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
… and the beginnings (continuings) of My Gender Manifesto.A little bit of conversation about femme (specificially) and gender (in general) is happening over in this last post, and I have some things to add, especially about a comment on “butch in the streets, femme in the sheets.”
Essin’ Em said: “I hate the phrase “a butch in the streets, femme in the sheets” because it places value on each…is there something wrong with being a Femme in the sheets?”
And, duh, you probably already know my response, at least to begin with. Of course there’s nothing wrong with being a femme in the sheets, let’s just make that clear.
I love femmes in my sheets. My favorite. Rawr.
That’s not quite what this phrase is saying, or means, in my opinion. The implication that a “butch in the streets” would be a femme in bed is implying – and correct me if I’m wrong here! – that the butch was a bottom. Someone who didn’t have the gruff masculine throw-down take-charge style that is assumed to come with the butch gender identity.
Which comes from the assumption that all butches are tops.
Which comes from the heterosexual gender hierarchy, which tells us that men are the agressors, women are submissive. Men are in charge, women are passive. Men take, women receive. Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.
But, see, these things are actually different. Being butch is a gender, and being a bottom is sexuality (a sexual orientation? What is that category?). And to assume that all butches are tops or all femmes are bottoms is to buy into That Infamous Heteronormative (and misogynist!) Paradigm.
With me so far?
And, it’s just not true! Femmes are tops AND bottoms AND switches! Butches are tops AND bottoms AND switches! And, there are tops and bottoms and switches who do not consider themselves either butch, or femme. One thing does not necessarily constitute the other.
This is absolutely one of those places where butch and femme should – and MUST, in my opinion – deviate from heteronormativity. Come on, we’ve gone through the sexual revolution and the gender revolution, for pussy’s sake. We can differentiate between biological sex, between-the-sheets sex, and gender.
I’m not sure “butch in the streets, femme in the sheets” would EVER be an accurate description of anyone, unless their gender actually changed while “in the sheets.” And I’m not sure how that would happen … would they put on lingerie? A dress? Heels? I might prostelitize that that person had a cross-dressing fetish, rather than becoming femme in the sheets – but perhaps that’s the same thing? I’m not sure about that.
And this leads me to another interesting point. What is gender, anyway? What is butch, what is femme? How to define these ever-elusive, ever-complex terms? And, as bird and I were saying just last night, how do we make these terms expansive, rather than limiting?
Here’s what I think.
Gender is about my physical body: how I appear, the clothes I wear, the accessories I choose. And, it’s part of the way that I communicate physically, and thus becomes a big part of my sexual life, which is all about my body communicating with another’s body.
My hobbies, interests, values, activities, and personality are not dictated by my gender. I refuse to let them be. Those are dictated by ME. My unique spirit, whatever hippie shit you want to use to describe my “essence.”
This was one of the hardest, hardest things for me, in coming out as butch, after I came out as queer. Because I’d grown up in a very feminist household that devalued gender, wrote it off as compulsory and constrictive. And, yes, absolutely, it has been that – women forced to wear skirts, men forced to keep their hair short, etc. But this is not where we are anymore.
There is still work to be done, don’t get me wrong – and, in fact, for me, this is the work, right here.
I can pick and choose what aspects of gender that I want to adopt. Some of them work; some of them do not.
I, for example, am really interested in processing, emotional intelligence, gender theory, feminism, psychology, sociology, how people relate to other people, group dynamics … and those have, at times, been interpreted to being “feminine” traits, yes? And reading, cooking, preparing nutritous meals, home decorating/interior design, organizing, collecting.
And when I came out as butch (which was a long process for me, it took about 4 years, much longer than it took me to come out as queer), I went through a long time period where I was really struggling with what it meant to adopt a butchness, to be butch at all. I loved the suave masculinity of collared button-down shirts, boy jeans, polos, tee shirts with cigarette packs rolled into the sleeve, vests, fedoras, pinstripe suits, wing-tip shoes, motorcycle boots … and I wanted it. I wanted to BE that. But I didn’t know how to BE that without being the rest of masculinity, too – the “tough guise” of machismo, of violence, of emotional miscommunication, of misogyny.
I guess I figured it out: I separated gender from personality.
Butch is a masculine presentation of the body.
Just as femme is a feminine presentation of the body.
And there is a whoooooole lot of room there, within “presentation,” in my opinion. I know butches who wear lacy thongs, I know femmes who have short hair. I know butches who wear heels and skirtsuits, I know femmes who rarely wear much more than sweatpants or jeans.
My test, then, I suppose, for the butch/femme sphere, is the Dress-Up Test. If I am getting fancied up, do I put on a suit and tie, or a dress? And some of us, of course, would say “it depends” — well sure, that’s a gender too. I guess that’s what I might call genderqueer, though we don’t really have much of a label for it. Somebody should create one. Hint, hint.
There are certain things that gender does dictate when it comes to action or personality, but that seems to be primarily set around chivalry, which is really that physical communication aspect of sex and relationships.
Ahem. For example:
I hold my hand out for a femme who is walking in heels next to me when we go down stairs, because I want her to have something solid to hold onto in those high heels. I switch sides of the sidewalk when I notice a grate or something she can’t walk over. I open the door for her because I don’t want her to ding up her fingernails that she spent two hours perfecting. I take her coat because her dress is tight and if she lifts her arms up above her shoulders it could actually damage the dress.
I am aware of the ways that her gender – her physical body – interacts with the world, and I want to enhance that presentation, cradle her, protect her, celebrate her ways of showing off her beautiful, sexual, powerful self.
Just like she does for me.
What’s been going on with this huge ol’ gender conversation, you ask? Well, here’s the roundup.This particular conversation this week was sparked by an anonymous comment on Bottoming is topping and vice versa, where the commentor asked, “why do lesbians hold true the male ideal of duality?” (and etc.)
I then wrote a post on the outdate questions on binaries where I wanted to address precisely why butch and femme are not inherently reproductions of the heteronormative paradigm (seems like folks kinda liked that phrase, it got picked up a lot).
Around the same time, Miss Lina posted A Gay Shame, a reproduction of an article in her local gay rag about the butch/femme dynamic and how outdated/heteronormative/etc that it is, and I nearly fell outta my chair with frustration.
I realized that it was actually incredibly difficult to explain precisely why I thought that butch and femme weren’t simply imitations of the straight world, even though I believed firmly that that was true. So I quoted from the GLBTQ dictionary and listed some further resources, brought it up to some of my butch & femme buddies, and cracked open my ol’ gender theory books to see what I could find.
I got a lot of comments, some of them extremely wonderful and helpful as I was attempting to sort out my own ideas on the subjects. And other writers began posting their own thoughts on these complex subjects.
Dylan wrote about checks and balances: “For me, a constant system of checks and balances keeps everything aligned and when it is not I am the first to make myself accountable. Examining where stray thoughts, decisions or actions might have originated from, I am able to not only challenge if my own beliefs are ones I want to continue to uphold, but more so, why I hold them to begin with.”
Bird on the Wire wrote on queer politics, and the places that she overlaps with the queer community, and places where they have been exclusionary and offensive “i identify as queer or gay, but in reality i am bisexual. granted, all but one of my relationships was with a woman. i find both men and women interesting and attractive and would hate to close myself off to any potential amazing experiences just because society prefers me to date men exclusively and the gay community prefers me to date women exclusively. i find it offensive to suggest that i am “straddling a fence” as if this is a choice i consciously make any more than anyone else. i find it offensive to suggest that i am any less gay than a lesbian who would never consider the possibility of sleeping with a man. i came out at 15, i suffered the same hardships, the same ostracizing, the same heartbreak, the same political battles.”
Miss Avarice, in continuing to work through her femme identity, wrote about femme-ism: “Here’s the riddle: I embrace my femininity when it attracts women, and I reject my femininity when it attracts men.”
I started compiling my ideas and posted further points on gender, then on the places where butch & femme are incredibly subversive, and why.
Just for fun, I published something I’d written weeks ago, but that seemed relevant, which was a little list on the care and feeding of a butch (ahem, that would be me), and a little gender play on the ever-so-popular lolcats format.
I still have a lot to say about gender, resistance, social change, the heteronormative paradigm, subversion, butch/femme identities and (so-called) “role playing” … and I’ll do my best to type up more of that today.
It’s been a hellova week here in sexblog world … I am really loving being part of this. I’ve spent more time on Sugarbutch, writing things for Sugarbutch (you should see how many draft posts I have right now), writing in the margins of my books and printouts of various articles on gender, and journalling about my own personal beliefs. It’s one of the reasons I put up those ads in the sidebar – I’m torn about it, but as I’m spending more & more time keeping up with this website, I want to encourage, and even request, some compensation for my time. If only I could just sit around and have these discussions on sex, gender, sexuality, and relationships all day every day. I’d have revolutionary theories in no time. Hmmm, I should find out who would pay me to do that kind of thing.
(If I missed your post on gender, sorry about that – let me know & I’ll gladly add it.)
When I look handsome, tell me so. That look of appreciation in your eyes for my masculinity makes me melt.
Let me open doors for you, hold your umbrella, carry your bags, pull our your chair, refill your drink. These are the ways I call you precious.
When I am moody, let me have space. I will come back to you for help when I am ready.
Take my left elbow while we are walking. It makes me feel like I am promenading you, and plus our bodies can be closer that way than with handholding.
Don’t make a big deal out of it if I cook, clean, or cry. These may be “women’s things” (socialized or by nature, that’s a debate for another time) but I like to do them, I like my subversive gender, I was raised female too.
Buy me boy presents like cuff links, ties, a flask, suspenders, a watch caddy, a shoe-shine kit. These are tokens that show how you celebrate my gender expression, just like when I buy you lingerie, flowers, perfume, jewelry.
Watch (or read) porn with me sometimes. Then tell me how you’d do it better …
Don’t assume I’m stone just cause I’m (a top, and) butch. I like sex – and getting off.
Tell me when I fuck up, and let me fix it. I usually can. I’m handy that way.
This whole sex/gender conversation has had me skipping around today & yesterday with the singsong voice, saying, my readers are smarter than yours.Seriously though … I love love love that I am part of this conversation. Thanks for contributing, bouncing ideas off of me, bringing your thoughts.
Talk nerdy to me, baby.
I fucken love gender theory. This is reminding me of just how much. I did some reading yesterday and today, reminded myself of some of the other arguments in the dialogue on the butch/femme disruption of the heteronormative paradigm.
- The butch identity, particularly, though both the butch and femme genders, can be argued as an illustration for the deconstruction of the sex/gender alignment – that is, the assumption that gender and sex are the same thing, that gender comes from some sort of “essential” place based in biological sex – because if the codes and symbols of masculinity can be adopted by women (who, it could be argued, in some cases, can perform gender “better” than biological men), then gender is therefore something learned, not something innate. And thus butch/femme is a disruption and subversion of the hegemonic paradigm
- The femme identity particularly, but both the butch and femme genders, also draw attention to the performatibility of gender and how the symbols and codes can be adopted and learned. Specifically, since femme is a verison of femininity and is used not for the attraction of men but for the attraction of other women, femme challenges the very basic function of the feminine gender (attraction/pleasing of men), which, we are taught, is the sole purpose for these essentialized characteristics of the sex/gender binary.
- As much as the butch/femme dynamic is subversive to the dominant sex/gender system, I actually believe that it is also an imitation, at times. It must must must be extensively analyzed and carefully adopted because of the ways that the gender hierarchy can infiltrate our own sexual and relationship dynamics, and honestly, I might be more second wave about this than others, but I do strive for equality, I do strive for equal value in a relationship. I want to play with the power and gender and submission and control in sex, sure – but when it comes to value within the relationship, I do think it’s important to be on equal ground.
Okay, this concludes my gender rant for today. I have more to say – much more – and will write more on this as my thoughts get clearer. Thanks again, though, to those who have contributed to this conversation. Let’s keep it going, eh?
When myself and my partner are both women, we are inherently breaking from heteronormativity just by the fact that we are both women.
Arguing that butch/femme reproduces compulsory heterosexual gender roles assumes that heterosexual gender roles ARE the source, and the norm, from whence butch/femme came. What if all of these gender roles are pulling from a different force – say, some sort of universal life-force, uniquely expressed in a wide variety of ways?
Sometimes butch/femme roles ARE a reproduction of heterosexuality, and that is where trouble comes into my paradise. If only they never were. That is absolutely one of the reasons why it was extremely difficult for me to come to a butch identity – because I’d grown up believing that gender roles were confining, and limiting. But they don’t have to be. I’m working on the details of that argument, but – for now – it’s similar to how a poetic form can actually liberate a poem, or an idea, rather than limit the expression of it.
I don’t like the argument that we should be “beyond roles” or beyond definition. Defining ourselves gives us power, and language, to articulate who we are. The problems arise when we are confined to the definitions, when we can no longer re-make or re-claim the words to accurately describe ourselves, or when we grow and move and change and are holding on to something that is no longer true. Categories should never be so rigid that there is not room to manouver inside of them.
Claiming a particular label or gender identity or expression also situates me within a particular history. There is a heritage of women who refused to be confined to femininity, many of them butches in the queer community. And I come from them. They are my heritage, I am part of that lineage, I want to claim and celebrate and align myself with what they did, because I am so fucken lucky to be sitting in a corporate office in midtown Manhattan, with my boycut #4 and my polo shirt, black boy slacks and loafers, Hanes briefs and a pocketwatch, wearing Old Spice and American Crew pomade, and my coworkers don’t care. I claim that heritage by claiming my identity to be butch. I stand on their shoulders. I am not alone here.
Gender, for me, is an expression of my sense of self as played onto my body, but it is also a sex toy. It is a way that I play and have fun and enhance the friction and traction between myself and my lover. It’s about contrast, holding myself up against someone else to see where we overlap, where we divide, where we collide.
[O]ral histories have demonstrated that butch-femme couples were seen in America as far back as the turn of the twentieth century [… But] the lesbian feminist movement beginning in the early 1970s, dismissed butch-femme culture as politically incorrect. […]
Criticism of butch-femme was usually based on the claim that these identifications are an attempt to replicate heterosexuality by designating one member of a couple as male (the butch) and the other as female (the femme). Even today this argument is frequently aired. However, it is highly problematic because of its own underlying assumption of heteronormativity–that is, the tenet that heterosexuality is normal, and that all other forms of sexuality are only weak imitations of it. Butch-femme need not be an imitation of anything; it is a unique way of living and loving.
from the entry for Butch/femme in the GLBTQ encyclopedia
Brazen Femme: Queering Femininity by Chloe Brushwood
Butch Is a Noun by S. Bear Bergman
Dagger: On Butch Women edited by Lily Burana, Roxxie, and Linnea Due
Femme/Butch: New Considerations of the Way We Want to Go by Michelle Gibson and Deborah T. Meem
The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader edited by Joan Nestle
… and don’t forget the upcoming Visible: A Femmethology edited by Maria Angeline
Did you see the post about gender binaries over at My Name is Lina?I’ve got all sorts of reactions. Mostly frustration. I feel inarticulate, like I can’t possibly explain this such that others will understand. I’m going to re-read some gender theory and butch/femme celebration books and see what I can come up with.
I like what Joy just said in a comment on my last post, how these dualisms/binaries are also about archetypes and patterns and mythology, about interesting ways to interpret and understand our lives.
Is that not enough?
“Your turn,” she says, crossing the diner floor. Her heels click against the hard linoleum and I watch her ankles as she walks. Her calves, her knees. She keeps her legs tight together, criss-crossing like a model. My mouth waters.
She stops at the counter and raises her arm, guiding me back behind the bar as if we’re on the dance floor. I grin and nearly flush, a little embarrassed, flustered to be somewhere I’m not supposed to be, seeing the clutter of dishes, rags, coffee mugs, silverware, napkins, salt and pepper shakers, ketchup and Tabasco bottles. And, of course, the gleaming, polished silver milkshake machine.
I slide behind the counter and she spins on a stool, crossing her legs at the ankle. She leans over, spilling out of her dress. I lick my lips, run my thumb over them, position myself behind the bar. I grip the handle of the milkshake machine and run my hand over it, stroking.
“So,” I say. “Can I get you something?” I’m having trouble keeping my face straight. It feels a little silly, but it’s also hot. What will she do? Let me fuck her, here, really?
Shanna purses her lips. “What do you have back there?” she leans over the counter and shifts her hips, then reaches for my belt.
I grab her wrist and hold it for a moment, surprising her. I bring her hand to the package behind my fly and make her feel my hard on. She oooohs a little, still in a character, and lifts her ass onto the counter, swings her legs over it, opening her knees. She grabs my tie and pulls me to her, kissing me hard, running her fingers along the short hairs on the back of my head, wrapping her legs around my waist.
“I want … ” I say between kisses, “I want you, I want you to … suck me. Would you do that?”
She nods yes and closes her eyes, just for a second, tips her chin down, and slides off the counter. She kisses me again and, palm flat against my cock, fingers on my fly, she unbuckles my belt, unzips, and pulls out my packing strap-on. Swiftly. Expertly.
She kisses me while she does this, hard, kisses the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my jawline, my neck, net to my collar, and she sinks to her knees.
The tip of my cock touches her lips and it feels tender, sensitive. As though I can feel her, sucking it into her mouth, working her tongue down the shaft. This is the thrill of the borrowed cock, the filling of it, the way it becomes mine. It is hitting my clit perfectly and her mouth, oh god, her mouth feels exquisite. I want to release into her – want to grab her hair and work her against me, down her throat.
I hold onto the counter instead. The metal edge cuts into my palm. She works her tongue on the underside of the head of my cock and my hips buck, pelvis tightens. I tip my head back, hips forward.
“God,” I groan, aware that it is what would give this whole thing away, should someone walk in the door. My expressions. I keep one eye toward the door but my eyelids keep closing. God her mouth feels fantastic.
Shanna looks up at me, eyes wide and shining, cheeks taut, hands on the thighs of my black slacks. I want her, want to fuck her. I look around – where? – we can’t have much time, but I already feel close to coming. She sees me glancing around, my stance has changed.
I groan as she sucks me hard, particularly deep, and pull my cock from her mouth. “Wait,” I say, “somewhere … else.” I offer my hand and she takes it, rises off her knees back onto her feet.
I have a perfect sightline into the kitchen, and notice the huge walk-in freezer right behind the doorway. There may be people back there, a line cook, a busser, but they wouldn’t notice us. We could sneak right in. Shanna sees where I’m looking and waits for me to take a step.
Tiptoeing, almost, once I move she follows and we reach the door in a few quick strides. My cock bobs from my fly. I pull on its industrial handle, somewhat thick in my hand and satisfying to grip. I let her go in first.
She turns to face me and brings her shoulders up. “Brrrr.” The air is cloudy and it burns my throat a little to inhale.
I survey the situation. A few boxes, milk crates, stacked up in the corner, filled with some heavy containers, jars, lidded plastic. Some of the boxes have been peeled open, others are still wrapped and sealed. Shanna’s face reads skepticism.
I sit perched on the edge of the crates and boxes and say, “Come here.”
She frowns a little. “What, here? I’m not sure – ”
“Oh, hell yes.” I stand, take a step toward her, reach out and wrap my arm around her waist. She fits well against me this way. Her arms go up around my neck somewhat instinctively.
“But – ” she says, a little too sweetly, batting her lashes at me. She has control of every detail.
“Mmmhmm.” I lift her skirt and she gasps at the cold air, it contracts her thighs a little. I take her left knee to the crook of my elbow, and bend my legs to get underneath her, gripping my cock in my fist, sliding inside her slowly but easily. She moans and it is a lovely sound. She’s not holding back, begins working her hips against mine, thrusting and circling in s-curves, figure eights. She hooks her foot behind my back and I lean, balancing the weight of our bodies, taking a few steps backward again to lean against the boxes for support. Perfect. Perfect – my shoulders lean and my hips thrust freely, deeper and a little harder, my cock already so hard and her lips are on me, on my neck again, I can see my breath hanging in the air as I exhale, hard, groaning every time she presses against me, and she kisses me, lips full on mine, tongue softly fierce, mouth open, open.
My hands are on her hips. Pressing against her hard. I can feel every place our bodies collide, the heat in such stark contrast to the frigid air. She arches her back and presses me deep, I thrust harder and loose myself in the rhythm, hard, and again, again, against her as my muscles contract, face tenses, pelvis thighs ass tense, hard, harder … and then shuddering release, still thrusting and vibrating against her, getting softer, slower, coming down.
I hold onto her and breathe into her neck, her hair, for a moment. We kiss, giggle, weave that sex haze, gather ourselves.
Shanna exits the freezer first and returns to our table, and I follow. I pull my wallet out of my back pocket and the bell on the door jingles, the waitress tosses her cigarette into the street after she’s opened the door and then turns to see me tossing a few bills onto the table.
I pick my fedora up from the table and set it onto my head, run my fingertip over the rim, and slide my wallet back into my pocket. Shanna has one knee on the vinyl booth and takes another mouthful of vanilla milkshake.
“C’mon, doll,” I say, offering my hand. She takes it and the sound of the milkshake glass on the table echoes. “Let’s blow this joint.”
She laughs. I’m being a bit ridiculous. Ah well, why not? I circle my arm around her waist, wink over my shoulder at the waitress, and we walk out of the diner on the corner.
Post No Bills tagged me. I’m not a big fan of these, but I think she’s rad so I’m playing along. Except, I’m going to post 5 instead of 8.Here’s the rules.
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
Five Random Facts/Habits About MeLet’s keep it interesting & make them sex/relationship/gender facts, shall we?
1. I wasn’t really the tomboy type growing up, as I hear is a common narrative for butches. Growing up in a small town in Alaska, though, the gender spectrum is quite different than the urban or suburban or farm spectrum, dictated by the natural environment more than by gender roles
2. I identified as bisexual in high school, but didn’t come out & start seriously dating/fucking women until I was 20. I won’t rule out dating (or fucking) a man sometime in the future, but he’d have to be quite spectacular in order to get my interest, and phenomenal in order to keep it …
3. The first girl I slept with had the same birthday as me, which is partly how we met. Two of my major loves have also been Aries girls, born within a week of me. All three were born in different years than I was (which was 1979, making me 28)
4. My erotica has, so far, been published in four book anthologies and one (erotic) literary magazine
5. I have slept with eleven people. Hence the “aspiring” part. Let’s see if I can’t at least hit fifteen by the end of the year, shall we?
Part two of three
It’s a challenge for me to be explicit about the sex I receive, for two reasons: there are a select few friends of mine, who I know offline, who read this, and while I am very happy to talk about my sex life, I usually don’t offer up the same level of detail as I do in my writing; and two, I feel a lot more embarassed & vulnerable talking about my own body, my own feelings and sensations, than I do about giving pleasure to someone else. This is, I suppose, part of why I am a top.
The reason I mention that is because I’m going to attempt to be explicit here about my own experience. (That is your fair warning, childhood friends.) You may remember from the last time I tried to write about being topped that I skirted around the juicy parts. So, in the interest of being a better writer, and in the interest of wanting to turn this girl on as much as possible before I see her again (Saturday), I’ll do my best.
(And those paragraphs above, those are called foreplay. And procrastination. Ahem.)
She – this stunningly hot fuckable gorgeous femme top – goes down on me, fingers teasing the opening of my cunt, her lips and tongue pushing back my labia before sucking my clit. She keeps me distracted finding the most sensitive underside places and working her mouth slick along the folds and edges.
I felt like a turtle on my back. Acutely aware of how funny (I feel) I look when being fucked this way, knees bent feet on the bed, hips pressed forward, stomach tight, often one hand behind my head, holding onto the bars of my headboard or the back of my neck, holding my head up, contracting at my stomach so it occasionally seems like I am doing situps. Mouth open and gasping, quiet, be quiet. Pressing against my muscles and bones, pressing deeper onto her fingers, into her mouth, muscles hard and contracted.
But her mouth keeps me from thinking of this for longer than just a flash. Her fingers inside me, two, three – more? – I can feel the resistance of my cunt at the opening, though I want to feel more inside. Want to feel full of her. Her mouth still warm and moving hard on me, the bones of my pelvis pressed against her jaw I can feel the electricity of the space where our bodies are connecting.
With her tongue she fucked me. Hard and thick. Made my eyes roll back, head roll back, back arch, toes curl.
She doesn’t wait long, but rips the condom open, snaps it onto my cock, which she has in easy reach between my legs. Something tightens momentarily in my stomach and chest: I haven’t been fucked with a cock in years, literally years, but I remind myself to relax, I love what she’s doing with her gentle long fingers, want to feel more, love the way my cunt muscles contracting leads me to deeper vibrancy in my clit and, consequently, orgasm. I don’t think about my knees bent in the air, instead only concentrate on the soft head of my cock nudging its way inside.
Fuck I remember this. This pulsing in & out, this thrust inside, this fullness, this pinpoint of pleasure concentrated on my clit and swollen cunt. She pressed that cock inside me hard. I felt every inch of it sliding in. It’s not particularly large, but I felt out of practice, it was shockingly blissful, an impailing, an opening, something thick for me to press against.
She worked it in & out of me with a new speed & pressure, less exploration than her fingers, more force. Left her mouth on my soft spots, sucking, at times hard, sometimes tender, the muscles of my pelvis pulling. I arched my back to get deeper into her mouth.
After moments or minutes or hours (I, my body in a blissfully state resembling pulled taffy, can’t tell), she pulled out and said she was switching to her hand again. Her hot breath on my lips. Still sucking and she knew what to do. Her fingers expertly twisting, thrusting. I noticed myself in that sit-up position again, curling my body into a C shape and pressing my cunt into her mouth deeper. My right hand still behind me, behind my head or sometimes pulling on the headboard, left hand on the back of her head, tangled in the longish hair that fell in her face, touching the back of her head where her dark hair was recently cut short.
I let my hips thrust, fucking her mouth. The detail of her tongue so precise.
I was wrecked, buzzing, wrapped around her if only energetically and not physically, wound tight like a top. (Or, should I say, like a bottom – though not really, more like a top being fucked.) I wanted to scream, wanted to let my whole body release & rip.
I have to be quiet. It’s two am, roommate is asleep, assuming we have not already kept her up. Instead I bottle my noise and feel my body strung tight and then plucked, soaring for a moment before releasing, shuddering against her before grabbing her hair, hard, my fist pulling her up to me by the back of her head and she slid up my body, lays herself over me, curls around me.
Oh lord and this was perhaps my favorite part. The small of her back in my hands, her soft skin, the curves of her hips and ribcage, back of her neck, the feel of her weight on my chest and pelvis, such comfort, such comfort, so I just shudder and release, it takes me embarassingly long to stop breathing heavily and shaking with bodily afterquakes so I just feel her weight on me, the comfort of skin, the tender way she kissed my neck and face, and I grinned and laughed and giggled between whispers of oh god and fuck and ohh, and held her tight.
Part one of three
I’d never been with a girl who identified as a top. All the girls I’ve slept with, while some of them were more toppy than others, have absolutely been on the submissive side – and that tends to be one of the things that draws me to them. I know how to read those signals. I know what the lowering of the eyes, looking up at me under her eyelashes, means.
I’ve been topped, don’t get me wrong. And generally, I like getting off, I like giving my body over to let someone else touch me, to guide them to what feels good, to let myself get to that moment of fully physically letting go.
I hear this is actually fairly rare, for a butch top. I don’t know what to tell ya about that. We’re all different, I suppose.
Point is, I’m not entirely unfamiliar with submission – but, at the same time, it is not my ‘default’ mode. It is not where I am most comfortable, these days, and it is not my impulse most times. But, as you probably remember from the few times I intentionally bottomed in my last relationship, it’s hard for me to do and, even, harder for me to write about.
So what was I going to do with this stunningly fucking hot femme top once we got to my bed?
This is what kept rattling around in my head as we took (sexy) public transportation back to my (ghetto) apartment.
I thought, it won’t make that much difference that I’m a top and she’s a top. It won’t change much between us. We probably won’t have a heavy SM scene, and that is what I tend to associate primarily with topping and bottoming – dominance, and submission.
But already, the making out at the bar was a little different. I wasn’t calling the shots. She was responding to me, yes, her lips changing mouth opening tongue teasing in accordance to mine, but there was something else underneath it. A force coming from her. The way she kept control of it all.
“Open your mouth,” she ordered, only barely pulled away from my lips, I could feel her breath moving against my mouth as she said the words. She kept her hands on my hips, my ribcage, positioning me where she wanted me. She sucked my tongue, hard. “Like your tiny cock,” she whispered into my ear, grinning. She bit my bottom lip, drew blood, leaving teeth marks inside that I continued touching with my tongue all night.
Most of the time, it made me want to take her all the more. Fight her for control, push her down and restrain her arms so she couldn’t restrain mine.
Sometimes, though, I sunk into the refuge of submission, the giving-over of my body and mouth and, later, cunt. I not only let her guide me through the kisses, I tried to ask her to. Tried to ask her with my body and gestures and movement and open mouth.
I spent the evening fighting my impulses, the ones to take control. Push her down on the bed and tilt her pelvis back to slide my hand inside. Instead, she flipped me onto my back (I stopped struggling), and said, “Do you have something you want me to fuck you with?”
I inhaled. Sharply. Caught off guard, not the first time that night. “Yes, I think … I do.” Damn. Submission stirred somewhere deep in me, my stomach, between my legs, and I wanted her to take me like that, wanted to feel full, feel splayed open, feel cradled. It made me feel exposed and vulnerable, but I trusted her with my body in a way that felt new, considering I barely knew her. Maybe that’s why it was safe. Maybe it was because of the way she knew how to touch me, knew how to unwrap my breasts, finger the back of my neck, press against my thigh, just how I like it.
And I was suddenly grateful she knew how to take control, I was feeling fuzzy-headed and uncertain around her. Was that the submission? Could be. I certainly don’t usually feel that way when I’m in charge. I got my pink cock out, wrestled in the toybox to find an unlubed condom. I’d never been fucked with it.
She eased back on top of me, hips against mine, legs scissored together. Hands on my hips, my inner thigh, my breasts. Squeezing hard, sometimes painfully. I loved it. Brought me to the edge of my body and made me cry out, made everything sensitive, made everything feel. I attempted to keep quiet.
Her kisses made my vision and the palms of my hands blurry and taut. It was hard not to press her shoulders to the bed and ease my thighs between hers, press her knees apart. Tear at her hair. But there was also such sweetness, such precision, such tenderness between us – I wanted that, too, but I wanted more, I wanted to feel her pressing me open from inside, I wanted my cock in her mouth, I wanted, wanted, wanted.
Desire rose and fell on an isotope slope, gripping me fiercely. She knew just how to pull want from this body of mine. After a particularly efficacious kiss, I spiraled, eyes rolling, hips bucking. I couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to be opened by her.
“Fuck me,” I whispered, as she held herself above me, inches away, “please.”
Her eyes flashed and she grinned. Held my gaze, my open face, steady for a moment. “Can I go down on you?”
“Oh, god yes,” I breathed out. Please do, yes, god yes, echoed in my head, and though she may have liked it I’d (further) begged, I was glad I didn’t say it. It was hard enough for me to ask for it once.
How did she know so well what I like? … It occurs to me now that she’s read, among other things, the extensive sex survey/interview of myself, and there is a lot – quite a lot – of personal preferences listed there. I should send that to all my lovers before we fuck. (Just kidding.)
Sometimes we all wonder how things come to be. A chain of events: A leads to B leads to C leads to Z. Each life is made up of big decisions and each day is made up of a million little decisions. What shirt to wear, what street to walk on, what to eat for lunch. Now all of these seemingly inconsequential choices may change your life forever. But who can handle that kind of responsibility? It would paralyze you to think about it. So you have to trust your instinct, what the Greeks might call your character. You better pray to whatever god you believe in that your character knows what the hell it’s doing.
– opening monologue from the 1997 film Playing God
I’ve been thinking a lot about character lately. Not only because one of my long-term goals, especially now that I’m getting back in touch with my own life path and am less preoccupied with throwing all my emotional/mental/creative/romantic/leisure energy to someone else, is to write fiction – by which I mean novels. More than one. And I love character studies, it’s one of the reasons I love writing, reading, psychology, drama, humans, living.
That sounds cheesy, perhaps, but it’s true. Sometimes I realize how much all my interests come together to aid me in what I really believe is my own life’s ‘higher purpose’: writing. And encouraging personal expression. (I have lots more to say about that, but I’ll save it for another time. Most if it is still formulating anyway.)
So, I’ve been reading Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist can Learn from Actors by Brandilyn Collins, and it’s not just any actor from which to learn these secrets, but the famous Stanislovsky “method acting” approach. Very interesting stuff, I tell ya.
(I’m also reading Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose which I’d also highly recommend. Trying to keep myself inspired literarily. It seems to be working, though I haven’t been generating much work that I would call particularly notable.)
And I think I’ve also mentioned that I’m in therapy, and have been seeing the same therapist since mid-April or so. I really like the idea of long-term therapy, but I’ve never actually been with a therapist longer than a few months. I tend to get discouraged because I’m pretty good at being able to put together a narrative for my life, I’m pretty good at drawing my own conclusions and making my own connections, which I think is what most people get out of therapy. So I’ve been trying to wrap my head around what it is that I could get out of therapy, how to approach it, what the ‘arc’ of the story with my therapist would look like.
Combined with this recent, more serious literary focus of mine, I’ve begun to see therapy as a form of character study for my own self. The point isn’t so much to change myself, at least not at this stage. The point is first to watch my own stories, to listen to my own stories, to notice the patterns and recurrences and sticking points and issues and whatever else might come up. To begin to bring to the forefront some of my unconscious character traits, the ones that I am so far inside of that I don’t notice.
You know, like how you have to leave your home country – or, hell, your home state – to begin to understand and notice what the localized culture was where you grew up? I have to have some new perspective, a fresh glance, at my own self, in order to get an accurate gauge of my character.
I think getting a new perspective on your own character, re-setting or re-defining your own character, is why people like falling in love so much – or, at least, maybe it’s why I like falling in love. I get to tell my best life stories all over again. I get to explore and express my views and outlooks and ideas about life and love and worship and desire in slightly new, sightly refined ways each time. I get to see someone else’s life presented to me in a beautiful way, and get to shine my own life back at her. It’s a personal study of character: mine, and someone else’s, someone who is particularly interesting, and intriguing.
Problem is, I suppose, that sometimes those character studies are terribly inaccurate. What we present is a selective view of ourselves, of course. Sometimes we present ourselves under false pretences. Sometimes we have even fooled ourselves into believing that we are something we aren’t. Sometimes those guises can be kept up for a long time.
And sometimes, someone else can seem so appealing, so shiny and authentic and intelligent and connected to me, deeply, that I begin to believe her, rather than believing myself.
I know, I know: you all have told me that I’ve listened to myself all along. And you’re not wrong, I know I’ve been voicing my suspicions from the very beginning of this relationship. But there’s still something there I can’t quite put my finger on. Because, see, despite my voicing my concerns, I was so high, soaring so high and felt so limitless with Callie. My own character developed in serious, shattering ways, ways that I feel like I’ve been waiting for for years. In some places, I was willingly torn down, willingly built back up. In other places, she attempted to tear me down and I wouldn’t allow it – there we had conflict. Yet other places in me she put a springboard underneath and I flew, I soared, I rocketed up to a new level, felt things I never expected to feel.
Maybe I’m being vague here. I’m talking about sex, and gender. I’m talking about the ways that I felt like such a powerful, strong, capable top with her. The ways that I was able to take control, harness desire, my own and hers. The ways that I was butch. The hundreds of tiny moments in our interactions where she was femme and I was butch, and I made so much sense, I made so much sense to myself, sometimes for the first time. I’ve always done these things – I’ve always taken care of the women around me, my friends and family, I’ve always been the one to open doors and flag down the waiter and refill a water glass, but suddenly it had purpose, it had reason, it had some sort of intense sex and gender play behind it, and it was so, so hot.
I should be grateful to her for all that growth in me, but it’s still hard to actually feel it, not just know that I should feel it. I’m still too angry. It was as if the lenses all came into alignment over the last four weeks or so of our relationship and then everything became painfully clear.
And there’s still something here I can’t let go of. I hate that she continuously bubbles up to my conscious thoughts when I’m doing nothing, walking down the street, reading a book, sitting on the train. But there’s something underneath all of this that I haven’t figured out yet, and so I haven’t let go.
What is it?
Something to do with my own character. Something to do with figuring out who I am in the world, who I am as an adult, a woman, a caucasian queer/homosexual/lesbian/dyke, an American, a butch, a top. She helped me make shifts in my very identity make-up, shifts I’ve always wanted to make, but she changed other things too – and now I am having difficulty navigating the world, making all those millions of tiny daily life decisions unconsciously and trusting my character to pull through, because I’m so skeptical of what she has left me with.
How much of my changing was conscious, and intentional? How much of it was for me, and how much was for her (under false pretenses)? How do I figure out what she has changed in me? Sometimes I fear it has run deep, deep within, where I gave her so much permission to go. Where are the places that I wanted to change, where are the places she changed for her own gain?
So, I am beginning an official character study of myself. Through therapy, through writing. I’ve always done it through writing, really, but now I’ll just call it “official” and maybe it’ll get me somewhere new.
Meanwhile, like the buddhists and yogis say, I’m still trying to remember to breathe into where I’m already at, and accept it.
I am delicate. This tough guise
comes along with the collared shirts –
briefs – jackets in mudpuddles –
but it is only a performance.Do not mistake it for the same gauge
of pressure it takes to bruise
the skin of my heart. Purple
gives way to red gives way to pink.
Even the strong language I take in
too deep because I have no wall up
between me and you. I have no wall
up but you can’t tell how transparent
I am when I have cried, when I have
asked a question, turned a doorhandle
so you did not have to. I want to take
care of you. I want to take care of
myself, so invisibly that you won’t notice,
then take care of you. But that is not
realistic. I know. I am sensitive,
affected by all the madness marching
around me. I cannot get away from it
some days. Some days I am eaten alive
by the bees in the hive, some days I am
the hive through which everything flows.
I carry around words like brutal and
punished in a notebook and touch the
letters when I need a reminder of
the damage that can be done, can not
be undone. Phrases yielded like
knives. I refuse to use my words
as weapons, though I could, I could
cause hurt, could leave scars. Instead
I choose to swallow, don’t let it out,
don’t let things go, there is no way
to know what the words will become
once they leave my tongue. Possibly
dandelions, possibly stinging nettles,
possibly a poisonous cup of hemlock.
I drink it all down myself instead:
then there can be no misinterpretation.
There were a couple of interesting comments on that post yesterday, related comments, specifically about “just being” rather than working so hard to change, especially as related to gender.First, I want to clarify something. I was born female, socialized a girl, raised to be a ‘woman.’ Granted, I grew up in a somewhat small, live-off-the-land West Coast town where even the feminine women lean toward butch (boots and carharts rather than heels and skirts, that kind of thing) as well as with parents who dismissed many aspects of traditional gender roles, seeing the dichotomy as restrictive and limiting. But I was never the tomboy, never the one-of-the-boys girl. From the time I was about three or four up until second grade, I only wore dresses. As I got older I wore less and less female-specific clothing, but still was generally feminine. It took a conscious choice, conscious intention to develop my butch identity.
Let me say that again: this butch identity of mine is the result of hard work, because that is who I wanted to be. For the most part, I see it as something I perform on my body – the way I move, the clothes I wear, the way I cut my hair, the shoes I choose, the undergarments I choose. There are other aspects of it, behavioral aspects, primarily in the form of chivalry, opening doors, walking on the outside of the sidewalks, letting my girl order first (or ordering for her), the way I feel desire, flirt, and have sex (though that has a lot to do with my identification as a top, too). I don’t necessarily align certain personality qualities – i.e. writing, cooking, working on cars, interest in verbal processing, caretaking – to one particular gender identity or expression.
Of course, the reason that I wanted to adopt this identity at all was partly because of the way that I felt that it fit me, my body, my sense of self, the way I move through the world. Explaining my choice to develop a butch identity is fairly complicated (of course it is), but it also relates to the anxiety and depression that I felt as a teenager being completely paralyzed by the idea of being a fairly intelligent, articulate woman in the world, as I began to understand how women are treated, devalued, sexualized, used, and damaged. (Which is also why I pursued gender and oppression studies as an academic discipline.) My choice to become butch was related to my own sense of the ‘feminine’ as dangerous, in our society.
BUT: don’t get me wrong, I have done a fuck of a lot of work on my internalized sexism, and I understand – I REALLY UNDERSTAND – the value in femininity. But it took me a while, which is why it took me longer to admit (and understand) my attraction to and begin dating femmes than it did to figure out that I was/wanted to date women, and be butch. The third wave feminist movement has done some work on reclaiming “traditional” expressions of femininity (domesticity, Barbies, the color pink, glittery girly things, etc) but I think that hasn’t quite come to full fruition. (That’s another topic, I won’t go into it, though it’s related.)
So: when I decided that I wanted to intentionally adopt this butch identity, I also decided that there was only so much of it that I wanted. I didn’t want those stereotypical masculine traits that I see as damaging, limiting to the masculine gender (those that I mentioned yesterday – lack of emotional expression, inability allow help or ask for help, anger as the only acceptable emotion, valuing violence or the objectification of women).
Which is why I talked about cherry-picking my gender yesterday. And it isn’t as though this choosing of gender just happens once, and then is over – I’ve been developing this identity for five or six years now, made a serious study of it, a hobby, and I am still refining it, remaking it, reworking my performace of it on my body, the feel of it in my emotional inner life, the way I experience and express desire and am recognized by other butches (and femmes, and dykes) because of it.
Gender is policed socially – I constantly watch myself, or others do it for me. Other butches, other femmes, even other folks who refuse to limit themselves to the heterorestrictive gender binary system – at various times all sorts of people have said that I wasn’t “that butch” or “butch enough” or “really butch,” or they’ve pushed me to objectify a woman, tell me jokes about violence and sex and sports and cars assuming that I’ll get it and like it and laugh, as a form of bonding.
Somehow it is incredibly easy when developing a butch identity to adopt all those masculine traits that I would rather reject and not incorporate. I saw it happen with my group of young dyke friends as we were developing out of that awkward baby-dyke stage: we were all on the butch side of the gender spectrum, but they wanted to stare at pretty girls from across the bar, make lewd gestures, tell stupid (offensive!) jokes. I quickly developed the reputation as The Feminist, which of course meant “not butch,” as if the two things are mutually exclusive. I was teased constantly – one girlfriend of my best friend used to do things like slap my friend’s ass, and then glance at me sheepishly saying, “oops, sorry Sin, I didn’t mean to objectify her …”
I never could quite articulate the difference between sex and sexism, the difference between playfulness and objectification. I still grapple with all of this, but I feel much more confident in my understanding of my own personal gender identity and expression, and in gender in general.
Back to the comments, though: I’ll ignore the mention of my “gender identity issues” and just pretend that means “gender identity complexities” or something (’cause issues is a bit of a triggering word for me, I guess, implying that there are problems or negative behavior as a result).
I am actually very interested in the study of Buddhism in general, especially the concepts of a beginner’s mind, of staying clear and open, of calming the self and allowing things to flow through our bodies and minds. So “I just am the way I am” and allowing myself to “just be” really resonate with me, and my initial reaction is to be a little outraged: “of COURSE that’s how I address things!” But clearly, that’s not so true, not when it comes to Callie.
This is a place where Callie and I differ greatly. She is constantly remaking herself in opposition and reaction to what others around her need. She is always in flux. In some ways, she has very little self-definition and needs someone else to give it to her. That is not how I am, nor do I really understand it in its entirety.
This particular issue that I’m facing – of consciously working to get into and maintain an emotional space where I can have access to what I’m thinking and feeling, and what I need, and feel confident and safe enough to express that to Callie consistently – was one of the conditions upon which Callie and I got back together. She said she would work to make that space safer for me, and I said I would work to express my needs more often, so I wouldn’t go along like everything is fine when things aren’t, and then pull away seemingly suddenly (and cause her great pain, because of her great fear of abandonment and rejection).
So, I suppose the question of whether or not we’re going to be able to make those changes remains. I told her I would try it, and I am. The rewards of being with her are great, seriously great; I’ve never been in love like this before, I’ve never felt such great heights, I’ve never had this kind of physical connection with someone. This mini-crisis has reminded me that, if I want to keep her, and stay in this relationship, I need to keep this skill at the forefront of my mind a little more consciously, otherwise I am going to explode with anxiety and resentment.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can’t “just be” in this relationship – yet. She needs more from me than my own default and ingrained behavior can provide. (Just for the record, she is working really hard changing herself to better accomodate my needs too, in many very successful ways – she’s not only placing demands on me. I will write in depth about that another time.) I’m not used to that in relationships, but I love how much I am growing as a person, and I still suspect that it is going to be worth it, if we can sharpen our skills, sharpen our tools with each other, we can reach a serious state of bliss that will be sustainable, possibly for the rest of our lives.
And I’m not willing to give up that possibility just yet.
A conversation with Morgan. In print, it seems so long! It didn’t feel that long when we were chatting.I have more to say, especially on the subject of the New York poetry competition I am judging next week that asked me to edit my bio and omit the words ‘queer’ and ‘butch’. but that’ll have to wait until later.
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?
Dear Sinclair,When winter finally sets into New York City, and it’s precisely eight degrees outside NOT INCLUDING THE WIND CHILL, and you finally decide to get the hat out of your bag that you’ve been carrying around for months and hate to wear, and you put it on, and wear it all the way to work, then when you get to work, you MUST CHECK YOUR HAIR IN THE MIRROR before eleven am, because you look like a doofus.
ps: at least the rest of you looks goooood today. ;)
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.
She and I spoke last night. Not Callie, not the ex girlfriend, but the girl I’ve known for eight years whom I went to visit this past weekend. As we talked she was lying on her couch, one arm over her head, one leg over the back of the couch, and I know exactly how that looks. Exactly how her living room is configured.“I can’t stop thinking about your skin,” I said. “About you, naked on your couch.”
“You want me naked on my couch?” she asked.
And then she was. She said, “You’ve got my hands and my mind wandering.”
We talked about the things we didn’t get to do. Her mouth on my cock. (Why didn’t we do that?!) I wanted to have her in every room in her house, though that would’ve taken some coordinating. I wanted to get my cock out more, and she wanted to ask me to get my cock out more, but got shy and didn’t. I wish she would have. She wishes she would have. Why didn’t we do that? I wish I would’ve been more bold about it.
I guess I still get that twinge of “reproducing the gender/sexual binary,” “women fucking women isn’t about a cock, that’s exactly the point,” and “there’s plenty to do without it” …
Well, lesson learned. I know what I want. At least fifty percent of the time. Maybe seventy percent.
You would think I am pretty good at getting what I want. At asking for what I want, or setting it up. And I knew she wanted to feel my cock inside her, feel my weight on top of her. We’ve talked about this for years, literally. I remember calling her after I bought my very first strap-on. What year was that? 2000? So small, in retrospect, with a vinyl harness. Tsk tsk. I was so young back then. Now, I have half a dozen beautiful cocks of different sizes & shapes and three harnesses, though the one I usually use is a thin O-ring harness because it is very small, and therefore the easiest with which to pack. Plus, the jock-strap style of the thin straps hits my clit perfectly and can actually get me off while fucking, which is incredible. Incredible.
I get hard just thinking about it.
“I like that you know what my cocks look like,” I said. “Now when I tell you I’m putting on my red one, squeezing lube onto my fingers, and taking my cock in my hand, you know what that looks like.”
“Wouldn’t it have been nice,” she said, “if, when we’d gotten home from the battlefield, instead of just fingering me in the kitchen, you’d bent me over the counter and fucked me?”
“Um … yes.” Fuck.
“I’m getting up, I’m moving into the kitchen. ‘Cause now, you know what that looks like. And I can bend over the counter and imagine you fucking me.”
Oh god, this girl.
I cleared my throat. I will keep my desire in check. I will not lose control. “The counter seems a little high. Is it comfortable?”
“Not really. I’m on my tiptoes.”
“The kitchen table might be a better height. It’s glass though, it might be kind of chilly, or sharp on the edges.” I assessed every surface in her house for its fuckability.
She moved to the kitchen doorway. Told me she wants to remember how it felt when I lifted her hands over her head, pressed my hips into her into the door so she couldn’t move.
I told her, if I was there now, I wouldn’t let her linger in the doorway. I would push her onto the table a little too roughly.
She gasped as she laid herself on the tabletop. Her torso was bare, nipples against the cold glass.
“Is it the right height?” I asked. (It is. I already know it is.)
“Yes. Cold.” She whispered into the phone.
“Remember my mouth next to your ear?” I started. “Remember my fist in your hair? Remember how it feels to have me standing behind you, my hand pressing between your shoulderblades?”
I whispered, “I’m going to slide inside you … ”
Tangle my fingers in your hair and grab a fistful. Crane your neck just a little. Watch your mouth open and gasp and your breath fogs the glass, feeling the tip of my red cock against your pink pussy. I’d move the dick to curve down instead of up so it would hit still your clit from inside. Your cheek against the cold, smooth surface. Pushing your legs apart, hand between your thighs, pulling on your flesh, fingers on your outer labia so I can hold you open. Slide inside you slow. Gripping your hip with my right hand. Sliding my arm under you to cradle your waist as I keep sliding in and out, in and out, harder, a little harder, a little faster.I will lose myself in this position. I will lose control. I will not keep my desire in check, I will begin to slide inside faster, hips bucking against you in a rhythm and pattern coming from inside me, a fierceness I never remember I have. After a while it stops becoming even an in-out motion and just becomes me vibrating, grinding hard at every angle, every circular motion, feeling your muscles pull on my cock which pulls on the strap between my legs, rubs against my clit.
Like that. Yes.
And my thighs pressed together, clit straining to be touched, to be pressed against the base of my cock thrusting into you.
Yes, like that. Like that. Oh god.
“Are you touching your clit?” I asked. “While I fuck you? Remember what it felt like to have my cock inside you?”
She groaned. Gasped. Made all those little noises that I knew, that I’d heard next to my ear, whispered into my neck, that I’d pressed out from inside of her.
God I loved making her come. Every fucking time. Surprising, and so beautiful.
One of my favorite moments was at dinner, at her favorite Italian restaurant where I drank too much wine and got her to talk about theatre, about the show she did recently, about what she’s going to do next. She was so animated. Luminous. I just watched her from across the table, her eyes shining, skin glowing, hair tussled from all the sex.
She had excellent after-sex hair. All curvy and full of waves and body. Mine was horrible: typical boycut-number-four which goes flat and gets cowlicks if it isn’t carefully sculpted.
She said one of her favorite moments of the weekend was when we were at the rock show on Saturday night. It was hot inside, though cold outside, and she carried her thin jacket until I took it from her, folded it gently and draped it over my arm. Held it for her all night.
Later, back outside, I held it for her while she slid her arms into it. She said felt taken care of. Like a girl.
And I felt butch. Tough and indestructible and oh-so-honored that this beautiful creature would even consider letting me hold her jacket (let alone all the things that I was to do to her later that night). I wanted everyone to see that I had taken it from her, that I was holding it for her. I kept one hand on the small of her back, kept touching the hem of her shirt, feeling the knitted fabric between my fingers. Remembering how the folds of her labia felt just as soft.
She also said there was an alley outside that building that would’ve been a perfect place in which to fuck. Damn, if only I’d known.
It’s been hard to separate from her since I’ve returned home. But she knows I am in no place to give my heart away. She knows my limitations.
She’s reading this right now.
I adore the sounds a girl makes when she’s being fisted. Gutteral, that’s why that word was invented, to describe the sounds from her mouth, her throat, her chest, her belly, her cunt. Such deep noises coming from the center of her.
It didn’t start as fisting. It started as me, strapped on, fucking her, her on her back, me above her, her knees bent, pulled back, held to her chest, calf on my shoulder. But there was some place in her I wasn’t reaching, she kept pressing against me to make my cock hit just the spot, my cock which was really her cock, her strap-on, because I did not come prepared. Her cock wasn’t very large. Slim and decent, sure, but nothing I would call thick.
I turned her onto her stomach. Hips bent over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Spread her open with one hand pressed her hips up into that perfect little spiral curve and slipped a finger inside. Two fingers. Just to find the angle, the placement, the mark where my cock would be going. Instead I found her open, so open, opening wider as my fingers moved deeper, three fingers, four, slid in so easily and still hadn’t filled her. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t tell her what I was doing, I assumed she could feel it and I tucked my thumb under, pushed inside. Easily. Slid in to my wrist.
And she was filled. With me, my fingers, my palm, my thumb, my wrist.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt a girl’s cunt open like that before. Lock-and-key open. Dark clouds parting to reveal blue sky open. There is a certain point in the … orgasm arc that they do tend to open deeper, pull my hand cock tongue in even further, but oh so rarely do I feel a girl making a space for my fist inside her.
What a feeling: my whole hand inside her body. This hand, the one I’m using to type. Such connection happens when I can feel every ripple of her body from inside. How her hips gyrate and buck. How her stomach contracts. The noises from her mouth that begin where my knuckles touch muscle and press.
I took her clit in my left hand and attempted, tried, cajoled, but I don’t think she came. She certainly had a release, of some sort, but I think she may have been generally too overstimulated. That’s just a theory. An observation.
Slid out of her slow. I didn’t want to let go of her for a long time after.
That was definitely my favorite part of Saturday night, though the caning, the candle wax, the rope binding, the orgasm that nearly made me cry, and the pigeon family nested on the balcony were also very notable.
I can still hear her whisper, in my ear next to my cheek, her skin so fucking smooth, “let go. just let go.”