So a couple of years ago I came out of a ten year pussy-fast (punctuated by random kissings by women in front of their boyfriends) to pull a beautiful femme out of the closet. Unfortunately, things went downhill from there as we argued about everything from the proper procedure for renting a movie, to whether I’m a reverse Oreo, to if she had an ass or not. (For the record, I am, she doesn’t)
I dated a few other women, but there was always something missing.
So what’s my point?
I think I’ve met someone who’s just right! I don’t know how she’d feel about me writing about her, so I’m not going to say too much, but we’ve had four “dates” now, text every day, and I really, really like her!
Okay, I’ll give you a bit more.
Our first date was on a Tuesday, and involved almost constant smiles–and she paid for dinner! We kissed all the way to the car.
Although were planning on seeing each other in the next week, we couldn’t wait, and met that Thursday night at a certain Lesbian night.
I got there before her, and was, quite frankly, bored. I’ve been to this Dyke night before, and find it’s embodiment of every stereotype of a white Lesbian bar–it’s painful in the extreme. There was not a single attractive woman in there, and if I hadn’t been “importing” my own cutie, I would have left when an earnest femme started warbling out a Mellisa Etheridge song on karaoke (just for the record, I adore Melissa, I mean, she came out at the same time I did. It’s just the principal of the thing.).
When my date got there, she had a really different perspective: “This is a really mixed crowd” she said.
“How so you mean?” I asked. All I could see was a sea of plaid, white tee-shirts and greasy hair.
“Well,” she said “there’s an equal amount of butches and femmes, and–” she indicated a high yellow woman walking in with her light-bright friend, “there’s women of color.”
“Well a few more showed up” I allowed grudgingly.
We danced and people watched, and after a while she asked if I wanted to “take a walk.”
It turned out the walk was a trip to her car. The only thing I have to say about what came next are three words: Hot. Car. Sex.
Okay, okay! I’ll give you a little more…
As we kissed in the back seat and she did a remarkably good job of extracting me from my bra, I found myself in a quandary that other femmes who date studs or butches can relate to. what should I do with my hands? I know some studs don’t like to be touched on the titts, crotch, or even anywhere at all.
“So,” I finally verbalized, “is there anything you don’t like?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Like, places you don’t like to be touched?”
“So you’re versatile?”
“Yeah, versatile,” she favored me with her blindingly sexy smile, “I like that!”
She’s just the right amount of stud to my femme, receptive to my aggressive. Plus she’s smart, thoughtful, on an actual career path…actually she seems to match up pretty well with my wish list!