Scintillectually Yours

Okay, so I’m a day late and a dollar short. Having nothing profound to say today I decided to stop on by Professor Fate‘s TMI Tuesday blog and start the Q&A meme. Enjoy!

1. Have you used put anything edible on (or in) your partner’s body and then eaten it?

Mostly on. Anything IN my partner’s body (well, certain parts of it, anyway) are already edible.

2. Have you ever had an AIDS test due to reasonable suspicion or hyperactive imagination?

Not for those reasons (although with my sexual proclivities in the early 80s I really lucked out! Not even so much as a case of crabs!). I did however get tested every six months during the three years I was trying to conceive my son.

3. Have you ever fantasized about someone else other than your partner while you were engaged in sex, oral sex, or mutual masturbation?

I don’t normally fantasize about anyone in particular, although I have been known to call out someone’s name while cumming. Preferably the name of the person I’m with. If I’m alone, it doesn’t really matter. Could be several names!

4. Have you ever engaged in sex, oral sex, or mutual masturbation while in a moving car?

Oh, indeed. Is there nothing more fun than making truckers drive off the road?

A car being driven by someone not engaged in the sex, oral sex, or mutual masturbation?

Taxis count, right? Yeah, definitely.

5. Have you ever had sex so many times or for so long that one or both people involved runs dry?

Yeah, sometimes the lube does have to be on hand. Mostly due to the air conditioner blowing right on my hooha.

Bonus (as in optional): Name 5 things an unplanned (or planned) visitor would find in your bedroom?

As if I’d pass this up! There is a metal tool box (I shit you not) with a lock on it underneath one of the nightstands. Yes, it is filled with all manner of fun things.

Also under said nightstand is a the Kama Sutra tin. I am in LOVE with their Honey dusting powder and use it in place of perfume sometimes. Makes my neck (and other body parts) yummy to lick.

There is a basket under my nightstand that includes all three books in the Beauty series by Anne Rice (oh…the wetness they inspire), two favorite vibrators, and a large beach towel for those times when the force of my own ejaculate could rival Cytherea’s.

I have a plastic bag of ridiculous porn that was given to me by my ex’s mother when her husband’s son passed away unexpectedly. Kind of an odd thing to be inadvertently willed.

Yes, the requisite lingerie drawers. One for one lover who prefers me in my birthday suit (so that drawer is for my pajamas and nighties: nights when I’m alone, in other words) and the other for the lover who really loves me in garter belts and push-up bras.

Thanks to Ang, our Sweltering Celt, for another fabulous MicroFantasy Monday assignment: Frustration

Mid-afternoon and my cunt is throbbing from lack of attention. It is wanting. Needing. Release. I drop my work and then my jeans and wander off to my bedroom, stopping only to grab my favorite vibrator out of the basket under my night table. I settle into my usual position on my back, legs spread wide, vibrator on low at first but quickly turned to high as I realize the batteries are running out of juice. Irksome. I shake off my irritation and the brief thought that I ought to replace them. I start to hone in on a tried-and-true fantasy or image that will get me there.

Sitting behind him, having asked him to jack off for me for the very first time. Watching his hand tentatively stroke the long black silicone shaft, gliding up and…did I pay the electric bill? When is that due anyway? Am I on a payment plan with them? I should do that, I should…

Argh. Okay…um…I’m lying on my stomach, half asleep. I feel the weight of someone kneeling between my legs. Taking their thumbs (faster now, firmer now, I reach down and feel how wet I have become) and spreading my labia, examining me and…damn it! I forgot to go to the grocery store. Now what the hell are we going to have for dinner?

Shit!!! Alright, alright. Something else. Anything else. Tits. Nipples. Hands there. Mouth there. Cunt. Closeup. Fingers. Tongue. Yeah, but what is the tongue doing? Who does it belong to? Did I take the clothes out of the dryer?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I give up. Turn off the vibrator. Yank my panties back up, roll over, and take a nap.

Just wanted to send a great big shout-out to Adam & Eve’s site Broken Headboard for including my Tutu Redux in their Friday HNT Roundup this week! I don’t know how they found me, but I’m flattered that they did! Thanks, Bree!

Another thank you to Southern Sage, for including me in his HNT Faves this week as well. My, I’m feeling quite flushed indeed!

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.

Loyal readers of my old FemmeBLT blog will have to forgive me for recycling this HNT. I am simply swamped with work and have no time to get half-nekkid and take new photos. I do, however, have a fabulous idea for next week and will try my best to pull it off. Thus, I present to you (again) the tutu shots.

*CLICK*

Be sure to check out more terrific HNTs at Osbasso’s Views From the Back Row!

Okay, it isn’t actually stealing because (notice, FFG that I did NOT use the word “since”) my BFF Femme Fairy Godmother tagged me for this award for one of my *other* blogs (which I will not post a link to here since it will immediately give away not only my identity, but also that of everyone I’ve ever known, from my mom to my methadone junkie next door neighbors). This morning I read her highly amusing piece that was entirely ripped off from another highly amusing blogger, Martini Cartwheels. Seriously funny. So funny that I decided to carjack the original idea and do my own version. One that befits a sex blogger. Watch Reality TV much?

1. Survivor: My first instinct was to say that I could totally sleep my way to the top three but then I have no sense of balance so I’d end up losing out to the final two, hands down. Then I realized that I am so not 24 anymore (that’s an age reference, not a reference to another show because this is reality TV and I hear that show has a woman president now) and prancing around in a bikini in the shape that I’m in would make me the new Richard Hatch. Following that train of thought, it is true that going on Survivor is possibly the best diet trick in the world. Last tangential thought on trying to screw my way through to a million bucks? Aside from the woman named “Truck” (or some such thing) with the mullet and headband and possibly some of the old or fat guys who might get really desperate after 15 days or so…we’re talking about blonde femmes (ewwwww) and young studs ( “cougar” anyone?). I guess Survivor is out.

2. The Amazing Race: I am all about travel so this would be an ideal show regardless of the fact that you are zipping through foreign countries faster than you can say “lesbian fuckbuddies” and don’t even have time to linger in Amsterdam to do some window shopping (wink, wink). Also, given the fact that I would so definitely take Norway with me because she has traveled to like, everywhere, (she thinks Iceland rocks) we probably wouldn’t get out of the starting gate because we’d be fucking all night in our first hotel stop and we’d sleep through the alarm the next morning.

3. American Idol: Given that we’ve already established that I can’t wear a bikini, that tried-and-true method of making it to Hollywood is out of the question. I can’t stomach trying to seduce Simon or Randy, and Cara just scares me. That leaves us with Ellen (thank God because the thought of going down on Paula Abdul just makes me nauseous) who I think might just forget about her anorectic wife long enough to slip behind the backdrop with me for a quickie. But even with her vote, that’s one out of four and although I can hold a tune enough to be in my church choir (a real church, which is not like “she’s a member of *our* church,” which is also like *a friend of Dorothy*…see? Tangential.) I doubt that my version of “Old Time Religion” will win over the hearts of millions.

4. I’m only doing five of these, I promise. WipeOut: I fucking love this show. There is nothing better than watching people get seriously injured while humiliating themselves on national television. I can’t do anything remotely sexual to get further than the interview with yet another gorgeous femme. While I may ask her what shade of lipstick she’s wearing, I so cannot bring myself to do the “femme/femme” thing, especially not for a paltry $50,000. I am such an old school dyke. Really.

5. Big Brother: I am the queen of drama and totally adept at mind games and can really pull off being your best friend one minute while stabbing you in the neck with a fork the next (FFG, you have nothing to worry about, I love you darling!). While sexcapades abound on this show, the night vision camera is so terribly unflattering that I wouldn’t even audition.

Okay…5 fast fucks to make it an even 10:

6. America’s Next Top Model: Strapping it on for an aspiring supermodel is like sleeping with a bicycle. All bones and knees and elbows. Next!

7. The Apprentice: I wouldn’t blow the Donald even if he put me in his will to get half his empire. I *might* consider it if he granted me an all-day, all expenses paid shopping trip through the ever-so-chic shops in Trump Tower. Then again, *gag*

8. Project Runway: Has there been a leather fetish designer yet? If not, I’m so on the list. How hard can it be to spray latex on a mannequin and roll her down the runway, trussed up like Hannibal Lecter?

9. The Biggest Loser: I really only need to lose about 30 lbs. so I doubt I’d even be let on the show, but if I were, it would be fun to try and pull off the food scene from 9 1/2 weeks with granola bars and protein shakes.

10. Can they create a lesbian version of the Bachelor? FFG might do this show because she wants a girlfriend and she’s already slept with all the women within a 50 mile radius of her hometown (I kid, woman, I kid! Sort of.). I also said that as her best friend I would go down on her if all the lights were out and she could pretend I was super butch. Sadly, I think she’d still toss me immediately. I’m too short.

Kudos to Ang, the Sweltering Celt, for her website’s new home, and for giving us this week’s MFM theme: Breathing.

This was a control issue.

I wanted to pull out all of my usual maneuvers. She wasn’t having any of it. After months of talking every day across the thousands of miles that separate us and more than a week of being in each other’s presence during her month in the States, I was now straddling her lap, my cleavage at eye level. She knows me too well for having known me such a short time. She anticipates my moves and shakes me off. Her eyes gleam, half-lidded from the bottle of wine we’ve shared, a smile plays at her lips. Those lips. I want them on mine. Now.

I always get what I want when I want it. I’m like Veruca Salt that way (not the band, the other one). But she isn’t giving in and I’m frustrated. She knows it and says it. “This frustrates you doesn’t it? You hate it when you aren’t the one in control. When you aren’t getting your way.” I pout and flash my eyes. It’s not working. I refuse to move. I want what I want and I want it now. I think I see her giving in. Leaning up toward my mouth, hers slightly open. I lean down, my lips parted. She pulls away, laughing softly. I should be aggravated but I am intensely intrigued. Does she know how much this game is getting to me? Does she feel my heart race? Is my lust for her that palpable? She knows. I’m sure she knows.

An eternity passes before she gives up the prize. Our lips playing upon each other, my sigh into her open mouth, the talking, the teasing, and then…that one sweet moment when the kiss becomes a tangible thing. An event. A happening. When the chemistry takes over and you become insatiably hungry for one another and no one else will do. I fall into her deep, soft, long, lingering, passionate kisses.

And she takes my breath away.

Through no fault of my own (well, okay, it was purely my fault to begin with), I am bald. Not quite bald, but my head is shaved shorter than the buzz cut my 9-year-old kid is sporting. Backstory: when HTB and I broke up, I did everything I could to distance myself from all that he preferred about me. He liked my hair a bit longer, kind of curly, and never jet black. Immediately, I took my own clippers and a box of hair dye from the local drugstore and turned myself into a 44-year-old goth kid with short black spikes and kohl-rimmed eyes. This phase lasted well through my mourning period. Lately, with fall coming on and my propensity for self-transformation with the seasons, I went to the salon to have my color lightened to something in the dark auburn family.

Little did I know that when you used multiple boxes of Garnier Nutrisse in blackest black, the process is tantamount to putting shoe polish on your hair. It is impossible to lighten. But we tried. First we did a clarifying shampoo. Nothing. 30 minutes of a clarifying treatment under the hair dryer and my hair smelled like death but emerged with spotty patches of brown intermixed with that stubborn jet black. My brilliant idea was to just strip all the color off and put on a golden wash and I’d be blonde. Fine by me…I’d been platinum once before I got preggers and it was actually kind of fun. So, 50 minutes of peroxide later, my hairdresser throws up her hands after examining the results—now five shades of burnt follicles. Ouch. My head felt as though I’d been bathing in a vat of ammonia. “Nicki?” I said, “Let’s just shave it off.”

She was mortified. She recently had to shave the head of a colleague who was facing chemotherapy. She couldn’t imagine a perfectly healthy woman asking her to shave her head as though she’d just asked for a drink of water. But, hey, it’s just hair, right? I went back yesterday morning and sat in the chair with a fairly nonchalant attitude. I watched as she tentatively started from the back, asking me constantly if I was sure. My son stared wide-eyed next to me as chunks of hair fell to the floor. I was okay with this. Really. And then she did the sides. Wow. That’s short. I now had a mohawk. Interesting. That gone, the only thing left on my head was 1/2 inch of blonde and white virgin hair (the blonde due to the bleach which had aggressively attacked my naturally dark roots). Okay. It’s done. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

There are many women out there who completely rock the androgynous look. Some are so feminine with gorgeous thin faces, great bone structure, and lithe bodies. I will admit to being an attractive woman. I am not conventionally beautiful. The only thing I was truly happy about after the fact was that my head has a nice shape to it. I could pick apart my facial flaws, but I won’t. However, I immediately went home and darkened my lipstick and my eyeliner, put on a skirt, and the largest hoop earrings in my extensive jewelry collection. I do NOT rock the androgynous look, nor do I want to.

I have nothing against those who buck the binary gender system. Truly, this comes from a woman who was engaged to a transman. A woman who gravitates toward the butchest of women. Those who wear men’s clothes and men’s cologne and get “sir’d” left and right. I, myself, do not have a masculine bone in my body, nor do I want one. I love being high femme. I love everything about being a girlie girl. I am a strong, independent, assertive, and sometimes intimidating woman, but I am by no means interested in looking anything but really, really femme.

I got up this morning and looked in the mirror. What reflected back at me was this make-up free woman with a blonde crewcut. She was androgynous. She was me. I worry that my lovers will not be pleased with this new look. In church this morning I got all manner of responses from “are you okay, dear?” to “you work that look, girl!” to “oh, well, honey…you can always try a wig.” You know what? I fucking LOVE this hair! I have no bedhead. I did nothing after I showered but towel dry it. Everyone is saying that they think it will be so cute to watch what happens as it grows out. Guess what? I may not LET IT! I may decide to keep it! Hell, I’ve got the balls to do it. I CAN rock this hair. And if I happen to rock androgyny while I’m doing it, so the fuck what? Yeah, former HTB probably hates it and won’t want to be seen in public with me. Um…give a shit, much? And as for anyone else, if you really care about me, you really don’t care what I look like. Hair or no hair.

I think I’ll send a photo of the new me to Queer Eye Candy. ‘Cause, baby, I’m workin’ it.

Cancer.

That word has been looming in my frontal lobe for two weeks now. Like Winnie-the-Pooh’s little black rain cloud, it has hovered over me, causing me to behave irrationally, snap at people, become irritated at the slightest “tone of voice,” and be easily distractible—my work has lain in piles, untouched, ignored.

About a month or so ago, I started having severe pain in my right breast. Pain so bad that I couldn’t sleep at night. Wearing a bra was uncomfortable at best, yet without it, I had to walk around cradling it in my hand. Over Labor Day weekend it became unbearable and the I was forced to admit that I needed to see my doctor first thing Tuesday morning. She found a lump. Small, but there. I tried to take the news stoically. Be brave. It’s probably nothing. She got me this first available mammogram and ultrasound. First available meant this morning…almost two weeks later. Two weeks to deal my worst fear, second only to losing a loved one.

My stress has been palpable. Almost a physical presence. I thought about death and leaving my child alone in the world. I thought about chemo as a single mother with no real support in the area. I thought about life without my right breast. I thought about sex.

I have three physical features about myself that I like. My eyes, my lips, and my breasts. At almost 45 years of age, they are still firm, still ride fairly high, are not too big or too small, and create great cleavage with a good bra. I seem to choose lovers who love my breasts. Of course, everyone may be that obsessed with tits in general. In high school, one of the boys I dated came in his khakis just from touching them. But that was then. Now, they get kissed, caressed, lightly bitten, sometimes bitten hard, nibbled at, licked, and pinched. They love a good, hard cock between them just as much as a nestled head. They adore a face buried between them, drinking in the scent fresh from a shower or misted with Chanel no. 5.

So, this morning, I get up early and wish for my mother…or my best friend, both of whom live far, far away. The miles stretched before me as I drove myself, alone, to have my tests done. I thought about cancer. I tried to be upbeat. The “C” word became an unwelcome mantra in my head. I disrobed and donned the soft, worn white garment tied in the front. The radiologist called me in immediately. Ahead of the other women in the inner sanctum. I faced the mammogram machine head on. I dealt with the pain. I reflected on the fact that I had been negligent in keeping up with my yearly appointments. I had not had a mammogram in five years. Perhaps it was too late.

I was returned to the waiting room, but seconds later they collected me for my ultrasound. The technician was silent as her wand glided across my gelled breast. I tried to watch the images on the screen. My last ultrasound had shown a child within me. A life. Would this reveal a death? I was told that diagnostic patients always received their results immediately. There would be no dreaded wait period. The technician left me on the table with my arm over my head. The doctor returned a short while later and I held my breath.

I left the room and silently dressed. I walked through the crowded outer waiting room without meeting anyone’s eyes. I walked through bright sunshine to my car. I called my parents. Then I called my best friend. And a torrent of tears let loose for the first time since that pain had announced itself, carrying with it all of my nightmares and worries and concerns.

I recently took one of those ridiculous applications on Facebook called Death Day. The idea was that if you input your birth year then you would be returned your year of death along with the manner in which you die. Mine said that I would swallow a toothpick and die of peritonitis at the age of 99. That silly app could be right…

My tests were negative.

I just wanted to stick a shameless plug in here. Every week Blue-eyed Vixen posts her Friday faves and darlings, I showed up in my very first week back on the block! I’m tickled pink-ish. Vixen is extraordinarily talented and takes the most beautiful photographs. I am ever in awe of her work — not to mention her body-to-die-for. She certainly has great subject matter to work with. I doubt there are many stopping by here that don’t know her, but if you need to get acquainted, get thee there NOW!

Thanks again, V, I’m truly honored.