[“It was only after I came out as a dyke that, for the first time in my life, I felt ready to celebrate being a girl, and I did. Actually, I overdid. Armed with Esther Newton’s Mother Camp, Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, and Joan Nestle’s A Restricted Country, I embraced femme. I dressed up in short flowery dresses, pushup bras, satin panties, and lacy stockings. I paid great attention to my long, curly, perfectly-coiffed hair, my glamorous makeup, and especially my pouty lips. I spritzed Lola’s smell on my skin—Estee Lauder’s Private Collection—and painted my nails. I wore all of it with black combat boots and a brilliant sense of irony. I reveled in my girliness, went over the top, learned how to tweeze my eyebrows and line my lips with a lip pencil.
My gender presentation was unmistakable: blatant female sexuality. I was a proud, in-your-face, take-no-prisoners, uppity, don’t-assume-I’m-straight-because-I-wear-lipstick-and-dresses femme dyke. Because femmes are always assumed to be straight or sleeping with men, and I do sleep with men, I made sure to always have a butch on my arm so I’d be read as femme. Even though I was sure I’d be mistaken for straight, the boys took one look at me and steered clear. It was as if I was too much of a woman for them to handle, like I was a handful, and I was. But butch girls love a handful—a handful of tits, a handful of ass, a girl who needs to be handled, a girl who can handle herself.
How I figured out I was a femme had a lot to do with the women I was attracted to and the dynamic between us. When I was in junior high, I used to mess around with a friend of mine named Angela. Angela was one of those girls who developed early; I remember she had big breasts in like sixth grade. We mostly kissed and touched over clothes, and we played out various boy-girl scenarios. I was always the girl—my early femme roots. My favorite of all our little scenes was the one where she was my male boss and I was the secretary. The boss made me have sex with him and told me if I didn’t I would get fired. Now this was all before Clarence Thomas, Anita Hill and the media awareness/obsession with sexual harassment. I remember she’d tell me to suck her dick and push my face unmercifully into her crotch, which smelled amazing,. The drama of it all—the force, the degradation, the power games—really got me off. After that, there was no going back to simplicity. I was hooked on the power.
Jen really epitomized all the girls I was attracted to then and still am. Being with a butch girl, I was valued for my combination of strength and vulnerability, for dressing up, for wanting an arm to hold onto, hips to wrap my legs around, being able to give my body over to her and say, I trust you, I’m yours. My butch loved me in low-cut dresses, appreciated my sexual voraciousness, worshipped my inner slut. I reveled in the fact that I could be strong and submissive all at once. Surrender and still be a feminist. Being a dyke is not just about who I fuck and love, it’s about being a girl who doesn’t play by the rules.
Butch girls don’t play by the rules either, and I love butch girls. Girls with hair so short you can barely slide it between two fingers to hold on. Girls with slick, shiny, barbershop haircuts and shirts that button the other way. Girls that swagger. Girls who have dicks made of flesh and silicone and latex and magic. Girls who get stared at in the ladies room, girls who shop in the boy’s department, girls who live every moment looking like they weren’t supposed to. Girls with hands that touch me like they have been touching my body their entire lives. Girls who have big cocks, love blow-jobs, and like to fuck girls hard. Every day, it is the girls that get called Sir that make me catch my breath, the girls with strong jaws that buckle my knees, the girls who are a different gender that make me want to lie down for them.
Someone else said it about me recently and it’s right on target: “She gets off on all different sorts of people sexually, but she falls for butches.” Like the poet who bought her first strap-on with me and then wanted to sleep with it on. The shrink-in-training who got harassed every time she drove down South. She did look so much like a fifteen-year-old boy: blue button-down shirts, neatly-combed blond hair. The ad exec who had names for her dildos and used to love for me to spit-shine her wingtips. The photographer whose face was so mannish she could pass almost anywhere. The writer who wanted a body like Loren Cameron’s. The telephone repairwoman who drove a truck. The cook who had a boy’s name. The academic who got cruised by gay men on Castro Street. The cornfed farmboy from the Heartland with arms so hard and strong you swear they’ve been working the land, not the iron at the gym.
And there’s the one who’s got the James Dean stare down, and dresses like a clean-cut fag, and looks at me like she could look at me forever and never blink or grow tired or move from the spot she’s in. She’s a girl who loves girls like me—girls in velvet bras, girls who want to surrender to her mouth. She’s a girl who isn’t afraid to throw a femme down on the bed and fuck her. Possess her. My kind of girl. This girl is different.”]
tristan taormino, from this girl is different, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000
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Jock Cock, Part 1
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Adam Johnson, next year's star quarterback and this year's bane of my existence, looked up at me with his baby blue eyes. If he was trying to look small and unintimidating, it would have worked better without carrying 200+ pounds of muscle on a six foot frame.
Well, if he wanted to be melodramatic, two could play that game. "You know full well why I called you here, Adam." I thumped the stack of papers on my desk for emphasis. "You've been failing ECON 105 all semester, but suddenly you can score an 83% on the final exam? It's enough to get you D- in this class. It's not a perfect score, but it's still enough for you to avoid academic probation."
His face flashed with a brief moment of irritation before setting back into his normal, casual stupor. "Well, I wasn't studying before, and now I did. It's not like I scored all that great... sir."
"We both know that you don't know what 'sustainability' means, Adam. You tried to fly under the radar, you didn't cheat your way into a 100%... but it's still cheating. We both know that academic misconduct is a serious crime." I tried my best to sound stern and disappointed, but it was hard to be angry at a face this sexy.
Adam just laughed at me. "And if you could prove it, you wouldn't be calling me into a private meeting, would you?" He leaned back into a shit-eating grin, displaying his dazzling white teeth. This asshole had the upper hand, and he knew it.
"I checked every single essay!" I said, pounding the stack of papers once again. "Every essay, in every single TA's session of this class. You didn't plagiarize... but we both know this isn't your style of writing. And we watched you like a hawk during the exam itself, so you didn't cheat that way, either."
Adam leaned close into my face. "Professor Michaels has no idea that you called me in here, does he? You're just a Teaching Assistant on a power trip, and it's all because you can't stand knowing how I did it." He was right, and I hated him for it. Worse, when he stood this close to me, I could smell the musk of his body.
"Tell you what," he added, pulling off his tank top to reveal a set of firm abs. "You let me get away with this... sign off on my scores, whatever you need to do... and I'll let you live out one of your deepest, darkest fantasies." He struck a pose, showing off both his rippling muscles and his hairy pits. "We both know that you'll never get jock cock any other way. Come on, Teach. You want this."
Was I really that easy to read? "I-- I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Look, if you're going to stick to your lie about studying, then you can just leave. I don't... there's no need to insult my moral character. You're a student, Adam."
He responded by leaning in close to me, and placing his hand on top of my bulge. "Your body betrays you," he whispered, letting his fingers massage my inner thigh. "If it makes you feel better, I'm not your student. Adam and I swapped bodies so that I could take all of his final exams."
"I... yes, well..." That was the last thing I expected him to say, but it would explain a lot if it were true, somehow. It seemed much more likely than a desirable athlete like Adam coming onto me, at the very least.
"Be that as it may," I said, grabbing his hand and moving it away before my cock started leaking though my slacks, "that body still belongs to one of my students. And I still have meetings to attend today, so if we're done here..."
Adam, or the stranger in Adam's body, just laughed at me. "You're the one who wanted to have this meeting, remember? But that's fine, I know when I'm not wanted. But here's the thing-- once you submit grades at end of day, Adam's not your student anymore." He started typing something on his phone. "And honestly, I expected this from you. You're so uptight. Good thing you gave everyone your cell phone number on the syllabus at the start of the year. So if you change your mind... now you can have Adam's number, and a bonus pic from me."
"I know you don't know the real me, but trust me Kevin-- I've wanted to plow that uptight hole of your for months. And in this body, I've actually got a shot at it." The stranger slapped my ass before I could react, and swaggered out of the room. Whoever was inside of Adam's body, they knew my first name.
I looked at the retreating wall of shoulder muscles, and down at the teasing bathroom selfie the stranger sent to me. God help me, I was only human. And he was right-- how else was I going to get jock cock? He wasn't a student, not really, and that's what mattered. "You win. Tonight at 8pm, my place. Bring lube."
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A little thing based on this post because it wouldn’t leave my brain:
“I just don’t understand why you won’t try to read it.”
Steve had heard Dustin say this exact sentence hundreds of times at this point.
“I mean, do you know how to read?”
Mike was an asshole. Steve loved him because he was part of the group and he’d been through the same things, but he was such a dick.
“Yes, I know how to read. I just don’t.”
Dustin rolled his eyes.
“If you don’t wanna read nerd shit just say so.”
Steve threw his arms up in frustration.
Steve was a nerd at heart. As a child, he would beg the nanny to take him to the library and the science museum that had real dinosaur fossils. There was something about the peace of exiting his reality and finding a new one among fantasy and history that was indescribable, even to this day.
But as he grew into his looks, he grew out of that phase. At least around others.
And with no nanny around to take him places, he settled for just being the popular guy who hung out with his friends after practice and threw parties at his forever empty house on Saturdays.
But secretly, he still found himself enjoying books late into the night. Never school books, or his grades would’ve been good enough for college, but always incredible novels that took him to other worlds with the most impressively brave people.
And then he lived a nightmare. A few times over. With concussions at every turn.
Now, anytime he tried to read, his head started pounding, his vision got blurry, and ears would start ringing. He stopped trying altogether after Starcourt, but he’d never really let go his love of books.
He occasionally let Robin read to him, but she would get distracted by a plot or character and go on a tangent, leaving Steve confused about what the actual story was. He hated being confused.
“Stevie, you got a minute?”
Eddie had been watching from his spot at the end of the table, where he’d been cleaning up the mess of D&D. He usually made the kids do it, but he’d let them off the hook tonight when they beat the monster and escaped his trap.
Steve and Eddie were friends, definitely. Maybe not close ones, but friends.
Steve had a little crush, definitely. Or a big one. Maybe.
So when Eddie shows him attention, he somewhat shamefully receives it like he’s dying of thirst in a desert.
Robin is the only one who’s noticed so far, but if he keeps acting like a dog being called by his master anytime Eddie talks to him, someone else will comment on it.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Steve asked as he made his way to Eddie.
The kids took this time to talk amongst themselves about the game and what they think will happen next week, and Steve couldn’t have been more grateful.
“You don’t have to tell me, but.” Eddie was tapping his fingers nervously against his leg. “Do you not know how to read?”
“Uh. No I do. I mean I graduated high school. I know it’s hard to believe.”
“Not judging if you can’t, man. I mean, I took three senior years. I’m the last person who can judge.”
“Yeah, but you’re smart. You just didn’t like school,” Steve replied with a pat to his shoulder.
Eddie glanced down at the contact, eyebrow raising and then falling back to normal quickly.
“Just seems like you’d have read something by now to get them off your ass.”
And that’s a really good point. Maybe he should’ve just suffered through a migraine so they’d leave him alone about it.
But migraines left him out for days sometimes, and he couldn’t exactly afford that right now.
“I guess it’s just not worth the migraine.”
He hadn’t meant to actually say it. He didn’t want Eddie to feel bad or for him to try to make him feel better about it or ask questions or talk about the concussion thing.
Actually, did he even know about the concussion thing? Things?
“You get migraines when you try to read?” Then realization hit Eddie hard. “Steve. Do you like reading?”
Something about the way Eddie was looking at him, like he was sad for him but not pitying him, made Steve want to cry.
“I used to, yeah.”
“Everyone out! Your parents are gonna have to come get you! No questions, no explanations, go!” Eddie yelled to the room.
Everyone stared blankly at him before they started protesting, Dustin loudest of all.
“Steve’s my ride!”
“Not anymore. Hitch a ride with Lucas.”
“But Lucas’ mom always squeezes my cheeks and tells me she hopes I never lose my baby fat.”
“She speaks for all of us. Get the hell out of here!”
Steve was actually impressed. Maybe a little turned on? God, he was a disaster.
As everyone cleared out of the room, Eddie patted the seat next to him. When Steve sat down, Eddie scooted his chair so close to him, his knees were touching Steve’s.
“Alright, so you’re gonna tell me about what books you like and what books you want to read and we’re gonna get started.”
Steve blinked at him. “Huh?”
“You have a list I’m sure.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Okay, then we better get started.”
“I mean, I’ve tried. I appreciate it, but even focusing on one page makes my eyes burn and my head hurt.”
“Got that. I’m not asking you to read.”
Sometimes Steve was worried the concussions had actually knocked some screws loose. He wasn’t getting it.
“I’m gonna read to you, Stevie.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure a lot of them will be movies and I can just watch them.”
“It’s not the same. You know it’s not.”
He was right. Steve didn’t have much patience for movies. And sometimes even those gave him migraines if there were a lot of bright lights and explosions.
“Yeah. But still. You don’t have to do that. You might not even like the books.”
“Ah, this isn’t a completely free service, my liege.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “I don’t have extra money to pay you, dude.”
“Not money. I get to pick a book to read to you when we finish the first book you pick.”
“Is it The Hobbit?”
“It is,” Eddie looked so smug.
“Well, that was my first choice,” Steve stared back, equally as smug.
“So, your house is empty.”
“Yep.”
“And I’m assuming you own this book.”
“I do.”
“And it’s getting late.”
Steve looked out the window at the pitch black skies.
“It’s late.”
“So I could stay and read you to sleep.”
“Won’t I miss some of the book?”
“I’ll stop when you’re asleep.”
Steve’s heart was practically begging him to say yes. Eddie reading to him in his bed? Possibly falling asleep together? Maybe even waking up together? It couldn’t be a better proposition. Well. It could.
“Will you stay even if I fall asleep?”
Eddie smirked. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d called Steve that, but it was the first time it felt like he meant it in a non-teasing way.
“Okay.”
So they both changed into some of Steve’s comfy clothes, got into his bed, and Eddie started reading The Hobbit.
Just as he was during D&D and real life, Eddie was animated, providing different voices for different characters and often giving long pauses to let Steve soak in what the words meant.
Steve didn’t even have to ask him to do that. He just did.
Steve fell asleep somewhere between halfway and the end of chapter two, but Eddie stayed.
And they woke up the next day with Steve’s head resting on Eddie’s chest, Eddie’s arms wrapped around him to keep him as close as possible.
They finished the The Hobbit in a week, and because Eddie was now committed to making sure Steve was well-read, they started moving through his list rapidly, falling for each other in new ways every time Eddie turned a page.
Part 2 (Angst) / Part 2 (Fluffy) / Part 2 (Explicit)
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