Thoughts From Her Place

Max is working in the city and I’m at her place up North with the pup. She’s curled up at my feet on the couch in the front window while I journal and smoke and listen to Lana and watch her neighbours come and go. Her neighbours probably watch me too. I’m sure they’ve noticed that I’m here more and more. I wonder what they think, especially in this small town.

Her ex lived here with her a few years back. I wonder if they think I look like her. I wonder if I do. I’ve never seen a photo of her in the 2 years we’ve been dating. I’ve never asked. But I know she has a type, long dark hair, dark eyes, pretty and smart.

I remember her asking what my type was on one of our first dates. I thought about it for a minute. “Pretty girls and people who look like they could kick my ass. Bonus points if you’re both?” She was both. And more. I said it as a joke but there was a lot of truth there.

Most of the men I’ve been attracted to are tall, dark, handsome, strong features, rough around the edges. With women it’s so varied. I’ve had sapphic lovers with all kinds of bodies and looks, but the unifying thread has been witchy femme queer babes. In some circular way, loving, caring for, and fucking other magical feminine women has always felt like tapping into and worshipping my own sensuality and power.

Max is the first masculine woman I’ve dated seriously, not by design, butch women don’t usually flirt with me. She finds that hard to believe but it’s true. I find myself attracted to her masculinity rather than the fact that she’s a woman. My relationship with her doesn’t feel like any of the relationships I’ve had with women, where I’m usually the dominant or masculine one. My relationship with her feels similar to the relationships I’ve had with men because that’s how she and I relate to each other, as masculine/feminine, but she has a range of care and compassion that I’ve never see in a man. I appreciate exactly and precisely who she is and who she isn’t. I love that she’s teaching me how to love (and expect love) in new ways.

I’m waiting for her to get home. Texting her about the flowers that have sprung up all over her lawn. Violets. Sapphic symbols I cherish. I like her place, and feeling close to her even when she’s not here.

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She calls me her personal Ms. Frizzle sometimes, you can see why. We giggle together about the suggestive hornyness of the phrase “Sapphic Desire”.

When she comes home to me I’ll show her my sapphic desire.