I Don’t Wanna Be A Playa No More

A dapper white butch licks a burlesque white femme.

I wrote this in January. Shortly before the new year. It’s taken me this long to publish it but I stand by it. Have been working at standing by it.

What goes on in the mind of a playa?
Well, she’s always talking to at least a couple of women, with two or three more “prospects.” Every outing & event is an opportunity to get more digits.

Each “relationship” is a delicate balance of sexual intrigue and studied indifference. The party who cares or communicates more looses.

Life becomes a dance of texts and dates and quick replacements. A date cancels or is on her period? Quick, pick up the phone and you can be in another’s arms.

Hot sexual encounters are brief pinnacles of pleasure against stark valleys of emotional distance, the feeling that the women you are dealing with really just don’t give a fuck.

Casually broken dates, text messages not returned, lovers turned cold, each rebuff is a cue to go back into your contacts for the next conquest.

Lust and a deep, unquenchable loneliness coupled with hurt and anger that these women–the ones you won’t let close to you–also treat you with casual indifference.

That and a deep uneasiness that you will never find “the one.” That the acts you go through to keep these women as placeholders in your bed while you search for “the one” are changing you to make you someone “the one” wouldn’t want.

All this is in the mind of a playa. All this has been in my mind.

No more. I’ve let my contacts lapse. Every day I fight the urge to text women who have expressed an interest in me.

Like a fiend in withdrawal my lips long for clit and kisses, my breasts for caresses, my pussy for tongue and penetration…

My fingers remind me that women are out there…that with the right combination of words and circumstances we could be climbing that mountain of ecstasy…

But then my head reminds me of all the hurt and loneliness that surely will  follow.

I know that I’m weak, that one DM, one text, one “extra” smile, and I might just jump foolishly back on that wheel. But I’m trying not to.

I didn’t set out to be a playa. I didn’t become one over night, but I can stop the cycle.

I will.

My apologies, dear readers, if my blog dries up but…

I don’t wanna be a playa no more.

(Time to invest in sex toys…)

Just Because: (Dirty Version)

Butch For A Femme

Marlene Dietrich in a 3-piece suit & fedora--swoon!

Marlene Dietrich--Swoon!

 Part 2 of Too Many Dudes.

She changed into a thigh-length flowered dress and heals. I stood watching her primp her artificial locks in the mirror, thinking how much work a wig is. I mean, sure it looks good, but I’ll bet her natural hair would look good too.  Of course, I thought–tracing the curve of her shapely calves, thigh and ample booty with my eyes–she looked fine without heels–but then again I wasn’t complaining about how she looked in the heals, either!

Standing there against the wall, I couldn’t help wishing I was dressed as a boi. I would feel soo much sexier with her on my arm if I was wearing a tie, fedora and slacks! But she said she liked femmes–so there I was, feeling like a guy, but dressed femme in my sparkly tank & short-shorts!

She said she had to take her son to her sisters house (oh yeah, her son was still up at 11Pm! ) and he came out of his room bleary-eyed and sobbing quietly.
“Don’t worry about him, he’s just being dramatic.”
We drove about four blocks with him sniffling in the back while I wondered what horrible abuse awaited at her sisters. I offered to go back.

“Please!” She replied gratefully.

We got back to her house and now another dude was there–her room-mate! She finally made her son go to bed, and we smoked a blunt on the porch.

Once again the man dominated the conversation, and once again I edited my words so as not to mention anything gay. When he got up, I moved into his spot next to her and tried to explain how hard it was for me to be back in the closet.

“Why–did he ask you questions?” she responded defensively.

“No, it’s just…if I want to say that my ex girlfriend said something, I want to say that, not ‘my friend'” I tried to explain. I’ve worked so hard to be out, and as a femme that means not censoring my experience to conform with the straight world. I tried to explain it to her.

“Well ok,” she allowed, “You can talk about it for you–just don’t…”

Dude was back. As we small-talked,  all I could think about was her arm touching mine. But it started getting late. I went in the kitchen to get some water before heading home.

Next installment: Home or Hmm…?

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?

Competence

Femme with an electric sander

I fell in love over power tools.
I met my daughter’s father in Arizona. He was living in the desert with me, my son’s dad and a few other friends in exchange for helping to remodel a school bus to my design.

Now, I did not grow up using tools. My parents are intellectuals, and I had no one in my life to model hands-on skills. Even so, I tought myself arts and crafts: needlepoint, crochet, origami, painting, sculpting and drawing, but I had no clue of how to use the most basic of construction tools.

I plowed gamely in, but quickly got frustrated. Questioning the guys on how to use a tool was met by an exasperated sigh, an eyeroll and a paragraph long dissertation that left me totally clueless.

On the other hand, when I asked Nero, he’d smile and show me–and I found that I almost always got it right away! I think I fell in love with competence. With the idea that I could be competent.

He never had any doubt, as he put the screwdriver/sawzall/drill/welding-torch in my hand, that I could do it.

And I soon learned not to doubt myself either.

I fell out of love with him.

But I’m still in love with power tools.

And competence.

A Butch in Queer Space

Close up of White Boi w/a Tie
I looked up from fixing my laces into the wide-open smile of a tall heavyset, “sporty”  woman. Unused to such enthusiasm from total strangers, (especially butch strangers) she was gone before my returning smile reached my eyes.

Why was she smiling at me?

Because I was wearing a tie.

And suspenders. Over a wife-beater with some big black boots.

I was butch. Very butch. During the daytime. In public.

Now, I was in central square in Cambridge, where this is not all that unusual. Creative self expression is as much the rule here as the exception. For example, on my way to the club I passed a woman skimpily clad in a homemade leopard print skirt and tube top , among other characters.

Even so. I could feel people looking at me different–but I felt the same.

I was wearing butch clothing–but I felt the same.

There are times when I feel like a boi, but this wasn’t particularly one of them. To mask my insecurity, I lengthened my stride into my street strut and puffed out my shoulders, dangling my arms in studied nonchalance.
Just let one of these fools mess with me, I projected with my body language.
I felt transgressive. Transgressive in a way that I don’t usually feel on a boi day. My normal boi clothing is butch enough to register, but it doesn’t scream butch the way a tie and fitted does.

But as strange as it felt to walk down the street with my masculinity on my sleeve, it was stranger in the club. You see, while I’ve been wearing boi clothes on the weekend and even to work, I’ve been carefully policing my gender presentation in queer space to present purely as a femme.

I wasn’t the only butch in the club, but I was definitely in the minority. I was surprised that the butches there didn’t react to me with the hostility that I’m used to.  Instead their eyes slid over me as if I was of no interest. (Maybe the goofy glasses made me not non-threatening.)

Because it was a themed event, there were lots of femmes and adros  in ties and hip/hipster outfits, with a sprinkling of effeminate guys mixed in.

I walked up to a social friend of mine and said:

“Hi.”

She stared at me blankly for a long moment before erupting into a big smile.
“Oh my god I didn’t recognize you!” She smiled and laughed uncomfortably.

This same interaction was repeated two more times with two more people. I really looked that different. The third person was a really cute stud that I’ve seen around before.

We chatted flirtatiously, and throughout the night I could feel her looking at me in a way that she hadn’t before, but every time we got close enough to dance, she turned around and danced with either a femme or a gay guy.

And–I found myself doing the same.

I think that I finally “get” the thing that some butches have about gay guys. I always knew that there was an ego boost to having my masculinity “recognized” by cis males, (something I’ve gotten even dressed as a femme on occasion)  but having it acknowledged and–deferred to–by a more feminine cis male was heady stuff!

Throughout my evening,  I spent a little too much time worrying about my presentation: was I acting too femmey? Should I be leading on the dancefloor? Um, how do I lead? (Still haven’t figured that on out!)

Besides some dramatic dancing with a narrow-boned black guy, I danced with a rather boring light-skinned femme for a while, then found myself matching rhythms with a slender, long haired femme with a Spanish flair and a tomboy edge.

After a short convo that proved she had a solid head on her shoulders, all thoughts of the (closetted stud-for-) stud dissapeared as the femme and I bounced up and down on the dancefloor, her pussy pressing through the fabric of our clothes as she bounced up and down on my thigh.

My own pussy felt wet and swollen and strangely naked in the cavern of my boxer-shorts.

I gripped her slender, well-shaped ass, matching her rythm even as my knees screamed in protest.

When the lights came on we wandered out.

“Can I give you a ride?” I offered, at the turn to where my car was parked.

“I don’t now…” She looked at me, knowing that my offer held the possibility of more kinds of rides than one.

“I’ll walk you to the T-Stop then.”

We hugged for a long time, then I watched as she descended the steps to the train station. With some finesse, I probably could have turned her maybe into a yes. But if I’m with a woman, I want it to be an unconditional, unthinking, YES!

My Best Friend

My best friend that I ever had so far is a 75 year old wandering one eyed Pakistani with an Afro and a Yankees cap.

We lived together for four years and he always was my friend. We knew the contours of  each other’s personalities: our curves and edges.

People thought there was something going on between us, but we was always just good friends.

My daughter’s father and I picked him up hitch-hiking. He was wearing a leather cap then: sitting on the biggest backpack I ever seen. Me ex and I both took one look at him sitting calmly in the dust of the road and knew that we had to stop.

The first thing he saw when he got in my van was our kids. My son was four and my daughter’s half-sister was one. Then there was my daughter still in my belly.

When I met him I was trying to support a whole group of people, and when that group turned on me like rabid wolves, endangering me and my children, he was there to support us getting back on our feet.

Over the years he gave us support and structure. We gave him back love and family.

But the road called, and he was off.