At last, there comes a time in every young semi-butch lesbian's life wherein she aquires her very first strap-on.

Mmmm, leather. Mmm, possibilities. Aside from the obvious, which I shall gracefully skirt around.

*pulls on skirt. Ahem*

But oh, the possibilities. I am truly tempted to pack to the airport to see if the little metal ring will set off the detectors. I'll tell them it's my belt... (never mind which one).

I quiver with anticipation of sojurns into the men's underwear department at Target to pick up the perfect white briefs. Or boxers, if I am feeling daring.

No boxer briefs (bad associations). And then to strut about with my gender-bending self, darling boy who half of mothers want their little girls to bring home, and the other half want to shoot on sight. Dangerous.

*thumps with rabbitic glee*

I feel /so/ grown up now. I want to wear my suit and fedora to work, mais alors, we do not take the big-boy accoutrement to the place of employment, even surruptitiously. For one, we don't have the proper smallclothes yet.

It's like a lesbian bar mitzvah. I had to share it with y'all, the whole bloody, lovin' megillato.

<<agé chose>>

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