The harder she comes, p.1
The Harder She Comes, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
SPEAKEASY
WINNER TAKE ALL
IT’S SO PEACEFUL OUT HERE
MANCHESTER, 2000
GOOD GIRL, BAD GIRL
I.
II.
THE BUCKET LIST
HAPPY ENDING
TAMALES
VALENTINE
BIRTHDAY BUTCH
BORN TO RIDE
CHANNELING CHARLES BUKOWSKI
TITS DOWN, ASS UP
POUND
FARMHAND
A DATE WITH SHARON TATE
BIENVENIDO
THIS IS WHAT I WANT
One
Two
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
INTRODUCTION
Everything is circular. Things go in and out of fashion and everything old becomes new again. I remember commenting on my mother’s hopelessly out-of-date wardrobe and she said, “Just wait, it’ll come back.” And, of course, she was right. She had some totally cool shoes that were, sadly, a half size too big for me.
I don’t like being told what I can and can’t do.
There was a time, for a while there, when I couldn’t identify with being a feminist. These days, however, feminism doesn’t necessarily imply that people have to act a certain way, say certain things, or belong to a certain gender to call themselves feminists. It doesn’t even imply that they have to wear 100% cotton or be vegan, so I can get behind it again.
It wasn’t very long ago that the notion of butch/femme relationships fell out of favor in the eyes of the Powers That Be, or those who fancied themselves as such. Of course really, women, since time immemorial, have been loving women in all sorts of varied and beautiful ways and, thankfully, nothing will ever change that. We are who we are. The politicization of the butch/ femme relationship, as with all things circular, is back in favor again, allowing us to be out and proud and celebrate our butch/ femme selves.
The Harder She Comes does just that, and in many and varied ways. Never let it be said that any book of mine would imply that there was only one true way to celebrate the butch/ femme mystique. Here you will find suave, sexy daddies and adorable little girls who know what they want and how to go about getting it, like in Evan Mora’s “Speakeasy.” You’ll also find bottom bois who dream of getting it on with sexy femme tops and maybe even sexy butch tops in Miel Rose’s “Farmhand.”
There are butches who pass and femmes who demand perfect obedience from their boys. You’ll find a butch tattoo artist who’s turned on by the semi-naked girls she inks and what happens one night when the femme in her chair won’t take no for an answer in Crystal Barela’s “Tits Down, Ass Up.” What about wanting something that definitely isn’t politically correct? Sinclair Sexsmith masterfully explores that idea in “Good Girl, Bad Girl.” (Is it getting hot in here?)
The Harder She Comes is about knowing what you want and what you need and not letting anyone, including yourself, stand in your way of getting it. I think CS Clark says it best in “This Is What I Want:”
And this, this is exactly what I want. Both of us like this and every other way we can think of being. Do it again.
D. L. King
New York City
SPEAKEASY
Evan Mora
I’m tapping out a steady beat, my heels a metronome on the quiet city street. I feel conspicuous in my vintage-inspired fringed silver dress, but a quick scan of the sidewalks tells me that no one’s paying any attention. I keep up my pace, though, because the colors are bleeding out of the warm September dusk, and in this less gentrified part of town where hip restaurants rub shoulders with titty bars and rooms by the hour, a girl still has to take care.
I’m a little breathless—though who can tell if it’s from the brisk walk or the anticipation—when my destination comes into view: What Are You Looking At?, the standoffishly named, east-side hipster lounge and sometimes-home of the lusciously divine Butch/Femme Salon. Tonight’s salon theme is the roaring’20s, and two finely muscled studs flank the doorway like a pair of gangsters. My heart does a little flip as I’m treated to openly appreciative once-overs.
“Good evening, ma’am,” says the one on the left, her sensual lips curving into a smile.
“Gentlemen.” I incline my head in greeting while the one on the right opens the door, all bedroom eyes and promise.
It feels illicit, even though it’s not. It feels like secret passwords and shady alleys, like I’m crossing the threshold into a throwback blending of a Prohibition-era speakeasy and a lesbian bar from the ’50s. But even that doesn’t begin to describe the deliciousness of a scene where every masculine-of-center flavor imaginable—butches, Daddies, papis, studs, aggressives, trans-folk, and bois—are all dressed to the nines in their suits and ties, their wingtips shined and their fedoras creased just so. It’s enough to make a femme heart flutter.
Despite the name, the place itself is quite inviting. The long, narrow front room is a patchwork of exposed brick, painted concrete, and floor-to-ceiling windows—a modern parlor, if you will—with twinkling red chandeliers and black leather chairs and sofas, all filled with girls and their beaus huddled close together, and the sounds of their giggles and low whispers. But it’s the back room where I’m headed, where the crowd congregates, beckoned by the burnt orange glow of the bar and the smooth sounds of jazz filling the room, turned down just enough to keep conversation possible.
I sidle up to the bar and order a dirty martini and before you can say everything’s Jake, someone else sidles up next to me, and I’m staring into the bluest blue I’ve ever seen, and it just gets better from there. Sandy blond hair swept casually across the forehead above aristocratic brows, high cheekbones, full lips, and a chiseled jaw. Oh my.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
“Well, hello yourself,” I reply.
“Is this seat taken?” There’s flirtation in those eyes.
“It’s available,” I say coyly.
“Good. Because if you were saving it for someone...”
“Honey,” I cut to the chase, “it’s available, and so am I.” I’m treated to a dazzling smile that I can’t help but return before adding: “But I don’t drink with strangers.”
“I’m Jay,” she says, with a slight incline of her head.
“As in ‘Gatsby’?”
“Only less tortured.” She laughs, and it’s infectious, and I find myself laughing too.
“Evie.” I offer my name in return, and Jay captures my hand and brushes my knuckles with her warm, soft lips.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Evie.” For a moment, the laughter in her eyes is replaced by something entirely different, and awareness dances across my skin like the faintest of touches, sending shivers racing inward.
There are a lot of gangsters in the room tonight, but not this one; this one’s all class, from her pin-striped black suit and double-breasted waistcoat to her perfectly pressed white shirt and perfectly knotted silver tie, right down to the gorgeous silver cufflinks that fasten her French cuffs (did I mention I’m a sucker for French cuffs?). There isn’t a femme in her right mind that wouldn’t be flattered to have the attentions of so fine a butch specimen, and I lean in a little closer, putting my ample attractions on display, place a hand on her sleeve, and look up through my lashes with a sultry little smile.
A lot can be said without saying a thing; entire conversations can be had. There is a language we speak, without any words, filled with nuance and the subtleties of body language. In that beat of time, the tone of our interaction changes, and when Jay speaks again, her tone is decidedly different.
“So tell me why a beautiful girl like you is out here all alone instead of home with her Daddy where she belongs?”
“I don’t have a Daddy.” I pout just a little, but it’s an act and she knows it.
“Is that so?” She says, tracing a finger across my bare shoulder and down my arm.
“Mmm-hmm.” I worry my lower lip between my teeth, enjoying the look of desire that flashes in her sapphire eyes.
“Well then,” Jay says, “I think you’d better stick with me tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“Pretty little thing like you out here with no one to take care of her? A lot of boys in this place might take advantage of that. Can’t have that now, can we?”
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head, all wide-eyed innocence looking up into her knowing eyes.
Someone jostles my bar stool, trying to catch the bartender’s attention, but Jay’s there to steady me, her hand warm and strong at my elbow.
“This joint’s filling up fast,” Jay says. “Maybe you should come sit on my lap, hmm? That way no one else bumps into you.” I nod sagely, and then Jay’s hands are at my waist, lifting me from my stool as though I weigh nothing and settling me gently across her lap.
I’m not one to swoon, but I admit, I have to check the dreamy little sigh that wells up in my chest. Jay’s thighs are rock solid beneath me, and she smells like cedar and spice and long nights of passion in front of a roaring fire. I want to curl into her and breathe her in, but I settle for feathering a kiss on her jaw and whispering into her ear.
“Thank you...Daddy.” There’s hesitation in my voice, and Jay captures my chin between her thumb and forefinger, assessing me intently while my heart beats in my throat.
“You want to be my little girl tonight, Evie?” Ther
“Say it,” she says.
“I want to be your little girl.”
She shakes her head slowly. “Say it nicely.”
“Please, Daddy, can I be your little girl tonight?” I feel vulnerable and small and just a little bit scared and aroused all at the same time.
The corner of her sensual mouth curves upward, then her hand slides to the back of my neck and she draws me slowly forward, until my mouth is all but touching hers, so close I can feel the warmth of her breath kissing my lips, and my lips part instinctively beneath hers.
“Okay, babydoll,” she whispers into my mouth, “you can be my little girl.” She’s so close I can taste her, and it’s all I can think about, the way her lips will feel on mine, the way her tongue will feel stroking against mine. Jay chuckles softly and leans back, and it’s all I can do not to moan with dismay.
“Patience, baby girl, we’re just going to move this somewhere a little quieter.” Her hands are at my waist again, steadying me as she sets me down and steps off her bar stool. She’s taller than me, even with the added height my heels provide, and as she takes my hand and leads me back toward the red-lit parlor, I drink in her broad shoulders and lean build, feeling feminine and curvy and tremendously sexy at her side.
There’s a single unoccupied black leather armchair tucked deep into the shadows in the corner of the room, and Jay leads us unerringly toward it. Somehow I’m not surprised; although every other space is occupied, she strikes me as the kind of person who is used to having whatever she wants, whenever she wants it, and I thrill at the thought that right now, she wants me.
Jay sinks into the soft leather, looking up at me with an enigmatic smile. I dither a little bit, because I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to arrange myself across her lap. No matter what she may think, this isn’t something I do every day, let alone in front of an audience.
“Why don’t you straddle my lap, babydoll?” she says, and a blush steals into my cheeks, though I know she can’t see it in the low crimson light. I cast a glance around the room; there are three or four other couples kissing and petting on the sofas, and no one’s paying us the slightest attention.
“Don’t you worry about them, baby,” she says, “they’re not worried about us.”
She’s right, and I know it, and she looks so goddamned sexy sprawled in that chair in that moment that I don’t think it would matter even if every eye in the room was on us, I’d still do exactly what she wanted me to do.
My knees sink into the warm leather on either side of her hips and I lower myself delicately onto her, all too aware of the heat emanating from between my thighs and the substantial bulge tucked into her well-tailored pants. This Daddy has come to the party packed and ready to play, and I stifle a moan against her shoulder when her hands settle on my hips and guide me more firmly onto her just as she rocks her hips upward beneath me.
“You see what you do to me, babydoll?” Jay whispers in my ear, her tongue swirling around the sensitive shell and then retreating, sending shivers down my spine. “You made your Daddy all hard.”
Jay’s hands are on the move, rounding the curve of my ass, squeezing tightly, venturing lower, to where my ass meets the tops of my thighs, and where the hem of my short flapper dress has come to rest. There’s an inch of creamy skin exposed above the tops of my garters, and Jay groans as she discovers both the flesh and the stockings.
“You’re a dirty little girl, aren’t you, Evie?” Jay’s mouth is just beneath mine, and I have an almost obsessive need to kiss her, but I wait, like a good girl, while she strokes me with her hands and her words.
“Dressed up all nice and pretty on the outside, but underneath...” Oh fuck, I want to kiss her so badly... “Underneath, you’re just a little slut, aren’t you?”
My pussy feels heavy and swollen, engorged with blood and slick with the need to be filled.
“Hmm?” She’s prompting me.
“Yes...” Oh god, yes, I feel like a slut.
“Yes what?” She’s going to make me say it.
“I’m a slut, Daddy.” Why does it feel so much dirtier to say it out loud? “I’m your slut, Daddy.”
With a muffled curse, she fists her hand in my hair and fills my mouth with the thick length of her tongue, kissing me ruthlessly, aggressively, taking possession of my mouth with a skill and hunger that demands my submission and I give it willingly, whole-heartedly, winding my arms around her neck, pressing my breasts against her chest, my hips rising and falling against her almost of their own accord.
“That’s it, babydoll,” she whispers between kisses, licking my lips, biting them gently, “grind your pussy onto Daddy’s cock. Show Daddy what a slut his little girl is.”
I do moan then, and she steals the sound with her kiss, stroking her tongue against mine as I do what she’s asked, grinding my pussy against her cock, the thin material of her trousers and the scrap of fabric that is my thong the only things separating our bodies in this room filled with people.
And they’re there, these other people, on the edges of my mind, their moans and whispered sighs mingling with the music that fills the room, and it turns me on all the more, imagining these Daddies and bois with their rock-hard cocks and these girls with their hungry wet pussies.
“Hey, all you cats and dolls,” a bouncer drifts through, mellow voice rising just above the music, “let’s keep the petting PG, okay? Above the clothes, folks. Everybody copacetic?” There’s a smattering of sound that could be taken for assent, and the bouncer moves on, satisfied that she’s done her job.
“Hear that, babydoll?” Jay whispers against my mouth, “Daddy can’t touch that sweet little pussy of yours.” I make a tiny mewling sound of discontent.
“Mmm...I know, baby,” she strokes her hand down my back, “but I bet you can come without me touching you at all, can’t you? I bet you can come just by rubbing your pussy against Daddy’s cock.”
I’m halfway there already, my clit hard and throbbing, the scent of my arousal rising in the air around us. I put my hands on Jay’s shoulders for leverage and press my sex more tightly against her, grinding my clit against her hardness, her grip on my hips and the way she thrusts up against me telling me that the base of her dick is hitting her clit just right.
“I’m gonna come, Daddy, please can I come?” I whisper it in her ear, knowing without being told that I’ve got to ask, that I’ve got to have her permission.
“Do it, baby.” Her voice is tight with arousal. “Come for me now.” That’s all that I need to push me over the edge, and I’m coming hard all over her, my pussy heaving and contracting against the bulge in her trousers, soaking the material as I shudder against her.
“That’s it, babydoll,” Jay’s voice is still tight, her hands restless on my back and on my ass, “such a good girl, coming so pretty for Daddy. But you’ve got me so damn hard it hurts, and I’m going to need to feel that sweet little mouth of yours wrapped around my cock.”
“But, Daddy, the bouncer said—”
“I know what she said.” Jay cuts me off abruptly and plants my feet unceremoniously on the floor, rising quickly and scanning the room.
“Come on, babydoll.” She takes my hand and pulls me behind her, back through the bar area, where the tempo of the music has picked up and the dance floor is filled with femmes and their fellas happily fumbling their way through the Charleston in the warmth of the burnt orange glow. Jay doesn’t pause, though, cutting through the crowd efficiently en route to a single door at the back of the room, a door that would open onto a back patio in warmer months than this.
