Okay, on a lighter note?

I didn’t mention it two weeks ago, when Penny and I had our last date, but we broke my cock that day. My infamous Silky/Mr. Bendy (named differently depending on where you buy it), my very favorite cock - because you can pack with it, and play with it, and it actually works - unfortunately, that’s incredibly rare in the world of cocks.

This was the blue one that Penny broke - uh, I mean, that Penny and I broke, together - and it’s the third one I’ve broken. (Remember broken, breaking? That was the second. The first time I broke it, with Callie, I wrote that up, too, but I can’t find the link.)

Unfortunately, that’s just one of the things about Silky’s reality - it doesn’t last.

So, Eden has a blue or a purple version of Silky, and Babeland has pink or black - but I’ve never actually seen the black one in stock. I’ve ordered it before, only to be sent the pink one. I started thinking it was the unicorn of cocks, a myth, an urban cock legend.

But? It’s in stock. And the one I reordered as a replacement came tonight. Man, they sure all nice all new and hard, spine all bendy and supple. Mmm, this weekend’s date with Penny is going to be fabulous.

If you want a black one, order it now - who knows how long it’ll stick around!

While we’re on the subject of things you should order while they’re in stock, take note of Bear Bergman’s book Butch is a Noun, published by the fantastic Suspect Thoughts - it’s gone into a second printing after being out of stock for a long time. I’ve got plenty to say about this book, I’m very fond of it - remember the video of Bear reading the opening chapter a few months ago? Snag a copy while you can.

I often get asked about how to start playing with strap-on sex, how to get your partner to stop laughing during strap-on sex, how to take your partner’s cock more seriously, how to strap it on and not feel like an idiot.

I’ve written a lot about my own experiences here, but I haven’t written a lot of the more straight(ha)forward advice on it - advice seems so variable based on the individual situation, so it’s hard to distill. So, here’s some of the ideas about cock-centricity, cock confidence, and taking butch cock seriously.

For the record: there are many femmes who strap on, many genderqueers who strap on, many who have a cock and don’t call it “butch.” I don’t mean to butch-centricize the gender play, but it is my own experience and that’s primarily the perspective of this writing project of mine. So, for the purposes of this post I’m writing it from the perspective of the butch as the wearer, and the femme as co-conspirator to this gendered sex play. But hell, some of the most skilled strap-on wearers I’ve ever seen were femmes - I certainly do not intend to leave anyone out!

1. Call it a cock, dick, prick, pecker, schlong, johnson, even penis. But don’t call it “fake” - it’s not. (Calling it a “dildo” or “plastic” aren’t really turn-ons, either.)
2. Touch it. Caress it, taste it, lick it, kiss it, suck it, fuck it. Treat it like it’s a part of me - it is.
3. It’s not silly to suck butch cock. (I mean, sure, laughing during sex is fun - but really? If you giggle through the blowjob? I’ll probably loose my hard-on, especially if that’s what you’re laughing at.) I have plenty of nerves in my cunt that I can feel when you press it against me; you have plenty of nerves in your mouth where I can fill you, can slap against your tongue, pop into the back of your throat. And the mental turn-on I get seeing you in that position makes me crazy with desire. Don’t underestimate it’s power.
4. As a lesbian, loving butch cock does not make you straight. Let me say that again (and perhaps you should repeat after me): loving butch cock does not make you straight any more than wearing one makes me a ‘man.’ There’s more to an identity than one act. It’s okay to be cock-identified! Just because you don’t to sleep with (bio/XY/flesh-and-blood-penises) men doesn’t mean you have to reject cock from your sex life. Our bodies have holes, and our muscles and nerves respond to them being filled and played with. That’s okay, and you’re still gay as a three-dollar bill, I promise.
5. Consider getting a flesh-colored, realistic-looking strap-on cock. I know this is practically the biggest faux-pas of lesbo-land, as we’re supposed to reject men and therefore penises, and strap-on cocks are only okay when they’re swirly marbled colors or shaped like dolphins, but if you want to play with gendering a cock, consider something more realistic. It will enable you to take it much more seriously. Consider Vixskin (silicone, so you can boil/sterilize it! Feels real - even gives a little in your mouth, mmm), consider a thin leather or barely there harness, consider it yours.
6. Packing: do it. It’s hot. Nothin’ like being able to pull your cock out at any time, and I think all y’all know how hot it is to feel it in your pants (or your partner’s pants) all night long. Get the right tools for it, though; you can’t just strap-on with your thick leather harness with all the buckles and belts with your favorite hard cock. My vote is still the infamous Silky, which bends and will fit comfortably close to the body in briefs, but is still hard enough to fuck with.
7. If you don’t pack, then you will probably have to navigate That Moment of Strapping On. That can be tricky: the making out starts getting all hot and heavy, and I always felt so awkward even bringing up the idea, especially with someone new - let alone someone I knew well. I tend to use the phrase, “so, can I get my cock out yet?” which gives the impression that of course we’ve both been waiting for it, but it also lets her call the shots if in fact she just wants to make out (or trib, or fingerfuck) a while longer. And! - when it’s you’ve seen that gleam in her eye and it’s time for you to strap it on, don’t be embarrassed, apologetic, or shy. At that point, she’s gotta wait for you to disrobe (possibly) and re-buckle, test the weight between your legs, get comfortable. Don’t rush. Take your time. Savor this part; remember that you’re both salivating at the idea of what’s to come. Let her see you pulling it on and getting it all ready, if you can - that’s part of this whole process of your female body becoming able to fuck her. [And for goodness’s sake, once you’re strapped on, go back to the making out, don’t just attempt to slide it in & start goin’ to town. You already know that, though, right? Right.]
8. You don’t have to - and shouldn’t - apologize for liking it, for wanting it, for craving it, for asking for it.
9. Muse says: “Femmes who like cock are not unicorns - they’re everywhere.” Same goes for butches who like cock. There is a bit of stigma around gender play in lesbian communities; it might take some work to find someone who understands how to take butch cock seriously. But don’t fret, you will.
10. Our gender and sexual identities don’t exist in a vacuum - especially butch/femme, I think, relies so much on the experience of the other complimentary person to bolster and develop and enhance our own identity. So what do you do if you don’t have someone with whom you can play with a cock? You can still play with it and learn to take it seriously - strap-on and learn to jack yourself off. Wear it all day Saturday when you’re cleaning your apartment, running errands. Learn to appreciate the weight between your legs, learn how to shift it right or left when it gets sweaty or itchy or uncomfortable. Give yourself permission to play with it, explore it, even if it’s on your own. Build your own cock confidence!
11. This is a particular kink that not everybody likes - and that’s okay. When you’re selling it to someone, remember that it’s an asset of yours, a strength, something fun that you get to experiment with - not a weakness or a bad thing. You’ll find somebody who will appreciate you not just in spite of it, but precisely because of it.

Got more tips for building cock confidence, taking butch cock seriously, or re-valuing cock-centricty? Leave ‘em in the comments.

… and Ivan E. Coyote does too.

From ivanecoyote.com: Ivan Coyote was born and raised in Whitehorse Yukon and is the son of a welder and the daughter of a government worker. Ivan is the author of three collections of short stories, a monthly columnist for Xtra West, and a CBC lovechild. Ivan’s work has also appeared in the National Post, the Georgia Straight, Geist, Shared Vision, Nerve, and Curve Magazines. Ivan’s first and truest love is live storytelling, and over the last ten years she has become an audience favourite at music, poetry, spoken word and writer’s festivals from Anchorage to New York City.

I came across Ivan in the queer spoken word circuits of the Northwest, Seattle and Vancouver primarily, and have seen her perform in various places, devouring every book of hers I can find. Ivan grew up in Canada not far from where I grew up in Alaska, and much of the landscape of his stories are familiar and very home-like to me, with which I really connect.

He goes by either she or he pronouns - “whatever you’re comfortable with,” I’ve heard him say - and is an incredible storyteller, the best I’ve ever seen. I highly recommend the CD You’re a Nation that she made with Richard Spencer. Download a few mp3s of Ivan’s stories from the CBC’s website.

And, in case you can’t tell by the video, he’s quite handsome.

(Thanks to Kim for the link to the youtube video.)

Happy birthday, Belle! 

 I finally dug up this part three of “The Last Time I Saw Belle” posts (that should really be called “The Last Time I Fucked Belle,” as I’ve seen her a few times since then) that I was working on back in December. See part one, where I watch her get tattooed and get hard watching her in pain, and part two, where she unbuckles my belt and jeans with her mouth before blowing me, if you want to refresh your memory of what happened.

“Fuck me,” she gasped into my ear, on her back, legs open, my fingers already slid inside her panties and jeans, still on. “I want your cock.”

I lifted myself to my knees, laying between her legs, and gripped my cock, stroked it a little. “Do you have a condom?”

“Uh … ” her face was apologetic.

“Really?!” I swore I’d leave one in my wallet for moments like this. Dykes do not always remember we should use them with our toys - and I always use one with my (now infamous) favorite packing cock (it’s porous, so not sterilizable).

We laughed. I slid off the bed and began to locate my sweater and polo shirt, now scattered. “I’ll go to the bodega.”

“No, no. My neighbor’s still around, I bet he has some.”

“Uh, what?” He so saw me come into her apartment with her. Would he know why we needed it? That was a little too … exposing.

“He’s grateful we shared the wine with him. He’ll have some.”

“C’mon, no way. I’ll go get some.”

She gave me a coy look. “Don’t you go anywhere.”

“Look, I’m already dressed,” I said, picking up one boot after sliding my swater on.

She was still topless and smirked at me. “Maybe. But I’m faster.” She zipped her jeans and darted for the door, arms folded over her large round breasts, hands over her nipples. I was too surprised to stop her.

Laughing, topless, still holding her hands over her nipples, she came back in a minute later, and tossed one wrapped NYC condom to me.

“You’re amazing,” I said, ripping it open, laughing, embarrassed, surprised at her ability to go after what she wants so boldly. “… But we may need more than one.”

I unzipped again and pulled out my cock, slid the condom on easily. It felt swollen and thick. She’d gone out there topless for this. Made me want to take her out into the courtyard of her apartment building and fuck her, hard, make her come long and loud, make her scream fuck me, fuck me, and hear her say please in that delicious begging voice she gets when she is hot and frustrated. A whine, but not annoyingly so. A plea. So soft and vulnerable. It thrums against something deep in my pelvis, something hard, that wants to go into that same voice that says please and make her sob.

I tore off her jeans, a little rougher than I’d meant to, and she slid her thighs around my waist.

We fucked until we were sweaty, sticky in places, nude, panting on her bed, both of us laying back, looking up at the ceiling, catching our breath.

She turned onto her knees and began backing off the bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked, low-voiced.

“You’re going to fuck me, bent over like this,” she answered, hips swaying a little, toes on the ground, arms out in front of her, bent over the bed.

I groaned, slid off the bed, and took hold of her hips, slid my fingers hard inside her. The condom was spent, hung limp from my cock. I fingered her hard, pressed my way inside her, made her come once but didn’t let up, twice, three times, before letting her collapse on the bed.

And that was the last time I fucked Belle.

Multiple people have asked me how often I pack, lately.

The short answer is: no, I don’t pack daily.

The longer answer is … I seem to be packing more and more often. Since I got my hands on that fabulous packing cock, it’s been easier to pack discreetly and comfortably, so I’ve done it increasingly.

I used to pack only when I had a hot date and having sex was a possibility; that began changing six or so months ago, when I began packing occasionally when going out, just for the boost of cock confidence.

I can see why it may seem that I pack often though. The narrators in my stories nearly always pack, and I do speak of my butch cock frequently. But I don’t pack in my daily life, and I would say I’ve never packed and gone to work (rather, I’d bring my cock and put it on at the end of the day) but that’s not a true statement anymore, because today, I am packing, and at work.

I did not choose the Silky cock I can actually use, rather I am wearing a flaccid cyberskin “mr. softie” cock that does not get hard and is made only for the purposes of tucking into undies, to feel the weight of something between the legs, to perhaps pass a hand squeeze upon inspection, or maybe to surprise someone I may brush up against.

Generally, I do not feel that I’m “missing something” when I don’t pack. I don’t really think about it, in fact. I think of a cock as part of my sexuality, primarily, and part of my gender secondarily, I suppose - I love the ways it plays with gender while I’m in the midst of sex, but I don’t know if I want to add it to my daily navigation-of-the-world type of gender.

This is one of the reasons why it is hard for me to wear suits to work functions, such as my holiday office party which happened last week. Last year, I wore a suit (it is formal, ties required) and I felt so very exposed. It’s not as if I am not visible or out at work, both are true; and I wear the men’s “corporate casual” office uniform, primarily consisting of polos, button-downs, and slacks; but somehow, a suit crossed over into a sexual presentation of my gender identity.

It was better this year - more comfortable, more of a gender thing and less sexual. I am simply more comfortable at workhaving been here nearly two years rather than it being my first major party, as was the case last year. I fit in better, I know more people, I can hold my own in conversations. I’m not the new guy anymore, which is nice, and I even have some authority of my own.

Back to the softie cock I have carefully tucked away into my briefs today like a present.

I was chatting with DateDyke this morning for a bit, primarily attempting to knock down her gloating at being currently five votes away from owning my ass, and she mentioned that she was particularly fond of those little softie cocks.

“It’s a teaser,” she wrote. “I like feeling it in passing. It’s a nice little shock.”

I do like that idea. A revealing of the way I own and use cocks. A subtle hint at the ways that I fuck.

So, no, I don’t pack daily. Cocks are an addition, as they’ve always been, though they are becoming more and more central to my presentation, sexuality, and gender.

part oneWe easily drank down one bottle, a nice Beaujolais, and popped the prosecco I’d insisted she try. She had a bit of Jameson left from the bottle she’d bought specifically for when I came over, and I poured a generous two fingers over ice, and we sipped in her kitchen, chit-chatting about nothing.

That girl sure can talk.

I was packing, of course I was, on a date with Belle, in belted jeans and a white polo under a sweater. I leaned against her kitchen counter and watched her flit around, messing with the music playing on her iPod speakers, the lights, refilling the wine. I mostly watched and listened, until she finally came close enough for me to reach her, and then she was in my grasp.

She kept talking as I kissed her. Finished her thought. I have no idea now, weeks later, what we were speaking of, but don’t let that make you think I wasn’t engaged in conversation, nor that she is not smart - she is, I was. I know we discussed immigration, particularly historic Irish immigration to the US, and her family’s heritage; we also discussed butch/femme, roles and women and relationships.

I kissed her and got a mouthful of lipstick and sass. I pulled on her hips and she gave a squeal - her bow tattoos were not yet healed and still tender.

I kissed her again. Lifted the line of my thumb and forefinger to the curve of her jaw and soothed her hair back until I caught a fistful of it and kept hold of the back of her skull. Held her at a distance so she couldn’t lunge for me.

She grinned and stopped struggling. I let up on my grip, and she dipped down, knees splayed, balancing on her ankles, her hands down the sides of my body, and she began unbuckling my belt with her teeth.

She kept hold of my hips with her hands. I was tempted to help her, but her mouth, god her mouth, and the vision of her looking up at me, gripping my leather belt between her teeth and working it through the buckle, then her teeth delicate on the zipper, the hint of a smile on her when I let out a moan of disbelief and hotness when she finally unhooked the button through the hole.

Really? I thought. God, did that just happen? This girl is too good to be true.

I pulled my favorite cock out of my briefs and she immediately swallowed the length of it down her throat, cheeks sucking, lips swollen, eyes rolling up and back, building friction along my cock, two fingers around it at the base and those little muffled gulps in the back of her mouth, that sound her tongue makes, oh lord, lord, my hand in her hair, I couldn’t take it, my knees went weak and I thought I’d fall so I said “get up,” pulled her to her feet and gripped her upper arms, kissing her as I pushed her to the bed.

“Oh, you are so going down.” I said, and tore her shirt off swiftly.

My very first sex toy review is up Eden Fantasys (whose name makes me want to get out my red English Major pen and correctly pluralize the noun), and what other toy to start with than my beloved packing cock.Apparently, though Babeland calls it Mr. Bendy, it is actually known by the manufacturer as Silky, and comes in blue and purple as well as pink (which is the only color I’ve ever seen at Babeland).

I really do love this cock - and, while I am absolutely man enough for pink, I am quite excited about my new blue one.

Actually, I feel kind of selfish about this cock. I don’t want to tell you where to buy it or how awesome it is, because it’s mine. But, in the spirit of spreading the love, I am resolving to get over that possessiveness …

From the review:

I have spent years – since I first came out and began having sex with women, since I first started honing my butch identity and wanting a cock to be part of my sex life – searching for a cock I could not only pack with, but also play with.

And? Here’s the secret: this is that cock.I have a special place in my heart for Babeland - clearly, since I’m mentioning it in my plug for my Eden review - particularly because they are built on queer politics, community, and culture. Their staff members are primarily queer and absolutely queer friendly, they know all about gender and gender expression, and I never feel out of place in that store. It was the first non-skeevy sex toy store I’d ever been in, and for that reason, I just love it. Support the dykes, yay.

But despite my love for Babeland, sometimes their product selection falls a bit short. By which I mean, sometimes they just don’t have what I need.

And that’s a place where Eden is fantastic. They have a really great selection of toys - not only cocks & harnesses, but also slappy and stingy toys, lube, condoms, books, DVDs, all sorts of things. Their queer content is not perfect, but it’s there, and they are working on building it further, which I think is fantastic.

Buy this cock on Eden Fantasys now!

I know, I’m extremely late on this. I’m attempting to breathe some new life into the end of the Sugarbutch Star contest, so I can finally end it and hold a poll for the reader’s favorite!This honorable mention submission comes from Bad Bad Girl … thank you.Featured in Sugasm #102 in the top three!

The Straight Girl at the Dyke Bar

I was out back, in the alley behind the dive dyke bar, when she found me. Busted through the door with a fruity indulgent mixed drink in her hand and I feared for her balance.

“There you are,” she said. “I thought I saw you come this way.”

I was puzzled. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes flashed and she let the back door close on its hinge with a bang. “Yes,” she said. “Clearly.”

I took one last drag of my American Spirit and flicked the butt into the dumpster. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she slurred, just a little. “I’m trying to seduce you.” She was right next to me, my height, but she kept her eyes low and looked up at me with submission. My internal butch cock stirred.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“Yeah.” She stepped closer and bit her lips, looking at mine.

“Are you here with friends? Maybe they should take you home.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not ready to go home.”

“You’re drunk,” I said again.

“Not so drunk that I don’t know what I want,” she snapped. “Only drunk enough that I can go after it.”

She inched closer to me. My mouth watered. I wanted my hands on the curves of her waist, her hips, her ribcage. I struggled to keep control. “What are you doing … here?” I almost said in a gay bar.

She sneered. “I know, I’m the only straight girl. I usually am. Well. Whatever.” Her tone changed. “I know how this sex thing works,” she purred, palm of her hand against my crotch where my cock was hard, straining against my zipper. The pressure of her fingers felt exquisite.

I knocked her hand away. “Hey.”

She withdrew and then slowly moved her fingers up my arm, felt the muscles, tendons. Circled her fingers around my wrist. “Come on,” she whispered. “I saw you watching me.”

Her neck was dangerously close to my mouth and I could smell her, sweet and thick. I wanted a mouthful of her perfume. Teeth on her skin. My hands moved - practically involuntarily - to the curves she laid out for me, the precise placement of her body next to mine inviting my touches.

She tilted her face toward mine. Half-closed her eyes. I didn’t even know her name. My friends were still inside, probably waiting for me. It was getting late. The alley was filthy. She smelled so delicious. The desire between us was pooling and tangible.

Her body was small, my hands with fingers spread covered her back. I brought them up under her hair, pulled her toward me, took hold of the back of her skull and neck. She leaned into me.

“Okay,” I said, watching her face as our lips barely brushed while I spoke. “But we’re going to do this my way.”

I brought my lips down on hers hard, crushing, devouring, insistent. She whimpered, back curving. I held her body at the precise angle and distance that I wanted, and she went limp in my arms, gave over, arms and shoulders falling back, on her toes.

Pulling away, I grinned. Took a step back. Kept my eyes on her, touched my lower lip with my thumb and felt that stirring in my stomach, that desire, that power. Her eyes got a little frightened and she attempted to keep her tough look, but it was a mask I would unpeel.

I closed the distance between us. Traced my fingers down her left arm until I reached her hand, still holding that delicate glass of fruity alcohol, and took it from her, tossed it hard, overhand, arm flexing, at the blank space where the building met the concrete in the alley. It shattered brilliantly, a cascade of glass, the sound filling the narrow space between the buildings.

She watched my arm, the glass, the crash. We turned our eyes back to each other, hers open, mouth open, small of her back arched. Her mouth watered and she moved her jaw, I could see it. Subtle. She wanted to lunge for me. Good girl, she stayed still.

Hardening my glance, I moved toward her, thick, keeping distance between us, and she stumbled back, her low heels catching on the uneven pavement, thrusting her hands out behind her but I kept her eyes, kept two fingers on her waist and led her back, back, until she was against the dumpster. She swallowed. It was wider at the top than the bottom, slanting out; she cowered under it a little.

I lifted my chin, once. “Hold that.”

She did. Lifted her arms to grip the edge of the dumpster. Made a face. “It feels gross.”

“Mmm.” You’re getting fucked in an alley behind a dive bar. What do you expect? I thrust my hand between her legs. She wore a tight skirt - I pulled at it, shoved it up her thighs to expose her. Pulled tight against the lacy fabric of her panties and pressed two fingers inside. Smooth. She inhaled, moaned.

“So wet,” I said, mouth against her cheek. She kept hold of the edge with her hands, arms raised. My body perpendicular to hers, cock against her hip. I worked my fingers inside, slick and slow and deep, thumb on her clit, on that spot below her clit, my hand gripping her pubic bone.

She moaned, knees weakening, hips dipping down to take in more of me. I added a third finger. “You know how to get fucked, don’t you.”

Mouth gaping, she breathed heavily, turning her head and biting her lower lip. I could feel my fingers working a good spot inside her and she was increasingly sensitive, reactive to my pressing and curling, thumb flicking a little lighter and faster on her clit. Her thighs shook and she lifted one leg off the ground, bent her knee, pressed her legs apart and against me, body shaking, pressed against me, until she gasped hard and I felt the ring of muscles grip my fingers, grip hard, her clit fat and sensitive and pressing against my thumb, throbbing, until she shuddered hard, bucked her hips, began to lose her balance and leaned against me, gasping, little moans coming from her throat.

She looked up at me, arms around my neck now. “I don’t usually come so fast,” she said, a little apologetically.

I shook my head, don’t worry about it. “I’m not done with you yet.” I didn’t wait, but took her wrists in my hands and put them back up onto the dumpster’s edge, then twisted her body so she faced away from me, pulled her skirt up over her ass, and unzipped my fly. Pulled my cock out. Sheathed it quickly with a condom from my back pocket.

With one hand I pushed aside her panties, slightly stretched now anyway; with the other I pressed her ass apart, then guided my cock into her wet hole. Stretched her lips as I pumped in and out, smooth slow long strokes, hips in circles, working the cock against my clit as much as inside her.

My release built easily in me after the way she came and it didn’t take long for me to grip her hips like handles and begin pounding, shifting my feet to stabilize my movement, muscles in my thighs hard and contracted, groaning and grunting with the physical effort of it all. She pressed hard with her hands against the disgusting dumpster, arching her back and pushed against me, receiving me as I fucked harder, hard, pulling almost all the way out and then slickly entering her again, the length of my cock, pressed tight against her ass and hips in rocking little thrusts, until I found that sweet spot and my clit contracts and I see myself exploding in her, which made me come harder, muscles thick and shuddering, gasping, slowing my pace against her until I came to stillness and peeled myself off her back.

She watched me over her shoulder, all eyes and hair, desire still in her face, painted over her cheeks, then rose and straightened her skirt, smoothed her hair. I tucked my cock back into my briefs and zipped my jeans.

She smiled at me, then started giggling, then laughing hard, full-bodied from her stomach, eyes sparkling. I was amused, and puzzled. “What’s so funny?”

“So,” she giggled, wrapping her arms around my neck and tossing her hair, “you’re awfully cute. Come here often? Can I buy you a drink?”

I laughed, pulled myself out of her embrace. “Sure. Why not.” I stepped up the three low rickety back stairs and opened the back door to the bar, let her step in first. Jukebox tunes and pool cues and women’s laughter spilled out.

I saw a few of my buddies at a table in the corner, they watched me come back in with my hand on the back of the girl. They made faces and gestures and raised their eyebrows. I shushed them with a look, turned my attention back to her.

“I, uh, I didn’t get your name,” I said.

“That’s cause I didn’t say,” she answered, hips switching as she dodged through the crowd and stepped up to the bar and immediately had the bartender’s attention. She ordered, glancing at me sideways: “Jameson rocks, for Sinclair.”

I see you on the street as you are window-shopping. I wouldn’t be able to stop staring at you. I’d know I’d have to have you.You’d wear your glasses for me, and something extra special under your skirt. Thigh highs. You’d give me little flashes on the street … I’d keep following you. You’d go into Saks. You’d head for the lingerie. Start fingering the fabric. Pick out a few things to try on. I’d disappear for a minute and you’d think I’ve left, so you pout & go to the fitting rooms, where I am already there, and snag your arm as you walk past.

I’d latch the door & hold you against the wall, one hand over your mouth, one hand up your skirt.

Shhh.