by Roxy Harte
Debonair Dyke
Roxy Harte
Danson O’Brian, renowned writer and gender educator, is recognized as the most eligible lesbian in New York. Strong, confident, sexy, she embodies genderqueer in a dramatic fashion. She loves her life, loves her women and really, truly loves the excitement of the city. However, life hasn’t always been so perfect.
Growing up in Kansas, Danni felt like an outsider, preferring cars to dolls and, as a teen, rebuilding car engines was more her thing than a day at the mall. She never fit in. After her father experiences a stroke, she’s needed to keep the family business going until he recovers. She doesn’t think twice about boarding a bus, but even though she’s changed, the people in town haven’t.
Jessica Morrison, the “town whore” and the sexiest woman Danni’s ever seen, may be her only salvation, especially when she learns Jessica secretly likes girls and might be interested in a few discreet rendezvous. Except Danni gave up keeping secrets long ago, and she isn’t about to go back in the closet now.
Debonair Dyke
Roxy Harte
Chapter One
The City
The early summer view of midtown from The Lavender Room’s rooftop bar is breathtaking, but I’m not seeing the cityscape. I see only the women. Being surrounded by the conurbation’s most powerful and intriguing lesbians is a heady experience. I’m here for a benefit. Actually, it’s being held in my honor for a charity I support, but I don’t dwell on that. Educating people about sexuality and transgendered issues is just what I do. This is my night job. But I’m smart enough to recognize the moment as definitive. My life is absolutely, positively perfect.
It’s hard not to smirk, seeing so many horny beauties eyeing me. Wanting me. The toughest choice of the night is going to be which to take home to bed. Not that I’m conceited or arrogant. I merely acknowledge the truth in matters after spending the last six years defining myself as the city’s most eligible lesbian. Okay, I smirk, the expression as much as the illusion of the persona I’ve created being the lure.
I’m a cocky little thing—and the first to admit it—but for good reason. Women respond to me. Maybe it’s my hair, a vibrant auburn that attracts even the most jaded eye, or its style, so long in the front it’s almost constantly hanging in my eyes, like Justin Bieber’s in the early days of his career, and so short in the back, razor-shaved, boot-camp short. Or maybe it’s my build. I’m naturally thin, to the point of being gangly if I don’t work out enough, which is why I lift weights every day. My arms are defined, cut, strong.
I branded myself Dapper Dan, the Debonair Dyke, and started writing about sex, gender and relationships. Six years later I am known, recognized—even celebritized—at least in the circles that matter. I prefer the moniker dyke to butch, a claim on not only who I am but a tribute to all the brave women who came before me—those who staked their claim as different, as self-assured, as not needing a man to do anything. It is all about the swagger, the style, the bravado. Besides, I’m too soft to pull off butch. And please excuse me if I don’t use the word pretty to describe myself. Although many of the women on this roof would use exactly that word.
Speaking of the women on this roof, they are here for one reason only, to meet me…
So maybe I have a little bit of a reason to be cocky.
Hello, beautiful.
I smile at the woman approaching. She has long black hair and I’ve always been a sucker for women of Asian descent, though I put her ancestry closer to Delhi than Taiwan. She still has that look, that exotic come-hither, I-can-turn-your-world-upside- down-with-the-things-I-know look to her eyes.
She maneuvers herself between me and the purple postmodern steel pipe railing that circles the rooftop, and smiles seductively.
“Beautiful night.”
Her perfume is an exotic floral that seems to wrap us closer together. Or maybe I’m just leaning closer as I watch her breasts rise and fall, the soft mounds pale against the edge of her black lace camisole. The blood races to my head, making it hard to concentrate on anything beyond the woman in front of me.
She whispers in my ear intimately, “Beautiful man.”
I’m not surprised or even offended when her hand drops to my crotch. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve shared an intimacy in public. But it doesn’t seem intimate—despite her sexual allure. She is checking to see if I’m packing. She needn’t have. I always pack, considering myself a connoisseur of cock, owning everything from flaccid penis to double-ended dildos and all that lies between.
She asks, “Hold my drink?”
I do, vaguely wondering what her next move will be and entertaining thoughts of whether she will be the one I invite home tonight. I consider swilling the remains of her drink but my hand stalls, the glass mid-lift to my mouth, when she drops to her knees between me and the railing. I meet her gaze as she unbuckles my belt and unzips my slacks.
Our eyes don’t stay locked. No imagined violins. No fireworks. She looks at my crotch and I wonder if this is her attempt to inspect the goods. Little doubt when she pushes aside my men’s white cotton briefs to expose the curved, hard dildo beneath.
It’s my special cock, for special nights. It isn’t the most comfortable strap-on I own, but for visual impact there’s no better match. And for quick pairings in closed quarters, it is perfect. I generally prefer semiprivate…
Still, this isn’t my first benefit—I knew to be prepared for anything.
The woman slides her fingers gently up and down the shaft, holding my rapt attention. There is something about the visual of seeing an unfamiliar woman’s hand on my very familiar cock. Raw need sizzles up my spine, tightening my pussy, seeming to draw it up tight and hard, as I imagine a man’s testicles feel when he’s aroused. My clit grows as hard and tight as a man’s penis in response. Public intimacy always makes my blood sizzle.
The brunette reaches into the V of her cleavage and pulls out a condom. She’s quick and flawless in her technique, her lips following the latex as she pushes the condom over my five-and-a-half-inch purple silicone cock with her teeth. The dildo plunges deep into her mouth and I feel the second it bumps into the back of her throat. She swallows, gags only a little, and swallows again.
I’m facing the skyline and have no idea if anyone has noticed or if fingers are pointing and security intervention is imminent. I hope not. The sound of her gagging as she tries to take my length deeper initiates deep-seated need, making my back arch. I push my hips forward, a small thrust that makes her gag again. The base of my cock presses purposefully into my clit and in that moment silicone and flesh genitals seem to become one and the same.
God. Too good. My life is too good.
The stranger slides her fingers between the molded polymer and flesh, finding the slick proof of my desire. She draws my moisture from twat to clit, her thumb rubbing my pulsing flesh in teasing circles that aren’t really necessary for me to find pleasure. Now is hardly the time for explaining the phenomenon of phantom appendages—or a discussion about how much time I’ve spent researching my own psychological attachment to my dildo, which produces similar results, to be comfortable in my own skin.
The woman’s goal is obvious. She wants to jerk me off hard and fast while she continues to slurp cock. She wants the conquest. I get that.
Still, I throw a small effort into delaying the inevitable, silently reciting definitions from Webster’s.
Dapper. Adjective. Etymology: Middle English dapyr, from Middle Dutch dapper, fifteenth century, meaning spruce, stylish, alert and lively in movement and manners.
Distraction doesn’t help and need spirals tight in my middle. I think the words faster, determined not to give her what she wants so quickly. This has become a test of wills, a power strugg
le—and I like to top, damn it!
Debonair. Adjective. Etymology: Middle English debonere, from Anglo-French deboneire, from de bon aire, of good family or nature, thirteenth century, meaning gentle, courteous, suave, urbane, lighthearted, nonchalant.
Words usually save me. I can recite entire dictionaries—
“Holy fucking god.”
My body rebels against intellect, the resulting orgasm threatening to buckle my knees. I imagine her drink plummeting, the glass shattering into a million shards on impact, but I manage a steady hand as my body shudders. Wave after wave of excruciating bliss shoots from my clit.
Eyelids fluttering, I focus on the skyscrapers sparkling like brilliantly lit gems in the darkness. I try to remember how to breathe. Life doesn’t get any more perfect than this.
The woman is quick, pushing the latex-covered cock beneath my cotton briefs, zipping and buttoning my pants, fastening my belt in sure, practiced moves before standing and walking away as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened.
“Wait, what’s your name?” I pivot toward the party, but the mystery woman is nowhere in sight. If anyone noticed the intimate interlude their glances don’t betray them.
I lift her drink to my lips and gulp. It is a fruity concoction and I prefer microbrewery beers, but I need the drink.
I know I wasn’t her first conquest. Sooner or later she will Tweet or blog or post in a random forum about her rooftop blowjob with the infamous Dapper Dan, the Debonair Dyke. If I want to I will be able to follow the cyber breadcrumbs, make an initial contact, procure a date, wine her, dine her, maybe even dance with her before we fuck for real, and then in typical Dapper Dan fashion, I will fall in love with the dark-haired woman.
And fall out again just as fast.
Fall hard.
I could say I fall in love easily, but the truth is I fall out of love overnight.
It’s too easy to see a relationship playing out. See the idiosyncrasies right up front that will become character flaws. Any affair will be short-lived, ending as quickly as begun, because they always do. There will be a final disagreement, or argument, or someone will just forget to come home one night…usually me.
Someone announces over the microphone, “A few words from our honoree?”
Hearing my cue, I start toward the small staged area for speeches and such.
“May I present the much-acclaimed author and educator, Mr. Danson O’Brian.”
Mr. The title rankles me, as does Ms. It is one of my many pet peeves about society that there are so many gender-specific labels and I hope for a future where gender-neutral will be the norm. Smiling through my irritation, I accept the microphone from a woman I really do respect a lot and who was responsible for putting together this small soiree. Dr. Haley Phillips. She is one of the professors of psychology and applied health at NYU who specialize in gay, lesbian and gender studies. Her main area of research currently focuses on the idea that transgendered psychology should be a separate area of study.
“It’s just Dan.” I do a little fancy footwork and a spin to lighten the brevity of the moment. “Debonair Dyke.”
The gathered women titter.
“I guess I’m supposed to say something that sounds highly evolved and intelligent now to compel you to pull out your checkbooks and start writing.”
No laugh. Tough crowd.
“I’ll start with the acronym LGBT since I’ve been deemed an authority of sorts, at least on the ‘T’. Lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgendered are grouped under one category by a heterosexual society for the sake of convenience and political correctness. However, by doing so everyone becomes more confused. You see, the words lesbian, gay and bisexual describe one’s sexuality. Transgender has absolutely nothing to do with sex and everything to do with gender.”
Heads start nodding all around.
“I don’t claim to be an authority on transgender. I ask questions, I listen to stories, I tell my own story, but I have yet to figure any of it out definitively…”
This is what I do. I initiate conversations that will linger in the minds of people long after they leave. I don’t know why I have what it takes that makes people want to hear my stories. Share my laughter and tears. Live a little vicariously through my unabashed wantonness. But whatever it is, it works, and wallets do come out.
“Growing up in a small town in Kansas—no, wait—that really doesn’t paint the picture for you at all.” I spread my arms wide, I tend to talk with my hands a lot. “Imagine a sprawl of nothingness as far as your eye can see. Drop in a crossroad. No stoplight. No stop sign. Because you know to stop. On the left a mom-and-pop pizza joint. On the right was a hardware store. Down the way a little was a church or two or a dozen. And then there was me. The Queer.”
My summary of just how small the town is is an exaggeration but not by much. My cell vibrates in my suit jacket pocket but I ignore it and keep speaking.
Hours later, my cell vibrates again. I’m in a cab, riding back to my apartment with two beautiful women—Claire, a brunette, and Veronica, a blonde, who made it very clear they are interested in a threesome with me. Seeing the call is from my mother, I turn the ringer from vibrate to silent and drop it back into my pocket with an unspoken promise to call her in the morning. To answer now would be disaster. There are no short conversations with my mom and I always hang up feeling guilty for not calling her more often than I do and the last thing I want is coitus interruptus due to emotional baggage I supposedly left in Kansas.
I also need to forget the exotic seductress and I’m hoping Claire and Veronica can help me do that before I do something stupid and ask Dr. Haley Phillips to introduce us. Not that we really need to be introduced…but a name would be nice.
Further thought of either my mother or the mystery woman dissipates when Veronica slides her hand up my thigh, stopping just short of my silicone bulge. Her fingers tremble and I find her nervousness endearing. Cute. Claire sits with her legs folded under her and is working on loosening my tie. Catching a dirty look from the cabbie in the rearview mirror, I still her hand. Some guys find it threatening once they take that closer look. My tailored suit and fedora go only so far in obscuring the truth and although I keep my hair super short, it’s obvious I’m a girl. We have blocks to go and the last thing I want to do is walk.
I don’t know what it is about men. They can watch two femme lesbians go at it and be completely turned-on watching, but throw one bona fide butch in the mix and they are ready to duke it out over the girl. I’d lay odds my cabbie is that kind of guy, so it is a huge relief when my building comes into sight.
Veronica and Claire both giggle when they realize we’ve reached our destination.
Climbing out of the taxi, it seems we’re all just a little bit tipsy. Each girl grabs one of my arms, half draping themselves on me, which I normally wouldn’t mind at all, but in our condition creates balance issues all around, especially faced with climbing two flights of stairs.
My apartment is small and seems even smaller once all of us are behind its closed door. It’s a one-bedroom apartment, shared by two. I sleep in what would normally be the living area. My roommate won the coin toss for privacy. Absurd, considering he never brings anyone home and I always bring someone home.
A neon bar light promoting an Irish-style ale glows above the kitchen sink, lighting our path as I lead them the five steps to my bed so that no one trips and kills themselves in the cramped room. A wide-screen television, top-of-the-line stereo and my gaming systems provide an obstacle course of wires to navigate. I’ll be the first to admit I’m no neat freak. And I have too much stuff for such a small room. My desk and bookshelves take up more than their fair share. A small bistro table and two chairs are pushed between the refrigerator and window so I can look at the sky while I eat breakfast. The barbells…
Then there’s the bed, queen sized and a royal bitch to get upstairs in the first place, strategically placed in the center of the room and anchored by night
stands, which serves as both bed and sofa even though it doesn’t physically convert.
Did I mention the plants? Yeah, it’s a jungle and at some point Veronica gets slapped in the face by a palm frond as we all figure out where to stand.
There’s a slightly awkward moment when we all stare at each other, waiting for someone to do something. I toss my tie and jacket into a chair, which seems to ease the mood. Veronica laughs and tosses her stilettos into the same spot. I hold out my hand to her and she takes it. I pull her forward and she molds into me. She’s thin. I can feel her ribs and her pelvic bones. Not necessarily my type, but she’s warm and willing, and her kisses urgent.
Is it wrong that while I’m kissing Veronica, I’m watching Claire?
The room is dark, lit only by the city lights beyond the windows, but not so dark that I don’t notice immediately when Claire pulls her thin summer dress over her head, revealing she wore only white lace panties and no bra even though she has full, heavy breasts with dark areolas and thick nipples. I love curvy women.
There is no room to maneuver so I sit on the edge of my bed and motion Claire nearer. Veronica seems to take my shift of focus in stride and crawls onto the bed behind me, wrapping her arms around me to unbutton my shirt while I catch Claire’s waist between my hands and look my fill. God, what breasts.
I weigh her breasts in my palms. Full. Heavy. I pull her closer and take one of her big, dark nipples into my mouth. I suck, softly, then harder, and am not disappointed when Claire moans loudly and pushes her other nipple into my mouth. Not to favor one or the other, I give the second the same treatment as the first, sucking, pulling, then stretching it out with my teeth. As much as I want to…I leave the nipple clamps safely tucked in the nightstand. No bedroom bondage games with strangers. Maybe on the second date, or third. I can’t remember a third date in so long it leaves an ache—
“God, Danson. You’re making me so wet. I’m so hot for you. I want your cock inside me.”