Scintillectually Yours

It seems like the only time I come around anymore is to apologize for not coming around anymore.

Scintillectual started out several years ago as FemmeBLT (with Mayo). At the time, it was a great way to elucidate my relationship with former HTB. I had no real outlet to discuss the myriad topics that being with a transman brought up. We had milestones to celebrate and identities to redefine and we also had a lot of issues. He hated that I kept a sex blog. At the time, he accused me of using it to get attention and I scoffed. I qualified it as a creative outlet for a little harmless erotica.

But he was right. I resurrected FemmeBLT as Scintillectual when he packed his things, left one morning, and never came back. I pulled the covers over my head, smoked a lot of cigarettes, wrote very maudlin blog posts on my (other) site, and eventually I packed away my engagement ring, the wedding magazines, and the photos of us, and started taking baby steps into the dating world again. The overwhelming reaction to the writing I did on Scintillectually Yours fed my hunger for attention. I was awash in my loneliness. I thrived on the comments and the accolades and the occasional appearance of one of my submissions as a top pick for one of the sex blogger digests.

Then DPR came back into my life. We had a smoking hot reunion and our week-long trysts once a month were passionate and exciting and my blogging became infectious. DPR started Androgynonamous and we both burned the midnight oil writing some of the best stuff we’d ever put out.

Then life changed.

Life became…life. Moving to the same city, 900 miles from where I’d been, our lives became tangible and interwoven and complex and wonderfully domestic. I found a fabulous job and my part-time hours became full-time hours. I started acting in community theatre–pursuing a lifelong passion that I’d never had either the time or a supportive partner for. We found a church we loved and became members. I started singing in the choir. My son fell into a rhythm of his own. There was no awkward transition, no missing his old friends. He moved easily and gratefully into his new life. He and DPR take scout camping trips together and go “man-shopping” for my birthday and Mother’s Day. I coached his basketball team and sit on the sidelines cheering his flag football games.

Our sex life is no less passionate than it was…but it’s admittedly less frequent. We’re busy. We’re older. We’re parents. And we’re tired. When we get the chance we go for it with gusto but we’re not feeling part of the fetish community. We’re feeling like a couple. A family. Just your average middle-class suburban Southern dykes with a kid, a station wagon, and a couple of pets.

We’re planning our wedding. It’s going to be a big affair. My big fat gay wedding. My days are filled with appointments with caterers and florists and bakeries and phone calls to and from my bridesmaids and oh, did I mention how positively beautiful my dress is?

We’re spending our honeymoon in Sedona. Spiritual. Romantic. Relaxed. Beautiful.

Just. Like. Us.

For those of you that still pop by on occasion…I hope to keep writing. The tone of Scintillectual may change some. It doesn’t need to serve the same purpose it once did. I live with more integrity now. I have all of the attention I could possibly need. I’m in love and I am loved and sex is the icing on the cake of my life. Perhaps I’ll stop by now and then and serve up a slice.

Just don’t hold your breath for too long, now, ya hear?

I’m a horrible blogger. I have neglected this site for so long that just coming around to muse the fact that people still actually stop by here every single day (and not just a few…more like…50) even though I haven’t posted in a coon’s age (yes, I am picking up southern colloquialisms) makes me cough and sputter through the dust and cobwebs in the corners. So, I thought that, while I don’t have anything remotely sex-related to write about today, I’d at least let my faithful readers know I’m still alive and well.

DPR and I have settled into somewhat of a routine since I moved down here in July. Although we don’t live in the same house, we do spend most of our nights together. Some are hot and steamy, others are lovely, quiet times when we lie next to each other with books and reading glasses, holding hands, and then drifting off to sleep with hir hand on my breast (it’s by far my favorite way to fall asleep). Our life has become fairly domesticated and we no longer need to cram all that we can into a too-short week’s visit once a month or so. We are both busy with our respective jobs, our extended families, entertaining friends for dinner, and co-parenting my son (DPR is rock solid in that department and I thrill to watch my son wait at the window for hir arrival and wrap himself around hir like a monkey).

Additionally, I have finally had the chance to pursue a lifelong dream of being on the stage (no, not as a pole dancer, although the fantasy is a good one). Since July I have auditioned for three shows, gotten three callbacks, and landed a small role in To Kill a Mockingbird. Through 5 weeks of grueling rehearsals and 10 performances, DPR would work all day and then shuffle my son off to Scouts or help with homework or play games and then put him to bed so that I could get my first experience in live theatre. Needless to say, I loved every minute of it. The set was unbelievable, the cast and crew were amazing, and I learned so much in the process. I am forever grateful to finally have a partner that actually encourages my interests rather than laughing them off. For 10 years after my son was born, I put aside all of my own wants and needs in favor of his because my partners weren’t willing to step up and share responsibility. DPR does all that and then some…and it doesn’t hurt that I’m marrying into a theatre family. Zhe gets it. Zhe really does. (Oh, the pronouns? Yeah…I’ll explain that some other time.)

Wait, you caught the marrying part, too? Yes, on top of all that we have on our plates, we are planning our wedding. We set a date and we will be married in front of approximately 100 of our closest friends and family October 1, 2011. Afterward, we are jetting off to Hawaii to stay at a friend’s B&B in South Kona. While I sometimes feel the chill in my toes—having been divorced once and left at the altar a second time—I really am quite content to know that I’ll be spending the rest of my life with my best friend, my lover, my anam cara.

So, you see, we’re here…we’re just busy living life together. I am keeping up with some other writing projects—my letter writing challenge is taking far longer than 30 days, but I do get my article in for Our Big Gayborhood on time every month. In fact, yesterday my article posted about gender issues and the lines we draw for our children. Check it out here.

DPR has given me a few choice assignments for Wicked Wednesday that I need to work on and I am about a dozen products behind in my sex toy reviews. Rest assured, I’ll have some time over the holidays to do some writing and I promise not to neglect you all for long. My thanks for your loyal readership and willingness to be patient.

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.

Feeling compelled to write after last week’s self-indulgent sulkfest, I requested an assignment from DPR. The following was inspired by a little bedtime banter we’d had—very playful, extremely cute. The kind of stuff that makes other people want to vomit. I, personally, loved it and asked her if she could expand on it for me. She went in a very different direction (only one small part of this would give you a clue as to what we’d been teasing each other about) and I was really blown away by what she sent. Normally, she’ll set a rough scene for me and I will go off with it; this time, however, her writing was thorough and good, really good. So good in fact, that I couldn’t rewrite it. So, I am presenting a joint venture. The first part, from DPR is very much her impression of me. Think DPR and Scintillectual circa 1984–85. Then, I take over. I hope you enjoy the fruits of our labors. I never knew work could be this much fun!

Androgynonamous writes:

I lurked around the hallway after color and design class—waiting to see if I had missed you leave your illustration class, or if I would be lucky enough to bump into you. I shot the shit with Alice, my butch buddy from life drawing, and pretended not to be watching the door of your classroom. Soon, a gaggle of girls began to fill the doorway and move into the hall, talking and giggling as girls do. You came out with a purpose and kept moving down the hall as you chatted with some of the more grown-up girls. It was clear you did not want to hang in the hall or run around with the crowd today. But, then, I wasn’t surprised. Even at 19, you were more grown, more mature, than the others in so many ways. And so much more attractive.

I said goodbye to Alice and made my way toward you, watching the subtle sway of your hips…thinking about the warm pleasures to be found there. I slipped up behind you, “Hi there.” You turned slightly to say hello, but kept your pace just slightly ahead of me. “So, are you done for the day?” I asked. You nodded, eyeing me with that coy smile I loved so much.  “I’m done too,” I informed you as I moved up to walk beside you. I inhaled the faint scent of your hair, your skin, as I stared at the line of your neck.

“So, you want some help carrying your stuff?” I grinned.

The coy smile broadened, “Are you asking to carry my books home?”

“Yes…Yes, I am,” I returned.

“You know, there are lots of bois who want to carry my books home,” You teased me.  I stopped, looked you hard in the eyes and smiled, “I know.”

You handed me your tackle box and sketchpad and I worked them into my own armful of supplies. We walked back to the dorm chatting about our day. Now and then, I would lag behind just enough to watch you walk. “Stop looking at my ass,” you would instruct me, all the while being sure to ever-so-slightly increase that lovely sway. I was humming between responses to the light conversation. You asked me what I was humming. “Oh, just this song I know,” I said, “maybe I’ll sing it to you sometime…if you are good.” I winked at you—but tried not too get too lost in your creamy chocolate eyes and smack into something.

In the elevator up to your room, we were alone. I stood close, but not too close to you at the back corner of the elevator. You leaned in toward me. “So, now that I have let you carry my books, what are your intentions?” you whispered to me, moving to within about 6 short inches from my neck.

“Oh, I don’t know if I should tell you just yet, sugar…” I leaned in toward your neck and inhaled you deeply. “Why is that?” you asked as you offered your neck, barely brushing your cheek on mine.

“I’ve been thinking of doing bad things.” I said as the elevator doors opened.  We walked toward your room. I began to sing to you:

I want to carry your books home
I want to walk with your hand in mine.
I want to be the name on your lips when you’re all alone;
I want to court you and make you mine.
I want to give you rings made of silver and stone;
I want to be near you and love you for all time…
I want to carry you books home…

We reached the door to your suite.

Scintillectual writes:

You opened the door to my room and held it open for me. I motioned for you to lay my things on my drawing board. While you set down the load you were carrying, I shut the door and leaned back against it, quietly clicking the lock into place. The Philly streets were uncannily quiet on this warm, early Fall afternoon, and the latch reverberated in the silence. You turned with a grin.

“Where’s Julie?” you asked, sweeping one hand toward the empty bed on the near wall.

“In class, I expect,” I said, “Why? Afraid we’ll get caught?”

“Get caught doing what, exactly?” Oh, please. Now you play it safe. You were all but dry humping me in the elevator.

I fixed my gaze upon your green eyes as I began to unbutton my shirt, “I do believe you were thinking of doing bad things?” I saw you swallow hard as you watched my shirt hit the floor. You made a move in my direction and I stayed you with one hand. My jeans, bra, and panties quickly followed and I stepped out of the puddle of clothing and moved in your direction. You stopped watching me for a fraction of a second to take in the open blinds on the huge picture window. Just across the street was a bank of office windows filled with folks about to get a mid-afternoon treat. “Trust me,” I purred, “it’s not the first thing they’ve ever seen over here.”

You mumbled something and I pushed you back on my single bed, straddling you, utterly naked. I leaned down close to you, my mouth poised just above yours, “and what, pray tell, did you have in mind? Just a song before you go? Or…” I never finished my sentence as you wrapped your arms around my neck and pulled me hard into you. Our fumbling to get your own clothes off began in earnest. Belt, jeans, t-shirt, beater, my God, how much could one person wear at one time? Lips locked, we almost fell off the narrow bed as we maneuvered in and around each other. Finally, blissfully nude, you settled into a criminally smooth rhythm.

I sighed as you traced soft kisses around my ear and worked your way down my neck. I’m thinking you have a thing for my neck. You moaned quietly as you took my breasts in both hands and moved from one rock hard nipple to the next. My leg moved involuntarily between yours and I connected with your boi-cunt. Soaking wet. As if I wasn’t turned on enough from the moment I saw you standing outside my class (pretending to be all nonchalant—as though you weren’t waiting for me), I now flooded the comforter beneath me with my own juices. Soon, though, you were there—between my legs—making sure nothing went to waste. I grabbed your head and twisted my fingers in your hair as you ran your hands down my sides and pushed my legs farther apart.

After a good 10 minutes or so of you tonguing my clit and licking me up one side and down the other, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck me,” I panted, “you need to fuck me.”

“As you wish,” you said and promptly plunged three fingers deep inside me as I bucked against you. Grinding my thigh into you, eliciting deep-throated moans. I could feel my orgasm building and then I heard voices in the vestibule. Fuck. I prayed that they were coming from my suitemates until I heard the key in the lock. Why hadn’t I thought to stick the do-not-disturb sign on the door. Shit! Your head jerked up and your hand stopped moving, I grabbed it with my one free hand and shoved it back inside me. I wasn’t stopping now. Hell, what was the worst that could happen? Lose my Resident Assistant job? At this point, I cared not.

I heard the door open and we all gasped at once. You and I in tandem, coming together, hard and fast. My roommate, likely in shock from the sight of your bare naked ass grinding away at my bare naked thigh. The door slammed shut just as quickly and we pulled away from each other, sweat glistening on our bodies, our breath coming in ragged waves. “Do you…uh…should we…uh…” you stammered your mortification and I laughed.

“She’ll live,” I said, “and I doubt she’ll be back anytime soon. Now, I think I have a favor to return.” I pushed you back on the bed again and caught you smiling in the lengthening shadows as I moved down your body.

Good Girl hesitantly pushed the door open to find Butch Daddy reclining on the bed. He sat up when she came into the room and motioned her over to inspect her outfit. She had dressed the part (a bit of a lark), and shyly turned full circle for his approval. He nodded at the short plaid skirt, the white button-down shirt with short puffy sleeves, and lingered over the length of her legs clad in pink knit thigh high socks. Her feet, shod in black lace-up chunky Sketchers, twisted in upon themselves as she clasped her hands behind her back and stood, silently, waiting.

Butch Daddy beckoned her to the side of the bed where he now sat and instructed her to bend over. Much like Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character in Secretary, she put her forearms flat upon the bed and bent over straight from the waist. She dared not move as he stood up and walked around behind her, lifting her skirt and straightening the elastic on her panties. A shiver went through her as Good Girl felt herself go damp. Butch Daddy straightened her skirt and told her to stand up. Again, she resumed her position, eyes downcast, hands behind her back. This was not a role she was accustomed to playing. Good Girl tended toward the rebellious, though she always aimed to please. She had a stubborn will and a cocky nature. She wasn’t always a good girl. Tonight, she wanted Butch Daddy to take her as he wished and she fidgeted in her submission.

As instructed, Good Girl fetched Butch Daddy’s cock from the chair in the corner of the room, along with the towel it was wrapped in. She pulled back the covers and laid the towel upon the bed while he cinched the black leather straps tight around his narrow hips. “I think you can take those off now,” Butch Daddy gestured to her shoes. She bent at the waist and took her time unlacing them, treating him to the outline of her vulva encased in white cotton. When she set the shoes next to the dresser, Butch Daddy patted the bed beside her and she climbed up, perched on her knees, and waited. “I don’t think we need this anymore either, do we?” He flicked at the top button on her shirt and she slowly and methodically released each one, catching the gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “Now,” he said, “let’s see how grown up you’ve become.” Good Girl gasped involuntarily. Those words worked their way straight to her core as she reached behind her back and unfastened her new white bra. Butch Daddy sighed appreciatively and reached out one hand to cup her full breast. He ran a calloused thumb over one nipple while he took the other in his mouth. She arched her back instinctively, forcing more of her breast into his face.

“Now,” he sat back up, “I think it’s time for you to touch my cock. Can you do that?” Good Girl nodded and grabbed the lube from the nightstand, pouring it into her left hand. She took his cock in both hands and ran them one over the other, pulling up on the head, tightening her grasp around his shaft. “Does this please you?” She asked. “Oh yes, that pleases me very much.” It wasn’t too long before he asked if she’d like to take it into her mouth. Obediently she positioned herself between his legs so that he could easily watch as she licked his shaft from bottom to top and then swallowed the entire phallus before releasing it momentarily to gauge his reaction. Butch Daddy was very pleased, indeed. “That’s wonderful. What a good girl you are.” He said, and then he asked her, “what would you like to do?”

She was ready. So ready. “I would like you to put your penis in my vagina…please.” He put his right hand between her legs and felt that she was very ready. Good Girl wriggled out of her panties and spread her legs as far as they would go. Butch Daddy sat between her legs and toyed with her clit. She moaned softly. After a time, he pulled her further down on the bed so that her legs were draped over his and easily slid his cock into her waiting pussy. She moved against him, driving his cock as far into her as possible, and he was very pleased. After Good Girl bucked and shuddered against him she wrapped her legs tightly around his back and twisted, flipping Butch Daddy over to the other side of the bed.

Good Girl grasped the clips on the harness he wore and tossed aside his cock. She meant to suck him off good and proper. Lying sideways on the bed she wrapped her lips around his rock-hard boi-clit and pulled every bit of him into her mouth. She was hungry for him and he grabbed her hair and pushed her down onto his own flesh roughly. She groaned with pleasure. This was how she liked it. Although technically still subservient, Good Girl was every bit in charge now and she controlled his orgasm until she felt it was time to reward Butch Daddy for being so very good to her. She felt his shaft swell and throb in her mouth and she tugged harder, her head bobbing up and down. Butch Daddy tensed and then leaned hard on her back forcing her onto him firmly. His orgasm was powerful and strong and it left him weakened, petting and stroking her softly.

And she knew he was pleased.

While I fully expect that Ang, our Sweltering Celt, meant for us to go in a very different direction with this, I chose to put a bit of my own yearning, heartfelt spin on it. Enjoy

I reach out my hands in the blackest of night and they touch your face, your hair. You turn slightly and press your lips to my right palm before you pull me up against you. Our bodies are hot, damp. The night is humid, the sheets are sticky. Our mouths meet and your tongue runs the length of my lower lip. I suck it in and bite down lightly. Your hands run the length of my body as you sit up. You trace my every curve and I hear you sigh in the darkness. You part my legs and I feel your weight shift on the bed as you settle between my thighs. Your breath on my clit makes me jump. The muscles in my stomach contract involuntarily. I gasp and then moan as you bury your face in me. Pulling the wetness from me. Soothing the ache I have felt for you the many weeks you have been gone. I tangle my hands in your hair and pull you tighter to me as I feel my orgasm build to a crescendo within me. I want you inside me and I reach out my hands

and feel nothing. The room is black. The night is humid. The sheets are sticky. I am alone. Still. You are many miles away.

This, then, is my virtual reality.

The well-worn shammy felt like an old friend in the palm of my hand as I rubbed out a midtone on the light gray Canson paper. I selected the firmest charcoal from the box and looked up at you sitting in the oriental, octagonal armchair that I covet, one arm on your upper thigh, the other draped across the wooden back. I began to rough out a gesture of your pose as you held still but watched me intently. I felt your eyes upon me every time I bent head to paper.

It had been years, more than a decade actually, since I had drawn from life. This was my one true passion and the one thing I had left behind, neglected, when my son was born. But I was inspired by your own passion for your art and the warmth of your studio—inviting me in to pick up the tools that would satiate my desire to capture a moment of you. Now that I had the basics down, I took a white conté crayon and began to work out the highlights; your defined angles and symmetrical features thrown into sharp contrast by a single bulb in the corner of the room. I began to lose myself in the work. My eye roaming every inch of you, my charcoal tracing your jawline, jutting collarbone, slight curve of your small breast, hint of your nipple hardened under my gaze. You smile when I catch my lower lip between my teeth in concentration and I admonish you not to move.

Finally, I have worked out the shadow in your jeans, thrown into bas relief by the cock I had asked you to strap on for the piece. I wanted to catch your true androgyny. The softness of your eyes and the fullness of your lips. Ripe. Delicious. The slight giveaway to your biological gender visible through your thin ribbed tank. The bulge in your jeans that calls my name and knows the deepest parts of me. Your strong, calloused hands, masculine and yet oh-so-graceful. I realized my breathing had become shallow, more rapid. The drawing was done, but I was not.

I set the work aside, leaning it against the wall facing away from you. I wasn’t ready to show it to you yet. I crawled across the floor as you studied me curiously, half smile crossing your handsome face. I pushed your legs gently apart, leaving black handprints on both thighs, and knelt between them. More marks of me upon your white tank as I pulled it over your head. You grinned and my brow furrowed. This, this, was serious business. I wasn’t done drawing. I reached over and selected a very thick, soft piece of charcoal. Your eyes followed my hand as I resumed my position and began to very slowly and deliberately draw a dotted pattern on your skin, evoking Maori tattoos. My line moved from the hollow in the base of your throat down your chest to circle one nipple. I made swirls within swirls that outlined your ribcage and moved across the flat of your torso. I drew the charcoal down until I was stopped mid-line by your belt buckle. I looked up at you, questioningly, and you understood and complied.

Your hands deftly undid your belt, and then, at my urging, you carefully and quietly unbuttoned your fly and pushed your jeans aside like the flaps of a circus tent, leaving me an opening to what I really wanted. I resumed my line, briefly, and ended in an arrow pointing to your cock. Now I tossed away the charcoal and wiped my hands clean upon my own jeans. I leaned in and caught your lower lip between my teeth, eliciting the perfect moan before I pulled at your boxers slightly. I grasped your cock, freeing it from its confines. You moved down in the chair, gaining the advantage of a better viewpoint…

and I descended upon you.

I started at the base of your shaft, running my tongue the full 7 ½” length of you. You made a noise, small and gutteral, and your fist clenched in my peripheral vision. I took the head of your cock into my mouth and looked up into your eyes. Oh, I love knowing that you are watching me and knowing how much it excites you. I’m not daft. I may pretend I don’t know the effect I have upon you, but trust me, I do. I so do.

My lips part slightly so that you can see the head of your cock resting upon my tongue. In that second, though, I dip my head downward and swallow every inch of you and you groan loudly. I toy with you for a bit. Tease you. Make you truly want it. My hand cradles your balls and every time I take you down the back of my throat, I increase the pressure, pushing your balls into your rock-hard clit and easing off again.

Now you grab a fistful of my hair (as short as it is) and put one hand upon my shoulder. Your thighs quiver and I reach up and rake my nails down your torso smearing charcoal across your flesh. Your hips grind into me and you squeeze my arm, urging me to pick up the pace. When I sneak a glance at you, your head is thrown back, your eyes are shut. You speak of how it feels (you can feel it, you can feel it). Soon you push my head down hard and tremble and shudder, moan and say my name over and over. Your orgasm is powerful and protracted. You open your eyes and I am watching you. All you can do is play in my hair and hold my face and you are completely open and vulnerable and happy.

I climb upon your lap and kiss you deeply. I pull my sweater over my head and now my breasts, pressed against your chest, bear marks that mirror the design I had drawn upon you. Marks that echo the one you’ve etched upon my heart forever.

My girlfriend (boifriend?), DPR, has a relatively new blog that I’ve promoted here several times already. Although I believe her to be a wonderful writer of erotica, she lovingly sends those pieces only to me and instead focuses her endless talent on issues that are more relevant to her daily life. If you read my work on a regular basis you know that I am very traditionally butch/femme. I joke that as the years have gone by my girlfriends have gotten so progressively butch that I wound up with a man (my ex is a female-to-male transsexual). It should come as no surprise then, that DPR is butch to the nth degree. While she has no plans to transition, in daily life she passes as a man far more than she passes as a woman. Hence, her desire to explore, through words, her daily “walk between worlds.”

On Fridays, however, she devotes her page to her true passion, her poetry. Today she posted, with my blessing, the first poem she ever wrote to me. It is called Something More Than Promise and it is heartbreakingly beautiful. I was moved to write about this because of the conversation that ensued after I read the introduction she wrote. Her Friday posts are called “The Mind of a Poet,” and she literally blew me away (as she often does) with her literary references and her sheer overwhelming intellect. I am always fascinated by anyone who writes good poetry (and I believe hers is far better than good; I believe it borders on genius but I leave it to you, dear reader, to check it out for yourself). I dabble with poetic format but would never, ever attempt actual poetry. This is where the difference in our styles lies. I am in awe of her academic prowess. I get wet just listening to her talk—she is this wellspring of obscure knowledge. Anything she has ever read, listened to, or studied…it’s there. I sometimes feel as though I sit at the feet of one of the greatest teachers and have nothing worthwhile to contribute because I am so overwhelmed by the force of her intelligence.

I may sound as though I’m not giving myself any credit and that is not the case. I write. I love to write. I think I’m a good writer. Someday I’d love to be published (and I don’t just write erotica…I maintain a couple of other websites and am working on a book of essays about single motherhood, this just happens to be one facet of my work). I believe I have raw talent and I’m not a stupid woman by any means. However, I also am very instinctive about my writing. I rarely put more than a single hour into any one piece that you read. I have gut, visceral reactions. My work is pure passion on paper. I often find myself flying out of bed at midnight to purge my cerebral overload; DPR, on the other hand, has one poem she’s been working on for 10 years. Yes, 10 years! That means she was giving birth to that baby on paper around the same time I was birthing my demon-spawn of a child!

I guess the point I’m trying to make  with all this verbal rambling and fumbling is that she is a true intellectual. Put her in a room full of academics and she can hold her own against the most pretentious of them (and she has not an ounce of pretense in her body, mind you). Put me in the same room and I’m off looking for the chips and dip and snooping in the medicine cabinet. I have said this before and I’ll say it a million times more, DPR first got me (oh, those many years ago) with her attitude, but she (when we reunited) seduced me with her intellect.

As an aside, and I hope she doesn’t mind that I’ve shared this, I want you to know a little something more about this particular poem and to fully understand the meaning of this you will have to read the poem itself. She wrote it in December, shortly after we decided to see what would come of reuniting after 26 years apart. Just after Christmas she came to visit. The night that her luggage finally arrived, having been sidetracked by USAir to who-knows-where, she pulled out her Christmas gift to me. It was a cairn. A beautiful glass jar with a cork in the top, filled painstakingly with native garnet, granite, and river rocks polished long for us. It was the most beautiful and romantic gift I have ever received. Now…don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like her?

I’m slightly brain-dead this morning. Last night I spent the evening on pins and needles listening to the two-hour podcast announcing the Lezzy Awards. I have to admit to being more disappointed at losing than I thought I would be, but that shouldn’t be surprising, given my competitive nature. That said, let me go with the clichéd “also ran” speech stating what an honor it was just to be nominated. Well, seriously, there are some AMAZING writers in this community and I have only been part of the blogging world for less than a year total. I wound up in a category with two very seasoned professionals, Essin Em and Sinclair Sexsmith. Sinclair’s Sugarbutch Chronicles deservedly won and my congratulations are hearty. Next year however, I have been assured by a very dear and regular reader that our “campaign will be more organized.” So, here’s to the blitz! In the meantime, here’s another shot of me in my darling DPR‘s striped shirt. She’ll be flying in next friday (countdown: 8 days!) so we’ll have a full week to play together and provide more fuel for the fire. Now, don’t forget to visit Osbasso for more HNT goodness.

I turn the camera on you and catch you, tan and content, just as you look up from your shell hunting to show me the tiniest, most perfect cowrie. You pull a face and start to chase me down the beach. It’s quiet now—most of the sun worshippers and families with kids have headed back to their respective cottages to have dinner. We, however, have wandered about two miles from our oceanfront rental and it is our last night here before we have to make the 4 ½ hour drive home; we are determined to watch one last sunset together in one of our favorite places.

The week has been idyllic. Just the two of us this time, filling our days with long walks, cooking great meals together, basking in the sun, riding our bikes the seven-mile stretch of the island in the mornings, sitting on the porch during afternoon thunderstorms watching dark gray waves pound the hard sand, and making love to the sound of the surf at night through the open windows of our loft bedroom. Now, at the end of our stay, I am feeling that end-of-vacation letdown. You sense my mood, as ever, and reach for my hand. We walk quietly along the water’s edge—our footprints disappear behind us with each step.

I ask if we can stop and rest for a bit. I want to sit, read, just be near you. I pull a blanket out of my tote bag and we unfurl it against the dunes. We both settle in, creating concave spaces for our bodies in the soft sand underneath us. You reach over and pull my face to you, kiss me lightly, whisper your love to me. I smile in return and pick up my book.

Disoriented. At first I think I must be home in bed. Something covers my body and I feel your hand on my inner thigh, stroking me. I try to open my eyes. “Honey,” you say softly, “it’s almost sundown.” I can’t get my bearings but I’m intensely aroused. “You fell asleep, baby, it’s been almost an hour.” What? I’m fuzzy. I try looking up at you, perched on your left elbow, your hand stroking me, closer, closer. The light is too bright and I shut my eyes again. Murmur something. Mmmmm…oh, it feels so good. Your hand begins to trail away and I let my legs drop open wide. You chuckle under your breath and return your hand to its proper place.

I can feel the breeze upon me and you take the beach towel that you had covered me with and pull it further over us. Even though we are tucked against the dunes, anyone walking by could easily take notice. The thought makes me feel even more delicious. My hips grind against your hand of their own accord and now that I’m fully awake I reach down and slip my bikini bottom off, giving you complete access to my cunt, warm and ready for you. You nuzzle your face in my neck, softly at first, then you almost playfully bite that spot that you know drives me absolutely wild with desire. I gasp and moan and spread my legs wider as your fingers trace lazy circles on my clit, pausing only to dip occasionally into my abundant wetness and back up again.

My hands wander your torso, under your tee, and I pinch your nipple hard just to hear your quick intake of breath. My nails rake crisscross patterns across your back, upper arms, and sides. You lean over and run your tongue lightly across my lips. I open my mouth to you and suck softly on the fullness of your lower lip. As our kisses become more fevered I reach down between your legs. “Off. Off.” I have an urgent need to touch you—to come at the same time.

You comply, pulling off your board shorts. I pull you on top of me so that you straddle my right thigh. At the same time I reach down and push several of your fingers firmly into me. I lose contact with your mouth as my head drops back and I arch upward, my body lost in the moment of you. your hand. us. our bodies. We move together in a well-rehearsed dance—my thigh rising rhythmically between your legs, my hand pressed into your cunt, your shaft hard against my palm, my fingers slick and satisfied.

Your fingers curl into that spot—that spot—and I suddenly feel flush from head to toe. Warm ejaculate spills out over your hand and forearm, raining down upon the blanket beneath me, soaking the sand below. I shudder and pull you tight to me as you come against my hand and thigh, burying your face in my neck. We lie, panting, out of breath. Quiet.

I open my eyes to a sky lit up in brilliant hues of reds, pinks, golds. “Look,” I say. You roll over on your back as six pelicans fly low along the breakers, silhouetted against a venetian blind of wispy clouds. The sun is setting behind us and we sit up to watch the yellow angles fade from the rooftops. You pull me back against you and wrap your arms around me. I drink in the salt air, the richness of the colors, the long strand of deserted beach, and the sound of the waves moving in and out and in and out.

Your tongue traces a well-worn path down the nape of my neck. I reach around and grab a handful of your hair as I flip over and straddle you. I’m not ready to leave yet. It’s too beautiful. You are too perfect.