Scintillectually Yours

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.

Yes, I realize it’s TMI Tuesday but in lieu of answering questions about what kind of animal best represents me, I had to get something off my…er…chest. Let me start by saying that most of my writing has some basis in fact. I really don’t do fiction well, yet I have found myself stretching with our MicroFantasy Monday assignments. I think it is a wonderful thing for a writer to be given a chance to pull that elastic muscle beyond that which you feel it should go and have it snap back into place, ready for the next challenge.

At the risk of bursting bubbles, I have to admit to a fair amount of squeemishness regarding yesterday’s post on role reversal. I had to masticate on this topic all day. Clearly, many of us went in the same direction and while I try to put a different spin on the theme each week, I was at a loss to do anything more than imagine what it might be to strap one on for a lover. Yet, here’s the thing: in reality, I I could ever pull off the same scenario. Well, let me back up…I strapped it on once (if we’re being completely honest here) and it was an utter disaster. If there were any truth at all to my MFM, it would be that very first paragraph. I remember well how completely awkward I felt and how…silly…it seemed.

I realize that everyone around me is busy fucking the gender binary. We’re here, we’re queer…yes, I understand that completely. I almost married a transman for Heaven’s sake! But me? I am old-school femme through and through. I honestly cannot seem to locate a drop of testosterone in this fuscia blood of mine. Nor do I care to. There have been many discussions regarding femme invisibility of late and someday I will probably jump into the ring with my own tales of the need for a tattoo upon my forehead that says “yes, I AM,” but here is where I ask you all to step outside the genderqueer box and accept the fact that I am so high femme I practically float and I am truly attracted to the butchest of butch bois.

I love that sense of chivalry. I want, nee expect, someone to open doors for me and to let me order first in a restaurant (or, perhaps, order for both of us). If you take a look at old photos of lesbian couples in the 50s and 60s — those grainy, black and white images like stills from The Celluloid Closet — I am the woman in the pencil skirt hanging onto the arm of a very masculine woman in the suit and tie. Not for one moment do I want to strap on a dildo and watch my lover…well, shit…I can’t even say it now that the image is in my head.

Don’t get me wrong, I am no pillow princess. I consider myself a femme top, but that stops short of being able to fuck my lover with anything other than my own hands (and as most of the women I go out with are stone butch, that doesn’t happen often either). Perhaps in this case, top for me simply means that I am assertive and in control, I don’t give over to submission easily, but I’m no hardcore dominant either.

This may, and I hope it does, provoke a lot of healthy controversy or at least discourse on the subject of traditional butch/femme couples and the idea of who feels like their cock is a true extension of themselves and those of us who take that cock and “get it” from the other side of the bed. Call me vanilla. Call me old fashioned. Call me out of touch with today’s sexual mores…but don’t call me Shirley (sorry, I had to make her laugh).

I had known from a very, very young age that I was equally, if not more so, attracted to girls as to boys. There were many adolescent fumblings—at 12 a girl named Kathy with long dark hair and a penchant for riding naked on my thigh when her mother wasn’t home. Teenage crushes that never went any further. Jealousy over the first butch/femme couple that I’d ever witnessed…the beautiful blonde that sat on the lap of the captain of the volleyball team at parties where most of us were stoned and no one cared. It was the very early 80s. We were always high. Always sleeping with a different somebody in search of elusive attention. Thinking that the next one would provide the love and devotion so craved. Disappointed yet again and again and again.

I went off to an all-women’s art college far away from my family. There were scandalized whisperings in the dining hall of girls who slept with other girls. I feigned disgust for my friends and then snuck off to masturbate in our dormitory bathroom, fantasizing about being one of those girls. All of my life I thought about the first time. What it would be like. When would it happen. How would I know.

I arrived at school early in the fall of my sophomore year. I had been named as a resident assistant and was assigned to work the desk to welcome incoming freshman and transfer students. I had my routine down pat until she walked through the doors unaccompanied by a parent. My breath caught. My heart stopped for a fraction of a second. There she was. Tough as nails in a black muscle tee, the requisite blonde mullet, baggy jeans with a chain hanging from the back pocket, and wide leather wristbands. She was tiny. Small boned, wiry, shorter than me—but when she signed her name her biceps rippled with sinewy muscle.

I cleared my throat and managed to start my greeting. She looked up and met my eyes. “Hey there,” she drawled. Her thick southern accent was as familiar as grits and sausage gravy over biscuits. “You’re from North Carolina,” I said. “Now how did you know that? Is that on your little piece of paper there?” “No…I’m from Greensboro.” She returned a lopsided grin, “Well, damn girl, we’re practically neighbors! We should get together and shoot the shit. Why don’t you come on by my room later and we’ll talk.”

I knew. This was the one. I knew I’d be having sex with this girl before the end of the week.

We talked a lot that week. About home. About our art. About our pasts. About her girlfriend she’d left behind. I had a boyfriend. My high school sweetheart. He knew, though, that someday I would act upon my attraction and that was okay with him.

On Saturday night, one week to the day after she arrived, she told me a story about a girl she’d been with who had never been with another women before. She told the story of how she had asked the girl if she could kiss her. The girl replied, “God, yes.” We kept talking. It got late. My roommate was gone for the weekend. She asked me if I had ever thought about being with a woman. I looked her right in the eye and said, “God, yes.” She smiled, leaned in, and kissed me. My heart took flight and my head exploded. Everything I had ever fantasized was right there. It was really happening and it felt absolutely perfect. The last piece of the puzzle I’d been missing all my life.

I was frantic to do everything I had ever dreamed of. She was stone, but she let me have my way. After exploring my body in ways I never could have imagined, I rolled over on top of her and took over. I needed to try everything. I wanted to know what she felt like, what she tasted like. I spent what seemed like hours between her unshaven legs. At one point she managed to say, “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” I mumbled something into her cunt. Only in my head.

After that night we spent a lot of time together. I have pictures of her on a park bench, sunlight in her hair, a glare bouncing off her mirrored aviators. One leg crossed over the other…not like a woman…one calloused hand resting upon her black Doc Martens. A few weeks later I went to her room late at night, wanting. wanting. I heard a noise on the other side of the door, a rustling, a murmur of voices. The door opened and I was greeted by my best friend, clad in nothing but “my girl’s” plaid, flannel shirt. I was crimson and silent. I turned away and ran down the hall. Back to my room, frozen and betrayed.

I moved on to other women after that. I became known as the school heartbreaker. “Don’t go out with her, she’ll do you and ditch you.” And I did. That girl, the first of many, became my fuckbuddy throughout college. Whenever we were both hard up and no one else was around we turned to each other. A midnight fuck after watching The Wizard of Oz. Frenzied sex in her tiny apartment in the worst neighborhood imaginable. Groping in the teacher’s lounge at 2 a.m.

I saw her years later. She had softened a lot. Years of rehab had broken her early morning routine of rolling over, sleep in her eyes, to grab an unfiltered Marlboro and a can of Bud out of the small fridge next to her bed. I never understood how she did that without getting up to pee first. She had become a psychotherapist and ran her own state-funded rehab center. That bad boi was gone. Replaced by someone older, wiser, more responsible.

I had a different ending to this blog. One in which I never expected to see or hear from her again. Yet, somehow, I found myself looking for her after I wrote this. She stayed on my mind and with a little Internet ingenuity, I wound up with her on the phone today. It seems I have been on her mind a lot lately too. After all these many years. In all of my life I have never been so reticent to commit myself to a relationship and yet have so many open possibilities. I do look forward to rekindling our friendship, if nothing else. But, as is my mantra these days, you just never know.