Big Dyke

Butch Barbie

Last Saturday was a busy night.

I was on the edge of the dance-floor, watching, when a man approached me. There were too many men at this club! And too many of them are straight!
I eyed him distrustfully. I’m partially faceblind, and I couldn’t be sure if he was one of “Chloe’s” “friends.”
“Hey do you want to dance?” He asked me, standing too close.
“No,” I pushed him away. “I’m not in the mood to dance.”
“What’s wrong? I’m a total stranger, you can tell me.” what the hell, I told him about the debacle with the aggressive femme.
“So you’re mad at her for kissing the guy?”
“I’m not mad at her–it’s just–this was all in public! I have to deal with these women again after this!”
“So you’re worried about your reputation?”
“Yeah, and she wasn’t even my type!”
“What is your type? I think she’s cute,” he pointed into the crowded dance floor, where a blond, faux hawked butch was getting down. “Not the big Dyke! Her!”
“Oh,” I replied. “I was looking at the big Dyke.”
“So, what do you find attractive in a woman?” He asked me.
“I don’t know,” I responded, giving it some thought. “I guess I’m attracted to her energy.”
“Oh wow.” He responded,”I could learn a lot of technique with women from hanging around lesbians! Seriously, though, what kind of women do you like?
“I like butch women,” I said, eyeing a light-skinned stud across the room. “Bois, women who dress like men. Big Dykes.”
“Wow. That surprises me. You see anyone here you like?”
“That woman behind you, with the gold lettering on her shirt–I’ve been checking her out all evening.”
“You want me to get her to talk to you?”
“No,” I said, once again excavating the space between us. “I can be attracted to her and not want to do anything about it.” As cute as she was–she looked like trouble! And I had enough trouble for one night!
“Man!” he said, right before walking away. “I’ve been talking to more lesbians tonight than in my whole life–and you all are fucked up!”

Attack of the Aggressive Femme


I was dancing by myself in an alcove when she approached me. She had a smile on her face and trouble in her eyes as she rubbed her ample bosom against mine on the dance floor. We fell into step together. She turned around, pressing her juicy booty against me. I thrust my hips into her soft curves.

She turned around and clamped her thick thighs around mine, finding that sweet spot as we bounced up and down on the floor.

Tearing my gaze away from her massive gleaming cleavage to her eyes, her expression demanded a kiss.
No. I put my hand up to ward off her lips.
“But why?”
“I don’t know you.”
“You don’t just go around kissing people you don’t know.” I tried to explain, fighting the feeling.
“So let’s get to know each other” She guided me to the couch.
She was nothing that I usually look for: I like dark, reserved, butch women, and here she was, a young, aggressive white femme. But so hot! She wrapped her arm around me assertively. Our pale legs looked so sexy together in our short dark skirts and ballet flats. She hooked her ankle around me and leaned into me.
“So do you want to get to know me, then?” She asked seductively, eyes peering out from the curtain if her dark hair.
“Uhuh.” I answered breathlessly, enraptured by the energy between us.
“What do you want to know?” We exchanged names. “It’s my birthday today.” She said, snuggling closer and trying again to kiss me. “I just turned 21.”
“Wait–really? I might have to see some ID.”
She showed me an ID that could have been her–I guess. It was printed lengthwise like a book, rather than width-wise like a drivers license. It did, indeed say she was “Underage until July 2, 2011.”
Would I even know if it was fake? Did I even care as her hands roamed my body and her skin pressed eagerly against mine.
“Is there anything else you want to know?” She asked. But all I could think of was the delicious curve of her neck and shoulder. Of their own volition my lips traced that delicate white curve.
She raised her lips to mine and this time I succumbed, her mouth dominating mine as our bodies tried to merge orally.

Just then there was a flash.

“Wait, what was that?” I looked around, but she drew me back to her, kissing me fervently. Some guys were laughing at us. One of them came over with a camera. She draped herself around me.
“Wait.” I said, as calmly as I could. “I don’t want to be photographed.”
“But this is my best friend!” she protested. “it won’t go on Facebook–I promise!”
“Come on, it’s her birthday!” He chided as she pouted.
“Oh all right.” she draped herself over me as he snapped a pic.
“She tends to get her way.” Another of the guys remarked.
“I know, she’s a bully!” I replied, but I was smiling.
We returned to snogging, her hands taking more and more liberties. I pushed her fingers out if my black satin D-cup.
“Let’s go somewhere private”
“How about the bathroom?”
“Ewe! No! I do not fuck in the bathroom!” (Have you seen the bathroom at these clubs?) “How about my car?” I countered, batting her greedy paw away from the hem of my dress. “Let’s get something to drink, first, though, huh?”
She lead me by the hand to the bar. I started to protest–but shrugged: in for a penny and all that.
“I’m so horny. I want you so bad!” She enthused as the bartenders ignored us.
“I know.” I gulped.
“We are going to car after this, right?”
“Yeah. Ok.” I responded, losing all resistance. I crossed myself, hoping I wasn’t making a big mistake.

She had her ID on the table.

“Um, why does your ID say your name is Jessie when you told me it was Chloe?”
“Oh, my name is Jessie, but my friends call me Chloe.”
Just then her friend spied her ID.
“Jessie, I didn’t know you were 21 today!” He exclaimed.

Then he gave me a smarmy look, leaned forwards and kissed her. She returned the kiss enthusiastically.

I moved to the other end of the bar, commanding the bartenders attention.

“I really need a drink!”‘

Hot Salsa Mess Part 3

ruinous brick wall

Start the adventure with Hot Salsa Mess Part 1

I wanted nothing more then to go home and gargle a bottle of listerine. But I had unfinished business.

Looking around, Mena’s bodyguard was no where to be seen, so I made my way up the stage. I figured we had been looking at each other all night, we might as well talk.

“Hi.” I said, sitting down next to her.
“Hi” she replied.

I wanted to talk with her the way I used to do. I wanted to ask if she had gotten a job that didn’t treat her like shit…if that guy in her apartment was still after her… if she’d given in and slept with that prostitute she used to obsess over.

I wanted to tell her that that butch she saw me dancing with had only fucked me, but she had strapped on for me–just like I always hoped Mena would–and it was amazing. (Okay maybe not everything I wanted to say was nice.)

I wanted to tell her that now I was dating a soft stud, and  I really liked her…

I wanted to just talk, that raw girl talk we used to have, like we were friends, the way we used too.

But as strong as the cord was between us, the wall between us was powerful too.

So I just said:
“How are you doing?”
“I’m good.”
“Ok, just wanted to say hi.”

And I drove home to go rinse my mouth out.

*      *     *

The next day I asked my friend how she knew Mena was the stud I was talking about–was I that obvious?

“It was her” she replied. “She was just standing there, watching, looking uncomfortable. At one point I saw her glaring at me–and thought–I must have danced with her ex–and I guess I did.”

Yeah. I guess she did.

Hot Salsa Mess Part 1

Hot Salsa Mama

The night was off to a bad start when I turned around to see my ex, the stone stud Mena. The one I told to “lose my number.” (But I kept hers–I want to know who she is if she calls me again)
“Oh, hi.” I said, warmly and without thinking, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah, hi.” she replied, smiling awkwardly.
Wasn’t I just talking today about how nice it was that I hadn’t run into her. Since  Pure ended?
I squinted at her–was there something different about her? (She wasn’t wearing a hat. She always wears a hat!) Oh well, I didn’t have time to worry bout it, I was going to learn how to Salsa!

Twenty or so women–including another former lover of mine–were already learning the merengue. Hmm..although I’m actually on good terms with this ex lover (we had a one-night fling–I don’t tell you everything), I’m going to have watch myself. It’s a small lesbian community, and two ex lovers in the same room strikes me as two too many.

Anyways, she smiled at me, and twirled me in her arms. I had taken a merengue lesson years ago, and felt pretty confident. I was a little tense, though, and she was just learning the step, so we were just a tad off.

Was I tense because of the lingering tension between us? Because my ex was standing there watching us? Her eyes burning a hole through my dress? Because I really, really, needed a drink?


I saw Mena laughing at me as we changed partners and switched to salsa. Salsa dancing is sooo much harder than merengue-at least without a skilled lead. I did my best to block the snickering out as my partner and I groped for the steps: step-step-step pause, step-step-step pause. I think I’m going to need either a lot more lessons or a lot more practice!

My friend went for her coat after the lesson.
“Youre leaving already?”
“Yup, I can’t be keeping these late hours.”
“So, you know that stud I told you about? She’s here.”
“The one in the Celtics jersey?”
How did she know? Was I that obvious?

Speed Dating & Dancing Part 2: Dancing

Start the night at the beginning.

When the speed dating was over we wrote little notes to the people we wanted to follow-up with. I wrote notes out to my first two dates and a few other women who I wanted as friends.

After some awkward “mingle bingo” a game where you wander around asking total strangers questions that you’re not quite sure that you want to know the answer to–such as the color of their underwear and if they’ve ever kissed a boy–our envelopes were ready for us. I got two notes: one from my first date with Cami, the Native stud, and one from the older bull dyke. None from my second date, the soft South African Stud, Noma! I spotted her across the room.

“Hey!” She favored me with a smile as I approached.

“Hey!” Damn she was hot! I favored her with what I hoped was a flirtatious smile. “You didn’t write me a note.” I hoped that came out friendly and not bitchy.

“I didn’t write anyone a note–my friends came over just as–wait, they’re ready?” She dashed over to the envelope laden table.

While she was gone the short butch woman, Casey, came up to me with her energetic smile. I smiled bashfully back, aware that I had not written her a note.

“Would you like to dance?”

Somewhat to my consternation, she led me by the hand to the dance floor. The floor was loosely populated, and by some stroke of luck latin music was playing. She was a really talented dancer! She led me through a song or too, but when the music changed to more poppy stuff I begged off to return to my sexy soft stud. (Okay, not mine, I only hoped she’d be mine.)

I returned to the Noma, where she was surrounded by a group of short thick white women–apparently teammates on her flag football team.

“Where’d you go?” She asked me.

“Oh, she asked me to dance,” I said, pointing vaguely at Casey.

“Would you like to dance with me?” She asked me.


We went out on the floor, but had barely begun dancing when she noticed the pole dancers doing their thing. All pretense of dancing stopped. as she stared. (I would come to–not hate, hate’s a strong word for beautiful talented women doing sexy gymnastics–but, um–let’s see, I would come to feel peeved at the dancers over the course of the night, as each woman I tried to talk to seemed more interested in those unattainable pole goddesses, than me, standing right in front of them. Okay, so I was wearing more clothes, and not undulating quite so dramatically, but still!)

“I need to go talk to my friends who just got engaged.” She told me, heading off into the crowd.

The floor was packed by now, and I wandered over to Jada, the lanky Tomboi/Femme I had met earlier. She was standing right under the Jewish-looking pole dancer who reminds me of my “first love” from high school. I tried to hold a conversation with her, but I was poor competition for that ass, I guess.

I started dancing off of a couple of studs who were dancing a few feet apart. Dancing off of someone is a term I coined for when you dance near someone, kinda vibing off of their rhythm, but you’re not actually dancing with them. Every once in a while the hard-looking dark stud acknowledged me with an admiring glance, but after a little bit her light stud partner moved in closer. Watching the two studs dancing intimately together turned me on tremendously, sparking this post, but I thought it prudent to move on.

I danced in Casey’s direction, but saw that she was energetically dancing with the 21 year old who didn’t know what my tattoo meant. Wow, I thought, if one of them’s too old for me, and one’s too young, what does that make them to each other? But it was none of my business, and besides, they were only dancing.

As I danced around the floor a random white woman gave me a cheeky smile before playfully feeling up and down my chest. It was so unexpected, brief, and without malice that it was over before I could decide if I wanted to protest or not. I guess it was okay. I mean, it didn’t hurt or feel as invasive as being felt up by a total stranger should have felt, but I can’t say I enjoyed the experience. What made her think that was an appropriate thing to do?

After a while I spotted the 21 year old dancing by herself on the floor. She gave me a wave and a huge smile as I approached. We started dancing.  She had good rhythm and a colt-like grace.  Somehow dancing quickly turned into grinding. (If you guessed this was coming, you’re more prescient than I)

I have a spot midway up my thigh which I now think of as my “cooch spot” that’s where the lady’s (and stud’s) hot crotch presses up against me while we grind. I know I’ll complain to my friend about my bad knees the next day, and she’ll say “I don’t know why you need to get low for these women,” but that’s why. I would go through a lot more pain than hurting knees to feel a woman bouncing up and down on top of me. For some reason I usually end up serving in this kind of dance-grinding–being on the receiving end just doesn’t do much for me.

Whip Your Hair came on, and my dance partner gave me an impish smile before loosening her waist-length dreadlocks, which she proceeded to whip in a vigorous circle–her glasses flying off and landing a few feet away. She hastened to pick them up, but on the second whip they were flying off again. I stooped and picked them up, placing them in my purse-turned belt pouch.

When the song was over we were back to grinding. I could feel my aggressive side coming out, as my hands roamed her thighs and ass, even as my leg pressed against her spot. I grabbed her ass, surprised despite myself at how narrow it was. Afraid I had gone too far, I backed my leg off a bit, only to have her pelvis jerk forward, non-verbally demanding I return to pleasing her.

Bouncing in time to the music, with matching ear-to-ear smiles, it occurred to me that, at least sexually, we might be at the same place despite our age difference. I’ve been feeling like I’m going through a second adolescence, being reborn as a lesbian, with tons of associated horniness and uncertainty.

Then it was time for her to go. I gave her a big hug. I almost swooned as I pressed my face into her dreadlocks, overpowered by that most sexy of aromas: the natural smell of black hair. (If I didn’t already think African features were dead sexy, I would be a chocolate chaser just to get as many chances as possible to be around that smell.)

We hugged and I gave her glasses back, dancing by myself till the music ended.

Saturday Night Fever Pt 2 “3 Minute Dash”

Start the adventure with Pt. 1 “Man-O-Phobic

I made my way to the stage, where there was a spot waiting for me. I tuned out the world–riding the beat.

Before long a couple studs and a femme came onstage. The bigger stud was dancing nearby with her girl, and the smaller stud took up a post almost directly behind me. Now Instead of tuning the world out all I could think of was her behind me, hopefully admiring my ass.  It felt like such a primal mating ritual, me dancing for her, but I couldn’t stop. Finally I got tired of waiting for her to make a move and danced up to her.

She pulled me almost immediately into some of the hottest grinding I’ve ever experienced. My hips locked against hers as we moved against each other–energy pulsing back and forth between us.  Before I knew it my leg was between her thighs and her hand was on my ass…my hand was on hers, seeking desperately to touch her through her clothes.  Our bodies arched frantically with the music, although every time it sped up we backed off a bit and bounced with it, pretending that we were doing something other than  fucking right there on the dance floor!

Before I knew it I was asking if she had a girlfriend and she was telling me she had her apartment to herself for the weekend.

Before I knew it my lips were locked with hers, my hips gyrating with hers, tongue rolling with hers.

“What are you going to do for me? She asked. I didn’t know how to take that question, so I slithered down her chest suggestively. Although she was putting more effort into downplaying them than showing them off, I could tell she had nice titties. She pursed her lips commandingly at me, and I attempted to meet them with my own.

I say attempted, because she had her hat down low, and was about four inches shorted than me. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever kissed someone who is significantly shorter than you and is wearing a low hat brim forward, but it’s not easy. I had to contort myself around her lid.

“I can’t do this.” I told her, “It keeps hitting me in the head.”

“I can’t take it off,” she said, taking it off. “I gotta big forehead.

“Well, I said, surveying her wide forehead and sweat thick smiling face. “I like it.” I kissed her on the forehead and she got all bashful, putting it back on, but this time cocked to the side. Yay, I thought now I can kiss her without getting wacked. But somehow when her head turned back to me the brim was back in front.

I turned around and pressed up against her. The music raced to a feverish pitch and I came along with it–right there on the dance floor!

I paused to fan myself with my hands. I don’t know how she wasn’t hot. The whole underside of my hair was soaked, and I was wearing a tank top. She had on a blue and white flannel and a white down vest.  (Yes she was wearing plaid–but it looked fly on her.)

“Would you like to go to the bar?” She asked me.

“What are you trying to say?” I responded cautiously.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Sure.” We started walking towards the bar. She actually led me by the hand! No one ever did that to me before!

“Oh wait,” She paused. “I don’t usually come here…is there an ATM nearby?”

“There’s one next door.”

“Could you…?”

“I don’t have any cash either.” (Totally true, I brought $12 and that already paid for two beers and a generous tip.) “I am really thirsty, though.”

“Some water?”


She ordered me a water and thoughtfully handed me a napkin to go with it. We talked for a moment, then she looked up across the room.

“I gotta go talk to my friend. ”

“Okay, I need to visit the Ladies…meet you in a few?”

“Sure, I’ll be over there.” She motioned with her chin.

When I got out of the bathroom I didn’t see her immediately, but I didn’t worry about it unduly. I pulled my friend outside to chat. Heat steamed off our bodies in the icy night.

“So I saw you grinding with that stud.” She smirked at me.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet back up with her in a minute–”

“Oh really? Because I think I saw her leave–”

“You what?”

I raced back inside. But it was true, she was gone. In the three minutes that it took me to squat over the toilet and wash my hands, she had dashed.

Continue the adventure with “Second Chances

Oh What a Night!

OMG Machine was off the hook last night!

My best friend Tina and I braved the cold to hit the club last night. (For those of you who don’t know, there are no Lesbian Clubs in Boston, but there are Lesbian nights. The biggest one is Dyke Night at Machine every Second Saturday.) Miraculously I found street parking, and we headed in. Being out of cash, I had the brilliant idea that if Tina paid my way in and for my coat check, I’d put her drinks on my card.

It felt–I don’t know–somehow right to have this tough, beautiful tomboi paying my way. It seems unlikely that I’ll ever end up in that kind of chauvinistic relationship where the boi pays, but if I was, I thought: this is what it would feel like!

One of my coworkers from work was behind me in line for the coat check with a tall boish chick, but she seemed to barely want to make eye contact–whatever! When I got to the check I laid my coat on the counter and was gratified to see the barely concealed response of the butch taking coats as I lifted my sweater over my head to reveal my D cups under a sparkling black drapey tank.

We headed over the bar and I order two Heine’s and a water–only to remember that the bar was cash only. I’d have to get cash from the Machine. Feeling foolish, I lead Tina to the other side of the club, where she settled onto a stool as I attempted to stand in a “line” for the ATM–which consisted of four women drunkenly line-humping up against each other. I had just taken a step back from a particularly wild gyration by the group when a man easily as old as my Father walked up and stood way too close to me. He was nattily dressed in a tweed jacket like a college professor.

“So I know this is a Lesbian club, but can I just say that you are absolutely gorgeous? You just look perfect.” He said.

“Um, thank you.” I replied, not so subtly excavating my personal space by pushing him away as I took a step back. “But this is a Lesbian club.” Why did he look surprised by my rebuff? “Thank you for the compliment and have a good night.” I told him with finality. He took the hint and stumbled off looking befuddled. What the hell was he thinking? Not only was he as old as my Father, he was hitting on a woman in a Lesbian bar! Did he think just because I was dressed femme that meant I was also looking for men? Even if I do occasionally swing that way, the thing I like about going to Lesbian nights is not being hit on by men. (The thing I don’t like about Lesbian clubs is not being hit on by women–do you Ladies not like me or are you just shy?)

As I turned around from the guy with these thoughts in my head, a tall, red boned, long legged tomboy/soft stud danced up to me, shaking way too much ass for a stud! Now that is what I’m talking about! I danced with her for a bit, but she kept trying to lure me away from my spot in line for the ATM, and when it opened up, I hopped over to it to grab some cash.

As Tina and I headed for the bar, she commented on the stud:  “She’s drunk!” Maybe, I thought: but I hope I get to dance with her again tonight! Maybe get her number! (Alas, it was not to be.)

The club filled up until there were probably a thousand women of all shapes, colors and sizes: kissing, grinding, dancing. Tina and I hit the floor. Tina’s a good dancer, and I’m a good follower, so we were getting down. It’ a sad fact that the art of dancing–especially the art of following–is pretty much a dying art in white, western culture, but I’m doing my best to bring it back.

The music slowed and two pole dancers undulated up and down–one, the cute Jewish-looking one with the thick ass–was the better dancer, but there was something striking about the slender pale one as she shaped her body into impossible-looking geometric shapes. Finally they danced together on the same pole, and that was sooo sexy! If they had been on stage instead of in the club they would have brought down the house! It kind of startled me when a couple of butches started putting money in their panties–I mean, I guess that’s what you do with pole dancers, and they certainly deserved it, but these were artists! And this was the club, not the strip-club. Oh well, I guess that’s my own prudery.

The music sped up and the floor filled up. I pointed out a thick, fierce dark chocolate  dancer to Tina, and she told me I should ask her to dance. This is what we do, check out women and edge each other on to ask them to dance. I’ve never had a friend like that, and I know it’s a little high schoolish, but I love it! A little later as we chilled out in the corner the fierce femme was shaking it with her two no-dancing friends: a slender white femme with the rhythm of a broken metronome, and a scragly asian stud similarly impaired. As she bounced energetically between both of them, we tried to figure out if one of them was her girl or if she was single.

When she stepped away for a minute we had our answer as the Asian stud slobbered drunkenly at the white femmes  chest.

“If you don’t ask her to dance I will.” Tina said to me.

“Go ahead.” I replied. Tina and I rarely like the same women (thank god) but if we do I try to defer to her and let her go for it (bro’s before ho’s? lol).

She went over and talked to her–and brought her back to dance with me! (I love Tina.)

“Let’s do it Ma” She said, shaking her arm enthusiastically. I moved up on her and started throwing down. I knew I couldn’t just follow with this femme. “Wow you have some moves!” She called out with a pleased and surprised smile. We danced for a little bit, but she wanted to grind, and with my height (I’m 5′ 8″) and bad knees, I just couldn’t hold that position for that long. Which was fine, because then she danced with Tina. It was soo sexy to watch two beautiful, talented dancers together, matching rhythms and rubbing their ample brown cleavages against each other! OMG fantasies of threesomes flitted through my brain.

But before we knew it, her no-dancing drunk friends beckoned her over to them.

“We should have gotten her number.” I sighed to Tina as she sashayed away, taking my fantasies of threesomes or at least another friend to go out dancing with with her.

Tina and I went back on the floor, sacrificing mind and ego to the spirit of the rhythm as it rocked us back and forth, left and right. Our bodies grinding, our energies merging as we lost it on the dance floor.