Filed under: butches, chicago, crush, dynamic, femme, femme conference, lust, swooning | Tags: butches, crush, dynamic, femme, femmes, lust, swooning, writing
“are you two going to kiss?” the man who stumbled before us asked. he was drunk and wobbling on his two long legs in a way that suggested too much alcohol had mixed with a heart too weighted to keep balanced, to keep the body stable.
but i barely noticed.
because when you started to walk across the sidewalk to me, before he showed up swaying and destroying lazy-to-arrive-but-so-glad-you-finally-fucking-got-here moments like this, my vision tunneled to you. a body deliberate. calculated, intent on reaching, on doing, you sidled up to me mumbling some words about how it had been some twenty minutes since we’d talked and hadn’t that been too long? i searched for a response from a brain too tired of producing witty banter for you all day. see, those past 24 hours, saw me in a contest with myself, racing to see how fast i could make those crevices in the skin around your mouth deepen and turn darker as your smile stretched further every time. found me delivering package after package to you of smartly wrapped snark and flirt all wound tightly and made ornate with knotted heart strings for bows.
so i just smiled. and for once in the whole day, despite the frenetic swirl of drunk, happy queers tapdancing on cigarette butts outside the barroom door, allowed a bit of quiet between us. maybe my body sensed what was about to happen, knew that if it didn’t curb the firing of my brain’s synapses, i’d make some joke and we’d erupt again in a series of guffaws that of course felt good, but that didn’t end with the mingling of each other’s sweat on our upper lips.
when your hand found the bend in my waist that gives way to my hips that roll strong but pliant when you pull them just right, i knew silence had been the right choice. knew it twice as hard when, in seconds, there i was three inches from your face staring into eyes that wouldn’t release my own unless to quickly survey the state of my mouth which was, on this night, stained scarlet and heavy with the anticipation of you.
did you feel the drop when we fell into the vacuum of each other? when things around us slowed almost to the point of nonexistent as we considered the idea of halving and then obliterating all together the slowly shrinking space between us?
i remember i was thinking about your glasses and about the angle at which i’d bend my neck to avoid any sort of minor calamity of frames smashed into browbones or lenses fogged to the point of visual impairity when his voice, loud and sluggish with booze, slammed our feet back down on the concrete. i swear now that there were tiny spider-like cracks around our shoes from the impact of so brutally being forced to once again find the ground.
“are you two going to kiss?” he slurred with whiskey breath.
but we barely noticed. we didn’t even speak. not even to each other.
Filed under: butches, dynamic, exes, love, lust, memory, stone | Tags: butches, dynamic, exes, love, lust, memory, stone, writing
with your lips to my ear and your fingers on my skin, you deftly trace across my body the lines and boundaries you have drawn for your own. “like this…” you say and with your mouth crushed against my cheek, your palm cups the side of my neck, slowly but decisively making its way past the top of my chest to the space between my breasts. your hand rests here, avoiding the flesh that surrounds it, flesh that you usually cannot resist to feel with hands and mouth. but tonight is not about this. tonight, with touches applied to my skin so that i might begin to understand your own, you teach me what “stone” means to you.
channeling the steady hands of a master cartographer, your fingertips pull channels down my abdomen, flowing free and unchecked against the soft roll and lower expanse of my belly. with palms wide and flat across my sides, you work harder, rougher, to push aside my ripples of curve so that the depth, the marrow of my bones, will remember the contrast in touches the sharp angles of your own hips demand, will retain the memory of distinction between my body and yours. when your hands reach my thighs and then skid along the tops of their inner slopes, you fall still. and with a deep breath settled in your lungs, you draft for me with the mere tip of one index finger the minefield of this place.
tomorrow, with you asleep next to me, i let my eyes follow the shape of a body recreated under the tightly wound ropes of sheet rolled over and passed over one hundred times in the night before we both stopped long enough to catch our breaths.
Filed under: butches, dreams, fucking, lust, sex | Tags: butches, crush, dreams, fucking, lust, sex, writing
with a stinging on the outer curve of my right shoulder, i awoke to the burn of your teeth planted firmly in my soft, languid, waking skin. a dull, lingering ache lay atop the left one, too – the place where your teeth had sunk into my flesh moments prior.
with your teeth gnashed against my bones and their freckled sheathing of epidermis, your body moved against mine, for the first time, fast enough and hard enough to make your knees buckle to the point where holding yourself upright required you to hinge the solid, smooth enamel of your incisors into the give of my skin. this is the yielding of me to you.
alone in my bed, pillows damp with their cases wrinkled and askew, i open my eyes remembering what it felt like in that dreamland to have your fingers three deep inside of me while your teeth fought deliberately at breaking skin, at breaking me.
the visceral early morning memories of you: the sweat gathered around my hairline and the slickness of wanting between my thighs, serve as daily guilt-stricken reminders of how she got to you first.
Filed under: exes, fucking, love, lust, memory, sex | Tags: butches, dynamic, exes, femmes, fucking, love, lust, memory, sex, writing
friday night i’m with you and you’re fucking me in ways that make my stomach first and my heart second, feel like they are being pulled down from their place high up in my body cavity, out between my thighs. every time there is the slightest retreat in your touch or in your thrust my body tenses with the fear that you will stop and break this chain you’ve created that links all of my important organs – brain, heart, gut, cunt – with all of yours – brain, heart, gut, cunt, fist.
we’ve been fighting for weeks now over stupid shit because you can’t recognize what love and care looks like. or maybe you’ve just got an unquenchable thirst for it; for playing games, for mindfucking. you’re losing me now and you know it. this is irreparable. you’ve waited too long without giving me much. you’ve waited too long to fuck me heart-to-heart like this.
and, for a second, i think i have it figured out. i think that i’ve wound up on top in all of this because i’m realizing these things even while my whole body is beating around the hand you still have inside of me. but i can’t see that you’re also thinking beyond the fucking and the grunting right now too. you’re not processing shit the way my sweaty, little head is doing while mashed against my pillows and headboard. no, you’re still trying to figure out your next move in this long drawn out game of “who do you love?”
then you do what i fear most, but what i least expect – you pull your hand from me quick and cruel, causing me to gasp at the contrast of going from full to empty in less than a second. i hear conceit, a tonal snicker to your words, as you throw yourself down next to me and say low, a threat for my ears only, “i wanted you to feel me leave you.”