Boi Gets Girl

 July 21, 2012

So I've been meaning to post an excerpt from one of my two stories in Sacchi Green's Girl Fever anthology. "Off and On" is a little too short to shorten. So I'm going to go with my other piece, "Femme's the Breaks." Sorry for the delay. I'll get to it straight away:

"Do I have to beat the pants off you?"

Dominique has accessorized her threat with a suggestive smile and wanton wink. But I'm no fool. That receptive look is really a deceptive hook.

"You and your feminine gills," I mutter, slouching on the padded bench of her vanity table.

"Frills," she is quick to correct me. "And what do you think you're doing? Slouching towards Bethlehem? Sit up straight."

I consider making some sort of clichéd remark about that, but like I said, I'm no fool. Instead, I reach for the button on my jeans and pop it open.

As soon as I get out of these clothes, I've got to get into some others. Dominique and I are performing in Hit the Switch, this reversal revue at the nightclub we frequent. Femmes go butch, butches go femme. Dom's the femme, I'm the… well, I prefer the term "tomboi," but my girl's a bit of a traditionalist.

Except when it comes to sex. In the bedroom, my little Femme Dom takes over. "Isn't that right, Dom?"


"Sorry. I thought I was thinking out loud."

Dom answers with a scoff, an eye roll, and a smile—in that order. She separates the dress from its satin hanger, preparing to imprison me in the leprechaun-colored frock she's picked out for the performance.

"What was wrong with the yellow one?"

"It bunched up in all the wrong places and made you look like scrambled eggs."

"I like scrambled eggs."

"Stop sniveling. The dress won't kill you. I'm not Medea."

Dom makes off like I've never worn a dress before. I have. But I prefer to dress down and not up. Dominique, on the other hand, is the girliest girl I know. Even the suit she's wearing for the show is fitted and feminine. I'm sure the judges will deduct some serious points for that. Then again, maybe they won't. Maybe they'll appreciate the way it suits her curves.

"You're staring," Dominique says. "I may have to hose you down." She plucks a pair of nylons from her dresser drawer. I've mutilated most of the tights she's bought. Not… maliciously. They're just too complicated. The only stockings I like are the kind you hang over the fireplace at Christmas.

Dom kneels at my feet, a rare treat. She rolls the pantyhose over my toes, draws them up my calves, stretches them between my thighs. The tights make me itch and twitch and bitch. Ah, the trappings of femininity.

Will our protagonist escape?

Thanks for giving peace this piece a chance!

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland

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