1st Glimpse of D


Boy and girl cartoon looking in underwear

The 1st time I saw an erect penis I burst out laughing. It looked so bizarre and bulbous, protruding purple and brown from between his legs like some weird discolored mushroom.
I covered my mouth, playing it off like I was nervous. In fact I felt the opposite. I felt completely comfortable naked with Joe, comfortable in a strangely non-sexual way. More like friends who happened to be naked. One of whom happened to have a very strange physical defect.

Joe had been my “crush” the year before as a freshman in high school, the boy I trotted out as the object of my affection every time my friends talked about boys. I knew I couldn’t say that it was the gorgeous big-boned Anya that I longed for, with her wide hips and long red hair…

In fact I had spent hours in science class staring in fascination  at his hair. His kinky hair and olive skin stood out in my Lilly white suburban high school. Especially his hair: forty individual braids spiraling up up like exotic underwater sea plants from his tan scalp.

Later I learned the braids were done by his mom, certainly no African American hairdresser would create braids so unruly. I always kinda wondered what trick of genetics produced this swarthy, kinky haired, thick lipped boy from his two rather ordinarily Jewish parents.

By the time we “dated” his hair was in a neat short fro, and I was officially out as bi. I dated him after being rejected by  the main focus of my affection: Judy who I was hopelessly in love with, but whose affection was sadly fixated on the unusually tall and Giselle-like Chloe.

Up to the point where we rather casually removed our clothes in his bed room our entire relationship consisted of passing dirty notes in class.

“Are you sure this is ok?” I asked, thinking of his mom downstairs.
“Don’t worry, my mom trusts me. She won’t interrupt”
We undressed without fuss, talking comfortably.  His grossly engorged member a sign that he was much more sexually engaged than I.
“So do you wanna have sex?” he asked, stroking my arm tentatively.
“What?” I looked down in surprise, scoping his member, contorting my bewildered amusement at its strangeness into shy embarrassment. “But…” I cast about for an excuse–there was NO WAY I wanted to touch that thing! “We don’t have a condom.”
“That’s alright, I can pull out.”
“Pull out?! I raised my eyebrows as I started putting clothes on, taking one last glance at the bizarre growth sprouting inexplicably from between his legs. “Do you pay any attention in Sex Ed?” I laughed even harder. Did that line actually work on anybody? Especially from his 15 year old self?

We didn’t “date” long after that. In some bizarre bid for Judy’s affection he attempted suicide a couple weeks later, and I learned that this was the first time (though far from the last) that the biggest thing a boy I was dating and I had in common was a crush on the same girl.

Secret Lover

Part 3 of Too Many Dudes.

happy interratial lesbians
She joined me in the kitchen. She looked exotic and sexy as a hothouse flower, quietly outshining her rat-hole apartment.
I looked her up and down slowly, drinking her beauty in.
“What?” She asked defensively.
“You’re beautiful.” Raw magnetic energy pulsed between us. “Can I kiss you?”
Her lips were thick and juicy, meeting mine head on, with no need for a tilted neck. Our lips met with perfect joy: dip for dip, curve for curve!
I pressed her up against the sink, kissing her passionately, my hands roving of their own volition. She shushed me as my kisses got too enthusiastic on her perfect brown cleavage.
I lifted her short skirt and clasped that thick, round ass in my hands–she wasn’t wearing any panties!
She grabbed my hand, steering it firmly towards her pussy–but when my fingers sought her wetness she pushed me away.
“Next date.” She promised. I took my hand away.
“Tell me what you like–and what you don’t like?”
She pushed me down so my face was even with her pussy–and for a moment, I was tempted–but then I remembered all the dudes in her life. Too many dudes.
“Next date,” I promised, standing up. “I’m bringing protection.”
She saw me to the door, and I kissed her hand before heading off into the night.

That Kiss

CU of two women kissing--with hands

When I was in High School I was very involved with the gay community: the GSA was my social life, I was in the Governors Commission for gay & lesbian youth, etc…but over the years of living on the streets & then  raising children, I lost touch with the gay community.

At first it didn’t seem to matter much, since almost everyone on the streets seemed to be  Bi–but, I didn’t seem able to attract women, while men circled me like sharks smelling blood in the water.

For a long time it seemed like the only girls who liked me invariably had a guy with them who would fidget miserably as she publicly kissed me.

Although I never stopped being attracted to women, I became convinced that women were too scary, too unavailable, something to be “appreciated” but not pursued.

And then she kissed me.

We were talking at a party, and she smiled, leaning unexpectedly in mid conversation to connect our lips. I looked around, expecting to see a pathetically jealous man hovering nearby–but no! Only her blue eyes sparkled at me. For once, a single woman liked me!

We went on a date in Central Square on Valentines Day–holding hands on the street like it was nothing! Dinner and then back to her place…

Walking with her small but curvaceous body pressed into my side, every woman and girl that I had ever had feelings for came back to me, and my heart overflowed.

Meet Rod

Jessica Simpson shaving on Esquire

So this is the post that ends my chances with my high femme-only stud and butch readers. And maybe some femmes. Oh well.

You see, I’ve had this problem with studs and butches I’ve dated in the past: once they take their eyes off of my breasts (usually after we’ve had sex, my D-Cups are pretty captivating), they notice that I don’t wear make-up or heels or do my nails.  (Beyond Lesbian short–and I don’t bother at all if I’m dating a stone or single)

But more than that, they start to get to know me and see my masculine side: my love of power tools and working on computers, my ability to become “one of the guys” without thinking about it. (I don’t even get into how I used to get “can I help you sir”d)

That’s when we have “the talk” about how I’m really not feminine enough for them.


It hurts that the things we share in common are the things they don’t like about me. Do I want to be a stud or date a stud? Yes? No? Maybe?  Do I have to chose?

What I do know is that I have a very strong masculine side. I would say that I’m 2/3 femme (I hate the diminutive feminine) and 1/3 male. But that third can be very dominant sometimes.

And his name is Rod.

Very phallic, I know. but isn’t that kinda the point? I’ve known for a while that I had these two facets–the aggressive femme and soft stud. And struggled internally with the fact that they’re not integrated together–they really are two separate personalities!

Reading about Kyle’s two personalities, something clicked in my head. Yes! Me too! Justa and Rod are both here, and both two very different people.

Justa is a low-key femme, who has an interest in politics, arts and crafting. She has a major thing for studs–mostly WOC–and only occasionally likes femmes. The more studs she meets, the more femme she wants to present to attract them. She used to hide her body to avoid the “male gaze” but now she flaunts it to draw the bois.  Being a feminist, she feels conflicted about being the subject (object?) of chivalry, but maybe she could get used to it. It makes her feel special.

Rod is not nearly so picky. He likes femmes–all kinds. His style is soft stud/stoner boi. He’s an old-school butch who likes holding doors and doing guy-chores for femmes. He likes building and fixing things.  He’s a guy among guys: with the dirty mouth to match.

Oh yeah, and he has a dick.

(But more on that later)

Don’t get me wrong. I am not a butch pretending to be femme. Rod is just a facet of my personality. If he was 2/3 of me I’d be butch most/all of the time, instead of only every-now-and-then. Justa is real, and she dominates most of the time. She’s the one who flirts with bois, follows on the dance floor and is receptive in the bedroom.

Rod just shows up later and wants to hang out, maybe drink a beer and work on some cars.

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!”‘

The Bug

Two white women's hands with rings on them touching tenderly

So I’m reading all these blogs about happy married couples, and I’ve really got the bug! I keep reading about women getting rings–birthday rings, engagement rings–and it occurs to me that no one I’ve dated has ever bought me anything–well, my last girl bought me a box of girlscout cookies, and paid for drinks and our first meal (but wasn’t that  kinda cancelled out by the time she ordered all the fancy shit for breakfast, then had her card declined and I had to pay?)
I’ve never dated anyone who even gave me a birthday card or present! Although I often bought things for them.

Bah I really know how to pick em!

I’ve made a vow to at least stop dating drug dealers and musicians–especially drug-dealing musicians!
And anyone living on public housing. Also no more out-of-work construction workers.

The next woman I date needs to be grown and sexy–mature, thoughtful, career oriented and engaged in her community. The kind of person who would take the time to consider my tastes and buy me a birthday present, it doesn’t have to be some fancy-ass ring, just something to show she gives a fuck.

It’s not that I want a sugar mama to shower me with gifts–I just want to meet someone responsible and considerate–also single and not hung up on her ex!

You know, I live in a rich neighborhood, work downtown with the yuppies, but I guess I have poverty in my soul. I always seem to fall for people who are totally unsuited for the “normal” life that I crave–that I need to provide stability for my children.

Noma was really the first person I’ve dated who had a real job/career.

I think it’s because I came of age on the streets. I always seem to be attracted to hustlers. Two-bit hustlers, at that. I know I need to find someone who has gone through some shit. But she needs to have come out the other side–or at least be working her way out of it.

Ten years from now I dream of living in the country with my wife–both of us working on our careers–maybe building our dream house on the weekends.(Okay, so I have a thing for power tools lol)

But even we’re living in a condo in the city, it would mean so much to me to have someone that loves me and who I love! A real partnership! Someone who knows how to apologize and accept an apology. Someone who plans special things for me to show that she cares. And who I can do the same for.

So, searching for Ms. Right,  I hope I know her when I see her.

Back to the dating scene of this small, small lesbian community.


P-Town Adventures Part 1: Bad Omens

A painting of a sad, thin white girl looking into a broken mirror.

The first sign that everything was not going down as the idealic weekend I envisioned came Thursday Morning: as I was trying to choose a necklace to match my black, gold and blue shirt–not one, but three of them broke as I tried them on!

I finally put on the studiest necklace that I owned–which happened to match my outfit perfectly!

I decided not to let that bad omen shake me: those were cheap necklaces, and I could fix two of them.

The next bad sign was Friday Morning, when the slight vaginal irritation which I had been trying to ignore turned into a raging yeast infection! Shit! Nothing says sexy like vaginal yeast infections!

Actually, I think maybe I got it from the last time my boo and I were together. It’s the second time that happened. I’m trying to figure out how to ask her if we can use gloves.

I’ve never done that before, and I’m not sure how I’d feel about being asked that–especially with the implication that I was dirty/giving my girl yeast infections!

I bought one of those monistat one day things, still trying to figure out whether I could play this off, or if I should tell her.

Squatting over the toilet, I inserted the bead–only to have it jam in the applicator!  $20 for this bead and it failed to launch! Now what was I supposed to do? I wondered, eyeing the misshapen white pearl dubiously–return it? Yeah, I could picture that scene at the drug store! I wrestled the punctured pouch from it’s casing and jammed it up there manually, praying that that would work.

The third bad omen came Friday night as I was packing–remember that bathing suit I went to so much effort to buy? Turns out they left the tamper-proof-dye-dispensing bolt in the fabric!
With my pussy on fire and my 4 sizes too big bathing suit in my luggage–I headed down to P-Town.