burn

I poured kerosene all over the bridge between us. The bridge I helped rebuild so strong. The bridge that was getting shorter and shorter, pulling us closer. I pour kerosene all over it, then I threw the match and watched it burn. She was on the other side yelling something at me. “It’s ok. But I was just rolling with the punches. You know this isn’t just my fault.” Then the flames ate her words and hid her face.

“Do you know how many times you’ve brought up Blake on this trip?” My dad asked me.

“I know, I know!” I answered. We were taking a cab home from dinner the last night of our vacation together.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Say it, say it!” I told him, needing to hear it again. Needing to hear what my best friend had told me.

“There’s nothing to say.” He said simply.

She’d been sleeping over, we’d been holding each other. “I know this blurs the lines,” she said, “I don’t want to hurt you again and I don’t want to be hurt.” I thought I could keep my emotions in check. I thought we could have this. Somewhere between platonic and romantic. No sex. As Jaden said to me when I called her for advice, “sex complicates everything anyway.” Apparently, so do feelings. Maybe I could sleep with other people and just love her. The thought crossed my mind.

I made the mistake of mentioning that I had a date one night. She was so excited for me, like a Jewish mother who’s kid hadn’t had a date for years.  It was weird. It seemed fake. What had I wanted? Her to be disappointed? To fake a “oh that’s nice.” I’m not sure. I guess I just didn’t want to hide my date and see how she’d react. Well, I hated how she reacted. And I countered with that kerosene. She was on vacation with her family. It was probably cruel of me. I know it hurt her. I know it hurt me. Better to burn that bridge than watch it disappear and just merge though, right? I told her, “You don’t know what you mean to me. I know this is my fault. I’m sorry.” Burn baby, burn. 

Gay man

His fingers dug into the flesh around my hips. He’d done this before. The night we’d both made out with other people, both matching our own sex. His left and mine declined my advances. We were both second choices for each other. He grabbed me on the dance floor. His hand across my belly, lightly at first, then with more force when I encouraged him with my hand on his. He intertwined his fingers with mine as he pulled on my hips. He walked me home and we kissed on the cheek, both laughing at the tension and I went into my apartment alone.

He woke up in the same man’s bed only yesterday. But I don’t care, not the way his hands are on my body. He’s tall, but he bends his knees enough so that I feel him through his pants against me, and we might as well be fucking. He becomes more timid when I turn to face him. Even in my heels, my head only comes to his shoulder. He is thin, I didn’t think he was attractive at first, but he’s reeled me in with this ambiguous flirtation. Now I want him. I’ve been wanting to fuck a gay man anyway. He doesn’t advertise his attractions, he likes to remain ambiguous, to receive the attention from men and women. I’m growing tired of the flirtation, and of playing with my food, I want to eat already.

The fantasy

I whisper in his ear, “you’re going to take me home and fuck me, or you need to stop.” He smiles, surprised at my bluntness. Turns his head just enough to kiss me, finally. It feels as though I will devour him with my mouth, my body’s hunger having no other way to express itself in this dark room full of people with the music so loud I might as well be deaf. He pulls away, “let’s go.” On the street we look like two gays, laughing, walking to another club together. In the elevator I pull him against me again and our bodies are eager for each other. Right to my bed, he moves against me like he did only a few minutes ago, but this time horizontally, still clothed. I feel his hard cock straining against his pants, my other hand behind his neck, still devouring him with my mouth. Am I attracted by his eagerness? Am I flattered that he’s attracted to me? Do I feel like I’ve won the game? Or am I intrigued by his artist side, by the danger that he’s in my grad program? It doesn’t matter, his skin is against mine now. He teases me about my flogger he knows I keep under the bed, “that’s for repeat offenders only,” I tell him, just wanting him inside me already. I reach for the toy bin anyway which is where I keep the condoms. Then I devoured him with the rest of my body. When it was over, he asked if he should go. I told him he better stay because I wanted seconds.

The reality

My out-of-town friend was in town, so he went home alone that night. He came over the next night with another mutual friend. I made dinner. He made dessert. He wrestled me for my phone, a teenage excuse to feel me up. Not that I minded. If our other friend wasn’t there we wouldn’t have kept it platonic. He stayed to do dishes, but made no indication he wanted to stay more, and I didn’t risk the question. His history playing with people is too dangerous, I’m too proud to risk being made a fool of for sex. This is what I get for pursuing the sexually ambiguous. 

A boy

It had been three years; it wasn’t earth shattering, it wasn’t a big deal. He was nice, intelligent, had a high earning potential. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark curly hair with glasses. Queer minded. The kind of man I like. Except he was timid. I’ve become used to being the pursuer – it’d be a long lonely lesbian life if I was unwilling to pursue. But if I’m to be with (in the biblical sense) a man, I don’t want to pursue as hard. 

I shouldn’t complain. He was safe, and maybe that’s why I liked him so quickly. I felt comfortable being the aggressor because he was a man. I would never have been so aggressive with a woman so quickly for fear I was pushing something on her she didn’t want. I knew he could throw me off if he wanted, so I wasn’t afraid of that. Maybe that’s sexist, maybe it’s just common sense. I’m really not sure. 

He had nice lips, a good kisser. Hair to run my fingers through. I mostly just wanted him to lesbian fuck me. No real desire to touch his penis. My straight friend says she feels this way for a while with a new man. I slept with him anyway.  It was awkward, as first times with new partners usually are. I didn’t like his surprise dirty talk. I didn’t like the lack of chemistry. I didn’t like his passive demeanor. I quickly grew tired of being the aggressor.

A few weeks and a bad date later I brought him home again. I liked him, wished he fit my needs a little better. Just wanted to make out, and we did. It was nice. Then he told me he had missed me and I pulled all of me away.

I didn’t see him again. 

He would have been sweet to me. He would have been kind and gentle. He might have even loved me if I had let him.

I don’t want a man’s love. I want dirty, rough, throw-me-down sex with a safe, attractive, intelligent man.  I’ve loved men before, but my current queerness is shifted again. I enjoy the attention of men, but I worship women. Women make me crazy, women can hurt me, I want dirty sex with women too, but I want to cook dinner for them and take dancing lessons with them and marry one someday. All I want with a man is a mutual respect and understanding that we’re using each other for our bodies for a little while. 

Bad Decisions

One night, several months ago

She danced closer to me than she knew she should. Each time our arms went a little further around the other. An abrupt parting when a group of women walked by – what if one of them was her? But none of them were, so she put her arms around me again, back in rhythm, laughing about something. When she finally arrived, I got ignored. Home alone in bed, I felt as confused as I had the past couple times this happened. We were friends and there were so many reasons I shouldn’t feel anything about her.  Her neuroticisms, strange love for her dog, our mutual close friend, my best friend. Such good reasons to not go beyond friendship. Maybe it’s just been too long since I made a bad decision knowingly. Maybe it’s just comfortable.

One night, this weekend:

I was annoyed when she texted me that the girl she was dating broke up with her – why should I care anyway? I was trying to keep my distance, and doing a good job. We talk occasionally, but she’s still the same selfish immature girl, even if I did love her. Blake, that is. She is working on things and I am so glad because I care about her, but I don’t want to get back with her. I just wanted to hold her. I texted her something dumb, something about what I should eat for dinner. She texted me asking if she could come over. Of course. We watched tv. I made dinner. She put her head on my shoulder. I put my head on her chest. She put her head in my lap. She asked to stay on my couch. I gave her a toothbrush. I invited her to my bed. We slept, I held her. It’s ok though, because I feel in control of the situation, in control of my feelings. It’s ok, right?

Power lesbians

A similar crowd is found within the queer party scene I frequent, and among them those self-appointed power lesbian group.  The party girl, the philanthropist, the artist, the lawyer, the musician, the gender queerbie. They seemed to know everyone, and when I was I much newer to this scene, this group seduced me. I wanted to be seen and known and accepted into the inner circle.  The closer I got, though, the more I realized how  they’re mostly like this: 

Ms. lawyer was working on a charity project outside of work and was recruiting some extra help. Through a friend, I heard about it and got involved – it was a good project.  I was working on her social media strategizing and working on the website design.  We recently had a disagreement that went something like this:

Me - “Dear Ms. Lawyer, I think what you’re doing is awesome.  Since we hadn’t had a conversation about this, I was unaware you were going to publish what I sent you.  Please let me know when you’re going to use my designs before publishing them in the future. I’m so glad to be a part of this project, keep up the good work!”

Her – “Dear LL, my project is pretty amazing, and a lot of people think so, and a lot of people are working on it, so if you don’t want to be involved, just let me know ASAP.”

Me – “Dear Ms. Lawyer, like I said, I really am happy to be a part of your social action project, it’s super fantastic, and I’m glad it’s so successful. Just a heads up would be nice!”

Her – takes down my designs without any further conversation

I am constantly amazed by the willingness of adults to act like petulant children whose toys are taken away when receiving any kind of criticism.  I actually do think what she’s doing is awesome and important, and I was, in fact, happy to be a part of it.   The passive aggressive response surprised me, especially since I don’t know her well and was interacting on a mostly professional level.  As someone in professional graduate school, I don’t quite understand how people get away with such unprofessional behavior. I mean, she is a lawyer, I would think she would need to be better behaved.  Maybe I’ve been so well indoctrinated with the value of receiving constructive criticism; I’m unaware of how many people find it offensive? I’m glad to be distanced from it though. If I can’t make a suggestion or a request without igniting some wicked insecurities that are not my problem, I will quietly make my exit now.  

Coming back

Hey homos, queerbies, gayelles, pansexuals, dykes, and everyone else. I'm back. Grad school got crazy, my relationship ended (then didn't, then did - you know, in true dyke style), and well I've missed writing. I want to do better reaching out and hearing from you!

Here are my (g)a(y)dventures...

Toemageddon, queerness and beyond spectrums

Woah, gender has been on our (as in mainstream culture’s) minds a lot lately.  ABC, CBS, and of course Fox News picked up the story of Toemageddon (The Daily Show is, of course, my favorite coverage of this non-story).  This is a reflection of the deep seeded homophobia and transphobia in our culture. I also find it horribly irresponsible for a physician (Fox News op ed author) to add to the social stigma that transgender people face, for we know discrimination and institutionalized hate increases stress, decreases health and increases rates of depression and suicide.

So this had me thinking, once again, how much I love being queer, embracing multiple genders, gender bending, and looking at cute and dirty pictures (more).  Blake recently stumbled upon found this amazing queer, feminist, pro-male, all-inclusive porn blog, Sex is Not the Enemy.  In addition to awesome pictures, including many of people smiling and excited about their and their partners' bodies, there are some fabulous quotes:

            “Not only isn’t gender an either/or, it’s not even on a spectrum. The spectrum model, while allowing for more possibilities, still presents it as a zero-sum experience. It makes it seem as if, the more you have of one, the less you must have of the other. That approach reifies and reinforces the idea that there’s an opposition. In reality, any of us can have any of the characteristics that our culture defines as male or female. Each of us is a unique mixture of these traits and rather than being scared of that, we can embrace it, we can celebrate it, and we can enjoy it.” (reblogged from Sex is Not the Enemy, originally from here)

"There are more locations than girl and boy, man and woman. Decamping from one does not have to mean climbing into another. There’s plenty of space in between, or beyond the bounds, or all along and across the plane or sphere or whatever of gender, and it is entirely okay to say, 'I do not like being a girl, and so I shall be a boy.' But it must also be okay to say, 'I do not like being a girl, so I shall set about changing what it means to be a girl,' and yes, okay to say, 'I do not like being a girl, and so I shan’t.'" (reblogged from Sex is Not the Enemy)

Cate Blanchett reblogged from Girlsin Suits

Weak in the knees? I am.  

Cate aside, I really hope there comes a day where we do, indeed, embrace a mixture of "masculinity" and "femininity."  Even within our LGBT/queer communities, you're often labeled as one or the other - butch or femme, maybe andro(genous) if you're one of the sexy in-betweenie-weenies (like my genderless ball of love).  It frustrates me endlessly that our (very diverse) communities have about as much trouble with the concept with gender as a spectrum (or beyond a spectrum) as the general mainstream culture does. 

Another wonderful blog I've come upon is queerradical.com, and this post. "Queerness is a negation of fixed identities; it exists within the realm of that which will not be defined by language—the incomprehensible, ridiculous, and baffling."  

This is what I love about queer. I do think I know who I am, and I acknowledge that I constantly change. I change my preferences all the time; what I prefer to eat, to wear, to work out on and in, the type of company I prefer to keep, and the traits I look for in a significant other. Why shouldn't I be fluid in my sexual preferences? Why shouldn't I refuse to decide, to box myself in, to make a false claim of who I am, when it is constantly shifting?

I hope the world catches up soon on the beauty that is the variety of gender expression and the freedom that comes with always redefining ourselves. 

 

Her

Draped across her lap as she studied. Things had been difficult lately, and we both questioned the benefits to staying together. But right there, in that spot, head on her shoulder, everything seemed perfect.  Drifting into sleepiness as she did her problem set.  Later, head on her chest, listening to the lub-dub of her heart; two crisp, distinct sounds through her chest wall.  I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but there.

She had wanted to walk away. To spare me. To let me be happy. I wanted her, everything we need to deal with is worth it. We’re both smart people who care deeply for each other and each other’s happiness.

We had a lazy conversation about kids and heated garages and married life.  It didn’t scare me one bit. I guess that scares me a little.  Easy, naked laughter, and a desire to hold on to the moments she’s in my arms.  Poking fun at each other, and just listening to that lub-dub.  

Spring Sprung

It’s finally, finally warm out!  You know what that means*?  Shed clothes, bare legs, tank tops, and skin. It means bold looks at attractive people because it has been so very long since I’ve seen smiling faces on the streets of this city.  It means the city coming alive at night, waking up from hibernation.  I caught an old man staring at a slim, bare-legged woman today and I gave him a dirty look that said, “don’t look at me that way old fart,” before realizing that I am also a dirty old man.

I like to think of myself as a professional person, but sometimes I talk about my colleague's amazing ass. Totally, completely inappropriate. I like to think of myself as a feminist, but sometimes I have to say, “love me some titties.” (because, really, who doesn’t? and if a woman is doing performance with her body, who am I not to appreciate it?).  Does this make me any less professional (maybe) or feminist (I don’t think so)? 

I love spring, blooming trees and bare skin. The breeze that comes in the door of the coffee shop and runs by, beneath my skirt, as a cute dyke smiles at me.  The bold gaze of a suit as I walk down the street, heels clicking on the pavement, who is surprised when I return his gaze with a smile.   Spring is the time when we remember just how beautiful our neighbors are.

*of course you do, everyone, everywhere is proclaiming their love of spring

To be desired

It’s dark and I’m pressed up against another body. Another body whose hands are on me, and we’re sweaty. We’re dancing. Or swaying, or grinding, moving together, wanting. In my fantasy, this person is a woman. With long hair or with short hair, it does not matter.  I’m wearing a dress, a short dress, and stockings. She pulls me even closer to her, grinding her hips against mine, her leg between mine, mine between hers. The sweat and desire is palpable between us, but I do not kiss her. Kissing her would ruin the fantasy, extinguish the desire, and kissing on a stranger on a dark dance floor is rarely satisfying.

The fantasy changes, now the body against mine is male, taller, bigger hands on my waist, on the small of my back. Someone I know, someone with a very strong, attractive jaw. I’m in high femme drag, fake hair on my face, but he doesn’t care, he likes it, is as turned on by gender bending as I am. Maybe his mouth meets mine, maybe not – it’s inconsequential to the fantasy. All that matters is our bodies pushed together, our sweat, the wetness between my legs, my hips pressing into him. I can feel his want, and that is all I want – to consume his desire for my body.

A long ago lover

I’ve been on vacation, away from computers, work, writing and grad school. I see a lot more of you are taking a peek at my adventures, and I have to thank my friend Margot for her shout out and congratulate her on her feature in Fleshbot. 

This is a story from long ago.

I was with my first real girlfriend. There had been other women before her, some messing around, but no one to really show me how to be a good lover to a woman.  There was only one person to love my body as completely as she did; the boy I left for her.  She was like the men I had slept with in that way, ravenous about my body, and I loved her for it. Mostly, I loved that underneath her deep voice and male-like desire for me, were her very female curves, skin, scent.

We would wrestle each other to pull off the other’s clothes, put our mouths on the other’s body. I would usually win. We got ready for bed one night and I followed her into the dark kitchen for a glass of water. I didn’t care about her roommate when I decided to push her up against the counter, kissing her.  She grinned and said something about being walked in on but I silenced her, picking her up just enough to put her on the counter, and she pulled me into her. Wrapping my arms around her, feeling her flesh against me, with only thin fabric between us.  My hands went to her thighs and higher, rubbing her sex through her shorts and she moaned against my mouth, our tongues entwined. I knew how wet she’d be as I pulled on the waistband of her shorts and panties, and she lifted her hips, obliging me.

“What about my roommate?” She asked. I grinned up at her as I knelt down on the hard kitchen floor, pushing her legs open. I could only think about one thing, ah yes, her cunt was even wetter than I’d thought it would be. My mouth on the flesh of her thigh, kissing gently, then sucking, tasting her salty skin, making her moan with my hand. I had long hair then, and she entwined her fingers in it, pulling me closer.  I’ve always loved a woman’s scent, and hers was no different – it made me mad. It was so hard to control myself and tease her. Mouth on the outer labia, then inner, slipping along the length of her slit before touching her clit so gently with my tongue. She pushed my head into her groin, and I loved it, but I resisted. I moved my tongue slowly, looked up at her in the dark, watching me.  I grabbed her breast underneath her shirt. She was thrusting her hips, wanting more. Finally, my tongue and her hips moved as one, with one thought. Now I wasn’t teasing her, I was lost in her. 

A nickname, well deserved

We haven’t actually used the new strap on we bought a couple weeks ago. Neither of us have ever used one and Blake’s a little nervous. She plans to pitch, and I to catch. So she’s been getting acquainted with our new purple toy.  Using it as a stress ball, flailing it around, having it sit in bed with us.  The other night I’m coming down the hall to my room and I hear,

“Baby… it’s stuck.”

I open the door and Blake is sitting in bed with the base of the dildo… on her forehead. “Uhhhh…”

She pulled it off with a little shriek (the same shriek she uses when she drops shell into the pan with the eggs). I just looked at her and burst into a fit of laughter, she tried to tell me to stop laughing at her, but she was laughing too.

A few minutes later, sitting in bed, she puts it on her forehead AGAIN!

“Oh no it’s stuck again!” she yelps and pulls it off, “oh… haha.”

“Alright, dildoface, maybe we should put it away for the night” 

Make up sex

I kissed her cautiously, we had been fighting. Her mouth opened to mine and I felt my heart flutter as I leaned in and rolled half on top of her. Wanting to merge my body into hers, my hips moved of their own volition.

Looking up at her, her back arched. Her spread, wet lips across my face, taking a moment just to feel her, touch her. The sensation of her body, sound of her moans, her hand in my hair making my clit engorge, my cunt ache. She tugs my hair to get my attention, “look at me baby.” Holding her gaze as I knew she was coming, keeping her in my mouth, I feel something wash over my chest, something only tangentially related to lust. Closeness, intimacy, oxytocin. 

On top of her, her fingers inside me, she pushes me back, sitting up. With one hand I touch her face, looking into her eyes, with the other I fuck her back . Throw my head back, I can’t stay focused when she… oh yes, does that. So deep inside me, exploding continuously. 

Whatever works

Lying in bed, lights on, some clothes on, just enjoying each other.

Blake: “How do you see me, like a teenage boy?” (which, I suppose she might resemble except for her eyelashes out to mars and curves that her clothes often cover).

I laugh, “no, well I see you naked, so I think of you as pretty feminine,” and I eye her up and down with a smile.

“Really? ‘Cause I just think of myself as a genderless ball of love.”

Love, all kinds

Guys, I’m worried. Friends are important to everyone right? The older I get, the more I love my friends. It took me some hard, lonely times to figure that shit out. 

#1 – when my first boyfriend broke up with me: I had pretty much ignored a bunch of my friends and I thought I was going to be living with this dude by senior year (I was a college freshman at the time). After 3 months – a whole bunch of shit went down. And who picked up my sad little puddle ass off the floor? My friends.

#2 – I was abroad for a semester and for some reason didn’t make any friends in my program: I was totally love deprived. I’m a very physical person, and I need hugs and cuddles. The only reprieve I had that semester was visiting friends who were also abroad. (Yeah, I know poor privileged college girl, traveling around Europe, but dude – I was lonely).

#3 – the year after I graduated college I lived alone. I thought it would be awesome – I lived alone for 3 out of 4 years in college (in the dorms… not the same). It sucked. I didn’t make close friends, I gained a bunch of weight (and avoided mirrors), and got into grad school (well that kind of rocked).  But again, I was lonely.

It’s important to be happy ALONE and SINGLE and without being IN LOVE. For me. For most people, I think? To be happy, whole people. The friends I made in college will be lifelong friends. And I’m content with the thought (most of the time) that I could be single forever as long as my friends love me. (and I raise a child with one of them, perhaps).

Don’t get me wrong, I love sex. I love being in relationships. But I’ve been screwed and I’ve learned that love (being in love) is transient. Or, it has been thus far in my experience. I know love can be forever, and maybe I’m just scared it ain’t. So I built up defenses, and armies, and cavalries so that if I do end up “alone,” I won’t actually be alone. I’ll have relationships and love and support from people who I feel this way about:

I may not have sex with said people, but I’ll have sex with other people. It’s that unconditional love that I want to build up around me. And I’m ok if that is from my friends, not from a long-term lover. Even though that’d be really, really nice.

So what the fuck am I worried about, you might be wondering?  Well… I’m worried about Blake. She’s awesome. And hot. And crazy smart. And makes me laugh. And seems to like me a lot. And I like her a lot. But she doesn’t seem to have friends like I have friends. She doesn’t have other people from whom she gets emotional support like I do. That worries me, homofaces. I think getting emotional support and advice and love and happiness from a multitude of people is important. I don’t think it’s possible for one person to satisfy our every need.  That’s why you have the friend who goes out for Ethiopian and talks about religion. And the friend who watches artsy films with you and discusses over homemade lattes. And the lover who holds you when you’ve had a stressful day. And the friend who tells you her woes and helps you reflect on your own. All these kinds of people enrich us, make us whole, complete us.

I want Blake to have all that. I want to keep fostering all of that in my own life. And I know I can’t be all that for one person. 

But it's soft!

Blake and I were discussing the kind of foot traffic that comes into the sex shop we now frequent. (by frequent I mean that we’ve bought enough new-to-both-of-us toys in the past two weeks that I had to get a toy bin).  I mentioned that some idiots come in and swing around the packers squeeling, “What do you do with this, IT'S SOFT!?”

Blake: “Yeah, how would you explain what a packer is [to the uneducated, mainstream, straight people who come into sex shops]?”

Me: “It’s a prosthetic penis, like a prosthetic leg”

Blake: “Yeah, like [they] need a prosthetic brain”

Power Play

Perusing the Sugarbutch Chronicles  I came across this post. I thought the first part was pretty hot. I shared it with Blake without much thought.  She absolutely did not like this part:

“fucking me without caring how it was for me. I was thinking about tears streaming down my cheeks, and you not stopping, just … taking me, until you get what you want, and you come.”

            Whoops. I hadn’t really given the passage too much thought.  We just bought new sex toys. New for both of us. Baby dykes’ first flogger, first strap on, first restraints, first we-vibe. I’m a little older than she, so I’ve explored more sexual ideas and fantasies simply because I’ve had more time. It didn’t occur to me that it might not be immediately obvious to her that it’s not actually about “using” anyone, it’s completely consensual, and both parties know that – but sometimes pretending it’s a little not can be super fucking hot. For me, anyway.

            I’m just starting to explore power play with Blake. Before now, it’s only been in fantasy. I suppose showing her that post was a way to test the waters, to see what she thought.  I certainly don’t need to try that out, and that’s not what I was suggesting. I just wanted to explore new ideas with her and discuss. And the truth is, I’m so, extremely, ridiculously happy that she could never have sex with me without thinking about my pleasure.  I don’t need to pretend anything else. 

Spotted

Waiting for a train.

“I’m going to take a leap here… have either of you heard of BigLezWeekendFest?” the 60-something woman sitting across from us asked.  I didn’t hear her right away so I looked at Blake, who apparently hadn’t hear either, then said “sorry, what?”

“BigLezWeekendFest, have you heard of it?”

“Oh yeah, I have.”

“Not BigLezClub, BigLezWeekendFest.”

“Yeah, I know. I had friends who’ve gone. One of them was raving about it.”

“Oh that’s nice, thank her for me. I organize it and it takes a lot of work. We’re always looking for volunteers,” she said more like a question. BigLezWeekendFest is not something I’m interested in. At all.

Blake whispered to me after the conversation was over, “do I look that gay?”

“Yes, yes you do.”

Dreams

The white paint on the double doors was peeling; the living room with the scratched wooden floor was bare. Through the doors stood a tall, lanky woman in Victorian maid’s clothes – or was it a tshirt and jeans? I knew who she was; she was her ex-lover.  And then she was there, as beautiful as ever, telling me softly that she had to go back to the tall, lanky woman. I understood, and felt her leave.  Standing in the empty living room, looking at the half open door with the peeling paint, I felt my heart sink into my feet, “why did I let her go?” I thought.

Then I woke up, and without opening my eyes, I felt her there next to me.  I pulled her to me, naked and warm, as I let the dream fade.  That feeling of loss clung tightly to my chest as I convinced myself it was just a dream, only a manifestation of my fears.

But I’m not afraid, it seems so easy.  I thought we were blissfully somewhere between infatuation and something more, keeping each other warm between the sheets.  Perfect timing for my subconscious to jump in and remind me how fragile human relationships can be. I am assuming too much. Sarcasm always on, unsure of my feelings, or the extent of hers. Looking for the flaws, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Normal, healthy, slow – what’s that?  Where’s the intensity, the uncertainty, the fear?  Oh, it’s right there behind my eyes just before I wake up.  

Mouths

Mouths make us. Make us human. Talking, laughing, social interaction. Social equivalent of the nit-picking of other primates. Mouths. Expression of all that we are.

Mouths on each other’s bodies.  Why did I ever stay with that one* who only wanted to dry hump. For months. Oh, and receive my mouth, my love, my expression. Take, take, take.

Not now. Now it’s a delicious wrestling match of giving. I want to give more, now give me more, more. Wake up, kisses all over. Start all over. Hotdamn. Bribe me into bed with her body, bribe me out of bed with her body. Her smell, her perfume. I can smell it across the table, on my vest, my sheets, my neurons. 

It’s only a matter of time. Maybe this time I can let myself go and she’ll catch me. Just maybe.


*Same ex I mentioned in my first post. She is to remain pseudonym-less  

Gay Lady Parties

So let’s play a little game.  A bunch of dykes get together. At bars you might call this ladies' night, homo dance party, or clamsmackers unite. How many people do you think you could get together in the same room who have slept together? Ok, now how many people could you get within a 4 foot radius who have slept together.

I’ll tell you I had three people within four feet of me who I’ve slept with. Plus another I’d hooked up with. And they all knew about each other and were cool with it. Does this ever happen to straight people? Can you imagine if it ever happened with straight people. It was so. Fucking. Weird.

Swaying my hips on the dancefloor, my eyes closed most of the time, having a good ol’ time. Omg, YES I love this song.  Open my eyes, look around, people watch. Oh there’s one. two. There’s three people I’ve fucked within three feet of me.  I instinctively move away from all three of them over to the other side of the dance floor towards… number four! Ok, but I didn’t sleep with number four, I only hooked up with her.

Does this happen to straight people? Ever?  Probably not much, right? ‘Cause there’s more than one big straight party every weekend.

So why (whygodwhy) do I keep going to these parties?

#1: A little part of me loves the drama. Who doesn’t love a little bit of drama?  Mostly I just love hearing about other people’s drama, but as long as it doesn’t boil over and go KA-boom in my face, I like a little in my own life too.

#2: It wasn’t all that dramatic having 3 people I fucked within 3 feet of me. They all knew about each other and we’re all cool. I’m friends with all of them. Big fucking lesbian cliché.

#3: Who doesn’t love to dance with hot ladies?

#4: Because the gay world is so disgustingly small, it makes for great people watching. 

The question is - do I go to another one this weekend?

Gender Bending

I’ve thought gender bending is sexy for a long time. In high school I thought Frank from Rocky Horror was damn sexy. Like, I-want-Frank-to-fuck-me-sexy.  It was something about that corset and heels and masculine frame and in-charge attitude. I know, it’s a little weird, but I’m ok with that. 

 Wish I could give photo credit, 

but I have no idea where I got this

Ever seen  Kinky Boots? Well you should. Charlie in thigh high boots and a business shirt – yummy.  The drag queen, Lola – yep, wanted to be on her too.

More recently I’ve been paying more attention to the female side of gender bending. Drag kings – yes please. Androgyny– wolf. I’m not sure what it is about the idea of a female bodied stud wearing a packer that turns me on so much, but it does. I don’t know why I like a feminine looking woman wearing men’s clothing that hide the curves I so love, but I do.

All this thinking about what turns me on made me think about how I present myself to others and how I try to make myself attractive.  How To Be Butch has a great post about this.  When I started going out in my BigCity queer scene a couple years ago, I dressed very feminine, carried a purse and wore heels. That is, until some femme chick in a skirt said to me, “why are you carrying a purse? You look like a straight girl – can’t you just put everything in your pockets?”  I had just bought myself a new Coach purse that year, but holy shit, I did NOT want to be identified as the straight girl. How would I get hit on?

I lost the purse and traded in my cleavage shirts for button downs and ties. I put the heels and huge earrings back on and felt more comfortable.  I dated one woman who liked my cleavage, and I brought out those shirts again. I dated another chick who liked her girls butchier and I put them away again, wore less make up, and didn’t like how I looked. I put the earrings and make up back on and she teased me.

Since then, I’ve become much more confident and comfortable in my own skin, my BigCity queer scene, and whatfuckingever clothes I want to wear.  I love my dykey hair cut, knee high boots and dresses, or my tough-guy jacket, lipstick and button down. I do what feels good. What feels me. Oh yeah, and I don’t worry about getting hit on anymore ‘cause I’m happy to say hi to a pretty girl (or sexy boi). 

Fiction

Inspired by Sinclair Sexsmith's call for lesbian BDSM erotica, I gave it a shot, but I missed the deadline. I'm not sure if fiction is my forte, but I'll leave that up to you:

            She pulled out the drawer on her bedside table and handed over the restraints and her wrists. The smell of leather made her crave Noa’s fingers inside her even more, if that was possible. Noa tightened the leather straps around her wrists, buckling them shut. She let Ella touch her, run her hands down her sides and grab her hips, her thumbs against her hip bones.  But only briefly before she pushed her hands down roughly, putting her weight on Ella’s wrists. The feel of her wrists being held down made Ella moan out.

            “No, no,” Noa changed her mind and unhooked the restraints. “I want you face down,” she said as she pushed Ella over onto her belly. Snapping them back in to place, Noa pulled Ella back onto her knees and elbows, one hand grasping her hip, the other thrusting her fingers inside her.

The night began without any pretense. Just two friends getting drinks.  Ella hadn’t seen Noa since, well… since her birthday, when Noa flirted shamelessly with her in front of her own girlfriend. Ella thought it was tactless.  Although she plays by different rules, she respects those of others and didn’t appreciate being the object of Noa’s broken monogamy.  Ella and Noa have always flirted in the way that any two beautiful women might flirt with each other in their compliments.  It didn’t start until Noa kissed Ella one night, only a few weeks before her birthday, with such passion it still makes Ella wet to think about. But Noa had a girlfriend then too, and Ella wouldn’t have any of it.

Oh, Ella had forgotten, she had seen Noa since her birthday, once while they were out, on the dancefloor.  She smelled her hair, looked into her green eyes and felt it in her groin.  That was brief, Ella had gone home with someone else that night, but how could she forget the way Noa looked that night?

Not unlike the way she looked when she opened the door and hugged her for just a moment too long at the beginning of the night.  “Ready to go?” Ella cooed, eager to get Noa out of the dangerous doorway, already feeling her magnetism. 

Holding back

She looked positively miserable when I walked out her door yesterday. I didn’t feel good about that. I did, however, like the feel of her tears falling in my hair. Not because I want her to hurt, but because I want her to care. I don’t like being vulnerable, but I think she likes seeing my humanity. 

I wish it were different. I wish she had more confidence. I wish she were over her ex. I wish I could get more entwined without getting hurt. I wish she could see her own beauty. I wish I weren’t so incredibly attracted to her. I wish I didn’t have to walk away. I wish she weren’t leaving. Wishes in one hand, shit in the other – see which fills up first.

I didn’t wake up thinking about her today, which was good. I woke up thinking about what day of the week it was, which was odd. I keep replaying that last bit over in my head. My head on her chest. Her hand taking mine. Her tears in my hair. Feeling like I could sit with her like that forever. Her limp, unsure lips against mine.  That look on her face as she stared straight ahead when I walked out the door.

Everyone says this is better. The right decision. Better for me. When will I be able to stop holding back? 

Just another day

When telling another healthcare professional about a patient say, “a 78-year old 'man or woman' not 'male or female'”  

This is what my preceptor told me. I believe it was an attempt to “humanize” the patients, which I’m usually all for, but in this case I disagreed.

 In healthcare, a patient’s sex is more important than their gender for their medical management. If I were seeing a transgender patient I would use “man” or “woman” in regards to their identified gender, which would end up confusing the (inevitably heterosexist) attending and I might get my ass handed to me.  I would say, “a 78 year old male, who identifies as a woman…” Both those facts are relevant to caring for a patient. Sex is necessary; there are biological and anatomical differences, no way around it. The use of hormones is also relevant, as are all medications a patient takes.  Gender is important, as social aspects of a patient’s life impact their health, and of course the best way to interact with a patient is to make them comfortable and respect their identity. 

Not that this is ever much of an issue in general medicine since so many transpeople have had horrible experiences with the system disrespecting them that they tend not to go to the doctor, or only go to explicitly LGBT-friendly practices.

Does the heterosexual majority really never think about these things? Am I the only one who finds sex and gender to be so fascinating that I think about it every day?

Alone

Woke up thinking about her. Not a good sign.  No – I woke up twice thinking about her. Once at 2:25am, thinking about texting her to come over since she was probably still awake; again when I woke up later that morning.  Is that why I’m in a funk?

Why did I blow off that other girl?  I was tired and feeling off. Did it have to do with her – the one I woke up thinking about? Is that why I feel this way? I can’t tell.

Walking home that night with my arms around myself, I felt the snugness of my jacket around my shoulders as I walked past her street.  The snugness of my jacket, the tightness of my belt are reminders that I am… alone.

She’s leaving at the end of the week. Or so I thought. Maybe another week, another month. Maybe gone and back again. Too long to get attached. Too long to be confused, be torn apart, be fucked. My heart says I want to go sleep in her bed. My head says stay in my own.