Counting Up


D/s 101

Dear Butch,

Maybe someone didn’t explain the rules.  Which, is unfortunate for you on so many levels.

When one enters into a D/s (Dominate/submissive, and not the capitalization of one title and not another is no mistake), negotions need to be made.  The Dominsate doesn’t get to just make a set of rules, then bark orders to the submissive, and expect for all their wishes become instant reality.


I am a submissive in the kink community.  Not a shock is you have been reading my blog regularly.  I like to a play on the bratty bottom/submissive side of the pool, teasing the Dominates with flashes of cleavage and a dirty mouth elegantly painted in bright red matte lipstick.  I have been kinky as far back as I can remember, although I haven’t always been with partners who shared my same love for all thinks naughty.  If I were to have to rank my kink experience on a scale from 1-10, 1 being vanilla as a cupcake and 10 as kinky as a old school phone cord, I would give myself an 8.715.

I agreed to meet you for a second time.  Our first meeting left me bored and confused and sad for my future all at once.  You had asked me out and I had said yes.  Which was probably my first mistake, I am so far from being ready to date or even fuck again, still recovering from the deep wounds of my recent breakup.  However, you were nice enough and I liked the restaurant you picked.  The first meeting was a disaster, a hot fucking mess.  But apparently you thought it went great because you continued to text and call me, and since you seemed sweet enough I agreed to go out for a second time and start negotiating a possible fling.

So when you, a self-proclaimed Dominate, approach and inquire about having a D/s summer fling with me and start off by barking orders and making demands before we even leave the restaurant on our second “date” (using that term very loosely) you shouldn’t have been shocked when I walked away.  Literally.  And it wasn’t just backing and demanding, you went right into insulting me and my character.  I may be a submissive, but I am still a human with feelings and rights, you fucking asshole.  When I asked to meet to chat about interests, limits, and arrangements; I didn’t expect to be on the receiving end of threats and intimidation.

Dominates lead with a cool confidence.  An air of complete control and admiration for their submissive.  You are a tool who likes to boss ladies around.  I don’t regret walking out and immediatly deleting you from my life.  I enjoy being bossed and tossed around in the bedroom, but I do expect to walk into that situation with a Dominate that respects my limitations and understands wheat is on and off the menu.  I really enjoy dirty talk while fucking, but you started before we even got undressed.  You hit me with words uglier and harder then any toy or impalement I have ever used during play.  The bruises you left were emotional and left me so furious.

I may be lonely, but I am not desperate.



Dead Inside

Dear Butch,

I have never been a fan of the typical popular holidays: Christmas overwhelming, Thanksgiving is too commercial; and although I enjoy Saint Patrick’s Day, I have never really been able to get into the American version of the holiday.

For me, fireworks make a great holiday.  New Years Eve and the week between Pride and the Fourth of July.  These are my favorite times to gather, celebrate, and over-indulge.

I come from a big fireworks family.  I was probably 5 or 6 when I had my first sparkler in my hand and 8-9 when I held a Roman candle for the first time.  Each celebration; birth, death, graduation, marriage, divorce, deployment, homecomings, etc. are celebrated in my family with explosions of color and noise.  I am addicted to the boom that starts in the air, shakes the ground, and then makes my heart go fucking crazy.  Fireworks are like shocks to my heart, pulsating with the purest form of joy.


This past New Year’s Eve I was with friends and T-Rex.  We celebrated with silly hats and a small amount of wine.  It was the perfect gathering after a very stressful holiday season.  I kissed my man outside in the fresh winter air, with the smallest snowflakes falling.  It was picturesque and romantic, and there were fireworks.  I am not sure if it was the passion and dedication for T-Rex or the fireworks that made my heart beat faster.  All I knew that I was so in love with T-rex and that he was so in love with me, that we were walking fireworks.

And then Pride came this year, the kick off to my favorite holiday week of the year.  I dragged myself to go out and dance and drink with friends.  All I wanted to do was stay in my bed and shut out the world.  But, I didn’t.  I knew that getting out and getting stupid was the best solution.  I knew that al the vodka, tequila, and gin in the world wouldn’t help heal my heart, but maybe I would just get drunk enough to make the hurt pass out long enough to allow me to feel more numb and less broken.

I kept my spirits up by reminding myself that a week full of fireworks was ahead of me.  Starting at Pride and ending with the Fourth.  But this year, I felt nothing.  Night after night of displays, and nothing.  I watched with awe, but my heart sat heavy in my chest.  For the first time ever there was no joy.

Maybe I am already dead inside.



Brain Dead

Dear Butch,

Some nights I struggle to write.  Tonight is one of those nights.

I have been sitting at my laptop for the past three hours.  Starting and restarting posts, never getting more then a few sentences in before scraping the whole thing.  I have banned myself from social media and my phone.  I have looked for motivation, walked for motivation, and drank for motivation…coming up short each time.  I am tired in every way possible.

I have a playlist I listen to when I write, a playlist of my favorite songs which currently is eighteen songs long.  Normally, I get through a post without the playlist repeating, tonight is not the case.  The same eighteen repeating, reminding me that I have failed my readers tonight one beat at a time.

I really wanted to write a heart-warming post about Valentine’s Day.  A list type post, helping those who struggle with tis holiday survive.  But instead I kept churning out cheesy stereotypical lines that made me question my validity as a writer.  Then I tried to switch it up and write about sex, but that flopped when I couldn’t narrow down what about sex I wanted to write about.  I then jumped around topics, searching the house for inspiration.  Cook books, Norfolk pine trees, laundry detergent, canned air, the Olympics, dogs, wool socks, scented candles, and mustard.  Yeah, mustard.  Our fridge currently contains eight varieties of fancy mustard.  Thrilling.

I am sorry.  I am surrendering to writers block.  Good night.




Flagging Confession

Dear Butch,

We sat across from each other in the coffee shop, chatting for over three hours.  About writing, butch-femme dynamics and work.  We were amazed that our paths hadn’t crossed before this chance meeting.  It doesn’t matter why we were meeting, just that we should have some how done it years ago.

I must confess, I arrived well prepared.  After getting an email from you, telling me that you would like to met and that you would be in my city I did a little rearch.  I found everything I was hoping to find, an attractive butch who knew how to rock a hat and a resume.

Prepared to flirt my pumps off, I agreed to meet.  You greeted me, bought me a beverage, and checked out my tits…I couldn’t be more pleased.  For the first part of the evening, I thought you were just being a gentle butch.  Responding to my questions, being witty, and letting me into parts of your world.  I didn’t think you actually were interested until we started to discuss flagging.  And then my head spun.

I was discussing femme flagging (I have a previous post about this).  Nothing uncommon for me, I am always attempting to spread the word about lesbian flagging…femme flagging specifically.  And that is when you caught my breath.  You looked ay my nails and guessed what I was flagging and then processed to tell me what you flagged…and showed me that you were in fact flagging at that very moment.  I felt a rush of intimacy rush over my body.  Knowing that we flag the same colors but on opposite sides caused me to blush.  I never discuss what colors on what sides I wave my freak flag, and there I was…with a perfect stranger…being read.

You threw off my whole game, with one colored hanky.  Excellent work my dear.



Two Years

Dear Butch,

Two years.  Just over 200 posts.  Three relationships.  Thirty-three wallet chains forced into retirement.  And I am still here.

Fuck. Yeah.

A mere 730 days ago I sat down and created “Dear Butch, Love Femme”.  At the time, I had no idea what I was going to write about.  That same lost feeling still is alive today.  I thought I was going to only offer advice and keep my personal life hidden away.  But, as life twisted and turned I have posted more about me then I had ever imagined.  I have created this odd hybrid blog and I am become one proud mama.

There have been many moments, more then I can count, that I have wanted to give up.  Throw in my sparkly purple stilettos and walk away from it all.  But, I haven’t.  For one reason or another, I have stuck to posting twice a week religiously.  I have built my schedule around my promise of Wednesday and Sunday night writing sessions, often under the influence of exhaustion or stress.  Even making sure I pre-write posts before leaving on vacation or having an uber late night out.  Yes, I am committed.

This small space has been my sounding board for the silly and the serious.  Thank you all who take the time to read, comment, and support.  So let us raise our glasses, or mugs or mason jars or pudding cups, to another successful year of the blog that incited you with the cleavage header and kept you coming back with the witty words.



Hello Color

Dear Butch,

I have gotten stuck in a rut of colors in my wardrobe.  The same three colors are repeated in 95.3% of my closet, dresser, and coat rack.  I know that we, as people, become attached and find comfort in the familiar.  The same route to work.  The same dinner on Thursday nights.  The same body wash.

It is time to break free from the shackles of the norm.  It is time to introduce new colors into your threads.  Mint green, tangerine, and lilac are screaming for your attention.  I love the basic neutrals as much as you do.  But do yourself a favor, and wear a little bit of the rainbow everyday.  They help a look move between seasons without having to do a complete wardrobe overhaul.  And, they draw attention and interest to an individual.  

So, add a piece of color pop to each outfit.  Accessories are great for this.  They are affordable and incredibly versatile, plus are low on the commitment level.  Pocket squares, bow ties, socks…the possibilities are endless.  And when in doubt of what colors play together well, may I suggest asking one of two people.  1. A femme.  2. A gay man.  We shall never lead you astray.  We will push you to a new level of fabulous but never to ridiculous, we reserve that advice for drag queens.

Push through the rut and show me a little color.



83 Texts

Dear Butch,

I spent today being pampered.  Nails painted, body massaged, and hair styled.  After a very busy winter I needed to shed a little stress and dead skin cells.  I was sitting next to your lady in the nail area, we both getting pedicures and struck up a conversation over polish trends.  It was lovely to chat with a fellow femme and we quickly became friends.  It is my understanding that you actually surprised you lady with a day at the spa.  She shared with me that you two were getting married in a few short weeks and that the final plans were causing her a load of stress.  And during this time apart, you were going to be running wedding errands.  The whole story delighted me, a butch caring for her anxious femme.  

Until you texted.  83 times in two hours.  Yes, I counted.

I know I appreciate a check-in or supportive text.  Something along the lines of “You deserve only the best.” or “I hope you are enjoying your afternoon.”.  A quick electronic note to show that you are thinking of your other half.  However, texting you lady about the trials and tribulations of your afternoon while she is supposed to be relaxing is not acceptable.  I don’t care how bad the traffic is, how packed the wedding aisle at the party store is, or how long you had to wait at the dry cleaners.  You sent your future wife away to relax, and by sending her negative toned texts is cheating her from enjoying the experience.

Yes, your lady could have turned down the volume or the phone off completely.  But, we all know that isn’t even a thought in the femme brain.  We (generically and stereotypically speaking) are the nurturing and caring kind.  You text, we answer.  You complain, we sympathize.  And you, 83 texts butch, knew this.  Which, (I suddenly feel like a lawyer) is exactly why you continued to text.  You were looking for a reaction and a little coddling.  And you got it, at the expense of your ladies nerves.  By the end of pedicure she was more wound up then when she first sat down.

Hold the bitching back for fucks sake you fucking douche bag,  And congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, you have a wonderful lady.