I don't shine if you don't shine.

It seems I spoke too soon when I told our doctor earlier this week that we seem to both have recovered from our series of colds this winter -- I can tell that I'm fighting something off even as we speak. We were in the doctor's office for a check-up for Daddy, which is especially important since he is on T.

I'm even more proud of him than usual because recently he completed disclosing his trans status at work, which was something we were both concerned about. I've mentioned before that we work in the nightclub industry, but additionally we work at a venue that is traditionally lesbian. When he was hired we agreed that we would settle in and then we'd disclose, in case the staff turned out to be anti-trans. I'm happy to say that isn't the case, but I'm embarrassed to say that I am still confusing pronouns at work for him.

In fact, this happened the other night. We were outside having a quick smoke and a woman approached us for a light. She drunkenly began telling me an intimate story about her and her American lover, (this is an unasked-for talent that I seem to have: random strangers tell me their deepest secrets on a very regular basis, and in all kinds of situations. It's definitely more noticable at the club due to the alcoholic lubrication of the tongue and sometimes it can be very awkward for me. Flattering, but awkward.), saw that we were a couple, and immediately read us as boy/girl and therefore straight.

"Oh, you aren't gay?" she asked me, eyebrows rising.

"Yes," I answered, drawing an invisible line in the air between him and me, "we both are."

Her brow furrowed and she swayed on her feet. "I'm confused. You're both gay?"

She was drunk, and I rarely take that as the time to educate people on what it is to be trans -- the path of least resistance, I feel, is the best tack to take with the inebriated masses. But what I did next was nonetheless wrong on my part, and hurtful to my K.

"Girl," I said, pointing to myself, "and girl," pointing to K. "Yes, we are both gay."

He went back inside abruptly and I briefly realized that I'd fucked up, all in the name of getting out of this unwanted conversation with a stranger I would never see again. So I excused myself and we finished work without mentioning the incident.

Later, in our bedroom, he suddenly said, "I am not upset about this but I need to say for the record that I'm out at work, so you don't need to tell people I'm your girlfriend anymore."

I was taken aback, partly because I'd intended to bring it up myself, and apologize, but hadn't settled into bed with him yet and therefore hadn't said anything yet. And I felt ashamed, because it was wrong of me, even though I'd just been trying to get out of a conversation I didn't want to have in the first place. I apologized and we went to sleep.

But it's been bothering me since. And last night one of the regulars, one that knows us both, approached us to tell us that he wishes he could transition, too. It was a brief but very good conversation between he and K and somewhat me, but watching them together, one of my favourite aspects of K shone through to me: his willingness to mentor those who need it, without question.

I appreciate and admire who he is, his uncompromising selfhood, his unshaken and unshakable knowledge of his identity. I am still learning how to navigate the murky waters of sexuality and gender, but I'm glad he is holding my hand and giving me the gift of patience while I do. It's something he's done throughout the decade of our friendship; in fact, it's his firm declaration that there is nothing wrong with being who you are and loving who you love that gave me the courage to be who I am and love who I love. His self-respect bled onto me, at a time when I most needed it, and helped shape the person that I am today. I cannot overstate the positive impact that he has had on me and on my development as a person.

And I needed that lesson again. It's both important and not important to be able to explain who we are (who he is and who I am as it relates to him) to people that are out with friends and drinking and having a good time. But I respect and love him with all my heart, and my actions need to reflect that better, even in dicey situations.

I am going to be more aware of how my language and behavior reflect upon him.

T for Two

T has been very good for our relationship. My Daddy has always had a strong libido, whereas mine was a sort-of hit or miss kind of thing, but the day he gets a shot (and for a day or so after), he has a surge that carries us both away.

We have a ritual now: he is on injectable T, which is actually kind of scary to do yourself, so I do it for him. (If he was to do it himself, he'd have to inject in his leg, which can be painful for up to a day afterward if he tenses during the injection and he doesn't trust that he could stay relaxed while about to jab himself.)

Our ritual goes like so:

He assembles the necessary supplies (2 needles, 2 alcohol pads, the bottle of T in suspension, one syringe barrel, one band-aid) and I wait for him in the bedroom. He comes in, I undress him, and lay him out on the bed. I spend the next 20 minutes to half an hour going down on him, trying to get his endorphins working nicely.

We retreat to the bathroom where I roll the bottle of T between my hands, warming the liquid up while he attaches the first needle to the syringe barrel. He takes the bottle, swabs the top with alcohol rub #1, and I go and check our online calendar to see which butt cheek is up for the day. While I am doing that, he draws up the proper amount of T into the syringe and removes any air bubbles, then changes needles to the non-blunted one that we'll use for the actual injection.

I come back, wash my hands, and he swabs the correct butt cheek. I find the upper outer quadrant of the cheek, unsheathe the needle, count to three quickly, and inject him. He tries to relax. I pull back on the plunger just enough to determine that I haven't hit a blood vessel, then inject the T. Once it's all in, I pull out the needle, sheathe it once more, and dispose of it in our under-sink sharps container. He puts on a band-aid, if necessary, while I apologize for having to stab him with needles every ten days.

We return to the bedroom, where I go down on him some more. (His clit is more sensitive after the injection -- it might be psychosomatic but I don't care. It's lovely!) And after another half-hour or so, he becomes extremely toppish and rough with me, and I let him, which makes us both very happy.

T is a wonderful, wonderful thing.

(I'm sorry I disappeared for so long! I will be continuing to post but sometimes I have a hard time writing, especially when other life crap gets in the way. But things are fine and thank you for caring. :)

Poetic license

"Want to play?"

His breath was warm against my ear. When I craned my neck just enough, I could catch a glimpse of him in his black binder and camo shorts; he was wearing my favourite outfit of his. The binder accents his muscular arms and flattens his chest; he carries himself so differently when he's binding. The charisma he exudes is even more enticing than usual and I? I am lost in the dangerous purr of his words.

Unable to respond, I simply shake my head. No, Daddy, I don't want to play Maria Callas with you. It's a game I can never win, though it is fiendishly simple. The one and only rule: don't move, even as the razor slices deep and the cut lasts as long as her voice holds whichever note he chooses. And this is his favourite recording of her, so he cheats and picks only the longest passages, the times when she impossibly lilts up and down the scale for longer than I ever thought anyone could without breathing.

Opera singers. Sometimes they are the bane of my very existence.

But my denial is feeble, cursory at best. One of his long-standing rules is simple: I cannot use the word No when speaking to him. Sometimes, when he is feeling especially vicious, he will take a simple head-shake as a No as well, and make me pay for that. But last night he simply laughed.

"Come on, pet. We'll just play real quick." I tried my best, I really did, but every time he cut me my hips thrust helplessly into the bed, even as the tears came, wetting my cheeks. I cannot deny that the feel of his lips against the blood on my back turns me on terribly. Recently he confided that he can sometimes come simply from the taste of one mouthful of my blood, one deep slice of my skin, and that's all it took to reframe this practice of ours. Now I can take even the most painful cut, knowing that it feeds him even as it does me.

Before him I never dared to consider this kind of surrender, giving him the very flesh of my body to carve, the very blood in my veins to paint with or taste, as he pleased. Now I am fulfilled completely by the depth of our bond: fluid-bonded, soul-bonded, as he whispered to me last night, after the pain stopped. I cried then for a different reason; I have never felt love like this before. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Quest: FtM ejaculation, part 1 of ?

Side note: I was thrilled to see that one of my very favourite bloggers, Sinclair from Sugarbutch Chronicles, linked me after I recently borrowed a survey of hers. Her writing inspired me to start my own blog, so garnering her notice is very exciting for me. :)


Recently we have been discussing elements that one or the other (or both) of us would like to add to our sex life. We were outside smoking after a nice brunch when I broached my suggestion: I'd like to see if we can get him to ejaculate.

The subject came up because my deepest desire (right now) is to be fisted. We've tried. I think we've given it several really *good* tries, actually, and we get allllllmost there...and then it hurts. Not as in, huh...that's kind of uncomfortable, but as in, STOP RIGHT NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I AM BEING BUTCHERED!! We've established that it's that crucial last half-inch or so that gives me such trouble; the place where his knuckles are widest catches against my pelvic bones and we're bone-on-bone with my flesh caught in between. No amount of lube or relaxation has helped us over that spot and I think we're both kind of frustrated with it. Deep down, I fear that I am one of the women who can't be fisted due to anatomy issues. I possess, (...am blessed with, really, I think...), a very tight cunt. Generally I am very pleased with her; this is the only problem we've run into so far. But it's a problem that sticks in my mind because it's the only roadblock to something we both want badly.

However, once I let it be known that fisting me is very much on the table, he told me that fisting him was also an option. I was shocked and very excited -- again, this is something I never thought he would be ok with, so much so that it never even crossed my mind to bring it up. He'd never been fisted either, so...wow! Once again, he blew me away with the lines he was willing to cross with me.

After that talk, we let things sit for a while and I didn't bring it up for weeks. Until Thursday morning, when I was fucking him just after we woke up. Suddenly he asked for another finger. And another. And another. He took them all easily and there I was, four fingers inside him, all the way to my third knuckle, and all that was left to do was tuck my thumb under and push.

It had happened so quickly! I thought I'd have to, like...work at it for a while! I was very excited but also concerned -- I well remembered how much it had hurt me when we tried to just 'push past the pain' before, and I didn't want to do that to him. I lubed up my hand (more lube than I'd ever used, and then an extra pump for luck), slipped my fingers back inside, and found myself easily drawn in, thumb and all. My last set of knuckles rested against the entrance to his cunt and my hand was duckbilled inside him, thumb tucked under, and I was overjoyed! After some research on my own I'd found that there are a few different definitions of fisting, one of which is simply all five fingers inside the pussy or ass -- so this was certainly fisting!

I told him and he was surprised but too busy enjoying the sensations to really talk to me about it. (Sometimes I let my excitement at what we're doing overwhelm my good sense -- I'm trying to get better at that.) The thing is, what we're both after is fitting my (or his) entire hand into the relevant area, wrist-deep.

With that in mind, I gently worked my way up to the point that always stopped us on me. I felt my knuckles brush his pelvic bones and then...I held back. I couldn't pull the trigger. I felt like it could have happened if I put my shoulder into it but was worried that attempting to work my entire hand into him at first try was excessive and might hurt him. And what if I never got to try again?

So I stayed there, working my fingers as best I could inside him -- he is STRONG! -- and he came several times. It felt strange to me, though, because I didn't have the type of room inside I'm used to having while fucking him with two fingers. Which makes sense, of course, all things considered. As the fuck continued, I spaced out a bit and wondered how the hell I ever could manage to find enough space inside him to fit the rest of my hand, assuming I got it past his bones. I'm still not sure!

At any rate, we both enjoyed it. At one point I went to pull out all the way -- slowly, of course, one finger at a time -- and he sharply told me not to. Oooooh. So I stayed and fucked him until my fingers got pruney and he was exhausted. :) It was a lovely morning.

His reaction to the experience made me wonder about ejaculating, so I am on a researching journey. I haven't yet tried anything, but it's in the works. I shall report back periodically with my findings. :)