Captain Queer strikes again!

As I had previously discussed with The Scientist, I tend to have some capacity to, uhm... queerify my potential partners. I discussed it with him in the sense that I'd just hooked up with his best girlfriend who had never hooked up with a girl before. And I tend to find myself in threesomes... frequently... with two straight men.

Not the same two straight men, mind you. This marks the third different MFM threesome I've had. This year.

God, I love my life.

Which was, incidentally, exactly what I said when I walked back into my bedroom after my two boys and I had gotten back to my house and I'd excused myself to the restroom, as I opened the door and saw them both there, completely naked.

Yes, I have a very lovely life.

The night was an entirely random one. I went to dinner with C, came home and bought Bear a plane ticket to come visit me (huzzah! less than a month!), then was wanting to go play, but no one was around. Which is when a random old friend, who I haven't spoken to in at least two years, facechatted me. And we discovered we live about 10 minutes from each other. And made the executive decision that he and I were going to get drunk together.

He got to my place quickly, and I don't think we stopped talking the entire way home. Or for the stop at the grocery store. Or the liquor store. He was adorably excited, and there was gushing on both our ends. His poor boyfriend must have thought we were cracked out or something. We were just...buzzing... together. It was a blast.

We mellowed as the rum kicked in, and I got a chance to know his boyfriend better - and even bond over some similarities we have. We're the same age, and, oh, are both into BDSM and are total subs. It was one of those kind of nights where nothing is taboo. I loved it.

Eventually, a few of his boyfriend's friends came over... they had asked his boyfriend earlier, apparently, if there was REALLY a girl over. His boyfriend said "Yes, I promise, there is a girl here." By the time the friends got there, I was just drunk enough to introduce myself by saying, "Hi. I'm the promise. AKA Sasha." I thought it was funny, anyway.

I'm not sure it was ever really discussed, but rather it was just assumed from the time the friends walked in the door, that the two of them and I would all be sleeping together.

I didn't have a problem with that. Clearly, neither did they.

I don't know if the two friends have had a threesome with one another before, but they certainly acted comfortable and smooth enough around each other to make me wonder. They worked me like they knew what they were doing. But then again, I let them work me like that. I knew exactly what they were doing.

I knew what they were doing when one of them leaned in to kiss me while we were standing alone in the kitchen. I knew what they were doing when the other came in and found us kissing. I knew what I was doing when I stole away with the other and kissed him on the patio.

And I knew what we were doing when we all decided we were going back to my house.

"God, I love my life."

They both smiled at the comment, pleased with themselves and my reaction, I think. I barely had time to process their reactions, though, before they were both on me, damn near ripping my clothes off.

I will never get tired of the feeling of having so many hands on me at once. No two people's touch is ever quite the same, and, yes, the exhibitionist in me really enjoys it. Also, I've picked up quite the appreciation for naked skin from Friend (and others, but he and I talk about it regularly), and this is just such a delicious way to feed that hunger.

There is much more to be told about the night, of course... But I did get some fantasies fulfilled, which is always excellent. (Aside: I'm going to need to make a list of fantasies I've had fulfilled and which I haven't... I think the former list is longer. Awesome.) Check for details in upcoming product reviews - I do so appreciate when guys aren't intimidated by toys. In fact, that was part of our motivation for going back to my house - I was bragging about my toy collection.

God, I love my life.

We're here, we're queer, we're fabulous, don't fuck with us!

This past weekend was Pride here in my hometown. It's always one of my favorite times of the year - I love summer here in general, largely because there are so many festivals. And Pride, of course, is like one of those festivals... taken over entirely by teh gehys. Really, it's a queer takeover of downtown. And while I do love the festival and the parade, both seemed a little tamer this year than years past. The festival, in particular, felt more like any other fair held downtown, just with more rainbows.

In any case, though, Pride this year was no bust. My favorite part is the parties, and there was no shortage there. Friday night found myself and my roommate at a women's party, where I'd gotten comped admission so I could interview New York-based lesbian hip-hop and soul duo God-des and She. They were friendly, talkative, and, oh yeah, really sexy. I was so excited to meet them, and even more excited to watch them perform. They put on a wonderful show, and the crowd really seemed to love them. My roommate and I had a great time at the party, and she seemed genuinely glad to get out of the house for a girl's night on the town. Oh, yeah, and she got hit on. And kissed. It was a good night.

Saturday I covered the state's first-ever Dyke March, interviewing attendees (and Dykes on Bikes), listening to speeches, and running into the lovely Essin' Em and her partner, Q. I always love seeing her, and I've been looking forward to meeting Q since Em is always speaking so highly of her, I was just sorry that I had to cover the event as a journo and therefore couldn't really hang out with them.

That did make this year's Pride an interesting experience. Everything except for the party on Sunday was part of something I was covering for my magazine, so I felt I had to maintain a relatively professional demeanor. That meant just one drink at the party on Friday night, and wandering around awkwardly and approaching random people at the Dyke March. I wouldn't say it exactly hindered my enjoyment of Pride this year, but it certainly changed the way I experienced it. But the money will be much appreciated when it comes in a few weeks.

Sunday was my day off from professional capacities. I made it downtown just in time to watch the entire parade and meet up with The Pilot's younger brother, who had never been to Pride before. It was fun to show him around, and we got along more easily than I thought we would have. We knew each other casually from years ago, but haven't spoken in easily over a decade. I know he, like The Pilot, can have a tendency to be a little shy (as, actually, can I), so I made an effort to be a little more outgoing than I usually am. I think he had a good time - he also joined me for a BBQ back at my and my roommates' house. Where, lo and behold, Friend also stopped by! (I say this mostly teasingly because he and I have a tendency to go several weeks without seeing one another, despite living only a few miles from each other.) The BBQ went well, although I had to leave early to go to the official Pride afterparty, where, thanks to my fabulous coworkers at the magazine, I was VIP, as was my date, The Scientist.

The afterparty was, like last year, held at a club downtown with a great rooftop bar. As VIPs, we had a cordoned-off area, complete with bottle service. A few of my coworkers were there, and they seemed so genuinely happy to see me that I was really quite flattered. They said incredibly nice things to me, and insisted that they're sure I have the full-time job I've been gunning for at the magazine. (I have a meeting with the editor-in-chief and publisher next week to discuss my salary... so it's promising, but I'm not willing to believe anything until I sign some paperwork.) The party started early in the evening, and being that the sun doesn't go down until nearly 9pm lately, sitting on the rooftop probably didn't help my sunburn, which I began work on earlier that day, standing in the sun for nearly an hour and a half watching the parade. People kept commenting about it, asking if I'd ever heard of sunscreen. I have, of course, and I usually don't burn quite this badly. Oh well. It's already tanning out in all but the worst areas. I'll survive, I think.



In any case, The Scientist and I had a nice time at the party - it was mostly laid back, and we got a chance to talk, he met my coworkers, all around good things. Of course, being that I was in a good mood, I was due for something to screw it up. Cue...

Edward.

Yes, you read correctly. Edward. Of 70+ phone calls and twice as many texts and a few emails and facebook messages. I swear he has some sort of radar for when I'm happy. Since all that insanity back in March and April, I have blocked his number, blocked him on facebook and any other social networking sites, and I hadn't heard from him until about a month ago.

It was the night I was meeting The Scientist's friends, and about halfway through the night, I got a phone call from my mother. She told me someone had broken into her house (where I also used to live). Nothing was missing, but they were still calling the police. And the only things they found rearranged were in my bedroom. And whoever it was made their entry through the basement, which was where Edward used to spend most of his time when he was at our house (which was often... As I said, he's been in my/my family's lives for 10 years.) It seemed like too much of a coincidence. Edward had sent me a facebook message about a week before (I hadn't realized that I hadn't blocked his sending messages), which was about the same time frame as when he showed up at my mother's house right before I graduated. So we don't technically have any proof that it was him, and since nothing was stolen, we couldn't do more than file a report, but I can tell you that it terrified me to be back in that house the next day. (I stopped by to assess the situation, I don't live there.) I am essentially convinced that it was him, because there's no one else I can think of who it could have been. I was hoping that when he went in my room and saw that it is very obviously not lived in (no clothes in the closet, bed covered in cat fur, nothing on the dresser), he would give up and at least believe that I really don't live there anymore.

And I didn't hear from him again until Sunday. He called me four times in the course of an hour. He was calling from someone else's phone. He left a message each time. In the third message, which was the nastiest, he actually implied that perhaps I just didn't have his number anymore, so he left it again. Of course, that also functions as evidence that that was NOT the number he was calling from. He didn't say anything directly threatening, but did swear at me some more and tell me how it's so obvious that I never gave a fuck about him. And he told me he was coming into town "pretty soon here." Which is just vague enough to be rather terrifying.

And I hate that I get so skittish when he calls. I didn't answer any of the calls, because thanks to him, I don't ever answer numbers I don't know. If it's someone who knows me, they'll leave a message and I'll call them right back. But just hearing his voice on the messages (which I've copied onto my digital voice recorder, as evidence should I need it), hearing his tone change from pained to angry to that sleazy, faux-pained manipulative tone I recognize all too well, really throws me. I was Skyping with The Pilot last night, and I eventually had to hang up because I was just so upset and I didn't want him to see me all curled up and teary-eyed and pathetic.

I'm not really sure what to do at this point. I am a little scared to do anything active, like get a restraining order. I'm worried that would provoke him further, and it's not like my holding a piece of paper in his face is going to stop him from hurting me if he wants to. My current address isn't listed anywhere, and the only people who know where I live are close friends and family, all of whom know about the situation and understand the need for secrecy. But I was reading over some resources The Pilot looked up for me online, and one of the recurring themes about how to deal with being stalked was to tell people. So, dear readers, I'm telling all of you. I've kept some of the details and events quiet over the past few months, but I felt I should update everything now. I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I can rationalize that he probably isn't really dangerous, but his persistence makes me nervous. And I hate that. I hate being scared in my own city, where there are so many great things and beautiful people who I love so much.

And there's only so much anonymity I can assume. I'm a writer. I refuse to publish under a pseudonym (well, aside from here, but I mean for paying jobs), and I refuse to let my fear of Edward totally run my life. It helps that he doesn't know where I live. But I hate that he seems so fucking determined to contact me. The Scientist and The Pilot have both suggested I change my phone number, but, again, I have contacts, professional and personal, who have my current number. Changing it would involve calling all of those people and explaining the situation, and it's so fucking frustrating. And terrifying.

The night Edward called, I got sufficiently sauced (The Scientist and I took a cab back to my place), and The Scientist stayed with me, so sleep wasn't as nerve-wracking as it sometimes is. Last night, I took some Tylenol PM to knock myself out so I could sleep without freaking out and waking up at every car that drives by my window. But if this continues, I'm really not sure what to do. It's draining and I don't know how much longer I can tolerate it before it takes an even more significant toll on my life, my happiness, and my ability to trust people.

Polite conversation.

The details on how we got from pleasantries and polite conversation to that couch at 1 a.m. are a little fuzzy. I do remember that it involved a few bottles of wine, a "game for swingers" circa 1972 (disappointing), and hugs which increased in length as the night went on. And strip Twister. But all of that is irrelevant.

She and I were sitting on the couch, leaning on one another. One of the boys who had come over late was heading out, and she called him over to say goodbye. Which she did so with a kiss. And I followed suit. Then she and I looked at one another, and without saying anything, she pulled me to her. She kissed me with intent, but with that softness and sensuality that I often expect from women. The boy we had both been kissing vanished. Both because we stopped focusing on him, and, I've been told, because we pushed him off the couch...when she began kissing me harder and pressed my shoulders down onto the couch, with her seated on top of me. Her legs were on either side of my wide hips, and I remember distinctly seeing her sitting up for a moment, so I could see her gorgeous curves fully.

She bent down to kiss me again, seeming hungry this time. I had just a moment to breathe while she moved her mouth to my neck and began kissing down my collarbone. Her movements were full of intent and, from what I could tell, honest desire. She moved her mouth, her tongue, from my collarbone to my neck, down between my breasts and back again. I was vaguely aware of the fact that we were still both clad in just jeans and bras, passionately making out on The Scientist's couch, in his living room full of people.

I was more aware of it when I heard The Scientist call out "Hey, you should try biting her! She really likes it!" I was about to flip him off when I felt her teeth close down, hard and close to one another, just above the line of my bra. I yelped in what might be the girliest noise I've ever made. She paid no mind to my whimpers, and continued biting and kissing my chest, neck and collarbone. I wrangled my hands free from hers and brought her face back to mine, my hand on her chin. I kissed her deeply, and as she pulled away, I felt her nibble on my lip, pulling it just slightly by the lip ring. As she bent down to go back to work on my neck, I pulled her up to me again. "I can't do this... not in front of an audience," I managed, between kisses.

"OK!" She chirped. In one fluid motion, she had righted herself, had me by the hand, and was pulling me up the stairs, two steps at a time. I think she said something to the group of people saying "awww" as we ran up the stairs. Into The Scientist's room, where she tightly shut the door. And tackled me onto the bed.

This time, I was more prepared. She tried to tackle me, and after some light wrestling, I managed to pin her down on the far side of the bed. I kept both her hands above her head with mine, and leaned in to kiss her again. She was a delicious kisser. And downstairs had been so hectic and caught me so by surprise that I was looking forward to the opportunity to properly appreciate her in all of her feminine beauty. From my position straddling her, I could admire the view: Her long dark hair was tousled about her head in that sexy bed-head way you think only exists in movies; Her face was delicate without making her seem breakable, and her dark eyes were smoldering, even behind her squared, black-framed glasses; Her collarbone showed just enough shadow to perfectly accent and draw my eyes towards her beautiful, ample cleavage. As difficult as it was to pull my eyes away from her gorgeous tits, I followed her soft, smooth skin down to her navel, pierced with a glittering piece of jewelry. Her shape pulled in deliciously at her waist, flowing out again to accommodate her full hips. I marveled for a moment more at her stunning hourglass figure (hidden earlier in the evening by a hoodie), then desperately wanted more. I let my hands slide from hers as I leaned down to kiss her again.

Now it was my turn to aggressively kiss her, biting on her bottom lip, and I couldn't keep my hands off her skin any longer. As we kissed, my hands roamed down to her chest and her waist, sometimes holding on to her hips. It wasn't long before my lips followed, and I took one breast in my hand, pushing her bra out of the way as I brought my lips to her nipple. I heard her gasp and felt her hips rise to meet mine as I sucked and fondled. The noises she made were, quite simply, delicious. I wanted to hear more of them.

Instead, I heard a knock on the door...

HNT: Girls bite, too...

In case you were wondering, yes, I do still hook up with girls. And, yes, girls do bite. HARD.

I was at a party with The Scientist this week where I was introduced to his friends. After the introduction of some delicious social lubricant, I got on with them just fine. Some more than others. The Scientist's best girl friend, who was tall and curvy and GORGEOUS, seemed to be particularly glad I was there.

Especially when she started kissing me, pinned me down on the couch, and eventually led me upstairs to a bedroom. The Scientist came in shortly thereafter, but she and I kept focusing on each other for some time.

The Scientist and I are thinking, perhaps, we should try and bottle whatever the magic is that happens when we're together. Because if we could sell it, we would be MILLIONAIRES.

Or, there's also the possibility that I might be Captain Queer: With the ability to turn anyone in the room just a little queer! (The Scientist's friend had never done more than kiss a girl for the attention of the boys in the room, and I'm now at two different threesomes with two straight men each. I love my life.)




HHNT!

on love and friendship

...and where and when the two intersect.

I should give some background here. I have a (by some standards terrible) habit of dating, fucking, and/or falling in love with my friends. Not all of them, mind you, but friends who I haven't at least kissed are absolutely in the minority. Everyone I've seriously dated or really fallen for has been a friend first. Well, I guess Ex is sort of the exception, as he and I met when we were first starting high school. It did take us almost a semester of pretending we liked each other just as friends, though, before we started dating. P is without question one of my best friends, and I've never been able to separate how much of that is fueled or complicated by the fact that we're in love with each other. Friend is someone I've known for more than half my life, as is Essin' Em, and both M and nonboyfriend I've known for many years just as friends before anything physical ever happened. The women I've slept with (Essin' Em being the exception), I generally haven't known as long, but I'll go ahead and chalk that up to not embracing my queerness anywhere near as early as I embraced the part of me attracted to men.

There is undoubtedly something subconscious about this habit, I think. I'm sure it has something to do with how comfortable I am with my friends, and the fact that when I become friends with someone, I tend to remain so indefinitely... I would usually include the caveat "barring any major transgressions," but more than one of these friends/FwBs and I have had serious falling-outs and continue to speak and, in some cases, have sex. (Obviously, we've worked through our issues, for better or worse.) Not everyone I've had sex with has been an old friend, but almost all of those I've had sex with more than once or twice have been. It's easier to date/fuck friends. You don't have to worry about the awkward getting-to-know-you stage, because it's already out of the way. I'm generally very open about sexuality with my friends (I'm sure you're shocked), so it isn't taboo to essentially take it to the next level.

There are, of course, some downfalls to this tendency. Most people would say that sleeping with your friends has the potential to ruin the friendship, and theorhetically I agree. But by and large I haven't experienced that. That's not to say that I'm somehow superior to these people who "can't manage" that kind of relationship, but maybe it does say something about the nature of my friendships. Maybe I only establish significant friendships with people I could have feelings for. I don't know. Maybe I confuse the more platonic, friend-based love, for romantic, sexual or physical love. That's a very real possibility. And one I've been starting to question. I can't decide if it's a problem or not. My insticts tell me that if I haven't had a moral problem with it thus far (and neither have the friends involved... this isn't a one-sided equation), then I shouldn't start now. But then I wonder if I'm somehow limiting myself, or protecting myself, by only being with these people I know so well and who know me.

Certainly, I'm less likely to get hurt this way. If we already have some substantial trust established, then it's that much easier to be vulnerable with said partner. But is that really what relationships are about? And what's more, are these even truly romantic relationships? Or have these all simply been friends with benefits situations? And is there anything wrong with that?

This is all sparked by a turn of events over the past few weeks. About two weeks ago, I went to northern Spain on a class field trip to ride horses and hike. It was a great time, especially since I so love riding. As I mentioned in my HNT post from that week, I was going without Crush or anyone else to snuggle up with and keep me warm. I was, however, going with Crush's roommate, who we'll from here on out refer to as The Texan. The Texan and I have a few classes together, and have been bonding as of late. We hang out a lot, and (again, as a consequence of my super-openness about sexuality), he recently came out to me as bisexual. I was excited to have a fellow in the program (which might sound weird, but it's nice to know you're not the only one) and then kind of flabergasted when he told me that he's not out to ANYONE ELSE. On a side-note, he's by no means the first person who's come out to me before anyone else... I'd love to say it's because I'm so open or accepting or something, but I don't know. I do take it pretty seriously, though, and when I'm asked to keep the information quiet, I do so. (Again, the advantages of blogging anonymously. Yay!) Anyway... he and I have been spending quite a bit of time together since he came out to me, and he's been a really amazing friend. We've become ridiculously close in a short amount of time.

So the second night of this class trip in northern Spain, the Texan and I went out to a bar together. He poured out his heart to me about his (non-exclusive) boyfriend back home, we talked about it, he started asking me about my love life. So I talked to him about Crush. (Who is, again, The Texan's roommate here in Spain.) Basically, The Texan let me down easy. Telling me Crush does really like hanging out with me, so on and so forth, but that he doesn't think it goes any farther. And I was surprisingly OK with that. I pushed the issue a little farther, though, and asked about if I just wanted to make out with Crush - pointing out that I wasn't looking for a relationship or anything serious. "Oh, well, yeah, that you could totally do!" The Texan responded emphatically. I thought it was relatively funny at the time, and we went on drinking.

Upon further examination, I decided something, though. (And this was, actually, largely facilitated by The Texan.) I don't want to be someone's backup. I don't want to be just good enough. I want to be worth having. I AM worth having. And I'm tired of settling for people who are settling for me. I don't have to.

So that has kind of changed my perception on Crush. He actually hasn't done anything wrong, and I'm not in the least angry with him. I intend to keep hanging out with him and enjoying his company. I just don't expect anything more. And I think that's a good thing.

Then last week, the night before I left for Denmark, The Texan texted me and asked if I'd come out with him for a few drinks. We always have a blast together, and tend to be similarly lush when it comes to consumption of alcohol, so of course I accepted. Granted, it was a Wednesday night, so the bars were less than hopping. But it was actually a fantastic opportunity to really talk. We went bar-hopping, and spent most of the time talking about our various pasts (the advantage of making new friends is that there's never a shortage of stories to tell), and talking a lot about sexuality. I asked him if it was hard being closeted, he answered with suprising honesty. There was more bar hopping.

And then, I couldn't tell you how, we were kissing. Really kissing. His hands on my chin, pulling me to him, my arms around his shoulders. It was the frenzied (admittedly drunken) passionate kind of kiss that I haven't experienced in quite some time. And, to quote Jay Brannan "his kiss matched mine so perfectly..." After leading my by hand to what was our fourth bar of the night, we took a cab home - which he insisted on taking with me to my place even though it would make it twice as expensive for him. I tried to convince him otherwise, and he looked at me like I was crazy for thinking he'd leave without knowing I was home safely. It was unnecessary, but a nice gesture nonetheless. There was a kiss goodbye in the cab, and then we each went our separate ways.

So here's the catch. I felt incredibly guilty the next morning. The details of the end of the evening are a little fuzzy (hence why they weren't more detailed in my recounting) but the things I remember are quite clear. I don't think the kissing arose from anything particularly romantic, and have a sneaking suspicion it was one of those "let's be those obnoxious people in the bar who seem really happy making out with each other." To the best of my recollection, it was a simple friendly makeout session. I've had countless. So I can't quite figure out why this time is making me feel so guilty.

Well, that's not entirely true. I think I feel like I took advantage of him. And while I don't know whose idea it was to start making out, and I know he was obviously not complaining too much, as he was kissing back, I feel like I have all this information about him, and he's trusted me with it, and what do I do? I jump him. (Well, not exactly. But you all know what I mean.)

I need your help here. I've talked to him about the night and we're both avoiding it and I don't want to make it awkward for either of us. (Our conversation wasn't in the least uncomfortable, though.) So, provided that talking to him about it isn't an option... what do I do about this guilt? Is it warranted in the first place?

*lesigh.*