Act One: Here
in my bed--cool sheets.
beau's broad back, my touch tracing
fingers down to ass.
beau's ass, a split round
moon, perfectly curved, ready
for me to slip in.
Act Two: There
The alley outside the club is busy tonight. Two men get out of a pickup with 40s, two girls follow them with beers. They try to get in but are turned away. Back to the truck. Hip college kids smoke cloves while others just take in a needed a breath of fresh air. I see them all, but I'm not paying attention. I've got better things to focus on: my beau's rough kisses at my neck, his fingers dancing with the hem of my skirt. I cock one knee forward between his legs and lean back against the brick wall. He's hard against my thigh, packing just for me, knowing how he turns me on. I want to give myself over, to feel the feel the rough bricks at my back and the tender insistent stud pressing me into them. I take the thick hair at the nape of his neck in my hands and pull him to my mouth. I'm so hungry for him, hungry to taste him, hungry for him to fill me up with his cock and his hands and his love. We lay claim to each other in the alley. As people pass us their eyes slide by, hot but embarrassed; they stare at my skirt high on my thigh and Beau's big hands there; they pretend not to hear my hot breath; they can't stop looking. They don't know what to make of this tough beau with the leggy femme.
I know just what to make of us.
Showing posts with label erotica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label erotica. Show all posts
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Melting
My favorite part about running has got to be the snazzy outfits. Today I wore yellow spandex leggings (left over from my short stint rowing in college), with grey spandex shorts over them. Also multicolored striped socks and my favorite comfy t-shirt with birds on it. I considered the run a success not when I made the two miles running most of the way, but when (in my five minute walking cool-down) a woman I'd never seen before grinned at me and said, "Nice legs." That's right. I'm a runner.
It's been strangely good to come back to to routine after being home -- that week feels really important, and as always after being in Alaska I feel like I'll spend a long time processing (for lack of a better word) the experience. I'm so torn up about it if I stop to think that mostly I don't. It breaks my heart every time I leave....but this time, it's been mostly a good re-entry. I was crying at the airport, and my mom said, "Well, it's a good thing at least you're going back with your beau." I made some wisecrack, but the truth is it actually was amazing to have continuity with a person as I left. Usually it feels like a complete break every time I go back and forth, like home and here are two different worlds that both exist in reality but never touch....and this time, I have someone to talk about it with.
It also helps that it's spring here for real. There's a magnolia tree in front of my house that's in full bloom, tulip flowers resting lightly on the tops of branches. It's warm and sunny. Yesterday afternoon Beau and I went for a long scooter* ride, around the backroads and right through main street. It was the first day warm enough that Beau was in shirtsleeves and I in a skirt, and it was so sweet to wrap my arms around his waist and feel my skirt whip around my knees in the wind. Last fall, when we met and Beau was courting me, wooing me, I was acutely aware of the sensuality of the wind and the fabric and the sight of the warm smooth back of his neck between t-shirt collar and helmet. This spring it's different. Although the scooter's been away all winter and so that's new and exciting again, our bodies are so much more comfortable together. I don't immediately thrill as I rest against Beau's back as we ride, and the press of his hips between my legs is more familiar. Sometimes I worry that as the shine of new love wears off (and as my gratefulness for who my beau is not gives way to a more subtle appreciation of who Beau is), one or both of us will get bored and tired, and we'll bicker or stop desiring each other, and this whole thing we've made will just crumble on top of us and leave us to start over again.
Then again, last night we got home an hour before sunset, mouths sticky with soft serve and kisses, and played in the backyard treehouse with my neighbor's two year old twins. When the sun went down we sent them in to dinner and took ourselves to bed. I drew the curtains, Beau turned down the sheets and lay naked and waiting on top of them. I undressed slowly for his watchful eyes, slipping out of my shorts, pulling off my halter top, and then pouncing. I know how I like my beau -- oh, so many ways, but I wanted to start by drawing him into me and feeling my own power. I smoothed his hair back and traced lines down his face onto his chest and belly. I did this until my fingers tingled and his breathing grew heavy, and then I lowered one nipple between his open lips. He sucked and gasped and ran his hands across my back until my whole body felt awake and alive, and I sat up so that my wet and swollen cunt met his wet and hungry mouth. We kissed like that, me with my head thrown back and my beau buried in me, and we moved over and in and with each other until I just melted, energy pouring from me in every direction, from my open mouth into the air, from my open cunt making his throat slick and shiny and soaking the sheets.
And so it went, much longer into the night than I have time to write about now with Beau sleeping beside me. Oh, I think we're doing fine, the way we love each other. And me -- I think I'm doing fine too. Springtime is opening time, it's unfurling time, and I'm planning to take little steps in all directions. Thank god the winter's over.
*Beau would like a motorcycle. Secretly, I would too -- both to ride myself, and to ride behind, although I've always thought of myself as a bicycle girl. However, the scooter is shiny and blue, tops out at about 38pmh, and is not a bad alternative for the winding country roads and small soft serve places we frequent.
It's been strangely good to come back to to routine after being home -- that week feels really important, and as always after being in Alaska I feel like I'll spend a long time processing (for lack of a better word) the experience. I'm so torn up about it if I stop to think that mostly I don't. It breaks my heart every time I leave....but this time, it's been mostly a good re-entry. I was crying at the airport, and my mom said, "Well, it's a good thing at least you're going back with your beau." I made some wisecrack, but the truth is it actually was amazing to have continuity with a person as I left. Usually it feels like a complete break every time I go back and forth, like home and here are two different worlds that both exist in reality but never touch....and this time, I have someone to talk about it with.
It also helps that it's spring here for real. There's a magnolia tree in front of my house that's in full bloom, tulip flowers resting lightly on the tops of branches. It's warm and sunny. Yesterday afternoon Beau and I went for a long scooter* ride, around the backroads and right through main street. It was the first day warm enough that Beau was in shirtsleeves and I in a skirt, and it was so sweet to wrap my arms around his waist and feel my skirt whip around my knees in the wind. Last fall, when we met and Beau was courting me, wooing me, I was acutely aware of the sensuality of the wind and the fabric and the sight of the warm smooth back of his neck between t-shirt collar and helmet. This spring it's different. Although the scooter's been away all winter and so that's new and exciting again, our bodies are so much more comfortable together. I don't immediately thrill as I rest against Beau's back as we ride, and the press of his hips between my legs is more familiar. Sometimes I worry that as the shine of new love wears off (and as my gratefulness for who my beau is not gives way to a more subtle appreciation of who Beau is), one or both of us will get bored and tired, and we'll bicker or stop desiring each other, and this whole thing we've made will just crumble on top of us and leave us to start over again.
Then again, last night we got home an hour before sunset, mouths sticky with soft serve and kisses, and played in the backyard treehouse with my neighbor's two year old twins. When the sun went down we sent them in to dinner and took ourselves to bed. I drew the curtains, Beau turned down the sheets and lay naked and waiting on top of them. I undressed slowly for his watchful eyes, slipping out of my shorts, pulling off my halter top, and then pouncing. I know how I like my beau -- oh, so many ways, but I wanted to start by drawing him into me and feeling my own power. I smoothed his hair back and traced lines down his face onto his chest and belly. I did this until my fingers tingled and his breathing grew heavy, and then I lowered one nipple between his open lips. He sucked and gasped and ran his hands across my back until my whole body felt awake and alive, and I sat up so that my wet and swollen cunt met his wet and hungry mouth. We kissed like that, me with my head thrown back and my beau buried in me, and we moved over and in and with each other until I just melted, energy pouring from me in every direction, from my open mouth into the air, from my open cunt making his throat slick and shiny and soaking the sheets.
And so it went, much longer into the night than I have time to write about now with Beau sleeping beside me. Oh, I think we're doing fine, the way we love each other. And me -- I think I'm doing fine too. Springtime is opening time, it's unfurling time, and I'm planning to take little steps in all directions. Thank god the winter's over.
*Beau would like a motorcycle. Secretly, I would too -- both to ride myself, and to ride behind, although I've always thought of myself as a bicycle girl. However, the scooter is shiny and blue, tops out at about 38pmh, and is not a bad alternative for the winding country roads and small soft serve places we frequent.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Smoke
This story is part of the Butch Lab Symposium.
I didn't notice her at first when I walked in. It was dark and crowded, and I was already tipsy. I walked straight past the bar lined with queers ordering drinks, past the pool tables where frat boys threw back beers and grabbed their blonde girlfriends, past the dancefloor which was currently taken over by a crowd of onlookers watching someone I couldn't see sing karaoke. I threw my coat on a pile behind the cigarette machine and went to find a drink and my roommate.
She was leaning against the bar with her eye on me, but I didn't yet know it.
Roommate found, drink in hand, the karaoke finally gave way to the dj and we snaked into the middle of the dancefloor. I sweated out the heat of the day to the beat of Taio Cruz, eyes closed, arms in the air. After a couple of songs, my roommate nudged me and pointed to a couple of hot butches nearby. I grinned and raised an eyebrow, watching them now but trying not to be obvious about it. A few songs later, though, they'd made their way closer to us, although none of us acknowledged that we were all checking each other out. One of them was fucking gorgeous, and right next to me....I kept brushing up against her casually, the way you have to when the dancefloor's so crowded, and every time my arm touched hers I got more turned on. She was a few inches shorter than me, especially in my heels, with spiky hair, solidly strong arms and bound flat chest. She was looking at me boldly now through glasses just hip enough (but not too much), and when the music paused to go back to karaoke she leaned in close and said, "Smoke." Then she disappeared through the crowd.
I am not a smoker, and I will admit that it took me a split second to realize that she was asking me to step outside with her, instead of telling me...something? Her cheesily mysterious butch nickname? When I figured it out, I laughed at myself and moved to follow her. Outside it was dark and humid but slightly chilly, the mark of late summer, and I leaned into her and flirted. She touched my waist, I put my palm just below her collarbone, we talked of nothing important with our voices but everything with our eyes and breath. She finished her cigarette. We went back inside with our fingertips touching and danced together until last call. The crowd pushed us outside together, and we stood there looking at each other in the parking lot. I'd biked into town, and she offered to give me a ride home. "Thanks," I said. She opened the door for me, something nobody had ever done for me before. It tickled my newly-discovered femme identity, and I swooned a little on the inside. She fastened her own seatbelt and turned to me: "Your place or mine?" How bold! How gallant!
"Yours, I think," I managed. I kept my fingertips lightly on her thigh as she drove, and by the time we got there I was kissing her neck gently, urgently. I hardly knew this butch, but I was smitten and very, very turned on. When we got to her apartment, we were cool as anything until the door closed -- then we fell on each other, mouths open and hungry, hands moving over each other, exploring, discovering. She undressed me tenderly but quickly and I stood before her in my skin, dress pooled around my feet, watching her eyes wander over me. I knelt in front of her, undid her belt buckle, and unzipped her pants before she pushed me to the bed and finished undressing herself. She came to me with gentle power in her broad hands. She worked me over and filled me up and I sighed and screamed in her ear, and her breath was hot on my skin as she came with me all the way and back again.
In the morning she bought me coffee on the way back to my bike, still locked to the railing outside the bar. I kissed her in the car and told her to text me. And she did....oh, she did. She sent me gloriously explicit texts all that day about how much she enjoyed me, how she'd like to again, and I reciprocated. So I showed up that night, back at her apartment, wondering about my own judgment but knowing that she wasn't an asshole, and that I'd just had the best sex of my life. This time she got me a beer from the fridge and put on a record, and we sat close on the couch listening to Elvis and getting to know one another a little. We were both, I think, timid about the fact that this bar hookup wasn't just a one night stand, and she asked how it was that I felt confident enough to go home with her, essentially a stranger. "Well," I replied, "I have a pretty good sense of people. But mostly, you were by far the hottest butch in that bar, and I wanted you."
"Oh," she said, smiling, "I'm not butch."
"Yes, you are," I said, eyebrows raised. Is it possible that she doesn't know? It's not like she's some college kid, she's old enough to have figured out at least some of this identity stuff.
"No, I'm not," she said again. "I used to think I was butch. I lived in the city after college and I played pool with all the butches at the lesbian bars, and they thought I was one of them. I thought I was one of them. And then I realized, spending all that time with those butches -- that wasn't me. I'm not that kind of tough. I'm a faggy genderqueer."
I stepped all over myself apologizing, much to his amusement, appalled at myself that I would have misinterpreted so badly (liberal queer femme trans-loving-ally-self that I am). And then I had all kinds of questions, about how genderqueer was different for him from butch, and different from trans -- and I am lucky enough to still be getting answers to those questions. He answers me with his voice, with his eyes, with his body, with his whole self -- and sometimes we both help each other see a little bit more of who we are.
I didn't see you at first when I walked in, or even after. I had no idea that you would come into my life like a flame, like a fireplace to sit beside, like a warm hand on the small of my back, like a sweet morning kiss in the early grey light and a sexy strong presence to put me just where I want to be in my body. You are my sweet boy, my strict old man, my beau.
I didn't notice her at first when I walked in. It was dark and crowded, and I was already tipsy. I walked straight past the bar lined with queers ordering drinks, past the pool tables where frat boys threw back beers and grabbed their blonde girlfriends, past the dancefloor which was currently taken over by a crowd of onlookers watching someone I couldn't see sing karaoke. I threw my coat on a pile behind the cigarette machine and went to find a drink and my roommate.
She was leaning against the bar with her eye on me, but I didn't yet know it.
Roommate found, drink in hand, the karaoke finally gave way to the dj and we snaked into the middle of the dancefloor. I sweated out the heat of the day to the beat of Taio Cruz, eyes closed, arms in the air. After a couple of songs, my roommate nudged me and pointed to a couple of hot butches nearby. I grinned and raised an eyebrow, watching them now but trying not to be obvious about it. A few songs later, though, they'd made their way closer to us, although none of us acknowledged that we were all checking each other out. One of them was fucking gorgeous, and right next to me....I kept brushing up against her casually, the way you have to when the dancefloor's so crowded, and every time my arm touched hers I got more turned on. She was a few inches shorter than me, especially in my heels, with spiky hair, solidly strong arms and bound flat chest. She was looking at me boldly now through glasses just hip enough (but not too much), and when the music paused to go back to karaoke she leaned in close and said, "Smoke." Then she disappeared through the crowd.
I am not a smoker, and I will admit that it took me a split second to realize that she was asking me to step outside with her, instead of telling me...something? Her cheesily mysterious butch nickname? When I figured it out, I laughed at myself and moved to follow her. Outside it was dark and humid but slightly chilly, the mark of late summer, and I leaned into her and flirted. She touched my waist, I put my palm just below her collarbone, we talked of nothing important with our voices but everything with our eyes and breath. She finished her cigarette. We went back inside with our fingertips touching and danced together until last call. The crowd pushed us outside together, and we stood there looking at each other in the parking lot. I'd biked into town, and she offered to give me a ride home. "Thanks," I said. She opened the door for me, something nobody had ever done for me before. It tickled my newly-discovered femme identity, and I swooned a little on the inside. She fastened her own seatbelt and turned to me: "Your place or mine?" How bold! How gallant!
"Yours, I think," I managed. I kept my fingertips lightly on her thigh as she drove, and by the time we got there I was kissing her neck gently, urgently. I hardly knew this butch, but I was smitten and very, very turned on. When we got to her apartment, we were cool as anything until the door closed -- then we fell on each other, mouths open and hungry, hands moving over each other, exploring, discovering. She undressed me tenderly but quickly and I stood before her in my skin, dress pooled around my feet, watching her eyes wander over me. I knelt in front of her, undid her belt buckle, and unzipped her pants before she pushed me to the bed and finished undressing herself. She came to me with gentle power in her broad hands. She worked me over and filled me up and I sighed and screamed in her ear, and her breath was hot on my skin as she came with me all the way and back again.
In the morning she bought me coffee on the way back to my bike, still locked to the railing outside the bar. I kissed her in the car and told her to text me. And she did....oh, she did. She sent me gloriously explicit texts all that day about how much she enjoyed me, how she'd like to again, and I reciprocated. So I showed up that night, back at her apartment, wondering about my own judgment but knowing that she wasn't an asshole, and that I'd just had the best sex of my life. This time she got me a beer from the fridge and put on a record, and we sat close on the couch listening to Elvis and getting to know one another a little. We were both, I think, timid about the fact that this bar hookup wasn't just a one night stand, and she asked how it was that I felt confident enough to go home with her, essentially a stranger. "Well," I replied, "I have a pretty good sense of people. But mostly, you were by far the hottest butch in that bar, and I wanted you."
"Oh," she said, smiling, "I'm not butch."
"Yes, you are," I said, eyebrows raised. Is it possible that she doesn't know? It's not like she's some college kid, she's old enough to have figured out at least some of this identity stuff.
"No, I'm not," she said again. "I used to think I was butch. I lived in the city after college and I played pool with all the butches at the lesbian bars, and they thought I was one of them. I thought I was one of them. And then I realized, spending all that time with those butches -- that wasn't me. I'm not that kind of tough. I'm a faggy genderqueer."
I stepped all over myself apologizing, much to his amusement, appalled at myself that I would have misinterpreted so badly (liberal queer femme trans-loving-ally-self that I am). And then I had all kinds of questions, about how genderqueer was different for him from butch, and different from trans -- and I am lucky enough to still be getting answers to those questions. He answers me with his voice, with his eyes, with his body, with his whole self -- and sometimes we both help each other see a little bit more of who we are.
I didn't see you at first when I walked in, or even after. I had no idea that you would come into my life like a flame, like a fireplace to sit beside, like a warm hand on the small of my back, like a sweet morning kiss in the early grey light and a sexy strong presence to put me just where I want to be in my body. You are my sweet boy, my strict old man, my beau.
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