On queer cards, gender, orientation, and alcoholism

((written last night, but LJ was down))

Did I mention that Nancy is damn sexy when she drops her jaw and drools at my shaved head??

That had to be said.

And Pandora, ya look hot w/ Bangs. Must be said.

It's true, I've been feeling very attracted to men as of late. Even when all glammed up I feel more like a femme on the prowl for boys or a drag queen than a butch with fashion and style. I feel great, look great, am happy about it all... and I have been having some amazingly beautiful and hot women around me (hell, their neck under my throat as I bite down and...), but for some reason or another, if it doesn't have a cock aimed at my ass, I'm not interested in dropping my pants.

Funny.

Oh well :)

Thursday night after Panther's show, Furry, Natalie and I went back to her place. I've missed my girlfriend terribly, and oh my gods does she looks delicious in a double breasted vest. It must be said. In her full boy garb I desperately wanted her, but once nude... she's beautiful. She's stunning. She's one of those women who has breasts that just fall into place with such grace, and just the right curves. I could paint portraits of her, and hell, I've done sketches. But the desire to boink? Gone. Huh.

This was as I had just gone on the air discussing coming out? Okay, most of the show seemed to be about how assholes wanted to talk about their own alternate realities or whatever, but anyway- I find myself questioning my own labels. I hate labels, really, but they are handy. If I flag grey in my back left pocket, you know I'm looking to tie someone up. Easy, right? But what do I say when I, someone who was a hardcore baby dyke at one time, who was a fag who wanted to live full time as a fag, someone who has been almost every stripe of queer... is being interested not just in men, but in mostly straight boys? Okay, more men who are straight with queer leanings. Men who want to take me hard up the ass but still kiss me softly on my lips and maybe even go down on me if I'm in the mood??? What the Fuck.

This is being very very weird for me. I don't rant like this on my journals much, perhaps it's because I've had too much to drink. Oh well. Enjoy :)

Here I am, with amazing breasts of an amazing woman on my head, and I have no interest beyond the amusement of the moment. And the strange thing is, what sentiments I've been developing towards some women in my life... I feel like a strong sensual guardian, or more often, that I want to aid in them being held down and fucked- by someone else.

Do I care? Only a little. Mostly because I don't want to hurt the women in my life. Though I guess a part of me is afraid of having her queer kid card revoked. Am I bi enough? Ha ha ha ha ha... I want to laugh, but the little fat girl who was rejected as a child does have those fears, ya know?

With my bald head I feel more feminine. I feel more masculine. But both of those sides of me... are being drawn towards men. Some I want to Top, some bottom to, some just be pinned down and fucked with my belly flat to the bed so they can pretend there's no cunt down there, and others ride on top of as I moan in delight... I've been feeling very sexual... hell, my desire to do horridly degrading scat play w/ Lamb is even up... it's very curious.

And instead of dragging my fiancee in the other room and boinking him, I'm typing. I hate alchohol.

In Ireland, I was at a party once. I was seducing a woman named Adelle. She was stunning, curvy, long dark hair and eyes that could melt a stone heart. Brainiacs are good. I was drunk off my gourd, during my bad period where I feared I really was diving headlong into alcoholism, where I was so drunk that I went in the bathroom, puked, wiped my face, touched up my makeup, went out, had another drink, flirted, drank again, then repeated above steps. I was so drunk I only spoke in poetry.

Now, this can be very hot. Brainiac chicks are apparently impressed when you can alternate between free verse and iambic pentameter to create poems about their beauty, grace and charm off the cuff. It does, however, annoy straight guys at said parties who are sick of the lesbian love poetry happening in the corner with the egg-shaped chair. The gent in the Mohawk turned to me and asked if I only spoke in poetry.

I replied in verse.

He asked if I could wing a poem about anything.

I replied in verse.

He challenged me to write an erotic poem about bowling.

I did... and he and I then both drank heavily.

I have no idea how I got home that night.

Here's a toast to not being that drunk on a regular basis.