The hair [on the picture in my profile] is a bit longer now by an inch maybe, you can get a good grip around it. Perhaps long enough to forcefully push a girl to her knees and shove a cock in her mouth?

And this:

Politics… don’t get me started. Of all kinds. Gender politics alone I wrote a whole thesis on in college. I developed an identity model and everything.

You sound VERY ideal for me. And slow is very good. I want nothing serious right now or any time soon. And to be perfectly honest I don’t really want a relationship right now in the traditional sense of the word. I don’t want to be emotionally invested in that way. Girls get very clingy and then it’s all a mess. I need space and time and I’m not emotionally available. So if you want to explore being a top then you have found a good match in me because I have quite a good skill set there.

“P.S.: I got off three times last night, thinking of you. The last time so hard my toes curled.”Ahem.

Good goddamn.

(… In case it’s not clear, that’s how Joy signed an email to me earlier this week. Oh lord this girl is sexy. And bold. I do like that, despite my big ol’ top self. ‘Cause really? I’m mostly just a top in the bedroom.)

The date for Saturday is on. After I realized last week that I would like to pursue some sort of relationship with Joy (although just typing that made my stomach flip a little, and not so much in the good way - note to self, keep this casual), I emailed her, and just got in by the skin of my teeth.

“I was going to give you until the bite marks on my breasts faded,” she wrote. “They are just now yellowing.”

I felt bad - I knew I should’ve emailed, knew she was probably wondering why I wasn’t. Perhaps I am thinking too highly of myself here, but it’s not about that, it’s about the courtesy of communication after a date, after an interaction, an exchange. Slightly related, my coworker - the young, nosy one who thinks my being a lesbian is “totally awesome” - thinks one should never apologize to a woman. Uh huh. I disagree. I am totally willing to own my shit. It was kind of assholish of me not to email, and I said I was sorry. Then I laid forth the proposition: “how about Saturday? I make a good brunch, omelet, home fries, pancakes. I’m trying to entice you. if pressed, however, I’d say that I’d rather have something light in the morning, get to your place around eleven, spend much of the day in bed with you, and eat a late-ish brunch when we are finally too famished to keep fucking.”

I was forgiven. “Oh it’s fine! I was teasing!” she wrote. Sure. She asked me what she should have on hand, and I have yet to answer that request (though I have actually responded to other things). I’m not sure. I don’t want her to feed me, I’ll be coming over early-ish on Saturday - around 11 - so I probably won’t request drinks. The only thing appropriate for a Saturday morning is a mimosa anyway, and that’s just too much sweetness and not enough booze for me anyway.

So, what should I ask her for, then? To be laid out in fuck-me heels and lingerie, all her toys lined up on her dresser, waiting for me to pick one? Tell her to wear a robe and nothing else, and to be ready for me to fuck her against the wall the minute I walk through the door?

Yeah, I think that’s what I want here: sex, and not much else. For sex, I will trek to Queens, for sex I will give up my lazy Saturday morning. But for chatting and hand-holding I will not give up precious time with my favorite people, who will be hanging, no doubt, preparing for the Modest Mouse concert on Saturday night. I would rather be there. I hope to join them in the afternoon - 4? - though we haven’t planned this yet.

I haven’t been able to write much lately. I took a long weekend over Labor Day, had five days off, which meant work was slammed last week and this week. I was quite productive in my days off, however; I even succeeded in taking my refrigerator apart and changing which side the door hinged in order to fit a new table into the kitchen. For which I had to discover star-shaped screwdrivers. [No, not a Phillips, a star. C'mon people, I know what a Phillips head screwdriver is. I even own four or five different sizes. And a drill. A drill! With drill bits!]

Hey, once you have the right tool, the job is pretty damn simple.

I did not, however, succeed in killing the cockroach my sister discovered in our apartment. I should perhaps be grateful that this is only the fourth one I’ve seen, but they seem to be getting more frequent. I am not pleased with this.

I’m still thinking a lot about topping/bottoming, kink vs preference, the BDSM checklist I dug out of my archives, and emasculation, among other things. August was an incredibly successful month for Sugarbutch and I fully plan to keep it up.

Don’t worry, ladies. I stay hard all night.

I know I owe you some Sugarbutch Star stories, too. They are in progress. Seems all my projects are two-thirds finished, which is frustrating. I am working on it.

I am not creating much right now. Rather, I’m back in observer mode, taking everything in, collecting and gathering and bringing everything back into my cave and notebook and journal and head where I am processing and sorting and categorizing and organizing into little bite-sized complete comprehensive bits of information and knowledge and, maybe somewhere in there, truth. This is a tedious process, as you may imagine.

But, thankfully, I am aided by the right tools. I am, as of yesterday, in possession of a new (to me) laptop, a teeny tiny little suave silver guy that I am seriously crushing on, currently called V. As in, I’m going to take V to get some coffee. No, sorry, I can’t, I have a date with V. I’d love to, but V is so demanding, I can’t get away. So much thanks goes out to my semi-anonymous (I’ll ask her how publicly I can thank her) donor, and I’m serious. To her, this may’ve been an extra little bit of hardware, but to me, it’s made a really big difference.

Oh, yeah, I had a date last Tuesday. A week ago now.I showed up, six-pack in hand, at her apartment on Tuesday night. She answered the door in a black tanktop and tiny skirt, very short, kind of an army-green color, which was quite lovely for her light blonde hair and fair skin. Bare legs, bare feet. Have I mentioned this girl is beautiful? Fantastic legs. Wonderfully curvy body, still toned and slender but not very angular. Soft, still strong.

She made chili, and cornbread, which was more savory than sweet, and delicious. We ate, chatted on the couch about our days, drank a few beers. I said a few stupid things and noticed myself getting more & more flustered and un-suave. She tucked her feet up onto the couch and fingered the hair on her neck. Sexy.

We were talking about our days at work, and I said a couple things (that I won’t relay here) that made me sound kinda like an idiot, which I immediately regretted. I attempted to shift the conversation to something better, namely, sex, dating, and being picked up by her.

She said something about being silly or bold or drunk enough to pick someone (me) up in a bar and make them take her home with them, at which point I said, “well, clearly, I wasn’t going to do it,” which … uh, oops … as soon as it came out of my mouth, I realized it sounds not at all as I meant. What I meant was, I didn’t have the guts to attempt to fuck her. It barely even occured to me that it was a possibility, she seems out of my league.

And it was supposed to be funny, like, god, it was so clear and exasperating to her that I wasn’t going to be The Butch in the situation and make a move toward the physical, so she had to do it, but that’s not at all how it sounded. It sounded like, pshaw, I wasn’t going to pick you up, so you were gonna have to throw yourself at me. Guh.

But in this moment, my head just prickled and tied itself in knots and I realized what I’d said and tried to cover my face and my embarrassment with my hand while grinning like an idiot, stupid me, god, what the fuck. She says, “Oh, yeah, well, that cute smile is buying you some time, but you better come up with somethin’ good to say,” at which point I stumbled, said something about her being out of my league, until she was nodding, saying “uh-huh, sure,” and I gave up trying to explain and shifted my body wait above her, and said, “Alright, shit. I’m going to kiss you now.”

“About time,” she muttered, and we kissed. She is a good at kissing. Soft, smooth, slow, sensual. Simple, even, though not in a way where anything’s missing. Just - clear.

It didn’t take long for us to both realize it was clear we wanted to, and were going to, fuck. We moved to the bed. She altered the lighting and the music to set the mood. I tore her shirt off. Tore her skirt off to find a dark pink satin thong.

She doesn’t let me stay clothed. As soon as her clothes start coming off, she starts on mine. It’s okay, but I’m not used to it. With previous lovers, unless I took my clothes off, often they didn’t even come off. (This is, perhaps, an indication of topping tendencies?) I don’t mind being naked, really, though, so it’s not a big deal. It just puts me in a slightly more vulnerable position than I am used to, from the beginning.

Clothes get strewn. I’m touching her, fingers inside her, kissing, holding her down on the bed, taking more control than I have in our past encounters. Perhaps I need a lot of explicit permission to let my toppiness come out. “Don’t hold my wrists,” she whispers. “Hold my hands instead.” No problem.

Eventually, we break apart, she goes to the bathroom, I get up to get my cock out of my bag. “The good news is,” I say when she gets back, “I brought my bigger cock. The bad news is, I brought the wrong harness, so I can’t strap it on.”

She shrugs, eyes my cock, slides her slender fingers around it. “I have a harness.”

She opens the bottom drawer of her bureau and rustles around. Toys and equipment go flying as she searches for her harness: vibrators, attachments, little bundles of rope, cocks, feather ticklers.

I laugh. “I guess that answers the kink question.”

“What kink question?”

“You know. The Kink Question.”

“Ah. Yes.”

She found the harness. I strapped on. It’s still a little uncomfortable to have something that large dangling from my clit & hips. I get shy, embarrassed at the way I love its weight between my legs.

Lube and fingers and she was wanting, took that big cock all the way. I loved the way she gasped under me, the way her legs gripped my waist. Scratched at my shoulderblades and gasped in my ear.

I fucked her, hard, like this, for a while. Quite close to coming, myself, when we paused again, caught our breath, heads together on the pillow.

I said, “So tell me about sex, Joy,” and we talked. I asked her about kink. Likes, dislikes? At the top of my list, which I relayed, are spanking, rope bondage, and flogging. She got shy.

I said, “My sister would laugh so hard at me right now. Look, I’ve got this gorgeous girl, in bed, naked, next to me, and I’m saying ‘let’s talk.’ Sometimes I am such a capital-L Lesbian.”

She got more comfortable. Said she has four hard no’s: bestiality, children, human waste, and extreme pain/humiliation. She’s willing to explore most everything else. I am pretty much with her there, although there is a bit of a blurry line there for me with some age role-play (dangerous, to me, but can be cathartic and hot), and pain. I like pain. I would like to play with that more. So, we talked about that a bit.

Later, we talked about kink again. What’s the difference between kink and preference? I’m not sure I have an answer to that, I’m still kicking that idea around.

She brought up topping & bottoming, or maybe I did, to say I was sorry to have decided she was a top so vehemently. “It bugged me for a couple days,” she admitted, “but then I realized that I didn’t really even know what you meant, and if I didn’t really know what it was, but somebody else recognized me as such, that meant I could be doing it wrong.”

Ahh yes, I do understand that feeling. But certainly I shouldn’t impose my judgements about identity on anyone else, & I said so. I tried my best to describe what I mean using the terms “topping” and “bottoming,” but they’re really hard to define. (Post on that to come.)

These conversations interspersed in our sex play were quite short, really, generally during which I would keep my hand on her body somewhere, or she would keep her hand on mine, and when she gave me a bit more of a reaction with her body I would increase pressure, frequency, and build the energy again until starting to fuck her again.

I like the way she comes. On her back, fingers flicking over her clit for a while, swirling, she likes the figure 8s, increasing pressure, until she gasps, eyes roll back, hands grip my arm and her body contracts and releases until she opens her eyes and demands fuck me, now, hard and I do, fingers inside her, more, more fingers, two, three, harder, and that ring of PC muscles grip my fingers hard and she groans, cries out, whimpers into quietness. After, I hold her. Sometimes we find I’ve opened something gaping in her and she gets tender, sore, exposed, and I cover her body with mine, sew it up with my fingers on her skin, until she’s contained again.

I like her in these moments. This is perhaps why I am a top. I adore seeing women - especially powerful, put-together, coiffed, impenetratable femmes - in this state. I love creating it, causing it, contributing to it, holding her through it. I love the breakdown behind her eyes, the way her voice changes, softens. I love when she cries after she comes.

I cut her off twice after that, times when she began touching my hips or stomach, making moves to get me off again. I was satisfied. I didn’t want more. It was hard to ask her not to, but it’s what I wanted. I could’ve kept fucking her, though; that, I am not tired of.

Joy asked me to stay the night, I declined. She walked me to the subway, said it was hard to see me go. It was sweet, but I was - and am - worried that she wants more than sex from me. We haven’t quite had that conversation yet, it is definitely on the agenda for our date on Saturday.

Oh good goddammit.I just realized that, though I brought my large (huge, giant) cock with me for the date tonight, I brought the wrong harness. (See this old post about my new toys for the specifics of what I’m talking about. Sidenote: looking through those old posts, with all the details about me & Callie, makes me nauseous.) The harness I brought (my favorite one, not in that old post) does not have an adjustable O-ring, and the O-ring is too small for my buddy Rodeo.

Dammit.

It also occured to me as I was writing that post that I don’t actually want to enter a relationship with Joy, even a sexual/friendship relationship. I feel to some degree obligated to take advantage of a sexual opportunity when I have it, probably because I was in a sexless marriage (can you say “lesbian bed death”?) for so long. And also because, you know, maybe I’ll never have the chance to have sex again!

I know, it’s rediculous. I am learning this. It will take some re-learning.

But: I’m not sure Joy “does it” for me. I don’t even know how to articulate it, as she’s gorgeous and hot, good in bed, intelligent, et cetera, et cetera, but there’s something blocked in me that just does not want to open up this kind of connection - with her? or at all? I’m not sure.

I’m not sure where that leads me on the date tonight. Maybe I don’t want to encourage a relationship. Maybe my approach should be different. I don’t know what I want.

PS: I know I’m overdue for a Sugarbutch Star story. They are in progress, coming soon. They’re good ones, too, promise.

I have a date with Joy tonight. The exchange went like this:Subject: if I may be so bold

Sinclair to Joy

morning, gorgeous. … what does your tuesday night look like? … that’s tomorrow, I realize. if I may be so bold, I might invite myself to your place with a six-pack. perhaps get some take-out? I think I may want to bring along a different cock, too.

Joy to Sinclair

Hiya, handsome - [...] Six-pack and takeout sounds marvelous. Or, I can cook. Is there anything you don’t like/don’t eat? Do you eat fish, eggs, dairy?[...] And wow, that’s a tease. Now I’m going to spend between then and now wondering what constitutes “different”. Don’t tell me. More fun to guess …

Sinclair to Joy

it’s a date. what time will you be ready for me? [...] no need to cook - I can think of other things I’d rather you were doing with your hands. seriously. though you did say you enjoy cooking, so I won’t fight too hard if you would insist. I eat just about everything that isn’t meat or mushrooms… I do eat dairy & occasionally fish.

Joy to Sinclair

Working from home tomorrow, so just let me know when to be ready for you. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned. (Shameless!) [...] I’ll be scantily clad and cooking. Come prepared, and with an appetite.

Sinclair to Joy

damn. can’t wait. I’ll come right from work. you sure know how to whet a girl’s appetite.

Joy cooking dinner for me is a little more than I expected or wanted for our third (!) date, but I like the comfortability of being at her place, and the privacy. Here’s what I’m thinking:We’ve seen each other twice so far, and clearly would like to continue to do so. On my end, I don’t feel any pressure or heavy emotion, and I like that, I prefer to keep it in a more physical-friendship realm.

But, I did have a vision last night of having to say to her, “I like you, but I just can’t handle an intense emotional realtionship right now, blah blah blah …” and it makes me want to gag. Ugh. I do not want to have that conversation with somebody, so I need to be upfront about what is going on with me, and where I’m at, at the beginning. I could be wrong, but I think she’s on the same page as I am here. And if I am wrong, boy, I’d like to know now.

Also, clearly we are enjoying each other’s company. I think there’s more to explore sexually. So I am going to up the ante (as I’ve been saying) and attempt to have That Kink Conversation, asking her what she likes, what she’s into, what she’s never done, what she wants to do. I’m hoping that this will be a lead-in conversation to topping and bottoming, considering that a lot of kink activities usually involve some sort of trust and submission and dominance. At the top of my list of things I’d like to explore are flogging and rope bondage, so I will ask her about those.

Yes, I want a bottom. Yes, this will be a short-term thing with Joy. I am still unsure how much I want to invest with her, I want to lay out our interests on the table and look through them, see what we’re dealing with here.

Considering what we’ve already done - fisting, blow jobs, packing, strap-on sex - and we’re on the third date - I think she’ll be open and interested in the conversation, though whether her particular flavor of kink(s) matches mine. I have a feeling she hasn’t explored much, although that is purely based on that she hasn’t explored the butch/femme gender politics dynamic very elaborately, and yes I do know that those things are different.

Meanwhile, I packed my biggest cock to bring on the date tonight, and after work I’m picking up beer and heading to her place, prepared, and with an appetite.

“Oh fuck -
God - yes - fucking hell -
holy shit - oh god - god -
oh fuck - oh god - oh - yes -
fuck -
oh fuck -
god -
holy shit … “

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Mr. Sexsmith.”

Lately it seems I have had a lot of these moments when I get a screenshot of what I’m doing loaded in my head, and I think, holy shit. This is my life.Thursday night, it was that gorgeous blonde, on top of me, straddling my cock, grinding against me, hands in her hair, head turned to one side mouth open eyes shut, moaning, my hands on her hips - and I nearly laughed.

“You better not be laughing with a naked lady in the room,” she gave me a look like she was going to smack me, but her eyes were playful.

I tried to explain. This is my life, I said. I think she got it.

Friday, it was out with an amazing group of new friends, at a vegan cafe with prosecco, at a stunning concert with New York’s skyline in the background, then at the local watering hole (aka dyke bar) where I actually ran into people I know - that doesn’t ever happen to me! I was out on the town with (dare I name it) my community, sitting around a picnic table with cider and beer and bourbon, talking about sex and strapons and relationships and how to invite what you want into your life and topping and bottoming and delivering and love and romance and doting upon and, of course, gender …

It is the first time in a long time, probably many years, that I have heard last call at a bar. We were all so excited to be connecting, communicating friends that we didn’t want to leave.

Lucky for us, there is a rooftop barbeque already planned for this afternoon.

I gotta say, it is really fucken great to be me right now. And I am so, so grateful.

Subject: hi, this is me emailing you

day after. my impulse is to be poetic and make reference to the willow tree while walking home, the curve of your hip, the way our bodies fit against each other in quiet moments, the way you move, smell, taste.

but then that sounds all dramatic.

so I’ll just say, I had a great night with you. there is still more I want to know. let’s do it again.