How skilled is the baby-dyke with her fingers, her tongue, her sweltering, virile vagina? And are older lesbians lacking stamina? Can they keep up with the young?
How skilled is the baby-dyke with her fingers, her tongue, her sweltering, virile vagina? And are older lesbians lacking stamina? Can they keep up with the young? Or are they aging swiftly into dry ice?
These are only few of the questions haunting my 35th year, which is the age that is exactly between young and older. I find myself going through violent spurts of wanting to get laid thoroughly and frequently — and there are moments when I consider bedding women with whom I know I do not wish to become entangled in any way. In short, some days, my pussy is running the decision-making show.
Faithful as my Hitachi has been, the tactile is what woos me in these days. I need tongues (one at a time, please) and teeth and fingernails and breath — I need a body goddammit!
But I also find that am less patient with the process of love or lust or whatever you want to booty-call it. I want her to know what the hell she is doing as soon as she walks through my Brooklyn doors. I don’t want to teach anybody. Nor do I want to ease anyone back into the forgotten process of wild and wanton fucking.
Call me pernickety, call me unfair, but I want a significant number of orgasms from the jump. Which brings me to the opening question. How good are young dykes on the Richter-scale of same-sex screwing.
To be frank, I usually I avoid the baby-dykes. Not because I don’t value them, but because they seem too interested in fashion and pop-culture and what their friends think about their hair or feet or whatever. Everything is more pressing than the business of figuring out how I like my vulva sucked on, or my anus entered. Older dykes tend to be bossy, know-it-alls who make me feel like I am dating my mother. And I don’t get wet with my mother in my ear whispering curt instructions about how I should suck on her nipple.
Now, you would think that the perfect match for me would fall in the mid-thirties age group. But we are just as fucked up and delinquent about the technical details of sixty-nine-ing, or rimming or fisting. As I get older, I get less squeamish. As I get less squeamish, I get more annoyed with people who are afraid to fuck me.
When I was a baby-dyke I was looking for true love and permanence and someone to raise this baby I have been threatening for years. Now that I am jaded and horny and about to get pregnant, I just want good sex and no long-painful arguments about whom is more attached than whom, or why you love me, or don’t love me, or why you just need to have Winnie The Pooh in the bed when we do it.
As things stand, I am single and searching for the woman who could toss my proverbial salad regularly and without too much invested in the traditional U-haul and picket-fence lesbian lifestyle. That said, tomorrow I may awaken beside you and want to marry you. I reserve the right to be anything I damn well decide to be. I can’t wait till I am old enough to fart during sex and not apologize for it.
Bitter as I am, I can only hope that something monumental will occur to render me as dewy-eyed as the young, as wise and forgiving as the old and as happy as the fools (of all ages) who do not even know that they are not having good sex.
(Staceyann Chin is the author of The Other side of Paradise: A Memoir)