pink and devastating, part 1

I know what you’ve heard: gossip thronged around the edges of the community, snatches here and there. You heard that Zora took me down, that I let her shove her hand up in my aching, pearly pink. But, baby, before we go any further tonight, I gotta set the record straight.

We met at the corner of pink and devastating, each of us trying to high highest femme the whole room, me in flounce-y, spangled, peppermint-stripe tutu, stacked platform lace-up ballet shoes, a ruffled top split wide down the front, tied at the midriff, and hair sprayed within an inch of its life with Aqua Net and Pink Neon Manic Panic.  Oh, and no panties.  And her with that fat fluffy rose boa, first of all, which was so long that it trailed on the ground behind her even as she made her way through the tight throng of the dressed (both over- and under-) at this year’s Drag King contest, in 4-inch high spike heel Lucite pink puma peep toes, a matching long skirt that flung itself from her waist down to just above her ankles and cleaved itself down along one aide to reveal her too goddamn perfect plump  (and glitter-sheened!) calves and thighs – the rose-paisley bustier, the thick dark hair in a cloisonné upsweep held together  by cherry blossom chopsticks, a couple of combs, and, yes, spit and prayers – oh, and no panties – there was no keeping from setting it off.  I dropped my butch escort’s arm as soon as Miz Pristine made her entrance, needing all of my energy to lance through the fauxhawks and thrift store finery, plumage and socks stuffed in varying nether regions in order to                 um       make her acquaintance. I meant to demand some sort of tithe from her, this new-come-to-town trying to defame my own throne of highest femme in the land

She just stood so you’d think she’d come to attention (but I saw, didn’t you, that she came to be attended to) pursed her MAC bright lips together and lowered her impossibly long, impossibly fake, impossibly PERFECT Too Wong Foo Priscilla drag queen lashes just to half mast, shifted so that slit in her skirt shut the door on my wandering eye, focusing my attention, you could say, reminding me that, yes, I had been an adoring young butch once, too      and she put that long tongue out just a little     a shade, you could say           purplish rose lacquered lips split by school-perfect pink eraser muscle and she lit a new shine to her lips and all of mine then and there, thank you and she said, “Ooh, girl, look at those shoes.” 

She grinned, wide, then shadowed in, pinpointing her meaning, she said: “So stable.”

She cocked one hip, ‘cause it was meant to be cocked that way, popping out into and claiming more of the space that the crowed had cleared for this collision of femme dominion.

Now, some say that plain platforms, a solid chunky fat heel, is cheating when it comes to the way girls do with each other.  Some say if it’s not spiked it’s practically flats. Maybe she was in this category. I can’t say as I could tell you.  Maybe she was dishing some evil shade.  But let me tell you, honey, that place where my panties ought to have covered had my parents raised even a halfway proper lady was running thick with all the possibilities and I stood firm, legs spread just enough, and pelvis cocked forward, sure, and could not be jostled by the crowd and I said, “I bet you want to find out, don’t you?”

Her cheeks went a red that clashed with her outfit and I checked myself a pointing the femme register in the sky ‘cause even though I know about the inherent wrong of girl on girl competition sometimes you just gotta win one for the home team, don’t you?  But really, I just wanted to keep the redness coming into those taupe cheeks.

Lord, what was coming over me?  I wanted her, in that split skirt, picturing split thighs, all right, yes, over my big brawny girl shoulders, all of our tits at attention while I rock in and out of her purple pink lower lips, the very hot red rose fat baby boy cock that I carried in my bag, all ready ready, I came to realize, to be strapped not around some one of these king-y wanna-bes but instead around my meaty thighs.

Now, boys, take a picture of this ‘cause it’s never happened before and it’s not likely to come again. It’s well know that I am not just a pillow queen: I am an empress.  After a few years topping bioboys after I started having sex as a teenager, I met an old-school butch during my first excursion to my small home town’s dyke bar. The first time I laid my eyes on her I laid down. I mean, when she laid her hands on me, I fell so hard on my back that the sky started crying.  There are better metaphors than that.  I started crying—but only after I wore that butch out. The only time I’m not on my back is when I’m on my knees.  It’s not just do-me, it’s do away with any ideas you might have had about getting done.  My pussy’s so pillowy hard and fine, there are butches still lost down there, exploring and seeking and navigating all that good terrain.

Now Miss Pristine—or Zora is how she was called by other people but I liked to call her Pristine ‘cause she was always put together like a shiny piece of plastic and she hated any kind of mess. I was shocked as hell to see her out at the Drag King contest, which was held at a warehouse apace in the not-yet-completely-gentrified part of way downtown and had a concrete floor already coated with beer drippings, sweat and mud. It was clustery hot and barely ventilated, so most of the girls start melting immediately after setting one manicured foot into the door (boys, too, if they hadn’t put their spirit gum on just right; there were dropping moustaches and sliding soul patches all through the room). And the only time Miss P utters the words Do me is after she’s fucked some tender butch bottom til ze’s wrung all the way out and just wetting up again, and Miss P’s finally ready to come herself. The way the story goes, she sets herself up in her tall throne, parts her legs (high heeled shoes pushing her arches and calves into a more pornographic roundness than anyone might think possible), points one short-nailed perfectly polished index finger at her pussy, and the butch is to get her off with no more than thirty strokes on her clit. (This count is well confirmed.) The ones who try to insert anything whatsoever into Zora’s soaking slit are  summarily dismissed – they hear the buzzing and the “oh! Oh! Oh!”s before they hit the front door. Miss P might get a little mussed while she’s fucking someone (though no one knew her not to use gloves), a soft sheen of sweat might break across her brow, a cleft of hair might fall lose from her coif, but no one would ever say they’d seen her disheveled.

So it was not an idle thing I said there, insinuating that she might have been complimenting the stability of my footwear because she imagined me in a position compromising in more ways than one. Zora just wrinkled her long nose at me, barely a sniff, let her eyes fall on the door to the back stage side entrance and then didn’t she just turn and part the crowd without a word.

(Think she just left me hanging there? Read on, my lovely...)