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...

It feels undescribable.

But I will try anyway, to describe what femme feels like...  to me at least.

Femme feels like brand new baby skin.  Soft and a little squishy... almost like a puppy's skin, but brand new babies smell like fresh baked cookies for about a week.  Then the smell is gone.  Forever.  However, while finding my Femme, don't ever worry it will disappear in a week.  It's here to last.  Forever.

Femme feels pulled in a million directions.  Daughter-Sister-Mother-Friend-Lover-Secretkeeper.  Cook-Maid-Nurse-Therapist-Comedienne-Student.

Femme feels hard and soft at the same time. Femme feels like every emotion is right on the surface, but if I let them see, then I might be considered less than.  Femme feels good in the arms of someone strong.  Femme feels good to me. 

Femme feels like a cool autumn night, windows open, crickets chirping, sun-setting earlier and earlier each evening.  Femme feels like the chill on my sweat laced skin as the night breeze rushes through the room.

Femme feels invisible.  Unseen.  Unheard of.  In my very rural community to be Femme is an advantage probably.  Therefore, Femme... is isolating.

I don't know what the fuck Femme feels like, but I know that I'm the expert on whatever the fuck it feels like to me.  Femme doesn't really give a shit and is done wasting time wondering if you do too.

Femme feels like soft, warm skin ... fresh after a bubble bath. 

My favorite part of this is when I can finally stop.  I can stop everything I'm doing and the world seems to stop too, and S is there to make sure of it.  Without fail, she's there...with her oil and her strong hands.  And I can just be.  I can stop.  I can be.  I am Femme.

Femme is wearing that because I like to.  Femme is taking care of myself.  Femme is taking care of her.  Or all of us.  Femme is the smell of the laundry that I've taken off the line... Sunshine.  Femme smells like sunshine.  Femme is doing her fucking laundry every week because I WANT to, not because I have to, or because she asks me.  There is something incredibly satisfying about doing her laundry.  Especially when I can dry it on the line.

Femme is sitting in a salon chair and not a barber chair.  This is complete torture for me.  The two and a half hour procedure of "getting my hair done" requires me to premedicate with xanax or ativan or both.  I'd rather sit in a barber chair.  I have nothing to say to the women there.  They have nothing to say to me.  Usually, I try to talk about my job, because... oddly.... we all birth the same.  (Note that is sarcasm.)  But I like my long chestnut hair and without the said procedure my hair is less than spectacular.  So off to the salon I go.  I dream of the day I can take my son to the barber - just for the experience alone.

Femme wears her girlfriend's cowboy shirt when they are apart.  S's shirt on my skin, nothing else.  I can smell her, and smelling her is remembering her.  Sometimes I wear the shirt out and about and sometimes I wear S's shirt to bed.  She doesn't know this.  Sleeping alone, in that huge bed, feels very lonesome when I can smell her so close to my body.  I shut my eyes tight and make myself come, alone, but in her shirt.  And I wonder if the next time she wears it, she will know.

Femme is wearing heels, all year, and yes... sometimes when the weather determines one might should wear other shoes.  I've worn heels with the usual skirts and dresses, but also with jeans, capri pants, and even shorts.  I've worn heels to bed (and kept them on).  I've worn heels while 9 months pregnant (which probably looked ridiculous... I'll give ya that).  I've worn heels in airports and at at the zoo.  I have high heeled sandals and boots.  I will never own enough high heeled shoes.  If S is smart, she will never question my choice in footwear.

S has asked me, a few times, about how I came to understand the world in certain ways, or how I became who I am based on where I've lived my entire life.  This is a compliment.  Really.  The only thing I can tell her is one of my strongest memories from childhood... is my mother's voice telling me, 'You can do anything you want to so long as you set your mind to it and work hard.'  Other values she instilled in me were that of equality.  Equality between genders... races... etc.  I grew up feeling equal and of value... that I had something of worth to offer the world.  My mother made sure to tell me that there were others that did not believe this were true and that someday I might have to fight for equality.  I learned about others before me, before us, that did fight that fight.  I grew up feeling pretty proud of my mother.  I grew up feeling very goddamn proud of womanhood.  THAT feels like Femme today.

Just a Small Rant (part 1)

Bear with me here.  I've had a trying past couple of days. weeks. months.

I need to bitch again.  Surprise, surprise you are thinking.  Fuck yeah. 

I've written before about the "image" of lesbianism when my friend asked if I'd still be wearing my sundresses this year.  (In her defense, I know she was only teasing me.)  I feel like I need to write a little more.

Do you think Portia was asked, when she first came out to the cast and crew on the Ally McBeal  set "Are you sure you are gay?"   Do you think that because she has been blessed with such striking beauty she has had a more difficult time as a young lesbian woman or has this helped her and her career?  Is it more acceptable that she is gay because... well ... look at her.  Men and women alike want to look at her.  Or are men pissed that this beautiful woman doesn't want them between her legs, no matter how good they think they are at "it?" And are women threatened by her?

In short, has her looks helped her or hurt her?  Do we really care?

I guess I've been caring a little more.  Not because I find myself attracted to Mrs. De Rossigenerous, no no no, I can see and appreciate her stunning beauty but she's not really my vision of sexual attraction.  I have been more concerned with the media's portrayal of who and what a lesbian looks like and what that does to society's perception of lesbians OF all kinds.

An example: the HBO hit series The L Word.  I'm rolling my eyes as I plunk away at the keys.  If you've never seen the show, let me invite you out from under your rock and direct you to Netflix where you can download entire series after series and watch them right on your computer.  However, you really only need to see a few episodes and you'll "get it."  Maybe it's me.  Maybe it's because I am not so interested in femme on femme sex.  I don't know.  It seemed like it was the same "type" of lesbian with different names.  Pretty stereotypical types too.  And the only thing closest to a butch was Shane, who ... really.... represented more of a tomboi.  In defense (I suppose), I know plenty of lesbians that really loved this series and felt like "they" finally were represented on mass media. (Also, if anyone's seen the complete L Word series and I am wrong let me know.  I gave up on it after like season 2.)

Yes, I realize I am using a fuckerton of labels here.  In my little ol' humble opinion though... it is what it is and we are what we are.

Let's move on to Portia's wife, Ellen DeGeneres.  Remember when she had her TV show in the 90s and she was going to come out on network television?  Was anyone else thinking to themselves, "Uhhhhh yeah.... she's gay.  And the 'big news' is what?"  TeeHee... Look at this picture I found.  I imagine Ellen thinking the same thoughts.  Okay, now, all the same questions to Portia, let's throw them at Ellen.  Hmm.  I don't think she was repeatedly questioned, "Are you sure you're gay?"  I wonder if any men ever said to her, "But I'm really good at going down on women, you just haven't ever had a real man do it properly."

I don't think so.

I love Ellen.  I love her comfort in her skin and I love her happiness in life. 

Also, I remember when I was in high school and head over heels in love (wow, that's an image) with H.  She and I laughed our asses off watching Ellen and reading her book My Point: And I Do Have One.  I felt drawn to this woman and wanted to know more about her.  I couldn't believe that everywhere I looked, I couldn't find any information anywhere that confirmed she WAS gay.

That was what life was like for me then though, trying to figure out who "was" and who "wasn't" and if you know where I live you understand that.

So when Ellen came out in 1997, the same year I had my first baby, I felt happy that one of us was being completely true to herself.

I couldn't be happier today now that she has found this amazing partner in life, and their happiness is palpable in every photo we see of them.

Hmmmm... my point... I DID HAVE ONE!

I had a very bad night last night.  Had dinner with an old friend, who happens to have a penis so he can't really help a lot of this I suppose.  The evening started okay, I set him "straight" a couple of times when he made some comments like, "What made you choose....."  and other bullshit like that.

Right before I was ready to leave though, he said to me, "What if you could be with a man that is exactly like you?"  I am not really sure what that means.  First of all, if he is exactly like me, then he'll have a pussy?  He will never be exactly like me.  But I guess what he was referring to was my personality... so I went with that.  I told him I had been with men that had a personality like mine.  He just looked at me.  Then said, "Just not what you like then?"  Like he was waiting for an explanation.  I've never felt like I had to explain anything when everyone thought I was straight.  And I'm quite certain that no one has ever asked him to explain why he like petite, brunette women.  I just smiled and said, "Not what I like."

Another comment men like to make is the one I made above when discussing Ellen.  On the topic of oral sex: I've heard that "I'm really good at it" to which I reply, "So am I" and I've heard "But I really like doing it" to which I reply, "So do I."  Apparently I just need to find a man that can go down on me "better" and then I'll be straight "again."

I would like to ask you, dear straight men, what if a man could suck your dick EVEN BETTER than your wife/girlfriend/best lover?  Oh, not interested?  But what if he REALLY liked doing it?  What if he was told all the time he was really good at it?  Still not interested?  What's wrong?  I don't get it?  Is it just "not what you like?"  Don't  you like to have your cock sucked off?

OH I KNOW!  What if he has really soft hands, like a woman, and gets manicures and pedicures once a month?   (The guy I had dinner with actually told me that bullshit and I couldn't hold back my laughter.)

I'll come back with a Part 2.