Posts tagged ‘genderfuck’

In memorium: Transgender Day of Remembrance

In memory of Duanna Johnson, killed in Memphis less than a week ago.

In memory of Brandon Teena.

In memory of Venus Xtravanganza.

In memory of my unnamed ancestors.

In honor of my trans friends, my trans loved ones.

Because living without fear of violence is a basic human right — and because transfolk are denied that right daily. Right here in the USA.

Because these are my brothers and sisters.

Because there is no difference between them and me.

Nov. 20: Transgender Day of Remembrance

November 21, 2008 at 3:11 am Leave a comment

Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 pm Leave a comment

If you beat the servants but don’t fuck them, is that polyamory?

Bran isn’t crazy about polyamory. I’m not crazy about monogamy. Yes, I’m one of those bad bisexuals who actually DOES want to sleep with people of different genders. I know, I know, bisexuals are absolutely capable of monogamy–about as capable as anyone of any other sexual orientation. I’ve certainly been capable of monogamy for long stretches of time. Hell, I’ve been capable of not cheating on a partner who refused to have sex with me. I have my reasons for wanting a gate in my little picket fence, though. I’ll tell you all about them later.

There’s sex and then there’s sex, though. I know, I know, polyamory is about more than sex. But right now I’m talking about sex. Relationship-wise, I’m really at capacity. Things resolved with Chiquitita nicely in that respect: she balked at the prospect of getting the sexxay on, and I was relieved because I know exactly how much work women are. So does she. So we snuggled all night, slept over (something I have yet to do with Bran in spite of all our @w3$0me sexing), and now we talk about sex with boys. Which is easy and fun and relatively drama-free. I’ve reassured her that the not-calling-after-the-first-date thing is some sort of XY-chromosome-related phenomenon and nothing to do with her.

Bran has, however, said on more than one occasion, “you need a houseboy.” Which is promising and true. Especially since Bran clearly doesn’t enjoy the domestic stuff. In fact, he’s diagnosed my houseboyless state precisely on occasions when I’ve asked him to do domestic things for me. Like, say, lint-brush the cat hair off my black cardigan.

I do need a houseboy. And not just because I’d rather spend my money on something besides professional housecleaners. I can train a houseboy to clean AND tidy exactly the way I want. I can teach them how to fold and hang up the clothes that pile up in my bedroom — and know that they get a kick out of doing it because it’s such an intimate act. And I can do other stuff with a houseboy I’d never dream of doing with a professional housecleaner. Like, say, tell him to strip naked, throw his belt across the room, and make him crawl across the floor to me with it in his teeth. So I can beat him with it.

I’d pretty much given up on finding a new one, though. The last few prospects petered out — my so-promising young curious one just freaked out one day on his way over here and stood me up. The other prospect I’d been emailing with canceled on me at the last minute and then got snippy with me when I told him he wasn’t serious about meeting. Dynamics are important. I don’t need a brat. I need a good boy who knows how to clean. I recently got a message from someone on Fetlife who sounds very promising. But they all sound promising via email. The proof is in the pudding. Or the cleaning and the beating.

And it does have to be a boy. I’m sorry, but I like genderfuck. I like making a man do women’s work. Maybe it’s my way of getting back at my slovenly family of origin (I’d say it was my slovenly brother but really, Mom was just as bad). Maybe it’s my way of getting back at men in general. Fuckers with their baseball talk and their 30%-on-average higher salaries. Whatever it is, it’s my kink and I’m not apologizing for it. I mean, aside from apologizing for it at the beginning of this paragraph.

The problem, of course, is that my relationship with my houseboys is sexual. Even if I always keep my clothes on, it’s sexual. Once, I acted against my better instincts and let a married man come over and vacuum my floors in the early mornings. Married in the traditional sense. Vacuuming my floors was a sexual act for him. And for me. I felt horrible, because I knew there was a woman whom I’d never met whom I was helping to harm. Even if she never knew, I was harming her. And him. And, most importantly, myself. I had to stop. It was bad. I still feel bad. I’d never even mention this if you knew my name. It was the one thing I said I’d never do. I never had intercourse with him, but it was still sexual.

Part of my journey of accepting my kink has been acknowledging the sexual nature of domestic servitude. Honesty, dignity and respect. These are my baselines. I’m not comfortable with myself if I’m not honest with myself and others. This really sucks sometimes, because denial and lies are very convenient. But once I’ve acknowledged something I can’t lie about it.

Which may, in the long run, lead to some problems between myself and Bran. Or perhaps not. Perhaps we’ll be able to figure out a way to help him feel special and valued. It would certainly relieve him (and me) of expectations for him to fulfill a role he’s not cut out for. Bran is not a houseboy, a true sub, or a pain slut. Submissive men are awesome. I love so many things about them. But in terms of the person who walks beside me, I need a different sort of power dynamic.

I want both. I need a lot of love, a lot of caretaking. I’m a big woman with big appetites. And I’m tired of apologizing for it.

May 17, 2008 at 9:38 pm Leave a comment

Saturday night sex (plus: panties! on men!)

I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am with Bran. We’re settling into a bit of a regular pattern. No, let’s make that a definite regular pattern. It was Tuesdays for a while and then he slipped into Saturday evenings as well. Which may, in the long run, prove problematic as things progress with Chiquitita, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The hardest thing about polyamory? Fitting infinite sexual and relational possibilities into finite resources of time, space, and energy.

Regardless. In the present, he’s my Saturday date. Last Saturday evening he rang the bell right around 6pm, all of half an hour after I got home from a lovely salon of women artists. The day was pretty exhausting. But of course I was eager to see Bran. And after our initial exertions, I felt rejuvenated.

Okay. It’s a sex blog. You want details, I know. So the details, well, I’ll do my best, but to tell you the truth, after weeks and weeks of amazing sex, the sequence of events sort of blurs together. And I’m not sure that a catalog of sexual acts really makes for the most compelling reading. The fact that we were both exhausted — him from the last stretch of grad school exertions, me from pursuing my multiple non-sexxay interests — probably doesn’t help. But we do like to talk about it later on the phone. We live on opposite sides of town from each other. And while I live in a smallish city, schlepping across town can be a major pain in the tuckus. Especially during certain times of day. I’d never really gotten into phone sex before Bran, but it’s a fairly regular part of our interactions now.

So Saturday. The moment I kissed him as I let him in downstairs, I knew we weren’t going to get out of the house without taking our clothes off. His face was smooth — I’d made a point of telling him I wanted him to lick me on the phone, since it had been a while — and his breath was sweet. After a whole week of not seeing him, it felt good to hold him in my arms again. Later, I came all over that smooth face, and licked it off. But first, he did that thing with his tongue — must have been taking notes as I described how to find my shy little clit, and how I liked to be licked (with a hard, pointy tongue, and fast). Because I was screaming fairly soon, in the bedroom. He came hard and long and fast inside me, filled half the condom. Later, I came copious amounts, a veritable fountain. Before and after dinner. He was there above me, touching himself and saying in that wondering, admiring, encouraging voice, “look at you!”

This is all jumbled I know, but it’s how I remember it. Him taking his belt off, folding it in half, and smacking me once, hard, on the ass. I think my panties were gone by then. The ones with the frills around the edge. He’d finally brought back the pair he’d taken from me weeks ago, the purple ones with the black lace around the legs and “spoiled” written across the back. He came back wearing them under his cargo pants. They look very different on him than they do on me — if I may be so egotistical, I fill them out much more nicely.

Bitchy Jones has a lot to say about how annoying the whole sissification phenomenon is, and in general I have to agree with her. But I’ve come to realize that so much of whether I kink for something has to do with the intention behind the activity. See, Bran is undoubtedly a guy. Not super-macho in an annoying way, but most definitely a guy. In the same way, I’m very much a woman (although from the inside I’m aware of my two-spirit nature). When Bran wears my panties, it’s not because he wants to be humiliated into being a woman. It’s because… well, in his own words:

-It reminds me of how wet and open you get.

I remember going to his house one day and, as per usual, he sported a hard-on pretty much from the first kiss hello. Of course, bending over a bit on his bed probably helped encourage it — he does love my ass so. But we were both very hungry. In fact, you’ll notice a pattern of competing drives when we spend time together, often between food and sex. So I told him to put it away. I took the pair of black cotton panties he’d had under his pillow for a week and slipped them up over his legs, binding his hard cock nicely to his belly. Then, his boxers went over that and a pair of pants over that. Then we walked in the rain to Doyle’s and had lunch.

Later, I lay next to him on his bed, touching him and encouraging him to touch himself, telling him dirty stories, his cock and balls emerging from that black cotton binding, and flicked my tongue across his nipple while he came, long and hard, across his belly. He stayed there, up there, in that place where we stay after we’ve come.

“You don’t have to come down,” I said, holding him, rocking him, stroking him. “You can just stay up there.” And we floated there together, coming down to earth as delicate as a soap bubble.

April 15, 2008 at 4:42 pm 1 comment


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