the hurricane between us

Four full days, four nights.

I don’t even know where to begin. There was wandering around the Village, visiting The Leatherman and New York pizza and a very successful trip to DSW for shoes – I found brown leather Steve Madden loafers, she bought ruby slippers, these incredible wine-red heels. There were noodles at Republic, coffee & bagel breakfasts in Park Slope, dancing at the dyke club Cattyshack (and a little too much whiskey for me, which only made it easier for her to fuck me on my kitchen floor after), burlesque at the Shanghai Mermaid where we stepped into 1920s Paris, which featured the house Tin Pan Blues Band. There was an unsuccessful dance at Stepping Out Studios and then the subsequent making up for it at Therapy, where, yes, we did get busted having sex in the bathroom.

There was sex and fucking and making love and play and rope and my flogger even came down off the wall for a while.

There was sitting in a coffee shop, writing across the table from her. There were late night conversations on pillows and morning light over her face and showers and walks and drinking and stories on the subway and kissing her. Holding her hand.

It was hard to stay present, hard not to be sad that she was leaving, that this was temporary, but I wanted to squeeze everything out of it that possibly could. Since she left, I feel numb. I took a deep breath, started focusing on my 200-item to-do-list and couldn’t focus on anything, not even a TV show.

I held it together until I peeled back the covers to find the baby-blue babydoll nightie she’d been wearing all weekend, sheer, barely covering her ass, so beautiful, and it smelled like her skin of course, and my fingers had been holding her body inside of it for days, and then suddenly it was just fabric, empty, and I welled up with the loss.

I know – we both know – better than to cultivate such intensity so early on in a relationship. We’re both passionate, intense, emotional – makes for romance and fascination, I’m sure, but we are wary of the distance between us, we discussed this; angry that we cannot properly date, slowly, excitedly, and instead we’re doing this hurricane long distance thing.

I don’t know what we’re going to do. All I know is, the next step is that she’s working from Puerta Vallarta in February, and I’m going to visit her at the villa she’s rented (just happens to be over Valentine’s Day). Twenty-two days, then, until I get to see her again.

I can make it until then.

One step at a time.

how much my heart can take

heart lady

A 23-year-old British woman recently had a chance to look at her own heart on display, part of The Heart exhibition at the Wellcome Collection in London.

She had the heart transplant at Papworth Hospital, Cambridge, three months ago after a diagnosis of cardiomyopathy, a potentially fatal condition in which the heart walls stiffen. Her first reaction on seeing the old heart was disgust, but later she described the experience as slightly surreal. She said: “Because it was mine, I was like, wow, that’s my heart. I just couldn’t stop grinning. It’s odd to think that I stood here alive, and that was part of me once upon a time.”

– From the London Times Online, 9/1/07

This is the mix for DateDyke, which she (thank the heavens!) received yesterday. I made an elaborate cover (including that photograph and quote, above) and insert, with a few sentences on why I chose each song, but which are kind of special for her, so I won’t include that here.

Here, however, is the tracklist to the new year 2008 mix called how much my heart can take:

    1. Electric Light – PJ Harvey
    2. Wicked Game – Giant Drag
    3. Preparedness – The Bird & The Bee
    4. Sexual Animals – Sarah Fimm
    5. Love Me Like a Man – Bonnie Raitt
    6. Closer to You – JJ Cale
    7. Warm – Kinnie Starr
    8. One Big Love – Patty Griffin
    9. Please – Tristan Prettyman
    10. Headlock – Imogen Heap
    11. If I Was Your Man – Joan Osborne
    12. Tear You Apart – She Wants Revenge
    13. Yr Love – The Butchies
    14. The Fear You Won’t Fall – Joshua Radin
    15. Did I Imagine You? – Dot Allison
    16. Sweet The Sting – Tori Amos

And if you’d like to download these songs, I stuck ’em up at YouSendIt, tracks 1-7 and tracks 8-16. YouSendIt allows 100 downloads of each file, so if you get to the file and you can’t download it, let me know in the comments and I will reupload with a new URL. … Though maybe not until after Miss DD is on her way back to Seattle on Tuesday. I might have better things to do this weekend than upload mp3s. Maybe. Just sayin’. I’m sure you understand.

9 hours, 45 minutes.

busy practicalities

As I’m sure you can see by the countdown clock in the sidebar, Miss DD is landing in New York City in 1 day, 9 hours, 22 minutes.

I’m, uh, getting nervous. Spent last night readying the apartment, washed the sheets, boiled the cocks (again), organized my closet, did laundry, swept the floors. In fact, the apartment is just about ready. Tonight, I have a long list of errands to run, ranging from 1. get my nose stud properly coiled so it stops falling out of my nose to 14. pick up snacks and breakfasty options at the grocery store.

After work, I’m meeting a friend of mine who I will now call “my stylist” for some outfit help.

Because, see, my boy wardrobe is getting kind of boring. I pretty much wear the same outfit when I’m getting dressed up for a date or for a reading of my work: black slacks, black or red button-down, tie. I guess this varies a little. I have a few sweaters that I occasionally wear on top. I like the peep of a tie through a v-neck.

But I need to spice it up a bit. That’s where my stylist comes in.

So we started talking about my “wardrobe,” and I started wondering about a “basic men’s wardrobe guide” or some such book on men’s style, because that’s what I do, right, when I have a question or a dilemma or a problem I go find a book. Well, perhaps first I google it, then I find a book.

I’m in the gathering-data phase of this wardrobe project, but I will certainly let you know what I uncover.

… this is all to say that Miss DD and I are plannng to go dancing on Sunday night, and I don’t have a thing to wear. I will dust off (and polish) the solid black wingtips, but I’d like to wear something fun, peppy. Suspenders? I can’t seem to find my fedora.

… and this is also all to say that I am avoiding the topic of writing about my nerves, and DD’s visit, because though I am 90% excited and thrilled and in awe and beside myself, I am still 10% terrified. I’m already braced for that inevitable heartache that will happen when I have to take her back to the airport, send her back to Seattle. The reality of loss looming behind all our joyous interactions is such a weight to carry between us. Will we weather it? What are we going to do? How will I fall for someone, date someone, explore someone, from such a distance? It can’t possibly be adequate. It can’t possibly be enough. How do I make it enough? How do we approach this, how can we possibly frame this so that it will work, function, like two real hearts intertwining?

She sent me a photo yesterday of a new paddle with “BOY” cut into it, ready to mark. I got out my ropes and flogger and practiced my ties and aim. Felt good to twirl my wrists. I tightened my bedframe.

And now my head is swimming with the practical questions. What do I wear to pick her up from the airport? Do I pack? Must make a car reservation. Must get the apartment prepared. Do I have eggs? What kind of coffee does she like? (She is from Seattle, after all.) See and then I’m back to the distractions of the practicalities, and I feel a little better.

tear you apart

My retaliation mix for Miss DD went out into the mail yesterday, but unfortunately I didn’t realize that she can’t actually get the mail on Thursday, she’ll be occupied by being on a plane to come see me. So here’s praying it comes in the mail tomorrow.

Why did I not send it overnight? Dammit dammit dammit.

I’m keeping a lid on the tracklist until she actually gets it, but I want to share this one particular with you, track #12 from the mix how much my heart can take.

UPDATE: Looks like the embedded video isn’t working; meanwhile, watch the video on YouTube.

Lyrics in the ‘continued’ page.

The Houseboy’s Rebellion

For Datedyke, because she asked me for this story, with thanks for reading the early draft and commenting things like “Make my character more mean,” “Don’t say thank you,” and “Just take me down,” and for providing the details of her outfit, and picking out my tie. “Swift thrust of cock,” one of my very favorite lines, was written by DD, not me; and DD informs me that “Lea” is pronounced “Lee.”*

“Honey!” Lea calls from the bathroom while she’s doing her hair and makeup. “Which tie are you going to wear?”

I’m dressed, plain black slacks and a black button-down, sitting on her bed, fidgeting with three ties in my fist I know will fit her desired houseboy fare. I bring them to her, gaze at her in the mirror as she applies something to her eyes with a fine brush.

“Either this silver, or this dark purple, or the dark blue with the white dots?” I offer.

“No no. This one.” She turns around fast and points, chooses the silver, the one she bought for me over the holidays. I nod and set the other two on the counter, start to tie the silver one. She glances at me in the mirror, aware that I’m watching her, narrowing her eyes a little, then finishes with the brush, tosses it into her makeup case.

She’s a little annoyed. She doesn’t like it when I watch her get ready. “Hand me those earrings, will you?” I see small diamond studs on the counter and hand them over.

“Not those,” she says. She’s beginning to get stressed. Three of her closest friends will be here any minute. It is my first time as her houseboy for a group.

“Those,” she points again and I see favorite pair of gold hoops. Of course. They match the black heels with the gold trim that she has on with her cocktail dress.

I fetch the earrings and she fastens them to her ears. I attempt to kiss her shoulders, neck, slip my hands around her waist, touch the curves of her hips in her sleek black cocktail dress. She shrugs me off, turns around, kisses me swiftly, dismissively. “Darling,” she says, “You look great. Really. I’m excited for the party.” And then she’s gone, running downstairs to check on the kitchen, fuss over food and drinks.

I sigh at my reflection, take a breath. Check my eyebrows, my teeth, my perfectly messy hair. I’m nervous, but ready for this, excited to be shown off, a trophy boy, look at my tricks. I want to please her. I adjust the dimple in my tie and then my cock under my harness strap.

The Oscars start at four and her friends have one of those pools where they’ve all guessed the winners and someone wins the whole pot. Lea gives me significant glances when the doorbell rings and I take coats to the closet, take drink requests, and practice my sweet “hi, hello” submission as they come in the door. Her friends are dressed up: The Cuban Genius, BB, and the Butch Daddy.

BB giggles at my predicament and hugs me, eyes twinkling, flirtatious, amused. The Butch Daddy eyes me like we’re fags and she’s cruising. I feel myself stiffen and try to relax.

Lea shines, says hello, hugs and smiles and laughter and greetings. She is subtly maneuvering this whole interaction, sparkling in her element; her earrings catch the light, glitter, and her makeup is flawless, soft. Her dress flirts around her knees, off her shoulders.

I serve martinis and cosmos, smiling and making myself as unnoticeable as I can be while I watch her. My attention is tuned fully into her body language, her eye contact, her hands. Not only for her cues at service, but to see her, to observe, to take in. I admire her like this. That external expert persona of hers is so appealing, I see her through her friend’s eyes, strong, poised, capable. I am blessed to see the soft parts, too.

Conversation flows, they catch up on jobs, girlfriends, America’s Next Top Model, the weather for upcoming kayaking, hiking. I try to participate, but Lea keeps interrupting me with glances and gestures every time I sit.

“Boy! More wieners!” she calls while I’m in the kitchen fetching a glass of water for the Butch Daddy, and everyone laughs. She’s been waiting to use that command. I bring the next plate of cocktail wieners onto the coffee table with a bow and a smile, as if I’m in on the joke.

Lea brings one up to her lips and leaves it poised. “Mmm, I love wieners,” she says, winking dramatically. Everyone’s still giggling; BB is giving me suggestive glances, the Cuban Genius mimics Lea’s movement of a wiener to her mouth and gives it a mock blow job, eyes low, looking at the Butch Daddy. I blush and try to laugh, adjust my silver tie nervously.

Lea takes inventory of the living room. “Refill BB’s drink,” she whispers loudly, for everyone to hear, and I take BB’s glass. He gives me a smug flirty smile. I mix his martini like he said, three olives, and I am careful careful careful not to spill in the long walk from the kitchen to the couch, and hand it to BB.

“BB likes his martinis dirtier than that,” Lea hisses at me as I resume my perch on the edge of the chair. “Make it right next time.”

I look to Lea in a glance, apologetically and to see her face, to see what’s under these commands, pleasure or embarrassment, gratitude or heat, but she’s already engaged back in her conversation with the Cuban Genius, laughing about something, talking about someone whose name I don’t recognize, who is that, who are these people I don’t know? She feels me looking at her and glances at me briefly, and for just a fraction of a second I see her features soften with deep appreciation, lust, care.

Then it’s gone; her body languages changes and she holds her near-empty cosmo up at me. “You’ve got another one of these ready, right? I shouldn’t have to even be asking you.”

I duck my head, go back to the kitchen.

A few minutes later she’s calling me, but I don’t recognize the call of “boy” fast enough, don’t hear her for a moment too long. Finally she uses my name: “Sinclair!” And I look up, caught off guard.

She inclines her head quickly to mean, come here, with that look on her face of hard exasperation and displeasure. She’s sitting on the arm of her couch, it makes her feel taller, and I approach. “No, here,” she says as I stop, pointing at the space next to her.

“Take your cock out,” she says.

your love will not be light and gay

Thanks for all the lovely comments on those last few posts; I have plenty to say about this crush, this long-distance romance, the desires of courtship, of getting to know someone.

But! Amidst the ridiculous sappy love shit, I have a new erotica story I am particularly excited about, and that’ll be up later today. It’s called The Houseboy’s Rebellion and it is, of course, written for Miss DD. Custom smut is so much fun.

I also want to make a few announcements.

#1:

Welcome my lovely friend Ariel? Ariel!; she’s posting brilliant rhetoric on things like radical love, where she asks: what do you owe the person you fuck? What to do with the friends with whom you have ambiguous boundaries or desires? Among other things:

I believe in lightning bolt love. I really do. Right down to the soles of my feet. I talk about polyamory and nonmonogamy but really if I found someone who lightning bolted my heart to the sky I wonder if these would become theoretical discussions.

… Oh I just love her turns of phrase. More over at Ariel? Ariel!

#2:

You may’ve noticed the facelift on Miss Avarice‘s lovely blog recently, I’ve meant to mention it, specifically the header image, which I designed. And I can indeed confirm that those are Miss A’s shoes – specifically, the shoes she braved New York City subways in when she visited me (ahem, I mean, this fine city) in October.

#3:

While I’m linking, I may as well mention that Miss DD made me a mix CD this week, complete with the cover image of my hands bound together in her leather wrist cuffs. (Yes, I sent her some of the photographs she took of me.)

The mix is really lovely (whole tracklist is posted over at her chronicles), and tells a story from the opening track “I’m Not in Love” (the Tori version, of course) to “Think I’m in Love” in the middle, to “This is Love” by PJ Harvey as the closing song. But? It also has “Come to Daddy,” “Nasty Little Thoughts,” “Smack my Bitch Up,” and “Crazy Bitch,” so clearly it is not all sappy ridiculousness.

Kinda like us. Go figure.

She wrote these things as her game-plan strategy, yesterday:

  1. let myself be excited about you while maintaining some realism
  2. enjoy the moment and not try to control or predict outcomes, but also not put any expectations on this (the “be present and mindful” strategy)
  3. date when i want to but not for distraction
  4. back off the emotional rollcoaster a bit and just focus on accepting this for what it is

And today, I keep coming back to that list, articulate and succinct, attempting to really feel it in my heart, not just know it in my head.

The Muse – my best friend here in New York, another femme spy, if you will, the one who keeps buying me amazingly fantastic ties, the latest being a hot-pink number that is flat at the end instead of pointed (is there a technical word for that style of tie? probably) – The Muse ran our composite charts, and we discovered that we are pretty much astrologically compatible:

… a feeling of “fatedness,” that this relationship is going to play an important role in your lives, even if it is not a long-term relationship. You will be exposed to the most basic and profound aspects of your own and your partner’s inner nature. Both of you will experience psychological changes through this relationship. In a sexual relationship, physical sex assumes an unusual importance. Sex is likely to be seen by both of you as an experience that transcends ordinary reality.

The composite Moon in the twelfth house requires the two of you to do a great deal of work that most couples are unwilling to do. … If you don’t seek out the truth, your relationship will give you the feeling that you have been defeated in life by forces you don’t understand.

In a love relationship, the expression of love will be quite intense, with a powerful quality that will transform both of you in some fundamental way. Your love will not be light and gay but something very serious that involves both of you at all levels of mind, body, and soul.

I wouldn’t necessarily let astrology make or break anything, but I think it’s an interesting tool to give articulacy to the feelings in a relationship, or one’s own sense of self. Strange how it can sometimes feel so spot-on.

She’ll be here next week (six days) for four days. And I’m sending out my own mix CD to her shortly – glad I got hers first, some of the songs actually overlapped.

except when it does

In retrospect, it seems so obvious. Of course it’s hard to date while you’re falling for someone else. Of course you should work on that new relationship, get it to a stable place, before dating around, otherwise the foundation will probably be too shaky.

In making that other date, I think I was attempting to not acknowledge how much I’ve already fallen, how much I want to keep falling, how much she matters already. “Nah, it’s just a casual thing,” I was telling myself. “I should keep dating, keep seeing other people, this can’t really work, what can we do.”

“Nothing.” My friend, the Musician, said to me. “It’s impossible. There is no possible way for it to work. Except when it does.” The Musician and her girlfriend spent fifteen months at the beginning of their relationship apart, in different states and then in different countries. And somehow, they made it happen. She & I are probably the most romantic people I know, kings of the big gestures in love.

The people around me are laughing when I tell them my predicament. I kind of want them to say, this can’t work, just give up now, forget it, get real, but they don’t. They get it, like the Musician. Cody‘s girlfriend is also long distance, and about to move to his city to be with him. Dylan is beginning to practice dating more than one person at once (is that public knowledge? I can edit this out if you don’t want me to say that). Molly, my fluffer femme spy, reminds me that she is also an IT department of polyamory. And I haven’t even started tapping the resources of Eileen & Maymay & Rona and other sexbloggers who date multiple people and still manage to love and commit.

Y’all are seriously rooting for us, aren’tcha? It’s kind of strange to feel so supported in this. Maybe you’re sick of the smutty Sugarbutch gallavanting? Or perhaps you’re mirroring my own enthusiasm? Maybe you’ve been following my heartbreak and loss and know how happy I was when I was in love, and just want to see me happy again? Perhaps some of you still believe that One True Love thing and want to see me settled and happy.

Sugarbutch will die when you’re all in love and monogamous, you know that, right? more than a few friends have said this to me. But I don’t think it will die – I still want to write smut. Perhaps it’ll be less dating, but there better well still be sex in my life.

“It just keeps working, until it doesn’t work,” The Musician said. It’s like that quote from Death, part of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series, where she comes for a little baby and the baby says, “That’s it? That’s all I get?” and Death responds, “You get what everyone gets. You get a lifetime.”

I like a lifetime as a unit of measure. Same with a relationship. That’s what we get, DD & I … how long we can make it work, and how we’ll make it work, is definitely still To Be Figured Out.

“Will the grand gestures be worth it?” The Musician asks. “Who knows? I won’t know if all these huge gestures, flying across the country for my girlfriend, were worth it, until I’m on my deathbed saying, ‘holy shit, I’m dying, and you’re still here.'”

“Yeah, you’re right. And at the same time, I don’t regret the grand gestures in the relationships I had that have ended. And as much as I’m sad about the endings, or unhappy with how things ended, I don’t regret giving everything I could give, in them, at the time.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“Yeah. But at the same time, what would I do if she was here? Is it only safe because she’s far away? Would things be totally different? Would I run?”

When I stop to think about it, I’m terrified. Second-guessing myself and my feelings, uncertain, unconvinced, unclear. I still feel so messed up from the two major breakups in my recent past, so particularly fucked by the manipulations of the unholy bitch that I have been trying to unlearn and unbelieve about myself. Somewhere in there I still don’t believe I’d be any good for someone in this state of flux. Too many unknown variables, too much changing.

But, on the other hand, I am closer to being who I want to become than I’ve ever been, and that is saying something. I’m refining, distilling, settling into a version of myself that is sustainable, solid but flexible, just good.

“Are you kidding!” The Musician says. “We’re alike, you & me. You squeeze your heart out in every direction you can find. You want her. You aren’t poly. You want the big love. You want to fall. And clearly, you want to fall for her.

I still don’t have any idea how to make this work, but I think it’s beginning to sink in, a little deeper, to those inner layers, and clearly I have some new, revised choices to make.

in which there is a hurdle

So. Miss DD and I are talking and chatting and falling.

I sent her flowers on Friday. She called me at work and climaxed on the phone, let me listen. (I was immobile, unable to say anything or join her, torture, so fucking hot.) She’s talking about coming to see me, stay with me, here in New York.

And here we’ve run into a hurdle: I had a date on Saturday night.

I was tempted to cancel the date, scared to tell Miss DD that I’d set it up at all. It’s with someone I don’t know (yet), someone who answered a personal ad profile and who is intreaguing.

I am not sure how to navigate this dating-other-people-while-falling thing. Seems so dangerous, our hearts both on the line. I am (probably overly so) concerned with her feelings.

I guess I’ve decided that all I can do is be honest and open, kind, as best as I can. It sounds like a simple strategy, like staying present, but is so very difficult to practice.

We talked about it. Miss DD and I both agreed that it’s a good idea to see other people, but that we’d like to know before the elaborate sex story gets posted on the blog, and would like to know if or when it gets serious. Seem like fair guidelines so far.

So I went on the date.

The girl was bold and sometimes brash. She’s new to dating butches. Called me a chauvinist. (Which, of course, is a quote out of context – it wasn’t quite as bad as it sounds.) Maybe I should have said, masculine is different than chauvinistic, but instead talked about what it means that I’m a feminist, how I believe in gender theory, and what it’s like to be butch, to date femmes. That was when she started stroking my hand, and giving me those smoky eyes.

She’d like to see me again. But here’s the thing. I kissed her, and went back to her place, because she asked me to, because I could. And that’s how I’ve been operating on these dates the last six months or so: taking the opportunities presented to me. But honestly, I’ve learned that there are more opportunities than I have time to take, and that I shouldn’t necessarily take all of them, though it’s hard to know which ones will be the most valuable. They’re all valuable in their ways, of course; but I’m finding some patterns, and I’m learning that I can, and should, be more discerning.

And right now? I am kinda into Miss DD. (Kinda a lot.) My head’s all aswirl with her and this predicament: she’s far away. I want her to be with me.

DD’s friends advise her that perhaps seeking out more than one person means you haven’t met the right person yet. Yeah, maybe. Or perhaps it means circumstances just aren’t quite right. You gotta make due with what you got, right? You gotta boogie where you are, you can’t boogie anywhere else.

So, for now, especially given Miss DD is planning to come visit me soon (eleven days), I’m not going to make any dates. This is my own idea, not hers, she is not pushing me for this. I just don’t know how to reconcile falling for her and dating other people in my head. There’s too much happening in there, I need to eliminate some of it.

We’re working on the beginnings of some conversations about being poly, and what that means, and how this will work between us, and obviously this will be something tricky to negotiate, but it is not impossible.

This girl matters to me. I don’t know how she did it, how we did it together, how we got our hearts into this mess, but she & I are problem solvers if we are anything: we can do this, talk it through, check in with ourselves and each other, figure it out.

Tonight, I’m feeling hopeful. And I can’t wait to see her again.

under my radar

My bottom lip is still tender from where she bit just a little too hard.

My inner left thigh has three perfect bruises in rings of teeth marks, two new, one darker and faded; she bit me hard enough for me to gasp, wince, jerk my thigh away from her mouth but I could not slide out of her grip, probably wouldn’t really have wanted to if I could.

The handprint on my right thigh has pretty much faded completely.

She poured me a glass of port, brought chocolate truffles after we peeled ourselves out of bed.

Looking in the mirror, putting in her contacts, she said, “I came so hard, I broke capillaries in my face, look.”

In The Leather Daddy and the Femme, one of the characters said, “they’re the kind of couple you’d pay a million bucks to watch fuck,” and that’s what we are when we’re together. Chemistry palpable. Bodies synched.

We made lists of things we would do if we had time. Proper dates. Dancing. Watching The Secretary (“And then we’d reinact it. And you’d be the secretary, of course.” “Oh, of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Unless, of course, she was the secretary.). Take a tour of her personal history of Seattle.

I loved the way she said yes and don’t stop and baby. Loved her impulse to confess when my hand was inside her deep. Loved the look of nervousness in her eyes when I easily attached the leather cuffs – that were the week before around my wrists – to the restraints she keeps on her bed. Loved the way she slid her leg over mine sitting next to me at breakfast, the morning after. Loved her growl, her lunge, her strength, her tenderness.

Twenty-two hours. That’s what we had together on my way back to New York. I spent the night in her bed, shared her tub, her shower, coffee in the morning, met her cats, watched her problem-solve, undress, dress, sleep.

I held back. Bit her shoulders to keep from giving in, letting go. Left marks, teeth, fingertips, where I gripped her tight, held her close, for leverage and levity and lust.

I know the precise amount of water that her body displaces in a tub. How her fist feels inside me to the wrist. The torture of her pure white lingerie peeking out from the low plunge of her dress.

We had a proper date. I opened her door, took her coat, held it for her to put on, ordered for her. Kept my hand on her thigh so I could feel the lace of her garter the whole way through dinner. I didn’t realize I was doing so until she said, “You like that, huh?”

My mouth watered. I wanted to see it, to peel that dress over her head.

Later, I did. Slid her boots off of her lovely calves and ankles and she said she felt particularly naked. I liked her exposed. I had longed to feel her body under mine like that.

She’s used to dating butches, trans guys, the female-bodied masculine quadrant in the gender galaxy. She notices all those little identity things that build me up, that have often been mysterious to the femmes I’ve dated. She notices and comments and has a context for them, a compairison. My clothes, body hair, gestures, chivalry. Makes me feel young, inexperienced in this gender, but I also feel recognized, visible, seen.

Probably, probably, I’m only this into her precisely because she’s so far away. But somehow she slipped under my radar, slid inside, sat down and made herself comfortable, poured herself a glass of wine, and had one waiting for me, too.

“I’m fifty-fifty, top and bottom,” she said. “What would happen if you were with someone who liked to top as much as bottom? Maybe you wouldn’t get bored?”

She has a point. As much as I love topping, bottoming opens up a different space in me, makes me more vulnerable, more exposed, more defenseless.

Yes, I had some sweet revenge, but those twenty-two hours were not a scene, like the hotel room was, not something with a beginning-middle-end concocted specifically with purpose and time management. These hours were fluid, thick and heavy with desire and lovemaking (there is, indeed, a reason that’s what it’s called). I loved the way she received me, opened for me, pushed herself. Wanted her to push me harder, and then she did, again and again. Curled around her like a vine. We both came & cried. Intense, intense.

Again, she took care of me brilliantly, I felt cherished. And then she left me at the airport. I haven’t cried on an airplane in a long time; it felt ridiculous, accidental, and I couldn’t stop feeling.

There is something here, between us. What a loss, what a great injustice, that we are so far apart that we cannot play it out the best way – in close physical proximity.

We are talking nearly every day. Have some ideas about seeing each other again, soon, and I don’t want to wait to have her back in my arms. Does this mean I’m thawing? Feeling through to my heart again? Still distancing myself from possibility? Someone told me yesterday that I have to prepare to get ready to be ready before I can actually be ready.

“How significant is she,” one of us was asked.

“Well … she’s not insignificant.” we answered.

Yeah. Ain’t that the truth.

There’s something here.

we dance

I slept on the plane and dreamed of us spinning, dancing on a slick floor. Heels and wing tips and she wore a light thirties dress with fringe, I was in slacks. I led her by her wrists, shoulders, neck; she twirled and brushed against my arms and body like somewinged creature barely touching down, gliding, humming next to me.

I was a better lead in the dream than I really am; in the dream it was effortless. I wore a fedora, suspenders. It must’ve ben salsa we were dancing.

Her body is smaller than mine, petite. I understand what it tells me. I read her hips like braille, bones and muscles and oh she’s strong.

She does the swing-out and a small hand flourish, crisp head snap and she gives me those eyes as I pull her back in, so I pause, she runs her hand up the buttons of my shirt, tilts her head so our mouths are close. I tip my hat onto her head and she laughs.

I twirl her fast, once-twice-threetimes and then catch her neck, turn her body, dip her one-handed, my other arm out, and my hat falls from her head to the floor as we kiss.

*

Also on this plane flight was, in my same row, but on the other side of the isle, the boy I first messed around with in high school, also going back for the holidays. He was traveling with his girlfriend.

He was The Casanova in high school. All the girls swooned over him, and he and his long, greasy hair, black trenchcoat, and flirting meant that he gave long back rubs to all of them in the drama studio.

As far as I knew, though, the only one he was messing around with was me. Our relationship was not public – we would not flirt or barely even acknowledge each other at school. But after school, in the park, in the cemetery, we’d be kissing, touching for hours.

I wanted to be him sometimes, wanted that kind of seductive power and desire over those girls.

And now look. Here I was, so freshly fucked I could still taste her, still feel her cock inside me, and here he was, with a sweet girlfriend, no doubt, but still doing the same things he used to, the same silly flirts and methods, I saw him do it, he was barely a grown-up version of his high school self, really he was the same, just with a better haircut.

He told me later – we went out for drinks – that he didn’t lose his virginity until college. That he had a lot of trouble with girls, with relationships.

Not that I haven’t, certainly. But I’ve had big loves, I’ve had big romance, big heartbreak, beautiful women who have shared my bed, shared my life. I’m so grateful for the influence of the women in my life, of sexuality, of exploration, of eagerness to play and learn and just be.

I wanted to tell him about my adventures, wanted to tell him how much I appreciated messing around with him and how fun and safe that was for me, how grateful I was that he showed me his soft underbelly when the other girls thought he was this tough guy, how great it was to look up to him, to wish I was him and now, to realize the ways I’ve surpassed him, the ways I am on the way to becoming my own Casanova.

I didn’t say any of that. Funny, sometimes, what you know will be too much to reveal. Thank the blog gods for, finally, a space to (over)share.

the hotel room (part three)

Our story continues with our hero and heroine already in the midst of fucking in a hotel room near the Seattle airport. Read part one and part two.

For logistical sake, Miss DD reminded me that she didn’t actually take the spreader bar off until after she’d fucked me on all fours on the bed for a while.

She also had her hand in my ass, I’m pretty sure, while I was on my knees in front of her, while she was fucking me. Fingers, I mean; not her whole hand.

I forget how much I like double pentration. That feeling of being filled.

By then, I was practically insatiable. She had me by the hips, had my ass in her hands, in range of her slaps, my shoulders and arms stinging and sensitive to where she’d bitten me raw. Everything was sensation. I lost my sense of myself and only reacted to her touches, thrusts.

We detangled, she paused and removed the bar, and I dared walk to the bathroom, laughing at the look of myself with wrist and ankle cuffs, amused and deeply appreciative. It takes a lot for someone to get me into these. I can’t believe how uncomplex she makes it all seem; the minute I heard her laugh when she opened that hotel door, I was comfortable, comforted.

I came back to the hotel bed, pillows pulled onto the floor, white bedspread messy.

“Let’s have you bent over the edge of that bed, there,” she nodded to the side, near the wall, snapping another condom on her hard, huge cock, re-gloving her hand (one of them) over her makeup case that doubled as her domme kit.

(I too have one of those; of course, it is a black and orange toolbox. Oh we make quite the pair.)

I bent. Fiddled with my harness, she had losened it and the strap between my legs was completely unhooked now, cock lose and hanging a little awkwardly.

I stretched my arms in front of me, face down in the bedspread, and she lubed up her cock, slowly entered me, again, from behind, drew a finger into my ass – oh – and then a smallish plug.

“Don’t push this out,” she ordered, cock still sliding in me. I was dizzy, felt out of control of my body. If I’d been able to think about it any further I would’ve felt opened, vulnerable, exposed, but I could barely think, could only feel that distinct filling up embrace.

I am out of practice; the plug slipped out easily. I became aware enough of my muscles to clench, which made my cunt burn and throb.

“Better. Now keep it there,” she threatened, taking hold of my hips and fucking me harder.

She braced one boot behind her, on the wall, for better leverage.

I stretched my hands over my head, mouth gnawing at the bedspread. She had me at just the right angle and I was close to coming from her cock alone, a way in which I never come.

She felt it. “Put your hand on your clit.”

I did, but couldn’t get the right spot, the right release. I had no precision with my hand, felt like some big paw and all I could do was thrust against it.

I came nearly twice this way – I built up high to a thick peak, but without the precision of orgasm. Still, some sort of muscle clench and release.

She turned me onto my back and told me she wanted to see me come, wanted to feel me come around her cock, told me to do it, told me to remember my sweet revenge of topping her. It was all a blur, a fog, completely slowed down and every moment, every sensation happening at the same time.

I yelled out, screamed strings of obscenities, as I am prone to doing. She stood, my legs off the bed, then layed her body over mine as I came closer and closer, built up into a thick peak of sensation that gripped me in waves, moved through me. We both collapsed, wrapped up in each other for a sweet second, giggling and breathing heavy, moaning, still getting hold of my own body.

And, suddenly – “Roomservice!” – at the door.

I shit you not, the timing was that perfect.

I felt like hiding. Stripped, spent, and exposed, she scrambled for her slip – which she had removed to reveal amazing lingerie! black lace bra, garter! how could I not have mentioned that yet? – and answered the door.

She kept herself together beautifully and set down the roomservice she’d ordered, then scrambled back into bed, laughing.

“I can’t believe that just happened!”

“Me either.”

She put her arms around me, still on my back, and we laughed and grinned and I turned her over so I was on top and touched her skin, the curves of her hips, realized I had barely touched her body this whole time, barely felt her skin, and desire welled up thick in me to watch the way she would open, give in, give over.

“Put your cock back on,” she said. I did. “On the bed, on your back.” And she straddled over me, lowered her small tight body onto my cock and bent her head back, touched her clit.

God, oh god.

I was close to coming again, the way she rocked her hips back and forth, the curve of her neck exposed and vulnerable, one hand behind her as she knelt and rocked and slid against my cock. Oh it was gorgeous to watch. I thrust my hips in rhythm with hers. Brought mine up to meet her, pulled back, pressed.

She warned me she was close. Asked if it was okay – of course – and came, hard, let loose and ejaculated, my belly suddenly warm and wet with such a gush of liquid, and she shuddered, convulsed, collapsed.

My grey silk tie was soaked, practically ruined.

We kissed, held each other. I felt close to her, so close, under her skin, in all the creases of her.

But we were out of time. I had a flight to Alaska to catch. She rushed me into the shower, thankfully, and had a portabella burger waiting for me when I got out, the roomservice she’d ordered, complete with the most delicious wedge-fries I’ve ever had. That burger was about the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, let me tell you – there is nothing like food after your body is desperately fucked. I don’t even like mushrooms, but this was so luscious, perfect, flavorful. We split it in half and shared it, kissed, chatted on the bed as we gathered up our things, got dressed. She had a slice of chocolate cake, too, and we ate some of it with the rest of the strawberries, then, reluctantly, left the sanctity of our hotel room, and checked out.

She drove me back to the airport, dropped me off at departures.

“So, you want me to pick up your dry cleaning? The kids and I will miss you!” she joked. We kissed, and I teared up.

There’s something here. Something magic, something already under my skin. I didn’t beg to see her on the return trip, but I prayed she would want to.

I got back on a plane, headed off to see my family for the holidays, thinking of her, writing about her, the whole way.

the hotel room (part two)

Her cock slid in and out of my mouth.

It was not small. Mid-range, maybe; definitely bigger than the average dildo. Thicker and longer than many of my cocks, though not bigger than my largest. Long, too; a good eight inches at least. A light tan color very similar to her skin tone, and mine.

My hands clipped together in cuffs behind my back, I couldn’t grip it, couldn’t feel it in my fist and wanted to, but I also knew I’d be reaching for her, grabbing at her hips and sweet girl curves if let me free. I ached for her.

I sucked the head, tongued the shaft. I was out of practice, but not altogether bad.

“Look up at me,” she said, and took a photograph.

She kept her hands in my hair, on my shoulders, fingering my jawline. She felt the stubble I’d let grow, that I usually shave. I swallowed her cock, closed my eyes, hands straining against the leather cuffs. Took as much as I could down my throat. Watched her garter and thighs peeking from under the lace hem of her slip.

Sucked and swallowed and closed my lips over her cock as she held it, pressed into me.

“I think it’s time for you to be out of those clothes,” she said eventually, and pulled her cock from my mouth, let me up, and unhooked my wrists, but left the cuffs on. I pulled off my white button down, white tee shirt, boots, socks, jeans, briefs. “Leave the tie on,” she said. “And the cock.” I left my sports bra on too, and sat on the bed, kissing her again.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t play with these,” she said, sliding her hand against my breasts.

I was already breathless from her kisses. Sensitive, wound up tight. “That’s true, I didn’t.” She pinched my nipples, hard. I cried out, tried not to.

She kissed my cheeks, my neck. “I like this,” she said, kissing my chin where the stubble grew. “Oh, I like this a lot.” Fingers, tongue, lips – everywhere.

She attached ankle cuffs as I sat on the edge of the bed, slightly loose. Leather, soft and fur-lined. “Let’s have you on the bed,” she said. “On your back.”

I shivered, my skin tingling, and slid onto the bed.

“Put your hands on your cock,” she said. I did. “Grip it. Keep hold of it. I don’t want you to let go of your cock, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

She hooked my ankles to the spreader she’d brought using clips, which gave me a little extra room to manouver. Really, if I tried, I could close my thighs, but my knees were still separated a bit. I liked the range it had. I couldn’t see it well, but I could feel it, and when she stepped away from the bed I pulled against it to see what I could and couldn’t do.

She slid on top of me, kissed me. Bit my shoulderblades, my sholders, my upper arms, then harder, harder, until I was writhing and she was biting hard, leaving marks, leaving deep bruises. The sharp pain jolted me into my body, jolted me right to the edges of my skin and I felt everything, felt every nerve in my body, felt my feet pulling against the leather. I make the kinds of noises that people make in sync with my breath, noise coming out whenever I breathe in or out. Gasping. I tried not to be too loud when I cried out.

It hurt. Oh, I liked it.

“You never told me you like pain this much,” she whispered in my ear, pinching my nipples. “You are the perfect combination of boy and girl,” she whispered as she palmed my breasts, bit my shoulder.

I felt exposed. “Really?”

She nodded, looked into my eyes. “Really.” And brought her cock to my mouth again. Straddled my chest and dipped it against my tongue. That position makes me nervous. I opened my mouth for it. Sucked. Lips swollen, red, tongue hot.

I tried to keep my hands on my cock. I wanted to reach for her, tear through her skin and silk lingerie. “I want to rip these stockings off you,” I said, cheek against her thigh when she withdrew from my mouth.

“Do you? Aww. Why don’t you kiss them,” she said, leaning to one side and offering me her thigh. “Only the part that’s covered. Not the skin,” she ordered. I kissed, brought my lips to the silky thin fabric, kissed and drew my tongue along the tight ring around her thigh where the stocking was held up by her garter. I could feel the tiny little ridges with my tongue and lips, the crosshaired pattern slightly rough against my mouth. I wanted my teeth tearing through it.

She moaned, and said, “enough.” She kissed me, worked her way down my body and paused for just a second too long at my cock with her mouth open just above it. My body shuddered and I ached, just ached to feel her lips close around it.

“Not this time,” she said, and slid off the bed, pushing the spreader bar up.

“Hold that there,” she said, and put it into my hands. I let go of my cock, bobbing from my pubic bone, and gripped the bar. My right leg was pulled up, knee bent, left leg higher, thigh pushed against my stomach by the bar, foot in the air, uneven.

“Stay here. Don’t move.” She moved around the room. I couldn’t see her, but she slid a condom on, grabbed my camera, and took another photograph. “You look gorgeous. So fucken hot,” she said, and touched my clit with something cold, so cold, I thought it was fingers full of lube but it just kept getting colder, and I didn’t connect it until she slid the glass dildo inside me, began working it in and out. My labia piercing conducted the temperature and hurt, ached, as though it was being pinched extremely hard.

I gasped, moaned, writhed on the bed, tried to keep my dick in my hand. Turned my head and yelled into the pillow. She shushed me, and repositioned to fuck me, loosened my g-string style harness so she could reach my cunt and slid inside slow.

“Don’t let go of that bar,” she threatened. I gripped it tight, felt my cock throbbing and pushing against my hand. “You feel that against your belly?” she said, low, next to my ear. “You feel your cock, all hard, between us?”

“Yes,” I breathed. I loved how she kept my cock in play, despite that I was not fucking her with it. Boyish. And god, she’s such a skilled top.

She fucked me like this for a while, legs spread and lifted, hips and ass curved up from the bed, my hands gripping the bar as she lowered herself onto me, cock thrusting. I saw red. Eyes rolling back. Gasping into her shoulder, sucking.

We kissed, kept our faces close. Smiled and giggled and gasped and rocked our bodies together. Eventually, she pulled away, slid back down my body, unhooked the spreader bar, and turned me over.

She smacked my ass, my shoulderblades, even the bottoms of my feet. Bit my shoulders again. I wished I could see her, watch her hips move. I was completely lost in the sensation. “I forgot I get your ass, too,” she mumbled at some point. Sure you did.

“Get up on your knees.”

She gave me her fingers first, then lubed up her cock and began fucking me from behind, entering slowly. My head was practically on the bed, holding myself up with my shoulders because my hands were between my legs, I couldn’t let go of my cock, which was fucken hard and thick and I felt it was going to pop in my hands. I kept it against my clit, kept my fingers circling the head, I love how that feels, the ridge of it against my thumb. Boyish. Masculine.

“You keeping hold of that cock of yours?”

“Yes,” I gasped into the pillow, pushing my hips back into her to get her to slide in deeper. She had her hands on my hips, pulled me back to her. I began whimpering, gasping louder into the pillows.

Fuck.

I don’t know how long we were like this. A long time. My sense of time in that hotel room was limited, having been told that I was not supposed to look at a clock and that she would be the timekeeper. She had full control of this situation, this scene, this interaction between us, and I gave in to her.

the hotel room

It’s really hard to write this up amidst family dynamics and wrapping gifts and visiting old haunts in my hometown – so this is just a very small snippet of the beginning of what happened between DateDyke and I yesterday. More to come.

She answered the hotel room door wearing a black vintage lingerie slip, black stockings, black knee high heeled boots. Grinning.

Oh, my god. Stunning.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said, laughing.

*

“Get yourself some champagne, and refill my glass. I’d like an orange slice too.”

I picked her champagne flute up from the dresser. It hummed a little in my hand, that sound of glass vibrating. Refilled hers. Poured mine. There was a glass dildo in the ice bucket, buried. Brought her an orange from the bowl of strawberries and orange slices, she took it from my fingers with her mouth.

It was my first act of servitude.

I leaned on the edge of the desk, and she said, “Umm, no, I’d like you right here,” and pointed. I sat on the edge of the bed, near her chair.

“So there were some things you were supposed to do,” she said a bit later, taking the empty champagne flute from my hand and pressing her thigh against mine, coming close, hand on the back of my neck where I’d just cut my hair short. “What were they?” she murmured. “Can you recite them for me?”

“I texted you when I landed.”

“Very good,” she murmured. I got a kiss as a reward. She kept her mouth so close I could feel her breath.

“I told you what time I need to be back at the airport.”

“Very good.” Another soft, soft kiss.

“I brought my camera.”

“Did you? Good. In a minute I want you to get it out and ready for me. What else?”

“I wore briefs, a tie and … my cock.”

“Very, very good.”

“Um … ”

“What else?”

Her lips brushed my jaw, my neck, my mouth. I couldn’t concentrate. I held my hands gently on the curves of her hips and wanted to twist her down behind me, throw her on the bed. I restrained. Every moment I restrained my impulses. I held my body on tight reigns, which created a swirl of energy, of reeling. Restrained, restrained, restrained.

What was the last thing I was supposed to do?

“I haven’t … gotten off … since Wednesday.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Very good. Oh, I’m very, very happy about that. Your balls must be so heavy … ” she kissed me again. Deeper. Her hand on my cock. “Now get that camera out.” I crossed the room and did. She played with the settings, took a few test shots, then set it down, took hold of my tie. “I’d like you here now,” she pulled, “kneeling on the floor in front of me.”

I sank to my knees, still fully clothed. Black boots freshly polished, jeans, black leather belt, white tee shirt, white button down, dark gray silk tie.

I kept my knees splayed without really realizing – my impulse, wearing a cock, and also more comfortable for my boots that way.

She noticed. “Oh, I like the way you did that.” Kissing me. Her hands down my belly onto my cock, rubbing. I inhaled sharply. Her mouth was luscious, soft, subtle. I struggled for composure. I wanted my hands on her body, wanted to feel her thighs, peel away her stockings.

“What,” she asked, reading something – hesitation? resistance? – in me.

“I am … not pouncing on you.”

“Oh that is very much not allowed.”

“I know.” I swallowed. “I just, want you to notice precisely how much I am not pouncing on you.”

She smiled. “Good boy,” she said. “I know that must be hard for you,” and she took hold of my forearm. “Unbutton those cuffs,” she said. Boyish, I felt so boyish. Not even butch, but like a teenage boy, eager, willing to learn, desperate to please. I began unbuttoning, kneeling in front of her, watching her face as she watched me, fingers suddenly fumbling. I looked at her. Noticed her hands, small, cute. I bet she could fist me. Her skin was so soft, so soft, and I could see her thighs where her stockings ended, could see on garter. I’d felt a harness under that slip, too, when she’d allowed me briefly, at the door, to feel her ass.

I finished the second wrist and raised my hands into her lap, offered them to her, open palmed.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You know what it’s like to have someone offer their wrists to you.”

I nodded. “Yes.” Barely a whisper.

“I like your new tattoo,” she said, touching it. She cuffed me, both wrists, leather cuffs with silver buckles, and tested the tension. I watched. “Something that we talked about, when we were planning this, is that I wanted you to suck my femme cock, do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I have really been looking forward to that.” She pulled my hands behind my back and linked them together. “I don’t trust your hands on your own. You’re gonna have to keep them there for a while. Now, stay there. Don’t move, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good.”

On my knees, facing the chair. Arms cuffed together behind my back. I could hear her rustling around the room. I struggled against the cuffs, just to see how far I could pull, how it would feel. I love the pressure on my wrists.

I kept my head low, shoulders pulled back by my wrists pulled together. She re-appeared, cock under her black silk slip, at the edge, next to the lace, hard and bobbing, nudging at the hemline.

My mouth salivated. I looked up at her, tried not to wonder about my gag reflex, and kissed it.

oops! an open apology

Madeleine, I so apologize – we definitely met through Sugarbutch, definitely slept together.

Wow, I have no idea how you could’ve possibly slipped my mind when I wrote that. As I’ve said, you were the first Sugarbutch Star, after you kept whispering let go, just let go into my ear that night after the Sex Blogger’s Tea Party last year.

I don’t know why I hadn’t made that connection – I guess it’s because it feels like we’re friends!

Do forgive me, sweetheart.

poll results: my ass is hers

The results of the poll, asking you, my favorite, loyal readers, how the sexy DateDyke and I are hooking up, are in.

But you already know what I’m going to report, because you were the ones who voted. (Traitors.)

You voted:

DateDyke tops me: 86
I top DateDyke: 50
We wrestle: 23

And we have two write-in votes, which were:

  • Wrestle for dominance, and loser gets to rule the day on your return flight
    and
  • I just want you to win!

Someone also commented, “I vote for your vote,” and I wondered, does that mean they’re voting for me to top, or for me to get topped? ‘Cause clearly, I’m not even sure what my own vote is. I had hoped not to lose by a margin that fucking huge, but, well, readers, I get it. I hear you loud and clear.

My two consultants told me a few days ago that I should’ve threatened not to write about it unless I won. Now that, I bet that would’ve worked.

Ironically, after the Sugarbutch Star contest this year, one of the things I took away from that was just how many submissive femmes were out there who were inviting me to top them, often in ways that were (note the past tense) beyond my topping capabilities, I felt – lots of force, domination, coercion. I was surprised, and extremely validated, that there were so many of my type, at least upon initial inspection, out there, and so excited that they felt I was capable of taking them down.

But this time … seems the tables have turned a little, eh?

I know, slightly different scenario.

I am managing myself well, I think, inside the flirting, the submission, the bottoming, in my chats with DD; I’m a bit nervous about tomorrow, but trying to re-frame that into excitement. Tonight, she told me, “I’m not nervous, not now. I’ve worked that out. I have a solid idea of what I want and what I need from you.”

Mmmm, when you put it that way, I have a solid idea of what I want and what I need from her, too. I think. But that still doesn’t quite make me feel ready … this territory is just new, I suppose.

And … then there’s the reality of what’s going to happen tomorrow, of that first kiss when I walk into that hotel room, of the spreader bar she’s threatened, of my ass – my ass, lord, it has been a really long time since my ass has been fucked by anyone other than me, years – in the air, of who knows what else, being exposed, being taken. I’m thinking, do I have pimples on my ass? When was the last time I did some hair grooming, down there? Will I, as they say, break? Cry? Or will I be able to take it, to submit actively, intentionally, to push back against her topping, to hold my own, in my own way, in a butch and boyish way?

I’ve also been thinking about the responsibility of bottoms lately, not only because I am faced with this (gulp) new scenario – it seems there are many ways to bottom, and if you’ve read the Topping and Bottoming Books (which I highly recommend), then you know something about that.

One of the common misconceptions is that bottoms don’t do anything – that “pillow queen” notion. The Topping Book calls these folks “bottom-less pits,” those who want and need and take and don’t offer anything up, don’t match their top’s energy and hold their own.

I know this feeling as a top, but I am not as experienced of a bottom, these days – I want to avoid this, if at all I can.

It’s the difference between this active submission, intentional surrender, and some other form of just taking from a top … and I can feel it, energetically, but I’m not sure how else to pinpoint. This is reminding me of this post of Dacia’s over at Live Girl Review and that look in Legs’s eyes … clearly, though she is submitting, she is very powerful, present, active, working just as hard as her top. Gorgeous.

I’ve had a lot of comments, emails, and conversations, on & offline, from folks who follow Sugarbutch, about the notion of bottoming and butchness, especially for those of us whose butch identities are intertwined with a top identity.

I am not stone, have never been stone, and usually like and expect to get off during sex in some way. But that’s not to say that my sexual satisfaction is defined by my own orgasms – in fact, that’s not usually what makes me feel satiated after an interaction. Usually, it is the pleasure of the femme I’m with.

And, I’ve often said that just because I bottom, it does not have to conflict with my butchness. Those two things are not mutually exclusive, I’ve never felt that they are. I’ve been loud & proud about this, in fact, insisting that those two things can in fact go together and compliment each other quite well. I know butch bottoms, male subs, trans guy switches, all sorts of a range of masculine- and bottom-identified folks, and yeah, sure, have at it! You get on with your bad selves.

But … I guess the thing is that I’ve never quite occupied that space myself. And even in the past few years, when receiving or bottoming I guess I was doing so to women who did not go there, to celebrate the things that my boyishness brought to our scenario.

Certainly not in this way.

Interesting, how I thought I’d gone here, thought I’d played with this, and yet, these past few weeks has opened up whole new places to explore, new passageways, new ideas. I like that. I’m grateful for it, thankful to DD that she’s giving me the opportunity to explore these things, gender, submission, my own intersections.

Some folks have asked me about reading DateDyke’s dating chronicles, which are so steamy that she keeps them locked – she told me that she’d most likely grant permission, you’ll just have to ask nicely.

Also, to clarify – though both Red and DateDyke read Sugarbutch, I met them both offline, through friends. I have yet to sleep with someone who met me through Sugarbutch.

Want to be the first?

Things that happened Thursday:

  1. I got a replacement copy of The Leather Daddy and the Femme and read the first few chapters on the subway. The writing is smooth, eager, tumbling. So hot. I have more to say about this
  2. I stopped at Babeland and picked up primarily supplies – gloves, condoms, lube. Both by bucket of boy butter and my bottle of lube broke recently, the containers actually shattered. I also bought a softie sock and a leather cockring that fits around my wrist, which I like wearing as a bracelet. I played with the cocks (ohh, Vixskin) and whips and leather floggers and harnesses, looked curiously at the new bendy beads and that cone thing that is getting notice.
  3. I attended the reading for Best Lesbian Erotica 2008 and listened to sexy erotica read aloud. Words formed in mouths in a roomful of people.

What on earth was I thinking?

This was all entirely too much sex. Overstimulated, oversexed, I could think about nothing but getting off, which she had asked me – ordered me – not to do.

I went home and paced. Bit my lips. Walked briskly from room to room but with no recollection of my intention. Preoccupied with a glimpse in my mind of her, boots, heels, standing tall, looking up at her, she’s looking down at me, the way her voice breaks with a timber of callousness.

My body hummed, vibrated.

Everything was sex. The higher functions of my brain have been overridden by the animalistic urges, the desire to be fucked, give over, get off.

I tried to watch tv. Tried to do some freelance design work, to write some overdue articles. I continued to find myself staring into space, glassy-eyed.

I dropped to the floor. Began with push-ups, then sit-ups. Ten and ten. Ten more, then ten more. Crunches, then all the way up, until I was groaning and the muscles in my stomach were screaming and taught, breathing heavy, body tense begging for release.

Begging.

I beat my face to the floor until my arms couldn’t hold me up anymore, until I was panting.

When I collapsed, and my dick twitched against the hardwood. My hips wanted to buck against anything, everything. Thrusting and I put my hand there, just for some friction, some traction, and pressed my forehead to the floor, grinding against my palm through my jeans.

Too much, too much.

I could feel my clit through my jeans. Hard and slick already, eager against my hands and I let my hips wander, find rhythm, thighs clasping hard.

I couldn’t stop myself. I feared I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.

I stopped, throbbing, thrusting, frustrated. Beat the floor with my fist.

Twenty-four hours until the layover. I can make it.

a close call

Four weeks ago:

Second not-a-date with Red (remember the morning after?). We had drinks, saw a film, and then “got a piece of pie and talked about” the movie, told life stories.

I’m not on with her, and I like that. No game, no pomp-and-circumstance. I genuinely enjoy her company and she is knows how to push my buttons.

Good goddamn.

*

“Yo, it’s two women! It’s not two dudes, it’s awright, it’s awright. I could watch this aaaaaall night.”

We both have short hair. I guess that’s as much as it takes to be seen as a boy sometimes – like on the subway platform at Union Square at three am.

He was with a rather large group of young men, and I suddenly lost my hard-on and curled my fists instead. Danger. They’d circled us, predators and prey. But we were not men, so suddenly we were less of a threat. I wished desperately that I was not so fearful of physical confrontation, wished I knew how to throw a punch that would knock him off-center and not break my hand, wished that I knew he could punch me back and I’d be okay, wished that I could puff up my chest and say scary things that would make him squirm and never bother dykes in the subway again.

I wanted to protect her, above all. Kept my body between them and her. Maybe I shouldn’t send her home on the subway. Maybe I shouldn’t go home alone. Who was in more danger here?

I had walked her to the subway, waited with her while it came. She kissed me first, then she was up against the pillar and I gripped it hard behind her, pressing her between me and it.

“You can say no,” she said, “but, are you sure you don’t want to take me home?”

I can still feel her mouth on my earlobe, hot breath against the skin of my neck that was so cold, exposed.

“Since this isn’t a date,” she said, “I’m not going to do these things, but if it was …. I would want to be on my knees in front of you, and take your cock in my mouth.”

Unexpected. Caught off-guard.

“I want to look up at you with my mouth full, and I want to suck your cock till you come so hard in my mouth, so hard you can barely stand.”

So. Fucking. Hard.

“I want you to bend me over and fuck me.” Her breath on my ear. My hands tearing at the curves of her body. I wanted to rip something.

“I want you to take me on my back, to get your biggest, thickest cock and get on top of me, slide it in, because I want to be so full of you.”

It’s amazing the joints in my legs continued to function. I couldn’t speak.

“I want you to fuck me, and fuck me, until we both come and soak the sheets.”

“Yo, can I get a picher? Can I get a photo?” he had his phone out, aimed at us. “I’m from out of town. I gotta get a picher.”

“No.” We both said. He pleaded. “No.”

*

It really was an amazing evening. I was open and honest, more than I’d expected to be. Scorpios can bring that out of me. I told stories of my life. This is the interesting part, the getting-to-know-you early part, because we get to tell our best stories, tell our best jokes, be our best selves.

“So, are you not taking me home because you don’t know what to think in the morning? I’ll get another “let’s be friends” email?”

I take responsibility for my choices. I won’t regret them tomorrow. “No,” I said. “I’m not taking you home because … well, performance anxiety, for one.”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? You write a sexblog!”

Yes. Precisely. She intimidates me, and she reads Sugarbutch. Lucky for me, my cocks don’t fail me, but I can still be bad and awkward, and better in writing.

“So if you’re not taking me home … will I get a chance to do those things to you?”

“I think … that can be arranged.”

*

By the time we both got home (safely) she had a few additional details she wanted added to this forthcoming encounter.

When I’m on my knees sucking your cock, in just my red bra, panties, and shoes, I want your hands in my hair. When you need me to look at you, I want you to pull my head back, force me to see you watching me suck your cock.

When you’re on top of me, the first time your cock enters me, I want that first stroke to be so slow it’s excruciating, so slow I can feel you muscles filled with that restraint, that tension begging to be released. And just for that first stroke I can’t move, you have complete control for as long as you can make that first penetration last.

She likes being pushed up against walls. Restrained. Forced. I want her wrists bound with rope. I want to smack her beautiful round ass until I leave marks.

Today, I am tightly wound.

Tonight, we have a date.

going down

The poll will officially close at midnight PST tomorrow, friday.

I know I haven’t done a very good job selling my topping Mistress DateDyke, but that doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight.

If she wins by a margin of more than 30 votes, she gets my ass, too. That’s the deal. But she’s gonna have to earn it. I’m sure, by now, she knows that.

the stakes have been raised

If she wins (i.e., gets to top me) by more than thirty votes, I have agreed that she gets to fuck my ass, too.

That’s the new deal.

Uh, so, you’re gonna help me win, right?

It has also been pointed out to me that I didn’t sell my topping her all that well in that last post. That is probably because I still have this vision of her ordering an entire roomful of people around while I was in Seattle, and, for whatever reason, I wanted to be kneeling in front of her with my hands on her leather boots, saying, “yes, ma’am.”

Now, though, I am telling her I want her in lingerie, garters and a bra and a thong, tall tall boots, blindfolded. Waiting for me on that hotel bed.

At that, she laughed. “I don’t think that’s what your readers want.”

Have I mentioned that she’s a grassroots organizer? She’s threatened to organize a voting block.

And yeah, I am hard and wanting with the ideas of submitting to her. A new place to be in, I don’t ever remember getting this worked up at the idea of bottoming to a femme. Yowza.

But, underneath it, all this talk just makes me want to take her down all the more.

I want to twist her arm around her back and shove her against a wall, kick her legs apart, fuck her until she comes, dripping down her legs and leaving a mess on the concrete at our feet. (I hear she’s a gusher.)

I want to feel my cock at the back of her throat as she swallows it in the car in the parking lot at the sketchy by-the-hour hotel.

I want to finger her while she blows me.

I want a fistful of her hair.

I want to split her open with that huge new cock of mine.

Like a watermelon, she wrote.

I want that look in her eyes, on her face, when she wallows in it, gives her body over to me, drops, opens. I want that stroking of her skin, after, when she’s shaken.

I don’t want her to be disappointed.

Roses on fishnet stockings: yum

On the V train:

Caramel skin and she smelled like vanilla. Her hat was knit, covering her head like a something poofy and french, brown ringlets poking deliberately out from under it. Her jacket was mocha coffee colored suede with white fur at the seams, it came in stylishly at the waist and flared at the bust, unbuttoned to reveal delicious curves, cleavage. I don’t usually notice cleavage. Hers was near perfect.

On the E train:

Snow white: ruby lips, raven hair, creamy skin. Stop staring, I tell myself.

At Union Square:

Roses embroidered on the backs of her fishnet stockings. Black heels, not delicate, but not clunky either, rather very solid, firm. I wanted to bite each rose from her calf. Tear it with my teeth.

Clearly something is happeneing to my libido today. I do go through these moods occasionally. I wonder where I am in my cycle, if this corresponds.

Makes me wish I had someone to call & fuck.

Closest relationship I’ve had to that is Belle – but apparently, she has a girlfriend now. I haven’t talked to her much recently, we really only saw each other a few times. Too bad, though. I thought she’d be on the market for a while longer – I should’ve played with her more while I could, I really enjoyed her. And – on top of the physical chemistry, she never put pressure on me, never needed anything from me. That’s how we both laid it out at the beginning of getting together, and I had my doubts as to whether or not that could happen, but it did.

I guess it’s good to know that I’m capable of a sex-based relationship, in theory.

will my cock get sucked?

I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.”What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.

We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay – I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.

And oh I got that.

She was stunning. I particularly liked her in jeans and a white a-shirt, hair tussled and no makeup, bare feet, when she answered the door, though as soon as I saw her lips slightly pinked and luscious I knew I wanted to kiss her, hoped we’d kiss, before the end of the short few hours we had.

We settled into a borrowed bedroom and she lit candles, turned out the lights, after she brought the three gerbera daisies and bottle of prosecco into the room with us.

We weren’t going to fuck – and this is the second time that this has happened with us, of the two times we’ve met – but fuck if she didn’t make me want. Kisses and her eyes and curly hair and the way her neck bent back when I pulled it and that little southern twang in her voice and her tongue and oh the sounds from her throat.

“I want to learn how to throw you around,” I said.

She laughed. “You have already learned that. Graduated from that school, walked across that stage, picked up the diploma, switched your tassel to the other side.”

I laughed too. “Maybe. Then I want to practice.”

There was a moment when some feeling grew from my cock up through my chest to radiate out through my shoulders into my fingertips and my timing was perfect, fist on wrist with a precise leg twist so she went exactly where I placed her.

And I could’ve devoured her, then.

I wanted to. I felt her hesitation and didn’t push it. Maybe she’d say the same of me, but I was eager, willing. I imagine that was clear.

I brought my cock. I’d showed it off at the tea party beforehand, and was hesitant to keep it on, but wanted to be prepared.

“I certainly didn’t want to seem … presumptuous.” I said. There’s that word again.

“I would’ve been mad if you hadn’t brought it,” she answered.

And, later, she said: “I want to suck your cock.”

I wanted to growl fucken do it then and push her head down, but it wasn’t quite that kind of night. That, though, was what she brought out in me.

“I would like that …” I said weakly, trying not to writhe and moan on the bed.

She has incredibly sensitive lips. Earlier, after she’d admired my various bits of (ahem, carefully groomed) body hair, she’d asked me if I shaved – it puzzled for a second, before I realized she meant my face. “Yeah,” I admitted. “Can’t really feel it now … ” I brought my fingers to my five o’clock shadow, still mostly smooth. She could feel it though. Her mouth is just that sensitive.

(Small sidenote: That’s new for me, really, that my lack of shaving or non-feminine placed body would be a turn-on for a lover. I guess it has to do with the ways I am masculine, which makes sense, if what someone is attracted to in me is (at least in part) my butchness. It’s taken me a while to not feel weird about it though – I was socialized female, shaved for many years, despite my hippie parents objections. Also, having more hair tends to be a sign of testosterone in the body, doesn’t it? I wonder if that’s related to my butch identity, some sort of biological connection? Or maybe I’m just reaching for ways that this butchness came from “inside” and not only adopted as a performative gender-bending practice.)

I don’t know when, or if, I’ll see her again, but I hope our paths will cross sooner than the last time I saw her. She lives in the south, and did tell me that if I am ever in her city and want to get sweaty, I should call her. Likewise, I made sure she knew she always has a booty call in New York.

this is how it goes

You think, I’m not ready for a relationship, not even an ongoing sexual one with clear emotional boundaries.

You think, there’s no way I can even adequately interact with other human beings intimately without causing or receiving some sort of heartache.

You think, I must be more restrictive and conscienscious of my interactions.

Then, someone comes along, someone unexpected maybe, and for a minute, an hour, four hours, over Thai food, over a bottle of Presecco, over take out from Song, over a walk on the promenade, over a tattoo, you remember that there is more to an interaction than simply confusion and ache, and sometimes you can hold small shards of yourself up to someone else’s light and discover a shade of yourself that you’d never really seen until someone else was there to provide illumination.

the morning after

I had a date last night, which went quite well really; we had fabulous conversation over dinner, then made our way over to the Brooklyn promenade that overlooks the shimmering buildings in downtown Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty, the Verrazano bridge, and the Manhattan bridge.It was quite a view. I hadn’t been over there before. She wore these really cute shoes with straps that tied.

I was going on about topping, and the ways that feminism – and a general respect for other people – makes me hesitant to get involved in some particular sex play, like humiliation and name calling, and that I would actually like to push myself as a top and play with those things, but that it’d have to be with the right person, someone who wanted to specifically explore those things, not just as passing take-it-or-leave-it but really want it. I’d like to push myself as a top, I think was my point.

And that was when she gave me those eyes. You know the ones.

We had a fantastic first kiss, full of restraint and passion and air and deliberate hesitation, a slow building, perfect timing for going deeper, a little more crushing tender against teeth.

So, yeah, the date went well. Trouble is, I’m not particularly interested in purusing more with her – partly because she’s not what I’m looking for (I could go into detail here, but it’s not terribly relevant), and partly this is because I suspect that she likes me already, and is interested in pursuing things, maybe even in a relationship.

And I just can’t do that.

That sounds so predictable, so playboy, so “aspiring stud” of me, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t expect any less of this persona of mine, this Sinclair characature of myself, she should be the player, the heartbreaker, the one who takes girls home on the first date and has sex all night only to cut things off the morning after, right?

But that’s not me, that’s never been me. I’m not even sure how I got to this place sometimes, and I don’t want to continue to do this. What do we really get out of it, either of us? Sex, I suppose, which hey, that can be very important. But this day-after agony is not worth it. I’m too overly conscienscious of hurting her feelings.

And this is why I really shouldn’t be dating right now, at all.

I’m still just barely to the place where I’m pursuing dating. There have been some opportunities, and I haven’t turned those down … but it’s just starting to occur to me that I probably should be.

I said recently to Bee, my sister and roommate, that if I came across somebody that I really felt connected to, who I could potentially have a relationship with, I’m not even sure what I would do – I’d sabotage it, maybe, or I’d run the other way, or I just wouldn’t even recognize that that was possible with her right now, because I don’t want it. Everything in me says you’re not ready.

Do I wish I was ready? Yes. Am I working on becoming ready? Yes. Am I ready now? No.

And this, coupled with the difficulties I’ve had lately communicating with even my closest friends, let alone a random date, has made it clear to me that I’m in no place to even date. Hell, I am barely in a place where I can interact successfully with anyone else, it feels. Forget the extra added complication of emotion.

She didn’t stay over last night, though it was a struggle for me to ask her to go. How do you do that and not sound like an asshole? Eventually, I guess I had to not care that I sounded like an asshole. And I’m going to have to not care about that again today when I contact her to say that I had fun, but that we won’t be doing that again.

Lord. There is just no easy way to say it. There is no easy way to reject someone. Okay, so it’s not easy, fine: what is the kind way? What is the ‘right’ way?

I have one more date on Tuesday, and I have a sex date (much less complicated) with Belle today. I am tempted to cancel Tuesday’s date because really, why am I going? What do I hope to get out of it? I don’t want a relationship, not dates or sex or another person in my life.

This girl on the date last night, she is a lovely woman. Gorgeous and fun and smart, good in bed, and she has perhaps the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, a green-gold shade that with her dark hair is just stunning. I had fun.

Why don’t I just stop doing this altogether, before somebody really gets hurt, instead.

what do I do with all this heat?

I’ve been hard for days. Ready to fuck. I take long luxurious laps at the briefest contacts to my pelvis – the moment of walking through the subway turnstyles. Leaning up against a table. My hips tilt upward in wait, like the center of a plant revealing to the blue sky. Magnetic and animal and it’s all I can do to keep from growling, sharpening my teeth on the skin of the girl next to me, behind me, in front of me.My cock is hard. That internal butch cock that raises and piques when I feel that rush to my clit, that swelling between my legs.

I am a battery charged. Plugged in and there is much I would do for the chance to spend a weekend in bed. Or a day – I’d settle for a day.

Cock so hard I could force it through brick. Through plywood. It could puncture glass, plastic. What would it do to you?

I top on the third date

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kink question?”

“You know. The Kink Question.”

“Ah. Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

things I’ve never done, but would like to try

  1. Fuck a girl’s ass with a strapon (is it still called pegging if it’s two women, or is pegging unique to a woman strapped on fucking a guy?). I’ve done plenty of ass-play, but somehow the women I’ve been with have never actually been comfortable enough with it for me to be strapped on. I have, however, fucked a guy this way, once upon a time.

  2. Stingy toys, like a cane. I’d like to leave some marks. I’ve used a cane before, actually, but I don’t own one, and I’d like to experiment to feel more comfortable with it

  3. Receive – and give – a cutting

  4. Role-play out in a bar, pretend we don’t know each other and pick each other up. I suppose that has a lot of variations (resistance, convincing).

  5. Sex in central park, sex in every girl club in new york city (the bathroom, the back room, the alley, the deserted dancefloor, wherever), sex at work. After hours, in an empty office, wherever. I’ve done that, actually, though not at my current job.

  6. Play with knives. And yes, I think I’d like to be the one holding the knife, although that could be negotiable.

  7. And, last but not least, recent events have told me that I need to practice my flogging & rope bondage.

this is my life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a reason some things are cliche

Email to Joy:

Subject: hi, this is me emailing you

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

but then that sounds all dramatic.

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

Gender Is A Sex Toy

My favorite part of last night was the way she said please. Please, please, like a whisper, or a prayer. At the bar, she told me was disappointed I hadn’t emailed her back.

“Ah,” I said. I didn’t have a good excuse. But when I discovered she’d be at this party I made note, and made sure to be there.

“I kind of want to go talk to her,” I told my friend, who I’d arrived with.

“Do it, chickenshit,” she said, “just go do it, no big deal … ” and proceeded to say something else supportive, made to boost me up, but I got distracted: she walked up to me, put her hand on my arm, and said, “Sorry to interrupt …” Oh no, no problem. We were only talking about how I should go talk to you, anyway.

I told her I’d Googled her after we met. She was embarrassed. She had Googled me as well, made a reference to the video of my spoken word she’d found.

I told her I’d been up to my knees in gender theory this week, trying to uncover and then articulate the reasons why butch and femme were subversive. I asked if she identified as femme – I would put her in that vague category, red strappy sandals, silver hoop earrings, but I know some people hate being categorized.

“I suppose I look femme,” she said, “but I don’t think I really act femme, and I certainly don’t fuck like a femme.”

We got interrupted, but I wanted to ask her what she meant. Or rather, I didn’t want her to tell me, I wanted to find out. I took it to mean that she’s not a “pillow queen,” which most would say derogatorily when referencing a femme in the bedroom. And that is a moment where butch/femme is operating under the assumption as a reproduction of the heteronormative paradigm, and not necessarily a re-visioning of the compulsory gender hierarchy.

And this also reminds me of another point I haven’t yet discussed during this gender conversation – what I believe gender is and what kind of role it should play in my life. (More on both of these soon. There’s so much to say and explore about gender.)

Another friend of hers said she wasn’t so into gender. “I hate it when it takes girls like three hours to get ready,” she said. “I’d rather spend two and a half hours enjoying your company, and half an hour getting ready.”

“I can get that,” I said, “but I also want to acknowledge how much fucking effort it takes to be femme. It isn’t just roll-outta-bed, tussle-the-hair-with-product like it is for us” – I indicated myself and the friend – “it takes a lot more work. And I gatta say, I love what that work creates. It’s an art form, a creative expression. And, not to sound egotistical, but I also kind of see it as for me, something to get my attention, get me going, and I love that – love that I’m worth that effort.”

“Plus,” I added, “I can enjoy her company while she’s getting ready, can’t I?”

Clearly, this was the foreplay.

“So,” she said later, after we’d been sharing life stories, still drinking pints at the bar, “when are you going to kiss me?”

Then my hand on her cheek. Soft lips, and oh she tasted fantastic.

I felt oh so rude, having pretty much completely ditched my very good friend and a gaggle of other queer girls (some of whom I knew, and others of which seemed fantastic! I wanted to meet them, hand out, socialize! So easily distracted by the hot girl … ), but I didn’t let that stop me, and we took a cab to my house.

We were both tipsy. She looked at my bookcases, went through my iTunes (Animaniacs, Gretchen Wilson, Dolly Parton, Garrison Starr … and I discovered that my sexmix is seriously outdated. Seriously. I should’ve just put on Morphine. It was laughable, honestly). And then we were naked, in my bed.

“Lube?” she asked.

“I’ll get it … ”

“No, let me. Where?”

“In the toolbox, under the bed.”

“The toolbox. Of course.”

I leaned over to pull it out. She fisted me easily, though it was too much to sustain for very long. But oh it is sometimes so lovely to be filled, stretched.

Later, fingers not enough, I said: “Can I get my cock out yet?”

“Oh god yes. Please.” That please again. The way she whispers it. Makes my stomach contract as if punched.

I like the way she moved. The way her body curved, the way she wasn’t shy but would put herself where she wanted to be. I would probably call her more of a top, though we didn’t discuss those identities. And it made me realize – or perhaps remember – that I don’t really surrender well. My impulse is to take, to overpower, to do the throw-down. I have a harder time as the one being thrown down. Not sure why. There are certainly times that I can let go, give in, get fucked – but honestly, if I hadn’t made her come yet, I feel distracted by the want of that, the desire to do so.

Given the option of me getting off and not her, or her getting off and not me, I would be much more satisfied with the latter. I get such satisfaction out of making girls come.

It was hard to get her off. “We’ve learned a valuable lesson about alcohol,” she said. “Four beers is too many?” I asked. “Four beers was what it took for me to ask you to take me home,” she answered, “so it was necessary.”

[Another tangent: I actually find that I rarely get off – or get her off – the first time I’m with a girl. There’s a learning curve to discovering her body and what she likes. Which is yet another reason why I’m not so good at one-night stands, I like to build that understanding, that communication, between our bodies.]

Pillow talk consisted of our favorite books. The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russel, Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and Crush by Richard Siken, I said. I talked about sci-fi and fantasy, her genres. What I liked and disliked. She said she had one in particular I needed to read. This means I just may see her again.

I walked her to the subway at two am to wait with her because I knew it’d be a while before the train came. As we walked, I switched sides with her so her heels wouldn’t get caught in the sidewalk subway grate, and it was a beautiful little gender dance, gender connection, my brief protection of the ways she presents her sexuality and desire through her gender.

I really love those moments. Gender is such a sex toy.

Her Mouth on My Cock

This is an honorable mention Sugarbutch Star submission from the femme top. And yes I know I never posted about our second date … consider it on the way.

I can feel everything. Every breath every movement every inch where my skin is bound with leather. Wrists, ankles. I can hear my heart beat. Can see my chest moving up and down, the skin thin and flushed. I swallow. Focus on the ceiling; you are kneeling, strapping on. Hand on the thick of it, slick with lube. I am exposed. Open to you and you want me here, this way.

My hips are cramping, pulled back like this. Even my underarms are exposed. I don’t want to struggle but my body can’t stop. A twist of my wrist and my ankle is pulled up further, I feel it in my thigh. Everything is connected.

I don’t want to want it like I do. Don’t want to need, to crave to be filled when I’m like this. To be reduced to something empty, inadequate, unwhole.

Make me whole.

Make me scream.

You have your eyes on me and I blink back tears. You slap my cunt. I cringe, cry out. I don’t want to say please. I don’t want to need the sting of your fingers which are wet now, from me. I don’t want you to know how much I crave: touch me again. Twist the bar so I can’t keep struggling, and make me feel. Make me feel even the places I refuse to let you in. Make me.

Your eyes are shining wet like your cock. Your hand is on it. I want to be closed to you but you have me open, unlocked already and spilling my secrets. I need to hide my every imperfection. Need to hide my want. You can have me. My body is all nerve endings and convulses at every touch: your hands on the backs of my thighs. No need to open me further, this is all there is, this is all there is. Take me so I can only ever be taken by you. Take me so I wake inside myself screaming your name. Take me to where I feel again, where I feel anything, all of it, open, receptive, receiving, submitting.

You can have me. I give in, I give in.

It is agonizingly slow, a steady slide, all the way in, tip to base, and I can feel it, feel it, feel it, all the way up to the back of my throat, and I loosen, lose my grip, lose myself, but you keep hold of me, and I am only a vessel, something to hold you, cradle you, something to take it in, to receive, and I become only energy, light, lightning, and I am made whole.

The care & feeding of a butch

  1. When I look handsome, tell me so. That look of appreciation in your eyes for my masculinity makes me melt.

  2. Let me open doors for you, hold your umbrella, carry your bags, pull our your chair, refill your drink. These are the ways I call you precious.

  3. When I am moody, let me have space. I will come back to you for help when I am ready.

  4. Take my left elbow while we are walking. It makes me feel like I am promenading you, and plus our bodies can be closer that way than with handholding.

  5. Don’t make a big deal out of it if I cook, clean, or cry. These may be “women’s things” (socialized or by nature, that’s a debate for another time) but I like to do them, I like my subversive gender, I was raised female too.

  6. Buy me boy presents like cuff links, ties, a flask, suspenders, a watch caddy, a shoe-shine kit. These are tokens that show how you celebrate my gender expression, just like when I buy you lingerie, flowers, perfume, jewelry.

  7. Watch (or read) porn with me sometimes. Then tell me how you’d do it better …

  8. Don’t assume I’m stone just cause I’m (a top, and) butch. I like sex – and getting off.

  9. Tell me when I fuck up, and let me fix it. I usually can. I’m handy that way.

famous femmes I would fuck in a heartbeat

I’m particularly thinking of women who are out as lesbian (rather than bi – if I counted bisexual celebrity women, that’d be a very different list), and are particularly feminine. Though, again, it’s harder to identify the femmes in the celebrity world, because all the women are more feminine than usual.

  1. Portia de Rossi

  2. Shar Rednour

  3. Shelley Jackson

  4. Heather Corrina

  5. Leisha Hailey

  6. Tristan Taormino

… the famous femmes are hard to pinpoint! Others that aren’t on the list: Michelle Tea, Cynthia Nixon (really femme?), Kristanna Loken … Sure aren’t very many of ’em.

Nor are there very many famous butches, really; that’s a short list. I can think of Jenny Shimitzu, k.d. lang, Ellen, Melissa Ferrick, Melissa Etheridge, Rosie, Alix Olson, Michelle Rodriguez, Pamela Means … but most of these women probably wouldn’t identify as butch. That’s still a frightening identity to have in the public eye.

Got any to add?

sex with a boy?

I may be getting quite the boycrush on Joe My God … and rumor has it (ahem, he told me) he’s into butches.Now, you readers have been quite forgiving of me lately, considering I just slept with another top – I was fully expecting the comments about how I’m ‘not a real top’ to start coming. (And the femme top told me she did get some of those comments. I wonder if that’s a gender thing – a form of sexism. Mhm.) But what would you do if I decided to fuck a gay boy?

I probably wouldn’t. First, there’s the penis issue. Then, there’s the sweaty boy smell. Sorry to say it, but not only are those not turn-ons, they are explicit turn-offs. No offence, boys – it’s one of those physiological things.

Joe’s got some awesome radical politics, though, which I do find quite sexy. Ask him sometime about the much-needed collaboration between the queens and the butches, the dykes & the gays.

in which sinclair fists

I know – finally! Part three of three

“So,” I begin, “can I touch you?”

She doesn’t hear me. I have a tendency to mumble. I wasn’t certain the muscles in my mouth were recovered enough for the minute movements of forming sounds anyway. She sighs softly, relaxed, her entire body weight laid out over mine. A change from most of the evening where she seemed a bit tense, guarded. I want more of that. Want more of her eyes open and clear.

I shift my head to nuzzle her neck, draw her chin-length brown hair back behind her ear and whisper, a little louder, “Can I touch you, now?”

She’s a top. (Have I mentioned this?) I wasn’t sure what kind of permission she needed to give.

“… Yes.” She breaths out.

I kiss her neck, and that tender spot by her ear, and she offers me her mouth, soft, supple. Offers me her tongue, her tender inner lips.

She is still in charge here. Calling the shots. Even when I take her (later) she is somehow in control, commanding my movements with her body. There is little surrender in her kisses, her sighing moans, the movements of her body. Instead she keeps tight subtle control.

(Which makes me want to take it all the more … but I am hoping there is time for that, later.)

She slides her hips off mine and turns with me so I am on top, still kissing, kissing, lots of kissing, this girl likes to kiss and is so deliciously good at it. Soft and open, then demanding, then fierce.

I grip her hip bone in my right hand, turn her thighs. One knee between hers, gently pressing, nudging her, but I don’t do much because she offers me her open legs, offers me the curves craving my hands.

“Can you fist me?” She asks from under her eyelids, laid back over the pillows of my bed.

I grin. It is what could be called shit-eating, and I’m glad my room is dark. It sounds like more of a question of my abilities than a request, is it possible for you to rather than please, which makes me want to do it all the more.

“I can try.”

I move my mouth and lips and tongue on her skin, her neck, her jawline, her perfect breasts (seriously, I’ve never seen felt touched sucked any breasts more perfect, areolas dark, small nipples but more than a handful of curve – I’m usually so into legs, and did I mention she has perfect legs?), and I slide my fingers over her bare lips, the small patch of hair above her clit, her labia smooth and slick and I wet my fingers, trace circles over her clit, lazy curls down and around until I slide two fingers inside, soft, easy, slide inside and she parts her legs, pushes against me and I add another finger, three fingers now and she’s moaning against the pillow, turning her head to her right my left, trying to keep quiet, keep quiet, remembering we are not alone in my apartment but beginning to forget herself, forget her body. And her eyes are open, open.

I disentangle and get lube from the bedside table. Slide my hand inside again, four fingers this time, tight at the knuckle and I let her push against me to open further. I leave my thumb on her clit for a while and she presses down on my hand until I tuck my thumb and I keep pressing inside, sliding past the widest part of my hand where my fingers join my palm, that’s the hardest place, usually, I’ve found.

She’s shaking and her hands are gripping the blankets and resisting me, a little, when I press in harder, trying to get those last two inches of my palm to my wrist.

The fit is inexact. She is tight, and small. Width isn’t the issue (as I have found it often is), but the depth – even with my fingers curled she doesn’t have enough space inside, my knuckles are already hitting the back of her cunt, her cervix, the smooth walls of her and I’m still pressing inside, still only halfway down my palm.

This is the painful part, the stretching of the opening to allow the widest part of the fist through. After the fist is through to the wrist, usually, usually, the pain goes away and there is just fullness, such a feeling of space and being filled. But if I cannot get my palm in further she is just going to stay in pain, stretched at this uncomfortable in-between. I begin to think she can’t take it.

“You are so close,” I whisper, hovering above her, the angle of my arm not allowing me to lay myself out on top of her, which is what I would prefer. “Just relax.”

She whimpers a little, gasping, moving her mouth to make these sounds without sound coming out, still trying to be silent. I’m still pressing against her and she opens a little on my hand, I add more lube through the tunnel my curled fingers make but it doesn’t help much. I leave four fingers inside and pull back, just to the knuckle instead of half of the palm, and begin thumbing her clit again, all the folds of her labia pulled tight and thrumming. I circle and tap and gauge her reactions.

She grips my forearm and shoulder hard, grips the headboard, grips the sheets and the side of the bed, presses against me, hips wild sometimes tight sometimes releasing. The muscles of her cunt grip my hand tight and her stomach contracts, pulsing, that curling motion, and she begins to get louder, sounds from her throat and cunt, groaning and trying to stay quiet, she turns her head into the pillow, moans into the fabric, presses it with her hand against her mouth.

I want to hear her scream.

Her body quiets and she presses her hand to my wrist, signals me to slow and stop. I shift my body forward and lay out next to her, holding her, her arms around my neck, my hand resting between her legs.

“Do you want a break?” I ask.

“Does that mean, do I want to stop?” she breathes heavily.

“… Yes. Stop, or a break?”

She nods, eyes closed, catching her breath, body quickening, quieting. I stay still with her for a while, curled around her, lightly touching the sides of her body, the swirl of her hip, her stomach, my arm draped across her body. She fingers the back of my neck, kisses me. Eventually I have to get up, my shoulders and arms and elbows and wrists are all cramping from the … vigor, and I need to stretch them, loosen them.

“I think you’re bleeding,” she says, when I come back from the bathroom in my robe. She’s laid out on the bed on her side, head on her arm. Body exhausted. It’s almost four am.

“I’m … what?”

“Bleeding.”

Oh. “Sorry, I thought I’d stopped.”

She shrugs. I take care of that bleeding thing and return to bed. She snuggles against me, so sweet, no pressure, just gentle presence. We stay in various states of wrapped around each other all night, and I wake to her blue eyes in the morning.

I walk her to the subway. Her hips feel incredible under the bend in my elbow, under the palm of my hand. We’re laughing and flirting and I don’t quite want to see her go.

“Hey hey hey!” yells some guy on the sidewalk as we walk by. I feel so obviously draped in sex, I’m not surprised.

“I’ll fight ya for her!” He calls after us.

Not a chance, buddy. I want to yell back. She’s mine.

in which sinclair gets off

Part two of three

It’s a challenge for me to be explicit about the sex I receive, for two reasons: there are a select few friends of mine, who I know offline, who read this, and while I am very happy to talk about my sex life, I usually don’t offer up the same level of detail as I do in my writing; and two, I feel a lot more embarassed & vulnerable talking about my own body, my own feelings and sensations, than I do about giving pleasure to someone else. This is, I suppose, part of why I am a top.

The reason I mention that is because I’m going to attempt to be explicit here about my own experience. (That is your fair warning, childhood friends.) You may remember from the last time I tried to write about being topped that I skirted around the juicy parts. So, in the interest of being a better writer, and in the interest of wanting to turn this girl on as much as possible before I see her again (Saturday), I’ll do my best.

(And those paragraphs above, those are called foreplay. And procrastination. Ahem.)

She – this stunningly hot fuckable gorgeous femme top – goes down on me, fingers teasing the opening of my cunt, her lips and tongue pushing back my labia before sucking my clit. She keeps me distracted finding the most sensitive underside places and working her mouth slick along the folds and edges.

I felt like a turtle on my back. Acutely aware of how funny (I feel) I look when being fucked this way, knees bent feet on the bed, hips pressed forward, stomach tight, often one hand behind my head, holding onto the bars of my headboard or the back of my neck, holding my head up, contracting at my stomach so it occasionally seems like I am doing situps. Mouth open and gasping, quiet, be quiet. Pressing against my muscles and bones, pressing deeper onto her fingers, into her mouth, muscles hard and contracted.

But her mouth keeps me from thinking of this for longer than just a flash. Her fingers inside me, two, three – more? – I can feel the resistance of my cunt at the opening, though I want to feel more inside. Want to feel full of her. Her mouth still warm and moving hard on me, the bones of my pelvis pressed against her jaw I can feel the electricity of the space where our bodies are connecting.

With her tongue she fucked me. Hard and thick. Made my eyes roll back, head roll back, back arch, toes curl.

She doesn’t wait long, but rips the condom open, snaps it onto my cock, which she has in easy reach between my legs. Something tightens momentarily in my stomach and chest: I haven’t been fucked with a cock in years, literally years, but I remind myself to relax, I love what she’s doing with her gentle long fingers, want to feel more, love the way my cunt muscles contracting leads me to deeper vibrancy in my clit and, consequently, orgasm. I don’t think about my knees bent in the air, instead only concentrate on the soft head of my cock nudging its way inside.

Fuck I remember this. This pulsing in & out, this thrust inside, this fullness, this pinpoint of pleasure concentrated on my clit and swollen cunt. She pressed that cock inside me hard. I felt every inch of it sliding in. It’s not particularly large, but I felt out of practice, it was shockingly blissful, an impailing, an opening, something thick for me to press against.

She worked it in & out of me with a new speed & pressure, less exploration than her fingers, more force. Left her mouth on my soft spots, sucking, at times hard, sometimes tender, the muscles of my pelvis pulling. I arched my back to get deeper into her mouth.

After moments or minutes or hours (I, my body in a blissfully state resembling pulled taffy, can’t tell), she pulled out and said she was switching to her hand again. Her hot breath on my lips. Still sucking and she knew what to do. Her fingers expertly twisting, thrusting. I noticed myself in that sit-up position again, curling my body into a C shape and pressing my cunt into her mouth deeper. My right hand still behind me, behind my head or sometimes pulling on the headboard, left hand on the back of her head, tangled in the longish hair that fell in her face, touching the back of her head where her dark hair was recently cut short.

I let my hips thrust, fucking her mouth. The detail of her tongue so precise.

I was wrecked, buzzing, wrapped around her if only energetically and not physically, wound tight like a top. (Or, should I say, like a bottom – though not really, more like a top being fucked.) I wanted to scream, wanted to let my whole body release & rip.

I have to be quiet. It’s two am, roommate is asleep, assuming we have not already kept her up. Instead I bottle my noise and feel my body strung tight and then plucked, soaring for a moment before releasing, shuddering against her before grabbing her hair, hard, my fist pulling her up to me by the back of her head and she slid up my body, lays herself over me, curls around me.

Oh lord and this was perhaps my favorite part. The small of her back in my hands, her soft skin, the curves of her hips and ribcage, back of her neck, the feel of her weight on my chest and pelvis, such comfort, such comfort, so I just shudder and release, it takes me embarassingly long to stop breathing heavily and shaking with bodily afterquakes so I just feel her weight on me, the comfort of skin, the tender way she kissed my neck and face, and I grinned and laughed and giggled between whispers of oh god and fuck and ohh, and held her tight.

in which sinclair bottoms

Part one of three

I’d never been with a girl who identified as a top. All the girls I’ve slept with, while some of them were more toppy than others, have absolutely been on the submissive side – and that tends to be one of the things that draws me to them. I know how to read those signals. I know what the lowering of the eyes, looking up at me under her eyelashes, means.

I’ve been topped, don’t get me wrong. And generally, I like getting off, I like giving my body over to let someone else touch me, to guide them to what feels good, to let myself get to that moment of fully physically letting go.

I hear this is actually fairly rare, for a butch top. I don’t know what to tell ya about that. We’re all different, I suppose.

Point is, I’m not entirely unfamiliar with submission – but, at the same time, it is not my ‘default’ mode. It is not where I am most comfortable, these days, and it is not my impulse most times. But, as you probably remember from the few times I intentionally bottomed in my last relationship, it’s hard for me to do and, even, harder for me to write about.

So what was I going to do with this stunningly fucking hot femme top once we got to my bed?

This is what kept rattling around in my head as we took (sexy) public transportation back to my (ghetto) apartment.

I thought, it won’t make that much difference that I’m a top and she’s a top. It won’t change much between us. We probably won’t have a heavy SM scene, and that is what I tend to associate primarily with topping and bottoming – dominance, and submission.

But already, the making out at the bar was a little different. I wasn’t calling the shots. She was responding to me, yes, her lips changing mouth opening tongue teasing in accordance to mine, but there was something else underneath it. A force coming from her. The way she kept control of it all.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered, only barely pulled away from my lips, I could feel her breath moving against my mouth as she said the words. She kept her hands on my hips, my ribcage, positioning me where she wanted me. She sucked my tongue, hard. “Like your tiny cock,” she whispered into my ear, grinning. She bit my bottom lip, drew blood, leaving teeth marks inside that I continued touching with my tongue all night.

Most of the time, it made me want to take her all the more. Fight her for control, push her down and restrain her arms so she couldn’t restrain mine.

Sometimes, though, I sunk into the refuge of submission, the giving-over of my body and mouth and, later, cunt. I not only let her guide me through the kisses, I tried to ask her to. Tried to ask her with my body and gestures and movement and open mouth.

I spent the evening fighting my impulses, the ones to take control. Push her down on the bed and tilt her pelvis back to slide my hand inside. Instead, she flipped me onto my back (I stopped struggling), and said, “Do you have something you want me to fuck you with?”

I inhaled. Sharply. Caught off guard, not the first time that night. “Yes, I think … I do.” Damn. Submission stirred somewhere deep in me, my stomach, between my legs, and I wanted her to take me like that, wanted to feel full, feel splayed open, feel cradled. It made me feel exposed and vulnerable, but I trusted her with my body in a way that felt new, considering I barely knew her. Maybe that’s why it was safe. Maybe it was because of the way she knew how to touch me, knew how to unwrap my breasts, finger the back of my neck, press against my thigh, just how I like it.

And I was suddenly grateful she knew how to take control, I was feeling fuzzy-headed and uncertain around her. Was that the submission? Could be. I certainly don’t usually feel that way when I’m in charge. I got my pink cock out, wrestled in the toybox to find an unlubed condom. I’d never been fucked with it.

She eased back on top of me, hips against mine, legs scissored together. Hands on my hips, my inner thigh, my breasts. Squeezing hard, sometimes painfully. I loved it. Brought me to the edge of my body and made me cry out, made everything sensitive, made everything feel. I attempted to keep quiet.

Her kisses made my vision and the palms of my hands blurry and taut. It was hard not to press her shoulders to the bed and ease my thighs between hers, press her knees apart. Tear at her hair. But there was also such sweetness, such precision, such tenderness between us – I wanted that, too, but I wanted more, I wanted to feel her pressing me open from inside, I wanted my cock in her mouth, I wanted, wanted, wanted.

Desire rose and fell on an isotope slope, gripping me fiercely. She knew just how to pull want from this body of mine. After a particularly efficacious kiss, I spiraled, eyes rolling, hips bucking. I couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to be opened by her.

“Fuck me,” I whispered, as she held herself above me, inches away, “please.”

Her eyes flashed and she grinned. Held my gaze, my open face, steady for a moment. “Can I go down on you?”

“Oh, god yes,” I breathed out. Please do, yes, god yes, echoed in my head, and though she may have liked it I’d (further) begged, I was glad I didn’t say it. It was hard enough for me to ask for it once.

How did she know so well what I like? … It occurs to me now that she’s read, among other things, the extensive sex survey/interview of myself, and there is a lot – quite a lot – of personal preferences listed there. I should send that to all my lovers before we fuck. (Just kidding.)

kiss & tell

The inside of my bottom lip is still swollen and a bit tender where she bit hard. And I’m bursting to write about it. Instead, perhaps I’ll write about something else: kissing & telling.

I’ve been thinking about it: I don’t really know what the rules are. I only know that, on occasion, the chivalrous guys in films or in literature say things like, “I don’t kiss and tell.” This seems to be one of those straight social dating conventions that I have somehow never really understood, like the waiting-to-call after a date, the I’m-not-interested games, etc. (Living with my straight sister has brought all sorts of new social dating conventions into my life. Actually, I’ve never lived with a straight girl before, and the only straight boy I lived with, I was dating at the time. Since then I’ve only ever had queer roommates. Interesting …)

This kiss-and-tell thing seems to be for straight men more than anything else. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen straight women (I’m racking through the Sex and the City archive in my brain – surely, if straight women do that, it was depicted in that show) talk about kissing and telling, and there’s little hesitation to talk about how the kissing was, or even how the sex was, between women. And, do we see this as rude, when women talk about sex? No – at least I don’t – I see it as HOT.

When men talk about the sex they had, though, I do sometimes see it as rude, because of the way it is depicted. It’s different to see a guy sit down with his friends and say, “Wow, I had a fabulous date on Friday, and we ended up going home together – gosh, she was so great in bed,” than, if he said, for example, “Dude I totally hit that, she was beggin’ for more,” (which is not the best example, but you get the point).

So that means, for me, it’s actually about the respect given to the people these folks are sleeping with. I imagine I could hear women – straight or gay or queer or whatever – talking about a sexual escapade and be totally offended by the rude, lewd, lack of respect, more than who is actually doing the talking.

Even so: it is so much more common to hear (straight) men speaking inappropriately about their sexual conquests, probably (ya think?) because of the sexism in this culture, not only the treating-women-poorly thing but also the notion that women aren’t inherently sexual creatures, that we are either/or mothers or whores. There’s also that machismo guise within masculinity that says that you’re a “real man” if you conquer women.

Well so, it would make sense, then, for “I don’t kiss and tell” to evolve out of that type of culture, as a social convention to keep the lewd sexual misogyny in check.

So how does it apply to women, if at all? And how does it apply to lesbians?

I mean, to a certain extent it is incredibly tacky to talk about your sexcapades with your friends. For example, if you start sleeping with your best friend’s ex, you probably shouldn’t go into details about how you fucked her up the ass with a strap-on last night. And if you happen to be dating your buddy’s sister, he probably won’t want to know how she likes to be roughed up a bit.

But aside from disclosing the sexual details of people your friends actually know (which, it seems, shouldn’t be disclosed primarily because it’s private information. Which is interesting, that some things are more private because a friendship exists, rather than keeping a stranger’s details private, which isn’t as important), how much is it okay to talk about sex?

I like sex. Not that I expect that to be a surprise to you, but I love talking about it. I love hearing about what other people think and do, because hey, I just may learn something – not only about my friend, and what they like (and that can sometimes be incredibly deep held beliefs, psychological complications relating to other aspects of their personality, which can be fascating) but I also might discover more about what I like. Or I might understand something in a new way, I might “get” a fetish or sex act in a way I never understood before.

Also? It is oh so important to be open and honest about what’s going on in our sex lives, I think, because a lot of strange damage can be done there. A lot of healing can be done, too – but it’s similar to the reason why I believe we should talk about our relationships, in depth and often, with our close friends. Our friends (one would hope & assume) watch out for our best interest, and if something strange is happening, if red flags are going up and up and up, hopefully our friends will be able to tell us those things. Our relationships should be socially monitored. And, perhaps, so should our sex lives, to a certain degree.

So. Back to kissing & telling. I think that means, for me, I believe in talking about my sex life.

Not that you’re surprised, I know. I’ve been writing about it here – explicitly – for more than a year. But I’ve never quite gone all the way into the kiss & tell argument, so I’m glad to now know where I stand, and why.

But I’m still not going to tell you what happened Saturday night.

(At least, not until she gives me permission.)

4. the update on sex

(That’s what you were really waiting for, isn’t it? Isn’t that what brings you back here?)”Do you swing?” I asked her to dance. She looked up at me slyly, a little shy, from the picnic blanket.

“A little. Salsa I’m better at.”

“Let’s go. Over there?” I nodded to a slight clearing in the crowd nearby.

I can tell a lot about someone by the way they dance. Not the grind-and shimmy club dancing, though that has its own sets of tells, but partner dancing: a fine art.

First, there’s her grip on my hands, her form, her resistance. Her hands should be gently placed over mine, not gripping or clinging on, but soft. There should be enough resistance in her arms to allow her body to be carried by whatever minute movements I make.

Then, there’s how she responds. How her body takes direction, how well our bodies talk to each other.

Last, but not overlooked, is her feet. I can’t see them (nor should she – we should maintain eye contact, ‘dancing cheek to cheek’ as they say), but I can tell where she puts them and I can tell how well she can pick them up, anticipate my movements, follow my body lines.

I’ve danced with women who have been taking classes for months – years – who were not as good follows as those who have never had lessons. It isn’t only the lessons – it’s also compatibility, syncopation, inner rhythm.

This girl at the picnic, we didn’t dance well together. She kept trying to lead, so I would back up and follow, but she wasn’t a very good lead, and kept doing follow moves, which encouraged me to lead. I couldn’t keep clear what was happening between us.

We walked back to the picnic blanket, joking, when the song ended. I knew what she’d be like in bed – awkward, pushy, in control but attempting to be submissive. And honestly, that’s not what I want.

If only I knew what I did want.

3. the update on dating

I have two dates in the next week.

One is with a particular femme top that I have been noticing from afar for quite a while – more than a year now. She’s a damn good writer, and she reads this blog. So that’s all I’ll say about that.

The other is via a craigslist personal ad which began, “I like being pushed up against the wall by queer masculine types who have good radical politics.” We’ve had some lovely correspondences, so far.

I’m not sure I actually know how to get involved with a girl sexually and not emotionally, so this dating thing will be a challenge. And after the shock of yesterday, I am definitely not ready to get too involved emotionally. This is going to have to go slowly, slowly, slowly.

It’s going to take some practice.