Let's begin with women. I recall a trip to South Florida when I was twenty. Strictly over the internet, I'd struck up a romantic and sexual relationship with a woman ten years my senior. There was a time in the late Nineties when America Online CD-ROMs came unsolicited in mailboxes like samples of Tide. Consequently, it seemed like all of the United States had AOL for a year or two, savoring the novelty of what we take for granted now: the internet.
It embarrasses me to say this, but I don't even remember her name anymore. In those days, bored young people in their early twenties into their thirties found each other through chat rooms. It was all very innocent stuff, relatively speaking, compared to now, when we'd be more cautious about striking up relationships with complete strangers. But in hindsight, it was the grandfather of hookup culture, just back then there were no cell phones and no software apps for anonymous sex.
I suppose, if you were feeling offensive, you'd call her a redneck. I was a suburban kid who grew up outside the big city. My drawl was not as pronounced as herself. To some, she was straight up white trash. But she was smart and I was smart, so we clicked. One day we made plans with four of her friends to take a camping trip out on the river. We planned it to last for the whole weekend.
These were exceedingly strange people. One of the woman's friends always left the door open when she was having a bowel movement, so that she could keep herself occupied with conversation. She literally wanted her female friend to talk to her when she was using the facilities. I thought it was a little strange, but I was younger then and less inclined to question what was normal from what was not. And I was relatively new to the prospect of eventual sexual conduct and my tastes were not as refined as they are now.
In our chatting, we noted our sexual fantasies. She noted that her past boyfriend begged her to leave the door to the bathroom open when she peed at night, because he found the sound arousing. I'd never heard of such a thing before, but I had to admit that the concept was interesting. Water sports were somewhere between weird and perplexing to me, but I was eager to give it a try.
The woman I'd soon be sleeping with was also bisexual and refused to wear panties, only men's boxers, all white cotton. I wasn't yet at the state where I was comfortable wearing women's underwear and thinking of myself in purely feminine terms. I hadn't put on a dress and begged for cock. I didn't know about the term genderqueer, and no one ever asked me about my pronouns. That would all come later.
She was farther along life than I was. More time to adjust to kinks. The night we pitched a tent, she coaxed stories of sex with men out of me for her own gratification. I was glad to oblige. No other woman I'd ever come across had a similar reaction. It was liberating. We slept together all night and smoked genuinely terrible pot. We tried to be quiet.
Her friend, the one with the open bathroom door, couldn't understand my appeal. But neither could she understand why all her heavy-handed passes at equally random much younger men went all for naught; men confronted point-blank on riverbanks, walking on barely submerged rocks who were embarrassed at how forward she was to them. The woman I was sleeping with knew about her preferences and tried to steer available men her way but made no headway.
As for me, I had accomplished my purpose. Now I wanted to go home. As I think about other dreams and anecdotes, I am reminded of having those same thoughts. Having accomplished biological urge, I couldn't wait for the comfort of home. We never met again. We never talked again. We never slept together again. I would repeat the pattern.
The only other thing I remember was leaving behind a surplus army sleeping bag I'd gotten at the Army/Navy store some months before. It was not comfortable and leaked downy feathers. I can't sleep well on the ground anyway. When, fifteen years later, I camped out at the Shenandoahs with my latest partner, I had to rest on nearly solid rock, and even using an air mattress I got a total of two hours' sleep each night.
I know that my response to her must make me seem like a horribly unsympathetic person, no doubt in it for my own comfort without feeling any need for consoling and compassion. It wasn't fuck and run for me; I promise. Three years later I met another woman online, this one my age, twenty-three and I repeated the same process. That time, I flew all the way to northern California where I was in the company for three days with people who I describe without prejudice as white trash, because they claimed the label for themselves.
I slept on a filthy blanket that had never been washed. The shower was disgusting and clogged. The sex was unremarkable, but you can't always get it all the same. I was only slightly disappointed. And I do remember waking up at 6 am to be driven back to the airport by the woman's mother, her much younger boyfriend. I couldn't wait to leave.
He was a nice guy. He was an exotic dancer who had major mommy issues, enough that he'd accidentally knocked up a middle-aged woman. Now he had to support her and the child they had sired. He wasn't thrilled with the outcome. I recall his honesty surprised me, but maybe he saw some of himself in me.
I remember the woman's name this time: Shelly.
I can't count the number of men and women I slept with at conferences. At the time I was in college, and the hookup culture that existed in my small liberal arts college was unbelievable. Once, playing a great rendition of The Who's "Substitute", I turned behind me, 180 degrees away from the campfire, and found a woman frozen in place behind me, deeply impressed. She desired me to such a degree that we magnetically grabbed hands and ran all the way back to her bunkroom. The conference lasted for ten blessed days, so we'd frequently duck out of meetings to fuck when the time was right to go to bed.
I remember licking her out. She spread her pussy lips as wide as possible to give me optimum access to her clit. Then we started fucking, but I could never get comfortable on the mattress. Half of my left leg kept slipping off, but the sensation was so pleasurable that I didn't stop. It was quite a week.
I always separate the women I've slept with from the men I've taken to bed. Maybe this makes sense, but for some reason my brain wants it that way. I can't put together a decent narrative when I'm with a man. I don't feel a compulsion to sanitize my description of the act.
It just feels like a manic release, all force and brute strength. Maybe that's a reflection of a world still dominated by heterosexual couples, with the inevitable differences between male and female sexual relations that play themselves out in predictable patterns. I'm not a man and I'm not a female, but somehow using "they" pronouns is cumbersome and makes me feel old.
Write a story where a man has sex with a woman, and you have a narrative. Write a story where a man has sex with a man, and you end up with smut. Case in point: what if I told you a story where I grasped hold of another man's cock while he did the same to me? What if I said that after lubing me up well, he slid his dick into my ass until the prostate stimulation grew so intense that I ejaculated all over my chest? What if he came next, dribbling semen onto my hairless chest? What if we kissed each other on the mouth passionately, concluding thirty minutes of heaven?
Is there any room left for romance? I have never been in love with a man. I wouldn't know how to be in love with a man. It's always been fuck and run with me with a man, too. In fact, most of them can't wait to get their clothes on once they've had their way with me and I with them. There was a time where I wondered what rendered me that way, but maybe I'm peculiar. Maybe not. But in any case, I don't regret a single instance where a man sensuously kissed my feet before removing my clothing.
If I talk about being with a man, it only seems like a massive game of kiss and tell. It's like that bisexual woman on the camping trip, me feeding her stories of homosexual liaisons. And in between those extremes I've somehow managed to make an uneasy truce. Grunts and coarse hair on one hand, soft moans on the other. Aggressive and passive. Oh, these aren't absolutes, but they're close enough to opposites. Did we make them that way or were we always that way? The jury's still out.
With one exception. I would be remiss if I didn't mention an older man who I could say was both a friend and a lover. He was gentle, but he was so effeminate sometimes that it made me wince. He found himself too sensitive to my criticism, so he wrote me off and has never resumed communication. But in all fairness, he was manic depressive and cursed with other physical ailments, so I can hardly fault him for his overreaction to my callousness. He would not leave his freeloading partner, and that in the end was the conclusion of us.
The closest substitute to the perfect man was a recent Chinese émigré who would not penetrate me without a condom. The issue was a commonplace one: neither of us wanted to leave and get one. So instead, we resorted to oral sex and mutual masturbation.
He was a little suspicious of my bisexuality, but I made it plain that I enjoyed sleeping with women and that I wasn't going to change my ways. Eventually one of rushed out of the apartment for a rubber. The lube I had already graciously provided. He gratefully penetrated me, but I had to give him a few pointers. I'd snagged a virgin, but he quickly caught on. I can be a top with a woman, but not a man.
He slept in my bed that night, but when I awoke for work the next day at 6 am, he had already left. I never saw him again, either.
One man, smelling strongly of soap, clearly taking a quick break from work, took off his clothes and straddled me. Staring deeply into my eyes, he jerked himself until he came in a huge sticky pool on my stomach. I finished myself off with my right hand and though I begged to be fucked, he indicated that it simply wasn't possible and exited.
These experiences with men are all vignettes, not novels. They are not gentle. They are not tender. They are explosions of testosterone and power, and I have enjoyed all of them. I dare anyone to tell me men can't be bisexual, deriving pleasure from both sexes equally. I wouldn't take any of these experiences away.
I'm gender fluid. A minority within a minority. And I love men and women both. I've never quite taken to the term "sissy", because only in my fantasies can I forsake the vagina. I thought about going through transition for a while, but in addition to being a ton of work, I would be an ugly-ass woman. Or at least not a convincing one.
So instead I navigate this netherworld that defies easy characterization. The only word that works for me is queer.
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