Giving away Good Dyke Porn

Want some Good Dyke Porn? Of course you do.

Bren Ryder’s dyke porn is quickly becoming widely celebrated around the queer dyke sexblog circles, and you’re really want to get your hands on her first DVD selection of seriously hot sex.

I’ve got a full review coming, but meanwhile, it’s the holidays! What better way to celebrate than to send some fun gifts away to the folks who follow this writing project (that would be you).

Bren actually sent me this DVD in connection with the 8 Against 8 campaign, and I was going to give it away at the end of the fundraising, but with the election and my vacation in November, I didn’t ever get around to it.

So, today I was chatting with Bevin Branlandingham, infamous host of the FemmeCast, and she suggested this little idea for a give-away …

Here’s what you gotta do:

(Legit email address required, real name optional.) Leave a comment sharing a sexual goal for 2009. What do you want to do? What do you want to try that you’ve never done? Who do you want to fuck? Where do you want to be fucked? What toy have you never tried that you’d like to?

Who what where when why? Visualize it. Dream about it. Maybe then it’ll really happen.

It’s like The Secret meets smut.

Winner will be chosen by the Random Number Generator, so you won’t be judged on how you answer. You must be willing to send me your address so I can mail you the DVD!

A girl: my future wife

She never leaves my side at parties. People come up to talk to me or her or both of us and she has impeccable control over the conversation, a complex harmony of our varied voices with a beautiful baseline that she keeps with her heartbeat. She knows when and how to release us from a topic or person. She does most of the talking. I listen. I like it that way.

She puts her lovely hand on my elbow, my arm, the back of my neck, at small moments: a reassurance and support for which I am always grateful.

She leans in to give me a peck on the cheek near my ear and whispers, “I’m watching the clock. We’re leaving in thirty minutes so you can take me home and fuck me.”

I grin and sip a drink. Finger a pocketwatch, cufflinks, the knot of my tie.

She lets me drive her car. I spin the wheels on wet pavement and work the clutch like a lover: pressure, friction, demand, take. She has her hand on my inner thigh and we both want her to touch the bulge in the crotch but she resists. Her eyes sparkle watching the road.

(This is what I want.)

She sleeps in later than I do on the weekends. I get up, make coffee how she likes it, write for a few hours as she slumbers. Sometimes I take photos of the golden morning sun on her skin.

When she stirs I crawl back into bed with her and we make love, fuck, play until we are satiated and laughing, until our bodies edges are blurred into each other and our heartbeats are synchronized. Her long legs folded, knees touching her nipples. My hand in her thick long hair. Rocking her on the curve of her spine, rocking together.

We make food, replenish, drink coffee over ice and she cooks in the kitchen in only an apron until I lift her onto the counter, arms above her head holding onto the cabinets, bend her over the back of the couch, then again against the cool linoleum.

When I go back to work in the evening she lets me, she directs her energy to her own work, whatever that might be, something physical to balance my mental swirling. We keep each other balanced. She kisses the top of my head or trails her fingers on her shoulders as she walks by, but does not interrupt. She lets me be.

And then there is the reverence, mine.

I sit at her feet for hours and watch her brush her hair. I catch moonbeams in jam jars in an open field in Montana and bring them home to her to use as ribbons to tie around her wrists. I write her poems and she folds them into origami fireflies and strings them around our bookshelves. I tell her every day how stunning she is, how strong; I am breathless with my good fortune at ever gaining her attention.

I stoke the fire inside that shines behind her eyes to keep her lit, keep her going.

I buy her jewelry, not because I know her taste but because I want her to sparkle at her delicate places: her throat, her wrists, her ankles, her fingers, her ears. Every time she shakes her head or signs her name or pulls her hand from her pocket or reaches her arm or places her foot carefully onto the ground she glitters, and she and everyone around her are reminded that someone loves her (and it’s me), that I see everything she does as beautiful, that every time she moves I want everyone to know the immeasurable amount of spark she lends to those of us privileged enough to witness what she does with her extraordinary life.