Butchtastic First Birthday Contest entries: FucksLikeAGirl

This is the longest contest entry I received, well over the 500 word limit I declared in my contest announcement.  Once you read it, I’m sure you’ll see why I allowed it.  Fasten your seat belts and get your towels ready, this one will take you for a fast ride and leave you wet.  From FucksLikeAGirl:

Fucking fabulous.  Three days before I’m supposed to fly out to see Kim, she has a family emergency and had to leave.  I came anyway since I’d already bought the plane ticket and paid for the hotel.  Seattle looks like a great city so I thought that surely I could find some trouble to get into.

Maybe not.

I’m the Femmest of the Femmes.  I’m at a queer bar wearing a dress.  It’s gorgeous, too.  Midnight blue, so dark as to be almost black but shimmery and softer. Much better for me than black.  It’s a simple dress, slim fitting and about knee length, the neckline showing cleavage, but not too much. The heels? Oh, these are To.Die.For. I got them while shopping this morning. I intended to wear other shoes but once I saw these, I couldn’t resist.  The heels aren’t *that* high – about 3” but there is a platform so they *feel* like they are only about 2”.  Lovely.  Stilettos aren’t that comfortable without the platform.

On the other hand, these shoes are not exactly dyke shoes.  I look like a straight chick out to find an experiment.  Still … I keep hoping that a butch will show up.  These dykes are all the granola sort.  You know the ones. “Oh, we don’t *do* butch-femme”, said in a tone of voice that lets you know their (imagined) superiority.

The bartender is pretty butch and she makes the visit to this bar not so bad.  We talk about Seattle, why I’m here and all that.  Except she is, you know, working, so she can’t talk much.  She’s also married so it isn’t flirting, just chat. Sandy. The bartender’s name is Sandy.   Which secretly cracks me up since I keep imagining that girl from Grease. You know the one Olivia Newton John played? This bartender probably should have been Kanicki.

I’m just finishing my drink (Johnny Walker Black with diet Coke. On ice.  [an aside, despite having been a bartender, I never ask for my drinks “on the rocks”. I always say “on ice.” I have no idea why]) when, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone sit down on the barstool next to me.  I sigh, imagining another goddamned granola dyke, and turn.

I stop Dead.In.My.Tracks.

This, pumpkins, is not a granola dyke.  My stomach flutters. This is a butch.  A real, honest to goodness butch. Oh. My. Wearing butch jeans, a shirt that buttons up the front and looks like I should really touch it.  Oh, and boots. I love boots on a butch. Badass boots, none of those sissified urban metrosexual “boi” boots. Yum. Just yum.

The Butch smiles at me.  My femmes, you know the smile: the slow, sexy, “oh aren’t you delicious?” smile. Yeah, that one.  “May I sit here?” Holy wet panties, darlings.  A polite butch with good grammar? I’m in writer/editor/femme nirvana.

“Of course.”

The Butch signals the bartender and orders a beer.  Then, turns to look at me. “I see you’re almost finished with your drink.  May I buy you another?” I smile and agree.  The bartender smirks at me.

“So,” The Butch says, one eyebrow raised, “come here often?” I laughed. The tone of voice said, “Yeah, it’s a cliché. And?”

“Actually, no,” I tell The Butch. “This is my first time in Seattle. I was supposed to be meeting a friend.”

The Butch looks around, “What? Are you meeting her here?” The Butch takes a sip of beer and looks at me.  You know the look, right? The one that says, “I wonder what you look like under that dress?”

I laugh.  You know the laugh, right? The one that says, “Play your cards right, buddy, and you’ll find out what I look like under this dress.”  “No, she had a family emergency that took her out of town.  I decided to come out anyway.  You? Do you come here often?”

“Nope. I was supposed to be meeting friends, too, but they cancelled. I decided I needed a night out anyway, so here I am.”

I cock my head to one side and, looking The Butch in the eyes say, “Lucky me.”

The unexpected happens.  The Butch looks … nervous.  But in a good way.  A little self-conscious.  “Lucky?” I half-expected a broken voice a la middle school boy.

“It isn’t every day I meet a cute butch who appears to be at loose ends for the evening.”

The Butch smiles at me. “Thanks. And it’s not every day this butch winds up sitting on a barstool next to such a beautiful woman.”

My turn to smile. “Aren’t you sweet? And what’s your name, gorgeous?”

“Oh, wow. Where are my manners? I’m Kyle.  It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Barbara. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kyle”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Kyle says, raising his beer in a mock toast.

I raise my glass, looking dead into his eyes and say, “Oh. I’m pretty sure that at least some of the pleasure will be mine.” He smirks at me, then. The sexiest of smirks, with a raised eyebrow and eyes that say “Oh, it’s on, now, FemmeGirl.”  I can’t help the laugh and returning grin that he gets next.

Kyle looks around. I look around.  The bar is filling up, it’s getting noisier and noisier.  “Sounds like good music.  Want to dance?”  “Love it.” He gets up from his stool and holds his hand out to me, which I take. He leads me out to the dance floor.  I admit: I ”accidentally” bump into him so that my breasts brush against his back.  I’m pretty sure he stopped a time or two so that would happen.

The music is older tonight, which I love.  Sexy music, bluesy, funky. But then my favorite song comes on.  It’s fairly old so I’m surprised they are playing “Just a Lil Bit”.  I turn so that my back is towards Kyle and pull him closer, putting his hand on my hip.  And I dance. He dances.  Have you ever seen a bellydancer? You can bellydance, sort of, to some hip hop.  I do bellydance moves: hip circles, figure 8s, hip lifts and drops. At one point, I lean back against him and shimmy. I slide down Kyle’s body, bending forward slightly so that my rear is pressing against him, and slide back up. I am happy to feel that Kyle has come prepared to find a femme to play with. I lean backwards, and put my hand on one side of his face, pulling him closer so that I can whisper into his ear, “Having a good time, babe?”

“Oh, yeah,” he breathed into my ear. He takes my hand and turns me so that I am facing him. He slides his leg between mine, growling deep in his throat. His hand is one the small of my back, holding me close to him. His other arm is around my waist and we dance the dance of the sexually charged. Mostly hips moving, looking into each other’s eyes.

Then it happens.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he leans in to kiss me. His lips touch mine so slowly, so gently. I moan. Kyle pulls me closer to him and my body melts into his. My arms go around his shoulders and we kiss.  You’ve seen people kiss like this: The sort where you want to say “Get a room” but you don’t because it’s so sexy that it turns you on.  Yeah, it was that sort of kiss.

I pull away: “you’re an amazing kisser, Kyle.” “So are you but if we keep this up, my legs are not going to support me.”

Just then, the DJ starts “Crazy Bitch” by Buck Cherry. “Well, then, we’d better dance!” I say.  Kyle laughs, “Do you think she did that on purpose?” Probably so.  But we dance for a few songs, and sing to each other and laugh.  It’s fun and silly. The DJ then does something unusual in dance clubs these days: she played an old school slow song.

Kyle hold out his hand to me, “May I have this dance, m’lady?”  I curtsy, “Of course, kind sir.” He pulls me into him and we dance.  Or we sway. I whisper, “I think you should kiss me again.” “Do you?” But he doesn’t. “I think we should leave.” Without a word, I move away, backing off the dance floor, holding his hand.  Once we get to the edge of the dance floor, Kyle takes the lead and we go out to his truck.  I’m impatient. I’m wet. I’m so fucking wet.

Kyle opens the door to his truck for me.  I get in and he closes the door, leaning in to kiss me gently first.  Damn. He has automatic locks. But yay! It’s got a bench seat. Before he gets to his door, I’ve pulled my dress over my head and flung it on the floor.  I lean against my door, one foot on the floor, one knee bent and resting against the back of the seat.

It takes him a second once he gets in to notice the (nearly) naked femme in his truck.  I have the desired effect: Kyle’s eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open and his dick hard.

I smile. Not a grin this time.  A smile. Seductive.  Full of promise.  I pull him so that he scoots to my side of the truck.  I unbuckle his jeans and take that gorgeous cock out of his boxer briefs.  Can I just say? Yum. Thick and long. Clearly wanting me.  I slide off the seat and without so much as a thought, I take him into my mouth.

He wasn’t expecting that.

I slide my mouth down the length of him, slowly.  I love being on my knees, between his legs, his cock in my mouth.  He loves it, too. His hands are on my head, he’s saying, “Oh, fuck. Yeah, baby. Suck my dick.” Like that. I slide my hand behind his cock so that I can touch his clit.  Some butches like that, some don’t.  Kyle does. I suck his dick and rub his clit, teasingly slow sometimes, until I feel his orgasm begin to build.  Closer and closer he gets to coming … and then he does. His hands using my hair to pull me closer, to get more of his cock in my mouth, his hips bucking against my fingers, his wetness spilling onto my hand, his hardness filling my mouth. He comes loudly, saying my name. He comes for a long time, hips arched, cunt throbbing. Then he falls back into the seat.  He doesn’t open his eyes.  I slide up on to the seat and sit next to him, head on his shoulder, while he catches his breath.

“Wow, girl,” he says. “You were in a hurry, eh?” 🙂

What can I say? I love butch cock.  And from the look in Kyle’s eye, I’m gonna find a lot more ways to love butch cock when we get back to my hotel.

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