tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50789645373144457302024-02-07T14:03:12.524-08:00Flaming ClosetsMy (g)a(y)denvturesLiplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-67791248878161850762012-08-19T11:24:00.001-07:002012-08-19T11:24:23.386-07:00Gentleman<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t decide on him until late into the night. Felt his
arm wrap further around my waist as I danced with him. Another woman danced
with him too. She was beautiful, freckled, big breasted. On another night I
would have seen how far I could have gone with her and her straight tendencies.
Not tonight. I wanted him, his boyish face, his lean, experienced body. I knew,
as his hand slid further around me, that I could have him. The other woman danced between us. We shifted, his arms all the way around me. Some more dancing, we
walked out. Maneuvered the other woman to go home while we stood on the street
corner. He had some early family obligation in the morning. He was unsure,
“raincheck maybe,” he asked. I kissed
him and I felt him sigh. “You only live once Raymond.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He showered before getting into bed with me, which I found
quirky, but I let myself get comfortable on his bed. His weight on me felt
amazing, his body made mine feel small. His hands, as they explored my body, my
thighs, my breasts, my cunt, felt so good. “You have great tits,” he told me as
he squeezed them and I blushed in the dark, enjoying his appreciation of my
body. He went down on me not long after getting into bed, surprising and
delighting me. Most men don’t do that so quickly. Most women I’ve been with
recently do. I wanted him on top of me more, and pulled him up. I
would let him lie between my legs and hold me between his muscles all night. Sliding
my fingers up and down his back, he pulled me on my side, massaged my back with
those strong hands while we wrapped ourselves around each other. I returned the
favor. Just as I started to doze off entwined with this beautiful man, I felt
his hard dick push against me and the breath escaped me. He was full of
delicious surprises tonight. I grabbed one of my condoms, originally intended
for another this night, but the best things happen when they’re not planned. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His hands were as amazing as his dick as he fucked me, slid
his hands under me, pulled me onto him, pushed my legs apart, dug his fingers
into my hips, flipped me ontop of him, pushed my shoulders down. “Shhh,” he
cooed as I grabbed his headboard and thrusted onto him. Volume control is not
one of my strong suits. My head tipped off the edge of the bed, he held me with
his hands slid under and around my hips and pushed himself hard into me. “many
women don’t like this pressure,” he groaned. “it’s so fucking good,” I managed
to tell him hoarsely. I don’t remember
how he came, but he did with a proclamation that he’d get me again in the
morning. My body shuddered as he laid back down beside me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up with my face against his shoulder, he grabbed my
hand and had me feel his morning wood. I laughed as I peeled my eyes open. His
were closed. Sleepily caressed his chest, arms, dick. Dozed off again. Touched
him again. He rolled ontop of me. Slid his fingers along my inner thigh. Put
his weight on me. He laid between my legs for a while. I could have slept like
that. He moved intermittently. Then more steadily. I moved back against him. Pulled
me on top of him. We grinded against each other for a while, sleepily. Working
up more and more desire. I let him drive, decide when to take off my panties,
he let me reach for the condoms. He teased me, only putting in the head. I couldn’t
thrust as he held out my legs, giving me little leverage. Finally he pushed all
the way into me and laid on me. I dug my nails into him instead of moaning like
I wanted. I grabbed his flesh, he slid his big hands under me and fucked me
wonderfully. He made sure I had come before he released, I tugged his hair,
enjoying his groaning as my body made his come. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-83795418430700990482012-03-26T19:05:00.002-07:002012-03-28T11:49:55.906-07:00Nose to nose<div class="MsoNormal">The fabric between us was maddening. Finally we were in my bed. I wanted him inside me so badly…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decided that our flirtation had gone on long enough. I brought him home with me. After we had both made out with the same boy, the young one, who I sent home alone. In my elevator again, where things happen. Start. or continue. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He wasn’t as grabby with me as I was with him. Although he fucked me desperately through the fabric of our pants. But he wouldn’t move to take anything else off. Why, I asked. He wouldn’t say. Our friendship? His other hookup? Did his experience with men outmatch that with women? Please, let us fumble with each other’s bodies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The morning was intimate, not at all awkward. In the state between self-consciousness and sleep, we faced each other, nose to nose. My leg across his body, his hand firmly on my leg. I caressed his chest, arm, neck. Placed my palm on his sternum. I peeked at him, his prominent thyroid cartilage, his freckles, his very present and firm, but not bulging biceps. My lips found his shoulder. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just a week ago I did something similar with a woman. But this feels different. I loved her soft body and put my mouth all over her in the morning. But something was missing from that. The caress. There was no nose-to-nose sleepy wakefulness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Addendum:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">In retrospect, I realize that maybe this was just a moment. A moment our friendship allowed us to have. But just a moment. </div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-80561879123524451642012-03-11T18:57:00.004-07:002012-03-28T11:50:37.778-07:00Friday night taught me<div class="MsoNormal">1) I do not mind having my feet stepped on if the person stepping is a tall blonde woman trying to dance too close while two-stepping.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2) Woah, I forgot what a sucker I am for blue eyes</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3) I try to lead when I should be following.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3) Make out with a homoflexible man in a gay bar, and other gay men are libel to get bitchy as fuck. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if he wanted to go to that gay bar because it would be more empty, the music was better where we already were. I suppose he was trying to take our friend home, but our friend wasn’t having it, not that night. So we did our thing we do on dancefloors. Grab. Kiss. Unbutton. I was bolder this time. My hand on his crotch. No whiskey dick for him. His power over me, however, seemed broken. Maybe it was my discomfort with the sparse dancefloor, feeling eyes on us. These two gay-looking people acting straight. We kissed again, like the week before. Not making out. Just kisses. Sexy kisses. My mouth on his neck, his hands grab my flesh harder. Another boy liked him. Danced on him. I backed off, letting him have his attention. He reached back to grab me anyway. A hand on my sternum from the stranger, pushed me away. If he hadn’t been between us, I would have pushed the bitch back. Instead I backed off. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the walk home, “Why didn’t you save me from that guy?” </div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re bigger and taller than I am!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s your fault.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I thought you liked it!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You should have saved me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe he wanted me to lead after all. </div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-68327637361527816662012-02-05T14:23:00.000-08:002012-02-05T14:23:47.157-08:00the Argentine<div class="MsoNormal">I was hungry. Starving, really. I took it out on his body. I didn’t mean to leave those marks on his body. They did make me smile when I woke and saw them. I remember the night before, but not in sequential order. I don’t remember having that much wine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember the beat, the dancefloor, the other bodies, his body. His sexuality not at all ambiguous, thankfully. Neither was mine that night. I have no idea how long we danced without kissing. Three minutes? Ten? None at all? We couldn’t even hear each other inviting the other home, the music was so loud, but we understood and left. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the elevator he pushed me against the wall and kissed me more. I could barely get my door open. I pushed him onto my bed, still in our coats. I felt free, totally uninhibited, wanting to fuck, pushing his hands away then back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thinking back, I worry that I was too aggressive for him, and maybe I was. But he matched me. I barely remember, but I know he pulled off my shirt, my pants, my panties. They ended up in different spots on the floor. When I demanded more than he could give, he gave me what I wanted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He fucked me with his hand, and I woke up deliciously sore. Perhaps better that way, less personal, we were both so vulnerable.</div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-8384787468602961472012-01-21T12:52:00.001-08:002012-03-28T11:51:26.497-07:00Kissing<div class="MsoNormal">My nails dug into the skin above his paraspinal muscles. His hand responded in kind, pulling me tighter to him. How I longed to do this horizontally. We were on a dancefloor. Again. Sweating against each other, our legs in between eachother’s. My skirt riding high on my thighs. Our torsos move apart, legs still intertwined, he dips me, showing off his strength. He faces me the entire time this time. I don’t shy away from eye contact. Our mouths are together, tongues. Not for long. Who kissed who? He is so tall and has to come down to meet me so no one. Or both of us. I slide my tongue against his salty neck and bite down. I turn my back to him and his hands grab my hips again eagerly, like so many times before, but this is different. When I slide my hand back around his neck and rest my head on his chest and look up, his mouth is there on mine again as though we’ve been doing this all along. The clock is nearing 0200, and I don’t want this to stop, this thing that seems to only happen on these dark floors with loud music. We continue grabbing each other, pulling tighter, letting go, hands moving, grabbing again. He pulls me the tightest when I grab his belt along his back, or grab his back under his shirt. He threatens to pull off my shirt while I unbutton his to his undershirt. I would let him. </div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-14976727048662696182011-12-29T08:47:00.001-08:002011-12-29T08:47:37.692-08:00burn<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Do you know how many times you’ve brought up Blake on this trip?” My dad asked me. </div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know, I know!” I answered. We were taking a cab home from dinner the last night of our vacation together.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m not saying anything.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Say it, say it!” I told him, needing to hear it again. Needing to hear what my best friend had told me. </div><div class="MsoNormal">“There’s nothing to say.” He said simply. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-25757850647924790972011-12-20T11:56:00.001-08:002012-03-28T11:53:30.250-07:00Gay man<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The fantasy</span><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The reality</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-34369624045952284262011-11-27T11:44:00.000-08:002011-11-27T11:44:32.863-08:00A boy<div class="MsoNormal">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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(in the biblical sense)</span> a man, I don’t want to pursue as hard. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t see him again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-35813353909616451502011-11-20T13:57:00.000-08:002011-12-29T16:11:09.201-08:00Bad Decisions<div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One night, several months ago<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One night, this weekend:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
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</div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-23255040396614194312011-11-12T11:50:00.000-08:002011-11-12T11:50:58.232-08:00Power lesbians<div class="MsoNormal">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: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbwf2qVIma-zNnZ58dCyjeCmj3otFEkep-JYN5Popb1zI7naaMVZqADS_RsOEwjZYfGbsLzcqRybEiHcpWhAmo-YD816Y3xoyz2VPdYTIzTDPfGT2Kw8SH-5j8ByfFKqOHcm8eWMt55k-g/s1600/awesome+kirk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbwf2qVIma-zNnZ58dCyjeCmj3otFEkep-JYN5Popb1zI7naaMVZqADS_RsOEwjZYfGbsLzcqRybEiHcpWhAmo-YD816Y3xoyz2VPdYTIzTDPfGT2Kw8SH-5j8ByfFKqOHcm8eWMt55k-g/s320/awesome+kirk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<!--[endif]--></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her – takes down my designs without any further conversation</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-75659123466887346762011-11-12T11:47:00.000-08:002011-11-12T11:47:38.688-08:00Coming backHey 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!<br />
<br />
Here are my (g)a(y)dventures...Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-25554656843405960492011-04-19T19:54:00.000-07:002011-04-19T20:06:23.822-07:00Toemageddon, queerness and beyond spectrums<div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Woah, gender has been on our <span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(as in mainstream culture’s)</span> </span>minds a lot lately. <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Health/crew-ad-boy-painting-toenails-pink-stirs-transgender/story?id=13358903">ABC</a>, <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2011/04/13/earlyshow/living/parenting/main20053508.shtml">CBS</a>, and of course <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/health/2011/04/11/j-crew-plants-seeds-gender-identity/">Fox News</a> picked up the story of <a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-april-13-2011/toemageddon-2011---this-little-piggy-went-to-hell">Toemageddon</a> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(The Daily Show is, of course, my favorite coverage of this non-story).</span> 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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">So this had me thinking, once again, how much I love being queer, embracing multiple genders, <a href="http://flamingclosets.blogspot.com/2011/01/gender-bending.html">gender bending</a>, and looking at<a href="http://livelaughlovelesbians.tumblr.com/"> cute and dirty</a> <a href="http://liquorinthefront.tumblr.com/">pictures</a> (<a href="http://lesbianlust.tumblr.com/">more</a>). Blake recently stumbled upon found this amazing queer, feminist, pro-male, all-inclusive porn blog, <a href="http://sexisnottheenemy.tumblr.com/">Sex is Not the Enemy</a>. In addition to awesome pictures, including many of people smiling and excited about their and their partners' bodies, there are some fabulous quotes: </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> “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.”</span></span> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(reblogged from <a href="http://sexisnottheenemy.tumblr.com/post/1101959814/not-only-isnt-gender-an-either-or-its-not-even">Sex is Not the Enemy</a>, originally from <a href="http://www.charlieglickman.com/2010/09/fag-bashing-slut-shaming-its-about-policing-gender-roles/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+CharlieGlickman+%28Charlie+Glickman%29">here</a>)</span><br />
<br />
"<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">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.'" </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(reblogged from <a href="http://sexisnottheenemy.tumblr.com/post/888678387/there-are-more-locations-than-girl-and-boy-man">Sex is Not the Enemy</a></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">)</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7d7FIPlLfHixCpW7voK7ZBQpiHpXIuFNClVXiBLwKIFf1xzJ89HdRnWzhglgYRsAc60RX8tmGf7rukd6VIQjCJiIjnolSnG8tJfYzJG3BNby3sD_LmK-7QJ3vd__tXC6deynsQfy4XxKu/s1600/cate+blanchett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7d7FIPlLfHixCpW7voK7ZBQpiHpXIuFNClVXiBLwKIFf1xzJ89HdRnWzhglgYRsAc60RX8tmGf7rukd6VIQjCJiIjnolSnG8tJfYzJG3BNby3sD_LmK-7QJ3vd__tXC6deynsQfy4XxKu/s320/cate+blanchett.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 20pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Cate Blanchett reblogged from <a href="http://girlsinsuits.tumblr.com/post/1002896602/homosaywhat-cate-blanchett-makes-everyone-feel">Girlsin Suits</a></span></div><div style="color: black; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Weak in the knees? I am. </span></span></div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">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 <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(like my <a href="http://flamingclosets.blogspot.com/2011/03/whatever-works.html">genderless ball of love</a>)</span>. 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. </span></span></div><div style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Another wonderful blog I've come upon is <a href="http://queerradical.com/">queerradical.com</a><span id="goog_204422207"></span><span id="goog_204422208"></span>, and <a href="http://queerradical.com/?p=1944">this post</a>. <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">"</span></span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">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." </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">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?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">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. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"> </span> </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 7pt;"></span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-75141338162045007572011-04-17T15:19:00.000-07:002011-04-17T15:19:52.056-07:00Her<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We had a lazy conversation about kids and heated garages and married life. It didn’t scare me one bit. I guess <i>that</i> 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. </span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-53668758777459521392011-04-11T20:17:00.000-07:002011-04-11T20:17:53.185-07:00Spring Sprung<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s finally, <i>finally</i> warm out! You know what that means*? Shed clothes, bare legs, tank tops, and <i>skin</i>. 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>I am also a dirty old man</i>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5CGiLcRbBo4VK7Ei3H8Qbu2z1kM1zDUctrA3QJLABqRMgBJlEQER9U17IETN6LdprrUf_3zQlG6x94e69tYKijFQIN31bl8y0Xd6CxKRpIKf3MIeXFzh5e-QLVFr1bz1kdlkvfpMCbMH/s1600/down+with+zippers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5CGiLcRbBo4VK7Ei3H8Qbu2z1kM1zDUctrA3QJLABqRMgBJlEQER9U17IETN6LdprrUf_3zQlG6x94e69tYKijFQIN31bl8y0Xd6CxKRpIKf3MIeXFzh5e-QLVFr1bz1kdlkvfpMCbMH/s400/down+with+zippers.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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)? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. <span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span class="apple-converted-space">Spring is the time when we remember </span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_706893656">j</a></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://laravaudeuse.blogspot.com/2011/03/springtime.html">ust how beautiful our neighbors are.</a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">*of course you do, <a href="http://effingdykes.blogspot.com/2011/04/one-of-these-things-is-not-like-other.html">everyone</a>, everywhere is proclaiming their love of spring</span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-72107290551562968652011-04-08T09:15:00.000-07:002011-04-08T09:15:12.684-07:00To be desired<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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 <i>that</i> is all I want – to consume his desire for my body.</span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-19113197723932108862011-03-29T16:36:00.000-07:002011-03-29T16:36:45.622-07:00A long ago lover<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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 <a href="http://laravaudeuse.blogspot.com/">Margot</a> for her shout out and congratulate her on her feature in <a href="http://fleshbot.com/5785313/true-sex-stories-the-unicorn">Fleshbot</a>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is a story from long ago. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“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. </span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-89319070496678692912011-03-14T16:59:00.000-07:002011-03-14T16:59:57.842-07:00A nickname, well deserved<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Baby… it’s stuck.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I open the door and Blake is sitting in bed with the base of the dildo… on her forehead. “Uhhhh…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She pulled it off with a little shriek <span style="font-size: 8.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">(the same shriek she uses when she drops shell into the pan with the eggs). </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few minutes later, sitting in bed, she puts it on her forehead AGAIN! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh no it’s stuck again!” she yelps and pulls it off, “oh… haha.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Alright, dildoface, maybe we should put it away for the night” </span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-39414354948994529002011-03-08T20:13:00.000-08:002011-03-08T20:13:13.421-08:00Make up sex<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-60744464276306345742011-03-07T18:22:00.000-08:002011-03-07T18:22:01.219-08:00Whatever works<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lying in bed, lights on, some clothes on, just enjoying each other. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Really? ‘Cause I just think of myself as a genderless ball of love.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-69015525581746864512011-02-22T19:47:00.000-08:002011-02-22T19:47:54.950-08:00Love, all kinds<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">#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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">#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). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">#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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsTmTEN1fv10zPbkW5cidbIPcvgtO3wncYAKBjAlKpsWEa2gfvTvywy-h08A2QF1wwAHQGefhJ9eYlpwy09UuEgqkClZtFNplRxSJ9AWjRgSXKOqDCLdHuv2jOs71Z-L_QHICjQNd-cUvt/s1600/sunshine+ass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsTmTEN1fv10zPbkW5cidbIPcvgtO3wncYAKBjAlKpsWEa2gfvTvywy-h08A2QF1wwAHQGefhJ9eYlpwy09UuEgqkClZtFNplRxSJ9AWjRgSXKOqDCLdHuv2jOs71Z-L_QHICjQNd-cUvt/s400/sunshine+ass.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-19438777411567889372011-02-15T17:09:00.000-08:002011-02-15T17:09:27.510-08:00But it's soft!<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mentioned that some idiots come in and swing around the packers squeeling, “What do you do with this, IT'S SOFT!?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Blake: “Yeah, how would you explain what a packer is [to the uneducated, mainstream, straight people who come into sex shops]?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Me: “It’s a prosthetic penis, like a prosthetic leg”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Blake: “Yeah, like [they] need a <i>prosthetic brain</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-37306589202316677802011-02-13T10:43:00.000-08:002011-02-13T10:43:54.796-08:00Power Play<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Perusing the <a href="http://www.sugarbutch.net/">Sugarbutch Chronicles </a> I came across <a href="http://www.sugarbutch.net/2010/03/desperation-dominance/">this post</a>. I thought the first part was pretty hot. I shared it with Blake without much thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She absolutely did not like this part</span>: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">“</span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #323232; font-family: Georgia, serif;">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.”</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Whoops. I hadn’t really given the passage too much thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just</i> bought new sex toys. New for both of us. Baby dykes’ first flogger, first strap on, first restraints, first <a href="http://we-vibe.com/">we-vibe</a>. 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t need to pretend anything else. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-36269146880382439592011-02-06T19:33:00.001-08:002011-02-06T19:33:31.379-08:00Spotted<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Waiting for a train.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m going to take a leap here… have either of you heard of BigLezWeekendFest?” the 60-something woman sitting across from us asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t hear her right away so I looked at Blake, who apparently hadn’t hear either, then said “sorry, what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“BigLezWeekendFest, have you heard of it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh yeah, I have.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Not BigLezClub, BigLezWeekendFest.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yeah, I know. I had friends who’ve gone. One of them was raving about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Blake whispered to me after the conversation was over, “do I look <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>gay?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes, yes you do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-35291249543073338962011-01-31T09:22:00.000-08:002011-01-31T09:22:25.792-08:00Dreams<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Then I woke up, and without opening my eyes, I felt her there next to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled her to me, naked and warm, as I let the dream fade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That feeling of loss clung tightly to my chest as I convinced myself it was just a dream, only a manifestation of my fears.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">But I’m not afraid, it seems so easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought we were blissfully somewhere between infatuation and something more, keeping each other warm between the sheets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normal, healthy, slow – what’s that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where’s the intensity, the uncertainty, the fear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, it’s right there behind my eyes just before I wake up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5078964537314445730.post-77719291916127499982011-01-24T20:23:00.000-08:002011-01-24T20:23:51.559-08:00Mouths<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">It’s only a matter of time. Maybe this time I can let myself go and she’ll catch me. Just maybe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*Same ex I mentioned in my first post. She is to remain pseudonym-less </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Liplickerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02031619736101430865noreply@blogger.com0