June 24, 2010
All this heat
I’ve been hard for days. Ready to fuck. I take long luxurious laps at the briefest contacts to my pelvis – the moment of walking through the subway turnstyles. Leaning up against a table. My hips tilt upward in wait, like the center of a plant revealing to the blue sky. Magnetic and animal and it’s all I can do to keep from growling, sharpening my teeth on the skin of the girl next to me, behind me, in front of me.
My cock is hard. That internal butch cock that raises and piques when I feel that rush to my clit, that swelling between my legs.
I am a battery charged. Plugged in and there is much I would do for the chance to spend a weekend in bed. Or a day – I’d settle for a day.
Cock so hard I could force it through brick. Through plywood. It could puncture glass, plastic. What would it do to you?
June 21, 2010
In Praise of Summertime Girls
The really fantastic thing about summer, and it nearly goes without saying, is the marvelous paucity of clothing. The sheerness of the fabrics, the slenderness of the straps, the floatiness of the skirts, the way that the summer air itself becomes more of a garment than what we put on in the morning.
Women walking around in deep v-cut t-shirts, their breasts puddling like liquid mangoes all ripe and juicy. Blackberry nipples. Apricot aureoles. The sweet peachy down of the cleft of an ass. The succulent slipperiness of persimmon labia (though now I’ve undressed the ubiquitous woman in question, without her permission, and slipped her metonymically into autumn fruit. That is so unfair). The long downward-sloping plane of the abdomen, rounded gently as the bottom of a watermelon.
Summer is the time of edible women. Girls tall and cool, dripping sweet like popsicles. And girls short and plump as dusky plums, with mysterious and sheeny-slick skins. Tasty chicks you want to lick from instep to eyeball, just because they look so good standing there in the summer sun, backlit maybe, their gauze skirts flirting with translucency. Only their eyes behind their sunglasses are shuttered tight as windows in Guadalajara at noontime; only their eyes are icy and off-putting.
The other day, a Sunday, I saw a girl struggling with both her many-sectioned paper and a broken strap on her sandal. She was across the street from me, sitting on the curb, paper under one arm, bent over and attentive to her recalcitrant footwear. She was wearing a white shirt and a red skirt, a flippy red skirt whose hem had a mind of its own, or perhaps it had a mind of my own.
May 23, 2010
Summer Game Plan
She saw me the moment I walked into the bar. I saw her, too, just a moment before she looked up from her vodka tonic and gave me the once-over, by which time I’d already looked away (keeping her in my periphery) and began greeting the regular barflies that were starting to recognize me. The bartender gave me a nod and poured me a Jameson rocks.
She was sitting at a table near the bar with a small group of girls of varying degrees of heteroflexible, one in sporty clothes and looking very uncomfortable, and one androgynous poster-dyke who clearly knew her way around the place and was just returning from the jukebox, which she had no doubt taken over and pumped full of quarters to last the next three hours.
The girl was in a summery dress, white with thin black lines, that tied at the shoulders, one of those perfect a-skirts that twirls a little and swishes when she walks. The ones that make me stop and stare on a busy street before I realize it. That turn me into a teenaged boy, drooling and tugging at my jeans to hide my embarrassing arousal.
And the shoes – they were low strappy sandals, my favorites, criss-crossed over the top of her feet, gently nestled against each other on the legs of her tall barstool chair.
The other dykes in the bar disregarded her, I could see it as they walked in and scanned the place. Straight, they thought. But she wasn’t.
I knew the same way I knew her friend was – I just knew. Something about her femininity was deliberate, thought through. Her nails were short. Her hair was pulled up off her neck and twisted into a clip, wispy around her face. Cheeks flushed from the recent streak of sunshine and heat, maybe she’d been playing in the park today.
And she checked me out.
(That’s how I really knew.)
Straight girls don’t look at me the way femmes do. And femme bottoms don’t look at me the way femme tops do – the tops have a self-satisfied smirk, a command, an external push of energy. The bottoms hold their breath, lower their eyes and wait a moment before checking to see if I’m still looking.
I am.
I settle at the bar. Okay, game plan: she’s with friends, but already noticed me. Wants me to make the first move (I tell myself) but I need an excuse to say something, to get her alone. And what’ll I say?
Jesse – the bartender and one of my best friends – chats with me casually as the place fills up and gets increasingly busy. She goes off to pull some beers and I’m deep into my second James when I get a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me.” It’s the girl. Dammit, I was going to say hi first. I turn my shoulders, not my legs, and raise my eyebrows.
“Could you get the bartender’s attention? I’ve been standing here five minutes … ” I shoot a look to Jesse and she’s smiling in that way that means she’s about to crack up, deliberately not looking at me.
I simultaneously think, “you asshole,” and “thanks.”
I give Jesse a nod when she meets my eyes and she nods back, to me and the girl, who is reassured.
I suspect it wasn’t Jesse’s attention this girl really wanted. “I’m Sinclair,” I say. The barstool next to me is suddenly vacant and the girl moves in to rest her elbows on the bar.
“Moira,” she says, and looks at me sideways, slyly, with a little shy smile, chin in her shoulder.
“Well, Moira. What are you drinking?”
“Vodka tonic. Stoli raspberry.”
I nod. Jesse approaches and I repeat: “Stoli raspberry and tonic, thanks man.”
We sit in silence a moment and I take a watery swig of the end of my James. Jesse puts a new one down in front of me next to her drink, I peel a twenty out of my pocket, throw it on the bar.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I say.
She almost blushes. A warm flush. Her few freckles deepen. “Thank you. I mean, I think you just did.” She crosses her legs at the knee and picks up her drink, discarding the lime on the napkin and taking a sip through the two thin bar straws, swiveling on her stool slightly to face me.
“So,” she says, “I guess that bought you a drink’s worth of conversation. I’m curious – does this kind of thing work on lots of girls?” Her eyes are flashing, lips curling at the edge. Playful.
“Well, I … uh … ” I want to tell her there are no other girls, there haven’t been in months. I’m in a dry spell and I like it that way. Sure, they catch my eye, but they don’t keep it. I want to tell her not to come home with me because she’ll just determine like all the others that my heart is broken, that I’m broken. I want to tell her I love her shoes. I want to taste that drink in her mouth, feel her slender fingers in the short hairs on my neck.
I breathe in, out. Then shrug. “Sometimes.”
She laughs. Jesse looks over at me from behind the beer taps and smirks.
May 20, 2010
ask for what you want
I want you to only address me as Sir.
I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.
I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.
I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.
I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.
I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.
I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.
Can you do that for me?
March 22, 2010
The Changing of the Seasons
It’s spring again.
We’re all coming out of the long hibernation, dragging our bodies out into the light and sun again, rediscovering picnics, parks, promenades, pool tables.
We’re putting away our winter woolen suits and outing our skin, letting it breathe again, letting the gym work pay off (or letting the lack thereof be noticed).
And me, I notice the girls: you’re everywhere. Seasons changing brings new fashion in a big city like mine, and I cannot help but to stare at the shift in shoes, in hemline, in neckline, in sleeve cuffs, in ankles.
These moments make me fear I objectify women too much. The feminist in me occasionally recoils. But isn’t there a difference between rude objectification and deep appreciation for the female form?
Of course, it is not just appreciation. Changes in season bring out the teenage-boy-in-heat in me, the desperation to fuck. I watch your swishy skirts and strappy sandals and I wonder how your hips move, how well you follow orders, how hard you like the pounding. How does your face flush when you come? Would your hands grasp for me, or for the mattress, or for the headboard?
Making women come: it is a skill I will never fully master, but for which I will always strive to perfect. Such infinite variation of pleasure, pain, release, surrender, power. I want a magic touch, I want a full year’s graduate study of the female orgasm, I want clipboards and a white lab coat to observe woman after woman getting off.
Not only because I aspire to be a good lover – also, I crave it. Need it like oxygen, water, like I need to finish a book once I get to the last ten pages. Something deep in me shudders and releases when I can hold you, shaking, until your body calms. Something in me is soothed to heal, to leave you better than when I found you, to convince you of your inherent beauty, if only one night, if only one moment, to bring you a little heaven in a little death.
March 17, 2010
the therapy session
The Saturday that Miss DD was visiting me in New York City, we attempted to go out to a queer dance that boasted swing, salsa, and tango music, but when we arrived it was near empty, awkward, unsexy, and unwelcoming. We did not stay.
The failed dance, really, is irrelevant, aside from that we had dressed up for it. We’d been to the Shanghai Mermaid the night before, which, we didn’t realize, would’ve been a perfect venue for our swing outfits: her short-short black twirly dress, small jacket with leopard-print accents, seamed stockings (there’s a word for those yes? “cuban heel”?), and she carried her red “ruby slippers” dancing heels in a bag – can’t have the soles getting all messed up – which she’d found when we’d been out shopping in the Village. I wore the outfit my stylist and I had picked out especially for this, including a black velvet jacket (which I’ve always wanted) and a fedora.
“I love that you understand costuming,” Miss DD said to me.
So we should’ve worn those fabulous swing outfits to Shanghai Mermaid, but we thought this dance was going to be great. Instead we were let down. We left the dance almost immediately, and went to Therapy.
“Therapy has the most fuckable bathrooms I’ve ever been in,” I remembered, opening the thick, heavy wooden door at the gayboy bar for DD. Fucking her in the bathroom honestly hadn’t been part of the plan – I was just desperate for a queer-ish venue where we could have some drinks, make out, possibly dance. It was the only bar around Midtown I could think of.
Continue reading . . .
March 15, 2010
tip of my tongue
On Sunday – after a lovely date with Penny on Saturday night where we watched the Sex and the City film, had dinner, drinks, dessert after, went to my place and kept each other up until 3am – we were lounging, satiated from a morning of breakfast and sex, talking about her plans to move to San Francisco.
Penny was lying tucked under my arm on the couch, and asked, “What’s on your mind?�
“Going down on you,” I said. I felt her body pulse in response.
We talked. Safer sex, my history, hers, why I don’t go down, that I wanted to with her. This conversation, inevitably, led to kissing, my mouth on her neck, clavicle, nipples, which was suddenly such a heightened sensation because we were both so aware of the idea of her clit in my mouth.
Pushing her into the bedroom, I stripped her bare swiftly, laid her out on the bed. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me to her in the sweetest gesture of vulnerability and desire; it was one of the strongest moments of the weekend.
“I want to taste you,� I murmured into the skin of her neck and cheek. “I want your clit in my mouth. I want to get you all wet, then fuck you, get my cock out and slide it in deep …�
Her back arched in response, pressing against me. Mouth opened, breath thick.
Continue reading . . .
keep looking »
-
Our Sites
- CyberDyke - The only erotic entertainment network for women bi women on the Web
- CyDy Blog - Views and news about everything queer & dear to us!
- DarkPlay - Radically different from other internet porn! RL Lesbians sharing their love of Kink with you
- Girl Tools - Testing all manner of sexual tools! We put our satisfaction on the line so you don’t have to!
- Miss Amanda - Young wholesome girl-loving girl with a very special obsession!
- Story Mistress - Erotica that does not shy away from any taboos. Created just for the open-minded lesbian or bisexual woman
- All the Rest - Over a dozen sites in all are waiting to please you!
-
Our Favorite Reads
- AltPorn
- Always Aroused Girl
- Ambient Storm
- Audacia Ray
- Babeland Blog
- Belle du Jour
- Curvaceous Dee
- Fleshbot
- Mars With Mars and Venus
- Naked Loft Party
- NYC Perverts’ Saloon
- Rachel Kramer Bussel
- Selina Fire
- Seska
- Sugarbutch Chronicles
- Susie Bright
- Terry Teachout
- The Pillow Book
- Violet Blue
- Viviane’s Sex Carnival
- Wilful Damage
and . . . - Chelsea