Scintillectually Yours

Occasionally, when I can’t find something to watch on any of the 87,490,238,739,829,302 channels I have at my disposal, I’ll fall back on old episodes of “The Real L-Word.” The series began after the REAL “L-Word” ended a couple of years ago. Now, I don’t live in LA, have never been to LA, and after watching both of these series, have no real desire to ever go to LA. When the first series (fictional) began, I was hooked. It was kind of cool to get drawn into the drama and the characters and yeah, I had a real thing for Shane but she’s such a hot bad boi that she fit the mold of every woman I’ve ever been attracted to. Just watching Kate Moenig walk around in a beater and jeans with a studded belt was enough to take my mind off of the fact that no group of lesbians I’ve ever known look, or act, like the bunch from either L-Word.

So now Bette and Shane and Dana and Alice are gone and I had my fun with the fanisode writing contests (hey, I got all the way to number 11 with one of my entries) and we’re left with what are, allegedly, real lesbians in La La Land. Maybe it’s a generational thing. I mean, I am old enough to have parented most of these young girls, but I don’t remember quite that much drama in my life. Wait…maybe there was. Yeah…I’m starting to recall lots of drunken threesomes, one night stands, hooking up with friends’ girlfriends behind their backs, fucking in the downstairs bathroom while I was supposed to be throwing a party at my house, my soon-to-be girlfriend going down on me in the back of a van on our way to a softball tournament…. Wow. It’s all coming back in a hazy blur that makes me rather blush. And wasn’t it just six years ago that I allowed a woman to move in with me the day after I met her in person and less than a week after we met online? Oh. my. god.

Dyke drama. Yeah, it’s alive and well. While I sat there this morning shaking my head at the television and thinking, “you want REAL lesbian life? Come get some of THIS!” Because my real lesbian life? It’s all about carpooling and bill paying and lawn maintenance. It’s about shuttling your kid from football practice to cub scouts. It’s about juggling choir rehearsal at your church with fitting a burger and fries in with your friends who are on their way home from an AA meeting. It’s about full-time jobs and throwing dinner together and trying to find time to exercise and not getting to see your partner until 9 p.m. most nights when you both fall into bed exhausted and can barely muster the energy for a peck on the cheek before you are both snoring loudly and one of you is drooling and the other farts.

Dyke drama. It’s alive and well when you are in your 20s and maybe in your 30s. When you hit your 40s, you’ve pretty much grown out of all of that and all you want is some semblance of normalcy and maybe a night to yourselves when you aren’t too dog tired to actually fuck for an hour or two before your joints give out and you get all freaked by the extra back fat that jiggles when your partner is shoving her cock in your ass. Clearly, no one wants to make a show about two well-past-prime-time middle-aged women with the exact same life issues as every other virtually married couple with a kid and a couple of pets and elderly parents in the mix. We might make a slightly interesting documentary but we’re no match for the dreadlocked Whitney and her silicone-boob-sporting paramour, Sara (pronounced Sahdah, of course). These girls are all gorgeous, all femme (yet another thing that makes me go “huh?”), and all seem to be rocking pretty decent jobs to be driving such nice cars and living in such cutesie houses in the land of Stars and bars.

Do I miss the drama? Hellfuckenno. I love my life, warts and all. Would I do it all over again? No way, baby. My choices got me right where I needed to be. I was a wild child. A hot young thang with the golden pussy. Now I’m a mother, a partner, an activist, a career woman, an active member of my church, and a wedding planning soon-to-be wife…to the woman who was the first dyke I ever had sex with…way back when. Would we have made a hot series back then? Oh, hell ya. We truly were “The REAL L-Word.”

It has been said (and quite often to me lately) that less-than-perfect relationships can sometimes help you prepare for the one you are meant to be in. This is most certainly the case with me and with the relationship I had with former HTB. If you are a long-time reader (and have not yet abandoned me as I have slighted this site for such a long time) then you might remember that my former fiance was FTM (that’s female-to-male transsexual for anyone not in the know). During his transition, which began about six months after we started dating, there were aspects of his physical form that changed as soon as he started his hormone therapy. Along with the change in bone structure, deepening voice, and receding hairline, his “little man” grew…er…quite large. The physical changes brought about a new level of comfort with his body and eventually those former “no-fly” zones became hands-on and mouth-on again–but necessitated a very different technique than that which I had always been accustomed to when participating in erotic encounters with women.

Now let me digress a moment to my late teen’s when DPR and I first got together. She was what most would refer to as “stone butch.” While she did let me go down on her (because I wasn’t going to take no for an answer after having fantasized about just such a moment for most of my life), she was not used to being on the receiving end and most of our sexual encounters led me into more of a pillow-princess mode along with a fair amount of tribadism. When we reunited 26 years later, I realized that I had come back to her prepared with some new oral skills that I thought she may react more favorably to. You see, DPR identifies as transmasculine (and at this point, referring to DPR as “she” and “her” is not exactly true to her ever-increasing masculine nature…but I find the alternative pronouns cumbersome so bear with me), and has never been keen on having direct clitoral stimulation. While I want, nee NEED it (power, more power!), she finds it downright annoying. So much so that she had long given up on being on the receiving end of any sexual activity. Knowing this, and armed with some knowledge about how to treat a “micropenis” as it were, I set about approaching her nether parts as more masculine. The results…well…let’s just say she’s pleased. Very pleased.

While I am not in the habit of giving up trade secrets, I do think that there are a vast number of folk who are still biologically female-bodied but who don’t relate to their genitals in the same way as those of us who are extremely comfortable with our very girly girl parts. So, I impart this little piece of knowledge on “how to treat the boi-clit.” I don’t mean to imply that I am the only femme on earth who comes equipped with this little skill, but I do believe there are women out there in similar situations who have partners who have given up in frustration or feel, as DPR did, that something must be physically wrong with them because their parts don’t respond in a “typical” fashion. And to that end, DPR would like you to know that her parts are working just fine, thank you. You can try it or not…but if you do and it works as well as it has for us? Consider it my little Christmas gift to you and yours. *wink*

I begin by using my hands and lips. All over. Foreplay is essential for everyone and heightens the senses for the main event. A soft caress here, a trail of nails there. A kiss, a nibble, a bite. If your boi’s chest is a no-fly zone? Run your hand down the middle of hir chest–rest it there and let hir feel the sensation of what it might be like the day zhe won’t have to bind or be hyperaware of hard nipples poking through a beater on a hot summer day. Let your fingers trail downward and trace lazy circles in the manscaping (and please, bois, do tend to the bushes…no matter how you identify, no one should need a machete to reach the promised land). I then focus on the shaft. It’s all about the shaft. Grasp hir boi-clit between your thumb and forefinger (trust me, it should be nice and thick and hard by now, T or no T), and stroke. Stay away from the head of the clitoris, it is likely to be supersensitive to the point of painful. If natural lubrication is not a no-fly zone then that’s a plus, but not necessary, it’s all in the pulling motion.

This, in itself, could lead to orgasm, but I really love my lips wrapped around hir little cock. I come in from the side–always. Either on my knees so zhe can have access to either my breasts or cunt, or lying flat on my belly. Being on my knees tends to give me a greater range of motion and less of a pain in the neck (literally). If you come in from the top or from between hir legs, you will get too much head and you want to pull the length of hir shaft into your mouth and as far down your throat as possible. Unless zhe has had surgery to release the tendon underneath the clitoral hood, you are better off coming in from the side. Trust me.

This is when I use my lips to draw hir boi-clit up into my mouth. Slowly…achingly slowly at first. I suck hir in until my mouth is filled from the base of hir shaft to the head and then I slowly…achingly slowly, let it go again. I tend to repeat this process a few times before I really start sucking. I love the feeling of hir in my mouth, hir fat flesh against the inside of my lips, my tongue caressing the side of hir shaft, my mouth watering and my pussy wet, dripping. If you have ever had any experience giving a blowjob to a cisgendered male then you can truly appreciate the finer points. Treat hir boi-clit as a penis. That same up-and-down motion on hir hard shaft is going to generate the same results. Stop and lick the underside as you would the frenulum. Eventually you will find a rhythm that suits hir. You may also find hands tangled in your hair and pushing your head down while lovely nasty things are said about what zhe is feeling. It may take a while. Don’t give up in frustration. A little stiff neck is worth the reward. Just before zhe cums, you will literally feel hir harden in your mouth. Zhe will swell and when zhe cums I slow down and suck. Hard. I suck every drop of cum I can possibly get out of hir.

And then, sometimes, if I don’t get pushed away, I start all over again.

vi.sualize.us

Anyone who knows my darling DPR and/or reads her blog, knows that she is extremely androgynous. Actually, she doesn’t look as confusing as she does downright male. Hell, just the other day while in line at the dollar store, the woman in front of her referred to her as “just another caucasian male.” Really? She could pass 100% of the time as a man if she never opened her mouth. When she speaks however, out drips this warm, soft southern syrup. A decidedly feminine voice if there ever was one.

DPR deals with gender confusion issues every day of her life and has done so since she was old enough to recognize that people were looking at her funny. This isn’t a “look” she chose to go after. She was simply born this way. If she tries to “femme-it-up” to make her identity easier for others, she looks very much like a bad drag queen. She is often mistaken for a gay man (which has had its amusing moments) but more often than not, folks just gawk openly. Sometimes the more ignorant of them assume that since she is gender-fluid, she must also be deaf—as was the case of the two women sitting across from her at the doctor’s office recently. She tells of one of the women very loudly  “stage-whispering” to her companion, “Is that a man or a woman?” Her friend looked at her, “What?” “Right there in front of you, dummy!” the woman replied. The entire waiting room was watching this exchange while DPR contemplated running for the exit. Instead she said simply, “Woman.” “WHAT???” came the incredulous response  (because she spoke, not because she identified her gender). “You seem confused,” DPR said, “I’m female.” This is but one example of what she endures every single day. I’ve seen it in action and I get extraordinarily angry at the ignorance that provokes such public humiliation.

Those who know me, know that I try to live my life based on my favorite quote by Emile Zola: “You ask me what I came here to do. I will tell you. I came to live out loud.” So it isn’t like me to sit idly by and let anyone I love be bashed in any way. While this may cause further embarrassment at times, it’s hard for me to hold back. So it was the other evening at dinner.

We were out at our favorite restaurant with her mother and my son. We frequent this place at least once a week and DPR has been a regular for more than a decade. Needless to say, she knows everyone and everyone knows her. Well, everyone save the three elderly folks who were seated three tables away from our booth. DPR had come in late and they must have watched her walking across the parking lot. Slim of hip and flat of chest, she has close-cropped hair and a bit of a cowboy swagger. Dressed for work in khaki pants and a button-down shirt over a polo, she sat down and placed her order. The minute she opened her mouth I watched all three blue-tinted heads swivel in their chairs. I let it pass. When she started relating her day, they turned again. And again. And again. Finally I mentioned it to DPR, who had her back to them. She rolled her eyes and sighed. The woman seated behind her excused herself for eavesdropping but said she had noticed it too and found it horribly rude. “Welcome to my world,” DPR said.

I let a few minutes pass by and then I asked my son to let me out of the booth. “I’ll be back,” I said. Really, I was fed up and this was OUR turf and there was no way I was going to let these people off the hook. I didn’t care how old they were or how entitled they felt in making their disgust and bewilderment so painfully obvious. I walked up to the table with a big smile on my face and was immediately greeted by three of the most shocked looks I’ve ever encountered.

“Hi! I couldn’t help but notice you staring and I figured you must know me! Since I couldn’t place your faces, I thought I’d get up and introduce myself.” I stuck my hand out to the woman across the table and said “I’m Diana…and you are…?” The woman mumbled something incoherent and shook my hand. I repeated the process with her friend who was peering at me owlishly out of a very red face. Then I turned to the man who seemed to be trying to crawl under the table, “And you sir? You are…?” Of course I don’t recall any of their names. They were insignificant to me. I was there to make a point. “That’s fabulous!” I said,”Well now! I just want you all to enjoy the rest of your meal and,” at this point, I leaned in closely and confidentially, all eyes upon me, and said, “why don’t you take the rest of the evening to,” I gestured in a small circle around the table, “talk amongst yourselves now. Take care!” I flashed another huge smile and walked back to our booth and sat down. Needless to say, I never saw them turn around again.

DPR looked at her mom, “This is why I love this woman.”

Never, ever let it be said that chivalry is either dead or marked “butch only.” Next time, I may take names AND kick some ass.

Clearly, I’ve not done a very good job of keeping up with the posts on this site. Scintillectually Yours is suffering from a lack of attention from the author, who happens to be a full-time mom with a full-time job and a small part in an upcoming production of To Kill a Mockingbird that requires late night rehearsals. While I fully intend to do  what I can here when the mood strikes, you can find me tackling the 30-day letter writing challenge over at my other site. I hope you’ll check out my work there and keep checking back here often as you never know when I’ll turn up, half-nekkid and turned on.

My darling DPR has a birthday today and as most of you have followed our relationship from our reconnection after 26 years, I thought I’d be brazen and post an open letter to the love of my life—celebrating the day of her birth. Join me in wishing her (and us) many years of happiness to come, won’t you?

Dearest Li,

It has been almost a full year since I found you again and nearly 9 months to the day that we decided to “factor you into the equation”—the crowded puzzle that was my life last December. Quite obviously, you were (and are) the perfect fit for me. Just as I knew you were “the one” that would finally pop my impatient lesbian cherry at the tender age of 19, so you now fill all the parts of my life that I have left neglected and/or abused for so long.

Sweetheart, you are such an incredible person. You have faced physical/mental/emotional challenges all of your life with courage and conviction. You face every day with renewed vigor and unwavering Faith that all is as it should be and all will be well. You inspire everyone who comes in contact with you. You are brave and steadfast and you are my hero.

I love that we laugh the way we do—that I can be completely and utterly myself and you accept me fully and meet me wherever I am. I love your astounding intellect—the way you call up any bit of knowledge that you have read or heard and hold your own against the weightiest of PhDs. Your business acumen is well-honed and razor sharp. But it is your spirit and the spiritual journey that you pursue that impresses me most. You have brought me back to Center and remind me every day why life is worth living even in the midst of the greatest stresses. The times when we thought we might lose hold of one another as I clung to driftwood and almost let the life raft pass me by—the greatest fear I felt when we learned you did, indeed, have cancer.

You are an amazing co-parent to my child. You have given him a wonderful gift: the gift of security. I know my child finally sees Great Love and feels safe in the knowledge that we, at least, don’t plan to go anywhere. He finally has a familial unit that is strong, together, and bound for life. He enjoys you and learns from you. When the two of you laugh together, my heart leaps with unbridled joy.

As for the physical love we share. Well, from all that I’ve written here, I’m sure that is self-evident. We continue to grow together in so many ways. Our erotic explorations never cease to amaze me. Again, with you I am never self-conscious. You worship me in ways I never thought possible and I cannot feel ashamed in the presence of your love for me—for my body. Our physical relationship transcends any that I have shared with others—while I thought that I’d seen it all, done it all…I hadn’t even skimmed the surface of my desires until you came along and exhibited your willingness to fully explore our sexuality.

And, so, my dear…I am blessed in these and countless other ways. I celebrate your birth and Thank God for bringing you back into my life. I can’t imagine spending it with anyone more compatible and I look forward to many more of these celebrations. I love you with all that I am. Always, and in all ways.

Your Sweet Scin.

vi.sualize.us

Last week I was looking for feedback on a few projects I had going and I couldn’t find a single soul in my department. I kept returning to my office, which, inexplicably, has been placed within a completely different department and is sparsely populated with people who have never bothered to introduce themselves to me (nor I to them, truth be told). I would drum my fingers, check my e-mail, pop onto Facebook, drum my fingers, go to the bathroom, and then return to my department only to find it as empty as Deadman’s Gulch in the middle of a long, hot, dry summer. Nursing a migraine and realizing that I wasn’t actually going to get paid to do nothing (I work on an hourly contract basis), I sent out a blanket e-mail and left around 4 p.m.

The next day I was checking webmail from home and found a link to pictures from a co-worker’s baby shower the day before. Ah-hah! Mystery solved. Everyone—I mean, EVERYONE—had been attending the baby shower for a woman that I work very closely with. Everyone, that is, except me. Okay, so I’ve only been working there for 5 weeks, but you’d think someone would at least have the decency to inform me of the event, even if I wasn’t invited. I wasted an entire afternoon trying to be productive while everyone else was hogging down blue icing-covered sheet cake and oohing and aahing over onesies.

I’m not saying I wished to be invited. Baby showers (unless they are yours) are generally duller than dirt. What the event in question did though, was alert me to the fact that I am truly an outsider at work. I come in, I go to my office, I work. If I have questions or need feedback, I will track down the appropriate people and get the answers I need. I eat lunch at my desk while I work (because frankly, this single mom with a part-time hourly job can’t afford to be running off to kibbitz over salads at the local café). While I consider myself to be accessible and friendly, I don’t generally meander around looking for someone to chat with. I don’t share details of my personal life. I have to be accountable, on paper, for every hour that I am there, and so…I work.

I think I noticed the real change when I finally dropped the feminine pronoun in an email responding to a polite query about “my friend’s surgery.” This came from the preggo. (Should I have prefaced this entire blog with the fact that I now live in the deep South, my coworkers are all heterosexual and married, and my boss lists his one interest on his Facebook page as The Bible?) The following day, I rounded the corner and found the two women that I work with most closely huddled together in preggo’s cubicle. As soon as they saw me they pulled apart and both shut their mouths abruptly and looked at me as if I’d caught them feeling each other up. Um, yeah, talking about me much? I smiled, asked my question, kept smiling, and left. To work.

This happens a lot. These two seem to have very little to do other than socialize with each other. Clearly, I am not of their ilk. They regard me as some strange, exotic creature that emerges from her cage periodically to stalk the halls in search of prey. At 45 years of age, I am having high school déjà vu all over again. I am reminded of the time I overheard three coworkers in the office next to mine (when I was a very young designer working in a high-end publishing firm in Manhattan) discussing what a dork I was and laughing about how there was no way they wanted me at my boss’s wedding. She invited me anyway and yes, it was a miserable experience as my girlfriend and I stood in a corner with our plates as we’d somehow been left off the seating list. Joke’s on us, right?

So now I am biding my time. I’m feeling several things. Primarily, I’m feeling annoyed. I came here to do a job and I do it well. However, I’ve gotten some really odd feedback from my boss and I am getting the strange sense that I’m being gaslighted. I feel as though my days are numbered. Today I got an e-mail telling me that I was still in an “exploratory period where we are evaluating your skills and style and where and who you may or may not connect with the best.” Um…excuse me? When I took on this job, this guy was over-the-moon regarding my skill set, background, and ability to work autonomously. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m walking on broken glass and it fucking hurts, man!

So, what the hell is it? Am I that much of an odd bird that they simply don’t know how to relate to me? I would expect that, given my appearance (and all evidence exhibited by my past experiences in business and elsewhere) everyone assumed I was straight. Discovering that I’m a dyke probably gave them serious fuel for their frequent coffee klatches and water cooler discussions. Am I also threatening to them? I’m the prodigal daughter, having worked high-profile positions in New York and Boston for 23 years, returned home to steal away their precious little positions? Girls! I don’t WANT your job! I get to work when I want, where I want, and for how much I want! Trust me, I do not want to step on your toes, I don’t want to be your best friend, and I couldn’t care less about trying to fit in.

It all boils down to this: Why can’t women simply work alongside one another without the cattiness and backbiting that happens in business? This is why I prefer to freelance from home—I loathe office politics. Homey don’t play ‘dat game. Let me be part of the team as far as helping you do your job to the best of your abilities and get paid for an honest day’s work. I’m not going to rat you out for your constant chatter, but be kind if I haven’t actually crossed you. Because seriously? You don’t want to cross me. That will be the day that I decide to whip out my poison tongue and use it in ways that are not pleasurable to you in the least. And after that? I may well have to move on to something else. Like selling adult novelties at the local sex shop.

Not actually a bad idea at all, really. Not at all.

G, over at Can I help you, sir? has been writing a few installments of things that she loves. This morning, I read a similar post by my BFF, Femme Fairy Godmother. Because I have spent a lot of time wallowing in the depths of self-pity lately, this seems like a great way to practice a bit of gratitude and start the day off with joy and wonderment. I hope this spreads like wildfire!

Things I love:

really good cheese (like triple creme brie and pimente d’espelette); long, flowing romantic clothes with a hippie-chic bent to them; the digital Yahtzee game I keep in the bathroom; Zumba; The movie Bell, Book, and Candle; the way DPR gets so animated talking about any topic she’s truly passionate about; long, hot bubble baths; going surf fishing with my dad at dawn; a huge bowl of asparagus drowning in hollandaise sauce; afternoon naps with my honey; shooting hoops with my kid; the smell of fresh cut grass; rainy days with nowhere to go and nothing pressing to do; the way my cat sleeps pressed against my legs; driving the Blue Ridge Parkway at dusk; making meals for friends; pedicures; gleaming hardwood floors; The Office; playing Mahjong on my computer when I’m bored.

Day trips; brand new hardcovers; clean sheets on a freshly made bed; singing in the choir at church; picking up actual prints of my photographs taken with my non-digital 35 mm camera; horseback riding on the beach in Aruba; snakes; the smell of my son’s hair when he’s just out of the shower (even though he’s big enough at 9 to use Axe now!); going shopping alone with a few hundred dollars for my birthday; the smell of a new car; the fact that my own car was gifted to me, is 13-years-old, and still runs really well (gotta love the Lesbaru); other people’s babies; movie night at home with a big bowl of popcorn soaking in real butter; camping; dancing at a club until it closes.

Starbuck’s iced green tea/lemonade unsweetened; getting paid on time; the promise of a dishwasher in my new house; the fact that my darling DPR is refinishing lots of cool furniture for me and is getting rid of the nasty old carpet for me before I arrive; long talks with good friends; catching up on episodes of The Young and the Restless; drawing; the smell of the dryer vent; Las Vegas; her fist inside me; simmering stew on a crisp fall day; reconnecting with old and dear friends; writing.

I think that’s a good start. Pick it up and pass it on, won’t you? I want to know what YOU love!

I love finding new blogs, especially funny ones, really well-written ones, or those posted by women I can relate to. Yesterday I coerced DPR into posting an HNT and someone we didn’t know, going by the name of DykeEvolution, posted a very appreciative comment of her photo. Ironically, today I was catching up on G’s blog at Can I Help You, Sir? there she was again! I went to check out her blog and while I have a lot to catch up on reading-wise, I found this fantastic quote on her home page by Tristan Taormino. Because we all (Tristan, Jen, and I) share the same proclivity for uber-butch women, I thought I’d repost the quote here:

“I love butch girls. Girls with slick, shiny, barbershop haircuts, trimmed so short your fingertips can barely grip it. Girls with shirts that button the other way. Girls that swagger… Girls who get stared at in the ladies’ room, girls who shop in the boys department, girls who live every moment looking like they weren’t supposed to. Girls with hands that touch me like they have been exploring my body their entire lives… It is the girls that get called sir every day who make me catch my breath, the girls with strong jaws who buckle my knees, the girls who are a different gender who make me want to lay down for them.” – Tristan Taormino

Thanks Tristan! And thank  you, Jen, I look forward to reading you!

as a writer of erotica. I have felt for some time that my “mainstream” writing for Ourbiggayborhood.com under my real name may eventually lead to the “outing” of my creative work here, under my pseudonym. Indeed, today, my worlds collided in a way that rivals the Big Bang Theory. You see, last week one of the editors at OBG asked if she could profile me and explained that the crux of the article would revolve around my erotica. This is truly dichotomous to the writing I do, both for OBG and for my own mainstream site, www.dazedunconfused.wordpress.com. I write, as co-editor Margo Moon puts it, slices of wholesome Americana. I just happen to be lesbian and that’s how I wound up writing for OBG.

Ever since I granted my approval to Ms. Moon for the article, I’ve been on pins and needles. Even at 45 years of age, I was dreading the idea that my parents (my mother in particular) might come across this website accidentally (you know, while googling butch/femme fisting or some such thing). I know that my mother proudly reads my articles each month and I also felt there was a very good chance that she’d come across the profile whether I pointed it out to her or not. So, last night, knowing that the profile was due to post today, I called my mom and finally got up the nerve to tell her the news. Her daughter is a *gasp* writer of erotica. Trust me, this was far harder than the day I told my parents I’m gay and that was in my very early 20s. I must say that she took it really, really well. I did not provide her with specifics, like the fact that I also review sex toys and participate in Half-Nekkid Thursdays, but I did say that I didn’t really want her reading this stuff. She countered by telling me she really didn’t want to read it. Whew! Her only real concern is that I may somehow get branded in this particular genre and may then have trouble publishing the single parenting essays I’ve been hard at work on for quite awhile. She may be right. I have to hope not.

In the meantime, all 280 of my Facebook friends now know my alter ego; and on the flip side, all of my readers here now know who I really am. Clark Kent has revealed himself to be Superman and Cat Woman has thrown aside her mask. I am Diana Coe, single lesbian mom, writer of wholesome Americana. I am also Scintillectual, loving partner to DPR (who, by default, I’m afraid, will also be unmasked), writer of sometimes rather steamy literary erotica.

My worlds have collided. I am no longer sheltered under the blanket of my pseudonym. Now that it’s done, you can read me here and at www.ourbiggayborhood.com. You may not recognize me with my clothes on.

Forgive my disappearing act. Although inspired by this week’s MFM theme, Openings, there has been no time to write. TMI Tuesday came and went with no time to write. My darling DPR sent me a lovely and wet-panty provoking assignment for Wicked Wednesday, but there has been no time to write. Tomorrow is HNT…and I am trying to work through two major deadlines with a fever of 102° and what seems to be a massive sinus infection.

I hope you will all bear with me as I get through this week and make some time to work on my “mainstream” article for www.ourbiggayborhood.com. Don’t know which contributing writer is me? I’ll never tell. *grin*

In the meantime, here’s a re-run to keep you all happy until I return next week (under a whole new set of deadlines…did I mention I’m busy?):