Playing House (a femme's view on a butch's cock)

She said to me, "I can't wait for my business to get going so you don't have to worry about working anymore..."

(...or something like that.)

But I like working.  

"Just while you are in school... you know full time... so you can focus on your school."

(It was along those lines.)

But I like working.

I like meeting new people who are becoming new parents.  I like talking with women who have never had a nurse explain to them the why or the how of what is happening to their bodies in labor... and delivery.  I like looking at a scared father, mother, grandmother, partner, girlfriend, boyfriend, daughter, sister, friend in the face and saying, "Do you have any questions... at all...?"  I like seeing their eyes scan the room, and look back at me almost in disbelief that I am asking them if they have any questions.  I like waiting... for as long as it takes... for them to reply.  

She said to me, "I want to be able to take care of you... and the kids."

(She's the perfect butch to my femme...)

But I like working.

It doesn't even feel like work some days.  The nights when I am so busy I don't have time to pee... but I make time to swallow lukewarm coffee by the pints... those are the nights it feels even less like work.  Because I know I am busy helping them, the women.  I like showing her husband or mother or sister or partner or whoeverthefuck is supporting her... how to help her, so that they can become a part of this process and not "just" an observer.  I like the thrill and delight that I see on her partner's face when he or she sees that new life slip out, finally free from confinement... then the look on her partner's face when he or she realizes just exactly how amazingly strong this woman, this MOTHER, really is.

She said to me, "That is... if you want me to take care of you... because I know you don't need me to."

(She knows.)

We take care of each other in too many ways for me to list here.  But lately... I've been very interested in our "playing house."  I've been studying S and wanting to find ways to put into words what it is about her that makes her butch.  At first glance, I think it might appear that it's simply so because she is with me, who is so clearly femme.  But... that is not accurate at all, she is not just butch against my femme...

In our playing house I often think about the traditional heterosexual roles in marriage and how I am often viewed as playing the part of the "good wife."  Cleaning, making lunch, and always making sure I have a compliment for my husband.  It makes me giggle.  I was really a shitty wife when I was married to a real life husband, but now I feel like June Cleaver at times.  Yes!  June Cleaver with an immaculate kitchen and a mouth watering roast in the oven.

And S, is my Ward Cleaver.... wanting to take care of hir lady.

But unlike the Cleavers, we do not sleep in separate twin beds.  And unlike June Cleaver, sometimes I wear  the dick.

And bingo!  There it is.  Sometimes I wear the dick.  Sometimes this femme straps on a dildo and fucks her butch.  How very peculiar.  And finally we are not playing house anymore.  Finally we are not merely pretending to be heterosexuals.  Finally we are free to be.

That's the thing... that's what make me her femme... I have to put my dick on.  S doesn't.  She has a cock that is more real that that dildo we "play with" on occasion.  It gets big and hard everytime we fuck.  Some may think or even say that this cock is all in our heads, but it's not, it's very very real and not just in S's head but actually between her thighs and sometimes, if I am lucky she even puts it between mine.

But that's another blog... for another time... perhaps...

Let Me Spread These Wings...

and learn to fly...

It's coming upon a year.  It was last October when I told my (then) husband that I wanted a divorce.  It was heartbreaking for both of us.  Even though in the past year so much had been done (and provoked)... I thought the conversation would occur much easier.  But, it wasn't easy.  We had built a life together.  And however dysfunctional that life had been for the most part, it was still the only life I had known.

The only life our children had known.

I married him only a few months after my 18th birthday and our baby girl was barely 8 months old.  We had a traditional Catholic wedding ceremony.  It was what he wanted.  It was how he was raised.  I remember not wanting to make a big "fuss" out of things.  It was NOT a huge wedding and I think the entire thing cost less than $5,000.  I think the bar tab at the reception was the most pricey part of our budget. 

We did not have a honeymoon.

He fell asleep before I was finished undressing and brushing my teeth.

After twelve years, five kids, a dozen affairs (some his-some mine), and a year in therapy I finally was able to say "this just isn't healthy for anyone."

For months after our divorce he would go through periods of extreme hostility towards me... then... swing almost without warning to this other person who would profess his undying love for me.  His mother died.  We cried together.  Then he started to pull away.  I felt it.  I felt a distance start to grow between us.  The 2 hour long texting sessions stopped.  He stopped asking if I wanted to stay for dinner when I picked up the kidlets.  He stopped bringing me "extra" of whatever he had.

And I let him.  I let him find his wings.  I heard he was dating.  I was too.

When I first met Ky, or rather... saw her - he never really introduced me to her - I texted him and told him congratulations, and that I was happy for him.  Because... I was.  Happy for him. 

Learning to fly.

Without me.

It's been a year now... and I can watch King of Queens without crying.  Even though at times he was an emotionally abusive mind-fuck... I couldn't watch "our show" for a year.  But, Kevin James is not dead to me.  He lives on.

This past weekend was rough.  My first Halloween as their single mom and S as their pseudo-I-hope-to-be-step-mom.  Last year, he took them trick or treating while I stayed home.  We were not yet officially divorced, and I had not yet moved out.  This weekend has been so hard for me.  Maybe for them too.  Maybe for him.

But we're flying... and with that scariness is also excitement. 

Freedom.

I've never felt like this.  I've never known I had these wings...

Bebe

I have these incredible women in my life that I don't give credit too often enough.  I don't recognize often enough.  I don't tell them how much I appreciate them and everything they've done for me... I just don't.

There is a particular woman that has been on my mind the last few weeks and usually, when something or someone is on my mind like this... it's for a reason.

Bebe and I 'met' in cyberspace more than 5 years ago where we both offered each other (and other women) support in the form of a message board.  Our friendship grew quickly after a phone call I made to her one afternoon that lasted hours long.  I could tell we were going to be friends for a very long time...

We shared.  A lot.  We shared our experiences that brought us to that message board seeking support.  We shared our childhoods.  We shared stories about our mothers, and then after I even made a trip out to see her I even tried to push her mother into a pot of boiling water.  No worries... I saved her by grabbing her broken arm to reel her back in.  It sounds worse than it was... really.

I was there when she became a (bio)mother.  I watched her birth video and reviewed the traumatic delayed evacuation with her (so nice for a student nurse-midwife, by the way).  I was there to listen to her stories and fears and frustrations of step-mothering.

She's been there for me too.  She has told me when to lock myself in the bedroom with the phone ... that the "kids will be fine for 10 minutes."  She's told me to eat because I was to sick to feed myself.  She's called my family and friends to make sure I am safe because she lived more than a thousand miles away.  She has opened her home to me, to my kids, and now most recently to S.  She is part of my chosen family.

A year ago... she loaned me money... and it was like a birthday gift.  Because it was money I used to retain my divorce attorney.  When I left one dysfunctional relationship for another... she loved me, and she stayed by my side to show me that I am strong enough... that I am not the sum of my mistakes.

What does she say for herself?  "That's what friends do."

I've been worried about my friend lately.  I need her to be okay.

A Small Note

After the proper consent was obtained from the parents, the child was taken to the circumcision room.

Plastibell

Anesthesia was obtained utilizing 0.5cc of 1% lidocaine  After proper anesthesia was obtained, the foreskin was grasped at the two o'clock and ten o'clock position using small clamps.  A third clamp was then inserted under the foreskin and the foreskin was bluntly dissected away from the head of the penis.  A dorsal clamp mark was made and a dorsal slit was cut.  No bleeding was encountered.  The foreskin was then retracted and the head of the penis freed of all adhesions and the coronal sulcus freed of all debris.  A 1.1 Plastibell was then inserted and the foreskin was brought back up over that bell and tied in place with a string.  The distal excess foreskin was then trimmed off with the scissors.  No bleeding was encountered.  The child was returned to mother in excellent condition. 

Dear Mother,

Your baby son cried.  A lot.  He was sweaty, and screaming, and struggling...

He cried until he lost his voice.

I tried to comfort him by allowing him to suckle on my gloved pinky that was first dipped in a sucrose solution.  But, he did not want this.  He wanted your arms, your nipple, your warm-sweet milk.

   

I tried to comfort him as much as was allowed while he was restrained via hard plastic and Velcro  while still maintaining the integrity of the "sterile field."

Dear Mother, bleeding was encountered.

Dear Mother, even your pediatrician doesn't agree with routine infant circumcision.

Dear Mother, please don't think for a minute that this sleeping baby I have just wheeled into your room is "just fine."

 Signed,

Regretful RN

Dear Roomie:

I know you can hear us.  I am sorry.

 

I don't know what else to say to her.  You see, S and I have a (very) part-time roommate in the city.  We keep a little crash pad for when her job with The Company requires her to travel with layovers and standbys and whatever-the-fuck-they want to call it.  My job... well... I also need a place to crash in the city because my nursing career has now found me in these "parts."

I'm new to this roommate thing.  Part of me really likes it.  It's fun in a "Facts of Life" boarding school, kind of way.  (Maybe not the best description... there's only three of us, and no one is really acting as a "house mother" but... I really want to fantasize sometimes about Roomie as Jo... Shhhhhh... don't tell S.)

Anway... I mostly don't like it.  But I really like her.  She is so smart and funny.  And super duper cute (I mentioned the fantasy thing right?)  It's just this little teeny tiny ... thing getting in the way.... you see...

I know Roomie can hear us.  Talking.  Walking.  Brushing our teeth.  I know Roomie can hear me typing this probably right now. 

S and I aren't really new to the "joys" of hushed sex.  We don't like it.  But we tolerate it... for the kiddlets.  

Then we come to the crash pad and Roomie is right across the hall and it's worse than having hushed kiddlets sex.  Because at least there is a CHANCE in frozen over hell that the kiddlets may not hear us, OR if they do hear us... they won't know what the fuck that sound MEANS.

But. 

No. 

Our 30 something Roomie knows what the fuck "that sound" means coming from across the hall.  "That sound" only really means one thing.  It means that we are really enjoying our boarding school experience crash pad.

I love you Jess.

Happy Birthday, Best Friend...

this is a little reflection... for you.    

I have this friend Jess, and in my contact list on my iPhone for "title" I have her saved as Best Friend.  I have to explain, because I use the phrase "best friend" and "BFF" with so many people that it may seem as if I have a lot of besties.  I do.   And I don't.  I have many women (and one man) that are important to me for different reasons.  I could do half a year's blogging, devote one post for each person, and tell why they are important in my life.  Perhaps I'll spare you.

But Jess... she gets the title.  Best Friend.  Capitalized.  Proper noun. 

This is her birthday.  We texted this morning... and reflected about how 20 years ago... today... on this day, her BIRTHday... she got her first period... and today, on her BIRTHday... she woke up to her period.  What a reflection to be able to share with my Best Friend. 

Jess is a woman that people take for granted.  Everyone does.  Without knowing they do it... they do.  I have; I regret to admit it.  I see her husband and her children do it and while they get a "free pass" on occassion... I feel as Best Friend... I owe her more.  

Why do we do that?  Why do we give our friends more than family?

I'll tell you why I do.  Because Jess is my family... my chosen family. 

She could have chosen NOT to have been my friend, many times over, especially when I wasn't acting the role as BFF... but no... she remained by my side.  She's shown me unconditional love and whether or not she's ever judged my actions or "lifestyle" choices... I simply do not know... because it has not affected our friendship.

I hope it never does.  

I hope I can stop taking Jess for granted.  

I hope she can see herself for who she really is.   

Why I Hold Her Hand . . .

I remember the first time I held a girl's hand in public.  It was actually a woman's hand.  We were hundreds of miles away from anyone that would ever recognize me, but it still felt very identifying.  I remember how natural it felt.  I remember it felt like when I was a kid, running around without a shirt on . . . free and easy . . . shameless, before anyone told me that I was "supposed" to wear a shirt.

Then, that same woman and I, held hands in my hometown where anyone could see me "being gay..." where anyone at all could see ME being ME.  It did not make me want to run and put a shirt on, or run and hide.  I had done that long enough.  I was glad to be free and shameless, finally.

I don't believe that woman felt the same way about holding my hand unfortunately.

When S and I are near each other, we really can't keep our hands off one another.  It's her nature, though, she is a "touch-er" and I am craving to be touched.  We really fit well together.  We both touch people everyday for our jobs; we both love our jobs. 

When I am out with S we exchange hugs and kisses, long embraces, hand holding, and sometimes... more.  I rarely wonder what the public is thinking of these exchanges we are sharing.  I rarely even think about the public.  My energy and my focus is solely placed on her.  Most of the time.

I catch the dirty looks.  And that is why I hold her hand.  I hold her hand and I smile back at the Dirty Lookers as sweetly as I can.  Dirty Lookers are often of the male gender.  Their scowl is often accompanied with a disapproving look and a head shake (imagine a finger wagging too).  I want him to see me.  I want him to see S.  I want him to see me smiling at him with love and friendship and no hatred.  I just want him to see how true our love is and then find fault.  We are human, and our love is no different than his.

I hold her hand because the Other Mothers hold the hands of their husbands and why shouldn't I be afforded the same privilege?  Is it really a privilege to hold her hand?  Is it a privilege for them to hold their husband's hands?

I hold her hand because I can.  Because I don't have to campaign or march to hold her hand.

I hold her hand because it's soft and strong.

I hold her hand because it fits inside of mine.

I hold her hand because I want our children to see.  I want them to know love and affection of all shapes, sizes, colors, and flavors.  I want them to see and to know it's normal and visible and equal and fair.  I want our children to feel included... not on the outside looking in.

I hold her hand because of the girl that I saw in Old Sac yesterday who was probably 14 years old.  I'm guessing she was with her father.  She couldn't stop herself from looking at S and I.  We were sitting outside having an afternoon cocktail, sharing laughter, allowing ourselves to dream.  I noticed her.  She was doing more than noticing us.  I remember being her.  I remember studying women who I thought may be lesbian, and I remember studying gay couples that I very rarely encountered in my "real life."  I felt her studying us. 

We payed our bill and as we started to stroll again I felt my hand reach for S's hand... and there it was.  It just fits.