We all have our own sexy little forms of escapism. Mine is pretending to be a farmer/baker that is wildly popular and beloved. My friends is to live in a mountain area and raise goats. Its the little things
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I can see a smear of rose dawn through the tent window when you kneel between my legs and slide your cock inside me. For a second I feel cool inside and out, cool breeze on my arms, cool silicone dildo sliding over labia, vulva, vaginal muscles and skin. You press deep, resting your full length on mine, surrounding and penetrating me with love. I begin to cry, to be so filled by you, without the cringing and fear that once rode inside me at this moment. You have come inside me because I have asked you to; you begin rocking inside me.
The birds are chattering, a mocking bird is floating the doublets and triplets of song over us. The sun begins to heat the air of our domed tent, sweat slides from your chest over my breasts. You heighten my desire with your stroking, stroking, and after a long ecstatic journey, after what you later tell me is perhaps an hour, I come to orgasm from your fullness, from your glancing against my clit. Again I begin to cry, wrenchingly, as you rest on me.
In ten years of marriage to a man, I never came to this from the pleasure of him inside me. There was always elaborate manipulation of me by him, contortions of fingers, penis, always the fear of possible pregnancy, always his fear of me. But you are excited by my desire, close to orgasm yourself. The birds have subsided into whispers. A sudden rain shower rocks the tent in the sun, and I lie safe in your arms.
You are a woman who has been accused of betraying womanhood. In my groans of pleasure from your cock, perhaps some would say I have betrayed womanhood with you, that we are traitors to our sex. You refusing to allow the gestures of what is called masculinity to be preempted by men. Me refusing to relinquish the ecstasies of surrender to women who can only call it subservience. Traitors to our sex, or spies and explorers across the boundaries of what is man, what is woman? My body yawns open greedily for what you are not afraid to give me.
We dress and unzip ourselves from the tent. Walking down the red dirt road muddy from the rain, in the sharp morning light, we pause to caress the mimosas of the sensitive plant, to draw our fingers along the tiny ferny leaves to see them fold up instantly, a spasm of motion at our touch.
Minnie Bruce Pratt, “Mimosa”
(via billnihilism)
the tags on these are so good tag your escapist fantasies
I heard a rumor that butches have access to the world of men by virtue of their polished boots and perfect Winsor knots
Some tragedy tells me that they are the pretend women; the women born wrong; the women-not-women
who inhabit a spectral plane where they wear shackles identical to mine but cannot name the cage they’re inI heard a lie that butches are men in a bad plastic mask
That their privileges include public hisses, leering eyes, and strangers plodding close behind
I heard that butches sink venom
into femme women
into straight women
into whoever passes by their street corner
at which of course they are leaning against a brick wall with their thumbs hooked into their Dungarees(But this is not about my fantasies)
I was told some tedium
when I was a baby gay
salivating over Stephanie with the chain wallet and the sneer
who spoke against the cruelty of boys in my class
when I was sold the snake oil that butches were hiding in the shadows
with lighters
waiting to burn my bra
But here is what I have learned:Butches swing bats against true predators
scaled monstrosities preying up and down the block
They have dug their heels in for my right to call myself a lesbian
to free me from every constricting dress and shapewear that men would otherwise cram me intoI was always good enough, small enough, big enough, loud and quiet and sour enough
A butch woman taught my public school sex education class
and gritted her teeth when her students asked about barrier methods
hands tied by the confines of simply needing to pay her rent
so no she could not dismantle the system
But, she said,
“If anyone–anyone–Has any questions, my office is open”Butches ask me if I’m doing okay when I’m in a new space
They ask me to dance
if I feel safe
if I need to get a cab home
Butch women have been the ones to catch my terrified stare when I have Shrodinger’s rapist standing next to me on the subwaybecause you don’t know
until you knowButches love flowers,
split the bill
whisper sweetly to their cats
secretly sleep with teddy bearsButches snore like sleeping dragons and bite like them, too
but only when their homes have been invaded
caved in, gutted
and carved beyond recognitionButch is not a liminal space
a go-between
Butch is a force to be reckoned with, but if you let it, then the rain will come
and everything good will grow from the ground
The rain will comeThe dyke rages on.
Dan Yell, @anarchism-lesbianism (via butchfemmeculture)
“In 2012, Louis C.K. appeared on “The Daily Show” and said that “comedians and feminists are natural enemies” because “feminists can’t take a joke.” Jon Stewart nodded vigorously and agreed. Today, Stewart is being fawned over for acknowledging, in response to Louis C.K.’s fall, that “comedy on its best day is not a great environment for women.” A friend, the comedian Zahra Noorbakhsh, texted me: Ten years from now a man will win awards for his documentary about all this. If you believe us now only because your peers are facing professional ruin, that deserves its own reckoning. I’ll wait.”