Fantasy//Reality: A butch in the hand is worth two with a bush
Fantasies I've had since being a relatively young butch4butch (28) in a sea of older butches in West New York---in no particular order
Fantasy: Holding the older white haired butch security guard between my thighs in a loving submissive chokehold with their night stick baton and teaching her about cops being class traitors + reading erotica together —
Reality: She winked at me in the morning and then walked me to where I needed to go fully out of her way cause I got lost. She said “we need more of us in healthcare” and grinned big. She only walked me when I said I was 28 and said she hopes to see me around more.
Fantasy: Tall Slenderman white haired butch twink finally sucking my soul out of my mouth and letting me join her in the darkness.
—
Reality:
Very tall white haired butch (you'll see a theme) who gave me the once over glance with added up and down staring + a rare look behind her shoulder when power walking past my outdoor dining self—she had on a leather backpack, and a smaller multi-colored backpack on top. She was in such a rush both times I saw her without stopping; hence the code name: The Yeti/Slenderbutch. I don't really remember what her face looks like, she reminded me of Doug Jones: tall, very thin, long fingers. To be honest: I can't even tell you anything else about them except for the eye contact and the speed in her disappearing into the night. She's my white whale/cryptid combo gut punch.
Fantasy: Consensually forcing an older sporty butch to clean my apartment spotless and pay for everything I could ever need…and when I get home after draining her checking account dry, she very lovingly gets to shine my boots and lick them clean with lots of eye contact. I make her beg for more until I'm satisfied with her whining and then kick her out all hot and bothered as discussed.
—
Reality: I felt her eyes starting at me studying. She was wearing a smart little suit jacket and slacks with Chelsea boots on. She had her long hair tied up in a semi-professional bun and we were at a cafe near my apartment. She smiled on her way out the back door, glanced down at my shirt and said “nice button” while she winked: I had accidently left on an enameled Archi Bongiovanni button of someone getting strapped with boots on and despite the quick eye fuck, I haven't seen her since.
Fantasy: Getting strapped and strapping back along with a harnessed blow job/finger fuck combo in the back of a USPS truck, in the humid heat, with the salt and pepper butch mail-lady who, in fantasy, wears sock garters, boots, no bra, and a dark blue postal service hat. I am wearing her shirt, completely open at the front but still getting covered in sweat in the July heat. In my fantasy the truck shakes in a comically justifiable way and I remember what the sun feels like on my back.
—
Reality: The older butch was wearing no hat, but her hair was wild and curly. Blue looks perfect on her + the collared shirt looked amazing on her strong, broad shoulders. She waved and winked from her little truck in this suburban sprawl where I'm dogsitting. She was playing 2000s reggaeton quiet enough for the both of us and my mouth salivated like the hungry dog I am.
Fantasy: It’s a reverse authority student/teacher thing; I'm making this deep voiced science professor butch deep throat my fingers, fucking her over the lab desk with her arms rubber banned together behind her — and also doing some unsafe/ banned lab eating until we need the eye wash station for getting cum splashed in my face and down my neck. I reprimand her for being a bad teacher and write ‘F’ on her chest in a red ink marker before licking it off and make her clean up after herself just to keep me from telling the dean what her deal is.
—
Reality: She teaches Anatomy and Physiology 1 and I’m in an Anatomy and Physiology 2 morning lab class at a local community college. [I am an adult, we are all adults.]
She has a gorgeous speaking voice that’s deeper than mine, a loose fitting polo, hip hugging chinos and black close-toed tennis shoes with a big gold wrist watch.
She nodded at me and waved at her former students in the room and said “I hope you're still as good as I remembered you to be” to one of them in such a gentle, stoic way that it made me turn completely tachycardic.
She even made my straight lab peer blush and say “Oh that’s Professor ----, she's amazing!” practically with hearts in her eyes.
The professor watched me, watching her, and then gave me a friendly nod and smile.
I thought about her for too long.
Fantasy: I’m using a much older butch as a step stool. My feet are at her shoulders and her back and I’m going over my favorite jazz records. She is not allowed to look at me, react, or say anything but “I love jazz” over and over again as I hit her with my wooden paddles and canes and yet /another/ deep cut bop from the 1930s until she cries or can spell “Thelonious Monk” three times without making an error.
—
Reality: We met outside a cafe while looking at the same jazz festival posters and talked about, well— jazz.
This older woman, in her big age, said that she knows almost nothing about jazz, but assured me that she can learn quickly.
She was even looking to me for some guidance on choosing between Jesus Molina and Thundercat.
We laughed and when she walked away I noticed her black racerback sports bra from her slightly see through white shirt.
The lining of the black fabric outlined her neck in a very striking way where I also saw a tattoo peaking through. Her white hair, was cut into a buzz cut and in the back it was tapered into a V like I like it + with just enough length at the top to pull back in any direction…
I also noticed she didn't have on a wedding ring.
Fantasy: Getting the talkative, merch table Leo babe to come to my apartment after the show and dimming the lights to be more dramatic.
Using my phone to film them; I’m recording for posterity and asking them to explain how they'd like to get fucked in as much detail as possible. All to have them listen back as I use their phone to record me actively doing their requests to them as slowly and egotistically as possible until they’ve passed out from pleasure or they’ve Icarus’d too close to the sun.
I imagined pouring wax down from their neck towards a forward facing camera and making them watch themselves cum with any mirrors I have.
I'm not a worshipping type, but I felt like singing to them and giving them a rough massage and taking my time.
[and leaving all my clothes on unless they directly asked otherwise]
Which would be a perfect end to an already wonderful evening.
—
Reality: They're a friendly, bubbly, alternative Leo sun butch with a great smile and a forwardness I deeply miss from having only recently left NYC after a decade of forward slutty butches.
They were wearing a shirt that said “loner” and I called them out in under 30 seconds.
“How did you know I was a Leo so fast?!”
Said the literal personification of the sun dressed in all Black.
We talked until the opening act began and I looked back to a bright lion haired Leo shining back and waving goodbye as I walked to my seat.
In the middle of the show, I checked in on my new bestie, and they saved me a rare print of vinyl for sale— even though I was still on the fence about buying it— cause they “knew I'd come back” and set aside one of the last two just for me.
Wow! How dare they be so thoughtful!
Leo Butch could likely charm me to hell if they wanted to, and they were my type exactly (at least when I was goth in high school) and sure, I flirted, but I know I can't fly often while they tour with the main artist, and they're probably not sober in the slightest for me to justify it either.
Either way, I still bought the vinyl when I don't have a record player— and they talked me up to the performer I was seeing before she and I talked for 30 minutes at Mx. ‘Loner’s insistence “That’s them! This is the one I was telling you about!”
What!
If I get to see her again I'll show her this and have my dream come true: Allegro i forte.
Fantasy: Getting railed by the transfemme butch machinist with an olive branch tattoo on her forearm. Her hands are strong and soft and I want them all over me anywhere she wants, but only if we fought about it first!
I imagined wrestling for top and losing on purpose, but also really aggressively kissing and roughhousing until I tap out.
Not like me to lose, but losing on purpose can be left as a secret between us.
—
Reality: We met at the grocery store and she had interjected a conversation between me and a friend about politics and queerness twice while on my way to get another family sized bottle of sriracha.
She was a stunningly beautiful blue-collar-babe and had very intense eyes to match incredibly strong arms and some grease on her forearm from her job as a factory foreman.
In spite of the grease, I noticed her hands were incredibly clean and perfectly manicured.
Unfortunately she is not in a union and had no interest to join one when I asked.
Fantasy: I am in a verse-top Dom 4 verse-top sub situation with an amazing kisser and ex lover’s lover.
They’re a tall, rough housing, long Island butch who is not soft in any way at all: and yet here they are, completely submitting to me.
They were also somehow service subbing and pleasure doming me with such devotion and malice; in a way that punching them in the chest and slapping them in the face when we fuck is the only way I can accept defeat.
And they love every second.
I feel their hands in the small of my back, then pushing me and holding me down by my hips.
I feel their teeth on my palms while I make them look at me with my left hand grasping the nape of their neck.
They’re such a fucking animal with their playful, Aries moon aggressiveness.
I can’t stand how good I feel despite the lack of finesse.
We're the same height lying down, and their ‘expresso’ strong accent disappears when they're moaning.
I finally get to take all of them in.
—
Reality: I finally read my old journals from when I was 23 dating a 28 year old who was also dating a 30 year old. We're all butch, it was non-monogamous, and the 28 year old was horrible to the both of us.
Behind closed doors things, were not quite honest when we didn't have three ways.
I’d make out with my ex-metamour and, at the time, our shared partner knew about the kissing —
My ex didn’t know how their partner would text me, sext me, and call for hours and tell me how badly they wish they could fuck me instead of my ex, who they thought wasn’t treating me like I deserved.
I was afraid to leave and I didn’t want to lose my meta in the process.
I sometimes wished we’d leave them together.
In July 2020, almost 5 years ago, I left my emotionally abusive ex and my ex-meta stayed despite their own issues together—And 8 months later they got married.
I have no idea why, but since I reread how well they took care of me when I had pneumonia [how they held me in their arms and kissed me to calm me down when I couldn't breathe for over a week]
I finally understood what I didn't know then— which was that it was an entirely inappropriate relationship, that we cheated on the same person with each other—and I should've fucked them when I had the chance.
-Epilogue-
Reality:
I haven't been on a date since March, and haven't had sex since January on purpose.
It’s July!
I need to focus on getting a good grade to start nursing school on time, but oh my God, I think I'm trying turning into a teenager again with all this fantasy!
I think the main difference this time is that I have a one-bedroom apartment and am very very experienced.
I’m not an incel or anything but I noticed I haven’t subluxated my hypermobile wrists since the start of 2024 and when I realized, instead of celebrating the relief, I sighed in a sad and redownloaded Lex posting “FagDyke Flagging Red-Left”
BUT I’ve deleted it again!
Healing is much more important