Honeysuckle & Leather (Angie & Fern #1)

I look at his face, and I know I am alive.

I’m not so sure about him, though. I mean, look at him. Leaning against the bar like he’s in a GQ photo shoot—hip jutting out just so, pursing his lips so they are a tad bit more plump and pink, shoulders down, neck twisted half-cocked to the right so his jaw looks even more square. He’s been staring at some mean-looking white leather man with long stringy hair since we walked in.

He should be staring at me! This is my best dress, the one that practically guarantees I’ll get laid. Not that I thought I would need it, but it’s always good to pack extra ammo. He dragged us here to New York City on our winter break, promising “all that the Big Apple has to offer,” and I was naive enough to swoon. He didn’t mean Broadway shows, gourmet restaurants with famous chefs, or horse and carriage rides through Central Park, though. He meant gay leather bars.

I have to admit: he is pretty. I could totally see him on my arm for our family Christmas photos, or at the epic Hamlin family Thanksgiving cutting the turkey and handing around slices of pie. Clearly that was me getting ahead of myself, and any and all of those little future fantasies were knocked out of my head the first night he got here and he dragged me to the meat-packing district to go to—his words!—”somewhere fun.” Then he spent all night drooling and staring, sucking up rum and Cokes, his perfect bubble-butt ass glued to the wall, too scared to actually talk to anyone.

Next to him, I am so animated, so vibrant. He’s pretty, sure, but c’mon—David is made out of stone, he’s no fun at a dinner party.

“I am really partial to Monet’s early work, though,” I’m saying, referring to our trip earlier to MOMA, but I’m not even paying attention to myself. He is posing and trying to eye-fuck every man in leather in this place, especially that one with the stringy hair. He’s not paying one penny of attention to me, but I figure one of us should be saying something, even if it’s not him.

The only white wine they had was some shit blend that is mass-produced in California, and it tastes like watered down sweet tea that’s gone bad. I drain my glass in a thick gulp so I don’t have to taste it, and announce, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

He nods, only registering me when I twist the bar stool and hop off of it, skittering away from him. Everyone in the bar notices me. My skirt is perfectly too short and my tits look amazing in the plunging neckline of this wrap dress. The sky blue color of it makes my eyes look so deep and sparkling. This dress works on every man I’ve ever been with—well, except for the gay ones. They’re easy to pick out: they’re the ones who don’t look as I switch my ass when I walk by.

I don’t really have to pee, I’m just bored as fuck. There are two bathrooms, but neither of them are gender-specific, probably because this bar doesn’t exactly get a lot of female patrons. The dark wooden door is so thin, it feels like I could knock it down if I tapped it with my Jimmy Choo strappy sandal, it’s hinges groaning in protest as I push it open. The mirrors are filthy, the walls are slate grey but covered in graffiti, all sorts of “suck your cock $5″ kinds of notes that I find quaint. I find two square inches of the mirror that aren’t covered in Sharpie writing or stickers and wipe off all my lipstick, then pull the shade of Shiseido red from my pocketbook and reapply.

That’s when I see someone watching me. She’s leaning against the wall behind me, her head bent back just enough that her throat is exposed. Her blonde curls fall around her shoulders, looking perfectly placed. I wonder who her stylist is. She’s wearing a tight fuchsia dress with a pencil skirt, and the thinnest black leather belt high around her waist. It has a small bow that is strategically off-center. The neck is high, the arms sleeveless. I can’t see how long it is or what shoes she’s wearing from my glimpses at her in the bathroom’s filthy mirror. She has a small leather vest on, one that is more like a holster than a vest. Her arms are crossed over her chest.

Lips pursed, I focus, painting the red back on my mouth and pressing my lips together, touching the edges to get the lines just right.

“What are you doing in a place like this, sweetheart?” she says, and her voice is much lower than I’d imagine. Thick and syrupy and it makes me bite my lip.

“Not enjoying the company, that’s for sure.”

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you.” I cap the lipstick and make eye contact through the mirror, my back still to her. “I mean, that boring dope I came in with.”

“Ah, him.”

“I have half a mind to ditch him. Just can’t quite … I’m not sure how. We’re sharing a hotel room up the street.”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re not from here.”

“No shit,” dripping with sarcasm.

I take a deep breath, opening my pocketbook and sliding my lipstick back in place while turning around. The dress goes just past her knees. Her calves are sculpted and delicious. Her shoes are tall wedge peep-toe heels, black and shiny like the belt. I breathe in again.

“What’s your name, sugar?” She asks.

“Angie.”

“Angie, how nice to meet you. I’m Fern.” She reaches out her hand and her fingers are long and thin, her nails short and square with an impeccable French manicure. I slide my hand into hers and it fits perfectly. She squeezes and I feel faint.

“Well, Angie, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that boy of yours took off about thirty seconds after you came in here.”

I blink. “What?”

“He left. He went running out the door as soon as Master Wes left.”

“He WHAT?!” That son of a bitch! He’ll never get a date on our small campus again. And just wait until I tell his mother.

“Oh don’t worry. Master Wes is experienced and safe.”

“That’s not exactly what I was worried about.” I cross my arms and leaned back against the sink, pouting a little. That bastard.

Fern closes the distance between us, crisscrossing her ankles with each step. “Tell you what. Why don’t you let me buy you some dinner.” It’s not really a question. She puts her arm around my shoulders, holds her hand up to caress my other arm. Her touch is soothing, sweet, hypnotic. I can smell her perfume, something like honeysuckle and leather. I have the urge to nuzzle my face into her breasts. “I’d be glad to deliver you to your hotel whenever you’re ready. But until then, I think I can offer you some markedly improved company.”

I continue to sulk, but mostly for effect. This is turning out to be way more interesting than I’d planned.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.

The Hanky Flower: Femme Flagging

Photographer Shilo McCabe, who took some photos of me while I was visiting the Bay Area in August, also makes hanky flowers—and they are available on Etsy:

“An answer to the question that plagues the flagging femme: How does one creatively flag without back pockets on your outfit (or without an outfit on at all)? How about a hanky flower in your hair, belt, boot, or anywhere else you can think of? Wear it on the right or left to show your colors!”

So of course, I ordered one for Kristen.

I decided hunter green wouldn’t quite look right as a flower, so I went for light pink. (Don’t know the color codes? Look ’em up. I’m sure you can find a few that would suit your interests.)

I probably don’t have to tell you this, but they look great. Kristen gets a lot of compliments on hers when she wears it. Shilo also just mentioned to me that she will be putting up a smaller size, so keep an eye for those in her Etsy store soon.

Second Anniversary

Yesterday marked two years together with Kristen. You can read all about our first date, if you wan

t to, since I used to write up everything, and since that night was particularly notable and so hot.

This was my gift to her, yesterday. I’ll post a shot of what she got me later.

It’s a garter flask. And if you promise not to tell Kristen, I’ll tell you that it came from You-Nique Garters on Etsy and they come in lots of colors.

Review: Pearl Cuffs

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

Kind of like the bow restraints, the pearl cuffs are pretty light bondage restraints from one of my favorite sex toy stores. Unlike the bow restraints, however, the Pearl Cuffs are almost purely decorative – don’t expect to be able to do much bondage with ’em.

Kristen & I spotted these when visiting our local Brooklyn Babeland a month or more ago. We were both pretty skeptical about the quality – not that they aren’t nicely made, but whether they could really withstand any sort of real bondage play. I mean there’s a reason why bondage enthusiasts use really nice rope, ya know? So I jumped at the chance to take a look at them closer, and see how well they hold up.

I wanted to like them, I was excited about their arrival and have been pushing Kristen a little to wear them out as jewelry. We haven’t quite gone to one of those parties lately, where a pair of pearl bondage handcuffs as jewelry would be appropriate, so we’ve pulled them out in my bedroom.

The first time I opened them up to put them on her, the clasp of one of them broke in my hand. We weren’t pulling on them, I wasn’t dragging her around by them, I just opened the clasp to put them on her and it broke.

Drat.

“Maybe it’s a fluke,” I said, hopeful. “I’ll see if we can get replacements so we can really try them.” Sometimes clasps just break! Regardless of the quality of the item!

And I did (because Babeland rules).

Kristen was skeptical, but wanted to like them, too. The replacements showed up and this time we got to rough-and-tumble around a bit with them on her wrists. They’re pretty: delicate and feminine, which I liked quite a bit. A lovely visual to add.

But after not very long, oh, ten minutes or something, we twisted and turned and were getting into it such that pop, the chain on one of the cuffs broke. The actual little circle got pulled too far and unlinked. It was easy enough to fix by re-bending the link to be closed … but I think we both gave up on the cuffs about then.

“They can still be jewelry!” I said, trying to still justify how these cuffs are awesome.

“Yeah, I suppose.” I think she’s over them.

So … the moral of my review here is, if you like these as jewelry, then I say hey, go for it. They’re hot and fun and I can see an evening of watching someone squirm to drink a cocktail with her wrists cuffed together as very hot. But if you want to actually restrain someone, or throw them around when bound, these won’t hold up against much at all.

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