Roses on Fishnet Stockings

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On the V train:

Caramel skin and she smelled like vanilla. Her hat was knit, covering her head like a something poofy and french, brown ringlets poking deliberately out from under it. Her jacket was mocha coffee colored suede with white fur at the seams, it came in stylishly at the waist and flared at the bust, unbuttoned to reveal delicious curves, cleavage. I don’t usually notice cleavage. Hers was near perfect.

On the E train:

Snow white: ruby lips, raven hair, creamy skin. Stop staring, I tell myself.

At Union Square:

Roses embroidered on the backs of her fishnet stockings. Black heels, not delicate, but not clunky either, rather very solid, firm. I wanted to bite each rose from her calf. Tear it with my teeth.

Clearly something is happeneing to my libido today. I do go through these moods occasionally. I wonder where I am in my cycle, if this corresponds.

Makes me wish I had someone to call & fuck.

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.

    • 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.

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