Scintillectually Yours

although in our case, it seems our 15 minutes may last just a bit longer than that.

A few months ago, I started campaigning in earnest for EqualityNC. Having been a very active member of MTPC (Massachusetts Transgender Political Coalition), I found myself at odds when I moved to North Carolina and needed a political cause. Oh, how to choose? The easiest one to start with, of course, was the one right under my very formidable nose: marriage equality. It wasn’t long before I was asked to submit our story to the Equality NC’s wedding registry and you can find our photo and brief synopsis here: The Marriage of Diana and Li. At the same time, we were asked if we’d be interested in being interviewed for their upcoming documentary “Know + Love.” Of course we gave an enthusiastic thumbs up and eagerly await our turn in the spotlight. When the film comes out, we’ll be sure to give you a heads-up.

In the meantime, I believe we may have found ourselves the North Carolina poster children for gay marriage. I opened a mass e-mail today from EqualityNC. It referred to the 2010 census and the fact there are over 23,000 registered gay and lesbian couples living in this state. Those are just the ones that chose to identify themselves on the census. Or even bothered to fill it out. At the time, Li and I were not living together and I had to list myself as a single mother, head of household. So, hey, there’s actually 23, 001. Anyhoo…I’m scrolling through the e-mail and whoa! There’s our photo! We’re famous folks!

So, I’m busy planning a wedding and trying to figure out just how to walk up to Barack Obama and tell him to get off the schtick and get a bill passed that does away with DOMA once and for all (I mean really…how long is it going to take for us to get the other 44 states in line with the idea that “all men [sic] are created equal” actually DOES include those of us in the GLBT community and trust me, if you LET us get married? The wedding industry could single-handedly revive our economic crisis). Meanwhile, Li is hard at work starting a brave new community outreach project and has already done one public speaking engagement with another only a few weeks away. I’m encouraging her to get to blogging again but both of our lives are chock full of craziness and are sure to be for the next three months at least. Hopefully her non-profit will launch just after our honeymoon and things will either quiet down or liven up in the most wonderful of ways. The best things in life are happening here and I’m feeling very positive. Very positive indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

It 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?

Whew! *cough, cough* I really need to get in here with a dustbuster and some Pledge. In the meantime, won’t you all go over and take a look at my BFF, Femme Fairy Godmother‘s site and check out her new Femme Fabulosity feature? Today’s fabulous femme is none other than…drumroll please…me! If you are a femme who would like to be included, simply copy the questions and send your answers, photos (if you’d like to include some), and any links you would like to add to femmefairygodmother at gmail dot com (you know you have to turn that into an actual email addy, right?).

I promise I’ll be back around to catch you all up on the crazy busy wonderful wedding planning that is my life right now. But don’t hold your breath. It may take me a few days!

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.

I kissed a girl, her lips were sweet

She was just like kissin’ me,

Kissed a girl won’t change the world

But I’m so glad I kissed a girl

~Jill Sobule

*Wicked Pink Ruffled Hot Pants courtesy of Tabu Toys—review pending

*CLICK*

Don’t forget to visit Osbasso’s site for more HNT goodness!

A cold fear immobilizes me at the sight of the finely honed blade. Knives, nee sharp objects of any kind, have been a long-standing phobia of mine—surpassing even my rampant arachnophobia perhaps. The steel throws off a golden sheen, reflecting the candlelight that surrounds the bed. I have trusted you, as I have trusted no other, to bring this instrument of utmost torture into my sanctuary. My safety zone. My womb.

You have a penchant for all things sharp and cutting. Your walls adorned with ceremonial swords, your drawers hiding secret weapons. This, the one you brought along tonight, is a favorite of yours. A switchblade with a pearl handle. Long. Dangerous.

I have trusted you with much. I trust you with my life. I trust you not to hurt me beyond that which I can stand. I enter into this dark night with trepidation. You stroke my face silently, run your thumb across my trembling bottom lip. My hands are tightly bound above my head, my feet splayed out wide and anchored to each bedpost. I am utterly helpless. Completely at your mercy. I am scared.

You ask if I am ready. I pause. A fleeting moment passes as I waver, unsure. I muster up the courage of my convictions and nod, licking my lips, swallowing hard.

You raise the blade so that it is directly in front of my face and then you pull my blindfold down. Trust. trust. trust. trust. I repeat my mantra over and over and over again. I know you dare not hurt me. My body shivers and I feel the first touch of the ice cold steel as you run the back of the blade along my cheek, replacing the warmth of your hand. I tense. I have no idea where you intend to go next.

And then I feel the back side of the blade slide up along my torso and you pull my camisole taught against it. The flimsy silk falls away (like a knife through butter) and I gasp. My back arches and I feel my own wetness pour forth in a thoroughly unexpected rush.

I buck up against you, my bravery in the face of my fear turning instantly to eager anticipation. The feel of the steel against my soft flesh, the complete knowledge that although you would never cross the line and draw blood, accidents do happen. In an instant you slice through the sides of my panties and leave me completely exposed to you and that razor sharp blade tracing the contours of my body.

Oh, how I never knew I wanted this.

vi.sualize.us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The excitement and anticipation surrounding us was palpable. My senses felt overwhelmed as I clutched your hand and took in the scenery around us. Throngs of men and women in costume—everyone masked—waited impatiently for the castle doors to open and the events of the night to commence. I felt as though we were in Venice rather than the small Southern town barely 20 minutes from home.

I looked over at you and you grinned widely at me. Your features, sharp and delicate (so like Cary Elwes), stood out in stark contrast to your black bandana. Your black shirt was open at the neck and I barely suppressed an urge to lean over and run my tongue from collarbone to ear. My darling Dread Pirate Roberts. You looked every bit the part tonight. Sadly, I hadn’t time to find an appropriate medieval gown—but, then again, Princess Buttercup I am not. I opted for a black corset tied tightly over a voluminous Victorian-era skirt that tied up in tiers, exposing thigh high fishnets and gray ankle boots. I adjusted my top hat and felt the layers of tulle ribbon settle themselves upon my bare back.

There was a murmur from the crowd and we began jostling forward as the large, heavy door swung open, revealing tantalizing colored lights within. The Castle Carnivale. So many years I’d wanted to attend. You put your arm around my waist protectively and ushered me along. Once we entered the high-ceilinged foyer, I couldn’t decide where to go first. The options presented to us were dizzying. There were so many performers booked in so many rooms. I wanted to take it all in. I wanted to be part of the magic.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “Please?” You understood that I was indecisive and needed you to be in control of the night ahead. You nodded and moved close to my ear, “As you wish.”

You led me to the first room, filled wall to wall with people. There was no music—just a steady, rhythmic drumming. I could feel heat from the platform set in a far corner but couldn’t see over the elaborate hats and headdresses. You deftly maneuvered us to the front and there were two men and woman, nude save for absolutely breathtaking body paint. One of the men was swallowing a flaming sword. The woman was dipping torches in some kind of flammable liquid, lighting them with a torch, and passing them to the second man who knelt on the floor touching each one to his tongue to put out the flame. His movements were rapid—their synchronization complete.

The next room was a burlesque performance and I delighted in the often bawdy revelry. We moved from there to the pole dancer. As far as I could tell, she was wearing string—strategically placed to showcase her head-to-toe tattoos. Tiger stripes. Pantera Blacksmith. I’d seen her in Boston and had photos taken with her. She was pure artistry wound up in a tight little muscular package of athletic grace and agility. I took the time to say hello in between shows and was surprised she’d remembered me. Perhaps it was the same corset that tipped her off, or she was just being gracious.

The exotic sights and sounds were getting to me. I could feel the heat building in my groin as we moved from room to room. The drinks were flowing and everyone seemed to be affected by the intense sexuality emanating from the performers and party-goers alike. We grabbed a couple of waters and headed to one of the dance bars—a DJ spinning the kind of erotic techno that makes you want to strip down and have sex in the middle of the room. You pulled me into a darkened corner and wrapped your arms around my waist so that we could both watch the dancers. I felt you hard against me and realized for the first time all night that you had packed. My breath came just a little faster in my throat and you chuckled. Your own breath tickling the back of my neck and sending shivers down my spine.

I backed up further into you. Nestling my ass against your crotch. A crowd was gathering in front of us as a professional dance troupe took the floor. Everyone’s back to us, I turned into you. My hat and your mask made kissing virtually impossible. But your cool gray eyes glinted with mischief and lust. I could feel my body flush with desire and I knew that I didn’t want to wait to go fuck in the car. I hoisted one leg over your hip and draped my arms around your shoulders. Our eyes locked and you let one hand trail across the top of my breasts, spilling out of the tightly bound corset. My head dropped back for one second and then I stared back at you again, licking my lips ever so slightly. The music, as loud as it was, seemed to fade into the background as you ran both hands down my sides and then slipped one hand between my legs.

I gasped and reached for you. The skirt I wore concealed our bodies well although anyone paying attention could clearly see that my body was gyrating of its own accord. Our private performance may well have been the subject of discussion but I didn’t care enough to notice whether anyone was watching. As you slipped your hand inside my hot pink ruffled panties, I slid your zipper down and pulled your cock out. Reaching down, I slid my hand between yours and my incredibly wet cunt. I came away with instant lubrication for this hot and steamy handjob. You moaned and broke eye contact so that you could watch my hand move from base to tip and back again. My other hand held firm to the back of your neck and I dug my fingernails in deep as you drove several fingers hard into my pussy. We picked up the rhythm of the bass beat and our hands moved together upon each other. Our breathing heavy, our moans loud but not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

This was our show. Our time. As we so often do, we came together—staring each other down. My eyes closed first and my head fell back again, my hat toppling to the floor as I cried out my orgasm and bloodied the back of your neck with my nails. I felt a tap on my shoulder and quickly whipped around, protecting your exposed cock as you pulled yourself together. A young woman, scantily clad in feathers and satin, was offering my hat to me. “I believe this belongs to you?” she smirked. I blushed deeply, still breathless and contracting. I couldn’t find my voice and nodded my thanks as I put it back on, pulling it low over one mascara-smeared eye.

I turned back to find you grinning like the Cheshire cat, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

I wasn’t arguing. I wanted you inside me desperately but, after assessing the looks on our nearest neighbors’ faces, I decided we’d better find another room. We took off in search of the perfect place in this Castle Carnevale. Somewhere loud, crowded, filled with hot and sweaty bodies—average folks who, for one night of the year, let loose their inhibitions and allowed two slightly off-kilter dykes like us a single dark corner in which to do our dirty deeds.