think a thought

I’m settled and comfortable under bedcovers at night and I’m thinking of T’s girl in the photo, my talk with my friend about it, and that brief tangent with Flirt about me needing to experiment with girls.

I’m 15 again, blooming late as always, lying cosy in my childhood bed at night. No one’s bothered to buy me a new bed, my heels are always hitting against the bedpost, a bedpost covered with faded scratch-and-sniff stickers that predate the first grade.

An article in a girly teen magazine. ‘Dear Abby, I sometimes fantasize about girls when I masturbate. Does that make me a lesbian?’

I don’t know what it ‘makes’ her, but I wonder if I should try and do the same too.

The rules are simple, have always been simple: if you have a thought, think it. If another person’s thoughts hit you, try them on for size too.

Take position. Place that pillow between my legs. Rub clumsily. I’m kissing a girl. Rub. On her mouth. Rub. Her boobs touch me. Rub. My hands between her legs..somewhere. Rub. Between my legs. Rub. Rub rub rub. I’ve cum.

Faster than ever before.

That was new.

What does that make me? I forgot to ask.

But seven years later, the novelty hasn’t worn off. Women are still new. I have yet to try them.

I like men. They kill me, in fact. I love a man with hands that can work things, a presence that can work a crowd, but is content to lay back and watch too. A man with a one-hand-in-my-pocket smile, a heart that cannot help caring, a swaggering, gentle charm, a machismo that is quirky. A man’s who’s got a theory on everything, a clarity of view, arms that can love me or crush me, a mind that can wander and find new spots. I like a man who looks like he wants to take on the world, and then goes ahead and does. Or at least tries.

I love a man’s body, always a shock, always awkward at my first glance, but then focusing into sharp lines of exciting muscles, broad and embracing, graceful in motion, designed for strength. His sexuality on the loose, ready to fly, flaunted, inverse to mine.

I love a man’s cock. I didn’t always used to but I do now. Hard, burning, wanting, taking, giving cock. Knobs and protrusions. Swinging sacs waiting in excess below, patient, wanting to be cupped. Erection of delicate, thin, soft skin pulsing hard with pounding blood inside. And don’t get me started on that scrumptiously organic meeting of cock and cunt, made for each other, simultaneously giving and taking pleasure in the same action, no, this I cannot begin on, this I cannot replace.

A man talks to me and I am intrigued. I want to figure out. I feel the instant possibility of play. And it doesn’t have to happen, doesn’t matter if it doesn’t, but there are, dancing in the distant background, popping questions of promise too: is he here, is he the one to carry with me in this life, accompany me through? Seed for my seed? Life for after I die too?

What does that make me?

I like women. They endear themselves to me. There are ones that stand out so much they blow my mind. They stand out with a smile, a talent, a thought, an attitude. I want to be it all. I want to be the girl, do the girl, be the girl I saw step down from the bus with a backpack on her back, flashing black-lace eyes. And beyond that, far beyond that, there are women flying planes, designing new drugs, painting pictures, writing books. There’s a woman breaking through in some form. Who’s got a voice, a brain, a heart to die for. A woman who just gets it. Who leaves you guessing. Who knows how to hold out a hand. Who balances all of this, this joy, this empathy, this bleeding, this pain, this haunting intuition, this turmoil of conflicting wants and needs and thoughts and emotions, and emerges triumphant.

I like it when a woman makes anything look easy. It gives me direct hope (more so than when a man does). And yes, I get urges to be with the women who give me hope.

I love my body, and so I love every woman’s body. I have more words to talk about one because I see one every day. I like the round appeal of breasts, the pinching before the hips at the waist, the soft skin, the hard hip bone, the warm stomach, the line at the back leading to the curve of ass, shapely legs, collarbone, sleek neck, shiny hair, inviting lips. Maybe it is vain, but I find it all beautiful.

I like my cunt too, though I haven’t demystified it as much as I’d like to quite yet. But I’ve watched it and I like how it looks when it begins to open, the deepening of color, how it can become slippery with secretions and just beg to be filled.

I’d like to touch these things on someone else some day. It’s been said before, but I want these all to meet like at a faulty mirror, different but the same.

I’ve had a lot of dreams about women since that article-induced first time in my confining juvenile bed. Usually they are the ones touching me. They are the ones sucking on my nipples, inserting fingers and objects into my cunt. It never really seems to be about orgasms. Though I cum easily just to think of it. Sometimes I touch the women too, make them feel good too, have them suck on my fingers and then place them at their clit. In only one dream, and I remember it very vividly, a woman, older than me, licked my pussy to orgasm. And then she positioned herself backwards above my mouth, placed her pussy right above my face. I saw it very clearly, every detail of her cunt, the lips, the smell, a trace of hair, her clit throbbing. It was the only time I ever remember seeing that in a dream. I must have sucked on her till she came too because I woke up with her taste strange in my mouth.

I’m not sure what I would do if I were faced with such a cunt hovering above me in real life.

A woman talks to me in real life and I’m not thinking of sex. I want her to make it, because I want to make it too, and I see herself in me. We talk and I am there to support and laugh and understand.

I’m not comfortable mock-humping a girl friend while dancing at a club like I’ve seen so many straight girls do. I know it’s just for fun, but I don’t feel settled enough in my sexuality to do it. I become conscious of my secret desire, I don’t want to exhibit it just to tantalize others. I feel too serious about wanting to be with a woman still. I am a little too serious like that about everything. I don’t rub up against men I don’t want either, why would I do it with a woman I’m not thinking of that way? And if I really and truly am thinking of her that way, doesn’t she have the right to know?

Then again, I’ve never really had a crush on a close female friend. I may have indulged in a fantasy or two, but it’s never been so strong as to affect me the next time I encounter her. Mostly I’ve wanted archetypes, celebrities, strangers off the street.

I don’t think I’d want a solid relationship with a woman either, although frustrating times when I felt like I was senselessly knocking my head against X’s have sometimes made me wish I did.

My want, my curiosity isn’t quite burning, not yet.

But my god there’s something magnetically gorgeous in every woman that I cannot ignore. It would be so exciting to experience that in another firsthand some day.

What does that make me?

The truth is too I want to fuck in every way possible.

I want to be the sharp heel in your back. I want to be tied and left to your whim. I want to play with pain and pleasure.

Let me dress up pretty in lace and stockings. Strip me stark, down to my bones. Bring in the world. Let there be only you. Let’s do it earthy and dirty, let’s do it classy and sleek. Let’s be real, let’s pretend. Let’s just fuck.

These will come, these will all come. I will do nothing in the mean time. But if I wait, it will come, everyone cums, it is just a matter of right time, right place.

What does that make me?

I want to know everything. See the world, try it all. I want to be a resounding success at something. I don’t want to hurt anything, but other than that, I want to be able to stop at nothing.

What does that make me?

I want to get married and have a boy and a girl, work my ass off for them, retire, die and go to heaven. Or hell. Or become earth under stomping feet. Or return as a tropical bird. Or as a sentence coming out of someone else’s mouth. Return in that thought of someone else who was just like who I used to be, who’s done something from the everything I used to.

Dear Abby, I want to do all this. I can feel this all, and I will do this all. What does that make me? Do I even care?

I’m lying in bed and I’m thinking of all these things, and then I’m back to thinking of me and T and the girl in the picture.

How would T feel about a threesome? I know he’s said he’s not crazy about bisexual women, not in the way that it’s become trite to depict all men to be.

But maybe he would do it. Maybe he’d be interested. Maybe I’d suggest it. Maybe he’d suggest it to me.

I’m touching my clit.

I’m thinking of the girl, how I would meet her. Would it be better to meet her clothed somewhere else beforehand? Or should the first encounter just be us naked in T’s bedroom?

Maybe down to her underwear in T’s bedroom. Us both down to our bra and panties in his bedroom. Have T bring me in like that, introduce me to her like that.

How would it start? Oh god, my fingers, how would it start?

The start, the beginning, it always ruins me, I can never go much further than that. There is still enough only in that thought to take me there.

How would it start? Could we start with a kiss? Could I lean over and place my lips on another girl’s lips like I did in my first fantasy? Could I place my arms shyly around her and kiss like that? How would she feel, how would she taste? How would she touch? Would T watch at first? Could I lie side by side with the girl, have T fuck me from behind as I played with the girl, pleasured her, placed my finger on her clit, slipped another one inside, as she stroked at my breasts, T’s cock in and out of me still?

It is just a couple of minutes, just a quick blurred series of possibilities, but it is too late, I shudder and I cum.


I won’t immediately recall this moment later on. But this torrent of thoughts leading to a sleepy nighttime cum would foreshadow a conversation I would later have with T, the possibility of a change for him and me.