Posts Tagged ‘accessories’
It’s true, today’s my birthday. I’ve turned 29.
So I’ve got a little birthday request. If you feel so inspired, take a nice shot of your lovely strappy sandals and send them on to me with whatever birthday wishes on the image.
As much as I love this image of ribbon ties (man o man, they are my favorite kinds of shoes) above that I found on Flickr, it’ll be all the better when the legs are belonging to some fabulous queer femme. I can imagine them wrapped around my waist a little better that way, mmm …
Butches, bois, & other folks – I don’t mean to exclude you from the shoe fetish fun! Take a shot of your motorcycle boots, your Madden loafers, your favorite Birkinstocks, your cuff links, your tie – whatever you feel inspired to do. I guess it’s a call for accessory shots more than shoes.
Post ‘em on your own blog, or email them to me & I’ll round ‘em up and post ‘em here.
I don’t know why the wrapping around the leg and ankle heats me up so damn much … it just does. Delicious.
Donate to RAINN & let ‘em know I sent you – add “GBBMC2008: Mr. Sinclair Sexsmith” in the information box. (Why?)
For Datedyke, because she asked me for this story, with thanks for reading the early draft and commenting things like “Make my character more mean,” “Don’t say thank you,” and “Just take me down,” and for providing the details of her outfit, and picking out my tie. “Swift thrust of cock,” one of my very favorite lines, was written by DD, not me; and DD informs me that “Lea” is pronounced “Lee.”*
“Honey!” Lea calls from the bathroom while she’s doing her hair and makeup. “Which tie are you going to wear?”
I’m dressed, plain black slacks and a black button-down, sitting on her bed, fidgeting with three ties in my fist I know will fit her desired houseboy fare. I bring them to her, gaze at her in the mirror as she applies something to her eyes with a fine brush.
“Either this silver, or this dark purple, or the dark blue with the white dots?” I offer.
“No no. This one.” She turns around fast and points, chooses the silver, the one she bought for me over the holidays. I nod and set the other two on the counter, start to tie the silver one. She glances at me in the mirror, aware that I’m watching her, narrowing her eyes a little, then finishes with the brush, tosses it into her makeup case.
She’s a little annoyed. She doesn’t like it when I watch her get ready. “Hand me those earrings, will you?” I see small diamond studs on the counter and hand them over.
“Not those,” she says. She’s beginning to get stressed. Three of her closest friends will be here any minute. It is my first time as her houseboy for a group.
“Those,” she points again and I see favorite pair of gold hoops. Of course. They match the black heels with the gold trim that she has on with her cocktail dress.
I fetch the earrings and she fastens them to her ears. I attempt to kiss her shoulders, neck, slip my hands around her waist, touch the curves of her hips in her sleek black cocktail dress. She shrugs me off, turns around, kisses me swiftly, dismissively. “Darling,” she says, “You look great. Really. I’m excited for the party.” And then she’s gone, running downstairs to check on the kitchen, fuss over food and drinks.
I sigh at my reflection, take a breath. Check my eyebrows, my teeth, my perfectly messy hair. I’m nervous, but ready for this, excited to be shown off, a trophy boy, look at my tricks. I want to please her. I adjust the dimple in my tie and then my cock under my harness strap.
The Oscars start at four and her friends have one of those pools where they’ve all guessed the winners and someone wins the whole pot. Lea gives me significant glances when the doorbell rings and I take coats to the closet, take drink requests, and practice my sweet “hi, hello” submission as they come in the door. Her friends are dressed up: The Cuban Genius, BB, and the Butch Daddy.
BB giggles at my predicament and hugs me, eyes twinkling, flirtatious, amused. The Butch Daddy eyes me like we’re fags and she’s cruising. I feel myself stiffen and try to relax.
Lea shines, says hello, hugs and smiles and laughter and greetings. She is subtly maneuvering this whole interaction, sparkling in her element; her earrings catch the light, glitter, and her makeup is flawless, soft. Her dress flirts around her knees, off her shoulders.
I serve martinis and cosmos, smiling and making myself as unnoticeable as I can be while I watch her. My attention is tuned fully into her body language, her eye contact, her hands. Not only for her cues at service, but to see her, to observe, to take in. I admire her like this. That external expert persona of hers is so appealing, I see her through her friend’s eyes, strong, poised, capable. I am blessed to see the soft parts, too.
Conversation flows, they catch up on jobs, girlfriends, America’s Next Top Model, the weather for upcoming kayaking, hiking. I try to participate, but Lea keeps interrupting me with glances and gestures every time I sit.
“Boy! More wieners!” she calls while I’m in the kitchen fetching a glass of water for the Butch Daddy, and everyone laughs. She’s been waiting to use that command. I bring the next plate of cocktail wieners onto the coffee table with a bow and a smile, as if I’m in on the joke.
Lea brings one up to her lips and leaves it poised. “Mmm, I love wieners,” she says, winking dramatically. Everyone’s still giggling; BB is giving me suggestive glances, the Cuban Genius mimics Lea’s movement of a wiener to her mouth and gives it a mock blow job, eyes low, looking at the Butch Daddy. I blush and try to laugh, adjust my silver tie nervously.
Lea takes inventory of the living room. “Refill BB’s drink,” she whispers loudly, for everyone to hear, and I take BB’s glass. He gives me a smug flirty smile. I mix his martini like he said, three olives, and I am careful careful careful not to spill in the long walk from the kitchen to the couch, and hand it to BB.
“BB likes his martinis dirtier than that,” Lea hisses at me as I resume my perch on the edge of the chair. “Make it right next time.”
I look to Lea in a glance, apologetically and to see her face, to see what’s under these commands, pleasure or embarrassment, gratitude or heat, but she’s already engaged back in her conversation with the Cuban Genius, laughing about something, talking about someone whose name I don’t recognize, who is that, who are these people I don’t know? She feels me looking at her and glances at me briefly, and for just a fraction of a second I see her features soften with deep appreciation, lust, care.
Then it’s gone; her body languages changes and she holds her near-empty cosmo up at me. “You’ve got another one of these ready, right? I shouldn’t have to even be asking you.”
I duck my head, go back to the kitchen.
A few minutes later she’s calling me, but I don’t recognize the call of “boy” fast enough, don’t hear her for a moment too long. Finally she uses my name: “Sinclair!” And I look up, caught off guard.
She inclines her head quickly to mean, come here, with that look on her face of hard exasperation and displeasure. She’s sitting on the arm of her couch, it makes her feel taller, and I approach. “No, here,” she says as I stop, pointing at the space next to her.
“Take your cock out,” she says.
My Butch/Femme Holiday Gift List is getting out of control. I have four pages of notes in my journal, multiple notepad files with links and images. And I just can’t seem to polish it up enough to finish, and fuck, time is running out.
So, I’m going to pick five.
Gifts for the butch-leaning gal in your life:
|Engraved hidden message collar stays
From Red EnvelopeI’m always losing collar stays in the wash, and these are super sweet, with messages like “You’re so handsome.” Awww.
|Men’s accessories box
From Red EnvelopeBecause we still have watches, leather cuffs, chains, collar stays, rings, pocketwatches, cuff links … so of course, we must have somewhere fabulous to hold it all!
Red Envelope has many other excellent gifts, check em out.
|Ties that Don’t Suck – by Cyberoptix TieLab on EtsyThese ties are so badass. Some of them are kinda spendy, but they’re beautiful, and so high quality.
For someone slightly more punk rock, consider Tomcat Threads for some awesome one-of-a-kind vintage silkscreened ties. I have one of these with a microphone on it, and it’s my favorite tie of all.
Look for somewhat slim, skinny, narrow ties, especially for female-bodied folks who are slender. Cyberoptix has many options in the narrow-tie style.
Via AmazonHandblown glass remake of a classic whiskey tumbler. Perfect for other refined liquors, even if she’s not a bourbon/whiskey/scotch kinda guy. Also consider a flask – even better if it’s engraved with some memorable phrase or image she will love. I wouldn’t recommend something like “to my sweetie, love, me” – it’ll be much more timeless with a personal touch, but not a personalization.
|Tiffany Classic Money Clip
From Tiffany & CoEven if she’s more of a wallet kind of guy, a money clip is a good thing to have in the accessory box … and Tiffany’s engraves. Gorgeous, classic.
Also consider Cufflinks from Tiffany, there are some fantastic classic, plain, smooth sets that would be such a great gift.
Gifts for the femme-leaning gal in your life:
|Perfume BottleI wouldn’t really presume to buy her her favorite perfume, or a new perfume, unless she asks for it (or hints at it!) specifically, but antique perfume bottles are so beautiful on a dresser or vanity, and hold the scents that she picks out.||
|LingerieOh, I know. It’s a tough one. You gotta know her size, and have an idea of what she likes – and what you like. Browse around through Princess Tamtam and Agent Provocateur for inspiring ideas.
(Yes, that’s Maggie Gyllanhall over there, modeling Agent Provocateur lingerie. Many other photos of her at the site.)
|Shoes. Oh my god, shoes.Shoes are another tough one. I can recommend some good sites, but probably not specific shoes: the Red Door Store has a fantastic selection, as does Endless (and, as a sidenote, I really geek out on the navigation and interface for Endless. Gorgeous).
The Red Door Store has lingerie, costumes, and bondage gear, too …
|Vintage Brush & Hand Mirror setThese are kinda hard to find; I bought a set on eBay as a gift for the Unholy ex last year (you may remember that, if you’ve been around. I can’t find the post on it) and I thought it was a brilliant suggestion. The beauty of these items alone, even if they are not used or functional, is such a lovely addition to a vanity or dresser top.|
|JewelryMan, I feel like I’m going with very cliche femme gifts. Perfume, jewelry, shoes, lingerie? Really, Sinclair? Somebody help me out here, leave more suggestions in the comments, please. Good thing I don’t have anybody special to buy for this year.
Meanwhile: I adore this necklace from Janet Jewelry. You can customize some text to go onto it, or choose some excellent phrases that Janet has already made, like “The best revenge is living well” or “whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Super sexy.
|More Jewelry … rings, this timeRings are loaded, I know, but if you can go for it, these rings from Amy Peters Studio are amazing and lovely. I want a set for myself, someday.It’s a ring set, three rings with different words on each one: Believe Dream Hope Wish / In About For For / Peace Magic Love Happiness. So they make a little sentence as they rotate on your finger.||
I got some great comments from femmes about what they wanted for the holidays, so I’ll direct you over there for some more ideas. The iBuzz vibrator for two was suggested, and one last particular mention comes from a reader via email:
I am a submissive, by choice and nature. And though my butch is quite accomodating, there are some things I can’t even imagine her doing unless asked. Brushing my hair, painting my toenails, wearing a sleeveless tee, baggy jeans with a hint of boxers revealed, and Tims, donning toolbelt, hammering and drilling at my command, sweating and…wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. You get my point. In a nutshell, I want a day of servitude from my butch…anything I want for a whole day.
Sounds like a fabulous gift, to me.
Because I was showing off my tie tying skills, not only at the Pervert’s Saloon Tea Party today, but also at my office holiday party on Friday night, here is the video how-to of tying a tie in ten seconds.
I’m battling illness & going out of town again for the holiday, so I’m behind. More soon.
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.
Strappy sandals, roman sandals laced up the ankle, legwarmers, flowery skirts – the legs, the legs, the legs
The moments of subversion when I expect gender to be aligned with compulsory femininity, and I am surprised
Delicate jewelry, fingernail polish, pierced ears, garter belts, purses, glasses
The way she walks in high heels
The under-the-eyelashes fuck-me look
The feminine curves of cleavage and the clavicle
The struggles with not being visibly out, which also brings the privilege of hearing what people say when they don’t know someone queer is listening
Holding the door open, holding your umbrella, ordering for you, pulling out your chair, that moment when you take my arm, carrying your heavy burdons, cradling your delicacy …
The examination, overhaul, and eventual reclamation or rejection of “traditional femme hobbies”
When a boy actually turns you off … but I turn you on
I am visibly queer
I give visibility to femmes, which make both of our identities more subversive
It challenges the sex/gender assumption
Belts, suspenders, wingtip shoes, vests, motorcycle boots, leather bracelets, briefs, boxers, fedoras, ties
My cock collection
Moments of being “in” with the straight boys when they are able to have an open discussion with me about sex & gender
The way me and my gender make so much more sense when up against a femme and her gender
When gay boys or straight girls think I’m hot
The awkward greeting of “yes, sir?” at a restaurant/deli/library, only to be followed with “Uh, ma’am, uh, sorry, uh…”
[And one bonus reason:] Following in my mother’s footsteps and rejecting femininity, but for completely different reasons
It’s officially over, and I’ve got 42 submissions. I will be posting my top picks weekly through the beginning of September, and then I’ll open the polls for reader’s votes on your very favorite.Without further delay, here is the first Sugarbutch Star submission from Essin’ Em.
The Diner on the Corner
As soon as we walk into the diner on the corner, I visualize fucking Shanna on the counter. Or behind the counter, or against to the counter, hell, I don’t care – but I am certain the curve of the metal edge, the barstools, and that old-fashioned silver milkshake machine would go perfectly with her rockabilly-femme style.
This is our first date. She picked me up at the dyke bar last weekend while letting me think I was picking her up, and me being enamored with her immaculate femininity – the tattoos on her shoulders, the shade of the pink her nails were painted, the faint flowery scent I wanted to lean into her neck to inhale, the low-cut dress and perfectly curved cleavage, the vibrant hair with streaks of dark purple and red – I didn’t notice until halfway through the evening that, though I thought I was warming her up to ask for her number, she was secretly rolling her eyes, thinking, get on with it already. She had control of every detail, but let me think I did.
Tonight, I’ve picked everything out precisely. Black button-down shirt, my favorite sleek red tie, black slacks, solid black freshly-polished shiny wingtips. Plain, simple black fedora on top. Because it may rain tonight.
And because she likes them.
We meet at the movie theatre. She looks incredible: four-inch heels with small straps over the arch of her foot, a little buckle on the side; dark hair down over her shoulders and touching her neck; wearing stockings and a fifties dress that comes just above her knees, slightly flared and layered skirt, low-cut, again, showing off the lovely curves of her breasts. I don’t stare. Don’t stare, I tell myself. You’re being an asshole. I try not to stare. Talk to her face, not her tits.
“I like your … hat,” she giggles, dark eyes lowered, looking up at me through those lashes, slyly, shyly, from the side, that glance of submission.
I don’t blush, but my cheeks get a little warm. “Thanks.” I rarely wear hats. I love the way they look, love the tough butchness they play into, but I get self-conscious about what it’s doing to my perfectly messy hair – my singular vanity. As soon as we get to our seats, I balance the fedora on my knee and run my fingers through my hair to see how it’s holding up. (A little smashed. I try not to care.)
I don’t remember the film. Something about music, Dublin, and falling in love. I remember thinking that there should be more sex in it. And that I forget how crowded and bright movie theatres are here in New York City – I miss being able to mess around in the darkest back row.
I do remember the way she laughed, the way she got teary once or twice, the way she kept stealing glances at me. Her hand on my thigh and the – oops – accidental brush against the bulge in my pants. The way her lips circled and sucked the straw in her soda slow.
After the film, we walk to the corner twenty-four hour diner. I slide into the booth and she slides in next to me, stockings on vinyl. Her left thigh touches my right and I feel the brush of her leg against my slacks.
There are a few other diners scattered at tables, but it’s late. One old man gumming through chicken fingers and reading the newspaper, and one table of teenagers blowing straw wrappers and eating fries off each other’s plates. The waitress comes over and I order a vanilla milkshake and a slice of apple pie, heated. “We’ll share,” I tell them both.
We chit-chat. I toy with the sugar packets and crunch ice cubes from my water glass. She eases her leg over my thigh which catches my breath, stirs my cock. I gently put my hand on her knee and let myself finger the thin, silky fabric of her stockings. She’s still chatting as if nothing is happening. She liked the film, she’s saying. The male lead was cute and sweet in a butch sort of way. “Do you think men can be butch?” she asks me.
My fingers are crushed against her thigh, seeking her creamy skin. I try to pull my consciousness from between her legs to say something intelligent.
“Well, I think that’s complicated,” I start. “Because … while I think the gender identities of butch – and femme, too – are inherently queer by definition, I also notice some men with a particularly female flavor of masculinity that is closer to butch than any other word or description …”
“Yeah!” she has an eager and excited edge to her voice, and presses her leg further into my lap, twisting her torso a little to look more directly at me, opening her thighs. “I know what you mean – but if men begin to have a butch identity, does that invalidate it for the women who have to fight so hard to claim it?”
The layers of her dress are pushing up her thighs and I can feel the edge of her stocking under my fingers, lace and elastic, the line of ribbon up her thigh to her hip: a garter belt. I brush my fingers against the rough edge and press them into her inner thigh, just a little. I wonder how far she’ll let me go.
I want to find out how far she’ll let me go.
The teenagers clear out and the diner quiets. She leaves her hands on the table, but parts her lips. She’s looking at me, gazing at my mouth; I bite my tongue and feel it swollen.
Shanna leans in slightly, slowly, ever so subtly, tilting her head without realizing it as my grip on her thigh strengthens. Neither of us notices we do this, we only notice the space between our bodies crackling electrically.
I find the crease of her hip with my fingers, that line where her thighs meet her pelvis.
Her mouth gets closer to mine, inches away. I can feel her breath. She doesn’t move any closer but is begging me with her whole body to make a move. To kiss her. To keep moving my fingers up her skirt. She lets me think it’s all my idea. She is shifting, something is happening in her body and mind, an intentional submission, an offering up of her mouth and cunt and hungry body. We can both feel it, but it is nearly imperceptible.
“You want … this okay?” I whisper, fingers getting bolder, brushing against her cunt, the swollen outer labia. I can feel the air between our mouths stirring. The movement of my lips makes them touch hers, briefly, softly. I can nearly see the swirls of her breath, hot and heavy.
She bites her lip at the touch, nods, without moving her head. Submits a little deeper with explicit permission.
“One vanilla milkshake –” the waitress clears her throat and sets it down in front of Shanna, who jumps, but I stay exactly where I am, smiling, amused, then turn my head slow without moving my hand.
“One apple pie,” the waitress sets the small white plate in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a fork with my left hand, my right still between her thighs.
The waitress raises her eyebrows. “You two okay here?”
“Yep.” I say. Shanna’s cheeks are hot and flushed. She examines the milkshake, stealing a glance at me. My fingers are quiet but persistent, still on the soft of her cunt.
The waitress raises her eyebrows at me again and – I can’t quite tell, but – I think she winks. She’s cute, the waitress. Dyed black hair, thick tattoo of a faery on her left bicep, those chunky black glasses. She’s the only one working, but it’s dead in here, so after a round she goes back to reading her book at the counter. She’s not paying us any attention.
I twist and shift in the booth and adjust so I can flatten the palm of my hand against her cunt, slowly, cupping it. She’s not wearing panties. She knew she could have me. She’s controlling every detail.
She inhales and can’t look at me, tongues her lip gently. “Are you … will you …” she begins, but can’t finish. She wants me to kiss her. I want to ravage her. Thrust her up against the vinyl. Want her hands gripping at the sides of the booth as she comes against my hand.
I grin, that sly cocky grin that says I know what she’s asking, I know what she wants, and I’m taking my own damn time giving it to her. She knows she’ll get it from me, so my only power here is how and when she’ll get it. She offers me her neck and I take it, leaning in, kissing her shoulder, her collarbone, exposed in her low-cut dress. “You have to be quiet,” I say. “We’re not alone.”
“We almost are,” she breathes, closing her eyes and tilting her head so I can get to her neck. My fingers run lazy circles around her clit and inner lips, slick already. I dip two fingers inside and feel her muscles pulsing. Slide them in & out while she begins to pant. I circle her clit again, flick it gently and feel her body contract and respond.
“Anybody could walk in at any second,” I say. “Anybody could see my hand under your skirt, if they looked for just a second.” She shivers and presses her thighs open, presses her cunt against my hand, grips my forearm in one hand. I’m working her clit a little harder, a little faster, and her breathing is coming heavier, her body is tense. She’s trying to keep her face still.
“You haven’t even touched that shake,” I say, nodding toward it. She shoots me a look that like she wants to tear me apart with her eyes and attempts to move the tall milkshake glass toward her with one hand. She still wants me to kiss her and I am not letting up with my fingers on her cunt, on her clit, swirling, flicking against the hood, finding that sweet spot where her pelvis tenses and her limbs go limp.
Shanna’s eyes don’t leave my face as she opens her mouth for the straw and sucks the milkshake into her mouth. Cold. I can see it hit her tongue and explode in creamy sweetness, her eyes roll a little and her pussy responds, presses harder into my hand. She takes another sip and I work two fingers against her clit.
She bends her head back – just a little, just the slightest bit, she wants to be able to throw it back and scream but she can’t, she’s in a diner, my hand against her, fingers circling, working, flicking, pressing, and her whole body shudders and she grips my forearm in her fist, gasps a little, just a little, and her thighs contract to grip my wrist and she comes, with no sound at all, her body absorbing the noise she wants to make and I don’t let up, don’t let up at all, until – she gasps, inhales deeply, and pulls on my hand to back off.
I grin and watch her face. She’s trying to keep her features together and make it not look like she’s just come. Trying to regain her composure. She looks at me a little shyly and embarrassed, unsure how loud she was, how obvious, and she glances around quickly but there’s no one in the diner anymore, the few patrons have all left. It’s just us, and the waitress at the counter.
“Holy. Shit.” Shanna says softly, still breathing hard. I still have that stupid grin on my face, that power top grin.
I lean in and kiss her, gently, soft, on the lips. Her mouth is cold and creamy, tastes of vanilla. Sweet. She’s a fantastic kisser, all supple and slow. We kiss for a moment and I pull away, still smiling, and she tilts her chin down and looks up at me through her lashes.
“Want some pie?” I ask. I gather a bite on my fork and she nods, I slip it between her lips.
“Oh,” she says, chewing, warm apples and cinnamon on her tongue. “It’s good. Want some shake?” I take a few sips. It’s partly melted now.
The waitress comes over as we are giggling, a little high. “Would you two mind – ?” She starts. “I’m out of smokes. I’m just gonna run to the corner, be right back.”
“Sure,” I say. The waitress nods, gives us another quick once-over glance, and spins on her heel. The diner is deserted. It’s just me, and Shanna. I watch the waitress walk out, the bell on the glass door ringing softly, and turn to look at this gorgeous femme. She’s smoothing her hair, already watching me, watching my face, and she slides out of the booth and holds out her hand. I take it and slide out behind her.
“Your turn,” she says.
[... part two will be posted tomorrow]
I got my very own Fluffer Femme Spy this week, a good femme friend of mine in Seattle who has given me all sorts of useful tips & advice as we’ve been talking about my relationship. (I’d like to think my butch perspective is useful too, but who knows.)Really, I highly recommend every butch have one of these. She goes up there with my handkerchief and my boots as butch necessities. (And I mean that in the greatest way.)
As she put it:
Job duties include:
- Pumping up the egos of fragile, doubting butch friends
- Flirting, subtly, but just enough to get noticed and stroke said egos
- Giving helpful hints about where to get the good, cute, not too expensive, meaningful jewelry
- Providing advice about where/when/how to pop Important, Lifechanging Questions
- Offering Femme Insight during Relationship Crisis
- Giving guidance on effective apologies
- Reassurance before/after sending scary emails
- Other duties, as assigned
We were talking about Valentine’s Day when this all came up, well, among other things. And just for the record? There are some things I would really like to receive for Valentine’s Day (or any other holiday/present-receiving activity, really) – things that I wouldn’t really buy for myself, but that I would love to have. Such as:
- silver flask, very plain
- nice bottle of scotch that I’d bust out for (very) special occasions
- a men’s accessories case
- monogrammed handkerchiefs (yeah right, but hey, a butch can dream … )
Though some elaborate sex scene – a fantasy of mine brought to life? – would probably top everything. Although really, as long as I get laid I’m pretty satisfied. Wow, and now that I’m looking through Red Envelope online, there are a whole lot more of the men’s things that I’ve never seen. These hidden message collar stays are badass. And a monogrammed brander? That’s hardcore, and kind of makes me uncomfortably turned on.
When I asked Callie what it is she would want for Valentine’s Day, ideally (though I did mention that I’d already gotten her something and so it wouldn’t probably change what she was getting, I was just curious) she mentioned lingerie (“whatever would turn you on, ’cause that’s what it’s about, anyway”), and jewelry.
Speaking of lingerie … I gave Callie a copy of the story I wrote about our New Year’s Eve encounter. She … liked it, very much, to say the least. She said she’d forgotten about unbuttoning my shirt, and loved reading what the night was like for me. She’s never been with someone who was so into her femme role before, so that I am turned on by lingerie is kind of a novelty that she is really enjoying. So much, in fact, that she went out today and bought some new lingerie, that I am informed I will like, very much.
And, uh, hell, I’m enjoying it too.
Okay, one more thing, just in case I’m the butch spy for some of you femme readers: call me handsome, and I’ll seriously melt for you.
And speaking of you so-called femme readers: what would you just melt for, this Valentine’s Day? What do you always wish someone would’ve given you, but never have received?
Update on the mini-clothes crisis: no problem. All is under control.I went to H&M over lunch and all feels so much better. Maybe that was my problem, I just had nothing to wear.
Trying on some of their clothes really made me realize how ratty mine are (this green shirt I’m wearing must be retired. MUST.) So I ended up buying two shirts & a sweater (oh I love H&M). The sweater is very simple, black, zip-up with a slight collar. I’ll be wearing it tonight for the reading.
One of the button-downs is a very bright red-orange color, a little more bold than I usually wear but it looked goooood. I’ll be wearing that at the queer women’s reading thing I’m doing tomorrow night. The other shirt is a bit more dressy, black with silver pinstripes, paired with a silver tie for the party on Friday. Aww yeah.
Now, if only my suit fits. I think it might be a bit too small. I used to be smaller. I suppose if the suit doesn’t fit I’ll go with black slacks and a black suitcoat … but with a black shirt, that’s three different shades of black and they might not be the same. Fashion crisis!
I love that I’m a men’s size small. After all these years of having to go to multiple stores to find my size, of searching for clothing lines that even create my size, I was just looking clothes for the wrong type of body. Someone really shoulda told me that sooner.