The Changing of the Seasons

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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.

the therapy session

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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.
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tip of my tongue

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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.
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The Care & Feeding of Butches

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  • When I look handsome, tell me so. That look of appreciation in your eyes for my masculinity makes me melt.
  • Let me open doors for you, hold your umbrella, carry your bags, pull our your chair, refill your drink. These are the ways I call you precious.
  • When I am moody, let me have space. I will come back to you for help when I am ready.
  • Take my left elbow while we are walking. It makes me feel like I am promenading you, and plus our bodies can be closer that way than with handholding.
  • Don’t make a big deal out of it if I cook, clean, or cry. These may be “women’s things” (socialized or by nature, that’s a debate for another time) but I like to do them, I like my subversive gender, I was raised female too.
  • Buy me boy presents like cuff links, ties, a flask, suspenders, a watch caddy, a shoe-shine kit. These are tokens that show how you celebrate my gender expression, just like when I buy you lingerie, flowers, perfume, jewelry.
  • Watch (or read) porn with me sometimes. Then tell me how you’d do it better!
  • Don’t assume I’m stone just cause I’m (a top, and) butch. I like sex – and getting off.
  • Tell me when I fuck up, and let me fix it. I usually can. I’m handy that way.

    • Nipple Clamps & the Pleasurable Pinch

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    My nipple clamps: I have a love/hate/love relationship with them. (Although to be honest, sometimes it’s more of a hate/love/hate relationship.) I am myself often profoundly passionately ambivalent, and my nipple clamps embody this dyadic intensity with exceptional and excruciating precision.

    They’re a simple machine, really. Just two alligator clips yoked together by a slender chain. Some nipple clamps seem kinder with their adjustable screws set in their metal centers, but it’s a sham kindness really, for where the lies the gentleness so rests the cruelty. You can open the alligator mouths wider by manipulating the screw, but you can also make their jaws shut tight. Too wide and the clamps slip off your nipples erect and hard as pencil erasers. Too tight and, well, you can imagine.

    Or can you? There is a fine line between pleasure and pain, as has been noted with such repetition as to render the aphorism nearly banal. The nipple clamp surfs that fine crest. It limns the line, as much as it blurs it. Because the simple and inescapable fact is that when you—or someone you trust—carefully places first one nipple, casually rubbed to tiny tumescence, and then the other within those small alligator jaws, something painful and something pleasurable will happen.

    The best way I can describe it is this: the nipple clamp draws the shortest distance—a straight somatic line—between your nipple and your clit. The pinch of the nipple sends the electric shock of new recognition to your more pleasurable bits, and even as the nipple hurts, even as it screams in its small silent voice, you’ll find an opposite and corollary reaction occurring in your genitals. It has a nearly mathematical beauty, and it feels as perfect, as frustrating, as inexorable as algebra.

    Nipple clamps do more than shock anew the pleasure bits. They adorn you. Nipples beg to be dressed, poking out as they do, whether perched on the modest slopes of a flat breast or the abundance of a full breast. The nipple clamp, shiny, glittering in candle light or street light, looks beauteous, the slight weight of the chain tugging the breasts down in graceful tandem. The chain swings gently between the breasts as the body moves. It begs to be pulled.

    The thing about me and my nipple clamps is that when I put them on, or when they are put on me, their tiny bite wakes some sleeping beastie. It’s a feral pain, and make no mistake about it, it is pleasurable. The clamps rouse me from complacence. They intensify everything I feel—good, bad, and exquisite. They make an ordinary round of rogering something more visceral, more total, and more impassioned.

    Which is not to say, as I began, that I always love them. The nipple clamps are not for me an every day thing. They are a treat and they are a trick. They are something that I both look forward to and that I dread. They make every fucking moment that much more immediate, and they can not be removed fast enough once I, exhausted and wrung pleasure wet and sighing, have come unto completion.

    Fucktoy

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    With the blindfold over my eyes and the ball gag in my mouth, I find the smell of leather and pussy is inescapable.

    My arms are bound in thick white rope Jeannie-style: before my chest and under my boobs. I look like I just have to nod my head and blink to make my wish come true, but perhaps I already have and it already is.

    My lover has piled pillows pasha-high on the bed. I am unceremoniously bent over them; my chin is propped up on my rope-bound wrists and my ass, which I cannot see, which I must imagine, forced as I am in this nose-down, coccyx-up posture, a position that not so much suggests my submission as it enforces it, my imagined ass flowers large and glowing, a hot-house blossom, large and mysterious and faintly dangerous. My ass, exposed as it is to My lover’s eyes and my fecund imagination, embodies both fascination and revulsion.
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    Tight Spots

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    We are waiting for breakfast — have been waiting for twenty minutes. The line is out the door and halfway down the block; about right for this place at 1 PM on a Saturday. (Good thing they serve breakfast until 2.) We’re almost inside; the door is propped half open by my boot. People pack the entrance because the gusting wind is chill. In front of us are two couples with children; we are not partial to children, but these, although fractious, are contained. One has brought her bear to breakfast; you smile your approval.

    Behind us is a trio of college students, very happy about something. One is a girl with bright copper hair punked up, hanging on the arm of a guy whose long black braid looks like it was dipped in shoe polish. The third is a girl too short to see clearly. I opine that they’re art students — they look like they all dressed in the same fashionable dumpster this morning. You tell me I’m too judgmental.

    The wind crowds the trio into us, and the couples in front contract to give us a little room. We shrink into it. The line moves six inches.

    You are wedged into me quite tightly now; arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder. Gusts blowing through the partially open door fan your hair across my eyes. Unexpectedly, your tongue makes a pass at my earlobe, and you whisper, “No escape — I’ve got you now.” Read more

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