Summer Game Plan

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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.

ask for what you want

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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?

Ask For What You Want

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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?

you’re going to come for me

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“Harder,” she whispered. “Fuck me harder, please, please.”

In a dingy bathroom in the downstairs of a Tibetan restaurant. Her cheek against the peeling greasy paint, legs kicked apart, stockings pulled down just to below her ass, dress shoved up around her waist, in front of the filmy bathroom mirror where she could see my arm flexing as my fingers – two, three – thrust inside her. Photos of the Dalai Lama on the wall. Penny joked about her being a bad Buddhist.

But I couldn’t resist.
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My Lover’s Absolute Devotions

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My lover has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my lover’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when she didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what she feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My lover is seriously in love with my pussy.

She kneels, she kowtows, she pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. She seems unable to help herself; she loses control; she stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of her tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of her lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; she pulls my head back and she pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. She bites, but all too fleetingly. She takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. She sucks one nipple, she bites it as if she were nipping a berry from a bush. She suckles, summarily. She then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that she may worship at the altar of my cunt.
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A Cup of Jo

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She doesn’t know I exist. Sure, she takes my two clammy dollars and single quarter for my medium half-caf and she punches my card, and she puts the .13¢ in the ceramic jug that is labeled “Tips!� and adorned with jaunty daisies, but she doesn’t see me. I am reduced to my faceless caffeine addiction in the face of her casual neglect of my existence. I nothing but a cup of joe.

But her, she is a being of extraordinary beauty, and she knows it. She wears her beauty like a dress she found in a bargain bin at a church sale. It cost her little and therefore merits just that much regard. Her hair is defiantly highlighted in great swarthy swatches of blonde that stride strident against her natural oak brown. Her almond skin is bare of make-up, but for two level lines that march across her eyelids, just above her lashes, and streak out toward her temples. Sometimes her lips bear the lightest brunt of berry-hued gloss, but most usually not.

People already stop and stare, so why court their attention, or so I’d guess her thinking goes, for I’ve never spoken to her other than to order, obsequiously, my cup of coffee. What would I say? I quell and quake before her. She and her beauty and her disregard of it and her inescapable pulse of cool render me speechless. I am stuck dumb.
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Hot Curry Nights

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The curry is particularly good at a certain little Thai restaurant south of Market. We pilgrimage there on a Friday night, past the shops and shows and leather crowds on Market Street, to stand in line with the rest of the curry and satay lovers. We must look quite a pair while we wait. I have planned this evening minutely, dressed with special care. You have obliged me in wearing your cotton sateen dress with the long petal skirt that goes so well with your short jacket and cordovan boots. My leather pants, black bomber jacket and hair in a tight braid are selected to accentuate your softness this evening. Only you know about the sleeveless shell of peach silk I’m wearing against my skin.
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