Playing the Husband

November 25, 2019

When you were the husband, you kissed up my back,
lips cresting each ridge of spine. When I was the husband,

I traced your name—the only poem I knew—
with pointer finger, then tongue, in the small frame

your shoulder blades made. When you were the husband,
I lay flat on my back and closed my eyes. When I closed

my eyes, the room didn’t smell like musty blankets, damp
weather, strawberry shampoo. When you were the husband,

I couldn’t be the husband. When you were the wife,
I wanted to be the wife. When you licked my wrist,

I imagined I was someplace I wasn’t supposed to be.
When I was the wife, I never asked how you learned to be

the husband; the wife doesn’t ask questions. When you
taught me how to be the husband, you instructed through

touch. The room always dark. Hold me like this. We didn’t
call it anything. When we stripped down to underwear,

I had this extra gene called inhibition. Once, when you
were the husband, I told you to stop. No one taught me

to be the wife. You never cried. You never wanted me
to stop. We slept like two spoons tossed in a drawer.

Emari DiGiorgio

Streetlights

November 25, 2019

The first night we spent together in the new town,
our bed faced three half-shut windows looking east.
She wanted the sun to be our alarm clock,
and I wanted to sleep through the darkness.
At 2 a.m. she ripped back the sheets, sitting up next to me
as my sobs furnished the corners of our room.
Where are the streetlights? I cried, through teeth
clenched like picket fences and eyes held shut.
This town is too midnight, too quiet, too unhome.
In the city, the only silence comes before a storm
when stray cats bunk down in dumpsters and pigeons
steal away to their rooftops alone.
Even then, in thunder, there is the ever-present glow
of streetlights, of headlights, of the lights in homes
too terrified to turn off, for fear they’ll never come back on.
This town is no city, I whispered into her neck,
shuffling with me from room to room,
flipping each switch so our house became home,
buzzing like the cheap fluorescent heat I always knew.
We’ll look at nightlights tomorrow, she whispered in my ear,
leading me by the hands back to bed.

Darcy Vines

Cowboy

November 17, 2019

An old cowboy sat down at the Starbucks and ordered a cup of coffee. As he sat sipping his coffee, a young woman sat down next to him. She turned to the cowboy and asked, Are you a real cowboy? He replied well, I’ve spent my whole life breaking colts, working cows, going to rodeos, fixing fences, pulling calves, bailing hay, doctoring calves, cleaning my barn, fixing flats, working on tractors, and feeding my dogs, so I guess I am a cowboy…She said, ‘I’m a lesbian.  I spend my whole day thinking about naked women.  As soon as I get up in the morning, I think about naked women. When I shower, I think about naked women. When I watch TV, I think about naked women. It seems everything makes me think of naked women. The two sat sipping in silence. A little while later, a man sat down on the other side of the old cowboy and asked, are you a real cowboy?’ He replied, I always thought I was, but I just found out I’m a lesbian.

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap.  But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West
The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf

bring them back to life

October 15, 2019

Don’t look too long at dead serpents. For dead serpents revive under the gaze of those who love them. The witching eyes of Lilith bring them back to life, just like moonlight animates stagnant waters. They love the moon, because she is as cruel as they are. They adore that insidious light.

Renée Vivien
A Woman Appeared To Me
trans. Jeanette H. Foster,

You are trapped in my web, an unsuspecting victim. Doomed now, are you, to melancholic servitude for life: I will force you to lick my most secret places; you will exist on the borderless threnodies of my darkest desires, feeding on my intimate secretions, more juicier than any papaya – and you will be like an animal skinning itself in reverse: you will swallow my juices – all my juices – your sex throbbing with its own crazy pulse, never to be satisfied. Lost in the carnal and divine of my pale body – my fleshy witch body.

As to writing. What I have to say, I must say: simply to get it out. After 4 hours trying, whether it’s failed or not, one is physically and mentally exhausted. I mean it. All I want to do is creep into bed, notably after failure. Also one cannot think coherently of anything else. It eats away in the brain, a ceaseless conversation with oneself. The smallest chore is horrendous to get through. People do not stimulate; they exhaust.

Martha Gellhorn,
letter to Betsy Drake featured in Martha Gellhorn Selected Letters

be dominated

June 9, 2019

I’m an Indian girl who lusts after black women. I love light skin women to dark chocolate strong, independent black women. I think they’re beautiful, and sexy and so dominating. I want to serve one and be dominated by her, and to satisfy her womanhood.

SOURCE

Marlene’s freewheeling attitude to sex has been much analysed since her death, particularly by her daughter Maria, who wrote a tell-all book about Marlene in the grand tradition of Christina Crawford’s “Mommie Dearest” – only Maria’s effort was dubbed “Mommie Queerest”. Maria revealed that Marlene used sex as a kind of weapon in her affairs with men – she didn’t actually care much for “it”. It was a way of controlling and manipulating them. With women it was different. Marlene actually enjoyed the sex, and the relationships were much more satisfying for her. Edith Piaf, Mercedes de Acosta (who also wooed and won Greta Garbo), Rosemary Clooney, the German singer Hildegard Knef and many others shared nights of passion with Dietrich.

To call Marlene ‘lesbian’ would be to misrepresent her sexuality. To call her bisexual would also not be adequate. Perhaps ‘queer’ describes her best or simply, as one commentator said, ‘unstraight’. She made love to those she was attracted to at any particular time in her life, their gender was immaterial. This is extraordinary, given that most of her career was built on being the ultimate fetish object for straight men. The film critic Kenneth Tynan defined this bisexual appeal when he said, “she has sex without gender.”

Terry Sanderson
Marlene Dietrich: a woman out on he own

femme hunger

January 19, 2019

For me, and many other femmes, the core of femme sexuality lies in femme hunger, in a particularly femme strength of sexual openness, vulnerability, and need. For me it can be summed up by the image of:

‘her fist
slams into my cunt up through my cervix
and grabs my heart
I don’t mind.’

When I have sex…I need to feel the touching burn through the layers of numbness I have wrapped around myself. I need intensity; I need to get filled up and fed. To open up, give it all up and be loved, not hated, for my intensity, for how much pleasure I can feel and how vulnerable it makes me. It is a vulnerability that can be both incredibly powerful and incredibly terrifying.

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
On Being A Bisexual Femme

lips and tongue

You like her hands, don’t you darling? When her fingers are combing through your hair so soft and gentle, when you’re lying on her and she’s holding you close. Her hands are the only things moving then, her hands and you as you rise and fall with her even, slow breathing.

You like when she cups your cheek, palm soft and warm against your skin. You like when she cups your cheek and holds you still while she takes her time to lick into your mouth and kiss you so deep. Her hand is the only thing holding you in place while she bites your lips and licks every rasping moan off your tongue.

You love when she drags her nails down your chest, along your ribs and hooks around your hips. When she teases you with those slow little circles, smiling at you while she tells you every dirty thing she wants to do to you and won’t you let her puppy, please?

You love when those hands hold your legs open, push them just a little wider. When her nails dig into your skin and leave sweet little marks, when she makes it hurt so sugar sweet and you gasp as she bites and nips and sucks.

You love her hands when they’re touching you, there’s no doubt about that, but there’s one thing you love best, right darling? Mhmm, your favourite is when her fingers curl around your throat, palm warm where it holds warm and steady. Your favourite is when she squeezes, when she pins you down with a hand around your throat and the other between your thighs and whispers how pretty you are when your cheeks are flushed so red and you’re so wet it must hurt.

You love her best when her lips are at your ear, asking you what you want. Do you want to cum? Do you want her to squeeze tighter? You’ve been such a good little pet, you deserve a reward, so what would you like darling? Do speak up.

And when you can’t answer because she’s choking you so good and nice, the way you like, she rocks against you. When you can’t answer because it’s so much, too much and not enough. She tells you that if you can’t answer, then she’ll have to choose for you and she wants you to cum. She’d like you to cum for her right now darling, cum from just her hands, when you’re gasping for a breath and everything’s the sweetest kind of fuzzy.

You love that, don’t you?

Mommymaxie
So Sayeth, Your Lord