Nose to nose

The fabric between us was maddening. Finally we were in my bed. I wanted him inside me so badly…

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.

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.

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.

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.

Addendum:

In retrospect, I realize that maybe this was just a moment. A moment our friendship allowed us to have. But just a moment. 

Friday night taught me

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.

2) Woah, I forgot what a sucker I am for blue eyes

3) I try to lead when I should be following.

3) Make out with a homoflexible man in a gay bar, and other gay men are libel to get bitchy as fuck.

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.

On the walk home, “Why didn’t you save me from that guy?”

“You’re bigger and taller than I am!”

“It’s your fault.”

“I thought you liked it!”

“You should have saved me.”

Maybe he wanted me to lead after all. 

Kissing

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. 

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. 

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. 

 

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.

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.  

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).