Tuesday, March 30, 2010


Snapshots of Femme Power

The first time you asked me we were in Boston, our first trip together. You were leaning back on the couch, the lights of the city spread out behind you, and I was crazy in love with you. “Kneel down and take my shoes off,” you said it, you did not ask, it was not a request. As if it would cross my mind for a second not to comply. I would do anything for you, anything you asked of me, give you anything. I knelt. I felt terrified, a trembling, quiet and below the surface of my skin. I felt elated, wings opening in my chest, a taking flight. Such a giving over of power – mine? - someone’s. Such an acceptance of my place with you. Such joy. Such desire to surrender to you. Such devotion. Such heat, an ache between my thighs for you, for your need, for your power to grow when I kneel before you. Such submission, yes, that moment feels enormous with submission. Such tenderness, private little devotion, a wife’s endless care of her husband. All of that in my head and heart and cunt, all of that and more and you pulled me up onto your lap after I removed your shoes and I buried my face in your neck and I know you did not have any idea that I was crying while I hid my face against your skin. I was too afraid to show you, show you all I felt and longed for in that moment.
I die still, now, it evokes such feelings in me to kneel at your feet and remove your shoes…and you have only made that request (command?) of me once since then and I wonder why…and I ache for it.
I worship you. Worship your strength, your vulnerability, your care of me, your cock, your power, your love. I worship you when you are taking care of me like the femme princess I am, a doting and adoring husband. And I worship you when you are occasionally demanding, precise in your needs and wanting them met. I am on my knees for you constantly, a bowing down to you in my heart, a melting, a surrender.
To be allowed to kneel before you and do something as intimate as removing your shoes? Mmmmmmmm. Allowed. That word stirs images of dominance, of waiting in deference, of receiving a gift, a gift earned and cherished, a gift I long for. I am grateful, so grateful in that moment - I am moved, touched, raw, turned on, flooded with lust and love.
Such tenderness moves between us at times, I feel it as a held breath, intimate energy that connects us. “This is rare, isn’t it?” you asked me one night. Yes. Yes. Rare it is indeed to find someone you ache to belong to. It makes me shy at times, that ache, shy with fumbling fingers, fingers that tremble a bit when I undo your laces, slide your boot off your foot, lay your foot back down on the floor gently, reverently. Both times you have asked me, I have wanted to cover your feet with kisses, move my mouth across your skin, show you how I adore you like I do when my mouth is on your cock, reverence. A whore at the feet of a prince. A wife at the feet of her husband.
I take your cock in my mouth and you tell me I have all your power, all the power you possess in that moment. “How does it feel to have all the power in the world over me?” you ask me and I do not know how to answer. Like everything I have ever wanted. Like nothing I could ever want or know what to do with.
At the Eyedrum, I knelt in the hallway outside the theater, my hands on your legs to hold me up while you fucked my mouth. Your back was against the wall, your hands in my hair. My heels scraping the ground, my knees raw on the cold cement floor, my jaw stretched wide. I felt completely vulnerable, yours, open and receiving and powerless to refuse you. I cannot say no to you, cannot bring myself to deny you. Anything. Anything you asked of me I would give you when I am taking your cock, on my knees for your cock, offering you my mouth for you to use and take. My mouth is for your pleasure. My mouth worships your cock. Feel it when you fuck deep down my throat – feel that I worship you.
In this moment, this moment when I am on my knees for you, when I am taking your cock, I feel my vulnerability as if it is stitched across the fabric of my femme desire. You are pouring yourself into me. You are forcing my mouth apart, my jaws open, my throat closing around you, gagging and gasping and unable to breathe and desperate for more. When I am kneeling for your cock I am pliant, open, accepting you and taking you and taken.
Taking you. Can it be, then, that it is YOU who is offering? You told me later in the night that when you fuck my mouth, I am taking all your power with each thrust. You are wrapped around my finger, you would do anything for me. I shivered. Fear. Pleasure. Desire. I long to own it, own that power over you, the thought of bringing you to your knees with desire for me. The thought that I have you – you belong to me as completely and irrevocably as I to you. Yet I am seized with confusion at the idea. Power. How, then, to own that power when I am simultaneously offering my body to you out of the deepest love, respect, and desire to please? There is submission inherent in the thrust of your cock taking me, possessing me, using me. There is power inherent in the thrust of your cock entering me, tearing into me, claiming me. Can it be that there is power too in the taking of your cock, my mouth open, accepting? I am allowing myself a new openness, a fresh understanding. I am pulling from you your vast need, your desire, your lust – you are powerless to stop it, the rising of your excitement, bubbling up and out of you and down my throat, the shaking heat of your body, the clutching of your hands at my hair, my skin. I am pulling your power from you with each jackhammer thrust down my throat, your cum and my spit and tears, my knees ragged, our hearts pounding a crescendo – yes. Yes. YES.
You have given femme back to me. Denied and stifled for years, it lay beneath the surface of my skin, dormant, a scream fermenting in my throat, a breath I drew in and forgot to release. Tentative at first, it has slipped back to me through the ways you touch me, the ways you fuck me, the ways you care for me, the ways you command my femininity. My response to you, a persistent tugging at my femme heart until it sprang open and unfurled into you and stayed there, lodged and cherished in your arms.
I am your princess. You require nothing of me but beauty and love. I watch the ways you strive to earn that love. I watch your care of me, the ways you ensure I am taken care of, worshiped, and I feel angelic and enfolded in something unspeakably delicate. I must attend to this always, I think, cherish it. Appreciate it. I must. I must.
I think for you, it is the same, although we do not speak of it, the way your vulnerability is masked behind incredible strength, the way I pull you to me and hold you in my arms is suddenly home. For both of us, home. I trail my fingers over your shoulders and you tell me you adore my touch, the ways I know how to touch your body, without hesitation, without fumbling, without need for you to teach. I know. I know you, and I know how to be your femme. I know you, and I know what you need. I take your cock in my mouth, in my hands, and I draw your desire out of you, taking your cum in my mouth, spilling on my hands, between my legs, and it is the same. No hesitation. I belong to you and you to me as if a fixed constellation.
“Such power in my touch, in my hands, the absolute femme power of my touch draws out your masculinity.” This is an awareness I felt but could not name, could barely bring myself to hold inside my heart, until you put it into something tangible and handed it to me and I felt the delicacy of femme contract and solidify inside me and I was no longer afraid.
The power of my hands on you.
I asked you once what you thought our dynamic was, how you would describe the way we move together, what you would name this energy that flows gossamer between us. For it shifts, a dance I have come to crave, the reciprocation of devotion a constant, a base from which we move in and out of power, a handing over and acceptance; an offering and a taking. A taking care of each other I have never had and now, now, it is mine – mine and yours, ours. “Femininity and masculinity are the only things that never shift.” Your answer heralded my truth, my desire.
You call me your little kitten, say I purr like a kitten in your hands. Clabbered cream, I melt at your touch, I fold into you, I release my need for control in the safety of an embrace I can no longer make do without. And this, then, is the crux of my femme power – to allow you to hold me together until I feel ready to take it on again, your presence beside me the root, and I the cherry blossoms decorating your branches with fragrance.
You lead me in our ballroom dance class and it is a constant struggle for me to allow, I am fighting you, unable to relax into you, unable to let go, unable to give you my body. Surrender. My will. Is this about trust? You tell me it is, but I FEEL trust for you, implicitly. I feel emotional risk when you are taking me, when I am opening up for you. And in that risk lays my trust – for I want it from you, want to go there with you, want you to take me there. I want to yield, to follow, to learn to follow your lead. It feels fragile to me, this need to yield. I need to practice this, this alone, far more than I need to practice the simple steps we are learning together. A fine art, to learn to yield. Grace. To yield with grace is to belong completely to you.
I love being in your arms moving about the dance floor, the subtleties of your touch as you guide me. I feel you, every cell of my body aware of you against me, the push and pull of your arms, your hand on my back, your breath. You are patient, coaxing, laughing with me when I fall apart and trip all over your feet. I cannot tear my eyes from your face, for therein lies my safety, my trust of you, your sparkling adoring eyes. I watch you, the intensity of your focus, your concentration, the pride when you hold your hand out to me. And I think, never have I loved him more than at this moment. And that love makes me yearn to please you, to give in to you. My disappointment in myself when I cannot follow you is all encompassing. And I wonder, can this be learned? Can I learn to let go of my fear and relax into you so completely my body responds to yours without barrier or reluctance? Or is it innate, the surrender this dance requires of me, innate - and my struggle lies in recognition, a tapping into of some primal way to move when held to you.
Our instructor Julio has quickly acquired an understanding of us, our Queerness, your masculinity, masculinity that still stuns me into silence, your power. He teaches you how to hold me, and yet we know, you and I, exactly how to move together, move into each other. You are the frame, Julio says, and I am the picture - your strength setting off my beauty.
Your strength setting off my beauty. Your power setting off my fragility.
We have gone here, into this conversation. I feel like a small delicate bird in your arms and I adore it. I adore it because we both know I am strong and fierce and exploding, and you offer me a safety that allows me to let that go and become your kitten, soft and mewling. And there are beautiful perfect moments of time during which I am able to step away from my frantic racing mind and give in entirely to the feeling of being wrapped into you, cradled, no need to control, just moving where you lead me. Heaven, those moments. Priceless treasures. Heaven because you are so dear to me and I could dance and twirl in your embrace for hours. And heaven because it is so rare for me to be without fear, to move through the world without the awareness of my need for self-protection. THAT is innate, that need.
With all my heart, I want not to protect myself from you. I dream of the kind of trust that will spring me open, unleashed and unafraid and moving on the dance floor, an angel with your protective wings surrounding me, lighter than the air you move me through, laughing and sparkling up at you, sparkling, following you without a hint of resistance to every place you take me.

My mouth crushed to yours, soft and yielding. Yielding to you, yielding to your strength, yielding to your mouth, yielding to your arms. Soft. Available. Soft and yielding beneath you. You tell me you love how I feel when you kiss me, how available I am. And I am. Yours. You kiss me and I crumple, fragrant petals crushed in your palm. You kiss me and all of me moves to my mouth, my essence, my being, my love for you – you kiss me and I pour all of that into my return. Available. You use that word and I melt golden into you. All I want, to offer that availability to you. All I want, to make you feel more loved than ever you have been in a lifetime. All I want, to show you I belong to you, to kiss you like I may never kiss you again.
Surrender. My mouth bleeds surrender.
All I want.
When we met, you told me I was irresistible. That you simply could not stop yourself from approaching me, you were so drawn to me, the way I moved, my energy. I asked if you were intimidated, and you said sometimes, sometimes – I was such a powerful femme. Coming from you, I felt that as a celebration of my self, I felt as if you saw ME. You welcomed my power, my femme energy, it made you hard, appreciative. You said you were bowed down on one knee before me and I could not breathe.
I have been called an ice princess, unapproachable. Cold, those words portray my way of being in the world as cold. You tell me anyone who is afraid of me is a lightweight. You tell me I am warm and melting like butter on a morning muffin. You call me your sunshine. You say your day is without sunlight if your eyes cannot feast upon my face. I turn into you in your bed in the morning and feel the warmth of our bodies, the heat, the beams of our radiating light blazing in my core.
Ice princess.
The first time I heard those words, it slayed me. I felt betrayed, betrayed by my crippling shyness. Betrayed by my newly felt and newly owned femme energy and power.
I was at a Trans conference in DC, the first time I was brave enough to move through the world with a high femme presentation that mirrored my heart, my core, my identity, my desire. I could not wait to flaunt the deliciousness of femme power in public, to try it on, feel it out, experience it.
I was so young and so shy I could barely leave the hotel room. Quick dashes into workshops, back to the room to hide in between, dinner alone. I was there with 2 Transmen I barely knew, one whose advances I had turned down during the trip. He told me at some point during the weekend that no one would approach me because they thought I was an ice princess, cold. Unapproachable. Transguys were saying this to him about me, he said, laughing. I was destroyed, too new in my femmeness to know how to take that on, make it work for me, too shy to behave any differently.
Years later, at a Butch/ Femme Ball in San Francisco, I asked a dear friend and fierce Old-School Butch why no one was talking to me, when I felt wholly as if I was oozing femme sexuality and appeal, confident and secure in who I was making myself into. He said I was such a powerful femme, I gave off “top energy” and most of the Butches at the event were Tops looking for submissives. My friend was proud of this for me, admiring and praising my strength and power. I was horrified. A submissive at my core, I ached to be taken by one of those Butches and forced to my knees, I longed to be broken, slapped down off my 5 inch heels. I was tired of always being the one to take a Butch on, ask for his attention, the seeker rather than the sought.
Again, “unapproachable.”
I vowed then, in that moment, that I would not waste my time on anyone who was not strong enough to come onto me, take me, demand my attention. I would not waste my time on anyone unable to top me, look past my femme ferocity and find the fragile soft yielding creature longing to drop to her knees.
And now, many years and a lifetime later, you, in the lobby, a smile that cast a spell upon my heart I swear to god, taking my hand in both of yours. I was on my back the moment I saw you approaching me. Courted, wooed, swept completely off my feet, floored, blown away - every clich̩ one could imagine Рit all comes to this single moment in time Рyou saw deep into the very core of my decorated femme body. Secure in your own incredible powerful strong Butch self, you do not need my power. Your confident adoration allows it to expand in this room and surround us, an inferno, pouring heat, your beloved princess, warm and blazing and encircling you with my light.
At last. At last.
Unwavering devotion. I offered this to you one morning and you said you both feared and craved it. Unwavering.
In the evenings, after your long day at work, I like to play at being your housewife - serving you dinner, baking you cupcakes, pink apron tied around my waist, cleaning up in your kitchen. I kiss your face, the top of your head, your neck. I curl in your lap and whisper to you silly stories about my day, my arms around your neck. I feel the tenseness in your shoulders and rub the parts of you that hurt, the parts of you I utterly adore. You take me to your bed and I am so full of love and devotion. Your wife. We both know I am not playing. We both want it to be true and real.
You reach for me late at night, one arm around my waist, your head in my lap. This is an unspoken dance we both know to our core. This is where you come to rest, perhaps the only place you are ever truly able to rest, the only place you are safe, the only place your Queer butch masculine self is recognized. Seen. Cherished. I wrap one arm around your back, my hand finding the strength held there, smoothing you, soothing you, my other hand reaches instinctively for your hair, twirling my fingers through it, rubbing your head for hours sometimes while you sleep. I cradle you. You are cradled. I listen for your deepening breath, a sound I have come to know as well as my own skin. I know the exact moment you drop off. I know how your body moves, tiny movements nearly indiscernible that tell me you are dreaming. I whisper to you when you are in this place – a place far far away from me in your deepest dreams; a place intimately close to me that I have created, wrapping you in my love. I whisper – I love you. I whisper – I am yours. I whisper – my prince, my husband. I am worshiping you with my murmurs, my hands, my arms, my lap where you come to escape. I know you can feel me, I know you are taking in my words, barely a breath, taking in my love, taking in the ways I care for you.
Always you stir again, roll over, kiss my mouth before you sleep again, this time on your side. I am always crushed at this loss, my lap bereft of you. Always, I long to stay awake through the long hours of darkness, cradling your head, cradling your dreams, listening for the secrets released in your breathing that are mine to hold. Unwavering in my vigil.
I am fucked up about power.
You told me once that I make it sound as if all you do is take, take from me, as if I felt precious only when used by you. You use me and I feel desired, loved.
It was true in the beginning, my ideas of power and subjectivity firmly implanted in my brain, my behavior, my beliefs. I was worthwhile only when submitting to another’s whims and needs. I lived with the fear that I was only worth fucking, not worth loving. I wanted you to love me. More than anything, even in the beginning, I wanted you to love me. But I was so hellbent on my struggles with submission I could not see what was happening between us for what it was – that you desired my femme power, drew it out of me. That you craved caring for me, taking care of me, treating me like a princess, your princess. Did I feel precious only when you were taking from me – my body, my submission, my offering? Yes. Yes, but only because my fear was closing doors even as you were flinging them open.
You tell me true submission lays in the allowing of you to give. If I want to please you, you said, I should defer to your desire to take care of me, treat me like your princess, give me anything I want and need. Submitting to your will = allowing you to treat me as you wish.
I am fucked up about power.
When I think about power, I think about giving all of mine to you, yielding to the strength and power you wield seemingly so easily, power that brings me to tears – sobbing when you fuck me and beat me, quiet tears in my eyes throughout my day when I think about how beautifully you love me, how perfectly you treat me.
I am so afraid I do not deserve such beauty.
I am fucked up about power.
I ache for sexual submission, physical submission – I crave emotional submission, so I tell myself, but only on my terms and is that, then, submission? I am resistant to emotional submission, mistrustful, afraid to give over emotional power outside of fucking. I know I have strange ideas in my head of what constitutes power, what constitutes giving up power, who has power. I have warped ideas about power - from years of being collared, a consensual obligation that in no way worked for me – from years of listening to voices of negativity and self-doubt clamoring in my head. I am so afraid to have any power, I am horrified at the mere suggestion of it. Part of me feels like I don’t deserve to have it, part of me craves being seen as a good submissive and how can I then be a power femme and a submissive simultaneously? It is a learned response, these mixed up notions about femme and submission and the roles I can allow myself in my own life. I am relearning my own power around my femme identity in many contexts, shifting in and out of it still, but mostly, now, owning it.
With you I have it all. I know instinctively I can trust you and can go there with you…am learning to go there with you, slowly, a slow melting, a creaking forward of faith, a progressive undoing of my fear and resistance.
It is all about who decides. And if I am allowed to decide, if it is an offering stemming from a choice made by me and me alone, than it flows from me eagerly and without hesitation.
You do not require my submission, do not demand, do not impose limits. Rather, you accept it so appreciatively when I offer it to you, allow me the space to defer and the safety to need it. Devotion. Never obligation.
I spoke of reciprocal devotion to you and you asked if I felt that between us, you longed for it you said, you longed to possess it. It ensnared your heart, the thought that it could be yours.
Yes. Yes.
I feel an opening in my fear at this, a devoted wife who places herself in her husband’s hands, who defers to him, who takes care of him from a place of worship. I am opening because it feels safe and tender to me, our mutual care-taking, the ways you allow me to express my adoration, the way I am learning to trust that you truly want to dote on me – need to dote on me, get off on it – the way I am learning to love it and count on it and trust I will not lose it. It will not be taken from me, no, you belong to me as assuredly as I to you.
I adore this mutuality, revel in it, feel it as a blossoming of my truth, feel it as a growing into of self. I am letting go of this strange panic I used to feel when you waited on me, this sense of not being good enough, this sense of “shoulds.”
I am so strong. I am beginning to believe I am so strong and adored and I deserve that adoration that you wrap me in every single moment of our lives together.
I sit across from you in your favorite chair and paint my toenails blue, a color you chose ages ago, before I even belonged to you. “Paint them true,” you said. This is a ritual that has filled me ever since with utter adoration and acquiescence, a ritual I love for the way it feels like an act of service. Serving you. I am wet and dizzy at the thought. It is my private little devotion.
It is a femme ritual of seduction.
I know when you watch me apply polish to my nails, it makes you heady with lust. Hard, hot steel shooting through your cock, you are shifting uncomfortably on the couch and seething with desire. And I am ignoring you completely, focusing entirely on coating my nails with dripping paint, biting my lower lip, my tongue at the corner of my mouth. I hear the sudden intake of your breath. If I were to glance at you, I would see your hand resting on your swelling cock, and I may not be able to control my own mounting desire. I do not want you to see how I am slick and breathless with my own need for you. I want to pretend I could not care less that you are in the room. And this, this I know makes you even harder, my pretended indifference, my seeming unavailability – I am far too busy at the moment to banter and toy with you. Is this a roleplay? An exchange of power? And whose power is it exactly? Mine over you, your huge swollen cock, your visible need, the way my femme rituals slay you with longing and buckle your knees? Or is it yours, the way we both know the polish will not even have time to dry before you will growl, “come over here, woman,” and I will go to you immediately, your hands grabbing my forearms, and press my heated body against yours, my own knees crumpling, my mouth raised up to you, an invitation.
I let the silk strap of my camisole slide off my shoulder before I remove it, pull it slowly over my head, turning from you coyly, my soft curls spilling over my shoulder. I know you are watching from your bed, up on one elbow, your gaze raking over my body, your breath suddenly jagged. Swelling beneath the sheet for me, yes, I do not have to look at you to know you are hard with your desire. I know you are imagining the butter-cream of my skin, its scent, how my hair feels between your fingers. I let the fabric of my slip catch for just a second on my tits before I pull it over my head, turning my body again so you can catch a glimpse of your name tattooed on my breast, bending at the waist so you can see the curve of my ass. I ask you, “Darling, will you tie me?” and move toward the bed so you can do the straps of my slip for me. Your fingers linger there for long moments, your hands on my back, and I tremble for you. My breath is caught in my throat, I am holding it, aching. We both know I will crawl into your bed, warm and pliant, and open my legs for you without being asked. I will shift so you can enter me more easily, wrap my legs around your waist and raise my hips so you can slide in to your base and we both will feel you deep, deep. And I will clench my tight pussy around your cock, squeezing you to me, until you cum again, again, spilling inside me, filling me, filling us both with far more than just your cock. Yes. This is unspoken between us, and in the meantime, your fingers on my ribbons, my eyes meeting yours over my shoulder. In the meantime, you grab at my curls and press them to your nose, inhaling my perfume. In the meantime, I have you exactly where I want you, exactly where you long to be. In the meantime, you are mine, utterly mine, wrapped around my finger, we both know you would do whatever I asked. What will I ask of you? I will ask you without words to accept the offering of my skin, to accept my heart, my femme desire, to hold me to you, to cherish me. I will ask you to take this, the gift of my surrendered power, and cradle it in hands that do not need it, no, you do not have a need. But I want it to be yours - I want to be yours - and because in this moment I have you on your knees, you will take it, take me, allow me the space to yield.