Inhabiting A Butch Space

In the summer I switch my fitted jeans and cute sweaters for graphic tees and baggy shorts. Smart leather sneakers for oversized flip flops. This summer I’ve even started growing a beard and buzzing my head. What this adds up to is that…I get hit on by girls sometimes. Like sitting at a table with friends and listening to conversation? Waitresses have flirted, or girls walking by have looked with more than a passing glance.

It’s weird.

Not because I don’t think I’m attractive. At this point in my life, I’m pretty convinced that I’m at least hot enough to get laid regularly and smart enough to get a decent boyfriend (eventually.) But because I am fairly convinced it’s due to looking more butch than normal. Super short hair, facial hair, and the clothes I wear all seem, from my perspective, to signal a more masculine nature, and in the culture I live in that usually means a more heterosexual nature.

Since this all started happening, and I started noticing, I’ve noticed that I feel more butch. I notice that I don’t feel as uncomfortable hanging around guys I don’t know – which is usually a little anxiety inducing. I’ve become a little more aggressive in bed when I’m with versatile or bottom guys. I’ve certainly started fantasizing about being a top more often than a bottom when I jerk off.

Contrast that behaviour with the guy I’m seeing regularly. He’s a self-described bro and there would be no arguement from me as to the correctness of that. He’s a guy, a guy who likes to fuck me and say filthy things to me and after we’ve both exhausted every naughty word and our bodies he likes to hold me. Or sometimes I hold him. It’s interesting, I’ve never been more submissive than with him and I’ve never felt more butch than right now.

Kinky? Really?

I’ve been called kinky before, and I’ll cop to the fact that certain non-vanilla situations turn me on. But I really feel no affinity with your typical kink fixings. Leather? Meh. Toys? Maybe, I guess.

Last night when I was fucking with this guy, we talked a lot in between ass pounding, dick swallowing, and cumming about kink. He calls himself very kinky, and said that he didn’t think I was.

But here’s the thing – calling him sir? Or calling him boy. Dirty talk. Words are incredibly kinky. One of my favorite fantasies to jerk off too is geting fucked by somebody who shouldn’t be fucking me and hearing him talk about what would people think if they saw me, legs spread and mouth open panting like a dog taking his cock. How dirty it is to be riding him and begging for something I should never have wanted, never should have gotten.

I guess I don’t know. I would love to find somebody who understood the kinkiness of what we say, because I want to try that out. I want to talk with more purpose when I’m fucking.

I Don’t Blame You

I am bad news, and I’m owning that. Anybody who’s shown interest in me in the past year and a half has gotten the complete shaft except one or two people. I’m evasive and noncommittal, giving off mixed signals because of my own indecision. I don’t call back, I don’t text the next morning, I don’t accept 2nd dates. I won’t talk of anything of consequence; instead misdirecting with inconsequential sound bytes that sound more revealing than they are. I play off interests, values, judgments, and I rarely reveal anything concrete or real except perhaps in moments of anger which I use as my excuse to run into the night and never, ever return. I’m that really sweet guy that confuses and breaks hearts by my lack of honesty within myself and the strength to be clear. Trying to sublimate horny into love, showering kisses and grinding crotches without any promise for tomorrow, or ever.

I don’t think I’m a bad person – I just think I did some shitty stuff trying to ignore my own feelings.

Cybernetic Bees

I went on a date last week.

The last one I want to go on for a while I’ve decided.

But he said some interesting things to me when I told him that I didn’t think I should be dating just now. He said that I was the only person he’d ever met who wasn’t completely transparent to him after 20 minutes of conversation and that even after 5 hours of talking he still hadn’t figured me out.

He also said that for similar reasons he thinks dating a swarm of cybernetic bees would be interesting.

So, we’re going to be friends. Because when somebody says “I don’t understand myself and I feel like knowing you better will help me to know myself.” I can’t help but hang around. I remember feeling like I had no idea who I am or why I behaved the way I do. Sometimes I still feel that way, but rarely and fleetingly.

On the upside, my 21st birthday is next week and I will be able to go out dancing which is very exciting. I will continue to avoid alcohol since I have no interest in falling asleep on the bus and getting my purse stolen at 2 AM.

Crazy Moment #647

I have a friend who shares a lot of my psychological profile. We are remarkably similar in a number of ways even though we are definitely separate individuals. He and I have decided that those moments of insane insecurity that consume our brains when we’re dealing with boys are The Crazy. We have both taken to saying “I understand where you’re coming from, but you need to reign in the crazy.” or “Your crazy is out of control.” It acknowledges the basis of the insanity and also says “Please stop before you ruin this.”

Crazy Moment #647 was after World Class Cuddles had left and we texted a bit the next day and then he stopped responding. For three (four?) days I have slowly gotten more depressed and angry and hurt, thinking of ways to force him to reply to me. The worst part was that he left some things at my apartment so I knew eventually he’d have to get back to me. What it comes down to is I had no idea why he wasn’t responding, and my Crazy came out to tell me all the ways I wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t hot enough, was too weird, too awkward, wasn’t tidy enough, that I wasn’t good enough and that I had scared a human being SO BAD that he would abandon PJ pants and DS games at my apartment.

All of which is patently ridiculous, if you objectively review World Class Cuddles’ behaviour. All of which is ridiculous if you objectively look at me. Total nonsense.

But The Crazy? It knows none of this. It just knows the fear.

5/8ths

Cold linoleum floors are awful, but I usually jump right in the shower so it’s no big worry. Last week as I took off my robe and glanced in the mirror I felt an extra chill of..insecurity? Anxiety? A feeling of  being unsafe, unguarded. Vulnerable. It was so hard to pin down because I so rarely feel that way. I haven’t felt that way in a long time, since high school.

The night before this I got home late, about 2 AM from a date. A date that hadn’t gone very well, in my opinion. Particularly after we’d gone back to his place where conversation and making out took place. Good kisser, decent conversation, no particular inspiration to see him again. I have this a lot. Perfectly nice guys, smart, funny, I don’t want them. I have a very specific idea of the kind of treatment I want to receive, and the kinds of thought patterns I want to see evidence for. 

As we were kissing I felt his fingers run through my hair and abruptly my head was pulled back and his hand was curled up, pulling my hair and my head. I was so surprised and stunned that I don’t think I even recognized the fear I felt when he kissed me again.

Standing in my shower stall, clumps of my hair falling from the buzzing blades of my clippers. All I could think about was how I never wanted anyone to grab my head that way again.

Later when I stood up to grab my things he rose and kissed me. And shoved me onto his bed. And lay on top of me. All I could think was “Please stop. Please stop or I’ll hurt you.” When he leaned in to kiss me, I planted my palms on his shoulders and pushed up with all the force I could muster and said “I’m going home now.“

After I got out of the shower and put on my clothes, I realized how close I had come to dismissing it as a bad date. As a mistmatch, poor chemistry. But the hair swirling down the drain and through the pipes, the warm clippers in their case, my cold ears all tell me that it was more. I was scared. I felt threatened. Boundaries had been crossed, boundaries I didn’t even realize the importance of until I clipped a 5/8ths inch comb onto some metal blades and ran the buzzing machine through my hair.

When I needed a sense of self, I built one out of words. Words make me who I am, I think about my world largely through words – how do I label this, how do I define that. Instead of seeing words as limiting I see them as offering a great means to explore the truth of what I see around me. If there isn’t a definition that fits the thing I wish to name, I give it a new name with a better explanation. That’s how we get lovely words like poly, kink, cisgender. We take a word, make it mean something new, and then we get to explore it.

But I very rarely trust the words that other’s give me. Especially relating to love. Some of the best writing advice I’ve ever gotten was, “Show me, don’t tell me.”

Show me that you love me, don’t tell me. Show me with the way you treat me, let your actions back up the things you say. Show me that even when you think I’m not watching you that you’re still the same person. Show me there’s no duplicity.

It’s easy to say and do the things I want to hear and see when your dick is straining against your jeans to press against my hand, my ass, my thigh. It’s easy to acquiesce and agree with what I say and want with a distraction like that. Show me that I don’t have to get you hard to get you to be the man I want you to be – and that getting you hard doesn’t change who you  are.

My Double Standard Is Fucked

If I want to love you, I’ll never seduce you.

I’ll never feel comfortable wearing my sexy underwear for you, moaning your name, feeling your hard on, being naked in front of you. I won’t want you to see me that way, because I’m afraid you won’t see me any other way. That you won’t really love me. That you’ll use me.

If I want to seduce you, I’ll never love you.

I’ll never feel comfortable wearing my baggy sweats around you, or talking when I first wake up with my voice rough and raspy, feeling you hug me, wearing anything less than my sexiest clothes. I won’t want you to see me that way because I’m afraid you won’t want me anymore. That you’ll have used me.

I don’t want to be fetishized, I don’t want to be idolized. I don’t want you to look at me with awe. I don’t want to feel like your pet, your wife, your baby, your everything.

I want your respect and trust. I want it to be uncomplicated. I want us to be sweet like honey – not like refined sugar. I want to fight about what’s important, and sometimes about what’s not. I want honesty and straightforward, awkward reassurances. I don’t need to be seduced, I just need to know what you’re feeling. I want you to want me wanting you – want to want to want to need it.

I want to hold you and I want to be near you and I want to feel comfortable around you no matter what I wear, or what I say. I want to be deeper than friends, love stronger than lovers, more faithful than nuns, more sexual than whores, all in comfort. Comfort and trust and respect. Can you earn my trust? Can you get that deep inside me? I’m ready to be convinced that you won’t leave. Teach me how to fold my love and lust together.

Unarmed Combat

Whenever I get hit on by boys – and they are usually boys, no matter their age – but especially online I tend to find out a lot of things by not revealing much about myself. In the end, I feel like I’ve just won a battle of wits with somebody who had a rather limited arsenal.

A perfect example is how many times I’ve been chatting with a guy and we both bemoan the scumbags, the flakes, the bastards that pollute the dating scene and he says “And femmes, bleh! If I wanted to date a girl, I’d just be straight. All that primping, and the silly walk, and that high voice, gross.”

1. My own family mistakes me for my mother on the phone. Telemarketers assume I’m a mature woman. I always get called Mrs.
2. On my days off I spend a great deal of time doing my chores in an apron and baking bread for the week, making stew, etc. Basically, being domestic.
3. There is a definite hip-swivelling action to the way I walk. I don’t even know how to walk any other way.
4. I spend a wee bit of time primping in front of the mirror.

Tonight a guy said “I hate the fem lame guys!” and I decided that instead of being like “uhm, bye.” or making up some excuse not to talk to him, I said “As a fem guy, I gotta say that fem and lame do not go hand in hand.” After which followed much backpedaling and lame explanations and caveats and asssurances that I’m not at all as fem as the other guys. First of all, he does not know that. Second of all, I am not a loud queeny bitchy kind of femme but I’m definitely not very butch. Why did he do that? Because he wants in my pants or at least wants to have a chance later on. Whatever dude. That clanging sound you hear is my ass slamming shut, and ain’t nobody ever raised that porticulis.

Sex Is Never Meaningless

I learn just as much about myself from solitude, contemplation, and quiet meditation as I do from arguements, crowds, and racous fucking.

A week ago, I had a guy over for a fuck. The first thing he did when he walked in the door was to say “Cute place.” The second, to kiss me. Third, to gag me with his huge cock slamming into the back of my throat.

This is significant for two reasons

1. I am a control addict. I do not like giving it up. I have severe withdrawl which results in bitchiness, a tender ego, and acute anxiety.
2. I don’t like physical discomfort. I don’t like being spanked, pinched, bitten, slapped, cut, burnt, etc.

But as my eyes watered, and my breath faltered, I felt myself push his dick deeper.

“You like sucking my cock, don’t you?”

And as he pulled out, and air flooded my lungs, all I could do was moan as I grabbed his hips to pull him back in again.

 

I did not know that about myself. That I could be so hungry for cock that I would – momentarily – give up my air supply. It’s something I’ve been thinking over for the past week and mostly what I keep thinking is I want that cock back in my throat.