ISSUE 3 - QUEER LOVE

Nothing shuts down the screaming echoes of gold star butches speaking ill of dick quite like the moment between the burn of mascara when my eyes begin to water and the muscle contraction in my abdomen when I gag, ever so slightly while my girlfriend presses deeply down my throat.

The years of being gifted novelty graphic t-shirts reading “vagetarian” and keychains with phrases you can only find at Spencer’s Gifts are washed away every time I feel her body pulse and harden when couch kisses excite us into the inevitable.

Whenever her narrow hips squeeze between the ones I have meant to carry children, our pieces align like the button snaps on a second-hand blouse-- constantly fumbling to sit just right but eased with fingertips into a perfect fit.

My girlfriend’s identity is under constant scrutiny, especially including judgements from our own community. Hordes of self-identified “WLWs” make sour expressions when I describe the wingspan of my girlfriend’s palm when she explores my body, as if her touch has somehow erased my ability to relate to what it’s like to love another woman.

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No other human has ever had the capability to make me arch my back like the handle of a teacup quite like she does, but explaining this to another lesbian is like trying to recite a dead language. The fixation on the fact what my girlfriend uses to fuck me didn’t have to be discreetly purchased online somehow renders our love as something “other.”

It’s difficult to write about exchanging touches with my girlfriend without sounding like the guidance counselor in 10 Things I Hate About You. Poets and literary greats have spun mountains describing the endlessly beautiful landscape of bodies belonging to ciswomen, but trying to encapture the breathtaking view that is my transgirlfriend’s silhouette is something I fear I will never be able to achieve.

But every time she penetrates me, the binary belief system of top and bottom dynamics are obliterated as if we’re using some undiscovered lesbian Konami code. Everything about us defies logic and expectation, exactly the way we like it.

I am cis.

I have a pussy.

My girlfriend is trans.

My girlfriend has a dick.

If someone has a problem with it, they can suck it.

Actually, no. That’s my job.