Archive for April, 2009

Answers to some questions

April 30, 2009  |  advice  |  2 Comments

Do you have a top five list of toys/accessories that you love and recommend?

People’s sexualities are so different, so what’s best for me might not be best for you, so this isn’t so much what I recommend as it is my personal favorites. My top 5 desert island toys – meaning the ones I would absolutely have to have if I was stuck on a desert island – are:

  • Hitachi – the lesbian grandmother of all vibrators. Because hey, if I’m going to have a vibrator, it may as well be the best. We’ll just have to pretend my desert island has power outlets.
  • Silky aka Mr Bendy – best & only cock on the market that you can pack with, then fuck with. Not sterilizable (always use a condom). A little small for hours & hours of fucking, though, so I need an upgrade.
  • Vixskin Maverick aka Rodeo Rick – The upgrade. This might be the most perfect cock ever made. (I do wish it had balls though … I think that’s the Bandit? But balls sometimes create distance between harness strap and my clit, which would make it harder for me to get off.) Silicone, realistic, excellent size.
  • Spartacus harness – my current favorite. Simple, versatile, comfortable. I removed one of the two straps to make it a one-strap instead (which makes it easier for me to get off).
  • Maximus lube – because my sex life is so cock-centric, and because I like to go for hours, lube is a necessity. Regardless of how wet she gets and stays, I use it, if only because then I won’t have to wonder or worry if she’s getting dryer. Maximus is thick, stays slick, comes in a pump bottle, is kind of gel-like and won’t slide around your hand while I’m getting it from the bottle to my cock.

Aside from the Hitachi (and the lube), those are toys for partner sex; so I’d also add one bonus, which would be a very hard, g-spot curved insertable, either glass or metal (Pure Wand, maybe – I’d put the Pure Wand on there in a second, except I don’t actually own one).

Why do you list fingernails as a ‘turn off’ for you?

Perhaps I should explain, so thanks for asking. I like painted fingernails, I like the classics (of course) of red and pink and French tips. I love them femme-length, as short as they can be and a little squared off. I like how it enhances someone’s hands, so delicate and feminine. The part I don’t like is if they’re long. I don’t like scratching, I can’t stand it when someone taps their nails on a desk or counter, that tick-tick-tick sound makes me cringe. Maybe it’s from being in New York City where everyone’s are fake and thick and long, or maybe it’s just too much of a straight association.

How, exactly, do you determine what makes a bathroom in a bar “fuckable”?

  • Privacy of stalls – are they ceiling-to-floor? Huge gaps under the door? Short doors that a tall person could see over?
  • Strength of walls in the stalls – are they all hinged to each other in one unit, or are they individual? Would they shake if you knocked into them?
  • Size of the stalls – are they wide enough for two people to stand comfortably side-by-side, or is it hard to walk past each other and open the door?
  • General ambiance – is it harsh bright florescent lights, or recessed lighting? Are the stalls plastic, or hardwood? Is there some particular accents of decor, or is it as plain as a public park bathroom?
  • Cleanliness – in general, how is it kept?
  • Whether or not it’s monitored – some (many) gay boy bar bathrooms have signs – “one at a time ONLY” – or people who will actually knock if you manage to slip a 2nd person past them.

Personally, I like the bathrooms that are clean, with some slightly unusual ambiance, good lighting, nice décor, wide stalls so I can navigate, privacy … but others might prefer it to be more seedy, hinges loose and grubby floors, perhaps the naughtiness of the dirty scene would be their preference.

While I’m at it, here’s three amazing bathrooms to fuck in New York City:

  1. Therapy, gay boy bar in midtown east. Hands down the best bar bathrooms I’ve ever fucked in. gay boy bar, fantastic décor, good drinks, great snacks. If you date me, I will probably fuck you here at some point. Tricky to get past the bathroom guards, but it’s possible.
  2. Song, thai restaurant in Brooklyn. Not always super clean (especially during dinner, they are very busy) but the restaurant is incredibly loud and the bathrooms are shadowy and kind of swanky.
  3. Whiskeytown, east village. Straight bar, not my favorite clientele, but fantastic drinks. Bathrooms are private with the sink outside, good lighting.

Got any other recommendations?

Have you ever entertained the possibility of breathplay? (I’m NOT talking autoasphyxia, but the choking/restraining your loved one kind of breathplay.)

Sure. I don’t have much experience with it, which is why I have never written about it in my fiction. I’ve never come across a lover who said she was interested in playing with it, and as a top it seems like the kind of thing that I wouldn’t necessarily impose on someone else, since it isn’t an act that is ‘for me’ the same way other toppy things are (fucking, cocksucking). I’ve noticed that Kristen often holds her breath while she’s about to come, though, so maybe eventually we’ll get to more breathplay between us – but she doesn’t seem into it when we’ve seen it in porn we’ve watched. So, it’s not something I would probably seek out without someone else being into it, but I’m GGG, if it came up and someone was interested I would give it a try.

Since 2003, have you ever heard anyone utter the words, “Do you…(fill in the blank)?” and not thought of Cher? If so, how is this possible?

Maybe not “Do you…”, but “Do you believe in … “ yes certainly, the only way to end that sentence is “life after love.” And, not that you asked, but yes, I do believe in life after love.

Happy 3rd Anniversary, Sugarbutch

April 29, 2009  |  miscellany  |  20 Comments

three

It was three years ago today that I started Sugarbutch Chronicles, my latest in personal online writing explorations (aka “blogs”) since 1996. Since then, I’ve written 713 posts and received 6,149 comments in 36 categories (with 1,622 tags, which are mostly for fun and not for organization). I’ve met so many amazing folks who are pursuing sexuality and queer identity through feminist, progressive lenses.

And I’ve had the best sex of my life.

Thank you, everyone, for being a part of this. For reading, for commenting, for sending emails and being supportive.

Last year on the 2nd anniversary, I reflected on some of where I’ve been and how this site started (lesbian bed death! hiss!). Instead of reiterating, I want to skip to the ask me anything portion of the anniversary celebration and say: got a question for me? Ask me anything. You can ask me anything you want, from the personal to the professional to the philosophical and anything else you can think of. I can’t claim to have expert answers on anything, but I’ll do my best, and will profess ignorance when applicable.

I probably won’t answer all the questions just purely based on time (you’d rather I was writing smut, wouldn’t you?) but I’ll answer as many as I can.

Aaaaaand … go!

Sugarbutch Star: Matt (part 2)

April 29, 2009  |  dirty stories  |  18 Comments

When we last left our hero, she was checking her fly in a library after a femme got off right in front of her. “That should’ve been the end of that. / But ten minutes later, picking up take-out extra-hot red curry at my favorite Thai place, I hear behind me: “Well, well.”" Catch up on Part One if you need a refresher.

I turn. It’s her. Of course it’s her. How did we end up at the same place? She’s three inches shorter than me and wearing heels. Her cheeks are flushed from the chilly weather and I notice her lipstick, remember watching her redden her mouth. Does she know I watched her? Does she know me? Did she see me that whole time?

She’s looking at me, but she can’t be. I don’t know her. I glance to my left and right and nearly do that stupid pointing to my chest and mouthing me? when she giggles a little, and takes a step toward me, outstretches her hand. “I’m Juliet.”

I clear my throat and take her hand. “Sinclair.” I try not to look flustered.

“I usually do this kind of thing in the other order, but hey, I give you points for originality,” Juliet says, eyes shining, and shimmies by me to the counter to pay for her take-out and mine, leaving me aghast. I recover a moment too slowly and say, “No, please, let me …” fumbling with my wallet, but she’s waving her hand at me dismissively and shoots me a look over her shoulder that says back the fuck off, I got this and I do.

I’d planned on taking my curry home but she carts our two trays to an empty table and sets them both down, gets up to fetch silverware, and glances at me expectantly. I can’t find my voice and sit across from her, stunned, as she folds her napkin in her lap, arranges her food, and takes a few bites.

“So what’re your books for? For fun? Or are you doing research?” She reaches for her water and shoots me a smile.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. She’s so damn articulate, and speaks quickly, boldly, which catches me off guard. I pick up my fork and mix my curry and rice on my plate – not really date food, so strong and long-lasting in the body, but – is this exactly a date? Not really. I still can’t form the words to answer her question. What was her question again? I take a bite of the red curry and it explodes in my mouth: at first it’s just hot but then the subtle layers of the curry hit my palette and I taste sweet coconut milk, basil, bay leaves. Strong and bold. My lips tingle with the heat of the spice. I take a sip of water and look up at Juliet; she’s chewing slowly, waiting for me to say something. I swallow.

“I was looking for evidence of butch/femme roles in antiquity cultures,” I start, finally comprehending what she’d asked me.

She nods, takes another bite of her curry, green, and listens as I tell the story of the play I saw a few months back, the Oedipus Cycle in full, and how it struck me that women’s roles may have varied more than represented in the typical Greek canonical texts. I’m not an antiquity scholar – at all – but I do study gender, so I got inspired to re-read some of the most famous works with an eye toward gender theory.

We chat on and on. The conversation is fantastic; a perfect combination of asking questions, answering, and listening to each other. She is new to New York and moved her to be with a girl; the move promptly broke them up. Meanwhile she’s working in a bank, she wants to go to business school, she loves Thai food, she’s 28, born and raised in Minneapolis.

She starts to tell me her femme story as I am finishing my curry. My mouth is aflame and this is the best conversation I’ve had in months, I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to be charmed by a pretty girl’s first date version of her life story, such a fascinating character study falls into place.

We’re done eating, but she’s still telling her femme story. It’s like a coming out story – we all have one, we all have the struggle to understand and then the eventual development and acceptance of our own sexual and gender orientations. I’m actively listening, watching her eyes dance, watching her lips and teeth, her hands as she illustrates her points with gesticulation.

She takes her lipstick out of her bag and uncaps it, twists it up and paints her mouth subtly, softly. A gesture I remember well and which stirs something in me.

I take advantage of her momentary pause in the story. I want to hear more about her life. I lean in toward her on my elbows and catch her eye, give her a hard stare. “Can I walk you home?”

She stops, considers, and puts her lipstick away. “That’d be great,” she says, holding my gaze a moment longer, then begins to gather her things. “Now? Shall we?”

I nod, stand and put on my coat, grab my satchel, clear off our plastic trays and take-out containers. Not exactly a smooth date … but the sight of those thin white cotton panties under her grey skirt keeps flashing in my mind and I want to feel her, want to fuck her, want my hands under her skirt, up her thighs, on her tits.

Her apartment, it turns out, is not far from my favorite curry place. We walk the few long blocks slowly, strolling, savoring each other’s company. She takes my elbow, submissive, but leads the way, keeping close to me with an occasional dip of her head into my neck and shoulder as she keeps telling the story of herself, sweet, so sweet, and unselfconscious.

At her stoop we’re still talking. I’m opening up a little about my gender, my history, my character. I’m in storytelling mode, all melodrama and timing, and she’s watching my face, sitting on her very New York stoop as I have one foot up on the low stair, telling her how I came to be where I’m at. Her eyes are sparkling, hands together in her lap.

We laugh. It’s one of those perfect conversations where I’m charming with awkward real moments without trying. I don’t want this date to end.

Neither does she. “Coming up?” she asks, as if we’re already lovers, standing and slowly stepping up the stairs, looking back over her shoulder as she opens her purse for keys.

I grin, and follow her in.

The moment she closes the door behind me she gives me a look that tells me exactly what I need to know: she’s done chatting. I take my jacket off and she steps next to me to take it, then tosses it onto the hallway chair and presses me swiftly against the wall, her arms next to my head.

I smile, hands reflexively going to her hips. “Oh, is that what you think.” It’s not a question. We haven’t even kissed yet. Our mouths are nearly touching. She grinds up against me, my thighs between hers, and I can tell she knows I’m packing.

“Who packs to the library?” she asks, softly, in my ear, hot breath on my neck.

I shrug, a little sheepish, exposed. “Me,” I say, and get a grip around her waist to quickly switch places with her, press her up against the wall, and lower my mouth onto hers.

The first kiss: oh it gives away so much. The way she tastes, the way she sounds when she breathes, whether she keeps her eyes open, what sounds she makes, whether she claws at me with her hands or wraps her legs around me or feather-touches my face. All the senses activated, heightened. Such sensation. Plus: the power she keeps is all revealed. Will she let me take, let me lead, let me control? Give over her strength while she begs and submits?

Juliet’s kisses are insistent, fierce, fiery. I let her lead a while and get a sense of her style, then stop her quick to push my thighs between hers and press my forearm to her breastbone against the wall. She nearly growls, lets out a low hummed breath, and allows herself to be restrained, enjoys the feeling of restriction.

“When did you know I was packing?” I say, my mouth close to hers.

“When you walked through the reference section.”

I consider the timeline: before I hit Classics. Just after I walked in. She brings her mouth to mine and lets me work through this in my mind. That means she followed me to Classics. That means she put on that little show on purpose. Does she know I saw her? Probably. I grin, amused. If she didn’t know I was there, she secretly hoped I was.

I’ll take it either way.

She watches my face as I work through this and knows she’s been found out, knows I saw her. She waits for me to get it, then a smirky little self-satisfied smile plays over her lips, like something is very funny, like the joke’s on me, and I get the strong urge to slap her, bring my palm to her cheek fast and wipe that smirk from her face, watch her gasp and look back to me wide-eyed.

I don’t. I don’t even know her, I wouldn’t want to be rude. But when I do know her, I will, and she’ll like it.

“Really.” I say, chewing my tongue and decidedly not slapping her. “So that little show you put on – ”

“Oh, you mean with the … lipstick?” She takes one of my hands in both of hers and brings my index finger to her mouth, making an O of her perfect lips and sliding it in. I feel the soft soft smoothness of her inner lips, the rough scrape of her teeth, the sweetness of her tongue, warm, damp, and then I feel her suck and my eyes roll back in my head.

I groan, audibly (dammit). Goddamn.

She smiles with my fingertip between her teeth, closes her lips, and sucks deep again. She knows now: knows how to have me if she decides she wants to. Knows I like my dick sucked, I’m that kind of guy, knows she can make me weak and take me down with the sweet spot on her tongue.

I can’t really take it; I grab her hair. Hard, harder than I mean to but she’s got me all worked up already, and I bring my mouth to hers, forceful, and her lips are so supple, sweet, mouth in that tiny O, she lets out the softest muffled gasp and melts a little against the wall, against me.

Read More

Bruises

April 28, 2009  |  journal entries  |  6 Comments

bruise

From both this weekend and last.
Isn’t she good for sending me photos this time?
I think she’ll be rewarded for that, later.

Femmethology Reading on Wednesday in NYC

April 27, 2009  |  miscellany  |  No Comments

mainfemmecover1

Come join us at the book release party in NYC!

Visible: A Femmethology
New York City Release!
April 29th, 7pm
Bluestockings, 172 Allen St. in the Lower East Side

Featuring contributors: Ryn Hodes, Sinclair Sexsmith, Sassafras Lowrey, Cameron Whitley, Leslie Freeman, J.C. Yu, Hadassah Hill, & Miel Rose

Visible: A Femmethology is a two-volume anthology edited by Jennifer Clare Burke and published by Homofactus Press of personal essays from over fifty contributors who explore what it means to be a queer femme. Award winning authors, spoken-word artists, and totally new voices come together to challenge conventional ideas of how disability, class, nationality, race, aesthetics, sexual orientation, gender identity, and body type intersect with each contributor’s concrete notion of femmedom.

Not in New York City? Check the Femmethology events page to see if there’s a release party in your area. They’ll be in Vermont, Vancouver BC, Atlanta, & more!

For every girl, there is a boy …

April 27, 2009  |  essays  |  6 Comments

I don’t remember why, but at some point this weekend I thought, “I should find that Gender Subversion poster and put it on Sugarbutch.” Probably to talk about the difference between gender and personality, which I’ve been kicking around in my head lately (i.e., well: they are not the same).

And then, while catching up on my reader today, there it was, on Fourth Wave Feminism.

crimethink

Buy this poster on Crimeth Inc. & support their wonderful work.

Bare legs.

April 24, 2009  |  miscellany  |  2 Comments

zofia

Being out of the country was a good excuse to send a (very) late birthday photo. And of course, the bare legs help make up for it, too. Mmmmmm.

The only thing she wore …

April 24, 2009  |  miscellany  |  2 Comments

roxy

“There’s something about hotel rooms that make even the sweetest pair of shoes seem just a bit naughty.” – Roxy

Happy Anniversary, Tristan! (and butt plug review)

April 23, 2009  |  reviews  |  1 Comment

Really, this is a review of the Tristan butt plug for one of my favorite sex toy stores, but it’s also a shout-out to Tristan Taormino, who designed said butt plug, in celebration of her tenth anniversary in the biz. Babeland’s running a special sale on some of her goodies – get ‘em while they’re cheap!

Tristan Taormino is the acclaimed female director of sex-positive adult DVDs, award-winning author of how-to sex books, editrix of erotica, and designer of her own butt plug. To celebrate her 10th anniversary in the biz, we are introducing her new Anniversary Edition Plug (solo or in a Combo), plus her Expert Guide DVDs are on sale for 15% off.

tristan_packs_a_punchI’ve known about Tristan’s work for a long time. Even before I was out, I scoured the Best Lesbian Erotica series (I read 1998′s so many times that it practically crumbled in my hand and I had to replace it) and pored over her Village Voice sex advice column, Pucker Up (if you missed it, pick up her book True Lust which is a compilation of some of her best). I’ve had the privilege of working with Tristan in a rather minor way, as I’ve been published in three different Best Lesbian Erotica books that she has edited, and I’ve had the chance to chat with her (briefly!) at release readings. I’ve been so excited to have even a small part in the BLE books – to help contribute to the same series that helped me mold and shape my lesbian identity feels like coming full circle, which is such an honor and humbling.

Lately, though, Taormino has not just been writing – she’s been directing porn, too. Mainstream porn, one would probably call it, as it features some well-known porn stars and most of the content is straight. While I do wish more queers were making good queer porn, I’m also glad that there’s straight porn being made by queer folks – maybe some of our radical sexualities can seep in when they least expect it, muahahaha.

I have a copy of her Expert Guide to Cunnilingus, but I’ll be honest, I’ve never watched it. Anybody out there seen it? Maybe I should dust it off and see how it is.

Have you seen any of the Chemistry series of DVDs that Taormino has done? I’ve seen a few – I don’t usually care for straight porn, but I really did enjoy watching the interviews with the porn stars (no really!) about their experience in the industry. Honestly, it was Roxy in Chemistry 3 that sold me – I even looked up some of her other work after seeing her in this one, she was just so damn hot and cute.

And I have yet to see a better blowjob scene than the one in the beginning of Chemistry 3 with Derrick. I mean, yes, Dylan Ryan is quite impressive, don’t get me wrong, and a queer femme with a butch cock in her mouth wins, hands down – but, wow. Roxy, and her tongue. Wow.

But wait – this isn’t about blow jobs. This is about butt sex! Tristan used to be referred to constantly as the “anal queen,” ’cause she was all about the ass. I remember her saying something like, I know my asshole so well, I can shave it perfectly smooth without a mirror. Now that’s impressive.

tt-anniversaryI like ass-sex as much as the next guy, but honestly I don’t have as much experience with it as I do with other things (fingers, dick, mouth, fist). Nevertheless, I’ve always wanted to get my hands on the custom-designed butt-plug that Tristan created a few years back. It’s been on various sex toy wishlists of mine for literally years now.

And for this Tristan Taormino anniversary sale, Babeland’s got a special Anniversary Edition of the plug.

But wait! What could they possibly do to improve the famous Tristan butt plug? … Make it bigger, of course! The first edition of the plug is 3 1/4″ x 1 1/2″, and the Anniversary Edition is 3″ x 1-3/4″. Just a little more squat and stout, perfect.

The Tristan butt plug is uniquely designed with two things, in my opinion: one, the insertable part is kind of long, but more bulbous than most butt plugs, which means it stays in place better; and two, the base is narrow and rectangular, which means it kind of fits between your ass-cheeks easier. Brilliant!

To be totally honest, I haven’t used it yet. It’s a little … gulp … large. But I’ll be sure to report back when I do.

It is 100% high-quality silicone, which means it can be easily boiled. I know you’re dying to get your ass around one of these; high-tail to Babeland and pick it up – there’s even a special Anniversary Plug & Expert Guide Combo. Seriously, all of Tristan’s stuff is on sale – there’s got to be something in there that would be a great addition to your own collection.

Bet you didn’t even know that this woman is your hot queer sex mentor, but she is.

Sublimation

April 20, 2009  |  dirty stories  |  3 Comments

It was the build-up and release from this weekend that has stuck with me well into today’s Monday afternoon.

The way we rock together, slow and sweet, the way the friction between us builds and rises like waves, then cresting and crashing, leaving a perfectly smooth beach full of tiny worlds in its wake.

How I can feel it swell palpably between us. Sometimes it is something I can touch so easily that I feel I can cradle it in my hand, mold it into something new.

And it builds. Oh god it builds. Clinging to each other and we both start holding our breath, crying out, at the same moment, precise sounds from our throats in ecstacy and pleasure, pushing all the way to the edges of our bodies, into each other’s.

Two moments:

The quiet build before she began thrashing under me, arms spread wide like wings, grasping at the edges of the bed, mouth open throat open chest open, until her back curled and she cried ohhh god with such purity that I still feel her syllables reverberating in my chest every time I think of it.

And then coming. Inside her, again on top. (I could have her any way I want and that’s what I want: her legs wrapped around my waist, my hands gripping her shoulders, so close to her, so I can feel her mouth.) I loose track of how many times she’s come, can feel myself getting close and shift positions. She can tell I’m close when I start moving my hips like this, faster I think, maybe more shallow but still intense, precise. I’m still not exactly sure what I do to make it happen, but it’s starting to get easier. Every weekend now, though not every day. Challenging when I can start to tell that she’s paying attention and thinks I’m close, I get self-conscious, but when I can tell what she’s feeling and how much she likes what I’m doing and that she’s lost in it all, I can let go too, and that’s what happened on Saturday, she started coming, again, crying out, oh I love the way she sounds, and it was enough, just enough, just what I needed to tip me over the edge and I felt it hit my clit, shake through my pelvis in waves, tumbling through me, through both of us, each time I slid in again, and again, she felt it too, I could feel the pulse of it between us, pure energy, unblocked and unhindered, just flowing, sweeping, rippling, with uninterrupted ease.