Let’s have some shots of joy, shall we?

DSC_1825I’m getting some new headshots done today by the talented Meg Allen, with the aim of reflecting me as a little bit more west coast and a little more joyous.

All the recent headshots of me, while technically beautiful, like this one by Kristy Boyce, which is one of the most gorgeous shots of me I’ve seen, have me looking so … miserable. The agony just seeps through and it’s depressing. I can’t use it for much. “I don’t mind earnest, or stern, or serious—I play all of those things a lot, and it kind of goes along with the bad-ass-top thing I am portraying,” I wrote to Meg this morning. “But these just look … sad.”

I keep thinking about this head shot of Sherman Alexie’s from a few (10?) years back—he’s open mouth laughing and it’s gorgeous. I remember being captivated by it when it was on the back of his book Ten Little Indians, and thinking how it was so unconventional, and also had so much deep joy.

alexieI don’t know if I can occupy some joy like that, but I’d love to try for some levity and some (deep dark, mischievous, shadowy, BDSM-style) playfulness, at least.

So that’s what’s on the agenda for today.

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.

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.