Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Queer Woman Who Sneaks Into the Fitting Room With Her Partner: Female, 31, San Francisco, temp, queer, polyamorous, and partnered.
4 p.m. I’m thinking about D, with whom I have a date next week. Specifically, I am thinking about a time we had sex last year. We sat on my couch, her to my side. My legs were spread wide open, my knees up to my chest. Her fingers were deep inside of me and I could feel them rubbing on my G-spot. I was soaking the couch. I remember her facing me, her face pressing against mine. I remember grabbing onto her, how strong she felt and how secure it made me feel. I knew she had me. I knew I could let go.
10 a.m. T, my partner, is crawling across the mattress with a tray in her hand. We have a California King bed that takes up three of the four walls of the tiny bedroom in our small apartment. The day we moved in, the movers laughed at me when I pointed to where the bed would go. T thought I was being a bit ridiculous since we also had the option of moving a smaller bed here. But I held my ground. I had to have this giant bed. And seeing her crawling on her knees carrying breakfast to me, I know I was right.
11 p.m. Just home from a friend’s birthday celebration, snuggled up with T in bed. Sweet kissing gets my tongue worked up and now it wants more. I tug on the waistband of her boxer briefs. “Off,” I say. Why do most butch women always seem to leave their underwear on in bed, even when they know they’re likely coming off? I once had a rule with a past partner that she had to be completely naked when she was in bed with me; I should bring that rule back.
11:10 p.m. I love looking up at T’s breasts from between her legs; they frame her face so nicely. I love how she starts to shake as she comes in my mouth. “I shouldn’t give you my tongue so quickly. It turns you into a puddle,” I tell her. Of course, I don’t really mean this — the part about keeping my tongue from her. My tongue is directly connected to my ego, and my ego likes the feel of come dripping on it.
1 p.m. Please send help. I am stuck at a lesbian barbeque where people say things like, “I had to walk out of the Margaret Cho show. She’s just so blunt about sex. It’s too much. Too dirty.” I need another glass of wine.
6 p.m. T and I are at JCPenney searching for a dress for me to wear to an upcoming wedding. T decides she should also pick up some bras for herself. She’s talking about the boring eighteen-hour types, but tells me that she’ll try on anything I’d like. My face lights up as I run around the bra section. I love it when she so eagerly volunteers to be embarrassed for me.
6:20 p.m. They don’t even carry her size in girlie bras, but the largest cup they sell and a band that’s a few inches too small will do. I’ll make it fit.
6:25 p.m. I sneak into the fitting room with her. I’ve selected three bras with black and white busy designs that are as push-upy as they come in this size, and also one lime green bra with full support cups (they are the size of my head). I think the lime green one is my favorite.
6:30 p.m. I fasten the bras for her. They are too small so I really have to pull to hook the clasps. Her breasts are so heavy inside of the cups that they barely give any support. I feel a burst of pride that my girl can’t fit into any bra in the store. She agrees to not only let me see them on her but to also look in the mirror, and turns bright red each time.
7 p.m. We leave the store with a perfect blue dress that makes my eyes pop, the less-fun bras T always buys, and photos on my phone of our little fashion show.
1 p.m. T is laying across the couch, knees up. I am sitting to the side of her feet. She’s got on a T-shirt and her boxer briefs. I am rubbing on her clit over her underwear and watching her squirm. My hand moves inside of them and my fingers slide inside up and down. She doesn’t like me to be this far from her. She wants me on top of her where I can kiss her.
1:10 p.m. I crawl on top of her, keeping my hand in place. With my other hand, I grab her hair and hold her head down on a pillow. She starts to whisper no. T doesn’t like to like it. She likes to think our sex is happening to her, that it’s not her fault, that she didn’t ask for it.
1:12 p.m. “Please don’t,” she pleads. “Please! I won’t tell anyone, just please don’t … “
1:13 p.m. “You think anyone would believe that I’d want to fuck you?” I respond. She’s sobbing now. I place my hand tight on her neck. I tell her to shut up, that she’s going to like it. “If you don’t shut up I’ll choke you until you’re quiet. Do you understand? I don’t care what happens to you, remember that.”
1:15 p.m. Her crying is a lot heavier, her breathing much quicker. I’m looking down on her and I’m quiet for too long. She can sense some concern. “Keep going,” she pushes me. “Don’t stop!” She’s a bossy bottom.
4 p.m. T and I take a ride to Half Moon Bay and have an early dinner by the ocean. It’s the end of the weekend and we don’t want our time together to end. Tomorrow she has to go back to our other home an hour and a half away from San Francisco (where she still works) and won’t return until next weekend. Weekly good-byes are hard.
9 p.m. My date with D is tomorrow night, and I want to be freshly shaved for her. I ask T if she will shave me. She loves being of service and she loves looking at and touching my vagina too. It’s a win-win situation. While she concentrates on her task, I’m distracted by her breasts bulging out the tight men’s tank she’s wearing.
10 p.m. Just out of the shower, T tells me how pretty I look. I allow her to kiss me where I’ve just shaved.
9 p.m. D and I went for drinks and sushi and are back at her place now. We’re on our second episode of Anthony Bourdain’s Food Porn, which runs in the background while we play on Fetlife.com. Her laptop is on her lap, and my head is resting on her forearm while she types. We check out photo galleries of people I’ve met who I thought were cute, people I’ve met who annoyed me, people who’ve shown way too much interest in me on personal sites.
11 p.m. In D’s bedroom she asks me if I’d like pajamas. I smile at her and take my clothes off. I slide into bed with her.
11:10 p.m. I tell D that I am so tight for her, that I haven’t been fucked in over a year. “You’ve been saving yourself for me for that long? You’re such a good girl,” she says, twisting my nipples.
11:11 p.m. “Yes, Daddy. I have. Please put your penis in me,” I beg her.
11:13 p.m. Her fingers slide over my clit and inside me. “I love how wet you get,” she growls. She asks me if I think about running home to sit on Daddy’s lap when I’m at school. Always, I say. I tell her that when she’s not around I touch myself and I imagine that my wetness is her come dripping out of me.
11:20 p.m. I keep asking her for more, more, more, until her fist is 98 percent inside of me. I’m not happy with myself for not being able to take the last 2 percent, but I tell myself it has been a long time and that 98 percent is pretty damn impressive.
1:30 p.m. I wake up from a much needed nap and text D: “I am fully rested now and all of the soreness from last night has gone away, maybe a little sooner than I would have liked it to.”
7:30 a.m. I get a reply from D a few minutes after I wake: “All of the soreness is gone so soon? Disappointing. I was hoping it would at least remind you for a few days how hot and stretched open you were for me. I love when you’re greedy. I noticed you left your dirty come-soaked panties at my place. Nice touch, I appreciate it. I’m out of town next week but available after that.”
TOTALS: 8 DD bra cups; 1 act of shaving; 1 act of ego-boosting oral sex given; 1 bossy bottom; 1 almost-fisting; 1 growling of “Daddy”; 2 acts of sexting; 0 pajamas.
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