By Guest Writer, Addison
Here’s the thing, I’m a feminine girl – I guess. I wear make up. I’m not big into sports. I mostly shop in the women’s section. More than that, I have a look about me. To me, it’s just unconventional – the product of a mixed race background. To others it’s “exotic,” or so I’ve been told. However you categorize it, it boils down to a certain sex appeal that’s hard for both men and women to ignore. My type? I dig a bit of a tomboy. A pretty tomboy with a touch of swagger, who behaves like a gentleman on dates.
All signs point to stereotypically congruent lesbian gender construction. I’m the girl one. You’re the boy one. (Bear with me people.) Don’t deny it now just because everyone is watching. Some of you fit cleanly into that stereotype and love every inch of it. Some of your make it your mission to bed your congruently gendered opposite, and have little tolerance for much else. You’re the same ones who have responded with the oh-so-predictable third date surprise, when I’m the one who pins you down and peels off your sports bra. I get it. You didn’t see that coming, and you’re not entirely sure how to handle it. The answer is, close your eyes and enjoy everything I’m about to do to you… and then get up off your back and thank me… like a gentleman would.
I’m a top. What can I say? Giving you pleasure, IS my pleasure. Now, I’m not a no-touch girl, by any means. I want mine too! But, mine is exactly relational to how much you’ve enjoyed yours. That’s who I am. That’s how I’ve always been. I can’t let you have control over me… you have to take it.
My gender construction, my “femininity,” is hazy outside of the bedroom as well. I’m decisive, controlling, and extremely quick. I’m also fairly impatient, so instead of allowing you to waffle back and forth and meander toward the right answer, I’m going to cut out the middleman, spoil the story, and tell you how it ends. With you doing it my way, that’s how. Needless to say, many women are too quick to judge my sex appeal as categorically feminine and find themselves blindsided by my many “masculine” ways. So while I enjoy a self-assured girl and crave a bit of push-back in my relationships, I’m often too much woman for a partner who went into it expecting to maintain the control.
So, it seemed like I had finally met my match when I started dating this girl Mo. She’s my dream girl. She’s a stunning pacific island girl with big almond eyes and long sheets of silky dark brown hair. She’s fit, athletic, and looks damn good on a surfboard. She’s great with her hands. She always opens doors for me and offers to pick up the check. She’s perfection.
But the one of the things that really had me into this girl, was her disarming way. When Mo and I first started dating, she had her way with me impressively often. She made the rules. She decided where our boundaries were. She decided when to move them. I was along for the ride for the first time, and it was h.o.t. I made no demands. I had no expectations. And that left me overwhelmingly fulfilled. The dynamics kept me guessing, which was intriguing and sexy. Even the first time we had sex, she completely took control of me. We went to dinner, we had drinks, she came back to my place, we laid in bed talking over a glass of wine, and just as I begin to dose off curled up into her big spoon, she kissed my neck and took my breath away. With my head spinning, she climbed on top of me and I lost my head feeling her pressing her body into mine. I could feel her craving me and needing me, and I was powerless to resist.
From that day on, sex with Mo was unbelievable, sweaty, passionate, hair pulling, earth quaking sex. For the record, she is the best sex I’ve ever had. She never left me wanting. As we continued to get to know each other, and I eventually found my nerve again, I realized that we were capable of having the best of both worlds. She maintained her disarming way, and when she wanted me, she could have me on her terms. I didn’t mind. Really. But she was also confident enough to let me satisfy her from time-to-time, before her attention turned to me.
It seemed I’d hit the jackpot. Mo never once raised an eyebrow of insecurity when I handled her. I got to have my pretty tomboy beefcake and eat it too.
But something changed drastically about a year ago. Somehow we regressed to only having sex once every couple of weeks, and by sex I mean I service her until she’s hoarse and I’m in muscle failure, and she then curls up in an adorable little snoring ball, leaving me high and anything but dry.
What changed? I have to say, Mo has no idea. We’ve talked about it. We’ve fought about it. I’ve refused to discuss it any further… and then we talked about it some more. Each time she swears that it’s just work stress. For me, that excuse just doesn’t equate. She’s always more than willing to play pillow princess. She doesn’t deny my advances. She just doesn’t switch-hit these days. It seems to me that if Mo was suffering from a stress induced low-libido, we wouldn’t be having sex at all.
And then it hit me. It hit me when Mo rolled over one night to make a concerted effort to initiate sex with me, the exact thing I’d been begging for, and I just couldn’t let go for her. I didn’t want her. Not under those circumstances. I put an end to it before it really started. Something didn’t feel right, and I just couldn’t get it up for her. What the hell, right?
Slightly panicked by my own severely mixed messages, I began to really unpack how I was contributing to this dry spell. As badly as I wanted to have sex with her, I just turned her down. What is my problem?!
Well, I didn’t recognize it instantly, but eventually I realized that my problem is the way Mo rolled over to initiate sex with me. She rolled over and peppered me with little pecking kisses. She pouted her lips and said, “I wuv you baby,” in baby talk. Nothing of it resembled the impassioned sex we used to have.
Well, I think it began about a year ago, when I packed up my life in Chicago, my hometown, to be closer to her in California. No, I don’t think she’s feeling the effects of cold feet. I think, deep down, she’s still as crazy about me as she ever was. But, living within the same vicinity of each other has had a significant effect on our sex life.
I think it has everything to do with the fact that since I’ve move to California, we spend the vast majority of our time at my place instead of hers. And when we’re in my home, she asks me whether she should run the dishwasher, whether my dog needs a walk, whether she can have that last banana. What’s worse is that when we’re in my home, I tell her not to leave her bag in the hallway, or her socks in the living room. It’s my home, and I run it my way, which is admittedly yuck.
It’s shocking actually. Friday nights we go out for dinner or drinks with friends, and Mo hails the cab, she reserves the table and places my order, she picks up the tab. But, the second we walk through my front door, she’s asking me for permission to have a scoop of my ice cream. I know what you’re thinking, and no, she’s not just being considerate of my grocery planning… hell, she buys the groceries half the time. It’s definitely not just manners.
And it dawns on me. I’ve emasculated my girlfriend…. .. ….. …
How did I let this happen? How did she?? The dynamic I’ve long sought after, a girl with a strong personality who doesn’t allow me to walk all over her and overwhelm the relationship… ruined?
I’m at a loss. I crave her to stand up to me. To push back. To demand my respect and stop taking my shit. How do I undo this? How do I relinquish control? And what’s trickier, how do I get her to take control, without telling her to take control, because that would be… controlling.