She, he, he, she, they, them, you.
It doesn’t matter to me now, nor did it matter to me that night. You were undoubtedly a genderfuck. Generous breasts taped down, elaborate makeup solidifying a six-pack on your gentle stomach, down to the illusion of male facial hair; you were stunning, handsome, sensual, sexual… Mine.
I knew it from the moment our eyes locked, the twinkle of passion progressing in an instant from ember to flame.
You undressed on stage, slowly peeling off layers, like a rose being plucked of its petals. The crowd went wild, roared with laughter, whistled with anticipation. How many panties must have been soaking through as your act progressed and you revealed your body. Were they imagining you topping them, gently using your favourite toy to penetrate them from behind as you grabbed their hair? Some may have pictured holding you down, face snug against the pillows as they used their tongues to taste you.
In a matter of seconds, I was present again, painfully aware that amidst the lesbian frenzy, your piercing eyes were undressing me from the stage. It was the beginning of winter, and in the dimly-lit cabaret, my black turtleneck disclosed all. From the perfectly round shadows of my breasts, down to the contour of my nipples, hardened by the slight chill coming up from the stairs. I felt so vulnerable, as if the years of being a strong woman meant nothing, so long as you’d have me.
Retreating after your set, the golden straps of your halter covering your nipples, I couldn’t look away. You were a panther: feline, gracious and terrifying all at once. A Freudian nightmare that bedazzled the sea of lesbians at your feet. I knew you would make your way over, that you wanted me as much as I wanted you. You were standing close enough for me to smell your perfume. I knew.
The calm settled on the cabaret hall and the streets reflected only the noise of drunken college students when you asked me to come home with you. How could I say no, feeling your body pressed up against mine? Your left hand held up my arms up as your right slid over the front of my underwear. I moaned a slight yes as you began to move your hand back and forth, and you smiled. I was your bitch.
It didn’t matter who was man, woman, women, either, neither. We were both the daddy and the slut as our lips intertwined, parted, and devoured each other’s bodies.
Each thrust of our hips was phallic, we had bigger dicks than most men. Each touch was sensual, soft as a satin ribbon gliding on bare cheeks. Your tongue found my weakness, tucked safely behind my ear, and as your fingers slid inside, I could feel the depth of the Universe explode within my body. Each orgasm rocked the stage as we climaxed, again and again, moaning endlessly in our frantic search for erotic completion.
Come morning, you were gone, back on a train whence you came, ready to gender fuck the world.
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