My favorite part of last night was the way she said please. Please, please, like a whisper, or a prayer.At the bar, she told me was disappointed I hadn’t emailed her back.
“Ah,” I said. I didn’t have a good excuse. But when I discovered she’d be at this party I made note, and made sure to be there.
“I kind of want to go talk to her,” I told my friend, who I’d arrived with.
“Do it, chickenshit,” she said, “just go do it, no big deal … ” and proceeded to say something else supportive, made to boost me up, but I got distracted: she walked up to me, put her hand on my arm, and said, “Sorry to interrupt …” Oh no, no problem. We were only talking about how I should go talk to you, anyway.
I told her I’d Googled her after we met. She was embarrassed. She had Googled me as well, made a reference to the video of my spoken word she’d found.
I told her I’d been up to my knees in gender theory this week, trying to uncover and then articulate the reasons why butch and femme were subversive. I asked if she identified as femme - I would put her in that vague category, red strappy sandles, silver hoop earrings, but I know some people hate being categorized.
“I suppose I look femme,” she said, “but I don’t think I really act femme, and I certainly don’t fuck like a femme.”
We got interrupted, but I wanted to ask her what she meant. Or rather, I didn’t want her to tell me, I wanted to find out. I took it to mean that she’s not a “pillow queen,” which most would say derogatorily when referencing a femme in the bedroom. And that is a moment where butch/femme is operating under the assumption as a reproduction of the heteronormative paradigm, and not necessarily a re-visioning of the compulsory gender hierarchy.
And this also reminds me of another point I haven’t yet discussed during this gender conversation - what I believe gender is and what kind of role it should play in my life. (More on both of these soon. There’s so much to say and explore about gender.)
Another friend of hers said she wasn’t so into gender. “I hate it when it takes girls like three hours to get ready,” she said. “I’d rather spend two and a half hours enjoying your company, and half an hour getting ready.”
“I can get that,” I said, “but I also want to acknowledge how much fucking effort it takes to be femme. It isn’t just roll-outta-bed, tussle-the-hair-with-product like it is for us” - I indicated myself and the friend - “it takes a lot more work. And I gatta say, I love what that work creates. It’s an art form, a creative expression. And, not to sound egotistical, but I also kind of see it as for me, something to get my attention, get me going, and I love that - love that I’m worth that effort.”
“Plus,” I added, “I can enjoy her company while she’s getting ready, can’t I?”
Clearly, this was the foreplay.
“So,” she said later, after we’d been sharing life stories, still drinking pints at the bar, “when are you going to kiss me?”
Then my hand on her cheek. Soft lips, and oh she tasted fantastic.
I felt oh so rude, having pretty much completely ditched my very good friend and a gaggle of other queer girls (some of whom I knew, and others of which seemed fantastic! I wanted to meet them, hand out, socialize! So easily distracted by the hot girl … ), but I didn’t let that stop me, and we took a cab to my house.
We were both tipsy. She looked at my bookcases, went through my iTunes (Animaniacs, Gretchen Wilson, Dolly Parton, Garrison Starr … and I discovered that my sexmix is seriously outdated. Seriously. I should’ve just put on Morphine. It was laughable, honestly). And then we were naked, in my bed.
“Lube?” she asked.
“I’ll get it … ”
“No, let me. Where?”
“In the toolbox, under the bed.”
“The toolbox. Of course.”
I leaned over to pull it out. She fisted me easily, though it was too much to sustain for very long. But oh it is sometimes so lovely to be filled, stretched.
Later, fingers not enough, I said: “Can I get my cock out yet?”
“Oh god yes. Please.” That please again. The way she whispers it. Makes my stomach contract as if punched.
I like the way she moved. The way her body curved, the way she wasn’t shy but would put herself where she wanted to be. I would probably call her more of a top, though we didn’t discuss those identities. And it made me realize - or perhaps remember - that I don’t really surrender well. My impulse is to take, to overpower, to do the throw-down. I have a harder time as the one being thrown down. Not sure why. There are certainly times that I can let go, give in, get fucked - but honestly, if I hadn’t made her come yet, I feel distracted by the want of that, the desire to do so.
Given the option of me getting off and not her, or her getting off and not me, I would be much more satisfied with the latter. I get such satisfaction out of making girls come.
It was hard to get her off. “We’ve learned a valuable lesson about alcohol,” she said. “Four beers is too many?” I asked. “Four beers was what it took for me to ask you to take me home,” she answered, “so it was necessary.”
[Another tangent: I actually find that I rarely get off - or get her off - the first time I'm with a girl. There's a learning curve to discovering her body and what she likes. Which is yet another reason why I'm not so good at one-night stands, I like to build that understanding, that communication, between our bodies.]
Pillow talk consisted of our favorite books. The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russel, Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and Crush by Richard Siken, I said. I talked about sci-fi and fantasy, her genres. What I liked and disliked. She said she had one in particular I needed to read. This means I just may see her again.
I walked her to the subway at two am to wait with her because I knew it’d be a while before the train came. As we walked, I switched sides with her so her heels wouldn’t get caught in the sidewalk subway grate, and it was a beautiful little gender dance, gender connection, my brief protection of the ways she presents her sexuality and desire through her gender.
I really love those moments. Gender is such a sex toy.
