"Come here and smell his lemony head furs!"
So, here is a piece of creative nonfiction I'm feeling VERY awkward about, but really need ConCrit on. I intend to send this in to an anthology about women's and transfolk's sexuality, so I want it to be perfect.
Adventures of an Accidental Boydyke.
It took around fifteen years for me to realize, but I have always masturbated like a boy. No foreplay for me, no exploration of my extra parts, just press Tab A and work wrist furiously until done.
I’d been doing it since I could walk. At first it was no more than a primitive rutting against the corner of the coffee table or any other furniture unfortunate enough to hit me just at crotch-height. In grade school, I moved on to highlighters lodged against the underside of my desk for leverage, though I would still turn around in my chair when I finished an assignment early, and rock rhythmically against it, grunting and panting, until the curious pressure was relieved. Surely, my behavior could not have gone unnoticed, but it was never mentioned to me.
It was years until I discovered the use of my hands for this act, but when I did, it was a revelation. This evolution of technique was naturally entwined with the inevitable changes in body chemistry as I matured which, slowly, almost unnoticed, altered the entire experience. Arousal became an immediately identifiable change. Climax went from a simple easing of pressure to a pulsing, spasming release. And with this, I finally realized what it was I’d been doing all these years. And, at last, I relegated the suddenly intimate act to the privacy of my room. Or public restrooms. Or, all right, anywhere, so long as no one was looking.
Still, it took years more to find out that other girls had found a use for their vaginas, that not everyone shared my simple point-and-click approach to sexuality.
~
I find Lily, my first dyke, in the Fall of 2008, my junior year of college. She is an acoustic guitar playing, black tank top wearing, aura reading, vegan type of dyke, and she is mine.
After years of slowly awakening to my own gender, of finally taking notice of the dissonance between what society told me about my sex, and what was actually there in my head, I have begun, with Lily’s help, the switch to male pronouns. Suddenly, my sexuality is completely reconciled with my personal identity. I am, have always been, a fag. But more importantly, I am discovering, I am a dyke’s fag.
I am Lily’s fag. I am her pet, and she is my Master. On her orders, I am overjoyed to dig my teeth into the pale curve of her neck. She straddles me, towers over me, her long, white gold hair falling in claustrophobic curtains around us as she presses me against our dormitory wall. What little space there is between us is dark and hot, trapped between the press of our bodies, the denim of our jeans rubbing rough against each other under the press and strain of her thighs over mine, clasped tight under my hands. I am blocked in by her small, strong hands pressed flat to the wall, either side of my head, and her round, Irish face looming out of focus, her breath foggy hot against my skin, and her voice, low and close, whispering filthy things into the dark.
She is telling me how good it feels, how well I hurt her. She is murmuring secrets about my teeth and my hands and her skin and the taste of her blood in mouthwatering detail, reminding me how much she loves the pain that rips through her when I seal my lips over her flesh, how I make her scream and fight and beg. I struggle beneath her, panting near hyperventilation, writhing away from her or closer, I cannot tell, hard and aching in my jeans. Her neck is inches from my lips, and I struggle for it, choking on want, words lost to me.
I whimper beneath her and sink my teeth in deep, suck hard. Above me, her moans turn to scream, and she is the one struggling way. I follow Her fingers fist tight in the silk of my vest, her breasts, pale and ample, heave above the neckline of her blank tank. I bite them. I leave bruises.
She pries me off, by the hair, and I am left gasping like a caught fish. My hands clench and release haplessly on her plump thighs; hers are stroking my short, wild hair, gentling me back down. She tells me I’m a good boy, asks me how much I like to tear into her soft flesh with my teeth, how good she tastes when I suckle at her throat, and I do my best to answer. For my Master, my Daddy, I try to answer, but mostly I mewl and moan beneath her, drifting in the nonverbal fog of lust, and I mouth at her skin until she says I can put those teeth back to their proper use.
She bruises beautifully, massive, all covering, in deep and lovely shades. They spread across her neck, her chest, her back, her arms. They last for weeks, so breathtakingly gorgeous I can barely stand to look. She does not bother trying to cover her marks. Everyone knows how they got there. The girls in the next room over are sure we’re fucking. They pound on the wall for quiet at night, but we can never quite oblige.
And they are wrong; we never fuck. Of course we don’t fuck. Our clothes stay on the whole time. Our hands never stray below the waist. What we do is sexual, but it is not about sex. We’re gay, but not for each other.
~
With no practical applications for the thing in sight, I bought myself a strap-on, clearance but medical-grade, eco-friendly silicone nonetheless. I kept it stowed away, hidden under my bathroom sink in my parents house for months, just in case I should find a man to use it on.
In the mean time, I remained single, and kept up my lifelong masturbatory regimen, focus never wavering from the clit, my substitute dick, an uncomplicated, one-way ticket to orgasm. As effective as ever, but suddenly, unforeseen, it began to grow tedious.
And so, I took that big, black cock out from under the sink. I tossed through the drawers until I found an old, girly body lotion, a gift from an aunt concerned about my ability to attract boys unperfumed, which would finally find its use, and kneeling on my bedroom floor, carpet rough against my knees, I began the gentle slide and stretch.
My ass clenched tight and hot to my slippery fingers, but it didn’t take long to ease each one on, rocking against them, straining my wrist to that awkward angle necessary, and luxuriating in the overt physicality of each detail, the rug burn on my knees and the clench of my thighs.
Soon, I was lowering myself onto my strap-on, gritting my teeth as I worked the head past that tight ring of muscle and gasping at the easy slide that came after, fucking myself on my own dick, and while I had no prostate to shoot ripples of pleasure through me, to light up stars in the deep red beneath my eyelids, like you read about, the stretch and burn was enough, was plenty, and with soft, lotioned fingers petting against my clit, I rode my way to a whole new release, and popped that cherry myself.
~
It is Spring, 2009, and Rin and Lanthir, now my sworn brothers, are continuing to bend my burgeoning sexuality in entirely new directions. My Lily and I have crashed and burned and gone our separate ways, and I am attempting to approach life guileless and unfettered.
Rin has me tied to a chair in the book room of her apartment, wrists and ankles immobilized with silk scarves, and Lanthir straddles her where she kneels on the hardwood floor, both shirtless, arms wrapped tight around each other, mouths moving across each other’s skin. I twitch in my bonds, whining with empathetic pleasure, phantom lips ghosting over my throat. Rin chuckles darkly, and does not turn to look.
She is a bigendered, pansexual beauty, six feet tall with auburn hair and a crooked nose, who maintains the best policy is to date men, but fuck women. Lanthir, who has moved down to lap at her nipple, is a dyke-identified, sapiosexual genderqueer, her thighs and hips crosshatched with thick, raised scars and her perpetually bare feet stained with dust. From where I sit, immobilized, I watch her shoulder blades roll beneath the Elvish script tattooed across her back and ache to run my tongue along the letters.
At last, after immeasurable minutes of straining against the knots at my wrists, of leaning unintentionally closer and closer to the verge of over balancing, they descend on me with mouths and hands. I kiss until my mouth is sore, hands useless at my sides, glasses fogging, until they release me and lower me to the hardwood floor, a mess of mouths blindly suckling skin, a tangle of limbs, petting me until I can speak.
~
Lanthir takes on a sexually voracious dyke, name of Red, as a fuck-buddy in Winter of ‘09. Red’s long-term girlfriend is away in Japan, and she is making the most of their open relationship. She is a curvaceous, long-haired seductress, and, while inescapably sapphic, will and has played with any gender.
Tonight she has Lanthir naked and gasping in the back of my ‘93 sedan, relentlessly pounding her to the beat of the synthpunk blaring from my speakers. What had been a quest for a particular DVD has rapidly mutated into an excersize in public indecency, and I am taking us back to Lanthir’s flat, determinedly undistracted by the occasional hand reaching out of the dark to clutch and tug at my hair before returning to their escapades in the backseat. Just slouching in the driver’s seat listening to their sounds, the yellow glow of the streetlights and store signs gliding over my knuckles on the wheel, sinking deep into the pulse of the music and the engine, is powerfully sensual.
When we park and I finally drag them from the car and up the stairs to Lanthir’s pull-our futon, they get right back to it, hauling me down between them. Red pins me against the wall by the throat to wheeze heatedly for breath while her mouth works over Lanthir’s breasts.
Next we are standing in the middle of the cluttered livingroom, and I am pined between all that bare skin, hot even through the layers of my clothes, Lanthir’s pert nipples and sharp hips tight against my back and Red’s soft breasts and belly pressed flat against my front. Her kissing is almost overwhelmingly aggressive, all teeth and tongue, but not remotely masculine. I suckle at her lips for a time, while Lanthir tears into the musculature of my shoulder, until Red fists a hand in my hair and jerks my head back to lock eyes, telling me I’m too much boy for her, and forceably redirecting my mouth to the curve of her neck, where I am glad to oblige.
Through the lucid fog of indulgence, I feel the macramed handle of a rope flogger being pressed into my palm, and then I am swinging hard, patterning Lanthir’s back with red stripes while Red falls to her knees and buries her face between Lanthir’s quaking thighs.
~
Slowly, uncertainly, my interests were beginning to meander toward my own cunt. Years after the unexpected, miraculously freeing realization of my gender, I was learning to disconnect the notion of womanhood from the parts I had to work with, and while it wasn’t a cut and dry acceptance, I managed one night to press an experimental finger into that dark, damp heat with barely a hint of dysphoric horror. I call that progress.
Moving on to two fingers hurt far worse than the gentle ache of stretching my ass, the virginal skin taut around my knuckles stinging like hell, but as I pressed on the pressure eased, and a third was almost too much, but it was the best kind of burn. And I was certain, absolutely certain I would never have brought myself to face that act, let alone enjoy it, had I not accepted myself as the man I was.
I still find, like most men, that only direct stimulation will finish the job, that I still favor my old point-and-click sexuality, but I nonetheless continue to evolve. I’ve found that truth is no singular, immutable thing, but instead a constant state of flux, an inevitable, interminable evolution of being, as fluid as everything else in this mad, breathtaking world, and I am all too ready to throw myself headlong into it.
~
As ‘010 dawns and Winter drags to a grudging end, I have a new Sir. Rin is still not a dyke, but in some ways, she is my dyke. In others, she is my man, and I revel in the discovery without attempt to define. She knows the balance between hard, fast strikes of the flogger against my bare back and the tantalizing caress of the same, the teasing slide over flushed skin, the one that sets me shivering. She puts my hands where she wants them, against the wall, or flat on a table, or clutching the back of a chair, and they stay where she leaves them, restrained or not. She pets my twitching, hypersensitive flanks and I force myself still for her.
And when he blinds me with a silk scarf tight over my eyes and guides me to my knees, I lower my mouth onto his pale pink cock with surprising ease, throat opening with unexpected ease to take his length in deep, and when I work my jaw until it’s sore, guided only by his faint murmurs above me, voice dropping roughly as he asks how I’d like him to come in my mouth and I can only whimper in reply, gasping around his cock and rocking my hips against air, and he tells me too bad, I’ll have to just imagine it and I do, swallowing every drop, I hardly care what we are or why, only that we are here, hot and wild against each other in the dark.
UPDATED.
Adventures of an Accidental Boydyke.
It took around fifteen years for me to realize, but I have always masturbated like a boy. No foreplay for me, no exploration of my extra parts, just press Tab A and work wrist furiously until done.
I’d been doing it since I could walk. At first it was no more than a primitive rutting against the corner of the coffee table or any other furniture unfortunate enough to hit me just at crotch-height. In grade school, I moved on to highlighters lodged against the underside of my desk for leverage, though I would still turn around in my chair when I finished an assignment early, and rock rhythmically against it, grunting and panting, until the curious pressure was relieved. Surely, my behavior could not have gone unnoticed, but it was never mentioned to me.
It was years until I discovered the use of my hands for this act, but when I did, it was a revelation. This evolution of technique was naturally entwined with the inevitable changes in body chemistry as I matured which, slowly, almost unnoticed, altered the entire experience. Arousal became an immediately identifiable change. Climax went from a simple easing of pressure to a pulsing, spasming release. And with this, I finally realized what it was I’d been doing all these years. And, at last, I relegated the suddenly intimate act to the privacy of my room. Or public restrooms. Or, all right, anywhere, so long as no one was looking.
Still, it took years more to find out that other girls had found a use for their vaginas, that not everyone shared my simple point-and-click approach to sexuality.
~
I find Lily, my first dyke, in the Fall of 2008, my junior year of college. She is an acoustic guitar playing, black tank top wearing, aura reading, vegan type of dyke, and she is mine.
After years of slowly awakening to my own gender, of finally taking notice of the dissonance between what society told me about my sex, and what was actually there in my head, I have begun, with Lily’s help, the switch to male pronouns. Suddenly, my sexuality is completely reconciled with my personal identity. I am, have always been, a fag. But more importantly, I am discovering, I am a dyke’s fag.
I am Lily’s fag. I am her pet, and she is my Master. On her orders, I am overjoyed to dig my teeth into the pale curve of her neck. She straddles me, towers over me, her long, white gold hair falling in claustrophobic curtains around us as she presses me against our dormitory wall. What little space there is between us is dark and hot, trapped between the press of our bodies, the denim of our jeans rubbing rough against each other under the press and strain of her thighs over mine, clasped tight under my hands. I am blocked in by her small, strong hands pressed flat to the wall, either side of my head, and her round, Irish face looming out of focus, her breath foggy hot against my skin, and her voice, low and close, whispering filthy things into the dark.
She is telling me how good it feels, how well I hurt her. She is murmuring secrets about my teeth and my hands and her skin and the taste of her blood in mouthwatering detail, reminding me how much she loves the pain that rips through her when I seal my lips over her flesh, how I make her scream and fight and beg. I struggle beneath her, panting near hyperventilation, writhing away from her or closer, I cannot tell, hard and aching in my jeans. Her neck is inches from my lips, and I struggle for it, choking on want, words lost to me.
I whimper beneath her and sink my teeth in deep, suck hard. Above me, her moans turn to scream, and she is the one struggling way. I follow Her fingers fist tight in the silk of my vest, her breasts, pale and ample, heave above the neckline of her blank tank. I bite them. I leave bruises.
She pries me off, by the hair, and I am left gasping like a caught fish. My hands clench and release haplessly on her plump thighs; hers are stroking my short, wild hair, gentling me back down. She tells me I’m a good boy, asks me how much I like to tear into her soft flesh with my teeth, how good she tastes when I suckle at her throat, and I do my best to answer. For my Master, my Daddy, I try to answer, but mostly I mewl and moan beneath her, drifting in the nonverbal fog of lust, and I mouth at her skin until she says I can put those teeth back to their proper use.
She bruises beautifully, massive, all covering, in deep and lovely shades. They spread across her neck, her chest, her back, her arms. They last for weeks, so breathtakingly gorgeous I can barely stand to look. She does not bother trying to cover her marks. Everyone knows how they got there. The girls in the next room over are sure we’re fucking. They pound on the wall for quiet at night, but we can never quite oblige.
And they are wrong; we never fuck. Of course we don’t fuck. Our clothes stay on the whole time. Our hands never stray below the waist. What we do is sexual, but it is not about sex. We’re gay, but not for each other.
~
With no practical applications for the thing in sight, I bought myself a strap-on, clearance but medical-grade, eco-friendly silicone nonetheless. I kept it stowed away, hidden under my bathroom sink in my parents house for months, just in case I should find a man to use it on.
In the mean time, I remained single, and kept up my lifelong masturbatory regimen, focus never wavering from the clit, my substitute dick, an uncomplicated, one-way ticket to orgasm. As effective as ever, but suddenly, unforeseen, it began to grow tedious.
And so, I took that big, black cock out from under the sink. I tossed through the drawers until I found an old, girly body lotion, a gift from an aunt concerned about my ability to attract boys unperfumed, which would finally find its use, and kneeling on my bedroom floor, carpet rough against my knees, I began the gentle slide and stretch.
My ass clenched tight and hot to my slippery fingers, but it didn’t take long to ease each one on, rocking against them, straining my wrist to that awkward angle necessary, and luxuriating in the overt physicality of each detail, the rug burn on my knees and the clench of my thighs.
Soon, I was lowering myself onto my strap-on, gritting my teeth as I worked the head past that tight ring of muscle and gasping at the easy slide that came after, fucking myself on my own dick, and while I had no prostate to shoot ripples of pleasure through me, to light up stars in the deep red beneath my eyelids, like you read about, the stretch and burn was enough, was plenty, and with soft, lotioned fingers petting against my clit, I rode my way to a whole new release, and popped that cherry myself.
~
It is Spring, 2009, and Rin and Lanthir, now my sworn brothers, are continuing to bend my burgeoning sexuality in entirely new directions. My Lily and I have crashed and burned and gone our separate ways, and I am attempting to approach life guileless and unfettered.
Rin has me tied to a chair in the book room of her apartment, wrists and ankles immobilized with silk scarves, and Lanthir straddles her where she kneels on the hardwood floor, both shirtless, arms wrapped tight around each other, mouths moving across each other’s skin. I twitch in my bonds, whining with empathetic pleasure, phantom lips ghosting over my throat. Rin chuckles darkly, and does not turn to look.
She is a bigendered, pansexual beauty, six feet tall with auburn hair and a crooked nose, who maintains the best policy is to date men, but fuck women. Lanthir, who has moved down to lap at her nipple, is a dyke-identified, sapiosexual genderqueer, her thighs and hips crosshatched with thick, raised scars and her perpetually bare feet stained with dust. From where I sit, immobilized, I watch her shoulder blades roll beneath the Elvish script tattooed across her back and ache to run my tongue along the letters.
At last, after immeasurable minutes of straining against the knots at my wrists, of leaning unintentionally closer and closer to the verge of over balancing, they descend on me with mouths and hands. I kiss until my mouth is sore, hands useless at my sides, glasses fogging, until they release me and lower me to the hardwood floor, a mess of mouths blindly suckling skin, a tangle of limbs, petting me until I can speak.
~
Lanthir takes on a sexually voracious dyke, name of Red, as a fuck-buddy in Winter of ‘09. Red’s long-term girlfriend is away in Japan, and she is making the most of their open relationship. She is a curvaceous, long-haired seductress, and, while inescapably sapphic, will and has played with any gender.
Tonight she has Lanthir naked and gasping in the back of my ‘93 sedan, relentlessly pounding her to the beat of the synthpunk blaring from my speakers. What had been a quest for a particular DVD has rapidly mutated into an excersize in public indecency, and I am taking us back to Lanthir’s flat, determinedly undistracted by the occasional hand reaching out of the dark to clutch and tug at my hair before returning to their escapades in the backseat. Just slouching in the driver’s seat listening to their sounds, the yellow glow of the streetlights and store signs gliding over my knuckles on the wheel, sinking deep into the pulse of the music and the engine, is powerfully sensual.
When we park and I finally drag them from the car and up the stairs to Lanthir’s pull-our futon, they get right back to it, hauling me down between them. Red pins me against the wall by the throat to wheeze heatedly for breath while her mouth works over Lanthir’s breasts.
Next we are standing in the middle of the cluttered livingroom, and I am pined between all that bare skin, hot even through the layers of my clothes, Lanthir’s pert nipples and sharp hips tight against my back and Red’s soft breasts and belly pressed flat against my front. Her kissing is almost overwhelmingly aggressive, all teeth and tongue, but not remotely masculine. I suckle at her lips for a time, while Lanthir tears into the musculature of my shoulder, until Red fists a hand in my hair and jerks my head back to lock eyes, telling me I’m too much boy for her, and forceably redirecting my mouth to the curve of her neck, where I am glad to oblige.
Through the lucid fog of indulgence, I feel the macramed handle of a rope flogger being pressed into my palm, and then I am swinging hard, patterning Lanthir’s back with red stripes while Red falls to her knees and buries her face between Lanthir’s quaking thighs.
~
Slowly, uncertainly, my interests were beginning to meander toward my own cunt. Years after the unexpected, miraculously freeing realization of my gender, I was learning to disconnect the notion of womanhood from the parts I had to work with, and while it wasn’t a cut and dry acceptance, I managed one night to press an experimental finger into that dark, damp heat with barely a hint of dysphoric horror. I call that progress.
Moving on to two fingers hurt far worse than the gentle ache of stretching my ass, the virginal skin taut around my knuckles stinging like hell, but as I pressed on the pressure eased, and a third was almost too much, but it was the best kind of burn. And I was certain, absolutely certain I would never have brought myself to face that act, let alone enjoy it, had I not accepted myself as the man I was.
I still find, like most men, that only direct stimulation will finish the job, that I still favor my old point-and-click sexuality, but I nonetheless continue to evolve. I’ve found that truth is no singular, immutable thing, but instead a constant state of flux, an inevitable, interminable evolution of being, as fluid as everything else in this mad, breathtaking world, and I am all too ready to throw myself headlong into it.
~
As ‘010 dawns and Winter drags to a grudging end, I have a new Sir. Rin is still not a dyke, but in some ways, she is my dyke. In others, she is my man, and I revel in the discovery without attempt to define. She knows the balance between hard, fast strikes of the flogger against my bare back and the tantalizing caress of the same, the teasing slide over flushed skin, the one that sets me shivering. She puts my hands where she wants them, against the wall, or flat on a table, or clutching the back of a chair, and they stay where she leaves them, restrained or not. She pets my twitching, hypersensitive flanks and I force myself still for her.
And when he blinds me with a silk scarf tight over my eyes and guides me to my knees, I lower my mouth onto his pale pink cock with surprising ease, throat opening with unexpected ease to take his length in deep, and when I work my jaw until it’s sore, guided only by his faint murmurs above me, voice dropping roughly as he asks how I’d like him to come in my mouth and I can only whimper in reply, gasping around his cock and rocking my hips against air, and he tells me too bad, I’ll have to just imagine it and I do, swallowing every drop, I hardly care what we are or why, only that we are here, hot and wild against each other in the dark.
UPDATED.