She’s a dame with legs that go from New York to California. She’s a girl with a face of an angel but a body sweetly reminiscent of a porn star. She’s a lady with a heart of gold but a brain of intelligence. She’s a woman. She’s one of many women. And women are my cup of tea.

Yeah, women.

But this woman, she’s mine. Even when she’s not there, I’m thinking about her. Missing her. I want to have her, hold her, LOVE her. I’m gonna run my fingers through her hair when I see her next. I’m gonna kiss her soft, sweet face; I’ll slowly make my way to her lips, but eventually (oh, perhaps! eventually!) I will make my way downward. First I hickey up her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and then! I’ll dine. I’ll feast. I dare not say the slang equivalent to my intentions, but I will allow you to compare it to fellatio.

She is, however, not a man. My woman lacks a penis. I’m glad she’s without one. Mother Nature built my body to permit a dick into my own, but I chose to go against the laws of society, and press my lips against those of another. Oh, darling! I’m not talking about the labia of my face! You see, lady-to-lady sex is quite different than the ordinary between male and female parts; most opt for fingering, sex toys, or in general, silly substitutions. But sex is not sex unless you rub elbows, er, privates.

It’s not all about the sex, though. Oh no. Have I mentioned before my woman can think? The things she talks about confuse me, but I’m interested in hearing what she has to say. I want her to teach me things. I want to learn all about her. I may be naive, stupid, but she can handle me; if she’s already taking the chance on me now, why stop? We’re in love, her and I, and I cannot fret over my own stupidity. It is not an issue. I shan’t be embarrassed when it doesn’t even bother her. And so, I move on. I try to give my own two cents to the conversations we have, and while I usually fail miserably, I have managed to be successful. On the occasion. I do try.

Love is a silly thing. My woman and I both know that. At the very beginning, I wonder how she could love me; I, a simple butch, held no beauty. As I’ve stated before, I’m quite the fool and doubt I am worth anything to her. But alas! She decided I was the one for her, and I can appreciate her act of “charity” now, when I realize it wasn’t her being a good Samaritan. It was her being a lover, a friend, an unbiased creature of God.

She’s a dame with legs that go from New York to California. But that’s not the most important thing about her. I do believe what matters most is this very fact I give you now: that woman is mine.