Wicked Wednesday: Women’s Week

I’m dashing up Commercial Street in the pouring rain. A chill April thunderstorm soaks my previously meticulous hair and makeup and I’m cursing the whole way. It’s hard to dash in 3” heels, particularly when there are no sidewalks. Provincetown tourist season is starting again and the only parking to be found was in the back of the wharf. Of course your room has to be near the boatslip. Not that far but fuck it seems like an eternity before I finally get there. My black rubber trench coat is dripping and the frayed edges of my flares are sopping wet. I don’t even want to know what I look like. Thank God for waterproof mascara and eyeliner.

You open the door and even though I feel as though I’ve known you forever we’ve never laid eyes on each other in person. You can’t help but break out in a shit-eating grin at my appearance. Evidently, I’m more drowned rat than dewy eyed temptress. “Hi,” I’m sheepish, embarrassed, dripping all over the carpet. Great first impression and very cool opening line. Not.

“Hi.” Leaning against the door jamb and allowing me very little room to maneuver into the room, you look amazing. But I had no doubts about that. “Can I offer you something? Drink? Towel? Hot shower?” I’ll start with the towel and try not to jump all over the hot shower just yet. You bring a big, fluffy white towel out of the bathroom and I try to find someplace inconspicuous to put my wet belongings. I flip my head over and scrub my hair. Now I’m sure I look like Adam Ant. You reach out and run your fingers through it and I reach up and grab your hands. I’ve wanted this from the moment I first saw your photos. First talked to you. I put your finger in my mouth and closing my eyes I slide it very slowly in and out. All the way in. All the way out. I open my eyes and your face is so close to me. I put my finger in your mouth and press my rain drenched lips over your mouth and my finger.

My knees buckle and the next thing I know we’re on the floor. Kneeling and fairly frantically working to take each other’s clothes off. The hunger I’ve felt for you has become starvation and I feel as if I’ll die if I don’t taste you now. Our mouths and hands are everywhere.  I’m on my back and my arms are out to both sides—your hands entwined in mine: strong, electric. The push and pull, give and take, control and submission ignites a passion I haven’t experienced in years. I force you onto your back and kiss you deeply, biting softly, sucking your lower lip, tugging at your lip ring playfully.  I pull you up so I’m straddling your lap and arch my back and you bury your face in my tits. My nipples are so hard. But it is my clit that throbs with need and as I lie all the way back you work your way down my body with a tongue that doesn’t stop.

Now you are exactly where I need you and my clit jumps at the first expert touch of your tongue. “Turn around. Turn around.” I want you in my mouth at the same time. I want to bury my face in your sweet Holy Grail. I can’t get enough of you and you’ve got my clit in your teeth and at least three fingers in my cunt. Everything is so fast and I’m moaning deep into you, creating a hum that reverberates off the walls inside you. I want to control it —I want it to last forever—but I can’t. I’ve got skyrockets going off in the deepest part of my body and it is reaching all the way down to my toes.  At the same time you shudder and buck against me and I drink you in as though I’ve been in the driest desert for 40 years.

But you aren’t done. I know your need to control and while I don’t easily give over to submission I don’t protest as you quickly slip into your leather harness and strap-on while flipping me over onto my stomach. I instinctively arch my back—my ass in the air as I shiver in anticipation of your penetration. You enter deeply as you pull on my still damp hair and I moan and push back against you. Your thrusting is fast and wild and I can’t tell where I end and you begin anymore. You tease me by slowing down and then making me beg you to fuck me harder. I hear your own groans join mine and together we collapse in a sweaty, heavy-breathing heap to the floor. We roll over laughing.

“So,” you say, “nice to finally meet you.”

Wicked Wednesday: The Park Bench

We had reservations for dinner and a movie but the only thing that looked good enough to eat or watch was you. I was to pick you up at work to catch our 6:30 reservations at Sky. Well, I’d pick you up as intended but there would be a slight alteration in the evening’s  plans. I took my time getting ready – not that I had that much to wear. Picking out clothes was not going to be taking any time at all this evening. I took a long, hot shower and shaved it all – smooth as silk and naked as as the day I was born. I love to run my fingers over my bare lips – full and ripe with the promise of events to come. Mmmmmm…to come…I smiled at myself as I meticulously applied my makeup. Big smoky eyes and full pale lips. I stood naked in front of the mirror and realized I’d forgotten something. No birthday suit would be complete without boots. I found them under the bed. Soft black italian leather, skin tight, knee high. I zipped them up the sides and went for my car coat, the scarf gifted from the neighbor upon her return from India and black leather gloves. A final check in the mirror and I was ready to go.

A chill breeze caught me by surprise as I locked the front door and turned for the car. Although my coat came down to mid-thigh, there was nothing else to protect me from the elements and again I grinned at the sheer audacity of leaving my provincial little neighborhood in nothing but a coat and boots. I prayed I wouldn’t have a flat tire or run out of gas on the way.

You came out to meet me and I stepped out and threw you the keys, letting you drive. I didn’t say a word. Just slipped into the passenger seat, leaned into you and kissed you hello. You pulled out of the parking lot and I turned in my seat and threw one booted leg over the console and propped the other against the parking brake. You throw me a look of shock, knowing that I never go without a seat belt and then do a comical double take when you realize that my coat has opened to reveal pale white thighs disappearing into moist, swollen flesh – bare and ready to be touched. Which I do.

You slam on the brakes, narrowly avoiding what could be a potentially embarrassing rear ender as we come to a stop light. “Are you going to dinner like that?” Mmmmm…dinner yes, but not exactly what you had in mind. “I want to go to the park. Take me to the park.” Your eyes flash and a slick smile spread slowly across your face. You had once mentioned your fantasy of fucking me on a park bench and it has dawned on you that I might have just planned out your ultimate birthday present.

Early spring and the light is just starting to fade at this hour. There are a lot of people taking their evening walks around the park’s many paths and hiking trails. We park in a fairly secluded spot and you turn to me. Your eyes riveted on my fingers as they slip in and out, around my rock hard clit and back in again. I lift my fingers to my mouth and take a taste before offering them to you. You suck greedily and reach for me but I hold you at bay. I grab my bag at my feet and, adjusting my coat, I get out of the car and start walking up the hill. You have no choice but to follow me, no desire to do anything but.

Darkness begins to fall and I pull you to a nearby bench – just off the main pathway but tucked into a small wooded area. Offering little privacy but the walkers and runners are getting few and far between and all mothers pushing strollers have taken their charges home for dinner, baths and bed. I push you down lightly and then straddle your lap. Taking your face in my hands, I kiss you lightly, playfully and then deeper and full of intention. Our breathing quickens, your jeans are wet now that I am riding your thigh as I grind against you involuntarily. “wait”  I whisper, “I want something.” I reach into my bag and pull out a small bottle of lube. You look at me questioningly and then knowingly. I pour it into the palm of your hand and lead your hand between my legs. I know I’m wet enough for most things but for this I need a little extra help and you start by sliding two, no three, fingers inside me.  Curling them towards you and I gasp with a rushing intake of breath. You fuck me slowly, my coat covering both of us – two lovers getting carried away in the gloaming on a cool spring night. Now you have four fingers inside me and I breathe deeply and methodically. Willing myself to open up to  you. Your thumb slips in and your hand curls into itself as you disappear inside me. I look down and see the bones of your wrist up against me and sigh deeply as you fill me up.

Now I can let myself go. It is dark and we are alone. I can’t control my deep throated moans as you fuck me harder. You reach around and put one finger in my ass and I am full to the hilt. Riding you, frantic, exposed and completely there for you. My orgasm comes in white hot waves and I throw my head back and you bury your face in my neck as I hold you tightly while my body thrusts against you of its own accord. I feel as though I’m exploding from the inside out and I don’t want to stop until you laugh and whisper that you think I might have broken a few fingers in there. I am reluctant to let you go but I know you must be aching to come. Yet when I ask what’s next you say, “we’re going to dinner, of course”.

And so I sit in a banquette at Sky, eating steak frittes in my coat and boots. Silently cursing the ruination of the silk lining every time I watch your hand move from plate to mouth. At least I’ve been given some time to plan my next move. Payback, in this case, will be rich indeed.

Wicked Wednesday: I do as I’m told

It’s nearing midnight but you want to leave already. I could dance till the club closes but you obviously have other things on your mind. I grab my motorcycle jacket from behind the bar, blow kisses to the bartender, and race out the door as fast as my spike heel boots will carry me. You are leaning against the wall outside the door. Your arms crossed, impatient. I think for a minute that I’ve pissed you off somehow but then I catch a familiar glint in your eye and know you are up to something.

Indeed. You grab my hand and pull me into the alley between the club and the restaurant next door. I go to kiss you but you spin me around and before I even know what’s happening you’ve got one hand under my tank pinching my already rock hard nipple and the other is up my skirt and into my panties – the black lace that you requested. I’m already wet from the heat of our dancing and it takes no effort on your part to slide your fingers inside me. I try to reach back for you but you take your hand off my breast and pin my arms against the wall. My face is pressed up against the rough brick and I realize we’re barely in the shadows and with the club still open, women are passing by on their way to their cars. I don’t care. I don’t dare care.

I’m trying to stifle my moans and you are whispering in my ear “do you want me to fuck you? Fuck you here? Fuck you now?” yes. yes, please. yes. yes please. I lay my forehead against the brick and put my palms flat against the wall. My back arching involuntarily as you pull my skirt up around my waist and rip the black lace from around my hips, dropping them to the gravel beneath our feet. Our breath coming in white clouds although I don’t feel the cold wintery air. All I feel is you yanking at your belt buckle, hearing your zipper. My breath stopping momentarily as you enter me without hesitation. There is no fumbling. You know right where to go and you go hard and fast. One hand on my hip and the other tangles in my hair and yanks my head back towards your mouth. “Do you like it?” yes. oh yes. “more?” yes. oh yes. “what if we get caught?” you growl. I moan. I don’t care. I don’t care. Please don’t stop.

You push my legs far apart and I grab for a crate in front of me. You brace yourself with one hand on the wall and hit it. deep. hard. fast. I can’t hold it in any more. I can’t stop—I’m grinding my ass into you as you fuck me to the hilt. Now my legs shudder and my knees go weak. You put your hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming out loud and I feel you bucking one last time before you collapse over me with a low gutteral moan.

I start to get myself organized—thinking that, post-quickie, we’d be going home now. You grab my hand as I start to turn away “not so fast.” Your voice is rough and full of sex. I turn back and you push me down to my knees, the grit pressing painfully into my bare skin. Ah. Uh huh. I know what you want. You have one hand on your cock and pull my head toward you. I take you into my mouth and suck you hard down my throat. “That’s my girl, clean it off for Daddy.” Ohhhh…those words just hit me in the clit. I move from the head down the shaft and back again, licking every bit of my cum off your dick. When you push your cock between my lips again I feel your hands in my hair and you can’t help but move, driving into my eager mouth. I look up at you and see you watching me, your eyes half-lidded and glazed over. I notice your nipples erect against your t-shirt. I reach up to grab your breast but you are over the edge now. One final thrust and my gag reflex kicks in, which makes you cum that much harder.

You pull me back to my feet and kiss me deeply. I whimper and tangle my hands in your hair, trying to get closer and closer to you. Eventually we part, get ourselves together, and you steer me toward the car. The promise of a long night ahead lingering in the winter air.

On Letting Go

I am facing a very difficult task and one in which I am not sure I am up to. For a couple of months my sexual relationship with my ex-HTB has been rekindled. We enjoy each other’s company but we don’t date, we rarely go out in public, and I’ve started to feel like an unpaid call girl. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the sex. Despite the many, many problems we encountered in our three year relationship, sex was never one of them. We have a passion for each other that is yet to be matched. In truth, I am addicted to him.

Because I fell in love with him in his physically female form, and went through the subsequent stages of his transition with him—attending therapy, accompanying him to doctor’s appointments, getting heavily involved in transgender activism, serving on panels at transgender conferences, and staying overnight with him during his top surgery and nursing him back to health afterward—I have this Goddess-like feeling that I am the ONLY woman in the world who truly understands that facet of his being and feel in some way that leaving him would leave him stranded.

Now mind you, I am the first person in the world who will say that no one else is responsible for your happiness. But I didn’t truly think this way until just recently. I have been in co-dependent relationships with partners who were wrong for me in so many ways but I looked to each of them for my salvation. Now, as my 45th birthday is fast approaching, I know that, at some point, I am going to want to settle down into a committed relationship. I don’t want a polyamorous life. Been there, done that. I lived in a trilationship with two women for two years sharing a king-sized bed and all the difficulties that went along with it. I have met an amazing woman with whom I share so many common interests. Actually, all of our interests are roughly the same. While I cannot trade one for the other, I am never going to be able to leave myself open to any future possibilities until I am able to walk away from my ex with no residual emotional ties and no desire to run to him for a screaming hot orgasm or two.

There is no future for my ex and I, regardless of our past engagement. I wanted the fairy tale. I wanted the big wedding, the validation that came from being a seemingly heterosexual couple although I missed my gay/lesbian community so very much. I wanted my family to finally accept me and I wanted my son to have a father. But all was rather tenuous based on the fact that everyone, literally everyone, knew of his transition. We have nothing in common. We come from two different worlds and aside from enjoying movies together and some outdoor activities, we have no real foundation upon which to build a lifetime commitment. I will not get divorced again. I will not tolerate certain aspects of his personality that he is unwilling/unable to change. I also drive him batshit with my laissez-faire attitude. He is rigid in his schedule and I am free-floating and subject to change like the wind. He is very happy in the town he grew up in and I want to experience the entire world and all of its diverse cultures. I could go on and on and on…but you get the picture.

So. Norway is here for a few weeks. I am spending the day with my ex. This may be the last time we are together. I don’t know. I want to be emotionally and physically free of any ties that bind, but I need to take that step on my own, not because there MAY be an opportunity around the corner. As I said, I cannot trade one for the other.

…and so, with all of the cerebral knowledge that I have, why am I letting my cunt rule my life?

Something Wicked this Way Cums

The kid’s asleep…the lights turned out…the covers pulled back. Our bare skin melds together as though we were carved out of the same earthen clay destined to be one body. Your kisses are featherlight then fierce. Our passion burns through those kisses. Your mouth on my neck. That spot between my neck and shoulder blade that drives me insane with wanting.

Your hands wander the soft expanses of my body. My hands linger on your strong arms and I want to lose myself in them forever. I run my fingers through your hair and listen to your soft moans.

Your kisses travel downward and you envelope my hard nipples in your warm, waiting lips. Your tongue traces quick paths, soft bites, nibbles. Then you suck them hard into your mouth and elicit my gasps as the passion I feel for you hits my very soul like a lightning bolt.

Your ecstasy is my ecstasy. Your passion my passion. You worship at the altar of my cunt. Spreading me wide and licking, sucking, kissing, lapping, eating me until my body bucks and quivers with the wave upon wave of contractions deep within me. My pussy loves you. You tell me of my taste, my smell, the touch, the wet, and your words drive me wild. I want to answer back but all I can manage is gutteral moans and heavy sighs of absolute fulfillment. When your tongue hits my tight little hole I see stars. Having you make love to that absolute sacred place is pure heaven. I want to be totally open to you and I want to be everything you’ve ever wanted in a lover.

I take no greater pleasure than knowing you could cum instantaneously just watching your cock slide into my ass. Slick with lube, I lower myself upon the largest part of the head and as I exhale it slips inside and I am full of your big, beautiful cock. For the first time in my life, I KNOW that I am sexy when you tell me so. I know that you get unbearably hot watching yourself slide in and out of me as I ride you. Grind my hips into you. Rock back and forth. Ever the exhibitionist – I want you to watch me and I know I have the power to make you shudder with mind-blowing orgasms with barely a touch of your balls against your clit.

My goal lies in my fist. Slipping into your oh-so-soaked pussy so very easily. My hand curls into itself and you cradle me inside you as though you could give birth to me. Gave birth to my passion. Brought me into my own as no one ever has. Let me lose any inhibitions I had ever retained and I revel in the relentless driving of my fist in your cunt. My perfect butch boi. You take it all and when you can’t take it anymore you reward me with the force of your cum squirting and gushing all over my tits…filling my pussy with your white hot liquid. And when you lick your juce off my body I am in awe of your absolute sexual prowess.

You make me want to do things I’ve yet to think of. I want to be laid over your lap and feel the sting of your palm between the caress of my cheeks. The welts that rise between the soothing kisses. I want to be tied up and completely at your control. I want you to use my body as it was made for you.

Take me. Fuck me. Suck me. Lick me. Kiss me. Hold me. Spank me. Make me. Eat me. I am yours and everything I have is yours. Do with me what you will for I want to be everything to you. Fulfill all of your fantasies with me. I give up total control to you.

The First Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Androginamosity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fabulous as Ever!

Ahhh…those of you that were loyal followers, welcome back! I missed my erotic writing…but then again…how many times can you write about masturbation? Seriously, I was in danger of becoming chaste (gasp! I know!). I am a writer of many things, and erotica has always been at the top of the list. I recently tried a very public and excruciatingly dull diary of self-discovery (yawn) that lasted less than a week. While I AM on that journey, I’m doing it in private now. However, I have realized that part of the essence of me, is this…self-expression.

I am a passionate, vibrant, sexy, and sex-loving woman. There is no reason to deny that part of me and no reason not to share it with all of the amazing writers and readers that I made connections with back in the not-so-long days ago as FemmeBLT. While D. (formerly known as HTB) intimated (okay, insisted) that I was maintaining a sex blog simply to make him jealous or draw attention to myself, I defend my work and my dedication to writing—in all it’s forms. As a very private person, he does not wish to have his personal business put out into the ether for everyone to see. I will respect that by making sure his identity is protected and not revealing my own (guilt by association, dont’cha know?).

So here I am. Technically single. Back on the dating scene. Having amazing sex with no strings attached and here to tell about it. A tale of lesbian identity, love and lust with a transgendered man, a high femme top turned somewhat submissive, exploration and discovery and a continuing journey with D., my lover, as he moves swiftly along the path to his own true self.

Home. It’s nice to be back.