An Evening In Her Bed 1 More Time Story
For a popsicle in preschool, I received my very first kiss. But the popsicle is something I recall well from that kiss. Also there were other spin-the-bottle games, including one that we created ourselves dubbed “pass the tic-tac,” which was my particular favorite. When I was twelve, I had my first serious experience with one.
It was hormonal and full of the anxieties that come with adolescence. He stroked my boobs, I touched his junk. After a few years, I kissed my first lady and was much more frightened and eager about it than I had been at twelve years old.
Normally, one would expect this uneasiness to go away with time, but that hasn’t happened yet. It still gives me the same joy as it did when I was in junior high to share my first kiss with a new partner. There’s the cautious progress ahead, checking to see whether they want it as much as you do and hope that they do, and then the joy when you realize that they do want it as much as you do. Until recently, I considered kissing to be such a personal experience that I would save it for just the most special of individuals. My life has been distinguished by anti-kissing laws, and I have had sexual relations with individuals without ever having our lips come close to one another.
My anti-intimacy feelings have mellowed with time, but I am still quite sensitive to kissing. The length of time it takes me to kiss a female tells me how much I like her. If she makes my clit throb, I’ll take her by the shoulders and start squeezing her right then and right now.
However, if she makes my heart skip a beat, I may never even try a hug with her ever again. The night I kissed Tsunami for the first time, we were lying in bed, moving closer and closer until we had no option but to kiss one other. Nothing seemed to be able to exceed the intensity of the situation.
And after that, I kissed The Wind.
An Evening in Her bed 1 more time story
After more than a year of playful messaging and personal talks, we were finally able to meet in her bed late one chilly San Francisco evening. I spent hours identifying her body parts in Italian, huddled up under every blanket she possessed, until she eventually allowed my tongue meet hers and we could communicate. When it came to kissing, The Wind had a knack of making each one seem like the first.
Despite years of expectation, the tease and tension of her tongue never materialized, and the black shadow kisses Betty Draper mentions never made their way into our romantic relationship. Everything I’ve encountered since The Wind has been pleasant, but nothing has blown my socks off in the same way hers used to, with stomach churning intestines twisting to match.
It was only thinking about that kiss that got me thinking about how much I missed The Wind. But, more than that, it made me realize how much I yearned for closeness and physicality when it came to emotional connections. Masturbating is wonderful, I really believe that, but there is no machine that can replace kissing, believe me, I’ve searched. So I stepped up my game in the hopes of finding someone to kiss.
Despite my best efforts, I am a lousy pick-up artist when it comes to picking up women. It’s quite difficult to approach someone and ask for their phone number. I’ve definitely gotten better at it, but at this point in my narrative, I was still batting 0 for bringing a female home from a bar. The corny pick-up lines have never worked on me, and I have no reason to believe they will work on others as well.
Sure, my father may have taken the stars and placed them in my eyes, I may have lost that loving sensation, and I’m sorry you’ve misplaced your phone number, but if you want to take me home, you’ll have to come up with a line that is less scripted and more honest. And I realized that I’d have to come up with something distinctive for the other females as well as for myself.
I tried the entire “I’m a sex blogger, I’d love to write about you” thing online to a few individuals I thought were gorgeous, thinking that may be my in, the angle that would win me the ladies. I can’t hold it against them for not responding to my emails. Then I tried it on a waif blonde with a leather jacket and heavy makeup at a nearby lesbian pub, and it didn’t work. I was enamored from the moment I saw her enter through the door, and it took all I had to communicate to her about my feelings for her. This is what I performed in the most casual, self-assured way I was capable of:
“You’re really stunning,” I say. “Can I ask what your name is?”
“___________,” she says. (This isn’t left blank to maintain anonymity.) As a person who has difficulty remembering names, I have completely forgotten what hers was.
“Greetings, __________, my name is Queerie Bradshaw.” “Do you happen to be single?”
Her: “Yes, I am a single woman.”
“Would you be interested in going on a date with me sometime?”
“It’s brand new,” she says. (I correctly deduced that this meant she was freshly single.)
“That’s OK with me.” “Would you like to hang out with your pals instead?”
“Of course,” she says. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”
“Would it be pompous of me to provide you my business card?”
“No,” she says.
“Here’s my business card,” I say. “My name is Queerie.”
‘I understood it the first time,’ she says. I have to go visit some of my buddies. Bye.”
At the bar, it was essentially the whole of our conversation. I never received a response from her, which was not entirely surprising given our previous correspondence. When it comes to girls, I have a long way to go before I can be Rico Suave. It wasn’t my best performance, and I should have asked for her phone number rather than giving her mine instead. I made several rookie errors. Despite this, I made an attempt with her.
The day prior, I went to a Mexican cuisine restaurant and spent the whole time fawning over the tatted-up butch working behind the counter there. Then I left without expressing anything about my wish to have her drink tequila shots off of my nude body. I chatted to her, flirted with her, and then I went. Even though I’d been taught that hitting on individuals while they’re working, particularly if they’re serving you, I immediately regretted my actions as I got out of the car and headed home.
I’m starting to believe that picking up a stranger requires a certain amount of forceful brusqueness. Even if it’s simply what years of watching romantic movies has taught me, it’s possible that the bold, absurd pick-ups I’ve heard about aren’t as ridiculous as they seem to be.
Subtle seduction is less effective than outright flirting, according to my latest hypothesis. After watching Friends, I’m beginning to feel that Joey Tribbiani had it right when he’d sit down next to a female at a bar, give her a grin, and say “How you doing?” For some people, being direct, upfront, snarky, and honest is the best way to go, and the internet is the perfect platform to do it.
To get away from the monotony of going out to bars and returning home with nothing but boxes of toys and my thoughts for company, I posted two posts on Craigslist at the same time, one looking for “Just Friends” and the other looking for “Just Sex.” It’s ironic because although I received creepy replies to the Just Friends ad (“I’ve been here for six years, it would be good to finally have a friend”), my responses to the Just Sex ad resulted in meeting some interesting new individuals.
When I was up in Portland for burlesque concerts or just to get away from Eugene, I used to study – yeah, I really studied during this whorish era of my life – at a charming little bakery on Alberta street called Le Petite Provence. It was a great place to get away from Eugene and learn some French.
They recognized me, and we often exchanged opinions on legal ethics and croissant ingredients, among other topics. Costello, the most promising response to my “Just Sex” post, agreed to meet me there since it was a secure and comfortable environment for me. Despite the fact that Costello’s answer to my post was sexual without being creepy, I quickly developed feelings for her. As a result, when she arrived for our little tea date, I was startled by how worried I was about her appearance.
My reputation as a big bad sex and dating writer would suggest that I should be able to walk into cafés throughout the globe with confidence and girls on my arms, but the fact is that dating can be a terrifying experience. During the time that I was waiting for Costello to arrive, the tale of the Stone Butch Daddy (SBD), which was one of my very first, first dates, ran through my head like a rollercoaster ride.
There was no way to know whether or not it was a blind date, although it might have passed for one. The two of us met when I was working the front desk at Miss Kitty’s Scratching Post, a weekly lesbian strip club in San Francisco.
Among the items that I sported were a camouflage corset with lacy bottoms, fishnets, and platform shoes, as well as a sticker that said, “Ask Me for My Number.” That costume landed me two dates, one with the brilliant performer Alotta Boutté (who subsequently became one of my best friends) and the other with SBD (who later became one of my closest friends) (who I avoid to this day).
SBD came up to me as she was leaving the club and inquired as to whether I like ice cream or not. I responded by stating that I like ice cream very much. She then inquired as to whether I was a fan of motorbikes, to which I responded affirmatively, being the nice little SF femme I was. Afterwards, SBD approached me and asked if I would like to accompany her to have ice cream on her Harley-Davidson.
When I saw her, I screamed and handed her my phone number.
As it turned out, SBD phoned me on the day of the date to inform me that the Harley would not be accessible after all. After further investigation, it was discovered that she did not really own a Harley, but rather worked at a Harley maintenance business and assumed she could borrow one for the evening. The first strike.
I decided to take her up only after much hesitating.. Despite the fact that I was not receiving a Harley, at the very least I was receiving ice cream! Although it turned out that ice cream was also off the table.
As a result, she demanded that we go out to have sushi instead. There will be a second strike this time!
While waiting for an hour and a half outdoors in the chilly San Francisco fog at the specific sushi business she had to go to, even though the one down the street was excellent and had no wait, she suffered through strikes three through ten.
Once inside, she refused to let me order for myself, telling me that she was my father and that it was her responsibility to make decisions for me. She also told me that she thought I’d make perfect arm candy to take back to live in the back country of Hawaii while she grew pineapples and I cooked dinner and watched her work on her (nonexistent) Harley-Davidson.
That’s better than nothing.
First dates were terrifying for me in the future because of the full letdown I had with SBD. It all started when I thought I was going to grab ice cream on the back of a Harley, but instead I found myself in a position that was first amusing, but later became really dangerous.
As I sat and awaited Costello’s arrival, the ‘what if’ worm began digging its way through my head, imagining all the ways this date might surpass our first date in terms of lunacy. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. In the event that Costello showed up, what did I do? As soon as she sat down, I uncomfortably vomited the whole narrative of SBD.
In the past, I’ve been accused of being an over-sharer, having divulged much more information than was necessary and discussing topics that most people would consider very confidential. People have informed me that I make them feel uneasy when they are in my company. Costello, fortunately for both of us, thought the tale amusing and shared his opinion with us. As a result, I liked her right away! Her biting sense of humor was one of the reasons I loved her right away, but there were many more as well.
As a newcomer to the world of dating, I once advertised on Craigslist for a female companion to go out on a date with. I arrived for the date to discover that the person I had agreed to see was a strange male who had pretended to be a lady in an attempt to seduce lesbians into sleeping with him.
I refused and he told me that I was a sinner and that he was going to give me his cock to rescue me from damnation, but that since I refused he would rather see me burn in Hell. There have been several instances when guys have impersonated women on the internet, and this is just a small sample of the kind of trash that lesbians are subjected to on a daily basis, as you can see in the video.
However, although that guy’s cock did not rescue me from everlasting damnation as he had hoped, it did prevent me from going on several other potentially perilous dates. In his teachings, I learned the significance of gathering in well-known public areas and having an escape route in case anything goes wrong.
There were no exceptions to this rule throughout my meeting with Costello. This particular restaurant was chosen because its servers were familiar with me, and because a meeting was scheduled an hour after our meeting, which gave me a reason to depart if things didn’t go as planned.
The situation, on the other hand, was not dire. Instead things going horribly, they did the polar opposite. They went off without a hitch! As a result of our mutual admiration, I asked Costello to join me to a burlesque performance that night.
My recollection of the concert is relatively foggy, so it must have been a letdown for everyone. Whether I was a part of it or not, I couldn’t say. The fact that Pumpkin was there, and that Costello and Pumpkin got along so well, was a positive indicator in my opinion. I recall a lot of laughter taking place. Also, it’s possible that we were all dancing at the same time. I’m not sure how I felt about the dance, but I was certain that I wanted to invite myself over to Costello’s home that evening. Badly.
When I was a law student, the issue was that everyone began expecting me to provide legal assistance. The fact that I wasn’t permitted to provide legal advice until I passed the bar didn’t deter anyone who sought it from doing so. If nothing else, I was still responsible for providing emotional and intellectual support in the legal area to those who were in need of assistance. After a fist fight, a call to the police, and restraining orders, a buddy and his partner decided to call it quits on their relationship last month.
After that, I was expected to wake up early the following morning and accompany him to his hearing. Costello’s need for assistance, as well as my brain’s need for sleep before I faced a judge on the bench, outweighed my desire to return home with him, and so I returned home alone, without even exchanging a kiss.
My return to Portland took two weeks, and by then, Costello and I were both ready to continue on our journey together. We had been communicating through email and text on a regular basis, and the sexual tension was high and intense. As a group, we went out to supper to a Thai restaurant that had received higher recommendations than the cuisine merited, and we ended up talking for an uncomfortable amount of time after our meals were over.
We decided that we just had to go teetertottering for whatever reason that I cannot recall, and we proceeded to a nearby park to gratify our need. I’d hoped for some slide or swing sex, but unfortunately, no motions were made, just uncomfortable periods of tense pause in between the two of you.
We returned to her house, still dizzy from the spinning swings, on the pretext of checking out what movies were available on On Demand. We were able to make it through the whole fantastically campy Spice World without a single wandering hand, though, and this converted our pretension into reality. Those were basically uncomfortable hesitations punctuated by awkward silences.
I moved on to browsing at sex toy websites and got closer to her, but I didn’t get any kind of reaction. My first reaction was that we were dead as soon as we began browsing at porn sites without making a move.
It was a disaster, I thought. “Fuuuuuuck,” I said. It was my vagina that yelled, “Fuck!” “Fuck!” “Fuck!”
In my head, my body, and my soul, I yelled, “FUUUUUUUUUUCK!” The words “FUCK IT!” flashed through my thoughts, and I eventually simply leaned over and kissed her, maybe a little too quickly and aggressively.
The moment she kissed me back, I exhaled a breath of relief.
It’s frightening to grab and kiss someone. Taking it slow and moving towards each other makes it clear that the other person wants it as well, which reduces the likelihood of being rejected. However, if you aren’t getting anything from the body language, it can be a frightening prospect to venture into territory you have never explored before.
The fact that she was interested in me should have been evident; after all, we had spoken about it in great depth for quite some time. Yet there was a part of me, the majority of me, that was still surprised when her lips touched mine. Regardless of how many people I sleep with, how many applause I get when I remove my clothing on stage, or how many people I have in my life who adore me, I will always be surprised when someone takes an interest in me. I have no doubt about that.
Perhaps, when the past fades away and I no longer hear my father’s voice telling me how terrible my physique is, or my mother’s voice telling me how unattractively annoying and obstinate my attitude is, a little of the shock will go away with it, as well. I hope that as I move away from my childhood home of quickfix dieting and single-minded goals, as I swim farther away from the fish bowl and into the sea,
I will come to realize that I am likable, lovable, and desirable, despite the fact that I was a socially awkward, overweight, loud, and nonconforming little girl as a child. It’s possible that I’ll come to realize that I’m likeable, attractive, and desired exactly because I’m an awkward, obese, loud, and nonconforming woman.
But I wasn’t there yet that night, when I was in the room with Costello. At the time of writing this, though, I have not reached that point, and therefore I am still as surprised as I was before when someone expresses their want to kiss me on the lips.
Costello’s kiss did instill enough confidence in me to believe that this might go further, and shortly after, I was sporting blue ovaries to match my newfound assurance.
Although I had expected us to pull one other’s clothing off as soon as we kissed for the first time, things progressed slowly, with uncomfortable moments of tense doubt. My efforts at each phase were accompanied with patience and prodding. Without a doubt, she wasn’t being too cautious, but she was moving more slowly than I was accustomed to. When I arrived, there was something standing in the way of my achievement.
A sense of dread built in with each passing minute, a worry of having to come back here and repeat the process, a fear of losing contact.
Costello was one of my favorite comedians growing up. More time passed before I got what I came for, the more likely it was that liking would develop into something more, something less steady, something less clear-cut than I had anticipated.
Until this point in time, we were just a bunch of strangers who met on Craigslist with a single aim in mind: to fuck each other. The longer I spent in bed with Costello, joking, laughing, rolling about, and kissing, the more likely it was that additional ambitions would arise in my brain. Moreover, I didn’t have place in my life for any other objectives.
Slowing down is recommended for my health, but my body was not on board with the idea. It had been excruciatingly long since my legs had shut down, and my head was beginning to follow their lead. This resulted in boredom and irritation.
Pussyfooting was no longer acceptable. Posse thumping was in order at this point. I indicated to Costello that I wanted her inside of me by using every part of my body, even my voice. Now. No matter what kind of cock she used, which condom she placed on it, or how her harness was fastened, all I cared about was that she was inside of me, right then and there.
When I finally felt her slide inside, I let out a groan that woke up the neighbors.
It was finally happening. Thrust, thrust, thrust, groan, moan, moan, glory, glory, glory, hallelujah, it was finally happening, it was finally happening! After a long time, I was able to achieve my aim. It didn’t matter what occurred beyond this moment, either.
After obtaining what I want, we could take as long as Costello desired. It was time to go back to enjoying the journey. My belt was cinched, my box was checked, and now it was time to go.
The only problem was that I couldn’t really enjoy the journey since my legs were so painful and stiff from the hours of dry humping we’d previously done on Costello’s sofa.
My body is typically pretty adaptable, and I’m good at spreading my legs for others, but today it had had enough and refused to cooperate. In both pleasure and anguish, I gasped as Costello placed himself on top of me.
What I really wanted had finally come to fruition, but I couldn’t seem to take pleasure in it. Initially, I thought that regulating the movement between my thighs would help to alleviate the burning in them, but soon my hips began to protest as well. Then Costello said, “I want to use my hand,” just when I thought I was going to have to give up and quit.
As I closed my legs into a more comfortable posture, I thought to myself, “Thank you, God!”
My legs did not have to be completely spread in order for Costello’s hands to reach me. I felt Costello reach for a rubber glove and some lubrication, then carefully, one finger at a time, he re-entered the room.
The act of strapping it on is enjoyable, it lets the hands to remain free, and it fosters a greater connection with your partner; but, nothing compares to the diversity, specificity, and flexibility of fingertip options. Fingers are capable of doing five different tasks at once. Fingers may be manipulated in five different directions.
My fingers have the ability to transport me to five other locations.. In one fell swoop Costello also had very dexterous fingers. She worked me so hard that my bed dragged across her hardwood floor to the other side of the room as I was lying on my back in the corner. All of my enthusiasm for getting things done before the deadline had been drained from me, and I didn’t want it to end. The pushy one, though, was Costello.
He was now rushing up the hill and getting me to the top of the hill as quickly as he could. The only option I had was to accompany them on their journey. While falling over the brink, I grabbed a pillow and covered my lips with it, screaming.
It was tiring, but we kept going until my legs gave up and we both dropped into her bed. In the beginning, we lay there debating what to do with our grumbling bellies (it had been about twelve hours since that disappointing Thai supper), but weariness won out and we fell asleep shortly after that decision. The realization that I was sleeping in the bed of a practical stranger jolted me up a few minutes later.
Even more surprising was the feeling that I wanted to remain there, that I wanted to get to know this attractive stranger who had come to see me. My first experience with this was uncomfortable and frightening, much like my first kiss and my first date. An chance for depth and development presented itself to me, and I intentionally chose to ignore it, opting once again for persona above personaesem.
No, Queerie Bradshaw did not stay the night; instead, she came and departed during the day. In order to leave in the most courteous manner possible, I got up, dressed, and left.
At six in the morning, the sun was up and so were my East Coast pals, who had gotten an early start on the day.
The rest of the evening was spent talking to random New Yorkers on the phone, and thirty minutes later, I was exhausted enough to drag my body up the stairs and into bed next to Pumpkin, who seemed to be the only person with whom I could share a bed at the time. Our mutual morning ménages occupied the most of our conversation before we fell asleep with a grin on our cheeks and a tingling sensation down the back of our legs.
Over the following month or so, I made a few half-hearted attempts to return to Portland to see Costello, but between exams and packing for my summer job in San Francisco, it just didn’t work out for me.
Friendshipland is where we’ve been for the last several years after our transformation. While I can’t deny that I considered what it would be like to date her, how it would feel to be vulnerable with her, and how things might have turned out if I had stayed in her bed that evening, there is a time and place for that kind of emotional depth, and I was not prepared to go any further that evening in Costello’s bed.
