Scintillectually Yours

I have been thinking a lot about labels, lately. Specifically, the L word. No, not the show and not Laboutin (although if anyone wants to donate a pair of killer open-toe combat boots with a rockin’ stiletto heel, I take a size 6 ½). Lesbian. That’s the one. It may sound utterly ridiculous, especially as I’ve been “out” for roughly 26 years, give or take a few years of trying to conform to nonconformity.

Everyone wants to eschew labels. Everywhere you turn, you’ll hear that old adage about not wanting to label oneself. Or we have new labels: “queer,” “genderbent,” “pansexual.” I tried pansexual on for size recently on Fetlife. I had read a wonderful post by Curvaceous Dee and felt inspired by the term. At the time, I was still dallying with my ex-fiancé who happens to be an FTM transsexual. During the time that we were together, I actually let him talk me into claiming I was “straight.” Although to be perfectly frank, we’d have never even dated, much less become engaged, if we hadn’t met on Yahoo Personals…as women looking for women. He wasn’t even considering transition then and had come to terms with the fact that, as a man trapped in a woman’s body, he had to label himself lesbian although he truly is straight (long, complicated story…perhaps for another time…perhaps not, as it is over and done).

“Bisexual” didn’t cut it for him. He didn’t like the idea that I was still open to 50% of the population even though we were monogamous and headed for marriage. I wanted to respect his wishes to be man and wife, man and woman, (can we all sing together? “Little houses on the hillside, Little houses made of ticky-tacky…”) and so I tried to adapt to this June Cleaver image. I even, and it still shames me to remember this, shrugged my shoulders (publicly) at Prop 8, thinking it had nothing more to do with me. This coming from a woman who had married my female partner of 14 years, 4 days after my home state of Massachusetts began handing out marriage licenses to same-sex couples (another long story…moral is: just because you can doesn’t mean you should). I turned my back on the community that had nurtured me from the day that I came flying out of the closet to tackle the woman who now, 26 years later, is my lifelong love. The fallout that ensued was horrific. My BFF, Femme Fairy GodMother, and I had the first and only fight we’ve ever had. I mortally wounded her along with every other gay man, lesbian woman, and queer soul I was ever lucky enough to call friend or acquaintance.

I even, if you can believe it, tried to tell myself that I didn’t miss pussy. Me! I may be high femme but I am the world’s leading carpet muncher and dammit if I couldn’t wait to get my face all in it the first opportunity I got after the old man walked out. Okay, admittedly it took awhile to find that someone with whom I really cared enough about to bury my face in her crotch (this isn’t the 80s anymore, after all) but wow…I sooooo missed it.

So here’s the thing (to borrow a phrase from another Sapphic sister of mine), I am SO a lesbian. I am not straight, I am not bisexual, I am not queer, I am not pansexual. I kick it old school in that great butch-femme way. My woman looks like a man (check it out for yourself…Androgynonamous rocks my fucking world!) and gets called sir more often than not. As a baby dyke I listened to Chris Williamson, Tret Fure, and Meg Christian. I was there when Amy and Emily came out. I heard Ellen’s toaster joke on TV the night it aired. I listened to Betty at Boston’s Gay Pride before anyone even knew who they were. I read all the lesbian pulp fiction and prayed for glimpses of women who actually seemed to enjoy other women in porn long before The Crash Pad series came out.

So, stick it to me, glue it on me, tattoo it on my fucking forehead. I AM A LESBIAN. And I am thrilled to take back that label and call it my own. I will forever love the company of women and I honestly missed my community. You can take the girl out of the MichWomen’s Music Fest, but you can’t make her drink the Kool-aid. Never again.

And you? You can call me Ms. Dyke, thank you. Because yes, yes I am!

During my recent stay with DPR (and let me just plug her new blog right now and get that out of the way: www.androgynonymous.wordpress.com), we had a few opportunities for pics that will hopefully last me through the next four weeks or so before we can be together again. At one point, she threw me one of her denim shirts and began to artfully arrange folds and drape fabric while snapping away. I have to admit, when I first saw the shots I hated them. I am the world’s leading expert in self-deprecation. I can look at any picture of myself and see nothing but the flaws. Once I started playing with these however, I found I could have a little fun with form and function. I’ve tried to recreate the silver gelatin print through Photoshop. Here, then, is the first week’s offering in Her Shirt. Don’t forget to click-through and don’t forget to stop by Osbasso’s Views from the Back Row to get all the HNT goodness!

*Click*

With my son at my parents’ for the weekend, you and I have decided to plan a rare night out. Dinner, perhaps a movie. Just a little something to whet our appetites for later—the promise of a long night together and the chance to sleep in on a Saturday morning. We have reservations at Milner’s for 7 and you are already dressed when I emerge from the steam-clouded bathroom, still wrapped in a towel. I lean against the doorframe to take in your choice of clothing: a white tee and the brocade navy vest I love top a well-worn pair of Polo jeans and your Harley boots. If I knew how to wolf-whistle I would, but I smile appreciatively and you take notice of my approval.

I move past you to peruse my closet, mentally tossing aside different outfits. You come up behind me and run your hand up my thigh, heading under the hem of the towel and I bat you away (no to the vintage Halston). Your hands move up and cup my breasts through the thick weave and I firmly take them off (not the Michael Kors sleeveless). You bend your head and run your tongue the length of my neck and I gasp and swat at your ear (the Vera Wang silk is too dressy). I grab my favorite JJill skirt, an almost ankle-length number in various layers of sheer, olive-brown netting. As I move to the dresser to pull out a well-worn black stretch tee, I pull something else out of the bottom of my drawer and toss it to you. Surprised, you catch the bundle in your hands and sit down hard on the bed.

It is your soft-packer. You look at me quizzically and begin to protest. I turn on my heel and put my finger across your lips. “Wear it,” I command. “As you wish,” you say, with a slight hint of a smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. You know the price of your submission now will be mine to pay later and you comply without another word. Clearly, I’m not expecting to get fucked or I would have had you hard pack, but you don’t stop to question my motives.

The restaurant is crowded tonight and our table is not as secluded as I had hoped. Although one of your favorites, I haven’t been here before and I pause after we order our iced teas to admire the warm antebellum-meets-art deco décor. We have a way of attracting attention and tonight is no different. The atmosphere is free of any feelings of homophobia, however, and I get the feeling that we are being watched as a couple, a couple of women, clearly intimate with each other. I listen to you talk about your latest poetry submission, the deadline having rushed upon you, and idly run one black booted leg up along the inseam of your jeans. You falter slightly, flustered, regain your composure and continue. I smile and take another bite of the mouth-watering filet mignon with burgundy demi-glace.

We debate the various offerings at our local movie theater when I remember that tonight is Burlesque night at Artistika. I have friends who go every month and have been aching to see the show. You readily agree (how could you not?) and head to the car. You open the passenger door for me and I catch you staring as I hike up my skirt to climb in, purposely leaving my left leg exposed, the layers draped across my lap, down my right leg—a fabric puddle on the floor at my feet. When you slide into the driver’s seat your hand moves toward me but I catch it mid-air and place it firmly on the stick shift, leaving you frustrated, wanting, and inches away from the bare flesh of my thigh and a hint of lace panties.

We enter the club just before the show begins and are seated at a tiny table in a far corner of the room. The house lights are down and we quietly place orders of cranberry juice and soda. I tuck into you as we watch these beautiful, curvy women strut their hour upon the stage—all pasties, corsets, and feather boas. The air has an electric, erotic current running through it and as all eyes are facing forward, my hand snakes its way into your lap. You blink, hard, and I whisper in your ear, “watch the show. Watch the show.” I can feel the bulge through your jeans, the soft pack placed firmly in your briefs, the balls pressed up against your clit. I begin to lightly stroke your cock, moving my attention from your crotch to your thigh where I rake my nails hard against the crease where your leg meets your groin. You groan and I shush you. I lean over again and press my hand hard against your cock, running the flat of my palm up and down the front of your jeans pressing the soft pack into you. When I move my hand farther down between your legs I can feel how damp your jeans are and I lean into you, “watch the show,” and breathe my lust into your ear. Your own breathing quickens but you remain riveted on the current performer. She sings of unrequited love and pulls off corset over corset. She has bloodstains on her hands and she rends her clothes as she sways upon her knees. Her piece is drawing to a fevered pitch and so are you. My hand moves faster and firmer against you and the second I take your own hand and slide it under the many layers of my skirt and guide you into my panties so that you can dip your fingers in my wetness…

you come.

The waitress stops by with another round of drinks and I straighten up and thank her while you catch your breath. I clap loudly for the artist on stage and when I turn to you, you reach for me— “my turn” you say. “No,” I shake my head, “watch the show.”

There will be plenty of time for your turn, with me, after the house lights go up.

1. For self-arousal, if you could reach any part of your body with your mouth, which part would you like to reach and why?

Oh please, seriously? I would so lick my pussy. I’m not kidding! 1) I LOVE performing oral sex. I have a major oral fetish and am constantly sticking things in my mouth. If cigarettes weren’t so bad for your health I would still smoke all the time simply because I think it’s sexy as hell to inhale, exhale. mmmmm… and 2) I taste great and I’m less filling.

2. If you reached that part of your body, how often and how long would you want to stay there?

Much like my cat, I would be there as often and for as long as possible. At least whenever I was alone. When DPR is around? Hey, I can share like a good little playmate. Although I imagine she’d want to watch for a bit. *grin*

3. If the opportunity arose, what would you like to do to someone else that you have never been game to try before?

I have to say that short of my list of absolute won’t-do’s (dead people, kids, animals, blood sports, really hard-core BDSM, and scat play), there isn’t one thing I can think of that I haven’t done. At least once. Yowza.

4. You have been selected to swap one of your organs with another member of the opposite sex. What would you swap and why? Who would you choose as the organ donor?

Am I to assume we’re talking about sexual organs? Because, no, no, and again, no. I am really truly happy with my va-jay-jay, which would look damn silly with a set of balls swinging in front of her, I do NOT want a penis of my very own (not even for 10 minutes), and no one is taking these breasts from me (not that they are organs per se). As for internally? I’m good there, really. My hearts pumping, my lungs are clear, and my brain works pretty damn well, thanks.

5. Overnight you have a beauty sleep and inexplicably awaken at dawn having now turned into the most beautiful person on the planet. What would you do differently for the next 24 hours?

Wait, you mean I’m NOT already? Shit.

Bonus Question: You are noticed by a talent scout and invited to star in your own x-rated movie for worldwide distribution. You are asked to write the plot. Describe your movie plot in one sentence of no more than 20 words.

Typical unbelievably hot night with DPR and I at home and you get to pay to watch it and salivate.

Yes! It’s true!!! I’m a bonafide lesbian writer of erotica and actually getting some seriously positive feedback for it! This morning, I received the following notification on the blog I posted just last night regarding the fact that I had been nominated for a 2009 Lezzy Award:

“Congratulations! Your blog is a finalist in The 2009 Lezzy Awards in the following category/ies: Best Lesbian Sex/Short Story/Erotica Blog!

Voting runs from February 22nd at 12:00 pm EDT to 12:00 am EDT March 2nd. Please visit http://thelesbianlifestyle.com/the-rules/ for The Lezzy Rules, FAQ, and to pick up a voting graphic for your blog or podcast website.In the mean time feel free to Twitter and Facebook your ass off for votes! There’s nothing like some friendly lesbian competition!”

So…the next step is to ask you all who deem my work worthy, to click on the link below (or in the sidebar, which will be up throughout the voting period) and vote each and every day until March 2nd. Please read the rules (linked above) to be sure your vote will count. I’m beyond excited to be recognized as part of a very large and extremely talented group of women. I’m also quite thankful to my readers who hold up a mirror to my work here, and the blogging community at large, for you all are a wondrously creative and supportive bunch.

Now VOTE!!!

Well, knock me down with a feather! I come back from 10 glorious days spent with DPR (and no way to access my admin page, having stupidly…or perhaps on purpose…left my password info back home) and find out that I’ve been nominated for a 2009 Lezzy Award in the Best Lesbian Sex/Short Story/Erotica Blog category. Of course, having just now returned, I’m a tad late in posting this. Nominations end tonight at midnight and the more nominations a blog gets, the better chance there is of moving on to the voting round that continues into March. I’d surely love it if you’d go HERE and make a nomination in my honor. But at the same time, please consider nominating some of my very worthy fellow lesbian bloggers as well:

Butchtastic—he already has nominations in both parenting and personal and with your help and additional nominations, you can push him right to the top of the list. If you don’t already read Kyle, make his blog a daily stop. He is smart, funny, dead honest, and open. I’ve learned a lot from Kyle in the year or so that I’ve been part of this particular blogging community and he is so worth the read!

Femme Fairy GodMother—Okay, I admit it, she’s my bff. But there’s a reason for that! She’s not only insanely attractive (and, ahem, currently single for y’all tall, handsome butches out there) but she’s witty, creative, and talented. Her blogs run to the humorous with a dash of Betty Crocker thrown in.

Martini Cartwheels—CJ makes me piss my pants laughing! She’s good fun and a great way to put a smile in your day. I have only read her for six months or so but I will be a fan as long as she keeps her site going. And because she lives fairly close we are definitely doing lunch someday soon!

Naked Girl in a Big Gay World—It’s my darling thunder from down under. Zoe is sarcastic, scary smart, funny as shit, and opinionated as all hell. Plus, she’s not afraid to say “cunt” in her Facebook updates. I just love that about a dyke, don’t you?

Finally, as a shameless plug and because I don’t think they have a category she fits into…just go read Femme Poet. She has several blog sites going and, well, I’m her editor for her book, Healing Passions, so read on, Macduff!

Please don’t forget the top three nominees in each category make it to the voting round, which is why multiple nominations are important (make sure to click on the link in the email response you get when you make a nomination, or else it won’t count)

I had been mulling over ideas for a Valentine’s themed HNT. I browsed pink tutus at Hot Topic, checked out heart-covered bikinis at Old Navy, considered a pale pink sweater I own. In the end, I decided that I would put up the last of my Paisley series. This series was taken the night that DPR arrived on her last trip. As a rather spur of the moment decision, she had thrown a bag and her laptop in her truck and started out alone on a 15-hour drive armed with not much more than gas money, Monster energy drinks, and protein bars. She called me throughout Friday night and into Saturday morning. I could hear the weariness in her voice. I worried for her safety. I marveled at her tenacity. I felt every bit of the love that would push her to drive straight through.

On Saturday, around 1:30 pm, I was heading out of the house to get the last of the groceries and there she was, just shutting the trunk of my car. She looked tired and amazing in a Harley patch-covered jean jacket with a hoodie, her hair tousled, her smile lighting up my world. I almost knocked her over as I ran from the porch into her arms, joined by my neighbor and her now butch bff, who got quite caught up in all the excitement. It has been many, many years since I have felt that kind of overwhelming happiness.

After making her a hearty and much-needed lunch, I pushed her off to bed for a few hours of sleep. Her body was twitchy, but her breathing settled and she wrapped her arms around me and we eased into something so comfortable it felt as though we had shared a bed all of our lives. Bless her heart, with all that she’d been through to get there, she cheerfully entertained our neighbors over dinner and some impromptu and fairly hysterical karaoke on my son’s Playstation. I’m sure it was close to 9:30 by the time they took their leave.

I slipped into my paisley babydoll, but she wanted to see my thigh-high suede boots. I ran into the bedroom with DPR hot on my tail and caught my little toe on the doorframe. Let me tell you, vestigial or not, those fuckers HURT when you damn near rip them off. I was brave but boy did I want to cry. That thing was black for days. In the meantime, and like the good doobie that I am, I put on the boots and we returned to the living room where she grabbed the camera. We sat on the sofa and passed it back and forth, framing shots of our body parts together, again, finally. These are some of those shots.

You can imagine what followed. I won’t get into specifics as we’ve agreed not to write about “that which is profane becomes sacred.” But I will tell you this…

I love this woman. I have lived a life moving from one bad choice of a partner to another. I almost fell into a relationship with someone simply because I thought their resumé fit the bill when we had no chemistry whatsoever. DPR is the most intelligent, creative, talented, gentle, caring, kind, generous, funny, outgoing, down-to-earth, passionate, honest human being you could ever hope to meet. All of these many years later, I have finally found the kind of love that some people only dream about. I dreamt it. I never thought I deserved it. She makes me feel deserving. She makes me feel worthy of her love.

Darling, this is the first of many, many Valentine’s celebrations together. I want to thank you for coming into my life again, for keeping a little piece of me within you for 26 years, and for loving me so much that you went to all that trouble to drive so far just to be with me once more. In less than 40 hours, I shall be in your arms. I shall look upon your face. I shall kiss your lips. I shall fold myself into your embrace. I hope to prove myself worthy of your love until the end of our days and then, still again. I love you.

And for the rest of you, don’t forget to visit Osbasso for more HNT goodness.

Happy Valentines and HHNT!

The pink of my toenail polish was an exact match to the backdrop of Azaleas in full bloom along the Parkway. The warm wind tickled my bare feet—propped up on your passenger side mirror—and I stretched out lazily against you, keeping in mind your need to shift gears as we continued to climb the Blue Ridge. You glanced over at me and smiled, asked if I was hungry. It had been several hours since we’d pulled into the overlook, dipping into the picnic hamper I’d packed that morning. Yes, I was hungry. My gaze lingered on your right hand, wrapped around the stick. Yes, I was hungry.

Reluctantly, I pulled my feet in and put my hiking boots back on. The shadows were getting longer; I estimated it was about 4 p.m. or so. We’d set out early and done a little shopping in Blowing Rock before driving north with no real destination in mind and no reason to head home any time soon. You turned left into a small gravel drive and I looked around curiously to see if there were signs marking private property. The temperature dropped considerably as the woods became dense around us. Pine branches licked the side of the truck and I moved closer against you.

And then I gasped. We had come into a clearing on the side of the mountain. The view was spectacular. I jumped from the truck and stood there, not too close to the edge—heights had a way of giving me vertigo. There was this vastness that threatened to pull me into an endless abyss. I needed to feel grounded. Rooted. You put your arms around me from behind and breathed into my neck. “Ohhh,” I sighed, “it’s beautiful.” What an understatement. I was looking at miles and miles of undulating forest. Each mountainside was colored with a different paintbrush dipped in sage, emerald, cerulean blue. You could see the shadows of the clouds pass along the ground and the sky was a liquid pale blue particular to Spring in the Southland. It was an intricate patchwork quilt spread out below us and I delighted in the idea that WE were sharing so much of this glorious creation.

“Yes,” you said, “you are.” I pulled your arms tighter around me. “Let’s eat here, okay?” I said. You nodded into my hair. “I have an even better idea…why don’t we just spend the night here?” Yes, I thought, yes.

We spent some time setting up “camp.” The truck contained our usual assortment of folding chairs, blankets, a lantern, and an air mattress that you proceeded to inflate while I unpacked the picnic basket. By the time we settled down to eat, dusk was upon us. We fed each other smoked chicken, fresh ripe tomatoes with bufala mozzarella in a thick balsamic vinaigrette, and crusty French bread. Soon I moved from my chair to sit on the ground in front of you, watching the sun set as your hands moved from my hair to my shoulders and down my arms.

As evening fell upon us, you pulled me over to the truck. We climbed up on the air mattress and I fell into your arms, chilled from the night air. Our kisses moved swiftly from soft and lingering to long and hard as our hands began exploring that which we already knew so very well. You pushed at my tank and engulfed my nipple—nee, much of my breast—in your mouth. My back arched involuntarily and my fingernails found that spot on your side that elicits your deep-throated moans. As your fingers replaced your warm mouth my nipple grew rock-hard. You pinched hard and it was my turn to moan.

Now my shorts were being tossed aside and I spread my legs wide for you. Open to you, open to the sky. I looked up and thought for one fleeting moment that the inky blackness dotted with millions of stars could have been painted by Van Gogh himself. I was quickly brought back to earth at the instant your tongue dove into my cunt. Deep. Oh, my legs and thighs were cold but your mouth was hot upon my pussy. I reached down and spread my legs wider, bracing my boots on either side of the truck. The thud of metal in the still, dark night…otherwise broken only by my ragged breathing and your murmurs of satisfaction as you feasted upon me.

I was so close to coming and you knew it. Now my cry echoed throughout the evergreen valley as you entered me with your fingers. Two…three. “more,” I whispered, “more.” I slowed my breathing as you tucked in your pinky. “Still more,” I pleaded, “more.” I let out a long, slow, deliberate breath through the widest part of your hand and smiled up at the heavens as your fist curled inside me. Then suddenly you were above me, looking into my face, watching me intently as your hand rocked away at that sweet, sweet spot. I reached down between your legs, positioned to either side of my thigh, and pressed my hand firmly against your hard wetness.

I pushed against you with my pelvis. My hips took on a life of their own, grinding into your fist, pushing you further into me. Deeper. Faster. My thigh pushing my own hand against your cunt, the pace of your breathing matching mine. Our eyes met as the walls of my vagina bore down upon your wrist and you were coming with me, still watching each other as we voiced our orgasms into the hills around us.

Our bodies stilled, drenched and silent. You moved to withdraw your hand. No. No. Not yet. I stayed your arm with my other hand and then pulled your head down to me. I wasn’t ready to leave this place…this wide open space that graciously accepted us and allowed our lovemaking to continue through that Starry Night.

1. LUST: Besides your current Significant Other who do you lust for or have you lusted for?

I lust for no one other than DPR. Seriously. I don’t say that because I don’t want to get in trouble with her, I just don’t think of anyone else that way. I’m sure she would totally get it if there were some celebrity crush I had (oh…say Matthew McConaughy or Kate Moennig?) because Lord knows I have to listen to her wax on and on and on and on and on and on and on about Pink and her core muscles and her next-to-nothing costumes. But, me jealous? Hah! Oh, sorry…got a tad off-subject there….next.

2. GLUTTONY: What food brings out your inner glutton?

Lord, these days it’s comfort food. Anything heavy with cheese or hollandaise sauce or gravy. No wonder I’m starting to waddle. Soon I’ll be one of those women whose feet are nowhere near each other but whose knees are touching. I’ll be wearing floral housedresses with a turkey leg in one hand, a box of chocolates under my sweaty armpit, and wielding the remote control like a weapon.

3. GREED: What are you greedy for?

Her. I’ll be there in 3 days. THREE days!!! Then it won’t be food I’m a glutton for and I’ll be able to attempt to satiate my insatiable lust. *lascivious grin*

4. SLOTH: What is your plan for an ideal day of sloth?

Oh…that’s an easy one…and not terribly exciting but isn’t that what sloth is all about? If it’s cold and rainy it would be a down comforter, my big chair, a good book, and a couple of movies. I might actually attempt to make some popcorn at some point but turning the microwave on might be too much work. If it’s warm, a hammock, a good book, a nap with my honey, and an iced green tea/lemonade would be idyllic.

5. WRATH: Describe a time that you let out a can of whoop ass on someone.

Moi? Sweet l’il ole me??? C’mon, really? Okay, here’s the scoop. I’m not a verbal person…but my pen is far mightier than the sword. When I open a can of whoop ass on someone it is generally in writing. I’ve been known to let loose with a huge stream of verbal vomit but usually I binge and purge on paper…or keyboard, as it were. Ironically, THE single nastiest piece of writing I ever did was title Seven Deadly Sins and I absolutely let loose all of the anger, frustration, and utter disgust and contempt I had for the woman who had moved in with me the day after meeting me (obviously I have to take some blame in this situation and I do castigate myself freely for it), was actively using heroin and oxycontin and I didn’t know it (naive, I know…I only know alcoholic behaviors…somehow I thought it was natural for people to pass out during conversations in the middle of the day), stole my belongings and raped me with a shattered wine bottle. Clearly, simply writing probably wasn’t enough. But it helped a bit.

6. ENVY: Who or what do you envy? Why?

Anyone who’s thin. I’m having really harsh body image issues right now. I’m in a vicious cycle of hating myself but not having the dedication or motivation to get off my fat arse and do anything about it. I’m 70 lbs heavier than I was when DPR and I were together in college. It’s fairly humiliating. And yet, she loves me anyway. Go figure.

7. PRIDE: Have you ever had to swallow your pride? What are you proud of?

I‘ve swallowed my pride more times than I can count. Several years ago I tanked my job after my wife left me alone with a 5-year-old and a $1300 a month rent and found myself sitting in a plastic chair waiting to fill out the paperwork for $415 a month in welfare benefits. That’s how former HTB and I came to live together. One of the darker moments of my life.

And yet? I’m proud of myself for doing whatever I have to do to give my kid the necessities in life. Not just a roof over his head and food on his plate, but a chance at a really good life. No matter the guilt I feel for all of the change I’ve put him through, I am still proud of the fact that he’s turning out to be a pretty great kid with a positive spirit, leadership qualities, and a good moral compass. Yeah, I’m proud of myself for that one.

---

Ang, our dear Sweltering Celt, has given us another gem. This MFM was inspired by a true story. Oh, how some visuals still pack a punch!

We had stumbled into a Brazilian costume party. The club was open to anyone but clearly  a special party had been organized. Most of the die-hard regulars must have known, as we were surrounded by heterosexual couples in all manner of disguise. However, as many of the men were dressed in drag, it was hard to tell who was here for the party and who was just club-hopping.

I sat on a high stool with my back to the wall nursing a seltzer and cranberry juice. Those things can be potent, you know. I watched my friends dance in the midst of the revelry…it looked like a small slice of Rio had landed in Massachusetts in October. When I turned back to take another sip of my drink my eye was caught again by the couple sitting in the corner. They had been pretty serious about their public display of affection up until now. Par for the course on a Friday night when the drinks are flowing, the music is loud, and the lighting sucks. This was different, somehow, and I found myself staring.

The girl (beautiful, young, dark skin and long, thick hair) had been wearing one of those tiny nurse’s costumes. There were several floating around. I had noted, with a mixture of envy and admiration, that she filled hers out rather nicely. Her (date/friend/lover?) was wearing chefs whites with an apron tied loosely around his waist and checked pants. He knew the uniform…probably worked in a kitchen. He faced her now, her legs wrapped around his backside, his pants looked suspiciously baggy. I savored a long sip of my drink as I took in her white thigh-high stockings, garter belt now clearly visible from the side of her body closest to me, and her Fredericks of Hollywood “come fuck me” pumps in requisite white.

They were no longer kissing…no longer filled with the fervor with which they had been tackling each other earlier in the evening. Now, it was slow, intimate. I almost turned away but my gaze lingered on his ass. Moving almost imperceptibly. My brain popped a synaptic response. They’re fucking! One would think that jaded old me wouldn’t be shocked at such a thing. Perhaps I wasn’t shocked so much as intrigued. Jealous. I felt my own cunt grow wet, my clit grow hard and crossed my legs tighter. Raised my glass to my lips, unconsciously licking them, as I continued to intrude on their moment. No one else seemed to notice. Her head was thrown back and he reached down to kiss her exposed throat. The muscles in his back and arms rippled as he continued to silently, steadily pump his cock into her.

My imagination was going wild. I wanted to stand next to them. See the physical connection between the two of them. I wanted to run my fingers through her hair, expose her breast, pinch her dark nipple, guide his movements. My glass was suddenly snatched out of my hand as I was surrounded by three of my friends. They unceremoniously yanked me off of my coveted bar stool and began to pull me into the sweaty throng. I looked back longingly and watched her nails dig into his back just before I was swallowed up by the crowd.