Drama Queen

I guess we aren’t ready to live on our own together. My partner and I have two roommates. I think it’s to keep us from sleeping on the couch unnecessarily. Because if he and I lived on our own right now I would totally be pulling a sleeping on the couch drama queen move tonight—but because we live with 2 other people, I can’t risk the embarrassment. Why am I mad enough to sleep on the couch? Really? Because I’m a fucking princess. Tonight I had a performance, and what I expect after I perform is to be showered with affection and told I’m the most amazing entertainer that has ever graced the planet earth then be fucked into oblivion—fucked so hard I can’t form coherent sentences. 

Needless to say, this is not what is happening right now. Right now I am sitting in the dark living room alone, lit only by the glow of my laptop and the twinkle of the Christmas tree…the lonelinest lighting imaginable…and brooding over how terrible my life is.  Nevermind the fact that I got my xmas present early yesterday and it was a Hitachi Magic Wand with an attachment that can assure female ejaculation and that we made love like wild banshees. Nevermind that tomorrow night my partner and I are going to an invite only A list BDSM porn party to have sex with some of the hottest freakiest people in town.  Nevermind that just earlier today I was texting my partner to tell him that he is all of my fantasies realized.  No no. All that matters is that right now, I’m a princess. And right now, I’m a drunk and angry princess who doesn’t feel like she’s getting princess treatment.

I’ve been dieting recently. Trying to live on 1400 calories or less. Therefore I’m hangry all the time. I cried in Whole Foods today because I had too much anxiety to buy a cookie.  Seriously? No wonder he doesn’t want to fuck me.   I own the fact that I’m a princess and that my sensitive little ego needs to be stroked mercilessly after I get up onstage.   I know that no matter how many random strangers in the audience tell me I was great, the only person that matters is the person I fall asleep next to. And if that person doesn’t want to fuck my brains out when I get off stage, then I have failed as a performer.

That’s my price of admission. A performer’s ego. So please, I encourage any partners of performers out there to really pay attention the night after a performance. Drink some coffee, take a power nap, do whatever you need to do….but make sure that your partner is well fucked when they get offstage.  Really. That’s all they want. 

The Lament of a Good Time Girl.

I’m having trouble focusing on the computer screen as I type this.  Maybe it’s because I’ve had a few beers and am currently sipping Jim Bean while eating pecan pie.  Maybe it’s because I put my contact lenses in the wrong eyes (my right eye is slightly stronger than my left).   Or maybe it’s the fact that I just had amazing first time sex with a near perfect stranger. 

Perhaps, I was fucked so hard I can’t see straight, as they say.

And a near perfect stranger he was. Slightly stocky, tattooed, older, masculine, toppy, in a band—what more can a girl ask for?

He met me when I was in full stripper mode—six inch heels, big hair, glitter, false eyelashes, the whole shebang.  That night I hadn’t looked real—not “unreal” mind you, just NOT REAL.  Like a strange stripper pin up girl bettie page Barbie with one too many margaritas in her.

I had been magnetically drawn to him.  Probably cause he was wearing a vest.  Something about a man in a well tailored vest makes me want to suck his cock immediately.

I definitely got a little too close to him that night, and probably fucked up some private dance sales because of it.  Here I was letting this dude touch my ass, but as soon as a private dance patron tried to get a little frisky I got all stripper mafia on his ass and was like “HANDS TO YOURSELF SIR” in my sweetest Siouxsie Q voice.  It just didn’t seem fair.   I tried to stay away from the Hot Vest Man but I just couldn’t’ help myself and ended up getting his number and sexting him for several days after the party

Well tonight he finally came over. I admit that my margarita memory had failed me a little and I was slightly shocked when I opened the door. We had both lost our late night vampire glamour.  I was no longer 6’3’’ and he was no longer the hot dude from the band but rather just a cute tattooed guy on my front stoop.  I  let him in, kissed him chastely on his cigarette scented lips and wondered if I had made a good call inviting him over.

He had brought beer. And whisky.  So I had to give him credit for that.

We sat on my bed after an awkward introduction and tour of my apartment—I might as well have said 

“Hi roomates, this is the man I invited over to have sex with me, and now will we retire to my room to do so.  Hot Vest Man—you don’t need to know where anything is except the bathroom and my bedroom, and you should be pantsless is both locations"

We chit chated and touched each others knees, suddenly both unsure if we wanted to do this—until I took hom out to the roof where there’s a great view of Sutro Heights and an old church that is spectacularly lit from sundown til about 3am.   We are both creatures of the night, and as soon as moonlight hit our skin, the kisses fired off like bullets and it was on.

We scurried back to my bedroom and hurriedly undressed each other as if we were in a terrible early nineties drama.  He bent me over and admired the bruises on my ass.  At least someone was admiring them—I had spent the weekend doing everything from trans porn to kinky girl orgies and I had the battle scars to prove it.  Unfortunately my kink factor can be a little high even for the notoriously kinky patrons of the Lusty Lady and I felt like I had been weirding out customers all day.  But Hot Vest Man caressed my bruised ass like it was a sacred object.

This weekend I had receieved a blessing from the goddess. (I feel barfy for saying it like that, but really) She had magically postponed my period so I didn’t have to deal during a week of porn, lap dancing, and orgies.  Unfortunately, I was suffering the consequences now by a Sunday and Monday full of blood and pain.  But I was not about to pass up the chance for some alone time with one of my weekend conquests.  I didn’t really want to have the whole  “I’m on my period so can we put a towel down” convo with a dude who I had mostly communicated with via text message and tonsil hockey, so I instead opted for a porn star trick one of my co-workers had passed on to me: make up sponges.

I bravely stuck two triangular make-up sponges up my twat about 20 minutes before his arrival and felt very confident about the results.  After sticking my own fingers up there, I concluded that the velvety texture of the sponge felt so close to the texture of the inner walls of my vag that no one would be able to tell the difference except me.

I proceeded to spend the night forming another crush on someone I should probably not invest in too much emotionally.  Hot Vest Dude is great, but he’s a Gemini, just like me. A heartbreaker.   Someone who loves everyone and no one.  But how much can I complain, really? Two orgasms each, more hot body piercing and tattoos than I’ve ever seen on one single body, and lots of amazing sexy conversation over beer.  These are the nights I live for.

I kissed him goodnight at my door in much the same fashion as I kissed him when he walked in.  He said “Maybe we’ll go on a date sometime and not have to fuck.  Maybe I’ll make you dinner sometime. You’re amazing.” 

Contrary to popular belief, these are the things one says to a girl when one has no intention of actually dating her.  When on has labeled her a “good time girl” .  Somebody so fun and fuckable she can’t even be real—and so she’s not.  She’s the perfect combination—hot, DTF (down to fuck), low key, just like one of the boys--but with a pussy.  She’s not “unreal”, she’s just….not real.

It’s not like I’m sad about it, or thought he was the one or anything. I’ve just done this a lot.  And hey, I’ve got pecan pie and whiskey on my side.  I can’t really complain.

My only real problem is going to be figuring out how to get these make up sponges out of my pussy.  

Seriously. 

The end of an era

So I gave internet dating a shot. (did I mention that pretty much everyone I've written about thus far I met on okcupid.com? I didn't? oh. surprise!)  What did I get from it?

• A threesome
• a bunch of bruises (the good kind) 
• illicit sex in an alleyway
• at least one love song.  

Not too bad.

I made it out alive with nary a bruised ego.

Well, there was the one cute older guy I had sushi with.  He worked for some software company that handled proprietary new ideas and was so proprietary he basically couldn’t tell me anything about it.  But he had rakish black curls and an easy going manner, and I was ready to  make out with him right away even if he was working for the next Manhattan Project.

I thought the date was going splendidly, until he dropped me off on my doorstep, gave me a hug and said “Well, we know how to get a hold of each other.”

Whoa.

Shit. I thought.  I guess that date didn’t go so well. 

I mean, it’s one thing to not call, but the sympathy hug paired with the “we know how to get a hold of each other” line is date-talk for “I hate you.”

Oh well. As a not very successful dating website once said: there are “plenty of fish.”

Maybe I’ll try meeting people the old fashioned way. 

I’ll have my father gather my dowry and plan a trip to the next township.  I can’t wait to meet some Austrian aristocracy.  

Coming Out as a Slut

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a slut.  I mean, of course I am (please refer to the previous entries.)

However, I get nervous.

It's actually quite difficult to maintain a raunchy sex positive outlook 24/7.

I've become a stripper in the past 3 months.  I fucking love it.  It makes me like my body, myself, and humanity more.

I don't plan on telling my mother.

However, on Friday I went to a Giants game with her and my dad.  On the way out of the ball park, we passed the infamous Hustler Club mobile strip club--basically a box on wheels full of naked women and a pole.  My dad stopped to stare at a brunette with coffee skin pressing her ass against the glass.  My mom said something snide.  I tried to keep walking, afraid I might recognize someone, or somehow betray my alliances.

Coming out as a slut is way harder than coming out as queer.  I think I'm still coming out to myself about it.  There's still some bits of shame clinging to me.

They tell us in high school health classes that girls who are promiscuous really don't like themselves, and if having lots of sex and feeling good about yourself ever coincide it means that you've just bought yourself a one way ticket to teen pregnancy and a heroin addiction.  I suppose we're supposed to feel neutral about sex unless it's with someone you LOOOOOVVVEEE.

But having lots of sex with people I don't necessarily love....makes me feel awesome.

And being naked in front of people who pay me....has made me like my body more.

I don't know. Maybe I'm going down the wrong path after all, and Mr. Stevenson (my Bill Cosby-esque high school health teacher) was right.

But then again...I am going to Vegas with seven strippers on Friday.  We have a suite at the Monte Carlo with hot tub in the room and mirrors over the bed....

If I'm choosing wrong.....I think I'm okay with that.

Every third person

There are certain moments when your life flashes before your eyes. Sometimes its when you find yourself in the back of the SF Underground in the lower Haight sitting on the lap of the girl you have a crush on and watching someone you’ve seen in porn get fisted.  And then of course, the speed at which your life is flashing only increases when the person stops getting fisted and starts getting fucked with some one’s foot.

Your life also flashes before your eyes as you wait in your room listening to Regina Spektor at 3am, awaiting a BDSM porn star you met on the internet to come over and beat the shit out of you.

Or when you end up having a threesome with your boss and the innocent looking girl at work, and you realize that the innocent looking girl –braces and all—has kind of a mean streak as she digs her nails into your ass cheeks.

 Does that ever happen to you?

My life has been flashing before my eyes a lot lately.  

And it seems that every third person I see on the street is someone I’ve seen in porn or someone I’ve “winked” at on OkCupid. 

Blood, Sweat, Sex, Drugs, and Fanny Packs

4/17/10

*side note: I am unsatisfied with the title I have given “Kinky Jewish Boy”.  It’s too big a mouthful, and while he is quite the mouthful himself, I have decided to rename him “Daddy”. So. Henceforth and hitherto, he will be referred to as “Daddy”.

Now, I’m not trying to brag or nuthin….but shit.

My life is fucking OFF THE HOOK.

Sometimes, I step back and just jump up and down and squeal like a little girl in glee about how fucking BOMB things are for me.  Situations in which this is likely to occur include:

 Right after going down on Daddy’s Girlfriend and then watching him fuck her while I stroke the base of his cock in this super amazing way he said made his cock actually heat up by several degrees before he had a self described “semi-volcanic” orgasm…

                                    …but I’m getting ahead of myself.

On Saturday I had stayed in bed literally all day.  I had been consumed by what I thought had been the beginnings of the flu. I could not move without aching all over. I remedied this by watching six straight (and very gay) hours of America’s Next Top Model and ordering Thai food delivery.

Thankfully on Sunday I woke up feeling like a new woman.  So I spent a leisurely morning cleaning my room and then headed off to Oakland for a daaaaaaate.

I had been wanting to go on a date with Faun Boy since we met for the first time in February at Ships in the Night (queer dance party in the lower Haight) and we fucked in an alleyway.

In contrast to our debaucherous introduction, our date on Sunday was quite wholesome. We went to the flea market by Lake Merrit in Oakland. We ate corn on the cob, drank orange soda, shopped for fanny packs.  Afterwards we went and lazed in the grass by the lake and talked about things you talk about on a date when you’re “really connecting”. 

You know, life, death, relationships.  I nodded and mmmed a lot but mostly just tossed my hair and hoped that I was looking really cute in the sunshine. I really wanted to kiss him.

And then I felt a gush.  

That extra special gush that you get once a month that says “no no, this does not mean you’re super turned on right now, it means you’ve just bled all over your cute aqua sundress”. 

Fuck.  

I prayed that this wasn’t the case, but I knew it was. I glanced down to see the damage, and thankfully it wasn’t that noticeable. Faun Boy invited me back to his place, but since I felt blood slowly coursing down my thighs, I thought it best to head back to the city.  I know he would have been understanding, since as a trans man, he’s definitely seen both sides of the gender coin and wouldn’t be all squeamish about my “lady process” But I started to feel the onset of knee-buckling cramps, so I kissed him good-bye for a good twenty minutes—which caused fireworks behind my eyes, no big deal—and we went our separate ways.

Earlier on my date, when Faun Boy had been buying some boxer briefs that said “WIN” right above the crotch, I had received a call from Daddy, so I while I searched the Lake Merritt BART station area for an open public bathroom, I listened to the voicemail he had left me. It went something like this:

“Hi Baby, I know you’re on your date right now, and I hope it’s going great.  We’re going to come by around 9 tonight, I can’t wait to see you, but if your date is going REAL well, don’t let us cramp your style and we can maybe meet you in Oakland instead. We were in the middle of fucking earlier when you called, I was just thinking about you….”

Today was a big day. Though I had met Daddy’s Girlfriend before at New Year’s Eve this year, tonight would be the first time that all of us would hang out in earnest—and there were distinct overtones of an impending threesome. Daddy’s Girlfriend is super hot, and though she’s not queer, she has in the past enjoyed having “girl hands in her cunt” as Daddy puts it. He has expressed to her that both he and I would greatly enjoy for me to get the chance to go down on her.  So, we’ll see what happens.

I call Daddy back and he picks up almost immediately though I know he’s having dinner with the Girlfriend’s parents in Marin.

“Hey Baby! How did your date go?”

The sound of his voice on our first date had been kind of a turn off for me, it has a higher timbre than I would like and it sounds overtly amiable; at the time I hadn’t been sure that I could take orders to suck cock from such a sweet voice—but now I recognize the firmness behind it and even a run of the mill greeting like this can start to make me wet.

I proceeded to tell him the details and he oo-ed and ahh-ed appropriately, told me how much he missed me, and how just talking to me gave him a hard on. I broke the news of my cycle to him.   Not surprisingly, he responded with ambivalence.

“Why should that matter?”  he said.  

I must say that after years of dating WOMEN who won’t even touch me when I’m on the rag, it is so refreshing to have all these MEN in my life who don’t give a shit about fucking while I’m bleeding. 

I made my way back to the city, first stopping to take care of my lady business in a bathroom at Laney College. There was a basketball game going on that afternoon, so I stopped and bought some water at the hot dog stand run by one of the Sororities. I was definitely the only white person there. While waiting in line, a fucking adorable little stud rushed to the front and said, 

“I can help you”.   

She had dimples that could kill you and big bling in her ears, corn rowed hair, and sharp lookin' suit.  She smiled at me real big and it only took a flicker of understanding between us to know 

that she knew 

that I knew 

that she knew.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll just have a…uh…a bottle of water.” I smiled.

She gave me this sexy half smile “You sure that’s all you want?” I wasn't. 

I made my way back to the Bart Station and popped a couple of Vicoden to deal with my menstrual pain.  The rest of my evening was spent in preparation for Daddy’s arrival—it was a mad housewife whirlwind of vacuuming and cheese platters clouded by a pharmaceutical haze.  When I slipped on a 1950’s A-line gingham halter dress over my naked body, my cell phone blew up announcing Daddy’s arrival.  I ushered my guests in, and though Daddy felt me up in the hallway, I set my hopes no higher than an evening of pleasant after-dinner conversation.  However, if you will refer to the first paragraph of this entry….the night brought much more than that.

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a rad first day of my cycle. 

Somebody up there loves me. 

Wouldn't it be nice?

Wouldn’t it be nice?I thought to myself.

To just want a boyfriend. A simple little boyfriend. Who wears skinny jeans and likes yoga.  Who likes to make out, eat pizza, watch a movie and send me cute text messages.

Maybe. I thought.

Maybe this is what I’ve been missing...

So. Tonight I went on a date with a regular boy. A Wisconsin transplant who was cute enough.  But not too cute. I learned a few months ago that dating someone who feels like they are out of your league means they probably are, and won’t call.

But this boy had soft hands, big eyes and the potential for male pattern baldness in about 5 years.

We at pizza, drank beer and watched Twin Peaks.

He kissed like a nervous goldfish gulping for air.

And despite his sweet exterior he leered at me when I spoke about how my ex girlfriend had ripped my heart into tiny shreds.

When I asked what HIS last serious relationship was like, he said he’d never really had one.

Great.

I could tell he would have fucked me then and there with Audrey and Agent Coooper watching.  But could we really call what I know he could do to me “fucking”?  I don’t think anyone who reminds me of a nervous goldfish could do anything resembling the quality of fucking to which I have become accustomed.

Sure. I could keep him around and rock his world a little bit. I think just talking to me blew his mind to some degree.   It became painfully clear over chicken pesto pizza that we did not speak the same language when I had to not only explain what “T” and “top surgery”  meant but what a trans man even was. When I told him I was generally most attracted to trans men he asked where I met them..and if I had to spend a lot of time cruising the Castro to find these illustrious unicorn-like creatures. I found it best to drop the subject.

I had hoped that his lack of worldliness would be compensated by an unbridled passion for love-making that could only be a by-product of a repressed Midwestern upbringing (I find that since I was raised by hippies in an environment largely free of repression, I tend to fetishize things that are generally thought of as repressive: the South, suburbia, Catholocism, ya know)

But as I discussed earlier, there was no wild buffalo roaming through this one.

Oh well. Guess I learned my lesson once again.  

Conclusion: This is not what I’ve been missing.