Accepting a Rejected Role

What you see as a hyper-feminine aspiration

Is really a power role for me.

The corset is no longer a restrictive binding of objectification.

I’ve reclaimed it.

I’ve reworked it.

You see, the corset now entices.

But its you who it binds.

And I hold the ties.

Don’t let the look of daintiness fool you.

I can show you a new meaning of powerful

That will hurt you

And exhaust you

And fill you

And leave you begging for more.

Bathtub

I laid myself in the bathtub.

It was full of water.

It was full of blood.

It was amniotic fluid.

Cum, spit, tears, oil.

It was full of life.

Life juices.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

I watched as I made waves.

Rippling as I moved.

Rippling as I breathed.

Air and water.

Moving in and out and in again.

Tracing that ebb and flow.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

Feeling the water touch me.

One moment on the high seas.

Tossing and swelling and rough.

The next like laying at the water’s edge.

Soft.

Just gently lapping.

Fingering.

Tickling.

Teasing.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

I lost myself and found you.

Wet and slippery.

Writhing on top of me.

I found myself and lost you.

Floating there alone.

My hands.

My imagination.

My desires.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

Groaning and shuddering.

Moaning and twitching.

Right down to the last drop.

A bubble circling the drain.

To gasp and lie in release.

Untitled

I see you kneeling there.

Gingerly holding a rope.

Your eyes are begging.

Begging to be given a task.

Inviting pain.

Inviting pleasure.

You ask me to take your clothes from you.

I tell you the undress yourself instead.

As you do, I touch.

And squeeze.

And pinch.

You quiver and begin to breathe hard.

Breathing hard gives way to panting as I cinch a collar around your neck.

A snug collar that has so many promising loops.

Multiple enticing rings.

How fortunate that you brought a rope.

How convenient that just two simple ties.

And well-placed knots can secure you in such a prone position.

Your tender breasts jutting out before you.

Covered in goose bumps.

From the cold?

Or from anticipation?

Hoping to be caressed.

Slapped.

Squeezed.

Paid attention to.

I touch them.

But just long enough to flirt.

Before walking away.

Leaving you whimpering.

Asking me to come back.

Asking me to cum.

To let you cum.

I return.

You don’t know it.

But you can feel it.

The cold metal end of my crop.

Pushing you over.

Sliding over you and the ropes.

A few changes to the knots.

And you are still bent over.

Ass to the air.

Clenching and relaxing.

Waiting for what is about to come.

For the soft slow rhythm of my strokes.

As they crescendo.

And ease off.

To crescendo again.

Leaving a perfect hue of red.

Delicious redness.

A seductive blush.

Hot to the touch.

Of my lips.

A soft nibble.

And there is no question of what I want next.

A moan escapes as I slip into you.

Your eyes wide.

I pull me into you.

I pull you into me.

My hands on your back.

Droplets of blood form.

Where my nails dig in.

Stinging as they dry.

Stinging again as I walk you into the wetness of a shower.

Washing off the blood.

The sweat.

The juices.

Good girl.

Good girl.

The Curse of Dirty Queer

If you read erotica

Chances are you sometimes also write erotica.

And writing takes inspiration.

Inspiration which comes at some odd times.

Some convenient;

Like sitting on the toilet seat.

Or when you are waiting for intermission to end

Or or waiting for the punch clock to read 6pm.

Some times are very inopportune times.

Like when you are talking with your supervisor.

Or or riding your bike.

Or while having sex.

No kidding.

Happened to me once.

Very inopportune.

The ideas, not the sex.

The sex had perfect timing.

The writing did not.

There I was eating out my girlfriend when I got ideas.

Really good ideas.

I had to stop.

“Ooh! I need to write a few lines down!”

I smacked my forehead.

I didn’t just blurt that out loud.

She took it quite well.

“I have a pen down there somewhere.

And and my skin is your paper.

Just dig a little deeper.”

So I did.

But I lost the poem.

Not sure yet if I’m upset about that one getting away.

But yes.

The loss of material is saddening.

This might not have happened to you yet

But it will.

It’s the curse of Dirty Queer.

You get great ideas at the worst times.

My advice?

Next time you get inspiration

Even when you’re with your boss

Just ask for a pen and write away.

I’m sure she’ll understand.

And if she doesn’t?

Just enlighten her.

* wink *

Dirty Queer

I recently have been attending an open mic for queer erotica. By attending, I mean I've been reading at them. Aside from that, though, I haven't know what to do with my poetry. So, I think I'll start posting it on here after its been read. Enjoy.

Open Mic

I attended an open mic last night. It was advertised on the internet as being for "lesbian, bisexual, trans, two spirit, queer and straight women of color". I read it to mean that queer women and that straight women of color were all invited to read at the open mic. I emailed the person in charge to say hi and that I'd like to have my name put on the list. She did so.

Upon getting to the open mic it didn't take me long to realize that my partner and I were really the only women not of color. We went back outdoors to read the poster for the event and sure enough, the poster said the event was for "lesbian, bisexual, queer, and trans women of color". This time it was clear that is was speaking just about women of color. Then it hit me that my name was put on the to-read list because with a name like Amari, I could easily be taken as someone of color if they didn't meet me face to face. I went back indoors and explained the misunderstanding to the director- asking to have my name taken off the to-read list as I didn't feel it was appropriate for me to be on the stage. She was very kind and asked me to keep my name on the list, just for tonight. I accepted. She then said that maybe people would think I was Native American. (I was fine admitting that I wasn't really supposed to be reading at this open mic- I was actually quite embarrassed by the misunderstanding).

It turns out that there were only 8 people who spoke. 3 of the 8 didn't belong on the stage. 1 was a man of color (but at least he fit part of the criteria). 1 was myself (but again, as a transwoman at least I fit part of the criteria). One was a straight, white, man who was unapologetic for reading first and for reading heteronormative pieces that were slightly inappropriate.

My partner talked about it and came to the conclusion that they asked me to continue to read because, as women of color, they know what it feels like to be a minority that faces challenges in this world. As such, they extended the use of their safe-space for speaking to another minority woman. Solidarity through a shared experience of discrimination and violence due to identity.

While I won't be putting my name on the list to read, I do plan to attend again. There were several other pieces that were read that were absolutely amazing and beautiful to hear. The women there were extremely nice and the feeling of the group was one of high-energy. I hope to learn from them.

Silly girls and stupid boys.

Walking down the street holding my partners hand.

I smile.

A small-penis-truck roars by.

Its riders yell "dyke".

Like its a bad thing.

We smile even broader.

Joking about how we were supposed to be insulted.

Insulted to be dykes? Or insulted to be women?

At the bike shop we talk bikes with a worker.

Silly girls. Like we know anything about bikes.

(We really do, but he implies we don't.)

I ask questions and look things over.

All the while I can see him not looking at my words.

He's intently listening to my breasts.

If he really knew the story behind those breasts he'd listen to me then.

Or maybe not.

Perhaps he's call me a freak and run me out of his shop.

Or he'd think me an odd prize and chase me into his bed.

And then promptly out of it again afterwards.

After he had his "weirdest hookup" story for his buds.

But doesn't it make him kinda gay if its his ass something gets stuck up?

Layers of contradictions found within all the hatred and ignorance.

Stupid boys.