Archive for the ‘Thinking’ Category

Inhabiting A Butch Space

June 29, 2009

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?

June 18, 2009

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.

April 6, 2009

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.

A Different Kind Of PnP

March 12, 2009

Not party and play, seeing as I lead a strictly Substance Free lifestyle: No alcohol, no cigs, no drugs, no pot, and as few medications as possible. I’m not strict about no caffeine, but I only drink tea once in a while and very rarely a soda. I take Tylenol or allergy meds maybe four times a year, NyQuil for a few days if I happen to get sick. No morals, I just don’t want to.

Pain and Pleasure.

When I was thirteen I tried to kill myself with a razor blade in the shower. I didn’t because the first little nick of that blade against my skin hurt. I thought I was trying to escape pain, but what I really wanted out of was the numbness. I’d ached for understanding and compassion for so long that all I felt was the agony of numbness. I could feel the pressure of love against me, but none of its warmth. It was always too fleeting, it seemed.

But pain! Ow! Pain was unexpected. Pain was a feeling, a sensation, and I got angry that it had hurt that it hadn’t been easy. Anger was an emotion, and the warmth of it slithered across me like a silk shirt over my head. I felt disappointed and sad and angry and I felt things.

So many people find their lives renewed after a suicide attempt because of the counseling, the help, the support they receive. I’ve never met anyone who got the blade right into their skin and found there their saving grace in the sting of a dirty razor in a hot shower. Pain saved me. Anger renewed me.

I put a band aid on the little slice, not even longer than a quarter of an inch and nowhere near my thick arteries and veins, and forgot about it.

That brought me back to my body and there I found my self. Poor, neglected self. I didn’t know anything about my self except the pain. And now the pain was mostly replaced with dissatisfaction and general crankiness. So I asked myself questions, I read books and formed opinions, I taught myself values that rang true in my ears. Strength flowed into me from books and from some source that to this day remains unknown to me but I have suspicions That brings me to the pleasure.

Relying on my own strength, on my own reserves, on being the extra back-up I need in an emergency, I get such a kick out of it. I find such joy in navigating life with my own guidance and under my own power. I still fall down, I still need help – though I hate to ask for it. I prefer to struggle through on my own most times, because I want to know that I can. I find so much pleasure in being myself, and such a shitty feeling when I’m not. I can’t help but be myself. Not if I want to hold onto a little slice of peace that has been nestled in my  gut, in my heart, ever since that day when the razor hurt me.

Unarmed Combat

March 4, 2009

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

February 22, 2009

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.

Domestic Kink

February 14, 2009

I love wearing aprons, baking bread, making sauces, knitting, sewing, cleaning, organizing, hosting, roasting, anything domestic or homey. In an ideal world, I would work quarter-time and spend most of my time at home or out doing errands and seeing friends at their homes. In short, I would be a housewife.

Why? Why would I want to spend so much time at home, making things for other people, slaving away over meals for other people? Why wouldn’t I go out, travel, go to the theatre? Why would I want to do that?

Because it gets me hot.

To imagine my shirt pushed up and my pants pulled down, bent over the counter in my apron and my hands covered in bread dough getting my ass slicked up and rimmed before I’m fucked senseless and then going back to kneading bread and washing my hands before I can pull my pants up again. My ass is bare and pink and he can see it, slap it, grab it whenever he walks by. I think that’s hot.

To blow him in the humid laundry room while I wait for the spin cycle to finish, swallowing his hard dick and his cum and then changing the loads of clothes before sucking him off again. I think that’s hot.

To greet him at the door with a kiss, which turns into necking, which gets me pushed against the front door and my clothes torn off and he fucks me against the door with my legs wrapped around his waist and my hands clutching his jacket, smelling his cologne and cumming on his work clothes. I think that’s hot.

Knowing that he sees my beauty, my talent, my skills, my love for him. Knowing that because he sees, he loves me. He loves me because he sees me.

An Unforseen Happening

February 12, 2009

I don’t like lube, not for jerking off. And frankly, at this point in my life I find that a few deep breaths and some muscle control make a lubricated condom more than adequate. Usually if I’m going to be having sex with somebody, I tell them to bring lube if they want to use some.

Though I’ve always felt like lube was something I SHOULD have on hand. Especially recently when I had jerked off so much I’d rubbed a small part of my dick a little tender.

Being circumcised has never hurt so much.

So began the search for the Perfect Lube. I dont like things that are too thick, too slick, or too runny, or too thin. I wanted something that would provide enough slip to slide my cock through my hand, and would stay where I put it. In the past, my problems with lube have mainly stemmed from them being so slippery that I, literally, coudln’t maintain a grip on myself. I would have to squeeze the living crap out of my junk just to get some basic sensations. Inevitably, I would wipe whatever it was off with a towel and go back to life without lube.

But now, thanks to all the reviews on Babeland, I have found exactly what I wanted in Eros Bodyglide. On the plus side, it actually conditions and protects latex and is recommended for fetish wear as well as lubricant. Not that I’m interested in wrapping my body in latex – except for one very important part.

I’ve been thinking of all the ways I want this new boy to fuck me with this stuff slicking up his condom-covered cock and it’s delicious pondering the possibilities.

There’s another post brewing in the back of my brain on the topic of domestic kink. What’s that? I’m not sure yet, but I have some ideas.

With Legs Wide Open

January 30, 2009

I forgot that repressing my sexual desires usually means I get a little voriacious when I finally let go again. After giving my best friend his first good blowjob, I’ve met with four guys only one of whom actually made it all the way to giving me a halfway decent fuck and the other who automatically went into my Top Five Fucks I’d Like Again list. The other two were total flops.

I don’t think that it’s going to work out with the boy, as painful as that is to admit. He thinks that I’m weird for liking him. Weird? What am I supposed to do with that? I don’t know, so I decided to get laid in the meantime. The boy’s away at a conference this week, so hopefully by the time he’s back I’ll have gotten my ya-ya’s out and I can talk to him and see what’s what for real. I don’t want to stop seeing him, as I feel like he would be an amazing friend but part of me is still dissatisfied that our relationship – such as it is – has played out this way thus far. I always get afraid when I get invested so quickly, because inevitably it ends poorly.

Now that I’ve gotten three positive reviews about my head-giving skills I find I am much more interesting in sucking cock than I was just a week ago.


When Your Heart Holds You Back

January 18, 2009

A friend asked that I write about sexual freedom, and being as I am a pretty sex-positive queer kid I figured I’d write about how I got my freedom. What obstacles I’ve overcome to reach the place in my life where I feel free to express my sexual desire, show off my sexuality.

But I couldn’t. I can’t write about that, because it hasn’t happened.

It’s been said here that when I get emotionally invested in a person, I find it hard to initiate or indeed display any kind of physical need or attraction aside from some bumbling flirting. So yes, free-wheeling my way through life and having sex with nice guys – and sometimes not-so-nice guys – that I don’t plan to see much of. I can do that. I don’t really care what a guy I sleep with one night thinks of my sexuality or whatever, as long as he’s happy to fuck me and I’m happy to be fucked.

Then there’s Love. Or the feeling of falling in love anyway. I can’t do it. I can’t show you how sexy I am, how attracted to you I am. I’ll hide the wanton, the lusty, the filthy thoughts I have about you. Not just from you, but from myself. I’ll refuse to daydream about the possibility of sliding your cock between my lips. I won’t even for a minute think about what it might be like to see you naked. I shove it all down, deep down, and away from sight. Because I’m terrified that you won’t think I love you. That you’ll think I only want to fuck, to screw. That I won’t want to hold you all night after, or spend the day with you later. I don’t want you to miss the strength of my heart by distracting you with my hard dick. Ultimately I’m afraid that if you don’t know how much I love, you will feel unloved.

In many ways, this is how I can tell that I care. This is how I try to tell the difference between love and lust. If I remove all the sex from the equation, do I still like you? Do you still inspire me? Are we still what I want to see when I see myself with somebody? In hiding it all, in repressing my (incredibly strong) tendancy to have sex with anybody I share a mild liking with, I am merely trying to see if I’m in love. To see if maybe you love me too, and not just for sex. I live in fear of being somebody’s Permanent Booty Call, of putting my heart in the hands of somebody who would mistreat it, ignore it, shove it to the back of the drawer and leave it in the dark.

Fear for the pain you might cause my heart.