Surrender

I have been meaning to write a post about a moment shared between M and me, when we met in early February. It's rattled around in my head for weeks now, looking for the right moment to find form and speak. It sort of happened like this:

M and I had been talking about fucking each other for weeks before we met. I wanted her, and want her still, in the worst way. I wanted to feel her inside of me, in an unmistakable and unforgettable manner, to mark our first time together. My desire for her was earth shattering, my need for her was relentless and cruel in its primal urgency. I longed for her confidence, love, and complete control, to find complete release in her power and in her strength. I begged her to fuck me endlessly, to fuck me until my pussy was raw and sore, and then fuck me some more. And yet, still, to care for me, love me, and never to hurt me without my consent, and to that end I was willing to give to her my complete trust, to give her my will.

After 20 hours of fucking, once we finally met, my pussy was "fire engine red" and painfully sore from her cock pummeling and thrilling me. She fucked me energetically in a all kinds of positions: doggie style, pushed face down on the bed on my knees in the plow, bent over the bed, on my back with my legs wrapped around her upper back & shoulders, on my back with my legs straight up against her front so she could hold my ankles and watch her cock sliding in and out of me, missionary, on my side, well, you get the idea, M is very inventive and very driven. After fucking me hard for an hour and knowing that I was close to a g-spot orgasm but not yet ready to release, she pushed me on my back and got on top of me, her cock dangling between her legs. She looked down at me, as I lay in an exhausted and sore heap. She said very matter of factly "I want you to come for me, there is a come in there and I am going to get it. I know your pussy is sore, baby, but I am going to fuck you until you come for me." I looked up at her, my pussy burning and aching after hours of fucking. She said "I am going to give you what you asked for, do you remember what you asked for? I am going to give you what you want." In a fog, I could not remember. She said "You wanted me to fuck you until your pussy was raw and sore, and then fuck you some more. So I am going to give you what you wanted. Understand?" Weakly I protested, "Please, no." She seemed surprised and said "I don't know why I am listening to you," and then, simply, "Who is in charge here?" I felt as if I had no strength or will left. I was afraid of the hurt. But I looked at her, she was so certain, so powerful, so sure. My mind wavered for a moment as I considered my option to refuse her, and then I simply let go, and surrendered my body and my mind completely. I looked at her and said "You are." I was hers to do with as she wanted. I had no will but her will. And all resistance in me, all the voices of reason and control vanished. And in that moment, I also found myself, in my willing assent. She then said, quite gently and tenderly, "I won't hurt you, my love, I'll never hurt you, okay." And as she fucked me and fucked me hard, I found that my red and raw pussy that had ached for hours was now oddly and blissfully without pain, I felt only pleasure, and then, in an enormous unending cascade of relief and release, of pleasure and complete surrender, I came, I came for her, my darling M, I came for her and became wholly hers. It was our miracle.

Finally

The days are quickly slipping away before I leave Hawai'i. I will miss my mother so very much. She is a dear, sweet, kind human being. Simple in her outlook and expectations of life. She has no ulterior motives and I can't seem to find any guile in her. I hope that someday I will find the kind of presentness that she lives. She is a Buddhist, of course.

My life is in such flux. I spent the last two years believing in Change! Who knew that 2008/2009 would be, as well, a time of great personal change for me. I finally made the decision, in mid-November, to stop trying desperately to save a long dissolving and mutually unhappy 12 year relationship. I decided that upon my return from Hawai'i, I would leave G. About a month later, in a moment of full acceptance, I wrote and posted "Hope" about the loss of hope for the continuation of the relationship. During that month's time of self-reflection and searching to gain more insight into why I failed the relationship, I fully faced that an essential and explicit dynamic (butch/femme top/bottom) was missing from my life and that I could never find relationship happiness or satisfaction without it. One day after I posted "Hope" in mid December, I unexpectedly met M (my younger sizzling butch top), and we both fell instantly, completely, and surprisingly in love, for the very first time in both of our lives.

In a world where orderliness is often the prized value, my life is full of disorder, it's messy. Would I have preferred to have broken completely with G before I ever met and fell in love with M? I believe the correct answer is yes, but the real life answer is, after considering my path, I could never have given up the chance to love M or to accept her love for me, no matter how or when it happened. At 50, I am getting too old to wait for happiness. I never thought for a second that I would finally fall in love at this point in my life. Given my genes, I only have about 50 years left to love her. And I'm not wasting a moment of it.

Readying to Return

Went to the post office to ship things back to New England. This way I escape the worry and aggravation of lost airline luggage, since I am changing planes on the way home more times than I have fingers on my right hand, and I am changing airlines a time or two or three or four. But the price for the flight is unbeatable and I get to spend a day with M.

I had an interesting time at the post office, and I think it must be because I am radiating love, I must be glowing.

The female clerk at the counter went from serious and dour with the previous customers to fun, and engaging, and very sweet to me. I had to wait in line twice, because after I made the first transaction, I didn't want to hold up the long line for my second, and so completed it at an empty counter and returned. Luck would have it, I ended back at the same window with the cutie who was happy to seem me back, and even sweeter the second time.

While I was filling out a form to send a parcel to M (the act in between transaction 1 and 2), a middle-aged (my aged) white guy appeared out of nowhere and decided to check me out and chat me up. I ignored him at first, but he was clearly determined. He began to show off for me by literally trying to rip a telephone book in half. I do notice that sometimes men my age seem to act like very goofy 12 year old boys around me, and often do very silly things just like this to gain my attention. I really can't explain why I seem to bring this out in adult men, but it is better than the sleaziness I sometimes see men direct toward women, and if they have to hit on me, I'd rather they do it this way than the other. Anyway this guy earnestly explained that it was a trick he saw on tv and that he was sure he could do it for me, but then after trying really really very hard for a good 5 minutes, he just couldn't. It was pretty funny.

After my final transaction, as I was leaving with my stack of more soon-to-be-filled empty boxes, a very handsome young African American soldier ahead of me saw me and stopped to let me go out first. When he realized, to his surprise, that the door did not open automatically and I would have to get it, he practically jumped over himself to get to the door to open it and hold it for me as he apologized profusely while balancing an enormous and heavy box on his shoulder, pretending my burden of empty boxes was greater than his. It was very sweet.

I sometimes think of biological men as a completely different and foreign species from me and I don't get them. But I do recognize two traits in these two fellows that I love in butches - that chivalrous instinct to get a door and help a lady even at their own discomfort, and the boyish desire to show off for pretty femmes by performing sometimes silly, large and small feats of daring do. What I find ironic is that because I became a lesbian at age 12, and my point of reference for almost the entirety of my life has been as a lesbian, I personally recognize these types of acts of chivalry and daring do as butch acts, not as biologically male acts.

Crossing Over

We talk about cock.

M has been cleaning out her closets, and finds her old harness. But it is brittle and breaks, so we must shop for new. A new harness just for me. She wants to be ready for my visit in two weeks. We will have 26 hours together, and we have a lot to do. One is make a pizza together (she can make pizza! and I like the thought of making something together and feeding and eating off of each other) and the other is to talk, and to make love and fuck fuck fuck.

She has decided to throw out her old cock, it was used with an old ex of hers whom I have renamed "anal girl", and M doesn't want to fuck me with it. She wants a new cock just for me.

She wants us to go shopping together, but we don't want to waste any precious time to go out to shop, so we go online while we are on the phone to shop for a new cock and harness for her. I am pretty familiar with the site and we get to toys for lesbians. I tell her I prefer realistic cocks, that purple dolphins with swirling noses are not my first choice. But that I want her to feel she owns her cock, so she needs to feel comfortable with what we look at, that it is she who chooses. If she chooses big, she has to make me open enough to take her, that I must be open enough to take her. So, we pick the harness first.

She selects a handsome leather harness in blue&black. She is intrigued by how turned on I am by harnesses, by how wet I get just by seeing it on the virtual mannequin's body, by imagining it on hers. I love how the straps fit, how the O ring is positioned, how when I see a harness on a woman, it signals desire or capacity, it is a pronouncement of power (even without a cock), and I get wet knowing that a harness means I can get fucked. She likes my hunger.

We then look at compatible cocks. I like one with balls but she wants more depth. She decides that she will pick the one that I can throat and that she can fuck my pussy deep. The one with balls will be our next purchase. She knows I want to feel her balls slapping against me while she fucks me, but that will come later.

She picks her cock and her harness and they will arrive by Tuesday. Enough time for her to wear them and get used to them. I have asked if she would jerk off with it before I come. I hope she will jerk off while I am on the phone with her sometime, I love hearing the sound of stroking wet on cock and I want to hear her voice.

We talk about how much I love cock, how I love to watch cock sliding in and out of my pussy in my favorite face-to-face lap sitting position, to watch her face as she fucks me, to feel consumed by desire and to surrender to her, to her will, to her power.

Earlier in our relationship, after we have talked about fucking, we wander into a conversation about how I am her woman, and I say, uncertain of her response, "I want you to be my man." She pauses for a second, a little surprised, and then says evenly "I am your man. You are my woman and I am your man." My heart jumps. I have so longed for this, someone willing to cross over into that genderfucking territory with me. but I can see that this is new for her to vocalize, new words for her to speak. So we tread slowly.

Today, I say to her, "Do you remember when I asked you to be my man?" She says, "Yes, I remember. I hadn't been able to name that part of me that always felt like a man trapped in a woman's body." I say, "This is why your cock is important to me. That it is yours, I want you to feel the sensation of the back of your cock pulsing against your clit, and feel the sensation of what happens in your brain shooting down directly to your clit..." I tell her that part of my failure with G and with my other longterm partner was that I was unable to understand the difference between lesbians wearing dildos fucking me, and what I crave. I tell her "I want you to fuck me as a man does a woman." I say "I want you to fuck me, making your clit and your cock one. Your cock becomes an extension of your clit, and your clit becomes your cock."

She has been reading Holden's posts (packingvocals.blogspot.com) about being defined by others at a young age, sharing Holden's confusion about the conflict between what you feel and who you are supposed to be, the shame it brings, and how that constricting process of gender tyranny retards the ability to find who you really are, until mid-life. M decides she may, like Holden, find a name for the man inside of her to clearly demarcate his gender identity from her female biology. She adds "I really hope you will be able to control him once you bring him to life." He is clearly very very powerful.

We talk about a friend who is a butch top who wears a cock. It is not clear whether she genderfucks as well, and we discuss how what we feel about ourselves, about each other, about how our dynamic remains still an outlier in relationships between women. Then she has a slight moment where she worries that I might want only cock. I say "I am a lesbian for a reason, I love tits, fingers, hands, clit and pussy. I like to eat pussy, I want to eat your pussy. I want the best in one person, I want your living cock and I want your living clit. And to my great thrill and amazement, you have both." She grins and says "wooooooooooo hoooooooooo!"

Inside the cells that produce sperm and eggs, chromosomes become paired. While they are pressed together, the chromosomes may break, and each may swap a portion of its genetic material for the matching portion from its mate. This form of recombination is called crossing-over. When the chromosomes glue themselves back together and separate, each has picked up new genetic material from the other. The constellation of physical characteristics it determines is now different than before crossing-over.
National Center for Human Genome Research, NIH

Bedtime Story 1

She likes the way I come for her. She listens to my breathing, soft at first, as she begins to tell me how much she loves me, how much she wants me, how much she wants to fuck me. Her voice soft and soothing at first. She knows how to turn me on. Slowly it builds.

She likes to hear my breathing change, it's how she knows my body responds the way she intends. She tells me she will strip the sheets off of my naked body while I sleep, and surprise me the way I like, grabbing my ankles and pulling me almost off the bed, spreading my legs as she pulls me, so my pussy ends up, wet and open at her hips.

She tells me she is wearing her cock. It bounces as she moves, hard and jutting. She strokes it while she looks down at me. She reaches between my legs to feel my wet soaking her fingers, to put my wet all over her cock which she continues to stroke. She likes the sound of my wet on her cock, sliding slick under her grip.

With one hand she strokes her cock and watches me, with her other hand, she spreads my lips and begins to stroke my clit, in soft lazy circles. She can hear my body lift and twist, my breathing begin to shallow and harden, and the start of my wordless moans. She suddenly bends my knees and rolls my body up so she can easily begin to slide the head of her cock just inside my pussy, a tease. Each stroke infinitesimally deeper. But barely. She listens for my breathing, faster now, hungry. She listens for me to cry out, urgent, pleading, "Oh god, please baby, please, please fuck me".

This is for Butch Boo, who wanted an update on my relationship with M. M and I are now fully in the grip of the phone sex stage.

HQ1426 (Part 2)

Part of the reason I decided to write this post was because of something I read on the remarkable blog Femmeismygender.blogspot.com. If you haven't read her blog, you should. Femme, who is of a similar age, mentioned some of her recollections as a young lesbian feminist about the then popular concept of penetration during sex as an embrace of a male heterosexist orthodoxy. All good lesbian feminists rejected any sex that, it was believed, mimicked male-female fucking. As I recollect, we didn't even use the word "fucking", it was always "making love" at best, or "having sex" at worst.

I have always seen myself as willing to question my own beliefs and assumptions. Perhaps that has been true to some extent, but clearly I have failed in a critical area of my life, and that is around my own path to intimacy - sexual and emotional intimacy.

So for years, I had none, bad, okay, good, and great sex with women, none of it consciously penetrative. None of it consciously exploring the nature of power-sharing, none of it consciously examining how in this most intimate act, we physically manifest trust. None of it falling outside the orthodox lesbian feminist bounds of feminist sex, feminist relationships. I never realized or even considered that I might be missing out on something that might be a more intense and more profound path to intimacy than what I knew and had repeated time and time again.

Until I was in my late 30s, I had only slept with one woman who could be considered a butch top. And what a butch top she was. Her dress (jeans, leather jacket, boots, short hair) and an intense swagger and attitude would have gay men in Newtown rush to cruise her for sex, assuming that she was some hot boy. She enjoyed this kind of gender fuck and was quick to laugh at these poor horny guys when they realized they had just solicited a smirky butch dyke. I liked sex with her, she was very direct about telling me she wanted me, wanted to fuck me (though I insisted on the silly pretense that she use the word "make love" even though she clearly wanted just to fuck me), and she was very good at it. She was the first lover who tried to physically restrain me, and she clearly wanted me to bottom to her top. She liked the fact that I enthusiastically ate pussy. We had sex in all kinds of places, and she liked to push the envelope on discovery. She also had a long-term girlfriend and I was her fling, and this added to the intensity. I loved the sex with her, we had sex often, she had a way of initiating sex and "taking" me that resonated with me, almost against my lesbian feminist sensibilities but we never explored much farther, I dumped her in a public restaurant (much to the amusement of the gay men around us) because she was a bit too cruel, insensitive, extremely narcissistic and I was tired of being the "other woman". This relationship, unfortunately, led me to believe the stereotype of all top/bottom relationships as inherently unequal, selfish, and unhealthy. The concept of trust and willing surrender was never part of that relationship, and thus never part of my understanding of the butch/femme top/bottom dynamic.

In retrospect, I realized I never applied the same blanket stereotype of inequity, selfishness and unhealthiness to all those androgynous "lesbian feminist" relationships which were as equally disastrous to me as my failed relationship with W. but in those relationships I simply blamed myself and the other woman, never the strict 50/50 mirroring lesbian feminist model of relationship.

Let me be clear, it is not my interest to call the traditional lesbian feminist sexual dynamic a fraud or a failure, some seem to find it works quite well. But I seek to understand how my game hewing to a particular one-size-fits-all sexual orthodoxy stunted my ability to find the kind of intimacy that I seek. I am interested in rethinking my earlier feminist interpretation, based on my now 35+ years as a lesbian feminist, of the butch/femme top/bottom dynamic as inherently anti-lesbian feminist, inherently unhealthy, unequal, or as simply a poor rote mimic of oppressive heterosex.

It seems a lot of younger quite brilliant lesbians have already been exploring this ground, and exploring it thoughtfully and well, but I, as a contemporary, was struck by reading FIMG's comment, and I realized how interested I am in reading and hearing the reflections and experiences of other lesbians in mid-life who are now rethinking their path to intimacy, trust, and our relationship to power.

I'm going to stop this post here, I would love to hear any of your comments, all views, whatever your age, or gender identification. I intend to pursue this topic further, but I don't want these entries to be so long as to be unreadable. And they are almost that.

Fireworks

I have been walking five miles each night for the past few months. I walk when it is dark and cool and quiet, and I can be alone with my thoughts and with the night. For the last few evenings, there have been loud displays of illegal aerial fireworks in some part of the sky. The fireworks last less than a minute, just long enough for a brilliant and exciting display, and for whomever is setting them off to run away before the cops show up. Kind of an apt metaphor for my own life these past few days.

After I made my last post, I ended up in, dear god, do I say it, a private online chat. I had been conversing for the past few nights with another woman (one assumes a woman), another femme, about art and poetry and the emotional wrack that takes place as you seek publication or exhibition for your work and find mostly rejection. So I popped in, late my time, hoping for a little more art talk.

Well, the first girl never showed up, and I had been there for about 3 minutes and another woman shows up. Butch top. And there was talk. Nice, peaceful talk about life and relationships. Our five hours seemed like five minutes. And it was calm and soothing, and we agreed to meet the next night to talk a little more, and move to a private room.

I wonder if it's a given that private online chats between magnetic opposites invariably lead to talk about fucking. And talk we did. Talked about it for days. The attraction was instantaneous, combustible, powerful. The epitome of what I adore in butch tops, she sees her role as pleasuring her femme. And perhaps as powerfully for her, I see my role as surrendering myself in willing trust to her desires. What pleases her, pleases me. When I am pleased, she is satisfied. And luckily for me, she is not a stone butch, she likes to come both by her femme coming for her and by what I consider the sacred act of clit sucking and cunt eating. Perhaps I'll write more about my thoughts on the joys of giving and receiving oral sex at another time.

Writing and talking for me are intense forms of foreplay. Since I write, I love all the things language can do. Its transformative nature, its ability to move directly from what I think to you, not impeded by physical clues or other physical senses. Of course, sometimes physical clues may be (very) important. But online chats are a very modified form of a monologue. And monologues are, by their structure, very self-indulgent. We can expound and hold sway, we can share our innermost fears, thoughts, and desires. Without the immediacy of judgement.

So I am online getting fucked by this very hot younger, beautifully cocky, butch top with a sizzling desire for me. And I have to say, I adore her. Is it cheating? Is it fantasy cheating?

Being lesbians, however, we don't just do sex, we become emotionally entangled. And being butch/top-femme/bottom the energy is intense. She wants to do to me all the things that I want. I want to do what pleases her, to trust her desire. To push myself, to allow myself to open up to her and to all she desires. And because, as lesbians, this whole interplay has an intense emotional component, this has fallen faster and deeper than my rational mind tells me is sensible. Because, the rational voice says in my head, I am in relationship of many years with G, and we are separated but not separate. Because I love G still, as I love all my exes, and our practical lives are intermeshed - we own a house together. Untangling and separating will not be an easy task, emotionally and logistically. Perhaps M will be more sensible about this than I am, and end this before we get too much farther than the far we seem to have already gone. I confess we have already used the "L" word and if you think I'm talking about "licking" you 'd only be half right.

I suspect some of my behavior in the last few days has been part of my natural preference for "talking out loud" to work problems out. And I have learned a lot about myself in this so far short romance. It becomes clearer to me what I want in my partner. She must identify sexually as a butch top. Because that sexual dynamic, that structure of interplay, allows me to release myself, to be free, in a way that no other type of sexual dynamic does. It remains missing in my current relationship. And I suspect it will never be there. I remain surprised at how essential the butch/femme top/bottom dynamic is for me, not simply as sexual role play but as central to how I seek safety and sanctuary in the world. I feel a little silly that the great fear and great joy of discovering this given about the necessary structural manifestation of intimacy for me, comes in mid-life. But c'est la vie.

Who knows what other fireworks the night will bring, and if I will need to start running?

Hope

We have been separated now for over a year. I am here and you are thousands of miles away. I ostensibly came to help my aged mother, but it was a welcomed reprieve for us, a break from the near constant fighting, the perpetual misunderstandings and slights, the inescapable stress of two planets in constant collision.

We were not always this way, but mostly always this way from our very beginning. I always said our relationship was never legato, always staccato. I chose you because I wanted someone strong, someone who could withstand the intensity of my personality, my over-confident intellect, the drilling and penetrating nature of my judgements. Because I wanted to release myself from being that person, if only for a few hours each week, with someone who was emotionally and intellectually strong enough to take the burden of my nature from me. To lift it from me, to give me a sanctuary from myself. Perhaps this was always too much to ask of anyone. Everyone else has their own demons, their own insecurities, their own search for safe harbors.

I have lived most of my life unaware of how powerfully I impact others, however unintentionally. I am very small femme woman, never physically intimidating. I have simply done as I chose. Since I am late to this self-knowledge I often forget how others experience me. At my worst and most negative, I have been told that I can be intimidating and overwhelming, a kind of powerful inescapable intense force. I know I have eviscerated very powerful people at times easily, and wielded more power to affect outcome professionally than others in my orbit. Just by dint of personality. At my best and most positive, this same intensity and focus can make me very warm, charismatic and charming, a natural, enthusiastic, and visionary leader, and a confident and inventive problem-solver. People have always been attracted to these traits in me. And at my best I provide safe harbor for others, I am optimistic, eternally hopeful, and can lift up others who are in my universe.

But for me, these traits are a blessing and a burden. I like being able to help others. But there are times when I tire of being the strong one, the smart one, the brave one, the caring one, the one who eviscerates the powerful wrong-doers on behalf of the powerless, the one who is never afraid, the one who reassures and comforts, the one who will always make things right, the one you can trust with your soul.

I wanted you to be the one to take that burden from me. To shelter me. But you have your own demons, your own intense insecurities, your own burdens. I worried that I could not trust you to (or perhaps I just never let you) take care of me, in the most intimate way. This way that manifests for me through sex. There is a reason I like to be fucked, to be taken, to be over-powered by my lover. To bottom to her top. To trust her to care for me when I am weak, and afraid, and lost. To be completely vulnerable to her, to be naked to her. These are not simply metaphorical musings but literal ones, I manifest my vulnerability in my nakedness to you. I give you what I do not give others, I give you the presentness of my self, no past, no future, only what exists in this moment. I am not here to fix anything or plan strategically or tactically for a future action or to analyze a problem, I am just one naked body, existing only to respond to your touch.

But the anger and fighting have left us separate broken planetary bodies, without contact, except though passing words. It's hard to see this as an improvement over collision, but it is where we are. This has been our relationship for years. And while our state recognizes marriage equity, you have never asked me. And I have never asked you.

I have been away now for more than a year. I thought it would be good to finally come home, though we have fought on the phone, like nothing has changed. I thought we could try to connect again through renewed fucking, you might like it, you might want it. You might like the power to make me come for you. I bought you a new cock and harness for your birthday, hoping to inspire you. But you were suspicious of me. You had earlier pulled out the estrogen implant from your cervix to replace that lost through your hysterectomy, and you told me you decided not to take vaginal estrogen supplements. Your sex drive has disappeared. "I don't know," you said "it's hard to feel any interest in fucking (you) anymore." The words were plain and hit me squarely.

I am not sure what to do. I wasn't so sanguine that renewed sexual intimacy would allow us a base of closeness that would buffer the distance that comes with the clashes in our styles and personalities, but I had hope. Now I have none. And I don't know what to do.

In Praise of Young Butches

There you were, legs spread, sitting on a low wall, lean body relaxed, eating a snack, watching me as I loaded groceries into the car. I glanced up, and saw you, a slight smile on your face, your eyes boldly meeting mine, staring frankly at me. You were in jeans, a t-shirt, your hair short, your eyes dark, a clear and beautiful face, in your early 20s. Having had a bad last few weeks full of insecurity about my sexual desirability, I didn't quite believe you were looking at me, a middle-aged femme, dressed casually in black t-shirt, khaki shorts, and black sandals, keys hanging around my neck, bouncing just below my tits. I loaded more groceries, and looked up again, and there you were, still watching me, you openly eyed my body, stopping at my tits, then moved back up to look me squarely in the eyes, still smiling. Cocky, I thought, and sexy.

I wheeled the empty cart back to the cart station, 15 feet from you. I moved the cart closer, a smile pressing at my lips, I glanced back at you. Our eyes met, and lingered, we smiled, and I turned and returned the cart and walked back to the car, knowing you were enjoying my ass.

As I drove away, I turned to see you, and there you were, cocky smile still on your beautiful face, watching me. You stretched your neck and turned your head, so we could hold that gaze a little longer.

Ah, young butches. Thanks, baby.

Mr Limpy

Okay, back to gay porn. I watched a fascinating vid of a bunch of Brit "footballers" sucking and fucking each other. What was interesting to me was how difficult it was for some of the guys to get really hard. Mr L, shall we call him, after an intense bout of having his otherwise very pretty and nicely shaped dick thoroughly licked and swallowed and then using it to force fuck Mr X's throat sideways (to get in deep) down to the bottom of his shaft, he still was kind of limpy. Kind of sad, actually.

A different guy took over and sucked Mr Limpy with great enthusiasm, and another guy rimmed his asshole, but still, Mr Limpy. I wonder if he just wasn't that into it. But he was clearly very popular with the mens, perhaps because he had the prettiest dick. Finally another guy, Mr H, with a really hard dick that practically stood up to his belly, turned him over and fucked him in the ass. Mr Limpy's dick was still semi-hard but still mostly limpy. Mr H pulled out and turned him over and dribbled his cum on Mr still Limpy's pretty mouth and upturned face.

So, straight guys wonder why femme lesbians like to be fucked by butch lesbians? or by other femmes? One reason, lesbians never fuck you with a limpy dick, except on purpose. And depending on mood, any thickness or length of beautiful hard cock is available, and a girl can get fucked until she comes. And the whole cum thing? Shooting out of a bio dick? Not really that exciting. Mostly over-hyped dribble.

Is this too harsh? Sorry. Luckily there are gobs and gobs of straight girls and gay guys who love bio dick. Isn't the world a wonderful place?

Identities

I comment regularly on a political blog under a male identity. I didn't plan on this, I am just bad at coming up with names and my male cat was sitting on the desk batting at me, and so I used his name. He is a lovely boy, btw, and I adore him. But here I am, stuck with a decidedly male identity, so I just decided to stick with it.

I keep all the relevant facts of my life experience intact when commenting, I just, and others just, assume a male persona. So I am a gay man on that blog. A femme gay man. Whoosh. So I have a bf, not a gf, and okay, I sometimes talk about fabric.

What surprises me is how easy it is to assume a different gender identity, and how much more respect I get from other (assumed) male bloggers as a man. When I write one thing on one blog as a man, I get disagreement but respect. When I write the exact same thing on another blog as a woman, I get some trashing for being "too emotional". Who says sexism is dead?

I sometimes flirt sweetly, as I am sometimes wont to do on political blogs, with other bloggers, as a "gay man". Since these are progressive blogs, most straight men are pretty good natured about it, the gay guys will give it back, and the trolls won't answer. Women (or assumed women, I suppose) are very sweet about it. They like gay men who flirt with women, it's a safe way to flirt. I find all this quite mind-boggling and like a spider in my own web, I wonder how long I can maintain the fiction.

There are a couple of women on the site I frequent most whom I believe suspect that I am a woman, because I will often weigh in on feminist issues, on the side of feminists. Certain progressive blogs still contain a significant number of immature men who think using words like "bitch" or "cunt" prove them daring and cutting edge, rather than expose their limited word base as insipid and trite and sexist. I am often one of the very few male personas who weigh in in support of feminists. It is a weird twist in the anonymous internets, and calls into question assumptions about sex and gender. Perhaps this is why younger people whose childhood and teenage game playing may have included the assumption of an avatar of the opposite sex, have more fluid views on gender and on sexuality.

When I was young, I played games like cowboy where I assumed the identity of a gunslinger. Others assumed that meant I was being tomboyish, but I never actually felt as if I wanted to be a boy gunslinger, just a gunslinger who was a girl. I liked powerful figures, and while most powerful archetypes were male, not all were male.

Coming out as a lesbian, at the time I did, one did a lot of flannel and short haircuts. So I mostly dated girls who looked and dressed just like me. Since I am fairly extroverted and confident and funny (I think) in my regular life, I think there was an assumption by some friends that I fell more on the butch side of the spectrum. It took a little while to figure out that while there is a certain urban street look I like for myself (khakis or black pants, soft black tshirts, black ankle boots), there is a femme variety of this kind of dressing that I prefer in my non-work life. But I also wear sweats and sweatshirts at home, or shorts and tshirts, or when I paint (a house sucks up a lot of paint, and there are always more and more places to paint), crappy painting clothes.

When I work, I wear more typically femme clothing, but butchier femme. I rarely wear a dress or jumper or skirt or skirted suit, though I have them. I tend to wear pants (soft cotton. rayon, tencel or something with drape), a casual top (cotton, rayon, tencel or in the summer linen) and a beautiful, often expensive, scarf. I tend to wear scarves like the women's version of a tie. It dresses up outfits, and makes them more "professional". The clothes are comfortable, and I don't have to think about them, or how I sit, or how I will have to move, and I can focus on the work crisis at hand. I do notice that when I am dressed for work (or wear my work topcoat over my casual clothes) I am treated more deferentially by others.

Anyway, it's interesting how easy it is to influence a response based on malleable conditions. As a person of color, as a woman, as a lesbian, I know there are some things that are (for me) unchanging. And I live with the sometimes oppressive responses of an outside world, but it is an eye-opener for me to see how different my life experience could be if I was not who I am.

Another Day

It's humid and overcast, the day has almost slipped over the last bit of western sky, but it is still light out.

I've been reading lots of political blogs and sex blogs, as of late. I correlate this to the two things that seem to compel me most, right now: the election of Barack Obama and an increase in my libido due to exercise. Both fascinations are tied solely to the internet right now, since Barack has not invited me to join his Cabinet (he may have lost my email address) and I am away from home and from the girlfriend.

I understand men spend an inordinate amount of time on these two internet pursuits, but this duo is relatively new to me.

I have not watched any porn on the internet until recently. While I am a lesbian who enjoys what is dismissively called by some "reproductive heterosex" with girls, I don't find straight porn that interesting. Mostly because the women are, for the most part, completely unattractive to me. They just don't appear to be into it, in a way that resonates for me. And the guys have great looking dicks but no pussies or tits or clits, so it's kind of a let down. Did I mention I am not into guys? I did visit a gay male porn site just to see, and ZOWIE, okay, the guys really do do sex like it's a completely hedonistic animal act. And lucky for them, the other guys are just as into it. I was stunned by anal fisting which I had never actually seen before, and really, if it floats your boat, go for it, it's not a practice, however, that's currently high on my "to do" list.

Anyway, it's been an interesting time-waster. I've posted comments on some of the queer sex blogger sites, and a few of them are quite good writers, especially of queer erotica, mostly of the butch/top variety. Since I have femmed bottom (verb) in the past, I admit I reflexively find butch tops attractive. But I am not good at managing one consistent behavior, so I wasn't a really good femme bottom, because I don't always find lipstick practical, nor do I always agree that I should defer to what I consider impractical or arbitrary rules made by some butch top with a cock. This is why I do not belong to clubs. I make a horrible club person. I do belong to the JC Penney bra & panty club which only requires that you carry a little card and once you have purchased 6 bras (even on sale) you get the 7th for free. Now that's a club I can belong to.

Instead of porn and politics I have been trying to write a ghazal. A form of poetry that I have no history with, but I find interesting because I have no history with it. It's not what I write, but if we can't try something new and difficult every once in a while, well, I guess I would waste more time reading queer porn or watching snips of dyke porn. I actually refuse to pay for the full view, since my prurient interests are way out matched by my penny pinching. Really, if penny pinching was a sexual practice, I would be a cheap whore, really cheap.

Since I am terrible at belonging to groups with rules, (I am not so much rebellious or anti-authority as I am indifferent and easily bored), we'll see how long I keep this blog going. I hope it will be an honest interesection of the things that seem to run my life. We'll see.