Femming the Strap-On, Guest Post by Artemisia FemmeCock

I used to think I wasn’t gay enough to have a cock.

I cringe at that now, wondering what the hell it even means to be “gay enough” for anything. My 16-year-old self had some very ingrained assumptions though, assumptions that formed an identity radically different from the one I inhabit so comfortably today.

It seems natural to introduce myself as a “queer femme dyke” now, but to my newly-out teen self, those were three very incongruous things: queer was a slur, femme was the counter-identity to masculine, and dyke was a term reserved for only the most visible, butch lesbians.

These were conclusion influenced by the community I found when I first came out as a freshman in high school, a community that assured me I was a lesbian without ever asking because I am a cis woman attracted to women. It was like a scratchy, ill-filling sweater, but amongst the many other discomforts of high school, it was warming to feel welcome somewhere.

However, this meant that an identity was crafted for me before I could even begin to claim one for myself. Part of that identity was my presentation as a femme woman who was dating a butch woman, which coded me as the submissive and receptive partner, while they were perceived as the dominant, the pleaser, the one who wore the strap-on.

We were swathed in binary stereotypes by others, queer or not, and there were endless jokes about how gay my partner was for being a visible butch woman. The most vivid being when a group of friends attempted to quantify our collective “gayness.” It was decided that my partner constituted two whole gays, while I could only claim one half. I don’t like math to begin with, but when that math is based on the idea that sexuality can be calculated from one’s appearance, I really don’t like math.

I played into this role of “half gay” though, laughing along with jokes that dismissed my sexuality because of my femininity, about being hit on by men or asked if I had a boyfriend because I didn’t “look gay,” and accepting generalized assumptions about my relationship and sex life.

I was so compliant because many of their assumptions were true: I could have had a billboard above my head that read “I’m fucking GAY” and I would still hear the dismissive rhetoric “but you’re too pretty…” and “are you sure?” In my relationship, I was submissive and my partner was dominant, I chose the cock but she always wore it, and she didn’t enjoy being penetrated while I did. Presentation and sex became linked in my mind, and I conceded to the stereotypes.

It wasn’t until I went to college and saw unabashed, gender fucking, non-binary femmes that I began to see my identity as more than half: the half gay, the receiving half, the other half of butch. I started to understand that my presentation isn’t complimentary, it’s individual and multi-faceted. I can like, do, dress, and fuck however feels right to me. So I took off the itchy sweater and all the assumptions that were pinned to it.

From there, I started playing with my femmeness, seeking to reclaim my body as strong and loud and queer. I grew out my body hair and dyed it pink, I gravitated towards bold lip colors and nails, and I found power in ritual: taking time to get dressed, do my hair, apply copious amounts of glitter. I embraced my femmeness in my sex life too, savoring snapshots of deep red lipstick smudged on a silicone cock, masturbating with nails that matched the color of my vibrator, and styling the cutest pony tails to be pulled on.

I found a partner who has shifted and changed with me over the past two years, and though our journeys of sex, sexuality, and presentation are undeniably different, we’re able to express our needs and wants in dynamic ways. For so long, I just didn’t have the language or references or support to communicate in that way, and a large component of my shift in understanding is centered around exchanging that sweater for a strap-on.

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My first cock was a milky pastel pink that coordinated so well with my mint and pink lace harness. When I put it on, the wispy hairs on my thighs, two chubby bumps for knees, and slightly pigeon-toed feet all defocused, obstructed by that new view. I began to bob and sway as my hips swung and my legs lifted off the ground. I danced around in my new naked, the weight of my cock against my pelvis, brushing my skin as I shook and spun. It was like the queerest tampon commercial dance montage you’d ever seen, and I would have gladly accepted a trampoline to complete the image.

There was reclamation in that cock, feeling my queer femmeness in something that I had known as a symbol of masculinity and dominance. That was years ago, and since then, wearing a cock has become an ever present part of my life. Literally, it’s in my name, but it’s also my identity. Albeit, a very condensed identity, but it took me years of unlearning a selfhood formed by others in order to get to the point where it seems comfortable to join “femme” and “cock” together in a declaration of who I am.

How I Became A Daddy

I came to be a Daddy in a dominance/submissive context somewhat reluctantly. For years, I’d heard about this kind of play in kinky relationships — particularly among my gay male friends. I felt a certain charge about it whenever it came up in conversation, but my charge mostly felt very negative: Why would people play with that? How was it sexy? Wasn’t it glorifying incest? How was it not about child abuse, on some level?

I remember very clearly the first direct conversations about it, which was about fifteen years ago now: my friend Greg was giving me a ride home, and somehow it came up in conversation. He was (probably still is) notoriously slutty, and always chatty about his sexcapades and adventures. In my memory, he’s the one who brought it up, but it could’ve been me — I’ve often been the one to eagerly stick my foot in my mouth around kink, asking all kinds of personal questions no matter how appropriate. But I like hanging out with other folks who like to talk about kink, and generally, they answer my questions.

“What is up with all this daddy stuff!?” I asked him. “I mean, how is it not about incest?”

Greg, level-headed and at least fifteen years older than me, answers slowly: “Well … it kind of is about incest. But it’s also about having an older male figure, in the gay boy communities. About having a positive male role model, and how so many of us lacked that as young boys, and how we still crave it.”

I sat with that answer for a good eight years, devouring all the lesbian erotica I could find, my favorites of which had daddy/girl overtones. Why do I like this so much? I’d ask myself. This isn’t something I want, it’s just something I like to read about, for whatever reason. My dirty little secret, the erotica I would never tell other people that I like. It’s wrong, I can’t justify it. But still … I must like it, I keep coming back to it.

For a while, a close friend of mine was a femme girl looking for a butch daddy. I remember those conversations with her clearly, too — and I was still pushing, asking poking questions. It seems obvious now that I was deeply drawn to the dynamic and couldn’t look away, but that I was also trying to work it out for myself.

“But what is it about the daddy/girl dynamic that makes it, you know, not incest?” I’d ask her incessantly.

“It’s just different,” she’d answer, somewhat vaguely. “It’s not about that, for me. It’s about power, and strength, and feeling taken care of, and submissive.”

That language, at least, I could grok. She’s the one who insisted I read Carol Queen’s book The Leather Daddy and the Femme, and that helped me get it even more.

Then, a conversation with a femme who identified as a babygirl I had a few brief dates with helped cement it for me. “Think of it as two different definitions,” she told me. “Like the word baby. We don’t mean literally ‘you’re a baby’ when we call our lovers ‘baby.’ But we invoke the sweet tenderness that word implies. Same with daddy. We don’t mean definition one: the man whose sperm helped conceive you, we mean definition 2: a masculine person who nurtures and cares for you, usually in the leather communities, where sex may or may not be part of the exchange.”

As a word person, it helped to parse the two definitions apart. It helped to start conceiving of this whole separate definition of what a “daddy” is, and how that relationship dynamic worked.

That babygirl femme and I didn’t date long, but our conversations around those concepts were a big turning point for me. I knew I wanted to explore them more. I finally thought, oh, I think I like that, that’s why I’ve been so drawn to slash repulsed by it all this time. Amazing how repulsion and desire can sometimes be two sides of the same coin.

So when Sarah and I got together, shared a lot of our fantasies with each other, and started to explore the realms of kink that we’d always wanted to or hadn’t yet, being a daddy came up for me early on.

“I know it’s something that I want,” I told her. I was dating other people when we got together, and I told her I was interested in exploring polyamory. “I’m not saying that it’s something we have to do together. But I am saying that it’s something I want to figure out if I like, and how I like it. I know it’s something I want in my erotic toolbox, so to speak. If that’s not something you feel willing to play with me, that’s totally okay, but I might want to do it on my own elsewhere.”

It wasn’t an ultimatum, but I did think that it might end up being a dealbreaker.

“I just don’t get it. I mean why would I want to invoke my dad during sex?!” she said.

“It’s not about that. It’s only about you and me. And, in my opinion, we already have the kind of sex and play that I’m talking about. I nurture you, I call you baby and girl and sometimes little girl. You like all that stuff.”

“Yeah. I really do,” her eyelashes fluttered. “Really a lot.”

I grinned. “Honestly I think the only difference between what we do now and what I’m asking for is that one word: daddy.”

She looked pensive. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

The next time it came up, in a different discussion about kinks and explorations, and I mentioned again that I was interested in exploring it, she said, “I’ve been thinking about that. And I think I might just … say it, during sex, sometime.”

I had thought it was never going to happen with her. She’d been pretty clear about her disinterest.

She looked at me sideways, slyly. “We’ll see.”

It was a tease, but it totally worked.

A few weeks later, she did it: just casually let it slip from her mouth into my ear while she had her arms and legs wrapped around me, fucking her slow. It tipped me over the edge and I shuddered inside her, grabbing at her hair, toes curling, coming hard.

After catching my breath, she giggled. “I guess we know what you like!”

It was almost embarrassing, so vulnerable to be known and seen like that. To be splayed wide open, even in front of someone I trusted most in the world. But her eyes were warm and I could see that she liked it, too, and that we were in this together.

Lying Down, Guest Post by Kathleen Delaney-Adams (excerpt from Dirty Dates)

Excerpt from Dirty Dates edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press. Reprinted with permission

She presents her back to me, unadorned and shivering in the early morning air. I know she loathes to being naked, the humility and vulnerability of it, so the fact that she’s offered it to me has moved me greatly, made me rock hard. She is spectacular, standing in the middle of the living room, her eyes blinking sleepily, her body already melting in anticipation.

I have surprised her with this, barely allowing her to finish her first cup of coffee before ordering her to take off her clothes and give me her flesh. Although this is our ritual, a Sunday morning play-date we rarely, if ever, miss, I am usually gentle with her. I allow her to wake slowly and warm up to the day, serve her coffee in bed, warm up to the day. The ways in which we arouse each other during these weekly assignations are myriad indeed, sometimes kinky, always juicy. This morning I want kink, demanded it of her. Although this is unexpected, she has scurried to please me, collecting my whips, the lube, the condoms, arranging them within easy reach on the coffee table before she stands before me and offered herself up. She is eager for my instructions, always. I run my hand down the skin of her creamy back and murmur, “That’s a good girl.”

She quivers in response and raises her eyes to mine.

“I didn’t say you could look at me, girl,” I hiss, and we are on.

She knows the drill, eyes now downcast as she slips into her submission. There is a smirk of pleasure and excitement playing about her lips. I should punish her for her sass, but her morning face is so pretty that I decide to allow it. For now.

The first licks of my galley whip are a tease, a flirt of leather on her skin. Kisses promise more to come and render her shaking with desire and a bit of fear.

I like the fear. I let it build slowly, increasing the intensity of the lashes she is receiving until she moves her body in expectation of them, a slight shifting toward the whip. I laugh and hit her pussy, not gently. She moans and spreads her legs open for me, for more.

“Ooh, you liked that, didn’t you, you whore?”

“Yes. Yes, Daddy.” Her voice is breathy.

I hit her pussy again, harder, first with the tails then the handle of the whip. She is moaning louder now, gasping. She blinks back the first sign of real tears—tears of pain or need, I’m not sure—but I give her more nonetheless.

When I stop abruptly her body jerks in response, stiffening, then softening and leaning back toward me. She sniffles, and I flick the whip gently through her hair, letting it caress her long red curls as if it were my fingers touching her.

She has told me it makes her feel cherished, when I beat and whip her flesh, when I fuck her hard and without lube, when I make demands of her. But I want to remind her she is also cherished now, in between the pain—that my whip can be both a brutal weapon and a tender one.

I reach around with my hands and squeeze her tits, rubbing my thumbs over her nipples, tugging them. I slide slowly down her belly, my fingers finding her slick wet pussy. She cries out and stumbles, losing her balance, when I shove three fingers inside her.

“Mmm, nice and wet for me, just the way I like you.”

Just as quickly I pull my hand away. My cock grows even stiffer when she cries out again and there is no mistaking her hunger.

I begin to whip her in earnest now, letting it build, slicing the whip into her skin with enough force to leave marks. That tender spot just under her ass is my favorite, the blood rising to the surface almost immediately in a sweet red welt.

She is fighting to stand still, moaning and sobbing, her entire body quaking. I land a series of intense blows on her back, and she sobs harder, in pain.

“Turn around,” I growl, and she obeys immediately.

Her teary eyes meet mine, her mouth swollen and quivering, and I want to tear into it, bite it, draw blood. I can see juice on her thighs, her pussy glistening. Her eyes are pleading. I know she wants more. She doesn’t have to beg—I’m not done yet—but I decide to make her anyway.

“Have you had enough, girl?” I ask. She starts to shake her head, than catches herself; she knows I prefer she answer me when I ask a question.

“N-no. No.”

“Do you want more then? Tell me you want more.”

“Yes. Yes, please. Please.” Her begging is not part of our play. I know she means it, and I am so stiff for her I might explode.

“Lift your arms for me.”

I demand full access to that delicate flesh. I want to devour her. Instead, I settle for my whip’s access, the ferocity of my own need barely restrained as I slice the tender skin of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Her nipples are hard, her breath rasping, her lips trembling. She bites her lower lip to keep from crying but she can’t stop the flow of tears, the sobs. When I lash out at her pussy, she again opens her legs for me, rocking her hips forward so I can better reach her clit, moving back and forth in time with the leather. This is a dance we have perfected over time, a dance not just of desire but of devotion.

I can’t wait a moment longer to enter that tight pussy, and I lay down the whip and grab her, pressing her against me. She collapses in my arms, simply melting, and I feel her wet cheeks buried in my neck.

Read the rest of the story in the anthology Dirty Dates edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press. Get more information about the Dirty Dates anthology here. Thanks for letting me reprint part of it!

Little Liar, Guest Post by Rebekah Weatherspoon

I need routine. It grounds me, keeps me sane, keeps me from going off on the teenagers I work in my other life. So I’ll tell you about my day, how things go when I’m with Daddy.

11:07am

Hours before, Daddy pulled me out of my bed, the cedar box at the foot of her CalKing. It’s comfy and cozy, the refreshing rich wood lined with a soft mattress and linens and pillows. There are plenty of holes that let me breathe just fine. I was afraid of my bed at first, but I like it now. It gives me a place to get away. It gives me a quiet dark place to think about Daddy. She always lets me sleep in. Her day starts early and we both know how cranky I am before ten a.m., but every morning she opens my box and helps me half asleep under the soft sheets where she spends the night. Sometimes I wake up a bit, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I remember the way Daddy touches me before she slips out the door.

Like this morning, I don’t want to wake up. I’m wrapped around my teddy bear, cozy in my bed. Daddy had me up late the night before fucking in the backyard so I went to sleep all worn out. Still when she opens the lid, it’s like my pussy isn’t done with her. Like we left some unfinished business in the grass by the pool. My body wakes up even though my mind doesn’t and I wiggle my way onto her comforter. She says something to me like “Good morning”, or “Good girl”. There’s a “good” in their somewhere as I flop against the pillow.

She touches me all over. My shoulder, my tummy, my breasts. I like it and I don’t tell her to stop. So when she rubs my pussy I might be sleeping, but I squirm a little and a little more until her fingers are inside me. Daddy has to leave. Gym, shower, juice bar, contracts, meeting, meeting, but she wants me as much I want her, so she fingers my pussy, letting me mumble away in my half sleep as I ride her hand until I come. That orgasm puts me right back to sleep. Or maybe I know Daddy is just teasing and doesn’t really want me to wake up because when I start talking that early in the morning, my mouth is smart and Daddy doesn’t have time to punish me.

But at little after 11:06 I do wake up. It’s the drone of the lawnmower, the rhythmic hum that blends into my dreams and makes me think I should do something weird like fly a helicopter. I take my time getting up, but when I do it’s into Daddy’s massive shower. Daddy takes care of my grooming so I just have to get myself nice and clean before I eat a healthy breakfast. I watch my figure, but I know how to balance waffles with fruit exercise and Daddy has the fanciest waffle maker. I have waffles and fruit and then three hours of daytime TV.

I don’t have any chores except cooking dinner, but Daddy has S, her housekeeper and the gardner, George. S stocked the fridge with everything I needed for the day including the chicken I’ll make for Daddy tonight, so I can watch all the junk TV I want while Daddy’s away.

2:00pm

I hit the pool. The hedges behind Daddy’s are high, but there’s a woman next door. She works from home and there’s this little spot where the trees part and she can see right into Daddy’s yard. When she works from home, most days she watches me. Like today she watches me as I work on my tan lines and play with my pussy. I told Daddy that the woman watches me. Daddy doesn’t mind. She might even invite her over sometime so she can get a load of me up close. We’ll both tease her, Daddy says, but it hasn’t happened. yet. I send a few texts. My friends are at work. They don’t get summers off. I get a few messages back, but soon I doze.

4:30pm

There’s chicken to bake and potatoes to prepare. I blast my music as loud as I want. S stops by for a bit after she’s spent the morning with her sick mum. She checks the mail and the gardener’s work, does some dusting, and makes Daddy’s bed. But the house is usually so clean so she doesn’t have to stay too long. She finds me as I’m dicing carrots. S checks my pussy just to make sure I’m wet. My nipples too for good measure.

She tells me to watch the chicken and not too dry it out. She tells me to turn down the music just in case Daddy calls. I need to hear the phone. And she tell me to put my toys back in my box before Daddy comes home. And I get a lecture about sunscreen. She likes my tan lines almost as much as Daddy doesn’t, but cancer isn’t cute and she doesn’t want me to get a sunburn.

S doesn’t want to play. She has her own fun with her own pets, but she’s a dirty old lady so she she checks me one more time, her hand gripping my pussy hard until my juices make a little squeaking noise as they slip between her fingers. I tell her she’s dirty and I don’t like it. I tell her to stop, but she knows I don’t mean it by the way I hold still. I like being teased this way. A slap on the ass and she’s gone.

6:30pm
I sneak a glass of wine. I hope Daddy doesn’t find out.

6:45pm

A text from Daddy. She’ll be home at her regular time. Dinner’s done and left to warm so I cover myself in this almond scented oil that Daddy loves and pull on these thigh high athletic socks with pink stripes that Daddy is obsessed with. Then I climb back in my box for a bit to wait for Daddy.

7:15pm

I’m playing games on my phone in the dark, but I hear Daddy. She doesn’t announce herself, I can hear her making her way to the bedroom. The front door shuts. Keys on the counter. I can’t hear her put down her bag, but I know she leaves in the kitchen right next to the counter. She’s checking to see if dinner is ready. Daddy likes to know before hand where or not she needs to punish me. But dinner is ready and I’ve been a good girl. Daddy opens my box. She’s adjusted the light in the bedroom so I can look at her gorgeous face without having to squint.

Still so handsome. Gray hair, almost pure white styled back away from her face. Brown eyes and full lips. Her dress shirt sleeves are already rolled up. I love her arms. I love her muscles.

“Hi,” she says.

I hide my face against my teddy before I look at her again. “Hi Daddy.”

“Were you a good girl today?”

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. Pick out a toy and let’s have dinner.” Daddy’s so strong she reaches down and helps me out of my box. We walk over to her toy chest, where we keep all our straps and dildos and paddles and whips and the gags I asked so nicely for.

I look at the dildos laid out all nice and clean. I like to get them dirty for S and tease her when she has to clean them. I joke that she licks them when I’m not looking. Daddy laughs and tell me to cut it out.

“I want you to pick, Daddy,” I say before I shove my thumb in my mouth.

“You do, do you? Let’s go with Big Blue then.” Blue is the widest toy we have. I like to choke on it, and make my pussy hurt. Daddy grabs it for me and we go to the dining room. I get on the table while Daddy makes herself a plate and gets herself a drink. I get on the table and Daddy sits down with her food between my legs. When she takes the first bite that’s when I start. I sit up on my knees and suck the big blue cock in my hands. I suck it deep, push it down my throat until I gag. I pull it out and let saliva dribble down my chin. Daddy doesn’t like it when I swallow.

I do it again, drooling all over my chest. I use the big blue tip to spread my spit around my nipples. Daddy likes that.

“Is your cunt hungry, baby?” Daddy asks.

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Then you should feed it.”

I stay on my knees, but slide Big Blue between my legs. I sit it on. Daddy likes the way I whimper. It hurts so much, but I’m so wet and it feels so good.

“Make it feel better,” I tell Daddy.

“Not while I’m eating, baby. You have to make yourself feel good.”

I bounce up and down, taking the ache, grateful the table’s so study. Daddy scoops up her wine before it spills over.

I’m close to coming, but I want to give Daddy the show she deserves. I slide to my ass and open my legs real wide. Daddy sits back and takes another sip. I’m going to be sore in the morning, but I don’t care. I fuck myself with Big Blue, harder and harder, until my cum dribbles all over the table and squirts on Daddy’s plate. I’m not done so I do it again and again. I know how Daddy likes it so I don’t make her wait too long before I crawl back to my knees and lick up the mess that I’ve made.

Daddy’s pleased, but there’s a look on her face. “Did you get into the wine?”

Daddy knows I’m a liar so I don’t tell the truth, I just keep licking at the slick table top. “No, Daddy. I don’t like wine.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Daddy. It’s yucky.”

“You sure about that? Come here baby.”

I move off the table as Daddy pushes back her chair and then I straddle her lap. She doesn’t pack to work, but some time while she was making her play she put on a strap and cock. I slide myself along the ridges in her slacks. But Daddy shakes her head.

“No, baby. You lied to me.”

“I swear, Daddy. I didn’t.”

She tips her glass and pours a few dribbles of the cool white wine over my nipples and then she cleans me up with her mouth. I whimper and moan and grind myself along the hidden ridges between my legs. “Only good girls get Daddy’s cock,” she whispers in my ear.

I pull back and drive myself against her lap even harder as I look her in the eye. “What do bad girls get, Daddy?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #176, Indigo Bleu and Viceroy.

Moving In (Lauren & Beck #3)

“Please Beck, please put it in, please,” Lauren says, pushing her hips back to encourage the tip of Beck’s strap-on cock to slide inside of her. She’s on her knees, hands gripping the headboard of the bed for support. Beck has Lauren’s hair tight in her fist like reigns and a bridle.

Beck grins. She wants it excruciatingly slow. She wants it to last. She wants to savor this rare moment, this time when Lauren actually asked her to strap on and fuck her. Please Beck, will you fuck me with your cock? Lauren doesn’t usually ask for more than fingers. Beck’s hips are quivering.

They have been working all weekend, moving all of Lauren’s worldly possessions from her small apartment in Berkeley up to Beck’s house in the Oakland hills. Luckily, they had a lot of help: Lauren’s roommate, a few of her friends from work, plus Beck’s gaggle of friends who follow her around anywhere. Mostly big, burly butches who like to be useful—they had the heavy furniture moved in practically before Lauren even got out of the car. Fast and furious.

The move has been a long time coming. Beck has been wracked with anxiety these past few weeks, as the August 1st moving date got closer and closer and the reality of no longer living alone started setting in. They spent fewer nights together, savoring their own rooms and own space. Lauren finished packing early, the bulk of her objects being kitchen gear and clothes, and relatively easy to pack away. She even had the audacity to suggest that they rent the moving van a week early and just go for it—but Beck quickly stomped out that idea.

After three years together, the topic of moving in together came up frequently, but Beck became adept at changing or skirting the subject, deflecting or, eventually, out-right saying no. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” Beck used to say. “I just need my space to be the way I want it to be. I know we spend most of our nights together. But those one or two nights we don’t spend together are important for me to have.”

“I understand,” Lauren says. And she did. But she also wanted their books mingling on the same bookshelf, she missed her good set of knives whenever she was cooking at Beck’s house. Which was practically every day.

But things changed in the six months since Mallory died. Beck softened, somehow; everything about her is a little more raw, a little more exposed, a little less together and buttoned-up. Even her fucking has become more raw, more full of tears and growl. They weren’t that close, not since Beck moved to the opposite coast, but as soon as Mallory got sick, Beck almost moved back. Mallory was the one who told her no, who told her to live her life out in San Francisco the way she wanted to. They were practically the only family each other had, so the loss has turned Beck’s life upside down in the weeks since.

Now, Lauren’s fancy memory foam mattress is on the bed frame that Beck inherited from Mallory, a family heirloom of dark carved wood. It is practically the only thing that is put together in the whole house, with Lauren’s boxes and a few pieces of furniture haphazardly placed all over Beck’s usually neat and tidy home. Beck can feel the chaos of moving, even though it wasn’t her who moved; the suspension of security in order to become something new, something bigger than what she was before. This has been a year of letting go, of letting things happen, of accepting the gifts that the universe is offering, of learning how to ground and comfort herself.

And Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. Such a beauty, how lucky Beck is to have her as a partner, as a friend, as a lover. She has been supportive, in her own way—which is not always the way that Beck wants her to be, but is a way, and ultimately, it works. Whenever Beck straps on, she wants to pour herself into Lauren and swing around inside until she’s wrung out. She knows those tight muscles of Lauren’s so well with her fingers, her tongue; she can envision them around this temporary fake cock, is starting to feel what it’s like to thrust inside of a girl and feel her clench.

Beck enters her slow, so slow. Lauren breathes in, breathes out. Beck closes her eyes, holding on to Lauren’s hips with both hands. She applies more lube and slows down even more.

Lauren is on her stomach, legs squeezed together, Beck’s thighs on the outside, thrusting in still so slow. Lauren is moaning into the sheets, hair falling in her face, hands clenching. She flexes her feet, her toes are curling. She tries to get Beck in even deeper by moving her hips. Beck responds slow and they are dancing, meeting each other’s rhythms, tension building.

“Please fuck me, please, do it harder, please baby, please,” Lauren says. Half of them are into the pillow and she’s drooling and Beck can barely tell what she’s saying, but she thrusts in a little harder now, a little faster, picking up speed as her own pleasure builds. She has these micro-orgasms, spasms that clench and release, every couple of thrusts, but she wants to go after the big one, too, wants to feel herself emptied into Lauren’s beautiful slit.

Beck holds on and focuses on the tip, just the tip of her cock, where it touches Lauren inside, where they meet and merge. Lauren is gasping and pressing back into her and it makes Beck crazy, it makes her hips tremor and thrust, it opens up new wanting in her pelvis like a bowl of milk. “Fuck, Lauren—fuck!” Beck starts to say as she comes, shaking and pressing harder inside, spilling out and deep into her.

“Baby, baby,” Beck murmurs into Lauren’s hair as her thrusting slows.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, more Beck, just a little more—” Lauren works her hand down under her body and touches her clit, moaning out and thrusting her hips back again. Beck adjusts the strap-on so it’s a little higher, not so directly against her cunt anymore, and starts thrusting again. A little bit higher this time. “Yes, there—there—”

Only a few more thrusts, and Lauren is done. Flying and coming and screaming into the pillows, her own hand furiously touching her cunt as Beck smoothly slides inside at just the right angle. Her whole body tenses, so tight and hard, every muscle and joint contracted, even holding her breath, until she lets it go, releases everything, breathes out with a huge sigh, and inhales sweet new air. She moans, her body still jerking a little from the electricity running through it. Each breath gives her a little more spaciousness, a little more relaxation. Beck is still inside, and Lauren shifts her hips to ease her out.

“Was that what you wanted?” Beck asks, after Lauren has curled on her side and Beck is smoothing her hair back from her face.

“Yes, oh god yes,” Lauren says, kissing Beck lusciously with thick lips and fervor.

“Mmm, I’m glad.”

They’re quiet for a minute, gazing and touching, bodies still sensitive and heightened.

“Baby?” Beck starts.

“Hmm?”

“Can we unpack now?”

Lauren laughs. “Is that going to bug you basically until it’s done?”

Beck looks a little sheepish. “Yes.”

Lauren ruffles her hair. “I know. Yeah, let’s start. How about with the kitchen!”

Beck nods, starting to peel herself off of the bed to face her chaotic house. “It will make it easier to make dinner later.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Lauren started, digging into a box for her silky robe, the blue one that goes to her mid-thigh. “Ricky is bringing over dinner later. He found some new Ethiopian place he says we have to try.”

Beck’s mouth waters. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until they started talking about food. “Sounds great.” She grins, pulling on her boxers with the Superman S and not even caring that her clothes are strewn all over. It’ll come back together, soon, she tells herself. It won’t be the same as it was before, but it’ll be better. They’ll be stronger individually for being with each other. I’m ready, she thinks, as she watches Lauren’s ass in the thin robe as she walks out of the bedroom, lifting her hair out from the neck of the robe and letting it cascade down her back. This is it.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

Pancakes (Lauren & Beck #2)

Beck wakes up slow, taking minutes to open her eyes, shifting her spine and hips as she snuggles closer under the smooth, soft comforter. It’s already bright outside, and if the fog has already burned off that means it’s after 9am already. Beck isn’t surprised they slept in, more like pleased—she never used to allow herself that luxury, even on a weekend. She snakes her arm over to find Lauren, but no one is there; Lauren’s half of the bed is empty. That is enough to wake Beck fully, and she throws off the covers, pulls on boxers, and goes out into Lauren’s kitchen.

The smell tells her where Lauren is before she sees her: pancakes. Beck’s favorite, and Lauren’s specialty. Beck breathes in, inhaling that luxurious smell of butter and sugar, the tangy tinge of fruit. Even her senses seem more sensitive, everything feels more intense. Lauren is balancing pans at the stove: a small cast-iron skillet full of berries, a flat griddle in the center, a metal spatula in one hand. She’s wearing a simple long chef’s apron, and, from the looks of it, nothing else.

“Where’d you go,” Beck mumbles, still sleepy, tongue thick and well-used from last night’s escapades. She comes up behind Lauren and slips her arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder and the side of her neck.

Lauren grins, turning her head to kiss Beck as well as she can reach. “Preparing your favorites,” she says.

“It smells amazing.”

“It’s almost done. I was just thinking about creative ways to wake you up. I can’t believe you slept so late.”

“Me either. Thanks for wearing me out last night.”

Another grin. “My pleasure.”

Beck’s cunt is still sore. It was the first time she’s taken Lauren’s fist all the way, to the hilt of her wrist, thick and all-consuming. Lauren’s hands aren’t small, but that isn’t it: Beck isn’t usually willing to open. Again, it goes through Beck’s mind: everything has changed. She pushes back tears, tries to stop her mind from going into that downward spiral that leaves her in bed watching sitcoms all day.

They eat in Beck’s messy dining room, clearing the paperwork to one side of the table and laying out the fruit compote, yogurt, maple syrup, and steaming pile of pancakes on their side. Beck is famished, but it’s so deliciously indulgent to be eating pancakes on a Wednesday morning that she savors bite after bite after bite like it’s the first one. She licks maple syrup from her fingers and doesn’t even care that that is messy and improper.

Lauren watches her eat with a little sadness in her eyes, finally asking, “How are you feeling?”

Beck sighs a little. Inevitable. “Good. I’m … okay.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know.” Another bite. At least eating is a good excuse not to talk. She chews quietly.

“Can I … help, somehow?”

Beck shrugs, spooning compote onto another pancake. “Not really. Look, baby—” Beck puts her spoon down, reaches over for Lauren’s hand, warm and comforting. “There’s just nothing to do. I’m hungry, that’s a good sign, right?”

Lauren nods a little. “Yeah. I just … worry. You know.”

“I know.”

Beck has one more pancake, just one more, she promises herself, and finishes off the coffee with coconut cream from her favorite mug. It’s perfect, it could not be more perfect. She beams at Lauren, thrilled and grateful. This is how it happens these days: the emotional roller coaster has ecstasy in the highs and despair in the lows. The ups and downs can make Beck feel nauseous, they happen so fast.

Lauren starts clearing dishes and Beck helps, carrying plates to the kitchen, overlooking last night’s dinner dishes still in the sink. She doesn’t even care about that anymore. Everything has changed. When Beck comes back in, Lauren is wiping the table with a sponge. There’s a fat drip of maple syrup right in the center of the table that she misses, and something stirs in Beck. A new hunger, more hunger, that insatiable hunger that can never be satisfied. Breakfast is barely just complete, but it isn’t about food. It’s about consumption, about devouring, about fingernails ripping into flesh and the crying out that throats make when they are gasping for air.

Beck comes up behind Lauren and circles her neck with her hand, pushing her chest first down onto the table. Lauren gasps, bare breasts crushing against the table. “You missed a spot,” she hisses in Lauren’s ear. Lauren’s forehead is almost touching the dot of syrup. Beck points, and immediately Lauren opens her mouth to try to lick the table clean, but she can’t quite reach, so scoots further onto the table. Her feet no longer touch the floor, her hips are on the table now. As Lauren’s tongue touches the sticky-sweet drip, Beck stands between her legs, parting her cheeks, taking handfuls of her juicy ass and thighs. Lauren’s slit is pink, still swollen from so much fucking last night, thick. Her pubic hair is dark and groomed, but still a little wild, a little unruly.

It doesn’t take Beck much time at all to get her mouth positioned, and she sucks Lauren’s folds onto her tongue, soft and sharp, sweet and succulent. Lauren gasps, tender in all her private places. Beck is devourous. She sucks and opens Lauren’s legs wider, holds her hips, wraps her arms around her thighs. She doesn’t use her fingers inside, just her tongue, as deep as she can get, desperate to fill Lauren up. Lauren tastes like salt and brine and sweet milk, like promise and desire itself.

“Oh god, oh god,” Lauren moans, pushing herself back toward Beck’s eager mouth. Beck laps and sucks, flicks with her tongue on just the right places, makes it hard and long for others. Beck could do this for hours. Time is irrelevant. They don’t have anywhere to be, only here, right now, doing this kind of worship, this kind of reverence. Those other things can’t possibly matter more than this.

When Lauren finally comes, she gushes hard into Beck’s mouth and down her chin, dripping onto her chest, though Beck swallows mouthfuls eagerly. Lauren trembles, finally releasing her grip on the table’s edge, letting the tension drain out of her legs. She turns as Beck rises from her crouched position on the floor. Beck pets her hair, Lauren’s tangled mess of curls, as Lauren hums, still vibrating from orgasm.

Lauren raises her head a little, an invitation for a kiss. Beck leans down close and their lips touch softly. Lauren sees the sparks still in Beck’s eyes.

“More?” Lauren asks.

Beck nods.

“Bedroom?”

Beck nods again, offering her hand. “Let’s go.” Lauren takes it, and lets herself be led down the hall.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

The Night Everything Changed (Lauren & Beck #1)

Beck waits for Lauren outside of Chez Panisse in Berkeley, leaning up against the brick wall, posing herself deliberately while trying to look casual. One foot back on the wall, knee bent; leaning on one shoulder, hand in the pocket; crouching down with her back resting against the wall—none of them felt quite right. Beck fiddles with a Bic pen, the back of which is nearly destroyed from chewing on it. At least it isn’t a cigarette. Lauren hates it when Beck smokes.

Fancy rich Berkeley people mill about, waiting for their reservation to be called. The night air is warm, the breeze still a little cool; it hasn’t rained in weeks and everything is dry and dusty. Everything is well taken care of on this block, but just one block in any direction and things get a lot more brown and crisp.

When Lauren emerges, she is long and limber and worked up from her shift, talking a mile a minute, kissing Beck so quickly she misses Beck’s skin and only touches air. Beck always picks up Lauren on Thursday nights, since she works from home on Friday. It’s become their date night, an unspoken agreement that they’ll spend the night together. They have a lot of unspoken agreements.

“The duck tonight was outta control,” Lauren is saying as Beck opens the door of her green VW Jetta and Lauren steps in. Her bare legs rub up against each other for a moment as she’s shifting and pulling her long legs in to the car, and Beck’s mouth waters. Lauren is wearing the black ballet flats with the little white bows, and Beck loves how she always kicks them off the second she gets home—”Who needs shoes? Shoes are for people who don’t like their feet to touch the ground. Me, I’m a realist.”

Beck is nodding, listening, interjecting little murmurs of interest as she drives through Berkeley up to her house in the Oakland hills, a modest little thing financed the first year she landed that exec position at Yelp. Beck lives alone. Beck likes to live alone. Lauren’s apartment in Berkeley is cramped but sweet, and they almost never stay there. Beck is pretty sure Lauren’s roommate Ricky hates her.

“And she didn’t even listen to me!” Lauren is saying. “It could have all been avoided if she’d just paid attention when I told her the plan for the evening.” She’s talking about the other host at Chez Panisse, a hetero woman, Christy, who just discovered Burning Man and won’t stop talking about it. Beck and Lauren went out to dinner with Christy and her “partner” Ben once, but spent the entire evening criticizing the food and never said one thing that was interesting. It was a good choice of restaurant though, Beck had to give them that—but she won’t put herself in that situation again, even though Christy has queried.

Lauren always needs half an hour to talk through what happened at work after her shift is over. Beck takes the long way, winding up Snake Road and up Skyline Boulevard, enjoying the view of the sparkling lights of San Francisco, Treasure Island, the Oakland shipyard, and the Bay Bridge.

Suddenly, Lauren says, “Pull over,” right into Beck’s ear. Her hands are on Beck’s thigh in that provocative way that tells Beck that she is about to dig into her jeans and she damn well better be wearing a cock. Lauren’s skirt is short and tight and her legs are tanned, her thighs thick. Beck licks her lips and eyes her girl as they slow to a pull-out overlooking the Bay. Beck hasn’t gotten a word in, doesn’t even know how to say what she needs to say. She’s been waiting to pick up Lauren ever since she left work at 5 o’clock, and the combination of lust and trust is making her hands ache to pull Lauren close and inhale her lavender shampoo smell. But talking can wait.

Lauren lunges at Beck’s fly before Beck even has the chance to put her car in park, pulling out Beck’s packing cock and taking it into her mouth. Lauren’s curls tumble out over Beck’s lap and Beck holds them back so she can see Lauren’s pretty lips. Her kisses are full-lipped and luxurious, soft and supple. Beck can’t feel anything through her cock, and she thinks it’s stupid when dykes pretend that they can, but she loves how Lauren looks when she wraps her lips around it and licks with her tongue. Beck comes pretty easily anyway, so a little extra distance between her premature orgasms is always nice.

Beck runs her hand down along Lauren’s back, over her ribs and the sides of her body, over her hips, pushing her hand between Lauren’s legs to reach her cunt. This is what Lauren likes: being fingered until she comes while Beck’s cock is in her mouth. This is what Beck likes: the weight of Lauren on her lap, the feel of her curls when Beck fists them, the feeling of her palm disappearing inside Lauren’s cunt, and fucking Lauren’s ass bent over the bed when they get back home. Plus, whatever gourmet midnight snack Lauren makes is always the perfect blend of sweet and umami. The curling up together and sleeping is the hardest part, but Beck is getting used to it, letting her messy self be seen.

It isn’t going to take long. Lauren’s hips are rocking already and she’s working her hand up and down on Beck’s cock. Beck could come at any moment. She feels numb. Her thighs are squeezing together and Lauren’s cunt is squeezing at the same pulse, her fingers caught inside and shaking. Something is happening, but Beck isn’t sure what, it doesn’t usually feel like this. This feels hard, dangerous, like she’s going to cry out and pee and come all at once, and something is going to happen, it’s going to make something happen, like her body is going to come apart at the seams and slowly disintegrate.

Against her palms, Lauren’s thighs are quivering. Beck wants her mouth on them, wants her mouth on Lauren’s cunt, wants to drink her down and make her come over and over, sucking her clit so swollen. The thought of it sends Beck’s own cunt contracting and coming, and she pushes her hips up against Lauren harder, her clit spasming in sharp jolts of electricity as she bites her lip, hard, harder than she means to. Her body bursts and vibrates, the numbness seeping away and leaving more spasms of pain, release, confusion. Why does it have to feel like this. Beck wants to ignore it, push it down, but she can’t, it bubbles up, and pretty soon she’s crying—tears leaking from her eyes, gulping for air, the messy gross crying that Beck would never let herself do in front of anyone else.

Lauren is in her lap before Beck even notices it, curled up between Beck’s body and the steering wheel, and the weight of Lauren feels comforting. Lauren is kissing her face, nuzzling into her neck. Beck can’t form words yet. Lauren knows better than to ask, or to demand, explanation. She just sits still, she just holds.

“My mom called earlier,” Beck breathes out, not even sure she can say the words. She can hear her mother’s voice again, so clear, ringing like a bell: “Rebecca, Mallory died last night.” They had been waiting for it, of course; it was inevitable, the doctors had said. It had been looming. She’d hung on longer than anyone expected. Beck had already traveled out to Connecticut twice to say goodbye.

Lauren is looking at Beck expectingly, her expression softening as she sees how much struggle is in Beck’s eyes. Beck takes another breath, and manages to say, “It’s Mallory. She’s gone.”

“Oh,” Lauren gasps. Her fingers lace through Beck’s, and she lays her head on Beck’s chest. Beck lowers her face to kiss the top of Laurens head, and inhales the scent of her lavender shampoo.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

Calibrate, Guest Post by Jen Cross

This is how it was between them: leaded with need, full throttle, every night.

It didn’t matter who they were outside of the apartment. It didn’t matter how the world saw them. It didn’t matter: the misconstruals, the misreadings, the misunderstandings, the harassment, the rage. It didn’t matter that it often seemed as though no one could see them but one another.

They saw one another, and that was what really mattered.

Daphne placed the call, every afternoon at three, right when her boss stepped out for his afternoon constitutional – which actually amounted to making a rounds of the department and harassing the rest of the secretaries for awhile, giving Daphne a break.

At ten to three, Gage knew to step away from whatever machine she’d been underneath, wipe as much grease from her hands as she could, and stand nearish the phone. Every one of her coworkers at the shop knew what she was waiting for, and they didn’t quite understand why she pretended not to be waiting for her girlfriend’s call. The guys raised eyebrows at one another, but no one talked any shit. Gage had been at the shop longer than anyone, was the first woman the boss had ever hired back almost twenty years before; she had slowly but surely trained the boys how to deal when she was around: “No sexist bullshit,” she’d explain to a new hire, clapping him or her on the shoulder while showing them around the place. “I don’t wanna hear about any gash or pussy or tail or ass you got last night, got it? None of the other guys do, either. You talk about your women with respect, or don’t talk about ’em at all, got it?”

It didn’t matter to Gage that plenty of the guys wanted to hear about the pussy and the gash. She was all right with them resenting her for that. Fuck them. If she had to walk through the walls of hostility just to get to work every day, they could fucking well hold their tongues to avoid the shop getting sued for creating a hostile work environment.

Exactly at three, the oil-stained phone rang. Gage wiped damp palms on her coveralls and picked up the line.

“Stoney’s Auto.”

“Gage?” Daphne’s voice sounded like warm honey that’d been poured over shards of broken glass in the back alley behind some biker bar.

“Yeah.”

“You there?”

“Always, baby.”

“You got something for me when we get home?”

It never failed. Gage had to swallow hard just to be able to answer. All these years, and still she went immediately rigid at the sound of a woman—her woman—asking for what she wanted. Gage dropped her voice a shade, deepening it the way she knew Daphne liked, and trying to keep a little something private from the guys trying not to look like they’re listening in. “You want something when we get home?”

“Yeah.” A little whimper at the end.

“You gonna tell me about it.”

“Yeah.” A little sharper whimper.

“How’m I gonna calibrate?”

“Bring it all.”

Gage’s heart ached. She knew from this that Daphne had had a particularly hard day; maybe the boss had tried to feel her up again during the staff meeting, or maybe he’d offered up his only-very-thinly-veiled reminder that if she’d only go home with him, he would happily promote her up to management.

“I got it ready.”

“Ok.”

They hung up. One of the guys across the floor, Samuel, Gage’s oldest buddy at the shop, made eye contact with Gage as she hung up. Gage nodded a little slowly. Samuel gave a small smile and a shrug. Gage shrugged back. “Yeah,” she said. Then she went home, mind spinning with what was to come.

Daphne got home before Gage nearly every evening. Most nights she tore off her office drag—button-down shirt and pencil skirt, “nude” nylon stockings, low black pumps—off as soon as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Gage since their four-month anniversary. She’d let her long auburn hair down from its tight bun and wrap herself in one of the many peignoirs she’d collected over the years. Most nights she’d have a bath drawn and dinner started by the time Gage walked in the back door.

“Go clean up,” she’d say to her love, eyeing with hunger Gage’s thick shoulders and broad, filthy hands. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She’d let the satin robe fall, accidentally, from one smooth shoulder as Gage walked past her, which she’d trained Gage never to leave unsuckled, and so, most nights, she had to boil a pot of water to reheat the tub by the time Gage made it from the kitchen into to the bathroom. Most nights, Daphne was the one who’d sit down to their shared dinner oilstained.

It didn’t matter how anyone else saw them, what anyone else read into the roles each played. What mattered was how each of them ached, specifically, for what and who and how the other was.

On this night, Daphne did not take off her clothes. She did not start dinner. She didn’t even remove her red plaid trench coat. She didn’t get past the kitchen. She fell into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the ones with the metal frame backs and the plastic covered seats that came with the ’50s-era linoleum kitchen set they’d found at an estate sale not long after moving in together. She didn’t cry, not again. Everything in her was numb.

Gage found Daphne this way when she arrived home a half-hour later. The evening sun had already given way to shadow, so Daphne was just a silhouette when Gage walked in their back door. There were no lights, none of the music Daphne always had going, no aromas of arroz con pollo or fried plantain or feijoada. Just the stinging scent of lemon cleanser and Daphne’s sorrow.

Gage didn’t speak. After kicking off her work boots, she knelt in front of Daphne. Gently, she removed Daphne’s coat, then let down her hair. She listened to Daphne’s body, the shallow intake of breath. She listened to what needed to happen first.

Gage took both of Daphne’s hands in her own then stood, pulling Daphne to standing with her. She slung a dirty arm around Daphne’s somehow still pristine white work shirt, and led her into the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, Gage began to unbutton Daphne’s shirt.

“No.” Daphne still had not met Gage’s eyes. “Leave them on.”

Gage hardened. It was going to be like this, then. She took a box from next to the bed, and as she went into the bathroom, she said over her shoulder, “Take your nylons off. Leave them on the floor.”

When Gage returned to the bedroom, Daphne had done as she’d been asked. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, far away. Gage collected her woman up in her arms, eased them both back onto the bed, then lifted herself up, reached down, and inched Daphne’s skirt up over those thick hips. She unbuttoned her fly, took out her cock, lubed it up and slipped into Daphne’s cunt.

It was then that Daphne started to cry. She fitted herself to Gage’s body—legs wrapped hard around thighs, arms clenched to Gage’s well-muscled back, fingernails digging in hard. She wept in big, fat sobs, burying her face in Gage’s chest as Gage buried herself in Daphne. Gage knew what to do. She found her rhythm, their rhythm, and kept steady as Daphne’s sorrow brewed and boiled over. It took awhile. She never knew how long it would take on nights like these. Give it to me, she thought. Give me what no one else can see.

The shift was immediate, when it came. Her gasping sobs shifted to gasps raw and thick with hunger. “Yes,” Daphne whimpered. “Yes. Like that, baby.” And Gage knew she could let go. She dropped her hands from where they’d been cradling Daphne’s head and shoulders, grabbed her woman’s hips, and drove herself home. “Yes,” she answered, panting. “Like this.” Daphne’s face wet, her body sore, her heartache subsiding. Yes, she thought, as she had every night for seventeen years. Yes, girl, please. Like this.

The Brute and the Brat (Bean & Mickey #3)

Content warning: Rough sex, face slapping, dirty talk.

Bean fists Mickey’s hair, yanking hard, holding her motionless, before she throws her down onto the bed.

Mickey moans and lays still. Taking it.

Bean isn’t worried about what she wants. She is ready to take. Eager to trust her girl, eager to believe that Mickey can stop her or safeword or use her skillful negotiation to shift things if she really needs to. But Bean also knows that Mickey gets off on being used, abused, like property, like an object. She loves being a receptacle for that kind of pure, strong desire that Bean can dish out.

Every smooth surface she can find, Bean slaps. Ass, thigh, cunt. Throws her body around on the bed, just for a show of force, just so she can get used to being off-guard and off-kilter. Bean holds her down, bites into her shoulder, too hard too fast but Mickey likes it, she screams out, but she likes it. Her cunt is wet, wetter still. She’s along for the ride. She lets herself go, she turns herself over to Bean like a plaything.

Bean pulls her hair. Moves her closer to the edge of the bed.

That’s when Mickey starts to struggle. She bites Bean’s arm when she reaches. She wrestles against Bean’s weight, even though she has no chance. She’s fast, though—wily, and quick, and strong. She twists out of Bean’s grip and forces Bean to catch her again, to grab her harder, hard enough to leave fingerprint-sized bruises on her arms. She scratches. Bean pins her against the wall but Mickey ducks out of her arms, so Bean takes her down, hard, to the floor, knees hips wrist, but everyone is okay and so Mickey is pinned again. Bean takes hold of Mickey’s hair and drags her up to the bed.

Mickey smirks. As if getting to bed like this is her idea. As if it’s what she wants.

Bean smacks her in the mouth, wipes that smug look off her face. Bean has her attention now.

Mickey looks up, eyes and mouth wide, feeling a little wounded, a little shocked. She relents. It’s that moment Bean waits for, lives for. When Mickey gives up, gives in, gives herself over.

Bean leans over and growls in Mickey’s ear: “That’s right. I can fuck you any way I want, whenever I want. I can do anything to you. Because you’re mine, aren’t you. And you like it rough, don’t you, you dirty girl. You are such a bad girl. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. You’re going to get it now.”

Bean puts her in her place.

Mickey stays there, and whimpers, and pleads, and begs, and opens her legs wide to her lover.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

Daddy’s Belt (Bean & Mickey #1)

Content warning: This story contains daddy/girl play, punishment, name calling, humiliation, and some force. The characters in this story are consenting adults who have established this dynamic consensually and purposefully long before the story begins.

Mickey hears the belt before she sees it; that whip and jingle when it pulls free of Daddy’s jeans immediately makes her wet. She struggles against the silk men’s tie that binds her wrists to the metal headboard and tries to pull her hand through. She doesn’t want a spanking, especially not with the belt. Except kind of, a little bit, she does.

“You’re in trouble, babygirl,” Bean sneers from behind her. She’s mad, but is it for-real-mad or play-mad? Probably play-mad. Mickey doesn’t break any rules that actually matter, just the ones that she knows she can bend.

Mickey twists her neck around and switches her hips to get Bean’s attention. Bean is wrapping the belt around her big hand, her nails still have dirt under them from her long day of landscaping. She hasn’t even taken a shower yet. Bean hates not taking a shower right when she gets home. When Bean looks Mickey in the face, that flash of love and care and giddiness and just a little bit of mean sadist, Mickey sticks out her tongue.

Bean blinks, and sets her jaw, lunging forward to grab Mickey’s face in her other hand. “Dirty girl. You deserve it, and you know it. You know what you did.”

“No! No, Daddy!” Mickey struggles and pouts.

“Yes, you do. I try to teach you to be a good girl, but I just get this dirty little slut. You think you can do things like that and I won’t catch you? Huh, girl?” Bean grabs her ankles and twists her onto her stomach, pushing her down onto the bed and pulling up her skirt.

Mickey whimpers a little, then gets mad. “I do it all the time when you’re not home! So there!”

“You do not.”

“I do! I touch my little pussy and make it all wet and swollen.”

“Filthy little cunt,” Bean flexes, opening and closing her fist, and smacks Mickey’s ass with force, but then regains her nice-daddy composure and tries to go with the discipline approach rather than the humiliation, which will only fuel Mickey’s rebellion. “What’s Daddy’s rule about that, huh? Come on, you know the rule. Tell me.” Bean smacks again. Two pink handprint outlines begin to appear.

Mickey whimpers again, but tries to stay defiant. “Your rule is, only Daddy touches me down there.”

“That’s right. Good girl,” Bean soothes Mickey’s ass, starting to turn red from slaps already.

“You’re so mean! You’re the meanest Daddy ever!” Mickey tries to get out of the wrist ties again. Something loosens, and she focuses on slipping out of it even more. Bean keeps smacking her ass but she concentrates.

“No, babygirl, no I’m not. This is for your own good,” Bean pulls on the belt and gets it ready, pushing Mickey’s skirt up her legs. Mickey has quieted. Maybe she’ll calm down and take it.

Mickey knows she has to act fast once she slips away. Her body is small, quick. But she’ll only have a fraction of a second before Bean is on her. She gets both wrists free and stays still, thinking. She can see Bean’s reflection in the chrome of their bed frame, and when Bean pulls back the belt to wind up and hit her, she jumps up and darts for the door of their bedroom.

All it takes is a second. Bean hesitates for just long enough for Mickey to get a head start, skidding across the hardwood on her socks, skirt flying, hair flying, laughing and whooping with glee.

“Damn you, girl!” Bean yells, but she’s smiling and chuckling, her thighs flexing, calculating the time it’ll take Mickey to run from the living room into the kitchen and creeping behind the wall to intercept her. Bean gets quiet, to surprise her. Mickey is still laughing, and giving herself away. She rounds the corner and Bean is there, arms outstretched, catching her as she squirms and wiggles, trying fruitlessly to get out of Bean’s grip. Bean has at least fifty pounds on her, and many inches of height—plus, she’s still wearing her shoes, and can grip the floor without sliding, unlike Mickey, who is practically falling over and has nothing solid to push against. Except Bean.

They wrestle, tussling back and forth as Bean drags Mickey to the nearby couch and holds her down on her stomach, her leg bent and knee digging into Mickey’s shoulder. “Settle, girl!” Bean yells, pulling her hair, getting the belt out again. A few quick smacks to force Mickey’s submission, then longer, fluid, softer strokes to ease her ass to compliance. Mickey is wet. Bean can smell it. She dips her fingers into her babygirl’s tight hole and they come away glistening. She sucks in the taste of her girl, then pulls open her pussy lips as Mickey gasps.

“Mine, that’s mine,” Bean mutters, hitting Mickey’s ass and thighs. Stripes from the belt are starting to welt. Mickey moans, kicking her feet and pounding her fist into the leather of the couch, but she can’t budge anymore. She’s caught. Tears prick her eyes and her ass stings, but she also feels light, weightless, dizzy with lust.

“Please Daddy, please fuck me Daddy,” she coos, two fat tears spilling over as her desire takes over. Bean works her fingers in deeper and Mickey tilts her ass into the air. Bean hits what she can reach with the belt and adds more fingers to fuck her girl’s pussy, her thick calloused fingers working in and out easily with how wet she is.

“Yeah like that, I like that Daddy, thank you Daddy!”

“Is that what you wanted, huh?”

“Yes, yes, I want it!”

“Tell me, girl.”

“I want to come Daddy, please, you’re going to make me come!”

“That’s right, that’s my good girl. Come for your Daddy. Daddy’s the one who makes you come. My sweet girl,” Bean feels Mickey tighten around her fingers, her thighs quaking and pressing against the couch.

“Unnnhhh,” Mickey groans, stretching her arms and legs and pushing hard against Bean as she comes, shuddering, then collapses, spent.

Bean grins, shifting to soothe Mickey’s red ass with her hand and bending to lay herself on top of Mickey, kissing her cheek and shoulder, whispering into her ear what a good girl she is, how Bean knew she could take it, so proud of her babygirl. Mickey sighs, body humming.

“Daddy!” Mickey perks up, words still slow and dreamy.

“Yes, baby?”

“Can we get pizza?”

Bean laughs. “Yes, sure, of course we can. I’ll order while you get cleaned up. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” They shift again and Mickey curls up in Bean’s lap, her hands around Bean’s strong forearm as she traces her freckles. Her eyes are clear, shining when she looks up at Bean. Mickey reaches up to smooth out Bean’s hair, all disheveled from their escapades, and she giggles.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

100 Bedtime Strokes (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #2)

“May I sit?” morgan’s voice surprised Elise; she hadn’t seen him approach. She looked up from her book and blinked, then composed her face and her answer at once.

“Are your chores complete?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Tell me.” This was their ritual every night, the way they loved to come back together. Elise’s eyes sparkle as she fights the urge to reach out and grab him, pull him into her lap. Rituals are important, she reminds herself. Not only to display her authority, though yes that too, but also to reminder her of all that he does, the many ways he is devoted. She stays more present in gratitude and strives more successfully to be worthy when she pays attention to their rituals.

He begins the list. “Your tea service is complete; the dishes are done and put away; your clothes and jewels are put away, and tomorrow’s are laid out for you. Sir Elvis Purrmeister has been fed.”

Elise feels a smile pull on the corners of her mouth, starts to suppress it, and lets it come. Her cat’s name is just Elvis, but morgan has taken to adding the honorific and surname, and Elise is too amused to have him change it. It is clear who is above whom in the hierarchy, anyway, so the proper respect is just one more thing to admire about morgan.

“Tomorrow’s schedules, both yours and mine, are next to the bed and the morning alarms are set. The bed is turned down. And, I have picked tonight’s implement, it is in the usual place on the nightstand,” morgan doesn’t look smug or tired, just pleased to be useful and grateful to be serving.

Elise sighs a little, with relief and relaxation, with the pleasure of being taken care of precisely as she likes it. “Good job, boy; you may sit.” She pats the side of her elegant thick leather reading chair and he takes his seat at her feet, leaning against her bare legs and cuddling into her with happy sighs, the tension from the day leaving his shoulders.

She takes another sip of her tea and goes back to her book—one of those classic English novels that she likes. This one is Pride and Prejudice, a favorite she re-reads once a year or so. This is the second time morgan has seen it in her hands.

Most nights, this is how it goes. Sometimes morgan has a book, or something to study, or some lines to write for training or task. Usually, Elise has a novel, something that feels indulgent but keeps her mind steady and her heart thrumming. She likes to be as far into the adult-land in the evenings as possible—spending all day with pre-schoolers and kindergarteners for her job is exhausting, and can take such a toll.

She fingers the hair on the back of his head absently, as if fingering a blanket on the chair or her own sweater. His presence is comforting, reassuring. The warm mint tea and honey soothes her and flows golden down her tongue. Everything is just right.

After a few more chapters, when Lydia elopes with Mr. Wickham, Elise closes the book with a small snap and stands. morgan blinks and quickly rises to his ready position—hands behind his back, eyes down—he does not stay seated when she is standing. She pulls him close, nuzzles her cheek against his forehead, and he wraps his arms around her waist. How well they fit together, their bodies’ contours so complimentary. She holds him there for a moment until she says, “Okay; bedtime, boy,” and they separate. She turns to the hall to go into the bathroom for some of her evening self-care, and he goes to the bedroom to strip. She takes her time—brushing and braiding her hair, applying cleansers and creams to her skin, brushing her teeth. He waits. The waiting is like meditation, but cleaner for him, as it is totally beyond his control and thus much easier for him to let go. (This is the kinds of things he tells his Mistress in his journal, which she reads weekly.)

He has picked out the thick wooden paddle, taller than her hand’s widest spread. One side is soft suede, the other is hard wood. The handle is wrapped so her hand is protected.

This paddle makes beautiful, deep bruises.

When she enters, he has taken off his tee shirt and boy short-shorts, the ones that almost show the bottoms of the cheeks of his ass. He’s down to a jock strap, the white one, on his knees, hands behind his back in his submissive meditation position next to the bed. He knows to wait there until he is released by her. He breathes in the smell of her evening lotions, now so familiar to him and so related to their evening beatings that he flinches when the sweet tangy scent reaches his nose, and his mouth salivates. He is a trained pet. She can see his arousal in the flushing of his nearly naked skin, the slight hardening of his nipples. She is nearly bare now, too, down to one thin cream-colored slip with nothing beneath it. Her feet are bare. She keeps her bedroom warm.

“Here.” She points to the bed. She is not cruel, not really—just direct, specific. She eliminates superfluousness. She does not believe in coddling in D/s; she believes in trust, agency, consent. She believes morgan’s deep desire to serve and to please, and she is grateful, yes, but she also feeds off of it. She consumes it like cotton candy, leaving her mouth pink around the edges and her fingers sticky. She needs it, just as he does. Her clipped tone is only for simplicity, and for intimacy, as she trust him not to need hand-holding. Not anymore.

Mistress Elise Winter is deft with a paddle. It was always one of her favorites when she was domming professionally, delivering such a satisfying smack and leaving such good bruises. Plus, it can be a key prop in any age-play scene: just a few words and it is suddenly a cutting board the bottom’s mom grabbed from the kitchen, or a sorority girl who stole a fraternity paddle or a headmistress’s prized discipline tool. Even more than obedience, Elise likes her subs small and little, with feigned (preferably not real) innocence. Something about the corruption just works with the way she is wired.

She whispers in her boy’s ear before she begins—something soothing, something that makes him relax, arch his ass in the air a little higher, and lean in to her just a fraction of an inch more. She rubs herself against his ass and thighs, her hand stroking the fine muscles of his back. When he whimpers a little, she knows he is ready. 

Starting with her hands, she warms up his ass and thighs and upper back. He is chest-down, his face kissed by her burgundy 1000-count sheets, his feet just touching the floor of her raised bed. When she moves from the quick light swats to the deeper fist-thuds, he asks her if it is time. 

“Yes; go ahead and start,” she replies. 

He begins counting aloud. She’ll do twenty or thirty more with her hands beofre bringing in the paddle to finish the hundred strokes. 

They don’t say much. It’s just one of those quiet nights. Elise tries to let her job fall away, the stresses of her vaninlla life out of sync with her kinky self, the projects for the non-profit board she sits on, the pressure of her mother’s struggling health battle with emphysema. Nothing precisely fills Elise’s mind, but she finds her inner world quite full when she quiets and focuses. The relief of a target, a victim, is almost enough to make her start crying, the release feels so huge, like a dam beginning to leak and ready to smash apart with the weight of what is held back. 

morgan is counting. “32 … 33 … 34.” He is diligent, and taking it for her. He is deconstructing and reassembling in front of her eyes in that way that power and sensation can inspire. She slides the paddle into her grip and opens a rain of blows on his tender flesh, already pink and warm to the touch. His breathing gets heavier and his voice gets more strained. She doesn’t care; they are only just barely to 50. She winds up like a baseball batter and swings. He screams into the sheets. Drops of sweat form and trickle at his neck, at the small of his back. His ass is a round handful and she takes her grip as it pleases her, kneading like dough. She leans down to bite his ass. He yells out, “Mistress, please, oh god, please, it hurts!” He squirms away, but her hands hold his hips. She leaves a dark ring mark from her teeth; that one will bruise up nicely.

She licks her lips, and swats with the paddle again.

“This is for me, not you,” she whispers, mostly to herself. “I need it, I don’t know why I need it, but I need it, need your ass like this, need my marks on you, need your ache to show in your face tomorrow when you sit down.”

“68 … 69 … 70.” He is panting between the numbers. She is taking her time, savoring each one. His ass is already purple—he won’t be able to sit. She focuses on his thighs. He is trying so hard not to squirm. She slips a finger between his ass cheeks to check on his hole: it flexes against her finger pad like a kiss, open and eager. “Hungry boy,” she murmurs, swatting again with her right hand. He whimpers, pushing back against her just a little, not wanting to be too eager or demanding, but showing he wants it.

His knees are getting weak. The bed holds him up. Elise strokes his hair and he turns so one cheek is on the bed and he can see her, just a little. Her thick braid is flying behind her like the tail of a kite, her hands moving quickly, opening his tight back hole as the paddle slams in to him. He tries with all his concentration to keep count. He misses a few, but she lets it go; he is doing so well. “So good, boy,” she coos. “You’re so good.”

He’s in the nineties now and they are both climbing. Her two fingers have dipped into the Boy Butter on the nightstand and opens his hole just enough to feel the pressure distracting him from the wicked paddle. She might let him get off. Will she? She can’t decide. She likes it when he does.

“98 … 99 … 100,” morgan is whimpering each number, tears down his beautiful cheeks, body shuddering in waves of release. Elise steps back and breathes, separates herself from him for a moment so they can both catch their breath. Her wrists throb, shoulders buzz with aliveness. A few hairs have strayed and she tucks them back into her braid.

“Morgan,” she says softly. “Get on the bed and turn over.”

He does, slowly, testing out how his muscles have been changed, wincing at the rawness. She slides her slip up her thighs and kneels on the bed, swinging her leg over him and sliding up his body.

“Oh god,” he says, muffled, before she has even lowered her cunt onto his mouth to feed it to him. Hers is a hungry mouth, too, swollen and wet, dripping. She never lets him enter her, but she uses his mouth when she wants. His stamina is impressive.

She lifts her slip just enough to it is out of the way, not restricting the openness of her thighs. Its hem kisses his forehead. He laps with his tongue, sucks with his lips and throat. Her clit is huge and bursting with need, angry and red like the palms of her hands, like his ass. She needs it, this release, maybe even more than he does—though how can they compare? But her want is monstrous, never-ending. She almost feels like herself again. She rocks her hips over his mouth and steadies herself on the headboard, arms outstretched. She barely remembers there is a person under her right now, she just grinds down and against this beautiful boy, this toy who always does it just right, just right there.

“Come when I do,” she orders, low and fast, not giving much warning—but he won’t need it. He’s been ready to come since she fingered his ass. And he knows what she sounds like, what it means when she starts clawing at his hair and suffocating him with her hole.

“Fuck, that’s it, there, god oh god oh GOD!” Elise is sitting on a volcano and erupts through her mouth with words and grunts and screams when she comes, heavy, filling his mouth with liquid, pushing it into his throat. He opens wide and takes it, shuddering under her and swallowing.

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you,” he repeats, breathless, still only breathing small sips of air. She moves off of him and collapses onto the pillows, he curls up in her arms.

“Stay in my bed tonight,” she says, stroking his hair.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he sighs, happy, pulling the covers up over them both as they drift off to sleep.

The Last Night (Asher & Jesse #5)

The envelope from UT Houston stayed hidden in Jesse’s file cabinet for a week before she even had the nerve to tell Asher it had arrived. The other rejection letters from Seattle Pacific University and Seattle University and University of Washington were thinner, only containing one page and a quick ‘thank you for your application,’ a band-aid ripped off clean and swift—but this one from UT was thick. That had to mean something, right? That was a good sign. Jesse wasn’t really even sure she wanted an MFA when she applied, but then when there was more than no chance at all hiding in her very own drawer, she is pretty sure she wants nothing else in the world more.

Except …

“Asher, call me back when you get this. Love you baby.” Jesse leaves a voice mail. Asher is probably still with clients, 6pm on a Tuesday, but it was worth a try before Jesse goes in for her shift at the store.

Would Asher go with her? Would she want to? What if they got married? Is that crazy? What if they broke up? How would sex ever be this good with anyone ever again?

Jesse’s mind raced with stress and change and all the options in the history of options that ever there was. She finally stripped her jeans and boxer briefs off and dropped them next to her bed, pulling her vibrator out from the box on the bookshelf that held her harness, Shilo packing and playing cock, and the nipple clamps that she’d brought from Asher’s house, and she pulled back the covers and slid between the sheets. The bed had a chill underneath the fabric, something that turning up the heat never seems to help, as if the bed had a secret draft that is always letting out warmth. Maybe that’s why they always stay at Asher’s house.

Jesse put a pillow over her forehead and eyes to block the light, wanting to only feel and let her mind think and wander. She turned on the vibrator and touched it to her cunt, using the broad side of it to work the wet out of her and ease her into wanting.

She thought about Asher, whose dresses and layers of skirts and fluff of fabrics make her mouth water and palms sweat. And that one shirt of Asher’s, thin as the skin of dried grass, the one she always wears with extra bright colored bras under so everyone knows it’s on purpose. Jesse thought of that time she’d crawled under the table, dug through the layers of crinoline in Asher’s princess-cut dress, and worked her mouth up Asher’s stockings until she reached the wet between her legs and lapped and lapped until Asher banged on the table and squeezed Jesse’s head with her thighs so hard that Jesse couldn’t hear anything. Jesse was so dizzy with lust and permission, so intoxicated by Asher’s bold shamelessness, so in love. Just the memory made her almost spill over the edge of orgasm, so it only took another minute for Jesse to put the vibrator in exactly the right spot, and come.

After Jesse got off, she fell asleep, dreaming that she was swimming out to an expansive horizon on a perfectly calm sea. Her swimming was easeful, as simple and known to her body as walking, as calm as laying in the grass under dappled sunlight through bright green leaves. She woke refreshed and clear, and put the envelope and looming decision out of her mind, holding instead to the expanse of blue as she squeezed back into her tightest and stretchiest skinny jeans, and headed to work.

Jesse knows she’s not supposed to want Asher to beg her to stay, but she hopes she does. She’s not supposed to want Asher to drop her whole life here and come with her, but she wants that too. Maybe she’s supposed to want to stay, but she doesn’t. She’s been in Seattle her whole life. It’s comfortable, easy, simple. But since Asher, and since the kind of sex she’s been having with Asher, Jesse’s world has been split open—like it was thrown off of something really tall. So why not reassemble it in a new configuration? She hates the dreary rain, hates that she can never quite get warm and always ends up shivering in the dark under clouds splashed orange with city streetlight glow. She wants tropical fruit and thunderstorms and a thriving metropolis. She wants to discover who she’ll be when she’s states away from her narcissistic step-mom who has never quite allowed Jesse to separate, and who still expects “this gay thing” to be a phase. What would happen then? What if Jesse could remake herself from scratch? The idea feels like a betrayal somehow, a secret she shouldn’t reveal for fear of being so shamed she’ll never share herself, even to herself.

“Got your message. Meetings ran late. Still coming over after work?” Asher texts Jesse after her shift starts, so she doesn’t reply until she’s off the floor for her break.

“Sure. Be there around 10, I’m closing.” Jesse texts.

“Bring your dick, I really wanna get fucked hard tonight,” Asher replies right away. Jesse hesitates. She doesn’t have it, will have to go home to pick it up. She isn’t sure she can get it up to fuck, but then again, Asher always seems to be able to inspire her, even after almost a year together. But sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter that Jesse is the one fucking her, that as long as Asher gets fucked, that is the real desire.

When Jesse goes back to her apartment, past where the neighbors doors are always leaking pot smoke, up the stairway with the lamp out and around the dark dark corner where Jesse always holds her breath, slides her key into the lock that always sticks, she grabs the strap-on and the harness, the nipple clamps, and the thick envelope from its hiding place in her file cabinet, and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up, she heads back out into the grey Seattle night.

*

Two hours later, Asher is worn out and giddy with endorphins and Jesse is sleepy but still wet and swollen. Asher works her mouth on Jesse’s clit, sprawled naked between Jesse’s open thighs, sheets and blankets long tossed onto the floor, tangled around the bed. Asher bends her own knees to lift her feet in the air, parting Jesse’s cunt gently with her fingers, and expertly uses the smooth inner parts of her own mouth to suck.

Jesse is having trouble letting go and relaxing, but coaxes herself through it gently in her own head. It’s okay. You’re safe and you can do it. Just focus on how good it feels. It feels so good. Give her direction if you want more or less of something. She’ll listen. It’s okay.

She doesn’t need to change what Asher does, once she can relax. Asher has done this before, not tons, but probably a dozen times in the last year, and enough to get a feel for what Jesse’s body craves and how she likes to be touched and tongued and held. Asher works her mouth, gently sucking, flicking her tongue over Jesse’s clit, tugging and parting and opening. It feels to Jesse like it is taking her a very long time to get off, and she tries not to let her brain yell at her for being so slow, so unresponsive. It’s okay to take a while. This isn’t a race. Nobody’s in a hurry, Asher’s not in a hurry, she tells herself.

When Jesse finally comes, Asher’s arms are underneath Jesse’s thighs, Jesse is pushing her cunt hard into Asher’s mouth, her hands on Asher’s head and tangled in her hair. Asher is sucking and flicking with her tongue and pulling with her fingers. Jesse feels all that tension well up and up and up in her, until her pelvis feels so full of pressure from all sides, inside and outside and all around, until something gives way and it pours open, her whole body shuddering, crying out, gasping, moaning Asher’s name.

Asher softens her touches and rests her head on Jesse’s thigh for a minute, then wipes some of the wet from her mouth and slides up next to Jesse, tucking her head onto Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse kisses her, tasting her own musky sweetness and just some hints of Asher’s orange and cream lip gloss.

“Was that … okay?” Asher asks finally, in a small voice.

“So good,” Jesse moans out the words, limbs still liquidy and soft. “I love how you use your mouth. I love how you hold me so well. Thank you. That was … just right.”

Asher snuggles closer. “Good. I want to do it how you like it.”

“I know,” Jesse yawns, body spent, wrung out, tired from her retail shift and from staying up late last night finishing an essay. She wants to bring up the envelope, the future, what they’re going to do. She wants to ask Asher what she thinks, what she wants, what kind of life she could possibly envision them having together, what her next tattoo is going to be. She wants to hear Asher brainstorm about places they could live or adventures they could take, elaborate meals they would make together for brunch on the weekends, what kind of TV shows they would watch while they were winding down from their jobs and lives and stresses of being queer in the world. She wants to brainstorm herself about poems she’ll write, essays she’ll submit to online magazines that will go viral and say important things, teachers she’ll work with, kinky conferences they could attend together. She wants to do all these things. With Asher. Asher, the girl who lit a fire inside her pelvis and told her exactly where it belonged. Asher, who instigates and entices, with a flip of the hair or the way she turns her knee in or how she spreads her legs. Asher, who isn’t shy, and isn’t afraid of looking at the truth.

“Goodnight,” Asher whispers, and puts out the light, kissing Jesse on the cheek and settling back in. Asher’s thick blanket has magically been pulled up over them both.

Jesse can’t get her mouth to open and her eyes to wake enough to form words, let alone to say them aloud, but she is ready to talk to Asher in the morning. Jesse starts drifting to sleep even as she’s imagining what she’ll do: She’ll get the envelope out, she’ll tell Asher it arrived, they’ll open it. And they’ll figure out what will happen next. Together.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

Luscious & Wild (Asher & Jesse #4)

“Sexually, I have a fetish about truth telling. I find it profoundly arousing to watch somebody struggle to articulate their desires. One of the things my girlfriend and I say together is that you can have anything you want if you have the courage to ask for it. But having that courage to ask for it, wow! So we set up situations where you can have anything, honey—you just have to be able to ask for it.” —Dorothy Allison, from Writing Below the Belt

Jesse plunges three fingers into Asher’s cunt, splitting her open, pushing hard past any resistance. Asher is on the tips of her toes, back arched, ass out, legs long, hands and arms and cheek and even the tops of her breasts thrust against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling hotel window. She cries out. She drools and it slides down the glass, leaving a wet trail. Downtown Seattle’s skyline and Puget Sound are glittering beyond the glass, the night as clear as a realism painting, and just as romantically blurred around the edges with the damp ocean air salting the city’s lines.

“Oh fuck, oh my god …” Asher can’t much speak. She babbles words and mostly sounds, guttural and low, come from her throat. She is being taken apart from the inside out.

Jesse is sweating and so sweet on Asher she can barely stand it. Even Asher’s skin is sweet: she leans in for another nibble at Asher’s shoulders, and Asher gasps and leans back into her in response. Jesse reaches around her to twist and pull on her dark brown nipples, so hard and stiff after being pressed up against the cool glass.

The hotel is sleek, modern. Mostly grey, some black and white highlights dot the room. One whole wall is windows. It was a gift, this hotel weekend where they have been holed up, giggling on the pillows and fucking leisurely, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, for Asher’s Master’s graduation and her final completion of her practicum hours. Now that the summer is over, she’s even got an entry-level position at a clinic on Capital Hill. Jesse starts her senior year of college in a few days.

But for now, there is only each other, luscious and wild, so eager for the other and so hungry for more.

Now that Jesse has opened up this dominant thing, it is blooming in her like the Arboretum after the first stripe of sun growth in March: colorful and vibrant, and made to be there.

When they first settled into the hotel, Jesse tied Asher to the bed and blindfolded her, then left her, spread eagle, while Jesse put away their clothes and unpacked the bag of groceries they’d brought. She planned on spoiling Asher every minute of these three celebratory days and two nights. Asher kept talking, guessing, asking Jesse questions, but Jesse only answered simply: “Mhm,” or “Yes, I think so,” or “If you ask for it, honey, you can have whatever you want.”

When Jesse finally felt situated, she strapped on and slid inside Asher slow, fucking her gently and sweet, bodies rocking together, as Asher sucked Jesse’s fingers into her mouth and Jesse touched her clit, in that soft-fast way she’d learned Asher liked, until she came.

Jesse had big plans for the scenes in this room for the weekend. And what would they do with those amazing windows? A vision started coming to Jesse as she worked out her third orgasm since the elevator.

When it was time, Jesse waited until Asher asked for it. It didn’t matter how—she just had to form the words. It was what Asher most wanted, most of the time: To be confronted with her own desire and made to look at it directly, befriend it, to stop pretending like it was someone else’s want that was driving the scene. It wasn’t that Jesse was overpowered by lust and just had to take her, right there right now, though that was fun too—it was Asher’s craving for being torn up, filled up, degraded, humiliated, and used that was the impetus for most of their play. Jesse loved seeing her so filled to overspilling with her own lust that she would draw courage from some unknown well and finally start bubbling with request after request. Maybe it’s why Jesse used so much bondage—to keep Asher still and seeping in it when she finally spilled open. Being tied up is restrictive, sure, but it can also be profoundly meditative, and take someone into a safe holding where more things are possible.

Jesse loved unlocking Asher’s tongue.

She had also discovered that one of Asher’s most favorite things is for Jesse to get off. Maybe it’s that fetish for being used, but Jesse to lower her own cunt down over Asher’s mouth, to fuck her, to jerk off over her chest or face or even right next to her cunt, and to have some spectacular orgasm, yelling and moaning, and then to leave Asher there, panting and waiting—that, that was what got Asher writhing and squirming, begging to be used again.

So it was with great mutual pleasure that Jesse wracked up orgasms like points in a pinball game during their hotel weekend. She kept track, telling Asher aloud how many times it had been.

In Asher’s ear at the hotel window, Jesse whispers, “Seven, Asher. I’m all the way up at seven, and how many times have you come?”

Asher whimpers. Her clit is hard and swollen, her lips puffy and thick. Her mouth is red from sucking.

“How many?”

“Once,” Asher whispers.

“That’s right, once. And you weren’t really supposed to be coming, were you? You just couldn’t help it?”

“I couldn’t help it! You made me do it, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I like following your rules, I just, it was too much. I couldn’t help it!” She thrums the words in that husky low tone she gets when she is so turned on.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. I know. It was my fault, I don’t expect to fuck you that much and not have you come … at least sometimes,” Jesse laughs a little to herself, thrilled and giddy. She strokes Asher’s cunt, every contour, every swollen slick place. She gets juicy enough as it is, but Jesse still adds more lube, more wetness. She traces lines with the pads of her fingers and uses her fingers to pinch and apply pressure, catching the head of Asher’s clit between her fingers, palming her whole vulva, pinching her lips together, which makes Asher squirm and shiver.

Jesse slides her fingers in again, in and out, stopping in all the spots that she knows Asher likes. “How many times are you going to come for me now, if I let you?”

“How many … times? Two. Three. Five. How many do you want me to come?” Asher’s words aren’t quite making sense, but she thrusts her hips back toward Jesse and presses her chest and cheek into the glass, offering herself up, willing Jesse not to stop.

“Five, huh? That’s a lot. Could you come on demand, if I just tell you to come right now, could you do it?”

“Could I come … right now? I don’t … really know,” Asher puzzles a little, gets distracted by Jesse’s fingers, then starts thinking again, trying to figure out how much her mind has control over her body. “Maybe? I think so. Yeah, actually. Tell me to do it! Jesse, tell me, and I’ll do it, I’ll do it for you, whenever you say.”

“Really? You think you could?” Still, in and out, slowly, with Jesse’s thumb circling Asher’s clit.

“Yes! Oh yes I’ll show you, I can do it for you.”

“Okay, baby, ready? Come … right now.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Asher cries out, pulses her cunt hard, pushing and contracting and pushing until she gushes onto Jesse’s hand.

“That’s one. Can you do it again for me? Can I keep going?”

“Yes, yes keep going, don’t stop don’t stop …”

“You’re so fucking hot, Ash. I love watching you like this. Come again girl, do it, let’s have it all. Now!”

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” Asher yells, arms sliding down the glass as if she can’t hold them up any longer. Her knees and thighs shake. Jesse pushes her hand farther inside and Asher gasps, pushing her hips open.

“Two,” Jesse growls in her ear. “Keep going. Ready to do it again for me, slut? Didn’t get all you needed yet, huh? Can you do it again?”

“Yes, yes yes yesssss,” Asher moans, wet dripping down Jesse’s hand and wrist.

“Three,” Jesse is practically giggling now, high and strong and she could do this for hours: keep Asher poised on her fingers, begging and coming.

“Four! Please four, Jesse please, four—” Asher begs. She squirms and tries to close her legs, trying to back off from the orgasms that still want to claim her cunt.

“Now. Do it,” comes Jesse’s reply, low and growly at Asher’s neck. Jesse bites at her earlobe and Asher throws her head back to rest on Jesse’s shoulder, sighing, breathing, still moaning those sounds from her throat.

“One more,” Jesse reminds her. “One more, and then we’re all done. Can you do it again?”

“Nooo, no Jesse, I don’t think I can, I don’t know … it’s too much, I can’t.”

“You can do it. Remember how you told me five? Actually, you said, ‘How many do you want me to come,” but I want five. So five it is. That’s one more,” Jesse makes the gentlest circles over Asher’s swollen cunt, soft and fast on her clit, that way that she likes.

“I can’t, I can’t Jesse … oh god, oh my god, oh my fuck fuuuuck …” Asher trails off and comes again, legs shaking, body humming, throat humming, practically sliding all the way down the window to the floor if it wasn’t for Jesse’s leg in between hers. Jesse holds her up for a moment, then lets them both collapse down, catching Asher in her arms and wrapping around her naked body as she shivers and settles.

“I can’t believe you made me! You. You! Are incredible. I love you,” Asher nuzzles into Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse braces herself against the bed to hold them both upright. They laugh and talk and stroke each other, doing that post-fucking haze-y loopy thing where everything is hilarious and important.

Eventually, Jesse says, “My foot’s asleep. And also, want some food?”

Asher lights up. “I’m starved. I feel like I have never eaten before ever. I want all the things!”

Jesse starts untangling, and moves to stand. “Oh that’s good, because we bought all the things at the grocery store before we came. I’m hungry too. C’mon, let’s get up. You okay to stand?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Asher reaches up for Jesse’s arms and accepts help to get steady on her feet.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

Reduced to Expletives (Asher & Jesse #3)

Turns out, Jesse is a natural. Topping comes to her like all the skills are downloaded right into her brain, like she is in a kinky version of The Matrix.

“Hey, want to try tying me down to the bed and fucking me until I scream for mercy?” Asher texts.

“Why yes, yes I do,” comes the reply immediately.

“How about blindfolding me?”

“How about it?” It goes on like this.

The quarter is almost over, and they walk through the Quad on the way to Psych together nearly every day. Asher whispers into Jesse’s ear. “Maybe I could wear those stockings you like, and you could slice them off of me with a knife—or better yet, rip them with your bare hands.” They’d stayed in bed late, fucking, exploring each other’s skin and taste and touch and eagerness. Jesse could still feel Asher’s pulse and breath and blood pressure synced up to her own.

She tries not to stumble and fall over. Fuck, this girl, this gorgeous creature, and she wants me to do all these fantastic filthy things to her? She feels drunk on gratitude. I Must’ve Done Something Good keeps getting stuck in her head.

“I have a surprise for you later. You’re still coming over after dinner, right?” Asher kisses Jesse’s neck as they approach the building.

“Mmhm, after my shift at the store,” Jesse closes her eyes and tilts her head to expose more of her neck. “Can’t wait,” she whispers, kissing Asher back and sliding her hands around her, along her trench coat. Asher may not be able to wear the fancy femme shoes she wanted to on Seattle’s rainy campus, but goddamn if she wouldn’t have femme rain gear. She even had a white umbrella with ruffles for particularly wet days. Jesse swoons.

*

“Fuck,” Jesse mutters, low and under her breath as Asher emerges from the bedroom in a tight white leather corset, white thigh-high fishnet stockings—the industrial ones with no finished top edge—held up by a simple white garter belt. Her panties, a blush shade of pink, were on top of the garter, a style she’d told Jesse is more British than American, and easier to remove while still keeping the rest of the outfit … intact. Her tits are pushed up and together, making her full figure nearly spill out of the top.

Jesse wants to climb inside her cleavage and snuggle and nuzzle for hours.
“Fuck,” she says again, sliding her arms around Asher’s waist as soon as she is within arm’s reach. “You look … goddamn.”

Asher giggles. “I like reducing you to expletives.” She reaches her arms around Jesse’s neck and switches her thighs, rubbing the stockings together and against Jesse’s jeans. Jesse feels so … clothed. She likes the strength she feels held up against Asher’s vulnerability. Asher kisses her, soft, their mouths at almost the exact same height, but only because Jesse is still wearing her boots.

“You brought the strap-on, right?”

Jesse swallows. “Yes.”

*

Jesse can feel her body getting close. That swelling in her cunt, the way she tightens and tenses every muscle and tendon, legs getting sharp and straight, bending less and moving her body more as a unit, one strong, long piece.

She plunges her strap-on dick in and out. Asher writhes on her back underneath Jesse, legs splayed open, wrists still bound by the rope she’d run beneath the mattress, that cheap baby-blue blindfold with the JetBlue logo on it over her eyes. Her mouth is open, breathing hard, lips and tongue wet. Asher raises her hips to meet Jesse’s and with each thrust, some little gasps escape.

Jesse isn’t sure how long she can stand it. The wetness. The hole. Being inside Asher. The feeling of being enveloped and held, safe, contained. Jesse grips Asher’s hips and digs her knees into the mattress, mouth landing on Asher’s shoulder, sucking as she lets her hips follow that feeling there—just there—that one—that—

And with a few more thrusts, that’s it—she yells out, coming hard, shoving into Asher as she convulses and collapses on top of her.

Asher kisses the parts of Jesse that she can, her neck, her upper arm, letting Jesse move when she’s ready. Jesse reaches down to ease the strap-on slowly from inside Asher and only felt her own wetness. Fuck, what had happened? Her harness was loose and the dick sags … and probably hadn’t been actually inside of Asher for some time now.

“Was it—did this slip—aw, fuck.” Jesse blushes hard, fiddling with the dick, unsticking the leather harness from between her legs.

Asher can see out of one eye, the blindfold now askew. “It’s okay, Jesse—it was so hot to feel you come.”

Jesse starts undoing the rope bindings around Asher’s wrists. She’d pulled the knots tight and it took both hands to work them free. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “You could’ve told me!” Jesse whines a little.

“I guess. But I really didn’t want you to stop,” Asher’s voice was low and husky, playful.

“I’ve never … I think that was the first time I’ve been able to. Come, I mean. When strapped on.”

“Mmm, well I loved it. Let’s do it more, okay? I want to feel you filling me up next time.”

“Could you just … make sure to tell me? If it slips out. Maybe you could kind of, beg for it, like I’d slipped out on purpose to tease you?”

“Ooh yeah. Like, ‘No please wait, I want it back, come back inside me, don’t go yet.’?”

Jesse grins. “Yeah, like that.”

“Deal.” Asher nuzzles into Jesse and yawns. “You’re going to wear me out,” she sighs, clearly very pleased with this new idea. Jesse laughs a little, thinking, she’s the one who’s going to wear me out, hoping she can keep up with Asher’s lust and drive.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

Fisting Practice (Asher & Jesse #2)

When we last left Asher & Jesse, Asher had just revealed her inclination to kink, and Jesse was left pondering: Maybe she wants to throw me down, and, you know, ravage me? Take me? Maybe she wants to do things to me, hit me with, I don’t know, a wooden kitchen spoon, or handcuff me? I could do that. Could I do that? … I think I could do that.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

Asher’s lips still taste like cream and orange. Jesse pushes her hands up over her head and shoved her backward onto the many throw pillows covering Asher’s bed, a soft easy landing. Asher keeps her thighs pressed together. She rubs them against each other, feeling the smoothness where she’d shaved, the softness, the tenderness. Jesse tries to nudge her legs open with her jean-clad knees, still using both hands to hold Asher’s hands onto the pillow. Asher presses back against Jesse, and Jesse could tell Asher would squirm away if she didn’t hold her arms there. Not because she didn’t want it, Jesse kept reminding herself. It’s like what Asher had told her earlier: “If I squirm, it’s because I want more—I want you to hold me down harder.”

Those words echoed as Jesse searches for a way to hold Asher’s hands and open her thighs simultaneously. Asher’s skirt was riding up and Jesse wanted to kiss her thick thighs, bite into the tenderest places, wanted to run her lips along her skin, wanted hands everywhere.

Jesse spies a thin scarf, a decorative slip of fabric, on Asher’s headboard and reaches for it, wrapping it easily around Asher’s wrists as she holds Asher’s body down with her own weight. Asher easily weighed more than she did, she could’ve forced Jesse off of her. She didn’t want to, Jesse kept reminding herself. Jesse doesn’t know much about formal bondage stuff, but she easily secures the scarf to Asher’s headboard.

“Hey—what are you—” Asher pulls at the restraints and her eyes flash, supple and desire and smoldering. She bites at her lip a little and shifts her body under Jesse’s. “Um, what are you going to do with me now?”

“Whatever I want, I think,” Jesse replies softly, tracing her hands with the lightest whisper touches over Asher’s exposed thighs. “God, I want to touch you for hours. Drive you wild. Hear you beg to come. You like to beg, don’t you, Asher? I bet you do.”

Asher whimpers a little. The touches, the words. “Yes,” she breathes.

“Yes what?”

“Yes … sir?” Asher tries.

Jesse actually laughs. It isn’t what she was going for, but she would take it. She even kind of likes it. It makes her feel hot, and in charge, and strong. “I want to hear you say it. You like to beg for your orgasms.”

“I like to beg for my orgasms, sir. I like when someone tells me I can come. When I earn it.”

Jesse drags her fingers over the tops of Asher’s thighs, brushing closer and closer to Asher’s underwear. With each brush she moves Asher’s skirt a little farther up. She can see the smallest strip of solid grey lace.

“And you want me to tell you when you can come.”

“Yes, yes I do. Please Jesse, tell me,” Asher’s voice drops, quiet and smaller, that vulnerable sweetness of revealing something deeply treasured.

“What else do you want?” Jesse asks, palms on Asher’s thighs.

“I want your fingers, I want your touch on me. In me. All of it. Fuck. Fill me up, Jesse—please, I can’t take it, please I want it.”

“You want … my fingers?” Jesse rubs the delicate fabric between her legs.

“Your whole hand, your fist, all the way in me, please!” She stops writhing to catch Jesse’s eye. “Have you … can you?”

Jesse looks a little sheepish. “I haven’t, not exactly … but I can. I know how.” She’d been fisted before, and she’d tried it a variety of times, even getting all five fingers in, but she could never quite get her hand in past her knuckles, the thickest part. Asher, though … Asher had already told her that she was experienced. Maybe she could do it. Jesse hadn’t even touched her cunt yet, but she thought it was possible. Not only because Jesse’s hands were so small and Asher’s body was so much bigger and thicker and more pliable than Jesse’s … but something in the energy, something in how much Asher wanted it and how much Jesse herself wanted it told Jesse that she would fit inside and nestle there, that Asher could press and squirm all she wanted, and that she would.

Jesse dives back in to Asher, and her body, and her responses to Jesse’s touch. Now that Asher’s hands are bound, Jesse can use both of her hands to push her thighs open, pinching them a little, not giving Asher much of a choice. Asher resists and squirms and cries out and finally gives in, opens her legs a little more, just enough for Jesse to cup her holes and for Asher to relax and breathe and sigh and simmer. Jesse teases her on the outside of those grey lace panties. Her lips feel slick already, swollen. Jesse traces the contours and imagines what’s underneath. “Can I … ?”

Asher lifts her hips, and nods. “Uh huh.”

Jesse slides the grey lace down her legs, slowly, and uses her fingertips to trace thin lines up and down her legs. So fucking sexy. Those legs she’s stared at in class, those thighs she’s watched cross when she sits and switch when she walks. Jesse can smell a little bit of Asher’s wetness, just a faint hint of sweet and musk that made Jesse want to dive forward and tongue the source. She trails back up Asher’s legs and pushes between her knees, pressing her knees apart even farther, and looks at her exposed pussy.

It takes restraint, but finally Jesse asks, “Gloves?” When they talked about it earlier, Asher said she wanted to use them. That she kept some on hand, ha ha, just in case.

“In the nightstand. In the bottom,” Asher says. Jesse finds gloves and lube, a big bottle, from the little cupboard in the dark wood bedside table, and snaps one on her right hand with ease. She doesn’t usually use gloves, but she doesn’t mind them. Plus, she read somewhere that it was easier to fist with gloves on, since the lube wouldn’t absorb into her own skin.

Hand covered, she gets back in place between Asher’s knees and gently cups Asher’s cunt again, letting her palm move softly against Asher’s lips. Her tissues are darker than the skin on her thighs, nearly black curly hair all along her cunt and spilling onto her thighs and belly, unashamed and unrestrained. Asher sighs and presses against Jesse’s hand, and Jesse moves her fingers, slick, over the folds and contours of Asher’s cunt. One finger tucked in, to the first joint, just tracing the lines around Asher’s opening, looping around her clit, figure eights and circles.

Asher moans. “More, please more, there, just there—” And Jesse pauses, staysthere, flicks with her fingertip. Asher shifts against the scarf tying her to the headboard and presses her hips up. Fuck, Jesse wants to use her mouth. Patience, patience, go slow, take it easy. There will be other times, if I’m lucky.

Jesse teases and tickles, tips of her fingers fluttering, rolling Asher’s lips between her fingers, pinching just enough for sensation. “God, you’re so good at this,” Asher sighs, breathing hard. “Please, please Jesse …”

“What?” Jesse circles around Asher’s cunt without sliding in, touching the pad of her finger to the opening but not pushing.

Asher moves her hips but can’t make Jesse do it. “Fuck!” she swears. “Just please, go inside, please, I want it!”

Jesse dips her head so Asher can’t see her grin, and offers her finger with a little more pressure. Asher envelops it immediately, pushing down, moaning in relief and pleasure, “Mmmmmm.”

Still, Jesse lets Asher call the shots. She can feel Asher’s pulse, can feel her walls tighten and relax around her, testing the fullness. Then she starts moving her hips a little again, and Jesse moves too, testing the pressure in different places inside, pausing when Asher seems to respond particularly deliciously. It doesn’t take long for Asher to ask for more.

“What do you say, then?”

“Please. Please Jesse, please may I have another finger, two more, please, more, and harder, please! Ohh!” Jesse has another finger in and sliding before Asher is even done pleading. She drips a good dollop of lube onto her fingers where they meet Asher’s cunt and use the friction to work the lube around. It’s slicker now, and easier to slide in and out. Jesse thinks Asher might bust out of the dress entirely, she really should have taken it off of her before they started in on … this, but she was just so eager, they both were.

“Come up here, kiss me,” Asher whispers. Jesse lays her body out over Asher’s and tastes her mouth again, both of them nearly panting, lips tender, practically sparking when they touch. Jesse keeps her fingers sliding inside, one knee between Asher’s, fitting together like sliding a chair under a table. “I like the way you taste,” breathes Asher, lips still touching Jesse’s.

“Please, more Jesse, please.”

She did say she liked to beg. Jesse didn’t know how much she liked hearing Asher beg, but fuck, she knew now.

Jesse slid a third, but just as easily tucked her littlest finger under and slid the fourth in too. Easy where they are all bundled together, but more intense when Jesse gets them in up to her knuckles. Asher contracts around the girth, but then opens. Jesse adds more lube, then settles back on top of Asher, nestled against her breasts and belly, dress still tight over her skin. If the zipper or buttons had been in the front, Jesse would have torn at them until they’d popped. Probably better that they aren’t.

When her knuckles slide in, Asher’s eyes open, mouth opens, cunt opens, and something in her relaxes, Jesse can practically see it unwind and settle. Jesse can’t get her thumb in at this angle, but she can, she knows she can, she can feel the space inside of Asher expand and it just feels so empty, she can tell how good it would feel, how easy it would be to tuck her thumb and curl her fingers and fit.

Jesse slides back down Asher’s body to have a better angle for her wrist, kissing her through her clothes, biting at her breasts through her grey dress, finding her nipple hard and using her teeth so she can really feel it.

“Fuck me, please fuck me, please,” Asher starts saying it like a mantra, like a prayer, coinciding with breath and motion. Jesse pours more lube. More than she needed, probably, but she liked to be safe. The black glove is completely covered, wet and shiny.

They make eye contact. Asher nods, eyes still pleading. “I want it.” Almost a whisper. And Jesse tightens her fingers into an arrow, tucks her thumb, and slides in to the wrist, all the way.

“Ohhh godddd,” Asher groans in release, splaying open even wider, sinking into the throw pillows. Jesse is still for a few moments, until Asher starts moving her hips again, then Jesse moves with her, experimenting with moving her knuckles into Asher’s g-spot and fingers against her cervix.

“Can you—can you reach my wrists, can you untie me? I mean, without taking your hand away,” Asher asks.

Jesse reaches up with her left hand. “Yeah,” she says, and starts untying the bind.

“Do you mind, is it okay if I … help?”

Jesse grinned, stretching her shoulder a little farther to more easily reach. Kind of tricky with just one hand, but the knot wasn’t exactly complicated. She manages to loosen it enough so Asher’s hands slip out. “Mmm I don’t mind at all.”

Asher, shyly, reaches her right hand down her body and to her own cunt, feeling the wetness, feeling Jesse’s whole hand still snug inside. She circles it a moment and then settles her fingers at her clit, pinching and pulling her lips, using a lot of pressure. She even slaps it once, twice, harder than Jesse would have done.

From inside, Jesse can feel her tighten, then soften, and tighten again. Asher gets bolder and starts showing off, looking right into Jesse’s eyes, tongue flicking over her lips, scraping her teeth along them. Her breathing gets heavy and faster, her chest moves up and down as she thrusts with her hips, pressing hard onto Jesse’s hand, fingers rubbing back and forth so quickly, faster, harder, until she contracts so hard she pushes Jesse’s hand out from inside her and practically screams out, yelling, as her body curls and her thighs press together, coming. Jesse leaves her fingers gently touching, just the longest ones still inside to the first knuckle, just so it doesn’t feel like a shocking emptiness. Asher reaches out and wraps her arms around Jesse’s shoulders, and pulls her back on top of her body, holding as her body settles.

Asher giggles and nuzzles into Jesse, sighing. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you!” She can’t quite make words or sentences work yet. Jesse finds it adorable. There is quite a rush in making a girl as put-together as Asher come … undone.

They chat for a little while, that pillow-talk of lovers in whispers and murmurs, breathing each other’s breath and feeling each other’s skin, still electric and sultry. Asher brightens and her brain and body come back into alignment. She wiggles out from under Jesse and props herself up on her elbows, taking Jesse’s hands into hers and marveling at their smoothness, their square fingertips, their lines and patterns, the callouses on her thumb and middle finger, the scar on her knuckles.

Asher gets all squirmy and Jesse catches her looking. “Butch hands,” Asher explains, as if that makes things clearer. Jesse raises her eyebrows. “Or, I mean, genderqueer androgynous masculine-of-center whatever gender word you prefer hands.”

Jesse laughs. “Butch is okay. Seems kind of old school I guess. Mostly people call me a ‘baby butch,’ I don’t like that much.”

“Yeah. You’re not babyish.”

“Mmhm.” Jesse is trying to form the words of a looming question in her brain.

“Something … on your mind?” Asher asks.

“It’s just … um, how do you feel about strap-ons? Or, blow jobs?” Jesse looks down and blushes a little. Asher grins, and dives into her arms, kissing her hard.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

The Great Reader Mini-Interview, Part Three: Personal accountability & self reflections, Kink, and Do Your Research

What’s your relationship with sugarbutch.net and Sinclair?

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I actually started reading Sugarbutch while I was still married to male. I had always known my sexuality was not what I was pretending it to be, and I knew that women that leaned towards the masculine side of the spectrum did something strange to me. I was completely naive to who I was deep down, and what it was I really needed in a relationship/partner. One day I was talking to a friend of mine whom I spilled the beans to, and she led me to this site. What I read on here was a beacon of light to me, and I finally started coming into my own. I have learned a lot about myself by reading your articles. I have most of all learned that I am not alone in who I am.

Keep doing what you are doing. I know you have had a tough run of it lately, but I admire you for staying true to who you are, what you want/need, and wearing your scars for everyone to see.

—Jennifer, https://www.facebook.com/jennifer.fitzgerald.92

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I actually like/enjoy your self reflection and journal entries. As PolyAnna, I spend a lot of time talking about personal accountability and self reflections. People who are successful at poly and find fulfillment in poly are those who take the time to reflect on their choices and actions. Please keep writing your journal entries. They are a joy to read. Truly.

— PolyAnna/Josette Sheridan, http://lookingthrough.us/

What advice would you give your younger self about sex, gender, or relationships?

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1. It’s okay to be monogamous, even if all the ‘cool kids’ are poly.

2. Don’t even bother trying to date somebody who isn’t kinky; it’s not going to work.

3. Being attracted to trans men, after some years of only being into butch women, is okay and doesn’t change your fundamental self. You can still keep your queer card and just love who you love. Most of your ex-girlfriends will eventually turn into men, anyway.

4. If you’re in a D/s relationship with someone who breaks down your self-esteem and violates your boundaries, that’s not D/s: that’s abuse. Even if they buy you shiny presents.

— Anne Campbell, https://www.facebook.com/riverbend

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Believe in love where you find it. Trust your senses. Be angry. Then let it go.

—Cathlin Star, http://cathlinstar.blogspot.com/

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Oh God. I think it would boil down to “Do your research, do lots and lots of research.” But more specifically: I would find my fifteen-year-old self and sit her down and tell her “Honey, you have internalized some really toxic shit about how sex is *dangerous* and some even more toxic shit about how *knowledge* about sex is dangerous. Neither of these things are true. You want a lot of stuff that you don’t know how to articulate — go do some personal exploration and I promise, you get to decide whether or not you will act on your desires, but first you need to be able to articulate them. Either way, I also promise that the world will not end.”

And then I would give her a hug and tell her that it was going to be ok.

— Clara S., http://thethirdrose.tumblr.com

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Don’t settle! Too many women (men perhaps also but I cannot write for them) settle for perceived security, “love”, to make a home for children. I was too hasty to get it all and follow the traditional norm of settling down before I got too old and have a family. As for sex, I tell my daughter (now 12) that if you are not sexually satisifed in a relationship and the other person is not willing to work on it then you need to reevaluate that relationship and if it makes you happy. I wish someone had told me this when I was younger. I never had the exposure to gender differences. I now teach a program to teens at my Unitarian Universalist (UU) church call O.W.L (Our Whole Lives) about sexuality & healthy relationships and one of the tag lines is “Sexuality is fluid” I so love that!

— Tonja Hewlett, https://www.facebook.com/EnterprisingFae

What one resource has had the most impact on you, and why?

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The Persistent Desire: A Femme Butch Reader (edited by Joan Nestle)

Maybe this is just as much about the book as the editor…. I’ve met Joan (she lives in Melbourne, Australia) and her partner Dianne and find her to be such a valuable elder to have in the community. I love the way her writing is so political, and that class and race are made so relevant. I also love that although Butch-Femme influences her whole life, it’s not in such predictable ways and has changed and morphed as she’s gotten older/grown.

Shes so involved in movements around Israel/Palestine and I see her out at refugee rallies monthly. She’s so engaged with the younger queer community here still and puts in so much time, for this and many other reasons I really respect her and she has taught me a lot. <3

In an attempt to look more queer and attract more attention from people that I thought I wanted I really played down my femme side to look as “queer” as possible so I guess I’d like to tell my younger self that there would be someone who would love your femme side and wouldn’t read you as any less queer for it. More specifically, would know all the ways that you were sexy just for her.

—M, http://brownskinnedslut.tumblr.com/

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Scarleteen.com was the sex and relationship ed I hadn’t even known I needed. I found the word genderqueer there, and it was like my head breaking the surface of a lake I hadn’t known I was in so deep, coming up gasping clean, cool air and feeling full, real, awake, alive in a way I hadn’t felt before. It taught me there was space for me, that it was okay to ask for what I needed to feel safe, that my body had agency and value even though it existed in strange, queer, liminal spaces.

—Cricket, http://beatingthebinary.tumblr.com

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In 1999 I listened to Bikini Kill’s Pussy Whipped for the first time and it changed my life. Kathleen Hanna’s outspoken, feminist, intelligent, fuck the patriarchy, sexually freeing, in your face, revolutionary and progressive approach to grrrl punk music both inspired and entranced me. The riot grrrl movement impacted my life in so many ways, teaching me how to love myself and embrace my feminist identity. There has not been a woman since who has challenged patriarchy, sexism and homophobia so passionately and poignantly.

—Kachina Addison, http://www.facebook.com/kachina.addison

Dirty Filthy Nasty

This story contains Daddy/girl language, rough sex, and lots of body fluids. This has been your trigger warning.

“Will you pause it for a minute? I have to pee.”

Kristen gets up from the couch and I grab for the remote, hitting pause on the second porn flick we turned on tonight. We’d shared a bottle of wine. I knew she was bleeding, since earlier in the first film, unimpressed by one of the girl’s one-finger banging techniques, I shoved three into her to illustrate that cunts can take more.

Well, maybe not all cunts. But hers, obviously.

She was wet, and moaned a little, making a little mewl of protest when I slipped them out. My fingers came away with just a little blood and I wiped them on her leg.

The Three Minute Game

Warning: This story contains some references to Daddy/girl, because that is what we usually call each other while playing. The story before the cut is an explanation and example of the three minute game, something the Body Electric School explores in their workshops, and does not contain the specific Daddy/girl words; the Daddy/girl play is behind the cut.

I returned home from LA, from four days with Rife, and I was ecstatic to see Kristen. She picked me up early, early at the airport on the red eye, and we fell back asleep at home for a few hours, made some lunch, talked about what we’d been doing.

In the afternoon, we returned to the bedroom.

I know when I travel it’s best to come back to her sweet and slow, and even more so when I’ve been off seeing my lover. I was turned on (she felt so good in my arms, under my hands, her feminine curves, her sweet soft skin) and had some ideas, but we needed a way to reconnect playfully, slowly, first.

“Want to play the three minute game?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said brightly, smiling like I’d offered to make her favorite meal for dinner. “But remind me of the rules?”

“Each of us gets a turn, and each turn is three minutes, carefully timed. There are two turns, so—four rounds. The first is, ‘this is what I would like to do to you for my pleasure.’ Then, ‘this is what I would like you to do to me for my pleasure.'”

“Got it.” We’ve played before, but only a few times, and the last time didn’t go so well—she’d asked me for some touch around my chest and we both got uncomfortable and had to stop, but neither of us handled it well. I hoped we wouldn’t do that again.

“You go first,” I said (being a top is useful sometimes).

“Alright … for my pleasure, I would like to sit on your lap, and for you to kiss my face and neck and suck on my nipples.”

“Mmm, I’d love to,” I said. “Take off your shirt.” Part of the point is to respond well—with eagerness, or with suggestions of something else related if you are uncomfortable with what they request.

I shifted up to the head of the bed so I could support my back against the wall, and Kristen curled up over my lap. I set the timer on my phone for three minutes.

At first, I barely made contact. I let her feel my breath and nose and the heat of my skin; I closed my eyes and remembered the contours of her jaw and cheek with the tiny invisible hairs on my face. Then I let my lips touch her, just brushing, gently, gently, as light of a touch as I could manage, as slow as I could tolerate. Feeling her weight on my thighs and the curves of her waist and back and spine in my hand made me want her, but I resisted.

I traced her jaw, cheek, throat with my mouth, kissing now, using the soft insides of my lips, keeping my mouth supple. She made that soft mewling moan that slays me and a shiver ran down my spine. I kept going, working that spot on her neck by her earlobe that she loves, then where her neck and shoulders meet, and down to her collarbone. I kissed along the curves of the tops of her breasts, making my way between the cleft of them, down to one nipple and then the other, sucking them into my mouth, teasing gently with my teeth and tongue, suckling, nibbling.

Just as I was getting into it, drawing her closer to me with my arms around her back, burying my face in her, just as she was starting to drop her head back and thrust her tits forward, the timer went off, and we both laughed.

I shifted my position a little and she sat more on the bed than on my lap. I kissed her lips. She said, “It’s your turn.”

“For my pleasure …” I swallowed. “I would like you to kiss my feet.” We’ve played with this a little. It is only recently that I have admitted how much I like it—to myself and others—enough to actually experiment with the sensation. It makes me nervous to ask for. But that is partly what this game is for, and it’s only three minutes. I can do just about anything for three minutes.

She nodded, looked at me a little coyly, chin down eyes up lips parted, and said, “And suck your toes?”

My breath caught. “Yes,” I think I managed to say. I think it was audible. So nervous. And it’s something that I wanted to feel, so much.

I set the timer again and she slid down the bed on her belly to take my right foot in her hands and deliver a sprinkling of kisses along the top of it. She ran her tongue along the instep, the most sensitive part, and sucked gently with her lips. She tongued the crease between my big toe and second toe before sliding the larger into her mouth.

I groaned. It is so vulnerable and makes me so nervous to give over, to feel her mouth in that way. The sensation is so close to tickling but is ecstatic, and so close to getting my cock sucked but is very different. She worked her mouth over all the crevices she could reach. She sucked and licked, moving her tongue up and down, holding my heel and ankle in her hands.

Then she switched to my other foot.

(It is so hard to write about this! And words like toes and foot seem so inherently unsexy, somehow—but I know the feeling absolutely turns me on. I don’t think I’ve written about it here before. I don’t know if I want to, except that I like to challenge myself to make myself vulnerable, to Kristen and to myself and in this writing project, and this feels very edgy.)

Those three minutes felt like an hour. I lost myself in the sensation, but I didn’t lose my body: moreso the opposite. I felt my whole self down to each toe, where so much stimulation was concentrated. I felt my cock quiver and my nipples harden and my throat go dry as I tried to swallow. I watched her mouth move and lips darken with blood and sensation and she smiled and giggled a little as she showed me what she could do. My eyes rolled back. My wrists went slack. I almost begged for her to stop, almost begged for more. I was overwhelmed and ecstatic and so turned on.

The timer went off and I breathed out, both a sigh of relief and disappointment that it was over. “For your pleasure, what would you like to do to me?” I asked.

She rose to her hands and knees and crawled forward toward me on the bed. “I would like to suck your cock.”

“Mmmm, gladly,” I said, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Give me just a minute to put it on.” I slid my jeans and briefs off, tossed my tee shirt into the laundry basket, pulled on my cock and harness from the small jersey bag I tend to keep it in, and returned back to the bed. She crawled over me. I barely had time to restart the timer before she had my cock in her mouth, tongue eager again, her lips soft and sucking me down. It’s a big cock, the Maverick, my favorite one, the one I use only with her.

She’s still warming up, but I want to push her.

The Harder She Comes edited by DL King (Book)

I’m part of the virtual blog tour for The Harder She Comes edited by DL King which just came out from Cleis Press. It’s a butch/femme anthology specifically, which to my knowledge is the first one released since Sometimes She Lets Me, also from Cleis. There aren’t very many butch/femme erotica anthologies out there (is Back To Basics the only other one?), and this adds an excellent new addition to one of my favorite little teeny subgenres.

Here’s the description of the book:

What is it about a pretty girl in a tight skirt bent over to adjust her stockings? Or that hotter-than-hot butch, swaggering into the bar like she owns it, eyes undressing every pretty girl in the place? Some butches worship at the altar of their femmes fatale and many little girls have a need to serve their big, strong daddies. In The Harder She Comes, we meet girls salivating at the sight of well-filled and packed jeans and bois dreaming of having a beautiful girl’s red lipstick smeared across their mouths. D. L. King has curated a singular set of stories filled with sexy sirens luring unsuspecting butches to their demise on the rocky shores of love and hot, confident women in silk and lace during the day who will do anything to serve their daddies’ needs at night. The Harder She Comes is great writing with characters that will stay with the reader for a long, long time —sometimes sweet, always sexy, often romantic, and more than a little dangerous.

I would love to tell you what I thought about each individual story, but sadly I have no time to put that together. I’m at a training all weekend and writing this while I should be sleeping. So please accept my apologies, and here’s an excerpt from my piece in the book, a story called Good Girl, Bad Girl.

Part I.

Sometimes, I am a Bad Daddy: I hate it.

I hate it and I want it and I crave it and I hate that I want and crave it, this, this girl, this way that I use her, this way she uses me. Sometimes I resent it. Her, me, my own desires. Why do they run this way? Where did these wounds come from, or are they scars now?

I have to remind myself not to ask myself too many of those questions. That it’s okay to want what I want. That after the flash of feminist guilt, as Karlyn Lotney once wrote, it is quite the handy little fetish.

And it is a fetish, or maybe rather it is many fetishes wrapped up and tied with a big pretty satin red bow. Power. Gender. Age.

I hate it, but I have never loved any play more.

This is what happens.

I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. I don’t watch her as I take another sip of my tea. This is what I practice: Not paying attention. But in not paying attention I still pay attention, I just don’t let her know that I’m paying attention. When I notice I’m focused on her, I try to turn the focus inward. What do I want right now? And I feel something stir.

She inches closer to me. I turn a page. She sighs inaudibly. I turn my eyes to the pages of my book, move them along the words, not reading.

“Daddy?”

I don’t look up, yet. “Yes?”

“Can I …”

“May I.” I correct.

“May I … sit on your lap please?” It comes out in one quick string.

I pull the bookmark out of the back of the book and slide it in between the pages, close the book, set it on the coffee table, look up at her. Her eyes gleam gently. Hopefully. Like she just asked for candy at the grocery store. Her dress is pushed up from how her legs are crossed on the couch and I can see a hint of her inner thigh, and I want my cheek on it, want to bite it, want to feel her squirm and hold her there between my teeth as I leave marks. I breathe in. Keep it under control.

“Yes, sure darling.” With the Good Daddy voice.

She climbs over, sits sideways on my lap, knees bent over my thighs. Wraps her arms around my shoulders and her face buried into my neck and collarbone. Her hair smells faintly of shampoo, clean and bright with a gently fruit-flavored hint. It’s soft and thin and I bring one hand up to the back of her head, play with the gentle curls there.

She settles in and drops one hand to my chest, resting it on my waist. I shift a little, a growl rising in my belly. My arms fold easily around her. I don’t notice the sigh I let out, a low hum, the precursor to the growl.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I like to sit on your lap.” She snuggles a little closer. I can feel a tightness spreading in my groin. I don’t say anything. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Does it feel good?” Her voice drops softer.

“Yes.”

“Does it feel good …” she’s whispering now. “In your pants?”

I stir. My cock stirs, jumps. The growl grows. My arms tingle and tense, a sensation I want to let out with a fist. “Yes.” I whisper too. Our mouths are close.

I am a Bad Daddy. I want my girl to do dirty things; I want to do dirty things to her. I know she’d let me if only I asked, but sometimes the desperation is more fun. The arguing with myself. The attempts at holding myself noble, resisting her sweet girlish body. Feeling dirty for wanting it so much that my palms ache.

There are a lot of Daddy/girl stories in this book in particular … the original title was Daddy’s Little Girl so it drew a particular, um, flavor. So if that’s your particular flavor, you’ll find plenty of it in this collection. It’s definitely worth picking up.

Here’s the rest of the blog tour, check it out:
May 1  D. L. King  http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com/
May 2  Anna Watson  http://dlkingerotica.blogspot.com
May 3  Evan Mora  http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/
May 4  River Light  http://sapphicplanet.com/blogtour_sapphicplanet.php
May 5  Sinclair Sexsmith  http://www.sugarbutch.net/
May 6  Crystal Barela  http://kathleenbradean.blogspot.com/
May 7  CS Clark  http://bethwylde.wordpress.com/
May 8  Valerie Alexander  http://pomofreakshow.com/
May 9  Andrea Dale   http://lulalisbon.wordpress.com/
May 10  Beth Wylde  http://adrianakraft.com/blog/
May 11  Kathleen Bradean  http://cyvarwydd.blogspot.com/
May 12  Teresa Noelle Roberts  http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/
May 13  Shanna Germain  http://lantoniou.blogspot.com/
May 14  Charlotte Dare  http://madeofwords.com/posts/
May 15  Rachel Kramer Bussel  http://lustylady.blogspot.com/

Pick up The Harder She Comes edited by DL King at your local feminist queer bookstore, or over on Amazon.

Femme Invisibility & Beyond

I’m still receiving questions in the Ask Me Anything form; most of the time I am turning them into pieces for my advice column over on SexIs Magazine, but sometimes they are things I’d rather tackle here at Sugarbutch. So here’s one of those.

As a very feminine femme, I pass for straight more often than not, and I’d like to know your thoughts on femme invisibility, and why every time I smile/greet/nod at butches I am largely ignored. Even when I am out with my (butch) lover, a polite nod of recognition, or “Nice tie …” coming from me is not acknowledged. What gives?

—Sweets

Oh, femme invisibility. This is a big, constant topic, and I have lots of thoughts about it. Probably mostly I’ll say the same things that I said in 2009 when I wrote this piece, “On Femme Invisibility,”, but I have a few new things to say, too.

Femme Invisibility Is Real

Femme invisibility is a real thing. It happens all the time. Queer women who are feminine get seen as straight—by straight folks, other queer folks, and sometimes even queer femmes themselves—because this culture expects dykes to reject gender roles automatically when rejecting a heterosexual orientation. As if those two things go together inseparably.

For many people, they do go together. But for other folks, they do not.

Assuming that they do go together—that a rejection of heterosexuality also includes a rejection of masculine/feminine culturally-defined gender roles—assumes that the only purpose of those gender roles is for heterosexual gain (attraction, stimulation, and reinforcing patriarchal dominance). One of the things I particularly love about the butch/femme dynamic is that it disproves this. It fractures the concepts of “gender roles” into multiple things, including archetypes and perhaps some sort of “inner gender” (a concept trans theories have been flirting with, but I haven’t seen articulated perfectly, yet). Meaning: yes, these gender roles are societally dictated, but they are also more than that, bigger than that, and if we can strip down the societal restrictions that keep us oppressed and marginalized and compartmentalized (for example, break our identity alignment assumptions and separate gender roles from our hobbies, interests, and personality traits), we can come to some understanding that gender is fun and more than just a way to keep wives subordinate to husbands or to keep men in power (over, among other things, the awe-inspiring phenomenon that is women’s ability to bear children).

Masculinity, femininity, genderqueerness, or any sort of gender presentation is not inherent to a sexual identity. Femininity is not just for straight women. We’ve accepted that masculinity is for dykes and femininity is for fags because, well, this culture is homophobic and sexist, and we assume that a rejection of heterosexuality is also a rejection of gender roles. But many combinations of gender and sexuality exist—probably more than I could even name, probably more than I comprehend. (This is one of the reasons why, when people look at a guy who is even slightly feminine and declare him a closet fag, I think: that’s sexist. He certainly might be a closet fag, but there are also many straight men who have feminine gender performances, and that does not mean he’s gay. Ditto for slightly masculine women—I mean, how many of us have said, how many dozens of times, that Starbuck on Battlestar Galactica must be gay? But why is that? Well, it’s because she has some swagger, never because she has displayed any sexual or romantic interest toward other women.)

Stop Arguing With Reality & Find Some Radical Acceptance

This culture tells us all these things, and this culture is wrong. It is not correct that feminine dykes are really straight girls. It just isn’t. In fact, it’s rooted in sexism and homophobia, and a little bit ignorant.

But also? It’s just real. It’s not right, and I channel all sorts of righteous indignation when I come across something that is just wrong and nobody seems to get, so I’m not trying to discount that it sucks. But if you expect it to be another way, you are simply arguing with reality, and you can (and, dare I say, should!) do some radical acceptance around this issue. That doesn’t mean you just passively accept that this is how things are and move on, it can certainly mean that you do your own work to make this issue less painful for the many people involved.

But it’s just true. In this culture, physical markers of queerness are accepted as certain things (like short hair, baggy androgynous or slightly masculine clothes, comfortable shoes—i.e., not femininity). Your struggle to be accepted as a queer person by visual sight alone is probably going to continue, as long as the culture continues to have those same queer markers.

Since Your Queer Identity Isn’t Portrayed Visually, You Have To Portray It In Other Ways

Since many femmes don’t have those same visual queer markers, since your identity isn’t constructed in a way that portrays your sexuality (according to the culture) visually, you will have to find other ways to construct and communicate your queer identity.

I don’t know how, exactly. Seems like many femmes do this in different ways. After the 2008 Femme Conference, which was called The Architecture of Identity, I compiled my notes and identified a few different ways of constructing identity, such as in contrast to butch, in community, through language, through fashion and style, and through theory, and I think those still hold true.

Language is a big one for me. I would much prefer to befriend and sleep with someone who doesn’t “look gay” but who can talk about queer history, culture, or theory to someone who you would visually peg as a dyke immediately but doesn’t have any context for her identity any day.

There’s constant talk about making some sort of universal femme marker—a tattoo, or a hanky flower, or some way that the pin-up look is queered so that everybody knows it’s not heterosexual, but as far as I can tell, there’s almost no way to universalize one singular symbol. At least, not yet.

And I’m not sure we really need one (though I’m not the one going through the struggles of this, I recognize). Because, let’s be honest: I see femmes everywhere. Whatever you’re doing with your visual markers, it’s working, when you know how to look.

Lots of People See You!

At the Femme Conference in 2008, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha said in her keynote address, “Femme invisibility is bullshit. You just don’t know how to look.”

Don’t forget: Lots of people see you. I feel like I can spot a femme on a crowded subway car even when there are three dozen people between us. It’s not just that she gives me an extra-long stare and big smile (though that happens, sometimes), but it’s also something energetically, something I can’t quite even put my finger on, that says to me, “Whoa, there is something special about her.”

There are lots of femmes out there. There are lots of butches and genderqueer folks and trans folks and other masculine of center identified people and femmes who love to date femmes, and who see the one femme in the dyke bar not as a straight impostor, but as our crush for the evening, our next girlfriend, our fantasy.

It is a real problem. And I know it causes mass frustration. But there are many people who get it, and who don’t question a femme’s identity as queer. And there are big movements adding on to the many, many conversations about femme invisibility that are already out there.

Know Your Femme History

Read up. Read blogs, read books. I suggest, to start: Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme, A Persistent Desire, Brazen Femmes, Femmes of Power, Visible: A Femmethology Volumes I & II, The Femme’s Guide to the Universe, The Femme’s Mystique … and oh probably two dozen others. Take strength and pleasure from knowing others have come before you, and have struggled too: that you are not the only one who has had difficulties with this.

Find some femme friends. Seek out femme community. There is tons of this happening online these days, for example, so even if you live somewhere kinda small or in a city that doesn’t particularly value the butch/femme dynamic, you can still talk to people about this.

If you don’t have a big community in your city, travel. No seriously, I mean that. Come to New York City. And for fuck’s sake, attend the Femme Conference in Baltimore this August. This is exactly what a femme conference is for: to make friends, to come together, to give voice to the common struggles and to start seeing our own experiences as valid and real.

This Is Your Struggle, But Remember: It’s Not Your Problem. It’s Theirs

Just as the main conflict in a butch’s identity—in my opinion—is sexism, misogyny, and masculine privilege (yes, I just said that), this is one of the main conflicts in a femme identity (others big things, from my perspective, being the mean girls thing, and escaping the beauty myth).

But if you really know and understand why other queers don’t see you, and why you pass as straight, and how to start constructing your identity in ways that aren’t reliant upon physical markers, you may just start to realize that it isn’t your problem. It isn’t something you are or aren’t doing right or wrong. It isn’t that if you just tried a little harder, smiled a little bigger, wore a different dress, that you would be recognize and validated as queer. It’s a cultural problem, a problem in our queer communities that is replicating gender norms and assumptions from the larger culture. It isn’t your fault, and it isn’t your problem. It’s theirs.

If someone doesn’t accept that you’re queer when you are a) in a queer space, b) with a visibly queer partner, or c) telling them that you are queer, well, then, fuck them, or rather don’t, because they don’t deserve to keep talking to you. Find somebody who does accept your combination of femininity and queerness. And keep working, yourself, on the reconciliation and supposed cultural conflict between the two.

Because that is your struggle.

How are you going to deal with it? How are you going to own your history, understand the sexist, misogynistic ways that this culture sees femininity, and overcome? How are you going to reconcile that not every visible queer you see will see you? How are you going to learn to communicate with a look and a smile, which, six times out of ten, might work? How are you going to articulate your own identity to others when they question it? What are the words you are going to say? How are you going to build a group of people around you that you know you can turn to when all you want to do is go, “ARGHHHHH!” and be angry that the world doesn’t see you as queer enough? How are you going to help build your femme friends up when they go through this? What can butches do (aside from learn how to recognize you, I know that’s a big one) to support you? How will we all reassure each other? What can we learn, here? What alliances can we make?

And perhaps most importantly, how can we move beyond this?

Strive to Move Us Beyond Visibility

There is more to femme identity than being visible. There is nurturance and caretaking, there is internalized homophobia, there is the mean girls complex that pits femmes against each other, there is the pervasive understanding that femme is nothing more than lipstick and heels (um, wrong!), there is some sort of hierarchy in the femme world as indicated simply by the still widespread use of the phrase “high femme,” there is the identity alignment assumption that all femmes are submissive bottoms and whoa is that incorrect, there is transmisogyny and the still troubled dialogue between cis and trans queer women, there is racism, there is a classist element that says that femmes have to or should buy their gender, there are dozens of other gender stereotypes that still pressure femmes to drink girly drinks and be homemakers and bear the children and stay at home and bake cookies, and oh there are probably two dozen other things I could list if I kept going.

There is more to femme identity than visibility. In fact, today in New York City there is a big day-long event going on right now called Beyond Visibility: Illuminating and Aligning Femmes in NYC, featuring a skillshare, roundtable discussion, and caucuses, all of which are femme-only, and then later an ally-invited reading and dance party (and you bet your beatle boots I will be attending that).

Being and becoming visible as a queer femme is a real thing that, it seems to me, almost all femmes struggle with. But as I’ve known more and more femmes for more and more years, I’m also starting to see that many femmes don’t struggle with it after years of working on it. Many have some radical acceptance and some understandings of how the queer world works, and are working on fighting other things.

Tara Hardy, one of my major mentors and a queer femme poet, has this line in one of her pieces: “I no longer get sad if they ask me at the door if I know it’s dyke night: I get mad. I mean, how much pussy do I have to eat before you let me in the club?” It’s a subtle shift, perhaps, from sad to mad, but it matters. It is the shift from internalizing the culture’s sexist bullshit to fighting back against it.

How do we overcome this issue and begin to elevate the discussion? I don’t know, but I’m curious to do that. And it seems that we, as a community, are beginning to, if only by the title of today’s event. I’m really excited for the Femme Conference in Baltimore this year, I think and hope that will continue to elevate the discussion.

Last, But Not Least

Also, let me say: I’m sorry. I’m sorry you are not acknowledged by the butches you are reaching out to, making bids that go unseen or unacknowledged. I don’t know why you are largely ignored. Could be many things: many butches are kind of used to straight girls hitting on us and using us for attention, and if you are being misread as straight, these butches could be resisting that. Perhaps when you’re out with your butch girlfriend and attempting to be acknowledged, they see you with your partner and don’t want to step on any toes or get into some sort of “hey man, you looking at my girl?” confrontation. It seems unlikely, but it’s possible. Maybe they fear that acknowledgment of your “nice tie” or big smile would be seen as flirting (I don’t think that would be a bad thing, but other people seem to).

Maybe they are just in their own world and just aren’t registering their surroundings. I mean, I’ve had friends of mine show up on a subway platform and try to get my attention while I was commuting, and I just had all my surroundings blocked out until they were literally waving a hand in my face. If you’re doing this in a big city, they could just be in their own world and not very observant.

I don’t know why, exactly. That’s kind of just the way it is, I think. For all those reasons I yammered on about above. That’s not okay and it’s not right, and I’m doing my own part to encourage femme visibility and work on our sexism in queer communities.

Butches, transmasculine folks, genderqueers, and all you other visible queers out there: listen the fuck up: LEARN TO RECOGNIZE FEMMES, even if you don’t date them, because they recognize you.

It’s the least we can do.

Tonight! Butch/Femme Pride at Sideshow

Don’t forget! Join us at Sideshow TONIGHT, June 14th, for our second PRIDE month celebration of butch and femme. Readers include Rachel Kahn, Alicia Greene, & Maggie Cee from Boston’s Femme Show, Susan Herr from DapperQ.com, and Grace Moon from Velvet Park Media.

Sideshow: The Queer Literary Carnival
Hosted by Cheryl B. & Sinclair Sexsmith
Tuesday, June 14th
at The Phoenix
447 East 13th Street at Avenue A
Doors, 7:30pm. Reading, 8pm
Free! (We’ll pass the hat for the readers)
RSVP on Facebook

What’s Going on in June

Oh, hello June, I almost didn’t see you there. I’ve been kind of out of it since the retreat, though I finally feel like this week I am actually catching up and getting ahead of my to do list. Finally.

So—June is pride month! And as such, there are thousands of things going on in New York City and elsewhere. Thankfully, most of them are NOT things that I am doing, and I am attempting to get my loose ends tied up such that I can take as much of the summer off as possible and do some serious writing.

Here’s the stuff you really should not miss.

Events with Mr. Sexsmith

Tuesday, June 14th, 8pmSideshow: The Queer Literary Carnival: Join us at Sideshow on June 14th for our second PRIDE month celebration of butch and femme. Readers include Rachel Kahn, Alicia Greene, & Maggie Cee from Boston’s Femme Show, Susan Herr from DapperQ.com, and Grace Moon from Velvet Park Media.! Details on QueerLiteraryCarnival.com, RSVP on Facebookat The Phoenix, 447 East 13th Street at Avenue A in New York City

Events in New York City You Shouldn’t Miss

Thursday, June , 8pmRed Umbrella Diaries, www.redumbrellaproject.comHappy Ending, 302 Broome Street between Forsyth and Eldridge, Manhattan, NY

Friday, June 17th, 8-10pmLesbian Sex Mafia presents: Tell me what you want, what you really, really want with Laura Antoniou, lesbiansexmafia.orgLGBT Center, 208 West 13th St. (7th/8th Ave) Manhattan, NY

Saturday, June 25th, 10pmSubmit Party, submitparty.com, a BDSM play party for women and trans folks onlyBrooklyn, NY. For exact location call 718.789.4053 or
email Red@submitparty.com

Queer Memoir is still on hiatus, and it looks like Ruckus might not be happening this month, but keep an eye out for their date if they announce it. is back! And happening on June 24th.

I’m also looking forward to the FREE NYU Queer Social Theory class this month, and the Sophisticated Agressive Gents meeting at the LGBT Center. If you need a pride kick-off I recommend the Dykes on Bike-Cycles party. The Lesbian Herstory Archives, located in Brooklyn, is having a book sale the same day as Brooklyn Pride, Saturday, June 11th, so that I must stop by and see. I’m sure I can find at least a dozen or so $1 books that I must adopt. There’s a cocktail party How Long Til My Soul Gets It Right: Benefiting Trans Women Belong Here, which is “an informal organization of past, present, and future attendees of the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival (MWMF) who are taking active steps towards welcoming all woman-identified women to the festival.” This event will benefit their scholarship fund. And there’s Folsom Street East on June 19th!

I am also really stoked that Kristen’s and my Community Supported Agriculture share is starting this month. And … if you promise not to make fun of me, I’ll tell you that I have tickets to see The Monkees in concert on June 16th. People seem to have mixed reactions to my coming out as a Monkee fan, which I am … we had all the good episodes from the MTV marathons in the ’80s on VHS and my sisters and I would watch them over and over. In fact, my sister and her boyfriend are coming with me & Kristen to the show. I’m really excited. I have quite a few tracks on my “if I ever do drag” playlist, and She is at the top of that list. I always liked Mickey best.

My favorite pride event, thus far, aside from Sideshow’s epic Butch/Femme Pride, was hanging out in the air conditioning, drinking my perfected white wine sangria recipe and ordering take-out. I hope to replicate that this year.

Also! I am now booking fall events for colleges and traveling nationally. I’ll be working at home and writing through June, and then doing more travel in July, August, and September, including some travels to Seattle in early July, the Butch Voices national conference in Oakland in August, and Dark Odyssey Summer Camp in September. My schedule is kept up on mrsexsmith.com/appearances if you want to see if I’m coming your way.

Last but not least, here’s my 2011 workshop offerings in a PDF so it is easy to download, you can also download my one sheet PDF or high res photos in my press kit). Get in touch if you’re interested in booking me, you can contact me directly—mrsexsmith(at)gmail—or my booking company, PhinLi, at bookings(at)phinli.com.

Second Annual Butch/Femme Pride Sideshow! June 14th

Join us at Sideshow on June 14th for our second PRIDE month celebration of butch and femme. Readers include Rachel Kahn, Alicia Greene, & Maggie Cee from Boston’s Femme Show, Susan Herr from DapperQ.com, and Grace Moon from Velvet Park Media.

Sid

eshow: The Queer Literary Carnival
Hosted by Cheryl B. & Sinclair Sexsmith
Tuesday, June 14th
at The Phoenix
447 East 13th Street at Avenue A
Doors, 7:30pm. Reading, 8pm
Free! (We’ll pass the hat for the readers)
RSVP on Facebook

Rachel Kahn is a freelance writer, poet, and performer, but spends the vast majority of her time pretending to be a therapist. Her work has been heard at a variety of venues, including the Apocalypse Lounge, the Ear Inn Poetry Series, and The New York Writers’ Coalition ‘Writing Aloud’ series. She has performed at the HOT Festival at Dixon Place in New York City, and makes trouble on and off stage up and down the East Coast. Rachel is not ashamed to tell you that she wrote a young adult novel, but will never let you know what name she used.

Alicia Greene has been a performance-loving, femme dyke diva since she was 10 years old. Spoken word, dance, comedy are some of the stages you may have seen her on. She trained at Kansas State University, the Improv Asylum, Improv Olympic and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts-NYC to just to name a few. Some past performances include: The Chicago Improv Festival, Montreal Fringe Festival, Company One, Big Moves dance troupe, street corners, comedy clubs and open mikes near you. She has also been an announcer for the Boston Derby Dames Roller Derby League as “Lady Oshun-The Announcing Orisha” since 2007. www.bostonderbydames.com

Maggie Cee is an artist, activist, and teacher committed to community, social change, and wearing things in her hair. She is the founder and artistic director of The Femme Show, a ground-breaking touring variety show about queer femme identity. Publications include anthologies Girl Crazy and Second Person Queer and journals Gertrude and Common Ground Review. www.thefemmeshow.com

With dance, spoken word, burlesque and performance art from award winning artists, The Femme Show is the country’s only ongoing touring show exploring all aspects of femme identity. This is queer art for queer people, with a variety of diverse perspectives on femme identity that can be thoughtful, sad, funny, sexy, and fun. The Femme Show is available for performances and workshops at conferences, schools, and community events. www.thefemmeshow.com

Susan Herr is a 48-year-old butch dyke who founded dapperQ.com to build transgenderational bridges between her ilk and younger genderfabs. What will all the photos and videos and narratives contributed by pioneers transgressing men’s fashion — building on the work of folks like Mr. Sexsmith — it’s working! She used to be mad butchphobic and now she can’t get enough of the magic conveyed by simple swagger. Can you?

Grace Moon is the editor in chief of Velvetparkmedia.com an arts and culture social media site for queer women. Moon is also an exhibiting artist and professor of fine arts. She is currently working on a compilation of her columns to be published in an upcoming book.

Ask Me Anything: Standards of Beauty

While I was on the plane to Portland for Butch Voices this past weekend, I dug through my files and responded to the last of the questions from the Ask Me Anything questions from Sugarbutch’s 4th anniversary. Expect more of them posted throughout the week.

From some of your posts I think I’ve made an assumption that most of the women you date tend to be conventionally attractive/attractive by dominant culture’s standards of beauty (i.e. not fat, not particularly full figured, Eurocentric features, etc) So my first question is – is that accurate? And if it is, is that something you interrogate within yourself – as part of redefining masculinity (or the social concept that one way to prove your masculinity (in the dominant culture) is to have a (conventually) hot chick on your arm)?—J-Femme

No, that’s not acurate. I have dated girls of various sizes, with various ethnic backgrounds, who often have not fit into the dominant culture’s standards of beauty. I am definitely attracted to femininity, and those who are submissive in bed, but there are many unconventional qualities I look for in a date or a lover or a relationship, and the things I need in someone I date have nothing to do with conventional beauty—self-awareness, self-acceptance, empowerment, embodiment, expression. I date people I’m attracted to, and always have, regardless of cultural beauty standards (or, sometimes, regardless of what I know about my own orientations—which is how I have ended up dating femme tops, on occasion).

I haven’t always stated what the girls look like exactly, and I haven’t written about all of the girls that I dated in the last four years—some of them didn’t want to be written about, for example. I decided purposefully to leave out much of the physical body descriptions, partly because I was telling true stories from my dates and relationships, and, for a while, while I was still writing online anonymously, I didn’t want to expose myself. After I was out, and honest about writing about the people I was sleeping with (a lesson it did not take me long to learn), I asked permission to write about someone, and I respected what they wanted, which usually was to keep them as anonymous as possible.

Also, I decided deliberately to leave out many physical body descriptions about body size, shape, skin color, and hair qualities in order for the readers to superimpose themselves and their own experiences as much as possible onto the story. It’s a challenge to portray things like body size or ethnicity in writing without fetishizing it, in general and for me specifically, and especially as I started writing more and more erotica, I adopted that as a deliberate stylistic choice.

This policy of not describing women’s bodies in unconventional ways in my erotica hasn’t always worked the way I wanted it to, though. I’ve been criticized before for not including more full-figured women in my erotica. Sometimes I want to point out the stories that I’ve written and ask someone to point out where it says that they are thin—but I also recognize that by not stating it, I’m riding by on some assumptions. I’m letting people believe what they want to believe, and our brains tend to assume certain things, which usually line up with the dominant cultural norm, unless otherwise stated. That is not particularly effective activism.

But this is not necessarily activism—these are my fictional(ized) stories. This is art, and this is the thin line between art and activism. The activist in me wants it to be one way, driving home points about unconventional beauty and body size and features, but the artist in me reads those descriptions and cringes, because they feel unnecessary, surpurfluous, forced, awkward. I’ll keep flirting with that line, and hopefully find a place where the stories can rest, instead of pushing something into it that doesn’t belong, or ignoring an important opportunity for celebrating unconventional standards of beauty.

Secondarily: Yes, it is very important to me to interrogate the ways that the dominant culture views someone as more masculine if they have a conventionally beautiful woman with them. I have certainly done a lot of thinking about that in my relationships and my own orientations, and I’m frequently thinking about it in terms of what I’m representing through my erotica. My stories about Kristen have been criticized because of how I depict her multiple orgasms—people saying that most women don’t come like that, for example. Yes, I know that. I know that not only from the mountains of feminist and women’s sex books that I’ve read but also from my own experiences over the past ten years dating and fucking women. But here’s the thing: that’s what happens. Kristen is a real person and that is our real sex life, and that is the way she really comes. A dramatization or slightly fictionalized version of our sex life, sometimes, yes, but always based in truth.

Yes, I tend to be attracted to femininity. Yes, I tend to be most turned on by girls who are a little smaller than I am—I like to be able to throw them around. But I know butch tops who are really into girls who are bigger than they are, because it makes them feel all the more like a badass top. But there have been occasional femme tops who turn my head, some of whom I’ve dated. And there have been occasional butches or guys who got me all crushed out, too.

It’s a delicate balance between knowing myself and understanding that certain things just work for me more than others, and also being open to trying something if a sparkle comes along and surprises me. I don’t want my orientations—sexual, power, gender, or otherwise—to get in the way of a good fuck, or potentially good date or relationship. I try to keep myself challenged that way. It’s tricky because some of the things I am most oriented toward do line up with some conventional expectations—butch top / femme bottom, for example—but not because it is unexamined. In fact, it might be more because it is over-examined, because I know so much about gender and sexuality that I fetishize the conventional.

I don’t care about having a “conventionally hot chick” on my arm—what I do care about is having a girlfriend, a sexual partner, someone to play with that I am attracted to, with whom I can communicate, who is commited to our sexual growth, both separately and together.

Friday Reads: Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica

In keeping with the tradition I started this summer, featuring a butch or femme book on Fridays to countdown to the Femme Conference and then the Butch Voices regional conferences, I’m going to keep that up and continue featuring books on Fridays.

I was going to write about The Well Of Loneliness, Gold mentioned it when I wrote up Crybaby Butch last week and I thought, “Of course! Why didn’t I have that on my list?” It’s such a classic butch book. I expected it to be droll and depressing, but when I finally read it (in a british women writers of the ’20s class in college) it was incredible—so engaging, so well written, so articulate in the feelings of this “mannish” woman’s love for another woman. I definitely recommend picking it up, if you haven’t read it.

But … in light of the ridiculous amount of depressing news this week, let’s not even go there, let’s not mention a book called The Well of Loneliness, let’s not fall down a well of loneliness ourselves. Instead, let’s move on to something much more fun: smut.

I know I’ve mentioned it here before, but it’s worth revisiting. Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica, edited by Tristan Taormino, is a collection of the best butch/femme stories from the 16 years Taormino was the series editor for Best Lesbian Erotica. There are very few smut books specifically and exclusively with butch/femme content; this is the most recent, and, arguably, the best.

It is steaming hot.

“Butch/femme is erotic iconography. Butch/femme is bulging jeans, smeared lipstick, stiletto heals, and sharp haircuts. It’s about being read and being seen. Sometimes it’s about passing or not passing. It’s about individual identity and a collective sense of community. It’s personal, political. It’s a sexual electricity and power exchange. It’s the visceral space between the flesh and the imagination.” — from the introduction by Tristan Taormino

Here’s the description from Cleis Press:

Does the swagger of a sure-footed butch make you swoon? Do your knees go weak when you see a femme straighten her stockings? A duet between two sorts of women, butch/femme is a potent sexual dynamic. Tristan Taormino chose her favorite butch/femme stories from the Best Lesbian Erotica series, which has sold over 200,000 copies in the 16 years she was editor. And if you think you know what goes in in the bedroom between femmes and butches, these 22 shorts will delight you with erotic surprises. In Joy Parks’s delicious “Sweet Thing,” the new femme librarian in town shows a butch baker a new trick in bed. The stud in “Tag!,” by D. Alexandria, finds her baby girl after a chase in the woods by scent alone. And the girl in a pleated skirt gets exactly what she wants from her Daddy in Peggy Munson’s “The Rock Wall.” Sometimes She Lets Me shows that it’s all about attitude — predicting who will wind up on top isn’t easy in stories by S. Bear Bergman, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Samiya A. Bashir, and many more.

Includes contributions by Alison L. Smith, Joy Parks, S. Bear Bergman, Amie M. Evans, Samiya A. Bashir, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Kristen Porter, Tara-Michelle Ziniuk, D. Alexandria, Anna Watson, Shannon Cummings, A. Lizbeth Babcock, Sparky, Elaine Miller, Isa Coffey, Skian McGuire, Jera Star, Toni Amato, Peggy Munson, Sandra Lee Golvin, and Sinclair Sexsmith.

Pick it up at your favorite local independent feminist queer-friendly bookstore (if you want them to stay in business, that is), from Cleis Press directly, from Powell’s books in Portland (hi, #bvpdx!) or, if you must, from Amazon.

Femme Conference Begins Today! & Countdown to the Butch Voices Conferences

It’s happening right now! Well not quite right now, since it’s earlier in New York City than it is over in Oakland, on the other coast where the sun sets over the water just like it’s supposed to.

The 2010 Femme Conference: No Restrictions begins today and an extravagance of femmes have gathered, including Kristen.

The hashtag for the conference is #femme2010 if you’d like to follow along on Twitter.

How do you like that collective noun, by the way? An extravagance of femmes? Not bad really. There’s a fascinating collective noun site connected to Twitter so that when you tweet your suggestion for the collective noun with the hashtag #collectivenoun it gets automatically updated and counted on the site. Plus, you can “like” other people’s suggestions (which also goes to Twitter). So what say you—what’s the best collective noun for femmes? Tweet it, or leave it in the comments. And check them out as they come in.

Okay, enough of that. You’re dying to know what the femme book is for today, right? Since we’ve got the Butch Voices regional conferences to count down to now, in NYC (September 25), Portland OR (October 1-3), and LA (October 8-10), I figured I’d do a butch/femme joint anthology.

There are other good femme books out there, though, don’t let me mislead you into thinking that Visible: A Femmethology, Femmes of Power, and The Femme Mystique are the only ones. There’s also:

And there’s Glamour Girls: Femme/femme Erotica by Rachel Kramer Bussel (Harrington Park Press; 2006) and With a Rough Tongue: Femmes Write Porn by Amber Dawn and Trish Kelly if you’re into erotica. Which, you know, you might be.

So now that I’ve recited pretty much every femme book that I know of and think are worth knowing, let’s get back to today’s feature. The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader edited by Joan Nestle, published by Alyson Books in 1992. It looks like it’s out of print, but you can probably still get it used in various places, like Powell’s online or, of course, Amazon (but only if you have to. Don’t you want independent bookstores to stay in business?).

The description of The Persistent Desire from Library Journal is as follows:

This anthology of stories, poems, and nonfiction accounts pays homage to a host of femme and butch lesbian relationships that have flourished over four decades. The narrators recount their experiences, describing how they met, how they took care of one another, and how they tried–or defiantly tried not–to fit in. The selections themselves bubble with passion and pain. Some dive beneath the surface to explore the varied meanings of gender roles, but most describe highly ritualistic manners of dress, hairstyle, and gesture that at times left the protagonist open to ridicule. In collecting these pieces into one volume, Nestle has made sure that the integrity and diversity of femme-butch relationships will not be lost. She has included narratives from women of many backgrounds and ethnic groups and from outside the United States.

This book was for me, as it was for many people, eye-opening, validating, breathtaking. I found it while I was still trying to articulate my own butch identity, and come into my orientation of dating femmes, and it blew past most of my doubts as if doing 80 on a motorcycle. I wanted to be part of that, I felt so connected to it. It changed the way I thought about myself and the way I thought about femmes.

It’s dated now. It was published almost two decades ago, and it reflects a different era of thought about gender identity and alignment assumptions. And while the trans movements were alive by then, much has happened on that front in the past 18 years since it was published and much transgender theory has affected gender theory deeply in wonderfully deliciously complicated ways.

We’re really due for an update.

And how about that, one is just on the horizon! Partners and butch/femme couple Ivan E. Coyote and Zena Sharman have been working on an anthology titled Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme (see the connection to the first anthology’s title? Smart!) that is due out from Arsenal Pulp Press soon. Not sure what the exact date of publication is yet, but you can be certain I’ll be mentioning it here again. It looks like Ivan just picked up the postcards for the book from her publisher the other day, so it must be coming fairly soon! I will report back as I know.

There are more books, especially more butch/femme books, and more books just on butch identity by itself (look for more of those featured on the upcoming Fridays as we countdown to the Butch Voices NYC conference). I’ve made a new section in my Amazon Store exclusively for butch and femme books, so if you’re curious what else is out there, that’s a good place to start. And if you’ve got suggestions for what I missed, I’m glad to hear ’em!

UPDATE! Persistence: All Ways Butch And Femme has a webpage on Arsenal Pulp Press, a description, and is due out in the spring of 2011. Isn’t that cover great? It’s done by Elisha Lim, who also has a book of her own newly out from Alyson, 100 Butches, Volume 1.

If you see Zena at the Femme Conference, she supposedly has postcards for Persistence, so that’ll give you an excuse to say hi. She’s aka “The Silver Fox” because (guess) of her hair, so that should narrow it down for ya.

(Don’t you just love the Internet? I do. Thanks, Arsenal, for answering those questions.)

On Being Left Out of Butch & Femme

From the Ask Me Anything questions from Sugarbutch’s 4th anniversary:

a) I often find myself at a loss when trying to slot myself into the femme-butch dichotomy – I don’t feel like I can identify with either. Yet I can’t really pass for androgynous (come on, boobs). so much of what I see in the queer world, in person and online, frames itself around being butch or femme and I feel left out. Is there a movement of queer people who *don’t* align themselves with butch or femme?

b) Some practical advice now…so there’s this girl. :D She’s a friend of a friend and there’s possibly something brewing there. (She knows I’m interested in her, she’s intrigued, hasn’t promised anything yet but would like to get to know me better). She’s overseas at the moment and won’t be back in my neighbourhood till August, baaaaaah. We’ve been chatting over Facebook and I’d like to send her some subtly flirty messages. Nothing too obvious or creepy, but what can I say that won’t either lose the flirtiness (I found that even when I explicitly say something meant to be flirtatious it gets read as normal!) or freak her out? Any ideas?—Tiara the Merch Girl from themerchgirl.net

There is a huge movement of queer people who don’t align themselves with butch or femme, and who don’t identify with androgyny, either. In fact, I think folks who do not identify as butch or femme make up the majority of the dyke/queer communitites.

It’s funny, because especially from the outside, it seems like that’s all lesbian or queer women’s culture is: butch or femme. Both for folks who aren’t a part of these communities and for dykes who are just coming out, that is a really common feeling. But once inside of it, there is tremendous pressure to present more androgynously—lots of pressure for more feminine folks to cut their hair very short, for example. An above-the-ears haircut is practically a rite of passage for queer women. And the tomboy often gets pressured toward body adornment, or comments such as, “If I wanted a penis / a man / a suit, I’d be dating men,” after a particularly short haircut, or a fancy dress-up night, or presenting a new strap on cock. (Not that that’s happened to me or anything. Not that I’m bitter.)

It depends on your geographic location, too. In some cities, queer scenes are dominated by butches and femmes. In others, the norm is more toward androgyny or practicality—I’ve been chatting about gender with a femme who grew up from Alaska and noticed that I did, too, and we both have some similar observations about what it’s like to grow up in a landscape that requires very particular tools to face the weather (like xtra tufs), so the edge of femininity as adornment is seen as very superfluous. And butch as adornment, too—I wore my city boots up there one of the last times I was there for the winter holidays, and complained about how the gravel and salt they constantly spray the streets with were really ruining my boots. Cufflinks, sportcoats, silk scarves—none of that is useful. You need flannel button downs, those very functional paisley handkerchiefs, fleece jackets, thick wool hats. This is the region (well, broadly—the Pacific Northwest) where grunge started, remember?

Point being, some cities are more butch/femme oriented than others. San Francisco’s queer scene is different than Seattle’s, which is different than Chicago’s and than New York’s (and Manhattan’s is different than Brooklyn’s). And the butches and the femmes are often very visible queers, especially since we seem to be the ones who are much more into deconstructing gender than the androgynous dykes. Not always, of course, but often: the current discourse in butch/femme communities tends to focus on why these genders work, why they don’t work, how to break apart identity alignment assumptions, what we’re doing to align with the trans movements, those kinds of things.

(Which is exactly why I am so drawn to this world of butch and femme … was I butch first, and the gender deconstruction came after? Or am I butch because I love gender deconstruction so much? Chicken or egg, who knows.)

And when we talk about a lesbian who is “visibly lesbian,” what do we mean? A lesbian who is butch-ish, or androgynous, leaning toward masculine. Someone not feminine, anyway. But those things aren’t actually the same: lesbian is a sexual orientation, not a gender identity. And until those things are more separated, we’re still going to have the butches (as the most visible queers) and femmes (as the most vocal queers, since if they do not define their sexuality with their words they get mistaken as straight) as some of the most obvious folks in the dyke worlds.

But that’s not to say that the other folks aren’t there. From my own experience, it seems that dykes and lesbians and queers who do not align with butch and femme are much more prevalent and many more than those who do. I’m trying to think if I have any support for this, some statistics I can cite or study I can link to, but I can’t think of anything (anybody else?). I wonder if it only seems like there are more non-butches & femmes than there are butches and femmes because that’s what I align with, so of course I presume that I am an outsider to the dominant lesbian culture. But I don’t think that’s only my perception—I’ve certainly talked to many, many other butches and femmes who feel similarly left out of the larger lesbian culture. Look at some of the big lesbian cultural reflections: AfterEllen, Curve magazine, Go! Magazine, Girlfriends magazine, The L Word, Dinah Shore. None of those reflect butch and femme identity regularly.

You have a place in these queer communities, lesbian circles, dyke scenes. You are just as legitimately queer, regardless of whether you have one singular gender identity to pull on or not. Don’t worry. You do not have to identify as butch or femme, and there are hundreds of blogs out there by queers who do not, many magazines and films and reflections of ways to be queer without aligning with any sort of gender identity. Check out Genderfork if you need a reminder of how many different ways of expressing queer gender there are out there. Find your own gender presentation, whatever feels perfectly good to you, whatever makes you feel the most you that you can be, whatever attracts the kinds of girls or boys or grrrls or bois that you want to attract.

What say you, Sugarbutch readers? Are there more dykes in the butch/femme world or in the non-butch/femme world? Do you feel left out of these identities? Is there a place for folks who do not identify as butch or femme in the queer world? Or do you, as a butch or femme, feel left out of mainstream lesbian culture? Is there a place for you in the larger queer world?

Second …

This girl thing. Well, it looks like I waited a long time, too long, because now it’s August and she might be back. I’m really slow on these Ask Me Anything questions, unfortunately. So maybe you can give us an update! What’s happening now? Did your flirty Facebook chatting work?

Giveaway Winners! Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica

Comments and entries to win Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica edited by Tristan Taormino are now closed! The winners are:

bifemmefatale, whose favorite erotica “of all time is Pat Califia’s “Macho Sluts”. It’s female-centric but includes men as well, it’s unabashedly kinky, the Tops are racially diverse, butch and femme, and there’s a wide variety of styles of kink. … The only problem I have with the book is that it raised my expectations too high—I have yet to meet a real-life Top quite as hot as those in its pages!”

And the second copy goes to Irene, who said “I want this book so bad I can’t even think of a coherent comment.”

Will be emailing you both individually, and sending it out to you within a week or so.

And I hope those of you who didn’t win will check out this book, and pick it up! More details about the book here, or order it on Amazon, or from your local feminist queer indy bookstore.

Here’s the screenshot from Random.org:

Review: Sugar High Glitter City (VOD)

I know, I know: I already reviewed Sugar High Glitter City! What am I doing mentioning it again?

Well, it’s worth mentioning twice. Because holy crap, Shar and Jackie. Swoon. I wish they would make some more porn.

sugarBut also, Hot Movies 4 Her (which powers the video-on-demand Sugarbutch queer porn affiliate site) JUST added Sugar High Glitter City to their repertoire. Lucky you! That means you can buy some minutes, check out each of the scenes, and only pay for the minutes you watch—so instead of making the DVD $30 investment (or whatever it is, jeez porn is expensive) you can watch the first few minutes (or the middle few minutes) of each scene and decide whether it’s worth it to see the whole scene. Or fast forward when you’re not into it.

Here’s the HM4H writeup about the porn:

Sugar High Glitter City
Studio: S.I.R. Productions Directors: Jackie Strano & Shar Rednour

It’s the future. Sugar is outlawed. Cane-addicted dykes stop at nothing to get it – even selling their own bodies! The dynamic dyke team of SIR Video slams the dykespoitation genre into fast-forward with this sticky-fingered belly-crawl through Glitter City’s underworld of sugar-pimps and sandy hos. Fabulously diverse cast and multiple dyke sexualities crunch to the center in this fast-paced futuristic farce. Urban-encrusted glam, gutter-glitter lust, and candy-coated sleaze.

And if you click on over to the VOD site you’ll see some of the photos from each of the scenes, too. That first scene—the threesome with two butches and a femme, where Jackie is talking dirty the whole time? Holy crap I love that one. I think I studied it about eight or so years ago when I had a VHS copy of it in order to learn how to talk that way. She’s one of the best dirty talkers in porn I’ve ever seen.

Actually, speaking of dirty talk, S.I.R. Productions also has a “Talk Dirty To Me” film, which I’ve still never seen, but that I hear HM4H will be adding to their collection in the near future. Will most certainly watch that as soon as I can, and report back to y’all how it is.

Giveaway! Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica

Thanks to Cleis Press and Tristan Taormino, I’ve got TWO copies of the lovely new erotica anthology called Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica edited by Tristan Taormino (in which I have a short story). More details about the book when I mentioned it a few weeks ago here.

Shall I mail you a copy of it? Just comment on this post and let me know what your favorite written erotica anthology is, or your favorite erotica writer, or that one erotica story that you always get out when you want to get your blood going. Bonus points if you describe what it is you love about the story. Or comment that you’ve never read erotica, or that you kind of hate it … or something else entirely, the point is just that you comment. I’ll pick two comments at random and notify you by email.

If you’re outside of the US, that’s fine, but I might ask you to kick me a few bucks for shipping. You just have to include a valid email address to enter.

Winners will be picked Friday morning, March 26th.

Thanks Cleis! Thanks Tristan!

Lesbian Sex Mafia Workshop! Gendering Power 2/19

Come join me at the Lesbian Sex Mafia‘s February workshop!

LSM Presents: Gendering Power: How to Spice Up Your Role Play
with Sinclair Sexsmith

Where: LGBT Center, 208 West 13th Street (bet 7th and 8th Ave.)
When: Friday, February 19, 2010 at 8:00-10:00PM
Cost: $5/LSM members, $10/Non members

An interactive workshop on how the addition of gender to power dynamics in sexual role play scenarios can increase desire, vulnerability, and intimacy, as well as explore deep inner personal gender identities.

New Book! Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica

Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica Edited by Tristan Taormino is due out February 16th, and I have a story in it! (I believe it is The Diner on the Corner, also published in Best Lesbian Erotica 2009.)

There are very few books exclusively focused on butch/femme erotica—Back to Basics edited by Therese Szymanski is the only one I can think of—and I’m thrilled to see another one come into print. Cannot wait to get my hands on it!

“Butch/femme is erotic iconography. Butch/femme is bulging jeans, smeared lipstick, stiletto heals, and sharp haircuts. It’s about being read and being seen. Sometimes it’s about passing or not passing. It’s about individual identity and a collective sense of community. It’s personal, political. It’s a sexual electricity and power exchange. It’s the visceral space between the flesh and the imagination.” — from the introduction by Tristan Taormino

From Cleis Press’s page about the new book:

Does the swagger of a confident butch make you swoon? Do your knees go weak when you see a femme straighten her stockings? In Sometimes She Lets Me, Tristan Taormino chooses her favorite butch/femme stories from the Best Lesbian Erotica series.

Even if you think you know what goes on in the bedroom between femmes and butches, these 22 stories will delight you with erotic surprises. In Joy Parks’ delicious “Sweet Thing,” the recently arrived town librarian shows a butch baker some new tricks in bed. On a chase through the woods, the stud in “Tag!”, by D. Alexandria, find her baby girl by scent alone. And the girl in a pleated skirt gets exactly what she wants from her Daddy in Peggy Munson’s “The Rock Wall.”

Includes contributions by Alison L. Smith, Joy Parks, S. Bear Bergman, Amie M. Evans, Samiya A. Bashir, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Kristen Porter, Tara-Michelle Ziniuk, D. Alexandria, Anna Watson, Shannon Cummings, A. Lizbeth Babcock, Sparky, Elaine Miller, Isa Coffey, Skian McGuire, Jera Star, Toni Amato, Peggy Munson, Sandra Lee Golvin, and Sinclair Sexsmith.

Tristan Taormino is an award-winning author, columnist, editor, and sex educator. She is the editor of Hot Lesbian Erotica and fourteen editions of Best Lesbian Erotica series as well as the author of The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women. Tristan is a former columnist for the Village Voice and currently has a column in Taboo; her writing has appeared in Velvet ParkVibeSpectator,The Advocate, and more than 15 anthologies. She has been featured in more than 200 publications, including the New York TimesRedbookCosmopolitanGlamourEntertainment WeeklyDetailsNew York magazine, Men’s Health, and Playboy. She has also appeared on CNN, MTV, Oxygen, the Discovery Channel, The Howard Stern Show, Real Sex, The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch, Scarborough Country, and over 50 radio shows. Tristan directed the adult videos the Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women, Tristan Taormino’s House of Ass, and the Chemistry series. She lives in upstate New York. Visit Tristan at www.puckerup.com.

Lipstick Blow Job

Kristen: perfect. well i will come by around 9 then. that is late for dinner but oh well
Sinclair: okay, will be home. that will be our one plan
Kristen: ok
Sinclair: that + a blow job
Kristen: oh yes. yay
Sinclair: so, wear lipstick
Kristen: to yoga? :-)
Sinclair: ha! probably putting it on after is better. but, if you like …
Kristen: hehe

She bought new lipstick recently, thanks to a Sugarbutch reader who recommended her particular shade. It’s bright, but lovely and femme, and it doesn’t come off on anything, even tacos.

She walked into my place wearing lipstick, still in her yoga clothes. Not the new lipstick, one of her others that is more sticky and means I tend not to kiss her when she wears it, lest she get it all over my mouth. Sometimes I don’t care about that, of course. But we kiss all the time, so the wanting-and-not-having is kind of fun, for a little while.

I’ve been craving roasted garlic lately so I spread some on some toasted bread, then baked some sweet potato and potato fries with cumin, and constructed a pretty decent veggie burger (sauteed onions, pepperjack, goddess dressing, sprouts, lettuce). (I’ve had this recent revelation that I really like sandwiches, so I’m indulging in that a little these days. Plus, Kristen is a new vegetarian, and is skeptical of the veggie burger, but I’m a big fan.) We may have also had a beer or three.

So we had a nice dinner. Enough about the food.

We cleaned up, did the dishes, had a few bites of ice cream. Her lipstick had mostly wiped off after eating and I pulled her close before going into my bedroom. Though much of the last few weeks has been a struggle, we are also closer, more clear, creating something lovely and excited to dip back into each other. My weekend with her went smoothly and the things that are coming up between us are more conversations than anxious explosions, which feels good, great, but I’ve been missing the power play, which we haven’t done much of lately. I’ve been careful, wanting to really recalibrate before taking too much on or slipping into the wrong places, but we have talked about how we both miss it.

In my bedroom, I slip on my cock while she reapplies her lipstick. I pull her on top of me as I lay down on the bed and kiss her neck, her face. She gets breathless. Sucks in air as her mouth waters and tongue swells, I can see it, despite her lips already being darkened. I slide two fingers into her mouth, feel her tongue, push them just past the first knuckle so she can lick around the pads with her tongue. She closes her eyes and moans.

“Hmm, you like that?”

She moans a little. It’s not really a question I expect an answer to.

“Ready to get that lipstick all over my cock?” She looks up at me, gasps and her chest collapses a little, shuddering and giving in toward me. I grab her hair. Our lips are nearly touching. I run my fingers down her cheek and jaw and notice a smear of lipstick that must’ve been on them, from putting them in her mouth.

“Yes, ohhh,” she breathes softly. “I want to make you feel good.”

I lay back on the bed, hand in her hair, the other on her shoulder or arm or wrist. She positions her mouth over my cock. rings her fingers around the shaft slowly as she lets her mouth water, parts her lips, watches it in her hand as if it is getting bigger at her touch. I practically feel it quivering. Underneath, my clit swells and strains to feel her lips, to be swallowed in her mouth too.

When her lips finally touch it, it is always a revelation, always a surprise, how much I feel it, how much tenderness is in her light kisses, the soft soft pillows of her inner lips, her sweet wet mouth and tongue. She coos a little and I can’t help but to moan, she gulps down thick breaths of air when she pulls her mouth up and off, holds my cock her in her hand softly. Licks just the tip with her tongue.

My cock is covered in rings of lipstick now, smeared around the head and the little ridges of the underside. She gulps it down again, pushes it all the way back into her throat and holds it there while I push and press and pulse against her, eyes rolling back until they close and my back arches to go farther, get deeper inside her.

She gags a little and pulls off, smooth and quick, smiles, looks at me, a little shy, a little desperate. She knows how hot this gets me. I know how much she likes to be stretched open, filled. She’s wet between her legs by now, she likes sucking cock that much.

She does it again, swallows deep, deeper now, her lips all the way to the base and grazing my harness. She holds it way far back in her mouth again and I am tempted to grab hold of her by the hair, start shoving in and out of her at my own pace. She wouldn’t mind. She would like it. I grip her hair but don’t pressure her head down, just remind her of my arm strength and presence and control.

She takes it as long as she can, then pulls back again, gasping a litlte, wipes the spit from her chin. Her lipstick is gone, smeared all over my cock.

“Kiss me,” I say, and sit up, pulling her toward me.

She rises to her knees to kiss me, her mouth sweet and swollen. I kiss her hard and long, wanting, eager, remembering the feel of being thick insider her and still feeling my dick swell.

I pull back. “Oh thank you, baby,” I say between kisses on her cheek and jaw and neck, “you do that so well, god, I love how you suck it.”

She smiles, hums a little in satisfaction, a little sheepish, cute, sweet. “You like that? Do I make you feel good?”

“Yes, yes baby, so much.”

“I like to do it.”

“Mmm, my sweet girl. Take your shirt off, let me up.” I lean back a little, shift my weight, and stand next to the bed as she slides her tee shirt and thin bra over her head. She still has pants on, too, comfortable black ones she wore to yoga earlier. She looks at me expectantly. “On your stomach,” I say, pushing her down and pulling her over toward me.

I want to fuck her mouth from the side of the bed.

I’m not actually sure that will work, but I want to try. It’s a very different angle than her being above me or on her knees in front of me. Luckily (and not by accident), my bed is on risers, raised just to my hip height. She stretches out sideways on the bed and I pull her forward, mouth to my cock, and keep my hand on her head to guide my cock in and out of it as she stretches her tongue forward and looks up at me. I shift my feet to get more power and thrust in again, hips bucking. I like this. Go figure. I like having control of the depth and speed. I like how she looks up at me with just a hint of discomfort in her eyes, a little bit nervous, not sure she wants me to keep going, but so turned on. Oh hell yeah I like this. I feel the tension building in my cunt and want to fuck her, want inside of her; I keep thrusting for a moment but want us to be more connected, want to suck at her lips and pinch her nipples and hold her down while pounding into her. I hold her head a little harder, cock against the back of her mouth, and pull out swiftly: “Take your pants off.”

She breaths heavy, gasping for the air filling her lungs, and lies back on the bed, slipping her pants down her legs. I strip off my harness and pull out my other cock, my favorite cock, the one I love to fuck with, that is a little thicker and longer than the one I’ve been using for her mouth. (Plus, I bet it’s not great to get lipstick in her.)

She watches me, and her hand hovers a little between her legs. She looks from my cock to my face, one of her hands up on her chest, arm brushing her nipples absently, now totally unclothed and a little chilly in my drafty bedroom. “Can I …?” She starts.

I’m still buckling, adjusting. She wants to touch her clit. “Sure,” I answer, watching her as she does.

When I finish strapping on, smooth some lube over my cock, and lie over her on the bed, she’s breathing heavy and arching her lower back, still touching her clit, watching me. I grip her inner thigh with one hand and guide my cock with the other, touching her lips and skin softly, feeling how wet she is. She’s murmuring “yes, yes, please, ohhh … ” and I’m trying to draw it out, to wait, looking up at her and smiling at her gasping, that arc in her body straining for me, for that moment of contact, of friction between us.

When I slide in, it is slow and fully, all the way, and I lie my weight down on her simultaneously, pushing my forearm down into her chest and shoulders. She closes her eyes, opens her mouth in a silent tense moan. She comes so easily, gets there so fast, I don’t want it to be over yet, not that I can’t keep going but I just want to drag it out a little longer, she hasn’t come yet and she doesn’t usually go this long without doing so. I slow down, deliberate and hard, but she just tightens and tenses until her pussy pushes my cock out of her completely.

“Oh, you done with that?” I tease her, kissing her pretty mouth, hand in her hair while I hold my cock with the other, touching it lightly to her slick lips and hole. “You got enough, you don’t want any more?”

“No no no,” she starts, small and steady, “I want it, I want it, give it to me … ”

“Please?”

Please, please, give it to me, put it back in my pussy, please fuck me with it, please … ”

I do, of course I do, slide it back inside, she lifts her knees high and rocks back her pelvis so I can get deeper, shoving inside as she throws her hands up and back to grasp at the blankets, the edge of the mattress, the headboard, as she pushes against me harder.

Minutes pass, I don’t know how long, I can lose myself in this part, the soft melding of our curves together and the rhythms we create while we circle in and out of each other, cycle through pressure and pain and pleasure, the kisses, the grasping at each other. She sometimes comes like this, I sometimes come like this, but neither of us do so after a few minutes (or ten or forty) I shift to my knees and pull her hips up higher, my hands grabbing hold of her inner thighs to pull her to and from me, pulse my cock in and out of her, slapping her thigh for surprise and that shocking spasm of sting before moving my fingers to her clit, flicking it gently, and she starts to shudder, mouth agape, shoulders and arms and wrists held tense and flailing as she clenches everything tight, tight, tighter, pushing my cock out again … until she releases, groans in a long moan, relaxes back, breathes hard, and reaches for me, eyes still closed, to come closer to her.

I wrap my arms around her, lay my body out over hers, and kiss her, both of us catching our breath, vibrating in the aftermath, until we’re ready to go at it again.

The Sugarbutch 2009 Holiday Gift Guide

There are some standard gendered gifts – belt buckles, cuff links, handkerchiefs, pocket or wrist watches, ties & tie accessories, makeup, perfume, jewelry, lingerie – and while I do in general highly recommend them (though maybe not makeup and perfume unless you know what they like), I want to branch out to more than just gendered beauty products.

(You can of course find any and all of those things I just mentioned on Etsy, and they will be amazing and worth it.)

Consider some more important things while you’re buying your gifts this year: SUPPORT LOCAL ARTISTS. Buy from craft fairs. We artists & activists are the ones who have been hit hardest by these troubled economic times. Consider doing your best to put your money back into the communities you love to keep them strong and thriving. Try to avoid shopping from Amazon (but if you do, follow links from your favorite websites who are Amazon affiliates – like me – before you check out to help us get a small kickback from your purchase).

Consider giving less stuff. Always give less stuff. There’s a great anti-stuff holiday gift guide at Get Rich Slowly this year. Consider art memberships to art galleries, sculpture parks, web sites. Consider ordering from friends who make their living through their craft.

Pay artists. Support us with money. Donate, if you can, to Scarleteen – or me – if you want to see us continuing to do this work. See also: Why I am not afraid to take your money by Amanda Fucking Palmer, and The Season of Freaking Out by Susie Bright.

Alright: back to the gift guide. Here are some ideas for folks, regardless of gender.

For Writers

  • Tul pens – particularly the needle point (0.5) gel or rollerball. I know, I’m old school, but I still write a large part of my work by hand in a notebook. So I am always going through pens, and always finding new ones. The Tul pens are my new favorites, but others include Pilot Precise Grip (extra fine, black); Pilot Precise V5, Staedtler Liquid Point, Pentel Energel Liquid Gel Ink, and the Bic 537R.
  • Lined notebooks – I am constantly going through these, and it’s wonderful to have a backstock on my shelves. Writers tend to be superstitiously specific about their notebooks, but I am not – though I love nice paper (like the clarefontaine notebooks which are part velum), I can write in anything. It’s about the words, not the object.
  • New Yorker magazine subscription – after a couple different very impressive articles recently, I think I’d like to keep up with this more often than I do. It’ll be hard – it’s so much reading! – but I want to try. This is on my wishlist this season.

For Chefs

  • Salad Spinner – not quite a perfect wintertime locavore tool, but something I’ve been wanting to add to my arsenal for a while now
  • Dutch Oven – Kristen has one of these on her wishlist. Versatile and specific baking tool.
  • Cast Iron Pan – a really good one. I love mine, they are broken in and 100% vegetarian and beautiful. Highly recommend a nicely sized one for the aspiring chef or cook you know.
  • Good Knives – I have one, but I would like one more, perhaps more than one more. I’d like to retire my tacky beginner knife block, eventually. Always a welcome gift for those who work with lots of vegetables

For Lushes

  • Spirits – a lovely bottle of whatever they drink – or an upgrade of whatever they drink – is always a great holiday gift. Myself, I am a whiskey guy, preferably bourbon, and lately I have been loving Bulleit Bourbon, Hudson Baby Bourbon (going to the distillery for this one soon! So excited!), Makers Mark, and Woodford Reserve. Of course, Jameson, Jameson 12 year, and Gentleman’s Jack are quite welcome in my house at any time.
  • Wine – if you know what someone likes, why not give them a nice upgrade? A $20 or $30 bottle of wine is usually too much for me to spend on myself for dinner, but whoa it’d be a lovely and very welcome gift.
  • Bourbon glasses – I just bought a cheesy set of 4 for $2, but someday I would like to have some real bourbon snifters. Heavy ones, very plain design, very classic. Someday.

For Gadget Lovers

For Dapper Folks

  • Leather care – do you know this person has a fairly extensive leather collection, be it boots or harnesses or jackets or whatnot? Perhaps they could use a refill on some of their leather care products. I go through Saddle Soap, Mink Oil, and black polish pretty frequently, and some of my brushes could use an upgrade. I’m sure if someone sneaked into my shoe shine kit they could tell what it was I needed to replace.
  • Metal pocket comb – I’ve always wanted one of these. Retro, suave.
  • Pocket knife – someday perhaps, I’ll get a nice pocket blade. This is on my general eternal wish list. To be honest, I don’t know a lot about the craft that is pocket knives, but I bet I’d love to learn.

For Folks who Grumble About the Cold

  • Cozy Robe or a Kimono Robe – For those of you who don’t like to wear winter clothes (ahem, you know who you are), a nice cozy robe might be a wonderful wintery addition. The problem is getting one that is sexy and sleek instead of bulky, but still warm. I haven’t solved that dilemma yet, but I have some ideas …
  • Cozy hat & gloves & scarves- I’m thinking extra soft and warm. Who cares that ze has some from last season? These get old and worn through and threadbare, and upgrades are always welcome. Search your local craft fair for these, find some beautiful local soft soft soft wool.
  • Knee socks – Oh Sockdreams. They border on pornographic. Order the knee socks for the folks whose legs get cold in the winter. Check out their arm warmers & leg warmers and fishnets & fencenets too.

Whew! That’s a lot of little bits & ideas, but hopefully something useful. I’ve been thinking a lot about the separation of personality from gender lately, so this particular list reflects that – these gifts are not based on gender, but based on interest, for the most part.

What’s that? You want some books & media for the smarty pants gender theorist on your list? Oh! Well, check out my Amazon Sugarbutch store (then go buy your books at your local queer feminist activist bookstore, if you want them to be around next holiday season)!

If you need a little somethin’-somethin’ for the smarty sexy people in your life, consider one of my Sugarbutch Star Chapbooks. Only $10, and much easier to snuggle up with (and jack off to) than your laptop. Support your local, queer, feminist, sex-positive activist artists this holiday season! Send us support (in the form of money)!

If that’s not enough ideas for ya, go take a look at 2007’s holiday gift guide and 2008’s holiday gift guide. You’re bound to find something in there!

Oh yeah, one more thing: if you’re on Fetlife (and I am, under the user name mrsexsmith), you can sit on Santa’s lap over on Fetlife and tell him if you’ve been naughty or nice, and possibly win some pretty fabulous gifts.

I probably didn’t mention that one thing YOU really are wishing for – what is it? Which sex toys do you wish you could add to your arsenal? Which beauty products are you coveting? Are you desperate for new ties or new leather boots? What do you always wish someone would buy you, and never get? Femmes, help me out here: what should I get Kristen? (Shhh.)

Fucking & Making Love

She looked so damn hot yesterday.

I don’t know what it was exactly. She was in an outfit I’ve seen, tight slim jeans, her girly black tank top with the silver star pattern, little yellow sweater with the clear buttons. Maybe it was her hair, she’s been letting it grow and it’s getting longer, almost to her chin, it’s thin so it’s starting to flip up at the ends. So. Fucking. Cute. Maybe it was the earrings, simple large silver hoops, the ones she’s worried are a cliche but I keep trying to assure her they’re classic, sexy.

Off hand, she said yesterday that I am obsessed with my hair. I said ‘obsessed’ was a bit strong, but I see her point. Maybe it’s not just my hair, either, but hair in general. Still, I don’t want to pressure her into doing things like growing her hair long because that’s what I like – I hope it’s okay for me to state my personal preference while at the same time accepting however she prefers to present. Because while it’s true, I do prefer long hair, even more than that I prefer her to make decisions based on her own wants and needs and personal expression, not on what I desire.

Still. Her hair was so much shorter when we met, nearly as short as mine is now; I’ve been growing mine too, going for that early Elvis look. I’d dye it blue-black like his but I really like the few strands of gray that are coming in at my temples.

I guess I really am obsessed with hair.

Point is: she looked so, so good. Fun, flirty. Femme.

We chatted on the couch after I got to her house. How are you, how’s your day, how’s your sister. Maybe it was that I hadn’t seen her in more than a day after spending many days in a row with her. I felt my appetite for her growing, bubbling up. At one point she tipped her head just slightly sideways, her hair doing this little flip on both sides, the lines of her silhouette so perfect, those big hoop earrings brushing her neck, and she gave me a little smile, eyes twinkling. If I’d been on a TV show, it would’ve cut to a shot of me, my spine becoming jelly, my hands to my face, crying OH GOD as I slide off the couch before springing up and throwing myself on her, wrapping around her and kissing her hard, my mouth wherever she’d let me put it, then the camera would snap back to the shot of us on the couch as we were before and nothing would’ve actually happened, just me, sitting there blinking, in awe, probably totally transparent and readable and ooey gooey in love. Am I so obvious? Moments like that I feel oafish, bull in a china shop, too big and awkward next to such grace and elegance, like I am certain how much she knows she’s got me wrapped around her little finger.

Oh and here I am being all dramatic and admirational again. Are you bored of this femme-worship yet? Three and a half years of Sugarbutch and I only love femmes more, I am only more certain of my orientation to them in such a specific way. Only three and a half years of Sugarbutch, but I met my first femme nine years ago, and I knew then … what? Something. The way she shocked me to life, lit up the night like a shower of sparks from fireworks.

And I’ve never had it this good. I tell myself that every day: every day of this relationship I am grateful, so appreciative of every minute we have together. I’ve not known a bliss like this and I’ve never known it to last this long.

When Jesse was here, she had a brief little snag with Violet, some conversation where it wasn’t quite perfect, but she didn’t let it phase her or lose her unwavering faith in their relationship. “We’ve always been able to talk it through, whatever it is,” she said. And so far, Kristen and I have that too – not big explosive fights and feelings getting deeply hurt, but conversations of honesty and self-awareness and accountability and care. There are some things looming, a little, I’ve felt their weight lately, our differences and complications and inadequacies and places where we need more support, but we have always been able to talk things through, even if the journey is more illuminating than the destination, even if the only conclusion is, “well, now we know, that’s how we work, that’s my particular quirks and assumptions coming up against yours in our unique relationship way. We’ll just have to watch how this plays out.” We still come back together, appreciate each other, speak the deep truths. I feel like I am heard, always. And oh how important that is, what a relief to have it in my relationship, with her.

Dacia has a piece she’s read in public a few times lately which has the lines, “I write about the relationship I wish I was having,” and “I buy my own bullshit.” I’ve done that, here, in the past. I’ve written myself into love, used this site to woo and court. I haven’t wanted to do that with Kristen. It’s too precious, too real; I’ve learned from my mistakes, or rather, I am learning, I am trying to learn. That is a major reason why I haven’t written about her like I have others.

Plus, I’m all the more protective of my heart these days. How many heartbreaks is one heart made to withstand, anyway? I love writing about my relationships, but it can also be a crutch – I become obsessed with micro-articulating my feelings and emotional landscapes in writing, sometimes to my own detriment, overdramatizing and letting the articulation of the emotion be more important than the experience, the story, the audience, the effects.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

So I am protective of this relationship, as it has swelled and sometimes burst, its ups and downs. I haven’t chronicled it all here, preferring instead to articulate it to her as best I can. And there are things, snags, places between us which are murky and lurking a little for me right now, things that have come up and we’ve said “we should talk about that more later,” but now it’s later and I don’t even remember what they were, so that makes me all the more nervous. The unknown rather than the known. I should’ve kept a list, I keep thinking. But I’ve got to calm my nerves about this, not let it affect the really good highs inside of which we still so easily slip. So far, we’ve been able to talk through everything, and for now I’ll rest comfortable on presuming we’ll be able to do that in the future, too.

Yes, I was high when I reached out for her upper arm and pulled her onto my lap, and she’d just told me about how she’d done her homework this morning by playing with her ass while getting off, but that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t also in love, wanting to make love, wanting to be inside of her, drinking her in as I sucked her nipples into my mouth and left bite marks on her neck and shoulders. She cried out and I thought, someone should be videotaping this she is so goddamn hot.

In the bedroom we slipped off her clothes. “Take off your shirt.” I slid her tight jeans down her legs. She was in this matching bra and panties I hadn’t seen her wear before – she does wear the bra, a little white one with pink polka dots and pink satin bows, very femme, but the matching panties have layers of ruffles. I’ve never seen her in them.

I didn’t take them off.

“I want to see your ass. Turn over.” She does, gets on all fours. “Show it to me. Get down on your elbows.” She parts her knees a little and arches her back, I run my hand over her curves and feel the outline of her cunt and ass under the thin fabric. I let my fingers trail over her softly, slowly. My mind raced. There’s so much I wanted to do to her, with her. All that ass talk earlier made me want my fingers in her there, to get out the little plug I’d brought to leave at her place (her further homework), wanted to plow her ass hard and make her scream. I won’t do that, yet, of course, it’ll take some time to work up to it. I wanted her to stay on her knees, ass in the air, while I gripped her hips and fucked her slow and hard. I wanted her on her knees, mouth full of spit eyes looking up at me as she sucked me down.

But most of all I wanted to be close, pressed against her, kissing her, wrapped around each other. So I strapped on, peeled off her pretty bra and panties, told her to turn over, slid inside, and got lost in her, got lost in the way we wind around and hold each other. We barely spoke, just felt each other, just took it all in with our bodies.

There were a few times I slowed down, savored her, looked at her, but the vibration was so strong between us, I couldn’t didn’t want to stop. Sometimes I wondered if I should, if her hips were okay, if she needed more of a break, but I kept getting so close and ultimately was able to come inside of her for the first time in a long time, I was glad I didn’t stop. (I don’t know why I haven’t been coming lately. I broke out the Spartacus harness I’d retired hoping that would help. It did, apparently.)

Later, she said, “I thought you were going to stop … but you didn’t. That was good.”

Yeah, that was good. And I’m glad she said that. Always affirming to know I wasn’t pushing her. I want to push her, I want to have that kind of power and trust and knowledge and skill, but that has to be earned, that has to be worthy. I want to do so much more with her, to her, want to take her to all sorts of dirty places and cradle her and worship her and honor her and fuck her and smack her around and force her and hold her and let go with her and trust her.

There’s time. It’s been almost a year, but I know enough to know that we’re in this. And that we’ll keep building, and exploring, as this keeps getting deeper and stronger.

Truer: Sophia Wallace’s work in NYC

Sophia Wallace, one of my favorite photographers, has a collection called Truer: An Autobiographical Love Story, which has been included in Slideluck Potshow XIV, a potluck and slideshow this Friday.

I love the photographs in Truer so much I actually purchased a print from Ms. Wallace. (Not this one below, a different one.)

truer11

Event Info:
Aperture Foundation
Slideluck Potshow XIV
Inside Out
Time: November 13, 2009 from 7pm to 11pm
Location: The Aperture Foundation
Street: 547 W. 27th St, 4th Floor
City/Town: New York, NY 10001
Website or Map: http://aperture.org
Event Type: slideshow, potluck
Organized By: Slideluck Potshow & Aperture

My Evolving Masculinity, Part Two: Yin & Yang

Part Two in a series of five. See also: Part One, Introduction

Beyond the Concepts of Yin & Yang

I was introduced to many new concepts at the 5-day tantra retreat I attended over the summer of 2009, but the one I’ve been constantly chewing on and talking about and sharing and using to analyze myself and others has to do with yin and yang.

Most of us are familiar with the concepts of yin and yang – and many of us who study gender may call bullshit immediately, saying it is a binaristic, dualistic system that does not account for the gray areas, just the black and white. But as much as postmodern theory wants to deconstruct the binary and create and celebrate a multitude of options, there’s a part of me that thinks outright dismissal of the binary is just unrealistic – we are bipeds, we have a long human history of constructing the world in twos, in binaries, in this-and-not-this. Yes, we need more than two options, do not get me wrong. Especially when it comes to gender, there are so many more expressions and experiences than ‘man’ and ‘woman.’ But that said, there is something basic about the binaries – light/dark, in/out, hot/cold – that is useful to structure the world around us.

Most of us are familiar at least in a broad way with the yin and yang concepts. Yin is receptive, dark, fluid; yang is penetrative, light, pointed. Yang enters, yin receives. Yang inquires, yin observes. Associating feminine and masculine with yin and yang is a challenge because I do not want to seem prescriptive – if you are feminine, you are not required to be yin, for example. Gender expression does not necessarily line up with these types of energy breakdowns.

Yin is traditionally associated with femininity, and yang masculinity. It’s probably clear why: the penis/vulva intercourse description inherent in the penetrative/receptive delineation easily dictates how the energies are divided. Together, yin and yang are called the Stabilizing Energies, as they need each other in order to be strong. Without something to hold, yin is empty; without somewhere to rest, yang cannot stand up by itself.

When broken down, yin and yang Stabilizing Energies are the Masculine Yang and the Feminine Yin.

The second type of energies, which was the part of this that is all new to me, are the Transformative Energies, which are the Masculine Yin and the Feminine Yang.

The Feminine Yang is also called spanda or shakti in tantra, the equivalent of ‘life force.’ But not life force in an ommmmm prana/breath way – more like a violent life force, the ripping open of legs and cunt to push a baby to be born. The spontaneous expressions of joy and energy that overcome us. A lava flow, a rushing river of rapids. Pure force, pure energy, intense and wild.

Her counterpart is the Masculine Yin. He is the riverbank to her river. He is the container, the thing that keeps her safe. But not in a controlling, overbearing way (that is perhaps indicative that the masculine yin in someone is imbalanced or poorly developed) but in the way a father coaxes a wild child to redirect their energy, like martial arts, taking the opponent’s force and deflecting it, using it against them. The Masculine Yin is a firm, nurturing hand, the container in which the feminine yang can rest and grow and feel safe. Without the container, she is explosive, sometimes wild. She needs the gentle guidance to be transofrmative.

Though these qualities are associated with gendered words, they are by no means prescriptive or restrictive, and in fact tantra presses that everyone needs to have a balance of all of these energies, and even has some methods by which to develop the areas where one is weaker.

Personal Revelations

Because, well, this is my personal online writing project (a.k.a. “blog”), I am going to take a minute to explore these four categories and how they relate to me and especially my evolving masculinity.

Feminine Yin – Growing up the child of two feminist hippies, and discovering things like Ms. Magazine, wicca, and feminism as a teenager, gave me a very strong base in the feminine yin. I did not grow up a tomboy like many transmasculine folks, I wore dresses and skirts and makeup (much to my feminist mother’s chagrin) in my teens. When I did begin taking on masculinity, my respect for femininity stayed steady and firm and did not really change – what changed was only my own presentation. I still saw a lot of value in the caretaking qualities of the feminine yin. In fact, perhaps more than feminism (which, one might argue, sometimes values the feminine yang over the feminine yin), my base with the feminine yin comes from my mother, who is an early childhood educator and extremely receptive, sometimes to a fault. And while there are some ways I could improve my feminine yin receptivity (i.e. sexually – though I’d rather have a different kind of sex, more on that later), for the most part my issue here is that I am too receptive, too hyper-sensitive, too eager to take in the world around me. I don’t necessarily have a deficit, then, but I do perhaps have an overabundance.

Masculine Yang – I have spent at least the last five years very intentionally developing my masculine yang. That is the energy that more than any others was left out of my family, so I didn’t know intuitively how to reproduce it, and the examples in culture are generally negative, overbearing, misogynistic, even dangerous. I took a lot of time learning how to penetrate, how to be inquisitive, how to investigate, how to externalize my desire. I even moved to arguably the most masculine yang city in the United States – New York. So much forced learning happens here, at times painfully. I don’t think New York creates problems so much as it exacerbates and explodes what is already there, and in my case, New York would not let up, would not let me turn away, and I had to develop and strengthen my masculine yang to keep myself safe and whole. I feel good about the changes I’ve made – I was clearly lacking some masculine yang, and I think I’ve adopted it in ways that are strong and stabilizing, not necessarily in offensive, violating external ways.

Masculine Yin – When I first heard about this concept, this is the one that clicked. Oh. Fuck. That’s what I need. In fact, that’s what I’ve been trying to develop recently, for a few years now even, though I never had a specific name for it. The funny thing is, I am very skilled at being a container and holding space in many aspects of my life – I would say this site does a lot of that, for example: creating a safe space for people to come and interact and explore complicated, personal ideas. I do it in my sex life all the time, pushing the girls I sleep with to a bigger, deeper release, and then holding them through it and bringing them back to a place of safety and care. This happens with Kristen especially quite often; I feel blessed and privileged that she trusts me that much, and that she’s willing to let me guide her through some of these dark, complicated, occasionally painful places, and as our sexual relationship continues to deepen I think we’ve both been able to explore the ways that I contain her and hold space for her experience in bed in bigger ways. And yet … and yet. I can’t seem to do this for myself in the ways that I want to. I sometimes get frightened of my own capacity for “big-ness” and hold back because I’m not sure I can contain it. I need to have better corral over many aspects of my life (my paperwork, my clutter, my calendaring, my obligations) and I know I need a firmer, heavier hand to come along with gentle strength and say no, no, no, to more things than I do now.

Feminine Yang – I’m not sure I trust my feminine yang. I feel it bubbling up in me sometimes, but I’m not sure I – or the world or my partner or my friends or my community – can hold the bigness and chaos that I fear will spill out of me. At the tantra retreat, for example, when I was thinking beforehand about my intention and what I wanted to get out of it, I really wanted to leave my New York crazy life behind, to forget my to do list and the million things that were weighing on my mind, and really find some deep calm and be able to be present in that new delicious space. That, however, wasn’t a problem at all – the whole world and my whole life dropped away from me as soon as I entered the beautiful zen center hot springs space, and I stepped into a deep calm and sense of self that was just under the surface. The challenge, however, was with what came out of that deep calm – this overwhelming power and strength and WHOOSH that sometimes took my breath away. I always felt like I had to back off from it, to not indulge or give in to it, but to contain and control it. I don’t think I ever quite let it out. So I do need more practice with this one, definitely.

If I think about it, it seems to make sense that in a butch top/femme bottom sexual relationship the butch top would occupy more external, explosive yang and that the femme bottom would take in the receptive, containing yin. But in our case, she is feminine in both ways, in both the reception and the explosivity, and I am masculine in both ways, in the penetration and simultaneous containing. I think this is at times one of the frustrations of our sex life, one of the ways it limits us, because I’d like to be able to be more explosive and big in the feminine yang, and for her to be able to hold me through her own masculine yin. We’ve had this conversation, we’ve discussed it in depth and it continues to come up as we explore all sorts of other things, and as I explore my evolving masculinity.

How I Need To Grow

One of the tantra teachers on the retreat shared with me this story, when I went to her specifically about the Masculine Yin, saying, that. Yes. That is what I need. How do I get that?

She said that as her masculine side was pretty weak when she began this work, and specifically did some rituals to strengthen it. At some point, after a ritual, she was so heavily embodied in the Masculine Yang that she felt like she would just fuck anything that moved. She immediately went back to her teacher and said: “help! I am definitely embodying masculine yang, but it feels like I am an out-of-control teenaged boy! How do I control and contain this? What happens between the ages of sixteen and thirty, for men, in their masculine development, that they can handle this wild energy?”

Her teacher said: we grow our balls.

That was such an A-ha! moment for me. Yes, of course: Masculine Yin is all about balls, and, as a dyke, I have a particular aversion to balls, and most of my strap-on cocks don’t include them.

Balls are the literal counter-weight to the cock, the thing that keeps the cock grounded and balanced and in check.

I know my Masculine Yang. I feel pretty good about the ways I occupy it, too. But as my masculinity is evolving, I need to move into a more adult, grounded, Masculine Yin sense of masculinity, and I think if I could embody that more completely and wholly, my masculinity would feel better, and I would feel better.

The next part of the My Evolving Masculinity series is Part Three: “Daddy”, to be posted in the next week.

Definitions of Butch & Femme

Way back in April, for Sugarbutch’s third anniversary, I offered up an “ask me anything” thread where readers could ask any burning questions that they’d like for me to answer. Given that I’m writing so much these days my pencils are worn down to nubs, and that this summer has been a challenge, I’m behind on answering many of those questions.

Here’s one that I’ve thought about since I read it.

What are your working definitions of “butch” and “femme”?

I know that’s a tricky and possibly annoying question; I ask because I’m currently moving into the recovery phase of a recent gender panic/gender identity crisis. I’m in the process of moving to a more masculine gender presentation and (hopefully?) social role (thank God), and my girlfriend is femme (and I pretty much only like femmes), but then I don’t feel like my gender issues and vibes are very similar to those of the butches I know, and… I’m just really confused.

– Daisy

I do have somewhat of a working definition of these terms: usually I say, in the broadest sense, butch and femme are intentional reclamations and recreations of gender. There’s more to it than that, of course, and these identities are policed by all sorts of social and gender forces. But that’s a start.

But that’s just my brief two cents. I want to know: what are your interpretations of these butch and femme? What are your working definitions?

Say you run into someone who has no knowledge of what being part of butch/femme culture and what identifying as butch or femme means (which, I don’t know about you but, is very frequent for me). Or someone who has only come across these terms as pejorative? What do you tell them?

Or, think about it this way: living in New York City has taught me the strong value of the elevator pitch. Everybody’s busy, everybody’s got somewhere else to be, someone else to talk to, which is more interesting than you. So you’ve got to hook them in with something strong and solid.

So what’s your butch/femme elevator pitch? How do you explain the basics in one sentence?

I’ll have to keep thinking about mine. I’ll chime in in the comments.

Review: Hard Love & How to Fuck in High Heels (DVD)

As of 2/8/16 This product is no longer available at Babeland

This was absolutely the first butch/femme porn I ever saw, and it blew my mind. I had a VHS version until a few years ago – not sure what happened to it exactly, actually, haven’t seen it since my cross-country move four years ago.

But: it was made in 2000. And I was OBSESSED with it in 2001. So when Babeland offered it up, I jumped, but wondered nervously: would it hold up? Would it be outdated?

Hard Love & How to Fuck in High Heels consists of two different films: Hard Love, which stars Jackie as directed by Shar, and How to Fuck in High Heels, starring Shar and directed by Jackie.

What’s that? “Who are Shar & Jackie?” Oh, right. I talk about them both on a first-name basis as if I know them, but really I don’t. (I did meet Shar once though. She asked me if I was packing. I was. It was hot, and I blushed hard. Did I ever write that story up on Sugarbutch?) They are a queer butch/femme couple, Shar Rednour and Jackie Strano, who I’ve known of since their porn company, S.I.R. Productions, put out both this film and others (such as Sugar High Glitter City – full review of that one coming soon too). I was obsessed with On Our Backs, too, and I vaguely remember them being featured in there at least once or twice. They were a high-profile visibly queer butch/femme couple when I was a babydyke, and I saw them as mentors and roll models, even if I didn’t actually know them.

They’ve now been together 16 years. There was a great article in the The SF Chronicle recently about them and their three kids, which mentioned Sharlene’s Babycakes.


(Photo reprinted without permission from The SF Chronicle)
Okay, back to the review:

Hard Love is not just a porn – it attempts a plot, a pair of former lovers who are still intertwined, and the two others they are now currently fucking. There were a few arguments between the characters – which, though I expected them, I found myself asking my computer, “really? I mean I know this is realistic and all, but can’t I have my porn lesbian-drama-free? Must I deal with lesbionic relationship bullshit? I just want to get off …” yet I found myself invested, identifying with the characters (Jackie especially).

I admire the attempt by S.I.R. productions (which apparently stands for Sex, Indulgence, and Rock ‘n’ Roll) to put together a story, but also find it generally unnecessary, and sometimes distracting.

How to Fuck in High Heels is the shorter, second part of this video, consisting of one of Shar’s performance poetry pieces of the same name. It is smutty, and showcases some great femme wear and cocks and heels, but it isn’t porn the way Hard Love is. I do love it, because it’s Shar, because I’ve seen it a hundred times, because it reminds me of queer performance poetry open mics. But it too is dated, and f I didn’t have the history, the relationship, with S.I.R., I would probably be more critical. Still, in the interest of, ah, the evolution of dyke porn, this is a significant piece. And if you dig hot blonde femmes and strong sexy butches, you’ll love it.

I was thrilled by it when I popped in the DVD and saw the familiar opening scene. You know how some movies are just forever embedded in your consciousness? Yeah, this one is. I studied the sex scenes with Jackie, though I wasn’t certain wy she fascinated me so much. Did I want to do her or be her?

I love the scene when the femme is getting fucked in the kitchen. I love the scene where Jackie’s ex meets up with her boi and does a striptease. I love watching Jackie jerk off while her lover eggs her on with dirty talk. I love Jackie’s enthusiastic jump into the tub to be with her, later.

I loved it, but I hesitated to show it to Kristen. The clothes and hairstyles and shoes were dated. The camera work wasn’t great, either – not compared to the recent high quality dyke porn. I worried she’d be critical of it, and I worried I had too much invested in it, given that it’s imprint is burned on my brain like the burnt in ghostly imprint of text on an old monitor.

Eventually, Kristen and I did sit down to watch it, and her reaction was much as I suspected. We didn’t make it through the first scene, but I insisted we forward it to the dirty talk/jerk off session. “Don’t you want to watch Jackie come?” I enticed, knowing how much she appreciates a butch orgasm. She watched with interest, lips parted. I watched her. Then she insisted we turn it off and go fuck.

I’d say it’s still got it’s charm.

Stay tuned for reviews of Sugar High Glitter City, S.I.R. Production’s 2nd butch/femme porn, and a porn giveaway of both of those DVDs!

You should buy Hard Love and How to Fuck in High Heels at Babeland.

The Study Date

Here is number 4 of 5 of the 2008 Sugarbutch Star stories! In case you need a reminder of the the Sugarbutch Star contest is reader-submitted outlines of fantasies which I then turn into full-length smut stories. I plan to run the contest again in August. Read up on the past stories at Sugarbutch.net/sugarbutch-star-contest.

This submission comes from Green-Eyed Girl – yes, the Green-Eyed Girl.

Sugarbutch Star: Green-Eyed Girl
THE STUDY DATE

I push her back against the door of the classroom the second she closes it, catching her jaw by surprise, my hand over her mouth. “Is this what you wanted? You want me up against you like this?”

Corinne’s knees go weak and her eyes widen, looking up at me softly under her short red hair which curled around her chin in a blunt bob, the bangs across her forehead making her look like a model from the thirties. Her ivory blouse is loose and silky against her skin, a bit fallen to one side, showing the edges of a lace camisole.

I bet she’s already wet.

“You’ve been trying to get me alone all semester. Did you think I didn’t know what you wanted, when you asked me to study with you after class?” I speak softly against her neck, let her feel my breath, hot, against her skin.

Corinne can’t speak. She had been taking up all the air in the room every day in our evening literature class, feisty and talkative, and I’ve finally caught her unprepared. I like the way she keeps glancing at me, then glancing around the room, at the windows, at the door, the small individual desk-chair sets in messy rows, as if she isn’t sure she wants to be here, now that she created this situation.

“You like the way I feel, don’t you?” I bring my hand to her waist, to the curve of her hip, to the front of her thighs, running it up her belly, to her breasts.

She gasps. Nods slowly. I let my fingers find the hem of her black pencil skirt and start tugging it up her thighs. She looks surprised and shifts her weight, her heels of her black pumps clicking on the hard classroom floor. She squirms and whimpers a little behind my hand. She’s breathing heavier and I have to let her have her mouth again in a moment.

“Getting shy now? I thought you knew who you were playing with.” Her skirt is tight and it’s hard to get it to move along her legs with just one hand, I don’t want to rip it or stretch it out, but I’m getting impatient. I push my hand between her thighs and spread my fingers to get her to open them, shove at the fabric. She sucks air in through my fingers, brings one hand to the wrist that is holding her mouth and the other to my shoulder, my chest, almost like she’s pushing me away but she’s not, she’s leaning into me. She wants more.

She sets her jaw, gets her footing, spreads her legs, locks my eye contact. Getting bolder. Caught off-guard for only a moment, she’s regaining that fierce self-resolve I’ve been fantasizing about for months: how I would unravel it, thread by thread.

I move my hand up her skirt for a surprise of my own: no panties. Her cunt is not shaven but trimmed, I can feel the soft hairs around her lips before I explore the inner contours with my fingertips. I want to plunge in. I want to catch her between my hand and the wall, feel her from inside, see how she shudders when she comes, if she can stay upright against this wall, right here.

I let up with my hand over her mouth and feather touch my fingers to her lips, red and full, her mouth gently parted, breath sliding in and out, hot, it’s getting warmer in here, I’m starting to sweat. I can feel it at the nape of my neck, on the small of my back. I’m in my favorite deep red tee shirt and broken-in jeans, but none of the windows are open and it was warm today. Temperatures are rising fast.

Her tongue is swelling in her mouth. She swallows, watches my face, I can tell my features are getting more shadowy as she’s started giving over. I tease her lips with my fingertips and slide inside her mouth and her cunt at the same moment, two fingers each, she’s wet and warm and strong and tight.

Shuddering just barely, she leans her shoulders against the wall and tilts her pelvis toward me, an offering.

You can have me.

I know.

Slow and deep, filling every inch as I move inside her. She opens and blooms between my hands, reaching into her as though I could pull some jewel out from her core, as if excavating a mine.

Show me those precious things you hide inside.

Corinne swells, clit and tongue; I wet my thumb to thrum against her. I’m holding her up and back with my hands, she’s pressing her weight into me, opening deeper. Her desire rises and I think she’s going to come, she tightens so strong around my fingers and sucks me in deep, I can barely move either hand inside her, but she doesn’t, she gasps, goes limp, releases, leans her head against the wall and opens her mouth, opens her eyes, slides them sideways to look at me. Swallows a few times.

I slide my fingers out of her beautiful tight body. We both catch our breath.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and run my fingers through my hair which is falling in my eyes. She rolls her shoulders forward and her knees together shyly, then straightens up, pulls at the hem of her skirt, and takes four swift steps over to the teacher’s desk in front of the chalkboard still covered with notes from our lit class and from the day’s use, ghostly outlines of letters.

Her hard heels against the floor click, click, click, click, and she balances perfectly on the thin tapered heels, effortless (or so it seems to me) black straps buckling around her ankles. Much too fancy for some night university class. She regains her poise and she is all grace, all pressure and granite.

Turning to look at me, she shifts her hips side to side as she works her skirt up her thighs and bunches it around her waist, watching my face as I try not to stare, then she turns, and bends over the desk with her elbows on it.
I don’t make a move. I barely breathe. I let my hungry gaze take in the curve of her ass, her pussy laid out for me, wet and open, her asshole pink, the lines of her shapely legs.

This girl knows what she wants. I love that.

She glances back over her shoulder at me hesitantly, a little shyly. I can see her wondering if she’s made a mistake, been too bold, or if I’ll give it to her.

Of course I will.

My brown loafers click too, but softer than hers, the leather warn down and smooth. I don’t go slow this time, easily shoving three fingers into her, hard enough to tip her forward farther over the desk. Her mouth opens with a quick “ah!” but she takes it. I grip her hip and slide out easy, slick, she’s so wet, so wet and easy, she guides me in and out, takes it hard, rocks against me.

In a flash she reaches down between her legs with her left hand and lays deeper onto the desk, breasts against the cool slick top of it. She lets out a moan as she flicks her clit and tightens around my fingers. I slow down, deepen, expand my fingers to fill her more. She gasps, yeah ohhh yeah yeah and I grin. There’s that tongue of hers working again.

I’ve got her perfectly at hip height and wish I had a cock with me – how was I to know she’d accost me like this? – her ass is luscious and I want to take a bite of her cheek, leave a bruise, wet my fingers and work them into her ass as I plunge my cock into her cunt. Maybe she’ll let me do this again. My free hand travels up, pulls her blouse free of her skirt and finds her nipples, one and then the other, smashing my hand between her and the desk as I keep thrusting and she keeps rubbing her clit, I’m closer to her and can hear her gasping, her hair is falling in her face and she is deliciously disheveled.

“Oh god oh god,” she mutters. No need to involve him, I want to reply, and bite my tongue thinking this is the most holy thing I’ve done in weeks, I can feel her expanding and enlivening under my fingertips, can feel her chest sweeten and swoon as her heart beats red and strong. The buttons on her blouse are popping open and her skirt is all twisted, her hair swings next to her cheeks and ears, red as the flush on her forehead and between her legs.

I want to keep her here, poised, open, fine-tuned and sailing over waves of breath and pulse. Here, it is nothing but bliss and beauty and possibility and healing, nothing but filling the cracks and broken-down machines that are our bodies, that run us, both her and I, I’m flooded with it too, she’s spilling out of herself and into me and I catch it, drink it, push myself inside her deeper to spill and capture even more. I love this part, this dance, this exchange, when we are no longer separated, one big electrical circuit, raising energy from our own bodies, flowing through us, picking up speed and momentum and density and purity as it travels between us.

But of course it doesn’t last. Like all moments of ecstasy, it is short-lived: it spills over and explodes and she comes, hard, gasping and thrusting back against me, pushing her clit so hard I can feel it inside, knees shaking, one of her feet lifting off the floor as she slides her body nearly all the way over the desk.

Her cries quiet, but I notice they bounce around the bare, hard classroom; I wonder if anyone has heard.

I’ve pressed hard against her as she collapsed and after a moment I disentangle, breathe, feel my own body attached to my own hand, contain myself again. She hums with pleasure and pushes herself up from the desk, pulls and twists her tight skirt back into place, sits on the desk and crosses her legs to rebutton her blouse and smooth her clothes. Her ankles touch and kiss, shoes barely held onto her slender feet, just a few fine straps and buckles.

She runs her fingers through her hair, tucks it behind her ear, in a gesture so sweet I stop what I’m doing and reach for her, slide my hands around her waist and she brings her arms around my neck as we kiss, soft and sweet and slow, tender, and I realize we hadn’t done this yet, am I so professional about my fucking that I don’t even kiss anymore? The kissing is the best part. I sigh into it and she grins, I feel her mouth move up at the corners.

“So,” she says, pulling back arms length from me, eyes sparkling. “No cock?”

I laugh, a low puff of air. “Caught me a bit unprepared, I guess.”

“Mmmm.” Corinne doesn’t press it.

I do. “I’ll bring it Wednesday. We are going to have to, you know, ahem, study, again, before the final on Monday, after all.”

She’s amused, still grinning. “I’ll be sure to wear a skirt,” she says, and kisses me again.

A Butch Roadmap

Ivan Coyote (#6 in the Top Hot Butches list), has just released a piece on his column for xtra.ca called A Butch Roadmap, and it really is a must-read. Here’s a snippet (reprinted with permission):

The word for you is butch. Remember this word. It will be used against you.

The word for you is butch. Your history is one of strength, and survival, and largely silent. Do not hide this word under your shirt. Do not whisper it, or sweep it under the basement stairs. Let it fill up your chest and widen your shoulders. Wear it like a sleeve tattoo, like a medal of valour.

Learn to recognize other butches for what they really are: your people. Your brothers or sisters. Both are just words that mean family.

Other butches are not your competition, they are your comrades.

Be there when they need you. Go fishing together. Help each other move. Polish your rims or your chrome or your boots together. See these acts for what they really are: solidarity.

Do not give your butch friend a hard time about having a ponytail, a pomeranian, nail polish, or a smart car. Get over yourself. You are a rare species, not a stereotype.

Trim your nails short enough that you could safely insert your fingers into your own vagina, should you ever want to.

It makes me want to write my own butch roadmap, my own tips and tricks and suggestions and ideas for being butch and pursuing this identity. I’ll have to think on this idea for a while, let it percolate.

What about you – what kind of things would be on your butch roadmap? Or femme roadmap?

Cynthia & Chris: butch/femme couple engaged!

I’m a week late on this news (but what can I say, this isn’t a news blog): Cynthia Nixon announced last week at the New York City Action=Marriage Equality rally that she and her girlfriend, Christine Marinoni, are engaged.

After hearing this, I did some searching for some photos of the couple, because, well, they’re butch/femme! (At least in adjective, if not in identity.) And they are so fucking cute together! I get touched in a different way when I see dykes who have gender that is similar to mine … I just recognize them and it really makes me happy.

It got me thinking a little bit about the celebrity world, and why it isn’t a bigger deal that Cynthia Nixon is gay – she’s a major star of Sex & the City! The film only came out last year, it should still be relevant. Reminds me that the 2009 After Ellen Hot 100 list just came out, and I was frustrated that there aren’t more a) butches or genderqueer folks (I count 5), and b) women who are actually out and queer, instead of women whose characters are gay on tv. I know this is kind of another topic, and I’ll follow up on this later (eventually).

Congratulations on the engagement, I wish you two the best.

cc6

    

[ Largest image from The Insider. Thumbnail image sources, l-r: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 ]

All Five Senses (Part 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I grin, and follow her in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When you walked through the reference section.”

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

I’ll take it either way.

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

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

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

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

I groan, audibly (dammit). Goddamn.

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

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

My slutty little girl.

Or, how her dirty talk got me off. Twice.

In my bedroom. We both knew we only had a few hours until she would leave, back to her city, an hour and a half drive away.

I didn’t waste time. Pulled her by her hair toward me and thrust my tongue in her mouth. Moved her around, hands hard and thick on her torso. Pressed against me. She feels good in my arms.

I stripped her and left my office clothes on, for now. I was already hard packing (not with Silky but with Rick, I broke my Silky again), and hard, and wanted to fuck.

I pushed her back on the bed easily. Kneed her legs apart and pressed my cock up against her, bare, through my slacks. Kissed her, hard, felt her body under me.

I pulled back after a minute and lifted myself up. “Take my dick out,” I ordered softly.

She did. Unbuckled, unzipped, palmed it in her hand, let out a low satisfied hum of pleasure when she touched it. I tightened my harness, lowered myself back on top of her, kissed her neck. “I want to fuck your mouth.”

She arched in response, but whispered, “But I want you to fuck me.”

I almost laughed. Her desire handed to me on a silver platter, I took it gratefully. “No.”

“Please, baby, I need it, I want you to fuck my pussy.”

I do like the way she begs. I nearly acquiesced, but said “no” again, pulled back to shift to my knees on the bed. Took her hair in my fist as she bent in front of me. “Do it real pretty, and I’ll fuck you.”

She lowered her lips to my cock and kissed. Swallowed. Lapped with her tongue, ran it along her lips. I didn’t stop with the talking. “Baby, you suck it so good. That’s so pretty in your mouth, suck it deeper, yeah that’s it, good girl.”

I pulled her up to kiss me a few times, mostly so I could feel how her lips and tongue get swollen and wet when she sucks me off, and so I can have that moment of thrusting her head back down to my cock, pushing on the back of her skull.

She started taking it deeper, deep as she could, nearly the whole thing, kept it there while her throat contracted around it and she fought her gag reflex, then pulled up and kneeled.

“Do it again,” I said, and she looked up at me, mouth open tongue thick, and lowered her mouth back down, sucking me all the way again. “Deeper. Good girl. Take that cock in your throat. Swallow it. Good, that’s so good.”

And again she came up for air.

“Do that one more time,” I said, caressing the back of her head, “and I’ll fuck you.”

She quivered a little, I could see it ripple through her back, and then she did: brought her mouth down on my cock once more, took it deeper this time, pretty, so pretty, so far back in her throat.

When she started to resist I pulled her up by her hair, shifted next to her, put my hands on her hips and turned her over to her back, slid between her legs again.

She was so wet I barely needed lube. “Oh, you liked that, huh.”

“Yes.”

“You like my cock in your mouth.” My hand on it, putting it in place.

“Yes.”

“You like to suck it. You like when I fuck your pretty mouth.” I guided it in, hard, and started fucking her sweet but steady, deep. She moaned. Tried to say “yes” but it came out in a slur.

“I like it too. I like my cock in your mouth, I like how you suck it. You get me so hard, I just have to fuck you.” I continued, cock thrusting in and out as I took her wrists in one hand, held her down, kissed her jaw and neck. “I like it in your pussy too.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, put it in my pussy. Fuck my pussy hard.” She shifted her hips up and back and I thrust an inch deeper, reached around her thigh to get a nice grip on her ass.

Somehow, she was set off and kept a steady stream of words at my ear, every time I thrust harder into her I’d get a nice reward of her lovely voice saying dirty things: oh yeah baby just like that, fuck me hard, you know how I like it, you know how I love your big dick in my pussy, put it in me, harder baby, fuck me, fuck me hard, and when she gets closer it becomes ooh baby you fuck me so good, you fuck me so good, baby that feels so good, so good, you fuck me so good, baby, baby –

And somewhere in there I lost it. Blurted “I’m gonna come” as it started happening. Groaning, harness against clit, thrusting my cock deep in her; I don’t even know what I do exactly when I come like that because I’m so unpracticed at it that my body goes and releases and moves and I’m not sure what I’m doing.

She wrapped her arms and legs around me, held me close as my breathing evened and my pulse calmed.

Butch/femme in various cities

I got an email recently from a femme looking to relocate, but not sure where yet she’s going to go. Here’s her note:

I’m a young femme looking to relocate to a new city, and I want to go somewhere with a large diverse lesbian community that is very friendly to the butch-femme dynamic.

I’ve spent much of my life in LA, a city with nary a handsome butch to be found! And when I lived briefly in San Francisco, there were many cute butches but few other femmes, and I was always “read” as straight. It would be ideal to live somewhere where I could find both femme friends and a butch partner.

Some cities I am looking into: Seattle, Portland, Brooklyn, and Boston.

I can speak to Seattle and Brooklyn, but none of the others really. So I figured I’d ask you all: where do you live? What’s the butch/femme culture like in those cities?

Chime in regardless of where you live – I’d love to hear about the cultures outside of the US, too.

Some questions to consider:
– Are there lesbian-specific bars, or nights at the gay bars? More than one? Are some of them more known for being butch/femme than others?
– Are there butch/femme social groups?
– Is it gender-forward and inclusive of many expressions?