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


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…



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…



The breakdown of mummies and daddies was an important part of lesbian relationships in the Bagatelle…For some of us, however, role-playing reflected all the depreciating attitudes toward women which we loathed in straight society. It was the rejection of these roles that had drawn us to ‘the life’ in the first place. Instinctively, without particular theory or political position or dialectic, we recognized oppression as oppression, no matter where it came from.

But those lesbians who had carved some niche in the pretend world of dominance/subordination rejected what they called our ‘confused’ lifestyle, and they were in the majority.

Audre Lorde
Zami: A New Spelling of My Name


I am a mature woman married with a son. My girl friend and I are very close, she is a widow, we text and Facebook chat during the day, go shopping and hang out. We have been close friends for over 20 years. We also had a couple of bisexual playful encounters at a hotel while she was married.

She was very sexual and cheated on her husband when he was alive. She is now a little overweight. Recently we agreed to play around again, this time she wanted to try erotic play wrestling.

I got to the hotel early paid for short hours and placed candles everywhere, kinda sexy to set the mood. She arrived wearing shorts & a T-Shirt. I was already in my panties and bra, she kissed me and took her shoes off. She walked over to me and instead of acting romantically like she used to she grabbed my head and threw me to the bed, sitting on me. My only problem is she never got off me. She had me pinned down with my wrists to the bed, I never had a chance. She kept asking me to give, I never give, so she never moved. This was getting weird after 5 minutes or so. She had to ask me another 10 times, finally I stopped answering her.

This was not erotic at all.

I was sweating, sore from trying to get her off me and having trouble breathing. Finally she just got off me and went to the restroom. It was the most bizarre thing we ever did together. She came out and said “Let’s go this was a stupid idea. I thought this was going to be a real turn on and it was quite the opposite.

Confession Post


The first time I had sex with a girl, we did it in a closet. (No, seriously). She had a huge walk-in closet with a bed in it, and she would sit on that bed, light candles, and draw and write on the walls. It was like being inside her soul. She painted and drew and the things she put on those walls were beautiful and honest and every reason I loved her.

I was “straight,” by the way. The alternative wasn’t feasible. I was just a young, wild girl, fooling around, and it wasn’t serious. But it was. Because I loved her. And I knew I loved her, and at 6 a.m. after I had the most sexually-induced emotionally enlightening experience of my life I fell asleep next to her panic-stricken, and doing that exact thing has not ceased, even to this day.

So that night, under the guise that we were just friends from school, we went up to her room and shut and locked the door. She lit candles and she had this playlist on, some songs of which I still don’t know if I either want to touch myself to or cry to or never listen to again. But I digress. We sat next to each other, and giggled. “Are we really going to do this?” I laughed. She laughed. I told her I had never done this before. Half of me was calmed by the fact that I had some inkling of how to touch her, because it was how I’d want to be touched. But it was more foreign to me than a man’s body. More foreign to me even though I’d had that physiology all my life. Because none of that matters when you want to love someone for more than just their body.

So we listed how we were going to do this. We would kiss first, and then we outlined the next steps and how we would do them one at a time and then we would stop and talk about it and make sure we still wanted to do it or go to the next step and if at any point one of us wanted to stop, that was it, we would stop. We didn’t stop.

I’d had “boyfriends” before – pubescent men I could seduce into loving me with my femme looks and overtly sexual nature. That was easy. Girls weren’t. Girls were what I really wanted. And when something ever matters to me, I am usually perplexed and terrified and cowardly and confused. These boys never made me orgasm, I made myself orgasm, they just happened to be there while it happened. They never made me cry for any other reason than that I felt unwanted. They touched me to warm me up to touch them, not because they wanted me to be that completely vulnerable and literally and metaphorically naked. Please note: this is not to say that all men are like this, of course, that was just my experience at the time.

So roughly four hours into the first night of the long awaited physical enactment of our already raging love affair, she was between me and I didn’t have any clothes on and I knew what was about to happen because we had talked about this and I can’t even phrase into words how badly I wanted it but I’ll tell you that it was just about as much as I wanted to run away screaming because I was not gay.

She could sense that. She asked me what was wrong. I told her the truth. She smiled. I don’t remember what she told me, but it was something along the lines of the fact that I didn’t have to be worried, and that we could go slowly and that I just had to lay back and close my eyes and not think about anything but how good it felt.

The most poignant memory I have from that night was looking down at her, and feeling like I wasn’t worthy of such a perfect person loving me like this, and even though I kept on with my nonsensical thoughts she made me come in that back-arching, oh-my-god-please-don’t-stop, repeated exhales and sighs, waves of that familiar high that keep crashing through your body and afterwards you don’t think, that was great, you think, I love her kind of way. That kind of orgasm. And I thought that was as good as it got, until I made her do the same thing, and that was even better.

We laid next to each other for a while after that, limbs intertwined, the playlist still on repeat, the candles burning out. The sun was rising. My real life was dawning again. She was falling asleep, but my eyes were peeled open and staring at the ceiling.

I haven’t grown out of that yet. But I’m not entirely unhappy that it happens. It tells me it means something. It shows me what matters. It scares the mother fucking shit out of me but it’s never there while I’m staring in some woman’s eyes like she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And so I know it’s not what I’m doing that’s wrong, it’s what the world would say about it that is. I’m never afraid of it until I realize it’s another notch in the “reasons the world will exile me” belt. And so I think to myself, it will be okay because eventually there will be a woman that I wake up next to who doesn’t make me feel that way because I know she’ll be there after breakfast, and that even if everybody else looks with disdain, she won’t. She’ll be there if other people walk out.

Kate Bailey
Thought Catalogue