I found your strap-on harness.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
For a half second I got horny
looking at it,
thinking about how you looked handy
and manly wearing it across your
womanly curves.
You always wear your carpentry toolbelt
with such pride.
Then quickly I got sad and melancholy,
remembering how the last time
you used it on me
I started crying cuz I didn’t feel you were
f**king me with any interest…
then you started crying cuz you felt
critiqued.
I thought about dropping it off on your
front porch,
but I’m not traveling down your street anymore.
Plus, I concluded it would do neither
one of us any good to drop it off at your place.
I can’t keep it cuz not many women
will want to wear a strap-on
that another woman used on me.
I guess there’s maybe some out there
who would,
but I came to the conclusion to throw it
in the trash.
Tag: sexuality
You tell me with
moonlight.
What others cannot say.
I’m woman, but I’m
not woman.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m sex and sexuality.
My eyes shine
bright and jeweled
in night
glancing up there,
lofty clouds sail.
You looked,
saw my brunette hair.
It’s fire,
shaded and shaped,
upon your vulva.
This formula of heaven,
my tongue splits upon you.
You looked.
You remembered.
My eyes still shine.
You don’t want to see them.
You can’t unsee them.
The good lover
you wanted.
A body forged with the
beats of your heart.
The moonlight carried
your cries to me.
I’m here
under the three trunk oak.
The only thing I could do
to have her feel safe with me
was to have her be the “top”
often times.
Otherwise
the world, the feelings and
emotions
seemed all too much for her
in moments.
So I handed her the edges,
brought her to them,
took her near and above the abyss.
I’m honored to have been
that person for her,
that vulnerable and
delightfully feminine
woman.
I know she needed that.
She needs my ass, my laugh
and my moans.
We’re connected always.
I was there with her,
rushing into heaven
as she broke
a lot of her models
of oppression and shame.
She’s gone from me.
I’m gone from her.
But I’m glad she knows liberation
now
and that special Angel Land place
only two women can go.
Maybe we had an even
more special version of it?
A libertine & a perfectionist
caught
on the tumultuous earth.
Who’s to say?
Press me up against the wall
fair lady
femme dyke
I’m your power bottom
forming my wrists over
testosterone bones
industrial wasteland
I’m here now
watching the flowers blossom
Smell a sweet scent
across the field
Wait for that succulent nectar
I sculpt words for your hands
to hold
my cupped, bloomed ass
in that way that just does it
gets it done
revolutionizes my soul and breath
and brings the twilight
down upon our breasts
chest to chest
tongue to tongue
against the wall
When I was pressed I blossomed
When life began demanding
manhood of me
there was nothing left
Vanished and vacant
You rescued me and gave me soil
Because of the female
hormones
I take
my male-born genitalia
smell like
female genitalia.
Now I’m talking about
that pure kind of smell,
that carnal,
appetizing and enticing
kind of smell,
that woman flower,
the kind that makes you
want to lick, eat, savor,
breathlessly lost in the joy
of producing
soul-electrifying pleasure
for your girlfriend
on a morning when you
both have off work or
maybe on a morning
when you’re waiting
to go on vacation
without the kids
and you find yourselves
devouring the womanly
landscapes of each other.
That smell.
That earthen cream smell.
Just in case you were wondering.
Just in case you get any ideas.
Just in case you think
for a moment I might actually
be a woman.
Just in case you’re suddenly
turned on
and want to give me pleasure.
Just in case you’ve ever
desired women before.
I am here.
After he was done
he stood over me
growling and said
I was a good slut.
I was mostly naked
with my panties yanked
down around my ankles
and my negligée half off.
I felt barren and exposed
and wanted to cry.
I knew this wasn’t what
I wanted.
I felt a foreign and shameful
inauthenticity growing inside me.
It hit me full force in the stillness
after he left.
I’ve got to now,
He said moments after finishing
and lefty briskly without
exchanging any niceties.
Then
I cried and sobbed in the emptiness
of a Chicago apartment
built for a four or five person family.
The ice and snow outside
melted, merged, and ashened
from all the cars going by.
I believed I needed
a man’s masculinity
to affirm my femininity.
That is not true.
The most noble masculinity
I’ve ever experienced
originated from within
the curves of a woman.
And I find that more affirming
of my femininity and all femininity
than any man or
anything a man could do
for a woman.
I consider masculinity to be
the efficient ability to compartmentalize or
contain emotions,
while femininity
is the ability to swim
within an ocean of emotions.
I swim with women now.
She is a sapphic.
Wasn’t supposed to be
according to
her family’s expectations,
the cultural conventions where
she grew up,
or her own guilted inhibition.
But these days
when her children are away
or sleeping
she lays on her bed on
sunny mornings,
easy weekend afternoons,
or sleepy evenings
and makes love to herself
and cums really hard
watching lesbian porn,
thinking about women,
and clutching the soft and strong
loins of her body.
Things were not supposed
to turn out this way.
But they have.
It’s just how things are now.
Years ago
when traveling back home
in the middle of the night
in the car with my father’s 2nd wife
after we had visited him
in a treatment facility for his
crack cocaine addiction,
his wife shared with me
that she believed in angels.
She spoke of them in the Christian sense;
having wings, being dressed in white,
but being invisible
and flying around to help people in need.
I sat there in the sad darkness of
the moving car
and thought the stuff coming out of
her mouth
was absolute bullshit.
Now, after having transitioned to female
and had soulful lesbian sex with a woman
… now yes, yes I do believe in angels
and I know they’re living, breathing,
here on earth.
One of these days you’ll
not wake up
and all the people you will
have ever loved
will be dead.
Tell me that is not the way towards love.
Rather,
show me that won’t come true
for you.
Show me.
Show me little things matter.
That they’re here.
That you’re here, alive.
Not just waiting for moments
of love to pass,
to pass on,
to be something without you
or to be something with
only you and you alone.
Come touch my sensual body and
my passionate soul
here in the morning,
the 6,540th morning you have left
on this earth.
For if you touch it
once every 12 days
that means you have
545 mornings left to touch me.
If you touch it,
death holds off on its road to the stars
for one less moment.
Make me some kind of sentient lover.
Am I a seraphim again?
Let me be made as a woman.
Find me a woman.
Bring her tongue to my nipples.
I’m just a broken flower, Mama.
I don’t have a penis or a
vagina, Daddy.
Satellites fly over my head.
Humanity triumphs.
I just need love.
What is love?
I don’t deserve love.
Yes, I’m trans.
Are you dating, then?
Yes, I’m dating.
Open and a free-for-all.
Do you suck dick?
No. I eat pussy.
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