.

With a girl like this, Avah knew how to dominate.

The girl knew what Avah brought along in her carefully packed bag. They had negotiated the contents cautiously, both clearly able to navigate the world of online NSA personals.

Avah’s ad read “ISO sweet, submissive girl that loves rope and flogging.” The girl was her only decent reply – and she was a redhead.

Once in the hotel room, lights still off, Avah told her to undress – revealing milky white, near translucent skin, thin and hiding nothing – then kneel in front of her. Avah parted her own pussy lips with her fingers, standing before the girl who, stripped nude and kneeling, began lapping and sucking tentatively at first, then eagerly, deeper, suckling, making small mmm noises like she was savoring some satisfying desert.

The night of subtle, easy communication at the bar, and the girl’s sweet eyes looking up at her, mouth full, made Avah so hot, and the girl’s expert tongue and pressure brought Avah surprisingly quickly to a thick state of desire and bliss. Coming in the girl’s mouth easily, Avah rewarded her accordingly: she unzipped her toy bag.

The date moved quickly. Avah took this sweet, submissive girl every way she could think of: bent over the coffee table. Against the wall. Elaborately hog tied on the bed, wrists and ankles pulling each other in separate directions (that was especially lovely). Wrists tied behind her back. Fingers in her cunt, then fist in her cunt, then fingers in her ass. Beautiful.

There was something Avah couldn’t pinpoint about this girl: some familiarity about the way her bones shift when she moves, the way her small, tight muscles pulse and ripple, that look in her eyes each time Avah turns to her, palm open, to bring a new sensation to her body. There was some way she led Avah, with tiny, subtle movements, to know exactly what to do next. So skilled at submitting.

Hours later, the two girls were flushed, skin sheened with sweat, exhausted and still wanting each other. The hotel room is dim with candles and the nighttime city lights filtering through the curtain. The bedspread, sheets, and pillows, have been torn from the bed and discarded on the floor. The couch too has been attacked, pillows strewn about, even knocking over a vase that they both ignored.

Avah’s rope proved to be the favorite accessory of the evening. Wrapped around both of the girl’s wrists, it was now tied to the hotel headboard, immobilizing the girl, face down, stretching her arms long above her head. Her ankles were tied, too, to the feet of the bed, but the rope had enough length that the girl could nearly raise to her hands and knees. Her ass was in the air, increasingly pink.

Raising her hand beyond her shoulder, Avah brought her cupped palm down onto the flesh her ass meets thigh: a delicate sound. The girl’s muscles clenched gently, then release.

Again, and again, Avah slapped and stung the girl’s ass and inner thighs, her hand hitting against her crack, swatting her clit and swollen labia, red and slick and smooth as glass, steady, and then faster, the blows coming closer together until the girl started whimpering and straining at the ropes, inching forward to escape, and Avah let up, soothed her hand over the girl’s reddened skin and cunt, fingers exploring the crevasses of her labia and hood, slow circles, slow lazy circles around her clit, and the girl relaxed again, leaned into it, moaned.

The girl’s back arched, knees and feet straining farther apart.

Avah pulled her flogger from her bag: deerskin. Long. She draped it easily over the girl on the bed and it tickled, massaged, gently caressed her skin.

Until – thud. Avah let it fall using only gravity. Again. Thud. A gentle sound. More like thhh. A shushing noise through the air like a librarian.

The girl arched her head back. It was a request. Four, five swats and Avah had her aim. Eight, nine and Avah had a comfortable build of pressure: each time she brought the leather down it hit a little harder, a little deeper into the muscles.

The girl squirmed and writhed against the bed.

Avah climbed between her knees, on the bed and, erect, brought her flogger down again. Onto her shoulder blades. Onto her sides. Onto her tiny ass. Finding a rhythm. One two thud. One two thud. Gathering the tails together over her shoulder, into the palm of her hand, then back down. Precise. Their breaths matching. Gasping when the tails hit skin, moaning when they leave.

“Oh god,” the girl whispered. “Oh god.” She cringes, cries out.

“You like that?” Avah growls, a little harsh, acutely aware of the ferociousness building in her stomach, under her ribcage, creeping up to her heart and throat and shoulders. She hit harder. Harder. The girl arched her back, nearly collapses on the bed.

“Relax,” Avah said, caressing the girl’s skin with her palm. The girl crushed into the bedspread and brought her arms under her, tensing her entire body briefly before releasing, opening again, looking up at Avah with soft eyes. Her limbs were all sinew and bone and skin, lanky and long, thin. She tilted her head but kept her eyes on Avah, responding to Avah’s soothing touch with arches of her body, breathing in. She relaxed onto the hotel sheets, then took her arms out from their tucked position under her and bent her knees, arms and torso laid out long on the bed, ass to ankles.

“Please, a few more?”

Avah grinned, stepped off the bed behind her to get a larger swing, then tightened her grip on the flogger’s thick handle and let more blows fall onto the girl’s back and ass and thighs, tips of the tails snapping at her skin, not fine enough to leave individual marks but turning her entire backside darker and darker pink, in some places flushed red. She may be bruised tomorrow.

Working her entire body into the blows, Avah swung and hit. Swung and hit. She is a true sadist: she is turned on by the witness of someone else’s pain. She knew her cunt was wet, could feel it between her thighs. The girl moaned and cringed and breathed with each contact. Avah worked up into a wonderful beat, so satisfying, a wrist turn that looked like a baton twirl and a rhythm like timpani, steady and slow, working the flesh and bones of this girl, this gorgeous girl, so willing to give over, so eager to receive.

Avah built up speed and the girl whimpered. Harder, and she yelled, pulled against the ropes, thighs cringing together. Avah gathered her strength and let a last few blows hit.

The girl cried out with the intensity. Screamed, then quieted.

Gently leaning into her, Avah floated her hands above the girl’s skin as she lay still with the aftermath of the flogging, writhing and cringing, body melting and settling back into its former shape. Avah softly began moving her hands, hovering just above the skin, not touching yet and then – until – just a fingertip, just the softest brush of the pads of her fingers over the girl’s smelting skin, red and stinging and sensitive to even the minute changes in the air. Avah set each finger, then her palm, oh so gently, barely even touching, like a paintbrush making the finest softest strokes against the exposed canvass of the girl’s back and ass and thighs.

The girl drew breath in hard with each brush. Arched her back. Strained against the ropes.

The reverberation of every contact rippled through her body like a firework exploding, another touch in another spot would simply further illuminate the smoky leftover of the first, still hanging on her skin.

“You feel amazing,” Avah said, completely caught up in the buzz of energy between them.

The girl whispered something, groaned, into the pillow.

“Uh sorry?” Avah said, both hands on the girl’s hip bones, leaning forward to hear her better.

Fuck me,” the girl said again, clearly this time, turning her head to the side, red hair falling over her face. “Please, oh god please.”

“Mmm,” Avah agreed, drawing back down the girl’s body to her ass and exposed cunt, two fingers running over her lips and clit, swollen from the long night of sex, from the sensory overload, from the submission.

The girl moaned deliciously with each touch.

Avah grinned and kept her grip on the girl’s hip bones, slid two fingers inside her slick cunt easily. The girl sighed, heavy, and opened deeper. Avah slid out and added another finger, a little tighter with three, the girl inhaled and squirmed a little, so eager, so open.

“Damn, that’s good,” Avah mumbled, fingers sliding in and out easily, thumb on the girl’s hard clit. Avah felt her opening deeper still, pushing back onto Avah’s hand, gripping the rope that held her wrists to the headboard, rocking on her knees. Avah added her fourth finger.

The girl’s clit swelled, g-spot swelled – Avah could feel it from where her hand hit inside, the upper wall thick and juicy and swollen and she fingered it, pressed against it tenderly, pet it with little laps of the pads of her four fingers.

Cries from the girl’s mouth, directly in a line connected to her cunt. Pressure here and she cried out. Pressure there and she gasped. A little harder, a little faster, and her knees shook, thighs pressed apart, ass pressed back, back arched, head bent and her cunt opened to swallow everything, to take it all inside her, hard, to suck Avah’s hand in, to the palm. Then she burst: it started in her cunt and then radiated out in waves, in ripples, thick quakes of bone and muscle and the girl made such delicious low moans, oh-oh-oh god, oh-oh-oh god, and Avah slowed, changed pressure to let up, and the girl folded back into herself, collapsed forward on the bed, and Avah’s fingers slid out as her body calmed.

Avah unties the ropes and they collapse together on the bed, the girl holding Avah close against her, sharing caresses, giggles, as they came down from their bodies’ highs. They lay eye to eye on the pillows.

“You just look so familiar, I can’t shake it,” Avah said. “It’s weird. We haven’t met before, you’re sure?”

The girl grinned. “Well, I told you my name. I figured if you knew my work you’d recognize that.”

Avah, embarrassed, couldn’t remember it. Michelle. Marilyn. Something with an M.

“Madison,” the girl said. “Madison Young.”

“Oh,” said Avah, and then she realized: she’d just fucked a porn star.

Review: Silky aka Mr. Bendy, My Very Favorite Cock

My very first sex toy review is up Eden Fantasys (whose name makes me want to get out my red English Major pen and correctly pluralize the noun), and what other toy to start with than my beloved packing cock.Apparently, though Babeland calls it Mr. Bendy, it is actually known by the manufacturer as Silky, and comes in blue and purple as well as pink (which is the only color I’ve ever seen at Babeland).

I really do love this cock – and, while I am absolutely man enough for pink, I am quite excited about my new blue one.

Actually, I feel kind of selfish about this cock. I don’t want to tell you where to buy it or how awesome it is, because it’s mine. But, in the spirit of spreading the love, I am resolving to get over that possessiveness …

From the review:

I have spent years – since I first came out and began having sex with women, since I first started honing my butch identity and wanting a cock to be part of my sex life – searching for a cock I could not only pack with, but also play with.

And? Here’s the secret: this is that cock.I have a special place in my heart for Babeland – clearly, since I’m mentioning it in my plug for my Eden review – particularly because they are built on queer politics, community, and culture. Their staff members are primarily queer and absolutely queer friendly, they know all about gender and gender expression, and I never feel out of place in that store. It was the first non-skeevy sex toy store I’d ever been in, and for that reason, I just love it. Support the dykes, yay.

But despite my love for Babeland, sometimes their product selection falls a bit short. By which I mean, sometimes they just don’t have what I need.

And that’s a place where Eden is fantastic. They have a really great selection of toys – not only cocks & harnesses, but also slappy and stingy toys, lube, condoms, books, DVDs, all sorts of things. Their queer content is not perfect, but it’s there, and they are working on building it further, which I think is fantastic.

Buy this cock on Eden Fantasys now!

be a gay Santa!

An acquaintance of mine sent this on to me, she is going to be playing Santa at Sylvia’s Place Homeless Youth Shelter again this year, and they need donated gifts for queer youth.

If you want to be a Gay Santa, they’ll send you a “dear santa” letter from one of the youth, and then you an drop off or mail the gift with their name on it back to the shelter. if you’ve got the means, it sounds like a really fun process to be a part of! I’m excited to participate.

More information about Sylvia’s Place: We provide emergency shelter to homeless LGBTQ youth in New York City. A 2006 report from the National Gay & Lesbian Task Force estimates that a third of homeless youth identify as LGBT. In New York City, this means that something like 8,000 to 10,000 youth are without shelter every night. This has led many to refer to this as an “epidemic” of homelessness among LGBTQ youth. Find out more…

Gay Santa wrote:

Happy Holidays from Sylvia’s Place Homeless Youth Center! We are hoping you will consider being a ‘Gay Santa’ this year.

To participate, send us your postal mailing address and you will be sent a “Dear Santa” letter from a homeless young person asking for a gift. Wrapped gifts, labeled with the young person’s name, can be mailed or dropped off at the shelter: Metropolitan Community Church , 446 W 36th st, NYC NY 10018

Our goal is to make sure each of our young people receive a gift this Christmas. With your support, we know this goal will become a reality.

Many thanks and warm holiday wishes,

Kate Barnhart, Director
MCCNY/Homeless Youth Services
446 W 36th St, NYC NY 10018

what I’m grateful for

Sugarbutch stands in an interesting place within online communities; I see it as touching on and fusing various subjects – activism, feminism, sex, gender, queer theory and culture, sex toys, fantasy, kink, SM, relationships, occasional buddhist philosophies, poetry, community – and while there are multiple circles for these subjects individually, I feel like I have few neighbors doing the same thing I’m doing. But even so, there are many people within these overlapping communities who have contributed, read, commented, and helped Sugarbutch over the past year and a half, and I am partcularly grateful to them today.Before I give thanks, though, my activist self HAS to mention something about the history of colonization in the Americas, and First Nations rights, and how yucky it is that we still celebrate the “discovery” of the US, the Eurocentricism of our history, the history books were written by the winners, et cetera, et cetera. On Thanksgiving, I break out my Buffy Sainte-Marie CDs (seriously, can you name any Native American recording artists?), The People’s History of the United States, and maybe Scarlet’s Walk.

Buffy Sainte-Marie, My Country Tis of Thy People You’re Dying (click the “more” part for the lyrics):

I just can’t “celebrate” Thanksgiving without some acknowledgement of the suffering upon which this country was built.

Despite the shady history of this holiday, I still very much appreciate the chance to celebrate what I am grateful for. Nothing wrong with saying thanks, gathering together, being appreciative.

So, thank you, neighbors and friends, family and lovers, for your inspiration and presence in my life, for your influence, your feedback, your friendship.

my fabulous friends here in this big bad city … the femme, who doesn’t have an online handle; birdee; and my buddy over at Post No Bills, who is throwing a great Turkey Day gathering today (that I will be heading to, assuming I finish some writing)

Cody and Colleen, for all sorts of chats and discussions about gender, sex, relationships, figuring out what I want, and calling me on my bullshit

Jezbian, my “big sister”
Ice, still in Seattle but our friendship is only getting stronger
Matt, extraordinary poet and friend

Molly Bennett Creative
Heather Corrina and Scarleteen, for the amazing activist work
Audacia Ray and her forward-thinking porn and activism
Rachel Kramer Bussell, her amazing writing work – she is such a pillar in this writing/sex community

Dylan, for reading and commenting here practically from the beginning, and for butch bonding, and for reminding me that the butches are NOT dying out, that there are still young butches

Essin’ Em, for her prolific sex education

the folks at Feministing, because while I want to take issue with a lot of what they’re doing, they are still being quite successful at being a catalyst for young women’s feminism, and that’s fantastic

Viviane, from Viviane’s Sex Carnival, she’s the “blog mommy,” as she is coming to be known, for throwing her amazing Tea Parties and enabling me to meet much of the New York crew of sex bloggers: Jefferson, fellow bourbon lover, who will go down in history as THE New York Playboy; Tess D, from whom I have continuously learned how explorative and fun the world of fantasy can be; Avah, Calico, Madeline; Lolita, whose sexy tricks I would love to learn; Eileen & Maymay, who I am excited to get to know better …

I’m also extremely grateful to the girls who have met me with my sex and gender explorations, in bed, in coffee shops, in dark bars, in comments on this site, in my dreams, in the Sugarbutch Star contest (it’s finishing up, I swear).

Thank you, for being a part of my life; you have effected it, changed it for the better. I’m very, very grateful for this community.

* Amendment, a few links:

Four questions to ask yourself to boost your feelings of gratitude, from the Happiness Project

25 Books I’m grateful for, over on Feministing

remembering those lost

Today is the Trans Day of Remembrance in honor of the genderqueer and trans lives lost to hate crimes.

From the official website: “The Transgender Day of Remembrance was set aside to memorialize those who were killed due to anti-transgender hatred or prejudice. The event is held in November to honor Rita Hester, whose murder on November 28th, 1998 kicked off the “Remembering Our Dead” web project and a San Francisco candlelight vigil in 1999. Rita Hester’s murder — like most anti-transgender murder cases — has yet to be solved.”

Read Quench Zine’s post on the trans day of remembrance. (Thanks to Feministing for the link.)

Read S. Bear Bergman’s poem

Questioning Transphobia has a great collection of links and snippets as well. Read ’em.

Check out the Transgender Law Center, including this awesome booklet on Beyond the Binary: A Toolkit for Gender Identity Activism in Schools. Forward it to the teachers in your life.

It’s only very recently that I’ve been seeing my own butchness as a form of trans-gender, within the past year.

These are some of the things that have happened to me within the last month or so, based on my gender appearance:

  • My uncle’s young grandson called me male pronouns all night during a dinner party with family

  • A little kid asked, “Mommy, is that a boy or a girl?” behind me in line at the grocery store

  • A man yelled “fag!” at me on the street (I was puzzled. I wasn’t sure he meant me. I said, “I think the word you’re looking for is dyke.” Perhaps in retrospect I should’ve said, “you wish you could suck my cock.”) This was perhaps six weeks ago …

  • A woman or girl in a public bathroom came in, did a double take of me at the mirror, or sink, or coming out of the stall, or drying my hands, and said, “Am I in the right bathroom?” or “Is this the ladies’ room?” or “Is this … are you … am I …” or something equally awkward. This happens rather often

Generally, I get ignored on the streets of New York City, definitely in Midtown where I make my days, I tend to blend in, tend to have the general office uniform on and get scanned over, and even in the slightly off-the-beaten-path neighborhood where I have an apartment (though only for another few weeks) I don’t get harrassed or even noticed, much. But I recognize the rarity of that, and how lucky I am to generally feel safe in my body and gender expression. Not everyone like me is so lucky. And many others like me have been harassed, beaten, bullied, raped, and murdered for their own expression.

Makes me extraordinarily grateful for my wild and precious life.

PS: “Remembrance” is such a beautiful word.

a milestone

Sugarbutch Chronicles just passed 100,000 hits.

I was on the site when it happened, but somehow missed it! I saw 99,983 and then 100,013. Darn.

I’ve been getting a particularly large amount of traffic through YouPorn.com’s Sexblogs aggregator and have to say thanks and hi to those folks – welcome, hope you’re finding something interesting here. The YouPorn Sexblog feed is a fun thing to poke through, too, if you’re into reading sexy stories and how-tos and product reviews and all sorts of sexy goodness happening online. Clearly not so safe for work, though.

Also a reminder, you can subscribe to Sugarbutch via any RSS reader, and I would love it if you do. You can also subscribe to the Sugarbutch comments feed, and, I gotta tell ya, as someone (probably the only someone) who follows the comments here, there are some good discussions happening, it might be fun to read.

will my cock get sucked?

I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.”What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.

We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay – I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.

And oh I got that.

She was stunning. I particularly liked her in jeans and a white a-shirt, hair tussled and no makeup, bare feet, when she answered the door, though as soon as I saw her lips slightly pinked and luscious I knew I wanted to kiss her, hoped we’d kiss, before the end of the short few hours we had.

We settled into a borrowed bedroom and she lit candles, turned out the lights, after she brought the three gerbera daisies and bottle of prosecco into the room with us.

We weren’t going to fuck – and this is the second time that this has happened with us, of the two times we’ve met – but fuck if she didn’t make me want. Kisses and her eyes and curly hair and the way her neck bent back when I pulled it and that little southern twang in her voice and her tongue and oh the sounds from her throat.

“I want to learn how to throw you around,” I said.

She laughed. “You have already learned that. Graduated from that school, walked across that stage, picked up the diploma, switched your tassel to the other side.”

I laughed too. “Maybe. Then I want to practice.”

There was a moment when some feeling grew from my cock up through my chest to radiate out through my shoulders into my fingertips and my timing was perfect, fist on wrist with a precise leg twist so she went exactly where I placed her.

And I could’ve devoured her, then.

I wanted to. I felt her hesitation and didn’t push it. Maybe she’d say the same of me, but I was eager, willing. I imagine that was clear.

I brought my cock. I’d showed it off at the tea party beforehand, and was hesitant to keep it on, but wanted to be prepared.

“I certainly didn’t want to seem … presumptuous.” I said. There’s that word again.

“I would’ve been mad if you hadn’t brought it,” she answered.

And, later, she said: “I want to suck your cock.”

I wanted to growl fucken do it then and push her head down, but it wasn’t quite that kind of night. That, though, was what she brought out in me.

“I would like that …” I said weakly, trying not to writhe and moan on the bed.

She has incredibly sensitive lips. Earlier, after she’d admired my various bits of (ahem, carefully groomed) body hair, she’d asked me if I shaved – it puzzled for a second, before I realized she meant my face. “Yeah,” I admitted. “Can’t really feel it now … ” I brought my fingers to my five o’clock shadow, still mostly smooth. She could feel it though. Her mouth is just that sensitive.

(Small sidenote: That’s new for me, really, that my lack of shaving or non-feminine placed body would be a turn-on for a lover. I guess it has to do with the ways I am masculine, which makes sense, if what someone is attracted to in me is (at least in part) my butchness. It’s taken me a while to not feel weird about it though – I was socialized female, shaved for many years, despite my hippie parents objections. Also, having more hair tends to be a sign of testosterone in the body, doesn’t it? I wonder if that’s related to my butch identity, some sort of biological connection? Or maybe I’m just reaching for ways that this butchness came from “inside” and not only adopted as a performative gender-bending practice.)

I don’t know when, or if, I’ll see her again, but I hope our paths will cross sooner than the last time I saw her. She lives in the south, and did tell me that if I am ever in her city and want to get sweaty, I should call her. Likewise, I made sure she knew she always has a booty call in New York.

what sex bloggers do when we get together

Viviane‘s tea party of sex bloggers yesterday was yet again an amazing gathering. The conversation was mostly sex & general geekery like WordPress templates. logo design, site counters, anonymity and blog traffic.And then there was the sex. D/s verses topping and bottoming, penises and balls (I tried to keep a straight face, really I did), strap-on cocks, how bio cocks malfunction, oral fixation, flogging, single-tail whips …

Eileen mentioned that she particularly likes sex play that involves skill, and I have to borrow that from her and agree – skill is hot. Making difficult things look easy is hot. Single tail whips and play piercing are fucken hot. And did I mention that I’d like to be in a room with her again soon? Yes.

In other news:

Avah was adorible and makes lovely noises when tickled; Wendy has a seriously quick wit that included, “Casual sex?! What the fuck, as if the rest of my sex life has a top hat and tails?”

Maymay and I discovered that we were apparently twins separated at birth – well, in the ways that we like women, anyway. Tess was stunning and articulate; Susan and I had lots to talk about regarding anonymity and women bloggers; Selina did not disappoint in her nudist philosophies.

I caught up with the busy lives of Dacia and Rachel, two gals I’d really like to see more of – sounds like Dacia has some new projects and I am definitely submitting something to a new anthology of Rachel’s. Also, Rachel’s got a new Crossdressing Erotica blog and has some great things about gender bending and gender presentation. I’m reviewing her new book, Crossdressing Erotica one of these days (I swear).

It was a particular pleasure speaking to speak to Sissy Maid Stephanie, who talked a bit about cross-dressing in her (his? forgive me if I use a pronoun you don’t prefer) daily life, and I found myself particularly identified with that, as someone who wears men’s clothes, but clearly in a separate category than she is at the same time. I admire her, I’d like to talk to her more about that.

I didn’t get his name, but there was a guy there who was quite impressive with a flogger. Made me want to be his apprentice. I need to practice.

I didn’t have a chance to talk to Jefferson about his recent post on his ex and kids, but I’d hoped to – I emailed him to tell him I empathize. I did get to mention that we should make OLTT/WWJD shirts, and he said he’ll put me in charge of his merch. (Dude, I am a graphic designer, don’t forget I start cafepress stores for fun).

And just before I left, Chris and Mickey asked nicely to see my cock, so I unzipped and showed it off.

I’d brought it for the party, yes; but I’d also brought it for the date I was going to after, a particularly beautiful southern girl (not Belle) who was just in town for a day. But that is a different post.

Sometimes, like this weekend, I fucken love living in this city.

modified eros: erotic body modification art show

The ever-amazing Audacia Ray has curated an erotic body modification art show here in New York City, and while I missed the opening night (insert kick-me sign here), I can’t wait to see it.

There is also a play piercing workshop on the 28th of November done by the fabulous Lolita Wolf. Times like this, I am so grateful to be living in this city.

From Dacia’s website:

On November 9, 2007 erotic art and body modification meet in “Modified Eros,” a photographic celebration of bodies modified with tattooing, piercing, corsetry, and scarification. The show is curated by Audacia Ray, features photography from BellaVendetta.com, and runs through January 18, 2008 at Arena Studios, a non-traditional art venue, BDSM play space, and organizer of the Black & Blue Ball, located at 407 Broome Street, Suite 7A.

Some of the photographs in the show have previously appeared on Bella Vendetta’s eponymous website, where she showcases the erotic fantasies of people whose imaginations run on the taboo side. The pieces in the show represent not just the photographers’, but also the models’ predilections. “It’s hard to get a gallery to show images like this because they don’t see body modification as an art form and they don’t think of modified people’s bodies as beautiful,” says Ms. Vendetta.

Audacia Ray, who has curated $pread magazine’s “Sex Worker Visions” shows for the past two years, says, “The photographs I’ve selected for this show invite people to appreciate the erotic beauty of body modification, though some images, like photographs of suspension, blood play, and genital modifications, will make folks squirm a little too.”

During the run of the show, Arena Studios welcomes the public to view the art daily by making an appointment by phone at 212.889.1591 or via email: info[at]arenanyc[dot]com. Arena will also host an evening with Lolita Wolf, a BDSM player, educator, and TES Emeritus Board Member, who will present a hands-on workshop on play piercing in the gallery on Wednesday, November 28th from 7 to 9 pm. The workshop costs $25 to attend and will arm attendees with knowledge about tools, supplies, safety, technique, preparation and aftercare.

Inquiries about the art should be directed to Audacia Ray by email at dacia[at]wakingvixen[dot]com or phone at 718.554.1714.

anonymity and a writer’s life

Funny how once one thing changes, one big thing, it seems to cascade and everything else starts changing, too. Understandings of my relationships – from my close, intimate friendships (that’s what she said) to my casual sex (belle) to girls I may be potentially into, to my lovely exes – all seem to have taken a turn these past two weeks, and everything, everything feels different.

I am pretty sure, a week after I received the email from Callie threatening to sue me, that she does not actually read Sugarbutch. Unfortunately, my stat counter only gives me the IP addresses for the last 100 visitors, so I can’t really tell if she’s been here or not.

Any suggestions for counters that will give me better stats? I’d appreciate it! Also, while I’m asking for reader favors, how do I get her IP address from her email? I have a guess at what it is, but I’d like to know for sure.

My therapist said something this week about ‘a writer’s life’ – you know, how we writers, well, we write about those around us. That’s just something that happens. Writer’s families (chosen and blood) can feel thwarted because of it, can feel frustrated because they aren’t necessarily chosing to have the details of their lives exposed. But there is beauty in having your life written about, witnessed, observed, too. And Callie certainly loved it while we were together.

And, ya know, that’s just one of the things about dating me, and sleeping with me, is that I’m probably going to write about it. This is something I have struggled with a lot, so it does feel like a new place for me, to simply say, yeah, I’m a writer, that’s part of the deal.

I want to be sensitive about it, and if someone says, “please don’t write about me,” well, I will respect that. But I guess in order for someone to say that, I’m going to have to reveal that I write about those things in the first place, which I haven’t really done in the past, in the history of Sugarbutch so far, so perhaps I need to start doing that. I will have to think on that more.

I am making a formal study out of sex, gender, and relationships, as I’m newly single for practically the first time in my adult life. I am finding myself navigating new waters, new terms and ideas and intentions, and the way that I tend to make sense of that kind of thing is to read about it, find resources on it, and write about it.

A few people have emailed me recently and revealed that they discovered my real name – they were writing not only to let me know how easy it was to do that, but also saying that they felt a bit guilty for exposing me.

So, a few small things about that.

It’s really okay if you know who I am in real life. I talk openly and honestly about my life and sex and gender to many, many people, friends and strangers alike, and I don’t really want to hide the work I do with sex & sexuality. I admire Dacia and Rachel and others who do this work under their real names for just that reason.

For now, my name is too exposing. It is unique, and brings up a lot of my history with a simple web search. And I do write and publish erotica under that name, I just don’t want my intimate, personal sex life exposed to my current lover, my fourth-grade teacher, my mom, or the girl I’m about to go on a date with, or just met at a party.

So, if you do know who I am, please, just keep it to yourself, and keep it separate from any discussion about Sinclair and Sugarbutch. If you feel like you need to confess that you found me, I will gladly hear your confession, email it on. Actually, it might be useful to me to know how you found me, since I’m trying to erradicate those links to my ‘real name.’

What I’m trying to say is: I am a writer, I write confessionally, I write about my life and friends and community, to make sense of things, to share, to entertain, to create connection and revolution and activism. And that’s just one of the costs. I can’t be sued because I gave an interview talking about my sex life. Well, I don’t know, honestly I wouldn’t put it past her to try. But it’s already taken down, she has no reason to pursue that suit. I’m not particularly worried that she will.

It feels good to make sense of things, in those tiny moments when suddenly those missing pieces fall into place and the picture, my life, becomes clearer.

a few recommendations

Well, it’s Saturday morning, and I am partaking in my recent Saturday morning ritual, which includes listening to Dan Savage’s Podcast of his sex advice column “Savage Love” while doing some cleaning.I just gotta plug it for a minute here. Dan is fucken rad. Gay guy, he & his boyfriend of thirteen years have a kid together, he’s out of Seattle and has been doing this Savage Love advice column for a long time – ten years? More? Not sure exactly. He is also occasionally offensive, misogynistic, trans- and bi- and lesbian-insulting – so don’t go into it expecting some PC kindness. Today, he said, for example, to a lesbian: “when you have your arm up her pussy, or when you’re pressing her face into your pussy, or whatever it is you lesbians do in bed, I’ve never been able to figure it out … ” (come on, Dan, really? You can’t figure out what lesbians do in bed? Go watch The Crash Pad or the Crash Pad Series or Sugar High Glitter City or Coming Home or ANYTHING from the lesbian category over on Blowfish and figure it out) and then he went on to discuss Patrick Califia, though made comments about the trendiness of lesbians becoming FtMs (“but I’m not going to go there, because I don’t want my house burned down” … um, you already said it) and proceeded to refer to Patrick with female pronouns – while recommending his books, which I also recommend: Doing it for Daddy and Macho Sluts.

And on the podcast, a lesbian called in asking for some advice about dirty talk in bed, and said that her girlfriend liked to be called humiliating names – and the example she gave? Are you ready for this?

“Cunt-hungry cum dumpster.”

I shit you not. That is amazing. I mean I really don’t think that would turn me on, but hey, YKIOK (your kink is okay … another Dan Savage acronym, like GGG, that I picked up years ago), and I have to admire the boldness and the turn of language that it involves! Wow.

In other news, if you didn’t catch the political (sex) role play video that was going around, check that out too. I’d embedd the youtube version, but it cuts off the last line, and that line is really worth it.

Femme as a Trans Identity

Wish I could embedd this video, but it appears to be disabled – nevertheless, watch the FtF: Female to Femme trailer over on youtube. It’s from last year, and I’ve seen it around before, but wanted to highlight it for this femme discussion I’ve been having lately.Among others, I noticed Jewelle Gomez and Bitch as some of the ones interviewed. The website is over at AltCinema, and has some information about screenings and distribution. I missed it, unfortunately; I definitely want to see it.

I’ve been thinking about femme as a trans identity lately, and there’s some interesting stuff to hypothesize about. Clearly you could argue “butch” goes outside the prescribed gender roles, therefore transitioning between the usual “feminine female” and “masculine male” identities. But femme flies under the radar, sometimes, because of the ways it appears to go along with gender roles – “feminine female.” But there is one key big thing missing in this gender makeup, and that is sexual orientation – and honestly that’s a big piece (the only piece? the central piece?) of what differentiates femme from straightgirl.

This gets into the ways that femininity is compulsory and prescribed specifically for heterosexual purposes. And once a girl comes out as queer/lesbian/dyke, those rules for “getting a man” no longer apply, right?

Along with the rejection of heterosexuality, current lesbians culture tends to reject femininity as well, at least in the mainstream/sterotype. That is why shaving one’s head or at least cutting one’s hair very, very short is a particular rite of passage for most queer girls.

So, adding femininity back to a non-heterosexual female-bodied person, means something completely different. It is an adoption of gender, a serious transition into something new and intentional.

I’ll have more to say on this later …

And because I couldn’t provide you the embedded version of the FtF trailer, here is another one of my favorites from sophisticated sex comics The Wet Spots. Enjoy!

even more raunchy than expected

Wow. Sometimes I see lists like this – some of my more interesting search engine keywords – and I realize that this writing project (ugh, blog) is a whole lot more raunchy than I think it is. Interesting, how people have been finding me.

tomboy butch
transmen with a pussy
girl next door short skirt please ride straddle
jenny library suck and fuck
hot fuck
sexblog
sexy butch fucking a femme
cunt spreader
sucking her wet dripping lips
my fingers on her cunt
slut judges at cock contest
your tiny cock
i fuck him with a vixskin dick
working on the ass and the thighs
how to do fisting
butch cock fisting
forty or older lesbian dominatrix
girl with cock in her hand

Traffic has been increasing around this place every month, which is amazing. I hope all you folks who find me via search engine are getting what you came for!

A few people mentioned to me recently that they are too shy to comment publicly, so I want to assure any/everybody that you are welcome to email, if you’d like to further the dialogue. I love the conversation that happens with this site, that’s a huge part of the point: aspiringstud(at)gmail.com.

And, if there’s anything that you’d really like to see here, particular things that you love or hate, topics you want me to expound upon, features I should add, ideas for another contest I should run, I’d love to know that too.

Her Mouth on My Cock

Madeline was the very first Sugarbutch Star, I could argue, when she made a lovely appearance in the post let go, just let go in October 2006. This honorable mention submission comes from her.

Her Mouth on My Cock

That’s all I really wanted, all night long, in those moments when we touched fingertips and knees sitting next to each other, the one time when I took her slender body into the circle of my arms and wrapped around her, cock tight against her and she could feel it, surely she could, moved her thigh against me and pulled her face away from the nuzzle of the nape of my neck to give me those eyes, those eyes, those pretty eyes and my hand at the back of her neck where her hair is short and thin, delicate, dancing when she shakes her head or laughs which of course she does all night, mouth wide and open, lips pulled over teeth and oh I want to remember what that feels like, a girl on her knees, this girl, this girl on her knees in front of me with that tongue, that suckling throat of hers and she is so good at it, she has turned cocksucking into an art and somehow mine seems that much more real when a girl like this, a girl like her, who treats it as real, she doesn’t care it is silicone, doesn’t care I can’t really feel it, not really, because she knows how I can feel it in my mind, knows that I know how it feels behind her teeth and it’s Debbie Does Dallas and Deep Throat as if her g-spot is at the roof of her mouth, as if she can actually orgasm from my cock, my blue plastic cock, in just the right spot and she’s moaning, god, she’s moaning and her vocal chords vibrate and I can feel it all the way through to my clit and the slick lips of my own cunt, buried, burrowed for a moment underneath this, this way my sex becomes outside my body, this way I become exposed and vulnerable and tender, revealing something of me, unpacking it all, taking it outside and asking to be seen, to be looked at, asking her to acknowledge my inability to do this for myself, to really have this body, to have this real cock, I am without, am not enough on my own, but I want to be this so badly I can create it in my mind, I can create it on my body, I can move within genders and beyond my own birth-assigned limitations to explore whatever it is I want to feel, and right now I want to feel my cock down her throat, I want to come in her mouth and feel her suck me dry, feel her suck the juice from me, shoot into her open throat and she takes me deeper, all the way to the base and her hands on my hips and ass to steady us both and I can barely stand up, my knees are buckling, hips bucking, she’s looking up at me with those eyes again, those eyes, those pretty eyes, and I can hear her plead let go, let go like I’ve heard her say before, and she’s so good at this, so fucking good, that I do, I do, I thrust against her, inside her, within her, and I am shriveled, rendered useless, spent.

I whimper; whisper, Madeline, Madeline, Madeline, again and again, and she wraps her arms around me, says shhh into the nape of my neck, and holds me close.

The Gender Code

I’ve been reading up on gender recently, especially the “gender spectrum” (which, of course, implies a linear and hierarchical classification) and the recently introduced term “gender galaxy.” I graduated from college in 2005, but I am still apparently not up on the theory that is still unfolding and progressing – which makes me wish I was in school, actually.I keep reading articles about the sex-gender distinction and the ways it is disempowering, about gender binaries, gender definitions, gender this, gender that, gender flavors of ice cream. Lord! There’s a lot going on with this gender stuff, I miss studying it within a community and formally. I guess that’s part of the purpose of this project, now isn’t it?

All this is to say, these articles keep saying how useless the gender binary – the categories of male/female or man/woman – is, and that incombination with a disruption of the sex/gender distinction got me thinking: what would it look like if we no longer had these systems in place? Could we classify 6 or 8 or 12 genders instead? Could we categories people without that distinction at all?

I wonder what some sort of Gender Code would look like, something like the late-90s Geek Code (or one of its many spinoffs). Categories would include bodily adornment with makeup and nail polish, body modification with tattoos and piercings, footwear choice, hair – both hair length and body hair, physical features like breasts (including options for falsies) and cocks (ditto), hormones perhaps (as if that is easy to measure), accessories, preferred pronouns … what else? What other things are included in one’s gender?

So I’d end up with a code like this:

G++v^c+d++m–j*t+x-e++

And that would be my gender.

Hmmmm. I’m just playing with this idea really, I’m don’t think I’d propose something like that. I mean, what use would it really have?

But I still kinda like the idea, in a way. I like the “secret code” part of it, that you have to either be very familiar with the symbols, or you have to stick it into a decoder. If I had all sorts of extra time to make a form that would generate a Gender Code, I would make one, just for fun.

Review: Chemistry 3 (DVD)

Chemistry, Volume Three
Directed by Tristan Taormino
Produced by: Smart Ass Productions and Vivid EntertainmentIt’s hard to review porn, because what turns me on visually and what turns you on visually may be very different things. So while I could go on and on about how hot the brunette – Roxy Hart – and her scenes were, you may not think so at all, and might prefer the petite blonde and the way she would perch on a guy’s lap, feet tucked under her, when straddling him.

So, instead of speaking to the contents of the sex scenes – of which there are many – nine – over three hours – I’ll speak to what makes this porn flick different and worthwhile.

Honestly? It’s the plot. There is no ridiculous plot in this film. And as much of a turn-on occasionally role playing can be, I can’t stand those dumb porn plots that attempt to give context to a sex scene. Just come the fuck on, already.

So the premise here is that these six porn stars are thrown together in a house by Tristan Taormino (who I happen to be seriously crushed out on, both herself and the incredible work she does), who then films them – as they also film each other – doing whatever they’d like. Hell, they are professionals: they know how to fuck, and clearly it is a good time to see them going at it, getting into it.

The other piece of the film that is unique and notable is the confessional interviews, where each person speaks to some question about their experience in the industry, doing scenes with people you click or don’t click with, what scenes are fun, what scenes are lousy. It’s a job – and it’s got it perks and downfalls like any other.

I especially enjoyed these segments. I like to know a person, know the context of someone’s desires, as well as to know what’s behind things, and how things work.

I was skeptical when turning on this film because I’m queer, and though I do like watching women in porn, I tend to not like the mainstream porn – even “lesbian” porn – because it usually seems less than authentic. And then there’s the whole penis thing in hetero porn – I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get past that, but really the chemistry and play is so present in these scenes, that it was really easy to get into.

Well worth watching.

Alright, I can’t not say it: the first sex scene between Roxy and Derrek – when they are so hot for each other that they practically lunge at each other out of desire, and the chemistry is through the roof – that scene is seriously hot. There is choking, smacking around, some pain, some mild domination & submission. I’d re-watch that – I have since, and will again.

a star on my wrist

Last week, as I mentioned, Belle got two new tattoos, small ribbons tied in bows over her hip bones. I’ve been feeling particularly inspired to get my own tattoos lately as well, my first choice would be to get the flock of birds I’ve been wanting for almost two years now, but since that is probably going to be more expensive than I’m able to do at the moment, I may settle on a small star on the inside of my right wrist.

I’ve even attempted to make consultation appointments for these two tattoos, to try to figure out how expensive they’d be and how long they’d take, but I haven’t been able to find The Right Artist yet.

So when I saw Belle’s new tattoos, and heard that the guy in Williamsburg is quite reasonably priced, I was practically ready to get tattooed the next day.

Of course, I am not really that impulsive. And I decided it was more important to pay bills (and go on a date on Saturday) than to get a tattoo. But I am really ready for it, for both of them, and I’ve really got the bug for some new body modification, something to mark this huge transitional space that I’ve been in for the last year.

I told Belle about this star tattoo and she got all excited, and has wanted some star tattoos of her own. And yesterday, she got them done: five small stars at the top of each of her breasts, basically under her bra strap. They look incredible.

More about that later.

The star on the wrist has been something I’ve wanted for a while, more than two years, but I’ve been hesitant because I often get comments about how generic that is, how common, and wouldn’t I want something a little more unique. Which has given me great pause in the past.

But upon thinking about it for the last few days, I’ve decided that that is entirely the point: this tattoo symbolizes a connection to the lesbian – and, specifically, butch/femme – communities and history, and I like that being stamped that way is specifically about my placement within and conmnection to that community.

It’s hard to find many resources about this star on the wrist as a symbol of butch or queer identity, but there is a particular passage in a book Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold which I do recommend:

During [the 1940s and 1950s], the cultural push to be identified as lesbians – or at least different – all the time was so powerful that it generated a new form of identification among the tough bar lesbians: a star tattoo on the top of the wrist, which was usually covered by a watch. … The community views the tattoo as a definite mark of identification … the Buffalo police knew [that] the people that had the stars on their wrist were lesbians and they had their names and so forth. That it was an identity thing with the gay community, with the lesbian community. … The stars presage the methods of identity created by gay liberation. In fact, the mark has become something of a tradition in local circles and has seen a revival since the 1970s.

From “Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community” by Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy and Madeilne D. Davis, © 1993, p189.

I think I cut out the part where they talk about it being a blue star, but I tend to hear that associated with this legend. I also hear there was a group of women suffragists that called themselves the Blue Star Cadets in around 1920.Mine, though, I’m not sure if I want it blue. I’m not sure I want something so obvious on my wrist. And after I saw this image of white stars on the wrists over on Flickr, I was totally sold on the idea of doing it in white ink. I don’t want mine to be exactly like that – I want it smaller, probably solid white, and just one wrist. But I really love the way it looks. Almost like a scar. Perhaps a hint of blue would be nice, pay homage to those who came before me, my history, my lineage, my inheretance.

this is how it goes

You think, I’m not ready for a relationship, not even an ongoing sexual one with clear emotional boundaries.

You think, there’s no way I can even adequately interact with other human beings intimately without causing or receiving some sort of heartache.

You think, I must be more restrictive and conscienscious of my interactions.

Then, someone comes along, someone unexpected maybe, and for a minute, an hour, four hours, over Thai food, over a bottle of Presecco, over take out from Song, over a walk on the promenade, over a tattoo, you remember that there is more to an interaction than simply confusion and ache, and sometimes you can hold small shards of yourself up to someone else’s light and discover a shade of yourself that you’d never really seen until someone else was there to provide illumination.

the morning after

I had a date last night, which went quite well really; we had fabulous conversation over dinner, then made our way over to the Brooklyn promenade that overlooks the shimmering buildings in downtown Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty, the Verrazano bridge, and the Manhattan bridge.It was quite a view. I hadn’t been over there before. She wore these really cute shoes with straps that tied.

I was going on about topping, and the ways that feminism – and a general respect for other people – makes me hesitant to get involved in some particular sex play, like humiliation and name calling, and that I would actually like to push myself as a top and play with those things, but that it’d have to be with the right person, someone who wanted to specifically explore those things, not just as passing take-it-or-leave-it but really want it. I’d like to push myself as a top, I think was my point.

And that was when she gave me those eyes. You know the ones.

We had a fantastic first kiss, full of restraint and passion and air and deliberate hesitation, a slow building, perfect timing for going deeper, a little more crushing tender against teeth.

So, yeah, the date went well. Trouble is, I’m not particularly interested in purusing more with her – partly because she’s not what I’m looking for (I could go into detail here, but it’s not terribly relevant), and partly this is because I suspect that she likes me already, and is interested in pursuing things, maybe even in a relationship.

And I just can’t do that.

That sounds so predictable, so playboy, so “aspiring stud” of me, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t expect any less of this persona of mine, this Sinclair characature of myself, she should be the player, the heartbreaker, the one who takes girls home on the first date and has sex all night only to cut things off the morning after, right?

But that’s not me, that’s never been me. I’m not even sure how I got to this place sometimes, and I don’t want to continue to do this. What do we really get out of it, either of us? Sex, I suppose, which hey, that can be very important. But this day-after agony is not worth it. I’m too overly conscienscious of hurting her feelings.

And this is why I really shouldn’t be dating right now, at all.

I’m still just barely to the place where I’m pursuing dating. There have been some opportunities, and I haven’t turned those down … but it’s just starting to occur to me that I probably should be.

I said recently to Bee, my sister and roommate, that if I came across somebody that I really felt connected to, who I could potentially have a relationship with, I’m not even sure what I would do – I’d sabotage it, maybe, or I’d run the other way, or I just wouldn’t even recognize that that was possible with her right now, because I don’t want it. Everything in me says you’re not ready.

Do I wish I was ready? Yes. Am I working on becoming ready? Yes. Am I ready now? No.

And this, coupled with the difficulties I’ve had lately communicating with even my closest friends, let alone a random date, has made it clear to me that I’m in no place to even date. Hell, I am barely in a place where I can interact successfully with anyone else, it feels. Forget the extra added complication of emotion.

She didn’t stay over last night, though it was a struggle for me to ask her to go. How do you do that and not sound like an asshole? Eventually, I guess I had to not care that I sounded like an asshole. And I’m going to have to not care about that again today when I contact her to say that I had fun, but that we won’t be doing that again.

Lord. There is just no easy way to say it. There is no easy way to reject someone. Okay, so it’s not easy, fine: what is the kind way? What is the ‘right’ way?

I have one more date on Tuesday, and I have a sex date (much less complicated) with Belle today. I am tempted to cancel Tuesday’s date because really, why am I going? What do I hope to get out of it? I don’t want a relationship, not dates or sex or another person in my life.

This girl on the date last night, she is a lovely woman. Gorgeous and fun and smart, good in bed, and she has perhaps the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, a green-gold shade that with her dark hair is just stunning. I had fun.

Why don’t I just stop doing this altogether, before somebody really gets hurt, instead.

post-script on what I’m calling things

PS: Omphaloskepsis means “the contemplation of one’s navel.” Also known as navel-gazing, or an inward gaze, or self-examination. One source even says “an idiom usually meaning complacent self-absorbtion.”

It’s kind of a joke: look how self-absorbed I am, that I write about myself and my process all the time.

There have been a few questions. Just thought I’d clear that up.

what I’m calling things now

I’ve been doing some maintance & upkeep to the labels here at Sugarbutch, if perhaps you noticed. I don’t think the labels actually get used all that often by visitors – let me know if you disagree, will ya? – and some of them were basically duplicates, so my aim was to simplify the categories into which I’m writing.

I’d still like to pare it down more, actually, but I’m beginning to obsess over systems of classification and organization, so this is good for now.

There are a few changes you should know about, though. First of all, the Sugarbutch stars – the girls I’ve dated, not the contest – have their own categories now (in order of appearance): The Ex, Callie, Joy, Belle. Under those labels you should now find a chronology of our relationship. And aspiring stud is now the label with posts about dating.

What we call ourselves is the new category for all sorts of things about gender, identity, and labels.

Gatherings covers both parties and workshops.

Colophon is the general term for anything Sugarbutch admin-related, a catch-all for these “about this site” updates that I do occasionally (but I know you’d rather read about sex, so I don’t do them all that often).

The label for stories to turn you on should be somewhat self-explanitory, but I want to also mention that these stories are the posts that I consider to be the most polished, to be stand-alone pieces about a particular sexual interaction or play. If you are new here, or if you’re just looking for some good butch/femme queer smut, start here.

Omphaloskepsis is the catch-all label for my general occasionally eloquent musings, processing, and rantings, primarily about myself and my relationships.

I’ve left most of the sex & kink labels in place, partially because they’re fun and partially because I want to keep filling up those categories more intentionally.

In going over all of these old posts, I found a few of my favorite old writings that I thought I might briefly plug.

In June of this year, I wrote out some details on my relationship history while musing about the tattoo that I want.

And in February of this year, I gathered a list of role playing scenarios, many of which I never got to act out, but which will hopefully, in the future, serve as good inspiration for more stories and scenes.

And as hard as it was to read, this time that Callie and I had sex was probably my very favorite, and it was kind of nice to remember, just for a second, how lovely it used to be.

Motivations behind my butch identity development process

Yes, it’s true, I said “how do I get THAT kind of girl?” when looking at the femmes, and have studied the butches that they have been with. But it’s much more than that. Here’s some of the other reasons.

  1. I hated shopping until I discovered the men’s department. The clothes actually fit the way my body is built – my broad shoulders, for example. I could never find something simple, plain, butch enough in the girls’ section, even when I was a kid I hated the back-to-school shopping because I hated the way my body looked and felt in the girly clothes.

  2. Chivalry: a big piece of butch identity, for me, is chivalry, and the ways that I get to spoil femmes – and other butches, straight women, gay boys, and, hell, straight men – by opening doors, pulling chairs out, helping to put on a jacket, stepping aside. This trait makes sense for the ways that I navigate the world, as a particularly strong observer. Could I be a chivalrous femme (or genderqueer or androgyne)? Absolutely, and I know a few gals who identify as such. But for me, the combination of the masculine presentation and chivalry is explosive, and particularly comfortable. I love the sweetness that comes from chivalry and the hardness that comes from the masculinity.

  3. I love the butch accessories: big ol’ belt buckles, leather bracelets, motorcycle boots, wingtip shoes, golf umbrellas, flasks, cufflinks, vests, suits, ties. Ohh the ties. They make sense to me – I know how to put it together, and I not only have confidence that it actually does look good, looking this way also feeds into my confidence.

  4. Contradiction: I find contradiction particularly sexy. I wonder if that has influenced my combination of female-bodied with masculine/butch stuff. I like that it doesn’t necessarily go together, I like that it is inherently subversive because it disrupts the sex/gender paradigm.

  5. Femininity never came easily to me. Yes, I wore skirts and dresses, but I never felt comfortable, solid, capable. I have wondered if this is because that was primarily the time when I was an adolescent and young adult – doesn’t everyone feel that way during this time? I guess I don’t know. All I know is, though femininity never came easily, masculinity has felt like slipping into a second skin, and has felt more comfortable – and more vulnerable – then any feminine expression ever did.

  6. The cock. I’ve been asked by two different places recently to write about my relationship to my cock, so iI’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. This is absolutely a major piece of my butch identity. But let me clarify: though my butchness is somewhat dependant on my cock, I don’t think the cock is dependant on being butch. And, would I still be butch if I could never – for whatever reason – use a cock anymore? Yep. No question. So, more on my cock relationship soon.

  7. I love that it is subversive to be a butch woman in this time and place and culture. I think it’s important to support all sorts of gender expressions, no matter what the biological sex of the person is, but that is actually still a radical act. Also, it is in vogue to reject labels (“they’re so limiting,” “I’m just me,” etc) in the dyke/queer communities, and if I can speak intelligently and clearly about the reasons behind my choices, I may be able to pave the way for someone else to exercise his or her or hir preference to dress or act the way he or she or ze wants, someday, in the future.

  8. Identity politics, though controversial and arguably outdated and problematic, and gender theory, are fucken hot. They challenge, excite, give language to concepts that are incredibly difficult to articulate, and are, ultimately, a sort of poetry for the inner self. I just love all parts of it.

  9. It’s hard to describe, but I just make more sense this way. I don’t know why it took until I was twenty to come to my butch identity, and why for others it happens from the time they’re toddlers. I just know that from the time I started understanding what who butches are, and what they (we) looked like, and what this identity meant, I was fascinated, and coveted that presentation. I was scared of it all, too, and stared open-eyed at any butch walking by, wishing I looked like that. I wasn’t sure I could ever really be that myself – but I was definitely going to try. And I did. And here I am.

There are more reasons to my being butch than simply gaining the attention of femmes who, I have come to realize, are where my primary compass of attraction points. It’s more internal than that, too – it has to do with the way that I move through the world, my actions on the sidewalk, on the subway, in the elevator, at the restaurant. And it has to do with activism, and social change, and smashing the gender binary, and human evolution, and trans politics, and even fucken revolution.

If Mick Jagger was a literary, 30-something woman

Speaking of places where Sugarbutch was mentioned, Susan Mernit called me “The Toppe” in her BlogHer Sex Bloggers 101 article:

Another New Yorker, this lesbian feminist writer/sex educator has so much heart — and the daring and passion to make her chronicles very, very interesting. If Mick Jagger was a literary, 30-something woman, instead of whatever he’s become, Sinclair might be the one to get those comparisons — judging by this blog’s good ideas and juicy stories, she’s a rockstar.

Well, thank you! I might quote you on that, Susan, if I may. (Susan & I haven’t actually met, but I hear tell that we are going to be in the same place at the same time sometime next month. Can’t wait.)It’s a little weird to be described as a “lesbian feminist” since that calls to mind a very particular time and ideology. Of course, I identify as feminist – and I wouldn’t disagree with someone calling me lesbian, but I don’t tend to use that term to describe myself. It feels almost clinical – like vagina instead of cunt.

Funny, how much those lables mean, and how much variation there can be within the smallest changes in terms.

Also, for the record, I’m still 20-something for a few more years.