When Proposition 22 passed, I had this horrid, sinking feeling of rejection. I wanted to cry. That reaction actually surprised me, even though the outcome didn’t. I hadn’t thought I was so emotionally invested in something I truly believed would pass—I mean, it was just a matter of time before the world came to its senses, right? Since then, it’s been a state of limbo for me, for everyone who wanted this, who cared. Overturning Prop 22 today is our vindication.
]]> http://cyberspacebabes.com/2008/05/15/cas-same-sex-marriage-ban-goes-poof/feed/ 2 http://cyberspacebabes.com/2008/02/15/post-v-day/ http://cyberspacebabes.com/2008/02/15/post-v-day/#comments Sat, 16 Feb 2008 04:33:24 +0000 Mercy http://cyberspacebabes.com/2008/02/15/post-v-day/ The only really great thing about Valentine’s Day is the bling. Glitter, hearts, roses, satin panties, and—this year’s choice for me—pink cupcakes. Oh, and tequila. The other good thing about V-Day is the desperation and callous predation that seems to strike a large number of the population. I used to discount it until I came out as bisexual. All of a sudden, I was meeting women who were "tired" of men and how they were all assholes. Me, I’m really tired of male bashing; any kind, really. But I’m not above benefiting from the fallout.

I hit up the steam room at the gym last night—to sweat out the alcohol smell so I wouldn’t have to stink up my bed, not to reap any heartbroken babes. For all my erotic fantasies involving bath houses and saunas, you’d think something would actually happen there. But hey, it’s Bally’s. And I’m The Official Lesbian, even though I refuse to wear the cape and mask. So all I get are bi-curious wannabes, I’m-cool-with-that pseudo-liberals, or the cold shoulder. Yesterday was different, though. I got The Official Bitch hitting on me.

I’ll call her Margot, because that’s her real name, and I don’t give a damn if she doesn’t like me naming her. Besides, it adds a little something to the whole yuppy flavor of her personality. I can’t even say why I don’t like her, since she’d never talked to me before. But ugh, she was a total fucking hard-as-nails walking cliche when I met her last night. Yeah, in the steam room. This isn’t even a new scenario for me. She ignored me completely, then noticed I was ignoring her, and was quite content about it. So she had to ruin it by making conversation. She easily extracted the fact that I wasn’t a cashier or someone with another low income. She told me how hard it was to find the right man, (they’re all such assholes, after nothing but her money and tits) then hit on me. And ironically, put her hands on me. Yeah, go the fuck away.

I am immensely turned off by people who think you have to meet some financial or social standard before they can grace you with simple courtesy. And women who’ve been hurt or disappointed by guys who think they can use other women as a substitute. Gimme stale pink cupcakes over all such any day.

But you know what? I’d probably have been all over that if she’d even been halfway attractive. Such is the hypocrisy of my libido.

The phrasing kind of throws me; I’d rather think of it as same-sex and opposite-sex congress, but it means the same thing. When it comes to each separate sexual act and/or partner, I can’t say that I prefer one or the other. What I do prefer, however, is knowing that I won’t be constrained to just the one gender. This is fine for flings or casual sex—not just fine, but great. Even better is having a bisexual lover. Male or female, it doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that does matter is that we understand each other, that we understand that sex is not intimacy, that monogamy is not love, and that we can have it all. Or damn close to it.

There was a time when I thought that I didn’t need that kind of freedom or would want an open relationship. I thought that when I found The One, I would settle down and never desire or look at anyone else again. But years have gone by, and if there’s one thing that I’ve noticed, it’s that my attraction to opposite and same sexes and genders shows no sign of waning, even in a relationship. I want someone to share that with me, someone to be part of my sex life always, but not limit me to just him or her. I don’t want monogamy, but I want to be with someone I know inside and out, who knows me the same way. Someone who’s mine, who can explore and experience our sexuality together.

I suppose I could have all of that within a heterosexual-style relationship, but I don’t want that. As bisexuals, we come to different (or at least deeper) understandings of our own sexuality, and I’ve yet to find a hetero guy who truly gets that part of me. I want lascivious bi-orgies, MMF and MFF threesomes, and sleepy, tired, comfortable sex, and I want it all in one package.

The best sex for me is bi-sex.

I’ve been meaning to set up a separate blog for just such issues for some time. Too many people think of bisexuality as something kinky or deviant. It’s not. But to get my point across, I need to be able to separate my libidinous subjects from my sexual politics. The more bisexuals that put themselves out into the blogosphere, the more chance we have of reaching those who don’t know much about bisexuality, or who may never have given common misconceptions a second thought. I want more people to see bisexuals as real people, not some ambiguous, faceless facet of homosexuality. When I was a teenager, I would have liked to have such a resource open to me. Struggling with your sexual identity can be very difficult, particularly if you don’t have a starting point.

Right now is probably a bad time to get started on a new project. I’m working on some stories for PixelPulse, and that comes before any posting to my blogs. (By the way, the latest issue is out. You can get it in-world on Second Life.) Work is crazy right now, too, for some reason, and that comes first, period. I gotta eat, ya know. So taking on a new blog might be some extra work, but I don’t care. It’s important to me and if I’m slower at posting both here and there, that’s okay. At least it’s out there. Most likely, I’ll rewrite and post some of my older posts to the bisexuality blog, to give them a home among non-adult content. Come the new year, however, I’ll be in full swing. I can’t wait. : )

Technorati : bisexuality, blogs, gender bending, sexuality

Today I own my own business, but before this I paid my way through college (well, mostly through; I never got my degree) working as an exotic dancer. My interest in exploring my sexuality didn’t start there, but it’s where it was able to thrive and grow. I don’t mean that taking off my clothes magically gave me a deeper understanding about my sexual nature. It was the women and men I got to know during this time who made me rethink a great many preconceived notions I’d had. Through these people I learned to have confidence in my sexuality, and not just acceptance of other people’s lifestyles, but a profound respect for those who live their lives the way they want to. Even if by doing so it flies in the face of convention. It takes guts to be who you are. And it’s damn sexy.

I might have been able to avoid dancing, but I didn’t, and I wouldn’t take it back for the world. I think I still would have reached the same conclusions that came so easily just by contact with others who were so sexually open. My time working in the adult industry has made a huge impact on my life and perception of the world. But even before I’d started dancing, I was on the road to inhibition. By the time I was out of high school, I knew I was bisexual. I’d spent most of my junior high and high school years wondering what the hell was wrong with me. What I a lesbian, or was I straight? Nothing could have changed what I went through then, and I wouldn’t take that hellish time back either. It made me who I am today.

It never dawned on me that I could be bisexual. I didn’t know the term, and even when I first heard of it, it was in the context of lesbian porn with a guy thrown in for some extra fun. But I had a starting point. I read books about homosexuality. I asked questions. And boy, was I relieved. I knew I was okay, I wasn’t the only one who’d gone through this. From there, I took the first steps in openly admitting I was bisexual: I hit on my cute friend. While that didn’t work out, I also didn’t get slapped, and I gained confidence from that encounter. I told more and more people. Most were shocked, seemingly “okay” with it, but in reality, they saw me differently after that. And that was okay. Once I realized who I was, I had no other options. I was done worrying about my sexuality. That was the hardest step for me: discovering who I was, and honestly assessing myself. With that behind me, exploring other” naughty” areas didn’t seem so intimidating or taboo.

So it seems that our choices do lead to those experiences that make us who we are, but being who we are, how could we choose differently? Maybe that’s why many of us alternative lifestylers are so kinky. We’ve already jumped the biggest hurdle. Ourselves.

Newcomers are always a little surprised at how candid and crude I can be. Not that some of my friends aren’t as raw, but I believe in telling it like it is. The other night we descended on a groovy little coffee house in Hollywood after dinner. With a bar and grill next door and some open shops to browse through, it was a perfect place to settle in for the rest of the evening: something for everyone. We got our drinks and grabbed a table out front. Soon we were all chatting with a couple of guys who were hanging out at a table next to us. We bandied about humorous tales of sexual encounters we’d experienced, nothing malicious, just slightly embarrassing. You know how it goes: “…and when he unzipped his jeans, I saw this satiny purple sock thing on his dick with tiny happy faces all over it. And really long hair peeking out around the edges of his bikini line like a, a corona. Straight hair. I was dying!” Or how about this one? “She took her shirt off but she wouldn’t let me touch her tits. I just thought she was shy, but then she tried to kinda hide while she was taking it off and balls of toilet paper fell out—and some keys! And a packet of soy sauce!” Maybe some are exaggerations, but they’re always funny as hell, and who really cares, right? Sex is a great topic practically any time.

I thought I’d chime in with what I’d thought was a funny chronicle from a while back. I’d met a girl at a night club called the Factory. The club basically sucks, so we’d ditched our friends and found a cozy and sleazy little bar in Weho (West Hollywood). Being drunk and horny, I had my hands all over this girl and had managed to wrangle her panties off. Quite a feat since we were sharing one side of a tiny, cramped booth with very little room to maneuver. She had her back turned to the room, blocking me and my roving hands from casual view. I was really getting into it, and her, almost roughing her up. I could tell she was close to coming, her back was arched, she kept biting her bottom lip and moaning lowly. I picked up the speed, thrusting my fingers into her while she rocked back and forth more and more vigorously. Just as she orgasmed, she rocked back a bit too far. I grabbed for her frantically and managed to grasp her ankle. For one long moment we were frozen in shock while the details of our position sunk in. One of my hands was holding her panties, the other holding up one of her legs. She was flat on her back in the middle of the aisle, legs spread, the skirt of her dress pooled around her waist—in the very fucking middle of a group of people making their way to the bar. Talk about embarrassing! I finished the tale with a flourish and self-deprecatingly joined in the laughter. One of our new friends choked on his coffee.

“My girlfriend told me a story just like that,” he finally managed around the coffee streaming from his nose.

“Oh, that probably wasn’t her,” I assured him. “This was a busty redheaded flight attendant.” Proud that I’d managed to bag the stereotypical hottie, I didn’t notice how flustered he was.

“That’s my girlfriend,” was his loud and belligerent response. “You’re not a guy!” Oops.

“Shh. Don’t tell anyone that. It’s a secret,” I quipped automatically. This wasn’t the first time I’d been accused of not being male, in spite of the fact that I definitely look like a woman.

He glared at me, unamused. Damn. I had just outed his chick and he was probably one of those you-can-be-gay-but-not-around-me kinds of people. An embarrassed silence descended around us. I grimaced, not sure of what else I should say. I wasn’t about to apologize for being bisexual, but, if he was right, I had just told a mortifying story about his girlfriend. Doh. I was of half a mind to let him say something first, even if it was probable that he’d try to verbally blast me. I just knew it was going to be some tirade about sneaky women-stealing lesbians, and how can men possibly compete, it’s so unfair. Nice guys always finish last. Blah, blah, blah. I’d heard it all before, I was prepared. I met his eyes squarely, and opened my mouth to tell him off first.

“So would you be into a threesome?” he asked.

I should have known.

Technorati : bisexuals, homosexuality, outing, sexblog
Ice Rocket : bisexuals, homosexuality, outing, sexblogs

As the water warmed up, I watched myself in the mirror, my eyes still heavy with sleep. I touched my lips with a fingertip, still feeling slightly swollen and tingling from the fancied mauling they’d had. Wisps of steam curled around my image, caressing and grasping at my body with ethereal tentacles. With a last long look into the mirror, still contemplating the whirling virago I’d been only moments before, I shrugged out of my shirt and walked under the steady rush of water. I let the heat course through my body, not yet a match for the fire still burning at my core, my hands outlining my waist and hips, fingertips tracing light designs over my stomach. I knew what I wanted, but not what I was waiting for. Something I’d forgotten when I awoke, perhaps, but I couldn’t wait any longer for it to come to me. I leaned against the cold tile wall, my back to the spray, one hand cushioning my cheek, the fingers of my other hand gliding over my wet and slick labia. I slid a finger inside, coyly curling it—and suddenly an image jolted me, darkening my sight momentarily with its intensity, the memory of my dream lancing through my body like a bolt of lightning: the sultry seductress I’d been clinging to before I was torn from her and into wakefulness. Oh, she had been the best of the parade, by far. Whether she was wearing a harness or not, I couldn’t quite recall, but the feel of cock in my hand was a potent argument against it. She was all woman, however. I remembered bracing myself against the narrow walls of the hall, back to the cold wall, tightly grasping the handrail behind me, one leg braced against her slender torso, the other curled around her waist as she thrust into me. She leaned into me, her mouth covering mine, devouring it voraciously. The ferocity was intense, driving us both towards greater lengths as the rhythm increased. My hands sank into her sable hair, cradling her head and pulling her to me, my kiss even more urgent as we approached the climax I sensed hovering around us like a thunderstorm. Her hands tightened convulsively under my ass, the two fingertips of her middle fingers just barely pressing against the perineum, pounding hard into me with a fury…until I was roused from her arms and into reality.

I’d have to finish alone what we had begun.

I opened my eyes and reached up for my slender little vibe, knowing it to be inadequate to the task, but hoping the thought of my dream lover would make up for it. I slicked it over my swollen lips, and thrust it in, fingertip tapping a staccato beat on my clit. The consummation came quickly, my orgasm coursing through me in waves, making my body quake with the release. Shattered, I waited, my head down as the aftershocks died away. After what seemed a long while, I was ready to stand on both feet, no longer needing to brace myself against the wall. I lathered up thoughtfully, my mind’s eye still traveling over my dream lady’s curves and features.

I stepped out of the shower and caught a glimpse of movement in the steam-fogged mirror. Smiling slightly, I saluted the woman I saw there, amazed anew at her ingenuity and vision.

Technorati : masturbation, sexblogs, wet dreams
Del.icio.us : dreams, masturbation, sexblogs, shower
Ice Rocket : masturbation, sexblogs, shower, wet dreams

After less than a year, I left SJ a thoroughly humbled sophomore and returned home, the light rail quickly forgotten as I once again immersed myself in the seamier side of Los Angeles. Until more than ten years later, I had a chance to catch a ride on our own new light rail, the Gold Line. A few friends and I had been traipsing around the Downtown L.A. Art District, catching one exhibition and a few stray perverts. Rather than take a cab back to my place as we’d planned, we thought it’d be fun to take the new rail system, so we caught a ride to Union Station. Memories flooded back as we boarded, and looking around the sparsely populated car, I automatically tried to designate this evening’s protagonist. I was disappointed until we reached the next station. Two men entered our car and I pinpointed my man. He and his buddy were still standing as the train started moving. Completely ignoring my friends and their muted blather as they, too, surveyed the scene, I scrabbled through my mental rolodex of opening lines, yanked out the first marginally plausible one, and advanced on them.

“Excuse me, can you tell me what stop you got on at? I wasn’t paying attention,” I asked them anxiously, directing my query at the shorter of the two. I could tell that he’d fit nicely against me.

“Downtown, I think, right?” he asked of his pal. Oh no, I groaned internally. He was gay, or pretending to be. I looked hopefully at his friend.

“Chinatown,” his likewise gay friend told me.

I sighed and thanked them, then headed back to give my friends the disappointing news. At this time of night, I didn’t hope for another chance, but I got one a few stops later: a busty little latina and two asian girls. I could hear the porn music already. I slouched down in my seat and regarded them appraisingly, wondering which I should choose, or if I should let my mind take off on another tangent. Deciding against the wild public-transit orgy, I settled on one of the asians. I knew better than to approach her, particularly after my recent mistake. “Never mistake the artist for the art,” Alfred Bester had once said, or something close enough. Taking that wisdom to heart, I watched my girl through my half-closed lids, posing her in the aisle, myself beside her in a crowded car. I’d stumble as the train lurched, half-turned toward her, my knee slipping between the two of hers and deftly spreading them to either side. Our eyes would meet, our bodies frozen in a moment of uncertainty-then I’d feel her lean in toward me, her skirt sliding up slightly. I’d shiver a little as the dampness of her panties pressed against the bare skin of my thigh. I’d shift my stance, letting her do the same to me, and we’d stand there, cleft to thigh, moving with the sway of the car, every jostling body grinding us together.

I came awake with a sharp elbow to my ribs. My chicky was gone, and we were at our stop. I was silent on the subsequent cab ride home, musing over the daydream. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that *uNF* of two bodies fitting perfectly together. I wasn’t sated yet, but I knew I would be soon.

And so I was. Several times, in fact. In accordance with my plan to chart my orgasms, the numbers are as follows:

In the cab: 3
Back at home: 7
In the shower: 6

Not bad for a night’s work.

Technorati : bisexuality, fantasies, frottage, masturbation, sexblogs
Del.icio.us : bisexuality, fantasies, frottage, masturbation, sex
Ice Rocket : bisexuality, fantasies, masturbation, sex

I had a peculiar encounter at the gym this afternoon. I was sitting in the steam room, eyes demurely downcast when a woman sat down across from me and addressed me directly.

“Are you the lesbian everybody’s talking about?”

I was surprised, but just relaxed enough not to let it show on my face. I hadn’t known I was The Lesbian of my local gym. In fact, there’re a few there, and I wondered why she’d single me out as the one. I regarded her solemnly, a trifle coldly; my eyes roving down her body insultingly before capturing her gaze. I wanted this to stick.

“No,” I assured her. “I’m the other one.”

I wasn’t in the mood for any idiotic nonsense from a complete stranger. All that I’d wanted to do was melt into the wood of my bench after my token workout. I did not want to verbally fence with yet another person on a mission to convert the dissident, who didn’t even have an ounce of civility. Go away, I willed her mentally. This is not the droid you’re looking for.

She surprised me again when she laughed and said, “Good!” It wasn’t the nervous giggle I almost invariably get when another woman discovers my sexuality, nor the false-hearty rejoinder that loosely translates to “I’m not homophobic!” For once, I wasn’t frustrated that my Jedi mind trick hadn’t worked. (It never does, and I never fail to feel a pang of disappointment.) This woman definitely gave me the impression that she was interested in me, if not sexually, at least as a real person. While it doesn’t bother me much anymore that I don’t always get that consideration, I can definitely appreciate the fact when I do get it.

The woman and I chatted amiably enough, and I was glad that I hadn’t insulted her the way I’d intended to. I did apologize for being so off-putting, and mentioned that I was relieved to see that I hadn’t made her uncomfortable. She assured me that I didn’t give off any “vibes” that would have. Maybe it was synchronicity at work, so shortly after having posted a fantasy—and the dilemma it posed; I’ve kept to my resolve and reminded myself scrupulously to not objectify anyone—or rather, not let them get a glimmer of what I’m fantasizing about. That might have been what saved me from missing a chance to make a new, pleasant acquaintance.

Thank goodness for self-awareness.