Sometimes She Lets Me

by Tristan Taormino

  We take the bus downtown in silence. Avoid stares. It is our first public appearance as any kind of couple. Your first public appearance as a guy.

  Once in the bar we meld into the place. You quickly become my tough-ass boyfriend for the night. Stand on the sidelines, cocky and casual, and watch me dance. I play up to the bio boys until you can’t resist and try to feel me up on the dance floor. I pretend to protest, giddy and turned on. You work on one of the straight girls dancing beside us and I pout and act like I’m pissed off. A jealous girlfriend. Until you turn back around to me, push me up against the speaker, and dry hump me, in front of all the bio boys and their straight girlfriends. Your packing cock in your skater pants bulging against the crotch of my pretty-sixteen-year-old-girl jeans. We stay long enough to make a scene. Both of us wet.

  “I’ve decided,” you say as we head home to your place, high on the night. “I want you to fuck me with my cock.”

  I’m shocked. I’ve brought up the idea of me fucking you before, but you’ve always refused. Fingers, yes. But never the cock.

  “The only way it’s gonna happen,” you say, not looking at me, “is, you’ve gotta be a guy.”

  I am never boy. My cunt drips.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, anxious about my boy performance abilities.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” You pause. We approach your apartment.

  “You can write a story about it,” you say finally. “ ‘I fucked this guy once….’”

  I smile casually, acting as if I’m not completely nervous and turned on at the thought of being a guy myself, let alone fucking you. You look at me, knowing.

  Once we’re inside your apartment, I close the door, kick off my shoes, and push you against the living room wall. “Sounds good. But first I want slave-boy to work for his pleasure.” You lift up my shirt and start playing with my boobs. “I want you to eat me out. Some good, old-fashioned, cunt licking. And if you’re real good,” I say slowly, “then maybe…I’ll put on your big old cock and fuck you with it.” Which makes you smile and move your arms into a surrender position.

  “You think you can handle that, slave-boy?” You nod keenly. I push you to the floor. Unbutton my fly. “And you know what I think about good head,” I say as I take off my shirt. “It’s hard to come by, don’t you agree?” You nod again. I unclip my bra. Get rid of my pants and underwear.

  “I want it like this,” I say, and kneel over you. “With a wall to cling to when I come.” I put my arms, my boobs against the cold wall. You slide down onto your back. I bend over your mouth and feel your tongue. My breath catches. “But, as you know, few people can ever really satisfy me.”

  I bend down lower. You grab my cunt with your whole mouth. I groan. “Do you think you can, slave-boy?”

  “Oh, yes, Mistress.” I shiver.

  “Good. Because I want to come. So you’ve got to keep it up good. Do you think you can, long enough? Suck my pussy with all its fur until I come? Yeah, that’s right, just like that. Oh, fuck, yeah. Do you think you can keep it up, slave-boy? ’Cause I want to come and I want to come good. Long and full and all through me like electricity or something. Can you do it, slave-boy? Come on, keep it up, keep it up. Come on do it keep me coming come on, keep me coming, I’m going to come, no, keep it slow keep it slow, I don’t want to come yet. I said, do it slow now, slow now, yeah, that’s right. Can you keep it up, boy? Can you? Come on, more tongue, I said more tongue, boy, yeah that’s right, faster now, speed it up a bit, tongue and mouth, faster…just like that. Yeah, that’s right. Do it like that…. Can you keep it up? ’Cause I want to come so you better keep it up, I said yes, more, faster, faster, fucking fast I said goddamn it. Fuck, keep it coming keep it coming keep me coming there I’m there, I’m there I’m fuck I’m coming goddamn you fucking coming fuck fuck fuck fuck. Commming. Unh unh unh unhhhhhhhhh. Fuck boy, that’s it. Hold me now. Just hold me.”

  I press my cunt into your belly and let your arms go around me. Just long enough to get myself together. Then I sit up and look at you smiling. All proud of yourself.

  “So you think you deserve a fuck for that?” I laugh into your neck for a long time.

  In the bedroom, you dress me up in your shirt and vest.

  “So who am I?” I ask.

  “Steve.”

  “Who’s Steve?”

  “Just Steve,” you say. I laugh.

  “And who are you tonight?” I ask, expecting you to say Troy.

  “Tammy.”

  “Your girl name?”

  “Yeah, or you can call me slut, bitch, whore.”

  I’m blown away. You are never girl. Talk about gender fuck. I get even wetter. Wonder if I’ll be able to comply. “Those are harsh words,” I say. “You know what a good-girl feminist I am.”

  You smirk. “Just wait, you’ll like it. It’ll be easier than you think.” You get out your big rubber dick and strap it on me. I like it. You are right. I immediately start to feel cocky. Don’t know exactly what you mean by “Be a guy,” but I like the feeling of the cock between my legs, attached to my body for a change.

  “I want you to dominate me,” you say. “I want it hard. Lots of swearing and shit. I’ll protest, but you make me take it. Be aggressive. Be an asshole. Call me a cunt. Yeah, cunt, that’s a good one.”

  I’m unsure of how to begin. I push you down on the bed.

  “Oh, please stop,” you say. Your voice is suddenly higher pitched. I take it as a sign to start being an asshole.

  “Shut up, cunt, Steve’s going to do whatever the hell he pleases.”

  You jump up at me, ferocious. I make you stop. Tell you to lie back and shut the fuck up. And you do it. You moan.

  A moan I’ve heard many times. A pleasure moan. I still don’t feel like a guy, just an asshole wearing a guy’s shirt and vest. But it’s enough. I start to get into my role. I put my hand on my new dick. It’s hard. So am I.

  “And what I please is to fuck you, bitch.”

  You moan again like you like it. “Please don’t,” you say, pulling me toward you at the same time.

  “Ah, come on. I know you’re a whore. I know you want my big fucking dick pumping your nasty cunt.” I shock myself with what I’m saying. You like it.

  “Oh, don’t make me, don’t fuck me,” you say. Then cry, “Oh fuck yeah,” when I slap the cock against your thigh. That makes me hot.

  “Take your goddamn pants off and turn over, slut,” I say.

  I rub my hand up and down my dick. You stay where you are and watch me. “You heard me. Turn the fuck over, slut! That’s right. Now just lie there while I boot up.” I put on a condom, drip some lube on your ass. You moan loudly.

  “Shut up, bitch,” I say and put my cock against your thigh again. You catch your breath.

  “Oh, no, please.”

  “Oh, yes. Lift your ass, girl. I said lift, bitch.” You lift.

  “Here I come. Oh, yeah, take it like the whore you are.”

  I slowly move my cock into you.

  “Oh, no, please don’t.” Your voice is still high. You moan a moan I’ve never heard before. Then grunt, “Fuck yeah.” An affirmation.

  “Can you feel that?” I ask. I reach my hand around in front and finger your clit. “Can you? You fucking whore.” You grunt loudly.

  “I said shut up and take it, bitch.” I push in farther and start thrusting.

  “Yeah,” you say, “fuck me hard.”

  “Oh, I will. That’s right. Take it. Fucking take it, bitch. Steve’s going to fuck you silly. Fuck you till you can’t see. Fuck you till you come all over my cock.”

  “Fuck. Yeah.”

  “That’s right, Tammy, let Steve fuck you like you deserve. Take it, girl. Fucking take it till you come. You’re going to gush, aren’t you? All over me. I said you’re going to come, aren’t you? I said come, goddamnit. Fucking do it.”

  “Oh yeaaah, fuck me….”

  “I said shut up, cunt, and come for your Daddy.” And you do. Loud and
labored. You soak the sheets. Your cunt throbs long after I stop thrusting. I lie on top of you, exhausted.

  “Hold me,” you say. You’ve never asked me to hold you before. Boy. Girl. T. I hold you.

  3.

  We don’t talk for months. Why? Because you’re an asshole. Because I’m a bitch. Because you’re insensitive. Because I’m too sensitive. Because we walk two completely different worlds. Today, I don’t remember why. Just remember wanting you. Today, I walk through this street. I miss T goes over and over in my head. When I get home I call you. Ask you to come over. And of course you do. You always do. No questions asked. This is what we do for each other.

  I put on lipstick and meet you on the front porch, even though it’s freezing out. I don’t tell you about my day, even though it was bad. I don’t ask about yours. I am so glad to see you. I can tell you’re glad to see me too. But we pretend we’re not. We stare at each other in the cold. You and I, we sure know how to pretend.

  “Well, aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  “Yeah, yeah, come up.”

  You follow me to the top of the stairs, through my apartment door. “Look, T,” I say, turning around. Your arm is in the air. You drop a snowball on my head.

  “Oh, you bastard,” I laugh.

  “Aw, baby, what’s wrong?” Your annoying sarcasm. You laugh, too. Brush the snow off my head, my shoulders. “What’s wrong?” You stop laughing. “Baby?”

  I don’t say anything. Bring you into my bedroom. Pull you down beside me on the bed. Lie with you. You caress me. Move your fingers over my clothes, over my body. My eyes are closed. If this is the only thing we can do for each other, so be it.

  “So T, tell me about your first kiss.”

  You don’t say anything right away. Then, “I was nine. He was a man.” You say it so calmly. Like it’s normal. Then I wonder, what the hell is normal?

  “And how was it?”

  “It was an all-right kiss,” you say.

  I’m quiet. You continue to caress me. Slow, sensual. Unusual for us. We stay like that for a long while. Until you move your hands gently under my shirt. My skin gets goose bumps. My cunt gets wet. My body responds with movement. You take my shirt off. Get more aggressive. Kiss my body where your caresses were. Pull at the button of my jeans.

  “I want you,” you say.

  “I want you too. I want your fist.”

  “You got it.”

  You move down my body and undo my jeans, pull them off. Slide your hand over my underwear. Apply pressure on my clit. My hips rise and grind. You take off my underwear. Slide your hand along my wetness. Rub a finger against my clit. I open up to your fingers. You push and play with my clit. In no time my cunt gathers around your whole fist. It is always faster and easier with you than with anyone else. I love it more than anything else we do. But I always have to remind you I don’t want thrusts. You like getting pumped and don’t understand why I don’t. But you do what I ask. Just leave your fist there in me. Still.

  “It feels so…comfortable,” I say.

  “I haven’t heard that one before,” you say. I smile. We’re quiet. You keep it in until I’m ready for you to take it out.

  “You’re still bleeding.” You show me your hand covered with my blood. “Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll make a handprint.”

  I still feel full. Flayed. Prelingual.

  “Well, you’ve got one inside you already, anyway.” You lie down beside me. Lay your hand on my breast. We stay like that for a long time.

  “Will you run me a bath?” I ask.

  I stay in bed while you go. You clean the tub for me. Then run the water hotter than I’d like. Use shampoo to make bubbles. I know you feel chivalrous. Like this is what a guy does for a girl. Takes care of her.

  “I wonder if what we are is anything like being straight,” I call from the bed.

  “We’re still dykes,” you say, sounding offended. Sometimes it’s true. That’s exactly what we are. Sometimes we’re not. Sometimes, I guess, it just doesn’t matter.

  When the bath is ready, you call me. I get in and the water is too hot, like you thought it would be. I turn on the cold and swirl it around. You close the toilet lid and sit on it. Watch me. You’ve got your boy vest on. I like you watching. I turn off the cold water and lie back. Warm. Smothered. A feeling I rarely enjoy. When I ask you to join me in the tub, you refuse. You don’t say why, but I know you well enough to understand what makes you feel vulnerable. You leave the room.

  I think about how it feels to do this typical boy-girl thing with you. Sometimes I play girl, and sometimes I am girl. I get confused about which one is which. I think about who you are to me. How, sometimes, you are what I need in the most surprising ways. I hear you in the kitchen.

  “Hey T,” I call from the bath. You stop moving. You’re quiet.

  “Yeah?” you finally respond.

  “C’mere.”

  You come back into the bathroom with your swagger. Your casual air. “What?”

  “Kneel,” I tell you.

  “Kneel where?” you ask, pretending to be unsure about wanting to kneel for me.

  “Beside the tub,” I say, pointing beside me. You just look at me for a second, making like you don’t want to. But you do.

  “What?” you ask again as you kneel. There’s a staccato sound in your voice.

  I sit up a bit in the tub and look at you. “Kiss me, Troy.”

  You hesitate ever so slightly. Then get yourself wet leaning in for the kiss.

  GRAND JETÉ

  Toni Amato

  You ask for a kiss and I refuse. You ask for a kiss and I say no for all the right reasons, and come morning I wait for your sleepsoft face and a chance to say yes, oh god yes please. That evening, the thick smell of paint and a worn mattress in your studio and as your hand leads mine toward your breasts, I become harder than ever before. I become a drowning man as your hand urges mine into a salt-slick sea, and I come harder than ever before.

  The first time I dress for you, I am a teenage boy on his first date and I want to be a man for you, I want to be a man who can hold your arm there at the elbow and make you feel safe and cherished and adored. You reach out to straighten my tie and although you don’t know all of what you are doing, I am undone.

  You reach out to straighten my tie, there, in the hallway, and you have no idea what you have done. And neither, despite my butch-dyke cool, do I. The music is playing softly and you think I am leading as you clap out a rhythm I ache to move my hips to as I watch your woman’s hands.

  “Can I see it?” you ask, and I am twelve, thirteen, maybe, and suddenly embarrassed and unsure like I have not been in decades. Yes, decades, and for all my boyish ways, for all my teenage charm, I feel as though I may be falling in love again for the very first time, I feel like a baby-faced virgin boy, and I want to disappear as you handle what I have never shown outside my pants, what I have worshipped with and delivered with and sung hallelujahs with, but always from my trousers, always strapped and bound and covered by cotton and darkness.

  You sit blindfolded and bound in a plush chair, a woman who has seen more of me than I knew I wanted to show. You sit willing and open for me and I begin the dance that I have mastered, and I watch. I watch the flush and the sheen and the motions of desire. I have become accustomed to knowing that I am wanted, but this time, this time I beg with hands and tongue, and everything I am and yes I pray, I pray to you and what I pray is please, please want this. Oh please want me. And you do. And here begins the dance. A dance interrupted by too many miles and too little time.

  I tell myself stories, at night. I tell myself stories, now, to help me get to sleep.

  It’s hotter than hell here. Can’t stand my own skin touching itself, can’t stand the weight of even a thin sheet. I’m sweating and twisting and searching for a cool spot on the pillow and there isn’t any and the truth is I’m getting restless and cranky and it’s too hot even to jerk off.

  The truth
is, I’m desperate to fuck you. No. That’s not the truth, either. The truth is, I need your body. Need your shoulders and your thighs and your belly and your back. Truth is it’s very difficult for an animal to talk and what I am right now is a lust-maddened beast and I am trying to make this make sense, to make this something more than guttural noises and deepthroated grunts, trying to be a civilized human being despite the unconscious baring of my teeth. And you think it a lopsided grin, this hungry thing you bring out in me.

  I have told you. I have tried to tell you that the veins beneath the skin of your breasts, the blue pulsing of your wrists and neck are a torment to me. But what I can find words to say is only a phantom of what lies down hot and heavy in my own veins and all I can do is show you and there is not space, in this configuration of our lives, there is not time for a complete showing and so the caged animal paces and occasionally growls and so here I am, working words and grinding my teeth and maybe I’ll catch it this time.

  It’s not all sweet romance, it’s not all soft and you play with fire when you tell me you remember being dragged into that bathroom.

  You play with fire that I want you to swallow, entire and whole, so that I can watch the flush of flame creep across your ribs, along your collarbones. So I can see you burn the way my fingers scorch and sear at the touch of you.

  It’s not all tender words and longing glances, and the place you have never been to before is a place I have prowled for years but never, not once, has there been a creature like you here. You say you want to have jungle sex with me and oh yes, the jungle, and there I wait, slinking yellow-eyed through vines full of exotic birds and I will hear you coming, yes I will hear you coming again and again.

  Nocturnal beast. I am losing sleep over this. Losing sleep and losing rest because when my eyes shut the dreams come and it is difficult to translate dreams into waking words but I will try because you have asked and sometimes, indeed, the hunter gets captured by the prey.