Her hair was black, a lush and thick mohawk flanked by stubble at the sides of her head. It was high and tight above her ears. She exuded a confident resolve, but somehow I sensed a neophyte's vibe underneath it, as though the confidence, her sense of presence, was there but still getting its fine tuning. She was a work in progress. Her air suggested that in a former life, she might have been completely comfortable in a DA, wearing painted leather and snapping gum or rolling a cigarette as she hung out with the other "bad girls" at the corner soda shop. She was a postmodern Anybody's.
She wore a pleated white wifebeater, under which I could barely make out her binding ace bandages. Or was it post-surgical gauze? Her bluejeans were scuffed, her Docs faded, her spirit streetwise and reckless. Was she packing?
We made eye contact. She stared, open-mouthed, caught, as she saw my mischievous, comprehending, friendly smile. Was I alone in feeling the connection? She may have felt my sexual attraction, but did she sense the same energy of kinship, comradeship, brotherhood that I did? If not, was she confused to find that coming from a masculine, biological male? From a guy? I wanted to reach out to her, connect, learn her name, make a buddy out of her. I felt pulled.
She went to the other side of the streetcar but maintained eye contact. She studied me, I saw. Was she observing my movements, feeling my vibe, observing and learning more of how a man might move, act, speak, be? Or was she checking me out? Probably not likely, not in that sense. Pity.
Moments later, too soon, she was leaving. Going out of her way to pass by me, she gave me a manly nod of recognition. "Take care, man," she said in an affected, resonant voice, and she swaggered off with a sexy machismo. Her ass swayed in a man's stride, crinkled in worker's blue denim. I could picture her, wearing a handsome black leather strapon harness sporting a swaying, thick dildo, lubed and ready. I could picture her in that and her wifebeater alone, kneeling between Shayne's splayed thighs, small bare feet over the edge of Shayne's bed. Shayne, clad in her pink 1950s dress, that dress straight out of a My Home magazine cover, her strawberry red lipstick, her damp panties on the floor, the cuntpassion in her eyes as she would get soundly fucked by this boiish Daddy.
images Birls, personal collection, Ultimate Surrender
4 comments:
From a big, butch dyke lesbian vegan top to an apparently straight guy: thanks for not being an asshole, respecting that punkgrrl's space, and being cool. Now tell me where I can find this girl in pink so I can fuck her brains out too.
I'm definitely a dyketyke, and have always felt a bond around queer women of all kinds. It's challenging sometimes however, because unlike faghags, there's a lot of cautiousness that someone like me faces when meeting and getting to know queer women. That's because, let's face it, so many (straighter) men behave like moronic jerks.
Shayne lives midwestish. She comes here from time to time, and I'm confident that she'd blush and dampen at your invitation. ;)
From a submissive woman who positively adores women who strap/pack...Thanks so very much for the respect you showed to that woman. It is refreshing to see.
Anonymous ~
Thank you so much for coming here, reading, hopefully enjoying, and commenting on this. Like you, I adore women who strap/pack, and I mean it when I say that I feel a strong kinship with them.
When I was younger and working the bdsm clubs if New York, I found many friends among the Lesbian Sex Mafia, and later, when living in Boston, among the T-Bears MC. I've learned so much from my dyke friends, and I love them all.
Thank you again for coming. Feel free to email me privately if you'd like to shake hands with a guy who gets it.
Be well and live shamelessly. Keep the faith.
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