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.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Rayanne

My So Called Crush

I have loved the Manic Pixie Dream Girl since before the term existed. She was my 5th grade BFF, my camp councillor with the nose ring, my high school crush, and the party girl I made out with while her boyfriend looked on in bemusement.

She was slender and dangerous, creative and impulsive.
I have swooned over her impish smile, basked in the glow of her creativity, and patiently picked up the pieces when things fell apart.

But, although she toyed with my affections, performed to my adoration, and leaned on my strong shoulder, she never loved me back.

She was butterfly wings and sparkles over a cavern of pain that my love and understanding was never able to fill.

In the movies, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl shows up to transform the heroes life. But in real life she’s Stephanie stealing my lunchbox, Rayanne overdosing, the councilor busted for weed, the party girl turning christian and having six kids…

I love the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
But if you love someone, you’ve gotta let them go.

Angela and Rayanne Flirting on My So Called Life

How Could Angela Even LOOK at Jordan?

In Which I Utterly Fail At “Just Friends”

Hot Interracial Lesbian Kiss

Apparently, This Is Something Friends Do Not Do

I was feeling pretty good after Saturday’s get-together, and looking forward to the show on Wednesday. It was a something of a costume event, so I dressed extra sexy: High heels, fishnets, short skirt–even make-up!

I told myself that I was not doing all of this because I knew Noma was there–I wanted to be open to meeting someone new! I figured we’d see each other, say hi, but mostly do our own things. It was completely a coincidence that flashbacks of her moaning underneath me competed with the road for my attention as I drove through the rain.

As I approached the venue: what do you know–there was Noma! I can spot her ass from three blocks away. No. Really. I spotted her ass from three blocks away. She has a phenomenal ass.

Feeling ridiculously happy to see her, I rolled my window down, music blasting, wondering if she’d look my way. She didn’t.

Noma was sitting by the entrance as I walked in the club.

“Hi.” I said awkwardly.

“Hi,” She replied. “You look good!” Her eyes spoke the truth of her words. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Wait–what? This was starting to feel like a date!

I ordered a rum and coke and we enjoyed the performances. As the night ended, she stepped close to me to show me a text message from her friend who had just gotten engaged. As I stood next to her I almost swooned as the heady aroma of cocoa butter and woman invaded my nostrils.

“Can I walk you to your car?” She asked as we headed out into the night. I was feeling good and high and close to her.

“How about I walk you to your car?”

“Why would you want to do that?” She responded, giving me the look. “Where’s your car.”

“Maybe I don’t remember.” I responded looking right back, my knees going weak once again from the energy between us. “How about I’ll walk you to your car, then you can drive me to mine?”

She parked by my car, but I wasn’t ready to get out. I found myself gazing at her longingly.

“What do you want?” She asked. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“Yes,” I responded weakly, longing for the press of her lips with every cell of my body.

She did. Our mouths met with every bit as much passion as they ever had–lips pressed on lips, tongues playing on togues–and then she stopped.

“I can’t do this.”

Drama ensued.

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.

Sigh.

My P-Town Adventures Part 5: Omens Fullfilled

Start the adventure here

A heart painted over cracked pavement.
The closer we got on Commercial street to the event, the more brown faces mingled with the older, middle class white lesbians and gays that I took for regulars. It occurred to me that there were probably more black women there that weekend then P-Town sees the whole rest of the year!

As we approached the entrance to the pool party Noma suddenly looked shaken. She pulled me aside.
“My ex is there!”
“Where?”
“Don’t look!”
Now, I could have sworn up and down that Noma told me that her ex–the one she was still not over–was white, so I’m all scanning the crowd for a white face an not seeing one.

She brought me around the corner, where four women (three studs and a beautiful femme–the femme clearly “with” the eldest of the butches) greeted her warmly. Noma responded awkwardly and did not introduce me.

“That was my ex.” Noma told me as we proceeded to registration.
“The femme? Damn she’s gorgeous!” How was I supposed to compete with that? She was classy: slender, but well endowed–perfect hair and nails and a pretty sundress. I’m–well, me: round face, no discernible waist, greasy hair–pretty much my only assets are my smile, titts and ass.

We went into the pool party, where I was greeted by cold glances from the women, who were all sitting around in the sun  barely talking to each-other.

Now, I generally like going to WOC events, but sometimes black women can just go out and sit there doing nothing–like they’ll all be sitting around the edges of the dance floor, but no one wants to be the first to dance. This was like that. Everyone sitting around, keeping to themselves–watching each other–not what I call a party!

After saying hi to a few women I knew, we went back to the cabin, where I washed my hair and watched Black Womyn and Noma got morosely drunk.

Noma pulled herself together and rest of the day was fun…there was the tequila and wine tasting, dancing way into the night, and delirious late night scream-worthy fucking with the big dick.

Noma broke up with me the next day.

Just Call Me Goldilocks

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)

Worse than that, she turned out to be a pillow princess and stalker ex-girlfriend. All take, not enough give.
I then started a casual “arrangement” with a hardcore stud who never stripped down past her boxers. She was only interested in serving. While I preferred that to blue balls, it wasn’t truly satisfying. Plus I never was anything but nice to her, and she could be pretty mean.

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?”
“Um, no…”
“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!

Help I’m catching feelings!

You Gotta Fight For Your Rights

Found on Stud With Swag

Eating Pussy is a Civil Right