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.