It's past half-way through the year, honey -- how are we doing so far?

Althea Xtravaganza presents A 30-something's High Femme New Year's Convolutions — No, I mean Resolutions — No, wait, how about Evolutions?

1) Find a lip shade that's organic, cruelty-free, paraben- and PABA-free, gluten-free, unscented, hypoallergenic, moisturizing, long-lasting, and matches the color of that cute little butch's outer labia when she gets all worked up.

2) Find a cute little butch who understands the wisdom of showing a girl with an educated mouth and brilliant hands what her goddamn labia look like.

3) Develop at least three new responses to being queer-checked at the Lex. When met with the doorgirl's raised eyebrow, body scan, and cocked head as she ignores my ID and asks, “uh, baby, do you know this is a gay bar?” I will extend my short-nailed, well-manicured hand as though to retrieve my ID, but instead wave my fingers beneath her nose and ask, “Does this still smell of cunt? I washed these damn hands so many times, and I still can't get the smell of your pussy off my fingers.” Then slide my license between my tits and walk into the bar. Then, when one of the many fauxhawked or pompadoured, skinny, white, baby butches in outtucked, oversized men's shirt, vest, skinny tie, skinny jeans who've taken a hit off of their best buddies' T patch and feel this gives them license to police a joint I've belonged in probably since before they had any idea what a cunt is capable of leans drunkenly across the other fauxhawked baby butch they're trying to cruise and asks me— all I was trying to do is order my dirty martina – oops, I mean martini – asks me if I'm sure I'm in the right place, I'm going to try one of two options. Response one: ask Little Miss–ter Thing when they last pushed that sweet little naughty mouth between another girl's legs with the intention of bringing the woman as much pleasure as a mouth can instead of simply just wetting up a landing spot for that little piece of plastic she called cock and wields like four-year-old just beginning to play with trucks in the sandbox (you know – vroom vroom vroom – it's just fun to shove it anywhere wherever it will go.)

Or grab her by that tie she stole from her uncle's closet when she was 14 and always has to have her femme housemate to tie for her (wait, how does it go again? Over, then under?), drag her to one of the bathrooms, get her back up against that graffiti and come-smeared wall, kiss her hard enough that her hips start to loosen up between my hands, then peel down those trousers over her ass and down her thighs, before I slick my fingers inside these trendy boy shorts with the underoos logo on 'em—something intended to be a cute, butch conversation starter when she got her twin out there back to her bedroom before they got busy trying to figure out who was good to be the top for the night, the the big mean daddy to the other one's bad little boy – and people worry about what two femmes do in bed. Anyway I'd slip my fingers under those shorts, after I moving aside the athletic sock she'd've packed with, and shove into all that thick curly wet. Of course I don't need her gasp to tell me I'm in the right place, but I like it. I'll keep my mouth very close to her, not quite kissing her, while I find that clit with my thumb and push two fingers up into her cunt, fucking her right up to the edge with these dumb, painted, girly hands. Her cunt will tighten around me and her breath'll go sharp and high, and I'll whisper, “Jeez, I don't know – what do you say? Am I in the right place?” Then I'll pull my hand free, give her a little wave goodbye, and shove my fingers between my lips (painted exactly the shade of those labia she kept so well hidden) as I walk back up to the bar, ready to order another drink to throw in the lap of the next person who asks me what I'm doing in a lesbian bar.

4) Date. More. Femmes. Since when did Butch on Butch get to be the pinnacle of lesbian hotness? What makes me think I can't find a satisfying date among a group of dykes who've had to prove their queerness, not to mention their feminist, anti-racist, anti-capitalist bona fides, since the first time they imagined they might want to take a tumble with Betty instead of Bobby way back in the day. Peter piper picked a pack of overachievers, I am telling you. These are girls whose mouths got more moves than Missy Elliott, can make their hands as small or fat as the situation demands, wields a cock with the skill of someone who's had to pay close attention to cock-wielders for sometimes nearly as many years as they've been alive and have learned as much of what not to do as what they can do new to help a girl feel good, all while whispering a critique of Jack Halberstam's hyper-masculine privileging in your ears and reminding you how sweet and safe it is to open by quoting Cixous, Allison, hooks, and Holibaugh. And then will roll over and take half your arm when you're ready to give a little of your own good learning back to her. Plus, another femme doesn't pretend like she's never heard of menstroo-what? when you're bleeding (since she's not afraid of being associated with the blood of girlness), will tell you with kindness and honesty when you need to eat a sandwich (more often) and when your shoes are mistake (almost never), and wants nothing more than to be a sweet soft pile of ferocity for you to land in after yet another day out in the world getting cruised by straight men and ignored by the dykes – at least the faggots will see us, especially other Queens, which both of us will begin to think this might be our actual heart community.

5) Tell and listen to more truth. Listen closely when a sisterfemme gives me that shrug of the shoulders, a forced smile, and a laugh when she says, “you know it's been a hard little while but I think were getting through the rough bit–” and I remember that's what she said the last two or three times I asked how she and her butch were doing. I wanna be a safe place for her to tell her stories to. We all learn from somewhere (was it Stone Butch Blues?) that in order to be good femmes were supposed to keep our butches' secrets above all other allegiance, even our own wellness, and so we smash around with broken and sore in our hearts with no guidance or support from others who've been on the journey before us. It is my revolution this year to undermine some of that isolation – what if we told each other the truth about what we were experiencing while we're experiencing it, not after we've had to get ourselves out? What if abusive, misogynist, careless butches and trans men stopped getting play in our community, because we told and believed each other about them? What if we listened to the experience of our sister femmes rather than dismissing them as demanding, high maintenance, jealous, bitches, cock hungry, asking for it, drunk, crazy, or a survivor who sees abuse everywhere (never mind that, actually, abuse is everywhere)?

6) Figure out what the hell radical self-care is – isn't it just taking care of yourself? Are we so poisoned by activist analyses that we have to label it radical just to defend our need to take a fucking break sometimes? Anyway, I resolve to take a fucking break sometimes. Head over to the Japanese baths and take a soak, promenade in full drag more often (alone, or with sisterfemmes, or with dates), and spend more Sundays in my pajamas with a cup of coffee, a puppy, a newspaper, and a sweetheart. And masturbate a lot more. Replace the showerhead I broke during that New Year's Eve dalliance – who knew my thighs were that strong? – and get back in the tub again. Run a Kickstarter campaign to cover my hot water bill – this is radical work that deserves community support, after all!

7) Remind myself – and anyone else still struggling with the question – that being a femme is queer enough. Supporting other femmes is queer enough. I resolve to stop engaging this “debate” in any way. Yes, our communities will always love and fetishize the masculine – just as the whole world does – just as the feminine is fetishized and dismissed, but we can know who we are and we can know our power. In 2014, I will connect with more femmes who are powerhouses unto themselves. I want us not to be be disappeared under the onslaught of yes please more books and lists and calendars and blogs focused on Top! Hot! Butches! I'll create a list in my heart of Top Fierce Space-Claiming, Take-No-Shit, Demanding-Their-Desire, I-Wanna-Be-Like-Her-or-Him Femmes (honestly, whole bunch from my list are in this room) and take out that list and hold it privately between my lungs when one more butch refuses to acknowledge my existence when we're passing each other on Market Street. I will stride right past her or him on these too-tall heels and go meet my sisterfriend for our coffee date and we will offer one another's hands to gnaw on as we share all of our stories—and yours too. Sorry. honey. But it's about time.

8) And, In 2014, I commit to stepping away from femme-against-femme, junior high school Mean Girl, In Crowd bullshit – we don't have to do that with each other. We femmes could appreciate one another without fail, understanding deeply what it takes to put on a skirt in a culture that marks you as prey for doing just that and in a community that believes you have an easier time of everything when you brush on some blush and put your toes into pumps, who know intimately what it's like to be ignored by the objects of our desire, to be read as the opposite of our true selves, and to be asked to leave half of our sexuality on the floor when we get into bed with someone because our job is only supposed to be to receive, to take, be pushed into. Yes, sometimes we fuck up with one another and need to call shit out, but what if we called up someone we wanted to call out and met them for coffee rather than busting up someone else's facebook page with our nuanced, flame-wielding, well-analyzed critique, and then ever after exiling that called-out femme when we meet her out in the world?

9) Forgive my body for exactly how she's healed and what she needs to feel joy and to come. Give my body exactly what she needs to feel joy and to come over and over this year. Oh, and, I love you, Patrick, but after a decade or so of being ashamed of myself after reading one of your stories, I'm about ready to say a self-healing fuck you to that little dash of vanilla – anyone given the opportunity to spend as long as I need them to between these strong soft fucking thighs in order to get me off is the one who's lucky. In 2014, anyone who's got a problem with my telling them exactly what I need them to do in order for me to get off gets to just plain and simple get the hell out of the bar's bathroom and leave me to jerk off in peace.

10) Now for a little harm reduction. I mean I know myself so I'd like to resolve to not do it ever but let's at least say that I'll commit to to staying less long with significant others who expect me to carry their emotional baggage while they complain that I am undermining their masculinity by lifting such heavy stuff so easily—and then don't understand why I'm too tired to fuck all the time.

In fact, 10.5), remove myself from any and all situations from which I have the option of extricating myself that leave me too tired to fuck.

11) Oh – and one more: let's develop some with new responses to straight men who want more than their share of my attention, like the man in the shoe store who, because I smiled and said hello to him out of politeness, feels welcomed to comment on the shoes I'm trying on, saying, "oh, you've got the knock me down and fuck me heels – isn't that what we used to call them?" And I say, "oh no, these are my I'm gonna fuck you up heels." I take one off, hold it by the toe, and brandish the heel. "Did you look at these? This is a weapon." And even though I am smiling and friendly, he walks away. New Year's resolution achieved. I think I've earned a drink.

what if we femmes could take care of each other?

Girl, I am tired of being part of the queer ladies auxiliary. Althea would prefer visibility and respect more than chivalry, and frankly expected better from Butches then they seemed prepared to give.

What would happen, do you think, if femmes started coupling up in such numbers as butches have been, began to reach only for their unique kind of queerness. What if we gave those garter-belted thighs and high-heeled calves pushed-up busts just to each other? And what if we could appreciate each other that way? The only reason we are so frustrated at butches going into the woods together for their drum and boi parties isn't just that we are not invited when the butches climb into the pleasures and privileges of masculinity and begin to fully take hold the joy of being a Real Man, but also that we have not turned around and offered a similar quality of appreciative attention toward each other.

Sisterfemme, you can see, can't you, that the boys have no problem turning away from you, seeking each other out for an affirmation of their masculinity that only another masculine being can offer. Cross-gender relationships are hard – look at heterosexuals. They've been struggling with it for millennia and haven't gotten it perfect yet.

I am tired of how much attention we give to the male of our dyke species - I would like the same sort of adulation for the femme. Not a pedestal distancing, go up there and be pretty while we get some work done down here kind of attention, but something thicker and more real. And I want us to give it to each other.

Femmes seem to play out on one other our worst sort of junior high school Mean Girl, in-crowd bullshit. We don't have to do that. We could appreciate one another without fail, understanding deeply what it takes to put on a skirt in a culture that marks you as prey for doing just that, in a community that believes you have an easier time of everything when you brush on some blush and put your toes into pumps. We know intimately what it's like to be ignored by the objects of our desire, to be read as the opposite of our true selves, and to be asked to leave half of our sexuality on the floor we get into bed with someone because our job is only supposed to be to receive, to take, be pushed into. (Getting fucked is all well and good – as the boys are discovering now with each other. God forbid they should let the girl put her hands up into their dainty boy parts – would that somehow make them less gay? Here we've been cautiously tiptoeing around those parts, trying to offer what little direct pleasure we are allowed to without showing too much fucking enthusiasm because God for bid we also got off on bringing our partners pleasure; here we've been holding our half of the picture, doing like he asked and deeply respecting his stone, leaving our hands and mouth to lie impotent under the threat he needed in order to feel the command, and then boom he discovers what he really needs is another boy to be able to feel like himself with, and suddenly then it's okay to get fucked. Girl, don't get me started.)

The truth is, I'm all for everyone finding pleasure wherever they can find it. But, goddamn, it is completely understandable that femmes are pissed off and scared. Because you know what? We have allowed ourselves to become arm candy and window dressing, so of course we're afraid that will have no meaning if all the butches go off with one another (which of course they're not – but that doesn't change our fear.)

Let them go. What they do is their business – what we do is ours. What if we worked on ourselves for a while? I wonder how many butch-on-butch couples show up to Butch Voices compared to the femme-on-femme loves that descend onto the Femme Conference – how often do femme-identified folks get together and get and give as hard as we can? And what if we stopped compromising our erotic selves in service of being a good femme or a good butch/trans ally? Being an ally doesn't mean we don't get to have the sex or relationship we most deeply crave and deserve, it doesn't mean we deserve dismissal, and it doesn't mean we have to put up with misogyny.

 Do we feel left and abandoned? It's only because we allowed ourselves to be set up as pretty frilly edging at the outside of our own community – we have not continue to demand recognition that we too are the soul of the movement, the core organizers and workers, the brilliant minds and beautiful expressive souls, and as deeply erotically competent as any other queer in our community.

Whew. That's enough for now, honey. Somebody get me a drink!

Femmes are for...

Oh, honey -- Althea's crabby again. She's got a post-Pride hangover, so just grab you a cocktail and sit down in that soft chair, kick off those mules and get ready for an earful.

It’s hard out here for a femme. More specifically, it's hard for a butch-loving femme. A butch-loving femme dyke. A butch-dyke-loving femme dyke. A butch-dyke-loving femme dyke who makes butches very... nervous. It's hard, I'm telling you. And a little damp, oftentimes, too, actually.

Now, let it not be said that Althea is not an ally of the new-men-for-men, masculine-of-center, transparadigm, gender non-norming, b-o -i boys diggin’ on each other at HellaGay or El Rio because they’ve finally burst forth out of the straight lace of their girly-girl (gross!) upbringing and just wanna get all busy on each other since apparently faggot sex is what makes a real man in the post-homophobia 2000s. I love the new millennium!

And, hey, I got nothing against the straight-acting and -demanding passing guys who’re gonna come to my Pride afterparty and cruise me and then turn around and ask me if I couldn’t please tune down my lesbo tendencies (both out of the bedroom and in it, thank you very much) because god forbid the neighbor lady next door find out that we are not actually a picture perfect straight couple after all. Oops. Did I use the wrong pronoun when I had my fingers up your cunt? Sorry — I forgot: Female is over, people. Just tell Marilyn. Didn’t you know you can get over that nasty sexually-transmitted disease with just a little testosterone and the right accessories, some low-slung jeans and an appropriately slicked back hairdo? Come on down to the emporium of masculinity, once known as San Francisco — oh, wait. Who am I kidding? San Francisco was always the Emporium of Masculinity!These boys are just reaching out their newly-furred fingers for what they were promised: become a boy and get some real cruising power on Castro street. Who am I to complain about them getting theirs? What did I think I would find in San Francisco, anyway, bringing my pussy-girl (pussy-eating) self into the shirtless belly of the gyaboy beast? Did I really think that rainbow flag at Castro and Market was meant to wave over my curvy ass? Maybe just to cover me up, tuck this fish out of the way while the boys are looking for each other — it’s no good to bring your baggage along with you when you’re finally knocking on the door of your real self. Leave the girls behind, boys, when you come into this club. You know high heels are only a drag queen’s best friend — what do I think I’m doing, appropriating the Queen’s costume? It’s all too much deconstructed discursivity — what’s a femme to do, not queer enough to enter mecca, woe is me. take another tissue out of Dorothy’s ruby slipper and move on, mama. This bed wasn’t made for you, and you’re blocking the way for some Velveteen Rabbit/Pinocchio transition that’s trying to manifest right behind you.

Maybe I do have some bones to pick at after all.

Well, anyway, my mama taught me that you like what you like, and what this femme looks for is a butch dyke who’s not afraid of her own goddamn pussy. No, that’s not quite right. I mean a dyke who is not only not afraid of her cunt, but expects to get fucked as much as she expects to get to do a little fucking. I know I’m not supposed to say it, but after coming on 15 years in this lesbophobic ostensibly gay paradise, show me a suit and tie wearing butch who will let a girl kneel her bare knees on the bathroom floor, undo that fly and shove a clit instead of a cock down her throat and I’ll sing your fucking praises, first of all, and then I’ll lead you out into fairy land where I’ve got a pretty little unicorn on a candy leash sipping tea with the mad hatter and the cheshire cat — just for you.

I’ve got nothing against cocks, if you’ll please allow me to clarify. They certainly have their place, when well-wielded for a couple hours—or so — I even have my own collection (none of which are petite, pastel, or glittery, if you’ll allow me to clear up that myth of the femme cock; they’re fat and sturdy and designed not to tickle or tease or be fucking called cute but to bust-open that sweet little tight hole you clench closed and aching between those bone-hard thighs, and intended to keep that little mouth of yours dripping open like a dog’s, thank you very much.)

But, see, here’s the trouble I run into in this Bayside palace of cock worship — I happen to be especially fond of cunt. Yes, I like the burly girls whose hands know instinctively how to commune with the dense and tender folds between my legs – I happen to own a pair of those hands myself; there’s a good goddamn reason I keep my nails shorn and short: I want them well up inside of you. I want your legs around my hips. It’s a problem, I know — you’re a butch with a reputation to protect, a cock to wield, some fucks to throw. You never get on your back. You don’t spread your legs — oh, wait! I forgot! Yes, you do — you just do it for the boys, while we girls are over here cheering you on in the corner. The girls you fuck aren’t supposed to be able to flip over themselves and throw as good (or better) a nailing into your own underplanked hole. They’re not supposed to look at you with the same knowing eyes you serve, not supposed to lick the same wise lips, not supposed to run the same strong, broad, brave hands up your legs stroking apart lips that have almost forgotten how to peel open just a little, just enough, a crack in the door some stone butch told you years ago that you had to keep slammed shut. You’ve done such a good job all these years training all those girls that no, really, you don’t need anything yourself — you like being down there on your knees for a three-hour stretch giving her all the orgasms her high school boyfriends never even knew the name or shade of, that those tech boys in their skinny jeans and mangy beards take for granted; I mean to say you’ve been bending over so many straight girls that you just assumed I’d fall into that category too if you just treated me shoddily enough for long enough but honey my name was never Pillow Queen — it was never Do Me — it was never Oh thank you, Daddy — girl, I want do get you calling me Daddy. Now how about that for a flip?

I guess I can see why you’d turn to the boys — maybe they’re not as scary. Maybe they make you feel like you’re looking in a mirror. Maybe they don’t make you confront the image of the cheerleader doing the quarterback all upside down and inside out — this time she’s got him bent over the bench in the locker room, tight uniform pants yanked down around his ankles, cleats slipping on the wet concrete floor while she teases just one more finger into that sweet, loosening butthole — the blonde ponytail swinging, legs planted firm and solid, cheerleading thighs holding her steady while he bucks for her: this is a girl who knows something about the architecture of pleasure, and about what it takes to make someone score. Come on, baby — let me in, that low and candied voice, urging him to spread that hole just a little wider. Come on. Open up for me baby, Take it in, Poppa. She knows how to unfold what the rest of the boys told you you were supposed to keep tucked deep inside, all the way behind your cock. That is, if you want to be a real man. And maybe that's true.

You’ve heard the little ditty, haven’t you: butch in the streets, femme in the sheets — you get that, right? A butch who gets fucked is a femme! Isn't that amazing? The power of the dick, I'm telling you... It means, you know, that a butch can’t be a butch and get fucked. But I want to remind you who don’t need reminding that if you’re the one whose arm is pistoning into another woman’s body and bringing sounds up out of her throat that she didn’t even know she had the capacity to make, you are maybe just showing us what else femme in the sheets can look like. Go ahead and let Lea Delaria throw up her heels — she’s no more femme than Hilary Clinton. Honey, just throwing up your heels doesn’t make you a fucking femme. It might make you smart, might show you're willing to risk being associated with all the baggage the world likes to saddle onto the fucked, might make you hungry or gorgeous, but heels in the air don’t make someone femme. Now, they do it with some finesse, well… then we can talk.

Sigh.

Don’t let you be a femme wanting to fuck butches in this town, honey — and especially don’t let you say it out loud, honest and promising and able to deliver, one high heel lost in the sheets, make up smeared and hair all tangled and loose about your shoulders, these wise fists pumping in and out of some broad-shouldered lover’s powerhouse body. Oh no, girl. You’re supposed to pretend. Femmes pretend. Pretend to totter on those heels, pretend to need an arm to lean on, pretend to need someone else to lift those heavy boxes, pretend not to know what a cunt looks like or needs, pretend to be touching theirs for the first time (oh, no, Daddy, I’ve never done this before — is this right?) when they finally deign to let you stroke their meaty folds, pretend not to know anything about cunt-licking and offer a porn-girl tease, that little wobbly flicker meant for camera angles instead of pleasure, instead of shoving your knowing mouth deep and sucking hard, pretend your hand isn’t already folding itself, pretend to be wholly unable to keep those legs closed, girl, you’re just so hungry: fucking is what a femme is for, isn’t that right? They can practice on us to be ready before they move on up the ladder to the real thing — that pretty transboy sitting ‘cross the bar at IMsL (I’m sorry, what? Ms leather? What does that mean?) or down to the Lone Star. Girl, you didn’t know you were supposed to just be for practice?

Femmes are for fucking — you knew that, though, didn’t you, being raised as or around females in this country. You knew that, when you put on those torn fishnets and high heels, right? Did you really think the dykes would take your skin-tight erotic prowess any more seriously than the guys down to the financial district do? Oh honey — you must be new here.

But I’m gonna whisper a secret to you, little momma. You with the itchy fingers, with hands that taught plenty of cunts what fuck can really mean, with that tongue that knew from the start how to slick open another woman’s pussy and lives to be consumed by precisely that generous mess, you who keep on believing that being a gay woman means you get to fuck women as well as get fucked by them, — are oh, honey, there are women who think like you do. You might not find them so easy in this resolutely regimented town, the one that marks skirts with one role and trousers with—oh, sorry, I keep forgetting! Trousers can have many roles. Skirts: one.) , but you can find women who want you to fuck them even without hanging the Momma Dom shingle across your chest. Just keep those smoky-shaded eyes open, honey. Eschew the misogynists, just generally, no matter how badly they want you in their pants. And don’t let you ever feel you need to play second fiddle to some soft-slung little packy; they have their own game. You scan over the bold women in their denim and buttoned up shirts, their khaki shorts and t-shirts, their motorcycle boots and tagged-up vests, and watch for the few who are able to let their gaze drop, even just once, when you’re cruising them across the bar — that’s a woman who knows something about letting her eyes roll back in her head.

And you femmes who wanna fuck the b-o-i boys, you can find them, too, of course. You just gotta swallow some adolescent bravado to get into those saggy Jockeys. Maybe that’s your kink — more power to you. I prefer, after all these years, a woman not just unashamed to let a girl suck her pussy — I’m looking for a woman who wants me there. I quit pretending to be stupid when I came out of the closet; don’t expect me to go back to dumb girl just to make you feel better about your own hunger. I bet you can find a boy to do that if you really need it. There’s all kinds in this quote-unquote end of the rainbow.

This isn’t about flipping, mamas.This is about rolling around in bed, getting everyone messy, getting everything you deserve, which is, where I come from, what a femme is really for.

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?

pink and devastating, part 2

(check out the previous post for the first part of the evening...)

The things I did, now, I did because of her. People need to know that part. I mean, I saw her look at that side stage door before turning away and forcing me to watch her ass switch switch switch into the congealed crowd before all the faces of our own personal audience had turned back to snatch their eyes to me, to see what I was going to do now, now that she had left me and my question just hanging here. I mean, sure, I still throbbed like a woofer at a bad 90s dyke club    still I was beginning to smell my own goddamn cunt over and above the accumulated aromas of second-hand smoke and cheap-ass cologne. I worked my jaw like I was popping gum, even though my mouth was suddenly too empty and dry, and said, “Figures,” then pursed my lips and turned my own self around, pushing between two thrift-store-suit-jacketed tranny boys behind me, wiggling out of any ideas they were forming about putting me in the middle of their T-dance sandwich. I made a beeline for the bathrooms, shoved my way through the clouds of glitter and hairspray into an empty stall, locked the door and sat my shaking self down.  I didn’t stop to think—not on your life. I popped open the clasp of my bag and took out the nylon harness that I carry out with me to these sorts of events (so as to foreswear that sad butch song, “oh I didn’t plan on getting it on tonight I’m not packing la la la.” You know how it goes—I don’t even have to hum any bars).  I settled the harness around my thighs and ass, then fitted in my Ms. Big Red, tucked her in place under the tutu ruffles and waistband, and felt something else in me thicken and harden. Maybe it was my resolve. I didn’t dare touch myself, just pissed, patted dry, straightened up and shoved back out into the crowd.

I made a round-about way to the far stage door she’d indicated as our rendezvous with her eyes like a parting shot, like the way girls used to say, Back playground after school—you’re gonna get it.    But the goddamn thing was locked when I tried to barge my way in, and it was only the long round toe of my platforms that kept me from knocking my too-eager forehead on the cheap presswood door.

“Eager much?” came a low, curdled-n-spiced voice in my ear, and I did not turn around because my knees were weak and anyway her breath was hot and searing on my bare neck, the sensation like ice and burn all at the same time. “You got the equipment to back up what you said out there?”  Did I mention my case of cotton mouth?  All I could do was lift up my handbag and nod. She snatched the bag away from me, and her breath came hotter on my neck.

Zora reached around me, grabbed at the doorknob, pulled it hard toward her, jamming it in to the frame, pulling herself tight into me for a moment and I felt the feathers of that boa tickling the back of my legs. Then she twisted hard and shoved, pushing the door open and shoving me through.  I stumbled into the dimly lit room, trying not to stumble over what would have been a strategically placed gymnast’s horse had my latest daddy been behind me, ready to lift my skirts and bend me over.  What was it doing here? Well, this was a gay club when the dykes weren’t taking it over once a year.  I turned to reach for Zora, see if she meant what she’d insinuated, see if she was ready for this bending, but she stood stone-faced against the door, arms folded, eyes wide and furious and smoky, still that hip cocked out, creating just the line of lust that every trucker silhouettes with their hands around the air and I got to draw my eyes around the flesh.

“And just who the fuck do you think you are?”  She flung at me, and my embarrassment was a  hot contrast to my lust, that ache she just kept kindling in my hips and thighs and cunt.  I opened my lips, though I didn’t know what I was going to say, but she wasn’t finished. “Don’t you know who I am? How are they going to honor us if we don’t honor each other, Althea?”

Oh shit.  She was pulling out all the goddamn stops.  Bu I knew this train of thought, its hazards and views, and, oh yes, its tunnels—having long argued against my own desires over and over again til the path was a well-worn rut and I’d had to just go ahead and put on a pair of tall heels just to climb out to flatten myself at ground level, which was where I’d stayed.  Til now.

“Come on, Zora. Don’t give me that shit.  We are wise enough to lay it all out for each other: Even the toppiest top has gotta get a break sometimes, and if a girl can’t take care of her sister when she’s in need, well, then what the fuck is a femme sisterhood for?”

“I’m not talking about taking anything away from you,” I continued as I stepped closer to her. “And I’m not suggesting anyone else could recognize the heat flare up in your pretty golden eyes when you took in my shoes        then my calves        then my thighs      and then my hips  then what you were hoping came next under here.  Like recognizes like sometimes, you know that.”

I had no idea where this patter was coming from; I hadn’t seen any goddamn such thing as what I was describing, but I needed an excuse to move closer, and she let me. Who knew it was so goddamn much work getting a girl to let you fuck her?  All anyone ever had to say to me was “Hey there—got the time?” and I was flung open like a midnight refrigerator door.

But then she let me kiss her, jut lean in, put a hand on the back of her head (careful not to pull at her ‘do just yet) and fitted my lips onto hers.  Her breath was musk-spicy and oh, shit, that hot pink tongue traced some holy new dirty alphabet in my mouth.  I gripped her neck tighter, wanting to bruise her but not sure if she’d let me and though she didn’t exactly soften, she did open and let me push all the way into and between those lips, those teeth, the teeth that had left brittle bronzing bruises on three-quarters of the bottoms in the city.

I said, into her throat, “Now you be gentle with me, and I’ll give you just what you need, Z.”  She growled at me, tensed her jaw. Her hand dug into my hair, through the product all the way down to the scalp.  She pulled hard down and in, tried to split my lip in three places. I’ll tell you what: I am not a pain slut, and I nearly came right there.

Zora broke the kiss just as I felt myself readying to forget the whole thing, just reach for her infamous fist and shove it into me. She strong-armed me back away from her, and lifted my bag, which she still clutched in her right hand.  She did not say, “Let’s see what we have here,” but it was clearly conveyed in that sharply drawn raised eyebrow—which fell flat when she snapped open the clasp and found just lipstick, some quarters and my money clip. Zora lifted her eyes, face as wide open as a top’s can get with surprise and confusion, but she didn’t get any words out before I had my two hands under my tulle, had freed Ms. Red from her confines, then I met Zora’s eyes with mine and put a hand on her shoulder, just a hand, just a hint of pressure.

And my good god, she went down.  Not to her knees but into a squat, legs bent and spread wide, resting on the leverage that her heels provided.  I’ll just let you imagine that for a minute.  And then she swallowed that cock               swallowed              and then I realized that this was certainly a part of her repertoire, some part of Zora’s story that nobody told. Before she could set the pace, I put my two hands to her cheeks, and did not move my own hips, Instead, I moved her head, those lips spread just wide enough that she was clearly having to strain, back and forth on me.  And yes, boys I could feel every stroke of her tongue and lips and throat, her teeth dragging for friction.  How does that happen?  And then, oh god, who cares, ‘cause I was holding her head still, fucking with deep thrusts, short and quick, coming only a little way out before I sunk clear back in. Her hands inched slow up my thighs but I stopped her, would not be distracted. “Put your hands under your skirt, Zora.  Feel how wet you are.”

Zora moaned around and through my cock       no one ever told her not to talk while her mouth was full, I guess  and there was cool on my legs where her palms had been. I pulled half way out so she could gasp some breath and slid back down her throat while the scent of her cunt swelled up and around us, mixing with the dusty air and, all right, my own pussy’s stink, too.

When she started really groaning, I pulled my cock up out of her throat with, “Not yet you’re not coming—get up, Z.” And she stood unsteady, wobbly   her thighs strained from the exertion of squatting like that. I helped her up and let her stumble, first onto me so I could taste her again, get all that lust, god, taste my own cock, let her easy cries fill between my lips and tongue and feed them back to  her                    and then I folded her over on the horse. She caught the soft leather between her palms and let her head drop and when I moved around behind her.

That’s when I noticed that Zora didn’t close the door all the way behind her, and, my good god, didn’t we have an audience again, a hot-eyed bunch of queers so sick of waiting for the fucking contest (‘cause you know how the show never can start til an hour or five after they said it’d be over).

I’m not going to lie to you: I had a hard time deciding what to do.  I flushed with power, suddenly desperate to be publicly witnessed deflowering the- Top-of-the-Tops. I wanted them to see how messy it was about to get, with bits of public persona shattered all around us. I wanted the boys to get a little quivery seeing how pillow-biter Althea could work the other side of the cock. Then Zora made a sound, oh shit, it was a whimper, it was almost a please, and I knew I had a higher allegiance. 

I made a sad-clown face at our watchers, then, hoping to mask the noise, shoved a gogo box out of the way with my hand while I kicked the door shut with my fat flat heels. Platforms: they’re just so good for so many things.

“Turn your skirt around for me, Zora,” and she did it so the slit let the material part over her round full ass, those good plump thighs, and all the dark fur around her pussy fluffed out right for me. She glistened, all her inner lips and folds slicked out from where she’d been playing with herself before. 

“Hold yourself open, Zora.”  She rocked a little back and forth on her heels, demand-y, but reached both hands around and parted that pussy for me. I bent down   I bent in                 and took one good

long        lick,          smearing my face on her and making her cry out like she was warming up, you know that kind of groan a girl makes when it starts to get good, and then the “Un-ooh-ah?” when you stop what was making them groan so good—I invented that shit, so it didn’t phase me.  We were gonna get to where she needed to go.  I yanked open the fasteners on the back of my tutu and pulled it off, then, slow, balanced myself and got steady on my platforms, of course, just like Shar says in The Femme’s Guide. I pushed my cock into her, a little in, then out, then a little more, wetting it all up: you see how we study what you’re doing when you’re working so hard over us? Then we do it better.

And oh, shit, that Z, she started screaming. But why was it muffled? I slid all the way in and looked up, saw she had her face pressed into the leather.  Oh no.  I put one hand on her hip, and grabbed the other one into her hair.  I took hold of that knot that that the chopsticks held together, yanked her head up by it, and started to fuck her for real.

“Let it go, Zora—come on,” and fuck if she didn’t let loose, bucking and wailing back into me like she did this all the goddamn time.  And we rode and rode and rode.

“Wait wait stop come out,” Zora rambled, bending around to look at me, her face drenched, hair half undone, eyes racooned and bleary. When I pulled out, she shoved off her skirt til it pooled at her feet, stepped out of it, and then she slid down off the horse                and she   laid

herself     down      on           the           cement.     On the cement, people.  One breast had popped free from the top of the bustier and was pinched tight and flat.  She spread her legs wide, all the way open, heels still on, every bit as hot as I have ever wanted to look for a lover. So much longing dripped off her gaze that I felt entirely inadequate.  I wanted to open the door, yank in the first butch I saw and set her to work so Z could get the fucking she so clearly deserved.

But I had made a promise, hadn’t I?  I knelt down on the concrete, knees bruising instantly, thanked some Kali-Ma/Kwan-Yin/Mother-fucking-Mary  and every other femme-goddess for the foresight to have started doing pushups again a few months previously, and slicked my cock back into her.

Before she could fill my ears entirely with her screams, I said, “You help me, Zora.  Get your hands back to work.  I know how much attention your clit needs.” Zora slid her hands across my shoulders, then pulled open my shirt and cupped my tits, easing them out of my bra so she could yank and pull at my nipples.  I fucked her harder, groaning, “Oh, shit, Zora, please, your hands, get them down there—” So she moved one hand, the bitch, and I could feel here ministering to her clit when I slammed my hips into hers. She kept working slow feathery gentle strokes across my fat nipple.

Sure enough, her pussy’s grip around Mz Big Red got tight and tighter the closer Zora came to coming. When she went over, she let go of my tit, thank god, grabbing hard at my ass, bruising while she bucked and shouted and bucked some more.

I slowed when she quieted, heard screaming on the other side of the door and knew the contest had finally started.  Zora panted under me, pulling me down to her face with her pussy-slick hands and kissed me again.  “All right, girl. What do you want, Althea?” She said, feeding me her fingers.  I sucked on what she gave me, taking in the full breadth of her mussedness, and knew we were about to get some prime time attention as soon as we went back out into the crowd.  She’d never let us leave this room unless she got some of her own back, as undone as she was, and I’m nothing if not accommodating, as I’m sure you’ve heard.

And that was how I got to ride home on Zora’s hot strong fist and forearm, the first femme to take that trip, shouting to the high heavens along with everyone else in the place, though my heights had little to do with camp and bouffants. And when we walked out, torn and smeared and bow-legged both, I let her walk ahead on that ragged edge, took in how she wobbled, watched her push a bit of hair back from one eye like the rest of her ‘do wasn’t a fierce wreck. Those who gave her the wide surprised eye got the story: Althea needed some and Zora gave it to her.  We just didn’t correct their misapprehensions. Girls have gotta do for each other sometimes, don’t we now.  Shit, that’s what solidarity is all about.

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...)