My butch husband and I were just up in Burlington, Vermont for a bit of a vacation and to commune with Lake Champlain. We even had some social intercourse, during which the revelation that I write erotica was met with differing reactions. One Green Mountain dyke’s caterpillar-esque eyebrows danced merrily and her eyes twinkled. Another blushed and changed the subject. Another just couldn’t get over it, and kept asking, “Really? You do? Really?! You do?!”
Yes, I do! And one reason I do is because I want there to be a conversation. I want us to connect with our shared human-ness, the electric hum of sexuality that vibrates beneath the skin of all queers. And an erotica anthology is a great place for that conversation and connection to take place.
I came out late, and perhaps I started writing butch/femme erotica in order to imagine a past for myself. Another reason is because I didn’t see enough b/f stories that were both hot and real (happily that is changing!). By real, I mean the author treating the characters with respect and endowing them with histories, humor, humanity.
Erotica is incredibly important because, for some folks, it may be one of very few venues in which their own sexuality is reflected back to them. I take that seriously – I don’t want to fuck with the importance of people fucking. Despite all the hoopty generated by those gray stories and reality tv and things on the internet that usually pass me by; despite the fact that in some places queer burlesques and all manner of sexy classes, talks, and readings are practically a dime a dozen, I still don’t think there’s near enough talk about queer sexuality, especially in rural communities.
The late, great John Preston, author of Mr. Benson and one of my role models, said that he wrote pornography so that gay men could be sexually healthy. For John, gay men, for me femmes and butches, for you, who knows? I say, amen, and pass the anthology! I’m really looking forward to reading the rest of the stories!
Thank you to Ily for putting out the call for sporty, sexy dykes! I had a lot of fun imagining this butch, her 6-month old twins, her hot wife, her elderly dad, and the visit to her alma mater that stirs up a batch of memories about that most troubling of sexual obsessions: the straight girl.
Mary Jackson, 1984. I’m running around the track, cooling down after a tough game against the Yellow Jackets, our rivals. They defeated us the year before, but this year we won 2-1. I feel great, alive and horny, the way I always do after a game. Everyone is pumped, hashing over the goals, laughing, whooping. I’m trying to join in, but I can’t concentrate because, as usual, Mindy Harper, right wing, number seven, is running behind me, keeping up a steady stream of nasty talk. I have no idea why she does this, but it’s become a routine, one I both love and hate. Love because the girl is hot and I have a huge crush on her. Hate because she’s drawing attention to me in a way that makes me want to die. Amber Mason, right wing, number eleven, is keeping pace with her, giggling and slapping her arm when she’s particularly nasty. I have a huge crush on Amber, too. I run faster, pretending I can’t hear them, but my butt feels ten times bigger than normal, an easy target for Mindy’s extremely active imagination.
“Just look at that ass!” she says. “Big and juicy and jiggly. Mm hmm, just look at those butt cheeks bounce. Damn, Selena, you have the most grabbable ass I ever did see!” She goes on like this for a few more yards until I put on a burst of speed, even though I’m supposed to be cooling down. I flop onto the grass next to Coach Cal, who’s about to start us on our stretching routine, and Mindy shuts up. On the way off the field, though, she starts up again, and by the time we get to the locker room, she’s picked up a few more teammates, all talking about my ass. As I scuttle over to my locker, I’m blushing so hard my eyes water, unable to escape the pack of giggling, snorting straight girls who crowd up behind me. I can feel the heat of their bodies as they brush against me, feel their breasts make brief contact with my back. I am utterly, painfully familiar with their breasts from having seen them naked more times than a baby dyke can be expected to come through and survive. Mindy has small ones, teacups, she calls them, and half the time she doesn’t wear a bra, even in practice, which makes Coach Cal furious. Amber has double d’s, ripe and heavy, and even tamed by her sports bra, they spring from her chest invitingly. I try not to think about their breasts, try to smile, show them what a good friend I am, what a good teammate, how I can take their teasing good naturedly. Oh look, now they’re taking turns trying to rattail me on the way to the shower. Love it. Hate it.