From Assignment 3…

A portion of a story I’m working on for my writing class… 

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Richard’s attention had drifted to the backyard of the house behind Bill’s old place, which he could see clearly from his upstairs window vantage point, when something bright fluttered through his peripheral vision.  His attention was pulled back abruptly by the arrival of the new denizens of the house next door.  Son, between eight and ten… daughter – the bright object that caught his attention – between five and 7… He murmured to himself.  Father, somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, Mother in her early to mid thirties.  He nodded, typical family of four in the suburbs. Then he saw her, a teenaged girl maybe as young as thirteen or as old as sixteen.  While the others had been talking animatedly to each other and pointing out various features of the yard and exterior of the house, the teenager was taking it all in with cool detachment.  She was sucking on a lollipop while strolling slowly up the walkway.  Instead of looking at the house she was approaching, she was looking up and down the street, taking in the neighborhood.  Richard was transfixed, unable to look away from her.  His breath caught in his chest as her eyes swept across the front of his own house, then to the side and up to the window he was standing in.  Though he was staring through a small space between the blinds, held open by two fingers, he felt utterly exposed.  He felt certain she could see him, was staring into his eyes as he looked down into hers.  She pulled the lollipop out of her mouth, it was dark red, cherry, he thought.  Slowly, she rolled her tongue over the glistening sphere, then rubbed it over her lips.  Richards mouth hung open and his pants felt uncomfortably tight.  The feeling of exposure, of having his clandestine viewing station discovered in this way, was horribly uncomfortable and yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away and break contact with this utterly fascinating creature.

What he couldn’t do, she could.  Her head jerked toward the house’s front door where the father appeared, waving her toward him.  She glanced up at Richard once more and then, popping the lollipop back into her mouth, strode the rest of the way up the walk and disappeared into the house. He groaned out loud when he was finally able to relieve his aching bladder.  He stood for a moment, penis in hand, bladder drained.  His fingers slid up the length of his shaft, his mind’s eye replaying her tongue on the lollipop, the way she pushed it through her pursed lips, popping it into her mouth, the bulge of it inside her cheek.  His cock fully hard, he stared fixedly at the wall tile, mechanically pumping it with his closed fist.  The slideshow in his mind kept playing the images in quick succession until he ejaculated into the toilet.

———–

“Feona!” Father’s voice called out from the front of the new house.  “Come in, you need to pick out your room.  I promised you first pick but you’d better hurry, your brother and sister are getting impatient.”

Fe glanced back up to the window and winked at the watcher behind the gap in the blinds before following Father inside.  She quickly went upstairs and kicked her little brother Isaac out of the bedroom closest to the neighboring house.  Pulling aside the curtains, she smiled, satisfied.  The upstairs window where the watcher had been was aligned with this window.  Not long after, she’d rearranged her room so that her bed was under the window.  The watcher hadn’t come back to the window yet, but she was sure he would.  She was sure the watcher was a he, after taking in the unkempt lawn, the lack of flowers or other ornamentation, blinds shut tight on all the windows.  She’d never guessed wrong before.

After sharing a dinner of delivery pizza with the family, she’d gone back to her room, kicked off her flip flops and sat down on her bed. Leaning back, she pulled up her skirt and pulled off her pink flowered panties.  With one hand she lightly stroked her breasts, bringing them to attention.  The other hand went between her legs, where moisture had already gathered.  Practiced fingers brought her close to orgasm and then she slowed down, delaying the moment.  It would be so much more delicious if he was watching.

Where are you, lonely man? she asked the darkened window above hers.

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The Sad and Pathetic Cowardice of Anonymous Commenters

Most bloggers go through similar stages in the early days of their blog.  There’s excitement, anticipation and planning.  There’s that first week or so of blogging and excitedly awaiting your first comments.  Refreshing your stats page is a valid occupation.  Updating your blogroll with related websites, and leaving comments on those blogs, helps build community.

At some point the inevitable happens. You get your first troll.  Maybe it’s someone who actually knows you, but that’s rare.  You can take precautions of course, but that doesn’t every eradicate the infestation for good.  If you started your blog with unmoderated comments, your optimism about the human race, especially that represented by internet users, is dashed when the trolls show up.  That’s when you realize that moderating comments is a good idea.

I’ve gone through many stages in the process of being a blogger with an infestation of trolls:  disbelief, hurt feelings, outrage and public ranting, responses meant to open dialog, responses meant to expose the troll to the ridicule they so richly deserve.

Guess which stage I’m in right now.

 

blog troll

Here we have an example of doubling up on the anonymous trolling by slamming both the blogger AND the person being blogged about.  In one of the pictured comments, the troll offers insightful commentary indicating that not only am I a shit writer but so is Sassafras Lowery.  The absurdity of that double-slam is obvious; I may be a shit writer but Sassafras certainly is not.

A key piece of this for me is the anonymity.  The comments are offered by someone unwilling to be identified. They would like us to believe they are an authority on writing, how to write well, what good writing is and, clearly, what bad writing looks like, however, they are not willing to offer their own identity in order to validate their authority.  And they sure as shit aren’t giving us samples of their writing to compare, contrast or shoot down like drone flying too close to an airport.

Though there are legitimate reasons for anonymous commenting, this is not one of them.  In the examples above, anonymity is the refuge of the incompetent and cowardly.  This is not someone who is willing to subject their writing to the scrutiny and criticism of others.  They hide behind the shield of Anonymous and take pot shots at those who are willing to be vulnerable in public.  You, anon, are a chicken-shit.  Anybody who puts themselves out in a public forum is leagues ahead of you in authenticity and courage.  It doesn’t matter at all what the quality of writing is, anyone who is putting themselves out there for whatever purpose is a superior human being to your sniveling, cowardly self.

I give no fucks and no shits about your opinion of my writing.  I have plenty of qualified people giving me useful and informative feedback.  Given that this is likely either a form of entertainment for you or a pathetic attempt to bolster your self-esteem, I won’t lose any sleep over your apparent contempt.  When you have the guts to put your writing out there, you can link to it in a comment and accept the public critique that will surely follow… and that’s when I’ll give any shits at all about what you have to say.

I hope you get back to therapy or whatever it is that helps you cope.  I wish you well in your search for meaning in your life.  (Hint:  don’t read and comment on blogs written by people you disdain, find something meaningful to do with your life like cleaning the funky cheese fuzz out of your bellybutton or volunteering to clean out shit in an animal shelter.)

Anon, if you think you’re such a hot writing expert, offer something more than your bullshit anonymous lobs and I might reconsider my opinion that your comments are as meaningful as a fart in a hurricane.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some substandard writing to do.

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First Assignment

I’m taking an online erotica writing class called “Between the Sheets”, taught by Rachel Kramer Bussel.  This is an excerpt from my first homework assignment.

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For a while I occupied myself with my phone, thumbing through social media and email accounts, stealing glances at her while the countertop grew more and more obscured by ingredients, mixing bowls and utensils.  An apron was hanging from her shoulders and tied loosely at the waist.  I had a brief daydream about being that piece of protective clothing, my arms around her shoulders, legs wrapped around her waist, catching the spatter from her mixing bowl and beater.  That fantasy shifted to using the apron ties for something more restrictive.  I could feel the heat rising from my crotch to flush my cheeks.   If she’d looked at me right then, she’d have known I wasn’t having pure thoughts.  Luckily, she didn’t look.

I got up and stepped past her to the fridge, making sure to brush myself against her backside on the way to getting another beer.  She reacted by stiffening her spine and giving me a quick sharp glance.  Flipping the bottle cap off, I reached around her to drop it into the garbage can under the sink, where she was standing, pressing against her backside.  I stood up close behind her, watching over her shoulder as she folded ingredients in to her batter.  She frowned in concentration, I leaned lightly against her back.  She turned and threatened me with a spatula covered in white goo.  If I hadn’t been dressed in my good shirt and a nice tie, I might have taken the risk.

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Trans*date 2015-08-02: Pictures Speak – One Year Later

I’ve been taking testosterone for about a year and a month.  I’ve been letting my facial hair grow to see what it does when I don’t shave or trim it.  We start with two pictures taken in June 2014, right before I started.  The rest are from now:

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Now that I have Facial Hair, It’s Easier to Be Feminine

You might be looking at this post with a quizzical eye, maybe an eyebrow lift.  Or maybe you’ve been through all this and you’re nodding in recognition.

It’s not something that happened right away, but as my appearance and voice have become more and more masculine – corresponding with being read as male more often – I’ve gotten more and more comfortable showing my feminine side.  I don’t think it’s something too obvious to external viewers, except for those who know me well.  I don’t wear dresses or skirts, or make up, or lots of jewelry. My femininity expresses as a softness, an openness, some additional flair in the way I talk with my hands.

So why now, you ask?  Why now, when T has commandeered my body and taught it how to do all sorts of amazing things with hair and vocal chords?  Why as my face gets hairier and my chest furrier do I feel OK getting my nellyboy on?  Confidence is a powerful drug.  Feeling good in my skin, being seen, being recognized, being appreciated in a way that is aligned with my self-image has been like Miracle Grow on my self-confidence.  And apparently, it was the lack of that confidence that led me to stifle my feminine side.  Even as I defended its existence, even though I’ve insisted that I’m not all male, that I am a blend of genders… even though my feminine is a closely held part of my identity, I felt insecure expressing anything but masculinity.

I know from conversations with other transmasculine folks that this isn’t uncommon. I’ve been struggling against outside expectations all my life and some of those struggles have been about my masculinity.  My mother tried her darndedest to suppress my masculine side.  The feminist lesbians who were around me in my early 20s did their best to shame it away.  It went under and didn’t come out until it had received repeated invitations from people who were butch positive.  So yeah, once I found myself in a place in life where my masculinity was not only visible, but celebrated and in demand, I didn’t want to confuse matters with a flounce or a faggy flip of the wrist.  I didn’t want to detract from the image I was painstakingly building at the very time that image was beginning to get legs and walk on its own.

So what has changed?  I’ve been asking myself this question.  It’s not just a matter of reaching the proper ratio of body hair to total surface area.  Confidence doesn’t arrive with a  particular Free T level or as a prize for the 100th time someone calls me Sir and doesn’t take it back.  I don’t really know why now is the magic time.  But I have theories.

There are two elements to this new level of comfort I am feeling in expressing my full range of gender.  The first is that I have reached a level of visible and audible masculinity that feels very affirming, it feels right and that has resulted in a lot of confidence. I don’t fear that the slightest hint of femininity will erase the recognition of my maleness.  The second is that I have a sexual partner who is comfortable, turned on and ecstatic to be in the presence of all of my gender expression.  I feel very comfortable and safe with her.  She accepts and loves me in all my configurations and blends.  I feel safe and welcomed and adored by her and my feminine side has been present more and more – which has delighted us both.  I feel less and less gated.  My gender is able to roam freely and express itself in whatever way feels good in the moment, which is really the way it should be for all of us.

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Book Review: Lost Boi by Sassafras Lowrey

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I remember reading social media updates from Sassafras Lowrey while ze was writing this novel, updates that spoke in excited tones about the characters and the way the story was unfolding. Now I know why.

Lost Boi is a retelling of Peter Pan, yes. A brilliant, imaginative, ambitious retelling that replaces pirates with Leather men and mermaids with Femmes. There is magic and kink and fairy dust and flying and through it all there is Pan, the charismatic enigma who pulls everything together.

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I enjoyed it for the storytelling, for the character depth and definitely for the kink, leather, BDSM and gender non-conforming elements.  Everyone in that story is someone I could have met, or could still meet.  I found myself slowing down toward the end of the book because I wasn’t ready for the story to end.

This book is a must read for anyone who cherishes creativity and good writing. It’s also a sure bet for those of us hungry for gender nonconforming characters with depth and complexity.  I think in 10 years, we’re going to recognize this novel as a classic in queer literature.  I am eagerly awaiting whatever Sassafras has in mind next.

Lost Boi by Sassafras Lowrey gets 5 boots from this reader.

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Black Hankie: You Earned It

My Dearest Lover,

You are amazing, do you know that? I am still in awe of the nasty beating you took from NeighborFemme and me at BSQ earlier this month. And you thought you might not perform well enough to deserve your black hanky. Let me tell you something, I never doubted you.

It was a hot day and we knew it would be hotter inside the play space. Hotter still with two tops giving you undivided attention. I watched from my perch on the bootblack’s chair while you set up our space. I appreciated the way you resourcefully solved a technical problem with the equipment I’d brought. I watched you and loved you and the anticipation inside me built. I imagine your anticipation was at an 11.

Neighbor Femme arrived and we had a quick conversation about how to approach our double team. I told her about the black hanky and her eyebrows went up. “Well, this is a special evening.”

You were very quiet.  I could tell you were gathering yourself, trying to prepare when you couldn’t know what exactly to prepare for.  You knew she was bringing crops and you’d seen all that I put in my bag – you’d set it all out for me.  There was the new flogger I’d bought that day, there were paddles and an impact toy.  There was the DIY toy I’d created just for you – extension cord with the ends cut off, creating two raw wire ends.  That’s the one that had prompted you to give me a dirty look and call me a fucker.  I think maybe that’s my Top’s first name, Fucker.  We’ll go with that.

I asked you if you wanted to start facing toward the post or out.  You opted for out, so I got you buckled into the cuffs I’d bought earlier that day (it was a good shopping day).  I’ll be honest, I was nervous, too. Remember this was only the second time I’d topped someone in public AND it was the first time I’d ever double-topped someone.  I knew Neighbor Femme was up to the task, it was me I was worried about.

There are practical aspects to doubling a bottom that I hadn’t encountered before, like how to coordinate the my flogging with her cropping so that I didn’t hit her and didn’t hit you in an out of bounds place.  We seemed to find our way fairly quickly, wouldn’t you say?

I started you with a warm up, slapping and squeezing you with my hands.  NF made a joke about it, but she didn’t try to dissuade me.  She’s not much for warming up but I know you like it and I like to give it.  I like to get the feel of you in my skin, to see the way you pink up under my attention and to hear your breathing get heavier.

The real fun started when I began using the flogger.  NF quickly joined in with her crops and you quickly became pink-tinged squirmy.  NF has a mean streak, you knew about that from my stories and it’s part of what made you nervous.  She showed you a bit of that when she used her knuckles on your chest.  I know how much that hurts. She became particularly interested in your armpits, and you howled about that.  I cannot say I know how that feels, though from your reaction, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out.

Once your armpits and front side were a lovely pink color, tinged with quickly rising purple splashes, it was time to turn you around.  We both checked in with you, wanting to see how you were doing.  You had wet cheeks and tears in your eyes.  You also had fierceness in those gorgeous eyes of yours.  You gave me a stern look when I asked if you were OK, perhaps you were even offended.  Of course you were OK.  I gave you a quick kiss and we continued.

I warmed you up with the flogger, really enjoying the sweeping figure eights I created across your pale skin.  NF came in soon, liberally sprinkling stingy pain over the traces of flogger.  She wanted to play with the flogger, too, so I handed it off to her and looked through the other implements you’d set out.

You got a taste of your heart paddle, a hurtful device made of acrylic that left lovely heart shaped marks on your sweet ass.  NF and I admired the way they showed up against your paleness.  I only gave you a taste because after all the beating you’d already had, too much of that paddle would have taken you right out of the game.

And there was definitely more fun to be had.  Dropping the heart paddle, I grabbed the extension cord.  You glared at me as I cheerfully informed you that it was time to get some tiger stripes. After a couple of strikes, your fears were confirmed:  this was a fucker of a way to get marks.  ”Look at those tiger stripes!  Do you feel like a tiger, baby?”

I cackled with sadistic glee.  You glared at me anew.  NF came in close to ask you if you could roar like a tiger.  You gave it your best, though we’d taken a lot out of you already, it came out as more of a whimper.  I had a feeling you were nearing your fill of Fucker and Bitch.  I gave you some more of that extension cord and then used my hands to ‘massage’ it in.  The marks were excellent.  Once I had my hands on you, it was hard to keep them off.  I ‘massaged’ you some more and threw in some slaps and punches.  Mmmmm, I do love your flesh so much.

Was it the punches that did it, finally?  It’s a bit of a blur for me now.  NF bid us adieu and gave you kudos before joining her family for a demo nearby.  I came in close again to see how you were doing, “Do you need more?”

You did not.

I unclipped you and took the cuffs off.  I was so proud of you – I’m still so proud – for taking so much pain in a short period of time.  Your performance was impressive.  You sat down and took a few moments to compose yourself under a sheet.  I cleaned up and put the toys away.  We moved from the open public space to the back room and stretched out on a bed.  You started coming out of your after-scene shell and we talked about the scene.

You’d told me that you wanted to have the final say over whether you’d earned the black hankie or not.  I agreed, even though I was concerned you’d be far more critical than I would.  I agreed because if you didn’t feel you’d earned it, it would be an empty reward.

“So, how do you feel about the black hankie?”

Your eyes were fierce, “I earned that fucker!”

Yes you did, love.  I handed you the hankie that I’d bought months before.  That fierce, triumphant look in your eyes was priceless, beyond measure.  I love the way you proudly display your hankie at every opportunity. I am so grateful for the gift of you, for the way you submit to my sadistic pleasure.  You are a prize, my love.  I know it, Neighbor Femme knows it and anyone watching us that night knows it, too.

You didn’t just earn it that night, but all the times leading up to that when you took everything I dished out and asked for more.  You’ve lived up to it every time since.

Thank you my sweet, fierce, strong, amazing lover.  You wear that black hankie well.

 

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Got Some Needs? Give Miss Bee a Call

Have you ever solicited the services of a phone sex operator?  Ever wanted to?  Here’s your chance… it’s not cheap, but then, the good things never are.  Meet Miss Bee aka Neighbor Femme:

Well hello there Butchtastic readers!

I’m Miss Bee, some of you longer term readers may know me as Neighbor Femme.  I’ve been a phone sex operator for 8 years, and have recently changed companies.  I’m rebuilding my business with Niteflirt at Life Coaching and Real Talk. I’m running a special to build up my ratings – I specialize in domination, foot fetish, and gentle to heavy humiliation.  Really though, with 8 years under my cute belt, I’m great with a very wide range of things from talking about Trans* things to really delicious role plays.

The fun thing about phone is anything you talk about is confidential. Just between you and me.  Some people think of it as cheap therapy.

Anyway, the other thing I wanted to share is that I have a new blog for those that prefer to voyeur at pleasemissbee.wordpress.com.

Happy July, and may the fireworks ever be lit in your bed!

~Kisses and bites~
Miss Bee

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If you do give Miss Bee a call, make sure to say Kyle sent you :-)

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Seeing Myself

I used to imagine what I’d look like if I born male, if I were born with the expected physical features of biological maleness.  I’d give myself facial hair and mentally take the roundness out of my cheeks and let that image float in front of what I was seeing in the mirror.  I think this is a pretty common activity among trans* people.

I was reflecting today on the fact that I can now see the maleness in my face without squinting my eyes and doing mental overlays.  It’s not that my face has changed drastically – the shape is a little different and yes, my facial hair is darker and in greater quantity – but it’s still my face, the face I’ve had since becoming an adult.  So why can I see the masculinity so much more easily now?

I think it’s all in my head.  All my life I’ve been schooled in the art of seeing the female in my face and body, regardless of the masculine tells.  It was another overlay that fit firmly over my image when I looked in the mirror, that I saw first and foremost.  When I began questioning my gender identity and exploring what gender could mean to me, I began seeing the male more often.  It was like a flickering image, at first it was hard to hold on to but eventually I could steady it and examine its details.  It was like having another person in my body.  Sometimes I’d see the female butch dyke, sometimes I’d see the man.  I remember confessing to Roxy that I had a crush on my male side, it was really like looking at the image of someone else, someone I craved being in the presence of, the Kyle side of me.

This morning I took a selfie of myself and looking at the picture I took, all I could see was the maleness.  My perception has switched over – now it’s more rare for me to see the femaleness in me, it flickers in and out of my vision and won’t stabilize any more.

I am still surprised at being seen as a man in the world, strangers rarely misgender me now.  It still surprises me because inside I am still a mixed gender person and the habit and expectation of being seen of female is based on 50 years of experience.

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“I need him”

“I need him, yes, really I do.”

She’s motioned to a door I keep closed.  I narrow my eyes, wanting to believe her but not sure.  I keep that door closed for a reason.  I’ve only opened it once and the result wasn’t good.

She gets close, holds my face and looks into my eyes.

“I am telling you, I want all of you.  All. Of. You.  And the one behind that door?  I need him.  I know why you keep that door closed and I’m asking you to open it for me.

Trust me.”

I’ve pulled out my keys and I’m beginning the process of unlocking that door.  I can hear him behind it, whispering to me, whispering in that seductive way he has.  I tell her what he’s saying, I become his conduit again.  She gets eager, desire rolling off of her in waves of scented heat.  He talks to her through me and she swoons in my arms.

Just a few more locks and she’ll get what she needs.

The Bad Man is already leaning against the door.

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