Femme FATale


pittsburgh sweet.
October 11, 2008, 9:32 am
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , ,

it’s almost something sacred. the word “you,” when you speak it in reference to me. it is one word in a sentence made of many others, but it’s the only one that hangs on your tongue like the way honey drags down the length of a spoon – slow and thick at first and then rushed and ribboned towards the end. my punched down, plumped up heart doesn’t care about the sentiments or about the words that surround this mention of me in your mouth. i am focused only on the way it feels to be cradled by your lips like that; attention paid only to the feel of your breath grazing when you exhale me.

this is about absence. the kind that causes me to rock away grief. because sitting still with it is just too great an ache.

i am responsible for near tidal waves.

when we were a part of one another still, i noticed not the way you held me in your mouth – pulled me in, pushed me out – but more the sound. the gravel of your generations-deep, southwestern pennsylvania, coal miner family accent and the way it snuck out between the cracks of a crooked smile passed down from a grandmother every bit as pretty then as you are handsome today.

my concentration on the way you spoke me, the way you still sometimes do when i let my guard down a little too early, is about the ways i loved you. i wonder now if something as simple as how you wore your lips when you grinned – practically a right angle instead of a more even, upwards bevel – should have been a sign of the unpredictability of you.



silence & cedars
September 12, 2008, 2:18 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , ,

you are quiet like cedar forests when you fuck me. the noises that permeate my bedroom walls and travel down hallways are only my own. low moans and gasps when you press into me with all your weight behind you. the creaking and snapping of my bones like branches when you turn me onto my hands and knees and pull me onto you.

i was thinking of the last time you had me. your mouth covered my body in ripples and skipped like stones over the slight raise of my ribs. you were hasty with kisses, blatant in your want to have your hands and mouth at the core of me, but i resisted. redirected your mouth to my own. slowed it down. made you feel me feel you and the width of your shoulders, the strength that radiates from your muscles there, the heat. and the only sound was of me whispering aloud, “baby, baby, baby…”

i remember when i released your body, hard and fervent, to find its way into mine, you broke the silence then. a grunt of satisfaction. arrogance somewhat. of delighted disbelief at the honeyed smoothness with which four of your fingers could slide up into me with such ease. i turned my face from you to hide my smile and breathed in the scent of us from my pillowcase – woodsmoke and clovers.



big apple red.
September 5, 2008, 11:29 am
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , ,

you were laying back on my couch, that carefree way you do when you’re relaxed, at home, contentedly in the presence of so much girl. your arms were behind your head, ankles crossed, your bare feet on top of my lap. i was polishing my nails a second coat of “big apple red” between loving threats – you, to smudge the color on my wobbly left hand and me, warning that i would not hesitate to paint your toes in retaliation.

we’ve sat like this fifty times now you and i, but tonight you finally asked: “why that color always?” it wasn’t criticism, but genuine inquiry. i know i smiled and you detected it, but all i could do was shrug and murmur something about matching lipstick before trailing off.

do you want to know the truth? those prior forty-nine times i’d waited for you to ask. i had it planned in my head, the blush of your cheeks, when i’d tell you oh-so-sweetly and truthfully that it was nothing more than my love of contrasting colors: the bold, bossy red of my fingernails zigzagging through the black-as-night hairs that cover your scalp when you’re hovering above me, my hands – at least for that moment – free.



body deliberate.
August 19, 2008, 1:28 pm
Filed under: butches, chicago, crush, dynamic, femme, femme conference, lust, swooning | Tags: , , , , , , ,

“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.



the plural of haiku is … haiku.
August 7, 2008, 9:46 pm
Filed under: butches, fun, haiku, strap-ons, yay | Tags: , , , , ,

haiku about strap-ons. because they’re fun, it’s friday, and why not?

1.
you: new to strap-ons
me: so not interested
bruised cervix? no thanks!

2.
jersey femmes bring it
lipstick perfect, hair teased right,
nails that match your dick.

3.
harness in your drawer:
two-strap, white leather, studded
makes this girl say “ohh!”



barely with words.
August 3, 2008, 11:57 pm
Filed under: butches, dynamic, exes, love, lust, memory, stone | Tags: , , , , , , ,

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.



dreamy you.
April 23, 2008, 2:00 pm
Filed under: butches, dreams, fucking, lust, sex | Tags: , , , , , ,

this morning:
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.

before:
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.

now:
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.