Posts filed under ‘being a good lesbian’
Identity politics: moral high ground or happiness?
I’ve been reading S/He, by Minnie Bruce Pratt, and also a new blog called Sugarbutch. This post in particular, where she backpedals on an earlier statement on not trusting femmes, really hit home with me.
Reading both these things makes me nostalgic. It’s taken me a long time to figure out who I am. In my early 20s, I tried on a lot of labels. Some of them stuck, sunk into the borg of my sense of self. But my identity changes. It’s fluid. It’s the curse and the… specialness, I suppose… of being a bisexual woman. In this society, it’s hard not to be a self-hating bisexual. Even after all those years of activism, still at the kernel of me is a voice whispering traitor, traitor, traitor.
Because the thing about identity politics is that they’re useless for me. In S/He, Minnie Bruce Pratt talks about a femme being a case of mistaken identity. People think that femmes are straight. Butch dykes claim to love us, but that love is conditional–at least in my experience. Am I still a femme if I sleep with men? Or am I something else? Something so slippery and undefinable that I belong in no camp at all?
Yes, yes, bisexual. That is what I am, ultimately. But even that changes. It slides, the same way my appetites slide. I’m neither fish nor fowl, a member of no tribe, but condemned, like Cain, to wander the earth forever, with no set home.
In relationship with April, with Angie, and with Kristen, I often referred to myself as a lesbian, or a dyke. It was easier than the constant qualifying — lesbian-identified bisexual, woman who has been in love with men and fucked a lot of men but is now in love with a woman, in a committed, monogamous relationship with a woman. Who, while looking gender-typical, is in many ways not because she likes to be on top and in control in the bedroom. But also wants someone to flip her.
At times, I’ve lived the good, virtuous lesbian lifestyle. At other times, I’ve lived the life of a kinky bi poly slut. At times I’ve loved men deeply, faithfully. These things shift. I’d like to live in a world where people don’t make assumptions about my sexuality, about the potentiality of it, by whom I’m sleeping with. I know this post-modern sexuality is all the rage these days. All the kids are going pomosexual, or so I hear. But I’m not a product of those days. Identity politics are still important to me. Useless perhaps in describing my sexuality, but still important.
But not so important that I don’t know a good thing when I see it. Angie, for all that she gave me lesbian cred, was a terrible partner. She constantly shamed me about my sexuality, took advantage of my own shame around it. Worse yet, she was controlling, manipulative, and emotionally abusive. She withheld all sorts of nurture from me and neglected to perform the most basic of courtesies. Not only did she never validate my emotions, but she never held the door for me, or even thanked me when I held it for her.
These patterns present themselves again and again, regardless of my lovers’ gender. On this blog, I mostly talk about the things I do with Bran in the bedroom. But it’s the things that happen outside of the bedroom that have made me love him. He possesses the rare ability to listen to me, to validate my feelings, and to express his own in a responsible, respectful way. He shows up. I’m terrified, of course. I can’t believe it’s happening, and I can’t help but wonder if my own perceptions are blinded by love and hormones. But my inner voice — the good one, the one who knows things, not the one who calls me a traitor — tells me that he’s a rare gift and that I should hold onto him. I think I’d rather be happy with him than unhappy with anyone else.
I am not your femdom whore, or service subs and why that’s hot
SubmissiveProud John sums up really well the creepiest thing about my experience in the search for good houseboys and sub playmates:
..most men who claim to be ‘submissive’ aren’t. Many men professing a desire to surrender to strong women are little more than fantasists; turned on by the prospect of female-directed sex and an interlude of lost control. Let’s be fair, the stereotypical image of dominant women most men are exposed to – aggressively propagated by professional dominatrixes – is of leather clad, kink-oriented, female fantasy-fulfillment offered on an hourly basis and on male terms.
[…]
The true – and rare – submissive male is fulfilled by the prospect of pleasing his dominant partner on her terms; not his
(From Are [submissive] men worth the trouble?)
I hesitate whenever anyone prefixes the word “true” to a category, especially a category describing someone’s sexual predelictions. After all, I’ve been accused of not being a “true” lesbian. Which, depending on your definition of a lesbian, I’m not. After all, I’ve slept with men and enjoyed it. I even plan on doing it again (sooner rather than later, I hope, and look significantly in Ace’s direction.) I’ve also never been to Greece. No doubt, I’m also not a “true” comic book fan, since I’ve never actually masturbated while reading my comix. Um… most of them anyway.
But yes, I agree with John’s emphasis on the service aspect of submissiveness. Because there’s a difference between Domination/submission and topping/bottoming. The first is really about power exchange. The second is really about who’s doing more of the work. And this is where doing it for free really turns out to be teh r0xx0r. Because sluts don’t have to provide a service the way prodoms (of all genders) do. We just get to have fun. And dominant sluts get to choose their playmates. Me, I put an emphasis on the service aspects of submission right from the get-go. You want me to strap it on and fuck you up the ass? Fine. What are you going to do for me first? You may have awesome oral skillz, but I’ve also got a vibrator. How quickly can you wash my dishes? How well can you rub my feet, and how much are you going to enjoy it yourself?
I realize that this line of thought can quickly get me into dangerous territory, so let me backpedal a bit. Let me tell you a bit about the Omnivore (meaning, um, me, and I will now cease referring to myself in the third person, because that’s only slightly less creepy than strange men emailing me to request that I fuck them up the ass). I had a less than happy childhood. There was some violence. There was some neglect. My parents loved me both very much, but circumstances were less than ideal. Mistakes were made. Continents were crossed. Child support checks were bounced and discontinued. Dishes did not get washed.
My mother was sort of the anti-Martha Stewart. She collected newspapers until they were hip-high. She had temper tantrums. My way of dealing with her chaotic and unpredictable temperament was to try to keep the house clean. I have vivid memories of walking to the sink to do the dishes whenever a certain tone crept into her voice. Keeping things clean never kept her from making me cry, but it was the only thing I had even a distant sense of control over.
As a result, I like to keep a clean home. Luckily, I don’t have a couple of rug rats to feed and clothe. But between my power-suit job, my very active and non-sexxay social life, and my constant search for new victims occasional dates, I sometimes can’t keep it as clean as I’d like. I used to pay someone to come clean for me, and I used to take my laundry out. But in an effort to get myself out of debt sometime before I turn 70, I’ve had to cut those costs.
Submissive men, you should thank my creditors. Because my housecleaner’s loss is your gain. My early adventures in kink are directly related to making a man clean up for me. I love the genderfuck inherent in making a man do “women’s work,” and yes, I know Bitchy will not agree with me about this, but that’s okay because we have different arousal templates. My arousal template has always had to do with genderfuck. It’s why I have a thing for butch women. And until such time as hot, butch men regularly star in advertisements for Pine-Sol, Bitchy can have all the super-manly, well-muscled construction workers and she can send me all the men who are still manly enough to grow beards and have at least semi-well-defined triceps (when propping themselves up from missionary) but can also cook and clean and talk about their feelings and in general be more of a chick than I am. Everyone wins this way.
Not all my playmates have to clean, of course. Ace is adamantly undomesticated. But he has other talents that make up for this appalling shortcoming.
I used to have a sissy maid and a houseboy. The sissy maid, alas, has moved on to greener pastures. And my houseboy’s business has been preventing him from tending to my needs adequately (hee. I love the fact that a man who drives an Audi begs to come and clean my house). So I’ve got an opening in my household for a second boy. Advertising and screening for the right boy, alas, is time-consuming and annoying. Which brings us full circle to John’s description of the prevalence of distinctly not-true submissives.
What’s a poor girl to do? I work, and I slave, and I’ve got the longest-lasting cold in the history of people having colds, and I come home to a messy, messy house. And still my closet has wire hangers.
Sum total of my kink experiences to date, or why you should never hire me as a prodom
Age 3: I am the Queen of the Boys in preschool. We play Star Wars. I am Princess Leia, of course. They lock me in the tricycle shed and then duel with their lightsabers. Luke Skywalker defeats Darth Vader, but forgets that I’m still locked in the tricycle shed. I get myself out.
Age 7: I smother Jeffie, my second-grade boyfriend, with kisses. He never stops me.
Age 14: People ask me if I have a nickname. I tell them they should call me Dominique, because I like the name. Someone jokes that I should be Mistress Dominique, mimes the sound of a whip cracking. I laugh along with the rest of them.
Age 15: I’m at an arts camp. I’m making out with my boyfriend in his dorm room and he tells me that he likes… I think the word he uses is “dominance.” I’m freaked out almost immediately. It’s not whips and chains or anything, he tells me. I just like to be told what to do in bed. I run away as soon as possible. We never talk about it. Years later, I realize he knew me better than I knew myself.
Age 19: I’m in my sophomore year at a college that is very sexually open. My boyfriend and I experiment with bondage, with anal sex. I don’t enjoy either very much. We split up in April.
That summer, I realize I like girls and get my heart broken. A few months later, I meet an older man who seduces me with cooking and a foot rub. He is a wonderful lover, considerate, sweet, experienced, communicative. He loves to go down on me. Once in passing, he mentions that he and someone else used to tie their friend to the radiator in San Francisco. I’m intrigued but don’t ask further. He spanks me a bit, and I like it. When I like something, I tend to be vocal about it. Once his roommates tease me because they could hear the sound through the vents. I’m embarrassed.
Age 21: April and I are the Big Dykes on Campus. At the annual “gay” dance, a BDSM student group from a neighboring college creates a dungeon in a side room. They cover three walls with black plastic sheets and set up a sort of whipping post with ropes that dangle from the wall. They don’t actually tie people into the ropes — people just hold them while they stand belly up to the wall. They have informational packets about safety and ways to save money on floggers, whips, etc. I’m wearing a long, form-fitting dress that zips up the back. The group members very gently guide me to the ropes, unzip my dress, expose my shoulders and back. A lovely woman in a leather miniskirt whips me with a crop. She checks with me over and over again, rubbing in the marks with her hands. Before she uses the flogger, she warns me against the dangers of wrapping, especially to the sides of a woman’s breasts. People are watching. Afterward, I’m not prepared for the rush, but the group members are. I step away from the wall, feel dizzy, they guide me gently to a chair, offer me water. A beautiful woman with coffee-colored skin comes up to me as I sit there in the post-whipping rush. “Did that feel good?” she asks me. “You have no idea,” I answer.
I do some reading. A few months later, I start telling a friend of mine to shut up, over and over again, while we’re hanging out with other people. He calls me later and tells me that he got turned on when I did that. “I know,” I say. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I tell him I’d always been curious about being a dominatrix. Dominatrixing, in my mind, is something you get paid for. He’s also particularly unattractive, and I am living with April–we have a quasi-open relationship, one that’s never really negotiated or processed. He runs a soup kitchen, so we work out an arrangement.
Every week or so, he brings us a bag of groceries, washes our dishes (we are complete slobs and let them pile up to the ceiling), and cooks us dinner. Afterward, I put on my best business suit and sexiest shoes, make him strip to his underwear, kneel him on the living room floor, and beat him with the various implements he brings me. I especially like the riding crop. I spank him, call him names, pull his hair, put my feet up on him, read him dirty stories. Once, I make him lick my shoes. He does it so eagerly, and the feel of his tongue on the suede, so close to my feet, arouses me. I can’t deal with the idea that this ugly little man might make me feel anything but contempt and a rush of power. I never let him lick my shoes again.
During these sessions I first experience top drop — the complete exhaustion that can happen when I direct all of my energies into a beating. I don’t know what to do with this either. Topping is a lonely, exhausting business. April is jealous.
Once during lovemaking, April says “you’re treating me like a common whore!” I apologize immediately. “No,” she says. “You’re treating me like a common whore!” I slap her face, too hard, and she recoils. I apologize immediately, cringing at my ineptitude. I kiss her, make love to her, then loop my belt around her neck and make her walk on her hands and knees around the kitchen.
Eventually, April leaves me for a man even less attractive than my sub. My sub is the one who helps me pack up the U-Haul. I move to another state, and he visits me there. He buys me an electric wok as a housewarming gift. I tell him it’s a terrible gift, and I can tell that this hurts his feelings. I never give him a proper goodbye. I look back on the scene with April with regret.
Age 24: I have a brief, violent affair with Pura. At one point while she’s fucking me with a strap-on, I ask her to treat me like a bitch. She slaps me across the face so hard it jars me. Another time, she’s fucking me with her hands and I tell her it’s hurting me. “Take it for me,” she says. And I do. Pura has been to jail twice for assault; I call the police once when she punches me in the nose.
Age 28: I spend some time at a place in Arizona that specializes in childhood trauma recovery. They draw up a treatment plan for me. In it, they say I have a sexual disorder, NOS (Not Otherwise Specified), because I have “experimented with sado-masochism.” I protest, but not enough to have it removed from the chart.
Age 29: Badger uses a collection of silk neckties his mother sent him to tie me to the posts of his cheap, aluminum bed. I almost always escape, usually while he’s fucking me, because I want to touch him. Once, he takes my face in his hands and kisses my eyes, my cheeks, everywhere except my mouth until I am begging, begging him to kiss me on the mouth. He refuses. It is one of the hottest experiences I’ve ever had.
Age 31: Kristen and I (just friends) go for a walk in the woods. She won’t stop bleating about all the disastrous dates she’s been on in the past few months. I wish she would shut up so I can hear the sound of a stream, so I can hear the quiet of the woods. In a high, scrubby place, I look at her and say, “This is a magical spot. We have to tell each other a secret here.” She tells me that she put herself through school as a professional dominatrix. That I can’t ever tell anyone else about it. I’m incredibly curious. I tell her about my dishwashing sub.
I’m self-employed at the time, struggling financially, and learning about Kristen’s former avocation makes me consider seriously going pro. I have no idea what I’m doing. I post to Craigslist with a sort of Victorian theme. I meet two potential clients at restaurants but never go through with it. I realize something important: I never want to do sex work. I enjoy sex too much; getting paid for it would be like getting a job at my favorite restaurant. Plus, I don’t like the idea of being financially dependent on anyone, especially not the kind of man that visits prostitutes.
Six months later, Kristen and I become lovers. I can tell that she’s reluctant to experiment with kink–working as a dominatrix has ruined it for her. I’m so very relieved when she agrees to do some bondage. She says I’m what she’s always been looking for: a femme top. And I realize that’s what I am. I like to be the one doing. It’s hard sometimes for me to allow someone to touch me. The power, the control, I can’t always give it up. It was like this with April sometimes, too. I can make love to her, revel in the sounds and the smells and the taste of her orgasm, but I can’t always submit to her caresses. I can’t–it’s too much for me. I need to be in control. I can’t always let myself go. She complains about this, about the gradual reduction in our sex life. She complains about a lot of things. I realize she’s not happy unless she’s complaining.
Age 33: Kristen and I split up in January. I resolve to stay celibate for a year, but then springtime comes. I post an ad (vanilla, W4M) to the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist and am immediately overwhelmed by responses. I go on a lot of first dates and am rudely re-introduced to the horrors of dating men (especially the kind of man who trolls the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist). Dating is a rough sport, but I’m a tough girl. My friends and I laugh about the man who texted me to tell me that he wanted to fuck me in the ass.
Eventually, I meet a nice man who tells me, upon examination of my photograph, that any man should be happy to spank me. I meet him at a coffee shop, take him home. When he kisses me, he sounds like a man enjoying a very good meal. In the aftermath, I ask him to tell me a story, and he tells me about performing with Women of Sodom as their slave. I’m thrilled.
The next time he comes over, I tie him to the bed with scarves, break out the riding crop that has been sitting in the back of my closet since R and Z mailed it to me from DC. I flick his erect penis with my fingernail and he gasps. I put him in a ball gag. I use my nails and my teeth on him. At one point, I say to him in wonder, “you like it when I hurt you.” It’s as though I’ve discovered something that’s been missing my whole life, something I didn’t even know I should be looking for. I fuck him in the ass with my hands, just as I used to with Kristen. Once, he makes me come by rubbing his chin against my shoulder. He’s less than dependable, prone to disappearing for weeks at a time then phoning me out of the blue. I don’t really mind.
Around the same time, I am bellyaching to a good friend that I can’t afford to pay a maid. I hate cleaning the house–it seems like such a waste of time! He half-jokingly suggests that I advertise on Craigslist for a houseboy. I remember my dishwashing sub. I receive at least ten serious inquiries to my post, along with a number of emails from men who think I should come over, wash their dishes, and give them blow jobs. At least five people tell me that I am an unnatural pervert. The ad gets flagged fairly quickly, although Craigslist is full of advertisements from men looking for women who like to be spanked and humiliated.
I meet a man who likes to dress as a sissy maid. He tells me that he’s looking for the whole package, a relationship both BDSM and vanilla. I’m not interested in a relationship with him, only in service. He comes a couple of times to clean, I talk sternly to him, order him around, beat him once with the crop when he doesn’t do something fast enough. But I find the cross-dressing unsettling and am exhausted with supervising him. He meets someone at a kink event and stops coming.
The second houseboy candidate I meet turns out to be one of the potential clients I met when I was considering going pro. I don’t find him attractive, but he is very eager to please and very good at housework. I beat him with the crop, spank him with my hands, make him soap my back once when I am in the tub. I bind his arms and legs, drop candle wax on his back. Once, when I’m rubbing lotion into his poor, abused shoulders, I find myself admiring his powerful muscles. He faithfully expresses his gratitude at being able to serve me and once, when I don’t email him in a timely manner, begs me not to discard him. Over the Christmas season, I stop hearing from him and send him a plaintive email in return.
Just after Christmas, Ace contacts me via OKCupid. We have similar politics, similar interests. He’s fun to chat with and to talk to. I am attracted to him. It’s clear from some hints in his profile that he is submissive. He’s not really ready for anything approaching a relationship, and I’m not sure if I am or not. The first time we kiss, I scratch his neck with my nails, bite him, and from the noises he makes I can tell he likes it. It’s hot for me because it’s hot for him. He tells me about BDSM dating sites, points me to the good porn. We talk about Bitchy Jones’s diary. We talk about what we’d like to do, what we haven’t done, how we can do things better. Sex with him is like exploring a magical garden, always with new paths to walk down and discover.
I talk about my adventures in kink with friends. Some of them are freaked out, many of them don’t know the first thing about it. The important ones assure me that there’s nothing wrong me, I’m not sick, I don’t need therapy. The next time I meet with my houseboy, I drop the roles, talk to him like one human being to another. “I’ve been ashamed of my kink,” I tell him.
“That’s surprising to hear, since it comes so naturally to you,” he replies.
It does. And I have so much left to learn.
Friends and lovers
I had a long talk two nights ago with R. He lives down in DC with his partner Z. The two of them are on my short list of friends whom I love with the love of a chosen family. I think R is probably one of the few people I’m still in touch with who knew me when I was a teenager. One of the formative experiences of my young life was a summer program for the gifted. I went for two years: the summer before my freshman year of high school, and the summer after. That first summer, I’d just discovered kissing boys, and proceeded to find and kiss as many boys as possible in the three weeks I was there. My RA (Residence Advisor, or, in this context, glorified babysitter) gave me the “Most Likely to Be Late for a Hall Meeting Because She’s Off with Some Guy” prize at the end of the session.
The SATs were not the only thing I was precocious about.
The second summer is when I met R. He was a teaching assistant, which meant that he actually got to develop the minds of the insufferable brats who took college-level courses, instead of having to deal with their hormonal drama. My first memory of him is giving him a hard time while he tried to drive us out of our dorm rooms and off to the afternoon program of “mandatory fun.” I was laying on the grotty carpeting in the hallway, my feet up against the opposite wall, and I think I said something smart to him as he came walking toward us.
He looked at me, and he spoke to me like a fellow human being instead of a child. I was both, of course, but when you’re 14 years old and no longer a virgin it’s vitally important that no one remind you of the fact that you’re still a child. It was that, more than anything, that motivated me to get up off that grotty carpeting.
Later, R took the time to teach me theatrical lighting, something I’d begged our stage manager back in high school to teach me all year. He was always very appropriate with me. But the skater dude I’d been trying unsuccessfully to shag all summer (they scheduled us to our eyeballs just for that purpose!) dumped me because I was spending all my spare time in a dark theater with a grad student. There was, in fact, another teaching assistant who was not as scrupulous as R. He grabbed me once during the weekly dances and made my little 14-year-old knees go weak during a slow song.
I kept in touch with both R and his unscrupulous colleague for a while using this now-obsolete technology called pen and paper. I also corresponded with classmates. But these friendships eventually went the way of all pen pals. Someone forgets to write, someone moves, a letter comes back undeliverable.
When I was in my late 20s, I got an email from R. He’d found me via a website I ran under my given name. Fifteen years later, it was like we’d never stopped being friends. At the time, of course, I was living with Angie, who kept me on a very short leash. She eyed my renewed correspondence with R with suspicion, but Angie eyed almost everything I did with suspicion. Later, I left Angie. And dated Badger. And split up with Badger. And eventually, R and I finally saw one another in person again. The first time, I was down in DC for a weekend sailing trip and we met up in Annapolis. Over dinner, he told my friends what I was like at that summer program. His description was so drastically different than my own memories of the summer, it was like he was talking about someone else. It was very flattering, though.
The next time I saw R, he came to visit me. I was rather lonely, and asked him to cuddle with me. Cuddling turned to kissing, which turned to what kissing usually turns into in my bed. Sex with R was amazing. He’s one of those rare kinds of men: sweet and kind and giving and well-hung to boot.
R and I had already corresponded about his open relationship with Z, but I still blushed and cowered when he called her afterward. My own forays into the world of polyamory had almost always ended up with heartbreak or guilt–although I’m not sure how my forays into the world of monogamy have really differed. She thanked me for making her partner feel so welcome. Later, I went down to visit them both in DC, which is where I confirmed what I’d assumed would be the case: R’s partner Z is bright, articulate, sexy, and sweet. I felt really honored when she invited me into their bed together. Threesomes are a rich treat in my experience, like caviar. They’re delicious, intense, and rather hard to come by.
Everything happened so quickly that year. I’d begun dating Kristen just a few months prior, and after that weekend in DC I came home both glowing from my time with R and Z and guilty. Kristen knew what would likely happen during my visit. But I could also sense it wasn’t what she wanted. And sure enough, she laid it out for me over dinner that night. She never told me I couldn’t do what I wanted, just that if I kept sleeping with other people she wouldn’t take me seriously. She wanted the picket fence and all. I wanted a picket fence with a gate in it. But I thought I’d try to be a good lesbian again.
Three years later, Kristen isn’t speaking to me, but R and Z stood by me through the rough months of the breakup. Last night, R told me he’s been happy to hear me talk and write so openly about my adventures in kink. We got to talking about early indicators of sexual predelictions. “You were always pretty alpha,” he said.
I’m going to see him and Z again in April, and possibly March. I don’t know if sex will be on the menu. If it is, it’s not likely to be kinky. I hope I remember how to be soft and sweet. I hope I get to cuddle with them both. They’re a very special couple of people and I’m glad to have them in my life.
In love with
Kristen’s eyes would crinkle when she smiled. She tied me to the bed with plastic zip ties from her job; it was the only way I could lay still for her caresses. She wanted to swallow me whole. I never had enough to give.
Badger looked out the window one morning and said “Hello, world, give us your gifts.” I watched him play piano through the sliding door of his apartment. When he entered me, I’d come almost immediately, again and again. I came in his nose one time; I think he was afraid of my pussy.
Angie called me by my name in Spanish. She eyed every bruise, every phone call with suspicion. But she could barely stand to let me touch her.
Pura offered me a wild raspberry between her teeth, then danced away when I leaned in to kiss her. Later, she threw her things into a laundry basket and called me names, while the cops stood there, unwilling spectators.
When I told him to go fuck himself, Miss Thing drove to my house and rang the buzzer until I let him in. He put honey on my tongue and told me he loved me. Sex with him was a marvelous carnival. He never belonged to me, and that hurt.
April sat in the back yard and smoked a cigarette while I hung my underwear on the landlord’s clothesline. Her clit was as big as a blueberry, and she ran her hands over my skin while the rain whispered outside our window.
Lewis used to laugh with pleasure when he put his wrist between my legs and shook it. Years later, I realized what a perfect boyfriend he was. At the time, I took him for granted.
I never loved Stuart but he was the first person to make me come, for real. He had a moustache. Everything turned electric in his darkened dorm room.
Jacob drove us through Manhattan in his father’s Buick. When there was nothing left to do, I kissed him in the middle of my bedroom. Later, I poured champagne in the hollow of his chest and licked it up and fucked him seven times with a Today sponge in his college dorm room. I was his first.
Carl showed up for our first date an hour and a half late. We fumbled together like toddlers with a soccer ball. When we split, I cried until I thought I would break in two.
Steven dated me to spite my brother. I don’t think I loved him, nor him me, but I loved the way the moonlight made his skin luminous as he stood there naked on the golf course. He was my bad boy; I think I dated him to spite my Mom.
Sarah walked home with me every day after school. I bought her candy and ate it with her like an offering. My love for her was as thick and pure as kheer, until I learned that homosexuality was bad.
I used to kiss Jeffie in the playground, all over his face and shoulders and ears. He never said he liked it but he never stopped me either. They teased us until we decided to pretend that we had broken up.
Katie had copper ringlets and was Mrs. Thorpe’s favorite. She invited me to her birthday party. While I was jumping rope, she told me I was doing it wrong and then laughed at me. That was my first heartbreak.
The omnivore’s dilemma
This blog has nothing to do with food. Well, probably not. It’s about sex, raw and trembling on the page. Or the screen. It’s about my sex life in particular, which is perhaps not special or unique, except in that it is mine. And I like all kinds of sex: kinky sex, vanilla sex, sex with women, sex with men, sex with one person and sex with more. Sex with myself. Sex in the head and sex in the body. I set up this blog to talk about it because, really, it’s one of my favorite topics. And it seems to be other peoples’ too.
Omnivore's Dilemma 