f*ck yeah high femmes

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Monday morning - Sunday aftermath

Since when is Sunday a good night for partying? Ugh -- girl, I haven't been young enough for that in way too long. This morning I thought to myself, What does it look like to be this horny for this long? I looked in my bathroom mirror: oh, yes, that's what this horny looks like. Not a great look for me: my hair's snarled on one side and flat on the other, eyeliner all smeared around the bags under my eyes, cheeks yellow-pale like I'm living in fluorescent hell, lips still stained with that new red lipcolor I bought at the Walgreen's on the way out to the bar last night -- Jesus, I hope I didn't look this bad when I was flirting with that little butch at the end of the night. Still, I guess we both were tipsy enough that this could have looked wicked hot, I dunno. Maybe she's waking up and looking in the mirror and finding beer spilled down the front of her tshirt (didn't that happen when she was laughing too hard at the joke I made about the bartender?) and a crust of white at the corner of her mouth and a face full of the tiniest wrinkles that are starting to make it harder for folks to think she's just a little boy when she walks into the corner grocery -- none of us are 21 anymore, goddamnit.

Even the 21 year olds are trying to pretend like they're older, stylin, too experienced, every single one of them Players, buying you a beer and sly-grinning up in your face like they'd know what to do with their hands if they actually managed to get them under your skirt; do you know what I mean?

Meanwhile, the last time I let myself get pulled into the bathroom with one of 'em (my best girlfriend Tracey was giving me a look like, Are you serious?), turned out the little butch had no idea what she was doing and just wanted to make out, take a tough story back to her friends. What's your hurry, girl? she said when I got my hands onto her fly -- this girl, though, needed to get fucked, so I set her down on the toilet, took the (dear god help us) bright red and swirl-patterned (but thankfully sturdy) cock out of her jeans, pulled a condom out from between my breasts (the well-endowed femme's purse) and rolled it over the little guy, then proceeded to fuck myself to coming in about five minutes. The girl could hold still, I'll give her that, and could follow instructions -- could have been worse. She didn't talk after I shushed her (with one of my tits, but still) and didn't move after I told her not to; I was imagining Carmine, fantasizing that it was her up behind me, inside of me, that we were all over each other. Couldn't keep the fantasy going when this child let loose with her attempts at encouraging sex talk. Poor thing -- when I was done, god, I could tell she wanted to come, too, but I was done, honey. I kissed her good, said "Thanks, papa" (like she deserved the honorific), washed my hands, fluffed my hair, reapplied my lipstick (which also came from the femme purse), and walked out. Told her, "don't forget to lock the door," before I was gone. I gave Tracey the high sign, and she shook her head at me, then nodded -- I got us two more drinks (a dirty martini for me, a club soda and lime for her) and went back to our table, told her the story, got to bask in that sweet, just-fucked aftermath, tried not to look around for Carmine.

Anyhow, that was months ago -- somehow I managed to make it in to work today; I'm unclear on exactly how that happened, as I woke up with a headache so intense I was afraid that the throbbing would knock open the walls of my shabby apartment. I managed a little yoga -- please, god, just let me do this one stretch without getting sick. But it helped. And then I had two advils and some coffee, cold cereal at the table in my kitchen, thought about calling Tracey. I'll call her later today, you know how you have to let your best friend know all your details, even when things fall apart. Especially when things fall apart. She'll shake her head at me over the phone -- yesterday afternoon, I was just scanning through the weekend Facebook updates, you know, and there was one from Carmine (which, why I'm friends with her there I can't tell you -- torture is my friend, I guess), who said her gf was still away and so she was going to hit the bar; who'd join her? I didn't want to. I closed my laptop right away, and tried not to think about it -- didn't think about it in the shower, or while I was pulling on my skinny jeans and tshirt, doing my hair up, didn't think about it in the cab or when I leaned myself and my tits across the bar and asked for a double. Carmine never showed, of course, and here I am now with this wicked fucking hangover. I'll tell you about Carmine sometime; I guess I better. (Carmine, of course, isn't her real name -- she's old school Italian, though, and butch like that, so Carmine fits her.)

The new girl I'm supervising was in already when I got here; we have a presentation at the end of the week, and she's young and diligent. She hasn't learned yet that the secret to longevity in this business is making the work last. That's the secret to a lot of things, actually. God, I need a hot shower and some good sex -- I need a massage and a long weekend on a warm beach and some good coffee and a freshly-baked wheat-free blueberry muffin. Yes, I need that perfect guy, the one with the little hands that get big sometimes, the one who’s a woman (sometimes), the one who wants only to see that I am well fed, well taken care of.

Is that really so fucking hard to find?