When I Was Straight

June 16, 2018

I did not love women as I do now.
I loved them with my eyes closed, my back turned.
I loved them silent, & startled, & shy.

The world was a dreamless slumber party,
sleeping bags like straitjackets spread out on
the living room floor, my face pressed into a

slender pillow.

All night I woke to rain on the strangers’ windows.
No one remembered to leave a light on in the hall.
Someone’s father seemed always to be shaving.

When I stood up, I tried to tiptoe
around the sleeping bodies, their long hair
speckled with confetti, their faces blanched by the

porch-light moon.

I never knew exactly where the bathroom was.
I tried to wake the host girl to ask her, but she was
only one adrift in that sea of bodies. I was ashamed

to say they all looked the same to me, beautiful &
untouchable as stars. It would be years before
I learned to find anyone in the sumptuous,

terrifying dark.

Julie Marie Wade

How could I be femme

June 10, 2018

I started to find butch women in movies and books and queer erotica, and they captivated me. But in those precious few portrayals, butches were paired with femmes, and that dynamic left me hopeless. Based on what I watched and read, femmes were petite, curvy, pretty women. How could I be femme if I was too tall, too broad-shouldered, too strong-jawed? How could I be femme with my flat chest and scarred face? The butches I saw in fiction didn’t want a woman like that. The one dynamic that was presented to me led me to believe I couldn’t exist in queer spaces. So I stayed in the closet, in the dark of my own doubts and insecurities.

But the quiet certainty of queerness didn’t leave me. I thought, sometimes, I’d go crazy if I couldn’t touch another woman.

Katrina
Relearning how to dress myself from the closet I came out of

teasing tongues

May 20, 2018

good friends playing nicely

The first time I had sex with a woman, just her and I, I marvelled at the pace. Sex with men always felt pressing, driven by an intensity that climbed quickly. Sometimes I liked that energy, it made me feel wanted, desired. The rush was fun, like tearing open a present. Other times I felt like we skipped over the good parts, like I could have pressed against him while he kissed my neck for hours. Sometimes I felt like I was trying to catch up, I was too young and inexperienced to say “Slow down.”

The first time I had sex with a woman, and it was just her and I, we kissed for hours. Literally hours. Slow, tender, swollen-lips, hands in our hair, teasing tongues, moans and soft sounds, our hips pressing together, in no hurry but never staying still. By the time I pressed my hand between her legs her panties were soaked right through. That little wet spot made fireworks in my head, my clit throbbed. This was divine. I didn’t pull her cotton underwear aside until she was already close to orgasm, just from my fingertips tracing over the fabric, and her eager grinding against my palm.

After she came we slowed down but never stopped touching each other until she’d had her second, third and fourth. There’s a difference between “I came” and “I’m satiated”. Fucking someone who understood that made sex an entirely new thing. We fucked until we were finished, exhausted and spent. I finally felt satisfied.

The next time a man touched me all I could feel was the energy propelled by his hard-on. The rush that rush-of-blood to his cock put him in. I felt like I wasn’t there.

Heart
Reflections
Queer Enough, 2018

love with claws and teeth

January 30, 2018

Girls love each other like animals. There is something ferocious and unself-conscious about it. We don’t guard ourselves like we do with boys. No one trains us to shield our hearts from each other. With girls, it’s total vulnerability from the beginning. Our skin is bare and soft. We love with claws and teeth and the blood is just proof of how much. It’s feral.

And it’s relentless.

Leah Raeder
Black Iris

love every centimetre

December 24, 2017

I’m not a boobs or booty kind of girl, I’m an everything kind of girl,
I will get excited about your ears and your fingers,
I’ll lose my train of thought over your shoulders and down your back,
Your legs will need to be draped over me in some form at all times of relaxing so that I can run my hands over them,
Or your back will find a rest against my chest and between my arms,
I will praise your forehead and your eyes,
I will tickle the back sides of your knees,
I’ll blow warm air onto your cheeks and kiss your smile,
Sometimes your frown,
I will touch every inch of you that you allow me to touch because I will not solely love the curve of your ass cheek or the perk of your breast,
I will love every centimetre of you,
When I am focused on you,
You become more than a warm body to me,
You become my laughter and the place I need to mindlessly touch to feel home,
I will love all of you.

Asa Henson

Didn’t Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?
Before a face suddenly numinous,
her eyes watered, knees melted. Did she lactate
again, milk brought down by a girl’s kiss?
It’s documented torrents are unloosed
by such events as recently produced
not the wish, but the need, to consume, in us,
one pint of Maalox, one of Kaopectate.
My eyes and groin are permanently swollen,
I’m alternatingly brilliant and witless
– and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in.
Although I’d cream my jeans touching your breast,
sweetheart, it isn’t lust; it’s all the rest
of what I want with you that scares me shitless.

Marilyn Hacker

Where are the women who, entre deux guerres,
came out on college-graduation trips,
came to New York on football scholarships,
came to town meeting in a decorous pair?
Where are the expatriate salonnieres,
the gym teacher, the math-department head?
Do nieces follow where their odd aunts led?
The elephants die off in Cagnes-sur-Mer.
H.D., whose “nature was bisexual,”
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where are the single-combat champions:
the Chevalier d’Eon with curled peruke,
Big Sweet who ran with Zora in the jook,
open-handed Winifred Ellerman,
Colette, who hedged her bets and always won?
Sojourner’s sojourned where she need not pack
decades of whitegirl conscience on her back.
The spirit gave up Zora; she lay down
under a weed-field miles from Eatonville,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where’s Stevie, with her pleated schoolgirl dresses,
and Rosa, with her permit to wear pants?
Who snuffed Clara’s mestiza flamboyance
and bled Frida onto her canvases?
Where are the Niggerati hostesses,
the kohl-eyed ivory poets with severe
chignons, the rebels who grew out their hair,
the bulldaggers with marcelled processes?
Conglomerates co-opted Sugar Hill,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Has Ida B. persuaded Susan B.
to pool resources for a joint campaign?
(Two Harriets act a pageant by Lorraine,
cheered by the butch drunk on the IRT
who used to watch me watch her watching me;
We’ve notes by Angelina Grimke Weld
for choral settings drawn from the Compiled
Poems of Angelina Weld Grimke.)
There’s no such tense as Past Conditional,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Who was Sappho’s protegee, and when did
we lose Hrotsvitha, dramaturge and nun?
What did bibulous Suzanne Valadon
think about Artemisia, who tended
to make a life-size murderess look splendid?
Where’s Aphra, fond of dalliance and the pun?
Where’s Jane, who didn’t indulge in either one?
Whoever knows how Ende, Pintrix, ended
is not teaching Art History at Yale,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Is Beruliah upstairs behind the curtain
debating Juana Ines de la Cruz?
Where’s savante Anabella, Augusta-Goose,
Fanny, Maude, Lidian, Freda and Caitlin,
“without whom this could never have been written”?
Louisa who wrote, scrimped, saved, sewed, and nursed,
Malinche, who’d like all translators, cursed,
Bessie, whose voice was hemp and steel and satin,
outside a segregated hospital,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where’s Amy, who kept Ada in cigars
and love, requited, both country and courtly,
although quinquagenarian and portly?
Where’s Emily? It’s very still upstairs.
Where’s Billie, whose strange fruity ripened in bars?
Where’s the street-scavenging Little Sparrow?
too poor, too mean, too weird, too wide, too narrow:
Marie Curie, examining her scars,
was not particularly beautiful;
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Who was the grandmother of Frankenstein?
The Vindicatrix of the Rights of Woman,
Madame de Sevigne said prayers to summon
the postman just as eloquent as mine,
though my Madame de Grignan’s only nine.
But Mary Wollstonecraft had never known
that daughter, nor did Paula Modersohn.
The tree-day infants blinked in the sunshine.
The mothers turned their faces to the wall;
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Tomorrow night the harvest moon will wane
that’s floodlighting the silhouetted wood.
Make your own footnotes; it will do you good.
Emeritae have nothing to explain.
She wasn’t very old, or really plain–
my age exactly, volumes incomplete.
“The life, the life, will it never be sweet?”
She wrote it once; I quote it once again
midlife at midnight when the moon is full
and I can almost hear the warning bell
offshore, sounding through starlight like a stain
on waves that heaved over what she began
and truncated a woman’s chronicle,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Marilyn Hacker
Selected Poems: 1965-1990

happy for the darkness

April 30, 2017

The year was 1945. It was during the war. I was about 15 and we were having one of our blackouts, manoeuvres – I forget what they were called, but we had these blackout practices, and we were sitting in the dark, me and my friend Minnie.

We were sitting on the stoop in Brooklyn and I had my arms around her because it was dark. I wasn’t scared; I was happy for the darkness, because I was able to put my arms around her and smell her. She had a very particular and beautiful smell. And so I was sitting like that with her, and she was embracing me too, when the lights went on, quite suddenly, or so it seemed, because I was oblivious to the time. And there was a woman who lived in the building that we were sitting in front of and she saw us holding each other that way. That was the first time I heard the word ‘lesbian’. She said in a very typical Jewish way, she said, ‘Look at this! A couple of lesbians.’ That was the first time that I heard that word.

The very next day I ran to the library, and I looked up the word ‘lesbian’ and I felt so proud of myself because it talked about the Isle of Lesbos and it mentioned something about Radclyffe Hall, who wrote something called The Well of Loneliness, which I took out that very same day and read and reread and reread.

So that was my first experience in hearing that I had a label: besides being a girl, besides being Jewish, I was a lesbian. Yippee!

From an oral history tape made with Sandy Kern, a Jewish, working class, butch lesbian, at the Lesbian Herstory Archives, New York, 1984

kiss

When I was younger I got involved in Taekwondo and was really enjoying it (I still do), but unfortunately things got tight financially at home and my parents told me we had to cut back on expenses.

I told my instructor that I would be quitting. She was understanding about the reason why, but said she would be willing to work things out with me so I didn’t have to quit.

I still got to train but after a few weeks, she asked me to stay on after class. She said she would let me continue to train for free, if I was willing to do something in return for her.

At first it was just letting her do things to me. She would ask to see my pussy; sometimes she’d touch it, put her fingers in me, things like that.

I knew it was “wrong”, but it was exciting too and felt good so I let her do whatever she wanted to do with me. Eventually she started asking me to do things to her, and our relationship progressed from there.

I told my parents that she gave me a job cleaning the dojo after class so I didn’t have to quit. She made me cum two, three times a session. She had me lick her out and finger fuck her hard and fast. She used to shriek loud when she came.

I consider myself straight. She’s the only woman I’ve been with ever, but I must confess, I still fantasize about her and the things we did together. And often, thinking about her, I have to masturbate. There, I said it…

Source

sleepyheads

My first Lesbian Anal – another true confession!

My first anal experience was with a woman who was also my first “lesbian lover”.

We ended up living together because after my divorce I couldn’t afford my house any longer. She was a wonderful lover, too, so much better than my ex. She was very experienced with anal sex both with guys and girls. We had used toys with each other frequently, but only vaginally. One night she told me she wanted me to fuck her ass with a dildo. It surprised me, but I was willing to do whatever she wanted me to do. I ended up doing a double penetration on her with 2 dildos. She had an outrageous orgasm from that.

Afterward as we laid together, she asked me about anal. I told her I never had, and had not even had any anal stimulation before. She asked if I was interested, and I said that if I could have orgasms like she had earlier, I would try it.

The next morning as we lay in bed, she asked if I was ready to try. I said sure, and she promised to be slow and gentle. She went down on me and with her talented tongue brought me to an climax. While she was doing that, she had begun rubbing some of my juices on my rosebud, pressing inward. When I came, she was able to easily push a finger into my ass. I was astounded by the sensation. It hurt a tiny bit, but it also felt so bizarre I wasn’t sure what to think. She was tongue fucking me and as her saliva and my cum ran downward toward my ass, she began slowly thrusting her finger into me.

By now the feeling was wonderful. It allowed me to cum again really quickly. She then suggested we try something more since I was good with her finger. She got a slim dildo from our drawer of toys, as well as a bottle of lube. She told me to roll over and get on my knees to make it easier. She squirted some lube on my ass, and began pushing the head of the dildo into my asshole. It didn’t take much for my hole to open and let the dildo slide in. I couldn’t believe the feeling! It was such an unusual fullness. She began slowly sliding it in and out, and she suggested I play with my cunt. As I became more aroused, she began thrusting more quickly and deeper into my ass. It was incredible, and in only a few minutes I came again, with such force my entire body shook. I fell forward on the bed, and she crawled up beside me and we kissed. Once I was a bit calmed down and had caught my breath, she then slowly pulled the dildo out of my ass.

I have to say I loved the experience. We continue to have anal with each other pretty regularly, and I really enjoy it…

Anita