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| Multiplicity I pull the blankets back, exposing a very naked me each day. A naked me with the same lines and curves that have identified that figure as my own for my own short eternity. I move around, covering my nakedness in different clothes, indiscriminate pieces of fabric, leather, lace, silk, denim, that by themselves cause no real reaction, but when snapped or buckled to my bare body let you decide how to react to me. I wear different costumes everyday. Trying to become someone: if no one in particular, than anyone. If the time isn’t dedicated to becoming, at the very least, it is spent trying to solidify. Trying to solidify an identity, so that I can attract You. You, who the fuck are you anyway? I wear day of the week panties, so I can keep track of who I’m supposed to be and when. Funny how the orange, tangerine panties for Tuesday and those for Monday through Thursday are all worn out Thank YOU predictability. But the fresh, white fruity Friday ones with the cornucopia of fruit picture covering my clit seem new. I can’t recall ever wearing them, at least not on a Friday. And the Saturday ones are missing altogether. You- did you toss them behind your bed one Saturday night as you ripped my panties off before I decided to stop wearing them when I went out to pick up girls? But really, who am I anyway when the weekend rolls around? What I really need is a flog-me Friday G-string, and a slutty Saturday crotchless version. Why can’t anyone understand that multiplicity? If not you or my lovers, my family, or even myself, Why can’t the panty guy at least figure it out? I should just ditch the panties in general. Leave my clit to rub up against my clean-pressed trousers I wear during the week, so I can make enough money to support my drinking habit on the weekends, when I never wear panties anyway, so when I get drunk and get horny, you can smell the scent of my cunt, and take me home, make me Me, let me show you I’m the kind of girl you should take home during the week and strip out of her button-down blouse and clean-pressed trousers. And maybe, in the morning, you’ll ask me my name. And ask about those conflicting images in the room surrounding our naked bodies. You- did you ever imagine that the girl over there in the leather corset and garter belt would be the kind of girl who would make you coffee as you went off to work in the dark? The kind of girl with impeccable manners and a sweet demeanor when the occasion necessitates it? Why won’t you give me a second look on a Tuesday? Me passing by you in weekday attire, You’re standing there with a cigarette in your grease-stained hand, leather cuff around it’s wrist James Dean demeanor propped up against a wall. Your eyes dismiss me before they ever really see me. You- why can’t you see me? What do I need to wrap my body in to make you see me as the sweet, bitchy, demure, sexy, shy, boisterous Femme I really am? Why can’t you, You, the world at large meet me naked, see me for who I am, ask me my name, and walk with my arm on yours regardless of the day? See my multiplicity, damn it. Ask me my name. |
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| Emotional Upheaval My current condition is your morning’s entertainment. You chuckle as you look at me last night’s beauty crumpled in a pile on your bedroom floor. Subtle reminders that I’m your little secret as I race downstairs and slide in to the bathroom Propped up on a towel, I’m crouched down on my knees. Sticky hair from last nights fuck is rubbing up against my cheeks. I feel my jaw clench my stomach convulse and that cold ivory bowl is filled with fluid the same yellow color as the sun I refuse to look at outside your bedroom window. That same sun that tells me it is morning, that last night is over, and that I am vulnerable here hidden away in your house. The door of the bathroom is now the only thing between she and I. She, the one who occupies your heart, while I busy your fist. You begged of me Please don’t wake her up, please don’t let her see you. Why weren’t these things running through your head last night as you were banging mine up against your guitar, pressed up against the wall, thighs split, head aching, body pulsing, immediate need blanketing our bodies in the cold air. The night is over and I’m spewing last night’s poor decisions out of my body and into this cold porcelain container. I wish I had sunglasses because this hot, yellow fluid is too obvious a reminder that I’m in the wrong place and like the sun, it’s hurts my head with each passing glance. I am splayed across the floor of your tile bathroom trying to wretch in quiet, because God forbid the girl in the next room over hears this sickly human being you have hidden upstairs with you today. This child-like rag doll like the one you used to carry around as a girl. The one who was so beautiful the night she was brought home from the store. The one everyone wanted to see wanted to touch play with have a piece of. This morning, this doll, this me this worn and tattered doll is laying on the floor a mixture of cum, and blood, and vomit feeling weak, feeling cast away feeling like I’ve been replaced by the girl downstairs the newest toy in your playful collection. My fingers shove themselves down my throat opening my mouth wider expunging the burn of last night’s intoxication. Temporary relief consumes me as the spinning walls begin to grind to a halt. There are remnants caught in my throat that mock my attempts of relief. They keep company with the words stuck in my heart that need to come out, that need to find relief on your ears, but refuse. The throbbing in my head begins to subside, and I feel my heart growing heavy. |
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| A job not so well done Not once in the last three years had a privileged, heterosexual penis of flesh and blood passed by her thighs and into the lips of her femme-identified cunt. The tongue of the last person to part her small, swollen lips with their mouth did not belong to one of the men you fear is capable of undermining her femme identity. The one she lets into her bed each night, whom you’ve never had the privilege to meet, is not a MAN, despite your assumptions about her sex life. If you had ever once bothered to look at the sparkle in her eyes when a butch walked passed, you would have known that her identity as a strong bisexual woman does not preclude her identity as one of the most brilliant and desirable femmes I’ve ever had the privilege to know. But you are the Gatekeeper. We justify to you our qualifications for admittance to a world set aside for people who enjoy the dynamics of the butch-femme fuck. PLEASE ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS FOR CONSIDERATION BY OUR NARROW MINDS: 1. How do you identify? Insert the word "butch" or "femme" here. And please, don’t forget to include the word "lesbian." But don’t worry, if you do omit it, we’ll just assume it for you. 2. How long have you identified as butch or femme? And please make sure you’re not just coming out, because we are all too busy and too exclusive to nurture you new-found identity, even though we are still indebted to those who did so for us. 3. What does butch / femme mean to you? Please regurgitate story lines with traditional notions of butch gender and butch-femme sex roles here. We are not really interested in what it actually means to YOU. 4. How long has it been since you’ve fucked a MAN? What, you didn’t ask that? Oh, I’m sorry. You might as well have. You treated her like the answer was yesterday, as if that was somehow relevant to her self-identity or any of your fucking business. Your retort to accusations of exclusivity is your desire to create a welcoming space for those of us who have so many times before been rejected because of our attractions. And, like you, she knows the alienation that walks through the door with you when you enter queer space in a skirt and lipstick. She knows the hurt of being labeled “another queer supporting the heterosexist patriarchy" when she walks on the arm of her butch or waits to have her door held open for her. Like many femmes, she is her butch’s dick. Her body and her sounds enable her butch to feel her dick swelling insider of her. And she appreciates that a butch doesn’t have to be without clothes to feel naked and exposed. But, to you, oh gatekeeper of this butch / femme space, this is all irrelevant, because SHE has fucked a MAN and does not eliminate the possibility of doing so again in the future. And for this, you have expunged her from a community she has supported for years. You have told her that she is no longer welcome. In your endeavor to protect butch / femme attraction from heterosexual hatred, you have emulated heterosexual exclusivity more that a man’s cock in her cunt ever could. Congratulations, here’s your gold star. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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